it-is-whumptastic

[it-is-whumptastic]

whump responses to "I'm sorry"

whumper

"For what? Let me hear you say it."

"You don't even know what 'sorry' is. Not yet."

"Really? Then beg me for forgiveness. Then we'll see how I feel." (bonus if Whumper makes them get on their knees)

"I don't care. This is happening either way."

"It's okay. I have a feeling you'll make it up to me."

"Good. You know you did wrong. I guess that means you're ready to accept your punishment?"

"No, you're not - you're sorry you got caught."

"You fucking should be."

"Prove it."

caretaker

“Hey, no big deal. What are friends for, right?”

“Whumpee, I told you, you don’t have to apologize for this kind of stuff. It’s alright.”

“Jesus, Whumpee, ow! I get that you’re nervous, but I need you to not throw a punch whenever people get close!”

“You don’t have to apologize for that. I of all people understand.”

"Shhh, I know, lie back down. You really need to rest. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

“You know what, don’t even apologize, I’m just glad to see you finally standing up for yourself.”

“Um, for what?”

"It's fine." (It's obviously not)

“It’s okay, I guess I need to remember not to sneak up on you.” [nervous laughter]

"Don't apologize, I got the food for you. You can have some whenever you want, okay?"

"Nah, it's no prob - oh shit, are you crying?"

[it-is-whumptastic]

Whump prompt #75

Mind games where Whumper keeps their Whumpee in check without even having to think up some punishments.

"Go ahead. Turn around and run. See what happens. "

Whumpee hesitates, conflicted. "Wh- What happens?"

Whumper's smile merely widens. "Try me."

[it-is-whumptastic]

How i feel when SableFlynn has posted

Out unseen - ch. 15

first | previous | next

Felicia takes steps to rescue herself.

contents: referenced noncon, landline phones, eye trauma, good ol' fashioned escape attempt

Read on Ao3

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Marbleton. The name lodged in Felicia’s mind, and even as she folded the events of the previous night into some dark recesses within her, she held onto the name.

Marbleton. She wasn’t nowhere. She was in a real place, near a real town, with people and houses and life and freedom. She could see it from her bedroom window, lit up in the night like a beacon, and as the sun rose she considered the angle, the topography, overlaid a mental map; having a name to the location both grounded her and opened the world to her. It make escape a tangible possibility.

Marbleton.

The nascent hope kept her alive through the following days. Volkan and his guest—Emerson was his name, a wealthy collector and dealer of raw magical materials—had reached some sort of business agreement, and that meant Felicia’s nights were spent in Emerson’s bed. The first night, he took her every way he could, twisting and exploring her body with large hands and greedy eyes. The second night, he lounged with a glass of wine as she sucked him off. The third night, he passed out after fucking her once, and she decided to act.

She wriggled out from under him without waking him and took a slow breath, savoring the stillness of the night. Slipping into a sleep dress, she watched him for any sign of alertness. He didn’t stir. Silent, she made her way to the window and looked out into the night. In the distance, Marbleton was a sleepy cluster of stars among the rolling hills and late autumn forests. Emerson snored behind her as she crept to the door, and she found it unlocked.

She slipped out of the room and into the dark hall, silently pressing the door shut behind her.

Even the simple barrier of a closed door between her and her rapist made her breath come easier. The house was quiet as a tomb. She drifted in the dark through hallways that she knew better than anything, better than her own home.

Volkan’s office was at the end of the hall, and it was unlocked.

A single beam of moonlight lit the office, but she could’ve navigated it in total darkness: the memory of waking up in that room all those weeks ago was a brand burned into her mind. She could see it, clear as a photograph: the bookshelves lining the walls, the leather chairs, the mahogany desk covered in papers and pens—and a telephone.

Felicia eased the door shut behind her and crept to the desk. In the dim moonlight, it was just as she remembered it. The phone was large, old-fashioned, and unassuming in its infinite connection to the outside world.

She had concrete information—Marbleton—and she needed to get it to where it could be used to save her.

The receiver was heavy, the dial tone deafening in the silence of the house. She threw a glance at the closed door behind her, and then she dialed the number for home.

As soon as she hit the final number, she realized how late it was, surely everyone would be asleep, and then—

“Hello?”

Marcus’s voice, distorted by distance and sleepiness, made her choke. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a muffled gasp of air that wasn’t quite a sob.

“Hello?” He was more insistent.

Felicia found her voice. “Marcus.”

“Felicia?”

“Marcus, listen—” She glanced back again; the door was still shut. She lowered her voice. “I’m near Marbleton.”

“You what? Felicia, how did—are you—”

“I don’t have a lot of time. Listen, someone mentioned Marbleton, it’s a little town, I can see it—” She was talking too fast. She forced herself to breathe, slow down, give him the most important information. She looked at the closed door again, and it soothed her.

“We’re just a bit south of Marbleton,” she continued, picturing the angle of the sun from her window. “There’s a bunch of woods between us and the city, and there’s a lake…” She saw it again, a map overlaid on the landscape, landmarks pointing the way to where she was hidden.

Over the phone, she could make out the sound of pen scratching on paper, and with a rush of affection she pictured Marcus scribbling on a map. “Marbleton?” His voice was thick with emotion. “But Felicia, oh my god—”

“Don’t.” They had too much to talk about, and she couldn’t, not now. “Marcus, I…”

“We’re coming to get you.”

“You need to hurry. I don’t know how much longer—” She glanced back again, and the door was ajar. Her blood froze.

“Felicia—”

The line went dead.

In the darkness, a hand pressed down on the cradle switch, the cruelest hand she’d ever known.

The phone slipped from her fingers, dangling from the cord. She forced herself to slowly turn around, and willed herself not to cry.

He was half-illuminated by moonlight, his lower face glowing as his lips curved into that fucking smile. His arms caged her in as he leaned closer, and with his cruel hand he caressed her cheek.

Volkan had her trapped, and Felicia knew what came next, and everything within her refused it.

“Don’t touch me.” Words she’d said a million times before, words that had never mattered, and yet she had nothing else. She leaned away from him, the wooden desk digging into her hips as she scrabbled blindly behind her.

He ignored her. His hand trailed down her body the way it always did, lingering, and as she pressed her body away from him, her hand landed on something long and thin and sharp. A letter opener, perhaps.

“Volkan—”

“Felicia.” His thumb fretted with the hem of her sleep dress, and her grip closed on the letter opener. “You really—”

“Don’t touch me.” Gripping the letter opener, she thrust at his face.

Warmth gushed over her hand, and he roared wordlessly, and she couldn’t think, she ran.

Shoving past him, she flew from the room, took the stairs three at a time. Behind her, lights were flickering on, doors opening, Volkan shouting. She slammed into the front door and wrenched it open and fled into the night.

Her bare feet hit the grass and she stumbled. Before her, the night was calm, a breeze stirring the woods. The air was fresh with scents of pine and damp earth, and it made her chest ache. How long had it been since she’d felt the grass, the breeze, the world?

She allowed herself to breathe for a heartbeat, and then the noise of the mansion behind her filtered into her consciousness, and she needed to go.

A single winding road led away from the mansion. If she followed it, she’d be in Marbleton; if she followed it, Volkan would find her within minutes. She squared her shoulders and ran instead into the dense woods.

She ran on pure adrenaline, heedless of the branches whipping her face, the rocks and roots and twigs at her feet. She didn’t know where she was going, and it didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting as much distance as possible between herself and Volkan. She’d figure out the rest later.

As she ran, the racing of her mind was replaced with one thought: she had stabbed him. Felicia had stabbed Volkan in the eye, felt his blood gush over her hand. She’d stabbed him with a letter opener, of all things.

Whatever happened next, she couldn’t go back. There was no returning from what she’d done. But fuck, she was glad she’d done it.

She ran for hours, or days, or minutes; time stretched and compressed as she wound through endless woods, her flight first effortless and then increasingly labored as the adrenaline faded and reality set in. Her body was weak from the past month of imprisonment, and as the pain set in, each step was harder than the last. The night was pitch-black and cold as winter, and she wore nothing but a slip of a sleep dress. She had no clue which way she’d come from, or which way the town was. The only thing she could do was keep moving.

She picked her way through thickets of bushes, her pace slower but no less determined. The night was quiet, but it was a quiet that was alive, so different from the silence of Volkan’s mansion. The wind whispered through the branches, an owl hooted in the distance, her own breath caught and tangled with the movement of nocturnal life through the forest—

And a twig snapped, and the murmur of voices rose behind her, low and furious.

She froze, her heart rate redoubling as exhaustion warred with fresh terror. They were here, and they were looking for her.

Now that she heard them, she wondered how she could’ve ever missed them. They sounded so close, she expected to feel hands grabbing her, the sharp pain of a knife, a gunshot. They were too close for her to hope to outrun them, and as dense as the woods were, she knew better than to think she could hide herself behind a tree, like a child playing hide-and-seek.

Her only hope was that they wouldn’t think to look up.

She hoisted herself into the low branches of a tree with all the grace expected after a month in chains. Her arms shook as she barely managed to pull herself up, bare feet scrabbling against the bark as she climbed higher. Catching her breath, she crouched among the scant remaining leaves, and she waited.

She saw the beams of light in the darkness before she saw who wielded them: Volkan and a pair of workers from the mansion, sweeping the woods with a methodical fury. As her eyes adjusted to the new lighting, she realized half of Volkan’s face was wrapped in a bandage, and it was already saturated with blood.

She held her breath as they paused under her tree. Her fingers gripped the edge of the branch with white knuckles, toes curling around the bark. In the arcing beams of light, she could just make out a glint of metal. They had not only flashlights, but also guns.

Volkan drew his light along the leaf-carpeted ground, following some unseen trail until he paused it at the roots of her tree—and the smear of blood she’d left there.

Her head filled with a dull, buzzing fear as his light traveled up the tree. When the beam hit her face, she blinked, blinded. Then her world exploded in pain.

She hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from her, and her mind struggled to catch up—he had shot her, her shoulder was on fire, she fell from the tree, she couldn’t breathe, he was towering over her, she’d stabbed his eye out and now she was at his mercy—

When he slammed himself down on top of her, she fought like she never had before. She bucked under him, grappling and clawing at his face, struggling to draw breath in her constricted chest to scream. His fist cracked across her jaw, and it dislodged the scream from her at last. He punched again, and she choked. With one hand, he gripped both her wrists and slammed them into the dirt; with the other, he ripped the bandage from his head.

His left eye was weeping blood. That was her first, absurd thought as she stared at the bloody crater where his eye had been. Blood dripped onto her face, and as he leaned closer to her, a sick sort of pride stirred in her breast.

He gripped her wrists hard enough to grind her bones. “Heal it.”

“F-fuck you—” It didn’t matter. He was already dragging the healing from her, like stealing breath from her lungs. She writhed under him as her own eye lit up with phantom pain. Magic tendrils crawled like ice through them, stitching veins back together, brightening with the surreal burn of a stabbing in reverse.

But it wouldn’t be enough. She knew it couldn’t be, because even as he brute-forced her healing and added his own magic to hers, there were limits to what she could do.

And he was realizing it, too. “Felicia.” He snarled her name like never before. The raw hatred in his eyes sparked inside her; paradoxically, it was the first time he’d ever looked at her as if she were a person. She had to be a person, for him to hate her like that.

His hand gripped her throat. “Heal it.”

“I can’t.” He was dragging more magic from her, making her light-headed, but it couldn’t create new cells that were destroyed. It couldn’t restore his vision.

How many times had she had to break this news to patients? She witnessed the stages of grief in their faces as they realized that despite all the modern advances in healing sciences, there were still some injuries, some illnesses, that could never be fully healed. She’d learned to keep a professional demeanor, but inside, some part of her died with them every time.

But now, all she felt was grim satisfaction at having done irreparable damage to the man who had made her life hell.

“You piece of shit, there’s nothing I can do,” she hissed.

His grip on her throat tightened, cutting off her oxygen, and with her satisfaction came the creeping dread of what he would do to her now. He strangled her, and the world dimmed around her, and the last thing she saw was his eye in the darkness, a fire bright with loathing.

[it-is-whumptastic]

Can I get a little bit of uh....

Whumpers favorite punishment being carving their name into Whumpee over and over again.

Whumpee LITERALLY has Whumper written all over them. Forever.

[it-is-whumptastic]

Can you recommend some of your favorite whump blogs?

Yes!

@befuddled-calico-whump

@oliversrarebooks

@jumpywhumpywriter

@whumblr

@painsthegame

@painsandconfusion

@whumpanini

@whumpandangst

@softvampirewhump

This is everyone that pops immediately to mind but honestly anybody I reblog from is awesome tooo!

[it-is-whumptastic]

Can you do a spanking whump post? And no worries if not since it can be a delicate subject for some

Hey, I've been thinking about this so much! I'm sorry I didn't answer sooner. The thing is I have TOO many ideas for spanking whump.

Like do you want Whumper humiliating a defiant Whumpee?

Do you want a broken Whumpee shakily obeying?

Do you want blood? Sweat? Tears?

Is this a punishment for pain? Or for humility?

Is it intimate? Does whumper own whumpee's body and can do as they please? Is it even a punishment at all? Is it just for whumper's enjoyment? (or maybe whumpee's?)

[it-is-whumptastic]

Hit Me Back Whump

"Hit them back, Whumpee!" Voices shouted from every angle, through screens, and through nightmares, and through horrified faces that were just out of reach.

Whumper straddled Whumpee, forcing their back into the hard floor, every single vertebrae resting painfully against the concrete. Blood decorated their knuckles as they smiled, oh so kindly, at Whumpee.

"Hit me back." Whumper cooed in a gentle mock, knuckles soothingly grazing along Whumpee's face, smearing fresh blood across their canvas. "Go on. Hit me back."

[it-is-whumptastic]

I think i should add that "pet" is used loosely in this context. Its a human pet. Not a human forced to act like an animal.

[it-is-whumptastic]

Additions (Things you'd probably say to a scared animal)

"Shh... Shh. Its okay. Its alright"

"Hey- look at me. You're okay."

"Gentle... Gentle..."

"Look. Its okay. No one is outside. No one is here."

"Just sit down, okay? Relax."

"I know... I know its scary. I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Its just the wind. Its okay. No one is coming to get you"

"Im trying to help you. Just calm down- please. I'm just trying to help"

also i'm a big fan of when caretaker says stuff like "easy, easy. you're okay" like they're soothing a wounded horse

[it-is-whumptastic]

Whumpees having a moment of defiance, of bravery-

Only to have whumper shut them up with a single look.

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I love it when gagged whumpees squirm. Particularly if their hands are restrained behind them. Maybe Whumper bent them over a table, or pushed them onto a bed. But the cloth gag smothers every mewl.

Or maybe Whumpee is slumped in their seat, legs spread apart, unable to escape the vibrator attached to their sex. They shudder now and then but are numb to the feeling. So Whumper puts a ring gag in their mouth, to force out a whimper or two. It works, but only because it's torture to be pleasured now.

Or maybe Whumpee is tied in a hogtie, left in a mud puddle in Whumper's obscure barn. They overhear a planted remark that the bonds can be undone with enough force so they spend hours wriggling and straining against the ropes, the bit gag making them squeal like the pig they are.

Or maybe Whumper forgot to bring a gag, so their hand keeps Whumpee silent as they edge Whumpee to the point of madness in Whumpee's own home.

Idk, squirming, gagged whumpees.

[it-is-whumptastic]

One of my RP partners introduced me to the idea of spanking in whump and I've been converted now. It's just got so much potential

Yes! I think it's so underrated.

The endless possibilities.

Canes. Paddles. Belts. Whips. Leather. Wood. Plastic. Barbed canes. Spiked belts. Switches.

And it's so much more humiliating than just being hit on the back. I feel like I dont see it nearly enough. I dont even think it has to be intimate it's more just degrading.

[it-is-whumptastic]

Childish Punishments for Whump

Act like a child? I'll treat you like a child.

Time Out

Go stand in the corner. Don't turn around. Don't move. Stand there in anticipation, in agony for what Whumper is thinking about. Will there be more pain? Is this it? Is this just some sick game?

Whumpee refusing to stand in a corner, fighting back, pulling away. But Whumper is patient, dragging them back to the corner by their hair, shoving them onto their knees until they stay put.

Whumpee standing there for hours. The blood has pooled in their legs, their knees are locked, they can't move an inch or Whumper will notice. The sides of their vision darkens, their head swims, they can hear the sound of their heartbeat pounding in their ears. They blink and suddenly they're on the floor with Whumper standing over them.

2. Grounded

Similar to time out except for longer periods. Whumpee is locked in a room, maybe their room, for hours or days on end. The space begins to drive them crazy. The same four walls, the isolation....

Also, "Go to bed without supper" with this. Starving Whumpee who can do nothing but sit in their room and wait.

3. Washing Mouth Out With Soap

Whumpee said something Whumper didn't like? A bar of soap is shoved into their mouth, too big to comfortably fit, the bitter taste coats their tongue and burns their throat and heaves floral scent through their nose.

They gag. Maybe Whumper decides just washing their tongue isn't enough, they'll have to go all the way down the throat.

Or Whumpee being forced to hold soap in their mouth. They're not allowed to spit it out or swallow. Their mouth fills with saliva, the taste making the bile in their stomach flip. But if they swallow or spit... who knows what Whumper will do.

4. Hitting Knuckles

With Rulers, canes, spoons, and almost any household item! Until their knuckles are bleeding. Until they can't bend their fingers anymore. Until they're sure that their fingers are broken

5. Writing lines

Could be used right after they've had their knuckles broke open. Maybe Whumpee thinks this'll be easy. It's just writing words after all. Until Whumper hands them an entire notebook. Whumpee isn't allowed to get up until it is full.

"I will not run." "I will not argue." "I will listen the first time." "I will obey whumper." "I will be a good boy/girl/dog." Ect.

Blisters form where the pencil lies. Their hands cramp up. After the first few pages, they're sure it's impossible. But they are forced to keep going, reading the sentence over and over until their eyes blur.

6. Kneeling

Kneeling on rice hurts like a bitch. Or rocks or frozen peas. A whumpee having to stay in a kneeling or stress position until the peas thraw would be so terribly cruel.

Or more creative things like thumb tacks.

7. Spanking

Literally my favorite.

I could (and probably will) make a whole post about this. It is humiliating, it hurts, there is constant reminder when Whumpee sits. It's also intimate in a way, Whumper could do so many things while whumpee is bent over a surface or whumper's own knee.

(Don't use any of these on actual children)

[it-is-whumptastic]

Whumper dragging a screaming, crying, begging Whumpee and mercilessly throwing them at the feet of Someone Worse™

That'll teach Whumpee exactly how good they have it with Whumper, they'll be so nice and docile for them once they are back *home*

[it-is-whumptastic]

"Go on then." Bitter cold metal pressed against Whumper's forehead, shakily, trembling. "Pull the trigger. See what happens."

[it-is-whumptastic]

"Go on then." Bitter cold metal pressed against Whumper's forehead, shakily, trembling. "Pull the trigger. See what happens."