#reluctant caretaker
“I was never good with history,” the Whumper says, a finger tracing the papers strewn across the Whumpee’s desk in their studies. Open books on pages with black and white photographs and many texts about war litter every surface. The Whumpee sits slumped in a chair with one hand covering their eyes while they hold out their opposite arm. It is bloodied and pinched at the top of their bicep by a tourniquet tied right where their dress shirt was ripped off. “Maybe that’s why you have a habit of repeating yourself,” the Whumpee mutters, then winces from pain. The Whumper flips the pages thoughtfully. “I have a hard time accepting it as something real. The dry text - this happened then this happened which caused this. Makes it hard to feel like it was truly an experience the way you and I are experiencing this very moment. It is missing a good storyteller to bring it to life.” The Whumper walks over towards where the Whumpee sits and observed them with as much emotional distance as they did the books. “Speaking of which, I would love nothing more than to hear the story of how this happened. And why I was privileged enough to be informed about it.” They sit on the edge of the desk as the Whumpee lets out a long pained breath, their hand still pressed hard over their eyes to try and suppress the pain of their shredded arm. “Perhaps we can save it for after you’re done,” the Whumpee suggests. The Whumper shrugs and crosses their arms, then looks thoughtfully at the nearby medical bag. “Yes. A test of whether I remember my non-history lessons.”
The Whumper ties a final knot on one of the many needed sutures on the Whumpee’s arms. They work deftly but make no extra effort to spare the Whumpee any added pain. After they finish that one, they take a moment to rest their arms, placing their hands on their knees and looking at the Whumpee who is still hiding their face with a quivering hand. “I know I don’t have the best brand when it comes to listening to you, but I promise I am up for it now,” the Whumper says. The Whumpee lets out a shaky sigh. “Forgive me if I don’t accept that promise.” The Whumper nods. “I made some bad ones in our time together.” The two sit in silence as the memories of their last encounter fill both of their minds. There is no hint of guilt on the Whumper’s side, and perhaps more strangely, the Whumpee somehow accepts their help and presence. The Whumper picks their tools back up and goes to begin again on the next deep tear on the Whumpee’s arm, but the Whumpee flinches as soon as they feel the heat from the Whumper’s hands. Something about resuming their pain at the hands of the Whumper after a brief reprieve was all too familiar, too much to handle in the moment. “Are you waiting for me to say I did it?” the Whumpee blurts out, again pressing a hand over their eyes. The question seems to aggravate the Whumper. The Whumper roughly grabs the wrist of the Whumpee’s wounded arm and pins it to the armrest of their chair. The Whumpee gasps and clenches both fists, too stunned to speak as the Whumper stares them directly in the eye. “Break you once, shame on me. Break you twice…” They let the sentence hang in the air as they let go of the Whumpee’s wrist and resume picking up their tools.
“I was never good with history,” the Whumper says, a finger tracing the papers strewn across the Whumpee’s desk in their studies. Open books on pages with black and white photographs and many texts about war litter every surface. The Whumpee sits slumped in a chair with one hand covering their eyes while they hold out their opposite arm. It is bloodied and pinched at the top of their bicep by a tourniquet tied right where their dress shirt was ripped off. “Maybe that’s why you have a habit of repeating yourself,” the Whumpee mutters, then winces from pain. The Whumper flips the pages thoughtfully. “I have a hard time accepting it as something real. The dry text - this happened then this happened which caused this. Makes it hard to feel like it was truly an experience the way you and I are experiencing this very moment. It is missing a good storyteller to bring it to life.” The Whumper walks over towards where the Whumpee sits and observed them with as much emotional distance as they did the books. “Speaking of which, I would love nothing more than to hear the story of how this happened. And why I was privileged enough to be informed about it.” They sit on the edge of the desk as the Whumpee lets out a long pained breath, their hand still pressed hard over their eyes to try and suppress the pain of their shredded arm. “Perhaps we can save it for after you’re done,” the Whumpee suggests. The Whumper shrugs and crosses their arms, then looks thoughtfully at the nearby medical bag. “Yes. A test of whether I remember my non-history lessons.”
content: vampire whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker (or “nice whumper” since kane’s here involuntarily this time?), reluctant caretaker, semi-defiant whumpee, failed escape attempt, starvation, begging, captivity, muzzle
an AU inspired by this ask and ESPECIALLY these wonderfully whumpy asks!! in this AU, Jim learns Kane is being held captive by the hunters after Kane has only been there for a few weeks instead of five years. Kane is starving, tortured, scared, but not broken. have a series of little drabbles from this timeline.
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This was the absolute rock bottom of Kane de Sang’s life.
With the hunter gone, he was alone with his human. Cuffed and muzzled, burnt and cut and bruised all over, half-naked, starving to the point of powerlessness. He was completely at the mercy of his own human. And the worst part was, he was terrified.
Imagining a whumpee who finds their whumper unconscious/injured/dying and as much as they want to leave them to die (if not finish the job themselves), they have to reluctantly become a caretaker because they know that even with whumper gone, they still wouldn’t be able to escape and would just succumb to starvation eventually. They’re reliant on them for survival, if whumper dies then they die too.
