For when the whump ideas in my head need to LEAVE

An Example I can think of is a historical fiction where Caretaker is a royal put on house arrest at Whumper’s manor/palace/estate and Whumpee is a servant working under Whumper. Due to Caretaker being a Royal, Whumper respects them and treats them okay (despite them technically being imprisoned) but Whumpee? Ohhh, Whumpee is just some low life, they can get abused! And then Caretaker sees Whumpee is hurt or gets hurt and they are appalled.

Or maybe Caretaker is an extremely valuable prisoner somewhere that Whumper’s people can’t risk hurting and Whumpee works as something where Caretaker is held but they aren’t involved in anything whumpy but for some reason they have Whumper’s whole obsession and attention and Caretaker—the actual prisoner—is getting hurt way less if at all than Whumpee, the person technically not imprisoned here.

hello!! that makes me so happy :) oo medieval whump i haven't read much of it but;;

royal whumpee captured and treated like one of the prizes— displayed for all to see, the ultimate showcase of an empire falling, of a public humiliation to really drive the defeat home. bonus points if someone they loved is in shackles as well, their rage and heartbreak prominent in the lines of their expression. whumpee never wanted to be seen in such a state. especially not by them.

servant whumpee who is effectively treated as a punching bag. their sole purpose is to keep whumper in a good mood. whether this leads to broken bones, painful burns, bloody gashes— doesn’t matter. imagining whumpee getting up to follow whumper to their next meeting, as they get in the carriage, and whumpee has to limp all the way to their destination. augh.

"I had to get out." hero defends, "i just couldn't take it anymore."

Whumpee made to dig their own grave. They're driven out, they dig the whole thing, they're made to lay down in it, but Whumper doesn't get them up. Whumper starts shoveling the dirt in on top of them, to the point that their head is covered, and only uncovers them once they're sure that Whumpee has actually begun to suffocate.

Or a Whumpee who's taken out back. Made to kneel, gun to their head. They beg and plead, but the gun actually fires. Maybe it just fires into the ground beside them, or maybe it fires into Whumpee, just not in a fatal place. Still- Whumpee wasn't expecting them to actually fire it.

very short

(Content: sickfic, fever, dehumanization, living weapon whumpee)

Delta’s eyes flickered once again to the thermometer, and again back to Martino. The doctor’s expression was unreadable — marred with the same fixed displeasure it always had, but nothing more telling than that. No indication of how bad it could be. The number itself didn’t mean much. What mattered was where the heat was coming from, how much he could feel it. But Delta felt cold and clammy, all the way through.

Paris was there, eyes tracking the same paths, making things worse.

“So?” he asked, impatient.

Martino shook his head. Paris huffed, the sharp flare of anger seeming to emanate its own dry and sudden heat. Like opening an oven door. 

“I can do it,” Delta offered weakly, to assuage him. He’d done worse. Surely he’d done worse. He’d much rather push through a fever than a migraine, and he’d done the latter dozens of times.

“He says he can do it,” Paris echoed.

“He’s only saying that because he’s afraid of you.” Martino glared at the both of them. “It isn’t up to him. It’s my call. And you be quiet.”

He tugged sharply at Delta’s hair, eliciting a soft yelp of pain. Delta threw his hand over his mouth immediately, embarrassed. He waited to be hit again for the noise, but nobody bothered.

Paris flinched, then shook his head. To clear it? As if needed anymore fucking emptying.

“Then what’s your call?” He followed Martino as the doctor began his retreat back to the desk. Delta listened intently, but was careful not to turn his head. He felt an odd pressure in his ears. It hurt his balance.

“…If it clears up within the next couple days, you should be fine. But if the fever gets higher, I’m not signing off on anything.”

~

A week passed, and the fever was unmistakably worsening. Those fucking morons had gotten him on antibiotics too late, and he’d yet to see the effects of it. He probably wouldn’t even begin to improve until after the scheduled launch, and wouldn’t be in good form until well after the window had closed. 

Paris had held onto a stubborn, delusional hope that he’d pull through in time. But it was obvious that Delta was deteriorating — it was measured in the total inability to hang onto his surroundings for more than a few seconds at a time. Simon was tending to him, at least. But they went through the same conversations again and again. He reminded him where he was, that he was fine, and that he didn’t need to worry about work right now. It was only the last thing that seemed to really calm him.

Paris bit the inside of his cheek until it drew blood. He interrupted: “Who said that?”

Simon sighed, glancing back at him. 

“Be serious, Your Highness. Look at him.”

Delta, for his part, was only looking down. His face was mostly obscured beneath the veil of long, dark hair. Simon seemed to have the same thought, and began to braid it back and out of his face.

“It’s that bad?” Paris asked, hissing in frustration. He knew it was a useless question. He could see well enough.

“Fine. Fine! We delay it. Whole fucking warfront might be moved by the time we get back to it, but whatever, at least he gets to sleep.”

The room watched the prince in a moment of enduring, confused silence. Except for Delta, whose eyes remained clouded and unfocused, and whole head was practically lolling on his neck.

“…I’m going to interpret that literally,” Simon said gently.

“I was being literal!”

“Of course, Your Highness. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

It was unclear if Delta could appreciate anything in the moment. They left him there on the mattress, still fully clothed. That was more or less procedure whenever he fainted, but it seemed a particular waste when he hadn’t even made it out onto the ground this time. The doctor would probably move him to his own bed soon enough, but that would only happen when all the other equipment was being moved again too. 

Delta had been left alone, but he wasn’t out yet. His eyes were still open, barely, and he kept himself propped up one elbow as if still waiting for orders.

“Shh. Go back to sleep,” Paris ordered him. His voice was quieter when there was nobody else around. “You’re fine. You heard me? We’re going to push it back a week.”

Delta nodded. His eyes closed just as soon as he was given permission to, and he started to lower fully onto the bed. Paris couldn’t resist.

“Aht, aht. Hey.” He stepped forward, lightly cupping Delta’s face and tilting it up. “What do we say?”

“Thank you, sir,” he muttered sleepily.

Aww. Paris released him, letting him flop back down against the pillow.

whumpee's back hits the door and they try the handle, "how did you..."