#trauma recovery whump

[justbreakonme]

When a misunderstanding happens, and whumpees speak super fast, barely understandable, because they’re used to having to get everything out before the whumper silenced them. If they could get the right words out fast enough, sometimes they would be spared.

When now, with the caretaker, they still speak in a blur of gibberish, but they aren’t interrupted. They run out of words and out of breath far too quickly and just…wait.

Caretaker nods, then admits that they only understood half of what whumpee said, and asks if they could repeat, assuring them that they could take their time.

Whumpee tries again, forcing themselves to slow down, and at the end, caretaker nods. They agree that whumpees reasoning is sound, and that they understand why they did what they did, even if it wasn’t the “right” choice.

Whumpee can barely believe it. Caretaker had listened to them, heard their side of the story, and understood. It means so much more to them than just not getting in trouble.

Caretaker still corrects the misunderstanding, but the whole tone of the interaction, the tone of their entire relationship in fact, has shifted.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #whump prompts #whump prompt #rescue #whump scenario #pet whump #whump writing #trauma recovery whump #deconditioning

[ashintheairlikesnow]

It Has to Be

For @amonthofwhump 12 Days of Whumpmas, Day 5: Ebenezer Scrooge |Power Outage | Time Loop | Overworked Whumpee | Comfort: Snuggling by the Fire

CW: Intimate whumper, past drugging and noncon, references to captivity and scars

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

As always, Jax (and the mentioned Alfie) belong to @comfy-whumpee and are used with their input and permission.

-

Finley White is getting so tired of looking at Savvie Marcoset’s face. At least during the prepping stages, it’s mostly through videos and photographs. They can turn it off, turn away, take a break. 

But they’re still tired of seeing it.

Not half so tired, they muse, as their client must be.

“Miss Savvie Marcoset, is it really you?! How are you?!”

“It’s Mrs. Savvie Marcoset,” She corrects, prim and proper. Savvie has her hands folded in her lap, her hair pulled back with a clip. The shadows under her eyes are the only sign that she is, at the time this was recorded, someone frantically searching for her missing captive. In a long off the shoulder black sweater and leggings, she seems relaxed and happy. She smiles, gentle and sweet. It looks utterly sincere. “I am married, you know.”

She holds up a hand and waggles her fingers, showing off the brilliance of her diamond ring. 

The person wearing the camera device gasps with audible delight. “Did you really finally get him to put a ring on it? Gosh, Sav, I thought he would never propose!” 

“I know that voice,” Finley White's client says, leaning forward. He frowns, his knee bouncing beneath the table. “I remember she was a twat.”

The corner of Finley’s mouth twitches, a smile they can't quite suppress. “Virginia Marshall, goes by Jennie. Went to college with Savannah Marcoset. The Marshalls were longtime friends with the Marcosets, close enough to be trusted. Jennie was facing some low-level charges of her own and agreed to help build this case as part of a plea deal.”

“Twat and coward.” He snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“Well, technically I was the one who got down on one knee,” Savvie says. There’s something strange in her eyes, like always - she looks with too much intensity. She’s hiding it well here, acting with the best of them, but Finley’s been staring at her face for so long that they can see right through it even so. 

Finley saw Savvie Marcoset’s true talents on the stand, the first time. They had watched with surprised dismay as she charmed the jury, seeing how she could channel her intensity and terrifying focus into overwhelming charisma before an audience.

“Oh, that’s so modern,” The woman wearing the hidden camera gushes, cooing over the ring. “Did you write your own vows, too?”

Savvie laughs, abashed. “No, no. Traditional. I always wanted a traditional wedding. So did he, really, he's an old-fashioned kind of guy. You should have seen him blush during 'love, honor, and obey.'"

The noise Finley's client makes in reaction to that statement is indescribable.

“Traditional vows... makes sense. You’ve always been the romantic type. Where is that lucky duck today, anyway? The hubby? He isn't with you?”

Savvie's smile doesn't even flicker. “He’s at home with our babies. He loves being a stay-at-home dad, you know? It’s all he ever wanted to be.” 

In reality, at the moment this video was recorded, the escaped Jax Gallagher was in his father's apartment, likely pretending to sleep, but at least not sleeping next to her. His children would have been nearby, safe from Savvie's cruelty for the first time.

You’d never know anyone was gone. She's as good an actress as she is at playing music, when she wants to be. And she is clearly pretending that absolutely nothing is wrong. 

“Oh, well, bring him to my house sometime, yeah? Let me get a look at him and those little ones.”

“He’s… very private,” Savvie says, low and soft. She gives a little roll of her eyes. “Because of me being, you know, known, and he isn't from a famous family or anything… we like to keep his name out of things. His family is so toxic, plus you know how gossipy the press is about him…”

“Him? Him who?” The informant plays dumb. 

“You know… My ex..."

“Oh, your ex Bastian Brighthall?” 

“Ha! No, no. I just mean… you know. Since… prison. Which, like, can no one become rehabilitated in this country? Let me live! I’m a law-abiding citizen now, and, and a wife and mother! You have no idea what it's like just trying to raise babies these days..."

She’s so deeply offended. The informant pretends to be offended, too, and lets Savvie change the subject, turn it around to how hard it is to be a woman just trying to live out her happily ever after. It’s masterful, how well she can lead someone along and away from what she doesn’t want to share. 

Finley White’s eyelid twitches where they sit at a table, watching this conversation unfold on a television bolted to the wall on the opposite side of the room. Beside them, their client has lapsed back into stony silence, his jaw set, arms crossed. He doesn't look at Savannah Marcoset’s sweet and smiling face, not directly. 

He’s tense enough that Finley worries, more than a little, that one of his tendons will simply snap from the stress. He knows - he knew long before Finley said it out loud - what a farce this is, how utterly unnecessary. He knows better than anyone that Ms. Marcoset could have pleaded guilty and saved them all this expense and trouble. The evidence is thoroughly stacked against her. She has no way out, but it doesn’t stop her from throwing out every delay tactic she has. 

Jax had been the first one to vocalize the point of Savannah’s strange game, during their meeting with him and his father after the arrest. She’ll drag it out, make it take as long as possible, he’d predicted, sitting in his father's cozy living room in his apartment in England. Finley had flown to him, once again - they had sworn to him once, after the first trial’s conclusion, that they wouldn’t ask him to fly back to America unless they had to.  

He’d still been visibly recovering, a man made of shadows who sat with his little girl and her enormous curly hair clinging in wide-eyed silence to him. He’d held onto her just as tightly, as if even Finley might simply take her away if he let go for even a second. She’ll make it fucking miserable for everyone, just to get at me. She always fucking does. 

Language, Jax’s father had admonished in a distant and fond way. That's one for the chocolate jar. Or two, maybe. 

Jax’s child, who was so perfectly silent Finley kept forgetting she was there, had spoken for the first time. I don't mind, Daddy, she had said. She was so soft Finley barely made out the words. I know that’s grown up words. You don't have to do the jar. You can get chocolates. 

Both men had smiled, then - one with open affection for his grandchild, one with a faint shift of lips that vanished as soon as Finley took it in. 

Sorry, kiddo, Jax had murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. More for you, then, yeah? Finley had wondered, then, what it must feel like to love a child - to love someone that much - who only existed because of this kind of assault? 

Jax had been angrier, or at least more obviously so, the first time they worked with him. After the first escape. During the first trial. The anger that had still flared up then was now a smoking skeletal forest, where you could feel heat against your palm when you laid it against the trunk of a tree, but not even embers were left to glow. 

Are the little girl and the baby boy the first green things to grow afterward? Or just… bones, blackened stones weighing him down? 

Shit, they need a drink. All their poetry electives from their own college days come out in florid metaphors on days like this one. 

More than a drink, they need  about sixteen hours of sleep. Not that Jax doesn't need both things more than they do, going through all this again, and again… they’d put it off as long as they could, but finally they’d had to ask him to fly here one more time. 

This will be the last time. Finley White will stake their career on Savannah Marcoset never seeing daylight as a free woman again, or they’ll quit and take up needlepoint or whatever it is lawyers who drop the ball that badly do. 

They failed him, once, in their own mind. That it could happen to him again feels like their fault, their responsibility, somehow. 

Jax had been angrier, before, but less determined than he is now. He had found it much harder, then, not to look at Savvie Marcoset. As if he couldn't break himself of having all his thoughts centered on keeping her from punishing him. The way he had seemed frightened when they took her away, after the verdict, had been painful to watch. 

Now he simply doesn't look at her on the screen at all. 

Finley picks up the remote, scratching a fingernail over its smooth plastic surface.  

Would it have been better, if they had managed to make it so she never walked free? It would have meant no second time held prisoner and therefore no children. Obviously it would have been better. Would he have chosen it, though, if he knew… chosen not to ever meet the quiet little girl and boisterous baby boy… maybe he would. Probably he would. 

They would never ask. 

In the present, Finley keeps their thoughts to themself. They lean forward, briefly pausing the video. “There’s a few minutes of going back and forth on this, Ms. Marcoset describing a… well, a very fanciful personal idea of the alleged wedding and honeymoon… I’m going to fast forward past it.”

“Thank fuck,” Jax mutters, scratching at the back of his head. His fingers twitch, involuntary, and he drops his hand quickly. 

He didn't tremble like that the first time, either. That’s a lasting effect of the shock collar he’d been wearing when he turned up on his father's doorstep after running away with the kids. He hides the scars beneath scarves and Finley pretends they don't see them even when they do. 

Those scars feel like visible evidence: Finley White fucked up, and here’s living proof. They’d gotten the conviction, decent prison time, parole within a limited area after release… and it hadn't been enough. 

They’ve gone over and over the case, when they can't sleep or think about anything else. They had done a good job. They and a single paralegal, alone, had taken on the Marcoset team of defense lawyers and wiped the floor with them. 

Jax seemed to think they had done a good job. Good enough that when he ran this time, he’d called them as soon as he was ready, anyway. He could have gotten a different lawyer, but he had called them, and trusted them, to put her away again. 

They just have to make sure it sticks this time. For life, bar the door, throw away the goddamn key. 

It was another thing Jax said first, although not in so many words - that if she ever left prison again, Jax almost certainly wouldn't survive it. He’d been hunched over a beer, that first in-person meeting at his father's place. Finley was still jet-lagged from getting on the first flight out, and nearly asleep on the sofa. He hadn't brought it up until the kids and his father were safely asleep. 

If she gets out again, or… comes h-here… that's it. He hadn't looked up at them, just stared down at his beer. The kids vanish first, probably. Dead or disappeared. Whatever she thinks will fuck me up worse. Actually, probably disappeared and then dead later once she thinks-... once she’s made me sorry. Then me, after them.

Then you? Last?

Yeah. Disappeared. Or dead. Or both. But she’ll go after them first. She'll-... He drank half the beer in three long swallows, wiped a hand over his face, and then exhaled and looked over at them. She can't hurt my kids. Okay? She can't. 

Finley had nodded, and lifted their own beer in a kind of grim salute. She won't. We nail her to the wall this time, Jax. I promise.

Fuck yeah. His expression stayed flat, but he clinked his beer glass against theirs and that was that, he was Finley White's once and future client one more time. 

Even though the case is open and shut, they’re throwing everything they’ve got at this, leaving nothing on the table. Leaving nothing to chance or luck. They have a promise to keep. 

“Our informant wore this camera to get an idea of what Mrs. Marcoset was thinking, how she was playing your disappearance from her life. It was recorded before she was arrested,” Finley explains. On the screen, Savvie's rushed dramatics are silent, her hands moving in gestures that constantly flash the ring. Her smile is absolutely radiant. She has always been a beautiful woman, layered over the cruelty beneath. “We probably won't need this at court-”

“Then why are we watching it?” He asks abruptly. Not angry or hostile, just wanting to get it all over with. 

They know the feeling. 

“Because I thought you might want to see this part,” They say, and hit play, the video shifting back into regular speed, the casual buzz and clink of the restaurant around them kicking back in. 

“-three years old,” Savvie is saying. She is every inch the proud and loving mother, pulling out her phone and then turning it around to show the informant. “Born in… in May, named after my grandmother. Isn't she beautiful? Doesn't she look just like me?”

“This was after I left?” Jax frowns at the photo Savvie has pulled up - of Jax holding his daughter back when she was a baby who already had too much hair and eyes too big for her face. Jax, his gaunt frame dressed in slightly oversized designer clothes to hide bruises and his unreliable access to food, is looking at the camera with a false and slightly hazy-seeming smile. 

“Yes,” Finley answers, nodding. “This conversation would be maybe… six months after that.” 

Jax’s eyes narrow. “That photo’s of Izzy as a baby, for one thing. For another… her birthday isn't in fucking May. Jesus. I didn't know the day, she never would tell me, but I knew what season. Also, Iz was four when we got back home, and she would have turned five by… whenever this is. We got her a fucking cake, my dad and I, when she turned five."

“You are absolutely certain that-”

“Yes,” He answers them, voice flat and cold as paper on stone.

“You may have to testify about that, Jax. Good evidence of a lack of connection to Isabeh-”

“Izzy,” He corrects automatically. 

“Right. Sorry. I’ve been elbow-deep in legal docs all day, everything is full legal names. This video might not be worth much during the criminal trial, but for the civil case regarding the children’s living arrangements-”

“Yeah, fine, I’ll testify. Yeah.” He snorts. “Also, I'm fucking drugged in that photo she flashed around. If that matters.”

“You are?” That's a surprise to them. They turn to rewind the video back to when the photo is held up, pausing it, scanning it over again. The slight smile, the way he gripped tight to the girl… almost white-knuckled… 

“Yeah. High as hell and terrified I'll drop her. Scared that that's her game this time. Get me to let Iz slip through my arms and then get goddamn mad at me for not being careful enough. I got her to stop putting shit in my drink when the kids were awake eventually, but she was still doing it, then.”

He isn't casual with how he drops these pieces of abject horror into conversation - no, Jax wields this information like a riddle, or a test. How you respond is to pass or to fail, and Finley knows him well enough by now to be aware that very few people come back from failure. 

So they nod, and wait to see if he plans to offer anything more. 

He looks over at them, then back at the photo frozen in time on the screen. “Had to tell her I liked that shit, just… you know. After the kids went down to sleep.” He meets Finley’s gaze head on, staring them down. 

But he knows them well enough that he knows he never has to spell any of it out, not anymore. 

So they nod again. “And it worked?” 

“Yeah. Mostly.” He looks away. Finley never knows for sure if they’ve passed the test, not until he keeps talking. “I could put her off with asking for it to happen later. Savvie forgets shit. Half the time by the time she went to sleep, she didn't remember she even brought it up.” 

Half the time. 

Finley looks back at the video, and hits the play button. Savvie is back to happily chattering about her perfect husband and perfect children, sitting in a café months after the bruised, battered, scarred man and children in question had escaped her grasping fingers and shock collars and cruelty, but before there was enough to bring her in. 

She had to have known they were coming for her, by this point. And yet she pretended everything was completely fine, that nothing had happened. She was either so sure her family would throw enough weight around to fix it for her in the end, or… 

“She’s completely out of her mind,” Finley whispers. Not that they hadn't said it before. But this… this is different. “She just. Can't deal with it, and so she just doesn't even acknowledge the problem exists. Jax-”

“Yeah, I know how she is. Lucky you, you didn't get that shit up close and personal like I did. This isn't even the worst of her bullshit.”

“Looking at her, you’d never know it.” Finley sits back, not allowing themself to slump. If they can pull this off, there's a four hundred dollar bottle of stupidly priced bourbon they’re going to buy to celebrate. “Look at her. No sign whatsoever of anything but happily ever after. You ran. It’s been months since she last saw you or your children… and she’s calm as can be. She doesn't even know where you are."

“She probably knew where I was.” Jax shrugs, outwardly unbothered. “I mean, she’s a stupid shitsnob, but she knows I'd go to my dad. She knew where I was gonna go if I got away from her.”

“She didn't go for you, though, didn't try to recapture you. At the time, if she knew…”

Jax gives them the stare again. “I know exactly what she did. She freaked out when we were gone, called her bastard shitstain uncle for help. He had people hunting me, until we got to the border. We barely managed to keep out of sight of them. We had to cross the border… we had to.” 

“Right, because in the UK… you’re, uh-” They hesitate. 

Jax prickles when they hesitate. His eyes narrow, and Finley straightens their posture, refusing to wilt before that stare. “You can say it,” He says, voice flat. “Fucking famous for being kidnapped, right? There were programmes about that shit. Fucking journalists. And I bet once we made it over the border, dear Uncle Isaac told her he wasn't going to risk it anymore, to pack her shit and go home, act normal. Be seen so she could act like she never left. See if they could wait me out.” 

Sometimes they forget how watchful Jax is, how well he understands not just Savannah Marcoset herself but the parade of Marcoset family members who treated him like Savvie's toy or worse. He didn't understand it all that well the first time.

Another thing he only has to know because they couldn't keep him safe.

“Right. But that's practical... from a criminal perspective. That's not… this.” They look over at the screen again, frozen once more on Savvie's cheerful, winning smile. 

“No.” Jax’s knee is bouncing again. There has always been a hum of energy in him, but even that is held more inside him now. Because they hadn't hammered their case hard enough. 

It just hadn't been enough. 

It has to be enough this time. 

“Jax… we have to show them that Savannah Marcoset. Not the one in this video, but the one who incapacitated you to make it easier for her to harm or control you. She is going to want them to see the act, try to get parole on the table, try to get at least limited access to the children-”

“Which she won't fucking get.” For just a second, the layer of self-protective hostility drops. It’s not panic, not visibly, but it’s close. “I told you, first thing I fucking said, she can't get at my kids. The whole reason I'm fucking doing this is to keep them safe. She can't get her hands on my fucking kids.” 

“No,” They say, voice firm, and meet his eyes. He scoots slightly back, arms crossed again, staring at them fixedly with his chin tipped slightly down. They watch him right back. “She won't. We talked about it, I remember. No access, full stop. No presents, no letters, she gets no photos and no updates. Absolutely nothing. Complete termination of parental rights. Complete. No exceptions."

“And prison for-fucking-life, and no parole.”

“No chance. It’s going to be rough, Jax, I won't lie to you. She’s going to put on a show, and we are going to need to systematically dismantle it. Take away all her charm and let them see who you saw, day in and day out.”

He nods, jaw set. Stubborn and determined, and maybe the fire still burns down in there somewhere. His smile is so genuine they nearly wonder if it's real. “Good. Yeah. Uh, how, though?” 

They look back over at Savvie, the face filling the screen. Savvie will be magnetic, just like the first time. Not so young, now, not able to play the innocent girl led astray. But she'll play all the greatest hits of sincerity, earnestness, contrition… Jax, by contrast, is all rough edges and bristling quiet. He won't charm anyone so readily. But his story will be what actually happened. 

They just need to prove it. 

“I had a couple more recordings for us to look at today,” They say, thinking, mind spinning. “But they aren’t urgent. Let’s break early, you head back to see what your little ones are up to, and I'll start drafting an outline of what we prove and how we prove it. I have some ideas. We’ll reconvene here tomorrow at 8 am.”

“Sounds good, yeah.” Jax shifts, restless, ready to get out of the room with Savvie’s face still on the wall. 

“Tomorrow we’re going to talk about some… difficult stuff, Jax. Make sure you take it easy tonight.”

He looks at them, then just turns away, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Right. Yeah. Stuff about the kids, or the rape?”

It’s a test again. 

God, how Finley hopes they never fail this man, not this time. Not when they couldn't keep him as safe as he deserved to be. 

“Just the outline,” They say, casual as can be. “But.. both. All of it. No details yet. But later-”

“Yeah. I’ll be back at 8. Ish.” He leaves before they can say another word, and they sit back, staring after him. 

They have mountains of documents to finish sorting through, and a man carrying so much cruelty in his head that if he opens his mouth on the stand, a waterfall might come rushing out. He's covered in scars from Savvie's abuse, has two kids that are living evidence of assault. They have a traumatized little girl in therapy multiple times a week. They have Jax’s devotion to his son and daughter compared to Savvie not even knowing what time of year Izzy was born in. 

They have so much. 

It has to be enough. 

#whump #amow #amow 12 days of whumpmas #12 days of whumpmas #traumatized whumpee #recovering whumpee #trauma recovery whump #escaped whumpee #intimate whumper #referenced abuse #past captivity #child of whumpee #whump ocs #comfy-whumpee's oc #comfy-whumpee #the motherfucking gallaghers #jax #dad jax #past noncon #past drugging

[honeycollectswhump]

Warmth

[masterlist]

it doesn't look like it but this is a comfy drabble, i promise!! the inspo (and wish for some comfort) is from @whumpcloud. you've read this already but here <3

CW: dehumanisation, abandonment issues, pet whump, self-loathing

It is still dark outside when Mutt wakes up, drenched in sweat, panting from memories that haunt his brain. A moment later, he realises what woke him up, as the night sky is lit up by a flash of lightning, a growling thunder following only moments later. Mutt can feel the rumbling deep down in his bones, making him shiver. 

He had been locked outside once during a thunderstorm, the punishment still fresh in his mind. Bound and gagged, of course, so he couldn’t draw attention to himself with his pathetic whimpering and keening.

There had been rain and hail, soaking him to the bone, making the Mutt even more susceptible to the unforgiving cold seeping into his joints. He had wanted nothing more than a shred of his old Master’s mercy, as the thunder rolled over him. 

Mutt shakes his head to rid himself of the memories, his fingers twitching. He won’t be able to fall back asleep, he knows, but he needs to be fit enough to serve his Master in the morning!

Almost on auto-pilot, Mutt gets out of bed. He has to be careful when standing up, his mangled legs still struggling to hold him up. When he walks to his door, he no longer avoids stepping on the rug. 

Aimlessly, he wanders onto the dim corridor, the old wood creaking under his irregular and heavy steps. Mutt tries not to be too loud, lest he wakes Master up. Fatigue tugs at his eyelids, making them droop, and his stroll does little to clear his muddy mind. He stumbles around, losing time.

Suddenly, he feels something cold and hard and when his eyes focus again, he is holding the handle to his Master’s bedroom in his ruined hand, the door already opened a crack. Just barely, he can see the sleeping form of his Master, curled up under the covers, her hands loosely clasped together in front of her face and oh–

He is Atlas now, isn’t he?

As if in a trance, Atlas enters her room, still not quite here, not quite there. Something pulls him forwards, a pressure getting stronger with each step, like a moth fluttering towards the light. He forces himself to stop a couple of steps away from her, ignoring how empty it makes him feel.

Hasn’t she given enough for him? Must he now also take her sleep? Her rest?

Atlas forces his mind to blank and himself to stop, to turn around as silently as possible. She needs her rest for all the troubles he’ll inevitably bring her in the morning, when he can’t get a hold of himself, can’t do the things a human is supposed to do. He can’t keep taking and taking and taking from her, but some part of him craves her presence so much and he despises himself for it. Maybe he will never be anything but a Pet but for some reason he can’t place, that seems so intrinsically connected to his very being, he only feels whole when he’s with her. 

For a moment, he is outside again, chained and gagged in the freezing rain, thoroughly unwanted. This time, it is Atlas who holds the key, dangling it just out of reach from his desperate self. He understands his old Master now, he thinks, understands why he locked a creature like him out. It is only right. 

Before he can take another step, he hears a sleepy groan right behind him, freezing up. Atlas fears looking around, fears seeing Master’s hateful gaze, even though he can’t conjure up a fitting image, no matter how hard he tries. He still does –of course he does– his breath catching in his throat. 

With her eyes still closed, Aveline has lifted one arm to hold her blanket up, as if inviting him in. Like a man dying of thirst discovering a miracle oasis, Atlas stumbles closer. It seems too good to be true and if there is one thing he has learned, it’s that no good ever befalls a Pet like him. Still, he wants to hope.

“For me?” Atlas croaks into the dark, as hushed as his damaged vocal cords allow him. 

Her response is nothing more than a drowsy mhm and a light, lazy gesture with her hand. Hesitantly, Atlas steps closer. He shouldn’t know how this goes, should be overwhelmed with the very real possibility of doing this wrong and subsequently being thrown out. But he isn’t.

The movements feel like second nature, even as he navigates his bulky frame first onto her bed and then into the embrace of the much smaller woman. Atlas doesn’t have to think, his body moves on its own, which is undoubtedly a good thing because if he allowed himself to process what he was doing, he’d surely panic. 

As he lays down on his side, Aveline lowers her arm to cover him with the blanket too, then settles it over the side of his chest. It should be the worst crime a Pet like him could commit, to lay his head on her soft pillow, to curl up against her warm body, to feel her snuggle up against his marred back. But for some reason, it doesn’t feel like a crime. It just feels like home. 

Atlas deflates in her arms, sighing. Her touch is tender, not restricting, tethering Atlas to this world, as sobs start to build up in his chest against his will. If he cries now, he will surely ruin the best thing his life has ever allowed him. 

Maybe this is a dream and tomorrow he will wake up alone in his own bed but none of that matters in this moment. Unconsciously, his crooked hand searches for hers, clinging to it. Aveline squeezes it back, as a couple of stray silent tears start to escape his eyes.

Her body is warm and she holds him tight. Atlas can feel her resting her head softly against the nape of his neck, whispering that Everything is going to be alright.

Atlas sniffles, his tears soaking into the pillow. They lay like that for a while, Aveline’s thumb stroking soothingly over the back of his hand, careful with the raised scar tissue.

Pets like him aren’t made for this kind of comfort, this all-encompassing warmth; her kindness feels like an unbelievable gift. He’d do anything for her, Atlas decides, as his eyes grow heavy and start to slip close. He can’t hear the harsh thunder anymore, can’t feel the cold rain.

Atlas knows he doesn’t deserve it, even as he falls asleep, but–

He wishes someone had been this kind to him before.

#some love before The Horrors continue #if it isn't obvious they used to do this A LOT before his recapture! #his body remembers even if his mind doesn't #Holding Up The Sky #honey's writing #aveline king (oc) #atlas/mutt (oc) #whumpee and caretaker #conditioned whumpee #pet whump #pet whumpee #hurt/comfort #rescued whumpee #recovering whumpee #gentle caretaker #trauma recovery whump #deconditioning #dehumanization #big whumpee #comfort #falling asleep together #hugs <333

[i-eat-worlds]

The Subject Part 3

B127 is confused by basic human decency. Hope you enjoy! If you find grammar or spelling mistakes, pls tell me.

CW: pet whump and medical whump, hospital settting, small needle mention, dehumanization, scars and injuries, caretaker new master, doctor caretaker, dubcon touch (non-sexual)

“I’m going to touch you now.” Dr. Brenner warned. “It’s not going to hurt, I’m just going to look.” B127’s eyes had adjusted to the light, and its brain had nally started working. If it wasn’t going to be restrained, the doctor would surely use pain meds for the dissection. That wouldn’t be too bad, B127 decided.

As the doctor studied it, it studied him. Dr. Brenner looked almost like the exact opposite of Dr. Glassener. Where she had been thin and lithe, he was tall and muscular, his scrubs were deep red compared to her pale blue. The most striking difference was in their faces. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, his eyes almost mournful, miles away from Dr. Glassener’s too-sweet smile and the poisonous glint in her eyes. For some reason it didn’t understand, it found itself trusting the doctor as he surveyed the subject's number of wounds.

Dr. Brenner’s eyes widened in horror at the state of B127. Scars ran across its body, each telling a painful story. Several ran from under its breastbone to its belly button, more from hip-bone to hip-bone. Thick bruising covered the sides of its ribs. All of it must have hurt, but the thing that worried the doctor the most was the angry, festering wound on the subject’s left side, tucked right under its rib cage. It looked frighteningly recent like it hadn’t even been a full day since the injury. Taking out his penlight, Dr. Brenner took a closer look at the wound. It was half-stitched, poorly done, some had torn, while the others were in too deep to be of any help. That would be priority number one after the examination was complete.

B127 watched warily as the doctor moved on from its torso and abdomen to its head. The look on his face was not good, the sorrow in his eyes was replaced by anger. Maybe he would pull his teeth. That would make sense. “I’m going to look inside your mouth now. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but it won’t hurt.” Dr. Brenner, still holding the penlight, picked up a tongue depressor. Instead of shoving the stick into its mouth, he waited until B127 compliantly opened it.

The stick pressed against its tongue as the doctor shined his light in. His facial expression improved. “That’s good.” He said as he removed the stick from its mouth. “Your vocal cords haven’t been severed.” It was a common thing with subjects he had seen from Hemlock Labs, but this one appeared to have been spared. “Can you say something for me?’

B127 paled. Was it being asked to talk? “Yes, doctor, it can talk.” Its voice was hoarse and raspy from not being used for so long, barely audible.

“That’s good.” Dr. Brenner smiled softly as B127 nodded. “You can speak freely here, okay? If something hurts, I want you to tell me. If something I do scares you or makes you uncomfortable, I need you to tell me, yeah?”

“Yes, doctor,” B127 said again, still getting used to speaking.

“I need to ask you some questions, okay?” Dr. Brenner said as he grabbed something else from the instrument table. “There aren’t any wrong answers, and it’s okay if you don't know. You understand?”

“It understands, doctor.” B127’s voice was starting to lose its hoarseness, but it was still so quiet. The pit in Dr. Brenner’s stomach was deepened by B127’s perfect, trained responses as he redirected his attention back to the nasty wound on its left side.

First things first, pain meds. B127 had suffered long enough, and Dr. Brenner would be damned if he caused any more pain. “Do you remember when you got this?” He said as he got ready to start an IV. “This might sting a little.”

“It got it this morning, doctor.” It inched as he pushed the needle into the crook of its elbow. “Dr. Glassener wanted to see the results for herself, doctor” Its tone sounded pleasant on the surface, but it hid notes of fear and worry.

“Do you know what she was looking for, exactly?” Dr. Brenner tried to keep the anger from showing on his face. B127 would assume that it was directed at him when it wasn’t, and he was already terried. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

“Dr. Glassener wanted to make sure its stomach had healed properly, doctor,” B127 stated plainly as if it was talking about the weather. It wouldn’t know about the weather though, it hadn’t properly been outside in years Dr. Brenner silently cursed everyone at Hemlock labs. Judging by the poor attempt at wound closing, this “Dr. Glassener” wasn’t a real doctor. The fact that she had been permitted to muck around inside B127 whenever and however she fancied was very concerning. Who knew the internal injuries that the poor thing could have? He would need to get them scanned in the morning. “Hey, can you tell me if you can feel this? Does it hurt?” He gently poked the area around the wound.

“No, doctor.” B127 was confused. Why would Dr. Brenner care if it hurts? It’s supposed to be in pain, that’s how it knows it’s being good.

“If it starts to hurt again, tell me, okay? I’ll get you some more painkillers.” Dr. Brenner said as he picked up a shiny metal instrument from the tray. “I’m going to have to remove the old stitches, clean it out, then put new ones in. It shouldn’t take too long. Any questions, buddy?”

“Uhhh-Ummm.” B127 stuttered. If Dr. Brenner wanted it to ask questions, it should ask a question. “Why…why are you giving it painkillers? It was trained not to feel pain. You don’t need to waste them on it.”

Dr. Brenner cursed again in his mind. Even with the screwed-up laws of the Subject system, they required that subjects receive pain medication. “I don’t want you to be in pain, okay? You don’t deserve to be hurt.” B127 just gave him a quizzical lock and shook it’s-no, his-head.

If Dr. Brenner's heart wasn’t already in a million pieces, it would’ve shattered.

Taglist: @stabby-nunchucks @rainbows-and-whumperflies

#pet whump #whump #medical whump #hospital setting #doctor caretaker #needle mention #pet whumpee #caretaker new master #caretaker #dehumanizing language #dehumanisation tw #whump writing #trauma recovery whump #worlds babbles #B127oc #Dr.brenneroc #worlds writing #the subject

[whumpshaped]

I know it's cliche, but hear me out. The Whumpee thinks Caretaker is their new master trope, just that Caretaker is trying to give Whumpee a bath, and Whumpee used to be punished being drowned or something like that, so they beg Caretaker that they'll be good, that they'll behave, etc.

tw past trauma, caretaker new master, conditioned whumpee

“No! No, please, Master, I’m sorry!”

“What’s gotten into you?” Caretaker stared down at the poor thing in front of them hugging their legs like there was no tomorrow. “Whumpee–”

“I’ll be good! I’ll behave! I don’t know what I did, Master, I’m sorry! I’m sorry for being so stupid that I didn’t even realise I was being bad! I’m so sorry!”

“Whumpee, I’m just trying to give you an opportunity to wash up–”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

Caretaker sighed. Alright, they just had to pet their hair and wait it out.

“Hey, Whumpee…” they tried again once the pet had quieted down a little. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yes, Master,” they sniffled. They didn’t sound very okay, but it was a start. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Why do you think you did something wrong, honey?”

“I– I must’ve, I must’ve! I know I did something, if you want t-to– to ‘give me a bath’, I– please, please d-don’t, I’m so sorry…”

Caretaker frowned. “What do you think a bath means?”

Whumpee looked up at them with those wide, tear-filled eyes, so terrified that Caretaker could barely stand it. “D-drowning, Master. Please, I, I know I must deserve it, but please, punish me any other way! I can’t do it again, I can’t, please…”

Oh, that sick bastard.

“Shh, sweetie… It’s okay…” They tried to unwrap Whumpee’s arms from around their legs so they could help them stand up, but eventually they just settled for getting on the floor with them. They pulled Whumpee into a tight hug, rubbing their back as they continued to cry. “I didn’t mean it like that… I’m never gonna hurt you like that, yeah? Ever.”

“Y-you’re… not?”

“No, of course not. Of course not. I promised you’d be safe here, and I meant it. Let’s just calm down.”

#asks #whump #whump drabble #past trauma #caretaker new master #conditioned whumpee #recovery fic #comfort

[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

[echoingalaxies]

A Whumpee who never smiles, never laughs, never shows happiness in those typical ways. When it finally does happen, everybody around them knows something is terribly wrong, and that the hysterical laughter is not from a place of joy, but because of the endless pain and horrors that have brought Whumpee to this extreme state of exhaustion and despair.

Whumpee's breaking down right in front of their friends' eyes, nearly unable to breathe through the fits of laughter because crying is no longer enough, and it's terrifying.

#riina </3 #whump prompts #whump tropes #whump ideas #whumpee #past trauma #breakdown #emotional whump #recovery whump #whump prompt

[whumpadventureprompts]

Rules

"I just… I just want to know what the rules are," says Whumpee.

Caretaker shakes their head, trying not to get frustrated. "I'm not Whumper; I'm not going to make rules and punish you for breaking them. You're free now."

Whumpee doesn't look convinced.

Caretaker sighs, rubbing their eyes. "OK, fine, if you want rules so bad I'll give you some: You're to get as much rest as you need, eat three square meals a day, and tell me if you need help or space or anything else. OK? And if you don't I'll… I'll look sad at you."

#whump #prompt #scenelet #trauma #recovery #cw:trauma #cw:abuse

[justbreakonme]

Whumpees been getting better.

They’d been forcing themselves to put in the work it took. Taking their meds, following doctors orders, showing up to therapy sessions.

To everyone, it looked like they were on the fast track to a speedy recovery.

But late at night, when no one was around, they weren’t as perfect.

They clawed and scratched at healing wounds, sobbing till they gagged and choked, writhing like a frantic dying animal on the bathroom floor.

They had to hold it together, they couldn’t give up the act now, it was too late…

One night, Caretaker is passing through, looking for a sheet of notes, and heard a scuffling noise.

“Whumpee? You okay?”

They ease the bedroom door open and see no one, but the noise intensified. They pushed open the closet door, and sunk to their knees.

“S-stop! Don’t look at me!” Whumpee retched, shying away from Caretakers horrified stare, “Please, just go away…”

“What? Whumpee, no! Oh my god, we have to get you back to the doctors-“ they reach out to help them, and when Whumpee jerked away, Caretaker had blood on their hands.

“I’m fine- Just- Please don’t tell them, please, god, please…”

It was like they were falling apart at the seams, fully pushed to the edge.

“O-okay, I won’t tell anyone, okay,” Caretaker bargained, “But you have to let me help you, then.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

Caretaker helps Whumpee up and onto a chair for them to fix their popped stitches, unable to process the shaking figure before them. They had been laughing and cracking jokes all dinner, how had they held this in so long?

“Here, put your arm out, let me get the first aid kit…” they coax, deciding to give themselves a moment to think, “Is there any other injuries that need attention?”

Whumpees eyes were blank and glassy, sliding over their body like they were trying to see but couldn’t pull themselves back to the present enough to do so.

They shook their head.

“Okay…”

They didn’t quite believe that but unless they saw something, they’d take Whumpee’s word for it.

As gently as they could, they brushed a disinfectant pad over their arm, their heart pinching when Whumpee flinched away. “It’s over, that should be the worst of it… Now we’ll just wrap it up,” they soothe, winding the gauze around their arm then securing it with tape, “There, all good.”

“Thank you…”

“Anytime.”

Caretaker stooped to meet their eyes. “Really. Anytime you need me, I’ll be here.”

They nodded, again, not fully in the present.

“Whumpee. Look at me, okay?”

They obeyed, struggling to focus.

“I’m here for you. I love you. We all love you. We want to help you, so you don’t have to face this on your own. I know you’ve been trying to pretend that you’re perfectly fine but it’s okay if you aren’t.”

Finally, finally, it seems like their words sunk in.

Whumpees hand moved up to cover their mouth, their eyes squeezing shut as they sobbed without a sound.

“We’re here for you, everything’s gonna be okay…” Caretaker murmured, pulling them into a loose hug, “Everything is gonna be okay, I promise. We’re gonna make it okay.”

They stayed like that for who knows how long, Whumpee cradled against them as they cried themselves out.

Slowly, the tears tapered off, and they looked up, hazy and exhausted but here.

“I’m sorry…”

“What are you sorry for? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I just- I didn’t want to be a burden… I wanted-“ they cut themselves off as their voice starts to crack.

“What did you want Whumpee?”

“Could you love me like you used to?”

“Yes. Always.”

Whumpee shook their head.

“You used to never see me cry… How could you? And I- I don’t know if I can do it…”

“I love you, period. I respect you the same way, whether I’ve seen you cry or not. But what do you mean ‘if you can do it’? Do what?”

“I can’t…be strong, anymore. I don’t- It hurts too much to be strong right now.”

The confession seemed to crush them. They looked down, shame faced, as tears started again.

“You don’t have to be strong. Especially not now. You’ve been so strong for so long, you can take a break.”

“I don’t want anyone else to see me like this… Please, please don’t tell anyone-“

“I won’t. I promise.”

Whumpee nods, sighing as they tried to wipe their eyes and pull themselves together.

“You can rest with me. If you want to be strong in front of everyone else, that’s okay, but behind closed doors, you can lean on me. I know you’re strong, even when you’re tired. I’ll never think any different.”

They looked up from their lap, their shoulders slumping and their entire body going limp. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Can you stay with me? Just for tonight?”

“Of course.”

#stoic whumpee #whump #whumpee #caretaker #whump prompt #rescue #whump scenario #trauma recovery

[ashintheairlikesnow]

When the juice hits you I would LOVE more Jameson and Vincent at Nat’s house content! I love them so much :,)

CW: Chronic pain, discussion of stalking and attempted murder, mentions of dead people, everyone is in a bad mood hooray

-

"Go back to fucking bed." Jameson grunts the words more than speaks them, squinting down into a coffee mug while rubbing one hand over his throbbing left knee. Not that the right one doesn't hurt, too. But he picks one and sticks with it until the pain pills kick in and he can fucking stand up again. "It's five in the fucking morning."

"Yeah, and I've been up since four, so... Don't know what you want from me." Vincent Shield doesn't look like a movie star these days. Just like Kauri's shaggy older brother who needs a haircut and a three-week nap. His bruising is all gone, everywhere but the look in his blue eyes.

All the wounds are there, now.

Jameson watches him pour himself a cup of coffee. In just a hoodie and jeans, you'd never recognize him when compared with the heroes he plays on big screens. Or used to.

"I want you to fuck off," Jameson replies, but there's no real anger in his rasping voice. Vince just smiles at him. Jameson finds himself cataloging the differences between he and Kauri, the biggest being the way Kauri smiles like he could fix everything if he just burned bright enough. Vince smiles, when he isn't posing for photos, like everything will shatter if anyone sees it.

"Landlady seems to like me, so I guess you're out of luck." Vince adds sugar and milk, too much of both. Pauses. Stares down into his mug. "I used to add Irish cream and some whiskey into my coffee every day when I wasn't working. Sometimes when I was. Probably... Probably a lot of the time when I was."

"Huh." Jameson digs his thumb into a spot on his knee. It flares bright with pain, so stark he nearly bites his tongue against a scream. Then something feels like it gives way, and the pain drops from a roar to a more manageable hum. "You're a sad drunk, too."

Vince actually laughs at that. "I really am, aren't I?"

"Based on how much of a sad fuck you are sober, I can only figure it gets worse when you're not."

Vince sits down across from him at the table, watching him. He doesn't even look mad, or hurt. Just... tired. "You think I'm an ungrateful asshole, huh?"

Jameson, still rubbing at his leg, pauses and looks up. "What?"

"Because I'm rich. Millionaire movie star in his giant house sitting around drinking himself to death on two-hundred dollar whiskey. People tell me they love me everywhere I go, if I let them know who I am. People write me letters. I had a stalker, for a while." He runs fingers back through his hair, growing out a little. Looks more like Kauri's now. "I wonder if that was just Owen, too."

"Maybe. To the stalker thing, not the rest of that bullshit." Jameson's fingers ache, trying to stay bent and curled, and he has to fight to straighten them enough to count off as he speaks. "Millionaire movie star whose only friend is a woman he writes fucking checks to, giant house you sit around in alone, two hundred dollar whiskey you don't even share with anybody but your fucked up liver, nobody who says they love you even fucking knows you, those letters are creepy as hell, and having a stalker isn't a fucking good thing, dumbass."

Vince snorts, but a smile plays around his lips. "Owen said he loved me."

"I'm so fucking sick of that asshole. He's dead and still the center of half your conversations. He didn't know you, either."

"We'd been friends since we were kids-"

Jameson is in too much pain to deal with Vincent being a mopey little shit. He hurts in places that don't even have nerve endings. His bones fucking throb. The pills aren't kicking in yet, or maybe he needs to take more. Maybe they don't work anymore. Either way, he groans and leans back in his chair. "Will you just fucking stop? The taste of your voice is making me want to throw up lately you talk so much."

Vince pauses. "The... what of my what now-"

"I don't give a fuck about Owen goddamn Grant and you shouldn't either. You're too old keep that shit up."

Vince takes a long drink of coffee, then makes a face when it scalds his tongue. Jameson tries not to smile. "I-... I just, my whole adult life I've been trying to get away from him-"

"Yeah, and you did. You got. You got about as far away from someone as you can get. Dead men don't come back and they can't hurt you again."

It hurts. Everything hurts. His heart joins the party, twisting hard inside his chest. Grief feels worse than any of the other pains. Ghosts that find him in his sleep, whispering accusations or endearments, shoving him away or holding him close. But gone when he wakes up.

Always gone.

"Jameson-"

"Dead men don't come back," Jameson repeats, more firmly. "You slit his throat-"

Vince flinches.

"-and saved someone from him. Probably a lot of someones. Guys like that don't stop at the first dead body. Bunch of dead hot guys with black hair and blue eyes, after a while, probably. He had the look."

"The... look?"

"In his eyes. Somebody figuring out they liked the idea of being the last thing someone was afraid of. Would've been Kauri, and then you, and then that wouldn't fix it and he'd keep trying. Keep finding men like you. Keep killing them and then realizing he had to try again, because nobody would ever be enough. There aren't ever enough dead bodies for somebody like that. They run out of places to hide them."

Vince has slipped into silence, watching Jameson talk with a look of faint surprise. And concern, which pisses Jameson off.

"Don't look at me like that."

"I kept a knife in my bed," Vince says slowly. "Everywhere I went. Even hotels, even in my trailer on set. I always had a knife. Just in case. And I-... I still have one. Upstairs, between the mattress and box springs. Is that weird?"

Jameson shrugs. "No. Maybe for other people. But not for people like us."

"Us?"

"Yeah, numbnuts. Us. People who fucking killed someone just to not die." Jameson fixes him with a glare, then grabs at his crutches to pull himself to his feet. Once his arms are braced for support, he sighs. It takes the work away from his knees, and they seem to soothe a little.

Or maybe that's just the pills.

Finally.

"Listen, Shield. Save your unburdening of the soul shit for therapy, okay? I got my own problems. And I can't help you with yours. Mine wake me up at night."

Vince looks up at him, head tipped to one side. "Yeah. Mine do, too. I wake up wanting a drink so goddamn badly I can barely breathe. I used to drink until I fell back asleep. Now I just... lay there until I give up and get coffee."

"Yeah. I wake up wanting, too."

Jameson wakes up burning for Nanda to lay a hand on his back and whisper in his ear. He wakes up praying that next time the ghosts will find someone else to haunt. He can't be the only one. He wakes up trying not to cry from the pain. And he hears Vince pacing down the hall every single fucking time.

"It gets better, though, right? The... craving, and just... If I could just have the one thing... That gets better?"

"Fuck if I know." Jameson turns away, jaw set as he works to get to the living room. He can't do the stairs, not yet. His body needs to remember how to cooperate first. Weird how it's gotten worse the longer he hasn't been terrified of being caught again. Therapist says he feels safe, and so his body feels safe to show everything because he doesn't have to fight so hard to survive.

She's probably right.

Jameson pauses, then looks over his shoulder. "Look. Sorry. I feel like shit today."

"Yeah." Vince runs a finger around the edge of the mug sitting in front of him. "Me, too."

"Just. Okay. Listen. Some days, I don't think about him at all, yeah? And that didn't used to happen. So... I guess it gets better."

Until he feels so goddamn guilty for forgetting that it feels even worse. He turns away so Vince won't see the pain on his face.

"Also, I really don't care that you're a millionaire or whatever the fuck. Nanda was a millionaire, too, and it didn't save him. Him being rich didn't save me, either. Just made it worse when I didn't have him anymore."

"... Jameson-"

"Never mind. Just fuck off until I'm too high to be mad at you, okay?"

He collapses onto the couch, closing his eyes and drifting on a sea of pain. There's one more pill in his pocket. He digs it out and swallows it dry.

Please, please, please stop hurting. Inside or out. He doesn't care which. But he can't keep this up if it's both.

#jameson bb #vincent shield is not a hero #whump #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #ptsd tw #grief tw #jameson sees dead people #not really but #traumatized whumpees #traumatized whumpee #trauma recovery whump #trauma recovery tw

[whump-blog]

Prompt 45

From the first day of his rescue, Whumpee had been difficult. He wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't come out from under his bed, wouldn't eat, and from the dark circles under his eyes it looked like he wasn't sleeping either.

Many workers at the rescue centre had tried to talk to him, but Whumpee didn't seem to trust anyone except Caretaker. Caretaker was the only person Whumpee talked to, ate or slept with in front of. But, Whumpee was nothing personal to Caretaker, just another rescue. So how, after all the progress Whumpee had made, would Caretaker be able to tell him that he was being transferred to another rehab centre, and they would never see each other again?

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #rescue #rescued whumpee #pet whumpee #pet whump #bbu #? #recovery #recovery whump #angst #conditioning #conditioned whumpee #trauma response #self neglect #whump prompt #prompt 45

[chiharuuu22]

It's Just a Mug of Hot Chocolate, I'm Not Mad

It was the coldest middle of winter night, and Caretaker was busy making hot chocolate in the kitchen while Whumpee sat at the dining table. The aroma of chocolate wafting through the kitchen made Whumpee's nose feel relaxed. It had been a long time since he last smelled delicious chocolate. Not long after, Caretaker brought two mugs of hot chocolate. just plain hot chocolate without any toppings. One mug was placed in front of Whumpee, and one mug was placed across the table. Caretaker smiled and seemed to remember something, then returned to the kitchen to reach the food storage area.

Whumpee stared at the mug of hot chocolate. With his hands still shaking, Whumpee grabbed the mug and took a sip of its contents. It's delicious, not too sweet, and Whumpee loves it.

Caretaker returned with a plate of cookies topped with chocolate and almonds. Caretaker smiled, then adjusted Whumpee's jacket, which had shifted slightly, to keep him warm. A plate of cookies was placed in the middle of the table, and Caretaker sat in her place.

"You like that?" Caretaker asked.

Whumpee nodded slowly, and his face looked happy. "It's been a long time since I had hot chocolate; it was delicious. Thank you, Caretaker."

They sat quietly and were busy sipping their respective hot chocolates. Suddenly, Whumpee's shaking hands became weak enough to grip the mug and drop it to the floor. The mug of hot chocolate broke, and the contents stained the floor and Whumpee's pajama pants. Whumpee was shocked, as was Caretaker, who swiftly ran towards Whumpee.

"Are you okay, Whumpee? Are you hurt?" Caretaker asked worriedly.

Whumpee shook his head, his eyes staring at his hands, which were now shaking more violently, this time because of his guilt. Caretaker checked Whumpee's feet and found there were no burns.

"Thank God you're okay. Now stay there, and I'll take care of everything. Don't move; you could get hit by a splinter."

Caretaker rushed back to the kitchen to get a cloth and a plastic bag. Caretaker immediately cleans up all the mess and makes sure there are no chocolate spills or mug shards left.

Once satisfied with cleaning, Caretaker turned to Whumpee and found him still staring at his shaking hands. This time, his whole body was shaking, his sweat was pouring out, and tears were starting to hang in his eyes.

Oh, no.

"Whumpee, hey, hey. It's okay. Everything's safe; there's nothing to worry about."

Whumpee looked at Caretaker with a blank look. It seemed like there was a trauma replaying in his memory. Caretaker took Whumpee into her arms and stroked Whumpee's back patiently.

"It's okay; it's okay. Calm down. Breathe slowly."

Whumpee tried to control his ragged breathing. When Whumpee managed to regain control of himself, Whumpee started sobbing.

"I'm sorry, Caretaker; the mug broke."

"Jeez, Whumpee. It's just a mug. I even have plenty in the kitchen. No need to worry."

"But it was yours, and I just ruined it. There was still a lot of chocolate left, and I spilled it."

Caretaker tightened her embrace when she heard Whumpee's sobs getting louder.

"Don't worry, I don't think about it. Sometimes, I also break my own things."

Whumpee continued to mumble words of forgiveness and regret. Caretaker sighed and felt her heart ache. What has Whumpee been through that just accidentally breaking a mug due to his unsteady hands can make him so scared?

Caretaker loosened her embrace, cupped Whumpee's cheeks in both hands, and looked into his eyes.

"Whumpee, calm down. Look at me."

Whumpee looked at Caretaker with teary eyes. Gently, Caretaker wiped away his tears with her thumb.

"Whumpee, I'm not angry, and I don't mind it. Calm down, okay?"

"But you should be angry because I ruined yours. Why aren't you angry?"

Again, something abnormal about Whumpee made Caretaker want to cry.

"I won't be angry with a sick person who is recovering and needs help just because he accidentally broke a mug of hot chocolate."

"I, I..."

"Whumpee, listen to me. I understand that you are afraid that I will be angry because you made a mistake. You have to understand that every human being can make mistakes. Because humans are prone to making mistakes, we can learn from them and not repeat the same thing, okay?"

"I understand your hands are still unstable. So it's natural that your hands don't have the strength to hold the mug. I can make you the same hot chocolate again if you still want it."

"Calm down, Whumpee. No one will be mad at you just because of this. You're safe with me, with all of us in here."

Whumpee didn't answer, and his eyes still continued to shed tears.

"Okay, that's it. Once you're strong and healthy enough, let's go to the convenience store and buy me a new mug. Deal?"

"Just like that?" Whumpee asked.

"Yeah, just like that."

Whumpee nodded and wiped away his tears. He took a deep breath and fell into the Caretaker's arms.

"Thank you, Caretaker."

"You're welcome. Now, let's go to the bathroom. We should wipe your body with warm water and change into your pajamas before the night gets colder."

Whumpee nodded and let himself be led by Caretaker towards the bathroom at the end of the kitchen.

#whumpee #whump #caretaker #caretaking #whump scenario #whump writing #recovery whump #whump fic #whumpblr #whump dialogue #caretaker x whumpee #whumpee x caretaker #trauma recovery #trauma whump

[i-eat-worlds]

The Subject Part 9

this one is pretty relaxed. Enjoy some “Brenner needs to take break”

There’s a Masterlist now!

CW: caretaker turned whumpee, overworking, recovery, legal bullshit

Brenner’s spoon clinked on the edge of his mug as he stirred the sugar into his coffee. The fluorescent lights of the break room buzzed as he sat down, paperwork sprawled out across the table, the dim light from his laptop casting his face in shadows. This was the worst part, and it never got better, no matter how many times he had to do it. Spread out before him were whatever notes he could find about Beau’s time as a subject.

It was disgusting. While there was no doubt in his mind that researchers often omitted the nastier details, what had been recorded was still horrendous. Chronicles of his pain-and not just perfunctory reports-photos and videos, painstakingly collected reminders of what he went through. Somebody took glee in this, recording Beau’s misery. The videos had been cataloged with care, by date and experiment. They went back years. And Brenner needed to comb through all of them, to get a better understanding of what Beau had gone through, to prevent issues from coming out of nowhere. Like Beau not knowing he was at a recovery center. It was supposed to be standard knowledge for subjects. And certainly, they would have been told that they were being moved to a recovery center, instead of just being shipped around without any knowledge. It was a mess, and it meant that whatever he’d been through at Hemlock had changed his conditioning or reinforced it. Either one was bad, and both gave him a sinking feeling. This one was going to be a challenge.

“They call it a break room for a reason, Chase,” Dr. Brenner’s head snapped up to nd Liam in the doorway. The nurse approached the counter to pour his own cup of coee. “It’s for you know…breaks?”

“Liam.” The doctor grumbled as he looked up from his work. “Please tell me your day is going better than mine.” “How bad is it going?” Liam asked as he poured the coee into his caeine prn mug. “I thought it was naming day-doesn’t that usually go pretty well?” “The naming part was fine.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “It’s everything else.” Liam’s eyes seemed to scan him for a moment, then he pulled a chair out with his foot and sat down. “What’s going on?”

“This.” Brenner gestured to the spread of materials in front of him. “Somebody took great pains to document everything he went through. He didn’t even know he was at a recovery center, for crying out loud.” He rubbed his eyes, then signed loudly. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Beau right now?” “He’s in the scanner. Natalie’s great at what she does. I’d just be in the way.” Liam’s eyebrows furrow. “Beau, he’s from Hemlock, right?” “Yeah, why?” Brenner watched as Liam searched the table for something.

The nurse flipped through a stack of reports. He pointed to the signature on the page. “Dr. Chole Glassener. We know her.” Recognition ashed across Brenner’s eyes. “Raphael? Shit, Raphael.” “Look, Glassener’s got a reputation for being overly cruel. We’ve got enough to go to Nesbit and maybe shut her down.” Liam motioned to the photos.

“But Beau will never testify-he barely can talk now, and he won’t be rehabilitated soon enough to even know.” Brenner filled in. Lots of doctors had tried to take on Glassner before, and all had failed because no surviving subjects would testify to the standard that the law wanted.

“He’s got a long way to go.” Liam let out a tired sigh.

“Remind me why we're also in charge of this again.”

“Because someone has to, Chase. Beau may not be ready, but Raphael would.” Liam said, and Brenner knew he was right. “Yeah. If we can get him to stop biting.” Brenner said as he exhaled.

“Glad that biting is Molly’s department.” Liam checked his watch. “Beau is getting out from imaging. I’ve got to go and pick him up.” His tone turned serious. “And Chase?” The doctor looked up at him, “Go home and get some sleep tonight. You can’t keep running on empty.”

“No promises!” Brenner called as he turned back to his work .

“You better!” Liam hollered back as he gently closed the door behind him, leaving the doctor to his work.

******

After the scans, the kind nurse had returned and taken Beau back to his room. Everybody insisted on moving him around in a wheelchair, even though he volunteered to walk. The personnel would simply remind him that he wasn’t at a lab anymore, that things were dierent. It was hard, but Beau was getting better at reminding himself of that too. He didn’t want to be a burden, having the sta have to remind him again and again. Liam helped him back into bed, then gave him another-another!-dose of painkillers. The nurse reminded him to use the call button if he needed it, and told him to rest up.

Beau burrowed back into the warmth of his bed, clutching the soft blankets close. He couldn’t even remember experiencing something like this. Not the gentle touches, not the clothing and blankets, and most certainly not the name. It was strange, to have a privilege that he thought only humans were supposed to get reserved for him. The word felt right though, Beau. It wasn’t hard to think of himself as Beau. He was still B127 of course, he knew his place.

But he would have been lying if he didn’t like the idea of being Beau.

Taglist: @stabby-nunchucks @rainbows-and-whumperflies @pigeonwhumps @wolfeyedwitch @suffering-and-misery I am so sorry for forgetting to tag you in the last couple chapters. Do you still want to be tagged?

#whump #caretaker whump #legal bullshit #hospital setting #beauoc #dr.brenneroc #liamoc #pet whump #trauma recovery whump #the subject #worlds babbles #worlds writing

[whumpshaped]

this is a disgustingly fluffy prompt so beware slfkdh

caretaker always calls whumpee a word in their (caretaker‘s) native language, which whumpee doesn’t understand. but since they are very self loathing they just assume it’s something negative, since caretaker has to spend so much time and energy caring for and „tolerating“ whumpee. one day whumpee gets too curious though and decides to look up the word, only to find out it’s a pet name and caretaker has been calling them something lovingly the entire time

(bonus points if you do it in your native language i love learning new cute pet names!!)

sorry to all hungarians i know seeing this will cause some whiplash

tw pet whump, past trauma, caretaker new master

‘Easy, szívem.’

‘Szívem, could you bring me some water?’

‘You don’t have to push yourself, szívem.’

Whumpee accepted the nickname as their own easily. Whumper had given them plenty, although never ones they couldn’t even understand; useless, stupid, mutt… who knew which one Caretaker was using on them?

They avoided asking about it for the longest time. They told themself they were prepared for the meaning, that they could handle whatever degrading thing their new master ‘friend’ threw at them, but in reality… They weren’t prepared at all. They didn’t want to know. They wanted to pretend it was something nice, a term of genuine endearment, dear, darling, honey… Something people said to each other with kindness.

But eventually, curiosity won out. Whumpee sneaked into the study one day, picking out one of the dictionaries from the shelf. They thought about using the computer, but they chickened out. It would’ve been a much more egregious crime than opening a book.

The issue was, they had no idea how to spell the word. They started at ‘S’, flipping through pages upon pages and finding nothing. See-vem. See-vem. None of the words looked right. They eventually crossed over into the next letter, ‘Sz’, unsure what sound that would even make. It was all so confusing… How did Caretaker even speak this?

“Can I help you?”

Whumpee flinched at the voice, slamming the dictionary shut immediately. “C-Caretaker– I– I wasn’t– I wasn’t doing anything! I was cleaning, and the book fell down, I was just trying to check whether it was intact–”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” they said with a smile. “I’m not mad, szívem. But if you were looking for something specific in there, maybe I could help.”

“N-no, no, it’s… it’s nothing… I…” They took a deep breath, trying to ground themself. It was now or never, really. They wouldn’t get a better chance to ask. “Well… I, I was wondering about, um… The nickname, I guess. What you always call me.”

“Ah, of course. I’m sorry, I’ve never really explained it, have I? It’s just a term of endearment.” They pulled out their phone and typed something. “I’m pretty sure the dictionary only has the root word. Here.”

Whumpee took the phone gingerly, looking at the translation program. Original word, in Hungarian: szívem. Yeah, they would’ve never gotten that right. Translation, in English…

Their eyes widened in disbelief. Next to them, Caretaker chuckled. “What did you think it meant?” they asked cheerily, seemingly unaware of all the horrible options that had been swirling around in Whumpee’s head before.

“I… I don’t even know,” they breathed.

They definitely didn’t think it meant something as innocent as ‘my heart’.

#asks #whump #whump drabble #pet whump #past trauma #caretaker new master #recovery fic #comfort

[feverdreamsanddelusions]

17

[tw panic attack, past trauma]

Whumpee knew there was something wrong. They always knew. That had never been the problem.

The problem was that nobody had ever listened.

So they stopped talking about it. Whenever they got sick, whenever the trauma got too overwhelming, they just bottled it up and swept it under the rug. Nobody cared. Not talking about it was less painful than trying and being ignored.

But it was really bad today. The delusions were strong, the hallucinations crept up on them way too fast, and soon they were overcome with the most debilitating terror they had ever experienced.

They sat on the edge of their bed, motionless, trying and failing to calm their racing heart. Everything was too much. Everything was terrifying. They were simultaneously trapped in and locked out of their own body. They couldn't stand up to call for help, they could only wait and hope it would subside.

And it did, if only a little. It eased up enough for them to push themself to their feet and stumble out of their bedroom. They made their way to Caretaker's study and knocked, then knocked again, knocking and knocking and knocking mindlessly until their friend opened.

"Whumpee?" They looked concerned, and it was nothing Whumpee had expected or ever experienced before. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

They couldn't answer. They whimpered softly, breaking down in tears instead of giving a coherent explanation. They were shaking badly, and Caretaker immediately took them by the shoulders and guided them inside to sit, pulling them into a hug on the comfortable sofa.

"Breathe, Whumpee, just breathe. I'm here." Caretaker held them tight and rubbed their arm as they cried, and it was the warmest embrace they'd ever received. "It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be just fine. Just breathe with me."

#whump #whump drabble #panic attack #past trauma #recovery fic #comfort #res writes

[galaxywhump]

Home Again

Trope: Not Used to Freedom

Fandom: Original Work

[SV-240 masterlist]

[blue for completed]

Timeline: post-captivity, set after Ghosts of the Past.

contents: recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, hospital setting, childhood trauma, mention of therapy.

~~~

“Jonna Schulte visited me yesterday.”

Nathaniel is looking out the window, so Wren can’t see his expression, but he does notice the tension in his shoulders.

“I know.” Nathaniel’s voice is forced, stiff. “I talked to her.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking.” The emphasis Wren puts on the last word goes unnoticed. “So, what’s the deal with… all that? She didn’t tell me much.”

“We were married, it didn’t work out, so she left.”

Nathaniel spits out his words like they’re poison, as is the topic at large, but Wren doesn’t want to back out. It’s too important, and too confusing.

“She said she didn’t want to abandon me.”

Nathaniel inhales sharply and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what she did or didn’t want. You can ask her.” He finally faces Wren, his gaze like the dark sky before a thunderstorm. “‘I don’t want to talk about this.”

His tone is harsh, and it makes Wren freeze. There it is, the tension he’s felt for so long, his instincts urging him to run, and he feels so small and insignificant, but not in the same way that SV-240 made him feel. He doesn’t feel like a human being confronted with the unimaginable loneliness of being trapped on a distant planet. He feels like a helpless kid.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away, his heartbeat deafening, his hands shaking.

Nathaniel seems surprised by Wren’s reaction, but he doesn’t add anything. The sense of immediate danger slowly fades, though the implications linger in Wren’s mind.

Nothing has changed. The events of the last two years did not overwrite his earlier memories and instincts, not that he really expected otherwise. What Daniel had put him through made him discover mechanisms within his psyche that he wasn’t aware of before, and which he figures must have come from his childhood. Now he gets to see their root cause with new eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it.

Between living alone, struggling with the way his body and mind work now, and going back to living with his father, he’s not sure if there exists an option that isn’t terrible.

“Do you need help packing?”

He nearly jumps in place and shakes his head.

“No, no, I’ll do it myself. It’s not a lot.”

His hands are shaking as he puts what little he’d taken out back in the bag and zips it up.

As much as he wanted to leave the hospital before, now he wishes he could stay.

***

When they exit, there are people waiting for them, a small crowd gathered near the entrance, the sight of which causes Wren to stop abruptly, his eyes going wide. And then there’s noise, voices, and they don’t sound angry, but they’re too overwhelming for Wren to register anything. He stepped out of the hospital and fell into a void, and he’s frozen in place, gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles turn white.

Someone grabs his arm and pulls, and his immediate reaction is to try and free himself, but when he manages to tear his gaze away from the crowd, he sees it’s just his father, so he forces himself to move, to put one foot in front of the other, to get the hell out, away from those people, everything is too much, too crowded, and it isn’t until he’s seated in the car that he can breathe again.

He exhales and leans forward until he rests his forehead against the back of the front seat, but he has to straighten up when the car starts. He blinks and his gaze flits towards the window, but he has to look away when he sees the crowd again.

“What happened?”

Wren winces. He can feel Nathaniel’s eyes boring into him, but he doesn’t want to look. It’s not like he knows what happened, anyway; for all he knows, he left the hospital building and regained consciousness in the car.

“Sorry,” he says, and Nathaniel doesn’t push, he never does anymore, he only wants uncomfortable conversations to end, and that’s exactly what happens. The drive home passes in silence, and Wren spends its entirety swallowing back tears.

***

Unlike him, the house hasn’t changed at all. It’s still neat, but unremarkable, average in just about every way; Nathaniel never flaunted his position by going for unnecessary luxury. Still gripping the strap of the bag tightly, Wren enters, and the inside is the same too, because it has always been comfortable, and that was enough. There are some new things, things he doesn’t recognize, but they’re minor, they don’t matter.

The door closes behind him, and something about the sound both sobers him up and sends him back to a day he’d rather not reminisce about. He can’t breathe, he can feel tears coming again, and this time he can’t hold them back, so he rushes upstairs, to his old room, which is also the same, the only difference being the boxes strewn about the floor. His things, brought back to the place he had escaped years ago.

He’s home.

Tears overflow and he furiously wipes them away. All he wants to do is sit on his bed and wallow in emotions that he can’t even identify, but he hears his father’s footsteps on the stairs, and he knows he has to appear at least a bit more put-together. He sits down on the bed anyway, unzips his bag, and starts unpacking it.

“Hey,” Nathaniel says after a symbolic knock on the doorframe. “Need any help?”

At first Wren wants to refuse again. These are his things, he can handle unpacking, and having his father here will probably only lead to more tension, more awkwardness, but…

He looks at the boxes. The bag he can handle, but with how he’s feeling he’s not sure the same can be said about the boxes. Besides, if he’s left on his own, he might just burst into tears and accomplish nothing, and his room being a mess will only drag him further into misery.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, looking up from the bag with a slightly forced smile. “I don’t know what I’m going to put where yet, but if you could help with the boxes, that would be great. Just… clothes on one pile, other stuff on a different pile, something like that.”

“Sounds doable,” Nathaniel laughs, and Wren does too, and they get to work, mostly in silence, sometimes making small talk or commenting on their finds.

“You still have this T-shirt?”

“Yeah, it’s living its best life as pajamas now.”

“Mhm. And this one?”

“Pajamas. Or, uh, for cleaning days.”

“This one too?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a hole in it.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.”

They laugh, Wren through tears, because of course he’s crying, because he hasn’t seen these things in such a long time, he thought he’d never see them again. There are tears in his breaking voice too, which go unaddressed; it feels absurd, this elephant in the room, his silent breakdown and its cause, but he convinces himself that it’s better this way, that they can both pretend that everything is fine, even when nothing is.

Their conversations are normal, ignoring the context that is anything but. Catching up, how much has the city changed? It must have changed, it’s been… a while. Food. Food is a normal subject. They can get takeout, whatever Wren wants. Not from that one place, though. It closed down a year or so ago. 

It’s strange to think that normal things were happening while he was away. A silly thought, of course he’d never think that everything was put on hold when he was kidnapped, but somehow it still hits him hard. The restaurant closed down, and he was busy being a captive. He doesn’t even know what was going on with his father when he was presumed dead, but he doesn’t want to start that conversation yet; he can ask about it later. Right now he focuses on dividing his clothes into categories with some semblance of sense before putting them in the closet.

The last thing he reaches for is his running T-shirt, and he pauses, holding it up, rubbing the slippery fabric between his fingers.

“I think I’m gonna go for a run,” he says, his idea verbalized as soon as it appears in his mind. Nathaniel, busy collecting the now empty boxes, looks at him with a frown.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Naturally, Wren starts doubting himself, and maybe it is a stupid idea, but it’s an exciting one, and he doesn’t want to just give it up.

“Yeah, I… think I need it. I miss running.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel says, still seemingly unconvinced. “Now?”

“No.” Wren shakes his head. “I’ll wait until the evening. So it’s less warm.” And, hopefully, so there’s fewer people. He doesn’t say that part out loud. Being concerned about the weather is normal. Freaking out after being one of the only two people on an entire planet is not. He wants to be normal, and if he can’t, he’ll at least pretend.

The food they get from a place Wren knows well tastes different from what he remembers, but maybe he just doesn’t remember it well, it’s been so long, after all. They talk for a bit about nothing in particular, and when the silence threatens to turn awkward, Wren suggests watching something light, maybe a game show, and they do just that, joking and trying to guess the answers before the contestants do. It’s a familiar scenario in a way that fills Wren with unease as time goes on; he’s relieved when evening comes and he can excuse himself to get ready.

Putting up his hair to keep it out of the way and warming up before leaving the house is a routine he hasn’t forgotten, but it’s not as nostalgic and uplifting as it should be, because he used to do this on SV-240 too. Back then it made him feel better, but the price he pays now is that it’s become tainted, linked to memories of running laps around Daniel’s house, of working out alongside him. That, however, is reduced to a triviality when Wren leaves the house and faces the world outside.

Running laps within the safe area around the house, guarded from the dangers of the planet, was one thing; being faced with the startling realization that he can go wherever he wants is something else entirely. He’s no longer confined, be it to the house, the spaceship, or the hospital. He’ll have to go back home eventually, but he’s the one who gets to decide when that will be.

He’s free.

He sways on his feet a little, and has to take a deep breath of Earthly air. For just a moment he considers turning back, going back inside, but above all he feels… excited. Energized. He wants to get the most out of his newfound freedom, so he braces himself, chooses a direction, and starts running, maybe a bit faster than he usually would, and a wave of euphoria the likes of which he hasn’t felt in a long time spreads throughout his body, through his every nerve. His shoes hit the pavement at a steady pace, and his breathing falls into a familiar rhythm. That’s all that matters.

When he comes back home, he’ll have no choice but to face his thoughts. His first therapy session is coming up - how should he approach it? How much can he tell his therapist? He’ll have to bring up something, think about the last two years with Daniel, recall some of the physical torture, because he can’t imagine himself talking about anything other than that, even though it’s the other memories that give him nightmares each and every night. Is he going to have one tonight, in his old room? He doesn’t want his father to hear it. His father… The time they spent together was nice, and Wren knows it’s nothing new, nor was it a one-off. There have always been days like this, filled with casual, lighthearted conversations, joking and laughter, and yet, when he was away, he could only remember the other days, raised voices, disappointment and contempt. He got a reminder of that earlier, Nathaniel’s reaction to his question about Jonna, Jonna, his mother, who didn’t want to abandon him, who’s one message or call away…

He never wants to stop running.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#bad things happen bingo #recovery whump #slavery whump #forced relationship whump #childhood trauma tw #whump #wren rackham #nathaniel rackham #sv-240 #my writing #pls let me know if there's a better way to tag stuff about wren's trauma #well i finally wrote something #i dusted this off recently #and woah i have a bthb card #so close to filling it out actually #anyway. this chapter's a bit different #but i suppose that the entire recovery arc is going to be a bit different #i hope you like it #and that the taglist works