We’ve All Seen The ‘after Being Tortured Whumpee Has An Absurdly High Pain Tolerance And Caretaker

The origin of "chef" as an English word to mean "one who cooks" comes from the French term chef de cuisine, a title still used in restaurants to this day to denote a cook in a managerial role. What makes this an interesting bit of etymology is that while in English, "chef" is only ever used in the context of cooking and restaurants, in French chef just means "chief", "head" or "leader" and there are many common titles in French that include this word. A Head of State is the Chef d'Etat, a musical conductor is the chef d'orchestre, a business owner is the chef d'entreprise, and so on and so forth. So with this in mind, one could make the argument that as a gender neutral term denoting authority, "chef" could potentially have utility in BDSM as a

Home is where the hurt is - Cover announcement

Here we go! We're in the final stages, the manuscript is finished, the cover is done and I can finally share it with you all.

I will have a paperback and ebook version of the book available this summer! It will be sold through Amazon all over the world.

Release date to come soon!

love the ambiguity between resignation and loyalty w conditioned whumpees. scenario ive been fixated on is one where whumper gets hurt/incapacitated while whumpee is in chains. whumpee takes the opportunity to steal the key and unlock themselves. but all they do with that freedom is help whumper get situated and try to remedy the situation as best as they’re able. once that’s handled, they’ll put the chains back on themselves and return the key without being told to.

Training assassins at ballet school sounds like a good idea. They learn to control their body. They learn discipline. But the police begin to catch on when they keep finding bloody footprints at crime scenes en pointe.

Now consider: a man in a dress. Not in drag or all dressed up or anything. No accessories, no makeup or styling, just wearing the dress, some ratty boxers and muddy sneakers. No socks or stockings, hairy legs in the open air, just raw dogging those nasty shoes. Hair mildly damp. Visibly sleep-deprived. Bruises on shoulders, elbows and knees, left palm bleeding. Sitting on a curb on the street, shivering, looking wretched, and absolutely miserable.

I forgot where I was going with this.

Goretober [5/15]: BEATEN UP

The Memory Circuit [III]

Get In Line, Mister!

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⎉: @chaotic-orphan Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: physical assault, attempted sexual assault, substance use, internalised trauma, psychological breakdown, imprisonment, coercion, manipulation, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The bar has no name anymore—just a fizzing strip of neon clinging to a rusted beam above the door. Inside, the red light pulses like a hammer, and the air is thick with oil, sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like old blood on iron.

Bok sits at the edge of the bar. One foot hooks around the stool leg, anchoring him. His other boot taps lightly against the floor, in rhythm with the bass that shakes the walls.

His glass is half-empty. The liquor is acrid and sharp, coating his throat like engine fuel.

A man drops onto the stool beside him. Loud jacket, richer than the rest of the room. A slick grin follows.

“You working tonight?” the man asks, voice pitched low.

Bok doesn’t answer. Just lifts the glass to his lips, sips.

The man leans in closer. “You’re too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

Fingers trail up Bok’s thigh, casual. Bok stiffens. The glass in his hand trembles. He shifts his weight, the stool wobbling slightly beneath him.

The man chuckles. “You shy, sweetheart?”

What was meant as a term of endearment lands like a blow.

The man reaches up, runs his fingers through Bok’s damp hair. His hand tightens—bunching it in his fist.

Bok exhales slow through his nose. His knuckles whiten around the glass.

“Come on,” the man murmurs, leaning in close enough to smell his cologne. “I know what you are.”

Bok stands suddenly, too fast. The stool scrapes loud across the floor. The man grabs him by the back of the neck this time, tries to yank him near—but Bok spins, shoving him off-balance. He stumbles into the bar, curses sharp.

A fist flies. Bok ducks. His palm hits the counter for leverage. Light hair falls into his eyes—he shoves it back with slick fingers, knuckles at the ready.

The man lunges again. Bok pivots low and slams his elbow into the dude's ribs. The sound is wet, guttural. The guy staggers, then roars and swings—

This time it connects. Bok’s jaw snaps sideways with the force. Pain explodes down his neck. Ink spatters across the bar.

People are shouting now. Moving back. Watching.

Bok wipes his mouth, black smearing across his palm. His chest heaves. He steps forward—gets in one good hit, right to the man’s throat.

Then they’re grappling—hands, fists, elbows. The man claws at him, snarling. Bok’s hair is grabbed again, yanked hard. His body slams into the bar, ribs cracking against the edge.

He tastes salt and metal. His ears ring. And still, his body moves.

He’s not trying to lose.

Bouncers shove through the crowd. One grabs the guy. Another seizes Bok, jerking him backwards. Bok tries to loosen himself, but they’re already hauling him.

"Out."

The door opens. The city screams.

And then they throw him.

He hits wet concrete with a grunt, shoulder flaring white-hot with pain. The door slams. The music vanishes like a heartbeat cut short.

He lies there for a moment. Breathing.

Rain spatters down, cold and biting. Night blooms in slow spirals around his knuckles, washed away by gutter runoff.

His chest rises, falls. Again.

I almost let him.

His jaw tightens. Teeth grind.

A tremor takes him, small and violent. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ink and water run down his arms.

He stays like that, hunched and shaking, for a long time.

No one stops.

The city keeps moving.

¶¶¶¶

Hal stares at the ceiling of the room where they keep him.

Fluorescent light hums, flickering at irregular intervals beneath the sparkling chandelier.

His wrists are cuffed to the chair again, tighter this time. His ribs throb under soaked bandages. Each breath pulls at the place where flesh tried to close around pain.

Ricky is already there, leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for a friend. A file folder sits open on the table—thick, heavy, bloated with things Hal already knows.

“You were one of ours, Hawkins,” Ricky says at last, tapping a photo with two fingers. “Senior clearance. Protocol Valparaíso access. You wrote part of the legislation that governs automaton integration.”

Hal doesn’t speak.

“You knew the regulations,” Ricky continues. “You helped draft the punishments. You were the one who suggested neural tagging in the first place.”

A long pause. Ricky walks around the table, slow.

“And then you go off-grid, shack up with one. A freelance nomadroid. Unmarked. Off-record. Illegal.”

Hal raises his eyes. They’re dry, exhausted. “He wasn’t—”

“No,” Ricky interrupts, voice sharp. “He wasn’t just a droid. You’re right. That’s what makes this worse.”

He drops another photo. This one is of a disassembled model. Wiring exposed. Liquid black pooled around the table where the skull used to be.

Hal flinches. Just slightly.

Ricky leans down, smile thin. “You know what happens if this goes public, right? If your involvement leaks?”

Silence.

“Your clearance. Gone. Your name. Smeared. Pensions, benefits, citizenship? Stripped. Your friend’s address is still listed in the system. Do you think she’ll appreciate a midnight raid?”

Hal’s jaw tightens.

“So,” Ricky says, flipping the folder closed, “we're offering you a free route.”

Another folder. This one thinner. Sleeker.

“Conditional release. You'll be tagged, tracked, watched. You’ll check in every seventy-two hours. And when we find Joyeux—and we will—you will help us. Or everything comes out.”

Hal swallows. He flexes his hands in the cuffs.

Ricky’s smile grows. “So? What do you say?”

There’s no real choice. There never was.

The cuffs hiss open. The chair scrapes as Hal stands.

He doesn't look at Ricky. He just turns, and walks.

¶¶¶¶

Outside, the rain is louder.

Bok leans against the alley wall, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, though he hasn’t lit it. His jaw is swelling. Blood still clings to his collar.

His breath clouds in the cold air.

Behind his eyes, the fight plays again—frame by frame, sensation by sensation. The hand in his hair. The pressure on his throat. His own hesitation.

You’re too pretty to be alone.

He doesn’t feel pretty now.

The cigarette falls from his fingers.

He presses his back to the wall and slowly sinks down. The rain keeps falling. The city doesn’t stop.

His hand touches the edge of his coat, fingers finding a hidden seam inside the lining.

Bok shuts his eyes.

Tonight, he just breathes.

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day 11: rehabilitation

@medwhumpmay

content: substance abuse whump (drugs), morally dubious caretaker, addict whumpee, argument

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

Caretaker sighed. “I figured as much. But you realise you can’t live like this, right?”

Whumpee huffed. “I’m living just fine.”

“You’re shooting up heroin how many times a day?”

“I’m not shooting up anymore.”

“Lies. Lies. You just keep lying. You lie to me, you lie to your family, we know. We all know. We can see the fresh needle marks on your arms. You’re high right now.” Caretaker wanted to stay calm and collected for this conversation, but it was so hard when Whumpee was being so… difficult. “We know.”

“You don’t know shit,” they hissed. “I’m done talking to you.”

“You realise I could just call the cops on you, right? I don’t have to wait for you to go to treatment on your own. I could get you locked up and away from drugs for months, if not years.”

Whumpee pursed their lips. They inhaled sharply, their muscles tensing and untensing. “You wouldn’t.”

“I will if you leave me no other choice. I will do it. I don’t want to— I don’t. But I will if that’s the only way to save you from overdosing. I don’t want to find you in the bathtub one day, dead. I don’t want to find you on your bedroom floor with a needle in your arm. I don’t want any of that.”

“I’m fine. If it’s so annoying to you, fine, I can stop. I can stop any day.”

“No, you can’t. You need help, Whumpee. Let us help you.”

“I’m not spending six months to a year in a stupid fucking program!” They stood up from the sofa, yelling now. “I’m not! If you’re so obsessed with the rehab program, you go in! I’m not going to do it! And I’m done fucking talking!”

Caretaker stood up as well, just as fired up. “Out of the two of us I’m not the fucking addict! I don’t need rehab! You need some fucking time locked up somewhere where you can’t get to your dealers and they can’t get to you!”

“I’m leaving! If you call the cops, you’re dead to me, whether I’m sober or not! I’m fucking done!”

“That’s it.” Caretaker grabbed their phone off the table and started dialing the emergency number. Before they could hit the call button, Whumpee jumped at them and tackled them to the ground. “What the fuck? Get off me!”

“You’re not calling the fucking cops on me!” They wrestled the phone out of their hand and rolled off them, and Caretaker was just in time to see them smash it against the corner of the table, completely shattering the screen. Then they threw it on the ground and stood up.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Caretaker screamed. “You’re out of your mind! You need serious help! You—”“I’m leaving. If you call the cops on me, like I said, you’re fucking dead to me. Don’t try to find me.” With that, they stormed out the door, leaving Caretaker on the ground along with their ruined phone. They let out a long, deep sigh and decided right there, on the floor: they would put Whumpee in jail if it meant saving their life. They just needed to get another phone to make the call.

~

@whumpsday @lolrpop

whumpee screaming into a gag. screaming for help. screaming in pain. screaming to warn their would-be-rescuer that it's a trap