#whumpee perspective

[beatingtheshitoutofmen]

There’s something about watching someone else get held down by people you know are stronger than you. You know if you pull the wrong move then it’ll be you on the ground next. The gut twisting feeling that you’re not in a safe place and at any moment they could attack.

A whumpee watching another whumpee pulled into their restraints. Unrestrained whumpee unable to move while whumper holds down a different whumpee because of how SCARED they are that they could be next.

[comfy-whumpee]

Continuation of this thing I wrote which was definitely a mistake. Here’s more mistake. Featuring: Casey being turned back into Stefan’s good boy via electrocution.

-

It’s barely twelve hours before I’m looking for a way to escape that Stefan hasn’t pre-empted.

 I sit on the chair, picking up that fucking book, over and over, pretending to be pretending to read it, when in reality I’m using it as a shield of deliberate failure to hide the fact my brain is still working, still thinking, and its only topic is escape. The only comfort I have, now that I’m twenty-one hours in and I haven’t slept or eaten or showered or left this room, and my limbs ache from the spasms, and the next shock comes at any time.

I want to get out so much my mind lightens just thinking about it, just imagining the outside, the air on my skin, the freedom. My mind loops back to it over and over even knowing it’s impossible, knowing I can barely walk like this.

It’s when Stefan holds it down that it’s the worst. The sharp pains, they’re like static shocks. Enough to make my grip go, but not much worse than that. The bit gag stops me biting my tongue, though I’m also at the point where my teeth ache and my lips are chapped and torn. But the long shocks intensify. They take all the energy out of me.

 I come up blank for escape methods. Someone would intervene before I got very far anyway. Shock me quickly enough and I’d stop anything.

 I let the book fall to the floor and try to sleep. I manage forty minutes before he stabs me again.

 He’s sadistic about it, but of course he is. He does it when I enter REM sleep. When I’m using the toilet. When I’m trying to drink water. On two occasions he gives me multiple shocks in a short span, dragging them out further and further apart so I can never be sure if they’ve stopped.

 Hour thirty-one and I’m sleep-deprived, twitchy and obsessively clock-watching. I want this hour’s shock to be over, to be done. Then I can relax, take a nap.

 Stefan, of course, can see perfectly well that I’m clockwatching and makes me wait fifty-nine minutes. Then, for hour thirty-two, he gives me twenty solid seconds of pain and lets go. I get fifty minutes of sleep.

 He waits until hour thirty-eight to come and see me. I’ve had my shock for the hour and I know I’ve got ten left. Probably more, but hopefully, if I’m good, if I can please him...

 I’m hazy with exhaustion, senses disconnected, thoughts murky. When he reaches for me, I’m slow to react. I try to pull away, and my limbs are weak. He pulls my head up so he can get a good look at my face, and clearly likes what he sees. He runs a thumb under my eye, probably tracing a shadow. I look back at him, unresisting, inexpressive. Everything is too foggy for me to really respond to what he’s doing.

 He runs the touch down my cheek, over the chafing strap of the gag, and down to my sweat-dampened neck. He presses there, gently.

 “Tell me about that boyfriend you had,” he murmurs down to me, pulling away the gag. “The one who wanted to keep you.”

 “Danny?” I ask. My voice sounds indistinct.

 “Sure, Danny,” he agrees. “Tell me about him.”

 I sigh. My eyelids droop. “So hot. Muscular. Strong. Made me feel safe. Told me no one would hurt me because of him. Then he went back on it. Pressured me. Wanted me to b-be pretty.”

 “Mmm,” he says encouragingly. “Pretty how?”

 I frown a little. I probably shouldn’t be saying this but the words come out anyway. “Bruises, he liked. Painted me. Stronger than me, of course. Since then...” I stifle a huge yawn. “...been working out. Won’t be overpowered. Not again.”

 “How much did he do?”

 I remember Danny straddling me, fists clenched, grinning. You’ll be so good like this. So much better. Don’t you want to be better?

 “Not much,” I answer, unintentionally vague. “Not compared to you.”

 “You put up with more,” he supplied.

 I yawn again. “Maybe.”

 “What did he do...that hurt you so badly, then?”

 I’m falling asleep, despite the danger. “Oh, that’s easy,” I reply absently. “My birthday.”

 “What?”

-

He shocks me awake.

 “Your birthday?” he prompts.

 I blink at him, too sleepy to talk coherently. “My birthday. Weekend. Ava was there.” A pause. “What was the question?”

 He lets me sleep.

[comfy-whumpee]

Meanwhile, Ava

[This is an interequel because I’m a monster. Part one, part two.]

I wake, head fuzzy, and he’s on the bed with me, laptop out before him, smiling. “Ah, perfect timing, darling,” he says when he notices me stirring. “Come and watch, quickly now.”

 I drag myself further upright and see the screen. On it are two black-and-white pictures - moving pictures. I figure quickly that they’re live feeds from cameras in Casey’s room, one on each side.

 I observe with interest that he has his own little room with furniture, like mine but better stocked. He has his own bathroom, visible through an open doorway, and even a bookshelf. Thank god, he doesn’t look hurt. He’s sitting on an armchair by the window, reading. He looks like he could even be relaxed.

As I watch, I see his shoulders are slumped in exhaustion. He doesn’t turn a single page on his book. Maybe he’s asleep. I hope he’s asleep.

 “Three,” Stefan murmurs. “Two. One.”

Casey jerks suddenly, dropping the book and almost sliding out of his chair. I stiffen in surprise as he drags himself back into a seating position and, seconds later, he’s sliding out again, arms clenching and rising in the air as he does so in a way that looks distinctly involuntary. Then he’s back, pulling himself upright, head twitching. After a cautious pause, he reaches for his book.

 Stefan reaches for my hand and places a black remote in it. It has an on-off switch, but only one button.

 “Press it,” he says quietly, fingers around my wrist. His gaze is intent on me, so close I can almost feel it.

 I do as he orders, giving it a short tap. After a slight delay, I see Casey jump in his chair. The book drops from his hands yet again. Stefan gives a short laugh.

 I look at the remote. It’s obviously controlling whatever Casey’s going through. Whatever horrible thing Stefan has dreamt up just to make him suffer.

 “From now on,” he tells me in a smug voice, “whenever you need something, you press that button to call me. It will shock Luka. I will hear that he’s been shocked, and pay you a visit. Do you understand?”

 I nod slowly. It’s been long enough that I no longer try to correct him when he uses Casey’s old name, the name he had to abandon to get away from Stefan in the first place. The person he was that Stefan broke so badly he had to reinvent himself to start again.

 “If you need food. If you need the bathroom. Anything else. You shock Luka, and I will listen. I will not otherwise.” He smiles at me, hand caressing mine, the remote between us. “Even if I am already here. You shock him before you speak. You do not have permission to speak otherwise. If you break this rule, I’ll shock him anyway, and I’ll also hurt you.”

 I nod again. I guess I’ll be doing a lot of nodding from now on. Horrible, sick games, trying to make me hurt my brother. The only ally I have in this horrible house, and even though Stefan won’t let us see each other, he’s still winding our tortures together so I can’t ever rebel.

 “You can turn the remote off when you’re not using it,” he continues, oblivious to the daggers I’m thinking his way. “It’s not the only remote, and Luka will be shocked more than just by you. Just so you don’t think you can try anything with it.”

 He presses my thumb down again, holds it. Casey looks like he’s screaming.

 “That,” Stefan adds in a surprisingly serious tone, after letting it go, “is your crisis call. If my guard tries to hurt you, I want you to do that.”

 I blink at him. Does that seem likely?

 His eyes meet mine, and they are just as serious as his voice. He squeezes my hand -- I move my finger off the button so the pressure doesn’t depress it -- and with his other arm, tugs me against him. I rest my head on his shoulder, knowing if I don’t I’ll get a fist in my hair dragging it there anyway.

 “I will not have people other than me touching you,” he says quietly. “He’s a good employee, but he lacks a certain...regard, shall we say, for other people’s property.”

Property, I register, file it away from the rest of the information. Not true. I am a person.

“I know he’s hurt you before. I forgave him that time. He always roughs up my pets, just once or twice. I accept that.”

Pet. Not true. I am a person.

His finger draws circles on my waist. “But you are still mine. If he tries to take advantage of your lovely vulnerability, I will stop him.”

You’re the reason I’m vulnerable to him in the first place, I think bitterly. But I know what I have to do to keep him happy. I know I’m meant to feel protected, grateful, safe with him because there’s some other, worse man a few doors away.

I give the shock button the shortest tap I can, and say softly, “Thank you.”