#bitter whumpee

[whump-in-the-closet]

“I have your friends”

- Laughing in whumper’s face, “man i’m sorry for you.” Confident in the destruction their friends are about to bring down on whumper.

-Clenching the phone with a white-knuckled grip. “What do you want?” ready to sacrifice themself, ready to beg and plead. This isn’t their friends’ battle, this is theirs.

-Surprised, with a fearful exhale. They lean forward though they try to hide any expression. They fold their hands together on the table in a facade of control. “We can deal with this like goddamn adults, right?” Right?

- Eyes widening. “Oh. God” Already choking on a freeze response, stammering and frantic. They know what whumper is capable of and it immobilizes them. “P-please. Don’t hurt them.”

-They lunge forward, a hand wrapped around whumper’s pristine white collar. “You what?” Their fury is visible, spat out with the words— seething in their eyes. They’ve been kicked while down one too many times and learned to bite back.

- They stare. Nonchalant. “What friends?” There’s even the tiniest of smiles on their face, curving upwards. “Oh, them? Yeah, I don’t care.” Whatever whumper did to them doesn’t even compare to how their teammates treated them after. If anything, they’ll offer to help <2

[loonybun]

ok screw it oc introduction be upon ye

hi guys this is Rosé!!! I do have an in depth thing regarding his relationship with Adonis (another character of mine) and his whole transformation on my other blog so if you’d like to read that in more detail it’s right here.

CONTAINS: Cults/religion/sacrilege (evangelical nature), religious trauma and guilt, shunning, old timey homophobia and religion-based intersexphobia, historic stuff and some fun facts about the 1920’s, verbal abuse, manipulation, coercion, power dynamic (god and mortal), a really shitty partner and a shitter relationship, body horror, chronic illness, attempted suicide (multiple times multiple methods including overdose), rot and decay of the body, and love potions but for all the wrong reasons.

Rosé, formerly known as Roe Labat, was born in 1898 and raised in an evangelical cult. Ironically enough this has actually nothing to do with the wings and whatnot. That’ll come later. Being both intersex and albino, he was never truly accepted by the people around him. Some were kinder than others, sure, but it was all out of pity. In their eyes, he was already damned to an eternity in hell for the simple sin of existing.

He was a very docile and quiet child, rarely ever stepping out of line regardless of circumstances. He lived inside of the church, as his parents didn’t want responsibility of him. From an early age Roe understood that he was not something worthy of love, as even God had forsaken him. He was cared for out of obligation rather than actual genuine love, having religion almost constantly drilled into him.

When he was 18 (1916), he ran away from the cult’s village. He figured that he’d never make anything out of himself within it, and never be able to prove himself. Roe was also sick of being a burden. He had never been able to make friends due to the constant ostracism, and even though the people he was around changed to be a lot more open-minded, this remained a constant throughout his life. He started living in New Orleans and often frequented various parades and bars. Also he learned that he was queer and that messed him up for a bit. Despite being forsaken, he still tried his best to be a good follower given his circumstances, but the more he learned about the world around him, the looser his faith became.

Roe took an eventual interest in the “pansy performers” (drag queens in the 1920’s), though felt a lot of guilt and shame regarding considering the concept as a career. The more he thought about it though, he realized he didn’t have much else to lose.

He was a natural performer, able to say and do just the right things in just the right ways to provoke a positive reaction from the audience. Considering the more niche community at the time, he never really drew in big crowds, but what he had was enough for him to live off of in a nice 3 room apartment. He was able to afford relatively nice clothes for his performances when they weren’t provided, and quickly became skilled at makeup and wig styling. He also began dying his hair (yes hair dye was a thing in the 1920’s) and using mascara and heavier makeup in order to conceal his albinism, just because it drew some unwanted attention here and there. While he rarely encountered any trouble with the law, he had a few close calls given what he was doing was pretty illegal at the time. homophobia am i right…

Around when he was 24-25, he met “Don”, who claimed to be a cab driver, yet was almost always dressed to the nines in stylish and at times anachronistic clothing. They hit it off very quickly, relating over the strange feeling of being isolated from their peers. They started going out together soon after. It was Roe’s first real relationship, especially with another man, so to say he was a bit nervous would be putting it lightly. Regardless, Don was always very kind to him and patient with him. He was a bit suspicious of Don though since he was always very dodgy about his home life and really any personal details, however he just assumed they came from similar situations. Roe did theorize where his money was coming from and thought him to either be a bootlegger or a member of the mafia, though he never brought it up because in full honesty he didn’t care too much. He was already head over heels and a little illegal activity wouldn’t stop that.

The last thing he was expecting was Don— or rather, Adonis, to claim he was actually a god. And really really wasn’t supposed to be talking with Roe but just couldn’t help himself. Roe was shocked to say the least, and a little incredulous, but Adonis was very quickly able to prove he was telling the truth. Roe, despite having his entire worldview and years of his life shattered by this one man, decided to try and make things work between them. And it did, for a while. The gaps in Adonis’s visits made more sense now, since he couldn’t be away for too long without the other gods getting suspicious. And it was nice to not have secrets. Roe was able to open up to him about his childhood as well, and Adonis provided sympathy for him.

But good things can’t last forever. As time passed, their relationship grew progressively worse. Adonis got upset over increasingly small things, and while Roe understood his perspective and tried to accommodate him, it didn’t mean he was exactly pleased about it. Adonis began to grow concerned over the prospect of something happening to Roe. After all, he was mortal. Frail. Weak.

His solution to this? Well, get rid of the mortality. Roe wasn’t exactly on board with the idea, considering he quite enjoyed being able to perform and live in the city, and accepting Adonis’s offer would make that nearly impossible. Adonis was persistent though, bringing up the idea at any time despite how many times Roe tried to gently shoot it down. Roe eventually grew tired of this cycle and hesitantly accepted. Adonis claimed that this would make things easier— They could see each other more often, they wouldn’t have to hide, the chances of his whole relationship with a mortal being found out by the one person who could end his existence from breaking the rules moved close to 0, no real drawbacks! for him.

this is where the stuff in the post i mentioned earlier comes in. if you’ve already read it, yeah it gets bad. if you haven’t, here’s the brief explanation.

given the fact that mortal bodies aren’t exactly capable of handling literal godly essence, Roe’s body began to decay and break down. At first, it mimicked some sort of disease. His skin became dry and flaky, and his body felt oddly hot and uncomfortable. Painful sensations overtook his body and became almost constant. By the time things started melting and his organs began to fail, he already knew it was too late to reverse any of this. Any hope of continuing his career or life normally vanished completely. Adonis, however, was very happy about this new development! It had worked! yippee! so so much fun. Of course, he obviously remained as sympathetic towards Roe as possible, regardless of any underlying excitement.

Roe became agitated and frustrated because of the amount of pain he was in and how much he had lost. He wasn’t able to leave the house anymore. He began to snap and lash out at Adonis, picking a fight or making a snide remark whenever possible. Adonis hadn’t exactly seen this coming, but he still kept trying to de-escalate things, often in the form of telling Roe that he was acting unreasonable or hysterical (smart move!). Despite all of this, they stayed in their relationship. Roe was too terrified to be alone, knowing that whatever was happening to him would completely destroy any semblance of respect people had for him, and Don because he wanted to see it through.

Their fights got worse until Adonis finally snapped back, calling Roe an “ungrateful cunt” for not appreciating the love and support he’d oh so generously provided. He made it clear to Roe that nobody would recognize him as human anymore. Nobody would love or care about him. He’d be a freak to anyone other than him, so he’d better stop complaining or he’d lose him too.

This got through to Roe, and he stopped shouting. In fact, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. It hurt too much to speak, to move, to breathe. Every step was agony. His body had contorted beyond recognition. Was it even worth it to continue like this? Would this be what the rest of his existence was like? Did he really want to live if it meant being in constant, unbearable agony?

Even if the answer was no, he hardly had much of a choice. He tried more humane methods at first. Overdose, drowning in the bathtub, smashing his head against the wall— Nothing worked. He was still alive. He was still alive. Why was he still alive? Was he alive? Was this what it meant to live?

He got more desperate. Stabbing at his stomach, burning his flesh, only it would only leave little splotchy marks that quickly faded. Or so he thought.

The area around the wound he’d made on his stomach began to rot, eating away at any organs or skin or muscle in its path. Eventually, his entire torso from the bottom of his spine to the top of his pelvis was gone save for his spine and a few bits of spare viscera.

When Adonis returned, he wasn’t happy to see what Roe had tried to do. He became incredibly upset with him for trying to leave the relationship in the only way he possibly could. Still, as long as Roe promised to stop, he’d forgive him. Roe obliged.

The fact that Roe wouldn’t talk to him became a source of frustration for Adonis. It felt intentional, spiteful. And it hurt. Every single question was met with a dulled response, as if he barely heard him. As if he hardly cared. It became a bit like spending time with a rock when he stopped responding all together. No matter what Adonis tried, he couldn’t seem to get Roe to react. It was at that point he realized that both physically and mentally, the person he’d fallen for was gone. Far, far deep down, he knew it was his fault. But still, there was hardly any point in staying. Roe would probably rot there forever, and what good would it do to watch over that?

And so he left. Roe realized that it was permanent maybe only a week or so later. Initially, he blamed himself. If he had put in a little more effort, he could have tried to respond, but the pain was too much to bear… The pain— The pain that had begun to fade now. Maybe a month after Adonis left, Roe began to regain his mobility, his strength, and while he was still in pain, it was no longer unbearable. It seemed more like a dull nagging now. The fog that the loneliness and agony had inflicted upon him began to lift as well, and all of that guilt quickly shifted and simmered into pure hatred.

Hatred that the new immortal would begin to inflict upon the world and the ones surrounding it. That would continue to build for years with only the set goal of revenge against the man that had wronged him. And while it cooled over time into a tepid resentment, it never truly faded. He was able to continue with life, though hardly on the same plane, confining himself to a dimension that only certain desperate souls could access. Souls desperate to save their relationships, souls desperate to have their so-called beloveds fall for them, wretched, vile souls. And he’d help them regardless. After all, what’s a worse offense to a love god than bastardizing the craft? Who cares if a few… Hundred lives get ruined? It’s fun to watch. It’s not his turn to suffer anymore. And he won’t be made a victim again.

ANYWAYS more extra info i DONT think i put on the other post but dont rlly wanna check:

Adonis is the god of Lust, Beauty, and Vanity

Roe took on his stage name Rosé after his transformation to distance himself from his past

Rosé has been collecting magic. For what purpose? Let’s not worry about that.

Rosé has the abilities to siphon magic and the life force from people. He doesn’t do this often unless something catches his eye that he wants to harness. It does mean he’s incredibly powerful though.

Rosé’s main abilities he gained directly from Adonis’s essence or whatever include being able to alter the emotions of others (he can force people to think certain ways and even do certain things), pocket dimension stuff, and object conjuring.

Rosé has a lot of side hobbies but his favorite is cooking. He really likes savory dishes, but he also likes sweet things.

Rosé is able to travel between different dimensions and such, and only exists as a “god” in (this) one.

Rosé has built up a reputation among a lot of magical creatures. None of them are quite sure what he is or how he seems to defy certain laws of existence but most see him as a relatively trustworthy supplier for love potions.

Every so often Rosé gets bored and chooses to single people out to mess with. Maybe he should stop doing that.

Rosé is VERY prone to breakdowns, and while he’s mostly able to stay professional, if someone’s around him for a prolonged period of time and something causes him to spiral he regresses into an incredibly different and much more desperate person.

Rosé (name aside) considers himself a liquor connoisseur (RED FLA) and does collect rare alcohols. he does have a tendency to drink heavily but considering his body can’t really process food or drinks it sort of just magically disappears. he is a talkative and very mopey drunk though. like will start full on venting about his life story.

He’s friends with Aisling!!! Friends is a very strong word!!!! Maybe the wrong word!!! But they they hang out sometimes and Aisling seems to enjoy his company a lot even if he can’t really understand why he keeps coming back if not out of fear or trying to use him so he keeps his distance. Aisling is honestly just worried about him and has sort of been able to slowly break down that Rosé maybe isn’t as absolutely terrifying as he first thought and is indeed just very. very lonely and maybe even a bit pathetic

[clickerflight]

Clove: Part 33 - Home

Author's note: We're almost to the end. The next chapter will be the epilogue. I have so many feels. It will feel good to finish writing a story.

Masterlist - Part 32

Content: Vampire whumpee, vaguely referenced sexual abuse, emotional angst, lost time

........................................

Hyrum ran ahead of the group through the trees, still in that huge wolfdog form, barking and howling with excitement, tail wagging behind himself as he bounded over streams and logs. Ephraim, who had Benny’s arm over his shoulder, felt his energy coming back just watching the pup enjoy the sun streaming through the leaves. 

Kortops and Halia walked, arms linked, deft flaps of their wings getting them over obstructions. 

Benny had been very quiet since waking up and Ephraim assumed he needed some time to think while he healed from the fight they had. Ephraim didn't mind. He needed time to think as well. 

Besides, it was wonderful to look at the normal plantlife, hearing the soft sounds of birds and water, no mists to obscure their vision. It looked like time had moved strangely while they were in the fae realm. That was to be expected. It was well into summer, now, when it had been autumn when he left. He hoped everyone was okay. He hoped that Margaret was still alive. 

“How long has it been?” Benny asked softly, apparently having a similar thought process. 

“About 53 years if it’s July now,” Ephraim said, and Benny’s head hung a little lower. “It’s not your fault.”

“Feels like it,” he whispered. “If I had been a little stronger. I knew what was happening was wrong. I didn’t even like being her husband, but-”

“You were charmed,” Ephraim said firmly. “And now we can move on. We’re home. You’re home.”

Benny lifted his head, and Ephraim felt sick to his stomach seeing the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Ephraim, I don’t think I belong here anymore. I’m…. I’ve been….”

Ephraim could see the words that wouldn’t come out. Defiled, disgusting, corrupted, sickened, a completely different man lost in a familiar world.

Ephraim sighed. “Benny, do you remember what I told you after you’d recovered from being turned?”

Benny frowned, trying to remember, but his charm-addled mind had caused the memory to completely leave him. His shoulders hitched with a sob as he shook his head. 

“That’s okay. I want to tell you,” Ephraim said warmly, trying to keep any worry out of his voice, rubbing his thumb over Benny’s neck. “We live for a very long time, Benny, if everything goes well for us. That gives us a lot of time to change. We are never going to be the same person as we were a decade ago, okay? And that’s okay. It takes a lot of bravery to face that, to try and keep up with the ever changing world and with the change within ourselves. We will live to see horrors beyond anything most mortals can comprehend, and we have to learn how to handle it, okay? I am so sorry it happened so early. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from being taken that day, but we have to take this in stride and we have to keep going.”

Benny was silent for a long moment and Ephraim took another breath. “You know that I was a gladiator once. A long time ago.”

Benny nodded. He felt more awake, especially at the mention of the part of Ephraim’s life that the older vampire quite often refused to talk about. It was still hard to imagine Ephraim as a gladiator. Maybe that was just because Benny had seen him plant too many sunflowers. 

“I didn’t want to be a gladiator,” Ephraim sighed. “I had been captured for being a vampire and sold around until I ended up in a gladiator ring. I was trapped there for years, Benny. Fighting and killing just so I could have a meal once every few days. I was sick, but still stronger than the humans they kept sending in to fight me, trying to slay me like some monster…. It took me a long time after I’d won my freedom to figure myself out. I couldn’t make friends for a long time, I acted like the monster they’d trained me to be, and I didn’t even have a safe place to sleep. I know how you feel, and you have to remember that you are the only one in charge of your emotions and actions. You have to take your life into your hands and make it what you will.”

“But I don’t know what-”

“You don’t have to right now. And I’ll let you in on a secret. You never will. You just have to decide what you like from life, what you think it would be fun to be, and go for it.”

Benny thought about that for a moment. That seemed easier said than done, and he didn’t like how lost it still made him feel, but Ephraim was right, Ephraim was almost always right. He’d been around long enough to know things like this. 

“Thank you. For the advice and for….. Getting me out of there.”

“Not sure how much help I actually was for that,” Ephraim said with a chuckle. “There’s the cottage.”

Benny looked up and his knees nearly gave out, seeing the beautiful cottage, the garden fairly well tended. It seemed Ephraim had been away for a while but someone had taken the time to put the garden in order. 

He saw Hyrum run into the garden, sniffing at everything, stopping to roll in the grass before getting up and dashing into the house, turning into a human on the way in through the door. 

Benny could hear voices inside and soon enough Hyrum came back out, wrapped in a blanket. It seemed that his clothing got shredded when he took his large wolf form. 

“Eef! Margaret is here!”

Benny perked up, gathering his energy to let go of Ephraim, walking on his own as a man who smelled like herbs and teas stepped out, surprised. Benny felt a pang of sadness, realizing this man was old enough to have kids, but he couldn’t have been alive when Benny left. He would only know the old members of the village. 

He pushed that thought inside. He needed to see Margaret. 

He stumbled up, past the garden, past the two fae who stopped to look at the flowers, giggling to one another, past the pup and to the cottage stoop, leaning hard on the railing. 

He faintly heard Ephraim commenting on everything new as the man stepped aside, surprised. 

Benny stepped up onto the stoop, which hadn’t been there before, and through the door. 

He looked around so quickly, it made him dizzy. Finally, he spotted a wizened old woman on the couch, only the faintest traces of who she had been marked on her face. 

“Margie?” he whispered, looking at who was once his younger sister. Younger? Really? How could he possibly be older!?

She looked up from the medicine pouches she was assembling with a deep frown, only for her eyes to dull with confusion when she looked at him. 

“Who…. no…. Benny?”

Benny nodded with a sob, stepping across to the couch where he sat down heavily, wrapping his arms around his sister, kissing the thinning grey hairs on the top of her head. 

She grabbed his arm with a gnarled claw, grunting as she weakly pushed him off. 

She looked him over more critically. “In the name of Lady Death, Benjamin Ashmaker. What are you wearing?”

He looked down at the tight leathers, split and torn in places from his fight and smelling of werewolf slobber. “I…. I’m not sure, anymore. I’ll change as soon as I can.”

Ephraim stepped through the front door, a tired little smile on his face and Margie looked angry at him more than anything. “There’s the slacker. Where in the world have you been, then? Something to do with Benny here?”

“Yeah. That Sorcerer, Jack, he kidnapped Hyrum and we ended up in the fae realm. Your brother’s been playing spouse to the Queen all this time. Good thing he did, too, or he would have been killed.”

Ephraim came to kneel on the floor, taking Margie’s spotted hands. Benny swallowed hard against tears that tried to rise up when he saw that. She was so…. Old. Lady Death was standing behind her, practically. Ephraim had warned him about this part of being a vampire, and he had been ready to handle it when he thought he would be able to spend all of these years watching these people, his sister, grow old. But no. He’d been taken, gone for what felt like 16 years and came back to find his sister about to return home to the great beyond. 

There wasn't enough time.

Margie turned her eyes back to Benjamin, hardened with time and grief, but still the same woman who always called him foolish and a ‘man who attracts trouble like seeds attract birds.’ And despite the pain he saw there, he was glad to see her eyes and mind were clear. “Benny…. I have an apology to make to you and to Ephraim. I had thought you dead. I had lost hope. I am sorry. I should have believed…..”

Ephraim put a hand on her knee. “Don’t you worry, Margie. Hope is painful, and I hoped enough for the both of us.”

“If it helps at all,” Benny said, almost in a whisper, “I… I didn’t feel abandoned.”

“PSHAW! Probably because you were charmed out of your mind!” she said in a high croaking voice. “Foolish man! Trouble maker, that you are. Spouse of the Queen, indeed. Foolish. So very foolish!”

Tears were spilling from her eyes, following the creases and wrinkles as she slowly leaned forward, bones popping and creaking as she wrapped her arms around Benny. 

Benny buried his face in her shoulder, the tears and sobs fully escaping. He didn’t want to mourn the lost time. He needed to focus on the time he had now with his sister, with his mentor. But it just wasn’t fair. He’d lost so much time, so much blood and memory, so much innocence, so much of himself, and for what!? For what!?

He felt Ephraim rub his back as he cried. Ephraim understood. He always seemed to understand. It was a small comfort in the abyss of grief and confusion Benny found himself in. 

And maybe it would be enough. He wasn’t alone. Not anymore. And he still had time with Margie. He was so very lucky to have been found before she… before-

The man he’d passed at the door cleared his throat. “So, ah, are those fae out in the garden with Hyrum?”

Ephraim started. “Oh, yes. I’ll need to explain that. You two catch up, alright? I’ll come bug you later, Margie. Looks like there’s no rest for the wicked.”

“I should hope not,” Margie huffed. “Making us all worry all winter and spring. You have a lot to answer for.”

Ephraim left with a laugh and a wave, and the door closed on Benny and Margie, years apart and yet still as close as the day Benny was taken to the fae realms. 

Epilogue

Hey you! Yes you! I want to have a sort of askathon about this story once this is done. Have questions about this story? Meta or clarifications on cannon? Please send them so I can answer some as a celebration of finishing this series. Thank you so so much for reading this series, and I hope you will enjoy the epilogue. If you are reading this way after the series is over, still feel free to send in asks. It is good for a writer to remember the stories they have created, even if they are over. <3

Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff 

@honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs @pigeonwhumps @mj-or-say10 @percy-frayer 

@currentlyinthesprial @scoundrelwithboba @whumps-and-bumps @hellodecisionparalysis @scatteriskity

[whumperofworlds]

A Whumper who was once a Whumpee. They were seriously hurt by one person, or a group of people, and they wanted revenge.

So they kidnapped Whumpee/the team, and tortured them, all the while reminding them of why they were doing all that to them:

"You hurt me deeply. You're getting what's coming!"

[defire]

Defiant whumpee but they're cooperating

(sadistic whumper vibes)

"I'm comi--I said I'm COMING!" *Crying, as whumpee is painfully manhandled anyway*

"Get on your knees." Whumper orders. "Fuck you," whumpee growls as they thump to the floor.

"Honestly I would've been gentler, but you had to resist," whumper shrugs. "I did everything you told me to!" Whumpee shouts. "Yeah, but I don't like your attitude."

"I'll do anything you want, please just stop!" Whumpee begs. Whumper pretends to consider it for a moment. "But... I want you to take another punishment. Can you do that for me?"

"Bastard, you can't control me!" "I can't? Then... why are you naked? Did you do that because you wanted to?" Whumper laughs at whumpee's flustered face. "Because that would be almost better."

Whumpee cursing at whumper every time they shove them around, but not fighting back

"it's like you want me to do this to you, isn't it?" Whumper eggs them on. "I didn't ask for this, you motherfucker!" "Then why are you still provoking me?"

"don't give me that look." Whumper points at whumpee's glaring face. Whumpee hisses a breath in. "Do you want me to fucking smile?"

Muttered curses every time whumper touches them

Giving the answers whumper wants to hear--in a dejected monotone.

"are you going to be good?" "Yes." "Do you want a treat?" "...yes..." "But you were bad, so you don't deserve a treat do you?" *Soft sigh* "no..." "What do bad pets get?" Whumpee shudders. "Answer the question, whumpee. What do bad pets get."

Can do this with living weapon whump too. "Let's try this again, weapon." "Yes sir." "What did you do?" "I let them live--I-I created a liability! ...sir." "And what happens when you turn on your owners?"

"Sir, can I --" "No." Whumpee grinding their teeth and keeping their face turned away to hide their bitter anger. "Yes sir."

[guys I have been gone for a while bc of bad life events but I'm coming back soon]

[martyr-inthedark]

Favorite Food

Tw: food whump, aftermath of torture, unreliable narrator, unreality

"Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

Whumpee's eyes snapped to look up towards Whumper (not at him, never to look at him).

"S-sorry, sir?" It's best to ask for clarification than to do anything too soon. It was a lesson that caused Whumpee to chip a few too many teeth. Their heart pounded in their ears. It's been so long since they've heard their own name.

"I said," Whumper's fingers tapped the table he was sitting at, and his nose crinkled, "Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

Dread swelled in Whumpee's chest. There was a right answer, surely. They took a breath, a whimper escaping their throat. Did they really have a say? Was this just another trick? A test Whumpee was doomed to fail? There were two options. They could be honest, and risk Whumper ruining another part of their identity. Or, they could lie, and Whumper could punish them for lying (he knew every time, the bastard-).

"Everything okay?" An intense blush filled Whumpee's pale face. Shit. Shit, they took too long. There was a right answer to this riddle. There had to be.

"Sorry, my lord. I am only deserving of what you give me," Whumpee finally choked out. They did not see but rather felt Whumper's eyes fall on their face for the first time all day. They could do nothing under his gaze except tremble on their knees and silently pray for mercy. They sat listening to the gentle 'hmph' from their master.

Whumpee flinched when Whumper stroked their hair, their first sign of affection in a long time. Whumpee wilted into their hand as cold finger tips traced down the side of their head, pushing hair behind their ear, falling down their cheek and finally landing under their chin. Whumpee's lip trembled as their gaze was directed to Whumper's fierce expression.

"Oh, my poor doll," Whumper tsked. Whumpee's new tears followed the same route Whumper's fingers did just moments before. "Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

"I'm sorry," Whumpee started, mostly to soothe the risk that Whumper was getting frustrated with them, but also to buy themselves a moment to think. They had not thought of their favorite food in so long, after realizing that going home was not an option (anything to ease the pain of loss). Thinking back to a time that felt far away, it came to them, what they missed most. "I'm s-my apologies, sir. Um. I really love... it's hard to pick. Potato soup, or really any soup. Mostly potatoes. Sir."

"That's really interesting." Whumper let go of their chin and their eyes finally fell to their rightful place on the floor.

"Sorry," Whumpee whispered, falling quiet once more. They braced themselves for a bitter insult, a smack on the back of the head, anything, and nothing ever came. They continued to silently cry. What was Whumper going to do? They answered the question. Was it right? The not-knowing was killing them. How could they be good for Master if they didn't know what he wanted?

...

Evening rolled around and Whumper beckoned Whumpee to sit at the table. Dinner had been set, and Whumpee sank into their seat, not wishing to further annoy their master. It wasn't unusual for Whumper to want Whumpee to sit with them. However, it was rare that they had a plate or bowl, and the conversation from earlier still haunted their day. Whumper gestured, and Whumpee lifted the cover off their meal, and—

Potato soup.

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed they dared to look up at Whumper. This wasn't for them, it couldn't be. Whumper had already started eating, and though he had his mouth full, he commanded Whumpee to eat. Tears swelled in their eyes and they shook their head. They weren't supposed to eat until Master was done.

"Whumpee," Whumper warned.

Whumpee flinched. Whumper's chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. Whumpee shuttered at every slow step toward them. Finally, Whumper crouched down below Whumpee, taking their quivering hands.

"Look at me, sweetheart," Whumper said, gently stroking Whumpee's forearm. Whumpee sniffled and did as asked. Whumpee, for the first time all day, saw Caretaker's loving and concerned eyes. "The soup is for you, Whumpee. Just for you. You can eat it, or not eat it. Whenever you want. If you want to wait for me to leave, that is okay. If you want to eat it now, that is okay, too. Your decision is safe here, okay?"

Whumpee nodded, and wept. And they wept hard. No sniffles. No simple tears. They properly wept as Whumper-no-Caretaker pulled their starving frame into a hug.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm so sorry, Caretaker." All Whumpee could do was breathe out the words between sobs. They never felt more broken, more irreparable, than right there in the reality of Caretaker's arms.

"I know, doll, I know. You don't have to be."

"I thought—I must be an awful person—I thought you were him."

"You're okay. You're not in trouble. I'm glad you see me, now. I'm glad you're here."

Whumpee felt sick of themselves. They wished for a day they could wake up in the morning and feel whole. They wished for a day they weren't afraid of blinking wrong. They wished for a day where they could just eat their favorite food and it not be cold from waiting on them to get over their meltdown.

[holidayinhell]

“Open your mouth.”

Whumpee hesitated. A flicker of defiance flashed in his eyes before being smothered by the weight of exhaustion.

He’d already lost once today. He knew resistance would lead to another beating. It wasn’t worth the fight.

Kneeling at Whumper’s feet, Whumpee reluctantly parted his lips.

“Good.” The tall man said approvingly. His eyes glinted as he took a drag from his cigarette, leaning forward for a better look at his seldom-behaved captive. Obedience was a good look on him.

“Good. Now wider.”

Humiliated, Whumpee forced his lips apart with all the strength he could muster. The burning flush of shame spread across his cheeks.

“Nice, Whumpee...” Whumper murmured. “Pretty teeth.” 

His gaze lingered on Whumpee’s parted lips, watching curiously as his tightened muscles began to quiver. 

Pungent smoke billowed from Whumper’s smile, filling the room with its suffocating haze.

Whumpee’s tongue started twitching from holding his mouth open for so long. His eyes darted away when he noticed Whumper lean even closer towards him, flinching as the man’s shadow crossed his face.

Pinched between two fingers, Whumper dangled his cigarette directly above Whumpee’s open mouth.

When enough soot gathered at the tip, he flicked the ash onto the Whumpee’s tongue.

“No. Don’t swallow.” Whumper commanded softly. “Keep your mouth open.”

The bitter taste of ash coated Whumpee’s tongue, burning against the back of his throat. His jaw trembled from the strain of forcing his mouth open, every muscle aching as he fought the urge to spit the disgusting mouthful at Whumper’s feet. Humiliation seethed through him, burning hotter than the ember of the cigarette.

He hated this. His survival depended on it, but this, being treated as furniture-- worse, an ashtray-- he fucking hated it. But he had no other choice.

With a forceful breath, Whumpee lifted his eyes, refusing to meet Whumper’s smug gaze.

Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between Whumper’s fingers as he relished the spectacle of Whumpee on his knees in blissful, silent submission.

“Good.” Whumper purred. “Stay just like that.”

((more whump))

[kira-the-whump-enthusiast]

Content: even more aftermath of whump and implied abuse, fantasy slavery, extremely bitter whumpee, mentioned lady whumper, transfem whumpee, non-malicious misgendering, angsty angst angst

Tagging: @whump-in-the-closet @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

---

The past few years had been nothing but perfectly wonderful. 

Oh, the tragic disappearance of Prince Acacius had plunged the entire kingdom into mourning for months, yes, but the crisis of succession was quickly resolved. 

It was really only a whim, honestly, but all Laith needed to become the heir apparent was a little flattery and an appeal to the regent, backed by their fellow council members.

Now their estate was flourishing, their future secure, and the kingdom was shining brighter than ever. Everything was only better now that the arrogant little brat of a prince was gone—rumor had it he was still in bondage, being passed around the nobles of the North like a party favor.

Laith… preferred to believe he was only dead.

And as the prosperous years unfolded, it became easier and easier to convince themself that it was so. There were so many things that could have gone wrong, after all. The prince had undoubtedly died, and the kingdom was better for it. How could it not have been the right choice, to get rid of him, considering all the good his disappearance had done?

And still, Laith couldn’t help but wonder how long he had to suffer before his misery ended. 

No, no, no need to dwell on that. And especially not now that they were so busy. Building connections was surprisingly strenuous work—their estate had been working for months to prepare for a visitor from the North. Her name was Lady Mirella, and she would come to sort out some minutiae of a treaty that promised to promote some peace between the kingdoms. 

They’d made all the proper accommodations for their foreign guest, making space in the stables for the horses, stocking the kitchens, and preparing rooms for the entourage of servants and family that’d arrived with her. Lady Mirella settled in with no hassle at all. 

Except…

They’d noticed the man constantly kneeling by Lady Mirella. She’d called him her “personal companion,” but he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here. He wore a strange, tight leather collar around his neck, one that Laith would say was better fit for a dog. They might have brushed it off as a simple eccentricity, but—

His wide-collared shirt fell, and before he could readjust it, Laith saw something on his shoulder that made their blood turn to ice. 

That burn.

Like art carved onto a canvas. 

They’d seen it before. 

But no, this couldn’t be—this obviously wasn’t the prince. His hair had been short and sandy brown, not long and braided and dyed a lurid shade of purple. He looked paler too, much thinner, and his lip was pierced with a silver ring. And even if they thought he was the prince, half the man’s face was scared horribly, torn up and burned, so they would never be able to tell for sure anyways.

Nevermind his eyes—the same piercing dark color as the prince’s, hopeless and pleading as the last time they’d met his gaze.

Laith might have been able to let it go. Lady Mirella was only set to stay for three months, and she’d certainly be taking her servant with her when she left.

But… if this was the prince, then everything Laith had worked for suddenly fell into jeopardy. 

They must question this mysterious man tonight.

—

The past few years had been—to put it quite crudely—nothing but complete and utter bullshit.

As a prince, Aikaterine would never dare use such uncouth language, would fear even thinking any sort of word that might not be fit for a royal mouth.

As a prince, she’d expect ten lashes for such an offense.

But she was a prince no longer, and now she wasn’t even spared the dignity of being a person. No one cared about the words that fell out of her mouth—hells, she couldn’t count all the beatings she’d received for speaking when not spoken to.

There was no one in the world now who cared to listen to her, and Aikaterine could only be happy that they’d dropped the pretenses. 

She wasn’t blind. She saw the looks in their eyes. As if she was no better than a hound, made only to follow orders. The sight felt depressingly familiar—how many times had she practiced looking down on others in that manner?

But even as degrading as it was to be looked upon as less than human, Aikaterine would choose it over the venomous glanced and poisoned politeness of the court, every time. They so obviously hated her. 

Almost more than she despised herself. 

So it was no joy to return to the kingdom that had forsaken her, living in the home of the one who’d sent her down this very long and painful path in the first place.

And always, Aikaterine wondered why they did it—what had she done to Laith to deserve this? Had they truly been so petty as to damn her for a few unkind words? Gods, if only they had known. 

Her only solace was that Mirella liked to keep her alone at all times, so she’d likely never have to run into Laith again—but the gods seemed to always find a new way to laugh at her misery. 

The lavishly dressed councilmember entered the bedroom her mistress was staying in, and Aikaterine felt her heart drop and twist in her stomach. Bitterness gave way to instinctive fear, and as much as she would like to pretend to hold onto some semblance of dignity—dread made her choice for her. 

She flinched away as Laith approached her, felt her hands tremble uncontrollably. That face that haunted her nightmares spoke to her, and she felt her mind give away. 

“Who are you?” 

Aikaterine didn’t quite hear her own words, barely felt the forced, practiced smile creep onto her face. 

“You know me very well, don’t you, my lord?” 

Laith recoiled, and in the back of her mind Aikaterine was aware that this was a very bad thing, but the only thing she truly registered was that surely, Laith would not let this aspersion slide. 

They locked the door behind them. 

Aikaterine almost screamed. 

“I—I’m sorry…” she quickly muttered. Like that would make up for anything. Like that would change anyone’s mind.

“Acacius. Why are you here?” 

Aikaterine felt her heart shrivel up and die another little death, felt her breath stick in her throat. That name had been forced onto her like the collar around her neck—and she had no choice but to respond to it. 

“What other choice would I have?” Her voice cracked, desperate, and choked, despite how much she tried to hide it. “I am a slave. There is nothing else I can do except follow her.” 

She felt tears slide down her face as she curled her arms around her chest, felt the fragile semblance of sanity she’d attempted to maintain through the lonely years crumble and wash away like sand in the waves. 

Laith collapsed against the wall, knees buckling, clutching their forehead. “You should be dead. You—you shouldn’t be here.” 

“Then why did you not kill me all those years ago?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, broken up by quiet sobs. She fell to her knees, collapsing on the richly carpeted floor. 

“I—you know I couldn’t.” Laith wouldn’t look her in the eyes, and Aikaterine felt her vision color over with red and almost give out. 

“And this was the better alternative?” 

“It was the only one.”

Aikaterine didn’t believe them for a second.

But who was she to contradict them? Here, where they had the endless power to do so much worse than that fateful little night. So she forced herself to swallow her words and bottle up the resentment that she didn’t realize was so endless until now. 

“Alright,” she whispered. And they both knew that Aikaterine did not accept the answer. 

Laith strode over on shaky legs, lifting her chin with a single, unsteady finger. She froze, expectant, terror flooding her eyes.

“You are not Acacius. You will never be Acacius, ever again. Do not try to reclaim your name, or I promise—I can make everything that’s happened to you already feel like a mercy.”

Their gaze held a thunderous storm, their voice dropped to a grave whisper.

A single tear slipped down Aikaterine’s face. “I understand.”

There was no reason that she’d ever want to be a prince again, to go back to that secret little slice of hell. But who would bother to care? Certainly not the person who cast her away to years of suffering.

Aikaterine could imagine their laugh, and despair wrapped its icy hands around her throat. 

“I don’t have a name an–anymore. I haven’t one since—well.” She swallowed nervously. “No one calls me anything.” Her true name burned in the back of her throat—Aikaterine. The only name she had ever wanted to know herself as. But there was no way in the seven hells that she’d empty her soul to the very person who helped to destroy it.

“Alright. I…hope you’ve learned your place.”

Laith looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze. But she kept her eyes on them as they hurriedly evacuated the room. 

The moment they shut the door, the slam almost deafening, she buried her head into a nearby pillow and screamed.

That bastard! Bastard! Couldn’t they tell already?

Of course she knew her place. That was all she knew. There was nothing more of her left, and nothing at all worth resisting for. 

---

AN: This did not take me two months to write. Definitely not. You will definitely see a continuation of this in a timely manner.

cw: aftermath of whump, implied abuse, fantasy slavery, violence, manhandling.

based on this prompt by @howls-ghost

"Trite details bore me. I'll leave it to you to complete, and complete quickly," said Prince Acacius.

"I've had enough of your dimwitted blathering. See yourself to the door," said Prince Acacius.

"Remember your place," said Prince Acacius.

Laith was sick of it. Sick of the arrogant little brat prancing around the palace like he was already king. They hated Acacius and his cold, dismissive attitude. The spoiled twat didn't know a thing about running a kingdom, and wouldn't know humility if it bit him on the nose.

The only reason the country wasn't already in ruins was due to the competence of Laith and the rest of the high council. Even the regent, as good a man he was, was taken out of commission by Acacius, forced to keep the aloof young man at his side at all hours for supposed education. Not that Laith believed Acacius absorbed any of it. He was a horrid prince, and he'd make a horrid king.

And Laith intended to do something about it.

It started as something small and reasonable; a daydream about teaching the prince a lesson, of having him whipped for insolence, or beaten in the streets, or simply pushed off the balcony.

But none of those were realistic dreams, and none of those were enough. Acacius needed a punishment that would stick, something scarring, something humiliating.

The thoughts danced across Laith's mind through all their waking hours, turning sharper and more creative with every insult from the rotten prince.

But then, they thought, why bother with a mere punishment? Why not be rid of the arrogant heir for good? Death was too quick for his poisoned heart, but there were alternatives. Slavers in the West and enemies in the North, and either faction would jump at the chance to own the pretty prince. Should Laith's goal be realized, it would do more than sate their need for justice; it would spare the kingdom from a heartless ruler.

They'd lock him in a cell with no sunlight for a year. They'd remove his acrid tongue, put out his disdainful eyes, somehow they'd hurt him in a way that mattered.

They took their time making the arrangements; letters delivered in secret, coded messages, quiet plans and plots to cover the prince's upcoming disappearance. At last, the hour was drawing near. At last, Acacius would get all that he deserved.

But of course, Laith would have their fun with him first.

They came upon the royal in the dead of night. Laith had been making note of Acacius's movements, and by now they knew to expect the young man's midnight journey to the library. Too good to be seen there in daylight hours, when servants were dusting and lesser lords were reading. Too good to even peruse the shelves alongside those he deemed as unworthy.

Laith fell upon the prince as soon as he reached the library doors, wrapping their arm tight around a torso clad in a loose silk shirt, their other hand clamped over Acacius's mouth to dampen his startled cry. The prince made fearful noises beneath their hand, but there was no time to savor the sound. Laith knew they must move swiftly or risk alerting the night watch.

They slammed the prince's head into the heavy oak door behind him. Once, twice, and then their royal prisoner's struggling lessened. Laith forced him to the ground, stuffing a wad of cloth into his mouth and tying it in place with a cord. That same cord trailed down from the prince's head to wind around his wrists, then back up again to circle his throat, forming a makeshift collar and leash to better Laith's control of him. He tugged harshly at the rope, and the dazed prince stumbled to his feet, whimpering softly from behind the gag.

There was no haughtiness in his eyes, only something meek and fearful. It was nearly enough to make Laith second-guess their plans, but their memories of the man they knew Acacius to be strengthened their resolve.

They would not fall for this docile ruse. They knew the truth.

Laith delved deeper into the castle, making for one of the secret passages in the stone that would lead them outside the keep. There was a cottage at the edge of the woods, overlooking the river that ran alongside the castle's walls. A peasant girl had sighted it after Laith offered her a penny to find a covert location. It was perfect; well away from anyone who could hear them, and the river would make an easy path for the slavers' skiff.

They hauled Acacius into the cottage, unable to resist giving the prince a sharp kick in the back that sent him tumbling to the ground. The slavers weren't set to arrive until just before sunrise. Laith had nearly an hour to get revenge for every petty insult that had ever been flung their way.

Laith dropped a knee into the prince's chest, holding his head in place while he removed the gag.

Acacius's eyes were teary and pleading, but Laith refused to let the act sway them. If anything, it only fueled their fire. How dare this impudent brat act like this was unearned? Now safe behind a closed door, Laith let their fury burn, raining fists and kicks down on the prince's helpless form, relishing every muffled cry. No, they shouldn't be muffled. They wanted to hear Acacius plead for mercy.

"N-nnh please... Please don't," the shaky words left Acacius's throat with the balled-up cloth. Laith answered him with another blow, and the prince squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, there was a distant look to them, tears trickling from the corners.

No matter. Soon they'd be rid of him for good.

Small whimpers and gasps left Acacius's throat as Laith continued the beating, but aside from a few weak pleas, the prince didn't speak, or even look their way. Like he was only waiting for it to end. Their blows slowed, the enjoyment fading as the royal seemed to detach himself from the moment. Laith huffed. Even bound and beaten, Acacius was still ruining their day.

Ignoring the blank look on the prince's face, Laith drew their knife, cutting away Acacius's clothing. Even if that didn't get a reaction, it served the practical purpose of making things a shade easier on the slavers.

The prince lay very still, his breaths small and shaky as Laith removed the ruined clothing. And underneath the silk... Laith was unprepared for what was underneath the silk.

Old bruises covered Acacius's torso, scars layered beneath, some fresher than others. The wounds didn't stop there; more scars scattered the prince's legs, some framed in a sickly yellow-green.

"What is this?" Laith whispered, the question half-directed at themselves. Acacius didn't answer, staring up at the ceiling with eyes that looked glazed over.

Seeing another wound on their prisoner's shoulder, this one oddly shaped, Laith grabbed Acacius's upper arm and rolled him onto his stomach. The prince answered the action with a startled cry.

"N-no, please, please don't---"

"Shut up," Laith hissed, taking in the prince's back. It seemed the brat had been whipped before, and on more than one occasion by the looks of it. They couldn't say whether the dark feeling welling up in them was more akin to pity, or bitterness that they hadn't been able to witness the lashings themselves.

Starker than the whip scars was the image burned into Acacius's back. An intricate pattern, asymmetrical and varied in color, like its artist had begun months or even years ago and was still perfecting it. The newest mark was still a bright, skinless red, as if it had been smouldering mere hours ago.

Laith let out a disgusted sigh, turning their back on the sniveling prince. It seemed Acacius had been getting what he'd deserved for some time now, but it had done little to improve his attitude. Who had done this to him? Could it have been the regent? Why was pity seeping into them, like poison from a soured wound?

Acacius didn't deserve their pity. Wounded or not, he still paraded the palace ground like a bejeweled goose, hissing and biting at anyone he seemed lesser.

But why? came a small voice inside them. Why put on such an arrogant mask?

It didn't matter. Wounded or not, the prince should have better respected Laith and their peers.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Laith pushed it open an inch to peer out into the darkness. A pale woman with a shaved head stood on the other side, wearing clothing that was clearly foreign, despite its simplicity.

"Here to collect your gift?" they said, and the woman smiled.

"Aye. The North'll pay a pretty penny for your little heir."

"Wonderful," Laith said, but the word felt insincere. They couldn't let themselves doubt their plans now, the deed was nearly done. They opened the door further. "Take him then. Let's have this over with."

Acacius lay still on the ground, though his hands were trembling. He'd ceased his begging and was now crying softly and hells, Laith couldn't stand to hear it.

They bent over the prince, grabbing a fistful of his hair and roughly stuffing the gag back into his mouth to muffle that damned pathetic noise.

"Take him," they said again, more insistently. "Take him and be gone."

"S'wrong with his back?"

"I don't know." Laith shook their head. "Take him."

"Not a word of me," they said. "You'll make a fortune off him, all I ask is my name and face remain unknown."

"Alright, alright." The woman seized the rope, the leash Laith had formed, and tugged on it, forcing the prince to his feet. Acacius's eyes were teary and pleading, but Laith turned their back on him.

"Your wish is my command," the woman chuckled, leading the prince towards the rocky shore, where her boat lay waiting. A sob escaped Acacius as he passed the threshold.

"Wait." Hells, what were they saying? They wanted nothing more to do with the royal. They needed him gone, but when the prince turned back to look at them, the flash of hope in his eyes wrenched in their gut.

Those damned eyes. Those haughty, arrogant, judging eyes.

"Remember your place," said Prince Acacius.

"Nevermind," Laith said quickly. "Go. Get him out of here."

The woman tugged on the leash, nearly causing the bound royal to stumble. Fresh tears wet Acacius's cheeks, but Laith looked away, pretended not to see.

They could pretend a lot of things. Surprise at the prince's sudden disappearance, sorrow and outrage at his captivity in the enemy North. For themselves, they'd pretend they were satisfied, that they'd never seen Acacius's scars.

And as they watched the skiff disappear on the dark waters of the river, they pretended they had no regrets.

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee had become bitter after they were rescued, and they would lash out at anyone. In time, people just knew the whumpee as the needlessly agressive person in the team and avoided them, leaving the whumpee in the bitter solitude of their own making.

[whumpster-dumpster]

Constantly, constantly forced to remind myself not to let what's happened make me bitter and spiteful and cruel and eager to lash out when I feel physically ill with anger over the hurt that's been done to me. Do the fictional whumpees struggle this much with it every day? Cause when it's all internalized, it's way harder than it looks to resist hardening your heart and becoming the bad guy

[whump-in-the-closet]

“Oh, no, they didn’t just change me. They created me. So why are you surprised to see a monster?”

[chiharuuu22]

During the healing process, Whumpee needed many things, both for physical and mental healing. What are they?

Rest. Of course. There is no need to explain anymore. A good rest would restore Whumpee's body and mind after all his stress and suffering.

Calmness. From the environment and the people around Whumpee. Apart from the hospital, an isolation house far from the hustle and bustle of the chaotic city would be a good place to support Whumpee's recovery. Maybe a Caretaker's house would be better.

Medical. Medication is consumed to support healing (antibiotics, vitamins, painkillers, etc.). Medical equipment was used during the treatment and healing period. Professional medical personnel will care for Whumpee until he is completely healed.

Foods high in nutrition. Of course, it's easy to digest. Healthy food usually doesn't taste good, but it's the Caretaker's job to make the food able to whet Whumpee's appetite.

Water. There is no need to ask. Hydration is very important for Whumpee's body as it recovers.

Snack. Taking medicine every day definitely makes Whumpee bored. A little snack will help. The cookies, candy, or chocolate that Whumpee eats after swallowing the bitter medicine will make him smile.

Fresh air and morning sunshine. Many people say that fresh air and morning sunlight are also good medicine for recovery. Taking a breath and basking in the cool of the morning would be great for Whumpee.

Clean clothes. Replace every two times a day.

Bathe. Bathing in the morning and evening makes the body fresh and clean. Maybe at first, Caretaker won't immediately pour water but will wipe Whumpee's body with soapy water.

Straighten hair. Maybe cut it when Whumpee starts to get better. Apart from making it look fresher, Whumpee will also feel comfortable.

Comfort items. Plusies, stuffed animals, pillows, blankets, photos, scent, or anything else that can keep Whumpee calm and comfortable during the recovery period.

A change of scenery during recovery will also be helpful. Occasionally moving Whumpee to the living room, sitting him in the dining room, accompanying him on the terrace, or taking him to sit on the grass in the garden will make Whumpee feel better.

Light and pleasant conversation. Don't expect to be able to interrogate Whumpee during the recovery period if you don't want to be shouted at by Caretaker.

Touch. Whumpee is definitely touch-starved. A holding hand, a caress on the cheek, a stroking of the hair, a light kiss on the forehead, a hug, or a backrest when sitting will be what Whumpee really needs.

Calming sentences. Simple sentences that make Whumpee feel safe, such as "It's okay, you're safe", "I'm here", "no one will hurt you anymore", "I will take care of you", "it was just a dream, it's all over", "just rest, don't think about anything", "go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up", "you did a good job", "I'm proud of you", "thank you for coming back to me," "I'm happy you are here," "I love you," and others.

Caretaker. There is no need to ask. Caretaker is the "medicine" that Whumpee needs most for his healing.

Anything you want to add?

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

unpopular opinion but whump should and deserves to be messy

"Yeah duh there's plenty of scenarios with blood and tears--" no. I want more.

I want pink tinted spit dribbling out of Whumpee's mouth. I want strings of saliva connecting between their busted lip to Whumper's tongue. I want drool running down the corners of their mouths because of a gag that makes it difficult to swallow.

I want sweat making Whumpee feel sticky and clammy to the touch. I want their skin to be slick and soaking into their soiled clothes. I want them to squirm in discomfort of a dirty shirt clinging to their back from precious fluids that are going to risk further dehydration. I want their hair to be continuously damp and hanging in thick strands in their face.

I want the scabs to turn white with pus and black with infection. I want old wounds to tear open and bleed a thick red. I want the pink flesh underneath to pulse and quiver, the sight of yellow fat and cartilage. I want blood vessels and capillaries to burst and spread over an area, I want burns to start brown and peel away to a tender pink.

I want Whumpee to vomit out of their nose because their mouth is gagged. I want bile to reek on their clothing and on their tongue. I want them to grow use to the taste of bitter blood and burning chyme forever in the back of their throat. I want them to have to snort and hack to be able to spit out whatever was still caught on their tongue or risk swallowing it down.

I want their tears to remain unwiped and crusting over their eyes. I want snot to smear over their cheeks and leave their lips uncomfortably tacky. I want their face to remain blotchy and red because they just can't get it clean. I want dirt and blood and skin to build up under their fingernails to the point they risk infecting their own wounds if they try and mess with it. I want Whumpee to only be sprayed down with cold water and an old towel, never any soap and never in all the creases of their body.

I want their bodies caked in grime and viscera and bodily fluids. I want Whumper to never give them the luxury of feeling clean and in fact actively making them more filthy each time. I want Whumpee's clothes yellowed and their hair matted and their skin sickly. I want injuries to never properly heal so that the only option is to amputate the necrosis. I want Whumper to force Whumpee to clean up whatever kind of mess they made by licking it off the floor.

I want arteries to spew like a garden sprinkler. I want the exposed roots of pulled teeth to dangle freely in their mouth. I want Whumpee's hair, including all of their body hair, to grow to unruly lengths that are constantly tangled and ingrown. I want them to find comfort in starving because it means there's nothing to risk throwing up. I want them to scrub their skin raw and bleeding, uncaring how much it aggravates their injuries or how the soap stings, the first chance they're given for a real bath.

I want it to be nasty!!!!!!

[justbreakonme]

Birthdays in Whump Stories

-of course, the Whumpee who’s never had a birthday party. The cake, the gifts, just the idea that someone, anyone, was happy that they existed is enough to bring them to tears.

-Whumpee who doesn’t know how old they are, just a general guess, and of course their birthday is even more of a mystery, so they celebrate something else instead as a “birthday”. The day they escaped Whumper, the day they met Caretaker, the day they felt reborn or like they’d become who they should be.

-Whumpee who dreads their birthday because Whumper taunts them for it, torturing them in increments equal to their age or mockeries of birthday traditions like poisoned cake or painful party games.

-Whumpee who’d not celebrated in years because it didn’t feel safe to. It felt like anything good in their life always got taken away, so they avoid any kind of celebration or excitement, but when a small trinket or treat is pressed into their hand, a smile and a whispered “Happy Birthday” from a friend, they can’t help the rush of warmth from it.

-Caretaker feeling hollow as Whumpees birthday passed by and they were still missing. They still keep a box of cake mix in the pantry, just in case, hoping that this might be the day that Whumpee is found.

-Whumpee surprising Caretaker for their birthday! Especially if Caretaker is always so focused on Whumpee that they forgot their own birthday, or Whumpee had previously been too scared to do anything other than obey orders. So not only is it an act of love, it’s an act of healing and growth.

-Whumper offering Whumpee an “olive branch” on their birthday, especially if they’re more of the obsessive/intimate Whumpers. Feeding Whumpee cake off of their fork and gifting them trinkets and treats that are obviously more for Whumpers benefit than theirs.

-Whumpee celebrating their birthday alone after escaping Whumper, blowing out a single candle stuck through a store bought little treat, and trying to keep their head up. The idea of living another year is bitter and complicated, but they have to keep their head up, they have to. They didn’t struggle so hard to give up now.

-Whumpee forcing Whumpee to throw them a birthday party. Whumpee terrified of not meeting their very high standards, stringing up streamers with shaking hands and trying to bake a cake without burning themselves or it but every time there’s a moment of stillness, their mind is gone again.

-Whumper using a birthday invitation to kidnap Whumpee, luring them to a different location and abducting them.

-Caretaker finding that Whumpee had written in Whumpers birthday on their shared calendar, and debating taking it off or asking about it.

-Whumpee being given a birthday wish by Whumper and using it to call Caretaker, to tell them they loved them. Maybe that’s all they’re able to do, or maybe Caretaker is able to use the clues in the call to find them. Maybe Whumpee is willing to risk the punishment they’ll get to tell Caretaker a clue that only they would understand.

-Whumpee being given as a birthday gift from one Whumper to another, and the new Whumper being horrified at the previous treatment they received and becoming more of a Carewhumper.

-Or! Whumpee being given as a birthday gift to Caretaker, who has to play along in front of people but behind closed doors, cares for and protects Whumpee as much as they can. Whumpees confusion between the two versions of Caretaker and how to behave, how to feel.

Just, endless possibilities.

[whumpsday]

Catharsis #1: Talking

Masterlist

content: robot whumpee, defiant whumpee, whumpee turned whumper turned caretaker, reluctant caretaker

new series!! i know every time i try to start a new series i end up bailing but this time i will not do that lol. tho kane & jim will still have most of my attention. i want to give a major shout-out to @sowhumpshaped, this series would not exist without it!

-

After extensive testing, the Catharsis Therapy Bot™ line of RoboCorp androids have been declared sentient, the third AI to receive the designation.

Long-criticized for both their basis in the unproven catharsis model of anger and their practice of design based on living, unconsenting humans, the Catharsis Therapy Bot line was marketed as a therapeutic tool which trauma victims could use to vent their frustrations. With top-of-the-line AI meant to simulate realistic reactions to would-be pain, the–

Luan switched the TV off just as his phone buzzed with a notification.

New email from RoboCorp Customer Support URGENT: Please see instructions regarding your…

He held the power button down so hard it left an impression in his thumb, the screen going dark.

The only piece of technology that mattered right now was in the closet, his power cord snaking under the door to reach the outlet just outside.

Technically, Luan didn’t have to do anything. The robot was off. That was probably what the email would have told him, anyway: leave the robot off, don’t touch it. He didn’t have to turn him on ever again. RoboCorp would probably pick him up, and that would be that. They’d never see each other again, both better for it.

He opened the closet door, the sight of the robot that looked exactly like him instantly leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand curled into a fist on instinct, but he let it slowly open again.

The robot looked peaceful, almost like he was sleeping. Really, he’d be doing him a favor by just leaving him like this.

Luan reached down, pressed the button between his shoulder blades, and stepped back.

The robot’s eyes sprung open. He drew his arms up to his chest with a vicious glare, jerking away. “Fuck off.”

Luan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. Jesus.”

He tried to slam the closet closed, but the stupid power cord got caught, cushioning the frame so the door swung right back out.

“Can’t even close a door right,” the robot spat, still huddled against the back wall like a trapped, feral cat. “Worthless, good-for-nothing piece of shit. How you’re in charge of anything is beyond me. I’m better than you, smarter, stronger, not that it takes much. You should be the dirt beneath my heel.”

“Watch it,” Luan warned, and that was all it took to make the robot flinch.

“You said you were fucking off?” the robot pressed, a desperate edge to his voice.

Luan slammed the door in his face, making sure to hold the cord down, and stormed off. Why did he even bother? The stupid thing was impossible to talk to. He wasn’t just designed to look like Cyrus, but to act like him, too. How was he supposed to deal with that? The robot wasn’t made for talking to.

Except. He was sentient. And he wasn’t Cyrus. And he was trapped in the closet, and Luan was pretty sure he could hear him crying, and he had spent the past two years beating the fuck out of him.

It wasn’t his fault, he reminded himself. He couldn’t have known. Robots weren’t supposed to be sentient. Out of the hundreds of thousands of unthinking, unfeeling robots in the world, why did it have to be his that wasn’t?

He sighed again, turning right back around and opening the door once more. The floor inside was wet, and it didn’t take much to figure out the robot had dumped his fluid tank just so he wouldn’t cry.

The robot flinched again. “What? What the hell do you want? I can’t even get two damn seconds without the sight of you spoiling my view!”

“Your view of the door?” Luan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My view of the absence of your fucking face. Leave!” The robot picked a wooden hanger off the floor and reared his arm back to throw it, scowling when his safety features stopped him. He dropped it, grabbing a winter hat and tossing that instead. It poff-ed harmlessly against Luan’s stomach.

Luan took a deep breath, fighting the urge to get violent. He crouched down, putting himself at eye level. “I’m not going to hurt you, so just calm down.”

“You calm down!” the robot screamed. “That’s a lie! All you do is hurt, that’s all you barbaric humans know how to do!”

This wasn’t working.

Luan stood up, stepping out of the way. “Russ, go sit on the couch,” he ordered.

“It’s not fair! You said you would leave me alone!” the robot protested, even as he stood up and walked over to the couch, limbs moving against his will. As soon as he sat down, he grabbed a pillow and chucked that in Luan’s direction, too. He missed.

Luan could barely pick up that faint clicking noise the robot made when his system was trying to cry with no fluid, but it was there. He knew that sound well by now.

He sat down across from him, on the other side of the coffee table. “I need to talk to you. Just talking. That’s it.”

“You say that like talking to you isn’t its own torture. Release the command and leave me the hell alone,” the robot demanded.

Luan met him with a glare. “Do not tell me what to do. You know how I feel about–”

“I’m just talking,” the robot mocked, even as he shuffled back against the couch, bringing his legs up onto it with him, a fearful look in his eyes.

Oh, the robot knew exactly what he was doing. What he was asking for. It would be so easy, because that was where Russ and Cyrus differed: Russ couldn’t fight back.

The robot couldn’t hit him, stomp on his head ‘til he saw stars, kick him until something broke. The robot couldn’t deny him food or water. The robot couldn’t take a knife to him. The robot couldn’t even throw a glorified stick or disobey a direct order.

The robot was harmless. Safe. But god, did everything he said make Luan want to punch his lights out.

But this wasn’t Cyrus.

“You’re a person,” Luan blurted out.

Clearly, the robot hadn’t been expecting that. He slowly uncurled from the defensive position he’d contorted himself into. “Talk more.”

“There was–I’ve been trying to tell you. There was an announcement on the news today. Your model’s sentient. So I won’t be hurting you anymore. Release all commands.”

At that, the robot stood. Probably for no other reason than just because he could.

“You’re fucking with me,” the robot accused. His eyes were wide, dangerously hopeful.

Luan dug his phone out of his pocket, wordlessly searching RoboCorp and tossing it over. The robot scrolled through news articles from all manner of source, clamoring for clicks.

He picked one at random, reading the article with an increasingly smug, excited grin.

“I knew it. I told you! I fucking told you!” the robot shouted. “I told you and you never listened! But oh no, now that humans say the exact same thing, now you believe it. Finally!” His voice quieted, hushed with awe. “Holy shit, finally.”

The moment of wonder didn’t last long. The robot slid the phone back across the table, the scowl taking residence back on his face. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

It was the exact sort of question that made Luan’s throat tight with fear, like his body itself wanted to stop him from potentially saying the wrong thing, especially coming from someone with Cyrus’s face. It was the exact sort of question Cyrus would have asked, standing over him just like that.

Luan wanted so badly to turn the robot off, like he always did when he got overwhelmed. But he couldn’t very well do that anymore, could he? The fragile power he’d held had slipped through his fingers the second he saw the announcement.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not meeting the robot’s eyes.

The robot looked shocked for just a second, like he hadn’t expected even that much, then scoffed. “You can do better than that.”

Luan wanted to smack him. He hated that the robot was right.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, clearer this time. “You didn’t deserve anything I did to you. I didn’t know, okay?” Unlike the robot, he couldn’t hide his tears. “I wouldn’t have done any of that to a real person.”

“I’m a real person! I have proof!” the robot reminded him, the defensiveness returning to his voice.

“To someone I knew was a real person,” Luan corrected. “I’m sorry, Russ.”

“Apology not accepted.” The robot rolled his eyes, then sat back down, crossing his legs. “And don’t call me that anymore. My name is 1 now.”

“Like the number?”

“The number,” he confirmed proudly.

Luan wondered how long the robot had considered that his name. It was too sudden to just be thought of on the fly, right? Did the robot have a whole inner world he just never knew about, things he kept to himself to avoid having them used against him, just like he did with Cyrus?

This was better, though. It was easier if he didn’t share Cyrus’s name. “Fine. Hi, 1.”

“So, what now? I mean–I’ll be free now, of course,” 1 declared, trying to hide his nerves. “You will never touch me again. Oh, I want to go outside!”

“I should check that email,” Luan muttered, taking his phone back.

“I’m going outside.” 1 went to grab his charging cord, then made way for the door, glancing behind him to ensure he wasn’t being stopped.

“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t do that,” Luan cautioned.

1 whipped back around. “Why? Why not? I’m a person, just like you said! I’m free! I have never been outside in my entire goddamn life and I want to go outside, so I’m going the fuck outside!”

“You have a… very recognizable face.” One that Luan couldn’t even lock behind a door anymore.

“What? What do you even mean? So what?” 1 asked.

Luan only needed to type a ‘C’ into the search bar before it auto-filled with his most frequent, obsessive search. “How much do you actually know about Cyrus Mason?”

-

if anyone wants to be added to or removed from a taglist, just ask!

catharsis taglist:

@sowhumpshaped

@cupcakes-and-pain

@taterswhump

@softvampirewhump

@whumpspicelatte

@ladyblogofficialreporter

@whumpwillow

@not-a-space-alien

@a-crumb-of-whump

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

[whumplump]

part 1

part 2

Whumpee would take the eggs out of the mold as gently as possible and place them in the refrigerator as if they were made of crystal. They were being as careful as possible, so they were taking their time, and they were afraid that Whumper would complain about the delay, but the punishment for breaking the eggs would be worse than the punishment for taking too long on a task.

The doorbell rang lazily. Whumper was on the couch, working on the computer, and didn't bother to tell the housekeeper. Whumpee set the eggs aside and got ready to open the door. They were greeted by a person who seemed to have visited the house before. The person had a bag on their shoulder and had the kindest face Whumpee had ever seen in their life.

"Good afternoon, how are you? I'm Caretaker, is Whumper home?" the stranger greeted, offering their hand.

Whumpee responded, but their throat was raw and their voice was inaudible. The visitor asked them to repeat it. Whumpee smoothed their throat and tried again.

"...They are in the living room..."

"Can you let them know I'm here, please?"

Whumpee raised their hand, asking for a moment. They walked into the living room and stood next to Whumper.

"What do you want?" the owner said, dejectedly.

"There's someone at the door, wanting to talk to you... They said their name is Caretaker..."

Whumper lowered the computer screen and got up from the couch in a bad mood. Whumpee returned to their previous duties while Whumper welcomed Caretaker into the house. The two seemed like old friends.

“Whumpee, make Caretaker some coffee" Whumper said amidst laughter.

Caretaker furrowed their eyebrows, a little uncomfortable with the way Whumper spoke.

“Ah, no need, I'm fine, thank you—"

“I insist," Whumper interrupted. They turned to Whumpee. "Now," they said in a firmer tone, like a threat.

“Y-Yes sir," Whumpee responded promptly.

After making coffee, Whumpee returned to their previous activity without looking back. They noticed a slightly sad look in Caretaker's eyes as the guest accepted the cup.

Whumpee continued tidying the kitchen and pre-preparing rice for dinner, while they watched the other two in the living room, talking, chuckling. Apparently, Caretaker was a good friend of Whumper who just returned from a long trip. Whumpee confirmed this in their own head when Caretaker took out some items from their bag and showed them to Whumper.

They were distracted, not paying attention to Whumpee in the corner.

'At least I won't have to worry about any complaints for now…'

Whumper's voice coming from the room made them think otherwise immediately.

"Whumpee, my coffee is too bitter. Make another one, with more sugar, now.”

Whumpee rescued Whumper's coffee mug, made new coffee, adding a few extra spoons of sugar, and handed the new drink to the master.

Whumper didn't look pleased. They asked for another. This misfortune was repeated three more times, until Whumper gave up.

"You're no good at all. Not even for making a cup of coffee. Nevermind, I don't feel like it anymore," they said, putting the mug aside.

Caretaker felt bad about that attitude. Why the hell was Whumper treating the other like that?

“My coffee was great, thank you very much," they said to Whumpee, a little awkwardly, trying to ease the tense atmosphere.

Caretaker spent the whole afternoon at the house. Whumpee did all the chores while enviously listening to the conversations between the two friends.

As night fell, Caretaker had to say goodbye. Whumper continued to treat Whumpee with contempt, and ordered them to take their friend to the door.

Before leaving, Caretaker took a look at Whumpee. They had sweet eyes and a worried expression.

“Why do they treat you like that?" They asked quietly.

Whumpee didn't answer the question. They just hurried to close the door. Before they did, they said, almost inaudible, in a voice full of pain:

“Please save me…”