Whumpee who no one even noticed when they went missing. Days, maybe even a week or more passed. But when they finally get out and check their phone, not even the people who they thought cared about them most even bothered to check in. The messages are just as few as before. No one checked in on them, no one was concerned that they were missing. They were only in trouble with their job for not coming in.
So they don't tell anyone they were kidnapped. That they were hurt. They hide the injuries and trauma continue to avoid people, and never explain what happened since there wasn't any point in bothering people anyway.
Because apparently, whumper was right. No one would notice. And now they know how much they really matter to the people in their life.
i need to see more loneliness in whump. not like being literally the only person around, but just... being on the outside of everything. whumpee has no idea how to function in a group setting, how to make meaningful relationships, how to care for other people, so they can't form relationships to learn how to do that.
they're so used to their own company that they forget it's normal to have contacts in their phone, to meet up with friends, to be invited to things.
they can't get close to people because they're scared of someone seeing the real them and deciding it's not worth the effort. and they don't want to tell the people they might actually be close to the truth because then they'll be forever treated differently, even if their friends say they won't.
whumpee isn't totally invisible, but if they're out of sight then they're out of mind. and somehow that feels worse than if nobody noticed them in the first place because people do see, but whumpee isn't enough for them to keep looking.
whumper’s list of crimes extends longer than their kidnap and torture of whumpee. inevitably, they get arrested for something entirely unrelated to whumpee.
they were the only one who knew where whumpee was.
do they confess, letting someone find them and add to their growing list of crimes? do they just let them stay there, abandoned, slowly starving to death? does whumpee escape?
It was of great irritation to Fletcher the frequency of which they had to get groceries during the semester. It wasn’t as bad with only three students, but Tommy made four, and five mouths needed more perishables than Fletcher could skate by on than with one.
Tommy was vibrating with excitement to go, and only managed to choke down some breakfast when Fletcher threatened to leave him bound at the lodge instead of taking him to the store.
Barlowe had been preening in the bathroom long enough for Billy to pound on the door twice. They looked at themselves in the mirror and tucked their hair behind their ear on one side - their left side, so Fletcher could see their face if they looked over while they were driving. Barlowe plucked the longest hairs between their eyebrows and left the rest.
There. I’m perfectly butch. Fletcher probably was into other butches, right? Though, Fletcher’s pet seemed fairly femme and swishy. How he could stay completely shaved all the time without razor burn was beyond Barlowe. Laser, maybe, but Fletcher seemed too cheap to shell out for it. Unless they liked the smooth thing. Barlowe had shaved their arms, neck, and face this morning, but they were itching already. The other one, the guy that the pet called Buck, he wasn’t clean shaven. He did have long hair though. So did the pet, but he didn’t seem to know how to take care of his hair, and his curls were a dry mess compared to Barlowe’s ringlets.
They unlocked the bathroom door just as Billy was about ready to break it down.
“What the fuck were you doing in there? Giving birth??” Billy snapped. Barlowe met his gaze with a bored, half-lidded look and adjusted their glasses.
“I’m out now.”
“This is a shared bathroom, I didn’t even hear a damn flush. I’ve had to piss for an hour.”
“And yet, you’re wasting time throwing a little bitch fit instead of going.”
Billy sneered and shoved past them, slamming the door behind him. Fletcher walked in at the same moment.
“What’s all the commotion for? It’s too early for this shit.”
Barlowe felt a little flush looking at Fletcher, dressed in a well-fitting black henley and cargo pants tucked into their boots. They put the brim of a hat between their teeth while they shrugged on a denim coat, then pushed their hair back and settled the cap on. It was hunter camo with bright orange embroidery; the name of some metal band Barlowe couldn’t decipher.
“Oh, just Billy slacking off like usual,” Barlowe said with a casual dismissiveness. “Ready to go?”
“Just about,” Fletcher said, and began to walk toward the front of the house. “You can head out; I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Shotgun!” Barlowe called as they made their way to the truck.
Tommy was a moment behind, stalled after discovering his boot laces had been mysteriously knotted together when he went to put them on. Fletcher stopped in the doorway by him, patting their various pockets absent-mindedly in a last check for their necessities: keys, phone, wallet, list, knife, other knife, other knife, other knife, mace, other knife, and gun.
“Hey. You,” They said to Tommy. “Grab the big bag of reusables. Top shelf of the broom cupboard. Oh, and the bottles under the sink.” They looked down at the tangle of string Tommy was hunched over, trying to tug it apart between his short, blunt fingernails.
“...And quit fuckin’ around.” They tousled his hair in that slightly-too-rough-but-not-displeased way.
Tommy pulled his laces free finally, bending his nails back a little in the process. Thankfully, the nerves in his hands were so shot he could barely feel it. “Yes! Okay, I’ll be right there, can I ride up front with you?”
Fletcher gave him a shrewd look.
“We take the rules of shotgun very seriously around here.”
Tommy searched their face, and was completely helpless to tell if they were joking or not.
“Gun safety is no joke.” As if they had read his mind! Their face was deadly serious, but Tommy swore he caught the tiniest glint in their eye.
He finished tying his boots and stood, looking very closely at Fletcher’s eyes to try to tell, before simply saying, “...Okay...”
Fletcher turned to walk to their truck and claim the driver’s seat. They had a wry smile on their face, both because they had done something funny, and because that was the longest time Tommy had managed to make eye contact with them.
Tommy collected the bottle returns and grocery bags and loaded the trash bags of bottles in the truck bed. He hoped that if they needed to be further secured, Fletcher would say something. He had gained weight quickly since he’d come to the lodge, filling out with muscle and a healthy layer of fat, but he was still easily the scrawniest of the bunch and was thusly doomed to the middle seat in the back. Caldera was broad and strong and crowded his right side, while Billy sat to his left with his legs too wide open to give him any room.
He thought about the times he’d been confined to the hidden space below the false bottom of Caius’s trunk, and decided this was still infinitely better.
“What kind of music does everyone listen to?” Fletcher asked as they connected their mp3 player.
“I listen to everything,” Barlowe said easily.
Fletcher clicked their tongue. “Anyone else? Caldera?”
“Mostly country,” she said. “Or hip hop.”
“...Huh. Williams?”
“Drake.”
“Just Drake?”
“Or, you know, Eminem, uh, Hollywood Undead…”
“Okay,” Fletcher cut him off. “Thunder?”
“Oh, um, I - I like Eminem, too,” Tommy answered, shrinking down. “I’m from Detroit, so, uh, you’ve got to,” he said with a small chuckle.
“Okay, I don’t have any Eminem on here,” Fletcher said.
All three of the trainees began to inform Fletcher on how this was a mistake that should be rectified.
“Okay!” Fletcher yelled. “I get it!”
“Do you seriously not listen to rap?” Billy asked. “That’s kinda racist.”
“I listen to rap! Sometimes!” Fletcher snapped. “And Eminem is fucking white! God - Thunder! Pick a genre!”
“Uh… punk rock?” Tommy offered with a nervous smile.
“Punk rock it is!” Fletcher announced, starting the playlist.
They rode in companionable silence for most of the way, with varying levels of comfort with Fletcher’s punk playlist. At some point, Billy’s hand wandered onto Tommy’s knee. Tommy pointedly tried to ignore it, but it wandered a little further up at every bump in the road. He also moved his foot over to trap Tommy’s boot and tow it towards his side, pinning his legs open wider. When it couldn’t get any more obvious, he switched to wrapping an arm around Tommy and pulling him a little too close to be casual.
“You doing alright there, little buddy?” Tommy could smell the alcohol on his breath. It seemed awfully early in the day for all that. He mumbled back some confirmation that he was fine, but Billy kept a hand on him for the rest of the ride. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say so. Barlowe started picking Fletcher’s brain, and Tommy tried to tune in to their conversation.
At the store, Billy and Caldera scattered to attend to their personal groceries. Barlowe stayed with Fletcher, and Tommy was required to stay close at their hand. Occasionally they would let him stray, to collect something at the end of the aisle or a rack nearby at Fletcher’s request. It was a nice sense of freedom when he was allowed to wander a bit, but he suffered worse from his social anxiety when they were apart. He was better off behaving, anyway - he didn’t want to give Fletcher any reason to show him what would happen if he disobeyed in public.
Tommy was sent a little ways down the aisle to pick up a bulk-sized tub of oats. He stared at the limited options and didn’t recognize any of the labels. Fletcher mostly bought store brand, so Tommy stooped to pull it from the bottom shelf.
“Oh, you don’t want that,” a voice behind him said, and he startled so badly that he hit his head on the shelf when he tried to straighten. He rubbed at it self-consciously and turned to look for the source of the voice.
Tommy wasn’t good with judging ages, but the guy had to be around his age, with a buzzcut dyed a deep, rich blue. One golden earring dangled from his ear, adorned with a tiny crescent moon at the end.
“Whoa! Are you okay?” He looked concerned, and had hand half-reached out towards him, uncertain of how to help.
“Ah, I-I’m fine, sorry,” Tommy stammered, dropping his hand and offering a crooked smile to lend credence towards his claim.
“What are you sorry for? I scared the bejeesus out of you!” The stranger still had a pinch of concern around his eyes, but he couldn’t help but smile back. It revealed a gap between his front teeth, and Tommy was immediately charmed.
“I just meant to say, the store brand is a rip off. The last two I got were like, half dust. And they’re actually charging more than JJ’s now and hoping no one notices, but look at the price per ounce.” He pointed to the tag at the edge of the shelf, and Tommy suddenly found it fascinating. “It’s only like thirty cents, but still.”
Tommy glanced back at the friendly man and hesitantly stooped to collect the last tub of JJ’s Oats from the shelf. He wrapped his arms around it in a hug as he straightened, squeezing it for comfort as if it would make his heartbeat slow.
“Well, um, good lookin’ out. Thank you.”
He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you think I’m good looking?”
“No! I mean, well, not no, I just meant…” Tommy trailed off when he realized it had just been a tease.
“Sorry, I’m just kidding around. I’m just passionate about a bargain.” He shrugged, offering an apologetic smile.
“No, it’s - it’s all good, um, I am too. It’s always a party at the thrift store.” Tommy’s eyes flickered past him where Fletcher was awaiting his return. He couldn’t quite place their expression, but they were ignoring Barlowe’s yapping to stare at him.
“Oh, totally! That’s where I got this coat!” He pointed to his winter coat, a puffy mound of lime green faux fur open over a yellow cardigan.
“I like it,” Tommy told him, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. This guy looked cool, and a couple lifetimes ago, he would’ve loved to talk longer and hang out. But Fletcher was waiting, and JJ’s Oats were getting uncomfortable to hold under his sweaty palms.
“If you like that, you should come shopping with me sometime, I can show you all the good spots.” Mystery man smiled again, and Tommy’s heart gave a squeeze.
“I…would love to, but um, I’m not from around here. And I also have to go. I’m, I’m really sorry.”
“Totally! Totally, just one second, one tiny second.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and tugged out a receipt, producing a pen from coat pocket and scribbling frantically for a moment.
“I’m Midnight, by the way. If you ever swing by this way again, or change your mind -” He handed the receipt to Tommy, who accepted it without thinking.
“-let me know if I can see those green eyes again.” Midnight smiled and turned, grabbing his cart to finish working down the aisle.
Tommy stared at the crumpled receipt clutched in one sweaty hand, reading it over and over again without processing the message.
MIDNIGHT
CERTIFIED COOL(ISH) OKAY GUY
458-2513 XOXO
His legs carried him back to Fletcher without much input from his brain, and he set the oats inside the cart. His eyes stayed on the paper in his hand until Fletcher’s swooped in and snatched it away, leaving a torn off corner in his grip.
They actually had the audacity to say, “Yoink,” as they took it.
Barlowe had noticed him by now and chuckled, arms folded across their chest.
“Wow, look who’s still got some game,” they said.
Tommy didn’t pay attention to them. He reached out his hand toward Fletcher, who had shoved the receipt in their pocket.
“Wait, no, why can’t I…”
“No,” Fletcher said bluntly. They began to push the cart toward the next aisle.
Tommy followed close behind.
“Can I please just keep it? I won’t call him, I just-”
“Exactly,” Fletcher cut him off. “You can’t call them. So you don’t need it.”
“If I can’t call then why can’t I keep it?” Tommy argued.
“What if you memorize it and try to get a hold of a phone?” Fletcher countered.
“Why would I not just call the police if I got a phone?”
“Because you don’t want to deal with the police,” Fletcher said confidently. “You’re more likely to focus your hopes on a single person you think you made a connection with.”
“I’m not - I’m not-” Tommy took a breath. “I know I’m not smart, Fletcher, but I’m not that stupid. Please.”
Tommy reached out and grabbed Fletcher’s arm. Not hard - he wasn’t ready to die in a Save-A-Lots aisle - but enough to make them stop and look at him.
“Please,” he urged, voice almost in a whisper.
Fletcher studied his face, looking into his yearning eyes for a long moment before saying a flat, “No,” and continuing to walk.
“Ouch,” Barlowe said, trailing along with the two of them.
“Don’t need the commentary,” Fletcher told them.
Tommy was trying hard to keep his frustration in check, but it was all so unfair. Someone finally noticed him, someone was finally kind to him, and Fletcher wouldn’t even let him entertain the idea of ever speaking to that person again.
“But - why not?!” Tommy demanded, hands balled into fists at his side.
“My gut says no,” Fletcher answered.
“Your gut?” Tommy repeated. “So this is you just saying because I said so?”
Fletcher stopped abruptly and rounded on Tommy. He skidded to a halt, color draining from his face under Fletcher’s glare.
“My gut is what keeps me alive,” Fletcher growled. “I’m not going to do something I feel is the wrong choice just because you don’t like it. I don’t need to give you a reason at all. Are we clear on that?”
Tommy stammered, hating how quickly his eyes welled.
“I-I just want to look at it,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s all, I just want to have it to look at. Please, please don’t take it.”
“If you can’t actually call the number,” Fletcher began, voice closer to conversational again as they moved down the aisle. “Then you just want the reminder that someone thought you were cute. You don’t need the number. I’ll give you the receipt at the end of this trip and you can use that as your reminder.”
“Fletcher, you know I can’t do anything with it. You know I wouldn’t, even if I could. It’s not a reminder that - I-It’s just a piece of trash to you!” He tried to keep his voice down, but his throat was getting tight.
“Yeah, I’m not keeping it,” Fletcher said, as if that were obvious.
That sent a jolt through Tommy.
“Don’t - don’t get rid of it, please, please, I just want to have it to… to…”
Fletcher put their arm around Tommy’s shoulders and pulled him in close.
“You’re starting to make a scene,” they hissed quietly. “I made my decision. I’m not walking it back.”
They released Tommy, who fell silent beside them. He understood the threat of making a scene. His future if he acted out was easy to envision; beatings when they got back to the lodge, the return of his old shock collar, never getting to leave the house again. It wasn’t worth it for a scrap of paper, but…. that paper meant something. It meant someone had seen him. Someone had taken an interest, and gone out of their way to talk to him with kindness. That he wasn’t grotesque. He just wanted something to hold onto as proof of that, and Fletcher had snatched it out of his grasp.
Tommy dragged his feet as he followed Fletcher, quiet now. They looked back when they heard him sniffle, and rolled their eyes at the tears beginning to breach.
Fletcher unclipped their keys from their belt and held them out to Barlowe.
“Will you take him back to the truck and wait, please?” they asked, exasperated.
Barlowe hesitated, like they wanted to argue, but decided against it. They took the keys and pulled Tommy along by the crook of his elbow.
“Casual,” Fletcher reminded them sharply, not raising their voice.
Barlowe dropped their hand, and Tommy followed willingly.
When they got to the truck, Barlowe opened the back seat for Tommy, and took shotgun for themself again.
“Don’t know why I have to babysit,” they grumbled, pulling out their phone and slumping into the seat. “I didn’t do anything.”
After a few minutes of Tommy quietly sniffling to himself in the back, Barlowe turned around in a huff.
“Ugh, you get to fuck Fletcher,” they protested. “Why do you care about some rando in a grocery store? You got the better deal for sure.”
Tommy blinked up at them in surprise. “I’m not f…fucking Fletcher.”
“They fuck you, whatever.”
“No, I’m - we’re not - that doesn’t happen,” Tommy protested quietly. He stared at his hands in his lap.
Barlowe furrowed their brows. “You go into their room at night and come out in the morning.”
Tommy pulled up his shoulders. “I just… sleep in there, sometimes.”
Barlowe scoffed. “Where, curled up at the foot of their bed like a dog?”
“N-No…” Tommy looked down at his feet.
“Whatever.”
Barlowe turned back around and returned their attention to their phone.
When the others returned, Billy and Caldera had fewer bags to load into the back of the truck, and took their seats while Fletcher finished up and returned the cart.
“Hey, Tommy says he’s not having sex with Fletcher,” Barlowe immediately filled them in.
“What?” Caldera said skeptically.
“That’s what they told me!” Billy exclaimed.
They all quieted as Fletcher opened the driver’s door and climbed in. Fletcher twisted around and handed Tommy a drink. The receipt was stuck to the condensation on the side of it.
Tommy accepted the offering, looking over the label. It was a smoothie - chocolate, peanut butter, strawberry, and banana. The receipt didn’t have handwriting on the back - Fletcher really had handed him their receipt.
“Thanks,” Tommy said in a small voice, throat still thick from crying.
Billy elbowed Tommy in the ribs.
“What are you all mopey about?” he pried.
“He got a guy’s number and Fletcher wouldn’t let him keep it,” Barlowe reported dryly.
“Damn, Fletchie, that’s cold,” Billy said.
“Don’t call me that,” Fletcher said sternly.
“Then don’t call me Willy!” Billy snapped back. “What’s he gonna do with the number anyway?”
“Exactly,” Fletcher said, tapping on their ipod.
“No, I mean, why take-”
Billy was cut off as music blasted out of the speakers. Fletcher pulled out of the parking spot and started their long drive back home.
Billy put his arm over Tommy’s shoulders, giving him a reassuring squeeze, and keeping it there.
Everyone danced around each other in the kitchen putting their own food away, writing their name in marker on anything they didn’t want the others to touch. Tommy helped Fletcher put away the household groceries, and waited dutifully when the bags were empty to see if Fletcher had any other tasks for him. He kept his eyes on the floor, struggling to keep his feelings from overwhelming him.
Fletcher dusted off their palms and said, “Let’s go to your room.”
Tommy swallowed and nodded. He reluctantly led the way, with Fletcher on his heels. When they got inside, Fletcher closed the door behind them and folded their arms, not talking immediately.
Tommy knew he should take this time to apologize. Make it easier on himself when the punishment comes if he can show he already learned his lesson. But the thought of saying he was sorry for… what even? Trying to argue, sure. Fletcher shouldn’t be questioned. He was getting emotional in public, and that can draw attention. But the thought of saying those words turned his stomach. It all just felt so unfair.
“You can’t be doing that,” Fletcher said finally.
Tommy did not respond, and Fletcher’s eye twitched as they stared him down. Tommy could feel their anger simmering under the surface, and how they were trying to keep a lid on it. He dug his fingernails into his palms.
He should say he’s sorry.
Just say it.
Just say it and make things easier.
You can’t get it back, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.
“You cannot argue with me in public,” Fletcher continued, each word carved out with precise force. “You shouldn’t argue with me at all, but especially not in public. Especially about something so stupid.”
Tommy closed his eyes, and took a long breath, and opened them again, still silent. Fletcher’s nostrils flared.
“Look, I get it, a boy thinks you’re cute, it’s all very exciting,” Fletcher said dismissively. “But you have to be realistic. You can’t use the number, you shouldn’t use the number, and so you don’t get to have it.”
Tommy said nothing.
Fletcher crossed the room in two steps and grabbed the front of Tommy’s shirt, jerking him forward.
“I need to know you’re fucking listening,” they growled in Tommy’s face.
“Yes, Fletcher. Sorry, Fletcher,” Tommy blurted out, quickly breaking. “I’m… I’m sorry. For arguing with you. Especially in public. I didn’t intend to cause a scene. I promise to behave myself in the future; you don’t have to worry about me.”
The words were forced and robotic.
Fletcher studied him for a moment.
“Look,” they began, releasing their grip and smoothing out Tommy’s shirt. “You’re generally well behaved. And you’re already too fuckin’ sad I don’t feel like I need to punish you on top of it. And I’m not pissed off enough to beat you. You dropped it eventually. And you didn’t say anything to the guy, that’s the most important. Just… don’t push it. Alright? I want to encourage good behavior.”
Tommy nodded. “Yes, Fletcher. Thank you.” His voice was still quiet; subdued. He kept his eyes down. In spite of his well-trained politeness, Fletcher’s sharp eyes caught the tension in his jaw. Tommy was trained for civilians, but Fletcher was an expert. They caught what slipped through the cracks, like the quiver in his shoulders as he struggled to hold himself together, and the unnatural stillness of his hands as he fought the urge to ball his fists. They didn’t entirely understand Tommy’s desperation to keep a scrap of paper, but he had given in to Fletcher’s will without too much of a fight. He could be angry about it if he wanted, but he had to remain respectful, and he was well aware his obedience was non-negotiable.
Tommy sat on the edge of his bed when Fletcher left him, and dug out of his pocket the small, torn-off corner of the note that had remained between his fingers when Fletcher snatched it away. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, trying to remember what it had looked like intact. He searched his mind for the memory of what the handwriting had looked like, and he wished he could have memorized every little stroke of the pen.
Of course he had known he could never call it, though he had already started dreaming of Fletcher allowing him a penpal, or maybe even a visit. He just wanted to touch it, and look at it, and know that someone out there knew that he was alive – and maybe even worth knowing.
Tommy buried his face in his hands. His shoddy memory had failed him once again, and the brief vision he’d had of it was gone. He couldn’t even remember if the ink had been black or blue.
He held up the scrap, damp from the sweat of his hands. It wasn’t fair. Tommy was hit in the chest with a sudden swell of grief, and it felt endless and overwhelming. He had no one to comfort him, no one to even vent to - he wasn’t allowed any contact with Buck outside of his visits, and he certainly couldn’t confide in Fletcher. In a moment of impulsive desire, he stuffed the little paper in his mouth and swallowed it as fast as he could.
Now no one can take it away.
If he held it safe inside of himself, then– then it was safe. Right? He touched his mouth, fearing a trace of evidence on his face somehow, something Fletcher would notice. His gut churned as his imagination ran away, picturing Fletcher over his supine body with a knife.
“You can’t hide it from me, boy. I’m going to cut it right out of you…”
Watching that knife lower to his belly while he was helpless to stop it. Sam and Fletcher in one. Caius watching. Always watching.
He started off the bed before he knew where he was headed, overcome by a sudden feeling that he couldn’t stand to be alone in his room for a single second longer.
He moved on autopilot to the hallway and into the living room, where Billy was watching TV.
“Hey pet-pet, where— whoa,” Williams interrupted himself as Tommy firmly took a seat beside him and snaked a hand onto his knee. He touched him for just a moment, lightly, before taking his hand away.
“What are we watching, Billy?”
Williams stared at him for one long moment, a little taken aback. He cocked his head slightly, scanning his face, but Tommy kept a cool mask– the very picture of innocence.
He put his hand on Tommy’s thigh.
“We…are watching a poker tournament.”
On the screen, a variety of very serious-looking people were sitting around a table. Several of them were wearing sunglasses, and shielding their hands of playing cards from one another with a ludicrous severity. He wondered if Uno tournaments existed that were just as serious. Then he tried to imagine a heated game of Candyland. Pushed his mind to keep going.
Don’t think about the grocery store, don’t think about the grocery store, chase a different thought. Oh, I’m doing so well not thinking about the grocery st–AAahh, fuck. He stared at the TV unblinkingly for so long his eyes felt sticky when he closed them again.
“I don't know how to play,” he admitted, feeling like a lizard.
“I can teach you. Though I’ll tell you now, strip poker’s the truest of the art form.”
Billy wrapped his arm around him and offered him sips of beer. He took it every time he was offered, and he listened as Billy explained what was happening on screen as the game wore on.
The game ended, just as Tommy thought he was starting to understand. Billy scratched himself through his pocket. Picked up the beer and tilted it to Tommy’s lips. He didn’t ask. Tommy drank until it was empty, because Billy didn’t pull away, just watched him. He was relieved when the next game started and Billy went back to explaining, and he listened as hard as he could.
At least I can have this, he thought to himself. At least he touches me. If I can be okay with this, I won’t be alone.
say whumpee tried to escape, and almost succeeded. Or hurt whumper, or killed someone working for whumper. something whumper would consider serious.
whumpee who gets trapped in basically a functional apartment- self restocking food and a working bathroom but no tv, or books, or board games, or anything made to entertain or keep them busy. there are no windows, and the lights turn on and off by themselves, and the door is heavy, dark, and grey- not to mention, locked.
the only reason why their prison resembles a home is so that they would take care of themselves and wouldn’t be allowed to see the people who are giving them food or taking their dishes.
whumpee who starts hurting themselves just for something to do.
they get kept in there for sometime above a month, and when whumper finally comes in to check on them, they are so, so desperate for any kind of human touch.
whumpee who gets down on their knees in front of whumper, begging and pleading for forgiveness while sobbing violently. whumpee who’s just begging for whumper to not leave them alone. they’ll be good, they’ll be exactly whatever whumper wants them to be, just please don’t leave them. maybe whumper sees how desperate whumpee is to not be left alone, and decides based on that to leave them in there for a little while longer.
Or a whumper who likes to portray themselves as kind, holding whumpee in their lap while they cry and talking about how much they missed whumpee and how they hate doing things like this, but if whumpee would just be good, they wouldn’t have to.
whumper who found their breaking point, and every time they’re disobeying from then on, whumper just asks them if they want to go go back in their room, and whumper is instantly going completely silent. whumper smiles and ruffles their hair, saying something demeaning like ‘good pet’.
whumpee who never really gets over it. after recovery, they can’t be left alone at all so that they don’t have debilitating panic attacks. caretaker at a loss, because they love whumpee, but they have other obligations in their life and whumpee can’t come with them to all of them.
maybe caretaker doesn’t notice at first and whumpee doesn’t say anything, so whumpee stays home for a couple days just pulling at their hair or scratching at their skin to stay calm. whumpee who’s confused and so lost, because they don’t know why they’re being punished.
- Vampire/immortal whumpee left in the dark, dusty basement of an abandoned house for months/years without food, water or any other basic necessities, having been left behind by the previous tenants (who have moved away or died)
- Whumpee is terrified of the outside world and refuses to leave the room, being unused to the light and all (even more fitting for a vampire whumpee)
- Whumpee is obviously in a terrible physical state (starved, dehydrated, most likely some health issues from staying for an extended period in a dusty, cold, humid and perhaps even moldy room)
- This prompt could be adapted to work with other abandoned buildings, such as prisons, hospitals or zoos! (so many possibilities with the zoo 🤭)
