Teeth And Bones

Teeth and Bones

"Shh…you are doing good. Just keep holding on."

"You keep saying that!"

Whumpee snapped. A trail of blood dripping down from the knife on their arm. They wiped their tears, glaring up at Whumper with gritted teeth. 

"You said if I obey you, you would let me go…! But it's been a few…weeks…months…already!"

Whumper hummed, nodding their head as they made a show of thinking. "Well, Whumpee. Are you obeying me right now? You are raising your voice." Whumper shook their head in mock dissapointment. "That's not very obedient of you. How can I let you go if you are still a brat?"

Whumper continued dragging the knife across Whumpee's skin. They hissed in pain and tried to squirm away again from Whumper. 

"Hey, hey…don't move. Stay still. Be good, okay?"

Whumpee bit their bottom lip, sniffling as they leaned their head back on the wall. Their face showed pure desperation and exhaustion, one that Whumper could easily notice but decided to ignore. 

"I wanna…go home…please…"

"You are home. This is home."

Whumpee let out another gasp and whimper as Whumper cut another part of their arm. It sting and painful and uncomfortable. They wanted to ask Whumper to stop, to leave them alone but they knew it was futile. 

Whumper won't listen to them. They would just take and take and take, without any mercy or sympathy. Whumpee could just wait, wait until they were left with teeth and bones and nothing else

~

@nothing-but-glitter-and-lashes @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @risk606 @heyyitsworld @htavin87 @jennyyy007 @electrons2006 @theforeverdyingperson @valravnthefrenchie

Punishments

Content warning: discussion of past child abuse (physical and emotional), mentions of scars, starvation, punishments.

Caretaker saw the exact moment Whumpee's scarred hands relaxed, releasing the plate to its short attempt at flight. The shatter didn't even sound that loud with all the TV noise and running water in the background, but Caretaker felt his attention sharpen, focusing on the teen's face. Whumpee's expression was carefully neutral; only their eyes shined with something wild. Caretaker put the knife by the cutting board, turned the fire under the pan down and faced the kid.

"Okay," he said, keeping his voice level. "Why did you do that?"

Whumpee met his eyes with something like a challenge. "You have to punish me now," they stated, tone forcefully brave. Caretaker saw the way they shifted, moving their hands behind their back, hiding the way they had to shake.

He hummed, taking a moment to think the situation through. "I told you last time that I won't be punishing you."

"You said you wouldn't punish an accident," Whumpee corrected. "This isn't an accident. I did it on purpose. You saw it. You have to punish me now."

"I won't," Caretaker repeated. The kid stared at him, wide-eyed. He sighed, "I really did mean when I said it. There are no punishments here. I won't hurt you. We'll just clean up the glass together, and—"

"What if I refuse to clean," Whumpee demanded. Caretaker raised his brows before wrangling his expression back under control. It was nearly the first time Whumpee dared to interrupt — rude, definitely. It made them feel more like an actual teen. Teenagers just had to be bratty from time to time. It was healthy for them. Caretaker hadn't got to be a father to one, but he was sure of that.

"Well, then I'll have to clean it up by myself," He shrugged. He made sure to sound unbothered. "I'll have to do it before cooking, of course, so the dinner's gonna have to wait."

The kid seemed to freeze at that, their body going unnaturally still in a way that screamed Caretaker did something wrong. But before he could ask, Whumpee wondered, voice tight, "No dinner?"

Ah. "Of course not," Caretaker hurried to assure. Whumpee was still too thin, they'd been starved before. "There will be dinner, just slightly later without your help. You'll get to eat either way."

Caretaker smiled, hoping it would get the kid to relax. It didn't: their face only seemed to grow tenser. They stared at Caretaker, thinking about something. Then: "What if I break another plate?"

"Ah," Caretaker replied, lightly. "I would really rather you didn't? It would be rather inconvenient."

"What if I break two more?" The teen continued. "Three? All of them?" It sounded like a challenge. They moved their hand to where the clean plates stood in a nice careful stack, freshly washed and settled by the sink.

Caretaker took a deep breath. "I would really rather you didn't," he repeated. "Those cost money. We'll have to eat from the salad bowl and it won't be convenient, and then go to a shop to buy more."

"You'll have to punish me," Whumpee insisted.

"I won't hurt you, kid. No matter what you do—"

"What if I hurt you," they replied instantly and flinched, as if scared by their own forcefulness. Even then, they didn't back down. "What if I— if I punched you. You can't just let it go. What if I kick you or- or take the knife," they said and gestured to the counter, barely missing the cheerful cup with childish scribbles for a pattern perched at its edge.

Caretaker took a deep, deep breath and answered, weighing each word carefully, "if you attack me, I would have to stop you," he stated, as calmly as he could. The idea of having to fight the terrified kid with a knife was not an appealing one. He silently prayed it would not get to it. "I'd try to restrain you so you don't hurt me. I'd wait for you to calm down, and then we'd sit down to talk some more. I won't hurt you."

You're angry," Whumpee pointed.

Caretaker huffed, "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm… Frustrated," he relented and sighed. He felt extremely unprepared for the conversation. "Look, kid. I know you expect me to be like that asshole. But I won't be. I'll try my damn hardest to make sure of that."

"You don't like this conversation," Whumpee stated, again.

Caretaker shook his head, "no."

"What if I make it continue? What if I anger you?"

"If you do anger me, I will leave the room until I calm down. I won't hurt you just because I don't like a conversation," Caretaker promised.

Whumpee stared at him, lips pressed tightly. They reached out and took the stack of plates.

Caretaker watched them closely. "Look, Whumpee…"

"You can't just let me act like this!" They yelled. Caretaker couldn't help their brows rising at the sudden shift in tone. As if the scream broke the dam, the other reactions poured out of them: the trembling fingers, the suddenly wet, shaky breaths, the need to blink and look up to hold back the tears. Caretaker shifted his weight, unsure if he should step closer or remain where he was. Even after months of living together, knowing whether the teen needed comfort or space at any given moment was beyond him.

He settled on continuing with the words, "Whumpee. Even if I disapprove of your actions, I will not hurt you for them. I'll talk to you, I'll ask you to help clean up afterwards, I'll try to help you find out what's wrong and how to make it better so you don't have to throw dishes around. I will not hurt you."

"But what if it doesn't make me learn? What if I don't follow the rules, and- and act like a brat and I don't listen to you and I never- I never stop? You'll have to punish me, you'll have to get rid of me, you can't just- you can't just let me do whatever! You can't just! How can I learn if there's no punishment!"

"You've learned how to wash dishes well enough," Caretaker pointed out.

"It's different!"

"How so?"

Whumpee stared at him, and seemed to come up with no answer. Their fingers slackened around the stack, and Caretaker mentally prepared to not react when all of the dishes inevitably touched the floor. Whumpee sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob and settled the plates back onto the counter. "I don't understand," they slumped above the dishes.

"It's okay," Caretaker assured them. "You don't have to understand for it to be true." He let out a tentative breath and stepped closer, carefully choosing empty spots between the broken glass, but didn't reach out to touch. By now, he knew well enough not to — he'd been witness to how even the most innocuous of actions could throw them off and straight into panic, especially when they were already agitated.

"It isn't," they didn't look at him. "It's not how it works. You can't possibly expect to raise a— you had a daughter, hadn't you?" Caretaker froze, glad that the teen couldn't see his face. She was not a topic either of them breached; Whumpee knew she'd died; they knew the thought was still upsetting for Caretaker and were careful to never bring it up despite how obvious the ghost of her existence was still around the house in every bright colored piece of wallpaper and childish drawing kept on the wall. They continued on, either ignorant to his reaction or choosing to ignore it. "Surely you didn't just allow her to do whatever! There need to be rules, need to be limitations and consequences!"

"Whatever was given to you as 'rules and consequences' wasn't that, kid," Caretaker leaned on the counter and studied the ceiling. "Discipline isn't an excuse for cruelty."

"You have to have punished her."

"I have," he admitted and turned to the teen only for his gaze to settle on the cheerful little cup. "I wasn't as good of a father as I hoped I'd be. Children are frustrating — they are meant to be. If I knew how little time we had — how precious she was even at her worst, — maybe I'd have acted differently. God knows I wish I have. Whether she'd lived for longer or, well..." he swallowed. Shook his head. "You deserve better, anyway, and so — I'm trying."

"...Whumper said he loved me. This was why he had to make sure I had motivation to learn to be better. To not be a brat. He wanted me to be good."

Caretaker studied the face of the teen — the lines around their eyes and mouth despite the calm voice. The way they gripped the edge of the countertop and didn't seem to see anything before them. He sighed, deeply, and stated, "He was a fool and an asshole."

Whumpee didn't answer that, only tightened the grip. Caretaker had never heard them say a single bad word about Whumper. Despite the scars and the panic attacks, they seemed determined to never acknowledge the harm they had suffered; whether the kid genuinely didn't blame him or just kept their thoughts to themself, Caretaker couldn't know.

He hoped the latter was the case. Whumpee deserved to know that the way they were treated was not right.

"He wanted a perfect child that would never misbehave or bother him, and it's not possible. Hell, even an adult can't just never bother anyone else. We are all nuisances to each other. He demanded you weren't and punished you for not achieving the impossible all the time. It's on him, not on you."

The teen listened, Caretaker could tell, thought about it, seriously considered the idea for a while.

"Nobody would want a child who doesn't behave," they stated finally.

Caretaker huffed, frustrated. "If someone only wants a perfect child, they shouldn't be a parent to begin with."

"You wanted your daughter to—"

"I did not!"

They froze after that, both of them.

Caretaker slowly breathed out and unclenched his fists. He shouldn't be angry, he reminded himself. He shouldn't — the kid needed him to be calm and comforting. The memories of his daughter, taken from him so young, too young, by an illness he noticed too late, clung to his mind, too close and too real and too painful. He rubbed his eyes.

"Sorry, kid, I didn't mean to yell," he turned to Whumpee. They were still unmoving, still tense, as if waiting for a strike. Caretaker felt a wave of guilt wash over him. This child needed him to be much, much better. At moments as such he wondered how anyone could think that he could do this. How anyone could trust him with a kid at all, after he'd already failed once. There had to be someone better, he thought. There had to be.

"Let's just finish dinner together and go watch some movie, what do you think?" he proposed, keeping the tone light. If Whumpee heard how forced it sounded, they didn't show it.

The teen turned, slowly, avoiding looking at Caretaker. He kept the smile on his lips, hands relaxed where Whumpee could see them. That was it. They would go watch a movie and spend time together and talk later, when both have calmed down somewhat.

Whumpee put their hand atop the counter. Before Caretaker could react, they jerked it. Before Caretaker could react, his favorite cup, the one his daughter took such pleasure decorating, was already flying towards the floor. It shatter sounded like thunder in his ears.

Caretaker breathed in. Counted to ten. Breathed out. Repeated, over and over, eyes focused on the colorful shards, until he was certain he could keep his tone calm.

"This," he didn't raise his head but heard the teen step away, "was a jerk move."

"I'm so—" they stopped themself before the apology was out and gritted their teeth. Caretaker breathed, and then breathed some more, and even longer still, pushing down every bit of irritation and anger. Teens were meant to be bratty. Children were meant to be a bothersome nuisance that tested the patience of every adult stuck to be responsible for them.

Whumpee needed him to be calm. Needed to learn they were safe even if they misbehaved.

"Will you help me pick up the glass?" He finally raised his gaze. Whumpee was pale, eyes wide and lips tightly pressed in a scared line. They held his gaze and shook their head even as they stepped backwards, determination mixed with panic.

"It's okay," Caretaker kept his voice calm. "If you don't want to help, go watch some TV, will you? I'll call you when dinner is ready."

Whumpee stepped backwards again, flickering their gaze towards the living room before settling on watching his movements again. He raised his hands slowly and didn't move any closer.

"I'm still not going to hurt you." They didn't look like they believed, so he added, "I'm mad. You knew it was important to me and you knew it'd... hurt me." He relaxed his face as it contorted into a grimace. "I hope you don't do anything like this again. You're not getting punished. The dinner will be ready in an hour. I would appreciate some space until then. But if you need something, you can still come to me."

They watched him for long moments before slowly backing out of the kitchen. They didn't look away until they were behind the corner, and only they did Caretaker release a heavy, frustrated sigh.

Teenagers. Dealing with a teenager, especially such a traumatized one, was definitely far beyond what he was ever prepared to do.

He picked up the glass — both the plate and the cup combined — one little piece after the other, careful of the sharp edges. The cup had shattered into six bigger pieces, the silly snake with google eyes around the handle left unharmed while Caretaker had to try to put together the stick figures holding hands under a tree. There were still parts missing, the pieces so small he had little hope of finding them.

He sighed. Threw all of the glass in the trash bin. Vacuumed the spot quickly. Continued chopping the vegetables.

When he called Whumpee for dinner, they didn't respond. Caretaker could hear the TV still speaking in the living room but no sound from the teenager. It was normal, though, they were often awfully quiet.

He found them, huddled in a blanket and staring at the screen with unseeing eyes, when he brought two plates to the couch. They jerked when the cushion shifted under his weight and eyed Caretaker warily.

"You should eat," he pushed a plate across the coffee table, and they picked it up after a few bits of hesitation.

The dinner passed in silence, as did the rest of the evening. Caretaker put the plates away himself, ignoring the way the kid tensed when he moved closer to them, then returned to the couch, settling at the far corner. When he noticed Whumpee glance towards him, he patted the cushion at his side and put an arm over the sofa's back, but didn't insist when the kid quickly looked away.

They watched the TV in silence. It took the teen half an hour to move slightly closer, and even longer before they were sitting truly by his side. Caretaker kept his eyes on the screen as he dropped his arm over their shoulders in a semblance of a hug. They tensed immediately, breath hitching like an animal caught in a trap, and the man wondered if it was a mistake. If he'd overstepped and the kid needed something else from him. He debated pulling away and apologizing, but Whumpee beat him to it. He let them go the moment they moved away.

They returned a few minutes later, and only moved closer when he hugged them this time. They were choosing to come and were allowed to be as close or as distant as they needed, Caretaker tried to convey, keeping their arms loose. They were welcomed anyway, he tried to say through the gentle long strokes down their back as Whumpee pressed close to him.

They fought very hard to keep their sobs silent despite the shaking shoulders. Caretaker didn't comment on the growing wet patch on his chest, only kept them close and safe in his arms as the precious, bothersome and loved despite that kid they were.

When three days later he came from work to the sight of a cheerful cup at the table, he didn't recognize it for what it was the first few minutes. It was too familiar, had been a constant of his life for years, and as much as he'd missed it before it wasn't until he reached out to pour hot coffee in it that his brain caught up with it being back.

He stared at the snake's googly eyes and the uneven glue lines keeping the glass together.

It was hideous, truly. The scribbles had never been the pinnacle of artistry to begin with, and it was obvious the teen had never had to glue anything together in their whole life, and they definitely didn't think about polishing it or even just flattening the glue chunks. And it certainly wasn't usable anymore. Caretaker would not risk neither poisoning nor it falling apart in his hands from the boiling water.

It was absolutely perfect.

A work of his two kids, coming together despite the time and never having met.

He grinned as he put it as a centerpiece on a shelf where everyone could see it.

Maybe he was doing something right, after all.

Whumpee is locked in a lab and exposed to some sort of chemical, poison, or pathogen that will inevitably kill them.

Caretaker is on the other side of the door and forced to watch. If there’s a window, at least.

Maybe Whumpee is exposed to an airborne toxin that comes fast, seeping into the air and making it acrid. Whumpee wheezes and gasps, pounds and claws at the door, screams until there’s nothing but fire in their lungs. Whumpee’s fight doesn’t last long, efforts going quiet, body slumping over and their face going blue. Caretaker’s fight lasts much longer, pounding and yelling at the door, but it still comes all too late.

Maybe it’s a poison or a virus that works slow. Whumpee seems fine on the other side of that door, just a few broken beakers or a little needle barely breaking skin. But then the symptoms start. Whumpee gets pale, and dizzy, and all distracted and spacey, and Caretaker starts to realize something is really fucking wrong. Maybe Whumpee starts sweating, shaking, vomiting, hallucinating, symptoms just getting worse and worse by the hour. Caretaker has to watch Whumpee deteriorate right there on the floor without being able to stop it.

Maybe Whumpee keeps periodically passing out. Caretaker sees Whumpee stumble and go white, and they tell them to sit the fuck down because the last thing they need is a concussion too. Maybe Whumpee hits the ground and Caretaker is left pounding at the door, yelling at them to wake up, because the longer they’re out the worse it gets. Whumpee wakes up every time, eventually, but always in a worse condition. And then it just gets harder and harder to wake Whumpee up until they just start having seizures instead.

Maybe Whumpee is locked in there with Whumper, held at gunpoint and forced to do what they say. Maybe Whumper uses Whumpee as a guinea pig, or just to taunt Caretaker, cruelly making Whumpee’s condition worse just for a reaction.

Maybe the door accidentally locked Whumpee inside and is just impossible to open. Some sort of failsafe. Or maybe Whumpee has to stay quarantined inside, sick and alone, because they got infected with a highly infectious virus. Maybe there's researchers watching with great interest.

Maybe Whumpee can open the door from the inside but doesn’t to protect Caretaker. Maybe there’s nothing Caretaker can say to change Whumpee’s mind, not even as they sink against the wall and cough up blood and creep closer and closer to death. Whumpee would rather die than expose Caretaker too.

can we stop pretending like it’s so super easy for trans men to pass. “oh just put on a baggy shirt and cut your hair-“ it literally doesn’t work like that and I refuse to believe you actually think it’s that easy

kidnapping positions

send one for a starter featuring my muse, your muse or both of our muses (feel free to specify)...

duct taped to a chair

drenched with water & regularly half-drowned to keep them semi-conscious at most

tied somewhere with rising water levels

in the trunk of a car

in the back of a truck

in the back of a police vehicle

in the backseat of a car, trying to draw other drivers' attention

buried alive in a car/other vehicle

buried alive in a coffin (or casket, or burial shroud, etc)

strapped to a table & chemically restrained

strapped to a table & being operated on

strapped to a table & being tortured/injured for information

chained to a wall in a cold room

chained to the ceiling so they have to stand on tip-toes to reach the ground

locked in a small container (fridge, freezer, storage chest)

duct taped & gagged in a cupboard

duct taped & gagged in a bathroom

duct taped & gagged in another part of a house, basement or mansion

dumped in a river (possibly drugged, duct taped, etc)

left in a dumpster (possibly drugged, duct taped, etc)

left for dead in this creative way: (fill in the blank)

having just escaped from their kidnapper and badly needing food/water/medical attention/etc

having just escaped from their kidnapper and making that first phonecall home to say hello, I'm alive

having just escaped from their kidnapper and making the decision to turn back around to help (another muse) escape, as well

Something I've been thinking about lately when it comes to team whump:

A usually strong, rigid, and reliable teammate being carried back to base by the team leader, looking like a limp ragdoll in their arms.

The whole team is huddled around their unconscious teammate, witnessing the very first time anyone's ever seen them so... small. This person has always been the team's source of safety and security, and up until now everyone else had forgotten just how young they are.