#i content blocked 'whumpee cowers'

[whumpfish]

Let's talk scars!

I see so many posts about unprompted scar kissing/touching by caretakers and like. Not to be contrary but pretty much all of my whumpees would anything between sidle away and not be comfortable around that person for a While to straight up deck a person for that.

Avedis is the latter. She'll lightly swat someone touching her battle scars deliberately without her permission, but touch her Seward scars and you're getting a right hook to the face. The only person she lets have contact with those is Sasha, in a medical setting, and even he got hit the first time. And he's avoided them when at all possible ever since, because they're friends and that means respecting boundaries, not softly and gently stepping over them because you just care so much.

Molly honestly would be freaked out and wonder why such a "caretaker" would be so attracted to something she didn't want to be given and had to suffer to end up with. Why is this person attracted to my pain? she would wonder. Why do they find the artefacts of my torture so specifically adorable? And she would never trust or feel comfortable around that person again. She has a lot of scars, and a lot of friends and the occasional partner. She's fairly physically affectionate and doesn't have her sister's Fight response to her scars from that particular whumper being touched because touch is bound to happen at some point with how she shows affection, but she would not think highly of anyone who singled them out for attention.

Sasha is probably the softest whumpee (though he hates being called that, thanks Dmitry) I have, and that would freak him the fuck out. Unprompted pairing of affection with marks of pain is a Dmitry thing. He thought it was sweet when they were dating as teenagers, now he recognizes it as a display of ownership and a tool of manipulation. Maybe, maybe from a partner, with permission, but out of the blue? Especially in response to him being in distress? Nope. Nope, taking the nope train to Fuckthatville. Uh-uh.

Pityr has let little kids touch his scars because they are tiny and curious, and if they want to touch, then they're not afraid of him, and it's rare for people to not be afraid of him. He will draw a knife on anyone over the age of 10 touching them. He will kick away anyone trying to kiss them, then draw a knife and maybe use it. Moira never even thought of attempting that kind of thing with him (or any of her rescuees,) and she was basically his mom for decades.

Leigh would be offended at the "I love you in spite of this" of it all. As far as s/he's concerned, if you have to qualify it, it isn't love or care in the first place. Leigh values respect above everything when it comes to meaningful relationships, I mean hell, s/he knows Pityr's basically a serial killer and they're not friends anyway, they're friends because Leigh respects that part of him. If anything s/he has stuck by him because of it, not in spite of it. S/he also respects his trauma. Leigh often ends up caretaker to Pityr and the only time s/he touches him without permission is when he's unconscious and can't give it and needs to be moved.

Valor, bless his heart, is a card carrying member of the Straight Up Deck People Club. He whumpees like an injured predator. Probably due to the whole being a dragon thing. Neither of the girls would girls would take kindly to it, either. Not react quite that severely, but definitely be a bit dubious. Lily would mostly just demand an explanation, and Donna... honestly make fun of the person bc she has that dry sense of humor, too, but it would still be strange.

Even the canon characters from my fandoms with major scarring would not respond well to that.

I am begging y'all to think critically about how you write your aftercare. This is another one of those things where all the focus is on how much the caretaker adores and cares for the whumpee in spite of the ugly evidence of their trauma, and no thought is given to how somebody--especially somebody who is recently traumatized resulting in those scars--would realistically respond to being on the receiving end of such I'm sorry but frankly bizarre attentions. When you put all that emphasis on someone being loved anyway, it just underscores and reinforces the notion that this behavior is exceptional and special, and anyone else would recoil in horror. And again, the whumpee has no agency in this scenario. They are just a vessel for the caretaker's love and acceptance. 99.9% of the time, we don't see the whumpee's reaction at all. They just don't enter into it.

This is not a critique of "light whump," so please do not take it that way. I love light whump, I've written and read my fair share of it. It's great. It's also not what I'm talking about here. Light whump is what it says on the tin - whump lite. And just like more intense whump, it's principally about the subject and the object of the whump, not an optional side character trope. Even environmental whump is subject/object focused, because it requires you to at minimum identify and give some detail of the cause of whumpee's pain/injury.

This is the whump genre. If the object of the whump gets zero creative consideration relative to the person ostensibly assisting in their recovery, that is an issue, and not a minor one. Now, if you understand all this but that is your Thing and you wish to write it, have at... but I would respectfully suggest you reevaluate what genre you're writing for, and whether you might need to instead be in the hurt/comfort tag, where the caretaker can be the sole character of substance and still fall within the parameters of the genre. Just naming a character Whumpee doesn't make something whump if "Whumpee" is just a set piece.

[sleepyiswhumping]

Succession

Part 1, part 2 to come

Content: Referenced/Past Minor Whump, Gore, Minor Whumper, Whumpee-turned-Whumper, Whumper-turned-Whumpee, Familial Whump, Character Death

~~~

It was dark tonight, and cold. So cold. The type of cold that soaks through your bones and freezes your very soul. The type that a fire and hot tea barely helps with. A merciless, cruel cold. And in this cold, a merciless, cruel man stalked through the halls of the palace. The King’s palace. His father’s palace. Well. Not for long. Ros strode with a purpose, moving with quiet determination, and righteous fury. He wasn’t even sixteen and yet his large frame and the feathers poking from under his cloak deterred any who were curious; they thought he was one of the royals. Oh, if only it were that simple. 

Ros adjusted his cloak, ensuring the blade concealed within remained hidden. These halls... they were disgustingly familiar. He pushed away the dreadful memories of his past as he walked through them, resolve steadying. Reaching a hand to his throat, he rubbed the scar there, slashed from artery to artery. Heaven knows how he survived, but he did. His mother wasn’t as lucky... but she was only part of the reason why he was here, seeking revenge.  

The guards at the throne room moved to block him, but froze when he removed his hood. 

The bastard prince, long dead, had returned, and he was here for blood. 

After a brief scuffle, they slid to the ground, slumping against the pristine marble, now spattered with blood from one’s broken nose. The head trauma alone Ros had caused was enough to warrant retirement, but at least they were alive. His blade remained dry as he entered the throne room. There was only one man suitable to slake its thirst. 

“Hello, father.” 

Ros’s deep voice rang out into the room as he shouldered open the massive doors to the throne room with ease and strode toward the cruel tyrant, sat atop his golden throne. 

Like a puppet on strings, the king jolted up, face twisted in disgust and hatred, but as he spoke the tremble of fear in his voice was unmistakable. 

“YOU! You bastard son of a whore, you dare show your face here again? Guards! GUARDS?!” 

“They’ve been dealt with, father. Finally, the only person who can help you is yourself.” 

Ros laughed cruelly as his father’s eyes widened with fear, and there was no trace of humor in his voice. His heavy footsteps thudded on the marble floor, his true size and strength revealed as he shrugged his cloak off his shoulders and exposing his rippling muscles. His wings unfolded behind him, twitching with excitement as he pulled the blade out of the falling cloak. 

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a stranger, father dearest. We both know you had no issue with being all too familiar when I was younger. I remember the bruises, the lashes. And now you cower behind your throne? To think I was scared of you...” 

Ros brandished the blade at his father, steadying his trembling hands. To think I was scared of you... and still am. But his father did not know that.  

“You- you died! Alongside your whore mother-” 

“DO NOT SPEAK OF HER THAT WAY!” he cried, lunging across the throne room, wings flapping thunderously behind him.  

He grabbed his father by the throat, lifting him off his feet. Ignoring his father’s pathetic gurgles and hands hitting feebly at him, he leaned in close, teeth bared. 

“You wish I died alongside her. Then you’d be able to keep that lie up. But...” Ros growled as he pressed his blade against his father’s stomach, “...your half-rate assassins failed. YOU failed. Failed at everything.” 

The blade slid into his father’s stomach effortlessly, after some initial resistance, and Ros grinned as he saw his father’s lips part in a silent cry of agony, throat crushed in Ros’s hand. He yanked the blade up, through his flesh, relishing in the tears that slid down his father’s face, the thick, hot blood, jetting from his stomach and coating Ros’s hand and arm. The only thing Ros heard was the spattering of blood on the floor, his father’s pathetic gurgles, the tearing of flesh as he twisted the blade in his father’s chest, and his own animalistic, hungry panting. He jerked the blade around, twisting it brutally once more for good measure, before yanking it from his father’s chest and letting him fall onto his back, the horrifying, mortal wound torn from his navel to sternum still spurting blood, the soon-to-be corpse twitching and crying silently.  

Ros spat on the dying king before redonning his cloak, wiping his blade clean on its sleeve before hiding it again in its folds. Soon, his father would be gone for good, and he’d be king not much later. There was just one more thing he had to deal with. 

Ros exhaled shakily, calming his nerves, as he slipped out of the throne room and made his way to his brother’s chambers. 

[shydragonrider]

Torn - Part two

Warnings: Detailed death threat, swearing, name calling, vomit, extremely violent whump, vivisection, smug whumpee breaking, infection, graphic infection, fever, delirium, panic, scared whumpee, sick whumpee, begging, crying, restraints, panic attack, wound cleaning, needles, tylenol, scared of revenge.

Part one Here

Taglist: @equestrianwritingsstuff, @whumpwillow

Updated: Their names

Pandora bit her lip, and carefully tied Strife’s wrists to the bedframe. He whimpered, squirming feebly.

“Ssssshhhh, sssshhh. I just need to clean this up, okay? I’m trying to help.”

Strife just shuddered, weakly pleading for any kind of mercy.

“Ssssshhhh, sweetheart, it’s okay.” Pandora murmured, hoping that her choice of words would help comfort her former nemesis.

She carefully cut the poor excuse of stitches, and began to clean the pus out of the wound. Strife cried, tears leaking down his face as he struggled weakly.

“Easy. I know, I know.” Pandora soothed, gently stroking his sweaty hair back.

“Nnghh. Plea-ple-please…” He sobbed. “D-don’t c-cut me open a-again.”

Pandora’s heart snapped in two at the words. 

“No, no, sweetheart. I wouldn’t do that. I promise.” I mean, I cut the stitches, but only to fix them.

But Strife didn’t seem to hear her. 

It took her over an hour to clean the wound, and another two to properly stitch it. When that was done, Pandora untied his wrists, and selected her strongest antibiotic. Preparing an IV bag was the easiest thing she’d done so far.

Pandora attached the needle to the crook of the Strife’s elbow, and carefully took his jaw in her hand, opening his mouth, and sticking a thermometer under his tongue.

When it finally beeped, and she saw the reading, her heart lurched.

104.5°

“Fuck.” Pandora breathed, rushing into the bathroom.

She returned with a damp washcloth, and a glass of water, and two Tylenol tablets, which she crushed up and mixed with the water. She needed to get the fever down as soon as possible. 

*******

Damian whimpered as something pressed against his bottom lip.

Please. He tried to beg. Please don’t.

But now his voice was failing him too, and all he could manage was a distressed whine.

“I know, sweetheart.” A distant-sounding voice told him softly. “But I need you to drink this.”

With a defeated whimper, Damian sipped weakly at the contents of the glass, shivering all over.

Something cool and damp touched his forehead, and he cringed away.

“Please.” He managed to choke out. 

“Hush now, it’s alright.” The distant voice said softly.

No. Please. No more.

But when he tried to voice this, only a raspy groan escaped his cracked lips. Yet despite his terror, he was unable to struggle anymore. With a frightened sob, he sank back into darkness.

************

Pandora watched as Strife went limp. If not for his ragged breathing, she would have thought he was dead.

She sat beside him, unsure of what more to do. She’d never imagined him so vulnerable… so broken.

He moaned softly, and Pandora grimaced at the sound. It was so full of pain and fear.

Carefully, she took his hand, hoping it could provide some kind of comfort. He shuddered, lips parting as he huffed out uneven breaths.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, rubbing her thumb in circles over the back of his hand. “I never thought that this would happen.” 

She felt sick, this was partly her fault. She’d defeated him. Turned him over to the authorities…

And this was the result.

She felt a tear slip down her cheek.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered again.

********

Pandora felt sure that this was the longest, and hardest night of her life. Trying to care for someone as horribly injured and sick as Strife was, all alone, was a nearly impossible task in itself. But Pandora was also battling her own guilt… and beneath that, fear.

‘I’ll break you, body and spirit. And then I’ll fucking strangle you.’ His words echoed in her mind, chilling her to the core.

And if he survives, I’m sure he’ll make me suffer the way he has before he chokes the life out of me.

But she couldn’t let him die because of his wounds.

The one you’ll likely endure before he kills you, you mean. The realistic part of her brain whispered. I hope you still think saving his life was worth it when you die looking into his eyes.

Pandora shivered. He’d nearly killed her before, he’d left multiple scars on her body with his blades, he’d vowed to throttle her… And his reason to do so had only gotten more powerful. 

I don’t want to die. She thought to herself. I’m 21 years old. 

Despite her fear, Hero did not leave Strife’s side, because she could never live with the guilt if she let him die. 

It was three long, miserable days before he woke up enough to recognize her, and when that happened, he did the last thing Pandora was expecting.

*******

Damian blearily cracked his eyes open, his abdomen still searing with pain. His surroundings were different. This wasn’t the isolation ward.

This was… a bedroom?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, and turned to see a young woman.

Even without her mask, he knew, by the unmistakable violet eyes, that this was Glory.

Damian panicked, thrashing around as hard as his weakened body could manage.

“Don’t hurt me!” He wailed. “Please- you can’t- I don’t-”

“Strife.” Glory said, looking more surprised than angry. She took a step closer, and he shrieked in terror.

“No! I-I’ll never hurt anyone again! I promise! Please, I promise!”

A sudden shock of pain flared through his stomach, so bright and hot that he almost vomited. Terrified, he looked down at himself, and saw the blossoming bloodstain across the white bandages on his stomach.

All at once, his panic induced strength left him, and he collapsed back to the bed with a pathetic whine.

“Shit.” Glory breathed, kneeling beside him.

Damian whimpered, trying to curl away from her.

She carefully began to unwind the bandages.

“No… no please.” Damian stammered, and broke into tears.

Glory drew back for a moment, looking shocked.

“No.” She said softly. “No, ssshhhh, you’re okay.”

“Please.” He whined, blubbering as he saw the gaping cut where some of the stitches had torn.

“Ssssshhhh.” Glory said gently, easing his head back to the pillow. “Don’t look at that.”

Damian sobbed as he felt her fingers gently brush at the edges of the wound.

“Easy. I’m going to get a towel to stop the bleeding.” Glory told him, and stood up.

The minute she was out of sight, Damian tried to get up. He had to escape, he couldn’t take the agony anymore.

The minute he stumbled to his feet, the room spun, and he collapsed to the floor with a cry of pain.

Glory was at his side in an instant.

“Don’t. Please. No more.” Damian whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll never do it again. I promise. Please. Please! I promise. I’m sorry.”

*************

Pandora gently reached out to the hysterical supervillain, grimacing at the hitching sobs that rattled his chest.

“It’s okay.” She said softly, laying her hand on his shoulder. He tensed with a blubbering sound. Her heart ached.

“Oh sweetheart, no. I’m not here to hurt you. I just need to fix the wound. You’re bleeding quite badly.”

And you’re still burning up. Her mind added, as she noticed the head radiating off his skin.

Strife shook his head, trying to regain his feet, only to collapse directly into Hero’s arms.

She gently hauled him back into the bed, and was about to try and tape his wound, only for him to cower away from her, squeaking pathetically. Pandora sighed, Strife was obviously in no state to see reason, and he desperately needed help.

So, she sat on his legs, effectively pinning him down, and began to treat the re-opened portion of the wound, doing her best to block out his sobbing pleas for mercy.

************

Damian had drained every ounce of strength he had with his struggling. As Glory began to tape his injury, all he could do was beg for mercy.

“Hush, sweetheart.” She said softly. “I’m trying to fix this.”

Why is she calling me sweetheart? 

Darkness was threatening to swallow him, and all he could do was stammer out a final plea not to be hurt anymore, before he drifted into unconsciousness.

[dangan-whump-a]

🔹🐾intro post🐾🔹

hey everyone. my name is maze. i use its/itself pronouns. i’m a whump writer.

i made this blog because, if you can’t find that specific thing, make it yourself. that’s what i’m doing.

this may be a hot take but there is like- virtually no danganronpa whump that doesn’t involve nagito or kokichi, which doesn’t bother me, but i do need some more dr content. i decided that i’ll just do it myself. it’s a pain checking the ao3 tags every single day to look for something new.

anywho, my favorite tropes are:

emotional whump. it’s one of the only ways i feel comfortable dealing with my emotions. once, after a particularly bad mental breakdown, i made shuichi go through the same thing and it was one of my best works yet. it’s very effective, and nice to read.

pet whump. gotta love it. so many possibilities. how are the pets treated? are they marveled at, like a collectors item? put on a pedestal to be praised at parties? are they treated like household pets? the family dog for a boy who’s allergic to fur? or do they exist solely for stress relief, a punching bag that writhes and sobs? a cowering mess to watch scamper into the corner as soon as you walk in? i fuckin love pet whump, okay?

deconditioning. often the seasoning for pet whump. caregivers holding whumpee down as they cry and plead not to be hurt again. whumpees hiding under beds and the like. flinching at every sound because they’re used to a dark, quiet basement. whumpee offering themselves up to caregiver. seeing caregivers take off their belt and kneeling automatically, even though caregiver was just changing into comfy clothes. under appreciated.

nightmares. so, so possible in a killing game. jolting awake in the middle of the night. thrashing off all of your covers, shivering from both cold and fear. caregivers holding whumpee, little reassurances of it’s not real, baby. i’m right here. gently padding down the hall, knocking on caregivers door. i-i had a- *sob*

sickfics. everything about them. though, i do favor the comforting elements. cleaning whumpee up, comforting them through delirium, running fingers through their hair as they cry and spill their stomachs’ contents. classic. an absolute classic.

want me to write you something? send me an ask!

however, i will not write...

kokichi. seeing him whumped is a big discomfort for me, due to personal reasons. i apologize if i had your hopes up.

the warriors of hope: whumping young children makes me very uncomfortable. especially with their backstories, it doesn’t feel right to me.

haji: just...no. i will only have him slightly mentioned, if that.

unsafe for work containing minors: including the warriors of hope, komaru, and others. i will write it with canon adults if asked, though.

any unsafe for work containing animals: i...quite honestly don’t know why someone would ask for this, but this does include monokuma, and every monobear-like-species. (including the monokubs, shirokuma, etc.)

certain k/inks: the aforementioned two, anything scat related, vore. none else that come up right off the bat, but if i’m uncomfortable with something not mentioned i’ll let you know and we can accommodate.

anything else? fair game!

however, i only write danganronpa. i am currently hyperfixated to the series, and currently trying to write anything else is virtually impossible. apologies!

dni:

transphobic

homophobic

racist

xenophobic

antikin

anti-neopronoun

anything /\/\ 0 /\/\ 0 related on your blog. it is a huge trigger for me. (/\/\ is an m, btw. i feel uncomfortable even typing the word.)

and by dni i mean DO NOT INTERACT. don’t reblog my stuff, don’t complain about me, just block me and pretend i don’t exist.

everyone else is welcome! just remember, sometimes i will post sensitive content. everything will be tagged with potentially triggering material, warnings will be at the beginning of my works, and if you’re a follower of mine with a very specific trigger, please, please let me know! i will make sure to put warnings for it in the future.

thank you! get ready for the dangan-whump!

[green-eyed-whumpster]

My OC Universe: Rowan 87

Chapter 87 Summary: Rowan struggles to figure out how to deal with his emotions while Cordelia figures out a way to help him feel safe. (Skin Tags: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @much-ado-about-whumping, @abitefullofeverything, @whump-me-all-night-long, @sky-or-something-idfk and @tears-and-lilies)

Trigger Warnings: PTSD whumpee, coping mechanisms

“Huh, Cordelia must have gotten up early,” Rowan was pulled from his contented daze by Peter’s voice. “Her horse isn’t there,” Peter could feel the shift as Rowan’s head lifted and looked over his shoulder.

“She always woke up really early while we were travelling,” He murmured softly, not wanting to hurt Peter’s ears. “She woke up before me, but I mean I am pretty used to sleeping in,”

“She does,” Peter admitted. “But usually when she’s at home she’ll let herself stay in bed, it’s rare she has the time, after all,” Rowan realised they were in front of the cottage and straightened.

“I’m still on your back,” He commented, hands gently clutching Peter’s shoulders for balance. “I hope I wasn’t too heavy,”

“I barely noticed at all,” Peter smiled, stopping so he could twist his head to look at the boy. “You seemed to be resting, I didn’t want to disturb you.” He crouched stiffly and let Rowan’s feet land on the damp grass.

“I might…could I go back to bed for a while?” Rowan asked, tilting his head down gently.

“Of course,” Peter smiled. “Sleep as long as you like.” He lifted a hand to cup Rowan’s cheek and tensed as the boy flinched away from him. “Sorry,” He murmured, lowering his hand as cold dread filled his chest. “I wasn’t going to strike you,” He said softly, hurt dripping from his voice.

I’ve done it again!

“I don’t mean to!” Rowan exclaimed suddenly, his hand trembling in front of his mouth as he bit his nail. “I don’t-I don’t like being touched!” He whimpered. He hated having to explain himself to Peter. He didn’t want to have to explain everything again. 

It was only early morning and it had already been a draining day. He turned quickly and raced into the house, Peter could hear the door of his bedroom closing heavily and let out a sigh.

“I know, Rowan.” He mumbled sadly to the air that was left behind.

~

Rowan flinched as a soft rap on the door alerted him of Peter’s presence. He didn’t like it in the corner anymore, and he didn’t want to be on the bed at the moment, so he was curled up under the bed, eyes running along the strip of light that the quilts let filter beneath the furniture.

“Hey, Rowan,” Peter’s voice remained muffled through the door and Rowan inched forward gratefully. “I’ve left some breakfast outside the door for you, I have some work to do so you don’t need to worry about me waiting for you.” Rowan popped his head out from under the bed and stared silently at the door. “If you need anything, I’ll be just outside.” More silence. “All right, well, as I said, I’ll be outside.” Rowan could hear the dejected tone in Peter’s voice and winced, he didn’t mean to be so rude, he didn’t know how he was supposed to answer. No matter how many times he said it, Peter wouldn’t listen when he said he didn’t deserve this treatment, he didn’t know how else to respond.

After a few minutes Rowan judged that Peter wasn’t waiting for him to come out, and he wouldn’t need to worry about him for the moment. He wished that Cordelia was here, it was easier to talk to her. She already knew what happened, he didn’t have to explain why he was being so odd to her.

He carefully cracked the door open, peering out to the ‘breakfast’ that Peter had left him, his fingertips wrapped around the handle of the mug and pulled it towards him, the caramel-coloured liquid smelled softly of tea and sugar, he dragged that into the room but left the bowl of porridge that was resting beside it. He had always hated porridge.

Rowan slithered almost entirely beneath the bed again, shoulders and head still exposed so he could still drink from the mug. Every creak of the house made his head whip up and he would watch the door intently for a few seconds to see if it was an intruder before taking another uncertain sip of his tea.

~

Rowan liked it under the bed. It was secure. No one could get to him here. Not even Oliver would be able to reach him from the opening. But, Rowan wouldn’t care if Oliver did manage to get a hold of him, because at least then he would be alive.

“Hey, Rowan?” A softer voice filtered past the door and his ears pricked up. “It’s me, Peter said you were in here,”

Where else would I be?

“You haven’t eaten your breakfast, bud,” He didn’t think Cordelia had ever called him by anything other than his name. He didn’t know if he liked her calling him ‘bud’. It made him think something was wrong. People’s behaviour changes when they’re lying. William was sweet to him before feeding him poisoned sweets. “Are you awake?” He grunted softly in reply and heard the timbre shift under her feet as she settled. “I have friend,” She said gently. “I want you to meet them,”

A friend?

“Do you mind if I come in?” He remained quiet for a moment before swallowing in defeat.

“No,” He murmured and the door slowly opened.

“Rowan? Where are you?” She asked curiously as she entered the room and found it seemingly empty.

“Down here,” A soft voice said from beneath the bed and she suppressed a snort as she realised. Rowan flinched as she knelt beside the bed, blocking out the sliver of light.

“Is everything all right?” She asked, lifting the edge of the blankets to look under the bed and find Rowan’s eyes, which were black in the dark space. “Why are you hiding?” Rowan was glad that she couldn’t see his blush as he looked down in shame and shrugged as best he could.

“I like it here,” He muttered. “The tight space makes me feel safe.”

“That’s all right,” Cordelia said, a smile twitching at her lips. “Do you want a hand out?” Rowan shook his head and crawled back into the open room, pushing himself to his feet in front of Cordelia. “You have cobwebs in your hair,” She smiled, reaching towards his messy red curls. “Can I brush them away?” Rowan hated people touching his hair. He knew they wanted to pull it, and he hated waiting for it to happen.

“All right,” He mumbled anyway and bit his lip tightly as he felt her fingers brush through his dusty hair, gently flicking off the dirt he had acquired from cowering under the bed.

“There we go,” She sighed gently. “That’s better, do you want to come and meet my friend, now?” She asked and he swallowed nervously before nodding. “Good, they won’t hurt you, I promise. They’re going to help you.”

Help me? How?

He held tightly onto Cordelia’s hand as she led him through the house, taking small steps so he didn’t trip her up or fall over himself. It was warmer outside now that the sun had fully risen, but the edge of ice still pricked his skin, clinging to the pale creature and flushing him red.

“Wh-where are they?” He asked nervously, eyes scanning the clearing desperately to catch sight of them before they saw him. “Why do you think they can help me?” He jumped as she led him around the side of the house where Peter was working and he noticed the man looking at him. He was smiling, though.

“They’re going to protect you,” Cordelia explained gently, patting the hands that were clutching her right one in a death-grip. “Keep you safe from anything that might hurt you.” Rowan looked at her in confusion as he processed the suggestion. Suddenly he fell to the ground with a yelp as a wet nose pressed against his leg.

Standing as tall as his head was a large black dog, looking at him inquisitively as its tail wagged lazily at their new friend.

[whumpfish]

It has come to this. I have content blocked the word Caretaker.

This has been a slow spiral into doneness for a while. At first I content blocked just the main phrase present in the most egregious ableist woobery, "Caretaker's heart breaks." Then I blocked "Caretaker raises their voice." Then I blocked "Whumpee cowers" because sometimes woobie "Whumpees" confused their trusted Caretaker for their evil Whumper over something similarly trivial and unrealistic but not exactly. Then I had to block "cowers" because sometimes it was "Whumpee just cowers" and it wound up on my dash anyway. Then I thought if I blocked "all the things the whumper did" I would remove whumpless "whump" from my dash. That would take care of the people who want to write after but can't handle their own before, right? Spare me that, at least? Nope.

I'm not the only one who has asked for this woobie shit to be tagged. For it to at least be tagged as "infantilization" if you don't self-identify as woobie. But it hasn't been. Not once, that I've seen. And I've been watching for it, hoping.

And that tells me something depressing about the state of the community. It tells me that a lot of folks don't see infantilization and ableism as a problem. It tells me that a lot of folks don't care as long as their soft blanket power fantasy is satisfied. It tells me that a lot of folks have no intent to afford the same courtesy to others that they insist others afford them. It tells me that this community is no longer the one I joined years ago, that was my literal salvation when I was bedridden.

One where "Caretakers" were optional because it was the whumpees who were the focus of the narrative because we were here to explore pain and vulnerability in a place where it isn't sanitized with blankets and soup. One where we could confront the reality that such "Caretakers" as have become popular do not exist, and have that acknowledged in a space that was ours, away from a mainstream fiction culture that likes to imagine itself in that role... right up until the moment they'd actually have to do it. One where we could get away from that self-fellating performative sympathy.

I hate making these posts. I hate feeling like I'm "being negative" when I'm asking for basic genre parameters to be respected... which is what this makes me feel like because I've been - wait for it - conditioned to think that I'm an annoyance and a burden on Normal People in Normal Society, and that standing my ground is unreasonable, impolite, dragging people down, and just overall Killing The Mood.

And I can literally feel the vagueposts forming in the aether. About "whump" that contains no actual whump ever being ValidTM and don't let people make you feel bad if you mislabel your posts. I hate having to make these posts and I hate how often I'm driven to it, because the thing is, I'm not asking a lot.

If I labeled my dead dove shit #angst, y'all would lose your shit. If I tagged my caretakerless whump #hurt/comfort, y'all would lose your shit. It would be the end of the goddamn world. I would be a pariah--and rightly so, because dead dove isn't angst and hurt/comfort is literally the only genre extant where comfort is mandatory. Whump is a genre about pain, and as such, pain is explicitly necessary for something to belong to that genre. It's not personal. It's categorization. It's being able to find what you're looking for and avoid what you're not.

I don't put my watermelon in your casserole. Don't put your broccoli in my fruit salad. That's just basic courtesy. I don't hate casserole, I like me a good casserole every once in a while. I just get aggravated when I find broccoli in my fruit salad, because the whole reason I opened the container of fruit salad in the first place was that I wanted fruit, not greens. My goal when I write these things is not to make anyone feel bad, it's to make people be aware.

I am just. So tired. I want my community back. Maybe this latest measure will allow me to have that again... I'm just aggravated that I had to take it.