Doctor whumpers who strap their whumpees to cold metal guernseys.
Whumpee whimpering in fear as they watch the doctor work, squirming against the stiff leather straps that tie them down, the bit gag that binds their tongues.
Doctor caressing the shivering skin with their latex-gloved hand, promising whumpee it's only for science and they're doing so well.
Whumpee arching their back as they scream, knowing there's nothing they can do to stop who they're being changed into...
3,746 words. Original series: In Resonance (formerly Liliholm and Page)
[Masterpost]
Content Warning | offscreen torture of a Black whumpee for the sake of hurting a white one, hero/villain whump, cyberpunk setting, panic attack, chronic pain, drunkenness, gore, decomposition, robotic spider, emeto (semi-graphic)
For the "send Henry anything for his birthday" ask game:
@brutal-nemesis That hit like a gut punch. Not Wes 😭😭
Eight months in the making, this ended up becoming a full IR chapter. We're not beating the “this man couldn't possibly be a terrifying supervillain” allegations yet, but the blood trail he leaves on his way to recover Wes will be a different story completely.
Tag List | @ink-and-salt @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpsical @redwingedwhump
After three unsuccessful attempts at getting the key into the lock, Henry couldn't help but giggle at himself. "You know," he said, his Russian accent uncharacteristically thick, "you can help me any time."
"Oh, I'm aware," said Europa through the hidden intercom above the door. "But I'm having too much fun watching."
The world was calmly spinning. He swayed a little, resting his forehead against the door, and squinted at the keyhole. After a few more attempts, it finally caught up to him that his coordination was trashed because he was trying to use his prosthetic. "Devil," he muttered, switching hands.
When he finally got the door open and stumbled inside, the comforting black of his apartment was there to greet him. Light glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glow of the surrounding high rises twinkling from the cold.
He never got tired of that view.
Europa dialed up the lights, slowly bathing the space in warmth. "I've just let the ladies know you made it home safe."
"Thanks, Eurie. You really... you really..." He fumbled a few times trying to toe off his shoes, using the wall for balance. He dropped his bag of gifts, and wriggled out of his coat. "You take such good care'v me. You know this? I feel I don'... don't tell you often enough."
She chuckled, her light tracing the ceiling above him. "Only an average of every 8.481 days. Or 2.133, if we're counting the times you say it without using the words 'adore', 'love' or 'best'."
"Still doesn't... doesn't feel like... 'nough." He paused for a moment, letting a dizzy spell subside. "Damn. Can you believe it has been... twenty-three years, now?"
"I can." Her voice went sweeter, "You were so small. Like a twig made of meat. You still had acne, too. It was so cute."
Henry couldn't help but laugh. "You miss it more than you— more than I..." Wow, he was drunk. He'd forgotten what this was like. He promptly lost his train of thought, and waved a hand, giving up. "You ready for watching memory?"
"I've already got it queued." Before he could walk away, "Don't forget to put the cake in the fridge. You've got a package waiting, too."
He murmured thanks, swaying around to dig around in the delivery slot. After a moment's hesitation, he quietly asked, "New messages?"
"...No, I'm afraid not."
It was only minutes from midnight. If there weren't any by now, then there weren't going to be. Henry did his best not to let the thorn of disappointment burrow any deeper—it was the first time in three years that the day had been missed. It wasn't the end of the world.
Besides, he knew the ER got busy this close to the holidays. There was every chance his invitation just hadn't been seen.
He finished putting things away, succeeding in not knocking anything over in the process (win!), and took the box with him to the living room as Eurie lowered the projector. The box wasn't very big, and felt like it was mostly filled with packing. Another gift?
He exposed one of his prosthetic's claws, and cut a smooth, wavering line through the tape. Even three... god, was it really only three? margaritas in, he was still all too aware of how poorly an uncoordinated, nerveless metal arm and a glass coffee table might mix. So he fumbled through his prosthetic's unlock sequence, disengaging it from the port.
The moment it disconnected, his phantom pain doubled, agony rushing over him in one great wave. For a moment, all his other senses vanished beneath the onslaught of humming nerves. Electric twinges raced all through his shoulder and up the side of his neck. He took a few steady breaths, in... and out... before the all-consuming roar faded slowly back into the shapes and colors of his apartment.
He set his arm aside and spent a few moments massaging at the twitching muscle of his stump, willing the constant drone of pins and needles back down into something more ignorable.
When he could finally breathe properly again, he gave Eurie a little smile. "Happy birthday, Circuits."
"Happy birthday, Genrikh," she said. "Ready?"
"Ready."
Above him, the lights and movement of the old home video—Eurie's first memory—began to play across the screen.
Darkness peeled away in strips, light flooding in a piece at a time. The first shadow to take form came in the shape of fingers, movement, the rasp-shuffle of tearing wrapping paper.
A face came into view. Ma's. Soft, round, already smiling so hard her cheeks eclipsed her eyes. This was years before the first of the sunspots that now dappled her face would appear, back when her hair was still short. She wore her favorite dress, watercolor-dappled in pinks and blues that had always reminded him of her hydrangeas.
Adoration radiated from her like sunlight. Warm, glowing, unreserved. Just seeing it was enough to make him ache.
Eurie's facial recognition software danced across the screen in threads of faint, teal light, outlining Ma's features. She flickered through her small database until she found a match.
>> Identifier: Ekaterina Ivanovna Litvinova
>> Alias: Katya
>> Status: Authorized User
Watery words, too dulled by wrapping paper to make out clearly. The camera shifted as more was torn away, tilting and jostling before settling again.
Another woman came into focus beside her. Eurie didn't have to consult facial recognition; she was the only person she'd seen with her own eyes before today.
>> Identifier: Nadezhda Prokhina Litvinova
>> Alias: Nadya
>> Status: Programmer, Primary Editor
Mum sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap. Austere features, structured clothes, prematurely-greying hair gathered into a tight ponytail. Although her face was impassive, Henry would have known that look anywhere; she was nervous.
He wouldn't learn until far later that she'd spent the better part of three years building Europa for him. His eighteenth birthday was a milestone that he and his mothers hadn't been sure he'd reach—this had been her way of promising herself that he would.
He had her crow's feet now. Ma's grey.
Glancing her way, Ma reached over to hold her hand, rubbing soothing circles over her knuckles. The pinpoint of Eurie's software tracked the movement, while the last strips of paper were cleaned from her camera.
"Oh, wow..."
The boy on the screen seemed so far away. Pitch black eyes. Thick glasses. He was wearing his hair in a combed-back style he had stolen from a 1940's newspaper clipping, which was only reluctantly cooperating with his attempts at shaping it. Two thick sweaters were layered one over the other, though they still weren't quite enough to keep the bony body beneath them warm.
Everything about him seemed unfinished, like a bird that had grown too large before losing its baby feathers. It wasn't just the years that spanned between them. Frail, trembly, soft and hopeful and warm—that boy had been dead for so long that the grief had almost become bittersweet.
Almost.
Henry began unpacking the gift box as he watched the screen. The gangly, weak-limbed teenager reached out to pick Eurie up, cradling her as though she were made of glass.
“It's beautiful…”
He could still remember what she'd felt like in his hands. Her neural core had only been the size of a basketball back then, an excavated icosidodecahedron—how on earth can I remember that phrase right now?—that had weighed nearly more than he could lift.
He remembered how unexpectedly cold she felt to the touch. The cooling systems that protected her quantum chips had made his fingers stick to the metal. The alternating facets of sleek gunmetal-black and glowing teal were nearly featureless, save for an array of ports, and a single, glassy black camera lens.
His voice was hushed, as if he couldn't believe what he was holding. "This is really for me?"
"It is. You said you liked Ganymede’s ability to form habits and personality—so I took it one step further,” Mum said. “Everything this one learns from you will shape what it grows into.”
He looked at Eurie with such awe. Not as if she were a new piece of technology, but as though he'd just been handed a newborn.
“Happy birthday, Genrikh,” Mum said softly.
Ma rested her chin on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. "What will you name it?"
Henry's fingers met something cold and soft.
Confused, he glanced down at the contents of the gift box.
He froze.
The pinks and blues of the screen danced off dark skin. Streaks of serum and blood had dried where they'd smeared across the bubble wrap. Henry stopped breathing.
"Henry, look! This is the best part—" His internal heart monitor pinged her warning system. A pause, then the film abruptly stopped. "...Henry?"
The world spun in horrible, crashing waves. Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision.
Her voice filtered through like a distant echo, "What is it?"
Blood rushed in his ears. The only word he could get out was, "Lights."
The lamps around them dialed up.
"Oh, god..."
Flesh lay withered where the raw end of a severed finger had been exposed to air for too long. Worse, somehow so much worse, was the three-by-three square of human skin that Henry's fingers had found first.
The sight was even worse than he'd imagined. He couldn't take his eyes off the freckles sprayed across its surface. He knew, with a certainty that filled his lungs with lead—it had come from Wesley's upper back.
"Don't touch anything," Eurie said. "Set what's in your hand back into the box, dry side down."
Henry obeyed, too shocked to do anything but. There was a thump and a crash from the coat closet, a palm-sized spider droid squirming free of his coat pocket and out underneath the door. Sharp metal legs scuttled across the tile, then up the leg of his pants and onto the table.
"He's..."
"I know."
"Eurie, he's—"
"I know," she said, softer. "I'm going to find everything I can."
Eurie's droid began scanning every centimeter of his hand. Needle-like claws probed at his fingers, turning them gently this way and that. Once every inch had been inspected, finding nothing, she turned to the box.
Henry didn't feel himself stand. All he could sense was the afterimage of too-soft skin. The shift of gravity. The off-rhythm drumbeat of his heart pounding in his ears.
His stomach hit the counter, and vomit spattered into the sink. His body seized, retching violently, taking away all ability to breathe.
Wesley.
Wesley. Wesley. Wesley. Someone had captured him. Someone had—another torrent of loud, blinding nausea—someone had taken Wesley.
Who could have found him? Who could have done this?
How long had he been missing?
Henry's thoughts spun around him like the sucking depths of a whirlpool. He tried to remember the last time they'd spoken, the last time he'd seen him face-to-face. His memories were a blur, fuzzy and dulled as the rest of him.
Over and over, the same sickening blow: Wesley. Wesley. Wesley.
He was in trouble.
He was hurt.
Someone had done this to him.
His phantom limb tried to dig non-existent talons into the metal of the sink. Steel and stone would have been crushed to pieces if his prosthetic was still attached.
He knew he shouldn't have let himself be incapacitated. The one night he thought— the one night he— DAMN IT. Useless, useless! Think, Henry!
Henry's breaths came bared through his teeth. "How... long?"
"I'm reviewing street cameras from outside his apartment now."
He began to wipe his mouth on his arm. It was only then that he realized his hand was still smeared with yellowy-red serum. The smell of rot hit him like a physical blow.
Nausea clamped around his throat all over again. He pitched forward with a dry heave, stomach wrenching over and over until all he could feel was pain.
When it finally slowed, he fumbled the faucet on and began to scour the blood from his fingers. He was shaking all over.
He had committed so much violence, so much harm. But for as iron-steady a stomach as he'd grown, apparently all it took to reduce him to a shivering, vomiting mess was feeling the inside of a friend's skin.
"Thirteen days. That's the last time he was seen leaving his apartment."
"Gone where?"
"Cameras lose him at the edge of the city. He was heading out east, into the farmland."
He must have been going on patrol. He never switched into Deimos' suit where there was the chance of cameras seeing—he always disappeared into the silent ocean of cornfields and gravel roads, far from the eyes of the city. He would have headed back in the long way around.
Henry didn't know where Wes stashed Deimos' motorcycle. Not even Europa could follow his trail out that far. Wesley went to extreme lengths to keep his identity secret, but there was no arguing that it worked.
"Something... something must have seen him, elsewhere in city that night. Street cameras? Gait recognition? Systems-security?"
"Searching." The room flooded with blue light as Eurie turned on the massive holo-projector at the center of the room. She flickered through video recordings faster than he could see, casting flashes like lightning strikes across the inside of the room. "There were no reported break-ins. Either he didn't get where he was going, or he didn't make it out."
She didn't need to remind him—there were billions of surveillance feeds in their quadrant of the city alone. With no idea where he'd reentered city limits, scouring through all of them was going to take time.
Time Wes didn't have.
Think, Henry, think! "The box?" he asked. He turned for the wall of bookshelves on the opposite side of the living room, skimming one hand along the wall for balance. He jammed his thumb to the hidden fingerprint sensor, not waiting for the hidden compartment to finish opening before reaching inside for his armor.
"Sent under a bogus name and return address. No cameras near the mail dropbox it was deposited at."
"No note?"
"None."
"Fingerprints?"
"None. There are plenty of latex particles. They were clearly wearing multiple layers of gloves—I can't even find plastic prints in the soft tissue."
Henry cursed. He dropped to the floor, trying to shove his leg into the lower half of his armor. His dress slacks kept catching on the inside of the shell, the fact that he first needed to change into his skin-tight liner forgotten entirely.
He could still smell the rot. The blood.
He couldn't get the image out of his mind. Wesley bleeding, in pain, in shock. The finger that lay just feet away would never be successfully reattached—it crashed into Henry, over and over, just how permanent this was.
Wes had lost part of himself, just like he had.
Where was he, this very moment? Henry could picture the answer with chilling clarity. He'd be backed into the corner of whatever prison they were keeping him in. Hand curled tight against his chest. Jaw clenched. Breathing tight, sounds of pain stifled, as if letting it out would spread blood in the water.
Wesley always kept his wounds held close.
He was hurt. He was alone. He had to get him out of there. He had to.
"—Henry. Henry."
The present rushed in again. He was barely halfway into his armor, the edges of the plates refusing to cooperate with one another. Everything felt cramped and wrong, but he didn't have the bandwidth to figure out why. He looked up at her nearest camera. "You found something?"
"You're in no state to go anywhere tonight."
"I do not care. I have to— have to—" He fell over, struggling to wrestle on his boot with only one hand. "I search on foot. I go to his house."
"Henry, you're not thinking clearly. You can't be out in Praetorian's armor like this."
"He's out there alone, Eurie!"
"I know," she said, voice softer. "But we need a plan."
"There is no time!"
"—Listen to me. They sent this here. They have our address. They will be watching us. We need to know where we're going before we show our hand, or they will move faster than we can reach him."
It went like a lance through his heart. He knew she was right. But the thought of staying here, doing nothing, made his throat go tight. He'd already left Wes waiting for weeks. How many more pieces would they cut off of him if he waited one more night?
"I'm going," he said. He snapped the last closures on his chest shut, and wavered to his feet. It took him two tries to pick up his helmet, but that didn't stop him from heading straight for the foyer.
The door audibly bolted shut.
His hand froze just inches from the handle. He tried to open it anyway, rattling it against its locks. It wouldn't budge.
"Europa, open the door."
In her automated voice, "Access denied."
"Eurie!"
"I'm not letting you leave. You can barely stay on your feet. You'll only get yourself hurt."
"I will not just sit, like— like useless—"
"Wesley can't afford recklessness. I need you here to help me with the search. I need your mind on this, to see the things I miss. By morning when you're sober, we will know where to start."
That wasn't good enough. It wasn't—
The thought came quietly, mercilessly: Would they even have until morning? Wes was the most talented escape artist this city had ever seen. Every moment his captors left him alive was a moment they risked him slipping free.
How long would they risk it? How long before the math won out? Another wave of sickly vertigo crashed over him. His balance wavered, and he reached out to brace himself against the wall—only for his hand to pass straight through it.
He hit stump-first. An arc of lightning shot through his body, pain turning the world to white.
Pain, pain, pain. Strobing. Consuming. All else vanished, driven out of him along with the air from his lungs.
The only thing that remained was the blood-soaked survival instinct not to scream. Praetorian didn't feel pain. Praetorian didn't show his wounds. Consciousness began to fade, and still he bit his tongue and let out nothing but a single, long whine.
A private eternity passed before darkness began to fizzle in again.
He found himself on the ground, crumpled against the door, gasping for breath. His entire body curled around the white-hot roar of his arm, his chest and cheek echoing with dull afterimages of impact.
His prosthetic was still on the other side of the room.
Europa's voice faded in, "Henry? ...Henry?!" Her spider droid was right beside him, tittering restlessly back and forth. Her forelegs were raised toward him, but she didn't close the distance—she knew he couldn't stand to be touched when the pain was this intense, even if it clearly took all her restraint not to.
The waves of agony had already brought tears to his eyes. As soon as the first of them fell, something inside him crumbled.
His breath snagged. His throat closed off. He clapped his hand to his mouth, but he couldn't stop a sob from bursting out of him. By then it was too late—all the composure he was clawing for shattered.
"I can't- lose another- good person, Eurie. I c- I c-an't lose him."
The room was spinning around him. He folded his head between his knees, gripping the back of his hair so tight it felt like something might tear. The pain didn't stop. The self-soothing scruff barely even registered.
He was still so drunk. Terror and guilt and fury could do nothing to sober him. It felt like his dulled mind was betraying Wes all over again.
Thirteen days Wes had been gone, and Henry hadn't even realized he was missing. He'd been so self-absorbed with the new year that weeks, vital weeks, had slipped past unseen. While he'd celebrated with friends, the person who trusted him—in spite of all he knew that he was—had been mutilated.
Why hadn't he gone looking for him? Why hadn't he seen this coming?
"We won't let that happen. I'm already recalibrating the next several weeks of our timeline. Once we figure out how to divert the Plan—"
"I don't care about—!" He cut himself off, hearing the lie as it was about to come out of his mouth. Even here, even in the silence of his home, he couldn't bring himself to say even a word that might tempt the golden thread to snap. He couldn't.
He squeezed his hand around nothing, gripping and letting go again and again. Quieter, "I don't care."
Europa's legs rested carefully against his shin guard. "Henry, listen to me: we are not going to leave him there." Lightning flashes continued to blanket the room like a coming storm, glinting off her carapace. "If he has any idea what was sent to us, then he knows we are coming."
A fresh wave of tears answered her. Clarity mixed with an overpowering anger that felt dangerously like love.
She said, "Hell will freeze over before Wes gives up. He'll be buying us as much time as he can. We will find him. And when we learn who did this to him..."
Every clamoring thought inside of him stilled. In eerie unison, they whispered, "...we are going to tear them apart."
whumperless/self inflicted whump in which Whumpee is a mad scientist who keeps testing shit on themselves and Caretaker has to keep bringing them to the hospital
Whump prompt: A droid leaking cooling fluid, slowly overheating to the point of feeling its circuits burning. The effect may be localized (only an isolated part of the cooling system is damaged), or systemic. It could also start out localized, and become a systemic issue over time.
The liquid dripping within the hull could cause small, painful short-circuits (or a big dramatic one if you fancy!).
Drying and then slowly being baked onto the droid's overheating parts, the liquid could produce a distinctive smell - and a droid with olfactory sensors and proper programming could very much associate this smell with its demise, becoming adequately distressed.
The overheating could also cause the data to be processed less and less efficiently, making it increasingly difficult for the droid to do anything meaningful about its situation.
Bonus points if the damage leading to the leak was a result of something violent/dramatic.
"Warning. Unauthorized remote override. Warning. Unauthorized increase in centrifugal force."
"Yes! Yes, thank you! I'm quite aware!" Whumpee wanted to shout back as he fought against the ever increasing pull of gravity, but it only came out as a frustrated wheeze as he dragged himself forward, clutching the railing along the hallway for dear life to keep upright.
The white hallway of the space station lit up in red as warning lights flashed on and off. Robotic voices dropped warnings left and right, their tone unimpressed by the impending danger yet they kept droning on with some form of programmed urgency.
Only one voice that broke over the robotic ones was human, recognizable by the unmistakable glee in it.
"You're doing quite well." The disembodied voice echoed through the curved hallway. Whumpee could hear the smirk in that voice, could picture the look on Whumper's face as he watched from a distance from their hacked cameras. Safe in his own spaceship. Probably with his feet up on the dash. In 1G. Or 0G, enviable.
Shut… up! Whumpee settled on screaming in his head. The asshole wouldn't hear him anyway and he had more important matters to spend his energy on. Like making sure he kept standing and inching forward towards Control to kick him back out of their system.
His arms trembled under his weight. Or rather, under twice his weight by now probably. He struggled to keep himself up. Sweaty palms threatened his grip, but he couldn’t even risk it to wipe them on his pants. Easy does it. Step by step.
"Hope you haven't skipped your weight training," the voice crooned. "Here, let's pump it up a bit... See how much you lift."
More warnings echoed through the room, clashed as the robotic voices spoke over each other to deliver their urgent messages. “Thrusters enga—” “Accelerati—” “Rotatio—” “Warni—!”
Forget weight training; every warning sent a spike of adrenaline through his heart, his body trained to shoot to action at the urgent tone and voices. He couldn't help a glance up with a light gasp, then went back to ignoring them and gratefully used the extra adrenaline to wrestle forward.
He did not immediately notice the outer ring of the space station turning faster and faster— thank god because nausea was the last thing he needed right now – but he did start to feel its effects. Slowly but surely gravity pressed further down on him, like a weighted blanket around his shoulders being pumped full of lead by some nefarious individual.
He had to hurry. Before he couldn’t even walk any—
A hand slipped. His heart skipped a beat.
The pull of gravity was merciless.
His chin hit the railing. Hard. Like someone took hold of his head and smashed him down full force. His knees crashed against the floor with a sickening thud that made him worry for his kneecaps and he just about managed to catch himself with one hand. Something in his wrist shifted. Pain shot through his arm but he bit through it, wrestling himself on both hands and knees.
"Ho, you alright?” There was no concern in that voice. Just a hint of amused surprise. “You disappeared from my feed?”
Whumpee panted hard, staring at the floor under him. Little red drops spattered against the pristine white and only then did he taste the blood. He wanted to wipe the iron taste from his lips. Wanted to cup and massage his jaw and maybe crick it back because, god, it felt like that blow had dislocated his entire face. But he couldn’t. Could only focus on staying somewhat balanced on hands and knees.
The cameras above him whirred as they looked around, searching for him.
No. No wait, that wasn’t the camera. The buzzing got louder. Got closer.
A drone flew into view as it traced the curved corridor. Their hacked drone, a blinking red dot signaling that the camera was on.
“Ah. There you are.”
The drone hovered annoyingly in his face. It, too, sputtered, not built for this kind of pull on the tiny propellors, yet it remained airborne. Before Whumpee could even think, he tried to swipe at it. Even a light swat would probably smash it right into the floor—just like him. But his arm didn't go as high as he intended and struck only air.
A low chuckle came from the drone. "Too heavy, hm?"
"Shut—!" he wheezed. Fuck, he didn't have enough air to be drawn into a shouting match. "Up..." he finished weakly.
He slid a knee forward. Crept along. Favored his right hand to support himself, his left all pins and needles and couldn’t be trusted to carry his normal weight let alone getting closer and closer to three times that. Come on, not much further now. Everyone was counting on him. And if he faltered and fell down flat on his stomach he would never make it back up. He’d slowly get crushed to death until his lungs couldn’t expand anymore under the enormous weight. Come on.
It was like a boulder balanced in-between his shoulder blades. Increasing in size with every inch forward. How fast was the outer ring going by now?!
The drone slowly buzzed along with him, keeping an eye on him, a certain someone virtually stepping along. When he crawled into the control room, he heard a tick and a scratching sound behind him and the drone scraped against the floor, its propellors no longer able to carry it an inch above the floor.
Ignore the foreboding omens. Whumpee grit his teeth. Dragged himself over to the main dashboard where the red button to override all controls blinked above him like a shining beacon.
He tried to claw his way up a chair, but it swiveled and nearly sent him crashing back to the floor.
He glared up, let out a growl through grit teeth. Everything, from the controls to the fucking furniture, was his enemy now. Mainly the mocking “Tick tock” noises from the drone’s speaker behind him and the insurmountable five feet tall dashboard in front of him.
Gathering all his strength for a last hail Mary, Whumpee sat back, firmly planted his feet under him.
With a desperate scream, he launched himself at the dashboard. Or rather, forced himself through the invisible forcefield. He clawed a hand around the edge of the panel to make sure he wouldn’t slip back and he let out a small “Ha!” in this little victory.
His other hand scratched at the little plastic cover over the red emergency button. Usually it could be removed instantly with a mere flick of the fingers. Now he nearly had to tear it off. Which, in his impatience, he did.
A final grunt of effort and he slammed his slick palm into the button.
“Emergency override sequence started. Reverting all systems.”
A laugh of relief escaped him. And he let go.
He crashed to the ground as if he fell from thirty feet up instead of the measly five. It punched the air from him, bruised his shoulder. But he didn’t care. He did it. They were safe.
“Now, that was impressive,” Whumper said, and Whumpee was sure he heard a muffled sound of hands slowly clapping. “Well done.”
He lay panting on the floor, rolled onto his back, spread-eagled. Slowly but surely, the pressure on his body let up. He could draw more air into his lungs. And could let his muscles finally relax.
The red hue in the room disappeared. The robotic voices stopped clamoring against each other as everything reverted back to normal, within safe parameters that didn’t set off any more alarms.
For a few blissful seconds, Whumpee just lay there, glad that it was over.
Am hoping to cook up a new series here soon (in tadem with my hero whump series). Got a fantasy option and a sci-fi option.
READ TLDRs BELOW before vote, pls
LISL (Fantasy Whump)
MONAE (Sci-Fi Whump)
Voting ended onApr 18
First series follows Lisl, a maiden in yee fairytale times, about to be married off to the village goatherd. Her hesitance to grow up becomes all the more complicated when she begins to hear a voice from the mountain, warning her that if she doesn't help him appease the mountain goddess, her village will wither away. As the trees rot from within and the cornstalks twist into hideous creatures, Lisl realizes she can't keep the mountain's guardian waiting forever...
(TLDR: fairytale whumpee/whump, nonhuman caretaker, nonhuman whumper. Lots of psychological stuff, bloodletting, telepathic whump. Coming-of-age. Trauma Bonding turned Healthy Love.)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Second series would follow Monae, a young woman in contemporary times, searching down a hiking path where her sister went missing three months before. The path leads to a cave, the cave leads to a tunnel, the tunnel leads her to an alien race, hidden in the bowels of the Earth. Captured by their race, Monae is given two choices: humane execution or the insemination and incubation of the aliens' eggs. Only one option will lead her closer to finding her sister...
(TLDR: Medical whump. Impregnation Whump. Human Whumpee. Nonhuman carewhumpees. Reverse Harem. Matriarchal society. Hurt/Comfort. Unlikely love. Found Family.)
Thanks ya'll for your votes! Y'all are the best!!
(Gifs found on Pinterest and Tumblr.)
This is my first ever sci-fi whump series! It features a winged whumpee, feuding moons, and a sci-fi circus.
General content warnings for this series: kidnapping, slavery, gaslighting, colonialism, dehumanization, forced to perform, winged whumpee, nonbinary whumpee, sci-fi setting
