whumping-in-the-dark

[whumping-in-the-dark]

@darkthingshappen 's Ben fits this trope so well ✨✨✨

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.

[whumping-in-the-dark]

first 5 faceless emojis are how your summers gonna go

[whumping-in-the-dark]

just a heads up to my fellow writers out there that AO3 is currently fighting off bots commenting on people’s works to tell them that AO3 will delete their fics “due to the works being deprecated”, and the deletion will affect their accounts unless the authors delete the fics themselves first. IT IS A SCAM. AO3 will NOT delete your works. please do NOT fall for these bots!

I’ve been told the reason why these bots are doing this is due to copyright infringement issue where they’re trying to steal your works (possibly to train AI but this is just a guess) ‼️‼️‼️and once you deleted your fics, it will be either very difficult or impossible for you to claim ownership of your own fics when they were already deleted.‼️‼️‼️

a reminder that AO3 will never contact you through your comments section (in case they claim to be one of the moderators). AO3 will only contact you through your email address which you use to register your account, and it will be from AO3’s official handle. not some sketchy ass @

so if you get a comment telling you you should “delete your works to protect your account because AO3 is doing blah blah blah” report that comment. don’t delete your works.

PLEASE DO NOT FALL FOR THESE SCAM.

AO3 IS NOT DELETING WORKS.

DO NOT DELETE YOUR WORKS JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE CLAIMS THEY KNOW SOMETHING.

[whumping-in-the-dark]

Whump Prompt #2 - Alternative Bondage

No handcuffs or tape or rope in sight - or maybe you want to use something a little more personal…

~Improvised bondage with shoelaces, scarves, bedsheets, or curtains

~Clothing optional - take off a whumpee’s clothes just to tie them up with it! Maybe it’s just a shirt, maybe it’s everything. Are they being humiliated or dehumanized by being stripped? Could be a good one for noncon whump!

~Deck the halls - decorate your whumpee! Are they wrapped up in christmas lights, tinsel, ribbons and bows?

~Barnyard bash - are they on a farm? Animal restraints and traps, by handfuls of straw, itchy and irritating twine, chicken wire, leather scrap, burlap, or hastily-nailed scrap wood!

~Bring the pain - barbed wire, electric wire, razor wire

~Guitar and instrument strings

~Plastic wrap, trash bags, zip ties

~Gore porn - intestines, skin, stringy flesh - are they from the whumpee, or someone else? Are they bound by the flesh of a loved one? Someone who tried to protect them? A caretaker? Or maybe someone else who hurt them before - and got in the way of a bigger bad!

@ me if you write something this helped inspire, I’d love to read it!

[whumping-in-the-dark]

sadism

[whumping-in-the-dark]

(x)

[whumping-in-the-dark]

[whumping-in-the-dark]

i feel like people forget that sometimes characters in fic are written like that because it's a reflection of real life.

people have sex without setting boundaries. people have unprotected sex without talking about their sexual histories or producing recent sti tests. people play with kink without discussing it ahead of time or establishing a safeword. they have anal without 'enough' prep or lube—they may even prefer it like that.

and none of this is really a fantasy. it's all pretty normal. you can feel that it's inappropriately normalised, and you'd probably be right! but it is normalised: one study found that 58% of female undergraduate students on the campus studied had been choked during sex. 20% of those students said that they'd never been asked if it was ok; another 30% said they'd only sometimes been asked if they consented. fully half! (non-paywalled journal article on choking during sex here, including these numbers.) despite a rise in stis of all sorts, condom use is declining. (pdf link to the full text of this study about declining condom use in the us; aidsmap article about an australian study with similar results.)

even when people do talk about things—sex or anything else—they communicate imperfectly. 'yeah, but don't go too far' is consenting and setting a boundary, and also relying that the person you're talking to has the same metric for 'too far' that you do. for some people, 'the trash needs to go out' is a neutral, factual observation; for others, it's a request that the person they're speaking to take out the trash.

even when people understand each other perfectly, people react unpredictably to things sometimes! we behave irrationally! people laugh uncontrollably at funerals, or get angry at the straw that broke their back rather than the enormous load they were already carrying. they get scared and lash out at people trying to help them. when hurt, most people do not instinctively reach for therapy-approved grounding exercises and 'i feel' statements.

pretty much any bad choice that characters could conceivably make is a choice that people make in real life, on purpose, all the time. people do things that can have catastrophic, life-changing effects because it felt like a good idea at the time, or they're leaning into the vibe, or they just didn't think about it all that much, or an infinite number of other reasons.

fiction isn't intended as a guide on the best, safest, and most responsible ways to live your life, and fanfic isn't any different. it's not a narrative flaw to let characters do things that are messy or harmful or downright stupid—it's a reflection of what people are actually like, and not something that authors should feel they have to apologise for.

[whumping-in-the-dark]

I wonder if “we have to torture this special character. in the lab facility. with secret science.” is an interest all 12-year-old children share or were we just the generation exposed to Maximum Ride

[whumping-in-the-dark]

Sleeping Dead | Asada Nemui

[whumping-in-the-dark]

"I'd rather die than submit to you."

The whumpee, fairly new and fairly defiant, spits up at the whumper from the ground where they're kneeling. They half-expect to be hit, mocked, threatened or punished further for their declaration; instead the whumper looks pensive for a moment.

"Okay."

With nonchalant ease they pull out a gun. It stops inches away from the whumpee's quickly paling face, and as the safety clicks off the whumper relishes in silence their suddenly frantic backtracking.

[whumping-in-the-dark]

Fell asleep watching ep 2 of 'Girl From Nowhere' iykyk and had one of the most fucked up dreams I've ever had.

tw. murder, gore, body horror and the likes

So basically I was working in a cheap general store and my boss was a bitch. My family was coming to visit the city but she refused to let me take a day off because her own son who also helped out at the store wanted a whole week off for no good reason. She was a pretty abusive boss who used to beat us up a bit too. So this one time I just killed her- yeah doubt she deserved thaat much but I didn't actually mean to KILL her when I- ahem- hit her on the head with a shovel. Anyway right as I finish the deed™, the 2-3 other fed-up workers walk in and are like :O wtf?? And then I explain to them that hey no biggie!! Good riddance eh!! I'll deal with the body you just help me out with the labour and keep your mouth shut!!

So we cut her up into pieces and then seperate those pieces into two parts-- one part includes the bones and muscles and organs and stuff while the second part includes the tongue, the eyeballs, the fingers, etc. that are the only parts of the body that can be used to identify the identity of the corpse. We then bury the first part under the store and hide the rest of the stuff in a hidden compartment inside a vacuum cleaner... yeah. The whole thing was so visceral and gory. We burn our clothes, mop the place up and decide to sell off the vacuum cleaner.

We run the store as a cooperative and eventually get so successful that we go our own separate ways. I have now bought the entire building (on the ground floor of which the store used to be) and live there pretty happily. Then one day mom comes to visit and she has the same vacuum cleaner with her that she bought as a bag from some thrift store or smt (apparently it's a trend). I know she probably won't be able to find it inside but... cue me calling all my old colleagues to explain the whole thing to them and them coming over to visit as 'just friends'. Mom suspects them of being 'more than just friends' but in the completely different way.

Somehow they manage to distract mom for long enough for me to access the hidden compartment of the vacuum cleaner/bag and one by one carry the fingers, tongue, etc. to the sink, making sure not to drip the blood on the carpet or floor, get them out of the bloody ziplock back, wash them, and then throw them into the dustbin. The plan is that we'll dispose of a few each day as they keep her distracted.

Anyway I never thought I'd be washing and scrubbing eyeballs I hid in a vacuum cleaner that mom now uses as a bag, of a woman I murdered a decade ago because she was a terrible boss.

As a final note, I've never been employed in my life (still a student) so I don't know where the whole I-hate-my-boss thing came from. Needless to say, I do not condone this stuff irl, and doubt the whole hide-the-murder method would work irl either.

[whumping-in-the-dark]

can't believe whumpees get all the fun. when's it gonna be my turn to get the shit beaten out of me and then lay on the floor like a dead body

[whumping-in-the-dark]

Brave

Part of The Professionals, an In The Woods Somewhere x Professional//Victim crossover AU

Something has cracked Tommy's confidence for performing. Fletcher wonders over the circumstances that brought Tommy to their doorstep.

Cw: Captive whumpee, long term captivity, behavioral conditioning, training, fear of the dark, anxiety disorders and panic attacks, corporeal punishment, cutting, gags, "willing" whumpee

~

Something that unexpectedly pleased Fletcher about Tommy was how scared he was all the time.

He was so sensitive, so finely tuned to the slightest of glances or twitch to the corner of Fletcher’s mouth. They could be certain they had an ironclad poker face when something irritated them and still, Tommy would pick up on it like a wild hare could sense danger. They could practically picture him with whiskers twitching, tucking his ears back and crouching down to hide, hide, hide.

They would see it from his posture when he sensed it. The slight hunch he would do. Tommy might read them, but Fletcher read him right back, watching his hackles raise. The anxiety manifested as a pinch between the eyebrows or slight pull to the edge of his lips. The slightest wince of fear that he gave. Fletcher experimented with him at the dinner table, torturing him with the slightest signs of displeasure to see how fast he would pick up on it. It became an addictive game - poor Tommy couldn’t understand why Fletcher insisted they eat together if they always seemed so pissed off during the meal. Fletcher considered it a high scoring night when they started to see sweat bead on his forehead without saying a word. 

It would leave Tommy a little shaky, but he needed to wind down for the evening anyways. 

Seeing the effect they had on Tommy pleased something in Fletcher that hadn’t felt pleased in a long time. Not since…well. Not since Buck, at least. But it made Fletcher feel strong, to yield that power over Tommy. In a funny way, it was a comfort. Still got it. They still got the rush, too, when they hurt him. There were few things as pleasurable as grinding Tommy under their heel. 

Tommy’s fear was the worst when he knew he was in for a punishment. The moment he realized he’d made a mistake, he would start to shake like a rabid chihuahua. If Fletcher wanted to play with him and cause some damage, he could be reduced to a blubbering mess at the sight of the knife or the last tightening of his restraints. To his credit, he didn’t fight, but he carried a strained reluctance even as he cooperated. Like a kicked puppy, he would shiver and cower at Fletcher’s boots.

It seemed so painfully juvenile to Fletcher. Five years of torture and he was so easily intimidated, you’d have thought he’d been sheltered all his life. 

Something had changed though, since the first day Fletcher met him and the first day Fletcher took him home. Something big had happened. The man Fletcher had tortured onstage had been scared, but there had been bravery in him before. The resignation of someone knowing they are in for misery, facing it with the grim resolve to get through it. 

The Tommy they took home felt fresh, new to the life somehow in spite of his unusual obedience. His whole body was striped with white scars now, a far cry from the magically smooth body they sold to people over and over again without leaving a trace in his skin. There was a gruesome scar by his eye that scarred purple, only a shade pinker than the new scars Fletcher carved into him. Why did they skip the fancy treatments for only that scar? Why did he suddenly have scars when he was kept flawless before? Why did they sell him if he was so well trained? Why did Caius contact them directly to offer Tommy when he was supposed to go to auction? 

What happened that made Tommy so scared all the time? More than before. Something new. But, what could possibly be new to him after years of being a chew toy for the rich and depraved?

Fletcher had asked about it, but nothing shut Tommy down faster. His answers were vague and never quite answered the question. The most they’d really gotten from him was confirming that something happened, and that the something that happened gave Tommy his phobia of the dark. The guy couldn’t sleep without a nightlight beside his bed, but also had a weird habit of sitting, fully clothed, in the empty bathtub. Curtains drawn, lights out. He stopped after Fletcher told him off for scaring the students trying to use the bathroom. Tommy could sit in the dark like that, yet couldn’t go down the basement stairs until Fletcher forced him down or went down first to turn on the light. The stair light alone wasn’t enough because he claimed he couldn’t see far enough into the basement to go down. 

Tommy murmured things in his sleep at night. Hard to understand, but sometimes Fletcher could catch things.

        See 

LET      ME         See

   I                 CAn’t seE

   TURN                 OU T        the.    light

          PleASE

Pl E     as   e

     Turn           o UT

The                           Light 

.

“I used to be brave”, Tommy admitted once. Awake, even. Walking across the yard with them on a cooler morning. 

Fletcher studied him. He averted his eyes, his face a mask of shame.

“What changed?”

Tommy didn’t answer, studying the ground in front of him with a distant gaze, like he was seeing other worlds. 

“I don’t know.” He finally told them. “I guess I just learned that it doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?” 

Tommy chewed on it a moment before he answered.

“If you’re brave. If you try to take it with a - with a - with - with dignity, you know. If you try to be good and get through it and, and try. It’s the same outcome if you get scared and turn into a mess. Who am I, you know, thinking that I can, can make it better by trying to keep it together.”

Fletcher didn’t understand why Tommy was the way he was, but they didn’t want to rush it. Tommy could take his time and come to them when he was ready to talk about it. Fletcher could leave it on a low simmer. They had more time than they had use for. They could wait. 

But one day, Fletcher brought him before the students and laid him down on the exercise bench to be tortured for the afternoon. 

And he laid there, trembling with fear, yet his arms never left his sides to try to resist as he was carved and stitched for ages. He broke his hostage roleplay when he begged to be gagged. Fletcher accommodated him with a clean sock and some duct tape. 

He didn’t move his mouth until the glue melted onto his face, cementing the duct tape in place. He wept with terror, but he never moved an inch. 

And Fletcher realized Tommy did not cry because he did not know what would happen.

He did not cry because he did not know how much pain he could take.

Tommy cried because he knew exactly what was about to happen. Tommy cried because he knew exactly how much it was going to hurt. Tommy cried because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was nothing he could do.

Some days, though, the fear could be debilitating. It was one of those days, when Tommy broke down so badly in the face of a punishment that Fletcher had to stop.

“Deep breaths, Thunder, Jesus. You have to calm down.”

They made him take a break even before his punishment, he was so worked up. Fletcher hadn’t even touched him and he was bawling his eyes out. He was sent to his room to calm down and collect himself.

He emerged 16 minutes later, his eyes wet and face blotchy pink, but collected nonetheless.

“Okay,” he told Fletcher, shaky, but resigned to his fate. He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced his head up a bit, his shoulders back. Tommy put on his brave face, wiping the last of his tears on his sleeve before finally meeting Fletcher’s eyes. His voice was quiet but determined as he offered himself.

“I’m - I’m ready to be brave again.”

~

Taglist:

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr @technicallydeliciousdeer

@notactuallyluska

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!

[whumping-in-the-dark]

Whumper leaned against the counter, sliding a small box across the surface.

“You know Whumpee, I always thought you were gonna be a screamer.”

He fished a glove from the box, latex smacking against his skin as it slid onto his hands. His eyes flicked to the figure in the corner.

In the corner of the room, Whumpee crouched against the wall, a limp, shivering heap of bare skin and bone. There was no shape to him anymore, just a mess of limbs folded tight, trying to disappear into the concrete. 

He’d told himself he could endure this. That he had enough strength left to fight. But now he was just cold and broken.

Whumper smirked at the sight, stifling a laugh. It was pathetic. Whumpee looked pitiful—scrawny, naked, and hunched over like some half-dead thing.

“You’re so quiet tonight…” Whumper crossed into the light, casting a shadow over the smaller man.

Whumpee didn’t respond. His arms wrapped tightly around his legs, trying to hold onto what little warmth he could.

“You’re not holdin’ out on me, are ya?”

Bootsteps clapped against the concrete floor. Slow, unhurried. Each one rang hollow-- a countdown to the inevitable. Of course, Whumper was in no rush. He allowed the silence to stretch.

Whumpee kept his eyes down, burying his chin into his chest.

Then—pain. A gloved hand tangled deep in his hair.

“You know, being quiet won’t make it hurt less.”

He yanked hard, fisting a knot of Whumpee’s chocolate brown curls. The rubber gloves snapped tight around the strands, dragging scalp and skin with them. Whumpee gasped through clenched teeth.

“Aw. Poor Whumpee.” He mocked. “Did that hurt?”

No response. Whumpee stared blankly ahead, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“C’mon. Are you scared?”

Slowly, Whumpee turned his head just enough to meet his captor’s eyes. His stare was dull—but cold, steady. He wasn’t completely broken yet.

“Christ you’re no fun.” Whumper dropped the man’s head with a shove. “Get on your knees.”

Whumpee didn’t want to, fuck he didn’t want to-- but his body betrayed him, yielding to Whumper’s will like it had been trained to do. 

He shifted onto his bruised knees, grimacing as they dug into the gritty concrete. The pain was sharp, but he bit down and took it. There’d be worse soon enough.

“Good. Looks like some part of you remembers who’s in charge.”

Turning back, Whumper retrieved an instrument from the metal tray on the countertop. The tools clinked faintly as he selected one, holding it up to the light. “I was gonna be nice to you. Make this quick and clean.” He chuckled under his breath. “Heh. But now… it’s like you’re begging me to make you scream.”

Whumpee balled his fists. If he was going to die here, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Whumper get the better of him.

He spat on the ground by Whumper’s shoes.

“You’ll never hear me scream, fucker.” Whumpee snarled.

Whumper sighed—long and slow. The scalpel glinted under the harsh overhead light as he turned it between his fingers.

“That sounds like a challenge,” he murmured.

He crouched behind Whumpee, moving with casual confidence. One arm slung around Whumpee’s shoulders. His other hand brought the scalpel up in front of Whumpee’s chest, letting the blade hover just close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

The cold edge teased his collarbone as Whumper leaned in, his breath warm and deliberate against Whumpee’s neck.

“No one can hear you scream down here,” he whispered, voice low and intimate. “So it doesn’t matter one way or another.”

The scalpel kissed the side of Whumpee’s neck—

A shallow drag. A hiss of pain.

Whumpee flinched, breath catching in his throat.

Whumper smiled against his ear.

“Scream if you want to.”

((more whump))

[whumping-in-the-dark]

(x)

[whumping-in-the-dark]

At First Sight

Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Here's 800 words from Dominique's perspective for Valentine's day! This takes place at the very beginning of Torn Red Abyss, my erotic horror/thriller. Mild spoilers for chapter six and eight of TRA.

Dominique Duke is bored at a house party.

TW: Discussions of military service, murder, torture, and rape from the perspective of the perpetrator.

====

The thrum of the party around Dominique hummed like the background drone of a laptop fan, working too hard. The stimulation of the bass of the music in her breastbone was a commonplace thing, like a basic necessity to pick up from the grocery store, and capable of being found in night clubs across town. It all bored her, bored her to tears, but she had come because Andy had asked.

Andreas, that handsome, perfectly sculpted dummy, her best friend, was worried about her, was worried that she was lonely after her break up with her last submissive. After all, he had found his life partner in Roman, who was round and baby-faced and too soft, if you asked Dominique. He was poor, he was femme, he was delicate, but those were all things Andreas was totally gone for. Andreas always was one to pick the charity cases. He always wanted to be a hero.

And here she was, at Andy’s party, his charity case.

It wasn’t even as though her last submissive had been all that bad. Lily had been pretty hardcore even. She loved being in rope, she loved the knives, the collar, the beatings, the consensual nonconsent. But she had lines too. Dominique couldn’t make her bleed, couldn’t leave marks where they might be seen if Lily wore short sleeves. She fussed whenever Dominique tore something she hadn’t specifically prepared for a scene.

And just like everyone else, Dominique got bored of her too.

Could she find someone else at Andy’s party? Both Roman and Andy were off hosting, leaving her to prowl, to try and find someone interesting. No more of the people who just wanted her to demonstrate her skills as a dominant, to use her as a tool of their fantasies, none of the boring flirts desperate for someone to hit them. She wanted something else.

It had been years since her discharge and still, Dominique felt the yearning for military service. It had been so easy to thrive at the edge of danger. It had been so satisfying to know that things she did actually mattered. She wasn’t a sniper, like Andy, who could systematically remove the enemy, one head at a time, but she was a damn good interrogator, and she knew how to deal pain.

That was what she missed. Pain that mattered.

Civilian life had been tough to adjust to, and not just because the court martial and the events leading up to it had been… difficult. Suddenly she had been cut adrift, without a command structure, without a job, without any goddamn power. It had been difficult to find a job that wouldn’t look too closely at her dishonorable discharge, because she sure wasn’t about to give anyone her excuses, and so she had ended up working the drive-throughs during the days and bartending at night. Was it any wonder that she had to take those boys apart?

They’d remember her forever, after what she did to them, after she peeled them apart and stripped them bare. Now that was pain that mattered. And really, she had been generous with them. After she was done with them, she had deposited them back outside, spiders released to the wild after she plucked off a few legs. But that wasn’t something to indulge in though, especially not so close to home. She shouldn’t shit where she eats, after all.

Dominique wandered the party aimlessly, unsure what to do with herself, when she whiffed burning tobacco. Was someone was smoking inside the house? Dominique’s eyebrows shot up. Roman was trying to quit, and someone in his house was smoking. The smell was distinctly coming from the bathroom. Now who was this rude motherfucker? Dominique opened the door with a click, and nearly laughed.

The smoker was tiptoeing on the toilet seat, sucking on the cigarette and desperately trying blow the smoke out of the tiny bathroom window. It was someone she didn’t know. They couldn’t be much taller than five feet, their short shock of hair pulled into a tiny little ponytail. Deep bags hung under their eyes as they looked back at her with hunted, guilty eyes. Dominique’s heart lurched at the sight of their hunched shoulders, the self-conscious way they held their shoulders as they swore. They had a scraggly teen boy chin hair and healed over scabs that indicated how bad they were at shaving.

“Well,” she said, raising one eyebrow. “That desperate to take the edge off?”

“Fuck,” they swore and flopped down from the toilet. “Don’t tell Roman, I heard he’s trying to quit.”

A self-conscious, newly transitioning, fresh face, already self isolating in the middle of a house party. And just like that, Dominique felt the hunger rise in her throat. This was going to be easy.

-----

Read more about TRA here