#powerless whumpee

[honeycollectswhump]

something about tragedy is that the grief never leaves. it’s always there. as long as there is love there will be grief

a caretaker grieving whumpee, while they missing. they don’t know whether they are supposed to grieve a disappearance, a death or something worse.

caretaker grieving a rescued whumpee. their beloved is visibly not doing well but they already have done everything in their power to help. and it’s not enough. perhaps the recovery will take time (if whumpee makes it that far) but the uncertainty kills them

whumpee is slowly slipping from caretaker‘s grasp and it feels like they are pre-grieving their beloved. perhaps they look at old memories and ponder what might be their closest after whumpee‘s passing. perhaps they already pick out a tattoo design to remember them by. it feels wrong but they feel so helpless, they don’t know what to do

whumpee is actually dead and the world is full of remainders

[noisilyeclecticmilkshake]

Something about powered whump.

The way, in any other situation, they'd be fine.

In any other situation, their power would rip through these bindings and they run.

Superspeed, but the doors locked. What now? Put them in a particle accelerator, good luck doing your stupid 'fazing through walls' trick now.

Ice powers? Their partners dying of hypothermia. Stuck in a too hot room. Stuck in an absolute zero room, no way to make it colder. Can't freeze the lock, its already as cold as its going to get.

Heat powers? Same thing, put that fucker in a volcano. Good luck finding your way through 8,000 feet of lava. Or an incinerator, yeah, just try and melt that lock off. Oh whumpee? They have a fever and your emotions are haywire, hope you can get that water to them without it evaporating.

Superstrength? Fighting a cotton powered villain. What are they gonna do, punch their way through pillows?

It's so fun.

It's funny if its for mundane things too.

Yeah, of course superstrength can move your entire apartment belongs in one trip. What's that? You want help building a bookshelf from Wal-Mart. They've never seen a screwdriver in their life.

You want a coffee run? Okay, but you better fine with no coffee left in the cup afterward. Just because they can run faster than light, doesn't mean liquid stops obeying physics.

Want the lights a different color? Just ask. You want them to fix the wiring in your remote? Why would they know anything about that?

Fun. The possibilities of powers being absolutely useless in everyday life is just good soup to me.

[whump-kitty]

There's just something about the word remade being used in a whumpy way to me- like "I'm going to remake you" or "I remade you"...there's just something so amazingly permanent about it, something about how the whumper shows, with this, that the whumpee won't be the same ever again, no matter what they do and how much they heal, or whether or not they get rescued... that they'll always be defined by the pain they experience there, whether they like it or not

[another-whump-sideblog]

Whumpees who are chronically disconnected from their body. Whumpees who get asked if their pain is sharp or dull and literally don’t know the answer. Whumpee who doesn’t notice they’re cold until someone points out they’re shaking. Whumpee who doesn’t notice they’re hungry until they black out from standing up too fast. Whumpee who genuinely can’t tell when they’re over exerting themself because it all feels the same. It’s not that they don’t feel pain, it’s that they’ve learned to see pain as something constant and unavoidable, not something to be fixed, and they can’t distinguish between different kinds of pain anymore. They’ve learned to ignore the signals from their body while they were powerless, and now that they can prevent or fix pain they still aren’t attuned enough to their body to know how.

Just… whumpees who learned dissociation as a coping skill and now have to unlearn it. Whumpees who deeply benefited from being disconnected until they were safe, making it that much harder to unlearn

[floral-comet-whump]

Whumpee that deceives Whumper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They have to keep going.

[fourwingedwriter]

I feel like short people (especially women) are underrepresented in whump and I think there's a lot of dynamics to play with there

A short Whumper being able to put a full force blow straight into Whumpee's gut/kidneys just to watch them crumple

A more defiant Whumpee being able to resist Whumper better, not letting themselves be thrown around. But this only results in what happens when a Whumper has a chance to get creative.

A small Whumpee terrified by how easily Whumper can restrain them. They are powerless here, how could they not be? They're so tiny and insignificant.

A short Whumpee having things she wants placed too high for her to reach. Whumper only has to reach up and grab it, but it will always be out of range for Whumpee.

A Whumpee being baby talked because they're so small and so cute. Their emotions being taken as jokes by Whumper(s) because they're "so grumpy" but it never being taken as serious

A smaller Caretaker struggling to help Whumpee walk/move, simply unable to bear the load. They have to stay more stationary, or at least wait for somebody else to help.

Just smaller characters in whump. Feeling small can do a number to how someone acts and holds themselves

[holidayinhell]

CWs: discussion of future torment/ alludes to noncon

“How are you going to— h-how are you going to kill me?”

 “Why?”

Whumpee shrugged weakly.

“Dunno. Lots of ways, Whumpee.” He traced Whumpee's hollow cheek lightly with his index finger. “I can’t pick only one. Gotta see all the different ways I can make ya squirm.”

The younger man wasn’t phased by the answer. He was used to the psychopath’s brutal honesty.

“What’s your favorite way to kill someone?”

It was the terror that he relished, not the act of killing itself. Getting them on the table was the height of the excitement for Whumper. The torture was enjoyable to a point, but by the time the endorphins kicked in the whole thing became work as usual. Not that Whumpee needed to know that.

“However I kill you will be my favorite, I guess.” His eyes grew wide, flashing wickedly in the fluorescent light. 

“So, what’s your favorite way to die?”

Whumpee tried to fight the shiver that wracked his spine.

“Curled up in my bed at 95.”

“Funny.” Whumper remarked dryly. 

Whumpee was painfully aware that the deadline was only three days away. He knew his family could never afford the ransom, even if they sold everything they owned. 

There was no world in which Whumpee lived past the week.

“I just… I was wondering what happens when...”

“Time’s up?”

The gaunt man nodded.

“Ain’t long now,” the killer shifted his weight to stand. “You’ll see for yourself.”

“Wait!” Whumpee shot out his arm, impulsively clutching the bottom of Whumper’s elbow. “Don’t go.”

Whumper turned back to his captive, crumpled on the floor. It was late and he was exhausted from the day, but he couldn’t resist the desperation in Whumpee’s pleading eyes.

“Just tell me what’s gonna happen.” Whumpee begged. “I need to know.”

"It doesn't matter" Whumper dismissed.

"Come on." Whumpee wasn't budging an inch. "You're right, it doesn't matter. So tell me."

“All you need to know is this: when the ransom is up, you're mine, and I can do whatever I like to you.”

Whumper gently traced the curve of Whumpee’s bottom lip with his thumb.

“Maybe you’ll like some of it too.”

“I don’t think so.” He responded blankly.

“Mmm.” Whumper retracted his hand from the man’s face. “Good thing you won’t have any choice in the matter.”

Powerless to fight the deluge of tears leaking from his exhausted eyes, an aching sadness took hold of Whumpee. Tears rolled over his cheeks, but he didn’t sob. He was beyond hollow at this point, completely numb.

A piece of his heart broke for his former self when Whumpee had the cold realization that he would probably never see the sky again. He cursed his weakness, his inability to defend himself. His entire life he had been too shy, too soft. What a waste he'd been.

In a tone barely above a whisper, Whumpee pitifully murmured: “I don’t wanna die.”

Whumper scooped up the trembling man from the floor, his strong arms wrapping around Whumpee in a confusing display of dominance and affection.

It was a feigned act of compassion, but the warmth of human contact felt good anyways. This time, Whumpee allowed the touch to comfort him.

Whumper offered no reassurances to the shell of a man quaking in his arms, he didn’t say it’s okay I would never hurt you, you’re my favorite—he didn’t say it because it wasn’t true. He wasn’t holding Whumpee tightly in his arms to comfort him. He held him close to feel Whumpee shake with fear.

Three days left. Only seventy-two hours.

“I like you, but the same rules apply to you as everyone else here.”

Whumpee pulled out of the hug, shuffling backwards.

“You said I was your favorite.” He wiped his leaking face with the back of his hand, sniffling. “Was that even true?”

“Yeah.” Whumper chuckled lightly. “You’re sweet.”

"Then why would you—" The tears surged again, cutting him off. "—how could you...?"

“I won’t touch your pretty face. Does that make you feel better?”

“I don’t know.” He snorted loudly to halt the mucus dripping from his nose. Whumpee struggled to maintain a façade of emotionlessness, but his body betrayed him at every turn. He took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, centering his mind. 

“Just walk me through it. Just once. I need to know what happens.”

“Fine.”

Whumper crouched, locking his cold eyes with Whumpee's.

“It starts off the same for everyone. First I’m gonna have you go to the bathroom. If you’re good for me, maybe I’ll even let you use the one upstairs, the nice one. Sometimes people refuse to go and end up pissing on the exam table-- don’t do that. If you piss or anything when you’re strapped down, I’ll rub your fuckin’ face in it, so just go.”

“Okay.”

“Then you’ll strip down. Don’t put up a fight on that either. You won’t win.”

Whumpee nodded.

“I’ll take you to the room at the end of the hall. You know the one. Maybe I’ll have to tie you up, but if you’re a good boy that day I won’t need the ropes.”

An evil smile spread across Whumper's face. “The table is gonna feel cold on your skin. I'll have you lay back and once you lay down... Use your imagination. Anything could happen. I haven’t exactly planned it all out.”

“Yes you fucking have.” Whumpee bit back.

Whumper was taken aback. He was right of course, but he’d never heard the man swear before.

“Sure. I’ve thought about it.” Whumper chuckled. “I don’t think sharin’ every minute detail is gonna help.”

“Just tell me,” Whumpee urged. 

Whumper looked down and sighed, his impatience mounting.

“Are you going to fuck me?”

“Yes.” He answered truthfully. “Among other things.”

It felt like a train crashed into Whumpee’s gut. It was happening. It was really happening.

“Will it--will it hurt?”

“A little. But I’ll try to make you feel good.”

“No I mean. After.”

“Oh." He patted the man's shoulder. "Yeah. It’s gonna hurt, Whumpee.”

As much as he didn’t look forward to sacrificing his special, trembling boy to some faceless nobody on the dark web, the money was too good to pass up. The truth was, Whumpee was worth far more dead than alive. Even if his family had managed to pull together enough funds for the payout, it was miniscule compared to what his buyer was willing to pay for the video.

“That’s enough for now. It’s late.” The killer made his way to the exit, the heels of his boots clicking against the tiles.

“Am I allowed to make a final request?” Whumpee called to his captor's receding form.

"I don't do that," the man said coldly, glancing over his shoulder.

“Please. It’s not a lot.”

"What?" Whumper snapped, impatience evident in his tone.

“C-can I please write a letter to my friend?”

The killer rubbed his exhausted eyes, sighing as he eyed the reinforced steel door.

“Please.”

“Fine, Whumpee. Whatever. You can write to your friend. I’ll get you some paper. Write a fuckin’ novel for all I care.”

“Thank y--.” 

Whumper yanked the heavy door closed behind him, silencing Whumpee’s appreciation with a decisive shove, the thick thud echoing in the corridor. He had no intention of actually delivering Whumpee’s letter to anyone; but at that point he’d do anything to shut up Whumpee’s insistent questioning. 

Still, a flicker of curiosity burned within him as he wondered what Whumpee might write.

((sequel is in progress, here's more Whump))

[willtheweaver]

Ways to add horror and suspense

• Restrict what the narrator can see! First or third person limited is best. (Let the imaginations of the narrator suggest the worst)

[Character] could barely see a thing in the gloom. All in front were shadows hidden in the mist. They were going into this totally blind. For all they knew, the ground could be littered with sinkholes and pits that were not seen until it was too late.

• Short sentences create a sense of urgency. Keep paragraphs short and add exclamation points.

I ran. Faster than I ran before.

Feet hammered. Heart pounded.

Behind the door shuttered.

Crash!

It was blown clean off its hinges.

• If there is a monster, don’t over describe. Less is more. Drop information in gradually.

In the shadows were two eyes. Blood red, they glowed like a furnace. Barely visible, the outline was humanoid with long, spidery limbs.

…

The beast halted and sniffed the air. Every now and then it would turn its jagged, vulture-like head in an attempt to regain the scent.

• Atmosphere, atmosphere, atmosphere

The wind had a mournful quality about it, and every so often, the crash of the waves against the sea caves embedded in the cliffs sent off sounds that went from low moans, to cries of anguish, to eerily human mutterings.

• The uncanny valley is a great way to make characters uncomfortable!

The entity was… I wouldn’t call it human. There was a waxy quality about it. All the features were smooth and looked painted on. Their eyes were doll’s eyes; glassy and lifeless.

• Places can be uncanny too.

From the first moment he opened the door, [character] knew something was off. This place was absolutely lifeless. No evidence of ever being occupied. No dust, no abandoned furniture, no game trails or other signs of animals. The walls were smooth and seamless. No sign of degradation. It was like a computer rendition of a building interior.

• Anything can be scary. Maybe the narrator had a rare phobia.

The square always made my heart pound and sweat pour down my brows. All those people in one place. A writhing, crushing mass of humanity. A rolling tide ready to sweep away those who let their guard down for even a millisecond.

• Put character(s) in a situation where they are powerless, and the monster is in control.

Whumpee was thrown across the room. They hit the wall with a loud thud before slumping to the ground. Whatever the torturer was…it was a total monster. It had a complete mastery over the facility, and could appear when and where it pleased. There was no escape. The only way one would know the torturer was near was when it clamped down with vice-like strength, and a speed faster than any runner.

[snakebites-and-ink]

So I had a...well it was like half idea and half dream, because I'm pretty sure I was in a hypnagogic state so it sort of shifted between dreaming and imagining.

But anyways. Basically it was a self-contained town of whumpers. Everyone there was either a whumper, or one of their captives. This was mainly pet whump, but the concept could totally work with other kinds of whump. So this town was isolated enough that no one would bug them and their whumpees wouldn't really have anywhere to run, without being so isolated that it'd be the only stop for miles (which could lead travelers to run into them), and it was close enough to a bigger city that a resident could drive there if they needed something their town didn't have. The roads to get in/out of the town were disguised so only those who were in the know could find it easily and no one would stumble onto them by accident.

But they don't need to leave town often, because their town has a lot. Restaurants, a bar, a salon with "pet grooming" in the back. All the basic amenities. They also have a pet training center for those who don't want to do the conditioning themselves. And of course it's totally normalized to see someone walking a human on a leash, in any state of compliance or defiance, because they're all whumpers. And most businesses/whatnot allow you to bring your human pet in.

They can whump/talk about whumping openly. Keeping a human being as a pet, treating them as inferior, forcing an obviously unwilling victim to do what you want, public punishments/abuse, even "disposing of" a victim, it's all game. You just can't do it to one of your fellow whumpers, because they have to have some sort of order and security. The whumpees have no one to run to and no one who will heed a scream for help, because everyone near is either on the whumpers' side or another whumpee just as powerless as them.

This isn't one of those settings where it's legal to own people, but who's going to stop them? The only people who know about it are either a part of it, or are quickly taken captive before they can tattle.

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (VII)

The Great Escape

Part one here

Continued from this part here

*~*~*~*~*

Kit tied Ambrose up with duct tape. It wasn’t the best thing to restrain Ambrose with, if he really wanted to secure Ambrose the only thing to do would be to tie up his mind. Or use power dampeners.

And as it happened Kit wasn’t able to do either of those.

So he tied Ambrose’s hands behind his back, and duct taped his mouth but Kit was pretty sure Ambrose could use his powers with eye contact alone so he wrapped a long sleeve t-shirt over Ambrose’s eyes and went to his phone.

If Superhero got here by the time Ambrose woke up, he could sort it. He’d have power dampeners and Kit would finally be free of him. Once and for all.

Kit saw his red eyes flash up at him from his phones black screen, and felt nausea climb up his throat at the sight.

It will go away with time, Kit reassured himself, just like the blue does.

Time was of the essence now; he could worry about his fucking eyes later.

Kit unlocked his phone and went to his contact list again. He glanced at Superhero’s name and clicked it. Sure, enough Ambrose’s phone started ringing, bad moon rising echoing around the house again and Kit hung up.

That’s okay.

Ambrose doesn’t know Superhero’s civilian identity, so he was fine.

Kit scrolled down to Superhero’s real name and clicked the green call button.

Bad Moon Rising.

Kit froze in his home. There’s… there’s no way Ambrose knows— there’s no way he forced Kit to tell him was there?

No. Kit was just being paranoid. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

He knows he wouldn’t. He could never betray Superhero like that…

Kit went down to Other Hero’s name and pressed call and Bad moon rising started playing again.

Fucking FUCK!

It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s okay. Come on. The Agency’s number is online he could get that, and call and he would be fine.

Kit opened his browser and tapped the search bar. The screen dimmed and a parental control password came up.

A six-digit code.

Kit glared over at the unconscious Ambrose and wanted so badly to kick him in the face. He couldn’t just leave Ambrose here, could he? What if he woke up and got out and used some innocent civilian as his own puppet?

It wasn’t very heroic of him, but Kit honestly didn’t care.

He just wanted to get to Superhero.

Superhero would know what to do. He always knows what to do.

Decision made, Kit grabbed his jacket and keys and left his useless phone and walked out the door.

Or he would have.

If the second he walked out the door he didn’t get an eardrum shattering headache that made white flash behind his eyes and brought him to his knees. Kit cried out, backing up and once he was back in the house the pain stopped and Kit could breathe again.

He let out short, useless pants trying to ground himself and make sense of what just happened, even though he already knew.

Kit got to his feet again, and this time he ran out the door.

It was like a fire alarm going off in his brain, paralysing him. His breath stolen from his lungs and he couldn’t breathe, choking on air like a fish out of water.

Kit scrambled desperately back towards the house, his vision turning black at the corners of his eyes like a vignette as he dragged himself over the threshold of his apartment and collapsed, wheezing. Greedily gasping in gaping breathes and choking on them, his lungs screaming at him for depriving him of oxygen.

Kit started crying.

He sobbed, which didn’t really help the breathing matters, out of pure frustration. Ambrose had let him free. Given him hope that he could somehow win and the whole time, the whole time he knew it didn’t matter if Kit overpowered him, because Ambrose had already ensured that Kit could do nothing even if he was unconscious and incapacitated.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying, glaring at Ambrose, but eventually he got hungry, and made his way to the kitchen where Ambrose’s breakfast was waiting for him. Still a bit warm, Kit took some bacon and pudding and sat down with his back to his front door staring at Ambrose because he couldn’t do anything else.

Kit began eating.

*~*~*~*~*

Ambrose stirred within the hour. Groaning and shifting, trying to get comfortable. Then he mumbled something incoherent behind the tape on his mouth. Kit just watched him come to terms with his situation and wondered what kind of sick satisfaction Ambrose got from watching Kit struggle and try to get his bearings.

Ambrose inclined his head, staring directly at Kit even through his makeshift blindfold.

Is all this really necessary? Ambrose asked, voice in Kit’s head.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

Kit.

“You’re a fucking bastard, Ambrose. How does it feel to be the one on the back foot?”

I don’t know, Kit. Tell me. How does it feel? Being free. Being so close to escape and yet so far?

Kit clenched his hands into fists and grit his teeth, leaning forward from his place on the ground and wrapping his hands around his knees.

“I guess we’re both stuck like this until you undo whatever you did to me.”

Ambrose relaxed in his stance.

I can sit like this all day.

Kit said nothing.

Or I could always make you untie me, Kit. You don’t want me to force you to free me, do you? Do you really want everyone you love to die by your hands?

“I think you’re threatening me because that’s all you can do. I got something right, didn’t I?” Kit said. “Covered your eyes, do you need your eyes to compel me to do something? Or your voice? Or your hands?”

I think you’ll go mad before you wait me out, Kit. I’m willing to wait, silent and restrained. Want to see how long you can go without speaking to someone? I don’t mind.

Against his better judgement, Kit stood and walked over to Ambrose and yanked the blindfold off. Ambrose stared up at him grinning, dark eyes smug. Kit didn’t waste time going gentle with Ambrose’s gag. He ripped it off and smiled as Ambrose winced, his lips even more red than usual.

“Thank you,” said Ambrose with a smile. “You can untie me now.”

“Untie yourself, you dick.”

“I made you breakfast Kit, come on now. Don’t you want to leave the house?”

Kit’s hands crackled blue sparks up his left arm to his shoulder, glaring down at Ambrose who grinned up at him. “Ooh. Careful, Sparkles. You might hurt yourself there. Your eyes are almost the same colour as your blood.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kit yelled, feeling the currents run through his hair. Red sparks flew from his usual blue angry and pulsing and dangerous, the red wrapping tight around his fist like a force of its own just begging to let Kit use it to hurt Ambrose.

Just to wipe that stupid smirk off Ambrose’s face, it would be worth it…

“Scary. Go on, kill me,” Ambrose said, leaning forward, closer to the sparks than safety would grant. “Go on. You could do it. You could kill me, if you wanted to.”

Kit froze at that. Kit didn’t kill.

He didn’t kill.

He wasn’t a murderer he was a hero.

“I won’t sink to your level,” Kit said, his voice echoing static with the sound of the sparks flying. The electricity ran from his body in an instant, drained and dissipating. Kit stalked to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the knife block before storming back and kicking Ambrose onto his stomach.

“Harder,” Ambrose said with a strained breath.

Kit dropped down to his knee, dropping his other knee onto Ambrose’s spine and smiled at the grunt of pain Ambrose let out. Then he cut the duct tape around his wrists and got off Ambrose, keeping the knife in his hand as he went and leaned against the door.

“Now get this fucking thing out of my head.”

Ambrose got his hands under him and got to his feet. “I never ate breakfast,” Ambrose said instead, taking the last of the duct tape off his wrists and heading to the kitchen. Casual as if being tied up is an everyday occurrence. “Do you want an egg?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Ambrose shrugged, grabbing the oil and pouring it into the frying pan. “That’s not an answer, but I’ll make two anyways.”

“Get this thing out of my head!”

Ambrose turned slowly. Dark black eyes settling heavy on Kit, cold and threatening.

“In the course of my nap, have you forgotten what I can do to you?” Ambrose asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. A piercing screech rang out in Kit’s mind, and he screamed, hands flying to cup his ears and stop the unmerciful ringing, pounding tight in his brain as if every blood vessel was being stretched and contorted and pulled and twisted, trying to get away from the sound.

The screech got louder the closer Ambrose got to Kit, and louder and louder until it was unbearable— white flashed behind his eyes and Kit was on his knees, screaming for relief, bent double and crying at the floor. It didn’t stop when Ambrose’s boots came within Kit’s sight line. A cold, lithe hand reached down and grabbed Kit’s chin tilting it up. The moment Ambrose’s cold hand made contact; the screeching stopped.

Kit was panting, brain and eyes still fuzzy from the aftereffects of the mental assault. Ambrose tilted Kit’s head all the way back, until he was sitting upright on his knees. Panting and shaking, exhausted. Brain caught between a frenzy of anxiety and a tired induced sloth, like trying to wade through a swamp.

“I could keep you on your knees like this forever, Kit. Like a pretty little statue, something to stare at, something that doesn’t speak or think. Just a dazed little angel, would you like that?”

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat and sniffed, his nose running from crying and screaming. In answer he reached a hand up, pulling at Ambrose’s hold but Ambrose grabbed his wrist before it made contact and bent it back on itself.

Kit hissed out a breath through his teeth, glaring through pained eyes at Ambrose who just smiled down at him.

“Let go of me!” Kit grumbled pulling his head back. Ambrose twisted his wrist more in reply and Kit cried out, trying to yank his hand free, jerking back. Ambrose’s grip didn’t relent, in fact, he tightened his grip on Kit’s face, pinching his cheeks together with one hand.

“Kit,” Ambrose sighed, stepping forward, forcing Kit’s body to bend back uncomfortably. Kit’s head moved with Ambrose’s hand and Ambrose put more force on bending Kit’s wrist back. “If I let go you have to promise to be good.”

Kit pinched his lips together, but Ambrose didn’t let him. He squeezed Kit’s cheeks until his mouth formed a crude ‘o’ shape.

“Uhck-you agh!” Kit cried as Ambrose twisted his wrist further, tightening his grip until it turned bruising. Kit struggled and tried to back up, but his head hit the wall and he was trapped between Ambrose’s body and the wall.

“Oh-kay,” Kit managed, furious, embarrassment flooding his cheeks.

Ambrose smiled, said, “good,” and true to his word Ambrose released him.

Kit’s head bobbed forward immediately, wrapping a hand around his wrist and rubbing it soothingly. Ambrose just went back to the kitchen, whistling, not even entertaining Kit’s glare following him. Kit got to his feet, the world tilting slightly as he stood but he ignored it going to the bathroom and slamming the door.

Angry red eyes found Kit’s in the bathroom mirror. Kit’s hand went out quick, too quick to think and the next thing he knew his fist had shattered the reflective glass. Broken shards fell onto the sink and the tile with a glimmering tinkle, so Kit punched the mirror again, and again.

He would have done it again, if he could, if it wasn’t for the cold rinse of Ambrose’s power flooding through his arm stopping his fist from punching the mirror until he broke his hand. Instead, Kit turned and opened the bathroom door against his will, stepping out into the living room to see Ambrose setting up Kit’s first aid on the table.

Kit’s feet dragged him to the table and forced him to sit and hold out his hand for Ambrose to inspect.

“I hate you,” Kit declared, a furious childish part of him wanted Ambrose to know that.

“I know Kit,” said Ambrose, taking his wrist delicately, the same wrist he had tried to fold in on itself not two minutes ago. “Seven years bad luck to break a mirror.”

“Fuck you,” Kit replied emotion colouring his voice. Ambrose’s touch was tender on his hand as he inspected it for damage. Shards of glass were sticking out of his hand that was steadily streaming blood onto the table.

“I’m going to have to take the glass out to bandage your hand,” said Ambrose, dark eyes dragging up to Kit’s face. Ambrose’s expression twisted into one of pity, as if he could actually feel human emotion and it somehow made Kit feel worse. Kit’s heart hammered against his throat as Ambrose reached over and wiped fresh tears from Kit’s cheeks. “It’s okay, Kit. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

Kit didn’t even realise he was crying until then. Frustrated, helpless tears were streaming sad and steady down his cheeks. “Please just let me go,” Kit whispered, half leaning it Ambrose’s hand. He couldn’t do this anymore. Ambrose sighed, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Kit’s cheeks.

“If you want, I can make you go to sleep while I do this?”

Kit sniffed, blubbering like an idiot. He didn’t want to be forced to sleep again, he hated that groggy feeling of waking up after it, completely unaware and vulnerable.

“No,” said Kit eventually. “No, I’ll stay awake.”

“Okay,” Ambrose cooed, drawing his hands back and going to the first aid kit to pull out tweezers and the disinfectant. “I’ll make sure you don’t feel a thing.”

True to his word, Kit didn’t feel anything as Ambrose worked. Not the disinfectant that would have stung. Not the glass being plucked out of his hand and onto the table. Not the bandage as it was tightened around his hand.

Ambrose moved with graceful fluidity, like this wasn’t his first time. Kit just watched him work in silence. If he imagined hard enough, he could be Superhero or Medic stitching him up after a fight with another villain. A friend looking after him telling Kit that he’s an idiot, and why did he punch a mirror. The thought made Kit’s heartache more than his hand would have.

“Okay,” said Ambrose with a smile, a genuine small happy smile. “You’re all done. How’s that feel?”

On Ambrose’s question, feeling flooded Kit’s body and he clenched his hand and opened it again. It was tight enough to hold and loose enough to have full range of motion.

“It feels good, thank you Ambrose.”

The words escaped Kit’s mouth before he registered what he said. Wide eyes went to Ambrose’s dark ones, but it wasn’t the smug pride he saw there. Ambrose smiled sympathetically at Kit and nodded.

“You’re welcome, Kit. How about you go get some sleep? I’ll clean all this up and we can go back to hating each other after.”

Kit nodded numbly. He was exhausted and deflated at his almost escape, he should have known Ambrose would have thought of everything Kit would do. The only way to defeat Ambrose properly would be to kill him and Kit knows he would never do that.

He couldn’t take someone’s life.

So, he stood and walked to his bedroom, shutting the door and collapsing onto his bed. Kit curled up under the covers and cried until he fell asleep.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) — @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whatwhumpcomments @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @princess-bubble-blossom @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @mj-or-say10

*~*~*~*~*

Hello, it’s orphan this is a sneaky PS that I am in the process of moving my work here to a new, primary account @patchworkorphan because I stupidly made this blog a secondary one

I am uploading my backlog of posts to that new blog, updated and edited shocking!

Okay thank you for reading, have a good day, watch the late late toy show! It’s officially Christmas!! okay bye!

[defectivehero]

Hi hi! Just found your writing blog and I love it!

If someone hasn't already asked, could you do touch starved on your bad things happen bingo?

You can do whatever you want, but I'd love to see one where the Whumpy refuses to let go of their rescuers?

Thankyouuuu!! Also happy holidays :3

did someone say villain caregiver and hero whumpee??? MWAHAHAHAH

@badthingshappenbingo Prompt: Touch Starved

“I’d never leave you in such a state.” The villain sighs as they enter the scene, fighting off the disgust and anger boiling in their chest at the sight of the beaten and bloodied hero. They make quick work of the chains on their enemy’s wrists and offer them a hand, which the hero takes.

“Thank you.” The hero murmurs. There are dark circles under their eyes, and they almost seem to waver on their feet. Their enemy leans into them and the villain hesitantly allows them the support, wrapping an arm around their waist.

“What’s gotten into you?” The villain hums as they start walking. “You’ve never been so grateful before. It’s a nice change, actually.”

There’s no response from the hero. They continue their slow path to the villain’s closest base of operations. When they finally make it into the building, the hero’s hand pushes their arm away. Before the villain can truly comprehend what’s happening, their enemy’s hand is sliding down their forearm and clasping their hand.

“Okay.” The villain says, unable to hide some of their concern at the hero’s sudden touchy behavior. “I guess this is fine.”

They walk hand-in-hand for a while, the villain only growing more worried by the moment. What’s going on? And just what happened to the hero during their brief captivity? “I need my hand to open the door,” the villain says carefully as they approach the security door leading to their lair. The hero just hums and slides their hand to their elbow, allowing their enemy to press their hand to the digital scanner and permit entrance.

The villain guides the hero to the nearby sofa with the promise that they’ll return in a moment. They step into the bathroom for a minute, returning only to find the hero waiting for them just outside the door.

The hero blinks for a moment, before stepping out of their way. “Sorry.” They say, averting their eyes.

“Don’t want to be alone?” The villain asks. The hero’s silence is enough of a confirmation. “I suppose I can understand, after what you went through.” The villain remarks, the words leaving their lips before they can second-guess them. They’re still not exactly sure what happened, but it must’ve been suitably traumatizing for their enemy to be acting like this.

The hero’s surprised expression reassures them they made the right choice in speaking on their thoughts. “You didn’t expect me to be understanding, did you?” The villain grins. They put a hand on their shoulder reassuringly. “I can be compassionate when I want to be. I simply… never want to be.”

The hero’s uncharacteristic silence is starting to truly concern them. The villain guides them to the sofa once more, before giving up on their plans for the evening and sitting next to them. “I suppose you’re an exception,” the villain says, allowing the hero to toy with their hand and eventually grasp it. “Seeing you like this… is unnerving, I must admit.” They stare ahead, afraid of seeing the hero’s expression at that. The hero just clings to their side even tighter, as if afraid the villain is going to get up and leave.

“It’s okay,” the villain says somewhat awkwardly. Their enemy leans their head into the crook of their shoulder; the villain resolutely pretends not to feel anything. “You’ll be okay.” They punctuate the reassurance with a gentle hand on their knee.

They’ve never been so affected by the hero’s injured state. After all, usually the villain is the one to hurt them. But something about seeing their enemy so powerless, vulnerable, and hell, actively looking for their reassurance… it rubs them the wrong way. They don’t like it one bit.

“I already know who did this to you,” the villain states, if only to fill the silence. They feel a fleeting grin twitch on their lips. “And let’s just say I have some new methods of torture to try out.”

The hero doesn’t argue, which is truly representative of their current condition. There’s no noble remark, no denial, not even a scoff. Spurred on by their enemy’s quiet, the villain continues.

“First I’ll chop off their fingers,” the villain says, their hand still clasped in the hero’s. They briefly break their grasp to tap the hero’s fingers one-by-one. “A classic. Then I’ll get to the good stuff.”

They’re not sure how long they sit there, their enemy sidled up against them, before they realize they’ve neglected to treat their injuries. The villain sighs. “We should get you cleaned up.” The villain attempts to get up, only for the hero to tug them back down to the couch. “Or… not, I guess.”

The hero’s arm is around their waist now. There’s no room for pretense as they share this small space, this quiet moment. The villain finds they don’t mind nearly as much as they should.

“Later, then.” The villain whispers. They’re not sure if the hero is even awake to hear it.

©2025, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

Bad Things Happen Bingo Masterlist

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click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

[but-is-it-whumpy]

Gi-hun is the PERFECT whumpee for the ~only person restrained/gagged while all their teammates are powerless to help them~

Like-

“For interfering in the diplomatic process of voting, player 456 will be restrained and gagged until the next game. Any player that tries to free him will be eliminated”

Oh no:( looks like Young-li will have to help him move around and try to drink some water:(

[whump-in-the-closet]

💊 for the medical prompt ask game!

- @another-whump-sideblog

Forced to swallow pills

thanks for the ask!

cw: misuse of the medical practice, medical whump, noncon drugging, implied pet whump?, absolute fuckwit of a Whumper, implied torture, implied captivity, whumpee is in their late teens but called "kiddo"

Whumper talked with the doctor like she was an old friend, one hand clamped over Whumpee's shoulder.

Whumpee didn't know despair felt like nausea. They swayed on their feet, colors blurring. They knew that under the frigid, fluorescent light of the doctor's office, they looked like shit.

Powerless.

Miserable.

Hair too long and clothes too big, clearly borrowed. They weren't wearing shoes and stood in their socks, wiggling their toes on the tiles.

"Whumpee," Whumper smiled their name, one thumb tracing their cheek.

Whumpee snapped out of it. "Huh?"

Whumper's expression darkened and his grip tightened on their face, squeezing their chin.

Wrong answer.

"Sorry--" Whumpee choked. "Sir, sorry!"

Whumper's grip relaxed and he moved to place a hand on the small of Whumpee's back.

Whumpee stiffened when he pressed down on the fresh wounds. "I said sorry!" The defiance was a spluttering flame, dying out every second it was exposed to the light. It was quickly replaced with terror-- synonymous with Whumper's smile.

But Whumper was talking again, guiding them to the small bed. "See," he said to the doctor. "I can have them ready for service within a week, but..."

The doctor shrugged "It's a tight schedule." She looked from Whumpee, who sat on the edge of the bed, to Whumper. Sighed. "After this, don't bring any more of your strays in here."

Whumper chuckled, and it was a dangerous sound.

Whumpee flinched without meaning too.

The doctor frowned. "I mean it."

"Sure, sweetheart."

The doctor ignored him and started writing down notes on her clipboard. She rifled through her cupboards before pulling out an orange, unnamed bottle from the back. With tired movements, tapped two pills into the palm of her hand.

She crouched next to Whumpee with the pills and a glass of water. "Hey, kiddo." Her voice was kinder than they expected. Calming, like the sound of the ocean in a seashell.

"H--hey."

"You're going to be okay," said the doctor.

They looked up.

Her eyes were brown and exhausted, holding a weight to them that Whumpee didn't quite understand. "Really?" They wanted to believe her.

They wanted to believe her so badly. They were ready to cling on to any comfort, any hope thrown at them.

The doctor dropped her gaze. "No," she whispered, the word escaping without her meaning for it to.

Whumpee shrank back.

"But you should take these." She offered the pills.

The nausea became stronger. Whumpee tried to push them away, shaking their head. "No! I'm not-- I don't want--"

It was no use.

Whumper grabbed their wrists, pinning them behind their back with minimal effort. He nodded to the doctor, impatience edging its way into his voice. "Get on with it. I don't have all night."

The doctor refused to meet Whumpee's eyes as she pinched their nose shut.

It was a brief struggle.

Flailing limbs and black in the corners of their vision.

The pills swallowed.

Whumpee gagged. And gagged again.

Whumper released them, and they doubled over coughing. If they cried, they didn't realize it. They were trembling, limbs hardly their own.

Nothing was their own.

Nothing.

They dry heaved.

Whumper ruffled their hair and picked them up. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Whumpee's vision slid into shadows and vague shapes. The corners became fogged over and the sudden sensation of being lifted filled their head with white noise-- like the sound of the ocean distorted through a sea shell.

[crucia]

A whumpee with horrible eyesight panicking as their glasses slowly get lifted off the bridge of their nose, powerless to stop their world from becoming blurry and unrecognizable :)

[floral-comet-whump]

I love living weapon whump where whumpee is so conditioned they genuinely view themself as an emotionless tool BUT consider living weapon whumpee who is lying about it. they refuse to give up and be nothing but a mere object to whumper, but they're also aware of their own powerlessness, so they act how others want. they follow protocol, they're efficient, they use "sir/ma'am" for everyone.

all while internally seething, running on nothing but pure hate. one day, they'll kill whumper. one day, they'll be free. but that day is not today, and they're not in a position to be pushing their luck.

[whumblr]

Memories

"So, you remember all the rules, hm? And the punishments that go with them, of course."

"Of course," Whumpee mumbled and, prompted by a sharp gaze, continued: "The whip."

Whumper nodded, slowly circling the kneeling figure. A sly smirk crossed his lips as he threw a quick glance to Caretaker, subdued, helpless, utterly powerless as he too was forced to his knees.

"Good," he said and stopped pacing, kneeling down in front of Whumpee. "Tell me, what do you remember from that, exactly? Hm?" He brought up a finger to their chin and before he even brushed over their skin, Whumpee's eyes found his.

Reluctantly, trembling under Whumper's expecting gaze, Whumpee forced themself back to the recesses of their mind, the place that they avoided at all costs. A little corner with dark memories from their previous captivity, memories that despite all their safeguarding sometimes slipped free at the moment they were least wanted, when Whumpee was least prepared.

What did they remember... The pain, obviously. That blinding sharp pain crossing into their skin. How it didn't fade, how the pain just spread and lingered and worsened with every following lash.

But those weren't the memories that slipped free. In unguarded moments, they heard a voice crooning, echoing in their mind.

"I... I hear the lashes of the whip. And... your voice. Cold. Counting after every crack."

Whumper nodded. "How about your own voice? Do you hear your own screams?"

Whumpee thought for a bit, tensed up, reliving the memories in vivid detail. The pain, the despair, the rotten sound of the whip. How their lips parted in a scream, how their voice rasped in their throat... but they couldn't recall the sound. "No..." they simply said in barely more than a whisper.

Whumper hummed. "I do. I remember them well, especially how your voice cracked."

He stood and with the lightest brush over their cheek, Whumpee followed right along. "But I don't mind if you refresh my memory."

-

General whump tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @auroragehenna @chaotic-orphan