#historical whump
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Restraint frames for medical checks in class 4 detention units. Made for easier access to any needed body part while the subject stays properly restrained in one place. Frame designs depend on the facility; newer or remodeled ones usually have the standing frame type.
(Sorry for the art style change! I hope y'all will be understanding and let me draw in sketch format for a while!)
Art tag: @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump @whumpedydump @whumpthefifth @monarchthefirst @sunshiline-writes @project-xiii
#whump#whump community#whumpblr#whump art#historical whump#totalitarian whump#medical whump#med whump#whumpee#whump oc#whump ideas#whump drawing#whump stuff
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Details in old timey sickfic
Whumpee has a candle near their bed, but it's flickering so much it makes them dizzy
Bitter herbs and tonics
Wind rattling the shutters, sometimes throwing them open and startling the sick and tired whumpee
Scratchy sheets and lumpy mattresses, beds not up to the comfort standards of today (but still much more comfortable than whatever situation they were in before)
Firelight flickering off wooden ceiling beams, the only thing the sick character has the energy to look at
If their soup goes cold, there's no quick and easy way to reheat it
Painkillers don't work as efficiently
Or they leave the sickie so groggy and sluggish that they almost feel worse
Drafts
Just how cold the wooden/stone floors are on their bare feet if they need to leave bed
Real doctors being rare/expensive/ too far away so home care will have to do in any capacity
No electric lighting. If the window is open, it's too bright for the whumpee's eyes, but with it closed and only a single candle it's too dark for the caretaker to see what they're doing
Caretaker telling whumpee stories while they sit at their bedside (because modern distractions?? who is she????)
That looming, persistent knowledge that people die from illnesses all the time, and they could very well be next. Every sickness, even something we see as mild, being a threat.
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*banging fists on the table* HISTORICAL WHUMP
i don’t care when it takes place! victorian england? 1920s america? medieval france? pre-columbian mexico? hell, even classical persia??? even something as recently as the 80s is enough for me
and yknow what would make it even better? time travel, my beloved <3
anyways im gonna go back into my “post nothing and make everyone think im dead” state
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A fun whump aesthetic: a character being helped out of heavy plate armor
Is it done fast, blood-slick fingers pulling at straps and hastily undoing buckles, the pieces thrown carelessly aside to be picked up later, time is running out and they need to get all that metal out of the way to treat the wound underneath?
Or slowly, gently, telling the character that shh, they can rest now, they've done their part and done it well, others will take it from here?
Harshly, on a captured enemy knight, forcibly stripping them of first their weapons and then their armor as they're fighting back tooth and nail, to put them in chains afterwards, vulnerable without their armor in the light, sweat-drenched shirt and arming jacket and breeches they wear underneath?
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Whump where the character isn’t necessarily in pain; instead, they’re bone-tired and too weak to lift themselves out of the supine position they’re found in. A kind stranger picks them up, and when they do, Whumpee flops over like a rag doll in their arms, feeling to the stranger more like a corpse than a living person. Unlike a corpse, however, their skin is sickeningly hot to the touch. By the time the stranger loads them onto their wagon to drive to the town doctor, their shirt is soaked through with Whumpee’s sweat.
#whump#writing prompts#fever whump#exhaustion whump#whump drabble#god it’s been awhile since I used that tag#historical whump
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a historical whump trope I’m particularly feral for: when whumpee’s stricken with a chill they can’t shake. It’s not violent, but it’s persistent—no matter how close they sit to the fire or how much they wrap up, they can’t get warm down to their bones. feeling chilled makes their muscles stiff and achy, and none of the rudimentary heat sources can reach their core. no fire is all-encompassing, and a hot bath is far too extravagant and wasteful of resources and fuel. true, lasting warmth is a luxury belonging only to those with means, while those without settle for cloaks clutched around shoulders and huddling near the stove as the constant shiver lurks beneath their ribs.
(and if the chill leads to a serious illness, well, that’s another thing entirely)
#cold whump#historical whump#tbh it doesn’t HAVE to be historical#but a lack of central heating really spices things up#class differences don’t hurt either#>:)
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Whump idea: hundreds of years ago, peasants revolt against the upper class. A knight / noble / lord / prince was abducted, and was pretty much just an absolute punching bag for all of them. To the point where he’s just broken.
A farmer, or laborer or something, sees him and is just like “this is too far” and discreetly cares for him; giving him lots of water, giving him extra porridge, letting him sleep inside when no one is looking etc.
and the noble is initially distrustful after all he’s been through, but soon he becomes insanely grateful and feels indebted to him for this.
If anyone would like to write this, please do!! I’d love to read it :)
#whump#historical whump#medieval whump#history whump#writing#writers#angst#enemies to friends#knight whump#noble whump#royal whump#unexpected caretaker#caretaking#caretaker#whumper to whumpee#royalty whump#someone write this#im begging#peasant revolt#whumper turned caretaker#whumpertaker#carewhumper#carewhump#prompt#whump prompt
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1700s-1800s Military Whump Prompt List
Getting stabbed by a bayonet
Medic bunching up tons of bandages/gauze against a heavily bleeding wound, ignoring the sounds of whumpee's agony
Whumpee falling off of their horse (and getting caught on the saddle, only to be dragged)
Getting shot but like musket style
Rickety vintage guns going off accidentally, and blowing a brand new hole in whumpee
Whumpee was so heavily focused on the dangers of guns that they completely forgot about the dangers of getting stabbed
Caretaker dipping a cloth in a bucket of water, in order to dab it against whumpee's overheating forehead, both ignoring the sound of battle in the distance
Caretaker having to hurry on a long traveling mission in order to get something that could hopefully save whumpee's life, only to be interrupted by the enemy
Getting whipped after being captured by the enemy
Stitches with no painkillers
Shellshock from canon fire
Whumpee managed to survive getting a non-fatal cut from a sword, but they failed to anticipate the poison that the blade was laced in
Caretaker having to haul whumpee over a horse to lead them back to safety
Deserter stowaways on a ship that gets lost at sea
Getting shot with a bullet that's been purposefully infected with diseases
Getting caught in dangerous wintery conditions. It all seemed possible to overcome, until the horses died
Ally and Enemy putting their differences aside to deal with a much more wealthier, trained, and populous third party
Whumpee fought tooth and nail for their win, only for a third party to come around and "mediate" the situation themselves
Having to get an amputation for much more minor injuries then what we would count for today
Having no clue where the hell you're heading, and what it's going to be like there
Gun blowing up in whumpee's face
Kicked by steel toed boots
Getting an arrow stuck in the shoulder
Having to dig a bullet out of a wound with nothing but a dagger on hand
#military whump#historical whump#whump#human whumpee#human whumpees#whump prompt list#whump prompts#whump prompt#whump miltiary#soldier whumpee
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Lil' Bit of Medieval Whump
Whumpee gasped for air as Whumper yanked at the chain, giving it no slack as they strutted across the feasting hall. Whumpee's fingers clenched around the collar tightened around his neck, a futile effort to ease it as Whumper tugged on the chain.
The heavy oak doors slammed closed behind the two, commanding the attention of each of the warriors filling the room.
Whumpee's cheeks flushed crimson at the humiliation as he stumbled behind Whumper, struggling to preserve a slither of dignity by avoiding being dragged toward the Warlord.
"You treat him like a dog," the Warlord sighed as Whumper approached and took their seat to his right, forcing Whumpee to kneel beside them.
"Why shouldn't I? He has been defeated,” Whumper declared proudly, shooting Whumpee a smile as he glared back from his spot on the floor.
"I will choke you with this chain..." Whumpee growled quietly. His gaze was abruptly pulled from the floor as Whumper jerked the chain, forcing their eyes to meet.
"What was that, Knight?" Whumper taunted.
"N-nothing," came the strangled reply.
"Where is your honour, Whumper? “ the Warlord questioned, shaking his head as he took a sip from his goblet. “He was a great warrior.”
"Was, Lord,” Whumper corrected, finally releasing Whumpee from their grip. “And now he may serve as a trophy. Nothing more.”
#whump#whump scenario#stoic whumpee#defiant whumpee#humiliation whump#collar whump#male whumpee#whump snippet#medieval whump#fantasy whump#historical whump#Whump Thing I Wrote 9#royal whump#i think?
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Rules
Pets of the Silver Screen masterlist
Taglist: @maracujatangerine @clairelsonao3 @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @bbu-on-the-side
Multiple times over the years, Agatha learns the rules.
2.1k
CWs: BBU, pet whump, kidnapping, collar, beating, stress positions, dehumanisation, non-con nudity (non sexual)
Agatha juts her chin out, poise perfect despite the tip-toe position she's been forced into.
"My name is Miss Agatha Stanbury, daughter of Lord Kenneth Stanbury. Let me go and you may get out of this alive."
Foster Montgomery smirks, pressing his knife into her neck, blood beading along its edge.
"I think I'd rather keep you. Nobody's going to find you, certainly not after I'm finished with you." He drags his knife down her front, slitting her clothes. They mostly stay on, but it must be a very sharp knife to manage that. "Take them off."
"No."
He holds up the knife, reminding her. "What did you say?"
Agatha swallows but keeps her poise. She's going to be an actress, she can pretend she has nothing to fear.
"I said no. You have given me nothing to wear afterwards and I will not follow your disgusting commands."
"I have more suitable clothing for you later, if you earn it. But if you won't obey willingly I'll have to do it for you."
Agatha's barely had a chance to process the statement when she's slammed to the ground. All her bones are jarred and her nose explodes with agony. A boot seems to grind her into the floor as Montgomery removes her clothing piece by piece.
She hates herself for thinking it, but at least he lets her keep her knickers.
He grunts in satisfaction, and hauls her to her knees. She shoves his hands away and stands, but is back on her knees in less than a second.
"Stay." He reaches behind him and picks up a leather collar complete with tag.
Agatha doesn't move when he reaches out and buckles the suffocating leather around her throat, but not out of obedience. She just doesn't think she can.
She reaches up to touch it, but Montgomery smacks away her hand before she can.
"Don't even think about it. I'll only ever remove it if you need a punishment that might interfere with the collar somehow, so if you do so yourself I'll assume that's what you're after. But you do still deserve a punishment. Bend over."
Agatha swallows hard, the soft leather and cold metal buckle pressing against her throat. She doesn't move. She only came down for the season, she's not going to obey a kidnapper who's apparently obsessed with turning her into a pet.
He couldn't find a volunteer? There's enough of them.
She pitches forward onto her hands and knees as he pushes her over, pulling her knickers down.
"Bare flesh is best for this. Pets obey. They don't say no. They don't talk back. You need to learn this."
Agatha has never had such a thrashing in her life as she receives then. No-one's ever drawn blood before. She's not passed out enough by the end to receive a reprieve though – he orders her to clean the house, and woe betide her if he finds a speck of dust or blood.
She experiences it all as if from miles away. As if from the gathering she's supposed to be at right now, with entirely different rules. She's not in her body, most of the time, and that's probably for the best.
That day and the next, she learns the rules of being Foster Montgomery's captive.
1) Don't say no.
2) Only speak when spoken to.
3) Don't talk back.
4) Address other people as sir or ma'am.
5) Always obey immediately.
6) Don't remove your collar.
7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.
She adds an extra one from herself, too, which she knows is true. Montgomery giving her a collar is not just him being a sick bastard, it's theatre, another part of the pretense. Because even if he were to parade her in front of those she loves, everyone knows that only pets wear collars.
8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.
Over the next few months, the rules don't change. The chores are hard, and the punishments harsh, and a lot more of her is scarred now. Very little of what Montgomery does has any logic to it.
But she still can't find an escape. She fears she's sinking into it.
_
When she's hired by Hayes Fletcher, more rules are added to the list.
9) Don't talk to the other pet.
10) If you disobey, it won't just be you who's punished.
Eloise won't receive whippings, of course, and no canings during the shoot, but she can be put in stress positions, or starved, or have a bucket of water dumped over her head before being left in the unheated studio overnight. And Agatha has absolutely no desire to subject her to anything other than a good hot meal and somewhere better to sleep.
_
Rule 7 is underlined dramatically by the inspector's visit. In the aftermath, Agatha's arm and back throbbing, blood pooling on the frozen stone floor that her toes are just able to touch, Eloise whimpering from her own position, Agatha makes sure to add another two rules to herself (though the second is altered after Eloise's angry objections).
11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.
12) Don't break the rules. Even Only if Eloise agrees to do so.
_
Agatha could possibly escape during the transatlantic crossing. She thinks about it. Even jumping overboard might be better. But she needs to see Eloise again. Be sure that she's alive and physically unhurt (from the sinking at least, Agatha has no doubt she'll have been hurt since). Tell her that she's brave, and a hero, because if it had been anyone but fellow pets she'd saved, if she was anyone but a pet herself, her actions would've been lauded, but instead it's Hayes Fletcher who's being praised for having such a good pet. Which isn't right, it isn't fair, and Agatha can't leave Eloise on her own.
That's when Agatha solidifies the last rule for herself, that's been brewing since she first met Eloise but she's never stopped to think about it before.
13) Her and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.
_
Then the Great War comes.
Foster Montgomery signs up to fight. He leaves Agatha in Hayes Fletcher's care, who lends her to the munitions factory, for good publicity and probably money (money for Fletcher? Money for Montgomery? She doesn't know. But neither man is big into philanthropy). Eloise isn't there. Agatha follows the rules Montgomery has already given her, hating the fact that they keep her alive.
Another few rules are added.
14) Don't become emotional.
15) Never make a sound.
16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.
That last is... profoundly obvious, at times. When the rest of the workers get to go home at the end of their shifts and she is kept working, or if there's no-one else at all, locked in the breakroom until morning. When she's fed less than the others, or when she's beaten, or–
It's so obvious, even more so than when she was hired by Hayes Fletcher. She hates it. And she's so alone here.
The war will be over by Christmas, right?
_
1915. Foster Montgomery is dead, and Agatha desperately wishes she could thank his killer, if anybody even knows. She gets a new tattoo, signifying her ownership by Hayes Fletcher (luckily, she knows his rules, there's no new ones to learn there). The Munitions Act comes into force, and the regular bombing raids start.
Monkey's paw. She's not alone anymore, but it means that Eloise, and several other pets, have joined her in the munitions factory.
She teaches Eloise what she's learned about staying out of trouble where possible. They have a dedicated bunkroom now, pets crammed in on old bedding on the floors of the worst-maintained rooms. They learn that only a few owners have paid for their pets to be taken to air raid shelters.
Hayes Fletcher hasn't.
Night after night they spend, trying to stay calm as bombs rain down around them. Occasionally they're still chained or tied up at night, for punishments, and when that happens Agatha worries the most.
She learns one more rule.
17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.
_
The war ends. By a miracle, her and Eloise are both still alive. Hayes Fletcher goes back to producing films, albeit with less success. Agatha watches as pet liberation campaigns grow, and the next decade approaches with force. The world seems a little more hopeful, things seem to be changing.
Except for her and Eloise. Stuck with the horrible, spiteful little man, punishments getting worse as he gets more frustrated and blames them for it (or maybe he simply has nowhere else to put his anger). The world's moving on, votes for women are coming, and she can't help but think of what her life might be like if she hadn't been kidnapped all those years ago.
She remembers rule 7. And the last time was dreadful, and another attempt could get them both killed, but she mentions her rule to Eloise one night and Eloise agrees. They have to try, don't they? Sometimes, it's the only thing you can do.
A week later, the film studio burns down in the middle of the night. Arson, probably. By the time the fire brigade arrive to the burnt out husk Agatha and Eloise are already sneaking onto a train to London.
_
"If the both of you want rules, I can give you some," says Ira, clearly reluctant, "as long as we can go through the ones you already have first. Is that all right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Ira nods. "Why don't you write me a list then? We can go through them while Eloise is busy."
Agatha takes the paper and pen she offers, wincing as she sits down, heart skipping a beat. She's still not used to it.
At the end of the session, her list reads:
1) Don't say no.
2) Only speak when spoken to.
3) Don't talk back.
4) Address people as sir or ma'am.
5) Always obey immediately.
6) Don't remove your collar.
7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.
8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.
9) Don't talk to the other pets.
10) If you disobey, it won't be just you who's punished.
11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.
12) Don't break the rules. Only if Eloise agrees to do so.
13) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other. (Ira says she can get rid of this one partially too, but she's not so sure. Not yet)
14) Don't become emotional.
15) Never make a sound.
16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.
17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.
The new rules are easy, and straightforward, and Agatha doesn't entirely trust them. The list now reads:
1) You belong to yourself.
2) You will never be punished, no matter what you do.
3) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.
4) Sometimes all you can do is pray.
_
Agatha kneels on the floorboards, trembling. It's her turn today, Ira asked her to clean and she said yes, she's not sure why except she's so used to not being allowed to say no.
She hopes she's done well. She hopes she's done well. She hopes she won't be punished.
Ira doesn't do punishments. But all the same, she hopes she won't be punished.
There's footsteps, then they stop.
"Agatha?"
"I've finished cleaning, ma'am."
A hand on her shoulder. "Agatha, please look at me. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Come on, look up."
Agatha obeys hesitantly. And gasps. Ira's eyes are dark and warm and how could Agatha ever have thought otherwise? Ira gets down to her level as Agatha grasps her hands tightly, pulling her into a rare hug.
"Rules one and two, Agatha."
"I belong to myself," whispers Agatha, still clutching Ira tightly, "and I will not be punished."
Ira's two rules. The only two she'll ever make.
1) I belong to myself.
2) I will never be punished, no matter what I do.
And there's a third, that Agatha has added herself, that she thinks she probably can after so long. Rule number 5, now Ira has been proven correct and number 3 has been partially removed (Agatha does not only have Eloise now).
5) Ira keeps her promises.
#whump#whump writing#bbu community#bbu#box boy universe#box babe#multiple whumpees#pet whump#kidnapping#lady whump#whumpee and whumper#whumpee and caretaker#pets of the silver screen#agatha stanbury#foster montgomery#ira waterhouse#not happy with the list formatting but nvm#historical whump
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Tag your whumper/whumpee/caretaker/OC
#whump#whump prompt#whump OC#military whump#historical whump#whumper#whumpee#Duolingo meme#Dutch Duolingo#war criminal whumper
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Responsible pet keeping tips from the previous post: EESU version.
Art tag: @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump @whumpedydump @whumpthefifth @monarchthefirst @sunshiline-writes @project-xiii
#whump#whump community#whumpblr#historical whump#totalitarian whump#pet whump#whumpee#whump oc#whump ideas#whump art#whump drawing#whump things#whump stuff#whump inspo
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#whump#idk guys it's just a thought *shrugs*#historical whump#@warmblanket whump you know which I'd choose 0_0#bc I bring it up more than is healthy lol
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Cold, Cold, Cold - VIII
1,744 words. Original work, The Jackal of An-Nadr
<< | previous | next | >>
Content Warnings | UNREALITY, fever whump, very vivid hallucinations, nightmares, fear of drowning, hypothermia, anchored to the bottom of a river, used as bait, crying into your captor's arms, gorgeous & incoherent begging
Taglist | @killtheprotagonist @secretwhumplair @ink-and-salt @kixngiggles @brutal-nemesis @thebewilderer @whumpsical @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whimperwoods @shydragonrider @pizzasthengym @thecyrulik @ceph-the-writing-spook @mylifeisonthebookshelf @ohwhumpydays @redwingedwhump @whump-queen @scoundrelwithboba
The thready, unraveling world had stopped making any sense to Nadeem so very long ago. He didn't know how long he'd been drifting. Only that night had now come, and the cold had, too.
Silt pressed between his toes as he strained toward shore, just barely brushing the tops of the muckweed with every kick. His hair drifted out in a raising and dipping halo around his shoulders, frost crusting the strands everywhere it touched the water.
He could count on one hand the number of times he had ever gone swimming at night, especially alone. No matter how much he had always trusted the river during the day, it was a game with death to be out here after the sun had set. The rivercats that lazed at the glinting heat of the shore would have returned to the river by now. The ones that couldn't even be bothered to roll an eye in a human's direction during the day would be out hunting for cattle that wandered too close to the blackness of the shore—and they were much more difficult targets than him. And even if the alligators didn't kill him, The Purratu's cold northbound waters were enough to.
The motion of the current had already wicked away any of the heat his body had to offer. Shivering against the steady onslaught of water was useless. He knew with a creeping sense of dread that worsened with every minute; I'm dying.
Still he tread water, trying to keep his chin above the surface. His wrists had been bound behind his back, the anchor tied from them to the depths far too heavy for him to lift. He had spent all of his strength and energy trying to drag it closer to shore, but now his violent shivering was beginning to slow. His body was failing. He didn't know when the stranger was coming back to him, only that he was running out of time.
A sharp, shuddering breath rattled his shoulders, sweat seeping into the pillows as he tried to curl deeper around himself, chasing the warmth that was quickly seeping out through the bottom of the canvas bed. No matter how much he shivered, the draft from below took away all heat faster than he could make it.
Was this his punishment? Were they not coming back?
I can't do this.
He gave a frustrated sob as he tried, one last time, to saw his hands free of the rope. The fibers cut deeper and deeper into his skin, succeeding in doing nothing more than spreading more blood into the water.
He twisted his hands weakly in the leather strips tying them to the head of the bed. His fingertips had long since turned a worrying shade of frigid grey, and it took all his focus to get them to gradually flex to try to keep life in them.
The ladder creaked as one of the creatures came down the steps. He caught the flash of eyes, metallic silver pools of light that glinted in the blackness like those of a hyena. The predator shifted through the small space, the sound of lanterns tinkling against its shoulders. Then a second set of glinting eyes joined it soon after.
"Come back!" he cried in a fog of breath into the empty night. His voice was hoarse from clattering teeth, weak with the only shallow gasps he could still reach from the surface of the water. The lights of windows flickered orange against the dark landscape, glittering like embers in the wind.
He knew this man could outwait him. He could remember nothing of the stranger's face, but a deep well of rot in his chest told him he was facing something worse than freezing to death and drowning. He was bait. Even as the shouts grew closer and he saw the distant silhouettes of his townspeople pass, he bit back his sobs and kept himself silent.
If they come for you, I’ll kill them before you have even a chance to scream.
But now he heard his sister's voices in the distance. He had been a constant for their whole lives. They knew him. They knew him well enough that he knew the river was one of the first places they would look. He could do nothing but cry as he ran out of time.
"Come back and take me," he wept breathlessly, "Pl—please." His leg spasmed with a cramp of pain, and with a gasp of shock his mouth dipped below the surface. It took him a few long, terrifying moments to kick again strongly enough to break the surface. The redoubled cold of the night air washed over his face. He sputtered and coughed from the shock of it, feet sweeping back and forth over and over to try to buy enough air.
He let out a breathless sob as claws brushed slowly, carefully back through his hair. He shuddered, shying away from the touch, and held his breath as he felt it pause. Then a warm hand slid down the curve of his jaw and cradled his face. Please, please. "...please."
Please, warmth. "I'll...do...." anything. I'll do anything. Don't let me spend another night like this.
I'll never make it to the oasis if I don't find warmth.
I have to make it. I don't want to die alone like this.
I don't want to die in this forsaken place.
The hand traced his face, soothing over the sweat-drenched mess of his forehead. His eyes lidded as their warmth slowly seeped into his skin, exhausted sobs slipping through clattering teeth.
"I'll do it," he sobbed into the hum of the locusts.
Please don't let them find me like this. Please, don't let my family be the ones to find me.
Baba, Maaman, his sisters—
"I'll do it!" He yelled, and immediately sank back under the surface. In the moments after he surfaced again he was left coughing so hard he almost couldn't catch his breath.
More lanterns had been lit, glimmering out beyond the high grass like guttering candles. They were still so far away. The wildlife that sang in the banks of the river gave way to the sound of distant cries for a moment before their orchestra breathed over them again.
The creature pulled the blankets away, unwinding him from the tangle of furs. He whined aloud as the cold night air washed over his skin, barely aware of the "Please...no....no," that streamed from his lips.
Talons pulled him out of the blankets, lifting him like he weighed no more than a doll. Then they moved warm over his sweat-drenched clothes, pulled him close against the creature's chest, and continued combing through his hair as arms wrapped around his back. He almost began weeping with relief when warm, bare skin pressed into the numbness of his cheek.
Something writhed beneath his toes in the muck. He jerked his foot away and instinctively kicked at it to keep it at bay, but it wasn’t something he could sustain if he still wanted to breathe. Moments after he was forced to return to his treading, slimy sandpaper scales brushed along the arch of his foot as it persistently returned.
He braced himself for the needle-pain of teeth, drawn to the smell of the wound in his foot. He let out a near-hysterical whine as he felt those mucousy scales twist up between his toes and wrap around his ankle. Then its body once again pressed cold against the bottom of his foot, slicking over the burn, and kept him from dislodging it even as he returned to his desperate treading.
Lengths of bandage turned slowly round and round his foot, gentle hands working around the wound.
His fingers curled against its chest, heat radiating against his cheek as he sunk further into the crook of its arms. The air he breathed was tinged with the incense-burn of smoke, huge hands warming the back of his neck. A wordless murmur echoed by his ear, warm breath ghosting over his skin.
Maybe the creature wouldn't... Maybe...
Wait...
No, he couldn't...it couldn't....
Something rustled in the reeds. Something brushed over his hair.
Which was reality?
"Make it stop," he pleaded breathlessly.
"Nadi!" his sister's voices cried from downriver. "Where are you?"
He coughed on more water, breath blooming in silver clouds around his head. Droplets flicked out around him as he turned his head and desperately searched the dark for any sign of the dark figure from before.
A warm cloth wiped across his forehead, washing over feverish skin. A rumbling voice soothed him as he twisted his face away from the contact.
A man's silhouette shifted, so faintly visible against the reeds that he couldn't even be sure he was there. He kicked desperately to try to raise his head from the water enough to call out, but suddenly found, for the first time, that he couldn't reach the surface.
"Õ̵͜d̸̰̆r̷͈̒ä̸̦i̸̻͋!̷̩̌ ̴̯̌G̷̨̊e̴̙͗t̵͚͂ ̴̼̃m̷̖̆e̶̬͊ ̶̑ͅs̷̠̾ȁ̸̝n̵̪͠d̷̠̽b̷͓̆a̷̳̒g̷̩̽s̸̢̊,̵̤͒ ̶̗̽n̴͓̒o̴̗̚w̴̥̉!”
He cast pleading eyes toward the figure, gasping on a breath that was as much water as air. Please. Please.
That...that was no language he knew. And some resigned sort of dread told him that his mind couldn't have come up with it on his own, not even in the fever of dreams like these.
"Nadi! Where are you?"
He struggled to crack open his eyes, but he could see nothing more than incoherent colors swimming beyond his lashes. They lidded as an ember-warm hand brushed back the small hairs at the edges of his face, relief coursing down his spine with a shudder.
He was either drowning or falling asleep. He could no longer distinguish one from the other any more than he could make sense of either of the realities from dreams.
The man on the shore was going to get what he wanted after all.
The creature at the bottom of the river curled its body slowly up his calf, fins fluttering against his skin. Its body tightened around him. Then it pulled him slowly deeper, and Nadi's vision wavered as the water closed over his head one final time. The muffled roar of the insects went silent. He turned his eyes once again up toward the night sky, empty breath clawing at his lungs.
He had no more strength to fight. His trembling, exhausted muscles finally went lax with one last, burning exhale that blossomed to the surface. Then he was no more.
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#The Jackal of An-Nadr#(this chapter has an easter egg 👀)#whump#whumpblr#writeblr#whump series#historical whump#historical fiction#fantasy whump#drugged whumpee#defiant whumpee#whump fic#monsterfucker#monsterfucking#sick fic#fever whump#slow-burn monsterfucker series
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I see gladiator fights in pinned post and I ask: how do you feel about jousting whump? Any ideas? I used to train horses so I was thinking about horse whump and suddenly my brain made a connection with such potential.
Thoughts? Ideas?
Okay, so, story time. I am the kind of person who goes to things where there will be jousting. Renn faires, medieval re-enactments, Medieval Times. I have seen more than a few jousts.
They are whumpy as. I particularly love when the ones I go to have plotlines in the joust. These plotlines have a tendency to get whumpy. And it is awesome.
Here’s some of the best ones I’ve seen:
- one knight turned traitor and viciously slaughtered two of the others before the knight who had been introduced as a novice challenged him and managed to beat him
- female knight declared herself to be evil and made a show of telling the good knight exactly how slowly and painfully she was going to kill him when he lost the fight- and he lost
- one knight was defeated and killed early on, and his squire grabbed a sword and tried to avenge him and ended up getting the crap kicked out of him in the middle of the arena
And I’ve never seen this particular scenario happen at a jousting reenactment but I wish it would traditionally, the losing knight is expected to surrender his horse, spurs, and possibly his armor to the victor. The winning knight is expected to refuse because of honor and chivalry and all that, but if the knight happens not to care about the code of chivalry they can accept and leave the losing knight destitute.
But wait, there’s more- if the winning knight is particularly evil, there is absolutely nothing in the code of chivalry to stop them from taking the losing knight prisoner. Jousting is, figuratively speaking, to the death- the loser owed his life to the victor even though jousting deaths were usually by accident and only rarely did someone actually follow through and kill their opponent. It was understood that the loser was in the winner’s power, even though chivalry didn’t allow for anything drastic. However, if you have a knight who doesn’t care one whit about chivalry, or perhaps is up against an old enemy…you have whump potential. A LOT of whump potential.
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old time-y war setting, with whumpee finally returning home to their spouse after months or years overseas.
caretaker waits anxiously by the gate, pacing and biting their nails down to stubs. whumpee hadn't replied to their last letter, but surely caretaker would have been notified if they died, right? so here they stood, among all the other spouses and siblings and parents and friends, and waited for their beloved to step off the boat.
their anxiety only grew as more and more soldiers disembarked, with whumpee still nowhere in sight. until caretaker finally caught a glimpse of them, near the back of the crowd.
they felt their heart drop into their stomach as they finally got a good look at whumpee.
they're stumbling forward, struggling to stay balanced, one of their sleeves empty and tied off just above the elbow. or maybe a fellow soldier is pushing them forward in a wheelchair with empty footrests.
either way, whumpee keeps their head bowed, their body stiff and tense. caretaker looks into their eyes and sees nothing but shame.
caretaker's hand shakes as they gently touch the stump of whumpee's limb. whumpee avoids meeting their eyes. caretaker's heart aches. does whumpee think they won't love them anymore?
caretaker gently tugs whumpee forward, or kneels down in front of them, and wraps them in a firm hug, tucking their head into whumpee's neck like they always did before.
"i'm so glad you're home." they whisper, squeezing whumpee tight.
they hear a quiet sniffle, before they feel whumpee's tears soaking into their hair, their hand(s) fisted tightly in caretaker's shirt, like a child clutching its favorite blanket.
caretaker ran a comforting hand up and down whumpee's back, silently letting them cry. there was so much they would have to deal with in the future, but for now, their darling was home, alive and in their arms, and they just wanted to cherish the moment a little longer.
#whump#whump prompts#military whump#soldier whumpee#limb loss#historical whump#mine#SORRY I DISAPPEARED LMFAO
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