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Season's Beatings 2024!

HA-HA-HA-happy holidays, whumpers!

It's that time of year again! This is the official announcement post for the second (or third, if you count the year of Saint Whumpolas) run of my holiday whump exchange event Season's Beatings!

Hi! If you don't know me, my name is Puck, formerly known as Piper, formerly known as Saint Whumpolas, and currently known as something completely different! I run this event every year (ish) to spread a little joy and fun through the whump community for the holidays.

Season's Beatings is a whumpy gift exchange!Participants will be paired up with two other whumpers- one to make a gift for, and one who will be making a gift for them. Then, on a specified day-just like last year, we're doing December 30 this year-I'll pop into your inbox to deliver your gift! Gifts can be just about anything- writing, art, moodboards, photos of your pet crocodile holding a knife...all right, maybe not that last one. Crocodiles prefer guns.

Official rules and the sign-up sheet will be arriving either tomorrow or the next day! I'm so excited to see what wintery whump the community makes for each other this year!

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Forgot to add a poll🤦🏻‍♀️

So hi!

Due to a really big, really good thing that happened this morning that I am not at liberty to talk publicly about yet, I likely won’t be able to write very much during July. I’m not going on hiatus completely! But updates are gonna be slow (well, slow-er.)

And I don’t want to stop interacting with the community completely, so I was wondering- before The Incident 2.0 happened, I was planning to do a summer reprise of Season’s Beatings. Sort of a Christmas-in-July situation. And that was going to end at my birthday, but since that’s in like two weeks that’s obviously not going to work.

But! If I had the event start on my birthday and end in late August just before I hear back from Nutcracker auditions (oh yeah, I’m doing Nutcracker again) I could make it work and it would still technically be summer! I’m using this post to gauge interest- does anyone want to give it another go for the summer? @painsandconfusion I know you mentioned wanting to!

(By the way, I’ll still be running Season’s Beatings from this blog even though I’m happily settled into my new one!)

Update: I meant to put a poll here and completely forgot

I really wish I could put “vanilla extract” but I do need actual results.

[seasons-beatings]

So hi!

Due to a really big, really good thing that happened this morning that I am not at liberty to talk publicly about yet, I likely won’t be able to write very much during July. I’m not going on hiatus completely! But updates are gonna be slow (well, slow-er.)

And I don’t want to stop interacting with the community completely, so I was wondering- before The Incident 2.0 happened, I was planning to do a summer reprise of Season’s Beatings. Sort of a Christmas-in-July situation. And that was going to end at my birthday, but since that’s in like two weeks that’s obviously not going to work.

But! If I had the event start on my birthday and end in late August just before I hear back from Nutcracker auditions (oh yeah, I’m doing Nutcracker again) I could make it work and it would still technically be summer! I’m using this post to gauge interest- does anyone want to give it another go for the summer? @painsandconfusion I know you mentioned wanting to!

(By the way, I’ll still be running Season’s Beatings from this blog even though I’m happily settled into my new one!)

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Happy holidays, @whump-it-like-its-hot!

From your gifter: Um sorry I’m not exactly the best at drawing but Knut just seemed too sweet not to hurt! I hope their paramedic skills will help them in this case

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I didn't participate but thanks so much for your hard work putting this event together! I laugh every time I read your blog name because it's so peak whump community. 😂

As much as I absolutely love the name, I can’t take credit for it- that was @voidwhump’s hilarious suggestion! I adore whump puns and this one was perfect- as much as I had fun with Saint Whumpolas, I think the new name fits better and encompasses more. I had so much fun with this event!!

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And we’re done! (Except for one person whose gift is still in the works!) Feel free to reveal yourselves to your person, post gifts you made to your own blogs, whatever you like!

Thank you so much to everyone who participated! You all made running this event so fun and smooth, I had a great time seeing how hard everyone worked on their gifts, and an even better time seeing the reactions to the gifts tonight!

A special thank you to @whumpinthepot for being my cheerleader while running this thing- it’s a lot of work for one person, and you kept me on track and helped me not feel so stressed out!

And another special thank you to @painsandconfusion for reminding me that this event existed in the first place! I can’t believe I forgot about it for almost two years- I’m so happy to resurrect it! Definitely bringing it back next year, or maybe even sooner!

Oh, and another special thank you to my standby people- you all relieved a lot of the pressure on me to make sure gifts were finished! Thank you so much for being willing to jump in on short notice to ensure that everybody has a gift!

Happy holidays, whump community!

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Happy holidays, @dresden-syndrome!

From your gifter: I hope you like it, I really enjoy reading about EESU!! Happy holidays.

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Happy holidays, @cupcakes-and-pain!

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Happy holidays, @someonecommittingcrimes!

Contains: captivity, torture, multiple whumpers, beating, burns, electrical shocks

Token hissed in pain as he awoke in the cell, very aware of his extensive injuries.

How long had it been? How much longer would it be before he was killed? Would Gould even let him die in dignity, or would his father’s old partner not stop until he had ripped Paradise’s location out of Token?

He was not looking forward to finding out.

Ugh, he couldn’t believe he had been stupid enough to think he could just get captured without consequences. He should’ve known it wouldn’t have been this easy.

Ugh, that stupid Element! Why did his father have to be so obsessed with that thing?!

Whatever. It’s not like he could go back now. The only thing being angry over it would do is cause problems.

Gould choose that moment to arrive, grinning maliciously and looking as pristine as ever. His neat hair and tidy coat contrasted heavily with the rough condition Token was in.

“Unless you’ve had a change of heart and want to tell me where Paradise is, we can begin.” Gould gleefully said.

“I haven’t. Just get it over with.”

“Oh, alright. Since you insist.”

——————————————————————————

Token spat blood and glared as fiercely as he could, which honestly wasn’t a lot. Gould had been beating him for the past 10 minutes or so, and although he was doing his best to stay strong, there was only so much Token could do. He was getting beaten for Element’s sake.

“Had enough yet? Tell me where Paradise is and we can be done with this. I take no pleasure in this, you know.”

“Like hell you don’t. You want to get back at my father and this is the only way how, coward.”

Gould neither confirmed nor denied this. He just reared back and punched Token again.

And so it began. He beat in Token’s face, chest, stomach, arms, legs, back, and anywhere else his hands or legs could reach. Pain erupted from Al over, seemingly simultaneous as reality blurred together.

Token is pretty sure the last thing that happened was Gould was kicking him repeatedly in the back. It didn’t feel like he had gotten hit in awhile, but Token had no idea if that was real or if he had gotten smacked so hard that he was slowly losing consciousness.

Where even was Gould-

Agonized screams tore through Token’s throat as his arms were on fire, actually burning, pressed against hot metal. His vision was blurry and spotted, but he was just able to make out Gould figure above him.

Between burns and miserable, excruciating, mind-numbing pain, Token quietly realized that if Gould were to get carried away, he could very easily kill Token before ever even extracting the Element. The captive didn’t know whether he should take comfort in possibly thwarting the business man or be horrified that he could be tortured to death over a years old grudge between former partners.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because he passed out for real just a few moments later. After all, between the energy spent on thinking, getting burned on top of his bruises and blood, and his already very weak body, it was bound to happen.

The world became dark and Token slipped into the void …

…

… Only to have a rather rude awaking just a few minutes later, curtesy of a taser being shoved between his ribs.

Token twitched and screamed once more, now uncomfortably back in the realm of consciousness.

Raptor shocked Token by speaking. He hadn’t even realized the immature man was there.

“If your father could see you now… you’re so pathetic. Just like him.”

Even if Token wanted to respond, he couldn’t, because the taser was turned on again and he shrieked. His body writhed and convulsed against his will, unable to focus on anything but pain. Pure, unrelenting pain consuming through him as sure as the blood corded through his veins. The whole world seemed to melt into shades of red, black, and white as his vision swam and danced. Reality preformed a ballet where the music was his suffering and moves his injuries. The grand finale was Raptor starting to kick him around while Gould continued to tase him relentlessly.

And at last, at long last, Token passed out again and was mercifully left alone. For now.

——————————————————————————

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Happy holidays, @whumble-beeee!

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Happy holidays, @tiaswritingsideblog!

Something to Fight For

Time blurred into a white-hot rush, the seconds marked by bursts of pain.

Makra had speculated that the beatings would stop after a while, that she’d be let up for air, but alas, this was not to be. After the beatings, the demon holding her captive had turned to torture. After that, sleep deprivation.

Her tongue bled from biting down so hard, but she wouldn’t scream. She could not scream. That would be letting the enemy know that it worked, that they were victorious. And she had a job to do.

Time was marked by the methods of torture. One minute, the demon would be slicing into her skin, the next, white-hot pokers would be inserted into the wounds. Salt, to burn her skin further. All of it was part of the job, she just had to stay vigilant.

“For what, though?” This statement interrupted her careful machinations, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard it, or the unspecified hours without sleep were finally getting to her. When she opened one of her eyes, though, she saw the demon Xlan grinning down at her cruelly, like this was some sort of twisted game.

“What do you bother staying vigilant for? Or, rather, who.” Xlan pushed a blade underneath Makra’s chin, tilting his captive’s head up with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Not a scream, not a word since you came here…I’m starting to think you’re mute. Shame.”

Makra stayed silent, the rest of her eyes opening and staring blankly at Xlan, refusing to give him any indication of anything at all. Her mission before was to kill Haedra’s informant. But now, her mission was to stay silent, resolute, despite the overwhelming urge to give this demon a big fuck you. Those words though…they carved a well of doubt into her painfully alert mind. For what?

“I don’t like it when I have silent ones.” The blade trailed along Makra’s jawline, then her cheek, stopping just at her eyelid. Makra stayed still, glaring at Xlan with all the affection of cats and dogs.

“Silence always comes with a reason. You, little spy, have something to lose. I’ll find out what it is with or without your help.” And with that, Xlan stabbed his blade into one of Makra’s legs, slicing, slicing deep, and it was all the spider demon could do to bite her tongue as her limb fell to the floor, twitching still.

“You’ll break, they all do! The journey may be long, but oh, will it be painful, don’t you worry…” Makra jerked away, making a low clicking sound under her breath in warning.

“What a pity you only have seven legs left…hm. You could always go for the eyes…” Xlan mused, fiddling with the knife, tracing it haphazardly across Makra’s skin.

“You could always go away,” Makra suggested, her voice strained and hoarse from disuse, but none the less acidic with hatred.

“She talks! Fucking finally!” The demon’s blade was stabbed into her shoulder, left there like she was a scabbard as he circled her. “So you’re not mute, you do have something left to fight for…” He leaned in close, causing Makra to squirm away, disgusted.

“It’s called balance. You should be fighting for it too, without schmoozing up to some whore of a fallen angel.”

Xlan paid no mind to her words, searching her face with an all-knowing smile, a little bit of insanity in his eyes.

“Something to fight for, something left to rip away, something to destroy…oh, this…will…be…fun.”

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Happy holidays, @shywhumpauthor! (Part two!)

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Happy holidays, @shywhumpauthor!

(Your gift is in two parts because there’s too many images for one post!)

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Happy holidays, @painsandconfusion!

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Happy holidays, @acollectionofcuriousreblogs!

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Happy holidays, @newbornwhumperfly!

From your gifter: A/N: This was super fun to write! I hope I did your characters justice, they’re all awesome. The way you write Morja is a beautiful mixture of thoughtfulness and fear, and I did my best to capture that. Enjoy and happy holidays! <3

Title taken from the song My Skin by Natalie Merchant

CW: military whump, mentions of war, injury whump, verbal abuse and threats, kneeling, noncon touch, mentioned past conditioning, non-graphic wound care, blood, references to suicide, gun mention, xenophobia

Promises Sweeten the Blow

Morja hears the cell door slam shut behind him, four locks clicking into place. He’ll be alone now, for who knows how long, while intel he gave up is analyzed and picked apart. Then, he’ll figure out if all the things the captain promised him are even a remote possibility.

The mission went well, for the most part. The infiltration had been easy. New Athens had made a bet on secrecy over defense, and they had lost it. It was the escape where things had gone awry. He’d clambered into the jeep with several new bruises and a massive gash down his bicep.

He sighs, picking himself up off the floor of his cell. He can still feel the ghost of a gun’s barrel on his upper back. A lieutenant had pressed into him the whole way back to base, while he whispered threats in his ear about what he dreamt of doing to “athenian bastards like you.” He’s about seventy percent sure the lieutenant's name is Cuthbert, but it doesn’t really matter. The chances he’ll ever actually use it are low.

For a prisioner’s cell, his room is surprisingly well furnished, though it’s eerily suicide proof. The faucet on the sink is too short to hang anything off of, the bed is smother proof, and his clothing lacks strings or ties. He isn’t even allowed shoelaces: his boots close with zippers and buckles. It makes sense, unfortunately, but the suicide prevention measures also mean that there's no medical supplies available to him to treat his wounds.

Not that he was expecting there to be, but it would’ve been nice, especially since he isn’t supposed to go to the hospital wing because he’s a security risk. Maybe he’ll get seen if the data proves to be fruitful, but he doubts that.

The wound isn’t mortal, and he’ll just have to make do.

It feels wrong to use up one of the shirts that the captain gifted him, but he couldn’t just leave it to bleed. Cleanliness was important. He wouldn’t want to disrespect the space the anóteros had given him by getting his blood everywhere.

He efficiently tears the bottom half of the shirt into strips, and he’s starting to wet them in the sink when he hears the heavy locks on the doors start to slide open. Nerves flare in his gut. Had the analysts finished already? Or was the lieutenant who’d pressed the gun to him back for more?

The door slides open, and Morja knows who it is the moment he catches sight of the gold rimmed glasses. It’s the captain, trailed by a woman carrying a large backpack, and leaning on a sparkly purple cane that matches her outfit. Another anóteros. Both of them step into the room, and the woman’s eyes go straight to the slice on their arm.

He freezes, wet fabric dropping onto the porcelain of the sink with a smack. His legs fold under him automatically and he collapses into a kneeling position with perfect posture. There hasn’t been time for the intel to be analyzed yet. The captain is here for another reason, and his mind races with all the tiny slip ups from the mission. He knew a correction was inevitable, but it still stings when he realizes it’s happening now. After a beat of silence, the captain steps forward and enters the cell.

“Good afternoon, Morja.” Their tone is serious but polite.

He doesn’t get why they act like this towards him, courteous and respectful, but his mind silences the thought before it can turn into something bigger. It doesn’t matter. They're anotero, they can act however they want. He should be thankful that they lean towards mercy.

They crouch down in front of him, and he suppresses a flinch. He hasn’t been with Tyrus that long, but he can feel his behavior already starting to slip. Just because he’s not in New Athens anymore doesn’t mean he can be disrespectful.

“I was worried that you might be hurt,” they start, referencing the blood caked patch of skin on their arm, and Morja swallows. Had he been that bad at hiding it? “Do you remember Sarai? She’s a doctor. She can take care of that, if you’d like.”

Morja doesn’t know how to react. It is a test? To see if he’ll let other people touch him? Or is he to be punished later for taking too much? But the woman is standing right there, and it would be rude to decline the captain’s suggestion.

“If you’ll permit it, she can look at it, captain,” he says, voice whisper quiet, hoping he made the right choice.

The captain nods and waves her over. She smiles and follows his instruction, bending down towards him.

“Hello, Morja, I’m Sarai,” she introduces herself.

“Thank you for offering your aid, anóteros,” he responds politely, averting his eyes.

“How about we get you onto your bed? That will probably be more comfortable for you, don’t you think?” she says, tone just as patient as the captains.

Once again, he finds himself unsure how to answer. But then again, “how about” was less of a question and more of a disguised order. “Yes, anóteros.”

Both her and the captain back away so he can stand, and he quickly rises and sits back down on the edge of his bed. He keeps his head down. If he can’t kneel, this is the next best option.

The doctor sets her bag down next to him, then goes to wash her hands. Once she’s done that, she throws on a pair of gloves and starts to examine the wound. She explains every move she makes, and asks permission to touch, and it's jarring.

Medical care is a privilege, and she is anotero. She doesn’t have to ask.

For some reason, the captain stays, maybe to remind him of his place, though they must have better things to do than watch over their captive diathésimos.

He gets off easy. No stitches are necessary, and the doctor simply uses some tape strips to close the wound after she cleans it. She asks him some questions about allergies and the like, takes his vitals, and checks him over for any other injuries. There's just some minor bruising, though, and the pair leave once he’s been tended to. The captain says they’ll be back later to bring him some food, and update him on the intel they recovered.

Morja wonders why they insist on doing things like that. It’s almost certainly below their station, so if it’s a ploy to earn his trust, then it’s rather see-through. The bandages are too soft against his skin as he lays on the oddly textured anti-suicide sheets, pondering the captain’s endgame.

For a stupid second, he can almost believe their intentions are true. Maybe, things could change.

——————————————————————————

Eventually, he hears the telltale noise of the locks being slid open again. He doesn’t know how long its been, since the cell doesn’t have a clock, but he perks up anyway. He’s absolutely ravenous after the mission.

However, the captain does not step through the door.

Instead, it’s the lieutenant from the boat, the one who’d pressed his gun to him.

Morja falls to his knees. So this is the correction for getting hurt. It was foolish of him to assume he was safe.

The lieutenant closes the door behind him, then walks across the room to where Morja is kneeling. His fingers grip Morja’s chin and pull it up, and he scowls deeper when he notices the fresh bandages.

“I don’t know what kinda game you’re playing, bitch,” he says, voice low and deadly. “But I can see you trying to wrap the captain around your finger.”

His nails dig into Morja’s cheeks as he squeezes his face harder. “They’re a good person, and they’re also smarter than you are.”

The pressure is nearly bruising now. “Whatever scam you’re running, it won’t work.”

He pinches even harder. “And if I catch you fucking with anything, you’ll pay.” The lieutenant pulls his hand away, then swiftly slaps Morja across the face. “Understand me?”

“Yes, anóteros.”

What else is he supposed to say?

Just as he was in New Athens, he is still underneath everyone.

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Happy holidays, @ash-and-bone-whump!

Art of Sunder