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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 months ago

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Through Night Shade Peering

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

CW: Nonhuman whumpee, captivity, magical whump, vague noncon (not exactly implied but not super explicit either), blood, biting, sadistic whumper

Fifty-three years after Guilford Wentworth found a siren

They spent a month by the sea.

Neandra Wentworth’s lungs were failing her - the siren could hear the crackling when she breathed, as if each inhale pulled in water from the air around her but could not force it back out. Each time she was taken with a fit of coughing, it seemed to last longer and longer, leaving her wheezing and with blue-tinged fingertips pressing her slip of a handkerchief to her mouth to hide the drops of red that the siren could smell, even so.

She hadn’t left the upstairs bedroom in the past week.

Guilford Wentworth had expressed certainty that the sea air would revive her, packed up their worried children and the servants and moved them to this grand white home on a hill overlooking the ocean, with a view of the merchant ships that came and went from a nearby bay.

The siren doubted Neandra would ever leave this house alive.

He also knew that his captor did not care.

The siren avoided the humans in the home. Every day before sunrise, long before any of the Wentworths were awake, he found his way down to the shore, picking along the rocks and stiff, strong beach grasses that waved in the sea salt stinging breeze. Today, he ignored the set of steps made from stone that someone had placed long ago, and turned his eyes away from the unnatural scar they seemed to slice through the hill.

The humans ruined the world everywhere they touched it.

They built stone buildings over beautiful meadows and chipped faces into rocks, they sailed on big ships that tore through waters they had never been meant to see. They stole the creatures who lived wild and made them playthings and puppets and put them in zoos, locked behind bars for their sticky-fingered children to point out and exclaim over.

They kept the wild things. They broke their wildness and then pretended to sorrow over the loss. They called them pets.

His captor called a pet, sometimes. His captor called him so many things.

Areyto shuddered. He kept ihs eyes on the waves, pausing in his slow approach to watch them break against the shore. The air here held a chill that he loathed, nothing like the island he has been born on, it was still the ocean. He could still see the tide that came in and went out, the white-capped waves in the distance, dark clouds with the promise of rain.

Areyto’s feet had gone soft, trapped inside his captor’s homes, walking on wood and rugs. They ached now when the sharper points of the rocks pressed along the underside. The siren only ground his teeth against the pain and kept moving, pulling the silk of his robe more tightly around himself to guard against the whipping wind.

He could just see the white sails of a ship, far in the distance.

His hate boiled up inside of him at the sight of it. A ship like that had stolen him from the waters and kept him tied up and locked away in darkness, seeing no sun until his captor had had him marked for obedience and been the thief of his entire life.

Areyto’s eyes scanned the horizon, watching the dark smear move, knowing what was likely on it. More human men, maybe women, too. Maybe captive animals or sea serpents, wild creatures being sent to fates worse than death for the pleasure of humans. Maybe the storm would break over their heads, and captives and captors alike could become meals to be torn asunder and dragged down to the depths, gifts for the ocean to feed her children.

“Kill them,” he whispered, a prayer to the moon that hid behind the daylight and the clouds, a prayer to the ocean itself. “Kill the humans, all of them, and set me free.”

There was no answer.

There was never any answer.

His curse made sure the moon never saw him any longer, could not hear his voice even when he cried for her. Only his captor heard him, and his captor called the screams a song.

Marked as he was, spelled to give his immortality and his obedience to his captor, he was just another tamed wild animal. He felt it more than ever today, with the painted symbols all down his left side newly relaid and throbbing with the echo of two days of endless agonies.

His captor had found a new magician to come by each decade to repaint them. The new one always had a smile twisting her face too wide, one that dug under Areyto’s skin. Areyto had found himself missing Atabei, who had at least looked guilty, who had offered him small pieces of mercy. No, he did not miss her.

It was all her fault, in the end.

She’d been the one to begin it all.

He did not pity her her fate, her last days alone and locked up surrounded by stone, with men called doctors declaring her mad.

He did not think of the conversations they had had, some nights, when Atabei could not sleep and came searching for him. He did not allow himself to recall the graying silver that was more visible in her hair with every passing year, the wrinkles that began to show at her eyes when she smiled. He did not remember the warmth of a kind touch, a hand through his dark hair just before she began the ritual that would leave him screaming, the soft whispered praise when he survived it, as he always did, because Guilford Wentworth would never allow him to die. He would not think of the way she came more and more often in the dark of the night to sit beside him, as time stretched on.

He did not think of the way she had called herself his friend, and how at some point he had stopped denying it. Whatever she called herself, though, she still wrote his curse in ink anew every time it began to fade. However many regrets she had, she still hurt him, again and again. Her low-pitched, husky alto song harmonizing with his was simply painting over the truth of the pain.

He did not remember her hand in his, asking him to forgive her after the first wife died but before his captor had sent Atabei herself to die in an asylum. He could not even now feel the warmth of her touch.

She had been the reason for his captivity, even if she was a captive, too.

He did not miss her.

The water ran just up to his toes, and Areyto closed his eyes, lifting his chin. He let the breeze lick around his neck like a lover might, if he’d ever had one. He felt the sand give way beneath his feet, felt himself sink deeper and deeper, bit by bit. His toes wriggled, spreading as wide as they could.

Finally, he sank to his knees. Sand ground against them, stuck to the palms of his hands as he reached out and ran his fingertips over the curve of a white shell just peeking up above the grains. The water came in, washing his hands clean, and he dug the shell out. He watched the saltwater fill the hole left behind, sand swirling in until it vanished.

Just like the shell, he thought, his place in the world disappeared as soon as he was taken from it. If he laid here, unmoving, would he eventually become buried, too? Would the saltwater toss and turn his bones, break them down to sand to be washed up on a beach across the far waters?

His lips twitched, the shadow of a smile.

It might be nice, to be nothing.

“Look at you,” His captor’s voice rang out, and Areyto’s breath caught. Despair threatened to push him under, and he thought - for just one moment - that he wished he were able to drown. He would have thrown himself to the ocean’s mercy if he could. Instead, he made himself perfectly still, and waited. .

Behind him, Guilford Wentworth made his slow way down the hideous, ugly step-scars. Areyto could hear his heavy breathing, the crunch of his boots against rock and then the scrape when he found sand. He came up behind Areyto and stood too close, leaning over to slide a hand along his spine and watch him shiver.

“All dark skin and hair and white silk,” His captor said, voice low, pitched not to carry any further than his prisoner’s ears. “You look like a ghost, a spirit of some dead maiden.”

“I am a ghost,,” Areyto replied, voice flat, barely moving his own mouth. He refused to flinch from Wentworth’s touch, even when those fingertips burned against the nape of his neck, tracing the painted marks that peeked out from the neckline of his robe. Heavy hands wearing many rings twisted into his dark hair, pulling at it just a little, never letting him forget who held his leash. “What I was is dead.”

“You were a monster,” Guilford countered. “You still are. Monsters need to be tamed. To be kept.” He chuckled, voice low, and pulled harder, steadily forcing Areyto to lift his chin. Areyto’s hands closed slowly into fists around sand and shell, until the edge of the shell cut deeply in, the pain keeping his mind clear. There was no point in the disgust he felt at Wentworth’s touch, so why couldn’t he stop?

Wentworth cleared his throat, straightening back up and forcing Areyto backwards using the hand in his hair, until he was standing on his knees, spine straight. His markings ached, his skin boiled with the need to tear his captor apart. “My wife is dying.”

“That is what your wives seem crafted to do.” He couldn’t quite keep the edge from his voice. When Wentworth’s heavy hand began to pet through his hair like a man might pet a dog, he let his eyes close against the burn he refused to admit had nothing to do with the salty ocean air.

His stomach dipped, and all his markings burned like new. He couldn’t do anything but obey. The magic bound him like a fisherman’s net.

Wentworth sighed, reading the distress Areyto tried not to show. His fingers kept catching in tangled curls, jerking Areyto’s head this way and that. “Wives do die, in their time. In any case, I thought the air here would help her-”

“No, you didn’t.”

“What?” Wentworth jerked him backwards, throwing Areyto until he landed on his back in the soft sand, staring up at his captor. Wentworth’s face was shadowed by the weak sun fighting through the threatening clouds. The tide surged up to Areyto’s thighs, soaking the hem of his silk robe and leaving him half-bared to that horrible heavy gaze. “What did you say?”

Areyto set his jaw, and stared past Wentworth at the waters that had once been home. “You knew the air here would be cold and damp.You knew it would make her worse. You are done with this wife and ready for a new one. Why bother to lie to me? It’s me who you will have sing the new one into your bed soon enough-”

“Be quiet.” Wentworth’s hiss sent a sparking of pain along the painted marks of his curse, and Areyto bit down on his lower lip. Wentworth’s eyes moved from left to right, taking in the empty sands on either side of them, the house far enough away that you couldn’t see it from here. Or be seen by anyone inside it, even if any of them were awake.

His captor’s smile stretched as wide as a slick of oil still spilling from deep earth as he unbuttoned his own shirt without taking it off, shifting down onto his knees to straddle his captive siren, weighing him down.

It felt like a stone tied to his ankle, dragging Areyto into the dark.

One of Wentworth’s hands went around his throat, thumb pressing against the thrum of Areyto’s pulse just under his jaw. The other went into his hair, pulling hard.

“Open your mouth,” Wentworth commanded.

Areyto’s body, as always, obeyed.

The water surged again, as if the ocean tried to pull him back home. It lapped along his legs, caressed his calves as it pulled back away, just brushed the bottoms of his feet. The sand beneath him was soaked and he sank into it as his head was forced back, as his throat was filled and he had to breathe in quick gasps whenever Wentworth pulled back, and relaxed his hand enough to allow it.

Areyto added his own saltwater tears to what soaked the sand beneath his body, a dizzy lack of air making the world seem to spin, as if his misery were the center of the earth.

“Why aren’t you making any noises?” Wentworth asked, his voice a series of harsh grunts as his hips moved, snapping too far forward, pulling too far back. Areyto’s jaw ached, his neck hurt from being bent strangely to accommodate Wentworth’s will. Sand dried and itched and stuck to him. The waves kept breaking just a little higher each time, until they teased at Areyto’s hips, his waist.

He kept the shell closed tightly in one hand.

“Oh. Right.” Each word was a thrust, and Areyto wasn’t breathing. Couldn’t breathe. His eyes opened now, black and white spots dancing around the edges and finally into the middle. Wentworth stared back down at him. Their eyes met, and for all that Areyto knew his burned with hate, Wentworth’s sparkled with a perfect joy. “I gave you an order, didn’t I? Well, I take it back. Make all the noise your body wants, Areyto. Make as much noise as you can.”

This order was worse than the silence.

Now, he couldn’t stop himself - the siren whined, whimpered at the pain as his throat was bruised, gasped and cried out only for the winds to whip the sound away faster than he could even hear himself making it. He begged, maybe - he couldn’t have said.

Things had gotten so far away, in his mind.

Too far away to be sure any longer.

Wentworth pulled back, all at once, but it was only a second before he grabbed the siren by one shoulder and threw him onto his stomach, hand pressing hard into his back while his knees kicked the siren’s legs apart. He shoved the sodden silk robe up to bare Areyto to his heavy, wanting gaze. Water rushed in, and Areyto's forehead pressed into the sand as he hitched in a sob.

Why did he still bother to weep?

“Beg,” Wentworth commanded, leaning down to press a kiss against Areyto’s hair. The siren’s stomach threatened to heave itself empty at the mockery of intimacy. “Beg me not to do this now, beg me not to bed you right here next to the water. Beg me not to.”

“Please,” Areyto gasped, voice hoarse and broken. He wanted to stay silent out of spite, but the markings were perfect and fresh and instead obedience was pulled from him faster than he could even think to defy him. “Please, not like this-... don’t do this-... not here-”

Wentworth bit down, flat human teeth burying themselves into Areyto’s shoulder as he forced himself inside, inch by inch. The siren threw his head back and screamed, a broken sound that only seemed to make Wentworth’s own desire rise higher.

Blood ran to soak the sand beneath the siren’s shoulder and between his legs.

One of Wentworth’s hands found his hair again, holding tight to keep Areyto’s head pressed to his shoulder. The other reached out over the top of Areyto’s hand, closing fingers around his and pressing him more deeply into the sand. The siren’s back was forced to arch as his captor ground skin between teeth until it tore. He licked at Areyto’s blood and groaned with satisfaction as his hips rocked, the way made slick by blood and his lust fed by the pain of his imprisoned monster.

Areyto’s eyes were wide and sightless - he could not see or feel or think past the way he was torn apart, in too many places. His free hand held tight to the shell he had found, as if it could save him.

At some point his grip was so strong it broke the skin, and he bled there, too.

The tide surged, and added salt to the fresh wounds. He screamed again, and Wentworth’s voice was in his ear telling him to move, and so he did, and it made the pain rise ever higher. The sounds the siren made bounced off the hills ahead of them, they were stolen by the breeze to be blown out to the sea.

The tide soaked the blood into the sand, pulled it back to the waters. It dissolved in spirals and tendrils that came together and broke apart, until it faded away into the enormity of the waters. Until all there was was the sand, and the pain, and Guilford Wentworth buried inside him giving commands in a whisper that he had to obey.

“Mine,” His captor groaned as he finished inside him, went still, a heavy weight that pressed the air from the siren’s lungs. “Forever. Say it.”

Areyto stared at a bit of sea grass fighting its way through the suffocation of sand, surviving where no other plants did.

“Yours,” He whispered. Wentworth pulled away. “Forever.”

“Forever…?” Wentworth was doing up his buttons again, even though his own clothes were soaked through. The siren didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the grass. “You know what to say, don’t you?”

The siren swallowed back the screaming hatred that threatened to burn him up from inside, and only whispered, “Yours forever… master.”

Wentworth chuckled again. He turned and walked away, making his painstaking, clumsy way up those stupid rock stairs.

The tide rushed in, all the way up to the siren’s mid-back now, moving further and further up towards his shoulders. He didn’t move - it felt like a bath, like the gentle lapping of a mother cat to a kitten. It felt like the ocean was trying to clean him of the filth that Wentworth had left on him, inside of him.

“Kill him,” The siren prayed. “Kill him and set me free. Please, please… kill him. Just... kill us both.”

As always...

No one answered.

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee @angelsproject @starsick1979

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whumpy-wyrms · 6 months ago

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alien parasite whumpers are cool and all but what about alien parasite whumpees

do you see the vision

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honeycollectswhump · 1 month ago

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The Wolf

[part 2]

this is based on this prompt by @allthingswhumpyandangsty! i hope you like what i did with it :D also tagging @clickerflight because i think you'd enjoy this

CW: non-human whumpee, animal whump (as in the wolf form of a werewolf gets whumped), fear of death

The Wolf howls, high and pained and as sharp as its teeth, as a whip cracks against its back, again. There is nothing it can do to escape, yet it still thrashes around desperately, even as the thick rope around its neck makes it choke and stumble.

There is no understanding in its mind that its assailants are the same people that celebrated its birthday, that brought it food when it was ill, only the vague feeling of betrayal and drowning panic at what they will surely do to it.

It doesn’t notice a young man coming closer until he is right next to its bound maw and the Wolf yelps in surprise, swinging around its massive head, trying and failing to hit him with its antlers. He grabs three of the Wolf’s sliced-up ears, tilting its head to the side, and it can only see a cruel smile playing on his lips and the jagged glint of a blade before its world bursts into darkness, solely interrupted by sharp bursts of pain.

For a while, its world is nothing but agony, as the hunter drags his knife across its many eyes, and it is powerless to stop it. If it were human, it would mourn the betrayal of its closest friend and the discovery of a side so cruel it could have never imagined it. But it isn’t, not yet at least, so it doesn’t. Neither does the young hunter, blind to a well-kept secret.

Still lost in its own pain, the Wolf barely notices when the young hunter kicks one foot into its torn-up side and it topples over without any resistance, its paws hitting the air uselessly. It hits the ground with a yelp that stretches into a long whine, when the hunter presses his boot into the Wolf’s wounds, hard.

Desperately, it snaps and bites around but its teeth only ever graze the fabric of the hunter’s pants, held back by a rope, and that earns it a kick in the face. Blinded by the hunter’s knife and its own blood, it can’t even prepare itself for the impact, can only wish for a mouth that could scream.

The Wolf has never been prey before, but if it had any imagination, this is how its prey must feel in its last moments. Is this its last moment?

It was never cruel, not intentionally anyway, it just hunted because that was what it was made for. Whenever the Wolf got free, when the full moon was illuminating the forest just as it was doing now, it had to hunt. A deep instinct the Wolf never questioned and the Other part of it feared. So it did, hunting domesticated, lazy sheep and fat cows and eating them whole, barely leaving bones.

To some extent, beyond the mind-numbing fear and the paralyzing pain, the Wolf knows that it is getting punished for that. Punished like a misbehaving mutt and not worthy for the beast that it is.

With one last kick to the maw, the young hunter leaves the Wolf alone, collapsed on the ground in a slowly growing pool of its own blood. And in that moment, the Wolf realizes something so loud and clear, that it reverberates in the Other part of it:

If it doesn’t escape, it will die.

Ever so slowly, the Wolf lifts its head so that its other eyes can scan the horizon. A hint of colour betrays the darkness and it knows that the sun will rise soon. That will be its death, then.

Because once the sun rises, the Wolf will disappear and leave behind the Other part to deal with the hunters, the hurt and the injuries and it knows the Other part is too weak. They’ll both die, by the hand of the hunters or by the ghost of their touch draining them of their shared blood.

Where once fear clouded the Wolf's eyes, it sees clearly now. Maybe it is beyond fear, but the Wolf is not aware enough to reflect on it. The other hunters are celebrating their victory, distracted by their own success. The Wolf only instinctually feels its chance for escape, now that its predators have averted their gazes.

Through the pain of surely broken bones, the Wolf manages to sink a bloody claw through the rope constraining its maw, desperately tearing at it till fibre rips.

With huffing breaths, the Wolf snaps for the rope that binds it to the ground, just barely catching it with one sharp tooth, and begins gnawing on it until it snaps. It hurts, terribly so, but the pain only furthers the Wolf's desperation. It stands up on shaking legs, half collapsing under its own weight and the mass of its antlers, but the impending threat and the relentlessly rising sun keep it going.

Clouded, bloody eyes flit around, hazily scanning the area for threats and its speeding pulse makes the Wolf's six ears twitch. Still, despite its huffing breaths, the hunters don’t seem to notice. Now it only has to get away.

The Wolf is a predator. It hunts its prey relentlessly and overpowers it with its brute strength. It isn’t made to be sneaky or silent, yet that’s the only way it has any chance of survival. With a gentleness it didn’t think was possible the Wolf puts one giant paw in front of the other, almost infuriatingly slow, inching away from the camp.

All of its instincts tell it to run away with abandon, but some part of it, maybe the Other part, holds it back. Instead, half blinded by its own blood, it tries to avoid making any noise or stepping on branches.

Only after it is hidden behind the first line of trees, without any sign of the Hunters noticing, the Wolf takes off running, as fast as its broken body allows it. Again and again, its antlers get stuck in the branches of low-hanging trees, nearly ripping it to the ground.

It doesn’t think about where it’s going, only that it desperately needs to get away before the relentless sun rises. Beyond its own panting breath and the blood rushing in its ears, it can’t hear anything and the uncertainty of the Hunters starting their chase is almost as gruelling as the knowledge of their Hunt would be.

The pounding of its heart drives the Wolf further and further away, makes it sway and stumble against the trees as the forest seems to constrict around it until its paw catches on a root and the Wolf can’t hold itself up any longer. It tumbles to the ground with a yelp, already wrecked limbs bending even further, small branches and rocks digging themselves into the bleeding gashes on its back. Only now does the Wolf realise a second danger much more imminent than the light of the day–

The blood it lost.

When the Hunters will inevitably notice its disappearance, they will surely follow the bright red trail the Wolf’s wounds have so kindly left. It is destined to be the prey it used to chase across the forest, salivating at the scent of fresh blood.

If it will even survive long enough to play the role of the prey.

There is no denying the wooziness spreading through its flitting mind or the darkness slowly covering the Wolf like a moonless night, drawn out further by the fire burning through the groves the Hunters slashed into its back and limbs.

Even though it manages to get its legs under its body again, the Wolf knows it can’t keep going for much longer, the mangled limbs struggling to carry its weight. But an end is not in sight.

By the time the Wolf breaks through the line of trees past the edge of the forest, it can barely hold itself up. Each step is a balancing act on knives, digging deep into the sensitive flesh of its paws, and now that it is out in the open it doesn’t even have the energy to hide, to sprint for bushes in the distance. Even then, turning back into the forest is even more of a death sentence than the merciless claws of blood loss, sinking themselves into the Wolf’s awareness.

Despite the blood muddying its vision –it doesn’t think about the darkness on its left side. It doesn’t– it can make out the blurry shape of what might be an isolated cabin close to the forest’s edge. Recognition stirs in the Other Part, with emotions the Wolf can’t place.

All that reaches it is Safety, Safety, Safety and that fragile hope is enough promise for the Wolf, taking up its last energy to stumble towards the shelter.

It only just makes it to the wooden shed next to the cabin and though the Wolf’s skin prickles at the proximity to humans, it carries its beaten and bloodied body inside. With a last rasping breath, the Wolf collapses. Its right antler splinters into pieces at the impact, sending a burning spike of pain through the Wolf’s skull and making it whine. Like lightning, the pain zaps through its mind, a disorienting flurry of hurt. With its blinded side upwards, the other eyes down in the dirt and dust, it can’t look around the room it has trapped itself in, can’t fight back or flee, or even to notice its assailants.

Desperately, it scratches at the ground, a futile attempt to get up one last time, to hide, to not lay vulnerable and visible in the middle of the shed, ready to be taken by a cruel and victory-drunk Hunter.

Exhaustion weighs heavily on the Wolf’s aching limbs, a battle lost to the Hunters, the sun and its very own instincts. The ageing wood creaks around it, drowning out wheezing breaths, swallowing any warning the air might have carried to the Wolf’s torn-up ears and it can do nothing but shake in fear.

Distantly, the Other Part knows he isn’t as strong as the Wolf, knows that his fragile body won’t carry the wounds for long. He mourns his life, the one he will never have again even if he is unlucky enough to survive the day. The Wolf whimpers, an to it incomprehensible wave of grief washing over it.

Even as all of its other senses dwindle and the day sinks its teeth into the open wounds, the Wolf can’t help but yowl. A pathetic, wheezing breath, barely distinguishable from the wind whipping against the wooden walls. It doesn’t mourn the same way the Other Part does, it can’t, it only wishes it could hunt under its beloved companion, the silver shining moon, one more time.

Then, even the pain fades and the Wolf and the Other Part are swallowed up by darkness even the moon can’t break.

#the poll voted to post this #i plan on posting the second part this year #(it’s halfway done i just need to finish it)#if not feel free to send me hate mail /j #nonhuman whumpee #nonhuman whump #werewolf whumpee #werewolf whump #fear of death #betrayal #honey's writing #hunter whumper #multiple whumpers #defiant whumpee #wounds #blood #whump prompt fill

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allthingswhumpyandangsty · 1 year ago

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a predatory creature who mimics the sound of their previous victim as to lure another (potential) victims in. so — as a group of the surviving characters hide from the creature — they are forced to listen to the sound of their dead friend, from the mouth of the creature, screaming in excruciating pain during their final moment when they were mauled to death by said creature.

the surviving characters know their friend is already dead, and that it’s the creature mimicking their friend’s voice, but it’s still extremely hard to hear how scared their friend was, and to not rush out of their hiding spot towards the direction in which the sound comes from (knowing it wasn’t going to be their friend but instead they’d be running right towards the creature) as the creature keeps on howling in their dead friend’s voice.

special thanks to Annihilation for the inspiration behind this juicy trope. literally my most favorite scene from the movie.

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emcscared-whumps · 7 months ago

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Behold!!!! The piece that got delayed by my surprise visit to death prevention jail end of last year!

This is my submission to @thewhumpyprintingpress's ABCs of Whump zine!!! It's available for purchase, go check it out :)

I was so excited to participate, and it was such a pleasure :) This piece took a while, and it is right on the edge of my current capabilities as an artist, but it was incredibly fun and rewarding to work on, I'm very proud of how it turned out <3

Featured is my mer shifter boi Pete from my fav project Shifting Phases :) I love him very much and could not resist another oppourtunity to have a work featuring him published.

(I had to scrunch it significantly to get Tumblr to take it ^-^')

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the-three-whumpeteers · 8 months ago

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The whumpee had been captured and caged somewhere completely unfamiliar, by someone who they didn’t understand, and in an environment they were not accustomed to. The whumper made many mistakes as well- sure, the whumper “disciplined” the whumpee, but their attempt at care was completely wrong, and it just made the whumpee feel sick and afraid, they just wanted to go home.

#whump #whump prompt #whump scenario #whumpee #aramis stabs someone #whump prompts #captivity whump #nonhuman whumpee #nonhuman whump

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zoe-and-quinn · 4 months ago

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Vampire Whumpee P.2

P1 P3 P4

TW: Burning, captivity, sadistic whumper, nailed to a tree, gagged, restrained, dehumanization

The walk back to the hunters' camp felt like it took days. Whumpee's ankle was on fire, nerves refusing to die as their body tried to heal.

It wouldn't heal, not with the silver still clamping onto their bone. They tried to be thankful that their bones were immune to the burning agony, but it was hard when every step brought tears to their eyes.

They managed to make it to the camp with only a few stumbles, only a few shallow scrapes that were already healing. The sight of the clearing ahead brought a sense of relief.

Finally, no more walking.

The relief fled when they felt a hand in their hair, yanking their head back once more. "How about we get you nice and comfy, leech? Gotta make sure you won't be making any escape attempts when we're all asleep."

Whumpee whimpered, wanting so badly to beg for some form of mercy. But the sound only made the hunter grin, tightening his grip. "I think I have just the thing."

Suddenly, they felt the ropes around their wrists being cut, and their hands immediately went to the gag. If they could get just a few words in, they could make them understand.

The hunter grabbed their wrists tightly. "Oh no you don't," he growled. "I've got plans for these. Oi, someone get me one of those nails."

Whumpee's heart sank. They started pulling against the hunter frantically, trying to get away, away, away-

The hunter spun them around and slammed their back into a nearby tree, forcing all the air out of them. For a few moments, they just floundered, struggling to breathe, to see straight.

Then, they caught sight of a hammer, and the grin worn by its bearer.

Aaaand they were thrashing again.

"I'll hold its hands," said the hunter pushing them against the tree. "Make sure you get in between the bones, don't want it to rip its wrists in two."

Whumpee was sobbing, shaking their head as their hands were pushed up against the wood. The one with the hammer pulled a single nail out of their pocket, a long one with a wide head.

And then the point was resting on their pinned wrists, stacked on top of each other on that cursed tree, and they were crying, shaking, screaming, bleeding-

It went through their wrists easily, like a knife through butter. The tree was tougher. It took a few hits before the nail was deep enough to trap them like a pinned bug.

The hunter who had held them still was grinning as he pulled down lightly on their arm. "There you go, bloodsucker," he murmured, grabbing their chin and forcing their gaze upwards, forcing them to look him in his cruel, delighted eyes.

"Trapped and tamed. Just what monsters like you deserve."

Next part

Thank you to @scoundrelwithboba who requested a second part! Hope you like it!

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blackrosesandwhump · 1 year ago

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Starting a thing for those who like non-human whumpees:

Reblog with your favorite non-human whumpee trope!

#whump #whump tropes #nonhuman whump #nonhuman whumpees #inhuman whump #inhuman whumpee #whump game #whumpblr #reblog game #whump community #whump things

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redd956 · 1 year ago

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Whump Prompt List: Bioluminescence

A glowing whumpee losing their vibrant sheen as they weaken, until only a dim flickering light emits from them, barely illuminating their cold dark environment

Whumper glowing with satisfaction. Whumpee scooting back from them in fear as a vibrant tint of light passes over them, whumper approaching with a fabulously malicious idea

Bioluminescent whumpee attempting to run from their enemy, only for their own glow to give them away

Caretaker not knowing a whumpee was bioluminescent, since the light of their health was long gone. Slowly overtime whumpee seems to be positively glowing (perhaps revealing they're nonhuman)

Glowing colorful scars either due to whumpee's anatomy or whumper's magic. Whumpee has tried to hide them, but some nights, when the pain returns at its worst, it can be seen through their clothing

Blood that is bioluminescent only after leaving the body, like the old myth of human blood changing from purple/blue to red. The carnage is more than visible, even in the dark

Eyes that literally sparkle with life, growing more lifeless with each passing day, until eye contact meets the right worried soul

Back to bioluminescent scars (My beloved). Scars that still shine as bright as they were the day they were dealt. Scars finally dimming with age. A whumpee who now stands as a colorful painteresque canvas, splotched with the markings of a rainbow. Now they do their best to hide them under simply monochromatic clothes.

Watching agitated bioluminescent blood travel under whumpee's skin

#whump #whump prompt #whump prompt list #whump prompts #nonhuman whump #whump ideas #whump idea #whump scenarios #bioluminescence whump

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mintflavouredwhump · 7 months ago

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TW dehumanisation, cannibalism of a humanoid species

A world where merfolk are nothing but exotic delicacies to humans. Of course, such an elusive species would only be served to the richest and most influential of people but that doesn't mean that the demand is any less.

A merperson unlucky enough to be targeted for such a reason would either be lured into a netted trap or even be hunted down in their own habitat. Then they would be mercilessly butchered- their killers' ears plugged to avoid listening to their chillingly human-like screams- before ending up as on a fancy, garnished plate. The humanoid torsos remain untouched, eventually being dumped into the ocean in their hundreds, where thousands of living merfolk can witness the gruesome fate of their kin.

There are movements and organisations against this as mermaids are too similar to humans to be regarded as 'just another meat-giving animal' but such a pleasure isn't going to be given up any time soon, especially when there are so many merfolk left.

#this has to be one of the most screwed up posts i've made on this blog so far #even i'm surprised at how horribly whumpy it is #mermaid whump #mermaid whumpee #nonhuman whump #nonhuman whumpee #tw cannibalism #cw cannibalism #tw dehumanisation #cw dehumanisation #whump #tw whump #whump prompts #whump scenario #whump writing #whump inspiration

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ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months ago

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I Can't Cross O'er: An Interlude

CW: Captivity, child of whumper POV, blood, referenced whipping, magical whumpee, siren whump. For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 4: Monster! Monster!

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

Six years ago

A door shut, clicking into place, just down the hall. Carefully hidden inside one of the seven bedrooms in this wing of the house, Ford and his sister Nathalie waited, listening, as the man in the hallway took a deep breath. “By God,” The man muttered. “What a voice he has.”

Nathalie tried to peek around Ford's arm. “Is he-”

“Sssshhh.” Ford swatted at Nathalie without looking at her, and she swatted back.

“Like an angel…” The man continued, not realizing he had an audience - if currently a distracted one. “An absolute angel. The way he sings..."

Nathalie poked Ford right in his ticklish side with one finger, jabbing roughly. "Ford-"

"I said sssshh!"

"Don’t you dare tell me to shush, Guilford,” Nathalie hissed.

Ford looked at her, and whatever she saw on his face made the momentary triumph of mocking him with his hated full first name drain from hers. She laid a hand on his arm, then, awkwardly patting, whispering, “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry, Ford, I didn't mean it-"

“Don’t ever call me his name,” Ford said, but his voice was weak. Like always since his mother died, he felt tears rise unbidden and had to fight them back below. “Please, please don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Nathalie whispered. Her eyes were huge and sad in the light that filtered in through the gauzy curtains across the room. “I really didn’t. I’m sorry, Ford. You’re not like him at all. I promise you're not."

He found a smile for her, just to watch the way her shoulders, which had hunched up, relaxed again. “It’s… it’s all right.” There was another sound, and Ford turned back, trying to peek through a crack in the door they were hidden just behind again. He couldn’t quite see the man, but he could hear him still muttering to himself. Thankfully, the Lord Fellswooth spoke to himself loudly enough that he hadn’t overheard them and realized he was being spied on by two of Lord Wentworth’s children.

Or grandchildren.

Or... prisoners.

Whoever they really were to him.

Seconds passed, and Ford could see in his mind the way the tall, strikingly thin Lord Fellswooth must be patting down his shirt, checking for wrinkles or any detail out of place. He’d been a fussy one at supper earlier, the sort to surreptitiously check the tines of his fork over before taking a single bite, as if checking for a smudge or a bit of tarnish he might make a barbed comment about. He was probably running quick fingers through his hair to get the little curl of salt-and-pepper over his forehead just so - he’d done that over and over since he’d come to meet with Lord Wentworth, as if it were some sort of compulsion rather than simple vanity.

Ford’s teeth worried at his lower lip as he listened to Fellswooth take a deep breath, murmur it was only a business call, of course, Theresa, that’s all, as if he were rehearsing his lines for a play, before he turned to leave. The two children eased back and away so no hint of them might be seen as he went past them - Ford's eyebrows knitted in confusion at a spot of bright red he saw on the Lord's cheek, smeared like he'd rubbed open a wound. The Lord's steps were nearly soundless thanks to the plush gold-threaded rug that ran the length of the hall all the way to the grand staircase that would take him right out the front door.

The butler met him there.

Mr. Keller was chilly sometimes but Ford mostly found him kind. His voice filtered up the stairs as he let Lord Fellswooth know his horse was saddled and waiting for him just outside. Mr. Keller had been around forever, he was very old and soon to retire, Father- the man who made them call him Father, anyway - said. He’d made mistakes, sometimes… more often lately.

There had been some sort of trouble with Mr. Keller writing letters that made no sense, begging for rescue from employment, that had led to some distant relations coming to the door last month, worried for his health.

Father had assured them all was well, and after speaking to Mr. Keller over a few days, the cousins or whoever had gone away again. Mr. Keller had been... different, ever since, but still mostly kind to the children.

Ford’s father read all Mr. Keller’s letters now before he sent them, and he’d put out an advert and told his very important friends he was looking for a new butler, that Mr. Keller was ready to step down and have a well-earned rest.

If he didn't just get thrown in the pond with the monster, like Ford's real father had been.

Once Fellswooth was safely gone, Ford eased out into the hall, the well-oiled hinges moving in perfect silence as he swung open the door. Nathalie was on his heels, creeping just behind him. They made their silent way towards the door that the fussy Lord had just come out of.

Ford paused just a foot away and turned to look at his sister over his shoulder, putting a finger to his lips.

Nathalie nodded, solemnly. Like Ford, she still wore a black armband, the sign of mourning after their mother’s death the year before. At ten, her face was losing the child’s roundness and thinning out. She looked like their mother had, more every year, and sometimes it hurt Ford to look at her at all. It would be six more years before their father would want to start looking into marrying her off, which meant only four years until marriage might happen for Ford.

The thought terrified him.

Ford had become a part of his father’s grasping ambitions only a month after Mother died, when she could no longer protect her children from Lord Wentworth’s plans for his family. Ever since, he’d been subjected to endless lectures on business ventures he didn’t care about overseas, tutored for hours every day on how to convince other nobles to speak to his father about those business ventures, or selling land, or… whatever it was that Guilford Wentworth wanted from them. All those lessons, in the end, centered around learning how to lie - or how to bring the aristocrats and royalty to meet with his father and his father’s awful creature.

Alongside all that unwanted education had been a rise in the careless, constant violence that had already dogged him all his life. He was not good enough at the skills Lord Wentworth wanted him to learn. He did not lie so easily, he did not care about colonies and copper mines a thousand miles across the sea. And he paid for not caring with bruises like the ones he wore even now, always and only in places that his clothing might hide.

Nathalie, though, wore no bruises, and neither did the twins. He’d done what he could to protect them all the way his mother had once tried to protect him. If he were married, though, especially if he were married to someone with more money or land and he had to go live with her family, he couldn’t keep Guilford’s anger on him any longer.

It would turn on his sister, until she was found a husband - and then it would finally turn on the twins, who had never known violence and would have no one to keep them safe any longer

What if whoever was picked for his sister’s husband was cruel, too? What if his own wife turned out to be some terrible witch, like Guilford Wentworth, just with hair ribbons? He’d rather die than be married, but he knew enough about his father’s monster by now to know that it wouldn’t matter what he wanted, when the time came.

He’d want whatever he was told to want, once the monster sang its hideous song. He'd be a dutiful, loving husband, or he'd be a dutiful loving son, or he'd have his throat torn open and turn to bones in the bottom of the pond in the garden, just like his real father.

Ford closed his fingers slowly around the doorknob, turning it as quietly as he could before he gently pushed the door open so he and Nathalie could peek inside.

They had come to peek at the monster.

The awful thing looked handsome and harmless. It perched along the edge of a heavy mahogany desk, leaning against it and looking away, towards the window, one hand over its mouth. Jet-black hair fell wavy, as if it had only just dried after a swim in the ocean, over beautiful eyes and curled around its ears. Its hair was all mussed up, as if it’d been grabbed at and pulled on, but the creature didn’t seem to notice.

It looked, with the last of the sunset’s yellowed light shining on its warm brown skin, like a sort of perfectly sculptured mockery of a human man, the most beautiful one Ford had ever seen in his life. It was only a trick, of course - it was more of a demon.

Ford had seen its real face when it killed his real father, a mouth that opened too wide and was full of hideous sharp teeth.

It wore some sort of loose robe that fell off one shoulder. It was covered in embroidered flowers in white against the shining pale blue fabric and tied at the waist. Its arms were crossed in front of itself and it hunched over, just slightly. The markings like tattoos that began just under his jaw on one side disappeared into the neckline where it lay over the thing’s collarbone and then reappeared along one delicately formed wrist, running all the way into its palm and over its long, elegant fingers. One of its legs was marked, too. When Ford looked at the monster’s feet, he could see one was covered in the same markings all the way to the very end of its toes.

“It's done, for now,” The monster said to no one, its voice soft. It spoke like a melody, a rumbling bass that could just as easily soar to tenor. Ford had taken singing lessons, for a while. He was hopelessly rubbish at it.

The twins, though, were good. And the monster sang like heaven.

There was a pause.

“Done,” It repeated, dropping to a whisper. Its voice cracked and broke this time, rasping. There was a horrible sorrow and anger in the lines of its beautiful face. “For now." Its voice rasped, suddenly, went rough-edged like it was talking around something blocking its throat. "Until the next, and the next, and the next…”

When it looked to the window, towards the sunset, the light glimmered along trails of shimmering wetness that ran down its cheek. Its body shook, and it dropped its head into its hands, letting out a wretched, shuddering sob.

He’d seen this thing murder his real father, sing him into the pond in the garden and then rip out his throat and stain the water red while Ford had watched, unseen, his own hands clamped tight over his mouth beneath his wide, nearly bulging eyes. He had been screaming, desperately muffling the sound, until he’d run for his mother, and discovered that she… she wasn’t the same either, anymore.

She hadn't died for years after, but really she had been mostly dead already, as soon as his real father was.

Once the monster sang to you, he took whatever he wanted of you away, and only left what was useful for the family. Which just meant useful for Lord Wentworth, which Ford’s real father hadn't been any longer.

The monster had taken from Ford’s mother even the memory of his true father. No one had cared enough to bother to take it from Ford, or Nathalie. No one listened when they insisted their father was someone else, someone no one in the house even knew had ever existed any longer. The twins had only been babies, and they wouldn’t remember anyway.

Weeping or not, it wasn’t a person, and Ford steeled himself against how much it hurt to watch the thing cry. It might weep like a man, and look like one, but Ford had seen it kill on command.

The creature turned away toward the window, its back now to the children spying on it from the doorway. Ford and Nathalie both inhaled sharply as the robe it wore slipped a little, dipping low enough to show that it was bleeding.

Ford felt something cold and shivery-sick dip in his stomach as he saw stripes of torn-open skin smeared in a horrible too-bright red just above its shoulder blades and down its back, disappearing beneath the shining black satin, only to still show through in spots here and there that seemed to stick to its skin. The blue robe turned the blood soaking through it purple, a sickly color that made Ford think he might be sick all over the floor.

There was-

There was so much blood.

Ford’s throat suddenly felt like it might close all on its own, and he jerked in a hissed breath. He felt sick just looking at it, too bright and too red. His stomach flipped and twisted, his heart racing its way up his throat as if it might come flying out his mouth.

There was blood on the floor, spattered on the wall by the window. It looked like a murder had been done, and yet Lord Fellswooth and the monster had been alone, and only the monster wore wounds.

What had Lord Fellswooth done to it?

Fellswooth had lifted his upper lip in a sneer just looking at how dusty Ford had been when he’d returned from the afternoon ride on his favorite horse. He’d run fingers over the washbasin stand checking for specks of dust Mr. Keller and the other servants might have missed. He’d shuddered just walking in the front door when the stable boy’s wolfhound had tried to lick at his palm.

What sort of man who could be so fussy as all that could tear the monster’s back to shreds and simply leave his blood running down his body to drip to the floor as he stood by the window?

How badly must all those wounds hurt?

Not that Ford cared, or anything. It was a murderous monster creature his false father used to enthrall and get what he wanted out of everyone who came near him. It wasn’t even human, it spent almost all its time in water hiding under the surface, coming out only when Lord Wentworth summoned it. Ford didn’t care about it at all.

But…

But that didn’t mean he thought it should bleed like that.

Even monstrous animals were only animals, after all, and this might be a creature of murder but did it need to suffer for that? For someone else's fun?

The monster, standing before the window staring out at the setting sun, began to sing to itself. Unlike the song they’d heard before when it was alone with Lord Fellswooth, this song was neither strident nor even very loud - it was a private song, one it sang only for itself. Its perfect voice did not swell or even rise much. Instead, each note seemed like a sidestep to the last, a winding staircase of melody that it wrapped around itself like a kind of blanket.

Ford caught his breath, listening. He could almost hear where a harmony should be, if there had been more of those… things… singing at once. Maybe this had been a song it sang with its own family, if it had had one.

Did monsters have mothers, like men did? They must. Everything living had a mother at one point or another, didn’t it?

The song was his pain, Ford realized. Winding and circling itself, neverending, a river even monsters would drown in when they never found shore. It was the creature's way of crying, beyond human tears. It wept, by the window, in a way that stole Ford's breath and made him want to weep alongside it.

“He’s so pretty,” Nathalie breathed, just beside him, her own wide eyes shining with tears. Her voice was too loud but his own felt too caught in his throat to shush her again. “He’s so pretty, Ford, isn’t he?”

The monster’s voice cut off all at once.

It spun around to see the two children who had - without realizing it - leaned further and slid the door a little more open. Ford’s heart dropped to his knees as those fathomless dark eyes locked on his. He and Nathalie both gasped as they fell under the thing's direct regard.

“Oh, no,” He whispered. "Nathalie-"

The monster opened its mouth in a snarl as it pulled its robe so tightly around itself nearly none of its skin could be seen any longer. Ford and Nathalie both froze at the sight of row after row of razor-sharp pointed teeth as it bared them.

“Go!” It snapped, in a voice that was not human, that spoke the human tongue in a roar and with a mouth not made for it. “Go away from me! Now!"

Ford's heart was in his throat "We're-... w-we're sorry-"

"Fear the monster your father keeps more than death itself and get away from me!”

The last was a shrieking command, not a song but a singular deafening note. Ford felt himself turning before he could even breathe. The command took effortless hold and he grabbed Nathalie's hand.

Get away from me.

The children could never have done anything but obey.

They fled shouting their fear of the monster, half-falling down the stairs and racing outside until Mr. Keller, who had seen Fellswooth off, caught them in his arms. Both of them burst into tears, there, while the stableboy and the groomsman stared surreptitiously in confusion. Mr. Keller held them, and shushed them, and finally took them to the stables in the hopes that he could calm their tears before Lord Wentworth overheard.

Inside, Guilford Wentworth’s monster sagged and then sank to the floor, his knees simply giving way until they touched the rug beneath him. He bent over until his forehead brushed the fibrous cloth, and he wept again.

This time, he wept in silence.

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