#child of whumper

[rosieposey-torturedpoet]

Okay, so this is really random: but I see a lot of like 'inexperienced' Whumpees who are the weakest/youngest out of the group

But like what if the youngest is the one everyone fears, I mean they're in the group for a reason

Picture this very specific scenario: The team is captured by Whumper and they are all taken to the same room, chained up to keep them from running or trying anything: and here comes Whumpee (a teenager that's like half the size of everyone in the room) with these insanely complicated locks, maybe they're wearing a straight jacket, with multiple guards while the rest of the team got one or two

Because if you think about it, younger people would have to work harder to prove their strength and 'worth' to the team. There has to be a reason for them to stay on the team

However my personal favorite of this trope is that the youngest is just so unpredictable; not only are they talented/wise beyond their years but you truly never know what they'll do next with all the talent they harbor

Maybe Whumper hates them because at least he can fall into this rythme with the rest of the team and learn their habits: but he physically can't do that for youngest because there is no routine or habit to fall back onto

Maybe they mastered a rare magic form at a young age, or were trained as a soldier

Then think of the CARETAKING OPPROTUNITIES?? A parental Caretaker that shows Whumpee what it's like to be a kid, who worry about they're little reckless living death wish 24/7, and give them a mom/dad that they deserve

I just love young, anti-hero, vigilante Whumpees who have seen so much and learned so many things at such a young age, to the point where they are constantly on the verge of villain because of their genuine desensitization to it all

Which causes everyone to be at least a little afraid of youngest, in some sense of the word

[distracted-obsessions]

Ok, but imagine Villain/Henchman/Assassin Whumpee being found by the heroes while they raided Supervillain Whumper's lair and they take Whumpee into custody. They don't handcuff Whumpee because they aren't fighting back (either too injured or in shock) but as they lead Whumpee out of the lair, Whumpee stops.

"Did you find them?"

"Find who?"

Whumpee pulls away from them and goes deeper into the lair. Every time the heroes grab them, they get more and more distressed, saying that they can't leave. They won't leave. After a minute, they start screaming out a name that the heroes don't recognize.

Just as one of the heroes goes to knock Whumpee out, they see a child crawl out from under the stairs and run straight for Whumpee who drops to their knees and hugs the child tightly, shushing their cries and whispering soft, comforting words. "Shh, it's ok. Mommy/Daddy is here. I'm ok. We're ok. it's ok. Shh."

[mj-iza-writer]

Comfort whump... contains child Whumpee.

Caretaker had just sat down when their phone vibrated.

Their dog looked up at them curiously as Caretaker read the text.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late, and you can say no. Is there any way Whumpee might be able to come see your dog for a few minutes. They unfortunately are struggling again, and can't sleep. They said saying hi to Ozzie would make them feel better. Again I completely understand if you don't want to", the text read from Caretaker's neighbor.

"Of course, hold on though", Caretaker quickly replied, "don't get them out of bed."

"Come on Ozzie", Caretaker hurried to the door.

Their neighbor had already opened the door when Caretaker was half way across the yard.

"You didn't have to come over, I'm sorry for being a bother" the father sighed.

"It's not a bother. If a visit with Ozzie will help Whumpee, I am more than happy to oblige", Caretaker grinned, "so Whumpee is having another flare-up?"

"Yes, they just can't get warm. Severally uncomfortable", the father explained, "my wife was dealing with this all morning, then I got home from work and relieved her", the father sighed tiredly.

"Have the doctors figured anything out yet?", Caretaker watched Ozzie sneak into the house, "sorry."

"That's alright", the father grinned, "I think they know where their going. The doctors are still not sure", they sighed, "I feel like we've been in a maze. Every possible answer has just led to a blocked exit."

Giggles could be heard from down the hall.

"I think Ozzie found Whumpee", Caretaker grinned.

"I think so", the father nodded with a grin.

They walked down the hall to Whumpee's room.

"Ozzie, you're not supposed to be in the bed"- Caretaker sighed.

"They came in and jumped up here" Whumpee excitedly looked up.

"I'm sorry", Caretaker turned to the father.

"That's alright", they grinned, "I'm happy to hear some giggles."

"They feel so warm", Whumpee sighed in relief.

The father sighed, "that's been a big part of this flare up. We have several blankets on Whumpee, plus the heat is turned up. We can't keep them warm. There are other problems of course, but they're shivering non stop has been tiring."

"Yes, that takes a lot out of the body", Caretaker nodded.

Whumpee hugged Ozzie, then started to pet them.

"They can only stay for a few minutes. It's late, and you need to sleep. As does Caretaker and Ozzie", the father watched as Whumpee seemed to be getting comfortable.

"You need your rest too", Caretaker glanced at the father, "I wouldn't mind staying up with them. I wasn't doing anything tonight, and I'm off work tomorrow. It's not a problem."

"I couldn't ask you to do that", the father looked down, "that's too much to ask."

Caretaker held the father's shoulder, "when was the last time you got some good rest?"

"A... long time ago", the father admitted.

"You've been working hard at work, then coming home and working hard", Caretaker frowned, "I have helped your wife with watching Whumpee a few times already. I don't mind helping out. That way Whumpee can have Ozzie keep them warm as well."

The father watched as Whumpee's eyes grew heavy.

"Are you certain?", the father looked at Caretaker with a worried face, "you don't have to do this."

"I'm certain Caretaker nodded. I'm happy to stay up with them", Caretaker smiled as Whumpee's eyes closed, "plus I think Ozzie had just gotten them warmed up enough to sleep."

The father smiled weakly, "they haven't slept at all the last few days."

"And neither have you. It's a lot of work to support your family, and you're doing a great job doing that", Caretaker smiled, "let me take this off your plate for tonight."

After another reluctant moment Caretaker finally managed to usher the father out of the room.

They could hear the father explaining to Whumpee's mom, and then the neighboring bedroom went silent.

Caretaker sat down next to the bed.

They pressed a damp cloth along Whumpee's forehead to help with the fever.

Ozzie watched Caretaker sit back.

"Shh", Caretaker pressed their finger against their lips.

Ozzie rested their head on Whumpee's chest.

Whumpee smiled and petted Ozzie in their sleep a few times before their hand rested again.

"Poor child", Caretaker whispered as they wrung out the damp cloth in the water bowl, "no sickness is easy, but childhood illness is so cruel", Caretaker dabbed the cloth on Whumpee's forehead again, then wiped the corners of Whumpee's mouth.

"Momma?", Whumpee whispered weakly after a few hours.

Caretaker leaned up quickly.

"Hey Whumpee, it's me Caretaker. I'm right here."

Whumpee sobbed quietly, "I don't feel good."

"I know, and I'm sorry", Caretaker rubbed Whumpee's head, "do you want a drink of water?"

Whumpee nodded, then sniffled.

Caretaker held them up as Whumpee sipped.

"There you go", Caretaker recovered Whumpee with the blankets.

"Does Ozzie ever get sick?", Whumpee blinked slowly.

"He has a few times. There was one time he swallowed one of my socks. He was a puppy, I had to hurry him into the doggie doctor for help", Caretaker smiled.

Whumpee giggled, "Ozzie, you ate a sock?"

Ozzie wagged their tail happily and licked at Whumpee.

"He sure did", Caretaker smiled, "he's a silly doggie."

Whumpee giggled playfully.

Caretaker smiled as they wiped Whumpee forehead again with the cloth.

"It feels nice when you do that", Whumpee smiled.

"I'm glad" Caretaker grinned, "I'm glad it comforts you. How about we try to get some more sleep now."

Whumpee nodded, before letting a yawn start.

The sun was peaking through Whumpee's curtain when the father came into Whumpee's room.

"Wow, they're still asleep", the father marveled.

"Yes", Caretaker whispers as they nod, "I think their fever is breaking. They're sweating like crazy, and the congestion sounds a little looser."

Whumpee's mom came in.

"You said it's breaking?", she hurried to Whumpee's bedside.

Caretaker nodded, as they wiped the sweat up.

Whumpee squinted their eyes open.

"Momma?"

"Yes baby, I'm right here", their mom squeezed their hand and kissed it, "everything is alright."

"I feel wet. Did I just go swimming or something?", Whumpee tiredly looked around, "is that Ozzie?"

"Yes, Ozzie came and visited you last night", Caretaker smiled, "do you remember?"

"No, not really", Whumpee petted Ozzie's head, "I'm glad he did though. Papa, can we get a dog."

"Maybe after we get your health back", the father nodded with tears down their face, "though, I must admit I am thankful for Caretaker and Ozzie's help."

The mom wiped her eyes and nodded.

"That's what neighbors do", Caretaker grinned up at both of them, "we help out when we can."

The mom wrapped her arms around Caretaker in a hug, "I'm so thankful for you and Ozzie."

Caretaker patted her arm gently, "you're welcome."

"You're such a good boy Ozzie", Whumpee's father patted Ozzie's head, "thankyou so much for sharing your warmth."

I know I had said I would be taking a break from writing, but sometimes, when you're sad, the best thing to do is your favorite thing. For me, that's writing.

This story is inspired by my own dog Sargent. A few years ago, I had gotten really sick. I couldn't get warmed up no matter what. Sargent always knew when something was wrong: mentally, emotionally, physically. He was always there.

After a while, Sargie ended up jumping on the couch and tucking himself into the blankets with me. We slept together for hours. He was so warm.

That is still a great memory in my mind, and that is the exact reason, even though it was painful, I did not leave him while he took his last breath. I was told today that the way I am mourning him seemed unhealthy. Sarge was more than just a dog to me, I won't let his memory fade. He was here, and he was alive. He still lives on in my heart. I will mourn his physical loss the way I see fit.

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[mintflavouredwhump]

An eldest child whumpee who is always forced to be the 'role model' of their younger siblings while bearing the brunt of their parents' anger and expectations.

[oros-ash3s]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Proud” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Cato (she/her)

TW: Death, descriptions of violence

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

Atlas was six-years-old when he killed for the first time. 

His hands shook as he walked into the brightly-lit arena. It expanded out in front of him, lights blinding him as he stepped out of the shadows, his one solace through it all. The room was wide and circular; the ground uneven and jagged, smeared with dirt, grime, and deep crimson stains that were too familiar for Atlas’ liking. Tall pillars lined the two entrances that were opposite to each other, shadows masking the other trainees that were all waiting in an orderly row for their turn. The walls were made out of a similar jagged rock material that the floor was, the same dark red splatters marring the surface. Reaching high up near the domed ceiling was the only window in the room: a dark, tinted glass with splatters of blood near the rim, showcasing a group of shadowy figures that Atlas knew belonged to the generals and other high-ranking officers, overseeing training. 

He could feel their gazes burning into the side of his head. They were piercing into him; calculating, scanning, scrutinizing. Picking out his worst insecurities, his weaknesses. Analyzing his every movement. He pulled his shoulders back, tipping his head up high, straightening his back. That’s what he was supposed to do. Make yourself look confident. Make yourself look strong. Capable. 

But despite the words repeating in his head, he didn’t feel strong. His entire body was shivering, and he knew it wasn’t just from the bite of the cool air. No, he felt…. He felt scared. 

He didn’t like it down here. He really, really didn’t like it down here. He had never even been to the lower levels of the warehouse before. He was never allowed. He had been at Eden for a few months already, but in all his time here, he hadn’t been around more than two or three people. They were all nice. They gave him whatever he wanted: food, snacks, blankets, books. Atlas didn’t understand any of the words, but he liked feeling the pages while the grown-ups did their work. Some of the books had a rough, almost scratchy feel to it, while others were shiny and sleek. Feeling along the material of the pages would entertain Atlas for days. 

Everything inside Eden had seemed like that — with the bright lights, sparkling clean metal surfaces everywhere he looked, and long, winding hallways that went on forever; everything was so new and fresh and awesome. Not at all like before. Here he had a bed and fresh food and anything he could ever want. He was warm and cared for and safe. 

Safe. 

He repeated the word like a mantra, mouthing it silently to himself, as he stepped fully into the arena. He was safe. Even with the scary commanding officers glaring down at him, and the dark, coldness of the room, and the hushed whispers of the others behind him, like pricks against his neck, he was still safe. Eden would always be safe. They were kind. They would never hurt him. 

From across the room, his opponent appeared, slow and careful. It was a girl, small as him, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, fair like wheat, skin pale and marked by freckles. In her hands she carried a long metal rod with two blades attached to the tips. Atlas wasn’t sure what it was called. The training officer had listed the names of each of the weapons they would be supplied during each of their training sessions, and he’d tried so hard to memorize them like he was supposed to, but now for some reason, his usually excellent memory was failing him. The blade in his hands shook, his grip unsteady. What was it called? A…. danger? No, that wasn’t right. A da— 

Dagger, a voice in the back of his mind supplied helpfully. Right. That’s what it was. A dagger. 

He dug his fingernails tighter around the dagger, taking short, even breaths to calm himself. Like he had been taught. Training was simple. This wasn’t scary. This was going to be fine. He just had to do what he was told. He could do that, he could do that just fine. 

Just do as you are told. 

The girl from across him watched him warily, not yet moving from the edge of the entrance. The weapon looked to be far too big and heavy for her tiny hands; she had her weapon lowered to the ground, arms tired. Not like Atlas, his small dagger light and fitting perfectly in his palms — almost like it was meant to be there. He planted his feet, holding it in front of him stiffly, fear still coursing through his veins no matter how much he told himself this was all safe. 

The two of them seemed to be locked in some sort of silent standoff, both waiting for the other to make the first move, and both too stubborn to cave. The seconds ticked by slow as ever, as both stared each other down, still not daring to go. The girl dug her feet into the uneven ground, narrowing her brows at him. She was almost taunting him now, giving an unspoken, come and get me. Atlas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes glancing momentarily to where all the officers stood, still observing. Should he attack…? Making the first move was scary; they were far apart, she’d have more time to come up with a plan. But, with her planted stance, Atlas also noticed that her weapon was now wedged in between her feet, too heavy for her to hold any longer. 

Now’s your chance, her voice echoed in his head. Take it. 

Holding the dagger close to his side, he charged. 

His mind was a whirlwind of rapid, panicked thoughts as he closed the distance between him and his opponent. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, if this was what he was supposed to be doing, but there was no turning back now. 

Listen to your gut. He could hear her in the back of his mind, guiding him through it all, and that was all he needed. Just do as she would. Do as she would, and he’d be safe. He’d win. 

The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of her opponent barreling towards her and she sloppily tried to pull up her weapon again, but Atlas was too fast. He kicked at her, foot knocking loose the weapon from her hands, sending it flying to the side. It clattered to the ground, rolling away from her reach. She turned towards it, moving to retrieve it, and Atlas took advantage of the distraction. He lashed out, grabbing her by her ponytail and tugging her back. She tumbled down and he jumped on top of her, digging his fingers into her hair and tugging, thick chunks coming loose, spilling out around them. She screamed in pain, writhing to get out of his hold, but even then he did not let up. He brought a fist down, just like he’d been taught, whacking her hard against the side of the head. Then again. And again. And again. His knuckles were hurting now, little spasms of pain shooting through his hand for every hit, but he didn’t care.

Don’t hesitate. Finish the job. 

He brought his arm up again, his fingers tightening around the dagger, raising it high into the air. 

He slammed the dagger down fast. 

And just like that, in only mere seconds, it was over. The blade stabbed into the girl’s neck and at once all her attempts to get away from him were gone. The hands clawing at his arms fell limp, her mouth parting into a wide, shocked “O” as she gasped. Her eyes bulged, as big as saucers, as if they were trying to pop out of her head. Tears that Atlas had not been able to notice in the struggle streamed down her face, trickling down to sides of her cheeks. Her desperate, darting gaze locked on his, and for a moment, it was as if she and Atlas were the only people in the room. For a moment, it was as if the officers were not still glaring into them, ready to punish any misbehaviour, as if the others weren’t gathered in the darkness, leaning forwards in wonder at the sight in front of them, whispering and trembling. It was as if, for a second, it was just him and the girl with big, round blue eyes, lying on the ground, and nothing else mattered. For a second, there was only them. 

The moment ended just as fast as it had came. 

Atlas ripped the dagger from out of her neck, the action sharp and intense, just like he’d been taught. The girl made a deep, horrific gurgling sound from the back of her throat, blood bubbling between her lips, as a stream of red shot up from where the knife had been only a second ago, splattering against Atlas in a harsh gush. 

Atlas yelped, scrambling back off of her in a frenzy. His heart beat fast in his chest, so hard he was sure it was going to leap out of his own skin. Blood rushed in his ears, loud and disorienting. The dagger fell from his grasp, skittering across the ground with an awful screeching noise. He scrubbed at his face, eyes darting around wildly, searching for the one person he had been most desperate to please. Did I do it right? Did I do it like I was supposed to?

There was no one there. No one, besides the hundreds of eyes burning into his skin, trapping him in place. No, no, no. He didn’t like this. Wasn’t he supposed to like this? Why didn’t he like this? Where was… Where was she? He needed her. He needed her to tell him he did it right. He needed her to reassure him. He needed her to tell him he was safe. That this was good. He needed—

The girl wasn’t getting up. She wasn’t moving at all. The bright red fountain of liquid was spilling from her neck, staining everything in sight, and she was twitching, making these horrible, terrible, groaning sounds, but she was not getting up. She was not getting up. Why wasn’t she getting up? 

Atlas choked, taking spluttering, gasping breaths. This was all wrong. This was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Why wasn’t she getting up? She was supposed to get up. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. He wanted to go upstairs, he wanted to go back to his room. He liked his bed. He liked sleeping in it. He liked the long winding hallways that he could run down as much as he wanted. He liked the smiling grown-ups. He liked going on walks. He liked how shiny and clean everything was. He liked his new books.  

He did not like this. 

The red stuff was sticking to him. His face, his hands, his clothes. It was all over. No, no, no. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want to. He clawed at his skin, desperately trying to get it off. Get off. He needed it off, right now. He didn’t want to do this. He wanted to go back. He wanted—

Sudden hands gripped him, spinning him around and tearing his gaze away from the twitching girl on the ground. He made a desperate attempt to shove them away, to wriggle free and run — he needed to run, run back to safety — but the hands only held him tighter. 

“Atlas,” a voice breathed, soft and careful. He found himself staring at not the foreign face of one of the training officers, but instead the smiling face of a woman with mismatching eyes, one a dark, smooth brown, and one the palest, icy blue Atlas had ever seen, starkly contrasting against the other. 

Cato. 

It was only Cato. 

Cato was safe. Everything was going to be okay. Cato was here. Cato would never hurt him. 

“Atlas,” she said, voice even and gentle. “Oh, Atlas.” 

He gasped for air, grunting and wheezing as the words he wished he could tell her failed to form. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, and still as he willed himself to speak, nothing could come out. 

This is all wrong, he wanted to scream. This was all very wrong. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want to be down here. He didn’t like this. There was red stuff on him and a twitching girl on the ground and everyone was watching him—

Cato pushed down his flailing arms, moving to cup his face, turning it away again from the body on the ground, forcing him to stare into her eyes. He had thought they were scary, at first — the harsh, coldness of the blue, so unnatural — but right now, nothing had ever felt more soothing. It was familiar, something that dulled the panic of his mind, for only a second. Something he could rely on, pushing away the bad thoughts. 

“Oh Atlas,” Cato whispered, her eyes bright with excitement, thumb rubbing calming circles along his cheek, smearing the blood there. “Atlas, you were magnificent.” 

Magnificent. He hadn’t heard that word before. Was this good? Did he do good? Was this what she had wanted?

“That was wonderful, Atlas, truly wonderful.” She said, continuing with a tone of such reverence that stopped Atlas short in his panic, despite not knowing what exactly those words meant.

“Wuh…” He mumbled. “W—“ 

Cato smoothed down his red-streaked hair. “Yes, wonderful. That means good. Oh Atlas, you did so good.” She fixed him with the widest smile he had ever seen, and suddenly, the twitching girl on the ground didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nor did the officers still watching over him, or the kids gathered in a row at each entrance. No, only Cato. 

He did good. He was good. 

“You’re even better than I thought.” Cato said in the same hushed voice, talking faster than she ever had before, eyes still shining bright in a way that made the fear fluttering inside Atlas’ stomach dissipate. “You’re… you’re a natural. Oh Atlas, this is perfect. You’re truly perfect.” 

She brushed the bangs out of his face, smiling warmly at him. Her face was only inches away now, so close that Atlas may have once flinched and ran free. But not now, not with the look on Cato’s face, so fond and tender. “I’m so proud of you, Atlas.” 

She pulled him into a tight embrace, and Atlas let himself be held tight, his face pressed into her shoulder. He brought his arms up, wrapping around her, his crimson-coated, trembling hands holding onto her with all their might. Proud. He’d made her proud. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

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[another-whump-sideblog]

Fixing Tracy Chapter 16: Cursed Knowledge

TWs in the tags

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Molly keeps her promise, and Tracy finds that the achiness and other symptoms have faded a lot by the next day. At least she won’t have to feel like that ever again.

What would it be like, if your priority was your own health and happiness?

Molly’s words keep intruding into her thoughts, which is especially weird because Tracy already knows the answer. She would be a different person if she prioritized herself. So why does the question loop in her mind?

It doesn’t matter. She needs to escape, to get back to Alicia. But… when she had a chance to escape, she failed. She doesn't even know why!

She takes a deep breath. That train of thought goes nowhere. Just… think about it logically. Stop being stupid and think of it like a puzzle to be solved instead of a potentially hopeless situation.

Okay, the main obstacle in the way of escape right now is that she can’t hurt Molly. Since she doesn’t know why she can't hurt Molly, the logical next step towards escape is to figure out the reason, right?

How does one figure out why they couldn’t do something, though? She knows she was interrupted by a memory that made her lose focus, but she doesn’t know why that happened. It’s not like being violent is so out of the ordinary for her. She’s always been able to do what she had to do, so why can’t she now?

“…hey.” Molly pulls Tracy from her thoughts and sets down a plate of eggs and toast in front of her. "Um.. how are you feeling?"

"Better. Uh… thank you. For not keeping me like that. And for breakfast." She's not really grateful, of course, but keeping Molly happy certainly can't hurt anything.

Molly sits down. "So… do you want to talk about why you're so sure you can't get sick?"

"I don't get sick."

"...Most people do get sick sometimes, though, right?"

She's waiting for Tracy to answer, so Tracy gives a quick nod. It would feel like Molly's talking to her like she's a toddler if she didn't know that Molly always talks like this.

"So why are you different?"

"I don't know why, I just know that I don't get sick."

"But how do you know that? If it was just that you've never been sick before, why would you be so sure that you can't get sick now or in the future?"

Tracy eats some of her eggs. "I just know."

Tracy knows she's being frustrating, causing the conversation to go in circles, but Molly doesn't seem annoyed. "While you were… feeling not so great, you said that you weren't sick because you're not weak or pathetic. Do you feel like people who get sick are weak and pathetic?"

"...I guess."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? If you're sick you're obviously weaker than normal, and you need people to take care of you."

"And… that's pathetic?"

"Yeah? Y'know, you're not my therapist, you're my kidnapper. I don't want to play whatever game this is."

"You seem frustrated."

"I am! Can you let me eat in peace?" 

"Of course. I'm sorry." Molly starts eating her own breakfast.

They eat in silence for a bit, allowing Tracy to go back to her predicament. How does one figure out why they couldn't do something?

The options can be broken down into two potential answers: it was either something about trying to give someone a concussion, or something about Molly specifically.

The first seems more likely. She's never given anyone a concussion before, and it's a bigger deal than slapping someone or pulling their hair. It's… only human that she hesitated. It's only human that she thought back to how it felt when it was being done to her.

So, how can she fix being human? How can she make hurting someone seriously feel the same as slapping someone or pulling their hair?

"What're you thinking about?" Molly asks.

"Just enjoying my food." She eats the last bite of her breakfast.

Molly takes Tracy's now empty plate and stacks it on top of her own. "I'll go wash these. After that… Do you wanna play chess?"

"...sure. I'll set it up while you're doing that."

Molly grins widely and goes into the kitchen.

Tracy finds a chess board with the other board games, puts it on the table, and sets up the pieces. She can multitask, it shouldn't be too hard to play chess while figuring out how to turn off the part of her that cares about causing someone brain damage.

Molly finishes with the dishes quickly and sits down across from Tracy. "Do you want white or black?"

"How good are you at chess?"

Molly laughs. "We've played chess together before, when I was your therapist. Do you remember at all?"

Tracy shakes her head. She really doesn't remember anything from those sessions.

"How about we just do rock, paper, scissors for who plays white. Does that sound good?"

Tracy nods. Molly plays rock and Tracy plays scissors, so Molly ends up with the first move.

Tracy has to remind herself not to get too engrossed in the game, no matter how much she enjoys chess. She still needs to be focused on escape. How can she fix the part of her that hesitated at hurting Molly?

If she can just fix that, she can retry what she did last time. Grab some handcuffs from the backpack, catch Molly by surprise, hit her head hard enough to disorient her, take the cattle prods, restrain her, take the keys, and escape. 

Molly will probably be anticipating her trying something like that, so she'll be on guard. She's already started taking the backpack with her when she goes to the bathroom, which she didn't do before the incident. Tracy could've tried that strategy long before Molly accidentally left the restraints when she went upstairs… but it would've failed, because she hasn't fixed the part of her that hesitated.

"You've always had such an aggressive playstyle." Molly once again interrupts her thoughts. "I'm more like Alicia, I prefer to focus on defense."

Tracy's stomach drops. Molly may have played with Tracy before, but she's never played against Alicia. “How do you know that?”

Molly winces. “Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Is there any answer to your question that could make you happy?”

“No, but not answering it doesn’t make me happy either!” Tracy tries to keep her breathing under control.

“I think… you’re happier now than you would be if you knew.”

“That’s not fair. Why do you get to decide that? Why can’t you just listen to me? I want to know! I hate not knowing, I hate looking back on private memories and wondering if you were somehow there! I hate wondering if Alicia is safe from you or if you're watching everything she does!" She sweeps the pieces off the chess board and lets them clatter to the ground. It doesn't make her less angry.

“...I'll tell you if you can calm down, dear."

"That's not fair!" 

Life isn't fair. Calm the fuck down.

"You stalked me and won't even tell me how and I'm supposed to not be upset about that?? Why is everyone allowed to get angry but me!? Why are you allowed to kidnap me and shock me with cattle prods and restrain me, but me getting upset is too far?? Tell me, now, or– or–"

What can she threaten? She's completely powerless, even over her own emotions. Now that she's opened the floodgates, she finds herself sobbing uncontrollably. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you–"

"C'mon, just take some deep breaths. In… and out… In… and out…"

Tracy abruptly stands up, sending her chair flying, and flees to her room. She locks the door behind her despite knowing that Molly must have a way in and starts throwing things. The spinny chair, books from the bookcase, clothes, pillows, anything she can find.

All she achieves is tiring herself out. She screams until her throat is hoarse, but Molly doesn't even knock on her door or try to talk to her. She punches her mattress until her arms are sore, and still, nothing happens. Her rage is meaningless. She's not even going to get punished, much less listened to. No one cares. No one cares at all.

She cries until she's emptied herself out. That should be calm enough for Molly, right? She takes some deep breaths, unlocks the door, and exits her room. "I'm calm now. Tell me."

Molly is sitting on the couch, staring at Tracy. "I… I had a lot of things. It was a lot of hacking, mostly. Um…" she takes a shaky breath. "You're going to be upset."

"Yeah. Did you not know that when you did it?"

"I… I don't know…" She closes her eyes. "The cameras. The cameras that your parents set up in your house, I watched through those."

Tracy feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. She thought she was too exhausted and numb to feel anything, but she was wrong. She's not even sure what she's feeling, but it's definitely something besides exhaustion and numbness.

It was violating enough to have her parents watching. It never even occurred to her that the footage could be being watched by someone else. What if Molly wasn't the only one? God, Molly probably didn't even have to do anything but guess the password a couple of times! Tracy wouldn't be surprised if the password was 'password' or one of their birthdays.

"So… Alicia…"

"There aren't cameras in her foster parents' house," Molly confirms. "I follow her foster parents' social media, and I can access Alicia's email, but… that's it."

Tracy doesn't remotely believe that that's all, but she does believe that there isn't a way for her to watch Alicia anymore. "If I asked you to unfollow them and log out of Alicia's email, would you do it?"

"...yes. But it would mean I wouldn't be able to tell you how Alicia is doing, would you be okay with that?"

"Of course I'm fucking okay with that!" Tracy snaps. "I already asked you to leave her alone, but I guess you don't care about my wishes as much as you pretend you do." She's proud that her voice is able to sound cold despite the fire raging inside her.

"...I thought that as long as I didn't contact her–"

"Let me make it clear, then. I don't want you to have anything to do with her. I don't want you to surveil her in any way. I want you to be completely clueless about what's going on in her life."

"Okay. I'll do that. I'm so sorry, Tracy."

Tracy doesn't dignify that with a response. She locks herself back in her room. She doesn't think Molly will actually stop stalking Alicia, but… there's a chance. That'll have to be enough for now.

There is another small comfort– the cameras were only meant to make sure she and Alicia followed the rules when their parents weren't home, and her parents turned them off when they were able to keep an eye on her and Alicia in person. If Molly's main source of information was the cameras, she didn't see the worst of it. She didn't see Tracy at her most vulnerable. She tries to remind herself of that, but it doesn't make her feel any less violated.

Maybe Molly was right. There was no answer that could've made her happy, so she shouldn't have asked.

tag list: @whumpyourdamnpears @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @iamheretohurt

[eight-littlenightmares]

ok so yesterday i posted a lil crack whump oneshot with my OCs, and exactly one person left a very nice comment in the tags and that made my day and so i am posting another!! :D same characters as last time btw

TW: child whumpee, mousetraps??

“..Papa?” Eight calls. No answer. “Hello?”

”Papaaaaaa..” she calls out again. Still nothing.

She’s still deliberating over whether to continue shouting or to just sit here and accept her fate, when she hears his footsteps coming down the hall. She perks her head up.

Papa stares down at her. “..Veronica. What the HELL are you doing?”

Eight looks down at the big mousetrap she’s gotten her ankle caught in. There’s already a pretty big bruise forming. “..I- I stepped in the trap you left out..” she can’t help but make a sad face, hoping he might feel bad for her.

Silence. She starts getting nervous but can’t muster up the courage to look up at his face. Was this a test? Did she fail it?

”Veronica.. I put these up for the RATS,” Papa finally snaps at her. “I specifically put these in the areas you don’t go in! And not only that but I made them BRIGHT PINK, so that you would see them more easily! How the hell did you even manage this?!”

“..oh.”

[melpomenelamusa]

Light & Darkness - Masterlist

This is the masterlist for my little story, for those interested.

SUMMARY: A boy is the Chosen One destiny to defeat the evil Lord of Darkness, who torments his village by stealing the light of the moon and stars during the night. However, when the day of the prophecy arrives and the boy finally faces his enemy, things don't go as he expected… Genre: Fantasy. Major prompts: Whump, child whump, near death experience, permanent injuries, child abuse.

CHAPTERS:

The Chosen One

Trauma

No escape

A light in the darkness

[whumpwright]

Howdy, first time writing stuff like this publicly, so I’m gonna speed right through so as to not cause myself inner turmoil.

Just an idea on writing psychological abuse: matching the responses to the character

Yes, I am using myself and my siblings as an example here.

Now, I personally have been kicked out 3 times by the same person AKA my old man. And I’m still living with the dude half time because court order. But I’ve learned some knowledge over the situation now, so there’s a bright side to everything, eh?

Regardless, few facts (remember, based off of personal experience, I can’t help outside of that):

When the Whumper in this situation is drunk, there’s a possibility they’ll constantly be contradicting themself or forgetting things they said almost instantly, switching up, etc. This does not happen for all people ‼️‼️ Some Whumpers might be different

Each whumpee is different. I wasn’t the only one removed from residence, my younger brother was as well. I faced the situation rather too calmly for what it should have been and my brother attempted to fight our father with a metal bat

Adding onto that, the process of psychological whump is different for everyone. And yes, all these example with be based off how me and my siblings reacted.

Some might be overly angry about the whole thing. They’ve maybe been lied to and manipulated for a long time and they’re pissed. They want to relieve the anger. They may retaliate with mocking or screaming matches or even physical disputes. It’s easy to affect the way they act and manipulate them again

Another whumpee might be overly distraught by the whole thing. They might just be a bystander! But golly, that doesn’t stop them from being absolutely messed up. To see someone they care too deeply about cause potential harm to someone else they care about is too much. They may stay silent. They might try and shield the eyes of another party. They may try and change the mind of whumper, desperate for things to be fixed. They might sob their eyes out. They might scream at the top of their lungs, wanting to fix this, but not wanting anyone to get into trouble.

Or maybe your whumpee is almost completely fine. They’re emotionally numb to the whole encounter. Maybe they were playing clown tricks not a minute ago. But they’re being hurt mentally and they know. They don’t care enough. They just leave calmly and do what they’ve been told to do.

Your whumpees shouldn’t all act the same. They need character. They need a personalized reaction to the situation. Have they seen this before? Have they been in this situation before? Are they new to this? How does that affect their way of acting?

What do your Whumpers say to manipulate the whumpee?

Maybe one whumpee is showered in praise. A golden child. They’re such a kind soul, who’s being tainted like sallowing newspapers. Maybe they pull away from everyone else that they were close to. They’re more aggressive to others, more defensive, more secretive. They want- no, NEED this praise

Maybe your whumpee is a scapegoat. Something to be cast aside. A copy of a past whumpee. So naive and hopeless. They want what the other has, they want better, they’ll do anything to prove they’re better. And then there comes a moment they know it’s hopeless.

Most people write long dramatic speeches or yelling matches where the whumpee realizes it’s hopeless. They need it explained to them. When all it takes is one sentence. You know what my father said about me, when he assumed me to have already fled? That I wasn’t listening.

“She’s like her mother. She’ll come crawling back later.”

That’s all it takes. One small sentence and you know. It’s hopeless. To be compared to another who you look up to, but they’re compared to absolute garbage.

So do it. Break them. Make them feel hopeless. Make them know that from now on, there’s no going back in your mind. Those words won’t leave.

[im-just-a-whump-machine]

@twitchchatosdd is a piece of shit and should take their own advice. Learn to filter tags, you fucking dumbass 😂

[another-whump-sideblog]

Fixing Tracy Chapter 19: Merry Christmas!

TWs in the tags

Previous

Masterlist

Next

Tracy can only hole up in her room for so long. She has plenty of food stashed, but she needs to use the bathroom eventually.

Molly is sitting on the couch, fidgeting. She jumps to her feet when Tracy tries to sneak out of her room. “Tracy! Hey, how are you feeling?”

“I just have to go to the bathroom.” She needs to wait until Molly lets her guard down and try again with the handcuffs. Third time’s the charm. That will probably mean acting like nothing’s wrong for a bit, though. “After that we can, um, talk.”

Molly visibly sags with relief and sits back down. "That would be great."

Tracy quickly uses the bathroom before sitting next to Molly. 

"So, I was thinking, dear… it's okay for you to keep the handcuffs. I want you to feel safe, so if that helps you feel safer, then I don't have a problem with it. Obviously, I would have to take them away if you attacked me again, but it's fine for you to keep them for now."

"Thanks."

Molly waits a bit, then continues when it's clear Tracy isn't going to say anything else. "It bothered you that I said you deserve to be here, right? And that you'd appreciate this someday. Are those… things your mom said to you?"

"...yeah." If she can just stop herself from screaming at Molly, Tracy can spin this to her advantage. She can make it seem like this was finally the thing that made her start to open up to Molly. She just has to hold the anger down. 

…Hasn't she tried this before? Hasn't she already learned, over and over again, that Molly will never let her guard down, because she sees removing Tracy's choices as a kindness?

There are degrees to it, though. Molly can't be one hundred percent guarded all the time. She's probably pretty close to one hundred percent right now, since Tracy just stole those handcuffs, which is why it might work to play the part Molly wants when it didn't before. She's never going to be zero percent guarded, but Tracy can aim for lowering it. She knows Molly better now, too. She can do this.

"You never deserved to be hurt, dear."

"I know." 

Deep breaths. She can do better than that. She can play the part; she can be exactly what Molly wants. "I… I realized that I didn't deserve it pretty early on, actually. Alicia was born when I was five, and seeing them do shit like scream at a baby to go to sleep… even a five year old knows that's ridiculous. And once that dam broke, once I was capable of seeing my parents as being in the wrong, I could see that I didn't deserve to be treated that way either."

"That must've been really scary. Realizing that the people supposed to take care of you aren't safe… that's a lot for a five-year-old. Or anyone, really."

God fucking damn it– Molly shouldn't get to act like Tracy's therapist when she's holding her captive! She shouldn't get to act like– like she's the normal one! Like this is somehow normal! Like any words from her captor could ever comfort Tracy! Tears of frustration spring to Tracy's eyes, but she doesn't let them fall. She clenches her fists and grits her teeth. Molly needs to think that Tracy isn't angry at her anymore, or she'll never lower her guard enough. 

Molly puts a gentle hand on Tracy's shoulder. "It's okay to cry. You're safe, you can let it all out."

Tracy squeezes her eyes shut and bites down on her tongue.

Molly speaks like she's soothing a scared animal. "I'm sorry I triggered you by saying those things earlier. It won't happen again."

Tracy yanks away from Molly's hand like it burned her. "Y'know what's triggering?" She can't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. "Being trapped and powerless and hurt and then being treated like I'm crazy for being mad about it!" 

Shit, shit, that's the opposite of what she should be saying! She forces herself to unclench her fists and take a deep breath. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I know…" What would Molly say? "...Some triggers can't be avoided. But it's… it's so hard not to be… not to be afraid of you, Molly." Appearing weak and afraid can benefit her here.

Molly makes a small squeaking noise. "I… I understand. I'm glad you trust me enough to tell me that."

Is that enough opening up? She doesn't want to lay it on too thick and make Molly suspicious. "Can we do something else now?"

Molly wipes her eyes and smiles. "Of course! Thanks for talking it out with me. I feel like we've both really grown from having that discussion. Uh… oh, do you like Christmas?"

Tracy doesn't, but she likes that Molly doesn't know that. "Yeah. Is it… coming up?" That would mean she's been here for about three months… There's no way.

"Mhm! What traditions do you like? We could decorate, make gingerbread, watch Christmas movies… whatever you want! Ooh, I think I have a Christmas advent puzzle down here, that could be fun!"

No, Molly must be tricking her. She can't have been down here that long. She won't let on that she knows Molly's lying, though. The goal right now is to get things back to normal. "Could we… work on the puzzle and watch a Christmas movie? And then… tomorrow we could make gingerbread houses?"

"We sure can! Do you have a favorite Christmas movie?"

"No, what's yours?"

"Hm… Have you seen The Muppets Christmas Carol?"

"Nope. I've seen… very few movies in general." She adds that last bit to strengthen the illusion that she's opening up more.

"Oooh, I can't wait to see what you think! I'll put it on."

Tracy has read A Christmas Carol and is pleasantly surprised that the silly puppet movie often quotes directly from it. Still…

"Are all of your favorite movies kids' movies?" Tracy asks during a break between songs.

"I guess? I like movies that make me happy, and usually that's kids' movies."

"Hm." Tracy refocuses on the puzzle. “Am I only doing one section of this today?”

“You can do however many sections you want! It’s the 18th, so stop there if you don’t want to get ahead.”

“You only start celebrating the week before Christmas? You strike me as the kind of person who would start celebrating the day after Thanksgiving.”

“Hah! Is that just because you think I’m annoying? It depends on the year, really. I usually bake a lot and give out treats. If I can get a group together, I like to go caroling, but… I usually can’t. I like to make stuffed animals and donate them to toy drives, too. I’ve been pretty busy this year, though. Christmas snuck up on me.”

Before Tracy can ask if Molly being 'pretty busy' is because of how hard she's been working at ruining Tracy's life, the next song starts and Molly is back to singing along. That's probably for the best.

The next day, Molly comes down the stairs with a bunch of bags. It's mostly candy and sprinkles, with one bag containing ingredients and molds for gingerbread houses.

Molly explains every step in making the gingerbread and frosting, as if Tracy would ever do something like this without the incentive of mollifying (ha) her captor.

"If it's too hard to get the walls and stuff to stay together, we can use hot glue," Molly says. "The frosting is better at attaching decorations than holding the house together."

"I thought gingerbread houses were supposed to be edible."

"They still would be! It's easy to peel off the glue when you want to eat it."

Ew. Tracy is patient and precise enough to get the frosting to work. Molly's keeps falling apart, so Tracy puts hers together, too.

"Have you done this before?" Molly asks.

"Nope."

"You're a natural!"

Once her house is stable, Molly starts using Necco Wafers to give the appearance of shingles on her gingerbread house's roof. Hmm…

Molly made a lot of frosting and specified that this kind isn't super tasty because it's supposed to be adhesive first and taste good second. If it doesn't get used up, Molly will probably throw it away.

Instead of using a piping bag, Tracy scoops some white frosting onto her roof and spreads it out with a butter knife so that it looks like the roof is covered in snow. She finds some snowflake-shaped blue and white sprinkles and pours them over the roof.

Next, she gets some licorice and attaches small green and red candies to it, as if it's a string of Christmas lights. In order to make sure they stick properly, she holds each candy to the licorice until the frosting hardens before moving on to the next one. 

"How did you celebrate Christmas before?" Molly asks, still working on her shingles.

"If Mom and Dad were hosting something that year, we'd decorate everything and have a really nice dinner. If not, we didn't do much." She told Molly she likes Christmas, so she can't share a lot of specific details. 

“Would you want to have something special for Christmas dinner here? I would always make you anything you asked for, of course, whether it’s Christmas or not, but if you want to make Christmas special we can do that.”

“...no, I don't want anything specific for Christmas dinner. Thank you, though."

"Of course! Do you want to decorate the basement for Christmas?"

"No." 

They spend the rest of the day working on their gingerbread houses, and Molly shows Tracy more Christmas movies by playing them in the background while they work. Tracy's favorite is It's a Wonderful Life.

When Tracy is finally finished with the lights, she makes a candy wreath above the front door. It looks nice. Any more on the outside of the house would probably just make it look messy, so she decorates the plate it's on and the inside of the house.

She looks to Molly frequently, to see if Molly's looking at her. Maybe a few more days will be enough to get things back to normal…

She can't get trapped waiting for the 'right moment' again, though. Once Molly doesn't seem to be as guarded, Tracy needs to act quickly.

That'll take a bit, though. She needs to be patient, but not too patient.

"Dear, I have a gift for you, and I finished it sooner than I expected. Would you want to wait until Christmas to open it, or would you be okay with opening it tomorrow?" Molly asks before going upstairs for the night.

"...tomorrow is fine." Might as well get it over with. There's nothing Molly could give her that she would enjoy other than her freedom, and Molly's definitely not giving her that.

Molly grins. "Wonderful, I'll bring it down with me tomorrow!"

Molly comes down the next morning with a box wrapped in Christmas tree themed wrapping paper. Tracy gently unwraps it and opens the box. It's… a stuffed animal. A toy. Tracy scoffs as she takes the stuffed animal out of the box. It's a wasp, another reminder that Molly stalked Tracy so thoroughly that she even knows Tracy's favorite animal.

Getting a closer look at it, she can see that it's homemade. And… very detailed. It even has the simple eyes on the top of its head in addition to the compound eyes, and the coloration is more complex than simple yellow and black stripes.

Tracy doesn't have any use for a stuffed animal. It's a stupid gift.

But… has anyone ever worked this hard on a gift for Tracy before? Has anyone ever given her a gift with no purpose other than to give her something?

"...how long did this take you to make?"

"It took a good chunk of time! I mean, this one only took a few hours, but I couldn't find any patterns that I thought were good enough, so I had to figure stuff out through trial and error."

"Why? I never expected a gift from you, and you have no reason to believe I'd like or use a stuffed animal. Why would you spend all that time? You know I'm not going to be polite and pretend I like it. This is a stupid gift, so why?"

Molly’s face falls. "You don't like it?"

"I just– I don't understand. What do you get out of this? Out of any of this? Why are you spending so much time and effort on things I don’t want? I'm not getting anything out of this, and all you're getting is being yelled at, so why?"

“I want you to be happy, dear. I don’t need gratitude or praise.”

“I’m not happy!” Shit, she can’t be doing this. Molly needs to think she’s given up. She looks down at her feet, as if embarrassed. “I… I do like it. I’m sorry for lashing out. I’m not used to… people doing nice things without expecting something in return.” Ugh, that’s cheesy.

Molly seems to buy it, though. “Oh! I— yeah, I can see why that would be scary. I don’t expect you to do anything for me in return. You don’t owe me anything at all, dear.”

She certainly doesn't. Still, she tries to relax a bit, as if she's relieved. "Really?"

"Of course! You could rip up your gift right now if you wanted, and all that would happen is I'd be sad. I didn't give it to you because I wanted something from you."

That's definitely a lie. People don't do things for no reason. What Molly wanted was to feel good about herself, and she'd have taken that from Tracy's reaction regardless of what it was. The only reason she doesn't expect Tracy to give her something in return is that she can just take what she wants either way.

Molly needs to think Tracy believes her, though, so Tracy continues the act. "I, um… can I have a hug?" 

"Yes! Always!" Molly hugs Tracy tightly. Tracy can feel the cattle prods beneath Molly's sleeves digging into her back. Still, it's easy to fall into the role she's playing and melt into Molly's arms.

It's hard to tell how guarded Molly is right now. She never seems suspicious of Tracy, but she also always seems to know when to take out a cattle prod.

"I'm… sorry I've been… difficult," Tracy says softly. "I can't promise I won't lash out at you again, but… I want to try… to get better."

Molly ends the hug. She looks intently into Tracy's eyes. "I'm glad to hear that. You don't have anything to apologize for. Can I ask what changed for you to feel this way now?"

"...I've given up. I have no hope of escape. Isn't that what you want?"

"Why did you give up?" Molly presses.

"I'm… I'm so tired. I want to rest. I want to have no responsibility, like you said. You're right about everything."

"I… listen, dear. I don't care if you're trying to manipulate or trick me. I want you to feel safe. I didn't want to call you out on it, on the off chance that you were being genuine, and there's nothing wrong with trying out different ways of behaving to see how it feels, even if it doesn't come from a genuine place. But… I don't want you to feel… Just know that I see that you're acting differently from normal. And I like you, Tracy. I'll continue to like you no matter who you decide to be, but I hope you don't interpret me following your lead as me preferring you a certain way. The amount that I like you and love you doesn't change. That's all."

Stupid, stupid. Saying Molly was right about everything definitely took it too far. Molly's never going to be less guarded, because Tracy is too stupid to convince Molly she's not a threat.

She was never going to escape through wits. The only way out of this is brute force.

Tag list: @whumpyourdamnpears @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @iamheretohurt @toyybox

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Good Dreams

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

CW: Referenced past child abuse / past withholding food as an abuse tactic, child of whumper

Kieran and Jax belong to @comfy-whumpee and, as always, are used with their permission and oversight. The format of this piece is heavily inspired by Morg's Echoes, which you should go read right now. I'll wait.

-

Izzy Gallagher wakes without a gasp, or a cry. She doesn't sit straight up in bed, or flail around. Lying perfectly still on her side, her eyes simply pop open all at once.

Heart in her throat, she holds her breath and listens. 

She can still feel the cobwebs she had been pushing through, desperate to escape the canvas-covered furniture in the monster room in her mother's house. It's been ten years since her father took she and Jamie to the train station and saved them, seven years since the trial sent Savannah Marcoset to prison, life without possibility of parole, a prayer Izzy turns to when she is most frightened… but she still remembers the feel of dusty cloth beneath her fingers and the grime that would settle on her cheeks, cut through by her tears. 

Then she hears it. 

There's water running in the kitchen, a subtle sound, but Izzy follows it out of bed, padding on awkward long legs in her short pyjama bottoms and sweatshirt into the hallway, arms crossed in front of her as if trying to disappear into the dubious safety of her own body and the oversized cotton she wears.

Her mother's fingertips brush the back of her neck. Even after waking, Savvie is still reaching for her, wailing why ever did you cut off all your beautiful hair?

Izzy steps out of the dark hall and into the soft yellowed light of the kitchen, searching for her father to chase the memory of her mother away. 

Kieran, glass of water in hand, turns to look at her with crinkly wrinkles starting at the corners of his eyes and a soft smile. He wears a jumper in dark forest green over black pyjama bottoms, has some gray in his hair, and everything in him is love. "Hey, Izzy. Did I wake you?"

"No." Her voice is still husky and deep with sleep. "I woke up and then heard you."

Izzy swallows and stops in the doorway, leaning towards him but the memory of her nightmare keeps her from holding out her arms. She's fourteen, she's too old for this, but...

She had a nightmare, she is still trembling and frightened, and she wants one of her fathers to hold her. 

A much smaller Izzy Gallagher wakes with the tiniest whimper, throwing herself from her blankets and fleeing the dream on her hands and knees. She crawls across the living room. past where her father and brother lay on the makeshift bed on the floor.

Jamie, already nearly as big as his sister even though he's three years younger, curls against Jax's side, making little snuffly noises with his nose, still stuffy from a cold he's getting over. 

Izzy can be very, very quiet, when she needs to be. 

She can be as silent as a mouse, moving quick as a blink. Her daddy's sleeping face stays relaxed, and his body isn't all blocky like wood, how he is sometimes when he hears something and has to remember Mommy isn't here. 

Her dream keeps trying to grab her back, to make her think about the big long table, her itchy lace dress and too-tight shoes, plates and plates of food all around that she isn't allowed to eat. Her dream tries to make her remember her mother's hands closed tight around her arms, keeping her in Savvie's lap, suffocating her with hair while her tummy rumbles but the food is grown-up food, too good for children, and Savvie won't let her eat. 

Izzy won't think about that. 

She sees the sofa across the room and remembers there's a space between it and the wall behind it, the perfect amount of space for a little Izzy to curl up in. 

It had been a great hiding spot earlier during hide-and-seek. Jamie hadn’t found her at all and she’d had to come out when he got scared and thought she’d run off and left him alone looking for her.

Izzy would never do that, but he doesn’t know that yet. He’s too little, and it’s her job to teach him. So she had come back out and said, here I am, you were so close! You were so close to finding me! and he had laughed, relieved, his tears drying as fast as they appeared.

Izzy's daddy and her daddy's-... friend… Kieran, who her father promises is not like her mother and never will be, had looked at each other and smiled, a little. Or maybe only Kieran had. 

Izzy had been watching him. 

Kieran nods, slowly, taking her in as she watches him right back. Her sleep-rumpled short hair sticking up in spiky angles, her eyes all brown like her father's, her face all angles and lines. The girls at school are soft and pretty in ways that make Izzy's stomach twist in knots when she tries to talk to them, fingers buzzing with every brush of fingers, but her own face has never seemed soft to her. 

Izzy thinks of herself as always looking like a frightened deer or something. She feels like one now. 

"Tea?" He offers, in his gentle voice. Izzy shakes her head and hugs herself more, her lower lip trembling a little before she bites down on it to stop it, bites down with her top teeth until it hurts. 

His expression shifts, then. He understands what she isn't saying, what she can't make herself say, and he holds his arms out to her.

Izzy runs into them, bare feet slapping on kitchen tile, and he catches her. 

"Do you want to tell me about it?" He asks in a murmur against her hair. 

Izzy can be very small, when she needs to be. She curls into the tiniest ball she can manage in the space between the couch and the wall. She knows hiding, she learned how to be invisible when her mother didn’t want to see her, or when she was angry at Jax and Izzy had to disappear until her mother's rage passed like the Big Bad Wolf. Then she could come out and see Jax, her daddy blown apart like a house made of sticks.

Izzy can read the little pigs book. The other kids read faster than she does, and they read better, but she’s trying. Sometimes they laugh at her but not because of reading. Because she is Izzy Fraidy-Cat, who jumps at every loud sound or has to not cry on purpose when the teacher gets mad. 

But not the reading. No one minds she is slow at reading, and she is always trying to be better. 

She hears the door down the hall open, and freezes in place, brown eyes wide as saucers in the darkness. 

It must be Kieran, her daddy’s-... boyfriend. Not friend, not really, he is something different than that. Kieran is like kissing and holding hands more than friends, he and Jax like-like each other, but he is not another mommy.

There won't be another mommy, not ever ever again. Jax promised her with pinkie swears and crossed his heart and she is sure he means it. He wouldn’t have promised so hard if he didn’t mean it. Izzy's daddy keeps every promise, now that he is allowed to. 

Kieran isn't a new mommy, but he is a boyfriend, which is scary. But… if Kieran is what boyfriends are, then maybe those aren’t so bad.

He moves to the bathroom, and she listens intently. Her knees are almost at her chin and her hands pressed against the sides of her own neck. She doesn’t breathe except in thin quick inhales, lighter than the air she pulls into herself, exhaled all at once.

There’s a pause. Sound of water moving through pipes, running out of the sink. The bathroom door opens again, and she waits for him to go back to bed.

But he doesn’t.

Kieran walks with her back to her room, reassuring warmth beside and behind her. When Izzy climbs back into bed, he pulls the covers down and then up again to cover her. She watches his face, cataloging every bit of warmth he shows that pushes back the nightmare's final touches. 

Then he climbs into bed beside her, seated on top of the covers, ankles crossed at the end. He turns to look at her, leaning against the headboard. She shifts herself up and leans against him, tipping her head until it rests on his shoulder. 

His smile is still in his voice. "Talk to me, love."

Kieran's feet - she can see them moving - carry him to the kitchen. Her own legs are starting to hurt and she closes her eyes shut tight and tries to breathe even less, even though it makes her dizzy. Like hiding from her mother, when she had to be so, so quiet. She and her daddy played the quiet game over and over and Izzy was always the best player, a good helper, keeping hidden until he said it was safe for her and Jamie to be seen again. 

There’s a little light over the sink he turns on, dim as the nightlight Izzy has to have so she can go to sleep. Her mother’s shadow is in the dark, and the nightlights chase her away. 

She and Daddy have talked about how monsters lose their power if you turn on the light to show everyone what they really are. 

Her legs are starting to hurt, all bent like this for so long. Her toes wiggle where they stick out the bottom of her pyjama pants, trying to find a way to be comfortable without being seen.

Water runs again.

She hears her daddy moving in the little floor-bed they made of pillows and blankets. “Kieran.” His slightly rough voice isn’t a question, but it is a question, too. 

“Just a glass of water,” Kieran replies, a voice soft like the rose petals that Izzy runs her fingers over when they bloom outside her mother’s house, and there are roses here, too. No one here thinks it’s funny when she pricks her fingers on the thorns. “That’s all.”

“Okay. Wait." A pause. "Izzy."

“Izzy?” Kieran sounds puzzled, moving closer. She sees his shadow moving along the floor, where he leans over, looking at the puddle of blankets where she had been before her mother found her in dreams and made her say please and thank you but she never says it right, she never has, and she isn't allowed to eat until her mother says she's earned it.

She chokes on her mother’s hair in dreams, it goes down her throat and steals all the air for Mommy and none for anyone else. 

Kieran hums. “Oh. I just came from the bathroom…"

“Fuck,” Her daddy whispers. He's already moving, hands searching almost blindly until he finds Jamie, who makes a little whimpering sound. Her daddy's hands move over his soft straight hair, his warm face, find his back. But his eyes are still on the empty place where Izzy had been. His face doesn't show it, not right away, but Izzy knows how it sounds when he is afraid. “Shit. Where is she, where-"

“I’m here!” Izzy pushes frantically forwards, guilt driving her to wriggle like a worm to get out faster. Her pajamas catch on something at the edge of the sofa-back and she feels it tear but shoves out anyway. “I’m right here! I’m here, Daddy!”

Kieran startles, almost spilling his water, looking at her with slightly wide eyes. Then he relaxes, and smiles. "Oh, thank God. Right here in the room with us."

Izzy doesn’t answer him. He is not her daddy and it is her daddy she has frightened. It's Jax who needs her to help him. 

She crawls right back to him, sees his eyes catch hers in the dim middle-of-the-night mix of moonlight and the soft kitchen light whose shine just barely touches them all here. She sees his shoulders relax, a little, one of his hands start to uncurl fingers from palm. “Hey, kiddo,” He says, a soft exhale sound of relief. 

“I’m so sorry, Daddy.” Tears strike but she tries not to cry them outside of her, embarrassed that Kieran might see. 

Izzy is very, very good at not crying, when she has to be, so that the grown-ups won’t become angry and scream or lock her up or laugh at her. Even though Jax promises they won’t do that here. “I was having a dream, Daddy. I, I-" She swallows back all the things she wants to say. That there was so much food but she couldn't have any, that her mother held her so hard it hurt her, that she was in trouble and scared of being put in the room for time out all night again. Kieran isn't their family. She can't tell him this, can't say it in front of him. Instead, she says, "I… woke up and I wanted to hide. I am so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Jax’s eyes flicker up to Kieran and then back to her. He knows there are things she doesn't say in front of other grownups, grownups who aren't her doctors or her grandpa or daddy. 

“Makes sense,” Is all Jax says out loud, and opens an arm for her when she makes it to him, sliding it around her shoulders and holding on tight. 

“Good thing tomorrow’s a Saturday,” Kieran offers, kind as can be, his voice gentle and soft. He has a voice like a hug, and she doesn’t like to admit it but she likes him very much. As long as he stays this way and doesn't turn mean later. Maybe he won't. Izzy has started to hope that he is always kind and they can stay friends and boyfriends and whatever forever. 

Not that she'll say it out loud. 

Izzy smiles - she isn’t very good at smiling, but sometimes like now she can’t help it. He sees her smile, and smiles right back at her until she hides her face against Jax’s side and listens to him walk back down the hall to his room, closing the door when he and his glass of water go inside. 

"I dreamed about her," Izzy murmurs, barely speaking. Kie hums, a sign that he's listening, but he doesn't ask for details, just waits. After a pause, she keeps talking. Her throat feels tight. "I dreamed I was back in the house, running and running from her, but every door I opened was the monster room… my, uh, my time-out room-"

"Mhmm." Has she told him about it before? Right now, in the fuzzy middle of the night, she can't remember. If she hasn't, he doesn't ask. 

It helps.

"I couldn't find my way out. It was all cobwebs and dust, and the cobwebs kept turning into her hair, sticking to me, and I couldn't-..." Her voice hitches, and he has an arm around her shoulder and holds her close. He smells like his cologne, and he and Jax smell like home in a deep-down way that she loves. "I couldn't get outside. And I knew… if I could just leave, she couldn't follow me out, but I couldn't escape and she kept getting closer and louder and... she was, she kept grabbing at me..." She swallows. "Then I woke up, just as she caught me."

"That does sound pretty frightening." He doesn't sound like he thinks it was a silly dream, or she is silly for being a fourteen year old still scared of the dark, who still has a little light plugged into the wall. 

"I was so scared when I woke up, but then… I heard you." 

"I'm glad I woke up thirsty, then," He teases, gentle and loving. Kieran rests his cheek on her hair. "A well-timed middle-of-the-night water break."

“I’m sorry,” Izzy whispers again. She is very good at apologizing right away. “That I scared you. I am, Daddy. I am so sorry…" 

“Nah,” Jax replies. "I get it." When he shifts to lay back down, so does she, watching his wide-awake eyes, just like hers, as he looks towards the ceiling. Jamie has never even blinked his eyes open. “Might do the same, if I could, but I can’t fit behind the couch."

He looks at her, and they have the same eyes, and his have a gleam of moonlight and humor and his love for them both. "I’d get stuck. You'd have to put butter on my head to get me out."

She giggles behind her hands at the idea of him stuck back there with his feet out and his hair all covered in butter from the dish. His smile is tired, but she loves it better than any other smile in the world. 

She isn’t very good at going back to sleep after bad dreams, but tonight she lays in her daddy's arms and her bad dream fades away. The rest of her dreams are good ones. 

"Thanks for sitting with me." Izzy's voice is blurred now, lips barely moving. "Sorry for burying you in my mom shit at three in the morning. I know you have work tomorrow."

"That's all right. Maybe I can sneak a nap, hide under my desk and put a sign up that I'm out for lunch."

Izzy smiles at the unimaginable idea of Kieran skiving off without even leaving his office, and snuggles in close. "Hey, Kie?"

She's barely still awake, and it's the only reason she has the courage to say exactly what she is thinking out loud, here, in the dimly-lit dark. 

"Hm?"

"You're a really good dad. Love you." 

"Love you, too," He murmurs back to her, and if his voice sounds a little tight and he blinks his eyes rapidly, she is too nearly back asleep to either hear or see it. 

She feels him press a kiss to the top of her head as he eases her back to lying down under the covers. She misses Jax in the doorway and the question in his eyes. She doesn't see the look they share, the way Kieran smiles and puts a finger to his lips before the two men head back to their own bedroom together. 

The rest of Izzy's dreams that night are good ones. 

@whumptober day 20: Found Family

[whumpluv]

defiant whumpee who acts like an absolute brat─blowing raspberries, going "i can't hear you la la la la!" when whumper is trying to speak, mimicking everything they say in a high-pitched voice. hey, they're gonna be tortured either way, might as well piss off whumper and have some fun while it happens.

[whumpinator]

Fun things to do with your tiny whumpee:

1: Tie a length of string around their arms and chest, then tease a cat with them. Let the cat bat them and bite them and scratch them, and constantly yank the string so they’re all tired and bruised :)

2: Put them in a blender. And let them sit in there, agonised that at any minute you could turn the blades on. (Even more fun with immortal whumpees)

3: keep them in an exhibit and every so often let a field trip of young unassuming toddlers handle them roughly, with sticky fingers, who squeal too loud, who pinch too hard and pull too far.

4: Same as above but this time with a bunch of Instagram influencers who would arguably be more pointedly cruel.

5: Use EMS! Bind a ring of metal around their midriff and stick them between two opposite magnets to leave them swinging helplessly in the air, vulnerable to any of your intentions!

6: Make them sit as a figure in a cake, getting cold on the soggy icing, feeling humiliated in a ridiculous costume.

Bonus round: Caretaker edition

7: build an ecosystem for the whumpee in a jar, that’s similar to their homeplace. Perfect for whumpees who feel safer in enclosed hidden spaces.

8: Give them a mobile toy train and set up tracks around the house so it can get to certain places faster.

9: Same as above, but instead with various ladders and slides.

[greatgigintheskiess]

Here's a little Hero/Villain whump prompt :P

Cw: Minor whumpee, Child whumpee, bruises, kidnapping, restraints

Everything was bathed in pitch black when Whumpee had opened their eyes. They sat on a cold ground, back against the wall and felt the bounds wrapped tightly around their thin wrists. With the smell of a basement rising into their nose, they wept quietly what only came out as a muffled whine as their mouth was covered by some thick tape. Whumpee tried to struggle helplessly and panic stricken had looked around, trying to recognize where they were right now.

They didn't remember much. Only that they had been knocked over by something, losing their consciousness right after. They had been on a mission with Hero and that was also the last thing they remembered. And Whumpee didn't know how long they had been here.

The noise of a heavy metal door opening with a loud creak and some steps coming closer suddenly echoed in the room, scaring the poor child only more.

A light from the hallway shining through the door blended Whumpee as their eyes had completely adjusted to the darkness and further muffled sounds mixed with sheer fear of the one that approached them. The dark silhouette kneeled down in front of Whumpee, ripping off the tape from their mouth to which they reacted in a whimper. A pair of eyes stared directly into the child's terrified face, studying them with a stoic glance. And only then Whumpee recognized them. It was Villain.

Another almost inaudible whine escaped the child's throat, when Villain grabbed their wrists. They knew what Villain was capable of. Hero had told them countless times how they had slaughtered so many innocent lives just for fun. They were ruthless, sadistic, pure evil.

During their training sessions, Whumpee remembered, Hero used to tell them these stories while they had beaten up the little defenseless child. Hero always said it was for their own good and only this way they could learn what it meant to be a true hero. No pain, no gain was their favorite saying that seemed to have burned into Whumpee's mind since.

And now they were in Villain's clenches and scared to the core. Whumpee already imagined how they would torture them while laughing viciously, only to kill them afterwards anyway. But then they felt the bounds on their wrists loosend, being cut through by Villain's knife.

As if that wasn't confusing enough, now followed something Whumpee had never expected to hear from their mouth.

"Have you eaten today, kid?"

After some hesitation Whumpee instinctly shook their head and Villain handed them some food afterwards. They stared a while at it, then again back at Villain who raised an eyebrow, indicating them to eat. Whumpee didn't take long and accepted the food silently, eating all up.

Villain watched them patiently without any other word. They winced though when Villain's fingers tucked under their chin, forcing the child to look at them. But instead of hurting them like Whumpee expected, they turned their face a bit to the side, revealing some dark bruises on the child's neck and shoulders.

"Did they do this to you?" Villain asked sternly but not mean or in any spiteful tone. Their voice sounded almost concerned. "Hero?"

Whumpee tried to avoid their look but failed as the fingers still held up their chin, making it impossible for them to turn away. But Villain knew the answer all along. They knew how Hero had treated Whumpee. And they knew exactly what Hero told the child about them. So their reaction was only justified.

The child nodded slightly and the hand finally let go off Whumpee's chin. And the next thing they felt confused them even more. Villain laid a soft blanket over their delicate shoulders, their hand resting gently on their back.

"Relax, kid, I ain't gonna hurt you." Villain added when Whumpee reacted with another flinch.

"Y-you don't?" Their voice quivered as their little body still shivered in a mix of cold and fear.

Villain didn't answer but helped the child getting up, giving them a bit of support on their shaky legs.

"But I don't understand... Hero used to tell me you're evil." Whumpee chirped confused, leaving Villain in right with their only assumption about them.

"Didn't you ever think that maybe they were the bad guy all the time?" Villain retorted. "And put all the blame on me?"

Whumpee didn't know what to say anymore.

Yes, it's true that Hero had always blamed Villain for their misery, making them the scapegoat. And Whumpee also had to learn that Villain is no one to trust, that they want to kill them whenever they crossed their ways.

But why did Villain act so caring now? Was this all just a trick? Hero wouldn't have lied to them, or would they?

Standing on wobbly legs Whumpee soon felt their strength giving in. They were so confused and too tired to think about this more. They just wanted to sleep. And as if Villain would've read their thoughts, they eventually lead the child to the door with their hand still resting on their back.

"C'mon, kiddo. You must be very exhausted. You can take my bed for tonight."

[littlebunnyo]

Imagine an tiny whumpee as a kindergartener class pet. He is manhandled roughly, Stripped and dressed up in doll clothes . The whumpee gets turned in an art project in the hands of these toddlers dipped in paint, covered in glitter, glue, snot and saliva by licked and put into mouths every single day. Maybe get an haircut inspire by a kid's artistic genius.