welcome to my ocs ask blog :3 specifically the Desrosiers family, as you can see. this is my first oc ask blog, so I'm trying to keep from overwhelming myself as I dip my toes in :3
warning for newcomers; this is a whump blog. the Desrosiers are a dysfunctional family, deeply so among the main family. everyone but terry and the kids are whumpers. their whumpees include their own family members as well as 'outsiders'. there is nsfwhump at least inherent to some of these characters (specifically ian desrosiers).
if any of these sorts of thing is a squick or trigger to you, then now you know that this place probably won't be a good time for you.
please go ahead and;
send questions! all the questions! to me or my ocs, just specify which so I don't get mixed up! tho, of course, I reserve the right to privacy
interact with this dysfunctional family :3
whump. all the whump. there can never be too much whump >:3
try out magic!anon on my ocs :3
please don't;
kill off my ocs in this (no, not even Ian. not even Catherine. none of them, please)
ask for nsfwhump involving the kids, especially not as kids. I'm not comfy with that
know that, if something makes me too uncomfortable, I will refuse to answer or write for it. that is my right as the op here.
they're so possessive. a declaration. you're mine.
a whumper gently tugging on the whumpee's collar - a warning? a way to pull them closer? a reminder?
thick leather. cold metal. spiked. with a little dog tag. with a cute charm. inscribed with their name. attached to a chain - locking them to a wall? in the whumper's hand? tugging them around?
grabbing the whumpee by the collar. lifting them to their feet? pressing them against a wall? just holding it, reminding them that they could pull on it any time?
pulling the whumpee from behind and choking them with the collar
a constant sensation around the whumpee's neck - do they ever get used to it? do they ever get used to having it off?
I think it’s important to remember that after going too long without sufficient food, a big part of the recovery process is easing them back into a normal diet.
They can’t go back to eating big, rich meals until they’ve been eating smaller, plainer food.
If they eat normally too soon, they’ll get extremely sick. It can even kill them.
The digestive system is very fragile- careful how you feed your whumpees.
I love myself a Whumpee who doesn’t realise they are the primary victim.
This probably works best for living weapon Whumpee, but essentially a Whumpee who has seen the Whumper do the most cruel and ruthless shit to others, or asks them to do cruel and ruthless shit to others.
And they are like “Whumper is so cruel to others, I can be so lucky they never hurt me like that.” BUT THEY DO HURT THEM! Just differently.
Sure, they don’t (CW) gut them while they’re still alive. Whumper wouldn’t do anything to kill them, because they want to keep Whumpee.
And yeah, they don’t whip them in front of a large crowd of people, but they beat them in private. Because no one else deserves to see their delicious pain.
And so Whumpee thinks that they have it so much better than all these other victims, when in reality, they are Whumper’s favourite and the primary victim of their ruthlessness.
There are probably better ways to deceive this, but yeah… a Whumpee who doesn’t realise they are the Whumpee.
Underrated scenario in whump is dehumanization from caretaker. Caretaker treating whumpee like a traumatized animal; whether unintentionally, or because they're forced to, or because caretaker actually sees them as such.
I am giving a gift to every OC here (or any OC that you want). What would be a good gift for them? How would they react? Would they accept it as is, or be suspicious of an ulterior motive?
Love your work, btw! You have such a way with words and you can feel the love and passion for your OCs come through every time.
(OOC: You're going to make me blush. I'm happy you're enjoying this dysfunctional little family of ocs I've got going here! :D
Okay, this is going to be a long list, so this'll be a bit more 'clipped' than most)
Ambrose: A set of very thick, in-depth books on very new medical advancements for him to consume over the course of maybe a week or two. He’d be pleasantly surprised to receive a gift; no likely suspicion. Well, not from him. Catherine is a whole other story…
Catherine: A beautiful, custom-bound set of Fyodor Dostoevsky's works; there would be a bit of suspicion of an ulterior motive, especially depending on who you might be, but so long as nothing seems rigged to harm or embarrass her, she'd put her suspicions aside and accept the present as is.
Beatrice: …to be honest? A parakeet- live and well, preferably a juvenile, not dead. She’s always wanted a pet, and is particularly charmed by songbirds, but she’s never been really felt ‘allowed’ to back with her parents, and then she moved in with her husband and had kids, which occupied her time, and now she just…doesn’t consciously realize she can get herself a pet anymore. Not on her own. A little parakeet would prove to be a very precious pet to her. Especially if the parakeet is especially affectionate.
She would be surprised, and a bit suspicious at first, but it wouldn’t take longer than a day for her to fall in love with her new tiny friend. She’s a lonelier woman than she’d ever like to admit.
Sinclair: If you're family, something homemade he likes to eat is always a safe bet, though otherwise he'd appreciate VIP tickets to a very nice, big, ethically sound aquarium for him, his wife and the kids. Some suspicion is inevitable, especially if he's your boss, but he's unlikely to expect anything malicious in terms of ulterior motives; just self-serving.
Jules: A discrete all-expenses-paid appointment to someone who can get her on estrogen and get her top and bottom surgery :3 That’s probably not what you mean, though, so a dress tailored to her body and a corset that makes her waist look smaller and makes her look like she has more feminine curves than she does would be greatly appreciated. She’d be worried over how you knew she’s a girl when she's still in the closet more than anything else, but…she'd appreciate the gift.
Landon: An old Polaroid camera. He'd be taking so many pictures with one of those things. Of everything. Not that he'd admit it to anyone aloud, but you'd be able to see it in how he never puts it down. Ever. A bit of suspicion, but nothing serious or concrete.
Arianna: Right now? Something to do with the stars. A telescope, maybe, or a planetarium, or one of those wooden puzzle sets that let you build your own little model of the solar system. Astronomy is kind of her current hyperfixation. No suspicion whatsoever.
Carter: Plushies. Preferably, a big, soft plushie far bigger than he is, all four years old and three and a half feet of him. He'd be too busy dragging it around to show his uncle, parents and siblings while yelling at the top of his lungs to ever suspect whoever might have given it to him.
Ian: A really nice selection of various alcohols and spirits, as well as a pack of really nice cigarettes, maybe a nice antique lighter to boot. He'd be immediately suspicious even if he doesn't show it. You won't even notice all the background checks and scrutinizing he'll do on you and your potential motives. Probably waits until those checks are done and he believes he has you all figured out before either tossing the gift out or sampling it.
Luna: A really nice day, all expenses paid, at a really, really nice trustworthy spa run by women and staffed by women- and only women. Massages, manicure, pedicure, facial, full body treatment, hair and scalp treatment, the works. It would be a very, very nice gift to let her sit back, relax and unwind.
Ian likes to take her to spa days like these when the stress gets bad for her, whether from work, family or something else. It's one of the unexpected pleasures she's found in being his wife.
Yes, she'd be extremely suspicious at your motives behind giving her such a nice gift. Full suspicion. All the suspicion.
Otto: Getting his father and uncle, hell, his entire family including him to go to therapy- Yeah, that's not going to happen. One of those 3D printers might be cool; something to print out and put together those intricate models with. Maybe one of those portable laser tag sets for Florence to kick his ass with. Or a wood burning kit. His father telling him he loves him and meaning it.
He's going to be somewhat suspicious, if he doesn't know you or considers you giving him such a gift out of character, but he's not really going to do much about it, you know?
Florence: Give her Nerf guns. All the Nerf guns. All the foam pellets. Her parents and older brother will hate you. The penthouse apartment will be chaos for the next week straight. She will be having too much fun to question anything beyond how to keep this from getting confiscated yet again.
Alouette: If you give her a Tamagotchi, she will love it forever, and spend the whole day sobbing her heart out whenever her little friend dies. Much reward, much consequences. Consequences you won't have to deal with though. Well, beyond her father hunting you down if the loss of her digital pet impacts her mental health too much…
No suspicion; none whatsoever! She's very pleased by her gift! :D.
Terry: A gift he'd really, really like, even though he'd never admit it, would be very nice recordings of various musicals and operas and theatre productions for him to watch. It'd take a while for him to touch it, but once he ends up actually grabbing his blanket and curling up on the sofa to use his television for once, he'll enjoy it a lot.
If you want to give him a gift that would improve his life, give him a kitten. He’d bond with the little thing long before he'd be able to convince himself to give it up and then be forced to actually fix his life for the kitten's own good, from dropping one of his jobs to actually going to a therapist to help figure out how to be a good cat dad, and promptly begin to unravel his tangled mess of mental issues from his horrible life so far, not to mention his neurodivergency.
Or you could give him the recordings. He won't think to suspect anything either anyway.
Terry Whump - Abduction, Drugging & Spanking [SFW]
@thewhumpywitch Here you go :3 the first half of what was promised :3
<><><>
Terry has never been spanked before. Which means you’ll need to gather first-hand experience for yourself. A simple one and done spanking doesn’t need too much effort beyond the right timing, opportunity and slipping the right drug into the target’s system, one way or another.
It’s midnight when you see Terry leave the bank where he works afternoons. His suit is perfectly put together, his gait smooth, head held high; the look on his face, shadowed in the dark of the night, the unreadable expression of a marble statue of the gods. You don’t see something like that too often in this world anymore, that icy regality.
It’s unnatural.
As he sits down at the bus stop, his shoulders slump slightly. He reaches up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know you’re there behind him yet.
Your hand slips over his lips to yank his head back. His eyes barely have time to widen before you prick his neck, carefully wriggling the needle into the safest, most effective vein as you press the plunger and watch the drug spill into his system.
His fingers dig into your wrist and pry you off right as you rip the needle out of his throat in time to slam your fist right into his ear, sending him sprawling to the concrete.
He doesn’t have time to push himself back up before the sedative hits his system. It just lets him faceplant on the ground with a dull crack.
Pulling his head up by that short, soft hair lets you watch the blood dripping down from his broken nose. Over soft, plush lips relaxed out of that impassive line, down his chin and neck in pretty rivulets.
You shake his head a bit. His breath flutters.
You haul him up over your shoulder and take him away.
He’s lighter than he should be.
<><><>
By the time he begins to stir, you’ve already stripped him of his glasses, gloves, belt, shoes and socks, rope tying together his clothed knees and ankles, handcuffs digging into his bony wrists. To keep from having to deal with any speaking- you’re not in the mood to entertain demands for answers right now- you’ve shoved a silicone squeaky-toy ball between his teeth, threaded with rough rope to knot behind his head.
His hot tears still dry on his cheeks from when you reset his nose with your fingers by the time his lashes begin to flutter.
You look up from your phone as the man draped over your lap lets out a soft noise, and set it down to give him your full, undivided attention.
His thigh stiffens beneath your hand.
You run your hand up his thigh and ass, feeling through the stiff fabric. Not a lot of give. More muscle than fat, certainly. He jolts as you give his ass a firm squeeze.
When he tries to perk his head up to get a look at the dimly lit room and yourself, you grab him by the hair and shove his face into the mattress. He squirms atop you, garbled noises muffled as he suffocates beneath your hand.
Your fingers hook under the waist of his unbuttoned pants and yank down.
Dark, silky blue boxers cling to the tight muscle of his well-rounded ass. It really is as nice as it looked in his pants.
His thighs clench uselessly.
His squirming weakens, cuffed hands clawing for air at the mattress above his head. Oh, right. You release his hair and let him twist his head to the side, letting out a wheeze through his nose. Your hand settles over his eyes. His damp lashes flutter against your palm.
Before he can try to speak through his gag, your hand lands hard on the meat of his ass, and he yelps.
You don’t give him a chance to gather his bearings. Even as your hand begins to sting. To ache.
Twenty has him squirming all over again like a worm caught on a hook, squeaking the toy between his teeth with every smack. He’s trying to muffle the sounds he makes.
As punishment, you put your whole weight into the next ten slaps, forcing yelps and choked-out whimpers with every strike. He’s quivering by the time you go back to the force of the first set of strikes, to better conserve your energy. You don’t give him a reprieve.
You don’t pause until you reach fifty, palm red with the force of your open palm. He’s shaking beneath your hand as you rest it against his ass. When you pull back the waistband of his boxers, you catch a peek of his red, swollen flesh. No welts; not yet. Just bruising. When you let the waistband snap against his waist, he flinches into the mattress.
After a few moments, he tries to push himself up onto his knees, trying to get away all over again. All you have to do is give him a sharp, heavy strike to have him collapse all over again with a wheezing whimper that comes out wet and raw.
Your thumb runs over his skin, along the outside of his eye, and he shivers. His cheeks heat, slick with tears. Droplets of sweat tremble on his exposed nape.
When you start again, his back arches away from you with a pained whine.
It’s almost impressive how it takes twenty-one more strikes before the first ragged sob rattles out of him.
You reward him with twenty-nine more.
Sweat slicks the back of your neck when you give yourself a break, your captive hitching quiet sobs into his arms. He no longer needs your hand to know better than to look at you; he seems almost too afraid to try.
Feeling over the hot flesh of his ass has him flinching with a little whine in the back of his throat, all kicked puppy cowering in the corner, even under the thin fabric of his boxers. Finally, you feel welts raising from his delicate skin, even through the silky, stretchy cotton. About time.
The clench of his sore ass and his little flinches are the only resistance he puts up against you anymore.
You run your hand up and down his clothed thighs, and he shakes.
Your wrist aches. Clenching your hand sends little beads of pain shooting under your skin. Warmth coils pleasantly in your veins.
Maybe you should keep him a little longer than planned.
A broken yelp escapes him as you suddenly stand, stepping over his shaking body to leave the room. His cuffs are chained to the floor; he won’t even be able to stand with those on.
He curls up on the mattress in a pathetic little ball, not even bothering to clean himself up, as you plunge the empty basement in darkness behind you.
The basement door clicks shut.
He still has no idea what’s going on. No idea what he’s done wrong, what he’s done to deserve this. You never even let him hear your voice.
how would Ian and Terry react to being spanked? 👀 in both a non-sexual and sexual context.
tw: corporal punishment
Catherine hums, peeking up from her book. “Ian? Oh, him. He graduated from the hand to the cane fairly quick, but as he’s grown older, the hand has only become more effective on him. Sometimes when he forgets how his adult size will serve him little in keeping me from bending him over my lap, it does him good to remind him.”
“The trick is keeping up the spanking until he’s gotten past that vicious, ugly anger of his and finally goes nice and limp and weepy. Keep going for about twenty strikes after that. He won’t be able to look you in the eye for the rest of the day. Won’t even raise his voice around you.”
She shrugs. “I never used it on my younger boy. With him, a more impersonal approach works best as punishment. A caning for smaller matters, the box when he goes too far. No touch. Never any touch.”
<><><>
Luna blinks up at you from her private sewing room, mid-stitch at the sewing machine. She pauses in her hobby-work and turns off the machine before answering. “Spanking on the receiving end is an instant turn-off for my husband,” she replies. Her lips twist. “Catherine’s spoiled that for him.”
She has to close her eyes and breathe to calm her instinctive bristling over the memory of the woman intruding over what’s hers before she goes back to work.
<><><>
[OOC: Okay, the answer to how Terry reacts to being spanked in both instances has ended up longer than expected, so I’ll be posting them separately from this ask and tag you for both :3]
Ian blinks at you for a moment. Then, he grins. His breath smells like peppermint and iron. "Like the finest blood and tears I've ever had the pleasure of tasting. And by god is it mouth-watering."
His teeth gleam red.
"He's heading back to his car now, if you want a taste for yourself."
You find a teenager, around sixteen years old, blinking up at you with big brown eyes from behind oversized glasses, face tinting pink at the question. He's wedged in the corner of the academy library. Reading, clearly, from the open copy of The Secret Garden perched up against his knees.
"Um." His ears heat, averting his gaze to the book in front of him, before shyly looking back up. "....uh, I, um..." The more he speaks, the softer and quieter his voice gets. "I, um.... something with...lots of closeness? Maybe...maybe a missionary variant...?"
He doesn't admit that he often pictures himself in the 'female' position, beneath a penetrating partner. It's just....it feels comforting, okay? Being held like that. The thought of it.
Not that he's ever had sex to test anything out...
Ian blinked up at you, then scowled, nursing a hangover cure in the bathroom. There's a pair of little pink and white shoes fit for a five-year-old stuck in the corner between the door and the wall, and glittery makeup set to the side on the sink. "Bad hygiene," he admitted. "Also little shits who ask me stupid questions while my head's screaming."
Yeah, he's not being friendly right now.
<><><>
Terry blinks at you. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Slowly, his face heats up.
"I'm a virgin," he blurts out. "How am I suppose to know that? And what is 'tits or ass' supposed to mean? Are we talking about the animals?"
His brow furrows. "Tits, then, I suppose? I like the Azure Tit."
[A picture of an Azure tit perching on a branch. Because these things are such pretty, pretty birds :3]
Terry startles at your question, wide eyes flicking up to you from his supper alone in his small kitchen. You can see the exact moment when comprehension hits him by the moment his cheeks flush red. His lips part, then close. He has the distinct look of a cat who suddenly smacked right into a clear window it had not seen in the way of its path.
“Um.” He swallows. Blinks.
His flush darkens, and he ducks his head, gaze averting to his half-eaten meal. It’s small, a smaller portion than a man of the weight he should be should have to eat to remain healthy. He’s already mostly full.
“I-” He bites his lip, then forces himself to stop as soon as he notices himself doing that. “I- um. I- do not know? I’ve never-”
A thought strikes him, and his ears go red. His shoulders slightly hunch. “...ah, maybe…maybe my neck?” He purses his lip, looking to the side. His tone goes quiet. Small. “...not on my scars, though.”
He looks back up at you, brow furrowing. The heat to his cheeks has yet to cool. “Why do you wish to know?”
<><><>
Tw: explicit discussion of past underage dubcon (under the read-more)
You find Ian in an old bar only a few miles from a prestigious private academy, gaze strangely melancholic, even nostalgic, as he swirls the remnants of an Old-Fashioned in his glass. The smell of his breath makes it clear that, taking into account Ian’s alcohol tolerance, this has to be his dozenth drink of the night.
He’s not expecting you to plop yourself down in the seat beside him, clearly, and your question startles a laugh out of the drunk man. “Wooh, now that’s a ballsy question.” He’s not slurring yet, but he also leans back, quietly ordering a whiskey on the rocks for the both of you before turning to actually answer your question.
“Honestly?” He sighs, looking out over the bar. His voice goes quiet. You’re a stranger, probably never going to meet him again. He can let his tongue loosen every once in a while. “...probably the one drug dealer I let convince me to give a handjob and a thighjob.”
Ian grimaces. “I was a stupid kid. Fourteen. Involved in a crowd of similarly stupid kids. Bad-boy rich kids, each and every one of us. Got into lots of trouble, always managed to get out of it.”
“I won’t say the dealer was ugly or anything. Honestly, kind of looked like a more rugged version of my dad, if you added twenty years on him- the him he was at the time, anyway. More facial hair, more muscles, sharper eyes, but still.” He looks your way. “I get my good looks from both sides of my family.” For once, his grin looks…self-deprecating, almost.
“But yeah. He didn’t get us addicted or anything, but he had a bunch of fun varieties on sale. And we, being stupid, decided to see what we could do to get our hands on his stash without money.”
Storytime pauses for Ian to accept the glasses with a grin from the bartender, passing you one of them. “My treat,” he promises. “Now, where was I. Right. Getting the drugs.”
He swallows down a gulp before continuing. “So, the others had a variety of crazy schemes, I can’t remember them right now, but I decided to try charming my way into a few ‘samples’. Even then, I was good at that. So I walked right up to him and started chatting.”
Ian- hesitates.
“Yeah,” he skips over, “I ended up on a mattress in the back of this bar, dicks rutting against each other as he used my thighs to get us both off, covered my stomach in a whole mess, then got me to my knees for me to jerk him off all over my face. Sticky. Slapped my ass when I came out of the bathroom. I had to hide the bruising afterwards.” A look of unease slips over his face, even now. “Not my proudest moment.”
“And then I left, with a few bags in hand. I…actually, I don’t think I was in a good mood after that, for some reason. But yeah. First dude I ever slept with.”
He toasts you sardonically, trying his best for an uncaring grin. “To stupid kids, eh?”
