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whumpworld · 2 years

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Every Whumpee’s Needs

I got super into this one for some reason, and it’s actually inspired a new series. Just what I need, another WIP to make a bunch of picrews for and then put off writing. Anyway, this is a long one, sorry!

Prompt: No. 5 Every Whumpee’s Needs [Blood Loss | Running Out of Air | Hyperthermia]

CW: Hyperthermia (overheating/heat stroke), dehydration, restraints, mention of bugs (my legs and bacl itches everytime I read the part this reffers to, so I figured I’d mention it as cw), newly captured whumpee.

The sun beat down like the hooves of the rider’s horse in the sand, heavy and quiet, each footfall causing a miniature landslide of crystalline grains that sounded like sugar through a sieve as they crested the top of a dune. Behind the trail of hoof prints were two wobbling, weaving lines—less clean, cutting steps through the sand and more marks of unsteady and defeated feet slipping on it—as though a dead animal was being dragged along. But Whumpee was only half dead, and being half dragged. Despite their best efforts to keep up with Whumper’s pace, they were only able to trip and stumble behind.

“Stop…”

They had long given up trying to minimize the contact of the soles of their feet and the burning hot sand, once light, hopping steps now lumbering and leaden as they shifted their focus to staying upright. Their feet were already blistered, there was nothing they could do about that, but they could at least maybe prevent their entire frontside from blaining if they could keep from falling forward and giving in to the exhaustion.

Whumpee remembered something they had been told long ago about how feet control the body's temperature—if the feet are cold, so is the body, same if they’re hot. And damn, was Whumpee feeling that now. What they would give to dunk their feet in a pail of cool water. What they would give to drink a pail of cool water. Their mouth would have watered at the thought if it hadn’t completely absorbed all the fluid available already.

“M-mister, stop…”

The skin of their legs was numb from the whipping sand in the wind, and they were almost glad for it, because they didn’t want to think about the sand fleas nipping and burrowing in their bare feet and calves. But the numbness couldn’t override the constant, full body burn that encompassed them. Their dark skin had quickly turned a darker, irritated red that was only getting worse, already starting to peel and flake away so fresh skin could burn all over again.

It was maddening, the constant itching and smoldering of their flesh, nothing but the thin undergarments Whumper hadn’t made them strip from to, thankfully, cover the most sensitive areas of themselves. But the entire rest of their body was going to develop painfully sore blisters within the next few days if this kept up. Even their eyelids, which hung low to keep as much of the sun out as possible, were burned, and it hurt to simply blink against the breeze.

Their arms ached from being held aloft in front of them, Whumpee trying desperately to keep them from dropping, to keep as much slack in the line as possible to avoid the constant tugging on their wrists. Whumper had used a long, spare lead line to wrap their hands, inside of their wrists pressed together, the rope tight and cutting into their joints, bruising where it wasn’t already bleeding and staining the rope. And still, their shaking muscles gave out every so often, arms drooping and legs lagging as the horse was spurred onward, until the rope tied at the horn of the saddle pulled tight and Whumpee was jerked forward and nearly brought to their knees.

“Ngh…I—can’t keep…I need…”

Whumpee was completely drained, of will, energy, and strength, but the only thing on their mind was water. They could keep going if they were just allowed a mouthful, a sip, even, just enough to unstick their tongue from the bottom of their mouth and clear the sand from their throat. Something to quench the awful pangs of heat cramps in their legs and stomach, that had them wincing and scrabbling to continue forward.

At some point, they had started a game in their mind, one their mother taught them when they were little to help get work done when they felt they couldn’t go on. Find something to focus on, and count the steps that bring you closer to it. Their fixation was the liter sized canteen strapped to the outside of the saddle bag.

Whumpee could practically hear the water inside swishing with each sway of the horse’s flank. It was half full, and Whumper must have more, but this was the one the man was slowly nursing, reaching back once in a while to blindly unstrap it, uncap it, and take a swig. They hadn’t realized they had become completely focused on it until they noticed they were counting the steps they had left to grab it off the saddle. 10, 9, 8, 7… . Each time they stumbled, fell behind, or the horse sped up, they reset the count, started again. 8, 7, 6, 5—-—-13, 12, 11… .

As Whumper lifted the canteen to his mouth this time, Whumpee’s eyes followed it, squinting up into the sun, nearly losing their footing as they watched rivlets of water spill down the man’s chin and soak into the wrap he pulled back over his face when finished, seething at the utter waste.

It couldn't have been more than 12 hours since they were taken late last night, and the sun was just past overhead now. If Whumper planned on letting them rest any time soon, he didn't show it. The last thing Whumpee wanted was to beg Whumper for anything, but they needed water, and they needed it soon. Their hair, which had been soaked with sweat shortly into the journey, even though it began at night, was starting to dry, and it let them know they were near heat stroke. Their body was no longer sweating, entirely devoid of fluid.

By the time the sun dropped another peg in the sky, their vision began blurring significantly. Their skin broiled under the sky, their legs and arms shook violently and locked up in episodes that lasted longer and longer each time, until they eventually crashed downward to their knees. The horse continued, unbothered or unaware of the person it tortured in its path forward, and their arms were jerked above them, dragging them a short distance on their knees while they struggled to get their feet under them, before they collapsed onto their front. They couldn’t find the strength to rise. Groaning as they were pulled through the sand, they turned their head up to avoid swallowing a mouthful.

They didn’t want to beg for water. This man had come into their town, their home, threatened their family. Strung them up like an animal, like cargo, to be brought to some destination unknown to Whumpee. Whumper had beaten them, tied them up and stripped them, as their family watched on in horror, for noncompliance already; they didn't want to know what he’d do when they begged. Or, maybe that was what the man wanted. But so far, each of their complaints went unanswered.

Still, what terrified them more than this mysterious and cruel man was the unforgiving desert, the unrelenting sun. They were so overheated and dehydrated that they felt like their body had been overcooked, and the sand was now grating the tissue from their bones as they were dragged along, like a tender meat for stew. If they didn’t drink soon, didn't cool down, cover their skin, the desert would swallow them whole.

“P-please….”

They could hardly recognize their own voice, as brittle and cracked as it was. They tried again, louder, when Whumper still didn’t acknowledge them. “Please, s-stop.”

They wrapped their blistering hands around the rope, pulled as hard as they could to try and get themselves up, or to get the attention of the man. They managed to pull their elbows under them and press up to their feet, despite the stiffness of their muscles, and so they gripped the lead line and jerked it as hard as they could. “Stop! I…I’ll die like this!”

Their tugging barely budged the saddle, but the horse, having gotten used to pulling their dead weight, jumped at the movement, sending waves of sand down the dune, and Whumpee’s ground shifted out from under them, dropping them back to the searing earth.

They groaned, struggled again to stand as they were dragged onward by their wrists. Blood trailed down their forearms from the saturated rope, until a gust of wind whisked sand over them, the grains coating the exposed wounds and offering a sort of makeshift clotting agent. Hissing, Whumpee forced themselves to stand again. If they could just find enough strength to lunge forward, grab the canteen…. But if they spooked the horse they might be kicked, and if not by the horse then by Whumper, and they didn’t think they could survive a blow to the ribs from either.

“Please, I won’t be able to work if…if you let me be l-like this. I need—need water. Please.” They weakly pulled the line. “Please.”

For the first time since Whumper had mounted hours ago, he turned to look back at Whumpee. The beige scarf wrapping his head and neck was left open just a slit so he could see, and the shadows cast by the overhead sun made it look as though there was nothing but a void beneath the fabric, no glint of eyes, no facial expression to be read. But the man must have been assessing Whumpee’s state, must have decided that what they were saying was true: they really couldn’t do this for much longer. Whumper at last pulled at the reins, and the horse snorted, seemingly also content for a break. Whumpee crumpled as soon as they stopped, falling to their hands and knees with a relieved gasp.

Whumper swung a leg over the horse and smoothly dismounted, looping the reins around the horn just above the knotted lead line, and busied himself moving around the horse to dig through the side pack. A tough leather pail was produced and Whumpee almost whined at the sound of water being poured into it. They looked up, eyes tired and hopeful, but Whumper only walked back to the front of the horse to hold out the water.

Whumpee felt stupid for not realizing until now that the horse hadn’t been let to drink yet either. They waited patiently as the horse drank, then as it ate a few blocks of something the man pulled from his pocket. When Whumper was satisfied with the horse’s replenishment, he finally walked over to Whumpee. His breathable but tough boots left pleasing tread marks in the sand, and Whumpee found themselves wanting to reach out to wipe them away. They wanted to grab hold of the expensive fabric of his pants, roll the intricately woven threads between their fingers, just to feel anything other than burning on their skin.

“You won’t be for working, kid.” Whumper’s voice was smooth, light; Whumpee could practically hear the moisture coating the man’s tongue in the smoothness of his voice.

“W-what?” Whumpee had forgotten what they’d said earlier. They weren't sure why they were taken, Whumper had never provided that information, but they could only assume it was to be put to work. They had really only said it to make the man stop. But if they weren't taken for work…no, Whumpee couldn’t worry about that now.

“Well, I-I’ll be no use in any…way…like t-this,” they offered, almost sheepishly. Their head was throbbing too hard to truly care about how pathetic they may sound.

Whumper hummed in agreement. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. You won’t be of use dead, and you’ll be so much less appealing with third degree sunburn.” He reached out a worn, hide-gloved hand, which Whumpee dazedly moved away from before their hair was brushed from their forehead. The shadow under Whumper’s scarf lightened in his proximity, revealing brown, piercing eyes boring into Whumpee’s strained ones.

“Y-yes…,” Whumpee mumbled, before adding as a confused and horrified afterthought, “...a-appealing….”

Whumper narrowed his eyes further before pulling what Whumpee thought had been a saddle blanket off the back of the horse, now realizing it was a thin cloak with a large hood and long sleeves. It was cypress green, probably covered in itchy horse hair, but, oh, the sweet refuge it would offer from the sun. Whumper held it out tauntingly, just out of reach.

“Please,” Whumpee whispered, curling their fingers in their lap, resisting the urge to snatch the cloak from him.

“You’ve learned your lesson, then?” It was a question, one Whumpee didn’t know if they were supposed to answer, didn’t even really know what it was referring to, but they looked down and nodded their head quickly in reply.

The cape was dropped to the sand, and Whumpee scrambled to scoop it up and dress themselves, only to realize they couldn’t actually wear it, couldn’t get their arms in the sleeves since they were tied together, and so they draped it over their shoulders and pulled the hood down low over their face. The fabric was warm, wooly, and irritating on the sunburn, but they sighed as they felt the sun break contact with their skin. When they looked back up, Whumper was turning to tuck the leather pail back into the saddle bag.

No, wait. They needed water. Without thinking Whumpee launched themselves forward, cloak slipping off their shoulders, and grabbed hold of Whumper’s pant leg.

“No! No, no, water—I-I need water, too! You have to—omph!” They cut themselves off as Whumper’s boot slammed into their shoulder. Their grip broke from the man’s pants as they were shoved back, only for the boot to be slammed down on the lead line, jerking their arms forward and down so they were prostrated before Whumper.

“I don’t ‘have to’ do anything,” Whumper growled, and his voice sounded so much less smooth now, as he ground his boot into the rope just a few inches from Whumpee’s hands. Whumpee wondered if he was imagining their fingers beneath the sole, and they sobbed, the urge to cry bubbling up into their chest despite not a single tear swelling in their eyes. It was an odd sensation, to cry tearlessly.

Whumpee kept their face down, shivering even as the sun beat back down on them, and didn’t move, waiting for Whumper to remount and begin the journey again, dragging a lifeless Whumpee in tow, leaving the cloak to blow away and become buried in the dunes. They flinched at the sound of metal clinking, squeezing their eyes closed, before a hand in their hair yanked their head up, boot keeping their hands pressed to the ground.

“Don’t you dare spill a drop,” commanded Whumper, and Whumpee cracked their eyes when warm metal pressed to their peeling, parted lips. They were drinking eagerly before they realized what was happening, Whumper down on one knee, tipping the canteen up into their mouth. It was the best water they’d ever tasted, even heated and stale, and it was gone too soon, Whumper pulling it away after only a few gulps, Whumpee whining and trying to grab it back, forgetting their hands were being held down.

As they gasped in air, mouth finally full of moisture, they almost pleaded for more, even considered tackling the man for it, but they took a steadying breath, gritted their teeth, and murmured a bedgrudging, “Thank y-you.”

The rider only hummed lowly in response, sounding satisfied. He gripped their arm and pulled them to their feet as he stood, before reaching down to pick up the cloak, sighing heavily when as soon as his hand left Whumpee’s arm they wobbled and almost fell back down. Whumper draped the cloak over their shoulders, yanked the hood down, and threw them up onto the front of the horse like a sack of vegetables.

They almost slipped off, but then Whumper was mounting right behind them, arms on either side of them, wrapping the excess lead line to tie their hands around their abdomen, so they couldn’t reach out or try to take the reins. The sigh they let out was bodily, legs so glad to not be holding their own weight.

“Thank you,” they breathed, this time genuine and relieved, slumping back against the man. They couldn't care that he was their captor, they were exhausted. He huffed, the sound almost a laugh, clicked his tongue, and the horse began walking again.

“You won’t be thanking me once we arrive.” One of Whumper’s hands gripped Whumpee’s waist tight. “I’d bet my horse you’ll wish I let you die by this sun, kid.”

#whumptober2022 #whumptober 2022 #no. 5 #no. 5 every whumpee's needs #hyperthermia #whump prompt #whump writing #heat stroke #dehydration #sunburn #mention of bugs #ew #i hate bugs #blegh #fucking sand fleas #no thank you #whumpee is not a kid whumper just calls them that

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