Mousepaw - Untitled - Tumblr Blog

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

"Don't You Remember?"

whumper-turned-whumpee who can't remember what they did to whumpee and a whumpee-turned-whumper who wants revenge so very badly

cw: implied torture, blood, scars, fist fight, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, implied torture of a minor

In the abandoned alley, Whumper stood over Whumpee, blood on their boots and blood on Whumpee's clothes.

Whumpee gasped for air, back arching against the stone wall. They whimpered. “Why– why are you doing this?” There was terror in their eyes, deer-in-headlights-bright.

And all it did was piss Whumper off. They were no longer the scrawny kid that Whumpee had once bloodied and scarred, but their temper still had the same short leash. And this time, there was no one to stop them.  

“Why?” repeated Whumpee, their voice shaking. Blood dribbled down their chin. “Do I know you?” 

Whumper laughed. Bitterly. In the bronze-lit alleyway, it tasted like dirt and metal, bouncing off the walls before dying out. "You have got to be kidding me."

Whumpee's breathing rattled in their throat, eyes locked on Whumper with their bruised fists and dangerous smile. "I--"

Whumper cut them off. “You think this hurts, Whumpee?"

Whumpee coughed up more blood, clutching their ribcage. They nodded, Adam's apple bobbing in their throat.

“Just imagine it goes on for days. Imagine it doesn’t stop. Imagine you’re in so much pain, you can barely breathe, but it doesn’t fucking stop. But you know what hurts the most, Whumpee?” Another laugh, angry and half spat out. “That you don’t even remember what you did to me. Fuck, you don’t even have the-- the decency to acknowledge you’re the reason they all pity me. Fuck. It makes me want to beat you to death right here and right now.” Whumper ripped off their jacket, letting it drop to the gravel.

 “I mean, fucking look,” Whumper smiled harshly, more of a grimace than a grin.

Whumpee's gaze darted up and then immediately away. Whumper's arms were badly scarred-- raw-rimmed and poorly healed-- but the lines were steady, in methodical knife-blade form.

“Hold still, or I’ll have you lick the blood off my knife. That would be a new low for you, wouldn’t it?” 

Whumper shook aside the memories that burned their way into their mind, the ones that played behind their eyes whenever they tried to sleep. 

Oh, god, when was the last time they had slept?  The anger in their voice was venomous and they re-directed it at Whumpee. “You really don’t remember?” 

No answer. 

Whumpee kicked Whumpee. Hard. “C’mon, Whumpee, I know you’re in there.”

Whumpee only shook their head. They didn’t dare to look up, keeping their arms wrapped around their abdomen for protection. 

The street light bounced off the pooling blood, Whumpee's broken nose, highlighting the deep purple color under Whumper's eyes.

“I was just a kid!" snarled Whumper, "Tell me what I did to deserve this! Fucking tell me!" They didn't want closure. They wanted a fight. 

Instead, Whumpee was wiping at their bloody nose and crying. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."  

Whumper bit back a scream. “Fight me!” 

Whumpee stood shakily, clinging to the wall. “I told you, I…I don’t remember…” their voice cracked. “Please don’t hurt me.” 

Whumper grabbed Whumpee's jacket and hauled them close until their faces were inches apart.

Eye to bruised eye.

Breath shaking.

The smell of copper and leather.

Once, Whumper had cried those very same words.

“Please– please don’t hurt me.”

The knife began its slow work and they began to scream–

One final punch. Whumpee's head cracked against the wall and they slumped limply against the sidewalk. 

There was no closure. 

Just bruised fists and blood on the gravel. Whumper left Whumpee in the alleyway, licking blood off their knuckles. 

Get in the Water

Warnings: pursuit, captivity, escape, gun, gunshot, left for dead

Whumpee didn't stop running. Couldn't stop. They had seen their opportunity for escape and they had taken it. Had taken it and hadn't stopped running.

They knew that if they reached the river they could find a boat and cross and then Whumper would have the rest of civilization to contend with. As it was, Whumpee knew that they could also run along the river to the next town. And then Whumper would have to give up their relentless pursuit.

And Whumper was relentless.

Whumpee could hear Whumper's angry shouts as they ran. Could hear their threats to make Whumpee's life a living hell. Could hear Whumper gaining on them.

But that didn't stop Whumpee.

They couldn't stop. They were almost to the river. They could even swim across. They just had to get away. They could hear the roar of the river. They were too far upstream to swim, the snow melt had made the current too strong.

With a sigh, Whumpee stopped running. They had time. They could look for a place to cross. Whumper was far behind them. Whumpee knew that if they crossed the river, Whumper would abandon their pursuit. Would give up and go back to their remote compound. They just had to find a way across.

Whumpee didn't even realize Whumper had caught them until the bullet ripped through their shoulder. The pain was all consuming. Whumpee screamed as they tumbled forward, feet slipping on the muddy bank of the river. The momentum from the bullet carried them forward, ever closer to the water. It was only as their feet left the bank that Whumpee realized they were falling into the water.

Whumpee windmilled their arm, a scream of agony ripping itself from their throat as their shoulder moved. But it was too late. Whumpee sank below the icy, fast-flowing water.

They struggled to breach the surface, their left arm limp and unable to help them swim. Whumpee frantically kicked out, swinging their working arm as they tried to reach the surface. Air bubbles flowed from their lips.

Whumpee gasped with relief as their head cleared the surface. They struggled to keep their head up as they tread water. The current was strong and dragging them along the bank. But as Whumpee's eyes roved the shore, searching for Whumper and their gun, Whumpee realized Whumper wasn't there.

Whumper had abandoned their pursuit the moment Whumpee sank beneath the dark surface. No doubt believing that if their shot hadn't killed Whumpee, then the water or cold would.

Whumper was wrong.

As Whumpee let their body float on the current, they realized they were successful in their escape. Though their shoulder hurt, they knew it wouldn't kill them--the bullet plugging the wound for the most part. All Whumpee had to do is let the river carry them to town and they would find help. And most of all, they were free.

grab them by the hair

grabbing a fistful of their hair to hold them in place for the next punch or slap

grabbing their hair to force them to look at you

grabbing their hair to make them bow

grabbing their hair to slam their head back into the wall

grabbing their hair to smash their face on the floor

grabbing their hair to make them bare their throat to you

grabbing their hair to stop them moving away from the blade or syringe at their neck

grabbing their hair to dunk their head under water

grabbing their hair to rub their face in a mess

grabbing their hair to pull them across the room before throwing them down where they belong

grabbing their hair to hold them up when they’re about to slump over

grabbing their hair to drag them up to their knees from where they lay on the floor

placing your hand in their hair when they’re already kneeling just to remind them what you could do with it

stroking their hair as a half-hearted apology after pulling a little too much

comment more please :)

Me and my old therapist for he last one lmao

Some PTSD tropes I like (feel free to add more)

I included some very "defiant whumpee" things too :)

Whumpee bracing themselves and then flinching when Caretaker touches them

Silence as a trigger. Like if caretaker goes quiet... Whumpee believes they're about to explode and compulsively starts apologizing

Or just stares at them waiting for shit to go down

"stop apologizing... You're safe." "...define 'safe'"

"I made them angry, I guess," whumpee bites their lip and rubs above the broken arm. "You made them--who the hell would do this?!" "Sorry..."

Whumpee wakes up after a nightmare. Doesn't want to make caretaker "angry" by telling them what happened.

Caretaker rubbing face in frustration, "I'm serious whumpee, I'm not going to hurt you" only to get another mumbled "sorry"

"where did you get this wound! You told me you were in a fight!" "Well it WAS a little one-sided" (whumpee currently bleeding out)

Whumpee trying to make it sound like they had some control over the situation because they can't cope with it otherwise

Whumpee bawling and caretaker rushes in... Whumper rubs their face dry hastily. "I wasn't crying. No I wasn't. No that was a giant belch. Yeah. Got any tums?"

"you know it's okay to be vulnerable..." "Oh FUCK that."

Environmental details for a scene I'm putting myself to sleep with tonight...

Whumpee's cheek meets the metal bed of the truck as they press them down to tie their hands behind their back

Whumpers voices reverberating in the tiny space and sinking to whispers when the engine shuts off

It smells like rust and cockroaches on the ground. Whumpee is allergic to cockroaches and their nose itches on top of everything else.

Whumpee isn't just scared. They're angry and panicking. They think they're going to die. And they don't deserve that.

They're mocking whumpee and keep using words that don't make sense for the context. They must have a special dialect.

There's this sweet smell, the smell of tears and blood.

Whumpers' boots clomp and creak. Whumpee is afraid of being kicked again and tenses at each movement.

Whumpee's stomach is sore and cramping from the tension. They can't relax, either.

Whumpee is pinned down, something stabbed clean through their shoulder. The pain is jarring, sharp, then horribly dull and throbbing. They can feel their heart beating through their entire body. A small amount of blood trickles out, down their arm. They knew it wasn’t as much blood as there with be if the object was removed. And that fact terrified them to their core. The fear, the pain. It was all too much. And now, they could hear the foot steps of whumper as they approached. Only causing more terror, more blood forced through their aching body. The moment they saw whumper they knew that running had been a horrible idea. Because whumper just grinned when their eyes met.

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.

I was wondering when I would see something like this pop up LMAO

If only the sirens had told Odysseus about the route that involves this guy instead:

Oooh! Nice. Definitely save this for later

Resources For Writing Sketchy Topics

Medicine

A Study In Physical Injury

Comas

Medical Facts And Tips For Your Writing Needs

Broken Bones

Burns

Unconsciousness & Head Trauma

Blood Loss

Stab Wounds

Pain & Shock

All About Mechanical Injuries (Injuries Caused By Violence)

Writing Specific Characters

Portraying a kleptomaniac.

Playing a character with cancer.

How to portray a power driven character.

Playing the manipulative character.

Portraying a character with borderline personality disorder.

Playing a character with Orthorexia Nervosa.

Writing a character who lost someone important.

Playing the bullies.

Portraying the drug dealer.

Playing a rebellious character.

How to portray a sociopath.

How to write characters with PTSD.

Playing characters with memory loss.

Playing a pyromaniac.

How to write a mute character.

How to write a character with an OCD.

How to play a stoner.

Playing a character with an eating disorder.

Portraying a character who is anti-social.

Portraying a character who is depressed.

How to portray someone with dyslexia.

How to portray a character with bipolar disorder.

Portraying a character with severe depression.

How to play a serial killer.

Writing insane characters.

Playing a character under the influence of marijuana.

Tips on writing a drug addict.

How to write a character with HPD.

Writing a character with Nymphomania.

Writing a character with schizophrenia.

Writing a character with Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Writing a character with depression.

Writing a character who suffers from night terrors.

Writing a character with paranoid personality disorder.

How to play a victim of rape.

How to play a mentally ill/insane character.

Writing a character who self-harms.

Writing a character who is high on amphetamines.

How to play the stalker.

How to portray a character high on cocaine.

Playing a character with ADHD.

How to play a sexual assault victim.

Writing a compulsive gambler.

Playing a character who is faking a disorder.

Playing a prisoner.

Portraying an emotionally detached character.

How to play a character with social anxiety.

Portraying a character who is high.

Portraying characters who have secrets.

Portraying a recovering alcoholic.

Portraying a sex addict.

How to play someone creepy.

Portraying sexually/emotionally abused characters.

Playing a character under the influence of drugs.

Playing a character who struggles with Bulimia.

Illegal Activity

Examining Mob Mentality

How Street Gangs Work

Domestic Abuse

Torture

Assault

Murder

Terrorism

Internet Fraud

Cyberwarfare

Computer Viruses

Corporate Crime

Political Corruption

Drug Trafficking

Human Trafficking

Sex Trafficking

Illegal Immigration

Contemporary Slavery 

Black Market Prices & Profits

AK-47 prices on the black market

Bribes

Computer Hackers and Online Fraud

Contract Killing

Exotic Animals

Fake Diplomas

Fake ID Cards, Passports and Other Identity Documents

Human Smuggling Fees

Human Traffickers Prices

Kidney and Organ Trafficking Prices

Prostitution Prices

Cocaine Prices

Ecstasy Pills Prices

Heroin Prices

Marijuana Prices

Meth Prices

Earnings From Illegal Jobs

Countries In Order Of Largest To Smallest Risk

Forensics

arson

Asphyxia

Blood Analysis

Book Review

Cause & Manner of Death

Chemistry/Physics

Computers/Cell Phones/Electronics

Cool & Odd-Mostly Odd

Corpse Identification

Corpse Location

Crime and Science Radio

crime lab

Crime Scene

Cults and Religions

DNA

Document Examination

Fingerprints/Patterned Evidence

Firearms Analysis

Forensic Anthropology

Forensic Art

Forensic Dentistry

Forensic History

Forensic Psychiatry

General Forensics

Guest Blogger

High Tech Forensics

Interesting Cases

Interesting Places

Interviews

Medical History

Medical Issues

Misc

Multiple Murderers

On This Day

Poisons & Drugs

Police Procedure

Q&A

serial killers

Space Program

Stupid Criminals

Theft

Time of Death

Toxicology

Trauma

OH THATS HORRIBLE I LOVE IT

Odysseus: We passed the lair of Scylla! Hooray!

Eurylochus: Six men didn't make it, Ody.

Odysseus: Scyll Issue.

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

what do you MEAN they FUCKING MISSED???

LMAOO ACCURATE

Whumpee: Can my life get any worse?

Whumper: Hold my whip.

They shot him and had the audacity to miss the vital spots

i went out for milk and ended up making like 6 new friends, marching in a parade, reuniting with one of my childhood friends, watched a drag queen eviserate a piñata and also forgot to buy the milk

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.

[ Addressed to Caretaker's house ]

Dearest Whumpee,

All those years of having you in my care were just a blessing. You were a quick learner, with the aid of punishments, and I do say that muzzle did miracles for you.

You were so perfect at the end, so obedient, and yet you dared to run away?

I’ll ask this once, and if I don’t hear back soon, there will be serious consequences:

Come back home.

Or I will find you.

- Whumper

i love love love when whumpees curse out their whumper. blood trickling out with their words, teeth bared and every sound vicious. and when the whumper replies by leaning in with the smallest of smiles and strokes their face. “careful.”

and whumpee whimpers. shrinking back, the bite in their eyes fading into terror. crying, shaking, pleading.

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

Don't ever underestimate someone with disabilities, especially if they were born that way. They can and will make your life difficult if you try the same for them.

#120

When the villains caught wind of a new hero on the team, they’d all taken interest. When someone came back claiming he’s blind, it’d sparked a whole new debate.

Straightforward, they’d all said. He won’t even see us coming. They’d laughed at how easy it’d seemed.

The villain feels like they’ve stumbled on a pile of gold when they come across the hero. He’s running his hand along something on the fence in front of him, something that the villain will later realise is a braille description of the view ahead of him. A white cape drifts around his ankles, an equally white suit flattering against his typical heroic body, the lightest of smiles on his face as his fingers trace the patterns of dots along the railing.

The villain can’t help but grin as they slowly make their way towards the poor hero, so oblivious, so stupid. They’re barely a hair breadth away, their dagger practically unsheathing itself, when the hero spins towards them with a swish of his cape and a flick of a blade.

The villain barely reels back in time. Staying quiet doesn’t occur to them when they’re startled. The hero looks like he’s staring right through them, an arrogant smirk on his face.

“Ah,” he says brightly, “you’re one of those criminals I’m meant to be looking out for?”

The villain sidesteps, careful to keep their footing quiet, but it doesn’t matter. The hero’s head cocks towards them as they try to step out of his blade’s path.

“You’re almost silent,” the hero continues. A smirk adorns his face, intrigued. “Incredible.”

The villain is close enough to strike, the hero looking slightly too far beyond them to be right in his assumptions. The villain shifts in fast, their dagger poised. The hero dodges back and retaliates with a swing of his own.

The villain stumbles out of reach and the hero follows. The villain’s unprepared; they were expecting a hero who’s unsure who they’re looking for, where the villain is. They were expecting an easy plaything that they could stab when they got bored.

But this—the hero is nothing but brazen confidence.

The villain shoves their dagger up to meet his blade, throwing his arm out. They move in for another strike but the hero’s already recovered. His blade easily tucks under their arm and slices into their side.

Something of a strangled gasp escapes the villain before they can stop it. They stagger back, a hand touched timidly to the wound, their eyes flitting back up to the hero. He simply waits, his blade crimson and his eyes blank. How? How?

“Would you do me the honour of telling me who I’ve met?” he asks, as if this is nothing more than a casual meeting between friends of friends. The villain wants to snap him in half for the audacity.

“That’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

“Aha,” the hero says, almost a laugh, “You’re [Villain].”

The villain can only stare at him in horror. The hero seems to feel the tension in the silence, because he continues. “You’ve a bad mouth, favour in the blade, light on your feet.” A teasing smile. “And you’ve a smooth, caramel voice I haven’t heard in many like you.”

“Wh— Excuse me— You—” 

The hero just smirks, the stupid smirk of someone who knows he’s untouchable in every sense of the word. “Flustered by compliments, too,” the hero finishes with a laugh. “Good to remember for next time.”

“I’m not flustered!” the villain finally manages, “and my voice isn’t caramel. That isn’t a thing. You sound stupid.”

“I’m happy to be stupid if it means I can recognise you as the villain who speaks in caramel.”

The villain’s side is beginning to really ache. They need to be somewhere that’s not here when it inevitably gets worse. “Do what you want. I’m going home.”

“May I escort you to a prison cell?”

The villain barks a laugh, their side practically splitting with the forced fakeness of it. “As if you know where the agency is from here.”

“I always know where I am, [Villain].” A smile again, softer this time. Knowing. “You underestimate me for a characteristic I think makes me as interesting to you as you are to me.”

The burn in the villain’s skin is an ode to that. “Sure.” The villain turns on their heel before a thought occurs to them. “I’m going to walk away, loudly. Do me a favour and don’t fucking shank me when I do.”

The hero’s face twists back into a smirk. “As long as I hear you moving away. Until next time, [Villain].”

A blind hero! everyone had cried. It’s almost too easy!

The villain scurries away with a gash to the side and a slam to their ego, and they know now to know better than that.

Mother

When Whumpee was born, the doctors told their mother they weighed a whopping 9 pounds and 5 ounces. Because of complications with the birth, she was barely able to hold them for the first three weeks. Every night, she waited with tears rolling down her cheeks for Whumpee’s father to wake and help her lift her crying child.

Her strength returned to her over time. Once she could pick Whumpee up without pain, Whumpee’s mother rarely put them down. She cradled them in her arms and pressed them tightly to her chest to feel their light breaths. Though she pushed the thought from her mind, she knew a day would come soon when her little one would rather sit alone than sleep against her.

The day came faster than Whumpee’s mother had hoped. Whumpee learned to crawl, then to walk, then to run. Their mother realized she hadn’t held her child for more than a week. Only when Whumpee raised their arms to be picked up she couldn’t lift them. Their little one was too big.

After Whumpee finished college, their mother didn’t see them for six months. When they came back to visit, they were the one that lifted her. Working for the FBI had changed them. They weren’t the tiny baby she had carried. Whumpee had grown strong, but their eyes were tired. 

Whumpee’s mother could remember what it felt like to support the weight of her baby. By the end of the first five weeks, their whole body weighed 11 pounds and 4 ounces. It was all she could think about as she supported Whumpee’s head, protecting it as she helped the others lower Whumpee’s injured body to the floor. Their head was the same fragile weight as their whole body back then. 

Whumpee had nearly given their life to protect her. She would see it every night as she waited for them to wake up. She cried each time as she pressed their hand to her chest and listened to the quiet beeping of their heartbeat measured on the machine. 

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.

Make your Whumpee tired.

Whumpees that have been deprived of sleep by Whumper, so much so that they don't remember how to walk in a straight line and can't figure out whether the recent appearance of little black bugs in their cell are real or a hallucination.

Whumpees that can't get a full night's rest. They doze off, only to be jolted awake by their own anxiety of not knowing when Whumper would come back. Perhaps they are awakened by phlegm-coated coughs induced by their illness. They are awakened by nightmares, or by Caregiver who is worried they may succumb to hypothermia, or by a thunderstorm, or the rough blanket scratching their open wounds, or so on.

Whumpees who pull all nighters to protect their friends or lovers.

Whumpees whose eyes burn when they finally can close their eyes. Whumpees whose muscles twitch, who can't stop yawning no matter how hard they try to stifle it. Whumpees with dark, glassy eyes. Whumpees who are slow to react or have a hard time keeping up with the conversation. Whumpees with throbbing headaches. Whumpees with brain fog and memory loss.

Whumpees who have been on the run and have over exhausted their bodies. Their muscles and joints continue to scream long after its over. Whumpees with extensive blood loss. Whumpees who are malnourished.

Whumpees whose survivor's guilt keeps them awake, wondering what they might have done differently, whether it was all their fault, or why they were the ones to live.

Whumpees whose bodies are in chronic pain or illness and who have to hide it, causing muscle and mental fatigue. They keep going with a smile until they collapse or pass out.

Whumpees who break down in tears, begging to be left alone so they can rest. Whumpees who sob when they are told that the bed in front of them is theirs to use whenever they want.