Whump blog, mainly. I'm mediocre at tagging stuff so proceed at your own discretion. He/Him. Adult. Literally nocturnal. Sometimes socially awkward so I apologize in advance for that.
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Freed whumpee who is overwhelmed by anxiety over making decisions and struggles to find purpose without a master.
Freed whumpee who can no longer function without the structure of captivity.
Freed whumpee who cries and begs their caretaker on their hands and knees to be punished so they can be relieved of the all-consuming guilt they feel whenever they make a mistake their whumper would have punished them for.
Caretaker who finally gives in and gives them as mild a punishment as they can that will still make whumpee feel absolved.
Whumpee shaking and crying through their punishment but tearfully thanks their whumper caretaker over and over for making them good again.
Whumpee who can only eat and sleep after brutal correction.
Caretaker who is corrupted by the power it gives them.
A broke Whumpee who got taken by a very rich Whumper.
Their financial state was one more power differential between them. Whumper had the influence to keep their dirty secret hidden, the ability to procure whatever they wished to use on Whumpee, the resources to do whatever they felt like. Whumpee had none.
Finally they escaped, after being kept and tortured far too long. Caretaker found Whumpee, and helped and took care of them.
Caretaker has no wealth, living simply from paycheck to paycheck. But they're rich in kindness, and do everything they can for Whumpee. Even if the days taken off of work to care for them, the medical bills, and the extra mouth to feed all strain their finances terribly.
But then Whumper dies unexpectedly. And they left everything to Whumpee.
The mansion they weren't allowed to leave with the basement they were hurt in, the large grounds that made sure no one was close enough to hear their screams, the fortune that ensured Whumper would have all the tools and resources they could desire for keeping their captive confined, in line, and beaten down. All given to Whumpee.
Of course, Whumpee doesn't want anything to do with Whumper or blood money or those bad memories...but they know Caretaker has been struggling to pay the rent and take care of them at the same time.
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, bodymod, rocky recovery, comfort, nightmares, lady whumper
You're just standing there, eyes flicking between the bed and Freddie. In your head, you've already made up your mind: you will repay all this kindness by at least telling her your 'name'. But your mouth doesn't move. The conditioning still running deep, to your very core.
"Is everything okay?" she asks.
"Yes," you reply, swallowing. "You've done... a lot for me. Too much, probably. I don't really deserve—"
"Let's not go down this path," she cuts in, her voice soft. You clear your throat.
"Well, the point is... I am... indebted to you."
"You're not."
You furrow your brows. No, you definitely are.
"I do this because I want to help, not for any transactional reason," she continues.
"Still, I... You at least deserve to know my name."
That gets her to perk up, listening intently. She says she doesn't want a transaction, but that's clearly a lie. She says she doesn't want to find out more, but when the opportunity presents itself, she doesn't turn it down.
"My name... Um..." Suddenly, you feel self-conscious. Everyone outside has a proper name. What will she think? "My name is #064."
Freddie is still silent, like she's waiting for more. Then, after a few seconds of silence, "That's... it? That's your... name?"
You shouldn't have told her. She must be judging. She must hate you. She must—
"Okay," she says. "Nice to meet you, #064." She has a smile on her face.
Was this really okay to share? You can't help it, you return the smile, though yours must be a little timid and tentative.
"Just to reiterate: you don't have to tell me about your life in exchange for all this. But I'm grateful. I have something to call you now. Even if it's..." She trails off. "Well, anyway, ready for bed?"
"Yes, Freddie."
"My room is across the hall; if you need anything, just holler. I'll go finish my dinner."
You nod. You wouldn't bother her even if you were dying, she must know that.
In any case, she exits the room and pulls the door almost closed behind herself. You take that as a sign that though you're treated as a person here, you still don't deserve privacy. Though with how close to closed the door is, it's more privacy than you've ever gotten — in the facility, the doors had to be fully open at all times, and you had roommates.
You look at the bed. Freshly made. The covers are adorned with little purple flowers, the pillows are white and purple. It almost feels too pretty to ruin by lying in it.
You fidget for a few minutes, just standing by the bed, before you muster up the courage and get under the blanket. It's so soft. And so warm. The scent of the detergent Freddie used to wash them is pleasant. This is so much better than the park bench, even better than the facility.
No. You mustn't think that.
But they kicked you out, didn't they? What use is it, clinging to the memories?
Those are the only memories you have. Your past. Your identity. What are you supposed to cling to, if not that?
You don't have a lot of time to ponder these things. Sleep in your wonderfully comfortable new bed pulls you under within minutes.
—
You're at the facility. You're training, slashing up dummies with the blade in your left arm, punching others with your right.
Your handler watches.
"Too slow!" she shouts at you.
You try harder. You work faster. You hate the training dummies — your left eye, the one functioning as a heat camera, doesn't pick them up, so it's harder to tell where they'll come from.
Before you can land another blow, someone grabs your hand. The training dummies disappear, and it's just you and your handler. Darkness closes in on all sides. You see nothing but her furious face.
"You're useless," she hisses, squeezing your wrist until it aches. "You're better off dead."
"No, please—"
She lets go and slaps you. "Talking back? Just when did you become so bold?"
She's right. You should take the punishment quietly.
She punches you, and you fall to the floor. "You're a useless," kick, "no-good," kick, "waste of space," kick.
You don't curl up. If she wants to kick you to death, that's her prerogative, as your handler.
"I know you told her your name," she says as a final kick lands to your stomach. "I know, and I will find you, and I will cut out that blabbering tongue of yours."
That's her prerogative.
"And I'll teach your new 'friend' what being so close to you entails."
That gets a reaction from you. "No, please, don't hurt her—"
Kick.
"Already attached?" she sneers. "I'll make sure you see her battered corpse."
—
You jolt awake. It's the dead of night. Your handler is nowhere to be seen.
Through the walls, you see Freddie's heat outline, lying in her bed. You're gasping for air.
'If you need anything, just holler.'
Your heart is beating out of your chest. Your handler will know you told her your name. She always knows. Freddie is in danger. You put her in danger.
Stay quiet and try to go back to sleep.
Call out to Freddie.
Get out of bed and go to Freddie's room to seek comfort.
Get out of bed and run. She's not safe while you're here.
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that's like. Biblically Accurate Drug. You are just stimulating the fucking nerves. You are playing with The Pleasure Root. You try it once and you crave this shit your whole life after. There is no return. This is a one way ticket. You can do this just once for one second to a person and get them into depression for life. All in all dont. You Dont want it. Dont do Ultimate Perfect Drug kids.
Whumpee stiffened, tears starting to form in his eyes at just the thought. He was already so cold…
“Here, follow me, it’s just down the hall here.” Caretaker led the way, and Whumpee followed, confused.
In the house? Wouldn’t that make a mess?
Caretaker opened a door, and he looked around for a hose, maybe a stall or something but-
“I think a bath will do you some good,” Caretaker was already leaned over the tub, getting the water started, “It’s not like we’re in a rush.”
He paused, eyes flicking around from Caretakers hand, testing the water, to the tub, to the rest of the room. He knew what a bath was, theoretically, but…
Wasn’t it a waste?
“Is that…okay?” Caretaker had seen his expression, and he hurriedly nodded.
“I’ll do anything you’d like me to do, sir.” He was ready with his answer, this question was easy-
Wait.
Caretakers brow furrowed and they straightened up. “Well, that’s fine, but I’m asking about you, bud. You okay?”
He swallowed hard. “I- I mean, you could just, spray me off with the hose, I don’t need- I don’t deserve anything special or anything, sir…” He tried not to let on how much he wanted this... That wasn’t important.
“Spray you- What? No, no no no,” Caretaker waved their hands, shaking their head, “You’re not a dog, you- You deserve a bath, a real bath, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you or-or anything, sir…”
“None taken, just…” Caretaker turned off the water, now that it had risen over halfway up the sides of the tub, “Just take your time, get warmed up, and- and get used to it. No more hoses, okay?”
He tried to speak but his words got stuck in his throat, so he nodded frantically and hoped it was enough.
Thank you, thank you thank you thank you…
“Alright. I’ll leave some clothes outside the door for you.”
And with that, they were gone, and he was alone.
His numb hands struggled with his shirt buttons, so after undoing the top one, he just pulled his shirt off over his head, the rest of his clothes joining the pile soon after.
Carefully, one hand gripping the edge of the tub, he stepped into the water.
Two tears hit the waters surface as he climbed the rest of the way in, the warmth soaking all the way to his bones.
It was better than he had even hoped.
The water lapped at his shoulders, easing the ache in his knees, his hips, across his back. He leaned against the back of the tub and let his head fall back, eyes closing.
He could have stayed like that for hours.
But, he knew he didn’t have that kind of time, and he wasn’t about to push his luck any further.
It was still luxurious though, to scrub the dirt and grime from his skin slowly, carefully around cuts and bruises, instead of just trying to get as clean as possible under the cold spray. To work the soap through his hair and rinse till it came clean, to not be half blinded by water and soap in his eyes.
Caretaker knocked, calling through that they’d found him some pajamas.
“Thank you, sir, thank you so much-“ his voice cracked, and he wished he had a better way to express just how grateful he was.
He’s done too soon, the water gone grey, but he sits for just one more moment. Just a little longer.
His eyes rest on the door. On the other side of it, there were clean clothes for him to wear… and someone who had been very very kind to him for no reason.
The smarter, more cynical side of him knows he should be suspicious, but…
Please… please let me be enough to stay.
He’d do anything they wanted, he’d go so far, it was already worth it, please just let them want something he could give.
Anything.
Reluctantly, he pulled himself up and out of the water, shivering as he dried off and dressed. The pajamas were warm, only slightly too big, and soft, softer than anything he’d ever worn before.
For a moment he stood in the doorway, bracing himself. No matter what they did to him, wanted from him, took from him now, he was better prepared for it, and he was grateful.
that's like. Biblically Accurate Drug. You are just stimulating the fucking nerves. You are playing with The Pleasure Root. You try it once and you crave this shit your whole life after. There is no return. This is a one way ticket. You can do this just once for one second to a person and get them into depression for life. All in all dont. You Dont want it. Dont do Ultimate Perfect Drug kids.
that's like. Biblically Accurate Drug. You are just stimulating the fucking nerves. You are playing with The Pleasure Root. You try it once and you crave this shit your whole life after. There is no return. This is a one way ticket. You can do this just once for one second to a person and get them into depression for life. All in all dont. You Dont want it. Dont do Ultimate Perfect Drug kids.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
It was a huge milestone of scientific and technological advancement. (Plus, at the time, politically significant). Humanity went to space! We set foot on a celestial body that was not earth for the first time in human history! That’s a big deal! I’ve never thought about it before but now that I have, it’s ridiculous to me that that’s not part of our everyday lives and the public consciousness anymore. Why don’t we have a public holiday and a family barbecue about it. Why have I never seen the original broadcast of the moon landing? It should be all over the news every year!
It’s July 20th. That’s the day of the moon landing. Next year is going to be the 54th anniversary. I’m ordering astronaut shaped cookie cutters on Etsy and I’m going to have a goddamn potluck. You’re all invited.
PITCH: We call it Moon Day, and then every 7 years when it falls on a Monday, that's an even BIGGER deal and we call that Moon Day Monday and go absolutely apeshit about it (the next Moon Day Monday is in 2026 so we have a couple trial runs first)
that's like. Biblically Accurate Drug. You are just stimulating the fucking nerves. You are playing with The Pleasure Root. You try it once and you crave this shit your whole life after. There is no return. This is a one way ticket. You can do this just once for one second to a person and get them into depression for life. All in all dont. You Dont want it. Dont do Ultimate Perfect Drug kids.
that's like. Biblically Accurate Drug. You are just stimulating the fucking nerves. You are playing with The Pleasure Root. You try it once and you crave this shit your whole life after. There is no return. This is a one way ticket. You can do this just once for one second to a person and get them into depression for life. All in all dont. You Dont want it. Dont do Ultimate Perfect Drug kids.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, bodymod, rocky recovery, comfort
"Please..." you mumble, tears gathering in your eyes. "I don't know what to do..."
Everything in you screams to leave. It's dangerous. You've already revealed more than you wanted to, by complete accident. How can you know you won't compromise the entire mission of the facility by just staying here and blabbering?
You hear Freddie push back her chair and stand again. She rounds the table and stands next to you, but she doesn't touch you.
"Can I... Can I hug you?" she asks timidly.
A hug. You haven't been hugged in... ever. It sounds... good, right now. To be in the arms of someone caring, even if that care is contingent upon—
No. You don't want care like that.
"You just want to—" You hiccup. "You just want to find out more, and I won't tell you more, so just— just leave me be and let me go—"
"No," she says gently. "I don't care about any of that right now. You're distressed, and I want to make it better. You look like you could use a hug."
She's manipulating you, a voice in the back of your mind that sounds an awful lot like your handler whispers.
You slowly lower your hands. She's looking at you with compassion. Manipulative or not, you just... You want a hug. Is that so selfish?
Yes. Yes it is.
Still, before you can change your mind, you nod. Freddie steps closer and envelops you in a gentle hug. Her arms around you feel warm and her scent is just the same as what lingered on the jacket, just a little stronger. You hug her back, clumsily, like, well, like you've never done this before.
"It's okay," Freddie murmurs. "I'll keep you safe from whoever it is you're afraid of, okay?"
How could she? A whole organisation of trained assassins, all after the same goal: to kill the traitor. How could she ever keep you safe from that?
You just have to make sure you don't become a traitor.
Freddie slowly pulls away. "Better?" she asks with a smile.
Well... This solves nothing, but... "Yes. Thank you, Freddie."
"I'll set up the guest bedroom for you."
"But you haven't finished the—"
"I can eat after. Do you want to take a shower while I do that?"
You hate showers. The cold water doing nothing to make the deep ache in your bones go away, the careful maintenance of your metallic arm after one, it's all a hassle and...
But you can't just inhabit the guest bedroom dirty.
"Yes. Thank you."
Freddie smiles at you. "Okay. I'll show you where the bathroom is, and I'll bring you a clean towel and pyjamas."
You spend longer in the bathroom towelling your prosthetic dry than you actually spend in the ice cold water. You clench and unclench your fingers, and for the first time, you wonder what will become of this arm now that there's no one around to maintain it. Will it eventually just stop working, leaving you with one arm and a useless piece of metal hanging limply by your left side?
You try not to think about it. It feels impossible.
The pink pyjamas Freddie laid out for you are soft and warm, a little big on your frame. You don't mind. After spending 20 years sleeping in the most uncomfortable but practical pyjamas you could imagine, this feels quite... luxurious.
You step out of the bathroom to find Freddie still in the guest bedroom, arranging pillows. "Ah," she says when she sees you. "You're done. I'm almost done as well."
So many pillows. Such a soft-looking blanket. Luxury, luxury, luxury. You don't deserve any of this.
You can still change your mind. Change out of the pyjamas, run far away so Freddie can never find you again, protect yourself and the facility.
But you're tired. The promise of another sandwich the next day is — embarrassingly — enough to make you want to stay.
"Are you okay?" she asks, and you realise you've been spacing out. "Sorry about the pjs, I—"
"No," you cut in gently. "They're perfect. This room is perfect. I just... I don't understand..." Tears threaten to well up in your eyes again. "Why are you doing all this for me, if you won't even try to get information out of me?"
