#whumpees with low self-esteem

[federaliszt]

whumpees who are hyperattuned to any traces of anger, who fill with silent tension at the sound of raised voices in the other room, who miss a step on their way down the stairs when someone thumps them on the back unexpectedly, even if it's in a playful way. whumpees who constantly scan other people's faces for microexpressions that betray frustration or disappointment, who flinch away from the slightest indications of tension, because they're so used to the threat of violence or demeaning/abusive language following it. whumpees who start an explanation with "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry" even though they've done nothing wrong. whumpees who stand awkwardly in group settings, trying to participate in discussions but terrified of saying the wrong thing. whumpees who experience flashbacks while in the middle of talking to others, and who feel they have to bottle it up and hide it even though everyone can tell something is wrong. whumpees whose arms and hands move to protect their face or chest despite the fact that they're in a physically safe situation. whumpees who are tough as nails on the outside but skittish like deer on the inside, whose heart races wildly as they pause outside the door, listening to what caretaker says about them, knowing that it shouldn't bother them one way or the other, but needing to confirm that caretaker doesn't hate them for existing. whumpees who need constant reassurance that their presence in other people's lives is valuable and welcome. whumpees who don't let others see them cry, because acting strong and unruffled has been drilled into them for years on end, but who make up an excuse to dart out of the room when other people compliment them or praise them. whumpees who finally find Their People and can bask in the luxury of finally feeling true and permanent safety.

[whump-place]

Whumpee is used to being the scapegoat. Whenever anything's wrong it's Whumpee's fault, and whenever people need someone to put the blame on, Whumpee is always there.

They are used to it by now, and it doesn't matter if they have a good excuse, or if they would never do half of the things they get blamed for. Whumpee is always the one to take the blame.

Whumpee gets to believe it is actually their fault.

Maybe if they were better. Maybe if they behaved better. Maybe if they could do a single thing right, they wouldn't be punished every moment of their life.

But what can they do? Whumper doesn't listen to their excuses. No one ever does. The best they can do is accept it.

It's their fault.

[newbornwhumperfly]

to mention problem in front of power...

whilst these final two chapters are belated, there was simply no choice but to end whumpmas with a whimper 😈🥺😈 for this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 18: or else - i published a follow-up to this chapter. oops, jorah is being his nasty, intimidating self. that's just who he is, folks, we couldn't have too nice a time 😇😇😇

CW: punishment, burn whump, hidden whump

title insp. by the poem "social skills training" by solmaz sherif - "studies suggest it's best not to mention problem in front of power even to say there is none."

~

He’s not supposed to have opinions about…the company around him. It doesn’t matter, for example, that everyone at Fort Hill is so merciful. It doesn’t matter, for example, that he is comfortable here. That he has enough and more than enough of everything and there is no measure given to what Morja is allowed compared to what he done.

Everyone does their part here, Captain Brax had told him, speaking the way they do where their words slot into place sensible and correct. Just do your part to help the group and we shall return the favor, everyone goes to bed content. A smile that makes his insides shift to a calm rhythm and agree, yes, that all makes sense when they say it. 

But consequences work in strange ways here with the enormous amount of allowances. 

It makes Morja worry, still, that even the Commander has not…hurt him very badly, yet. That there have been no whippings. No long exposure in the weather, outside. Nothing that has even made him bleed. 

He hasn’t had to keep himself in line so much for…ever.

But he still hasn’t been punished for hitting Lieutenant- for hitting Cobi. A week of waiting, strangely, felt itself like a punishment. Laying on his back, in his bed, hands over the ache in his stomach, pressing his thumb into the bruise on his knuckles. Unable to sleep more than an hour a night. 

The hardest part of correction here is that he never knows when it will happen. Not that he deserves to be told. Of course not. It is just…it would help if he knew when. 

Knowing it’s stupid and cowardly and almost certainly disobedient hasn’t kept Morja from trying to stay out of Cobi’s way, skirting rooms he is in, avoiding the gym for his workouts until very early or very late, trying to sweat out his nerves. 

It’s only because he has a job this weekend (laundry duty, something that, somehow, is not his duty every day) which sends him into the recreation room where he knows Cobi waits, where he plays with the Commander and some visiting officers. Morja shouldn’t have to, at this point, but his throat still clicks when he slips through the door and watches the width of Cobi’s arms stretch across the pool table, the curl of how large his hands are around the stick. 

At a crow of victory, Cobi pumps his fist in the air, pushing it back through his curls, the shadow of his- his black eye faint but visible. 

The balls click together loudly, thudding clatter, Morja’s ears buzz for a second. Distracts himself by keeping to the edge of the room, cleaning up a little, maybe, maybe if he’s useful Cobi is less likely to notice him in annoyance or…worse. 

In the corner, the teevee flickers with bright, loud noises, and men yell, jostle, shout as cars race across the screen and their hands move frantically over black boxes. A soft cloud of smoke tells Morja that the Commander is over encouraging one of his friends on the couch. 

Black hair, backwards cap, solid back and shoulders, making most of the noise. A thinner man with yellow hair joining him in play, lanky, laughing a lot. A short redhead, at the pool table, square and quiet and making Cobi grin. Jorah’s - the Commander’s - friends.

Morja shouldn’t be distracted in a room full of people, he really shouldn’t be making pictures in his head, but his hands move quiet and efficient over empty beer bottles and bags of chips, countertop to garbage bin, and he is so used to not being seen in a room at all. He should know better than to almost startle when a voice stops him in his tracks. 

“Looking for something?”

Morja spins around so fast the bottles he was holding clink together loudly in his hands, shit, and his throat clicks again at the Commander being suddenly very close. His stomach drops as suddenly eyes, every eye, turns to him. 

Morja can’t get his mouth to work for a second, dry, swallowing. The smell of ash is very close and only the island of a countertop seperates him from the Commander leaning forward on his elbows, staring. His gaze is hard and cold. 

When is it not?

“Cleaning. I’m just cleaning up a- a little bit?”

Morja hates that he ended it as a question. Doesn’t he know whether he’s cleaning up or not, diathésimos? It’s hard to think with the blare of light and crashing cars and buzzing music from the screen across the room. His skin crawls. 

A laugh booms across the space and Morja flinches again as Cobi calls out. “Hey, buddy, you any good at pool? Martz here is kicking my ass, so much for my long reach-“

“Who’s the wallflower?” Another voice cuts out, booming, like Cobi’s, but…no laughter. Or…different laughter, as the man in the backwards cap calls over his shoulder. “Waiting to be asked to dance?” The blond man at his side titters - “Nice, Petey-“ - and Morja’s hands feel large and clumsy around the bottles. 

“That’s my friend Morja, Ben, and I bet he’d love a chance to beat your sorry asses at pool. Could probably gimme a run for my money, right, Jorah? Can’t beat ‘im in much, I’ve learned!” 

Cobi beams across the room and what does that mean? Is it- is that a reference? Is he trying to draw Morja out, somehow? Is this another strange kindness? His blue eyes are bright behind the black eye and Morja can’t read anything but the smile on his face. 

Jorah breathes out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette and Morja stifles his urge to cough, speaking tightly and quietly against the itch in the back of his throat and the watering in his eyes. 

“…Thank you, um, I really just came to ask if you needed any laundry collected?” Morja bites down on the sir or anotéros he wants to end that with and the chasm it leaves under his feet makes his stomach clench. He should be trying to be as good as possible right now and that smile he gets back only makes him blink harder. 

“Aw, man, thanks for asking, I totally fuckin’ forget- left the basket by my door so you can just take it. Uh, got some shirts that I gotta iron, take ‘em also. Thanks, Morja!” 

“…It’s my job.”

“And it’s very helpful!”

Morja seeks the familiar comfort of the garbage bin because what does he say to that, trying not to fumble under the attention as he drops glass into the blue bin, plastic into another. 

“Hey, Morja.” 

Morja freezes. The Commander doesn’t say his name…much. His palms prickle a little. 

“Grab me a beer while you’re over there.” Jorah’s eyes are unreadable when Morja meets them and he gestures to the fridge behind Morja, a flutter of ash falling to the countertop. Blows another cloud of smoke around a row of straight teeth. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Morja’s hand actually slips on the handle of the fridge-door getting it open, quick, efficient,  sweating, pulling out the cool glass bottle and hearing the Commander call out - “Yo, Petey? Kip? Need a top-up?” 

Morja gathers more before he even hears the yells of confirmation and moves across the space with four bottles in his hand - Commander and his two friends and Cobi because he can’t neglect to serve him even a little bit. He doesn’t look up at the Commander when the cigarette is ground out on the sink, left smoldering on the shiny steel, but the boots stay close for a long moment. Morja breathes again when they retreat, taking the bottles with them, handing them out with cheers in answer. 

Breathes deeper when he escapes, no, walks back into the hallway, takes the moment of pleasure and loudness to vanish into his duties. 

He should have known he didn’t have permission to breathe deep. 

Morja is too drawn into his tasks, in doing a good job gathering baskets of clothing, in carefully washing the bundles one by one with care, in the little measure of relief he takes in spending extra time washing Cobi’s things. Extra treatment to get the sweat-stains out. The grease and oil and spice of snacks smeared on shirts. Bleach and scent and color-correct, the neatly labeled supplies laid out in the laundry room. The slow, even press of the hot iron over those shirts, one by one, getting a straight collar, a crisp cuff - Cobi will be pleased by the shirts. 

In his rhythm, his lax enjoyment of the amends, he almost doesn’t hear the click of the door until it shuts. 

Morja almost drops the iron, shameful, setting it carefully on the board and going to stiff attention as the Commander stands in the shadow of the doorway. Quiet. Eyes narrow and cold as always, for a long moment. 

“Sir.”

Silence. Morja’s mouth goes dry. He waits, waits for a minute, longer, before his fucking will breaks to glance up. Through the small window of the door, there is a broad back and a backwards cap. Commander’s friend standing at the door.

Morja’s fingertips prickle again and his chest seizes on a stopped breath. He isn’t going to be trouble. He isn’t- he won’t fight back against correction, there doesn’t need to be a guard. Does the Commander think Morja can’t be trusted to obey? 

Why wouldn’t he? Not after what happened. Morja is no better than a feral dog if bites when being trained. 

Heat crawls up Morja’s neck, his chest, flushing all the way down to the shrinking feeling in his stomach. Can’t be trusted. Of course. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands as the Commander walks up to the ironing board and he wants to kneel at the Commander’s feet, hot and shaky, smaller, lesser, fuckup.

“These are Cobi’s shirts.”

Morja doesn’t know if that’s a question. 

“…Yessir?”

Shouldn’t you know, fuckwit?

One hand strokes over the green cloth spread out on the ironing board, the row of dark buttons, the collar, plucking at the sleeve. 

“You missed a spot.”

What?

Before the little spike of cold can land, Morja is flung forward on the ironing board, the side of his head slamming into the surface, ringing, the air driven out of him, the edge driving into his chest. He gasps and the hand, the Commander’s hand, tight, cold, squeezing to the point of pain, pinning. Morja’s hands are behind his back, he doesn’t struggle, he can be still.

“Do you. See. This. Wrinkle?”

Morja’s throat moves, works around dryness, tries to answer, can’t see more than the long stretch of board, bunched green cloth, the iron at the end. 

“Here, take a closer look.”

The Commander picks up the iron. 

Sets it right in front of his face.

Breathe. 

Fingers pinch the skin of his skin, pressing, holding, and Morja can see the shimmer of heat in the air. The metal an inch from his face. Even the closeness to the heat hurts, his cheek burning before it burns, hot, hot, hot. All he can see is flat silver, shiny, shimmering. 

A voice in his ear, a close whisper that would make him shudder if he wasn’t locked-muscles-tight. 

He doesn’t flinch. He knows better than to move to avoid a blow. He knows better than to avoid a consequence. Doesn’t he?

“You know, I’ve heard a lot about your mistake a few days ago. How you accidentally hit my friend, oh, sorry, kicked him.” Breath tickles at his ear, hotter than the wave rolling over his face, hard and angry, and if Morja even breathes too deep, his skin will touch the iron. “Tell me, Asset, are you…sloppy? Or are you insubordinate?”

Heat. Pressure. Lips cracking under the heat. 

His feet are solid on the ground and his hands are tight behind his back. Thumbnail into palm. The prick of skin draws in air. 

“…Sloppy, sir. I apologize. I…I’ll do better, sir.”

A long moment that stretches like heat through air, slow and wavery, every pressure point, every throb of pain, chest, neck, head, hand, keeps him still and steady. Keeps him in place. 

He can remember how to hold still for things. 

The iron pulls away and a lack-of-heat drags another breath into him that becomes a grunt when the grip on his neck seizes a handful of hair and yanks him upright. Staggers, a little, but is at attention, even while his scalp strains under the tug. He’s been dragged by his hair, before, and this grip barely pulls a strand out. 

“Roll up your sleeve.”

Morja doesn’t need to be told twice. Unclasps his hands to unbutton his cuff, roll his sleeve up, up, to the elbow. There is no red on his nail - at the very least, his self-control was measured enough to not cut himself. 

“Arm on the table.”

Deep breath. Swallow. Plant feet on the floor, plant arm on the board. 

“Palm down.”

Oh. Right. He’s not used to it being palm down but he rolls his arm over to the side that has a different kind of scar. Where the lines and holes are less straight and deliberate, more jagged, more scattered. It is only right to be hurt on the side of his skin that is marred by mistakes rather than corrections. 

“My team might look past your sloppiness but the kind of mistakes- well, if they are mistakes, but the fuckups that you make get good people hurt. I can’t let that happen. It’s my job to keep an eye on shit, to minimize mistakes.”

People make mistakes, buddy. But he’s not people - he’s a diathésimos. Shame tightens his stomach and something else, underneath, just as uncomfortable, unfamiliar. He curls his hand into a fist and his nail slots into the groove of his palm. 

The burn doesn’t surprise him, the stabofsharphotthrobbingdowntobone, smell of flesh-and-heat, and it's gone. It lasted barely long enough to grunt behind his teeth, the iron pulled away from his arm before the sound even got out. Burns always feel like they last longer than they do. This was a quick burn. 

A red v-shape streak, already swelling, looks strange on his arm, somehow. 

“Look at that. You burned yourself doing laundry. Now, if you weren’t being sloppy that wouldn’t have happened. Sometimes you’ll just get hit and you gotta take it.”

The burn throbs, bright, the smell of singed hair and detergent swirl in his nostrils. Morja rolls his sleeve down over the mark and buttons his cuff again. Neat, straight, at attention. With a final shove that bangs his hip into the edge of the board, the Commander releases him, retreating towards the door. 

“You’ve got a lot of laundry to finish.”

Morja breathes slow, deep, around the throbbing in his chest. Just from the bruise - the edge of the board hit him harder than he thought. His arm throbs, the blister pressing up against his sleeve. 

“You’ll be more careful next time. Won’t you, Morja?”

He looks up and the Commander- Jorah’s eyes are such a different blue than Lieutenant Cobi’s. Shiny silver, flat iron, cold rolling off, heat in a wave. 

“…I’ll be more careful, sir.”

The correction rolls through him, wounds pulsing their second heartbeat, steadying his first until his hands don’t shake around the iron. Every wrinkle is smoothed, crisp like sheets of paper, rigid and at-attention, as he is calm. Finally, calm. 

With the rhythm of this other heartbeat, familiar, so familiar, he might, at last, sleep through the night. 

~

don't you all see that jorah is just keeping everyone safe? 😇😇😇 it's his job to be vigilant! isn't he protecting everyone from morja's vicious, uh, (checks notes) submissiveness? 😇😇😇

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @i-eat-worlds @haro-whumps @whumpzone

@wolfeyedwitch @whumpthisway @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain

@kixngiggles @scoundrelwithboba @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @liliability

@tears-and-lilies @stoic-whumpee @whumpster-draganies @suspicious-whumping-egg

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone!! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[mintflavouredwhump]

An aspiring writer whumpee who has sunk into writer's block that has lasted for weeks/months. It seems a little embarrassing to say out loud but the immense inactivity has negatively impacted their self-esteem and has them convinced that they will amount to nothing in their life and that they'll die without ever writing a masterpiece that the world would celebrate or at least acknowledge.

[rosewriteswhump]

Numb

CW: Lady whump , recovery, past emotional abuse, past gaslighting, recovery, trauma, fear of trusting, repressing emotions, leaving abusive friendship, yelling, fairy whump, immortal whumpee, crying, low self-esteem, emotional manipulation, I can't think of anything else but please let me know if I missed anything. I will fix it asap!

Summary: Marlie finally tells Alice to stop hurting her. She's done with the emotional abuse and cruelty. Alice doesn't take it well and it ends in a fight. Marlie keeps her ground for once and successfully leaves Alice behind. Unaware it will cause unintended consequences.

"What makes you think you can leave me?" Alice's cold voice caused Marlie's pulse to skyrocket. She knew she had to leave Alice -had always known- and now she would finally do it.

Marlie inhaled a shaky breath of air, terror coursing through her veins. "I-i can't take it anymore. I'm so sorry, but I can't deal with the emotional abuse." The fairy slowly backed away, flinching when she hit the wall.

Alice scoffed, angry tears in her eyes trickling down her flushed cheeks. "I was a great friend! If you think I'm abusive, you should take a look in a mirror bitch." The human stepped closer and closer to Marlie, stopping when she had the fairy cornered in the back of the room. "You are a selfish, toxic, and lying monster! All I did was tell you what upset me. Yet, you continued to spend time with your family. You knew how I fucking hated that! Every second away from you made me think I had to eliminate threats. You broke down every time I yelled at you! Who's fault is it that you can't follow basic rules? Only I can talk to you. WHY ARE YOU LEAVING ME?" Alice was screaming now, her voice shrill and words like knives. "YOU THINK YOU CAN DO WHATEVER YOU WANT! NO! YOU'RE AWARE I'M A YANDERE, AND YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO ACKNOWLEDGE OTHERS? YOU'RE LUCKY I DIDN'T KILL THEM!" 

Marlie swallowed her fear, terrified tears quickly welling in her eyes. "I live with them. Dawn has known me my whole life and has always been supportive. She didn't gaslight me when I was hurt. I can't live like this. I-I'm sorry, have a good life!" Marlie used a spell to create a small smoke screen, taking her chance to escape.

----

A week had passed since the fight, Marlie hiding in her room and blocking Alice on every social media and chat she could think of. A simple question made Marlie tense and fumble for anything Alice accepted as an answer. She avidly avoided Cedar's and Bear's efforts to talk about anything she enjoyed, terrified of angering them-even if Cedar had the anger of a purring kitten-. 

Harley was out on a mission and would return in a few days, causing more anxiety in the young fairy. While Dawn, worriedly, gave her space, still checking in on them. 

Marlie had been trying to shove everything down, unprepared to face the trauma the friendship caused. Maybe she wasn't ready to admit it to herself, wracked with guilt over all the previous arguments. Marlie wondered how Alice was coping, wanting the girl to have a good life as long as Marlie could avoid it. She inhaled shakily, repeating a mantra created by her self-doubt. 

I am okay. I won't get hurt if I bottle it up. I can't get yelled at if I shove it away. It's my fault.

Marlie looked in the mirror and forced a smile -it looked exhausted but good enough. Only a healer could tell how much pain she was in.- before opening the door to her room.

----

Dawn sat across from Harley in their room, eyeing all the prizes from competitions on the walls and shelves. Harley watched her nervous, fidgeting with a careful expression. "What's up, Dawn? You know Marlie better than the rest of us combined. So if anything's up you'd be able to tell and talk with her, right?" They asked, hesitating at the last word. Dawn's despair palpable in the room

"No, she hasn't. I asked how the talk with Alice went, and Marlie said Alice was gone. She left the human. But I know it's hurting her, and Alice is why she's hurting. I want to help her, but she's not ready to talk about it." Dawn's eyes filled with tears, and she removed her glasses to wipe them away. Harley sat beside the healer, her hand resting on Dawn's head as the shorter fairy looked up at them. 

Harley gave a shaky smile. "If she's not ready, don't force her. Alice coerced Marlie to do many things. She's scared of that again, and the best we can do is give her the space she needs and offer her comfort." Alice was the cruelest human they had encountered in the half millennia they had lived. With a bit of hesitation, Harley hugged Dawn awkwardly, allowing the healer to sob into her shoulder. 

A few minutes later, Dawn had calmed down and pulled away. "Thanks, you're right. I'll give Marlie space but still be by her side. You've got good advice; I think you know more about healing than most combat fairies." Smiling, she pushed some of the braids over her dark shoulder before heading to her room.

----

Taglist: @nullb1rdbones

let me know if you'd like to be added or removed

Ask box is open to any questions for me or my characters!

[fleur-a-whump]

ok this was not at all how I was expecting it to go. IM SO INTRIGUED?? like wtf why?

and this is a spoiler but HIS LITTLE 'okay' TO HERO ARE YOU JOKING I WILL SOB??? PROTECT HIM!! LOVE HIM!! HES A BABY HE DOES NOT DESERVE!!

also another spoilerish but I hope 'take care of them' meant kill them bc they deserve it ok

Resource L10#11 - Part 2: A dumpster fire of a day - Crestlen universe

Contents: waking in a dumpster, description of injuries, left to die, freaked out whumpee, resigned whumpee, whumpee who considers himself an object, mentions of past horrible trainings

I love Lionel. As I’m sure you can tell >:)

Part 1

……………………………………………

The underlying throbbing of his muscles on top of the ripping pain in his arms, legs, and nose was what Lionel woke up to. He tried to take a deeper breath, but only succeeded in choking on the blood that had dripped in to rest in the back of his throat from his nose. 

He rolled his head and weakly let the blood slip from the back of his throat to his mouth before he dribbled it out between his lips. After spitting weakly a couple of times, he rolled his head back over the bumpy surface he was laying on to pry his eyes open and figure out where he was. 

Blue grey skies and the sharp line of a building’s eave above him met his eyes, all within a greenish metal container. He blinked a couple of times and rolled his head to the side to spit again and found that he was laying on a bunch of trash bags in a dumpster. 

Keep reading

[fleur-a-whump]

Overloaded (#1)

Preventative Measures

so like. this is a thing. been toying with this little guy in my head for a few weeks and like, almost nothing is concrete but I'm hoping I'll turn it into a series.

content: ex-villain whumpee, hero/leader whumper, manipulative whumper, just like a LOT of manipulation, collars/collaring, referenced electrocution, low self esteem, subtle threats, guilt trips

I've never done this before, let me know if I missed something!!

masterlist | next

----------

Villain has finally been given a chance. A chance to prove he's more than what the whole city has always thought of him, more than what his father raised him to be. He wanted to do good in the world. The heroes were finally giving him a chance to be more than they've always thought of him. 

...or so he thought.

He gulps as he stares at the shock collar in Team Leaders hands. It's a small thing, sleek and unassuming. But he knows exactly what it is because Team Leader had shown him how it worked.  The man is currently speaking to him nonchalantly. Villain should really be listening to the hero that holds the key to a better life. But that collar... shakes Villain's faith in Team Leader. Just a little.

"Villain," the man says shortly. Impatiently. Shit.

Villain jumped to attention, nerves only growing worse. 

"Sorry, sorry! I'm just-just a little confused. I thought... I was a part of the team..." He tries to keep the heartbreak out of his voice. He doesn't quite succeed. 

"If you'd listen..." the Team Leader sighed deeply. Villain was going to throw up. 

Team Leader began again, speaking slowly as if to a child. Or a stupid person. Villain thinks he fell into the latter column. "I was just saying this will help you better mesh with the team. I'm sure you've noticed people are a little nervous with you around."

Hostile. Villain would use the word hostile.

"Given your past, everything you've done," the man drawled. Villain can't hold back a wince. 

"So, to ease their worries, and allow them to see how great I know you can be, this is just a little precautionary measure. A bit of a show."

Ryan swallowed thickly.

"So... It wouldn't be used..."

He tries to keep himself from thinking about electricity burning the sensitive skin of his throat as it shoots down his spine and into his skull to paralyze him. He's familiar enough with the feeling; he doesn't need to imagine it.

Team Leader gives him an easy smile. "As long as there are no issues, of course not."

"...Issues?"

"Oh, stuff that'll never happen. Just breaking any of the rules."

Villain arched his brow, slightly dubious. "Rules.”

"Yeah, like, follow orders, don't fraternize with any of your old contacts, don't leave our level, don't work unsupervised, don't harm the team. Stuff you've been doing this whole time."

"Wait, don't leave the level?

"I mean, that's pretty obvious, bud. If we can't see you, we can't know that you're following the rest of the rules."

He nods mutely, gaze wandering. this whole thing just. He didn't know. It hurt.

Team Leader gently tilted his head up. "Villain, I'm only doing this because I trust you. I know you'd never do anything that could jeopardize your place here."

He doesn't trust that Villain is a hero though, obviously. That he's good. Because Villain could never be good. Not now. Not after all he's done. 

No, he can only hope to do good. And the only way he'll be able to do that is with the team. If this is what it takes to ease his team into working with him, if this is what it takes for him to stay, then he'll do it.

"O-okay."

"Atta boy, Villain! I knew you could do it, man."

Villain nods, trying to give him a smile.

Team Leader moves towards him all too quickly, and he can't help the flinch. The man doesn't seem to notice—or at least he doesn't acknowledge it—and is soon once again gently tilting Villain's chin up from where it had fallen. 

Villain fights the urge to lean into the touch.

While he's distracted, Team Leader swiftly brings the collar, already disengaged and bent open at the hinges, and presses it to Villain's skin. 

Villain jolts at the cold metal and fights to swallow as it's closed around his neck.

The locking mechanism clicks right up against his spine. He can't help the shudder that trickles down his back at the finality of the sound.

"I'm so proud of you, bud," Team Leader says with a big smile and a ruffle of Villain's shaggy curls.

The tightness in his chest eases, just a little. A little part of him flares in anger at how easily he's comforted. He doesn't deserve the comfort.

But he's trying. The collar now fit snuggly around his neck, like it was made for him, is proof of that.

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

ps ex-villain whumpee on the hero team but whumped by the hero team is my all-time favorite trope and it is so hard to find I have finally hit the point of needing to produce my own story to scratch the itch

[pigeonwhumps]

Battle

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Angstpril: alt prompt 1: troubled mind

Inspired by these two prompts by @hurtmyfavsthanks and an anon ask she received. I saw the more recent one and just wrote this straight up within a couple of hours, unable to resist it.

1k

CWs: living weapon, outcast whumpee, magical whumpee, low self-esteem, betrayal kinda, mentions of battle and casualties, mentioned past discrimination

Whumpee doesn't remember much of the battle.

It went by in a haze. They remember red, people falling, screams, unsure which side they were on. They remember the glee, the euphoria, of using their magic. The high of it all.

Now they're starting to come down from that high, and they can see the fear in people's eyes. The injuries, the casualties. Vaguely, they wonder who caused them. Was it them again?

Hands cup their face, gentle, calloused. The only ones that will ever touch them anymore.

Caretaker's.

"Hey. Look at me, now. Not the camp. Me." Whumpee looks up hesitantly, into their loving, warm eyes. One day they'll change. One day... one day they'll harden. Fear, hatred. From all the people they've hurt, on all sides. One day it'll be too much. They're afraid of the day they'll see that, of what will happen then.

But it hasn't happened yet.

Caretaker wipes their cheek softly. "It's okay. Come on, rest. Lay your head down. You're done for today. Close your eyes and rest."

Whumpee crawls into Caretaker's lap. They vaguely register being carried, head being lifted until it meets Caretaker's neck. Whumpee nuzzles into it.

"Shh. You did so well. You're doing so well, Whumpee. I'm proud of you."

Whumpee doesn't want to be. They want to grow flowers. But this is what their magic likes, this is what their king likes, this is what makes Caretaker say those words of praise in just that voice, so they can't stop.

(They ignore the small voice in their head that says that they have no idea what Caretaker's reaction to flowers would be. This is exhilarating, even if they feel an ever-growing bubble of shame at the endless, ruthless violence.)

Caretaker runs a hand through their hair, combing out the knots from the day's work, using a little water to clean the worst of the blood. Whumpee has been through this so many times that they know what to expect without even a glance. He won't hurt them with those eyes. They know his expression, his feelings, and they curl their arms and legs closer around him.

He's so warm.

"S'okay buddy. I'm here."

"Hmm."

Whumpee closes their eyes. It's so... so... they don't think they can sleep yet but they find themself drifting on the exhaustion the magical high always brings.

_

The next morning is... the next morning. As it always is with a new squad, it is very different to the first one.

And as it always is, Whumpee feels a sharp stab of hurt.

The soldiers know who they are, what they are. Have done since the very beginning .They've worked with Whumpee on the preparations, the journey here, for weeks. They know them. Sat around the campfire, shared meals, joked and talked and laughed. They'd been wished good luck yesterday morning, hair ruffled, smiles and reassurances in abundance. Soldier had even fixed their horse's saddle after the straps started to break. Now...

Now, they won't come within arms length of them. Soldier ladles out breakfast to the rest, leaving an empty bowl several feet from Whumpee, not looking them in the eye as he leaves them to fetch their own. He flinches along with several others as they approach the campfire, more whose hands jerk towards their swords. As if they're going to attack. As if they're so out of control that they'd attack their own side on purpose.

They reluctantly let go of Caretaker's hand so he can fetch their breakfast and the healing potion alone. At least he looks them in the eye. At least he sits with them, and talks, and touches them. Helps convince them to take the potion, even though it's bitter and rancid and no-one will improve it for the likes of them, and they won't need it once the adrenaline and euphoria of tomorrow's battle kicks in.

The kindness is only for now. It will change, sooner or later.

Nobody helps the pair of them take down their tent, or pack their saddlebags, and the Sergeant looks about to stop Whumpee from replacing the emergency set of daggers they carry in their boots at all times. A gift from Caretaker.

It's like they have the plague. Or the Devil's Touch, as their old villagers used to say.

They're pretty much alone in the clearing now, the rest of the squad staying as far away as they can without letting Whumpee out of their sight. Just in case they explode or something.

Without a word, Whumpee settles down on the ground beside the smoldering fire, Caretaker sitting on the log behind them. It's a sharply cold morning, dew dampening their breeches, but their leather armour keeps them surprisingly warm.

Caretaker braids their hair quickly and simply, just enough to keep it out of their face. Battlefields aren't the place for complicated hairstyles. Which is a shame, because Caretaker takes pride in that skill, and Whumpee delights in being allowed to display the results.

Whumpee dries their face with the cloth Caretaker hands them wordlessly. They need to get it together. It's not like it's the end of the world or anything. They try to summon the ease by which they sometimes prepare, the eagerness instead of dread that comes with a lot of battles.

It doesn't come. Today is a day for dread, then, and there's nothing they can do about it but pray for a miracle. And a break in the hatred and fear, the violence with which everyone rejects them.

They can't help thinking, though, that the amount of damage they've done, it's no wonder people want them locked away. They are a weapon, after all.

Yes. Definitely one of the bad days.

Caretaker's their handler. They try not to think about it but it's true. He's the only one who might see it, might offer them a brief reprieve. So they summon up all their courage.

"Please..."

Caretaker finishes the braid and kisses their temple. "I'm so sorry, Whumpee. I really am. But you need to do this. We need to do this. The kingdom needs you."

Whumpee nods. They don't blame Caretaker, not really. They need to win this war. And Whumpee needs to use their magic.

But gods do they wish they could stop.

[arrrmagedonnn]

Well i decided to translate my lore article into English soooo I hope you will enjoy it!! Also feel free to ask some questions about them or maybe art requests with them, I will be so happy to answer!

CW: legal slavery, slave whump, conditioned whumpee, self-harm, non-con, abuse (I dont know what to add but I hope you understand vibe)

1. A bit of world building 

The setting is an alternative Europe of the 70s-80s (historical events are different, this is just to understand the general atmosphere and the development of technology). The economy is based on a system of owning and selling slaves, and is under strict control –you can legally buy/sell a slave only through the Central Market, which is located in every city. Market belongs to the Formelle family, which takes a large percentage from each completed sale, and due to this is one of the richest in the country.

The market is divided into several sections, each sells slaves of different “quality". Every Friday there is a Big Auction where exclusive slaves are sold, which cannot be bought just like that. They are considered more elite because of their physical attractiveness, learning to write/read and other skills. On the rest of the week, in the evenings, Small Auctions are held, where slaves are exhibited that have not been sold for a fixed price during the day. The Big Auction and Small Auctions are held on Monday and Wednesday by Mark, on all other days by Fran.

2. Ethan

Ethan is a slave, he was born after his mother (also a slave) was raped by her master. She worked in a large estate, with many servants besides them, so for the first couple of years they did not pay much attention to Ethan, but the more he grew, the more he began to resemble his father in appearance. So, in order to avoid a scandal and the disclosure of the rape story, at the age of 11, Ethan was resold to the other side of the country, to a farm.

He lived and grew up there until he was 17. Everything was quite good – Ethan was not given too hard work and most of the time he was not noticed at all, so he often secretly went for walks in the woods, to the river, and other interesting places near the farm. On one of these walks, he accidentally went a little further than usual, got lost and for two days couldnt find the way back. When he returned, the owners thought he was trying to escape, so they beat him up and then resold him to work in a factory.

It was a textile factory and the conditions there were much worse – constant work for 15-17 hours a day, disgusting living conditions, lack of normal food, and in case of disobedience (which was just weariness), Ethan was punished by being locked in a small dark punishment cell (after that he had a phobia of enclosed dark spaces). At such moments, he began to have a strong derealization, and in order to somehow cope with this, Ethan did not come up with anything better than stealing and carrying sharp cutting objects (needles, blades, pins, scissors) and cutting/stabbing his hands, because the pain helped him return to reality and don't start going crazy.

Ethan worked at the factory for about a year until Mark took him away from there.

By nature, Ethan is modest and intimidated, he tries to be as obedient as possible, even to the detriment of his needs. He has low self–esteem and considers himself fundamentally bad, wrong and broken, and thinks that all violence in his direction is right and deserved.

And some facts:

- Ethan can't read or write, but he can count to 30 and tell the time by the clock.

- Ethan constantly hears voices accusing and insulting him, and he is generally prone to visual, auditory and tactile hallucinations, as well as bouts of derealization.

- Ethan considers ignoring and loneliness much worse than any physical punishment.

- His favorite dessert is sugar cubes

3. Mark

Mark is one of the children of the Formelle family. Thanks to his mother, who indulged his every whim, he grew up spoiled and selfish, used to having everything in the world revolve around him. Because of his character and behavior, his peers did not want to be friends with him, so he either bought the friendship of other children for money, or was surrounded by slaves of his own age (he accidentally killed one of them during a game by throwing a stone at his head, but the next day they just brought a new one to Mark).

After graduating from high school, Mark tried to study at a medical university, but barely mastered the first year. Instead of studying, he preferred going to loud parties, drinking expensive cocktails in bars, going to boutiques with branded clothes and finding other ways to spend his parents' money. After some time, he was forced to work as an auctioneer in order to bring at least some benefit to the family business, but even so he has a lot of time for endless parties and bars.

Since childhood, Mark had a noticeable craving for violence, so when he got older, Mark began to use slaves, originally intended for sale, for his “personal use”. Mark's main fetish is cutting, so that all his slaves either died from wounds and blood loss, or became mutilated to the point that they could not move normally, and their appearance made them unsuitable for resale. Such waste continued for a long time, but in the end, Mark was forbidden to take expensive elite slaves, and instead take cheaper and already used ones, such as Ethan. By the way, Mark chose Ethan for himself only because he saw fresh cuts on him, and he was very amused by how he was hurting himself.

By nature, Mark is very mannered, arrogant, likes to be the center of attention and is fueled by adoration for himself from other people. He has an antisocial personality disorder, so he does not feel empathy for others, except for feigned pity. He likes to control everything and hates it when things don't go the way he intended.

And some facts:

- Mark uses makeup – concealer, concealer, he draws himself small arrows and a mole under his eye, because he heard that it makes the face more symmetrical.

- Mark is a sadomasochist and have ASPD

- His favorite dessert is macaroons

3.1 Mark and Ethan

Ethan lived with Mark for two years, and Mark very quickly won Ethan's love and affection through emotional manipulation. Compared to life at the factory, life with Mark was easier and calmer for Ethan, even despite the constant violence in his direction. Mark convinced Ethan that the process of making cuts makes him “beautiful��� and ”full-fledged", all punishments are done “for the good". In addition, beatings, sex, cuts and forced self-harm always alternated with affection, care and words of love, which made Ethan want violence against himself, because after it there would be a pleasant, comfortable part.

Their "relationship" lasted until Mark thought it was a funny idea to fuck Ethan in the eye socket. Before that, Ethan was already physically weak due to the constant mutilation, and after that he finally broke down, constantly just lying, sleeping, crying, and did not show the same emotions as before. Mark tried to sell him, but he couldn't find anyone willing to buy the exhausted, half-dead one-eyed slave, so Mark gave Ethan to his friend, Rafe.

4. Raf (Rafael)

Rafael is a childhood friend of Mark, but unlike him, he does not come from a rich family. His father left the family, Francesca's mother worked a lot and almost did not raise her son, so from childhood Raf was more serious and independent than his peers.

Raf's mother and Mark's father communicated closely, so the children spent a lot of time with each other. Raf was the only one whose friendship Mark couldn't buy, and who didn't suck up to him because of his status. They often quarreled, fought, reconciled, fought again, but in the end they remained close friends for many years to come. Rafe was and remains the only one whom Mark considers his equal, and whose opinion and attitude he cares at least a little.

After graduating from school, Raf dreamed of going to medical school with Mark, but he failed to enroll in budget education, and there was not enough money for paid education. Instead, Raf graduated as an economist and got a job at a regular office position.

By nature, Raf is quite balanced, restrained and serious. He suffers from workaholism and insomnia. Long-term communication with people quickly exhausts him, it is difficult for him to make new friends and even acquaintances.

And some facts:

- In high school and before the first years of university, Rof dated Mark's cousin, Lillian. They parted on quite a good note, realizing that they were not suitable for each other.

- Raf is always haunted by the thought that he is not doing "enough" – not working hard enough, not trying hard enough, and in an attempt to feel satisfied with the completion of some project, he can work continuously for several days in a row.

- Raf has a british cat, Lala, which he picked up from the street (in fact, she went into the house herself and refused to leave). Lala is not very sociable and grumpy, often bites and scratches if you try to pet her.

- Rafe likes to watch true-edge shows on TV and read detective stories, in which the reader is invited to find the killer along with the main character.

- Collects stamps and smoking pipes. - He cooks well, but because of work, he has almost no time for it.

4.1 Raf and Mark

Raf and Mark still communicate well and often, despite the difference in characters. After Rafe broke up with Lillian, Mark suggested that he start dating, but after the recent breakup, Rafe agreed only to a "relationship without a relationship" – they have sex, romance, but they do not call an official relationship.

4.2 Raf and Ethan

As I said above, Mark decided to give Ethan to Raf. Rafe himself has been extremely negative about the slavery system since childhood and does not support it, so he agreed to take Ethan only because he would not have lived long in any other place because of his weakened condition. Ethan will need a long time to get used to the new conditions, especially in contrast after living with Mark. For example, Ethan is used to being punished for any oversight, and if he doesn't, then he needs to harm himself on his own, and Rafe won't understand the reasons for this behavior for a long time.

weeeeell thats all!! I know that the article is a bit crooked and my English is not so good, but I tried my best!!

[a-crumb-of-whump]

A New Beginning #21: Positive Affirmations

Masterlist | Read on AO3

Content: Self esteem issues, [mentioned] past child whump, recovery, pet whumpee, vampire whumpee, human caretaker, [past] parental whumpers.

I have been in such a slump recently, I'm so sorry for the lack of content </3 either the next chapter or the chapter after is when shit gets real.

-

“What’cha doin’?” Adam asked one morning as he sat down on the couch with his second cup of coffee. Carlos immediately glanced up from his new diary, a smile coming to his face when he realised that it was a genuine question rather than one asked out of politeness. 

“I’m practicing positive affirmations with myself,” he told him. “Trying to write down three things I like about myself, or three things I think I’m good at, or… really, just three positive things. It’s… uh, harder than the people in the video I watched made it seem. I only have one thing so far.” 

It was almost sad that he’d only been able to think of one thing in the hour that he’d been sitting here. Despite his humans’ constant flow of compliments and reassurances, his opinion of himself was still rather low, and it felt like there was something physically stopping him from seeing himself in any other light. Himself, perhaps?

Adam hummed, still looking half-asleep despite his attempts to wake himself up.  “Can I see what you got so far?” 

Obediently, Carlos rotated his book and pushed it towards the human, allowing him to see what he’d written. A single dot point, written in messy cursive that even Carlos found hard to read at times. He hoped that, with time, it would look better.

I’m good at being good. 

“You are,” Adam reassured him. “You’re always good to us. What about your art, as well? You’re getting pretty damn good at that.” 

The vampire considered that for a moment, thinking back to the last few things he’d scribbled down as of late. He’d certainly been getting better, but in comparison to the few pieces of art Rebel had been kind enough to show him, his was an embarrassment. 

He sighed, setting his hands down in his lap as he slouched a little. “But what if I think I’m good at something, and it turns out that I’m really not?” he asked quietly. “I was gonna put down that I’m okay at cooking, or that I’m getting better at remembering social cues, but I don’t wanna do that if I’m really not. I’m scared that if someone sees that I think of myself like that, they’ll get upset with me for… lying? or thinking too highly of myself?”

“Buddy, if you judge your skills by how the people around you perceive them, then you’ll never get anything down. The exercise is to write down things you like about yourself, right?” Carlos nodded, eyes directed at the table rather than at Adam. “Then, if you like that you can cook or do art or pick up on social cues, it counts. Nobody has any right to tell you you can’t like a certain aspect of yourself.” 

Huh. He’d never seen it that way. For so many years, any sign of self confidence was promptly beaten out of him, to the point where his entire life revolved around how the people around him viewed him rather than what he thought of himself. It was hard to imagine a world where he could be content with who he was without at least a little concern for the opinions of others.

He reached forward to pull the book back towards him again, idly tapping his pen against the open page a few times as he struggled to work up the courage to write down the things he wanted to be there. For a moment he looked up at Adam for some reassurance, and the man silently encouraged him with a warm smile and a nod. 

“I’m… I’m good at cooking,” he murmured to himself as he wrote it down. “I’m good at my art, and I’m getting better at reading social cues. There… those are my three things.” 

“Congratulations, man. Are you happy with it? Do you agree with what you’ve written?” 

There was a small hesitation before Carlos finally nodded. “Yes, I think so. At least, I know that one day I’ll mean it, right? If I say it enough times?” 

It made his heart warm to see Adam nod enthusiastically along with what he was saying. “For sure. You’ll get there eventually. Like most things, it just takes practice. Sort of a… ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ kinda concept. That’s how I did it, anyway.” 

“You had to do this, too?” 

The man shrugged. “Yeah. Both Ryker and I had to, in our own ways. I grew up being beaten horrendously for liking who I was. My mom and dad saw me as a burden and they hated when I didn’t see myself in the same way. You already know how Ryker was treated. That obviously had major effects on his self esteem, too, which… paired with his ADHD, put it at rock bottom for ages."

He took a sip from his cup of coffee, now staring down at his knees with them brought to his chest and his back against the arm of the couch. “We worked hard to build ourselves back up again, ‘n’ I’m so sorry that you’ve gotta go through that same journey. It fucking sucks.” 

“The world isn’t so great,” Carlos whispered after some time spent in silence. His chest felt heavy now, sorrow and guilt having made itself more comfortable there with each word that left Adam’s lips. Humans lived such short lives. Why did so many of them have to spend it recovering from things they had no control over? It didn’t seem fair. “Sometimes I wish that I could create another one, just for Ryker. One where he could have all the friends and family he wanted but never get hurt. He’d have those guardian angels that I read about in a book once watching over him and people to keep him company when he felt alone.” 

He adjusted his weight a little before finally glancing up at his human again. “You deserve to know that I would do the same for you, if I could. You protected Ryker throughout the years that I could not and gave me a real home to feel safe in. I owe you more than I can give.” 

It surprised him to see a dampness to Adam’s eyes as he smiled over at him. Unlike the ones of reassurance or comfort that he usually gave, this one seemed to be caused by what he’d said. Something that indicated he was happy with his words. That made Carlos happy, too. 

“You’re good at making the people around you happy,” he said after another sip of his drink. “Write that down on my behalf.”

Carlos instantly lit up, already pulling his book close again. “Yes, sir.” 

-

@choppedflowermuffinchild @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @emcscared-whumps @espresso-depresso-system @inkkswhumpandstuff @pigeonwhumps @pumpkin-spice-whump @roblingoblin285 @sacredwrath @some-thrilling-heroics @stabby-nunchucks @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @trans-writes @whump-blog @whumpsday @whumpshaped @paniatheweirdone @whumpycries @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thekittyburger @whumpdreamz

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

✏️

"what are your current WIPs about?"

A New oc with my same panic/seizure/trauma disorder

A prompt about whumpee with low self esteem

A new NSFW OC (technically for my other blog)

“Dylan having a breakdown” or just the Brody update

🫠🫠🫠

[gottawhump]

Decision

Eliot

CW/TW: low self esteem, caretakers deciding for whumpee, difficulty in recovery. Pet whump, BBU/WRU. After this and this.

Nothing happens, at first.

Except the arguments. He knows better than to listen, but he hears the raised voices and occasionally his name. It fills Eliot with familiar dread.

He tries to do better, hoping to quell the dread, to stop the arguments. He doesn’t know what else to do.

The arguments get louder.

Then they stop.

“You’re sending me away? But you said-“ You said you’d always take care of me. You said you loved me. You said I was yours.

“I meant everything I said, Elya.” Kolya takes his hand, entwining their fingers. “This is-not permanent. But you are, are not thriving here.”

Not good enough. He looks down, shoulders hunching. “Yes, Sir.”

Kolya curses under his breath in Russian, and trades a look with Jonas.

“Moth runs a good safehouse,” Jonas adds. “They’ll help you there. You’ll make friends.”

Friends. He thinks of Aria, sent away because of his mistake.

He thinks about sleeping alone in a small room, learning new rules to behave by.

He thinks about Emma, and the taste of peanut butter cookies, soft and warm from the oven. Left behind.

He squeezes Kolya’s hands, lifting his gaze to meet his eyes. “Can I ask one thing? Before I go?”

Forgive and Forget taglist: @whumpsday @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @justplainwhump @bluetheautisticrat @i-eat-worlds @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

704/Eliot taglist: @kim-poce @fishtale88 @i-eat-worlds @roblingoblin285 @cepheusgalaxy

[whump-place]

Adopted.

4-Good enough.

Masterlist.

Content: Multiple Whumpees, Carewhump, Pet Whumpees, Conditioned Whumpees, Low self-esteem, mention of self harm.

"Ugh. Will you take that away from me at once? I'm busy here." Star complained, the new set of sparkling collars and matching earrings Master got for them placed in front of them. They were trying the blue one, it was cute, but not their favorite.

"Relax, okay? I'm just trying this out." Master got him a new toy, and Leo tried to understand why. Why waste money on him? "This isn't even funny, though, just a... What was this called?"

Lian tried not to sigh. Why did he have to have such useless siblings?

"Puzzle. It's a puzzle. And if you were smart, you would give it back to him, you know how much he cries and whines when you take away his things." Liam was a chore Pet, that meant his training taught him to be patient, but sometimes his siblings just made him want to scream. "And Master doesn't like when we play too rough with him."

For a moment the room felt silent, the three closing their mouths for completely different reasons.

Of course, Star didn't even try to hide a grin when they remembered what had happened last time, it had been so funny; Leo stared at the floor, Master got really angry that one time; and Liam focused on the broth he was cooking, he learned from that mistake, it wasn't going to happen ever again.

"What's the problem, though? He can't complain. You know what we should try? We could push him down the stairs and tell Master-"

"Stop it. Lying to Master is wrong."

"It was a hypothetical question! I would never do that." Yeah, of course they wouldn't. Star would go as far as to make him bleed, just to get a little more attention from Master.

Liam couldn't be bothered by his sibling's words. It was useless to try arguing with them, or even try to make them act properly.

The broth Liam was preparing for the day smelled good, maybe it needs salt, but Liam knows Master will like it.

While he is at it, he couldn't help but think about that new Pet.

It's from a shelter, and it's way too obvious that the shelter was the worst Master could find in miles. On top of that the Pet had been thrown out by its former master, and that just meant it wasn't a good Pet.

Liam knows full well Master likes taking in charity chards to help them. Star and him are proof of that, but still. Liam couldn't get around the idea of why Master decided to take them in.

The soft smell of food allowed himself to wander in his memories. Former Mistress would never take those ugly looking Pets, she would scowl and call them strays. She would swear that she would never take in a second hand Pet, Lu was enough. Lu was enough...

"Liam! What are you doing?!"

The voice of Master brought Lu- Liam, out of his head and back to the present. What was he doing? He was just... Pouring the broth down the sink, the hot pot was burning his hands.

"Omg, Liam! Dear, what happened?" Master hurried to his side, taking the pot off his hands and placing it on the sink. All the food wasted...

"I... I'm sorry, Master. I don't know..."

"I can help, Master. If... If that's okay?" The new Pet was right behind Master. It was wearing that cute sweater Liam liked the moment he saw Master buy it.

What was it doing? Why did it have to be with Master? Its filthy hands would touch Master house and dirty everything.

Liam felt dizzy, everything was spinning around him...

"I think he's going to pass out..."

"Shut up, we have to do something!"

His siblings worried voices keep Liam awake, for a few more seconds at least.

He didn't even realize Master was carrying him. That was good. He was good. He was enough.

Taglist:

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@sola-whumping

@octopus-reactivated

@risk606

[whumpiswonderful]

Hello whump lovers!

I made a side blog! (@nerdygirl2023 is my main/fandom blog. Mostly about epic the musical. Go check it out!)

Anyway fell down whump rabbit hole and I wanted into this community immediately so- here I am!

So uh for pinned posts I guess I do all my favorite tropes? Right?

Nightmares

Used as bait

Kidnapped and rescued in general really

Ptsd whumpee in general too

Caretaker x whumpee (I live for wife comforting husband ok?)

Ummm I will come back and keep adding to this list as I find more tropes these are just my top favorites/ all I could think of right now

Ngl I kinda didn’t realize whump prompts were their own thing I usually think of fandoms when I do whump. So- list of fandoms i would love to do whump for? (Or just names of pairing I would do and small tidbits about them

Hamilton!! (Whumpee: alex caretaker: eliza tidbit: alex has war and childhood ptsd and Eliza low key has a pretty privileged life but she’s super sweet and caring so she does her best)

Epic the musical/ the odyssey (whumpee could actually go back and forth between Odysseus and Penelope actually. Ody has ptsd from journey and Penelope sorta has some from suitors. Also tell having self esteem ‘em issues can be thrown into the mix too-)

I would totally do whump for pjo but I’ve only read the first series I’m not caught up on hoo but I could try!

I think that’s it??? Of course I’ll do just general non charicter specific whump too. Fandom stuff mostly for hurt comfort really. 9/10 hurt comfort is for them But PLEASE ASK FOR WHUMP FROM MY FANDOMS IM BEGGING!!!

Oh oh! I do have another whump OC I could do too! I just uh- don’t have names for them. Lol send suggestions? They are a Spy x sweet girl that-secretly -has-a-past-of-her-own (she wasn’t involved in his past spy life… until whumper did the thing)

[luckyloo13]

Guess I should make some sort of introduction post...been some years since I used tumblr i have no idea how much the whump fandom changed haha

Hi I'm Lucky, I'm an artist and sometimes I write. 18, they/them

Things I like:

-RECOVERY/COMFORT!!!!!!

-Accidental whump

-Sickness

-giant and tiny whump

-Stubborn whumpees

-Whumpee x caretaker

-kidnapping

-Past abuse/trauma

-Mother caretaker and child whumpee

-Anxiety and panic attacks

-s*lf harm

-whumpees with low self esteem

-multiple whumpers

-multiple caretakers

-Hypothermia, anemia, fainting, ect

-heros and villains!!!

-probably other stuff i cant think of rn

[blackberry-bloody]

"You still think your little caretaker will save you? How adorable!" With Rupert???

CW: Drugging (off screen), creepy/intimate whumper, implied future noncon at the end, whumpee's really bad self esteem

Let me know if there's anything else I need to tag!

This was a really interesting one!! /Positive

Prompt from here

---

Everything felt fuzzy. It was warm, inviting, familiar. Dayzel was lost in the haze of nothingness that weighed his limbs down. He was vaguely aware of the fact he was laying down in bed, tucked securely under blankets, and pressed against something even warmer. Distantly, he recognized it as a person he was pressed against.

A soft smile tugged at his cracked lips as he pressed closer, limply shifting to wrap his arm around his boyfriend's waist, and laying his head against his chest, cuddling up closer.

A hand brushed a strand of Dayzel's long hair out his face, before gently cupping his cheek. He chuckled and playfully tilted his head to kiss the hand with a chuckle.

"What time did you let me sleep 'til Mib? My body feels like it's been -" His voice trailed off as slowly he became more aware. And he heard a low laugh from the man he was curled against. It wasn't Mibium's laugh.

His eyes snapped open. Immediately regretting it as the lights hurt his eyes, making him squint against the harshness. He lurched back at Rupert's blurry face came in view. Though Rupert was much quicker, shifting to grab Dayzel's wrist and harshly pull him flush against him.

Sluggishly, Dayzel tried to yank himself away. But he couldn't budge. It didn't take him long to realize that Rupert had drugged him. He grit his teeth, his fangs glinting in the light. "If you don't let me go it five seconds I will tear your throat -"

"You still think Mibium is coming to save you?" Rupert calmly asked. As though he were simply asking how Dayzel had slept.

Dayzel froze for a moment, before giving another futile tug against Rupert's grip. He met his eyes with an icy glare. "Of course not... "

Rupert hummed as though thinking. Inching closer to Dayzel. Leaning in to whisper in his ear. "How adorable..." He was so close now, Dayzel's lips grazed his neck. As though daring him to make good on the threat. Both of them knowing he wouldn't.

Dayzel clenched his fists. "I... I don't. Of course I don't..." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Another hum from Rupert, Dayzel could feel it against his mouth.

"You say that... But you're subconscious seems to think otherwise." Dayzel doesn't even have to see him, but he can hear the smirk in Rupert's voice as he speaks.

He wants to protest... He does. But there's something in him that stops him. Something that still believes that maybe... Just maybe Mibium cared enough about him to come after him?

"Let's rectify that, shall we? I don't want you getting all confused. Or worse, mopey, when inevitably you're disappointed again." Rupert shifts again, shifting Dayzel along with him. To where Dayzel is laying flat on his back, pinned underneath the taller man. "Just to make sure we're all on the same page."

Rupert pulls back and Dayzel can see a wild hunger in his eyes and knows what's coming. He thinks for a moment to keep struggling. To kick and thrash and spit. But he's so... So tired. So he closes his eyes as Rupert leans down to kiss him.

"Why would anyone else put up with you?" Rupert asks, though he isn't expecting an answer.

Dayzel can only think to himself... "I don't know..."