weepingwhump

[weepingwhump]

sexy genre of making characters needlessly suffer for your enjoyment and yet its called "whump" the unsexiest name in the world

[weepingwhump]

"I'm glad you're okay" but said by someone who has just had the shit beaten out of them, to someone who is not hurt at all, is a brilliant trope and I lose my mind every time.

[weepingwhump]

i like my whumpees STRONG. some notable ones as follows:

leader whumpees. constantly thinking, constantly moving. they've a team to organize. they're relied on constantly, and with a head and shoulders strong enough to handle the pressure. but the shame when they're hurt. the agony knowing their image as undaunted is tarnished. and love returned tenfold as their team holds them up as long as they need to--"You're not alone, Boss. we got you. let us help."

protector whumpees. reckless thoughts to throw themselves in front of danger because they can take the hit, but no one else can. scars and muscles and training and taking it upon themselves to wear each broken piece with pride because it's another person they saved. until one day, they nearly do die. and it takes the whole team to remember they're not a meatshield. they're a person.

medic whumpees. they know how to hold a suture needle better than anyone; they know the dose of morphine to take after a bone is set; they know what angle to press a hand in while checking for broken ribs. no one else does, though. so when they're finally beat into submission, it doesn't matter how much pain they're in, because they have to stay awake, stay calm, and keep their inexperienced caretaker steady, while they talk through each movement done on their own body.

[weepingwhump]

Ohhh thinking about... tbh I don't know what it is but this specific flavour of Whumper:

"Shh, shh, this is for the best, okay? You were bad, and now you are being punished. Balance has to be restored. I'll go back to being nice [Whumper] afterwards."

"This is for your own good."

"Oh, stop complaining. Do you want to go back to [Other Whumper]? I treat you like gold compared to them."

Deliberately putting Whumpee in dangerous situations just so they can swoop in and save them.

"Now look what you've made me do."

"Do you have any idea how much it hurts me to punish you? But I have to."

[weepingwhump]

I just need a character who's so exhausted/injured and so relieved to see a loved one and they go in for a hug and just crumple against the other person, passing out in their arms, that would fix me

[weepingwhump]

I know generic whump tends to get more traction when it comes to sheer number of notes, but can we appreciate how cool it is when people share their original stories and ocs? It's like being in a fandom where you know all your fellow fans and have direct personal access to the author. 

[weepingwhump]

Caretaker is a creature that feeds on others’ pain - not in the sense of causing it, but in the sense of truly eating that pain. They visit from time to time, when things are particularly unendurable, and leave whumpee blissfully numb. Whumpee has such an unfortunate life…no one has ever fed Caretaker so well. And whumpee has never experienced such an effective painkiller.

[weepingwhump]

So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.

I'm going to try it.

[weepingwhump]

bitches hate me because of my.... bad personality.... paranoid nature... addictive tendencies......the torture basement.

[weepingwhump]

sometimes I bite during experiments so that they give me a couple jolts through my shock collar. just to feel something.

[weepingwhump]

Sometimes not knowing how things work bug me. Like, a LOT. I do not control the hyperfixation, ok?!

I know Star Wars has bigger fish to fry than explaining how slave collars stay on, but goddammit I’ll figure out a way myself. You can’t tell me that they’re just glued to the skin somehow or the slaves would find a way to yank them off. What’s a little skin if it means you can escape? 

But with this, actually succeeding in pulling it out would mean catastrophic damage to the neck, and the points of the anchors are nicely positioned to be able to deliver electrical shocks directly to the spine.

Note that I am but a humble artist with only a passing knowledge of internal anatomy. So the positioning or size of the posts are negotiable depending on how much function they’re impeding.

Naturally, there are ‘temporary’ collars that are not as invasive, but if you’re legally a slave, you probably have this set-up. Which mean that even if you fix the possible burn scars from frequent electrocution, freed slaves always have the pair of rounded anchor post scars and some lingering neck weakness.

[weepingwhump]

i was looking through some old messages between a friend and i, and i realized they’d drawn art for two of my whump ocs and i’d never gotten around to writing their story. i’m not sure if i have the time to start an original story right now but man the brain worms are returning…

[weepingwhump]

fantasy creature whump where whumper owns a fantastical menagerie, and they keep whumpee on display in a gilded birdcage in the center of the garden. whumpee could be humanoid or beastly, but the intelligence in their eyes is clear despite the row of golden bars separating them from the onlookers. to them, whumpee is no more than a common animal — no, less than that. no more than a sideshow attraction, a decoration here for their amusement. not human like them at all.

[weepingwhump]

Whumper cutting into whumpee.

Watching the flesh part under the tip of their blade like cloth coming undone.

The red beads of blood emerging from the wound and spilling forth over skin.

The panting breath and agonized sounds of whumpee's pain.

Whumpee's shuddering and struggles.

The power in the act of violence. The beauty.

[weepingwhump]

Artificial guest

Cw: mentioned torture, creepy/intimate/possessive whumper daydreaming about whumpee, captivity whump, stalking, conditioning

They are lost in a foggy forest.

They are cold. They flinch at every sound, expecting a wolf or something to jump out at them. They are lost, so utterly lost. They have no idea how they even got here, having woken up under a tree with nothing but their winter coat and a narrow path leading deep into the misty woods.

They come to a clearing, eventually. There is a pond in the middle, similarly misty and foreboding. Past that pond, past the spruce and up a hill in the distance, they see a palace. It stands tall and lonely, all slim towers and pointed roofs; it reminds them of the shadow of a terrible beast of claws and wicked teeth, perched up high and surveying its territory.

Storm clouds are congregating overhead. They decide, with nowhere else to go, to see if the intimidating looking mansion has someone there that can help them out. If they could let them stay just as long as the storm lasts, that would be enough. They could give them directions, or even a ride. Some food — they are starving...

Unbeknownst to them, the owner of the palace watches them from afar, leaning up against a tree somewhere near the clearing, hidden by the fog and grey light preceding a deluge. They follow their guest, pleased to see them walking the path they had carved for them so perfectly. They will come across a crossroads a little bit from now, and they will have to choose where to go next. They may choose wrong, and end up lost once more. The tempest may catch them outside, thirsting them into a fever, a terrible cold.

By the time they arrive at their doorstep, shivering and small and weak, the owner of the mansion will be waiting for them. They will open up their doors to the poor thing, letting the warm air and the smell of a delicious feast dizzy them into a desperate hunger, a quiet need to enter. They might play around, act like they are suspicious of the lost lamb, think it over for a good minute; — their guest will surely beg to be let in. Their voice will quiver, their eyes will widen in terror at the prospect of having to spend the night outside, and they will beg, make promises of behaving, of not taking up their time for long, that they don't need anything just a roof over their head, just a little mercy.

Standing off to the side, hidden, they feel a chill down their spine at the pleasant thought.

And they will let them inside, of course. They will help them out of their dirty, torn, wet clothes. They will offer a warm bath, lend a bed to sleep, dinner to enjoy. Their guest will find it a little scary, all alone in such a huge, strange home with a stranger, but what other choice do they have besides freezing to death in the mud outside? They will be so sweet, so timid, quiet and unobtrusive. They will feel guilt for bothering someone like this, demanding them to let them in their home like this. They will go to bed — lie their head on their pillow, in their magnificent guest room, among the softest duvets, in a bed surely ten times the size of their own back in their own home, — feeling remorse at needing help, feeling like a burden, out of place, a nuisance.

Like they don't deserve good things. Like they have to make up for being useless, have to earn their mercies.

When day comes, they will wake slowly. Their clothes will be thinner, their stomach empty. Their bed will have morphed into concrete. Their wrists will pound with the force of their pumping veins, finding chains tethering them to the floor. Their hands will clasp around a metal shackle ensnaring that beautiful, toned throat, their pupils blown wide in the near pitch black of the dungeon, and then —

Then they will know. They will know fear. They will know helplessness, vulnerability. They will get acquainted with the way the air around them turns thin sometimes. They will recognise — if not right then, then a bit later on, — but they will recognise that they are trapped; truly, completely, hopelessly trapped. They will yell, and no one will come. They will scream, and no one will hear. They will beg, and cry, and sob, and keen — and the only one who will listen will be the kind stranger that let them stay.

They will come see them, of course. They will descend the long staircase leading down to their Hell, and they will tell them, simply, that they will be hurt. They will hurt, and they will hurt, and hurt, and hurt, until they know nothing but pain. Until their entire existence becomes agony; a trembling, uncertain, exhausted, meek little life between these four unforgiving cement walls, living at the whims of their saviour, their one connection to what was once a livable, if not pleasant life, with friends and family and things they knew, things that made sense.

They will see no one but their captor. They will hear no one but their captor. They will feel no one, but their captor. They will learn soon enough, a crushing, terrifying truth. The truth that their life has become their captor.

They will only think about them; they will not be allowed to have thoughts about anything else. They will only look forward to seeing them. They will live for the little moments in-between two sessions of suffering, where they are told they did well enough to receive dinner that day, for the proud, fond words of praise that humiliate and bring tarnished, disgusting delight at the same time, at the kind touches running down long healed scars and deep-purple bruises and bubbling burns, gently promising more, admiring the carnage and letting them know that the one person in the world that matters is pleased with their pain, and that they will return again soon to see more of it.

For late nights, where they will weep, brokenly, weakly, sweetly, into the embrace of their captor, their worst nightmare, the only one that cares, the only one that matters, and they will hush them, gently rocking them back and forth, keeping them warm, pressing a loving kiss to the top of their head, hair wet with sweat and blood, and hold them.

They will remind them of the day they became theirs. How they were allowed in without issue, even though they didn't really know how to beg yet. How they were allowed food, their own bed, their own room, a fireplace, a bath. How they took it all, so flustered and nervous they barely remembered to say thank you. How later on, once their cold had really shown its ugly, feverish colours, they were given things like medicine, a blanket, tea, painkillers... And not only had they refused to thank their captor, but cursed them out, too outraged and afraid to accept their generous gifts. They will remind them of the day they saved them, and their little lamb will cringe at the memories, curl up in shame, apologising every time, earnestly, for all their stupidity and ungratefulness, forever regretting ever thinking they were anybody but their saviour's little broken toy, a sweet little pet spending all their time waiting for their owner to return and play with them so they can earn their little mercies one by one.

Theirs. Hopelessly, utterly, irreversibly theirs.

Their guest has long disappeared into the fog, climbing their way up the hill, all hope and full of life. Perhaps it's time to return home. Set the fire. Fish out the fluffiest blanket from deep within the closet. Pick out replacement clothes in their size. See how the chef is doing with dinner. Make sure the chains downstairs are holding steady, the blades are all sharpened, the collar won't cut off too much air, the cement floor won't scrape at their delicate flesh too deep. Many things to take care of before their guest arrives.

They shiver in excitement. Finally, someone new to keep the dungeon warm.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince

[weepingwhump]

I. I love vampire hunters turned thralls. Brainwashed into adoring little pets to creatures of which they once chased down with the goal of killing… UGH just someone who used to hate the thing they now address as master… bonus points if they get their memories erased and have no memory of their hunter past :3

[weepingwhump]

Room

115

CW/TW: BBU/wru, pet whump, food mention, vomiting. Caretaker is new master.

He’s shaken and shaking as he follows his new owner, knowing he’s already messed up. Punishment delayed is punishment doubled.

“This is your room,” the owner says, opening a door and going in.

It’s a simple room. A closet. A dresser. A desk. A chair. A bed. Soft neutral colors, accented by darker wood. A guest room.

“Yes, Sir,” he manages before his stomach rebels. He rushes to a door near the back of the room, which thankfully is a bathroom, falling to his knees and throwing up in the toilet, acid and bile fouling his mouth and nose.

Disgusting. He stays there, shaking and crying, certain he’s cemented his place in this new household. Disgusting whore.

“I’m sorry,” his new owner says, coming in. “I guess that cheeseburger was a bit much to start with. Maybe you’ll feel more up to soup and toast later.”

“Yes. Yes, Sir.”

He risks looking up, and there’s no anger in his owner’s eyes, only concern.

“Carlisle. My name is Carlisle, and you’re allowed to use it. Or Mr. Black, for more formal times, or if that makes you more comfortable.”

“Yes, Si-Carlisle.” It feels weird, to say his owner’s name. Had even known his last owner’s name?

“Take a shower and clean yourself up.”

“Yes, Carlisle.”

He runs the water in the shower hot, even though it makes him feel dizzy. Even though he wasn’t given permission for hot water. It feels like defiance.

Whatever comes next, he will at least have felt warm for a while.

Afterward, he can’t bring himself to get on the bed. Not before he must. He kneels next to it, and waits.

Later, in the middle of the night, he wakes in the bed, the covers pulled over him. Untouched. Alone.

There’s an insulated cup on the bedside table. He drinks the still-warm chicken broth, then falls back asleep.

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue @taterswhump @nicolepascaline