Arc 1 in which a rebel hero gets caught and tortured by a sadistic villain. Will their team rescue them before its too late?
Arc 2 is the recovery part. I will post more of that but it's incomplete for now because I got bored lol
The second part of arc 2 is what happens to the other main character during that time
Arc 3 is the revenge part! In which the heros team catches the villain who tortured them and caretaker decides to get revenge. But the villain isn't exactly what they expected
"Whumpiest" chapters are bolded. It's all pretty whumpy tbh and it kinda depends on your definition, but these are the torture ones
Warning! Arc three deals with some heavy themes I can't fully articulate. Whumpee has a fucked up relationship to pain including self harm, sadism, masochism, suicidal and "homicidal" tendencies. Also some really extreme self hatred
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okay. completely doxxing myself here because this is absolutely worth it
we got five emergency kinship-placed foster boys two months ago with no notice, and it turned our lives upside down. I love them so so so so much, but we need to be able to afford to keep them just one more month until school starts and I can get a job again (I've been having to stay home to watch them since no daycare will take them)
They've been neglected and abused and forgotten, and I will NOT let them be separated. If we can't stay afloat and get into a new house (landlord just told us to move out. haha. isn't that great.), the kids will be split up into separate foster homes.
Absolutely anything you can give will help us, otherwise, reblogging would mean the world to me and these kids. We just need to get the word out there and get a little help to get past this month. We're already through all our savings and I've started selling all the furniture to keep up.
We have food covered for the kids through different programs, but rent and utilities has been / will be going up a LOT.
I will write quite literally anything you want. I don't care if it's a squick at this point. Or draw. Whatever you want. Commissions are open, the go fund me link is here. You have my kofi in my bio. If paypal or venmo works better, just let me know and I can get that to you, too. Anything at all helps.
Help us keep five brothers from being separated by the foster system!
… Shannon Teske needs your support for Keep Five Brothers Fr
Most animals don't scream in pain because that would just alert predators they're an easy target. Humans scream in pain because we're social creatures, our screams and cries are meant to alert others of danger, to call for help. Which makes it really ironic when those sounds are forced out of whumpee over and over again, and the only person around to hear is the one causing them...
(Content: living weapon whumpee, institutional child abuse, dehumanization, PTSD, flashbacks, stress position, past abuse, child death, fainting, comfort)
Δ-107 was eight years old and he was sitting by himself in the corner of the classroom. It was quiet across the entire floor, the period carved out for independent study. He went over his notes diligently, remembering to hold the pen correctly, remembering to write in full sentences.
A ruler slammed abruptly against his desk, nearly causing him to drop his flash cards.
“Sit still.” His teacher’s voice was pure venom.Â
Δ-107 flinched, mumbling a soft “Yes, sir” in response. His focus fragmented further, now dedicating effort just to keep himself from rocking.
Plot the following plane.
How would you find the volume of this irregular solid? Show your work.
At what temperature will the fluids in the body begin to evaporate?
How much pressure does it take to create a diamond?
The door creaked open. A scream echoed down the hallway, the faint sound of struggle. Nobody acknowledged it.
“May I borrow him for a second?” The administrator cleared her throat.
Δ-107 began to put his school supplies away. It was for him. He could tell it was for him. They always asked him. Sure enough, the hand was around his arm in an instant, yanking him up and out the door.
“107. You’re to subdue 058. You will do so non-lethally, and any superfluous damage you cause her will be inflicted on you in turn. This is a test of your precision, and of your judgment. Do you understand?”
He couldn’t tell if she was bluffing yet, so he had no choice but to take her at her word. He didn’t know he was valuable yet. He wouldn’t put anything past them.
“Yes’m,” he affirmed.
His skin was bruising within the grasp, and the other child was seizing on the floor.
~
A little short of two decades later, Delta sat curled up in the passenger seat of an old rebel ship, hiding his face in his hands. He took slow, measured, and desperate breaths to recover from the bout of hyperventilation that had overtaken him not moments earlier. It kept happening like this. He hadn’t been able to breathe normally all morning. Violent sobs kept coming to the surface, wracking his whole body. They came in like the tide.
In a waning, relative calm, he managed to speak through the wave to his companion.Â
“…There’s no way I can go in there.” Delta’s voice was hardly more than a murmur.Â
Lorelai Winn sat in the driver’s seat, her chair a good distance from the wheel so that she had space to stretch out. Her hair fell in auburn tresses about her head, and squished up against her hand as she leaned her elbow on the headrest. She was watching carefully, and endlessly patient.
Almost.
“You don’t have to,” she said gently. “You know I won’t make you. Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
But.
“But. This might be the only chance you have.”
But he had dragged her out here for this.
But he had risked life and limb to be back here.
But he’d left Galatea for this.
But he was here all the time anyway.
He could see its image on the back of his eyes. He kept seeing the hallways when all he wanted was to sleep. The past kept needling him, and now it was only a few meters away, and if he left it standing there he would never be rid of it, and he’d never forgive himself.
Delta felt absolutely sick to his stomach.
“It’s okay,” Lorelai soothed him without touching him. “Take all the time you need.”
He nodded weakly to show his understanding, and his gratitude for her patience. That was certainly something he’d never received here.
The crumbling shell of Beldam stood before them. Parts of its spires still stretched up above the trees, but most of it was grounded, misplaced and damaged. The walls wouldn’t have been very good for holding prisoners anymore. There was as much space as there was stone. Delta looked at the ruins of the once impenetrable fortress, and found himself oddly sedated by the sight of the decay. It was dying. It was dead.Â
He hoped there was a kind of hell for institutions. He hoped the building itself would be punished.
But it occupied a different kind of afterlife.
Wearily, cautiously, Delta managed to extricate himself from the ship and stand upright on the forest floor. Lorelai lingered close by, but a few paces ahead of him. The unofficial custodians of the new space were perched out by their car, a bit closer to the entrance. Two young guys — psychonauts, ravers — were watching with an uncharacteristic reserve.
Delta felt a little ashamed to be seen by them. For a long time now, he’d been able to escape a gaze like that. He’d been comfortable in a novel anonymity. There was nothing like that here. They looked at him, and he knew they had seen everything.
But that was what he was here for.
~
Dr.Martino had him kneeling. Grains of rice were laid out in a rough and uneven layer, and they gradually embedded themselves into his sensitive skin. Likewise, Δ-107’s arms were stretched up above his head, straining the muscles long past the point of pain. He didn’t cry. He knew better than to cry, knew he’d be here all night if he did. All the hurt stayed inside of him instead.
Dress shoes clicked in a circular pattern around him. They could go a long time without talking — rather, he could go a long time without being spoken to, and that much condemned him to silence. He kept his eyes down, afraid to look at any authority figure — anyone — straight on. All he could hope for was that release would be granted soon, but he’d already resigned himself to the fact that it could take hours. He could believe it would take forever and that would still be easier than getting his hopes dashed on the rocks.
Finally, the doctor spoke:
“Tell me what you’re being punished for.”
Shame surfaced in him. They were always so good at making him feel small. He fought back to urge to cry again, and his throat felt so constricted he didn’t know if he’d even be able to speak.
“Talking back, sir,” he managed. Not I’m sorry yet, though he was. Don’t beg.
Dr.Martino gave a small hum of approval. He would draw out these moments as long as he could, while the grains were fully cutting into his student’s skin. Δ-107 had to breathe slower, and to steer himself towards patience.Â
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
“You’ll follow the orders we give you. This is a rule, and you aren’t owed an explanation for it. You obey it whether you understand it or not. But since you seem to have so much trouble with it recently, I’ll enlighten you. We are not issuing them out of ignorance. We understand your abilities better than you do, on an empirical level. You don’t know better than us, and you’re not in any position to try and tell uswhat to do with you. I don’t want to hear you whining like that ever again.”
Δ-107 nodded. His arms were starting to shake from the exertion. He’d never been strong. He hadn’t meant to talk back, but he had, and what he meant was beside the point now. He just needed this to be over.
“Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Please. Please.
“You can put your arms down.”
He almost collapsed on the spot. His limbs were fully numb by now, so that when given permission to stand, it took multiple tries to get to his feet again. It left a lasting ache throughout his entire body, but the worst was the pressure behind his eyes, the flood with nowhere to go.
~
“Uh, hey, man,” one of the ravers waved to him. “Name’s Alex. That’s Titus. Cool to meet you in person.”
Delta nodded, slowly regaining his ability to speak. Pleasantries. He had to at least get the ball rolling on the simple things, or else he’d never be able to talk about what he needed to. He was aware he was speaking a little too formally, and he could feel the traces of the imperial accent peeking through: “It’s nice to meet you too.”
Beyond that, Lorelai did him the mercy of facilitating.
“So the plan was to tour the ground first, then head back to the office to see the physical archives?” She clasped her hands in front of her.Â
It became clear from how she spoke that she’d done her research too. She’d done it long before she even knew Delta was alive. That was…strange. He hadn’t thought he’d matter that much to her.
“Yeah. Yeah, we actually have some of the folders here in the trunk, if you wanted to look now. Or, uh, I think you’ve seen them before. I mean if he wants to look.”
Delta peered into the compartment he was referencing. It was absolutely crammed with yellowed papers, and they carried a familiar medicinal smell.
“I want to see the building first,” Delta said.Â
He got the oddest sense that if he turned his back to it, if he let anything distract him from it, he would he putting himself in great danger.Â
No, the space itself had to he dealt with.
Delta entered the threshold alone, by his own request. The whole clearing smelled vaguely of smoke, as if heralding some decades old disaster, but he knew it was likely just the remnants of a recent bonfire. There were a few spare beer cans littering the grass, and other remnants of that week’s party. To him, the space felt so haunted and tense that he could not imagine ever letting his guard down around it. He didn’t understand how anyone would be able to enjoy themselves with all that psychic energy surrounding them on all sides.
Here was the entryway. Here was the foyer. Here was the receptionist’s desk, and the security office, and the showroom.
He inhaled. The phantom touch of fingers traced his neck and his wrists. They were oversized. He’d been smaller back then. Here was where he’d met His Eminence, His Majesty. One of the buyers.
The floor was still intact in places, but the space had truly been gutted. Delta walked through the hall where the beds had been arranged, and found nothing waiting for him there but open air.
Much of the upper floors had been destroyed. Many of the stairs led to nowhere. Cautiously, Delta followed the ones he could anyway. So much of what he remembered — the labs and the classrooms — had been reduced to nothing at all. The rooms he’d once been tortured in were simply gone forever. If they were to be rebuilt now, it would not be the same. There’d be nobody to man them.
He slowly eased himself down from the ledge, back to the ground level. He felt just as hollow as his surroundings, just as haunted. Delta felt almost…sad for the building, sitting there in the still morning, rotting away. He imagined it old and toothless and lonely, and he could not help but feel pity for his old tormentor.Â
Some of the tension in his body eased away as he moved back towards the exit.
“…You guys killed it,” Delta said, resting one hand on the archway.
The archivists looked at him with a kind of bemused guilt, like they were sorry but they didn’t know what for. Delta could relate to that.
“Uh, repoman took most of the furniture. We just got the files. And the drugs.”
Naturally.Â
Something cold crept up his spine, and he felt the lure well before he could articulate it as such. Compelled, Delta began to walk around the perimeter of the institute. Lorelai and the others followed him at a distance. He heard them talking amongst themselves, talking about what had happened here, and the absurdity of it induced total vertigo within him. This had always been a private apocalypse.
Delta found himself in the backyard. His powers pulsed unwillingly, sending out their sonar signals throughout the cold earth, and his mind couldn’t take it anymore.Â
~
All was dark. He was eight or eighteen or twenty three now and he didn’t even know his real name. Was he even a he? By most accounts it was an it. Under here, with the rest of them, it was all they. They were trying desperately to speak.
Δ-107’s hands were chained behind its back, and something stronger than it had just beaten it senseless. It’d been left here in the dark to process, so the trauma would have all the space it needed to sink in. Someone was trying to teach it something. Something was always trying to teach it something.
If you disobey, said the teeming voices from beneath the soil. If you fail, you’ll be just like us.
Hot tears ran down its face. It could only ever happen now in the privacy of total darkness. It didn’t know if it was alone in here. Had it been locked into a closet or into a coffin? Or was it just blindfolded? Were the hands touching it real, and if so, who did they belong to?Â
Wave after wave of icy fear coursed through it relentlessly with the same rhythm of its heart as it prayed secretly, desperately for escape.
~
From the outside, it looked like a lightning strike in reverse. It rose up from the ground and struck the sky, and it coursed its way through him to get there.
Delta awoke to a cold cloth being pressed to his head. He was lying down across the backseat of the ship. It was darker out now, quieter. He could hear the faint buzz of cicadas, and it led to a temporal disorientation within him. The night sounded like it had when he was a child.
“There he is.” Lorelai was leaning over him. She swiped some of the hair away from his eyes. A very gentle frown worried its ways across her face. The little pockmarks where her diamonds had been plucked out stood out to him. Like some ravage of innocence. Delta groaned softly as he came to.
“Don’t try to sit up yet.” Lorelai’s hand pushed his shoulder back down.
“Yes, miss,” he muttered absently. It drew a sad coo from her, cry of the mourning dove. He looked to her more attentively to find that her eyes were tinted pink. She was upset.
“…I’m sorry,” he followed up, weakness still evident in his voice. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t know what had happened. He knew of the dream, if it was a dream, but he didn’t remember the moment he lost consciousness. The present moment gave no clues as to what had transpired beforehand.
Lorelai settled back into a lean, hooking one arm up by the headrest to support herself.
“I’m okay,” she said softly. “Just sad. Um. I never told you what happened the first time I went there.”
“You did. You said Paris freaked out.”
“I told you what happened to Paris. I didn’t tell you what happened to me.” The ghost of a smile graced her lips. “But it’s the same thing, I guess. The same thing that happened to you.”
Delta inhaled slowly. Out of the window, faint stars were visible against the darkening sky. He imagined an analog static across his voice as he spoke again:
“I thought I heard them. Or…that I could feel them. I think that’s what got me. I put too many feelers out, and I touched one of them by accident. There were so many bodies down there.”
He was ashamed. He’d touched a dead, rotting thing, and he reeled back with fear and disgust as if he’d been wounded. As if he was the victim here. He’d done it before, with the mutilated and maimed victims of the Castle and its outposts. Delta was such a selfish coward.
“I thought I saw them,” Lorelai said. “Or…someone’s face. Not the kids, maybe. It was something different.”
He waited for her to go on, but she didn’t.
“Am I allowed to sit up?” he asked.
“You feel well enough to?”
“Yes’m.”
“Ok. Go slow.”
He did. The dizziness kicked in a small wave, but he rode it out. Lorelai placed the cloth away into the compartment.
“We’re at the guys’ office now. You can see the files they managed to save. They should have all of yours. Are you good enough to walk?”
“Yes.”
“Good boy.” She helped him up out of the ship. Some of his paleness faded as the blood rushed back to his face.
The “office” was a work building, tucked away amidst the greenery along a grander stretch of gravel road. Delta spotted a highway in the distance. How far had the institute been from civilization? The distance had seemed impassable as a child. It was preferable to think of it as a place removed from time and space than it was so acknowledge that it had in fact been driving distance from the nearest town. That it’d been happening in someone’s backyard.
Delta half-limped his way to the entrance, where the two boys from earlier were sitting in swivel chairs amidst a space packed with books and paperwork. The same sharp, medicinal smell, almost enough to induce fainting again. He steadied himself.
“…I’m sorry you had to see that,” Delta said, meaning it. It was embarrassing. It’d probably been scary.
But, evidently, they’d built up quite a tolerance. They brushed off his apology, pointing him over towards the stacks.
“Those bodies need to be exhumed,” Lorelai said at a distance. “There aren’t even grave markers. No wonder they’re restless.”
“You believe in ghosts?” Alex asked her.
“What else would you call a feeling like that?”
But it wasn’t really the children, was it? She’d been right the first time. With each year that passed, it became something else.
“I can ask Apollo,” Delta volunteered. “The same people who are doing triage on the facilities…I think they’d be okay with getting the bodies out.”
His hands traced the files. He thought about the forensics involved, what DNA was documented and what might remain.
Then, he asked the boys: “Has anyone else come looking for these? Any other alumni?”
“…Not really,” Titus answered. “There aren’t that many left walking around.”
Of course not. The failures died, and the half-successes were still out there, facing varying degrees of exploitation and enslavement. It was too horrible to speak about, too much to look at dead-on.
“I think you should stop having parties there,” Delta suggested, quite seriously. His gratitude was mixed up with his distaste. He just felt like if it kept happening, someone was bound to get possessed.
“In some cultures, funerals are treated like parties,” Alex refuted. “That’s how we do it. You should come sometime.”
Lorelai glared at him, and he wilted.
“Maybe not.”
But Delta tuned out, too swept up in the wave of cruelty to pay much attention to the present. He was getting closer. He’d arrived at his section.
Δ
Δ-059
Δ-072
Δ-103
Δ-107
He pulled it out, and held the record in shaky hands. He got as far as the title page before he fainted again.
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Whumpee who is so mentally unwell they start giving in to their intrusive thoughts and start doing impulsive, random, strange and, of course, harmful things. Because it's gotten to the point that they stopped caring about it.
Sleeping in the bathtub full of water, clothed, and with a blanket;
Burying knives anywhere but in the chopping block. In the walls, on the ceiling...;
Trying to get a plate from the cabinet and pretending they didn't see that it was about to fall to the ground;
Banging their head or their fists against the wall in a constant, morbid pattern;
Having less sense of space and, sometimes accidentally, sometimes not, bumping onto things;
Unplugging and plugging electronics again and again;
Things that go against basic survivability: crossing the street without looking two ways, using the washing machine while it's plugged in and while barefoot when the floor's wet — also includes turning the shower on and off repeatedly while barefoot —, keep standing up even when they know they're about to pass out...
Walking at night and hiding from every person or car that passes. Maybe because they're scared but maybe just because they can
Hiding things from themself and then actually not being able to find them
Hiding out of sight of their windows when someone walks by their house or worse knocks on their door
Leaving expensive things or things they care about in dangerous places. Laptop on the side of a full bathtub, a precious ring next to the sink, their medications on top of the toilet etc
Leaving piles of clothes next to their heater
Leaving objects in places they know they'll trip over them or knock them over. Scissors on their bed
Breaking glass and cleaning it up with bare hands or not cleaning it at all
Going on runs in dangerous areas while already in severe pain or during panic attacks
Leaving doors unlocked or open at night
Undercooking food or eating food way past its date
Intentionally triggering themself in subtle or non subtle ways. Wearing a choaker for a whumpee with neck trauma, seeing a firework show for a whumpee who can't do loud noises, smoking in their home for a whumpee whos whumper smoked
I usually write what I know so when people find my writing offensive I know they'd be absolutely horrified if I dared to share a piece of my actual history.
God forbid I taint their happy delusion with the truth that not everybody has it that good.
Idk if it's the bias of my own feed but I always see people talking about how you don't have to be "going through something" to like whump etc and that's true and I love that for them, but it's also a really good and important way to process shit so respect to folks who are.
enriching situations for characters who are deadly terrified of being vulnerable around others:
being gravely wounded and having to put their life in another person's hands. either fighting back with the last of their strength, or being too weak to protest when someone undresses them to take proper care of their injury
having a panic attack around (or caused by) another person. the fact that they're seen by someone like this only intensifies it, making them hyperventilate more
sleeping next to someone, trusting that they won't do anything to them. likely still going to wake up multiple times during the night at the slightest movement or sound
facing a fear/phobia they have and trying to remain composed as to not reveal their fear to everyone.
getting sick, feeling weak and utterly helpless. passing in and out of conciousness. flinching instinctively as someone checks their temperature
having limited mobility (ie. due to injury). needing to rely on someone else to help them move and do basic daily tasks. taking a bath together and allowing to be gently washed
bringing someone to the place they were raised in, allowing them to see into their past and judge it for themself.
Bright, illuminated white walls, white grout, a white drain in the center of the white tile floor. Even the hard points positioned strategically around the room are painted a brilliant white. Too bright fluorescents burn into Adrian's eyes twisting his already aching head into two tight knots of pain behind his eyes.
The only break in theme is the far wall, where an easy-clean glass partition protects Gould's collection. Adrian doesn't look at it. He knows what hangs there. He's seen it enough times that his mind conjures the image anyway.Â
Gould’s tools polished and displayed in neat rows. Blades, canes, pliers, whips- anything and everything he can use to pull a person apart
Don't think about it-
He fixates on the white drain instead. Focusing his attention so intensely that everything else fades out of focus. Not smear of dirt or flake of grime mars in pristine surface. How does it stay so clean?
He remembers being a kid, scrubbing brown stains from the drains in the prison's concrete cells. Using a toothbrush to make sure the metal would shine. Brown stains turning the water a mucky yellow, pink bubbles if it was fresh. He wonders if later some kid will scrub away his own pink bubbles
Stop-
He blanks his mind, the alcohol making it easier than usual. He dissolves each thought as it forms leaving nothing but the feeling of falling and a slight ringing in his ears. Only the drain is real.Â
Footsteps behind him try to drag him back to himself but he keeps back, the sound filtering down to him through layers of quiet numbing. They echo from far off like he's in a dream
“Strip”Â
His fingers are clumsy, body far away but he still removes his shirt in a clean practiced motion. It knows how to obey even without his presenceÂ
“Pants too unless you want blood all over them”Â
He folds his clothing robotically. Making his pile neat and tidy, neat and tiny, pile by the door. Gould likes his pile to be neat by the door. Tidy. His fingertips notice every fiber magnifying the texture through to his floating mind. He lets the pile go reluctantly. Letting go of a lifeline to be sucked back to the drain. Like water down the drain, he thinks, almost giddilyÂ
He locks onto it again, body kneeling without instruction. It knows how to do this too
Boots tap tap tap on the tile behind him. around him. In circles around him they tap tap. Each brittle sound ripples through him like rocks dropped in water. His hair stands on end. The man passes behind him and he catches a small terrified whimper of breath in his throat. He strangles it, forcing his mind to focus on the drain. Focus. Calm. Relax
A hand on his shoulder makes him jump
Weak-
It traces over his skinÂ
“I forgot about these.” Fingers too gentle- down his back. Slowly, deliberately, nails catch on each ridge in the dense mass of scar tissue. “Do they still hurt you?” fingers press down lightly, just enough to burn
"Always." The word doesn't want to be spoken. It sticks in his dry throat like a confession too shameful to admit
“Good.” Gould pats his back roughly, getting to his feet. “It's important to have reminders. If you were a smarter man you might have learned by now, but somehow you still don't know how to follow orders.”Â
“Yes Sir” no thought, the response is automatic. He's grateful his body can do so many things without him
“So?" Gould prompts. "What happened? What did you do this time?”Â
Again, he lets his lips repeat the words spoken to him. “I disobeyed you Sir." Meek deference, soothing to an old man's ego. "I thought I knew better than you, ignored your orders and went easy on a prisoner. I let my arrogance get the best of me and was too weak to do what was necessary. It lost you a valuable asset. I refused to do as I was told. I'm sorry Sir. I should have followed your orders.”
Fight back you pathetic shit
“Accountabilty, honesty, apology. You're getting better at this." But he doesn't really sound pleased. "What punishment do you deserve?”
An image of the weapons arrayed behind him flashes in his head and his mind goes blank.Â
“Morgan” a sharp slap to the back of his headÂ
Gould asked him a question. He can't rememberÂ
Panic. He tries to reconstruct the conversation. Shame, apology then punishment. Gould asked him what punishment he deserves. He can't-
BlankÂ
Gould hits him again. He's trembling now, Gould asked him a question didn't he? He tries to still his hands in his lap but he can't stop them shakingÂ
“I don't know” he manages to force out between chattering teeth. Mistake. Not an acceptable answer. Knows better than that. Weak. “I'm sorry” he stammers, trying to back track “I'm sorry, I…” there's nothing he can say to fix it and he still can't remember the question “sorry” barely a whisper.Â
Pathetic!
For a split second, rage hits him so hard he thinks Gould has struck the first blow. Its heat shatters any remnant of his dreamy dissociation, locking him back into the room with his tormenter. He wants to tear his skin offÂ
Pathetic cringing rat! Whining, stammering out apologies. Too weak. It fucking deserves this. Deserves every second of what's coming for it. Punishment. Disgusting, pathetic- fight back you fucking worthless dog!
A whip cracks next to his head and the rage is gone as fast as it appeared, replaced with simple terror. No, no nonono-escape, run, but he can't move. His limbs are liquid, his whole body; he can't hold together. It's falling apart. He is falling apart. Everything spins around him but the drain. He needs to stick to it, keep it together. Keep focused on something stable.Â
His ears ring too loudly for him to hear anything but his racing heart. Can't run. Running will make it worse. Doesn't matter, it's going to get worse anyway- get worse from here. This is still the easy part. It will only get worse from here, worse from here worse from here his mind cackles back at him.
Stop stop it stop it! It's too early to be breaking down like this. He tries to regain his calm. Let himself dissolve back into dreamy dissociation, but his control is shattered, lost somewhere in the spinning white tiles
“-know you have a history with whips, but this is just…” He chuckles. “look at your face.”Â
Shame. His guts clench, doubling him over like a kick, accompanied by the urge to beg the man to just get on with it. To do worse. He deserves it. Of course he deserves it. Deserves worse. Has to stop whiningÂ
“Fucking pathetic”Â
Disgusting weak sickeningÂ
He knows it
The whip traces across his bare skin and he can't take it anymore. His body rebels. He lurches forward, vomiting alcohol over the drain. It burns his throat, his nose, his eyes. Or maybe he's just crying. pathetic absolutely fucking patheticÂ
Gould laughs at him and the voice in his head joins in
Shame
It twists up his insidesÂ
just kill me
He wipes his mouth and tries to sit upright through it- dignity, his body trembles hard enough he has to fight for each movement. Why does Gould have to play with him like this? Just fucking get on with it already
The first strike is a relief. Pain crashing against his self loathing. Finally. He needs this.
Deserves worse-
Punishment-
Has to be better-
The next knocks the air from his lungs
Then anotherÂ
He closes his eyes, sinking into the pain. Just a sensation, just another sensation. It's deserved. He needs it needs it
Needs
The strikes come faster, but it's not so bad. Not painful. Important. He can do this it's good, he can-
The next strike breaks skin.
Oh fuckÂ
Another
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
Please don't panic-
Not yet
Please not yet
But it's too much. Each strike tears into him, searing bolts of pain he can feel through his whole body. The shock of each strike somehow catches him off guard. They overlap each other giving him no time to recover, overwhelming his senses.
He can't do it, can't take it. (Deserves it) Isn't going to make it. It's too much. (Should be worse needs to be worse, so much worse) will get worseÂ
He's on fire. He writhes away but that's wrong. Not allowed. He's not allowed to run, to resist. Without restraints he has to be the one to hold himself back. Keep still. Don't struggle. He wants this
More tears force their way between his eyelids pathetic blurring his surroundings further past the point of recognition.Â
It's too much, too much already too much, he can't do this, he needs to scream- can't do this, needs to cry, to beg weak! force it down, needs to do anything to make it stop- stop, (too weak too weak) too weak to make it stop. Just don't struggleÂ
StopÂ
But he's a child again. Helpless and it won't stop. Weak. Of course it won't stop. Not even close to when it will stop and he deserves it, deserves worse. Has to remember that. Has to hold still. Has to remember but it hurts and he's too weak. He wants it to stop. Wants to cry. Crying won't stop it. Won't stop. Won't stop now, not even close. Stop stop. Please just stop!
He shoves a fist in his mouth, trying to muffle the screams. To give himself something real, solid to hold on to, hold on just hold onÂ
But he can'tÂ
-
When it's over he doesn't notice. He just hurts.Â
Everything hurts.Â
It hurts and everything keeps spinningÂ
He huddles on the floor trying to ride out the vertigo. Clutching his knees, biting his fist. His body won't stop shaking. Won't for the rest of the night. For the rest of his life maybe. Sour spit fills his mouth and drools down his chin with his whimpering. He tries to stop the noises but it feels like suffocatingÂ
Animals scream to let the others know they're in distress. To warn them something is wrong. If there's no one to warn, eventually it'll stop screaming.
Why is he still screaming?
It's ok. He tries to reassure himself. Put himself back together again. It's alright. Everything is ok now. It's over. He draws in a huge rasping breath just to remind himself he can. The pain fluxes and twists with it, but he can bear it. It's over and now it's just pain. He can deal with pain he reminds himself. It's over now and it wasn't even that bad.Â
Cruel laughter in his headÂ
Be greatful!
A soft whisper above him, like smooth leather unfurling and his attention snaps back to his tormenter towering over him
The monster stands smirking down at him, a different whip, this one sleek and black dangling from its fingers. It wiggles the thing and Andrian’s stomach plummets with horrible recognition
No no no no no-
Fuck no
Please no please anything but this please, but he is too frozen to speak
Gould dangles the tip in front of his stricken face. Making sure he sees what makes this whip special. A fine silver chain hangs from the end, braided securely into the thonging. A simple change from the typical nylon cord but one that shatters every bit of composure he has fought so hard to regain. This whip isn't meant to welt or bruise it's meant to cut into the meat of him
Fresh tears pour from his eyes and he whimpers something unintelligible
He can't do this. He just can't
His body tries to run without his permission. Scrambling backwards on limbs too shaky to hold his weight. He trips over himself, hands slipping on the bloody white tiles.Â
“Isn't this the one that gave you all those scars? The same kind at least.” Gould stalks after him not even trying to stop his pitiful retreatÂ
No no no, not the same kind, the exact same one. One and the same Gould knows. Of course Gould knows. He must've gone looking for the fucking thing, must've gone to the prison, spoken to-
“Please” he whispers (can't stop it) even though he knows it won't help. Won't stop it. Not allowed to beg- not allowed to struggle
“Please, Sir, I can't- anything else, please, I'll be good, please…” he trails off, words smothered by shame closing up his throat. He presses his face into the cold tile trying to show his complete submission. Pathetic
“Look at yourself.” His voice drips with contempt and a sick satisfaction. Using the toe of his boot he pushes Adrian onto his back before planting his boot on his chest.Â
“All my effort to try and make you strong and you're just as pathetic as the day I first saw you. Scuttling around on the floor, begging on your face like a fucking animal!” He cracks the whip against the floor, baring his teeth when Adrian cowers, screwing his eyes shut. “You can't even look at it!” He lashes him across the face “open your fucking eyes and kneel!”
Adrian obeys instantly, eyes snapping open despite the sting of the fresh whip cut. Gould releases him and he struggles to shaky knees. He tries to keep his head up, looking at Gould but every fiber of his being wants to cringe, beg, submit, escape
 “I've given you a job that makes you feel powerful. One that lets you remember what it's like to be in control. And sometimes that game lets you forget what you are. But. Adrian,” he crouches down, strong fingers grasping Adrian's chin and forcing his head up. “Adrian, look at yourself. I need to know you remember what you are.” He squeezes harder, voice getting even softer “You are the feral dog I allow to bite your betters.”
Shame, terror and fury roil in Adrian's gut with the remainder of the alcohol. He knows it. Of course he knows it. How could he ever fucking forget? In that moment all he wants is to be allowed to be good enough to stop needing to be hurtÂ
He hates himself, hates his weakness, his cowardice, his groveling need to submit and the game lets him pretend he's something else.Â
Something loud and angry, something that scares people and hurts them more when they hurt him. He loves it. Loves watching Jesse scream and run and hide from Him. Watching them all cower and squirm. Hiding from him. They should be afraid. Should be afraid of him
He isn't good. They always hurt him no matter how good he pretends to be, somehow they can see it. See how badly he wants to make Gould suffer. See the things he would do if he ever got the slightest chance. He wants to break him. Watch him crawl on the ground disfigured and begging for mercy he knows won't come. He wants to ruin him so completely he has to beg permission for every breath he takes. He feels a sneer forming on his lips.Â
He can't get more scared. The punishment can't get worse and there's nothing in the world he can do to stop it. Gould should know the danger of backing a feral dog into a corner. His back hits the wall
“I am a dog.” He snarls through clenched teeth, hoping Gould can feel his rage beating against him. “but I'm not your dog. You can suck yourself off all you want but we both know you don't have what it takes to make me into what I am. You can beat me, you can fucking torture me and I'll do what you say. I'll follow every one of your fucking moronic orders. I'll crawl around on the floor and lick your goddamned boots. I'll make you feel like a big man, but we both fucking know why you hate me. We both fucking know I'm better than you.” He laughs, letting it sound as broken and hysterical as he feels “Must suck to get beaten by a dog at your own game. I'm better at your fucking job, your superiors like me more, I keep this entire fucking place running and the most you do is get in my way. You hate that I could replace you and no one would even fucking notice. Without me you're just a sadist wearing your daddy's shoes tripping and falling, too stupid to realize they're too fucking big for you.”
He's breathing hard, a little surprised Gould let him get through the whole thing without smashing his teeth in.Â
He watches the man's face contort mirroring back his own fury. It's true. Every year Gould relies on him more. Giving him more responsibilities, making up excuses, but when the bosses actually need something done right Gould isn't the man for the job. And he knows it. The more work Adrian gets the worse Gould punishes him for it. Not for the mistakes, that's just an excuse, but for the pleasure of reminding him he can.Â
"You love hurting me because it lets you forget how fucking pathetic you are."
Gould's fist hits him like a truck.
Grabbing his hair, Gould slams his head back into the wall. Once, twice, three times. Stars explode across his vision and by the third hit he's sure his skull is about to break open.Â
Gould's forearm is against his windpipe, the man's weight crushing the air from him
“You fucking insolent-”Â
-Pathetic piece of shit. Adrian finishes for for himÂ
You are nothingÂ
Gould throws him hard to the ground and Adrian tries again to crawl away. The man stomps on his hand then kicks him in the stomach, in the chest. He loses track of the blows. Loses track of his body in the maelstrom. He tries to protect himself but the boots find his every weak spot stomping him into the ground.Â
Something in his torso cracksÂ
Gould is still yelling but Adrian is far past the point of hearing. The man's hands are on him, dragging him to his knees, wrenching his head up forcing him to face the wall. He can't hold himself there so Gould props him up, half leaning against itÂ
It's too much, he's losing consciousness, but not fast enough. He doesn't know where he is. In a cell he's always in a cell how is he still in a fucking cell?Â
The whip splits his back open and his roar of pain sounds closer to a sob. The sound fades out as he watches the body collapse. Gould kicks it onto its face and brings the whip down over and over again
It writhes on the floor twisting around in its pathetic, futile attempts to protect itself. The lash bites into anything exposed. Back, arms hands, chest, shinsÂ
Not even its howls sound human. The torn click and rasp of its overstrained voice breaking- stammering out wordless pleas for mercy
The thing is calling for help
No, no one is coming doesn't it realize that?Â
He winces in something like sympathy as one blow rips an especially nasty gash into its shoulderblade. That's gotta hurt.Â
It’s stopped struggling, body still save for bloody fingers flexing and clawing into the tiles. Trying to hold onto something? Dig itself free?
Its sobs break off as its voice finally gives out and then there's only the wet smack of the whip against its chewed up backÂ
Even its fingers go still. They only twitch slightly with each blow
Gould stops.Â
He stands over the body breathing hard. He nudges it with his boot and it doesn't react
“Great” he mutters, crouching down to examine his work.
It lays still, eyes wide open but glassy and unseeing, mouth hanging stupidly open in a twisted grimace
It doesn't even look like its breathingÂ
Gould holds a finger under its nose then feels around its neck for a pulse.Â
Apparently satisfied he pulls out his phone and taps in a numberÂ
“I need medical in my office immediately.”Â
A pauseÂ
“Went too hard with Morgan again.”Â
Another pause
Gould chucklesÂ
“Yeah. Fucker has a special talent getting under my skin.” He kicks the body, sneering when it doesn't react.Â
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“Hurry. I don't want him bleeding out on my floor.” He ends the callÂ
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Y'know what? DON'T give me whumpees begging for their lives.
Give me passively suicidal whumpees who take whatever's given to them in the hopes it'll take them out - so they don't have to do it themeselves. They don't fight when the whumper approached with knives or needles. They don't flinch when a gun is held to their head. They don't even attempt to grovel for their life.
Give me whumpees who DON'T fight; who DON'T try to hide from the whumper and DON'T try to wait for rescue they know is not going to come.
saint/deity/vessel whumpee deigned holy from birth and must remain holy, no matter the cost:
- whumpee is whipped for misdeeds/sins. starved for “fasting”. being drowned for a baptism. bloodletting for sacred rituals
- innocent people brought in to pray over their bloodied form for strength. their suffering is the innocents gratitude
- idolized and sanctified to the point of mental destruction: “i am inhuman” “i’m not a person like everyone else, my faults are therefore more grievous”
- guilted over natural disasters, temperamental weather, or physical/mental harm coming out of nowhere by whumper
- “clearly i havent been paying enough attention to you.”
- whumpee being unable to understand how or why they get sick, thinking it must be a sign of spiritual illness
- whumpee literally being put onto a pedestal to roast in the sun so people can pray to them and ask for their blessing
- whumper feeling righteous in their torture. its their responsibility to keep whumpee as a symbol of hope. anything is worth keeping the divine in their hometown
Additional:
- a kid tugging on whumpee’s arm is seen as deeply disrespectful and heretical, and is punished. or meant to be, before whumpee begs for their forgiveness and falls to their knees (which will earn them a worse punishment by whumper)
- whumpee doesnt know normal human activities and socialization because of their isolation. this makes them more holy and alien to others. it also makes it impossible to ask for help
Whumpee doesn't even try to stop it. They think their torture is helping people.
After a lifetime of being punished for bad weather or things that wernt their fault they offer themselves up for it. They think it genuinely was their fault
Whumpee believes they are meant to suffer so others don't have to.
So when someone is suffering they genuinely believe it's because whumper has been going easy on them or they haven't been taking it well enough
Whumpee gets praised for being in their position. Some are true believers but others just don't realize how bad it is. They think it's a voluntary position and that whumpee should be praised for being self sacrificing
Maybe whumper feeds into this messaging, maybe they genuinely believe it too and tell whumpee they are better than everyone else. Maybe even better than whumper themself
Maybe when caretaker comes into the picture whumpee hates them for essentially telling them they aren't special and their suffering was pointless
But theres a tiny shameful part of whumpee that clings to them because they don't hurt them. Even when they should. Even when it would be the right thing to do
In whumpees mind caretaker won't hurt them even when it could prevent a catastrophic disaster and selfishly they are greatful
Whumpee never wants to be weak again, so they push themself further and further on the training grounds. Seeking out opponents with a reputation for going all out, then for going too far. Goading their sparring partners into attacking them for real. Secretly conjuring up magical constructs who won't hesitate to draw live steel. Training until their callouses tear open, until their muscles scream, until they throw up (and wipe their mouth and get back to it), until they pass out in the dust.
And it doesn't work. They flinch at the sound of a sword unsheathing. They get sloppy and irrational. They get weak.
It's frustrating. They're furious at themself for it, and all they can do is try harder. They just want to improve! They have to get better! Why are they just getting worse?
Whumper keeps Whumpee in an excessive amount of restraints (can’t move an inch for chains, collared, muzzled) to ensure that they won’t break out - even if Whumpee is completely cooperative
Whumpee who does fight back, who bites, claws, scratches, does everything they can to cause as much damage to Whumper as possible
Whumper who “has to” keep Whumpee constantly sedated
Whumpee is a danger to themself, intentionally or not, so Whumper has to protect them before they fatally injure themselves
Nonhuman Whumpee is percieved as dangerous and muzzled/shock collared before they can plead their case, if they even can
Caretaker who is scared of Whumpee!
Stranger Caretaker arriving to rescue Whumpee after defeating Whumper but hesitating when they realise who or what Whumpee is
Whumpee’s hope turning to dread as they see this, and silently begging for mercy
Whumpee who lashes out at Caretaker, who hurts then one day, and guilt hits them at full force
Whumpee who believes they’re a danger to Caretaker and takes it upon themself to remove themself from the equation
Caretsker who flinches when Whumpee moves suddenly
Whumpee wakes up after being rescued, filled with relief - only when they try to move they notice the chains, and the muzzle
Or Whumpee wakes up in a hospital but is restrained to the bed “for their own safety”
Whumpee is a living weapon or villain and everyone is scared of them - except Caretaker’s child
Whumpee who tries to be gentle and unassuming to win the favour of those around them
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I love characters who dont think they deserve to be loved. Maybe they've been hurt, maybe someone has convinced them theyre evil, maybe they've hurt people in the past... and when someone comes along who loves and cares for them, they just dont see it as something they deserve
My fav is when they start to hate or distrust the other person for loving them. They know they're evil or otherwise undeserving of love and so if this person is loving them they must have an alternative motive.
