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kira-the-whump-enthusiast · 6 months

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used as a literal punching bag from the torture bingo card for whoever you’d like

Card by @a-crumb-of-whump!!

Content: Well—being used as a punching bag, broken bones, emeto, prison whump, sadistic whumper, and generally a guy having Despair.

Tagging: @whump-queen @whump-in-the-closet @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @onlywhump

—

Thud.

The chess board clattered as it landed on the cold tile. From the farthest corner of the cell, Ciel watched intently as the guard got down on their knees in front of the board. And still they were looking down at him—Ciel could barely get off the floor in his state. His ankle was definitely sprained, and it ached terribly—a fact that hadn't convinced anyone to give him a break. Not to mention the bruises over bruises, scars over scars.

He was so tired.

The guard stared back at him with a barely concealed smirk, a taunting glare in their eyes. They gestured to the board as if it was a friendly invitation to play.

With no real choice, Ciel crawled to the edge of the chess board, the chain around his good ankle clanking as he did so. There was no getting out of this. He'd play, or he'd suffer for refusing.

He always got first move. The guard treated it like it was some sort of mercy—and maybe it had been, a long time ago.

I'm giving you a chance. Be grateful for it.

He tried to smile like he was.

Either way, the game always ended the same. It ended with blood and tears and words like I’m sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me, please— falling from his lips.

The best Ciel could do was stall for time, use every move to prolong the game. And maybe, maybe he'd spend a few minutes in a little less pain than he usually was. Maybe, maybe, something would happen and they wouldn't finish and he'd get to avoid the end for just one day.

But it never happened. The final move would always be made. Someone would checkmate, and the game would end.

The guard was an incredibly tough opponent, and it had taken Ciel countless games to finally capture their king. He almost cried that first time he won, because he'd thought that maybe this time, maybe, just maybe—he'd finally be safe.

And then he saw the flash of anger and felt the first blow.

That's when he learned that everything was futile.

It didn't matter who won this time either.

The guard locked cuffs around his wrists, attached a chain to the ceiling, and pulled him up and up—his shoulders stretching more than he could bear, his toes barely touching the floor.

They circled him like a hungry hawk surveying its prey. Ciel closed his eyes and bit on his lip until blood dripped down his chin.

Please just get it over with.

The blows didn't hurt that much compared to the despair. Even as his ribs cracked. As the fists to his stomach made him vomit. As his voice gave out from the screaming.

It didn't hurt as much as knowing next week, it'd happen all over again.

There was no escaping this hell.

—

A/N: hehehe sad chess man go brrr

#whump #whump writing #prison whump #man I hate tagging shit #punching bag whumpee #beating #stress position #sadistic whumper #I mean it’s like the games are sadistic right? I can’t figure out to tag like the trope for a game the whumpee can’t win #uhhhh yay! silly guy #my writing #oc ciel #also I’m sooo good at getting to stuff in time trust me guys trust me

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a-whumped-tea · 1 year

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Whumpee, after trying for so long to gain Whumper's trust finally has it. Or at least some of it.

It's all going so well, things are so much better now.

Until Whumper walks in on what looks like an escape attempt.

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in-love-with-writing-whump · 1 year

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Prompt:

Whumpee is very stoic, only getting riled up when someone close to them is hurt, or when someone brings up a specific point from their past that they're not too proud of.

After healing somewhat from the time they spent with Whumper, they eat dinner with their team for the first time in a while. A, the newest member of the team who genuinely doesn't know about Whumpee's past brings up a question about that part of their past.

Whumpee's eyes fill with tears, hand shaking as they defend their past self, letting A in on more than they intended for any of the team to know about.

Cue A feeling a lot of guilt as Whumpee excuses themself so they can break down without everyone else watching, Caretaker begging Whumpee to let them in so they can comfort them.

#whumpee #whump prompt #caretaker #tw: fear #tw: trauma #whumper #tw: torture #tw: captivity #tw: crying #tw: tremor #tw: trust issues #tw: PTSD #tw: breakdown #tw: guilt #tw: angst #tw: team whump #caretaker x whumpee #stoic whumpee

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whumppmuhw · 2 months

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Mixing it up

contains: knives, cuts, blood, kneeling, crying, intimate whumper, violation of trust

I'm back to writing!! It's been a while so I can't say how great this is but I hope you like the idea at least!

...

Whumper held Whumpee's head in place with one hand and used the other to guide her knife along Whumpee's scalp. She enjoyed the muffled whimper that followed as she imagined the look on poor Whumpee's face.

Whumpee hadn't trusted Whumper from the beginning, but she felt violated as what was usually kneeling quietly while getting her hair brushed became writhing in agony as Whumper dragged the knife along her head, over and over again. She knew something was up when she had been gagged, but dear god, not this.

She watched drops of blood run through streaks of her hair and fall to the floor, crimson beads staining the carpet. She tried to shriek as the knife passed over a spot that had already been cut, and balled her fists tighter to keep from lashing out at Whumper.

Whumper took her time making a bloody mess. She could feel Whumpee's back shiver against her and smiled. It was moments like these that made kidnapping Whumpee all worth it; nothing beat having someone to hurt at her whim. All of her creative ideas could finally come to fruition.

When Whumper was done, Whumpee's soaked red bangs fell in front of her face and blood stained tears hit her legs. She sobbed, body shaking and lightheaded from the crying and the gag. She was relieved to hear Whumper finally set the knife down on the end table.

Whumper's voice was gentle when she spoke. "I thought I'd mix it up today," she cooed as she began running fingers through Whumpee's hair, tugging softly. "I know you like the routine, but what can I say? Inspiration struck."

Whumpee continued to cry, so Whumper leaned down to rub her arm. "Was that too much for you?"

She nodded in response. Not that you would care... she thought, while still leaning into Whumper's touch. Any comfort she could get in a place like this was better than nothing.

"Let's go back to brushing hair then, okay?"

A flicker of hope sparked inside Whumpee, at the promise of a better tomorrow, but it halted. Whumper wouldn't just leave it here, would she?

Whumper lifted her hands as Whumpee knelt frozen and confused. She picked up Whumpee's hairbrush that rested next to the knife and held out a large strand of Whumpee's hair with the other hand.

She began brushing, pushing against Whumpee's scalp, blood finding its way to every single strand of hair. Whumpee tried to scream, and she laughed. "Dear, I thought this is what you wanted."

"Mrrph!" No!

"Oh, well. Your hair still needs brushing. Is it painful?" She moved all around Whumpee's head, irritating every cut.

Whumpee didn't answer, fixated on the pain.

Whumper pushed harder, untangling knots and Whumpee's tolerance. Whumpee whipped around to grab the brush out of her hand, but she lifted a leg and easily kicked Whumpee to the floor.

"Stop that-" Her voice was drowned out when Whumpee tore off the gag, sobbing and hyperventilating. "Whumpee!"

Whumpee only stopped wailing when Whumper stood up and stomped her foot on Whumpee's mouth.

Whumpee froze, quickly trying to pull herself together to avoid any other conflict.

"Stop crying, now. Else I'll cut your whole body before scrubbing it raw in the bath." Her tone was harsh, and Whumpee looked up at her, petrified. "How am I supposed to deal with a brat like you when you're so difficult?"

"I'm s-sorry." Whumpee looked up with pleading eyes. "Please stop."

She grinned with a fire in her eyes. "Oh, I'm not finished yet." She grabbed Whumpee's arm and the gag, and pulled Whumpee up back to the couch. "After I finish your hair, how about the bottom of your feet?"

#mine #whump #whump writing #lady whump #lady whumper #lady whumpee #knives tw #cuts tw #blood tw #kneeling #crying #intimate whumper #violation of trust

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whumpster-dumpster · 2 years

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A Whumpee who is terribly afraid of a former Whumper who is actually really just trying to take care of them this time around. Whumpee wants to escape despite their physical state so former Whumper, who is now the Caretaker, has to lock them up and force Whumpee to accept their treatment because they just want them to get healthy again

Well, one thing’s for sure, locking them up definitely isn’t the way to earn their trust...

#whump #fear #distrust #trust issues #caretaking #bad caretaker #whumper turned caretaker #answered ask #anonymous

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 9 months

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Whump Prompt #1201

@cyborg0109 asked:

Do you have anything for whumpee turned caretaker and whumper turned whumpee?

Sure: (For brevity: WTC - Whumpee turned Caretaker. WTW - Whumper turned Whumpee)

Maybe the WTW was just an accomplice, they had to be a whumper because that’s just what’s expected of them/they’re scared/they owe a debt. So the WTC has more sympathy towards them.

Of course the WTC is sceptical at first - who wouldn’t be? - but when the WTW pleads their case, the caretaker obliges.

Maybe they have a mutual respect for each other, maybe they don’t.

Maybe the WTC owes a loved one of the WTW a debt, so they have to help them.

Or, the WTC has to keep the WTW alive so they can later be tried for their crimes.

During this time, the WTW could feverishly admit to things that they have/hadn’t done.

The WTW could see the WTC as a threat, and denies all medical help until they’re on the brink of passing out/dying.

“You’re just going to hurt me.” - “It’ll hurt even more if I don’t do anything.”

#I know I'm a day late #sorry #whump #writing #prompts #ideas #whumper turned whumpee #whumpee turned caretaker #trust issues #denying help #keeping the villain alive #fevers #delirim

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distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year

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In League — Escape

Masterlist

Summary: August decides to escape run away before he meets the end of Wyatt's generosity. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, failed escape, indentured servitude/classism, power dynamics, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper.

August always fell asleep in the wingback chair. He’d watch the fire die down to a glow of embers, fingers carding the fringe at the edge of the blanket, the sound of Wyatt’s pencil scratching on steadily behind him. Yet every morning he awoke tucked into the bed, Wyatt gone in the early hours of dawn. Perhaps he should have been more unsettled by the fact that Wyatt could move him so gently as not to rouse him but instead, he was only left with a hollow, wanting feeling in his throat.

Today was no exception but instead of pulling the bedcovers up and trying to fall back asleep, he threw them off. The room was still shadowed though the sky outside was lightening. The rest of the house wouldn’t be up for hours, some would have only just found their beds a short while ago, but Wyatt was usually back before the sun rose properly. August had to be quick.

He knew exactly what he was reaching for and didn’t need to light the lamp. A pair of trousers which had a hole in the knee, folded at the bottom of the wardrobe. A jacket hanging at the end for so long it had dust on the shoulders. The ends of the sleeves were worn and frayed, much too short on him let alone Wyatt. He hoped they wouldn’t be missed.

August certainly wouldn’t. He didn’t have a place or a purpose here and there was no safety in that. Only a matter of time before Wyatt didn’t come home one night and the boys needed to blow off a little steam. It could just as easily be Wyatt, for all his experiences had taught him. He couldn’t stand the idea of being passed on either, sold to the highest bidder with the lowest morals, to another Keats. Making his own way seemed equally bleak. People took one look at him and could tell he was from the workhouse. Imagined him the illiterate son of thieves or debtors, good only for indenture, not even to be trusted with his own life.

His eyes threatened tears as he stood at the window. In the very spot where Wyatt had comforted him that first night. He had relived that moment countless times, recalling the words Wyatt had spoken, the promises he’d made, until they became smooth and rehearsed, befitting of a dream. Not meant for someone like him. Hazier still were the days that had followed, when he’d succumbed to a fever. The only sharp points in his memory those of pain.

In the week or so since, he’d almost exclusively kept to Wyatt’s room. The one time he’d ventured downstairs had gone poorly, to say the least. He still had a fading black eye and bruises as souvenirs. Wyatt had been patient with him in his fear and distrust but August couldn’t burden him any longer than he already had—or worse, meet the end of his generosity. The other boys certainly wouldn’t mourn his departure. Loyalty was clearly strong among the group and would eventually win out over the fleeting pity behind Wyatt’s kindness. It was only a matter of time.

For a panicked moment, he thought the window latch wouldn’t open in his shaking fingers. He couldn’t risk going out the front door, not knowing who might have fallen asleep in the sitting room or if the housekeeper, Midge, had already arrived. The metal was cold, hints of rust along the seams and screws, like it had been left open in the rain one too many times. Finally, with a bit of lifting and shaking, it released. He took a breath of relief scented by the freshly fallen snow covering the ground outside. Not the best footing for disappearing but he’d manage. He was easily familiar with not having a choice.

The air rushed around him for a heartbeat before his feet met the ground. A shorter fall than it had looked and an unpaved landing, thankfully. He stumbled backwards to keep his balance, bare feet stinging in the cold snow. It had seemed too much of a risk to steal a pair of shoes from downstairs, not knowing whose he might be taking. He slipped down the alley, ducking out of view as he passed the first-floor windows before turning onto the street.

Of course, the neighborhood wasn’t one he recognised. He’d never left Knights’ territory while serving Keats but that meant he had a better chance of not getting caught by his men. He knew just enough of the borders to understand himself to be south and east. If he kept in those directions, he might stay safe. The rest, he would figure out with time.

At this hour, the streets were nearly empty and the few that were out didn’t lend him a second glance. August could have been any other paper boy or lamplighter running by. He hoped his feet would numb soon. He hadn’t even taken stockings, knowing that they’d swiftly tear on the cobblestones without shoes. The cold air burned his lungs but he pushed himself, wanting to get farther away before he slowed. He peered down every alley he passed, looking for one for narrow or covered enough to put an end to his footprints.

A flock of pigeons burst from some scraggly bushes as he ran past, taking his attention with them. The percussive beating of their wings faded as they rose toward the pale morning sky. He didn’t see a man round the corner into his path. He ran straight into him and fell back, ineffectively casting his hands out backwards to catch himself. A pain shot up his left wrist and the heels of his palms stung as they scraped on the cobblestones.

“Sir, I beg your pardon,” he said, feet slipping as he tried to get them back under himself. “Please, forgive my carelessness.” He risked a glance up, hoping the man would accept his excuses and go on his way. “I—”

It was Wyatt. Standing over him, a bemused smile on his lips. “You what?”

He suddenly felt even colder. “Sir—sir, I—” He tried to swallow around the knot building in his throat. He couldn’t imagine what consequences he might face now. Wyatt bent down, reaching for him and he flinched back. “Please,” he whispered.

“August, lad.” Wyatt let his hand fall, softening his voice. “I still mean to keep that promise. I’ll not hurt you.”

He nodded, sniffling.

“Look at the state of you.” Wyatt reached for his shoulder and he made certain not to flinch again. “You’re shivering—though I gather not only from cold—and your poor feet are already bleeding. How far did you think you were going to get like this?”

In his stolen clothes no less. August dropped his chin. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You need only have asked.” Wyatt lifted his face, hand warm on his cheek. “I’m not trying to keep you, I’m trying to keep you safe. You’re not a prisoner, August.”

Unthinking and stupid, that’s what he was. “No, of course not, sir. Please, I—”

“Enough about that. It’s all right.” Wyatt caught his gaze and held it. His blue eyes were always clear whenever August looked into them, no matter the circumstances. But there was a sharpness to their clarity, ice rather than water. Wyatt wasn’t the sort of man to be clouded by doubt or yielding in his will. August shivered.

“Come along, let’s get you home and sorted, hm?” Wyatt helped him to his feet. “At the very least a pair of shoes before you go on your way.”

It seemed ridiculous that he should be offered aid after pulling such a stunt but he didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

“You know you don’t have to do that.”

“I do, sir,” he said, looking down at his skinned hands to hide his face.

“And yet…” Wyatt sighed longsufferingly but when August looked up he winked. “Now, don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ll let you walk back on those feet.”

August took a step back but Wyatt kept hold of his elbow. “Sir, really—”

“You’ll have to pick one or the other, August. You can’t call me sir in an unnecessary display of deference and respect while contradicting me in the very same breath.”

He flushed. “Of course not, sir.”

Wyatt smirked, sweeping him off his feet. “I’d have chosen the free lift, too.”

August tried to mirror the smile but he couldn’t shake the dread of wondering where exactly he would be standing when Wyatt set him down.

To be continued...

@whumpy-writings , @writer-reader-24 , @deluxewhump , @no-whump-on-main , @maracujatangerine , @whumptakesthecake-deactivated20 , @painsandconfusion , @wolfeyedwitch , @briars7 , @gala1981 , @redwingedwhump , @whumpflash , @peachy-panic , @hold-him-down , @poeticagony , @annablogsposts , @fleur-alise , @melancholy-in-the-morning

#historical whump #sympathetic whumper #carewhumper #failed escape #beating mention tw #power dynamics #indentured servitude #“building trust”

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