#who's the whumper?

[villainsandheroes]

Broke College Student Hero

They just wanted to treat themselves to something. They'd been working nonstop for a month and thankfully they weren't staving due to their stupid meal swipes but they were sick of the cafeteria food and drinks...

They knew splurging on a special coffee drink was stupid when they needed new pants but they couldn't help it. They never had money to spend on themselves but they decided they were going to this month.

It easily ended up costing $8 which was a lot more then they wanted to spend but that was the way it was. They had gone as a hero, loving when kids ran over or waved at them. Honestly they just loved the attention and being treated like an actual person who had feelings and not just some criminal clean up.

It was when Villain who had been watching them attacked from behind sent them onto the pavement, and worse, loosing grip on their drink, the Hero absolutely lost it.

Leaving the villain to blink confused as the Hero who was always so kind and polite was screaming curses at them.

[bedtimescenarios]

Recaptured living weapon Whumpee who is about to face the consequences of their escape. And when Whumper brings them back into that painfully familiar room, when they calmly take out the whip, Whumpee knows precisely what to do.

Their feet take them to the middle of the room, and they kneel, methodically disposing of their shirt. As their shoulders roll back into a straightened position, they can practically feel Whumper's gaze burning into the back of their head. A sadistic, eyes-only smile, knowing that even though Whumpee was physically free for some time, they never truly escaped.

[whump-in-the-closet]

a disorientated whumpee at a party with whumper's hand uncomfortably wrapped around their collarbone. There's a spiraling fear that they can't quite name-- they're losing themself in this nightmare of insinuating whispers.

The music is pounding and Whumpee can feel it in their teeth.

Whumper pulls them into a dark corner to push a drink up to their lips. "Your friends are coming," Whumper's voice is low, it's calm, it's measured, and Whumpee's skin crawls. "You're going to tell them you want to stay with me."

"No--"

"Or one of them will take your place."

[den-of-whump]

A guilty whump pleasure of mine is when a character in a fantastical setting is being tortured and something in them just breaks. They suddenly manifest magic super powers, or if they already had those, they suddenly go into overdrive and the character just murders everyone there.

[letitbehurt]

When a stoic Whumpee is seen fraying at the edges. They ignore the way their hands shake, their breaths are uneven, and only a thin, straining thread of will is keeping them upright.

Maybe they’ve been poisoned. Maybe they’ve worn themself past exhaustion. Maybe Whumper has found a secret to use against them, and they are fighting to remain in control of themself.

And they are failing.

[distracted-obsessions]

Ok, but imagine Villain/Henchman/Assassin Whumpee being found by the heroes while they raided Supervillain Whumper's lair and they take Whumpee into custody. They don't handcuff Whumpee because they aren't fighting back (either too injured or in shock) but as they lead Whumpee out of the lair, Whumpee stops.

"Did you find them?"

"Find who?"

Whumpee pulls away from them and goes deeper into the lair. Every time the heroes grab them, they get more and more distressed, saying that they can't leave. They won't leave. After a minute, they start screaming out a name that the heroes don't recognize.

Just as one of the heroes goes to knock Whumpee out, they see a child crawl out from under the stairs and run straight for Whumpee who drops to their knees and hugs the child tightly, shushing their cries and whispering soft, comforting words. "Shh, it's ok. Mommy/Daddy is here. I'm ok. We're ok. it's ok. Shh."

[whumpy-wyrms]

some random whumpy doodles i forgor i made :P teehee

[whumpwordsoftheday]

“We’re going to learn so much from you, you’ll see.”

“Please, please just let me go”

“Don’t be so selfish, this is for the greater good”

[whumpitisthen]

Whumpee who always has a blindfold on. They don't like it, but eventually they get used to it. Whumper loves them jumpy, dependent and vulnerable. And they just look so sweet when they don't know what's coming.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Imagine a spoiled royal, heir to the throne, part of a powerful bloodline that gives them "divine right to rule". They're raised to be cruel, and told their heritage puts them above everyone else.

And then one day, it's revealed before the entire court that it's all a lie. The royal was switched at birth with the child of a servant. The real heir has been serving in the palace all this time, unaware of their birthright. Maybe they're even someone the faux-royal had been particularly cruel to all their lives.

The ruling family is quick to push out the false heir---blood is more important to them than any illusion of family---and welcome the servant with open arms.

Maybe the false heir is banished from the kingdom they were raised to rule. Maybe they're imprisoned so the truth can never come out. Maybe they're made a servant, now at the beck and call of someone they'd thought beneath them.

Does the true heir take pity on them, or do they seek vengeance from years of abuse? Does the royal family have any regrets, or have they always been cold, only concerned with holding power? What do the servants and commoners do, now that the arrogant "heir" has lost all power and protection?

[hurtwithallthecomfort]

A living weapon whumpee who gets taken in by a new whumper after years of being under the care of Handler, and instead of fighting back and protesting, they just take it. Not necessarily because they’re used to it, but because they know they deserve it. As a living weapon, they’ve committed atrocities under Handler’s commands. They’ve ruined so so many lives. This is the least that they deserve. How much can a punishment or two hurt considering just how much pain they’ve caused in their life time? It doesn’t matter that the threat of torture and death was hanging over their head, it doesn’t matter that they’d been conditioned into this life since childhood, they still did all of those things, and now they have to pay the price.

Then, the rescue team comes, and they’ll have a much harder time saving Living Weapon considering they’re currently adamant on staying. In their eyes, they haven’t atoned enough yet.

[jordanstrophe]

Can you do some sort of Christmas themed whump? I don’t have any ideas beyond that, im just in the holiday and whumping spirit and you’re my favorite whump writer

Christmas cookies and hot cocoa in exchange ☕️🍪☕️🍪

(aaAAA thank you very much! I'll be honest, I don't have the greatest idea for this one either; but when in doubt, ･ﾟ✧Hypothermia?･ﾟ✧

(To any writers who want to chime in with their own ideas to do a bit more justice, please feel welcome to)

Cw: hypothermia, chained, whumper having to play the caretaker card

Whumper awoke to a blissful morning. They poured themselves a cup of coffee and flung open the curtains. They were blinded by pure white; it seemed to have snowed.

Whumper felt a chill of realization trickle down their spine.

As punishment for the night before, they chained whumpee in the backyard. It was brutally cold at the time, but they hardly expected a blizzard.

"Oh no oh no oh no-" Whumper fluttered, wrangling their coat expecting a corpse to be in their backyard. Whumpee was nowhere to be seen and the fresh snow looked untouched; but whumpee couldn't have gone far with the chain tethering them to the tree.

They dug around and found the chain deep within the snow. They tugged it until they found whumpee's arm and yanked them to the surface. They were unresponsive, whumper took their glove off and felt for a pulse. It was there, barely; they were soaked and slowly breathing. (Much to their relief. They would rather not wrack up their charge from kidnapping to murder)

Whumper's hands shook as they tried to unlock the chain. It stayed frozen and jammed shut as they threw the chain down and unlocked from the base of the tree instead. They picked whumpee up and carried them inside, dragging the chain along with them.

They laid them on the couch and hurried to get a fire going. They wrapped whumpee in a dry coat and held them in their lap. "I'm sorry- I'm so sorry, I'll never make that mistake again, please be okay." Whumper whispered, combing their hand through whumpee's drenched hair.

After awhile, whumpee stirred. They squirmed around a bit in whumper's arms, but didn't have the energy to lift their head off their shoulder. "Shhh, sh sh don't move, it's okay." Whumper shushed, squeezing them tighter.

"... C-caretaker?" Whumpee mumbled. Whumper's heart dropped and they felt a flood of guilt.

"I'm afraid not." Whumper sighed. Whumpee suddenly started struggling trying to get out of their arms as whumper panicked.

"Okay! Okay it's me. It's caretaker, please stop moving." Whumper clutched them softer. Whumpee stopped struggling, seemingly trying to process everything, before fully relaxing their head back against whumper's shoulder.

Whumpee must be thoroughly confused to think they of all people, were caretaker.

[foundfamilywhump]

see like the thing with 'carewhumpers' as a concept to me is it just like... i know this is prrrrobably not really how it's meant but something skeeves me out about the idea that kindness or caretaking mixed in with hurting someone can somehow meaningfully complicate or dilute the harm done to the point of making that character no longer a 'whumper' whereas someone doing the same 'bad' things but not ever being gentle or caring for them would just be a straight-out whumper. when like... that's how 90% of irl abuse dynamics work? so i just... don't really get the point, i guess. like to me it implies something about the 'care' provided somehow mitigating or combating the harm done that. i just do not personally appreciate or enjoy.

[deluxewhump]

I Know You Remember Me

John recognizes a wealthy client’s stolen pet immediately, even filthy, with two black eyes. He moves quickly to buy him back from the box truck driver in possession of him, and then must think what to do about this. Meanwhile, he looks after the abused pet in a motel room.

CW: lay it on thick hurt/comfort, pet whump universe (not bbu), caretaker has some ulterior motives but is largely sympathetic, offscreen noncon with multiple whumpers, sti mention, underweight whumpee mention, whumpee offering sex, bruises, burns & cigarette burns, nonsexual nudity and bathing, platonic bed-sharing, medically inaccurate care I’m sure, one shot probably

-

“I know you remember me. I’m sure I remember you.”

The unfortunate creature— for he looked more a creature than a boy in the low light, in the filthy west Texas motel room John had rented for the night with cash— dared to steal a glance up at him.

His eyes were dark, and bright with fear. Bruises ringed both of them like an unlucky fighter, purple as the Easter cloth draped on all the crosses they’d driven past. John knew from the taut look of the eyelids they’d been swollen shut a day or so earlier. The boy pet had dried blood caked in his nostrils and on one side of his downturned mouth. His hair was a matted and filthy mop that fell over his forehead and ears in greasy, wavy sections crusted together with more old blood.

The boy looked at him cautiously. There was too much fear in his posture, in his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he recognized John, too.

John squatted down to be eye level. As he thought it might, this made the frightened pet drop his eyes and flatten his spine as best he could against the nicotine stained paint of the motel wall.

“Hey, now,” John murmured, as if to one of his racehorses. They were spirited, flighty things, nothing like the quarter horses he’d grown up with. He talked to them all the same, though, from the spring colts to the swaybacked veterans.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I know you’ve seen a lot of people lately, huh? You probably don’t remember me. That’s okay. I remember you. You were at Jack Kinsington’s place before all this.”

The boy did not look back up at him, and his dirty hair gave away his trembling, but he was listening.

“I came by with a couple of horses. Bays, both of them. Soaked in sweat and prancing all around, you remember them? They’re high strung, they don’t like to ride in the trailer. Anyway, I told Jack he ought to let you stretch your legs. He did, but you were so numb you couldn’t stand for a while. You looked right at me.”

The boy turned his head an inch, so he could glance up at John’s face again.

“You remember that day. Sure you do. I thought you were in rough shape then, but I have to say, you look worse now.”

That lost him the eye contact. That was okay. The boy remembered. If not his face, then the incident.

“I thought it was awfully cruel to keep you in a space that small,” he went on. “I don’t know how some people do to a person what they wouldn’t do to an animal. They justify it, I guess. They project things onto these pets they buy and then they punish them for it. Gives them their kicks. Even Jack Kinsington, who I have to admit I respected up until that day.”

He stopped that train of thought.

“Why don’t we get you up off the floor there and let me take care of you, huh? No offense, you look kind of like roadkill.”

The boy made no sound, no indication that he’d even heard except for the way his chest expanded a little faster with his quickening breath. The poor thing's heart must be pounding. John had a knack for fixing things up, be it a business his brother had fucked up or a lame horse, a broken water heater or a vehicle. He spent less time fixing things now and more time delegating what other people needed to fix, but this boy was downright hurting his innermost, rarely expressed tenderness of heart, and he wanted to fix something for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said again. His knees were getting tired in this deep squat, and his boots had no give in the toes for it. “I’m gonna clean you up and look after you. You don’t have to do anything, just don’t fight me too much. Can you do that?”

He reached out and laid a hand over the boy’s. The abused pet flinched but didn’t jerk away. John encircled the boy’s wrist in his hand and pulled it slowly away from his body, towards him. “Can you stand?” he asked, pushing himself to standing and bringing the boy with him.

He made it to his feet, and was nearly as tall as John, but stumbled when he tried to take a step.

“Please,” he whispered reflexively as John moved closer, flinching to protect his battered face.

“Please what, baby?” John muttered, lifting the boy’s arm over the back of his shoulders and wrapping his arm around his slim waist to help him walk. “You’re okay, you’re right here. I’ve got you. Let’s get you in the tub.”

Slowly, they staggered to the motel bathroom a d John flicked on the staggeringly white lights that buzzed and hummed to life. He sat the boy on the lip of the low bathtub as gently as he could.

“I’m going to give you a bath,” he said matter-of-factly, turning the taps so warm water began to fill the tub. “Where did all this blood come from?”

The boy was watching him warily, dark eyes following his every move.

“You hear me? Where’s all this dried blood coming from, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

John nodded, pleased the boy had spoken. Some didn’t, or wouldn’t, he knew, not once they looked like this one did.

“Did they beat you? Is that what all this is from?”

He gave a small nod, blinking in discomfort at John’s bluntness.

“Did they hurt you in any other ways?”

He nodded again.

John felt a tug of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. “How?”

Jack’s pet looked evasively at the rising bath water.

“If you tell me how you’re hurt, I can help you better.”

Nothing.

“What’s your name?”

“Paulo.”

He put the emphasis on the au, and there was a way he said his L that positioned the tongue differently than he did when saying other words.

“Paulo,” John said, putting the emphasis on the vowels of the first syllable too, but with no attempt at altering his very American L. I’m John. I bought you from that man, the one with the box truck. I take it Jack Kinsington sold you? Or were you stolen?”

Tears shimmered in the boy’s dark eyes, swollen and purple still like a raccoon mask. He bit the inside of his cheek to steel himself and keep from letting them fall.

John gentled his voice. “Paulo. I only ask because it’s important. If you legally belong to Jack, I gotta bring you back to him.”

Paulo’s head snapped up. He lost control of the tears, which spilled down his bruised cheeks. He grabbed hold of John’s sleeves, pulling himself closer as if his whole body was not bruised and sore. “No,” he begged urgently. “Please. I’ll do anything. Please. I-I’ll do anything you want, I can’t… please don’t….”

An idea dawned on him and he let go of his latest captor’s sleeve in order to lift his trembling fingers to his own tattered shirt. He pulled it over his head with a barely-suppressed whimper of pain. His torso was bruised like his face and arms, dark black and purple impact points on his warm toned skin like fists or boots, some that looked like electric burns left from a cattle prod and others more reminiscent of the yellow, oozing wounds cigarettes tended to leave. He was ribby, in a dehydrated, sudden sort of way that looked like he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last few days.

He started on the button of his pants and John reached out to stop him. “Hey. No. What’s this?”

“Do- do you prefer girls? I can be just as good for you.” His glittering eyes were simultaneously like a starving animal and horribly blank. “They all say so.”

Ah. There was an answer to one of his questions. He pulled Paulo’s wrists away from the opening of his pants, held them in his own on the cool edge of the tub between them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not interested.”

“I could take a bath,” he whispered hopefully.

“You will take a bath. But I’m still not interested. I need to know— were you given to someone by Jack Kinsington rightfully, or were you stolen?”

The fear was back. John didn’t know which was worse on this one, the dead eyes or the fear. “Don’t take me back to him.”

“He hurt you a lot, then? Jack?”

John already figured as much. Despite his admiration for the man’s business sense, he was a cruel and sadistic pet owner. Once he’d seen a boy shoved into a cage fit for a fox, he’d reconciled that much in his mind. It was like that often, when it came to human pets, and never quite who you’d expect.

The boy begged miserably. “Please, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

“You mentioned that. He didn’t sell you, did he?”

Paulo glanced down.

So he’d bought a stolen pet. That’s what he more or less suspected when he’d seen the boy at the rest stop, weeks after he’d seen him in the cage at Jack’s and much worse for wear.

Jack Kinsington would probably be even more open to buying more of John’s racehorses in the near future if he returned his favorite boy-pet to him. Don’t worry what it cost to get him back, Jack. Less than the yearling I’ve got for you to look at this spring, I can tell you that. Call it even.

John turned off the taps and tested the water with his fingers. He’d wondered if the boy would be willing to take those filthy clothes off in front of him, but seeing as he’d just offered himself, he thought it more likely now.

“Take those off,” he said of the boy’s remaining clothing. “You can borrow some of mine when you’re cleaned up.”

Despite his offer less than five minutes ago, Paulo was modest to the point of shyness once he was naked.

“It’s okay. I’m not even looking at you,” John assured him a little gruffly as he helped him into the water. “I just want to get you clean.”

Paulo flinched as he submerged, undoubtedly feeling every burn, cut, and bruise as he did. He was so dirty that tear tracks were now visible on his face from his crying. John wet a rough motel washcloth in the warm water and brought it to his face. He dabbed and nudged the dried blood from Paulo’s mouth and nose. The boy tried very hard not to flinch and shy away, and in return he tried to be very gentle. “Good,” he said quietly, wetting the cloth and returning it to the blood and swollen tissue. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Paulo made brief eye contact with him at that, probably because it had become a foreign concept that someone would make an effort against hurting him. Just as quickly he slid his gaze away, back to an indeterminate point on the bathroom tile.

“You wanna do this next part?”

Paulo didn’t answer.

John moved as gently and quickly as was prudent over the rest of his body, knowing he was hurting him when he passed over the yellowed cigarette burns on his legs and hips.

“I know. You’re gonna be okay. Almost done. You’re doing really well.”

Paulo let John wash his hair, using some of the hotel shampoo that would likely sting some cuts but was desperately needed. He closed his eyes as John worked his fingers through the blood and dirt, the snarls coming apart slowly with gentle patience. As he rinsed the boy’s dark hair clean, John noticed he had stopped shaking.

He drained the now red-brown water and wrapped Paulo in a white hotel towel. He looked better clean, though there was nothing to do for the bruises but wait. He sat on the side of the motel bed as John went through his black duffel bag, pulling out sweatpants, a gray cotton T-shirt, and ibuprofen for him.

Paulo dressed in the bathroom and accepted two of the pills. He came out and sat on the end of the bed afterwards, staring at the pattern on the comforter.

“Does Jack know who had you?” John asked as he set up his phone charger. “The guy with the box truck out there?”

Paulo shook his head. “That man wasn’t the first.”

So he’d been bought and sold multiple times since being stolen—kidnapped— from Jack's property. It was possible Jack knew the original perpetrators, but had no idea where his pet was now. John sighed. His mind was working analytically, trying to understand every facet of the situation before he acted— trying to understand how he could manipulate it most in his favor. But that all felt shallow and cruel when he truly saw the boy in front of him, his damp hair and his bruised face, his narrow chest and the way he was nervously picking at a scab on the inside of his wrist.

“Don’t do that,” John said softly. “I don’t want you getting any infections.”

Paulo stopped immediately but looked intrigued by the care in that statement. Likely no one had said anything like it to him in a long while now.

“Are you hungry?”

Paulo shrugged. John raised his eyebrows and he went with a more committed shake of the head. “No, Sir.”

“…Are you scared?”

The boy swallowed, touched the scab on his wrist without picking it.

He’d said it before, but he knew he’d have to say it a hundred more times, and show it a thousand, before it sunk in. He likely would not end up doing that, but he’d say it as long as the pet was in his possession. “I promise I'm not gonna hurt you.”

“What, then?” Paulo asked, shrugging one shoulder to his ear in what felt like embarrassment at his own question.

“If I’m not going to hurt you? What then?”

He nodded.

“Nothing. I'm gonna take you back to Tennessee.”

“To Jack?”

“For the time being, to my place in Lewisburg. I have a farm.”

“What kind of farm?”

“Horses. You wanna come?”

He said he did. Not that he had much of a choice. John suspected they both knew that killing him on the side of a dirt road in west Texas would be better than what might happen if he took him back to Tennessee and failed to promptly return him to Jack. Jack would take it out on his lost little pet as much as he did John.

“I can’t believe you’re still even sitting up and talking. Come here.” John stood up and pulled the corner of the bedsheets down. “Lie down.”

Paulo did as he asked.

Before John would cover him up he asked, “Can you tell me if anyone kicked you in the back or abdomen, or if you feel any pain when you move or breathe?”

He thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m sore.”

“Any sharp pains, anything feel broken?”

“No?”

“Can I touch your stomach right here? It won’t be for long.”

A little apprehensive, Paulo agreed. John placed his hands on his abdomen and prodded his way along, trying to feel anything amiss or to get a sharp yell from Paulo. None came.

“Does this hurt anywhere more than soreness?”

“No,” his patient said in a small voice.

“Okay,” he said, and covered the boy to his chest with the blankets. “I’m done. Thank you. I was worried you might have internal bleeding, or broken ribs.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’ll need to get you checked for other things too, soon. Make sure you didn’t contract anything.”

It took a moment for this to register, but when it did, Paulo blushed scarlet.

“It’s okay,” John assured him. His next gesture surprised him. Tenderly, he brushed the back of his knuckles to an unbruised spot on Paulo’s cheek. He was quickly becoming endeared to this unfortunate little pet. “You’re probably alright. And even in the event you did, it’s not your fault.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to?” Paulo asked, leaning his cheek almost imperceptibly into John’s knuckles.

John retracted his hand. “No. I didn’t want to because I am not interested in hurting you.”

“I said you could.”

“You and I both know it would still be hurting.”

Paulo laid his head back on the pillow. “I don’t understand what you want.”

“For starters, I want you to tell me what you want to eat.”

He didn’t eat much, but he did make an effort. John got the impression he was suspicious of every simple kindness, every time there were footsteps outside their door in the breezeway.

When he turned out the light and put a partition of pillows between them to sleep, he felt Paulo start awake every time a car pulled into the parking lot, or the AC beneath the window kicked on with a rattle.

“You’re okay,” he said drowsily from across the pillow divide, which made it feel more like bunking together and less like sharing a bed. “Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows where you are at all. That door is deadbolted. And I’m here between the rest of the world and you. You can sleep tonight. Nothing can hurt you.”

He doubted words would actually help, since the boy's nerves were probably completely shot, and who knows when was the last time he’d had a good nights sleep, and felt safe enough to do so? Still, he thought it should be nice to hear. It was the least he could do. He didn’t make any undue promises. Just tonight.

Paulo was quiet for a minute, and then John heard a wet sniff that was the unmistakable sound of crying. He didn’t think he should say ‘don’t cry’ to someone in his position, so he didn’t. He just listened from across the pillows until the little pet fell asleep.

[letitbehurt]

Interrogation/torture scenes where Whumper is just as gentle as they are cruel.

Their voice is soft even as they slide a serrated knife beneath Whumpee’s skin, methodically drawing out screams. Between rounds, they crouch on their heels as if calming a scared child, tilting their head to peer underneath a sweaty curtain of hair.

They ask guilessly, as blood drips steadily from the knife in their hand, “Should we try this again?”

[saffitaffi]

“What if the evil tyrant who likes to kill puppies for fun actually just needed to fall in love with a sweet naive child who redeems them through the power of love and they were actually good the whole ti-“

What if they weren’t, though? What if their life twisted them to the point that they can only love through violence?

What if the narrative doomed them to ever play their role, a role that has already been chosen by forces higher than them?

What if the sweet, gentle character didn’t love them ‘despite their flaws’, or even at all?

Why should they? Especially if it’s a case of kidnapping. ESPECIALLY if they hurt them. Or their friends. Or take away their agency.

What if that strange contradiction of love and hatred in their heart tore them apart and gave them their justified end?

What if they CAN’T be fixed?

What if they don’t WANT to be fixed?

What if we stopped glamorizing abusive relationships and started actually exploring them?