TidalWhump

Hiya! I'm Mira, they/them, twenties. Kiyu the Kidusu Masterlist A blog for sharing whump. I like whump, I write whump. Check out the desktop site and the pinned post.

[tidalwhump]

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Welcome to the tide!

Please, stay awhile, pull up a chair, and let the waves wash your worries away. <3

Whump Blog Introduction

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Kiyu The Kidusu Masterlist (Whump Story)

Untitled Bloodbag Whumpee Story

[viccerys]

Blindfolded

It was so fun to draw Alucard again

[rayloveswhump]

A Whumper who is very knowledgeable, especially about how to hurt.

A Whumper who uses that knowledge to precisely calculate the most hurt they can cause to Whumpee. If there's ever a "better" option, they always make it happen.

A Whumper who describes, in great detail, the lengths they went to to make sure that Whumpee would feel the worst. They even sound excited.

[defire]

"He knew Ghost's body well enough to know exactly how much pressure it would take to make it hurt. He made it hurt."

[wannabevampire666]

A vampire basically having to be an amazing Caretaker to their blood source because human blood tastes so much better (and maybe more nutritious just for fun) if the human is well fed, happy, calm, ect. Maybe the human wants to stay with the vampire, because honestly this is so much better than their life used to be. They don't have to stress about anything, the food's the best they've ever eaten and they barely ever have to feel scared or sad anymore.

Bonus: The human had a condition that made it much more difficult for them to live life before, whether mental or physical.

[tidalwhump]

The vampire becomes a skilled chef to feed their bloodbag. Getting them to taste the food since they can't, and putting in a great deal of care and effort to any feedback. Making the meal perfect, so their meal can be perfect.

[deluxewhump]

Nightfall: what dreams may come

CW: bloodbag & vampire dynamics, older scarier vampire, a little uncanny valley, fear, blood, it as pronoun, nightmare, mild mind control, trust and affection and fluff too

Masterlist

-

Carlo woke in a panic. His heart raced, his mouth was dry. His blood ran urgent and sour. He didn’t know where he was— who he was. It seemed to take an eternity for his mind to return to him, and as he felt like himself again— like anyone again— his heart slowed and his surroundings occurred to him as familiar one by one.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch in his master’s library, wrapped in a soft blanket that now lay discarded on the floor. A glance at the clock told him it had only been an hour or so since he’d fallen asleep. The night sounds of crickets and katydids drifted in the open windows. It always seemed pleasant but now felt terrifyingly vulnerable, like something was going to breach the windowsill at any second to come and claim him.

“You haven’t had bad dreams in months,” mused the vampire from its desk.

He should be embarrassed to be this out of sorts again in front of Maxim, but his fear overrode it. “Do you not feel it?” he asked. He cleared his throat. “Do you feel him?”

Maxim glanced out one of the open windows, calmly scanning the edge of the forest. The vampire was well fed and looked nearly human but for the feline glint Carlo could discern so well in the pupils of the undead.

“I did,” it said carefully. “I didn’t know you would, though. It was a vampire. One with a particularly strong telepathic ability, passing through the area. Sometimes they put out a feeler for others. A psychic antennae, if you will.”

“Is it Erik?” he blurted.

“No.” Maxim said firmly. “No one you know.”

“But…Why did… why did I feel them like that if I don’t know them? If they’ve never fed from me?”

The vampire stood and closed the window, perhaps sensing his terror, or perhaps sharing in a small part of the unease. The night sounds were muffled. Maxim picked up the blanket from the floor and gave it back to him. Shivering despite the balmy weather, he wrapped it around himself gratefully.

“My best guess is because this particular vampire is very old. Ancient, even. I can hardly feel him now, he was likely only passing through. You may have been dragged into his net because of your proximity to me. Or I may have accidentally fed some of the signal to you since you were asleep and open to suggestion. If that’s the case I’m sorry, little one.”

Little one from the vampire’s mouth was a flicker of warmth that he wished would envelop him entirely. “It was cold,” he whispered. “I was afraid of it. It was nothing but cold.”

“I know. Remember that it wasn’t meant for you.”

“And so old. How old is ‘ancient?’”

“This side of the pond? The sixteenth century or so. This presence felt even older than that to me, though. It’s hard to say.”

Carlo arched his back and winced as if shrugging off a chill. Everything about it felt wrong. A taste of a fever dream villagers had in their beds for ten centuries. A brush with the stale dampness of the grave.

“Would you like for me to give you a better dream?” the vampire he’d grown so accustomed to asked, looking at him fondly with only a touch of the pity that immortals tended towards with their mortal playthings.

“How?” he asked. Maxim might be offering him medication, or asking if he wanted to be fed from. As trusting and confident as he’d grown with Maxim’s fangs in his wrist or his neck, he wasn’t sure he could do it at the moment. It seemed frightening again— monstrous even, that Maxim was of the same ilk as the thing that had brushed against his sleeping mind.

“A drop of my blood. A little suggestion. You only have to let me in.”

He frowned. “Suggestion?”

“Like when we can feel each others thoughts. I can give you very specific ones if you let me. Not unlike what just happened to you because you were already asleep. But it would be me, and the messages would be meant for you. Dreamless sleep might be harder to achieve, but I know can give you sweet dreams.”

He studied the gleaming pits of the vampire’s eyes as understanding dawned on him. “If you could do that the whole time, why didn’t you just use it to feed from me from the beginning?”

“Because it’s no fun,” it answered simply. “And because it’s only possible once we have the connection of our minds in the first place.”

“…which only comes from feeding from me.”

Maxim’s chin dipped in a nod.

“What do I need to do?”

The vampire crouched beside the sofa so it was at eye-level with him. “Nothing. Just lie back down. You don’t even need to close your eyes if you don’t like.”

He lay his head on a soft sage pillow he liked, and Maxim moved the blanket up so it covered his shoulders. It said nothing, and only stroked very gently and peripherally at a lock of Carlo’s hair, but soon he felt the familiar sensation of their subtle telepathy, like a light coming on in another part of a room that had been dark.

With precision it pricked its own fingertip on a protracted fang and took Carlo’s hand, pulling his finger to the blood. He touched it gingerly, though he knew the little cut hurt the vampire not at all, and brought the smear of vampire blood to his own mouth. It tasted, somehow surprisingly, exactly like blood. Except it warmed his mouth and throat, and the sensation spread through him like an injection fed into an IV. A slightly concerning burn gave way to a pleasant lightness throughout his entire body, like a glass of champagne on an empty stomach.

He heard himself give a soft sigh and felt a twinge of shame for how much like a sigh of carnal pleasure it sounded, but he was sinking past such worries too quickly to hold onto it.

As cold and frightening as his dream had been before, the state he was slipping into now was equally warm and disarming. It was easy not to fight it— it was Maxim. He was unable to keep his eyes open even a centimeter. In fact, they felt as if they were rolling back into his head as a sweet darkness enveloped him.

By the time the dreams began, he had no thread of conscious thought left to observe them.

[finalset]

If you wanna move ppl with ur art and actually show how good it is you gotta stop putting joke captions on pieces you made that mean something to you and just say what you mean tbh… this irony haha internet speak actually dulls your artwork and inclines ppl not to really ingest it. be proud of what you make and believe in it

[finalset]

i’ll also add stop dumbing down your artwork that you put real effort into by being like ‘just a sketch’ ..whether ur doing it bc ur not confident or you think its cool to be nonchalant, its just lame (esp when it’s the latter reason). i cannot emphasize enough how much you have to believe in and advocate for your art and show that you do. Honor your hard work and be genuine and earnest in your presentation and let it land where it lands. the world needs sincerity and soul, especially in the art landscape as it becomes more and more commodified

[tidalwhump]

An art teacher of mine had one rule that really stuck with me:

No disclaimers

It was a class in school - we were all learning and improving and making mistakes - but her rule of no disclaimers was for this reason. She recognized that adding a disclaimer before presenting would only discredit your hard work and solidify people's ideas of how they're not good enough.

This is especially important in a learning environment, but it should be carried on in life.

Art does not have to be perfect, that's what makes it beautiful.

No disclaimers.

[knivestothroats]

Djskdkfksk can you do something with Fletcher getting mad at their trainees because none of them realized the guy they were interrogating was deaf please?

I'm gonna change this a little and place it back when Fletcher was doing contract jobs, bc I don't think they would take their trainees on an interrogation field trip lol

~

Fletcher had been called in for a job where someone was resolutely refusing to talk. When they arrived at the location - the backroom of some warehouse - the man bound to the chair was already in rough shape. His ankles were tied to the legs of chair and his arms were secured behind him. His face was swollen and painted red with blood, both fresh and drying to flakes. 

Fletcher sat in the chair across from him and began their usual spiel, leading into the important questions.

The man was looking at Fletcher’s face, but not making eye contact. His sightline was too low, like he was watching their mouth. His face was one of concentration for a few moments, before it slackened and his eyes drifted away.

Fletcher paused, studying him.

“I’m going to cut out your eyes if you don’t look at me.”

It got no response.

“I’m going to cut your dick in half, hot dog style.”

No reaction. Not even a flicker in his features. 

Fletcher rose from their seat and gestured one from the original crew over. 

“Sit here and talk to him for a minute,” they ordered. 

As the new interrogator began to take a crack at it, Fletcher walked past the bound man, out of sight, before quietly approaching him from behind. They clapped loudly just behind his head. The man didn’t flinch.

Fletcher walked back around into the man’s line of sight. They pointed at their ear, mouth, and the man in succession. The man raised his eyebrows and nodded, expression focused once more.

Fletcher turned to the crew. 

“He’s fucking deaf, you morons. How long have you been working him?”

There was an embarrassed silence before one said, “We just thought he wasn’t breaking.”

“Get me something to fucking write with,” Fletcher demanded, shooing them away. “Untie his hands from the chair and tie his wrists together in front of him, tight.” 

“You speak sign language?” Someone asked.

“Not enough,” Fletcher grumbled. They punched a number into their phone and held it to their ear. “Hey, Miller. How good is your ASL?”

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League – Draw (Bath pt 3)

Masterlist

Conclusion to Bath and Mend, time to wrap up the first aid. Late-19th century, indentured servitude, power imbalance, past-noncon implied, whumpee forces caretaker to trigger them, whumpee propositions caretaker (nothing happens), dubious caretaker. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

August calls after him but it’s unintelligible amongst his sobs. Even with the door shut between them, Wyatt can hear him growing ever more hysterical. His skin crawls. 

He bolts to the other end of the hall, hands unsteady as he pulls out the blessed cigarette case and matchbook. The smell of sulfur sets his nerves buzzing with the promise of respite only a breath away. He has to delay by one more to steady his hands in order to align the flame with the end of his cigarette. 

If only the first drag could last forever. 

A distant pain flares in his fingertips but he’s too occupied savouring the longest inhale he’s taken all morning. 

He needed this hours ago. 

Unfortunately, his inevitable exhale brings him back down to earth. 

August is still crying in his bedroom. As is his right, with Wyatt losing all patience and leaving him there bleeding. Failing him once again and this time the lad will certainly remember Wyatt's dereliction. 

He sighs, smoke from his exhale hanging in the air with no breeze to clear it. Midge hates when they smoke in the house away from an open window. He’ll have to make his excuses to her too. 

It wasn’t like this with the others. Not even Hugh, who required leagues of patience. He takes another pull, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the banister spanning the length of the hall. Never before has he been so absent from the others, so quick to temper, so impulsively invested. He fans the cloud of his next exhale, trying to dispel it. 

Something about August pushes him to extremes. Theo made clear what he attributes it to and Wyatt isn’t too proud to admit the truth in his theory. But that awareness does nothing to lessen his attachment, his determination to see this one through. 

He takes a last drag and stubs out his cigarette at the half.

August only cries harder when Wyatt slowly pushes the door open. At the very least, he’s clinging to the crumpled sheet in his lap again. “Please—” he hiccups. “Please don’t—please don’t—”

He’s about to tell the younger boy he has no intention of hurting him, and apologize for doing so before, when he deciphers what August is repeating. 

It nearly brings him to his knees. 

“Oh, August, lamb.” The endearment makes August cry out as though it were a strike. Wyatt approaches the dissolving boy slowly. This certainly reframes all of his previous groveling. Most of his placating served to keep Wyatt engaged. By any means necessary. He would rather be hurt to any degree than abandoned. Or perhaps ‘discarded’ is a better term from what he’s let slip about his time with Keats.

“Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone.”

No part of the insight is satisfying. 

“August, August.” He lowers himself onto the bed, staying an arm’s reach away. “August, look at me.”

He tries but he’s beside himself. His eyes can’t seem to rest as he watches Wyatt’s every move, his hands, his lips, his brow, his gaze for only a moment before they flick somewhere else. August’s hands shake in the air, hovering uncertainly. He wants to hold himself, he wants to be held, he checks the sheet again. 

“All will right, lad. Come here—”

August bites his lips together and shakes his head adamantly, leaning away from Wyatt’s outstretched hands. Before Wyatt can kick himself for damaging the one comfort the boy could find, August thrusts the unrolled length of bandage into his hand. 

“It’s all right, there’s no need for haste.” Wyatt sets the bundle down. “Once you’re—”

He picks it up again, pressing it into Wyatt’s hands. “Please.” He’s no longer sobbing but his entire body hitches with each ragged breath, tears still running down his cheeks whenever he blinks. 

On one hand, it’s unlikely he can get more upset than he already is but on the other, Wyatt would rather save him what suffering he can. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Take a—”

August wails in frustration, swiping at his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Please,” he repeats, voice raw. 

It would be easier to take him at his word if he wasn’t fighting shy of eye contact. “You don’t have anything to prove. What I said earlier—”

“Just fucking get it over with.” 

Wyatt raises his eyebrows but August still won’t look into his face. He wonders if he’s missing a rare glimpse of the fire in his eyes. 

“Please,” August amends. The muscles in his shoulders and arms tense as he works to still himself and quiet his breathing. 

The lesser of the two evils is most certainly to let August grow irate by refusing to do this now. But Wyatt would rather not deny this single outspoken request. Even if it will go over like a lead balloon. 

August lies back with a huff before Wyatt has the chance to concede verbally. Likely because he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. 

Wyatt starts by cutting the bloody end of the bandage off and gingerly removing it from the wound. August doesn’t flinch once, though his knuckles are white where he grips fistfuls of the sheet between his legs. 

Nothing left but to begin. 

“You’ll have to—” 

August bends the leg in question so his thigh is off the mattress, placing his foot flat on the mattress. 

“Right and—”

He spreads his legs to give Wyatt room to work. 

“It’ll be over—”

“Don’t,” August whispers. “Please.” 

He nods, though he’s certain August is still taking pains to avoid looking at him. He threads the first pass meticulously, taking great care not to make contact with his skin. 

Still, August starts trembling. He tries to make haste but winds up grazing the inside of August’s thigh with his knuckle. August whimpers and claps both hands over his mouth. 

“If you need—”

“Don’t stop,” he blurts, immediately covering his mouth again but not swiftly enough to hide that he’s crying now. 

Wyatt makes it round once more before August's legs fall together, the lifted one shaking as he works to keep it bent. “August...” 

“Please, just help me,” he sobs, fists coming down to grab either side of the quilt beneath him. “I want—I want it finished—”

“No.” He can’t. He won’t keep pushing him. Or himself for that matter. “There’s no reason—”

“Wyatt, please,” August wines. 

As gently as he can, he prises the younger boy’s legs apart, taking his injured leg onto his lap to keep it elevated. He tries to be as fast as he can but every brush of skin results in more force needed to hold August in place. Every touch makes progress feel further.

What the fuck is wrong with him that he’s doing this to such a broken boy at the irrational instruction of the very same? He loathes himself—and August—for putting him in this position. 

Finally, it’s over. It takes three tries to tie the knot. 

“All right,” he says, relief washing over him as he releases August. “It’s done.” 

He doesn’t move, hands limp at his sides, eyes fixed unseeing on the ceiling above. 

“August, come now.” He’s loathe to touch him again, his stillness even more concerning than his hysteria. “We’ll get you dressed and you can warm by the fire.” 

If it’s space he wants, Wyatt will gladly step out to finish his cigarette. Perhaps if he keeps the door open, it won’t feel like such a separation. He moves to stand but August sits up, slim fingers catching his wrist. 

“Wait, sir, please. You haven’t finished…”

Wyatt swallows. “Yes, I have. Your leg is bandaged now.” He tries to pull away but August only moves closer.

“Please, I want it.” 

“August. No.” He takes his hand in both of his and August’s grip goes slack. “Look at me. Look where you are.” 

He stares right through him, a haunted smile that is anything but alluring pulling at his lips. “Please,” he repeats, letting his legs fall open. 

“No.” 

Wyatt drops his hand and stands but August catches his shirt. “Please,” he pleads, a hint of the earlier panic returning to his voice. “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t get Master Keats.” 

Wyatt feels sick. “August, that’s not what’s happening. You’re safe here, he can’t hurt you anymore.” He pulls his own dressing gown off the footboard. Has to bat August’s hands away to drape it over his shoulders and doesn’t bother threading them through the sleeves before he cinches the tie around his waist. 

“I—I—” August looks down at himself and back at Wyatt, brow furrowing. His eyes are more distant than Wyatt’s ever seen them. Wyatt pulls him to his feet but when he starts leading him away from the bed, August digs his heels in. “Wait, but I—” 

He picks him up, carrying him across the room instead. 

“No! Please! Master Keats will—he’ll—” 

Wyatt is selfishly grateful that August’s sobs prevent him from voicing the end of the sentence. He sets the younger boy in the armchair but even without his arms, August manages to hold him. Wyatt kneels which couldn’t be more apt. If he’s to bring him back without simply holding him for as long as it takes, he’ll be begging. 

“Please, August…” 

He curls against the wing of the chair, hiding his face against the fabric as he cries. 

Not without hesitation, Wyatt reaches out to brush the tears off his cheek. August whimpers, chasing the touch until Wyatt finds himself cradling his face between his hands. 

“Come now, show me you’re still brave in there. One bath can’t have doused that fire.” August sniffles, chin trembling. At least his eyes are clearer, even if they’re full of doubt. Wyatt squeezes his shoulders. “There’s fight in you yet. I know it, sweet lamb.” 

He pulls in a shaky breath, conflict playing out on his face. He’s trying so hard to reach that version of himself, to square his shoulders, to step away from his past. But he had to be small for so long, even without the ties that bound him, their force isn’t so easily forgotten. 

Wyatt feels his own tension rising the longer he observes. “I’ll make you a deal,” he tries. Bribery is bread and butter around these parts after all. “Have you ever had hot chocolate?” 

August’s eyebrows knit together and he shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere around Wyatt’s shoulder. 

“Melted chocolate and milk, served warm…”

Now he has the feral little thing interested. His dark amber eyes flick up to read Wyatt’s face, to see if he is spinning tales or telling the truth. He’s certain the younger boy wouldn’t be able to discern the difference either way. He could fool almost anyone with a bluff, very few walking the earth know his true tell. In this case, though, it isn’t a lie. 

“Does one…drink it or eat it with a spoon?” August whispers, as though afraid of scaring away the offer. 

“You’ll have to get dressed and find out for yourself.” Now he has his full attention. “I’m sorry for losing my patience. I do hope you’ll forgive me in time.” 

August narrows his eyes. 

“The deal stands,” he reaffirms. “If you’re interested. Though you ought to get dressed either way. ” 

“I don’t—I don’t understand.” 

“Which part?” 

“All of it,” he admits in a small voice. He pulls an arm out to swipe his hand under his nose. “Why did you even come back when I was being so difficult?” 

“Why’d you let me back in here when I was being so difficult myself?” 

August furrows his brow. “Sir…”

“All right. For starters, this is my room and I won’t give it up so easily.” He points to the corner beyond the foot of the bed. “Only one with two windows.” 

“That’s not—”

“I know, lamb,” he chides gently, reaching out to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. August leans into the touch until Wyatt indulges his cheek with a caress. “But you’re not going to like the true answer.” 

He pulls away, fear colouring his expression. 

Wyatt leaves his hand between them, trying to show that this doesn’t change anything from one moment to the next. “I don’t know why I want to help you, only that I do and I will so long as you’ll let me.” 

August shakes his head. “Sir—” 

“I warned you, lamb.” He uses the term of endearment again, hoping it will win him some favour and it does, August leans back within reach though not back into his hand. Wyatt stands to retrieve the parcel he’d carried home this morning, dropping it on the boy’s lap “Lively now, I can see you shivering.” 

August unwraps it delicately like the paper and twine are gifts in themselves. He fingers the underclothes inside. The right size and wool, the warmest they had. He looks up at Wyatt and back at the garments as if to make sure they haven’t disappeared. 

“Thank you for giving me another chance.” He’s heartbreakingly earnest, though Wyatt couldn’t guess if he means in this moment or every chance that proceeded it.  

“Honestly, I could thank you for the same.” Wyatt ruffles his hair, marvelling in the downy softness of those curls now that they’re clean. The gesture brings the colour back to August’s cheeks. “I’ll give you some privacy to get those on. Midge will bring up some hot chocolate for you and something to eat if you can.” 

August looks down, hands falling limp in his lap. “You’re leaving.” 

It’s not a question and he won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze, is only punishing himself by prompting a verbal sentencing. Wyatt unrolls his sleeves, leaving the cuffs unbuttoned. He replaces his waistcoat and pulls on his jacket. All the while, August doesn’t raise his eyes, a cumbersome silence dividing them further. 

“You did well today,” he says from the door. “I’m proud of you.” 

No dice. August doesn’t move a muscle. He looks so fragile, from his bony knees to the ribs one shouldn’t see, climbing his chest to his delicate collarbone, the column of his throat. He doesn’t cry, just lets the armchair swallow him as if he could disappear before he’s abandoned. 

Sometimes no one wins. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive me. In time.” 

The frigid evening air bites at his lungs, every inhale rendering their capacity smaller. His eyes sting from the sharp, relentless wind. He couldn’t light a cigarette if he tried so he buries his hands in his pockets and quickens his step but the further he gets from the house, the more Wyatt feels like he’s lost. 

Masterlist

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

@writereleaserepeat @meetmeinhellcroutons

[whumpcateyes]

Hey, whumpblr, i got a new drawing tablet for Christmas and im hella rusty. So uh. If you want free art, give me an oc and a Situation to put them in and I might draw it. I can't promise quality, or that it'll happen, but hey, you get what you pay for....

[whumpcateyes]

Here's my first for this, the lovely @blood-and-regrets' Sam!

[whump-galaxy]

A magic user is linked to their wand/staff. The bond formed is near unbreakable, and rarely given up willingly. Any damage to the weapon inflicts searing pain through their magic user’s arms and head, so intense they can barely breathe.

It makes ransom much easier for those who know how to disarm wizards.

[smugpugchimera]

Slumber in the deep ----------------------------- 💜BuyMeaCoffee💜Patreon💜Twitter💜  

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Shun the Light Ch. 5 - Hunger

Slow Burn | Refuge | Decision | Mend |

Author's Notes: Some vampire POV! His name is Dante now.

I just realized Dante doesn't know what Matteo is. Gonna have some fun with that later.

Content Warnings: vampire whumpee, werewolf whumpee, burns, exhaustion, hypnosis, self sacrifcie, touch starvation, angst

----

That last drink, a proper drink straight from the vein, gives the vampire the strength to sit up and lean back against the wall.

The raw new skin on his chest is still pink and tender. Dante winces when he touches it. The agony of burning is still fresh in his memory.

Night has fallen. Dante wonders if he would be dead by now if this stranger hadn't, inexplicably, rescued him. Would the setting sun have ended his suffering, or only increased it? Over the years he has tested the limits of his immortality in small ways, but never with sunlight. He shudders at the thought of how many days it might have taken for his body to succumb.

"You should have killed me," he mumbles. "It would have been simpler."

"No...it wouldn't."

Dante startles. He wasn't expecting an answer from the crumpled figure. When he looks down he meets a pair of tired eyes, golden brown like honey.

Too much happened over the past day. It's more than Dante can process in his current state, and so he finds himself simply fixated on there being a living, breathing person here for the first time in decades.

Dante is so used to stillness in the large, empty house and his cold, undead body. The stranger, on the other hand, is so very alive - warm and restless, with labored breathing and a beating heart.

"Why did you come here?" Dante wonders quietly. "What do you want?"

Why did you save me? Don't you know what I am?

"A bed would be nice." The other man stretches, groaning when his joints pop and crack. "I'd settle for a couch. Anything." He looks worn down and absolutely miserable.

Dante wasn't expecting an answer. It's so casual, as if the situation they find themselves in together is completely normal. At a loss for what else to do or say, he simply nods.

I guess it's the least I can do.

Standing takes a moment but he manages. His visitor is less successful, getting halfway there before mumbling 'nope' and dropping to his knees.

Even after all these years of solitude certain instincts remain. Without a thought, Dante offers a hand to help him up.

It doesn't cross his mind that he hasn't touched a human being in almost fifty years - when he was still human himself.

A hand slips into his. Dante can feel the pulse thrumming beneath warm skin. His fangs throb with need. I wouldn't even kill him. Just another drink. It would be so easy...

The man must see the hunger in his gaze, and must know equally well that he wouldn't stand a chance. Conflicting emotions cross his face before resignation sets in.

Dante's eyes gleam silver in the dark.

"Stand up."

The man stands on command, shaking from the effort. Dante keeps hold of his hand to help him stay upright. The man closes his eyes and tips his head a little, baring his throat.

Suddenly all Dante can see is a sharpened stake held tight in a fist. He, too, had given in and presented himself like a lamb for slaughter, only to be 'spared' in the cruelest way.

"Look at me."

These words are spoken plainly, without mesmerism. Yet the man obeys it too, cautiously meeting the vampire's eyes.

"I won't hurt you," Dante promises. It's a promise he doesn't even know if he can keep, but the man seems to believe him.

Their hands are still locked. Now that the hunger has passed Dante is left with the old, new, strange, familiar sensation of human touch.

The man clears his throat and pulls his hand away. Dante feels colder than ever.

"Follow me." He turns and leads the way to the bedroom next door. His rescuer follows, leaning on the wall for support.

"I - I can sleep here?"

The man looks like he might cry when he sees the large, plush bed with its old but well-kept bedding. He staggers towards it but then hesitates to look back at Dante like he's afraid it might be a trick. He looks like he needs a good night's rest as desperately as Dante needs blood, and he can't think of many things more cruel than denying him that.

"Yes. Go ahead."

With a breathless "thank you", the man collapses heavily onto the bed. He doesn't even bother to get under the covers before he's out cold.

Dante stands there and just watches him for several minutes. He takes in every bit of him, every hair and freckle, every cut, bruise and scar. Each rise and fall of his back as he breathes is mesmerizing to the vampire, a steady rhythm that whispers alive, alive, alive.

And just for a moment he could swear his long dead heart is aching.

[kjwriting]

Strong/powerful whumpees being held as trophies. They are showcased in front of anyone the Whumper wants to in-still fear in.

Whumper doesn’t ask Whumpee to do anything. Just stay silent. Stay still.

Maybe Whumpee is chained up, kept in a glass box?

Maybe Whumpee is muzzled?

Whumpee is kept weak so they can’t fight back. Drugged? Starved? Your choice.

Whumper wants them displayed to show their dominance. The ability to contain someone so powerful like it’s nothing.

Do with that what you will, besties x

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Refuge

Sequel to Slow Burn

Author's Notes: you guys had great ideas for who should find him! It was really hard to pick - I could see a version with each of them. In the end I went with the anon who suggested: "bedraggled werewolf looking to patch themselves up".

Content Warnings: vampire whump, burning alive, impaled, left to die, werewolf whump, injury, exhaustion, open ended

----

"Ugh..."

Matteo's head throbs relentlessly, as it always does the morning after a full moon. He's sore all over from the transformation and covered in a fresh batch of wounds, future entries into his scar collection.

Cuts and scratches litter his body, thanks to the thorny bushes he had to scramble through to escape the furious farmer who caught the 'wolf' trying to steal a sheep or two. One bullet grazed his back as he raced away on all fours, but he made it out alive. Starving, frightened, but alive.

Now he stumbles half-naked through the woods. Shielding his tired eyes from the sun with one arm, it takes him a moment to notice that he is approaching a house.

Even in its dilapidated state the large house is strangely beautiful. An overgrown garden cradles it and the forest surrounds it, keeping it tucked away from the world, any path that may have led to or from it long gone.

It's perfect.

Matteo makes his way inside without hesitation, eager for a dark room to collapse in and sleep as long as his body needs. If he's lucky, there might even be a bed. Hell, he'd take just a pillow.

Upstairs seems the place to look for such comforts. One labored step at a time he ascends the creaky stairs. If he weren't so tired maybe he'd question why there isn't dust on the railing he leans on for support.

Halfway down a hallway Matteo's ears twitch and he freezes in place. His senses are sharpest just before and after a full moon. There is no mistaking the sound for his imagination, or the groans for that of the old house. No - someone is here.

It's pure, stupid curiosity that guides his feet forward toward an open door at the end of the hall. Daylight pours from the room into the dim corridor. The closer he gets, the clearer the sound. A person, not an animal. In pain. Dying?

Matteo cautiously peers inside, one startle away from fight-or-flight.

Instead he finds himself stunned into stillness, unable to tear his gaze away from the horrible sight before him - a man pinned to the wall, severely burned and getting worse by the moment, the sun seeming to cook him alive. And he is absolutely, unmistakably alive, shuddering and wheezing in what must be unbearable agony.

"What the hell?"

In the eerie silence the mumbled words are like a shout, startling the poor man. For just a moment his head lifts and a pair of bloodshot eyes meet Matteo's. Misery pours from him in waves.

His parched mouth trembles open to speak, revealing a sharp pair of fangs.

"Kill me."

[whumpster-dumpster]

An amazing hurt/comfort dialogue prompt that no joke came to me in a dream-

scene of caretaker comforting whumpee after waking up from a nightmare Caretaker: It's okay, you just had a nightmare Whumpee: What does it matter? Real life is a nightmare anyway Caretaker: Not while I'm here.

Oooo, I like that a lot!

[angels-whump]

A human is content with being a blood bag for their vampire. Maybe they are nothing but an object, maybe they get possessive of their vampire knowing they don’t feel the same, but the point is they’re useful! So the human is content. And every now and then the vampire praises them and the human’s heart soars. They are utterly devoted (if they don’t have this, they’re better off dead).

And then one day the human gets sick. It won’t go away soon enough to be fed on again and the vampire comes to them for food and the human break into tears between coughs because they’re so sorry, their vampire will probably have to dispose of them now. Even if they don’t, the human isn’t being useful so they’re a leech.

The vampire sighs. There is something wrong with you, they think, if they haven’t noticed already. They drop down to their knees where the human is sniffling before them, demand they get up (helping them without thinking about it) and send the human to bed. Human gets doted on and cared for even if the vampire has to feed them themself.

[noah-one]

the hospital felt like a second round of imprisonment for whumpee.

they were safe from whumper, yes, but they weren't free. IVs and tubes kept them tethered to the hospital bed. bracelets with warnings were tied around their bandaged wrists. nurses checked on them every hour, noting their vitals, adjusting settings on the frightening machines that surrounded the bed, and worst of all, giving whumpee medications that felt far too similar to the drugs whumper had given them to keep whumpee under their control.

at first, whumpee was too weak to protest. they could barely keep their eyes open. but day after day, their strength slowly returned, and with it came the nagging thought that whumpee needed to escape.