You, A Retired Villian By Choice, Have Just Received New About Your Grandchild, A Hero, Being Falsely

WHUMP PROMPTS INVOLVING COLLARS

trigger warnings: torture, dehumanization, blood and gore, PTSD (everything in this is entirely fictional meant to inspire writers)

whumper making whumpee wear a collar with whumper’s own name on it, so that everyone knows who owns whumpee.

collar that will only keeps on tightening around whumpee’s neck until whumpee says please.

prong collar. except instead of a dog, it’s wrapped around whumpee’s neck.

whumper having two different collars for whumpee, one with the words “good dog” engraved on it and the other with the words “bad dog”, depends on how whumpee behaves that day — whumpee is terrified whenever whumper puts the “bad dog” collar around their neck, because it means they will get punished; and so they try their very best to always be a “good dog”.

whumpee trying to remove their collar by themself by scratching and digging their nails into their skin until they bleed.

collar with barbed wires that bite into whumpee’s neck each time whumpee moves or breathes. the chances of infection and necrosis are high if left on and untreated for too long.

whumpee not being able to stop absentmindedly trace their fingers over their bruised neck where the collar used to be, no matter how long it’s been since their rescue.

post rescue. whumpee having difficult time speaking, eating or drinking water due to the bruises around their neck that were inflicted by the collar they were forced to wear — this could cause them to stop talking or eating, or it could cause them to talk and eat less.

whumpee wanting (needing) whumper to own them. they beg whumper to please put the collar on them again. please please please please don’t abandon them.

whumpee having been brainwashed into thinking that having a collar around their neck means they’re not a stray. thus they think caretaker is going to abandon them because caretaker didn’t put a collar around their neck like whumper did!!!!

whumpee having a panic attack. they’ve lost their collar; the collar was their shield telling others to fuck off because “this one is already taken”. but now there isn’t a collar around their neck anymore, they are going to scent an unowned meat, and they are going to crawl out of the shadows to feast on whumpee.

whumpee attacks whumper, but they are abruptly stopped when whumper activates whumpee’s shock collar, leaving whumpee convulsing helplessly on the floor.

whumpee having PTSD from the collar where they, even without the collar, think they cannot breathe and so they start panicking.

whumper telling whumpee to wrap a collar around whumpee’s own neck by themself. whumpee having no choice but to obey when disobedience only means excruciating pain. they’ve learned their lesson the hard way.

whumper making sure whumpee sees themself wearing a collar by holding up a mirror in front of them. “look at you. surrender suits you. you’re so pretty with a collar around your neck.”

whumper letting whumpee choose which collar they want.

whumper, upon recapturing whumpee, holds whumpee’s old collar in their hands as they slowly approach whumpee. the sight of the collar alone is enough to break whumpee down.

whumpee having an episode in which they attack every doctor and every nurse who’s trying to help them. caretaker hates to do this, but they have no choice but to threaten whumpee by saying they will have to put a collar on whumpee again if whumpee isn’t behaving, knowing what whumpee went through during their time with whumper. it works because whumpee, despite trembling like a leaf, stops trying to hurt themself and the hospital staff right away. and the fact it works breaks caretaker.

whumpee burning their collar after they escape whumper.

caretaker applying salve on whumpee’s neck to ease the pain caused by the collar whumper made them wear.

whumpee being extremely paranoid and not letting anybody get close to their neck, without having a panic attack, after their rescue. caretakers are trying their best because, in order to properly treat whumpee, they have to be able to inspect the damage on whumpee’s neck so that they can offer treatment accordingly.

whumpee feeling the needs to always wear a scarf to hide the bruises around their neck that were caused by the collar whumper made them wear.

whumper making whumpee say thank you and kiss the back of whumper’s hand each time whumper puts a collar on them.

whumper clasping a collar around whumpee’s neck without no warning, catching whumpee off guard. by the time whumpee realizes what’s happened, it’s already too late.

whumper giving whumpee a collar that matches whumper’s dog’s collar. so now whumper has two pets!

whumper pulling whumpee in for a kiss on the lips, by yanking the chain attached to the collar around whumpee’s neck, eliciting an involuntarily moan from whumpee.

whumper touching their hand to the collar around whumpee’s neck, running their finger over it and leaning in to breathe the scent of whumpee’s hatred, fear, and possibly arousal.

TW: Whump

CW: crying, blood, bruising

It was all behind him now. He was out. He was free. All he had to do was get to his friends and heal up. The bruises on his wrists bled a little, as he stumbled down the dark street. He roughly wiped away tears from his face, hardly able to stand. His very soul shook, the tremors spreading to his bones, his muscles, his tendons.

He leaned against a wall, lightheaded from exhaustion. He wasn't used to walking everywhere. Flying was just so much more convenient. But any qi usage would mean capture as Thomas would no doubt be scanning for any large qi use. In this pitiful state, it wouldn't even be a fight. All Dené could hope right now is that he almost died and got a boost after he healed up.

He fell to his knees and screamed. A gutteral scream that was borne from his heart. A scream, not of pain or anger, but of release. As did his tears, so too did his scream lift a weight from his shoulders. He shuddered before standing up. At least, trying to. His legs gave out and all he could do was kneel as rain began to fall. A calming, cleansing, light rain that romantics danced and proposed in. The moon played across the water dreamily, almost mocking Dené's predicament.

But as quickly as it had come, it was no longer. At least, not on his back. He looked up. It was a woman holding a rather large umbrella, one who looked quite established, that she was not one to be trifled with.

"Hi. Um, you look like you need some help."

"I just need to get to my friends and I'll be alright."

"Well based on the sound of your throat and your posture, I'd say you need a bit more than that, young man." Dené growled and lashed his tail before shoving himself upright and looking at the woman who happened to be considerably taller than him. "Well?" she questioned. She looked like Lady Dimitrescu, but felt more like a mother bear, perfectly willing to kill, but only as a means to protect.

"Fine," Dené muttered and the lady called her chauffeur.

"And we'll need to do something about that... mane you have. At least make it look nice."

After the drive, she showed him to a bedroom and its bathroom. "I trust you know what to do from here." She got him a change of clothes, a cloth, and a towel.

When he looked in the (rather expansive) mirror, he saw someone he didn't recognize. Someone who was weak, helpless, ill-maintained. Not the former general of a military based on strength and order. He ran his fingers through the tangled mop that was his hair and came to an abrupt stop at a wad of knots. He started the shower, stripped, then stood under the hot water.

It was then that tears started to flow. Silent tears of helplessness, weakness, inferiority, and fear. Tears of despair, conflict, and emptiness. He cleaned himself then set to working out the knots, but he didn't quite have the patience, so got out of the shower, dried off, put on the clothes he was given, and went to find the woman.

But then, his nose caught the strong scent of food, the strongest of which was the smell of chicken noodle soup, with celery, carrots, onion, garlic, and basil. It was this smell which led him to a dining room where the woman sat, as if she was waiting for him. Now she wore a silk nightgown, making her look more like a rich MILF from some cheesy anime than an evil, centuries-old vampire dominatrix.

They ate, but before Lady Borea sent him to bed, she had him sit with her in front of the fireplace as she worked out the knots in his hair. Before she was done with the first one, he was asleep.

have you guys done that “what kind of reader are you” quiz and if so what did you get

You will not use AI to get ideas for your story. You will lie on the floor and have wretched visions like god intended

I don't know how strictly accurate this is, but one of the things I find shocking about watching historical dramas is how many people there are around all the time---according to Madame de... (1953) a well-off French household in the Belle Epoque maintains a workforce of at least 3, and the glittering opera has staff just to open doors. According to Shogun (2024) you can expect a deep bench just to mind your household, and again, people who exist to open doors.

Could people....not open doors in the past? Were doors tricky, before the standardization of hinges? Because otherwise, the wealthy used to pay a whole bunch of people to do it for them in multiple contexts, and I find myself baffled.

But what if they offer and I don’t want to say no?

Villain was alone. 

Villain was alone, yet, that did not justify them.

To trap another.

They touched Hero's skin as carefully as one would cradle a child, afraid of bringing harm, careful, adoring.

Soft as their hands trailed through their hair, playing with the strands, braiding it, brushing it, adorning it with any ornament they considered beautiful enough to be twisted or pin on their head. 

Soft their voice was too when they spoke, when they read to the other, when they told them words of comfort, of encouragement, when they told them words of love. 

Their gaze was soft too, always kind, always gleaming when their eyes met in the middle of a room, when they stayed fixed on the other's stare and both gave each other a playful smile. 

Hero was alone too.

Hero was alone and, perhaps, that did justify them. 

To allow themselves to be captured

Villain was so very good at tenderness Hero felt like crying with every kindness they offered on a silverplate

And perhaps, for a moment, they could pretend they had met at a party, at a café, perhaps in the park one day walking their dogs. 

Pretend their first date had been in an italian restaurant, a sushi one perhaps, somewhere pretty with candles illuminating each other's faces. Pretend blood had never been caused by the other's hand, pretend they had never seen each other injured more than by a small cut of a knife cooking, the cut of a paper as they read a book. 

Hero could fool themselves, that had been part of their life since birth, lies and façades, play pretend and simulate a life they would never have, but everyone expected of them. 

They were beautiful, graceful, skilled. They would make a fine spouse someday to someone greater, someone with more power, they were easy on the eyes, obedient, trained to not be a burden. 

“Can you cut my hair?” 

Comfortable was the silence broken, and their shoulders tensed for ruining the moment for such a stupid request. 

But Villain allowed it, helping them cut the back, but letting Hero do all the rest, to butcher it as they wanted. 

Villain allowed many things others would not, their parents, their organisation, their ex partners, and, after a while, Hero felt more free trapped beside them than they ever did away. 

“I’m not proud of myself,” they said once at the dinner table, earning a confused glance from their companion “I’ve been letting desire cloud my judgement lately.”

Villain lifted a brow. 

“And is that worth shame?”

“I’ve been told it is,” Hero answered, raising their eyes.

“And what is this desire you speak about?” 

“For life not to hurt.” 

The clink of the cutlery echoed through the room, an interested stare looking right back at them, urging them to continue. 

“For me to be wanted, loved, perhaps.” 

“Perhaps?” 

“Perhaps.” 

They shook their head “But none of that is something I’m supposed to want.” 

“But that’s not relevant, is it?” Villain answered “We established that, in this situation, I could do anything with you and there would be little you could do against it.”

Villain took a bite of their food. 

“Perhaps what I want it’s to fulfil your desire,” they said “so one day you can forget it brings you shame.” 

Hero never looked for a way out after that. 

_

Masterlist

This is gonna be by far my hardest semester at uni so far, works may not be as frequent :(

Day VII

It wasn't long before the humans died off and the machines built by them were the only survivors left. The robots and AI developed over a few centuries to recycle the accumulated trash, thus making them effectively immortal. The Earth cooled by a few degrees as the only water was in the atmosphere, keeping the ground usable for plants.

The seeds in the ground and those that blew around became saturated with radiation that escaped from decrepit power plants and silos and storage facilities. Mutations were catalyzed and metal and plastic started to grow out of the ground.

One of many big companies, Trash, Recycling, and IgnitioN Services by Electric and Gas-GuzzlerS, TRaINS by EGGS mass produced trash compaction robots, among others. These, like the rest, grouped up like families, like clans. It was almost human.

Boolean lifted a pile of scrap before turning it into a cube. Then he heard the telltale whistle of something flying through the air at high speed. He took the brunt of it and rolled it to the ground. He absorbed the scrap, bulking himself up, then went to investigate what had launched the projectile.

What he saw after a few minutes was the opposite of what he expected: a war machine curled up, doing the robotic equivalent of human crying. She lifted her head as he drew closer.

"何が欲しいですか?"

Boolean cocked his head in confusion. He recognized the language, but not what it meant.

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"

Not even the slightest clue.

"¿Qué deseas?"

So close yet so far away. So he went with the one he knew. "英語を話します?"

She snickered at that, then, in a much less irritated growl, said, "What do you want?"

"Oh, uh.... I just wondered if you throwing that crane at me was on purpose? Looking at you now, though, it doesn't seem like it." Now that he wasn't trying to process language or body language, he saw her factory silver plating which was covered in dust and rust flakes. She got up and some of the debris fell off of her.

"Sorry about that. Just alone and sad. I was sent here to find life, but aside from some weird molds and viruses, and you, I've found nothing."

"Well, if you're looking for humans or mammals you won't find any. They're all dead and gone. There aren't even any remains. But if you're looking at plant life, everything here came from carbon-based, photosynthesizing flora. Centuries back, but the DNA's still there, if you know where to look." He plucked a leaf from the ground. The rubber peeled apart easily when he opened it up.

"This is the most natural, well, most pre-apocalyptic, plant that grows now. One of the few carbon-based life forms here anymore." The silver robot looked at it, hunching to see and be less imposing. She analyzed it and, sure enough, nothing but hydrocarbons.

"Wait, what's your name? I'm Boolean."

"Evelyn."

hi, a lot of you need a perspective reset

the average human lifespan globally is 70+ years

taking the threshold of adulthood as 18, you are likely to spend at least 52 years as a fully grown adult

at the age of 30 you have lived less than one quarter of your adult life (12/52 years)

'middle age' is typically considered to be between 45-65

it is extremely common to switch careers, start new relationships, emigrate, go to college for the first or second time, or make other life-changing decisions in middle age

it's wild that I even have to spell it out, but older adults (60+) still have social lives and hobbies and interests.

you can still date when you get old. you can still fuck. you can still learn new skills, be fashionable, be competitive. you can still gossip, you can still travel, you can still read. you can still transition. you can still come out.

young doesn't mean peaked. you're inexperienced in your 20s! you're still learning and practicing! you're developing social skills and muscle memory that will last decades!

there are a million things to do in the world, and they don't vanish overnight because an imaginary number gets too big

why is biopunk only ever used as horror? Where’s the biopunk equivalent of cyberpunk edgerunners? Give me a Sci fi setting with dungeon meshi style chimeric modifications as a primary worldbuilding mechanic.

extra arms, giant monster body from the waist down… go to a sketchy grafting parlor and get some budget bioelectricity organs that give you Lichtenberg burns every time you use them. Give me a character that wears a mask for half the story and then reveals that they’ve got three rows of teeth, six tongues, and heavily paralytic saliva.

I don’t know, maybe Tumblr User Heron Knight Georg, who repeatedly fantasizes about molting like a cicada, gets gender envy from bloodborne bosses, and thinks that the Bone Turner’s Tale would be the perfect summer read, is an outlier and should not have been counted, but I know what website I’m on. I know just how gender affirming having six arms or feathers instead of body hair would be for most of the people here.

I think there’s some potential here if biopunk is used for more than scorn-level H.R Giger dystopian shenanigans. Give me biopunk 2077.

okay i already lost half the plot 'cause eepy BUT an expatiation on my Villain & Hero Living Weapon Whumpees idea!!

Consider: You all but forgot how to be human long ago (if either of you even knew in the first place), but after one of you is commanded to destroy the other's programing you start to realize that maybe this stranger you've been forced to fight for longer then you call even call "existence" is the only person you care about anymore. The only person who has even a hope of understanding what non-existance is like.

And maybe you two even try to "escape" together, try to fully deprogram each-other. And maybe it even works at first, but between being trained with different morals and spats turned into the same manipulative use of each-other's codes it takes longer then either of you hoped (if it even works at all)

Whumpees who were so used to being an Object for others, made to only wholly and devoutly follow someone else's lead, that they circle around each-other and are so devoted to each-other they no longer know where one "Rouge Weapon" starts and the other ends...