Captive manhandled into position for noncon. Forcing pants down/shirt up violently
Whumpee going silent when they see what whumper is going to do to them/the whip/cane/branding iron/sex toys
Manhandling in general. Slammed into objects, twisted around, sat on, pinned to the floor by an elbow
Thrown into the wall and falling limp to the floor, trying to get up and failing, slumping over their trembling arms, leg half up under them
Whumper slowly walking toward weakened whumpee with a smile on their face
Whumper looking focused and slightly amused as they physically manipulate whumpee. Soft grunts of effort as they quickly pin whumpee down
Whumpee not bound in any way, writhing and struggling as multiple whumpers restrain and beat them
Losing a fight. Badly. And whumper doesn't stop there. They keep kicking, punching, dragging whumpee forward by the hair only to stomp them down again
A strong/powerful/living weapon whumpee that's been a pain in the ass for an evil leader, brought before said leader struggling and sweaty and thrown onto their chest and held there under the boots of their captors. Especially if they're defiant. Whumpee shouting threats, cut off by a harsh kick to the ribs.
“Yes, still,” Whumper seethed over the phone, beyond irritated at Caretaker for having taken the situation so lightly. “His temperature’s the exact fucking same.”
“Did you give him the ibuprofen?” Caretaker asked.
“Yes I fucking gave him the medicine, or else I wouldn’t be calling your sorry ass,” Whumper hissed.
He was standing over Whumpee, who was wrapped in layers upon layers of blankets on Whumper’s bed, his face barely peeking out from the top of the thickest comforter. His eyelids were sunken and purplish, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. And he was still shaking. God, why was he still shaking? Whumper clutched harder at the phone, trying to keep his composure. Whumpee couldn’t get any worse. Whumper wouldn’t let it happen.
“Has he gotten out of bed at all?” Caretaker asked.
Whumper pursed his lips. “Not since last night.”
“Jeez.” A pause. “Well, there’s still time to bring him up here. Hours are over, but I can close a little later if you’d like—”
“I told you, I’m not bringing him to the clinic,” Whumper said. “Too much of a risk. Whumpee, he—well—you never know with him. He could run.”
Whumper heard Caretaker sigh over the phone. “I’m sorry, you’re afraid your currently incapacitated, feverish hostage is gonna take off on you? After the state you left him in?”
“Not to mention the cameras,” Whumper added.
“Whumper, I’m risking my entire practice—hell—my entire life by letting you bring Whumpee into the clinic. And I’m honestly not worried anything will happen. Can’t you at least trust that?”
“No,” Whumper stated coldly. “I’m not coming to the clinic. You’re coming here. Bring whatever shit you need, but Whumpee isn’t leaving the fucking house.”
“I—fine,” Caretaker finally relented. “Let me just close up here and I can be at your house in about a half hour.”
It was all Whumper needed to hear. He hung up, set the phone down, and sat at the foot of his bed. His stomach clenched at the sight of Whumpee, who could already be mistaken for a corpse by how shallow his breaths appeared. Fuck. Whumpee better fucking survive this. With how much of a spitfire he could be, Whumper was shocked to see him in this condition. His Whumpee, knocked out by what started out as just the common cold? The boy Whumper spent months trying to tame? Impossible. And yet—
Whumpee moaned as an entire full-body shiver wracked his body. He clenched his teeth, rolled to the side, and let out a croak of a cry.
“A doctor is coming, sweetheart,” Whumper said, leaning forward to push sticky hair out of Whumpee’s face. “You’ll behave, yes?”
Despite his state, Whumper raised his eyebrows in surprise when Whumpee answered. “N-no…doctor…”
“Yes, a doctor,” Whumper challenged. “It can’t be helped, darling. It’s the fourth day of this. Surely you want to get better?”
He was satisfied when he caught the slightest nod in response. Good. At least he was conscious enough to be somewhat obedient.
—
“Good God, Whumper,” Caretaker said, standing over the bed as he took in Whumpee’s figure. “What the hell did you do to him?”
“I was only correcting his behavior. Besides, it only started out as a cold.”
“Did you—what—drown him?”
Whumper shook his head. “No, I left him in the snow overnight.” He reeled back when he saw Caretaker’s expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was a few hours. And he was fine when I came to collect him after. He only had a cough.”
“And that was how many days ago?” Caretaker asked, going over to the desk to set out all his supplies.
“Four.”
Despite his feverish state, constantly swimming between a dark, cold haze and confusing dreams that left him sore and panicked, Whumpee was awake. He could hear Whumper talking to someone—he assumed the doctor he’d been told was coming to see him. The doctor he thought he had only dreamt about. It was strange to care so little about someone else being so close to him in proximity after having only been in Whumper’s presence for months. He knew that a small part of himself—the lucid part that only appeared in spurts throughout the day—was internally screaming, begging for him to cry out for help. After months of endless waiting, just before him was a chance. A real chance to escape. But his body couldn’t care less at the news. He was in so much pain, battling between sticky heat and the most freezing cold, that opening his mouth to even whisper the word ‘help’ seemed a chore too great for him to handle. But the words he heard next immediately roused him.
“We’ll have to strip him first,” Caretaker explained. “Take off all his layers. They’re only worsening his temperature. Then we’ll run a bath. Lukewarm water. I can set up an IV to deliver fluids. How much has he eaten recently?”
Whumper shook his head once again. “Won’t eat.”
“What has he had to drink?”
“He won’t drink either.”
“Fluids will be acceptable then. But we’ll have to encourage him to take as much as he can orally. Then I’ll run a few tests, see if I can figure out exactly what’s causing the sickness.”
“What sort of tests?” Whumper asked.
“The standard stuff: a blood test and a urine sample, maybe a simple physical. But getting his temp down is priority. Go ahead and remove the blankets.”
The word echoed in Whumpee’s head, bouncing painfully off the walls of his skull.
Strip.
Whumpee didn’t want to strip. Stripping meant pain. Stripping meant an entire map of skin to be cut, to be beaten. Stripping meant baths where he was forced to sit leaned against Whumper’s chest between spread legs. Stripping meant being pushed onto the bed, knees forced apart—
“Nuh…no…!” Whumpee moaned as his blankets were pulled off of his body, taking with them the warmth that kept him barely sane. He looked up only to be greeted with shadows, silhouettes above his head. He felt something cold under his shirt.
“I know, I know,” Whumper said gently, followed by the snips of scissors against fabric. His shirt was being cut off. “You’ll be warm again soon, sweetheart, I promise.”
But Whumpee only cried when hands found the top of his sweatpants and began to pull downwards. He gave a sad attempt at a kick, only to be met with a pitying giggle from Whumper. But the cold seemed to sting him back to life. Before his underwear could be taken, Whumpee pushed himself to sit up, wrapping arms around his knees as he shuffled to the head of the bed. Before him he could see…was that the doctor?
He was about Whumper’s age and blonde. Surprisingly wearing actual scrubs. Was this…a real doctor? Who made house calls? How could Whumper allow such a thing?
“Ah, it seems introductions may be in order after all,” Whumper said with a smile. “Whumpee, this is a dear friend of mine, Caretaker.”
“Acquantaince,” Caretaker clarified.
Whumper chuckled. “Hm, yes. An acquaintance who, for a time now, has owed me a favor. He has so graciously agreed to come help me take care of you.”
Whumpee glowered as best he could at Caretaker. Of course Whumper would never have called a regular doctor. How could he have been so stupid to believe he had a chance at escape? His fever had fed him many lies throughout the days, but, this one sliced a little too deep.
“Darling, don’t be like that,” Whumper said, folding his arms. “Didn’t I tell you to behave?”
But Caretaker interrupted Whumpee’s chastisement. “I’m…just here to help you.”
“I d-don’t want h-help,” Whumpee stuttered through the cold.
“I’m so sorry about him,” Whumper said. “It seems this sickness has brought out his defiance.”
Caretaker shook his head before turning to Whumpee. “I’m not surprised. Would you be more comfortable if Whumper took your temperature instead of me? You would need to remove your underwear, and lay on your side.”
“...What?” Whumpee asked, heart hammering as his stomach churned. God, was he going to throw up?
“Rectal temperature, love,” Whumper clarified with a quirk at the edge of his lips. “It will help give Caretaker the most accurate reading.”
“No!” Whumpee immediately screamed, as loud as he could make it. “No, I—! We can just do the forehead one, we—that’s what we’ve been using this whole—!”
“I’m afraid this isn’t up for debate,” Whumper said, beginning to stalk forward towards his victim.
Tears he had long since believed to be beaten away stung Whumpee’s eyes as he forced himself into the corner against the wall. His stomach churned painfully at the thought of being completely naked again. In front of a complete stranger, no less. He put out his palms in defense as he attempted to buy himself time and convince Whumper to let him forego the process.
“Please, please,” Whumpee urged, “Please, Whumper, I—I don’t w-want this, I’m fine. It’s just a f-fever, it’ll g-go away. I’ll…I’ll eat, I’ll drink something, just….,” his last word was barely a whisper. “Please.”
“You are anything but fine,” Whumper replied firmly while Caretaker scratched the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable to be in such a situation. Whumpee imagined he didn’t have many patients to be unwilling captives.
“At least let me do it myself,” Whumpee cried. “I’ll g-go into the bathroom, and just—”
“Whumpee,” Whumper said, putting a knee on the bed before him. “If you keep arguing I’m afraid we are just going to have to force you. You don’t want that, do you?”
Whumpee could see how this would play out. He would fight back, of course. Not because he wanted to (although he truly, truly wanted to) but imagining himself in such a compromising position in front of a complete stranger would force him to react despite a fever-bitten body. He would bite, scratch, and kick, whatever he needed to do. But he knew he was weak, and it would only take seconds before he was wrestled out of his underwear and forced onto his stomach. Even if he could escape the room somehow, he wouldn’t be able to run far. It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced over a table or a countertop. And then—Whumpee blanched at the thought. A hand leapt to his mouth to keep from gagging.
“Whumper, I can tell him how to do it himself if he wants,” Caretaker murmured.
Whumper seemed to stop at the words before turning to Whumpee. “I assume you’d put up a fight if it were any other way?”
Whumpee, embarrassingly, nodded. “I…I can do it myself.”
“Fine,” Whumper nodded. “I trust you’ll do it accurately and follow instructions? I’m afraid a suspicious reading may convince us to…try again.”
There goes the plan of running the thermometer over hot water until it reads a lower grade fever so Caretaker could just leave. Whumpee was beginning to grow furious at him. Whumpee wanted to understand why. How. How could he have met Whumper? How could he be okay with this? Did he realize how much power he held in his hands?
Whumpee nodded. “I’ll do it right.”
Whumpee was instructed to go into the bathroom with the door just slightly open. He listened to Caretaker’s instructions, who was standing outside: two fingers at the top of the thermometer to help insert it about an inch into the rectum, and to hold it there for a minute until he heard three consecutive beeps. Whumpee eyed the vat of aquaphor that Whumper had prepared for him, hating that he had to do this. But, just wanting to get it over with, he lubricated the thermometer and did as instructed.
When the beeps sounded, he removed it, just happy to have the feeling out of his ass. He supposed that was one good thing about having been sick: Whumper didn’t fuck him. But that was another thing. Whumper refrained from fucking him not because he was afraid of getting sick, but because it was “no fun” when Whumpee wasn’t strong enough to even attempt a fight back. The nausea instantly returned.
Caretaker’s brows furrowed when Whumpee handed him the thermometer. “Whumper, start the bath.”
“What is it?”
“One-oh-three point six.”
Whumpee shivered when he saw Whumper’s reaction: a stiffening of the shoulders followed by a purse of the lips. “It’s gotten higher.”
The pair turned towards Whumpee. Whumpee shed a tear at what he knew was going to come next.
He was unceremoniously forced out of his underwear (Whumper made a point to do it right in front of Caretaker when Whumpee initially asked to undress in private). Then he was forced to wait on the toilet, shivering, as the tub filled with tepid water. By the time he was lowered into it, his attempt at his earlier fight caught up with him and he lost all energy. The chills returned with a vengeance at being forced into the water, which felt nothing short of an ice bath. He trembled so much his jaw quivered, his teeth clicking against each other with fervor. His stomach lurched repeatedly, and he found himself helped out of the tub after several minutes when the nausea caught up to him. That’s when he stayed bent over the toilet, shaking and wet, still naked, while Whumper rubbed his shoulders and held his hair back. All the while Caretaker was asking questions as he was becoming more and more dazed.
How often do the bouts of shivering occur? For how long?
Did he feel any numbness or tingling in his extremities?
How was his appetite? Weak? If so, for how long?
When did he last urinate? Have a bowel movement?
By the final question, Whumpee was laying his head over the toilet lid with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, ready to fall asleep. It was as if he was being forcibly pulled into darkness, and he was willing to accept it. In his last few moments of lucidity, he could feel being carried back into the bed, clean underwear being pulled over his hips, and being propped up on pillows, Whumper taking hold of his jaw to force his head up when it lolled to lay on his shoulder.
And then he saw it: a needle, being slipped into the crook of his elbow. A tube extending to a pole by the bedside. Something clear inside the connected pouch. The taste of metal in his mouth. He let out a cry. Whumper shushed him softly and planted a kiss on his forehead.
And then he was gone.
—
He could hear a faint rustling first. The clink of something made of glass being set down. The turn of a page. That’s when the feeling returned. Soreness in his back, tugging at his abdomen from throwing up. Oh, right. He vomited. And had been given a bath. And had been forced to—
He groaned and opened his eyes. At first it was dark. Had the lights been turned off? But then it came into view, static prickling away to reveal the bedroom he was all too familiar with. And then brown eyes met blue. Caretaker.
“Hello,” Caretaker said, walking towards Whumpee to place the back of his hand against his forehead before drawing it down to his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Whumpee coughed. God, his throat was dry. “Unwell.”
Caretaker chuckled at that, a kind, almost amicable smile pulling at his lips. “I’m not surprised. We’ve gotten the fever down by a degree, though.”
“Where’s Whumper?” Whumpee asked, eyes darting around to look for the man.
“He just stepped out,” Caretaker said. “I sent him on a run to grab some things that might be lighter on your stomach. Now that you’re awake, would you be willing to partake in some simple tests for me?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I…assume it will be easier for you without Whumper in the room.”
Whumpee scoffed at that. “Fucking genius over here, folks.”
He was surprised when Caretaker actually laughed at that, covering his mouth as if it was impolite.
“What do you need?”
“A urine test,” Caretaker said, pulling out an orange cup from behind him. “Simple enough, just—”
“Pee up to the line. Got it,” Whumpee said.
“Yes,” Caretaker confirmed. “I already took your blood while you were asleep. So one less of a needle.”
Whumpee frowned at that. “How long was I out?”
Caretaker shrugged. “Six, seven hours? I put a sedative in the IV to help you sleep. Among other things to hopefully help the pain.”
Whumpee’s heart picked up at the words. “Did you…I mean, did Whumper—”
“No one touched you,” Caretaker said, already horrifyingly aware of what Whumpee was asking. “All we did was change out the blanket when it got wet. I promise.”
I promise. What a…strange…thing to say. Whumpee would have pegged any friend of Whumper’s to be just another punishment waiting to happen. But Caretaker? God, Whumpee almost felt like he could trust him had he met him anywhere else. It was strange for him to take the cup and be helped out of bed (vertigo hitting heavily as he did so). Caretaker held him gently, only when necessary, helping pull the IV pole along. And for the first time in months, Whumpee locked the bathroom door behind himself while Caretaker stood outside of it. He relished in the firmness of the click. He almost wanted to unlock it just so he could hear it again.
He did his business, pissing for the first time in a day and a half before giving the cup to Caretaker and being brought back to bed. He was still cold, but whatever Caretaker had put through the IV was working. They chatted for several minutes. About normal things. If you could call the effects of hypothermia normal (which Caretaker suspected was what caused the onset of fever. “Rewarming is a tricky process. Do it wrong and you’re facing a whole different beast”). And when all seemed safe, and Whumper was still gone, Whumpee said his words.
“You could do it now, you know.”
Caretaker looked up, his smile fading. “Hm?”
Whumpee shrugged. “You know. Call 9-1-1. Save my entire fucking life. Let me see my family again.”
Caretaker seemed to blanch at that, taking in a stark breath before immediately looking away. “I…I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
“But why?” Whumpee asked, trying to sound normal in the fear that desperation in his voice would cause Caretaker to shut down the conversation. “You—you know what Whumper does to me. What he did to cause all this in the first place. How are you okay with that?”
“I’m not,” Caretaker said abruptly. “I—let me be clear. What Whumper does to you is…disgusting. Abhorrent. But he and I have a very…complicated relationship. He’s guilty of many things, one of them being what he does to you. But I…,” his eyes went glossy. “I’ve done things, too.”
“So, what, you only have interest in saving your own ass?” Whumpee asked, unable to stop the tears from beginning to appear. “There’s no way you could just…just give me the phone for one goddamn minute just so I can…go home again?”
Caretaker took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Whumpee stared, stunned, tears streaming down his face with ease as he watched Caretaker’s guilty expression force him to turn away.
“So…that’s it, then? You’re gonna make me better just so Whumper can keep beating the shit out of me?”
Silence.
“Can you at least…,” Whumpee hiccuped. “Can you at least tell me they haven’t lost hope?”
This caught Caretaker’s attention. The man looked up. “Your mother…she searches for you every day.”
Whumpee collapsed into tears, bent over as his lungs ached for recovery from the horrible croaking erupting from his chest. He hiccuped, wiping away the wetness just for it to be replaced until he was reduced to sobs. Caretaker shuffled forward, putting a hand on Whumpee’s shoulder. But Whumpee shrieked, pushing the hand away before scooting to the other side of the bed, wishing that he was still sedated. And then, a voice caught his attention.
“How touching.”
Whumper closed the door behind him, tilting his head as eyes darted between Caretaker and Whumpee, who was still experiencing a fit.
“I’m sorry, Caretaker, but it seems Whumpee needs to be alone for a moment,” Whumper said. “Could you and I have a chat outside?”
Caretaker’s eyes widened, but he jumped away from Whumpee with a hasty nod.
“Get the fuck out!” Whumpee screamed, aiming his voice at Caretaker. “Get him out!”
Whumper nodded. “Of course, love. I hate to see you so upset.”
And Whumpee was. For the first time, he had never felt more rage in his life, which was saying something. And this time, it wasn’t aimed at Whumper. It was aimed at Caretaker. The one man with the power to save him, the device in his pocket with the three simple numbers that promised Whumpee’s mother a son…gone. Refusing. Whumpee had never felt such a betrayal.
As the door closed, he screamed, tearing at his IV, ripping the needle out before burying his face into the pillow to cry. He cried for a very long time.
Once his breath became shallow and his sobs subsided, he felt a hand stroke down his bare, sweaty back.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He won’t bother you anymore.”
Taking a shower requires a certain amount of vulnerability--so much so that most people prefer to take them in private. But nevermind that. There's no need for such respect here.
Content warnings: creepy/intimate whumper, captivity whump, tied to a chair, noncon stripping and nudity, anxiety attack, noncon bathing, noncon touching, fear of noncon.
Word count: 2882
~~~
The noose wasn’t tight enough.
Though considering it wasn’t meant to hang him, and considering he didn’t particularly wish to be hanged, it made sense that the strap around Declan’s neck only choked as hard as gravity pulled.
Hasan didn’t seem to mind as they took their supplies out through his room. They swept his scattered hair into a dustpan and dumped it in the trash with the rest, nearly filling the little bucket.
“You’ve got thick hair,” they commented, swiping stiff, scratchy bristles across Declan’s shoulders and chest. “You look good, though. I mean it.” A smile dipped into his vision and he scoffed. The words took a few seconds to connect.
“Haven’t you done enough?”
“That’s certainly not for you to say.” Hasan ruffled his hair. “And here I thought you still wanted a shower.”
“Oh, suddenly?”
“Keep talking like that. See how long I’ll tolerate your stench.” There was a levity to their words that spurred him on but Declan held his tongue. Hasan’s easygoing nature hadn’t translated to kindness yet and he didn’t expect this to be the exception. They finally pulled the neck strap loose. “And stop leaning on that. If I want marks on you, I’ll make them myself.”
Declan let his torso fall forward without it, even as Hasan freed his hands and feet.
“Eucalyptus or vanilla?”
He glanced up from sore wrists to see them open yet another drawer.
“What?”
“Shower gel, sweetheart. Which scent?” They held up two bottles, green and white, giving them a shake.
He didn’t have a preference. Not now. If Declan were in the drugstore aisle sorting through scents he already would’ve picked out Ocean Spray or Sea Salt Sunset, but maybe he didn’t want to associate his favorite scents with this torment anyway. In that case it would be wise to pick-
“Eucalyptus.”
-vanilla. Not his genuine preference, which had spilled forth out of some pitiful desperation for familiarity or comfort. Well, it was the less common scent. No use inducing a trauma response every time he reached for something sweet.
“Green it is.” Hasan lifted the winning bottle, returning the other and replacing it with two smaller ones. The glass door rattled when they slid it back and set the cleansers on the step.
“Alright. Up you get, Dec.” Declan groaned, shaking his head and planting it in his hands.
“I’ll get there, just- take your stuff with you and I’ll shower in a few.” But arms slid under his shoulders and heaved him to his feet. “Hasan-!”
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” they said matter of factly. A quick hand slid around his waist when he wobbled but his hands were already clawing at Hasan’s shoulders, pulling them chest-to-chest. Declan glanced up through long, dark lashes, fears of crashing to the ground belatedly comprehending the position he’d opted for instead. A harsh shove did nothing to remedy it and Hasan bared their teeth in a grin.
“Let go.”
“And let you crack your handsome head open? Cute, but no thanks.” Their free hand tousled his hair again.
“Let go! I’ll shower, just stop that!”
Hasan rubbed tacky skin, sweat only half dried into it, and tilted their head.
“What, by yourself?”
Declan gaped. “You can’t be serious.”
“Look how weak you are.” They nodded toward his fingernails in their forearms, drawing pink scratches in streaks. “I want you clean, not just wet.”
“There’s a seat in there, I can handle myself Hasan. I don’t know why I’m even trying to justify this to you. I know I can shower, I’m a grown man for fuh-!” Hasan yanked his head back by the hair still left and he froze to their apparent delight. Light danced across their lenses as they drank in his expression.
“Let’s be reasonable, dear. I haven’t even let you piss in private since Thursday. What in that sweet, dense little skull makes you think this will be any different?”
Declan’s furrowed eyebrows loosened just a tad. Just enough to betray his comprehension, however unwilling it was. Hasan let him go and his knees nearly buckled until he caught himself on the counter, coughing out ragged breaths and gasps.
“Strip for me now.” Though they busied themself sitting atop the toilet lid and unzipping their boots, Hasan wasn’t missing the opportunity to stare even as Declan held carefully still. “Come on. You're already halfway there, after all, and you get to start at the fun part.”
“Why aren’t you wearing your boots?” They hadn’t been barefoot around him even once since Wednesday.
“Take your clothes off and I’ll tell you.”
Fuck, he was going to cry again. Only minutes ago he was drained, emotionless, grieving, but the walls were crumbling down and crushing his heart in a fist. He watched Hasan pull off their turtleneck and tie up their hair through bleary eyes.
“You can… you can just watch. Just stand out here-” His voice broke. He gave up speaking.
“Do I really need to tear the pants off you?” They rose to their full height and, despite the loss of a few inches, Declan felt smaller than ever. He let them stare at his hunched, shaking form as they loosened their belt and stepped out of their slacks. When Hasan stepped forward, he mirrored the motion until the door met his back. Even a hand on his chin couldn’t force his eyes up. “I’m about to take this into my own hands if you don’t cooperate. Is that really what you want, Dec? Because I can certainly give you that.”
They waited, probably expecting a vehement shake of the head, but Declan didn’t move. Shallow puffs of breath coasted over their thumb: the only sign of life apart from an ever-worsening tremor. His pupils were pinpricks.
“Declan, sweetheart.” A soft smack on the cheek elicited a gasp and nothing more. “Declan!” Breaths came quicker.
Hasan examined him now, watching the light glance off the hazy glaze of his eyes, running a finger over the slight purse of his lips.
“Poor thing,” they murmured, more to themself than him, and stepped back to the shower to squirt a bead of body wash onto their thumb. They sudsed it up under their forefinger before slipping it past Declan’s lips and prying open clenched teeth to smear it across his tongue.
“Ick-!” He gagged and shoved at them, retching. “What the fuck?!”
“There he is. Now listen to me.” Another light slap brought his attention back, eyes still wild with offense. “To be honest, darling, I hate shower sex. I need you naked to get you clean. It’s all semantics, and I’m not past using force to get what I want. Clearly. So…”
Hasan backed up, eyeing him. Waiting.
The aftershocks of the anxiety attack still rushed through him, cortisol searching for something to latch onto, heart fluttering and skipping, every sense still engaged. But his mind was freed. Forced to a halt and Declan didn’t know how long it would hold.
A step closer and he flinched hard, hands flying to his waistband in a humiliating betrayal. Hasan stopped and grinned. They’d already won but the alternative was worse. He inched it over his hips and down his legs. Fabric bunched at his ankles until he slipped elastic over them and flinched at the brush against his bandaged heels.
A glance up told him he wasn’t done: a fact that he’d already known from his imagination alone. A swallow of sour phlegm preceded the ceremonious removal of his boxers.
It felt ridiculous, to be so scared of the person standing in their own underwear before him, but that sense was righted when the handcuffs dangled into his line of sight. Power. That was the difference.
“Turn around,” they suggested and, after a deep breath, Declan shook his head.
His hands over his crotch were a pathetic defense, sure, but… who was he kidding. There was nothing left to say.
Hasan closed in and gently secured the cuff over his wrist, savoring each metallic click. They spun him by the chain, pushed him flush against the door, and pulled the other in. It was looser than before, but functional hands still wouldn’t be able to slip through.
Declan shuddered at the sudden memory of a police procedural. How the cop had managed to escape certain death. What they’d done to their hand.
He stayed pressed up against the wood until Hasan pulled him away to the shower. In some twisted act of mercy, or perhaps for their own comfort, they cranked the heat up until it steamed before they guided him under the water.
“Fuck…” A curtain of warmth enveloped him and he couldn’t think against the sudden attack of pleasure. It was just barely, perfectly too hot. Declan let his eyes fall shut and listened to the drum of the stream against his bare skin, drowning out anything else.
It could have been a few minutes or a few hours before a firm hold on his shoulders turned him around and tugged his head back, letting the water wind through his hair.
“Just tell me where to go, Hasan. Stop dragging me around.” His voice was missing its usual bite, but the message was clear.
“You haven’t been particularly obedient yet, have you? I don’t see why that would change so suddenly.”
Declan flinched. Obedient. Yet. As if he was meant to be. Quickening breaths fought against debilitating exhaustion, and muscles tensed around bliss. He had no defense as Hasan opened the shampoo bottle.
“Be gentle, please.” His words slurred into each other. “Just let this be a fucking shower…” He pulled against the handcuffs uselessly, letting the metal rub against welts. A reminder. This isn’t my choice. I’m not letting them do this.
Calloused hands lathered it up before massaging shampoo into his hair, scratching his scalp with long nails. Something like vanilla wafted through the air. They knew what they were doing and it infuriated him somewhere deep down that he couldn’t reach just then. Declan stepped back but their arm wrapped around his shoulders and forced his head into the crook of their neck.
“I’ll be gentle if you stay pliant,” Hasan murmured against his ear, dragging a sudsy hand up the back of his head where he could feel the movement of every hair down to the follicle.
“I don’t trust that.” His voice was locked up so high in his throat that it came out as a whine against their skin. It was wet and warm, a little slick with sweat, and every breath fed sweet cologne into his sinuses: a citrus burst on sandalwood. He was starting to wonder if any scents would be the same after this.
“Then by all means. Make this worse for yourself.” Hasan’s voice might as well have been echoing in his head for how close it was. Declan shuddered against the hold, which only grew tighter in response. “God knows I fucking love it.”
It was all he could do to pretend their hips didn’t press harder against his.
“No. I’d rather not.”
“Then be good, babe, and let me rinse your hair.” His neck was craned back into the stream and Hasan guided the soap to the drain. Their touch tugged and he pressed his lips shut, holding back any reaction. His head was so light.
They wiped his eyes when he came back up, gasping for air.
“Couldn’t you breathe under there?” Hasan chuckled.
“If my hands were free I’d let you try,” Declan seethed, blinking out a stray drop as they opened the conditioner.
“Good thing they’re not.”
The metal jingled against his pull as if laughing at the audacity to even try again. He was back against Hasan’s chest as they worked the conditioner in, the lingering vanilla undercut by mint.
“My feet are sore,” he sighed.
“I’m holding you up, aren’t I?” A cheeky smile.
“There’s a seat in the corner.” Declan hoped Hasan could feel his glare as it pressed up against them.
“It’s holding our supplies. Maybe your feet wouldn’t hurt if you hadn’t tried to run.” Fingers traced over the initials in the side of his head.
“You have to understand why I would do that.”
“Oh, I do. But you have to understand why I stopped you.”
A helpless sob ripped through him but Declan bit his lip, feeling the scab break where their knife had pierced. He allowed himself to be manhandled once again, out of the water, and Hasan pumped shower gel into their hands.
“No way. Get a loofah.” He backed away despite the biting cold.
“Unsanitary. There’s nothing wrong with my hands, Dec. What are you so afraid of?”
Eyes cast down to the floor, refusing to answer. They wouldn’t get the satisfaction of hearing him say it. His bottom lip trembled, now smeared with blood.
“Step closer and I won’t drag you.”
A deep, shaking sigh brought him shuffling forward until Hasan could guide his back to their chest. Then slowly, tenderly, reverently, they folded arms under his armpits and spread soap across his chest. Declan squeezed his eyes shut before realizing the loss of sight only sent him spiraling further so he watched, breath frozen in his throat, as they traced his body.
The fine hairs on his chest tingled and his scars were more sensitive than ever as Hasan examined them, just the same as the day prior.
“Your surgeon did a nice job. Came out really well… Forgive my curiosity, but what did you start with?” Dysphoria and violation pushed at his gag reflex. “Fine, fine, calm down. But the scars are straight, not too thick, nice shape to the remaining tissue, not too much loose skin… Your nipples are even, too. Tell me: are they still as sensitive as before?”
Declan couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Until Hasan pinched his nipples between thumb and forefinger, tweaking them with a practiced finesse that made him scream.
“Stop! Stop, just fucking stop!” He thrashed and fought again, knowing from the start that the muscle holding him still would be the same that he collapsed against just moments later, panting and spent.
“I want an answer to my question. I’m curious, Dec. Satiate me.”
“That’s personal,” Declan huffed. But as their nails crept back up his chest, his resistance crumbled. “There’s less feeling there. Happy?”
“Quite. That’s a shame, though.” They needed another pump of shower gel and started on his shoulders.
“Yeah, whatever. I’d rather they not stick through every shirt I wear in winter.”
“Now there’s a nice thought…”
He desperately needed to stop talking.
Hasan intertwined both of their fingers when they finished scrubbing his arms then returned to his torso, trailing toward his hips despite restrained shoves. Words of protest bubbled up but Declan shoved them down. Tears, however, sprang forth when they found the curve of his pelvis. Strangled breaths shook him like a leaf.
Wordlessly, the touch swept down his thighs, dipped between, and continued to his knees, finding interest in the splotches of yellowed bruising. They didn’t bother going any lower, instead sliding up the back of his legs to his ass. A few circles around each cheek satisfied their curiosity and led back up to his shoulders, tense, entirely unwilling to show relief until it was all over.
“Tip your head back for the conditioner, darling,” Hasan said, stepping out from behind. Declan did so with a shudder. His blood still ran cold even under the showerhead. “Close your eyes, I’ve got face wash.”
The flinch at hands on his face was inevitable, but he held as still as he could manage as they wiped away the oil and tears of days past.
“There you are, now deep breath and hold it…” They guided him fully underneath, released slowly, and ran fingers through his hair. Thumbs swept the water from his eyelashes before he opened them.
Hasan reached to their waistband, soaked all the way through, and slipped a finger underneath only to produce a tiny silver key. Declan’s stuttering heart rate skipped a beat but they merely circled him and unlocked the handcuffs.
“Finish yourself off, Dec,” they winked before stepping out and sliding the door shut behind them.
He could’ve collapsed in relief with the way the tension left him, and he nearly did. Declan reached a hand out to the stone wall. Hasan’s shadow moved beyond the fogged glass, ever present, but they busied themself drying off and getting dressed.
A frantic adrenaline overtook him as he finished washing between his legs and under his arms. Fear clenched down, milked his vulnerability with the knowledge that any second they could change their mind. Decide they wanted him now, however he was. Even as he settled under the high pressure spray and tried to drown in its warmth, panic buzzed under his skin.
Creature comforts, he chanted in his head. I need this. I need creature comforts to stay sane. Even as his feet burned, the urge to knock Hasan upside the head pleaded for attention. I’m naked and sopping wet. They’re still alert. Now isn’t the time.
His nervous system didn’t take the cue, but his mind relinquished its hold. He spent a long while under the water, then.
Next
~~~
Tag list: @suspicious-whumping-egg @as-a-matter-of-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees
Look at me, trying to write more bc it's good for you. This is a response to a prompt I saw a while back, kinda lost the original prompt but eh
Masterlist
Non-sexual nudity tw, non con touching tw, non con stripping tw
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs as Whumper slowly descended into the basement, wearing their customary steel-toed boots. Their Whumpee shuddered and pulled himself up into a kneeling position before them as they approached.
“Awe,” Whumper said with a lazy grin, hands held behind their back, “don’t you look pretty all ready for me?”
Whumpee held their tongue, staring straight ahead as Whumper sauntered over. He really was a stubborn one. Tonight should help with that. Whumper gave them a salacious once over and licked their lips at the plethora of colored bruises decorating Whumpee’s shirtless form. He really was gorgeous like this.
Whumper moved in a slow circle around Whumpee, drinking in the bold colors contrasting with pale skin. The coarse brown rope bound Whumpee’s wrists behind his back, leaving them red and raw. The dirt from the concrete floor, smudged across Whumpee’s body, hiding bruises and highlighting a ruggedness to Whumpee that Whumper loved probably too much. Gorgeous.
Whumper really wanted to add to the canvas with a thick cane or perhaps their own fists, but alas, places to be and people to see.
They stopped in place behind Whumpee, watching them twitch in anticipation and very well hidden fear. That defiance was undoubtedly playing behind his eyes, smothered by resignation and a significnat amount of self preservation. Delicious.
With a gentle grip they carded their fingers through his greasy, unkept hair. Testing just how compliant their Darling was going to be today. He didn’t pull back this time, that was good, they would hate to have to drag this part out now. He kept still, resigned. Resignation from their Darling was always so perfect. They were just in that sweet spot before they break. They might even beg soon.
Perfect.
They could sit here for hours, just petting and watching their Darling grind his teeth together, trying to school his emotions. Because he knew this was far, far better than being beaten bloody. The war of revulsion playing across his face was almost as good as hearing him scream.
But they had places to be, and Darling here was going to be perfect for tonight.
They slowed the hand in his hair, grabbed a fistfull of the filthy strands, and pulled his head back slowly. He could fight, maybe get them to release his scalp. He might even get a lick or two of his own in before Whumper could subdue him.
Whumpee would have, early on. He would never let them touch him without three beatings and two days withought sleep.
Now though, now the threat of what could happen helps him make it through what is. Now he lets them stroke his hair, pull his head back and bare his throat. Now he closes his eyes, grits his teeth and undoubtedly plays: it could be worse, on repeat in his mind. Perfect.
They pull Whumpee’s head back until he was staring at the ceiling, eyes alight with fury and shaded by fear.
“Stay.”
Whumper released Whumpee’s skull and he kept it in the position Whumper left him in.
“Good boy,” crooned Whumper as they strode across the room and selected a length of rope attached to a carabiner clip. Whumpee had taken to staying as silent as possible during these sessions, not talking or engaging with Whumper. It was cute how he tried to shut them out while remaining compliant.
“You’ve been such a good boy lately,” they said as they turned around, “That I think you’ll be perfect for tonight.” They returned to Whumpee, and kelt behind them while they fastened the rope around Whumpee’s neck, looped around his bound wrists, and attached the clip to the D-ring set into the concrete nearly underneath him.
They stepped back and around Whumpee, admiring their bobbing adam’s apple and exposed throat. In this position, they would be completely unable to lean forward or straighten. He might be able to get their feet out from underneath himself and get into a more comfortable position. But doing so would only earn Whumpee one hell of a punishment.
XXX
Whumpee’s face and neck burned red with the humiliation of being so vulnerable and on display for Whumper. He shifted uncomfortably in his restraints, testing them as much as he was trying to shift half a milimeter into a position that wouldn’t hurt, one where his ribs weren’t broken and his shoulders didn’t throb and where that god damned rope wasn’t digging into his windpipe and forcing him to lean back.
He wouldn’t be able to hold this position for very long, but he doubted he was going to be left in a stress position overnight again, not with Whumper’s talk of tonight. Somehow, he thinks that he would prefer to be whipped bloody than go through what is planned for tonight.
He heard Whumper walk over to the side of the room and squeezed his eyes shut.
The sink was along that wall.
He found himself trembling and forced himself to still before Whumper started cooing and calling him adorable in a voice that would sound patronizing if Whumpee wasn’t completely convinced it was genuine.
He just had to breathe. Take a moment to appreciate the ability to take full breaths that didn’t burn his lungs. Just breathe In, 2, 3, 4.
Whumper pulled something out from the cabinet under the sink.
Out, 2, 3, 4.
There was a squeaking sound as the hose was screwed into place.
In, 2, 3, 4.
Just breathe, feel your lungs expand with air as you choose to breathe.
Out, 2, 3, 4.
The water turned on.
Whumpee let out a whimper and immediately cursed himself for it. This was no time to lose his nerve. He is gonna be tortured. It is gonna fucking suck. And then he’ll be left alone for a few hours to sleep before it starts all over again. This is just his fucking life now and whimpering isn’t gonna make it any fucking easier.
Unless it will. He stamped the thought out the second it popped into his head. He is not nearly broken enough to even consider that, and right now he has to be strong because Whumper is walking closer.
His breath picked up in his chest despite his efforts as he heard the water from the hose hitting the concrete floor. This was gonna fucking suck.
The gentle spray of freezing water hit his left knee first, soaking through the filthy sweatpants he has been wearing for weeks, and chilling him to the bone in seconds. Whumper shifted to spray to soak his other leg and meandered up his stomach and chest, teasing at his neck before going over his back with a lazy pace.
So they were freezing him out first, making him miserably cold before drowning him in the same fucking cold water. Delightful.
XXX
Whumper watched their darling whumpee in delight as he flinched every time they worked further up his neck, how he was racked with shivers from the icy water and the look on his face that let them know he knew it was only going to get worse from here.
Delicious.
They quickly put a kink in the hose to stop the water and cause whumpee to flinch at the change. They return to the sink and turned off the water fully before unkinking the hose and detaching it from the sink. They pulled out a bucket as they replaced the hose and let the water run hot for a moment before placing the bucket in the sink to fill up.
Whumpee was still facing the ceiling, as if they were trying very hard not to think about what was going to happen next. As the bucket filled Whumper pulled out several bottles from under the sink and walked over to Whumpee.
Whumpee was still trembling, but they suspected it was more due to cold than fear. Their whumpee was excellent at managing his fear and keeping still for them, a trait they often take advantage of.
They set the bottles down and comb their fingers through their darling’s greasy hair again. It was getting longer as the weeks went by, hanging in front of whumpee’s face and giving a wild dog look to him that only enhanced their artwork. He could do without the beard though, it gave an almost paternal look to his face. Aged him in a way that made you think he was a father of four instead of a recent collage graduate.
Yes the beard will have to go.
The sound of water running over the side of the bucket and into the sink pulls them out of their head. They give whumpee’s head a gentle pat that whumpee pointedly doesn’t flinch at and returned to his side a moment later with the bucket, a comb, and a set of clippers.
XXX
Whumper took several moments to arrange the things they brought over, meaning this probably wasn’t going to just be a simple drowning, meaning this is just gonna get a hell of alot worse.
Images flash unwittingly to mind, and he unsuccessfully tries to shove them away. Whatever is gonna happen, he will survive it. When this is over, he will take breaths with burning lungs, shiver with his hands tied behind his back, and laugh at himself for how he thought he wouldn’t survive.
Because he was going to survive. He is going to walk out that door one day and never have to resist flinches or hold his tongue to survive ever again.
The sound of water being scooped out of the bucket pulls him out. This is it.
He forces himself to take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Those damned fingers return to his hair, warm and sickeningly pleasant. He wants to wrench his head out of their grasp and away from them but he doesn’t. He holds still. He endures the unwelcome touch while he has to, just like how he will endure the drowning. Just like how he has endured every other goddamned torture he has been put through while trapped in this goddamned basement.
A clear, plastic, cup-shaped tupperware container filled with water enters his vision as it’s brought above his head. He closes his eyes and his breathing speeds up.
Burning heat is poured across his face and he gasps in shock as another scoop is poured along his hairline and into his hair. Then another, and another.
Soon his hair is soaked in the hot water and whumper’s fingers return to his hair, combing tangles out and making it lay straight
The terrible, gentle hand in his hair mixed with the warm water feels far better than he would ever admit. He is unlikely to be hurt now, but there is always the chance that the next douse of water will be ice cold and that the hand in his hair will tighten into a fist and hold him in place while the other fist pummels his unprotected face.
He wouldn’t be able to force himself to relax if he tried, the threat of this humilation giving way to pain an all too real possibility. Torture was far far worse than this, this might be the best he’s felt in weeks, but this was still not good. He’d still rather be anywhere but here, under the hands of someone who has beaten the shit out of him for ‘artistic purposes’.
Both the hand and the warm water stop as something is popped open. Whumpee tenses, ready for this to go from not okay to god-awful at lightspeed.
Whumper let out a small chuckle and cooed at him, patting his shoulder in ‘mock comfort’, not unlike a person patting the flank of a horse to calm them down.
Is it mock if Whumper really sees it as comfort? Does it even matter if its mock if being touched where he can’t see only reminds him how fucking helpless he is?
“Shhh darling, you’re being so good for me.” Whumper cooed in a voice that made part of Whumpee want kick out and struggle just to be contrary, but fear is controlling most of his fucking brain. Kicking out will definately turn this creepy, uncomfortable experience into a fucking nightmare.
It might be worth it to avoid whatever was gonna happen tonight though.
He swallows his pride and stays fucking still when whumper’s hand returns to his hair and something cool is massaged into his scalp with Whumper’s blunt nails, irritating the small nicks and cuts along his scalp.
He can’t fucking believe it. They’re fucking washing his hair?
Whumper is cleaning out the blood and grit and sweat and torture from his hair? Not only that, but once his hair was deemed clean, the suds and later the conditioner rinsed out, Whumper took a cloth to wipe his face clean of dirt and blood and all that other good shit that gets on your face when you’re being tortured, and did a fucking skin-care routine on him. They did a whole ass routine with exfoliating and a fucking face mask. They even took an electric beard trimmer or clippers or something and shaved his beard down to stubble, humming something about how that was much better.
What. The. FUCK??
He half expected them to get a tweezers and start plucking his eyebrows or some shit like that.
But whumper just put the things they had brought back to the sink and did what sounded like them rinsing and drying their hands before they came back and stood behind Whumpee their head tilted forward to look Whumpee in the eye.
Whumpee shifted under their gaze, sore from staying in the same position for so long, his feet already numb underneath him and his neck ached fiercely from craning backwards.
“How’re you doing darling?” they asked with a grin.
Whumpee didn’t respond.
“Ready to move on then I see,” Whumper said more to themself than anyone else and straightened to pull two chains down from the mechanism in the ceiling. They attach each manacle to each wrist and cut the ropes that have been digging into his skin for weeks.
The basement air feels pleasantly cool on his torn wrists, until the manacles shift down his wrists and settle into place digging into his open wounds. Terrific.
Whumper cuts the rope holding his neck in place and he leans forward slowly with a groan, muscles burning from lack of movement now equally furious with being moved out of position.
Wary of Whumper, and not wanting to be viewed as trying to get a beating, Whumpee remained on his knees and only rolled his aching shoulders forward. Fuck they hurt, they had been bound with each wrist tied individually and a short length of rope connecting them to allow for some mobility but simply the act of shifting them from back to front hurt like hell.
“Awww, are you sore?” Whumper cooed at them.
Whumpee tensed.
“We just have a little bit left to do before tonight so up up, on your feet,” Whumper commanded with a grin.
Whumpee leaned forward with a groan and braced his hands on the floor to slowly stand. At his full height he was at least several inches taller than Whumper, who stood to the side of the room next to the mechanism that will raise the chains toward the ceiling.
The chains that right now have slack. The chains that might just let him reach Whumper and kill them with his bare hands.
Whumpee froze in place. His moment of opportunity slipping by without him doing more than freezing. They might kill him. If he tried that, they might kill him. Would that be better? No. No it fucking wouldn’t be. As long as he is alive theres a chance.
A chance he might’ve just fucking missed.
Whumper cranked the mechanism, unaware of Whumpee’s internal battle. His arms began to be pulled upward by his shackled wrists and he let them be tugged upward until they were hanging loosely from the ceiling at about eye level, spread in a vaugue ‘I come in peace’ way.
Whumpee flexed his hands anxously. Whumper began humming the tune to a pop song Whumpee was unfamiliar with as they began filling the bucket again with hot water. They pulled out a tall wooden stool that they once tied Whumpee to with his front exposed so Whumper could flog his chest, and set it up within kicking distance from Whumpee.
Whumpee doesn’t do more than contemplate knocking it down. If it comes to it, and Whumpee can’t take it anymore, he can knock it down to get a minute or two of respite. Not that there’s not gonna be hell to pay afterward, but having some semblance of a plan is comforting.
The water started overflowing on the bucket again, so Whumper shut off the water and tossed a sponge in it before hauling it out of the sink and setting it on the stool.
Whumpee watched with detacheted interest and was preparing to brace himself for unwanted contact instead of torture. His mental fortitude however, shattered at the sight of Whumper pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open with a practiced grace.
Whumpee’s breath stopped in his throat and he chastised himself for it. What, you think that the torture will stop for one fucking second as long as Whumper is in here with you? Are you really that nieve, thinking that this will ever not end in blood.
Whumpee took several deep breaths to calm himself as Whumper chuckled and moved toward him menacingly. He wrapped his right wrist around the chain suspending it from the ceiling and gripped it tightly, bracing himself for whatever Whumper is going to do to him.
Whumpee feels the cool blade against place where their stomache meets their hip and holds in a whimper. This is gonna suck this is gonna suck this is gonna suck plays over and over in his head, waiting for the slice.
Whumper chuckles as pats his hip in that same condescending, spooked horse, way and Whumpee wants to kick them. He could. They were well within kicking range, his legs are free and Whumper is about to hurt him. Why the fuck isn’t he kicking them? He should still be fighting. What a few weeks of consistant torture and beatings and he’s fucking conditioned like a dog. Great. Fucking fantastic to know that he’s so easy to break.
He looks down to see Whumper staring up at him with a look of glee on thier smug fucking face. Anger boils inside of him as they soak in all his expressions, fucker was probably gonna say ‘delicous’, he thinks in a mockingly highpitched voice.
“What are you waiting for!” he shouts at them. And he can’t bring himself to regret doing it, even when Whumper’s grin extends to a full out smile and they grab onto his hip to brace themself to cut him. He can’t regret shouting at them. He can’t.
He refuses to regret the only show of defiance he has given in days. So instead, he steels himself for the knife.
XXX
Their darling really was a masterpiece. How he blends defiance and obedience is fucking perfect.
Delicous.
Whumper chuckles and draws the knife down, cutting through the ratty sweatpants from hip to ankle in a single slice of the recently sharpened knife. Whumpee jerks forward and gasps, trying to curl in on himself but keeping his leg perfectly straight. His weight was already shifted to the other side in anticipation of not being able to stand.
They threw their head back and laughed as Whumpee opened their eyes and saw that his leg was in fact fine. If completely bare and leaving him, eh, exposed.
Whumpee flushed a beautiful shade of red - they should get a pair of heels that color, it would match so well with their blue suit - and spat out “fuckin bastard” under his breath.
In half a second Whumper was pulling Whumpee’s hair back and holding the blade to his throat.
“What was that?” They ask in a low and dangerous tone, right next to Whumpee’s jaw.
Whumpee remained silent, difiance overriding fear for a few extremely stupid seconds.
Whumper kicks his knee out from under him and he falls with a painful jolt, his knees inches from the ground with his shoulders and wrists holding all his weight. He sobs and tries to get his feet under him, but Whumper stops him by grinding thier booted foot down on Whumpee’s ankle from behind.
They lean down next to Whumpee’s face and say in an unsettlingly calm voice, “I don’t like repeating myself. What. Did. You. Say?”
Whumpee lets out a gloriously pathetic whimper, but remains silant.
Whumper sighs and mutters a ‘stay’, before walking over to a cabinet and pull out one of their favorite whips, designed to bruise and leave beautiful welts instead of lashes they would have to disinfect and clean and bandage and yadda yadda yadda. This was simpler, meant for quick but effective punishments or drawn out beatings.
And boy did their darling need a punishment.
“You already have four offenses Whumpee,” they punctuate it with a crack of the whip on the concrete floor while circling in front of Whumpee. “One for each swear word,” another crack, “and one for each time you refused to answer.”
They slipped the handle under Whumpee’s jaw and tilted his chin up to see tears dancing in his eyes.
“You don’t want a fifth, do you?” They ask in a low, gentle voice.
Whumpee shakes his head, careful to not accidentily dislodge the handle from underneath his jaw and further add to his punishment. He’s learning. Slowly, but he’ll get there.
Whumper cracks the handle of the whip across his face and grips his jaw with their hand. Squeezing their fingers painfully into his jaw. “Words Whumpee. Use, your, words.” They tighten their grip with every word. “Do you want a sixth?”
“No, no I don’t want a sixth, sir.”
Whumper released his jaw with a shove. “Then what did you say?”
Whumpee hesitates a second too long.
“Thats six, you must really be a glutton for punishment darling. Are you? Are you a glutton for punishment?”
Whumpee swallows, eyes downcast, “No sir, no I’m not a glutton for punishment sir.”
“You know I don’t like repeating myself darling, you have ten seconds to answer.”
Whumpee licks his lips and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Fucking bastard. I called you a fucking bastard sir.” Whumpee swallows and seems to brace himself for a slap.
Whumper grins to themself, this was going to be fucking fun.
“Thats four more, I think you’re finially getting the hang of this.”
Whumpee’s eyes open in confusion.
“Fucking. Bastard. Fucking. Bastard.” Whumper held up their hand, and lifted a finger for every word they said, “Four.” They shrug and let their hand drop, “You did this to yourself darling.”
They start circling around behind Whumpee again, soaking in the angry mess that was Whumpee. “What are we at then Whumpee?”
No answer. Thats eleven
“Whumpee, I asked you a question. How many offenses are you at?”
A soft “ten,” came from Whumpee. Twelve and Thirteen.
“What was that?”
“Ten.” Whumpee states, louder this time.
“Nope, now we’re at Fourteen. Keep up Whumpee. Jeez, I haven’t given you a concusion for a while, seriously.” They crack the whip again, barely an inch from Whumpee’s bare feet. “Now, what are we at?”
“Fourteen.”
“Good, thats good whumpee. You’re doing great, except now we’re at 15 because you forgot to say sir. Again.”
Whumpee shuddered and tilted his head forward between his outstretched arms. He was no doubt gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut to regain some kind of control of his envoirnment, even something as small as shutting his eyes to the world around him.
“Now Whumpee,” They tap the handle of the whip against their chin, “ Just to recap and make sure we’re both on the same page, how many offenses are you at?”
This time Whumpee’s voice came loud and clear, “Fifteen sir.”
Affection bloomed in their chest and they stepped forward to pet their darling’s hair, the movement causing them to sway in their chains. “Good boy Whumpee! I knew you had it in you.”
Whumpee stayed completely still as Whumper ran their fingers through his hair.
“Now Whumpee, I do have to punish you. But I need to know that you’re learning from this,” They walk their fingers along his scalp, “so I can either give you 30 lashes, or I’ll give you 15 lashes and all you have to do is say ‘Thank you for punishing me sir, I deserve it’ after each one. How does that sound eh?”
Whumpee tensed more under their hand, they knew which he would pick, but it was important for him to see that there was always an option, always a way out for him if he ever needed it.
He took longer to debate than Whumper thought he would, honestly they almost expected him to wrench his head away from their hands and spit insults at them. But he doesn’t.
“Come on buddy, we don’t got all day. Choose and say please and thank you, otherwise it’ll be 60 and I’ll leave you up all night.” They put their other hand - still holding the whip - on his shoulder and touching his neck so they could have better leverage to claw their fingers through his still damp hair.
They felt Whumpee swallow and the vibrations from him saying, “Please give me 30 lashes, thank you sir.”
Whumper chuckled and backed up a few feet, “As you wish,” and struck.
As an ace person, I grew up with a fear of sex that led me to read a lot of noncon fics to "prepare", if you will, for (what I saw as) the inevitable. I know its not the same as real sexual assault and I don’t wanna appropriate anyone's trauma, but your focus on survivor fiction still makes me feel better in some ways.
As such, do you have anything on threatened noncon situations that don't actually end in noncon? Or, I guess, situations where whumpee feels the threat of it even if it's not there?
I'm so glad that the focus on survivors/survivor fiction has been helpful--and absolutely, if it helps you heal from something/comforts you, it's doing its job. I'm ace too btw :)
Kidnappee grabbed by the armpit and upper thigh and thrown bodily into the back of a truck. They can still feel where the hands pressed in near their groin as their attackers jump in behind them.
As part of psychological torture. Captive tied to a chair with their legs spread wide open and gagged with a ball gag. Then left to sit like that for thirty minutes as their stretched tendons begin to ache in their legs and jaw, captors walking in and out of the room and eyeing them while talking to each other quietly.
Interrogator walking into the room with obvious bdsm gear--blindfold, gag, riding crop--and setting them down on the table across from prisoner and just making prolonged eye contact until prisoner's eyes drop and they swallow.
Pinning fresh captive down with shouts and grabs all over their body, frisking them with hard slaps and pinches and shouted "where's your weapons? Huh?" And captive grimacing as they feel hands everywhere they're not supposed to be.
Ripping off their clothes to make sure they're not hiding anything. Captive fighting to hide their body, crying when they fail, waiting for the next touch in disgust and terror.
Sensual fingers pressing into grooves by captive's hips, sliding down, then up to rest on captive's nipple as captive's body swerves to the side in their bonds, trying to escape their touch. Captor whispers, "Keep resisting. Make it fun. I dare you."
Creepy whumper who forces whumpee to see everything being done to him in the mirror, forcing him to not look away. He has to watch her get real close and creepy to him, before being tortured.
We both know what we want and it's this
Ingredients: creepy/possessive whumper, partial noncon stripping (unsexy), noncon touching (also unsexy), objectifying/degrading language, carved mark, noncon kiss (not on the lips)
When he wakes up, all he can see is himself. He’s never particularly disliked his own reflection, but that’s not what unsettles him. It’s that he’s tied to a chair, gagged with his own tie, that he has no idea how he got here, or why he’s here, and that whatever’s coming next, he probably isn’t going to like it.
He considers yelling for help, screaming and struggling, but the knot of his tie muffles even the smallest of noises he makes, and after a few experimental tugs, he knows he’s not going to be able to free himself from the ropes. So he sits and waits, staring at the terrified man in the mirror, trying to make him look less afraid.
Just when he’s managed to look as calm and composed as he can, bound and gagged as he is, he sees a door open behind him, the figure of a woman he vaguely recognizes stepping into the room. Her face lights up when she catches his eye in the mirror. “There’s my darling boy,” she coos, and he feels his stomach twist. The-the way she’s looking at him…the feeling in his gut only grows worse as she gets closer. When she reaches him, she places her hands on his shoulders, rubbing down the sides of his arms, and he can’t help but shudder at her touch.
“Just look at you.” She bends so her face is right next to his, her hand stroking his other cheek, fingers fiddling with the edge of his tie. “You’re so red, huh? What, are you shy?” His gaze flicks between his own flushed face and her hungry eyes, unsure which was a worse sight. “You’re so pretty, you really don’t have any reason to be so nervous. That’s why I took you, you know? I figured you’d look just perfect all helpless like this.” As she fiddles with his tie, pulling it out of his mouth, it finally clicks where he’s seen her before.
“You-you’re that woman from the party! The one that…you got me a drink and then I…” he watches his eyes widen as the realization dawns on him. “You drugged me!”
“I’m glad you remember me, darling.” She tightens the tie around his neck again, maybe a little too tight, and he shudders as she gives it a slight tug, pulling him like he’s on a leash.
“W-what is this what do you want with me I-” Her finger presses over his lips.
“Shh, quiet now dear. Don’t make me cover up that face of yours again so soon.” She runs his tie through her fingers, tugging lightly at his neck as she stares at him in the mirror. He’s powerless to do anything but stare back, cold terror creeping through his veins. A small wave of relief washes over him as she stands, but when he sees a flash of silver in her hand, he flinches, causing her to chuckle. “Not quite yet, my darling. As dashing as you look in those clothes, I think it’s time I get to see what you’re hiding under there.”
As much as he wants to protest and plead, the words are frozen in his throat, and all he can do is watch his lips tremble uselessly as she stands behind him and starts to cut off his clothes. First is his vest, slowly unbuttoned before the fabric over his shoulders is sliced, and he can’t help but wince as she destroys part of his expensive suit, despite the fact that he definitely has more pressing matters to worry about. She takes off his tie next, though he doesn’t find it any easier to breathe as the knot is loosened. His shirt is just ripped open, like she’s excited to get to the main event, buttons clattering to the floor, and he sees a small flash of disappointment on her face when it reveals his white undershirt instead of his bare chest. The cuts through his sleeves are hasty, the knife trailing up his arms nicking him as it goes, little spots of red blooming on his ruined shirt before it’s pulled off of him and tossed aside.
Now that it’s just his undershirt, she slows down, pulling the collar of it taunt as she begins to delicately slice down the front, her eyes lighting up as she sees what’s underneath. He doesn’t understand, it’s just him, there’s nothing special there, so why is she looking at him like that, with so much hunger in her eyes? She makes quick work of his sleeves, and then she pulls away the shreds of his shirt, and he’s left with nothing to protect him from her knife, from her gaze.
“You’re so perfect.” Her hand explores his bare chest, snapping up to grab his chin when he shudders and looks away. “Watch, darling. You’re so pure and unsullied, which means every little mark on you can be from me, and I want you to see them happen so you don’t forget.” He trembles as the knife dances lightly over his skin, he doesn’t know how he could ever, ever forget this, forget the way the ropes around his wrists feel, the way she’s looking at him like she wants to eat him alive, the sight of his own terrified face as a knife trails over his exposed torso.
“So many options,” she muses, “I just don’t know what to do to you first. I want it to be special, you know? To commemorate your first day as my pretty little thing.” He opens his mouth to…what could he even say? That he doesn’t belong to her, that he’s a person, that he’s not going to be her plaything, that he doesn’t want this? She wouldn’t care, she’s made it obvious that he doesn’t have any say in what’s going to happen to him, that any further protests from him will earn him a gag and nothing else. He doesn’t want to be silenced like that. He likes having the option of talking and choosing to stay silent. He doesn’t like the way he looks with his tie shoved in his mouth. He’s already helpless enough as it is.
“Oh, I know just the thing!” She finally comes around in front of him, crouching off to the side so he can still see himself as she begins her work. He watches in horror as she slices a red line on the right side of his chest. He watches the blood bead behind the knife, watches it trickle down his chest. He watches her make cut after cut, careful and neat. She’s writing something, forming letters, and even though they’re backwards in the mirror, he’s able to make it out, able to realize what she’s doing to him.
It’s a name she’s carving into his skin, her name, she’s signing her name on him like a child would their toy, claiming him. He looks away from the blood and the letters for a moment, eyes flicking up to see his face, and he sees tears, he’s horrified, he’s crying, he’s already reduced to nothing, he’s never seen that expression in the mirror before, he hates how he looks right now, he can’t stop watching, he can’t stop looking, even when she finishes, because there’s her name on his chest, his blood dribbling down from each letter like the title screen of some cheap slasher, her fingers running over the letters, smearing the red all around.
“Oh, my beautiful darling, there’s no need to cry.” She bends and kisses his cheek, and he swears he sees her lick up one of his tears. “You’re all mine now, see?” He shakes his head, no, no, he’s not, he can’t be, no, please, no-
Something in him breaks, and he finally allows himself to scream.
The carriage rattled to a stop as the guards opened the doors for the king. He then extended a hand to his new slave, who sat quivering in their seat. They held the torn shirt against their chest, the only thing they had left for cover as their freshly whipped back was exposed.
“Come now, we have much to get done.” He waved his fingers, coaxing the slave to take it. Whumpee knew better than to disobey, their arm extending before hesitating. Their hand was covered in mud as they instantly flinched back, not daring to get a speck of filth on the king's garbs.
“I- I can’t.” Whumpee stuttered, tightening their grasp on their shredded shirt. “Yes you can. I don’t mind a little dirt, now take my hand.” Their tone was authoritative, but lulling as Whumpee couldn’t resist resting their hand within the king’s soft glove. Their hand was squeezed as they were pulled from the carriage, stumbling as they were caught within the king's arms, who only chuckled at their clumsiness.
“Your majesty, the servants are ready.” A guard said. “Wonderful! Take this dear to the wash and get them cleaned up. I want them groomed before the celebratory bouquet tonight.”
“Yes sir.” Almost immediately, two metallic hands grabbed Whumpee from each side, pulling them up the castle’s stairs. The cold touch shot shivers up their spine, feeling the stress build in their chest the further they were taken.
This can’t be happening... Is this... A dream? A twisted hallucination? A slave of all things to be taken in by the king himself was like a child’s fantasy.
The corridor was made from grey stone, the floors clothed in blood red carpets with matching curtains framing each window. Whumpee could hardly keep up with the guards almost dragging them deeper into the castle. The shirt slipped through their grasp as Whumpee gasped, digging their heels into the ground. “Wait! I l-lost my-” ”-Don’t worry, you won’t be needing it.” The guard laughed, coming to a halt as Whumpee crumple to the floor.
They were gone as soon as they came, leaving Whumpee surrounded by a group of servants forming a line with curious prying eyes.
“Oh dear, what a mess...”
“Look at all those scars! Are you sure this is what the king brought home?”
“Quiet! We don’t question his majesty...”
“Just look at them, a battered slave! Must have been nothing but trouble.”
Whumpee slowly curled in on themselves with each word, hiding their chest within their arms. “Now sisters, that’s enough. Let's get to work.” Their arms were taken as they were practically lifted off their feet right into a large warm bath. It smelled of rich potent oils as they held back a choking breath.
“It’s myrrh, costume for those who approach the king to soak in it.” A woman kneeling by their side. Whumpee gasped a whimper when they were covered in hands trying to wash them, touching them here and there, oil being poured down their shoulders. They winced when a cloth brushed against their back.
“Gentle! They're wounded.” She barked.
“What? The king is expecting them to look lavishing” She argued back.
“Well make them look lavishing with ease! They belong to the king himself, we must treat them as such.” The hands covering them hesitated in unison, before continuing with gentleness.
Whumpee’s pupils were noticeably dilated with fear as they tried not to look at the faces of the hands that handled them. Their arm was taken, coaxing them to lean up. “Come on, I need to wash your chest.”
Whumpee instantly sank further into the waters, ‘P-please don’t...” They rasped. “Don’t be shy now, this will only take a minute.” Their wrists were taken as they were pulled up until the water was at their waist. Whumpee choked back a sob before breaking into hyperventilation, turning their head away with blushing pink cheeks.
“Oh sweet mother of King Arvand the lll....” She gasped, her eyes glued to the branded sign on their chest. “Pl-please! It wasn’t my f-fault!” Whumpee cried, twisting their body away without any avail. They were slowly lowered back into the water, instantly curling within their arms.
The branded Sigle, a mark put on a slave by their owner to signifying a pending trade to a rivalry kingdom. Not only looked down upon, but an act of treason to those who dare seek illegal goods from the enemy.
“When did this happen?” She asks, Whumpee’s arm flinching at the most gentle of touches. “La-last week..." Whumpee hid their head under their arms. "Master put a sword in the forge one day until it was red and-I-.. I wasn’t to-told what I did wrong...!” They looked up at her with a broken voice and tear filled eyes.
“But I didn’t deserve it.... I swear I didn’t! ....” They shook their head in denial.
“Did I?”
Their voice was full of uncertainty. “No, you didn’t.” A sad smile painted her face.
“This needs to be brought to the king's attention, immediately!” A servant yelled. “No! Not yet... This week is the anniversary, remember? The king has just returned home. We speak nothing of this until the event has ended.” Her gaze turned back down to the slave. “Listen to me, this cannot be mentioned until the week is over, do you understand?” She asked.
“I don’t even understand why I’m here!” Whumpee finally broke, ceasing all hopes that maybe this was just a vivid dream.
“You’re here because you found favor with the king, little one, his majesty is gracious.” She smiled. “Speaking of which, he wants you at the celebration tonight, that’s an incredible honor.” She tried to get them hopeful, pinching their cheek that sent shutters down their shoulders.
But Whumpee knew full well they were probably going to mess that up as well.
