Zen | 24 | They/Them | Whump blog with a primary focus on the comfort after the hurt! Lover of pet recovery whump. My inbox is always open for asks, prompts, anything!
Adrien and Sawdust Masterlist: pet whump, whump recovery, male whumpee, male caretaker, one whumpee. New- and admittedly bad- caretaker Adrien tries his best to rehabilitate a pet he bought on impulse.
The Greatest Show Masterlist: circus whump, male whumpee, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, two whumpees, pet whump (technically). Strongman Apollo and gymnast Rogue dealing with their cruel ringmaster as they perform at a traveling circus.
Carus Masterlist: intimate whumper, drugging, alcohol abuse, pet whump, defiant whumpee, age difference (both adults), male whumper, male whumpee. Carus finds a home in his master's penthouse, and comfort in his master's bed, but he can hardly say that he is happy with it.
Wreckx Masterlist: cyberpunk, unlikeable whumpee, creepy whumpee, stalking, self hatred, unreliable narrator, autistic whumpee (written by autistic writer). Wreckx, the hopeless loser that he is, will take just about any hacking job to get by. He's bitten off more than he can chew with this job, but now he's helpless to get out of it.
I love it when Whumpees aren't inherently good people. Maybe they've been horrible, even abusive, in the past. They regret it, but haven't made amends with those they wronged due to cowardice; perhaps believing they wouldn't be forgiven anyway.
Then they get abducted by Whumper, who could be a former victim of Whumpee's or just closely affiliated with Whumpee's victims. (Personally I like the idea of Whumper being close to one of Whumpee's victims, the latter of whom was driven to suicide partially because of Whumpee's actions.)
Whumper continuously tortures Whumpee over the span of what feels like days. Whenever Whumpee flinches away or cries, they receive an even more painful punishment.
"Don't you DARE cry," Whumper would hiss. "You think this is bad? Imagine how they felt. This is nothing, nothing compared to the pain they received from you."
Or if they were feeling particularly smug:
"You thought you were so tough, huh? So untouchable, so high and mighty. Look at you now; you're little more than a filthy cockroach."
And Whumpee doesn't protest. Doesn't try defending themselves, even as their eyeball hangs from its socket, even as skin peels off their back like a snake's, even as their nails decorate the floor like grotesque snowflakes.
Because why would they defend themselves? Whumpee hasn't done a single good thing in their life. They deserve it. At least this way, they might bring peace to someone else.
They can only hope that eventually, Whumper forgives them enough to kill them quickly.
big fan of when grief drives characters to do fucked up things that are ultimately pointless and do more harm than good rather than just like. going to therapy
The pain came in waves, it was the first sensation to return to Wreckxâs limp body. Pain in his bones, caressing him in ways that no human ever would. It radiated all over, then specified itself to the back of his neck, his chest, his stomach, his right arm, both knees. It was dull, and hot.
Next came taste. Metal on his tongue. He recognized the taste of blood, hoping that it was his own. Had he bitten his tongue at some point during his trip into the darkness? It didnât feel so.
Then, the realization of life. He was alive. Cold air filled his lungs, which his body quickly rejected, sending him into a sputtering coughing fit on the ground. Ground? Whatever was under him was hard and cold, but he felt no movement in the air and heard no activity around him, just silence loud enough to join the ringing in his ears.
Finally, he opened his eyes. He was greeted by darkness, only able to make out faint shapes thanks to being adjusted to the dark. He looked, and found the edge where the wall met the floor, and the ceiling. The corners of the room. The outline of a door. Some kind of box up in the top corner of the room. Pits in the ceiling where lights sat. Aside from him, the room was completely bare and unpopulated, devoid of both life and furniture. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all smooth and showed no signs of wear.Â
He pushed his palms down into the floor, attempting to force his body up. His jacket was gone. Half-sitting in the middle of the room, he was left in his old, loose t-shirt and sweatpants, though they had taken the drawstring from them, and his shoes were gone but his socks remained.
Pushing up further, coming to sit up, his body protested by sending violent, nauseating waves of pain through him. With a groan, Wreckx lifted his shirt and was met by several large bruises, splattered across his stomach and chest.Â
He chewed on his tongue, pain to distract from other pain. He had to leave, if he didnât leave, he would be killed. It was a fact of reality that he was certain of. His body barely obeyed his order to stand, and gave up when he tried to take a step, sending him clattering to the ground in a pile of bones.Â
Without his jacket, everything hurt. The way his shoulders and hips pressed against the ground, his arm pinned against his side. He had no padding, no fat or muscle. Ringing in his head, he couldnât help but remember the giggling comment made by his ex-girlfriend, who claimed that it felt like she was hugging a skeleton.Â
She wouldnât even be disappointed he ended up like this, it was all foreseeable, and it was all he deserved.
Hot, frustrated tears stung in his eyes. What kind of man is he, crying on the ground, unable to defend himself, weak and pathetic? There was never any point to him, to his existence. Everyone else knew that, Wreckx was the only one stupid enough to ever think otherwise, if even for a moment. The others were trying to teach him that, to punish him in some desperate attempt to help him, to make him better, and he was the one who refused.
A metallic, electronic squeal broke Wreckx from his thoughts. Feedback, microphone feedback, Wreckx knew it well. The dark shape in the upper corner of the room was a speaker box, inelegantly shoved there.
âHey, little guy.â Spoke a voice through the box. It sounded like the same person who had captured him, he thought.
Wreckx opened his mouth to speak, assuming that this room would be equipped with some kind of microphone and camera somewhere, but only managed a pathetic squeak before being sent into a painful coughing fit on the floor. His throat burned, any noise he attempted to make brought a sharp pain.
âEasy there, buddy.â The person on the other end of the speaker box said. So this room was surveilling Wreckx. âWe donât want you too messed up just yet, alright?â
Wreckx wanted to yell profanities at the speaker box, but the metallic taste on his tongue gave him pause. It was for the best that he didnât strain his voice too much, he didnât know what kind of damage that brute had done.
âAlright,â The voice spoke again, âIâm not the guy whoâs been messaging you, thatâs my boss. And yours now too.â
Fixing his position, Wreckx sat cross legged and glared at the speaker box, assuming that the camera was located nearby. Nobody was his boss, certainly not AnonyMouse. Wreckx wasnât stupid enough to think that he had the upper hand in this exchange, but he wasnât about to roll over for this clown.
âYou might notice your neural interface has been tampered with. Weâve installed new software and hardware that will capture all of your senses in sweet, sweet downloadable format.â The person was all too casual about this, had they done this before? Had they done worse? So AnonyMouse is, what, exploiting Wreckx? Trying to get some weird, voyeuristic footage of him? âThere are a lot of sick puppies in the world that pay good money for full-sensory virtual reality experiences. The grittier, the more painful, the better.â
Wreckxâs heart stopped for a moment, his blood ran cold in his veins. He had heard of these kinds of things, the VR experiences. They were spoken about in seedy forums that he frequented in his alone time, but he had seen the enjoyers of such things swear up and down that it was all consensually made by hard core masochists. They were probably just saying that to ease their guilt, Wreckx thought. Though he never wished he was wrong more than this very moment.
âWe can all tell you fuck yourself up on purpose, maybe youâll even enjoy it.â The speaker said offhandedly. Their words were nothing to them, but they had Wreckx crossing his arms, trying to hide his scarred skin. He didnât have it in him to be pissed off, he was still stuck in the shock of being told he was going to be tortured for content.
Wreckx pulled no joy or pleasure from pain, self inflicted or otherwise. He didnât like it, but he was addicted to it. To the way it quieted his thoughts, the buzzing feeling he got at the back of his skull and under all his skin, even the smell of metal in the air. He loved the ritual of it, the relief it brought knowing that it was making up for all the bad he had done, all the bad he was. But this was different, this was too much. He didnât choose this, he didnât want this.
âIâll be the one bringing you your food throughout the day. Thereâs a bathroom and shower attached to your room, Iâm sure our boss would appreciate it if you kept yourself camera-ready.â Wreckx swore that he could hear voices in the background of the personâs words. âI doubt Iâll be the one doing anything to you, AnonyMouse took quite an interest in you in particular.â
Wreckx swallowed down the metallic tang in his mouth and finally broke eye contact with the speaker.
âWhy me?â Wreckx croaked out. What was so special, so terrible about him that AnonyMouse wanted to subject him to this? Yes, Wreckx was bad, disgusting, despicable, but wasnât this a step too far? When he was finally faced with the consequences of his actions, he couldnât help but cower.
Instead of dignifying him with a response, the person on the other end broke into laughter before cutting the line.
so as long as tumblr keeps this, here's the tumblr version of etiquette that was maintained when twitter's quote-retweets affected artist visibility/notes:
for art that someone has added reblog commentary to (or removed the caption from), reblog from the source
otherwise, avoid adding reblog comments to art (as this will affect the artist's notes/visibility)âutilize tags and replies to provide commentary (which artists will absolutely appreciate)
reblog comments are comments added to the body of a post, not the tags and not replies.
Having a blorbo is SO wonderful bc you get free joy for thinking about them being happy but also free joy for thinking about them being miserable. No losing
I think we should. use our mutuals inboxes like gacha games and roll to get rare OC pulls . and skins. I'm like "oh shittt the Easter Event is coming up, I need to pull for the new skins" so I go into someone's inbox and send them. I dunno. a picture of a quarter. and they respond with a drawing of a random OC of theirs in a bunny onesie
There was never a time where Wreckx wished he could drive more than the moment he set foot on the bus that evening. Itâs not that he hadnât tried before. In his previous life- the years that he had spent with his parents before being unceremoniously kicked out- he did give driving an honest attempt. Call it anxiety or call it pure patheticness, Wreckx couldnât help the way he locked up behind the wheel. So now, he was left to ride the bus to his death. Maybe AnonyMouse would just jump him in the alley, stab or shoot him, take the drive, and leave him to die. To anyone passing by, itâd look like he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. To anyone who knew him, theyâd know he had it coming.
The drive containing the footage and collected data was a weight in his pocket- a black hole that he was being crushed by. There was no doubt in his mind that, of everyone else on the sparsely populated bus, he was the worst off. He couldnât even wallow in his pity, everything had happened so quickly, and it was all his fault, after all.
Wreckx was never an idiot, he was wise enough to know that meeting his benefactor in some alleyway on the other side of town was not going to have positive consequences for him. Part of him couldnât stop weighing his alternatives over and over.Â
He could turn around and go back home, catch another bus back, just deal with whatever was going to happen. If AnonyMouse made good on their threat, Wreckx would wind up with a bullet in his head or thrown in prison, and he obviously would not survive either.
He could just leave. Call a taxi, catch a ride, get out of the city and leave everything behind. No, he couldnât leave Screwloose behind. Besides, AnonyMouse would probably still be able to find him somehow, and there wasnât a single place in the country where law enforcement couldnât touch him. He didnât have the kind of money or status that one would need to become untouchable.
The brakes of the bus whined as it came to a stop, and a muffled, unintelligible voice rang out over the shitty speakers. Such an announcement system was a relic, from before technologyâs advancement. Before people started putting electronics on the insides of their skulls. Anybody who was hearing the driver call the stop for the first time wouldâve been clueless about what was said, but Wreckx knew that it was already time for him to hop off and head to his gallows.
His boots hit the sidewalk, water scattering underneath him. The streetlights above him flickered dimly, only one out of every four was functional enough to put out any light at all. He never noticed how dark this part of town was until now. It was tucked away from all the neon lights and business of downtown or the arts and tech districts. Yet it wasnât a part of town that he felt unsafe in, until now.
Maple Street was quiet, populated by a few apartment buildings, with the majority of the units in them sitting empty. This area was simply too inconvenient for people to want to live in, unless they had a specific reason to. Did Anonymouse operate out of here? Or did they just pay someone here to put Wreckx down in an alleyway like a dog, the disgusting animals that they are?
He was making assumptions. Maybe they wouldnât harm him after all. He had been so obedient recently, doing all that they asked... No, that would be too hopeful for someone like him.
A pit of shame settled in his chest. He wasnât even fighting this. He wasnât giving living the barest, briefest chance. He simply walked forward, counting the street signs until he got close to the one he needed. Wreckx knew that he was a hopeless creature, and he should have been grateful he made it this far in the first place.Â
All the torment, however well deserved, led here. All the times he got his shit rocked for taking upskirts, or when he would plant cameras in dive bar bathrooms, it wasnât enough punishment. He deserved more. Maybe he shouldâve gone to church more when he had the chance.
He walked past Maple Street the first time. Several minutes had passed of him staring at his shoes for him to realize that the alley he needed was half a block behind him, and the meet up time was rapidly approaching. Wreckx had to turn on his heel and jog back towards the intersection before finally finding the two large blue water tanks that AnonyMouse had mentioned in their message.
Those two tanks stood there like the gates to hell, easily dwarfing Wreckx and capable of doing so to a man twice his size. His boot squished something wet as he stepped further in. He couldnât hear or see anything out of the ordinary aside from his heartbeat pounding in his ears. There was no evidence of anyone here.
Was he too late? Had AnonyMouse left already? He looked up at the apartment balconies that hung over the alleyway. A few of them cast golden light at one another, but many more were dark. Nobody populated the balconies, nobody to witness his execution.Â
Wreckx shoved his hand in his pocket, turning the data drive over in his fingers again. It was still there, AnonyMouse hadnât collected it yet, so they still need him. Why did they care so much about what some kids at a college party had on their phones? AnonyMouse didnât even want the information on the devices integrated into their brains. Most people had them now, including Wreckx and assumedly most people at that party.
Step.
Somebody was behind him. The dull glow from the streetlights was overshadowed by a figure. Wreckx moved to put one foot in front of the other and run down the alley, but he was halted before he could take the first step by a thick forearm around his neck, and a body against his back.
His feet left the floor, his hands scrambled to grab at the arm holding him up. He had been beaten up in alleyways before- typically as punishment for staring at someoneâs girlfriend- but he hadnât ever been picked up like this.
His weight, as light as it was, was all put on his neck and back. He felt like his head was going to come off. He tried to gasp for breath, only managing a half wheeze. The pressure in his face was unlike anything heâd ever felt before, he was going to pop.
Wreckx clawed at the arm, though it yielded little effect besides popping off one of Wreckxâs press-on nails. The only sounds he made were pathetic, sputtering gasps while he kicked his legs wildly, gaining no traction. Dark stars pressed in from the corners of his vision, his ears rang. If the person behind him said anything, he couldnât hear it.
He felt a sting in his side, and the feeling of something rushing into him, something being injected to him. Within seconds, his jaw loosened, his eyes drifted shut, and his hands released the arm around his throat.Â
âI hope that was the right dose,â The voice behind him said, before releasing their hold on him and letting his body fall in a pile on the ground. âI didnât realize you were such a little guy.â
Wreckx tried futilely to move, the cold puddle soaking his clothes felt like pins and needles on his skin. His head swam, the words spoken above him didnât register in his brain, the ringing took over, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
Okay I LOVED the sickfic, and you said it was self indulgent, do you have any other indulgent ideas that you haven't written yet?
okokok glad u liked it! and tbh yeah ive got a whole bunchhhh but ngl some of them,,, i might be too embarassed to write hahaha
so wreckx, i love him, his character lends itself so well to just being pathetic in every way, if i had no shame there would be 3 different writings on here of just him jerking off in his room lmaoo
ngl a lot of the more self indulgent things i have in my brain are like,,, too close to porn for this blog but maybe one day ill actually write them
cw: cyberpunk, unlikeable whumpee, creepy whumpee, stalking, self hatred, unreliable narrator, autistic whumpee (written by autistic writer), illness, no emeto surprisingly, just 900 words of wreckx being a sad sick loser
Masterlist
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Every blanket in the world could never be enough to keep Wreckx warm. While he knew that he definitely deserved this illness, it still wasn't fair. He wore a mask everywhere in public! Even if it was for the purpose of hiding his face rather than keeping himself healthy, that should have still counted for something. He should really hide his disgusting face now more than ever, he's certain that he looks like a corpse.Â
At the very least, he could take all the time in the world to recover. Nobody would come looking for him.Â
Wreckx wanted to curl up, but he simply couldn't force his body to obey. The ache in his bones constricted him, and if he even thought about moving at all, he wouldn't be able to stop the tremors from wracking his body and causing more pain. His headache was already threatening to split his skull in half, the last thing he wanted was to hurt even more.Â
Saliva pooled in his mouth, his throat too sore to swallow. When was the last time he had eaten? Yesterday? The day before? He couldn't remember. The sickness made his brain sluggish, a fate worse than death, it made him feel stupid. Fragile, weak, disgusting, and now stupid. The idea of that brought hot, frustrated tears to his eyes, which he smothered in his pillow, choosing to bear the pain of movement in order to hide himself from the emptiness of his room.Â
Each breath rattled through his chest. In his day to day life, he couldnât stand unwarranted noise, especially if it was out of his control. Now, he had to live with it, that irritating rattle shaking inside him, thrumming through his eardrums. Coughing might fix it for a moment, but doing so was painful, and only reminded him of how poorly he was doing.Â
Breathing brought an ache to his spine and between his ribs, and even air was too abrasive on his throat. Yet, his breath quickened as his mind spun out, latching onto every catastrophizing thought that passed through. He was useless, pointless, he had someone who cared about him and would have cared for him now, but he threw that away. Now, nobody would check on him, nobody would find him.Â
Screwloose, his mechanical cat, pawed at the bed. His metal paw nudged Wreckx's foot over the blankets and it sent another ache through his body. Wreckx grew irritated, before remembering that he had hooked Screwloose up to his own vitals, and he was following his programming. Right, at least he still had the machine that he programmed to care about him. If his heart stopped, Screwloose would call his emergency contact, which was⌠His ex. If the fever doesn't boil his brain in his skull, he should really remember to change that.Â
Screwloose crept closer to the top of the bed, then rested his head on top of the mattress. He didn't have a face, rather a black visor in place of one. Wreckx loved his cat, but he couldn't stand to look and see his own reflection. His skin was too pale, his eyes red, his nose pink and chapped, truly the definition of disgusting. But this machine cared about him, he couldn't ignore Screwloose.Â
Wreckx reached a hand out from under the blanket, the cold air stinging his skin. He let his palm rest on top of Screwloose's head, thumb stroking the metal just above the visor. Screwloose was programmed to lean against Wreckx when Screwloose sensed heightened heart rate or breathing, but Wreckx knew that he couldn't tolerate the pressure right now. As much as it would be calming, his body was too sensitive.Â
Maybe Wreckx was a friendless loser, but petting his robot cat did help calm him, as embarrassing as it was. His breathing steadied, the tears stopped, and the pounding headache behind his eyes eased.Â
Wreckx knew that he wasn't going to get out of bed anytime soon. Fuck food, he was just going to have to sleep this off. He couldn't possibly prepare anything to eat in such a state. He lifted his hand off of Screwloose's head and snapped his fingers, before tapping the bed.Â
The mechanical cat leapt onto the bed with surprising grace, and laid down in the empty space beside Wreckx, the mattress sinking under his weight. It was pathetic, to need something in bed with him to sleep soundly. He had been doing fine before, but now he was just desperate, and lonely.Â
Screwloose radiated just a little bit of heat, and his cooling fans added a dull whirr to the air. Just focus on that, Wreckx thought, and breathe. Donât forget to breathe. There was no point in fixating on his own suffering, it wouldnât make it go away. He pressed his warm forehead against Screwlooseâs plating, and shut his eyes. He could sleep it off, he could evade his due karmic punishment once again. Maybe when he woke up, if he still wasnât better, he could clasp his hands and pray to a god he no longer believed in. But for now, he could sleep, and not much else.
