#distressed whumper

[unforgivenn]

Aww, Andrey is humiliated that Noah saw him this way.

Be a shame if Noah had to watch him get whumped while he's begging and crying.

MASTERLIST

CW: injuries, suffering, whumper turned whumpee, torture, angstt, Power Dynamics, Self-Loathing, Shame, forced to watch

After dragging Noah away from his tormentor, the bulky men threw him in a room. He had tried getting answers out of them. To know what was happening. To know why was this happening. In any other situation, Noah would've loved to see Andrey go through the same pain that he did, to know what it felt like on the other side. But now that it actually happened, he couldn't help feel the pit of sorrow in his gut.

Noah curled into himself on the ground, didn't even try escaping. He only waited and waited for someone to come in again as he was left with the shouting of his own ringing thoughts.

Soon enough, the door creaked open again. Noah held his breath, and jerked upwards to stand. Heavy footsteps thudded against the ground, before he caught a glimpse of the men again. They started walking towards him, and suddenly the air seemed much more thicker and suffocating. A hand grabbed the back of his hair, pulling it back roughly and before he could comprehend what was happening, a white vial was injected into his neck and he fell into unconsciousness.

Noah's head throbbed when he woke. His body felt heavy, his limbs refusing to move. Panic instantly surged in through his chest when he realized why - his arms were tied behind him, his legs strapped to the legs of a chair. Why did every situation end up with him being the one getting tied up and drugged? A groggy haze clouded his mind, as he tried shaking the drug off.

Then he saw it.

Andrey.

The man was on his knees, the same man who had forced him to kneel for hours until either he got bored or Noah's knees threatened to shatter beneath him. His head was hanging low, his black hair matted with blood and sweat. A few feet away, the same men stood, waiting, watching. One of them cracked his knuckles, another flexed his fingers around a blade. But the one most noticeable was a mysterious figure that stood infront of them, covered in loose black clothing, their face covered with a weird mask.

Noah's blood ran cold.

"Andrey-" He squeaked out, voice barely above a whisper. But Andrey didn't move, didn't react, didn't even glare at him.

"Ah good. You're awake." The figure spoke and he couldn't quite lay his finger on the person's gender. Ah as if that mattered anyways.

"Please- Don't hurt him- Don't-" He choked out before he was rudely interrupted by their captor again.

"Shut up. Didn't ask for your opinion boy. You're only here to watch."

A cruel laugh rippled through the room, echoing in the heavy silence that followed. Noah barely had time to process before the first blow landed on Andrey.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh, a sickening thud made Noah's insides curl. Andrey didn't give much of a reaction. Just a sharp intake of breath, his hands twitching and fingers tightening in an attempt to brace himself. Not only a while ago, Noah would've been the one being beaten up, and the Prince would've been the one watching it with sadistic delight. That's how it should've happened. Not like this. Neither of them were meant to be like this.

Then the second strike came, and the third, and then another one until Andrey violently coughed. His arms buckled beneath him as he collapsed fully onto the floor. Noah’s breathing turned ragged as he watched the blood drip from Andrey’s mouth, a stark contrast against his pale, fever-flushed skin. Somehow he felt like he was the reason this was happening to Andrey in the first place. That he was the reason of someone else's torment.

"P-please," Noah managed to croak out, his throat raw. He dig his nails into his palms, his whole body shaking. "Please stop. Please—"

As a response, a boot connected with Andrey’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto his side with a pained groan.

"Hm? Say that again why don't you?" The figure hissed, his voice sounding so cruel, so poisoned.

Noah’s throat tightened. His body trembled as he fought for breath, trying better than to start hyperventilating. His eyes burned, his mind screamed at him to fight, to do something,for fuck's sake anything—but all he could do was just sit there, frozen, tied up, his voice catching in his throat like it was being strangled from the inside.

And then Andrey whimpered.

The sound was soft, almost inaudible, but to Noah, it shattered everything.

Noah had never heard Andrey whimper before. Not even in his worst moments, not even when he was at the receiving end of a knife or a bullet or a broken bone. And yet here he was, shaking, curling in on himself, a sound of raw, broken misery slipping through the broken man's clenched teeth.

Noah’s stomach lurched, his vision blurring.

"Please—" he sobbed, desperate. "Please, just stop, please, I—"

Another blow. Another pained gasp from Andrey. Another laugh from the men.

"You should be thanking us, boy," one of them snickered. "Teaching your master a little humility."

Noah clenched his fists so tightly his nails nearly pierced his skin. He felt sick. He wanted to run. He wanted to claw his way out of this living nightmare.

Andrey let out a weak, broken laugh, breath hitching with every painful exhale. "You enjoying the show, Noah?" he rasped, barely audible. His fevered eyes flickered toward him, glazed over with pain and something almost like mockery—but no more strength left in it. Only the last remnants of his pride clinging to the edges of his words. "I bet… I bet you are. Watching me like this. I hope—" A sharp cough, more blood. "I hope you're savoring it."

Noah choked back a sob. "I’m not—I swear, I—"

But his words meant nothing. Not here. Not now.

Andrey’s body trembled as another kick landed against his stomach, knocking what little breath he had left out of him. He curled in tighter, his fingers twitching weakly against the stone.

Noah could only watch. 

Taglist: @miireux134/ @nuriiz134/ @noeul-whumpsss/ @morning-star-whump/ @parasitebunny/ @anutz1234/ @whatwasmyprevioususername/ @whumped-by-glitter/ @lordcatwich/ @someoneoninternettt/ @natthebatt/ @noeul-whumpppssssss1234/

@electrons2006/ @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees/ @lolrpop/ @yassifiedinformation/ @written-in-the-stars135/ @ay5ksal (let me know if you want to be added or removed or be tagged just in the main series :D)

[in-love-with-writing-whump]

Prompt:

Whumpee, trying to avoid a really bad situation, is 'saved' by Whumper, who puts them into a worse situation as their pet/employee/whatever you want, but if they leave, their team/family will suffer even worse, and Whumpee just can't let that happen.

[goosewhumps]

idk maybe it’s just me but i’m a bit annoyed that so many prompts on whumpblr need to have a whumper in them. don’t get me wrong, i get the appeal and i do like whump with whumpers in it sometimes but there’s so much you can do without one and it feels like most people just ignore it

[whumperer-86]

Live Surgery Room ep22

Dr Su is under the rubble trying to save an injured pregnant lady and he has old psychological trauma that makes his hands shake

he tried so hard to heal himself and to steady his hands so he can save the mother and her baby

[whumpsmith-participates]

Medwhump May 2024

Day 2 - Running out of time

TW: blood, gun violence, tourniquet, strong language, verbally abusive whumper, whumper turned whumpee, tobacco, dilf in distress, open ending

@medwhumpmay

The roles were always pretty clear between Fetch and Erick. Fetch would give orders and Erick would follow them. If Erick didn't follow them, then Fetch would hurt him. And when Erick got hurt, Fetch would patch him back up.

But roles have a tendency to reverse sometimes, and on the rare instance that it happened between Fetch and Erick, it was usually pretty drastic, like...let's say Fetch took a bullet, and it was up to Erick to get him to safety. Or, well...he got himself to safety first. Driving away from the incident, before pulling over and realising he'd already lost quite a lot of blood. Okay, no reason to panic.

"Kid, come here," he said through gritted teeth.

Erick didn't need to be told twice, for once, scrambling out of his hiding spot in the back of the van and joining Fetch in the front, sitting in the passenger's seat, eyes widening when he saw the blood pooling beneath Fetch's chair.

"A-are you okay, sir?" he asked.

"What does it fucking look like?" Fetch snapped, "get some rope and a screwdriver or a wrench. I'll teach you how to improvise a tourniquet."

"A-and then what?!" Erick asked, "Take you to hospital?"

"Absolutely fucking not!" Fetch said, "They'd call the cops on my ass right away. No, I need to call Tito, but first this!"

"R-right," Erick said, quickly diving back into the back to search Fetch's bag for rope. He didn't have to look too hard. His bag was filled with coild of rope, rolls of tape, cloths, cuffs, chains— But I digress...

Erick grabbed the first coil of rope he found, before opening the toolbox behind the driver's seat, grabbing the first thing he saw; a hammer.

"Will this work?" he asked, showing Fetch the items.

"Good enough," Fetch said with a groan, "tie the rope around my leg, right here."

Erick nodded, wrapping the rope around Fetch's thigh where he pointed and tying a knot in it.

"L-like that?"

"Yeah, now stick the hammer between and twist it to tighten it," Fetch instructed.

"I-isn't that dangerous? To cut off the blood flow like that?" Erick asked.

"That bullet nicked a fucking artery, do you want me to bleed out?!" Fetch snapped, grabbing the teen by the front of his shirt.

"S-sorry, you're right," Erick quickly said, before sliding the hammer underneath the rope as instructed and beginning to turn it to tighten the rope.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," Fetch said, "find a way to fix it in place."

"Tape!" Erick said, quickly retrieving a roll from Fetch's bag, even remembering to grab a piece of cloth as well to put additional pressure on the wound, planning to tape that into place as well, but it was hard to work when Fetch kept pulling away and even kicked at him.

"God damn it! Are you trying to kill me?!" he growled.

"I know it hurts, but I can't help you if you don't stop moving," Erick said.

"Don't talk back to me!"

"I think you can make an exception just this once," Erick said, pressing a bit harder than necessary on his wound.

"Son of a— Fine! Just hurry up!"

"Then hold. Still."

Fetch growled, but tried a bit harder to hold still while Erick finished taping everything into place, before sitting back, absent-mindedly wiping the blood on his hands onto his jeans.

"O-okay, now what?" he asked.

Did Fetch know someone who could treat him? Could they trick someone at the hospital so they wouldn't call the police? Was he even in the right state of mind to think clearly?

"Now we switch seats," Fetch said, already holding his arm out.

Erick somewhat awkwardly let him lean on him as he switched from the driver's seat to the passenger's seat, attempting to hold back a pained groan before pulling his phone from his pocket. Erick sat back on the floor between the two seats still. Even though Fetch had told him they were switching, he still felt it would be wrong to just go sit in his seat without express permission. Was he going to ask him to drive? He'd only had a lesson or two when Fetch happened to have a good day, so he wasn't too sure he was up for it just yet.

"Tito, it's me," Fetch suddenly said, pulling Erick from his thoughts. It seemed he'd finally started his call.

"Jonas? I don't have time for your bullshit, put me through to Tito," Fetch continued, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket and handing them to Erick so he could help him.

Erick gingerly took a cigarette from the pack, handing it to Fetch before taking his lighter and lighting it for him. It sounded like he could use the nicotine to get through the phonecall alone, let alone the fact that he just got shot.

"I don't care if he's having sex with his wife right now. Put him on!" he yelled.

Fetch took a couple of drags from his cigarette while waiting for Jonas to put his boss on the line, almost managing to finish it before he finally got an answer again.

"Tito, about time," he said, "I need a doctor, pronto."

Erick couldn't help but to feel relieved as Fetch got through to Tito. He wouldn't put it past Jonas to stall until Fetch bled out, but it seemed like today wouldn't be the day...yet.

"I don't think I can make it that far. I got two hours and an inexperienced driver. Can't you send someone to meet me halfway?" Fetch explained, "tell them I got an arterial bleed and a tourniquet, they'll understand— Erick start the car."

That seemed like a clear enough order. Erick nodded, quickly getting behind the wheel and needing an attempt or two before he managed to get the van's engine going. He winced a bit, it didn't help his confidence much, but they didn't have much choice. He put on his seatbelt and adjusted the mirrors while waiting for Fetch to finish his phonecall.

"I told you they'd understand," he grumbled, "we're leaving now. I'll call you when we get there."

He hung up, tossing his phone in the little compartment below the radio, before putting on his own seatbelt as well.

"Okay," he said, surprisngly calmly, "check your mirrors, put her in first gear, and if the road is clear, turn on your blinker and slowly take your foot off the clutch until you feel it catch then give a little gas to pull up slowly."

Erick nodded, following his instructions and managing to pull away surprisingly smoothly. Frankly, it was easy to stay calm if Fetch was calm too. He hadn't gone much further than a drive around the block or two in his first driving lessons, so Fetch knew he had to keep the teen calm to be able to get to their destination safely and without being pulled over.

"Okay, now turn onto the ramp and start speeding up. You gotta be going fast enough to merge onto the freeway safely."

"I-I've never driven on the freeway before," Erick said, panicking slightly.

"You were gonna have to do it a first time eventually, now step on the gas," Fetch said, "keep an eye on your mirror, check over your shoulder, and turn on your blinker. People will give you space if you don't cut them off."

"There's no one next to me or behind me," Erick reported, checking over his shoulder before turning on the indicator.

"Small movements on the wheel at this speed," Fetch reminded him.

"Y-yes sir."

"Great, now just stay between the lines, I'll let you know when you have to get off. Keep your speed constant, don't slow down too much, and for the love of god don't speed. We don't need any cops on our ass right now."

"What if there are cops?" Erick asked, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of every vehicle around them.

"You ignore them," Fetch said, "if you act nervous you'll only draw their attention."

"But I am nervous."

"How do you think I feel?! I got shot in the fucking leg!" Fetch snapped.

"Don't yell at me! I'm driving you to your doctor, aren't I?" Erick snapped back.

Fetch looked like he wanted to hit him, but he knew better. Erick also knew very well that his attitude would catch up with him eventually, but for now he was in the right. Fetch needed him right now...wait, maybe Fetch was also scared? Erick immediately felt bad.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "it's going to be okay. I'll try not to draw any attention to us, and we'll get to your doctor in time, and it's all going to be okay."

"I don't care whether I die or not, but if you don't scrub every inch of this van once we get there, you'll have another thing coming," Fetch grumbled.

"Yes, sir," Erick just said.

Honestly, he was already planning to clean the van as soon as he got the chance. It would give him something to do while waiting for the doctor to treat Fetch, and the slippery pool of blood just below the pedals were already getting on his nerves.

Either way, Fetch settled down a bit, returning to giving directions as calmly as he could. Erick decided to pretend it was just a very long driving lesson, trying his hardest to ignore how pale Fetch was looking, or the tremble in his hand when he pointed to something, or the waver in his voice when he spoke up again after being quiet for a bit.

Eventually they left the freeway, and the city behind them, beginning to drive down long, empty roads. Erick relaxed a bit more. The odds of being seen by police, or causing an accident in his inexperience decreased a lot. However, it seemed Fetch's odds were also decreasing a bit, as his condition seemed to keep getting worse. Was the tourniquet not tight enough after all? They had a long stretch of empty and straight road ahead, so Erick wagered a bit of a longer look, finally noticing the second pool of blood gathering underneath the passenger's seat.

"F-Fetch? Fetch! Are you bleeding anywhere else?!"

"What?" Fetch replied, seeming to have trouble focusing, "Of cours'not. I'd know if I was...bleeding anywhere else."

"J-just stay awake, please, I-I don't know what to do!" Erick said, "how far out are we? Where are we going? Fetch? Fetch?!"

He promptly slammed the brakes as Fetch didn't reply, the engine nearly stalling until he remembered to switch gears, before pulling over and bringing the van to a full stop. It seemed Fetch had passed out, and he didn't have a lot of time to figure out what to do next. He quickly grabbed Fetch's phone, the screen thankfully covered in bloody fingerprints to help him figure out his passcode, especially as the prints got vaguer after each input.

"No way it's that easy," Erick mumbled, trying the combination 1-2-3-4.

"Okay, fuck, it was that easy," Erick sighed, shaking his head as he opened the contacts app and swiped to the 'recents' tab. All numbers were unlisted, but the one at the top started with 702, the area code for Las Vegas. It had to be Tito's number, or at least the fastest way to reach him. He quickly pressed 'call' and held the phone to his ear as he listened to it ring.

"Ah, Fetcher, that was quick. I thought you said you were further away?"

"Mr Rana!" Erick said, "i-it's me, actually. Fetch passed out and I don't know where to go!"

"Oh dear, oh you poor boy," Tito said, "if I give you the address, do you think you can find it on your own?"

"Y-yeah, I think so, thank you," Erick said, "please hurry, I think he's lost too much blood."

"Just breathe, Erick. I'll have Jonas text you the address right away," Tito said, "I'm putting you on speaker, can you put me on speaker too so you can call and drive at the same time?"

"R-right, okay," Erick said, lowering the phone and finding the speaker button. He turned the volume all the way up and kept the phone in his lap as he started the van again when the text already came though.

"When you open the link Jonas sent you, it should automatically show you where you are and how far away you are from the destination, okay?" Tito said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know how Maps works," Erick said, "um...looks like I'm ten minutes out. I-it's just down the road."

"Very good," Tito said, "now watch your speed. Ten minutes should be just fine."

"There's a cemetary only six minutes down the other way, sir."

"Jonas... Ignore him, Erick. Just keep going like you were before."

Erick was already ignoring Jonas, the sound of his voice sending chills down his spine otherwise. He also didn't quite watch his speed. What were the odds of police catching him these last ten minutes? Fetch would run out of time if he didn't hurry, and honestly he couldn't even begin to imagine what to do if he died here today.

He blinked the tears out of his eyes, glancing down at the map to make sure the next turn coming up was his. He slowed down a bit too late, nearly spinning out as he turned onto the dirt road, but he managed to get the van straight again. His destination would come up in about two minutes, but he had no idea what to look for.

"Mr Rana, what am I looking for?" he asked, wincing a bit at how teary he sounded.

"Our associates should have a plain truck, like a small moving truck," Jonas answered, "it'll probably be hidden from the road behind a building. If you can't locate it just honk the horn and they'll show themselves."

"O-okay, okay," Erick said breathlessly, eyes darting to either side of the road to look for anything that could hide a small truck.

The phone beeped that he had reached his destination, and all there was was a large barn. Erick slammed the brakes again, pulling up in front of the barn and just started honking.

The barn doors swung open, revealing the small truck parked inside, and Erick was too relieved that they'd made it to care about the two men approaching the van with guns. He just stopped honking and showed his hands, showed he was unarmed. He wanted to ask Tito for advice, but when he looked down at the phone he saw the call had ended. Great.

One of the men ordered him to get out of the van, making him stand with his hands on the hood, while the other one dragged Fetch out of the passenger's seat and towards the barn. Erick was searched for any weapons, before being allowed to relax.

"Sorry about that, can't be too careful these days," the man said.

Erick wasn't sure what to reply, he felt like throwing up, or collapsing, or anything, but he couldn't really move.

"Okay, why don't you go inside and help yourself to some water?" the man said, "I'll park the van behind the barn. Go on."

Erick managed to nod, slowly heading inside the barn. He was probably going to get shit for not cleaning the van right away like he promised he would...if Fetch would even survive to give him any.

shoutout to @momagie-blog for helping me come up with the plot for this prompt. I was a little lost in the sauce and she helped me simplify it~

Open end, ftw!

Jonas and Tito are side characters in Villain's View.

Masterlist Main account

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumptember day 20

“We can’t all win” Failure | City in ruin | Boot on throat

Content warning: implied mass murder

Villain couldn’t tear their eyes from the burning city.

It looked like something from a disaster film. Cars were burning, buildings were crumbling, and everything seemed covered in a thick layer of ash. The world was silent, and that was far worse than any screaming could ever be.

 Villain stood, utterly numb, on the last building left standing. Besides them stood the person responsible. 

“You were right about this city,” Hero said, voice horace. They sounded close to tears. They didn’t avert their eyes from the destruction. “It was corrupt down to its roots. I hadn’t wanted to believe it, but you were right the entire time.”

Villain’s throat was too dry to respond. They felt like they couldn’t breathe. 

“I tried for years to ignore what you were exposing. I pretended you were just cherrypicking a few bad actors, that the problem was surface level and easily solved. I was wrong,” Hero shook their head, eyes distant. “But you were wrong too. You can’t threaten and blackmail that kind of issue away. That level of corruption can’t just be cleaned up. You have to pull it out. Burn the fields, wipe the slate clean and try again.”

Hero’s head turned to face Villain, and the sudden movement was enough to jerk Villain from their stupor. For the first time, Villain looked at Hero. Their once white uniform was stained with blood, traces of it spattering their face. Hero’s eyes were filled with tears, full of grief, and yet Villain couldn’t see a hint of regret. 

“You were always trying to improve this city, even when they called you a monster for it. You understand what it means to make something truly good, and you were trying to show the world that,” Hero gestured to the destruction around them. “There’s nothing in the way now. We can do something great here,”

There was no bitterness in Hero’s expression. No anger, no resentment. There was only hope, burning and genuine, the look of a hero looking forward to a better future. 

It terrified Villain. 

Hero outstretched a bloody hand to Villain. They smiled, soft and sincere, as the world burned around them. “You’ll help me, right? We can make a better city.”

Villain knew what they should have done. They should have lashed out, refused to work with a mass murderer and stand on what few morals they had left. They should have fought back.

But they didn’t. They didn’t dare to. Instead, Villain took Hero’s hand without a word.

[unchartedperils]

If you’re a fellow whumper say I and hi to our sweet little guest Lara Croft before you leave, unlike her who can’t thanks to her New Daddy Conrad Roth’s debt with my Russian friends here in Liberty City.

[floral-comet-whump]

Whumpee that deceives Whumper

They rack their brain to memorize every little movement, every indicator of Whumper's mood, every pattern. At some point, they even learn to predict Whumper.

They know what Whumper likes to see. They know what they want within a few minutes, what's going to happen to them. They're powerless to stop it.

Sometimes Whumper wants them to silently cry on the floor, so they do. It would be foolish not to conserve energy while they can.

Sometimes Whumper is already in a bad mood. They probe, both because the knowledge is invaluable and because then Whumper will take it out on them.

Whumpee has a little internal guide to how to take punishments. Begin as defiant, but still shake. Look like they're trying to conceal their fear. Gradually break. It starts off as a yelp or sob or whimper followed by an immediate insult, then Whumpee goes quiet for a bit until it's “too much,” begging quietly. And then it's as if a dam has been broken, frantically pleading for mercy, for a reprieve. They look at Whumper with wide, teary eyes, and both their true self and their facade just want it to stop.

Their cries turn quiet as their energy runs out, until they can't bear to look at anything. Their flinch at Whumper's hand on their chin doesn't need to be faked. Their distress is real, and they let themselves whimper. Whumper likes displays of exhausted weakness, it makes them feel as if they've won.

They lean into the little coos and pets Whumper gives after, trying not to gag. Alarms of panic ring through their head, and they acknowledge them.

It would be easier to lose themselves in the comfort after the torture. It would be so much easier to become a shell of a person. They already act like one. Why can't they give up?

The emotional exhaustion after they've been left alone. The dark quiet. Their steadying breath. The scent of both blood and anticeptic. The locked door. The pain.

They can escape once Whumper deems them broken enough to let out unsupervised. It's just a matter of time, just a matter of maintaining this act. A matter of trust from a sadistic torturer that keeps Whumpee in a basement for no reason other than their own pleasure.

They have to keep going.

[withdrawingramen]

i think shame & its manifestations in whump is not talked about enough. like i love when whumpee is physically unable to tell caretaker about all they went through, not only because it is insanely distressing to relive but also because it's humiliating. 'how can someone be so cruel?' is another question, but we're also talking 'how did i let that happen to myself?' from whumpee's perspective. often times post something traumatizing whumpees develop this deep-seated feeling of hopelessness & helplessness & misguided anger which is just in sweet words not cool

because think about it, the whumpee could not stop anything from happening to them. there's always this notion of having to stand up for yourself, but whumpee didn't even get the chance to. who should you be angry at? whumper? the system? yourself?

the fact that it happened is so terribly real and if paired with the conditioning of whumper & possible victim blaming, the shame eventually turns into this twisted form of denial, where whumpee is unable to confront the fact that they were hurt so bad and it just turns into oh my god i hate that it happened to me. i want to erase that it all happened. i wish i could live just one day forgetting it all and wake up thinking what was i so stressed about? i wish i could walk past whumper and think 'who were they again'? nobody should know about this because i cant deal with it myself and i don't know what i'll do if it all goes out

yk what im talking abt?

[whumpsday]

didn't wanna add my whump ramblings to this post where OP could be potentially weirded out by it but this post is sooo good.

but i can't help but think: what if it's a live, distressed fairy instead?

the fairy is actively fighting to keep themself awake and wading so they don't drown, fighting for their life inside the bottle

maybe the shelf is full of bottles of drowned fairies, and this one is supposed to be dead, but they just managed to last longer than is normal. most don't make it to the shelf alive

the bottle could be purchased by a caretaker who spends way more than they were expecting to when they woke up this morning, gets the terrified, exhausted, drunk fairy out, and cares for them

or, the bottle could be purchased by a whumper intrigued by this singular bottle with a live fairy, who could do any number of things after, now that the helpless fairy's all theirs

even if it's whumper, the fairy is just grateful to be transferred from a prison where they're fighting an inevitable death by drowning and will die if they fall asleep, to a prison where they can at least rest

maybe it's purchased by both, a couple who are about to learn quite a lot about their partner's levels of compassion for the non-human

[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."

[hurtwithallthecomfort]

Caretaker had never been interested in having kids. At every family reunion, people would eventually come round to ask, “so, when do you think you’ll start having children?”

The answer would always be the same. Never. They’re a lot of hassle, and considering caretaker’s line of work, it probably wouldn’t be a safe environment for a kid. Then, eventually, the disgruntled aunts and nagging uncles would quieten down and go back to obnoxiously chewing on their food, occasionally making a snide remark about a cousin or nephew.

It was 2:43 in the morning, or so the glaring alarm clock said. Caretaker groaned slightly as they turned, half asleep still. Normally, they slept through the night with ease, routinely going to bed at a reasonably mature time, and waking up to the beeping of the morning alarm like clockwork.

But, this time, it was loud in the house. Quiet murmurs and tentative footsteps had woken caretaker up, purely from the fact that they simply weren’t used to it. Caretaker was happily single and childless, as well as not owning any pets or really being of an age where sleepovers were considered anything but childish. On any other night, the house was silent through and through, but tonight was different.

A knock on the bedroom door brought Caretaker out of their thoughts. A grunted ‘come in’ was all Caretaker could respond with, and as soon as the words left their lips, the door creaked open, and faint light poured in. It was Whumpee. Caretaker wasn’t particularly shocked - who else would it be? Still, up until noe Whumpee had been adamant that they were completely fine. When the team had found them, they didn’t whimper or sob or plead. They had to be grappled down in order for Medic to be able to examine them, and when they were told of the severity of their injuries, they simply denied ever even feeling bad.

Ever since Whumpee had been found, they insisted on leaving, and going ‘home’, though nobody was particularly sure where ‘home’ was, because when asked about family and friends, Whumpee had no answer. But, the team couldn’t just let the kid go, partially because they were far too young to be fending for themselves, and partially because this was the closest to Whumper they had ever gotten. Could they really risk losing their only clue?

Sleeping in the HQ wasn’t an option for Whumpee, they were tense back there, snappy and hostile. Staying overnight wouldn’t have done any good. Most of the team had to set off on an emergency mission that was far too dangerous for someone as fragile as Whumpee. Medic and Caretaker were the only ones who remained, and the former already had kids of their own waiting at home. So, Caretaker it was. They packed up Whumpee’s things, drove them for three hours to get home, and fought to get them settled in the usually abandoned guest room.

And now, they were standing in Caretaker’s doorway. Hesitant. Akin to a child standing at the foot of their parent’s mattress, shaky and looking for comfort after a harrowing nightmare.

“… couldn’t sleep..” Whumpee muttered, looking away bashfully, as though they were embarrassed that they were hurting to the point of having to reach out. Like it was the worst thing they could have done.

Caretaker didn’t react. Perhaps it was the tiredness. Instead, they shuffled and shifted in their bed so that they were upright, and patted down the other half of the bed. An invitation. Whumpee tread closer to the bed in the same way that a stray cat might stagger towards the scent of a stranger. Assessing risks.

It took them a minute to crawl into the bed, but when they did, they were quick to pull up the duvet, clutching at the blanket for warmth. Caretaker hadn’t seen the room Whumpee was being kept in, but based on the look on Leader’s face after they had found them (somewhere between horrified and distressed), they could assume that Whumper had never concerned themselves with Whumpee’s temperature concerns.

Caretaker hadn’t expected Whumpee to relax this much in their room. Sure, Whumpee had taken to them much faster than they had taken to anyone else, and sure everyone on the team had jokingly started calling them the team mother, but those were all jokes. Caretaker wasn’t a parent, and they had made peace with that. Their life wasn’t safe for a child.

Caretaker moved from their sitting position, now lying on their side under the mauve covers. Here, they faced Whumpee, whose eyes were tight shut, and their frail arms tightly shut around the firm, cream pillow. They looked so young; while nobody could find any documents regarding Whumpee’s real identity, it was easy to tell looking at them that they couldn’t be older than late teens.

Hesitantly, Caretaker pushed their hand out and brushed Whumpee’s hair out of their face, fingers gently skimming their forehead. It was hot to touch, like they were a flu-ridden child in the middle of a summertime heatwave. Caretaker couldn’t even fathom what Whumpee had been through to get here. But, if their meagre little townhouse in the middle if nowhere could provide some solace for them, then so be it. Whumpee could sleep wherever they wanted.

[whumperfultime]

Tarot-Inspired Whump Prompts

I'm enthusiastic about both whump and tarot and those interests were bound to collide at some point. So I wrote a list of writing prompts inspired by the Major Arcana! Five prompts for each card, so there should be something for everyone. Enjoy!

(Also, if you happen to write anything based on any of these, feel free to tag me! I'd be honored to read it.)

The Fool: Accidental whump. Misplaced trust. Leap of faith. Taking a risk. Falling from a high place.

The Magician: Magical whump. Manipulation. Mind control. A charismatic and confident character. A table full of tools for inflicting pain.

The High Priestess: Keeping secrets. Blindfolded whumpee relying on their other senses. Guarding something or someone. Intuitively noticing when something or someone has changed. Cult setting/dynamics.

The Empress: Gilded cage. Lady whump (if you're into that). Comfort in material things. Gentle caretaker. Whumpee not used to experiencing abundance and safety.

The Emperor: Strict whumper and/or strict rules. Royal whump. Wartime. Stoic leader trying to remain calm for the sake of their team. High security.

The Hierophant: Religious whump. Institutionalized whump. Punished for questioning authority. Pressure to conform. Power leading to corruption.

The Lovers: Yandere whump. Sadistic choice. Forced to watch. Protectiveness. Multiple whumpees, whumpers, caretakers, etc.

The Chariot: Car crash. On the run. Kidnapped and forced into a vehicle. Lost and stranded. Unwanted and distressing thoughts.

Strength: Whumpee turned caretaker or whumper. Monster character. Patient caretaker. Animal attack. Emotional support animal.

The Hermit: Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Neglect. Feeling like an outcast. Going into hiding.

Wheel of Fortune: Bad luck. Time heals all wounds. Long-term captivity. Painful anniversaries. Wrong place, wrong time.

Justice: Whumper being arrested. Detached/indifferent whumper or caretaker. Wrongful imprisonment. Privileges vs. punishments. Shutting off emotions so logic can take over.

The Hanged Man: Stress position. Caught in a net. Restrained and abandoned. Hanging. Standing cuffs.

Death: Grief. Recovery milestones. Immortal whumpee dying over and over. Left behind. Visiting a grave.

Temperance: Drugged whumpee. Personality changes due to trauma. Angel character. Poisoning. Mad scientist whumper.

The Devil: Demon character. Sadistic whumper. Addiction and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Pet whump. Collared.

The Tower: Building collapse. Struck by lightning. Drastic change. A character being overpowered. Shocking revelation or betrayal.

The Star: Bathing (whether this is peaceful or whumpy is up to you). Drowning. Finally being able to rest. Anything having to do with recovery. Dehydration.

The Moon: Nightmares. Lost in the woods. Werewolf character. Illusions or hallucinations. Running on pure survival instinct.

The Sun: Sunburn. Public figure whumpee. Forced to perform. First time outside after being held captive. Heatstroke.

Judgement: Revenge. Sound torture. Deity character. Punishment. Resurrected from the dead.

The World: Endings (positive or negative). Breaking the cycle of abuse. Overwhelmed by choices. Regaining personal autonomy. Closure and acceptance (or lack thereof).

[victimeyez]

2 Missed Calls - The Professionals

Buck receives a voicemail from an accidental phone call that paints a stark picture of Tommy's life at the lodge. (Follow up to Bargain Price) The Professionals is a crossover of In the Woods Somewhere by @knivestothroats and Professional//Victim by myself CW: Long term captivity, violent whumper, many graphic threats, beating, ptsd, guilt, angst, the world's worst situationship ~

You Have (2) New Voicemails

(2) Missed Calls From: Fletcher

New Text From: Fletcher

Buck stared at his phone, a knot of anxiety in his stomach. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel, waiting for his car to warm up so he could head home from work.

They texted a little occasionally, usually just for planning visits. Things were…better. As hard as it was to go back to the lodge, it was a little bit like exposure therapy. Sure, he still felt nauseous the whole drive out, and an impending sense of doom. When he got there though, Fletcher didn’t hit him, or aim a gun to his head, or lock a collar on that matched Tommy’s and take off in his car to fake his death - again. 

He was still afraid of Fletcher, and painfully aware that Fletcher still held the power in the relationship. But they had held to their word; Buck was free to go, and he was never harmed. The same couldn’t be said for Tommy, but he seemed to understand Buck was freed.

He unlocked his phone and opened the text, staring at Fletcher’s message. 

Ignore the first voicemail. 

Opened the voicemail. Stared at it. To delete, or not to delete? No, he had to know. It would probably just be a pocket dial. Right?

Buck pressed play on the first voicemail. 

“-- nononono Fletcher, wait, please!” 

“What? You want something worse than being grounded?”

The hair on the back of Buck’s neck stood up. He recognized Fletcher’s angry tone. The other person had to be Tommy, though his voice was high and distressed as he begged. They sounded slightly distant, neither of them talking directly into the phone.

“Please, please, anything else, I’ll – I’ll pay for the wall, and – and you can hurt me, please, please just don’t call him!”

Buck’s stomach sank. Tommy sounded so absolutely desperate, but if he had gotten his way, Buck wouldn’t be listening to this over voicemail. Hearing him offering his pain was nauseating. Tommy, what did you do?

“Oh ho, buddy, you are absolutely paying for the wall,” Fletcher snapped. “Do you know how long that’s going to take you to pay off? You can forget about buying anything any time soon.”

There was a pause, and a bit of rustling against the microphone. Then Tommy again, mournful.

“I…I know, I know, I’ll do it, but please don’t take Buck away.”

Buck knew Tommy got excited for his visits, but he wasn’t prepared to hear his heart breaking over it. He hadn’t thought about it like that before – but he had unwittingly played right into Fletcher’s game, becoming a reward for Tommy just so Fletcher could hold it over his head. He wanted to hang up. He didn’t want to hear this, but he felt paralyzed. As if it would be unfair to turn away from knowing what happened to Tommy when no one else in the world did.

As if hurting for Tommy could alleviate some of his pain. 

“You said I could hurt you? What do you want me to do to you instead? What do you think is enough to make up for it?”

“Well, yes, I mean…..um…” Tommy was struggling to answer Fletcher’s scathing line of questioning. Buck didn’t envy him, having been in that position himself. He still had no idea what to say. 

“You could…you could…beat me?..” Tommy tried timidly. Buck sighed, shutting his eyes as if it could block it out. 

“I could beat you and still send Buck away,” Fletcher pointed out. “I can beat you for stuttering when you talk to me. I could beat you for anything, whenever I want. If you want me to change my mind, you have to come up with something enticing.”

Buck opened his eyes again, wide. He needed to see where he was. Needed to confirm he wasn’t back at the lodge. That while Fletcher was still there, playing with their food, Buck wasn’t on the menu anymore. 

“You can… you can use a knife?” 

“Yeah?” Fletcher asked mockingly. “I can use a knife? Can I take off patches of your skin with it? Can I wedge the point under your fingernails?”

Tommy didn’t respond. Buck was mashing the phone against his ear, trying to listen. He thought he could hear a whisper of Tommy’s breathing, laboured with his panic.

“Can I chop off a finger?” Fletcher continued. “One of your ears? Can I stick it in your eye? Can I open up your fucking veins? Is that okay with you?!”

“I… I…” Tommy stammered hopelessly. Buck wanted to scream at him to say something, to fight back, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t hear Buck anyways - this was all past now, Buck was too late. He didn’t even know what he would do if he had picked up the call.

“What, you don’t want that? Well, can I do something else? What about your bones, Thunderbird, am I allowed to break those? Can I knock out your teeth? Can I hold your head under water?”

Buck pulled the phone away from his ear like yanking his hand back from a hot stove. It was too much. He could feel the pressure of water in his own sinuses again.

His thumb hovered over the end call button. Why should he have to drown again? He was out. Fletcher didn’t have the power to hurt him out here.

Buck thought about Tommy in the lodge, in his place, scared and hurting and alone. He put the phone back to his ear, as if that meant he could be there for him. 

Tommy was sobbing in terror. “I – hic-- I’m s-sorry, I don’t –”

He was cut off by a sharp sound of impact, grunting in pain. Fletcher must have hit him. 

“Fight back!” Buck gasped out loud. “Fight back, Tommy, do something damn it!” He felt so helpless. Frustrated, even, that Tommy was just taking it. It felt like his inaction meant choosing to let Buck suffer, too.

“Wise the fuck up, kid,” Fletcher snapped. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to you. Maybe it worked for you before where you bat your fucking eyelashes and get on your knees and you get out of whatever you had coming, but I don’t give a shit about any of that. You take what I give you.”

Buck’s stomach turned. Maybe the degradation wasn’t worse than the violence but it was just as difficult to listen to. He hated to think that Tommy was living with it day in and day out when he wasn’t around to keep Fletcher on their best behavior. 

“Yes, Fletcher, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tommy agreed miserably. He could barely find his voice. Buck strained to hear it.

“I-I’ll take whatever you give me. Can you p-please hang up now?”

“Oh shit,” Buck heard Fletcher mutter. His anxiety spiked suddenly, like he’d drawn the attention of a predator. 

“Buck, you there?” Fletcher’s voice was clear now, speaking directly into his ear. Buck held his breath, trembling with anxiety.

–AT. SEVEN. THIRTY. EIGHT. PM. FROM. NUMBER SEVEN–” Buck dropped his phone, cutting off the robotic voice that startled him out of his spell. He looked down at the screen.

You Have (1) New Voicemail

(2) Missed Calls From: Fletcher

Buck sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Wasn’t one harrowing voicemail enough? The second one was only twelve seconds long, at least. 

New voicemail

“Hey, didn’t mean to call you the first time. Hit the button accidentally. But, look, I am canceling your next visit because Tommy is grounded. I’ll let you know when you can come back.”

Fletcher was clear now, intentional, but Buck swore he could hear a faint whimper in the background. If Tommy was still there, he could not speak. 

–AT. SEVEN. FORTY. FOUR. PM. FROM. NUMBER SEVEN–” 

Logically, Buck knew Tommy was tortured at the lodge, but he’d never had to face it. He’d seen bandages covering up the aftermath, bruising and fresh scars, but Tommy usually wore long sleeves and pants when he was around. It hadn’t occurred to Buck how much he might be covering up. He tried not to think about it. But Tommy was so infuriatingly obedient, Buck had hoped he kept out of trouble.

He sighed and rubbed his face, trying to shake off the secondhand horror. It felt so dirty to be used as a punishment by Fletcher. Every time he regretted agreeing to – offering to visit, he was plagued with guilt. Still, hearing it – maybe he hadn’t realized quite how dire those visits were to him. He still remembered how isolated he felt in the lodge. He didn’t want that for Tommy.

Tommy, who’d spent five years in a basement cell without contact from a single friendly face. Buck couldn’t wrap his head around it, couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of captors Tommy was under that made Fletcher look like a saint. No wonder he was so fucked up. 

Buck looked down at his phone again, chewing his lip. Maybe not a saint after all. It was impossible to say what was an act or what was the real Tommy. There was just no way to tell while Fletcher prohibited any time alone with him. It was easier to think Tommy was mostly happy there. It took the weight off of his shoulders. As awful it was, he felt a little relieved to not have to visit for a while. It would be weeks, maybe even longer, without a visit to the lodge hanging over his head. 

And Tommy, alone, definitely hurt, with no idea when his lifeline would be let back into his life again. And here he was, relieved not to go. Somehow, Buck had crafted a personal torture for himself, and once again, Fletcher was the one benefitting the most. 

He practiced square breathing while he took up his phone again, typing a quick message to Fletcher. 

Is Tommy ok?

He got a response in ten minutes. 

He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. 

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. 

What did you do to him? He asked. 

There was a typing notification for a few minutes, then it disappeared, reappeared. 

He threw a temper tantrum so he’s grounded.

What does that mean?

What, you never got grounded as a kid? I sent him to his room and cancelled his play date.

I don’t believe that’s all you did. And what’s a temper tantrum here? Did he talk back to you or something?

He punched a hole through my wall. 

Tommy? Tommy punched a hole in the wall?

Are we talking about the same guy?

Yup.

Buck was proud.

It wasn’t good, and it surely wasn’t worth it. He had to assume there was more to the punishment than he had heard.

But… Tommy showed that he wasn’t all meek and malleable. That there was still some fighting spirit in him. Maybe it was worth exercising that once in a while, just to make sure it’s still there.

What did you do to him? Buck asked again.

I told you; he’s grounded.

What else?

Why do you assume there’s more?

I know you.

Buck watched the typing icon appear and disappear a few times.

I let him work through some of his anger.

Just fucking tell me.

Touchy, touchy. I let him fight me.

Oh, fuck.

How bad is he hurt?

He’ll be sore for a couple days but he’s fine.

Okay, that was good. If it was true. Fletcher had been pretty evasive this whole conversation.

Can I talk to him?

Fuck no. He’s still grounded.

I want to know he’s okay.

I would tell you if he wasn’t.

Would you? I had to basically interrogate you to find out you beat him.

Hahahahahahahahahahaha

“Interrogate”

That’s funny, Bucky

But no. You’ll see him eventually. Anything permanent you would find out about then so there’s no point in hiding it.

Buck worried his lip, mulling it over before hitting send.

Do you have to be so hard on him?

Yes.

There it was. Fletcher would always be Fletcher, and there was nothing Buck could do to mitigate that. He wanted to argue, he felt like he was responsible for Tommy in some ways – but he was no lawyer, and Fletcher did not leave room for negotiations. There was a sick relief that came from that knowledge. Nothing he could do, so nothing he had to feel bad for not doing. Still, guilt gnawed at his stomach.

When can I see him again?

I’ll let you know. Few weeks at least. But don’t worry - absence makes the heart grow fonder.

~

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr @technicallydeliciousdeer

[thewhumpcaretaker]

🩶 Exposure Therapy as Whump 🩶

Exposure therapy is a practice used to treat phobias, PTSD, OCD, and other mental illnesses. The patient is exposed to their triggers, usually starting with easier ones and moving up to harder ones once they’re comfortable with each trigger, until nothing about the phobia/event/obsession bothers them anymore. Since I’ve been through exposure therapy, I thought I’d use my experiences to write some prompts! I want to note that exposure therapy doesn’t have to feel overwhelmingly distressing. It’s intended to associate formerly scary things with positive, grounded feelings, so it’s actually not so bad if it’s done correctly.  BUT if it’s done wrong, well…

TW: bad therapy practices, rocky recovery

Whumpee jumps ahead to a more difficult level of exposure. Maybe a whumpee with a fear of heights decided to go straight to the top of a tall building instead of just starting with their balcony, for example. They immediately panic and regret it.

Whumpee backslides in their progress and becomes frustrated with themself.

Whumpee punishes themself when they can’t get calm enough or can’t get to the next level of exposure. Of course, this only makes the whole process more stressful.

Whumpee comes out of an exposure session while still feeling emotionally raw and has to go straight into a stressful situation afterwards. They feel nervous and shaky - maybe on a stage or at a presentation or a confrontation with whumper.

There’s no time to let whumpee slowly overcome the fear, because they’ll have to face the real thing tomorrow in some high-stakes crisis. So they just expose themself to the scary thing (or images/video of it) as much as possible, all night, until they feel totally desensitized and numb. <- Fun fact: this is called “flooding”

Caretaker is trying to keep whumpee calm during exposure sessions - teaching them grounding techniques, breathing, etc. - but whumpee won’t cooperate. They want to hold onto the fear because they don’t know who they’d be without it.

Whumpee feels invaded by exposure therapy. Trying to not be scared feels like a betrayal of their own emotions. It makes them resent Caretaker.

Whumper is the one in charge of whumpee’s exposure therapy. They make it as difficult as possible by intentionally pushing whumpee too far, punishing them when they struggle, or making them feel more unsafe.

The fear is conditioned away, but whumpee is left with anger and sadness in its place. This is especially good for PTSD scenarios. They’re no longer scared of whumper, but still angry and lost. It’s almost worse.