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Whump that continues after initial treatment of the injury; comfort that goes hand-in-hand with hurt-

having to repeatedly clean and irrigate a wound to stave off infection

debriding a burn

dressings that stick and tug every time they’re changed, no matter how gently

packing a wound

applying antiseptic ointment

having to reopen an infected wound to drain it

simply having to touch and manipulate an injury in order to treat it

-parts of continued care for the injury that, no matter how necessary, aren’t any less agonizing for the hurt character (or their caretakers) (and have to be done over… and over… throughout the healing process)

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The sand was coarse here, more like gravel than anything else. Not enough time to let the water pound it into smaller chunks, Luthas supposed. It was strange, what he thought about when his brother was aiming a crossbow at his head.

“You don’t have to do this,” Luthas looked straight at the arrow tip that was surprisingly steady, compared to how Luthas knew his brother must have been feeling.

“No! You’re wrong. I’m sorry, but you’re so wrong. I didn’t know-... I didn’t know what you really were, didn’t know the full extent of it.” He held the crossbow, completely still. He had practiced this, Luthas realized, the sinking feeling growing ever stronger in his stomach.

“That’s crazy. You know me. I’m your brother.” A half hearted smile to go with the words, like when they were younger. Luthas hoped it would be enough.

“Oh, I know. Which makes it even more important that I do this. I’m sorry, I thought you were different. But you’re just like the rest of them.” His eyes were set. He didn’t blink. He reminded Luthas of himself, just then. When he came up with a plan, there was no stopping him.

“I’m- Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but you need to put down the bow,” His words had no power here. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, the flutter of wind through his feathers. The edges of Luthas’s vision wavered, and he didn’t know whether it was from the heat or if he was dreaming.

“I can’t do that, Luthas. I have to kill you.” His brother let the arrow fly, and it whooshed through the air. Luthas almost let his eyes close.

“Hey, wait!” A voice rang out, and Luthas was being pushed, no, tackled to the side, where he collapsed on a mound of rocks. The arrow whizzed past him and landed in a bush behind him, burying its tip in the ground.

Luthas pushed himself up on unsteady arms, looking first at the arrow and then whipping his head around to stare at the stranger.

“Who.. are you?” He grunted warily.

“Your savior, apparently,” the boy replied, his yellow eyes not entirely devoid of light. “What the fuck was that?” he repeated, whirling around to stare at Luthas’s brother. “You just go around killing avians for fun, huh? You really think you’ll survive like that? I have half a mind to put this sword through your heart.”

“Don’t,” came Luthas’s immediate reply. He held up a hand in what he hoped was placating. “He’s- I can take care of him.”

“You can’t.” The boy stared at him evenly. “He was going to kill you.”

“Just let it go, okay?” Still hunched over from being thrown, Luthas wasn’t the most convincing.

“That’s fine, but I’m just trying to look after our own.” The boy swept a winged arm across his body, grabbing the hilt of a sword on his back.

“Luthas.” In the time they were talking, his brother had picked up the arrow. Now he held it limply by his side, the crossbow still in his other hand. “You can’t change my mind. Don’t try to save me.”

---

“W-wanted to see me?” The door creaked open, and Alfie stepped in the dusty office, shutting the door neatly behind him and shuffling to press his back against the nearest wall.

“Yeah, uh,” Luthas looked up from the pieces of parchment he was looking over, gathering them into a messy pile and shoving them aside. “Do you still believe what you told me? That we can still be okay?”

Alfie took a moment to respond. “That was… y-years ago.” It was before the Reaper, and that counted for more than any amount of time.

“Just answer the question.”

“...Can if you want, want me to,”

“I’m gonna take that as a no.”

“Can if it would, if it would h-help.”

“So you’d be lying, then?”

Alfie nods, a barely perceivable movement that Luthas would have missed if he didn’t have his eyes on Alfie like a hawk.

“No. Fuck that. I don’t want a liar on my team”

Alfie nods again. He was so easy to ignore. Luthas could pretend he was just a dresser in the corner of the room, and he wouldn’t be proven wrong until the quiet click of the door behind him alerted Alfie’s exit. He was so aware of every movement, every breath, every twitch of his muscles, an awareness that Luthas knew only came with humans who thought they were doing good, irreversibly fucking them up in the process.

“Man, aren’t you angry?”

Alfie lifted a shoulder. “Why?”

“Why? What do you mean, why?” He swallowed anything else he had to say to give Alfie time to answer.

There was so much to explain, how his Reaper had stripped him of his dignity and hope and left him empty. But he didn’t have the words nor the willingness to. “J-… just the way it is.”

“I’m trying to change that, can’t you see?” With both hands flat on the wooden table in front of them, there was a twinge of desperation to Luthas’s tone. “Everyone else believes in me. Why don’t you?”

“…’s a good idea. Not going a-against it.”

It would have to be good enough for Luthas.

#whump #my writing #whump writing #whump drabble #whump tropes #ocs #luthas #alfie

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I love it when a whumpee has been injured or sick and unconscious for a while now, and the rest of their friends are sitting nearby talking quietly so they don't wake them up because they seriously need their rest, but in the middle of their hushed conversation they hear whumpe weakly chime in from their corner, and immediately at least one of them rushes over to make sure they're okay.

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Every day I look at the whumptober prompts and think "maybe today,,"

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Day17-Hemorrhage (TW gore/ blood)

Whumptober 2021 @whumptober2021​

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(Last chance, skip this if blood’s gonna freak you out.)

So this is and is not Spoilers for my story Captured.

Nor is it an entirely literal depiction of what happened to Harrow-

But if you could see Magic, this is literally what happened to Harrow.

Warlocks and Holy Relics do not mix.

Please do not take this art and stick it anywhere else. Reblogs Very Welcome!

Art Taglist, ask to be added: @yet-another-heathen​ @distinctlywhumpthing​

#oo pretty #blood visual #gore

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hello little people in my computer i keep on saying i will post more and stuff but then i Don't but uhhh ill reblog stuff and scream in the tags if that counts :D

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Near misses

Like…

• A warning shot just between two legs, or in front of Whumpee’s feet just as they meant to take a step forward (or back).

• “Don’t move.” <3

• When the defiant Whumpee who was a second away from attacking (or running!) just completely freezes up.

• For Whumpers with excellent aim, make a shot so close to Whumpee´s head that they can hear the bullet whistling by.

• In that sense: A Whumpee brought to their knees, gun against their head yet they still won´t cooperate so just give ‘em a little warning by firing the gun right next to their ear. They just… might not be able to hear your demands after…

• Or fire in the direction of that pesky Caretaker, making your Whumpee freak out, only to see the hole in the wall right next to their friend.

• With that said; firing blanks. Aim right at them.

• Just… warning shots 👏

Or other near misses:

• A knife aimed just next to their hand.

• Upgrade: A knife thrown at them and hits the wood next to them with a twoing.

• A balled fist, punching the wall just next to their head with such force that Whumpee flinches back.

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@ whump writers

Have you considered letting your characters be happy? They could go to an amusement park or get a job at a coffee shop or find an injured kitten and nurse it back to health. Those are all completely valid story choices. Please let your characters be happy :(

#hehehehheheehhehehehe #not only whump meme but also bo burnham meme #brain has been going brr on him lately #inside my beloved #i may or may not have watched inside like 10 times already #and make happy 3 times #and zach stone

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ATTENTION!

Dash is kinda dead so...

Whump Blogs Active 8/'21, please interact with this post so I can follow!!!

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A song played low in the radio, filling the silence between the vehicle’s two occupants, though nether were listening. The highway was empty, as roads tended to be at 3am, save the occasional truck lumbering in the right lane. 

Their hands shifted on the steering wheel, sweaty, numb from how tightly they’d been squeezing. Their eyes shifted to the rear view mirror for the thousand time, as if the intruder in the back seat would disappear, as suddenly as they’d appeared. 

In fading baths of light, the interstate lights silhouetted their figure. Exposing a sharp jaw line, inky black clothes, and of course, the gun in their right hand. The intruder was seated with their back to the door, legs thrown over the backseats. A glowing cigarette raised to their lips by the hand not holding the gun. As much as the driver hated people smoking in their car, it was the least of their worries right now. 

As if they could feel their attention, the intruder looked up, meeting their eyes in the mirror. 

“Eyes on the road.” 

On command, the driver’s eyes darted back to the highway stretching endlessly before their headlights.

“Wh-where,” their voice cracked, the leather steering wheel creaked as their hands twisted. They cleared their throat. “Where are we going?” 

Keep reading

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Ok but when whumpee is so weak/out of it they can't hold a cup in their hands so caretaker like. Gently cradles their head and holds the cup to their lips so they can drink ;-; my favorite really

NICE NICE NICE NICE NICEEEEEE

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A whumpee's weak struggle to push themself up from the ground, which only earns them a hard kick to the side and a "Don't bother."

#ooh good trope #i like this very specific trope very much #happens in genshin #and the last of us 1 #and is very cool :D

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As much as I love whumpers that manipulate and trick and play mind games, messing with whumpee's fragile and distracted mind, I also love the ones that don't.

There's no "I'm doing this for your own good sweetheart." but instead a "because I want to."

There's no "Darling you chose this, I don't want to do this but your behavior demands otherwise" but instead a "I enjoy hurting you."

Honestly, in Whumpee's eyes, which is worse?

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“Hey, you!”

Clementine turned at the voice, cigarette halfway raised to her mouth. At the hour of-- she checked her phone-- 3:00 am, anyone who wanted something to do with her was not going to be friendly.

She stayed silent as the stranger approached, a boy, it seemed, about 16 or 17. Approaching within a few feet of her, he stopped, open mouthed, a mixture of awe and fury in his eyes, evident even in what little light there was.

“Remember me?” He growled, hair falling into his eyes. Clementine stared at him for a few seconds, cigarette smoke blurring her vision. She took another drag, trying to keep still against the car she was leaning on.

“Honestly? No. You can just fuck off now,” she snapped. Her fingers weren’t shaking, she made sure of that. She stepped back from the car, arms held loosely in front of her. Indifferent. Curt. Like she was at work.

“You don’t?” A manic smile was starting to spread across his face. “You hurt my brother. You’re one of those fuck wads that torture people for a living. And now,” he chuckled, “I get to do what I’ve been dreaming of for half a year.”

The punch came at Clementine’s face before she had time to duck, the cigarette flying out of her hand and fizzling out a few feet away.

“Uh, I-” She half-heartedly tried to protest, but her determination died with the cigarette. After all, she supposed, she did deserve it. Sometimes she needed reminding that it was her who was pressing the button or flicking the switch.

She was hurting people. It was only fair that they got revenge.

Another impact, and she stumbled backwards, smacking against the back wall. She didn’t lift a finger as the blows rained down on her, her own blood painting his knuckles red. Pain exploded in her head with every blow. A punch to her stomach, and she doubled over, falling to her knees.

But he still wasn’t done. Grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking upwards, yellow light spilling over her face. The blood trickling out of her nose and from the corners of her mouth looked as black as the bruise forming across her cheek. Her dazed eyes were downcast, her mouth slack. He would have thought she was unconscious already, if not for the faint trembling of her eyes, scanning across the ground for things that she didn’t have.

“Remember me now?” There was a calm in his eyes now, a steadiness in his grin.

Clementine didn’t know who he was, didn’t remember his brother. It might have been anyone. His words were barely registered, and she only felt the slump of her own body against the cold pavement as he released her, finally satisfied.

Her ribs ached. Her head hurt. Her apartment wasn’t that far away, but to get to it she needed to stand and walk to the other side of the building. The concrete wasn’t that uncomfortable, anyway. She rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes.

#whump #whump drabble #bthb #blood from the mouth #badthingshappenbingo #whump writing #reluctant whumper #revenge whump #lab whump #my writing #ocs #clementine

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Go home Dude or you'll catch a cold 🤭😏

#eeee pretty #whump art

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hmmm can vampires get sick? maybe sick vampire chris thinking Jake is gonna pull out or file down his fangs? or just thinking Jake’s gonna hurt him?

CW: Sick whumpee, vampire whumpee, blood drinking, vague implications of past sadistic/creepy whumper, dehumanization, vague tooth/mouth whump (nothing direct, but aftermath)

Sort of a sequel to this piece, part of the Vampire Chris AU

"What hurts?" He keeps his voice low, and carefully doesn't hesitate before he lays a hand over the vampire's forehead. Of course it feels lukewarm, room temperature, but he still goes through the motions of feeling for a fever. It's muscle-memory, instinct, and he keeps forgetting Chris is dead.

He has been dead for a long time, if his occasional comments on what sounds like Prohibition are true.

"Bones," Chris whimpers, twisting where he lays in Jake's bed. There's a bright flush in his cheeks from the blood he'd drained from the two men who broke into the house. Those odd eyes glitter, overbright. "My... m'bones hurt, Jake."

His mouth opens, pulling air in over his tongue and down his throat in soft pants, and Jake is reminded that vampires don't sweat. Not the same way, anyway, although with enough blood they can, in thin sheens of pink-tinged liquid that are even more alarming than their tears.

His fangs are visible this way, razor-sharp canines that come down further than the rest of his teeth, a brighter white than all the others from being pulled and regrowing so many times.

Jake swallows against his nervousness, brushing hair away from the vampire's forehead. His slit pupils are dilated, taking up too much of the iris, and he tells himself that Chris is as scared as he is of the instincts that drive him, barely understands them.

Vampires aren't animals - but when they don't understand themselves, they act like it sometimes.

"Do you think maybe those guys were on something? Like, a drug maybe?" He pets through Chris's hair, fingercombing his hair, and watches Chris's eyes flutter closed.

It's hard not to feel more than a little reassured not having to look at them any longer. Which makes him feel guilty, considering this not-a-kid kid just beat up people for hurting him.

Killed them, his brain whispers. Killed them like he could kill you.

"May, maybe," Chris mumbles, and pants again.

His gums seem oddly dark, where normally they're pale, and Jake frowns. He wishes now he knew more about vampire physiology, that he'd paid more attention in class when they took the safety courses on how to avoid them.

There's not exactly a class on caring for one - not unless you can afford to purchase them outright.

"Well, when you were-... uh, before you found us... did you ever feel like this?"

Chris's eyes blink slowly back open and he nods. "Sometimes. My, my, my, my-... someone would, um, take something before, before the party, and I'd..." He groans and shudders. Jake can see the pain move through his body as he trembles nearly violently. "I'd feel like, like, like this after... for hours..."

"Okay. So... probably you just have to let this get worked out of your system, right? Or... is there a medicine?"

"No... just... just drink more." Chris looks up at him, eyes so wide and sad and scared and hurting, and grabs onto his wrist with one hand. Those cool fingers are never not a little startling, colder than the air around them, than the rest of his body.

Vampires have poor circulation, Jake knows, even when they're filled up on a fresh meal. He's seen Chris heal his own wounds before with his tongue, had him explain that they don't heal on their own with time if they're on hands or feet.

"Chris-"

"You, you, you, you-... can, um, you can take my teeth after. You can. I'll hold still. I'll, I'll be good." Chris's plea is barely a whisper.

His nails, which must have been a little too long when he was killed and turned, dig painfully into Jake's wrist in his desperation.

"I'll be so, so, so so so so good, Jake. So good for you, and then, you can, you you you can take my teeth-... Sir always liked it, it makes me me me cry, we we cry blood, Sir liked to take photos of it-"

"Sssshhhh. Hush, Chris." Jake's mind races. There are others in the house, but-... he can't ask them to give up blood to Chris. They've already taken over cleaning the blood up from the hardwood floor. Nat's already dealt with talking to the cops and the EMTs and the coroner before the bodies were taken away. They already handled hiding Chris in a false-backed closet while Jake was interviewed by police officers who looked interested and excited,, not disturbed.

It's not every day you see a vampire attack, after all.

Mostly they're under control, kept on leashes and muzzled like dangerous dogs, the property of rich celebrities looking for novelty in a world where they already have everything. The few ferals are killed pretty fast.

Or so everyone says.

Jake is starting to wonder if there are more vampires out there than he knows about.

The cops had even insisted on checking the attic, as if Chris was a bat they might find hanging upside down. That had been ridiculous, but it's not like Jake could say he knew better without being asked how he knew so much about them in the first place.

Oh, because we keep one like a stray fucking puppy. That wouldn't go over well.

He feels a little woozy from the adrenaline crash, and still aches from the bruised ribs where he was kicked around. His mouth aches from the duct tape they'd put over it, and he'd got a hell of a rash starting around his wrists. He's so exhausted he might collapse.

But... Chris really did show up right on time, and maybe saved his life.

Chris pulls Jake's wrist to his face, nuzzles into the inside of it against the pale blue veins that show through the thin skin. Jake shudders at the feeling, swallowing back a low-level disgust.

He wonders how old the teenager really is - he wonders that all the time.

"You c-can have my teeth, after," Chris whispers, lips moving against Jake's skin. "You can keep them. Sir used to, to, to keep them in a box and show m-me. Just, please, please help me feel better, Jake, please... It won't hurt."

Jake closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "If it'll help... fine. But I'm not taking your teeth. They're yours."

"Thank you," Chris breathes out. "That's, that's, that's okay. I can still fix it for you. Thank you, Jake." His fangs slip back into Jake's skin as easily as a heated knife through warm butter.

The venom hits his bloodstream before the pain hits his nerves, and Jake feels himself slump over, head falling onto Chris's shoulder as all his limbs go dead.

It almost feels good, as his ribs stop aching, and the bruises stop throbbing on his skin. He can see why rich people love it as a party drug. You could drift in this place of perfect no-pain for a long, long time.

He feels only the wet movement of Chris's tongue, the shift of his fangs, the soft pressure of the other teeth pushing down. Chris purrs softly, drinking his blood like a kitten lapping milk.

It goes on and on, and for one terrifying second Jake thinks he's not going to stop until he's dead.

"Ch-... Chris-"

Those fangs slip suddenly out of his skin, the wet cool tongue licks rough over his wounds - closing them instantly.

The venom slowly fades, the aches and pains settling back into his body. Jake groans, feeling weak and exhausted.

Chris has to push him up off his shoulder, with unnatural strength moving him to lay on his side on the bed. Jake can barely keep his eyes open.

Chris, leaning over him, could rip his throat out and he couldn't even raise a hand to try and defend himself right now. Jake sees the body of the first dead robber behind his eyelids, the expression of horror written in eternal rictus in his expression, the blood down his shirt and puddled beneath him on the floor. The other man, fighting until he stopped, slumping until Chris had drained him to death.

"I feel better," Chris whispers, kneading at Jake's shirt briefly. "I, I, I feel so much better. Go to, um, go to sleep, Jake. I'll fix it so you're safe."

Jake can't even begin to understand what that means before he's already slid into something more like unconsciousness than actual sleep. The world around him simply goes black, and the last thing he feels is Chris pulling a blanket up to his chin.

The last thing he hears is those soft padding footsteps leaving the room.

When he wakes, he finds two fangs, pristine white with bloodied roots, sitting in a washcloth next to where his head lays on the pillow. he finds a pair of small pliers on the bathroom sink, with droplets of red around them.

The sun is shining outside the window, a bird singing loud enough to drive a drillbit into his head, and Chris is curled up asleep in the dark at the back of a closet, mouth slightly open.

Jake stares down at the empty spots where his fangs should be, and wonders if he's grateful, or horrified.

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@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband

#aaaaaa