jump-in-the-whump

[jump-in-the-whump]

you know a fic is good when it has this

[jump-in-the-whump]

snowy whump. where the whump itself isn’t necessarily the snow but it’s involved, it’s making things worse, more complicated.

someone driving slowly and carefully, hands tense and gripping the steering wheel while whumpee bleeds and stifles sounds of pain in the passenger seat, slumped over and curled around their wounds. they need to go faster but they can’t go faster. the roads are bad and it’s still coming down.

flakes caught in disheveled hair, melting on a fevered forehead. disappearing into hot, pooling blood.

whumpee with broken ribs or hastily-bandaged wounds wincing as they walk, every step making it harder, making their body tense and strain to navigate through the accumulated drifts. the effort and strain of walking through snow is wearing on their whole hurting body.

when whumpee slips and falls, landing hard on the ground. staring up at the sky as is still continuing to snow, melting water soaking through their clothes. chilling them to the bone.

freezing hands trying to do first aid, trying to patch themself or someone else back together. shaking and numb fingers dropping objects, cursing, flexing them and trying again. cant wear gloves, not with this kind of fine motor control. the ticking clock until they won’t be able to use their hands at all, the need to take care of the wounds before that happens.

snowy whump.

[jump-in-the-whump]

Rotten

I never thought you guys would like the starvation trope so much, so here's a little drabble i wrote. enjoy!

tw: for starvation and eating disorder (forceful eating)

The dungeon was a smothering blackness, a place where time and sanity dissolved into shadows. Whumpee sat slumped in a corner, their back pressed against the damp stone wall, ribs visibly straining against their thin, dirt-streaked skin. The air was cold but stagnant, filled with the stench of mold, decay, and despair. Hunger clawed at their insides with a ferocity that made every second a torment, every breath an effort. The gnawing ache in their stomach had long ago ceased to feel like a sharp pang and instead settled into a dull, endless cramp that seemed to radiate through their entire body.

At first, Whumpee had tried to count the days, scratching faint lines into the stone floor with a brittle shard of bone they’d found discarded in a corner. But now, the lines were as meaningless as the notion of time itself. They didn’t know if it had been a week, a month, or longer since Whumper had thrown them into this pit. No sunlight reached them here, and no sound of the outside world ever penetrated the thick walls of their prison.

They curled up tighter, arms wrapped around their knees as their body trembled weakly. The thirst was nearly as maddening as the hunger. Whumper brought them water just often enough to keep them alive, a pitiful ladleful every day or so. But it was never enough. Whumpee’s tongue felt like sandpaper, and their lips were cracked, raw from being bitten in moments of delirium.

Their head rested against the rough stone behind them, and their gaze drifted upward, though there was nothing to see in the black void. Whumpee didn’t even bother to cry anymore. They had no tears left to shed. The only sounds were the faint skittering of rats and the distant drip of water from some unseen crack in the walls. Each drip echoed like a taunt, a cruel reminder of the water they couldn’t reach.

Then came the footsteps.

Whumpee flinched, their heart leaping into a frantic rhythm. The sound was faint at first, barely discernible over the omnipresent silence. But it grew louder, the measured pace of boots descending the stone steps that led to their prison. Whumpee’s hands gripped their knees tightly as they pulled themselves into an even tighter ball, as though they could somehow make themselves invisible.

The iron door groaned open, flooding the room with a dim, flickering orange light from the torch Whumper carried. It illuminated the stark contours of Whumpee’s gaunt face and the shadows of their hollowed eyes. They squinted against the sudden brightness, instinctively shielding their face.

Whumper entered, his figure tall and imposing in the gloom. He was dressed in dark, heavy clothing, his boots caked with dried mud. The torch in one hand cast flickering shadows across his sharp features, and in the other, he held something wrapped in a filthy cloth. He shut the door behind him with a resounding clang, plunging them back into near darkness.

“I thought I’d pay you a visit,” Whumper said, his voice smooth but laced with a casual cruelty that made Whumpee’s skin crawl. “You’ve been so quiet lately. No pleas for help, no screams. Almost makes me think you’re getting comfortable down here.”

Whumpee didn’t respond. They didn’t have the energy to summon words, let alone the will to waste them on Whumper. Instead, they glared—or tried to. It was hard to muster defiance when every part of their body screamed in agony.

Whumper crouched down, their face coming into view. It was smug, as always, their lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach their eyes. They tilted their head, studying Whumpee like a curious child examining an insect.

“You look terrible,” they said, almost conversationally. “Skin and bones, really. How long has it been since you’ve eaten? Oh, right. You wouldn’t know. Days tend to blur together down here, don’t they?”

Whumpee swallowed dryly, their throat protesting the motion. “Get… out,” they rasped.

Whumper chuckled. “Now, now. That’s no way to talk to the person who’s brought you a gift.”

At that, Whumpee’s eyes flicked downward to Whumper’s hands. They were holding a small plate, its contents obscured by the dim light. Whumpee’s heart leapt despite themselves. Food. Real food. The mere thought sent a rush of saliva to their mouth and made their stomach growl, a cruel reminder of how starved they truly were.

Their stomach, however, betrayed them, letting out a low, pitiful growl that echoed in the chamber.

Whumper chuckled darkly. “Ah, there it is. That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for. Poor little thing, starving to death in my dungeon. Don’t say I never do anything for you.” They placed the plate on the floor, just out of Whumpee’s reach, and leaned back on their heels.

With painstaking effort, Whumpee shifted closer. Their arms felt like lead, their legs worse than useless, but desperation drove them forward. When they finally got close enough to see, their stomach lurched.

It was meat—at least, it had been at some point. Now it was a grayish-green mess, its surface mottled with patches of mold. The smell hit them next, a sickly-sweet stench that made their eyes water and their throat constrict. Flies buzzed around it, drawn to the decay like moths to a flame.

Whumpee recoiled instinctively, their body rejecting the idea even as their mind screamed at them to eat. Food was food. It didn’t matter what it looked like or smelled like or tasted like. Their body needed sustenance, and this was the only thing on offer.

“Not quite what you were hoping for, huh?” Whumper’s voice was laced with mockery. “I’ll admit, it’s not fresh. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

Whumpee glared at them, their resolve flickering weakly. “You… bastard…”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Whumper said, standing up and brushing imaginary dust from their pants. “I’m giving you a chance to survive. Whether you take it or not is up to you.”

They turned to leave, pausing in the doorway to cast one last smirk over their shoulder. “Bon appétit.”

The door slammed shut behind them, the sound reverberating through the chamber. Whumpee was left alone once more, the plate of rotting meat sitting between them and the door like some grotesque offering.

For a long time, they didn’t move. They couldn’t. The smell was overpowering, filling the small space and turning their stomach into a churning pit of nausea. They pressed their face into their arm, trying to block out the stench, but it was useless. It clung to them, as inescapable as their hunger.

Their stomach growled loudly, a painful reminder of their predicament. They tried to ignore it, to focus on anything else, but their gaze kept drifting back to the plate. It was disgusting, yes. But it was food. The only food they’d seen in what felt like an eternity.

“I can’t,” they whispered to themselves, shaking their head weakly. “I can’t eat that.”

But even as they said it, they knew it was a lie. They could. They would. The hunger was too much to bear, the pain too great. Tears welled in their eyes, hot and stinging, as they reached for the plate. The hunger won out. It always did.

The first bite was the hardest. They pinched their nose shut, trying to block out the smell, and forced a piece of the meat into their mouth. The taste was worse than they’d imagined—bitter and rancid, with a slimy texture that made them gag. They nearly spit it out, their body recoiling instinctively, but they forced themselves to swallow. The piece slid down their throat like a lump of tar, sitting heavily in their stomach.

Shame washed over them, hot and suffocating. They were crying openly now, the tears mixing with the filth on their face. But they kept eating, each bite a new act of self-betrayal. Their mind screamed at them to stop, but their body refused to listen. It was survival, pure and simple. There was no room for pride, no room for dignity. Only the desperate need to keep breathing.

[jump-in-the-whump]

TAG LIST: @lektricwhump, @raigash, @tormentum-ab-intra

REQUESTED BY: @wildfaewhump for Home Invasion!

Back to the Bad Things Happen Bingo card! Linked here if y’all want to request something. 

The grocery bags rustle in Jewel’s hands as she walks down the sidewalk. It’s cold enough for her to wear her gloves today. No accidental brushes at the supermarket, no flashes of feeling from the people around her. There weren’t any toddlers throwing tantrums, no one panicking over expenses– today has been good. 

It’s been six months since Jewel left her city and her life behind. Three months since the doors of her clinic have opened.

Three weeks since she’d stitched up the hole through a dark, clipped wing under the watchful eye of a demon that could definitely break her in half and received a donation that could cover her groceries six times over. 

It’s taken six months, and it’ll take a few more, but she’s carved out something akin to a home here, away from her city.

Keep reading

[jump-in-the-whump]

That-one-thespian has a pretty good starvation whump piece! Idk if I can link it in an ask but the character is called jewel

thank you very much for the rec and the link to the post! i'm gonna check it out now!!

[jump-in-the-whump]

I'm just so grateful for this community. Without finding the word for it and this place where it's okay to openly express love for hurt/comfort tropes, little Red would probably still be fretting over whether or not this was normal. Hiding her sketchbook, hiding her stories. When I was a kid, I asked myself, "Why is it that when I create, the characters I love suffer the most?" If I hadn't found you, I'd still be wondering.

I would be a lot more uninformed and scared of medical topics because I wouldn't have cause to research them. I would be less understanding of how hurt affects people, sleeping worse because I didn't have daydreams to wind down, shying away from characters I would have enjoyed, and so many stories I loved writing, stories I found therapeutic or comforting to write, wouldn't exist! Fewer healthy outlets and a lot less fun. I don't even know who that person would have been but I'm glad I don't need to find out. I'm really glad to know you

[jump-in-the-whump]

thought of this as I took a nap on the freezer in my laundry room

consider a whumpee confined to a tiny space, but it's not in a cage surrounded by tight stone walls or at the bottom of a well or anything like that. Rather, the whumpee is situated at the very very top of a tall spire on a little platform surrounded by open air.

they're chained, so they don't have to worry about falling, but they barely have any space to lie down or much less move around. Plus, they're left completely bare to the elements. Would it be considered a claustrophobic environment?

- consider anon

Woow! I like the way you think, anon!

I can already picture Whumpee on an iron platform no wider than an outstretched armspan, perched atop the needle-like pinnacle of a spire that jutted defiantly into the heavens. The platform is made of thick, rust-pitted iron, its surface slick and unwelcoming.

This certainly can be claustrophobic: Whumpee is utterly immobilized, chained to the center of the platform with heavy iron manacles that bite into their wrists and ankles, which act as both their restraint and a mockery of stability. The chains allow just enough slack for a semblance of movement (a step or two in any direction, a feeble attempt to curl up) but not nearly enough to lie down comfortably.

Of course, when they get too weak, Whumpee tries to curl into a shivering ball, pressing their side against the unforgiving metal and folding their limbs awkwardly, but the smallness of the space means that even this position is impossible and every attempt to shift brings another bruise, another scrape, and another reminder that there was nowhere to go.

And Whumpee is at the complete mercy of the elements and there’s nothing they can do!!

During the day, the sun blazes mercilessly, baking Whumpee’s exposed flesh and turning the platform into a searing griddle. The chains, blackened by countless hours of exposure, grow hot enough to scorch, branding them whenever the wind failed to cool them quickly enough.

At night, the opposite torment awaits, because the spire becomes a monument of frost and chill. Temperatures plummet to bone-numbing lows, and the wind, unrelenting and unkind, cuts through every inch of them, leaving them trembling uncontrollably. Without shelter, blankets, or even clothing, Whumpee’s body is their only protection against the elements, and it is completely inadequate.

But I think rain is the best one: clouds roll in suddenly, heavy and gray, thunder crackles ominously, and the first droplets soon fall. The chains grow heavier, slick with water, and the wind whips the rain sideways, stinging Whumpee’s face and leaving their hair plastered to their skull.

The worst is the feeling of helplessness. Whumpee is trapped in limbo, suspended between earth and sky, unable to escape either. From this height, Whumpee can see far and wide, their vision stretching over forests, rivers, and hills that blur together like a painted tapestry. Yet none of it is reachable. The world below is achingly distant, mocking them with its inaccessibility. Birds occasionally fly nearby, their freedom underscoring Whumpee’s imprisonment. Even they, however, never linger long.

Freedom lays just beyond their reach, tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant.

Thank you so much for the ask! <3

[jump-in-the-whump]

idea: living weapon whumpee relapsing after whumper finds them and they murder caretaker's friend.

Ohhh yes yes yes!! Such a good idea, my brain just wouldn't shut up about it, so i wrote a drabble out of it. I hope you like it! ;)

The evening began in hues of gold and crimson, sunlight pouring over the horizon and casting the cozy kitchen in a warm glow. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the tea Caretaker had set on the wooden table. Whumpee sat in the corner of the room, hunched slightly, their sharp silhouette softened by the oversized sweater Caretaker had gifted them. The sleeves were too long, covering their hands, but it was clear that Whumpee found solace in the garment. They always did, hiding in its folds like it was a shield against the world.

Caretaker’s friend, a jovial man with a kind smile and a laugh that could fill a room, leaned back in his chair, gesturing animatedly as he recounted a story from his travels. Whumpee’s mismatched eyes flickered to him occasionally, a shadow of unease tightening their shoulders with each rise in his voice. But they didn’t flee the room, nor did they lash out. Progress, Caretaker thought, as they carried the tea tray to the table.

“Another success, you’d say, right?” Caretaker’s friend grinned, lifting his mug in a toast.

Caretaker smiled back, glancing at Whumpee. “Absolutely. Baby steps are still steps.”

Whumpee blinked slowly, their lips parting as if they meant to say something. But whatever words they had died in their throat as the air in the room shifted. A shadow passed over the golden glow of the setting sun, and with it came a suffocating pressure.

Whumpee froze.

Caretaker felt it too, the strange, electric prickle along their skin that preceded Whumpee’s episodes. They turned, their brow furrowing in concern. “Whumpee, are you okay?”

But Whumpee’s expression was vacant, their breathing shallow. Their hands twitched under the sweater's sleeves, and a low, almost inaudible whine escaped their throat. The teacup before them shattered as their fingers clenched convulsively, shards scattering across the table like broken promises.

“Whumpee?” Caretaker’s voice rose slightly, alarmed now.

And then, there was a knock at the door.

Whumper stood on the porch, their polished boots gleaming in the dying light. They were dressed impeccably, as always, a figure of composed malevolence. Their smile was a thin, cruel thing that barely reached their eyes, and in their hand was a briefcase, as if they were here on some casual business.

Caretaker opened the door hesitantly, instinctively stepping in front of their home like a barrier. They didn’t recognize Whumper, but something about them set their nerves alight. “Can I help you?” they asked, their tone polite but guarded.

“Ah, you must be Caretaker.” Whumper’s voice was smooth, disarmingly pleasant. “I’m an old… associate of Whumpee’s. I heard they were here and thought I’d pay a visit.”

Caretaker’s blood ran cold. Associate? No. Whumpee had never mentioned anyone, let alone someone who looked like this, a predator cloaked in civility. “I’m sorry,” they said, their grip tightening on the door. “Whumpee isn’t receiving visitors.”

“Is that so?” Whumper tilted their head, their smile widening. “Well, I think they’d want to see me.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

The response wasn’t Caretaker’s. It came from behind them, a voice so sharp, so venomous, that it barely sounded like Whumpee at all. Caretaker turned to see them standing there, their face pale, their eyes wide and glowing faintly in the encroaching twilight. Whumpee’s hands were trembling as they were holding a kitchen knife, but their posture was rigid, their entire body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Whumper’s expression shifted, their amusement deepening. “Ah, Whumpee. It’s been too long.”

What happened next was chaos. Whumpee moved faster than Caretaker had ever seen them move before, faster than any human should be capable of moving. One moment, they were standing in the doorway; the next, they had tackled Whumper, the two of them rolling off the porch and into the grass. The sound of fists meeting flesh echoed in the still evening air, accompanied by Whumper’s low, mocking laughter.

Caretaker’s friend appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “What the hell is happening?” he hissed.

“Stay inside!” Caretaker barked, rushing down the steps. They hesitated, unsure of how to intervene without putting themselves in danger. Whumpee was a blur of motion, swinging the knife here and there, and yet, Whumper seemed unbothered, catching Whumpee’s wrists and holding them still as if they weighed nothing.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” Whumper said, their voice calm despite the violence. “But you’re sloppy. I told you before, Whumpee, you’ll never beat me.”

Whumpee let out a guttural snarl, twisting free and aiming a blow at Whumper’s throat. But then Whumper whispered something, a single word that Caretaker couldn’t hear, and Whumpee froze. Their glowing hands dimmed, their entire body shuddering violently.

“No…” Whumpee choked out, their voice trembling with a mix of rage and fear. “No, no, no.”

Whumper’s smile returned, smug and triumphant. “That’s it. You remember now, don’t you? You remember who you are. What you are.”

Caretaker couldn’t stand it anymore. They stepped forward, their hands outstretched. “Whumpee, listen to me! You don’t have to—”

Whumpee turned on them, their glowing eyes wild and unseeing. “Stay back!” they screamed, their voice laced with panic. And then, in the next breath: “I can’t— I can’t stop it.”

It happened in an instant.

Caretaker’s friend, trying to help, stepped out of the house, calling Whumpee’s name. Whumpee’s gaze snapped to him, and in their frenzied state, they didn’t see a friend. They saw a threat. Their body moved on instinct, the weapon inside them taking control.

So Whumpee threw the knife in their hands, and Caretaker’s friend didn’t even have time to scream. The knife struck him square in the chest, and he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

“No!” Caretaker screamed, rushing to their friend’s side. But it was too late. His eyes stared blankly at the sky, his body unnaturally still.

Whumpee staggered back, their trembling hands raised to their face. “No, no, no,” they whispered, over and over, as if denying it would make it untrue, while tears streamed down their face. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Whumper said, their voice dripping with false sympathy. “But that’s the thing about weapons, isn’t it? They don’t get to choose. They just… do what they’re made to do.”

Whumpee sank to their knees, clutching their head, their body trembling, their hands stained with the memory of what they had done. Caretaker knelt beside their fallen friend, their shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Whumpee whispered, their voice breaking. “I didn’t want to… I didn’t mean to…”

Caretaker didn’t respond at first. They couldn’t. Grief and anger warred within them, tearing at their heart like jagged claws. But when they finally spoke, their voice was quiet, hollow. “Go away.”

Whumpee gasped, not sure that they understood what Caretaker had said. “C-Caretaker, I…. I don't….”

“I don't care!” Caretaker shouted, their grip on their friend's lifeless body tightening. “I told you to go away.”

“Caretaker...” Whumpee sobbed and reached out to Caretaker, who instead pulled away. Then Whumper, who was watching the whole thing with a wicked smile on their face, spoke. “Did you hear that, Whumpee? He's chasing you away…. But if you want, I'll welcome you with open arms.”

Whumpee sighed through tears, raising their head to look at Whumper. Right, where else would they go but to Whumper?

Thank you so much for the ask!

[jump-in-the-whump]

Hi hello! As a sixteen year old poorly educated writer, I have a little question. I figured you might know quite a bit about this, considering your username and 85% of your posts have the word whump in it, lol. So:

I have a bit of a situation that I can't seem to write properly. Fairly simple. One of my characters, let's call him H, gets an arrow to the back, kinda in that scapula area. Not good, obviously. His friend, let's call her E, has to take care of it.

Now, I wrote about her carefully removing the arrow, cleaning the wound with alcohol, cauterizing it, stitching it up and wrapping it with bandages, but I've been told that process is inaccurate. What I haven't been told, however, is what kind of process *is* accurate. "Figure it out," they said. How helpful 🤗

So I wondered if you have any advice on how to write the scene, what I'm missing etc. Also do you know how long it'd realistically take him to recover? Google isn't very helpful on this, unfortunately, and I don't want to end up on a watchlist 😀

Sorry if I'm being annoying, I know you don't usually get these kinds of questions exactly, but I don't know who could be better to ask lol. Been following you for a few years now, by the way, I love your blog! Take care ❤️

Hello there!

First off, I thank you very much for your kind words!! ❤️❤️🥺 and don't worry, you've come to the right place ;)

Honestly, I don't see any major problems in the situation you described... I don't know all the details, but I imagine that H and E do not have a great medical stuff at their disposal. So, in such a situation I would have written this piece in more or less the same way, maybe changing only a couple of small things (but since I’m not a doctor, and I just know things I've read here and there, I could be wrong too 🤭)

The first thing is to clean the wound well even before removing the arrow, and always apply constant pressure on the wound before, during and after the arrow removal. Also, it would be better if E uses clean water (even better a saline solution), since alcohol does disinfect, but can damage skin tissues. So E could boil some water so that it is as clean as possible. Obviously, if there is absolutely no way to get clean water, alcohol is the only choice. Desperate times call for desperate measures...

Similarly, it is better not to cauterize the wound, since it too, like alcohol, could damage the tissues, and also increases the risk of infection; and if E should stitch it, it’s better to avoid full closure, leaving it partly open for drainage. The best thing to do is to only clean the wound once again, use an antibiotic ointment and bandage it all nice and tightly.

Lastly, recovery time varies from a number of things: for example, whether there are antibiotics available or whether the scapula is damaged. According to various things I've read online, in situations without antibiotics or much medical help, H may get out of bed and start moving (always very slowly and carefully) around 2-4 weeks, although it takes a couple of months for a full recovery.

I hope I’ve helped you and thank you very much for the ask! Take care of yourself too! <3

[jump-in-the-whump]

so give it to me. prompts for a whump who's overly optimistic but has severe ptsd and has a bit of a setback/state of regression pls? 🙏 (with their partner being the caregiver)

you asked and you shall receive. here's some prompts for you!

Whumpee’s smile is bright as ever, but Caretaker catches the slight tremble at the corners of their mouth, the distant, haunted look that flickers in their eyes before they quickly look away. They keep up their cheerful chatter, but their hands fidget and twist in their lap. Caretaker sits beside them, listening patiently, and Caretaker’s understanding smile breaks through their defenses. “It’s okay to let down your guard with me,” Caretaker whispers. Whumpee exhales slowly, finally letting the forced cheer slip away, and leans into Caretaker’s arms, grateful for a moment to just be.

Caretaker wakes up to the sound of Whumpee’s muffled whimpering, their fists clenching the blankets as they twist and turn in their sleep. They’re mumbling reassurances to themselves, as if trying to convince their own mind that things are fine. Caretaker, moving slowly and carefully, sits beside them and places a calm hand on their shoulder, murmuring words of reassurance. When Whumpee wakes up with a start, wide-eyed and gasping, Caretaker offers a gentle smile, whispering, “You’re here. You’re safe.” They stay close until Whumpee’s breathing evens out, rubbing comforting circles on their back.

Whumpee is overly enthusiastic about running errands, chatting brightly as they walk alongside Caretaker, practically skipping down the street. But the crowds and noise seem to overwhelm them more than they expected. Their chatter falters, and they start to tense, breaths coming quicker. When Caretaker notices Whumpee gripping their own arms tightly, blinking too rapidly, they gently steer them towards a quieter side street. “Let’s take a break,” Caretaker says softly. Whumpee looks up, forced optimism crumbling as they murmur, “I thought I was ready for this.” Caretaker just smiles. “You’re doing great. Let’s just breathe together.”

Whumpee insists they’re okay, smiling with a forced brightness that doesn’t quite reach their eyes. Caretaker knows the signs: Whumpee’s hands are trembling ever so slightly, and there’s a tightness in their posture, as if holding themselves together by sheer willpower. Caretaker gently asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?” Whumpee’s smile wavers for a moment, their shoulders slumping before they give in, whispering, “I don’t know.” Caretaker sits down beside them, letting them lean their head on their shoulder, and quietly reassures them that it’s okay to feel however they feel, without needing to pretend.

Whumpee is in the middle of an animated story, smiling and laughing, when something they say suddenly brings back a memory they weren’t prepared for. They fall silent, their expression going blank as they stare off, lost in the memory. Caretaker notices the change immediately and doesn’t interrupt, waiting for Whumpee to come back to the present. When Whumpee finally snaps out of it, they look at Caretaker apologetically, as if they’ve done something wrong. Their hands shake as they murmur, “I thought I was done with this.” Caretaker wraps an arm around their shoulders. “It’s okay. I’m here. We’ll get through this, together.”

Thank you for the ask, i loved writing these and i hoped you like them. <3

[jump-in-the-whump]

Whumpee who is recovering after the whumpTM, but it's not going great. They're so frustrated with themselves, with their caretakers, just with everything. Everyone is so soft and understanding and it bothers them and they want to scream, but they know they should be grateful.

Until Caretaker comes along. Caretaker isn't 'nice' like the others, they don't take bullshit. They're good for Whumpee, but they don't baby them. They treat them like an adult with anatomy, and it's so refreshing for Whumpee.

"You want to stay up, fine. But you will tell me when you can't anymore, because if I have to drag you off the floor we're both in trouble. Understand?"

"Stop whining. What do you need?" (And then they get or do whatever it is without issues or judgement.)

"Want to tell me why you're doing worse today?" -- "No..." -- "Okay."

"Where does it hurt?" -- "It doesn-" -- "Don't give me that, I can see it hurts. Now tell me where."

Caretaker trusts Whumpee to know what they need, and lets them know again and again they won't take this nonsense of hiding their pain. They're practical, and kind, and Whumpee needed that.

[jump-in-the-whump]

am I the only one who LOVES starvation whump??? it hits so hard but I can barely find any

Yeahh, this is another big favorite of mine!! Everything about starvation is golden because you can torture your whumpee with so many fun symptoms!!

Hunger is just so powerful, and your whumpee will find themselves empty inside, and this emptiness will eat them out, not only physically (with constant spasm and cramps), but also mentally, they’ll always think about food, consuming each one of their thoughts, dulling every other sensation.

With this insatiable hunger comes the weakness! The whumpee will struggle to move, each step heavier than the last. Their legs and hands will shake uncontrollably, muscles twitching in spasms they won’t control because of exhaustion but also because a strong cold seeping into their bones, and tremors make it difficult to hold any object or to simply stand. Their limbs will feel as though they’re made of lead, weighed down by exhaustion that sleep won’t cure. Their energy is fading, they will know it, and so their body, which was initially begging to be fed, will soon beg for any kind of rest, their brain shutting down, unable to have any single coherent thought.

It’s gonna be difficult to concentrate: names, faces, memories will seem distant, slipping away no matter how hard they try to hold on. When they try to speak, they will often pause, forgetting what they were about to say, the words evaporating before they can form them. Hunger will pull apart the threads of their mind, making them a stranger to their own thoughts.

All these things the whumpee will feel inside, will soon be visible outside, with their cheekbones jutting out sharply, casting shadows on a face that seems to have aged a decade. The skin beneath their eyes will be so dark, bruised, and sunken, their sockets deep and hollow and their lips will be chapped. Their complexion will be an unhealthy, pallid shade, that, together with a haunted look in their eyes, a mixture of desperation and resignation, will make the character guess whether the person they see in the mirror is really them or someone else. And perhaps it is someone else, they will never be them ever again.

Thank you so much for the ask! you're so right, there's not enough starvation writing out there, but i promise i'll try to fix it ;)

Edit: Here's a little starvation drabble i wrote for you

[jump-in-the-whump]

consider a whumpee who's been running so hard and fast from whatever danger they're trying to evade that they puke when they finally stop?

Oh yess! This is such a good scenario, with an awesome outcome!!!

I can imagine them dizzy, breathless and their muscles spasming. Their heartbeat pounding in their ears, drowning out any other sound, and this makes them feel safe, they think nobody else is following them. So, they can finally stop, drawing a shallow breath (the best they can do since their throat is scratchy like sandpaper) and fall on their knees that shake uncontrollably, their hands clawing at the rough fabric of their pants, desperate for any sort of grounding.

Then they try to swallow, but their mouth is dry, and the aftertaste of metallic bile and panic coats their tongue. The ground beneath them spins and an insistent nausea rises from their stomach, churning everything into a sickening whirl. There is nothing left inside them to throw up, no food or water, but their body doesn’t seem to care.

And so it finally happens. In a humiliating spasm, they retch. Their stomach convulses but nothing comes out, just a strangled, gut-wrenching heave. Still, they can’t stop. They keep on heaving and gagging, barely able to breathe in between. Their mouth is filled with bile and saliva, and they spit everything out, hoping that this can help their struggling body. But it doesn’t help, their memories are so fresh, so raw, that panic and dread suffocate them, and so they keep on retching, and they even start crying (though they don’t know if it’s out of pain or fear). They just escaped from danger, and yet their body, so used to any threat, doesn’t want to calm down.

They can’t run away from this, and so they just kneel there, in the dark, in the cold, uselessly heaving, weeping, hoping for help that’ll never come.

Thank you for the ask, it's been so long since I've written something emeto, so i liked it very much <3

[jump-in-the-whump]

Pictured: Whumpers reacting to their favourite actor's performance

Taskmaster things that sound like whump things - 5/god knows how many

[jump-in-the-whump]

When the caretaker goes to lay the semiconscious whumpee down and they realize they're gripping the front of the caretaker's shirt with bloodied fingers, desperate for comfort

[jump-in-the-whump]

THINGS CARETAKERS SAY THAT MAKE ME GO FERAL

“can you please focus on me?”

“don't look at that, look at me.”

“you're doing a very good job.”

“you're very brave.”

“i know it hurts, just a hold on a bit more.”

“breathe in and out, follow my lead.”

“please stay down. please.”

“you're not alone, you hear me? I'm right here.”

“stay calm, I'm just gonna look at it, okay?”

“stop doing this to yourself!”

“this is going to hurt, please bear with it.”

“i promise I'll be gentle.”

“lean on me if you need to.”

“do you know where you are? who you are?”

“can you tell me where it hurts the most?”

“you can scream, it's alright.”

“hey, it's me! come on, you know me, right?”

“it was just a nightmare, you don't have to worry.”

“i don't care if you're staining my shirt, you're bleeding out!”

“keep your eyes on me, don't look down.”

“don't say that, you know it's not true.”

“this is just the fever talking.”

“shh, you're doing so good...”

“shut up! it's not me who should rest, it's you!”

Bonus point: they say these things while brushing strands of hair out of the whumpee's face. That's… *chef's kiss*

[jump-in-the-whump]

The cold stone of the cell was rough beneath their cheek, though they barely felt it. Fever blazed through them, searing their skin, their breath shallow and uneven. They wanted to move but their limbs felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative. Sweat soaked through their clothes, making the thin, ragged fabric cling uncomfortably to their skin.

They didn’t know how long they had been here. Days? Hours? Time had lost all meaning. Their vision blurred in and out, a constant wavering between the suffocating heat of the fever and the icy chill of the cell’s stone walls. They drifted between waking and sleep, every moment harder to grasp than the last.

But then… something changed.

The cold walls of the cell seemed to dissolve around them, softening, brightening. Warmth enveloped them, not the oppressive heat of the fever, but a different warmth. The soft light of morning sun filtering in through the curtains, casting golden patches across their bed. A soft pillow cradled their head, and the sheets, familiar and comforting, tangled loosely around their legs.

Whumpee blinked, their head still felt heavy, their body weak, but this was different. Familiar. Home. They were lying in bed, their limbs warm and weightless beneath the morning sun.

They felt a gentle hand on their forehead, cool and soothing against their fevered skin. “You’re burning up,” Caretaker had said that morning, their voice low and soft, filled with concern. “You need to rest.”

Whumpee opened their eyes, and there was Caretaker, just as they remembered. Sitting by the edge of the bed, their face calm, their presence radiating comfort. Whumpee could almost feel the coolness of their touch, the softness of the blanket tucked around them by Caretaker's careful hands.

“I’m here,” Caretaker whispered. “Just rest. You’ll be alright.”

Whumpee’s breath hitched. The feeling of safety, the warmth of Caretaker’s touch—it was all so vivid, so real. The gentle rise and fall of Caretaker’s chest as they breathed, the way their fingers brushed a strand of hair from Whumpee’s face. Whumpee let their eyes close again, feeling the weight of sleep pulling at them. They could drift off here, where everything was soft, and Caretaker would stay. They always did.

But as they hovered on the edge of sleep, something gnawed at the edges of their mind. A whisper of doubt. A flicker of something wrong.

“Whumpee.” Caretaker’s voice was different now, soft but firm. “Open your eyes.”

Whumpee resisted. They wanted to stay in this moment, in this warmth. The fever, the cell, it was far away. But Caretaker’s voice was insistent.

“Open your eyes.”

Whumpee hesitated, the world around them faltering. Slowly, reluctantly, they forced their eyes open again. The golden light of the morning flickered, dimmed, and something cold crept into the edges of the room.

“Whumpee,” Caretaker said again, their voice now sounding distant, as if it came from a great distance. “This isn't real.”