#oc whump

[idkwidhbih]

Don't talk to me, I'm busy daydreaming about my OCs being tortured in a illegal lab‼️Come back later ‼️

[whump-captain]

Whumptober 2025, No. 2

Alt prompt - Ziptie

i did actually have a draft of some writing for the proper prompts but it wasn't really going so a quick sketch it is

[ID in alt]

[dying-crying-pining]

whump tropes that make it into every single thing i write because i’m unoriginal:

• trauma reveal by bedridden/weakened/recovering character

• blood-loss related collapse

• somebody gets shot/stabbed/impaled in the chest/gut region

• face holding/checking for injuries

• gentle and/or frantic manhandling (bonus points if hurt character is extra floppy lol)

• fading in and out

• A (who’s usually bleeding out) asks B if they’re ok, cue B trying not to burst into tears or getting pissed off

• A returns to work/regular activities/battle too soon after injury and needs to be scraped off the floor and tucked back into bed by B

[soapflavouredsoup]

giving him artillery shelling wounds and then an infection from subsequent shelling wounds and then maybe trench fever if i feel like it

[yet-how-they-creep]

"There's nothing to worry about, it's just us girls here," she winked. Leaning with her back against the now locked door, Whumper looked entirely too comfortable.

The awful, wicked grin implied, that she – Whumpee – did indeed have a lot to worry about.

[yaboykujo]

Clicker training a Whumpee.

Every time they fail to complete a task, shock collar goes off.

Ask them to do something that they are not capable of doing.

[whump-and-more-whump]

Therapy Pet

Content: BBU, institutionalized slavery, whumpee with chronic pain/injury

Based off of an idea I had for a whumper choosing to purchase a box boy whumpee trained as an "emotional support/therapy pet" (note the quotations) instead of being sent to court-mandated anger management sessions. This is the first of a few snippets I've started writing to get to know the characters.

masterlist |> next

===

“I cannot believe you’re doing this to me…”

Niney had counted nearly two weeks since Mr. Pichard’s last public outburst. Two blissful weeks where he was content to follow silently in Mr. Pichard’s shadow, letting his mind wander during fittings and showings and whatever else was packed into their busy schedule.

“Three months. THREE MONTHS!” Mr. Pichard slammed his hand into the counter, drawing a flinch out of both Niney and the poor salesclerk. Her nervous gaze drifted away briefly, meeting Niney’s for a moment, before snapping back to Niney's seething master in front of her. “I ordered three months in advance! How hard is it to put a few bolts on a plane and fly them across the Atlantic? Do I need to remind you how much I paid for them?”

Redirect. Placate. Validate.

Niney had been turning the words over in his head since he first noticed the tenseness in Mr. Prichard's spine. They had been drilled into his head since his training and he had been operating on their principle for the past six months but it still felt strange, stepping in during moments like this. His instincts screamed at him to get smaller, meeker. The idea of speaking out of turn still made his stomach twist into knots.

“Your order will be here next week,” the salesclerk kept her voice impressively steady, a tense smile frozen across her face. “Until then, there isn’t anything I can do.”

Mr. Pichard’s nostrils flare and he leans forward, lips quivering with each word said through gritted teeth. “Of course there isn’t anything you can do, you useless–”

Redirect.

“Sir!” It came out breathless, like a chew toy with a broken squeaker. Niney found himself wincing at his own words, cringing inwards at the sound of his voice. “Do you remember our breathing exerci–”

The backhand stung, like always. Metal rings bit into Niney’s cheek and he let his head snap to the side, following the force of Mr. Pichard’s hand.

“Do not–” Mr. Pichard jabbed a finger into Niney’s chest– “interrupt me. Understand?”

Niney’s voice caught in his throat, his jaw opening and closing uselessly. Your master’s orders come second only to the will of the state. The words rang between Niney’s ears, screeching like an endless microphone feedback loop. The will of the state was for Niney to use nearly any means to soothe Mr. Pichard’s temper, to keep his outbursts to a minimum, ideally away from the general public. But Niney found himself struggling to follow his court-ordered purpose while faced with Mr. Pichard’s burning glare and shoulders heaving with unacted violence.

The salesclerk’s open jaw clacked shut, drawing Mr. Prichard’s attention. He whirled to face her, fists clenched, and Niney’s heart leapt into his throat.

His hands were shaking more than usual. Neuropathy, the WRU medic had called it. A prolonged punishment that had turned into a permanent injury, shooting aches and pains that made it difficult for him to clean or cook or do anything that a good house pet was supposed to do. He was lucky, really, that he’d been bumped up to the emotional support division instead of any of the alternatives he didn’t want to think about.

Placate.

He wrapped his shaky hands around Mr. Pichard’s wrists, taking on the brunt of the attention. Mr. Pichard’s lip curled, pulling back to reveal the edges of his teeth, but he didn’t yank his arm away. A small victory.

Niney worked fast, clumsily unfurling Mr. Pichard’s fingers and pressing them against his own chest. Inhale, then exhale. Using the rhythm of his chest to guide Mr. Pichard through slow, careful breaths.

Mr. Pichard shut his eyes and his shoulders dropped, posture curving into something that Niney could almost call relaxed. He could feel a bruise starting to bloom across his cheek and he wished the salesclerk would stop staring. Mr. Prichard didn’t always like it when people stared.

Validate.

“It’s been a stressful month.” Niney finally found his voice. He hoped the low rumble of the words being spoken straight from his chest would be grounding, not irritating. “This is a frustrating situation.”

Mr. Pichard nodded. His brow knitted together, most likely flooded with memories of meetings and first drafts and ungrateful models. Niney hoped that Mr. Prichard’s pinched expression wouldn’t cause wrinkles.

“We can come back next week,” Niney continued.

Mr. Prichard’s mouth twitched. “It'll throw off the whole schedule.”

“I’ve seen you make it through worse.” Niney patted the back of Mr. Prichard’s hand, stifling a wince at the sudden flare-up that shot through his wrist. “You can do this.”

“I can do this,” Mr. Prichard repeated, exhaling deeply.

“We should go home.” Niney took a step towards the door, careful not to pull too hard. He didn’t want it to seem like he was issuing a command.

Luckily, Mr. Prichard just nodded, taking long, quick steps to put himself in the lead. Niney was happy to follow, ignoring the salesclerk’s eyes burning holes into the back of his collar.

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