#self whump

[whumppromptoftheday]

sleep deprived whumpee who stays awake for days at a time just so they can sleep for a few hours without waking up

#whumppromptoftheday #whump #whump prompt #whump idea #self whump

[generic-whumperz]

If someone tells me, “This is scary, don’t look/read/watch this before bed!” There’s a high change that I’m going to go ahead and do it anyway, then be too scared to sleep and get nightmares that night just because I don’t like being told what to do.

#fr I’ve been reading whumpy stuff before bed and having the crazies lucid nightmares #nightmares fuel the creative spark #I guess I like to torment myself #why am i like dis #play stupid games win stupid prizes #self whump

[splendidissimus]

2005ish - Excising Voldemort

((Content warning: Draco is trying to remove the Dark Mark from his arm. With a knife. For five pages.))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober 2023: day 22: Alternate prompt: Body modification ))

Genre: whump

Romance level: none

Angst level: 3/5

Draco's headspace: fixated / seemingly fine

((words: 2800))

------------------------------------

Knives reminded Draco of Death Eaters. He had never, as far as he knew, met a wizard who carried one who didn't have the Dark Mark. Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rowle… real sadists who wanted to be able to hurt people without a wand. It seemed fitting, then. 

"Master Draco." Tolly slid the knife onto the desk and looked up at him with her ears drooped almost completely flat against her back. "Please, please choose something else…"

"It's all right, Tolly," he assured the house elf firmly. "I'll be okay. I forbid you from telling anyone what I'm doing." She wrung her hands together anxiously. "Unless I pass out," he added thoughtfully. "Or die. Then I would like to be found." 

She pulled on her ears with a squeal so alarmed it didn't even make words. 

"Merlin, you're going to make me nervous." He patted her head. "I don't think you should stay. You can come check on me in an hour." 

She resisted the order, just a little bit. "Please, Master Draco," she squeaked, and then vanished, hitting herself on the head as she did to punish herself for that resistance. Draco did feel a bit bad for her stress, but she was worrying unnecessarily. 

Draco rested his palms on the edge of the desk and looked over his preparations, taking a final inventory. Knife, belt, wand, bowl of water and cloth, towel, blood clotting potion, blood thinning potion, blood replenishing potion, plate. He'd already taken the Wit Sharpening potion to make sure his mind was clear and focused.

He began rolling up his left sleeve, stoically. He hated the Dark Mark. He had set eyes on it probably only a dozen times in the years since Voldemort's death, and in the years of his reign, looking at it had been more like picking at a wound. He kept his arm covered at all times if he could help it. Any time it was exposed, he was acutely aware of it, and if it happened to brush against any other part of his skin he swore he could feel it, like something contagious, contaminating anything it touched.

He could also withstand a great deal of pain. He didn't like to, obviously — he was a coward, and pain hurt. But he'd had a lot more practice at it than anyone should.

The Dark Mark was completely indelible; it had faded, but it would never disappear, and no potion, spell, or artefact would ever lift it. However, Voldemort had completely despised all things nonmagical, and thoroughly undervalued and overlooked the potential power in anything not a wizard of pure blood.

Those three facts seemed to naturally go together, and culminate in the form of the knife he had asked Tolly to bring him. Would the great Lord Voldemort ever consider that someone would dare take something as banal as a kitchen knife to his distinguished mark?

The tattoo on his forearm leered at him as he folded the sleeve up one last turn above his knobby elbow. It was a trick of his eyes and his hatred for it, of course, but it gave the unsettling impression of moving under his skin as he moved his arm. The black of the skull and snake was faint; it would have taken a real effort to actually see, on a more normal skin colour, and even against his paleness it was only a grey blemish. But to him, it may as well have been glowing. 

He wrapped the belt around his arm, between the sleeve and his elbow, and yanked it tight, then a little tighter once it began to hurt. He knew he couldn't allow himself to bleed any more than necessary; his blood didn't clot, it just flowed unabated, and it could be dangerous. He had a potion standing by in case he absolutely had to, but the blood thickeners came with their own dangers: at least once they had cause a clot in his brain that affected his mind, a stroke, and that was one of the most terrifying things he had ever experienced. Which was why he had in turn a blood thinning potion, in case he needed to treat that. Ideally, he would use neither of them. 

He flexed his left hand to experiment with the way it was starting to go numb, then pulled the towel over to rest his arm upon, and picked up the knife, testing it in his hand. It was heavier than he expected, not balanced like a wand; he swished it around a little to get accustomed to it. The dexterity of practised wand skills translated over well, and once he was used to the balance, he could control the tip of it with confidence. 

All right, now… 

He clenched his fist to tauten the skin, set the tip of the knife against his skin at the top of the skull, and pressed it in. The skin dimpled for a second, forced him to press harder than he'd thought he would have to, and then it suddenly went in. He hissed in pain and yanked the knife back out on reflex. A drop of blood welled up in the puncture, swelled and balanced on top of his arm, and when its weight became too much finally rolled over the edge of his arm and slid down to the towel, leaving a trail of red over the bare skin.

All right, that was all right. He just hadn't been prepared. But it proved he could do it. Now he just had to.

He put the knife point back to his skin near the first mark before he could think about it too much and pressed it in, drawing blood a second time. He hissed in a pained breath again, but it didn't stop him this time. The blade ploughed its way through the skin, digging a furrow across the top of the skull.

In a few seconds, that became too much, and he yanked the knife away and pressed it flat against the table, head bowed, shakily trying to catch his breath. His arm seared. But he was making progress.

When he opened his eyes and forced himself to look at Voldemort's mark, he was dismayed to realise the cut was maybe two inches long, weeping blood over the side of his arm but otherwise to very little effect. It had felt so much bigger than that. It wasn't even properly connected to the first puncture he had made. If that was all he could do at a time, he was going to chew his arm into dogmeat before he accomplished anything…

He wet the cloth and wiped away the blood with a hiss, and then pressed it firmly over the area. The cold felt good; it had a side effect of also covering the Dark Mark from view, which made him feel like he could think more clearly because it wasn't watching him. Feeling the throbbing of his arm under his hand gave him a moment to breathe. 

He set aside the cloth, flexing his left hand again — with some difficulty, as the numbness now had it feeling distant and clumsy — and watching the cuts move. The second one opened a tiny amount and let another line of blood escape, but the tourniquet was doing its job and he wasn't bleeding all that much. He traced the jagged line of the cuts with his eyes.

He was trying to be too gentle. Or too careful. There was nothing he was going to do that would mitigate the pain, so he shouldn't be trying to. He needed to be more decisive. Just do it. 

With an absent nod, he picked up the knife, then changed his mind and instead untucked the end of the belt that was wrapped around his upper arm, pulled it taut, and held it between his teeth. Then he set the blade against the long side of the skull, pressed until he felt it and saw blood, and then yanked it toward his wrist in one sharp motion. His cry of pain was muffled in the belt, and he slammed the knife back onto the desk, fumbling around for his wand. When his fingers found it, he Silenced himself and released the belt from his teeth, panting for breath.

The cut was better this time. Much longer and neater. And bleeding more. There was blood flowing from it in several distinct rivulets, soaking into the towel under his arm. The cut wasn't at the perfect angle, but it was most of the length of the mark.

Just do that again, a few more times… 

He pulled the belt tighter, trying to cut off the blood, held it in his teeth again, and picked up the knife. He told himself he wasn't going to put it down again until he was done. 

Starting at the upper long side of the mark, he made another long slice, and then a series of a few short ones around the bottom of the snake, carving straight lines in an approximation of a curve. The skin moved around, making it hard to pull a smooth line, leaving jagged starts and stops in the cuts; he needed another hand to hold himself down. He had to scream once, but he was Silenced so it didn't matter. 

When he had done as much as he could like that, he stopped for a moment, resting the edge of the knife on the desk, panting raggedly around the leather in his teeth. His right hand was shaking around the knife. He didn't let it go, though. He wasn't done. 

The Dark Mark was roughly outlined in straightish lines, not neat, but amateurish, overlapping where they should have started, sticking out unnecessarily far into the skin or leaving gaps of unbroken skin where they didn't meet, some at awkward angles where the skin had shifted or the curve of his arm sent the knife awry. Blood was running from the cuts, squeezed out and smeared onto the Dark Mark, running tickling down the sides of his arm to soak into the towel. There was blood not only on the knife, but the desk where it had touched, and soaked into the edge of his other sleeve where he had brushed it unknowingly. 

He lifted the blade again, and noticed how unsteadily it was shaking in his hand, so closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Opening his eyes, he breathed deeply and stared at the tip of the knife until it quavered under his will and behaved, going still. 

Carefully, he slid the point of the blade into the edge of one of the cuts, hissing a small breath through his nose, and then laid it almost flat, so that it wasn't going down into his arm but over it, under the edge of the skin by a few fractions of an inch. He made sharp, short slices at the corner of the cut that way, lengthening it step by step toward the next cut, and when they nearly joined he had to shift the knife so that he was digging the point into the thin wall of flesh between them and yank it up to break that last thread of skin. 

It hurt. It hurt like hell. But there was a kind of clarity and focus that went along with it, a satisfaction in seeing progress on his goal. He gritted his teeth on the belt, panted through his nose, and focused on joining the next pair of cuts. And the next. He could feel in his throat that he would be making noises, but he couldn't hear them and it was fine. He didn't pretend he was brave about pain. Just that it wouldn't stop him.

The first cuts, at the top of the skull, were the most problematic. The angle was awkward and the skin was torn up in small sections. He finally gave up on the careful approach, there, and instead laid the length of the blade half an inch below the original abortive cuts, took a breath, and sawed it forward in a swift slice. The skin shifted and dimpled instead of parting, needed more pressure, and then when it gave the knife bit deeply into the wasted muscle and scraped bone, and he screamed, ripping the knife out and shaking.

It took a very long moment before he got a grip on that screeching pulse of pain, and in that time, blood was running freely from that deep cut and into the towel, slowly spreading the red. But it was done. The entire Dark Mark was encircled in cuts, moats of blood, quarantined, separated from the rest of his skin. It was no longer part of him. Now it was just stuck to him.

His breath was ragged, but he lifted the trembling blade again. Nearly finished. Just to get it off, now.

He took up the wet cloth to wipe the blood from one section of the mark, squeezing the cut closed for a second to interrupt the flow so that he'd be able to see what he was doing. Then he carefully inserted the knife into the cut again and once again angled it so that he could slide it under the skin. Much further this time, not just the edges as before, but full inches, slowly working it back and forth, forward, between the skin and the muscle, biting back whimpers of pain with every stroke as the blade scraped under his skin. The snake seemed to writhe as it bulged with the knife under it, like it was trying to escape from his skin.

It wasn't neat work, at first. He got the angle wrong and shaved too close to the surface, and the tip of the knife came up through the skin, poking through the snake's mouth in a way that made him weirdly ill. Then, trying to adjust for the curve of his arm, he overcorrected and bit too deep, cutting into the muscle, and that made him cry out silently and stop for a long moment. 

Maybe it would have hurt less if he were quicker, but for this it only seemed right to be methodical and careful. 

It was quickly pointless to try to sop up the blood, and he let it flow. It got on his fingers and made the knife slick in his hand, and obscured what he was doing so he was operating almost entirely on feel. The towel was sodden and it was getting on the desk. 

He found the rhythm, though, the right angle and depth that let the skin part almost easily from the muscle beneath. He scraped through the connective tissues and worked his way up toward the elbow, and then it happened. The tip of the blade came out the top. With a few more quick, careful, painful slices of the knife, it was finished. The entire Dark Mark peeled up, on a single solid flap of skin wider than his hand and longer than the blade of the knife. He balanced it carefully on the blade and transferred it whole to the plate, adjusting the ragged edges just so to spread it out. A pathetic grey, faded testament to Voldemort's will and control, and it was gone. 

He was drunk on success. He didn't even care about the pain or the slightly woozy feeling of blood loss, it was done. He had done it. He was free. 

He hadn't meant to end the silencing spell on himself, but he must have because he heard himself laugh, and he didn't want to stop. He grabbed the cloth and pressed it over the skinned muscle, hissing in pain but still laughing as he slid down a bit in his chair, looking toward the ceiling. It was finally done. It was finally over. 

"Fuck you, Tom Riddle," he laugh-sobbed in a surprisingly hoarse voice. Maybe he'd been screaming more than he realised. 

Okay, his arm was really hurting. He made himself sit up and, with a wince, peeled the cloth from his arm, wiping away as much blood as possible from the exposed muscle. It was a weird sight, disturbing, glistening wet and red—

And black. As he wiped the space clean, the black loomed out of the blood, skull and snake as vibrantly dark as it had ever been on his skin, engrained in the twitching fibres of the working muscle.

He shrieked and staggered out of the chair like he could get away from his own arm, stumbling a step further and then falling to his knees, retching. His head was swimming, either from the blood loss or the cold laughter pounding through it… 

"Tolly," he croaked faintly, hand over his mouth, and heard her Apparate beside him. Her hand on his elbow was searing pain. "I think you should get some help now…"

#whumptober2023 #no.22 #alternate prompt #body modification #fic #harry potter #self harm tw #self mutilation tw #gore tw #blood cw #draco malfoy #tolly the house elf #self whump #draco whumpee #house elf caretaker #draco in his 20s #draco is injured #splendidissimus writing #whumptober 2023

[luckyloo13]

Tw// minor self h*rm

Whumpee who unconsciously starts scratching at their skin under stressful situations until someone notices and gently reminds them to stop

#whump ideas #whump #whumpee #whump thoughts #emotional whump #self whump

[smreine]

BAH i hate this thing i do with art where i'm so happy the entire time i'm making it and then i'm done and i'm like, overtly DISGUSTED with what i did. "fumbled! puerile!"

loving the process (if not the results) means i keep doing it but i wish i could see goodness at the end

it's sorta funny because i spend the whole time drawing kinda like, feral, slavering over my own work ("these lines! ahhh!" "omg the curves the curves" "the rhythm! the flow!" "i am a future comic book artist master genius!!!") and then i'm done and a switch flips like BAH!!!!

if i had thought forward to myself like "what will i be like when i am a powerful milfy 30-something matriarch?" when i was a kid, the answer probably wouldn't have been "exactly as neurotic as i have always been"

are you telling me i'm going to stay myself? for my whole life?

#tortured artist #self whump #cheesecake #pinup art #artistic angst #jamie lee curtis i'm old dot gif

[rocks-whump-stuff]

Klaus gifs bc i wanted to + god damn i love him

@stabby-nunchucks some klaus for the soul

#klaus whump #whump #whump blog #Fandom whump #klaus #klaus hargreeves #kidnapping #self whump #punch #blood

[talesofmetalandmagic]

Azir pays the tithe

“I think you’re getting too proud, Azir”

How? Azir wants to scream. He’s fallen to the bottom of the hole. He spends his days sweating in the sun, his nights blinded and stifled inside a cage, he eats food that tastes like dry bark at best, no one has come to break him free or at least beg for mercy (“they just don’t know where I am, they’re looking for me as I speak, Nasus must be fretting silly, they’ll never abandon their emperor”) and every time he gets some needed water he has to kiss the hand of his tormentor.

How lower can I fall, Xerath? I’ve savored dust and blood and sweat and tears, stained my name and disgraced my crown, and there’s no joy in my life to speak of. You’re either mocking me, or your cruelty is greater than the world itself.

The Magus hovers over Azir, bowed to the ground with his forehead on the sand. “Since I rule over you, and you’re mine to dispose of… I think you need to pay the price for your presence in this realm. How do you call that, do you remember?”

“A tithe, my lord”, Azir mutters. For once he’s glad he has to keep his head down, lest Xerath see the cold panic in his eyes. How can he pay a tax if he doesn’t have money… or anything for that matter?

Will he flog me, burn me, let his brainwashed priests do of me what he wants. He feels the tendrils of energy he calls hands stroke his feathers, but he doesn’t understand.

“Now if you were someone of importance, like the Emperor…” and Azir grasps the sand in rage, “I am the Emperor, you impudent madman, and I’ll prove it to you once I go free!”, “you’d pay your tithe in money. But given your position in the social scale right now… I decided to be nice and let you pay with a new currency, made especially for you. I grant you the right to raise your head.”

Azir does exactly that, cold sweat running down his neck… and he sees one of Xerath’s men holding onto a nondescript glass jar, the kind the palace cooks would use to keep jam, honey and other condiments.

The kind Xerath and I would raid from at night when we were kids and he didn’t loathe me for… for what, even?

Suddenly Azir remembers another usage for those jars, all over Nasus’ collection of samples he loved to visit as a child and tween. Samples of nails, eyeballs, scales, bones and… No, no no no no…

“Please, my lord. Not this.”

Xerath pulsates in cutting rage. “How vain of you, Azir. Do you consider yourself that beautiful, after getting your precious ascension?”

Yes. I’ve never felt more beautiful than inside this body. “My lord… It will destroy me. You don’t have feathers, you don’t know what it’s like.”

“I’ve studied my science: I know what birds feel like when you pluck them. But if you expect me to care about your pain, Azir, then you’re even prouder than I thought. My people would also pay tithes in blood, every day, without the right to babble like you do. Everybody must pay for their right onto this land. It’s the law, made by the old blood, and I just follow what I know. As for you… do you know who doesn’t pay tithes?”

“The… the Emperor, my lord. Them and their kin”

Xerath shifts closer, holding Azir’s neck. “And are you the Emperor, Azir?”

“No, my lord.” He hates how choked up he gets when he says it.” I’m not.”

“Good.” Xerath pats his feathered head in a mocking compliment. “Now fill that jar to the brim and get to the cave. You’re wasting my time.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry… Azir would bite his lip bloody if he had one. He rips each feather with a stroking motion, as if they were as alive as he and needed to be soothed as they lose their grip onto him. Once the jar is filled, he would stroke the sore part – a hidden spot underneath his armpit to maintain at least some of his beauty – until the jarring sensation of the bare, featherless skin loses at least some of its strangeness. It’s nothing. They’ll grow back. This mustn’t shatter me.

But Azir shatters at last in the evening, when Xerath’s priest light the fire he’s not allowed to bask into and he sees exactly where his precious tithe goes.

Seeing the feathers he ripped off himself burn to a crisp leaves the ex-emperor on his knees, hugging himself, as if his own body was on fire in there as well.

“You’d not survive a day in the life I lived”, Xerath says behind his back. Azir swallows his tears and nods once, to make him content. There’s always a lower spot to fall, a greater humiliation to pay, more pain he’s not endured yet, and Azir knows he will savor them all. The sore part he ripped the feathers off burns like an open wound.

In the following days he’ll resort to plucking feathers from different part of the body, to make his plumage look more uniform, but the empty spots appear anyway, and even the feathers he rips look smaller and smaller, needing more plucks to fill the wretched jar.

“If I had a hawk like this”, Azir finds himself thinking one afternoon. “I’d put it out of his misery.”

#league of legends #lol #emperor azir #azir #Xerath #azir’s new groove #Omah azir #self whump #defeathering #self mutilation

[whumpyblogthing]

I'm going to write something eventually but right now it's just.

So hot.

My poor little stand alone AC has been running for like 72 hours straight now non-stop.

One more day of this and then finally a break in the weather.

#heat #Self whump #is that a thing? #It is now #whump blog #not whump #Technically #Whump

[whump-queen]

so uhh is “self whump” a thing or do they just call that ✨masochism✨

#genuine question tho #cuz like can someone kick me in the face #whump #whumpee #self whump #??

[greykolla-art]

Every day I wake up and think:

“At some point Izzy realised how out of control things had gotten, and started putting himself in between Ed and the crew, as much as he could. Especially when Ed was too drunk/high to even know what he was doing. Cause Izzy doesn’t want the others to suffer more for his mistakes.”

“They are all bonded through shared trauma now.”

And every day I cry like a baby.

#grey art #fan art #ofmd #ofmd season 2 #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd spoilers #ofmd comic #ofmd fanart #can you believe how much I love Izzy??? #and Edward just needs some warm soup #Izzy hands #edward teach #jim jimenez #this season is so dark I’m honestly here for it #whump art #self sacrifice is also a trope I’m very weak for

[generic-whumper]

Having one of those days where I want to whump myself because everything is just going wrong 🫠

#dumb bitch juice #whump drabble #self whump #Whumper things #Whumper #whump #Whumpblr #annoying and rough morning #too many technical difficulties #everything is just making me mad rn #bad mood

[bandaidhours]

#vent art #self whump #sort of #ooh ouch my body #drawing this made me feel a lil better though #bandaidxclusive

[generic-whumperz]

A week ago I ate some hot ass refried beans and bunt the absolute shit out of my mouth. The next day I had some small blisters on the roof of my mouth- miserable experience, I do not recommend.

I’ve burnt my mouth many times on hot food because I’m impatient, but BLISTERS have never happened before. . .

So someone do this to their whumpee 😈

#self whump #accidental whump #mouth whump #me- 0 #hot ass refried bean- 1 #whump drabble #just whumpy tings

[captainkirkk]

I'm a big fan of hurt/comfort tropes where the hurt is ongoing and escalating. Characters trying to cope with their situation and insisting that it's fine, they're fine, even as things get worse and worse and worse - especially if no one around them knows what they're going through.

Characters hiding their illness, even as they grow sicker and sicker. Characters trying to cope as their homelife becomes increasingly abusive or neglectful. Characters ignoring their injuries, only for them to become infected. Characters being stalked/ tormented by a villain and pretending that everything is fine, even as the villain continues escalating. Characters left homeless as winter approaches and their money dwindles.

I could go on. There's something very satisfying about seeing a character frantically trying to pretend like everything is okay until eventually they can't hide it anymore and get caught (and helped) by the people around them.

#and seeing characters attempting to self-soothe and all their maladaptive ways of coping on their own #that's the good shit #tropes #whump #hurt/comfort #or even if other characters are somewhat aware- but our main character has been massively underplaying the situation #and convincing everyone it's not as bad as it seems (even though it's actually Much Much Worse) #my posts

[whump-place]

Whumper used to punish them for the smallest mistakes, and Whumpee bet that most of the punishments were made up as an excuse just to hurt them.

So when Whumpee is rescued, they are sure that they'll mess up and that Caretaker will punish them too, or even give them back to Whumper, and the only option available for them is apologize for everything.

If Caretaker as much as frowns a bit, Whumpee is already kneeling on the ground.

Everything starts to get worse when Caretaker explains them that that's not necessary; that's when Whumpee understands that apologize isn't enough.

How far is Whumpee willing to punish themselves to please Caretaker? And when will Caretaker realize that something is wrong with Whumpee?

#whump prompt #whump tropes #whumpee #whump writing #caretaker #unintentionally bad caretaker #self punishment

[whumperofworlds]

I fucking love self sacrificing idiots.

Give me characters who would do anything for Whumpee, and will literally die for Whumpee if they need to. Give me characters who will take a bullet for Whumpee. Give me characters who will take torture for Whumpee (BONUS if they have a phobia!) Give me characters who will protect Whumpee at all cost!

#whump #whump prompt #self sacrifice whump