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one spy coming back like "the good news and the bad news is that we're fighting traumatised people who would probably fold at the sight of proper nutrition"

one who can't bring themselves to go back bc life is so good on the other side and the longer they wait the worse it'll be for them. one who 'loses' contact with command after a while.

Whumpee one is begging whumpee two to calm down but they won't listen.

Eventually whumper has had enough.

"I'll beat that attitude right out of you!"

*SMACK!*

"I like to see you try" second whumpee snarls, before another smack send their head sideways.

"No, no, don't hurt them, no!"

First whumpees plees are completely ignored as whumper beats second whumpee to pulp. The defiant attitude slowly dims as second whumpee can do nothing but just take the abuse.

"That's better," whumper smiles as he stands over second whumpee now curled up on a floor unable to move, covered in bruises and blood. Still that angry glare in their eyes, but a hint of fear is sinking in as well.

so they try their best to put on a normal act. and it works. but all it takes for it to come crumbling down is when a well-intentioned tutor notices something amiss— and wants to clarify with the child's guardians.

*Tell me why," [Team leader] asked, rage and despair still evident on his voice as he tries very hard to keep it together. "Tell me why I shouldn't finish you off. When you clearly didn't give [Whumpee] the same grace."

"I can help."

"Like you helped her?"

[Caretaker] didn't flinch when the barrel dug deeper. They kept their posture still, firm. Years of priming as a living weapon had long ago melted whatever fear of death they could have had, once a time. They knew there were so many worse things than death.

"You have no idea what [Whumper] was capable of—And. I. Can. Help."

When the pistol whip came, they simply took it. It didn't knock them out. It was angry, and clumsy. It was desperate. [Caretaker] thought about death. When was the last time they had been afraid? When [Whumpee] took them in and nursed them back to health against her team wishes? When [Whumper] came knocking, trying to retrieve what he claimed was his own?

When they had seen the desperation on [Whumpee]'s eyes as they stood guarding [Whumper], watching each punch, each kick and each scream—

Yeah. That had been fear. Strange to feel fear, especially for someone else.

All they could do now, was roll with the hit and wait. They allowed the momentum to help them roll sideways, ending up facing down the barrel of a gun. [Leader]'s eyes were cold behind the barrel. But it wasn't what really caught their attention. What caught their attention was [Whumpee]'s body, still and deathly pale. [Medic] was resting a hand on [Teammate]'s shoulder as he rested his head on her chest.chest. Good. Good. She shouldn't be cold. Specially now. From this angle, they couldn't see her face.

[Leader] took the safety off. Maybe he would go through with the threat, after all.

"You have to keep her warm. Specially during the first 48 hours." It was a shame, really, they would have liked to see her face one last time. But it figures this was as good as they were gonna get.

"She's dead. Gone. Did [Whumper] fuck up with your head so bad you don't understand what you do? What you did?"

[Caretaker] ignored him. His eyes still focused on [Whumpee]. Not long now.

"—Her memory could be affected, but it should wear off in less than a week. She had two broken ribs before, multiple bruises, two broken fingers—"

"What the fuck are you--"

It was [teammate] that noticed first. Shooting his head up and grabbing [Medic]'s arm.

"[Leader]? [Leader]!"

"Seizures, fever, anemia can be a side effect " Despair gave room to a glimmer of confusion with something else on [Leader]'s face, as they answered back to the [Medic] that had sprung to action.

"Talk to me, [Medic]."

"I got a pulse. [Whumpee]? Can you hear me?"

"That's not," [Leader] shot his head back, disbelief dripping on his voice. Weapon lowering for a second. "That's not possible. I took her vitals, I checked--" He stammered. "What did you do? [Caretaker] what did you do?"

#133

content: bad caretaker, conditioned whumpee, rocky recovery, recovery fic

"I said fucking sit!" Caretaker snapped, and Whumpee immediately obeyed. They dropped to their knees in utter terror, trembling, eyes downcast, just like they'd been taught. Just like Caretaker knew they'd been taught. By Whumper.

Had they overshot by using that trigger word? That command? But they just needed some time to think without Whumpee freaking out on them! They just needed a minute. And there was no other way to get Whumpee to shut the fuck up for a moment.

or not even acknowledging it. whumpee keeps complaining about their outfit, squirming in it, but whumper just smiles and guides them into some kind of public event. because whumpee can't say anything then, and it's such a fun game to watch them try to pretend it's fine. eventually coming around to making it a bit more comfortable, loosening a corset, switching shoes subtly; whumper having to do some sort of maintenance with said outfit and whumpee going to them for it. the weird intimacy in it... whumper calling whumpee unnecessarily cranky and stubborn.... patting them on the shoulder or on the back and telling them they're good to go....

Loss of autonomy is one of my favourite things to explore in whump, and clothing is such a fun way to do it. It seems like such a small thing. An outfit is an outfit, nothing deeper, right? Wrong. We express so much about ourselves through our clothes, and appearances are such a huge part of how other people form their opinions on us. So by taking control of Whumpee's wardrobe, Whumper has effectively stopped anyone ever knowing Whumpee truly as themself.

Whumpee is in a constant state of discomfort. Their outfits don't fit right, it's not their style, it's making them dysphoric or insecure or exposed. People are judging Whumpee for what they're wearing left right and centre. Some of the judgements are good. So good, in fact, that Whumpee's entire image gets marketed around this unique style that they hate, but now can't change because they'd lose their audience and brand.

The rest of it is not so nice. Criticisms, jokes, objectifying comments. All things Whumpee wants to publicly agree with because they feel the exact same way. "I hate it too. No, I know this was a terrible idea but it wasn't my choice I swear." But Whumper won't let them say anything of the sort, and even if they did, Whumpee is an adult with money and influence. They should be able to sort their own fucking wardrobe, right?

And Whumper having to do maintenance on the outfit is so fun as well. Even if it's something as simple as undoing a zip or a clasp in an awkward place so Whumpee can actually get out of the clothing. A tiny reminder that Whumpee can pretend and complain all they like, but they're still totally under Whumper's control. And, yeah, the intimacy of it. Even if nothing happens, just relying on Whumper for this. Letting Whumper put the clothes on Whumpee's body, letting them remove them. Whumper's fingers brushing through Whumpee's hair or touching Whumpee's neck as Whumper adjusts their collar. Taking their time doing up the buttons on Whumpee's shirt, touching their face and getting way too close when doing their makeup.

being gravely wounded and having to put their life in another person's hands. either fighting back with the last of their strength, or being too weak to protest when someone undresses them to take proper care of their injury

having a panic attack around (or caused by) another person. the fact that they're seen by someone like this only intensifies it, making them hyperventilate more

sleeping next to someone, trusting that they won't do anything to them. likely still going to wake up multiple times during the night at the slightest movement or sound

facing a fear/phobia they have and trying to remain composed as to not reveal their fear to everyone.

getting sick, feeling weak and utterly helpless. passing in and out of conciousness. flinching instinctively as someone checks their temperature

having limited mobility (ie. due to injury). needing to rely on someone else to help them move and do basic daily tasks. taking a bath together and allowing to be gently washed

Whumpee's voice was raw and hoarse from days of screaming. They licked their dry lips and tried again.

"Please, I can't again, not today.....please......"

"Please what?" Whumper's voice was calm, casual, as they glanced up from readying their tools.

"Please don't hurt me. Not like -- not like yesterday."

Whumper looked at them, almost amused. Then their expression flickered with something akin to consideration, and they stepped closer.

"Alright. I hear you. I won't hurt you today."

Whumpee's shoulders sagged in relief, but it was short-lived. Whumper's grin widened, a glint of amusement sparking in their eyes.

Instead of striking, they leaned lower, lips brushing Whumpee's collarbone. They froze. No blow, no sharp pain — only the unbearable press of Whumper's mouth.

Whumper running their fingers along Whumpee's chest, cupping their ribs and gently squeezing them after taking their shirt off.

Whumper slipping off Whumpee's pants/skirt and caressing their legs, pressing soft kisses to their bruised knees.

Whumper kneeling to take Whumpee's shoes/socks off and kissing, biting, or licking their ankles.

Adoption Whump

Think a teenaged character in an orphanage or foster care. They’d always had a relatively good life; despite being orphaned their home was always filled with lots of other kids like them and they were happy. But, they’d heard horror stories of the horrible lives kids lived after adoption. Lives of abuse, of fear, of pain. They’d be put through endless torment, used, thrown around and beaten up, degraded simply because they were helpless, without a family, without a way to call for help. They shuddered at the thought, but surely, those stories were just that right? Stories. They were satisfied with their comfortable life, and if they ever got adopted, well, they were sure it couldn’t be that bad.

They were right on one front.

It wasn’t bad.

It was worse than they could have ever imagined.

The home seemed nice from the outside, a beautiful exterior, lush greenery, fountains sprawled over the grounds. Everything appeared to be perfect. To the average onlooker it would seem like a luxurious place for anyone to reside. It only made the reality of the situation ten times worse. Once inside, though still littered with decoration, the atmosphere was different. A threatening and frightening energy lingered in the air and the teen turned slowly toward their new owner. And that’s when it began.

The pain.

If asked, the teen couldn’t tell you what their daily life there was like. It was all jumbled together and fuzzy, their thoughts incoherent, clouded by suffering. There was only one thing that remained stable the whole time.

Hurt. Beatings. Pain. Anger. Hands. Kicks. Punches. Pain.

CW: Teenage whumpee, parent whumper, child abuse, hair pulling, isolation implied

 “I’m not going!” Whumpee yelled back, face red with anger. Whumper gritted their teeth, dangerously close to losing all composure, and stepped closer, looming over Whumpee, faces almost touching. 

  “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me, you lazy little shit. I am your parent, you do what I tell you when I tell you.”

  “I told you, I’m not coming, full fucking stop—“

  Whumpee was interrupted by the CRACK of Whumper’s hand hitting their cheek. Whumpee’s head snapped to the side, tears springing to their eyes before they even registered what had happened. Whumper didn’t flinch, watching the teen struggle to keep their composure. 

  Once Whumpee straightened, Whumper raised their hand again, but their palm whipped through air as Whumpee moved out of the way, a determined expression fixed to their face despite the hand shaped mark on their cheek and the tears glistening in their eyes. 

  Whumper’s calm façade disappeared in an instant. 

  “How. Dare. You.”

  Their hand snapped forward, not to Whumpee’s face but twisting in their hair, making the teen whimper as fingers dug into their scalp; Whumper dragged Whumpee through the house, screaming in their ear all the way in an endless torrent of abuse. Whumpee remained stoically silent — until they saw where Whumper was taking them. As soon as the box room came into view — Whumpee’s mind filled with images of windowless walls and ceilings too low to stand under — Whumpee started screaming, clawing at Whumper’s hands, arms, anywhere they could. 

  “No, no, no, please, PLEASE don’t put me in there, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, PLEASE!”

  Whumper ignored them, yanking the smaller teen forward by the hair and shoving them face first into cramped isolation.

Taglist:

@iwouldmakeherflowercrowns

@labtrauma

i like to think about living weapons. mostly, living weapons by choice. in revolution. in superhero teams. anywhere, really. so long as they joined of their own volition. somebody has to protect the land, the realm, the world—it might as well be whumpee. whumpee can take it. whumpee has always been a punching bag. at least now its for the good of the world, instead of meaningless suffering.

the training, however, is harsh.

theyre soldiers. it makes sense. but... whumpee never anticipated it to hurt this much. perhaps whumpee is a child—or just naive. perhaps whumpee was wrong. maybe this isnt a life they want to live. perhaps they can still leave?

no. they pledged their life, their body, their heart and soul, to this task. to this army. to this revolution.

theyre on the floor. lying down, breathing heavily. their handler tells them to get up. they try. pain shoots up their hands. regret settles deep in their stomach, filling it like no rations ever did.

handler is dismissive, stoic. looks at them with something resembling pity. they have to be cold for this job—its not easy to watch children suffer through this training. they ask whumpee something. whumpee doesnt hear through the ringing in their ears.

handler crouches next to whumpees trembling body. repeats themselves.

"does it hurt?"

whumpees vision blurs, their eyes welling up. they nod.

handler sighs. "no, it doesnt."

what?

"it doesnt hurt," handler repeats, almost exasperatedly. "people feel pain. weapons do not. you shed your personhood the moment you put on our uniform."

regret wars with disbelief. regret wins. solidifies. its a cold stone in their stomach.

handler looks almost sad, for just a moment. they get up, brush the dust off their knees. they look down at whumpee. bored, dismissive, stoic.

"now, does it hurt?"

whumpee takes a moment, a sob caught in their throat. gets up on their hands and knees. their legs tremble, and threaten to give out. everything in their body screams.

pain shoots through their skull as they shake their head.

“I’ve always, always tolerated you. Even when you were being difficult and stubborn and just—”

Caretaker took a sharp breath, gripping the edge of the table with barely restrained anger. Whumpee had been refusing to eat again, saying it made them feel sick.

But Caretaker had had enough. Taking care of Whumpee felt like a chore now. It wasn’t like Caretaker to judge people so quickly, but Whumpee didn’t even make an effort to get better.

They refused to eat, always wanted attention, and got triggered at every little thing.

“You’re sick of me.”

Whumpee stated this quietly, pulling their knees up to their chest. Their expression was one of acceptance. “I knew it. This would happen. I should’ve stayed with Whumper.”

At that, Caretaker glared at them. “There you go again, comparing me to Whumper. He, who would rather see you getting worse instead of better. He loves it—even enjoys it. Is that what you want?”

Whumpee mumbled something under their breath, fidgeting with their fingers.

Caretaker narrowed their eyes. “What was that? Speak up, Whumpee.”

“At least he treated me better.”

…

“I dare you to repeat—”

“He. Treated. Me. Better.”

~

The team realise that the only way to decondition the feral/conditioned whumpee, is positive reinforcement.

The whumpee goes a week without snapping at someone? They get a new hoodie that's more comfortable than the one they'd been brought in with.

They finally eat the entire meal? Dessert.

They eat the entire meal without guarding it? They get a little extra time in the training rooms.

They independently choose to spend time with the team? They get to choose the movie/show/snacks.

They tell the caretaker they're hurt/sick? "Don't worry pal, you get the good drugs to take the pain away."

"What's that? You had a nightmare? Come on, join this game of cards to take your mind off it. I'm losing half my beer supply to this guy..."

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.

apologies if that’s too specific

Not too specific! I enjoy this trope...

Concubine/consort

Content: restraints, degrading language, non-explicit rape, noncon touch

a prisoner of war dragged in among other selections for the king's taste. Thrown to their knees in shackles and daring to slowly raise their eyes to the king's face, angry.

"I thought you might have your eye on this one, sir."

"What do you think--could your men wrangle this one down for me, general?" the king says to the man who captured the prisoner.

Tied down to the bed ahead of time for the king so he doesn't have to struggle to hold them down and can just... take them.

"Wear this." Soldier tosses a gold-embroidered outfit at consort. "He's showing you off tonight."

Being fondled by the king over their clothes in public. Hand slipping in past underwear as the king speaks to guests at his table. It's not weird... consorts are made for that, right?

Forced to pose in compromising positions, in compromising outfits, for all the guests at the king's table, showing off the king's new acquisition. And when they refuse, guards come in and force them to.

"Tug it down a little.. like that, yes... See? Handsome and submissive. An impossible little brat. Worth every drop of blood."