@quirkykayleetam / quirkykayleetam.tumblr.com
“W-what are you doing! You said you didn’t have any rules”
“I don’t. You can do whatever you want. And if whatever that is annoys me, I’ll hurt you.”
Whumpee who was punished quite brutally for making ‘too much noise’ including coughing or sneezing or involuntarily whining/moaning in pain while sick. The punishment being ten times worse if they woke Whumper up in the middle of the night with the noise. Now, years after getting away from Whumper, being happy and (mostly) healed with Caretaker in a cozy little cabin in the woods somewhere up North, Whumpee gets sick. Like, really sick. They don’t know what prompted it, all they know is they can’t stop making noise while Caretaker (who has absolutely zero clue that Whumpee has any kind of trauma) sleeping soundly besides them. Whumpee, drenched in sweat and shivering from a fever while pressing their hands over their mouth in hopes of covering the coughs/other sounds, starts freaking out about potentially waking Caretaker up. They know, of course, that they’re safe with Caretaker, but a traitorous part of their brain pipes up “Stop making noise. Stop. Stop now before they wake up because if they do you’re gonna pay for it”.
Except they can’t stop. They can’t.
So, Whumpee crawls out of bed miserably on wobbly legs, trying to make the least amount of noise humanly possible. While making their way to the door, they spend an extra couple of seconds looking at Caretaker to make sure that their chest is rising up and down evenly in steady breaths, that they’re still very much asleep, and that they’re not faking it.
Why would they fake it? You’re being ridiculous.
Whumper had faked it before.
Caretaker is not Whumper. Caretaker is not Whumper. Caretaker is not—
Whumpee looks away quickly, shaking hands reaching for the door and opening it silently like a teenager sneaking out for the first time. Their speed when walking out of the room is truly concerning, and once out they head straight towards the back door. Going to the bathroom might not be enough to hide their sounds, no, they need to be outside.
Once outside, they’re struck by freezing cold. All they have on their back is their thin sleep shirt that’s wet because of sweat, and the fact that they have a fever is making it so much worse. They can see their uneven breaths leaving their mouth, and their coughs won’t stop—neither will their nose running. They’re shaking like a leaf, out on the wooden patio, looking into the cold dark woods. This will pass, they tell themselves, it will be morning and Caretaker will already be awake and it will be safe for me to make noise inside.
Meanwhile, Caretaker stirs awake and finds Whumpee missing. They groggily get up, adjusting their eyes to the dark, and check the bathroom. No Whumpee. They check the kitchen. No Whumpee. They check the living room, growing increasingly more concerned because where are they??? No Whumpee.
Finally, seeing the huddled up trembling figure of Whumpee outside, they run towards the glass door and slide it open in a hurry. They have endless questions. Why is Whumpee outside in this weather in nothing but their pyjamas? Why is Whumpee shaking and crying and looking like death itself? Why did Whumpee not wake them up?
“Whumpee?” They call out, and Whumpee’s eyes fly open at the sound of their name, growing wide and fearful. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Caretaker wasn’t supposed to wake up. “Whumpee, Jesus fucking—what are you doing?”
“I-I’m sorry,” Whumpee shivers, stumbling to get up from their position on the ground they were too weak to stand anymore. Silent snowflakes keep falling behind them, as they slam an open palm on the glass door right next to them, trying to gain balance.
Caretaker, worried that Whumpee’s gonna fall, immediately extends an arm to steady them, help them stand straight. And they are shocked to see Whumpee flinch away from their hand.
They pull their arm back instantly, confusion and worry painting their face. Why’s Whumpee acting like this? Why are they out here, why are they so sickly looking, why are they flinching?
“Whumpee,” they speak slowly, as if standing before a timid animal. “Darling, what—?”
“I’m sorry, please, I swear I tried—I tried to b-be quiet, I swear. Please. Please—I-I don’t—”
“What are you talking about?” Caretaker interrupts worriedly. “Whumpee—what? What do you mean? Why are you out here? You’re gonna get hypothermia, just come insid—”
“N-No, please—” Whumpee shakes their head, squeezing their eyes shut. They didn’t mean to make noise. They truly didn’t. “I won’t—I won’t d-do it again—I-I—”
“Whumpee, you’re freezing!”
Whumper is yelling. Whumper is angry, and god fucking damn it it’s your fault, you woke them up.
Whumper is angry. Angry angry angry. Run away. Run, hide.
“W-Whumper, please, I’m s-so sorry—I won’t d—I-I can’t—”
“Who the hell is Whumper? Whumpee—what—just get inside! You’re hurt! Why are you acting like this!” Caretaker cries desperately, not understanding at all why this is happening.
Get inside.
Get inside. That’s an order. Whumper gave you an order and you’ll make it worse if you ignore their orders.
Terrified of what they believe is awaiting them, Whumpee rushes to get inside. They’re too weak, from the sickness or fear they don’t know, but their knees betray them. They collapse, right in Whumper’s Caretaker’s arms, and they’re barely caught.
“Whumpee!” Caretaker stumbles backwards slightly, hoping they won’t fall and injure Whumpee even more. Holding them up, Caretaker can feel the heat radiating off their body. A fever—of course they have a fever, God, why was Whumpee out here? “Jesus, love, you’re burning up.”
It takes a while — and quite bit of struggle — to get Whumpee inside. But once safe and warm and properly medicated, they seem to snap out of whatever delusion reality was clouding them.
It’s only then that Caretaker gently asks with a soft voice, “Who’s Whumper, darling?”
And Whumpee breaks down, spilling all their trauma, not seeing the way Caretaker’s eyes widen more with every word, not hearing the way Caretaker’s breath hitches with every sentence.
When the morning comes and Whumpee is all curled up in bed under blankets (without a fever, thank you very much), Caretaker makes a call to one of their friends.
“Yeah, I need you to find Whumper. Find the fucker, and give me their exact location. No, I don’t care how long that’s gonna take! I need to have a little chat with them.”
Oh, did I mention that Caretaker who’s the sweetest kindest purest person, can turn into a raging psychopath who will stop at nothing to absolutely obliterate the people who’ve hurt their loved ones? Yeah :) <33
oh my???? 😭🥹😭🥹 I know a ship that would fit this. the whump, the angst, the realization and the feels. very delicious.
Buckle up for this one, kids. It’s gonna get rough.
Taglist: @whumpzone @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @thelazywitchphotographer @unicornscotty @captainseconds @grizzlie70
CW: blood
Brandon had been bad.
He had broken one of his mistress’s plates.
He didn’t mean to, he never meant to be bad, he just wanted to be a good pet! He hated the thought of angering his new mistress, he hated the thought of being punished!
Punishment is necessary for a pet like you.
That was what everyone kept telling him, over and over again. But he didn’t want it, he didn’t, even though it was necessary, it would make him a better pet, and he needed to be a better pet, he needed to please his mistress!
He took a deep breath, composing himself.
Maybe this new mistress wouldn’t punish him. She was strange. She kept pretending he was a person. And people didn’t need punishment. Only pets did.
Even if she didn’t punish him, she would get angry and yell like last time. He hated seeing her like that, it reminded him of his old masters.
The door opened. His new mistress walked in. She had dark circles under her eyes.
She looked at the broken pieces on the floor, covering her mouth with her hand. She stared at them for a few seconds, then turned to look at Brandon, who was about to cry.
She remained still for a few moments, taking deep breaths. She ran to her room and stayed there for a few minutes.
She came back holding the whip Brandon came with, a rage in her eyes Brandon knew too well. He took a step back in terror.
“Take off your shirt and put your hands against the wall. Now!”
Brandon obeyed without hesitation, his breaths shaky.
The new mistress brought the whip down on his back repeatedly. He sobbed with each and every lash. His back arched in pain. The new mistress showed no mercy, and kept whipping him until he was a sobbing, bleeding mess.
After she’d finished, she said nothing and simply ran to her room, slamming the door.
Brandon immediately fell to his knees, unable to take the pain. He sobbed quietly to himself. The sweat running down his back made the pain worsen. He winced, not sure what hurt most, the pain in his back, or the fact that he’d disappointed his mistress.
He couldn’t help but feel relieved. He was finally being treated the way pets were meant to be treated. This new mistress was a responsible pet owner after all.
He didn’t like it, but that didn’t matter. He was being treated the way he was meant to. Whether he liked it or not.
perhaps villain whumpee being ‘helped’ by hero to be a better person?
Villain cried out, jerking in the chains holding them up as Hero brought the whip down on them again. Hero tutted, making Villain flinch.
"Now, now," they said. "You know better. You deserve this."
Villain gasped for breath before repeating, monotone, "I deserve this."
Hero smiled. "That's right. You hurt a lot of people."
Another hit of the whip and Villain's muffled cried echoed through the air. "I- I hurt a lot of, of people."
"I'm helping you to get better," Hero said, their voice saccharine sweet.
Crack. "You- you're helping me to, to get bet-better." Villain whimpered, the pain overwhelming them.
"Good," Hero said. "Now, I'm going to continue to whip you until you pass out. Then I'm going to let you down. When you wake up, we are going to do this all over again." Their voice turned soft and gentle. "Remember, Villain, heroes must always stick to their word. This is an important lesson for you."
And stick to their word they did.
Newly captured slave Whumpee is sold to the managers of a construction site for hard labor. Never having done this type of work before, Whumpee struggles to keep up through the soreness of their limbs and is punished severely for falling behind.
cw: whipping, blood, calling whumper “sir”, death mention
“Twelve. Now, you know, Nicholas, that what you did necessitates punishment.” Crack. Blood splatters across the floor. “Thirteen.”
“Ye-es, sir.”
Crack. Someone sighs in frustration as blood splats in a thin spray across the neat paper on their clipboard. “Fourteen. And you understand that your punishment will well exceed your regular ten lashes.” Slash. “Fifteen. You will be healed by an asset after this, Nicholas, so don’t worry about not being useful. You will continue your rounds after this is done. Sixteen. Seventeen.”
Two lashes in rapid succession get blood dripping down Nick’s chin as he bites into his lip. Deep groans escape him, but he works hard not to yell. More signs of weakness after today’s failure would be… bad.
“Eighteen. You allowed a witch to escape her cell.”
“Yes, s-sir.”
The next strike of the whip almost makes him yelp. That would have been humiliating. That wouldn’t have been directly punished, but it would have been noted in his file. He doesn’t want embarrassing notes in his file, he’ll just have to hear them being read back to him at the end of the month.
“You didn’t want to hold her down, so you loosened your grip. Hesitated. She managed to escape your hold and run out. That’s what you reported to your superior.”
“Ye-, nnhh! Yes, sir.”
“Nineteen. She’s been killed. Shot. The hallway is being scrubbed as we speak. Twenty. Nicholas, you lost us a witch today. You hesitated, so she’s dead. She won’t reveal any information to us. Twenty-one. Nicholas, how many lashes should you get for losing us a witch?”
“I - I - hnnggh… I don’t know, sir.” A shudder of horror runs through him against his will at the thought of her falling to the floor, suddenly a corpse, blood on the wall. He got her killed because he didn’t want to bruise her wrists.
“Twenty-two.” This time, Nick screams, horror welling up in his chest and choking him and exploding with the wave of pain that just keeps building and building and refuses to crash. “You’ve taken twenty-two lashes. I think you should take fifty for this mistake. And next time it happens, it shouldn’t be counted at all. You should be whipped until there is nothing left to whip. Twenty-three.”
Nicholas sobs. Bellows at the strike of the whip, and sobs. “Y-yes, yes, sir.”
“I’m glad you agree. Twenty-three.”
“You - you miscounted, sir, it’s - hnnnnngh!”
“Twenty-three,” His superior repeats dryly, on the twenty-fifth lash. Another strike, and Nick howls in agony. “Twenty-four.” Crack, sob. “Twenty-five.”
Quin with tied to a chair
“Lets try this again.”
Quin winced as the rope tightened around his ankles and he shifted on the hard wooden seat, testing the bonds that held his arms to the back of the chair. A sharp spritz of water struck his face, soaking the blindfold Henry had put on him and he sputtered in surprise. But he didn’t whine, or bothering asking him to stop. He was too exhausted. They had been doing this for hours and he still couldn’t get it right.
“Rule Number One?”
“A-always address you as S-sir. Respectfully and without hesitation… Sir.” He added at the end to be careful. Henry was silent, the sound of his footsteps moving around the chair and Quin felt the touch of something slide across his shoulders. The crop. Gentle, for now.
“Rule Number Two?”
Quin sighed and then yelped as the riding crop smacked hard against his leg. “Rule Number Twenty-Six?” Henry snapped before he could answer and Quin flinched, racking his brain, trying to remember.
“No-no sighing, sir. Or-or rolling my eyes. Sorry, sir,” he said quickly, taking the clue of his mistake to remember. “Very good and apologies are?”
Quin hesitated at the open ended question, his hands twisting in their bindings. “To say sorry, I mean, to always apologize when-when I’ve made a mistake, s-sir.” He didn’t remember the number, couldn’t remember the number. All he could think about was when and where the strikes would fall, unable to see them coming, unable to defend himself.
“But what number, pet?” Henry’s voice came from the left and Quin twisted his head in that direction.
“F-…F-fifteen?” Silence was his answer. Then, click and a beep sounded in his ear. He pitched forward, bucking against the chair as the shock jolted across his throat, through his neck and down his spine. “Fuck!” He snapped, his wrists yanking at the ropes that held them. A hand smacked his face, snapping his head to the side and he gasped sharply.
“Rule Thirteen?” The riding crop smacked down hard against the same cheek, following hard, bruising pain with hot, stinging pain. He only whimpered, curling his shoulders inward and ducking his head down as he tried to protect himself from more.
“No swearing! No swearing! I’m sorry, sir, p-please-” He sagged back against the chair, exhausted from the beatings, the shocks, the riding crop, even the fucking spray bottle and the fear and anticipation of which method he would use for each infraction. His body ached, he couldn’t see it but he knew it was covered in bruises and welts, his muscles sore and twitching from the shock collar and his skin wet and cold from the water. It only made it harder to remember, fear and pain chasing away the answers. Tears welled up behind the blindfold and he swallowed, trying not to let a sob break free. “P-please, I’m exhausted. I can’t do it, I just, I just need a break. Sir, plea-” He flinched as a hand touched his face, but it was gentle, a thumb brushing over his bruised cheek. Something touched his mouth and he pulled back before realizing it was just a cup of water. He drank greedily, a whine slipping out when it was drawn away too soon.“Rule Number Two, Quinton?” The hand left his face, sending Henry back into mystery of where he would strike from next. “Do,do what you say, wh-when you say. No-no excuses.” His voice broke as he realized this meant he’d just broke rule number two. He tensed, ropes squeaking against the chair as he tried to pull himself inward, protect himself. Nothing happen. Nothing came. “Please-” he croaked, head twisting as if he could find him, anticipate where he’d come from. “J-just do it, please.”
Nothing happen. No noises betrayed his tormentor.
Then the chair started to tip backwards. Quin rocked forward, trying to correct it with his body weight, but it kept going and he crashed backwards into the floor. His body jolted against the bindings that held him in place, the slats of the chair digging into his back as he landed on them. His body ached from the impact as he coughed, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him.
“Take your break. I’ll be back in an hour.” Foot steps retreated, leaving him bond against the chair, laying backwards on the floor.
Quin’s chest hitched in a silent sob, raw wrists twisting in their bonds. He wanted to sleep, he just wanted to rest. But he knew he shouldn’t. Instead he went down the list of rules, trying to remember all one hundred and seventy-six… No-sixty-seven… seventy-six?
He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. It’s just hard, it’s hard to swing the weighty thing slick with his sweat, blood getting flung everywhere and flicked off the end of the braided leather.
“Do you know what these are, Nicholas?” His supervisor asks, tapping unmarred skin right next to the welts and slender gashes on the prisoner’s arm; Nick focuses on not reacting.
“They’re from the whip,” The eighteen-year-old answers, staring at the concrete wall just past the man scolding him.
“They’re marks of failure. You still haven’t gotten a handle of using the whip, so it snaps in toward you and cuts you. Instant consequences for inadequacy.” The man’s curt tone makes Nick feel very small, despite his ample height and muscles. He does his best to never flinch, but every time he feels the burn along his upper arms as the whip kicks up in the wrong way, another spark of panic is added to the heap stinging in his chest. He’s changed so much to survive here but it’s not enough, not yet. He still has these little failures.
“If you’re so eager to add onto your collection of new scars…”
Nick’s eyes glisten with the fear he can’t let loose in a cringe or a step back. “No, I’m learning, I’m just - the whip, it’s hard, maybe I can try something else?” He’s seen the combat knives that the senior officers carry at the hip. Big, jagged weapons that can cut through rope, skin, anything meant to give way under a blade. He wants to get to choose what weapons he uses, if he’s going to be forced to use them on people.
His supervisor steps right up to him, and Nick takes an unsteady breath. They get close when it’s time to take his lashes, or to be observed in his agony after the lashes. The supervisor leans in closer, hands wrapping around Nicholas’ upper arms, calluses rough against sore, swollen, stinging wounds.
“There’s a reason we give the new ones the whip to use. So when you fuck up, your supervisor can see it, can count how many mistakes you made.”
“I know,” Nick bites out, scared and trying so hard to hide it behind immediate frustration and pain.
“But more importantly, these help you remember, help you improve. Now. How many do you have?”
“Nnh, I don’t - I haven’t counted. S-several.”
“Let’s count, then. One, two, three, four…”
Staring down at his own arms, following his supervisor’s pointing finger to count the marks, Nicholas’ fear grows. There are far more than he thought - his supervisor counts past ten, past fifteen, and he’s not nearly done. Some of the marks are scabbed over, some in the early stages of scarring. How long will he keep making mistakes? It’s been weeks but still, his hand slips or his mind wanders or he winces at a prisoner’s scream and a new livid red mark is sliced across his skin.
It starts in his hands - it always does. The hands that are made to hold weapons and tools dripping in blood. No amount of steadying breaths will stop the tremor that’s found its way into his hands.
“Stop that quaking,” His supervisor grunts, fingers digging harder into welts.
“T-trying, sir.”
“Now, Whitmore.”
“I’m -“ Nick gasps as he’s forced to his knees, shirt yanked up to expose his barely-healed back. “Trying!”
Despite his plea-tinged cry promising effort, his hands tremble worse by the minute. He can’t stop thinking about his failure, or about the coming consequences.
“Disappointing, Nicholas.”
“Sorry, sir.”
The whip is unfurled from its clip at his supervisor’s side. This time, Nick flinches.
“No-!” Nick cries, blanket swooping upward as his fist swings. His gasps ring out in the dark of the room; his back doesn’t burn with pain, his arms aren’t torn up… but his heart is racing. His chest is heaving with shallow, rapid breaths.
His hands are shaking.
