I am your friendly neighborhood 4th dimensional omniscient being here to provide you all the angst and whump you could need!
I'm new to the whump community, especially writing for it, but I can't wait to grace your senses with some of my drabbles and stories! I love pet whump, nsfwhump, lab whump, torture, and defiant whumpees. My little blorbos deserve to bleed. I was introduced to the community via my mutual Abraham, who writes amazing things (that sadly have been taken off the air).
My requests are open!!!! However, you are more than welcome to send me asks of other variety as long as they are civil. Let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!
(Below is the masterlist and request rules.)
Happy reading!
Writing tag: #4th dimensional writings
Comment/original tag: #4th dimensional ramblings
Request/ask tag: #4th dimensional requests
MASTERLIST:
Flying Too Close to the Sun
Vanessa, a criminology major, is kidnapped while researching the elusive Campus Collector. Now trapped in his basement, she learns the truth about what he's been doing to his victims, and worse, what else he's been hiding.
Of Ruby Red
Wraven, a young vampireslayer destined for greatness, and Luther, a vampire with a past better left hidden, must join forces to hunt down a rogue vamp slaughtering people in Queens. However, as time presses on, they learn that maybe they aren't so different after all, and that history isn't always what's written.
The Quick Files
After decades of hiding behind a veil of magic and money, Madam Quick sends out a broadcast inviting those into the dark and eerie to submit their questions about the mind and mythical. With his pet, Atlas, they bring expertise in magic and psychology.
Species Whump Weekly
Check out the prompts at @species-whump-weekly!
Requests
Send in a request! Rules below.
Drabbles
Any writing not associated with a series or request.
REQUEST RULES:
1. I'm pretty much down for most whump however I will not do anything with drugs or substances, self-harm, or suicide related.
2. Your request can be as long or as short as you want, but if you want me to do a specific thing or avoid a specific thing, please let me know and I'll try to accommodate.
3. I have the right to reject your idea if I'm not feeling it for whatever reason. However, there's also a chance I'm busy and haven't gotten to your ask!
4. I regularly update this, so check back if my rules have changed.
Thinking about body worship and gore and vivisection. Body worship below the skin. Admiring the organs and structures that got this person through so much. Look how the body knitted itself back together, at the scar tissue, at the knicks on the bones, at the blood vessels and organs that all work together to keep the heart pumping and lungs expanding and life flowing and fighting. Touch the things no one else has touched in awe, a holy exploration. Worship at the altar, partake in communion, praise your god in mortal flesh. He screams and whimpers and begs, twists and writhes and trembles. He isn't used to being worshiped like this. But you see him. You see all of him and he is a beautiful testament, a flayed saint, and your worship is far from over.
I think it's really interesting when Whumpee has a title to use for Whumper, where they must call Whumper this instead of their name (things like 'Sir,' 'Mistress,' and 'Master'). What are your favs and could I have some prompts with the different dynamics the different titles bring?
Master. A mixture of devotion and protection overlaying an iceberg of abuse, punishments, degradation, ownership. Master would never let their possession be harmed. The whipping post doesn't count---that's punishment, punishment is different. It's a good thing. It makes whumpee better for Master.
My lord/lady. Worthy of no more than being ground under their lordship's feet, yet graciously allowed to serve. Every slap must be taken without a sound; their eyes must meet the lord's only when he tilts their chin up by the tip of the sword. "Hm... That's what I like to see."
Sir. Formal and reserved. Professionalism covering for silent anxiety; panic when whumper closes the distance and puts a hand on whumpee's body. "Sir, I---whumper---" Whumper squeezes, digging their nails in until it's painful enough that whumpee tries to step away, only to be pushed further into the doorframe by the crushing hand. "Did I tell you you could address me by my name?"
say it with me. you do not have to be working through something to like whump. you do not need to have trauma to enjoy hurting/seeing characters get hurt. your ocs do not have to be self-inserts or reveal deep and buried parts of your psyche
Whumper loved this new way to torture Whumpee. They discovered it by accident, and ever since then it's become Whumper’s new addiction.
They would edge Whumpee for a few hours until they were so unbearably sensitive. Then, they would make them come. And come, and come, and come until they were nothing but a whining mess of sounds. They wouldn't give Whumpee a small break in between orgasms, either. It was constant, unbearable stimulation.
Whumpee couldn't even beg or speak. Their voice was nothing but whimpers, moans, and screams that they couldn't help but make in between their struggling, heavy breaths. Their limbs pulled and tugged against their restraints in a hopeless attempt to escape, body shining in sweat from all the adrenaline and straining. Tears streamed down their cheeks, eyes dizzy and blurred as they struggled to stay conscious.
They really shouldn't try to fight it, though. Passing out was the only way it was going to stop.
You’re never gonna get an angel bound in human form that isn’t some sort of fucked up. You’re cutting it off from all sorts of metaphysical senses, extradimensional perceptions, and biologically impossible physiology all at once. That’s like if you pancaked a human down to 2D and took away all our senses besides touch and smell. You’d be pretty weird too.
The stove clicked, blue flames flicking to life. Ferdinand flinched from where he was tied in the corner of his kitchen, but the girl didn’t pay him any mind. The fire hungrily licked the bottom of the frying pan settled over it, trying to claim it for themselves. He’d fried eggs in it just a couple hours prior.
His breath failed him. It was hard enough already, to inhale in air when his mouth was gagged—a painfully familiar sensation by now—and it was hard enough not to cry himself to oblivion when he couldn’t move his arms nor ankles. He felt ridiculous. The feeling was muffled by the fear.
She wasn’t fully turned away from him, but never even glanced in his direction. Couldn’t bother herself to, as if his presence was as relevant as that of the curtains just beside. Ferdinand ended up finding himself especially scared of this kid. She wasn’t her, no, didn’t have her sadistic streak, her sharp nails that dug into his arm, or her straight hair that she’d tuck behind her ear in public—a faux-innocent gesture—when he had to pretend that they were friends. Lovers. Didn’t have the sharp eyes reminding him to keep up the act, piercing him as knives.
They were different, hers. They were just as dark, but they didn’t have that fire. No. There was nothing behind them. She wasn’t scary like her, but there was still something. Something in her that made him pinned to the ground, a bug immobilized in amber. She was, again, in black. It was the only shade that wore her—most of the time—aside from that spark of blue, the bandana under her hair. There were too many scars on her bare arms, too much strength in that grip. Too little emotion everywhere else.
It was as if she was no kid. It was as if she was, instead—he felt his blood freeze when she finally turned to look at him—something else. A mechanical doll. Unlike her, a monster that could not be reasoned with, this didn’t even invite in any reason. You couldn’t argue with a machine. She acted in a way that was hardly human. More of an extension of something that was.
Espada, he remembered hearing her call her, once. He swallowed, grim. It was way too fitting.
As soon as her touch—cold. So cold—released the cloth from his mouth, he coughed. Wheezed a load of air, shoulders trembling. Ferdinand’s head was dizzy with the terror. There was not enough air in his lungs. He hated it when she was this close. It hurt. It always hurt. His voice was quick to jump out of him as soon as he worked his jaw, fueled by fear.
“Please, don’t.”
She held the gag between her hands. Tilted her head at him, not a sliver of emotion in her face—as if it was made out of mask and not of flesh—and for a moment, he thought that she wouldn’t reply.
“This wouldn’t happen,” she did, anyways, voice as hollow as the darkness staring down at him, “had you simply behaved.”
He pressed himself against the wall.
“Please.” Please. Pleading seemed to work on her even less than it did with the woman, but he couldn’t help it. Tears bit at his eyes. “Please,” his voice cracked. “I’ll comply. You don’t have to do this.”
A sob left him. Ferdinand had the sinking feeling in his gut that it was too late. He knew that he’d fucked up. There was only so much he could endure—and she didn’t make it any easier. Their past little “date” had taken it too far. Sarah had been there. She teased him, like they always did at work, about finally having found a pair, and he had had to gulp down the disgust in his mouth to give her a tight smile and a strained nod. It hadn’t been much earlier that the secretary had pulled him aside, a scared expression on her face that hadn’t ever been there before, telling him in between hushed tones about the note that she’d gotten mailed to her house. Asked him what was up. He felt himself go weak at the knees, tried to conceal it. A reminder. Made so much more terrifying by the fact that they also knew where his friend lived. In that moment, when the monster prodded at him again, getting him to finally lash out, it was that warning that had been quick to light up red in his head. He’d realized it in the same second, already too late.
He’d fucked up. And she wouldn’t let it go past without consequence.
“You were warned,” the kid snapped him out of his thoughts. He winced at the reminder. He was. Painfully, he conceded that it’d been more than once. He hated where this had gone. This was the worst month of his life. He tried to collaborate, he was no masochist, but they never seemed to be satisfied. He had a feeling that that woman enjoyed making things harder for him on purpose. This kid, at least—from the few times he’d had the displeasure of sharing a room with her—didn’t seem to be the same. There was something especially detached about the way she did things. It gave him the bizarre impression that this wasn’t too far from a teenager’s reluctant diligence about house chores.
Though—his eyes welled up—he wished she was reluctant about this some more.
Ferdinand winced, weakly struggled, when his ankles were freed from the makeshift binds and she pulled him to his feet. She was way stronger than her frame led on. Way rougher, too. He felt his breath hitch as she grabbed his hand, without a word, and pulled him in the direction of the stove.
Oh.
He screamed.
Nothing had happened, not yet, but—no. No. No. Somebody had to be in the neighbourhood at this hour. Afternoon of a Sunday. They had to. Right? Please. No. Please. He couldn’t—a hiccup bubbled up to the surface. Why was this happening? Why? Why—
An aborted scream caught on his throat when the damage happened for real. His palm was pressed against the burning pan, and Ferdinand’s knees went weak. Blinding, sharp pain took over his mind, and when he came back, he only had half the sense to struggle and squirm away with all his might. She didn’t relent.
“Stop!” He cried. He could barely feel his chest rising and falling, and he tried to yank his hand out. Why was hers so strong? The moment’s shock quickly faded away towards mind-baffling heat, and he instinctively knew, deep in his heart, that if his palm didn’t retract, the damage would be too great. “Stop. Stop. Sto-” he choked on his own voice. He inhaled sharply. “Stop. Get off, get off, get off get off! Please!” Another cry left his lips. He couldn’t breathe. The pain was the only thing he could see. It was agony. He needed it off. He needed it off. More pleas. More begging. Deaf ears. Might’ve been as well shouting to a wall. He tried to pry her hand out of his wrist, but nothing gave. In a swift movement, she moved behind him and pinned his body frozen, unmoved. Ferdinand sobbed. Cried, when the smell of burnt skin reached his nostrils.
He fell to the floor, shaking. He was finally freed, but no pain ceased. He could feel his whole body spasm with the hiccups. He cradled his ruined hand—almost threw up when he saw its state. He was definitely hyperventilating now. He felt like he was going to throw up. An unbearable sensation flared up, shooting up his nervous system, and he bent over himself.
Rough fingers grabbed his chin. His body tried to jerk away, but the grip just locked his head tighter. Ferdinand looked up at her with tear-soaked eyes. A hiccup came out of his throat.
“Quiet down,” she whispered, pragmatic. “Or I’ll shut you up.”
He froze. He didn’t want to think of what that even meant.
Before he could process it, the kid had restrained him in her grip again—a pained yelp. His arm was bent behind with too much force—and dragged him towards another room of his house. It took a second too long for him to realize it was the bathroom. His hand throbbed when he was shoved to the ground, a lacerating, ugly kind of pain that left him too afraid to look. With a click, the door was locked. Ferdinand flinched, staring ahead in terror.
Espada’s eyes were fixed back at him. He had, few times in his life, wanted to run more than he wanted now.
In a split second, she was on him again, sparing him of having any choice in the matter. Ferdinand panicked. No matter how much he struggled and scratched at her, fought for her to get off, it didn’t work. He swore she could see his movements before he even did it himself. A sob. His hands were tied behind him with a yelp—was this a belt? Was it his? He couldn’t stop crying—and his head was shoved down. Her weight pinned his legs until they were tied as well, and he was thrown without ceremony inside the shower box.
Ferdinand panted, trying to catch his breath. He tensed, a ragged scream ripped out of him when his hand flared up at being shifted. A string of curses left his mouth. Half of them were for the pain. Half of them were for her. Himself. This whole situation. It died on his throat when he felt fingers burying into his chin again.
He whimpered.
The girl forced him to face her, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to. He then remembered the time the woman did the same thing, stabbed him in the leg when he didn’t obey. His breath hitched, tearing up at how his calf ached with the reminder. He still had a limp because of that. He didn’t want to think about what excuses he’d have to give the hospital this time.
He looked.
Her eyes were nothing like that woman’s. Nothing like his, either, wide in panic and afraid. They were neutral. Placid. Ruthless. In that moment, in a bitter hiccup that got caught inside him, Ferdinand thought that this kid—this thing—must be completely incapable of good. He doubted those hands had ever caused anything other than pain. It was a device of cruelty. Not a child. He was sure, then—that it might just be completely unable to ever cradle something softly.
He was quickly proven right.
Some shirt was quickly shoved over his face, and he panicked—thrashing fruitlessly against his restraints, trying to do something to impede his predictament—but she was quick to pin him down again. The fabric was tied behind his head and his heart jumped to his throat. For a terrible second, Ferdinand was sure that he’d die suffocated in his own bathroom, alone.
Then the hiss of the shower filled his ears. Water.
He frantically started struggling harder. Ferdinand yelped, a gargling sound, trying to move to get the thing out of his face, move away from the torrent—he was gonna drown. He was gonna drown. He had messed up, and now they were going to kill him. Cold, ice terror wrapped itself around his veins at the realization. He gagged. He sobbed. He couldn’t breathe, water invading every cavity on his face, and his gasps brought no air. Only water. Dense, infinite water, filling everywhere and making him choke and—
His head was yanked out from under the shower.
Ferdinand rolled on his belly, violently coughing. His chest heaved, water in his eyes. He didn’t know how much of it was tears. He’d just almost died. He’d almost died. They’d almost killed him. The shroud glued to his face. He wanted it off. Off. Off. His hand seized up when he forgot about the restraints. Fingers grasped onto his hair, brushing over the shaved edges and gripping tight on his scalp. The yelp became something else on the way out. He was crying.
Not a plea stopped her from holding him under a second time. Or a third.
--
Espa sat down on top of the toilet seat. Ferdinand was still restrained, gasping where they’d left him. He was shaking, water dripping down his hair. He’d quit trying to evade them. She hoped that meant he was worn down enough already. He was obviously scared. Just not enough. If he had been, they wouldn’t even be here in the first place. The weapon didn’t sigh. A grimace, remnants of a pained scream, took over its assignment’s features. It could see the way his fingers twitched behind his back, his red, swollen hand. The pain must be travelling up his arm and taking all of his focus. It hadn’t been Espa’s original plan, but that fancy oven had given them the idea. It seemed to have been effective. It had a feeling it would. She knew how much it hurt.
They were watching him with attention, so they caught the blabbering coming out of his mouth before he did it himself. When he caught them, though, Ferdinand made no effort to stifle his pleas. It could tell they’d only grown more intense. He was apologizing. Hoping for it to be over. It quietly freed a tired breath, getting up.
He made a valiant effort of jumping back the most he could while he had his wrists and ankles restrained. Espa crossed the distance between them in slow, deliberate steps. Crouched down beside him. He had frozen himself up. His chest waved up and down, in terror just as it was in pain.
It lightly held his burnt hand in its own. He flinched, but they maneuvered it carefully. The ragged wails coming out of him were derived more from her fingers brushing over a little too closely to the injured palm than from any harmful intent. It quickly analyzed it under the white lights of the bathroom. This illumination was a little bit too bright. Harsh and electrical. They were more used to this kind.
The evaluation didn’t take two minutes. The weapon concluded he’d be fine.
“You should take this as a lesson,” it advised, turning its voice to him. Ferdinand almost choked at the sound. Espa looked down at his hands again. The nails were bitten to the root. He didn’t have such a habit back when they were watching him, at the beginning of this mission. It bit its lip. How long ago had it been? A month? More than that. Spare weeks flew by, and it was already November. This operation took so long.
It breathed out, shaky. This mission was taking so long. They wanted to go home.
Ferdinand screamed again when she applied pressure onto the injury, cried when she sunk deeper and drew blood with a nail. His body was taken over by spasms—just like when Gisele had been shocked, that week, or how she had cried herself to sleep some days prior, or shaken with exhaustion before Espa carefully did the dishes for her so she could be done with the day earlier—and more pleas and apologies left his lips. The weapon pressed. For one, two, three seconds. It knew how this was supposed to be finished.
He was barely inside his own mind when they got up again.
A bit of blood had gotten into its hands. Espa just washed it by the sink.
They might as well.
Before they left, however, something caught their attention. It was already dark when they rose to the living room, moonlight thickly filtered through the minimalist windows in the area. Ferdinand didn’t seem to be much of a fan of natural light. The evening had fallen cool, so unlike the scorching heat of the afternoon. Espa was just shoving down the temptation of stopping to grab a glass of water, blocking out the thirst, when they saw it.
A speck of gold over the counter. For a second, it thought it was that fancy watch he was always wearing, but this was nothing it’d seen before. A bracelet, wide and dainty, placed just beside a little bag. Gift? They traced their hands over it.
It was warm. The sun must’ve hit this spot earlier when it was up.
Warm.
Just like...
Espa turned its head to look at the clock they’d seen on the fridge earlier. 19:38—seven in the night.
I won’t be sleeping early, either.
The weapon made sure to close the window before they climbed down the walls, leaving the brightly-lit house for the night-wrapped streets.
Ms. Ann was waiting at home. She didn’t have a set time to arrive, however, so that was not where she went towards.
The lights on the front yard were still lit up.
Espa caught sight of movement past the door just before someone came out. It tensed, bolting towards a corner before they saw it. Voices came from inside—happy, full of food and laced with easy laughter—and Ciça’s was between them. Espa tucked the stolen gift bag against its chest.
She sounded happy, too.
That—good. That was good.
--
Ciça’s cheeks hurt. She wouldn’t be able to handle another stupid joke—that was what she told Denise’s son, a charming young man with white teeth, a bright smile and terrible taste for small talk. The living room was filled with laughter and someone had bought in pastels from the next street for all when the food had run out. Almost run out. Ciça had, prior, stored just a bit of it.
A single plate, vatapá, caruru and a bit of chicken put away safely inside the fridge. And Ciça was feeling just a little bit sad about it. There was nothing she could do, though, so she allowed herself to forget about it and enjoy the remnants of the party. Half of the guests had gone home already, and the other half slowly but surely parted with tender hugs and soft goodbyes. The last people only stayed behind to help her get some order in the house, clean up the mess. Chatter came from the kitchen, more lively than ever, as they helped do her dishes, the day finally coming to an end.
The voices faded, one at a time, the walls emptier and emptier, until Ciça finally said goodbye to the last friend who had come to celebrate.
Silence fell, light, as soon as they turned the street corner in a motorbike, quietness replacing its roar. The chilly air of the night ran free outside, and Ciça hugged herself. The sky above was beautiful tonight. Stars twinkled at her from the distance when she looked at it.
Soft steps approached her from where she was, a foot into the sidewalk. Ciça turned her head down to face their source.
Her eyes widened.
Espa stood in front of her, a trail of blue swirling behind her hair in the breeze. The shock had her stall for a minute.
Espa looked down for a split second, embarrassed. When she cast her gaze back, there was an earnest attempt at a smile in her face. It was rusty, awkward. It was the most beautiful thing Ciça had ever seen.
“Sorry for the hour,” she said. Her hands remained out of view, resting at the small of her back. “I’m sorry, I had to—”
“It’s okay,” Ciça was quick to say. “You’re here,” she repeated. She blinked again, lips widening. She couldn’t control it. “You’re here.”
Espa’s turn to blink. “I am.”
It took a moment of chattering, teary-laughter and nice warmth before she invited Espa inside. But the kid stopped at the flowers. Ciça turned, confused, before she saw her taking a small gift bag from her pants’ pocket.
“For you.”
It was placed into her hands softly. Ciça took it, eyes gleaming when she set them on its content.
“Oh.” Jewelry. The feeling that their roles had been reversed went through her in the moment, some weird deja-vú, and she laughed. Ciça held the bracelet close to her chest fondly. “Thank you. Thank you, Espa.”
She thought she caught her perking up a bit in pride. Ciça couldn’t help but keep smiling.
“Do you want to eat?” She asked, leading her towards the kitchen. Please, she was asking. I want to do something special with you, too.
“There’s still food?” She sounded surprised. Ciça grinned at her.
“I hoped I could at least share some whenever you came around,” she explained. “It turned out good. I didn’t want you to miss it.”
The kid stilled. Ciça saw as she coyly drew her gaze away. She felt soft.
The bracelet was beautiful, even in the dim light. Almost no lamps were on indoors at this hour. The night’s breeze entered by the backyard door in the kitchen, but Ciça didn’t feel cold at all. The simple treasure shimmered in her hands. It must’ve been expensive. Ciça had no idea how she’d even gotten this. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to not ask. A funny hypothesis created itself in her mind. Ciça dispensed it with a snicker.
“Thank you,” she repeated, as Espa took a spoonful of the microwaved rice and vatapá with wonder in her eyes. She looked up at her, then cast her gaze away again. Ciça was finding it that it was an attempt at concealing her eyes whenever she knew they were too easy to read.
Some of the meal was shared, but Ciça, truthfully, couldn’t stomach another spoonful. She jokingly told Espa she’d explode with all the food she’d gotten over the afternoon. That got her to curl up her lips.
The kitchen was soon filled with easy noise once again. Her cheeks hurt. She didn’t have it in her to stop.
--
“Don’t you need to go back?” Ciça asked it. She sounded a bit apprehensive.
The distance spread out above them in an endless veil. No darkness was as bright. It was breathtaking. Maybe it’d been a while since she’d last been allowed to just gaze and let herself be mesmerized by it. There was an open, free view of above from almost any corner of Ciça’s house, which was a rare sight for the weapon. A rare sight to have when she wasn’t out in the field.
The breeze was chilly then. In the frontyard. But Ciça’s presence was still warm somehow.
“It’s okay,” it dismissed her worries. “I can go later today.” They had no time limit to get back. This would probably earn it some lashes regardless, but— “Just today.”
Something in her gaze told them she didn’t believe them. Espa didn’t mind. They closed their eyes, just for a second, before feeling her standing behind them. Their hairs stood on end, and they turned at her before allowing themself to ever tense up.
Ciça sat down on the front steps by the doorway. The space between her and the porch was mostly empty, just a couple plastic chairs and bar tables piled together onto a corner. There weren’t usually as many. They must’ve been arranged for the birthday party.
Espa hesitated for a second and sat nearby her. They were used to the floor. And this was nice. It liked here. With a glance, it confirmed she seemed to like the bracelet. Espa smiled at itself at the image of Ferdinand trying to find it. Ciça deserved it more than whoever it was that he intended to gift it to.
A ringing sound cut through the night.
They flinched, heart leaping to their throat, before realizing it was just a phone call. Espa’s mind almost blanked from the scare, but they forced their lungs to squeeze out some air. No panicking now. Shit. There was something about this place that made them too at ease. It was way too easy to be caught off guard here. They bit their lip at it. Ciça perked up at the noise—in a calmer way than Espa had—and got up with an apology to grab her phone back inside.
When she came out again, it was glued to her ear as she talked to someone.
The weapon saw as her eyes lit up in surprise for the second time that night when the person on the other side of the line spoke.
“Guy?” It didn’t hear what was said on the other side next. A bright smile slit through her features. Espa tilted its head. “You—oh, no, no. It’s okay, I understand you were busy. Don’t you have to sleep, though? It’s late.” Silence. Her grin turned coy. “You’ve got a terrible memory. I don’t have a bedtime, young man. Besides, I’m with company!”
It felt its cheeks warm up. Something else was said on both ends, and Ciça sat back down, phone still in hand. She pressed on a button on the screen.
“I’m putting it on speaker,” she warned them. “It’s my nephew. I’ve told you about him before, right?”
A stretch of silence over the line. “Grand-nephew,” a voice corrected. It was a touch feminine, hoarse. They saw her roll her eyes. There was some humor to it. The boy’s tone was soft and inquisitive when he spoke next. “Who is it there?”
Ciça handed the phone to them. Espa awkwardly took it. They weren’t used to handling these.
“Hi,” she tried, speaking next to what she remembered a microphone should be. They weren’t sure what they should say, but weren’t going to expose their name. She’d already been reckless enough. Ciça seemed to realize that, leaning forward and speaking again. Espa didn’t tense at the proximity. It’s just Ciça, they tried to remind themself, forcefully breathing out. Their body didn’t seem to get the memo.
“She’s a friend of mine,” she informed, sing-song, saving it from having to come up with something. “You were worried I was alone, right?” Ciça’s expression was fond. Espa could make it out even in the dim light of the moon. “She had some affairs so she came by later. You aren’t the only one with questionable bedtimes, Gus.”
“I’m a grown adult, okay?” His tone was falsely offended. “But I’m glad, then. Sorry again, Ciça.” He sounded upset. “I—really. I wish I had had a moment’s peace earlier to call or... I don’t know. My wi-fi went out again and everything. Out of data this month,” he added, bitterly. “I hope you two have fun. Happy birthday, Ciça. I’ll come by any of these days, I just need to get a break from work. Love you.”
“I love you too,” Ciça answered. “Is your brother okay?”
The silence on the other end of the line, then, was abrupt. Tense. It heard someone gulping down. “I guess. Been avoiding him.” Ciça didn’t look very surprised. “You know how he is.”
A knowing laughter.
“Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t go to bed too late, Guy, I’m serious. I’ll be waiting for you to visit,” she rested her back against the wall. “Maybe you can meet her too?” That was half-directed at the weapon, who tensed a bit. Ciça went back to looking at her palms. The golden ring wrapped around her wrist like a glove. “Not sure if she’ll be free—but I think you might like each other. You need some friends your age, too.”
A snicker. “I don’t intend on stealing yours, Ciça.”
“No, really,” she leaned forward again. “It’d make me happy. We could meet up by Christmas?” Espa bit its lip. Caressed its arm. It wasn’t sure if it liked where this was going. It didn’t tell Ciça that it might not even be around here anymore.
“Christmas is busy, you know it,” he replied. “But I’ll see what I can do. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” Ciça answered. “Good night.”
“Good night.” A sigh. He sounded tired. “Bye to you there too. Meet you someday,” he aimed it at them.
Espa didn’t reply.
“Love you, Ciça,” he repeated. Something in his voice made its chest ache. “And happy birthday.”
Ciça looked a little sad. “Thank you.”
The call went dead.
Ciça sighed, putting her phone down.
“My bad. I apologize,” she said, at some point. Espa frowned.
“Sorry?”
“I don’t mean to pressure you. If you don’t want to meet up with him, you don’t need to. I know you get nervous. I’ll tell him you had other plans.”
Espa looked down.
“It’s okay,” they replied without thinking. It’d worry about it when the time came. For now, she could just enjoy the chilly night.
Ciça smiled from the corner of her eye.
The silence stretched, smooth and comfortable, as they both stared at the sky. Espa liked it.
A memory rose up, and they smiled to themself. Last time they had gotten to just gaze above like this, they were with a sibling. It was just as quiet, because they couldn’t afford to anger Ms. Ann and Mr. Juste in their small break outside as the handlers negotiated with some client indoors. They wondered when they’d get to see him again.
“Do you want to take a picture?” Ciça’s voice brought them back. They lowered their eyes from the blanket of stars and stared at her.
Her face was soft. She wasn’t that sad anymore.
The weapon looked down at their lap. That was good.
Something inside her protested at the idea. Espa ignored it and mumbled a yes.
Right before they were set to leave—it was a little past midnight, they noticed with some subdued horror—, Ciça took them inside one last time, lamps flicked on to get a nice light. A selfie, she said. Espa wasn’t one for pictures. The last one they’d taken had been almost a year ago, to update the photo on their file. Nobody had records of its face beside the Dove.
The thought of Ciça having one was... interesting. It decided to not think much about it.
A click, and it had happened. She had been smiling, wide and bright, which was a little weird compared to Espa’s carefully neutral expression. It looked weird. Espa couldn’t really remember when they’d ever had a picture taken next to someone else. A picture so casual.
But they thought they didn’t mind it as Ciça saved it with a little heart and tucked it close to her chest.
They still felt warm when they clicked the door closed behind them in a darker room, spitting out words about Ferdinand having been way too defiant earlier or some other meaningless lie. It was believed, because Espada only ever said the truth, and soon the warmth mixed itself up to that of blood trailing down their skin.
Whumpee woke lying on the bed still. It was the same as the previous days that he had woken over the last 2 months.
He was restrained at the wrists, ankles and across the stomach. He was completely naked and sprawled across the table.
At first he had jumped to the obvious conclusion. Whumper was going to take what he wanted from his body, whenever he wanted and painfully, but it had never happened.
Whumper would simply walk in the room, tick another day off the calendar, feed him and occasionally run his hands gently over his arms and legs. But that was as far as it ever went. Whumper never spoke, he didn’t answer the questions and although Whumpee was lonely and bored, he’d relaxed, the presumed rape never occurring.
Today was no different. His captor had entered the room, ticked off the day and fed him an omelette. This time though he had bought a little black zip bathroom bag with him.
His beard had grown out and he was looking a little shaggy, Whumpee thought to himself. maybe a shave was in order.
He watched calmly as Whumpee set up a table next to his bed.
All at once, his calm faded and his heart rate began to race. His skin prickled with cold sweat that erupted all over his body in an instant. His body shook of his own accord.
The rational part of his brain tried its best to reason against the animalistic side which was screaming out warnings and urging him to escape…. As Whumper laid the contents of the bag onto the table while staring deep into Whumpee’s eyes. A predatory grin stretched wide across his face.
An anal vibrator. A blindfold. A bottle of lube. Condoms. Leather Body harnesses. A Ring gag. A phallic gag. Beads. Implements he couldn’t put a name to.
Whumpee’s brain was still trying to process what was about to happen as Whumper ran his hand over his legs again.
This time however he kept going, the grin still firmly fixed on his face as he moved his hand to Whumpee’s ass, slipped his fingers into his hole and began to massage him open.
A small whine of desperation came from deep inside Whumpee’s chest as the new sensation overwhelmed him. He didn’t want this. He had relaxed into the belief this was never going to happen. He’d let his guard down.
His quiet pleas of….”no, no, no, no”, were drowned out by Whumper’s gasping groans of pleasure as he worked his fingers deeper and melted against Whumpee.
Whumper withdrew his fingers and unbuckled his pants. He smiled into Whumpee’s terrified gaze as he finished undressing and repositioned himself.
“Ahhhhh, finally.”
The only words ever spoken by Whumper pieced through the foggy disbelief in Whumpee’s mind and his blood turned to ice.
Whumper moaned in ecstatic greed as he nestled himself into Whumpee and began to take away every sense of self Whumpee had ever held.
[ID. Three manga panels. They start showing a hand cuffed to some sort of wooden plank. In the images, another person comes in and takes out their cigarette first on the wood, and then on the hand who is already littered in similar cigar bruises. The hand’s owner flinches in pain, and is left with their limb hanging limp and trembling, now with blood dripping from their fingers. End ID.]
The embarrassment as drool drips down around the gag from the corners of their mouth
Bruising and chafing that is very difficult to hide
Whumpee wearing a mask to cover it up
Or Whumper taking them to an event and forcing whumpee to wear a mask to hide the gag, while people at the event marvel at how ‘well trained’ and ‘quiet’ Whumpee is
Taped mouth. Duct tape pressed over lips. The smell of the adhesive. The residue it leaves behind. The tightness of it, the way it pulls at the skin.
The immediate control it gives Whumper. Pinch Whumpee’s nose shut and suddenly you have a writhing, spasming victim.
Or better yet, tape their nose shut. Make them believe this is how it ends, suffocating behind that plasticky scent, helpless
Sew their lips shut. The intimacy of it, the wincing every time the needle pierces their flesh — or maybe Whumper numbed it first, and Whumpee can only watch in the mirror as their mouth is stitched up, utterly silenced
The little noises Whumpee makes. The breathing around the gag. The whines, the panicked “mmmph”s as they realise the words aren’t coming. Maybe they try anyway, sounding stupid as they fail to hurl insults
Caretaker carefully removing a gag, horrified at the thought of Whumpee humiliated like this, their autonomy stripped
Caretaker gagging Whumpee to keep them quiet while they escape. The quiet “I’m sorry”s. The betrayal in Whumpee’s eyes; or maybe it’s acceptance.
Whumpee waking up to realise they are muzzled, the immediate dehumanisation, the panic to realise they can’t move their jaw, the laboured breaths to the thick leather or even metal strapped and pressing into their face
Cut out their vocal cords. Do it. Whumpee can't even make a sound. And they never will again.
Or cut out their tongue, the feeling of something wrong in their mouth, the shapeless screaming it causes
put that woman into a Situation now. i'm serious. drop that sad whiteboy you've been chewing on for the last three hours and just try chewing on the Woman. it's so much better out here. the world is beautiful. you are putting yourself in a cage. take my hand and come with me. put that woman into a Situation
Instead of trying to fight, new whumpee watches compliant whumpee closely, and tries to match their behaviour. The quicker they can figure out the rules in this place, the better.
Ooh and they’re better at it than compliant whumpee (cause they’re not as exhausted, they’re not so broken already, and they didn’t have to have it beaten into them). It spurs on such jealousy, possibly even downright hatred, the fear of being replaced, the consequences of being really and truly at the bottom of the social ladder.
New Whumpee understands, but they have to keep this up for a way out, they try not to take it personally, try to help Whumpee out wherever they can but it just makes them more upset.
Till they’re finally about to escape, and they drag whumpee along with them, hand clamped over their mouth because they were getting them out too, whether they were willing or not. In the getaway car, Whumpee is trying to make sense of all their conflicting emotions, watching New Whumpee, now closer to a Caretaker, flying down the road at almost double the speed limit.
