#wijprompt

[painonthebrain]

They deserved it. / He didn’t deserve this.

❄️ • Whumpmas in July Day 3 - “_____ deserved it” • ❄️

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

Content: Major character death, execution, burning alive, minor whump (all relatively nondetailed)

They deserved it.

They deserved to burn alive for what they had done.

Traitors, rebels.

Another set of names crossed out in red, never to be seen again, a family dismantled forever.

… Their son didn’t deserve that.

But they did.

And so they were locked inside cold metal coffins and rolled into the furnaces, where the flames glowed bright and the smell of burning flesh permeated the air.

And as it happened, their son’s heart broke hearing the news:

Your parents are dead.

…

He didn’t deserve this.

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 12: Creation Prompt - Search & Rescue

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Has someone finally found a whumpee, tearful and hurting, after weeks of searching for them? Does the rescue involve a severe lack of proper supplies and a painful removal process? Or, does a character merely dream of a search and rescue attempt, only to be devastated when they awaken and realize it was all just a dream? The possibilities are endless! Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day12 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[animalmothereff]

Whumpmas In July Day 21 : Creation Prompt - Bleeding

@whumpmasinjuly

The banquet tonight is for him. The Captain is the recipient of the Navy Distinguished Service Medal for exceptionally leadership on a daylight raid on enemy forces. The evening started out with glittering champagne, fine dining, and flowing ball gowns. Handsome and confidently charming, he greets every congratulatory handshake and back slap with a humble air. A master of military etiquette, he stands out in the crowd with his clean and polished uniform fitted perfectly, with not one thread out of place or smudge on his shoes. Everyone was enjoying the music, the lights and the beautiful night air. Until the enemy attacked...

Dressed to impress, the Captain and his crew are tested again to gallantly fight off the attackers and protect the civilians. Once the fighting clears and the enemy is subdued, one of his subordinates alerts him there is blood on his uniform. Always the gentlemen, he excuses himself and heads into the lavatory to clean his shirt collar.

He washes his hands and looks up in the mirror....

"Oh hell no...."

#thatsgoingtoleaveamark #illgetbetteratdrawingbloodeventually #theymademebleedmyownblood!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Vincent Shield: Mistake

@whumpmasinjuly Day 6: Mistake

CW: Injured whumpee, referenced mouth gore/mouth whump, bruises, blood, referenced intimate whumper, referenced drugging, vague noncon references, captivity

Vince swims out of sleep to the faint sounds of traffic somewhere down below Owen’s place, filtering in through a window just barely cracked open across the room. 

It’s funny - even days later, it takes a second for him to realize where and when he is. Part of him still wants to believe this is a nightmare, and he’ll wake up on Owen’s couch like always, that they’re still just long-time best friends. That he doesn’t know, now, that Owen’s been nursing the want for something more. That he doesn’t know what Owen is willing to do - and destroy - to get it.

But then reality filters in, along with the pain he can barely stand.

His eyes feel gummy, stuck together, and he has to fight to open them, wincing as the little bit of light sends a lance of white-hot ache straight through his skull. He hears a soft, weak whimper, and only belatedly realizes it’s coming from his own throat.

One of his eyes doesn’t quite open all the way, giving his vision a weird half-there half-blind quality that makes it hard to focus on anything at all. Black eye? Or is the damage bad enough he’s going to lose it?

Doesn’t matter. He’ll be dead soon anyway.

A horn honks. Someone down on the street, floors below, yells something he can’t quite understand. The unmistakable chatter of someone on the phone, maybe on their way to work, it just barely audible to him. He can’t hear what she’s saying - only the sound of her voice.

He thinks he’s screamed, sometimes, but Owen always had the window closed for that. No one could hear him - or if they could, maybe they just think Owen gets up to some weird shit in the bedroom. Which isn’t untrue, but...

Fuck. He can’t think straight. 

Someone yells about hot dogs. 

Vince listens - he’s not sure how long he listens for - but realizes, as the seconds pass, that he can listen, he can hear it. He’s not foggy-headed and numb, he’s not passed out cold. 

He’s not drugged, and there’s no one here with a glass of water with a cloudy bottom, there’s no sound of Owen talking to himself as he moves around the apartment. There’s no sound of the movies he and Owen starred in together playing nonstop on the television in the living room before Owen comes in, flushed and eyes overbright, to on the bed and-

No. Don’t think about that.

“O-Owen?” He can’t really speak above a whisper. 

No answer.

His throat throbs, pressure-filled pain that means he can almost still feel Owen’s hands around his neck. He had been so angry last night when Vince had tried to say there was just no way, he couldn’t, it wasn’t that he didn’t care about Owen, it was just-

Well.

Owen never did like hearing the word no, did he? Vince has seen him throw fucking tantrums at studio people and craft services and everyone their entire time working together, but... but he’d never even imagined it would end like this.

“Are... are you here?” He’s a little louder this time, fighting the pain in his throat, trying to look around the room. 

Still nothing.

Is this a trick, or... or is it possible Owen has actually left? It could be a trick. He could be waiting to see what Vince does, to leap right out, maybe with a knife in hand, maybe it’s the last thing he’ll do, surprise Vince with his own murder.

Stop it. Fucking stop it. Jesus, I need a drink.

Vince carefully shifts in the bed. Everything from the waist down is one giant wound, but so much of him hurts that it’s all beginning to run together and he sets his jaw, moving with slow, careful shifts until he’s seated, his hands cuffed to the headboard on either side of his head.

He looks down at himself, and there’s blood on the bed, dried into the sheets. The room smells like copper and Vince’s stomach turns, realizing that the smell is because of him, because of his blood, because...

He fights back a sob. It’s not worth crying, not anymore. 

“Please, are you-... are you home? I’m thirsty-”

No sound. Just the traffic below. He hears a peal of laughter, shrill and barking, and shudders, wondering what amused the person on the street. He has a strange, surreal sense that it’s him. That they can hear his whispered words downstairs on the street, somehow. That they’re laughing at him.

Still no answer, and no sound either. Vince swallows painfully, feeling a click in his throat, and tries to think. He could scream for help, but he’s not sure he can scream. No one would hear it. 

No one’s heard him yet, anyway.

Owen hasn’t ever left him alone before without him being so drugged into oblivion he slept until he returned. There wasn’t anything in the water he’d been given before Owen choked him last night, couldn’t have been. Vince is sober for the first time since this nightmare began, since Owen had brought him a drink and said we need to talk about us.

Owen made a mistake.

Vince’s heart starts to race as the realization settles in.

He has no idea how many days it’s been, but Owen has made a mistake for the first time, and Vince has to figure out how to use it. 

He tells himself not to panic, not to hurry. To take his time and think it through. It’s fairly early - maybe Owen has meetings all day, maybe there will be enough time. There has to be enough time.

He looks around the room, wondering if maybe Owen will be even dumber and leave a key out on the dresser or something, the key to his handcuffs, but... no. Nothing. 

Vince slowly looks to his left, at the cuff buckled tightly around his wrist, so tightly that it cuts and digs in and bleeds down his arm and onto the pillow Owen so thoughtfully places behind his head before his hands close over Vince’s throat.

His stomach flips in sick panic as he remembers last night, Owen’s mouth against his ear, the tearing pain inside him and the black spots dancing in his vision while Owen’s hands tightened to cut off his air. He’d whispered, they feel just like a collar, right? Just like you’re mine, mine forever, I could kill you right now and no one would ever know I did it...

No.

Focus. He needs to focus.

Vince takes in a breath - holds it for a count of three - slowly exhales. He grits his teeth, but that only reminds him that four of them are gone now, one knocked right down his throat, the others on Owen’s dresser, fucking keepsakes, he wants to keep them like a fucking serial killer’s trophies, like the guy in the movie Owen and Vince had filmed a couple years ago and oh god, what if that’s where he got the idea, how long has he been planning this-

God damn it, Vince, no. Focus.

One breath, and then another. Vince looks to his right, which is when he sees Owen’s other mistake. 

The right handcuff isn’t quite closed all the way. It’s loose around his wrist, and he stares at it, hardly able to believe his luck. It takes some work, and seconds tick by to the pounding of Vince’s heart as he carefully works his wrist and hand free of the cuff, pulling his arm fully down, rolling his shoulder to try and work out the muscle knot and ache.

That’s one. His other wrist is tightly locked in like always, there’s no way to easily get it out of there. But... well. Everything already hurts, right? What’s one more broken thing in a broken man?

If you don’t get out of here, he’s going to kill you, Vince. 

He knows it, deep down. Every day has been worse, Owen’s pushed a little farther, and Vince can’t act well enough to pretend to love a man who choked him into unconsciousness, again and again, whispering adoration into his ear when he wakes back up only to bury himself deeper inside and do it again.

He won’t survive much longer. 

There’s too much blood on the bed, and there’s only going to be more. How much can he afford to keep losing?

Vince looks over at the window, and thinks about the sounds of the people down below. They can’t hear him scream, but if he gets downstairs... 

No. I can’t say Owen did this. He’ll just hunt me back down. I have to... to tell people something, just until I get to the hospital, just until I’m safe. Say I got mugged, buy me time, buy... buy some time.

Okay, Vince. This is going to hurt.

But what doesn’t, now?

He inhales - holds for three - and slowly exhales as he begins to try and twist his hand out of the handcuff, closing his eyes against the new pain as his bones and skin protest his attempt. 

The whimpers start again, tears burning his eyes, dripping down his face to wet the dried blood on his cheek.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s just more pain, and he has to get out of here alive. 

He has to.

Skin tears and blood slicks up the metal as his hand starts to slide free. Vince opens his mouth in a silent scream.

He’s going to get out of here alive.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @orchidscript @silvercrystalwhump @raigash @cubeswhump @oops-its-whump @greatandquestionablecontent @doveotions​ @astrobly​ @evermetnotforgotten @whumpiary @wildfaewhump

[pretty-face-breaker]

WIJ Prompt: “I Can’t”

At an unspecified time during Emir’s captivity. @whumpmasinjuly​

CW. captive whumpee, crying, sadistic whumper POV

There was a hitching noise from the bed across from him that stirred Pavel out of an already light sleep. The only light in the room was a cold stream from the few iron-barred windows and he could barely make out the shape of shoulders buried under the sheets. 

He pushed himself to sit quietly, blinking the tease of sleep off. The noise came again, shaking this time. Waiting a moment before he could certify it was a sob, he cleared his throat and heard a creak as the dark outline flinched.

Suddenly, with the curls visible, the outline was all he really needed.

“Foreigner,” Pavel muttered. And he knew he had heard him.

Emir didn’t respond, too bundled in the thin, grainy sheets he had pulled up to his chin. His limbs were pulled so tight to his core, Pavel could have sworn he only took up half the bed. He cleared his throat and repeated himself after hearing another quivering sniffle. 

Pavel let the metal bars of the bed hit his back as he fell. “You’re crying?” 

It was more of a statement than anything. He thought saying it might make him willing to engage so at least when he laughed at him, he could see Emir’s resilient, hardening face and those tears shining against scarred cheeks. Read his anguish like it was a poem.

He idled with the edge of his blanket as the somewhat muffled sniffles continued. Emir didn’t seem ashamed of it or wasn’t even trying to hide it. Maybe he did this more often than Pavel saw, he thought, and what a shame that was. 

“Are you going to listen to me all night?” came a rough voice from beneath the covers. Another hitching breath. He must have been on the edge of hyperventilation. 

Pavel smirked in silence, staring forward. “Maybe.” 

There was silence and the sniffling continued, nearly muffled by the pillow now. It made him feel good that Emir was actively trying to be quiet. It meant he felt something for his judgement, impending comments, even if that was fear.

Then, he heard a sob rock the body next to him. Pavel felt a bloom of emotion in his chest that only went a few inches before being pulled back into his heart. Not that the emotion was anything akin to pity or sympathy but it was warm and the blossom felt good in his chest, making his heart drum. Cathartic, hearing someone cry, unravel so openly in the deceptively safe veil of darkness.

He didn’t hear much of that in the barracks or on the field. Men here didn’t cry. They only screamed or gritted their teeth, snarled with resentment pulling tight like a string that would only take a flick to snap and he knew he could make them all break so easily. 

“Stop that, come on. Go to sleep,” he ordered quietly and hoped Emir hadn’t heard him. 

With a quiet sniffle, “I can’t.” He heard a rustle as the scratchy blanket was pulled up impossibly higher to Emir’s chin than it already must have been. A swallow. “Been thinking too much about home and… I can’t.” 

Pavel inhaled slowly, a little irritated he had woken up to deal with this weight of unannounced emotion. He didn’t immediately snort as he usually would have done but gave his next answer some thought. 

“Keep crying then.” 

The retort hadn’t been meant to sound so cold.

Pavel cleared his throat at the resulting hateful silence, regretting his bluntness for once. “I meant you can keep crying. It doesn’t bother me. I’ll listen to you, if it helps.” 

There was another drawl of silence before the blankets shifted down slightly. Emir had let the covers slip just an inch and with the faint moonlight, Pavel caught a tear on his temple. The chasteness of the image, one of absolute and resigned suffering sent that blossom of warmth in him again and these days, he was starting to really fight the impulse to just grab Emir and beat him for fun.

“It… doesn’t really help but-... thanks,” Emir rasped. “Sorry, I just-... I can’t stop thinking about them. Back home.” His next cry was breathier, a notch louder and audibly unrestrained by the pillow he had buried his face in before.  

Accepting the answer, Pavel patiently folded his hands in his lap, letting his eyes defocus on a portrait of some obscure figure on the other end of the room. The cold made his skin prickle and he kept watching. Kept listening to the sobs like they were something he had paid for and the mattress was his front-row seat.

He wanted to hear him cry for hours more. 

-

Tagging: @straight-to-the-pain @heathenville @quirkykayleetam @yet-another-heathen  @undertheburrow​ @lektricfergus @punchhimagain @whumpasaurus101

[albino-whumpee]

WIJ day 6: Look at me

@whumpmasinjuly I don’t really have words for this. It just…happened. Didn’t have time to finish it until now so…

Cw// eye whump, pet whump, conditioning, burning, hurt comfort, multiple whumpees, sadistic whumper, emotional abuse and permanent injury.

He had been there for enough time to know only by the way he ate dinner that his Master had had a bad day. Like a storm, the man’s calm was an omen to disaster.

Taking a deep breathe, Isaac knocked on his Master’s office door, carrying a tray of tea, a brand new package of cigarettes and snacks.

“Come in” the man exhaled a curtain of smoke before putting it off in a glass ashtray. Silent like a mouse, Isaac settled the silver tray in the coffee table and didn’t wait for his Master’s orders to take one cigarette from the box and then, when the man leaned over him, gently put it in his lips.

The man said nothing as he smoked, so Isaac stayed quiet and attentive, clasping his hands behind him and following the man’s movements with his eyes. He was hoping he would go unharmed this time, but such hope vanished when the man ordered him to sit.

“On the couch, pet” the man said, leaking irritation when Isaac knelt on the ground.

“I’m sorry, sir” he said, sitting at the leather couch’s edge. The boxie sat there staring back at his master in his custom made suit and buttoned up shirt with a loose tie. Mr. Hearst was a man toeing his forties, yet there were only a few spots of silver scattered in the thick dark brown.

His eyes glowed an amber yellow under the dim lights of his desk lamps. Slowly, they turned darker and darker until he stood before Isaac. The pet looked down, knowing himself to be too weak to keep eye contact from that distance.

“Look at me” the man ordered and the pet obeyed. For a moment, he could hold his gaze, he could try to quiet down his racing heart when Mr.Hearst put his free hand against the couch’s rest and leaned closer to Isaac. The pet found himself lost in his owner’s eyes. Swallowed by their emptiness as he lifted his other hand, the one holding the cigarette and then put it close to his right eye.

The pet yelped in fear, paddling away from his owner and finding the couch’s rest making his escape a magnificent distance of two inches. When the Pet looked away, trying to escape the cigarette, the man passed his fingers below his collar, right between where skin and leather met, and pulled.

“Look at me, Isaac” the man whispered, tugging harder on the young man’s collar and ripping out a whimper out of him. He didn’t race his hands up, he only held his breathe when his Master hovered the end of the cigarette over his eye.

For a long painful moment, Isaac stared at the sparks of the paper burning. Blurry with the closed distance and then, gone black in one eye as a swizzle sound drowned his ears and a screech burnt its way out of his throat.

For a moment he didn’t feel anything, but the next, he was stepping in hell.

He went down to the floor screaming. He cried as he held the left side of his face with both hands. Blood and liquid oozed from his eye and leaked into the floor as someone knocked on the door.

“Sir! Sir, may I come in?” A feminine voice asked, screaming over the young man’s hollering.

“Prepare my car, Shirley. And a cold compress” the man said calmly, putting off the cigarette in the crystal ashtray. “Understood?” The man asked when he heard no response. He could’ve sworn he heard a gasp and then a long breath being dragged out.

“Understood, Master” the girl said before stomping away.

The man’s eyes slid back to the shivering, weeping box boy curled in a ball on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Im sorry…” the young man whispered. Hearst stayed quiet and slowly moved to get his jacket. Then as he kept mumbling apologies, the man knelt over the pet.

He grabbed his chin and forced him to look up at him. Isaac could barely keep his healthy eye open, but it opened wide when he felt a soft peck over the eyelid trying to shield the burnt eye. Short of breath, he stared at his master rendered mute when he wiped his tears and blood off.

“I was frustrated, Isaac. There are so many bad people in this world and I had the misfortune of meeting one today. It wasn’t you, oh no. I’m sorry it had to be you who had to take what I would’ve done to them.” he said, hearing Shirley come to knock on the door again. He sighed and helped him stand up, using his napkin to gently place it over his face. “You endured it well. Hang on to me, alright? Let’s get you patched up. Is the least I can do to thank you”

As Isaac was dragged outside and Shirley, the other slave in the house, gasped so loudly it could’ve been a scream, the boxie’s head could only sigh in relief that it hadn’t been one of the kids who had crossed their father’s path in such a furious state. As he was helped up the luxurious car and Shirley begged their Master to go with them so she could his hand and press a cold compress to the injury, and even after he came back home with one less eye and his eyelid stitch shut underneath wraps, he couldn’t help the relief that washed over his body.

When at night, stored in their cage outside, his head began hurting and pulsing, he heard the chains to their ankle manacles clink when Shirley moved closer to him, pulling on his face so he could see her face.

Shirley stroke his cheek with glassy eyes before leaning to kiss his forehead and then pressed their heads together as she softly rubbed circles on his head.

As he leaned into her touch, he went to sleep thinking to himself: “thank god, thank god it was just me”.

[agentsofromanov]

whumpmasinjuly day 3 prompt: sleep

@whumpmasinjuly

fandom: marvel

characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov and Phil Coulson

relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Phil Coulson

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

Clint Barton prided himself on the fact that he could go long periods of time without sleeping. However his partners Natasha and Phil did not.

Of course they understood that as it was an almost necessary skill for them to have as agents but they hated how Clint would walk around avengers tower or the SHIELD base and almost brag about how long he had stayed awake or how little he slept.

So when one day Clint came home from a solo mission Fury has assigned him to last minute , his body littered with minute cuts and bruises that covered large areas of skin and bags in which you could fit almost anything under his eyes. Phil and Natasha decided something needed to be done about it.

Clint seemed delirious with lack of sleep as he stumbled down the hangar bay and Phil and Nat intercepted him before he could make his way to the post mission briefing that he was expected to participate in.

“oh hi its my 2 favourite people” Clint mumbled while he received kisses on either cheek from Nat and Phil. 

At this point they had wrapped their arms securely around Clint and were manuvering him over to the waiting car

Once they were all secured inside the car Phil pulled at his phone and started making calls to let Fury know that “no Clint would not be attending the briefing” and that “yes all 3 of us will be absent from work this week” and finally that “fury you better dam well find a way because we’re taking the week off”

By the time Phil has secured their leave the car had pulled up outside Avengers tower.

Phil and Nat led Clint through the entryway and into the lift of avengers tower to bring him up to their shared floor.

The whole way Natasha whispered sweet nothings in Clint ear (“it’s okay, you’re okay” “you can rest now love , we have you”)

So by the time they had deposited him on the custom made bed (a perfect fit for the 3 of them) he eyes were starting to droop. The effect of not sleeping for several days truly showing on his face.

Natasha helped him undress while Phil used a wet cloth to wipe away some of the grime coating his skin and applied some cream to the many bruises littering his body.

When Nat and Phil were satisfied that Clint was comfortable they lay him down on their bed and finally with his lovers bracketing either side of him Clint fell asleep

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 3: Creation Prompt - Stitches & Bandages

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Are they stitching someone up, or getting stitched up themselves? Are they struggling to find bandages to stop the bleeding, or did they just steal some to help a friend? The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day3 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too!  Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 15: Buried

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Are they being buried alive, screaming for someone to help? Are they burying someone, something, finally putting it away for good? Or are they burying their true thoughts and feelings, hiding the pain they feel behind a mask? The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day15 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 30: Creation Prompt - Antidote

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Are they desperately clawing towards the antidote just out of reach? Is someone hastily trying to make one while the injured character groggily teaches them how to do so? Or has the antidote just been destroyed forever, sealing the character's fate? The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day30 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 27: Unstable (Mentally? Physically? Both?)

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Are your characters mentally on the edge of breaking, willing themselves to keep it together just a little bit longer? Perhaps they're close to passing out, their vitals leaving more to be desired. The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day27 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 24: Creative Prompt - Earth (Environmental Whump)

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! There are a ton of environmental factors that can deal some painful damage or hinder your character's goals. Perhaps the weather is proving to be too strong for your character, making them feel poorly. Maybe there's magic involved, and the planet itself is fighting back. The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day24 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 21: Creation Prompt - “Please.”

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Is your character begging for help, hoping for relief? Are they pleading for someone to stay, or pleading for supplies they do desperately need? Or are they asking someone to stop, to finally give them a break from the pain? The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day21 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 18: Ache

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Is your character suffering from a stomach ache or heartache? Is their head pounding, or their injury keeping them up late with pain? The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day18 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 9: Creation Prompt - "Stay with me"

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! Is this a phrase being said by the whumper or whumpee? Is it said desperately as they struggle to keep someone alive, or is it no louder than a whisper as they fight to keep their eyes open? The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day9 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Make sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!

[whumpmasinjuly]

Day 6: Creation Prompt - Deprived

It’s time to hurt your favorite canon characters or OC’s! What are they being deprived of? Is it love and affection, or desperately-needed supplies? Is the chance of relief just out of reach, or have they been left to beg and struggle for weeks now? The possibilities are endless!

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to use the tags #whumpmasinjuly2023 and #wij23day6 so that others can enjoy your awesome creations too! Be sure to tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive so your works can be featured on our official archive blog!