Whump dialogue XXXVII

“You hurt them,” Caretaker growled in fury, trembling and clearly having to hold himself back.

“Just a bit,” Whumper sneered with glee. But his voice dipped a tone as Caretaker opened his mouth again to retort and he merely said:

“You should thank me. Because believe me, I could’ve made it much, muchworse.”

Hurt begets hurt

“Leave me alone. I hate you for what you did!”

They saw the hurt on Caretaker’s face, the disbelief and pain flashing over their expression, something shattering as Whumpee almost spat the word ‘hate’.

Somewhere deep inside Whumpee, something stirred, responding to the clear hurt they caused. But it came from somewhere deep within, something that slipped between the bars of a cage that they’d locked away far, far behind it.

And their overwhelming feeling was a bitter satisfaction that almost made them smile. ’Good. Hurt. Hurt like I did.’

“Whumpee, please I–”

“I don’t want you here.” Repressed rage burned everything around them.

Another wince from Caretaker who was now on the brink of tears. “Please…”

“Get out,” they said, trembling under the emotions they held back.

“Whumpee–”

“Getout!” They made their voice as hard and cold as possible. Watched as their partner stepped back, hesitantly and still searching their face for a hint of sympathy. But as they saw there was none, everything clouded by seething rage and hurt in return, they turned away. Their shoulders shook, their figure hunched by grief, but they didn’t look back.

And while Whumpee was glad to see them leave, they didn’t understand why a single tear slipped down their cheek.

-

@firewheeesky@myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19@myst-in-the-mirror@whumpawink@painsandconfusion@villainsvictim

A Whumpee who is wearing a wire!

They’re caught. And Whumper notices the device. But instead of taking it off and crushing it, he smiles and just leaves it on. While torturing Whumpee to learn more about who’s listening on the other end.

And Caretaker can do nothing but listen :)

Bonus if after a while, (maybe after Whumpee’s been a defiant shit for hours and has taken it all well) Caretaker just hears a broken “No… no, no, please, PLEA–” and with a loud smash and crackle, the transmissions ends and Caretaker is going out of their mind with worry.

choose your color

Himself

inspired by @whumpshaped’s post here!

CW: pet whump, collars, leashes, whumpee calling whumper Master, abuse (implied), abusive relationship, intimate whumper, possessive whumper, vampire whumpee, disassociation (mostly after the timeskip), whumpee misgendering himself while disassociating (using they/them/their as a gender neutral pronoun), nudity (not sexual and not explicitly described)

“Open your eyes, pet.”

Dirk didn’t want to. He didn’t want to open his eyes out of fear of what he would see in the mirror. Because he knew it would be a part of himself that he hated. 

A part of himself that Jackson claimed was his true nature, and that Teddy agreed with, and that both of them worked to chain and command as their own.

Taming a beast with a human face.

Leashing a wolf wearing someone else’s skin.

The leash hanging from his collar was heavy, a gold chain to match the gold tag that dangled from the leather collar, jingling with even the smallest movements. A temporary mark of ownership in the form of Master’s insignia to match the permanent one branded on his lower back.

The collar squeezed his throat when the leash was tugged.

“I won’t repeat myself, pet.”

Dirk opened his eyes, and his fears came true.

There he was, kneeling on the bedroom floor in front of the body mirror, shamefully exposed. Clothing is a privilege, not a right. And he lost that privilege when he misbehaved. He didn’t even remember what he did.

But that didn’t matter. 

What mattered was Master sitting behind him on the bed, holding the handle of the leash in one hand, the other close to some object on the bed. When he looked closer, he realized that it was a muzzle - a broken muzzle, because the gag that was supposed to keep his mouth open and his fangs exposed was bitten clean through. 

He didn’t even remember biting it.

But that didn’t matter.

“What do you see in the mirror?” 

There were many answers. Myself was not one of them.

Dirk saw individual parts that somehow still failed to make up a whole person. He saw shame in the flush of their cheeks and the way they hung their head, like a scolded dog. Guilt in their eyes, heavy enough to outweigh any anger. Fear in their tense body, unable to relax while their Master was unhappy. 

And devotion in the bruises that kissed their skin.

No.

Hisskin.

That’s what set him apart from the person in the mirror. Reminders of Master’s love, pressed into him with loving fingers, beaten into him with loving hands. That’s what he saw.

Proof of his loyalty to Master, and Master’s love given in return. 

He swallowed down whatever doubts remained.

“Your pet, Master.”       

The look of approval on Master’s face made him happy. And that was love, wasn’t it? Making each other happy? 

He chose not to dwell on it as Master gestured for him to come closer. And so, he crawled, turning his back to the mirror and all of his attention to Master. He kneeled between Master’s legs expectantly, waiting to be told what to do, to be given a chance at making up for his disobedience. 

Master pat his thigh. “Turn around and sit on my lap.” 

His pet obeyed. He faced the mirror again as he sat down, suppressing a flinch when Master’s arms came to wrap around his waist. A single knuckle was used to gently tilt the vampire’s face up, making eye contact with Master’s reflection before quickly averting his eyes. 

“Despite all of the trouble you give me,” Master said, moving his hand up to pet the vampire’s hair, “you are the best pet that I’ve ever had.“

His fingers skimmed across the back of his pet’s neck, eliciting a shiver. “And you are the onlypet that I will ever have. Do you know why that is?” 

He does. His pet knows because Master has told him again and again, with both punishments and rewards.

“Because I was made for you, Master.” 

A hum of approval. His pet almost smiled, and was proud of himself for not flinching this time when Master kissed his temple, still petting his hair.

“Good boy,” he murmured, and the vampire swelled with pride. 

—

Dirk stared at his reflection in the mirror. But the longer he looked, the more he started to feel like he wasn’t looking at himself. That the reflection staring back at him didn’t match the image of himself in his mind. 

The bruises from earlier had already healed over, like an author deleting words off the page. He wanted to see them. He neededto see them. Because they were marks of Teddy’s love, and he wanted to be marked, he neededto be marked to know that he was wanted, and loved, and himself. 

His neck was uncomfortably bare. No collar, no leash, nothing that made it clear who he belonged to, and that was a scary thought, not belonging to anyone.

Not belonging to Teddy.

Not belonging to Master.

He would always belong to Master, right? Master said that himself. Said that he was the best pet, his only pet, a pet made just for him. 

His pet touched the barren skin of his neck, trying to picture the collar there. He pressed down with his fingers and squeezed, hard enough to cut off his air, hard enough to force out a choked breath. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t his collar. It wasn’t Master.

It wasn’t him. 

The vampire stared at the person in the mirror. Who was it? He moved his hand down, over his collarbone, feeling water droplets stuck to his skin. The hand in the mirror moved down too, but it wasn’t his hand, and it wasn’t his skin, and he was starting to think that these weren’t histhoughts. 

Whose were they? 

It scared him not to know, but the fear just swelled inside of him and stayed there, trapped under the stranger’s skin. He didn’t move. They didn’t move. Neither of them moved, but one of them thought, and they wanted to stopthinking. 

They wanted to know who they were.

But only Master could tell them that.

Eventually, they saw him. They saw Master enter the room, and a part of their mind familiar with Master’s schedule knew that he had just gotten back from a business dinner, and that’s why he was wearing a fancy suit and tie. They heard him say something.

Did you shower thislate?

But they couldn’t process the words, just the sound of his voice, and the sight of him approaching in the mirror. There were more words. 

The floor around you is all wet, Dirk.

Dirk. 

That was their - that was his name. Dirk. Not the stranger’s name. He didn’t know who they were, or what their name was, but they must have left because Teddy was there, Master was there, and he was starting to remember who he was. 

This time, he understood Master’s words. 

“Is something wrong, pet?” 

Pet. 

Master’s pet. That’s who he was. Made for Master, made to serve him, and obey him, and love him. Dirk blinked, and he realized that his skin was pruning, that the floor was all wet, because he had been standing there for hours after showering. 

“I’m sorry, Master,” he blurted, referring to the state of the floor. 

Master looked surprised. Confused. It wasn’t an expression Dirk was used to seeing on him, and somehow he caused it, so he rushed to explain. “I took a shower earlier, way earlier, but then I was drying my hair in the mirror, and I - I somehow lost track of time, s-so I accidentally got water on the floor and I’m r-really sorry.” 

Master frowned. “You don’t know how long you’ve been here?”

Dirk shook his head. “I…I thought I was someone else,” he admits.

Something seemed to click for Master. And his confusion warped into satisfaction, which was confusing to Dirk, because he thought Master was upset about the floor. “Dirk,” he said, and it was more fond than scolding. “Say my name.” 

“…Master?” 

“That’s my title,” Master corrected. “Try again.”  

Dirk thought for a moment. And eventually, a name rose from his memories, breaking through the mindless haze of obedience.

“…Teddy.”

“Correct.”

Teddy smiled and cupped his face. Dirk instinctively leaned into it, allowing himself to close his eyes for a moment with a relieved sigh. He suddenly felt exhausted, like he had been running away from something chasing him, and now his heart was still pounding, his legs threatening to give out. 

“You will always be my pet, Dirk,” Teddy reassured him, easing him over to the bed. Dirk sat down with trembling legs. “But you’re also my underboss. My second in command,” the mob boss said, with a hint of pride that made Dirk smile. “You won’t be able to work if you keep getting lost in your thoughts.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dirk said, another instinctive apology. But he knew apologies meant nothing without a promise to do better. “I…I won’t use that mirror again. Or any mirror.”

Teddy seemed to accept that. “Unless I tell you to,” he said, because that was always the exception to Dirk’s boundaries. “And that way, I’ll be there to keep you from losing track of time again.”

Or losing himself.

peachy-panic:

SUNDAY

Do No Harm TAG LIST: @whumpervescence@shiningstarofwinter@distinctlywhumpthing@whumptywhumpdump@nicolepascaline@anotherbluntpencil@hold-him-down@crystalquartzwhump@maracujatangerine@batfacedliar@thecyrulik@pumpkin-spice-whump@finder-of-rings - let me know if you’d like to be added/removed!

WARNINGS: Uh, this one is p dark y’all. NONCON, BBU/BBU-adjacent, general fucking creepiness from people in positions of power

It’s morning when Jaime opens his eyes, and he blinks against the sun coming in through the beige curtains, not quite remembering at what point the night had faded into day or when he had finally closed his eyes. His body is naked but warm beneath the comforter in the master bedroom. It’s the first sensation that orients him to where he is; if he wakes up shivering, he knows he has slept on his cot in the closet. Being warm is for weekends, and it’s a privilege he pays for with every inch of himself. 

Keep reading

Part ofDo No Harm. 

Okay, so I did end up splitting the chapter in half. Sometimes my little typing fingers go out of control and the word count spirals. Will try not to keep you waiting too long for the follow up :)

WARNINGS: Blood (lots of it), non-graphic noncon, very minor character death, thoughts of death in general, BBU/BBU-adjacent, medical setting, panic attack

Things at the clinic are going… Surprisingly okay? Sebastian is cautious with his optimism, and he’s hesitant to use any stronger descriptors than that for the time being. But on the better days, despite his better judgment, Sebastian almost wants to call this thing that they have going… good.

Something begins to happen, so naturally and so subtly that Sebastian doesn’t catch onto it until the feeling is settled: he’s getting used to Jaime’s presence. Both in the clinic and, because his job doesn’t allow for much personal time outside of it, his life. After only a week and a half of forbidden lunches and stolen smiles and fragile, private exchanges of honesty, this arrangement he was so scared of implementing in the beginning has become the best part of his day.

The day after Jaime agreed to eat the sandwiches he bought for them, Sebastian got a little more adventurous. He brought something different every day of the week: bagels from his favorite shop, coffee from a drive-thru instead of the break room, and on a particularly cold day in February, two thermoses of hot soup. It quickly became part of his routine the night before work to think about what Jaime might like to eat the next day. Different ways he could surprise him. Make him happy, if just for a moment.

One Tuesday night, Sebastian finds himself elbow-deep in a real life, grown-up, honest-to-god grocery haul for the first time in… well, a while. Fruits and vegetables and actual ingredients crowd his countertops instead of frozen foods and ready-made meals from the refrigerated section of the store. All because of a sudden impulse that struck earlier in the day to cook something for Jaime instead of picking it up. 

Becausethat is apparently something he does now. He’s not sure what has happened to him. But as he turns to put the peppers away, he catches a flash of his reflection in the microwave door and finds a smile twisted along the bottom of his expression.

It’s a dangerous game he’s playing, letting himself get involved. Attached. It’s all well intended, and it’s—god, of course it’s entirely platonic, but that’s not the issue. With every inch he gains toward Jaime, the impermanence of their arrangement hovers closer, sinking in around them. The knowledge that this can’t go on forever looms heavy, both a threat and a promise.

Sebastian tries not to think too hard about the inevitable, whenever he can avoid it. Which isn’t all that often, to be honest. Smith’s warning is a constant echo in the back of his mind; that “boys like him” don’t go long between contracts, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s contracted out again, and he will disappear from the clinic overnight, and Sebastian will lose any opportunity he has to protect him from harm.

He dreads the day, days or weeks or months from now, when Jaime shows up in his exam room again for another round of invasive testing. Fresh off a contract, subdued and pliant and broken all over again. Flinching under Sebastian’s touch. Keeping his eyes to the ground. Calling him sir.Seeing that fear in Jaime’s eyes will hurt so much more after he has known what it looks like when he smiles.

***

Day 9

Jaime knows it’s going to be a bad day from the moment he trips on the treadmill during his morning training. It’s only a stumble; he catches himself on the arms of the machine before he can fall, but the momentary lapse in motion is enough to dip his speed below the calculated average, triggering a shock. The device on his throat gives a warning beep before his whole body lights up. And this time he does fall.

The shocks they get during exercise are not usually strong enough to incapacitate. Just sharp, quick jolts to keep them on speed. A threat of worse pain to come if they don’t. But Jaime is a good runner, and he almost never dips below his expected speed threshold, so it catches him off guard.

“On your feet,” a handler’s voice calls from the far end of the room. He scrambles to comply, pulling himself upright and forcing his legs back into a jog. The boy on the machine across from him—a newcomer who has spent the last three nights crying himself to sleep on the bunk below Jaime’s—dutifully avoids his eyes. His muscles are still twitchy and tense despite his best efforts, and the impairment to his range of motion earns him two more shocks before his timer runs out.

It doesn’t get better from there.

As soon as the water shuts off in the showers, plunging the room into damp silence, the boys begin to file out. When Jaime reaches the exit, a hand reaches out, wrapping around his elbow. He jerks to a stop, looking up into the eyes of a handler. It’s the same one who had yelled at him to get up when he fell on the treadmill, he thinks. He’s seen him around, but he doesn’t know his name. It doesn’t matter. He recognizes the look in his eyes, which tells him everything he needs to know about how this is going to go.

The others shuffle past quickly, heads down, pretending not to see the exchange. Pretending not to know. He waits until the room is empty, nodding once to the junior handler who had overseen their morning regimen alongside him. Jaime thinks he might see a twinge of uncertainty in the younger man’s eyes before he cuts them away, turning to leave. Regret maybe, or apology. But Jaime’s thoughts run dry, much like his mouth, when he is pressed against the wall.

It’s nothing new, what happens. It’s quick and it’s dirty, but at least he pulls the lever above the shower head when he’s done, letting Jaime rinse off before he gets dressed.

And then it’s over. The man moves on with his day like it was nothing because to him, it was. He fastens the zipper on his coveralls, runs his fingers through his hair, and escorts Jaime to the cafeteria for breakfast, his hand a heavy weight on his shoulder the whole way.

And Jaime… Well, it’s been a little while. A couple of weeks, at least, since he’s been forced to endure this specific kind of abuse. And it shakes him. Much like the unexpected jolt during his run, it catches him off guard, and maybe that’s his fault for letting it down. Try as he might to tamp down the unraveling feeling inside of him, he is unsteady when he finally reaches the clinic to start his shift.

Dr. Tate is in his office, like always, waiting with a plain, black coffee in hand and a smile. “Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” Jaime says. He settles into his seat like normal, not realizing he’s showing his cards until he catches Dr. Tate’s eyes lingering on him. “Are you okay?” He asks with a softness that threatens to break Jaime apart.

He tries for a smile, fails, then settles for another nod. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” he asks after a moment. “You just seem… I don’t know. Somewhere else today.”

“I’m sorry.” He looks up just long enough to see a twitch in the doctor’s mouth that he tries hard not to interpret as disappointment.

“No need,” he says finally. “I just wanted you to know you can talk to me. If you want to. I’ll um… I’ll leave you to it, okay?” He pauses in the doorway before he leaves, turning back to him. “I brought lunch from home again today,” he says with a small, co-conspiratorial smile. “I’m not much of a cook, but there’s enough for two if you want in.”

Jaime, one last time, tries for a smile in return. Maybe, he thinks, his nerves will have settled enough by lunchtime to act like a functioning human again.

***

Dr. Tate does not, in fact, make it for lunch.

A nurse who introduces herself as Aria is the one who knocks on the office door an hour past his usual lunch time. “Tate is stuck in an emergency operation,” she tells him. “He asked me to bring you this.”

She sets a plastic container on the desk in front of him. Steam rises from the top, like it’s been freshly reheated. Inside is… well, he’s not entirely sure what he’s looking at. But there’s chicken and mushrooms and a bunch of vegetables involved, and the smell of garlic makes his mouth water.

“He made it himself.” There is the slight twist of a smirk at the corner of Aria’s mouth when she speaks again. “Told me to tell you that you should feel free to throw it away and get something from the cafeteria if it’s—his words not mine—hot garbage.”

Jaime blinks down at the meal in front of him, trying to process that. All of it. “Thank you,” he says, feeling the first curl of warmth all day.

Lunch comes and goes in as much of a haze as the rest of his day. He eats the lunch that Dr. Tate prepared for him, not allowing himself to think too much about what that makes him feel, then goes back into the tedious pattern of digital filing.

Beyond the crack in the office door, there is a buzz of tense energy in the clinic. Nurses hurry past every couple of minutes, carrying supplies and making frenzied orders for more gauze, more sponges. Jaime tries to shut it out. His well trained instincts make it hard to ignore any amount of tension in the room, whether it’s directed at him or not. But whatever is happening now is none of his business, and he barely has enough mental energy today to focus on his own task at hand.

A sharp splinter of frustration digs into the outer shell of protective numbness. He doesn’t understand why this is getting to him the way it is today. It’s not as if this treatment is anything new for him. It happened far more often under Mr. Torley’s contract than he cares to think about, and it certainly isn’t the first time a handler has done it.

He tries to lose himself in the mindless motion of his work, avoiding his stress where he can’t alleviate it. And it almost works. It’s the slamming of a door from the other side of the clinic and a loud, reverberating shout of anger that startles Jaime to the surface.

“Goddammit!” It takes a few seconds for him to recognize the voice as Dr. Tate’s. He’s never heard it in anger before. Certainly not like this. Jaime grips down on the mouse beneath his palm, sweat prickling at his temples. He can suddenly feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

He tries to look focused and busy for when Dr. Tate comes in, unbothered by the anger that has his pulse beating wildly against the interior of his collar.

But he doesn’t come. In a flash of movement and color through the crack of the door, Jaime sees him stalk past the office. Dark crimson stains the front of his surgical gown. Another voice Jaime recognizes, not so much angry as vaguely annoyed, follows down the hall.

“Somebody get a domestic crew in here to clean this up.” Dr. Greer, the older man who runs the clinic, pauses outside the office door, checking something on his phone. Jaime can’t help but stare in a moment of horror at the blood covering him, too. Whatever had happened… Jaime decides immediately he doesn’t want to know the specifics.

Before he can force his eyes away, Jaime is caught staring. As if he could feel his eyes on him through the crack in the door, Dr. Greer locks onto him and steps forward, pushing the door open. “Never mind,” he calls over his shoulder. “We have one.”

***

Jaime recognizes where he is being taken almost immediately, and it requires every inch of his willpower not to resist.

It’s been months since Jaime has seen the inside of the operating room at the back of the clinic. In person, anyway. It has hosted no shortage of nightmares in the time since. None quite as vivid as the reality. The last time he was here was one of the worst days of his life. When Dr. Greer ushers him through the sliding glass door, he knows it’s going to be another bad one.

Because the body is still on the table.

Jaime’s legs turn to stone under him, stuttering to a halt in the doorway. He catches a glimpse of an unfamiliar face just before a zipper closes over it, sealing the woman into a tarp-like enclosure. A fucking body bag.

He stands there, frozen by the shock of it, until Dr. Greer nudges him forward. “Come on,” he says.

Jaime pulls in a gasp of a breath and nearly chokes on the scent of blood. It’s everywhere. On the table, on the floor. Stained instruments and soaked-through gauze discarded across the scene, bright red shoe prints smeared on the tile.

“Cleaning supplies are in the closet,” Greer tells him. If he notices Jaime’s distress, he does nothing to acknowledge it, ripping the bloodied surgical gown off his front and tossing it at Jaime’s feet. “If you need more towels, ask a nurse to page another domestic. I don’t want to see a spot of this shit tomorrow morning, got it?”

It takes a moment for Jaime to find his voice, but somewhere, distantly, he hears himself utter a weak “yes sir.” Then he’s gone.

Jaime’s eyes remain fixed on the empty spot on the table long after the team of nurses cart the woman’s body out of the room, leaving him alone. Behind every blink, he sees the flash of her face projected onto the inside of his eyelids—just a sloped nose, a sharp cheekbone, one closed eye—intercut with the image of his own.

He can see it so clearly. His own pale skin and blond curls disappearing behind a black tarp, a zipper. Carried from the room, lifeless. Because that is where this ends, isn’t it? Eventually? Inevitably? Whether it’s someone here in the facility or someone beyond these walls that hold his contract, or some bigger government facility he’ll be shipped off to for labor when he’s old enough and worn enough and broken enough that patrons don’t want to fuck him anymore.

Stop. Jaime, stop.

The aberrant thoughts bring with them the swift, sharp memory of Handler Smith knuckles across his cheek, the shock from a clip that’s not currently pressed to his throat but he can feel it anyway. Jaime bites down on the inside of his lip until it’s not just the smell of blood that overwhelms his senses, it’s the taste too.

Using the pain as an anchor, Jaime tries to adhere to the order he has been given: clean up the mess. He can do that. Your life gets easier when you follow directions, sweetheart, he hears, but he’s not even sure whose voice it is in his head anymore. He just wants… he needs something to be easy right now. So he tries. He gathers the supplies from the closet as instructed—a mop and some bleach and a couple of towels—and hardens his resolve to detach from the twisted reality of what exactly he’s cleaning.

It doesn’t work.

Being in the room is torture on his mind. It would have been torture under any circumstances, but today… He can feel the sweat trickling down his back, the tremor in his hands with every movement.

It’s a panic attack, he tells himself. He knows it is. But none of his logic or the self-soothing tricks he has taught himself over the years can bring him back. Not when he still sees the face of a corpse and a body bag like a mirror every time he closes his eyes. Not when the air in the room smells like blood and death, and every time he looks at the big, silver table in the middle of the room, he sees himself strapped to it and screaming and choking on his own vomit and—

By the time he realizes his breathing has escalated beyond the threshold of his control, he’s too far gone to do anything about it. One moment he is white-knuckling the wooden handle of the mop, scraping it across the floor in long, angry strides, and the next he is using it as support, trying desperately to stay on his feet as he gasps for air.

His knees hit the ground before he feels himself buckling.

***

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence@shiningstarofwinter@distinctlywhumpthing@whumptywhumpdump@nicolepascaline@anotherbluntpencil@hold-him-down@crystalquartzwhump@maracujatangerine@batfacedliar-yetagain@thecyrulik@pumpkin-spice-whump@melancholy-in-the-morning@also-finder-of-rings@insaneinthepaingame@skyhawkwolf@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump@mylifeisonthebookshelf@dont-touch-my-soup@whump-world@inpainandsuffering@cicatrix-energy

peachy-panic:

Shatter

Part of Do No Harm. 

Timeline wise – Still Day 9, continued fromhere.

Warnings: Some dark subjects here. Suicide (minor character), self harm, blood, nudity, navigating some extremely fucked up power dynamics, implied noncon, severe panic attacks, BBU/BBU-adjacent

The shower in the staff locker room can’t get hot enough.

Sebastian stands there long after his skin is pink beneath the spray, lost in his own head. His skin may be scrubbed clean after the first few minutes, but he is confident his body will never forget the memory of this stain.

Keep reading