#do they really have this effect on whumpee? they wonder

[whatiswhump]

Whumper kidnaps Whumpee, not realizing they were on psychiatric meds, thus inadvertently cutting them off.

They're horrified watching Whumpee go into withdrawals- anger, mood swings, vomiting, unable to sleep, agitation, losing touch with reality rapidly.

Whumper wanted to have some fun... not... this. They’ve barely even touched them yet!

[seasons-beatings]

Happy holidays, @whumpy-wyrms!

From your gifter: Author's Note: This was such a fun little piece to write! Thanks for letting me borrow your miserable men. I hope you enjoy <3

Summary: After Dew gets his wings (literally), Anton wonders if the transformation caused any other side effects. Despite Dew protestations, he must find out.

Contains: Lab whump, noncon drugging, medical whump, graphic depictions of surgery, carewhumper, mild gore, test subject whumpee, needles, mentions of past noncon body modification, winged whumpee

Science Doesn’t Sleep, But Test Subjects Do

Anton smiled to himself as he knocked on the door to Dew's room, giving his test subject a bit of warning before he pushed the door open. He couldn't help but smile as stepped inside to see Dew curled up on the bed, blanket covering his lower and half, and wings-those luscious, marvelous, miracle wings-curled around his torso protectively.

Seeing them made his heart sing, and Anton didn't think that would ever change. The experiment had gone so beautifully well. A part of him couldn't believe that it had worked at all, but the evidence was impossible to ignore. Dew had grown wings. His life's work was coming to fruition.

Quietly, he approached the bed, crouching down by Dew's head. He knew the hour was early, possibly obscenely so, though it was always difficult to tell where the line was, but the procedure he had in mind for today needed to take place before Dew had eaten, and the results would probably take him some time to interpret. He reached out, patting Dew's shoulder. "Hey, buddy, you awake?"

After a moment, Dew groaned, lazily opening an eye. He groaned again, louder, when he realized it was Anton who had disturbed him. "Whaddaya want.." He mumbled as he buried his face in the mattress.

Anton tutted, turning the lights in his room all the way up. "We've got a few tests to get through this morning. Nothing difficult, all you have to do is lay there."

Dew shook his head, lifting the pillow to hide underneath it, wings curling in even more.

"C'mon sleepy head, none of that." He frowned as he pulled the pillow away, leaning it up against the headboard.

Slowly, Dew opened his eyes, squirting at Anton."Can't it wait until a more decent time?"

"Science waits for no man," Anton smiled, patting him on the shoulder and offering him a bouffant cap. "After this you can have a big breakfast, okay? Maybe the chocolate chip pancakes?"

Dew looked up at him, eyes wide and brimmed with tears as he nodded. His voice was quiet when he spoke. "Okay."

Anton was pleasantly surprised with Dew's compliance as he got his subject situated on the operating table at the center of his lab. When he was first constructing the space, he hadn't been so sure about about investing in the table and the overhead lights for it, along with everything else, but he was now more than getting his money's worth. Being strapped down to it always made Dew's eyes go wide, but he hoped that would fade with time.

"I'm going to give you your sedative first, okay Dewey?" He reached back for a pair of gloves and his IV access tray. Dew had great veins, adding just another reason to why he was such a wonderful subject. With some ketamine in him, he was nearly perfect.

Unfortunately, Dew didn't seem to appreciate that as much as he did. When Anton started to wipe his hand off with an alcohol wipe so he could place the cannula, Dew sobbed, sniffling.

"What're you even gonna do to me?"

Anton couldn't help but smile as he sunk the needle in. "I'm so glad you asked." He ignored the way Dew groaned quietly in the background. "Today, we're going to do a quick little kidney biopsy."

Dew flinched at that, blinking the tears out of his eyes. "Wha? Why?"

He hummed, tapping down the IV to the top of his hand. "Well, as I explained previously, the serum I gave you that stimulated your wing development" -they were really such wonderful wings, he would never be over that-- "used portions of bird DNA as a template." He flushed the line, and Dew shivered when the cold saline entered his veins. "Now, little known fact, bird kidneys contain both mammalian and reptilian nephrons. I'm curious to see if you've started to develop these traits internally."

Dew whimpered quietly as he drew up the sedative, double checking the dosage calculations in his mind. His subject's hands were already kneeling against the thin padding of the operating table pulling at the piped edges. The poor thing always got himself so worked up.

"I know it sounds scary," he said, keeping his voice gentle as he flicked the syringe. "But it's very important that l investigate this. Making sure any mutations stay contained is vital to my research." He screwed the syringe into place. "You know I wouldn't put in any more pain than was ever strictly, scientifically necessary."

His subject sniffled again, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.

"What was that?" Anton asked, thumb lightly resting on the syringe's plunger. Dew just glared at him, eyes watering, and he shook his head. "It's okay. Let's calm down now, yeah Dewey?"

He slowly depressed the plunger, pushing the medication into Dew's blood stream. As it took effect, he watched a blissful expression slide over his face, and his eyelids started to droop.

Much better. Much better indeed.

***

Now that Dew was much more relaxed, Anton found preparing for the procedure to be much easier. He could finally focus on all the minute details, as he preferred to do. A procedure like this was meticulous, and Anton wouldn't have had it any other way.

First, he pulled Dew's gown off and attached him to the monitors. Just in case, he looped an oxygen mask around Dew's face, so he wouldn't have to worry if his oxygen suddenly took a dip while he was working, and started him on a liter of fluids, to keep his pressure up. Then, he carefully positioned Dew on his side, placing supports under his downward shoulder, head, and behind his back, and then holding up his top arm with two pillows. He looked a little silly, but it would save him quite a bit of soreness when he woke up.

Next, he moved on to setting up his instruments. He'd spent a while planning a kit that worked perfectly for him. For this procedure, he had two basic surgical sets, of which he unwrapped the outer drape of, careful not to contaminate it, then deposited extra surgical swabs, suction tips, electrocutery pens, and sample collection dishes. Next came the pack of drapes, which he easily tore open, but didn't unfold. Because he was operating alone, draping could be difficult, but he'd manage it when he was sterile. Before he went to do just that, he opened the sterile pack containing his gown, and peeled open the sterile, size seven point five glove package and dropped them in as well.

With the exception of the actual operation itself, the scrub had to be Anton's favorite part.

He lathered on the bright orange antimicrobial soap, starting at his fingers and methodically working his way down, all the way to his elbows. Afterwards, he went as his fingernails, as well trimmed as they were, carefully removing every trace of contamination from underneath them. He washed for another two minutes, using the brush side of the sponge on his fingertips, before using the softer side to wipe the rest of his hands and arms down.

From there, he moved over to the table, thoroughly drying each of his hands with the towels that were packaged with his gown. After they were dry, he pulled the gown up off the packaging, letting it unfurl downwards, before stretching his arms inside it and pulling it on. This was the part that an assistant would've been helpful for, and it hurt him dearly as he fastened the velcro behind his head, careful not to brush his mask, cap, or the exposed skin of his neck, and making sure to only touch the outside of the gown. It hurt his soul, but it needed to be done. His experiment had to stay secret. An assistant was too much of a risk. Sighing to himself, he moved on to the gloves, pulling them down over the cuffs of his gown.

He finished the rest of the preparations that needed to be done while he was sterile, moving efficiently as he laid out the collections of forceps, clamps, and retractor,s and scissors, scalpels and needles, sutures and syringes and anything else he could possibly need, organizing them along with the sponges and swabs. Next, he set up his suction and diathermy, which he'd modified to all be controllable with a series of various foot petals. He thought it was pretty ingenious, though, of course, it wasn't exactly like he could share it with anyone.

Next came the prepping and draping. Anton thoroughly scrubbed Dew's back with a chlorhexidine solution, before starting to drape him. Once again, because he only had one person, his draping wasn't exactly perfect technique, and he found himself wincing behind his mask.

Luckily, it was over soon enough, and then he could move on to the main event. He'd gone for the right kidney, since the literature seemed to say that it would be easiest to access. Before he cut, he carefully palpated Dew's spine, finding the edge of his rib and following it along to his mid-axillary line. After quickly numbing the area with a syringe of lidocaine, he plucked a scalpel off the table and made the first incision.

Smiling to himself, he sliced through the layers of Dew's skin, then used his fingers to tear apart the muscle until he got down into the perineum. He suctioned and cauterized as necessary, cursing himself for not installing a better ventilation system. If he was being honest, the singed flesh smelled absolutely god awful.

There was a tired, slightly pained groan from the table as he worked. "It's okay, Dewey.

You'll be just fine," Anton said softly, doing his best to comfort. Though, that was really the point of the ketamine. Dew wouldn't remember any of this.

He hummed, smiling slightly as he got down into the retroperitoneum. One of Anton's big concerns had been that Dew's kidney would be difficult to locate, but once he'd started cutting, he'd found that this wasn't going to be a problem at all. His right kidney was very superficial, easily identifiable without any trocar placement at all. Just one more way the Dew really was the perfect subject.

Using a pair of forceps and a pad, he pushed open the fat pad, revealing the flesh of Dew's kidney. He couldn't help but poke at the organ, feeling the warmth through his gloved finger. There was another wide grin on his face again. It was beautiful.

Dew whimpered again, breath hitching, and Anton pulled his hand away. He needed to get on with the actual procedure. Dew didn't need his abdominal cavity open any longer than was strictly necessary. Refocusing, he pushed the Trucut needle in and collected the biopsy sample, then repeated it with a second needle. He'd gotten what he came for.

"That's the worst of it," he hummed as he withdrew the second needle, setting it to the side so he could close.

He used the diathermy forceps to stop any of the bleeding from the biopsy site on the kidney, then started to close, neatly suturing up Dew's skin layer by layer. His subject was still whimpering quietly, Anton wished he could lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but his words would just have to do.

"You're all done," he said as he numbed the site generously, hoping that it would make waking more comfortable, before bandaging the surgical site. "See, that wasn't so bad, hun? Just like

Satisfied with his work, he pulled his gown and gloves off, then took down his mask. Dew was still distant, but his eyes still flickered up towards Anton as he squatted down so he was at face level. "You did so well for me, Dewey." He reached a hand out, petting his subject's hair. "So, so

Dew just mumbled in response, and Anton smiled sadly. If only Dew could be this pliant and relaxed all of the time, then they would really be unstoppable.

[aswallowimprisoned]

Restless far from a Wine Dark sea - Sedation

Nurse Brunel checks in on a post-sedated vampiric merman to find their captive with significantly fewer inhibitions than normal..

Tw captivity, sedation, medical whump, drugging, injury, Dead Dove Jewish vampiric whumpee, religious whumpee

RestlessffaWDs' timeline is going off piste for @medwhumpmay

masterlist

≪ °❈° ≫

set maybe a month or two into Nathaniel Fogal's captivity. This is the first snippet that features Dr Elias Freid, a psychologist/therapist who is Nathaniel's main interrorgator alongside Logan.

≪ °❈° ≫

“This is Nurse Ivan Brunel, Post Sedation check on the merman known as Fogal, mer patient #3.” Ivan went through the familiar recording of medical protocol. “Due to the negative after effects of thiobarbiturates on the wellbeing and mood of the patient, anaesthesia for this set of tests was achieved using Propofol.” He snapped on fresh blue gloves as the pneumatic doors hissed open to reveal the sleeping form of the merman bound to his hospital bed. “It has been 30 minutes since the cessation of anaesthetics and removal of airway support, so patient is expected to be still experiencing significant sedative effects… And our resident mer psychologist Elias Freid is in observation bay to assess behaviours and provide therapeutic guidance if required...”

Ivan gave one last check of the monitor displaying the mermans blood oxygen, before unhooking the oxygen mask from his face and replacing it with nasal cannulas. Within moments, the sea monster’s face crinkled with the start of wakefulness at the smell of a human in the room, and he rolled his head to regard him, blinking sleepily.

“Glad to see you awake Fogal. We put you to sleep for a while, and I know you are probably still pretty sleepy.” Ivan kept his voice soft and calm, a familiar routine for waking patients from their deep sleep. Fogal murmured something unintelligible.

“I am just going to flash a light in your eyes now,” Ivan gently steadied Fogal’s head in his hand as he checked his responses. The merman’s pupils were blown wide, barely reacting to the light shone on them.

“Pupils are dilated and slow to respond to stimuli, but he seems both semi-aware and calm.”

Fogal closed his eyes and pushed his head into the palm of Ivan’s hand, chittering softly.

Ivan stalled for a second, before brushing his fingers though the young man’s hair. No - Fogal was not a young man, he was an ancient bloodsucking sea monster who just looked like a young man. And who, going from the delighted whirring noises, really liked getting skritches.

“Is this ok?” Ivan asked, more to the psychologist on the other side of the 1 way mirror than to the snuggly merman.

“Yes,” Elias’ voice came through Ivan’s earpiece, “Though still be careful with those teeth. Drugged means unpredictable. This behaviour is fascinating to watch. Even if he would not normally engage in such displays of affection with any of the staff here, it does suggest that he may exhibit this behaviour towards loved ones in a less stressful environment.” Elias was contemplative, "I wonder if he would be the same with someone he doesn’t like, say Dr Rana?” He was tapping information into the computer, the keys audible over the comms. “I mean, we know mer live in groups, so he is likely to be… touch starved. I do hope we can allow the captive mer to have social bonds sometime later in the project, but allowing touch when semi-sedated may be a good sign he trusts you to some degree...” 

 “I guess someone really likes Propofol.” Ivan smiled softly, “It is nice to see him calm. Even if that calm comes out a bottle.” Ivan moved to stroke the top of the merman’s head, and he let out another slew of chittering squeaks, drooling effusively.

“Indeed.” Elias hummed, “Do you reckon he is going to remember this next time he wakes up?”

“Vaguely. The levels of sedative in his system shouldn’t be high enough for complete memory loss, even if they have affected his behaviour...” Ivan replied.  

“Ok Fogal,” he raised his voice, and the merman focused his gaze on him, “Do you think you can describe how you are feeling right now, and if you are in pain?”

Fogal frowned comically before slurring out an affirmative noise.

“Ok…” Ivan swiped the merman’s doll out of the box at the end of the bed. The communication doll was one of the first tools Elias had introduced when he had started as the merman’s therapist, “Can you point on the doll where it hurts?”

Fogal groped clumsily at the doll’s arm, where Ivan knew the merman had a comminuted fracture to the ulna , then poked all round the top of the toy’s tail, mirroring the placement of the stab wounds on his body. All areas where he was expected to feel pain, but maybe some pain medication might not go amiss.

“Ok. And do you feel sick? or dizzy?”

A low hum for both assured Ivan that negative side effects of the Propofol seemed minimal. 

 “...And do you feel like you want to hurt anyone or yourself right now?”

Fogal shook the doll’s head. Then he started to stroke the stuffed merman’s hair. Ivan had to stifle a laugh as he ruffled his hair. “Good job answering questions, I just have a few more things to do, you can just doze off if you want.”

“That was good non-verbal communication!” Elias sounded impressed, “Propofol is looking good for the retention of awareness and reduction of anxiety.”

Ivan smiled as he put on his stethoscope and listened to the steady beat of the mermans heart. Fogal didn’t mind the cold metal, concentrating instead on wiping the plush merman doll’s head against his hip, crooning gently at the soft material against his bare skin. Ivan enjoyed the quiet - Fogal didn’t always wake up so calmly, the thiobarbiturates they had been using for anaesthetics triggering what appeared to be quite intense PTSD flashbacks. He peacefully allowed Ivan to use the tympanic membrane temperature probe, check his urine output into the box on the side of the bed, and other post-anaesthetic checks. 

“All done and looking healthy, Fogal. You can go back to sleep now. Can you give me the doll?”

Fogal looked up at him with watery eyes, glancing down to his doll then back up at Ivan.

“P’ease?” the merman asked hopefully.

“Dr Freid? Please advise.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Allow him to keep the doll Nurse.” There was a determined note to Elias' voice. “Unlike the previous situation where he tried to take something, the doll is not a choking hazard and has been requested fairly politely. Though this shall be discussed with Logan as his other handlers, I believe that having a possession will aid in a sense of security, and that the doll has great potential for further use as a communication tool."

Ivan gave the merman's hair one last ruffle. 

"Ok Fogal, you can keep a hold of it. Now let's get you back to sleep, ok?"

--888--

Nathaniel awoke theto the heavy tread of Nurse Brunel. Memories came back in dregs. Dr Rana had put him to sleep, so they must have done something to his body, though there were no new spots of pain...

“Hey Fogal, how are you feeling?”

His hands hadn’t cramped up as much as usual. They were clamped around something soft and thick, far better than the thin sheets he usually balled up in place of seaweed. He creased his brows and held up the item as best he could with his wrist still bound to the bed. 

The stupid rag doll stared back at him.

Nathaniel cocked his head in confusion, and looked up questioningly to his favourite nurse. 

“We sedated you for some tests, do you remember?”

Nathaniel nodded slowly, then wiggled the doll at him questioningly.

“When I went to check on you afterwards, you really wanted to keep a hold of the communication doll there. And Elias thought it may be useful for you to have him with you anyway.”

Nathaniel looked down at the soft little plush merman. His tail was the same pleasant deep red as Nathaniel’s own tail, his sewn-on expression one of peaceful neutrality.

He squished the doll’s head gently. A strange half memory rose of petting the doll's hair, and then of gentle fingers carding through his hair. Nathaniel scowled.

What would his interrogator think of him if he saw Nathaniel wanted to keep a toy?

- I. no. need. stupid. Communication doll. - He signed, trapping the doll under his wrist to form the words. 

“That’s ok too, Fogal.” Nurse Bruel spoke peaceably, “And you can let me know if you change your mind. Can you keep a hold of it while I check your eyes?”

Nathaniel nodded, and Nurse Brunel stepped forwards with a tiny bright light. Nathaniel surreptitiously shuffled Little Fogal under the sheet. He could barely see the little lump the doll made under the covers. He tucked it into the fabric and rested his hand back by his side. 

“Looking good, no post-sedation signs. I can take your oxygen mask off now.” Nurse Brunel took the bulky plastic off his face. Nathaniel wiggled his jaw.

- Thank you - He signed.

“No problem, Fogal. I’ll let you pray now, and Elias will be through for a session once you are done…”The nurse glanced down to Nathaniel's empty hand next to the little doll shaped lump, and the slightest smile appeared on his face. Nathaniel watched him warily, but all the nurse did was give him a swift gentle pat on the wrist before turning to leave the room.

Nathaniel squeezed his new possession once, and settled into prayer.

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Quick!! Link a scene or piece of work you're created that you're proud of! First one that comes to mind!!

*bounces in place* ohohohohoho you've gone and done it now!!! Feast your eyes on this scene from one of my many WIPs - I hope I'll finish it one day. It really is one of the Big Three of my Magnum Opuses.

Below the cut:

Female whumpee

Mute whumpee

Disabled whumpee

Female Caretaker

Recovery

Mentions of Scientific/Medical Trauma

Bruises and bandages

Collapsing

Fatigue/Weakness

Samira slept for another day. Until the pangs of hunger and other necessities grew to be too much to ignore. She drew in a slow breath and sighed, then lifted her arms in a stretch. The skin of her elbows pulled uncomfortably and she stopped at the telltale sensation of scabs beginning to split. Even now, days later, she felt the bone-deep ache from her journey here. The dull throb of a lingering headache. The pulsing pain in her knees. Her hands still held a tremor without the slightest provocation. More than anything, she wanted to go back to sleep until the soreness went away, but nature had other ideas.

Turning her head, she saw she was alone. The lights to the room were dimmed low, and the only other source of light came from the glow of a safety light in the bathroom five feet away. Blessedly, she saw the IV pole was on the same side of the bed. All she had to do now was walk. Piece of cake. Pulling the blanket back, she slung her legs over the side of the bed. She stopped long enough to wonder at the sight she saw.

Socks. Soft, fuzzy yellow socks with grips on the bottoms. She turned her attention to her gown. It, too, was buttercup yellow, decorated with bumble bees and daisies, and the hem - stopping at her knees - even had the tiniest decoration of white lace. She longed to rub the material between her fingers, but the bandaging on her hands prevented her from doing so. It would have to wait. Besides, the thick wads of cotton taped over each knee ruined the effect. Her skin, she noticed, was far paler than its healthy cinnamon color, and even the patches of vitiligo, normally rosy, held a sickly shade. She frowned, feeling like the ghost of her former self.

Gripping the IV pole for balance, Samira scooted forward. Tentatively, she settled her feet on the floor. No fear driving her to move. No dizziness. It didn’t matter how many times she had tried to stand on her way here. She was stronger now. She was rested. She could do this. Carefully, as if to balance on an egg without breaking it, she put weight on one foot. Her knee began to quake and she grabbed the IV pole with her other hand, clinging to it, and the momentum of doing so forced her full weight forward. Quickly, she brought her other foot forth to catch herself.

For the briefest of seconds, she teetered, awkwardly poised between the IV pole and her fawn-like legs. She could feel the cuts in her palms reopening as she clung to the pole, the gauze slackening her grip. Then the wheels of the IV pole rolled. Samira flailed, gasping as her crutch moved before she was ready, and tried to snatch it back. It fell, and she followed, knocking a metal tray and its contents to the floor with a great crash.

She might have cringed at the noise if she hadn’t instinctively tried to catch herself. Though the gauze cushioned the fall somewhat, it didn’t stop her knees and elbows from cracking against the hard tile - biting through the cotton and clawing at her already-shredded skin. Tears sprung up and a mute yelp rattled her throat before she could stop herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and still a hoarse sob wrenched itself from her chest.

Hurried footsteps sent a dart of panic up her spine, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The lights switched on, then a set of hands were on her. She flinched, but they didn’t release her.

“Samira.” Jean. Jean was there. “Samira, it’s alright. It’s just me.”

Without waiting for a response, Jean lifted her back to the bed as easily as a child might lift a dropped doll. Samira tucked her hands beneath her chin, arms pressed against her chest, and tried to control her breathing - all while fighting the urge to curl in a ball right there. Hot, thrumming pain rolled up her limbs, coiling into tight knots and biting, clawing, digging into her bones. Why did it hurt so much? How could things go wrong so quickly? She opened her eyes from where she’d squeezed them shut, peering between wet lashes at the mess she’d made. Fresh, unused medical supplies lay strewn about on the floor. The IV pole lay on its side, and the tray had skidded a couple feet away. She drew in a shaky breath, shame heating her cheeks.

Automatically, an apology tried to leave her lips. Instead, it came out in a pitiful wheeze.

Mistaking the gesture for one of pain, Jean smoothed a hand over Samira’s back. “It’s alright, Samira. Do you want something for the pain?”

Samira shook her head and hid her face behind her hands, the gauze absorbing her tears.

“It’s okay if you do. You don’t need to be brave, not here.”

Samira shook her head again, gulping back another sob before it could surface.  She already owed them so much, and it shamed her to anticipate their response to her inability to speak - and now, it seemed, the inability to walk. Had the Team left any part of her untouched?

[letstalkwhump]

Let's Talk Whump No.5

Welcome to Let’s Talk Whump, a series of interviews that spotlight the amazing people in our whump community! ! I’m Malice and I’ll be your host. 

Today I’m talking whump with the wonderful @painsandconfusion! 

So good to have you here today, @painsandconfusion! Tell us a fun fact about yourself!

I'm a lawyer but don't seem like a lawyer at all - everyon'es always confused when I say so. I'm a fan of jumping between fluffy pink dresses, standard hipster vibes, emo styles, and who knows what else. It's different every day. I just like variety!

What does whump mean to you?

Oh dear, tricky to answer...

Whump is when a character is at their highest stress point (or...at least higher than average). I suffer from severe and vivid nightmares, but I found out that when I write whump, I can process my fears and anxieties through those characters and their experiences. I can only go about two weeks without writing before the nightmares start again. It's kinda amazing to see just how effective and healthy it is for me. I live vicariously through my whumpees for a moment, and they help my brain keep its shit together. Then I get to meet all these lovely people online and it just makes my heart so happy!

Wow, that’s really great to hear! Whump can be really cathartic at times. How did you find the whump community? What made you want to join? 

I think this is a standard story, but I discovered the hero x villain community first, and it wasn't /quite/ my cup of tea, but it was close. After I saw a few people reblogging things with #whump, I checked it out. 

I have a vivid memory of skipping class for the first time in my life, just sitting in my apartment, all but crying as I scrolled through everything. I was so relieved to find that I wasn't alone. I spent so much of my life hating myself and hating whumperflies and hating that I was drawn to violence and not understanding why. After I found this community I felt so much more at home. 

I made a blog and started reblogging.

Then of course, I relapsed into hating myself and deleted it.

Then I made another. Started posting gifs I made from my favorite whumpy movies.

The kink community kinda took it over - which is fine and lovely and I'm happy to share content, but....they were the only ones who saw my blog. So everything I made was taken in a way I didn't mean and I felt very isolated and unheard.

So I deleted it again.

A couple years ago, I tried again. I started just reblogging, then I impulsively added to a prompt list in one of my reblogs and people really liked it? So I made more. And more and more and more- eventually I started posting scenes, and I've been having a lovely time here ever since! 

Do you think your view on whump has changed since you joined? Are there tropes you now love/hate that you didn't at first? 

Absolutely. Like. Wow so much. I used to dislike pain a lot and only enjoy the fear leading up to it. While I still prefer the suspense, nothing really squicks me out anymore. I used to hate pet whump but now I'm a fan. 

I have started making whump art as of late, which has been a fun new adventure! I picked it up almost solely because there's so many fantastic writers in this community who deserve some good fanart. I'm having fun working through a list of my favorite creators!

Tell us about your favourite whump trope!

Dear goodness, do I love a chin tilt.

No no...hmmm.....I get to run wild with this question and there's nothing you can do to stop me! Muahhahahhaaaaaaaa~

Okay so. Picture this.

Whumpee stumbling slowly backward, breath catching in their throat and burning at their lungs. Their feet drag against the ground as they stare up at Whumper, eyes shaking and sparkling with tears that cling to their lashes, refusing to fall. Not /quite/ yet. 

Whumper strokes a knuckle down their cheek, drawing a twitch - not quite a flinch, no no, Whumpee wouldn't dare to pull away. Whumper's hand flips softly as it reaches their jaw, pressing to their throat instead.

Whumpee finally lets a sound pass their lips, a soft whimper as their back hits the wall. The momentum topples the wetness from their lashes, and Whumper's eyes roam down to follow them as they soak hot into the fabric of Whumpee's shirt. 

Whumper's hand turns up just /once/ more, curling a finger under Whumpee's chin to tip their head up, drawing hiding eyes back into place.

Then they say something whumpy, I guess - you get the picture.

LOVE that shit. 

Intimate whumpers? Slow pacing? Vivid sensation? Yes!

Absolutely loving the detail in that! It’s all about the sensations! And speaking of favourites, do you want to share a piece you've written?

Hard Question!

First one that comes to mind is The Party. It's one of my favorites because my hands were shaking so hard while writing it. It was a great way to kick off that event (@thewhumperssoiree) which I'm inadvertently yet shamelessly plugging by answering with that piece I guess! It's very very fun, I loved what that piece created. Everyone who wrote for it did such a great job! (Event is still open, I don’t know why I'm talking about it in past tense)

Do you have a standard writing style/routine or does it vary?

I absolutely change up my paragraph style depending on the intensity of the scene or the place in the scene. I'm a big fan of elaborating and writing moment to moment so the oc's sensations and emotions bleed into the reader. I don't write much on visuals at all - almost entirely on sensation, which I think works well in this medium.

When I'm writing, I kinda forget everything else exists, so I don't have food or drink or if I do, it's neglected. If anyone tries to talk to me, tough luck to them, I'm in the Write Zone and I cannot hear them!

I write solely when inspiration strikes which.......is a lot!

Is there a noticeable difference in how easily you write things? Do the words always flow or do you have to beat them out sometimes?

There's characters who don't get in my head nearly as easily, and ones that are effortless. Getting fucking Alec in my head? Impossible. He's a bitch, then does bitch things once there. Ethan? Dream. Miracle boy. So easy to write that emo little shit. For clarification, the seven chapters of Alec's series vs the thirty of Ethan's. Alec is a bitch. End of story.

But, I also do much better describing little moments rather than full scenes. I'm good at scenes, but it takes so many spoons. Hence why I have three hundred or so random drabble posts or lists, but only like fifty total from my series. It just takes more effort to have to think about plot and pacing and all that good stuff. 

Fun? Yes. 

But hard.

Is there anything you're working on at the moment? Finalising the final chapter of your series? Starting a new au? Trying a different style of writing/pov? Revisiting fanfiction? Maybe you've really gotten into poetry....

Oh dear goodness, I'm working on everything all at once and I need to stop!

I also need to roleplay less and write more for you lovelies! I’m so sorry I’m just really distractible…

Give us some writing advice. Bless us with your wisdom!

I have posts for this but:

1. Keep your descriptions to the textured senses. Less visuals, more sensation. Caretaker has brown hair? So what? Tell me about how Caretaker's hair curled at the ends, just barely tickling at the corner of their eyes until they flicked it away with a twitchy shake of the head.

2. Personify the shit out of your nouns. Whumpee bled? No. The blood soaked through Whumpee's shirt. Make it an external factor that's affecting them. Much more engaging.

3. Pacing. Whumpee got dragged into the car, then into a house and chained in the basement? That's not one scene, that's at least three. OR. It's a two sentence summary that Whumpee is musing about while already in the basement. 

4. Speaking of, don't start with the boring, just get right into the action. You can weave the 'how we got here' bits in after a few sentences, but get your reader hooked right away. Don't start with "Whumpee got out of bed, glancing at their blaring alarm". Try instead "Their hands were shaking so hard they had to try three times to dial the number, fingers as clumsy as they were that morning, trying to slap their alarm off through the fog of blissful sleep." Or just don't mention it at all! Skip to the good stuff!

Lastly, let’s hype up some of your favourite blogs! Any friends, writers or just really cool people you want to shout out?

@whumblr was like my idol before I started! It's so cool just casually knowing her now? Still not over that, to be honest.

I always tag her but @distinctlywhumpthingmpthing is so good? Seriously, you want to see some god-tier writing, go over there. (minors read tws well please, its not all for you.)

@brutal-nemesisemesis is always a delight. Castys gives me life.

And of course,  I'm gonna give a shoutout to @wormwritinging, my beloved. We met here and as much as I adore this community, they're hands down the best part of it. 

Anything you'd like to add? 

I can't think of anything but thank you for doing this. This blog is so cool!

It’s been a honor to have you here, @painsandconfusion!

And to all you folks at home, have a whump-derful day!

[the-lark-ascending69]

lumaxramblings here (it's a sideblog so !!!) and thank u for the nancy whump, you've done the people a service <3 ouch. shit. fuck. that shit hurted <33

nancy's recovery must be pretty hard huh

@lumaxramblings !! Omg hii! I'm so happy you liked it i was worried it would be a bit too much/unasked for lol. But yes I love whump, I love ronance whump, regardless of who is in the whumpee/caretaker role. Robin and Nancy in canon have this dynamic in which Robin is kinda looking to Nancy for comfort, sacurity and guidance and Nancy is happy to provide that, so it's kinda intuitive to imagine whumpee Robin and caretaker Nancy but... whumpee Nancy just hits all the best notes too, because she's already gone through so much pain... Robin would be an amazing caretaker and exactly the person Nancy needs at the moment.

Nancy's recovery is a very rocky process indeed. Her whole family left when they thought she died, and the rest of the party still kept intermitent contact with Mike for some time, but I think that at some point the Wheelers must have changed their number without much regard for Mike and his friends and effectively cut short any way for Steve and Robin to contact them, so she's pretty much an orphan right now. Her mom and dad left. Doesn't help much. Though the kids (now entering highschool) are so excited to see her, especially Dustin, who always thought Nancy was really cool and is super happy to see her, but the three of them genuinely cry when they get her back. It's actually pretty overwhelming for her. Though I'm getting ahead of myself.

During the first day after her rescue Nancy is kinda like.. floating. Kinda peacefully going along with whatever Robin and Steve suggest. It's just the three of them in Robin's cozy little house in the outskirts of town. The doctor said she needed rest so Robin acts like a tiny helicopter parent always fluttering around her making sure she's well-fed and helping her get around the house, trying to keep her in bed most of the time and doing everything she can to keep her entertained. Afaik according to the book Robin doesn't own much technology other than her walkman and her language and music tapes, and her parents have a record player, so that's pretty much everything she has to offer Nancy, but listening to her parents' old Fleetwood Mac albums on repeat may not be the most entertaining activity for Nancy, so she offers her books instead - she even offers to read for her the ones in other languages, but Nancy seems uninterested in music and books. When she doesn't react to Robin's suggestions, Steve says she's overwhelming her, which is true, but really Nancy has become so accustomed to lying still in her cell with zero stimulation, that it doesn't even bother her anymore.

It's towards the end of the day that it dawns on Nancy that she's not dreaming, that they found her and brought her back and now she's in a strange girl's bed recovering from a few broken bones, soft and warm and safe for the first time in years. She unintentionally wakes Robin up in the middle of the night when she begins to sob. Robin doesn't know if something hurts or if she's having some sort of flashback or panic attack, and she can only think of holding her hands to ground her, but Nancy doesn't want to be touched. When Steve shows up and tries to hug her, she flinches away. She's crying why, why, why? As if she didn't understand why they took her away from her captors. Robin tries making some tea for her, but Nancy doesn't drink it. They wonder if she needs space, but when Steve asks her if she wants to be alone, Nancy holds onto his and Robin's hands so tightly they conclude she's asking for company, so they stay awake all night, next to her. She stops crying at 4am, and stares at the closed window until 8am, when she finally falls asleep. It's only been one day and it's already exhausting.

Steve and Robin wouldn't have it any other way though.

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 17: Trust and Loyalty

Chapter 17 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, male whumper, royal whumper, whumper who is also a whumpee, emotional whump, abusive parent, psychological effects of parental abuse, punched in the face

---

Kezul

Mir did crawl—literally, their lopsided movements painful to watch. Kezul had to force himself not to look as Mir made their slow, halting way out the door. He was glad when his father slammed the door shut again before he had to watch Mir try to make it down the length of the hallway.

Mir would need that wound treated, and soon. Would any of his Wolves take care of it, if they saw? Probably not. They would likely assume the prisoner had deserved whatever they got. Kezul would have to order it done. And when he did, his father would know he had done it. His father had eyes and ears here, and Kezul didn’t know where.

After the door was shut, his father stood in front of it, legs wide, arms crossed. He faced Kezul the way he might have faced a defeated enemy, or one of his Wolves who had disappointed him. Kezul had to fight the unaccountable impulse to drop to the floor and present his weapon.

He didn’t, of course, because that was never what his father had wanted from him. His father didn’t want another obedient Wolf. His father wanted another son. And Kezul had never managed to give him that. How many times had they stood like this, over the years? His father looking down on him with those iron-gray eyes, while Kezul stood with his eyes on his feet, squirming under the weight of his father’s disapproval. No matter how many years went by, he was always a boy standing in front of his father, knowing he wasn’t good enough.

But he wasn’t a child anymore. He had been given charge of Danelor, and he had done well with it. Well enough to undo the damage his father’s army had done—damage he suspected his father had meant to be irrecoverable. Well enough to earn the respect of his Fangs.

He was not that boy. Nor was he the defeated soldier he had been, freshly returned from that disastrous battle.

He kept his eyes on the floor, but he straightened his shoulders. He took a long breath. “I have ruled Danelor for a season now,” he said. “When I arrived, its people were starving. Now they will eat for the rest of the winter. There have been no revolts. No whispers of discontent from our neighbors.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about your relations with your neighbors,” said his father, his voice sharp and unforgiving. “Was that the prisoner’s doing? Or should I call him the king? From what I hear, it seems you have elevated him to the throne. What does that make you? The court jester, like they have in Faraille?”

“You left me little in the way of resources when you gave me this throne.” Kezul stopped short of saying it was a test he had been meant to fail. There was no sense in saying it aloud, not when they both already knew the truth. “I made do with what I had. Isn’t that something a ruler should do?”

“You seem to understand very little of what a ruler with my blood in his veins should do. Making deals with Danelor’s aristocrats! Letting them negotiate in your stead! Bribing them with the promise of food and a seat at the table. They’ll think they’re not conquered at all—and I wonder if they’re right. Who really sits on your throne, Kezul?” He shot a sharply mocking glance at the wooden throne behind Kezul.

“Danelor was in a desperate state when I came here. They had no food. I couldn’t even feed my own army.”

“Then if things were that hopeless, you should have razed the lot of it and started over. Turned it into farmland for Kyollen Naskor. There’s no need to worry about food if there are no survivors to feed.”

“You told me to rule.”

“Better to rule an empty land than to let these people think they have power. You are not ruling. You are eating the scraps they throw you from their table, and you are too stupid to see it.” With those last few words, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Then the thunder arrived as his father stormed past him to the throne. He drove his foot down hard into the wooden seat. A crack ran up the seat, but the throne held.

Kezul tensed, but didn’t flinch. He was accustomed to his father’s displays of temper. He knew what his father wanted from him now—unconditional agreement, and an apology to follow it up. At least, from him, the apology would not have to be entertaining.

But he was not a child, to offer a child’s chastised agreements, a child’s apology. He was ruler of Danelor. He had passed this test.

“I understand your position.” Kezul tried to keep his voice even. He realized, as he listened to himself, that it was a habit he had learned from Mir. “But this way, Danelor will produce more for us in the long run. And making building good relationships with our neighbors may help our reputation.”

“Help our reputation.” His father went still, his voice low and deadly. “You intended to change our reputation? This was not mere incompetence? You mean to have us known as people who make deals with the weak southern lands? Who offer them concessions, who approach them on our knees with our hands outstretched? Is that what you mean to tell me?”

“Of course not.” But Kezul didn’t know where to go from there. It had made sense when Mir had said it. But he didn’t know how to explain it to his father, didn’t know how to explain it to himself. He had acted on faith and instinct, following Mir’s advice instead of Gyoras’s trusting Mir that being open to cooperation was more fruitful than the threat of violence. He understood it, could even half-verbalize it to himself—they had food, and they had relationships, and those relationships were resources, and wasn’t it best for him to make use of every resource at his disposal? What would more shows of force get him beyond a burned expanse of ruined countryside?

But that was what his father was saying he would have preferred. A destroyed land, emptied of people, rather than a reputation for cooperation. And Kezul had been taught, all his life, that his father’s desire was the axis upon which the world turned. When his father wanted something, his Wolves made it happen, or they suffered for it. When his father wanted something from Kezul, Kezul made it happen, or knew himself to be a disappointment.

It wasn’t even that he had been taught his father could never be wrong. Right and wrong didn’t enter into it. There was only his father’s desire, and his father’s will.

Of course this wasn’t what his father had wanted.

Of course he hadn’t passed the test.

“I should never have trusted you with this,” his father said. “Not after your previous failure. I should have known that even a small, insignificant country like this was too much for you to handle.”

Kezul—standing here in his throne room, beside the throne he had sat in for months—felt the sudden urge to shrink down into himself and apologize. Apologize for not passing his father’s test. For proving himself unworthy yet again. For not being the son his father wanted.

His father’s desire was everything. And Kezul, whenever he failed to be what his father wanted, knew himself to be nothing. He was nothing now.

But he was a son of the Unmaker. Should he apologize for doing what his father had told him to do? Should he apologize for doing a better job than his father had thought he would, than his father had thought he could?

He kept his shoulders straight and kept his apologies sealed behind his lips, although it cost him a lot to do it. It was his throne, and this was his palace, and he was his father’s son.

“Danelor will survive, thanks to my decisions,” he said. Even though we both know that isn’t what you wanted. He didn’t say that part. He didn’t need to. The truth lay between them as plainly as if it had been spoken. If he had burned the whole of Danelor, his father would have branded him a failure all the same.

“It will survive,” he repeated. “Give it a few years, and it will be thriving. I don’t even need a few years—give me until next summer, and I’ll prove it.”

He heard a hint of desperation in his voice, and inwardly cringed at himself. Even now, he was apologizing, even if he didn’t say the words I’m sorry. Even now, he was bargaining for his father’s approval. Give me until next summer, and then you’ll be proud. Then we’ll see how I’ve given you what you wanted. Only he could never give his father what he wanted, because what his father wanted was his defeat.

He, not Danelor, was the one his father had meant to destroy, to raze to the ground and begin again. Danelor was only incidental.

That made the rage rise again in Kezul’s belly. It felt like the madness coming back, like when he was in the courtyard doors and thought his Wolves were insulting him behind his back. They hadn’t been. They had praised him. They had offered him respect, true respect, for the first time in his life. He had earned it. He had earned his victory. He had—

The world spun, the walls tilted sideways, and then he was on the ground. A pain spread from his cheek out through his jaw and into his nose. His father stood over him, fist still clenched. His knuckles were streaked with blood. It took him Kezul a moment to figure out that his father had struck him. He touched his hand to his cheek. It came away dark red, a match for his father’s knuckles.

His father loomed over him like the mountains of Danelor, far above him and untouchable. His stern face looked like something eternal, outside the normal rules of time and humanity. Kezul tensed, embracing for the next blow, but it didn’t come in. His father looked down at him with a sneer of disgust, as if he wasn’t even worth bloodying his knuckles again.

“You’re as weak as I always suspected,” he said. “As weak as you proved yourself to be in battle. I should disown you now and done with it. I should give you to the people of Danelor you love so much, and let you see how much love they have for one of their conquerors.”

“Then do it,” Kezul said, his voice slow and distorted from the pain in his jaw. “Give me Danelor. Take your spies with you.”

His father’s fist clenched again, and Kezul thought that second blow might come after all. But still didn’t come. “I could have you killed for making such a demand of me,” he his voice was not angry—anger would have been better. It sounded like he was merely speaking a truth of the universe, like a god handing down knowledge from on high. The sun rose in the east, the snow never melted in the highest mountains, and Vorhullin the Unmaker could have his son killed for daring to speak to boldly.

“Danelor is mine,” he said. “It would take a war to wrest it from my hands—and you, my son, are not prepared for war. Your army belongs to me, just as your throne belongs to me. And we both know how well you would fare in on the battlefield. I gave you Danelor as one last chance to prove yourself. That does not make it yours to demand of me.”

Then do it, Kezul almost repeated. Have me killed. Put an end to this game where we both pretend I can be what you want. But he didn’t say it. He had been trained for the battlefield, but as everyone already knew, he didn’t have the courage of a warrior. He didn’t want to die.

“But it would reflect poorly on me if I were forced to openly call one of my sons a traitor,” his father said. “Just as it would reflect poorly on me to let someone of my blood proved himself to be irredeemably weak. Do you think I gave you this chance only for your own sake?”

His father looked down at him with those stony eyes. Kezul knew better than to speak, or to raise himself up. His father wanted him on the floor, so that was where he would remain. His father’s desire, as always, was everything.

“So I will give you one more chance,” his father said. “Rule Danelor as it should be ruled, in a way befitting a son of the Unmaker. Do that for me, and I will raise you to the level of your brothers. Do that, and you will be my son.”

There were so many protests Kezul could offer. He didn’t voice any of them. He knew better—because as his father spoke, the last pieces of the truth of his situation became clear to him.

He had always known this was a test. And he had always known he was meant to fail. But it was more than that. His father didn’t want Danelor ruled, didn’t want it as part of his empire. He didn’t care if its people were fed, didn’t care if they rose up in armed revolts, so long as they didn’t shame him by spilling his son’s blood where others might see. When he had first arrived, he had had a passing thought that his father could have conquered this place solely as to serve as a test for him. Now he knew he had been right.

But it was not meant as certain failure, as he had thought at first. His father did not, after all, want to publicly disown his son and admit the weakness in his blood. He had assumed his father wanted him to fail. Now he knew otherwise. This was an arena to prove his ruthlessness, to prove he could do from a throne what he could not do with a sword in his hand. He was not here to rule. He was here to destroy.

He was here so his father could say, Yes, my son has the stomach for battle for destruction, for blood and fire and death. Yes, despite his shameful scar, my son shares my blood, and my blood is strong.

If he had destroyed Danelor—as he had wanted to so badly when he had first arrived, but never considered as a serious option—his father would have welcomed him home with open arms. He would have failed to rule, failed most spectacularly, but that would not have mattered. That was never what his father had wanted.

And what did that mean for him now—now that he understood the true rules of the game? He could hardly turn around and undo what he had done, send the food back, burn the remaining farms and the surviving villages. Was that what his father wanted from him? Did it matter if it was? His pride would not allow it. His pride and, perhaps, something else—the thing that had stopped him when he had seen Perajeon standing helplessly before him, waiting to die.

He could not do what his father wanted. But he could not defy his father, either. His father had eyes and ears in the palace, and if asked to choose, Kezul’s Wolves would not choose him. Not even his Fangs, most likely, no matter how much of their respect he had earned. Respect was one thing. The will to defy Vorhullin the Unmaker was another.

His father’s will was everything. He could not stand against his father’s will. What he wanted did not enter into it. To defy his father will be to defy the mountains themselves, or a river strong enough to carve a canyon from stone. It was not a matter of courage. It was a matter of impossibility.

If his father suspected what he was thinking, he said nothing. Such things were, perhaps, not relevant to him. What did the river care what the pebbles thought as it swept them along in its path?

“You can start by thoroughly breaking this prisoner,” his father said. “Consider it a demonstration that you have what it takes. Do you think you can handle that?”

What could he say to that? If he refused, what then? It would not save Mir. There was no defying his father. Or if there was, he had never learned the trick. All he had learned to do was apologize, and when that failed, to lie bleeding on the floor.

“Yes,” Kezul said, nodding and feeling sick.

“I would like to believe that,” his father said. “But you have given me little reason to believe. I think I will require a demonstration from you.” He offered Kezul a hand. Kezul, feeling sicker, took it and let his father help him to his feet.

“This will be a good chance to see where your loyalties truly lie,” his father said. “With your blood, or with these conquered people.”

But his father had it wrong. This wasn’t about loyalty, any more than it was about courage. It was, as always, about what his father wanted.

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @halloiambored @whump-in-the-closet @whump-cravings @sunshiline-writes @annablogsposts @whither-wander-whump @seaweed-is-cool @bloodinkandashes @sonder35 @cakeinthevoid @looptheloup

Ask to be added or removed from taglist.

[whumppmuhw]

Whumptober Day 26: Curse, noncon touching*

tw: magical whump, knife/carving into skin, noncon touching (non sexual), intimate whumper, extreme pain (from the curse), manipulation, control/power imbalance

*alternate prompt

fuck it more neopronouns! :D

...

Whumpee clutched nir side as ne stumbled in the field where ne first met Whumper. The pain hadn't ceased for a month, and ne was getting desperate to make it stop. Ibuprofen and aspirin didn't help at all, and ne didn't even consider going to the doctor. The pain was always constant, though not always overbearing, and always seemed to get worse at the most inconvenient times.

On the back of nir neck, right near the top of nir back, was an intricately carved sigil. Whumper had taken her sweet time making sure it was perfect, setting the curse with the tip of her blade and chants on the tip of her tongue. She had made sure that if Whumpee ever got free, ne would regret it. And ne did. The pain ran down nir spine and around nir ribs, making it painful to move and breathe. At the worst of it, ne would collapse onto the floor, shaking and panting, begging anyone who might be listening to make it stop.

The full moon was shining down as ne lit a few candles and set them in the grass. Ne didn't really have an idea of what ne was doing, but if ne could informally summon Whumper the first time, ne could do it again.

Ne took a deep breath and chanted what little of the cryptic language ne knew, inserting Whumper's name from time to time. Ne wondered if ne should have come here, unprotected, alone, but ne didn't want to put anyone else in danger. No, if ne had to do it, ne had to do it nemself.

A ray of moonlight shone on Whumpee's candles, and it changed the flame to an eerie white. Ne continued chanting, and a minute later nir pain flared up and ne fell to the ground, squirming. However, the chanting was complete, and in an instant Whumper was standing above nir.

"Oh, darling, miss me already?" She laughed as Whumpee whimpered an answer, soaking up nir misery as ne struggled to breathe. "I thought you were stronger, hasn't it been only a month?... but it sure is good to see you again."

She snapped her fingers and the pain stopped, if only temporarily. Whumpee took some deep breaths and stood up, facing the woman who gave nir so much agony.

Whumper cupped Whumpee's cheeks in her hands, making nir flinch. "Are you ready for it all to end?"

Ne realized what she meant and shook nir head.

"No? Well then, I guess you won't be coming back with me tonight." She took her hands off of nir and positioned them to snap, preparing to restore her rather effective curse.

"No, n-no, I didn't mean like that," Whumpee wasn't entirely sure where ne was going with this, but ne knew ne never wanted to go back there. "I want this to stop, but I really don't want to go back with you."

Whumper took a second to consider this, Sure, she could force nir back with her into her realm, or she could leave nir here suffering until ne was begging to go with her, but what's the point if she doesn't get to see what leads up to that? What about dependence? Surely she could arrange that...

She wrapped her arms around nir shoulders, forcing ne to listen to her. "Alright then, how about a deal? There's an antidote to curses like this, in a form of a simple potion." Whumpee looked intrigued, and she knew she had caught nir. "You come here and summon me once a week, and I'll give you the potion you need to keep the pain at bay. What do you think...?" With one of her thumbs, she traced Whumpee's sigil. Ne looked so cute in this desperate state, and she wished she could keep nir like this forever.

"That...sounds alright. But I don't know how to formally summon you."

"Not a problem." She let go of Whumpee, then reached into a pocket in her dress and pulled out a piece of paper, with some simple directions and an incantation to chant, and handed it to nir. "Don't worry about waiting for the full moon, either. The phases of the moon affect me less than most."

"Okay," Whumpee paused, thinking of all the ways this next part could go wrong. "Don't-don't you usually charge a price for these types of things?" Ne slipped the paper into nir pocket to look over later.

Whumper put her hands on her hips and smirked. "Yes, and you'll have to pay too, but I'll keep it pretty cheap, just for you. A few crystals one week, a small blood sacrifice the next, not too bad, right?" She grinned as she watched Whumpee imagine all the horrible things ne would have to offer her. And she wouldn't require much of nir, not at first, anyway. Seeing nir needing her would be the best price of all. "So, it's settled then?"

"Yes," ne replied warily, though ne didn't like the situation ne found nemself in. "When do I get my first dose?"

Whumper loved that she had gotten nir to agree. She inhaled deeply, as if she could smell nir sweet desperation and her success. "Three days from now, and then every week after that. Sound good, Whumpee?"

"Yeah. I'll see you in three days."

"See you then." Whumper snapped her fingers, reactivating her curse, though for tonight she would keep nirs pain to a minimum, a small mercy. She pivoted on her heel, moonlight illuminating her face. She was gone as quickly as she came.

Whumpee sighed, though not completely out of relief. Magic folk like her were tricky to work with, and deals were usually to be avoided at all costs. Ne picked up the candles and headed home, hoping that the potion would be worth its weight in gold.

[blursed-ninjago-ideas]

Whumptober 2

Decided to let myself have some Kairro. It's been ages since I touched that AU and every time I do it feels self indulgent. Don't know why, a lot of people seem to really like it.

Prompt: "They don't care about you."

Randomly Selected Whumpee: Kai

Selection method: Asked a student I passed in the halls to choose a number.

TW: Blood mention, manipulation

--

“How many times do I have to beat you over the head with it!? They. Don’t. Care. About. You.” Morro snarled.

Kai raised his bloodied face and debated what comeback to use.

“I don’t know. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going to let you use your paranoia against me?” Kai said, his lip dripping wine red drops onto the concrete.

“They’re your abandonment issues.” Morro countered.

He was calming down and changing tactics. Probably realized that Kai’s temper had gotten the best of him again.

Morro made an excellent mirror to show Kai how ugly his anger could get if he didn’t control it.

“As if you didn’t have any of those yourself.” Kai laughed, wincing from the pain it caused him.

He just had to buy enough time for the others to find him. Nya was going to turn the whole room into a water park as soon as she saw Morro.

The trick was holding the line against the emotional manipulation. Hard to do when the manipulator lived in you head so long he left some of his things in the guest room.

“I left Wu, remember?” Morro said.

His smirk had Kai convinced he was looking at a mirror for a moment. It was to be expected. It went both ways after all.

Kai knew why Nya looked at him like a stranger sometimes. She never said anything about it, but Kai saw her every time she did it.

It had an effect.

Kai had slowly stopped bragging after Lloyd was forced to admit that he sounded more like Morro when he did it. When all of your friends get noticeably uncomfortable every time you get excited that you won a video game, you stop commenting on it.

Kai wondered how he used to sound when he would brag. How was it different? Did Morro get that trait, or did it disappear? Which one of them had “stronger” bragging mannerisms? If Morro got his way and they fuse, who would they sound like?

Would they sound like Kai when they told jokes? Would they keep that smirk, or would it disappear?

“And I never trusted anyone else long enough to get left behind.” Morro finished, yanking Kai from his thoughts.

He couldn’t think of a good retort. It had only been half a second, but Kai’s mind had wandered miles away from the conversation. It must’ve shown on his face, because Morro snarled again.

“I see you don’t have my focus.” Morro said sarcastically.

It wasn’t Kai’s sarcasm. It was a difference they still had.

Morro grabbed Kai’s face and dragged him up.

“Listen to me. They are waiting for the chance to get rid of you. You serve them now, but what happens when you get annoying? Too angry?”

Morro leaned in so close, Kai could smell the strange ghostly scent his spirit had.

“They will leave you.” he whispered.

“Like my parents?” Kai said with an eye roll.

He saw where Morro was going with it and he was sick of the line of thought.

“If the people biologically programmed to love you couldn’t manage it, why do you think they can?” Morro said as he dropped Kai.

Kai scrapped himself off the ground.

“Because they’re good people.”

“And your parents weren’t?” Morro said with a predatory grin.

Kai shivered and looked away, but he had thoroughly been caught off guard and didn’t have a response.

Just when he thought he had control of the conversation; that he had everything guarded, Morro came at him from an angle he didn’t think of and crawled under his armor. It was how it work from the very beginning.

“So, we agree he doesn’t ‘deserve’ to be the Green Ninja?”

Kai shook his head clear.

“So you don’t think your parents were good people?” Morro asked in a mocking voice.

“I-” Kai could only make the one sound.

“Because you’ve always defended them to Nya. You wanted to be a blacksmith and continue their legacy. You honor them every year on the Day of The Departed.” Morro continued.

“I do.” Kai whispered.

“That doesn’t sound like you hate them.” Morro said.

He was leading Kai to something. Kai didn’t like it, but he didn’t know how to break out of it.

“I don’t.” he confessed.

“But you should.” Morro pointed out.

He sounded so much like Kai’s therapist when he said it. It make Kai’s breath shake. He didn’t like the conversation. He wanted Morro to go back to trying to convince him the other ninja didn’t care about him.

“You should, but you don’t. Is that right?”

Morro didn’t give Kai a chance to answer.

“Then wouldn’t it be a good thing if I could hate them for you? If I could be angry for you? Then you can hate them like you should!”

Kai covered his ears. He knew what he was feeling. It was the same thing as the first time.

“He didn’t ask to be the Green Ninja. We did! Destiny passed up not one, but two perfectly good options to force the responsibility onto a child. That doesn't seem fair. You’re right, he doesn’t ‘deserve’ that! We could not only take what we worked so hard for, but relieve Lloyd of all that pain. That’s a good thing, right? We could work together and fix it!”

That sinking feeling that Morro was making sense. Scrambling for an argument, but nothing making as much sense as Morro’s words. Desperate to not agree, but finding no other thought in his mind.

Kai could only bite his lip and hope his friends were just around the corner. He wasn’t holding out for much longer.

--

That was just pure fun to write. I'm glad I did this.

-Ivy

[seasons-beatings]

Happy holidays, @mommymarichatfurever!

fantasy sci-fi whump, female whumpee and male whumper, whumpee is 17, magic whump, captivity, (magic) drugging, manhandling, restraints, whumpee gets slapped

Not for the first time, Cozbi cursed her mother.

It was Midnight’s fault she was here, Midnight’s fault Malachi even knew about the gateways, Midnight’s fault she’d been retrieved from earth—the sweetest thing to home she’d ever had—and tossed into the cutthroat, razor-sharp arena that was Nihil politics.

The throne had never been hers, not really. Not when her mother died, and certainly not now.

Malachi—sorry, Lord Malachi—had escorted her to this prison room himself. Best as Cozbi could guess, she was locked in a tower above the court of law, the room she’d reigned over herself just a few days before. Or however many days it was. Possibly bordering on a week. Malachi hadn’t come back at all, sending only his black-cloaked goons to give her lukewarm meals she refused to eat and no silverware. He wasn’t foolish enough to give her a knife. Not after what she’d done to her mother.

Cozbi didn’t cry. She wasn’t afraid. She knew what Malachi wanted and she knew nothing he could do would make her give it up, no matter what lies he used against her. She’d barely warmed the seat of her throne, but it was still her kingdom. Hers to protect, hers to love, hers to kindle back into stability. Hers to die for.

When heavy boots echoed on the stairs beyond her locked door, Cozbi didn’t move. She stayed crouched against the black stones, so cold they felt wet through her robes.

The door unlatched with a heavy, iron click, and she felt rather than saw Malachi enter the room.

He had that effect—he wasn’t born of magic the way Cozbi was, but it still clung to him in tendrils, trailing behind him like a bridal train. Sometimes Cozbi wondered if others saw it too. But with the way her own officials fawned over him, she doubted it. If anything, the traces of magic in his blood pulled people in, enchanted them with his stature and gold-and-black eyes like rotting gemstones. In one hand, he held a chiseled black cup.

The door shut behind him. No guards, no reporters, no gossiping officials. Just them.

“When?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

Her mouth felt dry but she pushed the words out. “My execution. I assume you have a date.”

His lips flickered upward like it was a joke. “No one’s going to kill you, Cozbi.”

She hoped he couldn’t see how much hearing her name jarred her. For years she had been your majesty or my lady or queen. Sometimes killer or that witch’s daughter. She was never just Cozbi.

“Then why are you here?”

He tilted the cup this way and that, watching the liquid swirl. “I’ve brought you a drink.”

“I’m not drinking anything you give me.”

He smiled indulgently, like she was a little child. “Stand up.”

She obeyed, partly because she hated feeling so small on the floor and partly because she wanted to see where this was going. She tugged on the hemline of her robes, adjusting the fabric so it fell correctly, but in front of Malachi and his tailored uniform and dark hair slicked back—she was underdressed and grimy.

He held the cup toward her. It was made of stone, carved into strange patterns that slotted between his fingers, like someone had fashioned it out of clay and then clasped it too tightly in their fist. “Drink.”

“What is it?”

“Alu nairo.”

Her eyes snapped to his. Alu wisps could only be harvested from the light escaping black holes—difficult to capture and near impossible to transport home. An experienced dark magic user could coax out the toxins and brew a filmy, purple potion that blurred the drinker’s senses and dampened their mind. Small doses could treat pain. Large doses could turn you into a vegetable. A cup the size of the one in Malachi’s hand would trap Cozbi somewhere in between, awake and aware but dumb and hazy, with muscles like softened butter.

“Absolutely not.”

Crack. Pain slashed her cheek like a whip. Dropped her to her knees. She tasted blood.

“You have two options. You drink it willingly or I knock you out and pour it down your throat. It doesn’t matter to me which you choose.”

“Why would I possibly drink that?”

“Because I told you so.”

Cozbi crawled away until her back hit the wall. She pressed her hands flat to the cool stones and hoped he didn’t see them shaking. He’d backhanded her, and the gemstones that flickered on his fingers had sliced her cheek. Blood—or maybe just tears—trailed down to her neck.

“Don’t be difficult,” he warned.

“You got what you wanted. You’ve won. You don’t—you don’t have to fight me any more.”

“I haven’t even started.”

She swallowed. “You won’t get what you want, Malachi. The secrets to the Cosmic Gateways will die with me.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He moved closer and Cozbi couldn’t tear her eyes from the cup. “You aren’t going to die.” He raised the cup to her lips. “Drink.”

She drank. It tasted like nothing, except for perhaps the barest aftertaste of metal, but the liquid clung to her teeth and tongue like half-dissolved tissue paper. She coughed, gagged—Malachi stepped back delicately so she didn’t sputter and spit all over his shoes.

“Very good,” he said, and Cozbi hated him. She couldn't stop retching. Nothing she did could rid her mouth of the filmy potion. His hand closed around her upper arm, his rings pressing sharp indentations into her skin. She tried to shrink back but he jerked her forward. “Continue to behave and this night will pass easy for you.”

She couldn’t speak. He pulled her alongside him through the door and down the curving staircase, but his legs were so much longer than hers and she stumbled. Already, lights and shapes were blurring together in the corners of her vision, turning into little more than streaks and smears.

And then they were in the court—her vision blurred—they were in the Grand Hall—and he was sitting her down on the golden throne, adjusting the part in her hair, cupping her by the chin so she sat up straight.

“What—what’s going on?” The words mashed up in her mouth. Her tongue felt bloated.

“Shadowveil is celebrating the fall of Nihil’s dictator,” he said. His teeth were much too white when he smiled. “As the said dictator, you’re invited, of course.” Rope looped around her wrists, pulled them up over her head until she was secured to her own throne, vulnerable. “You have so many enemies, Cozbi—so many. And they’d like to have a word.” He placed a hand on her neck—no pressure, just a warning, pressing his thumb beneath her jugular. “Enjoy it. And maybe after, you’ll change your mind about giving me what I want.”

And then he vanished—well, of course something in Cozbi’s mind knew he must have simply walked away, but in this new watercolor world where everything ran together, Cozbi couldn’t be sure of anything.

[whump-me]

Unburied, Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of Unburied, my contribution to the Whump Girl Summer event hosted by @whumpawoman. Masterpost here.

Prompt: Self-Sacrifice

Contains: defiant whumpee, spy whumpee, friendly whumper, multiple female whumpees, female whumper, fantasy setting, restraints, threats against teammates, self-sacrifice, suicide

---

Edri looked… well, not healthy exactly, but a lot better than she had when Kira had left her collapsed in the desert. She was breathing hard, and had one hand clutched tightly against the stone doorway. But she was on her feet, and her eyes were full of grim focus. For once, she wasn’t smiling.

In her other hand, she clutched a small curved dagger. It was the one Kira had given her the day Edri had made the worst decision of her life—to follow Kira into disgrace when she would have had a perfectly good career waiting for her if only she weren’t so maddeningly loyal. When Edri had ignored Kira’s repeated orders to leave, Kira had finally invited her in. She had snatched away the cheap dagger Edri had been issued, and replaced it with one from her personal collection. If you’re on your own now, Kira had said, at least you don’t have to settle for substandard weapons anymore.

And Edri—fool that she was—had smiled and said, I’m not on my own. And neither are you.

Just look where that had gotten her.

“Let her go,” Edri repeated, “and step away.”

Leila shakily rose to her feet. “Who are you?” she asked, sounding stunned and a little put out, like the old grandmother in the story who found Death on her doorstep and lectured him for not sending notice ahead of time so she could have a cup of tea ready for him.

Instead of answering, Edri looked past Leila to Kira. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you.”

Kira shook her head, still barely believing this wasn’t a hallucination, even though Leila’s reaction was more than enough evidence. “You were on the brink of death when I…” Her voice shook as she finished. “When I left you.”

“You needed me,” said Edri simply, as if that were answer enough.

Edri’s foolish loyalty ran even deeper than Kira had thought—both the loyalty part and the foolishness part. Not only had Edri followed her into the desert, she had dragged herself out of the gentle embrace of death, back into that burning sun and that boiling flesh, just to keep on following her. It might have even left Kira a little choked up, if not for the fact that she wanted to throttle her protégé for being so stubborn and senseless.

As it was, the thickness in her throat was thirst, nothing more. The prickling in her eyes was only a lingering effect of Leila’s failed magic.

“The healing devices here really are amazing,” said Edri, her grim face softening in a brief moment of wonder. “It all works just like my books said. I feel practically as good as new. I’ll get you all healed up, Kira, as soon as you’re free.”

“I already took care of it,” Leila said shortly, her confusion turning to annoyance. “I don’t know who you are or how you got here, but put that knife away and get out. You’re not welcome here, and you’re most certainly not taking this one.” She pointed down at Kira. “I need her.”

“You need me willing,” Kira rasped. “And that’s not going to happen. So why not give up now, and run along home before you cough up all the blood in your body? Go tell your superiors you failed.”

Leila frowned down at her—a thoughtful frown more than an angry one. “You do look like you’ll be difficult,” she conceded. “But you’re what I have to work with, so you’ll have to do. And I told you—I have instructions. I just didn’t understand them before.”

Something silver flew through the air and clattered to the floor, out of reach, where Kira couldn’t see. When Kira looked back at Edri, the other woman wasn’t holding the silver knife anymore. Now she held clutching one of the throwing daggers Kira had given her. It was a set of three; no doubt the first one was what had flown past a second ago. Kira hadn’t even realized Edri had brought them.

Kira couldn’t suppress a smile of pride. Oh, good girl. She must have listened after all, when Kira had warned her not to rely on one weapon. Edri was overly attached to that knife Kira had given her, the curved one. She placed too much sentimental value on it. Kira kept telling her to carry a backup.

If only Edri had practiced with the throwing knives a little more, Leila might be dead right now with a knife through her heart. But she still had two more chances. She had dragged herself out of the mouth of death—she could do this. Come on, Edri, come on…

Edri’s face was white, as white as her knuckles clutching the other throwing knife. “Don’t ignore me,” she said, her normally jovial voice strained. “I said let her go.”

“And I said I can’t do that.” Leila shook her head with a soft sigh. “You’re going to be difficult, too, aren’t you?”

In answer, Edri raised her arm to throw the second knife. In the same instant it left her fingers, Leila smacked a palm against her bracelet and let out a desperate shout in that same strange language. The glyph carved into the bracelet glowed the same white as the ones next to the doorway had a moment ago. Light spilled from the stone, enveloping Leila. The knife bounced harmlessly off the orb of light that encircled her, as if the light were as hard as stone.

“Phew,” Leila said. “I sure am glad that worked the way it was supposed to! I didn’t think I’d even need it down here, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t leave it behind. Seemed like the kind of thing the military would appreciate back home.” She stared down at the bracelet in wonder, then reached out a hesitant fingertip to poke the orb of light from the inside. She drew back as if it had burned her. Her face split in a childlike grin. “I was right. They’re going to love this.”

Edri stared at Leila, her face white. She reached for the third knife.

“Don’t,” Kira warned. “It won’t do any good.” But her voice, rough from dehydration and from screaming, didn’t carry far. And anyway, Edri had that stubborn set to her eyes that meant she might not have listened to Kira even if she could hear. She hurled the knife with all her strength at Leila, as if her failure to break through the magical protection was simply a failure of her own muscles. The knife, of course, bounced off just like the last one had.

Leila waited a moment, watching Edri with curiosity more than anything else. When Edri, shoulders slumped, didn’t bring out another knife, Leila touched the bracelet again. The light flowed in reverse, sinking back into the stone and disappearing until the carved wood was dark again.

“Come to think of it,” Leila muttered, “this would be a good opportunity for that other test I was hoping to do. I wasn’t sure how to manage it, with no animals around here. Now, where did I…” She patted her pockets, a frown of concentration on her face.

A cold knot grew in Kira’s belly. “Edri,” she warned, “run.”

Edri looked from Leila to her fallen knives. Her hands clenched into fists. “I’m not leaving you,” she repeated. “I came here to save you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Leila pulled a stone cylinder from her pocket. It was a tiny thing, as long as one of her fingers and about as big around. It was pointed at one end, like an arrow or a pen. Come to think of it, it looked like a pen more than anything else. But when Leila touched a finger to either side, and spoke another of those harsh words, a beam of light—a deep red time—shot out and struck Edri in the heart.

Edri collapsed to the stone. The hand that had been clutching the doorway slid down, lax fingers brushing the stone, before it came to rest on her still chest. Kira let out a broken cry—not of pain this time, but of rage.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Leila said, with a glance over her shoulder at Kira. “She’s not dead.” She frowned. “Or at least, I hope she’s not. I guess I might have done it wrong—I don’t exactly have a good track record down here so far, do I?” She let out a nervous laugh, as Kira clenched her teeth and strained uselessly against the stone cuffs again, bruising the skin underneath. “Well, if she is dead, that’s one more lesson learned for me, I suppose.”

“I’ll teach you a few lessons when I get out of here,” Kira growled.

To Leila, that wasn’t even worth a response. Leila scurried through the fallen Edri’s side and placed two fingers against her neck. A moment later, she heaved a loud sigh of relief. “She’s alive. That’s one thing I’ve done right down here, at least.” She frowned down at Edri. “Of course, now I have to figure out what to do with you. One visitor was a stroke of luck. Two is… an inconvenience.”

Edri’s eyes fluttered open. She fumbled for her waist, where the curved dagger was waiting. Leila must have remembered the dagger at the same moment, because she grabbed Edri’s hand. With her other hand, she felt along Edri’s waist until she came up with the dagger.

She held it like someone who had never touched a bladed weapon in her life. But it doesn’t take much training to hold a knife to someone’s throat. Leila did exactly that to Edri as she gingerly patted her down. Apparently Edri hadn’t taken Kira’s advice that much to heart, because Leila didn’t find any more weapons on her.

By this point, Edri looked fully awake. Kira couldn’t see much of her face from where she was lying, but she could see Edri’s wide, scared eyes, and the trembles that ran through her entire body.

“I’m sorry, Kira,” Edri whispered. “I tried to save you.”

Leila tilted her head, studying Edri like she was a specimen in an alchemist’s jar. “You’re an odd one, aren’t you?” she murmured. “I don’t know what to make of you. Your friend is simple enough to figure out. She’s a garden-variety spy—they teach us how to recognize you, you know.” She said that in an aside, looking over her shoulder at Kira. “You’re not half as clever as you think you are. Those of us in sensitive positions have to sit through whole training courses on the tricks you use.”

She turned back to Edri. “But you… you don’t look like the spying type. No offense, but you don’t look cut out for this kind of thing, unlike your friend here.”

“Oh, because I must sit around eating teacakes with honey all day, is that right?” Edri slapped her thigh, making the flesh jiggle. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told everyone I’ve ever beaten in a race—I can hide a lot of muscle under here. And a hidden advantage is the best kind.”

“I’m not talking about your body.” Leila rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about that fear in your eyes. You look like a gentle soul. On the other hand, people have said the same thing about me. Still, I’m curious—what brought you out here? And how do you know your friend there?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Kira.

Edri didn’t answer. Leila did something with the hand holding the knife that made Edri let out a whimper of pain.

“Remember,” Leila said, “I only need one of you.”

“Let her go.” Kira sagged back into the stone indentation, knowing Leila had no reason to listen to a word she said. That prickling sensation came back to her eyes again. And maybe the desert had done some lasting physical damage after all, because she couldn’t draw in a full breath anymore. Not since she had heard that horrible noise come out of Edri’s throat.

“You only need one of us, like you said,” Kira continued her doomed, exhausted plea. “So let her go. You said you don’t like causing unnecessary pain. Prove it.”

Not that it would do Edri much good even if Leila listened. What chance would she have, out there in the punishing desert, days from civilization, with no food or water? But it would be more of a chance than she would have in here with Leila.

To Kira’s surprise, Leila tilted her head again with a thoughtful frown, as if she was seriously considering Kira’s proposal. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” she said. “I’ve never done it, you know. Not with my own two hands, close enough to get their blood on me. I mean, there have been test subjects in my research, but that’s different. Not so… messy.”

“Once you take a life, it never leaves you,” Kira said. “You remember it forever. The feeling of their skin parting under your knife. The softness of flesh, the toughness of muscle. The horrible scraping when your blade meets bone. The look in their eyes as their life fades away. The smell of their blood in your nose—”

“Stop!” Leila snapped with a wince. “You’re right. I don’t want to kill her.” She looked down at the quivering Edri. “But… I am short on time. And this one looks like she’d be easier to convince. Look at her shaking. She’s not yelling like you.”

She twitched the knife again. Edri let out a faint squeak—of pain or fear, Kira wasn’t sure. Either way, it brought a satisfied smile to Leila’s face. “That settles it,” she said with a nod. “You’ll be my sacrifice. I’ll figure out what to do with your friend over there later.” She nodded toward Kira.

No. No, that wasn’t what Kira had meant. She let out a string of curses. She hadn’t used most of those words since the day Nichols had issued her his ultimatum.

“Oh, this is interesting,” Leila said. Without moving the knife from Edri’s throat, she twisted around as far as she could to look Kira in the eye. “You care about this one an awful lot, don’t you?”

Leila had it wrong. It wasn’t that Kira cared about Edri. She hadn’t even wanted Edri here with her. But Edri had shown an appalling amount of loyalty, and this would be a shitty way for her to be rewarded for it. And Leila was right—Edri, unlike Kira, wasn’t cut out for this line of work. If she hadn’t been so damned stubborn, she would have washed out in the first six months. She wasn’t built for this life like Kira. She belonged in a sunlight library—hunched over a book, twirling her hair, a dreamy smile on her face.

Kira, on the other hand, had always known she would die in the field, probably unpleasantly. Kira should be the one to die at Leila’s hands.

Kira would give Leila a proper fight.

“There may be an easier solution here,” Leila mused. “I admit, I’m still a bit concerned about the next step. I know you’re going to be difficult about this. Your friend will probably be easier, but, well, she must be the stubborn type too, if she made it all the way out here. Isn’t that right?” She patted Edri’s cheek for emphasis. Edri flinched away.

“What if…” Leila dragged the words out. “What if I let our new visitor go, in exchange for your cooperation?”

The icy knot in Kira’s gut spread. “In exchange for me letting you kill me to power up a weapon that will destroy entire cities, you mean.”

Edri’s eyes widened further. “That weapon is real?”

“It’s real,” Kira said grimly. “It’s what she’s here for.”

“That’s right,” said Leila. “And I’m getting it fueled up one way or another. At least this way you get to save your friend. We both win. Didn’t they teach you about compromise in spy school?”

Kira knew what she had to do. She’d had ruthlessness trained into her, built it up like a muscle. There was only one answer here, and that answer was no.

Edri had gotten herself into this. Whatever happened to her now was her own fault.

But when Kira opened her mouth, when she tried to force the word from her roughened throat, she imagined Edri lying where she was, head thrown back in a scream of agony as those invisible claws ripped into her flesh. She remembered opening her door and seeing Edri on the other side, standing proud with a smile on her face, fresh from throwing away a promising career—albeit a career she should never have chosen in the first place. She thought about Edri spending late night after late night in the library archives, researching how to find this place and what they were likely to find once they got there. And Edri in the desert, encouraging her every step of the way. Giving up too much of her own share of water, and denying it whenever Kira accused her. Holding Kira up when she was ready to collapse.

“I’ll do it,” Kira said, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. “I’ll do it.”

“No,” Edri burst out. “You can’t. You know what she’s going to do. What she wants to… to use you for.”

“It’s not your decision,” Leila said to Edri in a reproachful tone. “You should be happy! You get to leave. I’ll even give you some water to for your journey. This place can make it, can you believe that? And it doesn’t even require a full sacrifice. Just a few drops of blood, and you have plenty to spare.”

Edri lay rigid, the knife still at her throat. Quivers still ran down her body, but her eyes were no longer wide with fear. They were narrow with that familiar stubborn determination.

“No,” Edri said quietly.

“No!” Kira shouted at the same moment. Edri had no chance—what did she think she was going to do—she had a knife to her throat—she was going to get herself killed—

Edri’s arm shot out. She grasped Leila’s wrist with a strength that seemed to surprise Leila. Leila let out a soft gasp of pain. She tried to jerk the knife forward and down. Her arm wouldn’t move.

Even through her anger at Edri’s senseless defiance, Kira couldn’t hold back a small triumphant smile. Edri had told Leila how strong she was. It was Leila’s own fault if she hadn’t listened.

The fingers of Leila’s other hand scrambled for the bracelet. Her fingertips brushed the glyphs. The light spilled out and encased her body once again. Even if Edri wrestled the knife away from her, there would be no using it against her now.

“I told you,” Kira muttered. “I told you not to fight.” Who knew if Leila would even honor her deal now?

But Edri didn’t look worried. For a brief moment, her eyes found Kira’s. They seemed lit from within with fierce determination as she said, “Fight her, Kira. Don’t stop fighting. Don’t let her do it.”

Then, with a grunt of exertion, she pulled Leila’s arm down—and sank the blade deep into her own throat.

Kira screamed out her denials as blood gushed from the wound in thick gouts. But there was no amount of screaming that would do anything for Edri now. No healing magic would help her, either. The moment the blade had penetrated flesh, it had been too late for Edri. The knife had cut the artery.

Before Kira could draw another breath to go on screaming, Edri’s body had gone limp.

Leila tossed the knife aside like it had burned her. Full-body shudders rolled through her as she pushed herself to her feet. She brushed her hands off on her clothes over and over, and only succeeded in smearing blood everywhere in thick wet streaks. She breathed in choking gasps, gagging on the smell.

Kira’s cheeks were wet. Was she crying? But she didn’t cry. Anyway, she didn’t have enough water in her for tears.

Leila took a deep breath. Her shuddering stops. She stared down at Edri’s body and shook her head slowly. “So much for that idea,” she said with a sigh. “I guess we’ll have to stick with the original plan after all.”

She doubled over coughing again. Fresh droplets of blood sprayed from her mouth, mingling with the spreading pool under Edri’s pale body.

“It would have been so convenient, too,” said Leila. “Oh, well. I sure hope these instructions work.”

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg

Ask to be added or removed from tag list

[a-dead-tea]

Haiii ! How are you and may I request another part for the tiny villain story ! Its really good and I love ittttt

Hello! I'm doing good, thanks for asking! =D Here is the next part to Tiny Villain, as requested!

The person who inspired this: @whumpwillow Link

-CW: Captivity Whump, Villain Whumpee, Tiny Whump, Cutting Skin, Broken Bone, Stranding-

Tiny Villain (Part Three)

Part one Next

---------------

Villain’s semi-healed leg throbs as they dangle from the cork-board on Hero’s wall.

Two drawing pins stuck through their sleeves being the only things keeping Villain from plummeting to the floor once again.

Sweat drips down Villain’s face as they internally beg the pins not to move.

“Consider yourself lucky Medic was available and willing to help fix your mistake,” Hero comments snidely, as they search a desk drawer.

“If the bite you gave me had gotten infected, well, let's just say you wouldn’t be able to use that stupid little mouth of yours,” Hero utters, glancing at their once again flawless finger.

Villain’s arms tingle, growing numb as they support the body attached to them.

“There we are,” Hero murmurs, removing their hand from the drawer, an exacto knife in their grip.

Hero lets out a satisfied hum before turning to face Villain.

Villain scowls, “You think you’re so tough, don’t you? Why don’t you change me back so you can pick on someone your own size?”

Hero chuckles as they come closer, “Why would I want to? It’s going to be so much easier for me to tear you apart this way.”

“Here I thought you were a hero,” Villain says, holding back a shudder. “Turns out you’re just as bad as me.”

“Quite the contrary, dear,” Hero states as they pull the cap off of the X-Acto and discard it on the floor. “Good punishes evil. If I hurt you, a villain, that makes me good.”

Villain scoffs, “criminals kill and beat the shit out of each other all the time. What makes you any different?”

Hero smiles as they put the blade to Villain’s lips, effectively silencing them.

“What makes me different is that I do it lawfully.”

Villain would roll their eyes at the bullshit excuse if they weren’t watching the knife on their mouth.

Hero trails the knife from their face and down their neck, stopping at their shirt collar.

“I wonder how much of your shirt I can cut away before you drop,” Hero says as they put more pressure on the knife.

Villain sucks in air through their teeth from the sting of pain, a bit of blood dripping down to their shirt.

“Stop-”

In an instant, Hero removes the blade and uses their other hand to press down on Villain’s bad leg, not even giving Villain the chance to finish their sentence.

Villain lets out a pained scream, back arching impulsively.

“I’m sorry, did you just tell me to stop?” Hero asks, amused at both the request and Villain's reaction.

Villain frantically kicks the side of Hero’s hand with their good leg, tears streaming down their face.

“What makes you think you can tell me what to do?” Hero questions as they add more force to Villain’s leg, the pressure threatening to snap it.

Villain bawls, desperately trying to pull the pins loose from their sleeves so they can use their hands to defend themself.

“You’ve lost all of your power and influence over this world,” Hero watches as Villain struggles, a smile on their face. “You have no more power over me than a doll. A disgusting, wretched, and feeble doll.”

A good moment longer and Hero pulls their hand away from Villain.

After the villain lets out a cry of relief, they go limp, trying to regain their now lost energy.

Hero hums, raising the exacto knife to Villain’s face once again.

Villain flinches, turning their head away to avoid the blade.

Hero tsks disappointedly, “breaking already? Pathetic.”

“F-fuck you, cunt,” Villain spits, closing their eyes tightly as the knife makes contact with their cheek.

“Thanks but no, I have standards, doll,” Hero responds as they drag the blade across Villain’s face, leaving behind a bloody line.

Hero draws their hand back for a second, inspecting their work before bringing the blade to Villain’s forehead and dragging it down, over Villain’s eye and to their chin.

Villain’s tears mix with blood in a painful mess as they sob quietly, their leg throbbing excruciatingly and half of their face feeling like it’s on fire.

“Your face is almost bearable,” Hero says thoughtfully, twirling the exacto knife in their hand.

“Almost,” Hero repeats, their eyes musing over Villain.

Hero’s cell phone vibrates on the desk, causing them to glance over.

“Shit, I’m late,” they mutter, placing the exacto knife on their desk before collecting their things.

Villain watches through their unharmed eye as Hero walks towards the exit, coat over their shoulder, briefcase in hand.

“I’ll figure out what’s still irritating me about your face over the weekend,” Hero informs Villain as they open the office door and flick the light switch, coating the room in darkness.

Villain feels panic grip their heart, the last rays of light leaving as Hero shuts the door behind them.

“Wait! You can’t just leave me here!” Villain shouts, thrashing against the corkboard.

With the click of a lock, Hero is gone, leaving Villain in almost complete darkness.

The only source of light, and the only thing Villain can see, is the dull red numbers on the clock on Hero’s desk.

[wolfeyedwitch]

Whumpmas In July: Day 17

17: What trope do you adore that you wish there was more love for?

I think this one might actually get a decent amount of love already, but I love it dearly so I'm going to bring it up anyway. Whumpees who "deserve it".

Whether that's in their own eyes, or in the eyes of society, these whumpees have some trait that makes it seem as though the whump might, at least in part, be justified. Some examples:

Morally grey whumpees who have legitimately done bad stuff and their whump could be seen as punishment. Villain whumpees are a great option.

Dangerous whumpees being whumped as a means of keeping them under control. Demons and vampires come to mind.

Neurodivergent people undergoing medical whump in the name of "helping them".

This has such a lovely effect on the whumpee's mindset. There's already built-in societal gaslighting to keep them from getting help. It makes recovery that much harder, because they'll always wonder: did I really deserve the pain and trauma? Do I deserve to be safe?

[luckgods]

Why all the white guys in whump?

I got Inspired by a post asking that question, and here we are. Warning: long post ahead.

I think it’s due to a combination of factors, as things frequently are.

The preference for / prevalence of white male characters in fandom is well-known and has been examined pretty thoroughly by people already.

What’s worth noting for discussing this tendency in whump in particular is that the ‘whump fandom’ itself is not a ‘fandom’ in the traditional sense of being made of fans of one single source narrative (or source setting, like a particular comics fandom, or the Star Wars extended universe) with pre-existing characters. Although subsets of traditional fandoms certainly exist within the larger whump fandom, a lot of whump is based on original, ‘fan’-created characters.

So, given the tendency of ‘traditional’ fandoms to create stories disproportionately centered on white male characters due to the source material itself being centered on white male characters (and giving more narrative weight to them, characterizing them better, etc), if we say hypothetically that the whump fandom is split say 50/50 between ‘traditional’ fandom works and original whump works, you’d expect to see a higher number of works focused on white men than the demographics of the ‘traditional’ fandom’s source work would predict, but not as extreme of a divergence between the source material & the fanworks as the one you’d see if whump fandom were 100% based on popular media.

However, that doesn’t quite seem to be the case. Whump stories and art remain focused on overwhelmingly male and frequently white characters, which means that the tendency of the fandom to create stories disproportionately centered on white male characters cannot be ONLY explained by the source material itself being centered on white male characters (and giving more narrative weight to them, characterizing them better, etc).

And, having established the fact that whump writers & artists presumably have MORE control over the design of their characters than writers & artists in ‘traditional’ fandoms, we have to wonder why the proportions remain biased towards men, & white men in particular.

—

The race thing is pretty simple in my opinion. Mostly, it’s just another extension of the fanbase’s tendency to reflect the (predominantly US-American, on tumblr) culture it exists in, which means that, in a white-centric culture, people make artworks featuring white people.

There’s also the issue of artists being hesitant to write works that dwell heavily on violence towards people of color due to the (US-American) history of people of color being violently mistreated. I’ve actually seen a couple of posts arguing that white people SHOULDN’T write whump of nonwhite characters (particularly Black characters) because of the history of actual violence against Black bodies being used as entertainment, which means that fictional violence against Black people, written by white people, for a (presumed) white audience, still feels exploitative and demeaning.

I'm not going to get into all my thoughts on this discussion here but suffice to say that there's probably an impact on the demographics of whump works from authors of color who simply... don't want to see violence against people of color, even non-explicitly-racialized violence, and then another impact from white authors who choose not to write non-white characters either due to the reasons stated above, or simply due to their personal discomfort with how to go about writing non-white characters in a genre that is heavily focused on interpersonal violence.

Interestingly enough, there’s also a decent proportion of Japanese manga & anime being used as source material for whump, and manga-styled original works being created. The particular relationship between US-American and Japanese pop culture could take up a whole essay just by itself so I’ll just say, there’s a long history of US-Japanese cultural exchange which means that this tendency is also not all that surprising.

—

GENDER though. If someone had the time and the energy they could make a fucking CAREER out of examining gender in whump, gender dynamics in whump, and why there seems to be a fandom-wide preference for male whumpees that cannot be fully explained by the emphasis on male characters in the source text.

I have several different theories about factors which impact gender preference in whump, and anyone who has other theories (or disagrees with mine) is free to jump in and add on.

THEORY 1: AUTHOR GENDER AND PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.
 Fandom in general is predominantly female, although these days it might be more accurate to say that fandom is predominantly composed of cis women and trans people of all genders. However, pretty much everyone who isn't a cis man has had to contend with the specter of gendered violence in their real personal life. Thus, if we posit whump (and fandom more generally) as a sort of escapist setup, it's not hard to see why whump authors & artists might willfully eschew writing female whumpees (especially in the case of inflicted whump), because (as in the discussion of people of color in whump above), even violence towards women that is explicitly non-gender-based may still hit too close to home for people whose lives have been saturated with the awareness of gender-based violence.

THEORY 2: SICK OF SEXY SUFFERING.
 Something of an addendum to theory 1, it's worth noting that depictions of female suffering in popular media are extremely gendered (in that they specifically reflect real-life gender-based violence, and that said real-life violence is almost exclusively referenced in relation to female characters) and frequently sexualized as well. There's only so many times you can see female characters having their clothes Strategically Ripped while they're held captive, being sexually menaced (overtly or implicitly) to demonstrate How Evil the villain is, or just getting outright sexually assaulted for the Drama of it all before it gets exhausting, especially when the narratives typically either brush any consequences under the rug, or dwell on them in a way that feels more voyeuristic and gratuitous than realistic and meaningful. All this may result in authors who, given the chance to write their own depictions of suffering, may decide simply to remove the possibility of gendered violence by removing the female gender.

THEORY 3: AUTHOR ATTRACTION. 
I'll admit that this one is more a matter of conjecture, as I haven't seen any good demographic breakdowns of attraction in general fandom or whump fandom. That said, my own experience talking to fellow whump fans does indicate that attraction to the characters (whether whumpers, or whumpees) is part of the draw of whump for some people. This one partially ties into theory 1 as well, in that people who are attracted to multiple genders may not derive the same enjoyment out of seeing a female character in a whumpy situation as they might seeing a male character in that situation, simply because of the experience of gendered violence in their lives.

THEORY 4: ACCEPTABLE TARGETS.
 The female history of fandom means that there's been a lot more discussion of the impacts of depicting pain & suffering (especially female suffering) for personal amusement. Thus, in some ways, you could say that there is a mild taboo on putting female characters through suffering if you can't "justify" it as meaningful to the narrative, not just titillating, which whump fandom rarely tries or requires anyone to do. This fan-cultural 'rule' may impact whump writers' and artists' decisions in choosing the gender of their characters.

THEORY 5: AN ALTERNATIVE TO MAINSTREAM MASCULINITY.
 Whump fandom may like whumping men because by and large, mainstream/pop culture doesn't let men be vulnerable, doesn't let them cry, doesn't let them have long-term health issues due to constantly getting beat up even when they really SHOULD, doesn't let them have mental health issues period. Female characters, as discussed in theory 2, get to ("get to") go through suffering and be affected by it (however poorly written those effects are), but typically, male characters' suffering is treated as a temporary problem, minimized, and sublimated into anger if at all possible. (For an example, see: every scene in a movie where something terrible happens and the male lead character screams instead of crying). So, as nature abhors a vacuum, whump fandom "over-produces" whump of men so as to fill in that gap in content.

THEORY 6: AMPLIFIED BIAS.
 While it's true that whump fandom doesn't have a source text, it's also true that whump fans frequently find their way into the fandom via other 'traditional' fandoms, and continue participating in 'traditional' fandoms as part of their whump fandom activity. Bias begets bias; fandom as a whole has a massive problem with focusing on white male characters, and fans who are used to the bias towards certain types of characters in derivative works absolutely reproduce that bias in their own original whump works.

—

I honestly think that there is greater bias in the whump fandom than anyone would like to admit. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems as though whump fans avoid introspection and discussion of the issue by bringing up the points I talked about in my previous theories, particularly discomfort with depictions of female suffering for amusement.

However, I think that, as artists, we owe it to ourselves and one another to engage in at least a small amount of self-interrogation over our preferences, and see what unconscious or unacknowledged biases we possess. It's a little absurd to argue that depictions of women as whumpees are universally too distressing to even discuss when a male character in the exact same position would be fine and even gratifying to the person making that argument; while obviously, people have a right to their own boundaries, those boundaries should not be used to shut down discussion of any topics, even sensitive ones.

Furthermore, engaging in personal reflection allows artists to make more deliberate (and meaningful) art. For people whose goal is simply to have fun, that may not seem all that appealing, but having greater understanding of one's own preferences can be very helpful towards deciding what works to create, what to focus on when creating, and what works to seek out.

—

GENDER ADDENDUM: NONBINARY CHARACTERS, NONBINARY AUTHORS. 
Of course, this whole discussion so far has been exclusively based on a male-female binary, which is reductive. (I will note, though, that many binary people do effectively sort all nonbinary people they know of into 'female-aligned' and 'male-aligned' categories and then proceed to treat the nonbinary people and characters they have categorized a 'female-aligned' the same way as they treat people & characters who are actually female, and ditto for 'male-aligned'. That tendency is very frustrating for me, as a nonbinary person whose gender has NOTHING to do with any part of the binary, and reveals that even 'progressive' fandom culture has quite a ways to go in its understanding of gender.)

Anyways, nonbinary characters in whump are still VERY rare and typically written by nonbinary authors. (I have no clue whether nonbinary whump fans have, as a demographic group, different gender preferences than binary fans, but I'd be interested in seeing that data.)

As noted above with female characters, it's similarly difficult to have a discussion about representation and treatment of nonbinary characters in whump fandom, and frankly in fandom in general. Frequently, people regard attempts to open discussions on difficult topics as a call for conflict. This defensive stance once again reveals the distaste for requests of meaningful self-examination that is so frequent in fandom spaces, and online more generally.

—

TL;DR: Whump is not immune to the same gender & racial biases that are prevalent in fandom and (US-American) culture. If you enjoy whump: ask yourself why you dislike the things you dislike— the answer may surprise you. If you create whump: ask yourself whose stories you tell, and what stories you refuse to tell— then ask yourself why.

[kim-poce]

Burning to Ashes 1 - Deprived

Next

Masterlist

CW: captive, implied kidnap, multiple whumpees, bruises.

========

Whumpee glared up at the man entering the cell, “Let me go, you sick!”, Whumpee shouted, his voice was hoarse from the time he spent screaming at the walls, “What do you want?”, he shouted again, this time with a completely fearful voice.

“I brought you food”, The man said, ignoring his words completely, he was wearing a long sleeves shirt and a thick scarf and had a small smile on his face.

“The hell that I will eat anything you give me”, Whumpee said, trying to back away, but the chains going from the collar around his neck to the middle of the room didn’t let him do so.

“I would recommend you to eat”, the man said with a sad expression, as if he cared, “You have no idea how much you can be deprived of”, the man said, threatened, his voice wasn’t menacing, if anything it was almost worried, but his words were nothing but a threat.

Whumpee glared at him again, but he was hungry, and -he didn’t want to admit but- the threat was really effective, Whumpee can shout and glare all he wants but he still needs food and water.

Whumpee took the bowl with the food -an almost colorless soup- and started drinking, he had to survive to get out of there.

--------

He left the cell as soon as Whumpee finished his food, taking the bowl to the kitchen, Sugar would clean it soon, they were the last one to be taken in, that is, before Whumpee, they were captive long enough to have chores now.

It didn’t take as might time to break them as the ones before them, and he wondered how long Whumpee’s defiance would last.

His thoughts were cut by an angry voice, “Get in”, the voice ordered and he stopped, abandoning his plans to go to his room and get some rest, instead he entered the room from where the voice came.

He didn’t struggle when the scarf was ripped off of his neck showing his collar and the word “Dog” written it, he cursed himself for being so careless, I should have taken it off as soon as I left the cell, but it was too late now.

“I let you cover the collar for a few minutes and you forget who you belong to?”, Whumper threatened, her voice was ice cold and sent chilling waves through his body, Sugar or the others would already be on their knees begging for Whumper’s nonexistent mercy.

But Dog knows better, Whumper didn’t allow him to speak or kneel, it would only make things worse, so he didn’t fight when Whumper ripped his shirt off, exposing all his scars and bruises, he didn’t flinch when Whumper grabbed the whip she always had with her and tested it in the air.

Dog just stood still, he is the Whumper’s first captive after all, and he knows very well how much he can be deprived of.

========

@cupcakes-and-pain, @temporary-username, @whump-blog

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

Favorite tropes?

My top recent likes have been

Famous/Known Whumpee's and Fanatic Whumpers or Socialite Whumpers. Relationships that look amazingly caring to the public but under a suit and tie or long dress are a thousand different scars. They are domestic and loving to their fans, the public, they have a superstar relationship. Behind closed doors, one of them is basically a captive to the other. OR, they are stalked and coveted by a crazed fan. Always forced to hear about how wonderful their relationship is but they have to smile and agree because Whumper will know if they screw up to the media.

Self-sacrificial Caretakers or self-sacrifice in general. Caretakers especially that offer their life limb and body to whumper if it spares Whumpee a little less harm. Caretakers that keep Whumpee's innocence intact by giving sex, their body, their blood to Whumper/s if it keeps Whumpee safe.

It also goes close to the intimate/romantic Caretakers. Caretakers that genuinely love Whumpee and continue to take care of them because they understand whatever it is that mentally ties them to Whumper. They just want to see them safe, at home in their arms but they don't trap them. Some are physically loving but don't have to be, just kind and doting. They cater to Whumpee and do whatever it is they need to keep them comfortable.

SOME OTHERS THAT I LIKE:

Intimate Whumpers

Stalker Whumpers

Whumpers in positions of power: Political, Business, Royalty.

Brothel/sex-club/public slave-houses.

Human Pets and Box-boy are tropes that own my soul.

Medical/Science experiment whump is god tier. Give me spliced DNA and functional parts that much to Whumpee's horror, work. Give me rare Whumpee's that are experimented on ruthlessly to figure out how they work. I eat that shit up like soup through a straw.

Lady Whumpers are a rare but prime delicacy in my opinion and when mixed with any of the tropes above, even more tasty. The best garnish to a meal I could imagine.

Psychological Whump also holds a large piece of my personal creativity. I enjoy writing and reading about the internal Whump side effects as much as the bruises and scars. Anxiety attacks, depression, buckets of trauma to remind them of what all has been done to them. Night terrors, sleep paralysis, insomnia, and trust issues that run deeper than the ocean. This is the extent of brokenness in Whumpee's that really trips my trigger and butters my bread on both sides.

I personally tend to drift into the non-con side of Whump as a big trope for me too. It's been a personal Whump for me that I work with for several reasons.

Drug Whump and Addiction Whump are two more tropes I enjoy reading and working with. Aphrodisiacs, tranquilizers, narcotics, anything that controls and manipulates Whumpee's sobriety and diminishes the fight with a plausible explanation to their weakness. The most defiant Whumpee can be turned pliable and the Whumper can keep it in their back pocket as a quick fix when their temper arises. Plus it can make a mush of their mind in the meantime, given what Whumper makes them partake in. The lack of drugs is also a scary one if Whumpee is on controlled substances and Whumper is now in control of them.

Demon/Incubus/Succubus/Entity tropes are a long-term favorite for the amount of variety. Anything becomes possible when it has to do with demons or the supernatural and situations can happen when there was no possibility before. Possession, spells, mind-control, curses. All of those things can make just about anything you could imagine happen without rhyme or reason and it's an easy excuse to tack on some fantasy without going into the voids that most people don't like. There's also blood magic, occult happenings, voodoo, and black magic that can do even more harm or plotting.

Sorry, this turned into a long post but before I keep going, as I can always think of more, these are the basics and besides vampires/vampire AU; this is what I work with. It's also what I tend to look for and consume in media. Books, fanfiction, television; most media can catch my attention with these tropes or any combination.

These tropes are the reasons I'm drawn to more pop-culture things like; Game of Thrones, YOU, Criminal Minds, American Horror Story, Alice in Wonderland, Adaptations of Harley Quinn as well as the variations of the Joker. Games like Detroit: become human, The Last of Us, Assassin's creed, and Alice the Madness returns as well as its predecessor. I've watched Lifetime Movie Network and Crime and Drama shows since I was a child. Bailey Sarian and Kendall Rae drive with me everywhere I go.

I love anything that is chaotic and shows that people are the things that should scare us the most. That and the things that humanity does to them and can do to the world and us. Anything that borders insanity and brokenness of the human mind or body and really digs deep on death and life and drama.