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 Wreckx’s 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 didn’t 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.
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.
He chewed on his tongue, pain to distract from other pain. He had to leave, if he didn’t 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.
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 couldn’t help but remember the giggling comment made by his ex-girlfriend, who claimed that it felt like she was hugging a skeleton.
She wouldn’t 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.
“Hey, little guy.” 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.
“Easy there, buddy.” The person on the other end of the speaker box said. So this room was surveilling Wreckx. “We don’t want you too messed up just yet, alright?”
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 didn’t strain his voice too much, he didn’t know what kind of damage that brute had done.
“Alright,” The voice spoke again, “I’m not the guy who’s been messaging you, that’s my boss. And yours now too.”
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 wasn’t stupid enough to think that he had the upper hand in this exchange, but he wasn’t about to roll over for this clown.
“You might notice your neural interface has been tampered with. We’ve installed new software and hardware that will capture all of your senses in sweet, sweet downloadable format.” 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? “There 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.”
Wreckx’s 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.
“We can all tell you fuck yourself up on purpose, maybe you’ll even enjoy it.” The speaker said offhandedly. Their words were nothing to them, but they had Wreckx crossing his arms, trying to hide his scarred skin. He didn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t choose this, he didn’t want this.
“I’ll be the one bringing you your food throughout the day. There’s a bathroom and shower attached to your room, I’m sure our boss would appreciate it if you kept yourself camera-ready.” Wreckx swore that he could hear voices in the background of the person’s words. “I doubt I’ll be the one doing anything to you, AnonyMouse took quite an interest in you in particular.”
Wreckx swallowed down the metallic tang in his mouth and finally broke eye contact with the speaker.
“Why me?” 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 wasn’t this a step too far? When he was finally faced with the consequences of his actions, he couldn’t 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)—utilize 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. It’s not that he hadn’t 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 couldn’t 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, it’d look like he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. To anyone who knew him, they’d 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t stop weighing his alternatives over and over.
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 couldn’t leave Screwloose behind. Besides, AnonyMouse would probably still be able to find him somehow, and there wasn’t a single place in the country where law enforcement couldn’t touch him. He didn’t 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 technology’s 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 would’ve 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 wasn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 wasn’t even fighting this. He wasn’t 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.
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 wasn’t enough punishment. He deserved more. Maybe he should’ve 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 couldn’t 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.
Wreckx shoved his hand in his pocket, turning the data drive over in his fingers again. It was still there, AnonyMouse hadn’t 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 didn’t 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 someone’s girlfriend- but he hadn’t 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 he’d ever felt before, he was going to pop.
Wreckx clawed at the arm, though it yielded little effect besides popping off one of Wreckx’s 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 couldn’t 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.
“I hope that was the right dose,” The voice behind him said, before releasing their hold on him and letting his body fall in a pile on the ground. “I didn’t realize you were such a little guy.”
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 didn’t register in his brain, the ringing took over, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
