Whumpee couldn't help but sob to themself. They were alone in the dark, completely abandoned. Caretaker had left the behind hours--or was it days?--ago in their escape. Caretaker hadn't wanted to leave Whumpee behind. But they had no choice. Whumpee couldn't walk after Whumper had broken their ankle. They stared at the swollen joint and sobbed harder. They couldn't even pull their arms up to wipe their cheeks.
It was awful. There was nothing they could do. No one to help them. They were so completely alone.
The door to the cell opened suddenly, "Whumpee!" Caretaker called out. "Whumpee, I'm back! I've got help with me, too!"
Whumpee sobbed harder. "You....You came back for me?"
Caretaker hurried over. "Did...did you think I wouldn't?"
Whumpee nodded, unable to speak.
Caretaker's face fell as they started to unchain Whumpee. "Love, I will always come for you. No matter what."
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Whumpee flinched at the sound of the door opening, curling up and shrinking away as much as their cuffs allowed them to. It wasn't much.
They whimpered when something touched them, waiting for the pain to start again. But the hand... it was gentle.
Their blindfold was pulled away, and Whumpee squinted into the light to see-
Caretaker.
Whumpee sobbed in relief, leaning into Caretaker's hand as they pulled the gag out of their mouth.
"C-caretaker, y-you came-" they gasped, disbelief clear in their eyes.
"Shush, it's alright, I've got you," Caretaker reassured, moving to work on the cuffs securing Whumpee's hands to the wall. "Everything's gonna be fi-"
They were cut off by the sound of gunshots in the hallway, deafeningly loud. Someone was calling Caretaker's name, loud and panicked.
Caretaker paled, turning to the cuffs with a sort of desperation Whumpee had never seen before. "Damn lock won't give," they whispered under their breath, brow furrowing.
"Caretaker, where are you?!" The shout came from through the open door, and Caretaker glanced over with a wince. "We got the plans. We need to get out of here. NOW!"
Caretaker bit back a swear word, giving the lock a few more desperate tugs. "M'sorry," they gasped, and when Whumpee met their eyes, they understood.
"N-no, wait caretaker, pleas-"
Bang!
Caretaker swallowed down a sob. "I-I'll be back," they promised shakily, before standing-
turning-
running-
away-
leaving Whumpee behind.
Alone.
They stared at that door as the sounds of escape faded away, dreading the moment Whumper would return again.
Because this time, they couldn't even hope for rescue.
oof, so this was an angsty one, folks. 😢😢😢 i went and made a sad prompt - @whumpmasinjuly day six: left behind - even sadder than it already was and in the process, i penned a big part of my boy morja’s backstory, so i’m gonna tag the story crew on this one. 🥺🥺🥺
CW: Grief, death of a loved one, dehumanization, just…big sads in this one, folks.
title insp. by the poem “my dead friends” by marie howe - “billy’s already gone through the frightening door, whatever he says, i’ll do.”
~
Diathésimós don’t have graves.
The fallen must pay for a grave, or their families must, and graves are, they say, costly. Plots of land which could hold a house or a slot of gardened flowers or a new statue does not need to hold a patch of dirt and a stone. The ashes are poured into the wind, as disposable as they were in life. It is rare that a family, if the dead still have one, can afford to pay for the body’s return. It is rare, indeed, for one to ask.
That doesn't mean their deaths are not marked by those who knew them.
There is a stone, innocuous and small, where the dead are honored. Some write names down on the stone. Others don’t bother.
There is one marking, one stone, Morja waits to visit. Part of it might be that he doesn't have to leave until he does this thing he must not neglect.
It’s more than just the stone, of course. It would be silly to think of that only. There are places Morja won’t see again where she would go. Where she took comfort. And not seeing these places anymore will be the drag of a knife out from where it lodged. And he will pack the spot with rags to stop it from bleeding, field medicine, how well he knows how to do that. How to plug up a wound and keep walking. Don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll fall.
But there’s…a way only she could find something pretty in this place. Like, there was a spot by the fountain in the courtyard where a stubborn plant grew. And it would get ripped out, an eyesore, nobody intended for this little purple flower to grow between cracks in the base of that marble foundation. But the dirt underneath was strong, Morja supposes, and Roe encouraged it, is the thing. She kept nudging aside the little shiny seashells that surrounded the root - decorative, ceramic, gleaming, imported from some shop to look more perfect than real shells, no sharp edges or rough surfaces. Morja remembers what a real seashell feels like. No, he doesn’t. But his maybe-memory is rougher than the shells in this courtyard. He knows this, at least, in the way he knows when an opponent is about to strike.
But the purple stays caught in a sunbeam, is the problem. The shaft of daylight through the pillars hits the water as it sparkles and it hits the flower too. The water from the fountain falls on the patch of land bared by Roe’s hands. Somehow, it stays and stays. Somehow, it outlives her. Everything else has, after all.
This is, of course, where Roe’s stone lies.
Where else would Morja have put it? The dead are dead, of course they are. Gone is gone and bodies are bodies, hollow bullet casings, no powder, no spark. Useless to collect, more useless to hold onto. But Roe wanted a stone. She would have wanted a stone, probably, certainly, yes.
It is past the alcove with the missing statue where Roe perched, sweat-drenched from long training, or bleeding from a hit, tucked into the space once filled by the bust of a marble head. The space has stayed hollow, still, and on a dark night like this, Morja could imagine, if he were to try, that the black lines of her body melted into the hole in the wall. That maybe she were there, long-limbed and tiny, clambering up in there to nap.
He told her so often not to.
What if she got caught?
Her bright, black eyes would shine and she would say that until the statue took her place, this was her spot.
Hers. Like she’d laid claim to it. So stupid. Nothing was theirs, she could never understand that.
Past the alcove, still empty, Morja’s quiet steps go past the vine full of berries he was never brave enough to eat. Never disobedient enough. Of course. She got hit for taking the berries and she got more careful at taking them. Those berries weren’t hers to take, just because she watered the vines.
The rows of women (goddesses, Morja was told) tall and imposing and cool to the touch, their eyes looking down to keep watch on the garden, on its dwellers, and Morja would shiver sometimes when he was younger, passing by them, because what if they saw him misbehave? What if their marble fingers pointed at him in accusation?
Roe looked up and tilted her head, one foot angled like the goddess with a bow and an arrow, elbow crooked just so, Roe so good with her aim, as good a shot as Morja, even so young. Her palms swipe sweat off, passing over the flat expanse of her torso, tugging at the close-fitting training shirt, and twisting it to match the ripples in the fabric.
It will wrinkle, Morja fretted quietly.
Do you think I could pull off a look like that? Roe asked,
The marble’s paint is fresh and gleaming, blue cloth draped elegantly over one shoulder, baring the breast beneath the other, her body small and yet powerful, royal, gold glinting on the folds of her skirt and the twists of her sandals.
I don’t think we could ever wear anything that…nice, Morja had answered.
Of course she could have. That’s what he should have said. He didn’t want to raise her hopes. He didn’t- she would have looked royal and powerful as Athena.
The huntress looks down at Morja, out when he should not be, and he doesn't shiver anymore. He doesn’t quail before imaginary eyes as he kneels at the base of the fountain, the moon shining silver on the purple petals. Other hands have pushed the shells aside since- since the stone was placed behind the blossom. The crude shape of an animal drawn with a shaky hand, white paint on a black rock, traces the outline of tiny hooves, spindly legs, the body of a deer.
Morja doesn’t know who drew it. It’s beautiful. And he cannot take this stone. This is- it’s tradition and he has to respect it. It would feel wrong to move this stone as stones are not to be moved.
But he looks at it for a long time. Kneeling on the cold stone, the mist of the water landing on him and wetting his face, taking the role of the tears he cannot shed. The stone and the flower blur before his eyes but that’s just because he’s tired. He’s so tired.
Maybe…maybe the alcove did belong to her, in a way. She was the one who used it. Maybe the fruit on the vine was hers to sit under, to eat from, unafraid. Maybe this flower was hers because she’s the only one who gave a damn about it.
Morja doesn’t want to leave the stone. The flower. The alcove and the statue. Fuck, he doesn’t want to leave this stone. What should I do? Who will- nobody will tell me to go. Nobody will, they never will, how can I go when I’m going on my own, when nobody has sent me? How can I leave this behind? How can I leave her behind?
But…she isn’t here. And Morja can’t be, either. Can he? He can’t take this stone. And he can’t stay and watch over it.
Morja stands, every muscle in his legs protesting, sharp and tingling, at rising. It hurts as much to stand up from kneeling as it does to kneel. But he stands anyway. Leaves the stone under the fountain, behind the flower.
Roe has gone.
It is time for him to leave the stone and go as well.
~
oof, i hope y'all enjoyed this important piece of juicy tragic backstory, this glimpse behind the curtain. 😢😢😢💔💔💔
This is written for today's wij-prompt "Left Behind", @whumpmasinjuly-archive. Thanks to the wonderful @wildfae-afterdark for the inspiration, and as always to @angst-after-dark for their characters Thane and Dami.
[Angel Masterpost]
Angel is left behind. Again.
Content / warnings: BBU, conditioned whumpee, BBU Romantic, intimate whumper, a bit of revenge, and some semi explicit dubcon touching.
"You be a good girl and wait for me," Sir says softly, his hand on her cheek. Angel would love to close her eyes, melt into his touch, to imagine she's used to this tenderness. To imagine she's loved.
She does not close her eyes, though. Doesn't give in to the comfort of the daydream. Sir wants her to look at him, whenever he addresses her. And so she does. Looks into his face directly, eyes wide open, hides nothing.
Sir demands to see "all of her". Because he owns all of her. And all of her, he says, includes every dumb little thought in her dumb little head, every spark of every emotion, every reaction of her body.
And her body does react. To his touch, to his voice, to his sight. She's shivering, despite the temperature in the house, her knees shake, warmth pools between her legs. She wants him. She needs him. So desperately.
He sees it.
He smiles.
"Please," she whispers, knowing it's futile. "Please, take me with you. Please, don't leave me."
Sir pets her cheek. "There's no need for a desperate, clingy pet whore by my side, when I meet my European producers, Angel." His voice still vibrates with the same, soft nuance, that seems to make her mind dissolve into a puddle of need. His thumb runs over her lip. "Gosh. What a pathetic, idiotic slut you are, even thinking that."
"Please," she whispers. "Please. I'm nothing without you."
"Mh," he hums. "That's true, isn't it? But you know what? I want you to be nothing. I ordered you like that. I want you to need me, and I want you to not get me, and I want you to know that is exactly what you're made for."
She swallows. "I... I'm made for -"
"Shhh," he mumbles, slips his free hand between her legs, runs a finger through the wetness beween her folds. She doesn't deny the moan falling from her lips. He hums. "Now, Angel, this is important. Every Romantic is made for getting fucked. And I guess you're decent enough at that. But what you're truly made for is this." He shoves her back into the couch, and she yelps as her shaky legs give in and she falls over the armrest. "You're made to be left back. You're made to long for me, every second of your entire pathetic existence, and you're meant to be denied. You'll never say no, Angel, but you're meant to suffer hearing mine, and here it is. No, sweetheart. You're not coming. You're not getting fucked. You're not getting whole."
Tears well up in Angel's eyes, but she doesn't dare look away. She's good. She's so good. He loves her tears. Maybe this will -
He wipes his fingers off on his pants. "You'll be a good girl and wait for me," he repeats. "You'll be a good girl and miss your owner dearly. I'll be watching from afar." He points at the camera in the corner. "Maybe I call you. Maybe I won't. And you'll stay needy and horny and desperate for me, and not touch yourself. And-"
"Sir," Dami says from the door, their voice hoarse. "The car."
Sir's face changes, as he looks over to them. It gets softer. Satisfied. Angel's heart shatters.
"Coming, Dami. I hope you're looking forward to see Paris again."
"Sir," Angel reaches out.
He's already half way to the door, but stops once more, looks over her. I want to see all of you.
His gaze takes in her naked body, the smeared film of wetness on her thighs, her heaving chest, the tears in her eyes.
"Please," she whispers.
"You're perfect," he says. His smile is beautiful, wide, and he lets her have it, for long seconds, before he adds a single word, clear, even, cruel.
"No."
The door falls shut.
Angel stays behind.
---
-
Angel tag list (lmk if you want to be added or removed): @whumplr-reader @there-will-always-be-blood
Prison, lab, or pet facility has ghosts of former victims but when the place is stormed by soldiers who are rescuing the survivors, the ghosts are left behind still tethered to the building. Bonus if the soldiers killed the whumpers, and the whumpers turn to ghosts too just to end up taking it out on the ghosts of the whumpees all over again, except for eternity this time.
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He had fallen behind again. His exasperated squadmates, slogging through the sticky mud, urged him to hurry.
“We won’t make the rendezvous at this pace,” his squad leader told them, grim-faced. “We need to jettison the dead weight.”
The others dragged away the heavy equipment and nonessential supplies and sank it all in the foul-smelling swamp. He tried to do his part. But he wasn’t strong enough or fast enough to keep up. They snapped at him for getting in the way, and gave each other significant looks over his head.
Derwyn's words echoed in the crevices of Ruaridh’s mind, making their heart ache as if they've just been stabbed. Obsolete. Whatever that word meant, it wasn't good; especially as, following their ramble about them “being of no use to her anymore”, they were outside.
Outside. They had never seen this world in the entire time they'd existed. They had never actually thought that the world extended beyond the walls of the lab, despite the amount of books they'd read confirming its existence. Ruaridh had never thought they'd get to be in this world anyway, and now they were, they didn't know what to do, what to think.
It was frightening, but at the same time it was enchanting. Enthralling. The colour, the noise, the sheer life of the forest. Compared to the sterile lifelessness of the lab — the distant screeches and whines, the hum of machinery, vacant hallways and yellowed documents of forgotten ‘patients’ — it was as if Ruaridh was in another world entirely. Birds chirping a tuneless song, leaves dancing in a gentle autumn breeze that swept through Ruaridh’s matted clumps of blonde hair, once a lustrous black prior to experimentation. Carlisle had always reminisced the world's beauty, hoping that, one day, Ruaridh could see it for themself. Well, that wish certainly came true, albeit with the price of being left for dead in this new world.
They were uncertain of what they'd done to warrant this sudden change in Derwyn's behaviour. She had always taken care of them, despite the months, years of agony they were forced to endure under her care. But it was all to make them better, right? Derwyn only wanted to help them; give them a purpose, a reason to live, a reason to remain in the frigid cell they called home. Where had it gone wrong, they wondered. Where had they gone wrong?
Ruaridh waited by the door for hours, perhaps wishing — foolishly wishing — that it would re-open, that they could return to a life they were overall enjoying like nothing had ever happened. But as time passed and it dawned on Ruaridh that Derwyn meant it when she said they were useless, they knew to stop waiting. Waiting for something that would, surely, never come.
The birds fell quiet with the coming of night, a chill in the air seeping into Ruaridh's bones. Despite the lack of birdsong, life was still thriving as ever; Ruaridh could hear it, from larger animals stalking through the trees to smaller critters scurrying through the blades of grass they stood on. A light turned off from a window of the metal door, shrouded in overgrown shrubbery. Derwyn was done for the day, it seemed.
Ruaridh limped away, familiarising themself with walking after their gruelling transformation. It had left their legs mangled and monstrous, the bones having reshaped themselves naturally within a month, or so. Tail between their legs, they left their home, their sanctuary, of which they'd been removed from. Left behind to rot in the woods with the animals, a mere stepping stone in scientific discovery. A failed experiment, a neglected machine, a wasted life.
