Whumpees that have been deprived of sleep by Whumper, so much so that they don't remember how to walk in a straight line and can't figure out whether the recent appearance of little black bugs in their cell are real or a hallucination.
Whumpees that can't get a full night's rest. They doze off, only to be jolted awake by their own anxiety of not knowing when Whumper would come back. Perhaps they are awakened by phlegm-coated coughs induced by their illness. They are awakened by nightmares, or by Caregiver who is worried they may succumb to hypothermia, or by a thunderstorm, or the rough blanket scratching their open wounds, or so on.
Whumpees who pull all nighters to protect their friends or lovers.
Whumpees whose eyes burn when they finally can close their eyes. Whumpees whose muscles twitch, who can't stop yawning no matter how hard they try to stifle it. Whumpees with dark, glassy eyes. Whumpees who are slow to react or have a hard time keeping up with the conversation. Whumpees with throbbing headaches. Whumpees with brain fog and memory loss.
Whumpees who have been on the run and have over exhausted their bodies. Their muscles and joints continue to scream long after its over. Whumpees with extensive blood loss. Whumpees who are malnourished.
Whumpees whose survivor's guilt keeps them awake, wondering what they might have done differently, whether it was all their fault, or why they were the ones to live.
Whumpees whose bodies are in chronic pain or illness and who have to hide it, causing muscle and mental fatigue. They keep going with a smile until they collapse or pass out.
Whumpees who break down in tears, begging to be left alone so they can rest. Whumpees who sob when they are told that the bed in front of them is theirs to use whenever they want.
Whump: post-abuse, past psychological abuse, flashbacks, paranoia, hallucinations of an abuser, verbal degradation, manipulative language. Nonhuman characters & fantasy setting.
-
Finsterl realised his brain rot was probably significantly worse than he thought when he started hearing the branches tapping at his window.
There were no trees outside. He was always careful to make sure there were no trees near his safe places, and especially not his home. A quick glance outside was more than enough to verify that no saplings had spontaneously sprouted since he last looked; nothing was near his window, no plants or animals in sight.
He still heard it. Insistent. Nagging. Even as he stared at the glass and saw nothing, he heard it there.
... It wasn't real. He knew that. Perhaps that's why he didn't immediately scramble for his gun when he heard the gentle giggle from the corner.
He thought it was the corner, at least. When he swung around, the sound only moved with him, staying behind him no matter which way he turned. His darting eyes stared wide and frantic into the empty room.
Finsterl shivered.
Still, he took a slow, deep breath and tried to shake the tension from his shoulders, turning back to his desk. Focus on work. Ignore the coiling shadows and the creak of wood and that fucking laughter dancing in the corners.
But no matter what -- he could never hope to ignore her voice.
Having fun, Finnie?
Sterl froze.
Get your gun. It's here. Get your gun get your gun get your--
"You're not real," he stated aloud. It was quiet, a shake under the words -- but it was full of conviction.
When he received nothing but silence in return for several minutes, that was almost enough to help his racing thoughts settle. Sometimes that was all he needed. Sometimes the real sound and weight of his voice could ground him well enough.
Foolish thing.
Do you really think you could do any of this without me?
Finsterl grit his jaw, his feathers slowly lifting as he fought to keep his breathing level. He knew he should just ignore it. It wasn't real anyway.
He still muttered to the empty room, "I can. I do not need you."
You will watch your research crumble to nothing and your mind right alongside it. Pathetic, ungrateful creature.
His claws tapped furiously on the desk. He reached for his coffee mug, cold and almost empty though it was -- raised it to his beak and inhaled, long and slow. The smell was weak and distant.
Her voice continued to croon gently.
Your weak little soul will never survive alone. Just look at you. You're broken. That you still believe you will ever save him is laughable. You can't even save yourself.
Useless.
"... If I am so damn useless, then what fucking good am I to you?"
It didn't reply to his question. Obviously. Because it wasn't real, and he knew that, just like he knew he should stop entertaining this.
But he listened to her words anyway, just like he always did.
Do you know how much work I put in to keep other Eldritch away from you? To prevent them taking advantage of your episodes and vulnerability? Such a fragile naïve mind, with such a powerful domain... Without me to shield you, they'll come from miles around to claim you for themselves.
"You invited them to me, you bastard," he hissed, voice cracking. "They only ever found me at all because of you."
They will come. And they will eat you alive. So many have already had a taste of your despair, and with a monster as pitiful as you... they won't be able to resist going for the full meal.
Just imagine what horrors they'll be able to commit with your hands, dear. You've already seen what they're capable of.
"... That isn't--"
Red pools swam in his vision, covered his desk and hands, his clothes, his feathers. Every breath tasted of iron.
Finsterl shook his head and blinked it all rapidly away, pointedly not looking to the shadowed corners of the room and the countless eyes watching him.
It wasn't real. She wasn't there. There was nothing there.
... I do wonder. Can you really keep all the Eldritch legions at bay with that little trick of yours alone? It may fought me off once, but does it even still function? Can you be so sure it's still enough to keep you out of their grasp?
"Shut up." It was barely above a whisper, half-choked by the panic gripping his throat and chest, bloody claws gouging at his desk. "Just shut up."
... Oh.
That damn giggling. Dripping with pity. Laced with fake concern.
Are you scared, dear?
Sterl whipped around and hurled the mug at the corner. It shattered against the wall, leaving nothing but a dark stain on the wood and scattered ceramic on the floor.
The spray of liquid almost looked like woven branches.
Finsterl tore his eyes away from it as his shoulders heaved, his fists clenched. It took him far longer than he would have liked to untense his muscles and finally sink back down into his chair. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't quite get his feathers to flatten.
It was all in his head. He knew it was. It always was.
I snatched the inspiration from this post from @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi o(^∀^*)o
CW: Whumpee hallucinating Whumper, nightmares, manhandling, but then wholesome fluff cause why not
Whumpee laid in bed hugging their pillow while staring at the clock.
The clock that read 2:57am.
They sighed as their eyes fluttered closed, they just wished they could sleep.
“Whumpee?” A voice spoke from above them.
Their eyes rose as they blinked up, expecting to see nothing but darkness, but instead, they saw a clear face.
Whumper’s face.
They gasped as they tried to crawl away, but two hands gripped their shoulders and pushed them back into the bed.
“No! Let me go!” Cried Whumpee, as they struggled and fought their grasp.
“Shhh! Whumpee, it’s okay! Why are you fighting me?” Whumper cooed, their hand gently caressing their cheek as Whumpee gasped for breath in their panic.
“Wh-what? Y-you-.. You hurt me!” They cried.
“Oh Whumpee, you must be exhausted.” Their hand pressed onto their forehead until they were forced back into their pillow.
“Caretaker hurt you. I’ve been the one watching over you! I would never hurt you.” They smiled.
No no NO! That’s not true… Caretaker was the one who was there for them!
“Yo-you’re lying.” Whumpee hissed.
“Am I?” Their head tilted to the side further then a human head should be able to.
“You poor little thing… You can’t even think straight.” Their lips tsked. “You really did become helpless, just like Caretaker made you into. How cruel of them.” They sighed.
It… Wasn’t true… It wasn’t true!
Wasn’t it?
Whumpee searched their haunted memories, desperate to remember the face of who hurt them, who degraded them to rubble, who manipulated them. Their face was a blur… Why was their face a blur? They should know! That face was burned into their memory like-
There. An image faded through the blur, it was Caretaker’s face, the face that tormented them.
Whumpee twisted their head to the side as they felt tears pouring down their cheeks.
“It can’t be.” The rasped.
A hand tenderly brushed their hair back, thumbing their cheek.
“I’ve always been here, Whumpee, and I always will be… Right-” Their finger pressed onto their forehead, tapping twice.
“Right here.” They smiled.
An alarm blared as Whumpee jolted awake. They shot up with a cry as they felt their body drenched in sweat and tears.
“Whumpee! I’ve got breakfast going!” Caretaker’s cheery voice called from the kitchen. “It’s your favorite!” They sang.
Whumpee’s eyes darted wildly around the room, trying to remember what was real and what wasn’t. The door creaked open as Caretaker poked their head in.
“I can bring it in here if you like, whatever makes you comf- Oh! Whumpee! Are you okay?” Their face fell with concern when they saw Whumpee, panting with a dazed expression. Caretaker nudged the door open as they sat at their bedside feeling their head for a fever.
“I-I’m fi-fine.” Whumpee murmured with a shaken voice.
Caretaker let out a sad disappointed sigh. Whumpee was clearly not okay. They wished they would talk to them more, this wasn’t the first time Whumpee acted like this. What was going on in their head? ...They wished they knew how to help them.
“You can talk to me, you know. I’m right here.” They smiled. “It doesn’t have to be now, it doesn’t even have to be today, It’s just whenever you’re ready.” They brushed their damp hair from their face to see their eyes that looked up at them miserably.
Their brow was furrowed with watering eyes, desperately trying to control their expression hiding the brokenness and pain.
But they broke.
They broke down crying as Caretaker pulled them into a hug. “I’m always going to be right here for you.” They whispered as they held Whumpee tightly in their arms as they sobbed against their shoulder.
“They’re in my head, Caretaker! Every night th-they come and I just… I can’t do this anymore! I want them to go away! Please... Make them go away!” They sobbed, pressing their nose into the crook of Caretaker’s neck.
“Oh Whumpee..” Caretaker’s heart shattered as they pulled them in closer, a hand cradling in their hair.
That night, Caretaker stayed at their bedside with the lamp dimly lit, just enough their face could be seen. They spent the hour keeping Whumpee comfortable and reminded they were safe until they drifted peacefully to sleep.
I chose to go with 5 and 26 - drug my muse and frighten my muse!
CW: Drugging, implied intentions of noncon
Fuck.
Kauri doesn't mind the world spinning a little around him, but right now he can barely stand, using the wall to hold himself up. The drink in his hand slips from fingers that suddenly can't quite hang on.
He feels cold liquid splash over his feet, soaking his shoes in a strawberry vodka scented flood, an ice cube stubbornly choosing to melt right over his toes.
Someone nearby laughs. The laugh stutters, breaks apart, slips like blood down the wall Kauri stares blankly at.
Blood turns black and shimmers with glitter buried inside.
This is familiar.
"Wh-... What-... wha'... s'in my-"
His knees buckle, and when he hits the carpet, his heart is hammering, trying in vain to feed him the adrenaline he needs to run.
There's a man with four eyes who leans over and grins. "You like? My uncle works for WRU. Sometimes he sells me some of the shit they give the pets."
It's familiar for a reason.
Kauri's mouth forms words but the flow of glitter blood along the carpet spills down his throat and there is a hand at his neck and Handler Everly has Owen's voice as he whispers, it's good shit, right?
Good. Good...
"I'll be good," Kauri whispers, words slurred and broken, and everyone laughs.
A whumpee on powerful hallucinogens but just starting to come down off them. They’ve been in unimaginable pain for most of this, clutching hard to the bleeding gash in their side as they try to keep from bleeding out. They whisper “No, don’t leave me. Please.” as they look off at nothing, where the person they love most isn’t really there. “I can’t do this without you.”
Bonus points if:
- Whumper is around and starts to drill them about who they’re talking too. Maybe once they finally get a name they laugh cause either this person is dead or they can use this against whumpee, and talk about how they will never ever seen them alive again
- Team/caretaker is around for this, they’re trying to slow the bleeding but whumpee is trying to crawl after their hallucination and the team has to pin them down. Whumpee is pleading with them quietly, they’re so exhausted they can’t really do anything else, but cry. “Why won’t you let me go to them.”
- Whumpee is alone in a concrete room and they fully come down off the hallucinogens to realize there is nothing, there never was. They are all alone, no one is there to help them, they were stupid to ever think there could be. There is just whumpee and their death.
CW: Using clove cigarettes to burn skin, burns, burning as torture, conditioned responses and behavior, feverish whumpee, creepy whumper, fucky guilt/self-loathing/self-injury thoughts (of the “I deserve to be hurt” variety, no self-injury occurs). Xenophobic language/xenophobia
Tagging @astrobly, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp and also @oofowouchies and @orphceus for Antoni-specific
“Get up, love.” The voice is low, a rumble from all around him rather than any one direction. He can feel the vibration of it in the hollows of his bones, the aches that throb along his thighs and arms. Breathing seems like pushing up against a weight laid over his chest, stones laid inside his lungs.
There’s a rough hand against his face, a palm pressed to his forehead. “You’re hot.” He whines, only to hear Mr. Davies’ mocking laughter in return. “Fucking dog now, are you? Might as well be, I suppose. I’d treat a dog better than you, if I had one, though. Feed it more, anyway. Get up.”
He tries.
Nothing happens.
He tries again, but all he can manage is limbs that flop, a head that shifts minutely, bones that scream protest at him and demand he be still.
“C… can’t.” His own voice is a breath, a whisper. He is motionless, in the bed, blankets kicked down around his feet. The ceiling fan ticks as it spins lazily overhead, he stares at it through cracked eyelids.
A shadow passes, and he can’t flinch away.
There’s a slap, the smack of skin on skin, and Antoni has no energy to fight it. He only lets his head fly to the side, the sting in his face joining a deeper, weightier throb inside his head.
He moans, maybe.
He’s not sure if the sound comes from his lungs or is only in his head.
“You don’t have access to ‘can’t’ any longer, darling.” The hand is gentle again, rubbing a thumb over the reddened skin on the side of his face. “Pull your shirt up, pretty little ashtray. Let’s see.”
“M-Mr. Davies-”
“Now.”
Antoni’s head tips back, lolls really, showing his neck like an animal baring itself to a predator, hoping for mercy. His hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, soaked with sweat and slightly stuck to him, pale heathered gray soaked dark. He grips onto the soft fabric and pulls it up, shuddering at the sudden brush of cool air over scarred skin. It hurts, to be so exposed. Everything feels like a raw wound. Like a sparking wire.
His ribcage, stomach, and the top edge of his hips are a shifting nearly-flat plane of skin over muscle, with littl softness. Tiny circles with no particular pattern litter his skin, some newer, some older.
So many.
He has deserved them so many times.
“Good boy.” The flick of the lighter, and he feels his body tense all at once, every muscle taut where they wrap around his aching bones. The unmistakable sound of cigarette put to lips, the first inhale and exhale, the enveloping smell of cloves that settles around him, drifts over him. He can feel smoke kiss his face and has a strange, wild sense of fingertips there, just barely brushing his lips.
Not possible. Mr. Davies doesn’t touch that way.
There’s a hand that lays across his throat, over his thick leather collar, to keep him still. His eyes are still slits, cracked barely open, but he can see the soft flare of embers, knows the face behind the flame better than he knows his own, now.
“You refused an order, love. You earned this. You’ve earned every single one.”
“Nyet.” His voice is weak - it’s not a refusal, it’s a whimper. “Nyet, gospodin, ya ne khotel-”
“Not your ratspeak again. I thought we’d broken you of that filthy gibberish. Quiet, or you’ll earn more.”
Antoni’s eyes drift shut. “I-I am sorry-”
“Don’t be sorry, Ashtray. Be better.” The first flicker of pain comes directly on top of a scar he’d already laid before. It’s a kindness, a mercy, that he isn’t taking what clean skin is left and marking it new. Antoni’s breath hitches in at the flush of agonizing sharp pain as the cigarette grinds in with inexorable slowness. A pause. “Lovely,” Mr. Davies murmurs. “One step closer, don’t you think?” The hand that curves around his throat tightens, just a little.
Antoni breathes shallowly, trying not to move. He is perfectly still, and nearly silent but for the tiniest whimpers he cannot hold back. Mr. Davies presses a second burn, a third, a fourth. Each of them carefully laid over existing scars, and he is so merciful to punish Antoni in ways that won’t add to what he has already made his own.
“Beautiful.” Mr. Davies chuckles, drawing a fingertip along the line of the new burns to listen to Antoni’s choked-off high-pitched whines. He can feel the eyes that watch his unwilling little twitches, hands moving with the deep urge to push Mr. Davies away only to be stopped by his own mind, his own fear.
Antoni knows what they will look like now, like jewelry with a slight curve to dip below his navel, bright red, prone to infection if he isn’t given permission to clean them.
Still, he cannot move.
“I think that will earn you a reprieve from worse, for now, love,” Mr. Davies says with pure tenderness, pulling back and away. The scent is still in the air, making Antoni sick, swirling around him. He hears a low murmur and wonders if she’s awake, the girl on the other side of the wall. If she can hear his sounds, the way he listens every night to hers.
“Th-... thank you, Mr. Davies.” He whispers, his throat feels like it’s burning, too, the smoke settling deeper and deeper. Each swallow feels like there’s shattered glass shredding everything from his tonsils to his lungs. He jerks in harsh breaths only with effort. “Thank you for… mercy.”
“You’re welcome. Now. I’ll give you a second chance. Stand up.”
Antoni forces his legs to answer his commands this time, lets out a low groan of pain as he tries to push up onto one elbow and then rolls himself right off the bed only to hit the ground with a thunk. His arms and legs feel like a doll with stitches come loose and he sobs, curled on his side.
His shirt is still pushed up, his back is facing Mr. Davies and it takes only a moment to feel the next burn pressed directly over his spine.
He cries out helplessly. “Pozhaluysta! Pozhaluysta, ne nado…”
“Ratspeak again. You just won’t stop, will you?”
“P-pozhaluysta…” He can’t breathe. Can’t… can’t take in enough air curled up like this but he can’t move. There’s another burn, over his left kidney, then one on his right. “Ne delay mne bol'no!”
“Not until you never speak another fucking word, Russki. Come on, love. Beg.”
“Please, pl-please, please do not h-hurt, pl-please-”
Mr. Davies never makes a new burn, only recreates old ones, and still, Antoni can’t help the garbled, choking sounds he makes from the depth of the pain.
When a hand touches his shoulder he flinches, violently, from the touch, shaking his head as best he can even as the world dizzy-spins around him, freezing cold air burning his skin over the new redness, new agonies over old.
“N-No-... please, no more-”
He can’t get enough air to beg right, he can’t. He feels like he’s wheezing, hands clenched into fists, his forehead pressed against the old hardwood floor.
“Antoni?”
His breath catches again. Eyes crack, rolling slowly upwards, to see the fuzzy spin of the ceiling fan. There wasn’t a fan in his room with Mr. Davies. There wasn’t…
A pale face swims into view, gradually rearranges all its errant shapes and colors into ones he knows. A mouth, a nose, light, nearly-invisible eyebrows furrowed with worry. A flush of blue hair hanging down like a fine, shimmering curtain.
Green eyes.
“Chrisha? I… I was asleep?”
Was he? It hadn’t felt like sleep-
The panic hits him all at once. Can’t let him see. His hands move awkwardly, bumping back into his stomach, and he shudders out a breath with a full-body shake as he realizes his shirt is pulled down, not up, covering the marks that still burn as though they’re new across his body.
Relief like cool water washes down his spine. No one saw how many there are. No one can see how many times he has earned them.
“Are you… are, are you, um-... are you sick?” Chris reaches out to touch him, to help him stand, but Antoni pulls away, managing to get a hand on the side of his bed to steady himself as he pushes up to his feet. He sways - the world goes briefly dark and then back to light again - but he stands.
“M-Maybe. I, I feel… can I-... Chrisha, I need to shower. Can you… help me?”
“H-help you? In, the, the… the-the… in the… to, to, to-to-to… to take-” Chris’s face flares bright red and his eyes drop, all at once, and Antoni shudders with sudden nausea and disgust.
Years later, and still that’s all the words could possibly mean in Chris’s mind.
“Not like that, Chrisha. P-promise. But I cannot… walk well. Now. Will you help?”
His stomach is crawling itching dying skin, his back is flaring hot, he needs… he needs to bath in ice. Run cold water until nothing is left of him, until he is a frozen lake scratched until you can’t possibly see what’s under the surface.
“Sure, Ant, I’ve, I’ve got you.”
Chris isn’t supposed to be here today, but Antoni can’t really think well enough to ask why he’s here now, only be so grateful for his help. He lets the shorter, stronger, younger man slip his arm around his waist and holds back the groan as he unknowingly presses against the new burns that aren’t real, but that Antoni can feel perfectly anyway.
The scent is cloves is still faint around him.
He can still feel breath on the back of his neck.
“Please,” He whispers.
In the moment, he can’t remember any other word.
He burns.
Veins and bones and skin and scars and brain, all of it - all of it burns.
CW: Hallucinations, terror/panic, institutionalized pet whump setting
He did this to himself, the man in the black uniform said. He wouldn’t sign his contract, which means he has to stay here until he agrees that he asked for this, but this is - it’s horrible, and he doesn’t want his, he couldn’t ever have wanted this.
He’s losing his mind, isn’t he?
Wait, did he think that already-
Ready or not, here I come!
The sound of footsteps, moving quick from one side of the bare and empty white room to the other with a soft burst of her laughter and he flinches, violently rattling the pole his shock collar is attached to, the one that locks him into the floor.
