Can't stop thinking about unconscious whumpee waking up in the middle of being cared for.
The initial realization from carer (or carers) that whumpee is gaining consciousness. "They're coming around" (maybe said with relief, or with quietly uttered curses because whumpee being awake will only make things more complicated at this moment) and "Hey, Whumpee, you with me?" and "You're safe, I've got you."
Whumpee coming to, confused and hurting, while carer struggles to keep them calm so they don't injure themself further. Maybe whumpee is too out of it to remember anything after the fact, but their screams, the pleas and begging, are something carer won't soon forget. Or maybe whumpee remembers every second of it, and afterwards has to face carer knowing that carer has seen them at their most vulnerable.
“Those moves." Caretaker said, wiping sweat from their forehead, "They’re not ones that you learn how to fight traditionally. They’re ones you learn fighting to survive.”
Whumpee blinked.
“So who taught you how to fight?”
Hah. Whumpee let out a faint snort, then huffed and stood up, taking their weapon.
"You don't want to know." Whumpee felt Caretaker's gaze follow them as they walked out, an image of Whumper plastered in their mind.
Nothing better than Whumper making a mistake (leaving a door unlocked, forgetting to tie Whumpee up, leaving a tool in the cell) and freaking out when they realize. They rush back, expecting to find Whumpee gone, but there they are, as usual.
Whumpee never noticed Whumper's mistake.
Do they even realize Whumper made a mistake? And if they do find out, how ashamed do they feel? To know that escape was so close and they just... didn't notice. They got so used to the door being locked they didn't even check to see if it was open.
Mmm, or Whumpee noticed and did do something. They taped the door latch, they dug around and figured out the code lock, they used the tool and put it back EXACTLY as before.
Whumpee being terrified of being caught the entire time, their heart hammering painfully as they play dumb, pretend to know nothing.
Whumper going to bed that night reminding themselves to be more careful, but Whumpee is escaping at midnight. And when Whumper wakes up in the morning, Whumpee’s already had 8+ hours of a headstart.
Whumpee who doesn’t know who they are. Not in an amnesia sense or anything, but a “I don’t know what my favorite color is” kind of way.
Likes and dislikes, a personality of any kind wasn’t conducive to the life they had lived up until now, and it felt like they were starting from scratch.
Every decision takes seemingly forever as they searched through fragments of what little they knew about themselves. Did they want the blue toothbrush, or the green one? Did they prefer a hoodie or a sweater? Did they actually not care, or did they just not know?
Whumpee kneeling in front of Caretaker, gazing up at them with the most pathetic puppy dog eyes, pleading for Caretaker to keep them. Please. Please don’t send them back, please let them stay, they’d be so good, they’d do anything they wanted.
I think this is the post that inspired several rude anon messages (lmao) so I’m gonna reblog it and add onto it.
-Caretaker tells them they couldn’t “keep them” but they were welcome to stay. As a friend, as a fellow human. Whumpee doesn’t understand what that means and the implication that there was a right way and wrong way for them to stay is very scary.
-Caretaker who already knows the conditioning runs too deep to just spring anything on them, so they say yes, of course, but that they don’t have to do anything. This only scares them more because everyone wants something, why couldn’t Caretaker just tell them?
-Caretaker who has to send them back, at least temporarily, crushed with guilt at having to break the news, even if they know they’d be back for them. Giving whumpee a pat on the head or shoulder as a goodbye, hoping they’d be able to get them out sooner rather than later.
-Caretaker who cannot keep them, who is just as trapped in the situation as they are. They tell them the truth, and try to make the most of the time they have left.
-Caretaker who has no idea how they’re going to make this work, but how could they not?
protective caretaker but its that overwhelming emotion of being humbled and possessive of the fact that whumpee trusted you to see them at their most vulnerable, recovering in the hospital room with only a thin blanket covering their naked form, struggling to come to, and relying on you to help give them a ginger ale bc their hand coordination is too woobly and vowing never to let anything happen to them and maybe not let anyone else see them like this as much as you can help it.
Especially if they know whumpee would hate to be seen like that, hate knowing that anyone had seen them at their weakest and most vulnerable.
Glaring down friends and strangers alike who even dared to mention that version of whumpee because it was so deeply private that even the concept felt too personal.
The kind of love and protectiveness that made them understand snarling animals and hysterical strength. They wanted to kick the worlds teeth in for what it did to Whumpee while at the same time shielding them from everyone and everything.
That’s their Whumpee, theirs. To protect, to love, to care for and to keep safe. Theirs.
The bottom half of the room was dark wood paneling, scarred with the scuffs of old chair legs and heavy boots. But the top half was covered in a faded, peeling wallpaper: yellowing cowboys on bucking broncos, their lassos frozen in mid-air. It was a room for a child who had long since grown up or vanished. There was a shelf above the dresser that held a single wooden horse and a dusty trophy for a fishing derby.
The bed Oriel lay in felt like a relic. The quilt was heavy and smelled of cedar and the faint, lingering scent of a laundry detergent Flint hadn't used in years. To Oriel, it felt like a trap made of fabric. He was a small, feathered thing caught in the nest of a giant’s missing chick.
—
Flint led Oriel out onto the porch. The chain was still there, a heavy, clicking umbilical cord that tethered Oriel to the iron rings by the door. They sat together on the weathered wooden steps, watching the grey, bruised clouds of November tumble across the sky.
The air was sharp with the scent of coming snow. Flint shifted, his heavy shoulder brushing against Oriel’s. He reached out, his large hand moving toward Oriel’s face. Instinctively, Oriel flinched, his shoulders hunching as he braced for a blow.
But the blow didn't come. Instead, Flint’s fingers were light, almost curious, as they brushed back the hair from Oriel’s forehead. He was probing the hairline, his rough thumb circling the two small, hard nubs hidden there.
Shame, hot and sudden, flooded Oriel’s chest. He tensed and yanked his head away, staring at his hooves.
“How old are you, lad?” Flint asked, letting his hand drop back to his knee. He spoke with the clinical tone of a man who knew the value of every inch of bone and fur. “I can usually tell by the rack, but yours...”
“I’m nineteen,” Oriel whispered, his voice small. “Twenty this spring.”
“Ah.” Flint let out a low whistle. “A late bloomer, then.”
Oriel shot him a sharp, wounded look. The words stung like salt in a fresh cut. He thought of his brothers, whose antlers had sprouted like thick, aggressive weeds years ago, branching into proud, jagged crowns while his remained tiny, pathetic bumps. He could still see the village boys mocking him, waggling their pointer fingers at their temples and laughing. Feeble. Runt. Doe-boy.
Flint saw the flash of pain in Oriel's eyes and immediately held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Easy now. I didn't mean anything by it,” Flint said, his voice dropping into that soft, melodic register. “Have you ever heard of the Queen of the Andes?”
Oriel shook his head, looking back at the darkening treeline.
“It’s a plant. A rare thing,” Flint explained, leaning back against the porch railing. “It can take anywhere from eighty to a hundred and fifty years before it’s ready to produce its flowers. A long wait, huh? Most things around it bloom and die a dozen times over while it just sits there, taking its time.”
He looked at Oriel, his gaze uncomfortably intimate.
“But it’s worth it. When it finally blooms, it’s the most amazing thing in the world. Stands thirty feet tall, covered in thousands of blossoms. The things that grow fast... they’re usually the ones that break easy in a storm.”
Flint reached out again, and this time, Oriel didn't pull away. He let the hunter’s hand rest heavily on his shoulder.
“Something’s just take more time, Oriel. That’s okay.” Flint leaned in, his voice a low rumble. “You’re already beautiful, my little doe. But when those antlers finally grow... what a handsome faun you’re going to be. I’ll be right here to see it.”
Oriel looked away, his ears burning. He hated the man, but the compliment felt like a warm blanket in the cold wind. He didn't realize that Flint wasn't just praising him, he was marking the progress of a prize he intended to keep.
—---
The dizzy spells began on the fifth day of his protest. By the eighth day, the cowboys on the wall seemed to be moving, their horses galloping in the periphery of Oriel's blurred vision. By the tenth, the world was made of smoke.
Oriel sat at the kitchen table, the metal chain clinking softly against the chair leg every time his hands shook, which was often now. His vision blurred, the edges of the room fraying into darkness. In front of him sat a bowl of thick stew, with some kind of meat. To anyone else, it would have smelled heavenly. To Oriel, it smelled like death. He wondered where that meat came from. He knew the "pretty penny" faun meat fetched at the market.
Across the table, Flint was busy at the stove, his back turned.
Oriel looked down. Hart, the bloodhound, was sitting expectantly by his good leg. The dog’s tail thumped once on the hardwood.
Moving with the slow, agonizing precision of a ghost, Oriel tipped the bowl. He used his spoon to guide the heavy chunks of meat and potato over the edge. Hart caught them with a wet shloop, his tail wagging harder. Oriel felt a tiny spark of rebellion, if he couldn't escape, he would at least disappear. He would wither away until there was nothing left for Flint to "stuff and mount."
"You're quiet today, my little doe," Flint said, turning around with a dish towel in his hand.
Oriel tried to pull the bowl back, but the movement was too fast for his depleted blood sugar. A sharp spike of ice pierced his temples. The kitchen tilted forty-five degrees to the left.
"I'm... I'm just tired," Oriel whispered. His voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
Flint’s eyes narrowed. He walked over, his heavy boots echoing like drumbeats. He looked at the bowl, which was smeared with juice but suspiciously empty of solids. Then he looked down at Hart, who was licking his chops and looking far too satisfied.
"Hart, get," Flint commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
The hound, sensing the shift in the air, tucked his tail and retreated into the living room.
Flint reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping Oriel’s chin. He forced the faun’s head up. "You look pale. Like a sheet. Let me see your tongue."
"No," Oriel breathed, but his head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. His eyelids fluttered. The room didn't just tilt this time; it dissolved.
Oriel’s grip on the table gave way. He slid from the chair, the chain snapping taut with a harsh clack as he slumped toward the floor. Before he hit the wood, Flint’s massive arms caught him.
For a second, there was silence, save for Oriel’s shallow, thready breathing. Flint sat Oriel back in the chair, his hand cradling the back of Oriel’s neck with a tenderness that made the faun’s skin crawl.
"Oh, my little doe," Flint cooed, his voice soft and thick with a fake, paternal pity. "You’ve gone and made yourself so weak. Here, just a little sip for me. It’ll make you feel all better."
He pressed the silver spoon against Oriel’s pale lips. For a second, Oriel didn't move. Then, as the warm broth touched his tongue, he gathered every ounce of moisture in his parched throat. With a weak, wet sound, he spat the liquid directly into Flint’s face.
The silence that followed was deafening. Flint didn't yell. He didn't even move for a long minute. He slowly reached up, wiped the broth from his face.
"I see," Flint whispered, a small, sad smile twitching at his lips. "You want to do this the hard way. That’s alright. I suppose I can’t expect you to know what’s best for you just yet."
The next morning, the "sweetness" had turned into a cold, clinical efficiency. Flint didn't use the table; he used a heavy wooden chair in the center of the kitchen, binding Oriel’s chest and arms to it with thick leather belts.
The sound of the blender was a roar in the quiet house, the scream of blades pulverizing raw eggs, wilted kale, heavy cream, and gray chunks of sausage.
"I'm so sorry I have to do this to you, Oriel," Flint said over the whirring motor. He sounded genuinely pained, like a father giving a child bitter medicine. "But I won't lose you. I've lost too much already."
He approached with a long, flexible rubber tube and a plastic funnel. Oriel’s eyes went wide, his breath coming in jagged hitches. He tried to lock his jaw, but Flint’s thumb wedged its way between his teeth and pried out his jaw.
The tube was cold and tasted of chemicals. Oriel gagged, his body convulsing against the leather straps as the rubber slid past his tongue and forced its way down his esophagus. It felt like a snake invading his body. He choked, tears streaming down his face, as Flint pushed until the wide, tapered neck of the funnel sat firmly against his teeth, forcing his mouth into a grotesque, permanent O.
"There now," Flint murmured, stroking Oriel’s hair. "Easy does it."
He tipped the blender. The thick, lukewarm slurry began to disappear down the funnel. Oriel felt his stomach stretch and bloat, the rich, heavy contents hitting his empty gut like a lead weight. It was too much, too fast. His body screamed to reject it, to heave it back up, but the tube kept the path one-way.
When the last of it drained, Flint pulled the tube out with a wet, sickening slide. Oriel collapsed forward as much as the straps would allow, sobbing and gasping.
"I don't want you spitting it back up," Flint said, ignoring the boy’s distress. He produced a dark bandana. He folded it into a thick strip and forced it between Oriel’s teeth, tying it so tightly at the back of his head that the corners of Oriel’s mouth began to ache.
"It takes anywhere from two to five hours for the stomach to empty. I’ll come back and untie you in five, just to be safe. We wouldn't want all that hard work to go to waste."
Flint gently wiped the fauns tears away with his thumb. "You did so good," he praised, then gathered his tools, and walked out.
Oriel was left alone in the sudden silence of the kitchen. Every breath was a struggle; his nose was clogged with the salt of his tears, and the gag in his mouth made every swallow a terrifying risk of choking. He sat there, his belly distended and aching, the lingering taste of raw egg and sausage coating the back of his throat like a shroud.
Two living weapon whumpees, one defiant, the other compliant.
The compliant follows every order to the letter, they don't complain about their missions. The only time they question authority is to ask "How high?" when told to jump. They don't get punished, their superiors show them off to the other weapons as an example to strive forward to be. They constantly beg and plead with their defiant friend to stop arguing. Stop fighting. Just roll over and be a good dog.
The defiant one is the opposite. They kick, and scream, and fight all the way. When sent on missions, they either do not complete them, or do it in a way that benefits themselves. They talk back to their superiors. They THREATEN their superiors. Their body is littered with scars from the frequency of their punishments.
Everyone's expecting them to desert.
Only for the Compliant Whumpee to be the one who runs away.
Smart Whumpees. The ones that stay away from the action, but are responsible for planning their team's missions. The ones that are terrified of being captured, but don't fall for Whumper's manipulation. The ones that are a source of all that sweet, juicy information, but can also come up with lies indistinguishable from the truth.
There's just so much potential here!
OH MANNNN I ROTATED ON THIS ONE FOR DAYS ITS SO GOOD, god I hope you know how much I love this idea and I really hope I did it justice.
The warehouse reeked of oil and rust, the air thick with damp cold. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the captive's bruised face.
Whumpee had been bound to a chair—not haphazardly, but with cruel precision. Thick zip ties cut into their wrists, circulation already waning, and their ankles were secured to the metal legs. A little too tight.
Whumper wanted them to feel it.
"You must be terrified." Whumper was smiling. Confident in their success.
They let out a slow breath, steadying their pulse, their mind working three steps ahead.
"Not really," they murmured, lifting their gaze. Their lip was split, their cheek swollen from whatever idiot had gotten a little too eager before Whumper arrived, but their eyes—sharp, calculating—remained clear. "This isn’t exactly a surprise."
Whumper tilted their head, amusement flickering across their face. "No?"
"I’ve been in your crosshairs for months. You finally got lucky. Good for you.”
Whumper grinned. “So you knew this would happen?”
“Maybe.”
The slap came fast, hard– knocking Whumpee’s head to the side with a snap.
Whumpee slumped in the chair, teeth meeting tongue in a violent clash that left blood spilling over their chin and clothes. They coughed violently, more blood splattering the floor.
“Did you see that coming?”
Whumpee knew when to keep their mouth shut. Those kinds of questions were a lose/ lose situation.
Whumper crouched in front of them, searching their face. Whumpee kept their expression loose—just tired enough, just hurt enough—feeding into the role they wanted Whumper to see.
"Mm." Whumper trailed a finger under their bruised chin, tilting their head just slightly. Testing. Watching. Looking for cracks.
Whumpee let them. Let them think they had control.
“I have half a mind,” Whumper whispered, breath hot against Whumpee’s face, “To electrocute you until your nerves are fried and you’re good for nothing.”
A jolt of very real fear– quick, raw– crossed their face, before Whumpee veiled it under heavy-lidded eyes. “I’d…rather you didn’t.”
Whumper pulled something out of their pocket– a collar.
Oh. Fuck.
Whumpee’s breath hitched. Their composure fractured. The sound of the collar snapping open was the loudest thing in the room. They worked their jaw in a tight circle as Whumper leaned in and tightened it around their throat.
The cold metal was unrelenting, digging into their vulnerable, exposed throat.
Whumpee whimpered– the sound out of their control– their flight or fight activated, alarm bells screaming danger, danger, danger. You’re in danger.
They squeezed their eyes shut. Breathe. Breathe. They had to remember to breathe or they would panic.
Whumper rolled back on their heels, playing with a small device, tossing it up and down. “You’re a fan of the scientific method, right?”
Whumpee swallowed, throat dry. “As much as anyone else.”
“Well, I have a hypothesis,” Whumper’s voice was so very smooth. “You don’t fight. You don’t shoot. You don’t run into the fire with the rest of your team. You stay safe. Plan. Direct. You’re the brain. The beating heart of their little operations."
Whumpee forced a lazy, bloodied smile. "Your point?"
Whumper activated the shock collar. "You don’t have the stomach for this."
Instant, instant pain.
The shock came quicker than they expected. The electricity snapped to life, burning through their neck and into the soft muscles of their throat and down, down, down, ripping apart their entire body. Their body seized forward, restraints slicing deep as all control left them.
Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop–
Their suppressed whimpers became full throated screams as Whumper increased the velocity.
“Stop! God, please–stop–!”
Whumper’s finger left the remote.
Silence.
Except for Whumpee’s shuddering breathing– wrecked, hollow, empty– every inhale a sob.
"You know what I want, don’t you?"
The leftover pain left Whumpee trembling in their seat, slumped forward and held only in place by their restraints. Whumpee blinked once, twice, struggling keeping their expression neutral. Struggling to keep anything straight– their mind was scrambled, circling over one thought, and thought alone.
It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it--
Their entire world was blurred with pain.
It took all of their strength to swallow it down. They knew this was coming. With a horribly deep breath, they forced themself to recenter. To focus on anything, anything at all, just not the pain.
It was gametime.
Time to play.
They had anticipated this scenario weeks ago. Just not… not these exact details.
They had planted the exact kind of information Whumper would be looking for.
And now? Now, they just had to sell the lie. This they could do.
"Yes," they admitted. "And you’re not going to get it."
Whumper’s smile widened, sharp as a blade. "Oh, I think I will." They held up the remote and let it swing in their grip, back and forth. Taunting.
Whumpee tensed their shoulders just enough to be noticeable. Let Whumper see what they wanted to see. Not that it was difficult. Their body was in enough shock to convince a medic. They were in real pain. They just didn’t allow their mind to acknowledge it.
Let Whumper think they were scared shitless.
"Tell me what I want to know," Whumper said, too soft, too kind, "and this doesn’t have to be difficult."
Whumpee hesitated.
Just a beat.
Just enough to make it believable. Then they leaned forward—just slightly– as if considering. As if their resistance was breaking.
They let their eyes flicker—just once—toward the remote. Subtle. Subconscious. As if the pain had shaken them.
Who was your first ever OC? As far back as you can remember.
I wanna hear about all of them!
I think my first was in seventh grade (12 or 13 years old or so). It was a fantasy-adjacent short story about a storm hitting a town and doing damage, but it was from the perspective of a little bird that lost her nest and eggs and everything while the humans complained about broken windows. She didn’t have a name, but she had a lot of personality
The first OC I can remember is an Undertale OC, of all pieces of media. Her name was Rose and she was this overpowered edgy character I made when I was very little. Funny thing is she looked almost like me but with cooler hair and paler skin lol.
I still look back at that era with fondness tbh, I was just stupid and happy. Her design went through a bunch of reworks until I just gave up on her.
Whumpee having been in captivity long enough for Whumper to trust them around the house, do some chores and maybe even have the same privileges as their captor… yet the windows are still locked shut. They have no way to open the door.
Just… that wrong feeling of freedom when Whumpee’s situation didn’t actually change at all <3
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