I'm Jack, 18, he/him or she/her (Genderfluid). I've spent about a year and a half in the whump community. I love whumping OCs and humanised countries, though am now wanting to open myself to whumping other characters
Whump preferences:
Short-to-medium term captivity; half a year at absolute maximum
Female whumpers with male/female whumpees
Fics that focus on recovery, with whump being revealed through flashbacks
Whumpee and Caretaker having an imperfect, but overall good relationship
Parental female caretakers
Favourite tropes:
Lesbians recovering from trauma
Fluffy but realistic recoveries
Broken bones
Severe gore and violence
Characters with both healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms
Whumpees that blame themselves for what happened to them
Caretaker resenting Whumpee for having a violent trauma response
Possessive whumpers
Whumpers with softer sides to them, especially around others
Whumpees who are abusive towards their Caretakers (underrated trope imho)
Squicks:
Male whumpers on female whumpees (Note: I can handle this a lot better if it's short-term or single-incident whump, or if the fic focuses heavily on the whumpee's recovery)
Whump that is portrayed as positive (not through the Whumper's POV)
Whumpee is fully naked, especially in outdoors or in a vulnerable position
Captivity over a year
Sideblogs:
@countryhumans-whump - Whump/angst stories for the Countryhumans fandom
@dzagoku-whump - an OC whump story
@dimaq-whump - an OC whump story
@problematic-tip-centre - tips for character flaws
If you struggle with ‘show don’t tell’ in your writing, the most helpful tip that I’ve learned is: imagine your story as a movie/a medium where you can’t say outright how a character is feeling. Force yourself to imagine how a director may get the point across without any words being said. What colors would they use? What would the weather be like? How is the character holding themselves? What music would play in the background?
And remember: don’t underestimate your readers!! You don’t have to say ‘[character] was having a panic attack.’ You can describe their breathing, senses, etc to get your point across.
As someone who strongly prefers short-term captivity in whump, half a year at complete maximum, I kinda wish there was more representation of whumpees who’ve spent decades with their whumpers, especially in fics/media that focus on recovery
It gives a reminder that it’s possible to spend so many years in abuse and still heal, to still find happiness once it’s over
One of my favorite types of whumpee is when they are a good person. Like they care alot about others, wouldn't even hurt a bug, that kind of thing. Whumper would force them to do something bad, whether through hypnosis or mind control or just intimidation or subtle manipulation; it doesn't matter. Even if whumpee stops knowing or believing they're still a good person, that's something a caretaker would have to remind them of constantly, because despite everything, that never changed. If whumpee ever felt weak for succumbing to whatever whumper did, caretaker would remind them that staying good after it all was the strongest thing they could do.
Another favourite of mine is a whumpee who's a good person, but sometimes (or even often) they have really intense and nasty anger outbursts due to their trauma. And they try their hardest to make amends but aren't forgiven by inexperienced caretakers who want to be understanding. They try their hardest to make sure it doesn't happen again, but it does
quietseariver / Ayrah Daniel / Stacy Amondi is a documented scammer. they like to lie about having cancer so unsuspecting people will give them money, and they’ve been caught doing this under multiple identities for years.
this is quietseariver’s blog archived when they were linking to a paypal account under the name Ayrah Daniel: https://archive.ph/fKILu
quietseariver has now switched to using a different paypal account under the name Stacy Amondi
in this post another tumblr account is documented running this scam back in February of 2024, and linking to a paypal account under the name Timina Ibrahim: https://www.tumblr.com/kyra45/741259579611136000/hey-theres-a-blog-called-timinah9-thats-sent-me
in this post another tumblr account is documented running this scam and linking to a paypal account under the name Esta Odhiambo: https://www.tumblr.com/slenbee/775489029865177088/happilyjoyfulnut-esta-odhiambo
for more examples, here they are linking to a paypal account under the name Magret Gati: https://archive.ph/0dkwy
Elizabeth Kegocha: https://archive.ph/nO9WN
Hyvonne Bosibori: https://archive.ph/LvwjF
Paspika Habuba: https://archive.ph/IxuXH
are you able to delete their scam from your blog, or clearly label it as a scam so it doesn't spread to others? remember you can use the tumblr search box to search the username/paypal account name/text used by people asking for money to check if they’ve been proven to be a scammer
Why is it Fascism to not want to see art of character having sex with their children or something like that?
You're conflating "I don't want to see that" with "Nobody should write/draw that."
You're allowed to have boundaries. You're allowed to ask people to properly tag things. You're allowed to block those tags and those people. You are allowed to leave a space you're uncomfortable in. You are allowed to, and, in fact, encouraged to curate your own internet experience yourself. These are good and healthy behaviors.
The moment you let your personal feelings dictate what you believe other people can and cannot do with fictional characters, even out of your sight, even in the privacy of their own spaces, is the moment you fall into fascist thinking. This is the core of being anti-ship - the idea that because you find certain content distasteful or even triggering, nobody anywhere should be allowed to produce or engage with said content. That is censorship. That is fascism.
I am proship. I have a lot of ship tags blocked/filtered. These things are not antithetical to each other. In the grand scheme of things, I don't actually care that people are creating content for those ships, I just don't want to see it, so I've used to tools at my disposal to curate my own internet experience. They have their sandbox, and I'm happy to let them play in it, but I'm not going to join them. Simple as.
Anti-shippers, on the other hand, see that sandbox and think it's okay to barge over there and tell people they shouldn't be playing in it. They think it's okay to try to have that sandbox removed. "What if the sandbox is dangerous?" If that's what you think, then avoid it. You don't have to play in it. You don't even have to associate with people who play in it. If somebody is trying to force you or trick you or guilt you into playing in that sandbox, then they're in the wrong. If you want to talk about how dangerous you think the sandbox is, that's your right, but be aware that if you approach the sandbox on your own and attempt to sermonize, the people playing there are rightfully gonna get pissed off at you.
Do you understand now? If not, there are more posts about this. I'm answering this on the generous assumption that this is genuine question being asked in good faith, but it will be the last time.
As an addendum: "I don't care about how other people play with fictional characters" does not in any way correlate to "I condone these actions/scenarios happening in real life." That sort of conclusion speaks more to your own thought patterns than anybody else's.
"darkshipping is an unhealthy coping mechanism!!!"
i'm a victim of CSA perpetuated by my father, which, as a result, means that i've had incestuous intrusive thoughts for almost my entire life. i've had intrusive thoughts about my own family members, ones that scared and distressed me as a young child (obviously). reading and writing incestuous smut has helped lessen those thoughts. yes, i "romanticise" it. yes, i find it attractive. that doesn't make it "harmful", even if it makes you uncomfortable.
the fact is that fiction is a space where i can explore these intrusive thoughts and fantasies safely, without harming myself or others.
(also, everyone reacts to and processes trauma differently, which is exactly why we shouldn't be policing coping mechanisms and acting like they're harmful or helpful to every victim. art therapy doesn't work for you? cool, i hope you find something that does work, but a coping mechanism not working for you doesn't mean that that coping mechanism doesn't work for others. it especially does not mean that you have the right to police people's coping mechanisms and call them "harmful" with zero proof to back your claims. your trauma and your limits are not universal.)
summary: smoke sees her. he recognizes every shift, every change, every intake of breath, every sharp emotion. he’s loved annie through it all; that’s why there’s no doubt that he’d see such a big thing before the thought ever crossed her mind.
cw: straight flufffff, og era, pregnancy
a/n: my heart is explodingggg. this was requested!!
masterlist
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She had the same routine last time and the time before that.
Annie would get restless in the middle of the night, finding the only thing that brought her comfort besides the heavy breathing of her husband was the scent of magnolia. The flower would make her heart slow to a calming thump, and the next morning, Smoke would rise to find her out in the back pasture laid atop a quilt at the base of a tree. Her hand would nearly always be flush against her belly—a subconscious knowing that never crossed the front of her mind.
It would go on like this for days: Annie tossing and turning before kissing Smoke on his temple; Annie checking in their baby girl—or both of the littlest Moore’s in this case; Annie sneaking out the back door in search of her magnolias; Smoke waking up before dawn to wrestle her back to bed.
She was always easier to wrangle when halfway sleep, and after smelling her flowers for a few hours, she could rest in bed comfortably ‘til noon.
Something about growing a child inside of her made her mind find the comfort of magnolias at the ass crack of dawn appealing, but even now, Annie would deny the two had anything to do with each other. But Smoke knew better.
He watched the woman move around the front room as their girls played in the yard. Emma and Ruby were the spitting image of their mother: dark skin; round eyes that made Elijah want to give them the world; kind hearts that made it even easier for him to do so. He wondered what their next baby would look like. If she’d have Annie’s hair. If she’d be flat-footed like her sisters. If she’d be trailing behind him while he worked the garden. But the two things he knew for sure was that she’d be a girl—and that she’d be loved.
“Why you lookin’ at me like that, ‘Lijah,” Annie giggled cutely, the apples of her cheeks rosy as she dusted a vase and a stack of books.
“‘Cause I can, woman,” he grinned back, allowing his eyes to fall over her backside. “You lookin’ real purdy today, mama.”
Smoke always thought Annie was especially beautiful when she was pregnant. There was a glow, a softness that he simply couldn’t explain, but he could see it now. When the sunlight hit her face, something in his heart swelled, and when she smiled at him and thanked him in that light tone, he remembered the other thing that was a tell-tale sign of a baby being on the way.
Annie would get real sweet. Everything she did and every word she said seemed to come out coated in sugar, like the hormones or whatever had shifted something in her brain. Don’t get him wrong, Annie was always kind, but when she was pregnant, it seemed as if she were floating on air. Even now, she was humming a song while dusting, something low and slow as her hand grazed the bottom of her stomach. She knew, even if not consciously, and Elijah couldn’t wait for the day they could welcome a new child into their lives.
“Baby,” she hummed, looking over at him with those big, round eyes. He could hear Emma and Ruby playing outside, warming his heart even more.
“What ya’ need, mama,” Smoke questioned, standing from his seat when he saw the pout on his wife’s lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her over and over again until she was laughing and begging him to stop.
“I really don’t want home cooked food tonight,” she huffed, throwing her duster aside. She looked out the window at her daughters, frown lifting just a little.
“You wanna go to Jessie’s diner,” her husband figured, swaying her in his arms, and when she sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, he knew he’d read her right. “We can do that, baby. I’ll even get the girls ready so you can take your time.”
“Thank ya’, ‘Lijah,” Annie breathed against his neck, kissing his shoulder with plush lips.
The man grinned.
Pregnant Annie hated home-cooked food—unless it was Elijah’s famous grits literally any time of the day. She was normally a woman who Smoke had to beg to allow him to take her out. She loved cooking, loved having food that fed the soul in only a that knowing the hand who prepared it could. But when she was pregnant, she allowed herself to indulge.
Smoke wrangled his two girls into the bath he’d drawn, and just because he knew they’d complain, he boiled a pot of water to throw in so they wouldn’t get too cold. At ages five and three, they were used to their papa doing whatever they wanted. They’d seen him make their mama comfortable, pampering her or sending the three of them off for a day of shopping in the city.
All Elijah wanted was for his three girls to be happy, and as he got all of their clothes ready for dinner, he dreamed about what it would be like nearly nine months from now.
Dinner was a success and all hearts were satisfied.
At the table, Annie had beckoned them all to hold hands as she prayed over their meals, voice light and airy. She’d ordered exactly what she’d been craving since Smoke had brought up the idea of eating out: smothered pork chop, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread.
The man watched as his wife enjoyed her meal, ensuring that he made his youngest, Ruby, laugh every now and then to keep her spirits high. She could be a wildcard sometimes, often needing entertainment to keep her busy—much like her uncle, Stack. Emma kept to her self, however, swinging her feet in the chair beside her mama, humming along with the woman when she didn’t have her mouth full. She was the most like Annie between the two children. She had a reflective quality about her where she’d go into her mind to meditate on an idea. With age, she’s only gotten better at it, asking her mother large questions about the inner workings of the world.
As Ruby nearly fell over in her chair from one of her father’s jokes, Smoke wondered if their third child would be like him—though he didn’t mind his children being like his wife and brother. He wondered if she’d be timid like he was as a child. If she’d be good at arithmetic in school. If she’d prance around the house behind him just because.
Looking toward Annie’s belly, he smiled softly, thanking whoever had allowed his life to be this bright.
And like any other night for the pregnant woman, Annie shuffled out of bed. She kissed Smoke’s temple before checking in on the girls. With a quilt wrapped around her shoulders and a glass of water in hand, she ducked out the back door and down the steps.
She could smell her flowers, fragrant even with moonlight shining on them. Each step she took brought her closer, each press of her bare feet to soil helping to pull her to sleep.
It was like every other night as she sank down at the base of the tree, pulling her quilt tight around her. She breathed deeply to let the air fill her lungs, and when she exhaled, she made up her mind to seek out the tree further. Glass and quilt tossed aside, Annie began to climb the trunk of the magnolia. It always astonished her how the boughs were so large and full of life, so she climbed it with care, sinking her body atop one of those mighty branches.
When she came to a stop, her hand cradled her lower belly, but still, the thought evaded her.
Smoke had followed her out the back door. He knew, like every other night, that she’d kiss his head first before checking in on Emma and Ruby. Then she’d traipse around the back pasture before finding her grove of magnolias. He followed her there—slow and patient—and he watched as she settled near the roots.
Just as he was preparing to move toward her to hopefully help her bed, the woman shifted. Appalled, he watched her climb the tree.
“I know you ain’t just climbed that tree, woman,” Smoke grumbled aloud, emerging from behind a bush. Annie rolled her eyes with a huff, completely unsurprised that he’d followed her. “You coulda’ fell,” he continued to condemn as he stepped closer. “And anybody could sneak up on ya’ out here.”
Looking down at him with a sweet smile and eyes lit in amusement, the woman giggled.
“I know how to climb a tree, ‘Lijah,” she swatted the air, “I ain’t fragile. And if somebody snuck up on me, I’d be able to handle my own. You already know that.”
Grumbling, the man rolled his eyes because—yes—Annie could hold her own, but she was pregnant and didn’t realize it and it was his job to protect her.
“Come up here with me, papa,” she hummed, beckoning him with a soft smile. And oh how Smoke loved her softness. He loved it so much that he could be encouraged to climb a tree for her, and he did. Severely out of practice in the art of tree climbing, the large man slipped twice while attempting to make it toward his wife. Her laughs were hearty and boisterous, and when he finally made it to a bough near hers, he allowed himself to revel in the lingering sound.
Elijah immediately understood what made her flowers special enough to be this close to. Magnolia swirled around him, and nighttime pollinators flew past with a gust of wind. Even in the near pitch black, the moon and stars illuminated the pasture, and beyond that was their home—where their daughters slept.
“You know you do this every time you pregnant,” Smoke cautioned, keeping his voice low as he watched the house.
“No, I don’t,” Annie laughed, hand still on her belly without realizing it. Her eyes were on her husband: the hard lines of his face that softened when around her or their daughters; the sharpness of his eyes that never attempted to gaze upon her. She thought about the possibility of a larger family, a smile reddening her cheeks at how great that would be.
“You did the same thing with baby girl Emma. Same thing with my li’l Ruby.” He nodded his head like it made sense, smiled fondly at the names of his children. “You can’t never sleep, mama, so you run out here to yo’ trees and flowers. That’s just one way I can tell.”
“What’s the others,” Annie wondered, voice a whisper as she realized he might be right. He’d said this last time, but her having a routine with Emma wasn’t enough to persuade her that she was pregnant with Ruby. But now, things made sense.
Smoke chuckled lightly, still cautious about stirring the night.
“I’d like to keep those to myself,” he joked, “in case we end up havin’ a couple more.”
“More?!” Annie asked with a bright laugh of shock. She ogled him like her had three heads. “You want more babies?”
“I want all the babies in the world, suga’,” he nodded, “long as you want ‘em, too.”
And Annie hummed, heart warming because the longer the conversation went on, the more she began to accept the possibility. Three kids would be nice; She and Elijah had always envisioned a large family full of love and care and laughter. And he was a good husband—an amazing papa.
The smell of her flowers allowing her mind and body to rest, Annie could finally feel sleep overtaking her.
Slowly, she spoke once more.
“If it’s a girl,” the woman began, hand stroking her belly, “I wanna name her Anna.” She paused, feeling the short four letter word out. With a lazy smile, she continued, “But if it’s a boy, he can have your name, ‘Lijah.”
He turned to her, chest expanding with each breath. He felt blessed. Blessed to have her alongside him. Blessed to have the family that he had. Blessed that she found him worthy enough for such a thing.
“Okay, baby,” the man replied, knowing in his heart that in less than nine months, his wife would birth a baby girl and that her name would be Anna.
