Anyone else while you’re writing your planner you put down notes like due January 9 and “urgent” and then when you actually start to do things you just like…do the things that ARENT urgent. Like what did that help me accomplish - more anxiety seeing that I’m not doing what I admitted in writing was urgent?
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I find something about desperation fascinating. Basically, the body has two responses.
1. Whumpee will do anything, eat anything, appreciate every kind gesture anyone gives them because it’s so incredibly different than anything they’ve experienced.
2. Whumpee knows they should want anything and eat anything, but even when given food, it’s food they previously hated. Should they logically care at this point? No. But for some reason, the added knowledge that they hate that food, even while they’re eating it and actively enjoying it, makes them overwhelmed they start crying again.
When a person is desperate, you can easily overreact to small things just because your brain is so overwhelmed and you are on the verge of giving up, and I think that’s so underused in whump
“no no no chat I’m not- I’m not gonna do that! Okay fine, I’ll stab whumpee with the screwdriver, but after that I’m going right back to building the cage!”
“Ooh, someone redeemed a waterboarding session! Alright, I’ll do that after I figure out how to fix this shock collar.”
“What’s the sub goal? Uh, 50k subs and I’ll brand whumpee with ‘Subscribe to Whumper’”
Imagine an audio recording of whumpee crying being used as a twitch alert.
“Say it, whumpee.” “T-Thank you Whumpliker420 f-for the subs.”
Whumpee lay on the cold floor of the cell. Before mission, the Team agreed that in case of someone getting captured during the mission, the rest of the group will not be risking their lifes to get out someone who may or may not be dead. Whumpee knows that and they agree with that decision. It's the most rational option and they won't blame the Team for sticking with it. It's just... they quietly hope Team would make an irrational, worse decision.
Bonus points if Whumpee imagines Team voting if to keep the agreement or to come back for Whumpee.
"A is soft, so they would probably say to come back for me... B likes me, but they wouldn't want rest to be hurt, so they'll probably vote against... C.... honestly, C could vote either way.... Caretaker is a practical person and besides we don't have good relationship, so they will probably say to leave me behind..."
Meanwhile Caretaker is getting held back by the whole Team, kicking and screaming, because they were about to run to save Whumpee no shoes on.
Caretakers who pretend they don’t care or caretakers who Whumpee believes doesn’t care (not in a mean way, just ‘this is the most efficient’ way,) are my absolute favorite. Only one that comes close is a strictly stern caretaker and an overprotective caretaker. I just….i love whumpees who are forced to be okay.
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-A stimulant that enhances every sensation. Every touch, no matter how gentle, feel like sandpaper on your skin. What would be mild pain becomes agony, pleasure becomes overwhelming to the point of pain
-Ever heard of locked in syndrome? Make it a drug. The body is paralyzed, unable to move. But every sensation remains, and the mind? The mind is fully aware. Whumpee hears, sees and feels everything. They're all too aware, and they will remember. Unwanted touches, excruciating pain, they're aware of it all, completely, totally helpless. They can't even scream.
-a drug that temporarily mutes all your senses. You're still very much aware, you're fully conscious, and it differs from locked-in drug in that you're not paralysed. You're just deafened, blinded, you can't smell or taste or feel anything. You won't even feel the pain until it wears off. It probably wears of gradually too - maybe you smell the blood before anything else. Maybe you see the horrific wounds before you feel them. Or hear cruel taunts as they tell you what they've done to you before you can see or feel it for yourself.
-Enthralling drug. With a mix of whumpers DNA, they render you an empty shell, existing only to serve them. You take orders only from Whumper, who has to order you to sleep, eat, do ANYTHING. You feel nothing. You're aware of nothing. You're barely even alive. It'll wear off... eventually. Better hope Whumper doesn't find a way to make it permanent.
A drug that makes you convinced you are dead, and that you’re now in the afterlife.
A drug that makes you lose your memory, but it can be specialized so you only lose parts. Whumper wants you to forget who caretaker is? Easy. Done. Whumper wants you to forget that they ever hurt you? Done. Whumper wants to make you believe that Caretaker was the one who hurt you? Done.
Now all caretaker can do is hope that the effects are only temporary.
caretaker giving whumpee physical therapy to help them recover
gently stretching whumpee’s tight limbs
letting whumpee lean on them as they walk
massaging whumpee’s sore muscles
is caretaker kind with it? encouraging? do they wipe whumpee’s tears and tell them they’re doing a good job? “i’m sorry, i’m sorry!” as they move whumpee’s sprained joints. “one more set.”
or is caretaker gruff? blunt? “this is gonna hurt like a bitch,” they say, rotating whumpee’s injured arm. as they sit back, hands on hips while whumpee tries to stand: “come on. get up. i know you can do it, now stop pussyfooting around.” do they give whumpee tough love?
The trope of a character being totally incapacitated/overwhelmed by pain is living rent free in my mind rn.
Like all they can do is scream or cry, it hurts so bad they can’t even form words. They might be shaking or hyperventilating, breath hitching if another wave of pain hits them. They can’t stop the tears flowing down their face. Caretaker/team tries to soothe them but nothing works—they don’t even respond.
Or, maybe they do, but its a quiet, pleading “please, make it stop,” between cries. Maybe they beg. “Just shoot me.”
Caretaker/team probably wouldn’t know how to respond. “We’re trying,” they say. Or, “No. I won’t do that.”
With that much pain? Shock also has to a factor. If they do talk, it’s with a slur. They don’t have the energy to wipe tears from their eyes, so they see everything through a thin veil of unshed tears. They probably feel like they’re suffocating.
It’s like having a panic attack but instead of everything moving too fast, the world just stops. They find themselves suddenly lying down in a bed, or in a different room altogether.
In some cases, you can even die from pain if it goes on long enough.
Whumper's thumb traced the curve of Whumpee's cheek, their touch surprisingly gentle. "I love you." They murmured, their eyes softening slightly. "I love you more than anything in this world. And that's why I have to punish you. That's why I have to make sure you never forget who you belong to."
"Forgive me." Whumper whispered, their voice filled with a twisted sense of love and possession. "Forgive me for what I'm about to do. Because I promise you, Whumpee, it's going to hurt. It's going to hurt like nothing you've ever felt before."
“I…I love you too, Whumper.” They smiled, eyes not quite focused.
Whumper sadly smiled back, sharpened knife in hand. “I know you do, love. That’s why you’re not going to fight me, right?”
Whumpee nodded. Of course they wouldn’t fight Whumper. Whumper was the one who saved them. Whumper was the only one who cared for them. If Whumper said this was the only way, then they would happily comply.
They couldn’t help the crying though when the knife began to dig deeper and deeper into their skin.
CW: physical violence, torture, blood, gore?, intense emotional distress, Andrey being a weird fuck.
When Damian awoke, his body screamed in agony. Every muscle, every fiber of his being, was on fire. His head throbbed as if it had been split open, and his arm... oh God his arm. The wound was far from being his only source of pain now, but it burned with a white-hot intensity that blurred his vision.
He could taste blood, his own, mixed with the stale air of the room—a foul blend of sweat, fear, and something more acrid, like the smell of burning flesh. His throat was dry, and his mouth felt like sandpaper, but even if he could speak, what would he say? There was nothing left to plead for. Nothing left to lose.
The smell hit him next—stale sweat, urine, and something metallic, like rust or blood, hung thick in the air. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he tried to push the nausea away.
Then the realization dawned on him. He wasn’t in that grim room anymore. He was outside, and a crowd was gathering. He looked down at his loosely bandaged arm as the murmurs and whispers of hushed and expectant people filled the air around him. "What the fuck...."
The sunlight seared Damian's eyes, and he winced, turning his head away. Andrey stepped into view, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he surveyed Damian’s prone form. The sight of him sent a wave of dread crashing through Damian, the memory of their last encounter still fresh in his mind.
“I see you’re awake,” Andrey said, his voice dripping with condescension. He gestured, and a guard stepped forward, a long, leather whip coiled in his hand. Damian’s breath hitched in his throat as he realized what was about to happen. His mouth went dry, terror clawing its way up his throat.
“No..” Damian croaked, his voice weak.
Andrey ignored him, turning to address the gathered crowd instead. “This,” he began, his voice carrying easily over the assembled throng, “is what happens to those who betray my trust.”
Damian’s heart pounded against his ribs, the sound deafening in his ears. He thought he would be ready.
He should've been ready.
Mikhael -the motherfucker- uncoiled the whip with a sickening snap, and Damian’s entire body tensed in anticipation of the first blow. He could feel the rough texture of the post against his back, the cold bite of the shackles around his wrists, the coarse fabric of his shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.
The first crack of the whip sliced through the air. It connected with his back with a force that drove the breath from his lungs, the pain exploding through him like fire. A ringing sound filled his skull, gasping.
A strangled cry tore itself from his throat before he could stop it, the sound of his own voice raw and desperate. The whip came down again, and again, each strike sending a shockwave of pain through his body that left him gasping for air. The lash came across his injured arm. He let out a guttural scream. He forced himself to look at the arm.
Blood.
Oh lord, there was so much blood.
The world around him seemed to fade in and out, the sounds of the crowd, of Andrey’s voice, of the whip cracking against his flesh, all blending into a dizzying, nightmarish cacophony. Jesus.. how the hell did Noah manage this..?
The smell of blood was thick in the air now, mingling with the scent of sweat and dirt, filling his nostrils, his lungs, choking him. The only thing he could hear now was the continuous slap of the whip.
His breath came in ragged gasps, something as easy as breathing now seeming like a great task. His body trembled uncontrollably, the searing pain in his back making it impossible to think, to feel anything but the agony that consumed him.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The whip fell silent, the tension in the air palpable as the crowd held its collective breath. Damian’s body slumped against the post, every inch of him screaming in pain, his back a mass of raw, torn flesh that throbbed with every heartbeat.
Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the dirt and blood, but he didn’t care. There was no shame anymore, no pride. There was only the pain and the desperate hope that it would end soon.
But it didn’t. The lashes kept coming, each one worse than the last, the whip cutting deeper and deeper until it felt like his very soul was being flayed from his body.
His body sagged against the post, held up only by the iron rings that bit into his wrists. His vision blurred, the world around him fading in and out of focus. He could taste blood, thick and metallic on his tongue, and the coppery scent filled his nostrils, making him gag.
Mikhael finally stopped, the silence that followed almost more deafening than the sound of the whip. Damian’s body trembled, the muscles twitching uncontrollably, spasming in protest. His skin was on fire, the agony so intense that it felt like his nerves had been set ablaze.
He barely registered the hands that unbound him, the rough shove that sent him sprawling onto the blood-soaked ground. His body hit the earth with a dull thud, pain exploding in his back as the wounds made contact with the dirt.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t fucking breathe. The world around him was a blur of colors and sounds, distant and unreachable. His mind was fraying at the edges, the darkness creeping in, and this time, he didn’t fight it.
He was dimly aware of Andrey stepping closer, the man’s presence a dark shadow that loomed over him, suffocating him.
Damian couldn’t respond, couldn’t even lift his head to look at Andrey. All he could do was gasp for breath, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue, the throbbing agony in his back making every movement torture.
“I could have killed you." Andrey paused for a moment, before continuing. But that would have been too easy. No, I want you to live with this, Damian. I want you to remember this pain, this humiliation, every single day for the rest of your life.”
The words were a cruel mockery, twisting the knife that had already been driven so deep into Damian’s soul. He felt the tears begin to fall then, hot and bitter, mingling with the sweat and blood that stained his skin.
Andrey leaned in closer, his breath hot against Damian’s ear. “And know this, Damian… as long as you breathe, Noah will never be free. He will suffer because of you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
The horror of those words, the realization of what his defiance had cost, was too much. The last thing he felt was the cold, unyielding ground beneath him as his body crumpled, the sound of Andrey’s chuckle echoing in his mind like a terrible lullaby.
---
When awoke once again, he was laying on a hard cot in a small, dimly lit cell. His back was bandaged, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to his wounds, but there was no relief from the torment that gripped his soul.
He could still hear Andrey’s voice, those final, damning words that had sealed Noah’s fate. Damian’s heart ached with a grief so profound it threatened to swallow him whole. He had failed. God, why did he always have to fail?! Before Noah it was-
Tears slid down Damian’s face, silent and unbidden, as the full weight of his failure and distant memories pressed down on him. The cell was cold, the air thick with the scent of mildew and despair, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the pain, the guilt, the overwhelming certainty that he had lost everything.
Andrey had won. Damian had nothing left. Nothing but the knowledge that he had only succeeded in condemning Noah to a fate worse than death.
The tears came harder now, shaking his frail body as the sobs wracked his chest. There was no hope, no light at the end of this dark tunnel. Only pain, and the cold, empty void of despair that stretched out before him, endless and unforgiving.
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Tags: Servant whumpee, caretaker, humiliation whump, royal whump, royal caretaker, whump, tw whipping, tw slavery, whipped whumpee, non con stripping, whumpee taken in by royalty, crossdressing whumpee, og ocs, og world, og story, whumpee, whumper, noble whumper, whumpee perceived as female, possessive whumper, mentions of past trauma, mentions of past torture, tw stoning, past injuries mentioned, non con nudity, stern caretaker, multple care takers, multiple whumpers, forceful caretaking, fear of eye contact, defiant whumpee, whumpee that doesn’t talk a lot, curious caretaker, stranger whumpee and caretaker, mentions of non con activity, mentions of forced non con, manhandling, healing arc
Sonnet flinched as his master’s whip flew past his head, barely missing his ear. The next time his master didn’t miss, connecting with his shoulder and splitting his skin open. He cried out, having already lost count at what number lashing that was. Two more followed after before his master finally started wrapping the whip around his arm.
Sweat dripped into Sonnets eyes despite the wind being cool this morning. The sun had only begun to rise a couple of minutes ago, shining light onto the small crowd that had gathered. Humiliation burned in Sonnet’s cheeks, and he leaned against the wooden pole he was tied too. He was sitting on his knees with his wrists tied behind him, making his shoulders strain. His torn up servant dress was in taters before him, though his skirt safely covered everything below the waist. Despite everything, he somehow had enough dignity, or stupidity depending on who you asked, to glare at his master. Mr.Winslow caught his eye and fumed. He advanced on Sonnet, grabbing his jaw and forcing him upwards. His shoulders screamed, if not for his voice.
“You stupid boy, show some shame for your crime!” His master screamed in his face.
“Make me,” Sonnet spat.
That comment made Mr.Winslow livid, and he kicked Sonnet in the ribs. Sonnet struggled to heave in a breath through the pressure in his chest, and he leaned forward like a wilted flower. Clearly not done with his anger, Mr.Winslow took a swing at Sonnet. His fist connected with Sonnet’s cheekbone, cutting skin open. Sonnet saw stars as an insistent ringing began in his ears. He could hear Mr.Winslow speaking but couldn’t make sense of it.
Once Sonnet was able to blink away the stars, he saw that his master was speaking to the slightly larger crowd. Sonnet could just make out Mr Winslow barking out an order for ‘no one to touch his stupid slave’. Then Mr.Winslow walked away to drag his pitiful wife home. Mrs.Winslow looked over her shoulder at Sonnet and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’. She had always liked Sonnet, and was usually very kind to him. But no matter how much she tried, she could never get Sonnet out of Mr.Winslow’s punishments.
The ringing in his ears slowly dimmed to nothing but the voices of the crowd. Some were still watching, others had grown bored and walked away. Sonnet avoided eye contact with all of them. The last thing he needed was to realize just how much he had humiliated himself. He was likely going to sit there till sunset where Mr.Winslow would hand him right over to a merchant to resell him.
Sonnect closed his eyes and started collecting his thoughts. If Mr.Winslow really was going to sell him, there was no way he would be seeing any of his stuff again. Even if they did let him keep his stuff, it would likely be taken from him by the next family he was bought by. And on the off chance Mrs.Winslow could convince her husband not to get rid of him, he would be dumped in the furnace room to work till exhaustion. He didn’t know which one he wanted less.
…
Sonnet looked up at the sky and deduced it was a little past noon. The sun burned into his skin, making it turn bright red and soaked with sweat. He was still shirtless from this morning's whipping, and would likely be for a while unless a townsperson decided to cover him with something. That's how it worked in the kingdom of Montrose. If servants were disobedient to their masters, their master had the choice of how they would like to deal with it. Public humiliation was a popular pick, beating lessons into most servants the first time. If the public felt bad enough, they could give the punished water and feed them, could even give them clothes in Sonnet’s case. But most would not, either convinced the victim deserved it or too scared of the public eye would shame them for helping the weak.
So Sonnet let the sun roast his skin and parch his tongue. The blood that once poured from his wounds dried on his skin. The market had long been set up and became a bustling place for passersbys. Everyone would give him a wide berth, not daring to get their polished shoes near what they considered filth. Sonnet liked it that way, it meant no one would further harm him.
That was until a group of boys started making a beeline for him. Sonnet noticed the stones in their hands and felt a sense of dread. Before they had even made it within the circle everyone else avoided, they were throwing the stones and shouting obscenities at him. Bruises would definitely bloom later, joining the list of injuries Sonnet would have to tend to. In the distance, Sonnet thought he could hear a trumpet being played over the boys shouting.
Sonnet continued to shrink away from the boys until he heard the sound of horse hooves clattering on the sidewalk. The king was back from his trip from a nearby country, and he was coming down this very street. The boys who were once throwing stones realized this as well and froze. The horses were thundering down the street fast with the crowd already parted away. One of the boys tried to dart away, either from fear of being caught or the fear of being trampled. It clearly couldn't be the second as the boy ran straight in front of the horse's path.
Everyone including Sonnet gasped in horror as the knights reared the horses, towering over the boy. A few members of the crowd screamed as the horses came down, knocking the boy to the ground. As soon as the hooves touched the ground, the knights were climbing off their horses and dragging the boy up. Yelling and threatening him, the crowd divided into chaos. In the corner of his eye, Sonnet saw the door of the carriage fling open. He held his breath as he watched the king himself leave the safety of the carriage.
“SILENCE!” The king's voice boomed over the crowd.
Sonnet watched in awe as everyone within the next few miles stilled. The king glared around, clearly already in an awful mood only to be dealing with unruly people. The king walked over to the boy, his friends having abandoned him. One of the knights neared the king with hesitancy.
“Your highness, it's not safe out here–” The king raised his hand to silence the knight.
“What happened here?” he asked calmly.
“I-I didn’t hear the trumpets and tried getting out of the way,” the boy said, cowering under the gaze of the king. The king huffed, then noticed something.
“What are you holding?”
The knight holding the boy let go assuming the king was talking to him. The boy also raised his hands for the king to see. There were two small stones in his hands, waiting to be thrown at Sonnet.
“Why do you have stones?”
“I uh um, I like collecting s-stones?” The kid stammered. The king eyed him as the boy's friends sniggered in the crowd.
Feeling someone staring at him, the king turned around. Sonnet immediately averted his gaze and looked at the king's shoes. He instantly became aware of his shame and his cheeks started to go red like his sunburns. He looked down at his bloodied, sun burned, and sweat stained skin and wished he could have been swallowed up by the earth at that moment. Having been deep in his thoughts of humiliation, Sonnet hadn’t noticed that the king was standing in front of him. Sonnet looked up at the king before realizing his mistake and averting his gaze again.
The king took in the sight before him. A bloodied and beaten servant was stripped nearly bare and tied down on display. He noticed the rocks surrounding the servant and connected the dots together. The king turned to his knights to address them.
“Bring me some water for this servant to drink. And arrest that boy for stoning a citizen of Montrose.”
Two knights grabbed the boy and dragged him off in anger as his friends watched in shock. A third knight presented a water bottle to the king which he took. The king then knelt down and cupped Sonnet’s cheek.
“Untie him,” the king ordered his knight. He then turned to Sonnet and began helping him drink water. The cold water rushed down his parched throat, cooling his flaming insides. The king paused the water stream when Sonnet sagged forward once he was released from the ropes tying him down. The king offered the water bottle to Sonnet and he took it, finishing it in a few messy gulps. He wiped away the few drops that escaped his mouth and flinched when the king draped him in something. He realized it was the king's cloak and he stared in astonishment.
The king was too busy speaking to his knights. Sonnet closed the king's cloak further in to cover up as much of his bloodied chest as possible. In the next moment, arms pulled him up from his armpits and he yelped. He held the skirts at his waist, making sure they wouldn’t fall down as he wobbled on unsteady legs. He was dragged by the knight up and into the king's carriage, before being sat across from the king. The door shut behind the knight, leaving only the king and Sonnet staring at each other.
He avoided making eye contact with the king, it was what he was taught since he was a kid. They sat in awkward silence as the carriage lurched forward and began to move. Sonnet grabbed onto the railing, startled by the movement. The king chuckled quietly and Sonnet blushed. This was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him, and he almost wished he was left at the whipping post.
“Why were you tied there?” the king asked. Sonnet pulled the cloak further in on himself to hide the marks. Sonnet tried formulating the words, to try and sum up all the variables that played into today’s punishment.
“Because I wasn’t a woman,” Sonnet finally said. He could tell that the king was confused but didn’t know if continuing to explain would be over stepping. So he stayed silent, like he always did.
In actuality it was more than him not being a woman. Mr.Winslow always resented Sonnet, and often looked for any reason to punish him. But it came to a head this morning when Sonnet wore his servants dress like he always did. He helped Mrs. Winslow with her morning bath like he always did. Mrs. Winslow and a few other staff were the only ones who knew Sonnet was really a man. Though they didn’t seem to mind, if anything they seemed to find it attractive which only increased Sonnet’s discomfort as their servant. Apparently, Mr.Winslow was never informed of Sonnet’s identity and had always assumed that Sonnet was a woman. He was also known for having romantic flings with women other than his wife. So when Mr.Winslow made his advancement and Sonnet turned him down, he tried to force himself onto Sonnet, thus learning that he was in fact not a woman. He never actually told the king that, because he never asked. But it was sad for him to think about.
The king never filled that silence. He stared at Sonnet for the majority of the ride to the castle, no longer amused whenever Sonnet would startle from a bump in the road. Sonnet gripped the railing of the carriage tight, to stop him from falling onto the king's feet. There was no need to further prove his humiliation.
Sonnet could tell when they had reached the castle gates when the carriage became enveloped in voices. Soon they were rolling through the gates and stopped before one of the side entries into the castle. The doors of the carriage opened and the knight waiting there helped the king down. Sonnet hesitated and before he could make the decision to leave or stay, the same knight that helped the king before now yanked him out of the carriage. He stumbled and was barely able to catch his balance before he hit the floor. An iron glove gripped Sonnet’s arm and held him close, making sure he wouldn’t escape. The king was too busy talking to some of his royal staff to notice the mistreatment of his new possession. But the man who was currently talking to the king did.
“--I'm sorry to hear about the failed- who is that?” the man across from the king asked. The king turned around and seemed to remember that Sonnet existed.
“Oh, him.” The king snapped and a servant scurried over. “Go tell Sister Florence to run a bath for this servant. I want him properly dressed and seen by a physician afterwards.” As the servant walked away, the king motioned to the knight holding Sonnet to follow.
The grip on Sonnet’s arm tightened where he swore it would leave bruises, and he was dragged off into the castle. The servant they were following split off in a different direction than the knight was taking him, presumably to grab whoever Sister Florence was. There were several times where Sonnet nearly fell from the pace at which they were walking. And everytime the guard would scoff and yank him onward. By the time they had reached a spacious and lavishly designed bathroom, the knight was more than happy to let go of them.
Sonnet stood alone in the entrance of the bathroom, too scared to step further in or to leave. So instead he looked upwards as he pulled the cloak closer together. There was an intricate chandelier above him, twinkling glass charms dangling from lit candles. It was a luxury Sonnet never personally experienced, never allowed to be in fancy bathrooms unless he was with Mrs Winslow.
There was a knock on the door and Sonnet startled. He stared as a woman dressed in all black entered, followed by a handmaiden. The woman in black gave him a sweet smile and extended her hand to him.
“My name’s Sister Florence, I was sent to make sure you were properly taken care of.”
Sonnet neither spoke nor took her hand to shake it, leaving the room to rest in awkward silence. Sister Florence let her hand fall to her side after a few moments of no movement.
“Well, I’ll go draw that bath for you,” she said, walking past Sonnet and further into the bathroom. The handmaiden scurried after her, barely giving him a second glance. He started to wonder if it was too late to leave now.
Sonnet could hear water running from where he was left standing. In a few minutes he watched the mirrors in the distance start to fog up from steam. The air became filled with scented oils, rich with lavender and lemongrass. Scents he only knew the names of because of the amount of times he had run them for Ms. Winslow.
“Come on dear,” Sister Florence called.
Reluctantly, Sonnet stepped further into the bathroom. Sister Florence had her hand in the water to test the temperature while the handmaiden was bringing soap bottles to the edge of the bathtub. Noticing him, Sister Florence flicked the water droplets from her hand and came closer.
“Put your hands on my shoulder.”
Sonnet didn’t listen and watched as she knelt onto the floor. She pulled his foot out from under him and he stumbled, inevitably grabbing her shoulders. She carefully took off his shoes and chucked them to the side. Sonnet took his hands off of her as she stood up. She grabbed the cloak and pulled it off of him. The handmaiden behind him gasped and covered her mouth. Sonnet flushed, feeling exposed, both literally and metaphorically.
Sister Florence turned back to Sonnet and took his hand in hers. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Now, let's get the rest of these clothes off of you.”
He was thankful when Sister Florence let go of his hand. He was not so thankful when they began to take off the rest of his clothes till he had nothing left to wear. All of his clothes were tossed haphazardly onto a pile. Sonnet unclipped his dagger sheath he had attached to his thigh for Sister Florence and handed it to him carefully. She took it and looked at it curiously before setting it carefully on the bathroom counter. He was then guided into the bath, more or less against his will. Despite his reluctance, the water was quite warm and soothing. The soapy water stung against his open wounds, making them alight with fire.
He audibly winced when Sister Florence dumped water over his back. She and the handmaiden Ameila took great care in washing him. He hated the hands that were on him, invading his skin. They lathered soap into his skin then rinsed it off before repeating it over again. By the fourth time he was rinsed, his skin felt as if it was rubbed raw.
Sister Florence then had Sonnet sit as close to the edge of the tub as possible and tilted his head back. As he looked up at the ceiling she scrubbed shampoo into his hair. He almost relaxed into her touch, the feeling somewhat soothing. She titled his head up again and blocked his eyes while dumping water over his head. She repeated this process again before doing it one more time with conditioner. With his head thoroughly washed and the bath water having turned murky gray, they finally let him out of the bath.
He was wrapped in one of the softest bath towels he’d ever known. Sister Florence sent the handmaiden Amila to grab his clothes while she gently rubbed him dry. Amila came back with clothes in hand. Sister Florence went to take off his towel when he stepped back.
“I can dress myself,” the first words he said to her. Sister Florence seems surprised that he spoke but respected his wish. She and the handmaiden Amila turned around while he carefully dressed. Sonnet quietly grabbed his dagger off the counter and strapped it back to his thigh. He adorned undergarments, a silk button up shirt, and wide length shorts. He was slightly disappointed he wasn’t allowed to wear a dress, but he made no fuss about it. Sister Florence and Amila turned around while he was pulling up the socks they had given him. Sister Florence had him sit down while she began to work on his hair and Amila helped him put on shoes.
After about twenty minutes, his hair was brushed out and trimmed slightly to shoulder length. Sonnet protested against any length shorter than that. Sister Florence helped Sonnet stand up and they led him out of the bathroom. Stepping into fresh air that wasn’t filled with scented oils felt intoxicating. He followed quietly as they brought him to a bedroom. It looked like a noble’s personal suite, much too big for a servant to stay.
“A physician will be with you shortly,” Sister Florence told him before leaving him alone in the room.
Sonnet didn’t know what to do with his new found aloneness. He looked around the room without moving, letting himself admire the room. He could tell this was a guest bedroom with how unlived in it looked. He wondered when the last time someone had touched this room besides servants cleaning it. Would he be the first to grace this room with a living breath? A very exhausted, yet living breath.
The door opened and Sonnet snapped his head to look at the person who entered. It was a man in a doctor's coat, holding a briefcase in one hand and the doors handle in the other. He smiled at Sonnet and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
“I’m Dr. Clarke, and you are?” the physician asked.
“Sonnet.”
“That’s a lovely name.” Sonnet didn’t respond. “If I could have you sit on the bed, we can get started,” Dr. Clarke said as he gestured to the bed.
Sonnet followed his gaze and sat on the very edge of the bed. Dr. Clarke followed, setting his briefcase near Sonnet. He opened it up and pulled out a few tools. He started by checking Sonnets eyes, ears, and mouth. Once the normal routines were done, Dr. Clarke put away his tools and put on a set of gloves.
“If I could have you take off your shirt for me.”
Sonnet did as he was told, and held the folded shirt in his lap. Dr. Clarke began his work with each wound. Pouring antiseptics into the open ones, burning out any possible infection. Gently covering them in ointment before wrapping them in cloth. He would gently press against any bruises Sonnet had to test whether they needed attention or not. He had Sonnet turn around so that he could do the same thing over again for all the wounds on his back. Those ones hurt the most and Sonnet had to bite his tongue multiple times to stop himself from crying. Sonnet was allowed to turn back around when the physician was done. He buttoned his shirt back up while Dr. Clarke changed his gloves.
“Now I’ll have you take off your pants,” Dr. Clarke stated.
Sonnet hesitated under the physician's gaze, but eventually took them off. There were fewer wounds for Dr. Clarke to focus his attention on, making it a lot quicker then when he worked on his torso. As soon as Dr. Clarke was done, Sonnet pulled his shorts back on, wanting to be left alone. Dr. Clarke packed up his briefcase, then handed a bottle to Sonnet.
“Drink a cap-full of this tonic with every meal till your bruises are gone.”
Sonnet held the bottle in his hands as the physician left. He leaned against the bed and exhaustion finally settled onto his shoulders. He looked out the window of the guest room and saw that the sun had well past setting. Stars were already creeping up the skyline. Just when Sonnet thought he had actually been left alone for the night, there was a knock on his door. A servant walked in with a tray of food. They set it down on a side table next to some bookshelves before addressing Sonnet.
“I was told to inform you that you will be spending the night here. Silas will be coming to get you in the morning for your audience with the king.”
They then gave a small head bow before leaving the room. Sonnet looked at the bottle in his hand before sighing and walking over to the tray of food. A small voice in his head warned him of the food being poisoned, but at this point he really didn’t care. So what if the king had him treated this nicely just to poison him in the end, it was better than the Winslows ever had. Sonnet sat at the small table and ate slowly, watching the castle's life dwindle by the night. By the end of the meal, he felt even more exhausted and in pain. He poured out a cap-full of the tonic before shooting it like whiskey.
It tasted bitter in his mouth and he washed it down with a glass of water. With a full stomach and a tired mind, Sonnet blew out the candles in the room and crawled into bed. The mattress was softer than any cot he had been allowed to sleep on. Despite his history with insomnia, the soft blankets and the comfort of safety in sitting in his stomach lulled him down enough to actually fall into soundless sleep.
“The others are out on a mission today. I got babysitting duty. So, if you need anything, don’t. And if you’re going to be sick, do it while I’m not in the room. Tissues and water are on your nightstand, and your meds are in the bathroom.”
Caretaker may say they’re a jerk, but the moment something is wrong they’re there with Whumpee immediately helping them, all while grumbling about it (bonus if Whumpee says they dont need help and caretaker agrees to leave them alone but then they just…don’t)
Context: Terry Desrosiers (who belongs to @whumpspicelatte) is king of Rhodantheia, and given Juno as a birthday present. Juno is still getting used to how things work in this new country.
Warnings: whipping
"Good afternoon, your grace," the advisor said. He went on, but Juno wasn't paying attention to the rest of the words. Instead, his focus was on the coiled bullwhip on the table.
It had a shiny metal rivet on the end, and Juno knew immediately what it was for.
It was for Terry.
The violence had gotten worse over time. Even though Juno hadn't been the king's for long, he could tell. Master hadn't been doing what his advisors wanted, and they egged each other on more and more to hurt him for it.
Nevermind that it was impossible to please so many people at once. Even Juno would struggle. And never mind that Terry was king and shouldn't have to bow to their whims.
Nevermind that Master was the nicest person in the world; patient, and generous with food and water, and affectionate, and most of all kind.
Juno loved him more than he had ever loved a master before.
He didn't deserve this.
His mind whirled as he stared at the whip.
Master was a Free man, with Free blood. He wasn't built for pain like a slave. Worse, he had royal blood.
The whip would break him.
They must have been talking about using it, because one of the advisors placed a hand over the whip. Not even picking it up, but from a glance Juno could see Master's ashen face and trembling hands.
So Juno did the one thing he swore he would never do.
He disobeyed.
Juno stripped naked in three quick movements, stepping in front of Master and kneeling.
Me, instead.
The laughter came immediately, and if he wasn't a slave, he might feel embarrassed. But instead he was only hopeful that Master would forgive him.
The whip was snatched off the table and Juno was seized by the hair.
They shoved him over the table, wood digging into his hips. Things were said, mockingly, above him, but he was focused on breathing and not whatever they were talking about.
He could hear Master's protests, his desperation, but the words didn't register.
It didn't matter. What was a few more scars, anyway? As long as Master was safe.
The first strike tore through the flesh of his shoulder, and he shrieked.
It was too much too fast.
Crack!
Breathe.
They weren't supposed to rip open his skin yet. He should know, he'd been whipped so many times before.
Crack!
He screamed, despite biting his tongue hard enough to taste copper. White hot pain raced up his back.
They didn't know how to use it properly.
Crack!
Another cry, and he choked on his own spit.
This would kill Terry. But he could bear it for him.
He sobbed openly as they whipped him, trying to relax between lashes to prevent more damage. Juno's heart pounded and his lungs were suffocating from so much screaming.
Master's voice was calling out over the commotion, and Juno prayed they wouldn't listen to him.
Maybe Master was being restrained- it sounded like it- but he wouldn't dare look.
Rivulets of hot blood streamed down his back and thighs. He kept his palms flat on the table, willing himself to stay upright despite the shake of his legs.
They tore screams and flesh from him, more and more and more-
And when they were done, he let himself collapse. Only the sheer hope of his Master's safety had kept him standing so long.
He laid boneless and limp on the wood floor. The pain felt so far away now. Fuzziness crept into his vision.
There was a spot on the floor where blood had pooled around his feet. Two footprints of red.
He felt bad for whoever had to clean it.
Then he was moved, and the sharp stab of pain got lost in the haze.
But the arms smelled like Master, and the hands were soft but shaking.
A character, resting after their ordeal, is halfway roused by some small offer of comfort- a companion adding another blanket to their covers; adjusting their pillows or the awkward angle they've fallen asleep in; removing shoes or another garment ill-suited for sleeping in; dimming the lights/closing the door just ajar/quieting anything making noise to create a more conducive sleeping environment; stoking a fire or stove; depositing a cat or stuffed animal to cuddle- in a way that blends almost dreamlike into their mostly-asleep state with just the warm impression of care and safety it brings.
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At this point I’m convinced I’m living in a whump fanfic and whoever is writing it FUCK YOU
1. On Friday, I got a cold. It sucked. My cheek also swelled up all of a sudden.
2. Turns out I have a super serious infection that could turn into a bone or brain infection that could kill me.
3. I went to work on Saturday and this morning because goddamnit I need to pay for my car repairs by the end of the month and Christmas presents can be a bitch on the budget. (I wore a mask and I’m pretty sure most of the symptoms are actually due to the golf ball sized mass on the side of my face)
4. I need surgery tomorrow cause I guess the infection is worse than we thought.
5. I passed out in the shower early this morning due to pain. And probably pure exhaustion.
6. All I can taste is blood. I do not know where the blood is coming from.
7. My cheek also swelled up more this morning DESPITE being on antibiotics.
AND JUST FUCKING NOW
8. I was trying to make tea because I’m TIRED and could really use something that’s not ramen or water or cereal because I have no energy to cook and I SPILLED. THE BOILING. WATER. ON. MYSELF.
