i'm always looking for new prompts to fill! i'm in the market for
recovery stuff
living weapon whump
platonic whumpee x caretaker
addiction whump
bad caretaker
lady whump
hero villain whump
please no pet whump atm!
i don't do nsfw!
no plushie whump!
you can always send me others' prompts! if you'd like me to continue a drabble, the best way to let me know is not through a comment but through an ask, or @ me!
my queue is very long if you send me stuff and i don't answer right away i am not ignoring you! (inbox: 7)
i'm gonna run a (hopefully annual?) lady whump event over at @ladywhumpdiaries, check that out if you want to know more!
i have a roleplay blog at @goldiesgolden if you ever want to send me rp asks!
send me a five sentence fic starter!
my five sentence fics aren't tagged or trigger warned, so if you don't want to see them, block #five sentence fics
Silence (my book!!!) (SSBA nominee)
Rayan has always wanted a pet. Not the fluffy kind, but the kind that looks deceptively human. When the creature he’s been feeding out behind the dumpster turns out to be a pet, he can’t stop himself from taking it in. But Sil is a runaway for a reason. As secrets come to life and the Pet Protection Agency closes in, Rayan will be forced to question everything he thought he knew.
Masterpost
Drabbles
Prompts
oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter
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content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, starvation, past trauma
The temptation to take advantage of Freddie's kindness is certainly tempting, but in the end, you decide to just go without. It wasn't all that unusual in the facility to starve for days; they never seemed to have enough food to feed all of you. And she's already given you her jacket. What more could you ask for?
You decide the park is going to be too crowded during the day to stay there. You ignore the way your legs get goosebumps from the cold, and the way it hurts to stand on them after your handler kicked and kicked and kicked you to the point of deep purple bruises having formed on your skin. You wish the jacket would cover your whole body.
In any case, you start walking. You walk down the street, right past a house with the number 56 on it. It's a nice, unassuming house, with flowers in the windowsill and a flower wreath on the door. Freddie must really like flowers.
You don't linger; you walk past the house before she could see you from the window, ducking into a back alley. It is there that you make your little nest: you find a dumpster and fish out old newspapers to use as a blanket. You even look for food, but there isn't any. Your stomach growls in dissatisfaction.
You sit down, back against the brick wall, and arrange the newspapers to cover your legs. You lean your head back against the wall.
You need a long-term plan. You can't go without food forever, nor can you stay in the alley for unlimited stretches of time. What do people do in the outside world? They go to school or something, right? You don't reckon many schools would take you. You don't really know anything besides combat tactics and handling different weapons. Is there a school for that?
Or get a job. What job would accept you, of all people? You have no skills. You have no knowledge. Your handler made sure you knew you are dumb as a rock, useless outside of being a punching bag for the other weapons. No school, no job. There's not really much else you can think of.
So is this it? You'll just slowly starve to death?
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You'll figure it out. Maybe if you went back to the facility and grovelled hard enough, they'd let you back in. Maybe you can still make it up to your handler.
"Hello?"
Your eyes snap open. You're immediately on high alert. But the voice is... familiar.
"You... relocated."
Freddie. Standing at the end of the alleyway. Looking concerned.
"I'm okay," you say before anything else. Her brows furrow in doubt.
"You'll really catch a cold if that's all you have," she says.
"I'm okay," you repeat.
"Temps are gonna be dropping today. With a chance of rain. And... And you really have been kicked out, haven't you?"
It's so embarrassing to admit. You don't want to. But she's really forcing your hand here. "Yeah," you mutter.
"Look, I can't stay. I gotta get to work. But... there's a spare key under the 'welcome' mat in front of my door."
Just how careless is this woman? First, inviting a homeless stranger into her home for the night. Then, letting them know where she keeps her spare key, allowing them free roam of her house while she's at work. You could do anything. You could steal all her cash. Her valuables. Why is she not more cautious? Why is she so... so...
"I have to run, I'm sorry," she says, then waves. "If it starts raining, you better take me up on my offer."
With that, she's gone.
It's barely a few seconds later that the first drop of rain lands on your head. Then another. And another. Soon, it's raining pretty hard, soaking all the newspaper you've covered yourself with. You pull Freddie's jacket tighter around yourself. It has a hood, so you pull that over your head.
She's so... She seems to not realise what she's doing. She's tempting you. Tempting you to give up your training. To give up your way of life. And she's doing it so nonchalantly. You shiver, hugging your knees closer to yourself.
content: self-harm, past trauma, substance abuse whump (alcohol)
It was so easy when they were drunk.
To cut and cut and cut.
They didn't even feel the pain. They just got to marvel at the sticky, viscous blood bubbling up from their wounds. They'd used up several tissues, and the bleeding wasn't stopping.
It was fine. It was just their thigh.
They'd cut down to the fat layer, and they stared in disgust at the yellowy proof that they hadn't starved enough yet. They were gross. But blood quickly filled the wound, hiding their shame.
They cut and cut and cut.
Their whole leg was a mess of lacerations. Maybe some of them needed stitches. Ha. As if they'd ever go to a doctor with this. What, to be hauled off to the psych ward? No, they'd patch themself up later.
For now, they just admired their work. Clean cuts, skin pulling apart, revealing flesh and blood.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
They were getting a little light-headed. But they were addicted to the sight. If Whumper got to do this to them and enjoy it, why shouldn't Whumpee? It was their body.
Well, not fully.
Whumper had taken pieces of them, metaphorically and literally.
But they didn't want to think about that right now.
Whumpee knew full well that this song was a trigger — that this song reminded them of horrible times, and in turn, made them want to drink to drown it all out. They knew that.
Did they stay away from the song?
Of course not.
They listened, and they listened on the way to the store, and they listened at the self-checkout line as a staff had to manually approve their booze purchase, and they listened back at home, in their apartment, as they unscrewed the cap and downed half the bottle of vodka in one go.
Nobody can stop me 'cuz it's my problem if I wanna pack up and run away. It's my business if I feel the need to smoke and drink and sway.
And sway they did. They spun around in their living room, screaming out the lyrics and laughing.
Why did they ever put down the bottle?
This was so much fun.
They eventually flopped down onto their couch, out of breath. The room was doing the spinning now.
Sweet, sweet cherry vodka. They still had the other half of the bottle to have an even greater time.
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Caretaker already knew when they secretly took Whumpee's pill bottle. There was no way there were the correct amount of pills in it. They frantically poured out all the contents of it onto the kitchen table. Just fifteen pills. There were supposed to be thirty-six.
"Fuck," they breathed, rushing over to Whumpee's bedroom. They wanted to barge in, but the door was locked from the inside. "Whumpee!" They banged on the door. "Whumpee, are you okay? Whumpee!"
No response.
Whumpee had encouraged them to stop counting their pills, but it was clearly because they had been planning on this. Caretaker had gone to therapy and convinced everyone around them that they got better, only to go back to checking the pill bottle every night. And tonight, it might be the thing that saves Whumpee's life.
"Whumpee!" Their banging got more erratic, more forceful. They eventually stepped back and kicked the door down. Those martial arts classes had finally paid off.
Whumpee was lying on their bed, motionless.
No.
No no no no no.
"Whumpee!" They rushed over, grabbing and shaking Whumpee by the shoulders. "Whumpee, wake up! Look at me!"
Whumpee slowly blinked their eyes open. They looked unfocused. "Caretaker...?"
"You took the fucking sedatives. You promised. You promised you wouldn't."
Whumpee sighed deeply. Like they were too tired or sleepy to have this conversation. Twenty pills in, it was no wonder. "And you're checking the numbers again..."
"Well, I fucking will! Forever! Because I have to! Because you give me reasons to! I'm calling an ambulance."
"Do whatever you want," they said, eyes closing again. Caretaker slapped them awake.
"Don't you dare pass out on me. Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance. Possible sedative overdose. Yes, please hurry."
"I just wanted to feel calm," Whumpee said in a faraway voice. "Floaty. Serene."
"This is not the way to do it."
Whumpee laughed. It was joyless. "Neither of us are actually getting better. I'm still an addict, you're still in the throes of your OCD. Neither of us are making progress."
"That's not... We'll discuss that later. For now, just stay awake."
"I don't want to."
"Honestly? I don't care what you want right now. You will stay awake."
"Okay," they said, but then closed their eyes again. Caretaker shook them by the shoulders.
"You know why I'm not getting better?" Caretaker asked, sharper than intended. "Because you pull shit like this. That's why— What's why I can never just relax. That's why I can't trust you. That's why—"
"I get it," they mumbled. "I'm at fault."
"Yes. Yes, you are." The tears came out of nowhere. Caretaker wiped their eyes. "You are at fault," they sniffled, trying to stay angry, but they couldn't. "Where's the damn ambulance? What's taking so long?"
"Caretaker?"
"Yes."
"I love you. I'm sorry."
"Don't say that right now. It sounds like— It sounds like saying goodbye."
Whumpee smiled. They really did look serene. It made Caretaker want to slap some sense into them again. "Would you bring flowers to my grave?"
"I swear to god, if you don't shut up, I'll gag you."
"I'll take that as a yes."
"No grave. No funeral. No dying. They must be here soon."
"Okay," they said quietly. "I'm ready to be hauled off to a psych ward again. Though it doesn't help. Nothing does. Caretaker, I just wanna die. And one day, I'll find a way. And you won't be there to stop me."
"Don't say that..."
"It's the truth. So just... Try to make peace with it. Can you visit me on the ward?"
if you wanna of course, could you write a suicidal old parental whumpee? like, they live completely alone. Their kid is in college, and they barely reach out anymore. They’ve divorced their spouse. There are no pets. They feel completely alone.
Whumpee sat on his living room couch, the red couch he'd purchased with his ex-wife, working on a crossword puzzle. It was the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. Number five, across: 'matchmaker's weapon'. He tapped his pencil against his mouth, chewed on the rubber at the end of it. Matchmaker's weapon. Nine letters. Huh.
He tried not to think much about anything else but the crossword clues. He tried not to think about the fact that his kid was grown now, in college, and she barely ever reached out to talk. They hadn't spoken in at least a month. She was having her exams right around this time, so Whumpee told himself she must've just been busy with studying. He missed the times when she'd called just to talk about her day. He missed the times when she was still living at home. He missed the times she was a little toddler, clinging to his pant leg.
He sighed. Matchmaker's weapon. Nine letters. What could it be? Who was a matchmaker again? He knew this one, he was sure. He didn't have any letters to guide him, the squares standing as empty as his heart.
He missed his wife. The divorce had been nasty — she had accused him of cheating and emotional unavailability. She forced his hand in selling their old house and splitting the profits right down the middle. That was the money he used to rent out this small apartment, more than enough for a man in his forties to be living in alone. The only thing he took was the red couch. The couch they'd bought together. He couldn't bear to part with it.
Matchmaker's weapon. Oh, of course. Who was a matchmaker? How silly. It was Cupid. And what did Cupid have? A bow. He stopped chewing on the end of his pencil and quickly wrote the letters. CUPIDSBOW.
One of the last conversations he'd had with his daughter, she encouraged him to get a pet dog. He was never really a dog person. Nor a cat person. He didn't really want the responsibility and the vet bills. He told himself he would rather be alone, that being alone wasn't all that bad, that the fact the only connection to the outside world he had was work, where he barely talked to anyone outside of empty pleasantries, was okay.
He set down the newspaper. It was six o'clock. He stood up to go to his tiny kitchen, where he kept all his medicine. He was taking sedatives now; doctor's orders. They had said he'd gone through a breakdown following the divorce, and they needed to get him on these. The only thing that did was make him consider taking… more than prescribed. It was a small little bottle, with thirty pills. He'd just opened it yesterday. He wondered if it would be enough to send him to the hospital, or to the morgue. He wondered if his family, his ex-family, would care.
He poured out a single pill into his palm. It was so unassuming, that little pill.
The phone rang. Whumpee downed the pill immediately and rushed to pick it up, not even looking at the number it displayed. Not many people called him — this had to be his daughter. "Hello?" he asked.
"Good afternoon! I'm calling to ask you a couple of questions for a survey we have going on. Would you happen to have two minutes for me?"
Whumpee didn't respond. He hung up without a word, then walked back to the red couch and sat down. That lady on the phone deserved at least a 'no', he thought distantly. He shouldn't have just hung up.
He buried his face in his hands. It would take another twenty minutes for the sedative to kick in, and even that would just make him sleepy and more depressed. Just how low could a man sink?
"Get yourself together, Whumpee," he muttered to himself. Sure, maybe he was alone. Sure, maybe he felt like nobody would miss him if he was gone. Sure, he felt a little low. But that wasn't a reason to completely despair, was it?
He stood up and went to the bathroom to take a shower. One of the only little pleasures he had left in his life. He wondered if his daughter would've picked up for him if he tried calling again — after three unsuccessful attempts, he'd kind of just given up. He wondered how his ex-wife was doing with her new fiance. Whether she was happy. Happier than him. He hoped so. He had no ill-will towards her, despite how the court case had gone. He got to keep the red couch, and that was all that mattered.
He let the water drip down his short hair, drenching him in pleasant warmth. He wouldn't kill himself tonight. Maybe if his daughter didn't call for another month, he'd reconsider it. Maybe then, he'd make a decision as final as this. But until then, he would just take showers, go to work, solve crossword puzzles. And pretend he was just a man in his forties, living life to the fullest.
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, starvation, past trauma
The temptation to take advantage of Freddie's kindness is certainly tempting, but in the end, you decide to just go without. It wasn't all that unusual in the facility to starve for days; they never seemed to have enough food to feed all of you. And she's already given you her jacket. What more could you ask for?
You decide the park is going to be too crowded during the day to stay there. You ignore the way your legs get goosebumps from the cold, and the way it hurts to stand on them after your handler kicked and kicked and kicked you to the point of deep purple bruises having formed on your skin. You wish the jacket would cover your whole body.
In any case, you start walking. You walk down the street, right past a house with the number 56 on it. It's a nice, unassuming house, with flowers in the windowsill and a flower wreath on the door. Freddie must really like flowers.
You don't linger; you walk past the house before she could see you from the window, ducking into a back alley. It is there that you make your little nest: you find a dumpster and fish out old newspapers to use as a blanket. You even look for food, but there isn't any. Your stomach growls in dissatisfaction.
You sit down, back against the brick wall, and arrange the newspapers to cover your legs. You lean your head back against the wall.
You need a long-term plan. You can't go without food forever, nor can you stay in the alley for unlimited stretches of time. What do people do in the outside world? They go to school or something, right? You don't reckon many schools would take you. You don't really know anything besides combat tactics and handling different weapons. Is there a school for that?
Or get a job. What job would accept you, of all people? You have no skills. You have no knowledge. Your handler made sure you knew you are dumb as a rock, useless outside of being a punching bag for the other weapons. No school, no job. There's not really much else you can think of.
So is this it? You'll just slowly starve to death?
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You'll figure it out. Maybe if you went back to the facility and grovelled hard enough, they'd let you back in. Maybe you can still make it up to your handler.
"Hello?"
Your eyes snap open. You're immediately on high alert. But the voice is... familiar.
"You... relocated."
Freddie. Standing at the end of the alleyway. Looking concerned.
"I'm okay," you say before anything else. Her brows furrow in doubt.
"You'll really catch a cold if that's all you have," she says.
"I'm okay," you repeat.
"Temps are gonna be dropping today. With a chance of rain. And... And you really have been kicked out, haven't you?"
It's so embarrassing to admit. You don't want to. But she's really forcing your hand here. "Yeah," you mutter.
"Look, I can't stay. I gotta get to work. But... there's a spare key under the 'welcome' mat in front of my door."
Just how careless is this woman? First, inviting a homeless stranger into her home for the night. Then, letting them know where she keeps her spare key, allowing them free roam of her house while she's at work. You could do anything. You could steal all her cash. Her valuables. Why is she not more cautious? Why is she so... so...
"I have to run, I'm sorry," she says, then waves. "If it starts raining, you better take me up on my offer."
With that, she's gone.
It's barely a few seconds later that the first drop of rain lands on your head. Then another. And another. Soon, it's raining pretty hard, soaking all the newspaper you've covered yourself with. You pull Freddie's jacket tighter around yourself. It has a hood, so you pull that over your head.
She's so... She seems to not realise what she's doing. She's tempting you. Tempting you to give up your training. To give up your way of life. And she's doing it so nonchalantly. You shiver, hugging your knees closer to yourself.
uhhhh mentor carewhumpee who’s previously lost a mentee and very hesitantly and grudgingly got convinced to take on another mentee after so long only to witness said mentee come back barely conscious after a fight?
bonus points for something along the lines of, “I knew this was a bad idea. I should have pushed back more against it, I shouldn’t have let them talk me into this.”? Is that too specific?
#377
content: mentor caretaker, mentee whumpee, past trauma, emotional whump, grief, death mention, aftermath of whump
Mentor knew the first moment they lay eyes on Mentee that this had been a bad idea. When they saw Mentee stumble in through the front door of their base, battered and bloody, they just knew. They knew it was their fault.
"Mentor," Mentee rasped, looking away in something akin to embarrassment. "I, I couldn't—"
"Hey." Mentor walked over, quickly but not too quickly lest they scare Mentee further by fussing over them too much. "Come on. Into the medical room."
"I couldn't finish the—"
"It doesn't matter." All Mentor saw when they looked at Mentee was their only previous mentee. Their only one. The one they'd lost and swore never to take on a responsibility such as this ever again. And yet they'd let themself be talked into it by the others. They'd let their reassurances calm the storm in their heart, they'd let them decide for them, and now Mentee was paying the price of not having a better mentor.
Mentor supported Mentee into the medical room. They told Mentee to take their clothes off so they could assess the full extent of the damage, and Mentee seemed ashamed, and Mentor couldn't blame them. They had been raised to believe failing a mission was not just bad luck, which it was, but a personal, moral failure. They had been raised to believe there was something embarrassing about being hurt.
"I can look after myself," Mentee muttered, and Mentor sucked in a sharp breath.
"I can look after myself," Mentee had told Mentor. "I don't need you standing watch, or treating me like a baby."
"I am your mentor, and I will treat you exactly as a mentee is supposed to be treated," Mentor had told them. "Strip."
"I can look after my own wounds!"
"Strip, Mentee."
"Fine, jeez. If you really want to see the stupid, gnarly wound—"
"I don't want to see it, I want to treat it."
Mentee gave them a lopsided grin. "Yeah, sure."
"Mentor?"
Mentor shook their head, getting rid of the image of their previous mentee that was imprinted on their mind. Their current mentee was now stripped to their underwear, and they were shivering. They better get this over quickly, before Mentee caught a cold on top of everything else. "This will sting," they said as they reached for the disinfectant. "But you won't get an infection."
"I know what a disinfectant does," they said, a little indignantly, and Mentor found themself glad they had the wherewithal to be indignant.
"Just relax."
Mentor went through and bandaged every single one of their injuries. Mentee likely had a couple broken ribs, which they couldn't do anything about, and their helplessness made them angrier than it should've.
Their helplessness had killed their previous mentee.
"I knew this was a bad idea," Mentor grumbled as they worked. "I should have pushed back more against it, I shouldn’t have let them talk me into this. But no, they knew so much better what I needed, that I needed a new mentee, that I needed—"
"Mentor?"
Oh. They had been talking out loud. "Sorry, kid."
"I know you don't want to look after me," they admitted, once again with that tinge of embarrassment in their voice. "That's why I said— why I said I can look after myself. You don't need to do this. We can be mentor and mentee only on paper."
"You're my responsibility," Mentor said sternly. "And I don't intend to back down."
"I'm not your first mentee, am I?"
Mentor pursed their lips. They weren't about to talk about their dead previous mentee with their current, dying one.
"What happened to them?"
"Died on the job," they said before they could've stopped themself. "I was there. I saw it happen. I couldn't do shit."
Mentee fell silent. Mentor finished caring for them and instructed them to get dressed again. Mentee did so without another word. Before Mentee left the medical room, though, Mentor stopped them.
"I don't intend for it to happen again," they said.
"I know you don't," Mentee said quietly.
The unspoken part hung in the air between them: nobody ever intended on losing a mentee.
Mentor nodded. Mentee left. They stayed in the medical room, sat with their face buried in their hands. There was no way they would lose Mentee. Even if it meant talking the team into giving them less missions, even if it meant coddling them a little, they simply wouldn't lose another mentee.
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee
You weigh your options. You miss your uncomfortable bunk bed back with the organisation. You miss your roommates. You don't know how well you'll sleep on a park bench. All things considered, Freddie's offer should be a no-brainer.
Except you've been thoroughly trained to distrust anyone not affiliated with the facility. And as bad as a weapon you may be, their messaging about the outside being dangerous sticks in your mind. There's no way you can accept the offer.
"Okay," you say quietly, clinging to the jacket, the only thing standing between you and the crisp, night air. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Hey, um... Are those... Bruises?"
There's no way she spotted the barely forming bruising on your body in the dim park lighting. "No," you lie.
"Look, um— I still don't know your name. Well, um... Look, I'm worried about you. Are you really sure you want to sleep here? Alone?"
"Yes."
"Well... Okay. Keep the jacket. Be safe. I'll be... going, then. Home. I live just down the street, under 56. If you change your mind... just knock, okay? Even if it's the middle of the night. Just knock, and I'll let you in."
"You're not looking out for your own safety," you say before you can really process the words. "I mean— Sorry. You're trying to look out for a stranger, but you're clearly... You're not..."
Freddie laughs. "I guess I'm not. I just have this feeling..."
"What feeling?"
"I don't know how to describe it. I have a younger sibling, they live in the city. You remind me of them."
Oh.
"I'm not your sibling," you point out. "You can't just— You can't just accept people into your home because they remind you of family."
"You're right, of course. Still... Just knock, okay? I'll be going."
"Good night, Freddie," you say, and despite yourself, you sound a little dejected. It was nice to have company for a little while. "Thank you for the jacket."
Freddie smiles and waves. She walks off. You're alone in the park again. You crawl back onto the bench Freddie found you on, and you curl up, pulling her jacket as tight around yourself as you possibly can.
56. That's where she lives, just down the street. You could go and knock, and you're sure she would open with a big smile on her face. But you're not doing that.
You inhale, hold, exhale. The air going in and out of your broken nose hurts every time. Despite that, despite your many injuries, you manage to fall asleep.
You awake to screaming.
You jump up, ready to assess danger, ready to fight off whoever wants to hurt you—
You find a family of four, parents and two little children. One of the children is screaming... in joy? They're running around, the older chasing the younger, and you can't figure out what's so fun about simulated battle. You've certainly never screamed in joy when running from 'enemies' (older people in the organisation, acting out enemies).
You exhale. You're safe. For now.
Your stomach rumbles.
You don't have any way of getting food. You've never been to a 'store' before. And you're pretty sure they expect money from you there, in exchange for the food. Your handler sure has complained a lot about money.
56. Down the street. You could ask Freddie for some morsels.
Go and ask her for food.
Forage in the park.
Try to shoplift.
Just go without. You've starved for days at a time before.
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whumpee who should be getting better, yet theyre getting worse. theyre safe now. they should be recovering. but their panic attacks just get more frequent. their paranoia is through the roof for no reason. and caretaker has no idea how to fix it.
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im sorry i dont get it? my pinned is up to date, i have 4 things in my inbox. thank you for the reminder but it was unnecessary?
could you perchance write something with a whumpee who grows a little too attached to caretaker, so caretaker has to gently remind them to chill😭
#376
content: past trauma, recovery fic, rocky recovery, comfort
"Whumpee…" Caretaker sighed, gently pulling on their leg so Whumpee would let go of their pant leg. Whumpee had gotten into the habit of latching onto them whenever they went somewhere, and they wouldn't let go until Caretaker basically begged them. But this time was kind of outrageous. Caretaker was just going to the bathroom.
"Don't leave me," Whumpee asked in a small voice.
Caretaker didn't know exactly what had happened to Whumpee. When the police contacted them and asked if they'd be able to foster a kidnapping victim — something Caretaker had done in the past and had put their phone number down for — they said yes, and they didn't really get any more details. And Whumpee rarely talked. Mostly only to beg them to stay with them.
"I'm going to pee myself if you don't let go," they said in a lighthearted tone, but Whumpee's grip on their pants was unrelenting. "Whumpee…"
"Please?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Can I come with you?"
That was something no fostered person had ever said to them with regards to the bathroom. "Um… I, uh…"
"I can turn away. Just don't leave."
"You were fine on your own until now—"
"Please?"
Caretaker crouched down to be at eye-level with Whumpee. Whumpee exclusively crawled around the house on their hands and knees, something Caretaker didn't feel they had the… right to comment on. "Whumpee, I'll be in and out. One minute. Okay?"
Whumpee didn't look okay. They looked frightened. "Don't leave me."
"I'm not leaving you. We can even talk through the door the whole time. Would that be okay?"
Whumpee slowly let go of Caretaker's pant leg. "Okay," they whispered.
"Okay," Caretaker echoed, gently ruffling Whumpee's hair. "One minute. In and out. Just be brave."
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee
Well... Maybe it wouldn't hurt.
"Yes," you say quietly. "I'm sorry for hitting you." The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Freddie smiles.
"No, it's okay. Here." She drapes the jacket over your shoulders. It's nice and carries the warmth of her body. You feel a little more at ease.
But that's dangerous. You shouldn't feel at ease. You should be on high alert.
But it's late, and you're sleepy, and you're now warm and as comfortable as you'll ever get with your body battered like this. You wish you could fall asleep like this.
"You look tired," Freddie says. "My offer still stands. I've taken in people before— Well, mostly family. But I really wouldn't mind having you in the guest bedroom. You don't look like you cause much trouble."
You pull the jacket tighter around yourself. You can't help but imagine a house as warm as it is, carrying Freddie's scent; a hint of floral and vanilla. It's just a hunch, but you don't imagine she's very organised — her guest bedroom must be cluttered with things she doesn't know where to put. But it must have a soft, warm bed.
No. It's stupid to even go there in your mind. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
"Are you okay?" she asks, worried.
"Yes," you lie. "Just tired. I can give you your jacket back. I'd like to sleep."
"No, keep it. Especially if you plan on roughing it in the park. At least you'll have some protection from this weather."
Do you plan on roughing it?
No. The offer is too good. You want her guest bedroom.
Yes. You can't trust her. But you're keeping the jacket.
Yes. You can't trust her. You're giving the jacket back.
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Newly turned vampire turning themself in to vampire hunters because that's what they believe was right from their views when they were human
(Bonus if the hunters keep them alive because they're "one of the good ones"...then do they caretake or abuse Whumpee?)
#375
content: nonhuman whumpee, vampire whumpee, lady whump, lady whumpee, restraints, captivity, starvation, burns
Whumpee had been stupid. Her stupid morals, her stupid principles, it had all been so stupid. She had turned herself in to the local vampire hunters' guild upon finding out she had been turned against her will, and the bloodthirsty — ha — monsters — ha — immediately threw her into the basement and chained her up with silver chains that burned into her skin where her clothes weren't covering her.
"Get these off me!" she screamed, had been screaming incessantly for the past… minutes? Hours? It hurt. It felt like her body was pressed against the stove. "I'm not here to hurt anybody! I just wanted help! Please!"
Finally, the leader of the guild entered the basement. They said something, but honestly, Whumpee couldn't hear from the sound of her own screaming. If they wanted anything, they would have to unchain her. It was her hope that the leader wanted something from her enough to do that.
She was still thrashing and screaming when the guild leader stepped up and removed her restraints. Her wrists were entirely charred, but the screaming stopped. It was just quiet sobs now. "I haven't done anything," Whumpee wept. "I came straight to you. I haven't hurt anybody."
"Can't be too cautious," the guild leader said nonchalantly. For the first time since she'd been hurt, Whumpee was overtaken with an urge to hurt a human. "Tell me why I shouldn't stake you right now."
"B-Because I haven't done anything wrong!"
"You're a vampire."
"But that's not— that's not inherently—"
"You need blood to survive. Human blood." The guild leader raised an eyebrow. "Tell me how that doesn't warrant killing on sight."
"I… I…"
"I'm putting the chains back on. And if you don't stop screaming, I'll muzzle you as well."
"Please don't!" she begged. "It hurts! Please, I understand if I need to stay in the basement, I won't leave. But please, leave the chains."
"I'm not leaving a vampire loose."
Whumpee's treacherous stomach growled. She immediately put both hands on it, trying to stifle the sound. "I won't cause trouble."
"You're a starving vampire."
"Well I'm starving because you won't help me!" she snapped, then covered her mouth. "Sorry."
"'Help', as in, 'give you my own blood', I assume."
"No, no, that's not… I know that's asking a lot, I…"
"The chains are going back on. And rest assured, you won't be getting any blood here."
The leader approached. Whumpee's instincts kicked in. She tackled the guild leader to the ground, hissing and trying to get at their throat. The situation was clear: it was her or them. Somebody wasn't leaving this basement.
The leader was the leader for a reason — they somehow wrestled Whumpee under themself, most likely because she was still weak and hadn't eaten anything, and raised their stake to end this. Whumpee reached up and grabbed their hands holding the stake, trying to keep them from killing her.
"Wait!" she cried. "Wait! Wait! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"'Sorry' won't cut it at this point." The leader was putting every ounce of their strength into pushing the stake down, and Whumpee was putting every ounce of her supernatural, albeit starved, strength into stopping them.
"I can help you!"
That got the guild leader's attention. "Help?"
"I can— I can help you fight other vampires! Bad ones!"
"You just tried to kill me."
"You threatened torture! Of course I tried!"
The guild leader let go of the stake and let Whumpee have it. She threw it across the basement. "So you're offering to be our attack dog."
"Yes," she breathed. "In exchange for some blood. Not a lot. I can get by on a little. But I can help. Truly."
They were still panting from the altercation, and they ran a hand through their hair. "Well… I guess we better use you instead of leaving you to rot down here."
"No more chains?"
They smirked. "No more chains. But I can't promise no leashes."
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, bodymod, conditioned whumpee, broken bones
You're torn between wanting to keep silent and coming up with a fake name. Both options carry their own risks. Both carry their own advantages.
In the end, you decide to just stay silent. Freddie is bound to give up. You clutch your bloody tissue between swollen fingers, some of which might be broken, and you stubbornly stare down at your lap to avoid her seeing more of your prosthetic eye.
"Ah," Freddie says, a little awkward. "I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have pried. I'm sorry."
That's right.
You keep silent.
"Well, um... I'm sorry, I can't help it. You're dressed very breezy for this type of weather."
It's the middle of autumn, and you've been thrown out in nothing but your uniform — shorts and a T-shirt with your number embroidered on it.
"So," she goes on, undeterred by your silence, "I was thinking, um... I mean, you're clearly shivering, and this cold must not be good for your prosthetic... Would you like to warm up at my house? I know that's a little forward..." She trails off.
A little? She doesn't know you. You certainly don't know her. Does she really think you're going to fall for this? She clearly just wants to get information out of you. For all you know, she's a seasoned interrogator, with countless torture tools at her house. You might disappear into her basement and never come out. No, this is a bad idea. What's a little cold to you?
At the same time... She's right about your prosthetic. It hurts more and more to move it with each passing second. The attachment site where metal meets bone is incredibly sore, and warming up would ease the discomfort significantly.
But there's no way.
"Or at least, let me—" She takes off her jacket and tries to drape it around your shoulders. You smack her hand away without thinking. It's instinct; she's an outsider, and she's not safe.
Freddie stops. Steps back. She looks taken aback. You look taken aback. You didn't mean to... It was just so sudden...
"Sorry," she says eventually. "I should've asked. Can I give you my jacket so you're not cold?"
