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as-a-matter-of-whump · 2 years

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Temperature Day

prompt by @whump-of-the-month

Thanks @b0amagination for providing an absolute gem in modern literature (I won’t reveal which part of the dialogue it is though 😏)

CW: captivity, freezing, implied creepy/intimate whumper, blind whumpee, mention of past hand whump, swearing, implied character death

~*~

Jonah wrapped his arms around his legs. “It’s getting colder in here.” “Nonsense. The temperature hasn’t changed. You just think it’s colder because you’re not moving.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Just walk around for a bit and you’ll be warm again,” Vincent sighed, slightly annoyed.

“You’re so incredibly funny,” the younger one hissed, “Walking around where? In this tiny fucking room where I can’t even see a thing?”

“Do whatever you want to, as long as you shut up, I’m tired of your complaints… what am I supposed to say? I won’t be able to see a fucking thing ever again! But instead of just sitting around and whining I’m trying to come up with something to get us out of here!” “So? Any plans yet?” Jonah asked sarcastically. “Because you’re just sitting around, doing nothing.”

“Well, I can’t do anything, can I?”

“Are you going to use your blindness as an excuse for everything now? He did horrible things to me as well and I’m still trying to figure out how we can escape this nightmare!”

“Good! That’s all I want you to do!”

“I still can’t do this all on my own!”

“Do what on your own? If you have a plan you should really consider sharing it with me!”

“You know that there’s only one thing we can do.”

“And what might that be, if you don’t mind me asking?” Vincent sounded angry, but at this point, Jonah didn’t mind anymore; what was he supposed to do to him anyway? They had to rely on each other, he wouldn’t even think of hurting his former captive now… So maybe they could actually get away from this place if they worked together.

“I already thought that you wouldn’t have an answer to that,” Vincent snorted when Jonah stayed silent.

“I do.”

“What is it, then? What’s your plan?”

“Wait until Domenic comes back and get his ass.”

“He’s ace, you insensitive prick.”

Jonah’s jaw dropped for a short moment, then he started to cackle - only seconds later, Vincent joined in. They both knew that there was really nothing to laugh about in their current situation, but it felt so good, even if this moment of ease was gone after just a few seconds. They fell silent until the younger one’s curiosity made him speak up again.

“You were joking, right?”

“About what?”

“Him being ace.”

“Nope, he is. Aroace, to be precise.”

“Then why did he… you know…”

“What?”

“He touched me and made… some suggestive comments.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that. Why did he do that?”

“I guess he just wanted to humiliate you. It’s not a secret that you don’t react well to intimacy.”

“Wonder why..,” Jonah muttered, turning away.

After a moment of silence, Vincent spoke up.

“You were right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s really getting colder.”

“I know.”

“Let’s get up and move around for a moment, I think it’s because we’ve been sitting on the floor the whole time.”

“Huh…”

“Come on, help me up!”

“No, I don’t want to, I- ahhh! What was that for?”

“I told you to help me up.”

“And I said that I don’t want to!”

Vincent hit his arm again, but then he leaned back and rested his head against the wall.

“We have to find a way to stay warm. As soon as possible.”

“What do you mean? Wait- he is decreasing the temperature in here, isn’t he? He- he can do that, right? He’ll let us freeze to death!”

“No!” Vincent interrupted him vigorously; then, way softer, he added: “I don’t think he’d do that.”

“But he could?!”

“Well, technically…”

“Oh my fucking God!”

Overcome by despair, Jonah smashed his fist against the wall, only to cry out in pain; for a second he had forgotten that his wrist had been shattered only a few days ago.

“Stupid boy..,” Vincent whispered and groped for the other man’s hand in the darkness.

He could feel the blood seeping through the bandages and even though he was somehow grateful that Domenic had patched them up after smashing Jonah’s wrist and driving a nail through both their hands, he knew him well enough to realize that this didn’t mean anything. He might still kill them. In a way, Domenic was like a cat that enjoyed playing with its prey until it finally decided to devour it.

“We’re going to die here, aren’t we?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Is there anything we can do to get out?”

“No.”

“But-”

“He’ll come back sooner or later. We’ll just have to stay alive until he does.”

“Oh, is that all we have to do? Stay alive until he’ll get us out of here and subjects us to even more horrible things?” Jonah screeched, panicking now.

“Yes, it is. And we can do that as long as we work together. It’s the only chance we have. Now come on, get over here.”

“What do you want from me?”

“We have to keep each other warm.”

“Not like that.”

“Do you prefer freezing to death?”

“I’m seriously considering it right now.”

“Don’t be such a fool.”

He felt a hand on his sleeve and tried to move away, but the hand was holding him back.

“Let me go!” he hissed, trying to break free, lashing out at Vincent and hurting his hand even more in the process.

“Stop that, just this once - stop it and come over!”

“I don’t want to get near you! It’s all your fault! If you hadn’t kidnapped me-”

“Jonah, shut up, will you? It doesn’t matter now, I’m just trying to get us out of here!”

“You’re the one who got us into this situation in the first place! It’s your fucking house and your fucking friend, why don’t you know how to get out of this fucking cell?”

“Stop swearing!”

“I fucking won’t!!!”

He drew back and curled up in one of the corners and glared at the older man, even though he could barely see him in the darkness.

“You’re going to die if you stay there,” Vincent grunted, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“Good. Can’t wait to finally be through with all of this.”

“Stop saying that, we’ll get out of here. Alive.”

The young man only snorted and leaned his head against the wall. He didn’t care anymore.

~*~

“Jonah.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know. But you have to stay awake.”

He turned his face away when he felt an arm around his shoulders, but he was too weak to move, even when he felt the ice cold skin of his captor touch his cheek, the chapped lips too close to his own.

“Stay with me, Jonah…”

So cold. So tired….

Breathing a small sigh, he closed his eyes.

~*~

taglist: @dannys-creative-corner @faewhump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @starnight-whump @lave-whump @sophierose002 @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @myst-in-the-mirror @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @tears-and-lilies @puffball-lover554 @jadeocean46910 @goldenhornets @ocean-blue-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @lost-writer-on-the-loose - ask to be tagged or untagged

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a-crumb-of-whump · 7 months

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ANB Drabble: Starved

Masterlist

Content: Starvation, captivity, pet whump, vampire whumpee, begging, creepy/intimate whumper, non-con touching (non-sexual).

I really wanted to hurt carlos a bit, so have this. it takes place early on in Carlos' life, when he's still not used to constant starvation and finds it harder to cope with:)

Three weeks without food should have been nothing to Carlos by now. After several instances in which he’d been deprived of blood for years before getting the privilege of sating his hunger again, he thought three weeks would be nothing.

But as it stood right now, he was already close to breaking. It was torture. It was beyond humiliating. He couldn’t even recall the amount of times he’d been belittled for drooling when the smell got too close to him or crying when his master cruelly decided to extend the length of time in which he would go unfed at the last minute.

And without a doubt, the evenings were the worst. They were when his master would invite him into his bed just so he could wrap him up in his arms and force him to endure the constant smell of fresh blood pumping beneath his skin. It caused his stomach to ache and his mind to obsess until the thought of feeding was the only thing keeping him from passing out from exhaustion.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a proper sleep since this nightly routine began.

“Feeling hungry yet?” Master would tease as soon as he felt the vampire attempting to subtly pull away from him. Large fingers would slip into his hair, gripping onto it so hard that Carlos couldn’t help but let out a pained noise, before dragging his head in close again. So close that his nose was nuzzled against the human’s collar, forced to take in the sweet smell with every breath he took in.

So close, and yet so damn far.

“It hurts,” he practically whined, his voice muffled against his master’s neck. As if to demonstrate just how much, his stomach growled a moment later, loud and desperate. “I’m begging you, sir. Please. I’m in so much pain.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as soon as the human yanked his entire body closer to him. Despite being taller, he was no match for his master. Not without food. Not with his body in such a state. All he could do was allow it to happen, even his head feeling too heavy to lift on occasions.

“Shh, I promise it’s just a few more days,” he gently encouraged, though they both knew it was an empty promise. “At the very least, this will make you appreciate what I give you just that bit more.”

An anguished, pained sob squeezed its way out in response. His entire body trembled, fingers weakly clinging to his master’s shirt despite how much he wanted to get away from the overwhelming smell. He was forced to use so much willpower just to avoid sinking his teeth into the flesh on his shoulder. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it. If he were anybody else, he’d have fed from him as he slept long ago.

But he wasn’t. He was Carlos Emrick, a vampire who had never harmed a being superior to him and would never attempt to. So, he sat there and cried until his throat grew hoarse, long after his master had fallen asleep and left him to suffer in silence.

@choppedflowermuffinchild @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @emcscared-whumps @espresso-depresso-system @inkkswhumpandstuff @pigeonwhumps @pumpkin-spice-whump @roblingoblin285 @sacredwrath @some-thrilling-heroics @stabby-nunchucks @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @trans-writes @whump-blog @whumpsday @whumpshaped @paniatheweirdone @whumpycries @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thekittyburger @whumpdreamz

#whump #whump stuff #whump things #whump thoughts #whump tropes #whump scenarios #whumpee #vampire whumpee #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #whumper #vampire whump

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demondamage · 1 year

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MediwhumpMay Day 7 - First night in the Hospital

I am once again not feeling comics, so have a drawing and writing instead.

CW Restraints, intimate-ish whumper

General art tag list: @whump-queen@whumpsday@whumpinthepot@kixngiggles

@mediwhumpmay

"I hope you understand the necessity of these." Kotarou sighed gesturing to the extensive restraint system holding Aziphem into place. "With time hopefully we can replace them with... less invasive measures.

As unmoving as those black eyes were, Aziphem's third eye betrayed him, following every move Kotarou made as he pulled up a rolling chair and clip board. That would be dangerous in the wild, but Kotarou had caged enough demons to know their limits.

"You might not remember me, they had your body temp pretty low last time I saw you. I don't think you were conscious." He tried a comforting smile. "I go by Kotorou, and I've been here for... well close to 12 hundred years by now if my math is right. So, you're in well experienced hands. You could consider me.. a doctor of sorts."

Unwavering silence responded, that single vertical eye affixed to him. A little unnerved, Kotarou flipped through the pages on his clipboard.

"It uh, seems last you heard you were going to be executed. Go in to freeze and never wake up. So, this must be a little bit of a... shock. But you might be worth so much more to us, and as such I was able to indefinitely stall the execution. As long as you are... scientifically useful you will be allowed to remain alive. Of course... I do have higher hopes than just that. The unique circumstances surrounding your turning make you a prime candidate for rehabilitation. You could be a first for history."

Pulling his chair a hint closer, the angel reached out to brush a strand of hair from the demon's face. "You could be human again. Or at least close enough to live a somewhat normal life. Isn't that exciting?"

Finally reacting, the demon snarled and jerked forwards, yet failed to faze the angel. Cornered animals may be unpredictable, but the length of chain never wavered. He smoothed the hair to the side, feeling the grease lingering on his fingers.

"You need a shower. And a change of attitude." He chuckled, standing up. "If you think that these outbursts will change my mind, you don't know what's coming little demon. But don't worry, I won't give up on you so easily."

#whump #whump art #mediwhumpmay #mediwhumpmay2023 #demon whumpee #angel carewhumper #carewhumper #intimate ish whumper #demondamageart #whumplr #Aziphem #Kotarou

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dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night · 6 months

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Eden part twenty-two

TW: stockholm syndrome, religion, referenced murder, referenced kidnapping, pet whumpee, creep/intimate whumper

Note: After nearly abandoning this story multiple times, I've finally finished it. I hope you all have enjoyed yourself reading this far.

The drive home was a long one. Try as he might, Ezra couldn't convince himself to feel anything but joyful.

Reasonable emotions, befitting of a real person, refused to be sown in the garden of his heart. He was too far gone for that.

The music playing from Christopher's car radio was much the same that played in their house, and Ezra recognized it as Tchaikovsky. Funny, how a month ago he wouldn't have known Bach from Mozart.

"I love you," Christopher said, as though Ezra could possibly forget.

"I love you too." Ezra stared at the fields rushing past the passenger side window, blurs of winter tinted whites and grays. "Thank you for bringing me home."

"I wouldn't have dreamed of leaving you."

Christopher drove like any man who learned in the eighties, with one hand over the steering wheel and the other relaxed as his side. Ezra had learned a far different position, requiring both hands on the wheel, but took advantage of their difference in education to hold Christopher's hand.

"I may have told my roommates your name," Ezra admitted. "That was so fucking stupid of me. They don't know where you live though. And neither of them have the brain cells to file a missing person case."

"I know half the sheriff's department personally," Christopher assured him. "They won't suspect me. And even if they find you, I have no doubt that you'll vouch for my innocence. It isn't a concern."

"Thank God." Of course Christopher knew how to handle things. There wasn't any need for Ezra to worry. "I couldn't live with myself if I got you in trouble for the… um, stalking and kidnapping and murder."

Christopher laughed, much quieter than Ezra, who broke into mild hysterics. What a life. What a life.

After he had calmed himself, Ezra texted his friends goodbye. It was a hard thing to write, but he couldn't leave them hanging again. At the end of his message, he thanked them for all the good times they had together, and promised to stay safe.

Pressing send was far more difficult than he had anticipated. But finally it was over. He threw his phone out the window so it couldn't be tracked, hoping it didn't pollute anything too much.

Ezra smiled at Christopher, wishing for a shorter drive home. He wanted nothing more in the world to cuddle in bed, and never have to get up again. Holding hands during a car ride wasn't nearly enough.

"I missed your smile," Christopher said. "You're so… handsome."

This was the first time anyone had bothered saying such a thing to Ezra, and it took him a moment to process his joy before responding.

"Is that all you missed?" he teased. "And here I thought I was good company."

"Of course not. I got so horribly lonely without you. I'm afraid adopting a cat wasn't a very good substitute for human company."

"You got a cat?"

Ezra knew better than to be jealous, but he wasn't pleased that Christopher had tried to replace him. Sure, it had been his choice to run away in the first place. But that didn't mean that Christopher just got to move on with his life. No. Absolutely not.

"Her name is Gale. I found her catching mice in my garden. She's a bit feral, but a sweet little thing."

"My grandparents used to have cats. It's a Muslim thing, I think. Because they're such clean animals. They were always fostering half a dozen cats at a time and encouraging the people at our local mosque to adopt them. Man, I haven't thought about that in years."

"My family had a lot of animals growing up. Farm animals, mostly. Chickens, hogs, turkeys, sheep, honey bees, all the usual suspects. But a lot of the barn cats and herding dogs were quite friendly."

"I didn't know you grew up on a farm. That sounds really nice. My family always lived in small towns."

"We moved around a lot. I spent my younger years in Moscow, Idaho, among other towns, and finally settled down during my teenage and young adult years on farmland my parents bought. I think my younger siblings were harder to herd than our cats and roosters."

Ezra laughed softly to himself. How, in all their weeks of knowing each other, had he never asked Christopher about his childhood?

The numerous gaps in his knowledge of Christopher's life had never bothered him before this moment. But now he wanted to know everything.

"When did we get so casual?" Ezra asked. "This feels so… different."

"I prefer it." Christopher slowed his car to allow a white tail deer to dart across the road without being hit. "You mean a lot to me. I want you to be happy."

Ezra blinked a few stray tears from his eyes. "You're the only one. I guess you know that, but it's still hard. I wish I had known you for years, instead of just this winter. My life would have gone so much better."

Christopher squeezed Ezra's hand, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. "You're worth everything I could ever give you. I just wish I knew what would make you happy."

"You make me happy. I've never felt better than when I'm with you. I never knew what I wanted from life. Just surviving was nearly impossible. Now I can actually want things. Like warm meals and a cozy bed and lavender tea. Thank you, for everything."

Christopher pulled into his driveway and parked his car. The moment they stepped out of the car, Ezra fell into Christopher's arms, just as he had done so many times before.

It was a welcoming sensation, a sense of security buried within the lack of freedom. Guilt from running away finally melted off Ezra's soul, leaving him to enjoy his life.

When they walked inside, a silver tabby darted up to rub against Christopher's legs. He scratched her behind the ears and left his shoes by the door. Ezra followed his example in both actions.

"Hello Gale," Ezra said softly. "You're a cute little thing, aren't you?"

"I'll start on lunch," Christopher said. "Get settled down."

Ezra wandered through their home, leaving Christopher and Gale alone in the kitchen. Everything was so familiar, the oil paintings hanging on the walls and soft carpet under his feet exactly how he remembered.

But it felt so wrong, seeing the places Jay used to hang around, and knowing he would never see them again. They had sat on the sofa, trusting him to put his arm around their shoulder even after all that torture. It was enough to bring him to tears.

Finally, after all these days of denial and trauma dumping to his roommates, he could process what had happened. Jay was in a better place now. They had to be. Even if Heaven wasn't real, something had to be.

Lunch with Christopher was nice, despite Ezra's melancholy. Even if Jay couldn't have a happily ever after in life, he still could. And he knew they would have been happy for him, in the end.

He finished most of his salad, and let Gale lick his plate clean. Christopher clicked his tongue, but held back on chastising him.

"I want to read Paradiso now," Ezra said. "I know that would be skipping Purgatorio, but I'm in the mood for a tour of Heaven."

"Alright. We can always take a tour of purgatory later. Whatever makes you happy."

Christopher found a leather bound copy of Dante's Paradiso on his bookshelf and sat down beside Ezra on the sofa. His living room smelled more strongly of lavender than the rest of his home, an ornate oil diffuser sitting on the coffee table.

Ezra leaned against Christopher as he started reading. Gale tried to jump on the open book for attention, but settled down on Ezra's lap when Christopher nudged her off.

"The glory of Him, who moves all things, penetrates the universe, and glows in one region more, in another less," Christopher read. "I have been in that Heaven that knows His light most, and have seen things, which whoever descends from there has neither power, nor knowledge, to relate: because as our intellect draws near to its desire, it reaches such depths that memory cannot go back along the track."

Ezra closed his eyes, grounding himself in reality with the aid of fantasy. He had thought, during their reading so long ago, that Hell must smell of lavender. But now he knew that Heaven was much the same.

Unlike Dante in this fictional account of his travels, Ezra would never have to return to earth. He would stay here. In Hell. In Heaven. In Purgatory. Guided not by an ancient poet, but by a kind man who wanted nothing more than to keep him safe.

Blissful eternity had reached them both far before their death. If only Colt and Jay had been half as lucky.

Taglist: @hugh-lauries-bald-spot @thedarkmongoose @whumpsday @whump-by-robin @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @annablogsposts @whumpshaped @seetheothersideofparadise @knittedeyebrowsandcardigans @whatwasmyprevioususername @boonasaurusrex @suspicious-whumping-egg @heavenlyeden @melancholy-in-the-morning @snakebites-and-ink @suck-my-clit-loser @i-eat-worlds @scp-1296 @chiswhumpcorner @skittles-the-whumpee @whumpkinz @dokidokisadness @enbygesserit @canislycaon24 @be-gay-do-crime-ahaha @a-crumb-of-whump @pixelated-whump @whumpytine

#Abraham original: Hot off the press #Whump #Eden #Pet whump #Whump writing #Whump series #Stockholm Syndrome whump #Final chapter #Pet whumpee #Creepy/intimate whumper #Recapture

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fallenwhumpee · 6 months

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A dear mutual showed me • this • a while ago, so here I go. I hope you like it ( sorry for taking this long and writing short)

"Just do as they say."

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Forced to hurt, electrocution, superpower whump, intimate whumper, drugging.

Leader looked up, struggling to focus, but Teammate knew they understood what this was about partly.

Teammate gulped.

"Just do as they say," Leader's voice came, weak. Whumper slapped them to shut them up. Leader swayed, and Whumper's hold on their collar was the only thing keeping them up.

They wouldn't be in this situation if Teammate was more careful. If Teammate had been better. Their had no control over their power, despite Leader trying to help them.

They would either fry Leader or just cause a light itch.

If Leader had been conscious enough, they could break free. Leader's telekinesis could get them out. There was no way to block it if not for the drugs kept them apart from reality.

Or think of a way out.

Teammate couldn't do that. They couldn't even stay calm, couldn't assure Leader that it was going yo be okay. Couldn't do even a bit of what Leader had done in the last few hours.

"What are you staring at? Do it, or I will decide on another experiment. One I will enjoy even more~" Whumper chirped.

Teammate had a feeling they would do it anyway.

"Are you waiting for me to stop their heart?! Do it already. I will leave you alone for the day. Isn't that what you want?"

Leader's eyes met Teammate's, a silent plea for trust and understanding. Teammate knew that Leader believed in them, even when they couldn't believe in themselves.

With a shaky breath, Teammate desperately focused on their own powers. A swirling vortex of electricity began to crackle around their fingers, the raw energy of their abilities sizzling in the air. They had to time this just right to ensure that Leader's heart would stop temporarily, but not permanently.

They had never thought they would think something like that.

Teammate sent a controlled surge of electricity towards Leader. The jolt hit Leader's chest, and for an agonizing second, everything seemed to stand still. Leader's eyes widened in pain, and their body went limp in Whumper's grasp.

Teammate's heart was in their throat, but they couldn't let fear paralyze them. They forced their powers to work once more, sending another surge into Leader's body. This time, it was to restart the heart that had briefly stopped.

Leader gasped for breath as their heart jolted back to life. Teammate's hands shook as they gasped with the horror of what they had just done.

Whumper, seemingly satisfied with the cruel experiment, stepped back, dropping Leader.

Leader breathed as they rose on their arms, trembling. Teammate rushed over them, helping them to lean back to the wall. Leader patted their shoulder before letting their head fall to Teammate's shoulder.

Their rescue was late but fast. Despite the chaos and the frantic voices of the others, their only focus being Leader. After everything, Leader told over and over again that it wasn't Teammate's fault, but Teammate just couldn't not notice the way Leader's writing got worse. The way Leader hid their hands every once in a while, the way they dressed thick even if it was warm, the way they winced sometimes with no reason.

And when Teammate came for a confrontation, with their heart bleeding to be told it was all their fault and broke into tears as they yelled, Leader held them with the kindness they didn't deserve, striking their hair with a trembling hand and asking for Teammate's forgiveness for forcing Teammate to do such thing with a soft whisper.

#whump #whump writing #electrocution #superpower whump #intimate whumper #tw drugging #leader whumpee #leader whump #well im in mood for fluff now and avoiding studying with writing #...if one could call this fluff

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 months

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It Has to Be

For @amonthofwhump 12 Days of Whumpmas, Day 5: Ebenezer Scrooge |Power Outage | Time Loop | Overworked Whumpee | Comfort: Snuggling by the Fire

CW: Intimate whumper, past drugging and noncon, references to captivity and scars

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

As always, Jax (and the mentioned Alfie) belong to @comfy-whumpee and are used with their input and permission.

Finley White is getting so tired of looking at Savvie Marcoset’s face. At least during the prepping stages, it’s mostly through videos and photographs. They can turn it off, turn away, take a break.

But they’re still tired of seeing it.

Not half so tired, they muse, as their client must be.

“Miss Savvie Marcoset, is it really you?! How are you?!”

“It’s Mrs. Savvie Marcoset,” She corrects, prim and proper. Savvie has her hands folded in her lap, her hair pulled back with a clip. The shadows under her eyes are the only sign that she is, at the time this was recorded, someone frantically searching for her missing captive. In a long off the shoulder black sweater and leggings, she seems relaxed and happy. She smiles, gentle and sweet. It looks utterly sincere. “I am married, you know.”

She holds up a hand and waggles her fingers, showing off the brilliance of her diamond ring.

The person wearing the camera device gasps with audible delight. “Did you really finally get him to put a ring on it? Gosh, Sav, I thought he would never propose!”

“I know that voice,” Finley White's client says, leaning forward. He frowns, his knee bouncing beneath the table. “I remember she was a twat.”

The corner of Finley’s mouth twitches, a smile they can't quite suppress. “Virginia Marshall, goes by Jennie. Went to college with Savannah Marcoset. The Marshalls were longtime friends with the Marcosets, close enough to be trusted. Jennie was facing some low-level charges of her own and agreed to help build this case as part of a plea deal.”

“Twat and coward.” He snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“Well, technically I was the one who got down on one knee,” Savvie says. There’s something strange in her eyes, like always - she looks with too much intensity. She’s hiding it well here, acting with the best of them, but Finley’s been staring at her face for so long that they can see right through it even so.

Finley saw Savvie Marcoset’s true talents on the stand, the first time. They had watched with surprised dismay as she charmed the jury, seeing how she could channel her intensity and terrifying focus into overwhelming charisma before an audience.

“Oh, that’s so modern,” The woman wearing the hidden camera gushes, cooing over the ring. “Did you write your own vows, too?”

Savvie laughs, abashed. “No, no. Traditional. I always wanted a traditional wedding. So did he, really, he's an old-fashioned kind of guy. You should have seen him blush during 'love, honor, and obey.'"

The noise Finley's client makes in reaction to that statement is indescribable.

“Traditional vows... makes sense. You’ve always been the romantic type. Where is that lucky duck today, anyway? The hubby? He isn't with you?”

Savvie's smile doesn't even flicker. “He’s at home with our babies. He loves being a stay-at-home dad, you know? It’s all he ever wanted to be.”

In reality, at the moment this video was recorded, the escaped Jax Gallagher was in his father's apartment, likely pretending to sleep, but at least not sleeping next to her. His children would have been nearby, safe from Savvie's cruelty for the first time.

You’d never know anyone was gone. She's as good an actress as she is at playing music, when she wants to be. And she is clearly pretending that absolutely nothing is wrong.

“Oh, well, bring him to my house sometime, yeah? Let me get a look at him and those little ones.”

“He’s… very private,” Savvie says, low and soft. She gives a little roll of her eyes. “Because of me being, you know, known, and he isn't from a famous family or anything… we like to keep his name out of things. His family is so toxic, plus you know how gossipy the press is about him…”

“Him? Him who?” The informant plays dumb.

“You know… My ex..."

“Oh, your ex Bastian Brighthall?”

“Ha! No, no. I just mean… you know. Since… prison. Which, like, can no one become rehabilitated in this country? Let me live! I’m a law-abiding citizen now, and, and a wife and mother! You have no idea what it's like just trying to raise babies these days..."

She’s so deeply offended. The informant pretends to be offended, too, and lets Savvie change the subject, turn it around to how hard it is to be a woman just trying to live out her happily ever after. It’s masterful, how well she can lead someone along and away from what she doesn’t want to share.

Finley White’s eyelid twitches where they sit at a table, watching this conversation unfold on a television bolted to the wall on the opposite side of the room. Beside them, their client has lapsed back into stony silence, his jaw set, arms crossed. He doesn't look at Savannah Marcoset’s sweet and smiling face, not directly.

He’s tense enough that Finley worries, more than a little, that one of his tendons will simply snap from the stress. He knows - he knew long before Finley said it out loud - what a farce this is, how utterly unnecessary. He knows better than anyone that Ms. Marcoset could have pleaded guilty and saved them all this expense and trouble. The evidence is thoroughly stacked against her. She has no way out, but it doesn’t stop her from throwing out every delay tactic she has.

Jax had been the first one to vocalize the point of Savannah’s strange game, during their meeting with him and his father after the arrest. She’ll drag it out, make it take as long as possible, he’d predicted, sitting in his father's cozy living room in his apartment in England. Finley had flown to him, once again - they had sworn to him once, after the first trial’s conclusion, that they wouldn’t ask him to fly back to America unless they had to.

He’d still been visibly recovering, a man made of shadows who sat with his little girl and her enormous curly hair clinging in wide-eyed silence to him. He’d held onto her just as tightly, as if even Finley might simply take her away if he let go for even a second. She’ll make it fucking miserable for everyone, just to get at me. She always fucking does.

Language, Jax’s father had admonished in a distant and fond way. That's one for the chocolate jar. Or two, maybe.

Jax’s child, who was so perfectly silent Finley kept forgetting she was there, had spoken for the first time. I don't mind, Daddy, she had said. She was so soft Finley barely made out the words. I know that’s grown up words. You don't have to do the jar. You can get chocolates.

Both men had smiled, then - one with open affection for his grandchild, one with a faint shift of lips that vanished as soon as Finley took it in.

Sorry, kiddo, Jax had murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. More for you, then, yeah? Finley had wondered, then, what it must feel like to love a child - to love someone that much - who only existed because of this kind of assault?

Jax had been angrier, or at least more obviously so, the first time they worked with him. After the first escape. During the first trial. The anger that had still flared up then was now a smoking skeletal forest, where you could feel heat against your palm when you laid it against the trunk of a tree, but not even embers were left to glow.

Are the little girl and the baby boy the first green things to grow afterward? Or just… bones, blackened stones weighing him down?

Shit, they need a drink. All their poetry electives from their own college days come out in florid metaphors on days like this one.

More than a drink, they need about sixteen hours of sleep. Not that Jax doesn't need both things more than they do, going through all this again, and again… they’d put it off as long as they could, but finally they’d had to ask him to fly here one more time.

This will be the last time. Finley White will stake their career on Savannah Marcoset never seeing daylight as a free woman again, or they’ll quit and take up needlepoint or whatever it is lawyers who drop the ball that badly do.

They failed him, once, in their own mind. That it could happen to him again feels like their fault, their responsibility, somehow.

Jax had been angrier, before, but less determined than he is now. He had found it much harder, then, not to look at Savvie Marcoset. As if he couldn't break himself of having all his thoughts centered on keeping her from punishing him. The way he had seemed frightened when they took her away, after the verdict, had been painful to watch.

Now he simply doesn't look at her on the screen at all.

Finley picks up the remote, scratching a fingernail over its smooth plastic surface.

Would it have been better, if they had managed to make it so she never walked free? It would have meant no second time held prisoner and therefore no children. Obviously it would have been better. Would he have chosen it, though, if he knew… chosen not to ever meet the quiet little girl and boisterous baby boy… maybe he would. Probably he would.

They would never ask.

In the present, Finley keeps their thoughts to themself. They lean forward, briefly pausing the video. “There’s a few minutes of going back and forth on this, Ms. Marcoset describing a… well, a very fanciful personal idea of the alleged wedding and honeymoon… I’m going to fast forward past it.”

“Thank fuck,” Jax mutters, scratching at the back of his head. His fingers twitch, involuntary, and he drops his hand quickly.

He didn't tremble like that the first time, either. That’s a lasting effect of the shock collar he’d been wearing when he turned up on his father's doorstep after running away with the kids. He hides the scars beneath scarves and Finley pretends they don't see them even when they do.

Those scars feel like visible evidence: Finley White fucked up, and here’s living proof. They’d gotten the conviction, decent prison time, parole within a limited area after release… and it hadn't been enough.

They’ve gone over and over the case, when they can't sleep or think about anything else. They had done a good job. They and a single paralegal, alone, had taken on the Marcoset team of defense lawyers and wiped the floor with them.

Jax seemed to think they had done a good job. Good enough that when he ran this time, he’d called them as soon as he was ready, anyway. He could have gotten a different lawyer, but he had called them, and trusted them, to put her away again.

They just have to make sure it sticks this time. For life, bar the door, throw away the goddamn key.

It was another thing Jax said first, although not in so many words - that if she ever left prison again, Jax almost certainly wouldn't survive it. He’d been hunched over a beer, that first in-person meeting at his father's place. Finley was still jet-lagged from getting on the first flight out, and nearly asleep on the sofa. He hadn't brought it up until the kids and his father were safely asleep.

If she gets out again, or… comes h-here… that's it. He hadn't looked up at them, just stared down at his beer. The kids vanish first, probably. Dead or disappeared. Whatever she thinks will fuck me up worse. Actually, probably disappeared and then dead later once she thinks-... once she’s made me sorry. Then me, after them.

Then you? Last?

Yeah. Disappeared. Or dead. Or both. But she’ll go after them first. She'll-... He drank half the beer in three long swallows, wiped a hand over his face, and then exhaled and looked over at them. She can't hurt my kids. Okay? She can't.

Finley had nodded, and lifted their own beer in a kind of grim salute. She won't. We nail her to the wall this time, Jax. I promise.

Fuck yeah. His expression stayed flat, but he clinked his beer glass against theirs and that was that, he was Finley White's once and future client one more time.

Even though the case is open and shut, they’re throwing everything they’ve got at this, leaving nothing on the table. Leaving nothing to chance or luck. They have a promise to keep.

“Our informant wore this camera to get an idea of what Mrs. Marcoset was thinking, how she was playing your disappearance from her life. It was recorded before she was arrested,” Finley explains. On the screen, Savvie's rushed dramatics are silent, her hands moving in gestures that constantly flash the ring. Her smile is absolutely radiant. She has always been a beautiful woman, layered over the cruelty beneath. “We probably won't need this at court-”

“Then why are we watching it?” He asks abruptly. Not angry or hostile, just wanting to get it all over with.

They know the feeling.

“Because I thought you might want to see this part,” They say, and hit play, the video shifting back into regular speed, the casual buzz and clink of the restaurant around them kicking back in.

“-three years old,” Savvie is saying. She is every inch the proud and loving mother, pulling out her phone and then turning it around to show the informant. “Born in… in May, named after my grandmother. Isn't she beautiful? Doesn't she look just like me?”

“This was after I left?” Jax frowns at the photo Savvie has pulled up - of Jax holding his daughter back when she was a baby who already had too much hair and eyes too big for her face. Jax, his gaunt frame dressed in slightly oversized designer clothes to hide bruises and his unreliable access to food, is looking at the camera with a false and slightly hazy-seeming smile.

“Yes,” Finley answers, nodding. “This conversation would be maybe… six months after that.”

Jax’s eyes narrow. “That photo’s of Izzy as a baby, for one thing. For another… her birthday isn't in fucking May. Jesus. I didn't know the day, she never would tell me, but I knew what season. Also, Iz was four when we got back home, and she would have turned five by… whenever this is. We got her a fucking cake, my dad and I, when she turned five."

“You are absolutely certain that-”

“Yes,” He answers them, voice flat and cold as paper on stone.

“You may have to testify about that, Jax. Good evidence of a lack of connection to Isabeh-”

“Izzy,” He corrects automatically.

“Right. Sorry. I’ve been elbow-deep in legal docs all day, everything is full legal names. This video might not be worth much during the criminal trial, but for the civil case regarding the children’s living arrangements-”

“Yeah, fine, I’ll testify. Yeah.” He snorts. “Also, I'm fucking drugged in that photo she flashed around. If that matters.”

“You are?” That's a surprise to them. They turn to rewind the video back to when the photo is held up, pausing it, scanning it over again. The slight smile, the way he gripped tight to the girl… almost white-knuckled…

“Yeah. High as hell and terrified I'll drop her. Scared that that's her game this time. Get me to let Iz slip through my arms and then get goddamn mad at me for not being careful enough. I got her to stop putting shit in my drink when the kids were awake eventually, but she was still doing it, then.”

He isn't casual with how he drops these pieces of abject horror into conversation - no, Jax wields this information like a riddle, or a test. How you respond is to pass or to fail, and Finley knows him well enough by now to be aware that very few people come back from failure.

So they nod, and wait to see if he plans to offer anything more.

He looks over at them, then back at the photo frozen in time on the screen. “Had to tell her I liked that shit, just… you know. After the kids went down to sleep.” He meets Finley’s gaze head on, staring them down.

But he knows them well enough that he knows he never has to spell any of it out, not anymore.

So they nod again. “And it worked?”

“Yeah. Mostly.” He looks away. Finley never knows for sure if they’ve passed the test, not until he keeps talking. “I could put her off with asking for it to happen later. Savvie forgets shit. Half the time by the time she went to sleep, she didn't remember she even brought it up.”

Half the time.

Finley looks back at the video, and hits the play button. Savvie is back to happily chattering about her perfect husband and perfect children, sitting in a café months after the bruised, battered, scarred man and children in question had escaped her grasping fingers and shock collars and cruelty, but before there was enough to bring her in.

She had to have known they were coming for her, by this point. And yet she pretended everything was completely fine, that nothing had happened. She was either so sure her family would throw enough weight around to fix it for her in the end, or…

“She’s completely out of her mind,” Finley whispers. Not that they hadn't said it before. But this… this is different. “She just. Can't deal with it, and so she just doesn't even acknowledge the problem exists. Jax-”

“Yeah, I know how she is. Lucky you, you didn't get that shit up close and personal like I did. This isn't even the worst of her bullshit.”

“Looking at her, you’d never know it.” Finley sits back, not allowing themself to slump. If they can pull this off, there's a four hundred dollar bottle of stupidly priced bourbon they’re going to buy to celebrate. “Look at her. No sign whatsoever of anything but happily ever after. You ran. It’s been months since she last saw you or your children… and she’s calm as can be. She doesn't even know where you are."

“She probably knew where I was.” Jax shrugs, outwardly unbothered. “I mean, she’s a stupid shitsnob, but she knows I'd go to my dad. She knew where I was gonna go if I got away from her.”

“She didn't go for you, though, didn't try to recapture you. At the time, if she knew…”

Jax gives them the stare again. “I know exactly what she did. She freaked out when we were gone, called her bastard shitstain uncle for help. He had people hunting me, until we got to the border. We barely managed to keep out of sight of them. We had to cross the border… we had to.”

“Right, because in the UK… you’re, uh-” They hesitate.

Jax prickles when they hesitate. His eyes narrow, and Finley straightens their posture, refusing to wilt before that stare. “You can say it,” He says, voice flat. “Fucking famous for being kidnapped, right? There were programmes about that shit. Fucking journalists. And I bet once we made it over the border, dear Uncle Isaac told her he wasn't going to risk it anymore, to pack her shit and go home, act normal. Be seen so she could act like she never left. See if they could wait me out.”

Sometimes they forget how watchful Jax is, how well he understands not just Savannah Marcoset herself but the parade of Marcoset family members who treated him like Savvie's toy or worse. He didn't understand it all that well the first time.

Another thing he only has to know because they couldn't keep him safe.

“Right. But that's practical... from a criminal perspective. That's not… this.” They look over at the screen again, frozen once more on Savvie's cheerful, winning smile.

“No.” Jax’s knee is bouncing again. There has always been a hum of energy in him, but even that is held more inside him now. Because they hadn't hammered their case hard enough.

It just hadn't been enough.

It has to be enough this time.

“Jax… we have to show them that Savannah Marcoset. Not the one in this video, but the one who incapacitated you to make it easier for her to harm or control you. She is going to want them to see the act, try to get parole on the table, try to get at least limited access to the children-”

“Which she won't fucking get.” For just a second, the layer of self-protective hostility drops. It’s not panic, not visibly, but it’s close. “I told you, first thing I fucking said, she can't get at my kids. The whole reason I'm fucking doing this is to keep them safe. She can't get her hands on my fucking kids.”

“No,” They say, voice firm, and meet his eyes. He scoots slightly back, arms crossed again, staring at them fixedly with his chin tipped slightly down. They watch him right back. “She won't. We talked about it, I remember. No access, full stop. No presents, no letters, she gets no photos and no updates. Absolutely nothing. Complete termination of parental rights. Complete. No exceptions."

“And prison for-fucking-life, and no parole.”

“No chance. It’s going to be rough, Jax, I won't lie to you. She’s going to put on a show, and we are going to need to systematically dismantle it. Take away all her charm and let them see who you saw, day in and day out.”

He nods, jaw set. Stubborn and determined, and maybe the fire still burns down in there somewhere. His smile is so genuine they nearly wonder if it's real. “Good. Yeah. Uh, how, though?”

They look back over at Savvie, the face filling the screen. Savvie will be magnetic, just like the first time. Not so young, now, not able to play the innocent girl led astray. But she'll play all the greatest hits of sincerity, earnestness, contrition… Jax, by contrast, is all rough edges and bristling quiet. He won't charm anyone so readily. But his story will be what actually happened.

They just need to prove it.

“I had a couple more recordings for us to look at today,” They say, thinking, mind spinning. “But they aren’t urgent. Let’s break early, you head back to see what your little ones are up to, and I'll start drafting an outline of what we prove and how we prove it. I have some ideas. We’ll reconvene here tomorrow at 8 am.”

“Sounds good, yeah.” Jax shifts, restless, ready to get out of the room with Savvie’s face still on the wall.

“Tomorrow we’re going to talk about some… difficult stuff, Jax. Make sure you take it easy tonight.”

He looks at them, then just turns away, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Right. Yeah. Stuff about the kids, or the rape?”

It’s a test again.

God, how Finley hopes they never fail this man, not this time. Not when they couldn't keep him as safe as he deserved to be.

“Just the outline,” They say, casual as can be. “But.. both. All of it. No details yet. But later-”

“Yeah. I’ll be back at 8. Ish.” He leaves before they can say another word, and they sit back, staring after him.

They have mountains of documents to finish sorting through, and a man carrying so much cruelty in his head that if he opens his mouth on the stand, a waterfall might come rushing out. He's covered in scars from Savvie's abuse, has two kids that are living evidence of assault. They have a traumatized little girl in therapy multiple times a week. They have Jax’s devotion to his son and daughter compared to Savvie not even knowing what time of year Izzy was born in.

They have so much.

It has to be enough.

34 notes · View notes

painsandconfusion · 1 year

Note

yoo can u write more yandere whumper? i love the way u write

dang, you guys liked that one huh? sure kids, here ya go

Fix You

[Part One Here]

(tw: forced feeding, yandere, stalking, kidnapping, manhandling, intimate whumper, burning, unhealthy fasting)

“I’m not eating until you do.”

Whumpee eyes Whumper warily, dull, silicone spoon resting heavy in their trembling hands. They let their eyes slide back down to the soup in front of them. Tomato. Grilled cheese next to it. Their favorite artisanal bread. Never before has the worlds simplest meal looked so fucking fancy.

“Not hungry,” they deadpan.

Whumper sighs, leaning back in their chair. “You haven’t eaten in over a day. You need sustenance.”

Whumpee’s eyes flick back up - harder now. “I said I’m not hungry - would you just back off??”

Whumper doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t move in the slightest. They just sit in still silence, same gentle eyes roaming over Whumpee. “I can’t do that, Whumpee.”

Whumpee’s jaw sets. They look away.

“Come on - I made your favorite.

“It’s not my favorite.”

“It is,” they posit gently. “You were just forced to choose a more refined answer to that question for so long. When you’re unhappy - this is what you want.”

Tears are burning at the backs of their eyes again as they shift their gaze further away - down and to the side. Hardwood floor. If their feet weren’t shackled down, they could make a break for it…

“Please, Whumpee. Do it for me?”

Their hand is scalding before they even register it moving. Soup splattering through the air and slopping onto the ground. Red stains the table and up their arm. “I SAID NO!”

Whumpee immediately snaps their jaw shut, melting back into their chair. Small. Regret washes through them, tailed loosely by cool, curling fear.

What Whumper might do for them lashing out. The scolding they’d get even from their parents for something like that - let alone a kidnapper.

But Whumper doesn’t flinch - barely even blinks. Even as the burnt orange splatters up their shirt. “..Whumpee, I-” Their eyes lock onto the soup on Whumpee’s hand. “Oh no- are you okay - is that burning you-?” before their sentence is finished, they’re already up and bounding across the kitchen. In moments, they’re kneeling at Whumpee’s side, not seeming to care about the soup that’s soaking into their jeans.

Whumpee rips their arm out of the way as Whumper reaches for it. “What are y- don’t - don’t TOUCH me-”

Whumper winces, shrinking a little. “I’m just trying to h-”

“WELL STOP HELPING.” Their voice cracks, the tears choking it down to nothing.

There’s a beat of silence, then Whumper rises smoothly. Something in their face hardens. “I’m not going to do that - I’ll never stop helping you.” They snatch Whumpee’s wrist, wrenching it toward them. They blot the cold towel over the light burn.

Whumpee bares their teeth, struggling in Whumper’s grip. “Ss-stop! Lemme go! Lemmego!”

Whumper’s jaw’s set as they scrub away the soup, gentleness starting to wear away with each pass of the towel. “Know what I think?” They step behind Whumpee’s chair, grabbing their other arm too.

Whumpee struggles against them, thrashing in the grip and against the metal around their ankles until it bruises deep against bone. “S-stop! Stop let GO-”

“I think,” Whumper continues, twisting both arms back behind the chair. “That you just aren’t used to this - you’re not used to someone actually caring.”

They wrist and writhe, but can’t break Whumper’s grip. “Wh-what are you talking about???”

The towel shreds in half.

“I think that everyone in your life is so shitty to you that you see something genuinely good as a threat - because that’s the mask they wear to hurt you.”

The towel starts wrapping around their wrists, biting in tight.

“Wh-nngh- stopthathurts-”

Whumper ignores them, tying rough, tight knots. “I think that you need a stronger hand to show you what’s right and wrong.” With one more tug of a knot, Whumpee’s stuck writhing against fabric alone. Whumper’s hands slither up over their shoulders, kneading in.

Lips at their ear have them twitching away, but there’s nowhere to go.

“So you’re going to eat. You’re going to be nice. You’re going to get to know me - and I’ll fix you.” Thumbs grind in - enough to drag a keeing whine from Whumpee’s throat. “Sound good, love?”

Whumpee squirms down, trying to escape the touch that follows them every inch. “Sst-top stop jus-justletme go-”

“No,” Whumper murmurs a kiss to the top of their head and pulls away. They don’t bother cleaning up the mess, they just get a different bowl from the cupboard and ladle a fresh few scoops into it. They prowl back to Whumpee, setting the steaming bowl neatly in front of them. “You need to eat.”

Whumpee glares at the soup, even as a tear trickles off their chin and splatters onto the mess of a table. “..n-no..”

Their scalp burns as Whumper’s fingers twist into it. Their shoulders strain against the sudden angle as their nose crunches against the bottom of the bowl.

Agony explodes around their eyes, fire licking up their cheeks and dripping down their neck. They sputter, thick, splattering air bubbles slopping through the soup as they thrash against Whumper’s hand - desperate to escape the burning.

“Drink.” Whumper grinds them further down against the ceramic. “You can breathe when it’s gone.”

Whumpee sucks in a desperate mouthful, shoving the fire down their throat out of reflex as much as anything - half of it comes sputtering back up the wrong tube. Curling, grinding fear works up their lungs, following the burn as the acid and blood and tears dance across their throat.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” There’s another hand in their hair. Soft, gentle fingers contrasting the rough grip of the other. Stroking softly. Dancing through their curls and massaging lightly at the scalp. “I’m gonna fix you.”

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @meowsikbox @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @michaeltalks @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @astralrunic @cursedscribbles @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

#forced feeding #kidnapping #manhandling #intimate whumper #burning #unhealthy fasting #continuation request #yandere #obsessive yandere #stalking #whump drabble #care whumper #bad caretaker

251 notes · View notes

whumpitisthen · 27 days

Note

I don't know if you take a request!

But, can you write about Whumpee with Stockholm Syndrome who went back to Whumper after finally escaped for a month?

I take requests yes but you must know it takes me four years to come up with a single draft for anything so be prepared to wait an indefinite amount of time!! I tried to keep it short and idk if ive succeeded!! Here you go!!

No Longer a Lie

Their goodbye was the same as a soldier’s going off to war. He may never return, and even if he does, he would return a different man. A sombre, yet loving valediction.

Her smile is watery and proud. The kind, thoughtful, caring old lady that found him that day and took him in believes that he is going home today. He had told her his parents have finally arranged everything ready for him to return. He had explained that they didn't expect him to suddenly show up in their life after so many years again, that they lived abroad and needed time to get his papers in order, that they cannot wait to see him again. She believes he is going to heal and find himself, and be safe under the care of his family.

He was lying. He doesn't have a family. He had lied to this sweet, innocent lady so she would not try to stop him from what he is about to do. She thinks she saved him, and that he is going home. To some extent, that is true.

She packed him a backpack full of snacks, spare clothes, even some money. She bought him new clothes to wear. She walked him to the train station, though her rickety hips barely allowed her to stay standing long enough. She watched him get on the train and waved at him all the way up until they could no longer see each other through the window as the platform grew further and further away.

He only cried once he was sure she could not see.

He retraces every step he took a month prior to this day. He minds the gap, turns every corner. He recognises a flower shop in the suburbs. The large, tilted tree in the park. A large graffiti under the cement bridge is his next sign that he is going the right direction.

Soon, the houses become overwhelmingly familiar. A few more blocks, and he will be there. His legs ache, the new, cheap shoes he got from her rub at his heels with every step, bloodying the rough fabric. He could not stop his journey if he wanted. He feels his very heart dragging him along on a leash, back to where he left a month ago, back to where he escaped.

There it is. A secluded house at the edge of town, fenced off with barbed wire and kept in perfect condition. His soles burn, but his pace only quickens. He knows those chain links. He knows those barred windows. He knows that godforsaken garage door. He is home. He made it.

Oh, she would have never let him go if he told her that he considered this prison his home.

Reaching the outer gate, the intimate feeling of fear choking him arises like an old friend. The last time he saw this place from the outside he only got to for a moment in his haste. A glance over his shoulder in the middle of the night, and then he was gone like a ghost. He wonders what all has changed. He doubts anything has.

He hesitates. They will be angry at him, he's sure. So, so angry. He left without warning, without saying anything. To think he thought he could leave without repercussions instead of owning up to his mistake and suffering the consequences. Now, here he is thirty days later, crawling back on trembling legs, in strange clothing and some fat under his skin to beg for forgiveness. He is the most ungrateful, pathetic creature he can imagine. He's sure he will be told as much once the door opens.

He steels himself and presses the bell. It goes off twice in quick succession thanks to his twitchy fingers. He cannot tell if the overwhelming nerves strangling him are of worry or excitement.

He has been away for too long, trying to function in a place he is no longer meant for. He craves this hell like one would their heaven. He knows it's wrong, he knows he could leave right now and go back to the old lady that took care of him like her own son and he could relearn how to be a person and it would all be okay. He rationalises that it's far too late for that.

The ten seconds that pass in silence after the bell chimes are agony spreading over an eternity. His fingers cramp with how fiercely he fists them to his palm. Eventually, however, the entrance opens, and out steps the devil himself.

He stops on the porch, pausing to make sure his eyes aren't playing tricks on him, but he then quickly crosses the distance between the two of them to jerk the gate open and embrace him before his lost darling could even rant off his apology that he has been writing in his head ever since he first took a step outside of this house.

They stand in silence for a long minute.

This moment feels absolutely perfect. Better than he ever expected it to feel; just the most idyllic scene that goes exactly as he had dreamed it would. The hug feels better than he had imagined, so warm and tight and all-encompassing. His red nose finds its way into the crook of the man's neck, nestling in there. He breathes in deep, taking in the smell of comfort, of the wonderfully known and expected; the familiarity.

“I’ve told you so many times. You do not belong out there anymore.”

In reality, what he had experienced with his freedom was not joy, but layers upon layers of anxiety. Everything was new, everything was unusual, everything was terrifying. What he had grown so used to during his years in this house he threw away in blind greed, wanting more from life than the perfect world his owner had made for him.

At first the freedom was elating. Long forgotten concepts like privacy and control had returned and excited him. But then his new circumstances became tiring. One or two core differences became dozens of alien rules he had to rememorise. Then came shame at experiencing such trouble with something that is meant to be no issue at all for anyone; anyone but him. Normal people don't expect perfect obedience in return for tolerance. Normal people don't have to ask for permission to eat when a plate is put in front of them. Normal people don't have to keep their owners content. Normal people aren't scared of their owners. Normal people don't have owners. These are all things he had to get used to, among the sea of other more obscure examples.

The final straw was his curse of worthlessness. He felt he did not deserve any of this. He ran away. He broke so many rules. He was having awful trouble with his new rules. He was ungrateful. And yet, the old lady only showed kindness and care. No punishments, no threats, not even any mocking or insults. Just relentless, angelic forgiveness. She would not hurt him even when he offered, even when he had asked. He could not handle this; he felt like he was going to go insane with guilt.

His owner had told him this countless times, but only now does he truly understand what he had meant, — the complicated, scary life of a free person just isn't suited for him. Not anymore. He is different. He cannot be left alone for long. He cannot function without clear cut rules, routine or punishments. He doesn't think like everyone else. Above everything, what was killing him every day the most was yearning for his owner. He needs his owner. He cannot be away from him, he depends on him too much. He missed him every day, feeling dumber and dumber each day for being so cowardly.

But now, now he is here again, in his owner's capable hands. Everything will make sense again, all his mistakes will be fixed and he can spend the rest of his life atoning for his naïve stupidity. He will take being locked up in this birdcage for the rest of his life. He will take the sharp, unending burn of punishments each time he slips up. He will take it all without a word if that's what his owner wants. He missed him more than should be possible. He cries. He is so happy.

His relief is crushed as soon as the door locks behind him, and he is once again all alone with the man. His freshly washed hair is grabbed and he is dragged all the way down to the source of all of his nightmares, sent to the floor viciously. His crying turns desperate. He is barely left time to gasp out a plea before he is grabbed again and tied up much too tightly, rope burning over old, thick scarring along his wrists. His cries are muffled with a gag, and his tears are soaked up with a blindfold.

He becomes inconsolable then. He knew this would happen, he knew he would be punished, he knows he deserves it — but this is all too sudden, juxtaposed horribly by the tenderness of that hug that he waited a month for and needed more than he ever realised. Now it's like his owner is a different man, mercilessly restraining him and not saying a word, just like when he is truly furious. He didn't seem angry at all before. His owner seemed as relieved as he did.

He can tell he is dropped off in the middle of the basement by how cold it is and how his skin catches on the drain under him. He is pulled to kneel, and while he tries his best to obey every wordless order, his limbs have become useless jelly, flowing in all the wrong directions.

The punishment is severe. So severe that he is certain he won't survive it. The first to break are his legs. He might not ever be able to walk again, much less run away from consequences. His arms are wrenched behind and up until his shoulders pop, rendering all his limbs useless. They are left there like that, hanging off him like parasites that feed on his agony. He is beaten with something heavy, made of iron. That breaks several more bones, his ribs mostly. His screams start dying down then, not for a lack of trying. The gag muffles every apology he sobs into it, ensuring he will only be able to say sorry once his owner has decided he is truly sorry.

He is reduced to a bag of flesh to be abused. He cannot fight any of it, he cannot see any of it and he cannot stop any of it. He has never felt so much like an object before in his life, not with the old lady, not prior escaping, not prior to being caught. Still, he never even thinks about regretting coming back. He never holds anything against his master, he never holds a grudge or resentment. He deserves this for disobeying him, and his owner deserves his pain as compensation. He deserves this, he deserves this, please, please let him say he deserves all of it and see how he regrets running. He needs to say it, he needs this to end, he wants nothing more than to grovel at the man's feet and sob over and over how worthless he is and how he will never ever try anything like this again.

The only way this can end is if he is forgiven, but he cannot be forgiven until he has apologised.

The blindfold is never removed, not like his bindings and the gag. This distresses him greatly even as he is cuddled in his owner's arms once again, exhausted. The blindfold only ever comes out for the worst of his mistakes. When his master is angry with him. When a simple slap or two or a couple days without food isn't enough. The fact that it is still on even hours after he was finally allowed to beg for forgiveness — he just cannot relax. He supposes that's probably the reason why it's still on. He can’t just forget about what he did so easily with one round of torment. He hopes it will be taken off soon, but at the same time, he has no hope for it coming off in the coming days.

He doesn't even know if he has suffered enough yet. This small thing could very well signal that he will be atoning for this transgression for up to another month; just as long as he had spent away from here. The thought terrifies him enough to sob brokenly into his owner's chest, huddled up against him as he is. He’s rewarded with a light pet. He whispers a thank you.

The man pauses at that, causing his body to tense in preparation of more pain. Wonderfully, however, all that comes is more gentleness, a hand that has hurt him so many times now digging down to the roots of his hair and scratching in a pleasant rhythm. He has never been more thankful. The smallest of kindnesses from his owner are enough for him to forget all about the month of constant mercy from the old lady that took care of him unconditionally. Something must be wrong with him. He doesn't think about that for too long.

“I am so glad you came back,” — his master murmurs.

No one loves him like his master loves him. The old lady… was stupid. She was an idiot. Who would take in a stranger off the street, half-dead, and spoil him like she did? That's moronic. Her kindness — it doesn't matter. Any grain of sweetness from this man means more than a whole year of hers. He loves him. She was just a dumb old lady.

He feels awful for thinking this. His brain is at battle with his heart, trying to convince himself that this is what he is meant to be, that this is right, while feeling a dark emptiness building in his lungs.

Later, once his body is no longer useless and he can do as he is told, he does so. When he is told to clean, he cleans. When he is told to stay still, he stays still. When he is told to hold his breath, he holds his breath. Neither of them mention it. His owner doesn't tease him for falling back into old habits so soon. He doesn't even think to resist or think for himself. This is their norm. Nothing out of the ordinary. How it is supposed to be. Every night, he tells himself he is happy and loved. He feels his owner's arms around him, holding him close, pushing on his dark, painful bruises and he thanks him for allowing him to stay. His master tells him he loves him, and he smiles, saying the same thing.

And he means it.

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @morning-star-whump @whumprince

#whump #my writing #asks #anon #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #whump writing #sadistic whumper #fear #stockholm syndrome #failed escape #broken bones #begging #blindfolded #restrained #beating #recapture #captivity whump

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chaotic-orphan · 10 months

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June of doom, day eighteen:

“How long have you been like this?”

Fall // sleep deprivation // blankets

CW: creepy whumper, intimate Whumper, lady Whump, lady whumpee, sleep deprivation, defiant whumpee being broken down, suspension, stress position?

This is not my best and very lazy writing but it’s all I got today

A.N. Thanks to a very nice anon I just discovered that lady Whump is a tag, and I am sorry for not tagging it sooner— I thought lady Whump meant like, a lady whumper, I see lady Whump and I’m thinking of Lady Dimitrescu licking blood off Ethan Winter’s hand — BUT PLEASE TELL ME IF I MISTAG OR DO NOT TAG PROPERLY IN FUTURE I DONT WANT ANYONE UNCOMFY ((and reading stuff they don’t want to by accident that could have easily been avoided if I just tagged it right)) AND I AM SORRY FOR MY FAULT I BOW MY HEAD

*~*~*~*~*

After what felt like an eternity Kara’s hands were freed from being stretched up above her head. The chain was loosened and she wanted nothing more than to sit down, to just relax a moment. Instead she let her arms rest hands pointed down naturally. The pins and needles hadn’t started clawing up her nerves yet, she was fine.

Reuben smiled at her from the shadows of the basement and stepped into the dim light, the length of chain still in his sadistic hand.

“How are you today Kara?”

“Go fuck yourself, Reuben.”

Reuben’s smile just grew. Kara stared at him with impatient eyes. She wished he would just get on with whatever horrible thing he had planned instead of smiling at her like she was a piece of meat.

Reuben wound the chain around his hand, once, twice, three times, shortening the length connecting to Kara’s handcuffs. He tugged it sharply and Kara jolted forward, dragged by her hands and into Reuben’s. He put a hand on her cheek. It was huge, nearly spanning her whole face. He rested a thumb on her cheekbone just under her eye and Kara forced her expression into one of indifference.

“So defiant. Do you not get tired of it?”

“No,” said Kara. “I’ll never get tired of saying no to you.”

Reuben tilted his head, eyes going to Kara’s lips and back up to her eyes again. It made her skin crawl. “I’m guessing you won’t kneel then?”

Kara’s heart stuttered in her chest. Reuben had asked that same question before and it got her to be like this. Handcuffed and chained to the ceiling, forced to stand because she refused to kneel.

“No,” Kara said, although her voice betrayed her hesitance. Reuben hummed in reply, his other hand reaching behind Kara’s head while the hand on her cheek slipped down her face, sliding under her chin and down over her throat. His thumb rested against her pulse and Kara swallowed, leaning her head back only to feel his other hand there, winding itself through her hair.

His eyes sparkled as he said: “are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” said Kara, this time without hesitation. Reuben hummed again and Kara waited.

“Pity. You could have saved yourself a world of pain. Oh well.”

Reuben let go of her throat and her hair and stepped back undoing the chain around his hand. “Some people need to learn the same lesson a couple of times.”

Reuben threw the chain over the exposed rafter in the ceiling and got the chain through in one try. When he reached up and pulled it again Kara let out a startled: “wait.”

Reuben stopped, looking at her with those horrible bright eyes. “You change your mind?”

No. She hadn’t but she also didn’t want to be strung up again by her hands. It hurt standing, her body going numb…

“No…” Kara said, voice quiet. Reuben smiled sympathetically and nodded. “It’s okay.”

Then he yanked the chain and Kara’s hands were dragged up over her head again. He kept pulling until she was on her tippy toes then stopped. The position put pressure on Kara’s shoulders and it felt like they were going to pop out of their socket.

“Wait—“ Kara said again, panicked. “Wait last time my feet were on the floor…”

Reuben came over to her and cupped her cheek in his hand again. “I know, but clearly I went too easy on you. You didn’t learn that you can’t say no to me. So we go again. Increase the intensity until you finally give in.”

“Let me go you psycho!” Kara yelled, pulling at the chains but Reuben just laughed and stepped back.

“I think we can go a bit harder to get that defiance out of you, hmm?”

Kara’s eyes widened in fear. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No. No! Wait—“

Reuben pulled on the chains again until Kara’s feet didn’t touch the ground and she cried out. Legs kicking trying to reach the floor. Now it felt like her whole shoulder was going to be ripped from her torso and she tried to pull herself up to alleviate some of the tension.

“Fuck! FUCK! Fuck! Let me down! Let me down! I’m sorry!”

“Will you kneel for me?” Reuben asked sweetly, tying the chains off and Kara’s answering glare burned a hole through his skull. She stretched her legs, flexed her ankle trying to scrape off the ground anything to take the pressure off her shoulders.

Reuben approached his suspended hostage with a wicked grin on his face as Kara tried to kick out at him, then cried out at the jerking motion on her arms. Reuben put a hand on her waist, keeping her straight.

“Easy, easy. The more you struggle the more stress you’ll put on your arms. Try to keep still.”

Kara found his eyes with hers and she took a deep breath through her nose, trying to relax. “There you go, very good, Kara. Good?”

Kara despite her situation nodded slightly. Reuben’s smile grew more genuine. “Good.”

Then he pulled her waist with him back as he stepped back towards the door and Kara struggled again, trying to kick out at him but he kept pulling her. The chain pulled taut so it was just Kara’s body moving now and she was nearly horizontal with the ground before Reuben let her go.

Kara’s body fell like a punching bag and hit off the opposite wall with a scream as she was turned in circles, trying to right herself but seeing only the world swirling. By the time she was right again Reuben had left and she was alone.

That would have been fine if he had continued to leave her alone. Everyday he would come in and ask if she would kneel for him, and everyday she would curse and tell him no. Sometimes he would nod and walk out, leaving her alone. Other times he would twist her body in the chains and let her loose to spin.

She would have thrown up if she had anything in her stomach, but Reuben hadn’t fed her since she had been here. Sometimes when she was on the cusp of sleep he would come in loudly and just sit and watch her struggle to kick or hit him, struggling like a pig on a hook ready to be carved up.

She didn’t know how many days had passed. Didn’t know how much more she could take of him and being strung up, exhausted, defiant and weak.

She was crying silently to herself when he opened the door again. She flinched when the door closed again and Reuben cooed, walking over to her, a hand on her cheek, wiping away the tears.

“Kara, Kara, Kara…” he said. “I hate to see you like this. How long have you been like this? Do you even know?”

No. She didn’t know. It felt like eternity and too short a time all at once. She didn’t know which end of her was up at this point.

“Aren’t you tired, hmm?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. She was tired. She was so fucking tired. She just wanted to sleep. She wanted to not be suspended from her arms anymore and Reuben was the only thing that could give her any relief.

Reuben stepped closer to her and whispered: “you know what you have to do if you want to be let down. Are you ready to do it?”

Kara let out a sob as she nodded. Reuben shushed her, told her it’s alright. “You did so good, Kara. I’ll get you down.”

He was gentle with lowering her to the ground. The minute Kara’s feet touched the solid floor she fell, her legs buckling beneath her from disuse. She put her hands out to catch herself but before she could Reuben caught her. She looked up at him to find something insidious and triumphant gleaming in his eyes.

“There. Now. See? Beautiful. Perfect. You’re kneeling for me, it’s not that bad is it?”

Kara didn’t say anything in reply. Reuben’s hands went to her face again palms caressing her cheeks. “You did so good for me. Let’s get you some food and some sleep, okay?”

Kara nodded numbly in reply. She couldn’t stand so when Reuben picked her up she didn’t mind it. Didn’t mind how close he was and that he was the reason she was put through all this torment the last couple of days.

Reuben brought her to a couch and lay her down on it and Kara nearly fell asleep as soon as her head hit the arm rest. Reuben told her not to so she struggled to keep her eyes open. When Reuben came back he had blankets in his arms that he threw over her and Kara snuggled into them, too weak to protest anything.

Her arms felt so weird. Her entire body was numb. Her brain stupid. She just needed to sleep and she’d feel better.

Reuben sat with her until she had fallen asleep, thumb rubbing circles over her temple soothingly. When she finally succumbed to sleep he smiled again, tucked her into the blankets more then kissed her forehead.

Kara was everything he wanted, and more. That defiance in her… he was going to shatter it all and watch her break so beautifully. Though hanging for a week out of sheer determination and force of will was not a good sign for him, he could wait. He would always wait.

Now that he had her, he would never let her go.

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whumping-valentine · 5 months

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HELLO WHUMP COMMUNITY

My name is Lian! I'm 21, and use any pronouns. I love whump so much I just had to make a blog dedicated to it.

When I first discovered this community existed a few months ago I was obsessed. I just knew I'd eventually cave and make a whump blog, and now here I am! This blog is actually rather old, but I never used it, and purged all the content on it to start over.

Here are all the whump tropes / things I like! 👇👇👇

Whumper turned caretaker / carewhumpers

Intimate whumpers

Stockholm / Lima syndrome (whumper × whumpee)

Nsfwhump / Noncon / dubcon

Restraints & gags

Magic & curses

Branding & scarring

Whumpees in collars & leashes

Whumpees who are famous

Whumpees who get tortured on camera

Whumpers who have a soft spot for whumpee

Whumpers with violent kinks that they take out on whumpee

That includes cannibalism. Give me whumpers who literally fucking eat parts of their whumpees in front of them

Waterboarding, drowning, anything to do with water, really

Ferocious, bloodthirsty caretakers who are ready to kill whumper and do anything for whumpee

Trans whumpers and whumpees and just queerness in general, I'm very queer

"Immortal" characters (don't age but can die, just not of natural causes / time) (also much stronger and can endure more before they get to the point of death)

The only thing I do NOT like are male whumpers with female whumpees. Just can't do it, feels too... ick. I am, however, cool with AMAB whumpers and AFAB whumpees, so long as they aren't cis. In fact, my two favorite characters fit that dynamic! So expect to see a bunch of them.

PLEASE KNOW there will be sexually explicit content on this blog! I will tag them appropriately, but please, minors dni.

Most of my original writings and characters are going to come straight from a book series I'm currently writing, but I'll try my best to make them digestible to folk who aren't already familiar with my work. If you wanna know more about it, check out @multimagical. That's my writing blog, basically just like this one but without torture and smut. So it's like this blog's clean, wholesome cousin, lol.

If this content sounds up your alley, feel free to give me a follow! I'll be re blogging allll the good shit, and have a BUNCH of a original content to give you that I've been cooking up! I'll keep y'all nice and fed, I promise ♡

#whump community #whump writing #whump #writers #writers on tumblr #writing #whump blog #whump intro #whump introduction #blog intro #get to know me #blog introduction #whumpblr #whump art #my post

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letstalkwhump · 1 year

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Let's Talk Whump

Welcome to Let’s Talk Whump, a series of interviews that spotlight the amazing people in our whump community. I’m Malice and I’ll be your host.

Joining us today is the fabulous @ashintheairlikesnow!

It’s great to have you here, Ash! Let’s kick this interview off with a fact or two about yourself!

Hi! I go by Ash, I am an ageless elder crone, and my life is built around the whims of an old dog and a very young cat. My primary hobby is reading, and I especially get lost in books on cults and new religious movements, World War I, and vampires.

What does whump mean to you?

To me, whump is physical, mental, and emotional suffering. What causes that suffering can be any one of a number of things, and any of them might be what fascinates about the story.

But it's whump when someone hurts.

And how did you find the whump community? What made you want to join?

I had gone through a tumultuous few months in 2019, including being laid off. I was reading and writing in-between frantically applying and interviewing for new jobs, and somewhere in there I stumbled back onto Tumblr after a long… long… hiatus.

In August of 2019 I did a fanfiction writing challenge and the prompt for day 11 was 'whump'. A friend of mine had to explain to me what the word even meant, which is when I realized there was a whole subgenre dedicated to my favorite thing to write! After that, I started following some blogs with whump in their name and shortly after, took a chance on posting some writing, too.

2019 you say, and yet I would affectionately swear you’ve been around the whump community forever! Do you think your view on whump changed since you joined?

Definitely! I was more timid when it came to what I would or wouldn't write out in detail early on. Eventually I gained confidence and started including things that delved into full horror, where before I wasn't sure how it would be received.

I think I have come to appreciate a ton of tropes that didn't really speak to me or that I struggled with at first! Finding certain writers that really did a great job with them helped me get over that.

ANd now for the best bit; Let’s talk whump tropes! Do you have a few particular faves?

Noncon and recovery from it - one of my favorite things about whump isn't even the harm but the way a character recovers from it, and noncon can be a violation of physical self, identity, everything. So I enjoy the noncon but also watching someone rebuild themself afterward.

Trauma recovery - on a related note. Most of my stories really focus heavily not on the worst of times, but in what comes after. How do you find yourself again when everything about you was erased? Or beaten, or broken? Resilience is essential in my work.

BBU - I started writing at the beginning of the BBU taking off in early 2020 - I think my first Kauri piece was written in January 2020 actually. I love world building and dystopian fiction, so I never stop finding new awful details about the BBU to bring to the light.

Creepy/intimate whumpers - Whumpers that get under your skin without necessarily treading into noncon territory. Think like @comfy-whumpee's Alistair, a master of overwhelming, awful affection and the power of control. Or @for-the-love-of-angst's Zever, a father-figure to OC Taron turned captor.

Shades of gray - whumpees who weren't the good guys, but who have been forced to struggle and suffer. I like writing, and reading, imperfect people who are trying to make themselves better than they've been, or bad people who have their reasons who run into someone they can't get away from.

Hype time! Do you have a few pieces of your favourite work that you’d like to share?

This is so hard! Oh my gosh. I need to think about this.

Haunted - a Kauri piece. The way this one delves into the emptiness of Kauri from someone else's perspective… there are some metaphors in here I am really proud of.

Blood, Freely Given - a vampire walks into a hospital. God, I love when I get the chance to work in a more horror-centered space. This one is lyrical and I love it.

I’m Here - a boy remembers everything he was made to forget. This was maybe the most intense thing I've written. It is disjointed and chaotic and I adore it.

Oh my god! I am obsessed with Blood, Given Freely’s vibes! Creepy but somehow tugging at my emotions- damn! Do you have a particular writing routine?

My best writing happens in a coffeeshop with a pastry and a latte on hand! I almost always sit down and put on a playlist based on whichever story, then write out a whole piece on two or three hours. Then I spend a day or two editing and cleaning up, then post.

I used to try to write once or twice a week. Lately that's fallen off to every other week or even less. Life gets busy! But I still write when the mood strikes me.

And do you find somethings are easier for you to write than others?

I am so so so bad at writing fight scenes or action. It's like pulling teeth! On the other hand, I am pretty good at dialogue, I think. The different voices of different characters come to me fairly easily.

Can we get a peek behind the curtains and see what your currently working on?

I am half-heartedly trying to get started on a novel that I keep going back and forth on, involving a man looking for a vampire in 1926 upstate New York. But not for the reasons you think.

Actually, maybe exactly for those reasons.

I am definitely enjoying writing horror more often. My OC Finn Schneider's story is pure nightmare fuel, and I find myself thinking about him a lot.

Do you have a joke or pun you would like to share to spread some smiles today?

When I was in high school, I decided to start telling bad jokes on purpose, as my "thing". To my credit, I kept it up for years. I had jokes I would tell at every party. They were all terrible.

I was surprised that people kept asking me to tell more.

Now I can't remember any of them.

I mostly run screaming from puns. They are the real monsters here.

Haha, puns seem to be very popular in the whump community, particularly in our urls! Would you care to share some writing advice with our readers?

My best advice has always been and will always be just to write often. Like any muscle, it gets stronger with exercise, like any skill you get better primarily through practice. Even if you doubt yourself, keep writing. You will look back and be shocked at how you improved even without realizing it over time.

Try to set aside time to write. It doesn't have to be anything in particular, any one story. Write anything at all.

Shout-out time for some of the wonderful people on here!

Oooooh it would be such a wildly long list. I will try! Okay, here are just a few:

@albino-whumpee who we recently lost created some incredible whump art from a very personal place. I miss them.

@wildfaewhump @comfy-whumpee @whump-tr0pes @hackles-up @card-games-and-pain @whumpiary @sableflynn @redwingedwhump @whump-it @for-the-love-of-angst @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @winedark-whump @justplainwhump @just-horrible-things … gosh there are so many!

Finally, is there anything you'd like to add?

The whump community has been an incredible place to make my writing "home". I've met some pretty amazing people on this hellsite! May we all continue to enjoy the suffering of our silly little guys here together!

Thank you for joining us, Ash. It was an absolute pleasure to have you on the show!

And to all you fabulous folk at home, have a whump-derful day!

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