oozey mess
Product Placement
sheepfilms
dirt enthusiast
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
YOU ARE THE REASON
d e v o n
Andulka
Sade Olutola
Misplaced Lens Cap
Not today Justin
blake kathryn
Show & Tell
izzy's playlists!
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Three Goblin Art
Claire Keane
if i look back, i am lost
@theartofmadeline
hello vonnie
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from India
seen from Indonesia
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from South Africa
seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Romania
seen from Germany
@whereshadowswhisper
Whump intro post
I've been lurking on here for a while now, but I finally gathered the courage to post a thing or two.
Tropes I like include (but are not limited to):
recovery whump!!!
stoic whumpee
servant whump (Not sure that's a thing? But this is what I intend to write in the near future - I think it ought to be a thing.)
kind caretakers
conditioned whumpee
The ask box is always open to whumpy ideas/suggestions or just to chat.
Cheers!
Thinking about language barriers in whump, and yes, the potential for terror is great, but also what if it was just plain humiliating instead? Whumper isn't going to punish Whumpee for not knowing their language, and is willing to be as patient as necessary, but the way they teach Whumpee new words is more like trying to train a dog than teaching a person. Whumpee doesn't know whether the word Whumper's taught them to respond to is a pet name or an insult or even a threat, nor do they know whether what Whumper introduced themself as is a name or a title.
Whumper, of course, is all too content with this situation. Pets don't need to know how to talk, after all.
Ooo, bonus/follow-up:
Caretaker speaks Whumper's language. They don't know at first that Whumpee doesn't. Maybe Caretaker assumes that the way Whumpee only responds to certain commands is due to trauma or conditioning.
And of course Whumpee can't understand any of Caretaker's reassurances or permissions. They have no way to tell if they're safe or if this is more teasing.
Caretaker who asks Whumpee what they want as a gift - anything in the world, caretaker will make it happen
Whumpee who's afraid caretaker will be angry because they don't know how to answer the question - they don't know how to have wants and are afraid theyll be punished if their answer isnt "right"
Whumptember - Day 14
“I don’t want to do this” | Scalpel | reluctant whumper | makeshift laboratory
Author's note: undoubtedly my best work so far
Content Warnings: physical/corporal punishment (not shown on screen but central), emotional trauma, psychological abuse, coercion, forced to hurt someone, fear response, self-loathing, suicidal ideation (mild). power imbalance, blood (mentioned), role reversal/blurring
The cutlery clinked against the good plates, as a tense silence lay over the dinner table. His grandfather glared at him with a barely controlled fury in his eyes. “If you continue like this, you will shame our house, boy. And I won’t stand for it.”
“Yes, grandfather,” the young man - whom nobody but his grandfather would think to call a boy anymore - responded meekly.
“You are weak,” he hissed, while cutting his meat with cold precision. “Just like your father was. And just as pathetic. The gods must be mocking me, making you my grandson.”
He did not respond. It was usually the wiser choice to let the old man rant whenever he was in a mood like this. Silently he gestured for his manservant to refill the half empty wine glass in front of him, concentrating on keeping his hand from trembling as he did so.
“And another thing,” his grandfather went on impatiently, wielding his eating knife like a dagger. “I say, look at me when I am speaking to you dammit!” He roared, hitting the table with a balled fist, making all the tableware jump up in fright.
The grandson flinched at the outburst - which was bad and the servant who had been filling the wine glasses flinched too - which was worse. Because a few drops of wine missed the goblet and instead fell onto the white tablecloth leaving deep red stains. A moment of silence stretched as nobody but the grandfather dared to breathe, until the servant slowly stepped back, returning the bottle to the side table. His movements eerily stiff but practised.
“I apologise, your grace,” he said with a perfect bow, even though it was impossible to appease the master of the house - especially when he was in a mood like this.
To everybody’s surprise, no shouting followed, no demands for whips or canes, not even a backhand. No, his grandfather looked at the errant manservant with calculation in his eyes, his fingers drumming on the table. His grandson beside him swallowed. Whatever came next would be even worse than usual, that was sure.
“That’s your man, isn’t it?” His grandfather began, his voice deceptively even.
“Yes, grandfather,” he answered, hardly daring to breathe and yet continuing on because his servant did not deserve to be subjected to grandfather's temper today. “He has served me without fault for years. A single misstep does not erase his loyalty.”
“You speak as if loyalty were not the expectation.” His eyes made clear that he was not talking about the servant right now. “Besides, loyalty when paired with failure means little.” He twirled the sigil ring around his finger, absent mindedly. “Sooner or later it will be your responsibility to ensure obedience in this household. I wonder - are you ready for it?” The icy eyes of the grandfather met the carefully blank ones of his frightened grandson. “Punish him, and show me that you are.”
No, please no. Anything but that. “This was a mere accident grandfather, surely - ”
“Punish him,” grandfather repeated mercilessly. “I did not ask for an opinion, but gave you an order. Do it.”
The grandson froze. No! He couldn’t - this was. He glanced at his servant, panic choking him - there had to be a way out! Please, he did not want to do this. It wouldn’t be right.
The servant’s gentle brown eyes met his unwaveringly, no accusation, no anger, just quiet acceptance. “Shall I fetch the cane, my lord?”
Gods, he was helping him even. He did not deserve the other’s loyalty. Not before and certainly not after this. He bit back the sob rising in his throat - and nodded.
His hands trembled as they closed around the narrow piece of wood. Gods be good, he thought as he tried to still them, feeling his grandfather’s cold gaze burning on his back. Next to him, his manservant was shrugging out of his livery, carefully folding it on a nearby chair. He did not tremble.
“How many, my lord?” He asked, with his usual gentleness towards his master - one that he did not deserve right now. That he would never deserve again. The servant ought to hate him, and he was still so kind. It hurt more than any of his grandfather’s words had ever done.
“Five,” he heard himself say. A harsh punishment even for a deliberate offense. For this minor accident that had not been his fault at all, it was a horrible cruelty.
“A dozen,” grandfather demanded behind him.
He whirled around, the cane still uselessly held in his hands. “But grandfather, this is - “
“Shall I have to repeat myself once more?” The threat hung in the air for a long moment. There was no way out of this - and if he did not deliver the punishment to his servant his grandfather would. And he would only make it worse, and longer, and more painful. Especially today when it was meant to be a lesson for his grandson as well.
He swallowed, and inclined his head respectfully. “I bow before your experience and thank you for your guidance.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
When he returned to his servant, the guilt seemed to overwhelm him. But there was still no accusation in the other’s eyes - just his usual gentleness and maybe a hint of sadness as he bowed before him, as was proper before a punishment.
‘I don’t want to do this,’ he wanted to cry, as he prayed for the gods to strike him down this very second.
Silently, the servant braced himself against a chair, turning his still unblemished back to receive what was coming. His master fought back tears, as he raised the cane above his head - and swung.
---------------------------------
He was sobbing, hot tears rolling down his cheek as he slid to the ground of his bedroom. What had he done? His servant’s cries seemed to still echo from the walls and specks of blood still clung to his hand. He gasped for breath, as the guilt choked him mercilessly.
Twelve strikes. He had barely been able to hold the cane at the end, he had been trembling so. But he had done it. Gods be good, he had actually done it. He had turned into a merciless monster, who would -
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. His head whipped around as he stared at it in horror. Oh no, not now. No more, please.
Hurriedly, he dragged a sleeve over his eyes, forcing painful breaths of air into his lungs. If his grandfather heard of him being found in this state, he would - he couldn’t even think how his stay in the manor could become any worse, but he didn’t doubt for even a moment that it would.
He took one last shuddering breath, before he pushed himself off the floor and faced the window, hoping whoever was on the other side of the door wasn’t important enough that he would need to turn. All traces of tears couldn’t be hidden at a moment’s notice. “Come in,” he called out, at least not sounding quite as hoarse as he had feared.
“My lord?”
His eyes widened as he whirled around, suddenly standing face to face with his faithful manservant once more. “Whatever are you doing here?” He cried. “Please, you ought to be resting! This - Not after what happened earlier.” Gods, he couldn’t even say it could he? He truly was pathetic. “Please. Here - sit, at least.”
The servant smiled at him gently, hiding the pain that surely still lingered in his every limb with unnerving skill. “Thank you, my lord.” He said, and worse, sounded like he meant it.
He was carrying a heavily laden tray of tea and sweet rolls, as though this was just any other sunny afternoon.
“Here, let me -,” the master began. But before he could quite comprehend how and when, his servant had already begun placing the dishes on the table by the western window and somehow shushed his master into sitting in the chair beside it. Helplessly he stared at the feast he had not asked for, but received nevertheless. It was his favourite tea too - the one they had brought with them to his grandfather’s manor when they had been called here. His throat closed up as he looked at it.
“You ought to hate me,” he mumbled without touching a thing. “I - I hate me,” he added more quietly.
His servant hummed quietly, as was his habit, and added sugar to the tea. Two pieces today instead of the usual one. “Drink, my lord,” he ordered as he pushed the cup into his hand. “It will do you good.”
“For that it would need to be poisoned," the young master mumbled darkly, as he obeyed his servant’s command. The tea was sweet but good. Just the sort of thing for a shock, his dutiful manservant always claimed.
He did not deserve to receive this tea let alone this thoughtful care - he did not even deserve to live as far as he was concerned.
The guilt overwhelming him, he glanced up at his servant’s face to at least give him a proper apology, before releasing him from his service - but he was surprised to see a hardness in his eyes that had never been there before. “You ought not say such things, my lord.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that.
In the following silence a sweet breadroll was buttered and pressed into his other hand. His servant stared at him expectantly until he finally took a bite.
“My lord,” his servant spoke once more, “I would like to ask for a favour.”
“Anything,” the young master vowed. “Whatever you want, if it is in my power to give it, it is yours.” He would never be able to make amends - not truly - but perhaps he might be able to lessen his crimes at least a little. Not to seek forgiveness of course, but to ensure at least some tiny bit of justice in the world.
“I will hold you to it, my lord,” the servant said as he kneeled down in front of him, this time not quite hiding the wince as the movement pulled on his fresh injuries.
Unsure the young lord looked down at the usually taller man.
“Listen closely to me, my lord. And remember that you promised to fulfill my every wish.” Dark eyes stared into his, as the servant took his master’s hands in his. “Forgive yourself.”
He stared at the kneeling man uncomprehendingly. “But I- Surely you can’t - ”
“You promised, my lord,” the servant reminded him.
He had promised, but - “I - I don’t know if I can,” he confessed brokenly, tears rising in his eyes once more.
The servant hummed. “Then try, my lord,” he said. “And once you do, tell me. And that day I shall confess that I forgave you much earlier already - before it even began.”
the great thing about medieval literature is that it returns us to a time when men were men and women were women, *insert gritty realism gif here*, featuring such important and eternal gendered characteristics such as
(M) Why Would I Learn To Think Critically When I Could Find a Random Damsel In The Woods To Tell Me What To Do
(F) Demands To Be Brought The Heads Of Her Enemies
(M, to F) Be Mean To Me, No, Meaner Than That
(F) Meticulous Maintenance Of Social Connections And Alliances Via Writing Letters
(M) Crying
(M) More Crying
(M) Even More Crying, While Being Held Tenderly By Brother In Arms
(F) Necromancy
(M) Meticulous Maintenance Of Social Connections And Alliances Via Mistaking Friend’s Identity, Attacking Him, Then Kissing And Making Up
(F) Expert Medical Practitioner
(M) Self-Care By Episodes Of Madness In The Woods
(F) Owner Of Haunted Castle
Whumptember - Day 11
“Start begging and maybe I’ll stop” | Rusty nail | intimate whumper | dungeon
Content Warnings: grief, loss of spouse (referenced), physical violence (mild, a single slap), referenced war/battle, referenced murder, referenced rape, threats of torture, dark ending, power imbalance.
The defeated soldiers were kneeling in the centre of the hall, their kits either half destroyed or half missing, dressed in rags instead of uniforms, trembling from head to toe every single one of them. Some from the cold, some from fear, sometimes it was both. A tall, but rather young lad at the back of the group was quietly weeping. No one consoled him. Not his comrade and certainly not the imposing, well fed guards standing around them.
A door to the left was thrown open with a bang and a tiny lady stepped out. She was short and dainty, in a prettily embroidered green dress but with a frightening fury in her eyes. Almost silently she walked forward, her slippered steps quiet on the polished floor, and climbed on the dais in front of the kneeling soldiers, her movements perfectly graceful. Yet the captured soldiers cowered from her as though she were a stomping warlord.
“How dare you,” she called out into the silence of the hall. “How dare you enter my lands uninvited. How dare you pillage and plunder the farms of my people. To murder the farmers and take their women. How dare you” - her voice was growing louder with every beat, like a rising wave that would soon crash down over the soldiers and bury them underneath - “How dare you kill my husband!” There were furious tears glittering in her eyes.
She took a small step forward and some of the soldiers actually flinched. “Do you know,” she began, only barely restrained hatred sounding in her voice. “What we do in these lands, with men like you?”
Nobody dared to respond.
“Do you know what I will do to you now, after you sullied my lands with your presence, violated my people and stole my husband away from me?”
Silence fell over the hall once more as she walked even closer to them, stopping right before a particularly pitiful looking man with traces of what might have been a captain's uniform hanging off of him. He was almost taller than her, even though he was kneeling and she was standing, but right now that didn't matter. He bowed his head before her, whether motivated by deference or fear one could not say.
The lady looked at him with disgust, another wave of fury washing over her betrayed face. “How dare you,” she hissed through her teeth once more, quieter but even more threatening this time.
“You were the man who did it, weren't you?” She demanded. “Your sword was the one that ended his life.”
The man swallowed. “Yes, my lady,” he said - and then he raised his eyes. “Your lord husband fought most bravely, he - “
“Don’t you dare speak about him!” she roared as she raised a gloved hand and struck him harshly across the face.
The man's lips pressed into a thin line, the humiliation at being struck like this written on his every feature. Reflexively his hand went to the place where his sword would usually be. It only groped the air by his side. He winced once he realised it.
At this sight the lady laughed, coldly and cruelly, not the tiniest trace of joy in it. “Do not worry captain, you will see your sword again,“ she said, something awful glinting at the back of her eyes that were not tears but something far more sinister. “You will see a lot of it. Often. More than you’ll like. I will slice you, I will cut you, I will mangle you - until you feel at least some of the pain you made me feel.” She was breathing hard now, her face red and her eyes wide. “And once you start begging, maybe I'll stop.”
She stopped as though considering something. “Then, I suppose,” she went on, “I will try to remember the mercy you showed my people and me. And then I will decide whether your pathetic begging ought to be heard.”
The captain bared his teeth in her in a snarl, but she just smiled back at him. It was not a friendly sort of smile though.
Abruptly she turned on her heels, to face her own captain of the guards. “Throw them into the dungeon,” she ordered. The she looked back contemplatively at the man kneeling in front of her. “Separate him from the others though.” She said, a vicious hatred shining in her eyes. “I’ll take care of him later. Personally.”
Whumptember - Day 10
“I need your help” | Torn shirt | amputation | in the middle of nowhere
Content Warnings: Mentions of physical punishment (whipping, strapping, caning), emotional trauma, fear response, power imbalance/master-servant dynamic.
The young man stared at the torn shirt in his hand - utterly ruined beyond repair - and wondered what he was meant to do with it. He looked up at his new valet questioningly who stood in front of him, just as solemn and stone faced as he had been every day since his arrival at the manor.
“Is this one of my shirts?” He asked after a moment, because even he had soon realised that the servants in this house never spoke unless spoken to. Their elaborate show of respect was unnerving to the young man, who had inherited so suddenly and unexpectedly after his estranged uncle's death.
“Yes, my lord,” his valet said gravely. “I'm afraid it got torn while washing.” His eyes flickered from the shirt to his master's face and back. “It won't be mendable.” He added like a confession.
The young man nodded, agreeing with the judgement wholeheartedly. For lack of a better thing to do he lifted the shirt up to inspect the giant tear in it. “Torn on a nail?” He remarked. His mother had once destroyed an undershirt of his in a similar way, he thought. But he didn't remember exactly.
“Yes, my lord.” The valet stood there even stiffer than usual, his hands quite properly folded in front of him and utterly still. “A carelessness on my part.”
The young hummed thoughtfully. Right now he was meant to do something - he was sure of it but he hadn't the faintest idea as to what. This had happened often in the last few days since arriving at his new manors. A pause or a moment of tense silence - times when he was clearly expected to act or speak out but didn't. Because he had never been trained for this.
He laid the shirt to the side, noticing in the corner of his eyes how his valet stiffened up even further. Ah - the question of punishment perhaps? This was probably what a master of the house was meant to do in this case. He thought. Maybe.
But what would be a fair sentence in this case? Surely this had been an accident. Perhaps he could order his valet to remove the nail in question so such an incident never occurred again? Or was this particular nail an essential part of the washing setup and the order would merely look foolish. Should he take the cost of the shirt out of his servant’s wages?
Oh, he didn't know.
He smiled somewhat sheepishly at his valet who was only a few years older than him, but surely more knowledgeable in this. “Now, you have all been wonderfully patient with me since my arrival a few days ago. I know I have made lots of mistakes already - but I'm afraid I need your help once more.”
His valet breathed once, carefully and deliberately. “Of course, my lord. I am completely at your service.”
“Ah yes, thank you” he said, feeling a blush creep on his face. “So - please tell me if you can. What would my uncle have done in this case?” This had to be a good place to start at least, and the man - who had served the last lord of the manor for years - would surely know the answer to this. It might be a little unfair to ask his servant to advise on his own punishment, but surely for such a small offence this would be bearable.
He felt quite proud of thinking of this question - at least for the two seconds between speaking it and looking at his valet’s pale face once more that seemed to have lost all colour whatsoever now.
“His lordship kept a strap for such purposes.” He admitted in a carefully controlled voice, that did not tremble - or at least not as much as the rest of him. Their eyes did not meet when he added. “Fifteen strokes would have been deemed sufficient for such an offense.”
"Fifteen?" Surely not -
“Twenty, my lord!” his valet corrected himself hurriedly, quite unlike his usual calmness. “I did not mean to deceive, my lord. Truly - I just -”
Unable to hear another word, the young man raised a hand to halt him. A tense silence descended over the room.
Gods, twenty lashes for such a small accident. For a regular, plain, rather worn shirt. It was ridiculous. But when he looked into the large frightened eyes of his valet that clearly tried to appear as stoic as he usually was, he knew it to be mercilessly real.
Gods, his uncle must have been a monster.
“Shall I fetch it, my lord?” His valet offered with a horrifying politeness. As though he was fetching him an umbrella for a rainy day.
“No,” was all he could say while letting himself fall into the creaky armchair by the fire. The room suddenly seemed even colder than usual.
“The whip then, my lord?” The valet went on. “Or -“ At this point something like cautious relief bloomed in his eyes, which made his new master want to throw up when he heard what came next. “Or perhaps the cane?”
“No, no, no!” He buried his head in his hands. Only the cracking fire could be heard - the tension of the servant seemed to echo into the silence nevertheless. “No, this won't do at all.”
With a start he got up from the armchair again, the sudden need to move overwhelming him. “No, just - “ He saw the quiet terror in his servant's eyes. Who knew whatever hell he was imagining to come next. “No punishment for this. None! You hear?”
“Yes, my lord,” his valet answered dutifully, with his usual quiet dignity, and clearly without believing him for even a second.
They stared at each other. Then the new lord decided he could not stand the silence for a moment longer. This called for noise and action. “Bring me the whip, and the strap and the cane and whatever else my uncle liked to use for his punishments,” he ordered.
The servant gave a barely noticeable flinch. “Of course, my lord.”
“No! No, not for you! - I want to burn it,” he explained hurriedly only now realising how what he said would be understood by any reasonable person who was not privy to his thoughts. “So, make sure to bring sufficient firewood as well.”
His valet looked at him with his dark eyes. It wasn't gratefulness that was shining in them, and it certainly wasn't trust - but it might have been something more valuable in this case. Hope.
Whumptember - Day 6
“Make it look good” | Quivering lip | caretaker turned whumper | hotel room
Content warnings: psychological abuse, mild physical abuse, coercion, forced performance, implied captivity, power imbalance, dehumanization, humiliation
“The songbird will now entertain us with a dance!” The warlord grandly declared, wine sloshing over the brim of his cup. “Go on, boy. We're waiting! And make it look good!”
The songbird stepped forward. To any foreign courtier that was attending tonight, the name might seem well chosen, clad in colourful fabrics that he was, like a bird in its full plumage. Rich fabrics in red and green and purple shimmered around him, as he began his performance with a grand bow to the assembled lords and ladies while the warlord sat in his throne behind him.
The music started and the dance began, graceful and yet strong. When he twirled the fabrics flew around him, letting through glimpses of what was beneath. Reds and greens and purples as well, but no tailor had made this. No, it was a second painful costume the warlord himself ensured he would never be without.
No pain showed on his face as he moved though - no matter how much the steps had to tug on his bruises or how the clothes pressed on his wounds. There was just a quiet sort of dignity in his face - not open defiance (at least not tonight) but a hardness in his eyes that did not seem to fit his clothes.
The music came to a close and he ended the show with another twirl until he stood there breathing hard from the exercise, his cheeks slightly flushed, staring at the Warlord's face. He did not bow this time.
The man in his throne raised a warning eyebrow.
The songbird only raised his chin higher. “Did I dance well?” He asked unashamedly, his voice just as pretty as him.
For a moment the warlord stared at him contemplatingly, while the courtiers began to whisper. Slowly he pushed himself up from his golden chair, and walked down to the songbird with measured steps.
“You danced well,” he said with an unsettling calmness, right before savagely backhanding the songbird across his face, sending him tumbling to the ground in a heap of colour. “Only your manners leave something to be desired.” His voice was cold and cruel and only just loud enough for everyone to hear.
The songbird pushed himself up to his elbows, not quite hiding the wince this time. A new red bruise began blooming on his face, so it matched the rest of him now.
“I think you danced enough for tonight,” the warlord went on. “It is time for you to retire.”
And the songbird pulled himself to his feet with as much grace as he could muster and left the throne room, the courtiers whispering around him. Red and purple and green. He and his clothes. The same as he was yesterday, the same as he would be tomorrow.
Every day he would sing when he was ordered, entertain who he was told and dance when he must.
But he never lowered his chin, he never thought to cry and he never - ever - bowed.
Whumptember - Day 5
“Do it right this time” | Dagger | returning home | childhood bedroom
Content warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, minor whump, fainting, dehydration/heat exhaustion, child endangerment/harm, power imbalance, unreasonable/abusive authority figure (teacher/trainer)
“Again!” The sword master called, his voice rolling like thunder through the sweltering heat, the sand glowing underneath them.
With a trembling arm the boy raised his sword. First a block to the left, then a feint to the right and then thrust. The exhaustion seemed to pull on his every limb. It tore him down. It made him slow.
The sword master noticed. “Pathetic,” he growled under his breath, quiet enough to be deniable should anybody pass, but loud enough for his student to hear. And then “Again.” Always again, always again, never pausing, never resting, no matter how tired he got. Always again.
The boy swallowed. He wouldn't cry, he was much too old for such childish things. With effort he raised the heavy training sword once more. Block to the left, feint to the right, thrust.
“Again!”
Block.
Sweat was running down his back.
Thrust.
The clothes were clinging to him like ivy.
Parry.
His throat was as dry as the sand below them. Gods, he was thirsty. And the sun was so hot and bright today. He wished it would stop.
But when suddenly a shadow fell over him, the icy dread in his heart was enough to dispel any hint of heat. He was eye to eye with the broad chest of the swordmaster, arms crossed and muscles bulging. The man was so close. Close enough to strike him, close enough to end him, should he want to. Slowly he looked up at the grim old soldier and when he finally reached his face - saw the displeasure. The boy wanted to rear back from it, but controlled himself just in time.
He was too old for childish things like that.
With too much force the sword master snatched the sword out of his hands, leaving him quite off balance when the heavy weight suddenly disappeared. “You have not been listening again, have you, boy? Block to the left, then feint to the right, then thrust.” He demonstrated, the heavy sword seeming to turn into a mere dagger in his enormous hands. “See?” With barely disguised disgust, he looked down at the boy. “Have you understood now?”
The boy nodded, even though the sun had left him half blind at this point and he had barely seen the sword master's movements. But he understood - had understood earlier as well! It was just, they had been doing this for hours now, and he was so incredibly tired, and the sun was so hot, and everything -
He found the sword thrust back into his hand without ceremony, the sword master stomping back to his accustomed spot in the shadow. “Again!”
The boy raised his trembling sword, held in hands that felt weak, standing on feet that were unsteady. Block, faint, thrust. He lowered the sword. And no matter what, don’t show how tired you are. It'll just get worse.
“Again!”
His movements were growing sluggish, he realised it, but he couldn't stop it. His arms refused to obey his commands. The sun was too bright, and then suddenly - suddenly there was no sun at all.
He was on the ground. Why was he on the ground? Blisters were forming on his arms where hot sand touched his skin. In the corner of his eyes he saw the sword laying beside him. And next to it there were boots. Big, brown leather boots.
The sword master's boots.
With dread in his heart, the boy swallowed, bits of sand burning on his parched throat. He looked up at this man, who seemed taller and broader than life itself blocking even the relentless sun behind his wide shoulders.
“Plea-“
“Again,” the sword master said. “And do it right this time.”
Communication
❆
Whumpee cannot speak. Maybe they are conditioned not to, maybe they lost their voice to an injury. Either way, they must be able to communicate with caretaker for them to help whumpee :
• A notebook. While whumpee cannot speak, they can certainly write their thoughts down to let caretaker know about their needs
• Or maybe whumpee does not know how to write, and instead, they draw on that notebook. Caretaker’s interpretation of the drawings may depend on whumpee’s art skills. Simple drawings of food may indicate they’re hungry, while more complexe drawings may be harder to understand if whumpee doesn’t know how to draw them properly
• Whumpee knows sign language, and it can go multiple ways :
They were taught by caretaker
They already knew sign language (and are teaching caretaker ?)
They know sign language but it is one caretaker doesn’t understand (from another country, military, personal to whumpee)
• There may be 2 whumpees, and one of them seems to understand the other who doesn’t speak so they act as a translator
• A child whumpee (or agere) who uses their plushies to communicate, recreating scenes the best they can
• If your whumpee can use telepathy, they exclusively talk to caretaker that way. If abilities like those are unusual in your universe, whumpee may not immediately use this method
• They point at things, because the want it or for another reason like showing caretaker something important
• While whumpee may not talk, they can still make ‘’mmh’’ sounds and their tone indicates how they feel about things
Some of these methods can be hard to understand at first. How does whumpee react ? Are they sad ? Distressed that caretaker seemingly doesn’t understand something that is so clear in their mind ? Or are they pissed ?
Whumptember - Day 4
“Keep your eyes open!” | Blood-soaked gauze | car ride to the hospital | back seat of a car
Content warnings: graphic depiction of blood and injury, panic attack, slight misogyny, loss of consciousness, suicidal ideation (only sort of and very brief), fear of character death
The guards were calling for her, she thought. But everything seemed so far away. Nothing seemed real except her blood soaked hands that were desperately pressing on the side of the poor groom. The one who had jumped right into the path of a blade.
It had saved her and now it might prove to be his demise.
More and more blood was coming out of him. It was so much and it was everywhere, and - She didn't know what to do. She was no healer, she just knew that losing blood was bad and the more he lost the worse it would get. Her hands were horribly trembling but she just pressed harder, desperately hoping for a miracle.
He hissed in pain and even more colour seemed to drain out of his face. “M’lady…”
“No, please,” she mumbled, her voice shaking even worse than her hands. “You must save your strength. Just keep your eyes open! That's all I ask.
Please, please, please don't die!
He smiled weakly at her. “Ay, m’lady. No more words ‘en.”
Gods, she thought and pressed even harder, as tears rose into her eyes. Please, she prayed. Don't let him die, not after he saved me. Take me instead - the blade was meant for me! Just let him live.
Suddenly another hand appeared in her field of vision, large and brawny and clad in a leather glove. She shrank back, with a shriek, her trembling fingers letting go of the injury decidedly without her permission and instead came up to shield her face.
“Just us my lady,” a man's voice said. The lady knew the voice but she couldn't think of the name, not while her hands were sticking to everything leaving large red stains and the coppery tang of blood bit into her nose, and the salty tang of tears burned in her throat. “We’ll take care of him now,” the voice went on. “You just get back to the carriage now. Stay with Sir Mervyn for now, just to be sure, but believe me the danger has passed now. All is well.”
“But he - Please, he “ She gestured weakly to the bleeding groom.
“Ah, it looks worse than it is,” the man with the gloves said. Her captain of the guards, a nearly inaudible voice at the back of her thoughts reminded her. “We’ll bind his injuries now, and we'll take him to a healer as soon as we can. The blood is quite a sight, I know - and that's certainly no sight for a lady - but he'll get better again soon. Don't you worry. Just go with Sir Mervyn and rest, my lady.
Another hand tugged on her arm.
“Better take her to the steam to wash, Sir,” she heard her captain say - although his voice sounded strangely muffled. “She looks just about ready to faint, poor lass.”
The hand tugging on her arm became more insistent, and she found herself being dragged to her feet. The woods around her seemed to grow darker and darker, until she saw no trees at all anymore.
Whumptember - Day 3
“I can’t keep going on like this” | Shaking hands | wing whump | hospital
Disclaimer: despite my best intentions this barely qualifies as whump. It's mostly angst with a hopeful ending. Oops. I still like it though so I'm uploading it anyways.
Content warnings: arranged marriage, dubiously consensual kiss (brief), lack of agency, power imbalance
‘Gods be good,’ she thought as she finally laid eyes on the man who would become her husband today, ‘He could crush me in a single hand of his.’
For once she was glad of the veil surrounding her - she did not have to guard her expressions quite so closely now and she was free to let her eyes wander over her groom. He was big, downright enormous. She doubted if her head would come up to his scandalously wide shoulders at all. How would she be able to kiss him later tonight?
She did not allow herself to think further than the kiss. It would do no good, would it? Whatever came she would have to bear - that was all.
With a heavy heart she looked at her husband to be once more. ‘Gods be good,’ she thought again, but this time it was a silent prayer. ‘Please let him be -’ She did not dare ask for a loving man, nor a kind one. It seemed too large a wish. ‘Let him be patient,’ she finally settled on. ‘And help me learn his ways quickly.’ She kissed her wrist to send the prayer to the gods, before she raised her head high and went to stand beside her groom.
The role of the bride in the wedding ceremony was mercifully easy. She only had to hold his hand when the priestess bade her to do so - if her hand was shaking a little no one but her new lord husband was close enough to tell - and then kiss the groom when he unveiled her at the end.
Her heart was thumping too fast in her chest, as the priest drowned on and on about the sanctity of marriage. Everybody was waiting for the end, so they could seal the agreement with a kiss and this farce would finally be over.
She started, when his right hand thumb began stroking her fingers absent mindedly. At least she hoped it was absentminded and not a silent order for his new wife to behave herself. If she could stop her hands from trembling she would have done so already. She swallowed.
After what felt like an eternity the priest stepped back, leaving the bride and groom alone on the dais. She bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself to stand still even if everything in her was screaming to run.
Carefully, with almost reverent movements her veil was lifted and she finally looked into her husband's eyes. If it hadn't been for the horrible scars across his cheek, he could have been rather handsome, she thought. She did not allow herself to think of ways he could have gotten those scars. It would do no good.
He leaned forward, placing one of his rough hands on her cheek. They were just as big as she had guessed from a distance.
“May I?” He whispered.
She nodded, quite unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
He smelt of campfire, she thought, as he came even closer. Which was not surprising considering his rough appearance. That his kiss tasted of peppermint, she would not have guessed. But as soon as the kiss had begun it was over again. Just a brief touch to her lips and no more.
She wasn't sure if the sudden fear of being unwanted this caused in her was worse than her horror at being desired. Only time would tell, she supposed.
Before he turned around to the watching crowds, he met her eyes, a shadow of a smile on his lips. And somehow this made her feel neither unwanted nor as though he only desired her company in bed. He made her feel seen.
Quite against her wishes she could feel a blush creeping on her face.
They were kind eyes, she thought, a tentative hope blooming in her heart. Maybe the gods had heard her after all.
Whumptember - Day 2
“You’ve never understood how important this is to me” | Bloodied clothes | reluctant hero | crumbling building
Content warnings: implied/referenced noncon, implied/referenced injury, blood, power imbalance/master-servant-dynamic
The first thing he noticed was a sort of scratching noise, so quiet it was barely audible. It was definitely coming from his left, out of the little cupboard where the maids kept their brooms and buckets. He thought nothing of it - vaguely wondered if the cat had gotten stuck there.
The next thing he heard was a whimper.
‘Gods,’ he thought rather mournfully. ‘As though this day had not already been bothersome enough.’
With a sigh he turned around, to look for the source of the noise. It was not the sort of thing the master of the house could permit himself to ignore - no matter how much he might wish to at this very moment.
After a moment of indecisiveness where he just stared at the wooden wondering if a broom cupboard was the sort of door he ought to knock on or if he should just open it, quiet sobs reached his ears. They sounded like they came from a rather distressed maid.
Oh hell.
He gave in to impulse and knocked.
Silence. He wasn't sure what he had expected.
He knocked again. A whimper followed, then more silence.
If the girl did not wish to be helped he oughtn't bother her, he supposed. At least that is the explanation he could give his conscience should it decide to bother him later.
But somehow - well, it wouldn't hurt to check if she was alright. Just to be sure. It wouldn't do, if anyone would find a dead maidservant in his cupboard. It wouldn't do at all.
So he pushed the door open.
There was indeed a girl inside, a skinny little thing. Her hair was laying loose around her shoulder but seemed somewhat tangled, not neat and orderly as his maids were supposed to be. And her dress - it was not clean and straight either, but strangely crumpled and torn in odd places and stained with large red smears that almost looked like -
His breath caught in his throat.
That rather looked like blood.
He felt anger rise inside of him. Who had dared such a thing. In his house. One of his maidservants. Who had dared.
The girl shrank from his thunderous expression, her bruised arms folding over her head in a pathetic attempt to shield herself. “Please, my lord,” she whispered. “I didn't - I truly didn't - I mean, there - he just - ” She broke off and started sobbing once more.
“Hush girl,” the master ordered sternly, but not unkindly. He took off his coat and held it out to her.
She stared at it, as though it might bite her.
“Oh just take it,” he snapped, a little harsher than he perhaps intended.
With large frightened eyes, she obeyed.
“Now you take a deep breath girl,” he ordered and looked at her squarely until she finally obeyed, sucking a shaking breath into her lungs. She was still very unsettled but she seemed at least a little better with an untorn piece of clothing around her. Or maybe the master just felt better, when he didn't need to see her bloodied dress. It was hard to tell. “And now you will tell me who did this.”
She hesitated.
“I will believe you,” the master vowed. “Just give his name and he will be gone from my house.”
The girl licked her lips.
(Gods there was blood there as well.)
Then, finally, she whispered a name. A name he recognised, one of the guards who always seemed too big for his breeches.
The master's face became sour as though he had just bitten into a lemon. This man ought to have been dismissed weeks ago, but he - in an uncharacteristic, stupid attempt at leniency - had decided to be patient over some small acts of unreliability, and allow him more time while the man was still learning the ways of his house. He ought not to have done so.
Abruptly he turned. “He will not be here tomorrow,” he said with finality. “I will fetch the housekeeper now to bring you fresh clothing. You are excused from your duties until you are fully recovered.”
As he walked down back the corridor he briefly glanced back at her once, wondering if he ought to apologise for letting such a thing happen in his house at all. Perhaps it would be the right thing to do.
He did not return to her.
But he made sure the housekeeper brought the girl good, warm clothes, and sweet tea and as many sweets as she liked. And he made sure that the guard would never hurt another girl like that again. Yes, that, he made certain.
Happy first day of whumptember everyone!! I can’t wait to see what everyone’s come up with!
Whumptember - Day 1
“I was just trying to help” Telepathic caretaker | hurt/no comfort| bedroom
Content warnings: Pretty mild overall, but some physical abuse/violence, psychological abuse, power imbalance/master-servant-dynamic
The master was in a dangerous mood today. Doors slammed, angry shouts and the decanter half empty before noon.
This would end badly, the servant thought as he pushed the door to the study open, the perfectly arranged tray held in hands that wanted to tremble but could under no circumstances be allowed to do so. He saw papers spread around the floor, clearly thrown away in anger, and a broken ink vial that had been hurled across the room until it shattered against a wall, spilling ink around itself. Very badly, indeed, he thought as he closed the door behind him.
“What?” The master snapped irritably.
“Your dinner, my lord,” the servant said, keeping his voice carefully even and his face blank. No risks, no mistakes, not today. No matter how fast his heart was beating in his chest.
“And you dare disturb me for that?”
The servant did not flinch at the sudden shout - he had too much control for that - but he was rather sure he felt his heart skip a beat when the master suddenly moved towards him. Not to strike him - not yet at least - but to slap the tray out of his hands, the silverware clattering to the ground and one of the china teacups breaking.
“You dare?” The master cried, his face pulled into an ugly grimace.
The servant did not respond, it would do no good.
‘I was just trying to help,’ he could have claimed and then he would be punished for having thoughts of his own and, even worse, for implying the master could ever need any help whatsoever and was not a god walking amongst mortals.
‘I knew that your mood would become even worse if you were hungry, and that the chambermaids would end up paying for it,’ he could have said, which would have been closer to the truth. But such honesty would have warranted an even harsher punishment.
He remained silent.
The slap that followed was as painful as it was expected. Silence did not go unpunished either, after all.
“Shirt off,” the master growled, grabbing the cane he always kept next to his desk. Always within reach. Always waiting. “Now.”
“Yes, my lord,” the servant said and obeyed. The inevitable, after all, was best endured with as few a words as possible.
Ahh, I'm so excited for whumptember!! I probably won't manage to fulfil every prompt, but I have a few stories pre written already! Oh, I. Can't. Wait!
Whumpee who feels their needs are a burden on others and believe they need to be low maintenance to be kept around.
Caretaker (carewhumpee?) who believes they need to give a lot to be kept around, just trying to be useful, sensitive to the rejection everytime whumpee rejects their care
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bad at tagging and TWs feel free to add any!
