intimate whumpers are my absolute favorite
when they stroke whumpee's hair, holding them close, while dragging deep cuts down their chest with a knife.
drugging their whumpee to make them all sweet and docile, forcing them to reveal secrets about themself that they're too muddled to deny and making them crave their whumper's touch and praise.
getting defensive of their sweet little whumpee if a friend says that they're not well behaved enough, can't take pain, etc; and then brutally punishing whumpee for it because they'd be damned if their plaything wasn't perfect.
suspending whumpee from their neck and staying in the cel to watch their whumpee struggle to breathe, reveling in the whumpee's suffering and waiting for the poor thing to beg to be let down.
kicking the backs of whumpee's legs to force them to kneel before them, maybe chaining them down kneeling because they love the look of their captive all obedient and reverent- even if it's forced.
praising them for being so still and quiet through the pain caused them, gently encouraging them. "you're doing so well, dear, just a few more lashes." "such a good little darling, taking this all just for me." "i know you can take more, love, don't give up now. stay nice and quiet for me." whumper just can't get enough of their toy's little muffled whimpers and groans.
maybe whumpee secretly wants praise from whumper, needs it. those gentle encouragements that they're taking the pain well, that they're being so good for their whumper, that they're such a cute little thing. that helplessness is a good look on them. they'd rather be praised by their torturer than face nothing but suffering. maybe it's the first time anyone's given them some semblance of praise, no matter how twisted it is.
alternatively, encouraging them to make noise. "don't be afraid to scream, i want to hear it." the cuts become deeper, the lashes harder, until whumpee can't help but let out an agonized cry. "why were you holding back? i want to hear that again." maybe a whumpee who just doesn't hold back their cries because at least if they appease whumper, the pain might end early. and it's easier just to scream after all. "you sound so cute like this." "what a good, good pet." whumpee finally begins to sob, breaking down in tears, maybe leaning desperately into their whumper's touch. and whumper grins evilly, lets their whumpee melt into them, and gently coos at their helpless little captive. "let it all out, dear." maybe tells them there's no reason to cry, that they should be grateful for such an honor to be chosen by whumper. after all, they haven't been killed yet.
collaring their whumpees to show their ownership, branding them with their initials, carving their name deep into the whumpee's skin so it will scar.
and after their captivity, maybe even years later, whumpee always has that reminder that they were are owned.
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this might be too specific but i relate so i want it very badly: obi-wan experiences chronic knee/shoulder pain but hides it from everyone (especiaLLY the council) except for anakin & ahsoka & cody, that's it, and all three of them love him so much and want him to not be in pain but obi-wan hates worrying others. it just means a lot to my little pea brain
obi-wan with chronic pain (and good friends :')
Contrary to popular belief, it didn't get better.
Obi-Wan returned to duty a week after Geonosis. It would have been sooner, had Vokara Che not been so insistent, and the Council a little less willing to listen. The saber wounds from his knee and shoulder were sewn up from a healing crystal, no scar to even show for them now. Unlike Anakin, who would feel the effects of Dooku's blade for the rest of his life.
But a year into the Clone Wars—a year of watching the Republic struggle and crumble and snap, a year of watching sentient beings die at the hand of his failure, a year of knowing that any of them, any of them, could be next—and Anakin was fighting better than he ever had. He'd blossomed, really—as a Jedi, a leader, a man. Sometimes, when he was sparring with Anakin, Obi-Wan forgot Geonosis had happened at all.
But not for long. Never for long.
Cody was watching him now—goodness, he'd forgotten the Commander was there. They'd been combing through paperwork, settling the affairs of the latest campaign, and neither of them had even changed from their scorched and bloodied clothes. Obi-Wan had declined medbay—he always did, these days. But knew he wasn't being quite as discreet as he'd hoped from the way Cody followed him down the hall, gently taking his arm when he stumbled.
Watching him with soft eyes now.
"Sir, you should sit down," Cody said. "Or go to bed. We can finish this tomorrow."
"We won't have time tomorrow," Obi-Wan replied, without looking up from the screen. With one hand, he massaged his shoulder, trying not to grimace. He leaned on one knee. "We'll be landing in Coruscant in six standard hours, and then it'll be all politics and Council business and—"
"And I can finish it myself then, is what I was getting at."
A light hand came around his back, then—not moving him any place in particular. Just there, a gentle reminder. Soft and warm.
"I can't," Obi-Wan said softly.
"You couldn't do that to me? Sir, I'm your Marshall Commander—"
"No," Obi-Wan said. "Well, I would hate to do that to you. But I mean...I..."
He leaned forward against the nav console. If it wasn't there, he wasn't sure if he could still hold himself up.
He closed his eyes. "I mean I couldn't sleep if I tried." Cody's hand on his back stilled. "Not the way I'm..."
Cody, behind him, finished quietly. "The way you're hurting."
Obi-Wan didn't answer.
But he did let Cody pull up a chair. Cody had to help him down, keeping him from too much weight on the bad knee. He had the grace to ignore the unbidden cry of pain as Obi-Wan sank down into the seat.
Obi-Wan nodded his thanks—wasn't entirely sure what would come out if he tried to speak. His vision was a little blurry now, and he waited for it to come back. Then, he'd go back to the paperwork and the reports and—
Cody's hand landed lightly on his shoulder. The bad one, which ached almost as badly now as it had in the week after Geonosis.
And when Cody began to rub the aching muscle and bone, Obi-Wan almost tried to stop him. Found, though, that he didn't quite have the energy.
He leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes.
Back at the Temple, it should have been better. The place always glowed like a beacon in the Force, full of the light and humor of children and the wisdom of generations. Anakin was back from his own campaign in the Outer Rim, Ahsoka with him, and they had plans to meet up that evening for a meal.
Although at the moment, Obi-Wan wasn't certain he could stomach one.
The Council listened to his debrief with interest—it was his first in-person meeting in quite a while, though many of the other Masters tuned in via hologram. It was always strange to see them, but not to feel them. The Council Chamber felt empty in spite of the many voices.
But an in-person meeting meant Obi-Wan had to work a little harder to hide it—the way he leaned on one leg more than the other, the way he reached for his shoulder when no one was looking his way. As a hologram, he only needed to think about how normal he looked. Here in the Chamber, he had to be careful he wasn't projecting into the Force how he felt.
"Master Kenobi, we have a difficult contractual situation in the Mid Rim. Might we send you to negotiate?"
Obi-Wan stifled the odd feeling in his chest—relief, in part, in fulfilling his real role as a Jedi. Regret, that Cody and the men would be on their own.
And then, the strangest one of all—a bit of dread.
He didn't want to be alone.
"Of course, Master Windu."
"We'll brief you tomorrow," he replied. "For now, get some rest—you'll need it. We all do."
Obi-Wan nodded. The meeting was dismissed, and the Councilors moved to adjourn.
When Obi-Wan started for the door, though, he stumbled.
Master Windu saw—or maybe sensed—his discomfort, and soon enough he was there at his side.
"And perhaps," he said, hand gently on Obi-Wan's forearm. "Make a visit to the Halls of Healing as well."
"I am fine, Master."
Master Windu's eyebrows raised, then lowered. Obi-Wan's face burned.
"There isn't much they can do for me anyhow."
Obi-Wan declined dinner at Dex's, when Anakin asked. Ahsoka had merely looked disappointed, but Anakin saw through him—the worry was all over his face.
"We'll bring some back for you," Ahsoka said. They were standing in the doorway of Obi-Wan's quarters. "You want the usual?"
"I'm afraid I'm not very hungry, Padawan."
It was Anakin who contested that. "You need to eat something. Better Dex's than more ration bars." He was eying Obi-Wan closely, which he avoided. "Be back soon, okay?"
There was a nudge in the Force—Anakin, checking in on him. Obi-Wan nudged back, but it was weak.
When they shut the door, Obi-Wan kicked off his boots and left them in the living room. He thought about making some tea, but the energy necessary to get to the kitchen, and the thought of holding something in his stomach, both deterred him. Instead, he inched toward the bedroom, finally allowing himself to limp as much as necessary. No need to put on a show now.
Until he stumbled. A step from the bedroom door, his bad knee gave, and he cried out.
He didn't catch himself.
At long last, he managed to get himself into bed. He stripped off his outer tunics as best he could, leaving the leggings and undershirt beneath, and curled himself under the covers. He could sleep, maybe. He didn't feel the pain in his sleep.
But blast, no, it hurt too much, and the ache was so constant and pressing he couldn't even find a position that was comfortable, couldn't even lie still without feeling it. He couldn't sleep like this. For so many nights now, he couldn't sleep like this.
So he didn't. Just lay there, hurting, alone.
When Anakin knocked on the door again, he couldn't even force himself up to get it.
Anakin knew the code—knocking was more of a formality anyhow, for both of them. From under the covers, he heard the door sliding open and two sets of feet enter the room, talking and laughing. And that made his heart ache, too.
"Obi-Wan?" Anakin called. "We brought you a burger. Where'd you go?"
They crossed the living room, and then there was a knock on the bedroom door. It opened, and light flooded in.
He heard Anakin exhale.
There was whispering, and then Anakin was passing the food to Ahsoka and murmuring something he couldn't hear. When she was gone, just Anakin crossed the room. Obi-Wan felt, more than saw, him sit down on the edge of the bed.
"It's bad today, then," Anakin said softly.
Obi-Wan nodded. And for some reason, it was those simple words—an admission of the truth—that brought tears to his eyes.
He rolled onto his back, rubbing a sleeve across his face with a sniff. The motion sent a sharper pain through his shoulder, and he let out a short, high-pitched sound instead of answering.
Anakin didn't say anything more. Just took over Obi-Wan's weak attempt at massaging out the pain, the way that Vokara Che had showed him a year ago. Obi-Wan let his head drop back into the pillow, and closed his eyes.
It did ease off a bit. He didn't know how much time passed before he was opening his eyes again—had he fallen asleep? And Ahsoka was in the room, sitting on his other side.
"I thought you might be getting a little hungry," she said.
Obi-Wan tried to smile. "I'm afraid I don't quite have it in me to get to the kitchen, Padawan."
She revealed the bag of takeout, and a stack of plates and cutlery.
"How about a picnic in bed?"
And that almost got a smile.
Anakin helped him sit up. They stacked some pillows against the headboard, so Obi-Wan something to lean against, and he drew his knees toward his chest beneath the blankets. They kept the lights dim, and propped his knee up on some more pillows. Ahsoka got his food out onto a plate. And for the first time in far too long, they shared a real meal.
Anakin and Ahsoka did most of the talking. Obi-Wan followed the conversation, some banter about the pros and cons of Jar'Kai against droids, which eventually led to a mock lightsaber battle using the kitchen spoons. And Obi-Wan, somehow, found a laugh within himself too.
When they'd finished, Ahsoka cleared the dishes. Anakin helped him settle back into the bed, head still propped up by pillows, and popped in a holovid. Obi-Wan didn't even bother to protest that they had more important things to do.
He didn't see the end of the film. In fact, he barely saw the beginning, before his head was listing sideways and falling gently against Anakin's shoulder.
And as his Padawans settled in beside him, the voices of the holo-film flickering in and out of his consciousness, he felt something distant and warm, something he'd missed—
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Whumpee becomes famous after their elaborate kidnapping. This should have been a time where they only worried about recovering and healing, but instead, they also have the press to worry about. The second they set foot out their door there’s dozens of cameras in their face and people demanding information about what happened. They stalk their every move for whatever extra scoop of information they could get their hands on.
Whumpee starts having panic attacks just stepping outside. They now have an angry protective caretaker threatening some poor photographer that just wouldn’t put the camera down.
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Whump Prompts: Lines that work for Whumper AND Caretaker
Exactly what the title says. Sometimes there are lines that feel like they could work both in a whumpy context, and in a caring, loving context. This list is that intersection.
This is a collaboration with our darling @painsandconfusion, who's finally convinced me to play an active role in the community, so here you all go:
"I won't lie to you, this is going to hurt."
"Does that feel better?"
"Do you like that?"
"Oh honey, you're trembling."
"You can cry, it's okay."
"What you need is a nice, long rest."
"Hold still and this will hurt less."
"Let me see."
"Don't think about that right now."
"They're not here."
"Are you going to tell me where you got that?"
"I'm gonna lock the door now."
"I'm right here."
"There's no shame in asking for help."
"Does that hurt?"
"Shh...I know it hurts."
"This should warm you up."
"I don't mind the blood"
"You aren't squeamish are you?"
"Do you want me to come over there?"
"Wait right here."
"Is that too hot?"
"We're gonna take it nice and slow, alright?"
"I think that's enough for today."
"Take a deep breath."
"Look at me - hey, look at me."
"How about I kiss it better?"
"Take it easy, you aren't going anywhere for a while."
"Oh, is that too tight?"
"I'm just trying to help."
"Trust me, you don't want to do that."
"You can never go wrong with a nice, hot cup of tea."
"Here, this will help you sleep."
"Now close your eyes."
Feel free to use these, and please tag myself and/or @painsandconfusion so we can read your wonderful whumpy writing!
And as always, if you think anything else needs to be tagged, just let me know :)
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BTHB Tied to a Chair
BTHB card and other prompt fills here
Cw: kidnapping, restraints, cursing, implied abuse
Hero shifted uncomfortably, flexing their fingers as they pulled against the harsh metal cuffs binding their wrists to the chair. They felt exposed without their mask, without the thin layer of fabric that hid their face.
Across the table from them, Villain rested their chin in their hand, watching Hero with a small smile. They weren’t wearing their mask either, which only slightly eased Hero’s discomfort.
“Why’d you bother giving me food?” Hero blurted, unable to stand the silence for a moment longer. “It’s not like I can eat it,” They made a big show of yanking at the cuffs, ignoring the spike of pain as the metal cut into their skin.
Villain shrugged, spearing one of their own green beans with their fork, and raising it to their mouth.
“Why am I even here?” Hero sighed, slumping back in their chair. So far, Villain hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t asked them anything, hadn’t threatened them, nothing.
Villain just shrugged again.
“Why won’t you answer me?” Hero dug their nails into the chair’s armrests, kicking their legs against the shackles binding their ankles.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Villain said as they stabbed another green bean.
“Fuck you,” Hero spat.
Villain didn’t reply, which was a red flag in Hero’s mind. Usually they would shoot back some witty retort, something that would shut the hero up, but their eyes never left their plate.
“You can’t just kidnap me and not tell me why,” Hero tugged again at the cuffs, only succeeding in rubbing their wrists raw and bloody.
“You dumbass,” Villain groaned, as a drop of blood fell to their pristine hardwood floors.
“You asshole,” Hero countered, but they flinched as Villain pushed back from the table, and stalked up to them.
“Are you scared of me?” Villain’s tone didn’t change, as they braced their hands on either of Hero’s armrests, and leaned in close.
With their heart nearly beating out of their chest, they spit in Villain’s face.
In a flash, Villain raised their hand as if they were going to slap Hero, freezing in place as the later cowered back, squeezing their eyes shut.
“You really think I would hit you, just like that,” Villain mumbled, lowering their hand to their face, and wiping away the glob of Hero’s saliva. “You really think I would hurt you when you have no way to defend yourself.”
“I- I mean, yeah,” Hero’s ears flushed in embarrassment, though they weren’t sure why. “We fight nearly every day!”
“I never hit you when you couldn’t defend yourself,” Villain’s frown deepened. “And I never gave you any of those scars.”
The flush spread to Hero’s cheeks, and they wished they had their mask. “Of- of course you did-“
“I’ve never cut you, Hero. Maybe I’ve given you a few bumps and bruises, but never anything that would scar.” Villain leaned back against the table. “So I guess the question is who did?”
“You’re not the only villain I fight, Villain,” Hero bit the inside of their cheek. “There’s OtherVillain, Supervillain-“
“None of who had ever landed more than a punch or kick on you. They know what would happen to them if they left a scar. Try again.”
“Wait, what do you-“
“Who gave you those scars, Hero?” Villain spoke over them.
“It’s none of your damn business,” Hero hissed, digging their nails into their palms so hard blood welled up against their skin in little crescent shapes.
“It is my business if someone is hurting you,” Villain raised their voice. “Now tell me, was it Superhero?”
“I’ll fucking skin them alive-“
“It wasn’t Superhero!” Hero yelled, and the room fell silent. All they could hear was the blood pounding in the ears as they repeated themself. “It wasn’t Superhero.”
“Then who was it?”
“I- I can’t tell you,” Hero let their head drop, tears stinging the back of their eyes.
Villain lightly cupped their chin, tilting their head up until their eyes met.
“Hero, I’m not going to hurt you,” Villain ran a thumb over Hero’s cheek, brushing away a stray tear. “Just tell me who it is, and I’ll make sure they never touch you again.”
“You don’t get it, Villain, I can’t!” Hero wrenched their face out of Villain’s grip. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t!”
“Why not?” Villain asked softly. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“I just can’t,” Hero exhaled, cringing away as Villain reached into their pocket, and produced a small key. Hero’s brow creased in shock as Villain unlocked the cuffs around their wrists.
Hero held their arms to their chest, rubbing the raw skin.
“I don’t want to keep you here, Hero,” Villain left the cuffs around their legs alone, as they circled back around the table to their own chair. “But I can’t possibly let you go until I know who’s hurting you.”
“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” Hero grabbed the cup set in front of them, and hurled it at Villain. The later easily swatted it out of the air, the plastic cup falling to the ground with a clatter, as water spilled all over the table.
“Real mature,” Villain raised their eyebrows, tilting their head to the side as Hero’s spoon sailed by their ear.
“I hate you!” Hero screamed, knocking their plate off the table, a small rush of satisfaction filling them as it shattered against the ground, the delicate meal Villain had prepared splattering across the floor.
“I’m sure you do.”
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The Wheel of Time s01e05: “You’ve Done Well. To Bring Him Here. To Take Care Of Him.”
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Okay I KNOW going out in the cold doesn't ACTUALLY make you sick but hear me out - a character who is already coming down with something without knowing it, and going out in the cold...does not help that fact at all. They're close to hypothermic by the time they get home and have to be hurriedly warmed up by a worried caretaker, but after a while when they seem okay, just exhausted and still shivery, Caretaker realizes they might be getting a little too warm...
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Power and Control
For @amonthofwhump’s 12 Days of Whump, Day Four: Muzzled
CW: Whump of a minor (OC is 17), muzzled, pet whump, facility whump, collared, creepy whumper, ableism, drugging, some VERY vague implications of noncon
His alarm beeps, and Luke glances up.
Visiting hours over.
He sighs, sitting back, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back until his spine cracks. He used to be able to sit down and work on paperwork for the whole damn night, scratching his signature, writing up evidence reports, lying about why he pulled some asshole over…
Now, two hours at his desk in WRU, and his back sounds like a maraca. “You’re getting old, Petrus,” He mutters to himself.
It beats the alternative, though, right?
He stands up, shaking out one foot, leaving his training room and walking with purpose down the plain white hallway. Soft, muffled cries - from weeping or something else entirely - are sometimes vaguely audible from behind the other training rooms’ closed doors, and the sound makes him smile.
Nothing like a pretty thing in pain to make your day.
He takes a right, then a left.
The place is designed to be a maze, a labyrinth. Even the smartest escapees don’t get far - they end up running circles until they wear out, until a handler finds them and takes them down. The interns have maps on their cell phones, the new guys end up using them for months on end before they get the hang of checking for the tiniest marks on the walls that tell the handlers which direction to go.
His heavy uniform, with its long sleeves, keeps him warm in the Facility’s chilly air. When he passes a trainee on his way to a training room, a handler’s hand heavy on the young man’s shoulder, he watches the way the trainee shivers and presses himself to his handler’s side for warmth with his smile only growing wider.
It’s the visiting rooms he’s headed for - a small hallway with just a few spaces where perspectives can come interact before the training is over. It helps with bonding, with associating in the minds of the terrified men that the people they see here will be an escape from the torment of the Facility… if only they’re good.
Some of the handlers are nervous about these visits, worried about how their trainees might behave - you can get written up if your boy begs to be freed, or fights back. But Luke isn’t concerned about that. His boys know better.
And this latest one is probably the most desperate yet to get away from him. It’s a good feeling. It feels like the kind of power he could never have, even on the force, back in the day. It’s total and complete control over a human life, and this time there aren’t any consequences, as long as he doesn’t leave scars and nobody dies.
Next to the visiting room, there’s a muzzle hanging on a hook, and Luke takes it down. The black leather is smooth in his hand, and he rubs a thumb over it while scanning his badge on the reader. The door beeps softly, unlocks with a hissssss, and Luke steps inside.
“Governor Branch,” He greets, pitching his voice warm. “Time’s up, I’m afraid-” He comes to a stop, looking into the room.
The governor - who is, Luke knows, officially visiting family in South Carolina - looks up from where he sits, smiling with a level of oil that nearly makes Luke feel dirty just to see it. He stands, pressing out nonexistent wrinkles in his perfectly tailored suit. “Of course, of course. You’re doing God’s own work, Mr. Petrus.”
“I’d argue I do the exact opposite,” Luke replies amicably, walking in a slow amble across the room.
The reason for the governor’s secret visit is curled up in the corner of the small room, rocking forward and back, forward and back, staring off to the side, smacking his hands into the floor again and again, making a low noise in his throat.
“Governor, what-...” Luke feels fury boiling up inside of his chest. The little shit, he’s been a perfect statue boy for two weeks now, and he pulls this shit here? “I’m so sorry, sir, I was sure we’d trained this out of him-”
“Not to worry, Mr. Petrus. It’s really my fault entirely.” Governor Branch laughs, waving off his anger, glancing over at 499 with a kind of fond affection, laced with something much darker. “I wanted to play a little game, and I suppose he wasn’t quite prepared for the loss and its consequences.”
Luke gives a slightly puzzled smile in return. He checks for signs of injury on the trainee - not that it’s easy to tell when the little shit won’t stop moving. That’ll cost the governor extra, anything that might slow down the delivery timeline… but no. Kid looks pristine. Pretty as a picture of pain, like always.
Luke’s been doing this job long enough to know that how they look says absolutely nothing about how fucking ruined they are inside. He swings the muzzle by its straps, back and forth like a pendulum, unconsciously matching the sway of the trainee in the corner. “Fair enough. Anything I need to know about the visit, any discipline requested or required?”
“Not at all. He’s really an absolute beauty and quite the well-behaved angel. The little darlin’ and I just spent some time with some of my all-time favorites from back home.” Governor Branch gestured to a small grocery bag on the table behind him. “I brought in shrimp and grits from my favorite restaurant here in town. Bit cold by the time he ate them, but he didn’t mind, did you, sweetheart?”
The boy doesn’t respond, or even seem fully aware of them. His eyes are trailing along the lights of the ceiling now, dazed. This isn’t the look of his usual stuff, and Luke wonders if the food was drugged. The boy’s humming is tuneless, toneless, just a sound made by his vocal chords to drown out the slight squeak of the ventilation system in the room. It’s a high-pitched noise Luke can barely hear, but he watches the kid stop humming long enough to wince at it, and then start up again.
“He didn’t,” The Governor says cheerfully after a pause. “He ate most of the grits, and all of the shrimp.”
Luke laughs, more than a little just to cover up his growing discomfort with the idea that someone drugged his trainee behind his back, and he’s not sure with what. On top of that, the final payments haven’t been made, and Branch could still refuse to take him. “Well, I think they’d eat fucking dog food if it had flavor compared to what they normally get.” He picks up a mostly-empty soda bottle, frowning. “I’ve never seen this before.”
“Oh, it’s hard to find, but we drink it all the time back where I grew up. That’s Cheerwine.”
Luke holds the bottle up to the light. “Is it red?”
“Kind of. Plenty of red food dye in that little treat, plus a bit of something extra. Enjoy the results.” Governor Branch grins, walking to the corner to give the trainee a ruffle to his hair that lingers just a little too long.
The trainee flinches backwards and away from him, shaking his head rapidly, covering his hair with his hands. “N-no, not, no, pl-please, please please please no, please-”
Governor Branch laughs, jerking one of the boy’s thin wrists to pull his hand away, then slapping him across the face with the other. Luke feels a pleasant shiver down his spine at the soft cry of pain 499 lets out, but it doesn’t quite settle his nerves. “You’ll beg me to be so nice soon enough,” Governor Branch whispers.
The boy looks up, then, bright green eyes trying and failing to focus on Governor Branch’s face. “Please,” He whispers again, tears glimmering under the cold fluorescents set into the ceiling tiles. “Please, don’t. Please, it, please, please don’t, don’t touch me-”
“Hm, I like the sound of that, too. Too bad that’s not in the cards, darlin’.” Branch walks briskly towards the door.
Luke clears his throat. “Sir, would you like an escort-”
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Petrus. Karen gave me that handy little map to find my own way out.” He waggles the cell phone in his other hand and then he’s gone, the clip of his shoes sounding smartly down the hall, until he opens another door and is gone.
Luke stares after him, then turns the soda bottle around to read the ingredients, mouth moving without sound. “The results… what do you think he meant by that?”
“M-my, I can’t-... can’t think,” 499 says, voice like a whine, an irritating ice pick into Luke’s brain. He holds the bottle all the way up in front of the light, gives what’s left a good shake, and there - a bit of cloudiness he’s sure shouldn’t be there, drifting back to the bottom. “My, my, my head feels, it’s, it’s all wrong, um, I need, I can’t... the light’s wrong. Did you-... can you hear the air?”
“Drugged,” Luke mutters. “Perfect. Fucking perfect.”
“C-can, can, can can can can you call my mom to-to come get m-me?” The trainee looks up at Luke, and he stares back, before he sighs, sweeping the governor’s fucking leftovers into the trash with a sudden crash and crinkle of plastic that makes 499 flinch again, turning away, clapping his hands over his ears to block out the sound. “Mom, I, I, I need, need my, my, my medication, I’m not, I can’t, my mind’s all over-... c-can I have, um, can-”
“Shut the fuck up.”
499’s lips press together, briefly, then he can’t seem to stop himself. “I-I, something’s wrong, um, wrong with me-... if you could just, just, just call m-my mom-”
“Your mom’s goddamn dead, dumbass.”
The boy’s eyes widen. “What? Can, can you call her, though, can you... call my mom...”
“Ugh. Never mind. Jesus Christ. I’ll have to report this, have the lab test to see what the shit he even gave you. Motherfucking prospectives think they’re God Himself come down to fucking earth, pieces of shit have no fucking respect for the system.” Luke mutters, viciously jerking the chairs back into place at one table, pulling the sheets off of the bed, throwing them into a hamper, balled up, for housekeeping to deal with later.
“Please, I-... just need to g-go home, um, can you, can you make the, the vent stop making that sound? The, the, the air is, it’s like a sound like a mouse or...”
“No. I said shut the fuck up, 499.”
“But, it’s, it’s, there’s a sound-”
“Shut up or you get the goddamn muzzle.”
“I-I can’t. I can hear the, the vent is making a sound. If, I need, if, if if if if you could, if-”
Luke hits the button for 499’s shock collar out of sheer annoyance, listening to him cry out in pain again and again as he pulses, pushing down and letting up. After four or five of those quick jolts of pain, he stops, and watches the boy twitch and jerk and cry, as quietly as he can.
At least the crying is quiet.
“Fucking goddamn Branch asshole,” He hisses, turning back to his job. “499, keep your fucking mouth shut or I won’t feed you for a week.”
499, he has to admit, does his absolute best, then. He claps his own hands over his mouth and rocks, almost violently forward and back. But it’s not noise.
Once Luke has finished the quick pick-up, he heads over to him, crouching. His knees crack, and he really has to see a… fucking chiropractor or something about all the noises his bones seem to make these days. Thank God for WRU having the best damn health plan in the country for its employees.
“Look up, 499,” he commands, voice low.
The trainee shakes his head, but it’s not really at the order - there’s a beat of silence and then his eyes find Luke’s, drift to the side, down, around, anywhere but eye contact. It’s one of the easiest ways to torture him, honestly - just look right into his eyes. Little whore hates it.
“Lower your hands.”
The trainee obeys, dropping his hands to grip into the thin fabric of his black shorts, lifting his chin. Luke pushes the black muzzle over his nose and mouth, feeling all the little twitches as the poor little pet struggles to hold still for him as he buckles it behind his head. His breath is audible, and Luke always struggles not to think of Darth Vader, a little, when he puts a muzzle on one of these pretty boys.
The humming starts up again, but it’s muffled, and Luke’s too pissed off. He knows if he disciplines 499 right now he’ll go too far, so… so for now, he lets it slide. But he needs to make sure his coworkers don’t realize he’s doing it.
He yanks the trainee to his feet by his arm, feeling the way the boy’s muscles have wasted away during training, how he flinches and has to stop himself from trying to pull away. Luke’s mind races as he carefully smooths the boy’s shirt, runs a hand over a bruise growing on the side of his neck, gets his hair back into place.
“Shit,” he mutters.
He’s going to look like such a dumbass if they see his trainee got drugged behind his back.
Then he picks up his cell phone and dials.
“Bobbie, I need a favor. Yeah, I know you hate me, but you have a soft spot for 223499, and we both know it. Kid’s off his fucking rocker, prospective snuck him something in the drink he brought. Until I know what it is, I can’t give him shit to counteract, I have no idea how long it’ll last. If I have to listen to the goddamn noise he’s making for ten more minutes-... yeah. Just give him a room in the clinic, no one in or out but you and I, strap him to the bed. Just for a few hours so I can take a breather, run home.”
He pauses, listening to her voice.
Then he exhales with relief.
“Thanks, I owe you. Yeah, yeah, spare the lecture until we’ve got him in the room, then I promise I’ll give you ten minutes to tell me what an idiot I am. Cross my heart, Bobbie.”
He slips the phone back into his pocket and slides his arm around the trainee’s shoulders, pulling him close, into a mockery of a hug. The boy shudders and leans immediately against him, either chasing the warmth or just trying to look like he is. Luke takes in a breath.
There’s power in causing this kind of fear.
There’s power in wielding this kind of power.
But it’s hard to wield total power and control over someone’s life when the goddamn prospective gives him drugs behind his handler’s back, and the bastard’s too powerful and important to refuse the purchase.
“I fucking hate that man,” Luke says, under his breath. 499’s fingers move to grip onto his shirt, twisting it between his hands, and normally Luke would discipline him for that, but right now his head is pounding with rage.
Once he starts punishment, he’s not going to stop, and this kid’s too delicate for what he has in mind to make himself feel better.
Luke will get him to the clinic, and then he’s going to head over to the Guard Dogs and see who needs the shit kicked out of them. Remind himself that no matter what the Governor just did to his trainee, no matter how he interfered, Luke’s in control.
The boy whimpers and rubs his muzzle against Luke’s arm, pupils blown wide, shaking his head against the sound still squeaking out of the vent. Luke sighs and puts one hand over his ear, using it to press the other against his arm. 499 relaxes, unable to hear the squeaking now.
There’s some bullshit hipster axe-throwing place on his way back from work, and normally Luke thinks those places are nonsense, but...
But right now, he definitely sees the appeal.
@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @orchidscript @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears
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(knives, stabbing, noncon touch, whumper pov, and potentially disturbing descriptions)
Stab your whumpee slowly.
Settle the blade on their skin, watch their eyes flick down and back up until understanding sets in, then when they open their mouth to beg, you let blood leak.
You both feel the increase of pressure, the tip pressing down down down until skin splits and it slips further, coming up against a shallow barrier. And the blade stays there, waiting for whimpers and suppressed moans, breathless begging to stop there, please, please.
The sensation when that barrier breaks is wrong. It's with a slight pressure that it gives, and suddenly it feels as if something more drastic may take place. The fear lingers in shouts and cries and tears.
Blood greases the blade, and you could slide it all the way in if you wanted. You take your time. Involuntary trembling and squirming does half the work for you, letting sharp edges push against broken, sensitive skin. They keep asking you to take it out, even as the hilt meets their skin.
You consider pulling it out right there and then, just to see the pure agony light them up. But no, a sight so precious as this can't be ruined callously. And passing out from blood loss is something that you can't grant so soon.
You stroke their hair as they shiver, wipe their tears and smear streaks of blood across their face. They're still trying to beg, but a finger on their lips assures them you only want to hear sounds from them right now.
Their skin is hot and when your cool hands press under their jawline, down the side of their neck, you can tell their body wants to accept it.
And the both of you stay there like that for however long you like.
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so what’s everyone’s favorite “medically inaccurate and/or unrealistic but i don’t care cause it’s so good“ whump trope
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Can someone actually get knocked out (like brute force smacked in the head with a shovel, a hook kick to the jaw kind of thing leading to whumpee being unconscious) without getting a concussion/head injury? I've wondered about this for a long time considering how much it pops up
Nope, it's a total myth.
If the person does get knocked out, it's at minimum a moderate concussion, and if it's for more than a few seconds/minutes, it's a pretty severe one that will take weeks or months (or possibly even forever) to fully recover from.
Also, if the person gets knocked out (or really even throws up or is confused more than a few minutes after getting hit in the head) they should be evaluated in an ED. This is to ensure that they don't have a worsening condition like a bleed into their brain, increasing pressure in their skull, or a skull fracture, all of which could be fatal or lead to permanent disability if not addressed early.
- Ross ( @macgyvermedical)
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This might seem dumb, but as someone who's never broken a bone I have to ask - after a bone has been splinted/put into a cast, does it still hurt?
The cast is intended to stabilize the bone back into place and relieve most if not all of the pain, but there may still be some discomfort through itching and soreness.
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both in terms of stuff i wanna read and what kinds of characters I will possibly forgive
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hello :) could i request a snippet where the villain’s captured the hero and is trying to get information from them with their mind manipulation?? powers?? and so they can see the hero’s memories through skin to skin contact or something but accidentally see me worries of past trauma and abuse that the hero endured? i think you’d do it really well <3
I don't know if I did it well, but I did my best. Thanks to @madd-creations for pre-reading!
The warehouse's swinging lights cast a dim glow over the contrasting pair. The hero, bound to a chair with a fierce glare. The villain, eyes wide and hands clasped tightly over the hero’s head. The cement floor and plain metal walls were their only company.
The villain exhaled slowly. He hadn’t expected such dark feelings from a low-level hero. “Who-”
The villain slowly dropped his hands from the hero’s temples. “Was it one of the other villains?”
“Was it me?” How unfair, for such a cruel question to be asked so softly.
The hero shrugged off the question. “You’re not getting any information out of me. Leave me alone.”
“Shan’t,” the villain responded tightly. “What happened?”
His powers were never clear. A flash of colour, an emotion, a feeling, maybe a clear image if they were lucky. When the villain drugged and dragged the hero to his warehouse, he had hoped to learn some codes or locations. Maybe pull some information about the challenging heroes, the ones that were a threat. This hero was foolish for ever fighting against the villain. The capture was embarrassingly easy.
The villain knew that his line of work came with trauma. But when he laid hands on the hero’s writhing form and probed past his flimsy mental walls, the surge of darkness and pain laced with panic made him hesitate. The numbness that followed made him stop. “I won’t ask again. What happened?”
The hero glared at his captor, a drop of sweat beading on his temple. “I didn’t know you were sadistic. Either kill me or let me go.”
“I’ve done this to many people.” The villain pulled over a chair and sat across from the bound hero. “I rarely see trauma this severe. I can’t see anything else within you.”
“Pretty good defence mechanism, right?” The hero grinned, and the villain remembered an image of the same grin coated in blood from the hero’s memories. “You won’t get any information out of me.”
When the meaning of the words hit, the villain was left speechless. His hands squeezed into fists.
“My boss assigned me to you for this reason. Probe all you want,” The hero met the villain’s stare with defiance. “You’re going to lose.”
“Trauma shouldn’t be weaponized.” The villain thought he was going to throw up. “It’s not trivial. You… you really need help.”
“Unlike some people,” the hero mustered up a glare. “I don't have powers. I use whatever I have as protection.”
The villain’s heart dropped to their stomach. “Do any of your friends know? Your family?”
“It was a long time ago.” The hero didn’t answer the question. “I don’t want to talk about it. Are you going to kill me now?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” The villain admitted. He studied his captive. “In good conscience, I can’t let you go back to your work.”
The hero looked up in alarm.
“But,” the villain continued, “You can’t stay here either. Captivity feeds negative emotions. What do you want?”
The hero stared, his jaw clenching. “Stop trying to help me. You’re my enemy.”
“I have thirteen enemies, and they earned their spots. You’re a pesky neighbour at most,” Confidence returning and decision made, the villain rested his chin in his hand. “I repeat: What do you want?”
The hero didn’t respond.
“No answer? I’ll tell you my plan. I’m the villain, so I get at least one evil monologue.” The villain counted off on his fingers. “One: I have a berry farm outside of the city. It needs someone-”
“You have a berry farm?” The hero interrupted, the corners of their mouth twitching.
“It’s a backup career plan. Don’t interrupt.” The villain continued with a chastising glare. “Two: I will blow up a stadium at the end of this year.”
The hero’s grin faded.
“Three: For every day you tend to my farm, I will spare one person from the stadium. For every trauma-focused therapy appointment you make, ten are saved.”
“…You can’t be serious.” Now it was the hero who looked like they were going to throw up.
“Four: If you want to bring some people with you to help tend the farm, they must have my approval.”
The warehouse’s dim light added to the bags under the hero’s eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
The villain shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I’m secretly an amazing person. Or maybe I’ve seen this happen before. Maybe I know what can happen if no one helps.” The villain’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Maybe I need to redeem myself." He added softly.
The hero’s mouth opened slightly.
The villain shook himself. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I might change my mind. Do you accept?”
“What happens if I say no?” The hero asked, pulling loosely at his bonds.
“The stadium blows up. People die. I do a villainous laugh.” The villain stuck out a hand. “Do you accept my deal?”
The hero stared at the outstretched hand, then back to the villain’s gaze. For once, they understood each other. The need to save and the need to be saved.
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The whumpee knows that the caretaker cares about them, but they can’t help but be afraid, the whumper had constantly told them that everyone hated them and now they believe it. The caretaker also knows this and makes sure to reassure the whumpee, but this doesn’t always help.
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The Wheel of Time s01e05: “I Think He Can Channel. […] He’s Losing Himself.”
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One Ordinary Day: Episode 4
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12 Days of Whumpmas, day four:
AU where the Fleet gets to Melchior before Mercury does
and he still ends up breaking
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