#protective whumper

[jordanstrophe]

A protective whumper who's afraid whumpees job is far too dangerous for them, so they do everything in their power to ruin whumpees career.

-And they have power to do it.

[montammil]

Just a little hurt/comfort writing with Lawrence and Marshall. This is a pretty old WIP that I just did some editing on haha

CW: Stockholm syndrome, parental abuse, parental whumper, carewhumper, infantilization, platonic cuddling/pet names, non-sexual nudity, accidental bedwetting, victim blaming

...

In the past few nights, Marshall had been getting nightmares. They typically weren't that bad, since he hid them pretty well from Lawrence, but they were still very vivid in his memory, and he hated them. Sometimes they were related to Lawrence subjecting him to torture, and other times they had nothing to do with Lawrence at all. However, none of them were as terrifying as this one.

"I'm back!" Marshall sobbed, running to hug his parents. His real parents.

Instead of acting with happiness as he expected, his mother pushed him away. "Do you really think we'd want you to leech off of us again? We kicked you out, did you think we'd change our minds because you got yourself kidnapped?"

Scoffing, his father added, "I don't think he even got kidnapped. From the sounds of it, you wanted it. Isn't that right? You wanted someone to coddle you because you refuse to grow up?"

Marshall rapidly shook his head, but he didn't get much of a chance to say anything before he continued.

"It's disgusting how you think we'd want you back. From the sounds of it, you love him more than you love us."

Marshall's mouth hung agape for a moment. "That's not true! You know that's not true!"

"It is," his mother hissed. "Get out before we call the cops."

Next thing Marshall knew, he ran out of his parents' house, slamming the door behind him and running down the street. He eventually stopped to catch his breath, and noticed Lawrence sadly watching him, arms wide open for a hug.

Without thinking twice, Marshall ran into his arms, crying heavily. Lawrence didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around Marshall.

"I told you this would happen," Lawrence chided gently. "Everyone hates you but me, Marshie. Everything I do for you is out of love. Come on." He dragged him away. "When we get home, I think you need a time-out in the basement."

With that, Marshall jolted awake.

He frantically looked around his room in search of any evidence Lawrence was there, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sighing in relief, he wiped away his tears and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Just when he felt himself beginning to breathe slowly again, he felt the bed was wet. Marshall blinked away tears and threw the blanket off.

Sure enough, he had wet the bed. Marshall began hyperventilating again, trying desperately to remain quiet. What if Lawrence got angry? Realistically, he knew that wouldn't be the case, but it was always in the back of his mind.

Once he could finally calm himself, he carefully crept out of his room. Lawrence must've been asleep, because he didn't see or hear anyone else. After a few seconds of debating, he went to the bathroom and cleaned up, changing into a new pair of pajamas with shaking hands. When he checked the clock, he saw it was 2 AM. Hopefully Lawrence wouldn't hear him...

Marshall tiptoed out of the bathroom and carefully peeled the sheets off of his mattress, balling them up.

He felt so disgusting. His face burned with shame as he carried the dirty sheets and blanket to the laundry room, occasionally looking behind his shoulder just to make sure Lawrence wasn't lurking.

The washing machine made a lot of noise. It seemed deafening in the silence of the night. There was no way Lawrence wouldn't notice it.

Tears ran down Marshall's cheek at the thought of the inevitable punishment. Maybe he'd be left in the basement for two weeks instead of one. That happened last month; Marshall cried for hours until Lawrence let him out early.

"What are you doing up?"

Marshall yelped, whipping around. Lawrence's tone sounded accusatory, and so did his expression until he saw Marshall's tear-streaked cheeks in the dim light.

He didn't get a chance to ask what was wrong, Marshall was already crumpling to the floor and muttering incoherent apologies.

"No, hey," Lawrence hushed, rushing over to cradle him in his arms. "Don't cry. What's wrong?" Marshall opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out were blubbers. "Baby, why're you so sad? Please talk to me, I wanna help." He ran his fingers through Marshall's hair, which didn't seem to soothe him, judging by how loudly he wailed. "Shh..."

It took Marshall several minutes of heavy crying before he calmed down enough to actually speak. He looked up at Lawrence with those beautiful puppy-dog eyes. "I—I had an accident," he whimpered. It was too embarrassing to say he wet the bed.

Lawrence frowned sympathetically. "Oh, Marshie. Why didn't you wake me?" Marshall stayed silent, wiping away the remaining tears. "Did you think I'd be mad?"

Marshall shrugged. In hindsight, it did seem pretty stupid to worry about being judged about this from the man who was treating him like a toddler.

"I'm not mad. You know that, right? You know that nothing you do could make me love you less." He coaxed Marshall to look back up at him. "I love you so, so much. Nothing will ever change that." He brushed away some strands of hair from his forehead and gave him a kiss there. "Let's go get you a bath. Have you taken one yet?"

"No... I freaked out so I just changed my pajamas and put everything wet in the washing machine..." Marshall stared at the ground in embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

Lawrence shook his head and held him closer. "No need to apologize, buddy. You know you can always tell me things like that." Marshall didn't respond to that. "Come on, I'll give you a bubble bath!"

It was sweet he was trying to cheer him up. Marshall attempted a weak smile in return and followed him upstairs.

Once Lawrence prepared him a bath, it smelled like honey and lavender, two of his favorite scents. Marshall eagerly got in, and relaxing became ten times easier just like that. He sunk in the bathtub so it engulfed up to the base of his neck.

"Is it okay if I go check on your sheets? Just wanna make sure you did it right," said Lawrence. "If not, then I can—"

"You can go. I won't drown myself," said Marshall half-jokingly. Lawrence looked slightly worried about that. "Go, I don't mind. You can leave the door open if it makes you feel better."

After hesitating for a few more moments, Lawrence nodded and went downstairs to the laundry room. Meanwhile, Marshall hummed quietly to himself to pass the time. The scent of his bubbles made him more relaxed, and it didn't take long for his eyelids to get heavy.

The only thing keeping him from falling back asleep in the tub was knowing he'd likely make Lawrence have a heart attack.

"Okay, Marshie, I'm back." Lawrence reentered the bathroom and took a seat beside him. "Feelin' any better?"

"A little, yeah." Marshall sank into the water a bit more, making a small wave splash out.

Lawrence smiled lovingly. "Good. And the sheets should be done drying before the morning. Until then, I can make us a cool fort in the living room, or you can sleep in my room tonight? What do you think?"

Marshall thought about it for a moment. "Your bed's huge. I'll take that for tonight."

"That works for me! But first, we gotta wash your hair." Marshall pouted. "Don't pull that face with me, mister."

In all truth, Marshall didn't really care that much. He let Lawrence wash his hair and dry him off with a towel.

After drying his hair, he dressed him back in his fresh pair of pajamas and lead him to the bedroom, where he had already set up a makeshift nest of pillows and blankets on the left side of the bed. Marshall almost cried again. Lawrence was the only person who paid attention to little things like how Marshall preferred tons of pillows.

Lawrence tucked him in. "Comfy?"

Marshall nodded. A light smile formed on his face, which turned into a frown once he noticed Lawrence leaving. "Where are you going?" He realized too late how pathetic he sounded.

For a moment, he saw surprise flash across Lawrence's features. "You want me to stay?"

The brunet wasn't used to Lawrence giving him a choice in things like this. Normally, he'd demand it. Marshall hesitated and averted eye contact.

"Only if you want to... it just feels weird sleeping in here without you." He had only slept in Lawrence's room a few times before, and it was when he was usually injured or sick.

"Aw, Marshie... of course I want to be with you!" Lawrence kicked off his slippers and climbed into his side of the bed, turning off the lamp as he did so. "C'mere. I love cuddling with you." Marshall found himself listening, against his better judgment. He buried his face in Lawrence's broad chest, feeling the strong arms wrap around his back. "Still comfy?"

Marshall exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. I'm sorry for waking you."

"Stop apologizing, bud. I want you to rely on me. I'm your dad." He felt a kiss pressed onto his head.

His dad. Marshall thought back to his dream. It was definitely an exaggeration, but the emotions were real. His parents couldn't even compare to how Lawrence treated him.

He hated comparing them, but it was hard not to think of it, especially now that his parents were fresh in his mind from that nightmare.

He broke down in tears again, despite his attempts to hold them back. It felt like a dam broke.

"Oh, honey." Lawrence held him even closer. "Hey, don't cry, kiddo. Are you thinking about something? Can you talk to me?" Marshall shook his head, hoping that Lawrence would just drop it. "Can you look at me? Look at Dad." It was easier to ignore the shame in the dark. Marshall tilted his head up and saw Lawrence's azure blue eyes. "There we go. There's my boy." Lawrence kissed his forehead. "If something is bothering you, especially to this degree, I want to know."

Marshall sniffled, and for a couple of minutes, neither of them said anything. Lawrence rubbed soothing circles on Marshall's back, and Marshall hid his face in Lawrence's shoulder, trying to forget the pain.

"You'll get mad."

"Try me," Lawrence challenged.

Marshall swallowed his pride, closed his eyes, and exhaled. "I was dreaming of my parents." Lawrence's hand paused. "My biological parents," he corrected, in hopes of not making him angry. "I was returning to them... and they didn't want me. And then you were there and I ran to you, and you hugged me. You took me home. But for some reason it really shook me up. Apparently enough for me to... yeah."

He felt Lawrence sigh. He wondered if he made him angry.

"Marshall..." Lawrence was so soft with him. Gentle. It made his skin crawl. "I think sometimes dreams mean something. And I think you know, deep down inside, that if you were to return to them, that's exactly what would happen."

He hated the thought of that. That he would go back to his parents, and they wouldn't want him. Yet he believed Lawrence.

"I know you love them. And I know you miss them. And it's normal to want to see them again. But if you return to them, they'll throw you away just like they did when they kicked you out." His tone was cold, harsh, but he held Marshall with so much affection it didn't feel right. "And I'm sorry about that. It's so awful that they don't want you."

Marshall never heard Lawrence become sympathetic, but a part of him knew why. Lawrence knew damn well that he was finally starting to make sense to him. He felt Lawrence squeeze him tighter, as if he'd float away if he wasn't grounded.

"But you have me." His voice was firm. Marshall didn't dare speak. "And I love you so, so much. More than they ever will."

These emotions were overwhelming. Marshall didn't know what to do, so he settled for staying clung onto Lawrence like a koala.

Lawrence rested his chin atop Marshall's head. "It's gonna be okay, kiddo. Just fall asleep, and we'll talk in the morning, if you still want to."

Marshall could only nod.

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Mercy

(Masterlist)

(Content: panic attack, body horror, threat of dismemberment, crying, begging)

======================

Delta wished he hadn’t done it. He had never wished for anything in his entire life. He had saved it all for now. He wished, more than anything, that he hadn’t done it.

The holding cell was strangely warm, giving the impression of being on the inside of some massive creature. He supposed he was close to the engine. There was no light in the room, no sound besides his own choked breathing noises. He didn’t understand what was happening to him physically and that yet it was all the stimulus had to think about. Despite the room’s warmth, he was shivering. Sweat was beading at his bare arms, an unwelcome moisture. He was losing fluid through his eyes too, though he didn’t think of this as crying, oddly enough. He ached where they had grabbed him, but he knew it was nothing compared to what would come next. It was almost funny how little all of this would matter soon. His life was over, he knew it. It’d been a good run, at least. Maybe. Well, not really. It didn’t matter.

The door slipped open, letting a thin line of light in. Delta didn’t move. He didn’t have to. They’d drag him, sure now that his movement must be restricted, that he couldn’t be let out of sight. And they did drag him, upwards, out the door. It scared him that he did not recognize the guards, but his fear was so overflowing by then that it made little difference. He barely looked up as they moved him down the hall of the Thorn. Maybe he should have. Maybe he’d never see it again. He realized, to his own shock, that he would probably miss it.

Another set of doors slid open. It was small, but it was unmistakably a throne room. The General Nezu and his counsel Chanyu Brooks were standing in attendance. Sitting on the throne, almost entirely obscured by shadows, was His Highness, Paris of Thales.

The guards threw him unceremoniously to the ground, scraping up his hands and knees. He straightened himself into a kneel immediately. General Nezu was standing over him, in his blind spot. It would not have been right, under ordinary circumstances, for an old man who did not have any claims to Delta to be presenting him back to his owner. But these were not ordinary circumstances. Nezu had caught him, fair and square. He had nobody to blame but himself.

He kept thinking, if he’d just waited until the ship was airborne, he might’ve had a chance. They couldn’t reasonably accuse him while they were hurtling through the depths of space. There’d be nowhere for him to go. But instead he had done it while they were docked on a sanctuary planet. It didn’t matter what he was trying to do. Paris would never, ever believe him. And even if he did, now he had to save face. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. In the eyes of the law, Delta had attempted escape. 

“Your Highness,” General Nezu spoke, “This is quite a high caliber security risk. I’m astonished you’ve given Δ-107 such free reign to begin with. Your father was very specific in his demands that the weapon be contained within the controlled environment that the Institute had constructed for it. This is precisely the reason why.”

Delta didn’t look up, knowing preternaturally that if he did, the General would wrench his neck. His man, the Chanyu, went on in a mechanical fashion.

“I discovered it attempting to access the engineering console in the middle of the night. That is the system that controls all functions of the Thorn, including her passenger doors. It is my belief that Δ-107 was attempting to exit the ship without authorization and to take refuge on the planet below. Needless to say, even the attempt to take control of the ship constitutes an existential threat to not only the Empire but the galaxy at large.”

Delta winced. How had he been so careless? He’d been building up to this for weeks, but he had gotten too absorbed to even hear the footsteps down the hall. Maybe it was their irregularity that had escaped him. It was not the sound of anyone he’d been trained to look out for. If Paris had caught him, he might’ve been able to beg for mercy. If he begged well enough and the two of them were alone, he might’ve even received it. But Delta had been caught by Nezu’s men, the ones who were always chomping at the bit to take over. He’d made Paris look bad in front of his competition, which was about the worst thing you could do to him. Delta was pretty sure he’d never see the light of any sun ever again. 

“Not to mention the danger to your legitimacy. I’d remind you, nowhere in your father’s will did it stipulate that  Δ-107 should enter your possession. It would not be a hard right to challenge, if one was so inclined. For that reason, I’d recommend you address this situation swiftly and effectively. I have some suggestions of my own,” Nezu picked up where his man had left off, as if they had rehearsed. 

Paris was silent, which Nezu took as a cue to continue.

“Are you familiar with The Damian Foundation?”

No. No. No. Delta felt bile rising up in his throat, his body shaking so much he was sure they all could see it. The voices rose up in an awful cacophony from the dredges of his memory. He saw their mutilated forms as if they were there with him, the limbs strung up, the eyes gouged out, the bones pushed through the skin to better attach to the metal grating. 

“The standard procedure there is to just remove the offending limb. Here it would be the legs, if you want it to retain some degree of independence, the care needs would be lessened. But if you have the labor to spare — or if you would accept mine — quadruple amputation is also an option. They’ve learned to do it very safely. When the threat level is this high, I think it’d be appropriate to respond in kind.”

This isn’t happening. This is not fucking happening. No. No. No. 

“All they really need is the brain, you know. The jarring tech is still experimental, but so far it’s very promising. Of course, its applications are not as flexible, but all the power is preserved and is able to be drawn from. We believe this is in your best interest, Your Highness. From your current position, there is nothing that is better left to chance.”

It was happening, though. In some sectors of the Empire, it was becoming the go-to solution for unruly psychics. It was a safe, intuitive way to get the energy out of someone who refused to give it up willingly. The other generals and their factions would surely agree this was a great compromise. Delta was going to pass out, which only made him panic worse, he’d be out and then when he’d wake up it would already be over. He wasn’t even sure if he was alive anymore, half convinced he had died in his sleep and was now stuck in a kind of hellish afterlife. He would be stuck forever, he was sure. God, he was so young, he would live forever like that, trapped in his own body, a body that had been-

“From my current position?” Paris asked.

The General stiffened.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to undermine my authority,” Paris said, a bit testy.

“Not at all, Your Highness. It’s si-“

“Did I give you permission to speak?”

Like that, silence filled the room. Paris took a deep breath.

“Thank you for the warning. It’s a very serious issue you’ve brought to my attention and so I will go over it with my own people. At no point did I request your advisement in the matter. I don’t appreciate you offering it unsolicited — and I don’t ever want to hear you suggest it again. Delta is mine. I’ll discipline him as I see fit.”

Silence. The General didn’t move an inch.

“If that’s all then, the two of you are dismissed. And in light of this security crisis, I think it’s best if you disembark as soon as possible. I’ll flag your ship right now.”

Like it pained him, General Nezu bowed out. The two of them left without saying goodbye, disappearing through the large doors of the throne room. The doors slammed shut violently, and then there was no sound at all.

Delta looked up. Paris’s face was hidden in the shade. He could not see his expression. Delta was still shaking badly, his skin a pallid color. He wouldn’t have been able to stand up if he was asked. He didn’t know if he could move at all, the animal terror rolling off him, the relief. The gratitude. It scared him. He’d never felt this way in all his life.

Paris pulled his own leg up onto the throne, rocking it gently. 

“Well?” The prince asked.

“Thank you,” Delta said, “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

He was crying. He hadn’t meant to. He was lower than he had been a second ago, closer to the ground, half bowing and half keeling from the exertion.

“Thank you,” Delta said and meant it. It shocked him how much he meant it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.”

Paris didn’t say anything, letting him grovel or cry for as long as he needed to. It took a while. Paris closed his eyes. He was so tired. He held up a hand and the sobs quieted. 

“Go to your room, Delta. I don’t even want to look at you right now,” Paris’s voice was deceptively calm, only the words revealing the anger beneath them. 

Delta felt a rush of shame. Paris was still angry at him, of course. He always was. Why did it hurt so badly now?

~~~

Tags: @catnykit @indigoviolet311 @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @defire @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump @pumpkin-spice-whump

[cepheusgalaxy]

Y'all im really here for all the Protective Caretaker Squad but i really wanted to see some protective whumpers

Whumper who doesn't think that what they do is wrong or hurtful at all and when someone else tries to hurt Whumlee they are baffled. Infuriated

Owner Whumper who doesn't allow anyone to as much as look at Whumpee the wrong way and will threaten anyone who does

Whumpers who threatens people and stay true to their threats

Reluctant Whumper who already hates when it's their fault Whumpee gets hurt, and when it's someone else they simply won't allow it.

Carewhumpers.

Powerful Whumper who has a feeling of ownership towards Whumpee, and nobody damages their property

Whumper who only hurts their Guard Dog Whumpee for training or sometimes a punishment and when someone else hurts them? Even if it's in a mission or something? They give Whumpee permission to destroy them.

[whump-witch]

Pregnancy whump tropes, part 2! This one does contain prompts relating to violence against a pregnant person, so skip this post if you don't wanna see that.

The whumpee curling in on themselves, arms closing over their abdomen, trying to protect their baby.

The whumper putting a hand on the whumpee's belly. Is it a twisted expression of creepy affection or is it straightforwardly a threat?

The whumper injecting the whumpee or forcing the whumpee to swallow something, convincing them it's something that will endanger their baby but not giving them a choice. It turns out to be harmless. This time.

Laboring whumpee begging the whumper to get help or take them to a hospital. They swear they won't say anything and they'll come back without a fight and won't try to escape.

The whumpee being left to give birth alone in a cell/basement/closet/wherever they're trapped.

Pregnancy conceived through rape by the whumper.

Pregnancy conceived through rape by someone else who the whumper is trying to "protect" the whumpee from by any means necessary.

The whumper threatening to take the whumpee's baby away the second they're born.

The whumper going out of the way to hit the whumpee's abdomen while "disciplining" them.

[rizzoto-whump]

TW: noncon, light gore, blood, minor character(s) death, obsessive whumper, omegaverse, experiment whump

Update a new chap!

79830, TX - rikkacha - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

The effects of the experimental drug were getting stronger for the alphas, but they were all trapped there.

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Dude I see so much of average drugged whumpee just being spacey and out of it, but I raise you, a drugged whumpee that’s happy. A whumpee dosed with a euphoria drug that has them wonderfully higher than a kite, laughing, looking at streaming shimmering hallucinations around them, blissfully relaxed and unaware that whumper is behind it

bonus points if whumper flees from wherever they’ve been hiding, leaving a happily drugged whumpee behind as a “present” for caretaker

(content warning: nudity, the vague references to non-con touching)

YES. YES. YES.

I ADORE happy little drugged out whumpees! And Caretaker finding them like that? Especially when it’s such a far cry from whumpee’s typical personality? I could explode.

It’s all about the dichotomy between their behavior and their situation. Anything would be more fitting. Helpless terror as they shiver in the corner, hiding from horrors only they can see. Numb listlessness because their body is overburdened by exhaustion. Those all make sense, they fit.

But joy? Near manic euphoria, a smile stretching across their pale and dirty face? They’re not screaming or crying, but laughing, a drunken giggle that bounces against cold walls.

I think there’s an extra layer of helplessness there that is absolutely amazing. They’ve been stripped of their freedom, their dignity, and even their ability to properly respond to their situation. They’re not even given the right to anger or sadness. They’re trapped in an unthinking joy, and they can’t even begin to understand why it’s a bad thing.

And left as a prize? Absolutely. I love the idea of Caretaker finding them like that, at their most vulnerable. Presented like a trophy. Wrapped in thin silk and rope too weak to bind them under normal conditions, bruises peppering otherwise bare skin.

It’s humiliating, it’s painful, but Whumpee has no awareness of that. They simply feel good, relaxed and peaceful in a way they haven’t been for months. They’re barely aware of the exposed state they’re in, too out of it to even feel shame. They can’t remember the mocking words Whumper spoke as they pushed the needle into Whumpee’s skin, can’t remember the sicking mix of fury and terror they felt in those first few minutes, laying there with nothing to do but wait for the drug to kick in. All that’s left in their head is pink, sparkling joy.

Finally, Caretaker arrives. Whumpee doesn’t register the look of horror on Caretaker’s face. They barely respond as they’re searched for injuries, barely respond to Caretaker’s presence at all. When they do respond, it’s with slow, slurred speech, the words incoherent and muddled with uncontrollable laughter.

It sends a chill up Caretaker’s spine. It’s a state they’d neve expect to find Whumpee in, a state Whumpee would never allow themselves to be found in. It's frightening, seeing Whumpee act so unlike themselves.

Knowing that Whumper was around them in this state makes Caretaker sick. Knowing that Whumper had them at their most vulnerable, was free to mock them, touch them, do anything, and Caretaker wasn’t there to stop it, makes them feel sick.

It makes them sick to think this is all part of some game to Whumper. It makes them sick to think that they’re playing along, that saving Whumpee is somehow part of Whumper’s plan. But there’s nothing else Caretaker can do.

Caretaker removes their coat and drapes it over Whumpee’s body. Carefully, they pick Whumpee up, not trusting them to walk in their state. Whumpee’s body is warm despite being left on the cold floor, skin flush as the drug works through their system. Whumpee’s shivering, though they don’t seem to notice that either.

Whumpee presses themselves into Caretaker’s chest, humming contently. Caretaker holds them close with trembling fingers, and swears to never let them go again.

[rosieposey-torturedpoet]

Okay, so this is really random: but I see a lot of like 'inexperienced' Whumpees who are the weakest/youngest out of the group

But like what if the youngest is the one everyone fears, I mean they're in the group for a reason

Picture this very specific scenario: The team is captured by Whumper and they are all taken to the same room, chained up to keep them from running or trying anything: and here comes Whumpee (a teenager that's like half the size of everyone in the room) with these insanely complicated locks, maybe they're wearing a straight jacket, with multiple guards while the rest of the team got one or two

Because if you think about it, younger people would have to work harder to prove their strength and 'worth' to the team. There has to be a reason for them to stay on the team

However my personal favorite of this trope is that the youngest is just so unpredictable; not only are they talented/wise beyond their years but you truly never know what they'll do next with all the talent they harbor

Maybe Whumper hates them because at least he can fall into this rythme with the rest of the team and learn their habits: but he physically can't do that for youngest because there is no routine or habit to fall back onto

Maybe they mastered a rare magic form at a young age, or were trained as a soldier

Then think of the CARETAKING OPPROTUNITIES?? A parental Caretaker that shows Whumpee what it's like to be a kid, who worry about they're little reckless living death wish 24/7, and give them a mom/dad that they deserve

I just love young, anti-hero, vigilante Whumpees who have seen so much and learned so many things at such a young age, to the point where they are constantly on the verge of villain because of their genuine desensitization to it all

Which causes everyone to be at least a little afraid of youngest, in some sense of the word

[whumblr]

Find them!

Good whump words in all variants. So have some prompts you can hear :) from calm and collected to most desperate.

- Whumpee hiding in a darkened room. They hear the door open, hear multiple sets of footsteps enter, getting closer, walking past. Then a calm "Find them".

- Whumper bending over, picking up the remnants of cut rope. He straightens back up, looks around. A click of the tongue. This is an inconvenience.

- A blood trail leading to the woods (Whumper: calm, with a smile. Caretaker: a little less calm)

- The captives have escaped, but the building is sealed anyway.

- The (snow) storm is getting more extreme and Whumpee hasn’t come back yet. "We have to find them!"

- Whumper has been signalled nearby and Whumpee (oblivious) is out.

- Caretaker realising in the midst of chaos that Whumpee isn't among them anymore.

- Whumper who has just been shot (bonus if sniper) or punched to the ground screaming in rage, "Find them!"

- Caretaker crying, pleading with the rescue team.

- Whumper slamming the door to their office open. Surprise :) the precious thingamajig / important documents / hostages are missing.

- Whumper finding the cell empty. And the bigger badder Whumper is waiting for them.

[bltzgore]

Currently fixating on caretaker who's not all human letting their voice drop as dark and monstrous as they can. They make unflinching eye contact with whumper, and with all the vitriol and burning rage in their body tell whumper, "Don't you fucking touch them."

It is not a warning, not even a command. It is a promise.

[whumpitisthen]

Whumpee gets the biggest, scariest, most menacing looking dog they can find after they get away. Whumper hurt them, Caretaker left them, no one would help. Dogs are loyal. Dogs are protectors. Dogs are man's best friend. Whumpee will not be unsafe, even if they are fated to remain all alone until the end of time. They will never be defenseless again.

[jordanstrophe]

Whumper kidnaps whumpee for the soul reason of keeping them.

They don't want ransom, they don't want to hurt them, they're just tired of coming home to an empty house.

If whumpee gets a scratch or bruise by accident, Whumper grabs their face, squints at their injury before crying "Th-they're RUINED!!!" Before dragging them off to fix them up.

[elisabethrosewrites]

"How much do you care for your Whumpee?" Whumper asked Caretaker in a nonchalant tone.

Caretaker glares viciously at him. "They don't mean anything to me." They tell the boldfaced lie with as much confidence as they can muster.

"Is that so?" Whumper asks, amused this time. "So if for example, I had Whumpee bound and gagged in the back of my car, that would mean nothing to you?"

"Nothing at all," Caretaker replies, the lie hurt but they had to protect Whumpee.

Whumper fixed Caretaker with a calculating stare. "Well then, I suppose I won't be needing them anymore." He lifted his phone to his ear. "Hear that Henchman? You can dispose of the brat now."

Ice rushed into Caretaker's lungs. All their bravado slipping away. "No!" They shouted.

"I thought they meant nothing to you?"

[whumpdaydreamerx]

Tracker 2x05 | Colter Shot with a Crossbow

Gifset is here!

[justbreakonme]

The moment the whumpee watches the caretaker, the kindest, gentlest, most loving person they’ve ever meet, absolutely OBLITERATE the whumper is a trope I will never get over.

[the-broken-pen]

As another request, maybe the villain and hero are fighting , and the villain notices that the hero reacts suspiciously numb to his attacks. And when he taunts him about it, the hero sisimply says something to the effect of being used to it. And the villain is suspicious by the tone so he follow the hero and find out he’s abused by family . Cue villain saving the hero, comforting him and showering him with the love he never got

The villain should have known something was wrong the first time he hit the hero, and he simply braced, pain flickering along the muscles of his jaw, before hitting back. Face blank, a mask stronger than concrete. As if pain played no part, and it was just the give and return of kinetic energy, and nothing more.

He should have known when he said something so cruel it felt like graveyard dirt upon his tongue, and the hero merely stuttered for half a second, everything within him freezing, before he continued like nothing had happened. Nothing cruel in return, nothing biting in his face. Just–complete nothing.

“You never flinch,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a sudden realization, but it was close. Again, that momentary pause, like the hero had been grabbed and stopped by some otherworldly being on a molecular level. It allowed the villain to catch the next hit the hero threw at them.

“What?”

The hero, to his credit, didn’t sound upset, and in this line of work the villain was especially good at noticing the tiny pieces of that kind of thing. He just sounded confused, maybe.

“When I hit you. You don’t flinch,” the villain clarified. The hero just stared at them.

“You only really flinch if you aren’t used to it,” the hero said finally.

“Used to it?”

“You heard me,” the hero replied, and this time, there was irritation behind his words.

The villain tossed the hero’s fist down, and the hero stumbled back.

“And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I wasn’t aware there was one.”

“Are you intentionally being annoying, or is it just natural for you?”

The hero’s breath shuddered.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry–you–I don’t want an apology,” the villain sputtered. This conversation felt above his pay grade; and he wasn't entirely sure why, either, which irked him, itching under his skin.

“So–” the hero snapped his jaw shut around the rest of the word, and it looked like he was doing everything in his power to stop himself from finishing it.

Before the villain could prod further��about the flinching, or any other confusing aspect of it–the hero blew out a breath, and said, “I’m done here.”

The villain blinked.

“You can’t just decide when a fight is over.”

“Watch me,” the hero said, but his voice didn’t have the heat that usually went along with that phrase.

“You’re a hero, isn’t this kind of your entire job? Finishing fights, not walking away from them?”

“I said, I’m done,” the hero snarled, and it was the first hint of emotion he had shown the entire day, explosive and aimed entirely at the villain. The villain was taken aback for a moment.

The hero turned and left before the villain could even think of a response. He didn’t look over his shoulder.

Of course, the villain followed him home.

The fact that he had been able to at all was something to be worried about.

He watched as the hero entered, shutting the door behind him. Heard the sound of his bag hitting the floor, his jacket being hung up. Normal, quiet little things. Shuffling through the kitchen, making a cup of tea. A quiet conversation with his mother.

The villain was about to leave when he heard the slap.

He was through the door before he realized he was moving, leaving the handle to slam into the wall.

He caught the barest edge of a conversation as he rounded the corner–a curse word, then a vile sort of thing that was somehow worse than anything the villain had managed to say in his entire life–and slotted himself neatly between the hero and his mother.

The villain caught her wrist before it could touch any part of the hero. His grip was too tight to be anything but painful.

The hero’s mother gaped at them.

A bruise was beginning to bloom across the hero’s cheek.

The hero was shaking, slightly, face tense and drawn as he stared at the villain. Like the villain was the unnerving thing in this situation, and the hand his mother still had raised was the normality.

A rage, raw and unfathomable, ravenous within him, descending down so deep into the white hot of fury that it passed anything that had a name, uncurled itself along his bones.

“Touch him again,” the villain seethed, voice shaking with all that feral untamed mess within himself, “and you lose the hand.”

“Villain,” the hero said quietly, and the villain had never heard him so meek.

How long did it take for a person to learn that kind of quiet?

“Villain, leave it.”

The villain didn’t release the hero’s mother’s–no. The woman in front of him wasn’t a mother. She was something twisted, and broken, and cruel, upper lip curled with displeasure. Not that the villain was within her kitchen; but that he had stopped her from hitting her child.

The villain wanted nothing more than to vomit on her spotless white tiles.

Maybe in another life she would have been the kind of person the hero, with his kind heart, would have saved before it got to this point.

Maybe in another life the villain would have let the hero try.

But that was not this life.

And there was a bruise blooming on his hero’s cheek.

“You have no right–”

“Did I not make myself clear?” He said, and it was black and poisonous in the air.

The woman in front of him swallowed, and for the first time, fear flickered across her face.

Good.

“Villain,” the hero said, voice strangled, and the villain turned to look at him.

“She’s hurt you before,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a question. The hero looked at him wide-eyed, and he wondered how many times the hero had walked into a fight with him with pre-existing injuries. Injuries he would pretend later that the villain had given him.

The hero swallowed, hard.

“Yes,” he whispered, and that was all the villain needed. He turned back around.

“The only reason you are alive right now is because I think killing you would upset him,” he informed her, and he watched her face pale. “That, and getting blood out of shoes is a bitch. Isn’t it, hero? See, you wouldn’t know. Nobody’s ever made you bleed, I’d wager, because if they had, you would understand it isn’t the kind of thing you do to someone you love.”

He grinned, feral.

“You’re going to leave,” he continued. “Matter of fact, you’re going to vanish. And you’re going to do it so well that if he wants, he’ll never have to think of you again. The only way you’ll ever see him again will be because he wants it to happen, do you understand me? If you don’t, we’ll make you vanish my way.”

The hero made a choked noise behind him. “I don’t think you’ll like that very much,” the villain confided in a whisper.

He wasn’t sure the woman in front of him was breathing.

“Hero,” he said after a long minute. He was going to leave bruises on her wrist. She was shaking, and it soothed some of the yawning rage within him. “Pack a bag.”

The hero vanished into the halls of the house.

The villain didn’t say anything, just stared at the woman in front of him, as if he looked long enough he would be able to see the rotten core inside of her that had made her this way. Turned her into something violent. Or perhaps, the thing that had been inside her since birth, broken and seething. Inevitable.

He didn’t like to believe people could be born evil.

He would make an exception.

The hero appeared back behind him as silent as a wraith, far faster than the villain had expected, duffel bag in one hand.

He wondered how long the hero had had a bag tucked away, packed and ready to run if it got too bad.

He wondered what the hero considered ‘bad enough’ and his jaw clenched hard enough he could hear the bones creak.

“That all you need?”

The hero nodded, mutely, and the villain finally dropped the woman’s hand. She pulled back, hissing as she rubbed her arm, but she had the sense to not glare at the villain.

He tipped his head towards the door.

“Let’s go,” he said, as gently as he had ever heard himself.

The hero followed him out, and they didn’t say anything until the villain’s apartment door locked behind the both of them.

The villain blew out a shuddering breath.

The hero looked like he wasn’t entirely there, eyes glassy.

“Hero,” he said softly, and the hero’s gaze snapped to his face. He stopped himself from reaching for him, a helpless effort to do something, to fix it. “Can I touch you?”

He made sure it didn’t sound like a demand, because if the hero said no, the villain would die before crossing that line, no matter how much it stung. A moment later, to his relief, the hero gave a jerky nod.

He moved slowly, a gentle palm on the hero’s jaw to tip it up, inspecting the bruise with pursed lips. He brushed away the tear that slipped down the hero’s cheek with his thumb, and left it there.

“It could be worse,” the hero offered quietly.

“The fact that it exists at all is worse enough,” the villain murmured, tipping the hero’s head back down. “I’m so sorry.”

The hero blinked, brow furrowing. “For what?”

The villain shrugged one shoulder. “That it happened. That it has been happening. That I didn’t notice.”

“I’m good at hiding it,” the hero said, like it was supposed to make the villain feel better.

“You shouldn’t have had to learn how to do that at all,” the villain said, and the hero’s lip wobbled.

The hero wavered slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He carried himself like the entirety of his body was an open wound, every second spent breathing a second spent in agony.

The villain couldn’t pretend he knew what this felt like, but he could do his best to soothe it as much as possible.

“Come here,” he said softly, and the hero melted into him, shaking as he tried to cry quietly and failed. He tucked the hero against his chest, and hand coming to curl into the hero’s hair as he let out a desperate keening noise.

He rested his chin on the top of the hero’s head. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “It’s not right now, but it will be, I promise. Even if it takes a while.”

The hero shuddered against him, then nodded, just once.

It wasn’t okay, but it would be.

The villain had promised.

And he never broke a promise.