davey-the-disturbed

[davey-the-disturbed]

a little possession..nothing much >:)

Imagine a character (A) who’s been possessed or somehow controlled by Villain, and forced to hurt their friend or partner (or even an innocent stranger), B.

A backs B against a wall -and stabs them in the torso.

B slumps to the ground, shocked, clutching the wound, and all of a sudden A is…released. Villain’s hold on them ceases (on purpose or by accident, they don’t know).

A sees the damage they’ve caused and immediately drops the knife in their bloody hands. It clatters to the ground.

A kneels beside B, trying to help, trying to stop the bleeding, but B doesn’t know they’re back to normal.

They frantically fight against A, panic in their eyes, causing more damage to themself.

I just love this scenario because maybe A doesn’t remember anything through the possession and they just wake up with their friend or lover hurt by their hands. Or maybe they remember every painful bit of it, the sheer helplessness of being under someone else’s control.

Will B even believe their story? Or is that trust they’ve worked so hard to build broken forever?

Thanks for reading, here’s my taglist :)

@toads-and-gremlins @scoundrelwithboba @herhighnessthegoblinqueen @whump-til-ya-jump

[davey-the-disturbed]

Light Shocking (from personal experience)

The other day my charging block broke and I, stupidly, tried to pull it out of the wall. In doing so, I gave myself a jolt of electricity (in the middle of class no less) and here are some things that happened!

When I got lightly shocked: 

The hand that touched wires got EXTREMELY shaky (and stayed that way for a few minutes)

Heart started beating really fast

My eyes automatically shut, body jerked back

mental shock, a minute of recovery

Really tingly all up my arm

thought this might be useful for smaller whump scenarios :)

anyways here’s my taglist (which is always open!)

@whump-till-ya-jump

@herhighnessthegoblinqueen

@toads-and-gremlins

@scoundrelwithboba

[davey-the-disturbed]

I hope this doesn't sound rude, but I was looking through your blog and I'm pretty sure you keep your taglist in the actual tags. I just wanted to notify you that that doesn't actually send a notification, and that it has to be in the actual post.

Oh my gosh I’m so sorry! I really didn’t know what a taglist was or how to use it, but other writers had included one in their posts and I felt like I needed one too! I appreciate the message and I’ll definitely fix it in the future! Sorry again to everyone I added, I had no idea!

[davey-the-disturbed]

Pirate Whump

salty air and harsh wood rubbing on wounds, making them worse.

manual labor as a punishment, scrubbing the deck all night until whumpee’s back aches and their knees are raw.

lashings. good ol’ lashings.

Whumpee, an important passenger on another ship, gets captured by pirates and taken hostage.

tossed in the brig, a dark, dingy, cramped space with chains and metal bars.

drowning!

a sword pressed against their throat as they’re presented to the captain. (forced to kneel??)

Forced to join the crew and doing their chores with shackles on their ankles.

Strapped to the main mast, exposed to the elements (and the cut throat crew) and completely at their mercy.

Stuck in the crow’s nest (especially during a storm)

A new peg leg. Might seem silly but I’d like to see YOU laugh while walking on a chunk of wood with a newly healing leg stump.

cant think of anything else rn but feel free to add on!

my taglist is open by the way ;)

@toads-and-gremlins

@whump-till-ya-jump

@herhighnessthegoblinqueen

@scoundrelwithboba

[davey-the-disturbed]

A cute Villain thing

Ahh I want a Villain trio that’s just the Big Bad and their two henchmen. 

Who are also teenagers. 

And basically the Villain’s adopted kids. 

The dynamics would be so cute like I’m just imagining they’re in the middle of a battle with Hero‘s team and Sidekick 1 gets knocked to the ground. Villain calls to the second Sidekick to go help her sibling, and 2 is like “He can help himself, just like he helped himself to my half of dessert last night.” 

Or you could go the angsty route, and have one or both of the sidekicks kidnapped by Hero. What lengths will Villain go to get them back? 

I will be making character designs for these guys :)

[davey-the-disturbed]

Came up with some whump poll ideas, if you wanted to use any of them 😊

Physical Whump vs. Emotional Whump

Modern Whump vs. Apocalyptic Whump

Realistic Whump vs. Supernatural Whump

At Home Recovery vs. At Hospital Recovery

Full Recovery vs. Partial Recovery vs. No Recovery (alternatively) No Trauma vs. Some Trauma vs. Fully Traumatized

Whumpee & Whumper are Acquainted vs. Whumpee & Whumper are Strangers

Whumpee Protagonist vs. Whumper Protagonist

thank you for these suggestions, i’ll totally do some more polls in the future!!

[davey-the-disturbed]

“I wouldn’t want to do this to anyone, but you just had to push me. You just refused to keep your fucking mouth shut, huh? Well now it won’t be matter of will you or won’t you. Try talking with your mouth stitched shut, I dare you. And you brought this upon yourself so don’t start crying now.”

[davey-the-disturbed]

Oh, nothing, just thinking of a world where the rich own the poor and the more money you have, the more whumps you own. 

Just thinking of how the classification of a whump depends on their abilities and attributes. 

Decor- the prettiest, the most unique, the most sought-after whumps, put on display and dressed up. They greet guests and stand in poses for hours on end, the most valuable and entrancing objects one could have. 

Spectacles- the most talented singers, dancers, acrobats, actors. Trained for hours on end to be the best entertainment around. Their sole purpose is to stun an audience, then maybe, maybe they won’t be sold off. 

Oxen- The strongest, the toughest, the fighters. Used for manual labor or cage fights, to gamble on a winner. Kept like the cattle they are named for, their strength saves them where beauty doesn’t. 

Mundanes- The filler. The ordinary. The unimportant. Not pretty, strong, or talented enough to be of much worth, they work lower jobs. Cooks and maids, foot soldiers and punching bags. They are left to fill in the gaps—and aren’t noticed when they go missing. 

Just thinking of how certain tattoos or brandings signify which type of whump someone is. Thinking of how their age, their looks, their skills affect their pricing. Of how the faint chance of earning their freedom keeps whumps going, trying their best, pleasing their masters to the best of their ability. 

Thinking of how different masters treat their whumps. Of how whumps treat each other. Is there contempt among the Decor and Spectacles? Is there resentment among the Oxen and Mundanes? Do they see the others as competition, or do they try to help each other in the little ways they can? 

Just thinkin. 

EDIT: Thank you to everyone who commented and introduced me to the world of Box Boys! I now realize how similar this idea is, so think of it more as a personalization of the subject!

(btw my taglist is open 😊)

[davey-the-disturbed]

This is actually so good

“This town ain’t big enough for the both of us” type stuff 🤌

Western Whump Dialogue My Beloved

"You look like hell."/ "Been there. Not the worst place."

"You alright?"/ "You ever been alright after beggin' for death?"

"They'll forget what you stole, but they ain't forgetting what you are."

"You're gonna get us both killed."/ "You always say that."

"You scared?"/ "Only for you."

"You can still confess and save yer pretty lover."/ "You don't know shit about salvation."

"If they catch us, run and don't look back."

"I'll burn down the goddamn town if they touch you."

"They'll come for me, sooner or later. Ain't nothing we can do about it."

"He won't talk about it, but those scars? The boy's been whipped within an inch of his life. And more than once."

[davey-the-disturbed]

Comment any other whump locations/time periods you want to see written!

[davey-the-disturbed]

A Bird’s Nest, Part 2

Part one

This is a short one, but it’s build up for a good scene i promise. (Something’s better than nothing, right?)

CW: mention of whipping, pronouns “it/its” being used to dehumanize, forced nudity (just a shirt) let me know if there’s more!

“Bloody thing up and attacked me, unprovoked!” cried the red-headed man, holding his arm as if it were injured. Wren fumed. That lying bastard! 

“HE’S LYING, HE—” The knife pressed deeper, a trickle of warm blood running down his skin. 

“If you want any hope of surviving this, you’ll keep your mouth shut.” Wren gritted his teeth. The knife briefly left his skin, but before he could do anything, the huntsman shoved him away. He tripped and fell into the redhead, who wrenched the boy’s arms behind his back. Wren jerked forward with a small cry as his shoulders locked up. 

Before him, Sir Nathan sheathed his knife with a smooth spinning motion then crossed his arms, eyeing Wren. 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, lashin’ out like that.” He smiled, showing crooked teeth. 

“Let’s see how much you keep after a good-ol flogging.” 

Wren’s eyes widened, his breath coming faster as he glanced around. The hunters were gathering, excited at the sudden entertainment. Some of the men grabbed mallets and started pounding two stakes into the ground nearby, which Wren was shoved towards. His wrists were grabbed on either side, ropes crudely wrapped and knotted by burly men. Wren was forced to his knees, his shirt unceremoniously ripped off of him as secured his wrists to the stakes. 

NO! He tried to shrink away from searching eyes, but with his arms pinned down it was pointless. Every hunter could see the large, circular brand above his shoulder blade, marking him as property. As less than human. 

He hadn’t been forced to remove his shirt since the day that that scorching metal was pressed into his skin. He shivered at the memory of the searing pain, the long, excruciating days that followed. That was the worst he’d ever been hurt. Well, until now. 

The men had gone oddly quiet, but Wren didn’t dare look up. Sir Nathan’s voice came from behind him, along with the scrape of a long whip across the ground. 

“Who here’s man enough to deal the first blow?” Strangely enough, no one spoke up. Whether the reality of the situation had sunk in, or the brand on his back shocked them, the men stayed quiet. 

“You there. Boy.” Wren risked a glance over his shoulder, but apparently Nathan wasn’t talking to him. Instead, a young man who didn’t look much older than Wren stepped out of the circle. His skin was pale compared to the tanned faces of the older men, his wavy blonde hair pulled back from his warm hazel eyes. The bearskin he wore was too large, engulfing his form and making him seem smaller. 

“Yes sir?” 

“C'mere.” The young man went to stand beside Sir Nathan, looking extremely nervous. Wren’s arms began to ache from the extended position. 

“You do the honor, why don’t you. Prove yourself worthy of joining our ranks.” 

Wren braced for the sting, hunching to be as small as he could and praying to whatever Great Being was out there. 

Please knock me out quickly.

[davey-the-disturbed]

To all my uterus owners:

sometimes WE the real whumps.

[davey-the-disturbed]

Literally every writer ever:

think about writing today

get distracted

remember you wanted to write

sit down to write

write one sentence and delete it maybe 5 times

get distracted

go to sleep.

[davey-the-disturbed]

“Presentable”

“It’ll never work. Hero WILL save me.” Sidekick pulled at the binds keeping them in the stiff wooden chair. 

Villain laughed, a sickening sound to Sidekick’s ears.

“Oh you horribly hopeful child. I know Hero will save you. In fact, I’m counting on it.” He took Sidekick’s chin in his hand, forcing him to meet Villain’s eyes. 

“But we have to make you a bit more presentable before your precious savior arrives.” 

[davey-the-disturbed]

mmm…enjoy a VERY long study in hero whump 🙈

tw: blood, depictions of violence, near death experience (kinda)

-

The hero could feel their body deteriorate with every step they took down the ship’s hallway.

Their sidekick, who had the difficult job of rescuing the rebels taken prisoner by the supervillain, had been caught in an altercation with several henchmen. The hero had arrived just in time to make sure their sidekick escaped mostly unscathed, but they weren’t so lucky.

Several of their ribs felt cracked, if not completely fractured. Their right arm was definitely broken, limp and throbbing at their side. Blood pulsed from a concerningly deep laceration in their side.

Pain seized them so suddenly that they had to stop and lean against the wall for support, vision dipping sharply. “Jesus fucking Christ,” they muttered.

The sooner they got the fuck out, the better.

They stumbled through the door of what seemed to be the engine room, confirmed a second later by the glowing yellow reactor in the center of the room.

If you take out the reactor, you take out the whole ship. The leader’s words echoed through the hero’s like an omen as they reached into their bag and began attaching small bombs to the reactor’s glass casing.

They wiped their matted hair from their face. Why was it so hard to breathe? They forced themselves to inhale and exhale, even as they felt blood dribble down their leg, sweat slide between their shoulder blades.

They furrowed their brow. Only a few more bombs.

Click. Click. Their right arm throbbed hot.

The last bomb in their hand clattered to the floor.

A hand twisted in the hero’s hair, slamming them into the glass before they were yanked backwards onto their knees.

Their eyes met the dark, simmering glare of the supervillain.

Fuck.

They scrabbled for the gun at their holster, but the supervillain slammed a boot down on their hand, pinning it to the floor and busting the communication gadget on their wrist. The hero gritted their teeth. There was now no way to know if the bombs’ timer had gone off, or if anyone of their team had received its signal.

The supervillain reached down and slid the gun from the hero’s belt, cocking the safety back and pressing the barrel against their temple. The hero felt their heart speed up wildly, hammering against their aching ribs.

The supervillain crouched down next to them, hand tightening in their hair, making them wince. “Where’s your little friend?” The supervillain’s breath was sickeningly hot on the hero’s face.

Sidekick. They had to be talking about their sidekick. “Fuck you,” the hero panted, adrenaline thick in their veins.

The supervillain’s boot dug into their hand in warning, and they gasped out, feeling the delicate bones of their fingers groan under the weight. “I know they’re out there somewhere saving my precious little prisoners. Just tell me where they are, and I’ll let you go.”

Like hell I will. The hero gathered everything they had and spit in the supervillain’s face.

The supervillain raised a brow, eyes flashing dangerously, gleefully, as they slowly wiped the saliva from their face. “That’s how you wanna play it, huh?”

“Fuck. You,” the hero bit out.

The supervillain whipped them with the butt of the gun so violently that they slammed onto their back, head colliding with the metal floor and sending a burst of stars across their vision.

They groaned between clenched teeth, feeling blood trickle from a fresh cut on their temple.

The supervillain trained the firearm at their face, and the sight of the barrel made them sickly aware of the fact that they were probably going to die here.

God, the hero hoped—no, prayed—the sidekick was no longer aboard the ship, that they were not pulling off some last minute heroics like they always do, checking for stragglers or looking for the hero because they weren’t answering their gadget.

“You really think you can protect them?” The supervillain cocked their head, all malice and venom. “When I find them, I will make them scream so loud you’ll hear them in the afterlife.”

The hero inhaled, shaky and clipped. Maybe the bombs would detonate soon and this would all just be over. “Go to hell.”

The gun fired off, and the hero jolted before they felt the heat of the impact next to their head, smelled singed hair of where the laser burned through. Fear settled dully into their bones, like lead in their blood.

”I could make you scream for them,” the supervillain mused, a horrid grin splitting their lips. Their eyes traveled down the hero’s battered body and paused on their swollen, twisted right arm.

The hero felt their stomach lurch violently. Nausea seized them hard and fast. No. No, they couldn’t—

“Let’s see if they come running for you, shall we?” The supervillain chuckled mirthlessly, and the hero barely processed the boot lifting before it came down, hard onto their broken arm.

Something snapped.

The scream that left the hero was beyond anything they’ve ever heard before, guttural and raw and desperate.

Pain. All-encompassing, nerve-shattering pain was all they could process. They felt their consciousness immediately dissociate from their body, barely hanging on, barely there. Their vision blurred, dizzying and hot and god they were just in so much pain—

Distantly, they heard someone call their name.

No.

The supervillain’s hand was back in their hair, and they were yanked up to their knees again, the sudden, sharp movement nearly making them vomit. Panicked footsteps thundered outside of the room.

“Hero?! Where are you? Hero!!”

No. Leave.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” the supervillain sneered in their ear before gun returned to the hero’s temple, right as the sidekick came into view.

“Oh my god,” they breathed, eyes flicking frantically between the hero to the supervillain. Their lip curled. “You fucker.”

The hero whimpered as the supervillain dug the gun into their skin uncomfortably, somehow cognizant of the way the sidekick’s expression twisted with the hellfire of emotions—ever the fierce kid the hero had known for so long.

The hero blinked rapidly, head pounding, and tried to convey everything they couldn’t say through their pained gaze.

Get out of here. Please. Please leave. Go.

But their sidekick was having none of that. They trained their gun at the supervillain, even as their hand shook. “Let them go.”

“You only have two options here, love,” the supervillain said mildly, their amusement clear. “You put down your weapon and surrender, and I’ll let them go.” They pulled on the hero’s hair, and they whined lowly, unable to stifle it. “Or, I kill the both of you.”

The sidekick swallowed hard. “Hero,” they choked, distraught, hoarse. “I—fuck, I don’t—,”

Somewhere in the back of the hero’s mind, they think they should have better prepared the sidekick for a situation like this. “Sidekick, go,”they rasped, each syllable a wheezing, dragging effort.

The sidekick locked eyes with them, and the hero’s heart crumbled at the resolve in their unwavering stare. They weren’t going to leave, not one chance. They’d do anything to guarantee the hero’s safety. Anything. And the hero knew that more than anyone.

Their cheeks felt wet. When did they start crying?

“I’m sorry, hero,” their sidekick said as they laid down their weapon, empty hands lifting in surrender. “I’m sorry.”

Above the hero, the supervillain laughed, loud and abrasive. “How sweet,” they mocked. “Self-sacrifices have always been my favorite show.” They shoved the hero to the ground and walked over to the sidekick, grabbing them by the collar of their shirt. “I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

“No,” the hero tried, but all that came out was a croak, the letters caught in their throat.

The last thing they saw was the supervillain knocking their sidekick out before they lost consciousness.

[davey-the-disturbed]

A Bird’s Nest, Part 1

CW: brief noncon, mentions of slavery, implied abuse,

Wren shifted the straps that had been digging into his shoulders for the past hour, huffing out a weary breath. A cloud of steam appeared in front of his mouth before dissolving into the cold mountain air. His boots crunched steadily over the leaves, aside the clopping of hooves in front of him.

“Will you keep up?” The man atop of the chestnut mare leading the procession glanced over his shoulder at Wren disapprovingly. The other men in the hunting party chuckled before resuming their monotonous conversation.

Wren quickened his steps. Keep up with a bunch of lazy bastards on horses, with a mountain of THEIR supplies on my back, sure. He kicked a pebble and sent it skittering over the ledge of the trail.

Since he’d been sold into servanthood by his large family as a last resort to put food on the table, he’d only been brought on one other hunting trip. It had been much easier, and almost enjoyable, seeing as the people he’d been accompanying were ladies of the court. They’d taken pity on the scrawny stable boy, going so far as to lend him a horse for travel and let him sit around the fire alongside them. 

Unfortunately, this trip was not quite the same. Instead of compassionate and witty women, it was this brickhead lot of rich men. Smelly, cruel, and incredibly pompous, the only words they’d tossed at Wren were either insults or blunt commands. Wren blew a dark curl out of his eyes and set his jaw. If they didn’t stop to rest soon, he felt he might crumple under the weight of all their muskets and metal traps. 

But then, as if by some miracle, Wren saw the leader—Sir Nathan, he recalled, hold up his hand to signal the group to halt. They’d broken through a clump of twisting trees into a clearing, a canopy of tree limbs and brown leaves shielding the mossy ground from snow. 

“We’ll camp here,” Sir Nathan announced, swinging a leg over to get off his horse. Wren couldn’t help but sigh in relief, finally sliding the pack of supplies to the ground. 

The men began setting up huge tents and building a fire in the middle of the clearing, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Wren dragged his pack to an empty space, out of the way, and kneeled to look through it. He found his pallet and rolled the thin mat out, as far from the fire as possible while still being in sight of the group. This sort of happy medium was something he’d had to learn to stay out of trouble in the castle. The alternative was a good lashing. 

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he turned, tripping over the edge of his pallet and falling to the ground. Above him, one of the men laughed and held out a hand. Wren pushed himself up on an elbow and gazed at the gesture, unsure. 

“Come now, I don’t bite.” The man smiled, but something glinted behind his eyes that made Wren uneasy. He hesitantly took the hunter’s hand and was hoisted to his feet. 

Standing face to face, he noticed the man looked middle-aged, with a thin red beard and hair that was subtly graying. He had a small scar across the bridge of his nose, which had apparently been broken before. Wren quickly lowered his eyes to the ground, remembering his place. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course. What’s your name?” Wren swallowed. No one had asked him in a long time. Titles were for those who could afford them. 

“Wren, sir.” He saw on of the man’s large boots shift, the silver buckle clinking quietly. 

“That’s pretty.” There was a moment of silence, and Wren could practically feel the hunter’s gaze travel over him. One of his curls lifted from his forehead as the man twirled it playfully. “Why don’t you come back to my tent. I need some help with my luggage.” 

Wren panicked, his heart pulsing in his throat. 

“No thank you sir, I have to unpack the supplies.” He started to turn away, but the man’s hand grabbed his forearm. 

“I gave you an order.” Wren looked up fearfully. The hunter smiled, not so kindly anymore, and started dragging him forward. 

No. No no no no, this can’t be happening…

In a flash of fear, Wren wrenched his arm from the man’s grasp and grabbed the musket he’d unpacked earlier. He held it level, just as he’d seen others do and with no experience of his own, and cocked the gun. 

“STAY BACK!” His breath came fast, his arms shaking as they held the weapon. What am I doing? At this point the other men had noticed what was happening. Their previously amused expressions turned serious when Wren pointed at each of them in turn. 

“DON’T MOVE.” He took a step back, going through options in his mind. This could be his chance to escape, to finally have a life of his own. He could—

Someone behind him grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back, pressing a blade to his throat.

“Drop it.” A poisonous  voice muttered in his ear. The cold metal bit into Wren’s neck, and he let the gun clatter to the ground. 

“I leave for two minutes. Two minutes to get firewood and now the bloody stable boy is trying to blast a hole in you lot.” Wren realized with a shudder that Sir Nathan spoke behind him, his grip unrelenting in the boy’s hair. 

“What. The hell. Happened?”