#less whump Tumblr posts

[siren-of-agony]

Answers to "please stop"

No.

I can't.

I won't.

I don't want to.

I don't know how.

I will soon.

But then how will you learn?

We're almost done.

It's almost over.

Ask me again!

Oh well, if you're asking that politely…

Fine. For now.

Only once I've come up with something more fun.

Only once you've come up with something more fun.

Or what?

I know you can go a little bit longer.

You know I won't.

I love it when you beg.

I hate it when you beg.

I'm so bored by your begging.

Not until you're too weak to ask me to.

But I don't have anything better to do.

I wish I could.

Alright! See? All you had to do was ask nicely.

I'm not doing anything.

What, exactly?

Just once more, I promise!

Just once more, I promise! (🤞)

You're doing this to yourself.

You wanted this.

You want this.

You know you made me do this.

Are you ready to give me what I want, then?

I will once you give in.

What will you give me in return?

Why should I?

You know there is only one way to end this.

You know there is only one way this will end.

(Answers to "it hurts")

[snakebites-and-ink]

I've seen multiple awesome writers worried that people aren't going to like one of their series because it's "not real whump" or some similar sentiment, so I feel compelled to say this.

Some people prefer physical whump

Some people prefer emotional whump

Some people prefer psychological/mental whump

Some people like recovery arcs

Some people like fluff and comfort after the whump

Some people like whump that focuses more on angst

Some people like plot-heavy whump

Some people like worldbuilding-heavy whump

Also, the more niche a piece of writing is, the more happy the people who enjoy that niche will be to find something that fits it

Basically you can write whatever you want and there will be an audience somewhere who loves it.

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

If you think about it, Hiccstrid is an angry couple. Except, Hiccup is angry with himself and Astrid is angry with the world.

[cyberwhumper]

It’s almost ridiculous how easy it was to take him. An ironic anticlimax, a sardonically unsatisfying nothingness, like a round of Russian roulette played with a malfunctioning squirt gun. Stupid enough that War can’t help a huff of disbelief, almost disappointment, as he stands on the glossy floor of his throne room, prize in hand, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never does.

Slowly, tectonically, the Horseman’s face splits into a grin.

Victory is his.

⭑⭑⭑

There hadn’t even been a fight.

Victory would probably be ashamed of himself, if shame was an emotion the angel had ever been capable of feeling. He had been drunk, of course. He usually was. Anything to drown out the intractable boredom of the endless campaigns Heaven waged, those sterile scourings of the unclean and impure that were more a science than an art at this point. The cacophony of wingbeats and platinum swords that had once made his heart flutter with anticipation now lulled him halfway to sleep. As long as he was here, there was no contest. Every engagement was a rout, every triumph swift and sound.

It wasn’t fun anymore.

So he drank, and waited, and picked up flowers and shell casings, and stared vacantly out over the gore-splattered squadrons on their fields of slaughter while he stood apart, resplendent and redundant.

War had taken him effortlessly. He had dozed off at some point after running his fingers through already-pristine feathers for the millionth time, floating cozily on champagne and cynicism. When he awoke, however, it wasn’t hungover on a bed of silks, but rather hungover in a burning-hot darkness so total he briefly wondered if he’d somehow failed to open his eyes.

And then there was light—not the searing white purity of Heaven, but a primal, animal sort of glow, fever-hot and ruddy, assuring him that his eyes were, indeed, open, and making him immediately squeeze them closed.

“Ow.”

⭑⭑⭑

War stares down at the angel, crumpled like wet paper on his hall floor, a mixture of curiosity and derision in his carved face.

“So this is Heaven’s lucky charm,” he muses, voice dripping with command. “Look at me. Open your eyes.”

Victory shudders, a little whine escaping him.

War raises an eyebrow. Stubborn. “Open your eyes.”

The angel shakes his head, curling acid-white wings over himself. Whines again.

War draws closer. Victory is completely harmless, dazed and bound in chains built to restrain much stronger beings than he is, but the general still feels, somehow, on edge. “Open your eyes, little angel. Or are you afraid?”

“Not afraid,” comes the grumbled reply. “Headache. Stop talking.”

That stops War in his tracks, blinking. There are few creatures in Heaven or Hell who aren’t afraid of the Horseman, and those few are either very powerful or very stupid.

Victory, War thinks, is very, very stupid.

He smiles, for the second time that day, running his forked tongue over triplicate canine teeth. Ridiculous. Victory is his, easy as breathing.

And if taking him was that easy, well. Breaking him will be a breeze.

⭑⭑⭑

So he’s in Hell.

It’s been days, or millennia. Who’s to say. It’s not as hot as he expected, honestly. Sure, the air itself feels acrid and alien, infernal energy making him feel shaky and nauseous long after the hangover has cleared, and the chains lacing his body are as heavy as lead, and he lives inside a hanging birdcage with bars the same molten gold color as War’s eyes. But it’s not that hot. If anything, he’s actually cold, that prickly kind of bone-chill that comes with a fever, spiking every time the demon lord comes near him.

Such as now.

Victory shivers, drawing his wings protectively around himself as War idly taps the bars of the cage with his pronged tail, setting it slowly rocking.

“Didn’t take you for the bashful type,” he says, voice as deep and smooth as wine.

“I’m not,” Victory responds, feeling very far away. Above him, his halo flickers.

“Then come here. Let me see you.”

Victory cocks his head. “Why?”

“Because you’re mine.” War’s face is impassive on the other side of the bars. “And I command you to.”

Well, Victory can’t argue with that. Literally, can’t. It’s like he’s under some fucking spell down here, the poisoned air, the Horseman’s voice, everything conspiring to make him want to be pliant and obedient. God, he thinks the water’s drugged.

But he wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t shy. He unfurls his wings, baring himself to War, all long lines of muscle under sun-bronzed skin, smears of ash and grime providing more coverage than the few scraps of silk still clinging to his hips.

“Closer,” says War.

Obediently, like a lamb, Victory crawls to him.

He slips his arms out through the bars, the chains on his wrists clinking almost musically against them despite their weight. “Like what you see?” he murmurs. For everything else he is, War is a man. And Victory can work with that.

“Yes,” War says plainly, and something flutters low in the angel’s belly. The feeling strengthens as War reaches between the bars and strokes clawed fingers across his cheekbone, jawline, throat. His halo flickers again, reflected brokenly in War’s eyes, gazing openly at him. “Come here.”

Even if Victory could resist, he wouldn’t have. War is handsome, in a wicked, cruel sort of way, all hard angles and corded muscles that bely the hypnotic grace of an apex predator. The whole demon thing aside, you just don’t get guys like that in Heaven. War unlocks the gilded cage and coaxes Victory out almost gently, letting him stand on unsteady legs as he continues tracing massive hands over the angel’s features, running fingers through his tangled hair, razor-sharp claws ghosting along his skin.

“Beautiful,” the Horseman murmurs. His hand pauses on Victory’s wing, feeling its liquid softness, feathers glossy as pearls beneath the layer of dirt, the intimacy of the touch making Victory have to choke back a moan. “Mine…”

And then, quick and snake-like, War sinks his claws in and twists.

Victory screams.

Face still blank, as effortlessly as if he was plucking a ripe fruit from a vine, War tears the angel’s wing off.

“Beautiful,” he repeats.

Yours, Victory thinks, and then, mercifully, he passes out.

⭑⭑⭑

It really is that easy.

War savors the destruction. He takes his time with the other wing, using his favorite hunting knife to carve it free without damaging a single feather, disarticulating the delicate flight-bones and ligaments with a finesse that would almost seem loving were it not being used for butchery. They truly are beautiful, long and slender and elegant, glimmering with the iridescence of a soap bubble, their stark whiteness absolutely reeking of Heaven. His herald, a primordial demon with an inexplicable knack for interior design, helps him mount them on the wall behind the infernal throne, flanking it, brilliant and ghastly trophies making for a downright ostentatious display of power and dominion.

“You are keeping it?” the herald asks in his lilting voice, poking the unconscious angel with one cloven hoof. The pool of mercury-colored blood he lies in smells like burnt sugar and champagne.

“Of course,” War replies. He hauls Victory up by the hair, eyes running up and down the limp body like it’s a cut of meat. He’s already curious about how that blood tastes, what the candy-coated entrails of an angel look like up close and personal, just how many more pretty little noises he’ll wring from those soft lips when he sinks a claw in and splits that bronze skin from collarbone to pelvis.

Victory is flightless, his divinity staked into the wall of Hell’s war council hall. All War needs to do now is bind him, snap his faltering halo and stain his soul with the sigils that will ensure his eternal obedience. Heaven will be fucked.

And given how easily Victory fell, into his domain, into his arms, well. It shouldn’t take much.

Again, War smiles, wolfish.

“To the winner go the spoils,” he quotes. “And Victory is mine.”

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

Fic by the incredible @bxtterflystxtches ! Please show him some love!!!

[OC INDEX]

COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN!

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[deluxewhump]

the bahkauv: part three

Prev

CW: hurt, more hurt, no comfort yet but a glimpse of it. Brief verbal threat of noncon, pliers as torture device, muzzle, broken bones, ear and hand whump, nonhuman whumpee, burning alive, immortal/quick healing whumpee, slight language barrier, brief thoughts/ideation of death and mortality, multiple whumpers

Hunters camp (before):

At first, the hunters thought the Bahkauv was a vampire. It made sense, in the confusion of the moment. Vampires were far more common than its kind was anymore. That and it had fangs.

At the camp, they soon realized the Bahkauv was not a vampire. This revelation did nothing to protect it. Close enough, they said. It was still a non-human creature, and had a long history of attacking, robbing, and even killing humans.

The first day in captivity, nothing happened. The Bahkauv twisted and pulled at its restraints, trying to no avail to find some give in the ropes that bound it hand and foot. How naive it had been. It had no idea the depth of the hatred these humans had for it, and for the vampires they didn’t kill outright.

One of the hunters caught it trying to manipulate the knots and beat it with fists and boots before putting its first muzzle on its face. At first it had been angry, hissing and spitting at the hunter’s hands that were wet with its own blood. That got it a backhand that made its ears ring and its head ache. The bit was sharp and huge, shoved to the back of its throat so it gagged and secured so tightly it thought it would choke. Humiliated, it had shrunk against the clapboard wall and sulked.

Pride would soon be a forgotten luxury.

The next day, two hunters came for it, dragging it stiff and sore from its first beating out into the yard along with a couple of screaming vampires. The sun was climbing in the sky, which was why the vamps were screaming and carrying on so. It felt an intense gratefulness that it could not burn from the sun as they could. One of the hunters grabbed its muzzle and turned its chin to force it to look.

“You see that? You think you’re better than them, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

Another hunter joined the first. He had a mocking, self satisfied grin. “Let’s teach it a lesson in humility then. What are we waiting for? It was going to tear Byron’s throat out before we netted it.”

“Look at these. Is this fur?” the first hunter stroked one of the Bahkauv’s ears with the pad of his thumb. It shuddered at the unexpected touch. It was not affectionate, or kind, but it happened to be very gentle, and its ears were as highly sensitive as its sharp canines. It recoiled in disgust from the hunter’s hand— and its own reaction to it.

“It appears human when it’s not attacking. Except for a few details. The fangs are one. The ears. And of course it’s utterly vicious, despite being relatively intelligent. Can’t teach it a thing.”

“I bet I can teach it something,” grinned the first. It took the Bahvauv’s fur-lined ear between its forefinger and thumb again, this time pinching so tears sprung to its eyes and it bit back a surprised gasp of pain.

“Don’t be shy. Let’s hear a pretty little whimper at least. You’re going to make a lot of noises here.” The hunter pinched the sensitive skin and cartilage harder, his nails breaking skin beneath the soft layer of orange fur. The Bahkauv grit its teeth as best it could around the bit, and would not make a sound.

“No?” The hunter took something from the belt at his waist. Cold metal replaced fingers. Though the Bahkauv didn’t know it yet, it would come to know the word pliers very well. Such a simple tool, and so effective. Humans love tools— pliers and muzzles and fire. The teeth of the pliers bit down.

The Bahkauv screamed around the bit. It tried to pull away, but the hunter had it firm by the muzzle.

“There we go.” He gave the pliers a few sharp tugs, eliciting high pitched yelps. Its delicate ear was caught between the mean metal teeth like a fishhook.

“That was a healthy scream.”

“It’s an angry scream,” said the second. “That will change. If you take that thing clean off, you can dry it out and send it to your kids for good luck. Like a rabbit’s foot.”

It made an indignant sound, half-scream and haf-growl, saliva tinged with blood dripping from its muzzle.

“Well shit, that’s a good idea. I already ruined this one for now, it’s got a hole in it. I’ll get the other one.”

The hunter had been right that its silence wouldn’t last. It screamed as it was parted from its left ear.

—

It did not take the camp of hunters long to figure out that it regenerated itself quickly. Its ears grew back slowly, as did its fangs when they were later pulled. Everything that had a human appearance healed faster, though all the more painfully for it.

The first time they burned it, they didn’t know if it would survive. Neither did the Bahkauv. When it did, and its skin began to immediately repair itself, they were delighted. The Bahkauv was horrified. If that could not end its suffering, what could?

It was put back in its cell at dusk. It was unnatural for a creature like itself to dwell on death, but after being burned alive all morning and afternoon, over and over, with no more than an hours’ reprieve in between, it began to despair.

“Don’t cry,” crooned one of the hunters from the door of its cell. It scrambled into a sitting position, startled. It had thought it was alone.

“You were a favorite today. We all feel so much better for having played with you. A real morale boost. Look how quickly all that pretty hair has grown back. Your nature works hard to protect your disguise as human, doesn’t it? If I cut myself, the blood would clot and the skin would eventually knit back together. But not like you.”

The Bahkauv pressed its back tight against the wall as the hunter approached. This man was one of its torturers earlier that day— a younger one, not twenty five, tall and broad chested, with colorless blue eyes and close-shaved pale hair. He slipped a pair of pliers from his belt— the teeth were thick and blunt, not sharp like the ones they used to cut its ears. “And who knew you could speak? Do you understand, or did you just learn a few words like a talking parrot?”

The hunter squatted in front of it. Its heart pounded wildly, the staggering, paralyzing fear from the day returning and overriding its exhaustion. He took one of the Bahkauv’s hands in a strong grip. The pliers covered the first knuckle of its pointer finger, still pink and healing from the fire. It crunched down, shattering the first knuckle so it felt like gravel inside its skin.

It wailed, wildly trying to wrench its wrist from the hunter’s grip. It was so weak— like in a dream where it could not run or fight back. Healing and burning and healing again had sapped all its strength. Its anger at the hunters had long been replaced by desperation. Why did they want to hurt it so badly? How could it get the pain to stop? When it couldn’t, it stopped wondering why. It knew why. And this hunter was about to remind it.

“God, you sound like a person. You look human. That makes them hate you more, do you know that? It’s uncanny. Except for those devil eyes, you could be a boy of twenty summers, or less. Some of them even wonder if you’d be worth fucking. I think a lot of them wonder, and who could blame them? But no one wants to be the first to try it.” The pliers traveled to the next knuckle and perched there, waiting, on its freshly formed skin.

“No,” the Bahkauv whispered, tears flowing, saliva dripping from the corner of its mouth, raw and chafed from the bit that was always shoved to the back of its throat. “No. Pl-please.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Do you know those words? They’re the only ones you used all day. All goddam day, even in such unfathomable suffering. I could smell it every time your flesh melted, and still you only said no, and please. But do you understand?”

It was beginning to. Its own mother tongue was not human. But it had the same capabilities for language as the humans. More, even, and could infer with greater accuracy things the humans thought and felt as they spoke, which helped decode the words.

“A thing like you shouldn’t beg, anyway. It won’t work. You don’t deserve our mercy.”

Muscles flexed in the hunters thick, tanned forearm as he squeezed the plier handles together. Another crunch, and a second knuckle was destroyed under their powerful metal bite like glass broken inside a cloth sack. It shrieked so it thought its throat would tear open, pounding its foot uselessly against the wooden floor. The hunter narrowed his blue eyes as its scream tapered off into raw sobs, shaking its head no, over and over.

The pliers retracted and settled over its middle finger, on the first knuckle. The Bahkauv keened in dread, looking into the hunters face and finding not a flicker of regret or a glimpse of mercy. It knew hurting it entertained each hunter in different ways, but it pleased them all none the less. Each crunch of the tool was cataclysmic, and it was hard to imagine how at any point today it would have chosen this immediately to get the fire to stop, because now it did not think it could handle another crushed bone. And it had many more knuckles.

“Either way,” sighed the hunter. “Tomorrow we will burn you again, and see if you know any more words, little parrot.”

__

After they made camp, the three friends slept around the dying fire in their bedrolls. Francis tied a rope to his own waist and looped the other end around the Bahkauv’s collar so it slept six feet away from him. No more escape attempts. If it moved, he would feel it, and they both knew it.

The men slept. The Bahkauv tried to lie awake and alert, but its exhaustion was too great, and soon it slept too. The howling of wolves woke all of them in the wee hours of the morning. Disoriented, it leapt awake, scrambling along the length of its rope. In the hunters encampment, this would have led it to a solid wall it could press itself against, but now it led to Francis. It bumped into him and whimpered, waiting for a backhand or a cuff to the ear.

“Hey. It’s alright,” Francis told it gently in the darkness. Why were their voices so soft and blameless when they spoke to it? It had been waiting all day and now all night for the first blow, the first violence or pain from its captors, and still it had not come. It was like waiting for the pliers to crush another bone.

“They won’t come much closer. You’re alright. You’re safe with us. They sound kind of beautiful, don’t they?”

Stephan and Arthur got up out of their bedrolls to settle the horses, who were stamping their hooves and whickering nervously.

It hadn’t meant to crawl so close to its captor, but once again it was not punished for doing so. Something was different about them than the hunters, but it didn’t know enough about humans to assign much meaning to this observation. It was true the unmistakable sounds of the wolves had frightened it awake, and made the fine hairs on the back of its neck stand up. But it wasn’t afraid in the way it understood fear now. That kind of fear was reserved for humans, with their tools and fire and deliberate malice. But what a strange thing to say. Safe with us. Like they would protect it. It could not imagine humans as protectors.

Still, it slept closer to Francis til first light, with three feet of slack in the six foot rope.

-

Tags

@paperprinxe @whumpsday @i-eat-worlds @handsinmotion @stormchaser819

@annablogsposts @clickerflight @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud @scoundrelwithboba, @blood-and-regrets

[letitbehurt]

Whumpees nursing a bleeding wound. A hand clutching their side to stanch the blood, groaning in pain as they lean against a wall and sink awkwardly to the floor. Tilting their head back and trying to breathe, their eyes screwed shut in pain. The looming inevitability of passing out, but the absolute refusal to do so until they’ve stopped the bleeding. They just need to catch their breath, to rest, just for a moment…

[skyward-floored]

Hey who should I beat up today I currently have zero plans for who to get

This is the prompt. I might use an alt honestly I’m not really feeling any of these

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

the previous prompt has me kicking my feet

Caretaker keeps whumpee on their lap, wrapped in a jacket, held oh so tightly against their chest. The normally touch repulsed whumpee is keening under any skin to skin contact, as their nerves are fried with sensation. Mumbling something incoherent about something or other into caretakers shoulder.

caretaker is treating them for wounds/exposure/overall drugging, but it’s like trying to pull teeth. Whumpee is now at the point in their high that they’re figuring out ‘oh hey, I have a body’ and is wriggling.

(the post in question is HERE)

I hope you know, honest to god I screamed reading this. A good scream, a ‘oh i love what I just read’ scream. The idea of Caretaker just trying to wrangle Whumpee in their lap is killing me.

I feel like the situation would tow a very fine line between kinda hilarious and deeply unsettling. Because yes, having your typically reserved, serious Whumpee wriggling in your arms like a pouty child is a little funny. But also, seeing Whumpee act so deeply unlike themselves, so totally unable to control themselves, is undeniably unsettling.

It’s such a strange situation. It’s frustrating and terrifying, and it makes Caretaker feel deeply, deeply alone. Because even with them physically in their lap, Whumpee is still miles away.

I just imagine Whumpee clinging to Caretaker like a koala, legs wrapped around their torso and arms over their shoulders, head tucked into their neck. Despite how close they are, Caretaker can’t make out a single word they say.

Maybe Caretaker tries to crack a joke, tries to focus on the humor in the situation instead of the anxious protectiveness they feel at Whumpee’s current state. But when Whumpee looks up at them, eyes foggy with barely a hint of awareness, Caretaker’s forced, weak little smile crumbles.

Caretaker decides that tending to their injuries can wait. None of them seem life threatening, and it’s likely Whumpee isn’t even aware of them. Instead they sit there, rubbing comforting circles in one of the few unblemished parts on their back, and hope Whumpee returns to them sooner than later.

[bananafire11]

Guys. I finally got something written lets fucking goooo

[whumpndump]

Android Whumpee stripped down to their bare essential elements by Scientist Whumper, just a few circuit boards and some wires. They're still aware, and as sentient as they were before, but they just cant do anything. They can't see, or hear, or smell, or talk, nothing.... and then they get stored away like that, put into some box in a lab storage closet, likely to be forgotten about for a loooong time.

[tomurakii]

My last post about bloodweave was pretty negative (though necessarily so imo) so I wanted to talk about the little things about the bloodweave dynamic that I DO like and want to see more of in fic (under the cut).

- the orb means Astarion can't start their relationship transactionally. Gale can't give Astarion blood, and also can't have sex with him (and presumably would refuse casual sex anyway). How would the relationship develop without Astarion being able to rely on the give-and-take, forced instead to just trust Gale will watch his back? Astarion isn't a plans guy, I imagine having to come up with something on the spot (considering none of the other companions are reeaaaally an option either) would lead to a lot more emotional vulnerability as he tries to take a route he has much less experience with. Not to mention that the flirty and standoffish front isn't exactly going to endear him to Gale, who approves of the capable, loyal, and righteous. How long can Astarion pretend to be invested in Gale's wellbeing before it becomes true?

- they both have bad ascension endings, but different natural outcomes. Gale is considered the more morally upstanding one, but in their solo states (without the player's influence) Gale will go through with ascension and Astarion won't. Would they goad each other on? Gale disapproves of Astarion's ascension, using arguments that could apply to himself about the personal sacrifice and loss of the soul. Would Astarion flip them around, become defensive? Their dynamic could mean the power hungry character ending up discouraging the pursuit of godhood, or the two of them hurtling over the edge together. Or, maybe, Astarion encouraging Gale to ascend and having to trust him to return.

- they're the party members with the most life experience, and they're also both pretty well-educated (even if Astarion's law qualifications may well have expired by the events of the game). He spent his time under Cazador sewing (like Gale in his Baldur's Gate epilogue) and learning languages (of which Gale knows four). They have enduring common interests beyond their circumstances. Gale can help Astarion rediscover the latent nerd potential he lost when he died, and lord knows he would love to pick his brain for a first hand account of the mid-to-late 12th century.

- Astarion recently regained hope for his future when the tadpole freed him, Gale recently lost all of it. While act 1 is a continuous series of positive discoveries for Astarion (tadpole frees him from cazador -> ceremorphosis is held off by the dream visitor -> tadpole can be controlled), Gale's life gets worse with time as his treatment stops working. It's a dynamic that could give Gale hope, force Astarion to practise empathy, or put them completely at odds.

- Astarion's all-encompassing desire to reclaim his life could be inspiring to Gale. Moreover, I imagine seeing just how passive Gale is about his death would infuriate him. To have so little regard for his real, mortal, free life? It's a great source of angst, and also a great starting point for Gale to start wanting to live again. Because after learning about Astarion's past he would agree, he'd recognise how much value a mortal life was supposed to have. He'd think himself ungrateful or impolite for entertaining the idea of throwing it away when Astarion would give anything to have what he had. This would lead to guilt, and potentially self-loathing, unless someone was there to help pick up the pieces.

- If Astarion meets Oblodra before Gale's act 2 romance scene, (or for a fanfic plot, just before Gale is confident enough to confess) they most likely won't have sex until the graveyard scene in late act 3 (or the post-ascension equivalent). It means that rather than the fuckfest we so often see from bloodweave fics, the relationship is almost entirely a slow-burning, emotionally intimate affair. I'd really love to see that play out, the progression from semi-horny yearning on both parts as the orb keeps them apart, to two love confessions that are followed by the both of them experiencing non-sexual intimacy for the first time in years. I doubt Mystra was one to hug her chosen, after all, or hold their hands.

I just love a bg3 ship that forces the characters to take different actions than they do in canon. It makes me feel like I'm developing a broader understanding of the characters, you know?

[boxboysandotherwhump]

I polished an old piece of mine, trying to get into creating stuff again :3

[foundfamilywhump]

truly i don't care who thinks it's stupid or boring or "doesn't count" or can't be as intense as what they think of as "real whump" or whatever else, whump with comfort and recovery and caretaker(s) is always going to be my style of whump and i'm gonna have a blast vibing with people who also enjoy that

[cyberwhumper]

A Biopet bred as a farewell gift to the previous Kalavinka Entertainment CEO after the leadership transition. The passing of its previous owner presents an irresistible opportunity for many interested parties to get their hands on it for financial gain. Time to place your bets on who will be the first to break the animal into a bona fide killing machine!

Tag list: @whumpsday // @demondamage // @squidlife-crisis // @whumpedydump // @cyborg0109 // @whumpfish // @astrowhump // @the-scrapegoat // @whatwhumpcomments // @dustbunnywhump // @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question // @dokidokisadness // @moss-tombstone // @kinderlamb // @maracujatangerine // @pinkraindropsfell //

If you’re interested in being added to the tag list, please let me know!

[tsubaki94]

1 Sick/ Poisoned

AI-less Whumptober 2023

And so it begins. I'm taking water over my head again and going for both the AI-less Whumptober prompt list and the EctoberHaunt as well.

I'm going to be doing this list traditional with inks and promarkers and try to do the shorter Ectober digitally. Lets see how it goes.

[masterwords]

Where my whumpies at?