#whumpay

Rules are the same as usual -

You only have to use one prompt of the prompts for each day! But you’re welcome to use multiple if you want to. You can also combine days and it counts for both.

I know the description of the blog says it’s a writing event, but if you want to draw or make other kinds of content, that’s cool too.

Have fun, tag content warnings (such as noncon, graphic violence, etc) and try not to be crushed by the mortifying ordeal of posting your writing.

The mini challenges this year also function as your alternate prompts, you can replace a day with one of them if none of the prompts that day work for you.

This is a pretty chill event so you can start posting whenever but I’ll be reblogging posts made to the #Whumpay2026 tag throughout May. 

If you have any questions or need ideas, send an ask!

If you use Ai I’ll hunt you for sport.

and an extra special thanks to everyone who suggested prompts.

MAIN PROMPT LIST:

Day One - Accidentally Hurting A Friend / “Nothing’s wrong, stop asking!.” / PTSD  

Day Two - Sole Survivor / “Please don’t leave me.” / Trapped Underground 

Day Three - Blackmail / “Don’t make me do this.” / Suicide Attempt

Day four - Stockholm Syndrome / “Stop fighting it.” / Touch Starvation

Day Five - Came Back Wrong / “What have you done to me?” / Body Horror

Day Six - Rescued Too Late / Unable To Speak / Mouth Sewn Shut

Day Seven - Gaslighting / “Why did you lie to me?” / Incest

Day Eight - Chemical Restraint / “It’s for your own good.” / Caretaker Burnout

Day Nine - Excessive Drinking / “You’re going to kill yourself doing this.” / Grief 

Day Ten - Hiding An Injury / “It’s not as bad as it looks.” / Reopened Wound

Day Eleven -  Protecting An Injury / “Look at me. Deep breaths.” / Internal Bleeding

Day Twelve - Whumper Turned Whumpee / “You thought I wouldn’t notice?” / Trauma Reveal

 Day Thirteen - Anger Born Of Worry / “Never do that again.” / Appendicitis 

Day Fourteen - Shared Pain / “This is all your fault!” / Broken Ribs 

Day Fifteen - Forced To Watch / “No one is coming to save you.” / Waterboarding

Day Sixteen - Crying Wolf / “Why won’t you believe me?” / Hallucinations

Day Seventeen - Self-Defense Killing / “Does it ever get easier?” / Adrenaline Crash

Day Eighteen - Fingers in Wound / “Wait, what are you—don’t—!” / Arterial Bleeding

Day Nineteen - Makeshift Weapon  / “Don’t come any closer!” / Backed Into A Corner

Day Twenty - Living Weapon / ‘I know you’re in there somewhere’ Fight /  Head Injury

Day Twenty-One - Sadistic Choice / “Please, I’ll do anything…” / Deathbed Confessions

Day Twenty-Two - Feed A Cold, Starve A Fever / “How long have you felt like this?” / Stress-Induced Illness

Day Twenty-Three - Last-Minute Rescue / “Oh god, that’s a lot of blood.” / Loss Of Extremity

Day Twenty-Four - Hurting To Help / “I swear, I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to.” / Bone Malunion 

Day Twenty-Five - Betrayal / Collapsing In The Middle Of A Sentence / Self-Surgery

Day Twenty-Six - Villain Whumpee / “Why are you doing this to me?” / Contrapasso

Day Twenty-Seven - Mental Breakdown  / “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” / Withdrawal

Day Twenty-Eight -Forced Transformation / “This isn’t what I wanted.” /  Dehumanization

Day Twenty-Nine -  Field Medicine / Using Real Name For Impact / Barbed Wire 

Day Thirty - Enemy To Caretaker / “If anyone touches you, I’ll kill them.” / Failed Escape

Day Thirty-One - Time Loop / “I can’t do this anymore!”  / Character Death

MINI CHALLENGE #1 : FIVE DAYS

Day One - Hanahaki Disease 

Day Two - “I don’t remember the last time I saw you smile.”  

Day Three - Overworked

Day Four - Chronic Pain

Day Five - Fever-Induced Delirium 

MINI CHALLENGE #2 : NINE DAYS

Day One - Caught In An Explosion

Day Two - Passing Out From Pain

Day Three - Loss Of Sense(s)

Day Four - Coughing Up Blood

Day Five - “Why won’t you just leave me alone?!”

Day Six - Near Death Experience 

Day Seven - Hurt Caretaker

Day Eight - Medical Emergency

“Leon, stop it! I don’t want this! Didn’t fucking agree to this!” Shouting to make sure he heard them loud and clear. Angry tears streaming down their face. When Leon finally recognized he had fucked up, he immediately pulled away from Reader. “Shit, I’m—I’m so sorry.” In the moment, they were still pissed. Getting up to force some space between them, they grabbed their clothes. Redressing themselves, Reader left the apartment to get some air.

It was into the evening when they returned. Unlocking the door and toeing off their shoes. Leon had sat on the couch, brooding over what he had done. Cursing himself for assuming that it’d be fine to just jump off into the deep end. “Wanna talk?” Reader gingerly asked him.

“Yes,” Leon sighed out. Wanted wasn’t the best word for it but he definitely needed to make amends. Refusing to let himself be the one to fuck over this relationship they’d so carefully built. Reader sat on the recliner across from the couch. “I can’t do spanking, have never been able to. I’m not one for pain and my brain for some reason, has never been able to understand it.” That caught Leon’s attention.

Instead of questioning it, Leon nodded. He could inquire more about that later. “Okay, won’t do that again.” He let the silence grow uncomfortable before gathering his thoughts. Scratching at his stubble. “I’m sorry. Made a bunch of assumptions and got way too in my head. I just wanted to try something new.”

“Why didn’t you?” Reader asked.

“I don’t know. Thought you’d might laugh at me or think it was stupid.” Trying to express that he didn’t know how it had first started. That it had somehow morphed into a molehill thanks to a good dose of spiralling.

“That I might judge you?” They offered. Seeing him nod, they continued, “Leon, the worst I would’ve said is no. Not here to judge you, we both get enough of that at work and in the outside world.”

There's a scar like quality to it with raised it ends up being. Eventually healing but not without infection. Not like Whumper kept Whumpee's enclosure all that clean or sterile to begin with. Caked in a mix of Whumpee's bodily fluids that reeked. It'd been that long since Whumper has last cleaned.

The lines become heavily raised, noticeably swelling. Whumpee whimpers when fabric brushes against it. The area of skin feels so warm. Like molten lava had been injected there, it hurts to touch. It’s only when the yellow pus appears that Whumper gets them any help. An expired pill bottle of antibiotics. The scabs that form steals some of the black ink, making the design patchy as hell. 

If Whumper is the 'I should be the only one to see Whumpee's body' type of obsessive, they give Whumpee a more symbolic tattoo. Something that only the two of them would get. Something that makes people ask the meaning behind it. Even when they escape and are securely with Caretaker, Whumpee can't forget the time they spent with Whumper.

People think it's something very sentimental when Whumpee gets all choked up as they attempt to answer. Usually Caretaker is the one to evade the question. Always finding a way to wave off the question.

He has limited freedoms now. He chooses what he eats from the carefully curated menu the cook prepares. Somehow Zima has already informed the staff about his high blood pressure; every dish that arrives is thoughtfully low in salt and rich in vegetables. He can ask for books and Zima almost always indulges him, though the selections are limited: Dostoevsky, theological texts, and a few contemporary novels. On rare clear days when Zima is in a generous mood, he is allowed a supervised walk in the garden.

Victor cherishes those moments more than he cares to admit. The cold air on his face, the crunch of snow under his boots… It is still a cage, but a softer cage nonetheless.

Zima left for Australia a week ago. “Summer down under,” the vampire then said with that boyish grin, adjusting his glasses as he packed. “Don’t look so devastated, darling. I’ll call.”

Victor hadn’t responded. He had only watched in silence as Zima disappeared through the door.

He is glad now that Zima is not in the estate. The winter in St. Petersburg is merciless this year, with heavy snow and days so short they feel like prolonged twilight. Victor spends most of his time locked in the guest room, wrapped in layers of blanket. Somehow he is always cold.

His health has been deteriorating slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. It began with the tiredness that never quite lifted. Then came the paleness. Some mornings he wakes up feverish. He told himself it was nothing. Just the winter. Just the accumulation of stress, lack of sunlight, and meaningful movement.

He never misses his blood pressure medication when Zima is present. The vampire makes sure of it. But when Zima is away, Victor occasionally skips it. Not out of deliberate rebellion; he simply forgets. Or is exhausted. Some nights he is already half-asleep when the tray arrives. On those nights the pill remains untouched on the nightstand until morning.

Tonight his fever creeps higher.

It does not crash over him all at once. It rises gradually. Victor lies curled on his side under a thick blanket, shivering violently despite the sweat beading on his forehead. His body aches in deep, bone-weary waves. Every breath feels slightly labored. The room spins whenever he tries to sit up.

His tea sits untouched, long gone cold. When the staff brings dinner—a chicken broth and soft bread—Victor gives him snappish, irritable responses. Victor tells them he is not hungry.

He cannot even smell the food properly anymore. The fragrant aroma of coffee now turns his stomach. His lips are cracked and dry. His reaction time has slowed. Reaching for the glass of water takes conscious effort. He feels like he is moving through honey or jelly.

The phone on the nightstand buzzes. Victor stares at the screen for several long seconds before he finally answers Zima’s video call. He keeps the angle unflattering, hoping that it hides how pale and drawn he looks.

Zima appears against a backdrop of bright Australian sunshine, his dark curls tousled by ocean wind, linen shirt open at the collar. He greets Victor, "Darling. You look terrible. What's wrong?"

Victor steadies his voice, “I’m fine.”

He gives the shortest answers possible—yes, he ate something earlier; no, he doesn’t need anything special. He doesn’t want to talk. Not really. Every word feels like effort, and he has no interest in entertaining Zima across half the world.

When Zima presses for details, Victor spits noncommittal replies, “Nothing’s wrong, stop asking!”

The vampire finally ends the call with a promise to check in again tomorrow.

Victor lets the phone slip from his fingers and curls tighter under the blankets, teeth chattering softly. He refuses to ask for help. Not from the staff. Certainly not from Zima.

The next day, Zima returns to the estate. The vampire steps into the guest room without knocking. His gaze lands immediately on Victor, who is once again buried under layers of blankets, shivering hard.

Zima’s pale eyes narrow behind his glasses, "You have a fever." It's not a question. “Since when?”

Victor cracks his eyes open. His teeth click together as another violent shiver runs through him. He hates how weak he sounds when he answers, “Few days ago…”

Zima crosses the room in a few smooth strides and sits on the edge of the bed. Cool fingers press against Victor’s forehead, then slide down to cup his flushed cheek. The contrast between Zima’s unnaturally cold skin and Victor’s burning heat is stark.

The vampire exhales slowly, a quiet Russian mutter slipping from his lips. His expression is unreadable for a moment.

"Stubborn man," Zima says, though there's no real heat in it.

Victor wants to snap back, wants to say something about Australia and summer and how easy it must be for Zima to forget the man he keeps locked away. But another wave of chills wracks his body, leaving him trembling too hard to form the words. He pulls the blankets higher instead, trying to disappear beneath them.

Zima watches him for a long moment, then reaches for the bedside phone and says something in Russian. When he hangs up, he turns back to Victor and begins peeling away one of the heavier blankets.

“Enough of this. The doctor is coming. And you," he says firmly, “are going to take your medication properly from now on. No more skipping.”

Victor closes his eyes, too exhausted to argue. The fever pulls at the edges of his consciousness, making everything feel distant and heavy. He shivers again as Zima’s hand rests against the back of his neck.

Within thirty minutes, the doctor arrives. He appears to be human, a man with a neat beard and heavy medical bag. Somehow Victor can sense that he's accustomed to being summoned at odd hours by the master of the estate.

Victor lies listless under the blankets, shivering intermittently. He watches through half-lidded eyes as the doctor sets up his equipment. Zima stands nearby, arms crossed, his pale gaze never leaving Victor’s face. He watches every movement with unnerving closeness.

The doctor works fast. He checks Victor’s temperature, listens to his lungs, takes his blood pressure, and shines a light into his eyes. Fingers press against Victor’s wrist, counting pulses. Victor remains mostly silent, answering questions in short mumbles. Thankfully the doctor knows how to speak English.

At one point the doctor glances toward Zima. “His blood pressure is elevated, and he has a significant fever. Likely a respiratory infection worsened by exhaustion and… irregular medication.”

Zima looks at Victor and Victor stares at the ceiling. In the fog of his fever, a strange thought surfaces. He finds himself missing Arkady. The cold, indifferent doctor would have taken one look at him and said "You'll live" in a flat tone before walking away.

The doctor finishes his examination and speaks quietly to Zima in Russian. Victor catches only fragments—something about antibiotics, rest, fluids, and monitoring the blood pressure closely. Zima nods once, then dismisses the man with a polite gesture.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind the doctor, Zima returns to the bedside. He holds a small glass of water and two pills—one for the fever, one for blood pressure.

“Sit up,” Zima orders.

Victor shakes his head weakly, “I can do it myself.”

He tries to reach for the pills, but his hand trembles so badly that Zima simply catches his wrist and steadies it. The vampire’s touch is cool against his overheated skin.

“Open your mouth.”

Victor wants to protest but he feels like he's pulled under. His thoughts are slow and heavy. His eyelids droop. When he finally parts his lips, the words that come out are drowsy and surprisingly blunt, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Zima’s lips curve into a humorless smile, “I prefer you conscious and sharp-tongued, darling. This version is... not to my liking." He slips the pills onto Victor’s tongue and lifts the glass to his lips, “Drink.”

Victor swallows obediently, though a trickle of water escapes the corner of his mouth. Zima wipes it away with his thumb without comment.

The vampire then disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a basin of cool water and a soft cloth. He sits on the edge of the bed, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and begins gently wiping Victor’s fever-flushed face and neck. The cool cloth feels like heaven and torture at the same time.

Victor shifts restlessly. “Stop… I don’t need you to do this.”

“Quiet,” Zima says calmly, continuing his work. He moves the cloth down to Victor’s chest, unbuttoning the top of his pajama shirt with ease. “You’re burning up. The doctor said to keep your temperature down.”

Victor makes a weak sound of protest, trying to push Zima’s hand away, but there is no real strength behind it. He is being dragged deeper into drowsiness. His words come out slurred and unguarded, "I hate when you're nice. It's like you're playing house with your hostage."

Zima just chuckles in response. He wrings out the cloth and folds it again, placing it across Victor’s forehead, “You think this is nice? I’m simply protecting my property. If you die from something as silly as the flu, it will be very disappointing.”

He reaches for the glass again and holds it to Victor’s lips, “More water. Drink.”

Victor turns his head slightly, stubborn even through the haze, “Don’t want any.”

Zima’s hand slides to the back of Victor’s neck, supporting his head as he brings the glass closer, “You will drink, or I will pour it down your throat myself. Choose.”

With a tired sigh, Victor parts his lips and takes slow sips. Some of the water dribbles down his chin anyway. Zima patiently wipes it away.

Victor's eyelids flutter shut as another shiver rolls through him. Zima adjusts the blankets, tucking them more securely around Victor’s trembling frame, then resumes wiping the sweat from his skin.

“Rest now, darling,” Zima says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And true to his words, Zima does not leave.

After the doctor departs and the medication begins to take hold, he simply removes his glasses, sets them on the nightstand, and settles into the armchair beside the bed. The staff brings him a change of clothes and he changes his own clothes.

Victor just watches, too drained to shoo Zima away. His hatred has dulled under the weight of the fever and the drugs. Every time he tries to summon the familiar resentment, it slips away. He is simply too weak to maintain it.

Zima returns to the bed with a fresh basin of cool water and a clean cloth. He sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that Victor can feel the unnatural coolness radiating from his body.

“Shirt off,” Zima says.

Victor makes a sound of disagreement, but his arms are heavy and clumsy. Zima does not wait for cooperation. He unbuttons the pajama top with gentle fingers and eases the damp fabric off Victor’s shoulders, leaving his upper body bare to the cool air of the room. The contrast against his fevered skin makes Victor shiver harder.

Zima dips the cloth into the water, wrings it out, and begins to wipe him down properly. The coolness soothes the burning heat, but it also makes Victor feel exposed in a way that goes beyond nudity. Every pass of the cloth feels too intimate, it’s not supposed to happen.

“You’re trembling,” Zima murmurs. He folds the cloth and places it on Victor’s body. “The fever is still high.”

“I know.”

Zima continues his work in silence for a while, occasionally refreshing the cloth. When Victor’s breathing grows too shallow, Zima lifts his head with one cool hand and brings the glass of water mixed with electrolytes to his lips.

“Small sips.”

As the hours drag on into the deep night, the care becomes even more intimate.

Zima helps Victor to the bathroom when he needs it, supporting most of his weight when his legs threaten to buckle. Victor leans heavily against him, mortified by his own weakness but too drained to do anything about it. He wipes Victor down again after, removing the sticky sweat from his skin before dressing him in clean pajamas.

At one point, when Victor’s fever spikes and the chills become violent, Zima climbs onto the bed behind him, pulling Victor back against his chest. His cool body acts like a living ice pack. Zima’s arms wrap loosely around Victor’s waist to hold him steady while the worst of the tremors pass.

For a brief moment, as Zima adjusts his hold, Victor catches a glimpse of the vampire’s face in the low lamplight.

There is genuine worry in Zima's visage. His pale eyes are darker than usual, focused entirely on Victor. It is fleeting, gone in less than a second as Zima schools his expression back, but Victor sees it.

He dismisses it immediately. It’s not a worry for me, Victor thinks bitterly. It’s worry for his property. His favorite toy. He just doesn’t want me to break before he’s finished playing. 

Victor should hate it. He should feel violated by the closeness, by how easily Zima handles his body. But the hatred will not come. He is too exhausted, too sick, too relieved by the steady coolness against his overheated skin.

Instead, a private panic begins to bloom in the back of his mind. Not about dying. He is not afraid of death right now. What terrifies him is how good this feels. How safe Zima’s arms feel when his body is falling apart. How he no longer flinches when those depraved hands touch him.

What if I need this? the thought whispers in the fever haze. What if I stop fighting and just… let it be?

The realization sends a different kind of shiver through Victor. He tries to pull away slightly, but Zima only tightens his hold.

“Stay still,” Zima says against his hair.

Victor closes his eyes. His throat feels tight. Fuck. He cannot voice his contempt toward Zima. He loathes being dependent like this. Fucking needy like this.

Zima continues the quiet vigil through the night. He refreshes the cool cloths, forces small sips of water, and keeps Victor’s body pressed against his own whenever the fever makes him shake uncontrollably.

In the morning, when Victor’s fever finally begins to break and his breathing evens out into something closer to real sleep, Zima brushes damp strands of hair from Victor’s forehead, “Get well soon, darling.”

Victor hears the words through the fog of exhaustion. He does not reply. He simply lets himself drift, held securely in the arms of the vampire who has taken everything from him—and who is now, terrifyingly, the only thing keeping him together.