I don’t believe in DNIs, but this blog’s content is mostly SFW (if violence and gore can be considered safe for work, lmao). The occasional nsfwhump will be tagged as such.
About me: Zipper (they/them), 20s, aro-ace
I take writing commissions! Find my commission sheet here!
My writing tag is #zipwrites. My current-ish projects are The Ol’ Ball and Chain, The New Roux, and On the Wing. Everything I post is some form of rough draft. Some go through more variations than others.
Links: thezipperzone.blogspot.com
More about me n’ my blog under the cut!
Likes: lab whump, medical whump, hero and villain whump, dehumanization, kidnapping, captivity, pet whump.
Squicks: nsfw, cannibalism (please don’t ask me about these things)
My archived (unfinished, no longer being updated) whump series are The Animal I’ve Become, The Apprentice, Roux & Ambrose, and Box Bastards.
I usually tag trigger warnings with the “tw” after the content (ex: “blood tw”), or with the word “whump” after it (ex: “medical whump). I trigger tag my writing more than reblogs; you can expect to see/read gore and violence here, though, and if that makes you uncomfortable, feel free to unfollow or block me.
Feel free to send me asks or talk to me about whump stuff! Especially lab whump!
Content warnings: BBU adjacent, pet whump, cigarette burns, mouth whump
“… and what about the loneliness epidemic?”
“Loneliness epidemic? If he didn’t want to be lonely, maybe he should’ve learned to act right!”
I heard Deborah let out a dry snort, but I didn’t look. I was busy watching the glow of the TV play off the popcorn ceiling, so textured I could almost feel it from down here. I wondered how they made ceilings like that—and, more importantly, why they made ceilings like that. Wouldn’t it make more sense for a ceiling to be smooth …?
Deborah’s lighter clicked. I wrinkled my nose before I could even smell the smoke. Within the minute, my eyelids were burning and I had to suppress the constant urge to cough, like I always did when she smoked around me. I rolled over on my pet bed, instead facing the wall. It was painted a deep wine red, but around the radiator, I could see other colors: white, mint …
“Ash. C’mere.”
My muscles coiled. I stayed very still, staring at that buildup of paint behind the radiator like I could hide inside of it if I just tried hard enough.
“Ash. What, are you deaf?”
Knowing I couldn’t get away with making her ask a third time, I finally rolled over and crawled to the couch. Deborah flicked a glance down at me, just to make sure I was obeying, before turning her attention back to the TV. Her cigarette flared, a warm contrast to the screen’s blue light as she took another puff. My eyes’ watering just got worse as I sat below her, on her left, where she usually wanted me. Her free hand tangled in my hair, and I tried not to wince away from her gnarled fingers, the acrylic nails tapping absentmindedly at my scalp while she watched her shows.
A cough finally broke loose from my throat, and I tore away from her to muffle it in my elbow. When I came back up, wiping at my watery eyes, I expected Deborah’s hand to return. It didn’t. “You coming down with something?” she asked, side-eyeing me.
“No.” I should’ve left it at that, but I was always running my mouth. I said, “I think it’s the cigarette.”
She scoffed, tapping ash out onto the tray on her right. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not even the one smoking it.”
The smell was enough to make my throat tighten, but I knew better than to say that to her. I shrugged, staring forward at the TV.
She smacked the back of my head. “Are you saying I can’t smoke a cigarette in my own damn house?”
My shoulders hunched. “I didn’t say anything,” I muttered.
I pulled away before she even touched me, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing my hair and wrenching me towards her. She glared down at me from beneath her spidery mascara, her barely-existent lips pulling back in a sneer. “Open your mouth,” she ordered. When I didn’t, she leaned in with the lit end of her half-smoked cigarette and hissed, “Or I’ll put this out in your eye.”
My fists bunched in the thin fabric of my shorts. I worked up a gob of spit onto my tongue and opened my mouth wide.
She pressed it down right in the center of my tongue, and it sizzled painfully on contact. My jaw tightened, a strangled whimper escaping my throat, but I stayed perfectly still, tears spilling over my cheeks. My pain makes me useful, my pain makes me useful, my pain makes me useful …
Finally, she withdrew the cigarette from my mouth and tossed it in the ashtray, and I keeled over gagging at her slippered feet. I knew there’d be hell to pay if I spat out ashes on her rug, but I was thinking of doing it anyway until she said, “Alright, alright, go brush your teeth or something, you little wuss. And don’t go sassing me again.”
I straightened up, sniffing. “Thank you,” I managed, the words coming out strange as I tried not to move my tongue. She just lit a fresh cigarette, waving her hand, and I slunk off to the bathroom.
Under the yellowed glow of the sink vanity, I looked like a pathetic wreck: cheeks wet, eyes bloodshot, and an angry red welt right in the center of my tongue. I hastily washed my face, wiping goop and crust from my tear ducts, and then rinsed my mouth with cold water a dozen times over. I guess the nice thing about the tongue wound was that I couldn’t really taste the cigarette. My lips felt a little raw, but it must’ve just been my imagination; the cigarette hadn’t even touched them.
By the time I finished washing up, my heart rate had finally slowed. I stared down my reflection in the mirror, fingers curled on the porcelain. Even though it hurt to talk, I leaned in and murmured to myself, “You did good. You did good. You did good.”
i don't see a lot of defiant whumpees who are logical about it. "yeah, no, i'm not doing anything you say, because you're clearly a deranged individual who needs help." just digging themselves deeper and deeper into a bad situation because their own intellect prevents them from being passive and placating.
The most interesting question you can ask about any character is not what do they want. it's what do they believe they deserve. because those two things are almost never the same and the gap between them is where your entire story lives. a person can want love completely and believe they don't deserve it and that belief will destroy every good thing that comes toward them in ways they won't even notice they're doing. write the gap. the gap is the character.
thinking about conditioning, and the horror of how inescapable it is. specifically, conditioning a compliant whumpee.
whumpee knows the rules. they don't intend to break them. it's not worth the cost.
it doesn't matter, because knowing the rules is not enough. whumper needs whumpee completely incapable of disobeying. whumper doesn't care about whumpee's compliance; there's nothing they can do to appease them. whumpee's will means nothing. whumper won't be satisfied until whumpee's body rejects even an attempt at breaking the rule.
"it's a test," whumpee thinks - but it's not a test you can pass. whumper wants them to disobey. whumper will force them to disobey by any means necessary so they can punish them brutally for it, again and again and again.
and whumper would want to periodically refresh their conditioning, too. even if whumpee's been impeccably obedient for years, every so often whumper will force them to break the rules - or try, as much as they can, now - just to hurt them for it and carve those associations into their psyche all over again.
Your character needs to be put through horrors so great that they don't even know how to ever talk about what happened. Years have passed and they have people they love and trust with their life now, but they're still unable to tell them about everything they've been through.
It's just too much and they've been shaped by it so thoroughly that talking about it in any way would feel like they're peeling their skin off and completely exposing every vulnerable part of themself.
Content warnings: BBU adjacent, pet whump, cigarette burns, mouth whump
“… and what about the loneliness epidemic?”
“Loneliness epidemic? If he didn’t want to be lonely, maybe he should’ve learned to act right!”
I heard Deborah let out a dry snort, but I didn’t look. I was busy watching the glow of the TV play off the popcorn ceiling, so textured I could almost feel it from down here. I wondered how they made ceilings like that—and, more importantly, why they made ceilings like that. Wouldn’t it make more sense for a ceiling to be smooth …?
Deborah’s lighter clicked. I wrinkled my nose before I could even smell the smoke. Within the minute, my eyelids were burning and I had to suppress the constant urge to cough, like I always did when she smoked around me. I rolled over on my pet bed, instead facing the wall. It was painted a deep wine red, but around the radiator, I could see other colors: white, mint …
“Ash. C’mere.”
My muscles coiled. I stayed very still, staring at that buildup of paint behind the radiator like I could hide inside of it if I just tried hard enough.
“Ash. What, are you deaf?”
Knowing I couldn’t get away with making her ask a third time, I finally rolled over and crawled to the couch. Deborah flicked a glance down at me, just to make sure I was obeying, before turning her attention back to the TV. Her cigarette flared, a warm contrast to the screen’s blue light as she took another puff. My eyes’ watering just got worse as I sat below her, on her left, where she usually wanted me. Her free hand tangled in my hair, and I tried not to wince away from her gnarled fingers, the acrylic nails tapping absentmindedly at my scalp while she watched her shows.
A cough finally broke loose from my throat, and I tore away from her to muffle it in my elbow. When I came back up, wiping at my watery eyes, I expected Deborah’s hand to return. It didn’t. “You coming down with something?” she asked, side-eyeing me.
“No.” I should’ve left it at that, but I was always running my mouth. I said, “I think it’s the cigarette.”
She scoffed, tapping ash out onto the tray on her right. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not even the one smoking it.”
The smell was enough to make my throat tighten, but I knew better than to say that to her. I shrugged, staring forward at the TV.
She smacked the back of my head. “Are you saying I can’t smoke a cigarette in my own damn house?”
My shoulders hunched. “I didn’t say anything,” I muttered.
I pulled away before she even touched me, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing my hair and wrenching me towards her. She glared down at me from beneath her spidery mascara, her barely-existent lips pulling back in a sneer. “Open your mouth,” she ordered. When I didn’t, she leaned in with the lit end of her half-smoked cigarette and hissed, “Or I’ll put this out in your eye.”
My fists bunched in the thin fabric of my shorts. I worked up a gob of spit onto my tongue and opened my mouth wide.
She pressed it down right in the center of my tongue, and it sizzled painfully on contact. My jaw tightened, a strangled whimper escaping my throat, but I stayed perfectly still, tears spilling over my cheeks. My pain makes me useful, my pain makes me useful, my pain makes me useful …
Finally, she withdrew the cigarette from my mouth and tossed it in the ashtray, and I keeled over gagging at her slippered feet. I knew there’d be hell to pay if I spat out ashes on her rug, but I was thinking of doing it anyway until she said, “Alright, alright, go brush your teeth or something, you little wuss. And don’t go sassing me again.”
I straightened up, sniffing. “Thank you,” I managed, the words coming out strange as I tried not to move my tongue. She just lit a fresh cigarette, waving her hand, and I slunk off to the bathroom.
Under the yellowed glow of the sink vanity, I looked like a pathetic wreck: cheeks wet, eyes bloodshot, and an angry red welt right in the center of my tongue. I hastily washed my face, wiping goop and crust from my tear ducts, and then rinsed my mouth with cold water a dozen times over. I guess the nice thing about the tongue wound was that I couldn’t really taste the cigarette. My lips felt a little raw, but it must’ve just been my imagination; the cigarette hadn’t even touched them.
By the time I finished washing up, my heart rate had finally slowed. I stared down my reflection in the mirror, fingers curled on the porcelain. Even though it hurt to talk, I leaned in and murmured to myself, “You did good. You did good. You did good.”
Ever since waking up in a little gray room, all this bastard can remember is pain. But when a stranger comes along claiming to have known them before, they finally start figuring out why they chose to have Riantcorp erase their memories.
Content warnings: BBU adjacent, pet whump, amnesia, abuse, general violence
Find the rest of this story under Whump General Hospital Word count: 1,000 Content warnings: manhandling, whump/implied whump of mino
probably advertising this less heavily than i usually would, since i'm in the process of rebooting box bastards, BUT - the old BB is still posting weekly for the next couple of months on the zipper zone! check out the first installment now!
