#watsonwrites

[watsonbee]

CW: domestic abuse, defiant whumpee, controlling whumper, punching, slapping, kicked while they're down, manhandling, threatened dislocation

–

The door opens and whumper is already waiting with their arms crossed, eyes brimming with anger, “You’re late,” they grit out.

“No shit” whumpee responds, closing the door behind them and putting their bag down.

Silence, “Are you going to tell me why?”

Whumpee furrows their brows, “Well you didn’t phrase it as a question.”

Whumper takes a step forward and whumpee responds with a half step back, “Why the hell were you late?” Their voice was as sharp as glass and burned like a sudden cut.

“I’m back now so what does it matter,” they brush off, trying to push past whumper.

But whumper grips their arm tight, pulling them back to glare at them. Whumpee’s breath hitches slightly and they can feel their arm threatening to go limp under their grasp. They have to clear their throat before speaking again, “I just had to catch up on some work I missed. Remember all those off days you made me take? I had to make it all up.”

“Three hours worth?”

Something inside whumpee whipped around in frustration, maybe it was the exhaustion, but they heard themselves saying: “A lot more actually. And tomorrow I’ll have to get in early to finish the rest of it. You see in the real world, the one outside of these fucking walls, shit like that has consequences-“

A slap rang out in the room. Whumpee’s cheek burned as tears stung their eyes and throat, the one still tracing the words they had pent up in their mind, caught up in itself yet nowhere at all from the surprise of the blow. And before they could think their hand clutched into a fist and their knuckles collided with whumper’s face.

It was a wide swing and it hurt like hell, but as they watched whumper groan, shuffling on their heel to hold their face, they knew they weren't the only one in pain.

A few silent seconds past. The air seemed to still around whumpee and strangle their heart, like a frozen painting in real time. Just enough time between the strokes for the situation to settle in their mind. They weren't taking it back. Even if they did it's not like it would change anything.

The look in whumper’s eyes told them that. They glared at them from above their fingers, a vein flickering on the side of their head like a warning. And whumpee just stood like a deer in headlights.

The next few moments blurred in a mix of anger and swings. Whumper ended up with a purplish bruise on their face and a bloody nose. And whumpee, like usual, ended up on the floor, curling over their stomach as Whumper kicked them again.

They groaned, a cry slipping past their lips as they grimaced in pain. Whumpee flinched as whumper’s foot lifted again, their shoulder blades hitting the door with a thud, the arms around their stomach coming up to shield their head instead.

But no kick came. Whumper hauled them off the ground by their shirt and whumpee’s feet shuffled to follow the motion. Their vision blurred as they were spun around and their face was suddenly shoved against the door, “You wanna rethink your earlier statement?” whumper grit in their ear, making them flinch again.

Whumpee was panting. Tears painted the portrait now, their sternum ached from suddenly being stretched upright and they were unable to take in a full breath. They clawed at the hands pinning them, they couldn't speak past the lump in their throat.

Whumpee’s arm was twisted and pinned behind their back. They let out a cry as whumper continued to push their wrist up, going further with each passing second until whumpee didn't have a choice, “O-okay! M’ sorry I'm sorry, stop!”

With a shove whumper let them collapse to the ground. They quickly pulled their arm to cradle it, hissing through their teeth. They sighed as they watched whumper walk away, muscles pinching with the action, only for that breath to catch in their chest at what whumper said next:

“Call your boss, you won't be going to work tomorrow.”

Shit. They were so going to get fired.

[watsonbee]

—

Autistic Whumpee being muzzled because they kept asking ‘why’ so even after they’re rescued they still feel the bite of metal digging into their skin every time they try to talk.

or

Slapped repeatedly for accidentally blurting out ‘that threat doesn’t make any sense’ to interrogator so their face ends up red and swollen. Now they instinctively flinch whenever they talk to someone.

[watsonbee]

CW: female Whumpee, male Whumper, mentioned/ implied past torture, dehydration, hair pulling, implied recorded torture, cursing, defiant little shit whumpee, pathetic whumper, manhandling (face grabbing, punching), restraints, multiple injuries, captivity, humor as a coping mechanism, threats of gore

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The sharp clicks of digital keys bounced off the stone room. The walls had long gone sour with the smell of blood, screams trapped between the cracks of concrete and dark silence. Whumpee sat in the middle of the room, fingers tapping in frustration on the blood stained wood of the chair holding her.

She cursed in a whisper when she tried and failed to whistle again. Instead it came out as dull wisps of air without any strength in her lungs to support it. She tried again, and it plummeted the second it left her lips, “Damnit.”

“Will you shut the fuck up already?!” keys stopped typing as Whumper swiveled around in his chair to shout at her. Scrawny form hunched with poor posture and eyebrows scrunched dangerously on her right. It was surprising someone like him managed to be her captor.

“I’m tryna whistle but turns out it's harder to do with a busted lip,” she croaked, continuing with her task as before.

Whumper grumbled and did the same. Once again screams started up from the computer screen, just a few hours old.

Whumpee shook the sound from her head, digging her nails into the arm of the chair to keep it out, and continued to whistle. Or try to anyway as she licked her lips and formed them into an ‘O’. It hurt like a bitch but so did everything else. At least this was a choice—the amount of pain was a decision. And besides, in the grand scheme of things this was barely a paper cut.

She pulled uselessly at the zip ties binding her to the chair when the begging started. The skin on her wrist and ankles were already rubbed raw, adding to her growing collection of spilled blood when the plastic cut too deep.

“Shit! You really wouldn't think it would be this tough,” she said as yet another whistle failed, “I mean, it's just air leaving your lips at a certain frequency, right? It should not be that difficult. And yet,” another failed attempt. She shrugged, “I don't know, maybe it's cause of all that water you don't give me. Or one too many kicks to the ribs. Or–”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe I just lost the ability to. That's a saying, right? ‘If you don't use your talents you'll lose them’ or something like that.”

Wheels rolled back against stone as Whumper wordlessly sprung from his chair and stalked towards Whumpee.

“I used to be able to whistle pretty good. And there was one song I used to whistle to all the time. I can't remember what it was called but I think it went–”

Whumper’s fist crashed into her face suddenly. Her grunt of pain crumbled into a quiet sob as the hit aggravated her already broken nose, head snapping to the side in a whirl of dull pain and returning pins. But at least it wasn't the side of her face with the black eye. Whumper grabbed her face roughly, nails digging into battered cheeks tracked with dried tears, vision blurry with new ones, one eye horribly purpled and swollen shut as she stared at him head on, “Shut. Up.” he repeated.

She blinked harshly against her swimming vision and the shadows creeping in on it. Her good eye threatening to loll backwards into her skull, voice raspy and broken as her tongue struggled to form the words over heavy breaths, “Has anyone ever told you that you have serious anger issues? Cause I'm honestly worried about you, dude.”

He let go of her with a shove before stomping off. Whumpee’s head was spinning wildly now, she screwed her eyes shut to stop it, to calm the nausea, but even the space behind her eyes refused to stand still. She swallowed the blood on her tongue thickly. No matter what how big of a fit he threw she wasn't going to take someone who dressed like a teenage boy band reject in their thirties seriously. Mid thirties probably. Or maybe he was just that stressed.

Whumper returned with a roll of duck tape in hand, steam was practically pouring out his ears, she swore she could hear the whistle of a kettle somewhere, “Oh calm down,” she said, “Stop being so impulsive. You'll blow a blood vessel or something.”

He struggled to get the tape to detach from the roll. Whumpee watched with bright-eyed interest at his fumbling efforts, resisting the urge to laugh purely because her beaten torso couldn't handle it, “Do you need any help? I of course would gladly assist but I’m a bit tied up at the moment,” in the end she lost; a hoarse laugh broke through at her own joke. It died out in a fit of coughs.

Whumper just glared at her while he still struggled. She tilted her head with a small smirk, “Come on, you know I’m your favorite.”

The duck tape unraveled with a loud rip. Whumper twisted a hand in her matted hair, she clenched her teeth at the sting as her neck was craned back uncomfortably, “You better be lucky you're worth so damn much alive. But keep talking and I'll staple your fucking mouth shut. Got it?” he snarled, hot breath fanning over her face and making her gag. Red-rimmed eyes seething with rage.

Whumpee stared back. Speechless as she studied him—clenching her fist to stop them from shaking. Then a wide smile broke her face in two, broad and cocky through her pain, teeth coated in blood till the white of them looked out of place. And didn't say a word.

[watsonbee]

CW: female whumpee/whumper, multiple whumpers, gang whump, threats, beating, fractured/ broken bones, bruises, manhandling

–

A hand shoved Whumpee forward harshly, another pair caught her and continued to drag her along. They didn't give her the time to follow them before hauling her forward. Not that she would if given the chance; the same mindset that earned her side a few kicks on her way over.

The pain still pulsed up her side like a bad headache under her skin. She winced with every pull, grinding her teeth as the skin stretched uncomfortably.

All of it was hidden by the gag and sack over her head. And any fight held by the cuffs around her wrist, straining her shoulders back. She never realized how lucky she was to never know anything about it.

Someone jerked her harshly, and finally the boots came to a stop as they spun her around. The room fell silent aside from her heavy breathing, the shuffling coming to a halt, air dropping into something uneasy but recognizable even while blind: anticipation.

These were just hired hands, they didn't have the authority to make a move without someone's say so, that much she could gather. But whatever was pulling their strings held them taunt enough to warrant such precision.

The hands holding her stilled—tightened slightly, before the bag over her head was yanked off. The burst of light was near blinding, she shut her eyes with a wince, glasses almost flying off her face.

When she cracked her eyes open she was met with the uncaring focus of a woman. Her shoes weren't like the others’ who wore all the same kind, making the same tactical shuffle with each step, whumpee didn't even hear her come in.

“Remember,” she said, her tone flat and unamused,“Eyes, head, and hands remain untouched,” she tapped the corresponding parts of her as she spoke. The woman ended that by taking her glasses, absolving the room to a cloud of blobs.

A muffled, “hmph-”

Whumpee didn't get a chance to question it before she was thrown to the floor. She hit the ground hard, the same side as her bruises, causing her to shout in pain. But just as soon more like it landed. The pain was everywhere, every limb sparkling with dead electricity, spasms racking her as she tried to shield herself.

It was useless. With her hands tied and every movement echoing the agony throughout her body the most she could do was lie there, half curled inward, shaking and wailing so much she sounded more animalistic than human.

The bottom half of her body was submerged in hot coals while her head was left alone. It was almost mocking, a kick would come down on her stomach hard enough she would forget how to breathe, but nothing could cover the screams leaving her, the gag rendered pointless as every hitched shriek broke through it. Like a stick puppet miming the hand controlling it. And right now it wanted to hear her sing.

A kick ached between her shoulder blades, another stomped on one of her ankles and a wail drowned out the sharp crunch that followed. It seemed to go on forever. Then all at once the boots stopped, leaving her heaving on the floor. Body still anticipating more blows.

She blinked rapidly when something wet dripped across her nose, flinching as if she was slapped. She didn't even realize she was sobbing.

Pairs of hands drew her up, mauled ankle dragging the floor with the motion, head spinning too fast to register her bawling before they dropped her roughly into a chair. A hand twisted in her hair, pushing her weight onto the table below her as it pulled her forward.

The same woman from before loomed over her. She shoved her glasses back on her tear smudged face, hand still in her hair while a computer was placed in front of her, it's bright screen burning her eyes as she was forced face to face with it.

When she spoke again, it wasn't the same boredom that she once had, it was a much sharper, shrilling whumpee’s nerves as she huffed in her ear, “Do exactly as I say, and the rest of your bones get to stay in tact.”

[watsonbee]

CW: female whumpee/ whumper, stress position, intimate/ creepy/ possessive whumper, cruel whumper, restrains, gagged, defiant whumpee considering submission, noncon touch, implied/ mentioned past torture, very brief emetophobia warning, asthmatic whumpee, pet names

A kind of part 2 to this and inspired by this post

(this reference is amazing! It was so helpful while I was writing this so major shout out to op^^)

–

Whumpee had been defiant for so long. She spent every waking moment screaming—cursing at her captor and all but gnawing herself out of her restraints like a rabid animal. She had taken so much pain without so much as a grimace of discomfort. Breathed thick bursts of smoke into her withering lungs and watched her own blood pool at her feet—never once taking the easy way out despite it being offered countless times over.

But this; maybe it was all of that stowed away pain barreling into one moment, maybe she just wasn’t as strong as her bravo led her to believe, but this was a torment she couldn’t see the other side of. Blood rushed rapidly to her head, swirling in her skull like a monstrous whirlpool that tilted her vision inside out. Her mind lolled freely, inverted and collapsing in on reality itself, endless and threatening to slip from her slinking eye sockets. She blinked, then again, then the darkness was practically apart of the room—each one just barely keeping her conscious from slipping past her.

Her shoulders didn't just ache anymore, they were bursting from their sockets with dull pain, spiking with every flinch; involuntary as her body refused to accept this position. Not that she expected it to. This was nothing short of unnatural. Her spine was stretched and contorted like a stringed puppet on an operating table. The pressure centered on her lower back, where the core of her weight ‘rested’. That wouldn't be the right word to use given there was really no way to rest like this. No way to move or reposition to make the torment past faster.

A mixture of tears and sweat trekked up her forehead as she hung over the chair. Passing through her hair as gravity took them, the same force pulling her bound hands into the floor as if a sinkhole had opened up under her. The feeling was weird, not just the liquid flowing up her face, but the feeling of crying itself. She wanted to believe it was just from the pain—the overwhelming, blinding agony of it all—but she knew it wasn't true. She was just crying. A redirected place for her desperation to go due to her being unable to verbalize it.

She wasn't used to sorrow. She was more akin to anger, resentment, hating someone so badly you could feel the pure, liquid bitterness run throughout your veins and make your heart beat out of your chest. But now the only thing flooding her body was fatigue. She was tired. So, so tired she was almost grateful for the gag clamped between her teeth keeping her from begging. Her canines dug into the cloth before another pained whimper could escape her throat; something becoming more and more frequent.

A shadow came to linger over her, broad with the silhouette of a killer. Whumper grinned down at her, a truly devilish thing, nothing but pure glee drawing up the corners of her lips as she glowered down at her prey. Whumpee hated that she was almost relieved by her presence. It meant there was a way out of this hell, even if she didn't take it.

She stood in front of Whumpee now, steps deliberate, leaning down to splay her palms over Whumpee’s numb thighs, the feeling from her legs long gone. It was nauseating to be this close to something like her, if her damn ankles weren’t tied to the legs of the chair she would happily drive her heel into her jaw. An instinctive wince away from the touch just made the edge of the chair dig into her shoulder blades more. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth against the sharp pain, biting down on the cloth until it settled out.

She laughed, “You look too sweet like this. I can practically feel my teeth rotting at the sight of you.” Whumper bared her teeth in a cruel grin to demonstrate her point.

Her thumbs trailed up her body to rub throbbing circles into her hips. She locked up her muscles to keep from flinching away again, mock dominance masking her silent plea for no more pain. But the effort was reduced to nothing when a jolt shot through her as Whumper’s hands became rougher, digging into the joints of her bones. She chocked on the muffled cry that defiantly slipped past her lips, cursing herself the moment the sound registered in her head as her own.

“I’m honestly surprised with you, baby,” Whumper spoke too sweetly, “You usually don’t break this fast. It’s only been ten minutes and you're already shaking,” she teased.

Ten minutes?! There was no way she had only been like this for ten minutes. She lasted longer when she was strung up from the ceiling like a piece of meat, and she knows that was at least a couple of hours. But ten minutes?

She could be lying. Messing with her head cause that's just how sick she was. But so what? That didn't change the unbearable pressure or the burning. It was just another piece on the board.

A haunting feeling swirled in her gut, a voice as small as a whisper murmuring an outcome she tried to ignore: she couldn't endure this for much longer. She was going to cave—give in to Whumper and her sick games. And she dreaded the inevitable satisfaction that would slice Whumper’s face as smoothly as a piece of glass against Whumpee’s skin. She much preferred the glass in her abdomen.

Whumper’s fingertips trailed across her belly, Whumpee felt bile rise in her throat at the touch, “I wonder how much longer you'll continue to play the strong man until you realize there's no point. That little circus in you head will come to a halt sooner or later, why don't you save yourself the pain and give in now?”

Her nose burned with too short breaths. There wasn't enough air for her to squirm away from the woman, she had no choice but to stare at the ceiling, pretend she didn't give a shit and hope Whumper would loose intrigue. But that thought—the possibility of Whumper walking away and leaving her in this agony left a bitter taste on her tongue. There was no way to win in this limbo.

Whumper persisted in her pursuit, dragging the hem of Whumpee’s shirt up her abdomen, the fabric almost reaching her chest, and Whumper’s touch along with it. Her head heavy against gravity, she swore she would tumble to the floor any moment. But each second merely bet on the next.

No matter how much her mind screamed ‘stop’ Whumper continued. The pads of whumper’s fingers trailed up whumpee’s throat, forcing an involuntary swallow from her as she tilted her head back to avoid it. It made her feel like she was barreling towards the floor even more.

Her hand eventually came up to brush the gag. Whumpee foolishly hoped, a spark in the back of her mind, that she would loosen it, maybe give her a change to beg. To yell and curse like she's done so many times before. To stay defiantly silent. She didn't know. But she wanted the chance to do something instead of suffer in silence.

“Now, if I take this out, are you going to play nice? Or are you gonna make me regret it?” she said, now perched beside Whumpee.

Whumpee kept her gaze, eyes red and watery as she watched every movement carefully. Her fingers brushed her lips. Nails working the gag from it's place.

Whumpee’s breaths became quicker, her heartbeat like a drum in her ears, mouth twitching with the prospect of a full breath. That is until Whumper retracted her touch, a click of her tongue escaping her as she sat back on her heels, “Maybe next time.”

[watsonbee]

CW: Escape attempt, multiple whumpers, implied past whump, threats of bodily harm, manipulation, past injuries (burns), captivity

–

“Get the fuck back here Whumpee!”

Whumpee’s hands trembled around the fragile plastic of the cellphone. The little thing felt so flimsy in their hands, another scream from whumper and they swore it’d crack as easily as an eggshell. But that still wasn't enough to get them to loosen their grip.

Their ash bitten fingers mashed the power button like they were trying to shock it back to like. The effort stung their singed skin, burnt from the firewood Whumper forced them to arrange, though they couldn't give a second thought to it—their attention rapped up in the device in their hand.

They weren't sure if the thing even had any battery to give it life but they hoped more than anything that it did. Miraculously the little square screen lit up a dim green. A sigh of relief left whumpee.

Angry footsteps prowled closer. Whumpee ducked into one of Whumper’s closets just as the latter cursed their name. Rows of shirts and jackets slapped them across the face, reeking thick with a smell of Whumper so strong it made then nauseous. But luckily the light from the phone was just enough to aluminate the numbers in the dark closet, offering a distraction from the smell.

Their eyes scanned over the numbers and…..damnit what was Caretaker's number? All that time and they seriously never committed it to memory. Now that stupid mistake could get them killed. There was no telling when Whumper would find them—what they’d do to them.

Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut, trying to remember any sequence of numbers—anything. Then it finally clicked. They dialed the numbers at the speed of lighting, overjoyed when they finally pressed ‘call.’

The thin walls of the closet felt like speakers for the trill of the ringer, it practically amplified itself in the dark before Whumpee clasped their hand over the speaker. It rung twice, then three times, then Whumpee swore they could hear death breathing on the other side. Their nerves shook with the phone. If Caretaker didn't pick up they wouldn't just be dead, Whumper would make them beg to be—

”Hello?”

Words tumbled in their mind without the chance to reach their lips. Their chocked breath didn't give them the chance to speak, and their throat burned with the urge not to cry.

Static curled with a smirk, “I’d know that terrified silence anywhere. Hello, Whumpee.”

Whumpee felt like puking. They double checked the number called. It looked so familiar—they swore it was the number Caretaker showed them.

“I don't know any other numbers besides Whumper’s,” Whumpee admitted as caretaker handed them the new phone.

“That's okay,” Caretaker said, “My number is already saved and I’ll help you memorize it so you don't forget.”

They smiled so assuringly when they told them that, how disappointed would they be if they saw them like this? More threats were screamed from down the hall.

“Seems like you've gotten yourself in some trouble there. But I’m glad to know you at least took up my offer to call me if you ever needed anything,” they chuckled.

“No!” Whumpee’s voice almost broke a whisper, “No, I didn't call you—”

“Oh? Then this must be a figment of my imagination.”

“I mean I wasn't trying to call you. It wasn't on purpose I- how do they even have your number? They shouldn't-”

“Well I’d love to explain everything to you dear phantom but I appear to be loosing my mind. Goodbye!”

“No wait!” Whumpee kept the phone tightly against their ear like it was their only lifeline. There was just silence apart from the ghost of death looming over them and roaming the halls in search of their soul.

“If I didn't know any better I’d say you were just hoping I stayed on the phone, Whumpee.”

The way their name rolled off their tongue so easily and dripped with a disgusting familiarity sent a shiver down Whumpee’s spine. But it was miles softer than the voice promising to burn their remains in the very fireplace they were forced to clean.

“He’s going to kill me,” Whumpee squeaked out despite the vitriol from their gut, “I don't want to die.”

“And neither do I, Whumpee. But you're practically begging me for a life I didn't give you. And such a big ask certainly carries a matching price tag. So do you want my help or not.”

[watsonbee]

CW: med whump, implied lad whump, rocky recovery, hallucinations, flashbacks, begging, defiant/ compliant whumpee, unreliable narrator, noncon drugging

Inspired by this

–

There was leather around their wrists, their ankles, legs, and torso. They thrashed too much—were too difficult for the doctors to deal with and now they had to be restrained for everyone else’s sake.

It was funny, one moment whumpee was lost in the bright lights of the room, staring down at their motionless body with the sharpness of a surgical knife, waiting for someone to walk up to them and take it all back. Tell them this was some sort of mistake that needed fixing. And the next their throat burned with how loud they were shouting, the straps around their chest appearing from thin air to hold them down to the bed while they practically threw their body up off it, red-hot with the uncomfortable grip of hands around their limbs.

The room blared in those moments, head-splitting in two, they swore they could hear the seams of their restraints tearing from the bed with each yank and tug. Just one more and they’d be free. One more push of the fight evaporating off their skin would be the thing to finally get them out of here.

And along with the restrains, voices occupied their head, making a home out of the jumbled mess it was. Some they could recognize as nurses and staff, others, the ones more defined, wouldn't choose a consistent tune; one side of the flipped coin soft and gentle murmurs by their ear, a sweater clothed hand holding their’s, smoothing hair from their face and narrating as a needle slipped in their vein; ice when it felt like they were overheating.

The other cruel, yelling at them to shut their whining and keep still, threatening to gag them while the sharp edges of a lab coat brushed against their blazing skin, holding them down; sharp eyes from behind sterile masks.

It made a roundabout of whumpee’s head to say the least. Booming with their already tormenting headache. They just wanted it to stop. For them to at least knock them out for whatever test they were running.

Then a blink, just one, and they weren't moving a muscle. The leather straps still there, keeping them company. Their chest no longer heaved, their muscles aching instead of burned. An air conditioner was whirling in the background somewhere but it was nowhere near as loud as it once was. Whumpee still hated the monotone droning, that and the blinding lights the doctors used that confused itself as sunlight.

The lights didn't used to do that. Maybe they got new ones.

Whumpee’s eyelids turned sticky as they blinked again, taking longer than it should've for them to open and when they did, they groaned at the light that only seemed to get brighter by the second. A cold, damp cloth was placed to their forehead, blocking everything out for a precious moment whumpee wanted to keep.

They were shushed, not the irritated kind but the one that was persistent in there comfort for some reason. They flinched as a shadow crossed their vision, but it ignored them, and the lights dimmed. This was the nice one.

“Are you okay?” the voice asked, by their side again. They spoke with unnatural patience, it might be pity, but it definitely wasn't annoyance. Why were they asking?

“Hurts,” they rasped.

“I know, you just have to hold on for a little longer, I promise,” they said.

Their eyes were so nice and gentle, it was a foreign feeling that made them sick; because it never lasted for long. But they were being nice now. That’s what mattered. And they didn't know when the other doctors would be back, “…Can I have something for the pain? Please? I won't fight anymore I swear,” they tried in the most docile voice they could manage.

The doctor stilled, Whumpee could feel the air sour with an incoming ‘no’, and they felt a pit open up in their chest, “They can’t. I'm so sorry but we don’t know what whumper gave you and if they give you the wrong thing it could make you worse. They’re running test but-..but it could be a while.”

What the hell were they taking about? Didn't this person and whumper work together? They should know about all the test and drugs they were put on. Unless this was some cruel joke, pretending to be oblivious just to prolong the pain. Maybe this doctor wasn't so nice.

Whumpee just nodded. There was no use in arguing. Maybe if they played nicer from now on it would make up for their ask.

[watsonbee]

CW: captivity, male whumpee, female whumper, asthmatic whumpee, begging, forced intoxication, noncon drugging, restraints, threat of burns, implied past abuse (belt beatings), intimate whumper, degradation, crying

Masterpost

–

Otto never thought he would be somewhere like this; surrounded by tons of extravagant luxuries, nightgowns of silk and lace adorning his skin. A life where things like comfort and security were a given and not something you had to fight for. A life like this was always so far out of his eye line it wasn't even a speck on the horizon.

But if he knew the cost before the check was signed, if he had glimpsed the ink that would inevitably seal his fate, he would have happily continued living the ordinary, boring life no one gave a second glace at. He would have gladly played the unimportant side character, a blimp in the background, not once looking back at his decision if he knew what laid within the director’s cut.

Now here he sat: kneeling on the hard floor, bruised knees turning a deep shade of purple from being forced to crawl like a scorned dog. The violent flames of a fire baked his flushed face and stole the air from his already wheezing lungs. They constricted in his chest like an iron vise, hardly able to take in enough air to keep him from crashing to the ground, each breath keeping him on the edge suffocation as the tang of blood became a stain on his tongue. He was on the brink of death with each inhale; fighting for his life on every exhale while his owner constricted the leash on his existence.

His head floated miles above his body, his conciseness just a mere toy for his captor to squeeze and bend at her wish. She was more than satisfied in making him guess whether he’d live or die each day.

Silvanae sat propped in a plush chair, on knee slung over the other, resting on her self appointed pedestal she saw no one else was worthy of. Hovering like a sovereign empress carrying the weight of a heavy crown, wine swirling around in her glass. From a tilt, it almost resembled blood.

A delicately manicured finger hooked itself under Otto’s chin, tilting his teary gaze up to stare into the monarch’s eyes. She smiled as sharply as a wolf down at it’s prey while she brought her glass to his lips. Otto didn't have a chance to reaction let alone resister what was happening before he was drowning in the sting of alcohol, it rolled down his face, mixing with his tears as it soaked his nightgown. He gagged, doubling over to try to stop the burning liquid from stealing what little air he had.

“Just like you to waste a perfectly good wine,” she sneered down at him, letting him go to hack up the last of the drink, accent thick with malice, “No matter, I have plenty more for us to enjoy.”

“Please I—can't breathe I-….please stop–” his pleas were cut short as an inhaler parted his lips. The subtle disperse of fumes entered his airway. A hand clamped down over his nose and mouth until he was forced to inhale the tainted air. Otto’s desperate squirming didn't matter—his struggles slowed under her grasp, head lazing against the hand on the nape of his neck to keep him from escaping.

“Ah ah ah,” she tsked, “Can't have you blacking out on me again.” She hushed him as the smoke settled in his lungs. It was drugged—something that made him twitchy and weak—the perfect concoction to keep him awake yet pliant, bound to the hearth of the fireplace and too feeble to wiggle out of the restraints far too close to the flames.

He wheezed out any foolish hope of escape he had and let the tears fall for the other’s entertainment. If he was lucky maybe he wouldn't remember this in the morning. The bite of the ropes around his wrist would just be another cut he couldn't recall getting. He missed when those used to be tiny scratches, barely noticeable, and not swollen lashes in the shape of belt buckles.

Laughter erupted from above him, “Do you ever not cry? Honestly, you're lucky you're pretty or you would just be pathetic.”

She let go of his face to pour another glass, stopping before it reached her lips. Her eyes glinted dangerously in the fire’s light as she smiled. To Otto, that smile usually meant pain. Deep dread pooled in his gut before she even spoke, inky black tentacles leached off his nerves as she leaned forward, “Why don't we see how many tears this will wring out of you.”

Otto could only beg desperately as Sil’s glass of wine was tipped onto the length of rope.