vampire whumpee is taken into captivity, bound and starved of blood by whumper for days, maybe weeks on end. the hunger drives them so mad that by the time someone arrives and frees them, they can't hold back from attacking the closest warm object - which happens to be caretaker/ rescuer.
whumpee manages to stop drinking early enough to leave rescuer alive, and they both escape and recover physically. however, whumpee is wracked with guilt, disgusted and horrified with themself. they can't even look rescuer in the eye. they can't bring themself to look at the lingering fear in their gaze, even if rescuer tries to tell them it wasn't their fault or they weren't in their right mind. whumper was right; they really are a monster.
I forgot this is a character in Averils story! But it is. :)
Welcome Henry!
Suicide attempt mention.
-
He tried, he went through with it, he thought it would work. He hadn’t considered it might not- By the time he had woken up in some hospital emergency room with both wrists stitched up, the ink was drying behind some door far away.
It didn’t really matter what he said after that though, not once the hand shake was made and first check handed over. After that he was entrusted to Saint Agathes for perpetuity… or unless the checks stopped.
When he’d woken up in the dimly lit triage room with the scorching pain of each freshly stitched wrist present to inform him what happened… first he felt a crush of anguish and shame for not completing what he sent out to do… then came the fear.
For he had already been decisive. he had chosen blissful removed death instead of this alternative. He was smart enough to know his best option and this disaster was not it.
He spent a few days in that little hospital ward, where nurses were obviously alarmed by him and doctors shook their heads. They had restrained him to the bed before he ever woke so no part 2 of the attempt was in order.
After 4 days of his wrists knitting themselves back together and no infection arose, people in new uniforms came.
They spoke in low voices and injected him with smiles before he could ask who they were. The new uniforms undid his restraints and put his rag doll body into a wheeling chair.
When he groggily tried to protest a soft voice told him he was going to be alright- he was going to be taken care of.
Then there was a ride and a new gown and a new room and new restraints.
The first few months in his “new home” as they called it were foggy at the clearest of times. They called it the acclimation period. It took weeks before he was trusted to not pull at his stitches, months before the sedatives lightened at all.
He wasn’t given a roommate like the rest of the patients due to his perversions so he stayed in solitary silence and adjusted to no longer hearing his own voice speak. He spent hours, weeks and months tracing the tiles in his room… watching the dust float… and willing himself to sleep every moment alone so he could escape his new existence.
But he always woke up.
He was evaluated daily weekly monthly yearly but he suspected the notes rarely varied from their initial lines marked down.
It wasn’t until the second fall that he tried to escape. He had waited. He had watched. But like everything else, he failed. He had made it into the river, not caring if he perished instead of making it across.
But in the late November icey water, they still caught up to him. One guard laid a truncheon over his head. Others drag his limp body out of the shallow water and still others latched the chains on his wrists and ankles which he was led back in as he regained consciousness.
They had made sure everyone had seen him, face bloodied and white with cold. A frame hunched under the weight of clinking restraints. He was to be a lesson.
And with lessons, it is followed through until there is certainty the child has learned. He started ect therapy the next day. They continued it for three years.
He hadn’t tried to elope since. He understood now. They had taught him patiently and thoroughly. There was no escape.
Some patients came and went over time but there was never any discussion of Henry ever leaving. The doctors spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion. Henry would remain a patient until he was wheeled down to the morgue. He only wondered how many years would go by before that happened.
But he didn’t allow himself to wonder about many things. When he did it was often disastrous.
For instance when he considered his little sister. She would be married by now he expected. Likely kids too. He knew they probably told her he had died all those years ago. Hopefully they told her it was an accident.
He knew with certainty that the true purpose of the checks they sent each quarter were never going to be shared with her. If one day when her children were grown up and she was going through her parents affairs in their old age, that the family lawyer would tell her those regular checks sent over decades were another philanthropic contribution the family had a responsibility to uphold. She then would start signing the little slips of paper herself, unaware that a man with a name she had never heard of who looked like ghost of her dead older brother paced that institution’s halls. Or that same man had once carried her on his shoulders. Or took long Sunday walks with her or taught her how swim.
Or, what if they had told her the truth all those years ago? And like the rest of the family, she too has elected it was better to leave him be. That thought was too terrible to consider. That was why he tried not to wonder. Reasonable conclusions had a way of marring into morose tragedies too quickly.
So, he understood life here- it took years to teach him but he understood now. And some routines can be comforting with enough medication and repetition.
That was what made his first roommate after 9 years so shocking.
Averil Lansing. 23 years old from Madison Avenue.
After 9 years of solitude he suddenly wasn’t alone. He wondered if it was a test, a new evaluation… two subjects to be observed… but they seemed more focused on the new patient… Henry was just another piece of furniture.
two whumpees who were held captive together, rescued together, but only one of them is valued enough to be given the care they need. maybe it’s the team leader and the least experienced recruit, a noble and their servant, a royal and their knight. either way, one of the whumpees is receiving far more attention than the other.
however, the two suffered equally in captivity. maybe the whumpee being ignored actually suffered more, trying to protect their superior. regardless, they both have physical and mental wounds to heal from, but only one is getting the care they need.
so how do the two react?
does the “valuable” whumpee revel in getting all the attention to themself? or are they concerned for the other who seems to have been forgotten?
and what about the whumpee being ignored? do they resent their fellow captive? how long does it take for them to break, shocking their peers into realising just how much pain they’re in?
A leader who's been in and out of consciousness, splayed out on the couch, ridden with fever they refuse to disclose to the team. The door opens, telltale that the others are returning.
They force themself onto their feet, swaying slightly, and the room goes dim.
When they blink, Caretaker's hands are tight on their forearm, holding them steady. "Leader? You look terrible, why on earth are you up?"
Prompt idea: Caretaker meets Whumpee who before being kidnapped vowed to never take drugs or drink alcohol— now, that’s all they do in order to get away from the never ending nightmares.
oh yes…very juicy…
even juicier if whumpee used to be an addict and promised never to relapse…🫠
your partner is down for the count with a migraine after a long day at work, their head in your lap
or sick to their stomach after going out to eat with some friends, calling you weakly in the middle of the night from the cold bathroom floor
how about a common cold? they whine about their temperature (too hot, too cold!) while they toss around your big cozy bed, you tell them to sit still so you can place a cool cloth on their forehead
or you drink too much at a friend’s birthday party, they carry you up the stairs to your bedroom, tucking you in with a kiss
maybe you feel lightheaded on a hot summer day, and they’re there with open arms when you stumble
just you and them, forever each other’s one and only caretakers— learning each time the other ails what gets them better the fastest… or not…
Okay it's literally been ages. Welcome back Fie, I've missed you
Masterlist
10-2025
-
The fall happened before he even realized it. One moment he was queueing up for meds and the next he was falling backwards. After the fact he realized one of the manic patients had pushed him out of the way. He probably wouldn’t have fallen so hard if it weren’t for the meds. But he didn’t know.
Hands were helping him up. Then they were holding his wrist, it pulsing hot with something quite wrong.
”Ouch- that’s definitely broken.”
”Derek- I doubt that- oh-“
“Told you-“
“Alright, can you take him down to the infirmary, Dr. Stevens can take a look at it.”
No one asked him anything- but yes, he agreed, his wrist shouldn’t look like that.
The young orderly took his other arm in his grip and took Alfie to an area of the hospital that had always been blurry to him up till now. Before, every time he ended up in the infirmary he was confused with fevers, or dazed from blows to the head.
He was sat on one of the many beds in the large room. Derek took his uninjured wrist and looped a canvas restraint around it- tethering him to the bed. He looked at and tugged slightly, not out of resistance more just to understand it. It was new for him.
”Don’t worry, the doctor will be by to see you soon I’m sure. In the meantime I’m gonna go grab a smoke.” Derek tested the canvas loop too and then left, not expecting a reply from the patient. Derek was fairly new, he only knew Alfred as one of the quiet cowed ones that ghosted around the common room. He didn’t expect any trouble.
Alfie looked at the patients around him. They were all in gowns, most had the canvas loops around wrists, some more had both hands tethered. Most were asleep… or just sedated, one was singing softly. It made him uncomfortable.
”Alfred Finch-“ A very tall man in a white clinical coat was standing in front of him with a file. A flash of being forced into a bathtub of ice while surrounded by a dozen people flickered across his mind. He realized with additional discomfort that this doctor must have been there.
Before Alfie could catch up on what the man was saying he had taken his wrist in his cool hands.
Alfie cried out sharply when the man pressed the swollen, misshapen joint. He tried to swallow the sound but failed.
“You fell back on it?”
He nodded, afraid that if he spoke, he’d lose control entirely as the doctor continued to press firmly on his wrist.
”Yes- well it’s definitely broken. Badly at that I’d say- I’m guessing you broke it in two places.”
A nurse walked up to them. “Nancy, he is going to have to go to Ridgeside to get this xrayed and set. Is there transport available today for him?”
“Yes doctor, there’s staff available.”
”Alright, let's give him something for the drive. How about 15 mg of clonazepam and bring a syringe of B52 on standby if he needs it. What’s his security clearance again?”
Alfie was thoroughly confused and looking back and forth between the two.
”He’s a level 1 but good behavior lately, Harris’s last round fo ECT seems to have done some good.”
The doctor rolled his eyes, “In that case, tell transport to use belt and wrist restraints. I’ll give them a call to tell them he’s coming over.”
Everything after that went quickly, pills taken but no assurance the pain would stop. Then restraints, he hesitated when the orderly held his hand out for Alfie’s right wrist- it was getting more tender by the moment as the shock of the break wore off and they wanted to wrap it in a restraint?
Then he was being taken outside and put in the back of a car. It had the name of the hospital on the door. Two men locked the back doors and filed into the front. A cage divided him and from them in the front.
”Field trip Mr. Finch! One of them called cheerily.
His eyes flicker open. He looks to one side, wary of a blurred figure in the corner of his visison. Anything could be a danger with the state he’s in. Any unfamiliarity could pose a threat; his fevered mind does what it can to grasp at a sense of security.
‘Who did this to me?’ His voice comes weaker than expected. He reaches out — or rather, he tries to — but somebody lowers his hand back down to his side.
‘Rest, sir. You are not well.’
The sheets are pulled further over him in an attempt to soothe him. The sensation unsettles him, and he tries to push himself up. That same question comes again—
‘Who did this to me?’
‘Hush now.’ A hand comes to his brow. ‘We cannot have you upsetting yourself again.’
That hand sweeps back the hair from his forehead, disappears for a moment, then returns with something soft and damp which is dabbed against his face. The coolness of it is only a temporary relief, but it’s bliss nonetheless.
‘There you are. Soon you’ll feel much better, sir.’
thinking about a whumpee who screams so much that they lose their voice (either temporarily or forever, depending on how nice you are to your whumpees)
would communication with their rescuers become impossible? are they unable to share information that would help identify their captor?
would whumper loses interest in hurting them? is there no use in a toy that no longer screams for them?
would it prevent them from screaming for help as whumper drags them away?
would it stop them from telling caretaker what’s wrong? where hurts, what triggers them?
for a pet whumpee: would they be of any value anymore? how much would be knocked off the price for a pet who can’t even respond to their master?
would it isolate whumpee from their friends? leave them no longer able to share jokes and join in with conversations?
OOH OOH! Imagine psych whump where the whumpee used to be a doctor themselves! Doesn't even have to be an ex-psychiatrist, can be the local surgeon who slipped up somewhere and now they're stuck in this position.
Answering these two asks together:
Hello! I know you like to write about vintage hospitals, but I was wondering if I can request a victorian asylum whump? I think reading that from you would be interesting
***
1890
The summons came before morning rounds. Dr. Edmund Thatcher was led not to a ward, but to a quiet consultation room adjoining the hospital offices. Two orderlies stood by the door. Their presence unsettled him—strange attendants for so small a conference—but he schooled his features into a semblance of composure.
He knocked upon the half-open door of the familiar room. At the desk sat Dr. Pembroke, a physician with whom he had exchanged cordial words in passing. Standing beside him were two other men who had been his professors just a few short years prior.
Pembroke looked up as he entered, his brow furrowed.
“Sit down please, Dr. Thatcher,” he said. His tone, usually genial, bore a stiffness that had never been there before.
The young doctor obeyed, though his chest tightened. Upon the desk lay a neat stack of papers—notes signed in familiar hands, men whose lectures he had once attended with reverence. All three before him looked implacably grave. There was no doubting there was something very wrong afoot.
God—he thought when it dawned on him what was happening—they meant to ask for his resignation. Dr. Goethe, Mr. Trevelyan… he knew he had wrinkled collars, that he had been vocal in his condemnation of what he deemed the “old ways”…. That many found him irritating and nuisance.. And then when he treated Trevelyan’s daughter… They had come for him now.
Pembroke might’ve read the realization on his face but did not show it, instead he cleared his throat, his eyes dropping to the papers as though to spare himself, “Thatcher… there have arisen a number of apprehensions concerning the state of your health of late—”
Edmund’s brows drew together. His health? Of all of the things he anticipated Pembroke to say hadn’t expected that.
“Your judgment—your reckless and manic inclination towards methods of no proven merit, your contempt for established practice—” Pembroke’s voice, though steady, faltered for a moment. “Your superiors have expressed grave concern at your disregard for the established norms of medicine as well as for yourself and your patients. Notes and testimonies have been carefully compiled, and in summation it is the belief of Dr. Goethe, Dr. Simms, and of the gentlemen assembled here, that you labour under a grievous malady of the mind.”
Edmund’s mouth opened and closed again. The words fell upon him with a stillness that was almost numbing. But he remained still for a moment, he neither leapt to his feet nor raised his voice. Instead, he clasped his hands tightly upon his knee and forced his tone into steadiness.
“Dr. Pembroke…” He started, in a tone that belied his shock and confusion, “-You know me. You have seen my work. Whatever slanders those men are saying, it was grief but more likely just malice that guided their pens. You cannot, in earnest, believe me unsound.”
Pembroke’s mouth tightened. For a fleeting instant, his expression almost betrayed pity. But then his gaze returned to the documents before him, and his shoulders squared.
“I cannot gainsay the judgment of my superiors. Nor, can I wholly dissent from it. And to observe a man in the corridors is no true measure of the state of his mind. Edmund—if I may— after reading the accounts of your erratic conduct, your obstinate resistance to reason, your utter defiance to careful guidance—all stand clearly recorded in Dr. Goethe’s observations, I agree and endorse their reason for concern. You may not see it but you and I both know how often a man is blind to his own derangement.”
“Is this on account of Ms. Trevelyan? No one could have saved her. That I employed methods more modern than some would countenance does not mean I hastened her death—that is obvious to anyone of education!” His voice broke despite his effort at restraint. Ms. Trevelyan’s death was tragic and plagued him deeply but he suspected what really disturbed Mr. Trevelyan, her father and member of the board, was that she had wanted to marry the very doctor that treated her. While he was not lacking in pedigree or education, he certainly wasn’t a suitable match for the heiress. That had been clear to all involved.
Professor Fine spoke then for the first time. “Your rash procedures had already been viewed with unease long before that lamentable catastrophe. But after such a clear lapse of judgment, we could no longer remain idle.”
Pembroke resumed, his calm voice implacable. “However, in spite of all, a benefactor has been moved by a charitable regard for your service to the hospital, however misguided, and has interceded on your behalf. They have secured you a place at St. Agathe’s.”
The private asylum. They meant not merely dismissal, but committal. They meant to confine him. Dismissal he might have endured; as he knew he had been difficult, yes—contentious with his superiors, impatient with their antiquated ways—but that they should go so far?
“You cannot be serious.” He strove for levity, punctuating with a laugh but his voice came out flat and the laugh hollow, fear betraying him. “I am of sound mind. If you wish me to depart, I can tender my resignation at once—I—”
Pembroke cut him off gently. “I shall myself oversee your admittance, Edmund. You will be well cared for.”
“This—this is insane.”
Pembroke did not reply, but looked to Dr. Clarkson, who had until then observed in silence. With a small inclination of his head, Clarkson stepped to the door, “Fellows,” he called into the hall, “your assistance is required.”
The orderlies Edmund had completely forgotten entered at once. His throat constricted when he saw the irons in their hands.
He had himself ordered those restraints for a number of deranged patients, deeming them a necessary evil. Most often for their own safety as much as for others. Most poor wretches were sent to the state asylum; a fortunate few, whose families could afford it, to the more tolerable refuge of St. Agathe’s. He never relished treating those patients when they cycled through their wards.
“The patient is ready to be conveyed to the carriage,” Clarkson announced.
Edmund looked from face to face in disbelief. They cannot mean it. They would not—surely they would not.
In a short few minutes he had been cast down from his stately position of doctor and educated man in the institution to the lowliest of patients. It was unbelievable to him.
A large hand closed on his wrist to maneuver it into the waiting cuff. Something gave way in his chest—dignity splintering into panic. He half-rose, breath catching.
“No!—Please don’t—Dr. Pembroke,” he said quickly, his words falling into an urgent rush. “These are not necessary. You have my word—I’ll walk beside you of my own accord, I’ll submit myself quietly, but please—” His eyes fell, helplessly, to the chains.
The options that his mind were circling through at rapid pace seemed to dwindle by the moment. He needed to get out of here- out of this. But at this very moment he needed to convince them to not restrain him.
Not that. Not to be led out in irons like some raving criminal.
Because from experience he knew, that if they wanted to chain a patient, they would succeed. No amount of resistance ever proved fruitful once the unyielding irons came out. He doubted he would be any different if put to the test.
“Don’t- don’t let them,” Edmund whispered hoarsely.
But the men advanced anyway, the black metal links making noise in their hands. He turned imploring eyes once more upon Pembroke, who met them with grave reserve. The orderlies fastened his wrists and ankles, turning the key in each lock with methodical finality.
Pembroke rose, giving the faintest nod, and stepped to his side. “Come, Edmund. Let us be done with this.”
we've seen stoic whumpee who never shows any emotions and has the 'if im not dead im fine' mindset. okay. cool.
now give me dramatic asf whumpee. a scratch? oh god they see the light. a bruise? their arm! oh no! it has to be amputated! a fever? lord forbid people dont act as their servant for the full day.
and poor caretaker can never know if it's something serious or it's just whumpee overdoing it.
the team’s mission didn’t go to plan. countless injured, dozens killed, the enemy still at large— a failure in its entirety. Leader, inevitably, blames themself.
back at headquarters, they work nonstop. moving from place to place, giving orders, taking calls, checking on injured teammates. even when the fighting is over, there’s still so much to do.
Leader approaches Right Hand to update them on the situation. words tumble over one another as they try to remember everything they need to say, so afraid of forgetting anything because it’s their job to clear up the mess they’ve made. the least they can do is try and make up for the damage they caused, the chaos, the lives they couldn’t save.
then Right Hand interrupts. they put one hand on Leader’s shoulder, lean in close and ask:
Forced medication by those who care about you. The indignity, the betrayal… you’re not crazy… but you won’t say yes to this treatment- the costs are too great- you can’t do it.
But everyone else wants you to keep trying, no matter the cost. You say no but they say you have to- that you will.
You are shocked and weirdly numb when it occurs to you that you don’t have a choice. They will force you if they have to and the thought of that is what horrifies you the most.
