#whump aftermath
The Caretaker’s eyes widen as they see who has stepped out from the darkness surrounding both themselves and the Whumper. They are standing across from the Whumper at a basement meeting place lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling midway between the two of them, but the two of them are newly not alone. The Whumper’s stoic face allows for the smallest of smirks as the Whumpee steps in front of them like a guard, interrupting the space between the Whumper and Caretaker. The Whumpee’s face is somehow familiar but completely different. It looks like stone - weathered and cracked in some places with red lines like the dark veins of marble swirling over their brow and down to their chin. The Caretaker looks at the Whumper when they speak. “I’m not usually a fan of your surprises, but I’ll take this one.” The Whumper remains silent. The Whumpee frowns at the Caretaker. “Don’t talk to him.” The Caretaker looks at their friend, taken aback at feeling treated like a stranger. Or worse, the enemy. They look again at the Whumper when they say, “What is this?” The Whumpee advances on the Caretaker threateningly. “I said don’t talk to him. You want to talk to him, you talk to me.” The Caretaker takes a few steps back to avoid being knocked over. The Whumpee glares at them angrily like an attack dog, and behind them the Whumper is pressing a thumb to their lips to keep from smiling. The Caretaker looks closely in the eyes to try and find a sign of the person they know. “You know you can’t believe what he says. You remember that, right?” the Caretaker whispers. The Whumpee clenches their teeth behind their cheeks. “Funny, I’ve heard the same said about you,” the Whumpee growls coldly. Behind the unflinching Whumpee, the Whumper gives a small shrug, pretending to be helpless to the circumstances. “What can I say? I can be incredibly persuasive.”
“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.”
The Caretaker pushes their stool back on its wheels and holds up their hands in submission, still loosely grasping the pen light they were trying to shine in the Whumpee’s eyes. The Whumpee recovers from the full body startled jerk that they had when the Caretaker was last close to them. “Don’t be sorry,” the Caretaker says before the Whumpee has a chance. The two sit in a barely-lit doctor’s office at night, and the only sounds in the room are the distant hum of city traffic and the Whumpee’s heavy breaths. The Whumpee’s face is covered in semi-healed cuts, and their body with bruises in the same state. The Caretaker sits completely still as they wait for permission to advance again. The Whumpee, still sitting on the edge of their own chair, shakes their head and wipes the sweat from their forehead, then shuts their eyes and gestures at the Caretaker to come forward again. The Caretaker wheels forward slowly, lifting their hands in plain sight, as they close the distance between the themselves and their friend. The Whumpee looks up at the ceiling and tries to keep their eye open as the Caretaker’s pen light nears it again. The Caretaker uses their other hand to hold the Whumpee’s chin still, which prompts the Whumpee’s jaw to clench and their eyes to lower and meet the Caretaker’s. The whole city somehow quiets in that moment as the two held themselves a nose-length apart. The Whumpee’s hand trembles in their lap as they fight every instinct they have to push their friend away from them and run as far away as they can. Their mind races but they hold still. The Caretaker eventually leans back and clicks off the light, and the Whumpee is surprised that the distance now somehow, against all odds, makes them feel worse. “It’s bad, right?” the Whumpee asks quietly. The Caretaker lets out a sigh. “I wouldn’t call it good.”
The Whumpee stands next to a guard assigned for their protection. They keep letting out one shaky sigh after another, battling a feeling of uneasiness that they haven’t been able to shake since meeting the guard earlier that day. The guard looks over their shoulder at the Whumpee standing in the elevator behind them. “That’s very annoying,” the guard says flatly. The Whumpee says “sorry” for sighing, but the guard still stares them down. They follow the guard’s eyeline down to their right hand which is nervously flicking their thumbnail with their index finger. “Fuck. Sorry.” The two stand in silence as the ride ends and the doors in front of them open. The guard steps out first and holds an arm in front of the threshold’s motion sensors to hold the doors. The Whumpee doesn’t move, suddenly paralyzed by fear. The sight of the guard’s outstretched arm panics them; the guard’s sleeve has rolled up ever so slightly to reveal a forearm tattoo just like that of the Whumper. The Whumpee, cornered, can’t think of what to do. “I also find this annoying,” the guard says as they wait. The Whumpee doesn’t move, unable to see any way out. Without speaking, the guard steps back into the elevator and allows the doors to shut. They fold their hands in front of them and look at the Whumpee, but makes no move against them. “It means allegiance,” the guard says in reference to the tattoo. “Undying allegiance. That means he’s beholden to someone else. And so am I.” They look over at the Whumpee pointedly. “And like him, it’s not something I take lightly.” The Whumpee looks up at the guard, who again remains harmlessly and reassuringly still. Long moments pass as the Whumpee finally starts to calm down. Maybe they are safe after all. “But if you don’t push a button I swear to God,” the guard starts, prompting the Whumpee to hurriedly press the button for their destination floor. “Sorry.”
“How does it feel, Whumpee,” Whumper gasps around the knife in their stomach. “To find that you were just like me all along?”
Whumpee watches silently as blood pools around Whumper’s fingers, down their pants and to the floor. The same dull concrete where so much more of Whumpee’s blood was spilled. Whumpee reaches out to grasp Whumper’s shoulders as they sway on their feet.
Their eyes meet, and Whumper’s triumphant smile fades as they finally see the crazed light in Whumpee’s eyes. How their pupils dialate. How their mouth twists in a lifeless smile. Whumpee leans forward and their breath burns in Whumper’s ear.
“I’m not just like you,” they whisper. “I’m worse.”
Whumper slides from their grip.
The little things that show you that a character is still not fully healed/recovered. A persistent knot in their jaw or furrow in their brow. Small gasps and winces when they accidentally move the wrong way. A hand instinctively braced against their injury, or absent-mindedly rubbing a persistent ache. Leaning against any nearby surface, either to take the weight off one leg or to lessen the energy required to stay upright. The little hesitation before they stand up or shoulder their pack, because it’s just a bit harder / more painful than it should be.
Whumpees who refuse to let themselves ever look weak again.
Whumpees who never let themselves depend on Caretaker, who refuse to accept any kindness or help.
Whumpees who never cry anymore, who’ve disconnected themselves so completely from their emotions so they can never be hurt again.
Whumpees who turn to drink or drug when the world feels too harsh to handle, even for them.
Only then, when Whumpee is wasted, can Caretaker clean them up and tuck them into bed at night.
Caretaker was worried at first, when they saw how wasted Whumpee was, but now with them sound asleep their worries faded away.
That is, until the screaming started…
Involuntario – Masterlist
The basics: Our boy was bought by an Italian “businessman”. At the start of this story, he makes a mistake that results in being abandoned by his Master for the foreseeable future in a foreign city. Cue lovable band of Italian waiters coming to his rescue! Notably, the System and institutionalized slavery are not legal in the country where he now finds himself.
CW: Institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, conditioning. More warnings on individual chapters.
I wanted to write a hurting Dany. So here you go. This is for @painful-pooch especially, the referenced Kysils are her characters. Technically, set in our Romeo and Juliet AU.
Cw for bad coping mechanisms of a trauma survivor, referenced consensual sex, implied past noncon, this is just overall pretty dark. (And I love it.)
“No.”
I flinch. Some dude tells me ‘no’. In the club’s bathroom stalls, his voice hoarse over the thrumming baseline of the music, deafening loud even back here between aluminum doors with graffiti doodles and scraps of toilet paper on the ground. “No, sorry, I can’t, not like this. I… I think you’re really hot, but I… I’m not that type of guy.”
He’s tucking himself back in, head shaking without pause. “I can’t.”
He unlocks the door with trembling hands and stumbles out, fleeing. I don’t try to stop him, just hold the door close behind, before some drunk patron can stumble in. My fingers are not trembling, as I bolt the door again.
Still, I rest my forehead against the door and close my eyes, give in to the booming beats.
He said no.
At least he did so early. It’s worse when they do later, when they’re already at it, when they find the bandages on my chest or the hidden bruises on my neck. When they ask questions. What happened?,who did this?,what’s wrong with you?.
As if I let them bend me over in a bathroom stall to talk.
I don’t want to talk. I want to forget. I want to feel.
I want hands on my skin that aren’t Fedir’s. A hot breath in my neck that isn’t Vasyklo’s. A cock pressing into me, because I invited someone to. I want to be fucked by nameless, faceless men who simply find me hot, by men who will not follow me into my nightmares, who are too busy chasing their own pleasure to spent a thought on me.
I don’t know how many nights I’ll need to find a balance. If I ever can. How many nameless men it takes to weigh out these men with a name.
Kysil.
My scar itches under the bandage.
Kysil.
I open my eyes to peek down at the tiny purse I carry that holds little more than my phone. I know he’s been trying to call me. Mykhailo Kysil.
One of the men who hurt me.
The man who saved me.
Sometimes I hate him for it. He can live with it, go on with his life, his career, one more scar to tell one more story. I? I don’t know if I will ever be able to. Myk saved my life, but whatever was left at that point - I don’t believe it was worth saving.
“Dude!” Someone bangs against the door and I jerk back. “What’s taking you so long, man? I need to take a shit.”
Yeah. I almost chuckle against the thin door, before I reach down to fix my panties, straighten my dress.
With the back of my hand, I wipe my eyes. I haven’t been crying, but the make up is probably smudged anyway. My looks matching my location.
I call up a confident smile before I leave the stall. The waiting guy flinches and looks me down with a frown, turning into some sort of odd appreciation.
For a second I wonder if he’d be the kind of dude just not to ask questions, but the thought passes and I walk back onto the dimly lit corridor.
I’m not in the mood.
I pull my phone out. It’s vibrating in my hand as if on cue. Mykhailo, again.
Silently, I look at his caller ID picture, get lost in his blue eyes that I know all too well, for ten long seconds, until the call gets routed to mailbox.
Then I call a cab.
Take A Hit For You (Pt. 2)
Kaen managed to remove the poisoned bulled from Iya’s wound, but now, they need to get to the safety.
Just as he guessed, Kaen didn’t sleep. It was probably for best since he was still alert for any other attack. He couldn’t sleep with Iya’s struggling breathing keeping him up, and his worry for her. He didn’t know who fired those bullets at them, but Iya said they were shooting at him so he guessed it was something connected to the Hunters one way or another.
He was sitting with Iya using his legs as a pillow, one arm wrapped around her protectively while the other one grabbed his phone, in case some miracle happened and they got a signal.
“Time to leave…” Kaen thought, he gently put the back of his hand against Iya’s forehead to check for a fever. Iya’s fever has been rising all the two hours they’ve been here, forcing Kaen to control it with his power so it didn’t go too far.
But she was still burning up, with her breathing shallow. Kaen could feel her rapid heartbeat from her temples while her face was covered in sweat.
@smellofsnoww That bit at the end there where Kaen’s finally registering he’s injured too only moments before he collapses ✨
“You’re looking better.”
At least, better than how he’d looked the day before - unconscious with hypothermia, and nearing death from it.
