content: claustrophobia, in cage/container, heavy restraints, sensory deprivation, itching, captivity, failed escape
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It wasn’t that bad, this time. Whumper had only roughed him up a bit, like a punching bag. He wasn’t even bleeding except for a bit in his mouth. He could keep going, really. He’d rather keep going than the alternative. He’d rather take the pain.
But as Whumper was so fond of saying, it wasn’t his choice.
“I think I’m about done with you,” they mused with a final, half-hearted kick. “Time to put you away.”
In a desperate bid to stall, Whumpee spat at them, a little blood making it pink. It landed just beside Whumper’s shoe–he wasn’t the most coordinated right now.
Whumper had the nerve to laugh. “Cute. You’re still getting put away.”
Whumpee groaned. “Just gimme a break.”
“This is your break. I do love how much you want to spend time with me, though.” Whumper bent down to ruffle his hair in mock-affection. “Come along, now. You know it’s only going to be worse if I have to force you. I won’t hesitate to get the itching powder again if you’re not cooperative.”
He hated that they were right.
Whumpee picked himself up off the floor, swaying on his feet until Whumper caught his arm, leading him over to that dreaded wooden box.
It was too small, too tight, even though Whumper said they made it specifically to fit him. It just barely fit him, and that was before everything else.
Whumper took out the dreaded straitjacket. Where they even got that thing, Whumpee had no idea, but he’d become intimately familiar with it since his last escape attempt a couple months back.
“In you go,” Whumper encouraged, chipper as they always were after they were finished with him. Like all their stress relieved directly over to Whumpee, multiplied by a thousand.
“How long are we doing this? When do I get another chance? Can’t we just go back to how it was before?” Despite his protests, Whumpee slotted his arms into the terrible thing, letting Whumper lace it around him without a fight. As Whumper tightened and secured the straps, it forced him to squeeze himself, unable to move. One strap even went under and between his legs, so he couldn’t try to wriggle it up over his head.
“Good, good,” Whumper hummed. “I’ve already answered that plenty of times: this is your life forever. I won’t risk your little escapes again. Now, enough from you.” They secured the blindfold and inserted the earplugs next, followed by tape over both, leaving Whumpee to navigate by touch alone.
Whumper’s hands guided him down into the box, facedown, the walls hugging him on the sides and touching the top of his head and the tips of his toes. His arms dug into his chest, making it just a little hard to breathe.
Then came the box’s restraints, bolting him to the floor of it. One across the back of his neck, many more down his torso and legs, the last one pressing his ankles down.
Whumpee’s heartbeat was the only thing he could hear. Everything was constricting: he couldn’t even imagine a way to escape now. He couldn’t even pick his face up off the floor.
There was no powder this time, since he’d behaved, but his arm itched, right below the elbow. Nothing he could do about it. He squirmed, but even that was nearly impossible: Whumper always made everything way too tight.
And there he would stay until Whumper wanted to hurt him next.
Korben is a man full of The Terrors™ and cuddling with him can be dangerous. If he gets spooked he’ll take off and he’ll often drag a good amount of skin with him.
I currently have a scratch like three inches long on my thigh from when he got scared off my lap. The next day my beloved released steam from the pressure cooker and I added a few punctures to the tapestry of wounds on my leg.
But the absolute worst thing right now is the scratch is healing, all three inches of it, and it’s the itchiest wound I’ve had in ages, it is a maddening overwhelming sensation that is crawling up and down my leg like tiny bugs marching over my skin chanting itchy, itchy, itchy and there’s fuck all I can do except try to ignore it so I don’t rip the scab off with my frantic desire to itch.
can't stop thinking about itchy balls lately. Seeing someone squirm on a city bus, looking uncomfortable and you watching, wondering why. Then seeing them risk a quick pinch and realizing that they're not just nervous. They *itch.*
Watching those brief moments get more and more frequent. Maybe they're tempted into a quick scratch, but it does next to nothing through the denim.
It's only when they get home, shed those jeans, and get nails against bare skin that they *moan* with relief. Wishing they had an extra set of hands to help them out.
