#augusnippets

intimate whumper

Whumpee is chained to the wall, the cold metal has rubbed his wrists and ankles raw. When Whumper quietly comes into the room, he flinches. 

“Shhh,” Whumper hushes gently as he approaches. 

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Whumpee is shaking his head, curling in on himself, ducking his head down. 

“Oh, my beautiful thing, please don’t hide from me.” And somehow Whumper actually sounds hurt. As if it actually bothers him to have Whumpee shy away from him like this. 

Whumper is close. He kneels, and Whumpee can feel his body heat—his warmth—and craves it. 

He’s disgusted with himself for wanting it. 

“I’m here now,” Whumper reassures as if his presence is a wanted thing. As if he’s the balm to the wound instead of the knife. 

Days of torture and little sleep have caused Whumpee’s inhibitions to crumble like the Tower of Babel, and a fearful whimper passes through his lips without his consent. 

“Oh, my pet. You make such beautiful noises for me. Such a gift, and I haven’t even started.” 

A firm yet gentle grip on his chin has Whumpee tilting his head up to meet Whumper’s eyes. 

Whumper is staring at him with awe like he’s a shepherd in Bethlehem seeing the angels tell him of Christ’s birth. 

No one has ever looked at Whumpee like this. 

Whumpee’s eyes flutter closed, and he hears Whumper’s sharp intake of breath. 

Warm hands are on his shoulders. They pull him flush against Whumper, and he feels so warm and soft that Whumpee falls into him willingly. Whumper’s hands skate down Whumpee’s ribcage. Whumper holds him close. Tightly but not rough. 

One of Whumper’s hands slips under Whumpee’s shirt. There’s a half-second where Whumpee feels the cold press of the blade before the pain. 

Whumpee isn’t quite sure what sound he makes when the blade penetrates his skin, the pain floods his senses and blots out everything except Whumper’s warmth. 

Whumpee grips onto Whumper’s shirt. All he can do is hold on and ride out the pain. This is how Whumper likes it. 

Whumper has tortured him sharp and slicing and ruthlessly fast, but Whumpee soon realized if he allows the broken noises to escape and reaches to Whumper for comfort, Whumper will slow down. He’ll hold Whumpee. He’ll hold him like he’s something rare and precious. Valuable. 

“Shhh, shhh,” Whumper says. He begins rocking them slightly, the blade stabbing deeper and deeper into Whumpee with the movements. 

Quiet, devastated noises erupt from Whumpee’s throat each time the blade sinks in farther. 

Whumper presses gentle kisses to Whumpee’s head. The touch is light like a ghost. Ethereal. 

“Your beauty is magnificent,” Whumper praises. “There is nothing in all of creation like you.” 

Whumper drops the blade with a clink before his hands are under Whumpee’s shirt again. He traces the newest wound with so much reverence it would make a saint jealous. 

cw: dub/noncon drugging, referenced broken bones, implied substance dependency, dissociation

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 472

=~=~=

They bring him water, and he drinks.

It's tainted. Spiked with something; he could tell from the first sip, yet accepted it anyway.

He knows he needs it. Without it, he'll die.

People who weren't his team dragged him screaming from the rubble, tossed him in the trunk of a car with no regard for his damaged leg, left him to drown in the pain. They gave him a water bottle when they tossed him in a cell, and at the time, he was stupidly grateful for the numbing substance it was laced with. Dulling the world, granting him distance from the agony that wanted to devour him.

But now he's lying on the same concrete, and he doesn't know how long it's been. He hasn't had the mental presence to remember to check his leg, to set it and bind it with a makeshift splint. He hasn't had the capacity to plan, or pay attention to where he is, how many there are, when they change shifts.

They bring him water, and he drinks, wits too sluggish to let him stop himself, head growing fuzzy as the substance pulls him down, down, down.

Deep below the muddled surface, the spy wants to move, to deny himself the tainted food and water so he can think again. But the creature the substance turns him into only wants to sleep. To hide from the world, from the hurting. It only wants to drink, and when the fuzziness starts to fade, it wants more. 

It's always the worst just before the guards appear with another bottle. Head throbbing, body shivering with the chill of the room, leg on fire. (It's splinted? When did that happ–)

The creature whimpers when it sees the bottle, extended out as if the guard is giving it a gift. Takes it with trembling hands, heart beating faster and faster as it struggles to unscrew the cap. Relief is so close, so close. It spills some of the water when the cap at last comes loose, but doesn't care, holding the bottle to its mouth and drinking deeply. (No no no stop, stop—)

The fog wafts up, and the creature slips into it. Down, down, down.

It's always the worst just before the guards appear with another bottle, but it's when the spy can nearly think.

He and the creature share a goal. Escape. 

His method is nearly impossible. Full of pain, but permanent. Needed.

Its method is easy, soft, painless. Slip away, let it all go. Forget it all. Every loss, every pain, every person he does and doesn't miss.

Every time, the spy resolves to fight, even as he's sweating and shivering from pain, from need.

Every time, he falls short. It knows it needs it. Without it, it will die.

Day 1: gaslighting, hypnosis, brainwashing

Whumpee was face down on the ground heaving in gulps of air and dust and whatever else littered the concrete floor beneath them. They showed no signs of getting up or even trying. Whumper stepped back a little, admiring the beating he’d just dished out. Restraints weren’t even necessary anymore. Whumpee never even tried to fight back, not for quite sometime now.

“What did you do to deserve this?” Whumper mused.

“What?” Whumpee coughed out a few moments later, lifting their head to wipe the blood and saliva from their mouth.

“You’re religious aren’t you? I hear you down here sometimes, praying. You find God in here or did you bring Him with you?”

“No, I-“ Whumpee swallowed hard, “it’s from before.”

“So what did you do? To deserve me?” Whumper had no idea if this would work or not. But Whumpee’s mind was ripe for fucking. Starved of food and water, of light and any human interaction that wasn’t pain.

Whumpee finally started to push themself up to their knees.

“That’s not how it works,” they said, eyes lowered.

“No? You don’t think so? You can’t think of one thing you’ve done deserving of hell? Even one on earth? Come on, you think the universe would allow something like me to happen to you if you didn’t deserve it at least a little?”

Whumpee looked up at him with new eyes. Guilty, shameful eyes.

“I can absolve you, sweetheart, I can free you from all of this. But you have to admit

to me, and to yourself, that you deserve it.”

Whumpee looked down again. Whumper cocked his head and spoke.

“Do you deserve this?”

“No,”

“Whumpee…” he was so close he could fucking taste it.

Whumpee covered their face with their hands, but Whumper could still hear their little tear-soaked voice.

Prompts used: warm blanket, snuggling

CW: hurt/comfort

Whumpee wrapped themselves tighter and tighter in the blanket with each new thunder that sounded. It seemed so close, they could swear they felt the shock of the lightning's electricity through their body. With each new booming sound, they flinched as if they had been hit, until they disappeared under the covers, looking like a quivering little ball of fur.

Caretaker entered the room and chuckled to themselves when they saw Whumpee's condition. They approached and knelt on the floor, to be at the height of their friend, who was on the sofa. They lay forward, wrapping their arms around Whumpee. The scared little ball of fur stopped shaking.

CW: 2nd pov from whumper's perspective, brainwashing (obvi), general Gothic whump

In the shadowy dining room, whumpee sits alone, candlelight flickering across his expressionless face. His folded hands lie motionless in his lap. His eyes stare at nothing, two blank windows that open into emptiness.

Perfection. Just what you always wanted. A beautiful, flawless doll of your own.

“My dear whumpee,” you murmur, “I see all our hard work has paid off. You look exquisite.” Gently, you brush the back of your hand against his collar and down his silk vest. Its embroidery glimmers like stars.

Whumpee remains statue-still at your touch. Just what you always wanted.

“Not a single thought in your head,” you muse aloud, walking around whumpee to examine him from all angles. “Of course I can always change that if I want. But for now, this emptiness is—”

With an echoing crash, the door to the dining room slams open. Caretaker. The ferocious glint in his eyes delights you. Such a contrast to the magnificent blankness sitting before you.

“You’re too late, as usual.” You stride forward, shielding your precious whumpee from view. “I’ve already completed the process. And only I can reverse it. If I choose.”

“Then do it,” caretaker growls, drawing his weapon, “or I’ll make you beg for death.”

How silly. Threats mean nothing to you now, in the wake of your triumph. You step aside, revealing whumpee’s seated form, frozen and lifeless as if made of porcelain. Caretaker gasps and rushes forward.

“And why would I undo this,” you ask, gesturing at whumpee, “when at last I’ve created the perfect living doll?”

Chosen Prompt: Protective Caretaker

CW: past violence; implied past non-con; non-con touch

“Get away from them,” bites Caretaker. All it took was a momentary glimpse, the party in full swing in the very next room. Whumpee’s birthday. They’d insisted they didn’t want celebrations, all that attention like a spotlight upon them. It’s been like that since The Incident, the one Whumpee has barely spoken of. They turned up one night, darkest hours of the morning, bloodied and bruised and trembling badly. Their knees had buckled in the doorway. Caretaker had urged them to come to the hospital, then respected them when they refused. Caretaker brought them clean clothes instead, stayed with them in the bathroom while the water ran red.

Augusnippets Day 8

Reunion/Friends

Rated: general

Warnings: none

———

Hiccup would have run to Toothless if he could have, but he was still chained hand and foot. Still, a smile lit his face and his chest felt warm and bright for the first time in months.

“Toothless!” he called as his dragon rushed into his cell.

He felt like he couldn’t smile wide enough to show how he felt.

Rescued. He was being rescued, and by none other than his best friend, the one his heart ached for with each beat and pound.

Toothless ran to him, cooing and gurgling, and making some other noise that Hiccup had never heard from him before. It was easy enough to decipher though:

“I found you! You’re safe now! You’re safe!”

Hiccup sobbed and tried to move his arms in his shackles as Toothless butted his head against his. They let their foreheads linger together, breathing hard in the ecstasy of their reunion.