#resigned whumpee

[whumpwillow]

let’s give it up for resigned whumpees, whumpees who just take any punishments inflicted on them without so much as a reaction, who collect scars and barely tend to their wounds because nothing matters to them, least of all themselves

[sir-fenris]

Whumpcember24 - Day 3

Begging

(Drabbles' masterlist)

Content: experiment whumpee, resigned whumpee, intimate/sadistic whumper, begging, hand-feeding, implied torture, leg injury, threat of mutilation, starvation.

The first time Whumpee was thrown in the dungeon cell, they thought pain would be the worst, consistent problem. And well... it was, indeed, consistent and distressing.

But somehow boredom was worse.

Because boredom led to overthinking.

Could they have done something to stop the last session's pain sooner? When will be the next one? Will they be allowed water and food? How many days has passed? Is this consistent pain in the leg normal after being stabbed? Is the lethargy and apathy because of tiredness, or were they going insane?

And slowly, there was so much nothing going on beyond the pain, that their mind had to come up with new questions to fill their "free" time.

Like; how many steps there were between the bars and the wall? What's the highest number they can count to before a new session? How long can they keep their eyes open? How much can they move before jostling an injury too badly?

Any question and thought until the cell door opens.

When torture starts, they hope for it to end.

When torture ends, they hope for it to begin again just to take them out of this endless overthinking.

... And to give them a chance to eat. Because that only happened when Whumper was in a good mood and wanted to play, instead of study torture methods.

"Look who's up early today!" Speaking of the devil...

Whumpee raises their eyes tiredly, barely seeing Whumper clearly anymore, their eyesight is getting worse each day. They don't say anything, they don't need to.

"I was thinking of trying out glossectomy today, but I'm reconsidering..." Whumper muses, walking in the cell with a black bottle in hands.

Whumpee hated when Whumper used their weird-ass words. It meant usually some type of surgery or medical thing, by Whumpee's experience, and it always had the immense potential to be an excruciating experience.

At their tiredly confused expression, Whumper grins gleefully and explains, after crouching down. "Tongue removal, little bird."

Their blood goes cold. Whumper has never chopped off a part of their body. No matter how far they went, Whumpee knew Whumper would at least keep them whole by the end of it, why must it change now-

With a chilling chuckle, Whumper opens the black bottle, and the smell of fruit cuts off Whumpee's thinking.

"Now, now, don't lose yourself just yet. I told you, I'm reconsidering," Whumpee says. "I do love you singing for me, little bird... So I'll give you a chance to prove that I'm better off leaving your tongue where it is. And, if you're good enough, you can have a tasty smoothie, hm?"

The pause sent Whumpee in a frenzy to find out what was the right thing to say, which clues they had in hands to guess what Whumper wanted to hear.

'I do love you singing for me...'

"Please..." Whumpee whispers, lowering their eyes to the ground when Whumper grin grows. "Can I please eat?"

A hooked finger presses their chin upwards, forcing them to meet Whumper's gaze. "You can do better, little bird. Let me help."

Pain burns through their body as Whumper uses their other hand's nails to dig into Whumpee's leg injury. They try to curl into themselves with a stifled wail, but Whumper's hooked fingers turns into a whole-hand grip on their jaw, keeping Whumpee's gaze on Whumper's eyes only.

"P-Ple- Ah! Please, please, c-can I eat?" Tears burn their eyes when Whumper just digs their nails further, still with that vile grin. "Please, I'm begging you, I'm so hungry, please let me eat, please, please-"

Their words are interrupted by a choked gasp as Whumper retrieves both their hands to clap. "There we go, that's better."

Whumpee breaths shakily, closing their eyes to urge the pained tears away.

"Your singing is too pretty for me to cut off your tongue, little bird. Aren't you glad I've changed my mind?" Whumper asks cheerfully, putting a straw on the smoothie bottle.

"... Yes, thank you," Whumpee whispers. At least today's game was easy and fast. It's the easiest food they got in a long while.

"Good song bird. Now, say 'ah' for me."

Whumpee's eyebrows twitched at the straw being tapped against their lips, because their hands were fine, they didn't need nor want Whumper to feed them.

But this was the easiest food they got in a long while. They can't lose the opportunity of easy, tasty nutrition because of pride.

And when the delicious, cold and fresh smoothie reaches their kept tongue, Whumpee forgot why they had even hesitated.

There is no space for pride in survival.

-

(Kinda late, but stills counts as day 3, right? Shhh, for me, it does.)

-

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower Masterpost

A stolen fae is forced into slavery. Tortured into giving up his true name, he doesn't feel much of anything anymore. Until he's given to Queen Iris, who wants to make a deal.

Contains Caretaker x Whumpee (slowburn)

Based on this post

Warnings: slavery, torture, past non-con, dehumanization

Chapters:

Arc 1:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | -

Drabbles:

one | two

Picrews:

one | two | three | four

My Writing Masterpost

[angels-whump]

Obsessed with whumpee telling whumper, “don’t bother”.

When they’re trying to bait whumpee’s team or demand a random and whumpee knows/is convinced they don’t care so it’s not gonna work. When they’re already resigned to whatever happens next as soon as they’re captured. When they’ve been through it before, there’s nothing else you can do to hurt them

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

Whumpuary 2024 Day 2

2. (Jan 03-04) "Get away from me" / Collapse / Choking

cw celebrity whumpee, exhaustion, fainting, controlling whumper 

Whumpee stumbled offstage, lightheaded. Every muscle in their body ached, down to their feet which were unbelievably sore from endless nights of performing. They wanted nothing more than to unlace their boots and chuck them into the nearest trashcan. At the very least, sneakers might be more comfortable onstage—but that wasn’t their look, according to Whumper. 

“Hey, you did great out there!” The guitarist from one of the opening bands clapped Whumpee on the shoulder as they passed. 

Whumpee gave her a weak smile. “Thanks.” They could barely hear their own voice through the cotton that filled their ears. 

Sit. They needed to sit. Whumpee scanned the backstage area desperately for somewhere to rest—just for a minute, that was all they needed. Spots swam in their vision and a wave of dizziness sent the world spinning around them. Before they knew it, Whumpee’s eyes rolled back and they collapsed to the ground. 

“Whumpee,” a voice said, from what felt like a million miles away. “Hey, Whumpee, are you alright?” 

A hand smacked their face lightly, and Whumpee groaned. They blinked away the spots in their vision as someone helped them sit up. 

“What the fuck was that?” the voice demanded, anger concealing a hint of genuine concern. It was Whumper kneeling beside them, looking Whumpee over. 

Still a little out of it, Whumpee rubbed their eyes with the heels of their hands. “Mm. Tired.” 

Their manager sighed in annoyance. “So you’re just gonna pass out on me every time you get tired?” 

“No, ‘m sorry,” Whumpee muttered. A few people had stopped to check on them, but Whumper was shooing them away. “Just so many shows. I need a break.” 

Whumper rolled their eyes, reaching out to straighten the singer’s shirt. “You’re fine. I don’t hear any of your bandmates complaining. You’ve only got a couple more shows on this tour and then you can go home and get as much beauty sleep as you want, princess.” 

“Don’t condescend me,” Whumpee said, pushing away the hands that had begun fixing their hair for them. 

Whumper pulled back with a glare. “Don’t forget who’s making sure you get paid.” 

Of course they were right—that was why Whumpee did what they said, no matter how much it broke them down. No matter how badly their body ached or how numb the exhaustion left them. This was the life Whumpee had wanted. The fame, fortune, and everything that came along with it. They looked down, sniffling. 

“Oh, come on. Don't cry,” Whumper said, voice a bit gentler. They pulled Whumpee into a hug. “Just a few more shows. I know you can tough it out.” 

Whumpee nodded. They’d do it—they’d push through the sleepless nights in the bus and the ringing in their ears and the spotlights blinding them. It’s what they had to do. 

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Experimentation Begins (Magician's Bait, Part 2)

WoW Birthday Whump Event Day 2: Starvation / Thirst / "Please…"

Prompts List

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

<- previous part | next part ->

TW: tied up, starvation, thirst, headache, creepily intimate whumper

Context: Damian has been trapped for a few days now, probably. His captor hasn't given anything to eat or drink. But he thinks he's figured out who she's after.

-----

How long has it been?

Time was immeasurable in Damian’s prison of darkness. The only indication that he was still alive at all was his heart beating in his chest, the aching in his wrists and ankles, and the steady gnawing of hunger.

His captor rarely visited. When she did, it was only to undo his bonds for short bursts at a time so he could walk around the cell and relieve himself. The room he’d been imprisoned in was small, only a couple paces across. The walls and floor were cool, rough stone, acting like sandpaper whenever he ran his fingers over them.

But she hadn’t fed him.

Was this one of those “tests” she’d mentioned?

Starving him was a cruel form of torture.

The lack of water, however, would probably kill him first. 

Currently, Damian was back in the chair, the rough ropes continuously wearing away at the skin of his wrists as he tried to find a comfortable position to sleep. The muscles in his shoulders burned from the strain, and his neck and upper back were no better. The cut on the back of his head from the fall on his first day was slowly healing, and it was probably responsible for the dull ache in his head.

The Stalker wanted him alive, didn’t she?

That’s what she said, at least.

Damian ran his tongue over his cracked lips. It was surprisingly dry in the cell, considering he’d been abducted during the peak of the humid season. Or maybe it was another symptom of thirst. That was more likely.

He sighed heavily through his nose, anxiously curling and uncurling his fingers. Being bound in one spot for so long was strange. He’d never considered himself restless, but he'd never been forced to stay still in such a brutal way. 

Despite the headache, Damian had been doing a lot of thinking.

And he was pretty sure he’d figured out who the Stalker was after.

The resident magician in the Torrent Territories wasn’t a private woman. Her name was Caiya Ebony, and she was well-known for flashy performances and daring escapades. It was an open secret that the king paid her well to limit her excursions to Torrent and occasionally around Zariya.

It made perfect sense. Stalkers were once magicians, after all. Magicians who chased after the promise of power at the cost of the lives of those who were once their colleagues. They’d been named such because of the way they tended to track their targets, like a hunter stalking prey. Once a Stalker caught her target, she would consume the magician’s power… somehow… and become stronger.

And unlike magicians, Stalkers didn’t need to draw the runes to cast spells. They only needed to speak. Damian didn’t know how it worked, and it really didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was bait. Bait for Caiya.

His father would have sent his best soldiers and detectives on the case, but when it became clear the abduction was supernatural, he would turn to his magician. And that was what the Stalker wanted. And after that? Damian couldn’t guess. Certainly not a Draigo. The entire species had vanished almost overnight.

Whatever she wanted, Damian was smart enough to realize that he didn’t want her to get it. And if that meant he had to die here? Then so be it. Roland could have the throne.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the cell door opened. “Hello?” he whispered, the words scraping against his dry throat.

No response, only the gentle stirring of the air around him, disturbed by the open door and the Stalker’s movement. The only noise in the cell was her breathing.

“How long do you plan to starve me?” Damian demanded, voice raspy. He’d given up on screaming for help when it became glaringly obvious no one was around to hear him.

His captor still hadn’t closed the cell door. Instead, she moved from one side of the cell to the other. Despite the magical blindness, Damian’s eyes followed where he estimated her path to be, judging from the movement of the air and the sound of her footsteps and breathing.

“Please…” he murmured, “at least give me some water.”

The spell was jarring, the runes spoken with harsh tones. Damian flinched, expecting pain. 

Nothing happened.

Without warning, something touched his head. “There,” the Stalker said softly, running her fingers through his hair, “was that so hard?”

He tensed, waiting for her to tug and yank him back until she let him fall.

“You know,” she continued, “for an heir, you’re not a polite guest.”

“I’m not your guest,” he hissed.

The Stalker’s hand paused mid-stroke. Damian gritted his teeth in anticipation. Knowing what was about to happen still didn’t prepare him enough for when her fingers curled, the nails digging into his scalp. “Call it what you like,” she snarled, “guest, prisoner, whatever. It doesn’t change your situation. It doesn’t change how helpless I’ve made you.”

Damian wanted to respond, to shoot back a cutting remark. But it wouldn’t make matters better. And she was right. 

He was helpless.

And he hated the feeling more than anything.

As quickly as she’d appeared, the Stalker withdrew, slamming the cell door closed with such force the floor shook. Damian listened to her retreating footsteps as he fought to control his racing heart, the fear curling in his stomach like a parasite.

She was long gone when he realized he was no longer thirsty.

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds

[fleur-a-whump]

ok this was not at all how I was expecting it to go. IM SO INTRIGUED?? like wtf why?

and this is a spoiler but HIS LITTLE 'okay' TO HERO ARE YOU JOKING I WILL SOB??? PROTECT HIM!! LOVE HIM!! HES A BABY HE DOES NOT DESERVE!!

also another spoilerish but I hope 'take care of them' meant kill them bc they deserve it ok

Resource L10#11 - Part 2: A dumpster fire of a day - Crestlen universe

Contents: waking in a dumpster, description of injuries, left to die, freaked out whumpee, resigned whumpee, whumpee who considers himself an object, mentions of past horrible trainings

I love Lionel. As I’m sure you can tell >:)

Part 1

……………………………………………

The underlying throbbing of his muscles on top of the ripping pain in his arms, legs, and nose was what Lionel woke up to. He tried to take a deeper breath, but only succeeded in choking on the blood that had dripped in to rest in the back of his throat from his nose. 

He rolled his head and weakly let the blood slip from the back of his throat to his mouth before he dribbled it out between his lips. After spitting weakly a couple of times, he rolled his head back over the bumpy surface he was laying on to pry his eyes open and figure out where he was. 

Blue grey skies and the sharp line of a building’s eave above him met his eyes, all within a greenish metal container. He blinked a couple of times and rolled his head to the side to spit again and found that he was laying on a bunch of trash bags in a dumpster. 

Keep reading

[whumpity-whumpwhump]

Failed escape attempts are great and all but you know what’s even better? Failed escape attempts that get civilians involved.

The whumpee nearly escaped and yes they will suffer for it but you know what else will happen? The whumper can kill whatever poor innocent soul was trying to help whumpee. And they can make the whumpee watch as they do it, making sure that they know that this wouldn’t have happened if not for them. That this person is only dead because the whumpee tried to escape and they tried to help them.

The whumpee then gets to spend some wonderful moments stirring in guilt and self loathing, along with anger at whumper.

Bonus points if the next time they have a chance to escape or alert someone they don’t. They stay silent and pliable as whumper guides them through a train station. They barely even need the threat of the knife in their back to comply, all too aware that whumper won’t hesitate to kill anyone who helps them. Or they go out of their way to assure the police officer that pulled them over that everything is fine, they haven’t seen anyone or anything suspicious. They’re just on a trip with their friends.

[bloodybloody]

Whumper who records the process while the experiment is occuring✨✨✨

Whumper is checking the equipment and medical devices after tying the whumpee down to the operation table. They gaze upon the camera, which is in the corner of the room, and start the voice recording. They plainly state the date, time, whumpee's number, which is determined by whumper when they are captured, and the experiment's subject. Then they inject muscle relaxants in order to hold the whumpee still.

Despite the medications they've taken, whumpee is in excruciating pain. They can't save themselves or even move; they merely cry and scream in pain. Whumper is unable to record their voice properly because of whumpee's wails, so they shush and calm whumpee down with comforting words, caressing their hair and holding their hand. Whumpee is barely fighting the urge to scream; all they can do is sob and whine while clutching whumper's hand tightly.

Whumper leaves whumpee immediately after finishing the experiment to examine the record while whumper is writhing. They notice whumpee's desperate but resigned gaze at them while watching the record. 

They thank whumpee for being a good lab rat while treating, headpating, and kissing them.

Whumpee watches whumper for a couple days studying the results of the experiment while they wait for whumper to finish their work on their knees. Whumper randomly asks questions about what they've felt in specific moments and makes them remember the pain they've felt, intentionally or unintentionally.

[unforgivenn]

CHOKING IN WHUMP

I know this is like very basic in whump but its something I just CANNOT get over with.

It’s not just about the physical pain but also the mental and emotional anguish. It’s like a perfect storm of fear and helplessness, and that combination really gets me hooked.

Plus, there's something about the dynamic it creates between the whumpee and whumper. It adds layers of control and power plays, which can make the whole situation even more intense. The way it forces characters into such a vulnerable state is just sooo deliciousss.

What I love the most is the thought's that whumpee gets while being choked. When a character is choking, it’s like everything else fades away, and it’s just them and this immediate, life-or-death struggle. The thoughts are the one thing that changes the whole situation. It ramps up the tension and keeps them on edge, wondering how they’ll get out of it or if they’ll even make it.

Whumpee's breaths are ragged, each gasp a desperate plea that falls on deaf ears. The world seems to be narrowing, collapsing into a pinprick of darkness as their lungs scream for air that isn’t coming. Their mind races, a jumble of fragmented thoughts. Is this how it ends?

Whumpee can feel the pressure tightening, relentless. Their vision blurs, and they struggle to focus on anything but the suffocating grip around their throat. The room spins, and their heartbeat feels like it’s trying to break free from their chest. It’s like being trapped in a nightmare where the walls are closing in, and there’s no escape.

There’s an almost surreal clarity in this moment of terror. They think about everything They won’t get to do—no more sunrises, no more laughter, no more moments of peace. All those simple things I took for granted are slipping away, one choking gasp at a time.

Whumpee's hands claw uselessly at the constriction, nails digging into their skin, but it’s like trying to fight a storm with bare hands. Whumpee's thoughts are a blur of panic and regret, all mingled with a helpless resignation. I’m fading, losing grip on everything familiar.

The worst part? The absolute isolation. In this moment, no one can hear my silent screams. I’m utterly alone, drifting into the darkness with only the oppressive pressure as my cruel companion.

Is this it? Is this what it means to truly lose yourself? To have your life squeezed out of you, one choking breath at a time? The fear grips them like icy fingers, and whumpee can’t help but think that there’s no coming back from this.

Oh god oh god oh god Please please Im sorry im sorry

Please let my family be okay..

Finally.

So, yeah, choking in whump isn’t just about the physical act. It’s about the emotions, the stakes, and the dynamic it sets up. :))

[jump-in-the-whump]

am I the only one who LOVES starvation whump??? it hits so hard but I can barely find any

Yeahh, this is another big favorite of mine!! Everything about starvation is golden because you can torture your whumpee with so many fun symptoms!!

Hunger is just so powerful, and your whumpee will find themselves empty inside, and this emptiness will eat them out, not only physically (with constant spasm and cramps), but also mentally, they’ll always think about food, consuming each one of their thoughts, dulling every other sensation.

With this insatiable hunger comes the weakness! The whumpee will struggle to move, each step heavier than the last. Their legs and hands will shake uncontrollably, muscles twitching in spasms they won’t control because of exhaustion but also because a strong cold seeping into their bones, and tremors make it difficult to hold any object or to simply stand. Their limbs will feel as though they’re made of lead, weighed down by exhaustion that sleep won’t cure. Their energy is fading, they will know it, and so their body, which was initially begging to be fed, will soon beg for any kind of rest, their brain shutting down, unable to have any single coherent thought.

It’s gonna be difficult to concentrate: names, faces, memories will seem distant, slipping away no matter how hard they try to hold on. When they try to speak, they will often pause, forgetting what they were about to say, the words evaporating before they can form them. Hunger will pull apart the threads of their mind, making them a stranger to their own thoughts.

All these things the whumpee will feel inside, will soon be visible outside, with their cheekbones jutting out sharply, casting shadows on a face that seems to have aged a decade. The skin beneath their eyes will be so dark, bruised, and sunken, their sockets deep and hollow and their lips will be chapped. Their complexion will be an unhealthy, pallid shade, that, together with a haunted look in their eyes, a mixture of desperation and resignation, will make the character guess whether the person they see in the mirror is really them or someone else. And perhaps it is someone else, they will never be them ever again.

Thank you so much for the ask! you're so right, there's not enough starvation writing out there, but i promise i'll try to fix it ;)

Edit: Here's a little starvation drabble i wrote for you

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee thought they were a monster, and they thought that every single thing the whumper did to them was justified. The whumpee had hurt so many people, and intentionally or not, they could never forgive themselves. There weren’t any escape attempts anymore, no sudden snaps towards the whumper, just quiet resignation.

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

Whumpees that are mostly resigned and accepting of their role. They understand that they’re the punching bag. They understand that they’re going to get hurt. They accept this.

They’re not going to fight back, they know how this all goes.

So an odd question for the whump community.

What is that one trope that is your "brand" (as in, you write/draw it all the time, you love reading it, and the trope always bleeds into your stuff without you realizing)?

Mine is the "used as bait" trope 😆

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #2

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: torture, fantasy illness

Queen Iris had long since perfected her “interested” face. In truth, she was only half listening to the man’s spiel. Instead, she was focused on the fae at his feet.

She had seen paintings and read descriptions of fae in books. They were vibrant and colorful, even the pale winter fae with their bright eyes. The fae kneeling on the marble floor was dull, like dying roses in a dry vase.

“What an… impressive feat,” she said, “How did you manage it?”

“Well,” said the man, nearly bursting with pride. “We caught the creature while he was sleeping, with a net lined with iron weights.”

Iris watched the fae, but he did not react to his captor’s words. Poor thing.

“There is no need to worry about containing him,” the man went on. “I have his true name, and will gladly give it to you along with the fae.” He waved an envelope. 

“How thoughtful.”

Iris waved a servant over, and she delivered the envelope. It was sealed with wax.

“And he’s as tame as a mouse. Watch.” The man pulled out a knife, an iron knife. Iris’s guard placed a hand on his sword.

“Open,” he ordered. The fae opened his mouth, and she watched in carefully concealed horror as the man put the flat part of the blade on the fae’s tongue. 

The crowd gasped. She couldn’t help but wince at the sizzle of burnt flesh, steam pouring from the fae’s mouth.

The fae made no move to push him away.

“See? Perfectly docile.” She swallowed down her disgust. He put the knife away, and the fae closed his mouth.

“Fascinating,” she deadpanned, and finally the man picked up on her displeasure.

“Sir Brennan, please take my present to a spare room,” she said aloud to the room, “keep an eye on him and be nice,” she murmured to him.

“Right away, your majesty.” He moved from her side, and another knight took his place on the platform.

Sir Brennan waved off the fae’s captor, and hauled the fae to his feet. He didn’t cut away the bindings on his wrists, which was a wise move.

Even if the fae was placid and submissive, he was still fae and she needed to know more of him to judge if he was dangerous.

___________________

Iris made her way down the hall, Sir Maxus and a maid trailing behind her. She listed off everything she knew about fae in her head.

Couldn’t lie, benevolent at best and malicious at worst, usually mischievous, lived forever, burned by iron, pained by salt.

The politics of fae were mostly lost on her, but she knew there were two courts. Seelie for summer and spring, and Unseelie for fall and winter. There were the gentry, the royal fae, and the wild fae, commoners.

If the fae in her home was gentry, she could be in deep trouble with their court.

She stopped in front of the door. Iris glanced at the envelope in her hand. Supposedly it held the fae’s true name. A useful thing, if cruel to use against him.

Iris opened the door. Sir Brennan leaned against the left wall, looking bored. A good sign. The fae was sitting on the floor, eyes trained on the rug in front of him.

“Your grace,” Brennan greeted. 

“Any incidents?”

“Not at all. Very cooperative.”

“Good.”

Iris studied the fae. He looked even more miserable up close: dark shadows under his eyes and a thinness that couldn’t be good for him.

The colorless tinge to him was obvious, and she wondered if he was sick. His eyes were dull blue and his hair a blackish gray. He looked like he had rolled in ashes.

“Can you understand my language?” 

The fae nodded, and still did not look up.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes, Mistress.” His voice was devoid of anything, a flat note. 

She unsealed the envelope, and read the short scrawl of ink. It was a pretty name, short for a fae. Maybe he was young; true names supposedly got longer over time.

Iris felt eyes on her, but the fae looked away when she put the paper back in the envelope.

He must be terrified she was going to use it on him. She tossed the envelope into the lit fireplace, and he watched as it burned.

“What may I call you?”

The fae startled a bit; he hadn’t expected that. He hesitated.

“You may call me Kit.”

“Lovely.” Iris turned to the maid. “Sadie, please fetch Kit something to eat. No salt, no metal plate or cutlery.”

Sadie bowed and left.

“Are you gentry, Kit?”

“No, Mistress.”

“I see. And your season?”

“Spring.” 

“Hm.” She should have guessed from the name. ‘Moonflower’ didn’t seem very Unseelie. “Sir Brennan, please do away with the rope.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Brennan cut the rope from Kit’s wrists, and the skin beneath was scarred and raised. Like it had been cauterized. Kit must have worn iron shackles at some point.

What an awful thing to do to a person.

Sadie brought in a tray with a wooden plate of food and a glass of water. She set the tray in front of Kit.

“Thank you, Sadie.”

Kit didn’t move. “You can eat,” she said. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

Iris sat in a nearby chair, and thought as he ate. Maybe he could be useful. Someone who couldn’t lie to her would make a valuable ally if she could ensure his loyalty. He could spy for her with his keen senses, or use magic in useful ways.

“That will be all, Sadie. Sir Maxus, Sir Brennan. Leave us.”

The knights hesitated but followed Sadie out.

“I’d like to make a deal with you,” she started, and Kit looked up from his meal.

“If you are loyal to me for five years, I will let you go where you please. Whether that be leaving for your homeland, or staying here, or someplace else entirely.”

Kit thought it over. It was a fair offer, and she wasn’t sure why he hesitated.

“Only… only if you stop them from stealing more of us,” he said, quiet but firm. 

Ah. It was admirable he’d risk forfeiting freedom if she didn’t agree.

“Fair.” She offered a hand to him, and he took it. A tingle ran up her spine, and the air smelled like flowers for a moment. But then Kit’s eyes rolled up into his skull, and he collapsed on the floor with a thud.

She yelped in shock, and the knights burst in, swords drawn.

“Are you alright, my queen?” 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she waved them off. “He fainted, that’s all. Sir Brennan-”

Sir Brennan was already moving. He took off his steel gauntlets and picked Kit up without effort. “He’s rather cold,” he said, a frown on his face.

“Find a guest room for him.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “And post a guard. I don’t want him disturbed.”

___________________

He woke up groggy, his head pounding. He was lying on something soft, and there was heavy fabric on top of him.

Kit slowly opened his eyes. The room was empty, save for him. There was a large window to his left, and sunshine streamed through but didn’t quite make it to him.

He nearly cried from relief. Finally, he could get some sun. But the air was still stifling. He needed that window open, needed to sit in the sun’s rays, and he needed it now.

He pushed off the quilt the best he could, and stumbled towards the window. He nearly collapsed on the way, his legs as weak as a newborn deer.

Just a bit further. He managed to push the window open, but then the world tilted. He shot out a hand to steady himself against the wall. He gasped, desperate for the fresh air.

A wave of tiredness hit him again, and he closed his eyes, struggling to stay upright.

He heard the door open. 

“You should be in bed,” said the queen. Of course it was her. “You fainted earlier.” He opened his mouth to respond, but nausea bubbled up in his stomach.

She came closer, and it took an immense effort to turn to see her.

The queen was pretty, more so than most mortals. Her dark hair and blue eyes made her look like a stormy winter. And her dress would have made even the fairy prince jealous.

Mistress came to stand next to him, looking out the window. The view was beautiful. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

“It’s not contagious.” She looked at him, the tilt to her head indicating she saw right through the evasion. She waited for him to elaborate.

“We call it iron poisoning.”

“There’s no iron in here. I made sure of it.”

“It lasts.”

She paused.

“You should lie down,” she said again.

“I- I need the sunlight,” he admitted. He waited for her to hit him. It didn’t come, even though the deal didn’t forbid it.

Instead, Queen Iris crossed the room, and pulled a chair towards them, placing it directly in the patch of sunlight.

“Sit, then.” He didn’t dare disobey, and he sank into the plush chair, closing his eyes and soaking in the sun. The dizziness was already fading.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Don’t worry about it.” His eyes flew open. He didn’t expect such casual language from her, not when he’d seen her order around servants.

“I gave the command to arrest the people who hurt you, by the way.”

Kit stared at her. Humans lied all the time, but the magic of the deal told him she had in fact kept her word. Why so soon? She could have waited five years if she wanted. Was she trying to manipulate him?

Not that it mattered. She could do as she pleased with him. There was nothing he could do about it.

The queen looked away, which didn’t help his nerves.

“I’ll let you rest. Do you need anything else?”

He shook his head. He wouldn’t ask, even if he did. 

“Alright. I’ll have someone fetch you for dinner.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She slipped out of the room, the door closing behind her with a soft click. The tension bled out of his shoulders. Finally, he could relax. For a few hours, anyway.

He closed his eyes, and let himself sleep.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

[sir-fenris]

Can I please make a request? What about a living weapon (since that seems to be your speciality) who’s sent in for “training” by another trainer since apparently they’ve been acting defiant. And the trainers expecting a feral snarling weapon like they usually get, they aren’t expecting this quiet meek weapon who’s act of defiance was having PTSD or something else that’s either small or not in their control?

Sorry for the little wait! Hope you don't mind me doing your request with the event, and hope you enjoy the drabble :)

(Also, I'm glad you consider lw my specialty :D thank you)

Year of Whump Tropes - Day 18

January 2025 - Week 3, Day 4

"Don't make me repeat myself"

(Drabbles' masterlist)

Content: living weapon whumpee, medic whumpee, multiple whumpers, dehumanization, electrocution (stun bat), institutionalized whump, military whump, physical disability, swearing.

Trainer didn't know what happened in the last months of the year. Perhaps the handlers were already too tired from the year, so impatient for their winter break that they just didn't want to handle their unruly charges anymore.

Perhaps the weapons were also tired from years without a proper break, and that's why they acted out so much. Got too violent, too unstable, too snappy, too volatile.

But like clockwork, every time the winter break was close, at the time of his lunch break, there was a handler asking if he could recalibrate the weapons. Trainer got them quiet and obedient and sent them back to their handlers before the week was done.

By now, he doesn't even bother going to his office first thing in the morning. He will always get a call in less than 30 minutes about one of his new charges doing too much noise.

So he goes straight to the training wing and starts to read the records about the new weapons dumped to him.

On the first handler's name, a familiar one, it's an effort to not roll his eyes. Their superiors had to be notified of the irresponsible habit of this idiot. Every month, this guy brings in another one for extra training. There's no way he's always getting the worst weapons, he's just too lazy to break in the ones that don't behave after the first correction.

Trainer used the peephole to see a slim, curled form on the corner. It probably had been starved as punishment, by the looks of it. He opens the silent door with the stun bat already in hand.

"Asset. Stand and report designation." Not too loud yet, giving it the time to obey, a simple and easy question. The weapon doesn't even move its face away from the wall.

Starting off with punishment, classic. That shitty handler trained his weapons so badly they disobey even to just report. Trainer takes two steps forward and shocks its leg.

With a startled scream, the weapon turns around, trying to kick the bat away. He punishes the attempt with a harsh hit to the kicking leg.

This time, it chokes on a pained groan and just curls further into the corner. And... oh. There are tears in its eyes. Well, that's new.

"Asset. Stand up and report designation." Trainer repeats in the same tone as before. The weapon's eyes snap up middle sentence, and its eyebrows knit slightly. He took only a second to see it as confusion instead of defiance.

"... Asset code 2284. Previous front line medic, reassigned to camp medic." It says, still curled in the corner. It doesn't seem defiant, just tense, but it still refused to stand up.

... Something wasn't adding up.

Trainer still brought the bat down and gave the weapon time to flinch and cower before shocking their leg again. No resisting attempt, different from the first time, for some reason. No startled kicking. "Don't make me repeat myself, asset!"

"I'm sorry, sir," It mutters out in a resigned voice, one that told him those words have been said way too much lately. Its eyes look up for a second, at the bat.

Trainer gave it time to correct their behavior and obey, but the weapon just curled more into itself. This is unfamiliar. He's used to the tough ones, that are strong and hard to crack, even if it's just due to their temper and defiance.

He turns the shock down one notch for safety before bringing it down again. The first tears leak out of the weapon's eyes when they scream. Once the shock is done, they choke out another apology, looking up at them this time.

"Sorry doesn't change anything, asset. We'll keep this going until you stop this cute act. Stand up and report designation. If I repeat myself one more time..." Trainer threatens, firmer.

To his surprise, the weapon did obey immediately this time, almost hurriedly. "Asset code 2284. Previous front line medic, reassigned to camp medic." Its posture was perfect, voice respectful, almost eager to comply all of a sudden.

Nothing like the sarcastic, dramatic, and disobedient weapon his handler painted him to be. Trainer couldn't ignore this any longer, something was wrong here.

"Why didn't you obey the first three times, asset?" Trainer asks, playing with the bat and watching as the weapon's eyes follow the movements as it tries to focus on his face. His mouth, not eyes. His handler indeed had said it was in a rebellious streak of not wanting to look him in the eye.

"I didn't hear your orders, sir. I'm sorry, sir..." It says meekly, flinching slightly in anticipation for each move of the bat, though it's not close to him.

Trainer had been warned about that, too. But its words sounded way too meek to be the taunting stunt its handler said he pulled all the time.

His brain works back to each information he got of the weapon, each denial to obey reported. A weapon reassigned from front line medic to camp medic after it suffered severe injuries on a grenade explosion. Obedient before, turned sarcastic and rebellious with new handler, pretending to not hear orders, not looking his handlers in the eyes, ignoring name calls, ignoring morning alarms...

Trainer stops his movement with the bat once it clicks. Severe injury due to closeness of a explosion, and all behavioral issues had been about it not listening.

God, he hopes he's wrong, because if that stupid handler let that slide, Trainer will personally make sure a demission paper is sent.

"Will you be obedient without the need of drugs to settle you down, asset?" He asks without needing an answer before opening the door and motioning the weapon to get out.

"...sir?" It asks in a quiet voice, almost fearful. With him turned around, it couldn't read his lips.

"We'll go to the medical, get you checked. Move, asset." He uses a harsh tone as a test, but the weapon doesn't seem to really pick up on it, it just hurries to obey after staring at his lips moving while he speaks.

In less than 30 minutes, the check-up is done, with the weapon behaving exceptionally if given visual guidance.

Trainer has a paper in his hand. "Severe hearing loss due to explosion." Not completely deaf, but close to be.

The weapon started tearing up silently when it saw the words, and as soon as they left the medical wing, it knelt to the ground. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sir. I promise I can still be useful, even without hearing much- I-... I don't need to hear to tend wounds! I can take care of the patients, I swear I can-"

He started the day thinking he would have to deal with a feral, snarling weapon, and... he was given a meek, pitiful young asset. Trainer never hated its handler more than he did now. That useless son of a bitch would let a valuable asset be decommissioned for nothing more than irresponsibility.

Trainer crouched down and waited for visual contact before saying, in a tone it can hear better, "By the end of the week, you will be able to do everything you did before, even if the hearing loss is untreatable. I won't decommission a weapon when all it needs is recalibrating."

He ruffles its short hair when it chokes out "thank you" over and over. Trainer can see loud and clear how much its handler messed up his mind for it to be so unstable, but he's dealt with worse. He can correct that emotional outburst in due time and send it back into the field. With a better handler, this time.

The weapon leans into the touch, and Trainer huffs before getting up and waiting for it to follow him.

"Rebellious, worthless asset," his ass. His last "fuck you" to that empty-headed idiot before he gets fired will be making this one the best asset in the medic camp.

With the way it follows him as an eager puppy, although still on edge, that won't be hard.

-

[oddsconvert]

August trying to make Christmas cookies or a ginger bread house. He is very bad at it. He checks the recipe every ten seconds, and still gets something wrong.

cw / recovery whump, fluff, vampire caretaker, bloodbag whumpee (recovering), reference to previous torture/captivity, wholesome asf baking

Huge TY to @dragonqueenslayer6 for the prompt!!! ❤️

August glared at the recipe card like it might bite him. As far as he was concerned, it was written in some ancient, lost language. He couldn’t decipher it to save his life. His plan? To throw everything in a bowl and hope for some miracle - pray that his cookies would be at the very least, edible.

“Alright, okay, let’s see…” August mumbled to himself, reading over the recipe for what felt like the gazillionth time, tracing each line with his finger. He gawked at his chaotic array of ingredients sprawled across the counters. Flour, butter, eggs, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, baking powder, icing sugar, sprinkles - each one looked more alien than the last. 

He couldn’t help but marvel at how complicated human food was. Compared to the simplicity of blood, this whole process felt like a science experiment. One that was destined to end in smoke and flames. It was all completely foreign to him. He’d never had to worry about meals—Lucas was self-sufficient enough. The only thing August ever had to handle was the shopping list. 

But he really wanted to do this. He wanted to bake the two most important people in his life a sweet treat, a small promise that all their Christmases from now on would be as magical and joyous as this one. His chest tightened at the thought of his friends - how much they had both suffered in their short lives. Marked by so much pain and anguish, so many Christmases spent in loneliness and hardship. Lucas with his years sleeping rough on the streets, alone and afraid. Declan, at the mercy of Vince’s whims, his mind and body twisted beyond his control. 

He couldn’t let them down now.

August’s mind momentarily blanked. “Sugar. Sugar, sugar…where would Lucas keep the sugar?” 

It felt bizarre, scavenging through his own kitchen as if he were a stranger in his own home. August rifled through the cupboards, pulling out a small glass container. He shook it gently, watching the white granules spill out, and without much thought, assumed it was the sugar he was looking for. The recipe had called for one cup of sugar.

“What are you doing, August?”

August whipped around, startled. Declan stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He wore a loose-knit, sage-green jumper and faded, ripped jeans, a far cry from the broken shell of a man August had rescued from the depths of hell. Declan had gained weight, strength, and a quiet confidence, but August still saw the faint scars on his body—and the ones that lingered in his eyes.

“Uh, nothing-” August stammered, quickly ducking in front of the mixing bowl to hide the incriminating evidence. Declan raised his eyebrow, a knowing smirk on his face urging him to confess. August sighed, resigning and stepping aside, “I was, um…about to make cookies… for you.”

The warmth in Declan’s gaze was unmistakable as he took a delicate step closer, his voice low and touched with appreciation. “For me?” he asked, as if the idea of someone doing something so kind for him was still too much to believe. His eyes flickered to the salt shaker.

“How much salt were you putting in there?”

August blinked down to the white granules, pointing to them with an accusatory finger, “No, that’s sugar-”

Declan chuckled, “Let me help you.” He limped closer, gently guiding August away from the counter with a hand on his shoulder. Reaching for the salt shaker, he swapped it with the sugar container, his smile never fading. “Sugar is in these pots, by the sink,” he explained, “Next to the coffee and tea bags.”

“I have never seen those in my life.”

Declan shook his head, exhaling a soft laugh through his nostrils. August watched as Declan moved along the counter, his movements slow and careful, as if still measuring every step. He felt a rush of admiration - despite everything, Declan had come so far. It was hard to believe this was the same man who lay zombified and catatonic in that bed upstairs.

“Alright, what’s next?” Declan asked, taking charge. August fumbled with the recipe card, scanning the first step.

“‘Beat butter and sugar in a large bowl until creamy’...” August’s voice faltered, his face scrunching in confusion. “'Beat butter'? Like... do I just punch it? What did the butter ever do to deserve that?”

“No,” Declan giggled, “It’s just a term. ‘Beating’ means like, mix it really well. Getting it smooth, so it holds the sugar better when you mix it together.”

“But how do you ‘beat’ butter without... actual beating?” August questioned, still dubious.

“Use a spoon. You have to put a little muscle into it, though” Declan explained, holding the butter up to August. 

August blinked at the stick of butter in Declan’s hand, his eyes narrowing. “That seems... unnecessarily complicated for something so simple.”

“Bakings like that sometimes,” Declan replied, smiling. “It’s about making things come together. It’s a little messy, but it works. You just have to trust the process.”

August grabbed the bowl, hesitating for a moment before he started. The eggs and sugar splashed together, but soon enough the mixture began to smooth out. He watched with a sense of triumph as it lightened, the sugar blending in. He stopped, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, and stared at the fluffy mixture.

“That’s looking good! See, you can do it!” Declan cheered. He peeked at the recipe card on the counter, “Now it wants us to add the egg and vanilla.”

August’s face drained of colour, his stomach sinking. The egg. He stared at it, feeling as though it had suddenly become his arch nemesis. There was no way in hell he was going to crack it without getting bits of shell everywhere. These cookies were definitely going to have some extra crunch.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the egg, holding it over the bowl. He tapped it against the edge, and the shell cracked wide open—too wide. A shower of small fragments dropped into the mixture. He froze, eyes widening. Declan stepped in, effortlessly scooping out the pieces of shell with practiced ease. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “It happens.”

August let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, feeling both relieved and embarrassed. “Thank you, Declan. I dread to think how these would have turned out without your help.”

“Hey, it’s you doing all the work! I’m just…keeping you on track,” he winked, fishing out a particularly large chunk of shell from the mixture. 

Declan always had a way of making the impossible possible, of taking something hopeless and finding the light through. It reminded August of when he first found Declan - on the brink of death, locked in his own mind, and August had fought to bring him back against all odds. And now here Declan was, steady and strong, helping him with something as simple as baking. 

August’s thoughts were interrupted when Declan glanced at the recipe card again. “Next up… we need to add the flour and baking powder.”

August nodded, grabbing the containers. He didn’t think twice, just tipping them both into the bowl in one swift motion. The moment the powder hit the batter, it was like a bomb went off. A massive cloud of flour erupted from the bowl, enveloping them both in a thick, white haze. August froze, blinking as the smoke swirled around him, coating his hair and clothes in a fine dust. The kitchen was suddenly a disaster zone, and Declan couldn’t help but let out a stunned gasp. 

“Well, that’s one way to do it. Declan chuckled, brushing flour from his eyes. 

"Well, that was a bit of a disaster."

Declan shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “At least it’ll be a delicious disaster.”

August chuckled, shaking his head. “If these cookies turn out half as good as this mess, we’ll be lucky.”

“One things for sure,” Declan chirped, “they’ll definitely be unforgettable.”

I luffs them, your honour 👩‍⚖️ I love cheeky, lighthearted Declan SO MUCH. He deserves all the happiness after all the horror he's endured <3333

dividers by @/bernardsbendystraws