Hi!! I’m Maud, I’m 20, lesbian, I use he/she pronouns and I’m currently studying veterinary medicine. I’ve been obsessed with whump writing here for a couple of years and finally decided to make an appearance and create a blog for this. I’m not great at writing but i post whump art occasionally
Fav whump tropes:
Pet whump
Vampire whump
Lab whump
Non human whumpee
Living weapon whumpee
Parental whumper
Mind control/hypnosis/brainwashing
Restraints/bondage
Starvation
Recovery whump
Gags/muzzles
Kidnapping
Humiliation
Failed escape
Chronic pain
Hurt/comfort
Dehumanization
Punishment
My stuff is under #my art, this blog is very new so I don't have a lot of stuff yet ok :((((
Sexual assault under the guise of a medical exam. Maybe Whumpee is a living weapon? Maybe the exam checks every aspect of their health. Either way, there's a particular look in Whumper/Medic's eye when they order Whumpee to "Put your feet in the stirrups."
living weapon whumpee whose only relief when these exams happen is that stoicism is expected of them in all situations. they can dissociate, can detach from their body, as long as they remember to follow orders when they’re told to move this way or that. they don’t have to pay too much attention, and so they don’t. they disconnect and tell themself their body doesn’t matter, anyway. nothing that happens to it matters. people do all sorts of things to weapons and since weapons aren’t people, none of it matters.
until a new medic/doctor joins the team. and this time, they want something else. they want whumpee’s reactions and they’re not going to stop until they can provoke and document the exact responses that they want. whumpee can’t check out anymore. everything is so terribly, inescapably real.
A handler bring their kid at work because they were no babysitter. But they have a something important to do so the only one available to keep an eyes on the kid is the most loyal whumpee.
●The child innocently asking if they are a friend of their parent
●pointing out LW's scars and asking how they got them
●LW wondering if they ever were that small and weak
●Being protective of the kid because they know how cruel those working here can be
●not having a single pop culture reference but enjoying just having a conversation
●Being gifted a drawing and trying to hide it from their handlers (and possibly being punished if they found out)
●Being recompense for taking good care of the kid (or the opposite)
●months later LW daring to ask handler how is their child doing
●or becoming the official babysitter
●the now adult child rebelling against their parent and breaking free LW (who might not even recognize them...)
Whumpee sacrificing themself to protect their friends....that's the shit
AGREE AGREE AGREE
it hits so hard every single fuckjng time
Actually, here’s a little snippet that this ask inspired
Content: team whump, team dynamics, lady whump, sidekick whump, manhandling, beating, gun mention, pistol whipping, branded, sacrificial character, self sacrifice, pinned down, used for bait, vigilante whumpee, supervillain whumper, forced to kneel
Supervillain’s henchmen surrounded the small team in the same way a pack of coyotes swarmed their victim. They could taste victory.
The fight had left them covered in dust and blood and in horrible shape.
Exhausted.
Bleary eyed.
Defeated.
it took two guards to force Leader to kneel. The fight had done a number on her, with one eye swollen shut and her knuckles ripped open, blood dripping into the sand.
Once down, there was the click of a guns safety and the rich smell of powder and metal burning her nose.
She worked her jaw in a tight circle, knocking loose a tooth. The taste of iron was overwhelming and she spat out a glob of blood with something white embedded in it on the henchmen’s boot.
They groaned in disgust.
Then Youngest dropped down beside her, their uniform torn and stained. The fight hadn’t gone well for them either. They were clearly shaking, a hollow look in their eyes.
She tried smiled at them. It came out crooked. “It’ll be okay,” she mouthed.
Youngest grinned back tiredly. They wanted to believe her so so badly.
The henchmen kicked down Medic and tore off their satchel, dumping its contents on the ground. White bandages unraveled in spirals and bottles of much needed medicine spilled into the dirt. Wasted.
Medic’s jaw trembled but they stared directly forward.
“We’ll get it back,” Leader attempted to comfort them in a whisper.
One of the henchmen pressed the muzzle of the gun to her head in a clear threat. “Quiet!”
Leader’s eyes burned. “Or what?”
She never got to hear the answer.
Supervillain strode through his circle of followers, eying the captives. Finally victorious, he adjusted his shirt collar with a grin. But his triumphant smile faltered before fading away altogether.
He looked over the team again, counting them off.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Where was Vigilante? Where was his turncoat sidekick?
Supervillain wasted no time.
“Where are they?” He didn’t need to specify who. Everyone knew who they were. He paced in front of them, each step methodically, pausing for dramatic effect in front of Youngest.
Youngest swallowed, eyes darting to Leader for guidance.
Leader pursed her lips with an almost untraceable shake of her head. Almost.
Supervillain saw it.
“You really think this stubbornness will get you anywhere?” He sighed. “You silly, stupid, little fools.”
He grabbed Youngest by the shirt collar and twisted it, hauling them to their feet. Actually, their feet left the ground and swung above the sand. “Tell me where Vigilante is, or this one won’t be able to say anything at all.”
“Let them go!” Leader’s molecules felt like they would rip apart if she did nothing. She lunged to her feet, frantic. The henchmen reminded her of the gun by whipping the butt across her temple.
White. Blinding, electric white.
There was a sickening thud as she folded over into the dirt.
Medic’s mouth fell open. No—
A few yards away, a shadowy figure had a similar reaction, except they were horrifyingly sick into a discarded helmet.
Vigilante cowered, their invisibility a small escape for now. They suppressed a tremor, their breathing too loud in their own ears— how could Supervillain not hear it?
They watched with wide eyes as Supervillain pinned Youngest to the ground by the sole of his boot. The movement was as fluid as squishing a beetle.
Their breathing faltered, Supervillain’s boot a throbbing memory on their shoulder. How many times had he done the same thing to them?
The last time Vigilante cried had been the day Leader found them.
They were dangerously close to tears now.
They couldn’t go back to him. Back to the beatings and bruises and the red, red room—
They couldn’t—
Coward.
Then Supervillain slipped on spiked metal rings. Slowly, so Youngest could see them. “Someone has to pay for wasting my time.”
Youngest struggled under Supervillain. “I-I’m sorry! Please I don’t know anything, I swear I don’t know I don’t—“
It was too much to hear the tremble in their voice. Vigilante couldn’t take this.
Vigilante didn’t know what came over them. A sense of calm. Something desperate, something other.
They shifted back into visibility.
“Miss me?”
Everyone turned.
Everyone stared.
Supervillain began to smile again. “Hello, Sidekick,” he used their old name like it was a curse. Subtly, he nodded to his henchmen to begin to encircle Vigilante.
Vigilante swallowed. Hard. No turning back now. “It’s Vigilante. Now let them go—“ they gestured at Youngest and the rest of the team. “It’s me you want.” A hint of desperation snuck through the gaps in their teeth, audible.
Supervillain ground the heel of their boot into Youngest’s back. They wheezed, the sound strangled, as something small snapped in their ribcage. “Vigilante!” Help.
“Get off them!” The tone was almost pleading.
“Grab them,” ordered Supervillain and the henchmen wrestled Vigiliante’s hands behind their back, tying them tightly enough to cut off circulation.
Supervillain stepped off of Youngest, who lay sprawled on the sand like a thing discarded. He approached Vigilante.
Vigilante’s breath caught in their throat. The henchmen’s grip was unrelenting, pinning them in place.
With two fingers, Supervillain tilted Vigilante’s chin upwards. And then to the left. Then to the right. Inspecting them from all angles. “I did miss you.” he relented.
Vigilante looked away.
But Supervillain’s touch didn’t leave. It traced downwards, dipping below Vigilante’s shirt collar.
Vigilante swallowed. Please.
Supervillain peeled back the shirt to reveal the brand on Vigilante’s collarbone, as deep and scorched as the day it had been given.
Vigilante’s gaze flickered up, to the glassy blue sky, away from Supervillain’s smug smile and Medic’s sympathetic eyes.
They knew what had to be said. And the words tasted like acid in their throat, built up like plaque on the back of their teeth.
“Take me back.”
“Hm?”
“Take me back. I’ll go. Just…just leave them.”
A pause.
“You’re prepared to accept the punishment for the troubles I’ve been put through to get you back?” The words were like a physical blow and Vigilante flinched.
Medic broke in. “Don’t do it! Don’t!”
“Yes,” they whispered, unable to look away from the bloody sand. Leaders limp body. Youngest curled into a fetal position. Medic. Kneeling.
“What’s that?” Supervillains smile widened.
“Yes,” and tears pricked the corners of their eyes. “Sir.”
"No, Hero! No!" Villain screamed desperately through the gag. They hadn't shoved the cloth in correctly so they had to take the chance. They had to warn Hero, who was sure to be nearby. "Don't come here, no!"
Unfortunately, and predictably, Supervillain didn't approve.
"Put that thing in properly." They growled and the henchmen currently holding their friend flinched. "Now."
Reluctantly, even as the villain thrashed while screaming, they pushed the cloth deep into Villain's mouth. Villain's voice became chocked and garbled, drool starting to pool in the corner of their mouth.
At some point, Supervillain must've approached them, as they were now hovering over Villain, who was having difficulty breathing.
Supervillain crouched down, waving their henchmen away. "Look here." They put a finger on the cloth. "You pull that stunt again," they snarled as they shoved the disgusting thing even deeper. Villain's eyes went wide as it touched the back of their throat. Immediately, their body convulsed as they choked, shivering.
"...you will suffer an even worser fate than what I have planned for you now, you backstabbing piece of shit."
I will never get over how intimate it is to bathe someone. every time it's in whump I eat it UP!!
whumpee going limp, with an empty expression, at having to be naked. caretaker awkwardly trying to keep them comfortable, with whumpee refusing to voice any discomfort out of fear. whumpee's hair being washed with their clothes on, closing their eyes as their scalp is massaged, maybe even falling asleep in the warm water. whumpee letting themselves cry in the bath...
whumper calling them disgusting, roughly washing them over with no regard for the way whumpee feels about it, or being hauntingly gentle. inspecting their wounds and how to hide them, or letting them sit in front of a mirror to see the effects.
Whumpee is often left gagged when Whumper isn't around. After a while, they start to chew and bite it. Is it out of boredom? Anxiety? Something else? Who knows, but it drives Whumper up the wall because they're having to replace equipment every few months.
Caretaker who cannot loosen whumpee's restraints, but who can hug them. Can curl protectively over a bound whumpee, especially of whumpee is forced into a vulnerable/compromising position.
Caretaker cannot free them, but they can put themselves in between whumpee and anyone who so much as looks.
As an ace person, I grew up with a fear of sex that led me to read a lot of noncon fics to "prepare", if you will, for (what I saw as) the inevitable. I know its not the same as real sexual assault and I don’t wanna appropriate anyone's trauma, but your focus on survivor fiction still makes me feel better in some ways.
As such, do you have anything on threatened noncon situations that don't actually end in noncon? Or, I guess, situations where whumpee feels the threat of it even if it's not there?
I'm so glad that the focus on survivors/survivor fiction has been helpful--and absolutely, if it helps you heal from something/comforts you, it's doing its job. I'm ace too btw :)
Kidnappee grabbed by the armpit and upper thigh and thrown bodily into the back of a truck. They can still feel where the hands pressed in near their groin as their attackers jump in behind them.
As part of psychological torture. Captive tied to a chair with their legs spread wide open and gagged with a ball gag. Then left to sit like that for thirty minutes as their stretched tendons begin to ache in their legs and jaw, captors walking in and out of the room and eyeing them while talking to each other quietly.
Interrogator walking into the room with obvious bdsm gear--blindfold, gag, riding crop--and setting them down on the table across from prisoner and just making prolonged eye contact until prisoner's eyes drop and they swallow.
Pinning fresh captive down with shouts and grabs all over their body, frisking them with hard slaps and pinches and shouted "where's your weapons? Huh?" And captive grimacing as they feel hands everywhere they're not supposed to be.
Ripping off their clothes to make sure they're not hiding anything. Captive fighting to hide their body, crying when they fail, waiting for the next touch in disgust and terror.
Sensual fingers pressing into grooves by captive's hips, sliding down, then up to rest on captive's nipple as captive's body swerves to the side in their bonds, trying to escape their touch. Captor whispers, "Keep resisting. Make it fun. I dare you."
whumpee being kissed over/through a gag. whumper’s mouth is hot and wet and inescapable. whumpee can’t bite. they can’t get away. if it’s an open mouthed gag, a ring or spider gag, they can’t escape whumper’s tongue forced inside, deep and choking and invasive. kissing over or around a ball gag, kissing over the top of tape, kissing and licking at the sides of a muzzle, the insistent, forcible passion. the helplessness is horrifying, and it’s so confusing too. why. why is this happening, what is happening, why?
First they were attacked from behind, a swarm of attackers lunging at them from the shadows. Their arms wrenched behind their back until their shoulders creaked, the fragile crying out of bones and ligaments before they snap. They’re not expecting the quick punch to the solar plexus or how it steals the breath from their lungs. Before they can gasp for air, blunt punches rain down from every angle. Both cheeks catch different sets of knuckles at the same moment. Something crunches. Their head drops forward - trying to hide, trying to escape - and a fist bangs down on the crown of their head like with all the hesitation of someone banging on the breakfast table. A tight grip fists through their hair, tilting their face up towards the shadows, and the blow that comes leaves blood spilling from their mouth, their teeth, their numbless formless lips. Held tight by restraining arms, their soft underbelly is exposed to the assault of someone aiming over and over for the space below their ribs.
Someone changes tactics, looking for an unmarked spot, and when the punch hits their chest, a sharp ring pops through the skin. Then another, and another, until blood flattens the shirt to their heaving, panicked chest.
With lips swollen and their own iron on their tongue, they barely register the gag until it is far too late. The rough fabric slotted and pulled into place, stretching their jaw around the thick wad until it feels like they’ll suffocate. Tears flee down their cheeks, itchy and mingling at the corners of their stretched maw, slipping behind the gag to clog what little air they have left.
They only have a moment, a short gasp of relief, to revel that the blows have stopped.
The loud rip of tape.
Someone’s hand, wide and warm on their forehead, tilting them back so that another can carefully seal tape over the gag. Fingers digging against a swelling jaw. Cursing when they find moisture. A sleeve wiping their cheeks clean. Fingers again, carefully affixing the tape into place and making sure the corners are pressed down tight.
A bag slides over their head, replacing shadows with terrifying clarity of the senses. The rank smell of their own fear and sweat. The rippling spasms through their abdomen, muscles tensing and untensing as they fight against anticipated blows. The oppressive heat of bodies, so many bodies, crowding them from every side. Surrounded. Arms held captive with warning pressure pushing into the sockets of each shoulder. The hands on the front of their chest keeping them upright. Another set of hands on their hips, holding them in place or keeping them from sliding to the ground.
They jump as hands clasp around their head, palms flattened over their ears. A muffled discussion happens above them, and then the hands are pulled away and in their absence comes a familiar weight made foreign through the distance of the cloth.
Noise canceling headphones.
A switch flicks on and the world shifts into a mute.
The grip holding their arms back relaxes. Pins and needles rush in to greet the tips of their fingers, which wriggle of their volition like fish baited by the hook. Their arms shake with the effort of existing, and no sooner have they sensed freedom than they’re grabbed again, this time by the elbows, nearly lifted off their feet as they’re dragged forward forward, until they exit the alley, until the cold unencumbered wind kisses the new wet spots on their cheeks through the rough cloth bag. Until they’re pushed against something, the hard knock of something unmovable against their legs that sends them sprawling forward. Until their captors with their hard grips step inside, and the ground shakes under them, a vehicle creaking at the weight. Until their captors tug the helpless inside behind them. Until the door that slams shut is a whisper of air and the arrival of instinctive of knowing when the trap has sprung shut.
Until they’re sat, shivering, between two unknown masses who are blood warm with the weight of their violence. The heady promise of anticipation in the air that comes from knowing they will taste it again soon.
Until all they can do is shiver in revulsion at the heat.
Until sitting takes a taxing toll, leaves them shriveled up in pain and leaning against the same brutal bodies for support. Until one of them releases their elbow and, in the cruelest parody of gentleness, wraps their arm over their shoulder instead, encouraging them to rest.
Until all they can do is choke on their own gasping sobs, gagging when the intruder in their mouth won’t even grant them that much. Until they’re quiet; until they’re numb.
Until all they can do is wait.
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