#mental whump

[astrowhump]

Useful

Tw: torture (past and present), conditioning, asphyxiation, whipping, and just a bunch of other good stuff :)

11:00 p.m., master isn’t home yet, then it must be time for bed. Lucas pushes himself up from his knees, still trembling from kneeling on the cold tiles for hours on end, waiting for his owner to show up. He looks down at his kneecaps just to find them tinted red, caused by the pressure from his own weight.

The Canadian winter snow is still pelting, a ghost white blankets everything in sight. He’s lost in the panoramic scene for a moment, in the dagger-like icicles and the pine trees bending under the heavy shimmering carpet that covers their every leaf and the eery silence of stillness. Through the glass door and French windows, he watches as the moon shines on the pavement that’s covered knee-high, and for an instant, he imagines the tingling of the freezing snow on his legs. Before he knows it, his mind’s filled with thoughts of the unthinkable…the impossible.

The first obstacle would be the locked front door, hardly a challenge, he knows where master keeps the spare keys - where he keeps anything for that matter- Lucas has been the one keeping this place spotless after all, for a good chunk of the past four years and seven months and fourteen days.

He’s built up quite a tolerance to cold by now, thanks to master’s ‘seasonal torture techniques’. Apparently, keeping the poor boy out in -10 degrees Celsius temperature and frozen snow in nothing but his boxers until his body starts shaking violently and he bangs his trembling fists to the glass door as he begs to be let in, is just as much an amusement as burning him or drowning him or beating him bloody. Even though he could survive several hours in that weather, he’d most definitely lose all mobility within the first hour. He will need to cover himself up, with some of his owner’s winter clothes perhaps, not that a 6’ man with an athletic build’s clothes would fit perfectly on a 5’ 3” boy with a much smaller body, but anything that keeps him warm will do.

It’s gonna be an exhaustingly long walk before he sets foot outside the property and even then, they’re probably somewhere far into the woods, they couldn’t be more than a day of walking from the city though, master goes to the city quite often for work so it must be a reasonable distance.

The thought of escaping seems more and more like an absurd fantasy as his trail of taboo thoughts continues flowing. It was never gonna be anything more than that anyways. Besides, even if he did make it outside on his own, the owner would definitely find his astray mongrel somewhere along the way and when he does, he will make sure that ungrateful mutt knows the definition of real hell. First and foremost, he will bash in his kneecaps, turn him into the dog he is, just as promised. He’ll have to crawl on all fours for the rest of his pathetic life, And that’s not even all. The mere thought of the length of consequences that await him if he steps out of line makes him freeze in his place.

11:45. Did he just spend that long thinking about escaping? It’s almost funny; after years and years of training, this is where he belongs, this is who he is, he doesn’t have a purpose in life but to obey and please his master.

At last, his legs drag him to the upstairs bedroom where he changes into his sleeping t-shirt. The room is warm and his stomach is full, a fact he will never stop being grateful for. Just as he slides under the covers, the door to the living room is opened forcefully and then slammed shut and heavy shoes stomp downstairs. Lucas sits up in the bed, expecting to greet his exasperated master, but the footsteps never make it upstairs.

Naked feet touch the wooden floor and sneak down the staircase.

“S- sir?” He calls softly.

Light peaks out of the doorway to the study and that’s where his feet take him.

“Welcome home maste-“

An empty whiskey bottle flies towards him the second he steps through the door, but his head instinctively ducks and the glass shatters as it hits the wall to his back.

“Why the fuck is my whiskey bottle empty.” It doesn’t sound like a question but Lucas answers anyway.

“I’m not allowed in the cellar when I’m alone.” His voice is small.

“I’ll fetch you one right away sir, I’m sorry” he quickly adds as he feels the angry gaze bore into his quivering figure. He looks up to the vexed man and finds him fidgeting with his tie in a failed attempt to loosen it.

“Let me.” He carefully steps closer to help his master. He’s stepping on eggshells, every step he takes might be a step too far, but master allows him to get close and slowly hook his fingers around the tie and pull. He loosens the loop enough for the man’s head to easily slip through.

“Did you have a bad day, sir?” He speaks softly, placing the tie on the desk behind him and starts unbuttoning his owner’s white shirt.

Lucas looks up at him when he doesn’t hear an answer. The man’s mind seems to be rushing with irritating thoughts, however, his attention is grabbed as the busy hands on his shirt stop wriggling.

“Very.” He sounds tired. The hands continue undressing his top until his muscular form shows as the shirt is taken away. Big hands wrap around bony wrists.

“Weren’t you supposed to be asleep by now?” The pressure on his wrists increases and the boy’s nervousness along with it. He tries to back off a bit, but his movements are blocked by the desk behind him and master’s vigorous form in front. Helplessly sandwiched in between, he presses the palms of his hands to the tattooed chest holding him captive.

“I- I heard you enter and you seemed pissed. Thought that you uh…you might want to blow off some steam, sir?” His eyes wander off to the floor in shame, he does mean what he said, but he didn’t think it through, he shouldn’t have done anything before he was ordered to and now…now he has fucked up. Although, if he is to be punished, master might appreciate the distraction. His idiocy may prove helpful afterall.

He hears a chuckle, not threatening or derisive, rather…sweet.

The man’s breathing no longer seems ragged by irritation and his heartbeat calms under Lucas’s palms.

“Oh you sweet thing. You came to me willingly, to be used and abused. Such an obedient little puppy!” One of his hands let go of the little one’s wrists to card through his silky brown locks. Lucas moans softly into his touch.

He feels like a proud owner, turning that stray animal into this adorable domestic pet, ready to serve and please, needy for his master’s touch, ready to jump off a cliff without hesitation if master orders him so. He has been trained with such delicacy, his prized possession.

The hands in the pet’s hair firmly grip the roots and they pull and twist until he winces and looks up at him through defeated eyes, only to find a sadistic dark gaze thrown his way, he keeps his hands flat on his chest, there’s not much fight in him. The fingers pull until he feels his scalp tearing from his skull and he cries out. Master smiles at the sounds he makes, like a father watching his child sweetly speak gibberish. Finally, the hand lets go, but Lucas’s eyes stay leveled with his owner’s.

“On your knees.”

He drops to his knees like it’s instinct.

“Heel.” He starts stepping towards an empty wall between the bookshelves. On the wall hang two chained handcuffs, fixated by nails on the green wallpaper, his personal modification to make the study feel more like home to his precious little pet.

Lucas follows behind him with ease, used to the scratching of his knees as he crawls by his master’s feet, the hard wood beneath him gives its place temporarily to the soft wool of the Persian rug as they cross the middle of the room and then the uncomfortable wood again.

He extends his arms so that they can be restrained. An air of superiority lines his owner’s smile and he can’t help but pat the willing puppy on the head.

Once his wrists are firmly secured, the sheer fabric covering his upper body is ripped through. He sits there awkwardly as master pulls the remains aside.

His vision is limited to the wall in front of him now. Footsteps track distant and stop a few feet behind him. He listens intently now, all his senses heightened, they always are in these situations, when his brain knows something bad, something painful, is going to happen and his body is unable to do anything but stay still and notice every sensory trigger possible. Now even his mind won’t do anything but sit still and take it all in, defiance is no longer defined in his dictionary. The sound his hypersensitive ears catch next is that of a belt undone, followed by his next command.

“Stretch your back for me darling”

He does as told, moving his knees and elbows in opposite directions until every inch of his back - littered with wounds and physical implications of mental trauma - is exposed and stretched to full capacity.

“You ready sweetheart?”

Lucas keeps his head down and squeezes his eyes shut as if that makes anything better. He belatedly answers when he realizes he is expected to.

“Y- yes, master.”

The belt cracks in the air before it lands on his back. The leather is thick and heavy, and the pain that spreads through his bones and muscles is sickening.

His sweet voice breaks into a scream, so pleasant that his tormentor stops to appreciate it for a second. Another blow brings another sweet cry out of him. He could do this forever.

“Your body’s such a beautiful canvas, it would be a shame not to cover it with art.”

Lucas doesn’t move his composition an inch, offering his naked back for his owner to take his rage out on. However, he yawps as the belt whips his tender skin, one blow from the right and one from the left rhythmically, and the occasional cracks in the air just to make the already tremoring boy flinch even harder in anticipation of pain.

His tears slide straight onto the parquet and his head falls down between his strained arms, chin touching the chest. Master must see it because the next blow comes down on him harsher and faster than the rest and the edges of the belt cut into his skin.

His head rises, he shrieks and tears stream down his reddened eyes, his perfect posture is disturbed slightly. Such a sight. Though it is fun to break defiant brats, it’s even more enjoyable to crush an obedient mutt.

“M- master- “ he sobs. Several cuts on his back are bleeding now.

“What is it, pet?” He stops and walks closer to the bleeding trembling boy.

Lucas ducks his head back down. He had learned time and time again that asking for it to stop only brings him punishment. That word was involuntary, he regrets saying anything at all, even more so when his head is yanked backward by his brown curls drawing a wince out of him. Master’s dark eyes drill a hole into his blushing cheeks.

“Don’t be shy now boy. Beg me to stop. Cry for my mercy. All your wishes just might eventually come true.”

He smiles. It’s frightening and hits the naked boy’s body like a winter blizzard, sending visible shivers down his spine.

His head is let go just to fall limply between his arms again and he can hear footsteps retracting through loud sobs.

Suddenly, something soft grips his neck, silky…the tie. The loop he helped loosen earlier, tightens around his neck more than it should and it’s pulled up until he chokes out. Master looks at him with pity eyes as he loses composure and chokes himself even harder. He claws at the floor with his feet to keep his head up but the noose moves higher and higher, blocking all oxygen from ever touching his windpipe.

“If you want to breathe, ask nicely.”

His eyes turn in their place to stare innocently into those of his master. There’s not much air left in him to form coherent words.

“S- sir…p- nghh; please…Ah” only whispers leave his mouth. He gasps for air with his mouth open and a stream of tears down his messed-up face.

“-ease p-..mas- Ha- hngha.. mast- “ his face turns a dark shade of purple, matching the violet tie around his throat.

His owner only lets go of his lead a moment before he loses consciousness, or maybe one after. Either way the boy’s head falls to his chest, his weak naked body spattered across the room, only hanging up by tied-up wrists. The gradually fastening rise and fall of his chest is all the movement he makes. He mercifully undoes his restraints so the boy can catch his breath

Master pulls a chair to sit beside his panting mess of a pet on the ground and lights his cigarette calmly. Lucas slowly regains consciousness and pulls himself to sit on his knees, the tie still wrapped around his slender neck and vision still disoriented, back still hurting and bleeding, the exhaustion overtakes the pain by the slightest.

A snap of fingers. That means there’s an order to follow. His eyes look for the source of the sound. Master gestures for him to come closer.

His numb limbs are having a hard time trying to follow his brain’s orders but eventually, he pulls himself to all fours and crawls to the bigger man in the chair. The tie dangles around his neck like a runaway dog’s leash; except he could never run away, he has an extremely thoughtful owner, always alert and cautious, even after…four years and seven months and fourteen days - well fifteen now.

His sweaty palms make sticky sounds against the floor until he’s at his sir’s feet. He fits his body between his legs and rests his dizzy head on the lap of the other.

He knows this ritual by heart, after every single play or training or punishment or ‘let me take everything out on you because I can’ session, master smokes his cigarette as he winds down and then…zzzz…signs his brutalized body with the hot end of the cigarette. He hardly even flinches at the burning pain anymore, he’s way too beaten and it’s way too familiar. It almost feels reassuring even, a sign that agony is over for the time being. He’s relieved.

His body is carpeted in these marks, he couldn’t count them even if he wanted to. Most of them overlap, but master has his favorite spots, his neck and shoulders for example.

A loving hand sorts out his tangled locks and he dozes off to the touch, right there on master’s thigh. His eyes open sluggishly and look up for another order, or permission to pass out.

“Ah. Thank you pet, I feel much better now. Bring me that whiskey after you’re done cleaning yourself up, would you?”

“Mmhm…yes, sir”

He gently brushes off the stray strands of hair sticking to his sweaty face and bends his neck to press a gentle kiss to the boy’s temple.

“Up now. You’ve been such a good boy for me tonight. You can go to bed when you’ve done as I said. It’s way past your bedtime.” He whispers into his ears with a deep calm voice.

“Mmm..” Lucas nods and gets up on his feet lazily. He tries his best not to stumble over his own feet as he makes his way to the cellar.

Lucas is glad he proved himself useful for his master tonight.

Inspired by one of @whumpitisthen’s dialouge prompts.

#i need to stop writing broken whumpees but idk they’re so fun to write #whump #pet whump #sir/master #creepy whumper #choked #conditioned whumpee #sadistic whumper #torture #references to past torture #my writing #captivity whump #beating #broken bones #stockholm syndrome #mental whump #physical whump #manipulation #whump community #whumblr

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Neurological Sci-Fi Whump

- Whumper uses a mind-reading device on Whumpee when they refuse to answer questions and it leaves them with long-term brain fog

- Passing out after making telepathic contact with a vastly-intelligent alien because of being exposed to a flood of images and other information humans aren’t meant to be able to receive (or just because it’s scary) ST: PIC season one, anyone?

- Multiple parasites or demons with conflicting interests take over Whumpee’s mind, making their body contort in ways it should not

- Nausea, headaches, and dizziness caused by low-gravity conditions in space (the brain floats up in the skull, causing pressure to be placed on it). Source

- Concussions in the aforementioned low-gravity environment and all their horrible complications 👀👀👀👀

- Alien Whumpee losing a sense after an injury to an organ (Like Shran when he got his antenna chopped off with a bat’leth; he lost his sense of balance which ended up making him fall and impale his leg on an icicle 😬 god I love Enterprise… so many people got their legs impaled in that djdjdjdjdjskdjdjsk)

- Alien that slowly feeds off the brain, making Whumpee behave more and more erratically until they die (bonus points if everyone around them notices something is Very Wrong… Also consider the possibilities for emotional whump)

#whump #angst #science fiction #writing prompts #sci fi whump #whump prompts #injury prompts #mental whump

[honeybunny-og]

thinking about whumpers using paralytic drugs or muscle relaxants or lobotomies to turn their whumpees into perfect little dolls or puppets for them.

whumpers having complete control over their ~precious little whumpee~ because whumpee has no ability to communicate distress, much less fight back.

perhaps whumpee doesn't even know what's going on; they've become such a shell of their former selves.

maybe that's for the best though, because awareness can be torturous, too.

#whump #whump scenario #whump prompt #creepy whumper #loss of self whump #mind break whump #mental whump #dehumanization whump #captivity #controlled #whump tropes #whump community #drugging #medical whump #controlling whumper #my writing #honeybunny og

[whumpbump]

Whumpee called for help over and over but it seemed that the staff just walked on by. Why didn’t they stop? Why wouldn’t they help? Surely they could hear Whumpee, so they called louder. That earned them sedation and separation. Whumpee was so frustrated that they decided they wouldn’t be eating to gain a reaction. All they did was keep detailed notes and take away the food so Whumpee couldn’t eat in secret later on.

Dr. Whumper read the notes with glee in their office with Head Henchnurse. This was the most fun they’d had in awhile. This Whumpee really wasn’t understanding how the program worked. Dr. Whumper called the shots and Whumpee’s suffering was detailed until Whumpee was sent to ~the Wing.~ There, Dr. Whumper could experiment until Whumpee was “cured” or dead. And Whumpee was falling directly into the trap.

#whumpee #whumpblr #whump blog #whump ideas #whump #whump inspiration #whump tropes #whumper #hospital whump #doctor whump #mental whump

[whumpster-dumpster]

Hmm based on your last asl I think I've figured out I'm only into mental harm, not really physical injuries..... Is that a thing in whump?

Yep, that's the "in some state of distress" category I mentioned. If harm is being done to their mind and/or body, it's whump!

#whump #mental whump #answered ask #anonymous

[obsessedwithegos]

Nightmares

TWs: Multiple whumpees, Possessive whumper, Unreality (Can’t tell apart nightmare from reality), Major character death, Mental+Emotional whump, Repetition, Heart being kept outside of a chest

Note: Teddy and Dirk belong to @emmettnet 

Teddy and Dirk use He/him Thei uses They/he (they/them is used in this for easier telling of who is who) This takes place within my DnD campaign Forgotten Familiarities!

~~~~~

Thei tried to keep their eyes focused on the patterned tile of the floor as the screams King Teddy successfully got out of Dirk became quieter and weaker. 

Attempts to squeeze their eyes shut were only met with horrifying images their mind conjured up of what their mentor may be going through.

“Thei?” King Teddy’s voice was eerily gentle.

They swallowed a lump in their throat. “Yes, my king?” They couldn’t stop the tremble in their voice.

“Bring me a towel please.”

The ‘please’ made their hair stand on end. “Just one, my king?” They asked, confused and now even more worried. What could he have done to cause so much pain to Dirk to the point of screaming but not make much of a mess?

“Of course. Was I not clear?”

“You were, my king, I’m sorry.” They say, taking a deep breath. The towel was already in their hands, they just had to go in and give it to him; but why did they have such a bad feeling?

Their legs trembled as they walked around the door and into the office, where they quickly saw the reasoning for their bad feeling.

Dirk’s corpse was still on the ground, any life or fire in his eyes was completely gone. Blood pooled around him, staining his skin and white hair. There was a large messily cut hole in his chest where his heart should be, but… Where was his heart?

Their head slowly turned to look at the bloodied king, who held a heart in his gloved hand. They forced themself to walk forward so they could bring him the towel as ordered.

“Thank you, Thei.” He says, taking the towel with his free hand to carefully lay the heart in it so excess blood could be absorbed in it. “The clean up is different today. You’re to dispose of Dirk’s body. I’ll have someone else clean up the blood itself.”

Thei’s blood runs cold as they can’t help but freeze. “You’re… You’re not going to bring him back?” Their voice was barely above a whisper as horror was clear on their face.

“No. He’s outlived his usefulness and I got what I needed out of him.” King Teddy spoke so coldly. “You’ll be taking his spot as my second.”

“My king, I- I don’t understand.” They spoke up, a dry laugh leaving them as if this was some sort of sick joke. “I- I’m not trained for the position, and what do you mean.. By you got what you needed?” They asked, eyes glancing back to the heart in the towel.

“His heart was promised to me. I couldn’t risk him trying to give it to someone else. It’s within my right to take what was promised to me.” He answered before looking to Thei.

“As for training, that will be arranged. To start, let's make one thing clear.” He steps closer, grabbing their jaw with his bloodied hand. “You’re not to question my actions or my orders. Understood?”

Their mouth opened and closed but no words came out, tears finally started to fall as it was all setting in. They were replacing Dirk, they were going to be tortured to obey just as he was, and he was no longer there to help them.

“Thei Silvertarn. Do I make myself clear?” Teddy repeated himself, venom dripping from his words and out of his gritted teeth. His grip tightens, causing pain to start to flare through their jaw.

“Yes my king.” They squeaked out.

“Good. Then get to work.” He let go of their jaw so he could leave the office, leaving them alone with Dirk’s lifeless corpse. 

The door slams behind them. ~~~~~~ The sound of a door slamming shut startles Thei out of their sleep, causing them to quickly sit up and look around.

Their heart was pounding in their chest, their face and pillow were soaked with tears, and a dull ache radiated from their jaw.

They took a moment to breathe and to wipe their tears away. 

It was just a nightmare.. Their hands were still shaking.

It was just a nightmare. But it felt and looked so real, why did their jaw hurt?

.. Was it just a nightmare?

They hesitantly got out of bed. There was one way to check for sure if it was or not.

The shaking wouldn’t stop as they left their room and slowly went to find Dirk’s room.

They’d pass by a few maids on the way there, but they’d jump as a supply closet door slammed shut behind one of them. The slow closing mechanism must be broken again, that explains that.

They took a deep breath as they approached Dirk’s room. Normally they’d knock before entering, but they wouldn’t want to wake him if he was asleep.

The door knob felt cold and heavy as they twisted it and slowly pushed the door open just enough to peak inside.

Sure enough, Dirk was asleep in his bed. They could see that he was breathing from the door. He was alive, it was just a nightmare. 

They slowly closed the door before making their way back to their room. They doubted they’d be able to fall back asleep, but maybe they’d be able to rest knowing that despite the fact that their king was cruel, he wasn’t that cruel.

After all, it was just a nightmare..

Right?

~~~~~~~~

General: @emmettnet @thebluejayswhump

#whump #whump tag #thei tag #dirk tag others #ff teddy tag others #forgotten familiarities #unreality #major character death #mental whump #emotional whump #multiple whumpees #possessive whumper #repetition #ask to tag #owe writing

[icypantherwrites]

Fanfiction: Gone (9 chapters total)

Summary:  It’s finally happened. After constantly feeling like the most useless member of Voltron, of being the seventh wheel with nothing of value to add to the team, Lance has been acknowledged for his sharpshooting talents. Just one small problem: it’s the Galra Empire that’s taken notice. They want to use his talents to turn him into an assassin and they’ll do anything they have to, use any measure necessary, to break him down and mold him into their own perfect soldier.

#voltron #vld #fanfiction #fanfic #icypanther #sniper #sniper lance #brainwashed lance #lance whump #whump #torture #violence #brainwashing #mental whump #emotional whump #manipulation #lance angst #langst #BAMF Lance #Gone #series

[whumpering-heights]

Villain recovery arc: I'm here

MASTERLIST

tagging: @pumpkin-spice-whump @octopus-reactivated @fanastyfinder @whumpy-arts-and-crafts @arsonfrogger @burtlederp @harri-00 @akito-fuckn-fear @potatoo-angst

CWs: mental whump, implied brain damage, cognitive trouble, clumsy caretaking, aftermath of starvation, emeto mention, child abuse mention, arguments

Villain woke from his nap. His head pounded and every muscle was sore, yet he smiled when he saw Hench sitting next to his bed.

In bits and pieces, the memory of the reunion came back. It wasn’t a dream, though it still felt fake. He hadn’t woken up back in his cell as he had feared.

“You’re really alive,” he muttered, still foggy with sleep. “But… I don’t understand, how?”

Henchwoman looked at him oddly. Fondly, with a smile, but there was something tight around their eyes.

“I got out just before the lab went up, Boss,” she explained. “I’ve told you that three times already.”

Villain tried to remember when that must have been. He remembered waking up to the IV, and hugging Ada. Had that been the same event, or was he cobbling together different moments? His headache got worse, and he struggled not to give up and simply stop thinking.

“How.. How long have I been out? Of Hero’s cell, I mean?”

“Same as last time I told you, about a day.”

Her voice had a slight edge to it. Was it annoyance Villain heard? Or just pity? He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. He could feel the tremors in them, the way fever was making his skin electric. He sighed, but then stopped and frowned.

He was upset about something. But he couldn’t remember what. He looked over at Hench, in the hope seeing her would help him remember. The young woman looked at him expectantly.

“Do you?” she asked.

Villain blinked in confusion.

“I’m… What? Did you ask me a question?”

“Yes!” Hench clearly said that a bit louder than she’d meant to, and cleared her throat to cover it up. “I mean, yes. I asked if you need anything?”

“My brain back, that would be nice.”

Hench didn’t seem to think it was funny.

Well, why not? It was funny! Like she could just pick up his brain at a grocery store. Hello, I’d like one coherent mind, please. That’ll be 3,99. Villain chuckled at the absurdity of that mental image, and then lost control over the reaction, like he was slipping on ice. It wasn’t even a good joke, but he couldn’t really stop, to the point he was having trouble catching his breath. Oh, if he died right now, wouldn’t that be a laugh? All that trouble to escape Hero, and he’d pass away cackling like a madman at his own dumb quip.

Once his fit calmed down, he groaned. Laughing had jostled his injuries, and though the painkillers made the pain nice and muted, he could feel his frail body straining under the excercise.

He turned his head away from Hench when he caught her eyes.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” he muttered.

“Like what?” she asked. Villain didn’t answer, because he couldn’t find the words. He just knew Henchwoman’s face made him want to hide under the blanket.

Thankfully, he was pulled from his thoughts when Vigilante entered.

“How are we doing here?” he asked. “Everything alright?”

“I dunno,” answered Henchwoman, speaking over Villain’s bed to Vigilante.

“He’s not thinking straight. How long do you think he’ll be like this?”

Villain’s brows lowered. Please don’t talk about me like I’m not here, he thought. I am. I can still hear you, even if I might not remember in five minutes.

“I don’t know,” answered Vigilante. “He’s still recovering. Give it time. He’ll come back to himself eventually.”

“I’m here,” said Villain, in a tone more bitter than he’d aimed for. Vigilante smiled and looked at him.

“Hey, good job on remembering! Yeah, you’re in my place, and-”

“No,” interrupted Villain, more insistent. “I’m here, I can hear you. I’m stupid, not deaf. And I’m already myself. I can’t become any more than I am. This is it. Okay? ”

The other two were silent for a moment. Villain wondered if they even understood what he’d been trying to say. Did he even understand his own words? The fever was making it so hard to focus. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself.

“Hey, you’re not stupid,” Vigilante tried to console. “Your brain is going to bounce back, don’t worry. Here, I brought you some food.”

Villain decided it wasn’t worth it to argue. He was too tired for it, anyway.

He reached out his thin, pale hands to take the ceramic bowl. It appeared to be filled with a chicken soup, about halfway. He cocked his head at the small amount.

“That’s all?” He picked up the spoon and let some of the nearly clear broth fall back into the bowl. Hunger made his stomach pang and he glanced at Vigilante sideways. “Hero didn’t starve me enough, then?”

Vigilante sat down next to his bed, on the opposite side Henchwoman sat at.

“No need for the attitude. I’d love to give you more, but we need to take it slow. Otherwise, you’ll be puking all over the bed.”

Ah yes, Villain supposed that made sense. When Sidekick had made him pancakes, that exact thing had- Sidekick.

He nearly dropped his spoon when he remembered.

“Where’s Sidekick?”

Vigilante wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Look, Villain-”

“Where is he?” asked Villain, a little more frantic now. He needed the kid to be safe, he had to know he was alright. And he… Sidekick always made it better, right? Yes, how could he recover without his help? He had been his support so long, why wasn’t he here right now? Vigilante’s jaw tensed.

“Listen, Sidekick… He didn’t come with us.”

Villain couldn’t believe his ears. “You left him there?” he accused.

Vigilante held up his hands in defense.

“I tried, okay? But he didn’t want to come, and I-”

Villain squinted, disapproval clear on his face. “So you just left him.”

“Well.. Yes!” exclaimed Vigilante. “What did you want me to do, haul him over my shoulder and carry him out?”

Villain knew he was being sarcastic, but he felt the anger inside rise. “Yes! You did the same with me! Why would you save me, and leave the kid! What kind of priorities..?” he shook his head.

“I’d rather you left me there!”

At that, Henchwoman interfered. “Don’t say that, you deserved to get out!”

“Not as much as him,” rebuked Villain, before turning his anger back on Vigilante. “You don’t understand. Hero, he beats him. If he’s there and I’m not, he’ll be in deep trouble.”

Vigilante closed his eyes, as though bracing for a hit.

“I know,” he said softly, which only fueled Villain’s disbelief more.

“And you’re okay with that?!” he asked, voice getting near to cracking.

“Of course I’m not okay!” Vigilante’s skin had become flush, and when he finally looked at Villain, his eyes were dark. “Do you think that helps me sleep at night? No, I hate it just as much as you. I know what Hero is like,-”

“You don’t,” argued Villain.

“I do!” he insisted. “For longer than you, even.”

“Then how can you abandon Sidekick like that?” yelled Villain, face turning red.

Vigilante rose from his chair.

“Because I know what it’s like to be his friend!” he’d raised his voice and his fists were clenched.

“I know, okay? Don’t act like I’m on his side, I’m not! I can’t just kidnap someone who isn’t ready to leave, that’s not how that works! So shut up about it!”

The silence was deafening. The second the words left Vigilante’s mouth, he saw the effect they had: Henchwoman looked close to crying, and Villain had shut off. Although his brows were still furrowed in anger, he was simply staring into the middle distance.

Vigilante knew he was a big guy of solid muscle, and even taller than Hero. Usually, that made him feel like a protector. But right now it had only freaked everyone out. He rubbed his face.

“Crap, I’m sorry guys, I-I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s alright,” Henchwoman said softly, though Vigilante could tell how she was shaking a little. “Let’s not fight anymore, please.”

“Y-yeah,” Vigilante said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful. Villain? Can you hear me?”

Villain startled.

“Hm, I hear you,” he mumbled, but didn’t turn to look at him. “Please don’t hurt him.” His voice was monotone. “I don’t want Sidekick to get hurt.”

Vigilante sighed. Villain wasn’t seeing him anymore. Henchwoman took the bowl, before Villain’s loose grip on it would cause it to spill.

“Don’t worry Boss, I’ll be here until you come back to yourself.”

Villain blinked, the only sign he’d even registered the words. His voice was higher and strained.

“Sidekick… Is he gonna be okay? I didn’t mean to get him hurt..”

Henchwoman swallowed, their lips pressing tighter for a moment.

“I know. But hey, I’m here now. We’re both okay, let’s focus on that.”

When she guided the man to lean back into his pillows, some clarity seemed to return to Villain’s face, and he smiled.

“Yeah, you’re alive… I missed you so much. How…” He frowned. “How did you survive?”

Hench closed her eyes a moment to collect herself before responding.

“I made it out just before it went up.”

“Oh.” Villain sounded surprised. “I’m sorry, you sound annoyed. Are you?”

“No, just…” Hench pulled up the blankets a little. “I’m just tired.”

“Me too,” said Villain. “You’re a good kid. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Though Henchwoman seemed happy with those words, Vigilante couldn’t help but wonder who Villain thought he was talking to.

#whump #my stuff #my writing #behind the masks #villain #villain whump #vigilante #whump writing #mental whump #implied brain damage #cognitive trouble #clumsy caretaking #aftermath of starvation #emeto mention #child abuse mention #arguments #henchwoman

[vulnerabilityvendor]

I know. I'm sorry about that. But remember, you're only sedated because of your own behavior.

Ok, but why does this sound exactly like a whump prompt??

#moon knight wump #marc spector whump #mental ward #mental hospital #psych ward #mental whump #hospital whump #drugged #sedated #sedation #groggy #barely conscious #whump prompt

[whump-on-a-log]

No thoughts, except Whumper thinking their conventionally ugly Whumpee is pretty, and never doing any visible damage to them. The way they constantly tell Whumpee all their flaws, and that only they think they're beautiful and that no one else could or would ever love them the way they do makes up for it though...

𝔯𝔢𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡

#whump #intimate whumper #whump ideas #pretty whumpee #mental whump #non-physical whump

[allthewhumpygoodness]

Big fan of when a character's grief/trauma/guilt manifests as physical symptoms. Big fan of characters keeping things so tight inside them that it makes them sick. Big fan of when the line blurs between a character's mental trauma and physical illness until it's hard to tell which is which anymore.

#whump #k once i did a fic where a character had pneumonia #and also was in Big Mental Distress and mentally going over all the people he'd lost in his life etc #and i gotta say i'm proud of myself for bringing up the recurrent motif of his chest being pianful...like is it from being sick & coughing #or bc he's grieving so badly it's putting him in physical pain #ANYWAY

[youneedsomeprompts]

~ IN A VOID ~ FORESHADOWING DEPRESSION PROMPTS

requested by: @crochet-cafe request: How can I foreshadow or hint that my character has severe depression? I want to make the reveal a big deal when it happens and catch readers off guard

Feel free to use and reblog!

having other characters associate the person's mood with their character traits ("they're always grumpy")

masking their depression really well but being absolutely drained and a lot worse as soon as they're alone

appearing as a 'neutral' person, when their neutral mood actually indicates the emptiness they feel inside

their growing passivity makes them fade into the background

the more excited other people get the more downcast the person becomes (they get perceived as a killjoy)

they don't accept invitations anymore

they always say they're busy but can't answer the question what exactly they're doing

they show no emotional reaction in a fight

everyone says about the person that they have such a hard shell

they usually have been very caring and sensitive to everyone around them but suddenly they seem like they couldn't care less

for more inspiration/how to help: ~ SHOWING SUPPORT FOR SOMEONE WITH DEPRESSION ~ WRITING PROMPTS

note: If you or someone you know feels that way and really needs help, please seek professional help <3

#writing prompts #prompt list #prompts #angst prompts #whump prompts #hurt/comfort prompts #writing inspiration #writing ideas #writers on tumblr #writeblr #depression cw #depression tw #mental illness cw #mental illness tw #mental health struggles cw #mental health struggles tw #foreshadowing prompts #10 prompts

[whumppppp]

Silent screams

#emotional whump #whump #whump community #whump prompt #whumblr #whump art #whump scenario #experimentation whump #asian whump #labwhump #mental hospital #hospital whump #restrained #captivity #webcomic #webtoon

[whumpbump]

Cw: self harm

Whumpee sat in the day room at the behavioral health center that they’d been at for a few days, coloring quietly, when a patient in a blue shirt whose name Whumpee didn’t know came over crying, grabbed a colored pencil and began sawing at their wrist. Whumpee fearfully tried to deter them but to no avail, they continued, crying harder. Whumpee ran out of the day room to a group of staff. “Hey, the person in the blue shirt is really upset, they need help-“ Whumpee started but was cut off by Nurse One. “Yes they just had a tough phone call, just leave them alone.” “No they need help. Please.” Whumpee was having a hard time getting their words out because they were so frantic. Two more nurses came out from behind the desk quietly circled Whumpee who at this point, was pretty worked up. The poor patient in the blue shirt was just in the other room and no one seemed to believe Whumpee. As the three nurses started closing in on Whumpee, a different patient in a blue shirt (mentioned by the nurse who had the phone call, separate from the one with the pencil,) walked out and said “Hey Patient One is trying to cut themselves with a pencil.” The staff turned their heads, observed, and ran over, leaving Whumpee by themselves to deescalate alone in the hall. They REALLY needed to start learning names.

#whumpee #whumpblr #this happened to me #the nurses didn’t believe me #I didn’t realize there were two people wearing the same colored shirt #whump blog #mental whump

[whump-or-whatever]

Non-verbal Anxiety/Stress Indicators

For all those whumpees who try to hide how they're feeling from others or might not even realize themselves what they're feeling.

Wringing hands

Tapping/shaking foot or leg

Rubbing hand along leg or arm

Fidgeting with sleeve/zipper/loose string/etc.

Body-focused repetitive behaviours (twirling hair, biting nails, picking at skin, etc.)

Pacing/rocking/inability to sit still

Tapping fingers

Touching/rubbing face

Holding on to a comforting item

Darting eyes

Positioning oneself with back to wall/facing door

Looking around for potential exists/sources of danger

Staring unseeingly into the distance

Trying to make oneself seem smaller (slouching, crossed arms, curling up, leaning on something, etc.)

Angling body away from others

Avoiding eye contact

Tense facial features (clenched jaw, furrowed brow, pursed lips etc.)

Stiff body and posture

Cold hands/chills

Clammy hands/sweating

Numbness in extremities/chest pain

Being unresponsive/unable to speak

Quick shallow breathing/difficulty getting a full breath

Paler than usual complexion

Feel free to add any others y'all can think of!

#I should clarify that these behaviours don’t always indicate anxiety #and that anxiety manifest different for everyone #no one person is likely to display all of these signs #whump #anxiety whump #stress whump #mental health whump #emotional whump #anxious whumpee #whump idea #body focused repetitive behavior #whump prompt

[ohtobeleah]

Battle Scars // Bob Floyd

-> An Official Flight Deck Blurb

Summary: Robert Floyd doesn’t take his shirt off at the beach. But when the shirt stays on during sex? You start to wonder what he’s hiding.

Warnings: Mentions of parental Abuse. Mentions of Child Neglect. Foster Care Systems. Mentions of family trauma. Bob Floyd x Female!reader.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author Note: Day Nine of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: ‘Scar reveal’ Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

People have secrets they keep close to their chest. Some are small enough to not cause a ripple effect onto others, and some are big enough to destroy lives, crush dreams, alter realities. 

Bob Floyd wore his secrets across his chest. Scars that made his torso look like the Rocky Mountains. Littered with small to medium size scars that healed wrong, healed over, or healed with anger. 

They weren’t pretty. If anything he wore a roadmap of abuse on his body that was hard to face in the mirror every morning. He never wanted to subject anyone to the sight of his scars, some red and raised, others faded but turned a deep purple in the cold. 

“Mornin’ gorgeous—“ Bob's morning voice was something you’d never get tired of hearing. Those lazy Sunday mornings where you’d wake up to find the Naval Aviator already awake and reading whatever book he brought with him in his overnight bag were starting to become your favourite thing. “How’d you sleep mama?” 

“Like a log.” You yawned, creeping closer and closer to where Bob sat on the opposite side of your bed. His T-shirt clad back pressed up against the headboard while his legs stayed covered by the sheets and covers of your warm, inviting bed. “I thought I had an early body clock.” Being a single mum and small business owner left little to no time for sleep-ins, which usually meant you were up before the sun got a chance to kiss the horizon good morning. “But here you are, Mr Military Man with your internalised alarm system.” 

Bob couldn’t help but to chuckle as he closed his book and placed it on the bedside table you cleared just for him. Whatever this was between you and Robert Floyd you really liked it. He was the first man you’d ever paid attention to since your fiancé died. Bob was like a breath of fresh air and so was North Island. No one knew you, no one judged you, no one cared about the demons that haunted you. 

“Force of habit I guess.” He shrugged before he sunk lower and lower, meeting your eyeline once again as you both settled in under the warmth of the covers. “How long do you think we have before Oliver wakes up?” 

“Hmmm—“ You tried to hide your eagerness through a hum that kept your lips pressed together in a fine line. “He knows Sundays are bacon and egg roll mornings.” You began as your arms wrapped around Bob's shoulders. 

His lips were hot against the supple skin of the juncture of your neck, in response your body ignited, sending waves of energy through your body that only Bob could create. He was just different. 

“So like, five? Ten minutes maybe?” Bob looked up from where he’d been leaving small

but affectionate kisses against your collarbone and met you with a lust filled gaze. He was falling head over heels in love with you. “Because I only need like two—“ 

“Oh well in that case we have time for two rounds.” You teased before rolling yourself up and over to straddle Bob's waist. He let you easily. If he wanted to, he could have fought back. The thing with Robert Floyd was that he had a sleeper build. He wasn’t as buff as some of the other Naval Aviators that frequently stopped by the Flight Deck for their morning or mid afternoon caffeine hit. With the amount of sugar and caramel syrup you dosed Hangman with on a regular basis you weren’t entirely sure how he managed to maintain his muscle density. 

But for as much as Bob was a gentle soul, he was strong and fast. He enjoyed a long run every now and again. But for all intents and purposes—he let you be on top. He liked the view. After all, he was just a simple man. Boobs were pretty cool. Especially your boobs.

“Can I ask you a question?” You cooed all the while Bob's hands trailed up your hips. You wore nothing but one of those silk nightgowns that made you look like an angel. The bed hair was cute, Bob liked you first thing in the morning. It was a side of you only he got to see. The side before the makeup, before being put together– he liked it. The authenticity. For what it was worth, Bob just really liked you. 

“Depends what the question is?” Bob replied as his hands squeezed at your hips, rolling you gently back and forth over his boxer brief clad length. “I’m kidding, ask away.” 

He had been expecting the question sooner rather than later. And with how things were going between the two of you Bob knew he would have to come clean. He was just afraid of what you might say. What you might think, and if his scars would be a deal breaker. They were, after all, a part of him that he couldn’t get rid of. 

But even expecting the question to come didn’t make it any less hard to hear. 

“How come you never take your shirt off?” You wanted to approach the question as politely as possible. “You don’t have to tell me, if you aren’t comfortable, I just—I’ve just noticed.” You saw the hesitation in Bob's baby blue eyes as he searched your face for any kind or fear. “Again, you don’t have to tell me.” You reminded the man lying beneath you as his hands stilled on your hips. “But I want you to know that if you’re hiding some sort of third nipple under there—I’m all for it.” You tried to make the conversation a little more lighthearted, Bob could appreciate that. He smiled softly at you while his hands needed at your hips like dough. 

Bob didn’t say much after that, he simply laid beneath you stroking his hands up and down your exposed thighs as his mind ran rampant with memories. He hated his scars, but most of all he hated the people who gave them to him. 

“You’re a waste of space!” The memories were all too prominent even after all these years. “I wish I never gave birth to you!” His mothers words were as cruel as she was violent and unpredictable. 

“You’re the abortion I wish I fucking had.” The abuse Bob endured went with him everywhere, even well into his adult life. He learned not to complain, to cause a scene. “Stop crying for fucks sake kid.” He learned not to show emotion when it wasn’t asked or needed. 

“You did this to yourself, if you had stayed out of the way, none of this would be happening.” But most importantly he blamed himself, for hiding his scars that clearly showed how strong he really was. 

Bob sat up to meet your eyeline. For a man haunted by so many scars he certainly had the softest of eyes. He gently tucked your hair behind your ear and placed a fleeting kiss against your forehead, all before he reached up and over to take his shirt off over his head. 

What you saw rendered you speechless for a few moments as you took in the terrain that was your, well, you wanted to say boyfriend but Bob wasn’t even officially that, torso—littered with scars he surely would have called ugly on the best of days. 

“It’s a lot.” Bob whispered just barely above an audible level as he chucked his shirt off to the side. “But they’re not going away, ever.” It was almost as if Bob had struggled with that notion himself. He wished he could have them removed—expunge from his record. The tales of parental abuse he suffered before collecting more in the foster care system. 

“Oh Bob—“ You tentatively reach out to glide your fingers over one of the many scars that were angry, red and what seemed to be risen. “You don’t have to hide these from me, ever.” Bob's heart was racing a million miles inside his chest, no one had ever touched him the way you were now. With so much love, with kindness, with understanding. “What happened here?” Your fingers gently glided across the scar down near the waistband of Bob's boxers. Right above his hip bone. 

“One of the kids in one of the foster homes I was in.” Bob began, you could tell he was uncomfortable talking about it, but you didn’t stop him. You knew if anything he would stop if he didn’t want to talk about it. “I think his name was Ryan, had an old bow with those barbed edges on it.” You knew where the story was going. “It got wedged in there deep when we were playing around, but our foster parents didn’t have insurance, so they weren’t gonna take me to get it removed—so they ripped it out and poured bourbon over it.” Your heart sank into your stomach. “I was nine.” 

“That must have hurt a lot.” You replied gently as Bob laid back down in your bed with his hands resting behind his head. His roadmap of scars on full display. “What happened here?” You moved your hand to the longer scar across his left peck. It seemed less angry, more healed, but the story attached was just as heartbreaking. 

“When I was eighteen I went back to see my parents.” Bob's eyes were tearing up. He hadn’t ever spoken about this to anyone. Not even the people he trusted with his life. You were the only one. “It was a mistake, I shouldn’t have, but I needed some closure.” Your fingers gently ran the expanse of the scar that had never been touched but another person. Bob wanted to stop you out of fear you’d leave—but he willed you to continue because it felt comforting to be touched with such warmth. “My dad ran at me with a knife the second he saw me—I remember he was rambling on about how I broke my mum's heart when I went with CPS. I’m lucky it was only a graze, he still got me good enough to leave a scar though.” 

“Bob, honey, I don’t even know what to say.” You were a mother yourself. You couldn’t ever imagine doing anything of the sort to your son. Bob reached up to guide your hand across his torso to his wrist—you’d seen those small circle cluster scars time and time again but never bothered to ask what they were from. 

“These are from where my mum and my foster mum would put their cigarettes out on me.” Again, it made your heart sink, but Bob never faulted as he guided your hand around his body, back up to his stomach just above his belly button. Ridged abs peaked through the softness of his skin. “This one is from when I had to have surgery after I got an infection. Doctor said I could have died if my friend and I didn’t walk ourselves to the emergency room.” 

Bob wanted you to touch every last scar that littered his body, he wanted your gentle touch to heal his old wounds. So you let him guide you as your straddled his waist and looked down at the roadmap of torture. 

“These smaller ones are from when my dad swung the whipper snipper at me, I was in his way, I shouldn’t have been there, I remember they wouldn’t stop bleeding and ruined a bunch of my shirts.” 

“None of these are your fault.” All his life, until he joined the Navy and ran as far away as he could, Bob had been told every scar he collected was his fault. The abuse he suffered as a child, from his parents and in foster homes, was his fault. “Someone who loves you doesn’t do this to you.” You reminded the man who laid beneath you. He could hardly breathe with how hard his heart was hammering in his chest as your hands trailed over the expanse of his torso. “Bob I don’t know your history, but from what I can gather about you in the present you are all but the problem.” You were the first person to ever tell him he didn’t deserve the scars he wore, the scars he hid. 

“You’re a really good person, you know that right?” Flashes of your own war blinded your vision for a moment. The lies and haunting rumours that had you running as far away as possible could came flooding back to you in a blur as Bob sat up to kiss your lips softly, tenderly, and all so lovingly. “You don’t know how much you mean to me baby.” The term of endearment sent a shiver down your spine you weren’t expecting. But you welcomed it nevertheless. Bob was a dream, your new beginning. 

“I reckon you’ve got about three minutes to show me.” You teased, deciding now was not the time to bring up your dead fiancé. “With the shirt off—“

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

#ailesswhumptober2023 #leahs whumptober masterlist #bob floyd x female reader #flight deck // bob floyd #bob fliyd angst #Bob floyd whump #bob floyd x reader #top gun bob #top gun imagine #top gun fan fic #tw: parental abuse #tw: mental health #tw: scars