#exposure to the elements whump

[whump-or-whatever]

IDK why but I’ve been on such an ‘exposure to the elements’ kick lately. Maybe it’s because I have a tendency to go walking and somehow always end up 2 hours away from home when it starts to blizzard.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about whumpee stuck out in the cold. Some of these are things I’ve mentioned before but I’m doin em again cause why not.

The unstoppable trembling when whumpee is chilled to the bone

Chattering teeth

Fingers so stiff they hardly move or do what they’re told to

Beat red skin that is painful to touch

Shivering not only outwardly but also inside the ribcage (I get this idk maybe I’m just weird)

Curling up in a ball and blowing onto frozen hands

The painful tingling when whumpee starts to get feeling back in their skin

Two whumpee’s huddling together for warmth

Whumpee burrowing deep into a pile of blankets when they get home

Whumpee’s hair and clothes forming ice where the moisture from their breath meets the cold air

Getting completely disoriented in whiteout conditions

Shaking hands trying to light a fire

Caretaker trying to rub warmth back into Whumpee’s skin

Stumbling along on numb feet

Whumpee getting so cold they lose the ability to think about anything else

Being unable to get warm no matter how many blankets they have or how much tea they drink

Nose running uncontrollably/constant sniffling

Frostbite and hypothermia

Whumpee continuously trying to pull what clothing they have on around them to protect them from the cold, to no avail

Whumpee who has bad experiences with the cold starting to panic any time they get even the slightest chill

Add any others y’all can think of!

#whump #recovery whump #whump prompt #whump tropes #whump scenario #whump idea #cold whumpee #cold whump #hypothermia whump #frostbite whump #exposure to the elements whump

[zoethehead]

Here's an idea that's currently in my head...

Imagine a whumpee who's badly injured, their body tied to a breaking wheel after having their bones broken one by one as they're left out in the freezing cold elements... A bit later, a caretaker finds them and frees the now unconscious and half-frozen whumpee, carrying the whumpee off to somewhere warm...

-----

They reset every broken bone, which elicits cries and groans of pain from the whumpee, but the caretaker comforts them, the whumpee's injuries are then patched up with bandages, with splints being placed on the whumpee's broken limbs and secured with more bandages before laying the whumpee down on a bed and tucking them in.

#medieval whump #medieval torture #breaking wheel #nursed back to health #hypothermia #exposure to the elements #bandage #whump #bandages #bandaged #broken bones

[whumprince]

Torture with exposure to natural elements (sorta?)

Once i have read of a type of torture that become one of my fav tropes of whump.

It basically consists of killing a big animal (horse, cow/ox etc) and taking out all the inner organs, left only its carcase.

And then we put our already-half-beaten Whumpee inside it, hands and legs tied so they cant escape. Maybe nothing in their mouth so we can hear their screams and pleads.

With the Whumpee inside it, the carcase is sewed where it was cut open, and is left in a place with sposure to sun and rain and vultures and etc.

Then, whumpee might become little bit insaner each day that passes. They lost track of time, hungry and thirsty and in a terrible postion, their abused body aching more and more for days. The smell of rotten meat is suffocating, the flies and larvas starting to meet their body. They can feel the vultures beaking their putrid wrapping.

They scream for days. Until their throat is sore and their voice is gone.

But only what is left for them is madness.

When whumpers take them out of that carcass, after some days, they cant really tell anymore if they're dead or alive.

(Pls add more if you feel like so!)

#i love when wumpee starts to feel thir existence eroding #feeling the taste of a death that will never come #angst #whump #whump prompts #whump tag #whumpee #whump writing #whumprince writing #whump prompt #torture #dehumanization #dehumanisation tw #gore #animal death

[vexingwoman]

I’m loving hearing everyone’s thoughts on whump. Many such cases of ostensibly straight or bisexual women consuming nothing but torture porn (with a tasteful side of woobie coddling or “caretaking”) for gay male pairings almost exclusively. Extreme rambling below because I’ve been thinking about this forever and I’ve never seen anyone else talk about it in a meaningful way.

The non-sexual elements of whump are actually even more interesting to me, especially since even that is still reserved for gay male characters (or straight male characters being written as gay for fic). The whole caretaking part, the way so many whump writers often deride canon material for failing to properly explore the sort of pain they think their fandom faves ought to feel (more accurately: exhibit). Many whump fics are non-sexual but the voyeuristic attention to the suffering of its gay male protagonists feels sexual, in a fetishistic way. There is no similar equivalent to people paying this much precious, mawkish attention to the traumas experienced by female characters. Even if it mirrors or exceeds the actual amount of canon emotional catharsis experienced by their male counterparts.

And I really don’t think these women are a 1:1 equivalent to men who can only get off watching extremely violent porn about women. I don’t even think it comes close to the level of harm those men cause. But I would like to ask the people who consume and produce this content: Why is it only ever about gay men? Why is suffering, crying, rape, terminal illness, torture, etc. such a heavy erotic fixation for them?

And unfortunately I cannot picture any response that isn’t either 1) pornsick or 2) violently defensive.

Very eloquently said. In my experience, aside from admitting that it’s a fetish or misogynistically claiming that male characters are more complex and easier to empathize with, the most common answer I’ve received to the question of why this community focuses almost exclusively on male characters is that it’s an “unexpected and intriguing reversal of gendered expectations.” And while this may be true for some, I’m not convinced this is the main reason.

Because obviously, having a female character abuse and torture the male character would also constitute as an unexpected reversal of gendered expectations, but this community isn’t fascinated by that. Both the character executing the abuse, and the character receiving the abuse, are virtually always male—and the character who plays the role of the caretaker, of course. Coincidentally, I just ran into some stats which really emphasize the point, not that they were needed:

Also, have you noticed a strange upsurge in ridiculously abusive and shockingly violent homo-erotic media? I’m referring to stories like Killing Stalking or Hannibal here. Of course, these kinds of stories have always existed, but I feel like the fascination in them has recently spiked. I recall that even ten years ago the most popular media on gay male relationships was mawkishly adorable—what some would call “fluffy.”

You have to wonder how much of a role that plays in all this. I know for many girls, these vicious homo-erotic stories were their first real exposure to whump content. Maybe they prefer gay male whump content because it’s all they know? But again, that seems too convenient an answer.

In conclusion, I think this is just a mixture of fetishization and internalized misogyny, as I’ve said. In another post, I’ll go further into why I think it’s actually false to argue that male characters are more complexly written and easier to empathize with, and how the real culprit is not the writing, but gendered stereotyping and unconscious misogyny.

If anyone wants to chime in and give their perspective on this, please do.

#terfblr #radical feminism #terfsafe #radblr #gender critical #radical feminist safe #misogny #sexism #gender abolition #whump community #whump #internalized sexism

[unforgivenn]

Hai a request for the ask game of mess with my OCS one no. 64 if you want for Noah :D

LEFT OUT IN THE COLD

FROM THIS ASK GAME

Shackled by Royalty Masterlist

CW: extreme cold exposure, hypothermia, distress, vulnerability, pet whump, dominant whumper, fear of death

The chill of the night air cut through Noah's skin like a blade as Andrey dragged him outside, the bitter cold biting into his flesh with merciless ferocity. Noah's breath formed clouds of mist in the frigid air, his body trembling uncontrollably as he fought against the icy grip of the winter night.

Noah stopped himself from spitting out curses that were burning on the top of his tongue. Andrey had already been in a pretty bad mood today and Noah definitely had no plans of worsening whatever situation Andrey had in mind for him.

Andrey's grip on Noah's arm was like a vice, his fingers digging into Noah's flesh with a cruel intensity as he dragged him further into the darkness. The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the desolate landscape as Andrey led Noah deeper into the heart of the chilling night.

Noah's teeth chattered with every step, his body wracked with shivers as he struggled to keep pace with Andrey's relentless stride. The cold seemed to seep into his very bones, a relentless torment that threatened to consume him whole.

As they reached a clearing, Andrey finally released his hold on Noah, the sudden absence of his touch sending a shiver down Noah's spine. He stumbled backwards, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he surveyed his surroundings.

What the fuck did this sadist want to do with him today?

Andrey stayed quiet for a few seconds before he spoke, his voice gloomy and low that cut through the silence like a knife, sending a chill down Noah's spine.

"This is where you'll learn your place, Noah," he spat, his words laced with venomous contempt. "Out here in the cold, where no one will hear your screams."

The prince signed to his guards as they moved closer to Noah, rope in hand. Fucking robots. Bet they can't do shit on their own.

Noah breathed unevenly, unsure if it was because of the undenying cold or the fear radiating inside him.

One of the guards jumped up on Noah wrestling him to get his hands behind his back.

Andrey couldn't help but smile a bit as he saw Noah struggling to escape their grip crying out. Just like a baby bird struggling to fly. Cute.

Noah surprisingly did put up quite a fight with the guards as the Kozlov prince simply watched his pet being tied up to a willow tree.

Noah's heart hammered in his chest as Andrey turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the darkness. Panic clawed at his chest as he realized the gravity of his situation. Alone, exposed, at the mercy of the unforgiving elements.

"W-WAIT! NO! D-DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!!"

No response. Not that he was expecting one anyways.

With every passing moment, the cold seemed to sink deeper into Noah's bones, a relentless torment that threatened to break him apart. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying in vain to shield himself from the biting wind.

Alone. Vulnerable. Exposed.

Noah's breaths came out in ragged gasps, each exhale a visible cloud in the icy air. He wanted to hug himself to get some sense of warmth only if his hands weren't tied behind him, forcing him to stand in a painful position with his shoulders stretched uncomfortably.

The cold had already seeped into his bones, chilling him to the core.He glanced around the clearing, the shadows dancing in the moonlight like specters of his worst nightmares. The willow tree loomed over him like a silent sentinel, its branches swaying in the frigid breeze. Noah could feel the icy tendrils of fear creeping up his spine, sending shivers down his already trembling frame.

"P-Please.. G-Get me out of here.." He chittered, his lips turning blue in a fraction of minutes.

The hours stretched on, each minute feeling like an eternity as Noah battled against the biting cold. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, his body racked with violent tremors that seemed to shake him to his very core.

He tried to move, to find some semblance of warmth or comfort, but the ropes binding him to the tree held him in place like chains of ice. He was trapped, helpless, at the mercy of the elements.

Desperation clawed at Noah's chest, a primal instinct urging him to fight against the darkness that threatened to consume him. But with each passing moment, the cold seemed to grow more oppressive, suffocating him with its icy embrace.

"ANDREY! A-ANYONE!? I-I'M SORRY!" He felt something in him break when he apologized like he was submitting himself to Andrey. But what else could he do? He would die if he was left out here in only a thin t-shirt and shorts.

Surely, Andrey couldn't let him die right??

There was no response to his shouting, much to his dismay. Noah felt hot tears trickling down his cheeks before he broke down in sobs and cries. He wanted.. no he needed someone to get him out of here.

As the night wore on, Noah's mind began to blur with exhaustion, his thoughts becoming a jumbled mess of fear and despair. He clung to the hope that somehow, someway, he would survive until morning, but with each passing moment, that hope seemed to fade like a distant memory.

Noah's struggles against the cold grew weaker and weaker. His limbs felt heavy, as if weighed down by invisible chains, and his thoughts became sluggish and muddled, lost in the haze of exhaustion and fear.

The relentless chill seeped deeper into his bones, numbing his senses and clouding his mind with a thick fog of confusion. He could no longer feel his fingers or toes, and every breath he took felt like a struggle against an invisible force, as if the very air around him had turned to ice.

Noah's teeth continued to chatter uncontrollably, the sound a constant reminder of his body's desperate fight against the freezing temperatures. But despite his best efforts, the cold seemed to have taken hold of him, wrapping him in its icy embrace with a merciless grip.

He tried to call out for help once again, to scream into the darkness for someone, anyone, to come to his rescue. A small part of him actually wished for Andrey to come and get him inside.Maybe if he would be good, he could even get something hot to soothe his nerves.

But his voice came out as little more than a weak whisper, lost amidst the howling wind and the rustling of leaves.

Noah's eyelids grew heavy, his vision blurring with each passing moment. He felt himself slipping further and further into the cold embrace of unconsciousness, his thoughts fading into darkness like the dying embers of a fire.

And then, finally, mercifully, Noah succumbed to the cold. The cold wrapped around him like a shroud, swallowing him whole in its frozen embrace.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------Taglist: @ash-reh @anutz1234 @miireux134 @nuriiz134 @whatwasmyprevioususername

@parasitebunny (Lmk if you want to be added to the taglist)

I'm just tagging everyone that was tagged in the original series. This is not a part of the series but just a bonus chapter.

#this was.. #longer than expected #whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump scenario #whumblr #my writing #whumper #shackled by royalty #oc noah #oc andrey #Noah #Andrey #royal whump #cw hypothermia #hypothermia #left out in the cold #pet whump #pet whumpee #angst #angst writing #writeblr

[mintywolf]

A Long Road Home - Page 40 Author Notes

Page 40

She culled the Karens. ;)

Also alas Imogen can’t use Mage Hand to get things off high shelves at work because some customer would complain. Probably Esther Hayes.

In Ye Olden Times when the theory of humors in disease was still prevalent (debunked with the advent of germ theory in the 1850s but the practices based on it remained in common use until the late 19th century* ) the first treatment given to a patient would be to rid them of “excess” humors by bloodletting and inducing vomiting, doubtless rendering an already miserable person even moreso. Leeches, fire cupping, or a lancet were used for the former, and mustardseed or antimonials (made with the toxic metal antimony :[ ) were used for the latter. Mustardseed was also used to make poultices for sore throats and respiratory ailments. Licorice was used for sore throats and itchy skin. Baths from epsom salts or oatmeal were (and are) used to relieve the itchiness from rash-causing diseases like the one the town is currently experiencing.** Quinine was actually mostly used for malaria so one person is confused about what’s going around. Belladonna (aka deadly nightshade), although toxic, actually had some effectiveness as a preventative for scarlet fever if taken early after exposure. And laudanum, as I have mentioned before, was used for everything. So there’s some context for all the assorted shopping lists bombarding Imogen over the first three panels.

(* which I mention because Exandria’s technological level as of C3 seems to be early Industrial Era, although my Gelvaan aesthetic also has some 1880s and 1930s elements. And magical healing seems to be reserved for the privileged, given the high cost of healing potions, how many strings the relatively-anonymous Bells Hells had to pull to get help for Laudna, and the number of people who seem genuinely surprised when FCG offers them healing out of kindness. Most people probably rely on home remedies.)

** which hasn’t been made obvious yet but it will on the next page. You can see some suggestion of the eponymous scarlet on Imogen’s neck in the bottom left panel though.

So a long time and several fandoms ago a friend used to give me a hard time about my over-reliance on melodramatic Victorian novel disease as a plot device (specifically, targeting the heroine — or her best beloved — with it) so I imposed a rule on myself that I could only deploy it once per fandom (with the assumption that I’d have a different audience every time) and it had to drive the story forward. And friends, the time has come.

But I mean, come on. I couldn’t hang that gun on the wall and not have it go off and hit one of them.

This fandom’s enthusiasm for sickfics and whump in general has relaxed my stance a bit though. Before coming here I didn’t realize it was an entire genre and moreover, one that seems to target Imogen almost exclusively. If I had I might have leaned towards the alternative I also considered where Imogen tries futilely to convince an angry mob that obviously Laudna didn’t curse the town with a plague if she has it too. But then they’d be on the run before she had a chance to recover (you know, like after she got resurrected no I’m not still salty about it*** ) which isn’t a very satisfying chapter end. But fear not, this is all reciprocated in a later chapter.

A common thread I’ve noticed in sick Imogen fics though is that Laudna always seems to be much more calm and reassuring about it than she should be, haha. Imogen is the only thing in the world she genuinely cares about and she’s already half convinced that she’s always just a few missteps away from losing her forever. She’d be panicking.

(*** this is a lie. Also you know what else I’m still mad about? That she didn’t get that lil gryphon toy!! She clearly wanted it, she went in looking for a toy because she was feeling vulnerable and childlike and wanted the comfort of something simple intended to make a child happy. (Which is even more clear now since she was in the same regressive emotional state then as she has been recently after Ashton ate the lava shard, which she coped with by making another doll.) Fearne bought it and totally forgot about it. :( We could have had another meat-named doll character this entire time!!!

#a long road home #author notes

[shywhumpauthor]

I need a little bit of help with my story because it contains a lot of whump, this is how it goes:

A girl was adopted by a crazy scientist dude and he experiments on her for years to become a ‘weapon’.

But here’s the thing…

I don’t really know how he kind of experiments on her and I really want to put whump in those types of scenes.

please help meh

Hmm I suppose this depends on where you want to do with the story and what you really mean by “weapon”, so with a bit more context I could give you much more specific ideas, but for now here’s a general list of thoughts

The first thing that comes to mind is drugs. Intense clinical trials of medications designed by the scientist to turn a person into [insert whatever your plan is]. Depending on how whumpy you want things, these can have a range of different side effects—there could also be various trial-and-error type instances where the scientist realizes the drug isn’t working right, tweaks the formula just a little bit, and restarts the whole process. Repeat as many times as wanted

Or just general exposure to certain elements, depending on what kind of world this story is set in, what level of fantasy or sci-fy you’re going for. The worldbuilding could contribute a lot to these experiments

My next idea could be surgeries. Certain procedures to alter parts of the brain, physically designing the person into the weapon of the scientist’s choice. This could include implantations that cater to your [as the author] intentions with the character and the future plot of the story

Once she has whatever abilities you’re going for, there’s always the option of training/therapy to enhance whatever abilities the scientist gave her (assuming that’s what you mean with all this). These could range from as general workouts to forcefully exerting every last bit of power. The intensity of this can be molded to your liking :)

So yeah to summarize, for experiments: drugs, testing these abilities, surgeries, monitoring how literally every little thing may impact the abilities. Every aspect of her life controlled. Experiments with the natural elements of the world.

If you’d like to dm me, or send another ask with more details on more exact ideas for the story, I’d love to help you brainstorm more and come up with some more plot-specific and generally detailed experiment ideas!

#whump #answered ask #not my idea #lab whump #whump prompt list #prompt idea #whumpblr #whump community #its me coal #coal wrote something #prompt asks #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump ideas #whump idea

[ktkat99]

Two Weeks Of Whump Challenge Day 12. Nail Gun

Physical whump this time instead of emotional, so be careful reading further if you don't like that.

Tim's breaths came out in hot, shaky puffs. His eyesight kept blacking out, and he was dizzy. He was soaked in sweat and rain and his arm was on fire.

He didn't know how long he'd been lying there, but he estimated that it had to have been at least a day. The sun had risen and was now setting again, the air growing cold.

"H-help." He rasped. He couldn't tell if he'd even made any noise.

Joker.

Fucking… Joker.

He'd gotten into a fight with that freak. He should have expected that the clown wouldn't fight fair, but he had been flat on his back before he'd been able to think.

Joker had then pulled out a comically large gun and grabbed his hand, sending several roofing nails through his palm and into the wall.

He was pinned.

And then, laughing the whole time, Joker had left him.

Tim had tried radioing for help, but there was no response.

No one came.

He'd tried his comm.

Not even static.

His distress beacon.

Nothing.

A fever had begun to settle after a few hours of exposure to the elements and nails in open wounds.

There had been no shelter from the freezing, constant rain.

No food.

No medical attention.

He wasn't even able to dry off.

He was so lightheaded and dizzy he wasn't even sure anymore why he was trying to stay awake.

He was burning up, but freezing at the same time.

"Oh, my god."

Tim winced at the voice, knowing that if it was a goon, or any crook really, he had no way to defend himself.

"I found him. Send… send help. Quick. It's bad."

Someone was near him.

He twitched away, but jostled his hand and whimpered, blurry vision blacking out again.

"You okay, buddy. You're going to be okay. I'm here now. Shit. Keep your eyes open. Red Hood, hurry. He's burning up."

He…

He knew that voice.

"Wh-who..?" He whispered.

Cold hands cupped his face, brushing his hair back and cooling his cheeks. "It's Nightwing, buddy. You're going to be okay. Just hold on."

"S' hot."

"I know. Your hand is seriously infected. But you're going to be okay. Do you hear me?"

"Hur's."

"I know. I know."

Nightwing's hands kept brushing his face, helping keep him grounded.

Nightwing…

He was here.

Nightwing would… keep him safe.

"No. No. Hey! Keep your eyes open!"

He was so tired.

"Focus on me. You can do it. Help will be here soon."

Tim heard stretching tires.

He heard running footsteps.

He heard frantic voices and felt hands.

Grabbing him.

Someone touched his hand and he screamed in agony.

His vision whited out and sounds faded, growing more muted.

Someone touched his face, talking in soft, frantic tones.

"Keep him awake."

Another voice.

"... trying… in bad shape…"

Another wave of dizziness and he was only able to hear snippets of their conversation.

And then not even that.

#batman #tim drake #nightwing #red hood #batfam #red robin #jason todd #dick grayson #misuse of a nail gun #twoweeksofwhump #twow

[deathsmallcaps]

My first whump fic, written out of curiosity. @kim-poce

Themes of despair, kidnapping, exposure to the elements, blood and cannibalism. This isn’t my usual fare and if you don’t like, don’t read!

Joey

Joey inched his way to the door, hands and feet bound but not all tied together. His knees and elbows bled and the rough floor scraped his skin away, but he couldn’t let this chance pass.

Usually, Regina kept him in the attic. During the winter, it had been so cold and drafty that he lost feeling in his extremities. She would come up with hot pans full of water, and of course, he would desperately reach for them, and try to warm up. She’d let him, and laugh when he started to feel the pain. Only after the winter had passed did she let him know that warming frozen body parts too fast killed cells.

Now it was summer, and he was still struggling to regain control and feeling in his fingers. Regina kept him well-hydrated, as the attic was sweltering, but the mind numbing boredom and constant sweat was driving him insane - at least when it was winter, he couldn’t really think past the cold.

But for some reason, today, she brought him out to her porch. Outside, he heard some sort of party, with glasses clinking and people laughing. If he could just get the attention of one person, Joey was sure he could be saved.

Finally, he bumped up against the door. Scooting around frantically, he turned so that his feet pressed against the non-hinge side of the door and kicked with all his might (which wasn’t very much. There’s only so much you can do in an attic.)

After a couple harrowing minutes, where he prayed to any god that would listen that Regina would not notice, the door pushed open. Ecstatic, Joey wiggled his way onto his feet, and stood up. Holding his breath in anticipation, he shouldered his way through the door - only to fall down the steps.

Regina, unfortunately, was the first to notice. She rushed over. “Oh, you poor dear!” She checked over him for any dire injuries, much to Joey’s displeasure.

An older man trundled forward. “Lively one, isn’t he!” He laughed.

A different woman approached with a wine glass. “Oh, he’s so cute. Regina, darling, would you please let me play with him a bit? He still has a bit of a spark left in his eye. Mine are so lovely, but they hardly put up a fight anymore!”

Regina, finding no fatal injuries or disruptions to his bindings, turned away from the dazed and bruised Joey.

“Chrissie, no! You wicked woman. You have two.” The three cackled, and the other people Joey could see in his hazy vision ignored the group altogether.

‘Oh my god’, thought Joey with despair. ‘They’re just like her.’

“Regina, let’s go back to the party for now. Lars is going to finish the long-pork chili soon, we can leave your victim on the stairs like that.” The man said.

“Lovely idea Charles! Let me just - “ Regina pulled out some handcuffs and cuffed Joey’s legs to stair rail. “There we go.” She leaned into the other two, as if she was sharing some fun secret. “I was thinking about bleeding him later. I figure this’ll help make all the blood is near his head. Less of a fight and a quicker stream.”

“Simply smashing idea, Regina,” said the man.

Chrissie grabbed Regina’s arms. “Indeed. We will simply have to compare notes later. But for now … “ she sniffed the air, “I think it’s time to eat!”

Laughing gaily, the trio walked away from the upside down Joey, leaving him to despair in solitude. ‘I’m never getting out of here.’

#whump

[crankycreates]

Apparently I'm writing pamita now. Time someone took me out behind the shed and shot me.

Bolthole

Fandom: Far Cry 4 Pagan Min x Amita Explicit Tags: Extremely Dubious Consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Whump, Pagan is Not Nice, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Pagan Min and Amita have one thing in common: Ajay Ghale screwed them both over, and now they're both on the run. Amita finds herself "rescued" from certain death by the erstwhile king of Kyrat. She might have preferred freezing in a snowdrift to being a prisoner in Pagan's bolthole.

AO3 link

~~~~~

A man is sitting on a stool, tending the fire. He’s wearing good winter clothes, jacket thrown open. A thick scarf bundled around his neck all the way up over his nose. Above it, slanted eyes, weathered brow, a short crop of black hair. The description fits pretty much any man in Kyrat.

“Where—” she tries, but it comes out a weak croak.

His eyes snap to her face. They narrow somewhat, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners. She thinks he’s smiling. “Ah! So you’ve decided to live, after all,” he says in English, straightening and clapping his hands on his thighs. “Splendid!”

She clears her throat and tries again, “Where am I?”

The man’s chuckle is muffled by his scarf. “Middle of fucking nowhere, Kyrat.” He bends over to the side, reaches for something — a log, which he pokes into the fire.

She realises she’s on edge, expecting an enemy. But if this were one of Sabal’s, surely she’d already be dead. He might not know who she is, then. Or — hope flares in her chest — perhaps he’s one of the last few loyal to her? She reins in her hope. Can’t risk exposure, if he’s not.

“Who are you?” she asks. Perhaps she ought to be more circumspect, but it’s a fairly reasonable question to ask of someone who has rescued you from certain death, if only so that you can thank them properly.

The man just looks at her for a moment, eyes once again narrowing. “Amita—” He drawls her name, makes the final syllable a syrupy caress. “I know we’ve never been formally introduced, but you can’t tell me you don’t recognise me?”

He leans forward into the light, pulling the scarf away from his face. Mouth drawn wide in a dagger-slash smirk, firelight playing over sharp cheekbones, a mad gleam in his eyes.

Amita no longer feels warm. She jerks upright when understanding hits her. Or, she tries. In the attempt, she learns two more things:

The first is that she’s tied down. Something is looped around her wrists, ankles and neck — plastic coated wire rope, she realises later — and anchored to the head and foot of the pallet (bed?), in such a way that her attempts to draw her knees up and sit upright are both cut short. The cord around her neck tightens like a noose when she strains against it, and she thumps back into the bedding, coughing, desperately fighting down the panic surging in her chest.

The second thing she’s learned is that she’s naked. The blankets covering her have slipped down from her shoulders, not quite exposing her heaving chest, and a chilly draft sweeps along her collarbones.

And Pagan Min sits on his stool, somehow managing to make it look like he’s lounging, watching her like a cat. He has propped his elbows on his knees and is leaning his chin on one fist. “Sorry about that,” he says amiably. He doesn’t look sorry at all. “Had to take some precautions. I’m sure you understand.”

#please don't kill me #pagan min x amita #far cry #far cry 4 #pagan min #amita #bolthole fic

[whumpcereal]

8, 10, and 23 from the get to know the author asks?

8) favorite genre to write

I am a big fan of anything with an element of hurt/comfort to it. That's what I tend to gravitate toward for personal reading, watching, etc., so I'm not surprised that that's what I end up writing too. Lately (although not in my whump), I've been getting into adding a little magical element here and there. I took a speculative fiction workshop, and it was really fun, so now I'm weirding up all my stuff, haha!

10) write in silence or with background noise? with people or alone?

I am usually a "listen to movie scores that match the tone of what I want to write" kind of person. So, for instance, when I'm working on my super secret novel, it's usually British period dramas; when I was writing all the most terrible things for Will and Tommy, it was the soundtrack to Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I write by my onesie, though I am part of writing group where we critique and discuss each other's stuff, so it's not in total isolation.

23) any obscure life experiences that you feel have helped your writing?

Haha, unfortunately (or fortunately for my whump, at least), I have had some traumatic experiences that I think allow me to get into my characters' heads in scary moments--don't worry, I've got a fantastic therapist! And I don't know if it's obscure or not, but I teach both English and psychology. Being an English teacher means I've been OBSESSED with reading and writing basically my whole existence, and that kind of exposure to storytelling can't go amiss. Psychology's come in pretty helpful when it comes to characterization...and when it comes to making a creep psychiatrist of a whumper.

#thank you friend! #i love asks #these are fun

[hearse-song]

For the whump topic thing, stranded? In the woods, on an island etc

:D - love it

being stranded opens up such a wide array of possibilities of Things That Can Go Wrong. Exposure to the elements, of course, dehydration, starvation, illness, the constant stress of the unknown dangers of an unfamiliar environment. If someone's stranded alone there's the psychological effects of isolation. Multiple people stranded, there's the risk that the stress will exacerbate any interpersonal conflicts. And that's all just off the top of my head. I enjoy this trope.

thanks!

#anonymous #thank you! #I may have read Quite A Bit of real-life survival stories

[sola-whumping]

Umbran, Febuwhump: Don’t Look

Tw: none

Nox was lead out of the car in a blindfold, he didn’t know where he was or even how long they had been traveling. He could tell it was either early morning or late at night from the way the cool air felt on his skin. It had been so long since he had felt wind and breathed fresh air, he missed it terribly.

He was forced to kneel in the grass and commanded to stay as his blindfold was taken. “Don’t look.” Gabrial ordered. It was a hard command to follow but he kept his eyes closed. He didn’t have a choice.

“This is a test. Fail and you’ll regret it. You are to stay here with your hands in your lap until I tell you otherwise, and most importantly Don’t Look” The requirements were cruel but they wouldn’t be there if they weren’t. Keeping his hands in his lap meant he couldn’t feel the grass. He wasn’t able to move or even see the trees and flowers and grass around him. He missed it all so badly that he ached.

Regardless, he followed what he had been told, kneeling in the grass with his eyes closed and his hands in his lap. He stayed like that for a long time before he felt Gabrial move away. He wasn’t sure if he had left- couldn’t be sure he had left, so he stayed.

After a while he could pick out certain smells, different flowers and plants in the area. It was all so fresh, everything from the sounds to the smells to even the air he breathed. It was like he was in a little grass clearing in the middle of a forest. It was wonderful.

For a long while he just knelt there and breathed it in. He wished desperately he could open his eyes- but he had been told not to. For all he knew Gabrial was right infront of him. He felt the sun rise slowly and the air get warmer. He felt bugs buzz near him and a few even land while he didn’t move an inch.

He felt hot, not being able to move into shade, just kneeling where he had been placed. He couldn’t even open his eyes, but his eyelids were red from the light around him. If he could just open them he’d see the paradise around him. He’d see how he was completely alone in the forest. If he just opened his eyes he could just walk away and escape.

But he didn’t. He knelt there obediently with his eyes closed even after his legs went numb and his fingers twitched to move. He didn’t even feel the grass under his knees. He wanted to, but he didn’t.

Soon enough he felt the sun go down and the air grow cold. The buzzing quieted for cricket sounds. If he could see there would be beautiful moonlit fauna giving him a clear pathway. If he just opened his eyes he could see the fireflies dancing around him. If he just disobeyed he’d be free. But he didn’t. And he wasn’t.

The next morning when Gabrial came for him he was told to open his eyes. He was able to see the path that he could have taken to freedom, and lead away from it. He despaired, as he was told that if he had disobeyed he could have been free.

He could have been free.

✨Masterlist✨

Taglist:

@haro-whumps @poisoned-by-royalty @sunset-avenuer @wide-awake-but-comatose @whumpsy-daisies @misspelledwitch @string-of-broken-hearts @captainseconds

#Febuwhump #pet whump #febuwhumpday23 #pet whumpee #whump #mental whump #whumper #freedoom #whumpee #gabrial is annoying #nox has done nothing wrong #poor noxie #threats #exposure to the elements #chance at freedom #blindfold

[whumblr]

Warming up

Whumpee with hypothermia prompt request from anon

-

“No, nono, please be alright!” Caretaker dug out the curled up figure from under the snow.

The awfully thin clothes they were wearing were soaked from the snow and Caretaker worried some parts were actually starting to freeze over.

Their appearance worried him. This wasn’t just a hiking gone wrong. No one would go out in this weather dressed like this. Something was wrong. Something was--

He froze up himself when he pulled Whumpee further up and noticed a dark red stain that had been hidden by their body. He quickly turned them over and gasped when he saw the front of their shirt soaked in red, covering a large gash over their abdomen.

Caretaker spurred into action. The freezing cold, the bleeding wounds. No time to lose. He picked them up carefully and pressed them close, hoping his own warm clothes would soak up the cold. Whispering soft encouragement, more to himself maybe as the Whumpee wouldn’t hear a thing, he picked up speed to get them to his cabin.

-

After carefully pulling the drenched clothes off of them, treating their wounds, and replacing their rags with warm woolly clothes, Caretaker gently carried them off the makeshift table where he’d stitched up their wounds. He sat them down on the floor in front of the fire and settled behind them, letting them slump against him. He covered them both with a blanket to create a warm tent where his body heat could warm them up.

A surge of relief washed over him when he felt Whumpee stir against him. But the soft motions of someone just waking up quickly turned to a panicked struggle.

Whumpee quickly realised that they weren’t resting against a wall, but against a person who had his arms around them. They looked up and Caretaker reeled back from the fear he saw in their eyes. For a second he was unsure what to do; let go or press them closer. But in their struggles Whumpee hissed and fell back on their own, their wounds preventing them from moving too much.

“Le’ go! Can’t…move!”

“Relax! You’re fine! It’s just the blanket constricting your arms. Just as well, maybe, you shouldn’t move too much.” He pulled them back against him.

“No…” Whumpee mumbled. “Don’t touch me, don’t—“

“My apologies for the position,” Caretaker calmly acknowledged, though he didn’t let them go. “I just had to warm you up fast. And well, I couldn’t ask.”

Whumpee pulled weakly at the arms crossed over their chest that kept their back firmly against the stranger’s own chest.

“I’m really sorry, just please, sit with me until you’re warm enough. I won’t touch you again afterwards.”

While the body against him tensed up, he did feel them settle back against him.

“Just for a bit,” he whispered, and they both stared into the fire in silence. A panic started brewing in his own chest. He wanted to reassure the obviously traumatized Whumpee. Wanted to rub their arms warm, wanted to rest his chin on the crown of their head and pull them closer into a hug to show it was alright. But the best thing he could do now was just sit and do nothing.

Once they were warm enough, Caretaker got up and kept his promise. He just draped the blanket over Whumpee, who wasn’t moving, and he poked around the cabin intent on making something hot to eat.

Wherever he went, whatever he did, Whumpee’s eyes were on him at all times. Not glaring, maybe not even fearful, just constantly watching what he did without a word.

One of the times their eyes actually left Caretaker was when they’d been sat down at the table, and they glanced down at a hot bowl of stew Caretaker nudged in their direction across a table. The eyes wandered up to Caretaker again and to his own spoon that he brought to his mouth.

“Please eat a little,” Caretaker said as Whumpee made no attempts to pick up their spoon. “It’ll warm you right up, energize you again.”

He caught the distrust in their eyes, but also heard their stomach growl. As he pulled their bowl back over the table towards him, Whumpee made a slight movement as if to protest for taking away their food, but they didn’t say a word.

“Here,” Caretaker said, taking a bite from Whumpee’s bowl to show nothing was wrong. “Better?” He pushed the bowl back towards them again. He didn’t ask anymore, didn’t urge them or put pressure on them to eat. He didn’t even look at them, just focused on his own meal.

And it took a minute, but he finally heard the scrape of the spoon and he smiled. When he peeked up, Whumpee’s face had relaxed and they were chewing with gusto. They weren’t exactly smiling, but Caretaker could see them thaw and the tension left their face.

After dinner he dumped a bunch of blankets, a futon and pillows out of a closet.

“Just say when,” Caretaker grinned as he threw more pillows into the corner. Whumpee just stared.

He spread out the mattress into a corner nearest to the fire and close to a heater. He propped the pillows up against the wall and threw up the blankets to shake them out and unfold them over the little camping spot. He had offered them his bed, but Whumpee had just shuffled away from it and Caretaker took it as a solid no.

“You really don’t want to sleep in a real bed?” Again he was just met with a level stare. “Well, this is starting to look real comfy, I guess.”

Over the next couple of days the suspicion left their eyes and their distrust waned, but they kept watching cautiously without a word. They stayed in their makeshift bed for most of the day, which Caretaker encouraged. He didn’t want their fever shooting up or their wounds to reopen. Just wanted them to get rest.

He couldn’t suppress a smile as the only thing visible was a somewhat overheated head poking out from under a blanket fort. Their gaze wasn’t as intense anymore, but Whumpee still kept their eyes on him at all times.

Caretaker wasn’t sure if they’d ever warm up to him, but well, they didn’t have to. At least they were safe and recovering.

But when he woke up in the middle of the night, he felt a heat that didn’t just come from his blanket, a weight on the bed that wasn’t just his. He opened his eyes and looked into the peaceful sleeping face of Whumpee.

“Guess I did something right after all,” he mumbled.

#whump #hypothermia #caretaker #cuddling #hurt/comfort #h/c #exposure to the elements #distrust #caretaking #recovering #frozen whumpee #my writing #this got a bit longer than I thought #it's not exactly the prompt I think but i hope you like it ;)

[a-whump-muffin]

Whumptober Day 7: I’ve Got You

+ Support + Carrying + Enemy to Caretaker

I said I was going to roll out a fantasy work that I unburied from my drafts and forgot I ever wrote, and here it is! This time, it’s a Japanese-inspired fantasy taking inspiration from mythology and astrology. Yet another thing that can be a nightmare to research. I’m starting to see a trend...

(Note: Suou is pronounced “sue-o”, roughly.)

CW: non-consensual body modification (tattoos), implied past child abuse, mentions of war, exposure to the elements

The wind flows over his sensitive skin, bringing a rush of burning pain that warms his back even as the cold crawls into his bones. The marks from the hundreds of tiny reeds that slid beneath his skin no longer bleed, but his father insisted he leave his upper half bare. It would be the last, ultimate act of disgrace for him to hide the proof of his sacrifice, to try and cover up his skin now tainted with a special ink that holds the force of the earth and a spell that will try to keep the heavens from reaching him.

Suou curls on his side and takes one deep breath after another, trying not to cry from the pain and humiliation. If he cries, his tears will freeze his eyes shut and his chest and head will ache. Then, he will have no relief from the misery clawing at him from within.

A divine incarnation that has not been chosen by a star deity is an empty vessel. An empty vessel does not deserve tears, he tries to convince himself. Tears are for those with precious things to lose.

Suou has nothing. A name, but even this name is not something he should have. It’s a secret between him and his mother, who has long returned to the earth and the endless cycle of the world. He hopes her next life is warmer.

He holds no particular hopes for his own life, not anymore.

He does not know much of the world, having spent years in his family’s isolation cell. The lands north of them are their enemies - and those enemies are all as hard and cruel as the fields of ice and snow they call home. It’s the cold and hunger that turn a man cruel and desperate, people say, and it’s the reason the Fuso do not mind risking their lives in war after war with Shikishima.

The General who his father let take him away said that this has been a bad year. Too many floods and disease following the rainy season, not enough food to last them if they have to fight Fuso during the winter months.

All of those words made Suou’s head spin. He understood the basics and not much else.

He is meant to buy them some time.

He isn’t stupid. A divine incarnation without a star deity is a vessel awaiting a purpose. A divine incarnation that is unable to accept a star deity any longer should not even exist. The Fuso will kill him when they figure out what the tattoos on his back mean. They may not have divine incarnations in their bloodlines, but they haven’t been Shikishima’s enemies for centuries for no reason.

Suou’s throat tightens and his breaths hitch in his throat at the thought of their cold, cruel tools and hands on him. His father’s rites always brought him pain, but those were meant to help him connect to the heavens, to have a star deity choose him as it is meant to be.

He cannot help the tears that wet his lashes and the quiet sobs that suffocate him well into the night.

--

Neither side trusts the other to meet peacefully, even to hand over a sacrifice. The soldiers pull him out of the carriage, clear a spot on a flat boulder with a stone marker near it, and lay a thick cotton sheet out for him. Suou keeps his head bowed as they loop braided white ropes over his wrists and neck, then cross them several times over his torso in a complicated pattern. He bites back his cries of pain as the ropes press into his back and bruised neck and arms.

Keeping him still while the reeds deposited ink into his skin hadn’t been easy. He still aches everywhere from the ropes and hands that had been used to hold him steady against the pain.

The soldiers leave after loosely tying his legs. One of them murmurs a swift prayer for him, wishing him luck.

Then, Suou waits. The air is light with a dusting of snow so fine, it tickles his nose. He stares at the vast white plain and the grey skies above with wonder for a long time. The cold hurts, of course. After a while, the cotton blanket beneath him becomes damp, then turns stiff with ice. The cold burns into his exposed skin, leaving him writhing as the pain warms him.

His vision begins to blur, but he cannot feel his cheeks, let alone tell if he is crying or the thickness in his head is merely weakness from not eating for the last few days.

--

When a person appears in front of him, Suou’s heart leaps into his throat and his lips part in a silent plea. He is too tired to lift his head and he’s so cold that he can’t tell if he is shivering anymore or lost the strength for that, too. But the arrival of this person, even an enemy who will bring him worse pain than his father’s rituals, gives him the energy to open his eyes and move at least a little to show he is still alive.

A hand reaches for him and Suou flinches. He can’t help it, even in this state, but seeing the hand pull away, panic fills his heart and he tries his best to plead, “N-n-n-no, I’m s-s-sor-sorry! Don-don’t go!”

His words sound awful and he immediately burns with shame in his heart. He hasn’t spoken in a long time. Not to mention, he doesn’t know if the reason he can’t move his mouth is from the cold or speaking no more than a handful of words in the last few years.

“No, shh, it’s fine. Calm down, little one.” 

This person in front of him has a voice like a warm, crackling fire. It’s a little rough, as if breathing in this cold air made it splinter a bit, but Suou likes it. He likes it better than his father’s, sharp and hard like the switch he used to beat him for complaining, and there isn’t anything Suou won’t do to have that warmth brush against him.

He doesn’t need to do anything. The Fuso man gives it freely.

A hand against his cheek, skin so warm it’s practically burning against his frozen face.

A thick brown outer coat made of animal fur tossed over his bare shoulders and back, covering up his tattoo.

Suou cries out in distress, twisting as much as his bindings allow him. Pain, bright and sharp like ice scraping skin, pricks him as he tries to shrug the outer coat off. Warm hands suddenly steadies him, one on his hip and the other on his upper arm.

“You’re going to be fine,” the man says, rubbing his bare arm a few times as he slowly uses his other hand to wrap the outer coat around Suou. The man lifts him without any effort and folds Suou up, that warm voice murmuring things, some words he doesn’t even understand.

Suou melts into the warmth wrapped around him. Before he even regains the ability to shiver, he starts to cry.

It hurts. His back hurts, his chest hurts. Anything he can still feel hurts. Now, even his throat and head hurt from crying.

“I’ve got you,” the man tells him as he slowly climbs to his feet. It’s not a hardship for him to carry Suou’s thin body. The wind bites at his exposed skin, but the areas that are covered are starting to prickle with red hot pain instead of remaining numb. “You poor little thing. We’ll get you nice and warm, and you’ll talk to the stars for us, won’t you?”

Suou cries even harder when he hears those terrifying, hateful words. He can’t. He’ll never be able to be chosen by a star deity and the heavens will always be out of reach.

The man soothes him with low, soft words he can’t understand, but Suou’s tears continue to fall, making his face sting with the cold even more. 

#whumptober2020 #no. 7 #i've got you #support #carrying #enemy to caretaker #oc #original fiction #whump #exposure to elements #non-consensual body modification #implied child abuse #mentions of war #japanese-inspired fantasy

[stoic-whumpee]

So I love your elemental magic whump posts, and I have a hankering for more. What about if the element is shadow/darkness? How could that power be turned into a weakness, and what could it leave the user vulnerable to?

Hello, thanks for the ask!

Here's some weakness/counters to darkness power:

More vulnerable to light and/or fire, whether it is light/fire magic power or light/fire-based weapon like a fire launcher, lazers, or light saber, etc.

Become weakened or fatigued in bright areas. Unable or have difficulty using their power in a completely lit area.

Long exposure to bright light make them incredibly disoriented or make them faint. This makes them also especially vulnerable to White Room Torture.

Unable to sleep/rest without darkness. Or, on the opposite end, Unable rest in the dark because they can feel the power/activeness in it.

Shadow/darkness users slowly become a shadow themself, slowly lose their physical form.

Shadow users having difficulty returning to their normal form. get stuck in a semi-transparent form that cannot touch anything.

Shadow travelers get lost, either in the shadow or accidentally teleport themselves to a different place.

Let me know if you want something else or some expansion!

#whump #whump prompt #whump prompts #superpower whump #fantasy whump #magical whump #darkness #torture mention #r prompts