Writer, Cato seems confused! You should at least tell him what whump is, though he might get scared if he looks it up.
Masterlist
Cw: meta aware whumpee, existential crisis, emotional whump
He doesn’t have to look up to know that they’re next to him. Their golden particulate form made a shimmer at the edge of his vision. They leaned their hip against the desk, causing it to shift slightly.
“What?” He looked up at them, confused as to why they had appeared without saying anything. They usually spoke first, and didn’t often manifest their entire self.
They simply pointed up.
He read the prompt, and his brows furrowed in suspicion. Casting another glance at the glittery figure, he typed the word ‘whump’ into the search bar. He looked back at them, incredulous.
“I thought you’d have more of a response to that.” They spoke for the first time. Then they peeked over his shoulder and realized the issue.
“Oh- one second.” They tapped at the keyboard, adding the words ‘fiction meaning’ to the search terms. “The first search just showed the definition for the sound”
They hit enter, and Cato read the new search results. He visibly paled, each word a strike of dread in his heart. Turning his gaze down, he took slow, deep breaths. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of his chair.
He was shaking.
“That’s closer to what I was expecting.” Writer rested their chin on his head, prompting a small sob.
He cringed away from them, and closed the search tab. Rising, he took shaky steps to the bathroom, and turned on the sink. He splashed his face with warm water, avoiding looking in the mirror.
“So now you know. How does it feel?”
They stood behind him, and he was struck by the realization that they were shorter than him. He started laughing bitterly, holding the rim of the sink for support. The laughing quickly turned to crying, and he collapsed to the floor.
“Awe Annon, I think you were right, he does seem a bit scared.” They leaned against the sink, looking down at where Cato sat, sobbing.
They sat down next to him, and looked into his tear filled eyes. “I could erase this memory, if you wanted”
“Why- why would I want that?” He glanced at their expression- not mocking but also not sympathetic.
What if, now hear me out, the people around Cato were used to torment him? It wouldn't even need to be physical!
In my opinion, one of the most horrifying tropes is random people in your everyday life suddenly looking at you blankly and saying "Wake up. This isn't real, you're dreaming," and then going back to whatever they were doing/saying like it never happened.
Except it would be so much worse for Cato, because it isn't a dream. He just flat out doesn't exist!
Nothing would break my mind faster than my coworkers and friends randomly telling me throughout the day that I'm not real.
I'm sorry this is so long x
.
Oh I love this so much!
Masterlist
Cw: major existential crisis, meta aware whumpee, emotional whump, begging
Also tagging unreality
The presence came as he was wrapping a chunk of meat in paper. He gave soft sigh, and handed the customer her order. She swiped her card through the scanner and smiled at him.
“You’re not real.” She spoke in a cheery tone, and he could sworn he saw a small flash of gold in her eyes.
“What?” He asked softly, startled.
“I said thank you.” She smiled again, if a bit awkwardly now, and went on her way.
Cato looked around, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see where the audience was. Annoyed, he scraped off the cutting board and tidied up the counter.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” He whispered, leaning down behind the counter, out of earshot from everyone else. He rolled his eyes when no response came.
The presence drifted into the background, so he went back to work. Another order, and he packaged some more fish. When he rang them up, he startled at the price.
‘You’re not real’
He shook it off, handing the package to the customer. “Have a great day.” Luckily they used a card, so he didn’t have to actually know the price.
“What, is this gonna be all day?” He muttered.
Of course there wasn’t any response.
Cato took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. He could just ignore it. At least it wasn’t painful this time. At least writer wasn’t here, mocking him or invisibly forcing his head around.
He continued through his work day, doing his best to ignore the message. It popped up in the most random places, a notification on his phone, as one of the ingredients on a label, and was said by various people.
During his break, he sat in the storage room and kept his eyes closed. He had told his coworker he had a headache.
“You’re not real” he said, slightly concerned.
“Mhmm.” Cato put his head in his hands, tears prickling at his eyes.
By the end of the day he was exhausted.
——
When he got on the bus, it got worse. Every passenger he passed told him he wasn’t real. He did his best to avoid reading anything, all the words replaced by the same message.
He put headphones on, but anything he tried to play would start with the same words. After searching through his music library, he recognized the album cover for some instrumental stuff. This worked just fine, so he left it on.
As soon as he got of the bus he started jogging through the park, and got into his apartment as soon as possible. Immediately, he went and hid under the blankets on his bed.
“I know you’re still there.” He whispered, voice breaking. “Please stop. I don’t know what you want to accomplish, and I don’t care. Just- please stop”
“Hey wanna hear something interesting?” Writer manifested seated in front of him, their particulate more solid than usual, and the blankets shifted to accommodate them.
“please..” He was sobbing quietly, refusing to look at them.
They leaned closer, their head raising the blanket off his own. “You’re not real.”
“I know that! You’ve told me this over and over! I don’t care!” He shouted, glaring at them through tears.
“It seems a bit like you do care.” They smirked, leaning so that their noses were almost touching.
“I care when you start.. making it impossible for me to live my life.” He turned away. The blankets fell back down when they dissipated.
“Your life isn’t real either.” He felt a single pat on the head through the blanket.
“I don’t care. It’s still my life, so I’m going to keep going to work and classes, and making friends and going to movies and ordering takeout. Because it doesn’t matter if it’s not real.”
“You don’t like when I say it’s not real.”
“You’re implying that it’s not important. You’re telling me my life is meaningless. That’s what bothers me!” He pulled the blankets off, glaring at where they sat at the foot of the bed. The sudden realization that reality didn’t mean importance.. it was an explanation he could accept.
They couldn’t hide their look of surprise. Taking a second to try and think, they started to speak, but decided against it, dissipating entirely.
12+36 forrr writer mostly bc i think it would be silly
“Am I lonely? Up here in the clouds? Of course not! I’ve got the birds! And dear Cato.” They step behind him and squeeze his face controllingly. “And soon I’ll also meet his.. ‘friend”
Cato looks like he’s about to say something, probably a threat, to Writer. They cut him off.
“As for the second one- No. Cato has not ever scared me.” They seem like they could be lying.
“Wait stop that!” They’re startled by the description, not wanting certain details about themself to be revealed.
“Seriously stop! This isn’t funny.” They shouted, in a direction that wasn’t the audience or Cato, but was.. something else.
“Okay I’m leaving. Sorry not sorry Cato for leaving you up here, I’ll come back after I know they’re gone.” They gave a pointed look and disappeared.
i don't want to hurt you, not at all! but i do just love hearing your cute little begging and whimpering. so here's a little deal for you. you beg me not to hurt you, yknow, get down on your little hands and knees and grovel at my feet, and if i'm satisfied by your performance, i won't hurt you! in fact, i'll then give you some comfort, whatever you'd like.
do poorly, though, and i'll see if our dear Writer will let me borrow you for a day (or just arrange for Writer to carry out the day, whatever works-). and it will hurt :)
so do your best! :)))
The third sentence raises a strike of fear in his heart. He sinks to his knees, not out of willingness, but just because he can’t stand up anymore
“Please- I- I’m not sure what… I—” he’s shaking, breathing to quickly too calm down.
“I don’t know—” He can barely get the words out, as it feels like he can’t move. He looks up with wide eyes as he helplessly tries to speak.
He can’t manage to get any more words out. He’s trying, opening and closing his mouth as if he can fight through the intangible grip inside. As if he can force himself to talk.
Upon realizing that he can’t anymore, he opts for trying to be pleasing, furrowing his brows in the way he knows looks cute. Tears make his dark eyes glassy.
“Well it looks like he barely did any begging. You’re welcome to him for a day if that wasn’t satisfactory.” They smile cruelly, knowing exactly what’s making Cato so afraid.
He shakes his head from where he sits on the ground. However bad writer is, at least they’re predictable, mostly. They always stop when he can’t respond anymore, he can count on that at least.
He has no idea what someone else would do if given complete control over him.
Could we have a classic whipping in a basement for Cato? It can be you or it can be me
Masterlist
Cw: meta aware whumpee, kidnapped whumpee, forced removal of shirt, whipping, cold whump, manhandling, blood
Cato wasn’t exactly sure how he had gotten here. It wasn’t that the world had shifted, like with Writer. It was like he had memories of being grabbed and shoved into a car, dragged into the basement, and tied to a support beam. But those memories were hazy, as if through water. Maybe that was just because of the head injury.
Whatever the case, he had plenty of time to clear his head, tied up and left alone as he was.
——
They’d also forced a bandanna between his teeth and taken his shirt. The way he was tied up, with his wrists strapped to the opposing side of a large beam, did little to assuage his fears. His back was completely exposed to whatever this new person was planning.
Whoever this person was, they were definitely not Writer. He couldn’t figure it out exactly, but it seemed like they were some kind of puppet.. a body ready to be controlled by someone. Someone like Writer, but not. This was someone else.
The light turned on at the top of the stairs, and he heard footsteps coming down
“Mmh” he pulled at the cuffs, clinking the chains. His breathing was heavy and erratic, as he looked at his captor with narrowed eyes. When he saw the object in their hand, he struggled to get away.
A whip.
They reached and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. A tear fell. They let go, and moved behind him. He flinched when he heard the length of the whip fall to the floor.
A loud CRACK sounded, and he let out a ragged cry. The long mark across his back burned, and the tears were coming in full. He strained to turn his head, to try and look at them. He wanted to ask why, why were they doing this to him.
He lowered his head and heaved with sobs, completely unprepared when the next lash came. This time the cry was closer to a scream, and he was gasping to breathe. He pressed closer to the beam, trying in vain to get away.
A third and he couldn’t keep his head up, his voice breaking into a rasp. He tasted metal.
A fourth and he slumped in the restraints, barely able to take in breaths. His vision blurred.
He barely felt the fifth, and didn’t feel the sixth at all. All the fiery stinging and dull aching mixed into a feeling that was nothing except pain. Blearily, he noticed his wrists were no longer strapped to the beam. He lay flat on the cold cement floor. He welcomed the chill that washed through his chest.
The bleeding had stopped after a while, and he had shuffled to sit in the corner, too weak to climb the stairs.
Their shoes entered his field of view, and he curled in on himself. Frigid water poured over him, and he was grabbed by the arm. They dragged him up the stairs, through a garage space, and shoved him in the trunk of a car.
He turned to keep from aggravating the lashes. Wincing at every bump in the road. Before long the trunk opened again, and he was roughly pulled out, shoved to the ground and kicked in the stomach.
They tossed his shirt at him, got in their car, and drove away. They’d left him in the park across from his apartment building, in the middle of the night. He shivered at the freezing air, and hastily tried to button up his shirt.
He trudged back to his apartment, knowing no one would notice the blood.
Cato. Lovely, precious one. What I’d really like to do is have you beaten. I want your skin torn and your bones broken. I want to stab you in the stomach. And then I just want to push on all those injuries. I want to twist your bones further out of place. I want to dig my fingers into your open wounds and watch you writhe. I want you to beg for it to stop. I want your voice hoarse from weeping. I want to wipe your tears away and play with your hair while I hurt you. Then watch you fall to pieces
Cw: meta aware whumpee, major panic attack, imagined torture.
He’s walking through the park when he gets the message. He can’t quite process the words, but images play in his head over and over. The phantom pains of being cut up and beaten and broken- dull aches and sharp cuts dance across his skin as he’s forced to imagine the scenario.
He can’t speak.
He’s fallen to his knees, clutching his chest, breathing erratic. His heart is out of control. Gostly fingers brush across false injuries.
You want him to beg but he knows he wouldn’t be able to. He knows his voice would be hoarse after the first break. He’d fall to pieces after the cuts and the stab. He’s barely breathing, panic, thoughts in a disarray, as the moments fill his head. Tears are falling but he is not sobbing, only gasping.
Cato. I want to burn you and make you watch, make you smell your burning flesh and watch your skin melt and char. I want to tie you to a table so you can’t do anything but squirm and scream and scream and cry. I want to burn down your cheeks so that your tears hurt. I want you to beg me to stop so that I can laugh and keep going
His hand goes to cover his mouth. He pales immediately, wanting to stop from reading but he can’t look away. He can’t stop, he won’t be able to stop until he’s done reading.
He reads on, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. His fingers quickly move so that he isn’t touching his cheeks, still covering his mouth. As soon as he’s done he turns his head down and starts sobbing, the tears burn just at the thought.
He curls to hide his face in his knees, arms around his head, shoulders shaking. Through gasping cries, he says in a soft voice, “please.. I don’t.. hhm!”
He presses his mouth into a thin line, biting the inside of his lips. “I- just… please don’t.”
Cw: meta aware whumpee, stabbing, blood, mild gore, stitches
Cato sighed as he got swirled up into the clouds. The change was quick and quiet, and before he knew it he was on the platform. This time, various draped chains decorated the cloudy area.
He read the prompt and froze. He frantically searched for Writer, ready to fight back. A searing pain sliced through his side, right near his waist.
“Agh!” He pressed a hand to the wound. Warm blood seeped through his fingers. “The prompt said one cut! No more!” He took off his jacket and tied it around the wound.
“The prompt implied one cut. There’s nothing expressly forbidding more.” They materialized before him, solid crystalline knife in one hand.
He backed away, so they appeared behind him and slashed his upper arm. He gasped, snarling at them.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t bleed out. See look, that first ones done bleeding already.”
They were right. The first cut was still covered in blood, but the gash itself was no longer flowing with it. Just hurting. He looked to his shoulder, where the bleeding had already slowed immensely.
While he was distracted with his arm, the blade struck his opposite shoulder. He hissed, turning to try and hit them. His fist went through dust.
“Ow you hit me.” They said, overexaggerating being knocked back. “That deserves some punishment.” They disappeared.
He cried out as the knife slid into his ankle. Another in his knee. He fell to the ground. Barely containing choked gasps, he glared up at Writer.
Spots played at his vision.
The knife slashed across his back, eliciting another cry. Cato shut his eyes, no longer caring that tears were falling.
Writer dipped a finger in one of the pools of blood. They smirked and lifted Cato’s chin, smearing the blood across his face. His expression was contorted in agony, and he hissed at trying to move his leg.
They examined the cuts they’d made, before roughly digging their fingers into the gash across his back. He gasped out sobs, trying to drag himself away from their touch.
“Had enough?” They cooed, running bloodied fingers through his hair. “I think I’m quite done with the knife. I think I’ll move on to something else.”
Cato’s breath hitched, and he let out a ragged scream as the gashes were knitted back together. A thin golden thread pierced through his skin, over and over, pulling the cuts closed. He scrambled to try and get away as the threads slowly went through each cut, up and down, crisscrossing. His vision darkened, the spots and dizziness overcoming him.
They trailed fingers over their thread work, before tilting his head up again. Dark, tear filled eyes fluttered. His breathing was shallow and uneven. Feeling for a pulse, they waited as the fast and strong heartbeat got slower and weaker.
“Oh no- looks like I broke him. Hmm.. well I guess that’s enough for now.” They willed the surroundings to shift, and now Cato was laying in the bath of his apartment. Blood smeared on the white surface. He shifted, still trying to ease the pain, even when unconscious.
They dissipated, leaving Cato to pick himself back up.
