#institutionalized whump

[pvtashby]

Oh hey, nice character ya got there… would be a shame if I were to torture them day and night and only have them rescued 6 months later and their friends now have to grapple with the fact that they are a completely different person

[ziptiesnfries]

dystopian society where at age 18, everyone takes a test that designates them as a whumper, whumpee, or caretaker. all of society is organized around these three roles.

[floral-comet-whump]

Spilled Ink

walenty masterlist + future link to part 2 of this

Contents: Minor (teen) whump, lady whumper, institutionalized whump, magic/fantasy setting, (non-combatant) living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, secretly defiant whumpee, mentioned whipping and isolation as corporal punishment, mentioned torture for information, emotional abuse and manipulation, pain spell, kneeling, stress position

Taglist: @cryptozoolliegy @chiswhumpcorner (thanks for beta reading!!) @paingoes @loonybun @half-duck @inhurtandincomfort

They hadn’t meant to.

They really hadn’t meant to. They were only tracing the words their past self had left. They pressed too hard by accident. It was an accident.

The accident stared back at them, a black spot surely leaking into the next page. A broken nib. A smeared hand. Itchy coldness on their wrist, air on their fingers, ink spilling from notepad to desk. They were going to need to remake the draft.

Walenty took in an inky-smelling breath, putting a cap over the pen for a start. They’d have to fix it. It’s okay, replacing a nib and ink wasn’t too troublesome. They placed it down on the notepad since they didn't want to dirty anything else. Next, they got up from their chair, stepping to their bathroom. They rinsed their hands. Stacked toilet paper. Ran their hands under the faucet again, and let a controlled amount of water drip from their fingertips onto half the tissue.

Everything’s fine. This trepidation is illogical, they can fix this. They can. They just need to clean it. They walked back, moving the chair aside, soaking up the ink on the paper on the dry tissue and wiping the desk with the wet one. It was already fixed a third of the way, the desk and floor clean, dirty tissues thrown into the bin.

The notebook looked... Well, they couldn’t read any of what they’d originally written, and certainly couldn't decipher it with so much missing. They’d have to fully rely on their memory, then. Okay, not too bad. They can rewrite it. They still have time. It’ll cost them tonight, but they rarely get work back-to-back, so they’d only have classes and homework tomorrow.

For this reason, they couldn’t replace the pen nib just yet, it took too long. It was fine since they had another pen. Satisfied for now, Walenty exhaled, sitting back down and taking a new pen. They had to restore the draft, and then they could continue writing the actual report.

Only... what had happened in the missing blotches eluded them. That’s not good. But it must just be their anxiety, so they set out to fixing their previous pen. They just had to clear their head, and then they could recall this vital information.

They couldn’t do it. No matter how much they tried, they couldn’t remember. They’d tried recounting events, they’d tried pacing, tried looking at things in hopes the words would remind them, yet all they could recall was the bare-bones. Insufficient for a complete file.

They should’ve made a backup of their notes. They should’ve just paid more attention to their grip. They should’ve never made a mistake.

Walenty groaned into their arms.

Hours of work, gone. Barely anything to show for it. They would surely be punished, and it wouldn’t even be unwarranted this time. What would it be? Flogging? Isolation? Maybe one then the other. They’d have to count. They’d have to thank their torturer. Walenty hardly ever made the people they tortured thank them, because nobody pretended it was out of love or some other lie.

They couldn’t fall asleep, worry keeping them awake.

They had to submit it today.

Walenty tried to remember during the lessons, or write during lunch. They couldn’t. The sheer amount of anxiety was surely preventing them from recounting it.

There wasn’t much time left. It made everything worse.

They completed their homework diligently. Stared at the half-assed report. Who would be punishing them for their incompetence?

Would leaving dried tears help?

They tried to recall things at the last minute. Maybe it would come to them.

Their leg was bouncing. They couldn’t think.

All they knew was that it was a criminal of average age — couldn’t remember the number or species — who hadn’t cooperated until Walenty forced him to. They couldn’t remember how. They couldn’t remember the words that were supposed to kickstart their memory.

It wasn’t enough.

Walenty hung their head low, wearing shame on their sleeve. “What is this?” she asks, and they flinch from just her voice. The usual inflection. Better to save their tears.

“..I couldn’t recall the details of the session. I’m sorry.”

“What of your notes?” She doesn’t believe them. She thinks they were lazy.

They could lie and receive a different punishment. What would it be? Spilling ink and losing information could warrant a basic punishment, like a stress position or flogging but they’d have to clean it after. But Walenty rarely slacks off. What would happen then? Maybe sensory deprivation, showing them what it’s really like to do nothing.

Maybe outright expulsion for shirking their duties.

“I accidentally spilled ink when going over them, ma’am.” They confess. “I’m sorry. I’ll accept any punishment.”

Even when not daring to look her in the eyes, they can feel Cecilia’s glare. They clench their fists even when they’re sure they’ve gone white under their gloves, close their jaw so hard they can hear it scraping. Walenty doesn’t dare utter another word.

Not without permission. When it’s like this, protocol is the foundation of it all. A soldier only speaks when spoken to. Her heels click away, and for a second, Walenty hopes it’s dismissal, a promise for the pain to come later rather than now.

Her halting and a jolt that makes them tense assures them it’s not. It was pointless to hope, Lady Cecilia dismissal’s are always verbal. They walk behind her, head bowed. Neither speaks, the only sounds footsteps.

And the ringing in Walenty’s ears, but she can’t hear that.

It’s dim in here. Cold. It always is. The noble has locked the door. The orphan stands in place, waiting for orders. She hasn’t made them remove anything yet. Walenty hopes it stays that way. “It’s always so... disappointing,” she accentuates the sentence with an administration of artificial hurt, and their breathing stops, “—when you forget everything we’ve done for you.”

They haven’t forgotten it. They made just one mistake. An honest one. “I’m sorry,” they apologize regardless, holding their hands together.

“You always are.” Lady Cecilia replies, not even needing to flick her wrist for pain to shoot through them. It makes them gasp this time. “You’re always quick to beg for forgiveness, aren’t you?” Her heels click, click, click until she’s just in front of them. She could strangle them like this. Is that why she had them keep the cape on? “Yet you always make mistakes.”

Everyone does, they want to refute. It’s impossible to be perfect. But telling her that would be horrible disrespect even outside of a punishment.

“Walk.” The high-elf combines her command with magic that makes them see static, and they feel dumb for not realizing that was what she wanted. Walenty steps back. Is she just going to use the earring them this time? It seems like it. She has them remove the cape for just stress positions. Maybe she’ll add something else. Maybe they’ll be left here.

They step back, and back, and are about to continue before she holds her hand up, so they stop. They blink, breaking eye contact from sheer nervousness. The center of the room. There’s chains above them, not modified for Walenty’s height ye—

A too-loud buzz, then pain. It burns yet freezes, stabbing and pulling out the needle and stabbing again everywhere. Walenty cries out, already feeling weak in the knees. They gasp in gulps of air as she just looks at them, then cover their face. That hurts too, some weird resonating spell. They flinch back with an audible cry, losing their balance and falling on their butt. It hurts. It hurts so much, and it’s not stopping, and their heart is racing, and they can’t talk and can barely move.

“What is this?” She reprimands —barely audible over the sound of magic in their ear, but they can tell she needs to shout for them to hear her— and they instinctively shrink, doing their best to adjust to a proper kneel. “Better,” Walenty hears faintly, and the screaming in their nerves stops. They don’t bother to hope that it’s over already, merely hanging their head and breathing.

They can feel their pulse, racing against their chest, trying to get out with every heaving breath. Hell, they can hear it, thumping alongside the long siren that isn’t real.

Even when it’s not active, it hurts so much. They still hear its buzzing, their ears are still ringing, they can hear their own heartbeat and it’s way too fast. It’s so loud.

“Get up.”

They try and their legs give out. “I’m sorry,” Walenty pleads, trying again. She lets them, and they succeed this time.

“What you did,” —the teen flinches from just the sound of her voice, hunching their shoulders, flicking their head to the side, trying to be small— “was a careless mistake. A stupid accident that you could easily avoid with a sliver of the intelligence you possess, Walenty.”

That’s not true since mishaps literally just happen sometimes, but they know what's good for them, so they bow their head like a scolded child. They are a scolded child.

“Are you sorry?”

“Yes, Lady Cecilia.”

“That’s not enough.”

They scream in tandem with the unsaid spell, falling right back down, choking on the sound not soon after. “Ah--” is the high whine that comes right after as Walenty at least kneels. Every gesture matters. They’re glad they used the waterproof makeup today. The student gasps then holds, gasps then holds. In for 1, hold for 2, out for 2.

They put a hand over their mouth as if that makes their shuddering open-mouth breath look any more presentable. They look up. Blink away the tears that have gathered.

Cecilia looks back, her eyes like rhinestones.

“I’m sorry,” they try.

“Get up.” She orders, and so they do, trembling freely. The torture device pierced onto their body buzzes back to life, and they fall to their knees again. Walenty hardly even has the energy to cry out this time, just sniffling. A hot kettle rings out in the distance their auditory system, high pitched but far away.

“Are you incapable of following even the most simple of orders?” She steps behind them, forcing their head down when they try to look.

They don’t know how to answer. What can they say? Of course they’re capable of that, but saying so right now is disrespectful. Saying that no is contrarian, disrespectful too. Saying they’ll learn is an empty promise made by a begger, so she might as well give up on them. They wince at the sound of chains behind them, not needing to be verbally ordered to remove their cape.

They try not to stall for time as they remove their badge, fold their cape, and tie the ribbon around the collar of their shirt this time, but it’s hard to work fast when their hands are shaking this bad. Maybe, if they could’ve just done what they were told, they wouldn’t be getting ready for a stress position.

They position their wrists behind their back, thankful to their gloves and sleeves for making it a little less cold. She steps back and pulls up the lever, Walenty being lifted as the machine does its job, engine humming and manacles clinking. It stops when they’re barely touching the ground with the very ends of their shoes’ platforms, strung up by the wrists.

Neither teacher nor student say anything, staring at each other in the dark. Walenty ponders trying to apologize again. It won’t get them out of this, of course, but their punishment might end earlier if they’re remorseful.

They open their mouth, but all that comes out is an “Ack!” once the torture begins again, and midair this time. They tense so much worse this time, squeezing their eyes shut, hunching their shoulders as much as possible, clenching their fists, something.

It hurts. Why can’t they get used to this? Why can’t they avoid this?

They know this self deprecation is illogical, that it’s not their fault. That some reason to hurt them would’ve been found sooner or later.

But it’s so loud. A repetitive clicking, a nauseating buzzing, thud-thud-thud, burning that’s freezing, static, pins and needles, shivers, Pain.

They realize they were screaming when it ends, and then they devolve into gasps for air, both because they’re out of breath and because they need to regulate their heartbeat before it fails.

In, hold, out. Two seconds, two seconds, and two seconds. In, hold, and out. Three, three, two...

They try to look at Lady Cecilia through their teary haze. She’s watching. She’s only watching. Okay.

In for four, hold for 4, out for four. Again. Their ears are still ringing, aching somewhere in the back of their eyes, but their pulse is calming down. They look away, sniffling even as they try to blink away tears.

They hate this. They hate it so much. This is evil. She’s evil. They’re so tired. Walenty lets their eyes close. Lets themselves cry themselves to sleep in a stress position.

They’re metaphorically shocked out of it, gasping.

“You haven’t earned your rest.”

It goes on and on and on, until they can hardly even scream anymore, just pathetically beg for forgiveness. By that time, it must be getting late, because Cecilia leaves them. She said something, but they can’t hear it with the ringing in their ears, and they don’t manage to ask in time.

The door shuts. Walenty doesn’t know how long it takes them to breathe soundly or regain rational thought.

Magic-fueled pain administration, then a stress position for however-long. That’s their punishment. They sigh into the darkness, aching from both physical effort and the residue of the spell. It’s going to get worse as more time passes.

They’re so tired. In their desperate attempts to avoid this exact outcome, they haven’t gotten even a blink of sleep last night. Walenty ponders trying to nap. It’s extremely unsightly, of course, but they’re usually left alone for stress positions, and they’re going to be sore regardless. Still, they don’t know how long they’ll be left here. If someone walks in and sees them slacking, that’s a guaranteed extension, and they definitely won’t wake themselves up before that with the zero rest they’ve gotten lately.

Walenty sighs again. Now, what to think about to accompany mind-numbing torture...

[acer-whumpstuff]

Part one

“Uh, Boss?” Carewhumper lifted their head from their work and turned around to glare at the subordinate who’d interrupted them.

“Do you need something?”

“Yeah uh- you see-“

“Speak up, if this is important.”

“It is, your uh- ‘pet’ arrived.” Carewhumper rolled their eyes. So the dog arrived, big deal!

“Okay? And? You truly can’t take care of a Labrador for a few hours while I work? My business is incredibly important and-“

“No, boss, I’m sorry but there’s some kind of mistake. They sent a person in a kennel.”

Now that had Carewhumper’s attention. They stood, abandoning their work and moving past their employee.

“Show me.” Did Whumper intend to send a person? Did Whumper think Carewhumper would enjoy this? They would need a thorough ‘talking to’ if they thought this would be okay.

[whumpspicelatte]

To Be Grateful: Terry in Prince's Solace

Tismoria and Echo's OCs belong to @echo-goes-mmm / @echo-goes-aaa

Warnings: slavery, implied human trafficking, implied past dubcon and noncon

Terrance was…fairly certain that being invited, and allowed, to sit at the small dining table alongside Master and the king was a good sign. Hopeful, at least. It spoke well to the king’s character. 

He…hoped so, anyway. Hoped that the invitation had no malicious ulterior motives. There had to be some outside motive, of course. Why else would a king let his gift eat alongside his old and future masters? But all he could hope was that this wasn’t a trap. That he could get out of this unharmed. 

Hope was all Terrance got to keep anymore. And even that had dimmed to something more…suitable, to one of his new station. 

The room they they dined in must have been constructed for privacy, for all the thin windows running from ceiling to floor to let light stream in past the parted curtains. A warm beam burned into his back with the same heat of the brazier used to heat the brand his trainers had burned into the base of his spine. 

Its absence, highlighted in the clarity of sensation in once-dead nerves, left Terrance unmoored in odd moments like these. 

Not all of Terrance’s princely bearing had been beaten out of him over the years; instead, it had simply been tempered, melted down then reforged to better suit the slave they made of him. He clung to what he could get away with right now to carry him through this to whatever standards the king might have of him. 

While he had been prepared on what to expect in the unlikely case that he was invited to dine alongside his master, he very much doubted any of his trainers could have predicted that he’d wind up at the scrutiny of literal royalty. 

He had never felt so grateful for the Timorsian dining etiquette he’d been taught by his mother. 

Terrance quietly picked his way through the pull-apart bread, spiced vegetables and sea bass offered his way, a modest meal that he could comfortably eat without drawing attention from anything like lacking size despite his lacking appetite, something he’d long since learned to ignore. 

Across from him, Master and the king spoke as old friends. While Terrance watched and listened, careful to keep his attentiveness light and mostly focus on his food to give them some amount of privacy, he didn’t say a single word. 

The only times he spoke was when he thanked the staff, even as he took care to be grateful for the meal. Neither the king nor his master had called on him to speak, so he stayed silent. The way a proper slave should. 

His gratitude was sincere. He hadn’t been able to stomach much today, and his body no longer satiated itself off of the slim pickings of his appetite. 

He was grateful. He was. 

Good slaves were grateful. Silent. Obedient. 

Thallos took care to be all of those things, exactly the way he was meant to be. Exactly how he had been bent and broken and bidden leave to do. Exactly as his trainers had taught him to do. To be. For his sake. 

Timorsia did not tolerate ungrateful slaves. 

“Thallos.” 

Terrance’s fingers froze at the sound of the king’s voice. Carefully, he set down down the pull-apart bread to give the king his full attention. 

His voice came out as soft as ever, as lacking in any bite, its icy fangs long since yanked out by the root. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

King Jason V’s green eyes flicked over his body, and Terrance’s mind spiralled, heart stilling in his chest. Only the placid attentiveness carefully trained to replace his old princely masks kept anxiety from pulling at the skin of his face. His posture was as perfect as he could get it, he knew. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, chin tilted slightly downwards in submission, hands currently folded neatly on his lap. Was there some flaw the king could see? Could pick out from him?

Could he see the eyes of Queen Catherine on a face with the jaw of her husband? 

Timorsia had never been friendly with Rhodantheia. Terrance’s trainers had made very sure that he knew just what would happen to him if anyone found out who he was. What he was. 

And that was just under the assumption of Terrance being the simple nobleman they mistook him for. 

What would Timorsia do with a foreign, practically enemy, prince? 

The king’s lips quirked upwards at the corners. “Achilles tells me you have been trained as not just a caregiver, tutor and nurse, but also as a…what was it, a ‘host’? Could you tell me about what that entails?”

“The host specialty is one of the subsidiary skillsets Hesione Trading House educates its elect-class slaves in, depending on the pre-existing natural talents and inclinations of trainees like myself,” he answered promptly. “Hosts like myself are trained to offer company and entertainment to our masters with a strong focus on the fine arts.” He dipped his head slightly, every motion now instinctively loaded in submissive elegance and maximum aesthetic appeal, just as it had been for the past year. 

Hosts were trained in the deliverance of both sexual and chaste pleasure, although Terrance knew better than to be so crass as to speak of his sexual training. 

“My main specialties in the host skillset lie in playing stringed instruments with a particular focus on the violin, the lyre, the zither and the piano, dance, tea preparation, poetry, oral storytelling and etiquette, Your Majesty.” His strongest skills- the ones he had taken best to. Many he already had before that fateful night, although not all. 

His gaze flicked up tentatively to meet the king’s own. “Does such an answer satisfy what you wish to know?”

The king’s head tilted to the side with a small hint of a smile. Unreadable. 

Had he misspoke? 

“I see.” The king leaned back in his chair. “And your…primary skillset, I assume? Tell me about it.”

“My primary specialty lies in the safe, healthy rearing of children from pregnancy to adulthood,” Terrance answered halfway on reflex. “I have been trained to help accommodate as wide a variety of needs and possibilities as Hesione Trading House could manage, as well as to act as an aide in medical care, general caregiving and proper physical, mental and emotional maturation and recovery concerning my charges. It is strongly advised that I act in a supplementary nature in my role, however I can act as primary caregiver in general childcare and medical care on a long-term basis if necessary.”

His throat hurt, but he took care not to let it show. 

“And how long have you been trained in by Hesione Trading House?”

Four years, one month, seventeen days. “Six years, Your Majesty.” The lie slipped out as easily as if it were truth. It might as well be. Sometimes, it was difficult to remember it was not.

His tongue felt parched, dimly remembering the many days and night spent without sleep, water or food as the collar sent lightning through him over and over and over and would only stop so long as he repeated his truths, he was a slave of Timorsia and had been since birth, his Master always knew best, he was made to be owned, good slaves are obedient, good slaves are quiet, good slaves are grateful, good slaves, Hesione Trading House saved him, he owed Hesione Trading House his life, he was a slave, he was a good slave, he was a good slave or he was nothing-

The king nodded, falling silent. Master’s gaze flicked his way to meet his eyes, then looked down at Terrance’s half-empty cup, then back up at Terrance meaningfully. 

Terrance still belonged to Master. Good slaves obey. 

He lifted his glass, fingers steady, and took a sip. Wine. A dry wine, better than any he’d had since he was free. He didn’t let it show how only ash coated his tongue. 

It burned as it went down, the way it always did. 

Terrance hadn’t liked wine, once. 

Good slaves were grateful. Thallos was a good slave. Thallos was grateful for the wine. 

Because he had to be.

“Can you read?” The king mused. “Write?”

Dangerous territory. 

Terrance set down his glass without even a clink. “I have been taught to read, Your Majesty, but not to write. In case one of my charges or my master would like me to read aloud to them for whatever reason they may like.” 

He barely heard the king hum past the roar of his own blood. Magic crackled in his lungs. If he needed to defend himself- no. No. He would stand down and take what he was given, and he’d be grateful for it. He was a good slave. Punishment made sure to keep him good. 

He belonged to his master. His body, his life, his future- it all belonged to his master. 

Slaves didn’t get to own anything at all. Terrance’s own magic, memories, thoughts and forbidden skills only remained his so long as he kept them close to his chest. 

And that threatened to make him a bad slave, so he had to be grateful. Silent. Obedient. 

Always. 

It was all he was good for anymore. 

Master asked the king a question that Terrance couldn’t quite make out past the slight buzzing in his ears, and the attention shifted off of him. When neither of them were looking his way, he forced his muscles to untense. 

For a time, he was allowed to return to his meal. When he was offered another serving, he refused with a soft, ever-grateful smile. 

Grateful. He was grateful. He had to be grateful. 

“Thallos?” Terrance looked up to meet the king’s gaze yet again, stomach slowly sinking. “What do you like to do in your free time?”

Terrance’s mind blanked. 

What did he like to do in his free time? 

He liked… he liked to sleep. To take care of and be with the children. To go over everything and triple-check for new things to do. To sew. To hum. To let his magic flicker to life, when he could manage it. 

To think of home. 

The answer that passed his lips was the truth, the sincere, genuine truth, but an acceptable truth. A good truth for a useful slave. “I like to keep my hands and mind busy, your Majesty. In whatever way I can.”

“I see.”

But maybe the truth wasn’t enough.

When had the truth ever been enough?

[ashdoeswhump]

Something along these lines that I've always enjoyed is a g/t where whumpees are shrunk, packaged and sold like Barbie dolls, for kids to dress up and play all the normal and fun games little girls play with their Barbie dolls. I always thought that was a fun idea.

You could buy dolls' houses and outfits and accessories for your little toy, you could trade them with your friends, your friends could bring their toys and they could play together with yours. It was just a whole fun little world with toys that can play with you, so it's not one sided.

I'm realising as I write this that maybe the reason I got into whump as a very young kid is because I never had Barbies to take this all out on. That makes sense, now.

We've heard of living weapon whump- make way for living toy whump. Whumpee is disfigured from the copious amounts of torture endured by Whumper. The torment Whumper inflicts is always twisted in some way to make it flashy or comedic. Whumpee conditioned to believe they are nothing if not a toy or entertainer. Maybe Whumper charges good money to allow other Whumpers to come over and play with Whumpee. Maybe Whumpee is dressed childishly or in flashy/extravagant clothing. They're overall either treated like a prop in a show or a freak in a freak show. Please see my vision

[pvtashby]

Inspired by my own experiences in the Troubled Teen Industry, I present:

Make your Whumpees scared of feedback.

We all know and hate it but at the end of the day, good feedback is usually helpful, and meant to be constructive.

What if… Whumper gives Whumpee “feedback” that’s not so good? Hyper analyzing their behavior, nitpicking their habits and actions, and acting like it’s all for their benefit? Telling them horrible things under the guise of “wanting to help.” Modifying their behavior via this critique and a system of punishment, and brainwashing them, inducing them to doubt and blame themselves. They become extra sensitive to being criticized and try to avoid it at all costs.

Fighting back or disagreeing under this system is not productive will only lead to frustration/pain for the Whumpee.

So when they finally get out, just hearing the words “can I give you some feedback?” no matter how nicely put, will strike fear into their hearts. They take it not at face value, but as a personal flaw they must surely deserve punishment for…

Being pulled aside by their boss? Whumpee panics and thinks they’ve fucked up and they’re in trouble.

Family/friend says they “have to tell them something.” Whumpee assumes whatever happened, it’s their fault.

[gottawhump]

Inspection

Carlisle

CW/TW: BBU/WRU, pet whump, institutional slavery, offscreen noncon.

God, he hates random inspections. Scheduled ones he can prepare his people for. Knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier, but it helps a little.

An Inspector showing up on his doorstep, going through his house, and harassing his people is absolute hell.

He has to smile and let it happen.

He keeps his smile pasted on while he leads the Inspector through his house.

“You allow the Designations to mix?”

“Yes. They socialize with each other.”

“Some people find it corrupts their training.”

“Hm.” People read what they want in neutral, noncommittal sounds.

He grits his teeth when Inspector Grey calls out “Respect” to see every Pet in earshot drop to their knees and genuflect. He keeps smiling, as Grey chooses random Pets to go through the different positions.

He genuinely smiles when he sees Gideon and 115 sitting together in a common room. He still isn’t sure about their relationship, but Gideon had brought 115 quite a bit out of his shell.

Perhaps the smile was the mistake.

Grey moves toward the pair, who react immediately to the black WRU uniform. Gideon stands up, tall and straight, making him appear bigger through his posture.

115 slides off the couch with boneless grace into a kneeling position.

“Good,” Grey says. “Now, come on. I want to see how much of your training you remember.”

He’s not smiling now, waiting outside 115’s room. Listening, despite himself.

He wants to wipe the smug, satisfied smile off the Inspector’s face when he comes out of the room. It’s a conscious effort to keep his hands from balling into fists, especially when he hears Gideon’s apologies and 115 crying.

Up until now, WRU Inspectors haven’t used his people that way. He pulls out his phone, instead of his fists.

“I’d like your WRU ID number, and your supervisor’s name and ID number.”

“Your Sanctuary passed my inspection, Mr. Black. There’s no need for that.”

“I want to file a complaint.”

The other man doesn’t laugh, though Carlisle can see he wants to. He does reel off the requested information, before finally leaving.

Gideon leans against a wall, looking sick and shaken. Despite the tears drying on his cheeks, and the bruises on his body, 115 seems eerily calm.

“I am sorry,” Carlisle says, hating the futility of it, hating that he can’t honestly say It won’t happen again.

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue @taterswhump @nicolepascaline @inpainandsuffering @simbahhishere @whimpers-and-whumpers @theoriginal-grasseater @writereleaserepeat

[floral-comet-whump]

consider institutionalized living weapon whump. mmmm. I will now explain this autism fueled hyperfixation that has been going on and off for me in the last 3-5 years

content warnings (all fictional): general whump stuff, child abuse, child soldiers, living weapon whump (kinda), conditioning, discussion of genshin impact (since I'm not tagging this post as genshin in fear of normal genshin likers on tumblr stumbling onto whump and not knowing what it is, therefore whump likers who dislike genshin and have the tags blocked would still view this (maybe. idk how tag filtering works)), multiple whumpers/carewhumpers, multiple whumpees, fantasy whump, briefly mentioned eating disorder

OKAY so back at like 2020 or 2021 I was ACTIVE in the genshin rp scene and one of my friends made a fatui oc that, due to being the only survivor of a snow blizzard, was adopted into the fatui and raised to be a soldier! also this was before inazuma's release so shoutout to [unnamed bc we fell out of touch so I don't know if they'd like to be named] for predicting the house of the hearth!

anyways their oc was not only an absolute BANGER, but also sparked what I now realize was whumperflies in 14 yo me! so I copied it with my own oc. also had the stellar idea to think that if [friend's oc] was integrated, why not make it a whole program? badabim badaboom fatui orphanage. I shit you not the first thing I came up with is that the rejects get sent to dottore

uhhhh as stuff came out and someone leaked a fatui orphanage then the secret shrine maiden quest came out I TWEAKED. my oc got updates. leaks about lyney (and lynette) being from the hoth(house of the hearth) brought me back after I'd gotten bored. I desperately held myself back from telling everyone their surnames. I listened to their leaked voicelines. I read their stories.

it was not as bad as I envisioned in my head. fym arlecchino saved them!! white knight white knight!!! fym they're not sleeper agents!!!! fym freminet has a job he enjoys that is in no way related to the fatui?!!?!!! free time and healthy hobbies on my extremely fanonized interpretation of a fictional orphanage we previously only had teeny tiny crumbs about?!?!?!!!;1!?!

arlecchino releasing made me fully give up on the vision I'd originally had on the hoth. I generally do actually like the canon hoth, but I was super attached to this whole miniature concept I'd invented and shared with so many people.

so I'm making my own child soldier orphanage!!!

CONSIDER CHILD SOLDIERS IN WHUMP. WITH CONDITIONING. consider telling children that have nowhere else to go (and whumper KNOWS they have nowhere else to go) they can either join the military or continue whatever they were doing. consider training and conditioning them. consider reminding them where they'd be, had carewhumper not taken them in. consider "letting them off easy" via punishment, or threatening to put them to other use.

consider teaching those children happy lies of doing good, and shattering that reality when they dare be ungrateful and try to run away. consider always making the expectations on them clear. consider the bonds these children will form both with each other and carewhumpers. parental whump my beloved. consider living weapon whumpee that isn't an on-field combatant. consider living weapon whumpee who's allowed to be a person as a reward.

consider living weapon whumpee who was previously rescued from a different kind of whumper and is just perfect for molding into a killing machine. consider orphans children willingly volunteering for the military because the program is well known. consider generations upon generations of this where previous whumpees retire to work in the same orphanage so that they'll never have to move out, prolonging the cycle of violence with promises of family. and that family isn't even false, just conditional.

whumpee who was rescued from a vampire thrall trade and is constantly reminded where they would've been had carewhumpers not been so generous as to rehabilitate them. ungrateful little thing, always reacting so slow, cowering from the vampires the carewhumpers have taken in as if they're the same one, either hoarding food or immediately wolfing it down.

whumpee who was abandoned as a child and came in to a place they knew they'd be accepted, but gradually realized the danger behind it and tried escaping. they were brought back and thoroughly disciplined. it's obvious that they're using a facade once one simply reads their file or asks them, but that doesn't matter so long as they're obedient.

a whumpee turned carewhumper that sees nothing wrong with what they're doing. they were raised this way, and though it was very scary, so is life in general. they certainly wouldn't have survived in this world without this orphanage, and much less by being coddled. the children brought here have all had difficult experiences that have scarred them, they can't be treated like normal kids.

that's all the ocs I have thought up for it rn soz

yeah!! will also be in a typical high fantasy setting because I prefer it a whole lot more.

I'm honestly unsure of what to call this thing. I can't really go with the house of the hearth. at some point I internally called it erysimum institute because I read destroyer and the name beldam institute just sounds rlly catchy. also erysimums symbolize faith in unfortunate situations which I think fits perfectly. but the loneliness/shyness part of wallflowers (a prominent type of erysimum) is a little less fitting.

I'll definitely change the name because I want it to be as original as it can be!! probably to some kind of flower meaning rebirth or smt but idk.

p.s: it would have art!!!

[whumpsoda]

The Walls Were Blue

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, brainwashed/conditioned whumpee, memory loss/amnesia, captivity

——————

Waking, same time as always, the routine was basically mechanically ingrained in his brain. Lying in the old, twin sized mattress of the bunk bed the people had provided, he dared not shut his eyes, dared not to blink, dared not stop staring. He fought against the overcoming call of slumber that still had its hold on him.

The walls were blue.

He blinked, once, then twice, then three times, sucking in a breath of lukewarm air.

Not white, not painstakingly, achingly white, but blue. A grayish sort of the color - or maybe that was a trick caused by the dim light of the room, he couldn’t tell - but definitely not white.

He sipped in a long, filling breath this time, hands laid over his chest and feeling along with the movement. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to dance around, to jump and sing and cheer. To rub his whole body across it, to smoosh his entire face against it, because maybe it wasn’t real at all, maybe it was false. Prince didn’t want to be dreaming.

Ever so carefully he picked up a hand, watching with innocent fascination as it neared the wall. Then, he hesitated, pulling back and lingering in the air before the two could meet.

What if it crumbled beneath his fingers in an instant? Disappeared the moment he made contact? What if they were simply a trick of his mind, fake and never to be true?

But the woman was real. He’d heard her speak. The stuffed animal she’d brought for him, a bright, vibrantly pink teddy bear, sat over his belly, fur tickling him along the rise and fall of his breathing. The toy was real, she was real, and so was the wall.

They had to be.

Carefully, jaw working, he forced himself to press one finger to the wall. No crumbling, no disappearance, no reality warping magic that he could have thought up. Then another, then another, then the rest. The touch was slightly cool, bumps of plaster scratching gently to his skin as he grazed his hand over it in big circles. 

The blue wall was real.

And he was out. 

A short gasp slipped through his lips, realization finally dawning, jumping along with the beat of his heart. The contorting churn and quease of his belly was evident, an anxious feeling overflowing, spilling and seeping into each and every crevice.

He wanted to be happy, he really did… but was that not enough? What was with the sore in his chest, coiling around, suffocating his lungs and making it hard to breathe? 

Hm? You want some outside time as a treat for being so good? Is that what I think I’m hearing, ‘719?

N- no! Ms., um, Handler Reeves, sir, please, no, no outside, please.

Really? Are you sure? I could’ve sworn you loved the outside… always asking about it, always dreaming about it, all that ugly fucking crying…

Please, Handler Reeves, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, no outside, please, I’ll do anything, I’ll be so good just no outside, outside is bad and scary an’ and horr- horrible an’ no outside, please-

That’s what I thought, ‘719.

Prince swallowed, hard, shaking his head of thoughts as the pulse of his heart picked up pace.

No outside for you, Princey, you know that. Don’t tell me you forgot your training? Forgot all those things they taught you back at the facility… do I really need to send you back?

No, sir, no, of course not. I- I remember.

Good, good. They did wonders for you, did you know that?

Oh, he knew.

Prince slowly shuffled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding the mistake of nudging Mutt from his much needed sleep, who was collapsed in a heap on the floor. He must’ve been terribly exhausted to allow himself sleep - Prince couldn’t recall how many nights he’d stayed up so far to ensure his safety. Prince then stood, walking around to the drape covered window beside the bed. 

A window, just like his sir’s, but at the same time not at all. He gently drew the drapes aside, letting the early, faint, cloud concealed light filter over his face. Six o’clock, he guessed, familiar with the look of that time considering he’d woken up then for as long as he’d been with his sir. Except, the new view of a plain, dew dripping, cream colored fence took him off guard, being so used to the look of his sir’s neighbors’ front yards.

He swallowed, sucking in the flesh of the inside of his cheeks and softly gnawing on it, clutching the drapes tight. 

He was out, he was out, he was out. 

And he still hadn’t been hurt. So when was it coming?

If he looked close enough, focused his eyes in just the right spot, Prince could make out his own reflection in the window. Hair oily and undone, frizzy too, no more maids to get him prepared for his master before he even woke.

There was a cut, small but there, scratched over his upper lip, gradually scabbing over. He licked his tongue over it, feeling for the ridges and bumps and ugliness.

I can hurt you, Princey, any way I want, but I never leave any marks, do I?

Isn’t that just generous of me?

Who would want to ruin a gorgeous face like yours?

His gazed dropped, just a smidge, to find there was no lock on the window. He stared, just for a pause in time, debating. Would he? Would he not? Would sir allow it?

Breathing quickening, hand trembling and gradually pressing the latch, he shoved it over to one side, leaving half open. He looked back, as if his sir would jump in at any moment and catch him, yell, and anger, and hurt him-

The foggy, morning air blossomed over his face, a slight chill that worked to wake him further. Letting his eyes flutter to a close he sucked it in greedily, a large breath that filled his lungs with cold.

He smiled, still trained and never meeting the eyes, but a smile nonetheless.

Maybe one day he would be able to smile for real.

Soon enough, as the nerves overwhelmed him and grasped his brain completely, Prince carefully and quietly shut the barrier once again, room filling up with silence.

Crawling back into bed, Prince would wait for his sir to wake, just as he always did, except he wasn’t in his sir’s bed or inside the white walls, and there were no maids who dressed him up, and no sir beside him.

With his sir unaccounted, he failed to realize what exactly he was waiting for. He waited, anyway.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[hold-him-down]

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled. 

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out. 

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract.  He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though. 

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore. 

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?” 

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks. 

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies. 

Otto nods. 

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them. 

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it. 

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable. 

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away. 

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself. 

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all. 

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable. 

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring. 

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure. 

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall. 

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head. 

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually. 

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.” 

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel. 

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue. 

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?” 

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears. 

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.” 

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

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[pvtashby]

Do you like tying up your Whumpees? Read this!!

so y’all I just found this out doing some research on torture:

Stress positions can kill you.

Stress positions are used as a torture method and are things like, say, wall sits or squatting (mild examples) and you are forced to do this until you collapse. A specific one called Strappado is particularly dangerous. Imagine your hands have been tied behind your back and then you’re hung up by your wrists. Yes, it will dislocate your shoulders.

If you search it up prepare to see some BDSM stuff

According to Wikipedia:

“Prolonged suspension [in Strappado] may eventually cause infarction of the muscles of the shoulder and chest wall and subsequent rhabdomyolysis (muscle cells break down in large amounts), acute kidney injury, and eventual death.”

I imagine this would take hours to days, but just remember, if you’re hanging your Whumpee by their wrists, if you want to be medical accurate and have them survive too, only do it for a little while.

[sir-fenris]

Hey, again :) You know the drill by now:

This is a short scene inspired by this post of @floral-comet-whump 's whump ask game.

(Colored sentences are part of the prompt)

Living Exhibition

Content: non-human whumpee, winged whumpee, collector whumper, living exhibition, nailed to a wall, non-consensual drugging (paralyzing drug).

(Drabbles' masterlist)

-

"Does this hurt? And if I do... this?" The nail rips through the cartilage of Whumpee's glowing wing, below where Whumper has nailed before.

Once again, the world is just pain for two seconds.

"HaAuGH–! Stop!!” Whumpee shrieks out with tears down their eyes. This must have been the tenth nail by now, but everytime it goes lower and closest to the outer part, the more nerves it hits, and the more it hurts.

"Don't be silly. I can't leave you half hanging!" Whumper's laugh is still as high-pitched and annoying as the first time, and Whumpee is sick of hearing it.

There is nothing to laugh about here, they were being nailed to a fucking wall.

The paralyzing injection keeps them from struggling too much, and the staff workers holding their body keeps them from falling. But the pain is still there.

"Hm... But hammering nails like this is giving me shoulder pain."

For a second, just a second, Whumpee believed this might be the end of it, perhaps the nails until now had been enough-

Then they felt something pressing down on their wing again. And then heard an electric drill turning on just before the world turns white in pain again.

This time, Whumpee didn't have enough breath to speak. Just to scream.

The scream merged into the next when another screw is pressed on their wings.

And another.

And another.

At some point, Whumper used more nails, then went back to screws. Or maybe it was Whumpee's mind playing tricks on them. With their blindfold, it was hard to tell what was truly happening.

At some point, they must have fainted from pain, because voices slowly come back, and the blindfold is off. "...ctly symetrical."

Doesn't take long for the pain to bring them into unconsciousness again.

When Whumpee wakes up again, they faintly feel something keeping their ankles and wrists pinned, not nails and screws like the rest of their body. Something cold was pressed against their neck, but Whumpee didn't have enough enough energy to care for it while trying to open their eyes.

The first thing they see is Whumper's wide smile.

"Our newest exhibition is ready for the public."

-

Yeah, the first 3 stories had a bit of comfort, this one... it's just angst. I don't write stories like this often, but I hope it's decent enough to be enjoyable :).

-

[whatiswhump]

The Nestling

july 2025

“Let’s go, Finch. Get a move on—”

Alfie looked up, startled, at the orderly towering over his chair in the sun-filled day room.

“You’re holding up the whole group,” Hugh added, yanking him up by the arm and shuffling the confused young man toward a small knot of patients waiting near the gated doors at the far end of the room.

They’d made the announcement for the daily walk a few minutes earlier, but Alfie had tuned it out, same as always. Walks on the grounds were reserved for Level 3 patients and above—the “trusted” ones, those who’d earned their privileges or never lost them in the first place.

From time to time over the years, he’d been allowed out under supervision, but that hadn’t happened in... a long while. Maybe a year. Maybe longer. He couldn’t say.

“I’m allowed to—?”

“You’re on the list,” Hugh cut in, giving him a nudge. “But I’ll make sure you’re off it tomorrow if you piss me off today.”

They always expected him to know what was on their papers. Not once, in all his years here, had anyone ever let him see more than a glimpse of the endless charts—not unless they dropped one by mistake. And even then, just a snatch of a line. He was always the last to know and they acted like it was his fault.

But he of course would never comment on this outloud. Like just about every other thought in his head, he dutifully kept it to himself, storing it away in his faulty vault where that thought would get mismanaged and lost like every other one.

It was June. he knew by the fully unfurled leaves on the mammoth trees covering the grounds. A nurse once told him that the hospital had been founded in the 1850s but the trees on the endless acres had been here long before.

Once in the group, he was surprised how easily he kept pace. Most of the others shuffled, slowed by age, illness, or the daily flood of addling pills.

They moved together in single file silence, most familiar with the path: down the halls, through locked doors, past the great hall, out to be scanned briefly for contraband, then released into the sunlight.

Alfie followed the man ahead of him, head down, unwilling to risking anything that might get him struck from the list again. And he would have the whole mile long walk if a new admittee didn’t have a break down as they turned to loop back to the ward building.

He was used to this, of course, he usually kept his eyes down and tried not watch. The safest recourse was to look the other way and hope it wouldn’t be you in a day or two.

So when the new man threw himself onto the ground, refusing to lift himself from his spot, Alfie stiffly and habitually, averted his attention to anything but the staff converging on him. 

He didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He knew how it would go: two orderlies, someone crying, a needle. That was the pattern. That was how it always ended.

He turned his eyes to the base of a tree instead. A very large, very old oak. They never had trees as big as these in the city but he remembered impressive walnuts and maples from the farms he worked on when he was younger. Some boys used to climb them.

He had always relished the shade they provided in the winter and the wind they broke in the winter. 

Something chirped. Close.

He glanced upward, expecting to see a teenage robin watching him—nothing. Then he looked down.

There, writhing faintly in the grass, was a baby bird. Pink, raw, blind. Its feather-spikes stood like needles across its frail little body.

It opened its mouth and screamed again—thin, pitiful, louder than it should’ve been capable of.

Alfie looked back up into the canopy. The nest had to be impossibly high. How had it survived the fall?

It couldn’t be more than a week old.

The man, what was his name Jermaine? Had begun to wail loudly as two orderlies were lifting him. The group was beginning to move again. 

Alfie, feeling a bit panicked, looked down at the bird, heart clenching.

It wouldn’t last long here. The parents wouldn’t retrieve it … in fact, it was more likely a fox would come by in the next few hours to eat it.

Before he realized he’d made the decision, he bent, scooped the tiny thing up, and slipped it into the threadbare pocket of his robe.

The warmth of his body quieted it. The screaming softened to a weak, rhythmic peeping.

He held his breath during the final inspection. No one checked too carefully. Just a glance, a nod. A command to move along.

In the day room, he didn’t dare remove it. Instead sneaking furtive peeks into the robe. He could feel the hatchling breathing—slow, steady. Maybe even asleep.

He felt its fluttering warmth against him like a secret.

He kept it there all afternoon devising a strategy to feed it with well chewed bites from dinner. If he was careful enough-

But it woke too soon-

It woke hungry. It began to cry.

A sharp, repetitive chirping, louder now. Insistent. Frantic. Alfie felt his chest twist with fear. 

“Why are you chirping?” Another patient asked, his voice high and suspicious. Frank maybe- he was always watching people sideways, eyes too round.

Alfie blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t have a lie ready.

“I hear it too!” another patient shouted. Heads turned. Faces lifted.

Frank and another man started toward him. The manic patients never stayed still for long. New stimuli was always a magnet.

“I don’t—know.” Alfie tried. His voice didn’t sound convincing even to him.

“No, I heard it again! It’s you!” someone called.

They closed in. Alfie stood suddenly, backing up toward the far wall, shielding the lump in his robe.

“What do you have? What is it?” Frank demanded.

Just then, the charge nurse stepped in. “What’s going on here? Mr. Hilliard? Mr. Finch?”

The hatchling chirped again as if feeling his panic and needing to agree.

Frank pointed. “It’s in his pocket!”

The nurse sighed. “Mr. Finch, show me what you’ve got.”

His face flushed hot. He hesitated—just a moment—then gently pulled the hatchling out.

“It—it fell out of its nest,” Alfie stammered. “It wasn’t going to survive—”

She let out a short laugh. Not mocking, exactly. More surprised. Amused by the childish contraband. Her 7 year old had done something similar recently.

“Finch’s finch!” someone in the back shrieked, laughing wildly.

“Mr. Finch,” The nurse repeated, more firmly now.

Alfie stepped back again. He didn’t want Frank—or anyone—to touch it. It was too fragile-

Another orderly stepped in. “Hand it over. It needs to go back outside.”

Alfie clutched it to his chest. “It’ll die out there.”

“And what’ll happen to it in here?” the orderly countered, already holding out his hand.

“Can we keep it?” someone cried. “Please!”

Others joined in, their voices hopeful, chaotic.

Alfie looked around the room, defensive, panicked.

“A wild bird is not a pet,” the orderly said flatly, stepping forward.

“But-” Alfie croaked. “I’ll put it back where you found it,” the man added. “Let nature take its course.”

He took the hatchling from Alfie’s palm. The tiny creature shrieked in protest as it was carried away.

Alfie didn’t resist. But his chest ached.

“Alfred, you should have known better,” The nurse said without cruelty, but without patience either, “You need to wash your hands-”

An orderly forcefully guided him after the young lady. At the tap in the hall she took each of his hands and vigorously lathered them in soap like he was a child. 

Alfie returned to the window just in time to watch the orderly appear outside and toss it carelessly under the first tree.

It was a grackle, he thought to himself. Not a finch.

The next day, miraculously, his privileges remained. Still on the walk list. Still Level 3.

But “Finch’s Finch” had become a refrain. A mocking nickname. Staff said it. Patients repeated it. Everyone enjoyed the repetitive turn of phrase to tease him, how foolish he had been, how very stupid.

Alfie said nothing.

Dread collected in his chest as they walked. He knew they would pass the side entrance where he had watched the orderly cast the little nestling off.

He told himself it should be gone, should have died. But a terrible part of him hoped foolishly that it might have been left alone to live another day until its feathers filled out and it could fly away.

And when he saw it—

Stiff. Curled in on itself. Feet and head tucked like it had tried to disappear—… a horrifying numbness seeped over. He forgot where he was and stopped, standing still while the rest of the group trudged on.

Eventually a set of hands took him by the shoulders guiding him forward.

No one else noticed. No one else cared.What he’d hoped for had been foolish. Irrational.

No one was ever going to save that little life. Least of all him.

@cursedscribbles @voidwhump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @aliceinwhumperland @whump-it @professional-idiocy @ziptiewhump @angrystudentgoopfire @jaxonjekkels @clubbem @simplygrimly @whole-and-apart-and-between @bumpthumpwhump @rosesareviolentlyread @whumpasaurus101 @hurting-fictional-people @burtlederp @thelittlegirlwithcurlyhair @crystalquartzwhump @rotfern @sentientpileofmoss @tea4valencia

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2025. Day 12. Used as practice.

——

Colleges that own boxboys for the students to use and learn from in classes. From learning how to be a hairdresser, tattoo artist, makeup artist, all the way down to people learning how to become dentists practicing dental work on the boxboys to medical students trying to diagnose sick boxboys. The worst being boxboys that are used to practice surgeries on, or to show how different injuries work and what can be fatal on a person. The bottom of the tier is boxboys being practiced on after death. Embalming, studying how bodies decay, taxidermy, face reconstruction, ect.

[floral-comet-whump]

hello! this was supposed to be the original post where both I as a whump writer and walenty debut, but I got inspired by this post and wrote a snippet

contents: captivity whump, fantasy whump (hardly mentioned), institutionalized whump, interrogation whump/tortured for information, restraints, mention of suicide attempt, discussion and threats of death, off-screen past and future torture, lady whumpee (she will probably never appear again sorry), attempted conditioning, defiant whumpee, cold/impersonal whumper, remorseful whumper, minor whumper/whumpee (16-17), (non-combatant) living weapon whumper

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Walenty blinks. That’s not the answer they wanted. Ruby looks right back, damp hair sticking to her face. They’d offered to move it out of the way if she answered a question.

“No,” Walenty puts their cheek into their palm, using it as an unneeded crutch for their head. “I don’t.”

“You do!” The prisoner snaps, yanking her head forward as best as she can. They internally note to secure it to the back of the chair before they leave so she can’t kill herself by slamming it back until her skull breaks. “You- You keep saying I’ll get stuff if I talk! I see what you’re doing with that reward system,” she hisses out, “And that incentive, and good behavior. I’m not some dog you can train!”

That’s literally just how interrogation works, they bite back. They wait to see if she’ll continue, tracing the stitching of their chair. Ruby's eyes are just as full of rage as when they’d gotten here. Maybe because they’ve cleaned her wounds? It doesn’t matter so long as they receive correct intel.

“Answer me, dammit!”

Their free hand pauses at the shout.

“This is my job,” gloved fingers interlace on their lap. “I need answers, Ruby. If tying your hair back isn’t enough, what would you like I do?”

“Let me go!” She demands loudly again, and they don’t flinch this time. “I’m not cooperating with the likes of you.”

She’s like a broken record, they think.

It’s gone in a loop for hours. They question and she refuses to answer. They threaten and she answers and they don’t know if it’s true. They question again, and she refuses again. They go through with the threat. She caves. They question. She refuses. She refuses. She refuses. They threaten something else. She caves. They question. She answers. They question, she answers. They question, she hesitates. She refuses to answer, and it restarts.

“That’s not how this works,” Walenty, too, is a broken record. “So give me something. At this rate, your wounds will get infected and you’ll die. Do you seriously want a torture chamber to be your deathbed?”

Silence settles over the dim room.

“...I’m not getting out alive anyways.” Her voice breaks, and so does eye contact with the interrogator. “At least I’ll go out nobly.”

Walenty looks down at their notepad. Everything’s encrypted anyway, so there’s no reason not to write draft reports in front of her. They close it, bookmarking their page with elastic and adding a loop for their pen.

“This isn’t working,” they finally say it out loud, standing to put the logs on a seperate surface. “And you’re obviously not gonna talk.” Walenty takes the scalpel and wipes it with already-wet cloth. “So I’ll leave you to rot down here.”

“...What?”

The enby finishes, putting both on the tray of to-be-cleaned instruments.

“You can’t be serious.”

They walk to the door, “You said you wouldn’t mind dying,” they reminded, removing their badge and imbuing the password in it, unlocking two of three locks. “So have fun succumbing to nature.”

“I haven’t told you everything.” Ruby points out as they walk back and fetch a blindfold. She’s returned to glaring. “You’re bluffing.”

They put the badge back and return to tie the blindfold around her eyes, utilizing the chair’s high back and fabric’s stretchy material to secure— “Stop that!” —the girl’s head too.

Walenty strolls over to the counter they left their notebook on and puts it in their bag. They detach the only key that’s actually just a key for this room.

“You’ll come back.” She insists, and they simply hum, inserting the key into the lock.

They twist it.

“They won’t let me die until they know everything and we both know it.”

She’s right, but she’ll begin to doubt herself soon. The heavy door creaks open. They slide the light glyph off, and only then take the key. They step out and slam it shut, showing the still-enchanted badge to the mechanism’s sensors. They hear it lock. Walenty inserts it once again, spinning counterclockwise this time. Click.

Walenty sighs, deflating. They resist the urge to actually slouch. Instead, the interrogator remains standing there. It’s so damn bright every they step out that it has to be its own kind of torture. They extract the key from its hole and clip it back in its place.

They sigh a second time, turning around to lean back against the closed entrance.

This is enough information for just one session, they think. She’ll get desperate next time, and start to believe that they really had left her to die in there, only to have her reality reshaped again when they're back.

It’s going fine.

It’ll work. Ruby will break, Walenty will have information, and then they’ll kill her. Or maybe she’ll be recruited, she’s young enough. They’ll ask around. Can’t risk wasting resources.

A third sigh leaves their lips, and the human glances around to make sure nobody is watching before resting their forehead on the door.

Breathe in. Hold.

They really have become heartless. It’s reasonable to get desensitized, they know that from observation and experience. It’s still jarring. They wish they could leave it all behind. Run away from the suffering they’ve inflicted and been complicit in without facing consequences.

Breathe out.

But they can’t. There’s no way. They’ll be found. They’ll be found again and they don’t think desertion will be pardoned this time. Even the execution will be extremely painful, but it’s not as if it’s nothing compared to the suffering they’ve inflicted. Screams and healing spells and bloodied clothes and the stench of vomit and disgustingly damp fabric and compliance and—

Don’t think like that.

Walenty sharply inhales at the still locked door, touching the corner of their eye with a glove. Flaky blood stays flaky. Phew. They spin around and begin to walk out of this dreadful place, because they’ve broken both themselves and others to have that privilege. Walenty won’t fall apart. They want to live. Even if they torture again and again, they don’t want to die.

Walenty doesn’t want to die.