June Of Doom Day 18

June of Doom Day 18

"How long have you been like this?"

| Sleep Deprivation | Fall | Blanket |

Cw: Needle, the tags above, whumper-caretaker

...

Whumper didn't announce their entrance. They just let the creaking of the door scare Whumpee.

They stepped in and observed their captive, huddled against the wall, staring. Their eyes were bloodshot, their hands shaking as they watched Whumper.

"How long have you been like this?" Whumper asked, stepping over to where Whumpee huddled.

Whumpee didn't answer.

Whumper crouched before them. "Have you even slept?"

Whumpee only gave the slightest shake of their head in response.

"Tsk, can't be having that Whumpee. You need to sleep. I need you nice and rested for when I torture you."

Whumpee didn't move, didn't make a sound.

Whumper sighed, rose, turned, and left the room. Whumpee watched them go.

They returned not moments later hefting a blanket. They crouched by Whumpee again and pulled them off the wall, slotting the blanket in behind them and wrapping it around them.

"You're going to sleep now, Whumpee."

They pulled a syringe from their pocket and Whumpee's eyes widened, they suddenly began to struggle, tried to stand, but they were too weak, and they just fell straight into Whumper.

Whumper lowered them back down to the floor, using the blanket to hold their arms in.

"Don't worry Whumpee, I won't do anything to you until you wake up. It's no fun unless you scream," they whispered as they pressed the needle into Whumpee's neck and pressed in the sedative.

Whumpee tried to fight it, but they were already so tired, and soon they fell into a dreamless sleep, and Whumper rested them against the wall.

June of Doom Day 15

"Please"

| Blindfold | Pressure Points | Scream |

Cw: Torture, The prompts above

...

Whumpee was terrified to the point of shaking. They tugged uselessly at their bonds as they heard the footsteps of Whumper circling them. They were blindfolded, unable to see a thing, and tied down to a table so they couldn't interfere.

"Whumpee, have you ever heard of pressure points?" Whumper asked, running their finger down Whumpee's arm.

Whumpee didn't answer. The next thing they knew, there was a sharp slice across their arm and they screamed.

"I asked you a question Whumpee."

They whimpered, then shook their head.

"They're these points on the body connected to nerves." Whumper's hand resumed its path, running gently down their side. "They can be used to release stress, or pain. But some..." Whumper's hand stopped on Whumpee's throat.

"Please," Whumpee whimpered, but they weren't even sure what they were asking for. Whumper didn't acknowledge it.

They leaned in close, so their breath ghosted Whumpee's ear. "Some cause pain."

They pushed down on the point on their Adam's apple, and Whumpee screamed.

June of Doom Day 4

"Does that hurt?"

| Delirium | Hypothermia | Stabilisation |

CW: mentions of abuse and the tags above obvs

I wrote some caretaking whump this time cause sometimes we need nice things in life. This is also very short and not great cause I'm writing this in a tent at 1am.

...

Whumpee had become so cold they were no longer fully conscious. By the time Caretaker had found them, bloody and bruised in the woods, they were already frozen half to death.

They'd escaped Whumper, but at what cost?

Full of anxiety, Caretaker had settled them in a nest of blankets, placed a cup of hot chocolate between their blue, shaking hands, and set about treating their wounds. They bandaged the cut across Whumpee's head and placed plasters over the small cuts littering their arms and legs. Whumpee hadn't been able to tell them, but they presumed they were from running through the woods.

Whumpee was muttering as Caretaker tried to warm them up.

"Does that hurt?" Caretaker asked, pressing on a particularly harsh bruise above their clavicle.

Whumpee whined. "Please no. No more."

"Whumpee it's me, it's Caretaker."

"Please, I'll be good."

Caretaker did their best to stay calm, to focus on fixing up Whumpee instead of hunting down and killing Whumper. It was difficult, and every injury Caretaker encountered only added to their rage.

"Whumpee, I need you to tell me who it was. Do you know their name?"

Whumpee only moaned, gripping the cup as if it were a lifeline. They hadn't drunk a sip but wouldn't let go of the cup. Caretaker struggled to keep it together as they applied salve to the last of Whumpee's wounds, and managed to pry the cup from their hands to lie them down on the couch.

"Rest Whumpee."

Whumpee whimpered and gripped tighter to Caretaker's sleeve. but Caretaker managed to extricate themself and make it past the door into the kitchen before they broke down on the floor and sobbed.

More Praise Whump cause this is the Good Shit

"I can't- please- I can't-"

"Just relax baby, you can do it."

"I can't, it hurts-"

"I know baby, but you're doing so well, you look so pretty like this. Just a few more."

The girl was strung up, quivering and clammy, her eyes covered by a blindfold, the only fabric on her. Her arms were cuffed to the ceiling, her feet to the floor, and she couldn't do more than hang as the man swung the whip back and it landed across her back, adding to the growing collection of red stripes.

"Please," she whimpered again, "why are you doing this? What did I do wrong?"

She was sobbing so much that the words came out blubbering.

He shushed her again, stepping up to wipe away her tears. "You didn't do anything wrong. You're doing so well."

This just elicited another sob from her. "But why," she managed to get out again.

He continued to wipe away her tears, tenderly, with the back of his hand.

"Because you look so pretty like this. It pleases me to see you like this. Don't you want to please me?"

She didn't answer, just hanging her head as he stepped back to crack the whip once more, and she screamed.

June of Doom Day 16

"At least it can't get any worse"

| Stairs | Concussion | Hammer |

Cw: Escape attempt, prompts above, and bone breaking.

...

Whumpee sat on a chair in the sparklingly white room, groggy and confused, their hands and feet tied down.

They couldn't see properly, their vision was blurred and the light was way too bright. But they could make out the shape of Whumper when they entered.

They circled Whumpee a few times, not saying a word.

They finally stopped in front of them, tilting their chin up to look at them. Whumpee blinked, trying to clear their vision.

"What did you think you would achieve by running?"

Whumpee couldn't answer. Whumper dropped their chin and began to circle them.

"Did you think it couldn't get any worse? Did you think you actually had a chance? All you succeeded in doing was falling down some stairs, concussing yourself, and making me angry."

Whumpee whimpered, unable to form a complete sentence.

Whumper leaned in close. "You were wrong Whumpee, it can get worse. And because I can't touch that pretty little head of yours until it's healed, I'll have to punish you some other way."

"No," Whumpee managed, but Whumper ignored them and drew a hammer from the table against the wall.

"I hope I won't ever have to say it again, Whumpee. You are never getting away from me."

With that, Whumper drew up the hammer and brought it down on Whumpee's hand as hard as they could, and Whumpee screamed.

Villain Rehabilitation

Based loosely on a dream—I have no recollection of writing this

Cw: medical malpractice, institutionalized abuse, mentioned “therapeutic” torture, mentioned drowning/water torture, burns, there’s just a general upset, creepy vibes here, mentioned electrical torture, accidental self inflicted burns (Villain has fire powers.. it makes sense in the piece)

The floor was cold to match the air, villain could feel the chill seeping up from the tiles, through their thin socks. It was freezing in their small room, of course it was. It was always freezing. The thin blankets on their cot did absolutely nothing to protect them from that cold. It didn’t bother them like the way it used to, but on particular bad days it still caused old scars to ache, healed wounds to throb as if new.

It was Thursday. They knew that much. They had no clue what the date was, nor the month. In their little cell, there was no windows, only their bed and a dresser, and a little bathroom through an open doorway. And the camera in the corner, which they did their best to ignore. Their last attempt at escape had lost them the shred of privacy they had left, two of the staff members coming in during the night to remove the curtain that blocked the bathroom from the main space. Whatever. They tried to act as if that didn’t bother them. One of the few luxuries they had left, gone.

They knew it was Thursday, though, because no one had come in. No staff to deliver their meal, no guards to drag them off to another therapy session. They were alone and cold and hungry, which meant only one thing.

It was Thursday, and that meant Hero was coming.

They honestly would have preferred therapy. They would have preferred to be submerged into the depths of the ice cold tub, or the burning hot steam, to scream and thrash as the water seared their skin, leaving welts and burns similar to that flames would cause. But the staff had tried that, dozens of times. Sparks from a lighter, or whatever humane name they chose to give it to cover the fact they were intentionally trying to burn them did not bother Villain the way they would others. Fire didn’t harm Villain unless it was of their own creation.

Those flames were snuffed out the moment they crackled to life.

The so called criminal cast a bitter glance towards the ceiling, the four sprinklers connected to the main water tank, just waiting for the activation button to be pressed. Either from the security office where they knew a guard was watching them now, just waiting for the first flicker of light to turn on the water, or from the outside of their room where any traveling worker could press it if they saw fit through the little glass window on the door.

It was more annoying than anything. With the cold, it would take much more energy for them to produce even a spark, energy they did not have to spare from the nutritional meals they were given. What a load of crap. The sludge served on the tray could barely be considered food, only enough to keep them alive, not doing anything for the hunger.

If there was one thing they had to look forwards to in Thursdays, though, it was lunch. Hero always brought them lunch, from wherever they could spare the time and expenses beforehand. Usually it was fast food, something quick and greasy that would leave Villain sick for a bit afterwards, but other days it was true meals from expensive restaurants, multiple rich courses with drinks and desert to go along. Though Villain usually ended up full before that, their appetite not what it used to be after their strict, forced diet, they could appreciate the thought, and Hero would never comment when they slipped an extra roll or handful of fries into the pocket of their jumper, to stash away in the corner of their room for whenever the next bout of hunger would strike.

That almost made up for the distress the rest of their visits would cause.

As if on a cue, Villain looked up just in time to hear the heavy lock of their door slide out of place. They were backing up even before the guards stepped in, knowing the procedure by heart now.

“Against the wall.”

The room wasn’t small, but it wasn’t very big either. Eight steps across was all it took for the distance between them to be closed. Villain bit the inside of their cheek, more annoyed than anything as they raised their hands, holding them out to either side as the pair of guards stepped forwards, one holding the dreaded pair of gloves, the other with his prod already flicked on, electricity buzzing the end, prepared for any outbursts.

Fire might not have hurt them, but electricity sure did.

They didn’t fight as the first guard grabbed them by the arms. They knew better than that. The scars they held from the first and only time they tried to fight back still stood out starkly against their skin.

When Hero had given them the choice between prison or the Villainous Rehabilitation Center, the choice had seemed obvious. Life bound in chains behind bars, isolated in a cell under constant watch, or a brochure with a lovely castle like campus, smiling faces and gentle therapeutic programs to reteach criminals the way of society and introduce them back into the community, it was obvious which one they were going to pick. They weren’t a criminal, they had at first tried to protest. It had been an accident, a mistake. They hadn’t meant to hurt anyone.

Now they wish they had chosen prison.

The gloves fit snug and warm over their hands, borderline burning as the guard then fastened the familiar cuffs around their wrists. The fabric stretched nearly to their elbows, thick like the ones a person would wear when tending a fire. Villain was sure that’s where the inspiration for the design had come from. In some weird, twisted opposite way, they were designed to rather keep the flames contained. So the only thing they would burn if Villain slipped up was themself.

The marred burns that covered every inch of skin from their forearms down proved that they were effective.

The guard grabbed their arm, and they were walking out of the room. Down the hall, through the compound. Villain knew there was a nicer side to the center, somewhere towards the outside where all of the minor patients were kept. The ones with chances of recovery, one of the doctors had told them as Villain caught a glimpse through a cracked door. They had looked like the ones in the brochure, happy and smiley and hopeful. They did puzzles, and ate at buffets, and watched movies and played piano and went to normal therapy sessions where they talked about their feelings and their pasts and were only there for a few months before they were let out. But anyone who had the misfortune of being deemed “too sick to help”, anyone like them, were all locked away, behind doors that required keycards and cold cells and torture disguised as treatment. Villain knew there were others, they could hear the screams and sobs in the middle of the night if they pressed their ear to the crack in the door, or listened through the vents.

They were brought to a familiar room. The soft lights and cushioned chairs gave it the illusion of safety, of comfort, but Villain knew better. The shackles were connected to a short chain fastened to the table, and Villain was pushed down to sit in one of the chairs.

“Hero will be here shortly.”

Of course they would. It never took them more than five minutes after Villain was brought to arrive. They were sure that was purposeful, Hero was likely just sitting in another room, waiting to be given the go-ahead. There was some procedure, Villain was sure, but they didn’t care enough to risk asking. With nothing to do but count the seconds, Villain shifted in their seat and waited.

True to their history, Hero didn’t take long. The door opened and Villain looked up, a sour taste budding on their tongue.

“Hey.”

They sounded tired. Villain didn’t respond as Hero closed the door behind them. They held a bag in their hand, the smell of freshly cooked food making Villain’s stomach flip as they walked over and set it down on the same table villain was chained to before taking the seat opposite.

They waited, but Hero didn’t make any move to take the food out, so after a moment they leaned back. They would have crossed their arms, but the chains wouldn’t allow that so they settled for crossing their legs instead.

“Villain, the doctors said you have stopped putting effort towards recovery.” Hero’s voice was soft, their hands folding on the table. They didn’t meet Villain’s eyes. “They have suggested a new treatment plan, and after a long consideration, the agency has approved.”

Villain’s entire body went cold when Hero looked up. There were tears in their eyes.

“After today, I am no longer permitted to visit. The sessions will become more frequent and intense. Your rules and schedule will become more strict. Until further notice, all items of luxury or comfort will be revoked.”

Revoked? Villain felt nauseous. They weren’t entirely sure what counted as an item of luxury, but they had a really bad feeling.

“The faculty has issued a formal appeal to request your entry to a clinical trial, which after long thought the committee decided to pass. I’m sorry, Villain. We have all been trying, but you can’t get better unless you try, but since you’re not willing to put in the effort by choice, dire measures must be taken.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Villain murmured after a long moment, their voice coming out a quiet rasp. They didn’t do much talking anymore, only using their voice to scream or beg in sessions. Speaking felt weird, wrong.

“I tried to suggest alternatives, Villain, I did. I couldn’t change their minds.” A single tear rolled down the hero’s cheek, and they quickly scrubbed it away. “I really hope you get better soon. I don’t want you to turn out like the others.”

Not another word was spoken after that. Villain sunk back in their seat. They weren’t sure they wanted to know what that meant.

When it came time for Hero to leave, the food sat still on the table, untouched and cold. They glanced back over their shoulder, but villain didn’t look up.

The door shut behind them without so much as a “Goodbye.”