#my whumpees r SHAKING

[whumpshaped]

im playing piano for the first time in years and im looking thru my stuff to find easy things to play (after starting w the fucking bach d minor toccata and fugue I SUFFERED FOR AN HOUR UNTIL I FINALLY KIND OF REMEMBERED A PAGE OF IT😭😭 BAD CHOICE) and whenever i find a page like THIS

thats just absolutely ABUSED and wrinkly and torn i know i mustve loved it AJSKSKSK

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

The Grand A-Z List of Whump 3/3

This list contains 194 items listed R to Z

As always, I heavily encourage people to research topics thoroughly when writing. Whump is generally a 'dead dove' sort of topic, however it is important to avoid stereotypes/misinformation. This lists intention is to not glorify/romanticise sensitive topics in any way.

This is a comprehensive list of injuries, Illnesses and tropes - including those from the Whumptober 2023 trope vote!

All submissions are listed in italics, and those who wanted to be tagged will be included at the end. If you have any more submissions: please send them via DM/my ask box.

[A-H] [I-Q] [NSFW List]

List below the cut:

R

Rabies

Radiation Poisoning/Exposure

Radio Silence

Ransom Note/Video

Rashes

Recovery

Reducing breaks or dislocations (bonus: out in the field with no painkillers available)

Reflection

Rejection

Reluctant Caretaker

Reluctant Whumpee

Reminded of trauma

Reopened Wound

Repressed Emotions

Repressed trauma resurfacing

Rescue

Rescued by the enemy

Rescues gone wrong

Respiratory Distress

Restraints

Reuniting

Revenge

Ringing Ears

Ritual sacrifice

Rockslides

Role Reversal

Rope Burns

Running fingers through hair (maliciously or comfortingly)

Running Out of Air

Ruptured eardrum

S

Sacrifice

Sadistic Choice

Sartorial constraints

Scars

Scoliosis

Scraped Knees

Scratched corneas

Scratches

Seasickness

Second impact syndrome

Secrets

Sedated

Seeing double

Seizures

Self esteem issues

Self induced injury to escape

Self sacrifice

Self-aid

Self-inflicted injury (to escape)

Semi-consciousness

Sensory Deprivation/Overload

Sentimental Items

Separation

Sepsis

Servitude

Setbacks in recovery

Severed Artery

Shaking Hands

Shipwreck

Shivering

Shock

Shock collar

Shot (gun, arrow, dart, etc...)

Shrapnel (blast/wounds)

Sick/injured at a party

Skull fracture

Slapped

Sleep Deprivation

Sleep Paralysis

Sleeping in the cold

Sleeplessness

Smashing their head into a wall

Smoke Inhalation

Snake Bites

Sneezing

So sick they can barely even stand or stay awake

Significant other taking care of wounds

So weak they have to hold on to something or someone to walk

Solitary Confinement

Special object being ruined/torn apart

Spinal Cord Injury

Split lip

Sprains

Stab Wounds

Stabbed (sword, spear, knife, TRIDENT!, etc...)

Stabbed through the back by the only person the whumpee trusted

Stage fright

Stalking

Status epilepticus

Stiches

Stings (insect, creature, plants)

Stitches

Stoic/Defiant Whumpee

Stoic/Rude/Harsh Reluctant Caregiver!Mentor & Ball of Sunshine Hurt!Mentee (platonic)

Stomach ache

Stomach Ulcers (a cause for vomiting up blood)

Stomach virus

Straight Jacket

Strangling

Strangulation resulting in bruised or swollen vocal chords and loss of voice + the process of regaining your voice and everything that comes with that trauma.

Stress (this could induce headaches/general illness)

Stress Position

Stumbling

Sucking chest wound

Suffocating

Sunburn

Super glued to toilet

Surgery

Surgery gone wrong

Surrendering

Survivor's Guilt

Swollen Lymph Nodes

T

Tachycardia

Taking the bullet

TBI (traumatic brain injury)

Team as a family

Team has a certain amount of time to get to their Whumpee before they’re killed

Team teaming up to take care of sick teammate

Temporary Loss of Sense(s)

Tendonitis

Tetanus

The Final Straw

Thrown from an explosion

Time Loop

Tiny whump

Tonsillitis

Tooth knocked out

Torn Ligaments - Achilles, Meniscus etc.

Torn Muscles

Torture

Touch Aversion/Touch Starved

Tranquilizer Dart

Trap

Trapped (whether this is after an explosion, car accident, natural disaster…)

Trapped Limbs

Trapped underwater

Trauma reveal

Tremors

Trust Issues

Truth spell/serum

Tuberculosis

Twisted ankle

U

Undead (vampires and ghosts and zombies, oh my!)

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Unresponsive

Upper respiratory infection

Used as bait

Usually big, strong and boisterous whumpee becomes quiet and weaker as the whumper conditions them.

UTI (Urinary Tract Infection)

V

Vampire whump

Vampires Thrall

Vehicular Accident

Venom

Vertigo

Very badly hurt and on life support - with slow recovery

Virus

Visions

Vocal chord paralysis

Vomiting/Vomiting blood

W

Waterboarding

West Nile virus

Whip scars

Whipping/Flogging

Whumpee being psychologically tortured via fake escape scenarios so when they are actually getting rescued they don't believe it. bonus point if they still don't think anything is real.

Whumpee dreams of a loved one happily inviting them “home” (They're actually dying IRL)

Whumpee getting the upper hand over whumper.

Whumpee stabbing whumper or beating their head into the ground over and over while sobbing, even when they’re clearly dead because they NEED to take their emotions out.

Whumpee turned Whumper

Whumpee watches caretaker take a bullet/hit/poison for them.

Whumper turned Caretaker

Whumper turned whumpee

Whumper with a crush

Wincing/Flinching

Wing whump

Wisdom Tooth Removal

Withdrawal

Withholding Medical Treatment

Witnessing. (Whumpee sees someone die in a brutal way. Whumpee sees someone get possessed/turned into a zombie/some other horrifying thing and they just stare horrified.)

Working for the enemy

Working through injury/illness

Working to Exhaustion

Wrists rubbed raw

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Wrongfully Accused/Arrested

Wrongfully fired

X

Xeroderma. (Extreme sun sensitivity)

XMRV is a newly identified human retrovirus that is similar to a group of mouse retroviruses (called murine leukaemia viruses, or MLVs)

Y

Yellow Fever

Z

Zombie virus, etc.

Zoonotic Hookworm

Zoonotic illness (It’s a disease carried or transmitted by animals to humans like tularemia or psittacosis)

Zosler (Shingles)

Zygomycosis (Fungal infection)

TAG LIST: Thank you very much to the following people for submitting ideas! (I apologise if some tags did not work, I'm not sure why tumblrs not letting me tag you!)

@I-eat-worlds | @greygullhaven | @letsgowhump | @cyberwhumper @firapolemos05 | @originaldeerhottub | @whumpilicious | @drawing-dinos82 | @carenrose | @stellarinuscronicles | @gottheseasonalblues | @marvelflame2010 | @sowhumpful | @avamcu | @courtneygacha | @lordofthewhumps | @autismmydearwatson | @kuddelmuddell | @the-most-handsome-ginger | @whirls-and-swirls | @painsandconfusion

[mj-iza-writer]

Day in the life prompt. This was another request. I'm doing this as day in the life of Caretaker and Whumpee with Caretaker.

Then, Whumper and Whumpee with Whumper will be written in a different story. I think this will be too long if I do it all here. I also want to write Caretaker with a recovered Whumpee as well, but I know I've written several already. I enjoy that trop a lot. - Mj

I'll tag as # day in the life whump addition

Caretaker woke up and got ready just like any other day. They made their way down the hall doing their final adjustments to their outfit.

They quietly peaked in on Whumpee, who seemed to be sleeping comfortably. It wasn't quite time for them to get up, so Caretaker quietly closed the door again.

Down in the kitchen, Caretaker started their pot of coffee, and prepped breakfast. They also prepared Whumpee's morning medicine to have with breakfast.

Just before waking up Whumpee, Caretaker wrote the agenda of the day on a whiteboard so Whumpee knew what to expect today.

Whumpee woke to Caretaker gently shaking them. Their eyes fluttered open to a smiling face.

"Good morning Whumpee", Caretaker whispered.

Whumpee stretched and tried to go back to sleep.

"No, no. We can't go back to sleep, it's time for breakfast. You can have a nap later if you want", Caretaker gently pulled Whumpee to a sitting position, "come on."

Whumpee yawned and gave a tired look to Caretaker.

"I'm glad you're finally getting better sleep", Caretaker smiled as they swung Whumpee's legs around to help them up, "I'm sure your doctor will be happy to hear that as well."

Whumpee nodded, "I think that medicine they recommended helped, I didn't have any nightmares either."

"That's good, I'm glad", Caretaker grinned.

Whumpee was left to get ready.

Whumpee pulled on the outfit they lovingly called their comfy outfit. Loose fitting sweats, a long sleeve shirt that hid all of their scars and bruises, lastly, they found a pair of fluffy socks.

Whumpee looked into the mirror when they were all dressed.

"Well, I blend in a little. I still look frail and sick, but at least people can't see my injuries", Whumpee shook as they thought back to those days.

"Whumpee, I'm plating breakfast", Caretaker called to them, "please hurry a little if you can."

Whumpee practiced a breathing exercise to calm themself, then left the room.

They stopped at the board to read what was on the agenda for the day.

"Ugh, another doctor appointment today", Whumpee kept reading, "Ooh, that sounds good for dinner though."

Caretaker looked out at them, "oh good. Just in time."

"What doctor are we going to today?", Whumpee looked at them concerned, "I thought I was done for a while."

"Just a quick follow up with Doctor Pete, one of your test came back, and it needs to be retested", Caretaker looked over the board, "let's get breakfast and take your medicine. We have a while before the appointment."

Whumpee followed Caretaker to the table where breakfast was waiting.

Nothing major came up from the doctor... thankfully. Doctor Pete wanted to do a just in case test to make sure nothing was missed. Whumpee seemed to be healing really well.

On the way home Caretaker treated Whumpee to a sweat stop.

Whumpee now had a pound of candy sitting on their lap, and a big grin to go with it.

After lunch, Nurse Casey came by.

She watched over Whumpee while Caretaker took a break.

Caretaker went out for some errands and a few friends wanted to meet for coffee.

Nurse Casey did physical therapy with Whumpee, then let Whumpee lead the afternoon activities until Caretaker got home.

After Nurse Casey left Caretaker allowed Whumpee to have some private time to do whatever they liked while they worked in their office.

"I find it's important to let you have some personal time so you can become a little more independent. Though I will still be nearby in case you need me", Caretaker often said, "I believe you could become smothered with too much attention from me, and that could cause negative results and stress. Plus, you've spent the last few years around people with ill intentions, so I'm sure some peace and quiet is appreciated."

Caretaker encouraged Whumpee to pick up hobbies and interests as well. There was a good chance Caretaker would already have anything you could think of on hand. If not, they were happy to order it if you wanted.

Caretaker worked in their office for a while. They had to update Whumpee's care charts and journals as part of the care. They kept everything neatly filed in case the courts or detectives needed information.

This day, Whumpee had pulled out a puzzle and was working on the dining table.

Caretaker peaked in in time to see Whumpee blankly looking at a piece.

"Doing okay Whumpee?", they walked up beside them.

"Um, yes, I just realized my life has become like a puzzle. It feels impossible to put together though", Whumpee looked up.

"Yes I suppose it does", Caretaker took the piece from Whumpee, "sometimes it's good to work on puzzles together though", Caretaker placed the piece down into the puzzle Whumpee was working on. It was a perfect fit, "having a team to help you get the pieces together makes things a little easier."

Whumpee looked up at Caretaker with a, thankful expression, "thankyou", their lip quivered.

"You're welcome, Whumpee. I'm always here for you", Caretaker turned, "I'll be in the kitchen preparing dinner and getting your evening meds together."

That night, Caretaker brought Whumpee's last pill for the night to the bedroom. Whumpee was resting in bed already, but sat up to take the medicine.

Caretaker sat on the edge of the bed as Whumpee took the pill. Caretaker listened as Whumpee talked. They smiled when the pill seemed to be working.

"I caught that yawn", Caretaker grinned, "your eyes are getting heavy."

Whumpee nodded tiredly.

"That medicine seems to help you wind down a lot", Caretaker helped Whumpee lay down, "it works pretty fast for you as well."

Whumpee nodded again, "my whole body is untensed as well", they yawned, "I like that feeling."

"I'm glad", Caretaker covered them, "I'll be in my office for a while, then I'm going to bed. Call if you need me, okay."

Whumpee nodded, "thankyou Caretaker for taking care of me. I appreciate you so much for helping me."

"You're welcome Whumpee", Caretaker started to leave, "get some sleep."

Later, after Caretaker finished their notes for Whumpee's day, they made their way to Whumpee's bedroom to check on them.

Whumpee snores lightly as Caretaker pulled the blankets up again.

"Goodnight Whumpee", Caretaker looked over the sleeping Whumpee, "you are an honor to take care of."

Caretaker yawned, "it's time for bed", they stretched as they walked to their bedroom, "then we'll do it all over again tomorrow", they smiled.

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @weirdthingweee

[jaeyleo]

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 8

YOU CHOSE: OPEN THE DOORS- CONTINUE WITH CHASE.

Your decisions allow buried memories to resurface. This is overwhelming for your character, and his mind suffers from the weight of it all.

cws: flashbacks, dehumanization, non human whumper, whumper is also caretaker, electric shock, force feeding, eye trauma, mentions of a seizure, sick whumpee, mentions of hypnosis. lmk if i should add more!

. . .

Screaming, screaming, screaming.

Chase's head feels like it could explode. Too many sounds, too many colors, too many voices and commands and knives and soft touches and- and-

Pseudo hushes him, raking fingers through the puppet's hair. "Pink, dolly, take a deep breath."

But Pink isn't there. Chase falls into the hands of his monster, and finds himself in a new place. Somewhere deep inside his head.

. . .

Cellar.

"Please, p- please!! I can't do it, please!"

"Shhh. It's just a pop quiz, Pink. You'll do just fine."

Chase's arms are chained behind him, with ankles cuffed to both legs of the chair. Hot tears pour down his cheeks, soaking into clothes that are already soaked with blood. He shivers, freezing in the cellar air, terrified of what he sees in front of him.

Just a few feet away, Pseudo holds a stun gun. He sits in a foldable chair, relaxed and comfortable in his position of power here. He owns Pink, and that's a wonderful feeling.

"Tell me your name," he says.

"Pink!" Chase doesn't hesitate in saying it. He may as well be saying please. "It's Pink, Pink, I'm P- Pink!"

"Good," Pseudo praises. "Now tell me your age."

"T- twenty seven..!"

"Mhm. And how about-" Pseudo covers his eyes with his free hand, "the color of my eyes?"

"Brown!"

"Very good!"

Pseudo returns to his original position, with both hands placed leisurely on the stun gun.

"Now, last question, dolly. If you get it right, I'll put this away, hm?"

Chase nods, eager and afraid in the same shaking breath.

"What time is it?"

The puppet freezes. There are no clocks and no windows to tell the time in here. He wasn't told when they got down here, and he wouldn't know how much has passed. It all feels like an eternity of pain and blood.

He trembles, searching his mind for answers. What time was breakfast? How long did it take to clean the kitchen? When was lunch? How long did washing the sheets take? It isn't dinner time yet, is it??

"N- nn-" Chase begins to panic. His breath halts in his chest and he has to shake the terror off himself, like a puppy emerging from falling into a swimming pool.

"Can I have a h- hint??"

Pseudo sighhhhhss, lulling his head to the left, the right, the left, up straight again..

"Mmm.... it was about 4:30 when we came down here."

"A- and how long have we been down here??"

Pseudo chuckles at him, his stupid doll. "That's not a hint, dolly, that's just the answer."

A breath escapes the puppet's mouth. "R- right," he says, defeated. "Okay..."

Think, think, think.

He rocks back and forth, clawing at his mind to provide the answer. How long has it been? How long does it feel like? What time is it? What time is it? What time is it?????

"Um, u- um..."

"Come now, Pink. We don't have all evening."

A soft sob bubbles out from his neck. There's no way he's getting this right.

"Is- i- is it... i- is it um.... s- six- no, no, seven, is it seven?"

"Let's see.."

Pseudo pulls his phone out from his pocket, and flips it open.

He stares at the clock, and Chase stares at his monster. Pseudo lets the tension hang in the air, drinking in the sounds of his puppet's pounding heart.

"Is it seven??? I- hh??"

The monster shuts the phone with a click, and places it back inside his pocket.

"Six fifty- three."

He raises the gun, pointing at Chase's shoulder.

"N- no, no!! No!! I was so close, please!! Please Pseudo!! Plea--!"

Chase's words are cut short. He wails, tensing and then falling limp as the pain takes over his entire body.

. . .

Kitchen.

"Open up."

Chase's mouth stays glued shut. Each hand curls a fist into his sweatpants, a desperate attempt at keeping them down. Any minute now, he swears, he's going to take that stupid spoon and shove it down Pseudo's throat.

In his reply, Chase only shakes his head.

"Oh, come now, don't be difficult. You haven't eaten since yesterday."

When he speaks, Chase keeps his teeth clamped together. "I'll eat if I can feed myself."

"Nooo, you'll eat if I tell you to. Now open up.."

He presents the spoon to Chase's mouth, gently tapping the food against his bottom lip. The puppet finally accepts, opens his jaw, and spits it in the monster's face.

For a moment, they only look at eachother. Chase knows what he did is bad. He knows he'll be punished, but he doesn't care. He's going to be hurt anyway, right?

Still, this hurt could've been avoided.

Pseudo's hand comes around to slap the toy hard across the face. It's enough to almost send him reeling out of the chair, gripping onto the table and stomping the floor as not to go flying to the ground. Before he can bring his own hands to cup the sting across his cheek, Pseudo grabs the collar of his shirt, and yanks him to the floor.

Chase yelps, losing his breath as Pseudo climbs on top to straddle him. He hunches over the doll like an animal, a feral spark running around inside his pupils. Chase feels so small beneath him, like a worm under a bird's claw, ready to be swallowed whole.

The spoon comes to meet Chase's lower eyelid, still hot from the food that was so rudely spat back out. Pseudo presses the spoon down, ever so slightly, and Chase feels his eye shift in its socket.

"Do you need to learn your table manners again, pet?"

The puppet's hands clamp around his monster's wrist. "Get off!!"

Pseudo does not relent. He presses the spoon down further, causing the puppet to start seeing double, triple, a black spot where his eye contacts the top of the socket.

"You should answer me, you know. I could do some terrible things to you."

He presses further, and Chase digs his nails into Pseudo's skin. He feels as though his eye could pop right out of his head.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!"

"That isn't an answer."

More pressure. More pain. Chase feels air in places he shouldn't.

"Ah! No!!! Nono I don't, I don't, I'm sorry!"

"You don't what, Pink? Show me you understand."

"I--!" Pink digs his nails deeper into his monster's wrist. "I don't-- I don't need to learn table manners, I'm sorry! Nh- please!"

"Good," Pseudo croons, and slowly, slowly, releases the pressure on his puppet's eye. He lets a few moments pass before reaching a hand to caress Pink's face, thumb stroking gentle across the cheekbone that was hit. The doll shrinks away, closing his eyes.

"I want you to prove it, now, Pink. Otherwise..." the spoon draws a line, following the curve of Chase's eye socket. He speaks soft, higher pitched, like talking to a child. A puppy, a worm under his claw. "Do you understand?"

"Y- yes, Pseudo.."

"Good.."

Pseudo moves off, and Chase climbs back in his chair. He holds his eye and stinging cheek in his hand before Pseudo swats it away, reminding him table manners include no hands above the waist.

Pseudo sets himself down, too, and presents the food to Chase's mouth once more.

"Open up."

Chase opens his mouth. Food is placed inside, but he doesn't chew.

"....Eat."

The puppet obeys, avoiding his monster's eyes throughout the rest of the meal.

. . .

Home.

The house is happy.

Chase cradles his daughter on the couch, running soft hands through waving blond hair. A cartoon drones on in the background, capturing the little girl's attention completely.

She giggles at the characters, and Chase's heart swells with love.

"They're silly," she comments, turning her head to her father. A wide smile takes her face over, with one missing tooth to top it off.

"Yeah, they are silly, aren't they?"

He smiles down at her, and plants a kiss on her forehead. A small hand reaches up to tap the end of his nose.

Chase smiles wider. He is so full of love he can barely stand it.

. . .

Somewhere in Denmark.

Somewhere far away. Somewhere, where old love and safety and sanity aren't a guarantee. Somewhere deep inside his head, Chase is pulled up, up into reality.

He feels like he's trapped underwater, and Pseudo is the one to drag him out. Up, up, up, through swamps and moss and dirt, through water that's thick as clotted blood. His eyes droop, his bones fall limp, Chase cannot breathe with the pressure in his chest. The water tastes of soap, and a sourness that makes his teeth chatter.

He wants to sink again, into memories good and bad. Wants to be anywhere but here. Anywhere, somewhere, somewhere deep inside his head.

Chase groans, a migraine holding him hostage. The lights are too bright, even behind closed eyelids. His blanket is so warm. Is he comfortable? Too tired to tell.

He opens his lazy eyes, seeing his small attic room surround him. He feels sick. Horrible. Tears wet his eyes but he doesn't remember why.

Beside him, Pseudo watches him rest. The puppet startles when he sees his monster, and he tries desperately to sit up. He can only claw the sheets.

Pseudo tilts his head as the puppet shoves himself into the wall. The blanket provides a shield of false protection, and he holds on as if life depends on it.

"You had some scary nightmares, huh?"

Chase only stares.

"Mh. Well, you slept for a while. You even had a seizure."

The puppet's brows furrow. "Really?" he croaks.

"Mhm. Does your head hurt?"

Chase nods. Pseudo reaches out his hand, slow and steady. Even so, the puppet shrinks away, closing his eyes as if expecting to be slapped or clawed or scratched.

But the monster is gentle, brushing away pink hair to feel the doll's forehead. The coolness of his hand is comforting. Chase can't help but relax a little in his touch.

"You still have a fever..." Pseudo runs his hand over the puppet's hair, petting softly. "... Are you hungry?"

"No.."

"Liar."

"I don't wanna eat."

"It'll make you feel better."

"Will it?"

Pseudo gives a soft smile. He helps the doll sit up, gently hushing him as he whimpers and whines about his head swimming, his muscles hurting, ow, Pseudo, please-

"Shhhhh. It's okay, Pink.."

On the end table, a bowl of warm soup waits to be eaten. The monster takes a spoonful, blows, and presents it to Chase's hesitant mouth.

"Come now... eat. You'll feel better."

The puppet frowns, and accepts. Bite after bite, it feels warm and heavy in his stomach, warm and heavy and delicious. Pseudo was right. He does feel better.

They wash it down with cool water, and Chase breathes a sigh of relief at the taste. He may still feel sick and afraid, but he's not thirsty, not hungry, and not cold, and that's more than enough right now.

Pseudo pushes the empty dishes aside, and returns his hands to playing with Pink's hair. The puppet sinks into the feeling, sleepiness pulling down his weight. He feels comfortable. Sick, but comfortable.

"You've been anxious lately," Pseudo says gently. "You're trying to get back into a headspace that's not good for you."

Chase opens his eyes.

"I hate to see you suffer like that, Pink. It breaks my heart."

"I don't wanna be your toy.."

Pseudo sighs, stroking the doll's cheek with his thumb. Sweet thing.

"I need to run to the store again. I forgot my sugar."

"I- I can't, I don't wanna-"

"No, shhh. You're staying in bed."

Chase relaxes again, falling victim to the gentle touches of his monster.

"Can I trust you to rest?"

The puppet nods. He's too sick to get up anyway. Everything hurts, especially his head.

"Good doll.. I'll be back soon."

He plants one gentle kiss on Chase's forehead, and leaves him to rest alone.

. . .

As the minutes pass, the puppet finds himself unable to sleep. His head hurts, his body aches, oh, God, he feels horrible. He almost wishes Pseudo hypnotized him before he left.

While he lays there, Chase begins to wonder. He heard the door close, but no keys, and no starting car. It's no secret that Pseudo can travel long distances without transport, as part of his magic allows him to do so. Could he have left the car keys?

"No, no, don't think like that," Chase says allowed. He runs his hands over his face, and tries to get comfortable again. But the thought plagues him.

Did he leave the car keys?

Even if he won't escape, he could still check, right? Then at least he knows, and he can get some sleep. Yes, yes, he'll just check and see..

Chase drags himself up, groaning as a dizziness swirls the entire room around. A chill takes over him as well, and he reaches for the smaller blanket on the bed to wrap around his shoulders. God, he feels like shit.

Eventually he makes his way out of his room, leaning against walls and railings as not to go tumbling to the ground. Walking is a chore, and his feet ache with every step. Pins and needles climb up his legs like leeches, and he finds himself in pain with every. Single. Step.

Down the stairs, into the living room.

The car keys hang on the wall by door.

Chase freezes. He can only stare.

[angst-after-dark]

CW: BBU/BU-ADJACENT SETTING, PTSD, GRIEF, POOR COPING MECHANISMS, RECOVERING WHUMPEE, DISCUSSIONS OF EMOTIONAL ABUSE, MENTIONS OF DRUGS, NEGATIVE SELF-TALK, NEGATIVE, SELF-IMAGE, GRIFFIN IS JUST A HURTING MESS

TROPE-A-THON PROMPT: CATHARSIS

Character (s): Griffin Moore, Rhododendron Bates

TAGLIST: @amonthofwhump @poc-whump @flowersarefreetherapy @winedark-whump, @gottawhump

“Where the hell are we?” Griffin asks as they get out of the car. Rho had made them get into her car and driven them both to a place they'd never been to before.

“A rage room.” Rho shuts her car door and points to the big letters on top of the big warehouse. “You won’t talk about your anger but you need to let it out somewhere, Griffin. Somewhere that isn't my bathroom or under Dami."

They smirk, batting gold-dusted eyes, and take in the warehouse.

"It's more fun being under Dami." And God is it sexier. Watching their muscles rippling, seeing their hips roll, smelling their sweat and cologne, feeling their desire, knowing they want, need Griffin. There really isn't anything like it. Damiel Cartier is a good Romantic. "I haven't heard them complaining."

And they wouldn't.

Griffin never gives anyone anything to complain about. They're good at few things but they excel in sex and as far as they know, everyone always walks away completely satisfied. If they can walk away. The guy last night certainly had trouble doing so.

Rho raises a brow but Griffin just sends her another grin and twists a brightly colored loc around a dark nail-polished finger. They look hot today, dressed down in a cute green sweater pulled over a white button-down, with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Faded jeans hug their waist, the tastefully cut holes doing nothing to keep them warm. “So, a rage room, huh? How did you hear about this and please tell me I can do this high? Got something last night that's supposed to be really good.”

They can feel it. Her eyes bore into their back and they've seen the expression, something like pain, something like concern, so many times in the last few years.

They have it memorized. They don't have to face her to know she's disappointed.

Good. So are they. No one in the house had bothered to notice or say anything about how cute they looked today. It's disappointing. They put a lot of effort into their presentation.

Kyle would've noticed.

And then he would've bent them over the counter and fucked them until they couldn't think straight. Not that they could think straight anyway, being gay as fuck. Not that they were supposed to think being a stupid, used up sex toy.

“I did my research,” She says proudly. “And Myles told me about a call he went on to one of these places a while ago. It just stuck in my head. So here we are.”

She doesn't say anything about the drugs. Doesn't give them a reason to storm off.

Damn it.

Myles is a good dude. Likes to be choked, likes choking. One of the only ones who did it without bruising Griffin's throat. Probably because he's an EMT like Rho.

A hero. Someone who saves lives and damn, if he doesn't look good in a uniform.

They wonder if she knows how often Myles calls them to get his rocks off.

Their lips twist into something of a smile, something bitter and fragile, but as they shake it off and walk in, it morphs into something sweet and playful. "I'm not angry, Rho."

They zone out as she speaks to the cute employee at the desk.

Charity told them it was okay to grieve. She'd said they couldn't outrun grief. Griffin had smiled and set out to prove her wrong.

They’ve been in a six year game of tag with sadness. They weren’t created for it, for tears, for all the bullshit people say comes with grief. They’ve been doing a damn good job of avoiding becoming “it” but it's getting harder and harder to run.

Deep down, in their subconscious, with the person they used to be before Kyle, they know it can’t last. There’s only so much alcohol to drink, only so many blackouts you can have before the world comes rushing back and punches you in the gut.

And the sex....

God, they've fucked the entirety of the queer population - married and unmarried - in New York City twice over. Some were good, others were better, but none of them were Kyle and none of them were enough to get him out of their nightmares. No one would be able to choke them enough to keep the rage from fizzling out and when it does, all they're left with is a ghost.

Maybe they should become a ghost. They'd make a fabulous one. They would haunt this place though.

“I know my friend put her number on the online form,” Griffin says, zoning back in and trying to sound light. “Should I put mine down too? Might be best to have a second number, right?”

Leaning on the counter, they lower their face shield, which clicks against their safety glasses; the clear plastic is the only part of this getup — hard hat, coveralls, work gloves — that isn’t pitch-black.

Griffin preens when the employee gives them an appreciative once over.

The employee, Taylor, grins. "If you'd like. You can put it in when you're done. If your arms aren't too sore."

“Don't worry, I can handle a bit of soreness.”

The blush is adorable.

Before they can head in, they sit through a small safety briefing, which said that they had to always wear goggles and gloves to protect their eyes and hands, don’t hit the mallets at anything other than objects in the room, and lastly, everything in the room (except people; too bad) was breakable, so they could go to town basically and destroy the whole room.

A click of the lock, and the door opens. They step in and look around.

Where does the rage end and the sadness begin? They're not sure but all they can do, right now, is stroke it and let the rage ignite their blood.

And they do. They start with the mirror. They've had enough bad luck to last a lifetime and if they got a bit more, oh fucking well.

Fuck clarity. And Rhododendron Bates too. And fuck not being allowed to do this high.

Their own reflection is the last thing they want to see clearly right now. They know they look as hollow as they feel,like one of those creatures from Bleach with holes in their chest where their souls were ripped from them.

They storm forward and swing, smashing the shelves one by one, a bell chord of sharp shattering shards. With every hit they swing closer and closer to the mirror, until it’s cracked top to bottom. They set the bat down to grab two wine glasses from a crowded bar cart and toss them to the floor. A metal vase filled with potpourri sits on an end table; they take up the bat again and slam the vase across the room, tee ball-style.

Everything within reach is a target — a pitcher among the remaining wine glasses (all the margherita-filled date nights), a potted plant (Ferngus was probably dead. God knows Charlie was nothing like his brother) , an empty picture frame standing on a desk next to —

Rhoda who does nothing but watch with a stupid, stupid understanding look on her face.

"I'M NOT ANGRY," they scream at her. They don't move towards her. They can't smash the frame. It's empty but they can so clearly picture what could've been there: Kyle and them on their wedding day.

Married.

Happy.

Each other's.

Forever.

And then the asshole had to go and die. He had to go and give them freedom as if that's what they'd wanted.

"I'M. NOT. ANGRY."

Rho says nothing and they swing again. The barrel of the bat crunches a jagged hole in the LED display. Their second swing comes down on the top part of the bezel, which cracks and falls away from all around the screen. Home fucking run. They get in a few hits to a dresser on the floor below the television — three strikes, exactly — that send chunks of painted particle board tumbling.

"I miss him," they finally admit through gritted teeth. If she wants them to talk, then they'll fucking talk. She'll hear the things she doesn't want to hear. It'll be on her for pushing, not them. They glare at her, at the floor, at the mess of glass and plastic. "I know it's bad. We're not supposed to but I miss him. He had this laugh….it was awful. Like….worse than a donkey and so fucking loud…I made him laugh all the time. I'm not angry, Rhoda. I'm….sad. I'm confused. Everyone says what we had was…programmed into us but….I know I loved him….out, outside of all of that. He never hit me. He never made me fuck him. He was good."

Silence. And then -

"Could you leave?" Rho asks quietly. "Did he ever ask you to?"

"I never wanted to. There wasn't a reason to. He was mine and I was his and now I'm no one's. I was something beautiful and I was loved."

Loved - past tense. It just slips out because they know even if they've spent years ignoring it, Kyle isn't coming back. He's not like Mel's owner, not like Dami's, not like Jack's. Their owners would all come back for their housemates. Even the new girl's owner came to see her.

Griffin would be left behind, again, because Kyle isn't coming back. They would never be loved like that again.

Oh, they'll be fucked. They'll be cared for. Like someone's pet dog they'll be fed and housed and given space to roam around but they won't be loved.

They spin away from the debris at their feet, and through rows of boxes and trinkets and their own shield and safety glasses, they can make out their face in an untouched mirror. The expression there is a snarl, features distorted by a pounding pulse and rising anger, unfamiliar and terrifying for it.

"You're supposed to help," they snap, turning back to Rho, "You're supposed to make me not feel like this anymore."

They pick up the sledgehammer from against the wall and feel its weight, moving through a few practice swings, before raising it above their head and bringing it down, once, twice, thrice. Colorful orbs, flowerpots, and vases shatter and shelves splinter and crumble under the blows; falling shards of glass and ceramic ring out like a carillon on the hardwood.

"That's your job," they spit. "That's what you're for."

"I'm not in charge of your feelings, Griffin. I can't take them away. I can only tell you what I think." She blows out a breath and gingerly steps away from the debris. "I think, you're allowed to be sad. You're allowed to be confused. You're allowed to be angry if that's what you're feeling. Do you want to stop feeling these things? I don't think you should."

"I want people to stop saying he wasn't good," Griffin snaps again and the sparks build up in their chest, choking them, tightening. Their fingers clench around the sledgehammer, eyes drifting around the room, looking, searching for anything else to destroy. Something had to be destroyed. Something that wasn't them. "He was….he was good. He helped people. He made them laugh and he made them happy. I want….to hear him laugh and I want….to smell his shampoo and hold his hand and kiss him and get so fucked I can't be a smartass anymore. I want to wear his clothes because they're his."

And finally they drop the sledgehammer, shoulders heaving. Hands and knees land on the glass. The shards pinch their skin but they don't care. They can't breathe right now and as they choke for air, vision blurring, their body vibrates with rage, with every bit of suppressed grief nothing has been able to douse. Their brain feels like a pile of burnt ashes.

Rho removes her gloves and takes off their faceguard to push their hair away from their sticky, wet, cold face. A thin, soft hand is on their head, running fingers through their hair. They close their eyes, focusing on the feeling.

“Nobody deserves to be alone, Griff," she says. "Being left behind….sucks."

"I'm not angry," they murmur, throat tight and eyes burning. They grip her shirt tightly. "I'm sad. I'm sad, Rho, and I don't think it'll ever go away. I want it to go away."

[when-the-feet-hurt]

“Sir, are you awake?”

Whumper slowly opens their eyes to a harsh light that dims when they groan in annoyance.  Their arm aches.

“Please forgive me, sir.  I was trying to bandage your arm, but I couldn’t see very well and—”

“Why were you touching me?”

Whumpee sits up straight as their body trembles.  “I… Um…”

Whumper narrows their eyes.  “Why did you touch me, pet?”

“You were…  You were going to fix the sink in the kitchen, and you went to get the toolbox upstairs, but when you were… when you were coming back downstairs, you fell, and the toolbox opened, and… and something cut your arm.”

Looking down, Whumper sees discarded red cotton balls on the edge of the bed and a small roll of bandages.  They look to the side.  A half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol sits on the nightstand next to a first aid kit.  In the corner of their vision, they can see Whumpee’s gloved hands shaking.  Whumper chuckles weakly.  How cute.

“I'm aware it isn’t my place to ask, but what’s…  What’s funny, sir?”

“You put on gloves.”

Whumpee turns bright red and folds their hands in their lap.  “I…  I didn’t want your cut to get infected, sir.”

“You doused my arm in rubbing alcohol,” Whumper says, nodding to the bottle on the nightstand.  “I doubt I could get it infected even if I tried to.”

“Please don’t,” Whumpee mumbles.

Whumper sits up a bit, craning their head forward.  “What was that?  I taught you to speak up, pet.”

“Please don’t try and get it infected, sir,” Whumpee repeats, looking up with tears in their eyes.

Whumper bites back a laugh.  “That was a joke.  I’m not going to get it infected.”

Whumpee breathes a sigh of relief, the collar on their neck slipping just the slightest bit as they offer a shy smile to Whumper.  “I’m glad then, sir.  Do you feel alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Whumper says, trying their best not to burst out into laughter at the various ice packs on their legs and hands, melting as the conversation goes on.

“Do you need anything else, sir?”

Opening their mouth, Whumper goes to mention the ice packs—but then they look at the used-up bandage roll, the bloody cotton balls, the still-open bottle of rubbing alcohol, and Whumpee’s wet gloves, and Whumper shakes their head.

“You can leave, Whumpee,” Whumper says.  “You did a good job.”

The tears finally fall from Whumpee’s blue eyes as their lip quivers.  “R-Really?”

“Yes, really.”

The tears fall down Whumpee’s sharp red cheeks.  “Thank you, sir.  Thank you so much.”

Whumper sighs.  Whumpee’s love-filled eyes make them sick.  What kind of freak have they created?

[bloodsweatandpotato]

Day 18

“Just get it over with”, “Take my coat”

Fandom: Original work

Characters: Generic whumpee, generic caretaker

Tw: idk?

Summary: When Whumpee falls and dislocates his shoulder while on a hike, Caretaker does their best to fix it.

“Just get it over with…” Whumpee hissed.

Caretaker grimaced in sympathy, tentatively squeezing Whumpee’s arm.

“Get. It. Over with.”

Caretaker gritted their teeth, grasped Whumpee’s arm tight, and shoved their shoulder back and up.

Whumpee let out a strangled scream, throwing his head back as he squeezed his eyes shut. Tears pricked in the corners of his eyes, and Whumpee strained against Caretaker’s grasp.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry…” Caretaker murmured, still grasping Whumpee’s arm, keeping his shoulder still.

Eventually, the wave of white-hot pain passed, and Whumpee went limp in Caretaker’s grasp. His breaths huffed in and out harshly, deliberately slow in an attempt to breathe through the pain.

He opened his eyes.

“Th-thanks…” Whumpee wheezed out, forcing a smile up at Caretaker. Caretaker smiled back, tears in their eyes.

Whumpee looked up at the trail. “I guess I was p-pretty lucky. I… I mean, getting a shoulder popped out isn’t th-that bad.”

It was true. Whumpee had fallen quite a long way, a small part of the trail having been washed away in the last storm. He was very lucky to have only dislocated his shoulder,r and not broken any ribs, or even his spine.

Caretaker scanned Whumpee once again, giving him a quick once over.

They frowned.

“Are you sure nothing else is hurt?” Caretaker asked, their hands ghosting over Whumpee’s other arm, his legs, even the back of his head.

“I’m fine.” Whumpee confirmed. “Why?”

“You’re shaking.”

Caretaker paused for a moment, before pulling off their coat. They placed it over Whumpee like a blanket, smoothing it over him.

“Here, take my coat.” Caretaker said, already arranging it so that Whumpee was completely wrapped. “We can stay here for a bit until you’re ready to climb back up to the trail.”

Whumpee just smiled, reaching up with his good arm to squeeze Caretaker’s hand, tugging them down until the two were curled together leaning against the slope of the mountain.

They sat like that for nearly half an hour, until the spell was broken, and Whumpee moved to get up.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 5 EVERY WHUMPEE’S NEEDS

Blood Loss | Running Out of Air | Hyperthermia

english is a stupid language i read hypothermia, not hyper, so we’ll all pretend freezing is what was intended by this prompt. have some early days john :>

“Katma, I am sending this message out with what little energy remains in my ring,” John speaks slowly, cold lips cracking on every word. “I don’t know where I am, only that I do not have much longer to live if you do not help. This planet I’m on is below the temperatures I can survive in, so I need you to come to me, and fast. My ring’s charge is almost up and I am pretty sure I will freeze to death once it gives up.” He pauses, blinks the ice that’s formed over his eyelashes and quietly adds, “know that I love you, pretty lady.” He hopes she finds his call for help soon, because he wasn’t kidding, he doesn’t think he has much time left.

John looks around him, the unknown planet he just woke up on, the barren rocks he is sitting on, the harsh wind sweeping the landscape and the sunless sky above him. His last memories are of him trying to stop a fight in a nearby galaxy, then a blackout followed waking up here, with less than 3% left to his charge. It’s enough to fly off this planet, he knows now, but not enough to get him to earth, or a planet he can survive on. Between freezing to death and choking in space’s great void, he still prefers this option.

It’s not a comfortable one though, nor a sustainable one. He lowered the protective shield the ring conjures around him to the bare minimum, just enough to breathe, in a desperate attempt to let his charge hold longer. Cold has been slowly slipping into his bones, a dry, sharp cold that sinks into his flesh and sips any warmth he feels.

“Ring, internal body temperature?” He asks, shivers running through his limbs, hard enough to make his teeth click.

‘Internal body temperature of 34,5 degrees.’ it answers him smoothly, and John frowns. That has to be dangerously low, right? He rolls unto his feet with great labors and stumbles toward a higher block of rocks, falls behind them and sighs as the harsh, freezing winds stop hitting his face, his body. He watches the cloud of condensation that rises in front of his face, sudden anxiety seizing him.

He does not want to die here, he has so many things to do still. He has projects with his practice he wants to work on, to build and see for himself, and friends to see, colleagues and fellow heroes to meet and talk with, and there are kids in his neighborhood he’s helping with for a school project. His mom wants to see him next Sunday and he said he’d come, he even planned the flowers he wants to bring her. And there’s Katma, too, Katma who he still has so much to tell. Karma, with her determined eyes and gentle hands, Katma who smiles so beautifully.

John wants to cry, he wants to yell, he wants to do something, anything, to get off this damn planet and back to the people he loves. He hates how helpless he feels. All he can do is try to not clench his jaw, to not make the shivers worse and wrap his arms around his chest, rubbing the palm of his hands over his ribs in a vain attempt to warm himself. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, just to take a breath in.

When he opens them again, his hands are stuck to his uniform, sweat frozen against the green and black. He cries out and jerks back, tugging them with as much strength as he can muster. When he manages to peel them off, he finds his fingers freezing, so much so that they went blue, all the blood pushed out and replaced by sharp, painful cold. He doesn’t feel his lips anymore, nor his feet.

“No!” He cries out, or tries to, because his throat is dry and cold too and it’s hard to talk. He doesn’t feel himself shivering anymore, despite watching as his hands and arms shake right in front of his eyes.

“R-ring-” he stutters slowly, “ch-charge?”

‘Ring charge at 1%’ That- that’s not good. Not good at all. There’s something else he wants to asks, needs to, but he can’t remember what it is. Everything feels sluggish, his thoughts slow and hard to pull on, like thick clay slipping through his fingers. ‘Internal body temperature of 31 degrees.’

That’s bad too, pretty bad. His body shakes again, and he winces at a sharp sting over his face. He raises a shaky, uncoordinated hand to his cheek, and frowns when he pulls back wet fingers.

When he turns his head to look at his other hand, it feels like no time and an eternity went by. He finds it gloveless, just like his entire arm. He’s no longer in his costume, but instead in the short-sleeved shirt he wore before he went off Earth. It’s not so bad, he thinks, because he’s warm, pretty warm even, and the winds against his feverish limbs and face feel good.

He’s closing his eyes again, too tired to keep looking at the boring and grey stones all around him, when his ring lights up, and there’s a voice speaking to him but he can’t catch the words. Only that the voice is smooth, and calming, and that it’s saying ‘hold on’, and ‘coming’ before it cuts off. He thinks it’s important, it has to be, but he can’t figure out why, nor can he fight against his body, how heavy it feels, how tired he is.

His head falls on the rocks behind him as the voice fades out.

[whumpy-galaxy]

Got inspiration to write a different character, what do y’all think?

I’m hoping this is gonna be a series, if it is I’m gonna call it ‘Wingless Angel’ ^^

Tags: Lady whumper, lady whumpee, child whumpee (flashbacks), forced body modification, limb amputation, past whump, collars, drugging, vague mentions of past ab*se, scars, I use the word ‘girl’ but both are over 18

The girl gently ran her hand over the scars on Reagan’s back, in a loving but... violating way. Reagan had never told anyone about her wings. Her scars were a secret no one was supposed to know about.

“My name’s Trixie,” the girl standing over her said. “What’s yours?”

“R-Reagan,” the girl on the floor choked out. She refused to cry. She wouldn’t break this easily.

“It’s nice to meet you, Reagan. You’re looking well, considering the circumstances.”

Reagan couldn’t help but scoff. She knew what she looked like. So did Trixie.

In all honesty, Trixie enjoyed seeing her pets like this. On their knees on the cold, concrete floor, a metal collar around their neck chaining them to the wall, and the bell hanging off it stripping every last bit of their dignity to shreds. She had cut open the back of Reagan’s shirt so she could see what used to be the thing that made her so special, while still keeping her modest.

Reagan squeezed her eyes shut as Trixie’s hand reached that one scar. She didn’t want to remember.

“Take a deep breath, darling, it’ll be over soon.” Said the woman standing over the child, who was kneeling on the floor over a towel. The child was sobbing, barely able to breathe as the woman continued working, sawing through the bone of the beautiful white wings that sprouted from the child’s back.

“Please, mama!” The child begged and pleaded with her to stop, but the woman didn’t. She wanted her daughter to be safe, and this was the only way to ensure that.

Trixie realized Reagan was shaking, and gently tilted the smaller girl’s chin up to look at her.

“Look at me, pet. I think your wings would have been beautiful. It’s a shame they’re gone.” She said it lovingly, but Reagan knew she didn’t mean it that way. “Now, you should get some rest.” She forced Reagan’s jaw open, holding her still despite her efforts to fight, and forced a pill down her throat. “Just relax, pet. It’ll make you feel all better.”

Reagan blinked back tears, her vision growing blurry. She hated the way the girl mocked her, calling her ‘pet’. Still, Trixie seemed... kind. Caring. More than her mother had been. Maybe it was just the drug making her think that way. But... Trixie didn’t mind if she was different, if she was a freak. That thought alone calmed Reagan enough to let the drug take over, and everything faded to black.

[whumpshaped]

gosh, i’d love another severe separation anxiety drabble with caretaker + whumpee— anything your brain comes up with tbh i love your writing so much

the other separation anxiety drabble i wrote. these r not the same guys bc i didnt have any inspo for them but heres smth that sounded nice in my head

tw hybrid whumpee, separation anxiety, captivity, betrayal, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, choking

"This is the only way we'll ever get out of here. Do you understand that?" Caretaker resisted the urge to shake Whumpee by the shoulders as they said that, but just barely. Weeks of captivity had taken a toll on their mental stability and patience. They wanted out.

"No, n-no, there has to be another way, please–"

"If there was, I would take it. But there isn't."

Whumpee whined in the back of their throat, a sound that was nearly constant whenever the two of them got separated. Their ears and tail indicated clear distress, and the tears in their eyes just kept gathering until eventually they overflowed. "So stay! We can stay here! It's not that bad!"

"Whumpee–"

"I can't stay here alone! I can't, I can't do it, I can't do it without you!"

"I will come back for you immediately, I'll call help and–"

"No! No, no, no, either we get out together, or we don't! Please! Please don't leave me!"

"We can do it the other way around," Caretaker tried desperately. "I know how to get one person out! You can be the one to call for help, and I'll wait for you patiently–"

"I would never leave you!"

Caretaker let go of them and took a few deep breaths. Whumpee watched them intently, they could feel it. Both of them were desperate. Both of them were in a very bad way. They needed to do this.

"Whumpee, I'm sorry. If you're not willing to call for help, then I'll have to be the one to do it. I'm so sorry. I'll come back immediately–"

"Master!" Caretaker's eyes widened as Whumpee rushed over to the bars of their cell, screaming at the top of their lungs. "Master!"

They jumped up from where they were sitting, tackling Whumpee to the ground and trying to cover their mouth. They were almost successful, until Whumpee bit them. "Whumpee, what the fuck?"

"Master! Master!"

The door leading to the large basement soon opened, and several people ran down the stairs. Caretaker was now trying to protect Whumpee from a possible fight, but Whumpee wasn't even having any of that. They wriggled out of their grasp, pressing themself against the bars as much as they could, immediately going on a rant when they saw Whumper.

"Master, please, Caretaker is planning an escape, you can't let them escape, please, I just want to stay here with them, but they want to leave me behind, they want to escape!"

There were no words to describe the feeling of betrayal that washed over Caretaker's entire being. It was paralysing. They didn't even know what to say. They just stared at their friend — who they thought was their friend — in shock, unable to move a single muscle or react in any way.

"Calm down, calm down." Whumper grabbed their collar through the bars, choking them a little until they stopped barking nonsensical half-sentences. "Calm down. I'm very glad you decided to alert me, but you need to quiet down."

"Don't let them leave me," Whumpee rasped.

"Oh, I would never." They let go when Whumpee started to struggle and turn a little blue, letting them collapse onto the ground. Despite everything, Caretaker was by their side in an instant, making sure they were okay more out of habit than genuine care. "Unfortunately, that does mean dear Caretaker needs to be punished... But don't worry. I'll let you watch the whole thing, as a little reward."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[painsandconfusion-moved-shoo]

Who Did This to You??

(tw: knife mention, conditioning[training] mention)

Whumper made their way down the long hallway with a spring in their step. They couldn't help but whistle a little jingle as they went. Henchman had just informed them that after months of failed attempts, they had finally captured Whumpee right from under Caretaker's nose.

Whumper could hardly contain their excitement. They had so many plans. They would break Whumpee down bit by bit, using Whumpee's pain to goad Caretaker into surrendering themselves - and all their juicy secrets, of course.

Whumper loved the process. They loved how their past whumpees fought and talked back. They loved seeing them break, trying to look brave while they squirmed and flinched and the slightest touches, unraveling slowly. Beautifully.

It was going to be such a good day!

Whumper paused at the door, practically bounding as they cracked their neck and shook loose the muscles in their arms.

Showtime!

They threw open the door to the holding room. Whumpee was sitting in the corner, arms wrapped around their knees. They stared at Whumper. They were scared.

Good. They should be scared.

Whumper smiled. "Well well, you are adorable. I can see why Caretaker wants to keep you all to themselves."

"Th-thank you."

Whumper blinked. They specifically chose that line to get a rise out of them. Was this whumpee fucking with them? If so, they were going to regret it.

Whumper slipped a knife from the pocket of their jeans, flicking it open with an echoing click.

"Come here."

Whumper didn't expect them to, of course. They expected Whumpee either to stay put or try to run. They planned on dragging them to the center of the room with one fist knotted in their hair, yanking at the tender scalp while Whumpee thrashed and cursed.

Instead, Whumpee slowly rolled onto their knees and...crawled.

They stopped in front of Whumper. Kneeling. Obedient. Eyes trained on the ground at Whumper's feet.

"What the hell?" Not knowing why they were so uncomfortable, Whumper reached down, hooking a knuckle under Whumpee's chin to tilt their face up.

Whumpee closed their eyes and tried to nuzzle into their palm.

Whumper ripped their hand away. "Okay, seriously. What the fuck?"

Whumpee's eyes went wide and fearful. "I did it wrong. I'm so sorry. You didn't like it. I'm so so sorry. I'm not trying to be bad, I promise. I'm trying to be good for you-"

"-Okay! Okay. Just...um." Whumper suddenly didn't know what they should do with their hands. "Just stop...." they gestured vaguely at Whumpee's pathetic form, "This. Just...stop all this."

Whumpee's eyes filled with tears. They looked like a frightened child, staring straight up at them like this. Their hands started shaking in their lap. "I'm so so sorry! I'm being bad. So bad. Please. Please tell me how to be better. I don't want to be bad. I want to be good for you. I'm trying to be good, I promise!" Their eyes flicked to the knife in Whumper's hand.

They looked so scared. So small. They were a full-grown adult, but all Whumper saw was a shaking little kid. It was disgusting. Whumper closed the knife, pocketing it again.

They softened their voice. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Relief flooded across Whumpee's face. "Thank you. Thank you. I've been so bad, I don't deserve not to be punished. Thank you, Master."

Whumper reeled back. "Woah, woah, woah. Do NOT call me 'Master'."

The fear in Whumpee's eyes returned in an instant. "I'm so sorry. What would you like me to call you? Please tell me how to be good for you."

"Umm..." Whumper scratched their neck, feeling awkward. "Just 'Whumper' is fine."

"Okay, I can do that. I'm trying to be so so good for you, Maste- I mean, Whumper." Whumpee's eyes dropped back to the ground. It was just...gross.

Whumper searched for the right words. "Who...who did this to you?"

"Wha-what do you mean, Ma- Whumper?"

"Who conditioned you? Who taught you to act like this?"

Whumpee's hands twitched. "My previous Master trained me."

Whumper felt hot anger bloom in their chest. They struggled to keep their voice gentle. "What's their name?"

Whumpee hesitated. Their voice came out as a whisper. "Caretaker."

Whumper's hands shook with their fury. They had to contain it. They couldn't scare Whumpee even more. They took a few deep breaths and lowered themselves to their knees. They mirrored Whumpee's stance, hands on their thighs, head tucked down.

"I'm not your Master. And I'm not going to hurt you. Not even if you're bad -- I promise."

Whumpee's eyes flicked up, shining and confused. "R-really?"

Whumper nodded. "Really. I promise." They considered... "How would you like a hot meal and a soft bed?"

Whumpee's eyes went wide. "Master says beds aren't for pets."

Whumper clenched their fingers until their nails bit into their palm. "You aren't caretaker's pet. You aren't anyone's pet. Not anymore. You're just 'Whumpee'. Caretaker will never touch you again. I promise you that."

Whumpee's eyes were tentative, but hopeful. "A...a bed? You mean it?"

"Of course. I will never lie to you." Whumper stood up, their hands shaking. "I have to take care of a few things, but I'll be back soon with some food, okay?"

"O-okay."

Whumper gave them a small, warm smile and strode out of the room.

Henchman was waiting for them outside the door. "We are all prepped and ready to-"

"-Fuck that, forget the plans. Send a squad to take out Caretaker."

Henchman hesitated, looking down at their clipboard. "But....we need the information they have on-"

"-I said forget about the fucking plan. Do what I tell you." Whumper strode away. "Caretaker dies tonight."

(Tag list: @prisonerwhump, @whumpawink)

[whumpzone]

Tomas and Rowe - Part 18

Masterpost

@sola-whumping @just-another-whumper @misspelledwitch @looptheloup @briars7 @black-polarf @zipadeedooda-drabbles @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @rosesareviolentlyread @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jazz-0307 @kestrelsparverius @whumpsy-daisies @whumpersworld @memoriesneverforget @sky-or-something-idfk @cupcakes-and-pain @frankieswhump @ihaventwritteninsolong @mybrokenlittletoy @kiretto-laorentze @morelikepainsley @lavmars @tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @newbornwhumperfly @itaina-anta @whump-it @haro-whumps @simplygrimly @alex-ember @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @mnmlover2002 @jordanstrophe @princessofonward @xmonster-under-the-bed @as-a-matter-of-whump @5boys1house @crystalrainwing @starnight-whump @chifechi @unicornscotty @penny-for-your-whump @getyourwhumphere @likeit-or-whumpit @jasm0307 @lightdrinker @hurting-fictional-people @captainseconds @glamrockgregory

CW: recovering pet whumpee, environmental whump, references to an amputated finger, paranoia/hallucinations

-

As he turned to lock the final door behind him, Rowe could see that he had been in a warehouse, evidently a rarely-used one. A single floodlight was on, illuminating nothing but a bare wall and the road leading up to it. Rowe had been correct- it was night. The open air was a thousand blessings as he breathed it in. His eyes felt clean, he could stand up properly, he wasn’t wearing that fucking collar anymore.

The happiness was short-lived, but he let himself have it. He was free. He just had to get home, now.

Rowe would have panicked, at that moment, but instead his heart toughened, because Kasia hadn’t been able to break him down. He was missing a finger, and the throbbing pain made sure he wouldn’t forget in a hurry, but he was still there, still himself. His nightmares would probably take a new form, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep alone again, but he was fine. He was a Pet. He was a person. Surviving was a skill of his.

He rested a hand on the wall, making sure he was hidden in shadow, and let himself take some of the weight off his scarred leg. Burnt, smashed, sewn up and burnt again. He would be limping, by the time he got home. But get home he would, and in some way, it was thanks to his leg. He had been sat on his bed, back when he couldn’t walk, looking for something to distract him from the feelings of anger and uselessness and what if he throws me out?

So he’d looked down and practised his reading. He remembered it perfectly. Tomas G…Grz…. something… 12 h-a-r-t… Hartland Road… your Pet… s-p-l-i-n-t…. bed rest for up to one week…

Rowe had read the address, and perhaps even then he’d known he might one day need it. It didn’t solve the problem of knowing whereHartland Road was, or whether he’d make it there without being stolen or beaten up or killed, but he had to try.

Kidnapped, he thought. You’d only say stolen for a piece of property.

The warehouse was evidently on the outskirts of town. Was it the right town? Rowe thought so, as he studied the lights shining down the road. Several of the shapes were familiar to him. The colourful string bulbs that were hung up along the shopping streets, the glow from the theatre on the hill, the dark spot where the graveyard sat. From his bedroom window he had to crane to get a good look, but he could see it well from the office. He ached to be back there. In the warmth and familiarity of it. Back with- Master? The word sounded strange now. Especially since- since Rowe felt like he understood him now. Understood his intentions.

He started to walk. Kasia’s jacket rested on his shoulders, and he couldn’t bear to put his arms in. The idea alone made him feel trapped. The thing smelt distinctly of the bastard, but Rowe knew it was preferable to the cold of a dead night. He found a main road soon enough, built up above the rest of the grassy flatland, so he gingerly climbed down the hill and walked alongside. He would be hidden from passing cars well enough, but his bare feet soon began to take the brunt of the choice of rough land over tarmac. Stones, sticks, was that roadkill, oh, god, all were littered through his journey which was only sparsely lit by the occasional road light. After a particularly sharp stone, or possibly even a discarded glass bottle, Rowe knew his foot was bleeding. He ground his teeth together. It wasn’t real if he couldn’t see it. And right now, he couldn’t see his own hand in front of him.

He kept his eyes on the lights from the town before him, slowly drawing closer.

He thought he heard footsteps behind him, running closer with horrifying speed. As they drew near he could hear Kasia screaming at him.

You think you can fucking get away from me? You think you locked that collar? You really think I won’t come back?

He kept his eyes fixed on the town. “It-it-it’s n-not real,” he whispered past the lump in his throat. He was trembling with fear. “It’s not real, I locked him up, I st-stopped him, it’s not real, it’s not.”

The paranoia wouldn’t leave him, though. Every passing car, though they were few and far between, made him jump and crouch down, hands clamped over his mouth. He couldn’t shake the fear that it was Kasia after him, out searching for the rotten escaped Pet. His leg burst with pain every time, making him whimper and cry when he tried to stand back up.

The sounds of footsteps gradually stopped, and Kasia’s voice faded, but Rowe could still feel his hands clawing at him. His back tingled with the overwhelming sensation that someone was behind him, creeping up and reaching out to grab-

Against his better judgement, he turned back. Darkness there, and nothing more. “Fuck, f-fuck, keep it together,” he muttered.

Just up ahead, he could see streetlamps. Proper ones, glowing a gentle orange. He went as far as he could along the grass, then climbed up, wetting his hands in the dew. He checked for cars, and seeing none, scrambled fully onto the road.

He realised he couldn’t run anymore- his leg would give out, or he wouldn’t be able to contain a howl of pain- so he limped as quickly as he could towards the next patch of shadow, over and over.

Eventually he came upon a sign: Welcome to….

It was half shadowed, but it was a map. He pushed himself up on his tip-toes, eyes scanning the jumble of letters and lines and symbols. Eventually he spotted it. Hartland Road. He traced the direction in his head, making sure it was committed to memory, although he knew he wouldn’t forget it even if someone tried to beat it out of him. And then, he started walking.

He couldn’t tell exactly what time it was, but he would have guessed around three or four in the morning. The pub, as he passed it, was quiet, although he still kept his distance, hugging the shadows.

He soon reached the base of the hill he knew he’d have to climb. As he started to ascend, he saw the Pet hospital in the distance. Oh god, would he have to go back there to get his finger treated? He pushed the question to the back of his mind. If he did, there wasn’t anything he could do.

A few cars drove by, as he walked. He wanted to duck into one of the smaller streets that branched off, but he had only memorised one route home, and he didn’t trust himself to improvise in the dark. So instead he squared his shoulders, stopped hunching, tried his best to look like a person walking home in his heavy jacket, not afraid, not prey. It didn’t feel quite right, but it was easier than he’d expected. And it worked- no cars stopped, no one seemed to give him a second glance.

He finally reached the street, the name lit up. Hartland Road. The sign was scuffed, like kids had popped the cap off their beers along its edge. It was fixed to the wall of a garden, weeds poking out through the bricks, a flyer from the council tied at eye-level to the neck of the streetlamp. Rowe took everything in as he walked. The bicycle clipped to a fence, the parked cars, the black bins left out for collection. Before, he never would have taken notice. None of it had mattered. But now, Rowe felt as if he had a new connection to the world around him. He could interact with it. He wasn’t leashed or under the watchful eye of an owner, he wasn’t crawling or blindfolded in the boot of a car. He was in pain, yes, but he was always in pain, so constantly that it hardly registered anymore. He was free.

Rowe didn’t recognise the house itself. The only times he’d ever left it, he’d been unconscious, or practically so.

But when he turned around, he saw the same view he’d had from his bedroom window every morning and night. He was home.

He remembered Kasia’s key, but it no longer fit into the front door. The lock must have been changed. Rowe hated that the alternative was to make a loud noise, at this hour, but perhaps that was the smarter way than simply slipping inside like- like Kasia. So he hesitantly pressed down on the doorbell, hitting his fist against the wood as well. He waited. He thought about how he’d never rung a doorbell before in his life.

Silence. Rowe wasn’t exactly surprised, but his heart still tightened. Suddenly the fresh air didn’t feel freeing, it felt exposed. He rang again, knocking harder, not giving up. Surely he would know it was urgent? Surely he would come down, and Rowe would get to see his face again?

Faintly, he heard the creaking of the stairs. “I-I-It’s me!” he said, hushed. “It’s me, I…”

His words died as the door slowly opened. Half a face, an eye framed by blond curls peered out, full of apprehension. In a heartbeat it landed on Rowe and widened, and the door flew open.

“Tomas,” Rowe said, loving how it felt to say his name, loving him, loving everything. “I’m back, I, I’m back, I’m back.”

Tomas raised a hand over his mouth, and for once he was the one shaking. “Oh my god… oh my god.”

And then he was reaching both arms out for Rowe with a sob. Rowe threw the horrible jacket to the ground and fell into him, wrapping his arms around his waist and holding on tight. He couldn’t have known whose knees failed first, but suddenly they had collapsed on the floor, clinging onto each other, not leaving a shred of space between as they both cried. Soaked in the orange light that pooled through the still-open front door.

[jordanstrophe]

Can I go home with you?

CW: Pet whump, conditioned whumpee, collar, hair pulling, bargaining for the whumpee, punishment mentioned, f l u f f

Caretaker pushed their tiny cart around the grocery store. They noticed a thin figure struggling to lift an entire pack of water off the shelf as they lost their balance as it fell to the floor with a *bang!* 

Whumpee cringed with a gasp as they looked around embarrassingly, their face turning red.

‘'Hey! Do you need help with that?” Caretaker asked, quickly zipping up with their cart about scaring the poor thing. They spun around looking up at them fearfully.

That’s when Caretaker noticed the collar.

They were a pet.

“Oh... I’m sorry I didn-” Caretaker silenced their thoughts. It didn’t matter if they were a pet or not. They just don't see one often, especially not out and about by themselves like this.

“I-I’m so-sorry.” Whumpee stuttered, their shoulders hunched up defensively. Caretaker gave them a warm smile. “You’re alright. You’ll need a cart for that, do you have one?”

“M-m-my master has one. They sent me to fe-fetch this, they’re a couple isles d-down.” They shyly stuttered. 

“Okay! Why don’t we go find them then? I’ll help you with this.” Caretaker smiled.

“R-really?” Whumpee beamed, a joyful expression beamed across their face.

“Thank you! Thank you so much! I didn’t know how I was going to get it back to them, I didn’t want to be punishe-'' They slapped a hand over their own lips. 

“Yes I would love the help, please.” They quickly changed their tone as they politely bowed. 

The stuttering and shyness had left them at the shred of kindness. They happily bounced up and down on their toes as Caretaker hoisted the pack of water in their arms and followed Whumpee. They slowed their pace until Whumpee randomly stopped, their head glancing back just an inch.

“C-c-can you... Can I come home wh-with you?” They murmured.

“W-what?” Caretaker asked, taken by surprise. 

Whumpee didn’t respond, or even move from their position. After a moment, they turned back and continued like nothing happened.

Caretaker was stunned, but followed. Had they heard them correctly? No... They must have said something else.

They made it to the owner, someone with a cold expression and distant eyes. Their head snapped in their direction as their face twisted into disappointment. 

“Hey! Where’s the water, hmm?” They hissed. 

“I-.. I couldn’t lift it... But this nice person he-helped me!” They gave a guilty smile.

“Are you kidding me?! I sent you to do one job and you get someone else to do it! You ungrateful little thing!” Whumper yelled, their hand cruelty digging into their hair as they let out a yelp.

“Hold on! Cut them some slack, they couldn’t lift it. Even I can barely lift this thing.” Caretaker laughed, trying to lighten the mood as they slammed the water into the cart much heavier than intended. 

Whumper’s eyes glared at them, but softened just a sliver.

“I’m so sorry my pet bothered you. It won’t happen again, I’ll make sure of it.” They growled, jerking Whumpee closer by their hair as they gripped Whumper's wrist with both hands, desperate for an inch of slack. 

“I should just throw you away... What good are you even?” They hissed in the pet's ear.

“Then why don’t I take them off your hands!” Caretaker shouted without even thinking.

Both of their heads slowly cranked over to them, staring in shock. Whumper in confusion, Whumpee with a glimmer of hope and excitement. 

“What are you even-” -”I can pay you as well. Name a price.” Caretaker didn’t want to come off as a joke, or mockery, so they kept their face still and stern. 

“Really? You’ll buy them just like that, hmm? What’s so special about them?” They gave Whumpee a harsh shake as they grunted.

“You tell me, they’re your pet. What’s so special about them to you?” Caretaker shrugged.

Whumper’s lips kept opening and closing to bite with a comeback, but they couldn't come up with anything. They ended up naming a price that was quite absurd and probably double for what they paid.

But it was a human life. A price Caretaker would gladly pay.   

... Even if it cleared out their savings for the next decade. 

Whumpee’s face was stuck in a wide expression as they stood blankly at Caretaker’s side, hardly believing what had happened.

“Hey.” Caretaker nudged gently as Whumpee snapped out of it, blinking up at them.

“Why don’t we go home?” They smiled.

Whumpee smiled back with a nod as they latched onto Caretaker’s arm with a nuzzle. 

Tag list: @grizzlie70  @alien-octopus @lave-whump @amethysts-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot  @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight @yet-another-heathen @princessofonward @whatwhumpcomments  @ill-eat-you-if-you-cross-me @mascmasochist @hamiltonwhumpdump

o(^∀^*)o Thank you for reading!

[awfulwhumpsideblog]

if ur comfortable with it,,, how about a continuation of no-nonsense whumpee where whumper noncons them?

Part 1

oh boy. here we go. noncon under the cut, fellas.

"Why would I piss you off, Master?” Whumpee said. Despite being chained to the ground with dirt smudged on their face from being kicked, they somehow managed to be the one in control.

Whumper's left hand twitched at their side, itching to slap them. They knew immediately that Whumpee would be a tough nut to crack. Mentally, Whumper cycled through various methods of torture, wondering just what would do the trick to get Whumpee begging for it to stop, their monotone voice erupting with desperation and emotion...

When the idea came to them, Whumper grinned widely, breathing out a laugh through their teeth. They almost began to shake with excitement and probably looked a little unhinged to Whumpee, who raised an eyebrow at them.

Whumper lunged forward and dove towards Whumpee, grabbed them by the hair, and pushed them down on their back onto the floor with a painful thud before straddling them and pinning the wrists to the side of their head, causing the chains to rattle. Admittedly, there wasn't much of a point to restraining their hands like this, but it did feel nice.

Whumpee was surprised but it didn't take too long to adjust to the new position and they simply looked up at Whumper with furrowed brows and a slightly open mouth, waiting for Whumper to explain themselves.

"Really now?" Whumper breathed out, already short on air from pure excitement, "No matter what I want you to do... you'll simply lay there and take it?"

Even in the dimly lit cell, with only a torch on the opposite side on the wall to illuminate Whumpee's features, Whumper could see a faint blush appear on their cheeks as their eyes widened ever so slightly. It started to click with them what Whumper wanted.

"Yes..." Whumpee said, their voice wavering for the first time before hastily adding, "Yes, Master."

Whumper laughed again, low and quiet. It seems that they nearly forgot to call them that. Their composure was already starting to crumble.

"Now... what do you think I'll do next?" Whumper asked.

The question surprised Whumpee and they had to avert their gaze to stare at a crack in the wall, "Are you going to... violate me?"

Whumper smiled even wider. It was clear that they were about to say the "R word" but couldn't bring themselves to. Adorable.

"Of course I am. What are you going to do about it, hmm? Are you finally going to resist?"

Whumpee swallowed thickly. "...I can only ask that you reconsider. For what you've already done, you could get away with time in the dungeon and some manual labor. But this? My Father wouldn't even allow a quick execution. You would be tortured to death over the course of months. Maybe even years. And my people would want to take turns making you suffer."

"Really?" Whumper laughed, "Hah, you're going to make this public knowledge and have everyone know I fucked you? They'd never look at their good little heir the same way again and you know it."

Whumpee narrowed their eyes, looking back at Whumper, and for the first time they had to take a moment to think of a response. Whumper took joy in this small victory.

They spoke eventually, "...You have a point. Fine, then. I'll only need to tell my Father. He'll provide a cover story for the real reason you're being tortured in our dungeon. Simple."

"Oh? You're going to tell your father about how you, his pride and joy, let yourself be kidnapped and violated? Won't he think you're disgusting?"

"He's not that kind of man." Whumpee insisted. "He knows that none of this was my fault. And I know that, too. He would never think less of me for getting hurt."

"Not your fault, hmm? I wonder about that... You were on a walk alone in the woods when my men ambushed you and managed to capture you. If only you weren't stupid enough to go alone... if you were just a little stronger..." Whumper said, releasing a wrist to stroke their hair, "Maybe you wouldn't be here right now."

On instinct, Whumpee jerked their head away from Whumper's hand. "That's nonsense. I've gone for walks there regularly since my childhood and nothing like this has ever happened. How could I have possibly seen this coming? And really, you think that if only I had enough training, I could overpower several men? I'm a noble. My focus is on politics and study. Even if I bothered with learning a bit more self-defense I wouldn't have stood a chance..." They trailed off, catching their breath before continuing. "Your manipulation isn't going to work. I will never blame myself for what you did to me."

Whumper listened to them with a hum. So talkative, now... were they trying to convince Whumper, or themselves?

"Such strong words... let's see how well they hold up, hm?" Whumper said, and then maneuvered themselves to shove their knee in between Whumpee's legs, pressing against their crotch.

Whumpee screwed their eyes shut and grit their teeth as their breath hitched, their face quickly flushing a deep shade of red. Whumper leaned down and was sure to study every inch of their face and take note of every little way they reacted. Whumper had their doubts at first, but... this seemed like it was going to be great fun after all.

[kats-kradle]

Febuwhump day 17: self-inflicted wound

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis

Whumpee: Ronon Dex

Word count: 2,040

Notes: me?? posting two mintues after midnight??? more likely than you think

 <><><><>

Beckett sighed and glanced at the clock. He felt guilty about being restless during his shifts, but Atlantis was always a busy place in the best and worst ways, which usually made for a constant stream of patients in the infirmary, but also made the days that had a normal workload seem tedious and boring. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to focus on the papers in front of him. His attention lasted only a few minutes before he snuck another guilty glance at the clock.

The soft cadence of voices reached his ears, and he looked up to see one of the nurses (Ria: shy, but a sweet girl with the brightest smile he had ever seen) and Doctor Tomez (competent, sharp sense of humor, always spoke her mind) in a conversation that had both of them making excuses to move closer to one another flirtatiously as they both pretended to be oblivious to the fact that Doctor Tomez’s shift had ended a full half hour previously. Beckett smiled and briefly entertained the idea of moving Ria’s shift to line up with Doctor Tomez’s—it was a shame that they weren’t able to at least catch meals together.

He almost started when a familiar voice said “hey, doc,” in a tentative way.

“Ronon!” he exclaimed. “You near about gave me a heart attack.” The younger man gave him a strained grin as his eyes darted around the room, and Beckett looked at him closely; there was a towel pressed to the back of his neck, his face was pale, and his hands were shaking almost imperceptibly.

“Is everything alright?” Beckett asked carefully. Ronon shifted.

“I, uh, I didn’t mean to,” he got out.

“Didn’t mean to what, lad?” Beckett prompted. He made an effort to keep his tone even, despite the worry that was building up inside of him. Ronon shifted again and looked more like he was about to bolt than he was about to explain. The look in his eyes reminded Beckett of children he had treated that viewed him with suspicion from their mothers’ embraces, and that thought only reminded Beckett of how young Ronon was.

“Why don’t you sit down, alright?” he suggested gently. Ronon gave a jerky nod and sank down into a chair nearby. Beckett crossed the room and tried to lift the towel off of the back of Ronon’s neck, but the other man only tightened his grip on the cloth.

“I just need to see what happened,” Beckett explained. It took Ronon a moment, but Beckett waited patiently until he removed his hand, and then the doctor lifted the towel. He was greeted with the sight of three long, deep cuts that were steadily bleeding. He bit his tongue to prevent himself from asking what had happened; it would be better to save the questions for after the cuts had been treated.

“These will need stitches,” he said instead, and added, “You did the right thing to keep pressure on them,” in an attempt to put the other man at ease. Ronon’s posture relaxed only the slightest bit, but it was enough for the doctor to count it as a win as he crossed the room and collected the necessary supplies. He rummaged around the cabinets and threw a glance back at Ronon, who could have easily been mistaken for a statue if it weren’t for the way his eyes scanned the room attentively. Ria approached the doctor cheerfully.

“Do you need my help with anything?” she asked. Her eyes darted from Ronon to the sedatives in the cabinet nearby.

“No, I’ve got it,” Beckett assured. “He’s just a bit jumpy, but thank you, love.” He gathered the supplies in his arms and started back to Ronon, but doubled back after a second.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the evening off?” he said to Ria. “It’s been slow here all day, and there’s no need to keep all the staff around for no reason.”

“Really?” Ria asked. “Are you sure? Because I—”

“I’ll call you if we need you,” Beckett promised, and there was a twinkle in his eyes as he used his head to gesture to Doctor Tomez. “You should ask her to dinner.”

Ria blushed as she tucked a strand of hair back.

“Do you think she’d say yes?” she asked nervously. Beckett let out a soft laugh.

“Lass, I think she’d say yes if you were a Wraith asking to feed on her,” he said. She laughed quietly, and she looked across the room at the other woman and let out a breath.

“Okay,” she agreed. Beckett gave her an encouraging grin before turning and heading back to Ronon.

“Alright, let’s get you patched up,” he said cheerfully. Ronon gave a noncommittal grunt in response. Beckett was pleased to see Ria and Doctor Tomez leaving the infirmary together as he set to work disinfecting and stitching up the cuts. It didn’t take him very long, and as soon as he was done, Ronon all but leapt up and started for the door.

“How about you tell me what happened?” Beckett pressed. He phrased it like a suggestion, but his tone left little room for argument. Ronon stopped in his tracks and turned around, but looked down at the towel that he had twisted in his hands instead of the doctor.

“I don’t know,” he said bluntly after a moment. “I was just... walking, and then I couldn’t breathe, and I thought that the tracker was still there, and I...” he gestured to his back vaguely. Beckett nodded understandingly.

“Well, it’s sounds like you had a panic attack,” he said. Ronon scowled, prompting Beckett to explain quickly. “It’s just your body’s natural response to suffering a trauma.” Ronon still looked unhappy, but less like he had been deeply insulted. Beckett sighed.

“I want you to know that you can come to me if you have another one, alright?” he added seriously. Ronon shrugged, but something in his expression had changed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and he left the infirmary.

Beckett thought that Ronon had forgotten his offer until a month or two later, when the younger man showed up in the infirmary in the middle of Beckett’s nightshift with his hands shaking and his breathing erratic.

“It’s alright, son, just sit down,” Beckett said as he jumped up and directed Ronon to a chair. “Breathe with me, alright? In, and out. In, and out.” He took exaggerated breaths, and Ronon followed his example until his breathing was under control, but even then, his eyes darted around the room incessantly in a nervous way.

“Can you tell me what you think caused this one?” Beckett asked, moving his head a bit to get Ronon’s attention. The younger man swallowed thickly and let out a breath, his leg bouncing up and down.

“Uh, I—I thought I could still—I could still feel it,” he said. One of his hands went up to rub the back of his neck subconsciously. Beckett nodded.

“Alright, let me get my scanner,” he said kindly. He kept an eye on Ronon as he crossed the room to grab the necessary equipment. The Satedan’s leg thumped a steady, anxious rhythm on the ground, and he jumped at every small sound. Beckett hurried back as fast as he could, unwilling to leave Ronon alone long enough that his breathing could run away from him again.

“I’ve got the scanner,” he said in a calm voice. “Let’s take a look.” Beckett stepped behind the larger man and kept one hand on his shoulder in hopes of grounding him, and with the other he moved the scanner around.

“The tracker’s definitely gone,” he reported. “The scanner would’ve picked it up. And see,” he took Ronon’s shaking hand and gently directed it to the scars, pressing it into the skin there, “it was right there, but it’s gone now.” Ronon nodded and seemed to deflate into himself as the tension fled from his body. His head dropped into his hands. Beckett put the scanner on the nearby table and went around the chair to kneel in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” Ronon muttered. His voice was choked. Beckett rubbed his knee in a comforting manner.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” he said softly. “I’m glad you came to me, and I hope you’ll come to me again if you need to. I really don’t mind.”

Ronon nodded and sniffed as he swiped a hand over his eyes.

“Why don’t you go try to get some sleep,” Beckett said, but when he saw Ronon’s jaw clench at the suggestion, he quickly added, “or you can stay here with me, if you want. I’d be glad for the company.”

Ronon chose the latter of the options presented to him. They didn’t speak much, but each enjoyed the company of the other. After an hour or so when Ronon had been quiet for a bit, Beckett glanced over to see him snoozing with his chin touching his chest, and looking dangerously close to falling out of the chair. A soft laugh escaped the doctor. He crossed the room and gave Ronon and small nudge.

“Hm?” Ronon said sleepily.

“How about you lie down,” Beckett suggested. He directed Ronon over to one of the beds. The other man was too tired to protest, and was asleep as soon as he was on the bed. Beckett smiled softly and threw a blanket over him.

Early the next morning when Beckett was close to finishing his shift, John wandered in to the infirmary.

“What can I do for you, Colonel?” Beckett asked. He squinted at a clock across the room. “You’re up a bit early, aren’t you?”

John gave him a tight smile and looked around the room. “I’m looking for Ronon,” he explained. “You haven’t seen him, have you? We were supposed to spar a half hour ago, and he’s not in his room.”

Beckett gestured to the bed behind him that had the sleeping teammate that John was searching for.

“He okay?” John asked, his tone rising as it layered with worry. Beckett signaled for him to be quiet.

“He had a bit of a rough night,” he explained. “I told him he could stay here with me. The poor lad started to get drowsy after a bit, and I figured he’d get more sleep here than if I sent him back to his room.”

John nodded sympathetically. His expression was soft as he watched the gentle rise and fall of his friend’s chest. He spoke up hesitantly after a moment.

“Don’t let him know I was here, okay?”

Beckett opened his mouth to question the request, and John hastened to explain.

“I... I don’t want him to be self-conscious about it.”

“Oh,” Beckett said. “Well, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, it happens from time to time,” John quipped. He gave Beckett a quick smile and exited the infirmary. Beckett continued to let Ronon sleep until the end of his shift, and then he approached the bed and shook the younger man gently. Ronon started awake and Beckett took a cautionary step away from the bed.

“I just wanted to let you know that my shift is over now,” the doctor informed him. Ronon rubbed at his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Did I fall asleep?” he asked a bit pointlessly.

“Yes, I thought it best to let you rest,” Beckett said. Ronon nodded a bit awkwardly.

“Sorry.”

“It’s no trouble,” Beckett insisted. “It’s not like we needed the bed, and you looked like you did.”

“Yeah,” Ronon said. He hesitated a moment before adding, “Thanks. I… haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I can give you some sleeping tablets, if you’d like,” Beckett offered. Ronon opened his mouth and closed it again with an unreadable expression on his face. “Just come to me if you ever want any, alright?” Beckett said. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Ronon nodded and cleared his throat, his eyes blinking rapidly.

“Thanks,” he got out. “For everything.”

Beckett smiled kindly and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Come on, let’s get some breakfast,” he said.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"I don't fucking need you. I don't fucking need anyone."

(ideally said to reinforce an angry, apathetic façade)

CW: Panicked whumpee, trauma response, discussion of stabbing/murder, defiant/angry whumpee, referenced prostitution/dubcon, brief internal dehumanization reference

Jake Gets Stabbed: First Second Third Fourth

Also includes @nonsensicalwhump’s prompt ‘don’t fucking touch me’

There was an old backpack already in the closet when he moved into this place. It was worn around the edges, with safety pins all along the top because the zipper had long since broken, an olive green that might have been brighter, once upon a time. The bottom’s duct-taped in layers to hold it together. There are more safety pins holding seams together along the side, another strip of tape where there’s smeared permanent marker, too destroyed for Jameson to even read it.

The backpack looks like Jameson feels, wrecked and ruined and trying valiantly to stay together at the seams, only to come apart anyway.

He stuffs a package of goldfish crackers into the backpack on top of the three pairs of boxers and two shirts and one pair of pants he’s already put inside. Then he adds the bit of beef jerky he keeps up on the top shelf in the closet, where he has to climb onto a box to even reach it. 

His heart hammers in his chest, and when Allyn’s fingertips brush along his shoulder blades through his shirt he jerks away from them, shoving some granola bars in, too. “Don’t fucking touch me!” He snaps, but all he wants is to collapse back into their arms, let them tell him it’ll be okay again, and believe it.

But he can’t believe it.

Their rainshower voice is a lie, the taste of ozone and the relieved wash of cool water is a lie, it’s all a fucking lie and it always fucking was.

“Jameson, no one is asking you to leave,” They say, voice low and soothing, their hands out but not quite touching him now. He glances over his shoulder at those long, long fingers, graceful elegant hands made for gesturing at the parties they tell him about. Fingers entirely unlike his own, the pinky that won’t quite close all the way anymore, the scars layered over them from every time they were hit until they bled, until he begged for more.

“No one has to,” Jameson says, staring down at the empty space in the top of the backpack. Does he own so little? Does he even own any of this? He can’t take the carvings in the closet wall, and that’s most of what he even wants to take. His proof to himself that he was a person, however briefly, before he goes back out to lose it all over again. “I killed m-my fucking-... the person who believed I c-c-ould be better, I killed him-”

“He’s not dead,” They say softly, and their hair hangs over their face. It’s all mussed and frizzy, and he thinks they look even prettier and more handsome somehow, like they’ve rolled out of bed, even though he knows it’s because they’re worried, too worried to pull it back, too worried to care. “I, I heard them call a doctor. Someone’s going to sew it up and he’ll b-be-”

“He’ll bleed to fucking death because of me,” Jameson says, and the weight of it hits him now. He sits down on his bed but it’s more like he falls into it. It’s not his bed anymore, anyway. It’ll be some other rescue’s, someone more deserving than he’s ever been of regaining humanity.

Some other rescue will arrive and lay down here across from Allyn and maybe watch the moonlight move over their face while they look outside and think that no one in the world has ever been as lovely in silvery light as them, and Jameson will be out on the street fucking for cash or food or for ten minutes of safety from himself.

Unless he kills them.

He might.

He might do that, if he-... if he sees Robert in their faces, or Brute, or if he gets lost in himself again he could keep killing people and then he’s not any different, and it wasn’t just to escape and it wasn’t worth it, and from the second he walked away from Nanda’s house he was just going to turn into a killer, wasn’t he? And now he is one.

Now he’s-

Jameson leans over himself, pressing his forehead to his knees, feeling all the scars along his back stretch uncomfortably as he moves. He takes in slow, even breaths, fighting the despair that overwhelms him, buries, drowns him in what he’s done.

He’s just a hand, reaching out, but he’d thought he was reaching out for help. Instead he was holding a knife.

“I won’t let them kick you out,” Allyn says softly, but insistently, dropping to a crouch in front of him. Their hands still hover, wanting so badly to touch him, respecting that he doesn’t want them to. He can feel the warmth of them even so. Their hands are so close. “I promise. I’ll, I’ll convince them somehow to let you stay. We can figure this out, Jameson, you don’t have to be all by yourself.”

“It’s fine, I d-did it before, I can do it again. It’s fine.” Jameson talks into the fabric of his jeans, lets it muffle the emotion and flatten his words. His shoulders shake with a sob he catches before it ever leaves his throat. 

“Jameson, you know we don’t do well alone, you need-”

“I don’t fucking need anyone!” His head jerks up, meeting their gray eyes with his own dark brown. He can feel air move against his skin and realizes with some dull surprise he’s crying again. “I don’t-... I don’t fucking need a keeper, I don’t need... I don’t n-need anybody, I don’t need y-y... I don’t-”

He can’t tell that lie.

“Please don’t leave,” Allyn says, and their hands come to rest gently on either side of his face now, cool dry palms against his flushed damp skin. “Jameson. Please don’t leave me.”

“I tried to kill the first person to help me,” Jameson whispers. “The first person who didn’t ask for anything back. I tried to kill him.”

Allyn shakes their head. “You tried to kill R-... Robert, whoever that was. You tried to kill someone who hurt you. You didn’t know. If you leave, I-I’ll go with you, I can... I can go with you.”

“No you can’t. You don’t know how t-to handle shit out there, Allyn, it’d-...” He looks over their faces, the tears in their eyes, tears he caused, it’s his fault they want to cry. It’s his fault everyone in this house wants to cry, now, it’s his fault they bleed in every possible way. It’s his fault, for thinking he was ever more than just another rabid dog. 

“I’ll go anyway,” Allyn says, fiercely. Their voice pours on his tongue, it’s the taste of a raging rush of river, a flood in the middle of the night, washing out the dry earth. “I’ll go with you anyway, we’ll figure it out, Jameson, you and I. I won’t lose anyone else-... I won’t lose you.”

Jameson hitches in a breath that burns all the way down to his lungs, and his own hands rise, slowly, to rest over theirs. “But... it could happen again, Allyn. What if-... what if it happens again?”

“What if it does? So what? It’ll just be us, we can just run, we can do it.” Allyn just looks at him, with those tears starting to well up and run down their cheeks like the water he tastes when they speak.

He licks at his lips, forcing the words out with every ounce of strength he has left. “What if... what if n-next time it’s you?”

Allyn opens their mouth to respond only for there to be a soft rap at the doorframe, both of them turning to look. 

Jake’s boyfriend, the one who used to be like them, stands there. His wide blue eyes are nearly red from crying, and his face is as flushed as Jameson’s. To Jameson, his eyes seem cold and glittering, shattered glass. 

His voice tastes like pears when he speaks, and Jameson shudders wondering if there’s a needle slipped into the soft skin of the fruit. 

“Jameson?”

The two of them don’t move, except that Jameson curls his scarred, rough fingers over Allyn’s smooth hands and holds on as they drift down. He only looks at Kauri and says, his hoarse voice still thick with his own dread and guilt and fear, “Yeah?”

Kauri rakes a hand back through half-controlled black curls and takes a breath. “He’s all sewn up, and there’s some... someone Nat knows downstairs now, with Dr. Masood. They think-... I don’t know. Probably not going to, uh, to d-die.”

Jameson nods, his grip tightening on Allyn’s fingers, but the other rescue doesn’t pull away or flinch, only holds right back, just as tightly. “That’s-... good. Kauri, I, I didn’t know-”

“Yeah, I get it.” Kauri’s voice sharpens, and Jameson closes his eyes. Pear and razor blades, blood on his tongue, not like Nanda. This blood doesn’t taste like pleasure but guilt and regret. “I know-... I get it. Chris more... more or less explained it to me. But we need to talk.”

Allyn squares their shoulders, jaw settling. “It’s not his fault. You can’t blame him, he didn’t know-”

“I need to talk,” Kauri says with effort, “to Jameson.” His eyes go to the backpack packed on the bed, not yet closed up, the symbol of Jameson’s intent to run. Something changes in his expression, but Jameson can’t read it. “I need to talk to Jameson alone.”

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @newandfiguringitout @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whumpiary @endless-whump @burtlederp