Picture this: whumper has held whumpee hostage for weeks or even months and has put them through hell over and over again, trying to break them. They almost give up entirely.
But then an opportunity arises, to escape. Maybe whumper got a little careless and forgot to lock the door to whumpee's cell after a session. Or maybe whumper became arrogant, purposefully allowing whumpee less restrictions because they assumed that whumpee would be too weak to do anything.
The why doesnt really matter here, what matters is that whumpee seizes the opportunity to finally be free... Then change their mind
Because no
Whumper does not just get to move on with their life, not after putting whumpee through hell for however long its been like nothing happened...
They deserve to suffer just like whumpee did...
So when whumper is vulnerable, they are knocked out and dragged to the very same cell where whumpee was locked up, tied to the same blood soaked chair they tortured whumpee in...
And when whumper comes to, they see the malicious grin on their former captive's face as their dawning horror begins to set in
Whumper's about to get a taste of their own medicine :)
Trigger Warnings For: Pet whump, intimate whumper, blood, gore, torture, bludgeoning injury, body horror, finger gore (mentioned), tooth gore (mentioned), dehumanization, pet names, medical whump (implied)...
༻✦༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✦༺
THE WORST DAYS, GRACE THOUGHT, were the days in which there were others.
Herself being hurt was one thing—having been here for years she could take it, and she knew what to say to avoid provoking any more anger—but these others, these new ones, were barely equipped to handle a scraped knee. They would enter the manor crying, which was a bad start, and not stop until they had been made to stop. Grace would be able to hear them from quite a way away, and by now the noise had become a signal for her to fetch the cleaning materials. They would doubtlessly be needed soon; the hallway was supposed to be pristine at all times, not a drop of blood in sight, and when had there not been blood on a day like this? If she was lucky, the Master would take them down to the basement promptly, because that would mean that she didn’t need to be involved in any way. Some other poor soul would handle the mess that was made.
Today, though, Grace was out of luck. When the other one arrived, they were predictably bawling their eyes out—and by the time that she had made her way downstairs, Grace could see that one of the decorative weapons had been taken off the wall, a mace, and was in the process of being swung at the poor thing’s legs. The sound of the impact was sickening, as the spikes tore flesh and the heavy metal broke bones. The Master was clearly taking great joy in the gruesome act, as even as the newcomer lay on the floor unable to stand he kept going, hit after hit. Had they upset him, Grace wondered, or was this just a whim? Did the Master look up and see the weapons and just decide to use them, just because he could?
It was difficult to look away. The newcomer was young, slightly younger than Grace, with short brown hair and wide blue eyes that shone with tears like pearls. They were small in stature, fragile looking, and under their white button up shirt their skin was covered in bruises so dark they were ever so slightly visible through the fabric. The newcomer had no fingernails and very few teeth, but their body didn’t seem to be very scarred, which was a wonder. They looked as if they had been tortured, but tortured incredibly carefully, as if with a certain aesthetic in mind. The Master didn’t seem to care about that, though, which must have struck a new kind of fear into the newcomer. Before, they must have been at least someone valued by their owner, but now they were less than nothing. Less than Grace, even.
Grace forced herself to turn away and make her way back up the stairs. There was no use for a Maidservant at this point in time, and if she tried to do her job now she would simply get in the way. She would set a timer for ten minutes, she decided, and check again then. It was unlikely that the Master would still be using the mace then, as he was highly prone to boredom, and Grace also doubted that the fragile thing would even last that long. Maybe if they died now it would be almost like mercy, she thought. Death by bludgeoning… that wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
“Grace-ie?” the Master said, his voice filled with glee, “My sweet, are you there?”
She stopped still in her tracks like a fearful rabbit, silent and ever so slightly twitchy. She had been here for years and yet never became properly used to being addressed directly, and so the Master could use her name—or whatever sing-song approximation of it he could come up with—as a psychological weapon.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, forcing her voice not to waver too much. Show no nerves, Grace reminded herself, and no nerves could be used against her. “Are you in need of anything?” The key was to always be a little too polite for the situation, to ignore the choking sobs of whoever lay broken on the floor until the Master brought attention to them, to make herself small and harmless as if she had been born without a backbone. She was a survivor, and all survivors knew to keep that hidden away, deep where it couldn’t be seen. There was something in Grace that hadn’t broken just yet, and she would do anything to stop it breaking.
“Come on down here then, darling!” he exclaimed, “I’ve got such a wonderful gift right here, a stunning one. He used to do things similar to you, but his owner decided that he wasn’t very good at it and decided that he’d do better in another role. Come on down and see!”
Grace felt her stomach sink. Was this… an example? Had she been lacking in some way that made the Master believe that she needed some motivation? Clearly, she was supposed to see the newcomer (he, she reminded herself) for some sort of reason, but the fact that she couldn’t tell if it was for a calculated plan or some sick whim was deeply troubling. “I’m coming, sir. Do you want me to bring the cleaning supplies, or should I leave them up here?”
“Leave them, Gracie-my-dear! We can’t have you getting preoccupied with all that whilst I still have him alive!”
Maybe, Grace thought, the Master was just in a good mood. That would be almost preferable, or at least less dangerous for her. He was treating her like she was almost his friend, and so, she predicted, it would be hard to get him to forget her but easy enough to make him appeased.
Grace kept her composure as she made her way down the grand staircase. Everything about the manor was as beautiful as it was horrifying, with expertly prepared hunting trophies spaced among the weapons on the walls and detailed snakes carved into the wood of the bannisters. If she closed her eyes and dreamt this house could be lovely, but opening her eyes brought forth the reality that this place would never be anything but a place for blood. Her progress down the stairs was slow, a consequence of the operation performed long ago which permanently left her unable to run, but Grace still somehow managed to make it look at least a little bit elegant. Stumbling would make her look out of place among the expensive decorations.
She took great pains not to step in the steadily pooling blood that spread across the marble tiles. It was likely still warm.
“I’m here now, sir.” she said. He looked to be preoccupied with the mace again, holding it up to his mouth for a taste. Grace marvelled, as she always did, at his inhumanity. There was a part of her that could never get used to… small things like that.
“My wonderful girl! Such a smart little human!” He licked his lips. “Do you like him?”
Grace forced herself to stare at the newcomer. Its—his—eyes were half closed, barely seeing anything, and he seemed incapable of movement. She was sure that the Master had left enough life in him to play with later, but right now it could barely be seen. She watched as his mouth opened and closed, and it took her a good few seconds to realise that he was trying to communicate a message. Help me. Save me. Kill me now.
“He’s… nice,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “A very good choice. I like how you used the mace, I haven’t seen you use it as a weapon before.”
The Master laughed, a horrible sound. “No, no, darling! I didn’t pick this one out—his owner was tired of him and so I was given him entirely for free. My original plan was to use him as a blood-bag for the next few days, but then I remembered how terribly lonely you always look, and so I thought I’d let you have him as a sweet little friend, Gracie!”
Dear God, Grace thought, no. This was worse than she had anticipated, because it was entirely unexpected. “For me?” she asked, half convinced that either she had misheard or the Master had misspoken.
“For you!” he repeated, putting an arm on Grace’s shoulder. “Don’t be so glum, I’m sure the legs will heal soon.”
Grace forced a smile onto her face before a frown could appear. She wanted this wretched man’s hands off her. She wanted this poor boy to have never arrived. She wanted to leave. Unfortunately, none of those things seemed like possibilities. There was no way to escape this that wouldn’t immediately result in hurt.
“Oh my, thank you,” she said, making her voice soft. With her instincts rebelling against her, Grace turned her head to look into the Master’s eyes, and pretended to see life in those crimson irises. “Do you have any ideas for what I should do with it? I definitely think we should let it have some rest. I’ve never been punished in quite that way, but it definitely seems like it must have tired him out.”
There was nothing she hated more than pretending to be inhuman like this. It was one thing to watch from afar and clean up afterwards, but to act like a willing participant? That must be, Grace considered, the worst thing she could do.
༻✦༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✦༺
Tell me if you'd like to be tagged for the next part!
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
vaporwave
kianamaiart
