And being Caretaker in that situation. Maybe Caretaker knew or heavily suspected Whumpee's "bad experiences" were actually assaults but kept their mouth shut because they didn't want to push Whumpee before they were ready. Maybe Caretaker didn't know but figures it out while they're having sex (seeing an old tattoo or scar) but keeps the panic and shock down so that the experience is as good for Whumpee as physically possible. Maybe Caretaker never suspected anything, but as they're cuddling together afterward, Whumpee starts asking some odd questions that leave Caretaker with a feeling of dread...

Whumpee felt like they were floating, in a way that was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time.

Because sleeping with Caretaker for the first time had been...wow. All the things they had thought sex couldn't be -- loving, comfortable, warm, fun -- had somehow come to life. Whumpee had never experienced a feeling like that.

And it felt....good? Clarifying. Bad. Disorienting. They couldn't decide. If this was what sex was, good and healthy and loving sex....what had everything else been?

Whumpee sighed and lay their head against Caretaker's shoulder, cuddling up against them with this strange new feeling.

Caretaker adjusted themselves ever so slightly to make sure that Whumpee could be comfortable. Their mind was whirring.

Because....they had known. In a way. Or enough, anyway. The way that Whumpee had spoken about past experiences -- threats, blurry lines, coercion -- was more than enough to raise eyebrows. But Caretaker didn't push. That was the last thing Whumpee needed. Let them work through it on their own time, by their own choice.

But this was a whole new level.

The way Whumpee had tensed at first, all instinct, something that had been written into them. That scar, so high up on their thigh that Caretaker had never seen it before, in a shape that had to be deliberate....

And now. The questions.

"Is it like that every time?"

"Why did you only do the stuff I liked?"

"Is it normal for people to stop when you ask them to?"

Forcing a dissociated whumpee to look at their reflection as they're being tortured, ripping them out of their fragile headspace.

Whispering sweet nothings into whumpee's ear as they cringe and twist their head away, trying to focus on anything but the simmering pain of their limbs. "No one is coming for you, darling. Why not relax and give yourself up for me?"

Whumpee who's been so overloaded that their mind has short-circuited. It breaks Whumper's cruel heart to watch them stare blankly at the floor, unable to focus their eyes or form a coherent thought. So they throw a motionless Whumpee into solitary confinement for a few days to help them snap out of the trance.

Sleep deprivation, blood loss, or a raging fever leaving Whumpee dazed and unresponsive, until Whumper dangles the possibility of rest and medicine in front of them. "Ah, there's your spark! How I missed it..."

A Whumpee so preoccupied with thoughts of Caretaker that a fed-up, blindly jealous Whumper kidnaps them too and gives Whumpee a real show.

Whumper chalking up their lack of focus to boredom and shaking things up by changing their restraints or forcing them into a new stress position.

Your character has been in a coma for three weeks and just woke up, said something profound, recognised everyone in the room, and will be walking by next chapter. i love you. i respect your commitment to the plot. but i need you to sit down because we have to talk about what the human body actually does when it's been unconscious for three weeks.

⊹ Waking from a coma is not waking up. it is a gradual, nonlinear process that can take days or weeks. there's no moment where the eyes open and the person is back. there are stages: responses to pain, then to voice, then to commands, then inconsistent awareness, then windows of consciousness that come and go. Your character might recognise someone they love and then have no memory of it an hour later. the people waiting at the bedside have to live in that uncertainty for a very long time.

⊹ Muscle atrophy is immediate and significant. after one week of immobility, you lose a measurable percentage of muscle mass. after three weeks? your character cannot sit up unaided. they cannot stand. their legs do not work the way they used to and getting them to work again involves weeks of painful physiotherapy. They will not be walking to the window to look meaningfully at the sky. They will be trying to hold a cup without dropping it.

⊹ Cognitive effects are real and unpredictable. memory gaps. difficulty concentrating. words disappearing mid-sentence. personality changes that might be temporary or might not be. your character waking up is the beginning of finding out who they are now, which parts came back intact and which parts are different in ways that can't be fixed by time or willpower. The person who walked in is not quite the same person who wakes up.

⊹ The psychological experience of the people who were waiting is also almost never written properly. you visited someone unconscious every day for three weeks and talked to them and held their hand and made decisions about their care and lived in a sustained state of grief and hope at the same time. and then they wake up. and you're supposed to be relieved. and you are relieved. but you're also exhausted in a way nobody is acknowledging, and slightly angry in a way you can't justify, and you've changed too while they were gone. the reunion is complicated. Write the complicated.

While another character is taking care of them, they just lie there gazing at them. Every time caretaker comes to change their bandages or to help them eat, whumpee keeps looking at them intently. Caretaker is left to wonder what it means.

And only when whumpee is back on their feet again and when their hands don’t shake anymore do they paint caretaker’s portrait in secret from memory, using all the details they had observed during the long heavy hours that caretaker spent at their bedside. Whumpee thinks it’s the least they can do to thank them.

whumpee is so exposed, so ashamed. they feel like an object being examined for defects, their legs splayed so wide and so high. it lifts their hips up off the mattress and it feels like such an unsteady, precarious position. they're afraid to struggle too much. their hands are bound to the headboard and they're afraid that they'll be knocked off balance, fall and wrench their shoulder or break something. the threat of pain hovers over them and it wars with the shame and they can't help but cry.

"not much to look at," whumper sneers. one hand releases one of whumpee's thighs, though their leg stays hooked over their shoulder, knees forced wide open. rough hands probe at that bared, intimate place. "but i guess it'll do."

Moan. Grip. Bite. Speed up. Hair pull. Shout. Stutter. Warmth. Slow down. Kiss. Caress. Praise.

Whumpee knew the cycle of Whumper’s orgasms like the back of their hand now. With the amount of performance enhancing drugs Whumper was on, they had no idea if this was the end or only the beginning of their night together. Whumper continued to pepper kisses along Whumpee’s neck and shoulder while they came down from this one. They didn’t pull out. They never did on nights like this, not until the drugs finally wore off.

“Oh, baby, I don’t know how you feel so good around me every time,” Whumper drawled. “With how sexy you look tonight, we might hit a record.”

Whumpee felt their head get maneuvered to look at the mirror placed next to the bed. They were too spent to be able to look on their own, not that they wanted to.

“Look at us,” Whumper whispered. “So close. Closer than anyone else could be. I could fucking live in you.” They growled out that last part, low and threatening. Whumpee knew they weren’t exaggerating.

Whumper nibbled the shell of Whumpee’s ear, feeling up and down their sides. “Bet you’ve never been with anyone like me. I’m the best fuck you’ll ever have. Isn’t that right?” Their poisonous hands ventured lower. “No one else can get you as worked up as me. You’re never gonna leave, but if you ever did, you’d never be able to fuck anyone again. Because who else could make you feel so good? No one.”

whumpee can still feel everything happening to them. they can barely move and their head feels so full of cotton, full of fog. there's only enough room left in there to feel. to feel the hands on their body, the way they're being moved, manipulated. to feel the fear. to feel the awareness of what's about to happen, the anticipation of it.

"i know you can feel this." whumper's voice is quiet, conversational. it's almost gentle. it's a hush, right by whumpee's ear. whumpee can only make a soft, pathetic groaning sound. no that's not right, it's not even that. if it's anything, it's a whimper. "i made sure you could still feel this."

whumpee tries to struggle. they can't. their fingers twitch. they swallow thickly at the lump in their throat. the wet, tacky sound of their own mouth opening and closing makes them feel sick.

"just to make sure you get the point, i'm going to make you an offer." whumper pulls their arms, manoeuvring them. whumpee's wrists cross one another and whumper threads something around them - something soft. something delicate. a ribbon. "if you can get out of this, you can go. nothing else is going to happen to you. you have my word on that. if you can free yourself, you're free. go ahead. try it."

whumpee tries. they try. they try and try and- they try. tears roll down their cheeks. the sound of their mouth opening and closing grows more desperate. they're gasping, struggling, and barely, barely moving at all.

Ahhh I'm crushing over the idea of an easily flustered, social trainwreck of a whumpee, and all the awful ways Whumper could abuse that shyness:

Every time whumper enters the room, the whumpee immediately looks down at the floor and pulls their knees to their heaving chest. Though they hide their face, their ears are always red, which inadvertently sends Whumper on a gleeful power trip.

Even simple questions or being talked to makes them stammer and stumble over their words, gulping at the intensity of Whumper's gaze on them. Lips parting but only a strangled "please" comes out.

Whumper grabs their chin and guides their face upward. The whumpee flinches so hard their whole body jerks backward, hitting the concrete wall, and then they apologize in a rushed, embarrassed gasp. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to–I'm sorry."

Whumpees with a bad habit of apologizing for every little action, even as they're in the middle of a beating or absolutely dehumanizing torture. Feeling shame for hiccuping, for crying or screaming or having voice breaks, apologizing for getting blood on the floor or Whumper's shoes, as they smile lovingly and aim another kick. "Oh, my sweet Whumpee. Do you think apologies will get you any mercy from me?"

Whumpees who are too afraid to say no, even when the options Whumper present with are clearly rigged against them...getting strangled? or spending the night in Whumper's bed? Starving for three days, or eating out of Whumper's hand, on their lap? A brief reprieve from torture, but only if they 'service' Whumper?

Whumper making them repeat humiliating phrases aloud. "I am weak. I am stupid and worthless. I need you, Whumper. I am nothing without you." The Whumpee's face is streaming with tears but they're too afraid to stop.

When Whumper strips them for a bath or examination, they cross their arms over their chest and press their thighs together so tightly their muscles cramp, begging profusely. "Please, please, no, don't look. Please. I can't. I-I can't do it with you looking." Whumper only grins and presses burning kisses on their goosebumped skin.

Making Whumpee stand in front of a mirror as Whumper touches every scar, dipping their fingers into the soft fleshy bruises, into their most intimate parts. "Awh, don't close your eyes. Look at yourself. Look. See how pink your skin gets when you're blushing? It's adorable."

Over time, Whumpee never gets over their shy nature and their captivity even worsens it. They start to believe that they're broken, too fragile and helpless to ever return to their old life :-(

Whumpee tries their very best to stop resisting eye contact and meet Whumper's eyes, just to avoid their disappointed sigh. Their attempts to be more courageous only earn ridicule and laughter from Whumper, who can easily twist this against them.

"Oh, darling, you're trying not to flinch? That only means I'm not hitting you hard enough, hm?" "Wait, no, no I'm sorry, I didn't mean that—"

Do they press their face against the window, unwilling to miss a second of the outside world they’ve been kept from for so long? Are these even familiar roads, or do they sit beside a stranger who desperately tries to earn their trust? Do they ever think of opening the door and running?

What about music? Does the whumpee have the confidence to make requests, or are whatever random songs the radio plays forever burned into their mind? Would they prefer the silence? Does the road rumbling beneath the car comfort them, or do the bumps upset newly bandaged wounds?

His hand on the nape of Whumpee's neck tightened not enough to hurt, but enough to command absolute attention. He leaned down, his face inches from Whumpee's, his eyes boring into theirs with a terrifying intensity.

“Quit smothering me, I’m not dying.” Whumpee groaned from the bed caretaker made for them.