29yo | He/Him | An Asexual Worm on a String | Artist | 18+ (NO DMs FROM MINORS PLEASE)
Asks with drawing prompts are welcome. DMs to discuss OCs are encouraged! I'm not a writer. I'm more of an artist.
Tags:
#Original - ALL Original Posts (Text, Images, etc.)
#OC - All OCs will be tagged with this.
#My Art - All art by me.
#Ask - Any replies to asks
OC TAGS:
#Dallan - Human servant blorbo. Whump shaped.
#Parish - Elf doctor. Friend shaped.
#Remus - Human "Mad Scientist". Villain shaped.
#Elliot - Vampire. Friend, mild antagonist, AND Whump shaped.
OCs:
Dallan Daymond | tag: #Dallan - Fantasy victorian servant in his early to mid-20s employed by Mr. Richard or Doctor Parish. Very polite but kind of a doormat. Only partially literate. Loves dogs. (frequent whumpee)
Alexander Parish | tag: #Parish - Elf, an older gentleman who practices medicine, a magic user. Friend of Mr. Richard, & Dallan. One of Dallan's employers. (Caretaker)
Remus | tag: #Remus - Doctor/Scientist with questionable ethics. Experiments on vampires, werewolves, etc. Anything inhuman he can get his hands on. (Whumper)
Fantasy Victorian setting with vampires, werewolves, elves, magic, and other fantastical elements. (Not historically accurate)
Elliot | tag: #Elliot - A half-elf technically killed by a vampire attack, surviving only by miraculously being turned into a vampire himself. Knows nothing about vampirism. Just winging it. Absolutely uses vampiric powers on humans though. Comical character but tragic. (Whumper AND whumpee)
Fave Whump Themes:
What this post said:
doorlampwrites:
What if I want whump but like. Comfort. Comfort whump. No no not fluff, I need the zing!! I need the fascination of an awful relationship but like. Comforting. Yes they kidnapped them but like... put them in a comfy bed. With the big floofy sheets and weighted blankets. Yes... yes... the head pats... No it's controlling I swear. They kidnapped them this is whump I promise they’re scared (they’re just also so content and warm).
Whump but like comfy whump / carewhumper vibe?
Kidnapping. I like kidnapping whump.
Gilded Cage / Nice Whumpers
Mental/physical Age Regression (for comfort. CODDLE THEM!!!)
Hypnosis / Mind Control / Brainwashing / Altered States(?)
Poison / Sedation / etc.
Cartoon-tier hostage/used as bait shit? *chef kiss*
Something I know and wish to internalize and remember. I have been attempting to not overuse disclaimers or statements of intent/clarification out of defensiveness or for fear of misinterpretation. In fact, I’ll probably have to become willing or more open to being misinterpreted someday if I ever want to accomplish anything.
Once when I was in undergrad, someone described something as “problematic” in class and our professor was like, “That’s cool, but ‘problematic’ doesn’t really mean anything. It means that the thing you’re describing has a problem, and in and of itself that’s not bad. Art, especially, should always have problems, or else it’s not interesting and not art, either. It sounds like you’re trying to say that this is bad, but you don’t want to say ‘bad.’ Is that right?”
So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”
Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.
Anyway. Whenever I see the word problematic, I can’t help but think of this professor being like, “Good starting point, now let’s get specific.” I think when we have to commit to saying “that’s ___” it requires a lot more careful thought about the truth and impact and complexities of whatever we’re claiming. Sometimes there really is some bullshit afoot, and also sometimes it’s art, and it should be full of problems, because that’s what art is.
Whumper calming Whumpee down when they're having a panic attack? Anyone? 🦋
Loosening their restraints and holding their hands.
Pulling the gag away from their mouth so they can drag in a proper breath because they're sobbing/hiccuping/hyperventilating.
Brutal hands that inflict so much pain turning soft - a hand carded through their hair, warm palm placed on Whumpee's heaving chest as they're asked to mimic Whumper's breathing. Wiping the tears away.
Offering a sip of water. Offering them praise like; "It's okay, deep breaths," "Not long now, whumpee", "You're being so good for me."
One thing about me as a whump writer/reader is that if a character says the phrase "my little *insert various descriptors*" to the character undergoing the whump? I'm listening. I'm already sitting down. There's some switch inside me that flips when I hear that.
Someone had been in his house. Matt was certain of it. The door, which he was sure he'd closed on locked when he'd left for work, was wide open when he came home. Inviting him into the place he once felt safe. At first, he thought it was a robbery, but nothing had been stolen. Barely anything was out of place. It was like all his possessions had been meticulously combed though and then put back where they were found.
Most disturbing was what he found in his lounge; a red heart-shaped foil balloon. Floating in the middle of the room, tethered to the floor by a string. No note, but the message was clear. Someone wanted him. Someone who didn't care about his privacy, his wishes or his sense of safety.
It wasn't the first clue he had a stalker, but after that there was no denying it. Later, he'd retrieved letters containing pictures. Pictures of him on the train, at work, sleeping, at the police station, on the phone to his friends. He'd become paranoid, but was it really paranoia when your fears were true? He didn't take the train anymore. Called in sick to work, cut off all his friendships but the people he trusted most.
He was staying at his friend's house, a cookie cutter suburban place, when the countdown started. Each letter now contained a note alongside the invasive photos. The first one just said: ``10''.
Everyday they came, each time the number counted down. Everywhere he went he felt eyes on him, like a physical force, ghosting over his skin and making his hair stand on end. On day zero Matt holed himself up in the spare room, the blinds closed. He didn't open the door for the friend who rented the house, he didn't go outside. He kept his phone fully charged, ready to call the police. A notification came up from his friend, the one who rented the house.
I'm so so sorry matt, I cant stay in the house tonight. My dad got in an accident and hes really hurt so I have to go to the hospital. Dont open the door for anyone and call the police if you hear anything! Im really sorry!
Well, shit. He couldn't really begrudge her that.
Midnight came. Matt had slept sporadically for weeks, especially the days leading up till now. Panic and boredom left him jumpy and exhausted. Midnight came. Nothing happened. What was he meant to do now? Assume the stalker had given up? It was then that the fire alarm went off. Matt shot to standing, heart beating out of his chest. Why today of all days? His hand paused at the door handle. If there was a fire, he'd have to go outside, into the night, vulnerable to... whatever the stalker was planning to do.
The smell of smoke was faint in the air, but it was there. Fuck. This was real. Matt remembered distantly that burning to death was meant to be one of the most painful ways to die. So was he more scared of that or his stalker? Matt grabbed his jacket. He was not going to burn to death alone in this house.
The stairs creaked as he ran down them. Just a little further, through the kitchen and he'd be out. The smell of smoke was getting stronger, but surely if the fire was in the way he'd feel its heat by now, right? It didn't matter, the only out was through.
He burst into the kitchen, and stopped, dumbfounded. There was a man there. He was tall and broad, standing with his back to Matt, facing the stove. Matt was sure he'd never seen this person in his life. Smoke rose from the pan on the stove, making the room slightly hazy. This stranger seemed completely unbothered by the piercing sound of the smoke alarm.
``This recipe always trips me up.'' He said. His voice was was too calm, too normal for the situation.
``I- who are you?'' Matt said, too stunned to think of anything else. The stranger turned with a cold smile.
``I'm your new owner.''
Matt was out of that house as fast as if there actually had been a fire. He ran into the night, feet beating the pavement, carrying him through the streets of the unfamiliar neighborhood. He knew the house was walking distance from a shopping district, if he could get there, somewhere public, he could phone the police. So for now he ran. He turned corner after corner, but the roads were a maze of identical houses that seemed to lead him in circles.
Eventually Matt found an alley to stop for breath in. He wasn't exactly the fittest guy, not much muscle or fat seemed to cling to his lanky form. He fumbled for his phone, dialed the number. It was dark, and he'd run a long way. If he was quiet, maybe-
A strong hand clamped down on the back of his neck, another plucking the phone from Matt's trembling fingers.
``You poor thing, you didn't even get that far. I thought I'd have to work harder than that.''
Matt's breath trembled as he shifted under the weight of the man's hand. From the feel of it, there was no way he'd be able to physically overpower him. He'd just learned that he couldn't outrun him either.
``Please... I don't underst- I- What do you want from me?''
``Hush. You're getting all worked up.'' said the man, as if that helped. ``My name's Marshal, but you won't be using it very often. I think we could both do with a break from things, so I'm taking you on a roadtrip and then I'm going to take care of you.''
What was that supposed to mean?
``Thanks, but I'm ok. I just want to go home.'' the hand on his neck tightened its grip. Matt's voice rose in panic. ``Please. Let me go. I just want to go home.''
``I know. But I want you to come with me, so that's what we'll be doing.''
Marshal started moving, herding Matt forward. Matt struggled, mind reeling with panic.
``Wait! Please, I'll give you money, I won't tell anyone, I just-!''
His voice was cut off by a slap that nearly unbalanced him. He groaned, the sharp pain decisively ending his train of thought. He was pulled back, flush with the broad chest of the man holding him. Marshal's breath was hot in his ear.
``There's a time and a place for begging. Now, are you going to take a nice stroll with me, or do you need more convincing? There's a point where I'll stop using words.''
``I-''
``Don't speak. Just nod. Can you do that?''
Matt nodded.
``Good. Are you going to cause me any more trouble?''
Matt shook his head.
``You're learning!'' said Marshal, evidently delighted. ``I can see you're going to do great. Come on now.''
Marshal seemed to understand the streets of this neighborhood better than Matt did, because soon enough they'd looped back to an alley near Matt's friend's house. There was a van parked there. He stopped. There was just no way Matt could walk to his own doom. Marshall stopped behind him, much too close for comfort.
``I told you we're going on a road trip. Don't go getting cold feet.''
``I can't do this.'' said Matt. ``I can't do this, please, just let me go.''
``There there.'' said Marshal. ``It doesn't matter that you can't do it. You won't be doing much of anything. I'll take care of all the hard work, alright?''
``No, I-'' This time, the slap did send Matt to the ground. He was dragged to his feet, this time with his hands held firmly behind his back. Marshal practically manhandled him into the alley, where the hand keeping him restrained was replaced by duct tape, rendering his arms useless. Next his legs were bound in much the same way. Marshal laid his helpless form face down on the ground.
``That's better, isn't it?'' Marshal stroked his hair in what was probably a soothing gesture in any other circumstance. ``Just one thing left to do.'' There was a rustling somewhere outside of Matt's vision. The hand returned to his hair, but instead of carding through it, took hold and pulled, forcing Matt to look up.
``Open.''
Matt was about to ask what Marshal meant, but figured it out pretty quickly when a rag was stuffed in his mouth as he drew a breath. His mouth was taped over with more duct tape, sealing the deal.
``That's better, isn't it?'' Matt shook his head and made a muffled sound of disagreement. It was meant to sound defiant, but it came out as helpless and miserable. Marshal chucked low in his throat and went back to petting Matt's hair, savoring the moment.
``You need any help?'' It was a new voice, coming from the entrance of the alley. At first, Matt thought it was a stupid question, but then he realised the man hadn't noticed him yet. In a blink, Marshal was confronting the stranger. The fight was short, and Matt was horrified at the evident strength and skill of his captor, the way he was so easily able to subdue this newcomer. Any hope that this new person would save him was crushed as Marshal tied the man up, cursing and struggling all the way. Even subdued, he had the courage to bite Marshal's hand, and Matt saw a few drops of blood staining his lips.
Marshal poked and prodded at the newcomer, as if assessing a prize pig. Finally, he came to a conclusion. "You are pretty. In shape, nice face, good hair. But I don't know if you'll be quite worth the trouble. Don't worry. I'll make it quick."
Matt realised what he was going to do. Marshal was going to kill this stranger, this bystander who just wanted to help, who fought to hard when Matt had only let it happen. He shook his head and made a desperate noise of dissent into the gag. Marshal turned his cold eyes on him, his expression one of curiosity. Like Matt was a science experiment that had done something unexpected.
"What do you want?"
Emboldened by the attention, Matt shook his head more fervently. Please don't kill him.
"You want a friend? You scared you'll get lonely?"
Matt hesitated. Would it be kinder to spare this stranger from whatever horrors Marshal had in store, even if that meant death? He didn't think he could deal with watching his kidnapper kill someone in front of him. It might have been selfish, but Matt nodded.
"Don't worry, you'll have me." That wasn't comforting at all, but Marshall was already moving on, "It's been a while since I had two, but it was fun. You've gotten all attached already, haven't you?"
If that was what Marshall needed to hear to keep the man alive, then yes. Again, Matt nodded. The newcomer snorted in obvious derision which Matt tried hard not to find offensive. It wasn't like he got a choice in how his kidnapper justified his actions, and he was trying very hard to save his life. Marshal looked between them thoughtfully.
"You are cute together, a bit of sour to balance out the sweet. But I'm only set up for one. You'd have to share."
Matt didn't like where this was going. It sounded like Marshal only wanted the newcomer so they could torture each other for his amusement. It sounded like he was aiming for a matching set. Still, it was the only way to keep them both alive. He nodded again, tried to look pleading and dependent.
"Fine then. Let's see how long this lasts."
That was the last thing Marshal said before they were thrown into his van, going who knew where. Matt didn't want to look weak in front of this stranger, didn't want to clog up his nose with his mouth taped shut. But he didn't get much of a choice in any of this, so he cried anyway as the emotions of the last day, the last few months, overwhelmed him. The fellow victim offered no comfort.
Whumpee wearing a shock collar and Whumper letting them run/crawl a few feet away at a time before activating it and watching them twitch in pain on the ground
“No, really, keep struggling — it’s funny.”
Not bothering to chase Whumpee when they start to run — they won’t get far
“What are you saying? You want me to tie you tighter?” “Mmmmmph!!” “Well, if you insist….”
Calmly watching Whumpee fight against their bonds to the point of exhaustion — knowing they won’t be able to escape.
“Oh, Whumpee. I have all the time in the world. And you’re not going anywhere.”
I saw a post about loss of autonomy as a trauma response (I guess I didn't really get it before when my therapists called it "learned helplessness") and like I am still in a place where asking for food whenever I visit my father is too scary for me. And I think that might be a big reason why I like stories involving a literal loss of autonomy.
Because if you've been possessed or body-snatched or lost control of yourself for any reason then someone else who lacks your trauma has a personal and selfish reason to take care of those scary needs for you. It's no longer your responsibility. If something goes wrong i's not your fault. And they'll take care of you and protect you not for some reason as fickle as caring about you or thinking you deserve it, but because they're taking care of themself.
It's not a fantasy about being helpless, I already feel helpless. It's a fantasy about having someone save me from that feeling without having to do the hard work of actually getting better but also without being a burden to them.
If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…
Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.
Including (sigh) the em dash.
There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.
A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.
No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.
You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.
Defend the em dash.
(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)
Caretaker with powers to manipulate memories, whumpee is so traumatized they beg caretaker to erase their memories of what happened
Whumper with the same power erasing whumpees memories every time they hurt them, each time it’s like “who are you? Where am I? Why are you doing this to me?”
