#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

[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

[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

[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

[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. :))

[kabie-whump]

Tag Yourself: Whumpee Edition

♡ Stubborn Whumpee: Refuses to cry, but inevitably breaks down under too much pressure, starvation, torture, sleep deprivation, anything to wear down their will, clenching their jaw, biting back screams, cold glares

♡ Resigned Whumpee: Never fights back, the definition of ‘lay there and take it’, losing track of how long they’ve been in the basement, forgetting the names of their old friends and family, too tired to scream, dissociation

♡ Contented Pet Whumpee: Sedatives, expensive outfits, warm baths (always carried out by Whumper), leans into head pats and scritches bc it’s low key nice to be adored for once, popular with Whumper’s guests, delicate golden collars, hickeys

♡ Misbehaving Pet Whumpee: Bites, bites, bites, muzzle, shock collar, good for Whumper to take out their anger on, hunger strikes, sleeping in a barn or on the porch, never left unattended or unbound, sprayed down with a cold hose when they get too bloody

♡ Masochistic Whumpee: Laughs in Whumper’s face just to see how they’ll punish them, not at all what Whumper bargained for, low key scary, likes the taste of tears when they drip onto their cracked lips

♡ Experiment Whumpee: Needles, questionable glowing green substances, shaking so hard they think they’ll pass out, strapped to a table under fluorescent lights, headaches, hospital gown with nothing under it, body modifications

♡ Defiant Whumpee: Screaming and crying and kicking, bloodied knuckles, cracked elbows, face pressed into a stone floor by a dirty boot, “god, do you ever shut the fuck up?,” “stick your tongue out at me one more time and I’m cutting it out”

Whumper edition

[whumblr]

Ball and chain

Whumpee meekly walked along, resigned, hands cuffed in front of them, two henchmen clinging to both arms as they were marched into the large room. Like they were both walking them down the aisle.

Except the man who they were tied to was all but bliss. And did not accept any form of seperation.

And he now stood waiting for them in the middle of the room. He turned and his eyes immediately fixed on Whumpee. Myeah... they were in trouble.

The man barely contained himself, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, and his rage plain to see in his eyes, swirling about like thunderclouds.

You'd think that, with all the trouble they caused, he would be glad to see the back of them... instead of sending out a search team and dragging them back to their cell.

They stopped right in front of him and Whumpee swore they saw something twitch in his jaw. His eyes bored into theirs, but they didn't look away.

"Leave," Whumper growled.

The two men gladly let go of their arms and turned to leave the room.

Whumpee however followed suit: they spun on their heels and made to follow them out. But before they could even take one step, a hand clamped around their shoulder.

"Not you, you goddamned little gargoyle, what makes you think I was talking to you."

Willfully ignoring the fingers digging into their shoulder, Whumpee simply watched, a little rueful, as the henchmen succesfully made their way out, leaving them alone here. Then they turned around again, shrugging the hand off with the softest huff.

"Well, you were looking at me, so..."

-

General whump tag: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @auroragehenna

[firapolemos05]

Manners

CW: suggestive, creepy whumper, lady whumper, pet whump, water deprivation, muzzles, defiant whumpee, forced to beg

The glass of water on the table had caught her Pet's attention.

Scarlet noticed him stealing glances over the book in her hands, eyes darting between the glass and the floor. Longing. Oh it was simply adorable how he tried to hide it.

'How long should I make him wait?'

She raised the glass and took a nice long sip, the cool liquid refreshing. Her Pet's gaze held longer that time, a glint of desperation sneaking into his eyes. Chapped lips pulled into a thin line under his muzzle, and Scarlet knew he was trying so hard not to waste any remaining moisture in his mouth on them.

It had been days since she last allowed him to drink.

A consequence of disobedience. 

Fluids and nutrients delivered intravenously would prevent any actual dehydration, but that did nothing to treat cottonmouth. The parched barren of his throat must be unbearable by now.

"You must be thirsty, aren't you, Pet?" she inquired. His eyes shot back to the floor, embarrassment marking his face at being caught. Scarlet chuckled. That pride of his made it too easy. "Come now, you remember your tenth rule, right?"

Mentioning the rules always made him flinch. Oh he remembered alright. She had made sure of that. Made him recite each one over and over, interrupting each mistake or refusal with a strike of her switch across his back.

He remembered them very well.

'Rule 10: Pets do not request, they beg.'

While knowing his rules was one thing, following them was another. And her Pet had a particularly difficult time with this one. A defiant little one, he was, but after several weeks of strict training, Scarlet had cracked his armor. 

Some beautiful cracks. 

The fear that flashed in his gaze whenever she entered his cell. The empty, resigned silence whenever she ran her fingers through his hair, or traced the masterpiece of scars over his skin. He was even getting better at remembering to call her 'master.'

Now Scarlet watched another crack form. Watched the show of emotions he failed to suppress: anger, humiliation, anxiety, craving. She took another sip from the glass and watched the unspoken threat fuel those last two. And soon she spots the exact moment of breakage. 

He turned towards her and bowed his head. His voice weak and rasping.

"May I please have some water. . . Master?"

Oh how delightful. 

It usually takes him far longer to beg. He must really be desperate. He didn't even growl this time. 

The satisfaction was like a drug.

"Good boy," she smiled and he bristled at the praise. He despised it now but it'll be a matter of time before he's craving that too. She pointed to the floor in front of her chair. "Come here."

Her Pet hated to crawl, but he knew better than to attempt standing without permission. Oh well. He can be grateful his arms are bound in front of him today.

He avoided eye contact as he approached, a glare glued to the tile flooring. But soon, he was where he looked best, kneeling at her feet.

His hands rose to reach for the glass, a gesture Scarlet swiftly corrected by catching the chain connecting them under her boot and pinning them down.

"Pets do not use their hands," she scolded and he grimaced. She held the glass out, hovering it just above his head. "Tilt your head back and open your mouth."

His face flushed dark at that, the anger and shame making a reappearance. He had earned his reward, but he still had to accept it however she wished him to. Even if it was a display of power such as this. It was too late for him to refuse, but he almost looked as if he was going to try. Fortunately for him, the desire to quench his thirst won out. He obeyed, his jaws parting as far as the muzzle would allow them.

Scarlet poured slowly, wanting to savor his reactions. She could be a gracious master now and then. She was careful to let the water fall steadily in between the muzzle's wires.

To his credit, her Pet tried to remain stoic, composed. But as soon as liquid passed his lips, the animal need took over. Like an eager dog he gulped it down, leaning closer, squeezed his eyes shut as he craned his neck to catch every last drop. The effort failed him, as his movements made the drops catch on the muzzle, splashing over the metal. Well, that was his own fault. Glossy streaks ran down his chin and neck.

Scarlet licked her lips.

She should do this again, just with her favorite red wine. Painting her Pet's neck with dripping red would be quite enticing. And it would be an order then, rather than a reward. He won't be able to refuse, and won't be able to stop her from pulling him into her lap to lick the wine from his neck.

Oh how he will hate it. And she will feast on his helpless fear.

The last drop of water fell from the glass.

It's barely enough to satiate. Her Pet gasped for air, greedily seeking more where there is none. It will be a short respite, and he closed his mouth to prevent his breaths from stealing that back. Then he noticed the amused expression of approval on his master’s face and turned away, abashed at his behavior.

Scarlet curled a finger through his muzzle, pulling him back to face her. "Now what do you say?"

Another rule he had difficulty with.

Contempt twisted his features, and before he could think better of it, the words already left his mouth. "Go to hell."

Scarlet grinned. She can already taste his regret. 

Time for another lesson. 

[whumpy-mountains]

So ive came across whump half a year ago and decided to FINALLY make a place for all the ideas i have:)

My favourite topics are:

• being whumped for information

• whipping

• hurt/comfort and sometimes only hurt

• broken bones (fingers, ribs and wrists)

• removing fingernails (im bad at writing these, but i will stubbornly try)

• chains

• branding

• defiant whumpee my beloved

• resignated whumpee but not broken

• being forced to watch / taking torture for someone who can’t take it anymore

• bones healing in an odd way (i dunno why i like this BUT THE PAINNN)

• self sacrifice

• medieval/historical whump settings

• shock collar which is not very medieval/historical but eyyy

Topics i will NOT write about:

• noncon

• anything related with sexual content

• pet whump

• conditioned whumpee

i might have forgotten something cause my brain is like: hey. yes you. you sure you wrote everything? im not sure you wrote everything.

But besides that? I think thats it, and im happy to be here and share my ideas and prompts! 😃

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #1

Prompt

Masterpost

Next

Warnings: torture, rape mention

They had stolen him in the summer, which seemed like cheating. He was a spring, and summer was for laziness and play after a strong season. He shouldn’t have had to worry about mortals trapping him in iron.

It didn’t matter now. 

Moonflower had no idea where he was, except that he was far from the fae realm. The cell was unforgiving cold stone, with horrid iron bars that burnt his skin and weakened his magic. There was no sun, or clean air, or any plants at all. Not even moss.

It was suffocating.

What did they want from him? Wishes, or luck charms? Moonflower was a simple nymph, not gentry but wild. His magic was unimpressive; not suited for the miracles mortals often craved.

He could hear distant footsteps coming towards him.

___________________

Moonflower stuck his fingers down his throat, vomiting up the saltwater they forced him to swallow. The salt hurt like a thousand tiny cuts, the sheer amount of his making his tongue bleed.

The wound wouldn’t last long, but he’d rather get his mouth salted than see what it would do in his stomach.

The air stank of his burnt flesh, and the sizzling sound of iron on his skin still echoed around in his mind.

Summer was slipping through his fingers, and he was so tired. But he had to hold out. 

He would not give them his name. No matter what they tried.

___________________

Stars, he was weak. Couldn’t even fight back anymore. In the beginning, he trashed and bit and clawed. It took three men to hold him down then, and now mundane rope kept him in place.

Fall was turning to winter, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it. Winter was hard on him; springs didn’t do well in frost. His color was fading, which had never happened, even in blizzards. His hair was graying, becoming brittle like dead leaves.

Moonflower was starving to death. He was starving for more than fresh meat and water, he needed light and air. He’d even settle for eating soil like a seedling. Just a taste of something other than cold stone and salt and iron.

He curled up on the floor the best he could, trying to stave off the cold. His clothes were long gone, and his nakedness bothered him when it hadn’t before. Plenty of fae wore nothing, but here-

He saw the way they looked at him.

He didn’t want to think about it. Moonflower closed his eyes and tried to sleep the hunger away. 

___________________

“Good morning, fae boy.” Moonflower opened his eyes slowly. He had a headache, and the blood on his skin was still tacky.

“What, no snarling? Not even a little growl?” Moonflower said nothing. It didn’t matter what he said; it was only wasted energy. It was midwinter, and he just wanted to sleep.

“You look like shit,” said the mortal. He crouched down in front of him. Moonflower must look really pathetic if the mortal was so blasé about it.

“Got anything to tell me?” Moonflower stared at him. He felt numb, an aching emptiness.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged the human. He pulled out an iron knife from his belt. The mortal pressed it to his neck, searing his skin.

Moonflower whined, high in his throat. He couldn’t take this anymore. The salt, the iron, the rape.

And when he died, they’d just take another of his kin. Maybe they’d even snatch a seedling. He couldn’t let this happen to a child.

“Moonflower,” he croaked. The human pulled away, and the cool air did little to help the burning.

“What did you say?”

He dug his nails into his palms. “My name is Moonflower, and you may have it.”

The human grinned down at him, a sadistic look on his face, and Moonflower immediately regretted it.

“Moonflower,” said the human, and every muscle and nerve in his body was alight with magic, waiting for a command.

But then the human let go of the puppet strings. He sank against the cold stone, trembling.

“Now we can finally start your training.”

Of course.

It was never going to be over; it was never going to stop. No matter what he did.

Moonflower looked up at the human, and felt nothing at all.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

[waywardwhump]

Whumper has to be cruel because the system is cruel. They're high ranking, and are expected to rule with an iron fist. If they fail to do this, worse things will happen. They'll lose their position and won't be in a place try and control the damage anymore.

Whumpee is lower in the hierarchy. They work hard, keep their head down. The worst they've delt with is harsh words.

Behind closed doors? They are friends. The whumper is quite fond of them, and the whumpee returns that fondness.

But they aren't always behind closed doors.

One of whumpee's other friends makes a mistake. It happens fast, it happens public, and the only thing they can think to do is take the fall for it.

They claim responsibility and Beg to be punished instead.

The whumper does as requested, because it is the whumpee asking.

Punishment in public. They make an example out of the whumpee, because that is what is expected of them. To show the 'mercy' of letting them take their friend's punishment, the price is that the punishment itself has to be worse.

The wordless glance, the moment of resignation in them both. The whumper doesn't want this either. They're both trapped in this awful process that they can't escape from. Everyone is watching. This has to happen.

The whumper can't be anything less than a monster.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

June of Doom Day 17

"You don't want to do that." / Struggle / Blackmail / Desperate Measures

Prompts List | Masterpost

Next part ->

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 600

Tag List: @juneofdoom @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion

@scaewolf

CW: unconsciousness, imprisoned, headache, net, stress position, captured, multiple whumpees, blood, knife, reckless behavior, swearing, implied starvation

A/N: It’s Draven-whumping time >:3

Side note: the name "Reprobus" was the original name of the Catholic saint better known as St. Christopher, a holy man in the 13th century abouts who according to legend carried the child Jesus across a raging river. The name means "the reject," hence why I named one of the other prisoners Reprobus.

Okay history lesson over onto the whump.

----------

Draven groaned as he came to, his head pounding as if his skull was being used as a drum. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he was in a bad spot. From the throbbing in his head, the aching in his neck and limbs, the sensation of ropes against his face… it didn’t take a genius to figure that kind of thing out.

Of course, intuition can only get you so far. Suffice it to say that when he did open his eyes, he was unprepared for exactly how bad of a situation he was in.

For starters, he was entangled in a net.

Suspended in the air.

Over a pit of damned spikes.

He wasn’t the only one, either. Several other nets identical to his hung nearby, all containing their own prisoner. Nobody else appeared to be awake, and from what he could tell, Octavian was not among them. So he’d managed to escape.

Good.

That meant rescue was likely.

The ropes creaked as Draven shifted, trying to get into a sitting position in the net. The entire thing swayed precariously as he moved, but he managed to maneuver himself into a somewhat upright position.

“Oh… hello.”

Draven’s head snapped to his left to find one of the other prisoners staring at him from where he lay limply in his own net. He hadn’t moved initially, so Draven had assumed he was unconscious or asleep. Obviously, he’d guessed incorrectly. The prisoner’s face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and cheekbones prominent in a way that couldn’t be healthy. Unless he wasn’t human, of course, and he just looked like that.

Doubtful.

“Evening,” Draven returned, checking his sleeves, “or morning. Depths if I know. Last I remember it was evening.”

“They lowered you down about two hours ago,” the prisoner said quietly. He lifted a thin finger and traced a spot on his temple. “You were unconscious, bleeding from here.”

As soon as his attention was drawn to it, Draven noticed the stiff, crusty sensation of dried blood on the side of his face. He didn’t remember much from right before waking up here, other than a lot of noise. Shouting, some gunshots, pretty indistinguishable from every other day in Draven’s life. Octavian was also there, of course, but he had a knack for slipping out of most tight situations.

Draven drew one of his small knives hidden inside the sleeves of his duster. “What’s your name?”

The prisoner hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

“I like to know the names of the people I try to save,” Draven said, placing the knife against the coarse fibers of the net close to where the rope attaching it to the ceiling was bound. “I’m Draven.”

“…you don’t want to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to escape. They’ll only catch you again and send you right back down.”

Draven sighed through his nose and began sawing through the net. “Well, I know from experience that I’m pretty damn good at escaping. And if I get the rest of you out, we’ll have numbers at least. So what’s your name?”

“…Reprobus.”

“Well, Reprobus, how about you help out by waking up everyone else trapped here while I attempt something stupid, okay?”

“Stupid like…?”

Draven cut through the last few strands, making a hole wide enough for him to crawl through. He put the knife away and reached through the hole, grasping the thick rope. “Like scaling this damn rope.”

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Shun the Light Ch. 4 - Mend

Slow Burn | Refuge | Decision |

Author's Notes: I decided to name this story as a whole "Shun the Light" after a line from the Hozier song Sunlight!

I would shun the light Share in evenings cool and quiet Who would trade that hum of night? For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

Content Warnings: vampire whumpee, werewolf whumpee, severe burns, biting, drinking blood, exhaustion, painful healing, implied stabbing/impalement

----

Dizziness comes quickly. Matteo didn't have much strength to begin with, and blood loss takes whatever was left. He passes out beside the badly burned vampire and remains out cold until sundown.

Matteo wakes hungry, stiff, and with a piercing headache. He feels around for his backpack and pulls out a room temperature blue Gatorade. He forces himself to sit up enough to chug it down without choking.

"Fuck," he whispers into the dark room. He tosses aside the empty bottle and lies back down, groaning when his aching body finds no comfort on the wooden floor.

But when his eyes focus again on the poor creature beside him it's hard to pity himself. Even the worst post-moon hangover is better than third degree burns and a hole in the chest.

Matteo's offering of blood barely made a dent in the damage. The vampire remains weak and unable to heal, leaving him stranded in pain he can't escape.

"Stop it, stop it." Matteo curls onto his side and covers his ears to block out the miserable sounds the other makes. Desperate, he reopens another cut and presses it to the vampire's lips.

He spends the next several hours drifting in and out of consciousness. Whenever he comes to, he drinks another Gatorade, eats a protein bar, allows himself a moment to feel like absolute shit, and then resumes feeding the vampire until he passes out again.

This is the second worst day of my life.

Matteo is in no shape for this so soon after a transformation. It takes its toll. He's tense, nauseous, sore all over, and this headache will not relent. But every time he wakes, the sight of the vampire's body gradually mending encourages him to continue.

Maybe helping someone won't make him feel human again, but it's worth a shot.

The sixth time he reawakens, Matteo is surprised to see cool gray eyes peering back at him in the dark. A hoarse whisper breaks the heavy silence.

"Let me bite you."

Bone-tired and resigned, Matteo offers his arm willingly and closes his eyes as fangs pierce his wrist.

A deep, heavy numbness washes over him. Finally free of pain, this time he doesn't pass out - he falls asleep.