Hi 👋. This blog is for everything whump-related I like. No specific tropes bc i haven't found something I dislike yet but probably some recovery whump, living weapon.
#bposts for my posts, #bwrites for anything I've written. ive listed things i've written below.
I HAVE A PLOT IN MIND AND THINGS ARE BEING WRITTEN I SWEAR THERELL BESTUFFS IN THE FUTURE:
Commander: X, Names
Where the big evil scary commander of the kingdom was really just a slave and the resistance wants to be better and they can't just execute him - right? They have to teach him how to be a person.
Raised: Rescue, Welcome Home, darting, Leave it , Welcome Home (take II)
Vampire raised as a slave in a country of humans, brought to a multispecies country and abandoned. In the care of the people who found him.
Nathan: Welcome
Slave being brought home and discovering what life with his master is like <3
Hound: boring, Technically Successful.
Guard who was sacrificed for his young master, got released, and now has to learn how to live normally.
One shots (technically. for now.) :
Happy Birthday : vampire whumper tries to do something nice for their pet <3
Dinner : Whumper tries to be nice and feeds whumpee.
Yes, sir: War prisoner who maybe finally broke. Someone should really teach him that that's not what his orders are.
Made: Either you do it or I make you. I don't mind either way so I'll let you choose. am I not kind?
the sun is a deadly laser: ex-hunter fledgling has a bad experience with the Sun and is Very Scared of her sire.
Yes, Your Majesty: Royal whump. King whumpee and gray eminence whumper, who is very displeased at having been opposed. publicly.
Lesson: wealthy influential family decided to go against the family of assassins. someone teaches them a lesson. 😇.
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Mock execution that stops just a little later than you'd think it would.
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.
Maybe it's not the first time a mock execution has happened. Maybe Whumpee goes through the motions thinking it's another intimidation tactic. But then Whumper starts taking that extra step- and that's when Whumpee starts to panic and beg, but at that point it's already "too late".
whumpee who is so used to being hurt that their mind wanders whenever it happens. not dissociation just- thinking about the chores they still have to do. prioritising.
listing the tasks they won't be able to do once whumper is done with them. the ones they can't afford not to do. thinking about the cleanup - they'll have to stay a bit, to cry and whimper and be pathetic for a while ecause that's what whumper expects, but also, that carpet is dead - and them with it - if whumpee doesn't get started NOW.
planning their route: straight to the bathroom to get the products, the sheets into the washing machine and then straight to scrubbing.
fine as long as whumper doesn't decide to stomp on their hand. or to ruin their ankle again.
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Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
i speak a lot about mindgames and manipulation. fear. but. for the good of the environment. whumpers who can effortlessly stomp whumpee are a must. for my mental health personally i need a man who can hold someone by the throat. for the environment i mean.
(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.
Whumper becoming so so nice to Whumpee once they’re broken in—apologizing for their previous behavior/actions, even. They really are so sorry for having been so rough on Whumpee at first. Isn’t it so much nicer when Whumpee is compliant? If they hadn’t been so oppositional, things could have been like this from the beginning!
things your whumper might have looked into/prepared because they don't want whumpee to get hurt in a way they haven't planned:
- a cute little planner with all the supplements they'll give whumpee to avoid vitamin deficiencies 😇. vitamin D bulbs at regular intervals.
- meal plan to avoid whumpee getting any diseases. no scurvy for whumpee! (unless whumper wants it 😈)
- IF they're planning on using food as an incentive/starvation as a punishment, REALLY looking into refeeding syndrom and how to avoid it
- how easy it is to choke on food and how to avoid that - foods that are easy to eat, hard to choke on etc.
- how to deal with allergies - maybe buying adrenaline. (if whumpee isn't forthcoming with their information.)
- buying a lamp for natural light to help improve whumpee's mood. (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)
- different types of restraints & knots because they don't want whumpee to repeatedly hurt themselves in a specific spot, or to get that kind of joint damage or muscle atrophy
- if collar: how tight are they supposed to be (so demeaning if they look into guides for dog owners, somewhat disgusting if they read from a kink guide), how tight they _can_ be without causing damage. wouldn't do for whumpee to choke when whumper isn't there.
- renovating their basement. (or wherever they keep whumpee). making sure the aeration is good, that there are no dangerous substances, solid locks, good isolation. plumbing for easy cleaning. maybe for hygiene. definitely to prevent dehydration.
- DEHYDRATION. how much one needs to drink, how much water bloodloss requires.
- child protection for corners and/or edges to manhandle whumpee without having to worry about cracking their head open.
- dog training. conditioning. the such. sites bookmarked or screenshots they look at sometimes.
- touch-starvation. how much contact is needed to avoir anxiety or depression. mandatory cuddling sessions and the such. putting THOSE on the planner as well.
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whumper bends at their waist, inspecting the painting in front of them. "I remember this," they say, dragging their nail along the still-wet paint. "you captured it well, the shimmering blood is a nice touch."
whumpee's back hits the door and they try the handle, "how did you..."
"i can't believe you thought you could leave me like that. just one more cut of your knife and i would've died, without a doubt. but you just couldn't finish the job."
Mind control that doesn't go away. Sure, they're out of Whumper's hands, but for whatever reason, the control doesn't lessen entirely.
It's not noticeable at first, but something is undeniably happening.
Their face will go blank sometimes, and they'll snap to attention.
They only speak when spoken to, and even then, they're much too quiet.
Offhand comments are followed to the letter, they let themself be touched and handled and do whatever they're told, no complaints.
When (if) their team figures this out, it complicates things. They can't be as casual around them as they'd like to be, have to monitor everything they say to make sure they don't take advantage of Whumpee.
Carefully phrasing questions to make sure they aren't misunderstood as orders, always leaving comments open for questions or objections... the vulnerability of caring about someone who can't consent to... anything, right now. Even the seemingly normal things.
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prisoner who made some assumptions about the treatment they're getting. based on past experience.
cw: fear of noncon, implied past noncon, military whump <- incredibly tame and self indulgent i am just being careful with tags.
A guard comes to wake him up in the middle of the night and Marcus feels a perfect mix of relief and annoyance. Their prisoner – Otis –has finally asked for medical assistance, which is why he’s traversing the whole camp at this ungodly hour. He mostly wonders why the man couldn’t do this either way earlier, or in six to seven hours.
He has to go all the way to the infirmary, pick up the basics, and then all the other way to the tent they’ve given him. The guard barely look up as he enters, saluting purely on instincts.
Hesitant, fearful eyes meet his when he enters, and Marcus raises the lantern.
“It’s just me. You… asked for me?” He raises the basket of bandages and salves he’s dragged through the whole camp for this.
The man nods almost shyly, shuffling a little closer. His voice is soft when he apologises, “I… forgive me if I disturbed your sleep, I thought-” His expression stutters for a moment; he bites his lips and it settles on something blank. “I thought you might prefer doing this during the night.”
Marcus would have preferred sleep, and much preferred having some boring report interrupted. He understands, however – there are only so many things you can be accused of doing when meeting an enemy soldier in the middle of the night. He waves the apology away. “No matter. Though, I’ll warn you, I’m not a doctor. Anything too serious and I’ll have to call for medical, alright?”
He gets only a nod in response and moves forward slowly. Otis obviously knows what wounds he has, but every one of his moves is hesitant. He starts to take off his shirt, eyes darting between Marcus and the floor. The commander tries to be reassuring. “Nothing to be ashamed of, hmm? Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Except it’s a soldier of the Empire and a commander from the kingdom trying to rebel, and that – shockingly – Marcus doesn’t usually see his soldiers half naked in the middle of the night to treat their wounds.
Otis lies down, twisting slightly to his side. He keeps his legs pressed together, knees bent just slightly.
With the shirt off, the wound that probably made Otis call for him is immediately apparent. There are- bruises, welts Marcus can’t begin to guess the origin of, small burns on the soldier’s arms.
Also. A truly gigantic, gaping, cut on the side of his chest. Crusted blood around and below it where it probably dripped for days, and a redness that suggests infection.
Marcus squints at the wound. He wets a cloth, gently wiping the blood away. The wound looks slightly better without its halo of blood, so he keeps going.
“Did you call because you felt it getting infected?”
Another shy, hesitant nod in response. “That’s good. We can’t have you dying, what would the emperor say.”
The joke doesn’t land with a loyal soldier of said emperor. Otis looks at him with – still – those wide, scared eyes of his, looking for all the world like he expects lighting to strike them down right this instant. Marcus forces a smile, muttering an apology.
He reaches for his basket, leaning over Otis. His fingers brush – accidentally, very slightly, barely – the top of the soldier’s thigh.
Immediately the man goes slack, legs skating apart in a move too precise to be mistaken. His eyes close, as well, and Marcus forces himself still. He takes a deep, silent breath, and forces himself to exhale slowly.
“Otis?”
“Sir?” Anxiety. Confusion Marcus doesn’t want to think about.
“That’s not going to happen.”
Otis makes a sound of realisation before moving again. His eyes open, dart up for just an instant, and then he grimaces as he twists his wound to get himself to his knees.
Marcus still hasn’t moved. He swallows, suddenly feeling very cold. He tries to wet his lips.
“Who- Did someone in this camp made you....”
Otis shakes his head, not meeting his eyes. He almost sounds reassuring when he adds, “Your soldiers are very disciplined, sir. They wouldn’t. They respect you.”
Which has nothing to do with not assaulting their prisoner. Should have nothing to do with not assaulting their prisoner. Marcus sighs, gently pushing Otis down so he stops worsening his already terrible wound.
“Would you- After, sir?”
“Never. God, I’m not going to- Why would you think-”
Marcus bites his tongue, forcing himself to focus on the wound in front of him. Otis doesn’t speak while he composes himself, and he loathes the knowledge that it’s out of fear. Ignorance truly is bliss.
“I don’t know if this is… What you were told about us,” Propaganda. “Or if prisoners in the empire are… mistreated” which he can’t think about because he happens to have friends in imperial prisons, “but I don’t do that. We don’t do that.”
He looks up slightly, meeting Otis’s scared but attentive eyes. He tries to force a smile. “There is… an accord, actually. The emperor signed it but. Well. He’s never respected anything, has he?” He shakes his head before Otis can recite another rote, inane speech about his fucking emperor. “Don’t answer that. It- It’s about how to treat prisoners. Among other things. Says you’re not supposed to rape them.”
He watches Otis swallow, head tilting to the side. Good to know enemy soldiers don’t know about the laws regarding war prisoners. Reassuring.
“But… I thought I had your favour, sir. And that’s why you- why I had all these luxuries.”
Marcus blinks. Once, twice. Remembers to breathe.
“…Luxuries?” He almost chokes on the word, eyes quickly scanning the tent. It’s decent – because basic humane treatment of prisoners – but no one in their right mind would call it luxurious.
Otis swallows again. Marcus would hate to see humiliation or shame on the soldier’s face but the fear he sees there sends another pang of discomfort through his gut. He can’t imagine Otis is an exception to the norm.
The soldier won’t meet his eyes.
“The- the meals? And the- water for cleaning,” biting his lips, “the blanket?”
Marcus sits back on his haunches, because he needs something solid under him while his mind collapses. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Those are…luxuries? Food, basic hygiene and…” he clears his throat, “a blanket?”
Otis is looking at him with fear again, in the same position Marcus manhandled him a minute ago, and he kind of feels like marching all the way to the imperial camp and blowing it up. “You don’t… provide those to prisoners?”
The soldier shakes his head, hesitates. “His Exalted Majesty, in His infinite Grace provides… the necessities. But, sir, I meant… I received a lot of food. And the water was warm. And a blanket isn’t-” he bites his lips, like realising pointing out the blanket isn’t necessary will make it disappear.
“Those are things prisoners only get when… they’ve… gained the favour of an officer?” It’s a very specific turn of phrase, isn’t it. He watches Otis’s eyes dart up as the soldier butchers his lips, and a very bad feeling forms in his chest. There’s a bit of confusion in there as the man nods, and Marcus doesn’t want to ask his next question.
But he’s still an officer of the crown, and getting information from prisoners is part of his duties.
“Is it… similar for soldiers?”
Otis’s nod is much less confused, something almost like relief in there – like getting an answer he finally knows the answer to. He hesitates, speaking almost like a confession.
“It- It shouldn’t happen with prisoners, really. Soldiers earn luxuries, but the code says-” maybe he sees something in Marcus’s expression because he suddenly stops talking.
“But- I-” he has to swallow a few times to get the words out, and Marcus feels physically ill. “I know how to be grateful, sir, I- I genuinely mean to thank you for the- everything you’ve… granted me.”
Like the blanket. And adequate quantities of food. Marcus doesn’t look away from the tear in the tent he probably created with his glare, jaw clenched so hard he worries Otis can hear it grind.
“I’m not the one you have to thank for that, actually.”
Otis looks up sharply with an expression of pure terror and he curses himself for ruining the… thing they had. “-the accord. I meant the accord. Medical treatment and human decency and dignity and all that.”
It’s such a mess. He’ll have so many things to report. He blinks a few times, forces down all the dark, huge feelings trying to claw their ways out of his chest.
“Why did you think… What have I done to make you think…” he can’t say it. “Besides the… gifts, I mean.”
Otis’s eyes dart up to meet his and- oh joy, there’s a bit of disbelief in them.
“You hand-fed me, sir.”
Marcus turns to look at the soldier incredulously. Firstly, there had been a spoon involved, he was sure, then-
“Your hands were bound. Was I supposed to let you, what,” he doesn’t want to finish the sentence but the eyes that meet his are wide and expectant and hesitant in a way that rattle him.
“I wouldn’t make you eat on the floor with only your mouth, like some sort of- of dog.” Otis looks at him with scepticism and Marcus swallows past the lump that just appeared in his throat.
“Otis. That’s… inhumane treatment. The goal isn’t to be cruel.” Otis shakes his head in a way that feels almost instinctive.
“I’m a prisoner, sir. For the security of the camp, anything goes.” Another rote, repeated sentence. Soon he’ll know every mantra the empire beats into their soldier. How wonderful.
“Right.”
Otis looks up at him again. “And… you spent a lot of time with me, sir. Taking care of prisoners is… It’s not for officers.”
“I’m the only one in the camp who speaks your tongue. And… protocols indicate officers should deal with prisoners to limit… retaliation.”
The soldier’s mouth make a little ‘o’ in realisation and Marcus once more feels the urge to blow up the empire and everyone with a shred of power in it.
“I assumed your men were being respectful, sir.”
Because he had claimed the prisoner. Of course. Of fucking course.
“Right.” He clears his throat. Somehow, he’s managed to finish dealing with the wound while fighting through this crisis. “Any other grievous wound?” He even manages to fish out a smile.
Otis shakes his head quietly, looking at him in awe when he hands out a painkiller. Marcus stalks all the way back to his bed.
The bones of this could work in several settings, but let's say royal whump. Whumpee is either a ruler or heir. Whumper has conquered Whumpee's kingdom, and taken Whumpee captive, "marrying" Whumpee to further legitimise their conquest. Whumpee is stripped of all power and now a puppet ruler. And on top of that, Whumper sexually abuses Whumpee. Whumpee is kept in the lap of luxury, but they can't leave Whumper's palace and they're basically Whumper's sex slave.
Whumpee is initially defiant, and after a few nights, Whumper takes them to the basement/dungeon/etc to meet Whumper's other high-profile prisoner, and "see exactly how good they have it".
The other prisoner... again, could be from a lot of backgrounds, but I'm inclined towards "dissident or traitor from Whumper's own side". They were there before Gilded Cage!Whumpee. Whoever they once were, it's not immediately apparent, nor is it relevant, because no one deserves that treatment. They're slumped in a filthy cell, maybe chained up, completely unresponsive to Whumper and Gilded Cage!Whumpee's entry, and they've clearly been brutalised both physically and sexually, over and over again.
Whumper tells Gilded Cage!Whumpee that if they fail Whumper, they're going to the basement too, and it's a one-way trip. They kick Basement!Whumpee around a bit, which they still hardly react to except maybe trying to curl up, and then take Gilded Cage!Whumpee back upstairs.
Gilded Cage!Whumpee has been successfully threatened into obedience. Mostly. But... while they're not allowed out of the castle, they still mostly have run of the castle, and they start sneaking down to visit Basement!Whumpee. They're sort of allowed to - to reinforce the threat - but they're certainly not supposed to help or comfort their fellow prisoner. Of course, that's what they do. Bringing them water or food (though at first they don't touch it), talking softly to them, or sometimes talking very desperately to them, holding their hand through the bars, just... anything that might help, in hopes Basement!Whumpee will respond to them, so they can be co-conspirators in an escape attempt, or at least, so they won't be alone.
