#more caretakers should be forced to hold a panicking whumpee

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

June of Doom day 19

“I’m not going anywhere” (wound cleaning, succumb, chair)

Content warning: medical whump, forced drugging

"Please! Please–god, please don't –!" A slurred string of please spilled from Whumpee's mouth as they struggled against the two nurses trying to hold them still. Their movements were desperate, either uncaring or unaware of the damage they were causing their body as they forced themselves off the hospital bed. With each jerk and flail, a blood was left behind. It was clear that they’d reopened their wounds.

"We're going to have to sedate them!" One of the nurses shouted. "Their body can't handle this!"

Caretaker knew they were right. A cold sweat had already broken out on Whumpee's brow and their gown was becoming speckled with blood from both where they'd torn out their IV and popped their stitches. It was clear that pure panic and delirium were the only things keeping Whumpee fighting. They were exhausted. They were confused and terrified, and what they needed was rest. 

Caretaker knew the nurses were right, and yet the sight of them attempting to manhandle Whumpee back onto the bed filled them with a protective anger they struggled to contain. Caretaker wanted nothing more than to tear the nurses off of them, but they couldn’t. Whumpee couldn’t afford to leave, even if they were too far gone to understand that.

Caretaker took a hesitant step forward, arms raised in a non-threatening pose

"Hey, hey…Whumpee, it's me, it's Caretaker," They kept their voice low trying their best not to agitate them further. They had to do something, anything, to get Whumpee the help they needed. "Everything's going to be alright."

Whumpee's head whipped around at the sound of their voice. For a long moment, Caretaker was unsure if Whumpee even knew who they were. But then a look of recognition flashed across their face, and the terror on their face shifted into something more vulnerable. Their eyes filled with tears as they reached their single free arm towards Caretaker. "Caretaker! Help me!" 

The terror in their voice made Caretaker want to cry, but they refused to let the calming look on their face falter. "Okay. I'm going to get you out of here, you just have to calm down."

Whumpee’s eyes didn’t leave Caretaker as they approached, their struggle seemingly forgotten. The nurses stood still at Whumpee's side, too afraid of breaking the calm Caretaker had created to even remove their hands. It was only when Caretaker placed a hand on Whumpee's shaking shoulder that either of them dared to back away.

Whumpee wrapped their arms tightly around Caretaker, tears overcoming them with an ugly sob. Slowly, carefully, Caretaker led them back to the bed. "Whumpee, look at me. Just me. I'm not going anywhere," Caretaker paid no heed to the blood staining their hands. They stared into Whumpee's panicked eyes, blocking their view of the room with their body.

"Please!" Whumpee removed their arms from Caretaker's torso only long enough to grasp towards Caretaker's face, grabbing handfuls of their hair and pulling them closer until their foreheads touched. Their voice was a shaky whisper. "Help me. Please–please don't go–"

"Okay, I'm going to help you. You're going to be fine. You just have to trust me, alright?" Caretaker leaned into their desperate hold, slipping a hand between Whumpee and the bed to  rub reassuring circles into the small of Whumpee's back. They waited until they were sure they could hold Whumpee before turning just enough to catch the eyes of a nurse. Caretaker gave them a pointed nod.

Seeing their signal, a nurse approached slowly, syringe in hand. Caretaker did their best to block Whumpee's view, but they could do nothing to stop Whumper from feeling the nurse's hand on their arm.

The response was instantaneous. "No!" Whumpee shouted, attempting to pull away. With Caretaker’s grip around their body, Whumpee lacked the leverage to pull their arm free. Caretaker could hear their heart pounding as panic overwhelmed then once more. "Stop, stop it! Leave me alone!"

"Shh, it's okay. I'm right here," Caretaker soothed, their grip tightening slightly. Whumpee's struggled only increased. 

"Let go, let go! Help, please! You said you would!" Each word was punctuated with one of Whumpee's fists colliding with Caretaker's back as Whumpee redoubled their efforts to escape, but to no avail. When the syringe entered Whumpee's arm, the screamed.

Hearing Whumpee's panick, seeing the anger and confusion and fear in the eyes, hurt more than any of the desperate blows Whumpee was throwing their way. Caretaker only held them tighter, praying that Whumpee would be able to rest soon.

Caretaker couldn't hide the waiver in their voice when they next spoke. "I'm sorry, but we have to. Everything's going to be better after this, I promise."

It felt like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than mere minutes before the drug spread throughout Whumpee’s system, its effects quickened by the pounding of their heart.  As the minutes ticked by, Whumpee’s flailing arms came to rest against Caretaker's back, holding as if unsure if they should be pulling them closer or pushing them away. Their breathing leveled out, their sobbing devolving into quiet wimpers. But the look of terror and betrayal never left Whumpee's eyes, not until they finally shut.

Caretaker only let go once they were sure Whumpee was under. They looked down at Whumpee's tear streaked face, at the blood from their popped stitches that stained their medical gown. Somehow, it felt like Caretaker had failed to protect them again.

Caretaker flinched as a hand landed on their shoulder, turning to see one of the nurses smiling hesitantly at them. "Thank you. You might've just saved their life."

Logically, Caretaker knew it was true. But with Whumpee's blood drying beneath their nails, Caretaker only felt like they’d failed to protect Whumpee again.

[painsandconfusion]

Apathetic Caretakers

The bitches who don’t care enough to do their jobs well.

I swear I had a request for this?? where did it go?? Ah well, here's the content anyway.

[Promptlist Masterpost]

Caretaker constantly forgetting Whumpee’s injuries. Bumping them, moving them the wrong way, hugging too tight, etc.

Caretaker forgetting Whumpee’s intolerances and allergies while cooking.

“I’m paying for your therapist. Call them or something - I’m busy right now.”

Staying out past when they said they would. Or coming home earlier. Starling Whumpee or making them sit up with worry.

Not bothering to check the temperature of the soup before putting it to Whumpee’s lips.

“...seriously? Again?….ughh.”

Whumpee refuses to sleep, afraid of the nightmares, so Caretaker just rolls their eyes and forces the sleeping medication down their throat like a dog at the vet.

“ ‘Abuse’? Dude, did they even bruise you?? Did you even bleed?”

Giving Whumpee a play to stay for a night, but grumbling when they ask to stay another. Or the week. Or, gods forbid, longer.

Forgetting triggers.

Forcing Whumpee outside and into social settings too soon because ‘It’s good for you. It’s normal. Trust me.’

“Maybe you should talk to Whumper? Y’know, try to get some closure - see, the fact that you’re panicking just from me mentioning that proves you could do with a little exposure.”

Locking Whumpee in their room so they don’t sleepwalk to the point Caretaker needs to go get them.

“It’s there anyone else you can stay with?? Anyone?”

If Whumpee feels more comfortable in a collar, who are they to correct that? And eh, the kneeling is creepy, but they’re too fuckin tired to tell Whumpee not to. 

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbowsandwhumperflies @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[highwaywhump]

Surgery, part 2

This is a series! Masterlist is here and the first part of the surgery arc is here

so i lied, i rewrote the second part and the whole thing is now closer to 4.5k. enjoy

TW/CW: former pet whumpee/extremely conditioned and dehumanized whumpee having a panic attack, being forcibly 'restrained' (by caretaker!) during said attack, and forcibly drugged with a needle/syringe. brief scar mention, blood mention, very brief description of a cut. discussion of professional misconduct i guess.

--

Aaron stops dead in his tracks in the doorway. At first, he can’t even see Joey - all he sees is Becca, the red-haired nurse who had helped them get Joey’s x-rays, handpicked by Dr. Perez. She’s clutching her arm, blood trickling out between her fingers. Next to her are two more nurses, both tall, broad men, unknown to Aaron. He can’t see Joey at first, all he can see are the three people, two too many, the red blood staining Becca’s scrubs, and a puddle of water and broken glass on the floor. 

And all he can hear is Joey’s desperate sobs and Becca’s voice, trying to communicate something to the two other nurses, who are focused on something behind the bed. 

Aaron doesn’t think, he just acts. In three steps he’s in front of the two nurses, blocking their path, and finally, there’s Joey. He’s all curled up and has tucked himself into the corner formed by the bed and the wall, his skinny arms wrapped around his head, his whole form shaking as he incoherently begs and pleads. Something about being good and behaving and please don’t drug him. 

“We’ve got it,” one of the male nurses says and attempts to move past Aaron, but he holds up a hand, blocking them. “No,” he says with determination, knowing that a pair of huge and institutionally dressed men is the least thing Joey needs right now. 

“No, I’ll take care of him. Help your colleague in the meantime,” he says, if only to stop the two of them closing in like predators. They’ve stances like rugby players, slightly bent at the knees and with their arms out to the side, ready to pounce. Even Aaron, who is perfectly healthy and capable of rational cognition right now, is a little intimidated by them. 

“He should be sedated,” one of them says. “We need to administer pre-op medications,” the other chimes in, pointing to an IV bag laying on the bed, and the pieces fall into place in Aaron’s head. The broken glass of water, Becca who was supposed to be the one administering the medications but who now was bleeding from what looks like a gash in her arm, one of the male nurses who’d dashed past him in the hallway. 

He could see it all playing out. Becca coming in with the IV bag, maybe saying something about medication, reaching for Joey’s arm with the needle in her hand. Joey, still holding his glass of water, already worked up and on edge, losing it at the sight of the needle. Defending himself, in his own hazy, red rimmed eyes. 

And now, having worked himself up, not thinking rationally. Not thinking at all. Panicking because he had defied orders, or hurt someone, or broken a glass. It wasn’t good to say.

“I’ll-” Aaron pauses and breathes out, taking a step backwards from the nurses, towards Joey. “I’ll calm him down, okay? He needs someone he knows. Not…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, only moves his gaze between the two men. 

They seem reluctant. They probably have a responsibility here, handling patients who act out. Only, Joey isn’t acting out. He is just scared, and a pet, and Aaron isn’t sure how much the men know about the situation. Or what they’re even thinking, taking all of Joey’s scars into consideration. It’s as if they’re peaking out everywhere now that he only wears the patient gown. 

“He really needs sedation, for his own safety,” one nurse states. Aaron discerns the unspoken for our safety in his voice. 

For a moment, he considers arguing. He doesn’t want to force anything on Joey that isn’t strictly necessary. Aaron is his advocate and breaching his trust like that while he’s in this state, forcing him to take a needle he clearly doesn’t want, would be traitorous. 

Then again… he weighs the other outcome. Whatever these two nurses think is going on, he can’t let it extend past the patient is unwilling to comply, into the patient isn’t supposed to be here, patient is a pet, patient needs police pick-up. As well as the fact that he could never make Joey come back here after today, even if he managed to reschedule the surgery. It would be like taking a victim back to a crime scene, making them relive the trauma all over again. 

Maybe sedation is for the best. 

“Let me hold him, at least,” Aaron tries. “He can’t handle… this, right now. Give us a minute. I’ll help you.”

They hesitate, but back off, one of them turning to help Becca while the other stands by, looking warily at Joey. Still, he keeps his distance. Aaron exhales and turns around, crouching down in front of Joey. In front of his ward, his responsibility. Christ, everything here is his responsibility. Becca’s injury, too. Does this clinic have a pediatric program or some other heartwrenching project? He’ll donate. 

“Joey?” he ventures, not sure if he can even hear him over his own cries. Okay. Deep breath. 

“Joey, it’s me. Hey, little one.” He goes from crouch to kneel when his knees start protesting, moving as close to the boy as he can. Gently, he reaches out and touches Joey’s shoulder. He flinches violently and his sobs intensify. “Please don’t, please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be still, please,” he whimpers, over and over again. Aaron hopes the nurses can’t make out the words.

He’s all curled up, tucked into himself as best as he can, trying to disappear. All the while, he’s sobbing and begging desperately, completely gone in his own head. Aaron realizes he can’t talk him down from this quickly enough tonight. They’re on a schedule, and the nurses are growing uneasy. 

He’ll just have to take the plunge. 

“It’s okay,” he mutters as he leans forward and envelops Joey’s bony frame and hugs him close, as tightly as he thinks he can handle. He is petrified, his whole body tight and stiff, and he lets out a scared and confused wail as he’s pulled into the tight embrace.  

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Aaron continues, both to himself and to Joey, as he finds the back of his head and tucks into the crook of his own neck, hoping to provide some semblance of warmth and safety for what he has to do next. 

With his other hand he finds Joey’s, squeezing his fingers to see if he gets a response, if they might be able to communicate nonverbally like that. A squeeze means I’m here, I’m listening, trust me. When Joey is too shaken up to speak to him, he’s usually able to at least squeeze back. 

Not now, though. Joey’s fingers are curled up into a hard little fist. Aaron sighs and hugs him tighter, mumbling apologies into his hair as he clasps his wrist and pulls it away from them, extending it towards the nurses. He watches through the corner of his eye as one of them removes a sterile cannula from its packet and takes hold of Joey’s hand.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Aaron mumbles as Joey whines when he feels the foreign touch. His face is still hidden in his sweater. He pushes even closer and Aaron can feel him trying to pull his hand back, out of his and the nurse’s grip. It catches him off guard - Joey has never, ever opposed anything Aaron has ever said or done. This is completely novel.

“Please don’t do it,” he sniffles into Aaron’s sweater. “Please don’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to, please,” he repeats, over and over, and it breaks Aaron’s heart, forcibly holding his hand away from his body like this, holding him still. 

A part of him lights up with the thought that he still has some semblance of volition. Everything wasn’t beaten out of him. At the same time, right now, Aaron has to disregard it. He has to hold him still and force him to endure it as the nurse feels around for a vein. “Small pinch, now,” he says, as he pushes the cannula through his skin. 

This is all Aaron’s fault. If he hadn’t left the room, if he had been there when Becca came in, they could’ve worked it out together, undramatically. This whole episode could’ve been avoided. Surely, all traces of trust between them must be gone by now. 

Joey moans, in pain or desperation or maybe both, as the nurse attaches the tubing and picks up the saline bag, hanging it on its stand. He collapses in Aaron’s arms. Still, Aaron doesn’t let go, keeping him close. “You’re okay, it’s okay,” he repeats, over and over again, hoping some of it reaches past the walls built up inside Joey’s mind. The nurse picks up a syringe and pushes its contents into the injection port of the IV tube. Then, he, Becca, and the other nurse leave the room. 

They sit like that for what feels like an eternity. Joey calms down after a while, now leaning heavily into Aaron. His shoulders flinch from time to time, but he’s stopped crying quite as audibly as he did. 

Aaron guesses this is the result of the sedation. It was normal, right? Giving a weak sedative before a surgery, just to calm any nerves? Had Becca brought in the sedatives as well as the IV bag or had the male nurses brought it when they heard the commotion? He wonders how much the two of them know. None of them were supposed to be here, he thinks. What did they think had happened? Who did they think Joey was? 

He glances to the side, where he still holds Joey’s wrist. Gently, he angles it - and there it is, the ugly barcode tattoo. His blood runs cold. He didn’t think that far when he took Joey’s wrist to hold it out for the nurses. Did they see it? If they did, had they cleaned up Becca’s sliced up arm and then gone to call the police after? 

He’s left no time to ponder or worry any longer as the door opens and Dr. Perez enters. She seems unfazed by the sight that meets her - blood and crushed glass that hadn’t been cleaned up yet, and the two of them sitting in a corner. Somebody must’ve informed her.  

“Are you okay?” She rounds the bed and crouches down in front of them. “Becca told me what happened.

“I think so,” Aaron answers, gently shifting Joey to get a look of his face. He’s drowsy and heavy in his arms, his eyes puffy and red rimmed as he blinks them open and tries to focus. Aaron smiles at him. “Hey, you,” he mutters softly, pushing his hair away from his face. 

“I hope he’s still up for the surgery,” Dr. Perez says, eyeing the IV bag to see how much of the liquid inside has been reduced. “What happened was… I won’t say normal, but it’s not unusual. We never know how they might react to what we do to them.”

Aaron nods. “Is Becca okay?” 

“She is. It looked worse than it was.” She looks over her shoulder, where the glass and blood still hasn’t been cleaned up. “Don’t worry. She knows that what she does for a living isn’t risk-free. And she knows that we don’t know what kind of trauma our patients carry with them. It’s nobody’s fault. Least of all his.” 

“I have to ask… do the other nurses know? The other two who were here.” 

She looks down. “They know about my situation, what I do. They don’t know about him, per say. They’ll probably make the connection, but I don’t think it will be a problem.”

Aaron’s eyebrows knit together, still not convinced. “How can you be sure?” 

She exhales in a puff, a slight chuckle, even. “Everyone in this industry knows somebody who knows somebody who does this sort of thing.” Illegal surgeries. The words are unspoken, but still clear as day. “I am far from the only one, believe me. If they didn’t like it, they would have quit and reported me a long time ago. And then they’d start working at the next hospital and have to do the same thing. There’s always someone.” She gives him a minute, knowing smile. “This country would run out of healthcare workers if they revoked every license from one who has treated a pet or ex-pet.”

Aaron doesn’t quite know what to say. He’s relieved “So… we’re good?” he asks eventually, for lack of better words. 

Dr. Perez nods. “We’re good. Now, let’s get going before the anaesthesiologist gets tired of waiting.” 

She helps him support Joey up to his feet and then to sit down on the bed. He’s swaying, gripping at the bedsheets to keep his balance, so Aaron gently guides him to lay down instead. He’s completely still, only breathing. His eyes are large and round as he finds Aaron hand, holding onto it with startling solidity. 

“Was… was I bad?” he whispers shakily. 

“No,” Aaron says immediately, not leaving it up for discussion. He doesn’t know what Joey knows, what he remembers of what had happened. Still, he won’t let Joey go around with doubts in his mind. 

His other hand finds Joey’s cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. He leans into it, still keeping that intense eye contact. “No, sweetheart,” Aaron says, softer. “You weren’t bad. You were just scared.” In his head he adds It was my fault, I’m sorry, thinking the statement might be too much for him to make sense of now, in his delirious, drugged state. 

Joey dips his head slightly in what might be a nod. Aaron tries to smile at him. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go get that leg fixed up.” 

-

tags <3

@simplygrimly @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @briars7 @hackles-up @doveotions @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @kixngiggles @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpthisway @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumping-snail @pumpkin-spice-whump @pigeonwhumps

[whumperful]

CW: bad caretaker, blood, gunshot wounds, medical treatment, cursing

Frantic knocking woke Caretaker up. With a groan, he looked at the clock. It was four in the morning. What could anyone want from him at three in the bloody morning? The knocking came again.

“Yeah yeah, I’m coming!” he sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before facing whatever idiot was waiting outside his door. He opened the door, ready to curse up a storm and tell whoever it was to come back at a reasonable hour, but no words came out when the stench of blood hit him, and he saw who it was.

Whumpee leaned against the doorframe, his clothes torn to shreds and soaked in blood. His skin was ashen and slick with sweat. He was bleeding out.

“Little help, please? I’ve got about a dozen unwelcome bullets in me that I’d really like you to get out,” he said before collapsing. Caretaker just barely managed to catch him and dragged him inside his apartment. He hoped the neighbours hadn’t noticed the commotion and called the cops. It would be hard to explain why he had a man who clearly should be dead bleeding out on his floor, and he’d rather avoid having any more visitors tonight.

“What the fuck happened?” Caretaker asked as he placed Whumpee in his usual spot and grabbed his medical supplies.

“Oh, you know the usual,” he grinned, “I pissed off Whumper again, but I think his aim has immensely improved since last— ah!” Caretaker cut off the rambling that was to come by plunging the pair of forceps into the first of many bullet wounds. “Fuck! No anaesthetic or anything? How heartless are you! I could die!”

“We both know you are utterly incapable of dying and keeping your mouth shut,” he didn’t bother looking up from his work, “so I’m not going to bother with anaesthetic or painkillers when you’re going to complain regardless.” Whumpee did shut up at that. His squirming lessened as he got paler, his breathing grew shallower, and his eyes unfocused.

“You’re not going to make me stitch myself up this time, are you?” his voice was barely a whisper at this point. Caretaker knew there was hardly any blood left in him, but it didn’t matter. Whatever was wrong with Whumpee made him always pull through. It had made Caretaker careless in his treatment of him, however. Why be careful when he’d be okay in the end?

“No, not this time. I promise” The last of the bullets clattered in the tray. Looking up, Caretaker saw the sunrise from his window, bathing Whumpee’s corpselike visage in a warm glow. He sighed and let his head rest against the icy skin of his still conscious patient. Whumpee would be able to move and talk again in a few hours, maybe less if Caretaker wasn’t too tired to bother with stitches and a transfusion. But for now, he enjoyed the silence and closed his eyes, just for a little while.

A spilt drop of blood woke him up; the sun was high in the sky. Where was Whumpee? He’d meant only to close his eyes for a moment. He got up from the bloody spot he’d been sleeping in. Then, panicked, he began looking through his apartment, hoping that it wasn’t Whumper who’d come in the night and taken Whumpee, who couldn’t even defend himself at that point because of him. Because of his negligence.

He let out a sigh of relief when he found Whumpee sitting at his kitchen table, his trembling hands holding a needle and thread, hissing as he forced the needle through his skin again and again. Caretaker’s heart sank at the thought of the scars they’d form. Whumpee was still pale and too weak. It was impressive they made it to the kitchen at all.

“Whumpee—”

“I’ll do it all myself next time,” Whumpee said, refusing to look at him, “it’s not like you care anyway.”

[whump-mania]

Gullible

(tw: VERY SEXUAL NON CON TOUCH, do not read if under 18, heavily referenced domestic abuse, death, stabbing, blood, torture, broken bones, knives, cursing)

Whumpee was perfectly content. Chores were done, their favorite show was on the TV, and Caretaker was making them their favorite dinner as a treat. Everything was how it should be.

A knock at the door took Whumpee out of their trance of peace. They raised an eyebrow. They weren’t expecting anyone, and it’s not like they ordered anything recently.

“I’ve got it!” Whumpee called to Caretaker, who had peeked their head through the kitchen door. Caretaker nodded affirmatively and went back to cooking.

Shaking the nerves away, Whumpee took a deep breath and answered the door.

And the nerves came right back, tenfold. Whumper was at the door, wearing a shy smile and wringing their hands together.

“Hey.”

Whumpee was frozen in shock. They stared up at their former lover—turned tormenter—with fear-stricken eyes, their hand gripping the door handle like a vice. Whumper laughed nervously and stepped back.

“H-Hey, I…I know this is unexpected. But I just wanted to come here to apologize. That’s all.” They tried a smile, holding up their hands innocently.

Whumpee was shaking. No. No, Whumper was supposed to be gone. Away, far away where they could never find them again.

“I…I don’t—AGH!”

Before they knew it, Whumpee’s arm was gripped and thrown away from the door. They looked up to see Caretaker, shaking with rage and towering over Whumper, who backed off.

“W-Woah, what’s the big—”

“Oh, that’s REAL fucking funny coming from you,” Caretaker growled, yanking Whumper inside and locking the door. A harsh backhand sent Whumper to the floor, their head banging against the door.

Whumpee’s mouth dropped open at the action. “Caretaker, wait—”

“Whumpee…” Caretaker’s tone was suddenly soft as they knelt down and helped Whumpee off the floor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to knock you down.”

“Caretaker,” Whumpee stressed. “What are you doing? They—They said they wanted to apologize…”

Caretaker’s expression darkened. “You actually believe that crap?” They stood up and turned to Whumper, who cowered away as Caretaker suddenly bent down and ripped off their coat.

“NO!” Whumper tried to scramble up, only to be kicked down again. Caretaker ruffled through the pockets until they found what they were looking for—a pocket knife. They turned their gaze to Whumpee.

“Don’t you see?” Their voice was filled with malice. “Whumper came here to kill you.”

Whumpee looked into Whumper’s eyes once again. The fear was still there, but there was hate and intention behind it. Whumpee’s eyes filled with tears. The hope that Whumper could actually be redeemed was shattered, right then and there.

“Whumpee, please,” Whumper whispered, eyes darting to Caretaker. “You—You know what they’re gonna do to me.” Their voice wavered. Whumpee did nothing.

Caretaker wordlessly lifted Whumper up by the collar, and their panicking grew. “Please! Please, don’t let them do this!” Whumpee did nothing.

Caretaker gave one last look to Whumpee. “Stay downstairs, alright? I’ll be done before you know it.” Caretaker planted a soft kiss on Whumpee’s cheek. And as Whumper was dragged up the stairs to their doom, Whumpee still did nothing.

The screaming started after a few minutes. It picked up in severity, and all Whumpee could do was cover their ears and stay on the couch. Each scream reminded them of how much Whumper hurt them. They held onto that as much as they could.

Half an hour passed and the screaming never ceased. Whumpee’s eyes couldn’t help but leak tears. The bad memories were starting to shift to the better ones: the first kiss, the countless dates, the laughing and playing around…everything before the first time Whumper hit them was all that mattered. It wasn’t until Whumpee heard their name that they finally broke.

“WHUMPEE! HELP ME, PLEASE, I LOVE YOU! HELP ME!”

Whumpee rushed up from the couch, stumbling up the stairs. They braced themselves for what they would see when they opened the door—and that still wasn’t enough.

Whumper’s face was mutilated, barely recognizable. Their arm must have been broken, based on how swollen it looked, and their fingernails were gone. Their bloody wrists were tied to the leg of the bed, blood seeping into the carpet below.

Caretaker turned, their face unreadable. “I told you to stay downstairs,” they said calmly. Whumpee tried to calm their shaking.

“Leave—Leave them alone,” they whispered. “Let me talk to them.”

Caretaker furrowed their eyebrows. “They came here to kill you. I’m not letting them—”

“LEAVE THEM ALONE!”

Whumpee’s voice rang through the guest bedroom. Caretaker froze in their tracks, staring in awe at the passion in Whumpee’s eyes. Slowly, they dropped the knife in their hand and backed away.

Whumpee knelt down to face Whumper, who’s eyes were filled with pain and desperation. Whumpee stared back, all of the anger and regret and heartbreak finally showing through.

“I’m going to let you go,” Whumpee said steadily. “But not because I forgive you. Not because I still love you, not because I don’t hate your fucking guts.” They closed their eyes. “I’m letting you go because no matter much I despise you, I will never, ever stoop down to your level and try to kill someone I used to love.”

“Whumpee, don’t—” Caretaker reached their hand out, but Whumpee shot a glare and Caretaker backed off again. Whumpee grabbed Caretaker’s knife and began to cut the bonds of Whumper’s wrists. Caretaker was too late to notice that Whumper’s eyes were trained on the hammer behind Whumpee the entire time.

“Whumper, NO—!”

It all happened in a flash. Whumper was on their feet in seconds, and the hammer connected with Caretaker’s head before they could register what was happening. They were out cold.

“CARETAKER!” Whumpee rushed forward, only to be choked by the hand that grabbed their throat and threw them back-first on the ground. Whumpee struggled as they were straddled. Whumper’s mutilated features screamed malice and a sick, twisted sense of glee.

“You fucking moron,” Whumper spat. “You’ve always been so gullible, haven’t you?!” They laughed as they brought their fist down on Whumpee’s nose, breaking it. “God, you still sound perfect when you’re in pain, baby.”

Regret and horror filled Whumpee’s veins as their face was assaulted mercilessly. Even with one working arm, Whumper was always stronger. The knife on the ground was just out of reach. If only they could—

“Eyes on me.” Whumpee’s bloody face was grabbed and their eyes were forced to meet Whumper’s. “I’m going to make the last minutes of your life a living fucking hell. And I’m going to enjoy every,” Punch. “Single,” Slap. “Second.”

Whumpee didn’t have time to think about what Whumper meant until a hand played at their waistband. Whumpee choked on their own breath. “No,” they rasped. “No, no no no NO!”

Any sense of reason washed away from Whumpee’s mind as Whumper began to reach inside of their pants. All they could think in that moment was no, away, get away, run, run, RUN!

Suddenly, the knife didn’t seem so far anymore. Suddenly, their pain didn’t matter. Suddenly, all of Whumpee’s past beliefs fled them as the knife plunged into Whumper’s throat.

Two fingers were deep inside them when Whumpee’s face was splattered with blood. Their horror-filled eyes locked onto Whumper’s bugged-out ones, and they watched the life leak from them.

Whumpee felt faint. It was all too much. The last thing they registered before falling into sweet unconsciousness was Caretaker’s scream of terror and the feeling of two cold, dead fingers being finally pulled out of them.

-

Whumpee woke up in bed. Their hand reached up to their face to feel a number of bandages that had to be soaked in blood. The next thing they felt was a hand—Caretaker’s hand, clutching their other one.

Whumpee turned their head. Caretaker looked more worried than they had ever seen them before. Whumpee then realized what had happened and their eyes filled with tears.

“I…I should’ve listened, I-I’m—”

“No. None of that. All that matters is that you’re okay.”

“I killed them. God, I’m a murderer, I’m going to jail…”

“You’re not going anywhere. All you were doing was protecting yourself.”

“I-I promised myself I’d never—”

“Whumpee. Enough. It’s over. You’re safe, they’re dead, I’m here.”

“…I’m so…”

“Shh. Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

“Mmh…”

“Sleep.”

And sleep they did.

[pine-lark]

later at night

Hi so last time you heard of Ven in “soup” was when he was just starting to let his sympathy get the best of him, right? Well, I have a bad habit of skipping around in timelines, and this is a big leap! There’s a lot of development coming in between these drabbles but for now it’s just… a BIIIIG jump from “hi I’m a decent person now probably” to “oh look they’re in love now”. So uh. Without any context or further ado, enjoy! ✨

(also, for those of you who looked at the masterlist going, “wait wait wait…. RECAPTURE ARC???” uh…………. Yeeeeah. About that. *slips into vent*)

CWs: tiny!whumpee, tiny!whumpers, tiny!caretaker, romance (nonsexual- these are my lil tiny hopeless ace romantics!!), forced nudity (nonsexual), implied recent noncon/aftermath of noncon, captivity and implication that only some captives are ‘allowed’ clothing, implied starvation, implied wing whump/amputation, implied reluctant!whumper/caretaker dynamic where Ven essentially has no choice but to participate in the torture of Arion and then comforts him when no one else can see, this is generally just a pretty sad drabble about Ven sacrificing the few things he has for Arion who he feels needs it more. 

Arion’s legs collapse when he tries to stand, so when he slips into Ven’s cupboard, quiet and hurting, he’s half-crawling, half-sliding. He’s a mess. A bleeding, aching mess with sharp, pained eyes and tear-stained cheeks, still red from the backhand slap and the following deep, burning shame. He feels horrible. Used. Disgusting. Uncomfortably warm, that same sickening feeling on his skin that a fever may invoke. But it’s not a fever.

Being completely spent, with no more energy to spare, his arms tremble to a halt once he’s within the safety of the cabinet’s walls and he collapses right there, headfirst, one limb failing at a time.

“A- Arion?” Ven yelps from somewhere in the room, surprised and panicked and heartbroken all at once. Arion barely registers Ven’s hurried footsteps before he’s at his side, handing him a thin, worn blanket to cover with, brushing careful, fleeting hands over his shoulder and through his hair. Ven’s black wings move to shelter him, to hide him from the lingering gazes and hands that aren’t there anymore, but still stain like ink in his mind. “Arion… what- what did they do to you, what did they- Ari…” His voice drops to a hoarse whisper as Arion breaks into sobs. Ven reaches for him, pauses to ask before touching. Gathers him in his arms.

Arion seems thinner than he was the last time Ven held him. His hair is matted, greasier, thin. Brittle. All of him is brittle. Ven’s noticed his healing is slower than it used to be. It only took a few days to mend his own bones when he first got here, Ven remembers, after Heston lost it and broke both Arion’s legs with the big sledge hammer that always had hung near all the knives. Ven had cowered then, safer in his cabinet with his hands over his ears, backed up in the corner with wide eyes as he heard the screams and Heston’s yelling. You thought you could run? Just thought you could pack up and leave? That you had a right to go to some nice little house, and heal and sleep and eat like a pig, and you thought that was fine?

His body had healed quickly then, from nearly a year of mending, nearly a year of being safe in a warm cabin with someone there to protect him. But now… now it’s been a week, maybe two, since Arion had been knocked off the garage desk and crippled; and he still limps, if he can even manage to walk at all.

The blanket, the one that’s been there even before Ven, is scarce and small and full of holes and barely covers Arion, let alone keep him warm. It’s been passed from captive to captive over the years, Ven assumed, until finally it was himself who landed the luck to be placed in a cabinet like the others, and not a cage.

Ven’s stomach lurches. It wasn’t really luck, though, was it.

Arion chokes on his own tears and coughs at the breath that catches in his cracked ribs. He shifts closer to Ven, arms to his chest, nuzzles pleadingly at the collar of Ven’s shirt. Closer, please, closer, hold me closer, the gesture says, but Ven’s afraid of holding him any tighter, afraid of brushing up against an open wound, afraid of hurting what’s already hurt. He presses a kiss to Arion’s temple, instead. “Want to lie down?” he whispers. “We can lie down on my mat.”

He nods in answer but as soon as Ven shifts to stand, Arion’s voice breaks, his fingers tuck into the folds of Ven’s shirt with a white-knuckle grip, he holds tightly to him with renewed desperation. Don’t let go, he says, words broken and taught and barely audible, please don’t let go, please, don’t let go of me, I need you, I need you, and by the time he says those last words his voice is gone and he’s just mouthing them. Just silent, heavy truths.

Ven hushes him in the gentlest, most patient voice, weighted with the sheer ache nested deep within his chest. “I won’t. I won’t,” he promises. “I’m not letting go, Arion. Not until you ask me to let go. I’m here.” He moves to stand once more but this time he makes certain to keep a firm hold on the other shaking arivie. “I’m here, I’m staying,” he murmurs. “They won’t find you here.” With some effort he helps Arion to stand, but only so that he can easier sweep him off his feet, and carry him the rest of the way.

Ven’s mat is no nest, and it’s no dollhouse bed. It’s dirty and worn and the old fabric is itchy but it’s so much better than the floor, so much better than the cage. Arion melts into it as Ven sets him down. The tension in his shoulders eases and the growing headache at the base of his skull begins to ebb. His breathing still hitches but its slows, deepens. Ven sits at the side of the mat, but hesitates there.

It doesn’t sit right with him, that all Arion has is the pathetic little piece of cloth to cover. Ven’s own clothes start to feel too hot, though he’s only wearing a black t-shirt and pants that feel of thin, synthetic fabric. He knows it’s wrong. Knows that Arion wouldn’t be here, cold and bare and terrified and starving, if it weren’t for Ven’s selfishness.

He’d still be at that cabin.

He watches Arion try to curl in on himself, draw his legs closer to his chest, move the flimsy blanket forward to feel less open, less seen, less vulnerable. Ven feels a sharp pang in his chest, just from the sight.

“Do you remember, when, when I said I would give you the clothes off my back, Ari…” he says, quietly.

Arion turns his head to meet his gaze.

“I, um.” He swallows. “I meant it, you know.” He thumbs the hem of his shirt, just a little too big and meant for a doll. He lifts his arms, pulls it over his head.

“Ven, I, no no no no no, you don’t, don’t have to-“

“Please take it.” He says. “Both. I- I’d rather you have them.” He watches the sad way Arion regards his long, pale scars. He hates having them uncovered. His skin starts to crawl. But it’s better than what he knows he’d feel if he deliberately let someone he loves go unclothed while he didn’t, while he held them but still wouldn’t let them have what he was unrightfully given. Ven swallows thickly against the crashing, threatening waves of guilt resting in his throat like a stone. “It’s not fair. Ari, please let me.”

Arion shakes his head, wipes away a few stray tears with a bruised wrist. “I-I can-can’t, can’t, can’t, I, I can’t, Ven, can’t. Don’t. You need- they’re yours.”

“I have wings, Arion, I- I’m okay. I’d rather it be me than you. I’d rather it be me.” Those words have more weight to them than he voices. I’d rather it be me.

Arion takes the shirt in his hands, but he doesn’t move to put it on. “I’ll, I’ll get them, I’m dirty, I-“

“They have a little blood on them anyway. I don’t care. Arion. Please.” He waits for Arion to shift to slip it over his head before he sinks his hands to his waistband- and Arion softly turns to look away- and Ven pauses only briefly at the vague breath of a horrible memory before sliding off the only other layer of clothing he’s allowed to wear. His wings circle around him, wrap over his sides like a long, thick black towel, and even still he feels guilty that at least he has that, at least he always has something.

Arion looks like he’s about to cry, as Ven hands that last piece of clothing to him. Like he’s about to refuse, like he wants to so badly, but he knows that it’s only out of love that Ven’s doing this and for that reason he can’t quite bring himself to. It’s as if this is some grand gift, the greatest sacrifice, something so tremendous that he can’t except and it shouldn’t be that way, it should never be that way. Ven whispers small assurances that yes, he still means it. Yes, take it. Really, he’s okay. He’ll be okay. He’s just fine. Please take it. Please sleep.

And even as he says it he knows that if anyone found them like this they’d both be dead or worse by morning. But, at this point, for both of them, to be alone and to have the opportunity for a little comfort among all the suffering…

It’s worth the risk.

---

tagging: @whumping-every-day, @deluxewhump, @sola-whumping @haro-whumps, @inaridriscoll, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @kiretto-laorentze @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @ahorriblebimess

[lovely-little-whumpee]

suggestion/prompt type thing: something kinda like the whump where ct is carrying whumpee to medical care but it's from whumpee's pov? when they're lucid, they feel guilty/ashamed for being unable to walk- especially as they watch ct begin to struggle under their weight. whumpee fights unconsciousness bc they know its more difficult for ct to carry them as dead weight. they despair as they realize they're blacking out on ct's back. it's hours before they wake again, and..? ^^ hope u like it!

I loved this idea and decided to do a little take on it~ 

The walk had been simple at first. Whumpee  and Caretaker just had to walk a few miles over to the next town, as said town had a doctor that would hopefully have a cure for the sickness that had plagued Whumpee for months. No one had any idea what the cause of it was. It left Whumpee feeling weak, often inducing high fevers for no rhyme or reason. Whumpee and Caretaker had finally gotten the money to pay for the doctor, who’d been known to be able to cure almost all their patients, but they hadn’t raised quite enough to pay for the journey itself. 

Caretaker fussed for nearly an entire week before they were to make their journey, causing Whumpee to laugh as they reassured the other. Finally, the day had come, and although Caretaker was still worried, Whumpee was confident that they’d be fine. They felt good. Well, as good as things were going to get until they had been cured. 

“Whumpee, seriously. I can go and ask the doctor to come back to you. I’ll only be six days up and back,” Caretaker tried to reason, causing Whumpee to simply smile.

“I’ll be fine. I need to be getting some exercise anyways.” Caretaker looked like they wanted to protest, but didn’t. They were soon on their way afterwards, making sure that they had everything that they needed. 

The first day was rather uneventful. Whumpee and Caretaker conversed quite a lot, but the entire day was mainly spent with Whumpee marveling about the things around them. It had been so long since they’d been able to freely wander outside, and wanted to make sure that they wouldn’t take the ordeal for granted. Hopefully, with the help of the doctor, they could spend every day like this. 

It was during the night that things began to go wrong. It had started off right when they and Caretaker decided to go to bed for the night, both of them satisfied with the progress they had made. After about an hour of lying down, Whumpee’s chest began to tighten, and they found that they weren’t able to breathe properly. No matter what they did, they couldn’t alleviate the pressure, causing them to stay awake the entire night. When Caretaker woke up as the sun began to rise, Whumpee panicked, not able to hide their turn for the worse. It had been their fault in the first place, pushing themselves as they had.

“Whumpee? Are you up?” Caretaker asked, rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they stood. “Whumpee?” Whumpee tried to speak, but all that came out was a slight squeak as they clutched at their chest. Suddenly, Caretaker was at their side, flipping Whumpee onto their chest so that they could get a better assessment of what was wrong. A gentle, cool hand was placed on Whumpee’s forehead, and Caretaker cursed lightly before pulling their hand back. Whumpee frowned a bit, having enjoyed the coolness on their sweltering skin. “Whumpee you’re burning up! We should go back,” Caretaker said, causing Whumpee to frown even more.

“N—No, i’m fine. We can… we can keep going,” Whumpee forced the words out, feeling slightly breathless. Caretaker gazed down at them, looking as though they were contemplating their options. “Please.” 

“...Fine. But I’m carrying you on my back,” Caretaker’s voice left no room for argument, and Whumpee knew that that was as far as they were going to get compromise wise. 

Half an hour later and they were back on the trail, Whumpee placed on Caretaker’s back. Whumpee couldn’t help but feel guiltier and guiltier with every step that Caretaker took, knowing that they and the other luggage combined would take a toll on Caretaker. “I’m sorry,” Whumpee mumbled out, but before they were able to hear Caretaker’s response, their fever forced them to sleep, the pain in their chest lessening as they did so. 

The next time they woke up, Whumpee was still on Caretaker’s back. Whumpee felt another wave of guilt washing over them, having heard about dead weight and how much more of a struggle it is to carry someone whether they be dead or unconscious. They didn’t want to be such a burden on Caretaker— couldn’t stand the fact that they were. 

“I can walk Caretaker,” They whispered out, their voice hoarse from dehydration. 

“No, you can’t. You don’t need to lie for my sake Whumpee,” Caretaker chided gently, readjusting Whumpee on their back. 

“I don’t want to force you to carry me the rest of the way because I was stupid enough to push myself too hard. It’s not fair to you.”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything. Besides, we’re more than halfway there. I can carry you the rest of the way.” Whumpee mumbled something under their breath in retaliation, and they knew that Caretaker had heard them with their close proximity, but had simply chosen to ignore it. As they continued forwards, only taking brief stops for rest or lunch, Whumpee noticed how Caretaker’s arms trembled where they held Whumpee. Whumpee knew that the exhaustion was taking its toll on Caretaker, whether they wanted to admit it out loud or not. 

With only a day to go though, Caretaker truly seemed adamant to carry Whumpee the entire way. “Caretaker, can we take a break?” Whumpee asked, making it sound like they needed it when they really knew that it was Caretaker who did. 

“Yeah sure, you thirsty?” Caretaker asked as they pulled to a stop on the trail, Caretaker carefully letting Whumpee down. Whumpee made a noise of affirmation as they dug through their belongings, taking a meager sip of water before handing the rest of Caretaker. They needed it more anyway. Caretaker seemed happy for the rest, stating that this was as good a place as any to set up camp for the night, and that they’d be at the doctor’s sometime afternoon the next day. 

Whumpee, content with this information, went to bed, as they had no appetite because of the effects of the fever. 

The next morning, they were vaguely aware that their condition had gotten worse again overnight, if the general blurriness and nausea was anything to go by. They stayed quiet about it though, even when Caretaker put Whumpee on their back, and Whumpee feared throwing up from the sudden motion. 

It seemed as though a little rest had done Caretaker some good, although the overall effect of having to carry Whumpee as well as all their supplies still seemed to weigh heavily on them. Whumpee did their best to stay awake as long as they could, despite the exhaustion threatening to pull them down. They sweat profusely, drenching their clothing as well as Caretaker’s back, and it was just another thing to feel bad about. If it weren’t for them being so sick and weak, Caretaker wouldn’t have to carry them. They should be able to make this journey without needing help. They felt angry at themselves for being so worthless. 

As they brewed in their thoughts, Whumpee was vaguely aware of the black creeping up on them. They nearly groaned aloud as they tried to fight it off, to no avail. They didn’t want to become an even bigger burden for Caretaker, but there was nothing they could do to keep awake without alerting Caretaker. A small apology once again left their lips before the black overtook them, their body sagging in Caretaker’s hold. 

[painsandconfusion]

Would you feel like doing some drowning prompts?

@void-fireworks, oh, I'd love to.

Also, HOW did you know I was just trying to think of a topic for a prompt list? Are you psychic? Should I be afraid?

Anywho, here's some things! Enjoy!!

.

Whump Prompts: Drowning

Whumper’s fingers twisting far too tight into Whumpee’s hair, ripping some loose as Whumpee thrashes under the water.

“Theeeeere you go. Cough it all up. Very good. Okay, now take a deep breath for me. Deeper. There.”

The slow-motion thrashing. Panic building as Whumper has to fight against the water.

“I thought you’d make it at least a full minute. How disappointing. How about we try again?”

Water burning like fire in Whumpee’s sinuses. Pushing against the backs of their eyes. Like frostbite and fire in their lungs.

Whumpee’s eyes wide and frantic under the water. But is it pure water? Or salt? Is there soap? How baldly does it burn their eyes? Tears streaming down their face for hours after, trying to flush out the dry, burning pain.

“Why do you look so scared, pet? It’s just a bath. You don't think I'd hurt you, do you?"

A classic - a whumpee who has been desperately swimming again. They come to a stop, treading water, panting, looking frantically around them. The moment they start to relax, a hand/jaws/rope/whatever clamps down on their ankle, dragging them under before they have the chance to scream.

Darkness. Just darkness seeping in. Is it from the water? Or are their eyes washing over?

Each breath aching and burning after Whumpee coughed up all the water. It feels like there’s still more. There’s always more.

Whumper helpfully patting Whumpee’s back, helping them cough it all up before shoving them under again.

“Are you really going to die like that? In two inches of water. That would be really pathetic of you, don’t you think?”

Drowning in a lake. Whumpee’s fingers clutching at the muck and green, slimy plants, desperately trying to push away, but falling back into the slippery rocks time after time as their vision fades into dark.

Whumpee thrashing against hands at their neck, having no idea how is holding them down. Their face is distorted and blurred by the warped and rushing water between them.

Unconventional drowning, but can we get a shoutout for water-boarding? Thanks.

Whumpee trapped in the brig of a sinking ship. Clawing at the wood and iron bars, screaming for help as everyone scrambled out in a frenzy, not caring to let them out.

“N-no please. I - I can’t. I. I can’t. I can’t br-breathe. Please. No - nnn-NO!”

Whumper shoving Whumpee back under the water without giving them the time to take a full, gasping breath.

Drowning in the ocean. Each wave crashing fresh over their face, giving them just enough air to stay conscious. But how long can they hold on before it’s too much?

That last, desperate gasp of air before they are forced under the water without warning.

Whumper just holding Whumpee tight as they drag them down down down - confident that Whumpee’s panic will ensure they run out of air first.

"Go on, just breathe it in. There's no need to fight me. You're just delaying the inevitable."

Whumpee tied down as the water slowly rises around them. Jerking against their restraints until blood from their wrists dances through the rushing water.

A recovering Whumpee panicking whenever they get too close to a river or when Caretaker tries to draw them a bath.

"Aww, are you getting hungry? I thought so. I'll give you one bite for every minute you can stay under. How about that?"

Also, uh, here's some drowning scenes I wrote before? Feel free to pull whatever you want from those as well!! 1, 2, 3 that last one is awful but i guess you can look at it if you want.

.

(If you use any of these, please do tag me because I'm a sucker and just want to read the whump and if you hand-deliver whump to me, I will weep with joy.)

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wormwriting @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @batfacedliar @suspicious-whumping-egg )

[painsandconfusion]

My question is how would someone deal with a whumpee that is constantly tortured and abused by the an evil super powerful villain leader/ruler and their army that has taken over the world so not much can be done to stop it , whumpee is extremely terrified and injured how would someone handle whumpee and their situation if they found them extremely injured like that, and if whumpee is terrified of medical stuff what care would need to be given to them and how would that caretaker go about helping them.

*cracks knuckles* (dont do that in front of them though)

First of all, I need a little more information. Is whumpee still in the bad place or have they been taken somewhere else? What are their triggers? What's the extent of their injury?

If the injury is life-threatening...so sorry whumpee, we are going to have to knock you out and fix it asap. Keep them alive first. Fix what's wrong.

As for approaching/building trust with a traumatized whumpee, it kinda depends on the individual. But I think there's some standards that apply in most situations:

Keep them in one place. Let them nest. Find a corner. Make themself at home. Moving them will add to the anxiety and helplessness.

Make sure the room is the right size. Not so big that they feel overwhelmed. Not so small that they feel suffocated. Something in the middle with paces for them to hide (under beds, behind screens, etc). That lets them have some control over their environment.

Don't bombard them with questions. Instead, give them answers. Who are you? What are you there for. Why are you helping them? Why can you be trusted? Where are they? Where is Whumper?

Clarify that Whumper will not see them again. Just constant reassurance that they're safe now.

Let them come to you. Don't approach the whumpee if you don't have to. Stay low to the ground. Sitting, if you can. Open posture. And just....sit with them. Let them get used to you. Let them stare at you and get used to your voice. Read a book aloud to them or, better yet, tell them about your life. Your childhood. Embarrassing stories. The more they get to know you, the more easily they will trust you.

This seems obvious, but let them have plenty of access to food and water. Whenever they want, not on some schedule or merit system. Let them know they are safe and there will always be enough food and water.

Take bites of food and drinks of their water before giving it to them to show them that it's safe. Not poisoned. Not drugged. They're safe.

Ask them arbitrary questions first. Not 'who are you' or 'what did they do to you'. Ask 'what's your favorite color' or 'look my socks aren't matching. I should change on - which do you like best?' Little things that don't give away pieces of them, yet make them feel appreciated and included. It's also small things to get their mind off of it.

If their wounds aren't bad enough to warrant forceful medical care, build up trust first. If it's something simple - like a cut - you can hand the bandages over to them (or toss/slide them) and tell the whumpee how to do it themself. Let them have as much control as possible.

If the injured whumpee lets you do it, always move VERY slowly. Tell them exactly what you're doing and why you're doing it. Tell them what the ointments and creams are. Read them the names and explain what they do, then ask if you can use it on the wound. Explain what the pressure of the bandages will feel like. Just always let them know exactly what they're about to feel. Even if it's going to hurt.

Give them constant praise and consolation. "I know, that really stung, but you did so so good. It's almost over now. you're doing great. One more deep breath for me."

That reminds me. Breathing exercises. If the whumpee trusts you but is very anxious or panicking, walk them through it. Six counts breathing in. Eight counts holding. Four counts breathing out. Six counts holding. Or whatever exercise you like best. Anything to get them to focus on their breaths.

Also, other standard grounding techniques. Have them list five things they can see, four things they can hear, three things they can feel, two they can smell, and one they can taste. Give them constant praise when they come up with one. Do the exercise along with them and talk about the things they mentioned. "You feel the tile floor? I do too. It's cool to the touch. I picked it out with my friend and we used to slide around on it on our socks." Little things to get their mind going in a different direction.

Basically, never ever give them a reason to fear you. Let them trust you. Let them call the shots. Do what you can to help them, but don't force anything unless absolutely necessary.

Here have some more comfort things: give them lots of pillows and blankets. Soft things they can hold onto to feel safe. Don't leave them alone unless you feel they need space to think. (obv if you're worried about suicidal acts, take necessary precautions)

Soft music can be helpful too. If all they have to think about it their own ragged breaths, they'll work themselves into a panic.

Or the radio. Long term captive whumpees might not know what's going on in the world. Fill them in. Give them the resources to figure it out.

I think it's kinda funny how you asked the no comfort blog how to comfort but here I am with the goods anyway XD

Honestly I pulled a lot of these techniques from how I tame feral kittens, which, looking at your blog, is probably more on point than I intended 😅

Hopefully this helps!!! Best of luck with your whumpee!!