For the "hungry for requests" reblog, here's the rough shape of an idea or two that's been bouncing around my head I haven't got to writing yet:
Religious Guilt Whumpee who believes what Whumper is doing is justified punishment for their flaws and sins (but not massochistic), and therefore gets angry or frustrated at Caretaker post-rescue for supposedly robbing them of their best chance at salvation.
OR, if you don't feel like touching the topic of religion, Whumpee that already believed themself to be naturally evil/worthless for whatever reason (horrendous upbringing maybe?) and finds some sense of purpose and fulfilment in serving Whumper/being Whumper's victim (at least they're making someone happy). Either way the end result would be them getting mad at Caretaker for rescuing them, pleaseandthankyou.
Bonus points if Caretaker can't understand Whumpee's POV and they end up talking past each other instead of having a constructive discussion.
(TW: religious delusion, or just normal delusion up to you, evidence of beating/torture, falling down stairs)
“Get out of here.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Caretaker asked incredulously. “I’m here, I came all this way to save you. I don’t care if it’s not safe for me.”
“No, I don’t want you to take me away from here,” Whumpee retorted. “I’m finally getting what I deserve here.”
“What you deserve? Whumpee, look at you! You’re covered in bruises, you’re bleeding. What made you deserve this?”
“Everything,” Whumpee stated firmly. “Now, get out.”
“No.” Caretaker shook their head. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
“Caretaker, let go of me.”
“I’m not letting go. I’m not coming all this way just to leave you here to get more hurt.”
“I’m warning you.”
“You’re not warning me of shit, Whumpee. I don’t know what Whumper did to your head, but it’s not gonna work on me.”
“I have never felt fulfilled in life until I got here.” Whumpee tugged at Caretaker’s grip, trying their hardest to stay put. “Are you seriously going to take that away from me?”
“Freedom will fulfill you, trust me. Food, water, medical treatments, ever heard of them? Those are what are gonna save your life.” Caretaker kept tugging.
When Caretaker almost had Whumpee out the door, they panicked. It was now or never. “WHUMPER! WHUMPER, HE—”
Caretaker clapped a hand over Whumpee’s mouth, muffling them. “Shut up! Are you crazy?!” They whispered, tense with fear. “You’re gonna wake them up!”
Whumpee managed to free themselves from Caretaker’s grip, and they ran back to the corner of the room, waiting expectantly.
Caretaker stood frozen for a moment, trying to make a decision, and then they ran out the door and up the stairs. Whumpee waited, heard a scream, and heard Caretaker’s body tumbling back down the steps. Just as they expected.
“Well, Whumpee, looks like you have a visitor.” Whumper came down the stairs dragging Caretaker by the hair. “By the looks of things, they’re even more blasphemous than you. We’re going to have to teach them some things, aren’t we?”
CW: dehumanization, drugging, manhandling, defiant whumpee, swearing, character feeling ill due to drugs.
Dorian knew what fate awaited her as the men dragged her down the dimly lit hallway. She could feel it from the fact that the still healing wounds on her back and arms burned at the thought. Still, she began to wonder again; How long was she even with that bastard? Even worse, How long would she be at the mercy of this woman?
Dorian’s thoughts were brought to a screeching halt as she was thrown down onto a plush carpet with a dulled thud. Hands were on her again before she could push herself onto her arms, pressing her down into the carpet of white fibers that reeked of bitter cigarette smoke, leaving her stifling a cough as the knot on the gag was loosened and the ends of the filthy cloth fell into the edges of her vision. Hands flipped Dorian onto her back and she couldn’t stop the high pitched yelp that left her as the duct tape was swiftly ripped off, leaving a harsh stinging pain in its wake. The employee grabbed her chin in a grip that threatened to bruise, thick fingers slipped past her teeth, fishing for the cloth in her mouth.
Against every fearful, human instinct she still held dear, Dorian bit down. While her canines found purchase on his knuckles, unfortunately she didn’t break skin. Though, she dimly recognized he was screaming.
Good.
She felt a smile etch its way across her face as the hand was swiftly yanked out from her hold, cloth in tow. The slap echoed through the room before Dorian felt the pain bloom in her cheek. Her head fell to the side and she gasped in the scent of the smoke filled carpet again. Her eyes stung with unwanted tears as she licked her teeth. A command reached her, harsh, insistent. Glancing up with a sidelong glare, Dorian’s eyes went wide as she recognized the muzzle held in the employee’s palm.
A hand grabbed her face again, Dorian squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, pressing her lips taut. Past the pounding echoes of her rapid heartbeat the employee cursed, she bit her tongue to stop herself from throwing his vile words back at him. A hand clamped down tight over her nose, her hands jerked upwards, uselessly attempting to shove the man off. She held her breath even as her lungs burned and muscles twitched and spasmed uselessly. Her ears rang with effort as a headache threatened to crack her skull at the temples. She felt her hands beat against the body above her to no avail.
The weight above Dorian shifted, pressure lessening as the man’s grip loosened for a fraction of a second. Right before the sharp angle of a bent knee was rammed below her ribs. Dorian let out a gasping cough of pain that was stifled as she felt a solid bar press between her teeth. Opening her eyes again she thrashed as the man pushed the wire basket over her face, the straps were fastened and tightened, crushing her tangled hair beneath them.
Humiliation and anger rose in her gut as she was hoisted to her knees and forced to face an ornate wooden door. Delicately carved flora decorated the panels, the shapes swam in the blurred edges of her vision as she traced their swirling path.
How long has it been since she’s seen an actual flower? Dorian wondered dimly, letting her eyes drift to her blood that was soaking into the carpet beneath her. How long will it be until she sees one again?
The thought didn’t last. The door swung with an earsplitting creak of the hinges and the woman stepped through. She was shorter than Dorian expected, a round lady, her curves hugged by the strapless red dress that fell just above her knees. As Dorian tore her gaze away, ducking her head to not give the woman the satisfaction of seeing her clearly, she realized that this vile woman looked… almost… friendly?
“My goodness!” The woman remarked dreamily as the tapping of those damned kitten heels neared Dorian again, “You gentlemen did a splendid job.” Dorian felt the woman’s gaze rake over her and swallowed back the growl building in her chest as a shiver of disgust ran through her. Suddenly a hand was placed on the crown of her head, carding slim fingers through her hair, Dorian couldn’t help curling into herself at the touch, a sob escaping her as she waited for the gentle ministrations to turn harsh. Somehow, it never did, it just released her after a moment.
A hand cupped Dorian’s face, fingers brushing against the wire and metal of the muzzle as she gently tilted her face up to meet her gaze. Dorian snarled through the gag, swallowing back a cough at her overwhelmingly sweet perfume as she glared into the woman’s blue eyes that shone with adoration and…pity?
“Hello there, darling.” The woman cooed, soft and coy. Dorian cursed at her, the woman raised an eyebrow and blinked in surprise, so it was clearly somewhat legible despite the gag. “Oh my!” She laughed, pulling her fur coat higher over her freckled shoulders before raising her hand to Dorian’s brow. Dorian couldn’t help flinching away as an instinctive wave of fear set her nerves alight.
“Ah, now, there's no need for that.” the woman chided, leaning in and cupping Dorian’s canine ear with a small smile, “You’re safe with me, dear.” She whispered, low, saddened, but still so idiotically cheery, Dorian would have laughed if she could. Before she could entertain the idea, the woman tapped the nose of the muzzle with her index finger letting out yet another wistful giggle.
Nausea and humiliation rose in Dorian’s throat in tandem, her shoulders were released from their bruising grips as the woman swiftly grabbed Dorian from under her arms, hauling her to stand with gentle encouragement despite the muffled cries of protest that accompanied it.
Being steered towards the exit, Dorian felt her face grow warm and slick with unwanted tears. She couldn’t fight, not with the woman directly behind her, chest pressed to her back with one hand on her shoulder, the other resting just above her hip. The warmth the woman—who introduced herself as Ms. Stratfield—radiated was sickeningly comforting. Dorian caught herself leaning into it on more than one occasion, she hated herself for it. It was obviously a trap. Still, warmth was warmth, and she was oh so cold.
Soon they neared the exit sign, the red fluorescent glow flickering dully over them, as Ms. Stratfield stopped and turned to the employees, questioning why they were being followed. As one man explained that it was protocol for such purchases, Dorian felt disgust making a home beneath her skin again, but she simply ducked her head. She was only a hand-me-down, being seen as an object was exhaustedly aggravating.
Dorian heard Ms. Stratfield argue something about her privacy, worry-tinged frustration laced beneath her sweetened tone. Swiftly, the pressure of the stern gazes on Dorian’s back lessened as footsteps receded, she shivered as the exit door was pushed open with a metallic whine before the frigid night air embraced her.
Wind lazily whipped at Dorian's face, carrying the scent of old petrol and weathered asphalt as the woman steered her through the darkened expanse outside of the multi-storey car park. Breathing in the crisp air through the wire of the muzzle, Dorian savored the differences it carried from the stench of the abandoned building she had been held in. With a hollow feeling Dorian realized she didn't truly remember the last time she’d been outside.
Looking up to find only a vast fog where stars should be, Dorian shivered suddenly, bones shaking as bitter cold nipped at exposed skin. There was a shift and Ms. Stratfield gave an unintelligible murmur before a soft coat was draped over Dorian’s shoulders. “There we go,” Ms. Stratfield hushed, fastening the top button of the fur coat with deft fingers, “that’s better, hm?”
Relaxing her shoulders, Dorian savored the newfound warmth seeping into her skin. So, she nodded, a slight duck of the head and a muffled hum. An acknowledgement that her captor’s coat was at least better than nothing. Dorian closed her eyes briefly, almost letting herself lean into Ms. Stratfield’s touch once more before a light chuckle startled her awake. The fingers on her hip found their way to grasp her cuffed hand, the soft touch sending a chill down Dorian’s spine. “Let’s get to the car, dearest.” She offered. Dorian had no choice but to follow.
Dorian stared at the flannel blanket draped across the backseat of the car, she let her tail swish against the soft material, disbelief and gratefulness battling within her as Ms. Stratfield buckled the seatbelt over her lap. After a moment she stood swiftly, her gaze settling on the muzzle after a moment.
“You’re safe, dear,” Ms. Stratfield hushed, reaching her hand forward, Dorian swiftly leaned away before hesitantly straightening, “so there’s no need to make a racket.” she warned, as careful fingers undid the straps and pulled the gag from Dorian’s mouth. Gasping a fresh breath of air, Dorian stifled a coughing fit that lasted several seconds before she could speak.
“Let me go home.” Dorian rasped, trying to keep her voice steady and demanding.
“I’ll get you home, dear.” She smiled, sending a wave of warm relief rippling through Dorian that brought fresh tears to her eyes.
“Uncuff me,” Dorian started, struggling with her cuffed hands, “just, please get these off me.” she begged, choking back a sob.
“I’m sorry, I can’t take them off for good.” Ms. Stratfield hushed, placing a gentle hand on Dorian’s wrist, Dorian felt her skin writhe as doubt crept in again.
“I’m not going to run,” Dorian argued, feeling herself grow disoriented as Ms. Stratfield nodded in agreement, “So, just fucking uncuff me.” The air stood still for a moment as Dorian heard Ms. Stratfield sigh.
“It’s for your own safety.” she explained, her patience clearly thinning.
“How?” Dorian demanded, voice low. Ms. Stratfield gave no answer and anger boiled up from Dorian’s stomach. “How? How is it for my safety?”
“I know what I’m doing, my darling-” Ms. Stratfield started as Dorian clenched her jaw at the pet-name.
“Don’t fucking call me that!” Dorian yelled, “you kidnapped me you sick bitch, you don’t get to call me that!” she yelled before nearly doubling over with coughing as pain shot up her throat.
“Trust me.” Ms. Stratfield demanded, something like pleading creeping in at the edge of her voice
“No.” Dorian rasped, the woman simply sighed through clenched teeth before she reached down and held up a pair of leather cuffs attached by a longer chain.
“I’m going to help you. Just let me.” she hissed before taking a deep breath “I can’t take them off now. But these are looser, more comfortable.” The chain rattled as she shook the handcuffs to punctuate the idea, “I’ve done this before, so listen to me; This is for your own safety.” Ms. Stratfield explained with a knowing glance towards the parking lot behind her.
Dorian stared at the metal of the chain as it glistened in the dim light, something akin to relief flooding her again as she realized; It’s pretend, an act to get out.
After a moment, Dorian hummed and nodded in a hesitant assent. It was probably best to keep up appearances, who knows what some sick buyer would do if they found out this woman was helping her. So, Dorian held her wrists out and willingly let the woman uncuff her then slip the new chains on.
“I swear, if you try anything.” Dorian hissed, letting her weak threat hang in the air, satin lining pressing against her bruised skin as Ms. Stratfield tightened them.
“I won’t,” She smiled, cold blue eyes shining in the dim light as she locked the cuffs and placed the key in her coat pocket, her grin only deepening the crow’s feet rooted at the corners of her eyes as she stood. Obviously noticing the hesitation that Dorian felt through her entire aching body, Ms. Stratfield walked back to the boot of the car, leaving Dorian to stare out into the vast expanse of the car lot before shifting against her new, thankfully looser, bindings. She uselessly licked her lips before flinching as the boot of the car opened with a creak. Dorian turned her head toward the noise, straining her neck only to see a solid wall behind her.
There was a crack of plastic, movement and a muffled cough, before the clicking footsteps neared her again. Ms. Stratfield stood in front of her again, an opened water bottle clasped in her hand, which she swiftly handed to Dorian with a request to drink. Dorian took it, holding the lukewarm water in her palm, the chains rattling with the movement sending a chill up her spine. Dorian smiled, reminding herself that it was just a disguise. Dorian lifted the water to her cracked lips and chugged half of it with trembling hands, far too fast apparently, as it left her coughing and choking.
“Thank you,” she sputtered, feeling tears on her cheeks as the woman helped her pull the bottle back from her lips, “thank you so much.”
“Of course,” She smiled, placing a gentle hand on Dorian’s back, “Drink the rest.” Dorian nodded with a wavering grin, feeling her tail give a hesitant wag as the woman rubbed small, gentle circles between her shoulder blades before she shut the car door, climbing in the driver's seat not long after.
Dorian stumbled through her tears to remember her address for a moment, sniffling as Ms. Stratfield nodded before typing an address into the SatNav. Wiping her tears, Dorian took a breath as the woman pulled out into the street, she let herself relax into the cool leather of the car seat beneath her, glancing out the tinted window watching the world scroll on as she melted into the rumbling purr of the car beneath her. Dorian felt a small smile creep across her face as the slow melodies of classical music filled the car.
She was finally going home.
Dorian allowed herself to rest in that fact, halfheartedly trying to respond to Ms. Stratfield’s attempt at conversation despite the buzzing of exhaustion beneath her skin. Sudden dizziness rolled through her in waves as she forced herself to sit upright, and breathe deeply in hope of fighting the sudden faint feeling in her head.
“Excuse me, Miss,” she sputtered after a moment, “can you pull over, I don’t-” Dorian forcing a deep breath, her heart catching on her ribs, “I don’t feel well.” Ms. Stratfield’s eyes flitted to her in the rearview mirror.
“Drink some water dear, It’ll pass in a bit.” She smiled. Dorian shuddered as she looked back towards the front of the car, “you want to get home soon, don’t you?” She asked.
Dorian nodded and nursed the rest of the water deliberately trying to soothe the sudden dryness in her mouth. Resting her cheek on the soft faux fur of the coat she watched the haze of the lights outside the tinted window. That probably wasn’t legal, but the rich break so many laws anyway Dorian didn’t particularly give it much thought.
Gradually, the world drifted away, dulled panic growing in Dorian’s chest as it did so. She didn’t remember why she felt like this. What did Ms. Stratfield do to her? Dorian heard herself ask, a laugh and a comment to relax was the only response. So, Dorian allowed herself to rest back into the seat vaguely wondering why it felt like she was thinking through cement. Dorian didn’t like cement much, it meant construction. Construction sites were deafening with their jackhammers and bulldozers and cranes, lights and the blaring tones of reversing trucks.
After thinking for an exhaustingly long moment Dorian could recall the last time she passed one, when she was going to Ayla’s house after school. Ayla’s house was only three blocks away from her apartment, Dorian remembered with a grin. Oh, she couldn’t wait to be home, she felt an exhausted giddiness at the notion of it.
Home, her heart sang in her chest, she was going home.
Words floated above her, light and jovial, definitely not her mum’s voice, or her aunt’s. Oh, Ms. Stratfield was talking to her again. The faint tones of disjointed words flowing into Dorian’s ears caused her to stir and writhe against the seatbelt that forced her back against the burning cold leather. She was being held down. Why was she being held down? She’d behaved, hadn’t she? Why was she so tired? Why wasn’t she home yet?
Dorian’s skull seemed to press in at the temples, the faux fur of the coat weighing down on her shoulders threatened to drag her into the seat. Shit, Dorian thought past the sudden bout of nausea, oh shit not now, this can’t happen now. Dorian focused, her eyes locking onto a white circular disk that rolled weakly between the grooves of the car mat.
The cap of a pill bottle, Dorian realized with a tilt of her head. She focused what little energy she had left on watching the cap roll with each turn of the car. Between silently scolding herself to not pass out, Dorian found herself thinking how strangely nice it was that Ms. Stratfield kept medication in her car. What was it for?
The headache worsened with a vengeance as black spots danced at the edge of her vision. Do not pass out, Dorian willed herself. You absolutely cannot pass out, not in a strangers car. You can’t pass out.
“Don’t.” Dorian hissed under her breath, feeling tears sting at the corner of her eyes. “Don’t, Don’t, Don’t.” she pleaded to nothing and no one, her begging falling into sobbing as the world grew staticy around the edge of her vision.
Dorian was hushed again, her weak sobbing quieted with soft words as the car stopped. The car door swung open and Ms. Stratfield leaned over her, unbuckling the seatbelt and catching Dorian when she threw herself forward.
Gingerly, Ms. Stratfield slid an arm under Dorian’s knees, her other arm resting on her lower back. Dorian bit back a yelp as the woman drew her close and lifted up in a bridal carry before immediately sputtering a cough at the overwhelming floral scent from Ms. Stratfield’s perfume.
Ms. Stratfield turned, shutting the car door, humming softly and began to walk up the driveway. Lifting her eyes up from her lap Dorian felt her breath catch as she found herself staring at the picturesque cottage in front of her, dread filling her stomach.
“Welcome home, my darling.” The woman laughed, sending a fresh wave of nausea up through Dorian’s aching body. Fear dug a pit in her stomach as she took in the unfamiliar sight of the perfectly painted white picket fence.
Whumpee thinking caretaker is their new master, and already thinking they hit the jackpot because the standards are so much more reasonable and they’re so much better supported, it would be so much easier to be good here!
But they still haven’t followed those ideas to any other conclusions, so they assume either that punishments will be just the same or worse (like some cosmic karma trade off). Still, they’re happy. But what about when they actually do do something wrong?
They’re bracing themselves, more terrified than they’ve ever been in their life somehow but resigned and willing, but… Caretaker just, talks to them? Asks why they did what they did and tells them why they shouldn’t have and what they should do next time. And then it’s over?
Whumpee asks what their punishment was, confused and almost more scared by the lack of it. Caretaker asks what punishment?
Whumpee reminds them that they did something wrong, they deserved to be punished.
Caretaker asks what the point would be in punishing them.
Whumpee says to make them better, right?
Caretaker asks if they were going to follow their instructions next time, and has Whumpee repeat what they just talked about. Whumpee obeys, confused.
Caretaker then says that it seems like they learned their lesson, why would they need to hurt them to get the message across? Why would they want to?
Whumpees who have to stay strong straight after the whump because they’re the only person who can complete a specific task.
There’s a strict deadline to find or escape Whumper and Whumpee’s the only one who can give them enough details about them to ensure a victory.
Medic whumpees having to explain to the rest of their team how to treat their wounds because they’re far too injured to do it themselves but the team have no medical experience.
Powerful whumpees being the only person capable on the team of taking down the enemy, even though they’re severely injured.
Caretakers injured on a rescue mission that just have to keep pushing through because what Whumpee’s going through is infinitely more painful than this.
Magic whumpees being the only ones who know a certain spell or ability having to perform it even though it’ll likely exacerbate their injuries further.
Whumpee’s already extremely wounded and traumatised, but they still have to be used as bait to lure Whumper into a trap because there’s no other solution to capturing them. Everyone worries that if their plan went South, Whumpee wouldn’t be strong enough to fight back.
Just. Characters who don’t get to collapse into their loved ones arms just yet. Freedom and safety is in sight, it’s almost there, but they just have to keep pushing through just this one last time and then they’ll get their rest.
I know I haven't written as much as I'd like this year, but my creative drive remains strong, and I'm still enjoying this wonderful community of writers and whump fans. So, using the fact that I'm celebrating Chimeras' 2nd Anniversary in August and Feathers and Flames' 1st Anniversary in July as an excuse, I've decided to bring this little event to everyone interested!
I've decided to include some of my favorite prompts (those who know me know what I'm talking about, hehe), and the event will run throughout August! Even so, anyone interested in participating, even outside of the designated timeframe, is welcome! The important thing is to have fun and use this activity as a possible motivation to write ;)
Prompts and rules under the cut!!
Day 1: Shackles / Found Family / “Don't listen to them”
Day 2: Monster / Nonhuman whumpee / “That's not a child”
Day 3: Kidnapping / Bound and Gagged / “Shut them up”
Day 4: Captivity / Used as bait / “Better start running”
Day 5: Blood / Magic with a price / “I don't want to go back”
Day 6: Pet / Psychological manipulation / “You're just an animal”
Day 7: Fangs / Found unconscious / “Do you still love me?”
Day 8: Hunting / Parental caretaker / “It's over, you'll be okay”
Event Rules:
1. Anyone can participate! Your works may or may not focus on whump.
2. For personal reasons, no explicit NSFW QwQ. Implicit content is okay.
3. Any creative format is welcome: writing, drawing, moodboards, photography, poetry, GIFs, movie or series recommendations, etc.
4. Fandom and OC content are both welcome. No AI-generated content.
5. Please identify the prompt you’re using at the beginning of your post. You’re free to mix prompts from different days or combine them with other whump or writing challenges.
6. Tag your creations with #Melpomenewhumpevent so I can reblog your work ;)
7. The event will take place in August to celebrate the 2nd anniversary of Chimeras, but you can post your creations at any time, and I’ll reblog them as long as you use the event hashtag.
I've seen some posts trying to make fun of former gifted kids by comparing them to former student athletes who insist that they could have gone pro if not for a specific injury, and those posts always backfire, because my reaction to them is "You're right, we should treat former student athletes with more compassion than we currently do"
I went from being very physically active to getting the "your body doesn't make energy properly anymore" disability so I can completely understand the grief that comes with circumstances outside your control destroying parts of you you were once proud of and locking you out of the life you could have had. It's not a good feeling.
These tender moments reminded Whumpee of when the two had first met. How kind Whumper had been, the promises they made. Of course in the end it was all just a lie, a trick to get Whumpee to walk into the jaws of hell. They hated their captor, they truly did, and yet... they still yearned for them. Yearned for the lie. In these feeting moments, Whumpee could pretend it had all been true.
A narrative parallel I love: Whumpee seeing themselves in other objects/animals/etc that Caretaker interacts with.
-Caretaker gently carrying a spider or other creepy crawly out into the garden instead of squashing it gives the Whumpee who was always considered expendable a lump in their throat.
-Caretaker having a “scary” dog breed like a Pitt bull or Rottweiler but treating it like a pet and lapdog, loving on it instead of training it to attack. Living Weapon Whumpee watches hopefully from their spot standing guard as the dog lays its head in Caretakers lap.
-Caretaker fixing their old beater of a car instead of getting a new one, even though they could afford it, and the Whumpee who was replaced after get hurt/making a mistake/getting too old/etc feels a sense of overwhelming relief.
-Caretaker feeding and watching over a feral stray cat from a distance, never trying to trap it or get too close, just making sure it’s okay. Stoic/defiant Whumpee not letting themselves think about how that makes them feel. Also, if/when Caretaker has to catch and treat the stray because it’s gotten injured or sick, realizing that that’s what Caretaker had been doing for them. They just were too scared to understand.
-Caretaker oiling and polishing their tools, putting them away carefully, taking pains that they were well taken care of and would last forever. Mentioning offhandedly that if you take care of your tools, they’ll take care of you. Slave Whumpee nodding emphatically, hoping that mindset extends to them as well.
-Caretaker tending their garden, trimming buds from flowering plants to keep the plant healthy instead just pretty, and Whumpee who’s only ever been valued for their appearance feels less shame and guilt for “letting themselves go” in recovery.
Whumpee who is so mentally unwell they start giving in to their intrusive thoughts and start doing impulsive, random, strange and, of course, harmful things. Because it's gotten to the point that they stopped caring about it.
Sleeping in the bathtub full of water, clothed, and with a blanket;
Burying knives anywhere but in the chopping block. In the walls, on the ceiling...;
Trying to get a plate from the cabinet and pretending they didn't see that it was about to fall to the ground;
Banging their head or their fists against the wall in a constant, morbid pattern;
Having less sense of space and, sometimes accidentally, sometimes not, bumping onto things;
Unplugging and plugging electronics again and again;
Things that go against basic survivability: crossing the street without looking two ways, using the washing machine while it's plugged in and while barefoot when the floor's wet — also includes turning the shower on and off repeatedly while barefoot —, keep standing up even when they know they're about to pass out...
Whumpee who is their own expert caretaker. Reading up on how best to treat their injuries or trauma, memorising breathing and/or grounding exercises, making sure they eat well and setting timers to get enough sleep, talking themselves patiently through difficult things, constantly reminding themselves to have compassion and patience.
And it works, but... it gets so very exhausting after a while.
charming whumper who doesn't seem like the bad guy
has an upstanding role in the community, or a job that's seen as honourable
incredibly charismatic - everyone loves them
maybe they're too perfect. there isn't a single outward flaw about them
helping others, maybe even supporting people who are abused in the same way they abuse whumpee
can get out of any suspicious seeming situation incredibly smoothly and has an answer or excuse for anything at all
brushes off whumpee's obvious hatred for them with a snarky or smart comment and practised obliviousness that keeps everyone else unaware
or whumpee is framed as the bad one for hating the perfect whumper
whumpee doesn't even attempt to open up about the real whumper, because they know the image whumper has built up for themselves is impossible to shatter
or maybe whumpee has been so manipulated that even they start to believe all these things about whumper - maybe there's something wrong with them instead
After being rescued, Whumpee can’t call people by their names. They have to use titles, they make sure to end sentences with “sir” or “ma’am.” They know they don’t have to anymore, but it feels wrong, it feels dangerous, not to.
A God Whumper kidnaps Whumpee into another realm where nothing can reach them and tortures them there. After some days, weeks, or maybe years (maybe time passes differently there, way faster than in the real world), during yet another torture session, Whumper stills suddenly, is quiet for a moment, as if listening, and then bursts out laughing.
”Seems like Caretaker finally realised you have vanished,” Whumper says between amused chuckles. ”They’re praying to me to keep you safe.”
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