#Co-Whumpees

[generic-whumperz]

[whump-queen]

"You're not going to disappoint me are you?" whumper asks, slowly running a finger down whumpee’s tongue.

And knowing better than to try and speak around their hand, whumpee leans forward and takes whumper’s fingers into their mouth, pressing them up against the back of their throat, still looking up at them, hoping that was a sufficient response.

[mywhumpysensesaretingling]

Whump sketches #3

‘Sell Your Haunted House’ Kdrama and such whump (ft. ‘Lockwood and Co.’ fanart)

[whumpybobbert]

The Flash 1x5

Bette San Souci: Torture/human experiment (past, mentioned), human weapon, gunshot wound

Also, Wells and Eiling have this weird ex-co-whumper thing going on the whole episode and poor Bette gets caught between them.

[willowtreewhump]

Hi I see you have a ✨ginger✨character, and I wanted to let you know that I love him and would do anything to for him.

Love your art by the way 🦔

I do INDEED have a ginger character! :D

(I have three actually lol but one is co-owned and the other is a villainous child haha)

As for Aodhagán, thank you for loving him and also for your willingness to impact his future. ;)

And thank you! I gotta post more here, a lot of the art here is YEARS old at this point oops. I'm working on making Character Profiles with the charts I made, so hopefully I can post a bunch of thise soon and get some new art on here! :)

[montammil]

Is Charlotte a whumper like Lawrence? Did she kidnap someone too?

I might make a character that she sees as her whumpee like Lawrence sees Marshall, that would make for an interesting dynamic, but as of now, she's never kidnapped anyone, she just has a similar set of morals to Lawrence.

[federaliszt]

recovering whumpees with:

a black eye and accompanying bruise that covers nearly half their face.

a split lip that keeps reopening and is impossible to keep bandaged.

a lacerated eyebrow, drawing attention to the wound with every slight change of facial expression.

a distinctive limp that has gotten so bad that co-workers or family members have started to tease them for it, because they don't know the true source of the original injury.

a chronic flinch when someone near them moves into their space unexpectedly or too quickly.

deep purple bruises on their back, from being hit repeatedly with the same blunt object on the same spot.

choke-marks and fingerprint shaped bruises around their neck that they try to hide under a scarf or high-neck sweater.

a broken bone that can't be kept in a sling or cast, which they unconsciously cradle when they think no one is watching them.

dizzy spells that rise up and cloud their vision because they still can't bring themself to eat normal meals after what happened.

nightmares of being trapped in the moment where everything went so horribly wrong, and daydreams of going back to that moment and being the perpetrator instead of the victim.

[callaei-researches]

Summary of results - Intercultural and cross-linguistic perspectives on the whump genre

Here is a summary of the results from the research thesis, "Intercultural and cross-linguistic perspectives on the whump genre"! This was part of my studying a Master of Contemporary International Studies. The research aimed to explore how whump-interested people connect with the whump genre cross-culturally and cross-linguistically.

Back in June/July this year (2023), I sent out a questionnaire open to any whump-interested person, and also invited interviews for bilingual whump-interested people. I've finally finished my thesis, and overall was awarded an A- for it!

The full thesis is available now to read on Academia.edu, and will also be available on IPU New Zealand's library website in January 2024.

This research was approved for Human Research Ethics Clearance by the IPU New Zealand Research and Development Commitee on 3rd May 2023 (HREC-2023-05-03-01).

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(NB: Due to there being an extensive amount of results, I've only summarised the key findings of the results section and a brief conclusion here. I've referenced page numbers for the full thesis if you'd like to read the extended version.)

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Summary of results (Questionnaire)

233 respondents | 92 different cultural/faith-based identities

The questionnaire was used to answer Research Question 1, "How do the aspects of Hofstede’s cultural dimensions and Schwartz’ universal human values reflect in the characteristics of whump genre identity?"

The questionnaire explored four themes associated with whump genre concepts - “agency,” “comfort,” “stoicism,” and “knowledge” - and found (p. 87):

For the theme of “agency,” questionnaire participants tended to perceive a greater importance for agency for the caretaker and whumper roles. This may be related to the caretaker and whumper role characters’ abilities to carry out their roles of caretaking and whumping respectively. While the cultural dimensions did not appear to be factors inherent to the theme of agency for the whumpee role in a whump genre story, this appeared to work towards supporting the cross-cultural enjoyment of whump. For the theme of “comfort,” hurt comfort, physical comfort and long-term recovery may be more accommodating of cultural dimension dynamics and have a greater capacity to fully realise the goals of Schwartz’ values. For the theme of “stoicism,” the way in which these dimensions can so diversely be applied to this theme suggests a cross-culturally applicable ground. For the theme of “knowledge,” the balance between the certainty of a known whumpee and the uncertainty of an unknown whumper indicate variable tolerance of ambiguity within the whump genre. This suggests a cross-culturally applicable ground.

Summary of results (Interview)

The full results section for the questionnaire can be read in the full thesis (pp. 61-87).

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31 interviewees (15 spoken, 16 written) | 24 different languages

The interview was used to answer Research Question 2, "How do bilingual whump-interested people perceive the ability to convey themes of hurt comfort (a subgenre of whump) in different languages?"

The interview questions were categorised into themes:

Theme 1: Preferences for language when interacting with fiction

Theme 2: Comparisons of different languages’ abilities to convey physical and emotional pain

Theme 3: Limitations or difficulties experienced when conveying whump in, and across, different languages

Theme 4: Cultural, social, and/or linguistic reasons influencing pronunciation of “whump”

Following transcription of the interviews, a thematic analysis involving examining code co-occurences found (p. 123):

For “Theme 1: Preferences for language when interacting with fiction,” preferences tended to be associated with the availability of media, the ability to connect with the author’s intended meaning, and the level of ease and comfort with which interviewees could engage with the fictional media. For “Theme 2: Comparisons of different languages’ abilities to convey physical and emotional pain,” interviewees’ comparisons highlighted differing ways of presenting and conveying pain in language, for example, through language features and words. Overall, interviewees felt that the languages which they were fluent in were generally equally capable of conveying physical and emotional pain, although different languages tended to approach the communicating of pain in different ways. For “Theme 3: Limitations or difficulties experienced when conveying whump in, and across, different languages,” the perceived limitations and difficulties experienced across languages tended to be associated with difficulties in conveying semantic, pragmatic and cultural meaning across languages, and tended to stem from the differences between sociolinguistic approaches to communicating ideas in languages. For “Theme 4: Cultural, social, and/or linguistic reasons influencing pronunciation of “whump,” common cultural, social and linguistic reasons for interviewees’ pronunciations of “whump” included how interviewees expected the word to sound based on their expectations of the letters in the phonological environment, the impact of a lack of having heard the word spoken aloud, sociocultural influences, intuition and language education.

Conclusions (brief exerpt from p. 130)

The full results section for the interview can be read in the full thesis (pp. 61-87). Interview transcripts (sensitive details filtered out) can be read in Appendix H (pp. 177-399).

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Research Question 1 explored cross-culturally applicable aspects of the whump genre. The findings suggested that themes of the whump genre accommodate variations in cultural social orientations and values, thereby enabling an interculturally common ground among whump-interested people.

Using qualitative research (interview), Research Question 2 explored how bilingual whump-interested people perceive and connect with hurt comfort themes across different languages. The findings suggest that multiple factors contribute to how bilingual whump-interested people engage with the whump genre, including but not limited to first and second languages as a tool to experience closely or otherwise distance the subject with, the availability of whump media in different languages, and manner of conveying aspects of pain and comfort through lexical, phonetic, grammatical and cultural aspects of language.

----

Thank you to everyone who participated in the research - the questionnaire and/or the interview! Your voices are all important in this kind of research, and are all very much appreciated!

[snakebites-and-ink]

Augusnippets Day 1: Gaslighting/Hypnosis/Brainwashing

CW: Brainwashed whumpee, referenced captivity, slavery/trafficking, dehumanization, emotional whump

Caretaker had found Whumpee. 

They'd been co-captives before. For a while, they’d only had each other. Whumpee was always the more actively resistant of the two, struggling and spitting vitriol at their captors.

Yet Caretaker had been the one to make it out first. Their captors had always seemed to have more of an interest in Whumpee.

Whumpee was being sold now, advertised as a weapon of some sort. Caretaker’s heart ached for them at that. But they’d rounded up enough money and were going to get Whumpee out of there at last.

When Caretaker was closer, their gazes met. Whumpee’s eyes lit in recognition, but…not much else. Not hope, not fondness. Maybe they just didn’t dare get their hopes up.

Caretaker was as tense as they could be, but successfully bought Whumpee.

They kept up their role as a normal buyer as they left, and Whumpee seemed to play along. When they were far from prying eyes, Caretaker dropped the ruse. “I got you out, like I always promised I would. You can go, and be free now, at last!” Caretaker smiled.

“I don’t need freedom, sir,” Whumpee said, still acting as they had when they were sold. Suddenly Caretaker doubted they’d just been faking to get out.

Caretaker’s smile faded. “You always used to fight so hard. Don’t you want to go free?”

"The malfunction has been resolved. I won't resist anymore, sir."

Caretaker swallowed. They studied Whumpee searchingly, worried. “Do you really believe that? The whole ‘weapon’ thing?”

“Of course, sir. That’s what you bought me as, isn’t it?”

[whump-or-whatever]

One whump trope I love is when a whumpee comes back to work too soon following an injury.

The whumpee walks in the door and everyone is just like woah woah woah what are you doing back here? The constant side eye and concerned glances from all of their co-workers. The whumpee struggling to hide winces and cringes, their stiff movements betraying just how much pain they’re in, taking any chance they can get to support their weight on a counter or wall or what have you. They end up absolutely exhausted by the end of the day.

Such a lovely trope.

[hurtthemgently]

What if, now hear me out, the people around Cato were used to torment him? It wouldn't even need to be physical!

In my opinion, one of the most horrifying tropes is random people in your everyday life suddenly looking at you blankly and saying "Wake up. This isn't real, you're dreaming," and then going back to whatever they were doing/saying like it never happened.

Except it would be so much worse for Cato, because it isn't a dream. He just flat out doesn't exist!

Nothing would break my mind faster than my coworkers and friends randomly telling me throughout the day that I'm not real.

I'm sorry this is so long x

.

Oh I love this so much!

Masterlist

Cw: major existential crisis, meta aware whumpee, emotional whump, begging

Also tagging unreality

The presence came as he was wrapping a chunk of meat in paper. He gave soft sigh, and handed the customer her order. She swiped her card through the scanner and smiled at him.

“You’re not real.” She spoke in a cheery tone, and he could sworn he saw a small flash of gold in her eyes.

“What?” He asked softly, startled.

“I said thank you.” She smiled again, if a bit awkwardly now, and went on her way.

Cato looked around, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see where the audience was. Annoyed, he scraped off the cutting board and tidied up the counter.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” He whispered, leaning down behind the counter, out of earshot from everyone else. He rolled his eyes when no response came.

The presence drifted into the background, so he went back to work. Another order, and he packaged some more fish. When he rang them up, he startled at the price.

‘You’re not real’

He shook it off, handing the package to the customer. “Have a great day.” Luckily they used a card, so he didn’t have to actually know the price.

“What, is this gonna be all day?” He muttered.

Of course there wasn’t any response.

Cato took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. He could just ignore it. At least it wasn’t painful this time. At least writer wasn’t here, mocking him or invisibly forcing his head around.

He continued through his work day, doing his best to ignore the message. It popped up in the most random places, a notification on his phone, as one of the ingredients on a label, and was said by various people.

During his break, he sat in the storage room and kept his eyes closed. He had told his coworker he had a headache.

“You’re not real” he said, slightly concerned.

“Mhmm.” Cato put his head in his hands, tears prickling at his eyes.

By the end of the day he was exhausted.

——

When he got on the bus, it got worse. Every passenger he passed told him he wasn’t real. He did his best to avoid reading anything, all the words replaced by the same message.

He put headphones on, but anything he tried to play would start with the same words. After searching through his music library, he recognized the album cover for some instrumental stuff. This worked just fine, so he left it on.

As soon as he got of the bus he started jogging through the park, and got into his apartment as soon as possible. Immediately, he went and hid under the blankets on his bed.

“I know you’re still there.” He whispered, voice breaking. “Please stop. I don’t know what you want to accomplish, and I don’t care. Just- please stop”

“Hey wanna hear something interesting?” Writer manifested seated in front of him, their particulate more solid than usual, and the blankets shifted to accommodate them.

“please..” He was sobbing quietly, refusing to look at them.

They leaned closer, their head raising the blanket off his own. “You’re not real.”

“I know that! You’ve told me this over and over! I don’t care!” He shouted, glaring at them through tears.

“It seems a bit like you do care.” They smirked, leaning so that their noses were almost touching.

“I care when you start.. making it impossible for me to live my life.” He turned away. The blankets fell back down when they dissipated.

“Your life isn’t real either.” He felt a single pat on the head through the blanket.

“I don’t care. It’s still my life, so I’m going to keep going to work and classes, and making friends and going to movies and ordering takeout. Because it doesn’t matter if it’s not real.”

“You don’t like when I say it’s not real.”

“You’re implying that it’s not important. You’re telling me my life is meaningless. That’s what bothers me!” He pulled the blankets off, glaring at where they sat at the foot of the bed. The sudden realization that reality didn’t mean importance.. it was an explanation he could accept.

They couldn’t hide their look of surprise. Taking a second to try and think, they started to speak, but decided against it, dissipating entirely.

——

Taglist: @whumpsday @firefly017

Ask to be tagged if you want!

[3-2-whump]

Relapse: Crumbling Promises

<prev next>

Please heed the TW/CWs on this chapter. Also, thanks @generic-whumperz and @whumped-by-glitter for your input into the ending of this chapter, your feedback has been applied

TW/CW: dubcon (lots of dubcon), allusions to previous dubcon, prostitution, slave whump, degrading language, degraded whumpee (in that whumpee has to haggle their own value -idk what that’s called, but it’s pretty degrading), intimate whumper, possessive whumper, asphyxiation, emotional whump, unhealthy relationship dynamics, possessive relationship dynamics, whumper x whumpee (although pretty unbalanced)

The frenetic stimulation of his cock and the wild fragility in Khaled’s eyes continued to haunt the mob boss long after their reunion of the flesh in the parking lot a month ago. He thought about it from when he couldn’t sleep at night to the first waking moments of consciousness in the morning. He thought about it in the shower, at the gym, during meetings, and in the middle of intercourse at the brothels. It was just as Khaled had said; those girls (and occasional boys) in the whorehouses could only satisfy him for so long, and he believed he had finally run his course after his fourth threesome in a month. Now here he sat, in his desk chair, trying to compose an email he’d rather not send, with his mind far away from the zoom conference he was supposed to be a part of.

He looked over his shoulder at Khaled, who had broken away from his usual positon right behind his chair to water the potted fig tree by the window. Nothing in his composure betrayed his lapse in decorum on that fateful night, though he was moving a lot slower than usual, and his eye-bags seemed darker than his foundation could cover up. Tom studied him closely, noting Khaled had been like this for months now. Was he still sneaking out at night to see that damn cholo? He’d been meaning to do something about his slave’s newfound promiscuity, but something more important always came up, and ever since their near-death experiences, Thomas had been trying to turn over a new leaf and give Khaled a longer leash, metaphorically speaking. Although, if the boy kept dragging his feet, he might tie him onto a literal leash, too.

Some static-y goodbyes and well-wishings sounded from his monitor, signaling the end of the conference call. Tom cleared his throat and jumped in with his own farewells. “Yes, you too, happy holidays, buon natale –yeah, yeah, I’ll see you next year, Matteo. You too, Gio, happy new year! Okay, okay, bye!” He exited out of the call, minimized the screen, and swiveled his desk chair to face the young man by the windowsill. “Khaled, come here,” he called.

As soon as Khaled was within reaching distance, the boss grabbed him by the waist and slung him over his lap, trapping him between the hard edge of the desk at his back and his own body in the front.

“What are you doing?” Khaled neither squirmed or struggled in his grasp, instead opting to stare at him quizzically. “Let me off, I don’t want this-”

“Like you didn’t want it in the parking lot on the night of your birthday last month?” He grinned in triumph as his slave’s face blushed bright red from the tops of his ears down to the black band of his collar. “You do,” Tom whispered, voice low and sultry. “You want this, and you need this, Khaled.” He ran his hands from the young man’s waist up his sides, slightly untucking his shirt in the process. “I’ve seen you work yourself to the bone trying to be my executive assistant. Isn’t it exhausting, working so hard?” Khaled sat as still as a statue as his fingers raked over the front of his body. “Isn’t it tiresome, doing what free people do?” He snaked his hands down Khaled’s sides to dip under his shirt hem, feeling a familiar rush of heat below as he touched the warm skin underneath. “Don’t you just want to relax?”

The way Khaled’s body responded under his hands as he laid him over the desk was nothing like any of the whores the brothels could give him. Here, splayed back-first onto the hardwood, was his own personal fuck hole, who pleasured him exactly how he wanted. “But, this isn’t- I don’t want this,” his slave protested, lightly pushing back, “and this isn’t even what I’m being paid to do anyway-”

“Well, if it’s pay you’re after, I can pay you for this,” he snickered. “It’s called prostitution, Khaled, and if that’s how you want to earn your money, I certainly won’t get in your way.”

“But I don’t want this!”

“Not even for $100?”

Khaled’s mouth snapped shut. Thomas laughed.

“$500.” Thomas stopped laughing.

Khaled stuck his lower lip out and shot him the most pathetic pout he could give. “Am I, your own personal fuck slave, not even worth what you pay your high-class call girls?”

He scoffed incredulously. So, that’s how it’s gonna be? Alright then! “$200,” he countered, “you’re out of practice, and a little too assertive for my tastes lately.”

In an unprecedented turn of events, Khaled wrapped his legs around Thomas’ lower back and pulled him in closer by the front of his shirt. “$450,” he whispered, his soft, sweet lips mere inches from his own. “I’m not as out of practice as you may think, and I can be as meek as a lamb when I need to be.”

The mob boss did not expect this to turn him on as much as it did, and yet the ignition of arousal in his core and the hardening member in his slacks spoke for themselves. He emitted something akin to a purr or a growl. “$250,” he murmured sultrily, “take it or leave it, boy.”

“$300, and I’ll do that thing with your balls that you like.”

“You’ve got a deal!” He leaned in to kiss Khaled’s lips, pinning him further onto the desk as he unfastened the belt and pants around Khaled’s waist and peeled them off. He smiled into the kiss as Khaled yielded to him, opening his mouth so the older man could penetrate his mouth with his tongue and claim every inch inside him. He reluctantly broke off from the kiss to undo his own belt and pants. Once he had gotten himself out, he noted with satisfaction that Khaled’s knees were already hitched up to his shoulders, displaying that perfect set of three and that lovely little hole, all for Thomas J Costa. “And a merry fucking Christmas to me!” he murmured, completely satisfied. He opened the top drawer of his desk, where hiding among the paperclips and stapler refills was an innocuous little bottle of lubricant, with just enough fluid to get them through this session. “I never thought you’d be such a whore,” he teased. “Where is your self-respect?”

“Just hurry up, please,” Khaled whined, cheeks flaming red in –arousal? Shame? Not like Thomas could tell, or care.

“Oh no, whore, I’m gonna make you work for your $300 and ensure you earn every cent!”

He emptied what was left of the lube onto his hardened shaft and threw the bottle away. He gave himself a few quick pumps to spread the slippery substance from base to tip, then aligned himself between Khaled’s spread legs, pushing in without any sort of prelude or preparation. The boy groaned at the sudden intrusion. His nails bit into the wood of the desk as Thomas bottomed out inside of his tight little hole. “Oh my god, how do you still feel like you’re a virgin down there?” he grunted. He began to thrust his hips, slowly at first, then building up a nice rhythm as the lithe body underneath him slowly relaxed and opened for him. “There, that’s it,” he murmured as he leaned over Khaled. “You know how this works…” He nuzzled into the crook of Khaled’s neck, murmuring against the curve of the boy’s neck and shoulder. “Your body knows exactly what to do...” God, even the smell of Khaled’s skin was enough to stoke his arousal into a full inferno. The boss kissed hungrily against Khaled’s neck, breathing in the boy’s scent like it was air and he’d been holding his breath. The whimpers he got out of the boy as he began to use his teeth were some of the best noises he’d ever heard him make. Why on earth would he, Thomas Costa, want to give this up? Why did he ever think he could go one more day in his life without being inside this amazing little being? He sucked what he hoped would be a nice, dark hickey right over the strip of black ink across Khaled’s throat. A collar is not complete without its gemstones, right? he thought. He tongued the tattooed line thoughtfully. He licked at it as if he was trying to wipe it away with his tongue, even though he knew he couldn’t. Those permanent black bands were just another part of Khaled’s near-infinite sex appeal.

“You’re mine forever,” he whispered, lips brushing against that graceful neck with every word. “Doesn’t matter if you’re free one day, because you will always be mine.” And honestly, why would he ever have thought of freeing Khaled, when the boy made him feel this good?

“Please…” Khaled whined beneath him.

He pushed up from the crook of Khaled’s neck, placing the palms of his hands on the desk as he propped himself up. “Please what, my little slut?” he teased. “Please go faster?” Khaled screamed and moaned as Thomas picked up an enthusiastic pace inside of him. He pressed the boy between the hard desk and the weight of his heavier body as he pistoned in and out of his ass with only his own pleasure on his mind.

“What is it you want?” Khaled stared up at him, his dark brown eyes shimmering like pools of liquid ink. “Please what?” he panted huskily. “Please choke me?”

Dark brown eyes widened and his lips formed the beginnings of the word ‘no’ before Thomas wrapped both hands around Khaled’s slender neck. Instinctively, Khaled released his grip on the desk to futilely scratch and tug at his hands as he increased the pressure on his neck. Thomas released one of his hands just to slap him across the face. “Hands on the table,” he growled. A squeaky wheeze left Khaled’s lips as he still tried to pull the remaining hand away from his throat. Thomas slapped him again as he held the boy’s neck in a crushing grip. “Now!”

Khaled dropped his hands to his sides. His tears flowed over his reddening cheeks. His pulse quickened under Tom’s fingers as his trembling lips formed breathy words. “Please… please… no more… I’ve been… good... please…” he whispered hoarsely. His fingers clawed at the desk, carving long furrows into its surface as he struggled to dutifully keep his hands on it. “Mas…ter… please…” he begged.

I have your literal life in my hands, he thought, smiling down with a sadistic awe. No escorts of any economic bracket would ever let the man take it this far. Nothing could ever come close to this feeling of absolute power and control, and only his slave could make him feel this powerful. Only you, Khaled, only you, he repeated in his head as he fucked his way to climax. As Thomas emptied his balls inside Khaled’s hole, he knew he would never feel this way with anybody else. What was this feeling exactly?  he wondered, finally letting go of the boy’s bruised neck. He stayed sheathed inside of Khaled’s warm, tight hole, listening to nothing but Khaled’s desperate breaths for air over the sound of his own heavy breathing. It isn’t possessiveness, it isn’t just lust. He pulled his softening length out of the boy’s fluttering hole, watching his own seed seep out with fascination and pride. So, what was that feeling, where you know nobody else can make you feel this way, and you wouldn’t want anybody else to, anyway?

Khaled turned over, leaning over the desk by bracing himself on his hands as he coughed and sputtered. Once the hacking and coughing sounds had subsided, and Khaled was nothing more than a trembling body barely keeping itself propped up against the desk, Thomas gently turned him around to face him. “You good?” he asked.

Khaled nodded. He had crushed the boy’s throat, making it difficult for him to respond in any verbal capacity. His reddened eyes blinked up at him, shining anxiously under their tear-dampened eyelashes. “Alright, down you go,” he replied softly. He pushed Khaled down to his knees, putting him face-to-face with the cock that had just been inside him. “Clean me off, and don’t forget my balls,” he ordered, murmuring a quiet “you know what I like,” at the end. He brushed a hand through Khaled’s disheveled hair, thinking about what to call that feeling he held for his dear slave. He tipped his head back and groaned as Khaled’s skilled little tongue set to work.

If it isn’t possessiveness, and it isn’t lust, his thoughts began, before he lost himself in the sensation of Khaled’s mouth.

Is it…love?

“Why didn’t you love me?!” Khaled screamed in the parking lot that night.

Love. That was a sensitive subject for Thomas. What was love, even? Between his long-absent stepfather, his sperm donor of a biological father, his neglectful mother who pissed away her inheritance into casinos, and his hard-ass grandfather who demanded nothing but perfection as he pitted brother against brother, the man was painfully aware of the lack of love in his and his brother’s childhoods. The closest thing they had to a loving adult in their formative years was Val, the nanny, but she left them too, once they were old enough.

It was no wonder his honest attempts at dating had failed so spectacularly. It culminated in self-sabotaging his wedding with Lenore on the day of, making sure that she could never break his heart like everyone else by leaving him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It was not.

The pleasurable oral sensations had stopped down there, and Khaled now stared up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Satisfied?” he croaked. His voice was wrecked. He looked angelic.

“Yes.” Always. Forever.

Whoever said ‘if you love them, let them go’ obviously didn’t understand the pain of watching those loved ones abandon you one by one. Yet here, at Thomas’ feet, was someone who made him feel like the luckiest, most powerful man alive, who outshone everyone else as he pleasured him like no one else could, and who –if he reneged on their deal– would never leave him.

I love you, Khaled, he said in his mind, even if he wasn’t ready to say it aloud.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire

[whumble-beeee]

Just Relax (It's Not That Serious)

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 13

Content: drugging, noncon undressing, dissociation, (fear of) needles, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), tied up/handcuffs, past captivity references, begging, fear, light unreality? (related to the ptsd)

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[The first 72 hours after a hero’s capture is also massively critical to you, villain, as your hero’s keeper! When planning on long-term hero-keeping, use this time to lie low, keep your hero firmly in your grasp, and really set the mood for the rest of their stay. Set non-negotiable expectations. Show your patience. For as much as your hero may fight you, curse and jeer and scorn and defy you, they will still be only human (with select power exceptions, of course). They will still need food, water, shelter. All of which must be obtained from you, their captor! You are the one ultimately in control, no matter how much the hero may scream otherwise. 

So why are these first 72 hours so important? Well, how long do experts generally agree that a person can survive without food or water? How long can they ignore you? How long before they have to rely on you for their every need?

72 hours.

Be patient.

Make them count.]

* * * * * * * *

“Finally, Christ,” Deeby muttered under his breath as Stan finished forcing the bar down his throat. It had taken him longer than he'd meant, what with the dehydration and the not wanting to be drugged and the weary pain that seeped into his every bone and the spinning of the room and the not wanting to be drugged. It was a surprisingly difficult task to knowingly poison himself. Who’d've thunk?

“Happy?” Stan finally spat with a heaving breath. There was the slightest taste of salt and battery acid twinging the back of his mouth. It made him nauseous.

Deeby absent-mindedly grabbed the used protein bar wrapper and tossed it into his plastic bag. “Yeah. Not done yet, though.”

 Stan whined. It was all he could do to not start crying on the spot. “Why can't you just let me fall into unconsciousness in peace? I ate your stupid protein bar! It's-it's never-ending with you!”

“Well, it feels less gross to have you undress now than when you're high off your ass.”

Stan blinked. It was like the world had been overlaid with TV static for a moment. But he was back. Violently. Because what? “Ah– Co-come again?” 

“Your uh– fuckin’... What's it called, your tank top? The transgender tank top, the one that squishes your ribs. Your… ‘tranksgender’ top.”

“My binder?”

Deeby snapped his fingers in triumph. “That's the bitch! We're taking that off now.”

“WHAT?!”

“I can help if you want. I don’t know how long it's gonna take the drug to start affecting you, considering you haven’t eaten in two days, so it might not–”

“I’m not taking my binder off!” Stan yelled, startling back from yet another all-consuming dip into the static. The worst part was, it wasn't even unpleasant. He almost would have enjoyed it, save for the predator six feet away stalking at him as if he were a wounded antelope, one hand resting on the ornate knife holstered right next to his gun. His eyes sparkled with that ever-dangerous red excitement that Stan had become painfully acquainted with again and again and again over the past two days, though there was something more serious underneath the child-like sadism. Tired eyes, deep breaths... 

“I know you're not supposed to wear it for this long, runt.” The mercenary brushed the still bright-red gash on his cheek from where Stan had whacked him with the handcuffs. “And besides, I still need to get you back for this. Please make me do it the hard way.”

Stan’s breath caught between a groan and a cry and his vision swam around him, only grounded by the sudden noxious pit in his stomach. “Dee-deeby…” he panted. “Stay away from me.”

Deeby continued to stalk closer, voice taking that dangerous low twang, the light bass growl snaking through the room and slithering around Stan’s throat, suffocating him more than a literal yank by his damn collar would. “Aw…” he tutted. “That's no fun, is it chiquito? I think you just need–”

“OKAY, OKAY!” Stan skittered back, pressing himself into the wall with racing heart and rabbit-fast breath. “I'll-I'll do it, I'll do it! You don't– You–... I'll take off my binder…”

That did, in fact, stop Deeby dead in his tracks. Stan swayed. Deeby looked at him expectantly. Stan stared into the distance. Deeby raised an eyebrow and made an impatient circular motion at Stan with his hands: get moving.

The static.

“Runt, if you don’t–”

“I– jus– ju-just-just don't touch me–”

“Stan–” Deeby warned, taking a single step toward him. All the air sucked out of the room. “I'm done giving you chances. Off. Now, or I'll do it.”

Stan grit his teeth with an almost mewling whine. His cheeks burned a bright red embarrassment under near-invisible blue freckles, and his very lungs stuttered as they tried to figure out if he wanted to scream or just cry. He started to pulled the shirt over his head, slowly, as if he could go slow enough that the bounty hunter would just get bored and give up entirely.

Ha.

Then he lost his way. He searched. More fabric. Where did the holes go? Where was he? He was lost! He tangled his arms around, searching, growling with frustration as he unsuccessfully tried to free himself, genuinely trapped as time simultaneously moved way too fast and excruciatingly slow. Then a whoosh, and his cotton-polyester prison disappeared, pulled off over his head to reveal a very amused Deeby glinting back at him, eyes sparkling as always. 

It was so cold in here.

Stan shoved him away, thankfully braced against the wall or else he might have fallen over himself. The world was so… tilted.

“Turn-turn around,” Stan ordered, blinking hard to keep himself present.

“What, no ‘thank you?’”

“Turn around!”

“Not turning around, bud.”

“Please, I don-don’t– don’t want you to-to see– to–...Turn around!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Please! Deeby, I’m begging!”

“Not happenin’,” he sang, deadpan as ever.

“I thought you-you-you-ou said you weren't gugh-guh-gon-gonna–...” Stan shivered and took a deep breath. This stutter was driving him insane. “Tha-at you weren't a perv!”

“I'm not. I'm not gonna do anything except make sure you're not trying to pull some shit.”

“I won’t! I'm drugged! I-I can’t even take my shirt off!”

“All the more reason–”

“Declan!” Stan pleaded, pupils blown out and wide, tension at the top of his mouth so tight he was sure he was about to start bawling. “I care. I care-are-re. I don’t wan-want you–... Please…”

His voice turned high and quiet, tears burning to fall, pressure building up behind his eyes and ready to burst.

“Plea-ease…”

Declan closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Another tired deep breath.

“Turn yourself around if you care so much,” he muttered. The knife appeared in his hands, point pressed into the taut fabric on Stan's chest. “I'm done playing games. Stop stalling. Now.”

“I’m no-ot–”

The mercenary grabbed the strap of Stan’s binder and yanked him forward, barely pulling the knife out of the way in time for Stan to not fall on top of it and instead sending him hurtling into the man’s chest with a blood-curdling screech, then flailing and shoving off of the captor as hard as humanly possible. The push mixed with a sudden heavy fog bank engulfing his mind mixed with a painful misstep on his bad leg caused him to all but crumble to the freezing concrete floor in a heap, chin banged and bleeding and dripping and staining on the ground as his face pressing into scratchy dirt particles, as he laid there confused and scared and scrambling, just trying to figure out how to silence the roaring confusion of his mind as it blindly panicked in the pressing, buzzing fog that surrounded it. Threatened to swallow him whole.

Then a force grasped him by the back of his neck. Then a knee planted into the base of his spine. The full body weight of a man at least twice his size ground into his lower vertebrates, seemingly trying to press them straight through the soft flesh of his stomach into the unforgiving floor.

Stan screamed.

Was Deeby going back on his promise not to–

GET OFF!!

His binder, he couldn't let Declan take it off.

OWOWOWOWOW– NO NONONO–

The fog the fog the fog the fog the fog the fog buzzing buzzing buzzing buzzing BZZZZZZZZZZ–

A gloved hand pressed him into the floor by the back of his neck. Others in scratchy black tactical gear held his flailing limbs down. He strained. He cried. He screamed. He screamed so loud. So loud his throat was sore. They didn’t let up.

He wanted his mom. His dad. His sister. COME HELP!! Where were they? He cried out for them, heaving sobs. Unheeded.

“DEEBY!” He screeched, feet kicking out as if they could somehow free himself if he just kicked hard enough. “Get off! GET OFF! You're not taking my binder off–!”

“Mhm, yeah, sure bud,” Deeby mumbled as Stan continued his tantrum. His fingers squeezed slightly at either side of Stan’s neck. Warning. Patient. Waiting. He was waiting him out. Stan's head spun as if filled with angry bees, cries becoming weaker, fighting more and more sluggish as Deeby just sat on top of him.

Where was his sister? Where was Chloe?! CHLOE!! He needed to protect her! That was his only task! Protect her! He’d failed, he’d failed, he needed to save her, save them, get away. Every time he raged and strained and screamed another hand just came to pin him to the dusty ground. He was an animal thrashing around in a cage, a trap that only tightened around his throat the more he struggled.

“DEEBY– Deeby… Declan, Deeb– please get off, please, I need to save her, I don't– I just– can't–... ple-ee-ea-ease…” 

Deeby didn't say anything. Was it the drug that made him feel like he was floating on air as a pressure chamber simultaneously caged in his skull, teasing it to shatter? Or maybe the hyperventilating as he realized there was no escape. Or maybe the gutting hunger, or the throat squeezing thirst, or the burning panic, or the bone-deep exhaustion, or the pain, the pain, make it stop, all-encompassing, never-ending, or the violent shaking from lack of oxygen, or any number of the many other things that were wrong with him. Maybe all of them. His limbs lay stiff, as if held down by lead weights. His protests devolved into barely a whimpering whisper. He couldn't breathe. Not with the bounty hunter on top of him pressing his stomach into the floor, not with the probably broken ribs, not with the binder pressing into the swelling of his ribs and making every intake of air a monumentally agonizing feat achieved less and less each time…

“God, shut her up, I’m not dealing with this in the transport.”

“Really? It’s just a kid.”

“Unless you’d rather I shut her up myself.”

NO NO NO ESCAPE ESCAPE HE NEEDED TO FIND HIS FAMILY–

A tiny little prick on his upper arm. He screamed. Screamed until he couldn’t anymore, screamed because he couldn’t do anything else, screamed until one of the gloved hands slapped over his mouth and stayed there until he quieted, and then he couldn’t even scream. It stayed there until tears soaked through the course fabric. The edges of his vision started to go dark. 

“That’s it kid, shut up, go to sleep. Don’t struggle. It’ll be easier if you just relax.”

His head fell limp against the dirty ground.

He was gonna die here, wasn't he?

Yeah.

Made sense. 

He let his head lie down on the floor.

He lurched with silent sobs.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He couldn't.

This was all pointless.

He was done.

And he went limp.

“There ya go. Attaboy.”

Deeby's voice came from above him. Slow, comforting, praising, as if he were speaking from a thousand miles away.

“Attagirl…” The last voice he heard. The last time he saw his childhood home. The last time he saw his parents. The end of his first fight for his life. Failed. 

The black consumed him. 

Stan let out something between a whine and a sob. The mercenary took just a moment to readjust, legs now caging him in and pushing inward on either side of Stan's hips. “Yeah okay, whatever runt. Let’s just get this done.” 

Deeby's fingers probed under the binder for a moment, causing Stan to squirm anew purely on instinct. Until he hit a particularly nasty bruise. An electrical storm webbed through his ribcage. A flash of white. Stan yelped a cut-off, strangled squeal, a sound he prayed he’d never have to hear again.

“Sorry…” muttered above him. His binder flipped upward and over itself, a brief squeeze, the fabric pulling lightly at his skin, his arms, his hair, then pressure relieved.

Breathe in…

Holy fuck, he was alive!

Stan gulped in the first deep breath he'd taken in what felt like years, gasping and desperate and a full, deep breath. His senses sharpened. Kinda. He still sat pinned within a sea of cotton, the static that blanketed the clouds, limbs heavy, mind slow. But he could breathe! He almost remembered that he only felt like this because Deeby forcibly stripped him. That bitch.

“Holy shit,” the bounty hunter whispered quietly, amazed, almost inaudible. A moment of breath-taking clarity as adrenaline shot through Stan’s system for one last, final hurrah. Holy shit?

“Wh-what, what–?” He tried unsuccessfully to turn around and see. He even managed to convince himself that he didn't care that his tits were basically out, right before he flopped face-first into the ground again. This drug worked miracles.

Declan paused for a moment. Then: “Ah… Nothing, nothing, just, your ribs are much worse off than I thought. Bruised to shit…”

Stan laughed. Really? Bruised to shit? Who could have guessed? The burning anger and hatred and desperation he expected to feel, that he'd been fighting nonstop for two or three or however-the-hell many days straight? It was now buried under layers of static and sand and that lovely familiar darkness which pressed everything that made him himself to somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of his brain, unnoticed in the rolling fog. Though the knot in his throat that made him want to burst out crying still persisted. That was weird. What did he have to cry about? “Yeah… maybe you should… not… Aheh, uh, throw me… to–... walls anymore…” he giggled. He was pretty sure at least. That’s what his voice sounded like, right?

His limbs were so heavy. He might not be able to move them if he tried. Not that he wanted to. What if he just went to sleep right here?

Ah shit, he didn't have a shirt on still.

But like, who even cared anymore? The mercenary would take what he wanted, including Stan’s shirt, including his binder. He could take everything from him. Take his freedom, take his personhood, take any slight chance at happiness or have a normal family that wasn’t shattered to pieces. Shoot him with that pretty old gun, take his life entirely. Come back again and again just to make sure Stan never saw the light of day again. Who even cared if he saw Stan’s chest? Who even cared if this was one of the most humiliating things to ever happen to him? He shouldn’t fight so hard. He wouldn't be pinned face down to the floor and chained up and drugged if he just stopped fighting. This was fine. He felt fine. He liked this.

Keep fighting, rage, rage, escape.

Oh, shut up.

He felt the white overly large shirt being pulled back on over his head a million miles away, something with Eeby-Deeby getting frustrated again and his arms getting roughly shoved through the armholes before Stan could even try to lift his leaden limbs.

Chill out, man. It's fine. It's not that serious.

The way the world swirled around him was almost a comfort now. He was drugged. He knew it, it was just a fact now. The fog and the static and the way he could barely think and the way it was kinda hard to move and the way it took a second to move even if he did actually want to move… That wasn’t really Stan. That was some other guy. He was just drugged. Drugged Stan.

It was nice. Normal Stan was always so wound up about everything. Normal Stan fought so hard to change what couldn’t be changed, made everything so much worse for himself. And for what? He’d always be captured again, always chained up, always poked and prodded and beholden to the will of others, always treated like a petulant, whiny animal that needs to be tamed. Normal Stan couldn’t seem to get that. Normal Stan was those bad thoughts at the edges of his mind, the ones that kept him screaming, running, fighting even when Deeby got up off of him and gave him water which he desperately needed, sweet, sweet, water that relieved the pain and carried all his troubles away like a gently rushing river, cooled his insides of the burning heat and anger. GOD, he forgot how nice water tasted.

It was weird. Eeber-Deeber was almost thoughtful, in his own special way. When you looked past the violence. Stan should be nicer to him, make him not have to violence so much. Maybe then Stan go home! No fight, just go home and see his family… he didn’t really have a home, did he? No… But that was okay, because he still had Marcus and Chloe! He could see them again! That would be nice. Marcus, Chloe. He loved them so much. He needed to protect them. Why was he still here? His Mom and Dad couldn’t protect them, it was his job because they were…

Dead?

Dead.

It was for the best that they were.

It was fine though. It wasn’t that serious. 

…

He missed them.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid | @painsandconfusion | @books-are-everything

@paperprinxe | @tippytappytyping | @chaotic-orphan | @notactuallyluska | @thebestieyoureinlovewith

(If you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist, don't be afraid to ask!)

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee kidnapped to lure their team into a trap.

Except they're a difficult captive.

They complain about being hungry/thirsty all the time, ordering the Whumper and co around, and no matter how much torture they endured, Whumpee remained difficult.

They're so difficult, that it drove Whumper and co nuts. By the time the team came to rescue Whumpee, Whumper screamed, "Oh thank God! Just take them!" and throws Whumpee at the team to take home.

[daydreamwhumpinc]

Hey, I emerge from my slumber to create another whump poll. I'm quite enjoying doing them 👁👄👁

[frantic-fuck]

Hey there!

You can call me Frantic. In my 20's, they/them pronouns.

Ever since I was a young child, I ~mysteriously~ loved torturing my characters. I've recently discovered that there's a whole community of people into the same things as me, so I thought it'd be fun to join in!

I like to draw and write, but I'm a bit out of practice with both, so I'm probably gonna start with just writing for now. I'm going to be trying to use August of Whump as a starting point, but we'll see how consistent I am, lmao.

~

A few examples of whump things I like, just off the top of my head:

Restraints

Capture

Dehumanization

Manipulation

Torture (physical, psychological, etc.)

Lab whump

NSFWhump

Carewhumper

Intimate whumpers

Hurt/comfort (eventually)

Giant/tiny (fairies my beloved)

Nonhuman whumpee (especially mashing creatures together apparently)

Fantasy/magical settings in general

Not a whole lot of squicks, but I do avoid needles and extreme realistic body horror.

~

The characters I'm most obsessed with writing about are from one of my ttrpg campaigns, so that's mainly who you'll be seeing on this page.

Whumpee: Ziri Kai (true name: Koios Pan)

A winged snampire (snake vampire) satyr who just wanted to make the world a better place.

Caretaker: Zop

Ziri's siblings Zip and Zap, a sea elf and a lightning drake, fused together after trying to save him, and later imprisoned with him to keep him happy-ish and obedient.

Whumper/Carewhumper: Janessa Vurbone

The heartless empress of Canafillion and inventor of denim; absolutely obsessed with Ziri, to his utter dismay.

Other Whumpers: Nerium and Co.

A pixie who's fallen into poor company after tragedy, who decides "Ziri hasn't been kidnapped enough" and makes it his problem

~

Snakelet Masterpost

~

Also, if you send prompts or requests for my blorbos I will love you forever.

That's all! See you around! :D