#whump recovery

[whumplump]

What does feeling good cost?

CW: vague, nonspecific mention of a mental illness and its medications for treatment, mention of past mental breakdown.

Caretaker didn't need to turn the key to open the gate. They just put their hand on the doorknob, and without any effort, the barrier gave way. Whumpee must have forgotten to lock the gate, as they had asked.

They went up the stairs from the backyard to the house. Whumpee was vacuuming the floor, compulsively in the same places. She held the cord of the appliance with her other hand, moving it out of the way when she needed to sweep it across the floor.

Caretaker approached.

"You didn't have to clean today."

Whumpee didn't look at her colleague.

"For what? So you can find dirt where there isn't any, and then start scrubbing the floor like a madman?"

"You're the one who does this..." Caretaker muttered.

They left their bag on the couch, and went to the bathroom. After they passed, Whumpee ran the vacuum cleaner over her companion's trail.

Ever since Whumpee had started the medication program, she had been different. For better, there were no more crying fits and periods of isolation. For worse, there were no more jokes and cheerful comments that she always made. She wasn't depressed, but she wasn't happy either. She was... neutral. For the first few weeks, Caretaker preferred to believe that this was for the best, after all, they would rather her feel nothing than feel like crap. However, Whumpee had a different opinion. She would rather feel anything, even pain, than feel nothing.

Caretaker returned to the living room in time to see Whumpee wind the vacuum cleaner cord so tightly that it nearly broke.

“Take it easy,” they advised.

Whumpee ignored them.

She walked through the living room to get the mop from the porch. Caretaker decided to leave as well. They knew there was no point in arguing with their roommate when she was so… empty.

[caledine]

Dulling.

Whumpees that get small after captivity. They used to be loud and proud and Caretaker would watch them prance around all peacock like with a weird confidence that encapsulated them. They were flamboyant, bright coloured hair and spontaneous looking clothing. Coloured graphic liner and jewellery galore. They spent hours perfecting every outfit down to the last bracelet or scarf.

When Whumpee comes back they are dull. They curl in on themselves and the over grown roots are never dyed back— in fact they went natural for the first time since high school. The outfits they had so much fun choosing became generic. They blend right back in with the crowed refusing to be different in case it’s what leads Whumper right back to them.

They’d learnt how to make themselves small, quiet, unnoticeable in a busy room and not easily remembered to the common public. They curl small and whisper. They don’t giggle and hum to the radio or compliment strangers on their uniqueness.

Caretaker can’t even recognise their own friend.

[whumpberry-cookie]

During the aftercare, Whumpee's doing something that they want to apologise for.

(Cw: emetophobia - bodily waste, implied abuse, swearing)

And Caretaker instead of going "Noo, it's okay. It's normal!", decides to joke instead.

------------------------

Vomiting:

"Well... I didn't like this shirt anyway."

"I know. I don't like their cooking either. I bet it tasted better the second time"

"You don't even have anything in your stomach anymore! Where does that come from?! Do you puke your trauma out?!"

"Bruh.... you could warn me to grab an umbrella"

Takes a sip of water and spits back at them.

Dropping stuff:

Whumpee accidently drops Caretaker's favourite mug. So Caretaker ignores apologies, stands up, walks slowly to the cabinet and drops a plate, maintaining eye contact. It's so random Whumpee burts out laughing.

Something crushes and breaks loudly. Whumpee was the one who broke it. Caretaker just looks down and flips at it. "Yeah, exactly! Take this, fucker!"

-------------------------------

[slippedtheknot]

"I Didn't Mean to,"

Whumpee sobbed as their shaking fingers grabbed pieces of porcelain. Blood dripped onto the floor from the sharp edges.

Heavy boots were coming down the hall and Whumpee tried moving faster; no doubt that Whumper would be pissed that Whumpee broke his plate. Whumpee swallowed when the boots stopped in front of them.

"Uh oh, what happened, Whumpee?" Whumper's voice was an eerie type of calm.

Whumpee tried to still their breathing so that they would be slightly coherent: "I...I broke a plate. I promise that I didn't mean to though! It...it just slipped from my hands when I was putting dishes away and I tried to clean it up. Not to hide the fact that I dropped it just-"

"Hey hey, it's all okay." Whumper's hand rubbed the back of Whumpee's neck and they froze; waiting for Whumper to slam their head into the floor. "Can you look up for me, Whumpee?"

Whumpee tilted their head up and was met with minty green eyes. That's odd...as far as Whumpee knew Whumper had cold and distant blue eyes that would stare into their soul. As far as Whumpee knew, Caretaker had the minty green eyes.

Whumpee blinked again and looked into his eyes. The eyes definitely belonged to Caretakeer, but then, why were they in Whumper's kitchen?

"You aren't there anymore, Whumpee." Caretaker's hand moved to Whumpee's shoulder as he pulled them into a much-needed hug.

[literarystarfish]

Whumpees who flinch.

The ones who always expect the worst to befall them no matter what because that's all they've ever known for years. Even now that they've been rescued.

So when Caretaker makes a sudden move or when some loud noise sounds or something unexpected occurs, they flinch. They take steps back immediately.

Especially when they're nervous wrecks and they can't help but be constantly on edge.

A phone pinged for a text message? Flinching every time.

A loud noise in the kitchen? Cowering.

Someone lifts a hand to reach something up high? Eyes squeezed shut, ready for the blow to land.

Nervous, anxious, flinching whumpees.

[3-2-whump]

An Average Morning at the Gym

No exact time on this thing, occurs multiple times any time during North Star, part 1, once Khaled starts living with Vik et al.

Series tag list under the cut:

@kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz

@bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire

@phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling @borp0

[cravesunconditionallove]

Whumpee who wakes up in the ICU, disoriented, panicking because there’s a tube in their throat and everything hurts and they don’t remember what happened. Caretaker soothing them, holding their hand(s) to keep them from pulling at the things keeping them alive.

“Shh, you’re okay…. no no, don’t do that—“

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Whumpee (Nico) Drugged for His Own Good part 9

Warnings: post-tortured, severe paranoia issues, perceived betrayal by friends

He was wrong. So terribly wrong. She was as bad as the others were. Pretending to be so caring while working behind his back like this.

Nico startled when he felt a light hand touch his leg through the blanket, and he quickly stuffed the phone underneath his pillow before taking the blanket off his head, finding Amelia staring down at him worriedly.

"Hey, I... I'm just checking in. You didn't have a very heavy breakfast, so do you want some more food?" She asked kindly.

Liar, Nico's thoughts hissed to him. Traitor.

"I'm not hungry," he rasped, swallowing thickly.

Amelia frowned. "You're looking kind of pale -- are you feeling worse than yesterday?" She reached her hand out toward Nico, and he flinched violently in anticipation before realizing she was just pressing the back of her hand to his forehead to check his temperature.

Amelia's eyes widened with alarm.

"You're really burning up here," she breathed. "Seems you've developed a nasty fever-- I hope none of your wounds are infected!" She immediately started moving to take off the bandages and check his injuries, but Nico grabbed her wrists to stop her.

"Don't... Don't touch me," he growled. "I've had enough for today. You're not touching my wounds."

Amelia hesitated, and Nico could feel the coiled tension in her wrists where he was holding them -- torn between forcing him to accept the help, or respecting his wish to be left alone.

Eventually she chose to reluctantly back off, to Nico's relief.

"Okay," she whispered. "I can wait to check them tomorrow. But we definitely need to bring the fever down right now -- I'll grab some ice packs." She darted off, and it gave Nico a chance to breathe.

He was still reeling from what he'd discovered, but he knew he couldn’t let Amelia know what he'd learned yet-- she might call for backup if she thought he'd try to escape her house.

Which he fully, 100% planned to do. When the time was right, of course. He'd have to wait until he wasn't under Amelia's close supervision to make his move.

So he'd play the long game, go along with whatever Amelia wanted -- just long enough to get her to lower her guard. All he needed was for her to take her eyes off him for an hour or two, and he could vanish.

Because two could play the game of manipulation and deceit. Nico was like a cornered wolf who'd finally decided to use his teeth for biting. He would fight his way out if he had to. Use force if needed to get out of this awful place.

Nico hadn't even realized he'd had a fever until Amelia pointed it out -- but now that he was paying attention, he was aware of the heat throbbing in his head, the sweat beading on his skin.

He forced a weak smile onto his face when Amelia reappeared, playing the role of the clever fox who outsmarted a hunter's snare.

Amelia was carrying a bucket, and she took out several ice packs from it, placing them on his body to help cool him down. Then she placed a cold wet cloth on his forehead, and the immense relief it brought made Nico sigh gratefully. He hadn't realized how much his body hurt aside from his injuries -- hadn't noticed how much the fever was taking from him on top of his other more pressing ailments.

"Better?" Amelia asked when she was done.

Nico only let out a grunt of acknowledgment, his eyes fluttering closed.

She took the hint and left him to rest undisturbed.

Nico waited until it was night, until Amelia had gone off to bed, before deciding it was safe to get up.

He bit his tongue to stifle whimpers of pain as he slid off the couch to stand on wobbly legs.

Step by painstaking step he walked around until he found a backpack, quietly removing the current contents and deeming it good enough for his uses.

From there he crept into the kitchen, silently packing some random food he found around for travel. He grabbed a few kitchen knives too, wrapping them in fabric as makeshift sheaths before tucking them neatly into the backpack along with his gun from under his pillow, and even the pillow itself.

Then he wandered to the bathroom, where he found the medical supplies and packed a bunch of extra gauze and sterilized tools for later use treating his own wounds and changing out old dressings.

He had to squish it all tightly to fit, but he managed to zip the backpack up when he was done -- ready to leave and make his daring escape.

Masterlist

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @written-in-the-stars135 @neverthelass

@starz8nk @redwinesupanover @whumpisgoodwhumpislife @theforeverdyingperson

@f1sh-bone @whumped4whumplover @theasexualwriterrat @whatwhump

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Snapped” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

Atlas surveys the streets below, sure he must be dreaming.

Taking up the entire back wall of the hotel room is a long, shiny floor-to-ceiling window.

A window.

He can’t remember the last time he’d seen one. The warehouse, despite its many floors and levels, didn’t have any. Not ones that led outside, anyway. And definitely not ones as grand as this one. It was nothing but the same steel-gray walls along every hallway, stretching on endlessly, inescapable no matter what room you turned into. His bedroom had been like that too: four bare, gray walls, not a single window in sight.

But here — here he can see it all.

The darkened streets stretch out below him, bustling with cars and people. It isn’t as crowded here as it had been when he’d first drove with Wren this morning, less people around to watch. Still… It’s beautiful.

Outside. He can really see outside.

Wren’s van sits out in front of them in the parking lot, the pale white of the paint glistening from the streetlight overhead. Wren had slid into the parking lot only fifteen minutes prior, flashing a sleek credit card in his direction, proclaiming it was for “emergencies only”, before leading him inside the hotel. It’s a nicer place than the rest of the buildings he’s seen today — much cleaner than the McDonalds — with shiny elevators and smooth marble floors, a few people bustling around in the hallways; kids and adults alike, smiling and laughing with each other. 

Now settled in their hotel room, he can spot a few men gathered on the corner of the street, little wisps of smoke drifting up into the night air around them from their cigarettes. They’re laughing loudly, throwing their heads back, mouths spread out in a grin. Atlas wonders what it’s like, to laugh like that.

He stands there in silence, simply taking it all in, eyes flickering towards every person that passes by on the street, to every car in the distance. They are all but blurs of colour in the darkness of the night, the illumination of streetlights casting a dull glow over everything, the lights from nearby shops slowly starting to flicker off as the day falls to a close.

Atlas is pulled away from the serene view at Wren’s eyes on him.

They look up at him from their spot criss-crossed on the floor, face curious as he meets their gaze. They pat the spot beside them, expectantly waiting for him to sit.

He hesitates for a moment, scanning their expression for any hint of hostility. He still isn’t sure what to think of them. They’re brash and rude — not to mention stupid — but then again, they’d genuinely tried to help him, hadn’t they? Slowly, he obliges, taking the seat next to them.

Wren fixes their gaze back onto the street below, pressing their forehead into the glass. “How old are you?”

Atlas bristles at the question. “You first.”

All day they’d been asking things like this, trying to… get information out of him. He guesses it’s what anyone would do, he is a practical stranger, after all. But a part of him can’t help but feel on guard at it. He isn’t supposed to tell people about himself, isn’t supposed to give anything away. Especially to someone from outside of Eden. Though, he guesses, he isn’t a part of Eden anymore either, is he? Those rules don’t apply to him anymore.

Not after he left them.

Wren sighs, but for once doesn’t push, instead opting for answering his deflection. “Fine asshole. I’m fourteen.”

Atlas falls quiet at their answer, weighing his options. Eden’s rules don’t technically apply to him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he really cares about Wren, either. It isn’t like they’ve ever been nice to him before now. Still, it isn’t like he’s going to gain anything from being so prudent with them. And telling them his age can’t be that bad….

“I’m fifteen.” He relents.

Their head jerks towards him at his answer, eyes going wide in shock as they mumble, “You’re just a kid.”

Atlas’ gaze doesn’t leave the window, his face still a perfect mask of calm, the only movement coming from him being his eyes as they scan the different buildings outside. “I’m older than you.” He points out.

Wren clicks their tongue loudly and shrugs, tearing their face away from the window again to glance at him. “Yeah. I’m a kid too.”

Atlas focuses on a particular car — a deep maroon in colour, with a dent in the side, little chips along the paint. He places all his attention on it, taking nice, even breaths, holding back his urge to scream at them. He’s never felt so miserable, so helplessly alone, in his entire life. “My age doesn’t matter.” He responds, voice clipped. So just shut the fuck up already.

Wren rolls their eyes, huffing out a breath of frustration. “Yeah. Did they tell you that too? Did they tell you it doesn’t matter that you’re a literal kid?”

Atlas stiffens. “That’s none of your concern.”

Wren sighs and leans back on their hands, still staring out the window. “Fine, whatever.” They go silent for a long moment before a thought suddenly occurs to them. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?” They ask, glancing back towards him.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He says coldly, unable to hold the exasperation from leaking into his voice. Wren seems to have that sort of effect on him; he never feels quite so defensive or angry as he does when he’s around them.

Wren huffs, sagging forwards and resting their forehead upon the glass once again. They seem unable to sit still for more than a minute, constantly fidgeting and moving around. Atlas has never found something quite so irritating. “Look, I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. But we can’t do anything unless you trust me a little. At least enough to give me your name.”

“I don’t need to give you anything.” Atlas replies rigidly. He decides that he in fact isn’t going to tell them anything. He’s out of Eden now, so that means he can choose. There are no rules against that, not anymore. And Wren is definitely not his superior. He likes it better this way. That way they can’t use anything against him. That way he still has the slight upper hand.

Wren lets out a long, hard sigh, rocking for a minute before flopping all the way back, lying flat on the scratchy carpet. “Okay. Whatever.” They mumble, closing their eyes.

Atlas doesn’t move.

Wren thumps their feet on the floor rhythmically, disturbing Atlas’ peace. “Fine, I don’t need to know your name. Do you have a favourite colour?” They ask, glancing towards his hair, a shaggy mullet with burgundy streaks littering throughout it. “Is it red?”

“Is yours blue?” Atlas counters, still annoyingly refusing to answer any of their questions. He can’t stand it — can’t stand sitting here, with them, can’t stand their constant chattering. He wants to be at the warehouse, with Cato, with Ira; wants to be in his dorm room, curled up on his cozy bed. Wants to be training, the familiar feeling of his staff in his hands, strength surging through his core. He wants to be at home.

You left that, remember? He chides himself. That isn’t your home, not anymore.

“Very clever. Did you figure that all on your own?” Wren asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

“It doesn’t take a genius.” He grunts, not once glancing toward them to meet their gaze.

“Sarcasm.” They mutter. “You dye it yourself?” They gesture vaguely towards his hair.

Atlas answers with nothing but a curt nod, hand subconsciously raising to fiddle with his hair, a dark red strand twirling around his fingers. 

“Me too. I’ve spent too much money on box dye.”

Atlas hums. He still remembers with perfect clarity the first time Ira came over with box dye and helped him with his hair — almost as if it was just yesterday.

He had been twelve. She’d swung into his dorm room with a small grin, waving the box around like it was pure gold. It had been, to him. He remembers, up until then, he’d barely even had belongings to himself. No books beside his textbooks, no notebooks or paper besides the ones supplied to him for his lessons. No souvenirs, no nothing. His room had genuinely been bare. Just a bed and a small desk pushed into the corner. Wren had commented on the absolute emptiness of his room, but it was nothing compared to back then.

So when Ira had offered to dye his hair, he’d been over-the-moon. For as long as he could remember, her hair was always done up in some interesting way. A streak of colour, or ombré, or jaggedly cut in a way that Atlas wished he could pull off. He remembers how excitement coursed through his bones as she helped him chop off his ordinary, plain black locks for the shaggy mullet that he then kept for the past three years. That pure, child-like excitement… it was the best feeling in the entire world.

Wren doesn’t take his lack of a response as a sign he isn’t in the mood for a conversation, simply continuing to talk. They might as well be talking to themself, for all that it matters. “The first time I dyed my hair, I bleached it without instructions. It was so bad, it started falling out of my head.”

Atlas still doesn’t react, simply winding his hair around his finger, over and over and over again. Its soothing, almost. Something to focus on. 

Wren continues. “I had a big bald spot on the side of my head for the entire first part of 6th grade. My mom bought me this hair growth stuff for bald guys. Didn’t work at all.”

Atlas doesn’t give them a second of his attention. He stares out the window, watching out into the streets below, half-forgetting to blink. He wants to be out on those streets, walking. Free. It has never been a thought he admitted — not in full extent — but out of everything in the entire universe, that has always been his dream. To go out, by himself, no watchful eye of his commander or the judgemental gaze of a scrawny insufferable rebel. Just him and the quiet of the night, the chill of the breeze cooling the back of his neck. Calm, contented peace. 

Wren’s gaze doesn’t leave him as they sit up, scooting closer to his side. “Hey…?” They ask, leaning over slightly and waving their hand in front of his face. 

“Hm?” Atlas hums, his piercing gaze falling upon them. This is the closest they’ve dared get to him, only inches apart. “What is it?”

Wren furrows their brows at him. “You went all zombie on me.”

“I was listening.” Atlas says dismissively. What he really wants to say to them is “shut up, I do not want to talk to you right now, or ever, for that matter”, but he holds his tongue. He wants to do many things — shove Wren away from him, scream at them, beat their annoying face until it’s black and blue, run away from them and never come back — but that does not mean that he can actually do them. He’s stuck with Wren, as much as he hates it, so the best he can do is try to tolerate them. For now.

Wren frowns but shrugs, brushing past it. “Okay.” They say, leaning away to resume their position of resting their forehead against the window, letting out a heavy exhale as they do so. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”

Atlas focuses his attention back upon the window, watching outside in silence for a second. If he was to be honest, he’d say that he really couldn’t care less if Wren told him anything about themself. But he knows that’s not what they want to hear. “Whatever you would like to tell me.” He says with the slightest of shrugs. We are not friends. He thinks. And we will never be friends. There’s nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind on that.

Wren rolls their eyes with a loud and dramatic groan. “That’s not how this works. I’ve told you plenty and you won’t even respond.” They say, shooting him a scowl.

Atlas hums. “What would you like me to say?” There’s a reason I didn’t answer, you dunce.

“I dunno man. Usually you’re supposed to acknowledge what someone’s saying.” They say with another loud huff. “Whatever, you get a free pass because you got brainwashed.”

Don’t fucking speak to me like that.  

“I’m not brainwashed.” Atlas mutters, side-eying them.  

Wren clicks their tongue and scoffs. “I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but you kind of are man.”

Atlas scowls. You’re a naive, stupid child that thinks they know everything because they managed to steal a few fucking files. You’ll never amount to even a sliver of what I am right now, even if you spent your entire life trying. Pull your head out of your fucking ass.

“You don’t know anything about me. Stop acting like you do.” 

Atlas’ words only cause Wren to shrug. “I mean, I knew a lot more than you.” They point out matter-of-factly.

Atlas is so sick of Wren’s constant comments, their know-all attitude. Their audacity. All he’s had to deal with this entire day is their snarky quips, poking and prodding, rubbing salt into his sore wounds.

He should’ve known better. They’re a rebel, after all. Rebels are cruel, apathetic. Why would they care about what he’s lost, what he’s sacrificed, leaving with them? A homeless middle schooler with a clunky, dirty van that barely operates on its own. And he’s supposed to just be grateful, accept their treatment with the same grace he always holds. 

They don’t have a single clue about what his life was like, the hardship and struggles he’s had to endure. They don’t know how much he gave away, just to join their shitty little grandiose delusion of “revolution”. They make him sick.

Fuck, I’m so tired. 

He gives them a hard glare. “No, you didn’t.”

Wren narrows their eyes at him, giving him a skeptical glance before sighing. “What-ever.”

This finally snaps Atlas’ resolve.

It isn’t their dismissal that does it, more an accumulation of the last day. He should know better than this, should know better than to snap at them like he does, but suddenly the burning anger that has been boiling, slow and steady, in his chest all day is exploding out of him, hot as flames. Unrestrained.

“I hate you.” He spits, whipping around to glare down at them with pure hatred shining in his eyes. “At least Eden treated me kindly. At least I belonged.” His voice shakes, emotion slipping through in a way it hasn’t in — he doesn’t even know how long. Years? A decade? Forever? “At least I wasn’t stuck with an insolent child.”

His words come out quick and sharp, a part of him almost too scared to even say them. He can’t remember ever speaking out against someone in his entire life. He isn’t supposed to — it’s against the rules. He’s supposed to keep his feelings in check; a soldier who can’t keep control over themself is as good to Eden as a ticking time bomb. Soldiers are polite. Soldiers are obedient. Soldiers don’t voice their own opinions. Soldiers don’t have opinions — don’t have emotions. For all of his life, he has been this: The perfect soldier.

But what had that gotten him in the end?

“You don’t know anything about what it was like.” He says coldly. He has to admit to himself, actually voicing what he’s been thinking the entire day…. It feels kind of good.

Wren’s eyes widen slightly, a look of shock that gives Atlas the slightest hint of satisfaction evident on their features. They slowly tilt their head up to look at him again, the words hanging lowly in the air between them, turning the atmosphere thick with tension.

Finally, Wren breaks the dreadful silence. “Yeah, I get it.” They say, pausing for a moment, as if they were for once going to put in a sliver of thought before they spit out some crude insult at him. “I don’t expect you to like me. And I don’t really care if you do.”

Their face is calm, voice even as they speak. It feels as if they are addressing an explosive child, not a boy who has spent the last fifteen years of his life carefully pushing down his true feelings for what matters, who always does what he’s told without questions, who works and works and works. Who doesn’t know what it’s like to experience true relaxation — true peace.

“I may not know what it was like,” they say, the slightest bit of exasperation in their voice. “But I know what would’ve happened if you stayed.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Atlas pales, the thought of the files — the videos; the horrific images of torture, torture that he would’ve endured, torture that Eden had been doing on its own soldiers for years — causing his mouth to instantly snap shut.

The smug feeling dissipates just as fast as it comes. There is no rebuttal to their statement. Although he never would admit to it, both he and Wren know that they are right. What had been waiting for him after today….

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

In one swift movement, Atlas jumps to his feet. His hands are shaking as he roughly turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and making a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time in his life, he feels the careful control he has over his emotions slip through his fingers, anger burning in his chest fiery hot, flushing his cheeks red.

He fucking hates it here.

The door slams behind him with a sharp bang.

He is shaking as he enters the bathroom, his entire body trembling, the weight he’s been holding upon his shoulders for too long finally cracking away at his perfectly poised exterior, slipping him under the waves of unconstrained emotions he has tried so hard to dull. His control is dissipating faster than he can manage, the short rapid breaths through his nose doing nothing to cool the fury within him. 

The stress of the past 24 hours — no, the entire past month — have taken their hold on him, sending him spiraling down a well of no return. He is untethered, boundless, suffocating in the infinite unknown of space. And there is not that usual rough calloused hand to pull him back to safety, reassurances of warmth and belonging easing him back to reality. 

His reflection glares back at him, only inches away. The boy in the mirror is a shameful thing, cheeks all blotchy and red, flushed by his rage; eyes glassy and tinged with tears, squinting with a determined will to force them back; his chest is heaving, uncontrollable gasps slipping from his lips. 

He hates it. 

He hates all of it. He hates the perfectly tidy bathroom, too similar to Eden, with its sparse toiletries, carefully unordinary, and pale gray walls, no decorations adorning them. Too similar to what he left behind — what he’s missing so desperately. 

He hates not knowing what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act. Before today he had every single second in every single minute carefully and methodically planned out, his whole future set in stone, just waiting for him to arrive. And now he is lost, his plans of a picture-perfect future set aflame, all notions of normalcy or structure crumbling to ash with it. He is a nobody, with nothing to his name.

Useless. He’s fucking useless.

He hates these new emotions swirling up inside of him. He hates being so fucking angry, every breath of air igniting his insides, erasing this perfect persona he has crafted so delicately for himself. He hates this new life, hates this stupid smartass kid who thinks they know better than he does, thinks they’re somehow greater and better because they didn’t get roped up into a corporation like Eden, didn’t fall for the sweet-as-honey lies, the manipulated comforts. He hates living in a van, hates having no home. 

But most of all….

He hates himself. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ───────── · ·

“I was gonna shower, asshole.” 

Wren stares at the closed bathroom door with a scowl. The boy has shut himself in there and it looks like he’s not going to come out anytime soon. Great. Just what they needed. 

They sigh, standing up and flopping back onto the bed with a groan, their body limp. The mattress bounces underneath their weight, creaking in rhythm. The blankets are smooth, though not cozy and gentle like the ones they have back at home, impossibly soft to the touch. But they’ll do, much more comforting than their worn-down sleeping bag rolled up in the van, which is much overdue for a wash. 

They stare up at the ceiling, eyes bleary from exhaustion. It is in this quietness, a sort of rest washing over them for the first time all day without the boy’s tense presence to bother them, that the realization dawns on them that they haven’t really slept properly at all in weeks. At Eden they were on constant alert, left with the choice of camping out in their van half a mile off-grounds or cloaking themself somewhere ambiguous, body forced into a small, impossibly cramped crawl space no one would think to search. And this morning they woke up far too early for their own liking, the boy’s piercing violet gaze disrupting their dreams. 

They groan, turning their head towards the bathroom door. The water isn’t even running. “Hey,” they call out. “You gonna shower? Or can I?” 

They wait and the air is left brimming with tension as silence stretches out, no response coming from the other side of the door. “Hello?” 

The sound of slight shuffling is the only noise they can catch. 

They frown, sliding off the bed and going to stand in front of the door; their eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled taut. “Dude, you good?” They ask, voice louder this time, fist brought down in a light knock. 

An explosion of fury booms from behind the door, ripping the next words from Wren’s tongue. 

“SHUT UP!” The boy screams, unbridled rage cracking his voice. It is deafening, hitting Wren with a truckload of emotion that has evidently been pushed down for far longer than he’s capable of withstanding. It's a violent kind of rage, one that’s dangerous to get caught up in. A stark contrast to the quiet and polite attitude from before — Wren is almost unsure if it came from him. “FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Wren flinches slightly at his outburst, the anger coming unexpected. Their eyes are wide and they are still for a moment, lips parted slightly. Shit. 

With a sigh, they turn away from the door. If he wanted to be left alone, then Wren would leave him alone. That bursting, uncontrollable anger is one they are all too familiar with. It’s no use in trying to comfort him, they’ve never been very good at that anyway. They’re sure their presence is only making his breakdown worse.

They turn and shuffle through their bag, pulling out a pair of large sweatpants and a t-shirt. They carry it to the door before dropping it in front of it wordlessly, and returning to sit on the bed. 

The bathroom is quiet for a second, so quiet that Wren thinks the boy has calmed down. They listen out for any further sound, and it’s at that moment that a large crash cuts through their hotel room. There’s a deafening bang, the sound of smashing glass shattering from behind the closed door. Wren gasps as a series of muffled thumps follow, clattering and clanging alerting them of the destruction reigned upon the bathroom. 

The sound of running water hisses from the tap and Wren grimaces, wiping at their face, their exhaustion settling in. They kick off their shoes, curling up under the covers. This should have been expected. 

They can shower tomorrow. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ

[the-bar-sinister]

Recovering whumpee returning to a place where they were badly injured and being unable to shut out the memories of what happened to them.

Whumpee's eyes drawn to the spot where they lay, huddled and bleeding. Is there really still a mark there on the ground? Or are they imagining it?

Why can't they stop hearing the sounds of their own screams and pleading echoing in their ears?

Whumpee, shaking and swallowing repeatedly, telling themselves they should be stronger than this, they have to be stronger than this.

Whumpee jolting in surprise and whirling around in fear at a touch on their shoulder; caretaker coming to check on them.

[whumplump]

Whump idea :

Caretaker kissing whumpee's scars

Thank you so much for the ask, sorry for the delay in responding it though.

CW: scars, comfort, former living weapon whumpee

Caretaker carefully removed the bandage from Whumpee's palm to check the healing process. The wounds had already healed and had acquired a color similar to Whumpee's skin.

The caregiver slid the sleeve of the former weapon down, revealing a series of older scars. Some were made by conflicts and battles, others by Whumpee themselves as a form of punishment for their failures.

Caretaker smiled. Whumpee did not.

Caretaker held their arm and brought their lips to the dry, calloused skin.

"You are very strong," they said. "Those scars are medals for everything you have survived. You should be proud."

“I feel no pride, only pain."

Caretaker's smile slowly faded, but they continued to place soft kisses on Whumpee's skin. Perhaps, with enough love — and some healing ointments — those marks that were so bothersome would disappear?

[justwhumptypethings]

realistic ptsd in whump from someone who has (undiagnosed) ptsd

tw: flashbacks, mention of sh, whumpee in denial

whumpee who can trigger a flashback in themselves just by thinking about it, sometimes entirely unprompted

after that happens whumpee feels like this can’t be a flashback and they can’t be triggered bc there was nothing that triggered it they just thought about it

whumpee’s flashbacks and the subsequent panic attacks aren’t loud and noticeable, to the outside perspective it looks like their just staring off and breathing really slowly

flashbacks aren’t as much hallucinating that you’re back in the whump as it is just feeling the sensations you felt

like literally ANY mention of it makes whumpee freeze up, this works especially well if they aren’t dealing with their whump and are instead like. ignoring it and hoping it miraculously goes away

whumpee who’s body physically reacts to it whenever they try to talk about it, breaking out in goosebumps and shivers

whumpee who’s ptsd makes it virtually impossible for them to make progress in recovery

whumpee who has a lot of trouble grounding themselves out of their flashbacks and asking for help during their flashback bc it doesn’t look like you’d expect a flashback to look, they aren’t crying curled up in a ball or anything, but they can’t think or breathe

maybe whumpee ends up taking up sh to ground, digging their fingers into their palms or scratching at their arm or biting at the inside of their cheek

whumpee who’s caretaker doesn’t even realize they’re having flashbacks or trauma responses because they don’t look how they expect them to

somwtimes things trigger them or make them anxious that wouldn’t have before and it doesn’t actually necessarily put them back into the whump but instead just make them deeply uncomfortable. for ex if your whumpee was kept in a cage now they are claustrophobic about hugs. but it doesn’t necessarily remind them distinctly of the whump, like they aren’t like ‘oh I’m claustrophobic because I was kept in a cage’ it’s more ‘why is this freaking me out?? I’ve never been claustrophobic before’ and it’s not obvious it’s happening bc of the whump

whumpee in denial that anything is actually happening to them. it can’t be ptsd. why not? it cant

[sugarsweetwriter]

Whumpee who's required to go to weekly therapy sessions.

Whumpee who takes hours of pleading with to finally get to the car, where they sit quietly for the whole car ride, stiff and uncomfortable.

Whumpee who clings to Caretaker's side for the whole therapy session, unwilling to let go of them even when it's supposed to be a one-on-one appointment.

Whumpee who practically runs back to the car the second the clock strikes whatever time the appointments supposed to end.

Caretaker who feels so guilty for having to drag Whumpee to these appointments while knowing how much Whumpee despises them.

Caretaker who takes Whumpee out to do something fun they enjoy after every appointment.

Caretaker who cuddles up with Whumpee on the bed/couch whenever they get home to watch a show or movie and give Whumpee their favourite food or snack.

[spencers-secret-whump-account]

had a bad day so here’s some ptsd whump prompts to cope <3

Flashbacks that are stirred by seemingly mundane things. The taste of whumpee’s food, the way something smells, just a simple, everyday word. Anything can be a trigger, and I mean anything

whumpee that doesn’t feel real, and hasn’t felt real since the event

Moreover, a whumpee who feels like their trauma happened to someone else because they’ve distanced themselves from it too much

gimmie whumpees who don’t realize they’re traumatized. Give me whumpees who spend months living in agony unable to accept that what they went through was traumatic, either because they’ve distanced themselves don’t think it counts as “valid” trauma (no such thing), or simply can’t even fathom themselves as quote unquote “broken”

and That realization can feel both freeing and terrible. Whumpee thinks that they’re broken, that they’ve been ruined forever. And sometimes, it’s hard to come to terms with it

and if you really want them suffering: have them do all of this alone, with no one there to ground them

or give them a service animal to help with severe panic attacks if you wanna go the wholesome route. Idk it’s your choice man

Anyways, remember to drink some water today! More for you, less for your whumpees

[literarystarfish]

When Caretaker just kind of incorporates Whumpee into their life, and doesn’t treat them any different than they do with any of their other friends even though they know what they’ve gone through.

They don’t baby them. They don’t tiptoe around them. They just treat them like a person. Like any random person. Like any of their friends.

(Unless, of course, its something specific to accommodate an unavoidable trauma, but Caretaker has never made a big deal about “such little changes to make you feel more comfortable. If you don’t want me to touch you or crowd you, thats no big deal! I make sure I have vegetarian snacks when Other-Friend comes over. It’s basically the same thing!”)

Whumpee appreciates this more than they could ever express to Caretaker. And their nonchalance about it all just makes it so much easier. After years of not feeling like a real person, being treated like one just feels so…. normal. Nice. … Better than nice. Incredible.

[3-2-whump]

Earning Your Keep, part 1

<prev next>

For the first time in quite some time, we're getting a flashback, people!

Thank you beta reading team @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz

TW/CW: whump aftermath, recovery whump, conditioned whumpee, minor whump (at time of flashback), slave whump, mentions of nightmares, negative self-talk, and all those fun bits of healing and learning how to be a person again

A week. It had been an entire week since Thomas Costa had died, and now four days since he’d begun to live with the roommates. Khaled was alive, he was safe, and the roommates were… well, they were acting strange. Nobody had asked him to do anything he was uncomfortable with–not that he would’ve objected, of course. But, more confusingly, nobody had asked him to do anything at all. Sure, the trio would ask for his opinions, or if he wanted to do something or other, but they’d never explicitly told him to do anything, leaving him guessing as to what these people’s true motives were.

It had been four days, the roommates treated him so well, and Khaled had done nothing for them in return. It was more than weird; it was unacceptable! The first group of people in a very long time to treat him with a modicum of respect, and how was he repaying them? By doing fuck-all all day and tormenting them with his nightmares? When Khaled would have nightmares–vivid nightmares that wracked the whole house with screams–they would each take turns checking on him and settling him down until he could sleep again. And in the morning, when they’d yawn and shamble tiredly around the kitchen to get ready for the day, they reassured Khaled that he had nothing to apologize for, and that their visible exhaustion was not his fault. It was nice of them to lie like that, but completely unnecessary.

Khaled knew that, if not for the roommate’s grace and generosity, he would be out on the streets right now. Maybe that’s what you deserve, freeloader, the intrusive thoughts told him. But instead, he chose to focus on earning his keep. I can at least be useful to them while I’m here, he reasoned.

Make yourself useful. That was what he told himself the first day he was left alone at his master’s apartment all those years ago. The day after his master had bought him was a weekday, where the man had to go to work. He left Khaled at the apartment alone, and for the better half of the day, the boy tried to figure out why the mafia boss bought him and what he was expected to do. From all the stories he’d heard in history classes and dramatized Bollywood movies, the slaves to wealthy masters mostly did domestic chores, so he started on that premise. Khaled tried to cook, twice, which resulted in the fire alarm going off each time. (He only knew how to make a few simple things like buttered toast and instant noodles, and he wasn’t familiar with the induction cooktop.) He tried to do a load of laundry, but only got as far as putting the dirty clothes into the washing machine. He did not understand the settings on the washing machine well enough to even venture a guess on how it worked, so that chore was abandoned too. At least he did dishes; that was one chore the fifteen-year-old knew how to do correctly, regardless of language. He tried to organize the canned goods and the foods in the refrigerator, first by name (if he could read them), then by color/size/how they smelled. He wanted to vacuum and mop the floors, but he couldn’t find so much as a broom in the apartment anywhere. At least he found some rags in the linen closet. Once he finished wiping clean every flat surface in the apartment, Khaled realized he ran out of things to do. So, he spent the next nearly four hours sitting on the living room floor, watching the city from the wide windows, wondering what else he could do/what else was expected of him to do, and worrying that he did not do enough. Occasionally he’d follow the movements of the odd sparrow or pigeon that landed on the balcony.

After he finished fajr, Khaled quietly slinked to the kitchen. He flicked the lights on, looked over his shoulder, and silently stalked to the fridge and cracked it open to see what was inside. Eggs, butter, half an onion, a jar of kimchi, a jar of pickles, two rasgullas, a carton of Chinese takeout, and a package of baby carrots–not much to work with, but I’ve worked with less. He turned his attention to the coffee maker next. It was far less complicated than the artisanal contraption his late master used to keep on his countertop. He vaguely remembered using a coffee machine just like that one, a long time ago, when he was much younger, and more innocent, and far less damaged–

Enough of the self-pity, he mentally scolded. Within moments, he got the coffee machine to begin brewing dark, fragrant, caffeinated liquid. Now all that was left was the breakfast–maybe an omelet? After rummaging around as quietly as he could, he took out eggs, a frying pan and the other tools he needed, faced the stove… and realized it was gas-powered.

Shit. It wasn’t as if Khaled hadn’t cooked on a gas stovetop before, but for the past ten years of using a fancy induction-based system, he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. He turned the knob, listening for the hiss of the gas, but frowned when it wouldn’t ignite. A bright red lighter strategically placed next to the faulty burner caught his eye. He reached for it, held it as close to the gas source as he thought reasonable, and flicked it on.

He yelped in a cry of pain and dropped the lighter as the flames blazed to life, then quickly turned the knob to dial back the heat and fanned the stovetop with his other hand. Once he had assured that the fire alarm wouldn’t go off and alert the roommates to his early morning struggles, Khaled peeked at his hand. The burns weren’t serious, from his experience, but they did hurt. He rushed to the sink and stuck his hand under cold, running water. “It’s no big deal, it’s just a small burn, you can power through this, come on,” he told himself.

“Khaled? What are you doing? Are you okay?” a sleep-heavy voice asked behind him.

He whipped around, drawing his still-wet hand to his chest protectively as Vikash stood there, hair mussed up and eyes heavy with sleep, but slowly coming to his senses as he pieced together what happened. “Let me see,” he directed him. Reluctantly, Khaled extended his burnt hand to the doctor, who examined it carefully. “Yeah, we usually don’t use that burner for this exact reason,” he belatedly warned. Vikash turned off the stove and retrieved a first aid kit from one of the cupboards.

“What are you doing up so early and burning yourself for?” he asked as he treated his hand.

“I-I wanted to make breakfast,” he said. He gestured toward the eggs on the counter and the coffee machine that just beeped.

“Really?” Vik hummed. He threw a glance at the window above the kitchen sink, noting it was not yet dawn. “It’s kinda early, though isn’t it?”

“I know you and Eric work early, so I wanted to make it for you while you were still here,” Khaled explained.

“O-oh, that’s–that’s really sweet, but you don’t have to do that!”

“I wanted to. Besides,” he murmured into the floor, “it’s the least I could do.”

Vik paused, then sighed. “Khaled, I appreciate the gesture, but it’s okay. Eric and I can look after ourselves, you don’t have to feed us.”

Khaled’s brow creased with confusion. “But, how else can I repay you? I don’t pay rent–”

Vik took down a mug from the cupboard before re-lighting the troublesome burner on the stove. “For now, just focus on getting better. Both physically, and mentally, okay?” he answered. Once he’d gotten a reluctant ‘okay’ from Khaled, Vik cracked the eggs into the bowl Khaled took out.

His master came home that night, unhelpfully silent as he scrutinized everything from the pile of undone laundry to the trash can full of burnt or half-cooked food. Khaled didn’t say a word as he nervously awaited either a scolding or a punishment. “What did you do all day?” his new owner had asked him. “I fulfill my purpose, sir,” the boy replied awkwardly. “Your purpose?” he echoed. “What you buy me for, sir.” “So, you cleaned? You tried to do laundry? You… cooked?” Attempted to, anyway. Khaled nodded, holding his breath. “What?” The boss shook his head. “No, you don’t get it–I hire people to do this! I have a cleaning service that comes twice a week, and I rarely cook myself! Why did you just–” he let out a loud, gravelly sound between a groan and a sigh. “Then why buy me?” the boy asked, cocking his head like a confused puppy. “What is my purpose?” “Your purpose is to–um, is to–” The man shook his head, as if he was trying to dispel a fly or an invasive thought. In hindsight, Khaled would look back on this moment with disgust and dread, but at that time, he didn’t know what to make of his master’s reluctance to answer. “That’s not important right now. Just bag up the trash and put my laundry back. I’ll order us some takeout,” Thomas Costa said.

Khaled watched dejectedly as Vik whisked the eggs and poured them into the hot pan. The roommates were being way too generous with him. This kind and benevolent façade was sure to crack eventually, just like last time, and he didn’t want to be accused of being some ungrateful, parasitic freeloader once it did. Surely there must be some way to repay them, preferably before they came up with a payment themselves. He’d just have to try harder until then.

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