All texts containing noncon or nsfw will be marked in red. Texts containing suggestive themes will be marked in orange. Please heed warnings and read at your own discretion!
Whump snippets
Outside - Whumpee gets a treat for behaving so well <3
The Patient - Whumper takes care of their victim
Odd - Caretaker notices that Whumpee is acting differently
Fury - Whumpee can’t contain their anger anymore
Forced to Play - Whumpee has a special talent. Whumper wants to exploit it.
Forced to Watch - Whumper forces Caretaker to make a hard decision in order to save Whumpee's life
Fever - Whumper asks an old 'friend', Caretaker, for a favor: to care after a fever-ridden, fear-stricken Whumpee
Hero x Villain snippets
A Deal is a Deal - Hero and Villain make a deal. What happens when Villain actually sticks to it?
A Deal is a Deal Part II
Drabbles 'n Dialogue
My own Whumpee moment lmao
Not a slay 🙁
Whumpee still has some humor left
Whumper succeeds in breaking Whumpee—and regrets it
Series
Unmasked (Hero x Villain) - When Hero stumbled into the bar, finally content to unleash from their rigorous line of work, they never would have expected it was Villain who would be the one to ask them to a dance. But the feeling was mutual. Villain never expected they would find themselves in Hero’s bedroom, willing Hero to sit still in order to keep them half alive.
Hey, just wanted to check in and make sure that these were just images you found online and not actually from you to yourself or someone else to you?
Sorry if this is an overreaction on my part - just a bit concerned and wanted to check in to make sure everything is ok.
Hey anon, I appreciate your worry and wanting to check that those pics were not any form of abuse. I can assure you both the photos and marks were not self inflicted and were obtained consensually!
I will never post any sort of content that is either not mine, not consensually obtained, or shows any form of nonconsensual harm :)
The words chilled Hero to the very bone. They froze, paralyzed in fear. In anticipation. The steam continued to dance off the plates of food in pearly swirls through the silence. Hero’s body stayed still as their gaze darted to the front door of Villain’s apartment.
“Ah ah ah,” Villain smirked. “You take one step towards that door and I’ll have you licking your own blood off the floor.”
Hero, somehow, managed to let out a shocked chuckle. “Jesus.”
“You know I would,” Villain almost whispered, sitting their chin over latticed fingers.
“I do.”
Hero looked away because, as loath as they were to admit it, Villain was right. Hero was exhausted and in no state to fight. Not only were they not wearing any armor, but their face was exposed. The contract they signed with the agency forbade them from engaging in any work if their identity wasn’t properly concealed. They could lose…everything.
And so, biting their cheek in shame, they walked slowly towards the table and sat down. Villain let out a hum of satisfaction, getting up to restrain the Hero. Hero tried not to flinch as Villain took a scarred wrist, examined the broken skin, before pushing it down against the chair’s wooden arm, securing Hero’s wrist in a leather cuff.
“And where did you get this, sweetheart?” Villain purred as they took their other wrist, turning it under the light so Hero could see the rosy colors of the scar saturate beneath it.
“Where do you fucking think?” Hero practically spat back, flushing horribly in embarrassment. “Or do you not remember stabbing me with a nail at the warehouse? And I’m not your sweetheart.”
Hero hated Villain. Hero loathed them. They hated the way they spoke so gently, words caressing Hero’s ears as their hands went to their waist, securing the leather strap across their torso. Everything about Villain was like that—soft but firm, a white hot pain disguised behind a gentle touch.
“I remember feeling you squirm underneath me,” Villain said as they walked back to take a seat, though not before letting their fingers trail underneath Hero’s chin, tipping it up to demand their gaze.
They sat down. “I remember how good it felt. Feeling your body writhe underneath mine.”
“You’re disgusting,” Hero muttered.
“And you’re…” Villain said as they reached over, grabbing the neck of a bottle of red wine, “impressively dim. How is it you managed to forget about the fine print of such a deal?” They laughed a little. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that if you play with fire, you get burnt?”
“It—it was late, I wasn’t thinking,” Hero argued as their face began to heat up. “And you—you’re just an asshole!”
Villain faked an offended gasp as they poured the red into their own glass of wine. “Me? How could you say such a thing when I went to such lengths to make you such a delightful meal?”
“Right. Like I trust you enough to let that shit anywhere near my mouth.”
Villain slammed a fist on the table. The sound echoed throughout the apartment, and Hero jumped in their seat, heart rate spiking like a drum against their chest.
“This is spearhead and carnaroli risotto,” Villain corrected with a warning glance. “And it is anything but drugged. I need you to be awake after the meal. Wine, dear?”
Hero shook their head. “Fuck the meal. If you’re going to torture me, just do it. I’m not fucking talking, anyways.”
“A shame,” Villain said, taking a bite of rice. “I would rather enjoy the meal with you. It’s been ever so long since I’ve been on a date.”
“This is not a date,” Hero said.
“Hm, I don’t think I quite believe that.” Villain took another forkful of rice with a piece of the fish, and they reached over the table. “Eat, sweetheart.”
“I am not—”
Hero erupted into violent coughs as Villain used their open mouth as an invitation, shoving in their fork.
“Oh dear,” Villain said, getting up and rushing over to Hero. They grabbed a napkin, dabbing at Hero’s lips as Hero sputtered, coughing out bits of rice.
“What the hell, Villain!” Hero choked out, shaking their head away from Villain’s napkin. “Get off!”
“I’m afraid if you’re not going to eat willingly, I’ll have to tube-feed you,” Villain said, grabbing a fistful of Hero’s hair, slamming their head back against the seat. “I don’t much like starving my hostages. And if you’re planning on staying long enough to the point I’ll resort to torture because you refuse to give up information, I’d rather know now.”
Hero’s eyes widened. “T-tube feed?”
“It’s that or by hand, I’m afraid,” Villain said. “At least until we can get back to my base. You’ll have a proper cell there. With proper utensils.”
Villain ignored Hero’s shivering form, the fear finally kicking their nervous system into overdrive. They dipped over Hero’s plate, taking another forkful of food, and put it to Hero’s lips.
“Take a bite. Now.”
Villain let go of Hero’s hair and Hero gulped. Slowly, they leaned forward with an open mouth. Their lips closed around their fork and slid off, taking the food with it. They chewed, wincing when Villain put two fingers to their trachea, but forced a swallow. Maybe it would have tasted good if Hero wasn’t so fucking scared for their life.
“Good boy,” Villain muttered. “Another one, now.”
The moment dragged on forever. Hero forced away tears as they took every single bite that was offered to them, feeling completely infantilized whenever Villain set the fork down to dab at the corners of their mouth with a napkin. They tried to ignore Villain’s croons as their plate began to empty, trying to focus on the future; mentally preparing for whatever horrible pain was awaiting them in Villain’s clutches. But when they emptied their plate, something unexpected happened.
Villain smiled, pulling Hero’s chair out from underneath the table. They circled Hero, fingers combing through damp locks.
“What are you doing?” Hero asked, voice broken in fear.
“Rewarding you,” Villain replied simply, setting a knee between Hero’s legs.
Hero gasped. “What? Ngh—Mmph!”
“Sh, shhhhh,” Villain shushed them as they pressed their knee harder between Hero’s legs, their other hand jumping to caress Hero’s waist. “Don’t act so surprised. You know what it is I can do.”
“Physical contact can give you access to my memories, I know,” Hero practically cried as their heart lurched, stomach dropping as a spike of pleasure bloomed through their chest. Fuck. “You’ve already seen my memories, there’s nothing you can—!”
“Correct, sweetheart, but you’re missing the most important part,” Villain said. They slowly settled their weight over Hero’s lap, their palm trailing down Hero’s cheek to cup their face. They looked into Hero’s terrified, helpless, desperate eyes, and leaned forward. A husky voice tickled Hero’s ear. “I can also access your feelings.”
Hero gulped. “M-my feelings?”
“Mhm,” Villain crooned, dipping fingers under the hem of Hero’s shirt, trailing over their scarred skin. “I can access your memories and thoughts. Your desires.”
“No—”
“Don’t be ashamed, darling,” Villain whispered. “I assure you, it’s more than mutual.”
In an instant, Villain turned away, grabbing something that must have been sitting on the table. Hero took their chance, trying to buck their hips up to throw Villain off. Of course, it didn’t work. Instead, shock waves pooled in their groin at the pressure and they let out a soft whimper. They turned their head away, closing their eyes as they tried to fight the feeling.
But Villain was quicker. Soon, they turned back, forcefully turning Hero’s chin back towards them. And then, their lips collided. Hero gasped.
And then they sunk into Villain’s touch.
They kissed Villain’s lips, exhaling into their mouth before leaning forward with vigor. Villain was quick to respond, slamming Hero’s head against the seatback. They let their tongue slide against Hero’s lower lip, who squirmed beneath them in return. When a thumb found the hinge of Hero’s jaw, Hero didn’t fight. Instead, they obeyed, opening their mouth wider to the taste of…metal?
Villain pushed the cylindrical thing with the back of their tongue, forcing Hero’s head back as it slid into their mouth. Instinctually, Hero bit down to keep from swallowing the thing before sputtering, separating from the kiss with a pop of suctioned lips.
They caught it just before it slipped from their mouth, catching its ornate tail between their teeth. They looked down. The silver key gleamed with saliva. Hero’s eyes widened before darting towards their wrists. The lock on their leather restraint seemed to glow in its newfound attention. Hero looked up at Villain, who gave a charismatic grin.
“Free yourself. If you make the show good enough, I’ll consider taking you home. Or to bed. It is entirely your choice.”
“Yes, still,” Whumper seethed over the phone, beyond irritated at Caretaker for having taken the situation so lightly. “His temperature’s the exact fucking same.”
“Did you give him the ibuprofen?” Caretaker asked.
“Yes I fucking gave him the medicine, or else I wouldn’t be calling your sorry ass,” Whumper hissed.
He was standing over Whumpee, who was wrapped in layers upon layers of blankets on Whumper’s bed, his face barely peeking out from the top of the thickest comforter. His eyelids were sunken and purplish, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. And he was still shaking. God, why was he still shaking? Whumper clutched harder at the phone, trying to keep his composure. Whumpee couldn’t get any worse. Whumper wouldn’t let it happen.
“Has he gotten out of bed at all?” Caretaker asked.
Whumper pursed his lips. “Not since last night.”
“Jeez.” A pause. “Well, there’s still time to bring him up here. Hours are over, but I can close a little later if you’d like—”
“I told you, I’m not bringing him to the clinic,” Whumper said. “Too much of a risk. Whumpee, he—well—you never know with him. He could run.”
Whumper heard Caretaker sigh over the phone. “I’m sorry, you’re afraid your currently incapacitated, feverish hostage is gonna take off on you? After the state you left him in?”
“Not to mention the cameras,” Whumper added.
“Whumper, I’m risking my entire practice—hell—my entire life by letting you bring Whumpee into the clinic. And I’m honestly not worried anything will happen. Can’t you at least trust that?”
“No,” Whumper stated coldly. “I’m not coming to the clinic. You’re coming here. Bring whatever shit you need, but Whumpee isn’t leaving the fucking house.”
“I—fine,” Caretaker finally relented. “Let me just close up here and I can be at your house in about a half hour.”
It was all Whumper needed to hear. He hung up, set the phone down, and sat at the foot of his bed. His stomach clenched at the sight of Whumpee, who could already be mistaken for a corpse by how shallow his breaths appeared. Fuck. Whumpee better fucking survive this. With how much of a spitfire he could be, Whumper was shocked to see him in this condition. His Whumpee, knocked out by what started out as just the common cold? The boy Whumper spent months trying to tame? Impossible. And yet—
Whumpee moaned as an entire full-body shiver wracked his body. He clenched his teeth, rolled to the side, and let out a croak of a cry.
“A doctor is coming, sweetheart,” Whumper said, leaning forward to push sticky hair out of Whumpee’s face. “You’ll behave, yes?”
Despite his state, Whumper raised his eyebrows in surprise when Whumpee answered. “N-no…doctor…”
“Yes, a doctor,” Whumper challenged. “It can’t be helped, darling. It’s the fourth day of this. Surely you want to get better?”
He was satisfied when he caught the slightest nod in response. Good. At least he was conscious enough to be somewhat obedient.
—
“Good God, Whumper,” Caretaker said, standing over the bed as he took in Whumpee’s figure. “What the hell did you do to him?”
“I was only correcting his behavior. Besides, it only started out as a cold.”
“Did you—what—drown him?”
Whumper shook his head. “No, I left him in the snow overnight.” He reeled back when he saw Caretaker’s expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was a few hours. And he was fine when I came to collect him after. He only had a cough.”
“And that was how many days ago?” Caretaker asked, going over to the desk to set out all his supplies.
“Four.”
Despite his feverish state, constantly swimming between a dark, cold haze and confusing dreams that left him sore and panicked, Whumpee was awake. He could hear Whumper talking to someone—he assumed the doctor he’d been told was coming to see him. The doctor he thought he had only dreamt about. It was strange to care so little about someone else being so close to him in proximity after having only been in Whumper’s presence for months. He knew that a small part of himself—the lucid part that only appeared in spurts throughout the day—was internally screaming, begging for him to cry out for help. After months of endless waiting, just before him was a chance. A real chance to escape. But his body couldn’t care less at the news. He was in so much pain, battling between sticky heat and the most freezing cold, that opening his mouth to even whisper the word ‘help’ seemed a chore too great for him to handle. But the words he heard next immediately roused him.
“We’ll have to strip him first,” Caretaker explained. “Take off all his layers. They’re only worsening his temperature. Then we’ll run a bath. Lukewarm water. I can set up an IV to deliver fluids. How much has he eaten recently?”
Whumper shook his head once again. “Won’t eat.”
“What has he had to drink?”
“He won’t drink either.”
“Fluids will be acceptable then. But we’ll have to encourage him to take as much as he can orally. Then I’ll run a few tests, see if I can figure out exactly what’s causing the sickness.”
“What sort of tests?” Whumper asked.
“The standard stuff: a blood test and a urine sample, maybe a simple physical. But getting his temp down is priority. Go ahead and remove the blankets.”
The word echoed in Whumpee’s head, bouncing painfully off the walls of his skull.
Strip.
Whumpee didn’t want to strip. Stripping meant pain. Stripping meant an entire map of skin to be cut, to be beaten. Stripping meant baths where he was forced to sit leaned against Whumper’s chest between spread legs. Stripping meant being pushed onto the bed, knees forced apart—
“Nuh…no…!” Whumpee moaned as his blankets were pulled off of his body, taking with them the warmth that kept him barely sane. He looked up only to be greeted with shadows, silhouettes above his head. He felt something cold under his shirt.
“I know, I know,” Whumper said gently, followed by the snips of scissors against fabric. His shirt was being cut off. “You’ll be warm again soon, sweetheart, I promise.”
But Whumpee only cried when hands found the top of his sweatpants and began to pull downwards. He gave a sad attempt at a kick, only to be met with a pitying giggle from Whumper. But the cold seemed to sting him back to life. Before his underwear could be taken, Whumpee pushed himself to sit up, wrapping arms around his knees as he shuffled to the head of the bed. Before him he could see…was that the doctor?
He was about Whumper’s age and blonde. Surprisingly wearing actual scrubs. Was this…a real doctor? Who made house calls? How could Whumper allow such a thing?
“Ah, it seems introductions may be in order after all,” Whumper said with a smile. “Whumpee, this is a dear friend of mine, Caretaker.”
“Acquantaince,” Caretaker clarified.
Whumper chuckled. “Hm, yes. An acquaintance who, for a time now, has owed me a favor. He has so graciously agreed to come help me take care of you.”
Whumpee glowered as best he could at Caretaker. Of course Whumper would never have called a regular doctor. How could he have been so stupid to believe he had a chance at escape? His fever had fed him many lies throughout the days, but, this one sliced a little too deep.
“Darling, don’t be like that,” Whumper said, folding his arms. “Didn’t I tell you to behave?”
But Caretaker interrupted Whumpee’s chastisement. “I’m…just here to help you.”
“I d-don’t want h-help,” Whumpee stuttered through the cold.
“I’m so sorry about him,” Whumper said. “It seems this sickness has brought out his defiance.”
Caretaker shook his head before turning to Whumpee. “I’m not surprised. Would you be more comfortable if Whumper took your temperature instead of me? You would need to remove your underwear, and lay on your side.”
“...What?” Whumpee asked, heart hammering as his stomach churned. God, was he going to throw up?
“Rectal temperature, love,” Whumper clarified with a quirk at the edge of his lips. “It will help give Caretaker the most accurate reading.”
“No!” Whumpee immediately screamed, as loud as he could make it. “No, I—! We can just do the forehead one, we—that’s what we’ve been using this whole—!”
“I’m afraid this isn’t up for debate,” Whumper said, beginning to stalk forward towards his victim.
Tears he had long since believed to be beaten away stung Whumpee’s eyes as he forced himself into the corner against the wall. His stomach churned painfully at the thought of being completely naked again. In front of a complete stranger, no less. He put out his palms in defense as he attempted to buy himself time and convince Whumper to let him forego the process.
“Please, please,” Whumpee urged, “Please, Whumper, I—I don’t w-want this, I’m fine. It’s just a f-fever, it’ll g-go away. I’ll…I’ll eat, I’ll drink something, just….,” his last word was barely a whisper. “Please.”
“You are anything but fine,” Whumper replied firmly while Caretaker scratched the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable to be in such a situation. Whumpee imagined he didn’t have many patients to be unwilling captives.
“At least let me do it myself,” Whumpee cried. “I’ll g-go into the bathroom, and just—”
“Whumpee,” Whumper said, putting a knee on the bed before him. “If you keep arguing I’m afraid we are just going to have to force you. You don’t want that, do you?”
Whumpee could see how this would play out. He would fight back, of course. Not because he wanted to (although he truly, truly wanted to) but imagining himself in such a compromising position in front of a complete stranger would force him to react despite a fever-bitten body. He would bite, scratch, and kick, whatever he needed to do. But he knew he was weak, and it would only take seconds before he was wrestled out of his underwear and forced onto his stomach. Even if he could escape the room somehow, he wouldn’t be able to run far. It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced over a table or a countertop. And then—Whumpee blanched at the thought. A hand leapt to his mouth to keep from gagging.
“Whumper, I can tell him how to do it himself if he wants,” Caretaker murmured.
Whumper seemed to stop at the words before turning to Whumpee. “I assume you’d put up a fight if it were any other way?”
Whumpee, embarrassingly, nodded. “I…I can do it myself.”
“Fine,” Whumper nodded. “I trust you’ll do it accurately and follow instructions? I’m afraid a suspicious reading may convince us to…try again.”
There goes the plan of running the thermometer over hot water until it reads a lower grade fever so Caretaker could just leave. Whumpee was beginning to grow furious at him. Whumpee wanted to understand why. How. How could he have met Whumper? How could he be okay with this? Did he realize how much power he held in his hands?
Whumpee nodded. “I’ll do it right.”
Whumpee was instructed to go into the bathroom with the door just slightly open. He listened to Caretaker’s instructions, who was standing outside: two fingers at the top of the thermometer to help insert it about an inch into the rectum, and to hold it there for a minute until he heard three consecutive beeps. Whumpee eyed the vat of aquaphor that Whumper had prepared for him, hating that he had to do this. But, just wanting to get it over with, he lubricated the thermometer and did as instructed.
When the beeps sounded, he removed it, just happy to have the feeling out of his ass. He supposed that was one good thing about having been sick: Whumper didn’t fuck him. But that was another thing. Whumper refrained from fucking him not because he was afraid of getting sick, but because it was “no fun” when Whumpee wasn’t strong enough to even attempt a fight back. The nausea instantly returned.
Caretaker’s brows furrowed when Whumpee handed him the thermometer. “Whumper, start the bath.”
“What is it?”
“One-oh-three point six.”
Whumpee shivered when he saw Whumper’s reaction: a stiffening of the shoulders followed by a purse of the lips. “It’s gotten higher.”
The pair turned towards Whumpee. Whumpee shed a tear at what he knew was going to come next.
He was unceremoniously forced out of his underwear (Whumper made a point to do it right in front of Caretaker when Whumpee initially asked to undress in private). Then he was forced to wait on the toilet, shivering, as the tub filled with tepid water. By the time he was lowered into it, his attempt at his earlier fight caught up with him and he lost all energy. The chills returned with a vengeance at being forced into the water, which felt nothing short of an ice bath. He trembled so much his jaw quivered, his teeth clicking against each other with fervor. His stomach lurched repeatedly, and he found himself helped out of the tub after several minutes when the nausea caught up to him. That’s when he stayed bent over the toilet, shaking and wet, still naked, while Whumper rubbed his shoulders and held his hair back. All the while Caretaker was asking questions as he was becoming more and more dazed.
How often do the bouts of shivering occur? For how long?
Did he feel any numbness or tingling in his extremities?
How was his appetite? Weak? If so, for how long?
When did he last urinate? Have a bowel movement?
By the final question, Whumpee was laying his head over the toilet lid with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, ready to fall asleep. It was as if he was being forcibly pulled into darkness, and he was willing to accept it. In his last few moments of lucidity, he could feel being carried back into the bed, clean underwear being pulled over his hips, and being propped up on pillows, Whumper taking hold of his jaw to force his head up when it lolled to lay on his shoulder.
And then he saw it: a needle, being slipped into the crook of his elbow. A tube extending to a pole by the bedside. Something clear inside the connected pouch. The taste of metal in his mouth. He let out a cry. Whumper shushed him softly and planted a kiss on his forehead.
And then he was gone.
—
He could hear a faint rustling first. The clink of something made of glass being set down. The turn of a page. That’s when the feeling returned. Soreness in his back, tugging at his abdomen from throwing up. Oh, right. He vomited. And had been given a bath. And had been forced to—
He groaned and opened his eyes. At first it was dark. Had the lights been turned off? But then it came into view, static prickling away to reveal the bedroom he was all too familiar with. And then brown eyes met blue. Caretaker.
“Hello,” Caretaker said, walking towards Whumpee to place the back of his hand against his forehead before drawing it down to his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Whumpee coughed. God, his throat was dry. “Unwell.”
Caretaker chuckled at that, a kind, almost amicable smile pulling at his lips. “I’m not surprised. We’ve gotten the fever down by a degree, though.”
“Where’s Whumper?” Whumpee asked, eyes darting around to look for the man.
“He just stepped out,” Caretaker said. “I sent him on a run to grab some things that might be lighter on your stomach. Now that you’re awake, would you be willing to partake in some simple tests for me?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I…assume it will be easier for you without Whumper in the room.”
Whumpee scoffed at that. “Fucking genius over here, folks.”
He was surprised when Caretaker actually laughed at that, covering his mouth as if it was impolite.
“What do you need?”
“A urine test,” Caretaker said, pulling out an orange cup from behind him. “Simple enough, just—”
“Pee up to the line. Got it,” Whumpee said.
“Yes,” Caretaker confirmed. “I already took your blood while you were asleep. So one less of a needle.”
Whumpee frowned at that. “How long was I out?”
Caretaker shrugged. “Six, seven hours? I put a sedative in the IV to help you sleep. Among other things to hopefully help the pain.”
Whumpee’s heart picked up at the words. “Did you…I mean, did Whumper—”
“No one touched you,” Caretaker said, already horrifyingly aware of what Whumpee was asking. “All we did was change out the blanket when it got wet. I promise.”
I promise. What a…strange…thing to say. Whumpee would have pegged any friend of Whumper’s to be just another punishment waiting to happen. But Caretaker? God, Whumpee almost felt like he could trust him had he met him anywhere else. It was strange for him to take the cup and be helped out of bed (vertigo hitting heavily as he did so). Caretaker held him gently, only when necessary, helping pull the IV pole along. And for the first time in months, Whumpee locked the bathroom door behind himself while Caretaker stood outside of it. He relished in the firmness of the click. He almost wanted to unlock it just so he could hear it again.
He did his business, pissing for the first time in a day and a half before giving the cup to Caretaker and being brought back to bed. He was still cold, but whatever Caretaker had put through the IV was working. They chatted for several minutes. About normal things. If you could call the effects of hypothermia normal (which Caretaker suspected was what caused the onset of fever. “Rewarming is a tricky process. Do it wrong and you’re facing a whole different beast”). And when all seemed safe, and Whumper was still gone, Whumpee said his words.
“You could do it now, you know.”
Caretaker looked up, his smile fading. “Hm?”
Whumpee shrugged. “You know. Call 9-1-1. Save my entire fucking life. Let me see my family again.”
Caretaker seemed to blanch at that, taking in a stark breath before immediately looking away. “I…I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
“But why?” Whumpee asked, trying to sound normal in the fear that desperation in his voice would cause Caretaker to shut down the conversation. “You—you know what Whumper does to me. What he did to cause all this in the first place. How are you okay with that?”
“I’m not,” Caretaker said abruptly. “I—let me be clear. What Whumper does to you is…disgusting. Abhorrent. But he and I have a very…complicated relationship. He’s guilty of many things, one of them being what he does to you. But I…,” his eyes went glossy. “I’ve done things, too.”
“So, what, you only have interest in saving your own ass?” Whumpee asked, unable to stop the tears from beginning to appear. “There’s no way you could just…just give me the phone for one goddamn minute just so I can…go home again?”
Caretaker took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Whumpee stared, stunned, tears streaming down his face with ease as he watched Caretaker’s guilty expression force him to turn away.
“So…that’s it, then? You’re gonna make me better just so Whumper can keep beating the shit out of me?”
Silence.
“Can you at least…,” Whumpee hiccuped. “Can you at least tell me they haven’t lost hope?”
This caught Caretaker’s attention. The man looked up. “Your mother…she searches for you every day.”
Whumpee collapsed into tears, bent over as his lungs ached for recovery from the horrible croaking erupting from his chest. He hiccuped, wiping away the wetness just for it to be replaced until he was reduced to sobs. Caretaker shuffled forward, putting a hand on Whumpee’s shoulder. But Whumpee shrieked, pushing the hand away before scooting to the other side of the bed, wishing that he was still sedated. And then, a voice caught his attention.
“How touching.”
Whumper closed the door behind him, tilting his head as eyes darted between Caretaker and Whumpee, who was still experiencing a fit.
“I’m sorry, Caretaker, but it seems Whumpee needs to be alone for a moment,” Whumper said. “Could you and I have a chat outside?”
Caretaker’s eyes widened, but he jumped away from Whumpee with a hasty nod.
“Get the fuck out!” Whumpee screamed, aiming his voice at Caretaker. “Get him out!”
Whumper nodded. “Of course, love. I hate to see you so upset.”
And Whumpee was. For the first time, he had never felt more rage in his life, which was saying something. And this time, it wasn’t aimed at Whumper. It was aimed at Caretaker. The one man with the power to save him, the device in his pocket with the three simple numbers that promised Whumpee’s mother a son…gone. Refusing. Whumpee had never felt such a betrayal.
As the door closed, he screamed, tearing at his IV, ripping the needle out before burying his face into the pillow to cry. He cried for a very long time.
Once his breath became shallow and his sobs subsided, he felt a hand stroke down his bare, sweaty back.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He won’t bother you anymore.”
Whumper who succeeds in breaking Whumpee—and regrets it
CW: noncon
Whumper who misses Whumpee’s fire and defiance, constantly trying to tease it out of them only to be met with sunken, tired eyes. Whumpee doesn’t have the energy to deal with it right now.
Whumper who tries to provoke Whumpee. Attacks their character or their family to set Whumpee off and actually hear Whumpee’s voice. Instead, they’re only met with crying.
Spoiling Whumpee: getting Whumpee games or puzzles. Something to stimulate their mind so Whumper stops feeling like they’re living with a houseplant.
Whumpee who ignores the gifts. They’re too tired to do anything, anyways.
Whumper inviting Whumpee to sit down at the table for meals. Maybe some healthy, normal-person conversation could help?
Whumpee whose appetite starts to become affected by their depression. They refuse almost every meal, just taking enough bites to satisfy Whumper as Whumper watches Whumpee get skinnier and skinnier.
Punishing Whumpee for “being boring.” Whumpee who closes their eyes and just accepts it. The sooner they pass out, the better.
In contrast, withholding punishment. Being kind and affectionate, trying to draw Whumpee back out of their shell. Too late. Whumpee won’t flinch away from the touch, but they won’t sink into it either.
Forced drugging. Whumper’s sick and tired of Whumpee’s “bad mood.” They put a little something-something in Whumpee’s water, just looking for a reaction.
Whumper bringing in a ‘doctor’ to evaluate Whumpee because “They’re just not getting better.”
NSFW edition
Prioritizing Whumpee’s pleasure. Making it gentle and affectionate. Keeping them unrestrained to give them just a little bit more control over the situation. Asking "do you like it when I do this? How about this? Does that feel good to you?"
Better yet—Whumper getting even more annoyed when this doesn’t work and tries to stop themselves from forcing Whumpee to come. You can’t force pleasure, can you?
Kisses. Everywhere. Telling Whumpee they’re loved. Trying to draw a reaction. Was that a moan of pleasure or a groan of irritation?
Or doing the opposite. Whumper fucking their Whumpee when nothing else seems to stir them. Wasn't originally in the plan, but, oh well. Plans change. Whumpee thinks they’re being bent over the table for a standard belting to the back. For the first time in weeks, they start to scream and fight when their clothes are forcibly ripped off and their legs are forced apart. But thank God they can still make noise, right?
“Yes, still,” Whumper seethed over the phone, beyond irritated at Caretaker for having taken the situation so lightly. “His temperature’s the exact fucking same.”
“Did you give him the ibuprofen?” Caretaker asked.
“Yes I fucking gave him the medicine, or else I wouldn’t be calling your sorry ass,” Whumper hissed.
He was standing over Whumpee, who was wrapped in layers upon layers of blankets on Whumper’s bed, his face barely peeking out from the top of the thickest comforter. His eyelids were sunken and purplish, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. And he was still shaking. God, why was he still shaking? Whumper clutched harder at the phone, trying to keep his composure. Whumpee couldn’t get any worse. Whumper wouldn’t let it happen.
“Has he gotten out of bed at all?” Caretaker asked.
Whumper pursed his lips. “Not since last night.”
“Jeez.” A pause. “Well, there’s still time to bring him up here. Hours are over, but I can close a little later if you’d like—”
“I told you, I’m not bringing him to the clinic,” Whumper said. “Too much of a risk. Whumpee, he—well—you never know with him. He could run.”
Whumper heard Caretaker sigh over the phone. “I’m sorry, you’re afraid your currently incapacitated, feverish hostage is gonna take off on you? After the state you left him in?”
“Not to mention the cameras,” Whumper added.
“Whumper, I’m risking my entire practice—hell—my entire life by letting you bring Whumpee into the clinic. And I’m honestly not worried anything will happen. Can’t you at least trust that?”
“No,” Whumper stated coldly. “I’m not coming to the clinic. You’re coming here. Bring whatever shit you need, but Whumpee isn’t leaving the fucking house.”
“I—fine,” Caretaker finally relented. “Let me just close up here and I can be at your house in about a half hour.”
It was all Whumper needed to hear. He hung up, set the phone down, and sat at the foot of his bed. His stomach clenched at the sight of Whumpee, who could already be mistaken for a corpse by how shallow his breaths appeared. Fuck. Whumpee better fucking survive this. With how much of a spitfire he could be, Whumper was shocked to see him in this condition. His Whumpee, knocked out by what started out as just the common cold? The boy Whumper spent months trying to tame? Impossible. And yet—
Whumpee moaned as an entire full-body shiver wracked his body. He clenched his teeth, rolled to the side, and let out a croak of a cry.
“A doctor is coming, sweetheart,” Whumper said, leaning forward to push sticky hair out of Whumpee’s face. “You’ll behave, yes?”
Despite his state, Whumper raised his eyebrows in surprise when Whumpee answered. “N-no…doctor…”
“Yes, a doctor,” Whumper challenged. “It can’t be helped, darling. It’s the fourth day of this. Surely you want to get better?”
He was satisfied when he caught the slightest nod in response. Good. At least he was conscious enough to be somewhat obedient.
—
“Good God, Whumper,” Caretaker said, standing over the bed as he took in Whumpee’s figure. “What the hell did you do to him?”
“I was only correcting his behavior. Besides, it only started out as a cold.”
“Did you—what—drown him?”
Whumper shook his head. “No, I left him in the snow overnight.” He reeled back when he saw Caretaker’s expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was a few hours. And he was fine when I came to collect him after. He only had a cough.”
“And that was how many days ago?” Caretaker asked, going over to the desk to set out all his supplies.
“Four.”
Despite his feverish state, constantly swimming between a dark, cold haze and confusing dreams that left him sore and panicked, Whumpee was awake. He could hear Whumper talking to someone—he assumed the doctor he’d been told was coming to see him. The doctor he thought he had only dreamt about. It was strange to care so little about someone else being so close to him in proximity after having only been in Whumper’s presence for months. He knew that a small part of himself—the lucid part that only appeared in spurts throughout the day—was internally screaming, begging for him to cry out for help. After months of endless waiting, just before him was a chance. A real chance to escape. But his body couldn’t care less at the news. He was in so much pain, battling between sticky heat and the most freezing cold, that opening his mouth to even whisper the word ‘help’ seemed a chore too great for him to handle. But the words he heard next immediately roused him.
“We’ll have to strip him first,” Caretaker explained. “Take off all his layers. They’re only worsening his temperature. Then we’ll run a bath. Lukewarm water. I can set up an IV to deliver fluids. How much has he eaten recently?”
Whumper shook his head once again. “Won’t eat.”
“What has he had to drink?”
“He won’t drink either.”
“Fluids will be acceptable then. But we’ll have to encourage him to take as much as he can orally. Then I’ll run a few tests, see if I can figure out exactly what’s causing the sickness.”
“What sort of tests?” Whumper asked.
“The standard stuff: a blood test and a urine sample, maybe a simple physical. But getting his temp down is priority. Go ahead and remove the blankets.”
The word echoed in Whumpee’s head, bouncing painfully off the walls of his skull.
Strip.
Whumpee didn’t want to strip. Stripping meant pain. Stripping meant an entire map of skin to be cut, to be beaten. Stripping meant baths where he was forced to sit leaned against Whumper’s chest between spread legs. Stripping meant being pushed onto the bed, knees forced apart—
“Nuh…no…!” Whumpee moaned as his blankets were pulled off of his body, taking with them the warmth that kept him barely sane. He looked up only to be greeted with shadows, silhouettes above his head. He felt something cold under his shirt.
“I know, I know,” Whumper said gently, followed by the snips of scissors against fabric. His shirt was being cut off. “You’ll be warm again soon, sweetheart, I promise.”
But Whumpee only cried when hands found the top of his sweatpants and began to pull downwards. He gave a sad attempt at a kick, only to be met with a pitying giggle from Whumper. But the cold seemed to sting him back to life. Before his underwear could be taken, Whumpee pushed himself to sit up, wrapping arms around his knees as he shuffled to the head of the bed. Before him he could see…was that the doctor?
He was about Whumper’s age and blonde. Surprisingly wearing actual scrubs. Was this…a real doctor? Who made house calls? How could Whumper allow such a thing?
“Ah, it seems introductions may be in order after all,” Whumper said with a smile. “Whumpee, this is a dear friend of mine, Caretaker.”
“Acquantaince,” Caretaker clarified.
Whumper chuckled. “Hm, yes. An acquaintance who, for a time now, has owed me a favor. He has so graciously agreed to come help me take care of you.”
Whumpee glowered as best he could at Caretaker. Of course Whumper would never have called a regular doctor. How could he have been so stupid to believe he had a chance at escape? His fever had fed him many lies throughout the days, but, this one sliced a little too deep.
“Darling, don’t be like that,” Whumper said, folding his arms. “Didn’t I tell you to behave?”
But Caretaker interrupted Whumpee’s chastisement. “I’m…just here to help you.”
“I d-don’t want h-help,” Whumpee stuttered through the cold.
“I’m so sorry about him,” Whumper said. “It seems this sickness has brought out his defiance.”
Caretaker shook his head before turning to Whumpee. “I’m not surprised. Would you be more comfortable if Whumper took your temperature instead of me? You would need to remove your underwear, and lay on your side.”
“...What?” Whumpee asked, heart hammering as his stomach churned. God, was he going to throw up?
“Rectal temperature, love,” Whumper clarified with a quirk at the edge of his lips. “It will help give Caretaker the most accurate reading.”
“No!” Whumpee immediately screamed, as loud as he could make it. “No, I—! We can just do the forehead one, we—that’s what we’ve been using this whole—!”
“I’m afraid this isn’t up for debate,” Whumper said, beginning to stalk forward towards his victim.
Tears he had long since believed to be beaten away stung Whumpee’s eyes as he forced himself into the corner against the wall. His stomach churned painfully at the thought of being completely naked again. In front of a complete stranger, no less. He put out his palms in defense as he attempted to buy himself time and convince Whumper to let him forego the process.
“Please, please,” Whumpee urged, “Please, Whumper, I—I don’t w-want this, I’m fine. It’s just a f-fever, it’ll g-go away. I’ll…I’ll eat, I’ll drink something, just….,” his last word was barely a whisper. “Please.”
“You are anything but fine,” Whumper replied firmly while Caretaker scratched the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable to be in such a situation. Whumpee imagined he didn’t have many patients to be unwilling captives.
“At least let me do it myself,” Whumpee cried. “I’ll g-go into the bathroom, and just—”
“Whumpee,” Whumper said, putting a knee on the bed before him. “If you keep arguing I’m afraid we are just going to have to force you. You don’t want that, do you?”
Whumpee could see how this would play out. He would fight back, of course. Not because he wanted to (although he truly, truly wanted to) but imagining himself in such a compromising position in front of a complete stranger would force him to react despite a fever-bitten body. He would bite, scratch, and kick, whatever he needed to do. But he knew he was weak, and it would only take seconds before he was wrestled out of his underwear and forced onto his stomach. Even if he could escape the room somehow, he wouldn’t be able to run far. It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced over a table or a countertop. And then—Whumpee blanched at the thought. A hand leapt to his mouth to keep from gagging.
“Whumper, I can tell him how to do it himself if he wants,” Caretaker murmured.
Whumper seemed to stop at the words before turning to Whumpee. “I assume you’d put up a fight if it were any other way?”
Whumpee, embarrassingly, nodded. “I…I can do it myself.”
“Fine,” Whumper nodded. “I trust you’ll do it accurately and follow instructions? I’m afraid a suspicious reading may convince us to…try again.”
There goes the plan of running the thermometer over hot water until it reads a lower grade fever so Caretaker could just leave. Whumpee was beginning to grow furious at him. Whumpee wanted to understand why. How. How could he have met Whumper? How could he be okay with this? Did he realize how much power he held in his hands?
Whumpee nodded. “I’ll do it right.”
Whumpee was instructed to go into the bathroom with the door just slightly open. He listened to Caretaker’s instructions, who was standing outside: two fingers at the top of the thermometer to help insert it about an inch into the rectum, and to hold it there for a minute until he heard three consecutive beeps. Whumpee eyed the vat of aquaphor that Whumper had prepared for him, hating that he had to do this. But, just wanting to get it over with, he lubricated the thermometer and did as instructed.
When the beeps sounded, he removed it, just happy to have the feeling out of his ass. He supposed that was one good thing about having been sick: Whumper didn’t fuck him. But that was another thing. Whumper refrained from fucking him not because he was afraid of getting sick, but because it was “no fun” when Whumpee wasn’t strong enough to even attempt a fight back. The nausea instantly returned.
Caretaker’s brows furrowed when Whumpee handed him the thermometer. “Whumper, start the bath.”
“What is it?”
“One-oh-three point six.”
Whumpee shivered when he saw Whumper’s reaction: a stiffening of the shoulders followed by a purse of the lips. “It’s gotten higher.”
The pair turned towards Whumpee. Whumpee shed a tear at what he knew was going to come next.
He was unceremoniously forced out of his underwear (Whumper made a point to do it right in front of Caretaker when Whumpee initially asked to undress in private). Then he was forced to wait on the toilet, shivering, as the tub filled with tepid water. By the time he was lowered into it, his attempt at his earlier fight caught up with him and he lost all energy. The chills returned with a vengeance at being forced into the water, which felt nothing short of an ice bath. He trembled so much his jaw quivered, his teeth clicking against each other with fervor. His stomach lurched repeatedly, and he found himself helped out of the tub after several minutes when the nausea caught up to him. That’s when he stayed bent over the toilet, shaking and wet, still naked, while Whumper rubbed his shoulders and held his hair back. All the while Caretaker was asking questions as he was becoming more and more dazed.
How often do the bouts of shivering occur? For how long?
Did he feel any numbness or tingling in his extremities?
How was his appetite? Weak? If so, for how long?
When did he last urinate? Have a bowel movement?
By the final question, Whumpee was laying his head over the toilet lid with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, ready to fall asleep. It was as if he was being forcibly pulled into darkness, and he was willing to accept it. In his last few moments of lucidity, he could feel being carried back into the bed, clean underwear being pulled over his hips, and being propped up on pillows, Whumper taking hold of his jaw to force his head up when it lolled to lay on his shoulder.
And then he saw it: a needle, being slipped into the crook of his elbow. A tube extending to a pole by the bedside. Something clear inside the connected pouch. The taste of metal in his mouth. He let out a cry. Whumper shushed him softly and planted a kiss on his forehead.
And then he was gone.
—
He could hear a faint rustling first. The clink of something made of glass being set down. The turn of a page. That’s when the feeling returned. Soreness in his back, tugging at his abdomen from throwing up. Oh, right. He vomited. And had been given a bath. And had been forced to—
He groaned and opened his eyes. At first it was dark. Had the lights been turned off? But then it came into view, static prickling away to reveal the bedroom he was all too familiar with. And then brown eyes met blue. Caretaker.
“Hello,” Caretaker said, walking towards Whumpee to place the back of his hand against his forehead before drawing it down to his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Whumpee coughed. God, his throat was dry. “Unwell.”
Caretaker chuckled at that, a kind, almost amicable smile pulling at his lips. “I’m not surprised. We’ve gotten the fever down by a degree, though.”
“Where’s Whumper?” Whumpee asked, eyes darting around to look for the man.
“He just stepped out,” Caretaker said. “I sent him on a run to grab some things that might be lighter on your stomach. Now that you’re awake, would you be willing to partake in some simple tests for me?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I…assume it will be easier for you without Whumper in the room.”
Whumpee scoffed at that. “Fucking genius over here, folks.”
He was surprised when Caretaker actually laughed at that, covering his mouth as if it was impolite.
“What do you need?”
“A urine test,” Caretaker said, pulling out an orange cup from behind him. “Simple enough, just—”
“Pee up to the line. Got it,” Whumpee said.
“Yes,” Caretaker confirmed. “I already took your blood while you were asleep. So one less of a needle.”
Whumpee frowned at that. “How long was I out?”
Caretaker shrugged. “Six, seven hours? I put a sedative in the IV to help you sleep. Among other things to hopefully help the pain.”
Whumpee’s heart picked up at the words. “Did you…I mean, did Whumper—”
“No one touched you,” Caretaker said, already horrifyingly aware of what Whumpee was asking. “All we did was change out the blanket when it got wet. I promise.”
I promise. What a…strange…thing to say. Whumpee would have pegged any friend of Whumper’s to be just another punishment waiting to happen. But Caretaker? God, Whumpee almost felt like he could trust him had he met him anywhere else. It was strange for him to take the cup and be helped out of bed (vertigo hitting heavily as he did so). Caretaker held him gently, only when necessary, helping pull the IV pole along. And for the first time in months, Whumpee locked the bathroom door behind himself while Caretaker stood outside of it. He relished in the firmness of the click. He almost wanted to unlock it just so he could hear it again.
He did his business, pissing for the first time in a day and a half before giving the cup to Caretaker and being brought back to bed. He was still cold, but whatever Caretaker had put through the IV was working. They chatted for several minutes. About normal things. If you could call the effects of hypothermia normal (which Caretaker suspected was what caused the onset of fever. “Rewarming is a tricky process. Do it wrong and you’re facing a whole different beast”). And when all seemed safe, and Whumper was still gone, Whumpee said his words.
“You could do it now, you know.”
Caretaker looked up, his smile fading. “Hm?”
Whumpee shrugged. “You know. Call 9-1-1. Save my entire fucking life. Let me see my family again.”
Caretaker seemed to blanch at that, taking in a stark breath before immediately looking away. “I…I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
“But why?” Whumpee asked, trying to sound normal in the fear that desperation in his voice would cause Caretaker to shut down the conversation. “You—you know what Whumper does to me. What he did to cause all this in the first place. How are you okay with that?”
“I’m not,” Caretaker said abruptly. “I—let me be clear. What Whumper does to you is…disgusting. Abhorrent. But he and I have a very…complicated relationship. He’s guilty of many things, one of them being what he does to you. But I…,” his eyes went glossy. “I’ve done things, too.”
“So, what, you only have interest in saving your own ass?” Whumpee asked, unable to stop the tears from beginning to appear. “There’s no way you could just…just give me the phone for one goddamn minute just so I can…go home again?”
Caretaker took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Whumpee stared, stunned, tears streaming down his face with ease as he watched Caretaker’s guilty expression force him to turn away.
“So…that’s it, then? You’re gonna make me better just so Whumper can keep beating the shit out of me?”
Silence.
“Can you at least…,” Whumpee hiccuped. “Can you at least tell me they haven’t lost hope?”
This caught Caretaker’s attention. The man looked up. “Your mother…she searches for you every day.”
Whumpee collapsed into tears, bent over as his lungs ached for recovery from the horrible croaking erupting from his chest. He hiccuped, wiping away the wetness just for it to be replaced until he was reduced to sobs. Caretaker shuffled forward, putting a hand on Whumpee’s shoulder. But Whumpee shrieked, pushing the hand away before scooting to the other side of the bed, wishing that he was still sedated. And then, a voice caught his attention.
“How touching.”
Whumper closed the door behind him, tilting his head as eyes darted between Caretaker and Whumpee, who was still experiencing a fit.
“I’m sorry, Caretaker, but it seems Whumpee needs to be alone for a moment,” Whumper said. “Could you and I have a chat outside?”
Caretaker’s eyes widened, but he jumped away from Whumpee with a hasty nod.
“Get the fuck out!” Whumpee screamed, aiming his voice at Caretaker. “Get him out!”
Whumper nodded. “Of course, love. I hate to see you so upset.”
And Whumpee was. For the first time, he had never felt more rage in his life, which was saying something. And this time, it wasn’t aimed at Whumper. It was aimed at Caretaker. The one man with the power to save him, the device in his pocket with the three simple numbers that promised Whumpee’s mother a son…gone. Refusing. Whumpee had never felt such a betrayal.
As the door closed, he screamed, tearing at his IV, ripping the needle out before burying his face into the pillow to cry. He cried for a very long time.
Once his breath became shallow and his sobs subsided, he felt a hand stroke down his bare, sweaty back.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He won’t bother you anymore.”
Hasan is slow to trust after Declan's escape attempt, but they're sure to keep him entertained throughout the day.
Content warnings: creepy/intimate whumper, captivity whump, drugging mention, tied down, recorded whump, fear of noncon, threatened noncon, suggestive comments, auditory torture, stalking, forced nudity, forced stripping, brief needles.
Word count: 3197
~~~
Waking up in a panic was a tall order when wrapped up in a drug-induced haze. Each thought, usually a frantic jumble, was viscous and tangible as it bubbled up.
I didn’t make it out.
They drugged me.
I was supposed to be home, watching the news of their arrest.
They told me they didn’t have sedatives.
Why the fuck did I BELIEVE THEM.
I’m going to die here.
I miss mom. I miss everyone.
They drugged me.
Why did they drug me.
I know why.
I know.
Oh god.
They did.
Didn’t they?
Declan descended into his body one limb at a time. His thoughts led him to his legs but they wouldn’t move, so he worked his awareness up to his arms. Still, it was like reaching through gelatin.
That wasn’t unusual, of course. He’d convinced himself that the doctor severed his nerves after top surgery, and it had taken a pinch from Dad to make his arm jolt under waning anesthesia.
But definitive toe wiggles and flexing feet led Declan’s senses outside of himself to the rough, scratchy fibers that ensnared him. Wrists and ankles were wrapped up tight and spread against cot bars: arms by his side, legs out straight, militant in their formality.
Lifting his head was a Herculean task that only brought miserable confirmation. Ropes, thick and serpentine, and so much scarier than the image his mind had conjured up. He watched himself struggle in vain, every movement doing nothing but flexing the strength of Hasan’s knots. They slid up and down the rods but refused to loosen or give.
Declan took a deep breath and shimmied his legs apart, bending at the knee to feel the stress, then lifting his hips when no red flags prevailed. Any encounter would have made itself known by now but, deep down, he knew Hasan having their way with him would bring worse side effects than any previous partner.
He’d been redressed in a pair of black briefs, now bunching up as he set himself down, which left his torso and legs just as bare as he’d been on the couch… Last night? Earlier? The room didn’t offer any hints past the mercifully dimmer lighting and-
He froze.
That fucking tripod. He’d missed it in his initial haze, but now… It towered over him just a yard or two away, a fierce red light winking every few seconds. Dread piled heavy in Declan’s stomach. No privacy. It had been a privilege here to begin with, but every subsequent loss was just as devastating as the first.
Had he been photographed nude, too?
Would they record his death?
Would his corpse ever be lain to rest?
A shiver forced his shoulders to his chin and pulled at his back, but his attention was pulled in a new direction when bare skin scraped against plastic. Only then did his senses compare notes: a heavy head, lack of sound, and familiar pressure on his temples. All indicative of a pair of headphones.
In fact, it wore just like his streaming headset. Just like it. Declan rubbed the side against his shoulder and, to his horror, the ridges lined up exactly before a strip of… tape? Trying to shove them off ignited a new sensation. Duct tape stuck to cropped hair behind him and touched over the bridge of his nose, keeping the headphones firmly in place.
But these were his. Which could only mean that Hasan had broken into his apartment. Shit, shit, what the hell were they doing there?! This was day five- no day six, so when had that even happened? How long had they been watching him?
A bead of sweat rolled onto the adhesive.
"Cute move you did there. Do you usually put out like that in the mornings?"
“Jesus- fuck!” Not only had Hasan’s voice come out of nowhere, but the volume was cranked up to an excruciating degree. “What do you want?”
“Well, I was just watching you finally wake up and, to my delight, you put on quite the show,” they drawled. It took a moment for their words to click.
They’d seen him check. That godforsaken camera had seen every tiny movement, broadcast it to his tormentor, and given them a show up close and personal.
"You’re sick." And he felt himself lurch as he said it.
"Feeling quite well, actually," Hasan shrugged.
"You fucking shouldn’t be! You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"Careful, Dec. Wouldn’t want anyone overhearing us, would we?"
He started at that. Hasan was supposed to be at work. Someone could listen in.
"Help! HELP! Can anyone hear me?!"
"Oh, loud and clear, handsome. Fuck, I wish I’d started my break just now." There was a soft chuckle on the other end and the sound of a hand running through their hair. "You’ve never played out a fantasy, have you? Played with the idea of getting caught? It makes things a whole lot steamier, I’ll tell you that.”
Teeth clacked against a metal spoon, only amplified by the volume of the headphones and Declan seethed through his teeth.
"Oh yeah, that tracks. You like to watch people sleep, so of course you’re one of those freaks who gets their rocks off in public too."
They laughed heartily at that.
"God, you really haven’t! Nobody will catch you! That’s the whole point! You’re in my earbuds, in my car, in a near-empty carpark. Nobody would hear your screams even if I bled you dry.”
And Hasan laughed on as if the threat of violence was entirely commonplace. For them, it surely was.
“Hardy-har, asshole. What’s the point of all this?” He swallowed but the lump in his throat remained. He had to hold his foot against the cot bar to keep it from tapping.
“As much as I’d love to explain the obvious and watch you squirm, I’ve got a job to get back to. I’ll be sure to call back later, love.”
“Wait, wait! How long are you leaving me like this? I-I need to eat and drink, and-!”
“Au revoir~!”
“No, hey! Come on, get back here!” But he was answered only by the pounding in his ears, already fading away as his body recognized Hasan’s absence.
All the adrenaline faded in an instant and nausea churned up in its place. It scorched his throat with rising waves of bile, leaving Declan with no option but to swallow it back.
A tear slipped between his lips before he realized he’d shed it.
Sure, it wasn’t any mystery why Hasan had tied him down. He should have known he wouldn’t be trusted again, even behind a locked door, but that was a problem easily solved by an ankle chain only a few days prior. Considering the camera, this farce was based purely on optics. It hadn’t even been ten minutes and Declan was ready to crawl out of his skin.
The ropes made him itch but twisting against them forced sharp, stiff fibers into inflamed skin. Being held so still only gave him the urge to twitch and squirm. Hunger pangs grabbed at his stomach and twisted it into unbearable cramps until he was gasping for breath. Flashes of hot-cold drove shivers up and down him. An itch was growing in his throat.
Declan’s first urge was to google symptoms of an overdose. His second was to call someone and ask.
His third was to try and get Hasan’s attention. Not happening. Banish the thought.
Even if he was experiencing overdose symptoms it should have killed him in his sleep. Or would it just make him sleep longer? It couldn’t have been far into the evening when Hasan fed him that poison and, considering they were on a break already, he’d been under for at least twelve hours.
Waking up was certainly a good sign.
There was no way to measure time, especially through the fog in his head. But when the voice of his nightmares tuned back in, Declan knew it hadn’t been long enough.
“Why hello again.”
“Shouldn’t you be working?” Declan huffed. The idea of company was nice until it was actually there.
“That’s no way to greet me, Dec. I’m on break!”
“Untrue. You were on break half an hour ago.”
“It’s been longer than that. Oh- did I forget to leave you a clock?”
Declan made sure to stare down the camera before he rolled his eyes.
“Don’t get yourself fired. I don’t want to see your ugly mug more often than I have to.”
“You’re so dense. I’d be fired if I weren’t on this break.”
“Where the hell do you work?!”
“An airport.”
“Oh yeah, what’s so strenuous? Patting people down is too tough for you? Try working retail, pussy.”
“You know, the tower isn’t quite as loud as Walmart, but I get the feeling that air traffic controllers have it just a touch harder.”
“Well, have fun with your radar or whatever. Save some crashing planes to feed your guilty conscience. I’ll be here.” He was going to cry again. Declan turned his head, blinked the tears out, and took a deep breath to center himself. Another breakdown wouldn’t fix anything.
“Poor thing,” Hasan crooned. “You must be lonely.”
“I’m not lonely-”
“But you are. You miss the voices and faces of other people, don’t you? The baristas at Fox in the Snow? Or the cashiers at Lucky’s?”
Declan went silent. His eyes snapped back to the camera.
“What?”
“You never said those names on stream, of course,” Hasan prattled on. “There were vague descriptions like the old garage transformed into a coffee shop, or the local grocer who doesn’t donate to troubling political causes. Things that would mean nothing without knowing a city.” They paused, clearly expecting a protest from their unwilling audience.
“Which is why I don’t disclose that.” Said defense was slow and tight.
“You most certainly did. Or were you not in the class of 2018 at the Columbus College of Art and Design?”
Declan swallowed and closed his eyes, feeling his line of reasoning warp with every step.
“Most people have moved out of their college town three years after graduating,” he said.
“How unfortunate for you. If you had, perhaps I’d have had more trouble finding you.” Hasan’s sultry voice pricked goosebumps up on every inch of skin, blood running cold beneath. He flinched, followed by a proper shudder.
“...how long have you been stalking me?”
“Before Wednesday? Maybe two months.”
Declan didn’t think his heart could sink any further. Two months of his life, an ant under a magnifying glass, and he hadn’t noticed a thing until he caught fire.
“God, I mean, I think that’s how I became so infatuated with you,” they sighed wistfully. “No matter how hard I looked, you eluded me. I had your location narrowed down to a single street. I knew your favorite restaurants. I could have drawn a tremendous example of your weekly schedule. But I didn’t have a face to look for, nor a name to call. Then my washing machine broke. So I took it as a sign.”
They paused for a short moment.
“I could have written off my assumptions if not for that. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? You posted a video in that laundromat, and, unfortunately for you, I recognized it. I made the drive. And in came this handsome, smiling face, making a beeline right for me. He opened his mouth and your voice came out. Then he offered your hand and… it felt like fate.”
Declan sucked in a quick breath.
“I didn’t do any of this for you–”
“Yet I was captivated.”
“–and this isn’t fate. You made a choice.”
“But it would be so much easier for you if it were, Dec. If you knew that trying to leave truly was pointless because a force higher than the both of us was keeping you with me,” Hasan purred.
“Good thing that’s not true.” Declan’s fists shook and he pressed his forehead into the pillow–a fraught effort to relieve the pounding behind his eyes.
“You’re entitled to your belief, just as I’m entitled to mine. But you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on it while I work.”
He caught the distinctive tap this time when Hasan turned off their microphone but the silence didn’t persist. Music replaced their voice, starting with a catchy beat, but quickly devolving into something more striking. The driving tempo was accompanied by pitch shifted sound effects and booming bass that quickly overwhelmed Declan’s senses.
He recognized it as a style of techno that had recently come into vogue and recalled once cruelly referring to it as audial torture.
It was a regrettably flippant statement.
A singer’s voice cut into the noise but it only added another layer to keep track of as Declan lost himself. His heart was beating fast enough to hear if not for the headphones’ deafening volume. Ragged breaths were only evidenced by the sensation of expansion and contraction. No amount of thrashing could dislodge the source.
And it went on that way. Each song melded into the next without a single moment of silence between, scraping at Declan’s awareness until it was raw from overstimulation and every beat sent him further under.
Silence sounded different when it finally greeted him again, buzzing and crackling with static electricity.
Hasan engaged him in conversation and laughed when he mentioned the music. Laughed when he asked them to turn it off. Said his eyes looked good rimmed in red.
They left it on until they came home.
Declan lifted his head to meet their hands and Hasan took their time even then.
“Isn’t that so much better?” The headphones lay abandoned, still spitting out audio, but they were focused on him. On cradling his chin and wiping at dried tear tracks. Dragging fingers through hair marred by sweat and struggle. The tape left a slick residue that they rubbed at like a stain.
“Leave,” Declan managed weakly.
“Silly boy, I just got here!”
“You spent the whole day torturing me. That’s enough. You can leave.”
He leaned back and Hasan followed, nuzzling his nose with their own. Gold wire rims threatened to slice his cheeks if they pressed any closer.
“No. It’s not.” The words formed without effort, as if engaging in casual debate. A hand on the back of his neck kept Declan right where he was wanted. “I have the freedom to leave. To stop. But you do not.”
“Shame on me for assuming you might want a second opinion, then.” The usual bite in his voice wavered when their hand slid up into his hair. Never before had he been forced prone like this.
The surgery on his foot, as loathe as he was to admit it, was his choice. He’d asked to be immobilized and reaped exactly what he earned from his ill-advised decision. This… he could hear Hasan’s reprimand already. But if it was a consequence of Declan’s escape attempt then it wasn’t a direct one.
Their touch raised goosebumps across his back.
“Well, go ahead then,” he sighed. It was difficult to summon the rage back into his voice after being mentally exhausted and that thought only made him angrier. “Don’t draw it out.”
“Order me around again and I’ll let you have another day on the cot.”
Declan pressed his lips together and tried not to react as nails swept across his tender back. The bruising was tangible and probably quite colorful, but the pain associated had dulled into unpleasant background noise when not actively being prodded.
It was too good to believe he’d heal properly, but he could hope that Hasan only had minor damage in mind for the evening. Work would sap their energy as the week wore on so that, by the time Declan regained his strength, they’d be at their lowest. From there it was only a matter of gaining the upper hand.
“I think a few scars here would suit you, Dec.” They were tracing his lower back and drawing lines in the skin.
“I disagree,” Declan breathed. His voice wavered where it shouldn’t have.
“At least you won’t see them too often… but that’s not what we’re doing today.” And Hasan’s fingers slipped under his waistband.
“No!”
He jerked back hard enough to jostle the cot, then did so again. It skittered back an inch and the band of his underwear snapped back against his skin, so Declan repeated the movement. But his progress was halted by a bruising grip.
“Where do you think you’re headed, hm?”
It only took one hand to pull his boxers to his ankles. Then they were pushing his legs apart and settling a knee between his thighs, oppressive weight pressing him down, and Declan was screaming.
“Get off, get off, you can cut me! Please, please just cut me and give me- g-give me my fucking clothes-!” He didn’t think he’d been so loud in his entire life. Skin pulled and tore under rope but Hasan groped him relentlessly. Palming his ass so he’d cry, pinching his thighs just to hear him yelp, driving their knee harder against him.
Declan felt his hold on reality slipping, only dragged back by a sharp pain near his hip. Hasan had smacked him. No, no, the pain was deeper. Familiar.
He craned his neck and watched them pull the empty syringe from his skin.
“What was that.”
“Dec-”
“What the hell did you inject me with?!” Being fucking tethered to the cot wasn’t enough, god, they weren’t going to let him do anything, and now they were ripping open a bandaid as if that was supposed to help.
“What day is it, love?” They stuck it over the puncture and pressed down firmly.
“Tell me what that was.”
“I’m trying to help you with that, Declan,” Hasan scolded. He flinched hard but said nothing. “So answer me.”
“Go kill yourself.”
They took in a long breath through their nose and let it out in a world-weary sigh, but their eyes hadn’t dulled. If anything, they were sharper. Hasan stared him down, lifted an open palm, and drew their index finger along the line of his ass.
“Answer me, or I’ll take you dry right here and now.”
Declan choked and went still.
“T-tuesday. It’s Tuesday.”
“Yes. And what do you take on Tuesdays?” Their voice was barely audible over his racing heart.
“My T shot,” he whispered. “That…” Eyes trailed to the discarded syringe.
“See? No harm, no foul. Everybody gets what they want.”
Hasan patted him, stood up, and got to work loosening the rope around his ankles. He clamped them together, acutely aware of every movement he made. What his body language was saying. As soon as his hands were free, Declan pulled up his underwear.
Hasan was fiddling with the camera. Still rolling, recording every second of that. Video of him naked. Of-
“You wouldn’t have. Not really.”
They raised their gaze and flashed a grin.
“Oh, Dec. Haven’t you ever lied to get what you want?” Hasan shook their head. “I would never do it dry.”
Next Chapter: September 10th, 2025
~~~
Tag list: @as-a-matter-of-whump @suspicious-whumping-egg @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @anevilweevil @insane2core @days-on-the-road @whumpedydump
“I must say,” Whumper said, striding between his two captives, eyes lingering over his obvious favorite, “I’m a little disappointed you never mentioned me, Whumpee. I’ve had such an impact on your life after all…”
Caretaker pulled against restraints. “What does he mean, Whumpee? What the hell is he talking about?”
Whumpee remained still, eyes facing forward, kneeling. Whumpee hadn’t been restrained. They hadn’t been restrained, and yet, they didn’t need to be. They were paralyzed by fear. Practically conditioned by it, something Whumper had tried for the better part of a year to instill. Even after several months of freedom, it seemed his lesson had still stuck.
Whumper slowly circled Whumpee, a hand grazing the top of their head, earning a wince. Whumper smirked. “Do you want to tell Caretaker? Or shall I?”
“Tell me what?” Caretaker practically screamed, desperate to understand what the fuck was going on. “Whumpee, who is this guy? Whumpee! Come on, you have to—you have to snap out of it! Come on!”
Whumper slowly kneeled, an arm snaking around Whumpee’s neck from behind. In a swift movement, they had pulled Whumpee back, forcing them to sit between his legs. It seemed the confinement finally stirred Whumpee from their paralysis, for Whumpee began to scream, kick, claw…
“There you are,” Whumper smirked, wrapping another arm around Whumpee’s torso to keep them still. “Are you with us, sweetheart? Are you ready to behave? I think someone asked you a question.” He took a fistful of Whumpee’s hair, forcing their head up to look into Caretaker’s eyes.
“N-no!” Whumpee cried upon seeing Caretaker’s horrified expression. “Please, n-not now. Not in front of h-him.”
“And spare him some free entertainment?” Whumper asked, his voice tickling Whumpee’s ear. “I don’t think so.”
“E-Entertainment?” Caretaker stammered, heartbeat practically drowning out their own words. “Whumpee, I—I don’t understand…”
Whumper tsked. “It seems Whumpee here has lost their voice. No matter. They get like this when they get nervous. It happened a lot last year, didn’t it, Whumpee?” Fingers trailed down Whumpee’s chest to the top of their jeans, forcing out a whimper. “Mm, yes, just like that. Make that sound again.”
Caretaker narrowed their eyes as they followed Whumper’s fingers lower and lower. And then, it clicked. It finally clicked. The way Whumpee immediately froze up, going completely still as two fingers prodded between their legs over the thick fabric of their jeans. The way their eyes went wide before glazing over, the telltale sign they were falling into a daze. They did that sometimes after what Caretaker thought were fluke nightmares. But never like this. And when Whumper finally tilted Whumpee’s head to the side to press a tender kiss under their jaw, everything made sense.
“You…” Caretaker began, heart dropping to their stomach, falling still as their nightmare became a reality, “...you were raped?”
Whumpee’s breath hitched at the word, forcing them from their daze and back into the hell they had so harshly relied on their mind to escape. They squeezed their eyes shut, their jaw snapping closed with a shake of the head.
“Took you long enough,” Whumper said, pulling away from Whumpee’s neck, still fondling them.
Caretaker couldn’t breathe. No—there was no breath to even be had. Suddenly, everything made sense. The nightmares, the locked bedroom door, the constant promising of knocking at the bathroom door before they entered. “No…”
“Yes,” Whumper grinned, their free hand snaking up the front of Whumpee’s shirt.
Caretaker screamed out. “No! You—you fucking bastard! I’m going to fucking kill you! Get your filthy hands off them you motherfucking—!”
“Ah ah ah,” Whumper warned, pinching a nipple under Whumpee’s shirt, causing his victim to let out a yelp. “I would hold your tongue if I was you, or poor Whumpee here earns the consequences. Isn’t that right, darling?”
He turned back towards Whumpee, this time a tender kiss turning into a blooming hickey. He looked straight into Caretaker’s eyes as he sucked harder and harder, the corners of his mouth lifting as Whumpee struggled, muttering words for mercy that only reached his captor’s ears.
“Stop,” Caretaker whispered, crimson painting his expression as fury boiled in their veins. “Stop it.”
“Mm, no, I really don’t think I will,” Whumper said, separating from Whumpee with a smack of his lips. “You see, Whumpee and I have been very close. I don’t want to deprive them of the touch you’ve been so obviously withholding from them.”
“Withholding—?” Caretaker practically shouted, hands trembling in their shackles, causing the chains to clank against each other. “They don’t like to be touched. They don’t like to be held! I’m not fucking depriving them of affection, I’m listening to their fucking boundaries!”
Whumpee scoffed. “Boundaries? No. I believe you’re mistaken. There are no boundaries here. Never between Whumpee and I. Isn’t that right, love?”
Whumpee couldn’t respond. Their entire body had been wracked with violent trembles that went in waves, their skin practically jumping off their body with each and every touch Whumper violated them with. The fingers squeezing their nipple were searching for pain, searching to cause hurt, and they couldn’t even think through it all. The only thing that seemed to make it into their head was that it was happening. It was happening again. But this time—it wouldn’t be the intimate scene Whumper liked to stage under the pretense of some sick relationship they shared. It was going to hurt, and they knew that he would make sure of it. This was going to be a punishment. Not only for their escape—but to punish Caretaker as well. For being the one Whumpee had escaped to. They had to scream. They had to shout. They had to do something.
Speak! a voice in the back of Whumpee’s head cried. Beg! Plead! Don’t let this happen!
“P-please, Whumper,” Whumpee managed to let out without vomiting. “Please don’t. Please. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. I’ll kiss you. I’ll…I’ll come back. I’ll stay with you. I won’t run away this time, just—” their last words were nothing but a whimper on the verge of a sob, “—please don’t do this.”
Whumpee furrowed his brow despite the broadening grin creeping up on his face. For a moment, he seemed to consider Whumpee’s words, his eyes becoming glossy in thought. But then, he shook his head.
“Alright then,” he said, pulling his hand out from Whumpee’s shirt. “If you really don’t want to. Consider it a reward for begging for it so kindly.” He looked up at Caretaker. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind taking their place?”
“No!” Whumpee and Caretaker shrieked at the same time.
Caretaker practically lunged forward, as far as their shackles would let them. “Do whatever the hell you want to me, I don’t care! Just don’t touch them.”
Whumper began to run fingers through Whumpee’s hair, voice turning to a tone of casual conversation. “You would really take their place?”
“No,” Whumpee interrupted before Caretaker could respond. “Whumper, I s-swear to God…”
“Oh?” Whumper asked. “I thought you said you didn’t want it?”
Whumpee let out a broken sob. “I…I don’t want you to touch Caretaker.”
Finally. Exactly what Whumper had been provoking Whumpee to say since the conversation began.
“Prove it. Say it right,” Whumper ordered, fingers once again trailing down Whumpee’s shirt. “Beg for it like you mean it.”
Whumpee shut their eyes and took a breath. “Please, Whumper. I want it.”
“What do you want, sweetheart?”
“I want you…to fuck me.”
Whumper looked up to see Caretaker, completely frozen in shock. Their face had immediately gone a sickly green, cracked lips visible under the basement light as they swayed on their knees, unable to fathom what they had just heard.
“Whumpee, no…”
“Shut up,” Whumpee immediately replied. “Just…please, don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
“No!” Caretaker repeated, strength returning to their voice as they locked eyes with Whumper. “Please, let me take their place. I’ll beg for it even. I’ll cry, I’ll—”
“Sorry,” Whumper said with a shrug. “My angel has spoken. Besides, you wouldn’t be a good fuck anyways.” He looked over to Whumpee. “Shall you get into position then, darling?”
“Fuck,” Whumpee cried softly, shaking his head. “Fuck, just…Whumper, can we please not do this here…?”
Whumper shook his head with a pitying pout. “I’m afraid not, sweetheart. Come now. Up on your knees.”
Caretaker began to scream as they watched Whumper let go of Whumpee, only for Whumpee to scramble forward to their knees as the looming figure behind them wrapped his arms around their waist. Tears streamed, blurring Caretaker’s vision as they shrieked incoherently, jumbled words and pleads taking up the last of their vocabulary.
Whumper approached from behind, running fingers down Whumpee’s waist and chest as Whumpee knelt, eyes fixed to the ground, dripping tears like a leaky faucet. When hands went to unbutton their jeans from behind, their head snapped up.
“Don’t look,” Whumpee said as they made eye contact with Caretaker. Their zipper came down, exposing the top of black boxers. “I said don’t look!”
But Caretaker was frozen; paralyzed by fear as they watched Whumper push Whumpee down, forcing their victim to their hands and knees, tugging at the waistband of their jeans as it began to slip down bare thighs.
“Don’t look!” Whumpee shrieked, the fear in their voice being replaced by total, seething rage and humiliation. “Caretaker, turn around! Close your eyes!!”
“Sh, shhh,” Whumper cooed, manhandling Whumpee to turn towards the side in order to give Caretaker the best view. “None of that, now, little one. Save that voice for me.”
But Whumpee didn’t care. Getting fucked was one thing, sure, they had done it dozens of times with Whumper. But they couldn’t stand the thought of doing it in front of Caretaker, of being nude, of being fully and utterly—
Whumpee shrieked as their boxers slipped off, cool air hitting their backside, exposing the bruises and scars they had never allowed anyone to see. With all of their might, before it really began, they screamed at the top of their lungs, their own noise abusing their ears.
“Don’t. Fucking. LOOK!”
“No, Caretaker,” Whumper immediately commanded, stealing Caretaker’s gaze as he pushed up to his knees behind Whumpee, one hand grasping the back of their neck, the other running a palm over their ass. “If you don’t watch, I will kill them.”
“No!” Whumpee screamed, turning to Caretaker, eyes completely drowned in tears. “Don’t do it, Caretaker, don’t look! I’m begging you, please!”
Caretaker stared back, horrified, stomach churning with an obvious threat. “B-but…he said he’s gonna kill you…”
“Then let me fucking die!” Whumpee howled.
“It’s up to you,” Whumper interrupted, sticking fingers in his mouth before plunging them into Whumpee’s ass. Whumpee shrieked in pain at the barely-lubricated intrusion, their mind plunging into the depths of shame as they turned away from Caretaker’s horrified expression. They fell to their elbows, collapsing into throat-ripping sobs as the fingers within them began to pump slowly in and out, punctuated by a blinding pain they thought they had forever escaped. “But look away, and I’ll slit their throat. It’s that easy, really.”
The final words left Caretaker’s mouth with a barely audible rasp. “I’m sorry, I—I can’t watch you die.”
Whumpee bawled. The terrible noise erupted from the pits of their body, filling the basement with the sounds of a gurgling wetness as Whumpee drooled, pleads stifled by the rocking motion they had been forced into rhythm with. They were the cries of a final despair ascending from the body of their victim. Had Caretaker been closing their eyes or looking away, the sounds could have been mistaken for some grotesque, slow murder. But no. They only crescendoed following the sound of Whumper undoing his belt and inserting himself into Whumpee.
He was rough and careless, looking not for pleasure from himself but from the pain he was causing. He had longed to hear Whumpee’s pretty noises for months, never imagining their moans could sound so beautiful. And when he looked at Caretaker, the satisfaction was unmatched. Caretaker’s face was devoid of color. They were looking—yes—but it seemed they weren’t actually seeing.
No matter, Whumper thought, pushing his hips harder to force a pained moan. It’s Whumpee that matters. My sweet, perfect, Whumpee.
In the end, the violation didn’t last long. Just enough for Whumper to finish. In a perfect world he would have forced Whumpee to, but he had given them enough for tonight. He could reward them with some rest. He pulled out roughly, tucking himself back into his pants. Whumpee, who hadn’t expected such a quick release, collapsed to the floor, pants and boxers to their knees, shirt shuffled up their arm pits. They laid in a heap, weakly struggling to find the waistband of their clothing as Whumper turned to Caretaker, who had finally erupted into another bout of cries.
“Why the tears?” Whumper asked. “You saved Whumpee’s life, after all.”
Caretaker turned, rage replaced by complete and utter helplessness and betrayal. “They’re…they’re bleeding…”
“Nothing they haven’t dealt with before,” Whumper said with a shrug, walking towards the basement door. And with that, he was gone. He was gone, and Whumpee was trembling, lying half naked in the heap they had been left in.
Caretaker immediately turned, bile forcing its way up. They dipped their head and vomited. The sounds of gags continued for just a minute or two until they finally ceased. Running the back of their palm over their lips, Caretaker shuffled over to Whumpee, heart beating too loudly in their temples to hear their friend’s sobs.
“Whumpee…”
“Don’t,” Whumpee immediately hissed through clenched teeth, looking up towards Caretaker with a look of pure disdain.
Whumpee screamed in terror as he was forced into some sort of cushioned seat, hitching his shoulders up to his ears in expectation of some sort of slap across the face. He had just been manhandled out of the basement-turned-cell he had been barely surviving in the last couple days, but not before Whumper had wrestled him down to tie a blindfold around his head. The darkness had been horrific, but from the echoing sounds his steps made when he had been forced up the stairs, signaling a grander space, feeling more exposed in an invisible chamber was even more horrific. A firm, calloused hand landed on his shoulder, and Whumpee jumped.
“What the hell! Don’t touch me!”
“Relax,” Whumper’s voice tickled in his ear, their other hand going to caress Whumpee’s head. “I’m going to take the blindfold off, okay? But you need to stop…shaking…”
Their hands had travelled down to the small of Whumpee’s back as they spoke the final word, causing Whumpee to immediately stiffen, goosebumps prickling over his bare skin. Whumper giggled from behind. “Good. Just like that. Keep that posture.”
Whumpee gave a barely visible, shaky nod. Anticipating the next touch, he didn’t wince when movement towards the back of his head preceded the removal of the blindfold. The cloth was pulled away to reveal…keys?
Whumpee looked before him at the white, pristine ivory keys interrupted by the steeper sharps and flats between them. His gaze moved up to scan over the rest of the grand piano, the shining instrument and its strings stretching far under its raised lid. Beyond that, he could make out the rest of the foyer of the mansion he had been smuggled into just days prior. He knew he was being kept in some sort of large home when he caught glimpses through the struggle during his abduction, but not quite like this. The grand, spiraling staircase before him was lit by the waxing sunlight spilling through arched windows that reached at least two stories. Escaping the awe of the place, he immediately turned towards the double-paneled front door.
“Ah ah ah,” Whumper warned, grabbing and turning Whumpee’s chin, forcing the terrified man to look them in the eyes. “Don’t even think about running. This property is well over fifty acres. The driveway is longer than you can last on foot after what you’ve been through.” He smiled fondly, a hand coming back to pet Whumpee’s hair. “But I’d be happy to punish you if you tried. It would keep me entertained, all that pretty skin of yours to cut…”
Whumpee pulled away from Whumper’s touch, eyes avidly avoiding the door to instead fall back on the keys of the piano. Finally, he found the courage to speak.
“What do you want from me?”
“You catch on quickly, smart boy,” Whumper crooned, setting two hands on Whumpee’s bare shoulders. They began to push his thumbs into a knot in his back as they began to speak, Whumpee letting out a whimper beneath them. “You’re going to play something nice for me. So we can stimulate that mind of yours. You must have been bored to pieces cooped up downstairs.”
“Cooped up?” Whumpee asked with a groan against the pain of Whumper’s touch. “Shackled. You mean shackled.”
“Cooped up, shackled, it’s all the same,” Whumper said with a wave of their hand, abandoning their painful idea of a massage. “Lord knows we both need the entertainment tonight. And something tells me we don’t have the same idea of what that might look like…” Their hands returned, this time, sliding down Whumpee’s bare chest.
“G’off,” Whumpee snapped, pulling away from the touch only to be firmly pulled back against Whumper’s stomach.
“Relax, sweetheart, I’ve decided on a compromise for now,” Whumper replied. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to play me something. Something nice. And if you do well, then maybe I can consider moving you to one of the bedrooms. The shackles, however, are non-negotiable, I’m afraid.”
Whumpee shivered, a growl just barely teasing the tips of their lips. “That’s…that’s not fair. A house like this and you’re telling me you can’t just lock a door from the outside?”
“Hm, I like it when you find your voice,” Whumper cooed, tracing fingers across Whumpee’s collar bones, pushing into a yellowing bruise they had caused during the initial abduction. “But no, there’s no reason for me to trust you, is there? It would take a lot of rearranging in my schedule to find the time to patch you up if you decide to try your luck out a third-story window.
“Now. Stop trying to pick a fight with me to stall. I’d be glad to find another use for your body if you don’t feel like playing tonight? I’ve just acquired a switch. Or perhaps we can—”
“Stop, just—!” Whumpee shut their eyes tight, their face flushing scarlet as they felt nausea begin to climb its way up their body. “Just stop. Tell me what to fucking do so I can go back to the basement.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Whumper asked. “You’re going to play me a piece on the piano. And it’s a Fazioli so I expect you to treat it with respect.”
“I…don’t know how to play,” Whumpee muttered.
Whumper tsked with a roll of their eyes, digging into their back pocket to pull out their phone. They tapped a few buttons and quickly turned it around, the screen displaying—
Whumpee’s stomach dropped at the video of himself, adorned in a crisp black suit at the conservatory concert hall, nodding his head in tune with the staccato of the piece emerging from the tips of his fingers at the grand piano. The video had only been seen by three thousand or so viewers, titled only by the date and the piece he was playing. He could remember the exact day it was taken, just months prior at the end-of-year recital for advanced students.
“Where did you find that?” Whumpee asked, looking over the phone screen to Whumper, voice no longer bearing an argumentative tone.
Whumper shrugged. “It was the first video of you that popped up when I typed in your name. Your driver’s license has the wrong eye color listed for you, by the way. They’re more hazel than green.” They tucked the phone away in their back pocket, the sound of the piece disappearing as they did so. “But that’s not the point. I don’t appreciate you lying to me, you know. Now…”
They dipped their head low, ensuring that their warm voice could tickle Whumpee’s ear. “Quit fucking around. I avoided breaking your fingers for a fucking reason.”
“Get off!” Whumpee screamed, Whumper’s proximity finally snapping something within him. Within a millisecond, all fear of punishment had escaped his mind as he fell into fight-or-flight, mustering the strength to push Whumper away, actually causing them to stumble back. “I’m not your fucking jester! You can pay for someone to play for you if that’s what you really fucking want, you creepy motherfucking asshole!”
Maybe he would have regretted it if he had been given just enough time to think over what he had said. But before he could go to cover himself, Whumper had already reeled back. Their hand had grabbed a fistful of his hair, ripping it at the roots before pushing against his skull as Whumper drove his head into the keys. The piano moaned, an offensive slam of the keys accompanying Whumpee’s scream of pain as they were immediately pulled back. Their vision had gone, tears blindingly stinging as Whumper once again drove their face into the keys. And again, and again. The keys smashed against Whumpee’s teeth as they shrieked, a warm wetness spreading on their face faster and faster with each slam against the instrument. Something in their nose cracked and a shooting pain exploded in their forehead. Whumper finally relinquished him, letting go of Whumpee’s hair.
With too much pain to allow for strength, Whumpee collapsed once again over the instrument, a sobbing, trembling mess. They pushed off the piano and looked down at the scarlet blood that was seeping between the keys, red droplets having been sprayed to the farthest of them. Before he could even wipe his nose, his seat was pulled back. Whumper came around, collapsing onto Whumpee’s lap, straddling his hips.
“No!” Whumpee cried, the word muddling as rivulets of blood seeped from his nose to catch between his lips.
Whumper easily caught weak arms that flailed to push them off, and they set a palm on Whumpee’s face, cradling him.
“Sh, shhhh,” Whumper soothed, taking a handkerchief from their pocket to dab at the blood on Whumpee’s face. “Stop crying, now. You see what you made me do? The discipline I have to instill when you behave like this?”
Whumpee continued sobbing, still trying to shake his head away from Whumper’s relentless dabbing at his blood.
“Stop it,” Whumper said, their hold on Whumpee’s face tightening. “I said stop it.”
The tone in their voice forced a wince, but Whumpee finally stopped, swallowing back another cry.
“Good boy,” Whumper said, ceasing to break eye contact as they stared into Whumpee’s eyes. “Are you ready to play now?”
Whumpee exhaled, shuddering as he did so. Barely able to register what he had just been told from the pounding reverberating within his head, he gave a compliant nod.
“Good,” Whumper said, a fond smile returning as he leaned over to plant a kiss on Whumpee’s temple. “Good, Whumpee. I’m glad.”
They were finally standing up to allow Whumpee some room when the terrified young man spoke.
“Th-the blood on the keys. My fingers will slip.”
Whumper rolled their eyes, but returned an understanding smile. “Wait here. And don’t move or I’ll have you shackled to the thing for the rest of the night. Have we reached an understanding?”
Still silently crying, Whumpee nodded.
“Play scales while I find something to clean this up. Or Czerny. Just do something to warm up,” Whumper ordered before practically prancing out of the room.
Whumpee obeyed, mind in a submissive daze as they struggled to warm up their fingers through the pain. Their fingers slipped against their own blood as the deep, melancholic wail of the piano echoed around them. Despite the fear and the pain, Whumpee could hear the instrument’s angelic tune, appreciating it for what it truly was since he’d been sat before it. He had always wanted to play a grand piano like this one. The one at the conservatory had been old, and despite the director promising every year he would replace it, he never had. Even Whumpee’s mistakes over the slippery keys sounded not half bad with the professional-grade build. After completing a standard set of scales and a small warm-up piece his professor had taught him the year prior, Whumper had returned with a clean rag.
“Just get what you can for now,” Whumper said, tossing the rag over. “I’ll make sure to clean it properly tonight after I’ve tucked you in.”
Another tear dripped at the degrading words, once again being demoted to the status of a disobedient child as Whumpee ran the rag over the keys, the fibers quickly turning red. Just as they were about to finish, the sharp blade of a knife snaked its way under his throat. His breath hitched as he felt the pressure of the blade push into fragile skin, Whumper’s warmth returning to his back as a raised knee pushed against his waist.
Whumper giggled. “Good boy. So obedient for me. Knows just when to stop…”
Whumpee squeezed his eyes tight as he felt the blade begin to swipe against skin, but no pain followed. He looked up to see what had been pulled away from under his chin and practically sighed in relief when he saw not a blade, but a long, wooden bow. A violin’s bow. He turned to Whumper, who seemed to have manifested a violin out of midair, holding it thoughtfully by the neck.
“Do you like it?” Whumper asked. “It’s a Holstein. I’ve been needing to replace it but I’m just so fond of the memories.”
“You…play?” Whumpee asked, unsure of what else he could say without earning him some sort of consequence.
Whumper smiled with pride. “Going on sixteen years now. It was my father who first signed me up for lessons…” A wistful look glazed over their eyes before they shook their head and leaned over, setting down sheet music in front of Whumpee.
“W-wait, I’m not very strong at sight reading,” Whumpee said, hands jumping to spread the pages apart.
“You should be familiar with this one,” Whumper said, setting the end of the violin on their shoulder and raising their bow. “Nocturn in C sharp minor? I believe it was last spring you performed this piece? I didn’t like the violinist, Dora or whatever her name was.”
“Darla…,” Whumpee corrected them quietly.
“Darla, yes,” Whumper said. “Too rushed. Doesn’t pay enough attention to the dynamics. And don’t get me started on the overuse of her vibrato."
“Darla is an excellent player,” Whumpee quickly defended, looking up with an expression of pure disdain. “She’s one of the best in the entire conservatory. She was offered third chair in the Boston Orchestra.”
“Mm, I’m sure she was,” Whumper said teasingly, raising their bow. “Now. Enough chir-chat. I want you to take a deep breath before you begin playing. Straighten up, now. Yes, like that. And please,” they emphasized their next words, “don’t stop until the piece is over. Or else I won’t be happy.”
Whumpee swallowed, followed by a terse nod before lightly setting his fingers on the piano. He waited a moment, attempting to take controlled, deep breaths as pain ravaged behind their eyes and nose. His gaze swept over his music, focusing on the dynamics of the piece he hadn’t played in months. He turned, received a nod from Whumper, and took another deep breath.
The first notes were light. He pushed a little harder, cringing when the sound panged more than he had meant to. He looked over at Whumper, expecting a shooting glare, but calmed when he saw that Whumper’s eyes were closed. Then, as he continued, Whumper lifted their bow.
The sound that escaped from their strings were like a cry, soft and drawn out though forgiving in their melody. Whumpee continued to play, listening to the vibrato of Whumper’s violin slip through one ear and out the other. The moment in the minor key lasted but another minute before he changed to major, Whumper’s sound escalating in strength, the warmth of a spring day accompanying the double harmony they so skillfully brought to existence.
And then, Whumpee’s pain seemed to vanish.
They had fallen deep into a catharsis, the muscle memory returning to them with a familiar comfort. Soon, he pulled his eyes away from his sheet music and closed his eyes, letting his fingers glide across the keys, guiding him without a second thought. Purpose seemed to burst within his chest. This, he knew how to do. This, he had been escaping within since the time he had first played “Heart & Soul” as a child, his mother eagerly filming from the doorway. In the past two days, there had been pain. There had been bruising and punching, stale food and cold, sore nights. But now, for just a sliver of time, there was bliss. He was no longer in an unknown mansion, somewhere far from home and comfort. He was no longer in just his boxers, but his father’s old suit. He was on the wooden stage of the conservatory, eyes closed as he played, only to open them at the sight of a concentrated Darla, brow furrowed over the faintest crick of a smile at the corner of her lips. His professor was in the wings, swaying to the music with a rhythmic nod as the lights blinded him from the audience that had caused the shaking in his fingers when he first began to play.
Then, it was Whumper’s short solo. Whumpee stopped, taking the opportunity to breathe, before sinking back into his harmony, content to let the pain subside in favor of the music. Music, at least, had never assaulted him.
Whumpee slowed his arpeggios just as Whumper completed his final measures. Soon, the music stopped, faint remnants still audible as it echoed through the acoustics of the foyer. And then, silence.
Whumpee sat there, stunned, staring down at cakey red fingers that had somehow managed to keep him going, to whisk him away from this hell even if it was for just a moment.
A hand reached down to caress his hair. Whumper fisted it, forcefully tilting his head to the side before planting a long, tender kiss just under his jaw before pulling back, a sparkling glint in their eyes.
“That was beautiful, Whumpee,” Whumper praised him with a whisper. “Absolutely beautiful. You’re quite talented.”
Whumpee hung his head, tears returning. Whumper chuckled softly, tilting his head up before bowing down once again to kiss away his tears, sucking the salty liquid away as Whumpee trembled, a small cry escaping his lips.
“I’d say you deserve a bedroom tonight, yes?”
They were obviously waiting for an answer. So Whumpee, defeated, nodded his head.
“Mm, good.” Whumper's palm fell to the nape of his neck. “I think mine should do perfectly. Now get up, sweetheart. Let me run you a bath. Then we can get ourselves situated…”
The sobs returned as soon as the blindfold did, and Whumpee was led away, Chopin’s melodic tune nothing but an enduring whisper at the forefront of his mind.
Content warnings: creepy/intimate whumper, captivity whump, waterboarding mention, 9/11 mention, temperature whump, forced to choose, forced stripping, nudity, forced proximity, fear of noncon, stun gun, drugging.
Word count: 2812
~~~
Consciousness came to Declan in pieces.
A breeze arrived first. Or more of a gust, by the way it crashed into him and set his senses alight.
Light peeked through his eyelids. Dim, even when he blinked them open, and foggy. The floor lamp was a lighthouse across the stormy sea.
Rain-battered cloth rippled over his chest.
God, he was cold.
Declan picked up his hands only to notice that they were shivering. Pressing them to his eyes drilled ice into the fragile tissue but a careful rub cleared his vision enough to see the box fan before him: cranked up to the highest setting, nearly quivering at the speed of its own blade.
“There he is!”
Declan screamed and whipped around. Hasan. Lounging on the couch mere feet away. Of course.
“Slept well?” They retracted the recliner and leaned over their knees.
“Fuck you. You absolute piece of shit,” he rasped, teeth chattering.
“Not right now. I think you’ve got more to worry about, actually.”
Hasan had changed clothes entirely, now wrapped up in a turtleneck sweater and sweatpants to match the apparent shift in temperature.
“Yeah, so go turn up the thermostat. It’s freezing in here.”
“Sure.” Hasan shifted to get up but froze just as their foot hit the floor. “If you promise to stay, of course.” Their eyes flashed over, twinkling. The caveat.
“Whatever. Yeah. And turn off the fuckin’ fan while you’re at it,” Declan huffed. If that’s all it took to be warm again…
“That wasn’t very sincere, now was it?” Their lips scrunched into a pout. “Try again.”
“Yes, Hasan. No more running. I’ll just be here, rotting away.”
But that expression didn’t change, and Hasan didn’t budge any further.
“Say it exactly how I did. ‘I’ll stay with you forever, Hasan.’ Just like that.” They nodded and gestured for him to go on.
Declan scowled and rolled up onto his elbow. He swore he felt his body groan with the movement.
“Fine, then I’ll take care of-”
He’d made it no further than his knees before metal stuck his neck. Twin prongs, cupping his trachea. A hard swallow forced his Adam’s apple against them.
“Down, Dec.” Hasan pressed harder, angling them just so. “I’d hate to stop your heart just to keep you in place.” It was what he’d assumed, then. A stun gun. Same as the one he’d pressed to his thigh for that charity stream. The same one that now lay abandoned in his bedside drawer.
The mark hadn’t faded for weeks.
Declan brought a foot under himself.
“Down.” It crackled on and he shot back to the floor. “Good boy. You don’t go anywhere without my say-so.”
“Don’t call me th-“
They made a jabbing motion with the stun gun. His mouth clapped shut.
“Stay where you are,” Hasan threatened and turned on their heel. Even as they reclaimed their seat on the couch with a phone in hand, that taser never left their lap.
They were back exactly as they’d started and so was Declan. A blushing frustration pumped blood through his veins but it only served to twist his senses with a sweat on his brow, too soon corrupted by wintry air.
And now what? The mere act of kneeling had him heaving for breath in a way that severely worried him. Declan coughed experimentally and that set his throat aflame, running from windpipe to nose bridge in a flash of white. A full-body shiver chased it.
He couldn’t get sick. Not when every other resident of this bastard had perished. Had the same happened to them? A deadly bout of pneumonia inflicted by water torture? Or had they been nursed back to health, only to be killed in a more personal manner? A cruel modus operandi.
Maybe it was the shock in their victim’s eyes that intrigued Hasan most.
“Catching a cold?”
Declan flinched.
“Don’t see how I couldn’t.” He rubbed at the goosebumps lining his arms. Seems like you’re trying to engineer one, to me.”
“Sickness causes pointless suffering. I’d have nothing to gain from it.”
“Pointless suffering is all you fucking do.”
“Oh, right,” they grinned. “Go ahead and fall ill, then.”
Declan hugged himself and pulled his knees into his chest. He could weather this. He didn’t need to be shocked to learn simple self-preservation. So time passed. The still-dismantled clock ticked up five, ten, fifteen more minutes. Every adjustment of his aching muscles earned a firm clearing of the throat until he didn’t even dare to twitch.
Would Hasan chastise him if he tried to rub feeling back into his arms and legs? What were the exact rules regarding the fan? Would it feel less abrasive pointed at his back?
He wondered eventually if the shock would feel warm. If it might spread throughout the rest of his body and loosen his joints, even through pain.
But none of that scraped the true root of the issue. Even if Declan’s body warmed, the clothes on it would steal that away. His shirt and pants would never dry, clinging to his body as they were, and his boxers were lurking beneath that entire conundrum.
His heart panged and the hot-cold of it all flooded through him once again.
“Wasn’t I supposed to say something?” he sighed, meeting the devil’s eyes again.
“Come again?”
Purposefully obtuse, as usual. But he pressed on.
“To get you to turn the heat up. You wanted me to say something specific.”
“Was I not clear enough? That deal was irrelevant the moment I had to force you to stay in your seat. I’m not rewarding bad behavior–especially not today.” Their glare was without a hint of anger, radiating instead the energy of a stern authority figure. It was enough to make some distant part of him wilt under the scrutiny.
“Okay, then when is this gonna be over?” Declan raised his eyebrows, but Hasan’s attention had already dwindled. He eyed the purpled hue of his grown-out nailbeds and only grew more desperate. “I’ve got a few more panic attacks to fit in tonight. Only so much time in a day to despair over your horrible fate, you know.”
They finally looked back up, gave him a once-over, and adjusted their glasses.
“You’re asking for another chance?”
Declan grit his teeth and nodded.
“That’s quite the demand. Because I’d like for you to kneel here until I let you sleep… To feel your body slow down in real time and let your consequences sink in. So if I were to let you out of that-”
“Just tell me if I was supposed to say no. I thought you were offering, for fuck’s sake!”
“I am.” Declan closed his mouth almost sheepishly, waiting as they laced their fingers. “And that is exactly the issue you’ve been struggling with. Controlling your tongue.” They tapped the syllables against their teeth.
“Your body, though. It can follow my orders even when your mouth can’t. If you can’t declare that you are going to stay here with me, then I won’t make you say anything at all. Let’s let your actions show that, hm?” They patted their thighs. “Come here. Lay your head in my lap.”
“What?” Declan’s response was a mere reflex. An attempt to deny their words and alter his options. But he didn’t want to hear it given again. “Nevermind.”
“You heard me loud and clear, Dec.”
He had.
Fuck.
It would be so easy to let go of. To lay down, turn away, and try to work feeling back into his limbs until his penance had been paid. Hasan would see the ease with which he stripped his own rights away and only thirst for more. To take whatever he could give. Then everything he wouldn’t.
In sickness they could take full advantage.
Or refuse to touch him. Or refuse to take care of him.
Or kill him.
There wasn’t much to decide, in the end.
Declan’s knees creaked with the effort and motion of standing. Even a lifelong inclination of sitting on the floor couldn’t dim the consequences of all his compounding conditions. He hobbled over on irritated scabs, relief growing as he stepped out of the fan’s path, and made to lower himself onto the cushions.
“Ah-ah.” A palm spread across his lower back and held him away. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m doing exactly what you told me,” Declan spun around and hissed. “Don’t pretend you said something different now that I’m being agreeable!”
“I figured it would go unsaid that I don’t want my expensive sofa riddled with mildew.” Hasan pinched his shirt between two fingers, watching with displeasure as it dripped onto their carpet. “Your welts are bleeding, by the way.”
“Fine, I’ll grab a towel, but you better have-”
They grabbed Declan’s shirt in a fist instead and yanked him back.
“I didn’t leave any.”
“I’ll just-”
“Dec.” A sharp flick of the wrist turned him around. “I did not leave you a towel to dry off with.”
“What?” He shook his head and scoffed. “I’d have to- what, then? How am I supposed to fix this? My shirt hasn’t dried in- in however long I’ve already been here!”
“Then I suppose…” They trailed a finger under the fabric, eyes half-lidded when they flicked back up. “...you’ll just have to take it off.”
Declan’s heart squeezed. His ribs tightened their cage around his chest. Breaths stuttered.
“I could… I could just…”
“You could just do as I say, yes. Or you could kneel right back in front of that fan.”
“...it wasn’t that bad, a-actually. I was overreacting, I get like that when I’m cold,” he stuttered out.
“Then, by all means.” Hasan gestured to the wet spot on the carpet.
Declan took one step back. Turned his head to look. Slowly swiveled it back. Loss shone deep behind watery eyes. Loss of carelessness, of comfort.
Of naïveté.
He crossed his arms, held the t-shirt by its wrinkled hem, and reached to pull it over his head, but the angle shot flashes along the broken lines of his back. Instead, Declan tucked his elbows and stretched it out in an attempt to keep the pain from worsening.
When it finally fluttered to the ground, he caught a glimpse of telltale, crisscrossing pink streaks. No wonder. Hasan hadn’t lied about that after all.
His grip on the strings of his waistband faltered more than once and a soft snort didn’t escape his attention. Declan seethed through his teeth and slid the elastic down his thighs. Plaid fell atop soiled white.
“Can I just… lay down?” His arms hung miserably by his sides.
“Are your briefs wet?”
Declan squeezed his eyes shut.
“Then you have your answer, sweetheart.”
He didn’t open them until he’d cast his underwear aside. Even then, Hasan didn’t bother readjusting their gaze.
His jaw clenched. He was entirely unrestrained, aside from the limitations his injuries presented. Hasan was strong, yes, but not enough to keep him from fighting. It would be difficult for them to take full advantage in this state. Declan would be fine.
He stepped forward on the pads of his feet, shimmying between Hasan and the coffee table until he had enough room to sit without touching.
“Lay down, Dec,” they purred. Their hand cradled the back of his neck and pinched the muscles there in a rough imitation of a massage. Declan’s hesitation was the only excuse they needed to trail down to an angry welt and-
“No,” he jolted. “Don’t. They’re bad enough already.”
“Then you know what to do.”
Declan swallowed. He lifted his legs onto the sofa one at a time and let his weakness take him the rest of the way down, head landing square in Hasan’s lap.
Nakedness against fabric wasn’t new. But it only made sense sandwiched there by another warm body, lighting him up in ways he hardly dared to voice.
Alone, it was all too clear that he didn’t belong. Fabric that always melted away into sensation was now his main focus as it pressed into skin he never dared expose. Skin that reacted to the change.
Declan ached to squirm, find any position that bothered him less, but he knew what Hasan would say. What they would do.
He had just slid a hand down to cover himself when Hasan began working their fingers through his hair. Despite its dampness and length, they still encountered snarls that they pulled out none-too-tenderly. When Declan turned to hide a wince against their sweatpants, that grip turned fierce and twisting.
“Don’t be like that, darling… Let me see the pretty face I brought you here for,” Hasan pouted. There was no choice but to gasp, let his head back up, and fight his shoulders’ urge to press his back against the cushions.
“Haven’t I given you enough?” It was harder to speak laying down, what with the water probably sloshing about in his lungs. It came out breathy and strained.
“I don’t think there is such a thing,” Hasan countered with a wistful sigh. “I really haven’t asked much of you, yet.”
“Haven’t you? Asking me to accept being kidnapped is a pretty big deal. Especially when the alternative apparently involves, you know, more torture.” That word was arduous to spit out, no matter how often he said it.
“So you would deem it torture, then? Fascinating.”
They twirled a strand of his hair around their finger and Declan struggled to make heads or tails of that. He was here to be tortured, whether physically or mentally, so why… Fragments weaved a story back together in his mind.
“That- the CIA did that in 2008?”
“Starting in 2001, actually, as a reaction to 9/11.”
“So you lied?!” He reared up, but Hasan held him down by the forehead.
“They didn’t admit it until 2008, Dec. I was entirely truthful.”
“Whatever, I-I- just- you said it was debated. As in- if it was actually… You know.”
“Yes. I do. It was–and still may be–hotly debated. The technique is called waterboarding. You’ve heard the word before, yes?” Declan nodded, heart pounding. He had. In jokes or circumstances he hadn’t cared to understand. “It’s a way to simulate drowning without all the dangers usually associated.”
“I was drowning.”
“Your brain and lungs certainly thought so. And that’s the trick: no matter how much you know going in, you can’t dim that instinct. So it got confessions. It implicated suspects. They’d have said anything to make that stop.”
Declan’s ears were ringing.
“But my hurt. That’s real. You tortured me.”
“And some people might never believe you.”
He went to push himself up for a second time and now the stun gun was pressing under his collarbones, dipping with every ragged breath.
“I believe you, Dec,” Hasan said. “How about you have a drink?”
“Fucking- I don’t care-!” Declan only saw their thumb move when it was too late.
A sharp wave punched into him, held, and left him sprawled breathless across Hasan’s thighs.
“Shit-hhhhh…”
“That’s enough. I can only tolerate so much misbehavior.” They leaned forward and grabbed something off a cupholder. A travel mug? Its straw pressed to his lips. “Now drink. I’m not making you dinner tonight.”
“What’s-”
The prongs reignited for just a second and Declan’s teeth snapped shut on his tongue.
“Drink it or get shocked again. Simple enough for you?”
Clumsy lips found the straw and pursed around it, surprised when they pulled up warm, salty broth. Declan couldn’t help the relief that spread as each sip warmed him from within.
“See? Not so bad after all.” Hasan held onto a wry smile despite their threats.
He urged himself to slow down, but it was all gone in a matter of minutes. In fact, he’d just started to relax when something struck him as strange.
“I’m… I’m not sure I’m feeling well, Hasan.” That smile only spread with his words.
“I just tortured you, hon. You’re not supposed to feel well.”
But his words were ignored in favor of settling him down on his side and, to his horror, being pulled against Hasan.
“Oh, I didn’t think it’d work that fast. Should’ve dosed you lower after all.”
Declan’s stomach dropped.
“You- you fucking-”
“Drugged you? You act like this is a surprise, Dec.” They held him firmer, even as his struggles lost steam. “Did you really believe things were so simple? That getting a few untainted meals meant you were in the clear?”
“Please. Please don’t, please!”
“Oh, it’s already in there. Drank it up ever so greedily, didn’t you?” Their hands rubbed over him with the praise. His chest, his sides, his neck.
“Not- not that! I- Hasan please!”
“Nothing to worry about. I’ll see you again in the morning, dear.”
Next chapter: August 13th, 2025
~~~
Tag list: @as-a-matter-of-whump @suspicious-whumping-egg @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @anevilweevil @insane2core @days-on-the-road @whumpedydump
Face reveal but I’m trembling in the corner of a basement, shackled and bloody as I give a small trembling wave, terrified of the person pointing the camera at me:
The whoosh of the plate flying lasted but a second before it made contact with the wall. It exploded—first cracking into hundreds of little pieces before they splayed out like a firework, falling to the ground like frozen rain. The second plate was no different. Whumpee hurled it with all their might, bearing their teeth as it hit the opposite wall and rained over the kitchen table. Another plate, this time a porcelain one they had had their last meal on. It was still dirty with the slime of lentils. They were already grabbing a wine glass before the porcelain could shatter on the floor.
They screamed as they swung it, bloodshot eyes red with fury as it hit the ceiling above. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Before they could even understand that they were floating away from their shell of a body once again, they were already gone. Their mind had been replaced with that of a creature’s. The limits of the human body drowned within their chest. There was nothing they couldn’t destroy.
They forced a bare heel through the wooden cupboards and screamed with triumph as they broke through, wood splintering and flying. With as much strength as they could muster, they swiped off every dish that was left to dry on the counter. They opened up the glass cabinet, greedy hands going to palm shot glasses and mugs. The sound of the glass breaking became a tornado in their head as they smashed it, punched it, flung it, even taking a thin, delicate little coupe glass between their fingers and squeezing. It popped with a satisfying crack.
Whumpee screamed at the top of their lungs as they continued their tirade, only shrieking louder when they felt their vocal chords begin to tear. They punched the wall, they elbowed the fridge, they kicked, and screamed, and sobbed, and—
They collapsed.
Not even the ghost of a wince painted their expression when they fell, naked knees pushing into shards of glass that littered the floor like gravel.
They took in a deep, shuddering breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out with the faintest cry. They bent forward, wrapping bloody palms around their torso as they opened their mouth, waiting for the sound to come out. Instead, they were met with a horrible, strangled rasp.
“Tsk.”
They eyed the shiny leather shoes as they stepped out from around the counter, crunching over the shards as if it were nothing but cereal. Whumpee looked up, tears brimming.
“You’ve made quite the mess, Whumpee,” Whumper remarked, looking around. They looked back down at their shivering victim, red seeping out from under their knees. They gave a proud smile before kneeling down next to them, cupping a loving hand to the side of Whumpee’s face. “Do you feel better now?”
Whumpee didn’t answer quite yet. They took a moment—looking around at the destroyed kitchen, taking in the sea of glass that had settled around them like snow—and looked back up. Did they feel better? They didn’t know. Their blood was pounding in their palms. Their voice felt like it had been ripped away at the claws of a monster. They didn’t feel…anything. So they shrugged.
“Mm.” Whumper stood back up, hooking some fingers under Whumpee’s collar to pull them up to their feet. “Why don’t you go wait in the bedroom while I clean this up, hm? Then we can have a chat about your little tantrum.”
Whumpee closed their eyes at the words with a terse nod. They wished they had taken a shard to themselves while they were at it.
He’d been thrown down onto his face. The soft scrape of concrete still stung against his cheek as Declan rolled onto his side.
Leaving the door open was a clear insult from Hasan considering he couldn’t even sit up in his restraints. Their shadow announced their return first, straddling the door frame before thick soled boots came into view.
A drawstring pouch dangled from their fingers, nearly long enough to scrape the ground, and its contents clacked with the movement. They stopped to observe him fondly.
“What’s in there?” Declan demanded, squirming.
Hasan ignored him and deposited it against the wall, far enough that Declan couldn’t reach out even if his hands were free, and strolled back toward him.
“What’s in there, Hasan?!” Too hoarse, too vulnerable. He cleared his throat but couldn’t swallow the lump creeping up it. He changed tactics. “You want answers, right? I can give answers without being hurt.”
“And yet that attitude was nowhere to be seen five minutes ago,” Hasan countered. A loose smirk juxtaposed the darkness in their voice.
“Well it’s here now. You- you wanted to know my hometown right? Where I grew up? I can tell you that.” Their boot nudged under Declan’s chin and they knelt down to meet his wide eyes.
“You’ll answer the questions when I ask them. I don’t want you to lose consciousness, but you talking out of turn might just force my hand. We’re doing this on my schedule, now.” Hasan stared and jostled his chin until Declan gave a quiet nod, only then sliding their foot back and gesturing for him to turn.
“Give me your arms, Dec.” When failed attempts made it clear he couldn’t do even that, a rough grip on his shoulder rolled him onto his front. “I do wish I could keep you so useless like this but, well, therein lies the issue. Keep your hands to yourself and we’ll keep those pretty bones intact as well.”
The order didn’t make sense until their hands were on his cuffs, threading leather back through buckles and letting it fall away. Declan rubbed his wrists, grateful at least that these didn’t leave marks like the metal restraints. His feet were pulled out in front by the chain and Hasan eased him into a seated position.
“Take your shirt off.” Not what he’d expected and not something he’d follow along with. He shook his head. It only took a moment for Hasan to lunge forward, grasp the hem, and wrench it over his head.
“Jeez! The hell is wrong with you?!”
They looked at him with those twin cages held open in invitation. An opportunity to follow commands not yet given. Declan pressed his lips together. They were still chained to his ankle cuffs.
"Your wrists, love.”
His shoulder tinged and he imagined it being wrenched by those muscles once again.
Declan shut his eyes and held them out, trembling.
Hasan fastened the leather tighter than last time and he couldn’t hold back a wince as they pinched his skin. They turned away and desperation surged.
“Please. Hasan, please… I’m sure you could find someone to agree to this. There’s someone out there for everyone, right? Not just that whole soulmate thing, or in a romantic manner, or whatever you want it to be, I- it doesn’t have to be me. Don’t hurt me. Find someone else.”
Hasan was halfway through opening the bag when they stopped and gave him a curious smile.
“You’d rather condemn another man to this fate?”
“Doesn’t have to be a man, obviously, but yeah. Whoever agrees,” Declan rasped.
Hasan shook their head and lifted a tripod out of the bag.
“You already know I don’t want an agreement. Would you rather I kidnap someone new and start this process over again?”
His mouth went dry. First at the tripod, as they propped its legs out and produced a ring light, then at their words.
“You shouldn’t have kidnapped anyone, I- what are you doing?”
“What do you think? I’m documenting,” they laughed. “I’d hate to pause our session every few seconds to grab my pen.” Hasan slid their phone into the built-in clamp, loosened the crank, and tilted the head down until Declan could make eye contact with the lens.
“People… people pay you for this, is that it? You own some site where people buy, what, torture porn?” Warmth bloomed in his chest. Satisfaction. Then raw, stabbing humiliation. “That’s what you’re using me for?” What worth was the revelation when he was still their victim? He flinched away when they flicked the light on and adjusted the brightness, its artificial beam cutting through the air.
“You watch too many films,” they sighed, tapped the phone, and returned to the bag: still half full.
Declan watched in awe and horror as they slid a long, translucent rod out by its handle. Admittedly, it looked more like a thin walking stick than any kind of weapon. But it was the way Hasan handled it, cradling its length in their palms, that taught him to fear it.
“N-nice lightsaber,” he said dumbly. A tear streaked down his cheek and pooled in the line of his lips.
“Funny. I thought you might be inconsolable by now.” They circled him and watched small, twitching, half-hidden struggles. “I knew I chose you well.”
Declan realized at last that there was no comfortable position to be had in his restraints. The past minutes had been overtaken by shuffling back and forth against the too-short chain, trying to decide between cramped, half-bent legs or leaning forward to expose his back. He’d reverted to the former since the rod’s appearance, but stiff muscles were already taking their toll. He pressed his lips together and the forlorn tear coated them in brine.
“C’mon, why’d you go quiet? I’m sure the audience you have in mind would enjoy the comedic relief.” Hasan nudged his bare back with the tip. Chilly, but not shockingly so.
“I-I don’t know why I said that. It’s not funny.” His chest stung with the shame of a lie being unearthed, as if the quip was inappropriate to voice. As if he’d misread the torture chamber.
“Sure it was. Inappropriate pop culture references are great for laughs, and nerds love this kind of thing.” Declan shuddered to think of his audience intersecting with theirs but held his tongue between his teeth. “Well… If you’re such a voyeur, why don’t you at least wave hello?”
“I’m not doing that,” he scoffed.
The lack of consequences all morning had made him bold. Too bold. The retreat of Hasan’s footsteps didn’t carry a warning, and neither did the soft click of their lips peeling back in a grin. Only a whoosh arrived before they hit their mark.
Impact slammed Declan forward with a choked noise and gasp. Hot, flashing pain erupted in a line from side to hip, digging in further as if the rod were pushing him up, and he seethed through his teeth. Some part of the sensation ran cold down his spine. Was he bleeding?
“Wave to the camera, Dec.” Words floated in through a haze.
“Something’s broken,” he breathed. The only plausible explanation for what just happened to him.
“I haven’t broken a thing.” Hasan wrenched his head up by the hair and slotted their lips up against his ear. “But I can. I should properly acquaint you with my weapon of choice, shouldn’t I?”
They slid it over his shoulder, letting it rest in the opposite crook of his neck as their voice continued, low and breathy.
“We call this a cane. Its ancestors were made from young, flexible woods like rattan and used for discipline. Gentler than a whip, but still an adequate punishment. Now we have the option of stronger, more sustainable materials like this one: similar to acrylic, but far more durable.
“Something like this is most safely used on the arse or thighs, both of which I figure you’re happy to avoid, but are not off limits to me. Believe me when I say I’d love to beat you black, blue, and crimson without concern for any of your fragile bits.”
Hasan paused, letting him suck in hasty breaths.
“So, wave to the phone. You’ve still got ten questions, and I’d be reproach to not dole out a strike for each at the very least.”
Declan sniffled and raised his hand as far as the chain would allow, letting it waver in the air until their touch disappeared.
“Fuck you,” he whimpered.
“There you are. Now…” They ruffled his hair and kissed the crown of his head, then stooped to collect their clipboard. “Tell me about yourself.”
He took a deep breath and started out slow.
“My name is Declan Labelle. I’m twenty-five years old and live in Columbus, Ohio. I-I work as a livestreamer. I was born on April 19th, 1995… what else do you want?”
“How about a few hobbies?”
“Sure, uh… video games, obviously. Cooking, chess, skating… I liked to garden back home?” Declan’s voice lilted up and he turned to search their expression. Hasan met his eyes with a gentle nod.
“Very nice. Face forward and brace yourself,” they instructed.
“No, please! What else do-”
“This is for not answering in the first place. I wouldn’t give you the courtesy of a warning otherwise.” Their arm brought the cane up and Declan whipped his head around before it had the chance to strike his face. He didn’t need to wait for the lash.
It crossed above the first, splitting on taut skin because he’d hunched over again despite the immediate consequences. Declan’s vision blurred. His head pounded. This genre of pain wasn’t something he was built to comprehend.
This came at the whim of his fellow man, with precision and force that happenstance would never allow, and Declan was being torn in two. The initial sensation refused to fade. His wet cries clung like condensation to his skin.
“Tell me your favorite method of restraint, sweetheart.”
“I don’t have a favorite, I fucking hate it all!” he cried, and Hasan didn’t hesitate. The blow’s force rocked him. “Fuck!”
Blood dripped sluggishly down his back, and it would’ve tickled if it weren’t overshadowed by agony.
“Try again.”
Declan’s mind raced. What had they used on him? The zip ties were miserable, cutting into his wrists and ankles with every jostle. It may have been his own resistance against the handcuffs but their sharp edges hadn’t done him any favors either. Mottled bruising peeked out from under the leather cuffs.
The leather wasn’t… offensive.
“These.” Declan grimaced and held them up.
“Really? You know, we might have more in common than you’d expect,” Hasan hummed. “Sit up. It’s a bit early to go around breaking your spine.”
The carefree comment snapped him upright before the cane crashed down again. He couldn’t hold back a pathetic mewl but his skin felt intact. Maybe.
“Now I’m even more interested in your gag preferences.”
God, Declan couldn’t think past the overwhelming need to get away. He couldn’t move in any meaningful way, yet his instincts insisted that it was the only way to stop Hasan’s torture.
The word slithered up his spine. Torture. You’re being tortured.
The whack echoed across the room, his scream following in a harrowing ricochet.
“You really want me to break you down already? I thought we could draw this process out for a few weeks at the very least…” Hasan sighed. “I’ve never seen someone so eager to be beaten into a soulless husk.”
“Let- let me think!” Declan whimpered.
Gags. The word tasted exclusively of vanilla and silicone and he wanted to vomit. He didn’t want to remember how else he’d been silenced but that couldn’t be his answer, couldn’t be the only time, couldn’t be the only method inflicted upon him, but his memory was entirely blank.
The cane slapped against an open palm.
“I only remember one!”
“So say it.”
“I- I can’t!”
Hasan slashed across the first five lashes in a punishing diagonal that stole his breath. A choking noise blanketed the cry and he rocked forward in a coughing fit.
“The- the ring-” His shoulders hugged his ears as he heaved up nothing but saliva. “Th’ring gag.”
It took all of Declan’s effort to straighten his back and blink away the spots.
“You’re just full of surprises today. I’ll have to keep it on hand.”
“It’s the only one I can rememb-hhhch!” he gagged. That one bled like hell.
“Favorite foods, sweetheart. Surely you can remember those now... my canvas is already running out of room,” Hasan teased. Nails ran across broken skin and wet rivulets. His waistband was already soaked through, going cold with it.
“Please! I can’t think, please don’t hit me! It hurts, it hurts so fucking much, please, I just need a second!”
“That’s not how this game works. You know that, Dec.”
“I don’t know! I keep jerky around for when I forget to eat, and I have sour candy for snacks, and I- I- that’s what I like!” Declan’s anticipatory flinch didn’t save him from the cane, and this was all going too fast. No reprieve between questions, no second chances, no empty threats, no soft touches, no bittersweet words, no mercy.
“Who’s your biological father?”
“That’s- it’s Fred, I’m half white, just look at him!” His cry mangled the words beyond recognition.
“Sexual orientation?”
“Slow down!” Declan sobbed, but his apprehension got the best of him. “I’m bisexual!”
The strike forced him over his knees until Hasan’s hand fisted in his hair.
“Hometown.” Their nose brushed his ear.
His lip actually quivered, and his eyes caught the lens of the camera again. All of this was being immortalized. How many people would see him being debased like this?
“P-point Pleasant, West Virginia,” Declan stuttered and hunched over himself.
“Sit up before I snap your spine,” came the dissatisfied voice behind him, but he didn’t move. If this was the only way to stop Hasan, then by god he’d stay that way as long as he could. “Can’t keep your hopes up if you’re paralysed, can you?”
He didn’t dare voice it, but he was confident they wouldn’t. Confident enough, despite the shuddering tremble of his shoulders, that he stayed put, hugging his knees. Hasan rounded him and he hid his head between his arms.
“Sit. Up.”
When a rough kick to his thigh didn’t do anything, they huffed and wrenched his head back again.
“Fine. Fine. I gave you a choice and I see that I was too generous. I’m spoiling you, aren’t I? Huh?” A mocking smack of the cheek brought blood to his face, equal parts humiliation and hurt. Declan’s nose scrunched and he turned away while they unhooked his wrists from his ankles, taking the opportunity to stretch cramped legs.
“Stand. You’re about to be very well acquainted with the accessories I’ve installed here.” And there was that smile again, that arousal crawling over his skin even when he couldn’t see it.
When Declan looked up, Hasan was pulling a crank that even they, in platforms no less, struggled to reach. A shiny chain lowered from its spool, the clip at the end eerily reminiscent of a flesh hook: a comparison immediately regretted when they guided it his way.
But it only slid under the links chaining his wrists together and strongly encouraged that he stand. Because it seemed that everything here had authority over him now.
“Why?” he rasped.
“I’m making it a hell of a lot harder to pull away and making your life far easier in turn. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Declan scrambled as the chain strained his shoulders, forgetting for a moment that his ankles were still tethered together, and glowered when he heard ringing laughter.
“It’s harder than it fucking looks! If you’d stop ripping my shoulders from their- AGH!” A well timed yank had him floating by his wrists, feet only scraping the floor below.
“Don’t clench up,” Hasan ordered before a whipping blow struck once more over his shoulders and nearly wrapped around to the front. “What mental illnesses have you been diagnosed with?”
And as Declan balked all over again, they rounded on him and readjusted the tripod, pointing the camera higher and framing futile attempts to balance on his toes.
“I’m not telling you that. That’s just… fucking inhumane.”
For the first time in the entire interrogation, Hasan held their fire. They twirled the cane between their fingertips.
“What makes you think that, darling?”
“It’s- holding that over somebody’s head. That’s just wrong. That’s cruel.”
“You’re speaking as if this isn’t cruel enough already.” They spread their arms and gestured grandly. “Telling me otherwise would just be another lie.”
“It is. But that’s… different.” A beat passed in the company of swaying chains. “Yeah. But I guess I can’t expect someone like yourself to understand the nuances of empathy, now can I?”
“And is it so difficult to believe that I’m asking for reasons that would benefit you?”
“Yes. It is.” Declan’s eyes glinted with something that, in anyone else’s presence, he might have called impatience.
“Well. Let’s say I am, hm? For argument’s sake-” Hasan held up a hand to halt his protests “-I’d implore you to remember the access I have to your life. The passcode to your phone, for example.” The light sliced across their glasses as they tilted their head.
Could they find that? Glowing images flashed across his vision. Had he left any tabs open, or websites bookmarked? Any files pertaining to his diagnoses? His therapist’s notes? Their phone number in his contacts? Sweat dripped into his eye.
“I’d really hate to mar the only scars you might be proud of.” Declan’s eyes shot to the imminent threat, now casting a shadow over him. “But I’m keen on having my question answered. Now.”
A cracking sob trailed out.
“Depression, anxiety- no!”
“Your diagnoses, Declan. Their medical names.”
The cane had branded a line across his thighs which now jittered and trembled under his weight.
“Persistent depressive disorder,” he choked out. “Generalized anxiety disorder and panic disorder. ADHD. Some… some of my older files say OCD, but we think that was misdiagnosed. And I have diagnosed gender dysphoria.”
“For your sake, I hope that’s everything. I still have to hit you.” Declan gave a terse nod that felt like acceptance, but Hasan returned mercifully to their executioner’s stance behind him. His tears retraced their trails when he screamed.
“Do you have a history of suicidal urges or self-harm?”
“No.”
They hit him.
“I don’t!”
They hit harder and squeezed his thigh, digging long nails across premade lines.
“I should open them back up, then? Then you’ll finally tell me who made each and every one of those cuts?”
“Let go of me.”
“Then answer my questions. I’ve made my motives quite clear to you already.”
“Well you’re sure making me want to die now, you fucking asshole.”
Hasan’s arm snaked around his neck and folded into a headlock.
“Say when.”
“What?!” But the word came out flat and hoarse under burgeoning pressure, and their free hand craned his head back. He swallowed dry and struggled even with that.
“Tap out when you’ve changed your mind.”
The gushing of a glacial stream pounded in his ears, likely the last rush of blood that made it through before Hasan’s hold clamped down hard on both his windpipe and arteries.
Thought didn’t extend very far beyond that moment. There was an instinct of waving limbs, then tremors, jerking, and stillness that nursed the deep burn in his chest. Something animal in Declan’s psyche clawed back for breath even after his fading consciousness instructed it to stop. He couldn’t play that game, physically or mentally.
He must have mouthed something or fallen unconscious because his next sensation was that of dangling by raw wrists, coughing out air he still didn’t have. Every breath burned worse than the last and Declan couldn’t swallow around his own tongue, instead dripping spit through parted lips.
The only indication that Hasan had let go was their hold, hooked under each of his shoulders.
“Still suicidal?” Their hand brushed a light smack over his jaw and it hardly earned a flinch. “Come now, I haven’t got all day.”
Uh huh. Because it’s just that simple. He was half smart enough not to say it, but half entirely incapable. Was he still alive? A harder slap confirmed that rather miserably and he shook his head, answering their original question.
“Sure, I’ve wanted to die before. Who hasn’t?” he croaked. The humor didn’t land.
“And self-harm?” Their voice was closer, slipping under his skin.
“You know.”
“I do.” The tip of the cane drilled into a bloodied mark. “Now. Speak. To. Me.”
“Yeah. I cut in the past.” His voice broke.
“Where.” It wasn’t a question, but an order. Declan shuddered and braced.
“My thighs. A-a few on my arms,” he whispered.
“When did you last engage?” A feather-light touch of their proverbially forked tongue.
“A few months ago. Maybe.”
“Your voice gets hoarse when you cry,” Hasan sighed wistfully.
“You strangled me.”
“Stand up straight.” A signal that their conversation was to be overshadowed by the sharp whack that landed a second later and forced out a ragged cry.
“Last question, Dec. Warning signs that things are getting worse with you.”
He couldn’t take any more of this. He couldn’t take it ten, fifteen, twenty lashes ago. Had they caned him so many times? He’d been lost since the first.
It fell again: the mercy of the last round coming to an end.
“Isolation.” That word that had lost its meaning in therapy. “Negative outlook.” Right out of the playbook. “I’m done with this. Leave me alone.”
“Warning signs indeed,” mused Hasan, still with that smile plastered across their face.
The order to brace didn’t come and Declan’s voice tore into a gasp before it screamed. That godforsaken rod rolled to his feet but its impact was still buried deep beneath his bones, tucked under a rib that must have cracked with the sheer force. Hasan let down the pulley and he fell into a heap.
Next chapter: July 16th, 2025
~~~
Tag list: @as-a-matter-of-whump @suspicious-whumping-egg @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @anevilweevil @insane2core
