im a huuuge sucker for "bad reaction to the sedative" whump—staying unconscious for longer than supposed to, disoriented, rapid heartbeat, blurry eyesight, headaches, no control over their limbs, just awake enough to notice they're being taken, to hear voices speak over them, feel hands on their body.
even better if it's carewhumper trying to rouse them and getting worried by the lack of reaction, how pale and weak and out of it whumpee looks, barely able to stay lucid enough to be given some water.
whumpee being treated as a show pet. dragged around to do things with whumper or carewhumper because they're dressed up nice, wearing expensive things.
whumpee being reminded to smile, because if they frown, they're bound to be punished in the same clothes that make them pretty. they best not get their expensive items dirty.
A god whumper whose favourite mortal is the whumpee. Being a god's favourite just means that you're going to get subjected to various forms of cosmic and psychological horror just for the whumper's own enjoyment
Bonus points if the god is more of a carewhumper than a whumper
The first thing Whumpee registered was the cold. It was everywhere, bone-deep, from the air on their face to the sinking feeling in their chest. It was nothing near where they last remembered being, their normal café just a block down from their house, having stopped by on the way home from work. Warm wood tones and slow jazz playing over speakers replaced with cracked, dusty floorboards and eery silence. Even the air felt thick, oppressive, haunted.
Their mind scampered, eyes darting from surface to ceiling to crevice, investigating any shadow-obscured corner for a hint of what brought them there, where they were, what had happened. They chanced a shift of their arms to find that they were bound by what felt like duct tape. Their eyes widened at the realization, even as they tried to use their bound arms to push themself up off the floor.
Across the space, a door began to rattle, lock clicking and rusted hinges squealing in protest as they swung open for what sounded like the first time in years. Whumpee's eyes shot to the now open doorway as they prepared themself for a fight, body tense, shaky, aching after however long they were on the floor for.
A shadow filled the space left open by the door, illuminated from the back by the same full moon that revealed a heavy mist and what may have been the silhouette of trees. Whumpee shivered again. Something clattered to the ground, a curse rang out, and then the room was bathed in light, a single swinging bulb from the ceiling shining down upon the figure across from them.
Whumper shivered, movements exaggerated by the dramatic lighting. Their eyes settled upon Whumpee, then, and rushed towards them. Whumpee tensed for the moment it took them to get from the entry of the shed to where Whumpee sat in a heap on the ground core muscles straining to keep them upright. All Whumper did, though was offer a blanket and a look of something not unlike concern on their face.
"You poor thing -- I'm so sorry. I was getting the house ready, I wasn't expecting you so soon -- you must be so cold." Whumper wrapped the blanket around Whumpee's shivering shoulders. Warmth seeped from the blanket, leeched by the frigid surrounding air, almost like it'd just been taken out of the dryer.
"Let me get you up--" Whumper drew a knife -- wicked, serrated, and flecked in something that may have been blood. Whumpee's heart pounded in their ears and they began to writhe and maneuver themselves farther away from the blade on instinct; Whumper kept them still through a vice like grip on their arm. Whumper held their tongue between their teeth in concentration, brows furrowed. Whumpee could smell the coffee and sweat and rubbing alcohol.
Whumpee felt the metal of the knife graze their arm and jerked forward in panic, driving their forehead into Whumper's shoulder. It threw them to the side long enough for Whumpee to pull free of the rest of the tape, cutting themselves in the process.
They slammed into the floor before they had the chance to inch closer to the door, pinned to the dusty wood once again by Whumper's weight and unrelenting grip. Whumpee let out a squeak of surprise, wincing as the wooden ground scraped against their cheek.
Whumper seemed hardly phased, though, yanking Whumpee up by their hair and exposing the back of their neck. The cool, humid night air sent more chills down their spine -- although, that may just be the knife -- and they momentarily lamented the loss of the blanket.
"Careful, now." Whumper reached for the blade again, examining the new streaks of red from the brief struggle. Whumpee had barely even noticed the crimson trails down their arms. They were no longer duct taped to whatever had kept them down -- Whumpee hadn't wanted to take their eyes off Whumper long enough to glance behind them -- but they were still bound together.
Whumper looked back from the blade, flicked it back into half, and slid it into a pocket. Their eyes refocused on Whumpee, still trying to stand. Their head was still spinning. A deflated sigh. "We'll do this the hard way, then."
A/N - Different tag list for this because it's a different genre. To be added to my master tag list, please click [here]
Whumper waved an apple in front of Whumpee’s face, shiny, bright red and perfect. But Whumpee sat in place catatonically, staring straight forward at the wall behind Whumper.
“Hey. Look at me bud.”
Whumpee paid him no mind.
The tall man tried to swallow his annoyance. He knew it was important for Whumpee to feel safe and relaxed right now, but it wasn’t in his nature to be so… understanding. He was the impatient type, and the silent act was his least favorite form of passive aggression.
“Hellooooooo.”
Whumpee shot a poisonous look up to Whumper, grimacing.
Whumper raked his nails across Whumpee’s neck, dragging them into the delicate flesh. It wasn't enough to draw blood, but enough to force a sharp gasp as Whumpee recoiled, scrambling backward.
Fuck! Goddamn it!!!! He lost his fucking temper again. He didn't mean to. Why does this keep happening?!
“Sorry. Oh, fuck. I shouldn’t-- shit, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you really act like you’re fucking sorry.” Whumpee spat sarcastically. His good arm clutched the fresh scratches below his ear. It hurt, but the pain was nowhere in the same league as his violently pulsating arm.
A tear rolled down Whumpee’s nose, landing with a sting on his broken wrist. He glanced down at the black-and-blue marks. Perfect handprints were seared into the skin there, an echo of Whumper’s unforgiving grip. He'd never forget the sickening crack when Whumper snapped it—sharp and hollow, like stepping on a brittle branch in the woods.
“Well, I uh, couldn’t find any gauze at the Penny Mart. But I got this bandana I can use to wrap around it though. I’ll make a sling thinggy or whatever.” Whumper hesitated for a moment before pulling a crumpled bandana from his jacket pocket.
“Aaannnnd… this is the best part.” He presented the captive with the red apple again. “I got this for you.”
“Woah.”
“Right? Isn’t it crazy shiny?”
“Yeah.” Whumpee ran his fingers over the apple’s immaculate, shining flesh. “It really is.”
He hated how fascinated he was with a simple piece of fruit. Then again, how long had it been since Whumpee had eaten something that was actually grown from the earth?
Hanging from its stem pinched between Whumper’s fingers, it rotated in the air slightly, and it was so red it practically glowed, shining like a Christmas ornament. For a moment, both men were strangely enamored with the perfection of the apple.
Just as Whumpee outstretched his hand to accept the small gift, the fruit fell to the floor, bouncing against the concrete with a dull thud.
“Goddamn it Whumpee.” Whumper muttered, voice low and frustrated. “I was tryna do somethin’ nice.”
“It’s okay.” Whumpee said numbly, retrieving the bisected chunks from the ground. The juices from inside the apple glistened under the light.
“Huh. Almost expected it to be red on the inside, too.” Whumper anchored his head on Whumpee’s boney shoulder. He was pleased when Whumpee didn’t pull away, allowing him to rest his ear against his collarbone.
“So," Whumper said coolly, "do you still want it?”
“...yeah…”
“Mm, yeah, I’d eat it too.” Whumper growled into Whumpee’s ear. “Even smashed to pieces and ripped inside out.”
Whumpee shifted on his feet, uncomfortably shrugging Whumper’s face off his shoulder. The man took a step back, eyes flickering over to Whumpee, his intense gaze tracing his body up and down, savoring the sight.
“Don’t do that.” Whumpee protectively shielded his broken wrist.
“Don’t do what?” Whumper laughed with a crooked smile, his voice teasing. “I was just sayin'. The inside of the apple is just as pretty as the outside. Maybe even more pretty. And ya know...”
Whumpee didn’t know what to do when Whumper stepped into him, putting his mouth over the red scratch marks from earlier.
“I bet you’re like that too.” Whumper purred as he lapped at the skin.
His tongue swirled over the scratches and glided up Whumpee’s neck until he met the fleshy lobe of his ear.
“It’ll be a nice day when I can finally rip you apart too. But I'll take good care of you 'til then.”
Hang on hold up! Guys I just had the most brilliant idea!
You know that carewhumper trope where the caretaker has to hurt the whumpee in order to help them? Like, forcing an oxygen mask on a struggling whumpee who thinks they're being drugged or rebreaking the whumpee's bone so it can heal properly (anesthetic unavailable)?
Four words: historically accurate medical whump
I'm talking leeching, bleeding, blistering, those glass cups that were heated up and placed on the skin to burn it.
The whumpee is burning up with a nasty fever so the caretaker cuts their skin to drain away the excess humours, and whumpee has to be held down the whole time because it hurts.
The whumpee has a terrible headache that will not go away so the caretaker puts some leeches on their brain while repeating "this will help, eventually, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"
The caretaker is actually just torturing the whumpee, but they think they are helping. Whumpee thinks it will help. But it doesn't, of course. It just makes a bad thing worse for no reason.
Bonus points if we, the readers, know it isn't going to work, and there is an air of tragedy about the whole thing. If only they could know...
Bonus bonus points if years later new medical research reveals that those techniques were actually making things worse, and the caretaker and/or whumpee finds out and has to grapple with the implications, the medical trauma, realizing that all that pain and torture was all for nothing.
I feel like there's a way you could adapt this for a fantasy setting too. Maybe there's a magical healing technique that turns out to be bogus years later.
Amir woke up to touch. Gentle touch, no doubt, but touch nonetheless. And touch was dangerous. Maybe if he leaned into it his master would get bored and leave him alone?
No, the hand stayed. But his master made a contented noise so he was clearly doing something right. The hand finally went away and he could sleep again. But no, now he wawa awake. Now he had to stay alert.
He opened his eyes and found his master working on a stack of paperwork next to him. Had he moved his office into this tiny room to be with amir? Why? Wasn't he just a nuisance?
His master turned towards him, and finally registered that he was awake, “Good morning! How did you sleep?”
“Fine, sir. Thank you for asking,” he really didn’t want to talk right now, but he knew better than to be rude.
“Good. I'm glad you got some rest. You seemed like you needed it.” Why would his master care?
All he could do was I've a weak nod in response.
“I realized while you were asleep I never got your name. Would you like to tell me?” A choice. An option to keep his identity, or hide behind a new one. No, this master would not get his name.
“You can call me whatever you’d like sir.”
“I don’t want to call you anything, I want to know how you’d prefer to be addressed.” no. no this was a trick. Amir knew better than to trust this.
“Most of my masters named me sir.”
“Ok, but I'd prefer if you picked the name. I’d feel weird choosing your name for you.” Why? He was Amris' master after all.
Clare followed the vampire as she led the way back to her castle.
It was too much. There was fear. There was numbness. Her body felt like it was in the wrong place. Her legs trembled dangerously, threatening to give with every step. What had she just done?
She'd thrown herself out of the clutches of one monster, and straight into that of another.
The air was cold, the wind biting at her skin. There's a crunch of frost under their feet. Her breathing sounds too loud. It's a miracle she wasn't torn apart after her escape attempt, but in begging for help she has doomed herself.
"Olivia."
Clare can't help starting. "I-what?"
"Olivia Jameson. My name. I feel like my new best friend should at least know that, yes?"
Panic and embarrassment mingle, and she doesn't know how to respond. She did promise that, didn't she?
"It's a wonderful name," she says, pulling a smile and a practiced little head tilt at the vampires back.
"When was the last time you ate?"
She has no idea. "Uh. Two days ago."
"I'm afraid all I have is dried meat. I wasn't anticipating having a human guest. If I shared, would you eat?"
Would she? The thought of food brings a bitter taste of acid to the back of her tongue, a dizzy wave of nausea making itself known. Clare stops walking. "I...don't think so."
The vampire, likewise, stops to look back. "You need it."
"I don't think I can." There's an embarrassing whine in her voice that she doesn't catch before the words are out. The edges of her vision fade, and god, the fear in her chest is unbearable to the point she wants to claw it out.
Olivia steps closer while Clare tries not to sway, humming thoughtfully. "You're suffering blood loss, probable malnourishment, and I'm willing to bet you haven't slept in a while. I think that right now the only thing keeping you upright is the adrenaline. The moment you reach any semblance of calm, you're going to pass out."
Another sickening wave of nausea curdles her stomach, and Clare can feel her grip on her emotions failing. She takes a step back unthinkingly, her breath catching in her throat, then coming much, much too fast.
What has she done?
Going to pass out, it's not safe to pass out, it's not safe, she's not safe-
She doesn't register Olivia's approach until cold fingertips brush gently over her jaw. The vampire lifts her head, pulling her to meet her gaze only for the pooling of tears to blur her vision.
"It's okay," Olivia says, her voice lowered. Sweetened, coated in honey, she wraps her arms around Clare's shaking body. It's all too easy to press into her shoulder. An offered place to hide. "You're going to be okay. Breathe. Deep breaths for me."
The sob that forces it's way from her throat does not let her follow that advice.
