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Kinktober is a kinky October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.
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"You just sit there and think about what you've done. I'll return for you later, perhaps three, four hours? And you'd best be prepared to apologise when I do."
finally she is here, the art raffle prize for @whumperfly-in-the-sky of their princess OC in a bit of a predicament!
more women whump. more women pushing themselves and passing out from sleep deprivation and exhaustion. more women training until their knuckles bleed and their legs give out from under them. more women being held prisoner and remaining stoic until the very end or perhaps when they’re rescued. more women under truth serum and terrifying hallucinogens. more women waking up in a pool of blood, their own and others’ and not knowing what happened but that something is terribly wrong with them. more women falling apart o ly when rescued. more women pushed to their breaking point. more women whump.
You know the ones. A noble lady (what kind is up to you of course) in danger/captivity is in need of rescue. Butch knights and their ladies are all over the place on tumblr! Let’s hurt some and shake up the tropes a bit while we’re here :)
Of course you’ve got the classic of a butch knight going to save a noblewoman (femme or otherwise).
The would-be rescuer successfully finds the woman she’s been hoping to save from captivity. But on her way in, she’s been injured—maybe wounded from a fight, or hurt by terrain/the effort to infiltrate the stronghold—and when they finally meet she’s badly hurt.
Maybe tries to do some impromptu field medicine, and then hides the injuries as best she can, neither of them realizing the extent of them until later. The rest of the escape is agonizing, so thank goodness it’s a team effort.
Or, it’s too bad to hide and she’s forced to stop. It takes the noble’s help with patching her up, with a torn piece of a sleeve or skirt or a makeshift split, to get her in a position where the two of them can collaborate on escaping—and this time they both know the hazards which allows them to succeed.
Maybe the knight is trying her best not to show pain, to stay strong and do what’s needed for the good of both of them (she won’t flinch at being bandaged; she grits her teeth to keep from biting her tongue, and breathes through her nose to not scream), but almost as soon as she’s led them out of the worst danger, she’s overwhelmed by it all and collapses.
Now for the dynamic mix ups!
How about a clever butch noblewoman who tricks her way into enemy territory under a guise of false surrender in order to rescue someone who’s been taken as a war captive?
She comes in with the book-learning side of things that the warrior will need to know in order to make it out—a floor plan of the prison or castle committed to memory, an excuse for why she must see this person, a lock pick in hand, but isn’t going to be able fight her way free. She knows she’s taking a big risk, and fears ending up as a liability rather than a help, but she steels herself and does her best to prepare anyway.
The captive struggles with her sense of honor, feeling as if she should be able to free herself or dealing with shame at having been defeated/taken alive.
Maybe survivor’s guilt is a factor; maybe her capture was so traumatic she froze up. She’s left feeling that she not only shouldn’t need to be rescued, but she doesn’t even deserve it.
The noble makes it to the captive knight, but she’s gone through something unanticipated by the time she gets there. Perhaps she was put through an interrogation to be certain she was no threat, and lied through her teeth but was deeply shaken by the psychological harm and physical threat she’s under.
Or things have been a little too normal, to the point where it’s suspicious, and she realizes a trap is being laid for her as well, with the captive knight she has a connection to serving as bait. She finally reunites with the knight… when she’s thrown into the same prison cell. (It’s a good thing she still has her lockpick…)
The knight is in an absolute state when the noble gets to her. She’s stubbornly refused to talk when interrogated, or tried to escape repeatedly, and suffered for it. Maybe she’s taken a beating or deliberate torture injuries, or maybe she’s hurt or incapacitated by restraints intended to prevent further escapes (any restraints will turn into a torture device pretty fast if they’re left on too long).
Another two-butches scenario: a soldier set to guard a noble who’s being held against her will, who instead slowly finds herself pitying her stoic captive and realizes she wants to free her—but that would mean defection on her part.
The noble is being held prisoner but in a kind of gilded-cage situation due to her status. She’s not supposed to be physically injured, she’s not behind bars, but the room is locked and she has no qualms about complaining to the guard who’s meant to stay at her side. It could be superficial, or could be confiding her fears of her captor (maybe they’re hostile and it’s a hostage situation; maybe she was sent there on purpose only to find herself under the control of a tyrant as a courtier or bride, and it’s only captivity to her, but either way she wants out).
She keeps trying to trick or wheedle her way into getting more freedom, with the soldier not being impressed, but when the soldier reports it to the superior and it gets up to the highest-ranking person holding her (the other noble whose estate she’s at), her treatment worsens as a result, leaving the soldier feeling guilty.
The noble makes a failed escape attempt that results in security being subtly increased—more visits from her captor who’s now taking notice, for example, and decides it will require some psychological breaking down to keep her from trying to run. She’s perfectly willing to get into some verbal sparring, and her ingratitude requires punishment. It could be gaslighting or outright lies about the state of negotiations, or what’s become of the person/people she’s hoping to see on the other side: lies that they don’t want her back, or can’t afford to ransom her, or are dead/captured themselves. Now it’s part of the soldier’s duty to hide the truth, even as she watches the emotional devastation the noble is trying so hard to hide.
The physical security is tighter now, like before could wander around a certain area before, and now she’s locked in one room, or they’re trying to subdue her psychologically on a more blunt level by drugging her to keep her from scheming (she may or may not know it’s happening; the soldier definitely does).
Or, she’s being held in more of an outright prison or dungeon, and the soldier can tell she’s not really cut out for it—either she hasn’t seen combat or is new to it, maybe, but from the soldier’s dangerously-detached, used-to-trauma point of view she’s “soft”. She’s certainly never been tortured or deprived of adequate food/sleep/etc. and any part of that is rough on her. The visible trauma from things the soldier is almost used to shakes the soldier up. But she can’t do anything to stop it.
The soldier is made to witness the noble being tortured by her comrades—maybe they’re even her friends. They have no understanding or perception of the soldier’s discomfort, or why she has to try not to flinch at every pained sound she makes, every cutting remark and humiliation thrown at her (possibly about traits they share in common, in terms of presentation/gender/suspected or open queerness, threats that the group don’t realize will make the soldier view them differently).
She could even be made to participate in harm to her, maybe because she’s starting to be seen as too lenient with the noble, too kind. She’s in a risky position, with other guards or superiors observing, and she can’t get away with trying to make the blows lighter or do less damage.
Whatever the final straw is, the noble will need serious help getting out of it, with the damage that’s been done.
"You must keep fighting, my queen. Bide your time, keep your head held high. This kingdom is yours, and your people are fighting with you. Be not ashamed of what has been done to you; instead take pride in your will to survive."
Her family dead. Her life stolen. Princess Tullia is forced to become the bride of the warlord who conquered her homeland, who now proclaims himself king. She must learn how to survive this new life, determined to not let herself give in to despair.
It's easier said than done.
Blanket content warnings: Lady whump, rape/noncon, pregnancy, age gap, slavery, royal whump. More may be added, but all chapters will contain their own content warnings.
Slave whumpee with a powerful, abusive master. It would be easy for them to run away and disappear. But then they couldn't whisper in their master's ear, couldn't gently guide their master to better, more merciful policies while bearing the brunt of their master's anger at the world.
Slave whumpee who is incredibly significant to local peace and stability. Does anyone else even realise this?
something i was thinking about is caretaker finding whumpee post-assault, but it's been just long enough that caretaker has to do a bit more thinking to figure out what happened.
they're in whumper's bedroom. whumper isn't there, and whumpee is standing up, fully clothed having re-dressed themself as soon as possible after the assault, and is just kind of staring not sure what to do next.
and then caretaker bursts in, sees... nothing immediately concerning, and is confused until they look closer and sees the bedsheets are too creased to be fresh, and that whumpee's hair is a bit of a mess, and they're not crying but their eyes aren't exactly dry either.
ugh that’s such a fun twist on one of my favourite things (immediate aftermath where it’s VERY CLEAR that whumpee has just been sexually assaulted). it combines that undeniable evidence that takes out of the equation ‘do i tell this person i was raped’ with the slow realization, the horror of putting together what was done to them.
the ginger way they move. the wince when they sit down, the bitten off whimper and the specific _places_ they’re sore or uncomfortable. the ripped or disheveled clothing. a hickey or a bite mark on their throat they’ve tried to hide with a flipped up collar.
the way there’s such a more active question of do i ask? they have to ask. there’s not… there’s not clear and obvious evidence. they can still piece it together, figure it out, but there’s that lingering what if, and the fact that if whumpee is going to get help, care, support, whatever they need, they’re going to have to admit it.
Slave whumpee being gifted to a royal that they haven’t seen yet. They clean empty rooms, tend fires for no one, dust knock knacks for no one to look at.
It’s both the safest they’d felt in a long time and also the most afraid. Dread haunts them for when the royal finally does show up, but in the meantime, they’re taking orders from someone else, someone without the authority to really hurt them.
They try not to let themselves slack, but one day, they struggle to keep up. Their head is pounding, everything aches, and they find themself curling up on the floor in front of the fireplace “for just a moment, swear it” because they’re just so cold…
Waking up to a blanket draped over them, a pillow tucked under their head, the royal they’d been given to sitting in an armchair watching them thoughtfully.
using their skills of diplomacy and using words as weapons to try and bargain for better conditions. once whumper realises this, whumpee is beaten harder than ever before.
forced to dress in a mockery of their former royal clothes: cheap royal costumes, maybe from an outdated era
or forced to dress in rags from the beginning
or forced to dress degradingly revealing, kept on a chain by the throne for all to see
traded to a hostile kingdom as part of a peace treaty
the symbols of whumpee's power being repurposed to humiliate them (eg. their scepter being used as a cane to strike them, a crown repurposed to a collar, …)
pushed to their knees before the throne, head pressed to the floor by a hand in their hair, insults hissed into their ear
public punishments
paraded before their former peers and enemies, now degraded to something worth barely more than a stray mutt
a former subject using the opportunity to degrade and humiliate whumpee
a devoted knight, still loyal, taking care of whumpee in secret and protecting them when their treatment goes too far
whumpee dealing with agoraphobia after the assault: maybe whumper(s) was a stranger, and/or it took place in a public place, maybe there was even an audience, laughing and recording it, even joining in. after whumpee cant stop feeling like their body is public property, and can barely go outside without fearing that any random stranger will see them (and perhaps recognize them from the internet) and see them as someone theyre free to take advantage of
i’ve been unable to stop thinking about ‘whumpee can’t stop feeling like their body is public property’ since i got this. that hit SO hard.
maybe their whumper(s) was a stranger and someone they for whatever reason didn’t see. maybe they were drugged, maybe there were masks involved, or they were blindfolded or they were raped from behind and too afraid to turn around.
the constant fear that other people will see them as something free for the taking. maybe even people who otherwise would never have sexually assaulted someone will see them and know they’re already ruined. they’ve already been raped. there’s nothing left to protect, to respect. they’ve been used, it’s on the internet for everyone to see. maybe raping a regular person would be too much for most people but whumpee isn’t a regular person anymore, are they? they’re a body. a toy. they’re not safe anywhere.
Because I still am pretty happy about the Christmas Party arc, here's a little masterpost.
Written for @amonthofwhump Twelve Days of Whumpmas: Drugged, Betrayal, Sensory Overload, Putting Up the Tree, Gift Giving
Dedicated to @hackles-up, who kindly allowed me to borrow her perfect evil man Ridley for this.
Content: nsfwhump, noncon, lady whump, betrayal, intimate whumper, drugging (aphrodisiacs), given as a gift, multiple whumpers.
Newly wed to Ridley Lordin, Dany is co-host to his company's annual Christmas dinner. His plans for her that night, however, go a lot further than just representative duties.
Minors, Do Not Interact.
[Full story on Ao3] <- best to read here, and if you like it, leave a note? 💕
I would like a moment of appreciation for non/dubcon whump.
Trying to have a romantic moment with Caretaker but all Whumpee can feel is Whumper’s hands all over them.
Newly rescued, delirious Whumpee trying to give Caretaker “favors” because they think they’ll be punished if they don’t.
Whumper who tells Whumpee how beautiful they look when they scream for help.
Caretaker who expects to find Whumpee in a dark cell, probably unwashed and starving, but instead finds them perfectly cared for, dressed in lingerie, and chained up near Whumper’s bed.
Whumpee who is kept on a leash at Whumper’s side at all times for easy access.
Whumpee who isn’t compliant enough so Whumper has them drugged until that’s no longer a problem.
Whumpee who doesn’t want Caretaker to know what Whumper did to them, so they never tell Caretaker what their rope burns are actually from.
Whumper who gets Whumpee intoxicated and convinces them that they actually wanted this and Whumper was doing them a favor by allowing them to have it.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five
Warnings: medical whump (gyno exam), dehumanization
---
Charlotte did not remember much of the rehabilitation center she was sent to after Dad died. So much of her mind was stumbling against the fact that Dad died — Dad, who had always been quiet and undemonstrative but was still her father — and then against the fact that her siblings were trying to get rid of her as quickly as possible, were selling her … no, they insisted that it wasn't selling, they just signed a contract to give custody of her to an institution, and there was a signing bonus as a form of recompense. She was reeling, off-balance, and couldn't have even told anyone after how long it had taken to get there the second the vehicle stopped.
“Welcome to Shady Grove,” said the driver as he opened the van door for her (no handles on the inside), and she tried to force a smile in acknowledgement.
Things were more of a blur after that. She ended up naked under a paper gown on an examining table, the nurse pulling out metal things at the far end that she realized she was supposed to put her feet on.
“But,” Charlotte protested feebly, and then gave up.
“We have four-point restraints if we need them, but you'll be good, won't you?” asked the nurse. Ordered the nurse, really. Charlotte nodded and on instinct tried to find something positive about her: her hair was a pretty shade of blonde, either the natural color or a really nice bleach job. After Charlotte put her feet into the stirrups, the nurse pushed them farther apart and then somehow locked them.
The air was cold on her thighs, and on the tear-tracks down her cheeks. When the doctor came in, she tensed and clenched her fists, but remembered the nurse's you'll be good, won't you? and held still, even when he sat down on the rolling stool, still pulling his gloves on, and slid between her open legs.
“History from the family?” he asked the nurse, who opened a file.
“Late-in-life baby in a family of betas that turned out to be omega —”
“Happens.”
“Education through elementary school, then stayed at home to do housework. Not much else to say. The sister says she was never partnered —”
“What, really? And she's how old?”
“Thirty-one. Yeah, that's what it says. Apparently she's been on suppressants since literally her first heat.”
The doctor sucked air in through his teeth. “Yikes. Okay. Lots to check on, then.” Without warning, Charlotte felt the cold, sterile surface of his gloves against her, pushing inside her, and she gasped without meaning to. “Relax, honey.” She refused to look down at him, instead staring up at the institutional acoustic tile ceiling. He was — she didn't have the words she needed to describe it — he was persistently rubbing her, sliding his fingers in and out, and it hurt. His fingers weren't that big (she wasn't a complete innocent, she knew what a penis looked like and roughly what size it would be) but they dragged at her soft skin, especially as he kept pushing them harder and farther in.
“She's not lubricating,” he finally told the nurse, who wrote something down, her pencil scratching against paper. “That's the suppressants, probably.”
“What, really?” The nurse bent closer to look, and Charlotte forced herself to keep staring at the ceiling.
“See —” He put a hand on her gut and pressed, hard, up and into it. She cut off a whimper. “The glands should be responding to that kind of stimulation. She should be soaking right now.”
“Is that a problem, do you think?”
There was a shrug in the doctor's voice, but he kept pushing up into her abdomen as though the situation might change if he kept working on it. “Might be. Might clear itself up with a few heats. Hard to know.”
The nurse's pen scratched against her papers. “Some alphas might like it, anyway.”
“You think?”
“I knew someone once who had a thing for betas, for making them take stuff only omegas can. All the stretching them out, and begging — that kind of thing. If she could have had that, plus all the legal benefits of an omega … ? She'd have gone for it.”
“Huh. Not my thing.”
“Takes all kinds of people.”
“Sure does.” Finally, he pulled his fingers out; Charlotte felt like she was gaping open. “So, make sure to put some lube on the probe or it'll be a pain in the ass to insert.”
Charlotte shut her eyes at that, not wanting to be tempted into following whatever the nurse was doing with her gaze to try to understand it. She couldn't understand it. It was incomprehensible. She was — she'd always considered herself a lucky one, getting to stay home with Dad and not having to be some alpha's plaything, but of course that couldn't have lasted forever.
Something big, a kind of machine, was brought up beside her. The doctor got up to stand in front of the machine, the seat rolling a bit away, and the nurse took his old place. Charlotte, thighs feeling the strain of how far they were stretched, couldn't help but glance down and saw what the doctor must have been referring to as “the probe”: a long wand of grey plastic, perhaps technically thin, but still … Those locked stirrups wouldn't let her close her legs, but she tried to lean her knees in, at least. The nurse just put up a hand and shoved them apart again.
“If you relax, this will go in easier,” she said, more bored than threatening. Charlotte couldn't make herself relax, but the doctor was right about the gel covering the bulbous end: the thing slid in with only a tiny bit of wiggling to get the right angle.
It didn't hurt. Since it didn't hurt, she couldn't object to it. Her fingernails were digging into her palms, but that was for another reason, one that didn't merit interrupting. It just pushed in as far as it could go, and then the nurse pushed it a tiny bit more so there was a noticeable pressure, while the doctor click-clacked on the machine's keyboard.
They needed to do it to — to see if her body was all right. They already knew that it wasn't, of course, so now they had to figure out exactly which ways it was broken.
When the nurse started to move the probe, Charlotte tensed even more, expecting her to … well, to start pushing it in and out, testing her the way the doctor had, thrusting it with the vigor of a character in a costume drama pumping water. But she only shifted it this way and that at nods from the doctor, his eyes focused on the screen; occasionally she tilted the end up and pressed down, hard, on the handle, to get a certain awkward and uncomfortable angle. It was completely clinical, and it wasn’t that Charlotte wanted to be hurt, but the longer both of them went on treating her like a corpse to be prodded and examined, the harder it was to blink back tears.
“The suppressants have definitely had an effect,” said the doctor, at last, and Charlotte had to break and look at him. “The ovaries are …” He shrugged. “Shrunken. Follicles don't look great, either, and the uterus doesn't thrill me. I'm not saying she can't ever conceive, but it wouldn't make a ton of sense to put her out for surrogacy.”
“Especially given her age.”
“Yeah.”
“And that'll cut down on the number of alphas that might buy a contract for her, too.” The nurse gave a deep, heavy sigh, as though this affected her at all. Her hand was still on the end of the probe, and when she moved slightly Charlotte could feel it between her hips.
So what is going to happen to me? she wanted to ask, loudly and angrily, but that would have meant not being a Good Girl, so she kept the question to herself.
It took everything Elizabeth had to remain stoic while Lauren and Mike eagerly bounced ideas for what she could do to get slightly more involved with the omegas back and forth.
“Maybe an English lit class? Or just a book club! That would be less formal.”
“Ooh, I love it! Or what about tech skills? A lot of them don't have experience with computers.”
“That might be more useful! Although, I mean, the most useful and most hands-on thing would be to help with heats —”
“No! God, no,” Elizabeth finally said, managing not to tear at her hair. “Look, I know that we have to deal with that, but — no.” Absolutely nothing sounded like a worse time than athletically fucking an omega who couldn't say no, even if they'd timidly consented to it in advance because they knew it would be necessary, and honestly, providing aftercare didn't feel like something in her skillset. She couldn't even imagine it as anything other than sublimely awkward from start to finish. “I don't have a ton of time to devote to this. How about serving food in the cafe?”
Mike and Laurence exchanged a look. “How about you just come and eat lunch in the caf with me?” Lauren suggested after a pause. “It won't take up any time, since you'll be eating lunch anyway, and there's no responsibility to it — just chatting.” It would take up time, because Elizabeth's lunch hour was an important period for quiet recharging and not interacting with anyone, but she could begrudgingly appreciate that this was at least more beneficial to her schedule than running a weekly book club or holding Excel and Word classes.
“And that's … useful?” she asked, unable to resist checking in.
“Sure,” said Mike easily. “It's good for them to get a feel for alpha pheromones in a neutral, safe space. That'll help a ton with processing — they start to understand that alphas don't have to be abusive, all that jazz.”
Well. She hated to admit it, but that sounded like a decent point.
“Okay. Fine, I can do that. Just a few times a week, though!”
“Of course, of course! Honestly, any time you can spend with them would be good.”
“Hey, it's nearly time for lunch now,” Lauren pointed out, glancing up at the wall clock and barely concealing her eagerness. “Let's go!”
“No.” She was firm, because they were not springing this on her suddenly and upending her routine within seconds of proposing the course of action. “Tomorrow.”
“But —”
“That's fine.” Mike stepped in smoothly, giving Lauren a Look that made Elizabeth sure they'd be talking about her problematic psyche all the way to their own lunches. “We're headed out. Let you get on with all of your reports or grant letters or whatever. Get out of your hair!”
Yes, please, get out of my hair.
“See you tomorrow!” Lauren called, and then finally the two of them left, blessed quiet falling in their wake as Elizabeth began to appreciate how much she didn't want to be involved with a cafeteria full of omegas.
whumper who very obviously specifically gets off on making whumpee cry. when they assault whumpee, it's always with the goal of making them cry, figuring out what will hurt them enough to do it, what will degrade or upset them enough to provoke tears, to cause them to sob. and then whumper getting noticeably more enthusiastic, worked up. moaning and telling whumpee how pretty they are when they cry, praising them for 'crying for me.' whumper who wants whumpee to suffer and relishes in the evidence of whumpee's pain and grief as they're violated.
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