Writing Phoenix @phoenixpromptsandstuff - Tumblr Blog

Interrogating someone who has clearly been tortured. Was it by your side, someone in your organisation that you disagree with, or just not your job? Do you dance around the matter, do they bring it up to see how you react, do you threaten them subtly or not so subtly?

whumperofworlds

When a Caretaker rescues Whumpee and Caretaker is whispering "You're okay", "I'm here", "I got you", "you're safe", othet comforting words as if they're helping a wounded animal or a scared child.

It's the best ❤️

justlikeotherchemists

Team Leader saying "Leave. That's an order." hits twice as hard, when they're the kind of person who hates hiearchies and avoids giving direct commands.

anoushka-m-alice

Whumpee is working hard to rebuild their life after whump.

But sometimes the recovery feels as challenging, if not worse.

Things will never be the same.

ashintheairlikesnow

I Hope So

CW: Langdon is 15. CWs include slavery, referenced collars, referenced abuse, and dreams of murder most foul

Langdon is fifteen years old when they take the inhaler out of his hand and put a gun in it instead.

"It's okay," Brewster says, with a slight, friendly smile, patting him on the back. Brewster's older than he is by more than a decade, if only just. They look sort of the same, most of the staff does, with curly dark hair and eyes a little too big for their face.

Plus, the black leather collars, white button-ups, and plain black pants all staff wears for every waking hour. He got his first work uniform, all three pieces, at four, like everybody does.

Not all the staff looks exactly alike, though. Some of them, like Vander, have almost unsettlingly bright blue eyes, too. Runs in the master's family, which means it runs in the staff family, even though no one talks about it. Langdon's are blue. Brewster's are a color like a stormcloud in some lights. Something about both your parents having blue eye genes, but since Langdon's never been to school, all he knows about genes is what he's seen on TV when it's his night to pick a show.

Greg, his sister's husband, came to live with them from another house when he was three years old. His eyes are brown. His hair is stick-straight, lighter in color. His smile doesn't have the same sort of lilt to it.

Greg doesn't have Marcoset blood poisoning him, not like Vander - whose nerves are broken and don't feel pain, leaving him scarred and forcing Brewster to be his shadow all the time to keep him from hurting himself. Not like Langdon himself, who can barely work outside for half an hour without his inhaler close at hand. Not like Rita, who hardly ever leaves the bed, or Henry, who was born deaf and is probably going blind, too. Too much toxic blood in just about everybody.

The medic thinks he and Brewster are both the master's. Anyone who said that out loud where the master might hear would be whipped.

Personally, Langdon thinks Brewster is too happy to be Isaac Marcoset's son. Isaac Marcoset has a library of scowls and glares for any occasion, and only one or two smiles.

Brewster turns him to face the targets, breaking him from his thoughts. They're just wooden cutouts in vaguely human shapes that have had crude faces with horrible Os of surprise painted under their little dot-eyes. "We're just testing you out. Take the shots, see if you hit the targets. These two guys here, and if you hit those, those bottles I lined up on the tree trunks over there."

"I don't want to do this," Langdon says, voice low, a little airy. Even with his inhaler, his lungs fight whenever he's scared, or if he works too hard. The inhaler just holds off the worst of it. He hates the heavy weight of the handgun he's holding. Hates how good it feels. "Brewster, I-I don't want-"

pain-in-the-everywhere

Partial whump reveal that happens when Whumpee tries to text their therapist during a mental health crisis, but accidentally sends the messages to Caretaker, and now they have a lot of explaining to do.

whumpologyy

beautiful little firsts a Whumpee might experience in recovery:

the first time they get to sleep in a real bed

the first time they get to take a warm shower/bath

the first loving touch they get

the first time they feel sun on their skin again

the first choice they make that’s truly their own

the first genuinely good night of sleep they get

the first time they see That Character again

rooksshinies

Whumpee who for whatever reason freaks tf out during transport. Doesn’t matter if it’s a train, car, plane, bus. They usually follow Team around like a lost puppy, but the moment they make their way towards their car to go somewhere, Whumpee immediately stops dead, visibly anxious. No kind of coaxing will make them get in. And if they *have* to, Team has to resort to force. Drugging Whumpee, physically restraining them.

friendsandfoood

Good evening

Whumper gagging Whumpee out of sheer anger. Maybe Whumpee is taunting Whumper. Or maybe they just bit them. Whumpee might have even tried to run. But either way, Whumpee's bravado is gone when they see Whumper reach for the gag. And Whumper would be lying if they said that didn't give them some kind of satisfaction.

hot-rangers-in-chains

For His Kingdom (part 57)

Masterlist

Content: aftermath of whump, panic attack, grief, angst, mention of past whippings and humiliation

At last, the day of Cinn’s second coronation dawned. As on the day he had abdicated, he dressed simply in a white tunic and plain trousers tucked into low boots. At the appointed hour, he approached the dais in the square of the capital, accompanied once more by his chosen successor and flanked on the other side by Akon. Martha and Maira had been given places of honor near the dais, dressed in fine gowns and wearing jewels that had been his mother’s.

Today the crowd was no somber group of angry mourners. Their cheers were a roar, swelling as the three men strode through the crowd and climbed the dais.

Cinn’s eyes were caught by the blood-stained whipping posts and he almost stumbled. He had not seen them clearly at first, surrounded as they were by flowers and candles — a macabre memorial. But they were not his destination this time. They were no one’s. He would have them taken down as soon as he could, memorial or no.

He passed the posts, fighting not to look at them, and took his place beside the throne that had been erected in the center of the platform. Reinold took the throne.

Cinn swallowed, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. He was thirty now. If his world had not fallen apart twice over, he would have been here on this day nonetheless, but it would have been beside his father. Reinold was a good man, but Cinn still felt the weight of loneliness settle in his heart again.

The crowd’s cheers settled to a murmur as Reinold raised a hand and stood again.

“Good people! Our grief has been replaced with rejoicing, as our beloved King Cinn has returned to us! The empire is in pieces, yet we stand. It has been my honor to serve you as your king through this time, but it was never a role I was made for. So it is now my honor, my privilege, and my joy, to return the crown and the kingdom to King Cinn.”

Cheers again erupted from the crowd. Cinn could not help but smile, warmth flooding him even as a tear trickled down his cheek.

This was where he belonged.

Reinold again raised his hand and the people quieted. His face sobered. “We have suffered much, it is true. Many of us have lost those dear to us — my own nephew lost his life helping our neighbors fight the empire’s cruel dominion. But we would have lost far more if not for the bravery and stubborn pride of all of you, and the noble sacrifice of our king. He is returned, passed through trial and suffering, and if he was beloved before, he is twice beloved and thrice honored now.” He turned, beckoning Cinn forward.

Cinn stepped forward, taking a knee before the throne, facing his people. Reinold lifted the crown from his own head, placing it on Cinn’s.

The weight was familiar, yet half-forgotten.

“Rise, your majesty, and take the robes of your station.”

Reinold removed the royal robe he wore, a richly colored blue garment with gold embroidery, and held it up to place upon Cinn’s shoulders.

As Cinn stood, he saw banners being waved amongst cheers, some bearing the strange criss-crossing pattern he had seen pinned to the chests of guards and citizens, worn by many throughout the crowd this day as well. Golden lines of thread striping blue banners.

He counted the lines of the pattern as Reinold turned towards him. Two… five… ten. His eyes flicked to the whipping posts turned memorial.

No…

Why must this be what they celebrate? What they memorialize?

Was the damned song not enough?

Reinold began to speak. “You have suffered much for this people, your majesty, and now the robe and station you surrendered for them is yours once more, with greater honor than before with all you have borne for this land.”

Cinn’s head began to swim. He forced himself to dip his head and allow Reinold to place the robe upon his shoulders. It had golden chain that held it closed at the throat, pressing against his neck. He swallowed hard, forcing away the memories of golden points locked around his throat. Had the fastening always felt so tight?

Panic clawed at his windpipe.

Reinold stepped aside and took a knee.

“His royal majesty, King Cinn, first of that name, eighth of his line!”

From the crowd came a cheer in response. “All hail King Cinn, the Scarred King!”

As one the crowd dropped to a knee, echoing the cry. Warmth fought with shame and anger in his chest and he bowed his head to them in return. He took a deep breath, swallowed.

Must he always be known now by what he had suffered?

But he would be the king they needed.

“It is my honor to be your king again, and I shall do all in my power to serve you well. I would see our land thrive and show all around us that we remain unbowed.” His voice caught and he took another deep breath to steady himself. “I have no greater love than this kingdom nor greater privilege than to be your king. Even as we mourn all we have suffered and all we have lost, let us look to our future together with hope.”

The people cheered again, a roar that shook the dais. As he stepped down, Akon leading and Reinold in his wake, the crowd parted. Hands reached to touch his robe with reverence as he passed. Someone pressed one of the embroidered badges into his hand.

It took all his wherewithal not to flinch.

Finally they returned to the palace, and Cinn turned aside, making for the library — the nearest place he could be alone for a few moments.

Inside, he collapsed to the floor, tugging open the collar of the robe to take deep, heaving breaths as sobs wracked his body. Shame twisted his stomach.

Father… you would have known what to do… what to say…

The door opened again, and he was dimly aware of Akon entering and kneeling beside him. Cinn looked up at him through reddened eyes.

“They do not… I can’t…” He buried his face in his hands. “I… he should have been there.”

Akon’s brow furrowed. “Who, sire?”

“My father… it should have been him. I wasn’t ready the first time, I never wanted the throne so young. I never wanted to bear all this alone.” Another sob escaped him and he wrapped his hands around his middle. “And after everything… I just want to return to normalcy. To do my duty.” He looked up, anguish twisting his expression. “But they ask me to celebrate my scars… they wear them as a badge! A daily reminder of that which I would rather forget!”

Akon sighed, resting his hand on the young king’s shoulder. “Sire… your scars are no shame. Your people honor what you suffered, even if they will never understand the horror of it, of what you survived. What we survived.”

“I do not want more pity, I do not want my scars, my torture, sung of and displayed for all to see! These are not the scars of a veteran warrior to be displayed with pride!” Cinn held out the embroidered piece of fabric as his voice rose to a shout. “They wear as badges marks of my public humiliation, first of many made and displayed to humiliate and break me! At every turn they sing of it, celebrating my pain!” His voice broke, tears streaming again down his face.

Akon did not respond, instead wrapping an arm around the sobbing young man until the sobs faded into quiet hiccups.

Then he gently took the badge, thumb running over the embroidered lines. “Those horrors and pain are not all that is written here. Your scars tell a story of a spirit that refused to bow or break even when it would have been easier, rather surrendering your body than your people. Of strength and an unbroken pride even in the midst of horror and humiliation. It is not a shame but a tribute to you and your people, bringing the empire to treaty instead of surrender and breaking its hold. So they seek to honor it.” He placed his hand on his chest, where Cinn’s heraldry now decorated his formal tunic. “As I do here, my new loyalty over that of the one that betrayed me. Your scars — our scars, are not a shame. They are a testament to what we have survived. And you are not alone in bearing it. I, the women, and Lord Reinold — we all are here with you.” He looked gently at the young man. “Though perhaps that song at least, you could ban. I know I too am tired of hearing it.”

The young king looked back up, the anguish of his expression giving way to a wry, if still watery, half-smile. “Do you think they would understand? Is it not something they find encouragement in? I already refused it once…”

“And they still can, but you do not have to endure it in your presence. After all, sire, there are advantages to being king, are there not? ”

An unexpected laugh erupted from Cinn’s lips. He reached up to touch the crown that now ornamented his dark hair, then leaned his head back and watched motes of dust dance in the sunlight from the high windows for a moment.

He took a deep breath.

Then he stood. “True enough, my friend.” He offered his hand and the general took it to help himself to stand as well, pulling Cinn into a hug.

Cinn stayed there a long moment, then took a deep breath and pulled away, straightening his shoulders. “Thank you, Akon. I yet wish my father were here but… I am glad to have you and Reinold by my side in his stead.” He smiled warmly at the man, then glanced over his shoulder. “I… suppose I should go to the banquet. All will be waiting.”

Akon nodded, reaching for the door. “Come, then, sire. Let us go.”

#i love this so much

whumporama

Whumpee using magical powers to constantly keep an illusion going that hides their scars/still healing injuries. Nobody knows they're there.

Until Whumpee gets injured again and they can't keep the illusion up. Suddenly, all their scars are revealed.