“Don’t you dare.” Another prisoner was snarling at him. “Don’t you dare fall.”
If he collapsed, as his swimming vision and trembling limbs suggested he would, he’d take the entire line with him—every single convict, linked in a long column by chains on their legs. And what then? He’d have the guards cracking their whips or clubs over his back, and if the other prisoners fell, they’d be out for blood. His.
He took another staggering step forward, watching land and sky bleed into one another at the horizon. Breathe. Stay away. Step. Step again.
“That’s right. Keep fucking moving.”
suggested reading order | MWM event masterlist
<<< previous | next >>>
All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.
Big huge thanks to my always amazing whumperful crew: @whumpcereal @quietly-by-myself @sparrowsage and to @oddsconvert who put in a lovely beta job for this little prequel.
Warnings for this story: bad intentions by the main character, whumper perspective, derogatory internal dialogue, intent to engage in noncon (talked about, not actually written), drunkenness, smoking.
A King of the Road Prequel (Find the original King of the Road (Whumptober 2022) post here.)
Six Months Ago…
The Trucker dropped his cigarette to the asphalt and ground it out with the toe of his boot. He surveyed the parking lot of another club in another town in Somewheresville, America. Fresh hunting ground.
He watched the drunk college freshmen, who by all means shouldn’t even be here, idiotically looking for the friends he’d come with. He’d been stumbling around the parking lot for nearly twenty minutes now. The cars have been steadily streaming out or their owner’s steadily being bundled into taxi cabs and Ubers.
When the young man passed by his idling truck for the third time the trucker smiled at him.
“You lost darlin’?”
The young man swayed a bit as he stopped and took in the sight of the big, red, oversized trucking cab. The Trucker could see the wheels turning in the young man’s head, trying to process the question.
“‘M not lossss...”
“But you’re not found either, are ya?” The Trucker looked the young man up and down, smiling the whole time. “What happened? Can’t find yer buddies?”
“No… I… They’re here s’m where…”
This was just too easy. And this little one was sure pretty. His pale green eyes, watery and wide, set in a cute face with cheeks flushed a bit too red, and finished off by a pair of lovely cherry red lips. The Trucker licked his own lips as he thought about shoving himself into that perfect round mouth. The boy’s cherubic face was surrounded by a mop of messy dark blue hair. He could see the boy’s warm breath huffing out in front of him in the cold night air.
“I’d be happy to give you a ride, wherever you need. My truck’s nice and warm. I bet you ain’t too far from here, right?”
“No… I… not far. I just… my friends have to be here somewhere. I just… maybe over there?”
The young man started to walk away, tripping over his own feet and barely catching himself on a parked sedan, towards the far side of the parking lot.
The Trucker reached out and wrenched the boy’s arm back a bit harder than he intended too. The kid’s phone went skittering across the pavement and under the truck. When their eyes met, the kid’s pale green eyes were wide with sudden fear and paranoia.
The Trucker laughed it off.
“Whoops, now look what happened. You’re in no state to be walking across the parking lot, son. You’re gonna get yourself kilt.” He gently guided the boy towards the door of his truck. “Why don’t you come have a lie down and I’ll get you where you need to go. Hop up there and I’ll grab your phone.”
The drunk college kid blinked rapidly, still trying to process what the trucker was saying. All the while the Trucker was guiding him towards the cab of his truck. The big red door opened quietly and he helped the boy up on the first step. The Trucker had done this a million times, and knew he had a charming, disarming personality. As the boy swayed backwards, the Trucker let his hand slip from the small of his back to the roundness of his pert, tight little college boy ass. Oh he was so going to enjoy this one.
“You got a name, pretty boy?”
“B… Bob-by.”
“That’s right nice. Little Bobby Blue. Once you get up there, grab yerself some water. It’ll help clear your head. Might keep you from a mighty powerful headache in the morning.”
“Yeahhhh, that souns gooo…”
Little Bobby Blue was going to make a great companion. The Trucker could taste it, or rather, Bobby Blue would be tasting it. The Trucker leaned down and retrieved the kid’s phone from under the edge of his truck.
Just as Little Bobby Blue was about to take the top step up into the truck, a sleek black Uber pulled up next to the truck. Several loud, clearly drunk, guys were hanging out of the windows.
“BOBBY!!!! There you are, you dumb fuck. We’ve been looking all over for you. How the hell did you get over here?”
“Yeah, what the hell you doing getting in that truck Bobby?” another one said.
“Thisss guy’s gonna give me a ride.”
“Awe thanks, mister. Awful nice. But we got us a nice Uber to take us back to the house. Come on Bobby, quit fuckin around and get your ass in the car.”
Bobby almost fell on the Trucker as climbed back down the steps and stumbled towards the car. That's the most amount of fucking action he'll get tonight, now.
“Nice to meet you, Bobby. I’ll keep an eye out for you. You be safe now,” the Trucker said, his face a mask of polite calmness while inside he was raging.
“Don’t forget your phone, Bobby,” one of the generic drunk guys said. Bobby staggered back towards the Trucker, retrieved his phone, and then nearly fell into the open doorway of the car, sending his idiotic buddies into a frenzy of laughter.
The Trucker glanced around the parking lot. FUCK! There were no other tasty, convenient little fishes to be caught. He slammed the door to his cab shut and then yanked open the driver’s door of the truck. May as well start driving. He was all hot and bothered and there would be no release tonight unless it was his own hand. Perhaps he could try the rest stops. Sometimes unsuspecting people found themselves in vulnerable situations. He ground the gears of his truck as he started out of sheer frustration. He revved the engine louder than he normally would, the rattling growl echoing across the wide open plains of the flat terrain. He’d find someone. He scraped his teeth together and reached for his cigarettes. Maybe he could smoke himself calm. He made a hard fist around the lighter as he struck it up.
He sucked in a lungful of smoke and blew it out again. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes for a moment, calling up the blue framed face of his escaped victim. Damn he would have liked that one. If he came back through this town any time soon, he’d be on the prowl for his Little Bobby Blue.
Little Bobby Blue had dodged a bullet that night. It’s possible he wouldn’t always be that lucky. But for tonight, Bobby Blue made it home safely.
Tagging List: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @sparrowsage @quietly-by-myself @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @darlingwhump @hold-him-down @quietshae @no-terms-and-conditions-apply (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this)
Whumpee wrenched their elbow out of the stranger’s - Whumper, they said their name was? - grip. “Leave me aloneeeeeee. I’m fine-!”
Whumper tisked, pulling them toward the door again. “You’re not fine. You’re drunk and you don’t have anyone else to drive you home. I’m taking you.”
Whumpee whined as their dink sloshed and splattered onto the club floor. “Nooooooooooo I don’t wanna go home yetttttttt-”
“Too bad. You need a ride and I’m leaving now.”
Whumpee shoved at their chest. “I don’ even know you- you c-ould be likeeee a serial killer or somethin’g-!”
Whumper rolled their eyes, taking Whumpee’s glass and setting it on a random table, then got a better grip. Whumpee found themself suddenly cloaked in Whumper’s jacket and stumbling toward the door again. “…nnnnno-”“Quit being so paranoid. Just trust me.”
Cw: detailed descriptions of gore, all hurt no comfort, torture, heavy abuse, restraints, kidnapping, hand/eye/mouth whump, heavy dehumanization, broken bones, blood, amputation, implied death/murder, whumper turned whumpee, caretaker turned whumper, just be careful with this one friends
The garage light flickered.
Caretaker glanced up, their lips pressing thin together. It must have been years since they’d last changed it—if ever. They weren’t prone to spending time in the garage. Detached from the house, it served more for storage than anything. There had been a point where they had parked their car in there, but it hadn’t lasted more than a few weeks before it came more inconvenient to store it away than just leave it in their driveway.
Now, the garage was home to many boxes, bins covered in dust and stacked messily. There was a workbench against one wall, scattered with tools and stray nails. Their woodworking phase hadn’t lasted very long either. But that was alright. They found a different use for all the tools they had bought, birdhouses in mind when they had first gone to the hardware store. That certainly wasn’t what they had been shopping for the last time they had walked out of the shop, three bags weighing their arms.
Some of the stuff had been for Whumpee. A lock for the inside of their bedroom door, because the door to Caretaker’s guest room didn’t have a lock and they wanted Whumpee to be in control. Never again would they be on the other side of a lock. They had free rein of the house, Caretaker encouraged them to poke around and explore.
“It’s your house too, Whumpee. There’s nothing in here that will hurt you.”
They had bought a can of pale green paint, and a plastic sheet that they had draped over the bed, desk, and dresser Whumpee helped them push to the center of the room—though they weren’t particularly strong anymore, quite likely hindering the effort more than helping, Caretaker had let them. They spent the entire day painting the dull beige walls. Whumpee’s favorite color was green.
They bought lights, the kind that strung across rooftops when Christmas was near, a soft yellow glow, and they had hammered small tacks around the crown mounding to hang them as a surprise for Whumpee.
That hammer, they had bought too. They had one, somewhere in their indoor toolbox, but it had the build of a rock tied to a stick. They needed a better hammer than that, so they had splurged a bit. It was heavy and steel, a clawed end opposite the head. If Caretaker dropped it, it would likely shake the entire house.
It was a nice hammer.
The garage had a stale feel to the air, dry and dusty. It was cold outside, in just a month or so, Caretaker would have to start preparing for it to snow. They wrapped themself in a jacket before going out, a black pullover that they zipped and flipped up the hood.
They shut the door behind them with a slam, rattling the walls. A grin, a genuine smile curled across their lips at the panicked little whimper that cut through the dim room.
Caretaker didn’t think of themself as a violent person. Not at all. They were gentle and caring and nurturing—just look at Whumpee, seriously. Barely a month into their recovery, after years of captivity, torture, and conditioning, they were already beginning to show fragments of their old self. Little broken shards, but Caretaker could see, when they made Whumpee’s favorite for dinner, or invited them to curl next to them for a movie night, the little light that would flicker in their eyes. They recognized it. Slowly, they were putting the mirror back together, the glass that had shattered on its way to becoming whole.
They would never hurt anyone, especially not Whumpee. Caretaker was the kind of person who, if they found a spider in their house, would grab a cup and a piece of paper and move it out to their back yard, rather than smush it.
Caretaker hummed to themself, a single melody echoing through the exposed insulation like a cavern. They crossed the garage, after making sure to lock the door, to their workbench, where they pulled on a thick pair of gardening gloves. Something else they had gotten from the hardware store.
That place really had everything.
They stopped humming.
“You know what Whumpee told me today?” They spoke lightly, voice carefree, a tone that one might use when discussing their day with a partner over dinner.
“They told me about this one time, when they tried to escape, you made them choose. Either have both their ankles broken, or have two fingers cut off.” Caretaker tugged open one of the drawers, grabbing their new hammer. Not a single mark on it. Not even a scratch from the tacks or a dent. They set it on top of the desk, before reaching back in to grab a wrench, pliers, and a box cutter, setting it all in a neat pile. They turned to look across the room, leaning one arm against the desk.
They had cleared out a corner of their garage, moved all the bins out of the way to create an alcove of sorts. They had laid a tarp down over the cement, not because Whumper didn’t deserve to sleep in fucking cold cement for the rest of their life—however long Caretaker decided to drag that out to be. Only because they didn’t want to get blood on the floor. That crap stains.
They were so fucking pathetic, Whumper. Their hands bound in front of them, duct tape winding countless times around their wrists and forearms, inhibiting all movement. The tape snared around their torso, pinning their arms to their sides. Their legs were bound also, with a coil of rope, tied at the ankles, knees, and thighs, as tight as Caretaker had managed to pull it.
Their fingers were free, Caretaker supposed that they could simply reach out and grab something that could help cut them loose, but they’d taken care of that issue, weeks ago.
Their bones had snapped surprisingly easily in Caretaker’s hands. At least their pinky and ring finger. The other ones, Caretaker had to resort to stomping down on them, crushing the joints beneath their heel as they ground their boot against the flesh.
Now they doubted that Whumper could even twitch their fucking fingers. Crooked and swollen, blood trapped beneath the skin, knuckles split open.
They were covered in blood and grime, built up over weeks. Their skin was pale, mottled with bruises of all stages and colorings, slick with sweat. Caretaker had only taken them out once, dragging them behind the garage when they were sure Whumpee was asleep to drench them down with the back hose. They’d need to do that again soon. Their nose wrinkled as they stepped closer.
They weren’t blindfolded, but Caretaker doubted Whumper could make out much. One of their eyes nearly swollen shut, the other slit with a deep gash cutting from their eyebrow to their cheekbone, they weren’t seeing crap. They were gagged, though, an old cloth shoved in their mouth and secured in place with duct tape, winding around the back of their head. It couldn’t have been good for their jaw, which Caretaker had broken only a week ago. The teeth, a handful molars which Caretaker had first cracked and knocked loose with the hammer, twisted the rest of the way and ripped out with the pliers they now picked up, were certainly not feeling great now. They didn’t care. Really, it amused them to see the way Whumper squirmed and mumbled, incomprehensible sounds behind the gag that they were sure were pleads for either mercy or death—Caretaker supposed those would be synonymous by now though.
The funniest part, though, was something Caretaker had decided at the last moment. Whumpee had never mentioned anything about it, but Caretaker had noticed the bruises. The slight indented ring around their throat, only visible if you were really looking for it, finally fading with a special balm that Caretaker had spent a week’s paycheck to get. The shit was expensive, but it helped, and the scars—the older ones, at least—were finally beginning to lighten. A thick leather collar, one Caretaker had found in the pet care aisle. A small box on the back, two short studded prints jutting out into Whumper’s neck. The remote sat tucked in Caretaker’s dresser, the top drawer. It had a hell of a range. Sometimes they’d wake up in the middle of the night and twist the dial for no good reason.
Scratch that, there was a good reason. With Whumper, any reason was a good fucking reason.
They had been half tempted to buy a crate, as well, when they were at the store. One of those wire ones that would be uncomfortably small for any animal, let alone a human- if Whumper could even be considered that anymore. They certainly weren’t in Caretaker’s mind. But they had already spent more money than they should have, not that they were tight on funds, but Caretaker always liked to have at least a couple hundred emergency cash on their card, so they didn’t get it. Maybe they’d go back, after they get paid for the week. Toss a blanket over it, make sure Whumper was tied up as cramped as possible, maybe they’d shove a pair of noise canceling headphones over their ears, and let Whumper really suffer for a bit, left alone with only their pain to keep company.
“Their limp is getting better, you know, they don’t need the crutches anymore.” Caretaker stopped only a foot from the edge of the tarp, looking down in disgust. The hammer hung loosely from one hand, pliers and wrench and box cutter held together in the other.
“I think that would be equal to… ankles, knees, and four fingers? Five? Ah, it doesn’t matter. You’re going to lose them all eventually. I say we start with four, then if you’re still conscious, we can continue. Sound fair?”
Of course it did. Whumper wouldn’t agree, panic flickering through the small slit of their eye, some sort of whine swelling in their throat. But it didn’t matter if Whumper agreed. They didn’t get a choice.
Caretaker took the sound as an affirmative.
“You agree? Oh, Good.”
They dropped the tools, hitting loudly against the floor.
“I was thinking we’d start with the middles, remember how you broke Whumpee’s when they flipped you off?“
Caretaker grabbed the box cutter.
“We’ll take this nice and slow today. Whumpee’s staying the night at Old Friend’s place, so we have all the time in the world.”
They couldn’t keep the blood contained on the tarp this time, a trickle of red running off the edge and spilling onto the floor.
This was far worth having to clean up afterwards.
———————————————
@themerrywhumpofmay
There’s so many tropes I want to write for the rest of may but I want to write them all right now and I can’t decide aaaahhhhhh I’m probably going to end up writing nothing lmao
Whumpee grunted as they pried open the hood of their car. It was frozen shut and they needed to use a wrench. Wonderful, engine failure in the middle of a blizzard. Their fingers were turning blue. They could see their own breath. Their teeth chattered.
Burying their face in their scarf, Whumpee took a flashlight and examined the components. They couldn't see what was wrong. Damn school not teaching car repair! And damn author for not knowing how cars work!
Whumpee barely heard another engine driving their way. The only reason they noticed was the bright lights. The owner of the truck rested hung their arm out of the window. "Hey, sweetheart."
Whumpee jumped and held their wrench out like a sword. Whumper laughed at the display, making Whumpee blush in embarrassment.
"You see to be in a bit of rut, so howza 'bout we make a deal?" Whumper tapped their gloved fingers against the door handle. "I'll give you a ride to where you need to go, and in exchange, you tell me a bit about yourself. Come on, what other choice do you have?"
What? Hell no! Whumpee wasn't stupid. Maybe had a few trust issues, but that made them smarter! They wouldn't take the offer.
On the other hand, that car looked warm . . . and Whumpee's car wasn't starting up . . . and they couldn't feel their feet . . . and the stranger looked friendly . . .
Whumpee sighed and gave it, climbing into the seat and shutting the door. Whumper's pickup had a heater, and it felt heavenly, even with the overbearing smell of pine.
It wasn't until Whumpee got into the car did they realize their phone was still on the dashboard. Their hand reached the doorknob, only to hear a shi-cik noise. Whumper locked the car.
Whumpee's eyes widened and they pulled harder on the handle. Right before they smashed the window, Whumper grabbed their chin and made them look them in the eyes, gently brushing aside a lock of hair. "You naïve dumbass, we're not goin' to your' home."
"We're goin' to mine."
(From this prompt on, I'm going to challenge myself to do the rest of MWM as a series.)
The blood covering his hands made this impossible. And the broken arm didn’t really help.
Hesperus tried to loosen the wheel on his motorbike once again. But his fingers, slick with rain, and oil and blood, just kept slipping off the wrench.
He sat down hard in a puddle on the pavement, panting. More water soaked into his pants and boots. He curled the arm into his chest and held it there. It didn’t really help with the pain but it made the injury feel more stable. The heavy pack on his back rested on the ground.
Yeah, he still had to make the delivery.
Guess he was walking the rest of the way.
After a few minutes of panting, eyes closed and teeth gritted, Hesper dragged himself to his feet. Swaying, he edged around the two bodies. Stopped a moment. Eyed the belt one wore.
Minutes later, Hesper peeked out of the alleyway, his left arm now stable with the belt holding it close to his chest. With his other hand, he steered his shattered motorbike.
No one had witnessed the fight. No one would know what he’d done. They’d jumped him. It was their fault. It was their fault they-
“Need a ride?”
Hesper looked up and saw Rafael. He almost started sobbing on the spot.
Rafael quickly got off his bike. “Hesper?” His hand went towards Hesper’s shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Hesper glanced back at the entrance to the alley, where the bodies lay hidden. “How did you find me?”
“The wreck alert went off. Biometrics too. I’m on duty tonight. Did you wipe-out?”
Hesper opened his mouth. He wanted to say he’d been attacked. He wanted to say it wasn’t his fault that he’d killed them. He was defending himself. He was defending the delivery on his back.
Hesper swallowed. Blood and dirty rainwater on his tongue. “Y-yeah. Wiped out. Arm’s broken. Bike’s busted.”
Rafel looked over the belt strapping Hesper’s left arm to his chest. Hesper could feel his eyes roving. The other cuts and bruises being taken into account.
Rafael nodded then got back on his motorbike. “Should get you to a doc, I know one in-”
“No, there’s one near here.” Hesper shook his head.
It wasn’t a memory.
Just a strange feeling.
He knew that there was a doc around here. A good one.
Hesper looked up and down the street. No one. Empty.
“I don’t know of one.” Rafael said as Hesper slid gingerly onto the bike behind him.
“It’s weird.” Hesper murmured. “I think the clinic is in the back of a club. A green door, maybe.”
“You think?” Rafael started the bike. “Did you hit your head?”
“Probably.”
“I’m taking you to my doc, then we’ll finish the delivery together.” Rafael said.
“No!” Hesperus shook his head, making the world swim around him. “No, this one’s in the-...” He searched this feeling. “The Wheel! It’s a block away. The sign, it’s-”
“A neon eight-spoked wheel?” Rafael sighed. “You’re right, that is closer. Okay, let’s see if the doc is in. Hold on tight.”
Hesper wrapped his good arm around Rafael’s waist, blushing. He laid his head against Rafael’s back as they sped off.
The pain of the brand was like nothing he had felt before. It seethed and writhed, snake venom and molten sand, and no matter what he did or where he looked or how many deep, gasping breaths he took, he could not free himself of the sickening stench of charred, ruined flesh. He told himself he wouldn’t look at it. Wouldn’t accept that he’d been stamped like the worthless chattel he was.
But he did.
He did, and the numbers glared up at him: burning, scorching. A reminder, never to be forgotten.
Who he had once been was now dead.
suggested reading order | MWM event masterlist
<<< previous | next >>>
All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.
He should’ve known. The footsteps were too rapid, too heavy. She always walked with cautious, musical grace, each movement measured. This gait was frantic.
Even if he’d been forewarned, there was nowhere to hide.
“He saw the extra dishes,” she said helplessly from above as a man who looked just like her, only bearded and bespectacled, skidded to a halt for one precious moment.
Then, he leapt.
“Don’t!” she cried, halfway down the stairs, but her brother, for that was who he had to be, already had the fugitive shoved against the wall.
“What are you doing in my house?”
suggested reading order | MWM event masterlist
<<< previous | next >>>
All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.
