enigmawriteswhump

[enigmawriteswhump]

One of the best picrews I've ever played!

Tagging @cheerfullycatholic @wishuponroses @esperanzarchivos and anyone else who wants to pass this along

[enigmawriteswhump]

I want to share what I'm thinking about, haunted suit of armour...

You lift the flap of the plate helm and it's empty, always empty, nothing but shadows and the inside of the unpolished steel plate just as mundane as the last fifty times you hand leaned up and opened the hinged flap to the helm. It was hollow, empty, shadowed and smelled like dust as you closed the little flap only to have the helm tilt and turn down to look at you in its own way.

It's hands are solid despite the empty gauntlets, the leather soft and the metal always chilled as it brushes against your sides, the whole set is solid yet bends like a person, so unlike the metal it is made of.

The voice from inside the empty armour sounds like an auto tuned person or speaking down a metal pipe, hollow and echoing in on itself as it asks why you keep checking if something was inside when it had very well explained that it was the armour and not inside of it.

Originally it was a very expensive drunk purchase from a sketchy website, and then it was a nightmare that made yours scream and faint as it came alive in you small home, but now...

Now it is almost a lover, almost, it helps as best it can in the kitchen, holds the basket of pegs for you clothesline, makes sure the home is cooled or warmed for the season when you get home and even tucks you in to bed with a gentle press of it's helm against you forehead as if kissing you goodnight.

But in that almost is so much yearning.

It holds your hand and rubs the leather of its gauntlet against your skin, pressed close to your face with the helm tilted as if it could kiss you properly, chestplate pressed to you back as it holds your hips in the kitchen, the quiet clanking of its shin guards as it kneels by your bed as you drift off yearning to have been able to live in something softer, something more human, something that you could touch and hold and love like it loves you.

It yearns to be more than the suit of armour it possesses.

It yearns for you.

[enigmawriteswhump]

You know what I realized that I really love? Intelligent whumpees. Whumpees that have a bright future ahead of them, who have the potential for greatness. They're always reading and always itching to learn something new.

And then all of that is taken away. They get kidnapped and suddenly reduced to a stupid pet, a worthless object, or - my personal favorite - a pleasure slave.

Then, when they're eventually rescued, they lose all confidence in their intelligence. Every mistake they make is just proof to themselves that they're too stupid to be worth anything. Their dreams of going to an ivy-league school are gone, replaced with their unrelenting need to be quiet and obedient. Their affinity for learning has been destroyed by the mentality that they're more useful as an empty-headed slave.

They've been completely destroyed, and the greatness they once seemed destined for is now nothing but a distant, impossible fantasy.

[enigmawriteswhump]

Slimy whumpers

Content: gaslighting, noncon sexual touch, noncon kissing, serious shaming pls be careful

"I'm sorry for doing this, but you broke the rules..."

Hand slipping into victim's pants in a public place

Forced kissing--victim tries to pull away and whumper grabs them by the back of their hair. Victim wincing throughout the kiss.

Ashamedly turning away to hide their disgust afterward, not daring to wipe their mouth until whumper leaves.

"come here. On my lap."

Forcing victim to sit on erection

Forcing victim to have an erection, and then, "shame on you. You're being punished, you're not supposed to like this."

"don't worry, I'll take care of you."

Punishing whumpee for protesting even in body language and then saying "see? You like it."

"you must like pain--look at you, asking for more."

[enigmawriteswhump]

“Feeling lonely, hm?”

The hero didn’t burden their head with turning towards the voice. They weren’t in the mood for cruel charades.

Instead, they stared at the TV they hadn’t turned on in over a month and debated if not showing up at work would cause any huge conflicts.

Probably.

They closed their eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re ignoring me,” the villain’s voice purred. “Me.”

“You’re not real, so it’s my obligation to ignore you,” the hero said. They stared at their hands and couldn’t help but feel like their physique had changed. They didn’t seem to be as muscular as before. They didn’t seem all that healthy either.

“Not real, huh?” The villain walked towards the hero’s armchair and let themselves drop lazily. “Now that’s a bit unfair.”

“Yeah,” the hero said. They stared at the coffee table with the empty coffee mug. “Some things have been pretty unfair.”

“I thought you were supposed to ignore me.”

“R-right.” The hero looked away and once again, their heart got quite heavy. They couldn’t sleep at night, that was one of the more annoying things. Eating was also difficult, working was…unbearable. They couldn’t think straight.

And above all those hallucinations…their eyes went back to the villain who was stretching in their chair.

Usually, those hallucinations made one mistake. Or better, that part of the hero’s brain that was responsible, made a mistake. Mischaracterising the villain in such a way that the entire illusion shut down entirely.

The hero hadn’t told their doctors about their imaginary nemesis. But that was mainly because the hero would probably not be allowed to work as a superhero for a few weeks.

They clenched their fists, dug their fingernails into their own flesh.

“You look troubled,” the villain said. “Are you eating enough? You’ve lost weight.”

“I’m fine,” the hero whispered back. They looked up at the ceiling.

“You miss me.” Every single time. The hallucination said that every single time. The hero turned their gaze towards the villain’s image and stared.

“Yes, I do. So what?”

“Most people feel some sense of accomplishment after beating their enemies,” the villain said. They put one of their thighs on the other. “And two months is quite enough time to find a new enemy worth your time.”

The hero’s eyes widened.

“I don’t want someone else. And I…technically, I didn’t defeat you. I didn’t kill you, I didn’t arrest you. You just…” The hero’s throat burnt like acid and their bottom lip trembled. “…you just died.”

They swallowed the pain and leaned forward.

“Just wish I could’ve said goodbye,” they mumbled. This time, the hallucination didn’t answer. “That wasn’t fair. Our relationship didn’t deserve that end.”

“I didn’t think you’d care about the end,” the villain said.

“Isn’t the end the most important part?” the hero asked. The taste on their tongue was extremely bitter and they knew it didn’t come from the coffee they had finished an hour ago. “Either way, you are haunting me. So, I guess once again I get the worst of it all. You got the easy way out. As always.”

“Haunting you?”

“Yeah.”

“You must really like me, then,” the villain said. They chuckled sweetly, like they had whenever the hero was embarrassing themselves. For some reason, the pit in the hero’s stomach grew, that unsettling feeling spread.

The hallucination had never been cruel enough to laugh. It was such a wonderful sound that even the hero’s lips curved into a smile.

“Yeah, can you blame me? I must’ve fallen a few months ago.” Suddenly, the hallucination was quiet again.

Their eyes met and for a second, the hero swore it was the real villain in front of them. They tilted their head.

“You never mentioned that.”

“Too afraid of rejection, I suppose,” the hero answered. They shrugged. “Any rejection would have been better than this, though.”

The hallucination got up from the chair and slowly walked to the couch where the hero was sitting on.

“I would have never rejected you, you dense…” The hallucination was even capable of blushing. The hero frowned. “Whatever.”

Ultimately, the illusion grabbed them, sat down on the hero’s lap and kissed them.

It took the hero a few more seconds to realise what was really happening.

[enigmawriteswhump]

[enigmawriteswhump]

It's so funny to me that the term "whump" can easily mean anything from "this character has a cold 😦 but here's another character taking care of him 🙂" all the way over to "this character is being viciously tortured to death" and sometimes those two creators are following each other.

[enigmawriteswhump]

The Rare Bookseller Part 99: Oliver's Reading

Previous > Masterlist

tw: mind control, abuse, torture, burns, memory modification

December 1925

Oliver stirred fitfully, woken from an uneasy sleep by a dull and persistent ache in his leg. It hadn't given him that much trouble since his master had hypnotized his pain away, and insisted on carrying him everywhere to boot. Tonight, though, it was bothering him quite a lot. He groggily rolled over, seeking his master's presence, and found no one.

The surprise roused him from his stupor. He wasn't at his master's manor. He was in a cold and lonely bedroom, the one presented to him by his master's sire, huddled under a scratchy wool blanket. His leg ached because he had been doing chores that evening. He had been afforded a cane -- without it, he was hardly capable of walking -- but that had been the only concession to his condition. Oliver suspected that his leg would be in agony if it weren't for the lingering effects of his master's spell.

Would this treatment permanently damage his leg before he could heal and learn to walk properly again?

Would it even matter if his fate were to be turned into a vampire?

Oliver shuddered, remembering the events of the previous night, staring out into the gloom. Even though he knew it must be the middle of the day, the room was pitch black except for a thin sliver of sunlight that escaped from around the shutters on the room's only window. Perhaps that would be the only sunlight he'd ever see again, if the Maestro had his way.

What would it be like, to be turned into a vampire, to die and find himself in a kind of eternal hell on earth? What would it be like, to feed on humans as his master did? He couldn't imagine being able to bring himself to do it, regardless of what monstrous cravings he might have. That thought sat uneasily beside his devotion to his master. Could he truly capture and drink from some innocent person?

And what if the process of being turned did change him completely, make him eager to feed on humans? Would there be any of him left, or would there instead be a stranger wearing his face and puppeting his corpse?

Despite Oliver knowing that he would need what sleep he could get in order to survive his time at the Maestro's manor, these thoughts kept him awake for some time. When he did fall asleep, it was unsatisfying and plagued with nightmares.

He woke up again, too soon, to an even darker room. This time, he knew instinctively what he needed to do. It had been drilled into his head the night before, and even now he could feel the commanding pressure of the Maestro against his mind, compelling him to rise to his feet despite the pain.

In the dark, he somehow found his cane, and then the clothes that he had folded up and placed on the dresser. With great effort, he was able to clumsily dress himself, the first time he had done so since he'd been at Vivian's safehouse.

Vivian -- would she end up in the Maestro's clutches as he was? She may have been hypnotized into accepting Miss Lily as her master, but serving the Maestro would be a fate far worse than either death or Miss Lily's enthrallment. He hoped that she wouldn't find herself here.

Oliver's fingers brushed up against the faded scar where he'd practiced the rune of protection. He didn't have a silver knife to execute the rune, and even if he did, it was unlikely he could successfully hobble from the Maestro's manor, even if he could resist the vampire's mental powers. He was grateful that the thick fabric of the uniform covered the scar entirely, so that the Maestro wouldn't get an unnecessary hint as to what Alexander was planning.

If Alexander was even still planning it -- maybe he wasn't. Maybe he would lose his nerve and bow to his sire's will. Maybe he would take Fitz and run far, far away, leaving Oliver behind.

Maybe Oliver would never leave this place and never find out what became of his master.

Just as he'd finished dressing, there was a soft knock on the door. Oliver opened it to see a gaunt young woman with a sad and oddly familiar face. There was something vaguely familiar about her that Oliver couldn't place.

"Our master instructed me to bring you to him," she said dully.

Oliver swallowed hard, feeling the compulsion to obey weighing against his mind. Even if he hadn't been ensorcelled, there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. All he could do was obey and try to survive and hope for rescue.

He nodded his assent, and the woman led him out of the door. As haggard as she looked, she walked with a well-trained grace and beauty, like a dancer -- and then Oliver realized where he had seen her before. She was the ballerina that Alexander had stolen, taken from the stage and sequestered in the dark for the rest of her life.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, even though there was nothing he could have done, so firmly caught in the vampires' web.

She turned away. "I don't want pity. I don't know you."

She probably didn't recognize him, and why would she? She'd been deep in Alexander's song when she'd been spirited away, one last bit of pleasure before her downfall, so there was no reason to think she'd notice the cowering thrall in the corner. Still, he wished he had been able to help her, to spare her this fate.

The former ballerina opened a carved wooden door, and inside Oliver saw one of the few things that could give him some comfort in this situation: a library.

It was a fraction of the size of Alexander's, but still held shelves packed with dusty books. Given the Maestro's age and wealth, it was likely to be a treasure trove of rarities. Perhaps his chores could include tending to the library? Perhaps, if he were perfectly obedient, he might be allowed to read, as a reward? He didn't want to allow himself to hope, but then again, why else bring Oliver here?

The Maestro rose from a high-backed seat, sharp eyes observing and judging every inch of Oliver, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from shying away under that gaze. "You wanted to see me, sir?" he said with a small bow, the picture of docile submission.

"I need to train you further," he said simply.

"Yes, sir."

"I have put some thought into this. You're quite different from many of the other humans I've trained. You're already so obedient, and it isn't merely because of how thoroughly my spawn have mesmerized you."

Yes, that's who he was, obedient and docile even before Miss Lily had invaded his mind. It was self-evident from the way he'd lived his life so quietly and made himself so small, hardly daring to leave the confines of his little shop. "Yes, sir, I strive to be obedient and docile."

"Your mind barely requires any further molding," he seemed to concede, and Oliver allowed himself that dangerous glimmer of hope again. Perhaps if he realized that Oliver had no desire to make any trouble, he could escape the worst of the punishments? He felt awful for wishing this when he knew that others in the manor would likely be tortured, but the sentiment remained.

"There is only one way in which your mind would possibly escape my grasp," he continued. He picked up a thick book from a table and beckoned Oliver to sit in the chair. Oliver's hands were shaking as he sat down and accepted the book. The Maestro opened it to a particular page and pointed to the start of a paragraph. "Read," he ordered.

"Out loud, sir, or to myself?"

"Out loud. Carefully enunciate."

Oliver had never been so nervous at the prospect of reading a book before. Perhaps he was being trained to narrate books to the vampire? That seemed like a tolerable, even pleasant activity, and therefore too good to be true.

"In the late 1600s, colonists from overseas brought with them a significant population of vampires," he read. "While most vampires can barely stomach crossing the ocean, the New World proved an exciting temptation for vampires seeking greater freedom to conduct their business."

So it was a history concerning vampire society. Oliver had read similar books in Alexander's mansion.

The Maestro's face was grim as Oliver read on, doing his best to make his voice pleasing. He wasn't sure why this book had been chosen for him to read, what he was meant to take from it.

"…and so the fledgling colony was ruled from the shadows by a dangerous vampire from the Old World, one who had grown bored with inflicting cruelty on his countrymen. Ever consumed by greed, he had come to the colony seeking greater opportunity. With none to meaningfully oppose him, he was free to run the villages, their industry and their trade as he saw fit, and to take as many humans as he pleased. Few vampires dared to challenge his power, as his aura was so forceful that he could drive even other vampires mad, compelling them to chop their own heads off or leap into the ocean."

Oliver was already suspecting what the purpose of this passage was when the next paragraph confirmed it. "His reign of terror lasted for over thirty years, ended he was staked by one of his many spawn. This new vampire had been the fourth son of a wealthy shipwright in his mortal life, intensely cold and severe even while alive, discarded by his family and shunned by all other humans."

"This spawn was immensely powerful even shortly after his change," said Oliver, glancing up at his new master, "said to be a cruel vampire capable of controlling any human as easily as a toymaker controls a marionette."

"Look at me," said the Maestro.

"Yes, sir," said Oliver, gazing into those eyes. Assuming the Maestro was the vampire spawn from this passage, he had existed for centuries, and he had spent that entire time as harsh and bitter as he was today. How could he stand to live like this, dark and cold and lonely, with only terrified and tortured servants to provide some semblance of company? The thought of spending even a few days in those conditions was abhorrent to Oliver, and yet the vampire had purposefully chosen this, day after day and decade after decade.

Why?

Had anything brought him pleasure over these centuries? Was he even capable of joy?

And if Oliver were turned into the same sort of monster, would he be the same? In life, he'd been isolated and lonely, confined to his bookshop by his own choice. Would death change that?

"You will continue reading," the Maestro said, as Oliver became mesmerized once again, lost in the dark and the cold. "As you read, the letters will dance and blur before your eyes, and your knowledge of them will fade."

"Are you blinding me again, sir?" Oliver asked, stomach churning with dread.

He scoffed. "You're already lame. What use would you be blind?" he said. "No, you won't be blinded. But since I have no need of you for music training or other knowledge, I'm fixing you so you cannot read."

Oliver reeled in disbelief, his hopes for merciful treatment shattering. "But why, sir? I can't do any harm by reading."

"No, you can't. However, you are too fragile to torture and so inherently obedient that further mesmerization will do little to improve you. No, you have only one temptation of note -- books. Books that can harness your mind and allow you to fly far away in spirit. Without your books, there will be no such escape. You cannot be allowed even that small freedom."

"Please, sir, don't," Oliver begged pitifully. "Please don't take my reading from me. I'll serve you, I'll follow your every command, but please --"

His pleading was cut short as the Maestro pulled him by his hair, yanking him upwards. "Just because you are too easily broken doesn't mean I can't inflict pain upon you. Have a care, and remember your place." He tossed Oliver back down onto the chair. "Continue reading."

It was impossible to keep his voice from shaking as he tried to read the rest of the page. "N-no other vampire in the young colony w-was able to ch-challenge…"

"Read," he commanded. "The more you read, the more my influence will take effect, dazing you, making you forget. Forget your education, your abilities, even the shapes of the letters. Forget."

There was a spark in Oliver's chest, a small ember of defiance that he didn't know he had. If obedience wasn't good enough, if begging wasn't going to work, if nothing could change the mind of the implacable vampire before him, then all he could do was resist. Finding his determination, he kept plowing through the passage. The words were swimming and blurring before him, but that was only because of the tears in his eyes that he didn't dare shed. He could still read.

"Allow your knowledge to drain," the Maestro intoned softly near his ear.

It was a small distraction, but just enough to cause Oliver to lose his place -- and to his horror, he was scrambling to find it again. The words were dancing now, taunting him.

No, it couldn't end like this. It couldn't.

"Attempt to read it, and find that you cannot."

Oliver tried to refocus. "In… the winter of that… year, the…" There was a word in front of him. It was a word he knew. He could recognize it, but he couldn't seem to connect the knowledge in his mind.

The spell was taking hold, despite all of his best efforts.

He swallowed the bitter lump in his throat. He would sound it out like a child if he needed to. The first letter was 'v', and the second 'a'… "vampire." There, he had done it. Emboldened, he read the rest of the sentence with little trouble, until he hit another somewhat long word. He could sound this one out as well. The first letter…

The first letter…

He couldn't make sense of it. He couldn't think of what sound that letter made. He knew they were ordinary letters forming an ordinary English word, but they may as well have been Chinese characters. Despair gripped him.

"You will keep reading."

"I can't, sir," he admitted. "I can't do it."

Oliver had failed, failed to hold on to the one thing that was truly important to him. At least, perhaps, his new master might be happy with that. But Oliver would never be happy again. Reading was the only thing he'd ever truly loved, the only skill he'd ever been proud of. For all he had worried about losing himself in Alexander's thrall, that was nothing compared to this. He would be robbed of even the simple pleasure of reading a book by the fire.

"In that case, you will need to prove it to me," said the Maestro, pulling a slender metal rod from his coat and dipping it in the lamp's flame.

"Sir?"

"Read the passage or you will be burned."

Oliver looked back down at the page, but the words were no more sensible to him than they'd been a moment ago. In fact, the entire page was blurring together, as though it had been left out in the rain. "Sir, I can't read the passage," he said. "You mesmerized me so that I'm not able to do it."

And yet, when Oliver looked up, the red-hot metal was drawing closer to his collarbone.

He grew frantic, trying to guess at the letters as they dripped and spilled. And then, all of his senses were lost to intense pain, his voice producing a bloodcurdling scream, as the hot poker found its way to his sensitive flesh. Any hold the vampire had over his body was released, and he crumpled to the floor, the book falling open near him.

"Why, sir?" he said before he could think better of it.

"Why?" the Maestro repeated, raising an eyebrow.

And Oliver looked up at him from his position writhing on the floor, and he'd never hated anyone as much since he was a small child and his father flew into a drunken rage. All too familiar feelings welled up inside him, and he couldn't stop himself. "Why would you do this, sir?" he demanded. "You have all of the power here. You have money, you have servants, you have books to read and instruments to play. Instead of treating people cruelly, you could be happy. Why do you live this way?"

That icy glare was boring into him, and Oliver knew what a mistake he'd made. If his attempt at perfect obedience still resulted in his mind scrambled and his flesh burned, then what price would he pay for outright defiance?

But the blow didn't come. "Happy?" he intoned. "I have no desire to be happy."

Oliver's brows furrowed. He wanted to ask further questions -- if he didn't pursue happiness, then what? Why do these cruel things? What was the aim? But his senses had returned enough to keep his mouth shut.

The vampire reached out and slowly drew Oliver up by the front of his shirt until their eyes were level, Oliver's feet dangling below him. "Look into my eyes once more and lose yourself."

Perhaps this was his punishment. Oliver had little to lose by fighting, but his resistance was still as weak as paper, and he found himself lost in a cold void once again.

"Now you will forget. You will forget what was done here, how it was accomplished. Forget."

Oliver didn't try to resist that command. He'd rather forget all of this. He didn't want to remember the terror of familiar words dancing on the page, unintelligible.

"You will remain utterly illiterate, letters incomprehensible to you, but you will not remember how it came to be. You will forget."

No, he didn't want to remember. He welcomed his thoughts going fuzzy around the edges. He didn't want to think about how his beloved skill and pastime was lost to him forever. Forgetting would be a mercy.

And that was suspicious.

Through the fog, he remembered something else: how Miss Lily had cured his blindness. She had asked him to recall how the Maestro had blinded him, and reversed the mesmerism by imitating it.

If he didn't remember, would that prevent Miss Lily from reversing this? Could even Vivian's spells undo it?

Frantically, he tried to recall the memory, and found that he couldn't. His realization was too late. His fate had been sealed. Even if he somehow found himself free of the Maestro's grasp, he might never read again.

Previous > Masterlist

Next week is the 100th chapter of The Rare Bookseller! Thanks for coming along with me on this journey. There is no way my attention span would have held for a hundred chapters if it weren't for all of the kind comments, asks, fanart, and fanfic I've received!

In addition to the new chapter, I'm planning a short choose your own adventure story, and perhaps more. Thanks for reading!

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @light-me-on-pyre @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

[enigmawriteswhump]

Made a poll like this about the whumpee, but I'm also interested in the other roles!

Reblogs are greatly appreciated, I'd love as large a sample size as possible!

[enigmawriteswhump]

Waiter! More large whumpees who can outweigh and overpower their whumpers being brought to their knees by a simple command please !!

[enigmawriteswhump]

When whumpee crawls desperately to get away even though they know they can't, and whumper just walks slowly behind them.

[enigmawriteswhump]

thinking about whumper putting whumpee in their will without their knowledge so then when whumper dies whumpee has all this stuff they need to take care of. they need to go back to the house/property where the whump occured and clean things up, sort through the chains and blades and all the other tools, see if there's anything they want to keep. do they do it alone or do they bring someone with them? do they actually give consideration to every item or do they get rid of everything. does this entire trip cause them to backslide or does it show them how far theyve come?

[enigmawriteswhump]

The whole ‘secret meeting, come unarmed’ trope but with a living weapon. As soon as the team arrives, they’re searched heavily for weapons, and living weapon is escorted out of the room with all the other contraband found.

Living weapon being kept in a bland, locked room whilst the team discuss plans and the possibility of a truce with their enemy, unable to know how it’s going or if their team is safe.

Bonus points if this is post-whump where living weapon is recovering with the team. I imagine them being treated like any other gun or blade would be pretty harmful to the recovery stage.

[enigmawriteswhump]

Big fan of whump that has the threat of something worse in the background. Where, yes, we took you prisoner and you're in a cell but there's a worse hole in the bowels of the castle and you don't want to go there. Or yes, we're keeping you chained up but at least you have the freedom to move to the end of your chain, don't make us take that small freedom away.

A basement with worse torments nagging at the back of their mind the whole time; a tiny cage that their body remembers with long-held aches even when they're out of it again; a deterrent against fighting back that makes them doubt it's worth doing because they did it once and don't want to feel it again.

Anything that creeps steadily to the front of the mind when they wonder if it's worth being a nuisance, or not giving up what's asked. The terrible knowledge that this is bad, but that is worse, and the only way to shift the balance between this and that is pleasing those you don't want to please in the first place or facing the consequences. Such a thin and delicate line to tread, a mental presence that makes it hard to rest.

[enigmawriteswhump]

Some comfort (whump??) dialogue prompts that are EXACTLY my cup of tea:

- "Shh... it's okay, just close your eyes. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

- "Hey, no- stop that...! You'll rip the stitches if you keep doing that!"

- "Focus on my voice... I'm here..."

- "No, let me do it. You're injured."

- "That's it, just feel me... Focus on the way my chest rises as I breathe... Try to follow my lead..."

- "It's safe to fall asleep. It's okay. You don't have to worry about anything, I'm here with you."

- "What you're feeling is a bottle of water that I'm holding to your mouth. Come on, drink some of it..."

- "My hands are here if you want to hold them, okay? You can tighten the grip as much as you want, don't worry about hurting me. You won't."

- "It's me... It's just me, it's okay...*

- "It's all over now, everything is okay..."

[enigmawriteswhump]

Desperately love a Whumper that likes to dress up their Whumpee (pet). Hair, clothes, maybe makeup...

It's fun mental manipulation, cause Whumper gets full control over a pretty basic human right, and as a plus, fashionable clothes are often really uncomfortable.

[enigmawriteswhump]

The overlap (or perceived overlap?) between whump and kink is so fascinating to me as someone who is into both, but my kinks don’t usually overlap with my whump preferences.

There was a post going around a bit ago making fun of the word whump along the lines of, ‘just say you’re a sadist/masochist.’ And I’m not denying there isn’t some overlap in the community between whump and those kinks but…they don’t overlap like that for me. It’s hard to explain, but the feelings I get reading whump are not at all the feelings I get watching/participating in kink. I recognize that like kink it stems from the same dynamics (domination and control versus submission and acceptance) but most whump I read and write just doesn’t hit the same buttons as a similar kink scenario would for me. Personally I think I do enjoy the ‘aftercare’ aspect of whump more, which might contribute to the difference. A whipping scene in kink is sexy as hell but the aftercare of a fictional whipping scene has a ‘whumpy’ appeal that I don’t get out of kink experiences and scenes.

A different post that was also making the rounds said something along the lines of, ‘we need silly words like whump in fandom it keeps us humble,’ which isn’t incorrect - but I feel like whump as a concept can be divorced from fandom in a way that a lot of other ‘fandom terms’ can’t be. Whump is more akin to a genre with its own conventions and archetypes than it is to being an exclusively fandom-based phenomenon. There are ‘stock characters’ like there are in the romance or horror genres. There is no specific situation or setting tied to whump, like a fandom would have with established characters, but it has specific criteria (character is hurt and this is central to the story, the same way a mystery is central to a mystery genre story).

Whump isn’t synonymous with sadism/masochism, nor is it as simple as a fandom trope*. Whump is in my opinion a genre. Within whump there are consistent tropes, archetypes, and repeating themes, but whump itself is not a trope or fandom exclusive term. Like any genre, it can be kinky (romance threesomes, horror monster fucking, etc.) but reducing it to ‘just a kink’ is a disservice to its literary potential.**

Idk I just feel like there’s nuance between ‘it’s all kink’ and ‘it’s all silly fandom nonsense.’

*This is not shade at fandom tropes - they are useful and good, I just don’t think whump as a concept meets the criteria of being a fandom trope. Considering the whole breadth of whump to be a ‘trope’ puts the term in a very small box, and at the same time warps the definition of what a trope is and how it can be used.

**This is not shade at the kink community. As mentioned I am a kinkster and I just wanted to voice my opinion that while very funny, that post feels a little flippant and dismissive of whump as a genre and the fact that non-kinksters also enjoy whump. You wouldn’t call horror aficionados monsterfuckers just for liking monster stories; calling the whump community as whole (some of whom are but some of whom aren’t) sadists/masochists seems just as reductive and presumptuous.