It was a nice night out. She preferred the cooler air, although it didn’t do much to help her stinging skin. And this was California, so it was only ‘cool’ compared to how hot it had been a few hours before. (Not that she’d been outside a few hours before, or very much at all in the last few days.) She would probably have been fine in just the threadbare clothes she’d been wearing during most of her latest infiltration, but the scarf and jacket she’d stolen (violently) on her way out was a welcome addition. It concealed most of her exposed injuries and some of the blood stained on her shirt, leaving anyone who saw her only able to wonder about what was up with the top half of her face.

A pretty normal sight, all things considered, to any experienced night guard at the building she was approaching now. The two at her preferred entrance melted out of the shadows as she approached, having definitely seen her coming from a distance.

“Excuse me, ma’am, what is your business at this…” one of them started, trailing off when she pulled the scarf down. She would like to think that it was just because they recognized her and not because the bruising had gotten that much worse since the last time she saw her reflection.

“Friendly afternoon visit,” she said with a winning smile, ignoring how stretching those facial muscles made her want to wince.

“…Can you tell us the date, ma’am?” the other one asked after a second of staring.

“November 3rd, 1923,” she said, still smiling, without skipping a beat.

“Past midnight it’s November 4th, ma’am.” The second one said evenly.

“Of course, the late hour must be getting to me.”

This passed quickly, like two actors going over their thoroughly memorized lines. After an exchanged glance and a pause that would have made anyone else start to doubt their delivery, the first guard nodded, pressed something on their communicator, and stepped back to get the door for her.

Not bothering to pull the scarf back up now, she walked confidently into the dimly lit back entrance area, making a beeline for where she knew the elevator was. There was a special code in here, too, to make it to the penthouse, but she had that one memorized as well.

Leaning back against the support bar for a minute was nice, though she had to position herself carefully so as not to let it dig into her back or side in a bad position. Closing her eyes on the ride up, she hummed slightly in appreciation of how smooth the elevators were here. No jittering to worry about, just a soft whirring and the slight feeling of vertigo as it came to a stop many storeys up in the air.

The more steps she took to get into one of the most well-defended areas of this place, putting a set of barriers between her and anyone who might have been in pursuit, the more tension bled out of her shoulders.

As soon as she stepped out of the elevator, she was met by the familiar face of the butler, who had evidently seen her coming and had already known that it was her, rather than the one other person who was allowed in that elevator with any regularity.

“Hey, Ash,” she said casually before they could get through a more formal greeting, raising one hand in a lazy wave and holding back a wince as it reminded her of a hit she’d taken to the shoulder earlier.

“Good evening.” They sounded as proper and English as ever, and she didn’t miss their perceptive eyes zeroing in on every unusual detail about her current appearance, not only the injuries but definitely also the ill-fitting clothes and hair in desperate need of a wash.

(She’d been lucky no one had decided an impromptu haircut was in the cards. She wouldn’t have been able to stop them without breaking cover, but that would have been a little more awkward to explain to her sisters than the usual aftermath of a prolonged fight.)

“…Victor won’t be in for another week, I’m afraid, but the room is open to you as always,” they said with the air of someone who was giving the usual pleasantries only as a precursor to a more serious subject change, and was not trying to hide it. “Are you alright?” And there was the serious part.

“Yeah,” she shrugged, rolled her shoulders, and this time could not stop a wince. She merged it smoothly into a more joking sort of smile-grimace. “It’s just from the job I’ve been on, there were a couple of “complications,” you know how it is. No death traps in the kitchen tonight?”

The attempt at changing the subject again was not successful, as Ashton followed her into the kitchen and shooed her away to wait on a barstool while they got her a glass of water with exactly one cube of ice. Or, a sphere of ice, because the fridge here was massive and fancy and had both a cube and a sphere option for how the ice could come out.

The water was wonderful to her parched throat, and she held the glass up longer than necessary to let the ice rest against the split in her lip for a few seconds. It was always nice to spend a few minutes after one in the morning sipping water with a tall British person in a suit and pencil skirt hovering over her every move.

“Need something?” she asked with a look over the lip of the glass.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Ms Roxanne? You don’t need… medical attention?” Right, yeah, they were a highly skilled government agent before they became a butler. Definitely had some good first aid training from all that.

“Just some bandaids and a full night’s sleep… And, again, you can call me Roxy.”

Ashton did not look convinced, and then they turned to where she knew the painkillers and general medications of varying strengths were stored. There was no stopping them from this now, but she could try anyway for the principle of the thing.

“I’ve done this before, Ashton, it’s not that bad.”

“To put it lightly, Ms Roxanne, you look as though you tried to fight a team of superheroes. Or, if I were inclined to be generous, won a fight against an entire street gang.” Maintaining stern eye contact, they set down a couple of pills and a cookie.

“Not as wrong as you could be.” Roxy picked up the cookie first, searching both sides with suspicion. It was the imported kind that was labeled ‘biscuit’ instead of ‘cookie’ and which everyone knew she secretly liked but pretended to be suspicious of anyway. Because they were in the US, so being suspicious of England was funny. “What’s this, weird, British thing– trying to poison me?”

“Would you like me to put the biscuit away and let you have an upset stomach? Please pardon me for assuming you haven’t eaten in the last hour.”

Not feeling up to a prolonged bit at the moment, Roxy caved and ate the ‘biscuit’. After swallowing the painkillers with the second half of her water, she let the ice sit for a moment again. It turned out talking too much made the split lip hurt worse, who could’ve guessed?

“I notice you snuck some melatonin in there,” she observed.

“To help you sleep. Pardon me again for assuming you may have some trouble, otherwise,” they paused and looked her up and down again, “considering.”

“Fair,” she admitted.

They sat in silence as she finished off the water one sip at a time. She debated waiting for the ice to melt enough that she could take another tiny sip every several minutes, just to see how Ashton would react, then decided against it and crunched what remained of the ice sphere.

Getting to bed wasn’t too much of a hassle. Ashton followed her to the master bathroom, because of course they did, but left her to go inside by herself. She only heard them step in once she was in the middle of showering, presumably to put some things on the counter and whisk away her dirty and one hundred percent stolen clothing.

Hot water would be nice and she happened to know for a fact that it was literally unlimited here, but she kept it to a mild, lukewarm temperature as she carefully cleaned everything she could currently reach without wincing, and let soap and water wash down her back unassisted to at least get the worst of it off back there. Drying off was a little bit of an ordeal, but the towels were very soft and she didn’t have any head wounds to stop her from wrapping up her hair. Everything she couldn’t get for the risk of aggravating some injury or another could just air dry while she went looking for first aid supplies to use on her face.

When she turned around to see how her back looked, she let out a low whistle. Who knew whips could do that when you weren’t being nice and responsible with them? (Probably every single person who’d ever been remotely involved with the “market” that her latest job had had her infiltrating.)

There were two options here. One, she could put on the silky robe Ashton had left hanging up for her and go to bed without dealing with all that yet, and probably wake up really sore and maybe with some kind of infection. Two, she could get some help tending to it and go to bed with some level of reassurance that it was fine, but at the cost of Ashton knowing exactly how bad it looked.

With a towel around her waist, she cracked the door and summoned them. Their face remained carefully neutral even after they saw, which definitely meant that they thought it was incredibly bad but knew that Roxy would not be taking constructive criticism on the choices she made that led up to it. That, or, they just didn’t want to get into it right now, in favor of getting her into a bed at some point during that melatonin’s window of greatest effect.

There was a lot more stinging disinfectant and a lot more bandaging going on back there than Roxy would have thought necessary, herself, but she wasn’t going to complain. Anything touching the whip marks directly was incredibly Bad with a capital B, but she had to admit to feeling a lot better once they were all cleaned and wrapped up.

The one joke she cracked about how it wasn’t as bad as it could be because she didn’t have any broken bones did not seem to go over well, so she conceded and didn’t say much until they were done. Ashton helped her into the robe and left her to get some pajama pants on by herself, continuing to hover and help until she was safely tucked in between Victor’s silk sheets.

It was still uncomfortable to lie down in most positions she tried, but, then again, that melatonin really was having a window of greatest effect.

- - -

Predictably, Roxy woke up sore. The painkillers had worn off at some point, so she got the full experience of throbbing and stinging and every attempted movement making her limbs want to go on strike. They had not yet managed to achieve independence from the rest of her, however, so when she decided it was time for them to get her standing up, they obeyed. The blackout curtains did their job well, so she had to pull one back slightly if she wanted to see by anything other than the soft, slightly futuristic floor lights on the edges of the room.

Taking stock, she determined that this was actually better than a couple of the times she’d come out of a mission injured. When her hair fell into her face for want of a headband, it was soft and light from being cleaned with incredibly expensive, high quality rich-people products, and she knew her back would have been a lot worse without Ashton’s help.

Speaking of Ashton, they seemed to have woken up before her, because she could smell something cooking. Possibly more than one something, which would make sense if they still felt like hovering but hadn’t come in to wake her up yet. There was the almost-imperceptible sound of voices, as if they were talking to themself or perhaps playing a video. Cooking tutorial, maybe.

The stolen clothing from the night before was nowhere to be seen; either it was waiting to be washed or Ashton had burned it. Roxy wasn’t worried about what happened to most of it, but it would be nice if the bloodstained parts had been saved in case she felt like getting them tested for genes.

Leaving the robe on the bed, she stretched her arms as much as they dared as she made her way to steal one of Victor’s shirts. They were long enough that she had gone around the penthouse in one with no pants before (but she would rather get stabbed again than get out of these soft pajama pants before eating something). There were no headbands to steal in Victor’s bedroom, and she didn’t feel like scavenging the bathroom for elastics, clips, or pins. So, with her hair loose, wearing no more than pajama pants, bandages, and an oversized button-up shirt, she pushed her hair back and stepped out.

Ashton was, indeed, doing their thing in the kitchen, wearing pants today along with an apron that looked a little too professional for someone making relatively normal breakfast in a non-restaurant kitchen. More curtains kept the floor-to-ceiling windows in the main area from letting in too much light, but from the angle and brightness she could still estimate that it must be later than she usually woke up. And from a glance at the clock, she could confirm that it was almost nine in the morning. She had reallyoverslept.

As she nosed her way into the cooking space, she found them carefully transferring what looked like small fried pies out of a skillet. Uncooked ones waited their turn on a plate nearby.

“You need a little more oil,” she observed, her voice coming out a little more thick and sleepy than she would have liked. Actually wait, hold on, she hadn’t seen anyone making these since the last time she visited family. “You can make spanakopita?” The question came out sounding like an accusation.

“I can make anything, given a good recipe, Ms Roxanne.” So that probably had been a cooking video she’d heard before. Ashton removed the last one from the pan and reached for more oil, but refrained from putting any new ones in until they had turned to shoo her away from the barstools. “I would invite you to wait in the living area,” was their way of banishing her, possibly to avoid having their cooking process nitpicked again. Possibly also to keep her from seeing them pull up a tutorial to nitpick their own cooking process with.

When she stifled a yawn with the back of her hand, she was reminded of her shoulders’ present desire to complain about everything but especially movement. Sitting down in a chair that had a soft back would be pretty nice…

The living area was surrounded by sliding walls that could be used to keep it more or less separate from the adjacent sometimes-areas sometimes-rooms. At the moment, it had a wide doorway on one side, a deployed wall opposite the full length windows, and a view into Victor’s office area and the back of his tall spinny chair. Were she feeling inclined to snoop, Roxy would have looked into there, but was distracted easily by the setup surrounding one of the lounge chairs. A side table held a full glass of water with exactly one sphere of ice, a small pitcher with more water and no ice, and a tall mug of steeping tea. The matching table on the other side held a very inviting plate of buttered toast, with a fried egg sitting on top of one piece. 

For a second, she thought about draping herself over a couch instead of taking the obviously intended seat, just to see how Ash reacted. But her desire for water and toast outweighed her desire for mischief at this time, so she sank down into the black leather and took a second to close her eyes and breathe in and will her strained muscles to relax. It wasn’t like the guys she’d been spying on could make it up here, even if they had somehow tracked her all the way to the building. And her next information rendezvous wasn’t until that evening, so she could take a minute to chill.

When her eyes opened, it was to the realization that her current seat was centered perfectly behind Victor’s chair, brought to her by the realization that said chair was slowly turning around.

Of the two supervillains that she was familiar with, she knew that one of them participated in dramatics mostly because it helped with the stress of the job, and partly because it was fun. Victor Stirling, on the other hand, having inherited quite a few things from his supervillain parents including a general style of mannerisms, was probably not doing the chair spin reveal thing ironically.

Before he came to a stop, facing her head-on, Roxy put together that Ashton must have called him about her condition either while she was in the shower or after she had fallen asleep last night. If he hadn’t meant to come back for another week, very few other things could have summoned him on such short notice.

She prepared a smirk and a tease about him being predictable, but both died before making it out when she met his eyes.

“So I’m not known for cutting business meetings short.” Starting off strong with a non sequitur, classic. Roxy’s smile started to edge back on as she watched Victor stand up from his seat.

“Catch you in the middle of one?” she asked, then remembered her voice wasn’t great at the moment and she would be partaking of some water before saying anything else.

“No, I was just starting the day in Spain, actually,” he answered while watching as if worried that she might have trouble drinking water, of all things. And without waiting for another response, he launched right back into… Ooh, he was monologuing.

“Allow me to paint a picture of it for you. It was past ten in the morning, I had completed much of my less savory business the night before, and had the entire afternoon ahead of me booked with meetings on the more savory side of things, when suddenly I find I’m receiving a call from my good, trusted friend Ashton, whom you may be aware I’ve expressly told to call me only in the circumstances of an emergency.

“And, upon answering this call, what should I hear them say, but that my girlfriend arrived at a late hour and is much worse for wear.

“Now, I know that my dear, competent, intelligent partner is experienced and knows how to handle herself in her work, so if Ashton is calling my emergency line, the situation she finds herself in must be truly dire, no? Certainly not the usual bouts of combat –which I am well aware you can normally teleport out of the moment they become too much– and certainly not gained from your usual heists and espionage, no, I was told that you seem to have been whipped?”

The worry in his voice was clear, and would have been clear even to someone who didn’t know him well enough to read him. As he drew closer, having apparently vented enough of his feelings for the moment to move to the next stage of his presentation, Roxy saw that his suit was rumpled and was probably, in fact, the same suit he had put on before 10 AM in Madrid. Had he slept at all? Maybe on the couch she had been eyeballing a second before this began. If anyone had gone into his bedroom while she was asleep, she probably wouldn’t have stayed asleep for very long.

“And I don’t mean to put down your skills, it would be foolish for anyone in my position to suggest that you aren’t a professional, or chose your mission poorly. But your present state is…” He broke eye contact to look down at the gauze covering her torso through the gap in the stolen shirt. He probably knew that it was there for everything on her back, but he wouldn’t be wrong to wonder if it was also hiding any bruises over her ribs or stomach area. She knew there was a pretty bad one peeking out by her collarbone.

“Roxanne. Roxy. I know that in our… business relationship, I tend to be the one who calls on you for assistance in these underground affairs, but you must know that you can call on me when something is… of a caliber where you may want my assistance.” He stopped a couple of steps in front of her, giving another up and down look. “You mentioned you were going into something undercover.”

“Deep undercover,” she confirmed. When he kept looking expectant, she continued, leaning forward to get to business, “It wasn’t in the cards to go in on the same level as the higher-ups, and we needed to confirm how exactly they get the victims and transport them. So I posed as one.”

Victor was quiet for a moment, his crossed arms rising, then falling as he took a breath and let it out.

“You remained just long enough to get the necessary information,” he assumed, and she nodded. Letting out another breath, he closed the distance and half-knelt in front of her in one smooth motion, reaching up to put a hand gently under her chin, moving it to cup the side of her face. “Then I hope you’ll be able to tell me,” his voice was softer now, not that that in any way concealed the dangerous undertone as his eyes lingered on her split lip, black eye, the faint bruise left from a harsh slap, “who did this to you?”

painsandconfusion:

meowsikbox:

a fun whump trope:

unnecessary restraints.

extra zipties down the arms and legs

chains pinning someone to the ground

especially if it’s on a character who is known to be extremely violent

I love how extras are added and the thrashing turns to writhing turns to wriggling. So frustrating and perfect.

Please tag me or give credit if you use this prompt.

Because of what they went through at the hand of Whumper, Whumpee hasn’t spoken since being rescued.  Now, Caretaker is hearing them speak for the first time.  “I trust you.”

Querencia BBU AU - Exhaustion

(Day 16 of Angstpril 2022)

Today we’re back to the regular BBU AU, no Kestrel Sisters involved. :)

Taglist:@justplainwhump,@painful-pooch

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: lady whumpee, BBU, whumper POV, creepy/intimate whumper (seriously this guy is a real creeper), mild blood, scars, implied future torture, noncon touch (non-sexual)

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The fighting ring is not Manuel Beckham’s favorite place to be. Yes, he owns it. Yes, he makes sure that it’s a respectable establishment, as far as illegal pet fighting rings go, that it’s kept as clean and presentable as any of his offices. Yes, many of his esteemed colleagues can be found here on any given night. And yes, the fights here bring in as much money in a week as some of his legal companies.

But personally, he finds all the blood and sweat and cheering for pain a bit…distasteful.

Not that he’s against pain. But pain should be something beautiful, something carefully crafted with expert hands and enjoyed more privately. It’s wasted on these dogs, and on their owners who roar for more.

Still, he’s obligated to drop by once in a while. The employees always make a huge ordeal out of it, scurrying around like ants trying to make sure everything is perfect for him, always giving him the, “Oh, we weren’t expecting you, we would have had something special prepared for you,” speech.

Of course they weren’t expecting him. If he announced when he was visiting, they could make sure to clean up their act before he arrived. This way he sees everything raw, exactly how it happens on the nights he isn’there.

They sit him in his own private box, though someone is constantly in and out, offering him food and drinks and the chance to place bets. More than one person stopped him on the way there, shaking hands and giving fake smiles and faker compliments. They all want a chance to sit in the box with him, to claim that they’re best friends with Manuel Beckham. He’s yet to invite any of them in.

“You’ll be happy to know,” one of the managers tells him halfway through the night, after one of the dogs takes a brutal beating, “that the new healing program has taken off. We’ve been making nearly ten percent extra each week from healings alone.”

Beckham gives a non-committal hum, sipping his drink. “Healing program?”

“Yes, sir, the new healer pet you ordered. It’s been doing its job well. Your clients are very pleased.”

Healer pet. Right, he vaguely remembers signing off on such a thing. It had to have been at least a year ago by now.

“Well, that’s good to hear.” The concept intrigues him, actually. A pet with magic? He knows they exist, but has yet to come across one.

He makes an impulsive decision in that moment, a rarity for him. “I’d like to see it in action. Once the fights are over, someone can escort me downstairs to watch.”

The manager’s eyes widen almost comically, but he nods eagerly. “Yes, sir, of course! I’ll take you down there myself!”

It’s been years since he ventured into the belly of the beast. As long as the upstairs, the place where all of the business takes place, is presentable, he honestly doesn’t care what happens behind the scenes. He’s still pleased to see as he descends the echoing staircase into a long, grey hallway that they’ve kept it clean and tidy down here. The proximity to a bunch of snarling, filthy mutts is a bit too close for his tastes, but he can ignore that for his curiosity’s sake.

“Just down here is where we have it set up.” The manager - Beckham can’t be bothered to remember his name at the moment - leads the way past closed office doors and several owners tugging their dogs out on leashes. Thankfully most of them are too busy either reveling in their wins or wallowing in their losses to notice his presence.

“Pierce!” A black man built like a bouncer turns at the call of his name. “Mr. Beckham is here. He’d like to see the healer pet at work.”

Pierce merely gives a polite nod to Beckham, who decides immediately that he likes him. No groveling or fake smiles, just business.

“Perfect timing. I’m about to take the next dog in.” Pierce gestures toward the people standing there, a woman he thankfully doesn’t recognize and her female dog that’s nearly covered in blood.

The door opens, and Beckham immediately spots the healer, despite the fact that she’s tucked herself neatly into the corner. He’s hooked right away. Her big grey eyes stand out from her gaunt face, dark circles underneath making them even more prominent. Freckles dot her nose and cheeks. Her dark brown curls are a mess, falling just below her shoulders, but he can tell they’d be gorgeous with proper care. A scar bisects her full, perfect pink lips and runs up her cheek. Everything about her, including the way she folds her hands tightly in front of her and ducks her head just so, is perfect. She’s like a little mouse. He can’t stop staring at her.

When the Guard Dog has been properly restrained, she finally emerges from her corner, head still respectfully down. She doesn’t even need to be told what needs healing. Her hands move gracefully around the dog’s body, mesmerizing blue light spilling from her fingertips, stitching up the deepest of wounds with the slightest of touches.

Once she’s done, she steps back into her corner. The owner takes out a wet wipe and cleans off some of the blood here and there, checking the wounds, but there’s nothing to be found but a few, small white scars. She pays her dues and leaves satisfied.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” the manager asks.

“Yes,” Beckham hums. “She is. Tell me, does she have a name?” He still can’t take his eyes off of her.

“Um…”

“Her trainers called her 472,” Pierce offers. “But some of the guards here have taken to calling her Freckles.”

“How’d she get that scar on her face?” Freckles and a number won’t do at all. Little Mouse, that’s how he’s going to think of her.

Pierce shrugs. “Some dog she healed a few months ago. That’s how her magic works, she takes on the pain of whatever she’s healing, and she gets matching scars.”

She takes on the pain. How completely fascinating. He can see it now, watching her work on the next dog. The slight stiffness to her movements, the way she favors one leg almost imperceptibly. A weariness that weighs down her shoulders. She does an excellent job of keeping it to herself, though. He’d never have noticed if he hadn’t been told. Now he can’t stop noticing, though, can’t stop wondering where she’s hiding invisible injuries, what parts of her are hurting. It must be strange, carrying someone else’s pain. She must be exhausted.

It just adds to her perfection.

Beckham stays until the last dog is healed, watching. He can tell that she knows, but she’s a good pet, never raising her eyes except to look at injuries, never speaking at all, never making even the slightest pained noise even as she heals a broken collarbone and a sprained wrist. He wants to know what her voice sounds like. Wants to know what it would take to make that voice cry out, to make tears fill those impassive eyes.

As soon as he gets home that night, despite the late hour, he locks himself in his office and searches his records until he finds every single piece of paperwork that Beckham Solutions, Inc. has on the Little Mouse. Designation 521472, trained as a Platonic, with an emphasis in healing magic and a little bit of Romantic training thrown in to boot. She was lauded by WRU as being ‘highly obedient’ and received high marks in every aspect of her training.

She’s meant to be a companion. To be petted, and held, and loved. And now she’s trapped in the bowels of the fighting ring, carrying the burden of so many injuries so that the Guard Dogs of a bunch of rich, entitled owners won’t have to.

The more he learns of her story, the more delighted he is.

Hewantsher.

But of course he can’t just go and take her. Yes, she technically belongs to him, but what would his employees think if he snatched away the source of a ten percent increase in earnings just for his own whims? He’s a businessman first and foremost. If he’s going to have the Little Mouse for himself, he needs to make sure there’s a way to replace the money she brings in.

So he contacts WRU the very next day. Informs them that he’s in need of another pet with healing magic, and no, he doesn’t mind paying extra for a custom order. Drops plenty of hints that if they don’t have one that has signed up by conventional methods, they should most certainly pursue unconventional methods of procuring one. Yes, he’s alright with waiting as long as it takes. He wants his Little Mouse now, but he’s a patient man. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.

Months pass. He stays away from the fighting ring altogether, not wanting to tempt himself to act rashly. He finally gets a call from WRU, telling him that they’ve found a candidate. His training will begin immediately, this time strictly focused on obedience and healing. Beckham inquires a little into this new pet’s story, out of curiosity, and finds that his magic works quite differently from Little Mouse’s. No taking on pain involved. Much less interesting. He promptly forgets about him, other than occasionally wondering how close his training is to being completed.

Little Mouse, on the other hand, he thinks about every single day. He quietly begins making preparations for her arrival, whenever that may be, much to the curiosity of his other pets, he’s sure. They don’t need an explanation from him, though. They’re just pets. They’ll find out what’s happening eventually.

At last, almost a year later, when he’s practically worn thin from the waiting, he gets the call. His new Box Boy is ready and will be delivered to the fighting ring the next day.

Beckham doesn’t waste any time. He’s waiting down the hall from the healing room that night half an hour after the fights end, waiting for his Little Mouse to emerge from her very last night working here. The fact that she has no idea makes him a little bit giddy. He’s already set everything up for the new pet’s arrival with Kara, who will be the one in charge of unboxing him and putting him to work. All that’s left is to take her home.

He’s purposely set himself up a little ways away from the door so that he can watch her for a moment when she comes out. It’s a struggle to keep himself from breaking into a smile when she does. She’s just as perfect as he remembers. Time has changed her, though. His Little Mouse has turned into something of a ghost, haunting the basement halls of this establishment. There’s no longer a light, airy quality to the way she walks. The exhaustion he’d seen on her before weighs even heavier now, dragging her down. She moves more stiffly than before, less able to hide the amount of pain she’s constantly in. Her skin is paler than it should be. The bags under her eyes have grown even darker.

But she’s still perfect, and she’s his. Give him a little time, and he’ll bring all of that grace and beauty back to life.

He steps forward, intercepting the path of the guard, though he pays them little attention. His eyes are only on her. “Hello, Little Mouse. Do you know who I am?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “No, sir.” It’s the first time he’s heard her voice. It’s quiet and demure, as it should be, barely above a whisper. She shakes her head, but leaves it tipped down toward the floor.

“My name is Manuel Beckham.” There’s a visible, physical reaction to that name. She’s heard it before, somewhere. “I’m the owner of this fighting ring.”

Stepping in closer, he reaches out with two fingers, nearly trembling with excitement, and tips her chin up. It’s been so long since he’s been able to see this face. He takes it all in now, burning it into his memory, relishing the fact that he’ll get to see it every day from now on. Her eyes stay locked somewhere around his chin, thick eyelashes nearly covering them.

“Which means I’m also yourowner.”

Her lips part, and she sucks in a barely audible gasp of air. Perfect, she’s entirely perfect.

“Look at me, Mouse.” Grey eyes slowly move up to meet his own. There’s a million thoughts and emotions shining in them, feelings that are kept dutifully hidden from any other portion of her body. He makes a note of that - her eyes are where the truth is held.

“I’m here to take you home. You don’t belong in this place any longer, toiling away so that stupid Guard Dogs don’t have to deal with their own pain. You’re coming home with me, to finally become the beloved pet that you deserve to be.”

Her carefully controlled demeanor is cracking. No one else would see it, perhaps, but as close as he is he can feel the way she’s shaking, can see the tears form in the corners of her eyes. She’s so, incredibly weary, and this is the one thing that she’s been waiting on since completing her training. A pity, some would say, that so much time was wasted training her for companionship only for her to end up here. Others might feel sorry for the pet herself and how disappointed she must have been, though anyone assigning that much weight to a pet’s feelings is an idiot.

For Beckham, though, it’s all exactly how it should be. She was placed here, fulfilling only half of her purpose, so that she would need him as much as he wants her. They’re perfect for one another.

“Come, little one.” He releases her chin, only to slide his hands behind her neck and unbuckle the ugly black shock collar around her neck. Without looking, he drops it into the hand of the flabbergasted guard, then reaches into his inner jacket pocket and brings out the new collar he’d purchased just for her. It’s thin and delicate, genuine leather dyed pink and embedded with pink diamonds. Just one of many fine pieces that she’ll wear in the coming days.

He brushes a strand of messy hair back from her face, and she melts, eyes fluttering shut. Beckham finally allows a smile onto his lips.

“It’s time to go home.”

Prompt #5

“You think … just by - hurting me — you can break me ?”

“Well, I can certainly try,, it doesn’t seem like you’ll last very long either by the looks of it, shame really - I was starting to have fun”

Prompt#2

“We must remind them who they belong to”

“You have the whole world in your hands, the power to do ANYTHING a and you wish to make them suffer ?!”

“How else will they learn ?”

“This is madness !”

“Then so be it,”

“Make it stop! Ple-please— I’ll tell you what you want to know! Just— sto-stop!”

Whumper removed the iron from Whumpee’s flesh. “Who’s the rat.”

“I-I told you— there isn’t one!”

“I said, who’s the rat. Do you want me to start again?” Whumper threatened, bringing the iron close to Whumpee’s arm again.

“No! No— it’s C… It’s Caretaker— They’re the one who’s giving us info-information.”

Whumper smirked, setting the iron back in the fire. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Next question. Where is Caretaker meeting with the heroes?”

When Whumpee hesitated, Whumper snatched the iron back out of the fire.

“No— please— Th-they’ve been meeting under the crossbridge!”

“When is the next meeting scheduled?”

“To-tonight— At sundown…”

“How many people are they meeting?”

“J-just one.”

“And their name?”

“…”

“Their name.”

“L-leader.”

“If I find out any of this information is incorrect, you’ll wish I’d gotten the iron back out.”

Whumpee shivered as Whumper stuck the iron back in the fire and left the room. Whumpee was left chained to the wall, shaking from pain, exhaustion, and fear.

Until the door opened.

Caretaker gasped in pain as their knees slammed into the floor.

“Spend your time wisely. This is the last you’ll be seeing any friends.” Whumper spat as they slammed the door closed again. The lock turned, and then there was silence.

And darkness.

A shaky breath cut through the silence and then the scrape of shoes against the floor as Caretaker stood.

“Whumpee..? Did I see you before the door closed..?”

“Y-yeah…” Whumpee shifted uncomfortably. “I… I’m…”

“It’s okay— don’t worry about it.”

There was a crash as Caretaker ran into something in the dark.

“B-but I ratted you out— th-this… it’s my fault… I-if I had been… if I had been stronger…”

“Don’t.” Caretaker reached the wall and started feeling their way towards Whumpee. “This isn’t your fault. I saw what they did to you— No one would’ve lasted very long.”

Whumpee gasped as Caretaker brushed against one of their burns.

“Sorry!” Caretaker pulled back immediately. “Listen, what all did you tell them..?”

“Le… Leader is in danger…” Whumpee whispered. “I-I told them they were meeting you tonight at the crossbrige…”

Caretaker took a measured breath. “… It’ll be fine. Leader is strong. And smart. Whumper won’t be able to hurt them.”

“This is all my fault… Caretaker, I’m so sorry…”

—

The pair sat in silence for a long time. Then, finally, the door opened again.

“Lucky you, Whumpee. You made the right choice. No lies.” Whumper entered the room and shot Caretaker with a taser before they could react. “Shouldn’t have thrown them in here unrestrained, but I was honestly kind of hoping they’d kill you for your betrayal. Anyway…” Whumper sighed. “Now I have to figure something else to do with you. I don’t need you anymore— I have Caretaker now. But I can’t let you go either.”

Whumper unchained Whumpee and dragged them out of the room. Whumpee was hardly able to resist.

At the end of a long hallway, Whumper threw open a door.

“Do what you want with them. They’re useless to me now.” And Whumper dropped Whumpee at the feet of their underlings.

CW: Torture aftermath, implied continued torture, implied past torture

“Just breathe.”

Leader exhaled a pained breath. It sounded almost like a quiet scream.

“You’ll be okay. I know— it hurts— but your wounds aren’t life threatening. They’re trying to hurt you, not kill you.”

“H-how… how do you kn-know—” Leader gasped as the pain came in a hot flash.

Youngest hesitated. “… You don’t need to worry about how I know right now. The important thing is to stay strong. You can’t break— you know you can’t.”

“It hu-hurts so much—” Leader whimpered.

Youngest gently started to run their fingers through Leaders hair, carefully working out the tangles. “You need to find something else to focus on— something to ground you. I won’t be there when they take you again, but for now, you can focus on me, okay? Listen to my voice. Can you feel my hands in your hair?”

“Mhm—” Leader squeezed their eyes shut, trying with all their might to block out the pain and focus on Youngest.

“That’s good. Try and just breathe, okay? In… and out… that’s good, like that.”

Youngest continued to stroke Leader’s hair for hours until they heard footsteps coming back to the cell.

“They’re coming back.” Youngest whispered to Leader.

Leader whimpered, squeezing their eyes shut so Youngest couldn’t see the fear in them.

“Don’t be afraid to scream. It’s better if they think they’re being successful. You just have to hold out until help gets here. They are coming. Don’t give up yet.”

Leader nodded a little and Youngest slid away from them.

“Remember to ground yourself when you can.” Youngest whispered, then said nothing else as Leader was dragged back out of the cell, already screaming.

Whumper who’s studying anatomy and uses whumpee as their stand in cadaver. They like being able to see how a live body functions, even if it’s a lot more messy. 

painsandconfusion:

Whumpy Moments #26

Whumpee’s eyes glaze over as they stare at the screen in front of them.

Caretaker. Bleeding. Gagged. Slumped in their chair. Broken.

All the life drips out of Whumpee, trailing down their arms, their torso, leaking out of their fingers and toes and leaving them numb.

The world spins and sways, pulling them back down onto the bed. Whumpee’s shifting eyes keep finding the image as their empty mind tries to comprehend it. Their lungs burn for oxygen that they cannot think to supply.

Whumpee finds themself curled up on their side, holding their knees to their chest as they stare at the sideways screen.

Hollow. Sour. Empty.

The only semblance of thought their mind can provide is two syllables endlessly repeating. Looping and overlapping and screaming in their mind, a myriadic cacophony of formless shame bruising against their skull.

my fault

Keep reading

Devils in the Details

This is just a little piece of experimentation writing, I had an idea and ran with it just to try out the Vibes. I had to give them names for it to feel right, I guess we’ll see if either of them show up again in the future. I wanted to try something here, starting with the small detail and slowly widening the lens… I like how it turned out!

Contents: aftermath of torture/interrogation, mob/crime type setting, hand whump, knives, guns, blood, threats, all that juicy stuff.

It hurts like hell as his hand is lifted—the mangled broken one with its cracked bones and dislocated joints—so the pad of his thumb can be pressed to the fingerprint scanner. Of course it’s the broken one that Blake uses, not the one that’s chained to the table leg.

Gil grits his teeth through every tiny shift, air whistles past his teeth as he hisses, almost a whine. And then he breathes, swallows, gets air into his lungs just in time to be able to gasp as his hand is laid back down on the surface of the table and the pain spikes all over again. There’s a gentle clunk in front of him and he opens his eyes to see his phone shining up at him. 

“Now the passcode.”

He looks up, licks his lips. The handcuff rattles as he tries to raise his right hand. Blake holds his gaze, waiting perched on the edge of the table.

“The passcode.”

They’d asked for it before, but that was hours ago. Hours before the pain he’s in now. Long before he’d reached the point of caving in, willing to do this—to make it stop.

“Y-yeah, give me… yeah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s out of options, or at least out of options that don’t involve more pain.

It’s a special kind of agony to raise his hand and use the back of a knuckle to key in the four digit number. It aggravates the injuries, but it cuts deeper too. He knows he’s giving in; too weak to hold out. But wouldn’t anyone, after all this? He isn’t sure. 

“Very good. See how easy this can be?”

He scowls, face twisting in disgust. Gets a laugh for it.

“I know, you have your orders, your principles to follow. Unfortunately so do I, it’s a shame they clash. I’m sure neither of us wants to be here.”

No, he doesn’t want to be here. Would walk out if he could, if his legs would even hold his weight after all the pain, the exhaustion.

“Not exactly my choice for a vacation, no,” he replies, stifling a cough as his lungs protest. Cracked rib, then. Or bruised at least. The chair squeaks under his weight, the legs crooked. His knee knocks against the table but it’s too solid to wobble. Had held his weight well enough while they worked him over.

Blake leans back, spreads his arms wide. “We do our best with what we have.”

And what they have is a pile of shit. Fuck all. Until now… until he gives them everything he has. Maybe not everything, he’ll have to see what he can hold on to. He takes a steadying breath. Pulls himself back from the points of pain in his body, into the room to focus on what he has to do next.

“Now, let’s go through this a bit at a time.” Blake swipes the phone and clicks around. “Contacts first, one by one. I show you a name or number, you tell me what their relation is to you and your operation. Understand?”

“Can I have some water?”

There’s a silent exchange between Blake and the man guarding the door. It’s thick and heavy–the door, and the man– off to the side near the corner, opening to a room longer than it is wide, but not by much. Not big enough for Gil’s screams to echo, but big enough that his eyes can wander over cracks and peeling paint on the walls. He snaps his attention back to Blake as he gets his answer.

“After you answer some questions, sure, then you can drink.”

His throat is like sandpaper, raw and rough. He bobs his head anyway. What else is he going to do?

“Of course you’d say anything right now to get this to stop, wouldn’t you?” Blake appraises him over the phone, the blue light glinting in his eyes. Makes him look even more unnerving, eerily otherworldly. But he’s only a man, he just happens to be a man on the winning side of this exchange.

Another hesitant lick of his lips. “I… no, I mean, I’m cooperating?”

“Right, sure.” The phone is waved around as Blake squints, thinking. “But even so, you know I’ll need to verify each thing you tell me, independently. You talk, we check, then we move on. I can’t take your word for anything under these conditions.”

These conditions. The ones where he’s ratting out everyone he knows. “I understand.”

“Great, so, first things first—your role. And your real name?”

He must hesitate a fraction of a second too long because there’s the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and the large man blocking his exit comes into his field of view. Finger casually held down the side of the barrel, gun turned slightly in his direction. He sinks down in his seat, bare feet sliding on the boards underneath—slick with blood. With other things.

Blake shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s not necessary, Crill. No, no death is not what’s going to motivate you right now is it?”

He clenches his jaw, rotates it, grinding his teeth. Took one too many hits to the face and it’s all swollen, bruised and hot. He shakes his head, or at least, he shakes.

“No, the threat of more pain, that’syour motivation.”

“You don’t need—” he starts, desperately, and is cut off as a large, sharp knife appears in Blake’s hand from the sheath at his hip. He follows it, can’t look away from it. “Please, come on, I won’t…”

“Won’t what? Talk?” The knife twirls, the point edges towards him, wobbles like a wagging finger. 

“Won’t hold back!”

That gets a smile, the knife sidles closer, plucks at the collar of his shirt and swipes downwards slowly until the top button strains and then pops. He looses a breath with it as the button bounces out of sight, a whine stuck in his throat.

“I know,” Blake replies.

His shirt is already in tatters, burnt, ripped, soaked in blood. Not like he’s going to miss that one button but the casual destruction fills him with dread as Blake rounds the table, picks up a pad of paper and a pen. A second phone. Settles in like this is a business meeting. As if one person at the table hasn’t been brutalised, isn’t bleeding.

The morning light just peeking through the mesh covered window paints the entire scene in bleak, grey tones. A washed out horror show that he’s too tired to make sense of.

“Keep doing what I ask and we can relax while we wait for your stories to be corroborated.” 

That makes him shudder. How can he relax like this, alone, haunted, hurt? His mind drifts out of the window. There’s an entire world waking up outside. Getting out of bed, eating, starting the day right. And yet he can’t wake up from the nightmare he was dragged into. He blinks, stupidly, trying to clear some of the haze from his mind. His wits are nowhere to be found, though. Must have bled out of him along with his screams.

That smile again, small, but so confident. “Let’s begin.” 

magnificenthurt:

She can’t reach far, not with her wrists chained to the floor behind her, and neither can he.

But the chain is just long enough to reach out to him. She can strain far enough to touch the tips of their fingers together.

He reaches back, silently accepting her touch, curling his fingertips around hers.

Neither of them will look at the other. Neither wants to think of the wreck that has already been made of their bodies, or of the pain, or of the grim knowing that this is only the beginning.

But she has to think about it. They will most likely die here, she knows. That’s not what’s important, her life is not important. She has secrets to protect, a world to defend. She will take whatever tortures they can throw at her. She will never, ever falter, never break.

But she needs to know that she can trust him.

“Hey,” she says, her voice hushed in the dark, cramped cell. “I need you to promise me.”

He stirs just a little. She has his attention.

“Whatever happens, whatever they do to me… no matter what,” she commands, voice quiet but certain, “Don’t tell them anything.”

She understands her duty. She would give her own life for the cause in a heartbeat. But giving up someone else’s life is different. She is giving him permission. She is putting her life in his hands. She needs to know that he understands.

He nods slowly. She sees, out of the corner of her eye. It’s not enough. She needs to be certain.

She turns to look at him.

“Hey.” Her voice grows stern and forceful. “I mean it. No matter what happens. They put a gun to my head, you let them pull the trigger. They torture me, you don’t tell them anything to make it stop. If I scream, if I beg for mercy, don’t fucking listen. I’m telling you right now. Whatever fucking happens.“

She stares into his eyes, hard and firm. She means every word she’s saying.

He can’t not agree.

“Okay,” he nods, “I won’t.” He seems to be assuring himself as he says the words. “I won’t tell them anything.”

“You know I’d do the same for you,” she says, voice a bit softer. “I have to. It’s our duty.”

“I know,” he nods. “It’s okay. Whatever happens…” He takes a deep breath, turning his face away from her. “Yeah. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He can’t look at her anymore. But he presses his fingers against hers as hard as he can.

They are comrades in arms, casual friends, nothing more. They are not close. But this may very well be the last friendly touch either of them ever feel. Neither wants to let go.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice steady and calming. “It’s okay.”

He nods, staring ahead. “Yeah.” His breath threatens to shake, his voice is quiet, but he stays calm. “It’s okay.”

whumblr:

Easy

“Come now, dear. What’s the worst thing that could happen when you drop the tough act and just do as I say? All this—” he tightly gripped their arm and squeezed his thumb next to a healing cut, making Whumpee grit their teeth in pain, “—could stop.”

“You’ll just keep making things worse,” Whumpee said, conceding some of their fears. It was completely logical for them not to bend. “Worse and worse and—“

“No, darling, no. Not when you behave.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll just keep testing me. See how far you can push me. Keep upping the stakes until I’ll finally say ‘no’ and you’ll have your excuse to—“

“What makes you think I need an excuse?”

True. Even if they behaved perfectly, Whumper wouldn’t just stop. Which was the main reason they wouldn’t give in. Why submit when he was going to hurt them anyway? Pain, fine. Pain plus the burning shame of humiliation and the knowledge that they yielded? No. At least now they had the small pleasure of having him make an effort to get what he wanted.

And Whumpee knew that if they’d give into one simple request – get on your knees, look at me – it would soon escalate to worse things, push at their limits and comfort zone. Give a finger and he’d take their hand. And that little crack in their pride would keep getting larger, shame seeping in for giving in to the simple demands to escape some pain, until finally, it would splinter.

And they’d lose themself.

“Well,” Whumper drew away and instead crouched down next to them, helping them sit upright, but kept a tight grip onto their neck and tilted their chin up. “If you don’t want to get hurt, the solution is very simple, then.”

He smiled as Whumpee’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Just don’t say ‘no’.”

-

Keep reading

sadistgalore:

Mafia Madness: Swimming With The Fishes

here’s the first installment of @amonthofwhump’s Mafia Madness! I really hope to complete all of the prompts, but I’m not sure if I will able to since my senior trip this week. nonetheless, this series will be the prequel to my original story, The Devil’s Playground, and will include some characters from it. this first one is about Beth’s (from the first few chapters of my masterlist/Harper’s best friend and roommate) and Nate’s (character I haven’t introduced yet, but another whumpee of Dark) parents, and Ida’s father (the main boss of the Jaguars, the gang Dark works for). hope you all enjoy!

this prompt barely matches with the actual story

Taglist:@tropes-for-my-md-daydreams,@whumptakesthecake,@all-whumped-out,@distinctlywhumpthing,@painsandconfusion

CW: child abuse, modern slavery, minor whumpees (16 and 17 y.o.), degradation, implied torture, mention of rape, death threats, waterboarding, shoe kissing, defiant whumpee

–

The silk covered hand lifted up to the young girl’s face, brushing away a strand of her platinum blonde hair and tucking it behind her ear. She saw herself in the mirror and smiled, admiring her carefully constructed face. If her mother was here, she would say the same thing she always said; “You look liked me before the wrinkles.” Then her father would make a comment saying she always had wrinkles, or something or other.

Maybe that’s why their marriage never worked out.

Not one to dwell on the past, the girl got up from her chair in front of her vanity and threw on the fur coat hanging on the wall. It was from the skin of a blank panther, expensive, but can help her remain undetected on her date.

A rock then bounced off her window, making the young girl turn around. Speak of the devil.

Once she opened up the latch, sure enough, the young slave boy whom her father owned was waiting for her down below. The boy waved brightly, making the girl return the favor before she went back inside and grabbed the chest underneath her bed. Inside, there was a bundle of woven rope with a latch on one end, which she attached to the wall next to her. Carefully, as to not fall three stories down and die, the young girl made her way down the mansion.

“Ida,” the young boy breathed once she got done, running up to hug her.

“Harold,” she whispered, a smile on her face.

“You look beautiful,” he said as he grabbed her hand, and the two began running across the courtyard.

“Thank you, where are we going?” Ida asked, looking behind her in case anyone could see them and alert her father.

Harold led her behind the large pool house, to the gazebo located about two hundred feet away from it. The location was perfect, it was hidden behind some large trees and hedges, and already far enough from the mansion’s view.

Keep reading

whump-in-the-moonlight:

@amonthofwhump Mafia Madness day two! This time we’re traveling about 18 years into the past :)

CW: implied torture (behind a closed door), this is from the POV of a child who does NOT get injured (I’m not sure if that needs to be mentioned, but just in case)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Avdima Jakobsen’s father arrived home with a very strange package. It was large, and he had taken it straight to his office, and now there were increasingly strange noises making their way past the thick wooden door.

Avdima had gone around the house, asking all of his siblings—who were all older than him—what they thought the package was. He decided from their noncomittal answers that it must be a robot that his father had bought for Avdima’s birthday, and he was trying to teach it how to speak. Avdima wanted to participate in this, of course, so he made his way to the door to the study. His head just barely reached the doorknob, but he could grab it easily. He wiggled it, but all it did was rattle. The door didn’t open. Avdima frowned, sitting down and staring at the door. Something that sounded strangled and muffled was going on, and it was beginning to make Avdima want to cover his ears and run away, rather than investigate. But stomps and thuds that accompanied the screaming assured him that his father was there and it was all just a strange birthday present.

He supposed that he could try knocking, so he stood up. He raised his hand and was about to slam his knuckles into the wood when he was lifted up into the air. Quiet scolding filled his ears as his mother hurriedly carried him away. Avdima groaned, crying out his complaints as his mother sat down in the living room, way across the house, with him in her lap.

She was shushing him, humming a lullaby in a way that in no way made Avdima feel sleepy. She sounded frantic, frightened. Avdima didn’t understand, but he was beginning to think that maybe he shouldn’t understand. He nuzzled into his mother’s arms, letting her hold him, rocking him back and forth until the screaming stopped at last.

~

Person A: “You wont get away with this! When they find me, they’ll make you payfor what you’ve done!”

Person B: “Oh don’t worry, once I’m done with you, there won’t be anything left for them tofind.”