Updated Intro Now That I Kinda Get How This Works:
Hello! It's 32W. I’ve been a long time lurker who finally wants to be part of this community! I’ve been into whump pretty much forever (since my formative years in the single digits), but I’ve been reading, writing, and drawing whump on and off for the last 15 years. I finally worked up the courage to post my own work this time last year, but I also reblog other people’s stuff too! My long-suffering wife is probably tired of hearing me talk about my fictional guys going through it as well, hence the blog!
Obligatory warning: minors DNI. Please. There’s gonna be nasty stuff on this blog and it will be tagged appropriately. Only you are accountable for your own online experience.
Likes and Interests
Slavery whump
Captivity whump
Pet whump (not exactly BBU, but BBU’s not bad)
Noncon/NSFW -will tag!
Noncon body mod -e.g., branding, tattooing, piercing
Kidnapping
Bondage
Caretaking
Communication barrier (language barrier, nonverbal whumpee, etc.)
G/t dynamics -relatively new interest but I like it
Squicks (nope-tropes, things I don’t like)
Gore -experimenting with mild gore, but I cannot handle a lot right now
Most hero/villain tropes -no shade, I’m just not into it
Supernatural whump -by this I mean magic and stuff. Again, nothing bad about it, just not really into it
Sickfics that have too much fluff
I have a Masterlist now
Special thanks goes out to @burnticedlatte @demondamage @whumperofworlds @poc-whump and other blogs and the people behind them who inspired/encouraged the making of this blog. You guys are awesome ❤️
Whumpee just slumped on their knees, sobbing in Whumpers basement. They’d been numb for so long but some random memory had triggered a rush of grief so strong that they couldn’t hold back any longer.
Maybe it was the realization that they were never going to see that random coworker that complimented their shirt (now ripped and covered in blood). Realizing yes, they’d probably never see anyone they knew, close or not, ever again.
Maybe it was coming across the gum wrapper left in their pocket, realizing they missed so badly something so small. They’d used to keep a pack of gum on them always. The tiniest things stung the worst.
Maybe it was realizing they’d probably missed some important milestone. They couldn’t be sure how many days had passed but they’re pretty sure they’d missed Christmas. Someone’s birthday. A wedding. A funeral.
Little details attacking when they were least expecting them.
CW: Langdon is 15. CWs include slavery, referenced collars, referenced abuse, and dreams of murder most foul
Langdon is fifteen years old when they take the inhaler out of his hand and put a gun in it instead.
"It's okay," Brewster says, with a slight, friendly smile, patting him on the back. Brewster's older than he is by more than a decade, if only just. They look sort of the same, most of the staff does, with curly dark hair and eyes a little too big for their face.
Plus, the black leather collars, white button-ups, and plain black pants all staff wears for every waking hour. He got his first work uniform, all three pieces, at four, like everybody does.
Not all the staff looks exactly alike, though. Some of them, like Vander, have almost unsettlingly bright blue eyes, too. Runs in the master's family, which means it runs in the staff family, even though no one talks about it. Langdon's are blue. Brewster's are a color like a stormcloud in some lights. Something about both your parents having blue eye genes, but since Langdon's never been to school, all he knows about genes is what he's seen on TV when it's his night to pick a show.
Greg, his sister's husband, came to live with them from another house when he was three years old. His eyes are brown. His hair is stick-straight, lighter in color. His smile doesn't have the same sort of lilt to it.
Greg doesn't have Marcoset blood poisoning him, not like Vander - whose nerves are broken and don't feel pain, leaving him scarred and forcing Brewster to be his shadow all the time to keep him from hurting himself. Not like Langdon himself, who can barely work outside for half an hour without his inhaler close at hand. Not like Rita, who hardly ever leaves the bed, or Henry, who was born deaf and is probably going blind, too. Too much toxic blood in just about everybody.
The medic thinks he and Brewster are both the master's. Anyone who said that out loud where the master might hear would be whipped.
Personally, Langdon thinks Brewster is too happy to be Isaac Marcoset's son. Isaac Marcoset has a library of scowls and glares for any occasion, and only one or two smiles.
Brewster turns him to face the targets, breaking him from his thoughts. They're just wooden cutouts in vaguely human shapes that have had crude faces with horrible Os of surprise painted under their little dot-eyes. "We're just testing you out. Take the shots, see if you hit the targets. These two guys here, and if you hit those, those bottles I lined up on the tree trunks over there."
"I don't want to do this," Langdon says, voice low, a little airy. Even with his inhaler, his lungs fight whenever he's scared, or if he works too hard. The inhaler just holds off the worst of it. He hates the heavy weight of the handgun he's holding. Hates how good it feels. "Brewster, I-I don't want-"
"I know." Brewster keeps a hand on his shoulder, his bright smile dimming a little with sympathy. "I know, Lan. But we don't have much of a fucking choice, yeah? Boss says you learn to shoot, you learn to shoot. Van and I learned when we were like... ten or eleven. We started going on jobs around your age, so... You got a few years to wait that we didn't, right? That's some luck. Kept you safe as long as we could."
"Right." His chest hitches as he stares at the targets. Big black circle-eyes, bigger black circle-mouth. "Lucky."
His breath is thin. His lungs protest every movement he makes, but Brewster's right - there's no choice. If Isaac Marcoset wants another trigger on hand, Langdon is fifteen and that's as old as Van and Brewster were the first time they killed someone.
He aims. Brewster slides something like a heavy headphone set over his head, the noise of the birds suddenly silent. Langdon bites his lower lip.
Just like Brewster taught him. Safety off only when you're ready. No finger on the trigger til it's time.
If he thinks of Isaac Marcoset instead of the wooden target when he fires, that's his own business.
He hears, dimly, the sound of Brewster yelling but ignores it as he fires at the next target - Miss Delia and all her cruelties the image he holds this time. Then the bottles, one by one by one. The gun kicks a little but it feels good, too.
At the end, he missed more than half the bottles.
But the targets, Isaac and Delia Marcoset in his mind, have been shot right through the center.
Brewster takes the headphones off and hugs him, but Langdon can't take his eyes off the holes he just shot through the wood.
Leaving the estate for the first time in his life, taking off his collar and wearing other clothes, making choices for himself... It could all be as easy as two shots, aimed right.
"... Can I keep practicing?" His voice is hoarse. His lungs catch but he ignores the way his head goes light.
"I knew you'd like it once you tried," Brewster says cheerfully. "Let me reload for you, show you how to do it. You did fucking awesome, little man. You're going to be as good a shot as me one day, I can already tell."
Langdon thinks of red spreading over Miss Delia's stupid pristine tablecloth, she and her husband slumped over the table while Langdon walks away. Gets in a car, maybe. Goes somewhere, anywhere else.
"I hope so," He says softly, and gives Brewster a smile. "Show me how to reload."
Leaving the estate for the first time in his life, taking off his collar and wearing other clothes, making choices for himself... It could all be as easy as two shots, aimed right.
Ohhh man, that hit me so hard 🥺 A first hint of power, presumably among the first he's felt in his life, and the thing that gets him through it is imagining getting away 🥺🥺
I wonder how many of the others had this same thought when their training began. I wonder what stopped them from trying.
Thank you so much for sharing, Ash! I literally started kicking my feet with delight the second I spotted this 🧡
*thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs*
things i wish someone told me before i started writing (and also things i ignored anyway)
okay. writers of tumblr. i’ve compiled a list of things i desperately wish someone had sat me down and said before i started writing, not that i would’ve listened, because i was 14 and powered entirely by hubris, iced coffee, and my wattpad era.
anyway. here we go:
1. stop rewriting chapter one.
i know you think it’ll fix everything. it won’t. it’s a hydra. you cut one head off, two Google Docs appear.
2. your first draft is not a treaty with god.
it can be messy. it can be unhinged. it can have 47 placeholders named “idk something happens.” it’s fine.
3. perfectionism is just fear wearing a blazer.
write badly on purpose. humiliate your draft. it builds character (yours).
4. word count culture is a scam.
you are allowed to write 200 words and call it a day. you are allowed to write 5k and then disappear into the void for three business weeks.
5. google docs autosave WILL betray you.
download backups. then back up your backups. then sacrifice a pen to the writing gods idk.
6. description is not pretty synonyms.
it’s specificity. the torn movie ticket in their pocket. the buzzing light in the hallway. the chipped nail polish on their thumb. write the thing not the aesthetics around the thing.
7. dialogue isn’t two Shakespeare ghosts monologuing at each other.
interruptions. trailing off. people lying. people avoiding the truth. people saying “whatever man.” let it get messy.
8. you don’t need a whole map before you start.
sometimes you just need one character with one problem and the stupidest idea imaginable.
9. reading your old writing will make you cringe but also cry a little because wow you cared so much.
keep that version of you alive.
10. don’t wait to ‘be good.’
you get good by writing the stuff you think is embarrassing.
11. also: nine out of ten times, your “bad” idea is actually the one that goes feral and grows teeth and becomes your WIP.
12. hydrate.
no further explanation.
ok that’s it because if i keep going i’ll start confessing things about the time i wrote a whole novel in 2017 that will never see daylight again.
reply if u relate or if u too have 87 abandoned document fragments in your google drive.
Captive whumpee has their own room, or closet, or cage, and when they enter it whumper won't touch them. They are never restrained in a way that prevents them from fleeing to their place. Whumper will lure them out with food or painkillers, with undoing any restraints still on them, with the promise of a shower, and whumper keeps those promises. Whumpee comes to feel safe in their place, and knows that, at least in this one thing, they can trust whumper.
And then the rescue happens, and the rescuers drag whumpee out of their safe place to get them to actual safety.
Stoic whumpee recalling their whump, their hands starting to shake, fidgeting repetitively, bouncing a leg, evading eye contact
Whumpee covering themselves, constantly readjusting their shirt to obscure their bidy type, crossing arms, resting hands underneath their pits, holding onto their wrists
Close to holding caretakers hand only to dodge it last second
Shifty feet, jumpy eyes, a whumpee that's about to make a run for it
Hiding a bruise with body language, hand covering the back of their neck too often, pinching their sleeves down, hands on both knees when sitting
i don't really want to weight in on the "using big words in your writing is ableist" discourse happening on tiktok because i'm like 90% certain it's an anti-intellectual psyop to stir up drama in online circles to promote the use of ai to summarize literally everything and thus feeding the LLMs and lowering the populace's mistrust of such tools but i also have to say: dictionaries and thesauruses are the most accessible they've ever been. if you use an e-reader of any kind you can look up a word without leaving the page. there's a plethora of online dictionaries and if you just type a word + "meaning" into google it'll usually give you a definition. we used to have pocket dictionaries we used when reading in class. i have two on my shelf right now that i used in high school. stop letting the fascists purposefully misuse anti-ableism rhetoric to trick you into never thinking again.
I think sometimes a woman wants to fantasize about a big strong man who will protect her and sometimes she wants a sad, scared wet puppy of a man that she can protect and sometimes both of these men are the same person
I'm in a very testy mood today, so I'm going to say this:
If people took all the energy they spent into chasing down works they find impure for whatever reason (anti-shipping, 'wrong' kinks, possible AI use) and put that energy into commenting on works they enjoyed, not only would fandom be a better place, but I think they as individuals would actually feel better on a day-to-day basis.
And if that energy went into volunteering or working to better their immediate local community? What a wonderful world it would be.
