#recovering whumpee

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee let out a long sigh as they sunk into the hospital bed. Days were going by like a blur, they often hardly understood what was happening or remember what had happened.

The one thing they did know, was caretaker was here. No matter how much time went by, caretaker was by their side explaining everything, telling them to rest, keeping them fed and hydrated by hand if needed.

"You must be tired, you've been here with me for days. How long will you stay?" Whumpee mumbled, crawling their fingers across the bed until they found caretaker's hand.

"Until you're coming with me." Caretaker smiled, squeezing their hand back.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #hospital whump #whump prompt #caretaking #whump trope #caretaker trope #recovering whumpee #comfort #comfort whump #hurt/comfort

[the-bar-sinister]

Recovering whumpee keeps having dreams about whumper. When caretaker asks, whumpee calls them nightmares. But is it true? Does it count as a nightmare when all they're doing is talking?

It makes whumpee wonder-- what kind of broken person would miss someone who treated them the way whumper did?

#whumblr #whump #whump community #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump scenario #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpblr #whumpee #whumper #recovering whumpee #💻🔪

[generic-whumperz]

Oh buddy just you wait

*cue the night terrors

#whump #whumpblr #whump blog #whumpee #escaped whumpee #free whumpee #traumatized whumpee #whump aftermath #trauma recovery #recovering whumpee #cptsd recovery #tw truama #tw ptsd #tw cptsd #whump rescue #recovery whump #whump recovery #whump drabble #whump memes #emotional whump #physical whump #just whumpy tings

[warmblanketwhump]

recovering A is sitting outside with caretaker B. it’s a pleasant day, with mild weather and sunshine, and B figures that even though A’s still fairly weak, the fresh air will do them good. and for a while, it does seem to lift their spirits and bring a bit of color back in their pale cheeks.

A enjoys being outdoors at first, but despite their sweater and the heat of the afternoon sun, they’re barely warm at all.

suddenly, the sun darts behind a cloud, and A shudders.

“feeling alright?” B asks, brow furrowing.

“I’m okay.” A wraps their arms around themselves, trying to ignore the goosebumps that prickle down their spine, and wishes they’d brought out a blanket to tuck around them. I thought the sweater was enough, it’s not even that cold.

the sun returns a few minutes later, but it’s too late—A feels their frail body start to tremble, overcompensating for the slight change in temperature.

“A, you’re shivering.”

“Just got a chill, that’s all.” A hates the way their voice wavers, the way they can barely force the words out through their chattering teeth, the way their bones are suddenly, impossibly freezing, like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over their head.

B jumps up from their chair and instantly comes to A’s side, cursing softly. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you out—“

“It’s fine, B. I wanted to come outside for a change.” Still, B helps them up and guides them inside to their chair, then covers their shivering frame with one blanket, then two, and begins to build up the fire in the small cabin.

“I’ll make you some tea, too, try and warm you up from the inside…” B’s voice trails off as they rustle around in the kitchen.

But A knows it’s no use from experience: they won’t truly stop feeling chilled until their hot bath tonight. And I can’t take my bath too early or else I’ll inevitably get cold some other stupid way, and I’m not making B run me two baths.

Recovering has been slow and frustrating, this part most of all. Why can’t their body maintain their temperature like it used to? Why are they so damn cold all the time?

They don’t realize they’re crying until they feel wipe away the twin tears on their cheeks, and they see B crouching to eye level. The concern on B’s face only makes A cry harder—they don’t want to be this weak, they didn’t used to be this way, they just want things to be better…

And they must say all that out loud, because now B’s arms are around them. “I know. I know it’s hard. We’ll get through this, A.”

There will be more blankets, and hot tea, and against A’s efforts, two baths. But in that moment, A’s never been more grateful for the warmth of B’s arms.

I will get through this.

#cold whump #cold intolerance #recovering whumpee #temperature dysregulation #I just want to wrap them up :(

[ashintheairlikesnow]

ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)

i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch

because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve

CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt

Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.

-

Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.

God, it looks good.

His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.

He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.

This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.

Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.

Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.

He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.

He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.

He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.

The burn is perfect.

He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.

He looks up.

Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.

His cost more than five hundred dollars.

He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.

Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.

He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.

Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.

The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.

Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.

Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."

He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.

"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.

If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.

This must be why Owen liked it so much.

No.

He won't think about Owen right now.

Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.

"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"

Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"

Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"

"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."

Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.

It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?

"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.

"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.

It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.

Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.

Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?

"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"

Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."

There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.

Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?

It's... it's good, almost.

It feels better than he thought it would.

"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.

Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.

They both survived, didn't they?

Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.

"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."

"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."

"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"

There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.

"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.

Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.

Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.

He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.

Oh.

There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.

Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.

Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.

Jameson flinches.

Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"

"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."

"I'm so sorry."

Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.

Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.

But then, it's been months.

Months, he made it without taking even a sip.

He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.

The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."

There's a pause.

"From... me?"

"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"

"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."

"Please."

An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."

"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."

Kauri hangs up.

Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.

He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.

Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.

He should have called his sponsor instead.

Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.

But he deserves it, anyway.

Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.

Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.

"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."

"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"

"I got... I drank."

"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.

"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."

"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"

"I-... I scared him."

"... you scared him?"

"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"

"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"

Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."

"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."

Vince lowers his head into his arms.

"Thank you," He says, muffled.

"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."

-

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump  @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

#whump #ptsd tw #alcholism tw #withdrawal tw #alcoholic whumpee #recovering whumpee #recovery whump #vincent shield is not a hero #erase to control #since kauri makes an appearance #jameson bb #box boy universe #drunk whumpee #whumpee turned whumper #briefly and not on purpose

[auroragehenna]

(Sleep deprive Whumpee)

Make Whumpee only ever fall asleep to a certain recording of mantra or rules

Make post Whumper Whumpee not be able to sleep

Now Whumpee is in turmoil bc they will be able to sleep with the recording but it hurts

#whump #whump blog #whump writing #coping #trauma #whump community #recovering whumpee #conditioned whumpee #mind conditioning #conditioning #conditioning whump #sleep whump #Caretaker #Whumper #whumpee

[honeycollectswhump]

Whumper's title

[masterlist]

It was the end of a lazy evening. Caretaker stretched as the credits of the last movie rolled. Whumpee was draped across her lap and had apparently fallen asleep somewhere during the movie. She wasn’t sure if he even witnessed the climax. Even asleep Whumpee had a soft smile on his lips; he seemed truly at peace. 

It hadn’t always been like that.

A year ago, serenity like this would have been unthinkable. Maybe he would have crawled into her lap if she ordered him to, but he wouldn’t have allowed himself to relax. He wouldn’t have been able to.

A year ago, he still called himself Pet or Mutt. He would beg for punishment, beg to be allowed necessities like sleep or food. But never for mercy because he’d thought he didn’t deserve it. 

A year ago, Whumpee didn’t even remember they lived together for years prior. 

But he did now, and that was all that mattered. God, how she had missed him and the time they spent together. Caretaker wanted to savor it all, savor every little moment she could spend with him.

With a smile playing on her lips, she brushed a stray piece of hair from his scarred face. She didn’t want to wake Whumpee up but she would have to. No matter how much she wanted it, they couldn’t spend the night like this. In the morning, his already aching back would trouble him even more. He was frankly too big for her couch, his feet already dangling over the side. With one hand she was playing with his soft curls, scratching the nape of his neck, and trying to grab the remote with the other – without success.

It had to be done. Caretaker softly whispered his name, tracing his jawline in an attempt to wake him up. He wouldn't budge.

“Whumpee”, the name came out as a soft chuckle. “Whumpee, you need to wake up.”

Again, nothing. 

This time she held him by his shoulders and started shaking him gently. Two bleary brown eyes stared up at her, blinking a couple of times. A sleepy groan escaped his lips as he struggled to sit upright. Somehow Caretaker doubted that Whumpee was truly awake.

She stood up and held her hand out to him. “Let’s get you to bed, big guy.”

Loosely, he took her hands and let himself be pulled up, almost immediately resting his head on top of hers. 

“Yes, Master”, he breathed into her hair. 

Caretaker could feel her blood running cold. She froze, waiting for any indication of what happened, any sign that Whumpee wasn’t feeling well. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t tense up or start shaking. He didn’t fall on his knees or stare at her in adoration and obedience or wait for her order. In fact, he didn’t seem to even realize what he’d said. Instead, he just nuzzled further into her locks, almost falling asleep on his feet. 

Slowly, she took a step backward, his hands still in hers, waiting to see if he’d follow. Whumpee shuffled along, although at a snail’s pace. Caretaker didn’t know whether to bring up what had happened but one look in his half-lidded eyes told her that any attempt at communication would just pass by him. Chances were he wouldn’t even remember how he got to bed in the morning. 

She took him upstairs where –at the sight of his own bed– he staggered forward and flopped down on his messy sheets. Caretaker followed him inside to tuck him in. While she was securing the blanket under his shoulders, Whumpee loosely grabbed one of her hands in his much bigger one and pressed it to his cheek. 

“G’night…”, he murmured into her hand. 

She couldn’t understand what he said after that and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

This is very much inspired by this post by @whumpadventureprompts (i couldn't find how you want to be tagged when people use your prompts so i hope this is alright)

#english isn't my first language so if you find any mistakes please tell me :) #this is beta-read by grammarly you can't fault me for anything :)) #i've been wanting to write something for this prompt for ages! glad i finally had the time #Holding Up The Sky #atlas/mutt (oc) #aveline king (oc) #honey's writing #past pet whump #pet whumpee #pet whump #recovering whumpee #deconditioning #recovery #caretaker new whumper #caretaker new master #whumpee thinks caretaker is new master #conditioned whumpee #whumpee and caretaker #whumpee x caretaker #honestly this is mostly just fluff #big whumpee #comfort

[whump-about-it]

Someone You Deserve

@whumpril Day 9: Self Doubt

CW: angst, empathy fatigue, conditioned whumpee

Whumpee was already asleep when Caretaker got home from work. Curled up on the couch in a nest of blankets and pillows and a tear stained face as they snored softly in contest with the low drone of the tv show they'd fallen asleep watching. They had a bed, but they preferred to sleep anywhere else. Too comfortable they had told Caretaker, I don't deserve it.

Caretaker sighed and took their shoes off quietly, so as not to disturb Whumpee's slumber. If they woke up they would be a mess of apologies for not being awake to greet Caretaker at the door, and Caretaker wasn't in the mood to talk them off another metaphorical ledge tonight. Anyway, Whumpee almost never slept this soundly.

A cold meal Caretaker had asked Whumpee not to make sat on the kitchen table. Caretaker realized with a pang that they had forgotten to tell Whumpee they would be home late tonight. No wonder they were on the couch. No wonder their face was tear streaked and splotchy from crying themselves to sleep.

Caretaker slumped in a kitchen chair and put their head in their hands. How could I be so stupid? They shivered at the thought of Whumpee cooking for them, cleaning, getting ready for the two of them to eat together once Caretaker had gotten home. Had they been excited? Did they hum to themselves as they cut the carrots? Dance around the kitchen while they waited for the oven to preheat? How long had they waited before they realized Caretaker wasn't coming home? Had their food gone cold too? Had they cried at the kitchen table? Wondering if it was something they had done that was keeping Caretaker away?

After a minute Caretaker stood up and went back to the living room, intending to wake Whumpee up and apologize, but they paused in the doorway realizing they didn't even know what they wanted to apologize for. Coming home late? Forgetting to call? For being the worst possible person for Whumpee to rely on?

The doctors had said that it wouldn't be easy. Whumpee's recovery would be slow, and Caretaker needed to have patience, for both of them. But this couldn't have been what they meant. It had been months and Whumpee had barely made any progress. They still rarely spoke if not asked to. They jumped at the slightest moves. And had even called Caretaker "Master" a few times, which made Caretaker's blood run cold just to think about.

Surely Whumpee deserved better than this. Caretaker was falling woefully short of providing what Whumpee needed and they were so far behind they didn't even know what they were doing wrong. Apologizing wasn't going to solve any of that.

Caretaker sighed again and turned back into the kitchen. Tears pricking at their eyes from their anger about their own woeful inadequacy at caring for their friend. They were exhausted, and in a bad mood. It was probably best that Whumpee didn't see them like this. Instead Caretaker scrapped their cold meal into the trash and poured a glass of water, bringing it into the living room and placing it on the coffee table in front of Whumpee as a peace offering for when they woke up. Finally Caretaker placed a small kiss on the top of Whumpee's head before going to their own bedroom, resolving to call in sick tomorrow and spending the day trying to be the person Whumpee deserved.

#whump #whumpril #whumpril2024 #whumprilday9 #self doubt #whumpee x caretaker #whump drabble #tw angst #empathy fatigue #recovering whumpee #conditioned whumpee

[thewhumpcaretaker]

❤️‍🩹 "At Least": A Recovery Arc ❤️‍🩹

Sometimes I try to think about why recovery and comfort are so satisfying to me, and I realize that they feel constructive, like a mother bird adding piece after piece to make a nest or a clay sculpture slowly taking form as I add more and more comfort, providing first for basic needs and then moving up to deeper desires. It's a creative act, building from a character who has nothing to one who has everything. Repairing and then elevating a broken body. The feeling of "line go up," except the line is happiness. And it begins with "at least." They have suffered so much, but,

At least they feel a kind touch for the first time in so long.

At least they have some water now.

At least they have something to eat.

At least they are no longer in so much pain.

At least someone cares.

At least they are a bit warmer now.

At least they have something soft to sleep on.

At least they have a place to stay.

At least they can talk about what they've been through.

Eventually, this gives way to giving them more and more, things that can no longer be counted as small.

They have their favorite food.

They have beauty all around them.

They have a circle of friends.

They have an animal who they love caring for.

They have achieved something major at work.

They have a lavish home.

They have that wish that they have barely dared to hope for.

They have extreme pleasure.

They have the respect of those around them.

They have revenge.

They have a deep, profound, and unconditional love.

#whump #recovery whump #whump caretaker #hurt/comfort #recovering whumpee #whump writing #whump ideas #whump tropes #whump scenario

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee sat mindlessly in the hospital bed. They were restless and wanted to go home, but weren't allowed to leave until they told more about what happened under whumper's hand.

They seemed calm; not too many injuries, but enough to be concerned and no clue what caused them. No one had seen anything like it...

"Would it be okay if you told me? Just me. No one else in the room." Caretaker coaxed. Whumpee was silent for a while; you could see their eyes darting, their shoulders raised insecurely, their legs twitching closer to their body.

Then finally, a soft subtle nod.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #caretaking #hospital whump #whump prompt #recovering whumpee #caretaking prompt #injured whumpee #hurt/comfort #comfort whump #comfort prompt #tw hospital #whump tropes #whump scenario #recovery whump

[whumpsoda]

Bad Days - Malak and Nevan

WOHEO Masterlist

This is inspired by a recent ask!!! I really wanted to write a couple short things about these two in recovery just because I couldn’t get their ask out of my head :3

These two snippets take place proceeding Malak and Nevan’s captivity, after a hunter frees them!!

Taglist- @softvampirewhump

cw: conditioned/brainwashed whumpees

———————————————————————

Malak’s eyes remained fixed on the glowing screen of the television, lazily glossing over each flick of the visuals. He blocked out the drawl of voices, reducing the sound to a hum in the back of his brain.

Besides that, the shared trailer was deathly silent.

Upon the revelation, Malak perked up a bit. Just minutes ago, or at least so he thought, Nevan had been dashing from room to room in a whirlwind of motivation, cleaning and taking care of whatever he could for most of the morning.

As much as Malak wished to help the younger man during his tough days, he wasn’t exactly equipped in that area of expertise. Sometimes letting Nevan do his own thing seemed to work best.

But now he’d stopped, and was nowhere to be heard. Silence during Nevan’s flare ups was never a good sign.

Draping his most prized blanket over his shoulders and around his neck, Malak made his way to the kitchen. His feet, covered in a pair of plush and fuzzy socks, shuffled over the crunchy rug.

Walking was still strange for Malak. His legs still wobbled, his knees still always threatened to buckle any second. He had the wall though, surroundings capable of stabilizing him as he made his way across the room. He would take any means of aid over crawling.

Hiding his body behind the doorway, he peered his head in, only for his vision to settle upon Nevan immediately.

The other man’s back was pressed against the wall next to him, a familiar sight. He stood in a trained position, flawless posture and hands perfectly intertwined above his midsection. Nevan didn’t take the slightest notice of Malak’s presence, eyes shut and ears closed, save for the search of his beloved bell.

Malak gently lifted a hand, stretching out a finger and tapping softly to Nevan’s shoulder. 

Nevan twitched with the touch, eyes widening the smallest bit in reaction. “Master..?” He hazily questioned, head tilting to meet Malak with glassy, confusion tainted eyes.

He recognized that was not his master. That Malak was just another thrall, and a much farther valued one at that. Yet, the urge to serve someone, anyone, in any way possible did not dissipate.

Malak used his thumb to tenderly stroke Nevan’s skin. He easily leaned into it, awaiting for Malak to gift him a wonderfully mind numbing command. When he didn’t, instead continuing his tender motions, Nevan utilized one of Darius’ favorite phrases. “What may I do for you, sir?”

Malak stared for a moment, quietly deciding his next move while Nevan gladly waited. He released the plaster of the doorway, shifting his weight back to his two feet. Silently he held out his palm, looking to Nevan and signaling for him to take it.

Nevan’s lazy gaze fell to the hand and then back up to Malak, searching for approval, and Malak only nodded gingerly, gesturing again to his hand. Timidly, Nevan accepted the gesture, allowing for the other man’s thick fingers to envelop his own in a pool of warmth.

“Do you need something, um, sir? I can be of assistance.”

“Follow.” Malak instructed, but unlike Darius his voice was calm and leathery, not a hint of irritation. Nevan did so obediently, eager to allow anyone to give him a purpose.

He walked elegantly behind, contrasting his roommate's heavy steps, as Malak guided him to the floor of their living space where he had been seated just moments prior. “I can be a good boy and help you, sir. With, with, um, anything.” He insisted, head spinning with each graceful step.

His movements abruptly ceased with Malak’s, almost running into the larger man. Malak simply motioned to the deteriorating, itchy rug. “Sit, please.” He requested. 

Nevan instantly dropped to his knees, a dizzied look on his face. Malak soon followed, gently making his way to the ground beside the other man. He wrung his muscled arm around Nevan’s shoulder and neck, tenderly pulling the man closer.

Malak shifted his attention, something on the television catching his eye. Nevan sat in stunned silence for a moment, savoring the warmth of his cheek against Malak’s fuzzy sweater. “Am, am I being good? Do you need anything? Am I being a good boy?” The pathetic pleas of questions spilled from his lips.

“Good. So good.” Malak soothed, tugging Nevan closer. Nevan nuzzled into Malak’s comforting, relaxing hold.

He sensed his face heating from the praise, his blurred brain recognizing the pleasant pulse of his heart. “Thank you, thank you, sir.”

“Shh. Relax.” Malak murmured, brushing a thick strand of hair behind the small man’s ear.

Startled from such a foreign request Nevan pulled away for a moment, the faint remembrance of his biddable objective resurfacing. “But, um, but I-” his fingers curled atop Malak’s lap, and his dark brows twisted.

“Please.” Malak whispered, soft gravel snaking its honeyed way over the word.

Nevan’s body numbed, limbs easing and falling back into place. “Oh. Um, okay, sir.” He stumbled, his cheek taking its place on Malak’s large shoulder.

Nevan was delighted to do anything as long as he could succeed in pleasing just one person.

——

Malak was having a bad day. He admittedly had a very frequent amount of days coated in bitterness and the everlasting effects of past events, and Nevan held the sole responsibility to get him through another one. He didn’t particularly mind, though, being well acquainted with the practice of waiting and serving upon others.

He entered the living room of the trailer, a bowl of mouth watering, savory macaroni wrapped inside of his grip. A sticky pool of cheese drooled over the noodles, steaming with warmth. He turned to the floor, Malak’s usual spot, and yet nothing sat atop the disturbed, crumbling rug. 

His gaze wavered about the room, over the still black television, the scattered blankets, and yet Malak was nowhere to be seen. Nevan’s stomach tensed, and he quickly set down the food. 

“Malak?” He exclaimed, making his way swiftly down the narrow hall, and peeking into the other rooms. “Malak?” He repeated. No answer. “Malak!” Silence.

He dug through each room, checking wherever he could, even spaces that wouldn’t have fit Malak’s bulking figure. No Malak.

He practically ran back to the minute living room, biting his lip warily and clawing at a strand of his hair. Horrified, his gaze quickly landed on the front door, a sliver of freezing air making its way in. His breath hitched.

Malak was gone. For all Nevan knew, he was escaping back to the vampires, no matter the fact that their masters were long dead. What if he was hurt? Scared? What if a different vampire had already plucked him off the streets for themself? 

Dashing to the door, Nevan swung it open and stuck his head outside, icy wind chilling his cheeks. “Malak?” He called again, only for his vision to quickly land on the other man balled up on the edge of the porch.

Nevan inched closer, careful steps creaking the old and withered planks of wood. Malak sat atop the rim, shivering under a swaddle of several precious comforters. The one most recognizable was the meticulously pink one Adrastus had knit, which hugged Malak’s large waist.

“Hey, man. What’re you doing out here?” Nevan questioned softly, bending down to his knees and resting on Malak’s level.

Malak’s head was eagerly craned to one side, exposing the skin of his neck and chest, the only part of him not enveloped by a pillowy blanket. His lips quivered as he spoke, and his teeth slightly chattered. “Mm… Mah- Master…” he stumbled, eyes glassy and brows furrowed in puzzlement.

“What about Master?” Nevan pressed, placing a tender hand to the other man’s shoulder, a welcomed touch.

“Um…wuh, wait… ‘fer Master…” Malak drawled, tilting his neck ever so much further, desperate for the intimate bite he so craved. His still red rung bites were clearly visible, him having ripped off the usual bandages that covered them. 

Nevan, despite the despair that hung on his heart, gave Malak a sweet smile. “You’re waiting for Master?” The other man took a moment to process the speech, before giving him the faintest of a nod. “Well it’s pretty dark and cold outside right now, and it’s not so safe to be out here. Can you wait inside with me?”

Malak thought the suggestion over, before distressfully shaking his head. “Mmng.. mm, mm… n- no…”

“Come on, man. Here.” From the corner of his eye Malak inspected Nevan’s outstretched hand, hesitant to take it. Ultimately though, he did as he was told.

“We can wait together inside where it’s nice and warm. I’ll turn on the television too and we can watch something while we wait.” He tenderly rubbed Malak’s fingers as the man rose to his feet, shivering. “Master would like that, wouldn’t they?”

Taking a beat to digest his friend’s saccharine words, Malak gave another feeble nod in agreement. “Yeah, yeah… Mm, Master…” his feet scuffled along the wood as he walked, and his pounds of blankets picked up dirt as they dragged behind him, all the while Nevan gingerly guided him along.

Once back indoors, Malak practically leaning on him, Nevan made a point to lock the doors. With intertwined fingers the two made their way to Malak’s spot on the floor, of which he drowsily plopped onto. 

“Here, dude. I made you some food.” Nevan placed the still lukewarm bowl in Malak’s open lap, of which he eyed hungrily. “Mac and cheese.”

Malak rubbed his palms on the ceramic, reveling in the warmth it supplied to his freezing flesh. “Mm…mac and, and cheese…” he perked up only when Nevan switched on the TV, his favorite program quickly catching his cloudy attention.

Nevan returned again, resting beside the other man, speaking to him in his soothing, honey voice. “Do you need help eating that?” He asked. 

Sometimes Malak did. Sometimes, often on the bad days, he imagined it was Adrastus feeding him. Placing sweet, loving spoonfuls of their rich cooking to his tongue, whispering affectionate praises and cooes that licked his ears.

To Nevan’s surprise, Malak lightly shook his head, vision still fixated on the screen. “Wah, um, wanna… wanna do it.” His doe eyes trailed over with unease to meet Nevan’s.

Nevan only gave him a satisfied grin. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m always happy to help.”

#Sorry for posting about my ocs so much #I had a crap day and writing them makes me happy #And I’m very self conscious about writing right now so I’m having a hard time writing other stuff #recovery #recovery whump #recovering whumpee #Nevan oc #Malak oc #conditioned whumpee #conditioning whump #brainwashing whump #My writing #whump #Whumpblr #Pet whump #we only have each other

[warmblanketwhump]

you know we all love the the images of weary travelers in the winter cold, all huddled around a fire after a long day, trying to get warm.

But what about the recently ill/recovering whumpee who’s always huddled near the fire, no matter how beautiful the weather? even on a clear, calm spring morning, they’re huddled in their cloak near the flame, their thin, undernourished body unable to stop shivering. every pleasant breeze is a draft straight to their chilled bones, and they feebly rub their arms to try and generate some heat that lasts, but nothing warms them.

eventually, the caretaker takes pity on them and wraps them in a thick blanket, whispering in their ear that it’s okay for them to go back to bed to rest and keep warm today. whumpee feels guilty for being so lazy while everyone else is hard at work in the beautiful weather, but eventually they give in and let the caretaker carry them back to their tent and tuck them in. caretaker reassures them that it won’t always be like this, that they’ll get stronger in time. all whumpee can do is curl up tighter under the layers, praying it’s true.

#recovering whumpee #cold whump #medieval whump #kinda???

[ashintheairlikesnow]

hey hey hey I have had a hell of a day (Actually Hell) because I did too many fun things (a problem apparently) and then also we put up the christmas tree leading to the inevitable christmas tree installation arguments (they pop up every year like clockwork!)

anyway i have been overstimulated and stressed (just want to emphasize that there is NO pressure here whatsoever! id like to avoid any semblance of that actually and I know you're already working on 12 days so take your time) and it would be very cathartic to see chris dealing with similar issues (the Wonderful guy. we are pretty similar.) thanks a lot for reading this, even if you don't write anything !

Sorry this took so long, Anon! I swear I've been trying to get this written for literally almost two months now

CW: Some references to Chris's past, overstimulation, anxiety

"Hey, where did Chris go?" Laken blinks and looks around, but the living room of the house they rent - filled with laughing, happy people - shows no sign of Chris's telltale lavender hair with its new-penny copper roots.

One of Brit's friends just shrugs at them and gestures, vaguely, in the direction of the kitchen. "Dunno. He wandered off a while ago, maybe that way?"

"Oh, okay. Huh." Laken steps back, the circle of laughing people closing up tight as soon as they do. Their dark eyes scan the room, but there's no sign of him.

He'd been doing great - all but holding court, one of the most popular people at the party. He's sort of famous, since the Olympics, and people had been peppering him with questions and compliments, crowding around wanting nothing more than to be friends with the ex-pet who stood up to the bad guys on live TV. They'd seen him dancing, too, the music loud enough to nearly make the walls shake. The easy, unselfconscious dancing they loved in him the most.

He'd seemed to be enjoying himself, at the time, but...

Where has he gone?

They weave around people, stopping to pick up an ornament that has fallen off the tree. The scent of pine is subtle and ever-present, and they carefully work the ornament's little loop back over a branch, ruefully watching a couple of pine needles come loose and drift down. The damn thing is already starting to turn a little brown around its edges, thanks to Laken's roommate having insisted on buying it literally the day before Thanksgiving.

Laken doesn't even celebrate Christmas, not since they stopped going to Mass on Christmas Eve years and years ago. Still, in a house they rent with three others, they're the only one who doesn't at least pay lip service to the holiday.

And even if they don't give a fuck about Christmas, they do like having an excuse to throw a party.

The tinsel wrapped in spirals around, over, and below the ornaments glitters in the light, and the look makes them think of Chris, and how his eyes have always looked just the same, to them, when they're out at night and the moon hits the green of his irises just right.

Their search leads them to Ben, contentedly sitting on the couch, a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, quietly reading something there while the party is in full swing around him. He glances up and then instinctively, immediately, uses a finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Hey, Laken. What's up?"

"Is Akio not coming tonight?"

"Oh... no." Ben blushes - it's adorable, and Laken can't help the smile playing around their lips. "He's got some kind of meeting with the gymnastics team, or his coaches? Or... something like that. He said sorry, though."

"Nah, no problem. But, hey, so. Uh, have you seen Chris, like within the last ten minutes or so??"

Someone puts Christmas music on and Laken shudders as they hear that damn 80s pop song start up again. If they have to hear that fucking song one more time...

"Nope. Not in a while." Ben shrugs, taking a drink. Whatever he has in that cup is pinkish-red and probably far more alcoholic than it tastes. Laken's roommate had insisted on a signature cocktail. "You could check outside? Sometimes when there's a lot of people, to Chris it's... too much."

Laken nods, still scanning the crowd, but their stomach knots a little with the first hit of real anxiety. Ben is right, Chris can get overwhelmed by too much noise and movement, but also he's been drinking tonight - they saw the same red punch in a cup in his hands earlier - and he has a tendency to get... hazy, when he drinks. Flirty in ways that aren't natural to him. Willing to let people hug him that he doesn't like, unable to bring himself to stop them. Sometimes his stammer smooths out, which makes people who don't know him feel more comfortable and people who do know him nervous. He starts tipping his head to the side in a way that makes the sweep of his growing-out hair hide the scar on his forehead, biting his lower lip when he smiles. It makes Laken feel a little sick to see it happen and realize Chris doesn't even notice when he's doing it.

The last thing they need is to have to come up with an explanation for Chris losing track of himself again, or why he's eating olives off the charcuterie board Brit brought knowing damn well he'll just go to the bathroom and get sick all over the place again, or... fuck, what if somebody hits on him and he's too drunk to stop it?

That hasn't happened since college, but...

They pull their phone out, uneasily checking for a text, but there's nothing. If he went outside, he'd text, right? He does, he always does. Texts can be easier and Chris is always a little nervous about being outside alone.

He insisted on coming tonight, said he was feeling good lately, but-... what if-...

They flinch when fingers touch their arm, only to see Ben must have stood up when they weren't looking. He slips his own phone into his jacket pocket and looks Laken over more closely. "Hey. It's okay, he's probably fine. You know he gets weird when parties are really going. It's like a light switch, enough to too much, I totally get it. It's why I'm on the couch fucking around on Kindle instead of, you know... talking to people." Ben says it like talking to people is literal hell, and... okay, Laken can see how that might be the case. "He probably just needed to get away from it and wandered off."

"Uh, yeah. I know." Laken rubs at the back of their neck, fingers moving through the soft, shorn undercut beneath their longer black waves. "I'm sure that's it. Just... you know, sometimes he... when he gets nervous..."

"I got you." They adore Ben, sometimes, for how often they don't have to finish the sentences they don't want to say. He knows what words haven't yet spilled, unwilling. Sometimes he acts like he belongs to us, not like he loves us. Sometimes I can't trust him to find his way back on his own. Sometimes I feel like Jake, and I hate feeling like Jake.

Words die in their throat.

Ben squeezes their arm, gently. "Let's split up and search around. I'll go outside, you go around the house, okay? We verify how he is, then whichever one finds him tells the other. Sound good?" Ben smiles, and Laken relaxes a little, finding a smile for him in return.

"Yeah, sounds good. Thanks, Ben."

"No problem." Ben has always understood Chris, thanks to his little brother being similar in some ways. He understands Laken's worry, too, because better than anyone else here - he knows how Chris sometimes gets lost in his past, especially if he's drinking, worse the maybe twice Laken's ever seen him try an edible or a pill.

What if he got drunk and someone offered him something and he took it? Drunk Chris sometimes isn't a Chris who can easily turn down anything he's offered.

This party was a stupid idea.

Laken takes a deep breath and squares their shoulders.

Chris is not a child.

He is a goddamn grown man and Laken is not his keeper. They're not his parent and they're not a babysitter. They're definitely not his fucking... owner or whatever the bastards that hurt him would have called it. They're his partner. He can handle himself, better than they could if they'd lived his life, and they need to trust him to either know his limits and to get away if he can't say no, or to come to them if he wants to ask for help. Otherwise, they're not any better than the bullshit he's been buried in for longer than he's known them.

Ben goes to check outside, slipping silently out the sliding door onto the back porch where a small crowd has congregated in a cloud of skunky smoke, while Laken heads upstairs, peeking their head in to room after room with no sign of him anywhere. They see some movement under a pile of coats, but that's... definitely not Chris, based on the very female voices who yell at them to give them some fucking privacy, please.

"Sorry, Brit," Laken calls, closing the door tightly. "And, um, Leigh. Just looking for Chris-"

"Well, he isn't in here or we'd have kicked him out already," Brit says, cranky but without any real anger in her voice. Laken doesn't recognize the redhead whose eyes pop up from beneath the pile of coats next to her. "Check a different room."

"Yeah, I will. Uh... keep having fun, I guess-"

"That's the plan! Now leave, please!"

The door latches as they close it, and they exhale. There's one room left, at the end of the hall, and they can hear a familiar murmuring from behind the door when they press their ear up against it.

Laken knocks, rapping gently with their knuckles, and turns the knob when they hear no answer - but no demand to stay out either. The murmuring goes silent. They sigh, and the door swings open, light cutting across the carpet until it reveals their wayward boyfriend.

No one has claimed this bedroom yet, so it's bare and empty except for a couple unpacked cardboard boxes, Brit's exercise bike by the window, a couple of her yoga mats, a laundry basket with a few folded towels, and a bare mattress the last housemate had left behind on the floor when they moved out.

Laken's lips press together, eyes scanning the room. Chris's phone is on the mattress, along with an empty beer bottle, but Chris isn't. "Chris? Cariño?"

A muffled rustling makes them jump, heart in their throat, and then they realize the sound came from the closet, where the folding doors are closed. Laken pulls them open to reveal Chris curled up, knees nearly to his chin, an open bottle clutched in one hand, his chewy necklace in the other. He'd chosen the bat one tonight, and his hand is closed around it in such a tight fist Laken can tell his knuckles are white even in the dark.

Chris doesn't look at them. He's swaying, rocking forward and back, his eyes focused on something far, far away from them. There's red lines on his left wrist, where he's dug his nails in, scratching not quite deep enough to draw blood, but close. Laken takes a deep breath, shifting into a crouch.

"Talk to me, Chris."

"No." The answer is flat, and they watch his thumb rub over the little nub of the silicone bat's nose, the points of its tiny ears. "No, no, no. No."

At least he's saying it out loud.

That alone makes the knot of anxiety in their chest start to loosen. If he can say no, he isn't gone, maybe just... standing a little farther back, inside his own head, than the surface.

"Okay. Okay, that's fine. No talking, that's fine. Are you okay, baby?" Laken keeps their voice just above a whisper and lays their hand on the wood trim that frames this shitty excuse for a closet, the floor creaking under them. "You... kind of vanished on me, there."

Chris's eyes flick to them and then away again. "Loud," He manages, and he sounds like he's forcing the word out between gritted teeth. Maybe he is. "Too, too, too... too loud. Too much, too... many."

"I guess Ben called it." Laken sighs, pulling out their phone and sending Ben a quick text that they found Chris and everything's fine. they get a thumbs-up in reply almost immediately. Ben must have been as anxious as they are, if he was just watching for their text to come in. "Do you want me to call Jake to come get you, or..."

"No!" He snaps it, and Laken tries not to wince. He's just struggling with the noise of the party, they tell themself, he's not actually angry. Chris almost never gets angry, and even then it's only at himself. Which... is worse, somehow. "No. Just... Quiet, it's... it's it's quiet."

"Right. Do you want me to stay with you? Be quiet with you?"

He shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything else. His mouth moves, but no further sounds come out.

"Chris, did..." They want to ask, did someone say something to you? Sometimes people said things, referenced pets or something in a way that set him off. But even if someone had... he probably wouldn't tell them, at least not now, not when every word seemed to have to filter through layer after layer of self-protection in his mind. "Never mind. Is there anything I can do for you? Water, or..."

He shakes his head. "No. Just. Um. Quiet... quiet, now. Please?"

"Yeah." Laken leans over and presses a kiss to his hair. He tips his head against their lips and they exhale in relief. "I love you, Chris. Come back if you can, but if you can't, that's okay, too. Just don't hurt yourself, okay? Things should start winding down in a couple hours." They take the little plastic bat and push it against the hand that's still scratching at his shoulder, until he takes hold of it again, pressing it against his mouth and running it back and forth, back and forth.

Chris is quiet, but as they open the door to head back into the hallway, they hear a quiet, "Love, love you," from Chris, barely audible.

They smile as they close the door. Down the hall, the sounds of the party hit them like a brick, beckoning them back to the noise and the cheer and the awful fucking Christmas music still blaring at top volume. Someone yells something out and the whole damn crowd cheers, making Laken wince at it feels nearly deafening.

Maybe Chris has the right idea.

-

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

#whump #chris the strawberry blond romantic #recovery whump #recovering whumpee #overstimulation tw #autistic whumpee #referenced alcohol use #laken mamani #referenced dubcon #angst #fluff #comf #I guess this is the one that wins out first of the drafts? #we'll see if kauri or vince wins out next

[purple-heart-x]

Love it when the team is so dependent on Whumpee in ways they never realized.

Maybe Whumpee was considered a liability, too soft and kind for their own good. Maybe Whumpee was younger and smaller and less powerful than the others. Maybe Whumpee’s kindness was scorned and pitied by the team knowing it would get them hurt someday.

And when Whumpee is taken from under their noses? Or better, sacrifices themself to the enemy as an apology for all the “problems” they’ve caused with their kindness? That’s when the team begins to realize just how much they needed Whumpee. How they can’t appeal to their enemies with kindness any longer or solve problems so their enemies don’t hurt others. How those enemies don’t hold back anymore because Whumpee isn’t there to ask them to. How even the rescue mission breaks apart because there’s no Whumpee to help the team work with their former enemies. 

And even better, when they finally bring back Whumpee. Beaten, broken... Despite Whumpee being there, their kindness and innocence is still absent. They have no more kindness, having used it all up to no avail on their captors. They lash out at the first inking of danger. they fight and struggle like an animal. They don’t show an ounce of mercy, becoming a more deadly weapon than the team they once begged and fought about being too cruel. And they’re scared, scared of the tiniest of sounds, the first tiny raise in someone’s voice or sharp tone around them.

And when the team tries to bring back the Whumpee they once knew, the kind and gentle one that they so sorely missed... it sure is a shame that Whumpee has no reason to believe their kindness is wanted for any other reason than to use it to crush them again. 

#whump #whump rant #trope #innocent whumpee #recovering whumpee #angst #team whump #whump concept

[tragedyinblue]

Holiday whump ideas!

Not sure if these exist elsewhere already but they’ve been knocking around my brain for days:

Advent calendar of punishments for whumpee

Deranged whumper who thinks he’s Santa and has “elf” and/or “reindeer” whumpees

Whumper who keeps a Naughty/Nice list and rewards their whumpee(s) accordingly

Caretaker helping whumpee practice fine motor function by decorating cookies or a gingerbread house

Recovering whumpee getting shocked by faulty Christmas lights while decorating with Caretaker

Recovering whumpee who flinches when they hear the whipcracks in “Sleigh Ride”

#whump prompts #whump prompt #holiday whump ideas #whump #probably sadistic whumper #recovering whumpee

[honeycollectswhump]

Whump Prompt

Caretaker is obsessive about a recovering Whumpee, to the point that it makes them physically uncomfortable and seize up whenever Whumpee gets close with other people. But Caretaker really cares about Whumpee so they try their hardest to not let this actually influence Whumpee’s recovery and connections.

Do they succeed? Does Whumpee ever notice Caretaker’s inner struggle? Does it create a rift in their friendship, making Caretaker distance themselves from the unknowing Whumpee, before they hurt them?

Does Caretaker snap and become a restricting Whumper to their friend?

#yes this is about my disorders #but i’m being so brave about it #i don’t want to impact my friends ever but god sometimes it makes me want to cry #and there’s nothing i can do about it because anything else would be Extremely Toxic #i guess i’m heading towards a low again and that’s not even something meds can fully prevent #obsessive caretaker #caretaker turned whumper #recovering whumpee #mental illness whump #whump prompt #whumpee and caretaker #honey's writing