generic-whumperz
Get Whumped, Or Die Tryin’
•Queer Ace/ Call me Generic (they/them)•Includes NSFW whump (MIND ANY TW’S & TAGS!) •Hurt /little to no comfort •shit posts
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Commission for @oddsconvert of their boy Josh!!! Had a blast painting in those scars<3
Full will be available on my alt account <3
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What i made instead of writing.....
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If they didn’t want to get napped, maybe they shouldn’t look so whumpable 🤷
#idk what’s happened—I made a bunch of dumb whump memes at first and now it’s a blank spot#the brainrot is real#whumpblr#whump#whump stuff#whump scenario#whump blog#whump community#whumpee#kidnapping whump#hostage#whumper#whump meme#whump joke#whump humor#crack whump#get whumped#whumper x whumpee#defiant whumpee#captive whumpee#whump scenarios#whump writing#captured#creepy whumper
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NSFWhump dialogue prompts
⚠️ TW: explicit NSFW… SORRY MOM LOL
“Don’t just lie there all limp, act like you wanna please me. If I wanted to fuck a corpse I would just kill you.”
“You’re a little whore just like your [person] was.”
“I’ll tell everyone what a slut you are, remember I have pictures. And what would your poor mother and father say?”
“Get the hell up. You still got three clients left out there who paid good money to fuck you, so you better show them a good time.”
“Strip. Now. Or do you want me to do it for you?”
“Take your clothes off, baby. That’s it, nice and slow for me.”
“Come on, dance for us, give us a show!”
“Don’t try and cover yourself up, I’ve already seen every part of you.”
“Here’s what we’re gonna do; I’m gonna hurt you, and your gonna pretend to like it.”
“Im not a sadist but seeing you in pain is really turning me on.”
“Crawl. On your hands and knees. Ass up. Stick your tongue out like a good little puppy. That’s it, just like that.”
“You screaming like that makes me so hard.”
“It’s not assault if you like it, I mean look at you. Your so hard/wet.”
“I could sell you to some really nasty people, you’d never be seen again. They would do worse to you than I’ve done.”
“Make yourself useful and come suck my cock.”
“All that I’ve done for you and you can’t even do this one thing for me? I think you owe me.”
“Dumb little whores like you don’t get to wear any clothes.”
“Is that blood? Oh, don’t tell me your a virgin!”
“You should be thanking me, no one else would wanna fuck an ugly little thing like you.”
“Come on, baby. I want you nose deep in this pussy.”
“Lick Clean up this mess.”
“Did I give you permission to cum?”
“I don’t wanna feel any teeth or else I’m gonna knock ‘em out.”
“I wanna hear some pretty moaning and slurping sounds outta you.”
“You put on a good show tonight and maybe I’ll reward you.”
“You want me to take you home, pretty thing?”
(Whumpee)
“Don’t do this to me… please, I’ve never done this before…”
“Come on, y-you don’t want me, I’m not very attractive or anything.”
“Please don’t hurt me!”/ “Oh I won’t hurt you, baby, I’ll be real gentle.”
“I don’t belong to you! I have a master and they’re gonna be really mad if you touch me!”
“You said you wouldn’t do this, you said you would never force me-“/ “I said I wouldn’t force you if you didn’t want it, but clearly you do.”
“Please, just not inside me…”
“I’ll- I’ll do what ever you want- just not here, not in front of everyone.”
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The Aid: Chapter 9–Special Sauce (Part 1)
Full list of general conent warnings here.
No additonal chapter CWs for once! This is the lighter part in The Aid’s (Whumpee) POV. This is about as ‘nice’ Wyatt gets!
Aid’s abilities: EMPATHIC READING | ‘premonition/intuition’
Word count: 1,220
<-Previus | Masterlist | Next->
Wyatt disappeared into The Aid’s adjoined walk-in closet—this door, too, was ripped off its hinges. Doors represented privacy and privacy alone, and that was a thing reserved only for free people.
But the lack of a physical barrier didn’t mean there wasn’t one at all—The Aid’s prison bars were invisible, his freedom nothing more than a taunting illusion.
A state-of-the-art satellite GPS device preinstalled with geofencing software was connected to The Aid’s RFID implants. Every square inch of the house and surrounding property was uploaded to the device’s database and accounted for, his every movement tracked and documented. The device pinged and lit up with an alert if he crossed a room’s perimeter without prior authorization. He couldn’t go to the bathroom or have a mental breakdown in the comfort of his closet—muffling his sobs in cashmere sweaters and Himalayan wool— without Wyatt knowing about it.
Wyatt shuffled around some hangers, stomped into the connected bedroom, and slammed around some drawers with the usual amount of curses and huffing, then reappeared with an armful of The Aid’s clothes.
“I ain’t putting ya’r fucking chonies on for ya. I don’t care how to beat to hell ya are.” Wyatt handed him a clean pair of boxers, sat the rest of the garments on the counter, and then rummaged through the first aid caddy. The Aid—more than happy to oblige—as quickly as his broken body would allow, slid on his underwear beneath the safety of the towel covering his lower body.
He was running out of gas, and quick. The long-awaited suppression of feelings warmed him in what little way it could. The Klonopin was behind schedule this morning, but it finally arrived at the station—all aboard the Numb Dumb Express, destination: Apathy.
He kept his head down, staring only at the plaid squares decorating his boxers while Wyatt started re-bandaging his wounds. He couldn’t risk another mirror encounter with his demonic parasite or bring himself to look at Wyatt’s dumb face any longer, hence his sudden fixation on such a worn pattern. His eyes ran the length of the geometric lines and he debated color theory—his way of fighting off the swarm of monotonous fears. ‘Why were men’s undergarments always so drab and boring? Did the fashion industry think shades of earth tones defined masculinity?’
The Aid’s wavering focus floated upright, he dared to break the silence with a question. “Sir, do you miss Madame Eleanor?”
Wyatt stopped mid-peel of the gauze pad wrapper and blew a harsh puff through his nose. His head swiveled to face his servant to exchange a long, unbroken stare. Wyatt’s lip twitched as his eyes swam with sorrowfully churned emotions. He turned back to the spread of medical supplies on the counter, plucking the gauze pad between the two strips of wrapper, and sighed.
“She was my mom, Pup,” he said quietly. Not a growl. Not a hiss. Not a grumble. Just a plain voice with a twinge of reminiscent sadness. The Aid didn’t often see Wyatt like this, vulnerable and showing him something other than his infamous brand of wrath or obscene mockery.
The Aid felt sadness, too, a deep, grieving sadness. He would never admit it out loud, and certainly never to Wyatt, but the empty void left in his heart from his Madame’s passing oftentimes surpassed the grief of losing his own flesh and blood. Maybe it was recency bias. Maybe it was the guilt gnawing at him and a need for redemption instead of plain grieving heartache eclipsing his mourning when it came to the fatal accident costing the lives of his Dad and older sister. Maybe—probably, it was a combination of both.
What was supposed only to be a thought slipped from his mouth, “You never talk about her...”
Wyatt side-eyed him. His eyebrows scrunched together as the unmistakable flush of irritation needled his features.
Time to course correct. “I miss her too—”
“Why?” Wyatt snapped. Distress marinated beneath the word, piping hot and steamy.
“I served her for five years—”
“If she died after a year of ya knowing her, would ya grieve her just the same as ya are now?” Wyatt interrupted, turning back around, cold eyes beaming onto his.
The Aid gulped, his face pinched with concern.
“Yes, Sir,” he said in a feigned confidence he hoped didn’t sound as disingenuous as it felt.
“Ya’ve served me for over a year at this point. Would ya grieve my death?” Wyatt’s voice sharpened to bitter resentment, knowing his servant hated him and preferred his dead mother over him—he had plenty of scars and bite marks to prove The Aid’s detestation towards him just as well.
Whoomp, there it is. And he walked right into it. Fuck.
“In my own way, Sir,” The Aid conjured up on the spot. Not a horrible save; hopefully Wyatt would accept it.
A few agonizing beats passed before his Master’s mouth slanted up into a smirk. Thanks to his winning reply, it looked like he got away Scot-free.
With that, Wyatt held out an open palm and threw a nod at The Aid’s mangled hand—a signal to quite literally hand himself over to him. The Aid complied, dutiful as ever, carefully placing his upturned wrist onto Wyatt’s expectant one. He couldn’t shake the tingles running up his spine accompanying the gesture. Every complaisant movement felt like another shred of agency was peeled off him and devoured by the man in front of him—like he was another step into a never-ending maze as Wyatt watched him fumble in the dark behind a double-sided mirror.
Wyatt surveyed The Aid’s wound stitching on the side of his wrist—much like The Aid did only an hour earlier—before the older man ran his index finger down the scar on The Aid’s palm. Wyatt knew this scar was different; this one meant something. It bound them together in some sick way. A mark illustrating Wyatt laying claim to what was rightfully his and his alone. A memory shared.
A wave of nausea rippled in The Aid’s stomach.
POSSESSION
A sickeningly warm sensation burrowed under his skin, the thing fevers and cold sweats are made of. His mind muddied around the edges, the vibrancy of his internal and external thoughts colored over in a greenish tint. He was too weak to throw up his mental guard rails or to cut the link between him and Wyatt’s emanating emotion. Imprints of emotions he never felt himself firsthand were the ones hardest to shake. Part of him became intrigued, drawn in to the foreignness of it. But most of him—the rational, seasoned parts of him—knew better than to lose himself in the prickly throes of it.
“Ya wouldn’t forget me, would ya?” Wyatt flashed a half-suppressed smile, a viper’s grin.
The Aid warred against the shiver fizzing under his skin from Wyatt’s gliding caress and the emotional baggage that stowed away with it, just as much as he fought to hold in a shuttering sigh.
“Never, Sir,” The Aid’s reply came breathless. It was the inescapable truth. He could never completely shut out the terrors swarming his mind or scratch out the face of the man who caused it all.
‘There’s a forecast of yuck moving in’
<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->
Taglist (first 5 here then the rest in comments because they aren’t tagging right): @sacredwrath @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears @3-2-whump @potterhead5ever
If ya wanna be added or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me! :)
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The Aid: Chapter 9–Special Sauce (Part 1)
Full list of general conent warnings here.
No additonal chapter CWs for once! This is the lighter part in The Aid’s (Whumpee) POV. This is about as ‘nice’ Wyatt gets!
Aid’s abilities: EMPATHIC READING | ‘premonition/intuition’
Word count: 1,220
<-Previus | Masterlist | Next->
Wyatt disappeared into The Aid’s adjoined walk-in closet—this door, too, was ripped off its hinges. Doors represented privacy and privacy alone, and that was a thing reserved only for free people.
But the lack of a physical barrier didn’t mean there wasn’t one at all—The Aid’s prison bars were invisible, his freedom nothing more than a taunting illusion.
A state-of-the-art satellite GPS device preinstalled with geofencing software was connected to The Aid’s RFID implants. Every square inch of the house and surrounding property was uploaded to the device’s database and accounted for, his every movement tracked and documented. The device pinged and lit up with an alert if he crossed a room’s perimeter without prior authorization. He couldn’t go to the bathroom or have a mental breakdown in the comfort of his closet—muffling his sobs in cashmere sweaters and Himalayan wool— without Wyatt knowing about it.
Wyatt shuffled around some hangers, stomped into the connected bedroom, and slammed around some drawers with the usual amount of curses and huffing, then reappeared with an armful of The Aid’s clothes.
“I ain’t putting ya’r fucking chonies on for ya. I don’t care how to beat to hell ya are.” Wyatt handed him a clean pair of boxers, sat the rest of the garments on the counter, and then rummaged through the first aid caddy. The Aid—more than happy to oblige—as quickly as his broken body would allow, slid on his underwear beneath the safety of the towel covering his lower body.
He was running out of gas, and quick. The long-awaited suppression of feelings warmed him in what little way it could. The Klonopin was behind schedule this morning, but it finally arrived at the station—all aboard the Numb Dumb Express, destination: Apathy.
He kept his head down, staring only at the plaid squares decorating his boxers while Wyatt started re-bandaging his wounds. He couldn’t risk another mirror encounter with his demonic parasite or bring himself to look at Wyatt’s dumb face any longer, hence his sudden fixation on such a worn pattern. His eyes ran the length of the geometric lines and he debated color theory—his way of fighting off the swarm of monotonous fears. ‘Why were men’s undergarments always so drab and boring? Did the fashion industry think shades of earth tones defined masculinity?’
The Aid’s wavering focus floated upright, he dared to break the silence with a question. “Sir, do you miss Madame Eleanor?”
Wyatt stopped mid-peel of the gauze pad wrapper and blew a harsh puff through his nose. His head swiveled to face his servant to exchange a long, unbroken stare. Wyatt’s lip twitched as his eyes swam with sorrowfully churned emotions. He turned back to the spread of medical supplies on the counter, plucking the gauze pad between the two strips of wrapper, and sighed.
“She was my mom, Pup,” he said quietly. Not a growl. Not a hiss. Not a grumble. Just a plain voice with a twinge of reminiscent sadness. The Aid didn’t often see Wyatt like this, vulnerable and showing him something other than his infamous brand of wrath or obscene mockery.
The Aid felt sadness, too, a deep, grieving sadness. He would never admit it out loud, and certainly never to Wyatt, but the empty void left in his heart from his Madame’s passing oftentimes surpassed the grief of losing his own flesh and blood. Maybe it was recency bias. Maybe it was the guilt gnawing at him and a need for redemption instead of plain grieving heartache eclipsing his mourning when it came to the fatal accident costing the lives of his Dad and older sister. Maybe—probably, it was a combination of both.
What was supposed only to be a thought slipped from his mouth, “You never talk about her...”
Wyatt side-eyed him. His eyebrows scrunched together as the unmistakable flush of irritation needled his features.
Time to course correct. “I miss her too—”
“Why?” Wyatt snapped. Distress marinated beneath the word, piping hot and steamy.
“I served her for five years—”
“If she died after a year of ya knowing her, would ya grieve her just the same as ya are now?” Wyatt interrupted, turning back around, cold eyes beaming onto his.
The Aid gulped, his face pinched with concern.
“Yes, Sir,” he said in a feigned confidence he hoped didn’t sound as disingenuous as it felt.
“Ya’ve served me for over a year at this point. Would ya grieve my death?” Wyatt’s voice sharpened to bitter resentment, knowing his servant hated him and preferred his dead mother over him—he had plenty of scars and bite marks to prove The Aid’s detestation towards him just as well.
Whoomp, there it is. And he walked right into it. Fuck.
“In my own way, Sir,” The Aid conjured up on the spot. Not a horrible save; hopefully Wyatt would accept it.
A few agonizing beats passed before his Master’s mouth slanted up into a smirk. Thanks to his winning reply, it looked like he got away Scot-free.
With that, Wyatt held out an open palm and threw a nod at The Aid’s mangled hand—a signal to quite literally hand himself over to him. The Aid complied, dutiful as ever, carefully placing his upturned wrist onto Wyatt’s expectant one. He couldn’t shake the tingles running up his spine accompanying the gesture. Every complaisant movement felt like another shred of agency was peeled off him and devoured by the man in front of him—like he was another step into a never-ending maze as Wyatt watched him fumble in the dark behind a double-sided mirror.
Wyatt surveyed The Aid’s wound stitching on the side of his wrist—much like The Aid did only an hour earlier—before the older man ran his index finger down the scar on The Aid’s palm. Wyatt knew this scar was different; this one meant something. It bound them together in some sick way. A mark illustrating Wyatt laying claim to what was rightfully his and his alone. A memory shared.
A wave of nausea rippled in The Aid’s stomach.
POSSESSION
A sickeningly warm sensation burrowed under his skin, the thing fevers and cold sweats are made of. His mind muddied around the edges, the vibrancy of his internal and external thoughts colored over in a greenish tint. He was too weak to throw up his mental guard rails or to cut the link between him and Wyatt’s emanating emotion. Imprints of emotions he never felt himself firsthand were the ones hardest to shake. Part of him became intrigued, drawn in to the foreignness of it. But most of him—the rational, seasoned parts of him—knew better than to lose himself in the prickly throes of it.
“Ya wouldn’t forget me, would ya?” Wyatt flashed a half-suppressed smile, a viper’s grin.
The Aid warred against the shiver fizzing under his skin from Wyatt’s gliding caress and the emotional baggage that stowed away with it, just as much as he fought to hold in a shuttering sigh.
“Never, Sir,” The Aid’s reply came breathless. It was the inescapable truth. He could never completely shut out the terrors swarming his mind or scratch out the face of the man who caused it all.
‘There’s a forecast of yuck moving in’
<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->
Taglist (first 5 here then the rest in comments because they aren’t tagging right): @sacredwrath @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears @3-2-whump @potterhead5ever
If ya wanna be added or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me! :)
#The Aid#hey look we actually get some more personal info about The Aid’s backstory—that doesn’t happen often!#The Aid being randomly sentimental#oh maybe the sleep paralysis demon wearing her fucking face has something to do with it!#Wyatt being decent for maybe 10 seconds?#this is about as good as their interactions get folks#Wyatt Sullivan#The Aid au#ROA au#whump writing#oc story#oc writing#oc whump#slavefic#slave whump#pet whump#< i guess#whump fic#captive whumpee#creepy whumper#whump blog#carewhumper#bad caretaker#bad caretaking#wound care#character death mention#death mention tw#whump
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blood-stained tiles
@febuwhump day 14! thus begins our Flashback Arc!!! oh boy!! BACKSTORY!!
(to be clear, in case anyone's been secretly following along or is catching up now: this takes place chronologically way before anything else i've written for these guys so far! the next few pieces will follow this one directly)
cws: blood, panic
Milo taps their hand rapidly against their leg and exhales loudly, blowing hair out of their eyes for probably the fifth time this evening. Coren was supposed to be here five—they check their phone—no, eight minutes ago. Where the hell are they?
It's okay, they're not super punctual, it's normal, it's fine, they try to weakly reassure themself. It doesn't work. Sure, Coren's not usually a punctual guy, but when you're doing corporate espionage, a little timeliness so your accomplice doesn't think you're fucking dead would be nice.
Milo takes a deep breath in and out. Okay. Fuck it. It's been ten minutes. They're going in.
Everything looks normal inside at first. Milo's sure they don't look normal, but they try their best to act natural. They're still in their work clothes, thankfully. If they move quickly and with purpose, hopefully no one will notice they don't work here.
They keep their eyes on the tiles. Super cool, super casual, normal and natural and HOLY SHIT IS THAT BLOOD?
Milo stops, too rattled to even pretend like they have an excuse, and stares at the ground with a sense of rising dread. Oh god. Yeah, that's blood on the shiny linoleum floor, alright. That is absolutely blood. Oh no. Oh no.
Milo's heartrate and footsteps quicken in tandem as they follow the trail through the building, go go go go go and oh stars if Coren's hurt they'll— don't think about it, don't think about it, the blood splatters are getting larger, it's a trail now, oh god, what are they doing, what if—
They round a corner. They stop. They feel the world fall out from under them.
Coren is there. The source of the blood is there, also. The source of the blood is not Coren. Coren is, however, covered in blood.
Milo's breath leaves their lungs in a punched-out gasp, and Coren turns to look at them.
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Tying Up Loose Ends
<prev
Okay I'm back!
(But you had hardly left!)
Whatever! Here's the next chapter and the conclusion of this
TW/CW: creepy whumper, jealous whumper, manipulative whumper (I guess?), nsfwhump (not graphically described), noncon (at the very end, not graphically described, and honestly you could end the chapter just before it happens and it would still make sense)
A rhythmic series of knocks reverberated through the door of the office at half past eleven, just as Thomas had planned. He scooted closer towards his desk and minimized the windows he had opened on his desktop PC. “Come in,” he replied.
The door cracked open. The kid –Nico, my nephew, Michael once told him–stepped hesitantly inside, shoulders to ears, brows drawn tensely. “Y-you wanted to see me, Boss?”
“I did.” He gestured to a chair in front of the desk. Nico approached it stiffly, visibly uncomfortable being so close to the Don of the Costa Family. “Oh come on, sit down, I don’t bite, you know!” he chuckled.
Nico briefly looked around the room, eyes bright and alert. “Wait, where’s Khaled?” he asked, blinking at the empty space behind the Boss’ chair.
“On a coffee run,” Thomas answered simply. He suppressed an eye roll as Nico looked down, squinting at the bottom of the desk as if he could see through it if he stared hard enough. He cleared his throat, and Nico snapped his gaze back up. “I could ask him to get you something before he leaves the café, if you’d like?”
Nico shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience him like that,” he insisted. The young man drew back the chair and took his seat across from the Don, and waited in questioning silence.
No matter how many times he had rehearsed this meeting in his head, nor how many arrangements he had to make over the past couple days to lead the boy to this point, Thomas still couldn’t help the nerves that feathered into the edges of his composure. Keep it cool, keep your tone calm, never betray how you truly feel, stay in control, a familiar voice once told him.
“So, how’s school?” An innocuous line, and as good an opener as any.
“Great, it’s been great.” Nico huffed an awkward little laugh as he hung his signature smile. “Which reminds me, thank you so much for allowing me this job in the first place, sir! I never got to thank you properly, or in person before-”
Thomas stopped him with one raised palm. “Hey, hey, that wasn’t all me. Let’s give a little credit to your Uncle Mike, too, right?” Nico conceded with another awkward laugh. “I understand it that this job helps you pay for your schooling, is that correct?”
“I mean, yeah,” Nico began to answer. “I don’t know how much college was back in your day, let alone law school-”
I never went to college, Thomas remembered, trailing off into his own thoughts as Nico kept nervously rambling. That was never really my scene. Never really had the brains for it, or the personability, according to my teachers. My brother, the Golden Child, on the other hand…
He redirected his thoughts at the right time where Nico started to complain about the most important part. “Wait, can you say that again?” he requested.
“My last tuition payment didn’t go through,” Nico repeated, an edge of desperation in his voice. “And if I don’t scrounge up enough money within the next two months, I won’t be able to afford my next semester’s worth of classes!”
Thomas gave a sympathetic expression of concern, even though he knew about this all along. After all, he was the one who delayed the payment to the college. “Is that so?” he asked with feigned interest.
The door cracked open again, though this time a familiar young intern entered. He cradled a cup of coffee in one hand and carried a takeout bag in the other. The guard whipped his head around, nearly bolting from his chair in shock. “Khaled?”
“Nico?” The boy approached, dumbfounded as he wordlessly set the spoils of his errand onto the Boss’ desk.
“You actually were out?” This time, Thomas rolled his eyes. Was it so hard to believe he used his fuck toy for honest work sometimes? (He supposed maybe yes, considering how much Nico had probably inadvertently witnessed over the past three years.)
Khaled’s well-timed entry provided a natural transition to the second half of his plan. “Speaking of which, I would like to thank you for looking out for Khaled this last weekend,” Thomas said. His boy silently took up post behind the desk, standing up straight with eyes slightly downcast, as he had trained him. “You’re a good kid for that. Most guys, they probably would’ve taken liberties, but not you.” Thomas craned his neck to look over his office chair. “Isn’t he a good kid?”
“Yes, sir,” Khaled readily agreed.
“Oh, no, please, I’d have done that for anybody! He’s my friend.” Thomas noticed how Nico cast a furtive glance at the boy behind him.
Friend, my ass. The very thought of how ‘friendly’ those two might have gotten had he not intervened that night made him seethe in possessive jealousy, though he maintained that icy façade of control.
“Of course, even if Khaled doesn’t remember it, you and I both know he was a wreck, wasn’t he?” The boy had sworn up and down and sideways that he didn’t remember what he had told his friend that night, no matter how much he’d tried to beat a confession out of him. Thomas leaned over the desk, dropping the volume of his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Since Khaled still had no idea what he had told Nico, the next best course of action was to discredit his words entirely. “He was saying some pretty crazy things, wasn’t he? Things that you and I both know not to take too seriously?”
“Well… I don’t know” Nico began, “don’t they say ‘in vino veritas?’”
“Don’t they also say ‘God don’t pay tuition?’”
You’re being too blunt again, a familiar voice in his memory chastised. Yet he couldn’t help but smile as he saw understanding dawn on the young man’s face. “Well, go on,” he coaxed the young man standing behind him. “Tell him.”
Khaled bristled uncomfortably before hanging his head low. “He’s right,” he agreed somberly. “I may not remember what I said, but, it was probably not true. You should just forget it.”
“But, Khaled-” Nico began to protest.
“You heard him yourself, kid,” Thomas cut in. “Now, you’re gonna forget whatever it was he said when he was wasted, and just keep studying hard, alright?”
Nico attempted to make meaningful eye contact beyond the boss’ shoulder, but Thomas didn’t have to turn around to know Khaled would keep his eyes firmly fixed to the floor. The young guard let out a defeated sigh as he slumped back in the chair and offered a small, reluctant nod. “Yes, sir. Like it never even happened,” he muttered.
Check mate.
“Good boy.” Thomas leaned back in his chair, his hands folding on the top of the desk as his mouth curled into a small smirk of victory. “Now, try contacting Student Financial Services again. I have a feeling your tuition payment might’ve been resolved after all.” He waved him off with a final self-satisfied smile. “You may go.”
The kid looked green around the gills as he pushed himself up from the chair and excused himself from the room. As soon as he left, Thomas swiveled around to face the boy behind him. Khaled ventured a resentful, hopeless glare into his owner’s eyes before looking once again to the floor. “Well?” he goaded. Khaled did not rise to the bait.
Thomas pushed away from the desk, motioning to the familiar darkness underneath the hardwood like he was commanding a dog to lie. “Go on.” He took a sip of the slightly cooled coffee as he watched his intern crouch and fold himself into the space with stiff reluctance. “You know what to do, and you know how hard you need to work to get back in my good graces,” he sneered. “Now, put that tongue of yours to a better use.” He pushed himself back in and trapped the young man underneath the desk.
Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344
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(Reblog with answers!)
#a simple food recipe that tastes good#because I hate cooking and am not good at it and it’s a serious hindrance for my day-to-day
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Y’ALL I JUST HAD IDEAS FOR A WIP I HAVEN’T WORKED ON IN FOREVER AND THEN I SAT DOWN AND WROTE THOSE IDEAS INTO A MAJOR SCENE AND I HAVE A PLAN FOR WRITING THE SCENES LEADING UP TO IT
THIS IS
Magical
IF YOU SEE THIS POST I AM BOOPING YOU WITH INSPIRATION IN MY HEART AND MIND AND PAWS
WRITER’S AND ARTIST’S BLOCK BEGONE
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daydreaming about writing: 🥰😍🥹❤️😊🌺✨😘
the act of actually writing: 😭😰😵💫😭😰😭☹️😖
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“my favourite character only acts like an asshole because he’s deflecting/covering up his insecurities 🥺🥺🥺” you are so boring. he acts like that because he sucks. worst motherfucker on earth (affectionate). stop making excuses for him
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Anyone else have a whump bible while writing? I use it to write down the injuries and various treatments that happen with each character throughout the chapters. No, I can't take credit for this idea.
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Little gift art for @sunshiline-writes !! Miguel gets put in the stables by a certain nasty cowboy man I am VERY normal about.
#THAT X BRANDING MARK IS EVERYTHINGGGGG!!!#foaming at the fucking mouth#kicking my legs#bby gurl#nudity#cw nudity#naked man#nude man
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Saw the “trying to start a normal conversation” meme - love those topics as well.
Can you name a cryptid that you think is cool, and how whumpable it is on a scale of 1-10?
First of all, THANK YOU for sending me this, it has made my week! I have been dying to talk about the intersection of whump and cryptids—two of my favorite topics! I am always down to talk about cryptids and paranormal happenings, so if anyone has more questions, toss ‘em my way!
Right off the bat, the most whumpable cryptid that comes to mind is the Fresno Nightcrawler. Look how dumb and soft these things look:
Screenshots taken from this video
It’s just a weird blob of legs? Not only do they look ridiculous, but you could easily snare one in a bear trap since all they do is walk around like dumb little smooth brained idiots. These things are the equivalent of a sunfish (equally whumpable).
Whumpability score: 10/10
Cool score: 5/10 (they look ethereal but there’s not a whole lot else going on here)
This may be controversial, but an honorable mention of most whumpable cryptid is going to have to go to Skinny Bob:
Images taken from Google
You’re telling me this dude doesn’t look like someone’s go-to Little Guy™️ they routinely torture or put through precarious situations and have kidnapped for ransom money; or the Youngest™️ who gets taken by Villain™️ and the Whole Team™️ has to work together to save them? Or the recently discovered creature that Evil Scientist™️ captures and performs gruesome experiments on? He’s getting whumped in multiple situations!
Skinny Bob is Whumpee™️ confirmed.
Whumpability score: 6/10 (he’s an alien so you always run the risk of having more of them show up. We also don’t know what he’s storing in that massive dome of his—maybe it’s secrets to the universe, or maybe it’s the mental power to make things explode? Additionally, he was rumored to be in cahoots with the Russian government? Either way, suspicious. And he does have hands and those long ass arms to try to fight you off, but he’s clearly not hitting the weights because those things are pool noodles at best.)
Cool score: 10/10
P.S. I engage with cryptozoology, myths and legends, and paranormal encounters for entertainment purposes only. Is this shit real? I have no idea, and I don’t care. That’s not the point, I’m here for the fun and whimsy. There’s no harm in indulging in the unknown. I’m not here to convince or attest to the legitimacy of these creatures. It’s not that serious, so please don’t come after me!
#asked and answered#fresno nightcrawler#fresno nightwalker#Skinny Bob#paranormal whump#cryptid#cryptids#cryptid whump#paranormal#supernatural whump#cryptozoology#urban myths#urban legends#extraterrestrial#alien species#aliens and ufos#alien encounters#cryptidcore#shit post#for funsies
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it only takes 2 seconds for 150°F (66°C) water to give you a third degree burn so like do with that what you will
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