People are so funny about whump now. And by whump I mean like, classic, really intense whump. Sometimes, these days, "whump" gets classified as like, someone broke a bone and while that can be a part of larger whump, a single broken bone does not qualify as whump in my Millennial brain. "Why do people write this?" Because they want to? Fiction is, in part, meant for exploring experiences, emotions, horrors, and joys that you will never see in real life. You can infuse your own emotions and issues into a setting or circumstance you will never face. It's an amazing feeling, to me at least, to write these intense whump scenes and then help the character(s) recover from it. That's catharsis, babey! You don't "need a reason" to write whump of any kind. You can just write it. It's not weird. It used to be fandom's bread and butter, frankly.
A whumpee with sleep apnea is kept captive with a muzzle for a long time. They are without their CPAP, so they don't get restful sleep and keep dozing off during the day and getting punished for it. When they're eventually rescued, they keep having panic attacks and flashbacks when they try to use their CPAP mask, because it feels so much like the muzzle. Even if they sedate themself before bed, they wake up panicking in the middle of the night. Restful sleep yet eludes them, and they panic whenever they doze off during the day.
"Caretaker!" Whumpee exclaimed from their spot chained up on the floor when Caretaker walked into the cell. They looked far more hunched and tired than Whumpee had ever seen them.
Caretaker, their eyes incredibly sad, looked at Whumpee. "Oh, my sweet one," Caretaker murmured. They stepped forward and then knelt in front of Whumpee. "What have they done to you?"
At that, Whumpee began to cry, hot tears spilling onto their cheeks. Caretaker reached out and wrapped their arms around the child, who curled closer into them despite how it hurt their injuries.
"Caretaker, what are you doing here?" Whumpee mumbled without pulling away. "Did they capture you, too? Or are you here to rescue me?"
Caretaker was silent for a long moment. Long enough that Whumpee thought they weren't going to answer. Whumpee craned their neck to look up at them.
"I'm not here to rescue you," Caretaker said. The words were quiet and strained. "There's only one thing I can do for you."
"What's that?" Whumpee asked worriedly. They didn't understand what was going on. Caretaker's tone was scaring them.
A tear slid down Caretaker's cheek, then another. "They're planning...to kill you tomorrow," Caretaker breathed. "Slowly. But they told me..." They trembled slightly. "They told me that if I do it, I can make it quick."
Whumpee's eyes widened. They didn't know what to say. Their captors had told them they would be killed eventually, but Whumpee hadn't known it was going to be today. Or...that they wanted to hurt them so much in doing so.
They didn't want to die. Whumpee began to cry harder. They didn't want to die. They didn't want to die now, but they didn't want more pain either. They didn't want Caretaker to kill them, but they didn't want their captors to kill them either.
"What are you gonna do?" Whumpee asked through their tears, almost like a plea.
Whumpee sniffled, their breaths coming unsteadily. "I don't know. There's no way I'll be rescued before tomorrow?"
Caretaker closed their eyes and released a long breath. "No. Not one I know of."
"What do you think?" Whumpee asked.
Caretaker's throat moved as they swallowed. "I don't want you to be in pain. I...would choose now, rather than tomorrow."
"Okay," Whumpee said in a small voice. They didn't know what was best, but they trusted Caretaker.
Caretaker pulled Whumpee closer to their chest and tucked their head down near the child's. Whumpee couldn't see Caretaker anymore, but Whumpee asked, "Wait, what about you? Does this mean you're a prisoner too?"
"Yes," Caretaker answered after a moment of hesitation.
"What are they gonna do to you?" Whumpee asked desperately.
"I don't know," Caretaker murmured. "But that doesn't matter, okay?" They gently rubbed circles on Whumpee's back.
"Yes, it does," Whumpee protested. "I don't want you to be hurt."
"I know," Caretaker admitted. "I'll do everything I can to stay safe, okay? And if I don't...that just means we'll get to reunite sooner rather than later."
That drew a few more sobs out of Whumpee, but they nodded. "Okay."
From outside the cell, a rough voice yelled, "Hurry up and make your choice!"
Whumpee flinched. Caretaker slowly drew back from them, letting their arms fall away from Whumpee's shoulders.
"I'm so sorry," Caretaker said. Their eyes were agonized. "But it's time."
Whumpee wrapped their arms around their stomach. "I-is it gonna hurt?"
Caretaker sighed. "Yes. But not for long."
"I'm scared, Caretaker," Whumpee admitted with another sob.
Now Caretaker's face twisted, their eyes shining with tears. "I know. But you've been so brave. We'll meet again someday, okay?"
"Okay," Whumpee whimpered. They closed their eyes and braced for the feel of cold metal stabbing into their flesh.
Instead, they felt Caretaker's rough, warm hand encase their own. Whumpee grabbed on with both of their hands and squeezed Caretaker's tightly.
Caretaker took a long, shuddering inhale.
Whumpee's neck exploded in pain. Then they felt nothing.
Currently obsessed w the idea of multiple whumpers, but one of them is used exclusively as a punishment. Whumper 1 spends the most time with Whumpee, but if they start to misbehave, Whumper 1 can always threaten to have Whumper 2 come and pay them a visit. And pretty soon, Whumpee would do ANYTHING to keep that from happening.
Writing prompts
Okay... Sounds interesting...
Multiple whumpers
Content: belt whipping, threats, stoic whumpee, forced to hold a stress position, riding crop, implied noncon
Whumpee shudders with welts covering their back, hands still bound to whumper's heavy desk chair. "You think the belt is bad? You haven't seen what whumper 2 can do."
Holding positions for whumper 1 because whumper 2 will be so much worse.
"Go ahead. Downward dog. It's good for you." Whumpee does whatever they say. If they don't, whumper 2 will make them take these same positions and strike them with a riding crop for every flinch.
As soon as whumpee hears whumper 2's name, they go silent.
Whumper 1 actually treating whumpee nice when they behave. Regular meals, a comfortable bed. All whumpee has to do is let them pet them. Let them touch them. Pretend to like it.
enemies to lovers but its not "who did this to you?" but its "I did this to you" bc damn in the moment it felt necessary but the cuts weren't supposed to be that deep. the lashes should have faded by now, right? why are they still limping? make your characters self reflect. burden them with guilt and regret :) imagine laying in bed with the person you grew to love, only for them to roll over in their sleep and for you to see the nettled scars you inflicted on them
my endless love for whumpees decked out in an absolutely unnecessary amount of restraints
blindfolds, gags, and ear covers on whumpees who already know exactly who’s hurting them and couldn’t even be heard by anyone who would help them if they could scream
heavy iron chains, cuffs, and collars on whumpees who couldn’t have even broken out of thin ropes
muzzles on whumpees who are completely lacking in fangs or any kind of biting capability
extremely intricate bindings covering every bit of whumpee’s body, leaving them completely incapable of movement, when they were already trapped somewhere they had no hope of escaping on their own
it just really sends a message, y’know? whumper painstakingly wrapping them up, like a present for themself, as if to say, yes, i already know how helpless you are - i just need you to feel it too ❤️
Whumper who, after acquiring whumpee, ties them down and slowly peels a strip of skin from each heel. If whumpee wants to get anywhere, they'll gave to learn to move gracefully on their toes.
[Content warning: defiant whumpee, medical whump, stress position, restraints, interrogation]
He wakes to pressure.
Not pain at first.
Just pressure—deep in his shoulders, across his chest, threaded down both arms in a way that feels wrong before he fully understands why.
Then sensation catches up.
His eyes open sharply.
The lights are dimmer.
Not dark. Never dark. But lower than before, the white glare softened into something colder, flatter. Enough to make the room feel unfamiliar for half a second.
Enough to disorient.
His breathing stutters once before he steadies it.
Okay.
Okay.
His wrists are still restrained, but higher now. Spread wider apart than before. Elevated just enough above the line of his shoulders that tension pulls continuously through the joints. Not unbearable.
Not yet.
That’s the problem.
The position has no relief in it. No way to settle. Every inch of him feels suspended in the anticipation of strain.
His ankles are secured separately now too, farther apart than before, keeping his spine locked flat against the table.
He tests one arm instinctively. The restraint answers with a sharp metallic pull.
And pain immediately flashes hot through his shoulder socket. Not from the restraint itself.
From the position.
His jaw clenches before he can stop it.
“…you redesigned the furniture,” he mutters hoarsely.
No response.
But there’s movement nearby. Not hidden this time.
A chair sits several feet from the table, angled toward him with deliberate neatness. Someone occupies it already. Watching.
“You know,” he says after a second, voice rough from disuse, “most people buy me dinner before the bondage setup.”
Nothing.
The figure studies him for another long moment before speaking.
“You slept intermittently for three hours.”
His throat feels dry enough to crack. “Congratulations to me?”
“No sedatives were required.”
That lands oddly.
Not praise.
Assessment.
He shifts again despite the warning already screaming through his shoulders. The movement drags another sharp line of pain through both arms, deeper this time, immediate and ugly enough to pull a harder breath from him.
The figure notices.
Everything here notices.
“Muscular fatigue beginning,” they say calmly.
“Yeah,” he says tightly. “That tends to happen when you hang people up like spare parts.”
No reaction.
The figure rises from the chair.
His body goes still automatically.
Not fear, he tells himself. Readiness.
The person approaches the table without hurry, carrying a slim tablet in one hand. No instruments. No tray.
That somehow feels worse.
They stop beside him. “Your cooperation will reduce duration.”
He laughs once under his breath. “Sure it will.”
The tablet activates with a soft tone. The figure glances at it briefly.
Then:
“State your name.”
He stares at the ceiling. “No.”
A pause. No immediate consequence.
His pulse doesn’t lower anyway.
The figure taps the screen once.
Something beneath the table shifts with a quiet mechanical sound.
Then—
His arms are pulled another inch upward.
The pain is instantaneous.
A violent stretch tears through both shoulders hard enough to wrench a sound out of him before he can stop it—a sharp, involuntary gasp as every muscle across his chest locks tight in reflex. His back arches automatically against the restraints.
The position holds. Doesn’t release.
Oh, fuck that—
He sucks air carefully through his nose, fighting to force his muscles to unclench, but there’s nowhere for the strain to go. It just sits there, digging deeper into the joints with every breath.
Not sharp anymore. Heavy. Grinding.
The interrogator watches him stabilize.
“State your name.”
He laughs again, but it shakes at the edges now.
“…creative,” he manages.
Another tap. The table shifts again.
Not upward this time.
Outward.
His arms spread wider.
A white-hot bolt tears through his left shoulder so suddenly his vision flashes. He chokes on the breath that tries to escape him, fingers convulsing hard against the restraints as pain radiates down both arms in brutal, pulsing waves.
The position stops there. Held precisely at the threshold before something tears.
Tears.
His breathing loses rhythm for a second. The interrogator waits through it patiently.
“State your name.”
He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see sparks.
Don’t react.
Too late for that now.
“…go to hell,” he bites out.
Silence.
Then:
“Deflection maintained.”
The tablet chimes softly. The table does not move again.
Instead, the restraints at his wrists tighten incrementally.
Small adjustment.
Tiny.
But in this position it changes everything.
Pressure bites hard across already strained joints, forcing his arms into stricter alignment. The pain deepens instantly—less explosive than before, more invasive. A relentless pull buried deep under muscle and tendon.
His shoulders tremble. He hates that they can see it.
The interrogator’s voice remains perfectly level. “You accessed Facility Archive Seven on the nineteenth.”
His eyes open slowly.
There it is. Real questions.
He swallows against the dryness in his throat. “Sounds fake.”
“Who authorized your entry?”
He says nothing.
The strain builds by degrees now—not mechanically, but biologically. Muscles tiring. Nerves inflaming. The slow dawning realization that his body cannot maintain this position indefinitely.
That’s intentional.
The interrogator watches the silence stretch. Then asks calmly: “What did you remove?”
Another adjustment. Not wider.
Higher.
The change is minimal. The effect isn’t.
Pain lances viciously through both shoulders, deep enough now to feel nauseating. His head jerks back against the table with a muffled sound as his entire upper body strains involuntarily against the restraints.
A broken breath escapes him. His hands are shaking openly now. He can’t stop it.
The interrogator waits until his breathing starts working again. “What did you remove?”
“Nothing,” he snaps immediately.
Too fast.
The interrogator’s eyes flick briefly to the tablet.
“Stress elevation inconsistent with response confidence.”
Shit.
He turns his head sharply toward them despite the position screaming in protest. “You measuring my heartbeat now?”
“Yes.”
That shouldn’t make his stomach drop the way it does.
The interrogator steps closer.
“Who else accessed the archive?”
“No one.”
A beat.
Then the interrogator says, almost conversationally:
“That answer was truthful.”
His chest tightens.
Why tell him that?
Before he can process it—
The restraints pull wider again.
This time he actually cries out. The sound tears free before he can contain it, rough and sharp as agony rips through his left shoulder hard enough to make his entire arm spasm violently against the restraint.
For one horrifying second he thinks something dislocated. The pain surges hot and unstable through the joint, radiating down into his elbow, his wrist, his hand—
Then settles just enough to remain survivable.
Barely.
He’s breathing too fast now. He knows it. Can’t stop it.
Sweat slicks cold along the back of his neck despite the freezing room.
The interrogator studies him with clinical focus. “Why did you enter the archive?”
He laughs once—breathless, wrecked around the edges.
“You really—” he sucks in air sharply as another pulse of pain cuts through the shoulder, “—really need better security.”
The interrogator regards him silently. Then reaches down.
Not to the tablet.
To his arm.
Gloved fingers press carefully against the damaged shoulder.
Not gentle.
Precise.
Testing.
The pressure hits something deep in the joint and pain detonates instantly through his arm. He jerks hard against the restraints with a strangled sound, muscles locking uselessly as panic flashes bright and animal through his chest.
“Easy,” the interrogator says calmly.
The word almost makes him hate them.
Their fingers press again. Slightly different angle.
His vision blurs.
“Answer the question.”
“Fuck—”
Pressure. White pain spears downward through his shoulder blade hard enough to make his whole body shake.
“Why did you enter the archive?”
“I didn’t take anything!” he snaps, voice cracking violently this time.
The room goes still. Too still.
The interrogator slowly removes their hand from his shoulder.
Looks at the tablet. Then back at him.
“You did not deny entry.”
The realization hits him like another blow.
No.
No, no—
His pulse spikes so hard he can hear it.
The interrogator watches the reaction with terrible attentiveness. “Interesting,” they murmur.
He clamps his mouth shut hard enough to hurt.
Idiot.
Pain throbs relentlessly through both shoulders now, each pulse of his heartbeat grinding deeper into exhausted muscle. His arms are trembling continuously.
The interrogator returns to the chair.
Sits. Composed. Unhurried.
Like they have all the time in the world.
“You will continue answering questions.”
His breathing still won’t steady completely. “And if I don’t?”
The interrogator folds their hands again.
“Your joints will fail before the restraints do.”
Silence.
Cold and absolute.
His stomach twists hard.
Because the worst part—
The worst part is that they say it like a measurement.
Not a threat.
The tablet gives another soft tone. The interrogator looks down at it briefly.
Not because they let him. Because his body refuses to do it quickly anymore.
Awareness drags upward through layers of ache and heaviness, each breath arriving a fraction too shallow beneath a transparent mask that is now secured over his nose and mouth. Cool air moves steadily through it with a soft mechanical hiss, measured and artificial.
His eyes open to blurred white light.
For a moment he just lies there, breathing carefully through the mask while sensation catches up in pieces.
The restraints first.
Wrists secured above him again—not as high as before, but high enough to keep tension threaded continuously through both shoulders. His left arm tingles unpleasantly from elbow to fingertips, intermittent numbness breaking apart whenever he shifts even slightly.
Then the pain underneath it.
Deep. Settled.
Not the sharp, tearing agony from before. This feels older now, worked into the joints themselves after hours of strain. Every muscle across his chest and upper back aches with the dull instability of overuse.
They didn’t let him recover properly.
The realization comes without surprise.
Nothing here resets. It only progresses.
A shape moves quietly near the foot of the table.
The interrogator.
Already working.
A monitor beside them casts pale reflected light across one sleeve while streams of data slide silently down the screen. Numbers pulse and shift in careful sequence, updating in real time with each breath he takes inside the mask.
The interrogator notices his eyes open.
“Conscious,” they say.
Not to him.
A second voice answers somewhere beyond his field of view.
“Recording resumed.”
Something cold settles low in his stomach.
He turns his head slightly. The movement sends a tight pull through both shoulders hard enough to sharpen his breathing for a second.
Immediately, one of the numbers on the monitor spikes.
The interrogator watches it happen.
Not him.
The screen.
He stares at them through the clear surface of the mask.
“You people ever get tired of narrating my existence?”
A soft tone sounds from the monitor.
The interrogator glances briefly toward it.
“Verbal engagement remains stable.”
He lets out a dry laugh beneath the mask, then regrets it instantly when the movement drags fresh pain through his chest.
Even the jokes count as data here.
The thought hits harder than it should.
The interrogator steps closer, tablet resting loosely in one hand.
“Session continuation authorized,” they say calmly. “Concurrent extraction and protocol collection remain active.”
Protocol collection. Not interrogation. Not questioning.
The wording settles unpleasantly into place.
His gaze shifts past them toward the equipment lining the far counter now—organized trays, sealed instruments, monitoring arrays quietly cycling through status indicators. Everything arranged with the same sterile precision as before.
Not improvised.
Prepared.
This was never punishment. Punishment implies emotion.
This feels administrative.
The mask hisses softly as he exhales.
“What exactly do you people call this?” he asks.
The interrogator adjusts something on the tablet without looking up. “Protocol advancement.”
Like they’re discussing software.
His pulse ticks upward before he can stop it.
The monitor records that too.
The interrogator watches the change with mild attention, then reaches toward the side of the mask.
A quiet click follows.
The airflow changes almost imperceptibly.
At first he thinks it’s psychological. The kind of thing you imagine once attention gets fixed on breathing.
Then his next inhale arrives thinner than expected.
Not absent.
Reduced.
His lungs pull automatically for more air that doesn’t quite come.
His chest tightens reflexively.
The interrogator studies the monitor. “Initial response remains anticipatory.”
“Aw,” he says tightly, “you say the sweetest things.”
No answer.
The airflow remains steady at the reduced level, forcing his body into an awareness it can’t fully ignore. Every inhale now arrives with the faint instinctive sense that something is missing—not enough to panic yet, but enough that his breathing starts regulating itself around the deficit.
Slower. Deeper. Careful.
The monitor tracks all of it.
His eyes narrow slightly.
The interrogator still isn’t really watching him. Their attention stays fixed mostly on the data feed.
The breathing. The pulse.
The oxygen saturation steadily recalculating itself on the screen.
The questions come almost second.
“What was stored in Archive Seven?”
His jaw tightens.
“No idea.”
A pause. Not dramatic. Not threatening.
Just procedural.
The interrogator taps the tablet once.
The airflow lowers another fraction.
His next breath catches unevenly in his chest.
Not enough air. Not enough to hurt him.
Enough that his body notices immediately.
Adrenaline flickers low beneath his ribs.
The interrogator watches the monitor carefully as his breathing shifts around the restriction.
“Compensation begins quickly,” they murmur.
Again—not really to him.
His stomach twists.
The questions continue.
“Who provided access authorization?”
“No one.”
“Incorrect.”
No anger. No satisfaction. Just data correction.
The mask hisses softly with each measured breath he forces himself to take. He can feel his pulse now, heavy and intrusive beneath his skin.
The interrogator makes another adjustment.
This time the change is immediate.
The next inhale stops halfway.
His body reacts violently before thought catches up.
He jerks hard against the restraints, shoulders screaming as instinct tears through him in one savage pulse of panic. His lungs pull sharply against sudden resistance that isn’t there anymore—
Air.
Need air—
Then the flow returns.
Not fully. Enough.
He drags in a harsh breath through the mask, pulse hammering wildly now as adrenaline crashes through his bloodstream.
The monitor emits a soft confirmation tone.
“Elevated response achieved,” the interrogator says quietly.
His breathing refuses to settle completely.
The worst part is how fast his body learned the fear. One interruption and now every breath arrives waiting for the next one to fail.
The interrogator studies the screen.
“Interesting.”
He laughs shakily despite himself. “You keep saying that like I’m a science fair project.”
No response.
The interrogator adjusts the tablet again. New readings slide onto the monitor.
Graphs.
Response curves.
Comparative metrics.
His stomach drops slowly as he realizes what he’s looking at.
Previous sessions.
They’re comparing him against himself.
Tracking progression.
Not interrogation results.
Adaptation.
The questions continue almost casually through the analysis.
“What designation were you searching for?”
“Wasn’t searching for anything.”
Another adjustment.
Airflow reduction increases. Not enough to choke him. Enough that speech starts costing breath.
His chest rises harder now with every inhale, lungs unconsciously overcompensating against the restriction while he fights to keep the effort from becoming obvious.
The interrogator finally looks directly at him. “Your resistance metrics exceeded qualification thresholds.”
The words cut through the haze immediately.
Qualification. Not selection. Not targeting.
Administrative language. Clinical. Cold.
The interrogator continues evenly. “The archive breach simplified protocol approval.”
A horrible understanding settles into place piece by piece.
The crime.
The capture.
The testing.
Not separate events.
Connected.
He was useful before they ever took him.
The monitor tones softly again.
His pulse just jumped. The interrogator notices.
Of course they do.
“Cognitive stress increasing,” they note.
Like weather conditions.
He stares at the ceiling, breathing carefully through lungs that still can’t quite fill properly anymore.
“How many people,” he asks quietly, “have gone through this?”
The interrogator doesn’t answer immediately. Their eyes remain on the monitor while another set of measurements scrolls across the screen. Then:
“Few produce viable long-term data.”
Something cold crawls slowly down his spine. Not because of what they said.
Because of how they said it.
Matter-of-fact.
Like durability is the only meaningful distinction.
The airflow drops again.
His next breath fails completely.
Panic detonates through him instantly. His entire body strains violently against the restraints as instinct overwhelms thought, lungs pulling hard against sudden emptiness while his pulse erupts into chaos.
No air.
No warning.
His shoulders wrench painfully as his body fights restraints it cannot beat. Heat flashes across his vision, sharp and immediate, survival instinct drowning everything else beneath raw animal urgency.
Then airflow slams back into the mask.
He gasps hard enough to choke, dragging air into burning lungs while tremors ripple uncontrollably through his arms.
The monitor sings softly somewhere beside him.
The interrogator watches the data.
Not him.
The realization settles slowly and horribly into place.
The questions matter. But not as much as the responses. They aren’t hurting him to get answers.
They’re getting answers because the procedure is already running.
His breathing stutters unevenly behind the mask.
The interrogator studies the monitor another moment before speaking again. “We know you did not enter Archive Seven alone.”
His pulse spikes immediately.
Damn it.
The interrogator’s eyes flick briefly toward the screen. “Significant recognition response.”
He turns his head sharply away, jaw tightening hard enough to hurt.
Too late.
The interrogator steps closer to the table. “Where is the second individual involved in the breach?”
Silence.
He focuses hard on controlling his breathing instead.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Ignore the ache in his shoulders.
Ignore the panic still clawing through his chest.
Ignore the monitor recording every failure in real time.
The interrogator waits. Patient.
Then:
“Where is he?”
His eyes snap toward them.
Tiny movement.
Instantly logged.
The monitor tone changes.
Shit.
The airflow cuts completely.
Panic crushes through him all at once. His body arches hard against the restraints, breath failing instantly as his lungs seize around sudden emptiness. Every rational thought vanishes beneath primal need while his pulse hammers violently against his ribs.
Need air—
Need—
The flow returns abruptly.
He sucks in a ragged breath that breaks apart halfway into a cough.
And before he can stop himself—
“He doesn’t know anything—”
Silence.
The words hang there.
His own voice sounds distant suddenly.
The monitor emits a long, soft confirmation tone.
The interrogator goes still.
Not surprised.
Satisfied.
His stomach drops out completely.
No.
No no no—
The interrogator lowers the tablet slightly, eyes fixed on the data stream updating across the screen.
“Unintentional protective disclosure confirmed,” they say quietly.
Not to him.
To the system. To the record.
The interrogator turns toward the observation window built seamlessly into the far wall—so invisible he hadn’t noticed it before.
Someone stands behind the glass.
Watching.
The interrogator speaks toward them without looking away. “Protocol response successful.”
● Doesn't give it to them unless they stop behaving in a certain way or start doing/acting how Whumper wants.
●Hides away their meds and makes them search for it or makes Whumpee choose/guess between other pills they do not know.
●Actually gives them their medication in secrit (hidden in food or while their sleeping) but tells them that they haven't been taking it so Whumpee gets more and more panicked and starts imagining their symptoms.
Pins inside of collars to keep people's chins up and alert
Caretaker's being known only by their eyes due to a medical face mask
Wearing concealing clothes or masks to hide previous scars, open wounds, or visible curses
Face masks, covers, and muzzles to "protect" others from a nonhuman character
Bangles, jewelry, and grandiose decor hanging off of a pet whumpee
A curse that puts a visible marking on the skin, growing in complexity as it continues to spread. New ways need to be found to cover it up, and soothe the pain.
Harnesses that are a little to tight. Corsets that make it a little hard to breathe. Chokers that are way too snug.
Bulletproof armor that is completely pierced through, blood starting to spurt out.
Jewelry that is so heavy it causes its wearer to bow their head or always keep their arms low.
Clothes that no longer fit right, leaving their wearers swimming them. If only they still had the weight.
A soldier screaming from inside their power suit, the disabled electronics unable to let them free.
Whumpee running away from their whumper finds their clothes caught on something.
Caretaker wrestling the helmet off of a slumpt body, to see if they're still breathing.
Wiping blood off of their visor, trying to see the wound they're patching, only to have to wipe again.
A battered and beaten set of armor stumbled its way in, their knees buckling, and the scrap of materials of meeting the flooring cried.
Whumpee successfully escape but now their torn and tattered clothing leaves them exposed to the elements.
Caretaker throwing their jacket onto a hypothermic whumpee.
Jewelry that is sharp enough to cut skin.
Whumpee mopping up their own sweat with removed articles of clothing while undergoing heat exhaustion.
Caretaker pulling back whumpee's hoodie to find chunks of whumpee's hair missing
Whumper calming Whumpee down when they're having a panic attack? Anyone? 🦋
Loosening their restraints and holding their hands.
Pulling the gag away from their mouth so they can drag in a proper breath because they're sobbing/hiccuping/hyperventilating.
Brutal hands that inflict so much pain turning soft - a hand carded through their hair, warm palm placed on Whumpee's heaving chest as they're asked to mimic Whumper's breathing. Wiping the tears away.
Offering a sip of water. Offering them praise like; "It's okay, deep breaths," "Not long now, whumpee", "You're being so good for me."
And once Whumpee's finally calm and regulated?
Back to work 😍
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