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Here there be whump

@whumpthisway

Whump side blog, call me Loup (replies from looptheloup). 20s, they/them, let me know what to tag :) Fickle fan of many things, writes whumpy AO3 m/m fanfic under "lopingloup", interested in dark corners with occasional NSFW and gore. My profile pic is of my OC, Huck, and was made by Whumpersworld, and my background picture is also Huck, by Haro-whumps :)
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studyofwhump

Whump Prompt 101

A horned, non-human Whumpee is caught by a dealer who plans to sell them in the town market. Many people stop by to look at the creature, but none show enough interest to actually buy them. One shopper stops by, barely looking at Whumpee before talking to the dealer.

“How much for just the horns?”

Whumpee’s eyes widen and they start to protest, but the dealer silences them.

“It’s the whole creature or nothing. No one’s going to want to buy some average looking thing, especially not after it’s all marred and bloodied.”

“I don’t want the entire thing,” the shopper thinks for a minute, “I will pay full price and half if you remove its horns for me.”

The dealer pauses to consider, then nods in agreement and they shake hands. Tears well in Whumpee’s eyes as the dealer grabs a saw and rag. The rag is stuffed down their mouth to muffle Whumpee’s screaming as the saw starts cutting through their horns. Blood runs down their scalp and neck as the horns snap away, leaving bloody stumps on their skull. They moan quietly as they watch the dealer clean off their severed horns and sell them to the shopper. They leave, content with their purchase, and Whumpee is left at the dealer’s stand, still bleeding and sobbing.

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Anonymous asked:

So, what if Whumpee was tasked with just cleaning the house and nothing else because Master is messy? And Whumpee always panics and keeps it super clean, because Master is one of those people who looks like they could snap your neck with ease, but what Whumpee doesn’t know is that Master is one of those big softies? And so Master is like: Why are they always terrified when they see me???

Asfl;khgh oh my gosh, I love scenarios like these!!! Especially when the owner (whumper? Or caretaker?) looks particularly mean or intimidating. And they never do anything to hurt or frighten whumpee, but whumpee remains frightened anyway! 

And when the whumpee is asked why they’re so afraid, the truthful answer that they’ll never give is because their Master is fcking huge

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deluxewhump
Anonymous asked:

I would love a drabble of Carlo and Max meeting!

(this is more than a drabble anon, sorry!)

Max drags a hand over his face, blinks hard. He checks the phone in his lap. 3:06. He sighs, lets his head fall back on the headrest. If he sees 3:20, he’s going home and going back to bed.

He can’t believe he’s even doing this, but if anything’s got Stella this rattled, it’s got to be serious. He’s heard of Grayfield, heard it’s more like a penitentiary than a housing facility. Jesus, Max. He’s only eighteen.

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Anonymous asked:

So an immortal whumpee is found in a secret abandoned place after a couple of months/YEARS! Still chained to the wall. Because no one could find their place all this time so no one came to rescue. And they couldn't break free on their own. And they coudln't die either. Or maybe they did die but woke up still chained. So they just stayed there alone and hopeless...

Or consider centuries and the immortal and the people who find them don’t quite know what to make of each other.

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iwhumpyou

Trope: Enemy to Caretaker

Reasons Why I Love This Trope So Goddamn Much (not anywhere near a description of the totality of my feelings on this topic, but a start):

- The vulnerability.  The sheer terror of being exposed in front of someone you hate (who hates you).  The panic and stoicism of attempting to cover up the pain until it’s too much.  Until you can’t.  Until the agony is worse than letting them see your tears.

- The mistrust.  The constant second-guessing.  The suspicion of every move they make.  The concocting of escape plans, one after the other, because how can you tell the difference between being restrained for your own good and being captured?  The cuffs sure look the same.

- The surrender.  Hitting rock bottom.  Watching you give in and knowing that you’ve given up on everything because if you can’t fight against your enemy, you can’t fight against anyone.

- The unexpected compassion.  A hand where you expect a fist.  A bandage where you expect a break.  Snappish words and voices raised in anger and understanding, finally, that their bark is worse than their bite.

- The lack of safety.  There is no one to catch you when you fall.  No one who’s safe, who’s reliable, who’s trustworthy.  You are hurt and alone and you curl up and wait for the blow.  The slow relearning of trust.  The hesitant steps towards hope.  (The shattering, sometimes.)

Enemy.  To.  Goddamn.  Caretaker.

Please.

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reblogged

Cycles

“I feel bad. I feel – I feel – I-I feel bad.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay.”

Ty shakes his head. It’s a compulsive, urgent movement. “I f-feel bad, Jim, f-feel bad.”

“Can you breathe for me?”

He sucks in air. He shivers.

Jim wishes, so hard it hurts, that he could hug his husband.

“N-No touch,” Ty asserts nervously, eyes fixed on Jim’s hands. “Was, w-was, was bad.”

The touch was bad, or Ty was bad? It’s not helpful to ask. “No touch,” Jim agrees. “Breathe, love.”

Another whistle of air enters his lungs. He winces. “Hurts.”

“I know. You can do it.”

“C-Can,” Ty agrees. His arms are wrapped around his knees. “Can do it, can, g-gotta be better. S-She, she wan-nts me to be, b-be better.”

“She’s not here.”

His eyes refocus suddenly. He lets out a soft breath. “Blue room,” he murmurs.

Jim painted it himself. He nodded. “Blue room. Not the clean room, Ty.”

“N-Not…” Ty looks around. “Blue room,” he repeats. “Not m-my room. C-Clean room, g-got to, to clean…”

“Not right now, love. It’s all clean.” Jim touches the tiles deliberately, and Ty watches his hands like one might track a loaded gun. “You cleaned it, remember?”

“Clean.” Ty’s head bobs jerkily. “Have to, ‘s not c-clean, not clean en-nough.”

“Breathe.”

The air slides in a little more easily, and Ty shudders again.

“N-N-Never clean,” he mumbles. The shudders ride over him, one after the other. “She’ll, sh-she’s angry. Five l-lashes.”

Jim shifts on his knees, the tiles digging into them. “Not anymore, Ty. You’re not in the clean room.”

“He’s gonna, h-he, he’s gonna, she says d-don’t touch me.”

“That’s up to you.”

The shudder chatters his teeth. “Don’t touch,” he affirms, a desperate strain to his voice.

Jim breathes out slowly. He’s not even at the peak of the panic yet, and Jim can’t convince him to come down off the mountain. Nothing for it but to follow him up.

“No touch,” he agrees patiently, shifting his position again to get comfortable on the bathroom floor. “You aren’t in the clean room, love. Breathe.”

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reblogged
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uuuhshiny

Aftermath, AU. P2

Four weeks. They found him almost by accident in some damp dark basements. Shadow of a man that once was.   He talked of the interrogations, torture with a distant calm voice. He ate and took his pills like he was told. His wounds healed, but he still didn’t allow anyone to touch him. Hearing his weeps at night, every night, she tried so hard not to think what could have been done to him. Touches were the worst. Fear in his eyes, he begged, “Please, please don’t, please no more…” over and over again.

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reblogged

Whumpee A’s only comfort in captivity is a stranger, Whumpee B, imprisoned on the opposite side of a wall. They bond by talking, confiding their agony in each other, gaining strength from someone who understands. 

Once Whumper finds out, they’re more than happy to remove Whumpee B’s tongue/damage their vocal chords/otherwise silence them forever before relocating them to a different cell.

When Whumpee B stops answering, A refuses to believe they’re dead. They’re going to escape, and they’re going to find B and get them out too. Of course, it’s going to be a lot harder to recognize them solely by their face.

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uuuhshiny

Aftermath, AU. P1

Four weeks. They found him almost by accident in some damp dark basements. Shadow of a man that once was.   He talked of the interrogations, torture with a distant calm voice. He ate and took his pills like he was told. His wounds healed, but he still didn’t allow anyone to touch him. Hearing his weeps at night, every night, she tried so hard not to think what could have been done to him. Touches were the worst. Fear in his eyes, he begged, “Please, please don’t, please no more…” over and over again. 
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