I don't write or reblog nsfwhump, and this is a sfw blog, but there WILL be violence/gore so be aware of that.
I typically tag triggers "THING tw" and try to tag common triggers. If you need something specific tagged, please ask, I'm happy to do so!
do NOT use my prompts or writing to create AI content, don't repost to other sites, credit is appreciated, but not mandatory.
more detailed about, dni, and WIP info below the cut
tropes and things I like:
lab whump and vivisection - exhaustion and insomnia - sickfics and severe illness - environmental whump - women and nonbinary characters in whump - emotional whump, recovery, trauma - nonhuman whumpees - whumperless whump - living weapon whump
you probably won't find these here:
minor whump - domestic whump/abuse - tooth trauma/dental whump - bbu - pet whump - prison whump - whumpee x whumper content - military whump in realistic settings - whumper centric content
hard nos (please avoid these in asks/dms/replies):
any form of sexual assault, including csa and incestuous abuse - graphic harm to animals - graphic infant death or injury - psychiatric whump - eating disorders/disordered eating - emeto/graphic vomiting - extreme homophobia/transphobia
hi, welcome to the horror show
I'm Eris/Mal, a multiply disabled and neurodivergent nonbinary lesbian. I'm white, culturally Christian, and tme. I've been writing since I was 13, and have been tangentially into whump since I first got on tumblr a good decade ago. I only recently made a whump blog, since everything I've written recently has been really whumpy and it seemed fitting. I'm pretty shy but I'm always happy to talk to people, so please feel free to send asks and messages!
I don't really write for many fandoms right now, and mostly write oc whump, but you may encounter some orphan black, star trek and bg3 things from time to time.
If you've ever seen me tag a post with my ocs and wondered who the fuck those people are feel free to check out: (this section is under construction)
WALKER WEAVER WATCHER
THE WILDFLOWER QUEEN
Don't follow if:
- you're anti choice/"pro life"
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- you're a terf/radfem/swerf
- you believe in transandrophobia
- you're conservative/right leaning
- you are anti communist/leftist, pro police, pro military, or pro carcal "justice"
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Caretaker has to tie Whumpee down to treat their injuries, because Whumpee can't hold still, and there's no one else around to hold them down.
But even as the ropes bite into already sensitive skin, Whumpee reassures guilt-ridden Caretaker: "Hey, look at me, you're not doing anything wrong, okay?"
@whumperless-whump-event day 5: caught in a trap + day 7: "get me out of here."
cws: blood, self-injury
Blair runs through the woods, reckless with the flush of victory singing in her veins. Her first solo mission was a smashing fucking success, and Blair can't keep the grin off her face as she makes her way back to base.
She steps on something hard, and it clicks downwards. The world inverts as Blair's pulled off her feet and hauled upwards by a sudden constriction around her leg. She clutches at nothing and vertigo steals any sense of direction.
Blair blinks at the leafless tree branches below her feet, stomach dropping as she tries to make sense of her new relationship with gravity and direction.
"What the-" Blair yelps through the rest of the sentence as her leggings (comfortable, but not particularly sturdy) give up their valiant battle against the steel cable looped around her calf and rip. the noose slips and Blair falls, her arms shielding her face on instinct alone.
She jerks to a stop and cries out again as her ankle takes her full body weight. the snare feels secure now, though she's not sure if that's a good thing or something to panic about.
Her leg aches, beyond the joint pain and the unrelenting squeeze of the cable, and Blair cranes her neck and does the best aerial, upside-down situp she can, managing to catch a glimpse of the damage. What she can see looks raw, like carpet burn from hell. The noose took a layer of skin with it when it tore through her clothes.
Painful, but no serious injury. The biggest problem is bloodflow; Blair's head is hot and overstuffed, and her foot is losing feeling already.
"Okay," she says, cracking her knuckles.
Blair tries her situp maneuver again, but she can't get herself all the way to the cable—she'd have to fold herself basically in half to reach it. She tries to grab the back of her legs and hold herself up, but the headrush that comes with the change in position makes her slip.
She hangs there, swinging wildly and blinking through the black spots, trying not to vomit. That is not something she's interested in trying upside down, shockingly.
Even if she could get to the cable, what would she do with it? She doesn't have weapons, she's never needed anything more than her body before. She could chew through the noose, or more realistically, her ankle. But then she'd be down teeth and/or a foot. And several hours. And blood and shit. Honestly, auto-cannibalism is a day two pitch at the earliest. It's a little desperate for minute five.
The swinging subsides to a less nauseating but still fucking disorienting spin, and Blair catches a glimpse of the rest of the trap, the cable running along the tree brach she's dangling from to some sort of mechanism.
That must be the winch, or the pulley, or whatever the fuck it is that yanked her up this goddamn tree, Blair's not an engineer. But breaking the stupid thing seems as good a plan as any.
Blair is too far from the ground to reach a convenient rock, and she can't see one anyway. The light's fading, the forest greying out as the day creeps towards twilight. The only thing worse than getting caught in this cartoon logic bullshit trap is being up here in the dark. Blair is not doing that. She just isn't.
Her foot's a dead zone, but Blair can feel something wet and warm trickling up her leg. Her thrashing around before tightened the noose more, and it cut into her skin. Just a little blood, nothing serious. Nothing to panic about.
Braying sounds out of the growing dark. A dog, a fucking hunting hound like this is Medieval times. And knowing WAKE, they made some horror movie reject, sci-fi monster dogs.
More howling, deep and bass-y, echoes through the woods. Okay, Blair's maybe panicking now. She doesn't even have her phone. Fuck Casey's paranoid 'mission security protocols', Blair's gonna get mauled to death by dogs while dangling from a tree like the world's goriest pinata because she can't call for help.
Blair wastes precious minutes trying to swing up to the trap mechanism. She just makes herself dizzy again. Plan C (for chewing) isn't looking so crazy anymore.
A particularly violent downswing jolts the snare another inch, tearing open more skin.
Hm.
If Blair can reach her foot, get her shoe off, she might be able to yank herself out of the noose. The cable's tight. It'll take more than surface level epidermis when it goes, but it beats the alternative. Probably.
Getting up there is hell on her core, and the black spots rush back with a vengeance, but Blair keeps her grip this time, hugging her knees with one arm and fumbling blindly for the laces of her captured boot with the other.
Her fingers are clumsy, but adrenaline slows down everything else. She undoes the laces with a speed that would make her kindergarten teacher so fucking proud and throws the boot at the mystery box for good measure. It misses and sails off into the darkness.
Now for the fun part. Blair curls up, then throws herself straight with as much force as she can. Gravity helps, and the trap slides another agonizing bit down (up?) her ankle, biting into her flesh to the tendon.
Blair thrashes, preparing to go inch by fucking inch until she's out, but luck's on her side for once. Something gives, and the bite on pain gets deeper, sharper. Blair screams her way to the ground, collapsing into a messy heap and dodging a concussion by sheer happenstance.
Blair sits upright, swaying. She looks at her foot and regrets it instantly, glaring at the barest hints of the sunset through the trees instead. The glimpse she got was bloody and red with something whitish that she hopes is just tendon.
"Right," she says, stumbling upright like a drunk frat boy. "Dogs. Time for walking."
The first step she takes collapses under her and Blair catches herself on a tree, scraping up her palms because these woods hate her specifically. The next step isn't bad, as long as she doesn't think about it or put too much weight on her bad side or move too fast or flex any of her joints. Not bad. At all.
She finds a nice, thick branch on the ground and uses it as a makeshift crutch-slash-trap detector, because she's not fucking doing All That again in this lifetime.
Blair hasn't lost too much time, all things considered, and the others might still be waiting in the getaway car by the rendezvous point. Or the combined paranoia of several overpowered fuckheads with trauma won, and they're stripping the base of anything useful and tearing out of town, in which case Blair is screwed and should just sit down and let the dogs tear her apart.
Blair picks up the pace, and soon the forest smooths out into a ditch rising up to a hard shoulder and a paved road and headlights.
She lets a minivan crawl past her, and across the road another car coughs to life—the beatup van Lore got through dubious means. Blair could cry. She grins instead, staggering the last few feet and practically falling into the passenger seat as the door opens for her.
"You're late," Casey scolds from the driver's seat. "What took so—you're bleeding! I'll get the first aid kit."
Blair holds up a hand to stop her, adrenaline draining from her all at once, leaving her wrung out and bone-weary.
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“if you love this character then you must make her happy in your fics, right?” wrong. the horror. suffering. internal hemorrhage. hospital. immediately
Nothing like caretaker who learns that whumpee is back and that they’re hurt and runs through the halls, across the yard, down the stairs, while everyone around is watching. They storm into the room, and oh that little pause before they walk up to the bed more slowly and shyly.
Whumpee was not expecting caretaker to be this worried about them and they raise their head in surprise, while somebody else is already tending to their injuries.
i am ever so gently holding your face and reminding you that content warnings are there for a reason, they're there so that your friends can enjoy things and know when something is going to be too much for them in the moment and they can make that informed choice not to click on it
it isn't a construct made by prudes to throw down kinky people
it's for folks with OCD triggers, people with trauma responses, ordinary people who want to vibe with safety in a space and enjoy their time with others without being thrown into an episode
it isn't just about hiding kink behind a blurry image so 'only the freaks will see it'
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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So, I think most people know that if a person actually passes out from blood loss, they're pretty much fucked. BUT the trope of revealing a bleeding wound and then collapsing is super fucking fun.
So I was thinking about ways to keep that trope in without totally sacrificing any degree of realism -- especially if your characters are far from medical treatment and/or don't have modern tech or magic to help them out.
I also think it's fun if the team / caretaker panics because whumpee passed out, assuming they're much closer to death than they already are. Maybe they find whumpee passed out, covered in blood, and assume the worst, only to be hit with an intense wave of relief when they discover whumpee's still breathing (albeit barely).
So, here's a list of reasons for your injured whumpee to pass out that aren't strictly blood loss. (Of course, blood loss absolutely takes a toll on the body and is definitely a compounding factor leading up to the collapse.)
Adrenaline crash. Whumpee is finally out of battle and they're just fucking exhausted. They realize they're finally safe and they just crumple.
Exhaustion. Maybe whumpee has been running or walking for miles, trying to find safety. Their wound has been slowly bleeding the whole time. Eventually, they just can't keep going, and their legs give out. They promise themself they'll only rest for a moment or two, but then their eyes are closing and sleep takes them.
Sight of blood / panic. Whumpee's seen blood before, sure. But not that much. They didn't even know a person could have that much blood. Where the fuck is it even coming from? Oh. Shit. Me. Alternatively, whumpee has been pretty sheltered up to this point, and this is their first time in combat. They've never seen this much death and blood and gore.
Illness. Maybe whumpee's wounds are infected. Maybe they were already sick but had to fight anyways (or maybe they lied to the rest of the team about their health in order to be allowed to fight). The stress of combat plus the injury is too much for their already weakened body.
Poison. Maybe the blade that stabbed them was coated in something nasty. Makes for a fun reveal when the team/caretaker has treated the wound but whumpee is only getting worse. Also provides a fun sense of urgency if whumpee knows they've been poisoned, and needs to make it to the one person they trust / know can treat it. (Do they make it to the door and collapse in caretaker's arms? Do they collapse on the way? Do they not even make it out of their own room?)
(This one is particularly good for assassinations. "I'm not sure which will kill you first: The blood loss or the poison. Unfortunately, I can't stick around to find out.")
Drugs. Maybe whumpee is being hunted for some reason. Someone wants them, and doesn't want them able to fight back. So they've been drugged, tranquilized so they're easy to capture. Maybe they black out and wake up neatly bandaged, flooded with relief, only to realize they're chained to the bed.
OR, maybe they've been found by the team, but they're resisting treatment and have to be drugged for their own good. Are they trying to go out and find their friend/lover? Are they delirious and unable to tell friend from foe? Have they been brainwashed or conditioned to fear their former team?
rescued! Living Weapon who thinks that they died and went somewhere better
so I was scrolling through Whump (as you do) and I had this idea of a Living Weapon who was rescued, but they think that they died.
like:
LW is found barely conscious on the battlefield, breathing shallow and almost dead
Team brings them back to base, heals them and what not
LW seeing Caretaker when they wake up and they think Caretaker is an angel
They knew they died on that battlefield. They felt their life pouring out through the hole in their armour, the blackness creeping in on their vision, the quiet stillness and silence that followed.
All they know is that they are finally free from the torment of their handlers/owners/whatever, and now they don’t have to worry
You can’t be hurt if you’re dead, right?
And so they actually recover well, thinking that now they are in Heaven or some other, better place away from the carnage of their past life, which now just seems like a horrible dream.
The Team are angels to them, there to help and heal them, and Caretaker is of course their angel
And so imagine the horror and pain they feel when they see one of their handlers brought in for questioning
And the crushing reality that they are still alive and their old tormentors are still around
tried something new with today's (and yesterday's oops i'm combining days already) wwevent fill. i wrote w my characters and then changed the names and any overly specific details. i've done that for some drabbles, but never for a prompt fill. i think it works as a stand alone thing? idk
but if you're curious about why whumpee uses xe/xer pronouns in that, a: i like 'em and i feel like it's more of an obvious 'hey this character is meant to be nonbinary' instead of they/them which is generally read as generic/ungendered (and i could talk about That but it's not the point) and also b: i wrote a version of Lore's death scene which i liked but i don't think is technically canon to www? so you guys get it in prompt/generic format instead.
I love it when a post-whump recovery arc is fluffy but realistic. Like, it's cosy and the whumpee has a gentle support system, but that doesn't stop them from exhibiting the messy and unpalatable symptoms of their trauma. That's my favourite style of recovery arc
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@whumperless-whump-event day 3: checking vitals + alt prompt 4: that's a lot of blood
cws: character death, blood, violence
Whumpee goes down hard. Caretaker doesn't see what does it, can't take their eyes off the last faceless grunt with a gun. They break his neck and he drops like all the others.
Caretaker turns back to their teammate, expecting to see Whumpee already staggering to xer feet, bitching about fucking up xer hair. But xe doesn't.
That's a lot of blood, Caretaker thinks, a swell of panic breaking through the battle calm. Their stolen weapon hits the ground at the same time their knees do.
"Whumpee," Caretaker says urgently, rolling Whumpee onto xer back.
Oh shit. There's half of a stun baton lodged in Whumpee's chest, at an awful angle that ends somewhere up under xer ribs. Caretaker hesitates, their hands hovering uselessly in the air.
Whumpee wheezes, raspy and weak and the best thing Caretaker has ever heard.
Whumpee twitches, not quite a flinch, and opens xer eyes. Caretaker leaves their hand where it is and the shaking spreads up their arms and into their chest. Whumpee's eyes dart frantically, wildly, but xer head lolls like xe's drunk or—
"Please," Caretaker whispers, covering their mouth with their free hand. A wave's building inside them, like nausea or a scream. Their knees are warm, jeans soaked through with blood. It's all they can smell.
Whumpee isn't wheezing anymore, just taking tiny, silent, panting breaths. Like the squirrel they found on a path one day, half flattened by a careless bike. Dying in terror and pain and Caretaker had just watched it, horror and pity not quite strong enough for them to put it out of its misery.
Like now. One of Whumpee's hands scrabbles at Caretaker's arm, gripping their sleeve and the skin underneath with the same blind desperation. Caretaker is still talking, they realize, pleading with no one behind their muffling palm.
Caretaker reaches for any semblance of calm, grabs Whumpee's hand and gives up xer pulse, unsteady and too fast.
"You're okay," Caretaker lies, letting their hand fall away from their mouth. "It's gonna be okay. I promise."
With one steady wrench, Caretaker pulls the obstruction from the wound. The scent of blood is so heavy in the air now that they can taste it at the back of their throat. They pull Whumpee into their lap, a one sided comfort.
Caretaker watching Whumpee while they sleep, covered in bruises or scars but for once at peace, face slack. They look so much younger like this.
A mix of feelings swirl in Caretaker — rage, grief, heartbreak, but mostly the sense that they’ll never — never — let Whumpee go through it alone again
