#and whumpee is just beyond broken

[sadcatjae]

Whumpee walk around joking and chatting and acting like their usual annoying self. Maybe they push it a bit more than what's usual, jokes that are a bit too mean, laughter that's almost hysterical, compliments that border on sarcastic, they are taut, stretched too tight, walking on a wire. And the ppl around them start getting annoyed. Caretaker wants them to be understanding. They say this just whumpee. This is how they always are. Whumpee needs time to adjust.

A few dont like it. They get in whumpees face. They bite back. whumpee welcomes it because they've missed this. The anger and virtriol and violence. Because all this kindness is exhausting.

Whumpee makes noise. Lots and lots of noise. As long as there's noise, they are okay.

Then whumpee goes to bed, and they are finally alone with the dark and the silence. There is nothing to distract them from their brokenness. it's too hard. They are too weak. Fear and desparation plague them through the long night. They are forced to shed their tenuous mask, exposing all the torment and raw hurt that never had the chance to heal. they break a little bit more.

And when the sun rises, theres nothing they can do but to pick themself up and walk back into the noise again.

defiant whumpee who, after rescue, appears to be their usual snarky self, until they finally can't take it anymore and the fascade drops

YES omg the caretaker being relieved that whumpee is actually normal and like themselves until its revealed that ACTUALLY whumpee is super traumatized and breaks down 🥰🥰🥰

[cravesunconditionallove]

Do you guys know why you enjoy thinking about or writing whumping?

I know. I’d be a whumpee probably. Just… to be hurt so bad, to be broken beyond comprehension. Nobody can invalidate that.

Then, even better, the eventual rescue by someone who cares unconditionally about me. I’ve never had someone care for me like that. I want it.

[allthewhumpygoodness]

For a whump blog, I post a surprisingly small amount of captivity whump. However, I have had An Idea:

A whumpee who's been captured for a while now and only just found, and their captor is known for using the most brutal of mental and physical interrogation techniques. When the whumpee's friends first find out where they're being held, they're told whumpee...might not be the same when they get a hold of them. That whumper might have broken them beyond repair.

They go in expecting the worst. They're prepared for whumpee not to recognize them, to have to hold them still while they writhe in fear from their own friends. They're prepared for someone feral and deranged, biting and scratching and nearly incapable of human speech. They're prepared for whumpee to be completely delirious. They're prepared for someone whose loyalties have been forcibly shifted, for an empty husk of a person.

What they're not prepared for is finding the whumpee curled up in the corner of their cell, eyes recognizing their friends but hollow, numb and haunted. They aren't prepared for whumpee to reach out a pair of stick-thin arms and cling to caretaker, leaning their full weight against them.

"Caretaker?" they say, their voice feeble yet very clear. "Can you take me home now? I'm so tired...please just take me home..."

And they don't resist when caretaker lifts their emaciated form, and carries them home.

[jordanstrophe]

Hallow Island, 2

[part 1] [Series Masterlist] [Part 3]

CW: Back-handed slap, gagged, bound, manhandled, controlling whumper, kidnapping/imprisoned, sliiight failed escape attempt if you squint

The strap around whumpees wrists and ankles were undone and they were tugged out of their airplane seat by an arm.

Immediately whumpee tried to rip the gag out of their mouth, but whumper took it as an opportunity to get their other arm.

"Easy! Easy now. I don't want to hurt you. Calm yourself." Whumper lulled. The words sickened whumpee to the core as they got one more burst of adrenaline and managed to rip an arm loose.

"HEY!" Whumper yelled, swiping to grab them but whumpee twisted free and bolted out the plane exit just as it opened.

The second their foot was out the door, they ran face first into two guards who seemed like they were waiting right there for them. They each grabbed an arm and pinned whumpee between them, neither budging their grip.

Whumper sniffed angrily and motioned for the guards to turn them around; before striking whumpee hard against the cheek. They whimpered as the side of their face hit the guards arm by force.

"I really tried being gentle with you... Try anything like that again and you'll lose that privilege." Whumper spat, grabbing whumpees face as they flinched.

"Nod if you understand." Whumper hissed.

Whumpees eyes flickered between defiance and fear, before giving a small angry nod. There was nothing they could do between the two guards aside from giving in.

"Splendid. Take them to the hollow. I want them clean and ready for tonight. And check their cheek before they go up for auction, I don't want to see a bruise. It's bad for business." Whumper fixed their sleeve and waved them off.

Whumpee felt weightless between the two guards. If they fought they got yanked so hard their feet went off the ground. The island was surrounded by a sandy beach, their toes left skid marks from where they struggled. They tried burying their heels but all they did was get sand in their shoes.

Despite it being an island, they could see massive glass buildings in the center beyond the palm trees. Up ahead there was a cave with a built in iron wall and door. Whumpee tried to plead with the guards, but all they could do was make sad muffled noises.

The guard on their left never looked at them once. The guard on their right occasionally glanced to make sure they weren't squeezing too tight, at least not enough to leave a mark.

Someone from the inside opened the door. The halls got dark quick and soon enough, whumpee was gently laid down in a cell where they sunk to the floor on their knees. That would be their chance to run if they had the energy; it took the plane nearly a day to get wherever they were and they spent the last energy in pitiful efforts.

"Someone will be by soon to look you over. Just try and get some rest, mmkay?" The last guard spoke, looking over their shoulder. Whumpee ripped the gag out of their mouth and shouted "PLEASE HELP ME!" Before the door slammed shut.

Whumpee let loose a broken cry they had been holding in since they shoved the gag in the first place. 

To be continued- [Series Masterlist]

@enigmawritesstuff

[whumpshaped]

a rather specific prompt for you :)

whumpee is/ was trained and used a a guard dog. during their time with their master they sustained an injury that causes them to not be able to fulfill their job properly anymore. still wounded, they get thrown out, chained in some allay. whumpee expects to die alone and cold, when caretaker comes along and accidentally stumbles across the abandoned whumpee. they (caretaker) think whumpee is just a regular pet and don’t realize they have a still dangerous guard dog at their feet and decide to rescue them and help them recover. whumpee has never experienced anything like this kindness, especially after becoming so useless, so (after having lost their old master) they immediately bond to caretaker as their new master, and would do anything to protect and please them

tw pet whump, amputation, abandonment, past trauma, broken bones, medical setting, caretaker new master, murder, gore, dehumanisation

"Oh, dear..." Caretaker crouched down by the shivering figure, putting the back of their hand against their forehead. They looked... half-dead, honestly, so the feverish warmth eminating from them was almost a relief. "Who did this to you...?"

The poor thing whined, and they reminded Caretaker of a wounded dog; but maybe that was just from how they were chained up. This was all so horrible.

"Okay, don't be scared. I'm gonna get you out of the alley and to a vet, alright? We'll get you all fixed up."

Another whine, and Caretaker suddenly realised there were other issues apart from the visible sickness. The pet's ankle... it was twisted in a way they'd never seen before. It was swollen, a mix of deep red and purple, bent in a way no healthy foot was supposed to.

"Oh... Oh, this is way worse than I thought, isn't it?" They immediately regretted the comment when the thing looked up at them with those wide, fearful eyes, probably expecting them to just give up now and leave them. "That's okay!" they added hastily. "It's okay. Nothing that can't be fixed! I... I hope... I'll call someone for help."

-

So they'd been wrong. Some things were in fact beyond saving, and Whumpee's foot turned out to be one of them. Amputation, prosthetics... Whumpee was handling it badly.

"I know," Caretaker soothed. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But it'll be better later on, I promise, the doctors know what they're doing."

Whumpee let out a soft whimper, a scared one, and Caretaker thought their heart was going to shatter even further. The pet hadn't uttered a single word yet, — maybe they couldn't? — but their face was expressive enough to make Caretaker tear up.

"I'll be here," they said gently. "Every step of the way, yeah? I'll be here for you. I'll help. We'll figure it out."

How? Caretaker didn't know. They weren't planning on adopting a pet, but... they couldn't just leave Whumpee alone after all this. They had an obligation, a responsibility.

If anything, Whumpee's awe-filled eyes just made them more determined.

-

"One foot in front of the other. Slowly. There you go."

Physical therapy was a lot, but Whumpee seemed dead set on achieving every goal weeks earlier than planned. The staff had said it would take four to eight weeks for Whumpee to be able to walk again... and many more before they fully got used to their artificial foot. They were out and about within two weeks, much to the dismay of said staff.

"They'll hurt themself," they'd said. "They should be resting."

"They're very eager to come home, I guess," Caretaker had replied awkwardly, but Whumpee had nodded along, completely serious.

So now they were walking along the corridors, Caretaker supporting Whumpee's weight less and less as they learned the ways and limits of their new life.

-

"I know it's not super fancy..." Caretaker opened the door and stood aside, motioning Whumpee inside. "But I guess it's... homey."

The pet surveyed their surroundings curiously, then turned back towards Caretaker with a bright smile. If they'd had a tail, Caretaker wagered they would've been wagging it.

It made them smile, too. "You like it?"

Whumpee nodded enthusiastically, walking over to the new pet bed Caretaker had bought just a week prior. They carefully set their belongings down next to it, — a shirt, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, and a collar — then made themself comfortable. Testing it out.

"I think we'll get along nicely," Caretaker commented absently. "I mean, I like you a lot. And you seem to like me. I don't see how this could go wrong."

-

Caretaker couldn't believe their eyes.

This couldn't be real.

Was that blood? Was that blood on Whumpee's clothes, and hands, and... face?

When the pet spotted them they immediately fell to their knees, whimpering in terror. They tried to wipe their hands on their victim's shirt, to no avail.

"Whumpee, what– what's– what's going on...?"

Whumpee was crying now, getting more and more desperate about ridding themself of the blood, as though that was the only evidence as to what they'd done. As though they could erase it all, if only they managed to erase the stains.

Caretaker walked closer, eyes wide with shock and horror. So much blood. So much gore.

Their sweet pet had done this?

"Why...?"

Whumpee scrambled to pick up some sort of equipment, struggling to hold it between bloody fingers. A lockpick, Caretaker noted distantly. They put it down on the floor in front of their feet, then quickly grabbed something else: a knife, this time. They put it next to the lockpick. Then they crawled back, flattening themself against the floor like a dog who knew it'd done something bad, whining as they waited for the verdict.

The stranger had been a burglar. Was it... self-defence? No, this had been a brutal murder.

"You're– you're a guard dog," Caretaker said softly, because they didn't think their voice could handle anything more. They got but a whimper in response. "This... Oh, dear. This is not... This is not good."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @whumpkinpie @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @whump-em @cyborg0109 @morning-star-whump @justanotherlokifan @2in1whump @lthrboy @justletmereadmywhump @florissimps @anonymous-tiangou @whump-kitty

[whumpninja]

W.M.D., Part 1: Living Weapon

Featuring: living weapon whumpee, heavy and literal dehumanization, lab whump, blindfolded whumpee, creepy whumper, brainwashing, memory loss

Taglist: @whumperofworlds

The meeting had been scheduled for 1:00. Mr. Abel showed up at 1:48, drinking something neon pink in a plastic cup and smiling apologetically. “Just chalk me up as ‘fashionably late’,” he quipped, extending his hand for a shake. “Nolan Abel, but you probably knew that, I’m everywhere. You’re Algernon Fowler, right? The scientist?”

Dr. Fowler stared witheringly at Mr. Abel’s extended hand, waiting for the man to realize that the empty right sleeve of Dr. Fowler’s lab coat was pinned up and out of the way. It took an embarrassingly long time for Mr. Abel to withdraw his hand, and even then, Dr. Fowler wasn’t sure whether he noticed or just wanted to end the awkward stare down.

“Is this your lab?” Mr. Abel asked, looking up at the top of the abandoned clock tower. “It’s…nice.”

“It is adequate,” Dr. Fowler replied. The billionaire nearly jumped at the low, whispery sound of his voice, and Dr. Fowler held back a twisted smile. “If I decide to enter into a partnership with you, I will require a more…updated facility.”

“Sure, Doc, no problem. I’ve got one all set up that nobody’s used in awhile. But I was told that I would be getting a…preview?”

Dr. Fowler nodded to the open door of his clock tower-turned-laboratory. “Just through there.”

Mr. Abel finished his drink as he entered, carelsssly tossing the plastic cup aside. It clattered on the pavement. Ignorant buffoon, Dr. Fowler thought, and followed him inside, shutting- and locking- the heavy door behind them.

“Got yourself a fixer-upper, huh?” Mr. Abel glanced around the first floor. “What a mess.”

“The natural consequences of my work. Science is not always clean.” Where Mr. Abel saw old, yellowing papers littering the floor and broken furniture pushed up against the grimy walls, Dr. Fowler saw nothing but promise and potential in the empty space. He’d thrown the papers out because he had advanced beyond their contents. He’d shoved the furniture away because he needed room to work. Even the location was important- in the middle of the most downtrodden, poverty-stricken part of the city. The building itself had been carefully chosen- a modern laboratory would have been inaccessible and drawn too much attention. The clock tower was perfect for his needs. Whatever mess the foolish Mr. Abel saw, Dr. Fowler could overlook in favor of the results that would come out of it.

“So where’s your brilliant masterpiece?” Mr. Abel asked. Dr. Fowler didn’t appreciate his teasing tone. “You said you had something special to show me.”

“I do. Upstairs.” Dr. Fowler led the way up the twisting metal staircase to the next floor of the clock tower- there were five in all. He rarely used the first floor. The second and third were his workspaces, as was the underground floor Mr. Abel did not- and would not- know about. The fifth floor was empty save for the ancient clock.

It was the fourth floor where his masterpiece lived. And it was the fourth floor where he led Mr. Abel.

“So you make weapons,” Mr. Abel said as they ascended. “Living weapons. You brainwash ‘em or something?”

Dr. Fowler scoffed. “Do not insult me. My work is no mere brainwashing or hypnotism. You may as well buy a robot if you merely want something to be commanded.” He shook his head. “The beauty of my work is in its balance. Too much, and you are left with a husk. Too little, and the result is unpredictable. There are many others in the business of making weapons. They all fall short. Their creations are mindless drones, suitable only for simple tasks.”

“And yours are different?”

Dr. Fowler smirked. “The secret of weapon making is not in the mind, but in the will. Unlike those imposters, I leave my subjects’ mind intact. What I remove is their free will. Once I am finished, they can still think for themselves. They can reason, find solutions to problems- they do not stand stupidly waiting for someone to command them. And yet they still obey commands, without question.”

“If it works like you say it does, I’ll definitely want some,” Mr. Abel answered.

“That is only the first step in my process. They must be trained as well. And there is another variable that must be accounted for.”

“What’s that?”

“Humanity. I have learned that the best way to create my weapons is to strip them of their humanity. If you’ve looked into my background, as I’m sure you have, you’ll know that I was a genetic biologist. One can make a man believe that he is less than a person. I take it one step further. I take the lie and make it true.”

They had reached the fourth floor. Dr. Fowler came out into the middle of the room first, waiting for Mr. Abel to catch up.

This floor was bare, nearly completely empty. The only things in the room were the scientist, the investor, and a figure that knelt in the center of the room, their head covered by a hood.

“You asked for proof, Mr. Abel. Here is my proof. My first successful masterpiece. Project Magnum Opus.” Dr. Fowler crossed the room and removed the hood. “Or, as I prefer to call him…Kestrel.”

Mr. Abel’s mouth dropped open as the kneeling form stood.

Dr. Fowler knew what he was seeing. A young man, or what had once been one, dark-haired and pale-skinned, hair tumbling down the neck and over the forehead to conceal the face in shadow. Bare-chested, showing a burn scar on the shoulder and smaller scars scattered over the torso. Slender, but with lean muscle corded through the lines of the body, a body made to be quick, agile and strong.

“He’s impressive. But, if I can ask, why do you call him Kestrel?” Mr. Abel asked.

A smile tugged the corner of Dr. Fowler’s lips. This man was even more oblivious than he had thought- even though the primary reason for that name was still concealed, there were still clues visible if one looked. Mr. Abel seemed to be a man who had to be shown.

Well, let me not disappoint him.

He stepped behind his weapon and unbuckled the harness around the shoulders, allowing Mr. Abel to see the evidence of the other side of his process. The billionaire actually staggered back in shock. “Are- are those real?” he breathed.

The massive black wings slowly unfurled to their full span. Dr. Fowler did not try to hide his smile now. “Of course they are. The talons are real as well.”

Mr. Abel had somehow not noticed that the weapon was barefoot, displaying the vicious curved talons that were so useful in combat, or that the hands too had talons rather than nails. If it weren’t for the blindfold over the face, he would have also seen the piercing golden eyes. The wings and talons were enough, however, and he clung to the staircase railing like he would fall out of pure shock if he didn’t hold on to something.

“You may touch him if you like,” Dr. Fowler offered magnanimously. “He will not attack.”

Mr. Abel looked distinctly nervous and Dr. Fowler reveled in it. “Are- are you sure?”

“He will not attack,” Dr. Fowler repeated. “That is, not unless I tell him to.”

Mr. Abel approached cautiously, stretching out his hand like a small child about to pet a large dog. Kestrel watched him impassively, blinking once or twice. Mr. Abel stroked the edge of the wing, his mouth stretching into a grin. “Wow,” he said. “It feels real. How’d you do it?”

Dr. Fowler smiled, and leaned close to Kestrel’s ear, and whispered, “Corpus et sanguinis. Strike.”

Mr. Abel didn’t hear the exact words, but he certainly saw the effects. Kestrel went rigid for a split second before leaping into motion, knocking Mr. Abel to the floor, the head tilting to the side as the predator found the prey even without the use of sight. The wings were useless in this confined space, but spread out anyway, helping to terrify Mr. Abel even more thoroughly. The man was screaming, horror twisting his face as a sharp talon tore a gash in his sleeve.

“Hold, Kestrel,” Dr. Fowler said. Kestrel froze, still keeping the man pinned to the floor. Dr. Fowler waited a few more moments, savoring the look of fear on Mr. Abel’s face, before he commanded, “Release him.”

Kestrel let go and stepped back, and Mr. Abel staggered to his feet, white-faced. Mr. Abel glanced from one to the other, shaking, panting, his eyes wide. He pointed a trembling finger at Dr. Fowler. “I could sue you for that, Fowler. I could sue you for all you’re worth and have your- your- thing shot.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Dr. Fowler answered. “Not without admitting that you were ever here in the first place, which, Mr. Abel, you cannot do without coming under scrutiny so intense that all your filthy little secrets will be dragged out into the light right beside me. You would lose everything, and you are not the kind of man who would risk that.” The corner of his lips turned up. “Besides, you said you wanted a preview. That is what you were given.”

The anger stayed a moment longer, fury darkening Mr. Abel’s eyes. Dr. Fowler waited, unconcerned.

Finally, Mr. Abel pulled himself to his feet, laughing sheepishly. “I guess I did want a sneak peek, didn’t I?” The anger bled out of him, replaced by intrigue. “Wow. I mean, that’s impressive. I want a dozen of them. You told anyone else about this?”

“No.”

“Don’t. I want you to be my private supplier.”

Dr. Fowler smiled. “What does a rich man need with living weapons?”

“You stick with your business and I’ll stick with mine.” Mr. Abel ran his hands through his hair, his face transitioning into an easy grin. “So how does he work? You said something to him before he jumped me.”

“When I begin the mental reprogramming process, I implement cue words,” Dr. Fowler explained, careful not to give too much away. “In the absence of anything else, the brain latches onto anything it is given. In this case, the trigger words. Once the process is complete, those specific words will place the weapon under the control of whoever speaks them.”

“And his words are…”

“Not for you.” Dr. Fowler folded his arms. “I will make you your own weapons. Kestrel is mine.”

Mr. Abel shrugged. “Sure.”

The man seemed to have gotten over his fear, approaching Kestrel- although, Dr. Fowler noticed, he did not touch the weapon this time. “So what are his limits?” he asked. “I mean, he’s the prototype of mine, right? What can he do?”

“Anything you command.”

“Could I order him to fetch me a vodka with lime?”

“Kestrel is not some sort of personal butler,” Dr. Fowler said, his smile disappearing. “Kestrel is a weapon, perfectly designed for that purpose and that purpose alone. Not a toy for a rich man’s amusement.”

“Could you make one that is?”

Dr. Fowler sighed. “If that is what you would like, I can do it. I suppose you want it to be beautiful, barely clothed, and enamored with you, as well?”

The billionaire grinned. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Self-obsessed fool.

“Do you always make them…animal hybrids?”

“Yes. It tends to be more stable when I do that, and as I said before it helps the reprogramming process. I have tried many kinds, on many candidates. Kestrel has the DNA of a species of vulture.”

“That where the wings came from?” Mr. Abel walked around to look at the weapon’s back, where the wings protruded from the shoulder blades.

“The wings were originally from a California condor,” Dr. Fowler answered. “I grafted them into Kestrel. DNA can do many things, but it cannot give something wings. The talons and the eyes, yes. The wings required help.”

“Huh.” Mr. Abel looked sufficiently impressed. As much as he disliked the billionaire, Dr. Fowler had still hoped to take his breath away with his demonstration, and it seemed as though he had been successful. “So how many of these weapons can you make for me?”

“How much time do you have?” Dr. Fowler asked instead of answering directly.

Mr. Abel frowned. “Why does time matter?”

“Do you think it is an easy thing to create one of my masterpieces? That I can snap my fingers or hold up a swaying pendant and they’ll be ready to do whatever I command? The human will is the most stubborn force on this planet, Mr. Abel. To break it into splinters and scrape it out, to fill the empty mold back up with your desires, to make sure the vessel does not shatter under the pressure- it takes time.”

“How much time?”

“Months.”

“What?”

Dr. Fowler continued as if he hadn’t heard. “And of course, I must have the perfect candidate. I have tried this method again and again. All attempts ended in disaster. Some subjects did not survive the initial operation. Some lasted longer, but the strain of being reprogrammed was too much for them, and they died or became comatose. Some survived reprogramming, but as empty shells that could not move without being commanded, that had to be told to even breathe. It took years, Mr. Abel, years of failure, before I finally succeeded with Kestrel. But I think you’ll agree that the results are worth the effort.”

“Where do you get candidates?”

Dr. Fowler shrugged. “Kestrel is an excellent hunter. I sometimes have him bring them to me, but that tends to draw too much attention. I prefer more subtle methods. Money is a splendid lure. People who have no other option will gladly submit themselves to scientific study for the mere promise of cash in their hand. Though, of course, they stop having a use for money long before I would have to pay them.”

“You’re really committed to this, Doc.”

Dr. Fowler pinned the man with a look. “This is my life’s work, Mr. Abel. I am as devoted to it as a mother to her child. No force on this earth could sway me from this path. No amount of begging or bribery, threats or tears, no amount of opposition can stop me once I begin my work. It is not an easy road to walk, but I walk it, and it does not matter what obstacles are placed in my way. I have set out to create the perfect living weapons. That is what I will do, no matter how many tries takes. No matter how many bodies I have to bury. I will suceed.” Abruptly the smile returned to his face. “I have succeeded, with Kestrel. Though of course there are always improvements that can be made.”

“So how do I do this, when I get mine? What happens if he disobeys?”

“My weapons cannot disobey.”

“Okay, what about when he does something I want?”

“What do you mean?”

Mr. Abel shrugged. “If I tell him to do something and he does it. Do I click a button, or give him a reward or something?”

Dr. Fowler smiled humorlessly. “Yes, he gets a reward.” He trailed his gloved fingers down the side of Kestrel’s face, ghosting over the blindfold. He was always careful to avoid touching Kestrel with his bare hands- skin-to-skin contact could have an adverse affect on the training.

“What kind of reward?” Mr. Abel wanted to know.

“He gets to live.” Dr. Fowler moved his hand lower, wrapping it around Kestrel’s throat. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t have to. Kestrel knew he could. That was enough.

“I do not tolerate disobedience, Mr. Abel. If one of my creations fails me, I destroy it, and start again with a new base. There is never a shortage of test subjects in this city.”

It was, at least partially, a bluff. Dr. Fowler did not get attached to his creations, but Kestrel was his first true success. It would take a failure of great magnitude for him to start over. There were other ways to discipline a weapon.

Mr. Abel was grinning. “So far, Doc, I’m seeing no drawbacks.”

Dr. Fowler replaced the hood over Kestrel’s head, gesturing Mr. Abel towards the staircase. This time he let the billionaire go first, all the way back down to the ground floor. “What do you think?” he asked.

Mr. Abel hummed, stroking his chin. “I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful partnership. I’ll have one of my lawyers write up a contract-“ at Dr. Fowler’s warning glance, he held up a hand. “And I’ll leave out any details to keep your secrecy. You can add those in yourself.”

“That is appreciated.”

“But I want one more thing in exchange, Doc. I like what I’ve seen so far, I do. And I love the idea of having my own personal weapon who will do anything I tell it to.” He folded his arms, and suddenly the foolish billionaire seemed slightly less so. “Your Kestrel. I want to see him fly. Tomorrow morning.”

“You- what?” Dr. Fowler was not often taken aback. But this request sent him reeling a little. “Kestrel isn’t used to flight. I don’t send him out often, and then always under cover of darkness.”

“Exactly. I want to see the reaction to him, if there is one. If the government has a conniption fit and comes down on you, I don’t want to be involved.” He spoke bluntly, without shading the truth. Dr. Fowler grudgingly appreciated that. “And I want to see those wings in action. You can send him out early enough that there won’t be many people on the beach. But I want to see what he does when he’s away from you. No offense, but I’m betting he takes off.”

Dr. Fowler pressed his lips into a thin smile. There were still some things this man didn’t know. “All right, Mr. Abel. I will take you up on that bet. Tomorrow morning, I will send Kestrel out. And we’ll see what happens then.”

Mr. Abel returned his smile. “We will, won’t we?”

They shook hands on it.

[serickswrites]

Im a sucker for Hero and Villain, normally i enjoy Villain whumpees but im also a sucker for Hero whumpee, so i was thinking

Villain as a passionate whumper who takes Hero as a hostage, Hero still keeps being compassionate with Villain, saying how they believe they can change, even with bruises, Hero always greets them with a smile, always tries to ask villain what has happened to them to make them so angry, and everytime Hero cares for Villain, Villain tortures them harder, they just cant take how much Hero cares for them, even with the torture, they cant handle how it makes their heart clench. Soo, villain keeps torturing hero and hero keeps caring for him, and as time passes, Villain's heart gets softer and they finally understand how much they care about villain, but when they finally realize, that's when Hero finally breaks from torture, they dont respond, they dont do anything, a shell from the person who cared about villain till the last second.

sorry if this is a weird prompt or too specific, feel free to delete, i love your works so so much!!

Hello, Anon! I'm so sorry this took so long for me to answer. But I can definitely write this for you! I hope you like it.

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture, bruises, broken bones, blood, catatonia

Villain slowly walked to the dungeon in Lair. They had kept to their routine these last several weeks. Torture Hero for a couple hours in the morning, have lunch, resume torturing Hero until Hero passed out, and then go out and wreck havoc on City.

But they had grown tired of the routine. Had grown tired of beating Hero and still had Hero smile at them. Had grown tired of breaking Hero's bones and still hear Hero say that they were still a good person, and that Hero knew they could change. Had grown tired of their hands stained with Hero's blood and still Hero asked about them, their history, and well being.

Villain had grown tired of hurting Hero because Hero wouldn't break. Villain had grown tired of torturing Hero because Hero still cared for them. And perhaps, Villain had realized over their lunch, they cared about Hero.

"Look, Hero," Villain said as they opened the door to the dungeon cell they had thrown Hero in before going to lunch, "we need to talk."

Hero lay in a bloody heap in the center of the cell. They didn't move as Villain spoke. Didn't roll over and look up at Villain through their swollen black eyes. Didn't flash their sweet smile with now broken and missing teeth. Didn't do anything, but lay in the heap, their wrists still cuffed in the power suppressing cuffs Villain had slapped on them all those weeks ago.

"Hero?" Perhaps Villain had kicked Hero too hard after they had thrown Hero in there. Perhaps Hero was still unconscious. "Hero?" Villain touched Hero's shoulder delicately. They shook Hero. "Hero, wake up."

Villain shook Hero harder as Hero remained unresponsive. Villain rolled Hero onto their back. Hero blinked up at Villain. But they didn't speak. Didn't smile. Didn't do anything but stare blankly.

"Say something, Hero," Villain ordered.

But Hero didn't say anything. They continued to stare out at nothing. Villain said a silent apology as they pinched Hero's arm. Hero didn't respond. Didn't flinch away in pain. They lay there, silently, staring out at nothing.

Villain's heart dropped as they realized they had finally accomplished their goal. They had finally broken Hero beyond repair. They had finally accomplished everything they had been dreaming of for weeks. But they didn't want it. They sat down next to Hero silently and began to sob. "I'm sorry," they said through their tears. "I'm sorry I went this far. I'm so sorry, Hero. Come back. Please. I'm sorry."

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Febuwhump Day 29: Not Allowed To Die

Content warning: painful healing, temporary Whumpee death

The magic burned through them like lighting. Their body jerked with the feeling, spasming as once dead nerves were thrust back into new life. The feeling moved from their limbs inward, centering around a throbbing pain in their chest.

The magic focused on their heart. Whumpee felt phantom fingers circle their heart and press, forcing it to beat once more.

Whumpee’s mouth opened in a silent scream. They couldn’t breathe.

“Hurry, damnit!” There was a face above them. They were shouting, panic and exhaustion lacing their words. “I don’t–I can’t bring them back too many more times.” They felt hands digging into their shoulders, shaking.

“I’m trying!” Another voice, tense with concentration, responded.

The world smelled like burnt meat. Whumpee could see nothing but smoke in the sky, ash falling like snow. The forest was burning around them.

Through their tears, Whumpee saw a glow. Soft, warm, unlike the red of flames creeping in.

Glowing fingers dug themselves into the broken and bleeding hole in Whumpee’s chest, and Whumpee’s world went white with agony.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Someone was speaking again. Something wet dripped onto Whumpee’s face.

They could hear it. They could hear their bones snapping into place, feel burnt and dead flesh becoming raw and bloody. They could feel months worth of healing happening within seconds, concentrated and agonizing. It felt like their body was being torn apart all over again.

Whumpee felt their lungs, burnt beyond any natural means of repair, reform within their chest. They inhaled, shaking and desperate, and felt their lungs press into a pair of hands.

Whumpee screamed.

“Just a little longer, okay? You’re doing so good–,” the voice near their head spoke, voice trembling. Whumpee felt a hand brush against their cheek, wiping away tears.

Whumpee’s head lulled limply on their neck. They wheezed, and tasted nothing but ash and blood on their tongue.

“No Whumpee please! Just hold on–,”

The sound was fading, the world turning dark. The pain was becoming distant. Whumpee embraced it.

The world faded out, and Whumpee felt themselves die. Something grabbed them. Not their body, broken and laying dead on the forest floor. Something grabbed them, the soul that had finally separated from their flesh. It dragged them down, a vice-like grip dragging them back towards that inferno. Dragging them into that broken, burnt shell they’d just escaped. Bringing the pain closer. Whumpee couldn’t fight it.

Whumpee opened their eyes, body lurching, as magic willed their heart to beat once more.

“Please!” Whumpee sobbed. They just wanted it to stop.

“Just a bit more!” Those hands on their shoulders tightened, and Whumpee felt their magic tethering them to their body. “You’ll stabilize soon, you just need to hold on so they can heal you-!”

That healing, burning light returned to their chest. Whumpee didn’t have the energy to pull away. They could only scream as their body was rebuilt.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Make your Whumpees Chronically Ill.

What kind? Do they have Chronic Pain? Chronic Fatigue? Dietary illnesses? Connective tissue diseases? Autoimmune disorders? Something made up or fantasy based? Something else entirely?

What does their day-to-day look like? Maybe they don't need a Whumper to be suffering. Can they take care of themselves, or do they need help? Do they get that help? What happens if they don't? What happens if there is a Whumper using this against them, or a Caretaker who doesn't understand? Make them flare up, then worsen all their symptoms!

For invisible illnesses; Do people believe them when they say they're sick even though no one can see it on the outside? Do they struggle with not being able to see what they feel themselves?

For more visible illnesses; Do they face discrimination and ableism? Do people treat them differently, do people infantalise them? How do they feel about that?

Questions;

What are their symptoms like?

Do they flare up?

If their health worsens, will it ever recover?

Do they mourn the life they had before it got to this point?

Do they have a diagnosis, or even know what's wrong?

What gives them respite?

What makes them worse?

Do they suffer with mental health issues as well, and are they because of the Chronic Illness or a secondary thing to suffer?

Pain;

Neuropathic pain;

Widespread, often nerve based pains from a nervous system disease or disorder

Allodynia- tactile, thermal or mechanical allodynia, even the lightest touch can hurt, and your skin feels raw and bruised. Pressing on it hurts deeply, to the bone. Pain can worsen with temperature fluctuations, warm and/or cold.

Parasthesia- peripheral neuropathy, partial or full numbness, tingling, pricking, vice like or lightning-like pains, weakness in the affected areas. Can worsen with compression, such as restraints or stress positions, and can come and go.

Nociceptive pain;

Somatic sharp pain that's localised to the affected area and can be caused by long term, unhealing or reocurrent damage and injury

Visceral aching pain that's widespread and can be caused by systemic disease

Inflammation- hot, aching pains that throb incessantly, seizing joints and knotted muscles, brain fog, headaches and sluggish thoughts, stabbing tendons and sharp pain in ligaments, swelling, tenderness and redness

Dislocations, subluxations and connective tissue weakness, weak joints that can contort beyond what is normal, soft skin that bruises breaks and scars with ease, never ending joint pain, grinding bone against bone and broken cartlidge, permanently altered movements from ligament damage, agonisingly powerful sharp stabbing pains at certain movements

General:

Pain that's worst when waking. Pain that gets worse throughout the day. Pain that's worse in heat or in cold, pain that changes with the weather

Dissociation as a way to cope with the pain, to the point when they realise just where hurts it's like being hit by a truck. Depersonalization to the point they don't know who they even are, they don't feel alive, these limbs are not their own. Derealisation to the point reality feels like it's taken a step to the left, like they're a ghost and the real world is behind a pane of glass. Both blanketing over them in a desperate attempt by the brain to stop the pain that would have them screaming without it.

Pain that they no longer respond to, what's the use in screaming when it never ends. Chronic pain that masks the acute pain of injuries they didn't realise you had. (Ask me how I know...) Chronic pain that has medical professionals shocked at how little they react to things that cause severe pain. Chronic pain that wears down their tolerance for everything else, that makes them snappy, irritable and angry.

Vice like pains, twisting clawing tearing inside muscles, pain when they move, speak, even breathe.

Pain that never ends and isn't touched by most medications. Pain that IS helped by some medications, but the side affects are terrible, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, hallucinations, bladder and bowel issues, slurred speech and a hazy mind

Pain they cannot see that drives them to hurt themselves on purpose just to feel in control of it, just to be able to see what they feel upon their skin

Pain that will make them do anything for it to stop, pain that takes their hope away, robs them of their dreams, makes them want to end it all

Fatigue;

Fatigue that drives a haze over their brain and tears their memory to shreds. Slurred words, sentences said in the wrong order, fatigue that has neurological bases. Fatigue that turns a once sharp mind into a rambling incoherent mess. The ability to read, write, speak, listen all taken away, so the world becomes an incoherent mess too.

Fatigue that causes insomnia, so they end up physically exhausted AND fatigued at the same time

Fatigue that's worsened with light, sound and being upright, and can only be managed by aggressive resting, lying still in the silent darkness.

Fatigue that comes in waves, fatigue that flares if they overexert; Post Exertional Malaise, limbs weak and pumped full of lead, tachycardia, inability to stand or walk, inability to eat, think, drink, speak

Fatigue that feels like the flu, fever, swollen glands, hoarse throat and blood pressure dysregulation, fainting and dehydration

Dark circles under eyes that only seem to worsen over time. Weight loss and muscle wastage, ability draining away.

Fatigue that feels like dying whilst alive, that no one understands, that isolates until there's nothing left. Fatigue that strips of everything that made them who they were, until they are just a shell of a living thing.

Make your Whumpees Chronically Ill.

Sincerely, a Chronically Ill fuck who is suffering far too much today and wants to see more representation.

This are purely based on my own experiences, and is by no means exhaustive, hell, I've only scratched the very surface of my own chronic illnesses here.

Feel free to add to this!

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Can I request recovery 🛌 or lonely/touch starved 🥺 for Cloe? I know you said they were one of your OCs that you didn’t really feel creative about so if you don’t have any inspiration, don’t worry!

Prompts from Nonhuman Whump Emoji Prompts

Aww thank you!! Mostly I don't have a solid plotline in mind for Cloe, he's more just a concept I thought up but didn't do much with. But I'd like to write more of him so I'm going to try!

About Cloe: he's a winged character. In his world there are a few different species of winged folk whose evolution diverged to suit different environments. Cloe's species are short, slender, lightweight, they're quick and nimble but fragile. They have small feathery wings that are only good for low gliding over short distances. They live in grassy and sparsely forested areas, are generally mild-mannered, peaceful, and are vegetarian.

There's another species that evolved to live up in the mountains. These ones are tall and strong with huge wings, they can soar really high and far. They're predatory and aggressive as a species and don't think much of Cloe's species, sometimes going so far as to capture them to keep as pets or slaves or just to torment. Many of their captives die from poor treatment.

Oops this got long

Content Warnings: winged whumpee, captivity, mentions of pet whump, enslavement, torture, and death, broken bones, bruises, blood, stabbed, painful restraints, passing out, starvation, exhaustion, rescue, female caretaker, reluctant caretaker, 'it' as a pronoun

----

"I'm getting a new one tomorrow. This one is no fun anymore."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Omeron snorts. "Dunno. Don't care. You want it?"

Galea makes a face at the suggestion. "Me?"

"Why not? They're easy to care for. Don't eat a lot, don't take up a lot of space."

"I just don't see the point."

It's true, she never has. The smaller winged folk are too weak for hard labor, too timid to make good companions, and can't even fly properly. Galea has no use for one, and lacks the sadistic streak to want one just to push around.

"How about this. You take it for a day. See if you like it. If you don't, I'll toss it."

He means, quite literally, to throw it from the mountain, the fate of many a discarded pet.

"Fine," she concedes, just to get Omeron to leave her to eat lunch in peace. "I'll pick it up later. Now shut up."

-

That afternoon Omeron is out hunting. True to her word, Galea goes on her own to his home for her secondhand small-wing. He told her it would be out back, and sure enough there it is.

Unsurprisingly, the creature is in awful condition. It is pinned to the back wall of the hut by daggers through its little wings, which are mangled and bloodstained. It is malnourished, sunburned, coated in dark bruises, a broken arm hanging limp at its side.

Broken is the wrong word. Crushed is more like it.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" she grumbles.

The creature startles awake at the sound of her voice. It whines softly and cradles its arm but doesn't attempt to move beyond that. By now it must be used to this.

Big, sorrowful gray eyes stare back at Galea, only at eye level with the much taller winged woman because it is pinned up on the wall. Galea stares back, taking in its weak breaths and red-rimmed eyes. Only then does she realize she has never seen one of these up close.

Curious, she reaches a hand out. The small-wing flinches and squeezes its eyes shut, expecting a blow or tight grip. But Galea just wants to feel its silky hair. She pets it a few times and the creature gradually relaxes. It even nuzzles at her hand.

Omeron definitely doesn't pet it, she thinks. That isn't his style. The hand-shaped bruises around the creature's wrists and neck...that's more what she expects. The qualities that make him a formidable hunter and warrior don't exactly make him a doting pet owner.

"Can you speak?" she asks.

It flinches again at her firm tone and averts its gaze.

"Yes," it whispers.

"Do you have a name?"

It hesitates.

"...Cloe," it replies softly.

"Looks like you're mine now, Cloe," Galea says. She is still reluctant about all of this but she never says anything she does not mean, and she said she would take in this battered little thing for a day, so she will.

Galea removes the knives from its wings, neither cruel nor gentle, just quick and efficient. Cloe gives a feeble cry and faints into her waiting arms.

It - he - is even lighter than she imagined; she cradles his broken body effortlessly. She can feel every little quiver and hitched breath he makes, troubled even in unconsciousness. His skin is hot - whether from sunburn or swelling, bruises or fever, or all of the above, she can't tell.

Poor thing...

-

Galea takes care of her things. Her home is well kept, her wings well groomed, her weapons sharpened.

Now Cloe is hers too, if only for a short time.

She lies him on a large cushion in the corner. Against the dark fabric he seems even paler, scrawnier, more pitiful. Feathers fall from his damaged wings, the surest sign of poor health for their kind.

Uncharacteristically, Galea didn't plan this far ahead. She sort of hoped Omeron might change his mind and decide to keep his pet a little longer. But now the small-wing is here and she has to decide what to do with him.

He is in no shape to work and she has the feeling that was never why Omeron kept him in the first place. Still out cold, he isn't much good as a companion, either. And she has no desire to harm him.

Instead Galea finds herself examining the wounded creature more thoroughly.

Beyond the most obvious injuries there are many other, subtler signs of his mistreatment. His hands and feet, once soft from a life spent on grass and dirt, are scraped, calloused and blistered from the stone and wood surfaces of mountain living. Bones in his right ankle, left hip, and sternum feel at least fractured if not worse. His breaths are thin and labored, suggesting internal damage. On his back there is a barely healed scar that she recognizes as caused by a spear. That must be how Omeron caught him.

And then there are his wings.

Cloe's brittle wings are broken in more places than she can count. They are punctured clear through in several places, leaving the white feathers stained red. When she runs her fingers through them they shed easily.

Galea pulls her hand away with a shudder and shakes off the feathers. She tucks her own large, powerful wings closer to her back, fearfully imagining them as ruined as Cloe's. It would be a fate worse than death.

-

Galea continues the rest of her evening like normal - dinner in the hall, her evening patrol, sparring as the sun sets, a bath in the spring and grooming her wings. By the time she returns home she has nearly forgotten about her new 'pet'.

Cloe's eyes are closed, but when Galea shuts and locks the front door he jolts awake. Immediately he groans and cradles his shattered arm again.

He watches Galea approach with bleary eyes, labored breaths, little quivers. He knows as well as she does that he is completely at her mercy.

The pitiful sight should repulse her, a warrior who wouldn't dream of looking so helpless, who would die fighting rather than submit to the whim of a captor.

But instead it presses on something inside her like a thumb on a bruise. It comes with the overwhelming urge to soothe the frightened little thing rather than punish or mock him. Unsettled by the feeling, she clenches and unclenches her fists a few times and breathes slowly, grounding herself.

Mere minutes later she is sitting cross-legged beside the cushion with her medical kit, smoothing a numbing salve over his broken arm. Cloe bites down on his lip to keep quiet despite what must be excruciating pain as she maneuvers the limb around. She efficiently splints and bandages it.

Galea silently treats every break, bruise, and cut to the best of her ability. Even at her gentlest, Galea's grasp is firm; she isn't used to handling something so fragile. Cloe winces and whimpers but never complains. Gradually the medicine dulls his sharpest pains and tension eases from his body. Soon he can barely keep his eyes open.

"Don't sleep yet," she instructs him.

Cloe nods, visibly forcing himself to stay awake. Galea pours a cup of juice. Then she cups Cloe's head with one hand and easily sits him up. She holds the cups to his lips and waits until he drinks the whole thing.

"More?" she asks.

"I can have more?" Cloe whispers.

Galea answers by pouring another cup. She indulges herself by indulging him - allowing him to drink to his heart's content. When he's finished his head lolls to one side and he gazes up at her with reverence.

"Thank you."

"Don't," Galea insists.

And she means it. For now there is a sense of ownership. She agreed to have Cloe for a day and leaving him in that state was unacceptable. Tomorrow, who knows.

Cloe is asleep the moment Galea settles him back onto the cushion. She covers him with her cloak and prepares for bed.

As she falls asleep she can't help but picture Cloe thrown from the mountain, disappearing into the fog below as he falls to his certain death. The image follows her into her dreams and makes a home at the back of her mind.

[whumpy-writings]

Safe and Sound

Pennae Volatus Masterlist

Augusnippets 2024 Day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

CW: broken bones, winged whumpee, honestly pretty much comfort because Zem deserves good things

"Hey!"

Zem groaned. Everything hurt.

"Are you injured?" The voice was closer now. Footsteps approached them, then stopped abruptly. "Unt's spot, what's an avian doing here?"

Zem didn't have the energy to respond. This was a dream, anyway. They were dying, their final escape attempt a success only technically. Their body was bruised and battered, their wings both damaged beyond repair. And who knew what the internal damage was. Yep, Zem was dying, and their gasping brain had decided to conjure one tiny thread of comfort in front of them.

"I'm here to help," the voice said. Zem blinked their eyes open. The figure crouching next to them was quite round, with dark hair and a kind smile.

"My name's Maxin, what's yours?"

They didn't know why their dying brain decided that a dream with audience participation was necessary.

"Zem," they croaked out.

"Zem," Maxin said. "What a nice name. Were you stuck out here in that storm?"

"Yeah." Zem felt their eyes getting heavier.

"Hey, stay awake for me, Zem," Maxin said.

Zem forced their eyes open and shot Maxin a glare. What an annoying dream. Couldn't it just let a bird die in peace?

"My house isn't too far from here. Let me take you there. It's not safe out in the open, what with the flesh eating monsters and such."

Despite themself, Zem giggled. That would be ironic, wouldn't it? Escaping slavery only to be eaten.

"Oh no, there's nothing to laugh about," Maxin said. "They'd love to sink their teeth into both of us."

Zem groaned as they realized that this was not in fact a dream. They hurt too fucking much for that. Zem tried to move their arms and legs.

"There you go!" Maxin said. He gently grabbed Zem's arm and helped them to sit up. Zem's head pounded.

"Can you stand?" Maxin asked.

Zem moved their legs experimentally. "I-I think so."

"Excellent, friend, let's get you up." Maxin helped Zem to their feet. "Now we can take it nice and slow. I see that your wing is injured, are you hurt anywhere else?"

Zem winced. "Everywhere."

"Well, that won't do," Maxin said. "When we get back to the house I'll see what I can do. Get you some food and water too."

Zemk grabbed Maxin's arms as a wave of dizziness hit them.

"Woah there," Maxin said. His brow pinched in concern. "I don't think you'll be able to walk. If you climb on my back, I should be able to carry you."

Zem nodded, too weak to argue, and wrapped their arms around Maxin's neck. He grabbed their legs and hoisted them onto his back.

"Perfect. Let's get you home."

@whumpsday

[3-2-whump]

Rescue: The Informant, Part Three

Because You Want to See a Conclusion on This Story, Right?

<prev

TW/CW: captive whumpee, imprisoned whumpee, torture aftermath, mention of religion (unspecified), degradation, implied noncon, not necessarily suicidal ideation but a morbid acceptance of death, uncertain fate of a character

The first thing he woke up to was the smell of smoke in the darkness. He stirred lightly on the concrete beneath him, cracking his eyes open and instantly regretting it. Smoke and heat were seeping through the crack at the bottom of the cell door, and there was already enough to sting his eyes and burn his lungs. He coughed, then wildly scrabbled his broken fingers against the collar on his neck, desperate to find a buckle or a clasp or something to unlatch it from the chain mounted above him. He heard the muffled sound of crackling flames, firing bullets, and screams beyond the door. His increasing panic made the collar and leash tighten like a noose, slowly choking him along with the smoke pouring in-

Wait, why are you fighting this? It’s over. His hands fell limply away from his neck.

It’s over. It’s finally over. This is how you die.

The closet grew hotter and stuffier with the fire encroaching and the smoke rising in, yet he was calm as he closed his eyes and positioned his sore body back-first against the wall. Never in his worst nightmares did he ever think he’d have to say the Liturgy of the Dead for himself, but a lot had transpired in merely two months, and his worst nightmares had come true.

I’m sorry, if You’re listening, he cried with his whole heart, I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He opened his mouth and moved his lips reverently, his raspy voice soon following. “We gather here, Oh Great One, Divine, to mourn the passing of-”

The door broke down and interrupted his prayers. His eyes snapped open just in time to see an unfamiliar figure clad head to toe in black rush towards him. “Whumpee!”

Who?

Oh yeah, me! It had been so long since anyone had ever called him something other than ‘scum,’ ‘bastard,’ ‘fuck toy,’ ‘holes,’ etc., that he had almost forgotten his own name. The man crouching by his side pulled down his mask, showing him a familiar face he could not exactly recall. This man’s brows furrowed with concern as he brushed his tangled hair out of his eyes and cupped his face in his hands.

“You’re okay, we’re okay,” he murmured, “I’m getting you out of here.” The man’s eyes flashed towards the chain bolted to the wall above them, then to the collar on Whumpee’s throat. He turned his head and yelled outside the door. “Hey! Bring me the axe!”

Another man, Lieutenant, came in wielding a heavy, suspiciously red and wet-looking axe in both hands, pausing as he rushed to the first man’s side. “What the –Leader, what happened to him?”

Leader? Team Leader? Unbidden memories of a friendly face smiling at him and comforting arms holding him close flooded Whumpee’s mind.

“Swing at the wall where the chain is mounted,” Team Leader directed. 

Another friendly face and set of comforting arms flickered across Whumpee’s mind. “W-wait, where’s Caretaker?” he murmured. “He’s one of them, but-”

Team Leader shushed him. “We know, we know. Save your strength. Let’s worry about you right now, okay?” Notably, he didn’t look Whumpee in the eye.

“But, Caretaker-”

Two well-directed swings of the axe were all it took to sever the chain from the wall. Without wasting any time at all, Team Leader scooped Whumpee into his arms. “-Is fine. He’s fine,” he insisted, hoisting him up to a standing positon. Again, he could not meet Whumpee’s eyes. “Now, can you walk?” Team Leader asked, casting a concerned look to his mangled feet.

Is this a dream? Am I dead? Is any of this really happening? This is a lot to take in.

Whumpee tiredly shook his head. Wordlessly, his captain took the axe out of the big guy’s hands and slung it over his shoulder as Lieutenant picked up Whumpee gently to carry him. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Team Leader said. “We got who we came for.”

Against the chest of the bigger man who carried him, Whumpee let his eyes close and his body relax. Whether this was a hallucination before death, or an actual rescue, at least it meant this nightmare was over. That was enough for him right now.

Le Taglist: @whumperofworlds @whumped-by-glitter

[monarchthefirst]

stoic whumpee prompt

Your whumpee was the epitome of dignity and self-respect in the days before their captivity by Whumper. They were always well-spoken, measured, controlled, and even fought with a graceful elegance that made many jealous and even a little amused.

Skip about a yr into the future:

Whumpee is a broken-down, groveling, unrecognizable shadow of their former selves after a lengthy inferno of shameful treatment and humiliation at the hands of Whumper. They seem broken beyond saving, but suddenly one day, a punishment breaks that one little strand that’s still holding it all together. Maybe they got head-slammed, or kicked. Shoved to their knees? Commanded to do something degrading or shameful to themselves or someone else? Anyways, they lose it. Go completely feral. No one ever imagined whumpee was capable of this behavior. They had turned into a complete demon that did not care if it lived or died, was heedless of how much of its own flesh it tore to escape the captors. Someone throws them into a mirror or something, glass shatters and they pick it up, hands pouring blood, and throw it or try to use it to stab Whumper/his cronies. When the glass is knocked out of their hand, they sink their teeth into their captor’s throat and hold on with a dog-like grip. Nothing can make them let go. The man is screaming in their grip, blood bubbling up around Whumpee’s mouth and teeth. They’re screaming too, manically. Screaming all the pain and rage and grief of their past enslavement. They’re screaming and they won’t stop.

don’t even remember where I was going with this. But yeah just a thought I had. Enjoy.

[whumpshaped]

love the idea of multiple whumpees, but whumpee A has been there much longer than whumpee B, and is pretty much already a broken husk by the time B even gets there.

A just sort of stares vacantly ahead whenever whumper isn't directly demanding their attention, so lifeless that B would have thought they were dead if they couldn't see them blinking and breathing.

initially, B keeps their distance from A, unnerved by how completely and utterly broken they seemed. but as their captivity continues, they become so desperate for the touch of someone who won't harm them that they snuggle up to A whenever they can, and talk to them about all their worries and idle thoughts, even though they never say anything back and B wonders if they even hear them at all.

maybe B's company starts to bring A back to reality, ever so slowly. or maybe B is just clinging for emotional support to someone who's well and truly gone.

(these are just placeholder names not real ocs. arin and bee are stand ins for character a and b)

tw multiple whumpees, lady whumpee, fear of death, captivity, past trauma, beating, conditioning, dehumanisation, attacked by animals (referenced)

“I thought they’d never stop,” Bee whispered, hugging her only friend tighter. “They were so angry. They said they’d kill me, and… and I believed them. I thought I was done for. I thought that was the end of the rope for me.”

As usual, Arin didn’t respond. She stared at the ceiling, looking like she hadn’t even heard her. The only reason Bee was sure Arin could hear at all was because she responded to commands from their captor. 

Bee knew all that she knew about Arin through their captor, actually. The poor thing had never spoken a word in her presence before, not to introduce herself, not to protest when she hugged her, nothing. She never even responded to Darian, and they didn’t seem to mind or be disturbed by it, so maybe this was normal. Maybe it wasn’t the trauma that stole her voice away. Bee would never know, it seemed like, unless she felt suicidal enough to question Darian about it.

“I don’t know what made them change their mind in the end… Maybe they just got tired of hitting me. I don’t know. I scurried out of there as soon as they left an opening, and they just didn’t follow.” 

Sometimes she felt bad for dumping all this on Arin. She’d clearly gone through a lot to have ended up so… hollow. So utterly unresponsive, even to slapping and kicking. Darian barely even punished her, probably because there was no sign of it changing anything. Arin never apologised, never made a sound, and never changed her behaviour. She was perfectly obedient to begin with, and any mistake she made that was worthy of a punishment was the result of nothing but accidents. There was nothing to change.

And the thing was — Bee had no one else. Arin was her only companion, the only one to talk to who didn’t hurt her for it. It was a little like talking to her favourite plush toy, as mean as that sounded. It brought her immense comfort in a place where she knew nothing but suffering.

“I… Maybe I’m dumb for running back here instead of trying the front door. It could’ve been unlocked this time, and I’d never know.” She nuzzled against Arin, tears pricking her eyes. “But I thought— I thought, ‘I have to protect Arin. I can’t just try to leave, and, and leave her with this angry monster’. So I ran back here.” 

Honestly, Bee knew there was nothing for her outside. There were fields, woods… Darian’s hunting dogs. She’d tried to run before; the bites had left some nasty scars on her legs, not to mention the pain that she’d learned to live with since then.

She sighed and pulled away. “You know—” She stopped in her tracks, eyes widening. “Arin?”

Arin was looking straight at her, big, usually empty eyes now filled with tears and sorrow beyond measure. She looked… touched. Was it the story? Was it that she’d come back, trying to protect her?

“Oh, sweetheart.” Bee pulled her right back into an embrace, not even bothering with questions. Arin looking at her might’ve been the biggest step she’d taken towards interacting with her so far, but Bee had no illusions about the future of their relationship. Arin wasn’t just going to start monologuing. “Of course I came back. Of course. I’ll always come back for you.”

[whumpsday]

K&J: Kane's Whumptober Bites #11

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: death wish / suicidal ideation, vampire whumpee, captivity, bear trap, broken bones, burns

@whumptober Day 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.” / Animal trap / Captivity / “No one will find you.”

-

The muscle in Kane’s leg spasmed as if crying out, crushed between shattered bone and hard metal. He whined in pain and tried to curl in on on himself, but any movement just made it worse.

With a sharp gasp, he abandoned the effort, lying limp on the floor of his cell, the bear trap snapped snugly around his leg. The silver, melted and slathered haphazardly over the trap’s jaws, pressed into his skin with enormous force as it desperately tried to close together, frustrated with Kane’s leg in the way.

It was always so much worse when it pressed in, and now it did it from both sides. A touch against silver was bad enough, but the way it pinched his skin between the jaws to sear into it, a white-hot flame that would never die, was unbearable. The pressure was greater than when hunters would push or pull him into the cell’s bars, and unlike a human, the trap was uninclined to ever let go.

But the hunters had left him like this, and he had no hope of removing himself from the trap until they returned. Kane whined again, louder this time, and pressed his face into the cool concrete floor, as if it could somehow cancel out the hellish burning.

“Help,” he gasped. A habit he’d been making less and less use of. He’d well lost track of how long it had been by this point, but it was obvious no one was coming to save him– and even more obvious that he was helpless to save himself.

There was only one way out, and that was death. And even that had been cruelly dangled out of his reach.

As long as his captivity felt, Kane knew that in reality, it was laughably short. Surely only a few years. He was young enough for a vampire, only barely past one-hundred. While a human his age would be on death’s door if they hadn’t already met it, and a human equivalent to him in physicality– thirty or so– would only live for sixty-odd more, he had more than a thousand years stretching beyond him, if he couldn’t earn a staking before then.

Even that hope was diminished, knowing the hunters had too much fun making him their plaything to let him meet death so easily. Perhaps in a century, when all his current tormenters would be dead and cycled out for new ones, the next generation of humans would have a change of heart.

It was little comfort to him now, the peace of death a distant dream. A shard of bone shifted in his leg and the trap cinched tighter, wringing a wail from his hoarse throat.

[floral-comet-whump]

hello!!! my name is shavit, and I'm a whump blog!

my pronouns: they/she/star

my age: 17!!

if you have minors dni on a post and see I have liked or reposted it, it was probably an accident. I'd be a little sad if I get blocked because I'm sensitive, but I won't take offense to accounts doing so

a fun fact about me: my name, shavit, is pronounced sha like shush and vit like bit (down), but the B is a V

things I hope to be known for: being an interactive fan, having unnecessarily intricate character designs, and having good takes (I rlly hope I have good takes, I am trying)

whump tropes I like:

conditioning (both the process and the result. I think the main reason I'm into whump (other than just sadism towards fictional characters bjkbbidb) is the fascination I find in storytelling where characters are broken and reshaped), whipping, stress positions (very illustrative!), begging, fantasy whump/magic whump, magical exhaustion and magical euphoria, institutionalized whump + living weapon whump, bad caretaking, carewhumping, branding, secretly defiant whumpee/liar whumpee. I made this post about them and I'm really proud because a post of mine hasn't attracted attention since I was like... 12 and made a gacha life series

original whump writing

Daffodil Academy is a boarding school taking in talented youths which belong to... less fortunate backgrounds. Throughout history, this institution has consistently nurtured what most would think are children beyond saving into dutiful, competent servants of the kingdom.

contents: minor whump, magic/fantasy whump, institutionalized whump, living weapon whump, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, parental carewhumpers, conditioning, non-sexual/non-romantic grooming, generational trauma

post where I ramble about this as a concept

“Kill him.” | Featuring: Walenty

Hurt or be Hurt | Featuring: Walenty

I currently don't have plain writings that don't belong to any particular setting soz </3

Original whump art

just some doodles and references for walenty! no whump, just placed here for convenience's sake

singular kid walenty doodle with thoughts and rambles in tags

KID walenty taking an L (shit doodle edition)