#carewhump

CW: Non-consensual female nudity (non descriptive) whipping, HEAVY religion mention, this story kinda revolves around it tbh

“Say it,” Father Jobe commanded of her as he cracked the leather strap down against her bare front.

Lenoir grunted out her affirmation. “I am a worthless waste of God’s gift of life.”

“Next.” Father snapped with another crack.

“I am useless and deserve to be corrected, fixed, and molded.”

“Next.” Another crack.

“I am grateful for the chances I have been gifted to fix the mistake of my birth.”

Lenoir was in so much pain. Her wrist ached from the chains that kept her strung up to the ceiling of the church’s basement. Father Jobe looked completely apathetic as he whipped her with the thick and heavy leather. Welts were breaking and bleeding. Lenoir couldn’t count, not while she was busy saying her affirmations. She wanted to be good. She needed to be good. 

Another crack against her skin burned like fire. Lenoir sobbed. “I…I-“ she couldn’t go on. It hurt too much. 

Crack. Crack crack.

Lenoir screamed. 

“Suffering is your teacher when you refuse to learn, you pathetic stain on this beautiful world,” Father Jobe snarled. “Now say the next affirmation.”

“I do-n’t deserve to l-l-live.”

“Again!” 

“I-I-I don’t de-serve to live.”

The strap came down across her face. 

“That’s right, you don’t. If you don’t pray and fix this problem of yours, we will wipe your pathetic excuse for a life off this earth. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Father Jobe.”

“Good girl. Now what do we say when we have been corrected?”

Lenoir struggled to keep her voice strong and clear. But it was weak, like her, and it shook with the effort of speaking through her sore face and bleeding body. “Thank you…for the correction. I-I will do my best to not fail you.”

Father Jobe turned his back and marched out of the torture chamber. 

Lenoir snagged onto the hold of the chains. Her shoulder ached with the effort of keeping her balanced on her tippy toes. Her whole body shook as she bled. She tried to breathe through the pain. Pain was good. It was what kept her human. Otherwise, her curse would take over, and she would become the monster that Satan was trying to turn her into. The bearings and whippings were God’s work. She knew that well. The more pain, the safer she was and the farther away from Satan’s curse she became. 

She sat in the silence, the blood and faint screaming from her past rushing into her ears. It was stronger after a correction. She could make out the voices. Screaming, pleading. She was causing pain. That’s all she did, cause pain to others. The corrections were good, needed, necessary. Necessary. She could not turn into a monster. 

The door to the torture chamber creaked open, and Lenoir didn’t have to raise her head to know who it was. An hour after each correction, every day Lenoir always received a visitor. 

“Hi, Len.” Melenie said softly. 

Lenoir looked at her friend and companion softly. “Hi, Melenie.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Melenie softly reached up and caressed the welt on Lenoir’s face with a puzzled expression. “What did you do?”

“I couldn’t get through all of my affirmations without stuttering again,” Lenoir answered, shame welling up inside of her. She wanted Father Jobe to come back, to offer her another chance to get through her affirmations, to correct her behavior. To be good. 

Melenie clicked her tongue in irritation. She went to the side of the chamber and lowered the hook that held Lenoir’s chains to the ground. It was a slow descent, but Lenoir still couldn’t get her feet under her to support herself. She collapsed onto her knees with her wrists still hanging above her head. 

Melenie bent on one knee Lenoir in front of Lenoir. She looked too beautiful. She always did. And Lenoir was terrible and hideous and cursed. Melenie dug her fingers into Lenoir’s hair and twisted. Lenoir tensed at the pain. “Will you do better for me than for Father Jobe?”

“Yes,” Lenoir said without hesitation. It wasn’t really for anyone, except God. But Father Jobe (rightfully) hated her, and Melenie didn’t.

The soft hand holding her hair released. Melenie gently kissed Lenoir’s forehead and carded her fingers through Lenoir’s messy tangles. “Good.”

Melenie let Lenoir go and turned into her cleaning kit. She always came in to clean Lenoir up after a correction, so Lenoir was ready to return to the chapel and pray until night fell, and she was escorted to her room to sleep. Lenoir loved this part of her day the best. She loved spending time with Melenie, who was least so gentle despite Lenoir’s monstrous nature. 

“We have to clean you up first so you don’t get infected.” Melenie took out a bottle that looked like water, but Lenoir knew better. Once the pale woman undid the cap, a rancid, acidic solution filled the chamber and singed the hair in Lenoir’s nose. She took deep breaths of it to steady herself against the pain that was to come.

Working slowly and methodically, Melenie poured the vinegar onto a rag stained pink with blood and wiped it in each of Lenoir’s wounds. Lenoir bit her lip; she knew the pain, but it still hurt. She knew all of the pain the monastics gave her, but it still hurt. It was supposed to. The hurt was why there was pain. Hurt would chase away the curse. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” Melenie whispered. Lenoir glowed from the inside and smiled despite the rough cloth and acid burning in her open flesh. 

Slowly, each of her wounds was cleaned with the blood and flecks of dirt wiped out. Lastly, the welt on her face. Melenie cleaned it with the rough and bloody cloth, then went along and kissed the length of it. 

“Does that feel better?” She asked. 

Lenoir swallowed. “Yes. I’m cleaner now. Better.”

“Better,” Melenie agreed. She pulled away and started to return her supplies to her kit. “But not good enough. Not yet.” 

“I’ll work harder,” Lenoir promised. She wanted to be good. She needed to be. 

Melenie stood again and went to the crank. She let Lenoir down the rest of the way, and Lenoir gasped with the relief that flooded through her shoulders. “Father Jobe wasn’t satisfied with you today,” Melanie said. 

“I know.” 

“He doesn’t think you should eat.”

Lenoir’s health sank. She didn’t like the starvation punishments. She always felt like control was harder when she was hungry. 

“But.” Melenie put her two fingers under Lenoir’s chin and tilted it up so her soft brown eyes met Lenoir’s strange blue ones. “I want to keep you strong, so you can keep fighting and get better. I’ll see if I can bring you some meat and cheese tonight after everyone has gone to sleep.”

Lenoir’s breath hitched. “Thank you,” she hurried to say. “ “Thank you. I love you. Thank you.”

Melenie chuckled and lightly pecked Lenoir on her dry lips. 

The first thing Whumpee registered was the cold. It was everywhere, bone-deep, from the air on their face to the sinking feeling in their chest. It was nothing near where they last remembered being, their normal café just a block down from their house, having stopped by on the way home from work. Warm wood tones and slow jazz playing over speakers replaced with cracked, dusty floorboards and eery silence. Even the air felt thick, oppressive, haunted.

Their mind scampered, eyes darting from surface to ceiling to crevice, investigating any shadow-obscured corner for a hint of what brought them there, where they were, what had happened. They chanced a shift of their arms to find that they were bound by what felt like duct tape. Their eyes widened at the realization, even as they tried to use their bound arms to push themself up off the floor.

Across the space, a door began to rattle, lock clicking and rusted hinges squealing in protest as they swung open for what sounded like the first time in years. Whumpee's eyes shot to the now open doorway as they prepared themself for a fight, body tense, shaky, aching after however long they were on the floor for.

A shadow filled the space left open by the door, illuminated from the back by the same full moon that revealed a heavy mist and what may have been the silhouette of trees. Whumpee shivered again. Something clattered to the ground, a curse rang out, and then the room was bathed in light, a single swinging bulb from the ceiling shining down upon the figure across from them.

Whumper shivered, movements exaggerated by the dramatic lighting. Their eyes settled upon Whumpee, then, and rushed towards them. Whumpee tensed for the moment it took them to get from the entry of the shed to where Whumpee sat in a heap on the ground core muscles straining to keep them upright. All Whumper did, though was offer a blanket and a look of something not unlike concern on their face.

"You poor thing -- I'm so sorry. I was getting the house ready, I wasn't expecting you so soon -- you must be so cold." Whumper wrapped the blanket around Whumpee's shivering shoulders. Warmth seeped from the blanket, leeched by the frigid surrounding air, almost like it'd just been taken out of the dryer.

"Let me get you up--" Whumper drew a knife -- wicked, serrated, and flecked in something that may have been blood. Whumpee's heart pounded in their ears and they began to writhe and maneuver themselves farther away from the blade on instinct; Whumper kept them still through a vice like grip on their arm. Whumper held their tongue between their teeth in concentration, brows furrowed. Whumpee could smell the coffee and sweat and rubbing alcohol.

Whumpee felt the metal of the knife graze their arm and jerked forward in panic, driving their forehead into Whumper's shoulder. It threw them to the side long enough for Whumpee to pull free of the rest of the tape, cutting themselves in the process.

They slammed into the floor before they had the chance to inch closer to the door, pinned to the dusty wood once again by Whumper's weight and unrelenting grip. Whumpee let out a squeak of surprise, wincing as the wooden ground scraped against their cheek.

Whumper seemed hardly phased, though, yanking Whumpee up by their hair and exposing the back of their neck. The cool, humid night air sent more chills down their spine -- although, that may just be the knife -- and they momentarily lamented the loss of the blanket.

"Careful, now." Whumper reached for the blade again, examining the new streaks of red from the brief struggle. Whumpee had barely even noticed the crimson trails down their arms. They were no longer duct taped to whatever had kept them down -- Whumpee hadn't wanted to take their eyes off Whumper long enough to glance behind them -- but they were still bound together.

Whumper looked back from the blade, flicked it back into half, and slid it into a pocket. Their eyes refocused on Whumpee, still trying to stand. Their head was still spinning. A deflated sigh. "We'll do this the hard way, then."

A/N - Different tag list for this because it's a different genre. To be added to my master tag list, please click [here]

“Sorry ‘bout earlier.” 

Whumper waved an apple in front of Whumpee’s face, shiny, bright red and perfect. But Whumpee sat in place catatonically, staring straight forward at the wall behind Whumper.

“Hey. Look at me bud.” 

Whumpee paid him no mind.

The tall man tried to swallow his annoyance. He knew it was important for Whumpee to feel safe and relaxed right now, but it wasn’t in his nature to be so… understanding. He was the impatient type, and the silent act was his least favorite form of passive aggression. 

“Hellooooooo.”

Whumpee shot a poisonous look up to Whumper, grimacing.

Whumper raked his nails across Whumpee’s neck, dragging them into the delicate flesh. It wasn't enough to draw blood, but enough to force a sharp gasp as Whumpee recoiled, scrambling backward. 

Fuck! Goddamn it!!!! He lost his fucking temper again. He didn't mean to. Why does this keep happening?!

You know that carewhumper trope where the caretaker has to hurt the whumpee in order to help them? Like, forcing an oxygen mask on a struggling whumpee who thinks they're being drugged or rebreaking the whumpee's bone so it can heal properly (anesthetic unavailable)?

Four words: historically accurate medical whump

I'm talking leeching, bleeding, blistering, those glass cups that were heated up and placed on the skin to burn it.

The whumpee is burning up with a nasty fever so the caretaker cuts their skin to drain away the excess humours, and whumpee has to be held down the whole time because it hurts.

The whumpee has a terrible headache that will not go away so the caretaker puts some leeches on their brain while repeating "this will help, eventually, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

The caretaker is actually just torturing the whumpee, but they think they are helping. Whumpee thinks it will help. But it doesn't, of course. It just makes a bad thing worse for no reason.

Bonus points if we, the readers, know it isn't going to work, and there is an air of tragedy about the whole thing. If only they could know...

Bonus bonus points if years later new medical research reveals that those techniques were actually making things worse, and the caretaker and/or whumpee finds out and has to grapple with the implications, the medical trauma, realizing that all that pain and torture was all for nothing.

before next

warnings; noncon touch, anxiety, touch aversion, carewhumper

Amir woke up to touch. Gentle touch, no doubt, but touch nonetheless. And touch was dangerous. Maybe if he leaned into it his master would get bored and leave him alone?

No, the hand stayed. But his master made a contented noise so he was clearly doing something right. The hand finally went away and he could sleep again. But no, now he wawa awake. Now he had to stay alert. 

He opened his eyes and found his master working on a stack of paperwork next to him. Had he moved his office into this tiny room to be with amir? Why? Wasn't he just a nuisance?

His master turned towards him, and finally registered that he was awake, “Good morning! How did you sleep?”

“Fine, sir. Thank you for asking,” he really didn’t want to talk right now, but he knew better than to be rude.

“Good. I'm glad you got some rest. You seemed like you needed it.” Why would his master care?

All he could do was I've a weak nod in response.

“I realized while you were asleep I never got your name. Would you like to tell me?” A choice. An option to keep his identity, or hide behind a new one. No, this master would not get his name.

“You can call me whatever you’d like sir.”

“I don’t want to call you anything, I want to know how you’d prefer to be addressed.” no. no this was a trick. Amir knew better than to trust this.

“Most of my masters named me sir.”