Whumper becoming so so nice to Whumpee once they’re broken in—apologizing for their previous behavior/actions, even. They really are so sorry for having been so rough on Whumpee at first. Isn’t it so much nicer when Whumpee is compliant? If they hadn’t been so oppositional, things could have been like this from the beginning!
Whumper forcefully grabbed Whumpee’s jaw, tipping the clear liquid into Whumpee’s mouth. Whumpee struggled, trying their best to get out of Whumper’s hold, but Whumpee was kneeling and weak and so so tired, and Whumper was standing over them and stronger, always stronger and always more powerful.
Whumper looked down into Whumpee’s eyes, revelling in the tears streaming down their cheeks. “You always make it harder than it needs to be, Whumpee."
Whumper let go of Whumpee, who dropped to the floor. Whumpee's whole body was wrapped in imprints of their last beating; they were in so much pain, it made it hard to breathe. Whumper put the empty glass on a table.
The effects of whatever Whumper forced down Whumpee's throat were immediate, just a slight feeling of fog crawling over Whumpee’s skin, everything slowing just a little bit.
“If you were good, I wouldn’t have to do this."
Whumpee scoffed. They knew it would probably result in a harder punishment after the exhibit, but they had to laugh. They were not submitting without a fight; they never have, especially not if it meant going onto that god-forsaken pedestal in front of all those people. People who would look at them and only see what Whumper has turned them into.
They would call it art, and criticise the colour of their bruises, the shape of the lashing marks covering their back. They would praise Whumper, ask them questions afterwards, about their technique, about their style.
Whumper turned towards Whumpee; they were even angrier now. Whumpee started to shuffle backwards on the floor; they hated themselves for the visceral reaction their body had whenever Whumper looked at them like that. It made them sick, and it allowed Whumpee to scrape together whatever rage the drugs weren't already flushing from their system, just enough to whisper a soft fuck you to the approaching Whumper.
Whumpee knew that their defiance gave them no real power. Whumper was smart, and so so cruel; the sedative would work, maybe in a few minutes, but the result would be the same. Whumpee would be completely at Whumper's mercy. Whumper smugly moved towards Whumpee; they enjoyed it when Whumpee talked back, it made the lessons they had to learn so much more profound. Whumpee tried to get away, but Whumper was faster, and the drug was really starting to do its job. Whumper knelt in front of Whumpee; they had something in their hands...
A leash.
Before Whumpee could even think to pull away, it was already clipped onto the permanent collar they were forced to wear around their neck. Whumper was speaking, but the words held no meaning; it was only noise. Whumper pulled on the leash, and Whumpee had no choice but to move with them. Their legs weren't working fast enough to keep up; they stumbled, but Whumper didn't care; they probably even enjoyed it a little. The collar pushed into Whumpee’s throat, forcing their breathing to become ragged.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you for your pleasure, exhibit 128, by one of our best artists: Whumper.”
Whumper pushed Whumpee into the exhibition room, onto the pedestal. Whumpee fell on the marble block with a loud thud. A hazy mix of laughter and chatter crashed into Whumpee. Whumpee tried to push themselves up, but their arms felt like heavy weights they weren’t strong enough to pick up. They weren't completely sure what was happening around them anymore. Everything was so loud and so far away at the same time.
Shame and embarrassment were folding themselves into Whumpee's chest; they were drugged, but they were still on display, still watched and appraised like an object. Whumpee felt their clothes being stripped from their body; they tried to push away Whumper's hands, but it was only met with more laughter, and the next grip on their skin was going to leave even more bruises. Whumpee couldn't stop feeling the audience's eyes burning into their skin. They tried to look away, but Whumper was there to stop them. Whumper bent down to whisper in Whumpee's ear, "This is what you were made for, Whumpee, nothing more, nothing less. And we will keep doing this until you believe it too."
I love it when a post-whump recovery arc is fluffy but realistic. Like, it's cosy and the whumpee has a gentle support system, but that doesn't stop them from exhibiting the messy and unpalatable symptoms of their trauma. That's my favourite style of recovery arc
Whumpee's eyes slowly squint open. They feel restrained, something strong is wrapped around their arms and front. They hear quiet crying coming from above.
It takes a moment for them to realize they're in caretakers lap and bundle in their arms, being squeezed and held with love and care.
Whumpee is the opposite of stoic. Flinches at every threat, screams and sobs when hurt. Shakes with fear or pain, cries themselves into an exhausted sleep in the aftermath. They don't dare fight or talk back, only whimper. And yet, they do not give whumper what they want. They swear to themselves that they never will.
Whumpee just slumped on their knees, sobbing in Whumpers basement. They’d been numb for so long but some random memory had triggered a rush of grief so strong that they couldn’t hold back any longer.
Maybe it was the realization that they were never going to see that random coworker that complimented their shirt (now ripped and covered in blood). Realizing yes, they’d probably never see anyone they knew, close or not, ever again.
Maybe it was coming across the gum wrapper left in their pocket, realizing they missed so badly something so small. They’d used to keep a pack of gum on them always. The tiniest things stung the worst.
Maybe it was realizing they’d probably missed some important milestone. They couldn’t be sure how many days had passed but they’re pretty sure they’d missed Christmas. Someone’s birthday. A wedding. A funeral.
Little details attacking when they were least expecting them.
“How much?” A voice asks, dripping with ice. I shiver, my hands start shaking, I'm scared, I'm always scared. The air in the private auction room is bitter against my mostly bare skin. My knees are aching from where I'm kneeling on the floor. I hate kneeling.
Master turns away from the woman he was speaking to, giving his full attention to the man with the cold voice, who is standing only inches in front of me. “Excuse me?”
That was Master's annoyed voice. It is important to know all of Master's different voices. Patronizing when he's angry, short-off when he's tired, chipper when he's happy...
He was angry last night. After punishing me, Master allowed me to wrap my palms in bandages, which have stopped the bleeding for the most part but has done nothing for the pain. Nothing ever does.
“For him.” The voice replies.
“Unfortunately he hasn’t been broken in quite yet; he’ll only be available for purchase at a future auction.”
I hate Master's voice. I hate the way he talks about me like I'm not even here, like I'm not a real person. That he's reduced me to an object. I hate it because it's all true, and there's nothing I can do about it.
"Then why is he here?"
"I... I j-just wanted to show him what to expect. It's all part of his training."
Master never stutters. What does a man have to be to make Master nervous? I want to look up. But I know better. I’ve long since learned that floors are safer. At some point I’ve taught myself to really look at them. What are they made of? Do they have cracks? This one did. The marble splintered in several areas; it reminded me of little roads. I pretend that I could follow them, that I could le—
"How. Much?"
The voice somehow drops even lower; it becomes even more glacial. My breathing quickens slightly. I hate this. I dare to look at his shoes. That's safe, right? I'll still be good.
Other than floors, I have been spending a lot of time looking at people's footwear. It was fun creating little images in my head of how people looked based solely on what they wore on their feet. The man's shoes are black and clean, very clean, cleaner than Master's shoes, and I polished Master's shoes; I'm really impressed. I wonder who polishes his shoes. If he buys me, will I have to do it? Can I do it?
“Well, if you’re serious, then we…we can; if you’re sure, we can talk about a fair price.”
Was Master really going to give me to this man? Was this really what my life has come to? Being passed from one monster to the next? I notice there are no other shoes in the room anymore. Everyone has moved on to the next auction space.
“I wasn’t really planning on buying tonight.” The man sighed; he sounded so...lifeless? Was that the right word? I stop looking at his shoes; instead, I close my eyes. I hate this. "But I do prefer them when they're still...moldable."
“I assure you, with proper, as you say, molding, he could be a great addition to your house. You can even outsource the training; I have contacts.” Master was speaking faster than I had ever heard before.
"You know who I am, yes?"
"I'm fully aware."
“Good. My company will wire transfer the money to you within 48 hours.” The man speaks like he's simply stating facts, that same emotionless tone crawling over every word. “You, however, as a show of good faith, will sign over the ownership now.”
There's a pause. I'm struggling to breathe. I'm only starting to be good for Master. Now I have to learn new rules? Endure new punishments? I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.
“As a sign of good faith…” Master repeats the words, trailing off into thought. “Yes.”
“Pet.” Master's angry voice. I need to be careful.
“Yes, Master?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean for it to; I sound so weak. I hate it.
“Go fetch your ownership documents from my office; you know where they are."
I do, of course I do. Master never misses an opportunity to remind me of how much power over me he truly has. I'm scraping together the strength to move from my kneeling position. Everything hurts. I can't remember ever not being in pain.
“No.” The voice slices through the room.
“You will go fetch the papers; I’d like to inspect what my money has bought me.”
Master doesn’t reply, at least not in a way that I can hear or see; he simply leaves. Me. Alone. With the man.
There's silence. I try to control my breathing; it's impossible. I think he might not speak to me at all.
“Do you have a name? A real name?”
That voice, aimed at me, feels like a boot pressed down on my chest (I would know).
"N...n-no, Master.” Not anymore.
Maybe if I’m good, he’ll give me a new one. I hate pet, I hate that I respond to it.
I wait for him to grab me, to 'inspect' me, but he just stands there. And then he does something so unexpected. He crouches down. I flinch. I try to hide it. I fail. I wait for the pain, for his palm, or his fist. Instead, he lightly grips my chin in between his thumb and index finger and tilts my head up.
I'm forced to meet his eyes. I have never looked divinity in the eyes, but if I did, it would look back at me with eyes like his… a dark grey abyss into which I could disappear if I weren't careful. I stop breathing altogether. He looks like a god. Sharp lines and expertly styled black hair.
"You will look at me when I speak to you."
I swallow and nod, "Yes, Master."
"When you're ready, you'll tell me your name." He stands up and holds his hand out to me. "Until then you'll just be my sweet boy, won't you?"
The subtle signs of hidden trauma. Trembling hands. Hitched, stuttered breaths. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it flinch. Quick, fleeting signs, so easy to miss, but if they're noticed....
Whumper is patient with Whumpee as they break/train them. They never lose their temper, no matter what Whumpee does. Every action is methodical, and feels more dangerous because of that. Whumper especially loves the defiant and stoic whumpees because they are the biggest challenge, and the most entertaining to reshape into what Whumper wants them to be, no matter if it takes years of conditioning and slow torture to get there.
whumpee and caretaker being out in public somewhere and whumpee is sneaking glances at caretaker they’re just so beautiful , of course caretaker notices, slightly tilting their head, giving a small smile, whumpee blushes and looks away immediately
caretaker approaching a flustered whumpee, who keeps taking steps backwards until their back hits the wall, except caretaker is STILL approaching, eyes hungrily traveling all over whumpee’s body
whumpee sitting on caretaker’s lap, facing them, maybe playing with a piece of caretaker’s clothing, fiddling with the buttons on their shirt, anything to keep the anxiety down, and caretaker careful lifts their chin, forcing them to make eye contact, caretaker just smirks
whumpee who’s maybe too injured, or who never learned to put on shoes, and caretaker kneeling before them to help, whumpee has to swallow their surprise and the tries to hide the blush creeping up their face
caretaker and whumpee who has already been intimate, caretaker leans in for a kiss, whumpee gravitates to them and caretaker hovers just out of reach, smuggly enjoying whumpee’s neediness,
caretaker who looks for ANY excuse to touch whumpee, linking their fingers when their hands brush, rubbing circles on their thighs when they’re driving somewhere, coming up behind them, wrapping their arms around whumpee’s waist and resting their chin on whumpee’s shoulder
