whumpalicious08

[whumpalicious08]

Hey, so your posts have been drifting onto my feed via some people I'm following and left me curious. Would you please give some context as to what "whump" is?

Thank you in advance

Hello! I suppose it must be ... strange to see whump posts without the appropriate whump context. I got you, don't worry.

I'd define Whump as a more extreme and specialised sub-genre of hurt/comfort writing. A "Whumpee" is the one having pain inflicted onto them, and a "Whumper" is the one doing the inflicting. A "caretaker" is what it sounds like; a character who (usually) assists the Whumpee.

The pain can be physical, emotional, sexual; it depends on the writer's preferred whump style. For example, my blog is predominated by Hired Gun!Whumpees.

But whump is a lot more than an individual's definition. Usually a lot of writers have been consuming whump in media from a young age, without even realising.

My first experience was with an episode of BBC's Merlin, where the MC is threatened with torture. My most memorable experience was with Gale from that one whipping scene in Catching Fire.

I remember feeling a sort of nervous anticipation in my stomach, something the community has termed "whumperflies". I still get them when I write and read today, and so do many whump writers.

I'm yapping a lot just in case you think you may be one of us. Because I want to tell you something that nobody really told me when I was starting out.

It's okay to like whump. It's not sadistic, or inhumane.

Whump writing acknowledges pain and hardship. This acknowledgement is invaluable. When Whumpee hurts, I hurt, and so do hundreds of readers along with us.

That's what whump is about for me. A community's acknowledgement that you're struggling, and the freedom to personify your troubles in Whumper.

[whumpalicious08]

Ah so I've just realised this is the way to get the link out there more. Bear with me guys 😭

AN OF OG POST:

Authors note;

[Hey guys. Noticed this post is one of my more popular ones, so I'm taking the opportunity to drop a link to the PCRF; The Palestinian Children's Relief Fund. I understand that my blog is unrelated to politics, but I feel that the whump community is generous, kind, and above all, empathetic. If you have the financial means to donate, the PCRF is highly rated by Charity Navigator at 97% (see below). Thanks for reading and have a good one 🤍]

Source for rating;

Charity Navigator - Rating for Palestine Children's Relief Fund

Palestine Children's Relief Fund has earned a 4/4 Star rating on Charity Navigator. This Charitable Organization is headquartered in Kent, O

CHARITYNAVIGATOR.ORG

PCRF link;

https://www.pcrf.net/

Public humilliation whump🫡

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Hired gun once-defiant whumpee being 'disciplined' in front of Criminal Whumper's colleagues.

Kingpin Whumper is holding an informal meeting in a private study. Genially drunk business associates are chattering about.

The heavy wooden doors are pulled open and a guard by Whumpee's side wrenches them into the room, one hand around their upper arm.

Whumpee is shirtless and shivering, sanguine leaking from the disorderly lines cut into their back. Fresh wounds layer on pale pink scars which layer on paler brown ones. Their arms are bound in front of them.

The sight of Whumpee sobers everyone up, but all are frozen in inaction from the threat Whumper presents.

Whumpee never cries in front of anyone.

But Whumpee's eyes are red rimmed and leaking now.

They're brought to Whumper. Whumpee picks a spot on Whumper's leather shoes and focuses on it, determined to avoid everyone's pitying eyes. The spark of anger burning within them turns it's flames inward, shame rising from the ashes of Whumpee's dignity.

Whumper smiles, and lifts Whumpee's head with a gentle press of his fingers under their chin. "Anythin' you want to tell me, pretty?"

Whumpee knows the answer he wants to hear. They meet Whumper's eyes for a moment, but rapidly abandons the challenge.

Their raw throat struggles to form the reply.

"Thank you, sir."

---

[whumpalicious08]

Whumper is hurt for the first time. Defiant Whumpee plays nurse.

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Cw/ Nudity mentioned, branding/burning, alcohol mentioned, allusions to being cut

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aka; Whumpee finally gets payback

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Whumpee presses too hard against gashed skin. Whether it's a conscious choice or not; they really can't say.

"Watch it." Whumper reprimands severely. Whumpee feels giddy.

Whumper's irritability is a laughably poor mask for his hurt. Whumpee can read it in his eyes, the way the muscles around them tense into a wince. They can read it in his arm, how it pricks with bumps under their diligent fingers.

They can read it from his breath, how it reeks of alcohol as he drains his fourth beer.

"Sorry." Whumpee's voice is audaciously apathetic.

Nothing shows on Whumper's face for a moment, like he's considering punishing their courage. But Whumpee knows he's lost.

Whumper had stripped Whumpee nude, once. He'd chained them up by their wrists and dug glowing iron rods into their flesh until they'd fallen motionlessly from their bounds.

Whumper's sitting in his undershirt and trousers. Silver watches adorn his free hands and the fire is lit solely for comfort.

But his expression twists with something he's had Whumpee convinced is reserved only for them.

Pain.

Whumper's more naked now than Whumpee has ever been.

"Just ... hurry this shit up." Whumper concedes, polishing off his drink with a grimace. "And get me another one." The empty can clatters to the ground.

Whumpee feels sticky residue splash against their knee. Ire fills their head with heat.

They press down too hard.

"Son of a bitch-" Whumper's uninjured hand wraps around their throat. It's a fast movement; untrusting in Whumpee's passivity. He leans forward in his chair, looming over Whumpee with malignancy in his eyes.

Contorting his torso is aggravating Whumper's wounds. Whumpee is deliberately silent, indulging in the sound of Whumper's ragged, agonized breaths as he faces the consequences of doing so.

Whumper's grip tightens, nails scratching sharp little punctures into Whumpee's nape. Wet trickles down their spine.

Whumpee's body is bent in submission; eyes down, knees biting into the ground, hands limp by their sides.

The smirk on their face is a blood stain on white linen.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll be gentler."

[whumpalicious08]

Oh my god. Your hired gun/assassin whumpee stories are some of the best works I've read on this site. I LOVE the power dynamics, the imagery of each scene, how you have such a good grasp of language that you can paint a vivid picture with just enough words. The way that the poor hired gun whumpee is suffering and in so much pain, but is conditioned to think that he deserves it and is so utterly devoted to the source of his suffering. It's all just perfect [chef's kiss]. No pressure at all but if you ever write more of this content I would DEVOUR it.

Screaming pissin throwing up. I love words and I love yapping but I don't think I can physically put into text how this made me feel. It means so much to hear how enthusiastically people are responding to my work, I haven't ever published outside of tumblr so all the feedback genuinely feels like an out of body experience. I adore writing hired gun whumpees, so there will definitely be more coming once ye ole inspiration starts a-flowin' again. I don't write much caretaker stuff I've realised, so maybe something with h/c too.

[whumpalicious08]

More Public Humiliation Whump (READ WARNINGS ⚠️)

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Aka my magnum opus, in my humble opinion.

⚠️Cw⚠️ / Smoking, Drinking, Gun violence, graphic gore, minor character death, non consensual touching (over clothes), manipulation/manipulative language, religious (catholic) imagery & references, internalised shame, public humiliation, possessive behaviour

2nd person Whumpee has they/them pronouns. Brief, vague mention of area between legs, no explicit reference to any biological organs.

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Living Weapon Whumpee / Mafia Whumper.

---

You find it difficult to breathe inside the pub. Smoke congeals with the air and stains the insides of your lungs.

The stench of blood is so strong it makes your mouth taste metallic.

Whumper is speaking and everything else feels quiet.

"...Kid comes waltzin' into your house, starts touchin' on your property. Can't hardly blame nobody for gettin' a little unkind."

There's a man on the floor in front of him. He's a couple years younger than you- twenty. He's studying geology, a topic that lit up his eyes endearingly. He's on his gap year.

You'd tried to warn him off you, gentle but insistent. Whumper likes you seen and not heard.

But the charming bastard had leaned in, eyes painfully kind, and he'd told you how pretty he thought your smile was. It'd been so long since anybody'd told you that.

The kid had brushed his knuckles over your wrist, coyly hiding his concern at your reaction. His compassion had distracted you.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

He'd dragged the kid away from the bar, away from you, and into a more open area. God, you'd forgotten to even ask his name.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

You don't see him now, either. You turn your face away and stare down at your drink. But the tourist's throat keeps flapping wet gurgling noises and you can't turn away your ears.

Another shot cracks through the air. Another terrible banshee cry. You count up from one silently to distract yourself.

It doesn't work, but you pretend that it does, and that's enough sometimes.

It was enough before, when Whumper had jovially condescended to the tourist and amicably levelled his shotgun at his knee.

(You'd missed the money shot. You always strive to when you can, innate coward that you are.)

Whumper loves that gun. He's always telling you that it's;

"a gorgeous weapon second only to one".

He'd won it from the Sheriff, during a poker game he'd hosted last month. The policemen in attendance tonight eye it with just as much desire as they do Whumper; the perfect power fantasy.

"Please."

The kid's warped voice rings too loudly in your head. You falter at 37 and can't start over.

Whumper does something to him that makes him hack up air like a cat, unable to scream any longer.

"Shut up and listen real fuckin' close. Whumpee is mine. Mine to touch, mine to use."

You feel the tips of your ears burn in violent shame. Your teeth feel wobbly with how hard you're clenching them.

Whumper's silent for a beat. You don't need to be facing him to know he's looking at you. "Sometimes, they're so damn good at bein' owned I get to thinkin' they like it." His tone turns jeeringly wistful, and indignation curls your hands into fists.

People's eyes and unspoken words become embedded in your skin like shrapnel. Pieces of you, of them, sting when you think you've found reprieve.

"All I'm doin' to you is some kindly teachin'. Got to set an example, you understand."

"Did- I didn't-"

You think he may be trying to say he didn't know, but it'd be futile anyway. Whumper wants an execution. The tourist begins to catch up and abandons his words for sobs.

Whumper hums in sympathy, the sound vulgar in its sincerity. "Whumpee. C'mere."

There's white hot needle points dancing over your body as you stand. The shrapnel sinks deeper as more attention shifts to you.

You find it harder and harder to avoid looking at Whumper's barbarity. The tourist's humanity entices your own; you grow unable to pretend either don't exist.

You reach Whumper's side and look down.

The bullet had shattered the kid's kneecap fully. There's a gorge where it should be; exposing jelly-like tissue the colour of pus and flesh and viscera. Dark shades of dried blood makes it look like somebody'd rubbed dirt into the gore - you can imagine Whumper doing that, tearing at the edges of the exit wound with gritty black fingernails.

His elbow is gone too, chips of shattered bone and viscous chunks of torn muscle the only remnants of it left.

You notice that the tourist's lips are moving once more, and gratefully take the opportunity to look away from the depravity. You can't hear what he's saying. Just the feverish, incoherent ramblings of a man from whom Death will have to beg for mercy.

Whumper's voice pounds against the inside of your skull like tinnitus, trying desperately to drown out the injustice he's caused.

"Kill him. Bastard's all used up." Whumper's cigarette wobbles as he snaps the order. His perverted sense of mercy makes you squeamish.

You've met people who mark their kills. Some do it to boast. Some do it to self-flagellate.

You've never had to carve anything into your bedpost. Every one of your victims live on, feeding, parasitic within you.

But this ... this boy, convulsing and begging in a pool of his own fluid; his death will be a tumour, destruction for destruction's sake.

You're suddenly not sure that you can handle another ghost.

"No."

Whumper's eyes cut into you. You used to believe he had the Devil in them. Now you don't believe there are any Gods or Demons here at all.

"Say that again?"

He's offering you an out he knows you won't take.

You lower your head, but peer up at him through your lashes, a veiled mockery of the submission he expects. He's pushed you just far enough tonight. The several shots of sickening, unidentifiable liquids coalescing in your stomach makes you too brave.

"No, Sir."

Whumper likes you brave. He'll fill your glass and enjoy the consequences.

His hand closes around your arm, fingernails ripping skin, and he roughly handles you into position. You try to jerk away, but the weight of his shotgun reminds you of his conviction.

The tourist is crying again. You can't remember if he'd ever stopped.

Whumper's chest is firm against your back. His leg parts yours sightly and he angles your body with intent, displaying you to the rest of the pub. He rests the long barrel of his gun on your hip, slowly guiding it lower. "I ain't askin', angel."

The pub's only sparsely populated today, and some people are only watching out the corners of their eyes.

But it may as well be packed to you.

Whumper lingers behind your knee purposefully; making you think he might actually do it, before he moves on again.

You feel your heartbeat everywhere; in your throat, under your fingertips, at your temples.

You feel terror everywhere, too. You think it's circulating the room, a plague of quiet fear. Endemic to the bar and your body.

The gun stops at your inner thigh.

Whumper brushes his lips against your ear. Radiant heat from his cigarette warms your clammy neck. "You'll do as you're fucking told."

He gyrates the barrel ever so slightly, a brutish imitation of a caress. Your breath hitches. I own you.

The muzzle's pointing down, safety on. He doesn't need a lethal weapon to remind you how to behave. I own you.

If you hesitate any further, it's only for a second.

Your defiance is brittle and impulsive. Your deference is always enduring.

The bitter pill Whumper feeds you settles on your tongue and makes you think maybe you do like being owned.

"I'm sorry."

The gun's driven sharply upwards, stabbing too hard even through clothing. Your ignoble cry seems to carry. He holds you in place and it hurts.

"Louder."

"I'm sorry-"

He slips his fingers down your back pocket and pulls out your revolver. He presses it into your hand and steps behind, painful pressure lifting off your back and from between your legs.

"Show me, then."

Eyes are boring into you. Whumper's, the patrons'. You hear somebody sniffling across the pub. You have the feeling there are more.

Under different circumstances you'd sneer at the pity, but the room's just seen Whumper what, assault you? Debauch you?

You're pretty damn pitiable right about now.

The tourist's lips are still fluttering. You lower yourself down on one knee to hear him better.

"...forgive thy... holy father ... mercy on me."

You glance at his neck in case you've missed anything. No cross.

You place your hand over his darting eyes, and your gun over his forehead. His mouth stops moving, and then he does too.

For one bleak moment you hope, much for the tourist's benefit and quite contrarily to your own, that there is a next life. You hope that Whumper will burn in infernal fire; searing with a fury rivalled only by the flames awaiting you.

There's more friction generated by the bullet than you'd like. Smoke from the barrel rises up, up.

Whumper's derisive words feel distant, but his fingertips gently carding through your hair seem to scald. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

You breathe in and choke.

---

[whumpalicious08]

Just scrolled through your blog and it’s so good holy shit!!! You’re truly a natural whumper!

Oh god I'm feelin the strangest mix of mortification and flattery.

I think this is true for most writers, but looking back on old work just makes me pick apart all the mistakes I made and how easily I could've fixed them. Worst, it kills me that I wasted good ideas that I could've written so much better.

But it genuinely makes me feel better that so many people seemed to enjoy them, it means so much to me and is so encouraging.

Thanks for reaching out 🫡

[whumpalicious08]

Public humilliation whump🫡

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Hired gun once-defiant whumpee being 'disciplined' in front of Criminal Whumper's colleagues.

Kingpin Whumper is holding an informal meeting in a private study. Genially drunk business associates are chattering about.

The heavy wooden doors are pulled open and a guard by Whumpee's side wrenches them into the room, one hand around their upper arm.

Whumpee is shirtless and shivering, sanguine leaking from the disorderly lines cut into their back. Fresh wounds layer on pale pink scars which layer on paler brown ones. Their arms are bound in front of them.

The sight of Whumpee sobers everyone up, but all are frozen in inaction from the threat Whumper presents.

Whumpee never cries in front of anyone.

But Whumpee's eyes are red rimmed and leaking now.

They're brought to Whumper. Whumpee picks a spot on Whumper's leather shoes and focuses on it, determined to avoid everyone's pitying eyes. The spark of anger burning within them turns it's flames inward, shame rising from the ashes of Whumpee's dignity.

Whumper smiles, and lifts Whumpee's head with a gentle press of his fingers under their chin. "Anythin' you want to tell me, pretty?"

Whumpee knows the answer he wants to hear. They meet Whumper's eyes for a moment, but rapidly abandons the challenge.

Their raw throat struggles to form the reply.

"Thank you, sir."

---

[whumpalicious08]

Whumpees who have been conditioned for such a long time that they crave the hurt, the violence. They don't know how to function without the pain.

TW(s) : Implied self harm, implied abuse, discussion of abuse, discussion of self <?> harm, swearing (yes finally uncensored I'm growing up), mild ptsd/referenced trauma, low self image, implied/referenced torture/abuse, bad <?> caretaker (tbf what Whumpee is asking is inherently bad so you can't really be good if u say yes ig), unhealthy (violent) coping mechanisms

Whumpee can't look Caretaker in the eyes; shame taking an axe to his stomach, firey humilliation burning his cheeks.

"You want me to - what?"

Whumpee growls, frustrated. This is one of the most demeaning things he's ever had to do, and that list is extensive. "Hurt me. I think I want- I want you to make me cry."

Caretaker shakes his head, looking at him like he's insane. Maybe he is. "Whumpee ... you didn't deserve anything that happened to you. You don't need-"

Whumpee shakes his head, stomps forward. Anger displaces his embarrassment. "Don't you fuckin' tell me what I need, Caretaker. I know damn well what I do and don't deserve. I'm asking you; this isn't happening to me. I need you to hurt me like he did- I need- I need one moment of peace."

The fury slowly leaves his tone, and he finishes the tirade awfully quiet and painfully vulnerable. "Please. I can't- I tried, myself. It's- it's not the same, it has to be you. Please, Caretaker. It- it needs to be you. I can't fuckin' bear it anymore-" he grinds his teeth together, looks away.

Caretaker worries his bottom lip between his teeth, pensively quiet for a second. His jaw clenches, eyes harden.

"Take off your shirt."

I have an anatomy test to do in five fucking minutes oh god m so scared fuck me

[whumpalicious08]

uh hi so!

i wrote this webpage that walks u thru looking after yourself when you know a thought is making you spiral. deployed it publicly bc i wanted it on mobile and i thought other people might like it too

check it oot

[whumpalicious08]

Caretaker/whumpee h/c or post-whump comfort!

You know for someone who professes love for h/c I write surprisingly little of it. Let's change that;

Sidekick! Whumpee, recently rescued from Villain Whumper. Superhero/mentor Caretaker does his best to put him back together.

SOME PRETTY INTENSE TWS FOR THIS ONE : NIGHTMARES, PTSD, SELF HARM, ANXIETY ATTACKS

Whumpee forced to strip so Caretaker can treat his injuries. Whumpee is perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, hunched forward. Beside him, Caretaker fills the sink with water. "Can you lift your shirt?" He says, as gently as he can. Whumpee swallows the lump in his throat, begins to pull the blood-soaked fabric over his head. Caretaker inhales sharply, not even trying to hide his concern. Cuts, gashes, bruising around Whumpee's ribs ... he'd been beaten, burned, tortured, over and over and over again. But the worst of it all, the thing that makes Caretaker sick to his stomach, are the four little letters cut deep into the skin under Whumpee's collarbone. Mine. "Oh god- what's he done to you..." Caretaker's never seen the Villain be this bad, not with him. "Caretaker-" Whumpee interrupts his train of thought. His voice borders on pleading. "I'm begging you; don't make me talk about it."

Follow up : Whumpee disgusted with Whumper's mark. The sound of smashing glass from Whumpee's bedroom makes Caretaker spring into action immediately. The door is locked, but he throws his shoulder into it over and over again until the wood gives way and he stumbles into the room. Whumpee's stood in front of his mirror, fingers curled around a piece of broken glass. He's cutting around the carving. "Whumpee, stop!" Caretaker wrestles with his mentee, the latter fighting tooth and nail to resist his hold. "Let me go! Let me- I need to get rid of it- I need-" Whumpee's injuries slowly get the better of him, and he begins to break down, slumping against Caretaker. "No, no, no- I -I need to cut it out- please, Caretaker, let me cut it out, I need to-" Whumpee is in hysterics, still meekly thrashing against his mentor. Caretaker's eyes fill with tears. "It's going to be okay, Whumpee. You're going to be okay." He doesn't know who he's trying to convince more.

Whumpee's having a nightmare. He's moaning and twitching in his sleep, unintelligible cries for mercy passing his lips. Caretaker is awake before his protégé even stirs, knelt by his bedside, panic making his heart jackhammer against his chest. "Whumpee! Wake up!" Whumpee wakes before his mind does, blindly swinging his fists at Caretaker instinctively. "No! No! Please- don't touch me!" Caretaker grabs his wrists, pins them in front of him. "Whumpee, it's me. It's Caretaker, you're safe." Whumpee's blurry eyes pick out Caretaker's form, and his face crumples along with his body, arms thrown around Caretaker's neck. "M'sorry. I'm so sorry." He sobs into his shirt. Caretaker hushes him, rubs circles into his back. "You're not the one who has anything to apologise for, Whumpee. Not one thing."

Whumpee flinching accidentally when Caretaker startles them. Caretaker fixes them with a concerned look. Whumpee sniffs irritably, looks away. "I'm okay." Caretaker huffs a humourless laugh. "No, Whumpee. You're not." His tone is too gentle, too compassionate. Something inside of Whumpee breaks.

Whumper used to call whumpee the same nicknames his team mates would. Team mate casually slaps Whumpee on the back at the end of a mission, gives him an easy going smile. "Nice work today, Pretty boy." He says nonchalantly, tossing the phrase over his shoulder as he leaves. Whumpee freezes, rooted in place even as his other team members clear out. Two little words and he's back there again. Abandoned, broken. Would be completely alone if not for... Whumpee stuffs his hand in his mouth, wrangles down a sob. Mentor/Leader notices from across the room, is by his side in an instant. "Whumpee," he says, placatingly. Whumpee turns his startled eyes to his, tense as a wire. "Caretaker-" He murmurs, panicked. "I can't- I can't breathe." Caretaker makes slow movements, curls his hand around the back of his neck because he knows it calms the younger boy down. "It's okay. Just focus on my voice, okay? You're not there anymore. You're not with him." Whumpee shakes his head, trembling. "You're wrong, Caretaker." He was naive to think he could just jump back into missions like nothing happened. Like his life wasn't over the day he was taken from his team, from Caretaker. "He's always with me."

EDIT: SO, NOT SUPER IMPORTANT, BUT I WAS READING OVER THIS POST AND REALISED HOW MANY SMALL SPELLING ERRORS AND STUFF I MADE BC IT WAS LIKE, 1AM. WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BETA READER OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT, NOT EVEN JUST FOR SPELL CHECKS BUT ALSO FOR JUST BOUNCING OF IDEAS AND STUFF (BE MY FRIEND PLEASE 😭). ANYWAY, INBOX IS OPEN FOR ANYONE TO CHAT, BETA PROSPECTIVE OR NOT!

[whumpalicious08]

Don't get me wrong, Vampire Whumpees is such a cool twist of the evil Vampire trope, but I still love the OG <3

VAMPIRE! WHUMPER / HUMAN (BLOOD BAG) WHUMPEE

Whumpee's shuddering, twitching away from Vampire! Whumper like a rabbit from a wolf. The chain encircling his ankle rattles mockingly as it reaches it's full extension, and he's pinned in place. Whumper growls at the disobedience. "Show me your neck."

Whumpee's avoiding his monstrous face, the glinting fangs, his blackened eyes. "Please." He whispers, lowering his head ever so slightly. He feels the chill set into his bones. "Please, don't."

In a second, Whumper has crossed the space, pressed into Whumpee's side so closely he can feel his cold breath against his cheek. Whumper curls his fingers far too tightly into Whumpee's shoulder to keep him still. He's graduated from twitching to trembling now. "Whumper, I- I can't-"

"Oh, how I adore when you're terrified." Whumper interrupts his rambling, fists a hand in Whumpee's hair to pull his head to the side, baring his neck. Whumpee cries out involuntarily as Whumper licks over a spot on the exposed patch of skin. "Makes you taste even sweeter."

As always, Inbox is open!

[whumpalicious08]

Whumper looked over the person standing before them.

"Are you scared, dear?"

The person shook their head, keeping their face expressionless and their eyes straight ahead.

"I know you're scared," Whumper continued, grabbing the other's wrists and raising them in front of their face. "Just look at the way your hands tremble."

[whumpalicious08]

Assassin/hired gun Whumpee prompts :)

Because sm of you asked about the assassin Whumpee/guard dog Whumpee prompts from my physical position whump post (which I now know are called stress positions, thank you to the person in the comments of that post), I've decided to make a list of just assassin themed prompts :) Enjoy <3

NON CON TOUCHING, VIOLENT/HUMILIATING LANGUAGE, HUMILIATION IN GENERAL, PHYSICAL ABUSE, SORT OF IMPLIED SA? ITS NOT MENTIONED OR ALLUDED TO VERY CLEARLY, BUT IT CAN BE DEDUCED FROM THE DESCRIPTIONS OF WHUMPEE'S INJURIES.

Note the running theme of possessive Whumper ;)

“You can’t. It’s gone too far, Whumper; don’t do this.” Whumpee protests, shaking his head. His voice is firm but his mind is racing; he’s never questioned his boss' orders quite so blatantly before. Whumper’s expression is blank for a millisecond, before his face splits into a twisted grin. “You think I need your permission, Whumpee?” He laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Whumpee's every instinct scream at him to either turn tail or blast Whumper to kingdom come. He knows better than to try either. “I f*%#$ing own you.” The mirth in Whumper’s face drains away, is replaced by low, simmering fury. He grabs Whumpee by his throat, forcing out of him an involuntary gasp, and rubs his thumb over his pulse point. "You're nothing- not even a person, really. Just a bloody gun." Whumpee tries his best to look indignant, fails, ends up looking pathetically hurt instead. Whumper doesn't care, tightens his hold around his neck in response. "And don't you f%#@&ing forget it."

Assassin Whumpee who's bruised and battered; a direct result of Whumper; not any mission gone awry. He stands behind Whumper while he negotiates with the buyer, exuding charisma, control- dominance. He's the perfect opposite of Whumpee. A soft shuffling sound catches his attention. One of the buyer's armed guards, a ways away, has his eyes set on him. But not his face, or his gun - his neck. His neck, where Whumper's hand prints are plain against his skin, where Whumper had pulled down his collar far enough to reveal his initials, his brand, burned into him. Where Whumper's bite marks are starting to turn a horrible greyish-purple. Somehow, ever omnipotent, Whumper half glances back at Whumpee, smirks. Whumpee's face burns red. He planned this. He fixes the guard with a glare. God, now Whumpee's actually praying for the deal to go bad.

A dog tired Whumpee who's been awake for days, running point on missions for Whumper non-stop. He can't take it anymore. "Please." He murmurs reluctantly, ashamed to admit he's finally reached his limit. "I need to sleep." Whumper, who's back had been facing Whumpee, straightens up, slowly turns around. There's a fire in his eyes that makes Whumpee's mouth run dry. “Do you?” He closes the gap between them, grabs the front of Whumpee's shirt to pull his head down. Whumper's other hand reaches into Whumpee's back pocket, fingers wrap around the handle of his pistol. Whumpee feels the muzzle pressed into his temple. "What you need is to put a bullet in your next target." Whumper clicks the safety off and Whumpee shudders. "Or I'll put one in you."

Crime lord Whumper is leant back against the front of his heavy, mahogany desk, long legs crossed at the ankles and stretched out in front of him. His weight is braced on his arms; shirt rolled up to his elbows and fingers curled around the edge of the desk. He tilts his head playfully, watches as an emotionally and physically drained Whumpee lowers himself onto his knees just by his feet. "Sir." He murmurs hollowly, head hung low. "It's done." Whumper's grin widens, eyes light up. "Good boy." And despite himself, something in Whumpee keens.

A Whumper who has Caretaker captured, bound to a chair. A Whumper who has his Whumpee dutifully knelt at his feet, facing his friend, but his eyes are fixed on the ground. "You wouldn't believe how obedient this one is, Caretaker. How eager to please. He follows orders remarkably well." Whumpee looks up at him, shakes his head in a frantic, desperate way. He's begging. Begging to preserve his dignity; The person he was before all of this. The person he still is to Caretaker. Whumper smiles. "You should sit in on some of his missions, watch the way he kills, the way he tortures." He inhales sharply. "It's almost artistic." Caretaker looks at Whumpee; shock, pity and more than a little badly concealed disgust plain in his eyes. Whumpee is humiliated. Whumper is exuberant.

Some fun dialogue ⬇️ ;)

The slimy business man eyes Whumpee predatorily. "You've got a helluva gunman there. How much for his services?" Whumper's face darkens. "He's not for sale." Whumpee smiles bitterly. Whumper's not exactly in the habit of sharing.

"Pretty dog," the man jerks his head in Whumpee's direction. "Does it bite?" It's a thinly veiled question. Whumper smiles like a shark, all teeth, and raises an eyebrow. "Only when it's told."

"Please don't make me do this. I- I'm begging you." Whumpee says softly, watching his friend's movements down the scope of his rifle. Whumper lowers himself down, lips by his ears. When he speaks, it sends a thrum of electricity through Whumpee's body. "Take the f%#@&ing shot."

"But I - I failed you." Whumpee frowns, shaking his head. Whumper gives him a smile. He rolls one of the bloodied bodies on the floor over to it's front. "I wouldn't say so."

Whumpee hisses as Whumper presses a little too hard on one of his wounds. Whumper gives him a humoured smile in leiu of an apology - not that Whumpee was expecting one anyway. The whole 'tending to his injuries' thing is out of character enough. "You're pretty like this." Whumper hums, presses down hard with the guaze again. Whumpee squeezes his eyes shut, pain making his head turn. "Then why are you helping me?" He bites out, gasping as Whumpee's gloved fingers dig into his wound. Whumper's eyes twinkle, corners of his mouth quirking upwards. "Can't play with a broken toy."

Whump is such a big part of my life guys I be listening to a song and think "hm, what a pleasant song to torture one of my characters to." I think it's bad too because they ain't even sad songs they just sound like something my whumper would hurt someone to idk 💀.

[whumpalicious08]

Prompt, (from one of my posts) as requested by @trashy-panda11 !

A Whumpee who's feverish/heavily injured/drugged shaking profusely on all fours in front of Whumper, breathing in shallow, ragged breaths. They lower their head, fight through the humiliation, the bile in their throat. "Please." Whumper's lips twist into a shark-like grin. "But you're so perfect like this."

TW FOR NON CON TOUCHING, KNIFEPLAY, VAGUE RELIGIOUS TALK <?> (IT'S ONE LINE)(QUITE A BIT OF GREEK MYTHOS REFERENCED, THO)

Isaac's breaths are like gunshots in the cavernous warehouse.

Familiar shame sparks up his spine at how loud he's being; it's an almost comedic thought, considering his situation.

Isaac is naked from the waist up and covered in dirt and blood and gushing wounds. His body won't stop quivering; a likely side effect of the lack of food, or the fever, or even just the plain cold.

His eyes are blurry with tears and sweat, his head pounds behind them in tandem with his racing heart beat.

And he's chained to the floor; knees scraping against the ground, trunk resting on his heels, and arms pulled taught in front of him. The position forces his body to arch and tense like the drawstring of a bow, head down, hands baring the brunt of his body weight.

If he had any shame to begin with, it's long gone by now.

"Atlas the enduring."

In Isaac's grief, he'd almost managed to forget the other man in the room.

Almost.

Marcus' presence is that of the Grim Reaper's itself ; tangible in the very air that surrounds him, looming and abhorrent, undeniable and even more inescapable.

Respite from this ghost is a feeble and fleeting blessing.

"How many sorrows those shoulders bear."

Marcus runs the tip of his blade along Isaac's upper back, agitating old wounds and opening new ones.

At his feet Isaac squirms, breathing growing faster and harsher until every exhale leaves a path of fire in his lungs and chest. "Marcus."

The older man's focus doesn't waver, he doesn't flinch, just drags the blade back across Isaac's skin, following the paths he'd followed before and deepening them into small ravines of pooling blood.

Isaac cries out, then, the sound forcing it's way out through obstinately closed lips. It's a horrible little wail, painted with such agony and distress that it sounds too emotional even to Isaac's ears.

Marcus pauses, inhales deeply. His gaze is almost reverent. "Beautiful."

Isaac feels disgusting. "Stop this. Let me go." His voice is low, gravelly, but not meek. Not quite yet.

Marcus lowers the blade so it's tucked snugly under Isaac's chin, tip barely pressing into his neck. When Isaac swallows, it catches on his skin and pricks it, small round beads of crimson marking the area. He winces.

Marcus tilts the blade, forces Isaac's eyes up to his. He makes a tsk sound with his tongue, pulling his expression into that of feigned chastisement. "That's not right, is it?"

Isaac grinds his teeth against each other, momentarily revels in the sharp ache that shoots through his jaw at the action, takes solace in being able to control at least some of the anguish afforded to him.

He knows what he has to do, knows how to play Marcus' game. Isaac is ready to bluff if it means having a shot at surving to put down a flush.

But it's so damn hard.

He doesn't look away, partly because Marcus still has sharp steel pressed against his jugular, and partly because he doesn't want to give him complete satisfaction.

"Please, Marcus." Isaac's ragged gulps of air pushes his neck against the knife again, which in turn only makes his breathing harsher. "Make it stop."

When Marcus smiles, it's as though his grin has been carved into his face like clay. "My Titan." He slides the blade down, down, until it rests just under Isaac's clavicle. Without warning, he applies pressure, until the resistance gives way and the tip punctures skin.

Isaac is a mess. Tears flow freely down his face, down his neck, mix with blood and dirt and fall heavily on the cement below. The consistent trembling of his body escalates into violent shaking; his arms almost giving out from under him as his fingers curl against the floor. His hair is plastered to the side of his face, thick with congealed blood and sweat.

And he screams.

He screams louder than he ever has before. Loud enough for the very heavens above to tremble with the noise; loud enough to reach every divine Deity who dares not listen; Loud enough to make them fall upon their knees and beg him for forgiveness.

Marcus' eyes slip shut, blissful. "You're so perfect when you quake."

Yeah, so ... Idk where the atlas idea came from 💀, Greek mythos was just my hyperfixation as a kid and lemme tell u, atlas' story is so whumpy. Actually all of zues' punishments are whumpy but anyway I digress.

[whumpalicious08]

Okay so I love the idea of assassin/guard dog/attack dog whumpees.

If you have any ideas for a gangster or mafia whumper and his little attack dog I would love to hear!! (Recently been obsessed with Peaky Blinders dunno if you've seen it hehe)

Love ur writing btw:)

Omg this is so crazy, I actually did a paragraph/dot point on mafia boss/assassin whumpee and was going to add it to my recent post, but took it out last minute. I can definitely do a whole post dedicated to it because I have a tonne of ideas, I just wasn't sure there was an audience for it yk? Also I haven't seen peaky blinders but my brother is OBSESSED and I've heard it's really good!

Thanks for the ask and I love you! <3

Edit : I was going to just reply w/ it here but I have a problem with editing thing into oblivion so glimme a couple of days ease my mind💀👍

[whumpalicious08]

UR ATTACK DOG/MASTER POST WAS PERFECT AND IVE BEEN LOOKING FOR STUFF LIKE THAT FOR AGES TYTYTYTY UR THE BEST

QH THANK YOU I LOVE YOU AND IM SO SORRY IM ONLY GETTING BACK TO YOU NOW I HAD NO IDEA HOW TO EVEN ACESS THIS FEATURE KFLJFKS

For future reference : now that I do know feel free to send messagest/asks here!!

[whumpalicious08]

I don't even ship them this art is just too good

by @kkron_m