#tw torture
Summary:You need help and Cioccolata is the only one who can provide. You know he’s dangerous, but you’re despetrate.
Words:1686
Ao3:[HERE]
A/N: Let it be known that I did not want to publish this at first, but I can’t leave my degenerates hanging. It’s a doozy. Very bloody. So I’m putting the whole thing under a Read More. HEED THE WARNINGS. I feel like I can’t stress this enough.
WARNINGS:Implied/Referenced Drug Use - Drug Use - Forced Anaesthesia - Graphic Description Of Torture - Wound Fucking - Blood and Gore - Manipulation
You’re a quivering mess, hands trembling as you curl your fingers weakly around Cioccolata’s sleeve and tug. “I need you to give me something, anything. ” The sound of your own voice, low and raspy, croaking out each word like you’re in terrible pain makes you wince. In truth, you are. Not physically, no, but mentally you’re an absolute disaster.
You don’t know what’s real anymore: every day feels like a blur. There are times when hours fly by and you don’t even notice, and other days you feel every second pass agonizingly slow. You’re disoriented, losing your way in the hospital halls and misplacing your belongings constantly. It wasn’t like this before: you remember coming to therapy for minor depression, but after meeting Cioccolata your condition had only worsened. You didn’t think for a second he’d been the one to cause your distress, but you knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t until last week that you realized being near him wasn’t healthy, so you broke off all contact. He didn’t take it very well.
However, you had nowhere else to turn –you needed help and he was the only one, aside from your psychiatrist, with access to the lab. Without a prescription you’d never get back on medication, though you knew for a fact that Cioccolata had ways of obtaining drugs that went under the radar of the laboratory staff.
Cioccolata looked down on you, not a hint of mercy in his eyes. You disobeyed him, rejected his touch when he so graciously offered to relieve some of your stress–why should he help you? He pulls a familiar looking pill bottle from his pocket, holding it just out of your reach. “You mean these?” he asks, and you recognize it now: you thought you’d lost those! “Do you think you deserve them?”
Your mouth feels dry suddenly, words dying on your tongue. He took them from you, as punishment, you realize. When you don’t answer, he laughs.
“You will have to earn these, (Y/n). Good timing too, I was in need of a new guinea pig.”
Cioccolata starts by testing your limits first. Your tolerance for pain being the most important one: no use wasting anaesthetic if you’re perfectly capable of handling his ‘treatment’ without it. He puts you on a slab in an abandoned storage room of the hospital basement. Restrained with leather straps, fastened uncomfortably tight around your wrists and ankles. You’re completely nude by his request, shivering against the cold, hard metal beneath your exposed flesh. His stare hides both sick enjoyment and scientific curiosity– you’re a specimen to be dissected, a mystery to uncover and he can hardly contain his excitement. A grin breaks through his calm façade as he raises a scalpel to your chest, and you feel your heart begin to pound against your ribs.
“Be good and I’ll take care of you, okay?” he says, and you nod without a second thought. “Hold still,” he says, a bubbly joyful tone twisting his supposedly warning words into something more resembling a threat.
The incision is shallow, but you cry out nonetheless. It takes a few seconds for the blood to flow, and Cioccolata watches it drip from the cut, the smile on his face stretching into a frightening, deranged grimace. You start to think he may be even crazier than you. He makes another, equally insignificant slit in your skin. You manage to control your voice this time, bravely biting back a wince as your teeth sink into your bottom lip. This wasn’t so bad, you thought. You could do this. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning of your test: Cioccolata hadn’t even scratched the surface yet, so to speak.
For the next 30 minutes, you hold your own, but with each drag of the knife the pain becomes more intense. Individually, they don’t hurt as much, but as a whole your body is beginning to burn. He takes his time, marking a tally down your smooth skin until every inch of you has met his blade. An hour later, you’re completely covered in paper thin slits –blood trickling from each cut down onto the table below. Despite the sweat forming on your brow, you feel painfully cold inside. You’re crying, but he doesn’t seem to care. In fact, Cioccolata is delighted. You’re stronger than he’d anticipated. There’s only so much the body can take before the mind begins to crumble, and you’re about to reach that threshold. When you’ve well and truly become catatonic the real fun can begin.
It doesn’t take much longer for your subconscious to shatter: you’re hurting too much, the mental strain of watching your body be decimated finally reaching its peak. You let out a bloodcurdling scream, arching off the table before going completely limp against it. Your head bangs down, hard, but you don’t feel the impact anymore. You feel nothing. Cioccolata circles your form, admiring his good work.
“(Y/n)?” He calls out to you, but you don’t respond. “Are you still with me?”
Despite the rise and fall of your chest indicating that you’re still breathing, Cioccolata checks your pulse anyway. You’re alive, barely –and he aims to keep you like that for a long time. The hazy glaze over your eyes fills him with glee and desire. You just look so damn beautiful on Death’s doorstep –barely hanging on to the threads of life. It’s arousing, he finds, and why not indulge? It’s not like you’re in any position or state of mind to object. Not like last time.
He finally administers a localized anaesthetic in your abdomen. You lay motionless as Cioccolata climbs atop the surgeon’s table, knees on either side of your hips. Unfortunately, he’d bound your legs a bit too tightly, making your sweet cunt inaccessible. No matter –he was nothing if not creative with his specimens. Cioccolata gazed down at your bruised and bleeding form, conscious but barely present, and allowed his free hand to stroke himself through his uniform. You were a sight for sore eyes, and there was no sweeter view in the entire world. He moaned without restriction, furthering his own arousal. You saw it all, heard it all –and he knew you did. When he was well and truly hard, he wasted no time freeing his cock from the confines of his trousers. All he had to do now was make himself a hole to fuck.
Cioccolata’s hands, steady like a surgeon, made the incision in your underbelly, just below your navel. You let out a half-hearted whine, the first noise you had made since going catatonic, and he felt his heart rate skyrocket at the sound. Blood begins to flow from the wound towards your pelvic region and Cioccolata, pleased with the width and depth of the cut, positions himself near the opening. He uses two fingers to spread the hole apart, then slides his cock into you. Your body involuntary jerks against your bindings, making them rattle against the metal surface of the table. Cioccolata groans out in pure bliss, relishing in the welcoming wet heat of your insides.
There’s no need for it, but his hands clamp around your hips to keep you in place as he thrusts into the self-made hole. It’s a perfect fit to his girthy cock, just like he indented. Enough room to wiggle and pound into you, without being too loose or getting too close to your vital organs. Cioccolata looks at your body bouncing limply with each thrust of his hips, moaning each time your head bangs against the table. Your eyes shimmer with a degree of awareness that has him overjoyed: you can hear him, you can see what he’s doing to your weakened body and it’s driving him mad. His hips snap against your abdomen with reckless abandon and Cioccolata knows, that if he’s given you the correct dose, you’re about to start feeling everything he’s doing to you.
He watches your face, counting down the seconds as the anaesthetic begins to wear off. Your eyes widen, and he grins as your agonized voice rips through the stale air. You feel him now, pounding into a slit that shouldn’t even be there. His movements are controlled, almost careful not to damage you any further, and you know now that he wants to keep you alive. You find no comfort in that knowledge, realizing it means your suffering has only just begun. Cioccolata moans in the most obscene manner you’ve ever heard, making sure you know just how much he’s enjoying being inside of you. It makes you feel sick. The wet squelching of his cock ramming into your abdomen reverberates in your skull, fueling the tears streaming down your face. You don’t even realize you’re howling in pain until your throat starts burning.
Your uncontrolled sobs are enough to make him lose it. Cioccolata tightens his grip on your hips and leans his entire body weight into you, grinding his pelvis into your bleeding, abused orifice. With a few final uneven bucks of his hips, his cock twitches inside of you. Each wave of his orgasm, you feel his release flow into you –mixing with your own blood and sweat into a nightmarish sludge.
Cioccolata withdraws himself. Laboured breathing fills the silence. You stare up at him as he trails a hand over all the little cuts and bruises he’s left all over you. “You’re so beautiful like this…” he lets out, the look in his eyes a mix of contentment and complete insanity. As his hand reaches your navel, Cioccolata presses down, chuckling at the sight of his cum and your blood gushing out of the wound below. “Perfection…you did so well.”
After wiping himself clean of your blood and tucking himself away, he slides off the table, making his way to your side. “I’m impressed you’re still conscious after all that,” he says, and grabs you chin, turning your head to face him. The tears leaking from your eyes make his chest swell with pride. “Let’s get you nice and clean, then stitch you up, yes?”
At first Vegas thinks that Pete is only laughing to mock him or to act cool, so he shows him the sparks. But after he hurts him several times and Pete still laughs, he is intrigued.
For one, Vegas is impressed by Pete’s endurance and ability to smile no matter what and second, Vegas interprets Pete’s strength as a challenge - which it was. You can see Vegas’ interest in Pete changing the moment right before he asks him ‘One more time?’ He wants to test him and see how far he can go. He wants to know how much Pete can handle.
more defiant whumpee stuff since i know y’all thirsty for it
(tw: restraints, cursing, beating, heavy hand whump, blood, drugging mention)
~
Whumpee smirked up at the figure circling them. Even while they were bound by their wrists and ankles to a chair, with their torturer towering over them, they still felt like they were the one in control.
“Didn’t know you were into this, buddy,” they quipped. “Doesn’t seem like something you’d—”
A swift punch to the gut quieted them, and they choked out a laugh. “Haha…ow.”
Whumper snarled down at them. “You’d better take this seriously, freak. I need the passcode to that safe, and the location of it. And you don’t even wanna know what I’ll do to get it.”
Whumpee huffed out a laugh. “Aw. That’s really cute. First time doing this sort of thing, huh?”
“SHUT UP!” Whumper backhanded Whumpee, doing nothing to wipe the grin off their face, which frustrated them even more. They leaned forward to grab Whumpee by the throat.
“Shutup, or I’ll do far worse than just slap you around,” Whumper spat with a glare as they let go of their throat. Whumpee just shrugged, leaning back in the chair.
“Okay, let’s see it.” Their eyes trailed up to meet Whumper’s. “Your breath smells horrible by the way,” they added with a wink.
Whumper growled and mumbled something angrily under their breath before storming off to a chest in the corner of the room. Whumpee craned their head over, trying to see what was going on.
“Hey, what do you keep in there?” They called. “If you had any ibuprofen it’d be a godsend. My head’s killing me from listening to you!” They laughed to themselves. “And from, you know…the drugs you gave me earlier. Not nice, bud.”
Whumper returned with a hammer, dragging a small folding table with them. Whumpee winced at the screeching sound the table made when it was dragged across the floor. “Not helping the headache, asshole,” they said over the noise, rolling their eyes.
Whumper said nothing as they set the table up next to Whumpee, pulling one of their hands out of their restraints and flattening it against the table. Whumpee suppressed a giggle, not even trying to struggle.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Whumper told them in a low voice. “You’ll tell me the location, then you’ll tell me the passcode. Each time you refuse, I break a finger with this.” They held up the hammer. “Got it?”
Whumpee glanced at their own hand, and at the hammer, and then up at Whumper. “Really?” They raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re going with?” They laughed, shrugging. “Okay. Whatever floats your boat, fucko.”
Whumper was fed up at that point. They stood back for a moment and slammed the hammer across the side of Whumpee’s head, earning a pained yelp from them.
“I’ve had enough of your stupid fucking backtalk!” Whumper snarled. “I don’t want to hear a word come out of your mouth unless it’s information about the safe!”
Whumpee groaned, dizzy from the impact of the blow. When they came back to their senses, their smile creeped back onto their face. They looked up at Whumper amiably. “Kay.”
Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s wrist and pushed their palm flat against the table, so their fingers would spread out. “Location,” they growled, raising the hammer slightly.
Whumpee never looked away from Whumper’s face. “You look so funny right now,” they said with a chuckle.
“LOCATION!” Whumper screamed, holding the hammer higher.
Whumpee’s smirk filled their whole face. “My asshole.”
CRUNCH
Whumpee’s scream rang through the small room as their pinkie finger was crushed by the hammer. Tears flowed freely as they clenched their eyes shut, their teeth grit together. Soon, though, after they blocked out the pain from their mind, their smirk returned. “That all you got?”
Whumper’s face contorted in anger. They raised the hammer again, which dripped with Whumpee’s blood.
“Location.”
“Your mom’s bed.”
CRUNCH.
“Passcode!”
“Nngh…6969.”
CRUNCH.
“WHERE IS IT?!”
“C-Check your…y-your asscrack, it might be—fuck—wedged in there…”
Whumper screamed out in frustration, beating away at Whumpee’s hand as the latter screamed their throat raw. When they were done, their hand was a bloody mess.
In their frustration, Whumper threw the hammer across the room and stormed out, slamming and locking the door. Right before Whumpee lost consciousness from the pain, they smiled to themselves.
“…See ya tomorrow,” they rasped, finally falling into unconsciousness. The smile never left their face.
Holyyyyyy molyyyyyy
Kinda messed up that Annabeth’s arc with her father is about Annabeth learning to forgive him and not Frederick learning how if your seven year old tells you she’s regularly tortured by magic spiders you should probably do something about that
It’s Alright by Mother Mother is such a torture period prison arc c!Dream song.
…
…
…
Don’t imagine c!Dream whispering this song to himself after c!Quackity leaves. Singing himself the song until he falls asleep. Telling himself, “It’s alright, it’s okay,” to calm down after a nightmare.
Don’t imagine c!Dream slipping up and muttering it to himself during one of c!Quackity’s sessions. C!Quackity being furious and then happy. And next session he repeats the lyrics to c!Dream between hits. Or c!Sam getting tired of hearing it over and over again, and telling c!Dream, ‘The prisoner isn’t allowed to sing.’ :)
Hey guys. Do you think one of the reasons that Dream tells people about his torture was to gauge whether or not they knew??? Do you think he looks for surprise on his friends face, wondering if they knew. If they just didn’t care.
taken from this interview
“You see, you start pretty much from scratch when you work with an autistic child. You have a person in the physical sense - they have hair, a nose, and a mouth— but they are not people in the psychological sense. One way to look at the job of helping autistic kids is to see it as a matter of constructing a person. You have the raw materials, but you have to build the person.“
“They have tantrums, and believe me they are monsters, little monsters.“
“Spank them, and spank them good. They bite you and you just turn them over your knee and give them one good whack on the rear and that pretty well does it. This is what we do best; we are very good at controlling these kinds of behaviors.“
“We stay close to them and when they hurt themselves we scream “no” as loud as we can and we look furious and at the same time we shock them.”
“We know the shocks are painful; we have tried them on ourselves and we know that they hurt. But it is stressful for the person who does the shocking too.”
“Bound to a bed. The child would be bound to a bed spread-eagled so that he could not get to himself. …I remember a kid named John who had been in restraints for years.”
This guy also was one of the people who invented gay conversion therapy. In case that does a better job of putting this in perspective.
please tell me they were put in jail for child abuse
No he was honored as a genius and his practices are still being used on autistic children as the most common therapy practice for autism
Also shock therapy is still being used on disabled people
#if shock ‘’therapy’’ is what i think it is then its just flat out abuse
he’s like this because nothing happened to him.
nothing kicked his ass into keeping with the times. he’s been allowed to coast along on milquetoast 90s feminism for two decades now, and yes he wasprogressiveback then. but you could see him getting behind the times as soon as the firefly era. or rather, the times getting ahead of him.
it’s not just that he’s been so busy patting himself on the back on the platform that the train left him behind, there’s not even a station where he’s standing anymore. yet he’s still jerking himself off with how much of a progressive feminist he is.
he was always like this, it’s just when he started, “this” was considered progressive, and now it’s ass-backwards.
joss whedon was never progressive. he’s always been a misogynist confusing his fetish for waifish white women beating things up with feminism, and everyone let him get away with it because he was a white man who claimed the term feminism. white feminists ate his shit up, just like they do with every other mediocre white man who claims feminism and blows smoke up their ass.
he has always been sexist, racist, intensely biphobic, lesbophobic (I assume none of you are old enough to remember the shitshow that happened when he killed off tara and this allegedly hip and smart writer feigned ignorance about the killing off lesbians trope). poc have been onto his shit ever since he killed kendra and damn near every other token woc that ever turned up on buffy.
So I don’t appreciate this revisionist history about Joss. Many people even then were there, in fandom, calling out his shit myself included. And we were being reviled and run off message boards and fora and email lists for daring to question Saint Joss, Champion of Feminism. I know because I was there in Buffy fandom. I hung out on TWoP’s Buffy and Angel boards among other places. People wrote meta then on it. It’s not like the 90s and early aughts were the damn dark ages. *Fandom* wasn’t nearly as receptive to criticism of faves though. Even less of white man faves than now.
I wonder if the people complaining about his Wonder Woman script also know about his plans for Firefly’s second season that never was (which involved Inara being brutally assaulted by Reavers and making it all about Mal’s manpain). This is not anything unusual for him it’s literally par for the course
Like the only thing that changed here is that y'all finally figured out how shitty he is. many of us have known this for damn near 20 years and have been yelling about it the whole time. nobody wanted to listen because most of us were qwoc lmao
the emperor never had any clothes folks. the only thing that stagnated in him was his latent bigotry. white feminism as usual is a day late and a dollar short.
I remember (oh Gog I am old, but whatever) I remember going off about his racism & misogyny on Livejournal so you know…at least 10 or 12 years ago. Maybe longer. And getting so much blowback from white feminists about not recognizing his value. And then again in 2009 bringing it up on a panel at WisCon & someone stopping me in a hallway to lecture me about how much worse things used to be, as though the fact that he kills off or dehumanizes Black characters (especially Black women) in new settings is an improvement. And yes Whedon is better than the absolute worst possible people in Hollywood, but that doesn’t make him good, doesn’t make his work less creepy. Marti Noxon’s work is why so many people liked Buffy, but I guess we’re supposed to ignore her too in favor of pretending Whedon wasn’t always a problem.
god , i remember when he killed off kendra, and how awful i felt, how none of the scooby gang (or ANY gang outside of like…freakyleaks) was a person of color. this was the part of the 90′s where all the things i loved from sci fi to feminism began to make me feel alienated.
i was so glad that Buffy got a “black friend” who also kicked ass and had amazing fashion sense. then she died the dumbest death on the series. and i was hurt,and i didnt know why. i didnt want to continue watching, but i couldnt explain why.
i was ten.
I was a teenager then, actually I was the ages of the characters on the show which is why I related to it so much. and felt extra hurt by the things that happened, on the show and in the fandom
cuz you know all the awful shit every black female character on mostly white shows gets aimed at her by white fandom? “boring” “bitchy” etc. ignored and never shipped w anybody?
Kendra got that too. I had to read so many vile posts on how she was “ghetto” (????), annoying, a fake Slayer, etc. then she got killed by Dru’s fingernails and ppl rejoiced
I think that was my first real experience w misogynoir in fandom as a black fangirl and I didn’t have the vocabulary or understanding then to know why specifically it made me feel so bad. but it fucked me up
Lemme slide in this Whedon drag real quick. Season 2 of Buffy is unarguably my favorite and least favorite season of Buffy. Favorite because it brought in some of my favorite characters, least because the entire plotline was “Let’s torture as many women and girls on the show as possible”.
Drusilla: psychologically and possibly sexually tortured.
Willow: stalked and harassed, is taunted with her dead pet.
Jenny: Is brutally murdered and left for Gilles to find to advance his man pain.
Kendra: Is murdered for no reason other than to add to Buffy’s suffering.
Buffy: Is sexually harassed, stalked, and tormented by the man she lost her virginity to, kicked out of her own home and threatened with murder charges for Kendra’s death and is forced to kill Angel because of Xander’s lie (that he’s never called out for)
I was 7 when this shit aired and even then I knew what I was watching was bullshit. And I’m annoyed it took 17 years between Buffy season 2 and the fiasco that was Age of Ultron for his stans to take their heads out of Joss’ ass crack long enough to actually listen when people tell the truth about him putting out misogynist torture porn for decades under the guise of being an ~ally~.
June 13th- “Did I say you could stop?”
Cw: abuse, forced to clean, cruel Whumper, kicking, exhaustion, denied sleep, uhhhh idk what else
Whumpee blinked hard, trying to clear the fog from behind their gaze as they stared down intensely at the floor in front of them.
They stifled a small yawn as they dipped the rag back into the bucket, what had once been full of warm suds having long since turned into a cold mixture of dirt and cleaning products.
A moment later, they pulled the cloth back out, vision blurring as they began mindlessly scrubbing the tiles once more.
The tiles were beyond disgusting, coated in layers of dried blood and grime—most of it likely their own. They barely noticed as they’d hand slipped, already bruised knuckles scraping hard against the floor as they dragged the rag across a particularly difficult stain.
A twinge of pain shot through their fingers, but Whumpee didn’t react, much too exhausted to focus on anything other than the task at hand.
Whumper had said that only once they finished cleaning, would they finally be allowed to rest.
They had been working for hours, the minutes dragging by as they cleaned tile after tile, only taking a break every so often to refill the soiled bucket and switch out the rag.
Whumpee let out a surprised yelp, their arms giving out as a sharp kick to the ribs took them by surprise. They came crashing to the ground, chin knocking against the slate flooring as they landed.
Whumper glared down at them, their face twisting in disgust.
“I didn’t say you could stop, now, did I?” They hissed, drawing their leg back once again. For a moment, Whumpee could only grace themself for the incoming blow, their eyes squeezing shut. But instead, the toe of Whumper’s boot slammed into the bucket, knocking it over. The dirty water sloshed out, quickly soaking over the section Whumpee had just spent the last ninety minutes scrubbing.
“Get back to work.” Whumper rolled their eyes, spitting onto the floor before turning and stalking from the room.
Whumpee didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed as they slowly rose to their feet, picking up the bucket and stumbling back over to the sink.
June 12th- Loneliness
Cw: tortureish—isolation, starvation, captivity, cold whump, kidnapping, uhhhhh sensory deprivation ish??? Loneliness. That’s for sure.
It was quiet.
The silence that filled the cramped little cell was heavy and cold, an eerie kind of hushed that seemed to weigh down the atmosphere, swallowing any wisps of sounds.
Whumpee let out a shaky breath, curling in on themself and drawing the ratty blanket a bit tighter around their trembling shoulders.
The steel door stood strong just across the room from them, metal bolts keeping it closed shut tight.
A small vent in the corner was their only connection with the world outside their cell, cold air silently seeping into the room. Whumpee had tried everything to try and get it to stop, even going as far as to shove one of their precious blankets into the metal grate.
It barely helped.
They didn’t know how long they had been there, stuck in the bare room. It felt like years, maybe even longer, but Whumpee had no way of telling.
At first, they had tried to measure time through meals. It had seemed like the most efficient and reliable way, but they had soon realized just how wrong they were.
Sometimes meals would come back to back. They would barely be finished eating the first, then the little latch at the bottom of the door would open, and in would slide another wyatt er loaf of bread and a measly portion of meat—typically chicken or some sort of beef. Then sometimes what felt like days would pass, where the hunger got so bad Whumpee felt like they would never feel full again before the meal would finally be delivered.
For a while, Whumpee had resorted to camping out right in front of the door, screaming and crying for help whenever the little latch would open, desperate for even a shred of human contact.
The most they had ever received was a quick glimpse at the toe of some stranger’s boot, before they were cut off from the world again.
They longed for the touch of another, to hear a voice other than their own. They could feel themself slowly slipping, the desperation for contact growing and growing until it was eating away at them from the inside.
There was nothing they could do except shiver and huddle a bit further into the corner, waiting.
Just waiting.
June 11th- Forced to watch
Okay okay, I’m my defense I was camping. There was no service like, all day yesterday.
Cw: stabbing, threats, restraints, noncon touching, manhandling, forced to watch, death threats, knives, torture, gagging, hair pulling, uhhhhh bit more stabbing
Caretaker’s face twisted into a terrible fury as they let out a scream, their limbs thrashing against that which restrained them.
“WHUMPER- WHUMPER LET THEM GO I SWEAR TO GOD-” They yelled, tears of pure anger dripping down their jaw as they kicked and fought against the chains that kept them in place.
On the other side of the room, Whumper let out a frustrated sigh, their face twitching into a sneer as they roughly yanked the knife free from Whumpee’s thigh.
For a moment, a guttural scream drowned out Caretaker’s protests, before Whumpee broke down into sobs once again, curling in on themself on the cold floor.
“For god’s sake, shut them up already! I can’t fucking work like this!!” Whumper spat, throwing the bloodied dagger to the side.
Not a moment later, Caretaker’s yells were cut off as a guard shoved a dirty rag into their mouth, carelessly knotting around the back of their head, ripping out strands of their hair in the process.
Whumper rolled their eyes, their nostrils flaring as Caretaker continued to scream and thrash.
They stalked back across the room, grabbing the discarded knife from the floor before returning to Whumpee’s side. They grabbed a fistful of the later’s hair, forcing their head back as Whumper shoved the knife against Whumpee’s throat.
“Caretaker, shut the fuck up.” They growled, a bead of blood welling from where the knife dug into Whumpee’s neck. “I swear I’ll fucking slit their throat right now if I hear another fucking sound out of you-”
Caretaker’s eyes blew wide, a tear slipping down their flushed cheek as they quickly went quiet, clenching their jaw around the dirty rag. They could do nothing but twist their wrists against the chains that kept them bound to the chair, and watch as Whumpee sobbed and shrunk back from the blade.
“That’s much more like it,” Whumper spat, pulling the knife away from Whumpee’s neck.
Caretaker didn’t have a moment to relieve before Whumper thrust the blade into Whumpee’s shoulder.
June 10th- Rules
Shhhh pretend I posted this yesterday
Cw: whipping, broken glass, bleeding, restraints, rules, creepy whumper, blood, screaming, uhhhh captivity
Whumpee flinched, a small whimper slipping from their lips as the long braided tail of the whip cracked against the basement floor, the sharp sound echoing through the cold, dark room.
They squirmed, tears pricking their eyes as they tried to shift the weight off their knees.
Whumper had really planned ahead with all this, they realized with a terrible shudder.
The ropes around their wrists had been pre-tied, fastened around a rafter that crossed the ceiling. Below them, sharp bits of broken glass cut into their shins and knees, droplets of fresh and dried blood alike staining the ground.
“Pl-please,” They whimpered, squeezing their eyes shut as they braced themself.
Behind their back, Whumper let out a low growl, their fingers tightening around the whip’s handle.
“It seems we need to revisit your rules,” They seethed, anger burning behind their eyes as Whumpee trembled in anticipation.
“Ple- pl’se I- I’m sorry I- I didn’t mm-”
Their words broke into a scream as the whip cracked hard across their back, drawing a line of fire across their exposed skin. They crumpled forwards, a sob tearing from their throat as their wrists were pulled back, shoulders straining at the pressure.
“Rule number one, you speak only when spoken to.” Whumper hissed, drawing their arm back in preparation for another strike.
June 9th- ‘It’s okay, you could never hurt me.“
Cw: gore, blood, bear trap, failed escape attempt (ish?), rough caretaking, inexperienced caretaker, bit more gore, leg injury, improv medical care, idk what else to put here but be warned it’s gorey
A terrible agony seemed to swallow Whumpee’s leg whole, creeping up their thigh like fire, burning every nerve in its way. They grit their teeth, forcing themself quiet as Caretaker twisted the tourniquet a bit tighter, fastening it into place.
“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” Caretaker reminded, their eyes filled with worry as they glanced up at Whumpee’s teary eyes. “I- I promise I’ll be as careful as possible-”
Whumpee let out a gasp as their leg twitched, a whole new kind of hell crashing over them as they quickly turned their head away, dry heaving.
They couldn’t bare to look at the gruesome sight any longer.
Caretaker’s stomach twisted, blinking hard as they looked back down at the mess of flesh and bone.
The teeth of the bear trap were stuck deep in Whumpee’s shin, undoubtedly piercing the bone. Blood ran down their calf in a river of crimson, only now beginning to slow.
They had to look away as bile began to creep up the back of their throat.
Of course Whumper would fucking booby trap the woods.
Caretaker took a moment to steel their nerves, forcing their expression neutral as they turned back to Whumpee.
“I- I need to get the trap off,” They rushed to get out, stumbling over their words. “It- it’s going to hurt-”
Whumpee let out a dry sob, quickly shaking their head. “Nn- y..y’ could nn- n’ver hur- hurt mm.. me,” Their voice cracked, breaking into frantic cries as they quickly raised a hand to their mouth, biting down on their knuckles to keep quiet. “Jus- just dd- do it-”
Caretaker gave a stiff nod, taking a deep breath themself as they reached to grab the sides of the trap.
The second their hands touched the rusted metal, Whumpee let out a guttural scream.
“Shit-” Caretaker cursed, quickly yanking their hands back. “Fuck I’m so sorry-”
“Nn- no-” Whumpee sobbed, squeezing their eyes shut as they quickly shook their head. “Don- y’ have to jus- j’st do it.. qu-quick-”
“Okay, okay okay okay,” Caretaker cut them off, a surge of adrenaline passing through their body as they readied themself once again. “I’m sorry-”
In a quick movement, they grabbed onto the sides of the trap, grunting with the effort as they forced it open just enough for Whumpee to rip their leg out of.
The scream was loud enough to make the birds flee.
June 7th- Experimentation
Cw: forced stripping (kinda—non sexual, just a shirt), noncon partial nudity, restraints, threats, noncon touching, implied noncon body mod, noncon surgery, lab whump, implied torture and kidnapping, threats, mentioned gore (not really)
Whumpee let out a strained cry, their pupils dilating as Whumper flicked on the bright O.R. lights. Their limbs moved on their own, twisting and thrashing against the restraints that kept them pinned to the operating table.
“WHUMPER- WHUMPER PLEASE-” They screamed, hot tears dribbling down their cheeks, craning their neck as they tried to see what their captor was doing.
Whumper’s movements were quick and calculated, almost mechanical as they moved around the frigid cold room. They didn’t bother to look up as they washed their hands in a plain sink, drying them on a sterile white towel, before slipping plain see-through medical scrubs over their typical outfit.
“Oh hush,” They sighed, surgical mask already pulled over their face as they slid their hands into a pair of latex gloves. “You’ll be fine.”
“NO- NONONO WHUMPER- PLEASE-” Whumpee’s eyes blew wide as they watched Whumper circle the room, picking up a tray of surgical instruments and carrying them closer.
“I said be quiet,” Whumper snapped, slamming the tray down on a stand closer to the table with much more force than necessary. Whumpee flinched at the clanging of metal. “Maybe I’ll cut your vocal chords while I’m at it, hm? That’ll sure teach you…”
Whumpee’s body went cold.
“NO-” They yelped, before quickly realizing their mistake and shutting their mouth. They instead shook their head, more tears welling in their eyes as they watched Whumper pick up a pair of metal shears.
“That’s much more like it,” Whumper grumbled, stepping forwards and grabbing the hem of Whumpee’s shirt.
Whumpee barely had time to panic before Whumper cut the tattered material clean down the center. A small sob slipped from their lips, the cold metal just grazing their skin as Whumper cut both the sleeves, and tore away the fabric.
Goosebumps pricked against Whumpee’s exposed skin, making them shudder as Whumper set down the scissors.
They watched anxiously as Whumper stepped away from the table, moving out of Whumper’s line of sight.
A few moments of tense waiting later, Whumpee jolted as an oxygen mask was pressed over their mouth and nose, the elastic band pulled back around their head and fastened in place.
“Now,” Whumper stepped back around into their sight, eyes creasing with a grin as they sauntered over to the tray of instruments, looking over them for a moment before picking up a wickedly sharp looking scalpel. “Where to begin?”
June 6th- Stumbling
Cw: kidnapped, restraints, bruises, broken bones, captivity, cells, blood, injuries, property destruction, bank robbing, bombs, medical neglect, rough wound care (mentioned), manhandling, noncon touching, broken nose, collapse
The world tilted around them, colors and sounds blurring together as Villain limped forwards, their muscles drawn stiff as they were escorted through the maze of halls.
Their hands were bound tight behind them, arms wrenched into an awkward position by the power inhibiting cuffs. Two guards, dressed in bleak grey uniforms flanked them, each with a grip on their arm forcing Villain forwards.
The stark lights of the compound burned Villain’s eyes, making them to squint in any attempts to see clearly. A sharp throb echoed through their skull, like a heartbeat in the back of their head, reminding them that they were still alive.
After the day they just had, it was easy to forget.
Their wounds ached terribly, undoubtedly fractured ribs constricting their lungs, stabbing pains shooting through their with each breath.
The heroes had seen it to them that they gotten “superficial treatment” on the transport back to base. All that had meant was some undertrained medic poorly setting their broken arm and binding it with dirty bandages.
They hadn’t bothered to take care of the deep gash above Villain’s eyebrow, that hours later was still dripping blood. Figures.
A small cry slipped from the captured criminal’s lips as their footing faltered and one of the guards wrenched them upright, jostling their broken arm. Hot tears sprang to Villain’s eyes as their vision went white, consciousness slipping away for half a moment before slamming them back to reality.
“OW-” Their voice cracked as they looked up to the supposed good-guy.
The guard rolled their eyes and let out a muttered “keep walking,” as they dragged Villain forwards.
It was so stupid.
Villain’s day had already been going shit, even before they were captured. Their coffee maker had broke first thing in the morning, then they had left their waffles for too long in the iron. They were out of milk, so they ended up having dry cereal for breakfast.
They were a criminal mastermind, Goddamn it! They shouldn’t be having dry fucking cereal for breakfast!!
The bank they had intended to rob didn’t have nearly as much cash as they expected, which they almost instantly blew off paying their debts and giving their henchmen paychecks.
Then, as if their day could get any worse, they cafe they went to for lunch was out of lettuce. How was Villain supposed to have a salad if there wasn’t any fucking lettuce?!
If the heroes had known how their morning was going, Villain was sure they would’ve been pardoned for blowing up the crummy old diner.
It was going to be torn down in a few weeks anyways! If anything, Villain had been doing the city a favor!
Butnooooo.
Hero went on a thirty minute rant about how that was a “serious offense” and “highly illegal” and- right when Villain was beginning to doze off, they attacked!
Villain scoffed, tripping over their own feet as the two guards dragged them further through the halls, entering a poorly lit, secluded corridor.
The walls were dark and made of concrete, a plain metal door every fifteen feet or so, secured with all sorts of different locks. On each, a number painted in plain white.
Four… six… eight…
The guards pulled them to an abrupt stop outside door eleven, holding them upright as Villain’s knees buckled. One of the guards pulled a ring of coppery keys from their back pocket, letting go of Villain’s arm for a moment as they fiddled with the locks, sticking a different key in each one and twisting, before finally undoing the deadbolt and pushing the door open.
The cell inside was small, a cold draft hitting Villain’s skin and making them shudder.
A yelp slipped from the criminal’s lips as the second guard shoved them forwards, tripping once more. With their hands bound, they could only twist midair, letting their shoulder take the blunt of the force as they promptly face planted into the cement.
The guard snickered.
“Make yourself comfortable, Villain,” The other guard laughed as they clumsily rolled to their side, blood beginning to gush from their nose as a terrible burning sensation swallowed their face. “It’ll be a while before Hero can see you.”
May 31st- “Sir?”
[middle of nowhere | freezing | lighter]
Cw: accidental whump, cold, freezing, noncon touching, manhandling, slight guilt
“Oh darling,” Whumper sighed, a frown curling across their lips as they pressed their palm to Whumpee’s forehead. “You’re as cold as ice…”
Whumpee let out a small whimper, their fave scrunching as they nuzzled into the warm touch. Their body was barely trembling, every last bit of energy drained from their being
Whumper’s heart twisted.
Sure, they loved to watch Whumpee suffer, but this… this wasn’t intentional.
They felt… bad.
They felt bad for the poor, pathetic creature that squirmed under their touch, inching closer to the body heat radiating from Whumper’s skin.
They really hadn’t meant to leave the window open. They certainly wouldn’t have done so if they’d known a blizzard was coming.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Ehumper sighed, bundling Whumpee up in their arms and standing up. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
May 29th- “Don’t make me”
[collared | cane | flinching]
Cw: collaring, intimidation, bruises, implied torture, kidnapping, abuse
The collar buckled around Whumpee’s neck pinched their skin, drawing a hiss of pain from their chapped lips with every little movement. The leather dug into their throat, fastened much tighter than necessary, making their breaths raspy and labored.
They flinched, every muscle in their body tensing as Whumper’s footsteps came to a halt behind them, so close Whumpee could feel their presence.
“What were the rules?”
Whumper’s voice was flat, tone unreadable. They didn’t move, didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, behind their trembling captive.
Whumpee opened their mouth to speak, not daring to turn around. Their voice cracked before they could even get a word out, breaking into a whimper.
“What were the rules?” Whumper repeated, their voice slightly quieter than before, which only seemed to unnerve Whumpee further.
“Nn..not t’ take- take it ‘ff..” Whumpee whispered, their voice bouncing back at them off the walls of the basement.
The collar seemed to pull tighter, itching at their skin.
“And what did you do?”
…
“I t-took it.. it ‘ff…”
