Laurent

| Part one | Part two |

The sound of heavy rain beating down on the car roof is soothing, maybe even soothing enough to lull someone to sleep. The irregular rhythm, the raindrops running down the windows, the way the lights from the other cars and traffic lights bleed out and spread like watercolors in the rain in Laurent’s vision as he leans his head against the cold window and stares out. 

It’s warm enough in the car to have pulled off the designer jacket he’d found purchased and hanging in his closet when the weather started growing cooler. That’s how most of his clothes show up. That’s how a lot of his favorite worn out university hoodies and torn up jeans disappear too. One day there, the next day gone and replaced with something name brand and needlessly expensive. 

His parents let some things slide. The blue-red pastel dyed ends of his hair, the tattoo, the earrings. After all, a little eccentricism looks good on a child prodigy. People might start thinking he wasn’t fully human. Though- they already thought that didn’t they?

Graduated college at fifteen, masters by seventeen. Four instruments, seven languages and innumerable registered patents. The tech he designs during long sleepless nights is always highly sought after. He’s smart, rich, loved, and envied. 

And terribly, insanely lonely.

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Whumpee and their caretaker

But imagine if the caretaker is secretly a whumper, or used to be. And the whumpee has no idea.

They’re holding the antiseptic or alcohol against wounds longer than necessary. Putting too much extra pressure on a wound, or squeezing too hard at times.

The whumpee chalks it up to nerves and shock the first few times. But after, they begin to grow skeptical.

The whumpee couldn’t tell when they’d first realized that treatment was more painful than it needed to be. It felt like something they’d always known, yet it was a fact that when it’d first started they’d been clueless.

It was never over the top. Never the violent, unbearable torture they were used to from the people who hurt them in the first place. It was cold. Calculated, a steady pressure against a sore nerve, a cleansing chemical against a raw and infected wound.

They always felt better in the end. What the caretaker did to them, it always led to healing. The caretaker offered safety, food, reassuring words, and not once had the caretaker ever inflicted an injury.

But they’d pull a bandage off of a burn too quickly. They’d put off painkillers until after the bone was set. They’d dig those stitches in a little too deep. And sometimes, if the whumpee could pay enough attention through the pain, they could catch a too-intent steel eyed stare they knew they weren’t meant to see.

The whumpee didn’t say anything for a long while, too afraid of offending one of the few companions they had, but one night it was just too much. Their arm had been skinned. Stripped down to the muscle, agony backed by exhaustion, and of course the caretaker was quick to their side.

Everything in the whumpee protested the thought of letting the caretaker at them. This wound, this injury in particular, they couldn’t take the pain from that. 

The whumpee recoils, instinctively begging as they would a whumper, “please, please don’t- don’t touch…”

“It’s just me. I’m here to help. Give me your arm.”

The caretaker reaches, and the whumpee cries out. “No, don’t- you’re going to- you always hurt me! It’s going to hurt, I can’t-”

A pause. The whumpee’s sight blurs, tears clouding their vision as they fought not to break down. It hits them that they’re scared. They’re panicking.

They expect the caretaker to get angry, to yell, to leave, but instead they rest a hand against the whumpee’s cheek. A simple brush of a thumb over their eye, clearing it of tears. Something fragile breaks at the contact, and the whumpee is sobbing.

The caretaker draws them into their arms. “Shhh. I know, I know. But it’s going to get infected. It’ll swell, and burn, and it’ll give you a fever like you wouldn’t believe. You could wind up losing that arm. You could wind up losing your life. It needs to be treated.”

“Please, nnn…”

“I’ll be gentle this time.” The caretaker’s voice lowers to a murmur, a hand brushing back and forth over the whumpee’s back. “I’ll be gentle. Let me help you.”

The whumpee has to ask, “why do you do this?? Why do you hurt me? You’re-you’re supposed to be my friend.”

“I am your friend,” the caretaker insists. They smile, and there’s something in that smile that makes the whumpee’s stomach turn. Too many soft edges, too much warmth in their eyes. “And I promise not to hurt you this time.“

This is amazing! Thank you for writing this!

The vampire caretaker has their all too human whumpee backed into a corner.

They hold their hands up, palms out, and they keep their voice quiet and low. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please! Please, nnn, don’t-”

The scent of panic pours out of the whumpee, filling the caretaker’s nose with every breath. It’s so thick that the taste of it lingers on the back of their tongue. The caretaker fears that the whumper will find them before they have a chance to escape.

They’re hungry. Even now, the pangs threaten to double them over. They’re weak with it. This is the first human they’ve seen in ages.

“I…need this,” they say, and god, it’s taking all the willpower they have to keep their words steady. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to…help…but I need this. I need your strength to get us out.”

The caretaker draws close. Puts their hands on the whumpee’s shoulders. Tilts their head to the side as gingerly as possible.

They put their mouth to the whumpee’s pulse.

There’s warmth, the rhythm of a beating heart, and they feel every muscle in the whumpee’s body coiled and trembling. They can’t fight, running away only brought them to this corner, so now the whumpee is freezing up. They whimper, helpless, “please…”

And though relief is just a few layers of flesh and skin away, the caretaker takes a moment to try and offer some form of comfort. They brush tender fingertips up and down the whumpee’s back. “I need you…to relax, as much as you can. I need you to breathe.”

They’re quick when they bite down. There’s no softening the pain of fangs cutting through the skin, no easy path into the carotid artery. Once they hit their mark, they inject more than half of their reserved venom.

The whumpee’s scream cuts through the air, and the caretaker prays that the whumper isn’t close enough to hear as they hold the whumpee tight to their chest to keep them from thrashing. It’s only a moment. The artery pumps a blissful mix of pain relief and paralyzing chemicals right into the whumpee’s brain.

It isn’t long before they go limp. The caretaker drinks heavy, desperate gulps, and the scent of fear fades to a drowsy mist.

“I’m sorry,” the caretaker says once the wound is closed. “I’ll make this up to you once we’re safe. I promise.”

Gaurdian Angel

"A constant companion, a sweet trainable little friend. A perfect little angel~"

"What a laugh." Virgil quietly scoffed at the ad playing on the TV that his captor was watching. The tiny cartoon angel on the screen smiling and hugging the humans fingers with thier pure white feathers fluffed up in joy. His human staring at the screen with a look of longing and then spite at the memory of what he got instead. Of course he was. Virgil thought bitterly back to the moment he was sold to this monstrous human as a birthday present.

---------

As a tiny winged human he was sold as an alternative to birds, the tiny fluffy things were constantly fluttering around and took forever to train, where as "Tiny Angel's" picked up things as fast as humans. The last white feathered angel of his flock had been sold the day before the human walked into the pet store, leaving only Virgil, an undesirable dark winged angel in the tiny enclosure. He tried to stay curled up with his wings wrapped around him in the far top corner of the cage desperately not wanting to be seen, but seen he was and the human demanded to have him upon hearing that white wings weren't due in for another week.

And so his miserable life began, gaint fat fingers wrapped themselves around him firmly and pried him from his corner despite how tight his grip was on the smooth bars. While one gaint hand was wrapped around his middle and wings, gently squeezing him so he couldn't escape, a familiar pit of panic settled in his gut as he pried his right arm loose and tried with all his might to push the fingers off of him.

Unfortunately this only lead to having his arm grabbed and gently extended to read the tiny band clasped around his wrist. The weight of his panic in his chest felt like it was smothering him and feeling unable to breathe in his panic he went limp.

By the time he finally calmed down to understand where he was, he was in a dark container with holes just big enough to stick his hand out of, if he had been brave enough. A loud rumble seemed to shake his dark unfamiliar prison as he huddled in the corner, an all too sweet voice murmuring something just barely inaudible above the rumbling that surrounded his dark container.

No sooner had he and his captor arrived at his new prison, did he getting roughly grabbed, the large clumsy fingers squeezing his middle until he thought he would snap in half. His wings tugged back and extended fully against his aching and straining muscles. Everything seemed to stop for a moment to allow him to regain his bearings before white hot pain surged through him from his wingtips. He screamed until he ran out of breath and the fingers surrounding his chest squeezed the last bit of air out of him, his body going limp.

Next thing Virgil knew he woke up in a cage just barely wide enough for him to spread his wings in a scratchy white angel's costume. The constant aching from the feathered appendages causing him turn his head to look at them. His once dark wings that shone violet in the sunlight were painted white with a thick substance. But the worst part, his flight feathers, the longest feathers on his wings had been plucked out and were thrown in the bin across from his prison. A sicking sense of dread grew in his gut, his pale hands covering his mouth as he tried to stifle a sob at the idea of being trapped and unable to fly away, his own feathers ripped from him and thrown away like trash. His eyes watered as his warden walked in and smiled cruelly at thier work.

"I always get what I want, Angel~"

-----------

3 years had passed since that day, Virgil's captor throwing him to the floor of plucking more feathers from his artificially whitened wings anytime he disobeyed the human's wishes. But after several seasons of molting and regrowing the same feathers only to get them ripped out, his flight feathers finally stopped growing back. His wings constantly dragging behind him, weighed down by the misery of never being able to fly again.

His days passed slowly as he curled up in the far corner of his tiny cage and refused to eat the few seeds he was given, having now given up hope of ever escaping over the years. His human owner tormented him for not singing for guest, he never screamed or reacted when more and more feathers were pulled from his wings. He refused to let the human get anymore satisfaction from his suffering. Sleep became hard to come by for the poor little angel, dark circles having taken up residence under his eyes after countless sleepless nights.

But today, his captor came home fuming, and snatched his cage, and threw it into his car. The door slammed shut as his captor climbed in the car and glared at the helpless angel who cowered under his gaze, curling into a ball as the engine roared to life, and tore out of the driveway. His captor muttering angrily at something under his breath before grabbing Virgil's cage and rolling down the window.

A horrible snarl marred his onwer's face as Virgil's eyes widened and he scrambled to stay away from the terrifying human. A sickening pit growing in his stomach as he was launched out the window of the vehicle, a brief moment of weightlessness, before colliding with the ground. His head bouncing off the ground and crushing his right wing that had somehow slipped through the bars, and a fierce ringing swallowing his mind as his eyelids slowly fluttered shut not noticing a large figure rush towards his damage cage in concern.

"Oh my gosh! Hold on little buddy!!!"

Part 2

(Its not written really well, but hope you enjoy the suffering, @hiddendreamer67)

  *Ji and Lance part one*

  Ji sighs as he looks down at the top of his “roommate’s” head. Lance had dropped a glass, which broke, so he was kneeling on the kitchen floor, awaiting punishment.

  Ji squats down next to his hunched form, “Lance, hon, it was just an accident. I’m not mad. And I’m not going to punish you.”

  Lance doesn’t respond. His eyes are clenched shut and he starts to shake. Suddenly, Ji notices the blood spreading through the fabric of Lance’s pants.

  “Are you kneeling on the broken glass?!” Ji shoots up and pulls the smaller man up by his shoulders. His knees are full of shards and blood is pooling on the ground at his feet. His eyes stay closed, his head bowed.

  Lance flinches at Ji’s raised voice, face pinched tight.

  “I-I’m so sorry, Master. Please punish me.” He pushes himself through the familiar sentence, ignoring his rapidly increasing blood loss. Ji sighs again, accustomed to the plea. “C’mon, let’s get you patched up. We can talk after that.”

  Ji sits him down and carefully pulls his pants off. Lance whimpers, but doesn’t complain. Ji grabs the first aid kit and begins pulling the shards out, one by one, with tweezers. He knows that it must hurt terribly, so he makes quick work of it. 

  Once all the glass is removed, he sanitizes the wounds. Lance breathes in short, pained huffs as he holds his body perfectly still. Tears start to drip down his cheeks, but makes no acknowledgement of them. Ji applies bandages as gently as he possibly can, covering all of the wounds. 

  “Alright, let’s go over it again. I am not your Master. I am not going to punish you. Do you understand?” Ji looks up at Lance from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the ground. Lance’s eyes are wide, and he’s hyperventilating.

  “Ok. Looks like you still can’t handle that thought. We’ll… get there eventually.” He gently takes Lance’s quivering hand in his, and leads him to the couch. Before he can sit Lance in the couch, he kneels on the floor.

  “No Lance, your knees are injured. You can’t kneel.” He pulls him up, and gently pushes him to sit on the couch. Lance seems like he might faint from panic, his entire body trembling violently. 

  “Lance, will you calm down if I… never mind.” Ji sighs deeply, resigning himself to letting his… friend?, dependent?, roommate?, harm himself.

  Lance visibly perks up. 

  “Uh. What’s up, Lance?” Ji’s surprised to see him look excited. It’s not a common sight.

  “Were you going to… give me an order, Master?” Lance’s voice is soft, nervous. He looks up at Ji so hopefully that it makes his heart hurt.

  Suddenly, Ji can’t take the pain of watching Lance hurt himself any more. His heart breaks for the traumatized man. The broken man. His face burns of the thought of what he’s about to do, but he’s already decided.

  “Lance…” Lance’s eyes are wide, not from fear, but from hope. “Sit on the couch and rest. That’s an order.”

  Lance’s mouth breaks into a tiny smile, the first one Ji’s ever seen from him. 

-

  “BRO YOU DID WHAT?!” Ji pulls the phone away from his ear. 

  “Dude. Quit shouting. And I know ok?! It was fucked up, but his knees are really messed up. I couldn’t let him kneel.” He feels awful, and his so called “friend” isn’t helping.

  “Now he’s never going to get the though of you being his “Master” or whatever out of his head.”

  Ji’s face is red from shame and anger. “Yeah. Yeah. I know, Anwir.”

  “So… what’s he doing now? Is he just sitting on the couch?” Anwir’s thick Welsh accent becomes even more prevalent when he’s upset, and Ji almost doesn’t understand his question.

  “…Yes? Wait, no. Actually, he fell asleep.”

  “Without permission? Maybe you ARE making progress.” 

  “I guess.” Ji sighs for what feels like the millionth time that day. “I gotta go man. There’s still glass and blood everywhere.”

  Anwir laughs, and Ji thinks, once again, that he’s a pretty fucked up guy. But he’s a good friend regardless, and has given him a lot of good advice on the Lance situation. 

  “Ok bro. See ya!” Anwir hangs up without waiting for a reply, as per usual.

  Ji stretches and resigns himself to an afternoon up picking up glass and scrubbing at dried blood.

Leaf

I wanted a tiny whumpee—So I made one

*** 

“Shhh, shhh, shhh, it’s okay. Easy, easy.” Leaf whimpered when his body was moved and cradled in something warm. His eyelids fluttered as bright light assaulted them, a huge blurry shape hovered over him. He rubbed his cheek against the surface he lay on, trying to make sense of what was happening to him. What—what’s going on? 

“He’s so tiny,” a young, high pitched voice whispered. Leaf gasped when something pressed against his belly, a deep grinding in his chest, and he squeezed his eyes shut as pain roared through his body. He tried to move away from the pressure and felt a great gust of wind over his body. His wings wanted to flutter in the breeze but a shooting twisting pain shot through his back. “Nuh!”  

“Don’t touch him, Marie! You’re hurting him!” 

“Am not!” 

Whatever he was laying on moved, his body rocking and swaying in great sweeps. “Muh…” he groaned, nauseous from the motion, from the pain that rolled through him. Please, please stop. 

“Where are you taking him? I wanna see!” 

“No, Marie! We have to take him somewhere safe, he’s hurt.” 

“No, he’s not, he’s just sleeping!” 

Leaf opened his eyes again, trying to force himself into awareness. His eyes wouldn’t focus, the surrounding area ticking back and forth as he tried to see what was around him. His head lolled, and he could feel his dark hair wet, soaked, and plastered to his forehead. Everything was confused, he didn’t remember where he was, didn’t know how he’d gotten there. Why did he hurt so much? The last thing he remembered was flying. His wings straining against the wind. Diving. Did he crash?

He whimpered again, trying to get his arms under him to push himself up, trying not to let his wings move again. Lightning shot up his arm and he cried out in pain, jerking involuntarily to take the little weight he had already settled away from the bursting bone. His wings fluttered out automatically, trying to catch his balance, and he screamed, high and keening, when worse pain erupted through his back and wings. Leaf collapsed, drawing agonized breaths in through his panting mouth. 

Everything grayed around the edges and he mewled, twitching uncontrollably. Ithurtithurtithurtithurt… 

A large heavy weight settled over his body, hovering, not touching any of the hot aching points in his body. “Don’t move, it’s okay, we’re getting you help. It’s okay. Shhh.” The voice was anxious, fumbling over the words, a slight lisp to their pitchy voice. The rocking, jumping motion increased, and he moaned in his throat at the increase in pain. 

“Annie! I want to see!” 

“No, Marie!” 

Leaf’s eyes closed against the exhaustion that overwhelmed him, and he drew in a wheezing breath before darkness took everything away. 

me: *has a bunch of prompts in my inbox*

also me: *writes this instead*

have fun, y’all, because this is the softest™ fic i think i’ve ever written (and it’s not really that soft)

Geralt will hate himself for it later, but the first time that Jaskier complains of being cold, he’s annoyed. The day is actually the nicest that they’ve had in a long time, sunny enough that Geralt has taken off his armor in favor of wearing just a light tunic, and Jaskier has been slow enough since the previous evening that he’s already in a bad mood. 

“Perhaps you should walk faster,” Geralt bites at his complaint. “Work up a sweat.”

Jaskier shivers once, hard enough to see, and Geralt rolls his eyes at the theatrics. 

“I’m moving as fast as I can,” Jaskier replies somewhat meekly, another thing that should have been a red flag. “Perhaps I could—”

“Don’t touch Roach,” Geralt nips that thought in the bud. Jaskier puts his hands up in mock surrender. 

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Dominic “playing Doctor” with Z2 is actually exactly what I want. (Soft)

Dominic calls him.

“Zee.C’mere.”  

He’s sitting on his bed with his laptop open, frowning at the screen. Z2 perks up, closing his notebook and sliding out of Dom’s desk chair. He stands at the side of the bed and awaits further instruction. 

“Alright…” Dominic tilts the screen back. Z can see he’s studying— it’s always the same style of illustration next to the tiny text. Fig. 1, Fig 2. Dominic probably has a practical tomorrow, which he’s explained patiently to Z is where he will have to demonstrate his practical knowledge on a dummy or on a classmate. 

Still focused on the screen, Dom takes Z2’s arm. Z makes it go deliberately limp for him—  like a dummy, offering no resistance. It feels nice when Dom touches him. He knows it’s an impersonal touch to practice a technique, but he can’t help his heart from picking up at the gentleness Dom always uses with him. 

He has to try very hard to keep his breathing slow and steady. Watching the other boy carefully walk his fingertips down his forearm to find the place he’s looking for makes him lightheaded. Dom rotates his wrist, holds it at a 90 degree angle and presses gently, glancing back and forth from their hands to his laptop. He repeats the motions, rotating and stretching. 

“This feel okay?” He asks quietly. He knows he isn’t hurting Z, but he always asks. 

“Mhm.” Z2 says, a little more sleepily than he intended. 

Dominic grins, glancing up at Z’s face for the first time since he started. “Am I putting you to sleep?”

Z2 laughs a little breathlessly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Dom holds the back of his hand, rubs a strong thumb into the flesh of Z2’s palm, making circles that feel heavenly- that make his eyelids droop. He makes a little noise of appreciation and Dom pats him one last time.

“Thanks.” He turns back to his studying, “You’re a good guinea pig.”

Z2 warms at the praise, returning to Dom’s desk chair and his notebook tingling all over. 

Pet Cat Kris, Part 7

Previously: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

—

“Oh, my, is that your pet? He’s so well-behaved.” The stranger’s voice would normally make Kristoff look up, but he doesn’t. Not allowed.

“Isn’t he, though?” The tones of Seraiah’s voice almost make Kristoff flinch. But he doesn’t. Not allowed.

“How did you get him to sit so still?”

“Oh, he’ll do anything for food. Hungry little thing. Watch. Stray, look at me.”

Kristoff looks up. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a noblewoman standing next to Seraiah, vaguely familiar in appearance. Seraiah cuts a slice out of the apple on a table next to his chair. “Beg, Stray.”

Kristoff, no, Stray shifts a little. He moves slowly and deliberately, raising up on his knees with his hands hanging in front of his chest. Not a single clink from his chains or ringing from the bell on his collar.

“Very good.” Seraiah nods his approval and holds the apple slice out to him. Kristoff waits for permission, even as his stomach growls. “Eat, Stray.”

He leans forward, taking the slice in his mouth and chewing just enough to swallow. As he returns to his previous position, his left had twitches and spasms involuntarily, causing his chains to jangle just the slightest bit, he freezes.

Seraiah sighs and picks up the riding crop, slapping Kris on the hand. It’s already red from being hit several times throughout the morning. “That’s the only issue,” the noble says, bringing the leather tip of the crop up under Kris’s chin, forcing him to look back up. “His hand’s defective. I might just have it removed.”

Kristoff starts to shake, but he quells it immediately. No shaking, or he’ll be hit more.

“That might be for the best,” Seraiah’s guest agrees. His eyes flick to her, and he finally recognizes her.

Iris. Iris is here, and seeing him like this, and treating him like an odd little pet.

Kristoff wants to cry, but he doesn’t. Not allowed.

gabe is @crash-bump-bring-the-whump‘s oc, and he’s been borrowed with permission!

content warning: drugged whumpee, vague near-noncon (interrupted).

Mere minutes after he sips at his fruit-punch flavored drink, pink and pretty in its wide-brimmed glass lifted from the bar by his fingers wrapped around the slender stem, Christian can feel the effect it’s having on him. It’s only his second drink of the night and he’s starting to list to one side, eyes struggling to focus, will and inhibitions slipping away. He’s been drugged.

Blake is across the nightclub dancing with someone, distracted and lost in the crowd. Christian can’t get to him, and can’t call him, not with the booming music nearly shaking through the walls and floor and barstools.

The nearest person is a woman, her high blonde ponytail swaying as she nods to the music, heel tapping. Christian steps closer and clumsily bats at her arm in an attempt to tap her shoulder.

“Heyyy,” He slurs, and cringes when she glares openly at him. Her friend steps into view and grimaces at him too.

“Another groping drunk?” She comments drily. “Get lost.”

“‘m not, I… I’m not drunk.”

“Mmmhmm. Touch her again and that glass is going down your throat.”

Frowning, Chris looks to the bar beside them to see a drained whiskey glass, right next to three emptied glasses, the kinds that hold the shots of stronger, grosser liquor that makes people lose their coordination and senses quickly. They’re not his, but he doesn’t have time to explain that.

“I - please,” He whines, sounding Marlow-like in his plaintive, consciously powerless tone. “Think ‘ve been… somethin’, something, in my drink…”

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Whumper x Whumpee (part 2)

The sound of the downstairs door closing softly brought the whumpee awake. Whumper was back. They sat up and looked at the clock beside their bed, at the darkness outside. It was so late. Had something happened?

Timidly, they tiptoed downstairs, reassuring themselves with every step. They were allowed to do this, Whumper had said so. The memory eased the fearful knot tightening their stomach a little.

The whumper was sitting in the kitchen, their back to the whumpee. As the whumpee approached, they heard a soft hiss of pain.

“A-are you okay?” Their voice sounded horribly loud in the silence, and the whumper whirled around, eyes wild.

“What are you doing here?” Their voice was harsh, and the whumpee cringed.

“‘M sorry, I’ll go, I w-won’t do it again, sorry-“

“Wait.” The whumper stopped their shuffling retreat, sounding defeated. “I didn’t mean to shout. You can stay.”

Hesitantly, the whumpee turned around, and their eyes widened at the state of the person in front of them.

The whumper was a mess. Blood stained their hairline and cheekbone and trailed down their chin from a split lip. Their clothes were dirty and torn and from the way they were standing, half hunched with an arm looped almost protectively about their middle, it didn’t take much to know there were more than a few unseen injuries.

“Wh-what happened?” the whumpee breathed, shock replacing fear.

The whumper tried to smile. “Just a bad night,” they joked lamely, and then swayed.

Before the whumpee could even think about what they were doing, they leapt forward and clasped the whumper’s arm, keeping them upright.

The whumper looked up at them in surprise, and the whumpee shrank once more. “Sorry-“

“Don’t apologise.” Whumper sounded kind. They were always kind, even when hurt like this. Who could have done this to them? “Hey...d’you think you could help me get fixed up? I’m...” They breathed hard and fought back a moan. “...not really up to it right now.”

The whumpee gulped. Such a thing had never been asked of them before. Trash didn’t get to help people, and touching others without express permission was forbidden.

But this was another matter. The whumper had always been good to them. They weren’t even mad that the whumpee had touched them.

The whumpee gave a tentative nod. “O-okay.”

What followed was a combination of awkward first aid and gentle care. The whumpee apologised almost constantly, and even though the whumper tried to be brave, there was no disguising the muffled noises of pain that slipped past their lips. Still, they encouraged the whumpee all the way and when it was over, they managed a tired smile. “Thanks.”

The whumpee had to help them to bed. The whumper collapsed under the covers and fell asleep almost instantly.

The whumpee curled up into the chair next to the bed. This was another thing they might get in trouble for, but they wanted to stay with the whumper. Tomorrow was another day.

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