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Welcome to the community ✨️
Hello! I am 34, female. Writing has always been a hobby of mine, but I just recently, in the last few weeks, have discovered the type of writing I like to do actually has a name and a community! I am brand new to whump and to Tumblr, so forgive me as I'm figuring out everything.
My some of my favorite whump tropes:
Fantasy
Captured/imprisoned
Public disgrace/humiliation of a high ranking/notorious Whumpee.
Gags/muzzled
Restrained/bondage
Self-sacrifice/ made a deal
Gaurd dog
I am currently working on my first novel but really enjoy writing short stories in between, so if there's anything anyone wants me to write something, please feel free to shoot me a message! I look forward to interacting with this community and reading people's work!
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Naaaaw Jameson 🥺🥹💖 he is so sweet. And seeing his sweet soft side come out so early into his journey is just so special.
A Kindness
CW: Runaway whumpee, referenced hunger/malnourishment
Timeline: After Jameson escaped from Robert but before he found a safehouse
For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 3: A Long Cold Night
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It’s fucking freezing out here. Jameson thought California wasn’t supposed to get cold like this, but just his goddamn luck, it definitely does. 
He’s curled up against the heavy concrete beneath the overpass, using it to block the worst of the wind. There are a scattering of tents around him, others who have figured out some slim form of shelter. There’s a couple fires going, too, but Jameson doesn’t want anything to do with the people circled around them, sharing stories and in-jokes. They’ve been out here for long enough to know each other. To trust each other, more or less.
Like everywhere else he goes, Jameson doesn’t fit.
He sure as fuck doesn't trust.
When he finds other runaway pets, they think he’s frightening. The twisted scar near his mouth catches the firelight too well. He's too brash, too angry, someone who might be violent.
When he tries to stick around non-pets, they read him like a book and treat him like shit on the bottom of their shoes. Or try to sneak up on him when he sleeps and get a hand down his pants, assuming that he won’t fight back, because everyone knows Box Boys will lie back and take it, right?
Well, Jameson isn’t like other pets.
He isn't just any Box Boy.
Nanda taught him how to survive, no matter what it cost. Nanda taught him-
Goddamn fucking dead Nanda.
If he wasn't so fucking dead none of this would be happening.
Jameson closes his eyes against a hot rush of tears he refuses to allow out, not now. Not when he knows he's being watched, considered for whether he might have a few dollars that could be stolen or if he could be held down and made to accept their touch. He won't be.
The ones who try learn that real fast not to try again, once they have busted lips and black eyes and, in one case, a set of balls so bruised and twisted that the asshole who tried to make Jameson kneel for him is definitely sterile now.
Cold nights make his legs ache, the final loving legacy of the braces he’d worn for too long that never let him stand all the way up. Two goddamn assholes had put those on him, and he'll never be free of the pain. Jameson ignores it, grinds his teeth until his jaw hurts worse than his legs ever could. He can ignore it just fine until the weather gets cold.
Mostly.
There’s a scraping off to his left, footsteps crunching on gravel and shards of broken glass. Jameson’s knife is in his hand as easily as he breathes and he’s already got it brandished when he turns, putting a sneer on his face, leaning into the ugliness of the scar that twists one side of his mouth more than the other. “Listen, motherfucker, try to stick your dick anywhere near me and I’ll fucking cut it off-... shit.”
His voice dies as he takes her in.
She’s small, almost dainty looking. He reads her for what she is in a heartbeat, the grace in every movement carefully trained until it was no longer a conscious choice, the soft skin that had spent a long time moisturized and cared for at odds with the hackjob and clumsy box-dye red she’d done to her hair to try and make herself less recognizable. She’s drowning in a man’s overcoat at least four sizes too big and so long it’s dragging the ground, heavy boots that she has to be wearing at least three pairs of socks to fit into. She’s wearing leather driving gloves too big for her hands. 
Her eyes are wide and frightened.
But she's not frightened of him.
She reads him right back, and they recognize each other before a single real word is said. She manages a slight, trembling smile. Jameson feels the snarl fade off his own face. They might have trained together, not that he remembers much of training.
“... can I sit with you tonight?” She asks, voice low, glancing nervously over her shoulder and then back to him. “Please? You’re, you were one too, right?”
Jameson’s jaw works.
He should tell her to fuck off, this is his spot, leave him alone. That he’s not nice, he’s no one anyone can trust. He’s been owned three times and twice they made him live on his hands and knees, once he starved, once he watched people die over and over again until he sees their faces every time he sleeps. 
He didn't deserve to be the one who lived after it all, but he's the one who would do anything not to die, so here they are. Here they fucking are.
Instead of rejecting her need for even one small kindness, he replies instead, "Yeah, whatever. Go ahead. Don't try to talk to me about it, though."
He closes the knife, letting it slide back into his pocket as she makes her way to him, dropping down to sit beside him, curling her knees to her chest and pulling a hood up over her head. Jameson feels… settled, at the gentle unassuming touch, her weight barely noticeable when she leans slowly until her head rests on his shoulder. She smells kind of gross, but he probably does, too. Who knows when either of them last showered?
“Sorry,” She whispers as she slides her gloved hand into his, twining their fingers together. 
“Uh-... what-... what the fuck are you doing-”
“There’s a guy who won’t stop following me around.” She keeps her voice low, turning and lifting her chin so she’s almost kissing Jameson’s cheek right over his scar as she speaks. “I told him you were my boyfriend. Can you-... just pretend to be, for a while? We’re good at pretending we’re in relationships, you can do it, right? I knew when I saw you that you’d been like me.”
Jameson fights the twist of pain.
Pretending we’re in relationships.
That’s as close as he’s ever going to get, and even that was ripped away from him. Jameson never even got to tell him-
He shuts that thought down.
He doesn’t think about Nanda anymore. He doesn’t think about anyone unless it’s to hate them - that’s easier. 
All he does is nod, giving a smile - fake but to anyone else it looks warmly genuine. He can make any expression an owner wants on command, still - the scars and bald patches where hair used to be, rubbed away by the muzzle day after day, make it a little scarier. But it never looks like a lie. 
“I got you,” He murmurs back, and kisses her forehead like they’ve known each other for forever. 
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a man lurking, skulking around, one eye on the girl all the time, watching Jameson slide an arm around her waist with barely concealed jealousy. Jameson shoots him a serene smile, pulling the girl tightly against him. 
It’s going to be a long, cold night, and he’s not going to sleep at all.
The girl dozes off almost immediately, finally feeling safe enough to sleep, and that… that helps. A little bit. 
It's a kindness.
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@finder-of-rings  @endless-whump  @arlin-always-writing  @newandfiguringitout  @doveotions  @pretty-face-breaker  @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow  @boxboysandotherwhump  @oops-its-whump  @cubeswhump  @whump-tr0pes  @yet-another-heathen @whumptywhumpdump  @whumpiary  @orchidscript  @outofangband  @eatyourdamnpears  @hackles-up  @grizzlie70  @mylifeisonthebookshelf  @keeper-of-all-the-random-things
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this gave me chills! Amazing horror. Just amazing!!!!
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Bad Space Comics: The Suit
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Oh this is sooo cool I love it 👀💖
Already looking g forward to the spice 👀
Bluebeard's Pet - Part I
This is a whumpy retelling of the folk/fairytale figure of Bluebeard in three parts. It replaces Bluebeard's new wife with a male "pet" (slave/concubine). It takes place in an indeterminate year in a fictional medieval Europe.
cw: slavery, pet whump, slave auction, stocks, power imbalance, language barriers, gruesome elements like torture, execution, and draconian policies throughout, whipping, sexually explicit scenes, dubcon because of social status, light knifeplay, alcohol consumption, praise kink
Part One: The Hare Moon
Luca’s wrists and back ached stiffly from the stocks at the slave auction. The back of his neck was burned from the sun, and his throat hurt from the long day's thirst.
At least at night the air was cool and the stars were magnificent, a bowl of eternity tipped upside down over the Roman-built road they traveled endlessly south on, towards constellations that looked like a giant ladle, a crab, a many headed serpent. Under the silver light of a quarter-moon, Luca slept in patches, woken always by a shrill whinny of a horse or a bumpy patch of road washed out along a creek bed from the spring snowmelt. He had not slept soundly in many nights, not eaten a true meal, not stretched his arms over his head for the ropes that always bound his wrists. He had not combed his hair or dared say a single word for fear of being struck in the face again.
His newest captors, the people who raided the seaside village he’d belonged to since he could remember, spoke a language he could not even guess to name. It seemed full of consonants to him, with nowhere his mind could rest on a vowel or hear the distinction between words and sentences. For weeks he’d been going by a man’s tone with him, like a dog. He noticed he’d begun to behave like a dog, which made him feel embarrassed and sullen.
He was the only one in the wagon procession from his home country, the others all spoke in Nordic tongues to one another, eyeing him with appraising blue gazes but not trying to communicate. Luca knew his mother tongue should have been or may have once been Italian, but he knew only English now. He longed for even the gruff voice of the old guard at Thistledown, his grumbling would be like birdsong now. He had dark eyes that were sometimes soft, despite his rough voice and hands, and he had slipped Luca hot tea with honey on more than one cold night. What he wouldn’t give for a cup now, in the chipped old mug the man always gave him, with his hands free to hold it in front of him as he pleased.
At first he thought no one had wanted him at the auction. He stayed bent and aching in the stocks, unable to do anything but blink and twitch like a colt at the flies and gnats that buzzed around his face and hands. His gaze was on the ground, he could lift his neck only about an inch and even that sent a twinge of warning pain down his vertebrae. All morning as the sun rose from the April treetops towards its spring zenith he saw boots, boots of soldiers and of merchants, of paupers and some he deemed were likely the fine leather shoes of nobility. Once or twice someone stopped and spoke to the master, who would answer in an oily, flattering voice. Luca couldn’t understand his words, but noted the change in demeanor he had with his prospective customers compared with how he spoke to them— his captured slaves.
Once or twice the slaver pried his mouth open so someone could inspect his teeth, or pulled up and eyelid to see the color of his eyes— or tugged his matted, curly dark hair as if to test the thickness. He could taste their skin on his tongue for hours after they stuck their fingers in his mouth, but he was too thirsty to waste saliva spitting on the ground. He’d probably get a swift kick in the shin for it, anyway. Only the master slaver could spit without permission, which he did frequently— long brown squirts of chewing tobacco through his likewise brown teeth.
Then a large man— Luca could tell by the height of the very shadow on the packed earth in front of him, stood in front of him. He wore a pair of black leather boots, not in the style he’d seen the rest of the morning but flatter, with a tapered toe and filigree silver buckles at the ankles. Of his own volition, Luca dared lift his head that painful inch to raise his eyes to this new stranger. He was well over six feet, broad shouldered and black haired, with silver at the temples almost as if it had been brushed in at perfect intervals. He had dark eyes like Luca, which stood out to him after traveling with so many pale haired, blue eyed captives for so many weeks. Yet unlike Luca’s near black ones, this impassive man’s eyes were light brown, cognac flecked with citrine, like sunlight in a creekbed reflected through water. He wore no discernible expression, but his eyes met Luca and felt like a static shock from a wool blanket. He hurried to drop his gaze back to the dirt.
The slave in the next stock had just bitten someone, and was being beaten with a birch switch so ruthlessly she shrieked and fought her stocks so they rattled. Luca flushed in second hand embarrassment, not only for the slave girl who was being whipped like a donkey, but, strangely, for her bad behavior in front of this regal and composed man.
The man walked a circle around him. In the stocks, Luca could do nothing but stare ahead at the ground. From his peripheral he could see the man wore a curved and ornamented dagger on his hip. Over his wrists and forearms he wore leather bracers, wide and well worn, and on one finger was a gold ring with a flat black head, and in the black field was some jewel, green as deep forest moss, glinting in the sun as it passed his line of vision and was lost again before he could make it out.
The rest of the great man’s garb seemed to him something like the leather and cotton travel-wear his captors wore in these lands, yet over this practical clothing he wore a cloak that spoke to Luca of the unknown lands to the east, an outer kaftan of royal blue embroidered with canary yellow Ottoman tulips. It had fur like that of Timberwolves at the neck, making his great shoulders appear even larger.
The man exchanged words with his slaver in that slippery, impenetrable language, and Luca found his jaw being worked open for the half dozenth time. No finger was shoved inside his mouth, but the foreign man did look at both his top and bottom rows of teeth, the back of his throat. He asked a question and the slaver answered affirmatively, eagerly. Cool fingertips touched the sides of Luca’s throat, just beneath the jaw. He shivered as they worked down the side of his neck, looking for something under the skin he did not understand that none of the others had known to look for.
The slave beside them shrieked one last time and went limp, held up by her wrists and neck. The man glanced over at her, at her matted yellow hair and her bleeding legs and then back at Luca. He put his finger sidelong in front of his mouth.
“What about you?” he asked in English. His voice was measured and low, perfectly enunciated as if to make up for his slight accent. “Do you bite like these little northern barbarians?”
Such a relief it was to be spoken to in a familiar tongue, no matter the words or by whom, that Luca blinked tears away from his eyes, startled by them. He shook his head slowly, deliberately. No.
The man broke into a smile that went right to his eyes and crinkled the skin at the corners. Still it looked saddened, perhaps by the tears standing in Luca’s. “Neither will I, then,” he winked, as if they were sharing a private joke.
The slaver came close with the switch raised. Though Luca could not understand his words, he understood the question he spoke well enough. Shall I beat this one, too? Perhaps buyers liked to see how prospective slaves react to pain. Perhaps he thought Luca had displeased the man.  The foreign man made eye contact with him again, and that was the first of many understandings they would share. “No,” he said to the slaver, giving a casual frown and shake of the head. He said something further in the tongue he and the slaver shared that Luca did not. 
Luca heard an exchange of coins and felt numb with fear and relief both. But then the man left, without a word of reassurance or a claiming touch to his hair, his hand, anything.
He learned later that he was to be brought by wagon to his new Master’s castle, which sat like a great ancient dragon guarding the hills and woods of a remote countryside, as far south and east as Luca had ever been or imagined.
When he finally arrived he was sick from some travel-fever that had gone through the wagons like a curse, leaving them weak and dehydrated. A few died, and they stopped for just long enough to roll the corpses out and bury them along the roadside in shallow graves. Luca wondered if this was out of some universal respect for the dead, or if they simply didn’t want to be caught tossing corpses along the road and fined by local authorities that might take offense to such careless pollution. He had a feeling, watching the master spit tobacco at his feet impatiently as the slaves who were still well enough dug a hole for one of their own, that it was the latter.
The Baron did not greet him when he arrived, and for that he was grateful. He was filthy, repulsive, and sicker than he’d ever been. A pair of servant women helped him up flight after flight of stone steps, some broad and straight and others curving and narrow, past faded tapestries and beautiful chandeliers that reminded his half delirious mind of the stars he’d watched from the wagon, and finally into a huge beautiful room with a waiting warm bath. The women stripped him naked. He helped them as best he could, without a thought except that his clothes should be burned. They guided him into a wide wooden barrel lined with pounded copper that glowed amber in the hearth light.
He sunk into warm water and they scrubbed him with sure hands, as if they’d bathed a hundred new slaves in this very tub.
“Bad water,” one tsked to the other.
“You speak English?” he asked feverishly. He smiled at them in relief. They looked so different than the servants he was used to, dressed in white or gray with their hair covered for cleanliness and their faces plain. These girls wore dresses of brightly dyed linen, and something was reddening their lips like smeared blood. Their brown hair was long and loose about their shoulders, brushed out and shameless and clean. Maybe they weren’t servants, he wondered. But who else would wash a sick, filthy slave bought at auction?
He was sorry they had to deal with him, but grateful it wasn’t his new Master. The shame of his soiled clothes and wasted body would be too much. He might be disillusioned and disgusted. He might have a bout of buyers remorse and not even want him anymore. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps he was being cleaned and prepared for a slaughter. What did he know of these strange lands?
The women didn’t answer him, and spoke in another tongue to each other after that. They dressed him in silk pants and no shirt, led him barefoot to a great bed the size of one of the slavers’ wagons. There he dozed, looking into the dark, vaulted recesses of the ceiling, until light crept through thick burgundy curtains, and more servants brought him food on soft bare feet, and it was dark again.
One late evening, with a foreign, sweet-scented breeze floating in the open window, he felt the side of the bed depressing and opened his eyes. In buttery moonlight he saw the profile of his new master light a candle. His nose was long and straight, with a sharp bridge and eyebrows that made him look like a scowling heathen warlord in one of the illuminated manuscripts he had glimpsed in the church once, treasures passing through for his old master to selectively sift through and send the rest along to London.
His old master never sat on the side of the bed. Luca had only ever seen him a few times a month, and even that was more than he wanted to. He was a pale eyed, shrewd Lord, with skin that seemed translucent gray and a sour outlook on just about everything as far as Luca could tell. He did not inspire the curiosity tinged with fear that this man did, smelling of leather and woodsmoke and the outdoors at night.
“I was told you’ve been very sick,” said the Baron in his soft, perfect English.
“I am much better now, my lord,” Luca answered carefully, sitting up as best he could against thick downy pillows. He didn’t know if he looked better, but the women had washed his hair and fed him and given him clean water to drink, so he hoped he at least resembled whatever the man had liked in him at the auction. He didn’t know what sort of man he was, or why exactly he was here. “Those women were very kind. Especially to a slave.”
“Good,” his new master said, and touched only the very end of a lock of his hair so gently it tickled his scalp and gave him goosebumps up his left side. “You’re not a slave, though.”
Luca tilted his head.
“You’re a pet. My pet. If you’d like.”
Pet. He’d heard the word, but it was always in the context of antiquity. It was elevated from slave, though still a position of social bondage. It was a favored, exclusive position akin to a concubine. His heart thudded in his rib cage. Suddenly the size of the Baron was overwhelming instead of just alluring, and their proximity was alarming.
“Or you can remain a slave, if you prefer,” shrugged the Baron. His cloak tonight was embroidered crimson on a field of black. At first the red looked like fleur de lis, but when he looked closer he could see they were beautifully stitched Hydras, three watersnake heads on top of a dragon's body, with forked tongues lashing from their snoutish mouths.
“I… I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”
“Of course. You are not from here. I understand. As a slave you’ll work in the castle, or on the grounds, or in the village. Wherever you’re needed or you show some aptitude. You’ll answer to Sister Agathar. I don’t deal with slaves directly. Not unless one commits a capitol offense.”
“And as a pet?” he asked, his voice wavering.
“You’ll stay here, in the castle. These are my rooms, where you are welcome, but you’ll have your own. You’ll have access to the library, the baths, the gardens. The stables, if you like to ride.”
“What is a pets… purpose?”
“Only to be my companion. My wife died a few months ago giving birth to my son, Alec. May her soul be at peace. I will remarry, eventually, as I need more children to strengthen my house. But…my tastes can run toward dark-eyed boys I find in the stocks in Saxony, too. But only if you’ll have me. I have no interest in conquering.”
That was very well for him, Luca knew, because it would not be particularly difficult for this man if he did. “Tonight?”
His master laughed. He was so straightforward, so at ease that he made Luca’s fear feel childish and needless. “No. Absolutely, no. There is no rush. Though if I were to suggest a time constraint…” he nodded out the narrow window at the full moon rising over the dark and wild landscape, orange as a cantaloupe. “By the next full moon, I’d like to know your final decision. Remain a slave or become my pet. And ideally to consummate it, if you choose thusly.” 
The foreign Lord’s eyes were dark in the candlelight, his beard thicker and fuller than it had been at the auction, streaked in a few places in silver. The rest of it was so black it appeared blue. Despite his height and Zeuslike stature, he had a gentle and civilized air about him, a manner Luca had observed from afar in nobility ever since coming as a young slave to the foggy island village he would come to think of as home.
All his earlier memories were of a white stucco house and sun faded carpets, a lemon tree, and a bright blue sea crystalized and solidified so they were more like paintings in his mind than memories he could visit. They were stuck behind a midnight raid, a blow to the side of his head, his brothers screaming, a dog barking and barking until it yelped and fell silent.
This strange clime, the opulent and beautiful room he’d been recovering in, and the seemingly boundless civility of his new master was intoxicating. He was being offered a position of wealth and comfort and favor. His only other option was a job in a kitchen or field, sleeping on countless generations of lice in a bed of straw, no doubt eating thin leftover soup and stale bread rinds from the castle.
“You seem fair and wise,” he said cautiously, hoping flattery was something this aristocrat liked as much as most of them did. “I… I think I’d be honored to stay as your pet. Though, I am not trained in the customs of that position, and I do not know where I am.”
The Baron smiled, and it felt to Luca like sympathy without pity, like he was apologizing for the whole thing. “Forgive me. I am Baron Constantin Illés, and this is castle Illés in the region of Corralachia, just east of the great mountains. You came through the only traversable pass for twenty leagues in that wagon. What is your name, my would-be pet?”
“Luca.”
“Luca,” the Baron echoed reverently, and ghosted his fingertips over Luca’s cheek so that his breath caught and he felt himself turning red. “‘Bringer of light’. You are certainly the bringer of moonlight. May is the hare moon, and I’ve never seen it so bright as it is tonight. The wolves hunt the hares by the light of it, but still by summer they have multiplied tenfold. They are the bringer of new beginnings.”
“And the wolves must also eat,” Luca said, meaning that they could not feel bad for one animal just because it had a soft twitchy nose. The Baron laughed good naturedly. “True. The wolves must also eat. Sleep on your decision, and tell me for true on the next moon.”
In the following days, Luca threw off the remaining vestiges of his traveling sickness. He felt strong and whole again, and ate voraciously of the creamy soups and soft breads he was brought by servants he seldom saw, piling soft cheese on sweet dates and drinking dry burgundy until the skin over his ribs smoothed back out and his hips were not so sharp.
He wore silk and linen clothes, loose fitting and often embroidered beautifully as was the local custom for finery. He was given a delicate anklet of gold, which he knew was a sensual piece often worn in harems or on dancers, male and female, though there was certainly a feminine look it gave to his ankle, like hinting at a secret. It also reminded him of the fetters he’d worn as a slave, rough ropes that cut his skin for weeks. He still had some scarring on his wrists from it, and the Baron had given him a lavender-scented ointment to rub on the skin. He seemed sympathetic to the way Luca had gotten the rope burn discoloration there, rather than critical of a blemish, but they still made him self conscious. He was a captured slave turned pet-prince here, and he ought to look the part.
He was given a beautiful ring, much like the one the Baron wore on his right forefinger, but silver instead of gold. On a flat field of black was the Hydra, the Greek serpent of many heads destroyed by Hercules. The Hydra on both this and the Barons rings were made of emerald. The silver ring had been his great grandmothers, said the Baron, a gift from Marie of Anjou. It fit his left ring finger, and was too small for any other, too big for his pinkies. He knew the left ring finger was for wedding rings and blushed when the Baron smiled knowingly at the placement.
The Hydra, he said, was his family crest for the last eight generations. His ancestor, also a Constantin, had decapitated the lead collaborator of a group of nobility trying to usurp the King, a group which the king called the Hydra on account of its many deceitful and venomous heads. Having cut the head from the serpent and displayed it on the castle parapets, the King bestowed the castle and the crest of the Hydra on the house Illés. That was the very castle he was in today, the very crest he too now wore on his finger. 
The moon waned and began to wax again, this time reborn as the Rose moon. Early summer was full and lush in the woods and hills about the castle. The creeks and rivers rushed swollen down to the valleys below. The leaves were full and vivid virgin green as the emeralds of the snapping Hydra. The meadows were high, wildflowers of every hue swayed in gentle warm breezes. At night the warmth stayed in the air, keeping it moist and balmy until well after midnight, when the sky was often streaked with falling stars. Memories of the lean months of winters by the sea could not seem to touch him here. He forgot the face of his stern, cold master there, the watery-eyed and pious man who had once beat him with a leather belt for sleeping in a church pew.
Here he was unwatched, trusted, and lavished with the master’s chaste affection. He welcomed it, craved it, waited all day for it. Sometimes the Baron would only come to his chamber to sleep, late at night and exhausted from long hours of executive duties. Other times he was relaxed, engaged, asking questions. They seemed to have all the time in the world. 
The Baron wanted him to see the grounds, the castle, to sit with him sometimes at the council table where he saw the foreign dignitaries and the farmers and the tax collectors that came with their tributes. Luca noticed the way people behaved around the Baron, straight-backed and alert, polite and gracious as they hung on his every occasional word.
Mostly they spoke in their own tongue at these meetings and exchanges, but Luca still began to understand that the Baron was somewhat the warlord he had first imagined when he first saw him. The soldiers and generals had the best rapport with him, and seemed the closest with him. His near constant advisor was a scarred and pockmarked old knight that never so much as made eye contact with Luca, like he was invisible.
One visiting dignitary only shared English with the Baron, making Luca privy to that exchange. Some King Luca did not know wanted tribute, money and young boys for his army. The Baron politely refused. The man stood on the flagstones wearing a look somewhere between anger and shock. Luca dared a glance to his left at the Baron, who wore no expression at all.
“You invite open war,” the visitor accused.
“I do no such thing. I refuse an absurd ransom from a madman. Is there anything else you’d like to demand while you’re here?”
When the man left, the Baron and the old knight exchanged words Luca could not understand. Then the Baron leaned to Luca and said in a confidential hush. “It’s always the ones that speak English that behave like this. Sometimes I regret learning English at all. Except,” his tone grew fond, “it lets me speak with you.”
Luca grinned, feeling all the eyes in the room except for the old knight’s momentarily on him, and drawing pleasure from the fact they knew not what the Baron said to him, they would only see it made him smile.
~
Note: This is one of those things I got in my head and just had to write so it would leave me be. Charles Perrault's version of the tale of Barbebleue (1697), names Bluebeard Bertrand de Montragaux. I have changed that name since this is not a French tale. This particular little story is modeled not from Perrault but from Angela Carter's short story, The Bloody Chamber. I have borrowed from that and from other things, and filled it with my favorite whumpy tropes. The other two parts are complete and will be posted over the next two weekends. Thanks for reading! :))
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okay this reminded me of the strongest human being (I use that label with some reservation) I have ever met and I still think about him like once a week because about 4 years ago on Thanksgiving night my sister, cousin, and I were going to pick up a friend about a 40 minute drive from home, and I got lost and tried to turn around on a little gravel pull-off on the side of the road, but my front tires got stuck in the snow.
we were in the middle of nowhere with no cell reception, and the only sign of life was a single, completely dark house across the road from us.
We all did our best to push the car out, and we’re strong people, but we couldn’t make it budge. Cold and stuck, we climbed back and wondered what to do. A car full of men pulled over beside us and asked if we needed help, but getting out of our locked car on a backroad at night with strange men felt like a bad idea, so we said a tow was coming and waved them along. We did that twice before finally deciding our only option was to accept the next offer for help and just risk it,
when a man came out of the house across the street.
He’d clearly been watching us and figured out why we’d been lying to people, which really surprised me & he said “it’s okay, you can stay in your car and keep the doors locked. Just start backing up when I say so.”
I had the window cracked and told him “it’s too stuck. There’s no way we’re getting out. Could you call a tow?”
And he said “just back up when I say so.”
So he walked around the front of the car, squatted, and said “okay back up,”
and I did, and
he lifted
the front of the car Into The Air. Off its front wheels, and we backed up while he essentially wheel-barrowed us back onto the road.
And we were honest to god yelling. We couldn’t help it. We just yelled until all four wheels were back on the ground and he was waving us off while we thanked him.
And then I looked at my sister and cousin & said “he REALLY told us we can KEEP our doors locked as if THAT WOULD’VE FUCKING STOPPED HIM!!!! As if he couldn’t have just RIPPED EM OFF THE HINGES.”
I later looked up the weight of my car, and it’s 3200 pounds without anything or anyone in it.
This haunts me.
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Thank you 💕✨️
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Tatiana Blass, Penelope, wife of Odysseus 
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This looks so cool but I don't understand it 🥺 can someone maybe explain?
I'd live to learn some stuff about the odyssey 💕
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Tatiana Blass, Penelope, wife of Odysseus 
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im thinking about vampires that eat people. like truly eat people. vampires that tear chunks of flesh from their victims throats, who walk away from their meal picking bits of meat from between their teeth. vampires that not only feel the impulse to bite, but who remember the instinct to chew.
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Uuuuuuuuh yes please tell us all about the weird climate situation 👀👀👀✨️✨️✨️✨️
Dear Ash, since you're a whumper and history lover, I wondered if you know any interesting facts about medieval slavery?
Unfortunately, I have to admit I really don't. My focus in my history obsessions is pretty much entirely World War I and then historical pandemics and epidemics.
But like, I could talk for a while about how there was a lot of weird climate stuff happening in the lead up to the Black Death that almost certainly contributed to how thoroughly it depopulated Europe...
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But still, he did do it. He gave Raf the tools to save himself and when he raf came to the save house Chris was there for him😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
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I am LIVING for the Chris reblogs. He truly is one of my favorite whumpees of all time. You have mastered the art of a subtle “perfect victim” with him. I may be dead wrong but realistically, what has he done that was even controversial through his whole storyline, you know what I mean? Like just as a few examples of your wonderfully written Not Perfect victims and (this isn’t to victim blame or shame at all,) Jameson did sign up for WRU, his and Kauri’s recoveries were FAR from smooth or perfect, and don’t even get me started on Antoni, yikes! Even Nat, who is doing the lords work now, has a shady past! But Chris genuinely perfect. Even the things he thought were his fault weren’t. And like I said it’s not his main character trait is being THE perfect victim, it’s one of those things that was nicely left not outright said, and for the readers to use critically thinking and I LOVE IT. I think that’s a really difficult feat to pull off and you did a fantastic job.
Also like I said I may be dead wrong but I genuinely can’t think of one true misdemeanor committed by Chris.
Having said all of that I also love all of the character flaws you bestow upon the rest of the gang! Either them being fucked up before, or the aftermath of all of the traumatic experiences leaving them fucked up and with significantly poorer judgements that lead to them getting in situations they maybe would not have if it wasn’t for having a new and definitely not improved way of thinking! Okay, yap over. Keep up the great work!!
So this is kind of an interesting thing for me, because I really do try as much as I can to steer away from that "perfect victim" archetype, but Chris kind of fell into it despite how hard I tried not to have him do that.
His basic disposition was always going to be a sweet kid who had been absolutely tortured and who had nonetheless come out of it with a resilience that would allow him to start rebuilding from that shattered foundation.
Unfortunately, it does mean that he didn't end up with a lot of the more kind of exciting to write and interesting faults and imperfections and occasionally outright malevolence that I have in other characters who are not bad guys, they're just people who had to do bad things to survive horrifying situations.
But of course, the biggest impact there as far as Chris's story is that he never saved himself. He didn't do anything against his own moral code to escape. He was saved by a woman who realized what she was looking at, driven several hours in the middle of the night by a man he'd never met before, and dropped on the doorstep of a whole new group of strangers he had no idea whether or not he could trust.
So Chris does hit that damsel in distress archetype in a way that I don't normally like to go for in main characters. But he really insisted on it, and I think there's this thing about archetypes where we see them so often that we get kind of tired of them, but one of the reasons we do see them so often is because they resonate. And there really are people like that in the world, not everybody of course.. probably not even most people put in the same situation would react the way that he reacted to things. But people do.
And what Chris did to survive was pull back inside of himself so thoroughly that when he started to come out of his shell, all the basic goodness in him was more or less intact and untouched. They could destroy so much of him, but they could never make him anything less than inherently a good kid in a bad situation.
If you were to ask chris, he would probably tell you that the biggest character flaw in him is cowardice, because even as an adult he doesn't really fully understand why he has the freeze and fawn, and hates himself a little for never having been able to fight in any real way. He would call himself a coward, not just for not fighting back but also for the times he's been too afraid, like when he walked away from Rafael the first time they met. That he was able to screw up the courage in the museum to talk to him then was an enormous feat of bravery for Chris. He was absolutely wrecked for days afterward. It took everything he had in him to do it.
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Thinking heavily today about public humiliation:
Being paraded in front of a crowd—dragged behind a horse maybe, pulled along by a length of rope around their wrists
Whumper forcing Whumpee to walk behind them on a leash
Whumpee’s hair being forcibly cut or shaved
Forced to walk barefoot, or without any clothes at all
Public trials or executions
Public mock executions, where Whumpee can see for themself that no one will help them. The crowd cheers for their death.
Being whipped, caned, birched, or belted
Being restrained in a way that leaves them vulnerable to the whims of a crowd—the stocks, the post, a stress position, or simply being held down by a few guards
Public demotion or exile
Forced to complete humiliating tasks as a form of entertainment or punishment
Forced to kneel or bow to/beside Whumper
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Oh that so cool. Look everyone at pigeonwhumps cool commissions ✨️
Writing commissions open
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I am opening writing commissions! £1 per 100 words.
I will write fandom or oc, including named or nameless (eg whumper, hero, etc) characters.
Fandoms include The Murderbot Diaries, BBC Merlin, Doctor Who, Torchwood, Good Omens, Nimona, and The Sandman. I might be able to do others if you discuss it with me!
No NSFW (sex-wise, I'm fine with gore etc), other hard nos are in the image above.
Payment is via PayPal or Kofi, with 50% due in advance if you're spending over £10.
Personal use only. ABSOLUTELY NO AI USE.
Message me here or on Discord to commission!
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This is still so brilliant!
The Men Keep Falling
For @whumptober2021 day 30: Ghosts
CW: Car crash aftermath, combat PTSD flashback, immortal whumpee, vampire whumpee, description of car wreck injuries, some referenced gore, anxiety, panic, negative stimming
Happens simultaneously to this piece where Jake crashes his car
-
California, Present Day
They move past him in the dark.
Chris fights against the current of a river of men with rifles gripped in their hands, starlight glinting off the goggles on their gas masks and dully lighting their battered, bent helmets, their breaths muffled and somehow still deafeningly loud. 
They wash around him like water slowly wearing at rock, they brush against him like cold feathers against too much skin. There is a burst of rifle-fire and someone near him falls, he never sees the man’s face. 
There are too many faces.
There are too many dead men.
“Medic!” His voice cracks, it’s rough, and there is dark blood running in a trickle down the side of his head as the wound there - from cracking against the glass window, fracturing his skull - throbs.
He doesn’t feed enough anymore for it to fix itself quickly.
“We need a medic!” He cries, but they don’t listen. 
They can’t listen. 
They can’t stop. 
Their eyes show through their goggles, wild and white-rimmed , mad with fear and fury. The gas rolls in a fog around him, prickling and stinging. It was subtler in life, but now as he stumbles through half-formed memories it’s thick as pea soup, faintly greenish.
It doesn’t even slow the infantry racing headlong into the darkness, disappearing into the woods. They shout, dim and faint or deafeningly loud, they scream, they fall. 
Shells scream to earth and burst in explosions that rattle him down to his fingernails, sending him scrambling for cover under bushes or behind the trees. There are voices calling everywhere, a cacophony. 
Medic, medic, medic!
I’m down!
Mama…
Help!
Où est mon fusil?!
Please, water… water… mother, water, please…
Maman!
S-s’il te pl-
Hilf mir… bitte…
S'il vous plaît, je ne peux pas respirer!
Mutti…
Mama…
Shouting orders and locations, warnings and last words, and it’s all too much sound, it’s too much, but Jake is hurt back at the car and Chris has to get through the crush of soldiers to find a medic to help him.
He doesn’t have his uniform any longer - they took it from him when he came back, took it and everything to do with it. They told him he was a traitor, a deserter, and then… then he broke out of the jail and ran. It hadn’t been made to hold vampires. 
“Please. Bitte, s’il vous plait, pl-please, please, please help, help me, my-my friend, my friend needs help-”
No one even looks at him beyond a glance. They have no life to spare to help him save another. These men are all dead already, they just don’t realize it. There were always so many men who ran to fight who never came back.
Jake needs help, but the vampire boy’s medic bags are missing because he isn’t a soldier any longer. Traitor, deserter, fiend, demon, evil no matter how he’s tried not to be, but not a soldier.
Not a medic, not any longer.
Weiterlesen
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Chris my forever beloved 💖✨️
Would you be willing to give us a little peek/drabble about when they brought Chris to the safehouse?
CW: Referenced noncon, collar, referenced restraints/leftover restraint marks, traumatized whumpee, drugged whumpee, referenced whump of a minor
Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @stxckfxck, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions 
The boy stands in the driveway perfectly silent and still, a heavy woven blanket draped over his head and shoulders his only protection from the winter rain pouring down in sheets that nearly eclipse from view the houses just across the street. The blanket long since soaked through, and rain beads up on the boy’s face and runs down in tiny rivers to drip off his jaw and soak into his thin pajama shirt and pants. 
Wide green eyes barely even blink when rainwater drips into them, nearly-invisible coppery eyelashes barely flutter to chase the rainwater back out. He’s a perfect statue in the driveway, with a thin face that comes to a narrowly pointed chin, prominent cheekbones, and sopping wet strawberry blond hair sticking in the color of an old penny to his forehead. Thin wrists are marked with red welts, his knuckles are white where he grips the blanket.
He’s wearing a thin t-shirt and pajama pants - the pants are more like yoga pants, nearly skintight, and the shirt is Vince’s, just something he had in his trunk when Meghan all but shoved the shirtless boy at him and then fled in her car.
Vince could barely tell what color his eyes even were at first, his pupils were so dilated and wide from whatever was in his system, but that seems to be fading, now. His disturbing perfect stillness hasn’t though. He was silent through the car ride here. He is silent now, staring up nearly sightlessly at the only house in the neighborhood with its lights on.
Nat stands on the porch in her housecoat and nightdress, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, looking both older and younger than she really is in equal measure. “Who’ve you brought me, Vince?” Her voice is pitched low - probably even the old woman next door wouldn’t be woken up by this. 
The boy in the driveway looks up towards her without focus, and he’s trembling, full-body shivers that stop as soon as Vince puts a hand to his back. If he didn’t know them as well as he does, he might have thought it was because his touch was comforting.
But Vince knows what he feels is a prey animal going perfectly still to try and appease what he sees as a circle of predators. A baby fawn hoping its spots will hide it in a hollow along a forest floor dappled with sunlight. There’s no camouflage here, and the boy stands out in ways that can’t be hidden.
“He’s still got it on,” The tall, muscular man - Jake, Nat’s assistant who still doesn’t like him ever since that whole mistake he’d made with trying to meet Kauri - says tightly. 
Vince swallows and nods. “There’s a padlock on the back. I can’t get it off myself.”
The boy shrinks slightly into himself, as though he could hide the wide stripe of soft, supple black leather wrapped around his neck. It’s as soaked as the rest of him and has to be irritating the thin skin on his neck by now, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“Well, bring him in then,” Nat snaps, pulling her housecoat closer. Her Midwestern accent is thicker with something that sounds like irritation, but Vince knows her well enough to know by now is just another sign of her worry. “Won’t be the first collar I’ve cut off of someone. Let’s get him into a warm bath and settled in Antoni’s room, there’s an extra bed in there. What was his designation?”
“I don’t know, but considering all Meghan would tell me was she found him in a basement and he, and I quote, 'was wearing less clothing than I put on my dog’, I’m going to go out on a limb and say Romantic,” Vince says, voice flat.
There’s a silence, as the three adults take in the teenager who never looks directly at any of them. 
“You’re fucking kidding me.” That’s Jake. “What an absolute piece of goddamn shit, you-... that can’t be right.”
“Look at him.” 
“I’m going to be fucking sick. You have to be fucking kidding me-”
“Bath first,” Nat says firmly, cutting him off. “Bath first, new clothes, cut the collar off. We’ll figure everything else out after that.” Vince has to push him a little to get him moving, but the boy stumbles forward and grips the blanket a little more tightly around himself. He’s never seen someone move so little - you could hardly tell he’s even breathing.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Nat says softly, with genuine warmth, once the boy is out of the rain. He doesn’t look at her, but at something just beyond her left shoulder. “Can you tell me your name?”
His eyes drift in her direction, alight very briefly on her face and then drift again. “My... name is Baldur,” He says, slowly. It’s the first time Vince has heard his voice. It’s soft and sweet, pitched low the way they’re trained to. If he couldn’t feel how tense the boy was, he might have seemed soothed by her. He’s trained to seem soothed.
“Can you tell me your designation?”
“WRU, Facility 001, Romantic 223499,” The boy answers without hesitation, and it’s clear that his number means more to him than even the name he’s been given since. His words are faster but still emotionless, rote memorization rolling off his tongue with perfect ease. “I am a Romantic companion and I am an active participant in fullfilling-”
“That’s enough,” Jake says roughly, face pale in the yellow light from the porch. The boy flinches and his mouth snaps shut. “I don’t want to hear this. This is fucking sick. Fucking sick, Nat. He’s a fucking kid. There’s no way he’s eighteen.”
Tentatively, the boy tries again. His eyes don’t drift past Jake, but lock on his face and read some kind of authority there that he immediately focuses on, tilting his head, giving a practiced, empty little smile that never reaches his eyes. “I am eighteen. WRU ensures that all Box Boys are of legal and consenting age at time of voluntary acquisition.”
“Jesus fuck,” Jake mutters. “They fed you perfect bullshit, you know that, right?”
The boy swallows, and his eyes carefully lose focus again. For the first time, Vince realizes he’s doing it on purpose. Refusing to look directly at any of them is self-protective.
“Stop it, Jake,” Nat says, gently. “You won’t get through to him like that.”
“Nat-”
“You’re not going to help him by getting him confused already. Just let him settle, first. He has to trust us before he can start to crack it.”
Jake goes silent, his blue eyes are storm clouds, but gradually he nods and glares off to the side.
“I can’t stay,” Vince says, a little regretfully. “I’ve got a nine a.m. meeting with a couple people on a thing I want to produce and it’s going to take most of that time to get back and get myself presentable. Shit, I’m going to be a mess tomorrow.”
“You’re fine, Vince. Thank you for thinking of me.” Nat smiles at him, gives a squeeze to Vince’s shoulder, unbothered by how sopping wet he is, too. 
“You’re the safest place for Romantics there is, Nat.”
“I try. I’ll call you tomorrow night, or when we know more. Thanks again.”
“Anytime, Nat. Absolute least I can do.” 
Vince turns, then, moving back through the rain to get into his car. The last he sees of the new little rescue, for weeks, is that moment of the boy slipping the blanket slowly off his head as he is led inside the house, shrinking away from Nat and Jake in fear but following their suggestions as though they are orders just the same. 
The padlock on the back of his neck catches the light from the porch, just briefly, and Vince closes his eyes against a wash of nausea and an old, old fear he’s spent years trying to shake off.
Then he backs out of the driveway, lights carefully off to avoid drawing attention until he reaches the end of the block.
He doesn’t notice the curtains twitch slightly in another home as the old woman next door lets them fall back into place.
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I realized that I can't post the comic chapters of my new web novelon other websites, cause they won't let me add more than two pictures to a chapter T___T Now I have to put the first chapter into written form as well. I don't wanna T___T
Why can't other websites be as free as Tumblr when it comes to portable mediums T___T
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This first chapter depicts a fictional bombing of Berlin and is continued under the read more.
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GUYS LOOK AT MY NEWEST ART!!!! It's the cover illustration! :D
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The cover artwork with details
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