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whumble-beeee · 1 month

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The Man in the Sweater Vest

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 7

Content: attempted noncon, threatened mouth whump, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, scissors, tied up/handcuffs, noncon unshirtening, noncon touch, past captivity references, graphic threats, blood, crapton of whump. As a treat :)

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Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[Inevitably, there will be disagreements on how you should treat your captured hero. One villain might want to just hold the hero hostage long enough to finish their dastardly plans. Another will want to break the hero’s will entirely! Or anything else in between!

But when working together with other villains, bounty hunters, henchmen, etc, it is crucial that everyone is on the same page about how your captured hero is to be treated, lest your hero end up with a few less limbs than you meant them too, or your months of breaking down the hero's fragile mind is undone by a single nice gesture.

Always communicate effectively, your hero will thank you for it (or curse the day you were born)!]

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Sweater-vest stumbled back, reeling from the punch and clutching his face before pulling his hands down and gawking at the blood staining his hands.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!!” Stan screamed.

An intense elation washed through his chest despite the surprisingly sharp exploding pain that crackled up the very bones of his arm when he punched the man, and the now freshly ripped open scabs and bruises from where he’d forgotten to account for the handcuffs and yanked on them violently, streaming new ruby red over dried light brown that already carved down his arms;

Because he'd got him. He'd got him! Punched him, made him back off! Stan did that! He'd finally managed to actually do something about the atrocities being committed against him and it was so, so sweet.

Relatively short-lived, though.

Vaughn, the sweater vest man, started to giggle to himself as he wiped the blood streaming from his nose onto his sleeve. Elation gave way to tentative confusion. Then a sinister seed started to take root in Stan's gut, the roots already reaching out and tightening around his body.

“You-...” Vaughn giggled some more. “You– you think–?...”

He started fully laughing, speech overtaken by an apparent hilarity that Stan must’ve just been too shocked by the sudden mood change to understand. He was cackling. Then practically shrieking, crazy, loud, heaving laughs.

He must be crazy.

Insane.

Well and truly insane, the way he was shriek laughing into his shining red-stained hands.

His gaze snapped up to Stan, and Stan could practically hear the horror movie crackling effect with how fast it snapped up, crazy maniacal shudders still overtaking his body, piercing gaze turned wide, animalistic.

“You think you can HURT ME?! HURT ME?! AHAHAHAHA!!”

Suddenly Stan slammed into the wall, cuffed wrists pinned above his head, chest to chest with the crazy man and staring up into his crazy bloodshot eyes.

“You can't hurt me,” he growled into Stan’s ear through gritted teeth. ”I don't feel pain. I carved that weakness out a long time ago, my brain doesn’t register it anymore! And I did it so I could deal with horrible little brats like you–” he slammed Stan's wrists into the wall, “--however I see fit! So I could do whatever I wanted to them. So that even if they fight back, they always, always, always lose.”

He pulled back and leaned into Stan's face, staring the captive directly in his glaringly defiant, wide and shining eyes. Hot shaking breaths misted surprisingly minty breath onto Stan’s cheeks, nearly overpowered by the metallic tang of blood that still poured down his face.

“Always submit. Just like you're going to.”

Stan pulled down hard against Vaughn's grasp, struggling and wiggling and tugging and screaming and kicking and doing every single little thing he could to, if not escape, at least make this as difficult as possible.

“Get away from me!" He cried. "GET AWAY FROM ME, get OFF of me, I’m not gonna let you do this you sadist, you can’t do this to me!! LET GO–!”

A punch to the gut. Stan tried to double over and wheezed as much as he could with his arms pinned up, which delivered him right into another punch to the face.

Then something cool and sharp stabbed into the soft underside of his chin, straining his neck with how far his head pushed back into the wall.

“This is why I like to keep my victims gagged,” Vaughn gritted. “That bounty hunter of yours never does it, no matter how I tell him to. Always has to do stuff his own way, never listens. All he does is talk talk talk, always has a retort for everything. So defiant, and so is every single subject he brings in.”

A dull aching throb emanated from where Stan’s head pressed into the wall. Black spots dotted his vision.

“You–... y-you can't–”

The scissors pulled back and dove toward Stan's mouth, eliciting a loud cut-off scream of revolt as he cowered and squeezed his eyes shut from some vain, animalistic instinct to protect himself.

Then he pried open his eyes again, confused when no cutting metallic pain ripped through the fragile flesh of his face.

The handle of the scissors were fuzzy, too close for his eyes to focus.

They weren’t that far into his mouth.

Just enough that if Stan tried to close it, his teeth would clip on the tip of the metal blades instead.

The scissors lifted slowly, tapping on his top teeth, tilting his head up until he stared into Vaughn’s metallic blue eyes once more.

“I could always prep your throat with these if you like,” he drawled softly, letting go of Stan’s cuff chain and instead lightly grasping his thumb and forefinger under Stan’s chin, forcing his mouth open further. A small sob crackled out from Stan’s throat.

“It would be so easy… I could just–”

The scissors lurched further into Stan’s mouth, and Stan let out another involuntary squeak and an open-mouthed, unintelligible pleading of “no, no, no, no…” as tears started to sting at his eyes.

But he let him do it.

He even still held his arms up, because surely if he tried to fight back now, with the scissors in his mouth quite literally pinning him to the wall… He didn’t even want to think of the consequences.

“Careful, dropje. Wouldn’t want to cut yourself. Be quiet, be still, be good for me, right? You can be good for me? You can finally shut the hell up. No more fighting.”

He let go of Stan's chin and let his hands wander lower, caressing Stan’s sides, the curve of his waist, making his entire body tense and shudder. His breathing turning loud and shallow as he cringed away.

Vaughn just giggled.

“See? Isn’t this better? You’re not getting hurt, you’re doing what I say…” His fingers slipped under the waistband of Stan’s pants again. Slower this time. More deliberate.

It took all of Stan's willpower to not start hyperventilating at what he knew was about to happen. He knew. It was always this, wasn’t it?

Vaughn’s voice lowered as he leaned closer, pressing his body into Stan’s. He could feel the fibers of the stupid damn sweater vest against his stomach, deceptively soft, almost pleasant. The hard blade of the scissors tapped on the tip of his nose. “Because you physically have no other–”

BANG!!

Stan screamed.

Vaughn screamed.

The ghost of the gunshot echoed off the cinderblock walls.

Vaughn also nearly fell backward, pushing off of Stan just in time for Stan to fall to the floor in a duck-and-cover position and pray to whatever gods would listen that his last day on earth wouldn't have been spent dealing with two of the worst people he'd ever had the displeasure of being kidnapped by.

Wait, scratch that, his knee reminded him. He'd had worse.

His heart threatened to jump out of his chest completely, but he finally realized that in fact, he was still alive. So he opened his eyes to what he never thought to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world;

Deeby.

Gun pointed to the sky and streaming a light grey smoke into a small puff of explosion that hadn't had time yet to dissipate.

“What in the ever-loving SHIT are you doing?!” he shouted.

He was completely maskless, face now on full display, fiery eyes matching his equally fiery sneer. The sudden absence of the mask almost scared Stan more than the gunshot, the sight making his heart beat in his throat.

Then, for just a split second, Deeby's enraged eyes met Stan's stare. His eyes scanned down his body, looking him up and down, his face changing ever so slightly when his gaze caught in Stan’s chest. A slight crinkle of the eyebrows, a small tilt of the head. Then his eyes widened in some sort of realization, and Stan felt his heart turn to ice.

Recognition.

No.

He couldn't have realized who he was.

Just because of the binder?!

Stan choked on his own throat as the collar suddenly constricted once more and he was dragged violently forward to his knees.

“Your fucking dog punched me in the face!” Vaughn shouted, jangling Stan around enough that he had to grab the collar just to gain back his breath.

“Just because–!”

Vaughn jolted Stan's collar back hard and cut him off with a violent gag.

“I was disciplining him.” Vaughn narrowed his eyes at the mercenary. “Like we're supposed to.”

Deeby’s jaw set. And still, he managed to find a slight smug smile within his fury. “That why your face is gushing blood, then? Disciplined him too hard?”

Stan didn't even realize when they started, but tears were practically streaming down his cheeks now, chest heaving in panic. “Deeby, Deeby, he was gonna–”

“Shut up!”

A kick this time, straight to the back of his spine, and Stan's throat strained hard into the collar before breaking free of Vaughn's grasp and nearly face-planting into cold concrete. He scrambled to get up, but the same foot planted on his back and slammed his chest right back to the floor, grinding the heel of its shoe into the captive’s spine. Stan clutched at the ground, screams barely bit back by force of sheer willpower.

“Christ, man! Stop it, get off!” Deeby yelled with uncharacteristic urgency.

The force pinning him down suddenly released, followed by the scattered footfalls of someone catching themself from nearly falling over.

Stan just lay there limp. Heaving and shivering. He couldn't move. His limbs felt like heavyweights, the world tilted on it’s axis, and he was sure that if he lifted his head up, he would lose every last morsel of that protein bar he'd shoved down earlier.

But at least now no one was methodically turning him into a fine red mist anymore.

Deeby stood between the two of them like an impenetrable stone wall, hand resting on the unlatched holster of his gun and pointedly ignoring Vaughn’s stuttering disbelief as he patted at the pockets of his jacket, pulling various probably very sharp things out and shoving them into his pants pockets.

Protecting him.

“You– You just–...” Vaughn finally composed himself. “You pushed me off! You're saving him? He needs to be taught a lesson!”

Stan tried to push up despite the dizziness. “Only–... D-Deeby, he was trying–”

“Shut up, Stan, I know, let me handle it! Here.” Deeby slid his jacket off and dropped it practically on top of his captive’s head, never once letting his gaze slip from Vaughn. Stan shakily pulled the brown leather of the jacket over his shoulders before he had time to think better of it, doing his best to just enjoy the show and not think about the implications of what was currently happening.

“Because he wouldn't let you put your dick in him without a fight, right?” The bounty hunter said sarcastically. “Or– or– or because he wasn’t gonna let you mouth-gore him without complaint? Let you ‘teach him a lesson?’ Yeah, I am stopping you. Piece of shit.” The bounty hunter grabbed the scissors off the floor where they landed when Vaughn dropped them after the gunshot. Then he used them to point sharply at the door.

“Get out.”

Vaughn scoffed and melodramatically rolled his eyes.

“You got the message from Lana then? Is that why you're acting like such a belligerent wittle babeee?” Vaughn posited in his most obnoxious baby voice.

Deeby bristled. Stan could've sworn for a moment he could see the man shaking.

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “I talked to Lana. Your useless job is done. You can go back to being an even more useless sidepiece now.”

Vaughn’s shoulders tensed, and he laughed.

“Good! And I’ll make sure to tell Lana all about you taking the side of the disobedient dog of a test subject–”

“Yeah, go cry to your girlfriend about it, he's under my jurisdiction and I'm not gonna let you fuck that up because you feel the need to live out your perverse power fantasy with the helpless people you kidnap and torture. As if it isn’t torture enough to have to be in the same room with you at all.”

Vaughn clenched his fists at his side and forced on the worst imitation of a smile Stan had ever borne witness to.

“You better watch your tone, Deathberry,” he said, sickly sweet voice doing nothing to mask the hissing rage. “I could have you in the same spot as him in ten seconds. Don't ever–” he jabbed Deeby in the chest. “–forget that. You're only allowed to be out here roaming around with your fancy gun and your fancy cowboy boots because you're useful, otherwise you'd be locked up with the rest–”

Vaughn had just started to reach for the holster on Deeby's belt when, faster than Stan could perceive, a flurry of movement between the two men, a cry of surprised fear, the shuffling of feet and spinning of bodies and suddenly Vaughn was pinned back first to Deeby's chest, a wire that Deeby pulled from somewhere stretched taut between his fists and pressing a hard line directly under into the skin of Vaughn's throat.

Vaughn's hands quickly flew up to the wire to try and pull it off his throat, then just as quickly let go when he realized the wire would sooner cut through his hands before it would be pried off.

Stan couldn't help but stare.

“You're just about at the end of my rope, Verhulst,” Deeby growled, accent fully presiding now as he stepped backward and pulled Vaughn toward the door. “Don't you ever put your filthy hands on my gun.”

A slight rasp to Vaughn's voice was the only thing that denoted anything was amiss. “You sure this is about the gun, Deebs? Sure you're not taking your frustrations at Lana out on me?”

“Trust me, if I was takin’ my frustrations at Lana out on you, bud, you'd be dead.”

Vaughn's eyes shot to Stan, and his smile broadened.

“Ohhhh, I see. So what then, you are falling for the captive? I'm sure Lana would love to hear about how you're going soft, how you miss her, and how spectacularly you're failing at finding someone better so you have to–”

A small gurk finding its way from Vaughn's throat as he was pulled to a sudden stop.

“You know what, maybe I am. And maybe you should use your mouth to do something not completely useless for once.” He spun the both of them around to face Stan again.

“Apologize to ‘im.”

What?

Vaughn stared at Stan, apparently more stunned by the notion of apologizing than the motion of having a garot wire to his throat. Stan… honestly had to agree.

“Come again?”

“Apologize to Stan. For tryin’ to rape him. It's the least you could do.”

“You want me to… apologize?? To the test subject? You really are losing it, Deathberry, let me go.”

The wire dug into his throat more. “Say sorry, doctor.”

Vaughn glared at Stan. Stan glared back as well as he could.

“I can't feel the pain of this, you know,” Vaughn's voice came, even raspier. “You're not doing anything.”

“You can still bleed out from a slit throat. Still drown to death in your own blood as it slowly fills your lungs,” Deeby dismissed lightly. “Still bleed out. Very quickly. I wonder what would happen if I hit your carotid–

“And I wonder how Lana would feel about you slitting her head scientist and boyfriend’s throat.”

“Probably call you a little bitch boy for invoking her name every time you need to defend yourself like a spoiled toddler ‘steada bein’ a man about it and defending yourself. Or maybe not. You’d never know, you’d be dead.”

“You wouldn't–”

Deeby twitched the wire across Vaughn's throat and a line of red bloomed across the light tan of his neck. Vaughn's face grew just a little bit paler. He brought his hands up to graze across the wire and felt the warm wetness smear across his fingertips.

“Apologize.” Deeby growled. “Now.”

Vaughn's eyes flitted back to Stan, fully appraising the wonderfully wide-eyed mess he'd had pinned against the wall only moments before.

He narrowed his eyes.

Took a deep breath.

Stared daggers directly into Stan's soul.

“Sorry.”

Oh you bastard.

“Go jump off a cliff!” Stan yelled, erratically reaching into the jacket pocket he'd seen Deeby pull the protein bar out of earlier and luckily finding many more, one of which was immediately thrown directly at Vaughn. He couldn't even attempt to dodge it, and it hit him directly in the chest.

The mercenary let out a singular loud laugh and spun Vaughn back around, letting the wire retract into what Stan now realized was a little housing box on his weird arm sleeve thing and shoving Vaughn at the door as hard as he could.

“Guess he doesn't forgive you. Better luck next time!” he laughed. Stan genuinely thought (and hoped) Sweater-vest would fall flat on his face, but he managed to grab the door and right himself before that happened. Shame.

“Now get out.” Deeby said.

Vaughn glared with a literal snarl, jaw half a second away from cracking in two. Right before he took a slow, deep breath and reset his features to a forced neutral. Then an easy smile. “As you wish, my liege.”

He bowed exaggeratedly low in a show of mock respect, retrieving his scissors from the ground in a surprisingly graceful sweeping motion as he went. Deeby just rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and Stanny?” He drawled, peeking back from the door as he left and pointing his scissors directly at Stan's face with a flourish. “I look forward to seeing you soon~.”

“Get outta here!” Deeby yelled with a threatening stomp toward the door, at the same time Stan stuttered out a very surprised and agitated “In hell!”

The door slammed shut.

Stan could swear he could still hear Vaughn's deranged laugh echoing through the room even as an eerie silence fell over them.

He was finally gone. Finally.

See you soon.

He didn't completely understand why his breath continued to quicken. He'd won that encounter, right? Or… well, Deeby had. But still.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

He felt dizzy. More than the concussion could have caused. This was different, made him feel like he was suffocating, even though Vaughn was no longer here to strain the collar against his throat. Yet he could still feel the knuckles digging into the back of his neck.

I look forward to seeing you soon. In hell.

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#whump #heroes and villains #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #hero whump #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #captivity whump #trans whumpee #disabled whumpee #(un)official guide #attempted noncon #noncon undressing #IT'S BACK BABYYYY #GAH I've been so excited to post this #I missed this so much #extra long and extra whumpy for all your waiting #whos idea was it to let me go on an accidental month long hiatus #WHO WAS IT #anyway I'm going into tech week irl for the musical i'm in #so I might not get to the next chapter next weekend #I'll definitely try to tho #I genuinely missed writing and posting this story too. I've got so much more of it to tell #anyway I hope you like this chapter it was a bitch to wring it out of me but I did it #and its glorious #Also vaughn is such a cringefail I love him so much #and we've got some secret hidden Deeby lore sprinkled in there!#making this like an easter egg hunt #did you find it?

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hold-on-a-little-longer-whump · 6 months

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Quick!! Link a scene or piece of work you're created that you're proud of! First one that comes to mind!!

*bounces in place* ohohohohoho you've gone and done it now!!! Feast your eyes on this scene from one of my many WIPs - I hope I'll finish it one day. It really is one of the Big Three of my Magnum Opuses.

Below the cut:

Female whumpee

Mute whumpee

Disabled whumpee

Female Caretaker

Recovery

Mentions of Scientific/Medical Trauma

Bruises and bandages

Collapsing

Fatigue/Weakness

Samira slept for another day. Until the pangs of hunger and other necessities grew to be too much to ignore. She drew in a slow breath and sighed, then lifted her arms in a stretch. The skin of her elbows pulled uncomfortably and she stopped at the telltale sensation of scabs beginning to split. Even now, days later, she felt the bone-deep ache from her journey here. The dull throb of a lingering headache. The pulsing pain in her knees. Her hands still held a tremor without the slightest provocation. More than anything, she wanted to go back to sleep until the soreness went away, but nature had other ideas.

Turning her head, she saw she was alone. The lights to the room were dimmed low, and the only other source of light came from the glow of a safety light in the bathroom five feet away. Blessedly, she saw the IV pole was on the same side of the bed. All she had to do now was walk. Piece of cake. Pulling the blanket back, she slung her legs over the side of the bed. She stopped long enough to wonder at the sight she saw.

Socks. Soft, fuzzy yellow socks with grips on the bottoms. She turned her attention to her gown. It, too, was buttercup yellow, decorated with bumble bees and daisies, and the hem - stopping at her knees - even had the tiniest decoration of white lace. She longed to rub the material between her fingers, but the bandaging on her hands prevented her from doing so. It would have to wait. Besides, the thick wads of cotton taped over each knee ruined the effect. Her skin, she noticed, was far paler than its healthy cinnamon color, and even the patches of vitiligo, normally rosy, held a sickly shade. She frowned, feeling like the ghost of her former self.

Gripping the IV pole for balance, Samira scooted forward. Tentatively, she settled her feet on the floor. No fear driving her to move. No dizziness. It didn’t matter how many times she had tried to stand on her way here. She was stronger now. She was rested. She could do this. Carefully, as if to balance on an egg without breaking it, she put weight on one foot. Her knee began to quake and she grabbed the IV pole with her other hand, clinging to it, and the momentum of doing so forced her full weight forward. Quickly, she brought her other foot forth to catch herself.

For the briefest of seconds, she teetered, awkwardly poised between the IV pole and her fawn-like legs. She could feel the cuts in her palms reopening as she clung to the pole, the gauze slackening her grip. Then the wheels of the IV pole rolled. Samira flailed, gasping as her crutch moved before she was ready, and tried to snatch it back. It fell, and she followed, knocking a metal tray and its contents to the floor with a great crash.

She might have cringed at the noise if she hadn’t instinctively tried to catch herself. Though the gauze cushioned the fall somewhat, it didn’t stop her knees and elbows from cracking against the hard tile - biting through the cotton and clawing at her already-shredded skin. Tears sprung up and a mute yelp rattled her throat before she could stop herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and still a hoarse sob wrenched itself from her chest.

Hurried footsteps sent a dart of panic up her spine, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The lights switched on, then a set of hands were on her. She flinched, but they didn’t release her.

“Samira.” Jean. Jean was there. “Samira, it’s alright. It’s just me.”

Without waiting for a response, Jean lifted her back to the bed as easily as a child might lift a dropped doll. Samira tucked her hands beneath her chin, arms pressed against her chest, and tried to control her breathing - all while fighting the urge to curl in a ball right there. Hot, thrumming pain rolled up her limbs, coiling into tight knots and biting, clawing, digging into her bones. Why did it hurt so much? How could things go wrong so quickly? She opened her eyes from where she’d squeezed them shut, peering between wet lashes at the mess she’d made. Fresh, unused medical supplies lay strewn about on the floor. The IV pole lay on its side, and the tray had skidded a couple feet away. She drew in a shaky breath, shame heating her cheeks.

Automatically, an apology tried to leave her lips. Instead, it came out in a pitiful wheeze.

Mistaking the gesture for one of pain, Jean smoothed a hand over Samira’s back. “It’s alright, Samira. Do you want something for the pain?”

Samira shook her head and hid her face behind her hands, the gauze absorbing her tears.

“It’s okay if you do. You don’t need to be brave, not here.”

Samira shook her head again, gulping back another sob before it could surface. She already owed them so much, and it shamed her to anticipate their response to her inability to speak - and now, it seemed, the inability to walk. Had the Team left any part of her untouched?

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pigeonwhumps · 4 months

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Belt

Bug and Company masterlist

AMOW Winter Whumperland: day 10

Tio de Nadal | Conditioning | Left to Die | Holiday Traditions

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Brett accidentally triggers Charlie.

(Charlie is briefly introduced as 726E here.)

CWs: BBU, pet whump, carewhumper, brief mention of animalisation, dehumanisation, self-dehumanisation, non-sexual partial nudity, forced to participate in punishment, mentions of severe past abuse talked about as punishments, mentions of people being hired out, conditioned whumpee

"Ah! I remember! Of course, that's what I need!"

Brett snaps his fingers in excitement. Of course, how could he have forgotten that? He must've managed to keep Charlie's celebration so secret he forgot about it himself.

He's feeling so pleased with himself that it's a minute before he notices what he's automatically taken. It's Charlie's belt, folded neatly in his outstretched hand.

He hears the rustling of fabric and turns.

It's like it's happening in slow motion. Brett watches, horrified, as Charlie pulls off his t-shirt, drops his trousers, and leans on – no, braces himself against – the wall.

Brett can't move for what feels like hours. Most of his beloved pet's behaviour was conditioned by his previous owners, not the training centre, and he dreads finding out what they did to cause this one.

Then he notices the trembling. That snaps him back into action.

"Charlie," he says cautiously, "What are you... no. No. Tell me your previous owners, The Shelter or whatever they call that building, tell me they didn't beat you with your own belt."

Charlie nods slightly, not enough to dislodge his position, and the fact that he's moving so shallowly tells Brett the pet's knees have locked. He needs to get him sat down before things get worse.

"No. I would never do that. Why don't you pull up your trousers, and then we can sit down? I'll help you stay standing, hang on."

He snakes an arm under Charlie's shoulder, and his pet pulls his trousers up slowly before obediently sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Charlie's eyebrows furrow, and then his eyes widen, and Brett knows he's realised that an important conversation is about to happen. If it wasn't, Brett would've helped him into his own soft bed, now more height-adjustable than normal pet beds to help with his legs.

"We need to have a conversation Charlie, which I think you realise. I know this is partly my fault, because Mandy told me not to snap my fingers at you and I forgot, but do you remember what I told you soon after you arrived and recovered, three months ago now?" Charlie nods. "Can you tell me?"

"That you wouldn't hurt me," croaks out Charlie. "That none of my punishments would be physical, and if any of them were too traumatising, to tell you and you'd change it."

"We'd change it," he corrects quietly. He needs Charlie's input for this. He has so many triggers, and some things he physically can't do. Besides, it's a bit of a reminder. "But that's right. So what made you think I would today?"

"You snapped your fingers, sir. And you're my owner, a person, you can change your mind, that's allowed. I'm only a pet, sir, I'd deserve being beaten or whipped or– or whatever you would do if you so desired, sir."

Brett feels sick. Charlie has so many scars, inside and out, and he's willing to receive more.

"Well, I think it bears reiterating that I will never do anything like that to you. The worst punishments you'll ever receive from me will be things like missing dessert or cleaning up and buying a replacement of things you break. Okay? Nothing severe."

"Yes, sir."

Does he believe it? Who knows. Hopefully he will one day.

There's a long silence, before Brett says, quieter again, "I swear to you, Charlie, I will never let anything like that happen to you again." Charlie bites his lip. "Sweetheart?"

"Even if I'm a very bad dog, sir? You said before but– but you won't treat me like a mutt?"

"No. Certainly not the way your previous owners and clients treated you. And I don't want to know the reason you felt like you had to ask or why you phrased it like that, do I?"

"No, sir."

"Okay. How about I fetch you some water and your favourite treat, and then we continue reading the Charlie Bone books? I imagine curled up next to me isn't the most comforting place right now, but you can always lie on your bed."

"Sir?"

Brett shrugs, slightly embarrassed still after an employee commented that he spoils Charlie even more than Mathonwy. "I always give Mathonwy a treat when he's upset, don't I?"

"Yes, sir."

Charlie knows not to talk back too often, but Brett elaborates anyway. "The planning can wait." After all, ice cream cakes aren't hard to make, apparently. He's more than willing to pay Mandy overtime for her help if necessary. "Can you make it to your bed unassisted?"

"Yes, sir."

Brett smiles and ruffles Charlie's hair. "Go on then. I'll be back in a minute."

And finally, finally, he gets a small quirk of the lips out of his beloved pet.

#whump #whump writing #bug and company #726e oc #brett oc #bbu #box boy universe #box boy whump #box boy #pet whump #disabled whumpee #carewhumper #dehumanisation #conditioned whumpee #touchstarved

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sunshiline-writes · 2 months

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A Rose Amidst Thorns #15: A New Set of Rules

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Synopsis: Miguel gets a set of new rules. And learns exactly what he is in this hierarchy

CW: Dehumanization, like HEAVY dehumanization plz be safe, cigarettes, whumpee used as an ashtray, graphic description of mouth burns, EMETO (its kinda nasty so just.. be careful again), forced alcohol consumption, conditioning, altered state of mind, whumper POV

Something had to change. Everything was out of control. Solomon had tried to take his wife. Henrietta thought that somehow, that was fine. Miguel kept fighting back. All of them kept fighting back. It was getting exhausting. It was going to get worse if Xavier didn’t put a stop to it now.

Separating the three of them had been the first step. Solomon was sleeping away his illness in his bedroom. Henrietta no longer had keys to any of the rooms in the house. Even if she wanted to visit him, the threat of death Xavier had loomed over him, kept her at bay for now. Miguel, was back in the hayloft, chained down like the dog he was.

Solomon and Henrietta were easy enough to deal with. But Miguel was proving to be more and more of a problem. He was getting restless. Starting to test the waters as he always did. Xavier preferred him half dead or dissociated to the point where he was a shell of a human. Three days ago, he’d thrown the food he’d been given at Abraham, who’d been on food duty that day.

Today, Xavier would be delivering Miguel’s first meal since then. It had been two weeks since The Solomon incident. After he’d carried Miguel’s unconscious body into the hayloft and clamped the manacle around his ankle, Xavier had deemed it better to leave the kid alone. He needed time to heal. If he looked at him, Xavier was going to smash his head into the wall.

He was calmer now. Calculating. He brought up the tray of food to the hayloft, balancing it against his hip with one hand, grabbing the ladder with the other. Xavier wasn’t surprised to see Miguel curled in on himself, asleep on the cot that had been provided. He brought the tray of food next to the cot, leaving it on the floor.

This had been Miguel’s first room at the Reede Ranch. Thirteen years old and all fire and fury. He had proved himself, gaining a nice cog in the closet in the hallway. Inside where it was warm at night. Where he could join them for breakfast at the table like a human. He had earned that respect. But now, he was back in the hayloft, the metaphorical dog house. Too much trouble. Too many mistakes had been made. Now corrections had to be made.

Gently, Xavier ran a hand through Miguel’s hair.

“Wake up kid. We gotta talk,” he said as soon as Miguel’s eyes focused enough that he was sure the kid was listening.

A frown lined his features as he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. Bare feet resting on the wood floor. Good hand gripping the edge of the cot, his other hand resting in his lap. It was still healing. Stupidly slowly, but Solomon had said that it would. Still though, it was annoying. It had been two months, and that hand was still proving to be useless.

“Are you hungry?” Xavier asked as Miguel glanced at the food.

The boy nodded, eyes wary. Good.

“You can eat in a moment. But right now? We’re gonna set some new rules for you. Yeah?” Xavier didn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “I think you’ve forgotten your place here. The fact that you’re at the bottom of the hierarchy.”

Miguel’s throat bobbed slightly. The bruising had faded to an ugly yellowish color, but it was still there. A testimony to when Xavier had lost a bit of control. Nearly killing the boy.

“You’re the dog here. So here are the rules. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. This isn’t new, but I think you need a reminder. If I tell you to sit, you sit. If I say roll over? Fucking roll over.” Xavier took a deep breath, “I’m going to bringing your food everyday from now on. Unless I’m on business then it’ll be Jesse. When you see us coming up that ladder? You greet us on your knees.” Xavier paused, searching for a reaction.

Miguel’s frown deepened, eyes widening slightly. He opened his mouth slightly, seemingly in an attempt to protest. But Xaviers glare must have been enough of a warning, as he snapped his mouth shut. The boy worked his jaw, gritting his teeth.

Xavier smiled. Miguel at least knew better than to argue.

“Why don’t you practice right now? On your knees mutt.”

There was a moment, a precious moment of Miguel, staring up at him. Eyes wide. Cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. At this moment, he didn’t know if Miguel would surrender, or follow the order. Not until slowly, the kid lowered himself to his knees. Head hanging on his chest. Teeth grinding against each other so hard, Xavier could hear it clearly.

Xavier reached down to grab Miguel’s chin, forcing him to look at him.

“Look at me when I talk to you. You’re so pathetic. Look at you. Groveling at my feet,” Xavier can’t help himself when he laughs, thumb idly tracing Miguel’s jaw. “You look better like this. Okay, back to the rules. If you mention Solomon or Henrietta to me. I will beat their names out of your thoughts. They don’t exist anymore. Not unless I say so. You’re not going to see them for a long, long time. So better get used to it. If I see their names in your hands, I’ll break them again. Nod if you understand.”

There were tears in Miguel’s eyes, making them shine in the dull light. Slowly, he nodded. Bottom lip quivering. Since when has Miguel been so pretty when he cried? Xavier watched as the tears overflowed and slowly started down Miguel’s cheeks. He leaned forward, licking them away with his tongue.

“Don’t cry.. it’s fine. All you need is me anyway. I own you. You’re mine. You were never Solomons, or Henrietta’s. Or even Jesse’s. You’ve always been mine,” Xavier stated plainly. He let go of Miguel’s jaw. Watching him idly. “If you’re ever in the house again, you don’t sit on the furniture. You’re only allowed your cot in here. Otherwise, you stay on the floor where you belong.”

Xavier sighed, pulling out a cigarette and a match from his shirt pocket. Then he lit it. Taking in a puff and relishing in the wave of relief that coursed through him. He leaned down and blew out the smoke in Miguel’s face. His nose scrunched and he coughed. Xavier laughed. Taking a seat on Miguel’s cot with a creak.

“Come here,” he called to him, waving him over to the spot in between his legs. There was a moment of hesitation, Miguel’s expression twisting into one of apprehension. “I said come here Miguel.”

Slowly, Miguel shuffled on his knees in between Xavier’s legs. “Whenever Jesse comes in? You do what he says. If you fight, or hurt him in anyway, I’ll take your tongue. Not like you need it anyway,” he said as he took another drag. Blowing it again in Miguel’s face. Again, Miguel nodded, adams apple bobbing up and down. Xavier was half hard in his pants. But.. he wasn’t here for that. Not today.

“Open your mouth Miguel.”

Another moment of hesitation. The boy swallowed thickly, before slowly opening his mouth. “Close your eyes and stick your tongue out, mutt.”

A whimper came from the back of the boy's throat that sent a heat to Xavier's core. Still, Miguel complied, eyes closing and tongue sticking out. His breathing was hard. Miguel was panting like a dog too.

Xavier took one more drag from his cigarette, then promptly put the burning end out on Miguel’s tongue. One hand grabbed Miguel by the throat, the other on his shoulder to hold him still. His eyes shot open and he screamed. Closing his mouth shut and accidentally taking the cigarette into his mouth. Xavier slammed a hand over his mouth and nose. Growling.

“I didn’t say you could open your eyes, or close your mouth.. so now you have to swallow it.”

Miguel shook his head, trying to free himself of Xavier's hand. Falling backward, Xavier followed him, straddling him and only pushing the hand harder on his face.

“Swallow it or suffocate your choice kid.”

The boy whined, tears starting to flow freely down his face again. Xavier wrapped a hand around his throat, gently squeezing. Finally he saw the boy swallow, felt it slide down his throat. Then he let the boy go. Stepping off him and watching Miguel roll on his side and cough harshly. Miguel started to retch, good hand holding onto his stomach. Xavier watched with disinterest until the boy finally stilled for a moment, pressing his forehead into the hay covered floor. He retched another time, and this time bile, ash, and the cigarette was in a puddle on the floor.

His hand was rubbing circles on his chest as he sat himself up on his knees. Xavier didn’t care about that though. He moved to the front of Miguel, crouching just in front of the vomit on the floor.

“You’re disgusting, you know that?”

Every part of Miguel was trembling, his eyes glassy. Xavier reached out to him, gripping at his hair, before slamming his face downwards. He held his face down in the vomit. That was what people did to bad dogs right? Shove them in their own sick? Miguel was fully sobbing now, but he wasn’t struggling, instead he just laid there. There was a feeling of satisfaction at that. He let Miguel’s hair go. Watching as Miguel slowly let himself sit up again. “I’ll bring you a bucket and a towel to clean yourself up.”

With trembling hands, he signed a simple ‘thank you’ to Xavier.

“When I come back, your food better be gone. And you’ll be on your knees waiting for me right?”

A sniffle and a nod is what he got in response. It was good enough. Xavier stood up and left. He took a little longer to get the supplies he needed. It would give Miguel a chance to collect himself, to breathe. Sometimes with Miguel, leaving him alone was just as useful as spending every moment with him. The kid was someone who tended to get trapped in his own thoughts. Spiraling lower and lower if left alone in the right environment. Xavier’s sister was similar in that way. When they were younger, she’d follow him around because her thoughts were always too loud.

When he came back, Miguel was already on his knees, chin against his chest. His plate of simple sliced apples and goat cheese was gone. He didn’t think that anything heavier would sit well in Miguel's stomach. His eyes glanced up from the ground and met Xaviers. Xavier smiled, dropping the bucket with water next to them. Miguel jumped a little when it landed.

Slowly, he reached out to grab the towel and squeeze the excess as best he could with one hand. Miguel started with his face and neck, being careful over sore spots, still trying to get everything off his skin. He didn’t dare look at Xavier as he did so. The only noise for a few minutes was the sound of the rag being dipped into the bucket, squeezed and rubbed against Miguel's skin. He didn’t stop until Xavier waved him over, between his legs again. “Open your mouth for me,” he ordered.

This time, Miguel did not hesitate as he opened his mouth. Xavier could see it there, the blister on his tongue. White and bubbled. His whole tongue was red and irritated as well. Xavier grabbed Miguel’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting his head up slightly to look more clearly.

“Does it hurt?” Xavier asked, slowly, enunciating clearly for the boy to see.

The boy nodded, swallowing thickly. His breath was shaky, hot on Xavier’s hand. His free hand went to his belt, where his flask was. Lately, he’d been carrying it around more often. He twisted it open with his teeth. First, he held it over his mouth, about to tip it in. “If you spit it out, or if any drops. You’re licking it off the floor.”

Then he poured it inside Miguel’s open and waiting mouth. If Miguel could scream, Xavier was sure he would have. But he was forced to let the alcohol coat his mouth. Swallowing with a choked gasp. Everytime Miguel swallowed and tried to take a breath, Xavier poured more down his throat. Making sure it coated his tongue. Miguel’s face was flushed red and his eyes glazed by the time Xavier poured the last bit down his throat. Finally letting go of Miguel’s face. “Repeat the rules back to me.. All the new ones. I want you to remember.”

Miguel squinted up at Xavier’s lips, whimpering slightly. Xavier waited. Watching him carefully. The boy swayed slightly from his position on the floor. He shook his head and groaned lightly, resting his head on Xavier’s knee.

“No no..” Xavier said, cupping Miguel's face and once again making the boy look at him. “I need you to tell me. It’s best you do it now. Once that whiskey really kicks in, I doubt you’ll remember your own name. You’re a lightweight,” he finished with a chuckle.

Miguel blinked a few times, Xavier could see him thinking hard through the fog of the alcohol. He could be patient, he could wait for him to answer. This was just a test. Finally, after a moment and a short grunt, Miguel lifted his hand to finger spell a rule.

“It’s okay if it’s not the whole rule, you can just sign the basics,” he assured softly.

Miguel nodded and shut his eyes tightly, probably hit by a wave of dizziness. But the boy was starting to finger spell the basic rules.

Always listen, no hurting Jesse, knees when you come in.

“You’re forgetting some Miguel,” Xavier whispered softly. Miguel swallowed thickly again, resting his head in the palm of his hand. He shook his head, whimpering. “You can do it sweetheart.”

No Solomon. No Hen. No furniture.

Xavier grinned, all teeth and fondness. It seeped through everything. Miguel did know how to listen apparently. Despite the obvious issue with his hearing, he was a good listener. His eyes were fluttering shut, full body weight on his hand now. The only thing holding up Miguel's head was Xavier at this point. “I’m gonna ask you to do one more thing, just one more question for me sweetheart, can you do that?” Miguel groaned, a choked sound coming from him. “I know you’re tired. Just one more thing.”

His eyes drooped but he lifted his head higher to look at him. “Good boy. What are you?”

Miguel made a face of confusion, brain moving slowly, face contorting with realization as he shook his head. The immediate regret of that action, making him groan and his eyes roll backwards for a moment. Xavier removed his hand from holding up Miguel, and the kid slumped against his knee, slowly sliding down his leg. He made the sign for ‘please’ clumsily. Xavier stared down in contempt, kicking Miguel onto his back. He resting his spur on his shoulder, pressing it into the skin there.

“What are you Miguel?”

A sob emitted from the squirming thing beneath his boot. Coming fully from his chest as he lifted his good hand to grab at Xavier’s boot. He sighed, pressing the spur harder into Miguel's shoulder, a small pinprick of blood started to surround the spur. Miguel groaned and turned his face away from Xavier. But finally, he answered, signing, “Dog”.

Xavier laughed, standing up from his seat and straddling Miguel. Grabbing his face, and leaning forward, they were so close he could smell the whiskey he poured on the boys breath.

“Again.”

Dog.

“Again.”

Dog.

“One more time sweetheart.”

Miguel was fully sobbing now, tears streaking down his face. Snot running down his lips. Truly pathetic. Just how Xavier liked him. He gently leaned forward again, pressing a soft kiss to Miguel’s forehead.

Dog. I am a dog.

“Good boy Miguel. Good boy.”

Now they could start again. Fresh. New rules, new dog. It was a whole new start.

Everything was going to be different now. In a good way. In the best way they could be. Because now, all each of them had was him. That was all they were ever going to need from now on.

___ Taglist:

@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi

@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump @whumpbees @whumplr-reader

ask if you'd like to be added or removed!!

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weirdstrangeandawful · 2 months

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Stubborn/stoic whumpees are great and all but, as someone with several chronic illnesses, I feel like there needs to be more recognition of whumpees who aren't trying to be stubborn; they just didn't know that that particular pain was something to be concerned about unlike all the other very similar pain that happens always!

#whump #whump prompt #disabled whumpee #chronic pain

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doorlampwrites · 4 months

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Prompt from @a-side-helping-of-whump and @whumpshaped. No pressure to read!

Whumper knew Whumpee's weaknesses well. They carefully kept notes on every reaction, not only the bad days, but the good days, too. Whumper let them have good days. They weren't a monster. They didn't want Whumper to constantly suffer, they just wanted... an understanding.

Whumper knew what people were like. People hid behind masks every day, never revealing who they really were unless something sneaked up behind them and cracked the mask itself.

That’s what Whumper had to do for Whumpee. They had to crack their mask.

"Come on now," Whumper said gently. "It's time for your dinner."

And frankly, Whumper could never understand Whumpee if Whumpee couldn't understand them. So every time Whumpee responded with a blank expression, Whumper gave them time.

"It's time for your dinner," Whumper repeated.

Someone else might've dragged them out of bed or hit them or god knows what, but Whumper wasn't like that. Whumper saved that for intentional disobedience. They would never respond that way to someone's disability.

Whumpee nodded, and Whumper smiled. Sometimes patience worked better than power.

#whump #disabled whumpee #whumpblr #writeblr #my writing #writers on tumblr #whump tropes #captivity whump #writing

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whumpinthepot · 9 months

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@whumpmasinjuly 2023

18. Ache

Whumpee with chronic pain has to sleep on the floor, and their whole body aches just from that alone. Being grabbed by the arm has their bones aching as if they’ve been broken, and being smacked leaves a deep aching pain that lasts far longer than it should. They can hardly move by the end of the day and can’t even feel the relief of sleep as their body stiffens up on the hard surface, only to be repeated the next day with worsening symptoms. The dull ache turns into something of a nightmare as it pounds through their whole body. When they’re finally given a soft bed to sleep on they oversleep and have their symptoms flare up anyways. Leaving them feeling like theres no way to stop the aching pain. It never stops. No matter what they do.

#tw chronic pain #whumpmasinjuly #wij23day18 #whump prompt #tw chronic illness #disabled whumpee #whumpmasinjuly2023 #whump prompt: ache #tw disability #breezy’s post #tw abuse

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scratchandplaster · 2 months

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Stack The Deck - Tremors

CW: withdrawal, emetophobia, Carewhumper

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"I get the feeling that vomiting is like a hobby of yours."

Even thought Chris had to fight for this privilege, he manged to bring them into the bathroom again. Elliot perched between the wall and toilet, his tormentor sitting right across on the tub's edge and keeping a watchful eye out for him.

To Chris, it felt like they had been here before, in fact, more than once. He was certain it also would be the last time.

"I hate you," Elliot wheezed through chattering teeth and spat limpid bile into the bowl.

"Then you are in the best of company, I hate myself too. Look how much we have in common!"

A sob, so defeated and frantic it hurt to listen, made Chris back off with a sigh: "It was just a joke. But you're not in the mood, huh?"

Sniffling and rubbing his nose against a sleeve of his sweater, too dried out for any tears, the trembling form was practically begging to be consoled. It had been a massacre when Chris handed out Elliot's old clothes. Sure, maybe it was a bit weird that he kept these old rags for months, but there was no need to shout himself croaky over a bit of memorabilia.

His mother told him that she gave them away - short and simple. Elliot had thought in terms of Goodwill or her coworkers' children, not right into the hands of the man he wanted her to stay miles away from. They had met, he knew that much now, and it made him dizzy with disgust again.

But Morris just stared, with these hungry eyes Elliot was caught in day in and day out.

He wanted to hold him, softly kiss his pain away or try a certain something else that could brighten Elliot's mood but Chris knew how a person in his condition was likely to act. Usually, he left this kind of behavior on the streets.

Speaking of which, Morris was still plagued by the hours spent in the dark. He had to figure out the truth, sooner rather than later.

"Nothing happened while I was gone."

The sallow face adorned with blood-shot eyes looked back in annoyance. Drenched in hot-cold shivers emerging from the inside, he just swallowed thickly.

"Dutch, he...he didn't do anything, right?"

To his relief, Elliot quickly shook his head. Apart from the emasculation, they both got off cheaply, an untypical graciousness Dutch would surely love to dangle in front of Chris' face for the next few years.

Another retching came over Elliot's lips, just as sour tasting as the words he continued to repeat after each wave of nausea: "I'm not a junkie, nor your boyfriend."

Both was false, both were fallacies. Yet today was not the day to argue about labels, maybe it was the word itself that upset him so dearly - partner sounded too distanced in comparison. A lover one day, but well, for that Elliot needed to loosen up a bit more.

"Do you know the surefire way to figure out if someone's dope sick?"

"Enlighten me," Elliot gave a dirty hiss.

"You simply wait."

He went cold turkey for what now, forty-eight hours? The worst was about to hit them both like a sledgehammer made from vegetative dysfunctions and paranoia.

Chris needed to brace himself for the collateral damage that waited for them during the mandatory week of isolation. After the storm, he could take Ell out for the first time to have a proper date, surrounded by the safe darkness of the docks and cheap gas-station wine. Or beer, or liqueur - whatever he preferred.

Elliot had other visions. As soon as the virus he probably caught on that goddamn bench eased up, he would be up and running out of Morris' grasp. And if he had to dig himself a hole into the floor below, nothing could keep him here for a minute longer!

Amber or what unlucky soul came before him knew too well what an unbelievable catch Chris was. With every minute spent in the same room, Elliot understood less and less how someone wanted to get involved with that man. He hoped Amber suffered twice as much under him.

Not an ounce of sleep was granted to him, just fainting and dozing off for minutes at a time was possible, and even then he had to fear a curious hand hovering close above his nervous flesh.

All he was given for dinner was a plastic cup full of soup. The ramen and broth were carefully separated in front of him, as if to show that it hadn't been tampered with and out of fear that the noodles would be spat out anyway, Chris seized them for himself. The now chilled instant terrine was not what Elliot had hoped for.

"Can I please have my meds?" he tried again, not consciously aware of why he made his voice soften and shoulders drop, "I'll do anything you want."

Chris' mesmerized gaze was entirely focused on the man who looked like death incarnate. If only he was allowed to kiss life back into his chapped lips. Anything, huh?

"Please!"

Morris shook his head sternly. Though it was nothing more than a temptation to withstand, he decided to let his deeds speak for themselves. New chances didn't wait around every corner, so he surely wouldn't waste this one: "Do you believe in fate?"

"Shut the fuck up," his lovely guest mumbled instead and twitched weakly away from Chris' foot, playfully searching for any sliver of contact.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername, @canislycaon24

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