#malnourishment whump

[inhurtandincomfort]

Whumpees who do a lot of physical work. Maybe they work out as a way to cope, or to train for their job. Maybe they're forced to do hard labour, intensive and strenuous work. And they don't take care of themselves, or their captors don't take care of them - whatever the reason they don't sleep enough, they're malnourished, they cannot sustain their active lifestyle. They push and push until they can't anymore.

One day they just... collapse. They drop whatever they're carrying as their arms fall like dead weight, their legs crumple beneath them and just won't support them, Perhaps they ache and tremble, perhaps they feel completely fine... They just won't work. Whumpees conscious, they're okay; their body just can't work under these conditions anymore.

Caretakers or fellow captives having to support Whumpee practically carrying them. Every time whumpee thinks they can stand again, they get a hard reality check as they crash to the floor as soon as support is revoked.

Whumpers angry that Whumpee can't do anymore, but it's not their fault. Whumpers going to have to give them a more nourishing diet and more rest if they want effective workers.

[martyr-inthedark]

Make your Whumpee tired.

Whumpees that have been deprived of sleep by Whumper, so much so that they don't remember how to walk in a straight line and can't figure out whether the recent appearance of little black bugs in their cell are real or a hallucination.

Whumpees that can't get a full night's rest. They doze off, only to be jolted awake by their own anxiety of not knowing when Whumper would come back. Perhaps they are awakened by phlegm-coated coughs induced by their illness. They are awakened by nightmares, or by Caregiver who is worried they may succumb to hypothermia, or by a thunderstorm, or the rough blanket scratching their open wounds, or so on.

Whumpees who pull all nighters to protect their friends or lovers.

Whumpees whose eyes burn when they finally can close their eyes. Whumpees whose muscles twitch, who can't stop yawning no matter how hard they try to stifle it. Whumpees with dark, glassy eyes. Whumpees who are slow to react or have a hard time keeping up with the conversation. Whumpees with throbbing headaches. Whumpees with brain fog and memory loss.

Whumpees who have been on the run and have over exhausted their bodies. Their muscles and joints continue to scream long after its over. Whumpees with extensive blood loss. Whumpees who are malnourished.

Whumpees whose survivor's guilt keeps them awake, wondering what they might have done differently, whether it was all their fault, or why they were the ones to live.

Whumpees whose bodies are in chronic pain or illness and who have to hide it, causing muscle and mental fatigue. They keep going with a smile until they collapse or pass out.

Whumpees who break down in tears, begging to be left alone so they can rest. Whumpees who sob when they are told that the bed in front of them is theirs to use whenever they want.

[feral-jackdaw]

Into the Light

(late) day 7 of Zukkaweek @zukkaweek - touch starved

‼️tw captivity, malnourishment

--

“Appa!” Aang calls out, rushing to hug his friend. Katara and Toph soon join him.

After so many days of searching, they finally found their bison friend. Of course, Sokka is just as happy and relieved as everyone else, but something just doesn’t feel right. He looks around the room, the dark underground cell, and his eyes land upon something that looks like a curled up figure in the corner.

“Guys,” he says.

After everyone’s eyes turn to him, he just points to the end of the room.

Katara lets go of Appa and comes closer; the others follow.

“Who’s that?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Sokka replies. “But it looks like Appa wasn’t the only prisoner here.”

“What should we do?” Katara asks.

“We can’t just leave them here,” Aang chimes in.

Sokka knows that he’s right. No matter who the other prisoner is, they most likely do not deserve to be left in this horrible place.

“You guys stay back,” he commands. “I’ll try to talk to them.”

He slowly approaches the corner, trying not to startle the person.

“Hey there,” he says softly as he approaches them.

The figure turns around and looks up at him. Even in the dim light, Sokka can clearly see a very prominent feature of theirs - a familiar looking scar on one side of their face. Zuko.

For a moment, their eyes meet. Sokka takes a few steps back, shocked and confused. Zuko buries his face in his hands, as if he was trying to hide.

“No, no, it’s okay” Sokka soothes as realization hits him. The person in front of him may be Zuko, but it’s not the Zuko he knows anymore, not after everything he’s been through. When Sokka looks at him, all he sees is a scared, traumatized person that needs to be saved.

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” he assures.

Zuko reluctantly looks up at him again. He doesn’t even look like himself anymore; he’s pale, skinny, his weird ponytail is replaced with short, messy hair. Sokka can’t help but wonder, how long was he in there? Is that why they haven’t seen him around since the North?

“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” he says. Then he turns to his friends. “Toph, can you help with the chains?” he asks.

Zuko looks anxiously at the earthbender as she approaches him, but he allows her to work on the chains. Soon, they get broken and slip on the floor with a quiet clang.

Zuko looks up at Toph; he doesn’t say anything, but it’s pretty obvious what he is thinking. Sokka decides that now it's not the time for explanations; first, they need to get out of here.

“Can you get up?” he asks Zuko, offering him his hand. Zuko grabs it and tries to stand up, supporting himself against the wall with his other hand. But as soon as he is standing upright, he nearly collapses; Sokka manages to catch him and helps him sit back down.

“Okay, that’s fine,” he reassures. “I’ll help you. Just grab my neck and hold on,” he instructs. He wraps ne of his arms around Zuko’s back and slips his spare hand under the boy’s legs.

With Zuko clinging on to him, he slowly gets up; it breaks his heart a little when he realizes how little effort it takes to carry him.

“Alright guys, let’s get out of here,” he commands.

--

The outside world is bright, too bright. Zuko keeps his eyes closed most of the time; he can’t handle the light after spending so much time in darkness. At least it’s a bit warmer in here, though Zuko feels like he was in the cold for so long that it stuck to his skin, becoming a permanent part of him.

The escape was successful, and now he’s sitting on the back of a sky bison, surrounded by the Avatar and his friends, with no idea where they’re going or what is going to happen to him. He keeps clinging onto that Water Tribe boy. It feels like if he lets go, he will be back in the underground prison and the whole escape thing will turn out to be just a dream. But now, with the boy’s arms wrapped around him, it feels so real, he feels real for the first time in so, so long.

“It’s all over now,” the boy reassures. “You’re safe with us.”

Listening to his soothing voice, Zuko slowly drifts off to sleep.

The first thing he realizes when he wakes up is that they’re no longer up in the air; he can feel steady ground benath him. He can also feel the light weight of something soft draped over him. Someone must have given him a blanket.

“I don’t know, Sokka,” a female voice echoes in the distance. “He doesn’t have any serious injuries, but he’s malnourished, dehydrated and generally exhausted. He’ll live, but he’ll need really good care to make a full recovery.”

“So what should we do?” a familiar voice asks; the Water Tribe boy. “Can he stay with us?”

So his name is Sokka, Zuko realizes.

“I don’t see why not,” the girl replies. “But we need to be careful. We shouldn’t give him too much food at first. We need to have someone watch him all the time. And one more thing I’m worried about... we don’t really know what he’s been through and what effects it had on him. I mean, on his mind,” she enumerates. “The good thing is, he already seems to trust you.”

“Look, I’ll do whatever it takes to make him better,” Sokka replies.

Zuko tries to open his eyes and realizes, to his relief, that it’s gotten a bit darker outside. He starts looking around, until his eyes meet Sokka’s.

“Hey,” the boy says, smiling softly at him. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.

Zuko nods in response.

“Good,” Sokka replies. “Is there anything you need? Food, water, more blankets..?”

Zuko reaches out, gesturing at the boy to let him hug him. And Sokka does; he scoops Zuko, still wrapped in his blanket, up right into his arms.

“Can I just give you some water?” the girl asks. Zuko turns to look at her; it's the Water Tribe girl, the one that kicked his ass back in the North Pole.

He nods in response.

The girl starts to bend some water into small droplets, making it easy for him to drink. His throat is so dry that it hurts to swallow, but at the same time he is so, so thirsty; he just drinks and drinks until he can’t no more.

“You did great,” Sokka praises, rubbing his back reassuringly.

“Let us know when you’re ready to eat something,” the girl says.

Zuko nods in response. Then he closes his eyes and cuddles up closer to Sokka. He still feels too weak to move, his body is still hurting from being chained up, he still feels like he is going to wake up back in his prison cell... and yet, right now, for a moment, everything is okay.

[sunnynwanda]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t wanna write this!! 💜

Soulitary

It was silent. Excruciatingly so. Supervillain could hear his own heartbeat, the rustling of the fabric over his chest that accompanied every exhale, the strained motion of his eye ticking. He could almost feel the darkness surrounding him.

At first, it was painful. Supervillain was so reliant on his powers that getting deprived of them physically hurt him. His limbs were too heavy, his chest too stiff, and his body too weak. He couldn't move for a fortnight and barely ate anything until he had lost enough weight to be able to lift his body off the floor. Movement, as limited as it was in his cage, seemed to keep him sane. 

The pain subsided, drifting into the back of his mind over time. 

He adapted to the constant darkness of his cell, too. The initial nightmares of horrible creatures lurking in the dark no longer occupied his shattered dreams. There were no monsters with long claws and cold, slimy fingers reaching for his neck, looking to choke the last breath out of him. No, there were no monsters in his cage. The monsters were outside. Patrolling the corridors, mocking the beasts they were ordered to guard, spitting at them and laughing like hyenas, beating up anyone who dared to answer. Supervillain learned to tune out their voices and ignore their sneering remarks. 

But human nature is a terrifying thing. Supervillain got used to the weakness weighing him down. It was not as difficult to lift his head or hold a spoon to eat whatever animal food he was getting fed anymore. He came to terms with the absence of sunlight as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He even went so far as to condition himself to tolerate inhumane treatment.

The only thing he could not adjust to was the isolation. Solitary confinement. The actual worst they could have done to Supervillain, who adored the confused commotion of his big family. He thrived in chaotic environments, where people talked over each other, laughed out loud and always had something to add to the conversation. 

Conversation. That was what Supervillain was bereaved of. And he felt it - the need, the yearning of human connection. As little as a hello would be enough. Just a word that was truly uttered – not conjured by his frenzied consciousness. 

When he first hears the gentle knock on his door, he doesn't believe his ears. The guards never ask for permission, they barge right in, not dignifying the captives with boundaries. Animals deserve no respect. Thus, Supervillain waits, allowing his eyelids to drop again. He doesn't know why he bothers to open them in the first place when it's pitch black around him, regardless. 

The knock comes again, this time louder. Then he hears a hushed voice. "I'm coming in." 

When no reply follows, the Guard (Supervillain assumes it must be a new one) turns the key, pushing the door halfway open and entering the cell. 

"God, why is it so dark? I can't even see where I'm stepping... Ouch!" He springs back upon stepping on Supervillain's foot and crouches down to place the bowl of food on the floor. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't see."

With his hands now free, the Guard reaches for the flashlight on his belt and turns it on. Supervillain has to cover his eyes - he did not remember light hurting this much - squinting despite his hand obstructing it. It takes him a few moments to adjust, then he wipes the tears off and focuses his gaze on the Guard in front of him. Too young for this miserable place, he thinks to himself while his captor studies him. It's only when their eyes lock, that the Guard comes to his senses, apologising profusely.

"I am so sorry! I did not see you there. I mean, it's hard to see anything in such darkness, but still. My bad." Supervillain is too stunned to react for a number of reasons. Since when did the guards apologise? It was part of the job to inflict suffering on their subjects. Did this one not complete the training? Or was this a trap? Was he acting deft to catch Supervillain off-guard and wound him unexpectedly? 

The Guard, however, keeps rambling. "I thought you would be asleep when you did not answer. It's not an excuse though. I should have checked. That's part of my job, is it not? Ah, you probably wouldn't know." He runs a hand over his face, clearly distressed. Supervillain is amused and too shocked to react. That's the most talking he has heard in months, and a part of him desperately demands to answer. The Guard rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Anyways, here's your food. I don't exactly know what that is, but you're so skinny, you should eat it."

Supervillain's mind is screaming at him, begging his mouth to talk, to say something – anything. God, move! Talk, god damn you, a word, any word!

But before he can squeeze out said word, the Guard waves him goodbye and locks the door, leaving him alone. 

He never touches the food, too consumed by the incident to think about anything other than the ray of light – literally and figuratively –that walked into the solitude of his cage. He spends the next several hours in feverish dreams bordering reality until the morning arrives, poisoning him with a blood-curdling idea that the Guard was nothing but a figment of his own imagination – a chimaera created by his delusional mind. Yet, despite his best efforts to convince himself it was an illusion, his memory opposes, bringing forth every detail of the interaction – albeit one-sided – that he managed to engrave in his brain. 

Supervillain is still deep in deliberation when a knock on the door attracts his attention. He freezes, breath hitching in his throat as he waits with desperation for it to come again. It does not. Instead, the key turns in the lock, and the door screeches open. 

"I'm going to turn the light on, if you don't mind," the Guard warns. Supervillain is dumb enough to nod in the dark. "Here we go." 

He flicks the switch outside the cell door; the bulbs buzz worriedly, and light floods the ascetic room. Supervillain looks around, seeing his dungeon for the first time. He notices his blanket in the corner and the untouched bowl from yesterday. 

"Hey, you didn't eat at all! Is everything alright?" The Guard chimes into his thoughts. His voice is laced with concern that feels foreign in this place. When Supervillain shakes his head, the Guard smiles – the room, somehow, becomes brighter. "It's bad, isn't it?" 

Supervillain nods, and the Guard chuckles, placing a new hot bowl in front of him. He looks up in surprise and is met with a shrug. "Figured it might taste better hot." 

The expectant gaze of the Guard is the only reason he reaches for the bowl. It's as shitty as before, but it warms his insides. He hums in appreciation, taking another spoonful. The Guard smiles again, now more cheerful. "Should I leave the lights on? Or do you like it dark?"

Supervillain finally finds his voice. "Light. Thank you." 

The Guard nods before exiting, and Supervillain curses himself for not saying more. He should have talked, for god's sake. This is the first person to treat him like a human being for the past eight months, and all he could muster were three words. 

He feels pathetic. This wasn't him, not really. The true Supervillain was voluble, articulate with his words and emotions and loud. Very, very loud. He loved the attention it earned him, loved being on stage. Performance was part of his persona, his public image of a supervillain. The presentation was what gained him the fame. The same fame that led him here. Alas, he sighs, leaning his back on the wall. 

At least he has light now. 

***

It's been almost four months since Supervillain's confinement changed - the granted light and occasional conversation made his exile from society feel less strenuous. His Guard would come in once a day, as per the rules. Aside from that, he gained a habit of sitting outside his door after the evening rounds, telling Supervillain about his day or the news. His cheerful voice would catch Supervillain off-guard at first, but he grew accustomed to it, as well as to the daily dose of prison gossip. The people in the city were dejected - mass arrests that were supposed to bring peace to the streets had a reverse effect. Supervillain couldn't help the foul smile this knowledge brought to his face. He did not comment. 

After two weeks of talking to the wall, the Guard was ready to give up. He had promised himself he would stop trying after the fourteenth night, which ended up being the night Supervillain replied. It was a short comment on the newly installed power dampeners that were to substitute the old ones. Supervillain pointed out that the old ones were more than efficient, leaving him drained of strength and energy. The Guard then asked if that was the reason he was so skinny, and so the conversation flowed. Supervillain told him about the thorny months of his captivity, how it took him countless days and nights to submit to the unfamiliar weakness. 

During one of the many conversations that followed, they talked about his past, the origin of his unnatural power and the reasons for his incarceration. Supervillain never denied being dangerous – he embraced it gladly, though he never used his power against innocent civilians. Sure, he had committed his fair share of crimes, as regarded by the authorities, irrespective of his cause. But there were worse things he could do.

The Guard told him of his past dreams and aspirations, all of which were crushed when he lost his parents and had to step up to provide for his younger siblings. He came from a household where no one got left behind, and Supervillain finally understood where his kindness stemmed from. 

One day, when the Guard came from the last round, Supervillain was the first to speak. They sat on the opposite sides of the door, back to back and separated by thick metal, yet connected stronger than before. 

"So, will you be leaving soon?" Supervillain fails to mask the melancholy in his voice. So much for being supportive!

The Guard pauses for a long moment before shaking his head no. Supervillain can't see him, but the reply is clear as day. "Your brother's graduating next month, is he not? You can stop working here and search for a new job. More suitable for you."

"I can't," his voice comes softer than a rustle. He presses a clammy hand to his forehead to calm the burn beneath his skin. 

"Why?" In all honesty, Supervillain does not want him to answer. He doesn't want him to go either, but keeping him here feels blasphemous. Despite the cell draining his life force and loneliness ravaging what's left, Supervillain would rather be forlorn again than allow his friend to waste his youth here.

"I can't, Supervillain," the Guard repeats, even lower now, not trusting his voice to speak louder.

Supervillain curses under his breath. "Why not?

Do not say what I think you're going to say, they plead. I don't think I have the strength to alienate you or push you away to make you go. 

"Because I won't leave you here alone." The Guard gets up, walking away to avoid being lectured on the stupidity of his reason. He lacks the nerve to be any bolder. 

He doesn't return until later at night. Supervillain is stiff against the door when he hears approaching footsteps and shuffling. Then comes the soft voice. "I'm sorry."

Supervillain sighs, rubbing his eyebrows to ease the tension. "You did nothing wrong." The claim is met with silence, so he adds. "Apart from getting attached to the wrong person, that is."

The Guard chuckles, shaking his head and bringing his knees to his chest. "Are you the wrong person?"

"I'm a convicted criminal." A fact he had to remind himself daily when he first got here. You are a convicted criminal, and the guards will treat you as such. Except the treatment was far worse than that, until his new friend showed up.

"Doesn't mean you're evil," the Guard chimes into his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. 

"You don't know me," he notes, though it's not entirely true. 

The Guard smiles, leaning forward and placing his chin on his knees to rest his neck as he mumbles. "I think I know more than anyone else."

***

The wailing of the sirens forces Supervillain awake in the most unsettling way. The alarm lights under the ceiling flicker red, alerting him further. He springs to his feet with a speed he hasn't had in a long time and then stops in his tracks because it strikes him. The overwhelming force that hits him right in the middle of his chest, spreading all over his body, obstructing his lungs with suffocating constrictions, rushing through his veins and reaching the tips of his fingers and toes to erupt in sparkles of sheer unrestrained raging power. It's surreal. All-consuming. Galvanising. He revels in the agitation that washes over him, wave after wave. His senses are overstimulated and raw. 

He feels lightheaded as he attempts to focus his eyes on his prickling fingers. It takes him a moment to identify the cacophony of sounds outside. 

And then the realisation dawns on him. 

The power dampeners are off. 

In a prison with the worst criminals of the damn century. He closes his eyes to tune out the noise and think, but his mind is too frantic to concentrate. The moment the inmates realise their powers are back, all hell will break loose. Supervillain knows they will revolt. He would, too – after spending months being treated worse than an animal.

The Guard. The image flashes through his thoughts so fast it almost burns him. With renewed anxiety, he bangs on the door. There's no response, and the ideas running through his head coat his stomach with dread, hot and muggy. He knows it's about to get dirty, and, in all honesty, those guards deserve it. But not his Guard. Not him. Anyone but him. 

He presses his palms against the door, channelling all his fears and worries into heating the metal till it melts under his fingers. It drips down to his feet, forming a pool. When the lock is soft enough, he whips the door open, but as he is about to step outside, someone crushes into his chest, pushing him back and shutting the door behind them. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as the Guard presses his back to the door, holding it closed. 

"That's not going to work." 

"Please don't go out there!" 

They speak at the same time, and Supervillain can't help the smirk that fights its way to his face. "Scared I'll harm your friends?"

"I'm scared they'll hurt you." His eyes are enormous as he stares up at Supervillain, who looks much healthier now. He looks alive. His skin is no longer grey, his lips and cheeks are coloured in pink hues, and even his eyes sparkle with new vigour. He takes hold of Guard's shoulders, pinning him further against the door to stabilise his shaking form. 

"Stay here. Be quiet." The Guard shakes his head no, grasping Supervillain’s arms with an unspoken plea. Supervillain softens. "It's okay. I will keep you safe. I promise." 

With that, he moves the Guard to the side and exits the cell, sitting down against the door – roles reversed from hours before. From time to time, the Guard hears people come and run the moment they spot Supervillain's menacing form.

It's only four hours later that the military arrives, clearing the area and arresting the surviving prisoners. As they bring order to the facility, checking floor after floor Supervillain opens the door. He is met by a tear-stained face and hard stare of his Guard. Supervillain huffs out a laugh and draws him into an embrace before pushing him out the door.

"Try not to forget me when you leave," he jokes half-heartedly, but the Guard shakes his head with surprising firmness. 

"I will get you out of here no matter what it costs me."

He never steps foot in the prison again but manages to keep his oath three months later. When Supervillain exits the gates with release papers in hand, he does not expect to be met by a mixed bunch of his siblings and strangers who all seem to be acquainted. It's moments later that he notices another familiar face he failed to spot for lack of the usual uniform. He shakes his head with a cheeky smile and rushes towards the kindest people in his life. 

Supervillain never has to endure silence or solitude again. 

Alright, there's a lot to unpack here :) First of all, thank you for the wonderful request. It turned out longer than expected, as well as took me longer to finish, but then again, the idea deserved to be worked on. I enjoyed crafting this story immensly. So thanks for that as well. I know other writers have been doing the request too but avoided reading their stories to keep mine clear of influences.

I hope you enjoy this despite the delay. Once again, thank you! xo Sunny

Masterlist

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee: “I was a captive. I was locked in a basement for weeks, isolated, starved, mistreated.”

Caretaker: “You say that like it’s not as bad as me making you get out of the house, walk, talk and hydrate.”

Whumpee: “It’s positively dreadful.”

[whumpshaped]

Also, way too hungry for the bingo pls 🥺

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, vampire whumpee, multiple whumpees, semi-starvation, malnourishment, conditioning, torture mention

Days. Weeks. Helle had no idea when they'd last fed from a human. The thought was quite appetising, given they still had the scent of fresh human blood in their nose from the hunt earlier — the reality, well... less so.

Lady Marie never allowed them to feed on a live human. Aside from that one time on their very first hunt, they'd only ever been granted scraps; small animals and dead humans.

There were no drawbacks, not for her. She would get a moderately strong vampire, able to charm and talk their way into the largest of gatherings to grab the most delectable of humans. But to them, it was torture. Kept on the edge of malnourishment, almost sick, their head filled with cotton and whatever thoughts of food they could conjure.

Dead humans tasted vile, like goddamn acid. It was nothing like the sweet, sweet taste of fresh blood, the memory of which was growing more and more distant with each day. They could almost taste it, whenever they walked past a thrall in the corridors, or captured a new human to bring back. It was so tempting. So goddamn tempting.

They brushed past one such human on their way to the parlour, and they couldn't take it anymore. They grabbed the mindless thing and slammed him against the wall, fangs bared and ready to bite into his neck.

But someone grabbed their hair and yanked them away, eliciting a displeased whimper in response. The thrall barely reacted to any of it, merely resumed his journey to whatever part of the mansion he had business in. "The lady would flay you alive for such an offence," Nikolai said quietly, and Helle went limp in his hold.

"She has so many of them– these thralls," they whined. "Must I live on the blood of pigs and squirrels? When will she allow me to feed again? Actually feed?"

He let go of them and crossed his arms, and Helle felt like they were about to be scolded for being hungry. But as they looked into his eyes, they could see a surprising amount of empathy. "Never," he said softly. "Possibly. I cannot remember my last decent meal. And as far as I am aware, Isabella has given up hope in this matter."

Helle frowned, unable to comprehend such a heavy statement. "What? She cannot simply– that is–"

"It is well within her right as our sire, is what it is. I would advise against holding a grudge. It only makes the lashes sting more. But worry not, you will learn restraint and discipline, as we both already have." He nodded towards the end of the corridor. "Shall we? I assume we have all been summoned."

They nodded in a daze, but then ended up grabbing onto their sired brother's shirt to keep him just a moment longer. "Would the lady actually do that?" they whispered, their quiet voice full of terror. "Would she flay me?"

He glanced back at them, then quickly averted his eyes again. "I have made the very mistake you were about to." He paused, and Helle had a feeling that maybe the torture they had endured so far was in fact not the worst of it. "The lady would do a great many things to ensure we all abide by her rules. Now, let us not waste any more time. Perhaps I am wrong, and she will give us all an opportunity to earn ourselves a splendid dinner tonight."

As if. The words had no hope or reason behind them; they both knew Lady Marie probably just had some guests over and wanted to parade all three of them around for their entertainment. Helle's stomach rumbled loudly, and they placed a gentle hand on it, as though they were trying to calm a feral beast.

They weren't going to spend the rest of eternity so hungry. They were either going to get out of here, or die again trying.

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

So I was reading articles about John Hurt (as I do when I procrastinate on life in general lol) and I saw a still shot of a movie I’ve never seen still shots of before; so I looked it up. It’s a play. I was worried I wouldn’t find it in full online; but I did, so here it is in all its glory:

He’s just… ugh I want to gently hold his face in my hands he’s just so sad and lonely with his weepy voice and eye bags. I couldn’t process half of what he said but I think this is a warning about always speed-running through life to get to the next good thing. We should appreciate the moment; because in the end, we’ll have nothing at all but our memories. If we rush through life, we won’t have any memories to keep us warm at night when the chill of death creeps up on us in our old age.

Also, spool, spooooooooooollll…….

spoooooooooooooooooooooolllllll [cackles in mentally unstable]

@kaleidoscopr @theindo @possessedbydevils @randomtwospirit

[elvensemi]

y'know, for someone physically disabled and chronically ill I don't write enough physically disabled and chronically ill characters

[hurt-comfort-cache]

outer banks season 3... whump community how we feelin'

[overflowing-with-words]

i just suddenly had a theory that if the overlord "granted" her revival from her death, as the building fall did kill her, then what happens after he's defeated (?) my current headcanon is that she starts fading away, slowly losing her memory and going through symptoms alike malnourishment.

[whumppmuhw]

Whumptober Day 19: Left behind, "Why wasn't I enough?"

Part of my Friends To An End story (masterlist)

tw: malnourished, held in a cell, bad caretaker, interrogation, long post

... Whumpee heard their footsteps coming down the basement stairs and at first assumed it was Whumper, until she realized that he probably hadn't grown extra pairs of legs. The group entered the basement with sweeping flashlights, occasionally illuminating Whumpee's malnourished, frail frame. She squinted at the harsh light, especially when one of them took out a camera and began flashing pictures. The group was dressed in business casual, and moved with a professional air about them. Whumpee couldn't tell if their disgusted faces were from the awful scene in Whumper's basement, or the distasteful hours they were working. She stood up and grabbed the bars of her cell, prompting looks from the group as well as several flashlights pointed right at her. She squinted, then spoke. "Um, who are you guys? Why are you here so late? Are you here to free me?" One woman, who wore a blouse, slacks, and low heels, who carried herself with confidence, responded. The badge around her neck identified her as Caretaker; the picture on the badge showed a smiling, eager face unlike the scowl she had since entering the room. "We're here to investigate after someone reported hearing torturous screams from this location. The Mr. Whumper who frequents this place already has a criminal record, so we wanted to know if something was going down." "That-that was me," Whumpee admitted sheepishly, though she knew none of what happened to her was her fault. "Those were my screams. I-I thought no one could hear me, I didn't think anyone was coming..." Whumpee started to tear up, old emotions rising to the surface. "It's alright honey," Caretaker affirmed, and her coworkers realized she was taking charge of the conversation and moved to resume their work. "Like you said, it's late, and we can't do much tonight. Mr. Whumper should return in a few hours based on our observations, and we'll need to be out by then." "You'll let me go right?" Whumpee was frantic. "I'm not going to be here when that happens? What about the cops, surely you let them know what's going on here?" Caretaker shook her head. "Do you know where the key is?" "No, Whumper always takes it with him-" "Then I'm sorry, we don't have the tools to get you out right now." To this, Whumpee started crying, silently. "And we're our own small private investigation unit, we try not to get the cops involved if we have to. You may already know, the cops around here are always busy and I've had some personally bad interactions in the past." Whumpee couldn't believe it. She slid down to a sitting position, and gripped the cell bars tightly, as if her desperation carried enough willpower to set her free. "I can't believe this," she whispered through the tears. The man with the camera finished taking the shots they needed and called out to the rest of the group that he was done. They took a penultimate look around the room, one of them jotting down a few final notes in their notepad, and turned to leave. "Wait!" Whumpee called out. "When will you be back?" The group turned around, with their eyes on Caretaker, expecting her to answer. She did. "I don't know, honey. Could be a week or two, or more." Whumpee didn't have the energy to beg for them to come back sooner. She watched with despair as they exited the room, climbing up the stairs and farther away from her. She curled up into a ball and sobbed into her knees, wanting this mess to all be over. ... After a night of restless sleep, Whumpee was awoken by someone pounding down the stairs. She rubbed her eyelids and Whumper came into view, with a busy, calculating look instead of his usual grin; charming to others, but not to her. She knew it as the grin of a monster. He skipped the pleasantries and teasing of what was to come that day and started firing questions. "There, were visitors last night, yes?" "Yeah," Whumpee replied.

"Private investigators, right? What can you tell me about them?" Whumpee hesitated for a moment, not wanting to give away the details of the people who could save her. But they didn't, they left her here, and she was more scared of what Whumper would do if she didn't answer. Caretaker and the others didn't do much for her, what did she owe them? "Um, they came down here pretty late. There were like, four or five? of them, and they looked pretty professional. They were taking pictures and notes, and one of them, Caretaker, might have been the leader, she seemed to be the one taking charge." Whumper was nodding along, and wrote down Caretaker's name. "Did you see a company name? Did they talk to you?" "No, it was too far away for me to see their badges, other than Caretaker's name and photo. She was the only one to talk to me." "What, exactly, did she say?" Whumper hovered his pen above the paper, ready to write. "She said that they were hear to investigate you and this place after someone heard my screams." Whumper started jotting, and made a low mmmmm noise, making a mental note to soundproof the basement. Whumpee continued. "They didn't stay long, only a few minutes, and said they would be back in a week or more. They also said that they wouldn't get the cops involved. Apparently Caretaker has a bad history with them." At this, a brief smile crossed Whumper's face - with the cops out of the picture, his job became easier. "Anything else?" Whumpee was silent. Whumper noticed this, used to hearing a "no" or seeing her shake her head when she was done; silence meant secrets. "Tell me, Whumpee, I'm not going to play games right now." There was no mistaking the impatience in his voice. The confession came out slowly. "I...I asked them to free me." Whumpee paused to look at Whumper, hoping he wouldn't be angry. "Caretaker asked if I knew where the key was, and I said 'no, you always keep it on you,' and she said she didn't have the tools to do it then. Then, they-they left me here," Whumpee finished as she fought back tears. "Hm. I thought you enjoyed it here," Whumper stated sarcastically. "I don't," Whumpee said under her breath, then noticed him giving her an inquisitive look, and she spoke up. "It's just- why wasn't I enough? If they're the good guys, why didn't they help me?" Whumper shook his head. "I don't know why, Whumpee, but I'm glad they didn't. And besides, you're enough for me, and I'm sure both of us will be relieved when we never have to see them again." He reviewed his notes, jotting down a few ideas he had. "Forget the usual routine, today I'm going to have to take care of this. I'll come check on you later, I'll be busy." "W-what about breakfast?" "Later, Whumpee. Thank you for the information though, I'll give you a reward of some sort. See you later." With that, he left her alone, her lamenting yet another rejection. All she wanted was to be free, and far away from Whumper. And breakfast.

[charred-entiity]

“Need a hug? C’mere.” for ocs of your choice

YIPPEEE YIPPEE YIPPEEEEEEEEEEEEE

tws: paranoia, fear of recapture, mentions of past torment, PTSD, panic attack

The days after Vin's rescue were gruelling. Every moment was spent with the creeping feeling that this wouldn't last, that soon he'd be whisked away back to that dingy cellar with the familiar smell of old blood and disinfectant. He found himself left with the notion that he was surely dreaming, and the thought of going back there made him sick.

"Oh Vinny, you know I'll always catch you."

Remembering those words made him feel sicker.

He got out of the too-soft bed and stepped onto the cold floors, walking so the wood floors wouldn't creak below him. Vin walked into the kitchen, fully intent on getting a glass of water. Before he could even open the door to get the Britta out, something caught his eye.

In the cold silvery metal of the refrigerator, he could almost make someone out in the reflection. His black hair was long and thin in a way that spoke of malnourishment, eyes and skin reflecting the same treatment. grey hair made itself visible in the glint of the moon. He looked gaunt, almost ghostly, and he could see his own cheekbones. Was this really him? He'd never been given a mirror, and when you're constantly being tortured looks aren't exactly the most important. Well, sometimes they were— he felt like crumbling into a million pieces, mouth suddenly much drier than before. He stumbled back suddenly, catching glimpses of the scars that now marred once clear skin. What the hell happened?

Footsteps came towards the kitchen. Shit he was in so much trouble! He clattered to the ground like porcelain, finally breaking under what felt like fifty tons of pressure.

"Vin?" A voice asked blearily, approaching him with the speed of a dozen snails, likely to torment him and maybe slam his head into the tile for his insolence. He didn't dare look up, he simply sat and cowered like he was supposed to. Instead of a blow, a figure sat down in front of him. A familiar figure with a familiar face. Keirin looked him in the eyes, suddenly holding out her arms.

"Need a hug?" She asked, looking at him with no visible malice. He nodded slowly, hair falling slightly in front of his face. "C'mere," She said leaning forward. Instantly he was on her, renewed sobs wracking his body as she comforted him.

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Dismantled Chapter 4

AO3

yippee the Slipping stage begins :D

Trigger Warnings: brief mentions of malnourishment, dehydration, and suicidal ideation. Self-deprecation, infantilization, and mentions of violence/gore/injuries. Overall creepy whumper.

2352 words

It had been a few days. He didn’t know how many, exactly, but — but it must have been somewhere between five or six. With no window, ergo, no natural light, he had nothing to go off of other than the meals he was provided with. 

Despite the somehow persistent emptiness of his stomach, he dreaded meal-time. Exposure did not make it easier to be spoon-fed like a… like an old person on their deathbed, he pointedly decided. 

He sighed, shifting slightly in his ever-present prison. His captor had told him this… morning? That if he “continued to be good”, he would be allowed release from it when he returned. Donnie had just stared numbly at the ceiling, wondering if he did so long enough if he would wake up from this living nightmare. He hadn’t answered. It hadn’t been a question.

His body ached from its forced inactivity.

The last thing he could remember before all of this was working at Todd’s place, surrounded by literal puppies and rainbows… and the most delicious ice-cold lemonade he’d ever tasted. What had happened in those missing hours that had landed him here? 

God, he missed that lemonade.

Every so often, in between the bouts of silence that made him want to scream (he’d tried, once or twice. It had only resulted in his throat becoming sore), he would hear something, little tricks being played on his ears — likely the house settling, or worse, his mind simply beginning to break — and he’d brace himself for his immediate rescue.

The rescue still hadn’t come. Were they even coming at all? For all he knew, his death could have been faked, or his family’s memory of him could have been magically erased or some shit, or… with mystic mumbo jumbo, the possibilities were literally limitless. If he hadn’t wasted all his tears crying for his father in what he told himself was the dead of night, maybe that fact would have elicited more.

He needed to face the facts. He needed to get through the front door by himself.

If the yokai kept his word (which Donnie found highly unlikely, but it was worth a shot), he’d be totally home free. Then he could lug ass home, probably get VIP treatment for a couple weeks if he milked it, and potentially develop some form of bio-tech he could implant in his brain to ensure he was never violated like this again. 

All in a day’s work.

That same light knock that could have been pounds directly against his skull rang on his door. The yokai entered (ever the respect for an answer, this guy), no food to accompany him this time.  Donnie was almost a little grateful. If he was spoon-fed one more time, he was going to smite a bitch.

“Alright, let’s get you up, sunshine.” the yokai announced, and holy shit he’d actually be able to move again. “You’re going to be good, right? You know I don’t enjoy punishing you.”

Donnie was pretty sure this guy lived to quote unquote punish him. But, well, bringing that up would be quote unquote backtalk, now wouldn’t it?

“Sure,” he said through gritted teeth.

Miraculously, that seemed to be enough for the guy. Ha, any actual parent would see through that bullshit in half a second flat. 

Pops could always tell when he was just saying shit. When they… actually talked, that is. And when the shit he was spouting involved Splinter himself. 

Okay, it wasn’t like his father was the best parent in the universe, but he was trying. Plus it didn’t hurt that he, you know, didn’t kidnap his children. For fuck’s sake, God must have had a vendetta against this fucking family. 

The yokai, far from the first time, was invading his personal bubble, hands working at the mess of blankets that had ensnared Donnie since he’d first woken up here. He held his breath, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He could barely stand his own brothers to be too close to him if he wasn’t vibing with it. But he could stand this if he meant he could move again. He just needed to hurry the fuck up.

And then, finally, the bundle came away, and there was a blissful absolutely nothing pressing down on every inch of his body. He wiggled his fingers, giddy to feel them moving through pure, open air instead of that hellish mound of fluff.

The door to his room was open.

He sprang up from the bed, which turned out not to be his wisest decision of the day. His vision blurred, and his legs, out of use, buckled, and he crashed to the carpeted floor. His head spun viciously. How malnourished, how dehydrated was he? That he just lay sprawled across the ground, unable to pick himself up?

Frustration clawed at him, and if he were more in tune with his emotions, he may have started crying. He wasn’t going to, though. Not in front of him. Despite how helpless he felt right now. Despite the fact that he was just a kid, despite him just wanting to go home, to be wrapped in the arms of his family, of his actual father.

Why wouldn’t his legs work? Why couldn’t he stand? If he couldn’t do so much as get through a door by himself, maybe this dude had a point in treating him like an incapable little—

There were hands lifting him, righting his body. He just let it happen, numb to the sensation. Breathing didn’t taste right. Fuck. 

His legs were made of pins and needles, and he could do nothing but sit there, waiting for the pain to die. He kind of wanted to die. It should have occurred to him that of course he couldn’t use his legs after such a period of complete and utter inactivity. He should have waited. He should have used his only actual attribute, his goddam brain, and thought about this before he ruined his only chance of escape and—

“—ple? Are you alright?”

He hadn’t even heard the man over the ringing in his ears.

“What?” He asked numbly, unseeing eyes burning with his sudden inability to blink. 

“Are you hurt?” 

He was dying. “I’m fine.”

His captor sighed. “You nearly hurt yourself. You can’t go over-exerting yourself like that. It’s my fault, really. I should have helped you up.”

They sat in silence for a long time. It was Donnie’s turn to say something, but there was a lump in his throat, blocking the path from his vocal chords to his mouth. He couldn’t find it in him to say another word to this man, whether he wanted to or not. What would be the point? He would just belittle him, maybe give a vague, half-baked answer that told him nothing. Donnie couldn’t find a single ounce of energy in his body that wanted to devote itself to speaking, and so he stayed silent, unsure what exactly his watery eyes were a result of.

In a ridiculous and illogical moment of doubt, he wondered if Splinter had even yet noticed he was gone. 

Of course he had. Of course he knew one of his sons was missing. Of course he was putting everything he had into finding him. Of course he was. 

Donnie wasn’t thinking about the nine months Splinter had once gone without speaking to him at all. Fuck, that was enough time to have a kid, nevermind bond with the one you were already neglecting.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Not thinking about it.

Pops was so much better than he used to be. He talked to them, he was around, he — he didn’t just — stop thinking about it.

He needed something to distract himself before he spiraled. Ordinarily this was when he would throw himself into his work, or, if he was feeling up to it, initiate some “bro-time” with one of his brothers. 

In this case, neither were an option. 

“Do you know why I’m taking care of you?” His captor asked unpromptedly, and were Donnie in the talking mood, he would have taken his pick between a plethora of rude, sarcastic responses. It was probably a good thing he wasn’t in the talking mood.

Taking his silence as a prompt to continue, the man settled on the floor next to him, like… like… ugh.

Donnie shifted subtly away from him, allowing himself to lean against the wooden frame of the bed. It pushed against his shell, and he couldn’t help the instinctive hiss that escaped his throat. He’d nearly forgotten about the nearly-healed wounds, gouged deep into his shell by the Shredder.

The reaction didn’t go unnoticed. 

“How did you get those wounds?” he asked, “a fight? Something your brothers walked away from without so much as a scratch?”

His brothers had gotten scratches. Shredder had been brutal, a vessel of absolute violence. If Leo hadn’t somehow managed that agreement with Big Mama… he didn’t even want to think about it. 

He hadn’t been the only one physically affected by the fight. They just… hadn’t gotten the sort of injuries Donnie had. But it wasn’t because he was weaker than they were. They all had different strengths. He knew that.

“I want you to be safe. Your soft shell makes you fundamentally more of a target than your brothers. They have built in armor on their bodies. And I know, I know, you’re a smart boy — brilliant, really — you built yourself a battle shell,” he said it with an awe that Donnie suspected was somewhat mocking. “But clearly… it doesn’t always work so well. It’s too easy for bad guys to just… slice. Right. Through. Your. Flesh,” he emphasized, demonstratively dragging his claws down Donnie’s arm.

He grit his teeth, breathing heavily through his nose. He didn’t like being touched. He didn’t want to be touched. He wanted to go home and shower in scalding hot water and scrub until every last skin cell on his body hadn’t been present for this nightmare of an experience.

Why me? He wanted to ask, the words never managing to make it past the growing lump lodged in his esophagus.

“You’ll understand when you’re older, little one.”

He wanted to fucking scream. He wasn’t little. He wasn’t little.

He wouldn’t understand, not fucking ever. He didn’t want to. What did it take to make someone think it was okay to just — just illegally adopt a guy? Weren’t most cases of that sort involving women and infants, anyway? It didn’t make sense. 

Up until this, the fight with Shredder may well have been the most scared he’d ever felt. It had all seemed hopeless enough when it was only Draxum wielding the armor, practically untouchable and nearly crushing Donnie — and his brothers — on more than one occasion. 

And then they’d freed the literal monster within. 

The worst fight of their collective lives, undoubtedly. But they’d made it out, gone home, and holed up in front of the TV for the next five to seven business days. Despite his own injuries, Papa had taken care of them for those few days, to the best of his ability at least, and had apologized again and again for everything under the sun.

Splinter was a good dad. This asshole couldn’t take that away, no matter what he did. 

Now, if he’d gotten hold of Donnie a mere few months ago… when he had been in a slightly more vulnerable place… when Splinter still didn’t talk to him. When he had to scream for any bit of attention from his father. When he was so, so tired of being shut down by his papa all the time. Maybe, had he been snatched up then, Donnie could have potentially fallen under this guy’s spell. But that was in the past. It’s not like it affected him anymore. It’s not like he mourned that his first real positive parental reinforcement had come from someone that was just using him.

It’s not like he mourned how the first time in his life that Splinter had told him he was proud of him had been so recently. How he had never gotten the relationship he so desperately craved with his dad, even now. 

Nearly 15 years old and most of them spent longing for a father that knew his goddamn name.

In a moment of terrifying resentment, Donnie almost wanted to acknowledge this man as his father solely to spite his real one. 

The thought immediately made him ill. Why had he thought that? Why had he even considered that? What was wrong with him? 

And — and why was this guy still here? Any normal parent would just leave a kid alone when they were clearly exhibiting — whatever it was that was making Donnie want to rip his nonexistent hair out. 

He wanted to be alone. He wanted to go home. He wanted a dad that gave him the time of fucking day. He wanted to be alone. But the thought of this room being empty, dead silent save for his own inconsistent, shaky breathing, only served to bring further dread to him.

He dug his fingers into the carpet, desperately trying to ground himself.

He was spiraling. He knew he was spiraling. But god fucking dammit, he couldn’t find a way to stop. 

His brothers were coming for him. They were. Eventually. He would psychoanaluze his daddy issues when he was back home and not at the mercy of some guy who treated him like a mutt he’d saved from off the street. Who seemed to genuinely want him. Safe.

Jesus Christ, this was why he was the science guy. Emotions were stupid and conflicting and complicated, and they were going to fuck��screw—him over if he focused on them.

He needed to bury his — eugh — emotions deep down, somewhere he could dig them up later, when he could afford to. He wished he could bury himself down in his shell, like his brothers could. But he couldn’t. Because he wasn’t quite like them.

He dug his fingers further into the carpet.

[lovebeyondmeasure]

is THIS your man? [shows an image of a malnourished injured exhausted man with big sad eyes looking up at the camera with blood smeared all over his face and mouth. and he is visibly trembling]

[justwhumptypethings]

tw: implied intimate/nsfw whump, mentions of lingerie and past sexualization

caretaker couldn’t stand seeing them in that kind of clothes. it makes them nauseous. the first thing they do when they get home, before helping them figure out the shower or feeeding them, is getting them clothes. The entire time they had been going home, whumpee had had their arms wrapped around themselves like they’re trying to protect themselves.

the first thing they do is find them new clothes- soft, unassuming cotton undergarments that caretaker had leftover from when their sister stayed over eight months ago, the smallest t-shirt they own, and a hoodie and sweatpants that practically dwarf whumpee, outlining their bony figure farther.

when caretaker hands whumpee the clothes they stare at them, their eyes wide. they look up, their voice so unobtrusive and quiet when they ask tentatively “w-what do you want me to do with this?”

caretaker’s face twists into a frown. of course they don’t understand. “Those are for you, whumpee.” whumpee’s eyes widen to saucers, and they look down at the clothes. after a moment of staring, they pull the clothes to rest against their chest lightning fast, almost clinging to them. They’re looking up at caretaker with tears welling up in their eyes, never falling. whumpee’s voice is still so quiet. “T-thank you, caretaker.”

when whumpee has the clothes on, caretaker can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Sure, the clothes absolutely dwarf whumpee in a way they would never have before, making them look even more malnourished and sickly, but at least, now, they look like they’re at home. not in that skimpy shit caretaker knows whumpee would never choose to wear willingly.

[whumping-valentine]

We use being cold, hungry, and tired a lot in our writings, and that makes sense! Those aren't pleasant feelings, but what's not used enough is all of the other symptoms that can occur under those conditions.

Being malnourished not only causes the feeling of hunger, but can give you headaches, and make you feel weak, faint, sick, cold, and tired. It makes you irritable, unable to concentrate, and can even cause wounds to take longer to heal, while brusing much more easily. After a while you even develop an aversion to food, and don't want to eat. You feel nauseous just thinking about it, and breaking a fast isn't something you can do with a flick of your fingers. Your body isn't used to eating, and it may not sit well with you.

Not eating can also cause your blood sugar to drop, which is a whole entire thing in and of itself, and you don't have to be a diabetic to experience it. Low blood sugar is horrible 0/10 do NOT reccomend (but definitely do in whump!)

As for being cold, it can not only be uncomfortable, but it can make you feel physically ill. Especially when paired with a lack of vitamin D from low sun exposure. You just constantly feel sick, and may even begin to feel hot. It is absolutely FREEZING in my room all the time and I always feel sick. Horrible. Do it to your whumpees and tell them if they're good they can go outside and lay in the sun. That's shit's awesome when you're cold.

And of course, with sleep deprivation, it not only makes you drowsy, but it basically screws everything up. Your ability to think, your coordination, your strength. All you wanna do is curl up into a ball and go to sleep, no matter where you are. There's so much you can do with a tired whumpee.

The most fun thing about all of these is that they can generally go together all at once, inflicting symptoms of the others in an endless loop of torment. So yeah, go nuts! It's miserable!