@clockworknightmares / clockworknightmares.tumblr.com
Whumpee choking out apologies for making a gross, damp mess of Caretaker’s shirt as they cry against their chest. Caretaker hushing them, petting their hair, maybe rocking them faintly until they can cry themself out and doze off.
(If this prompt inspires you to create your own content, please tag @whumpster-dumpster, link to this original post, or put it under the tag “whumpster prompts”)
a whumper who keeps perfect records of their captive(s). photos, videos, audio recordings, files of notes and lists and letters the whumpee wrote that they thought might actually be delivered to their loved ones. the whumper loves this collection almost as much as the captive - the whumpee will one day fade away, but these recordings will live forever as a tribute to them. their pain will never end because it’s immortalized in stunning photgraphy, in high definition video. this is the whumper’s passion project.
the feeling of phantom fingers at their throat. memory-hands trailing across their skin, ghosts of fingers following their scars and the angles of their body. a whumpee who can’t fully convince themself that they aren’t being touched because they could swear there’s a hand at their cheek, in their hair, under their sleeve.
a knife slowly, slooooowly pressed into the whumpee. whether they’re restrained, drugged, half-conscious, or just too scared of retaliation to struggle, the whumpee is unable to stop the torture of being stabbed gradually. blood weeps from the wound, breaths catching and crashing together. a warm hand is pressed to their shoulder to keep them still, or to exert suffocating control.
you know what else I want, I want a prisoner standing against a wall, hands cuffed over their head, leaning forward to talk to a henchperson or guard who isn't at all sure they're on the right side and moreover is starting to feel intimidated by the intensity of this prisoner's words and convictions, even though they're the one who's not chained up right now, I want that very dearly
- the hero's hands are tied above their head to a post in town square, their torso exposed. They are hit repeatedly by the villain, and civilian onlookers are too scared to approach and free the hero, so they watch
- being detained and beaten, and then being on video/live in front of thousands of viewers. Maybe they're on the big screens in cities, or some dark web site
- the villain sending photos of a beaten hero to the newspapers, and it's all they print for weeks
- voice recordings of the hero screaming in pain are sent to loved ones and friends
A whumpee is caught trying to escape or fomenting rebellion. They are dragged out into a public place and bound kneeling with their hands cuffed to the ground in front of them. The ritual number of lashes is given, furrowing their back and flicking around the edges of their shoulders, their arms, the bare soles of their feet.
When the whip stills for the last time, they sag forwards, hardly able to believe they survived. But they are not released, and dimly they hear the number of hours they must wait under the sun before they will be released.
They took a whipping. They can survive the waiting.
They can’t muster the energy to flinch when something weighted thunks down near their slumped body, but it doesn’t inflict more pain on them, and they ignore it in favor of making sure they manage to take one breath, and then another.
They can hear people passing by. They’ll be a spectacle, a lesson, a witness to the folly of resistance.
They’ll be a symbol, a sign, a marker that there are still those who dream of freedom.
Footsteps pass closer. It’s fine, they have to get through the square somehow. But then they pause, and the whumpee cracks tear-crusted eyes open to see an arm dipping into the bucket that’s been left next to them.
They catch, briefly, the look of regret on the civilian’s face – and behind them the watchful guards – before they toss the handful of salt across the whumpee’s torn-open back.
When awareness fades back in from the white-hot spike that pierced them, the whumpee cowers from the sounds of more people passing through the busy square. Each one slows, as they must, to dip their hand into the bucket and offer tribute to the spectre of order propped up by looming guards and the vice of collective fear.
The whumper has had the whumpee for as long as the whumpee can remember. They don’t know anything other than what the whumper has taught them. All the rules. The punishments.
It’s only when their found by the caretaker, by whatever circumstances, that they realize how little they understand.
They don’t even have a name.
Whumpee owned by a tailor caretaker. They use them as human models for their designs, and help them make clothes they feel confident in themselves with. (Bonus: Whumper comes back and the whumpee takes a crochet hook to their throat like a badass)
I’ll be honest, I have so many thoughts for this, but they all involve more whump, not less :3 I love the thought of this prompt being used to help the whumpee heal, instead of turning them into tailor!Whumper’s personal, living mannequin! 👀👀
Reluctant/forced whumper being spat out by main whumper and whumpees' rescuers alike. Whumpee is whisked away to safety, whumper manages to escape, and they? They're left hurt and with no one to turn to.
I know this is supposed to be a caretaker but I can’t help reading it as a whumper “rescuing” their whumpee from a fabricated danger
Whumpee strapped to the middle of a concrete basement floor, flat on their back with their limbs stretched out. They’ve been left alone for hours on end, the cold concrete sapping away their body heat. They pull at the restraints, but it’s useless. They cry into the air for what feels like forever.
the whumpee feels a grip close tight and sudden around their arm.
"ah- don't make a scene, dear," the whumper whispers, tucking the whumpee's hand in their own. "remember who I've got waiting for us at home."
After yet another brutal session of torture, the whumpee sobs into the whumper’s shirt as they gently stroke their hair, whispering soft words of comfort into their neck. They quiet their hitching sobs with a gentleness so unlike them and smooth a hand over their tear soaked face.
“Oh,” they whisper adoringly. “Keep going. You look so much better like this, love.”
A is tied to a chair, slumped weakly against the restraints, head lolling forward, blood dripping into their lap. They hear a sudden rush of footsteps but can't manage to lift their head enough to see their source.
B kneels before them, hand on their knee, reaching up to cradle their cheek in one hand, turning A's bleary gaze towards their own, whispering reassurances they're here, we've got you, you're safe now.
The whumpee avoiding sleeping because of terrible nightmares, and hiding it until it gets to the point where they’re unable to function, and the caretaker has to step in.
