#prompt: victim blaming

[jumpinginmuddypuddles]

Bad Things Happen Bingo

Gwen shuffles slightly closer to Jessica. Olivia is still gripping on to Miles and he fights the urge to try and squirm away. Gwen says, “You did well in your set. Don’t you think, Miles?”

All three gazes turn to him. Miles flounders, “Yeah, I mean. I think I did okay.”

“Modesty,” Olivia covers for him with another painfully hollow laugh. “It’s rare for athletes these days, but glad to see. Right?”

“Right.” Jessica agrees lightly, nonchalant.

//

Miles is a figure skater who has lost his drive, worn away by a toxic coach. A ragtag group he meets while competing at the Olympics aren't going to let that slide.

(BTHB: Victim Blaming)

1/3 | 11472 words

[entity56]

Whumpee's skin prickles every time the makeup brush wipes against a bruise or cut, but they dare not move an inch. Their hands bound behind them, all they can manage is to dig their nails into their palms as Whumper brushes on the concealer, then the foundation, to their neck and face. They clench their teeth, both to avoid moving their jaw and to avoid making a peep as Whumper works on their battered face.

Whumper didn't seem the least bit stressed, by contrast. In fact, they practically floated as they walked back and forth from their makeup tray to Whumpee. They hummed an unrecognizable tune, stopping every so often to take a sharp breath in. It would be soothing if not given the situation.

The vent blows cool air up Whumpee's legs, through the fabric of their expensive clothes, giving them goosebumps. Whumpee can't tell if the shivering is from the cold or the fear.

As Whumper sits back down on their cushioned stool in front of them, they cock their head and tsk disapprovingly.

"Darling, what's wrong?" they ask. "Why are you shaking?"

They lean back a bit to observe the fine garments adorning their malnourished body, and squint.

"Are the clothes I got you not good enough?"

Whumpee stares uneasily. Did they expect an answer? Movement? Last time they'd spoken without permission, they'd been decked across the face. The silence seems to displease Whumper, and they put the makeup brush down and cross their arms.

"When I ask you a question, you answer. Are you really that ungrateful?" they ask. Whumpee's throat constricts with dehydration, and they gulp thickly and clear their throat before attempting to respond.

"N-- ugh. No," they cough, casting their eyes down to Whumper's knees. "I'm not. Thank you."

"Thank you...?" Whumper prods.

"...Thank you, sweetheart." The words leaving Whumpee's mouth made them sick, but they heard Whumper giggle a little.

"That's better!" they chirp as they pick their makeup brush back up. "Now, eyes back on me. We wouldn't want to smudge your makeup, now, would we? All that work on your pretty little face would be such a shame." They snap their fingers. "Eyes on me, darl."

Whumpee looks back up at Whumper, into their eyes, piercing, almost painful to look at. They shut slightly as Whumper smiles and sets back to work on their foundation. The humming resumes, this time in a recognizable tune-- 'You Are My Sunshine'-- and Whumpee tenses up again. Stiff as a statue; don't move an inch. Don't move an inch. Don't move an inch.

The makeup was itchy and caked onto Whumpee's face like mud. They were grateful their hands were bound, or they'd try to wipe it off themselves. That didn't mean it wouldn't drive them crazy, of course, but at least there wasn't any risk of getting in trouble.

Whumper sighs as they cover the last inch of Whumpee's face, and they stand up and walk back to the makeup tray.

"You know what, Whumpee?" they say lightly, as if discussing the weather, as they browse the eye shadow. "Hold on-- look at me, maybe warm tones?-- Whumpee, you're absolutely beautiful. It's as though you've walked directly out of a painting, hmm? I could just stare at you... all day..."

Whumpee stares at them silently as they pause, collecting their thoughts. They turn over their shoulder at them, studying them hard, as though the next time they'd turn around, Whumpee would be gone.

"So I don't understand... why are you making me taint your beauty?" they ask sadly, resting a hand against their cheek. "Why would you work so hard against me? Why would you make me need to leave such ugly marks?"

Anger-- and shame?-- bubble up in Whumpee's stomach, and they cast their eyes back downwards. They feel their ears heat up with the emotion, and they wish in that moment that they could just be back in bed, even if it was next to this horrible, horrible individual. At least the blankets were warm.

"Answer me," Whumper demands, a slight note of irritation in their voice. Whumpee hears their foot tapping against the tile.

"I'm not making you do anything," they say quietly, their voice wavering as they spoke.

"Hm?" Whumper questions, furrowing their eyebrows and setting down the eye shadow pallette.

"I'm not making you hit me." Whumpee shifts uncomfortably in the small wooden chair. "I'm not making you torture me. I never wanted to be here."

For an unbearably long moment, the room was deathly silent. Whumpee's blood runs cold with regret as the reality of what they just said sets in.

But the silence is broken with soft footsteps, and Whumpee nearly jumps out of their skin as Whumper plops themselves right down in their lap and gently turns their head towards them. What was that expression? Was it anger, perhaps? Ice cold rage?

No. It was love. Affection and tenderness as they lean forward and whisper into their ear "I never asked you."

Their hands rest on Whumpee's shoulders as they lean into their chest and smile up at them, innocent, endearing. "It's okay. You're still a bit misguided. I understand, darling. I'll fix that right up for you, okay? Then nothing will stand in the way. I'll never have to ruin you again."

They rise from Whumpee's lap, leaving them paralyzed with dread at that implication.

"Now, be silent, my love. We wouldn't want to be late for dinner, now, would we? I'll finish your make-up in a jiffy."

They walk back to their makeup tray.

[novaricewrites]

Very tired of the shadowy/darkness-themed brooding male love interests in fantasy romance books. Especially the ones where the character revolves heavily around sex / sexualization.

This is especially irritating when they are 'healed' or complete as people because they are dating the protag. Seriously. It just promotes that toxic 'You can fix him with love' concept. This is such an inherently harmful message.

Not saying those kind of broody characters shouldn't be allowed to exist at all. However, the dominance of that character type over other portrayals in romance especially, subscribes to the common notion of masculinity having only one desirable form.

The main lead does not have to be the most powerful, the most virile, most tragic or most intimidating.

It's shallow and overdone.

Why can't the men and boys in these leads also be written as thoughtful and warm, sunlight characters. Soft hands and gentle voices. Complex and spirited and vibrant. Let them also be kind, lovely and full of quiet things.

I have so many thoughts on this general topic that go into way too many directions to summarize in one post.

[a-whumped-tea]

"Look at this. Look at what you've done. You caused all of this by being your fucking hurtable self. I was normal before I met you, but you fucking infected me with these thoughts and impulses.

You did this to me. This is your fault. You're not the victim here, I am. You've ruined me, not the other way around.

You messed up my mind to the point of doing this, and honestly? I think you deserve this for manipulating me like that."

[lumpywhump]

tw: victim blaming

whumpee who loved singing but now their vocal cords are damaged. They screamed and cried too much and now has permanent damage. Whumpee sobbing, knowing it's their fault they can't sing. Knowing that they would be fine if they had just been a little quieter.

bonus points if whumper always told them to shut up

[glitter-stained]

Prompt: Sleeping Murder

Look, it's not that Jason regrets killing these people. There were the child traffickers, and the pedocriminal, and the guy who sold poison in his smack ring and the woman who would have murdered her children and the terrorists-to-be... The point is, they deserved to die, and he will not feel bad for killing them. It's nasty work, and it maybe takes knowing death intimately to do it, but he does, and he will show Bruce what he was too cowardly to do, dirty himself with blood to show him what's necessary. But it is dirty. He is. He doesn't regret it, and doesn't begrudge the power of being able to bring change to this fucked up world, but he won't delude himself into pretending that it didn't come at a price. He was good once, and now he isn't, and somewhere in between the bright yellow cape and waking in his grave and the moment he made his first kill he lost something, too.

Or at least he thinks he did.

Because that's the thing that's been bothering him more and more, haunting his dreams and looping in his thoughts at the most inconvenient times: he doesn't remember. There are holes in his memory from dying and getting brain damage and the pit and all the trauma. Most of it is inconsequential, like a blurr on the details of how he took down Scarecrow, something about Dick nagging at his mind he can't quite place, the taste of Alfred's apple pie. Details, sleeping dogs best left to lie, like a word on the tip of the tongue. (And that one shadow he doesn't like to think about, a woman with blonde hair catching onto light like a spiderweb, the smell of cigarette smoke and unshakeable terror.) But there's one memory - a woman, a noose, Robin, a man on a balcony- that's taking up all the space like an impolite date. "Robin. Did Felipe fall? Or was he pushed?"

He doesn't know. Oh god, he doesn't know. He has all those plans, all that scheming that demands his entire attention if he wants to go against the Batman and win, and he can't focus on anything past the rasp in Bruce's voice as he asked the question. He needs answers before he makes his debut, but the only other witness is dead and did he do this? Was he always destined to die, always doomed to a violence so deep the only way to tame it was to wield it like a knife? This cannot hold. He needs to investigate, but he has no informant, no access to the casefiles, to the GCPD. He needs an ally.

Look, it's not that Tim is a bad Robin. Tim is a good Robin. He follows orders, and he trains hard and works hard and thinks things through and never does anything stupid or impulsive because he's not like -he's a good Robin. (Darla is still dead. His parents are still dead. Steph -oh god, Bruce just told him- Steph is- Tim is a good Robin. He is. This is all he has left.) Batman doesn't seem to believe so, though, if the way he keeps sidelining him and withholding information is anything to go by... After all he's done, all he's sacrificed, Bruce still doesn't trust him, he still doesn't measure up. How could he, when he's competing with a ghost?

So when a mysterious man barges into his life, dragging along shadows of a past he can’t allow to get to Bruce, not when he’s done so much to bring him back from the brink, Tim knows what he has to do: find out who is the man who knows too much in the red mask, his relation to the murder of a long-dead diplomat’s son, and put the ghost of the second Robin to rest once and for all.

[paingoes]

Rubies - Trial II

hiiii. i have such a headache omg. help meeeee

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past child abuse, conditioning, dehumanization, electrocution, physical abuse, verbal abuse, bruises, broken bones, institutionalized child abuse, institutionalized slavery, (internalized) victim blaming, self hatred, retraumatization, whump aftermath)

He had still felt the chill of the ocean when they had first brought him back to base. They’d had to recast his arm for the final time. They’d spotted the broken ribs that had barely had time to heal, not helped at all with the impact he’d made into the water. The fever dreams crept all around the corners of his eyes. 

After Levon had left, the nurses had made a request of him.

He did not have to stand for it, luckily. He sat up on the bed and let them undo the jacket, folding it back against his waist to reveal his bare torso.

He was so covered in bruises then that it almost looked natural on him.

The marks themselves were not the shape of anything in nature, though. Not unless you counted the handprints. Instead, they showed the imprints of rulers and rings. Whip marks. Chains.

They really tried to be respectful as they aimed the camera at him.

~

Two and a half months later, in the new and sterile room, all the bruises had faded. It was the longest he’d ever gone without them. There was still a tenderness in his ribs, but it felt more like a phantom pain than anything real. The cast had finally come off of his wrist — and he appreciated the new dexterity it afforded him. 

He sat on the white floor and watched Kitty hesitate for a long while with her rook.

He was not allowed outside of his room, but he could have her inside of it. He’d had Apollo there too, but from what he understood, the medic had immediately been thrown back into clinical rotations. Kitty’s role in IT afforded her much more free time. She’d spent most of her absence working too, so there was no real change in their schedule.

She put the rook down indecisively, but seemed to tire of the game. She glanced back at the door, furrowing her eyebrows at the lock placed upon it. She folded her fingers up beneath her chin.

“This whole thing is a waste of time.”

The anger in her voice caught him off guard.

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing his hand closer into his lap. 

She looked up in surprise, a bit of guilt seeping into her expression. 

“I’m not mad at you,” she clarified, “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the thing. Levon knows you’re innocent. You shouldn’t have to go through all this.”

He didn’t really feel like he had been through anything, but he didn’t argue with her. He processed the words slowly, trying to work around the irritation in them. It still made him antsy.

“Hey,” she spoke gently, trying to draw his attention back, “I’m not mad at you. You’re not in trouble.”

“Okay,” he conceded, “Sorry.”

He moved his bishop to put her in check. She sacrificed the knight in the king’s stead. Before he could capture it, a voice sounded through the buzzer, directly on the other side of the door.

“Maryam Pike. Can I come in?” It crackled through the static.

Kitty gave Delta a concerned look. He blinked, unsure what she was waiting for. 

“Do you want her to? You don’t have to let her into your space,” Kitty said.

He shrugged. She was just doing her job. There was nothing he could really do to avoid questioning, anyway.

Kitty stood up from her spot on the floor, stalking over to the entryway. She opened it up.

“Does it have to be here?” She asked Maryam, “It’s his room.”

The older woman shrugged just the same.

“His choice. I have the office too, if you want to take the hike.” She glanced over Kitty’s shoulder, addressing Delta. “You want to get out for a little bit?”

He did, actually.

~

They were back around the table. Apollo was absent this time, but everyone from the council was still in attendance. Levon leaned against the back wall casually, sorting through the folder he’d been given. His expression was unreadable.

They knew how impossible it was to get Delta to speak in front of people. He had his gaze all the way down even as he sat at the table. It was too difficult to try and have him give testimony. They’d had to resort to other ways.

Maryam slid the cassette player into the center of the table. She looked at Delta, giving him a final chance to amend it. He had nothing to add.

He still cringed to hear his own voice play over the tape.

[

Q: What is your earliest memory?

A: …I was playing with a baby pool, filled up with all these little fish. The staff were asking me if I could move them around, but without using my hands. It took hours, but eventually I could focus enough to push them around just by thinking about it. I made them swim upside down. 

Q: Where did this take place?

A: One of the lower levels of the Institute. It was one of their wet labs.

Q: What were your parents like?

A: I never knew my parents, ma’am.

Q: How did you feel about other children your age?

A: …Indifferent.

Q: What is the primary emotion you associate with your childhood?

A: …I don’t know, ma’am.

Q: What were the rules at the institute you grew up in?

A: No running. No fighting. No talking back. Be respectful when addressing a superior. Wait for explicit permission before using your powers. Take your medicine as prescribed.

Q: When you were a child, did you ever make any attempt to escape or to disobey your handlers?

A: Never to escape. And I never, um. Never intentionally disobeyed. But by accident sometimes, yeah.

Q: By accident? What did you do?

A: …I was getting fussy one day after drills. There are these kind of growing pains you get if you move up a new level — and I was getting them really badly that day, and I guess I was lashing out too much. I wasn’t really listening.

Q: And what happened?

A: Got some warning shocks. When that didn’t work, they. Um. Increased the voltage until I was ready to listen. 

Q: To clarify, are you saying they electrocuted you?

A: Yes, ma’am.

Q: Did this happen with any frequency?

A: Not to me.

Q: Not to you? What does that mean?

A: Not to me, ma’am. It happened to the other students a lot more. I didn’t need as much correction, ma’am.

Q: And you witnessed this “correction” personally?

A: Yes, ma’am.

Q: How frequently did this happen?

A: In the first years, it was multiple times a day. It didn’t happen as often later on. A lot of the problem students had already been eliminated from the program at that point.

Q: I see. And you never once attempted escape?

A: No, ma’am.

Q: Why not?

A: 

Q: What was that?

A: I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

]

The tape clicked off. Delta folded his hands in his lap.

“We also have testimony from other alumni of the Beldam Institute,” Maryam declared, though Delta disagreed. You couldn’t be an alumnus if you didn’t actually graduate. She’d gotten testimony from the drop-outs. It’d been edited into a neat and digestible format, though to him it seemed a bit hokey.

Levon pulled it up onto the projector, his expression still unreadable.

The woman in the video was in her mid-20s, which meant she hadn’t been there from inception, and that she hadn’t stayed long. She said as much in the video. She was a kind of lightworker - lasers, burns, flash bombs. She’d been transferred to the Institute out of foster care.

“-would’ve been unethical to have adults working those hours. 16 hour days — and there were younger kids there than I was, ones that needed like ten hours of sleep, and they never got it. I don’t think I had a single moment of free time while I was there. The amount of-“

“-and of course they hit the kids. Where I went, at every house I’d been to, they hit the kids. That was nothing new to me. But they had the kids hurting each other. And these were untrained psychics who were still learning to use their powers, they didn’t know their own strength. And they were learning to use it on whoever was lower in the hierarchy than they were. Some of them would get messed up bad. One time-“

“-said pack your shit, get out. I didn’t have any more value to them anymore. I had been fucking gifted. And they just burnt me out like I was nothing. Glad they did, though. The only way kids ever left that school was burnt out or in a body bag. I still haven’t-“

There was no footage of the Institute. No cameras had been allowed inside except by licensed professionals. What they did have were the scans of the old photo books. Delta recognized the backgrounds so clearly, even though it’d been years since he had stepped inside. He felt only some dull recognition for the children in the photos — there’d been too many to keep track of. He’d never cared for them much anyway.

He felt the air in the room stiffen as the pictures got progressively gorier. Training accidents. Wrong dosages. The stripes they’d whipped into the backs of the worst kids. He wondered how much of his survival had been pure luck. He hadn’t known just how mismanaged it’d been at the time. Though he did have inklings.

“It’s clear the defendant was raised in an environment in which his every move was controlled under threat of severe physical punishment or death. His surroundings instilled a sense of learned helplessness within him. From an earlier age, he has been made to feel he has no option but to obey. Due to that conditioning, we can reasonably say that any exhibit of his powers has been under duress. It’s absurd that he should be held legally or morally responsible for his actions.” Maryam had a practiced cadence, especially on such short notice. She looked at nobody and nothing in particular when she did it. Levon watched her like a hawk.

She took a deep breath.

“There’s evidence this coercion continued beyond Beldam Institute.”

She switched between files on the computer. A new screen filled the projector.

“Hold,” Levon held a hand up, “Delta, you don’t have to be here for this. You can take recess.”

She couldn’t get him to talk about Paris. It’d been a no-go. His chest tightened up whenever he tried. The questions made him dizzy.

She had other ways, though. She was surprised she’d managed to dig them up. There’d been so few photos or videos of Paris anywhere. By now, the videos of his time on-the-run far outnumbered any from his reign. He couldn’t imagine how much effort it must have taken her to find this one.

He shook his head. He didn’t see any reason to, did not want any reputation for sensitivity. Keyglades didn’t even stand out as one of the bad ones, anyway. 

“I’m okay, sir,” he said softly.

The video began to play.

It had sound.

Paris’s voice cut through the white noise. It was distant, grainy with analog. Still, Delta felt his ears perk up, immediately rapt. Unable to pry his attention away even if he had tried.

He could pick up on the irritation from the first syllable. The tape showed surveillance footage  a hallway within Keyglades’ city hall. It led away from the main conference area and twisted up into the further reaches of the government building. Delta had been pretty sure at the time it was restricted territory, that they shouldn’t have even went that far.

Paris’s speech had risen to the rapid-fire pace it always took when he was pissed. Delta swore he worked himself up just for sport sometimes. Paris didn’t want a solution, he just wanted to be mad. He should’ve known better than to interrupt.

On the tape, Delta’s voice was low enough that the exact words were indistinct. But the sound of the ringed hand coming down hard against his face had been picked up in crisp resolution.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?!”

It had caught him off-guard. It seemed to catch the others in the room off-guard now, some of them visibly flinching at the abruptness. In the tape, he had reeled, though he did not have long to do so. Paris’s hand caught on the loose fabric of his shirt collar and slammed him into the wall. His grip moved upwards, onto his neck. Tight and uncomfortable, but not actually choking. Just meant to hold him there. Make sure he couldn’t avoid it.

“It’s not about the fucking tax, it’s about the principle. That’s all it ever is with these people. Can you stop acting like you know better than me? There’s a reason nobody fucking asks you. Who the fuck even gave you permission to speak?”

Delta frowned, looking down as if he was getting scolded in that same instant. It had the same effect. He tucked his legs further beneath the chair, shielding them. In the tape, Paris pushed him to the floor — not a hard thing to do — and stomped down on his wrist. It was too mild for him to really consider a beating, but some blood had dripped from his mouth while he was on the floor, which is probably why she’d chosen it.

Maryam cleared her throat.

“Would you say there was anything exceptional about this event?” 

It took him too long to realize the question was directed at him. He knew they were all looking at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up from the floor.

“No, ma’am.” His hands balled up in his lap.

“And was this an atypical occurrence?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How often would you say you experienced this level of violence?”

That level, specifically? That much was hard to quantify. It depended on how quickly operations were moving, how much the plan was working, how badly he’d fucked up. He’d like to say he had a good track record when it came to his powers. He aimed to please. The worst of it came when he didn’t. He would have answered monthly if he’d been asked how frequently he was actually beaten. Those were the standout ones, the ones that left him sore for days afterward, the ones he most thought of as deserved. Well, justified. He deserved all of it.

But the tape hadn’t shown a severe beating. That kind of pettiness came much more frequently. Weekly, he guessed. Biweekly if things were going well. The other kind of biweekly if things were going poorly. If he counted the smaller things — the shoving, the hair-pulling, the grabbing — he would have said almost daily. But he didn’t count those.

“Weekly, ma’am.” He didn’t let his uncertainty show in his voice. He couldn’t pose it as a question; it wasn’t something they could answer. Weekly was a good enough approximation.

He saw Kitty’s eyes narrow dangerously. Her claws carved lines into the woods of the chair from gripping it so hard.

“This caused significant injury, as evidenced by the condition he was in when he first came to Galatea.”

The screen clicked abruptly to the photographs the nurse has taken just before she’d cast his arm. There were several of them, taken from different perspectives. The broken angle his wrist was held at. The thick, dark bruise against his ribs where they’d been kicked in. There was a whole litany of other bruises along his arms and neck. Handprints, implements. Nobody could argue they were obtained in combat. None of the photographs showed his face.

It was his first time seeing the full mosaic. He’d avoided the mirror whenever he could while it was happening. He remembered how badly he did not want Simon to see them, to have the proof of his failures be written out so clearly on his body. It felt a million times worse for Levon to see him like that. He wanted to apologize. He’d promise to do better, if he was allowed to. His lip bled from how hard he was biting into it.

The bruises were bad. Each of his separate ideologies burned in his brain, building and fighting each other. He’d failed. He’d earned it. Paris was fucking crazy. He’d never be able to please him. He’d deserved it. He was supposed to be better than this. He deserved worse.

Kitty’s hand brushed against his. He flinched, but forced himself not to withdraw it. Too well trained to pull away. She seemed to pick up on this as she drew her own hand back.

“Where are you?” she whispered. He couldn’t answer.

When he looked up again, Levon was staring straight at him, not at the bruises on the screen. As soon as they made eye contact, Levon looked inconspicuously to his watch.

“Think we’re gonna call it for today,” he announced. 

~

He’d expected to return straight back to his room afterwards, but nobody escorted him. Kitty led him through the airy hallways instead. This section of the building was made mostly of glass and white tile. 

“I swear this is their best kept secret,” she said as she pushed open the outer doors.

They entered into the bio-pond. The algae green ambiance contrasted sharply with the tidiness of Galatea’s interior. Despite her claim, a few other people drifted around the edges, absorbed in their own work. They didn’t pay the pair of them any mind.

It was the first time he had stepped outside all week. The damp air was suddenly much easier for him to breathe. She sat him down by the edge of the pond. A row of turtles sat on a log in the center of the water. The grass was soft, slightly damp. It felt cool against his palms.

Kitty leaned forward over the water, pointing out the fish that lived inside of it. He saw her claws poke out like she wanted to snatch them straight from the water, but she held herself back. 

He didn’t speak. Subconsciously, he tried to shield his arms, covering up the bruises from her sight. Of course, they weren’t there anymore. And when they had been, she’d seen them already. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, but he saw the sky slowly fading to purple by the end of it. The mosquitos were starting to bite. 

“Why don’t you hit me?” He’d asked when he finally had to return to his room. She went in with him, just for a little while, until she had to go back to her own. His head had drooped a little when he asked in, in its exhausted state.

“Whyyy would I hit you?” She asked instead, hooking one finger around his. This time, he didn’t flinch, felt no urge to withdraw it.

Because he was difficult, more needy than he’d been in years. Because he was evil, because he deserved it. Because she could. Because everyone else always had.

He shrugged.

“Never,” she promised. She brought his hand up to her lips, kissing it gently. 

His chest ached.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

[all-the-gory-details]

Whumpmas in July: Day Three

"___ deserved it."

TW: Blood, knife, torture, victim blaming, burning

"You were bad," Whumper said, as they wiped the blood off their knife. "You disobeyed my rules. You understand that, don't you?"

Whumpee shivered from their place on the table. "I-I understand," they whispered, tears blurring their vision.

"Do you? Or are you just saying that to get me to stop?"

They choked on a sob. Of course they were saying it to get them to stop. They hadn't done anything wrong, they were only trying to get away, to escape this place of rules and punishment.

Whumper sighed. "Well, I suppose that's that question answered. What do you think we should try next? I've got a pyrography pen I've been meaning to break in..."

"No, no please-" they couldn't take any more, they couldn't, it had been hours since Whumper started carving into their skin, they couldn't do this-

"You deserve this, Whumpee. I'm not punishing you for no reason. You disobeyed, and now you deserve to be punished."

Whumpee nodded frantically, eyes following whumper as they walked to a shelf and grabbed a tool, a pen with a plug for an outlet. They bent down and plugged it in and oh god it wasn't done-

"Say it, Whumpee. Tell me what you deserve."

They sucked in a breath, and the air felt heavy in their lungs. "I-I deserv-ved it. I deserve t-to be punish-shed."

Whumper smiled, picking up the pen and positioning it just above Whumpee's thigh. Close enough that they could feel the heat radiating off it.

"Good. Now I just need you to believe it."

[whump-queen]

whumper using victim blaming dialogue as a humiliation tactic—

“well I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t make it so fucking easy.”

“if you weren’t so pretty when you begged and cried.”

“if you didn’t take abuse so well.”

“I just hit you and you whine like that— I mean, what am I supposed to think?”

“you know you deserve this.”

“go on, tell me you deserve it.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

and who knows— eventually, whumpee might start to believe they’re right

.

[shoutout to @unorganisedalienrubbish for coming up with like half of these]

[meaculpameahugeculpa]

Whumpee thinks that Whumper wants to kill them (but they are wrong!)

CW: manipulation, victim blaming, fear of murder/getting killed, discussion of death, affectionate whumper

Whumpee is scared that their whumper will kill them, in the sense that they think that Whumper had captured them with that intent: it just sounds logical to them! Sometimes they try to understand when they are going to get killed, wondering why they survived the day, they try to be emotionally prepared for their destiny, but sometimes they panic: they cry, scream, they shake when they have to interact with the whumper or flinch when they get touched. Whumper, on the other hand, doesn't genuinely want to kill the Whumpee! Maybe they care on some level for the Whumpee or have some kind of morals after all, or maybe the Whumpee is useful and needs to stay alive: whatever the reason might be, Whumper doesn't want to see Whumpee dead!

And probably, Whumper doesn't realize that this is something Whumpee fears! So, how do they discover that?

Maybe Whumpee tells them: when the whumper is taking care of them, or is in a particular good mood, Whumpee decides to just ask them when they are going to die.

Maybe Whumper accepts the question, they are cold, and detached: after all it's comprehensible and rational from Whumpee's point of view to be afraid of that possibility!

Or maybe they are horrified, and if they are, do they feel like their emotion is justifiable? After all, they had hurt Whumpee, they had hit them, tortured them! Maybe the Whumper thinks that what they are doing is fair, and Whumpee shouldn't accuse them of planning such disgusting crimes: is Whumpee trying to paint them as the villain?

Maybe the Whumper is aware of their wrongdoings! But still, it feels impossible to accept that someone would think that of them! How do they deal with the horror of knowing that they are a monster in someone else's life?

How does someone deal with the aftermath of the abuse that they perpetrated? And with the knowledge that they cannot fix their relationship with Whumpee or restore the other's mental health?

How do you communicate with someone who is rightfully scared of you? How do you reassure someone whose life you destroyed?

Is it possible? Maybe yes, but most likely it's not.

It doesn't really matter though, because you are the only one who is there with them.

[secretwhumplair]

Whump prompt XXIV

Whumpee as part of the table decor at wumper's dinner party. Hungry, and surrounded if not covered in food.

Bonus points:

Stress position, of course

Whumpee's not even tied up. They're just expected to stay in position for hours.

Hot serving plates placed on whumpee's body

"Accidentally" getting stabbed with serving forks

The guests making jokes and giving compliments to whumper over the decor, never acknowledging whumpee as a living person

Whumpee, of course, cannot leave without whumper's permission - too bad whumper is too busy long after the dinner itself is done with entertaining their guests; they might forget about whumpee by the end of it, and go to bed without letting them go, sleeping in nice and long the morning after the party

Whumpee in a dark dining room holding their position for the benefit of absolutely no one, still knowing they would be punished if they were caught moving

Still tormented by the scent of leftovers that no one would miss, yet knowing they'd be punished if they took any

Being punished the next day for not having cleared the table and done the dishes sooner

[3-2-whump]

Whump Quote

Or, micro-dosing whump when I’d rather be at home writing than at work

TW/CW: rape/noncon, nsfw, minor whump implied, intimate whumper, victim blaming (?) (by victim)

“It wasn’t all bad, you know. Before I grew up and became so handsome that he couldn’t control himself, Master was really nice to me.”

“There is so much wrong with what you just said.”

[whump-is-love-whump-is-life]

What about a hero whumpee currently captured by the villain whumper, and villain gives them a scar for each person killed by villain or their henchmen {or just non-natural cod} while hero’s there.

Of course, it’s not actually their fault but nevertheless; the hero blames themself for each death and it’s only reinforced by the villain cooing “you deserve it.” right in their ear as they cut each and every scar

[b0amagination]

"Just- s-stop touching me!"

"Then stop being so touchable."

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

@alllthequeenshorses (who I am having trouble tagging) asked for Bruises!

~~~

Whumpee despised them. Despised the marks, despised the indisputable proof of their weakness. If they had fought more: had been stronger they would have survived unfazed. Unmarked.

Whumper loving adored each one.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

TW: medical, victim blaming

Whumper judging Whumpee for “allowing” things to happen to them under general anaesthesia.