Call me Sora or Luna or Tom (I have no preference) // genderfaun // he/dex // 20 y/o // main account is @gendeerdeer (sometimes I reblog things from that account)
I got very into whump very suddenly about a month ago and I finally decided to make a separate blog for it.
I like: pet whump; carewhumpers; role reversals (whumper turned caretaker; whumper turned whumpee; caretaker turned whumpee); conditioned whumpees; intimate whumpers; sadistic whumpers; whumpee thinking caretaker is their new master (love this in particular); disabled characters (does not matter if it's whumpee, whumper, or caretaker); abandoned whumpees; recovery whump; self punishment
I don't like: lady whump; military whump (these have exceptions); magic whump
It's ok if you like what I don't or if you don't like what I do
Ragdoll masterlist
Oneshots:
Everything has needs
I promise
Shower thoughts <- (a ramble that kinda devolved into a drabble because I was tired)
"youve already written that trope" yesss. i like it a lots. i will be writing it again. 1000 stories of the same trope over and over again for ten million years
Whumpee who moved out to live a minimalist life to prove they can be low-maintenance, but it’s gotten to the point where their apartment is the size of a walk-in closet and their diet is the barest of essentials.
Whumpee used to be difficult — so difficult in fact, that their caregiver, tasked with trying to get them readjusted to real life after their rocky childhood, decided to drop them. Cut them off entirely. Apparently, no salary was enough to be able to deal with their sobbing, traumatised, annoying self. And Whumpee got the message. Loud and clear.
They wallowed in self-pity for about a month, but after that, they vowed to change. To be better. To never rely on anyone like they had relied on Caretaker, to never be difficult, to never be told again that they needed to be locked away for months in an intense rehabilitation program. They could be normal. They could be low-maintenance.
They moved out of their apartment into a one bedroom. They stopped relying on food as a coping mechanism, choosing instead self-punishment by not eating enough. Not eating much at all, in fact. They could be low-maintenance money-wise. In time, they left the one bedroom for a place about as big as a walk-in closet.
They got a job. It was hard, with no experience and no qualifications; anyone could imagine the kind of work that would be. Getting yelled at daily, trying not to get triggered, Whumpee convinced themself it was making them stronger. Making them more well-adjusted. Making them less difficult. If they got yelled at, they deserved it.
They had their own money. Their own savings. They had their own place. A job. They were not difficult. They went outside all the time, did the things they had been scared of, and did them unflinchingly, and every time they did so, they thought of Caretaker. Would they accept them back? Or would they still be too difficult for them?
They didn't know how to downsize any more than this. Were they still a bother? Everyone around them was celebrating their 'accomplishments', but were they really that big of a deal? They were to Whumpee, they were always teetering on the edge of burnout and a meltdown, but would they have been a big deal to Caretaker?
One day, when they were out and about, getting groceries, they bumped into the most unlikely person in this part of town. Caretaker. They were also getting their groceries, cart full of pastries and frozen food, and Whumpee froze. They didn't know what was appropriate. Could they greet them? Or would that have been crossing boundaries after they'd been cut off?
Caretaker looked up and noticed them. They smiled and waved. Whumpee slowly raised their hand to wave back. Caretaker walked up to them, like they were old friends, like Caretaker hadn't pushed them into a month-long depressive, suicidal spiral, like they hadn't cut them off while Whumpee wept and begged for them to stay.
"Is that all you're buying?" Caretaker asked when they got there and took a look at Whumpee's cart. It had a few fruits in it.
"Yes," they choked out. They couldn't be difficult. They couldn't cry.
"Just a quick trip for dessert after dinner?"
Suddenly, Whumpee stood up a big straighter. Well, if life was giving them lemons, they were going to make lemonade. "It's my food for the week," they said proudly. They were not difficult. Not anymore.
Caretaker's face changed. They didn't look proud. "That box of strawberries and a few bananas?"
"Yes."
"That's… not a lot," they said with an awkward little laugh. Whumpee felt all the more proud.
"I know. And I'm buying them with my own money. That I earned with my job."
"Oh, you have a job. Wonderful. Still, Whumpee, to live on this for a week…"
"It's impressive, isn't it?"
Caretaker didn't look impressed. Why didn't they look impressed? Whumpee had to do more. They had to show Caretaker just how impressive they were.
"I'm paying my own rent now as well," they said, pressing for a compliment, for any sign of pride on Caretaker's face. "Would you like to see my place after shopping?" This was overstepping, Whumpee was sure, but Caretaker smiled and nodded.
"Sure."
So they went to Whumpee's place after shopping. Whumpee opened the door to their apartment and walked inside. There was a small kitchen area, a bed almost right beside it, and the tiniest bathroom that could still fit. Caretaker looked taken aback. Still not proud. Or impressed. Whumpee didn't understand — they were finally not being difficult. They finally made it. They had finally solved all of their problems — swept them under the rug — and yet Caretaker wasn't at all impressed.
"This is where you live?" they asked, and Whumpee could've more accurately describe them as horrified. For what?
"Yes," they said confidently. "Without rehab. Without any help."
"Whumpee, that's…"
"Impressive?"
Caretaker swallowed audibly. "I can't believe you chose this instead of a three-month program."
And Whumpee's confidence, all that fake bravado, all came crashing down. "What?" they asked in a small voice. Caretaker still wanted to lock them up?
"Whumpee, you need help."
No. No, they didn't. Not anymore. They didn't need help. "Get out," they said before they could've controlled their reaction.
"Whumpee—"
"Get out!"
Caretaker grabbed their grocery bag and stepped out of the apartment. "I still have the contact info for the rehab centre—"
"Get the fuck away from me!" Whumpee yelled, slamming the door in their face. They locked it and backed away, tears streaming down their face. No, no, no, they couldn't cry, they couldn't throw a fit, they had to be strong, they couldn't be difficult, they just had to— had to— had to—
caretaker who can't let go. who can't loosen their grip on whumpee's wellbeing. the immediate danger has passed, but the knock-on effects are still there. is whumpee slurring because they're tired or because they drank again? are they sleeping in or did they overdose on sedatives? caretaker knows they're being a helicopter caregiver at this point but they just can't let go
content: rocky recovery, past trauma, past implied suicide attempt, past implied substance abuse whump (sedatives)
"Seventy... Seventy-one... Seventy-two."
Caretaker popped the last pill back into Whumpee's medication bottle. They had been counting and recounting it for the past hour. There were seventy-two pills in it. The exact number there should've been.
So why were they still so worried?
Like, what if Whumpee had been pretending to take their medication and been stashing away pills in their room? In a secret drawer? What if counting the pills in the bottle was pointless?
They shook their head and poured the contents of the bottle back out on the table.
"One... Two... Three..."
Two hours later, they were still at the table. Their eyes were puffy and red from crying, and they didn't even know who they were crying for anymore; Whumpee or themself. But they had to check. They had to be sure. They just had to.
"Caretaker?"
Caretaker jumped and quickly wiped their eyes before turning around. "Whumpee? I thought you were asleep. You took your meds about three hours ago, it usually knocks you out— You did take your medication, didn't you?"
Whumpee let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, I did. What are you doing with my sedatives?"
Caretaker quickly swept them all back into the bottle. "Nothing."
"You're counting them."
"No, I'm not."
"No, you definitely are. You don't trust me."
"No, no, that's not it... That's not..."
"Caretaker. You've been crying."
Caretaker wiped their eyes again, as though that'd make the proof disappear. "I just... worry."
"Just because I took too much one time doesn't mean you get to go through my meds now."
"But what if I miss it?" they asked in a small voice.
"Miss what?"
"A, a sign, a warning sign, what if you take ten pills out of the bottle and I don't even notice—"
"That's my decision. You're making yourself sick over what-ifs because I made a dumb decision one night a year ago."
"If I'd counted the pills back then, you wouldn't have ended up in hospital."
"Caretaker... Honey." Whumpee sat down across from them and gently took the pill bottle from their hand. "Stop. You need help. I definitely need help; but at this point, you do too. Caregiver burn-out is a real thing. And this is... obsessive."
"I just had to check..."
"You check too often. For too long."
"If they make me stop checking..." Caretaker choked on a sob. "If someone 'helps me', and I stop checking, what if you... what if you..."
"You can't save everyone," Whumpee said in a soft voice. "I know you want to. I know you want to save me. But you can't save me from myself."
"Why aren't you saying other things? Like, 'stop checking, I'm not gonna do anything'? Why aren't you reassuring me like that?"
Whumpee fell silent. "Because I don't know what I'll do," they admitted after a while. "I'm not doing well. But you need to stop... this. Please. If I do something stupid, let me."
"How can I stop checking when you say stuff like this?" Caretaker snapped, then covered their mouth like they wanted to take it back. Because they wanted to. "Sorry."
Whumpee gave them a tired smile. "Let's go to bed. We both need it."
"But you didn't... you won't..."
"I won't."
Caretaker slowly lowered their hands. They nodded. "Okay. Let's go to bed." It was killing them. Killing them that they couldn't do more. Killing them that even a year out, Whumpee wasn't better. And it was fine, they supposed, that they weren't better, but then they should've been letting them at least check.
For two to three hours every night.
Whumpee stood up and extended a hand. "Come on. Leave my pill bottle and go to bed with me."
"Okay." Caretaker took their hand and stood up. They walked to the corridor together, where they split up to go to their respective rooms. "Can you really make a promise for tonight?" they asked one last time. Whumpee nodded.
"For tonight. Let's take it one day at a time. Tonight, I'm gonna be fine. Good night, Caretaker."
I wish there was a website where you could input a character's description (height, weight, sex, medical conditions, etc.) And a situation (car crash, falls, stabbing, etc.) And it would calculate for you from most to least likely the injuries that character would receive, potential complications, and how long it would take recover. This would make writing injuries SO MICH EASIER if I wasn't guessing at everything
This tool would be so fun and I would definitely use it.
But ALSO! The best thing about writing injuries is that there is so much variation.
I spent a few years as an EMT, and I saw people walk away from vehicle rollovers with nary a scratch... and also, I saw people break their knees because they sat down. I've seen a guy get lifelong impairments out of falling off something twelve feet high, but I know someone who survived being stabbed over a dozen times with no lasting (physical) injuries. There's range.
In nearly any given situation*, a realistic level of injury is anywhere from "Dies within five minutes" to "Dies 73 years later surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren, having zero long-lasting repercussions from that incident."
*Not every situation, mind you; papercuts are generally exempt
If you don't mind a ramble (because I haven't done a fun character injury ramble in a while so I shall use this as an excuse)...
The key to writing realistic injuries is to start with what you want to happen. It's your character and your scenario, so start with what you want to happen for Plot Reasons.
Example:
You know your character gets in a car crash with a wall, and you want them laid up for a week, but able to move around with minimal pain soon after. Cool. Now that you have your desired outcome, you can run through the scenario. You won't want your character ejected or to have a major head impact with the windshield, so they were wearing their seatbelt. You want them to still be able to walk, so the dashboard probably didn't crumple in on them. That means they were either in a car with good safety ratings, or they weren't going super fast, or a combination thereof. But you do want them a little bit injured, enough so they don't want to go on that hiking trip for another week, so make sure they were going fast enough to get some good ol' whiplash.
Another example:
You want your character to make a dramatic exit out the window, and you want them to be limping a little for dramatic effect as they head off into the forest surrounding the castle. Nice, we love a good dramatic window exit. But you want to make sure the character won't be out of commission for the battle in a fortnight's time. This could totally be a first-floor window, or even a second-floor one. But what if it really needs to be the fourth floor, for pre-existing scenario reasons? Well, maybe there's a balcony halfway down. Or maybe there's a nice slanted roof underneath that broke their fall. Or maybe the castle is built into a cliff so the windows on that side of the castle are only ten feet up. Or maybe they clung onto ivy outside, which ripped out of the wall a bit but was enough to slow them down. There's all sorts of ways you can play this off!
Rather than trying to make a scenario and then fitting the injury into it, come up with the injury (or at least, level of injury) and plan out the details of your scenario around it.
The only caution is to make sure to build scenarios realistically—like, I could totally see a character being able to keep going after being stabbed because it was a shallow wound. But if they get a shallow stab wound... and they only get ✨grazed✨ by a bullet... and they happen to survive a terrible car accident because they were in the best possible seat... AND they were pushed out of an airplane but their BFF managed to skydive right out after them and caught them... that's getting to be a little much. XD Any of those is realistic except maybe the last; IDK, I know injuries, not skydiving, but too many near-misses in a single story starts to feel like plot armor.
But yeah. The range of possible injuries from any given scenario is immense. But if you figure out how much you want to injure the character (or how quickly you want to kill them, you evil author you), you can then build out the scenario so it makes sense, and research gets a little easier too because it narrows down what you're looking for.
Teto pants, hunched over the toilet bowl, supported by aching elbows against the seat.
"I can't keep doing this to myself.." She mutters, wiping vomit from her lips with a grimace. Finally feeling stable, Teto stands and carries herself on shaky legs through to her bedroom.
A breath of air finally fills her lungs as she undoes the corset around her waist and sets it aside. next, she pulls off her dress over her head. She winces as she catches her own eye in the mirror leaning against hr dresser. Her ribs are showing. Her waist is so thin that at this point she's surprised there's still organs inside.
Pushing past the urge to vomit again, she pulls a thick beige hoodie over her and pulls shorts to her hips. she can't help but sigh as she lets her hair down then leaves all of her show clothes in a pile on a chair by the door, for washing.
The calm in the house feels almost un-natural in contrast to the roaring of thousands of fans, flashing strobes, waving glowsticks and deafening music, her own voice booming across a sea of people. The quiet hiss of the kitchen hob is oddly grounding as Teto eats some food, choking down bile every so often.
A few minutes later, she can barely eat it, still feeling queasy as she chokes down her food. She turns on the TV and switches away from a broadcast of her own show as quickly as she can.
@cepheusgalaxy @caretaker-lee I had a feeling you might like this
hey guys i rewrote this
1.3k words same content warnings as before
Gumi is here now this is Teto x Gumi content yay
characters: SpokenFor!Teto, Gumi SV
Teto pants raggedly, the breath tearing at her throat as she hunches over the toilet bowl. She retches again, feeling the porcelain press into her elbows, propped up on them.
"I can't keep doing this to myself…" She mutters, wiping vomit from her lips and chin with a grimace. Second time this week that she'd come home from a concert like this. How much longer was she going to have to do this for? She couldn't just let herself go, but this was… not sustainable.
Once Teto finally feels stable, she stands on shaky legs and carries herself out of the bathroom. Piles of mess meet her gaze when she stops for a moment, leaning on the door frame.
"I… can deal with that later. Right now I need to…" Her sentence trails off as she walks through the apartment to her bedroom and attempts a stretch before realising just how tightly her corset is wrapped around her waist. Several gasps of discomfort escape her as she lowers her arms back down. Not until she puts her hands to the ties on the front does she realise how shaky her hands are, such to the point that she can barely untie it. It takes 30 seconds, at least, just to untie it and pry it off of her.
Half of her is embarassed at the great sigh of relief releases as her waist is released from the corset, but the rational half of her knows that she's alone in this apartment. For that, Teto is grateful - she knew she'd need somewhere to escape the fans.
And the paparazzi. Oh god, the paparazzi. Every moment she was outside, at a shop or similar, she would be tailed by at least four people with cameeras. What the fuck did they even want? Surely their readers couldn't gain any interest solely from seeing her go to the supermarket to buy groceries. She'd considered asking Gumi to do it for her, but she didn't want to burden her like that.
The dress itself is all one piece, thankfully, allowing her to simply slip it off over her head. She tries her hardest to avoid her own eye in the mirror, but that only leads to her seeing her body. Emaciated is about the only word to describe it - her ribs are showing, and her waist is so thin that she's surprised there's still organs inside. As quickly as she can, Teto pulls one of her thickest hoodies over her head, a beige hoodie with her own brand logo printed, then replaces her under shorts with a baggier pair of shorts.
Another of the sacrifices she had made for this life was her hair; she had once loved the drills she wore, a staple of her personality. Now, she takes her hair out of its drills and lets it hang loose. The drills reminded her of performing, of flashing lights and roaring fans. It's much more comfortable down.
When she walks through to her living room she stops and stares at the kitchen. She could cook. Could she? Her stomach is definetely telling her that she's hungry, but her brain is telling her that it'd probably be a better idea to call Gumi to come over and cook something for her.
The phone's ringing cuts through the otherwise silent air, making Teto more and more anxious of how she's gonna ask for such a favour. Her decision time is cut short though when Gumi picks up the phone, thankfully seeming not to be in the middle of a task.
"Yeah?" Gumi's tone is light and carries its normal airiness.
"I'm uhm… I need someone to be with right now?" requests Teto, before starting to ramble as Gumi is silent for a few seconds. "I'm sorry if that's too much to ask, you don't have to I'm-"
"Teto, c'mon I'm your girlfriend I'm never gonna say no to spending time with you. Are you sick? D'you need me to pick up anything on the way there?"
"Uh- yes I'm sick-" Teto begins to say that she doesn't need anything before she's cut off.
"I'll get you some medication okay? And I'll get that pizza you like. Anyway, see you in twenty minutes. The paparazzi won't get me, promise!"
With that, Gumi hangs up leaving Teto with the feeling that Gumi had been waiting for the call. They had seen eachother immediately after the show, but she didn't know it was that obvious…
In the mean time she sinks into the sofa in her living room and gazes sideways out of the window. Every time she looks out of the floor-to-ceiling window she remembers how god-awfully expensive the place is. Good thing she's world famous, she supposes. The view outside is nice, especially when its at sunset like right now. Brightly lit cirrus clouds shine on a darkening horizon, fixating Teto's eyes for a while.
A while being twenty minutes, apparently, as Gumi makes herself known entering the place by singing loudly. She quiets once she enters the living room and sees Teto sprawled on the sofa.
"How you feeling?" is her first question.
"I'm… managing." Teto responds, feeling another wave of nausea come over her, which she has to choke down.
Gumi sweeps across the room and before she can protest, she picks up Teto in a bridal carry and plants a kiss on her cheek.
"Do you need me to cook dinner?" Gumi asks, placing herself down on the sofa with Teto now in her lap, to which Teto nods shamefully. "I'll cook dinner, you take the stomach medicine I brought and try not to throw up again okay?"
Teto simply nods again as Gumi stands up and lays teto down on the sofa sideways, throwing a blanket over her and leaving the room. Teto looks at her and smiles contently, barely reaching her weary eyes. She knows she's lucky to have someone who cares this much - a majority of people probably wouldn't want her like this. And yet here she has Gumi to pick her up after performances and cook for her.
Teto turns on the TV and switches away from her own broadcast as quickly as she can, instead going to some nature documentary to listen to while she rests. It really doesn't get any easier, this idol thing.
A matter of minutes later, Gumi enters the room and sits on the portion of the sofa not taken up by Teto, but she quickly re-arranges to have her head in Gumi's lap.
"I love you." Teto tells her, staring upward.
"I love you too. Do you think you can manage pizza right now?" Gumi responds, her airy tone not having left her.
Teto nods and sits up, then turns to face the food and scoots up next to Gumi. The food is good at least. She can taste it most of the time, but the rest of the time she's too busy swallowing down bile to taste anything.
"Is it just the normal stuff?" Gumi asks, earning a nod from Teto. "I'm gonna stay the night, just in case. If that's okay?"
"Of course it's okay Gumi…"
Teto smiles gently as they continue to eat. The more she eats the more she feels like an actual person again, strangely- and the more she feels the marks of that corset wearing off.
It's not until a while later that the two of them are done eating, and Teto can feel that she's thoroughly tired. Sleep pulls at her eyelids, dragging them downward and beckoning her to her bed. Gumi can sense this, seemingly:
"Teto, go sleep. I'll clear up okay? I'll come to bed in a few minutes."
Teto would protest, but at this point she's simply too tired. She lifts herself and drags her way toward her bedroom, then collapses into bed. It's the perfect temperature, thankfully - not too hot and not too cold - for her to lazily throw her hoodie off and bury herself underneath the covers.
A few minutes later she's joined by Gumi, who likewise crawls into bed behind her and extends an arm round her. A soft kiss on the neck is followed by Gumi gently nestling her face against Teto's neck.
wait the tags i forgot the tags from the first one because i didnt remember that it doesnt tag you again. anyway @cepheusgalaxy and @caretaker-lee you were on the tags the first time so uh i assumed you'd want to be again :)
i love when ppl ask writers questions about their ocs and they're like "uhh i think so?" as if they didn't invent them. like they're just mild acquaintances we have
i think artists should take into consideration how their characters' skin tones may change depending on the season. if they tan/freckle in summer and get paler in winter. also should consider tan lines/fades
Every time I shower at my family's cabin it makes me want to write comfort about a whumpee finally getting to shower and finally feeling safe.
They're in the middle of nowhere but they have all the comforts of home. The water is light but warm on their face and their back and they know Caretaker is just a couple rooms away in the kitchen making soup. The previous night when they were watching t.v. they just managed to catch footage of Whumper being arrested on the news. Tonight they're going to make s'mores.
My motivation to write tends to immediately leave my body the moment I step out of the bathroom though
