i've been on a roll with magic angst and fire lately, so i thought why not combine them both
character with fire powers whose temperature is affected, maybe they're susceptible to fevers unless they keep using their magic
adding onto temperature: maybe they run cold after overusing their magic, shivering and desperate for any warmth
fire magic that leaves burn marks on a character's skin, a constant physical reminder of how destructive their magic can be
a character who struggles to control their magic, constantly terrified of losing control and causing a fire
maybe they've already experienced a fire (e.g a burning building), and now they're scared of what could happen if they didn't keep their magic in check
fire magic that doesn't come with immunity to smoke inhalation or burns
being viewed as destructive, all too aware of the nature of fire
Got a whumpee with fire powers that rage as they’re unable to control their emotions? Try this one simple hack torture technique:
Make them kneel, surround them with lit candles that are just out of reach. Then douse them and the surround floor up to the candles in gasoline (or another flammable liquid)!
Once everything is set up make them sit still and wait until the candles burn out.
Then do this every time they lash out!
A few near death experiences later, they’ll be sure to keep their cool.
Bonus: allow them to practice controlling their emotions by sharing distressing news with them or insulting them in this position!
A whumpee with invisibility powers getting trapped in a burning building. Going invisible as a startle response and not noticing it in their panic. Shouting for help, but unable to be seen, unable to be found. Their cries getting weaker and weaker as would-be rescuers pass by
CW: Kidnapped, restrained, gasoline, threat of immolating, ransom
The scent of gasoline was overwhelming.
"You don't- You don't have to do th-this," Whumpee choked. They were forced to their knees, hands bound to a latch on the floor. Their heart pounded, not able to see what whumper was doing behind them.
"Now now, let's not be that way." Whumper poured liquid over whumpee's head as they practically shouted as the cold ran down their spine. They had to hold their breath as the smell of gas and oil was suffocating.
"I know you don't deserve this." Whumper said, pouring out the last drop. "But if your caretaker brings me what I've asked for, you'll be just fine. You'll go free, and after a shower and change of clothes, this will alllll be over." They carelessly tossed the can to the side as whumpee flinched at the noise.
"All of th- this.... F-fo-for wh- a -at" Whumpee choked out their own words.
"Hey hey hey, don't pass out on me. Shhhh, deep breaths. I want you awake when caretaker comes. It helps with the persuasion, especially if you're crying and all." They pinched at a strand of whumpee's hair and felt gasoline seep between their fingers.
They sat next to them and cupped their jaw, making them face the door. Whumpee's heart nearly stopped beating when they heard a gentle *flick* of a lighter being ignited overhead.
"They'll be here any second now." Whumper whispered in their ear.
"Let's hope for your sake that's the case, anyway."
AUGUST OF WHUMP 2025
DAY 1: BRAINWASHING / HEAVY / OVERHEATING
@augustofwhump
WORD COUNT: 3054
CHARACTERS: Clare (Daystar AU), NPC scientists & guards.
SETTING: The Daystar Research Facility.
SYNOPSIS: Clare is randomly selected for what is supposedly a psychological experiment, meant to examine how she'll respond to "environmental stressors." Whatever that means.
!! CONTENT WARNINGS !!
Laboratory setting, captivity, shock collars & electrocution, manhandling, restraints, unethical/non-consensual experimentation, fire-related torture (overheating + burn injuries), PTSD flashback, past/referenced character death, minor dehumanization toward the end (use of 'it' as a pronoun), lady whump (if that's something you don't wanna read).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: HIII I'm so excited for August of Whump this year!! I hope you all enjoy my favorite tortured butch. Check out the links above if you'd like more information on the character and the setting!! My website is a huge unfinished mess, but both of those pages have like. Enough going on I guess.
The steel door flies open with a thunderous bang. Harsh, fluorescent light pours in from the hallway, casting shadows across the dim cell and silhouetting the guards now crowding the entrance.
There must be at least half a dozen of them, identical in their riot gear and visor-shielded faces. It’s impossible to tell them apart, which Clare figures is intentional.
She makes a conscious effort to remain still, pressing her back flush with the wall behind her as she draws her knees up to her chest. Through a curtain of tangled brown hair, she scowls at them. Light glints off her good eye, bloodshot and rimmed with fading purple bruises from a black eye that’s just beginning to heal.
It’s too early for this, she grumbles internally, as if a few more hours of dread-filled anticipation would have made this feel any better.
The moment the guards begin to advance, she snaps at them like a feral dog. "Don’t you dare fucking touch me!"
She wants to be intimidating, to have her demands met with fear, but chained and battered as she is, she knows no one will take her seriously.
As if provoked by her defiance, the guards flood the room, surrounding Clare on all sides, trapping her against the wall. She has nowhere to go, but instinct drives her to retreat, her heels skidding uselessly against the floor like she could somehow slip into the metal behind her and vanish.
Four guards emerge from the larger group. One of them holds a piece of folded cloth—a blindfold, she quickly realizes. Another holds a muzzle. Another holds a pair of metal cuffs.
Clare’s heart slams against her ribs, her jaw locked, fingers curled into fists. She knows what’s coming. The fear is going to make her lose her damn mind.
Despite the nullifier clamped tight around her wrist, she can feel her magic coming alive, prickling beneath her skin, crawling up her veins, pressing hot against her fingertips. She seizes the opportunity and calls on it fast. A jagged, flickering construct begins to take shape in her palm. It’s half-formed, barely even sharp, but it’ll do.
As the guard with the cuffs steps in, she lunges, aiming for his thigh with as much force as she can possibly muster, but it never connects.
Instead, the collar at her throat detonates with an crackling burst, and she crumples to the floor as electricity rips through her body. Her scream catches and dies in her throat, torn apart by the violent convulsions coursing through her.
For a moment, her world dissolves into a piercing, agonizing white. Her consciousness teeters on the brink. She loses complete control for what feels like an eternity, when in reality, it couldn’t have been more than a few moments. That short lapse is all the guards needed, though. When Clare’s awareness returns, she’s met with the weight of bodies pinning her down and the sound of restraints locking into place.
"Fuck—get the fuck off me–!" she chokes out, her voice thin, unmoored. "I swear to god–!"
Her words fall on deaf ears. A gloved hand is pushed into her hair, yanking her head back in order to expose her face. She thrashes her head, hoping to dislodge whoever’s holding her, but all it does is tighten their grip. The weight at her back only seems to increase with each passing moment.
Suddenly, they’re pulling the muzzle over her face. Thick leather, tight and sour-smelling, presses against her mouth and nose. The straps cut harsh across her cheeks. Her screams of protest are smothered by the material as it’s cinched tight behind her head.
At the same time, a rough piece of fabric is pulled over her eyes. It takes her a second to realize that it is a blindfold. Her stomach churns with disgust. Because clearly, the muzzle alone wasn’t dehumanizing enough.
At this point, the fight is over. She can’t see, can’t speak, can barely breathe through the muzzle, and she sure as shit can’t move. As always, the shock collar disrupted her connection to her prosthetics; she won’t be standing anytime soon, let alone running.
It’s pathetic, how weak this place has made her. That couldn’t have been the best she had in her, could it? No, there’s no way.
Hands seize her arms, hauling her upright. Her prosthetic leg, still wholly unresponsive, gives a weak sputter, and she feels her knees buckle under her. She stumbles, but they don’t let her fall. They drag her forward, through the gaping door, and out into the labyrinth of hallways beyond.
The next few minutes blur together. With no sensory input beyond what little she can hear, Clare is left alone with her thoughts. Exhaustion, fear, and raw, desperate hatred tangle together in the haze of her mind. She doesn’t know what to focus on beyond the overwhelming sense of misery.
She hears the familiar sound of an elevator door sliding open. Feels herself being carried upward. The thudding of boots echoes around her as she’s half-dragged, half-carried into what she can only assume is the experimentation hall.
You know, maybe this won’t be that bad, she catches herself thinking—or rather, hoping—as they come to a gradual halt. All of the experiments suck. Some just suck less. Maybe this’ll be one of those.
She hears a beep, then a pressurized hiss. A door opens in front of her, and she’s shoved through it. She can’t tell what’s happening anymore. When she tries to speak, the sound is swallowed by the leather of the muzzle. She shifts uncomfortably against the restraints, and is relieved to find that her prosthetic arm is beginning to respond again. She plants her feet in one final attempt to resist, but it’s pointless now: they’ve arrived at their destination.
She hears another door. Then, she feels a pair of hands at the back of her skull, loosening the muzzle. The relief is instant; cool air rushing into her aching jaw, the taste of leather and metal fading as she gasps. The blindfold follows, leaving her blinking against the sudden assault of fluorescent light. Then, the cuffs, releasing with a dull click, her wrists falling heavy at her sides. A shuddering breath escapes her, half-relief, half-exhaustion…
…before a hand shoves between her shoulder blades, sending her sprawling onto the chamber floor. With no time to catch herself, she slams chest-first into the tile, the impact nearly knocking the wind out of her. As she writhes, she faintly registers the sound of the door sealing shut behind her.
For just a second, she lays there, breathing through the pain, her muscles trembling with exhaustion and leftover adrenaline. The experiment hasn’t even begun, and she’s already so fucking drained.
No, it’s not safe here. She needs to get up.
She opens her eye.
The entire chamber is bathed in sterile white. Her vision strains, eyes squinting against the overwhelming brightness.
Please, Clare. You need to get up.
With much effort, she braces herself on her organic arm and begins to sit up. Her prosthetic leg twitches, sparks, then finally whirs back to life, the connection reestablishing with a sharp electric jolt up her thigh. She grits her teeth and pushes herself onto her knees, then her feet.
Upright at last, she stands exposed before a glass observation window. A scientist meets her gaze from the other side.
He’s nothing special to look at. Just a painfully average middle-aged man in a pristine lab coat. She might’ve thought him ordinary, if not for the fact that he works in a place like this. She regards him with a disproving glare and a tightening of her jaw. He, at first, says nothing.
She watches his fingers glide over the control panel, adjusting something she can’t see. The uncertainty makes her stomach twist, her chest tight with rising anger.
"What is this?" she snaps, arms flinging outward in frustration.
The scientist stares at her over the rim of his glasses. "The parameters are simple," he says into the microphone, broadcast clearly over the chamber’s speaker system. "There’s a key hidden somewhere in the chamber. You have three minutes to locate it. If successful, you’ll be released and rewarded."
Clare furrows her brow. "A key? That’s the game today?"
"The test," he corrects, "is to observe how subjects respond to acute environmental stressors."
She keeps her eyes on the glass as he returns to the panel, adjusting the controls with the efficiency of someone who’s done it a hundred times before. Anxiety stirs in her chest. She takes a breath to steady herself. It’ll be fine. She’s survived worse.
"I hope you know I’m not playing," she sneers. The scientist doesn’t react.
Huffing, she turns her head, eyes narrowing as she finally notices the objects that have been scattered around the chamber: a stack of wooden crates, some bundled-up cloth, and various random containers and scraps. Someone had clearly gone out of their way to make the space look cluttered, but none of it looks like a hiding spot worth a damn.
Reluctantly, she ambles over to a nearby container and kicks it with her foot. It clatters against the metal floor. Nothing falls out of it.
She sighs, her shoulders drooping. This might just be the dumbest thing this place has ever made her do. It’s like they think she’s an animal. A dumb, pliant little lab rat. She wishes she had the means to get out of here—or the courage to go down fighting.
She zones out momentarily, harshly chastising herself for what she perceives to be objective weakness… until she begins to notice something.
At first, she thinks it’s just her nerves catching up to her, or maybe even residual heat from the lights. But no. The air around her is thickening. Sweat forms at the base of her neck, sliding down her back and dampening the papery fabric of her shirt. She tries to breathe, but the air catches in her throat, and she coughs dryly.
Environmental stressors…
The room is getting warmer, isn’t it?
Yes, it absolutely is. In a matter of moments, the air has turned thick and humid. A bead of sweat slips down her face. She tries to take another breath, but the damp air catches in her throat, clogging her lungs like smoke. Her heart begins to pound.
She wipes the sweat from her palm onto her pants and hurries to the small toolbox, flipping it open with trembling fingers. Empty.
She’s panting now. It’s getting really, really hot. She roughly wipes the sweat from her face, as if it’ll make a difference, then glances back toward the window. The scientist is still watching her, impassive.
"Hey," she begins shakily, "what are you doing?"
He doesn’t answer. His eyes flick back toward the control panel, fingers moving deftly across the buttons.
Her panic spikes, and her voice rises in tandem. "What are you doing!?"
There’s a loud click, followed by a hiss echoing beneath the floor. She whips around just in time to see flames shooting from the vents along the chamber’s edges, thin at first, but growing steadily, crawling up the walls until she’s surrounded by a raging inferno. Smoke follows swiftly, rolling in thick, acrid waves that sting her eyes and burn her throat.
In an instant, her composure crumbles.
The panic is immediate and debilitating. It crashes over her like a wave, sweeping her away in its tide. She stumbles backward, nearly tripping over herself as she gapes at the flames. Her stomach drops. Immediately, she begins to tremble over. Her heart’s pounding so hard it feels like her ribs might break.
Oh, no. No no no…
In a frenzy, she scans the chamber for exits that don't exist. She nearly bolts for the door, but it, too, is blocked by a wall of fire. The air warps around her, heat rising in visible ripples from the ground. Hyperventilation turns into dry coughs. She can barely see through the haze of smoke.
Her mind narrows to a single thought: she has to get out of here.
In that moment, she remembers the observation window. It’s just ahead, and behind it stands the scientist. She lunges toward it.
"Let me out!" She shrieks, her fists colliding with the glass. "Let me the fuck out!"
She isn’t thinking, but rather reacting, driven by sheer, animal terror. She punches again and again, slams her shoulder into the glass, kicks, claws and screams—but it doesn’t budge, and the scientist remains unfazed. She finally steps back when she feels the metal grate beneath her feet begin to heat up.
She’s hysterical, but even so, she manages to recall the final piece of the scientist’s instruction: if she finds the key, she’ll be let out, and this nightmare will come to an end.
She begins to pace erratically, stumbling through the of smoke. She’s trying to search, but it’s no use. Her hands are shaking too badly to hold onto anything, and the haze makes it nearly impossible to tell one object from another. Her legs feel weak. Her head is pounding. The flames are rising.
Suddenly, the intercom crackles to life, and the scientist’s voice rings out from above. "I’d advise getting low to the ground, so you don’t pass out," he says calmly. "You’re very, very close, 334. Keep looking."
Close? Close to what? She’s completely frantic now, stumbling blindly as she grows dizzy with fear. Before she can consider the scientist’s advice, a deep, body-wracking cough seizes her. Her knees buckle, and she drops to the floor, gasping
Even like this, she continues to scan every edge of the room, again and again. She tries to stand, but the air above her is too hot, and her joints feel like they’re locking up. So, she falls again, her chest slamming into the ground.
A pain like lightening strikes the center of her chest. She gasps, choking. Her fingers claw at her neck, pulling at the collar, the shirt, anything. She can’t get enough air.
The scientist speaks again. "Don’t give up! The key might be right in front of you."
A few feet away sits a pile of objects, the edges of which have begun to catch fire. There’s several containers in the mix, any of which could hold the key. Desperately clinging to that possibility, she begins to drag herself forward, keeping her head low. The edges of her vision blur with tears. This is all too familiar.
Just as she’s beginning to lose hope again, she spots something right behind the blossoming flames. Something shiny and metallic. The key?
She extends her arm, reaching for it, but she misjudges the angle. Her hand plunges straight into the fire, and she wails.
Instantly, she jerks back, cradling her arm to her chest, rocking on her knees as tears blur her vision. The skin is already blistering. She hasn’t been burned since that night, and it hurts just as bad as she remembers.
Suddenly, she isn’t in the facility anymore. She’s back there, at that outpost, waking up to the sound of crackling wood, to the smell of smoke, to screams. To her friends telling her that the Saevirelum is here, and that they need to run. Pandora was gone from their shared bedroll. No one had seen her since the attack began. Clare ran back into the flames for her, running through smoke and falling beams. She barely survived the search. When she finally found her, it was too late.
She still remembers how she looked. Eyes glassy and unfocused, blood drying against her almond-colored skin. The fire didn’t kill her. Someone else did. They wounded her and left her to die, alone and afraid, as the world crumbled around her.
At least back then, Clare’s magic was still hers to wield. She remembers wrapping Pandora in a shield to keep the ash from settling on her face. Her own arm burned fiercely, raw and open from a fresh wound, but she barely noticed.
Through the roar of flames and the crack of splintering wood, a voice slices through the chaos: "334, you need to keep it together. There isn’t much time left on the clock."
It barely registers. All she hears is fire.
The heat coils around her. Her nerves feel like they’re unraveling, skin peeling back, her insides pouring out onto the floor. She can’t think. Can’t breathe.
"SHUT UP!" She shrieks raggedly, her voice breaking on a sob. "STOP TALKING! STOP FUCKING TALKING!"
She curls into herself, her body shaking uncontrollably. Her metal hand clutches at her sizzling arm. Tears stream down her face as she sobs helplessly. The heat presses in on her chest, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight inside her mind.
The world shrinks down to the size of her sorrow. She forgets about the experiment, about the scientist, and even about the fire. She disappears inside of herself. All she can hear now is the sound of her own cries.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, reality begins to seep back in. She realizes the air is cooler, and that she can no longer here the fire.
Her eyes snap open. Standing above her is the scientist, flanked by guards. There’s no smoke around him to speak of. Is it over? Had… she imagined it?
"Fascinating results," the scientist says. "I’ll admit, your response was far more… intense, than I expected. I thought you were known for your resilience?"
She swallows hard, too ashamed to speak.
"Regardless," he glances at the guard to his left and gestures faintly, "it’ll need to be sent to the infirmary. Have them monitor it’s vitals, administer fluids, and patch the arm."
"W- what about the key?" The words slip out before she can stop them.
He glances down at her, impassive. "There was no key. That was the test."
She’s stunned. The words don’t register at first. No key? It was a lie. All of it. All that panic, that pain… it was for nothing? Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Without another word, the guards step forward and seize her by the arms. She yelps, trying to twist away, but she’s too weak to fight. Her legs drag uselessly behind her as they haul her toward the exit.
