Putting all my whump stuff here because apparently torturing people is "socially unacceptable." Mostly silvergifting right now and for the foreseeable future
The embarrassment as drool drips down around the gag from the corners of their mouth
Bruising and chafing that is very difficult to hide
Whumpee wearing a mask to cover it up
Or Whumper taking them to an event and forcing whumpee to wear a mask to hide the gag, while people at the event marvel at how ‘well trained’ and ‘quiet’ Whumpee is
Taped mouth. Duct tape pressed over lips. The smell of the adhesive. The residue it leaves behind. The tightness of it, the way it pulls at the skin.
The immediate control it gives Whumper. Pinch Whumpee’s nose shut and suddenly you have a writhing, spasming victim.
Or better yet, tape their nose shut. Make them believe this is how it ends, suffocating behind that plasticky scent, helpless
Sew their lips shut. The intimacy of it, the wincing every time the needle pierces their flesh — or maybe Whumper numbed it first, and Whumpee can only watch in the mirror as their mouth is stitched up, utterly silenced
The little noises Whumpee makes. The breathing around the gag. The whines, the panicked “mmmph”s as they realise the words aren’t coming. Maybe they try anyway, sounding stupid as they fail to hurl insults
Caretaker carefully removing a gag, horrified at the thought of Whumpee humiliated like this, their autonomy stripped
Caretaker gagging Whumpee to keep them quiet while they escape. The quiet “I’m sorry”s. The betrayal in Whumpee’s eyes; or maybe it’s acceptance.
Whumpee waking up to realise they are muzzled, the immediate dehumanisation, the panic to realise they can’t move their jaw, the laboured breaths to the thick leather or even metal strapped and pressing into their face
Cut out their vocal cords. Do it. Whumpee can't even make a sound. And they never will again.
Or cut out their tongue, the feeling of something wrong in their mouth, the horrific stump it leaves behind, the shapeless screaming it causes
There is a 48 hour black-out planned for the 18th of March -> aka sometime in the next day or so depending on your location.
This is in protest of the new notes feature, quite frankly I believe that it is atrocious and I am not afraid to make that known.
It is a small action for individuals but it will show Tumblr how much everyone is against this new change and hopefully it'll prompt them to take some action.
I participated in the shapes.inc blackout as much as I was able. I shall be participating in this one too, and I strongly recommend that all my beautiful moots and followers please please please spread the word and join in the blackout.
Ahah fun idea here, tie your Whumpee to a fence post or something indirect sunlight. Make sure it’s a really hot, bright day outside. Cut away their shirt, make sure they’re tied to the fence face-first so their back gets the worst of the burns.
Bring them inside when the sun starts to set, then have your Whumper whip them with a belt.
No preference! There's different things you can do with every age group.
With kid whumpees, you can add worried parents, surrogate parental figures, and self-sacrificing fellow whumpees who can't stand to see a kid get hurt.
With young adult whumpees (18-30ish), you can harp on lasting injuries. They're in the prime of their life! What do you mean they'll be dealing with the repercussions of this forever!? Also, in the 18-younger 20 something range, you can inject a good amount of isolation and "no one's coming for you" into the narrative. That's probably one of the loneliest times in a lot of people's lives. They've just left their family and hometown behind to strike out on their own, they haven't gotten the hang of adult friendships yet, and they're less likely to have kids or spouses.
With middle adult whumpees (30s and 40s), they're much more likely to have built a strong social group by then, so you can have a whole community worried about them. OR you can have that community abandon them (or have whumper be someone FROM their community) and inject some betrayal!
For older adult whumpees (50s and 60s), there's a HUGE opportunity for self-sacrifice in a multiple whumpees situation -- after all, they've lived most of their life. You could also have adult children looking for them/worried about them. This range is also ideal for politically powerful whumpees (like senators or high-up government agents) who aren't used to not being in charge.
And finally, elderly whumpees! You can inject a lot of confusion in the fic if they're mentally declining (also a good excuse to write non-linearly) AND they either have a lot of people worried about them or nobody at all (bringing back the isolation). It also makes a strong statement about the whumper. Why on earth are you trying to hurt Granny/Peepaw!?
Defensive bite! I actually have a little whump story that I'm never planning to actually write where defiant child whumpee is being interrogated and, for whatever reason, maybe intimidation, whumper puts their finger in whumpee's mouth
And whumpee bites it off
Whumper is obviously furious and doesn't know how to handle it, so they decide they're done and drag whumpee back to their cell (where their parents are, probably terrified and furious at the same time) and start yelling at whumpee.
Whumpee responds by spitting their bitten-off finger at them
(The parents are equal parts horrified and proud 🤣)
I feel like most of whump post-rescue focuses on the physical scars and specifically psychological trauma (which are very important to explore as well!), but cognitive damage is an underutilized topic.
Depending on the whump (beatings, isolation, oxygen deprivation, electric shocks, even magic) there can be a lot of different consequences to the brain and its functions. I'll list some examples.
Brain fog and slower processing speed.
Thinking is becoming so much more difficult and energy consuming. Before the whump, character had lightning fast reflexes, could spot patterns and connections in seconds and could adapt to any situation. Now every task takes twice as long and they feel utterly exhausted at the end of it. Maybe some more complicated tasks have simply become impossible.
Losing the ability to read and/or write.
They used to spend hours reading, writing, journaling. Now the letters have just become incoherent shapes, constantly blurring and losing meaning. One day someone asks character to write down their name and with tears in their eyes they have to discover that they're simply not able to.
Memory loss, both retrograde and anterograde.
Before the whump, character's memory was a source of pride for them. No matter if it was faces, random facts or important dates. Now all of that is lost. Familiar faces wiped and all wisdom of important topics lost (retrograde amnesia). At the same time, character is slowly realizing that retaining new information after their rescue is also not as effective as it used to be. They met someone new just yesterday, how is it possible that they can't remember their name or anything of their conversation (anterograde amnesia)?
Previous abilities disappearing.
Different brain areas are important for different talents. Maybe character was a math genius before, had exceptional balance and body control or could compose music like no other. But during the whump, that specific part of their brain got damaged and now they are unable to do what gave their life meaning and what made them so unique.
All of those usually go along with heavy self-doubt and an identity crisis. Character will probably get frustrated at failing something that used to take no effort at all. Maybe they will lose their sense of identity as abilities that used to define them are stripped away.
But most people in real life also become more resilient and adapt to their new circumstances (often simply out of necessity). They will find creative ways to deal with the challenges in their lives and build a new sense of self.
Febuwhump Day 23: Environmental Whump (alt prompt)
@febuwhump
Fandom: OCs (Cerrin of Pyrea)
Content: Male whumpee, male whumpers, multiple whumpers, exposed to the elements, tied up in a storm
Warning: Suicidal ideation
Words: 1,700 (oooh nice round number)
Note: Follow-up to Day 10.
As Cerrin was dragged to his feet, he couldn’t stop himself from moaning in pain from the way the lashes from the whip were stretched and twisted. He could feel blood trickling down his back as he collapsed against one of the guards, unable to stand under his own power.
“Take him to the balcony,” Gadric said. “He can spend the night there.”
The guards grabbed Cerrin by the shoulders and dragged him out of the room, and Cerrin couldn’t even find the strength to try and walk for himself. He was still cursing himself for his failed assault on Gadric, and walking under his own power toward more torture was more involved than he cared to be just then.
They dragged him down a hallway, then up a flight of stairs, around a corner, and up another flight, and finally through a large set of double doors. Cerrin could see ornate tile beneath his feet, as he was dragged across what seemed to be a large room. He looked up to see that it was, a long, wide room that opened on one end to a balcony overlooking the ocean. On that balcony were two wooden posts, with shackles hanging from them.
The guards reached the posts and released him, and he collapsed to the floor. The railing was not high, and even from his half-kneeling position he could see that he was high above the water, at the top of the sheer cliffs that dropped perhaps sixty feet down to the ocean below on most sides of the Grim Isle. Far below, he could barely make out the shape of the razor-sharp rocks that surrounded the island, indistinct among the white-crested waves that broke on the base of the cliffs. A rotting shipwreck could be seen, far away, where some vessel had run afoul of those rocks, the mast broken in half, the sails tattered rags fluttering in the wind.
The sky was grey and overcast, and Cerrin could smell rain on the air.
Rough hands grasped his shoulders again and dragged him upright and he cried out, squeezing his eyes shut against the burning on his back and arms. He cried out again as his hands were unbound and his arms forced to the sides, the lacerations from the whip-strokes that had caught his arms and shoulderblades stretching as they forced his wrists into the cuffs on the two posts, restraining him with his arms spread above his head.
As soon as they released him, he slumped in the chains, hanging limply from his arms, but he struggled to draw in a breath in that position, and in desperation he dragged his right foot forward and tried to get it under him to relieve some of his weight from his wrists and shoulders.
A snort of amusement from behind him was all the warning he got before someone kicked his legs apart and his weight jerked downward. He let out a helpless, pained grunt, already feeling the strain in his shoulders and the iron cuffs cutting into his wrists. The hands were on his legs now, restraining them in cuffs attached to the base of the posts so he was forced to stand with his legs spread; not too wide, but wide enough to be uncomfortable, and he could feel the strain in his thighs as he did his level best to pull himself up and get his weight off of his arms.
He looked up, licking chapped lips as he met the eyes of one of the guards who was standing before him, and then he felt the chill of a stiff evening breeze on his bare chest and arms and the shiver that wracked his body left his head hanging limply again. It wasn’t even that cold, he thought, but the blood loss and pain and his lack of a shirt or shoes left him trembling.
Someone grabbed his hair and forced his head up and then something was pulled over his head. He tried halfheartedly to duck away from it, but to no avail, and a moment later he found himself looking at the inside of what seemed to be a brown burlap sack. He felt the mouth of the bag tighten as drawstrings were pulled, cinching it not quite as tight as the collar, but tight enough that it wouldn’t come off, and then someone tied the cords together at the front of his throat and condescendingly patted the side of the bag. They were probably aiming for Cerrin’s cheek, but they ended up tapping his left temple.
“To keep your face intact,” the guard said, and Cerrin let his head slump against his chest again, focusing all his attention on remaining standing so that his weight would not be left hanging from his wrists. He heard footsteps walking away, and then there was silence, unbroken but for the gentle rustling of the wind and his own shaking breaths.
He was alone, so he didn’t put any effort into repressing the shaking, and a moment later he found himself crying, gasping for breath and letting out great heaving sobs into the bag on his head. He was in so much pain, he had been restrained in a way that was designed to be uncomfortable, it was hard to take deep breaths with his arms stretched out and up as they were, and he didn’t know what was going to happen to him next. He could do nothing but stand there, hands wrapped around the short chains that kept them tied to the posts, and cry, for the pain, the fear, and the brutal, horrible frustration that he could have ended it -- he could have killed Gadric, if only the guards had been a little slower to activate his collar, or he a little faster, or perhaps if he had opted to try and break Gadric’s neck, rather than strangling him.
The wind picked up and he felt himself shiver, sending waves of pain up and down his back, and a different pain flaring in his shoulders. Something bright lit up the fabric of the bag for a split second and then a moment later he heard the thunder. There was a storm rolling in.
And Gadric had said he was to spend the night here.
Cerrin tried to curl in on himself as the first raindrops fell from the sky, but restrained as he was it was impossible, and the attempt did nothing but send pain rolling down his back as he stretched the whip-wounds. Effectively blinded by the bag, the water hitting his skin felt sharper and louder, and although it was not falling fast enough to hurt, nor was it very cold, he felt himself flinching away.
At first the rain was light, just a few drops here and there, and long periods where Cerrin could feel only the cold evening wind, but as the storm loomed closer it became harder and more constant. He couldn’t tell if the raindrops were getting colder or if they simply felt colder because his body heat had been sapped by the wind. A shiver shook his whole body.
The rain was hard and fast now, and as the water ran down his back it set the whip-lashes stinging again, the torment multiplied by his desperate, uncontrollable shivers. And then, the first burst of rain that was really, honestly painful, whipped by the wind to hit his numbing skin like a knife. He let out a gasp of pain, and then another as it happened again. A flash, and then thunder rumbled close by. The bag over his head was soaking wet, and he wondered if he was getting enough air through it. If he didn’t die of the exposure, maybe the waterlogged bag would suffocate him.
Part of him wondered if that wouldn’t be for the best. If he died, he could not be made to give up rightful rulership of Pyrea to Hera. No one could. He had no heir.
The wind whistled in the crags of the cliff below, and he heard waves crashing against stone, or thought he did. The rain was pounding against his exposed skin, stinging and leaving it numb. He no longer felt cold, but his body was still wracked with involuntary shivers. And he was tired.
His head already hung limp against his chest, but he found himself losing the will to stand on his own two feet, especially with the way they were spread, forcing him to focus on keeping his weight centered on them. He knew that if he stopped his weight would hang from his arms, but he slowly found himself caring less and less. It would hurt, he told himself, but even as he thought it he sank downward, letting his arms take his weight. It did hurt, more even than he expected, burning pain from the strain on the tendons in his shoulders and wrists radiating up and down his arms and back and sending shooting pains into the top of his skull, but the thought of fighting to get his feet under him again was overwhelming.
An especially violent shiver wracked his body, and he could not bite back a loud, keening moan as it redoubled the pain in his shoulders. He liked being outside in the rain, feeling the water in his hair, smelling the clean air, watching the raindrops splash into puddles. How ironic, that it would kill him, for he was certain he would not survive this. Gadric had spoken of killing him, and this, Cerrin supposed, was how he was going to do it. He took a deep, shaky breath, and let it out as a desperate, pained laugh. Gadric still did not know why Hera needed his legal claim to the Pyrean throne. If he did, he would not dare make an enemy of Hera by killing Cerrin. That one secret that he had desperately kept through everything had been the key to his victory. He would die, but the royal line of Pyrea would die with him, and its people would be free.
With that thought in his mind, he slipped at last into unconsciousness.
Content: concussion, torture, drugging, bad drug trip, sadistic whumper, royal whumpee
Cinn woke slowly, head aching. At some point while he was unconscious, his hands had been unbound, though his ankle was again shackled. Rubbing his raw, scabbing wrists, he tried to sit up, only for a wave of light-headedness to crash into him and send him back to the floor. His stomach roiled, reminding him it had been days since he had eaten. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his midsection. His head reeled and the bars and stone of the cell seemed to spin about him.
Unconsciousness took him again.
The next time he opened his eyes, a tray had been placed in the cell, a wooden bowl with gruel and a mug of water. He dragged himself to it. Hunger gnawed his ribs but his stomach rolled rebelliously. Slowly he forced himself to take a small bite, then a sip of water. The gruel was cooled, bland and thick with a unpleasant earthy taste as if dirt had been mixed into it, the water chalky with a bitter tang. But hunger and dehydration were overpowering. Little by little, he made himself down the gruel and sip the water.
When it was done, he lay back down on the hard floor.
His head felt strange in a way he could not identify. Shadows seemed to dance and waver, circling around him. His heart raced, chest tightened, head spun. Time seemed to swirl around him as the shadows tightened in with angry claws.
His mind felt distant, or was it his body?
Panic gripped him and the walls felt like they were closing in. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
He was going to die here.
Trapped in the dark.
Alone.
He distantly felt his body curled up, rocking back and forth in the dark.
The barred door of the cell clanged loudly, slamming his consciousness back to his form. A leering face, distorted and vicious, loomed above him.
His reeling mind vaguely recognized the soldier from his torture, the one whose brother had died.
“What… what did you do to me?”
“My brother suffered poison from your people, now it is your turn.”
He’d poisoned him?
Poisoned him!
He was going to die.
The pain would end?
The pain would end!
The young king laughed then, long and wild. “If you’ve killed me, the general will take your head!”
The leering face sneered at him. “Oh no, you won’t die, but you will wish you had!”
The brief moment of giddiness was replaced with crashing dread. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. Everything spun.
A booted foot drove into his side. His cracked rib erupted with shooting pain through his body and he screamed.
“None of that now, not that loud.”
The soldier slammed Cinn to the ground and forced a gag into his mouth to muffle his screams.
The young man’s senses were exploding. The fabric tasted foul, the rough weave abrading his tongue and cheeks. Tears ran down his cheeks unbidden and he tasted their salt.
A prick of ice-cold steel touched his back and he flinched away.
The soldier ‘tsk’-ed mockingly and pressed his knee hard against the young man’s back, forcing him immobile against the stone.
Sharp hot pain bloomed in his back as the knife sliced a short line in his skin. Every sensation was heightened. The cut was like a line of cold fire.
Another cut. Small and sharp.
Another.
Another.
“One,” the soldier informed him, voice hissing, “for every man in my brother’s troop who fell to your coward people’s tricks.”
The young king lost count of the marks carved across his back. All he knew was that he was suspended in an eternity of constant pain spiked with intermittent sharpness multiplying the background agony as the world spun around him.
Eventually the pressure on his back lifted. He distantly heard the cell door clang and lock. His mind felt miles away, floating, until unconscious finally took him again.
Personal possessions that theyre given full ownership of. Nobody can touch their stuff without their permission and that's. That's never been a thing before.
Being able to leave their living space a little messy. There is no handler to come in for inspection and beat them bloody for not doing their bed
Sitting down in soft, padded couches instead of having to stay on their feet lest be considered lazy for "slacking off on duty"
Choosing how they want to be called
Consent. People only touch them if they ask first, and if they say yes.
Having their "no" respected.
Having their opinion on things considered and taken seriously in general
Being taken care of when sick or having a bad day
Being held and soothed through a difficult moment instead of yelled at and told to get it together
Having money of their own. Financial agency to buy things for themselves, without having to ask anyone else, without having to depend on caretaker for gifts. It's their call. They can get whatever they want
need That character absolutely delirious with fear. recoiling from everything. unable to parse what's happening around them, their mind stuck in fight or flight. shaking and hyperventilating. completely unconsolable even as they're wrapped in a crushing hug.
ik there have been similar asks but hear me out... how about a whumpee who is in an ongoing bad and dangerous situation they can't really escape where they get abused and raped and they've never really had a positive and consensual sexual encounter. they know what they're going through is wrong, but they just have point of comparison for it. this is the only thing they know. eventually they meet caretaker who is someone they trust and who knows what is going on but can't help them other than be there emotionally. and whumpee trusts caretaker a lot so one day they just ask if they can have sex together. just normally. and caretaker is confused and worried and thinks this is some trauma response or conditioning but whumpee tells them that they just... want to know what it's like. when it's with someone they trust and who won't hurt them. when it's not something they're forced into but instead actually want it.
is this something? i hope it's something
oh i'm always ALWAYS thinking about and wanting to discuss this. i'll do it 100 more times, i love this sort of thing so much.
ugh when it's all they know... when it's their whole experience. they don't know if they like sex at all. they don't know how it's supposed to feel. but they want to know. they want that experience - the experience of being safe, and being sexually intimate with someone who they trust and who knows that they were abused.
that knowledge of the sexual violence they've suffered is a thing that particularly grips me so much. this is a person who knows that they were raped, who knows that there are reasons that sex is something that is REALLY complicated for them and has been shadowed so heavily by immense suffering. this person also is still able to see someone capable of saying yes - and that's such a fascinating thing to me. the emphasis in healing not only of the right to say no, but the right to say yes, too. to say yes and have their yes trusted. to be seen as someone who can be sexually desirable, who isn't utterly ruined and contaminated by their victimization.
(i love both ends there - recovery from sexual violence that involves an emphasis on never, ever having to engage in sex again and have that respected as a healthy choice, and recovery that involves figuring out how to have a good relationship to sex. and this is a fun sort of version too, of just... they don't know. they don't know if they want to have sex again, but they want to try. and this is the person they most want to try with.)
the concern that this is coming from a place of... self harm, really, from whumpee, or a sense of being obligated to have sex with this person, is completely understandable. and can be a reassurance to whumpee, too - they only want to do this with me if i actually want it. that re-emphasis on this person can help protect me from the ways that this could be a risky thing for me to do.
oh yes this is something. this is so much. i love this. i'm always ready to talk about this forever and ever.
defiant whumpee attacking their rescuers!! so used to pain that they expect it from everyone they meet. so terrified of being hurt again that they'd rather claw and bite anyone who dares getting too close.
it would take a lot of patience and a gentle hand for someone to finally earn their trust
