My favorite whump tropes tend towards the psychological: hypnosis and brainwashing, captivity, medical and lab whump, drugging and sedatives, and altered states. I also love whump involving sickness, injuries and hospitals, as well as hurt/comfort.
I enjoy writing whump that's on the gentle side and mixed with comfort, often with ASMR-ish qualities.
I especially like to write about the supernatural and am fond of vampires, faefolk, and cyberpunk dystopia.
I consider my blog SFW 18+. While my content is intended for adults, there will not be any explicit smut and only occasional gore.
the rare bookseller and the vampire auction
The story of Oliver, a seller of rare books who is kidnapped and sold at a high-end auction for vampires to purchase thralls.
18+. Contains vampires, mind control, hypnotic inductions, captivity / gilded cage, blood drinking, abuse, violence, torture, Stockholm syndrome, slavery / human auction, psychological whump.
Rare Bookseller Masterlist
Rare Bookseller Masterlist Part 2
Rare Bookseller Side Stories and AUs Masterlist
other works
Featuring hypnotic inductions, drugging, hurt/comfort and much more.
Other Works Masterlist
My ask box is open as well, if you'd like to ask the characters anything or talk about whump tropes.
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btw i did end up getting the same tattoo as her. you should never design cool tattoos for your ocs bc there is a high chance you'll end up getting them yourself...
The medical wing was colder than the rest of the facility.
They held their name tightly as two members of staff marched them through a set of white double doors.
Sita-Blessing Kande.
It was theirs. It had been spoken over them since infancy. Written on school records, examination papers, library cards, restaurant receipts. Their mother had called it from the kitchen. Their father had used every syllable when he was frightened and pretending to be angry.
The people here hadn’t taken it yet.
The corridor beyond the doors was narrow and painfully bright. Light panels covered most of the ceiling, washing the walls in a flat, colorless glare. There were no windows. No clocks. No signs indicating which floor they were on or what part of the building they’d entered.
Only numbered doors.
M-4. M-6. M-8.
Even numbers were on the right, odd numbers were on the left.
Sita counted them automatically.
There were four cameras between the entrance and the first turn, two ceiling vents, one sprinkler head and a red emergency pull station covered by a transparent plastic shield.
The handler walking on Sita’s left wore her badge on a retractable cord. The cord extended approximately sixty centimeters. The badge had a black magnetic stripe along the back and a narrow gold band across the front. The man on Sita’s right had a key clipped inside his belt.
He favored his left leg.
There was bruising across the knuckles of his right hand.
Concrete facts. Facts couldn’t be argued out of existence. Facts couldn’t be made obedient.
The restraints around Sita’s wrists were attached to a broad transport belt fastened tightly around their waist. A short chain limited the movement of their arms. Another chain ran down to the cuffs around their ankles, allowing them to walk but not extend either leg far enough to run properly.
The arrangement had been designed by someone who understood exactly how much movement a person needed to remain technically cooperative.
They shortened their stride before the ankle chain could jerk.
The woman beside them noticed.
“Good adjustment.”
They looked at her.
The woman’s voice was calm, almost conversational, as if they were walking through a hospital together. As if Sita hadn’t been dragged from their dormitory, drugged, transported across an unknown distance, stripped, photographed, examined, numbered, and locked in a room without being told where they were.
“I didn’t do it for you,” Sita said.
The woman didn’t look offended.
“That kind of defensiveness is normal during intake.”
“It isn’t defensiveness.”
“What would you call it?”
“Accuracy.”
The man on their right gave the chain attached to the back of the transport belt a sharp pull. They stumbled half a step, caught themself, and continued walking.
The woman glanced at him.
“Don’t damage their knees. Retrieval assessment hasn’t been completed.”
“What else am I supposed to call it?” They asked, frowning, “kidnapping is the unlawful taking, moving, and confinement of a person against their will by using force, trickery, or threats.”
“You were transported for evaluation.”
“I was taken from my room by people with weapons. That was both threatening and forceful.”
“You were highly resistant.”
“I didn’t know who you were. Next time, I'll make tea.”
“You were given instructions.”
“You broke my lock.”
The man pulled the chain again.
This time Sita was ready. They moved with the pressure instead of against it and kept their balance.
The woman pressed her badge to another reader. A green light illuminated beneath her hand, followed by the heavy mechanical release of a lock.
Sita watched the sequence.
Badge.
Green light.
Half-second delay.
Mechanical bolt retracting from the left side of the frame.
The woman opened the door.
“You’ll find the adjustment process much easier when you stop trying to interpret every procedure as an attack.”
Sita didn’t move through the doorway. They widened their stance as far as the ankle restraints allowed.
The man behind them moved.
The chain tightened against their waist.
“What procedure?”
The woman’s expression softened.
It wasn’t sympathy.
Sita recognized sympathy. Their mother had worn it when Sita came home after failing an exam they’d sworn they were prepared for. Their father had worn it badly, usually disguising it beneath questions about what they intended to do next.
This was something manufactured.
A facial arrangement intended to resemble kindness.
“You’ve been through a traumatic transition,” the woman said. “The treatment will help reduce distress, improve emotional regulation, and prepare you for training.”
“What treatment?”
“Medical will explain.”
“Then have medical explain before you take me inside.”
The man stepped close behind them.
“Move.”
“No.”
His hand closed around the back of Sita’s neck.
They stilled, calculating.
The grip was firm but careless. His thumb rested too close to the hinge of their jaw. His right elbow was exposed. His left knee remained the weaker one. They could drop their weight, rotate, drive the back of their head into his face, and use the chain between their wrists—
The woman spoke before they moved.
“Don’t.”
Sita looked at her.
Her practiced kindness was gone now.
“We know you’re intelligent,” she said. “We know you’ve been observing the locks. We know you’ve been counting personnel, cameras, turns, and doors. That’s one reason stabilization has been authorized so quickly.”
Their stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re exhausting yourself.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to remain vigilant anymore.”
“I don’t know where I am.”
“You’re safe.”
“I don’t know who you are. Again, you've kidnapped me.”
“We’re responsible for your care.”
“You haven’t answered a single question.”
“You’re having difficulty accepting information that conflicts with your current understanding.”
Sita stared at her.
“That sentence doesn’t mean anything.”
The woman’s mouth tightened.
The handler behind Sita shoved them through the doorway.
The room beyond was unmistakably medical even though it didn't look like any clinic Sita had ever visited.
Clinics had posters explaining symptoms. They had plastic chairs and boxes of tissues no one ever used. They had Curtains that pretended to offer privacy and nurses who introduced themselves before touching you.
This room had a narrow steel-framed bed bolted to the floor.
The mattress was covered in pale gray vinyl. Wide restraints lay open across it: wrists, upper arms, chest, hips, thighs, ankles, forehead.
There was no curtain, no second chair for family, no cabinet doors, and no objects within easy reach.
A monitor stood beside the bed, its screen already lit. An intravenous pole held three clear bags. The largest contained colorless fluid. The second was smaller and bore a printed label turned away from the door. The third was enclosed in an opaque silver sleeve.
Transparent tubing had already been primed. They’d prepared the room before Sita arrived.
A person wearing pale gray scrubs stood at the counter. They were gloved and masked. Their identification badge had been clipped backward, hiding the name and photograph against their chest.
They didn’t introduce themself. They didn’t ask Sita to confirm their name or date of birth.
They looked at the handler.
“363?”
The woman nodded.
Their attention snapped toward her.
“What did they call me?”
Neither of them answered.
The clinician turned to the monitor and tapped several commands into the screen.
The woman guided Sita another step forward.
“This is a routine intake procedure.”
Sita stared at the open restraints.
“No, it isn’t.”
“You’ve never experienced intake before.”
“I’ve experienced medical treatment.”
“You’re drawing comparisons that aren’t useful.”
“There’s a restraint for my forehead.”
“That’s to prevent accidental injury.”
“From what?”
“Movement.”
“Movement caused by what?”
The clinician picked up a sealed intravenous catheter.
Sita heard the plastic peel open and stepped backward.
The man behind them blocked the doorway.
“What’s in those bags?” they asked.
The clinician placed the catheter on a metal tray.
“Hydration and preparatory medication.”
“What medication?”
“It’ll support neurological stabilization.”
“No.”
“It isn’t necessary for you to understand the pharmacology.”
“I didn’t ask for the pharmacology. I asked what you’re putting into my body.”
“You’re becoming agitated.”
“I’m restrained in a locked room while you prepare an unidentified drug after I've been abducted from my dormitory.”
The clinician glanced at the woman.
“Subject demonstrates perseverance.”
Sita looked from one to the other.
“I can hear you.”
The clinician entered something into the tablet.
“Yes.”
“I don’t consent to this.”
The woman exhaled slowly.
“You’re not currently capable of providing informed consent.”
“I’m asking questions clearly.”
“Your resistance demonstrates that you don’t appreciate the necessity of treatment.”
“That’s circular reasoning.”
The clinician’s hands paused.
They saw the brief flicker of irritation above the mask.
Good.
Irritation was information.
It meant they understood them.
They simply didn’t care.
“I do not consent,” Sita repeated. “I’m refusing treatment. Write that down.”
The clinician tapped the screen.
“Refusal noted.”
“Then release me.”
“Treatment authorization supersedes refusal during initial stabilization.”
Sita felt something cold settle beneath their ribs.
There wasn’t going to be a point at which the right words made these people stop. They had never intended to ask permission. The explanations existed only so staff could say one had been provided.
The woman reached for the buckle at Sita’s waist.
“Get on the bed.”
“No.”
“This doesn’t need to become physically difficult.”
“It already is.”
The man reached for their upper arm.
They moved.
Sita turned into him instead of away, trapping his wrist between their body and the transport belt. They drove one shoulder into his chest and stamped toward his left knee.
The ankle chain shortened the strike. Their heel still connected.
The man shouted. His grip loosened.
Sita twisted, caught the retractable cord attached to the woman’s badge, and pulled.
The plastic reel snapped taut.
The woman staggered toward them.
Sita reached for the badge with both cuffed hands. Their fingers brushed the edge.
Someone struck them between the shoulder blades.
Their chest hit the side of the bed, causing the metal frame to rattle.
They pushed upward, using the mattress as leverage, and drove their elbow backward.
It connected with someone’s ribs.
A hand seized the back of their shirt.
Another caught a fistful of their hair near the scalp and yanked their head away from the steel rail.
“Watch the asset’s face,” the clinician said sharply. “Facial damage affects placement.”
Asset.
Placement.
Sita kicked backward.
The chain between their ankles snapped tight.
The man with the injured knee caught them around the waist and lifted them.
They threw their weight sideways and all three of them struck the bed.
The clinician moved out of the way, protecting the tray.
“Sedative?” the woman asked.
“Not before baseline readings.”
Sita’s right arm was forced behind their back.
Pressure gathered in the shoulder as they twisted it and kept twisting. Someone pinned their left leg. A forearm pressed across the back of their neck.
“Stop resisting,” the woman said near their ear.
“No.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“You’re creating the force.”
Sita laughed, breathless and tired and ugly as sin.
“That’s convenient.”
The pressure on their shoulder increased. The joint stretched toward its limit.
Sita knew the anatomy. They understood the difference between pain and structural damage. They knew what would happen if the arm rotated much farther. They stopped pushing only long enough to prevent dislocation.
The handlers used the pause, lifting them onto the bed and rolling them onto their back.
The first leather restraint closed around their right wrist. The second caught their left before they could tear it free. One strap crossed their upper arms and another tightened across their chest, compressing each breath. A broad band secured their hips. Their thighs were fastened separately, then the ankles.
Sita tested each point as soon as it closed.
Right wrist: almost no rotational movement. Left wrist: two fingers of space beneath the leather, but the buckle sat beyond reach. Chest: enough room to breathe, not enough to sit forward. Hips: immobile. Right ankle: no useful slack. Left ankle: slight lateral movement.
Head—
The woman lowered a padded band across Sita’s forehead.
They jerked away.
The handler caught their jaw and held it straight while the strap was pulled tight.
The ceiling became fixed above them.
They could move their eyes and nothing else.
“Don’t touch my face,” they said.
The handler removed his hand only after the buckle had been secured.
The clinician approached the bed.
They didn’t ask whether they had allergies. They didn’t ask what medications they already took. They didn’t ask about previous reactions, family history, recent food intake, or pregnancy risk. They wrapped an elastic tourniquet around Sita’s upper arm.
Sita watched every movement.
The clinician pressed two fingers against the inside of their elbow.
“Make a fist.”
“No.”
The clinician selected a vein anyway.
A square alcohol wipe passed over their skin.
The smell cut through the room’s chemical coldness.
“Small pinch.”
“Don’t.”
The needle entered anyway.
They flinched despite themself.
The clinician advanced the catheter, withdrew the needle, and taped the line firmly into place.
“Remove it.”
No one answered.
“Remove it.”
The clinician connected the first length of tubing.
Colorless fluid entered the line.
They watched it travel toward their arm.
“What is that?”
“Saline.”
“And the other bags?”
“Medication.”
“What medication?”
The clinician glanced at the monitor.
“Blood pressure elevated.”
“I asked a question.”
The woman stood beside the bed.
“You’re safe.”
Sita turned their eyes toward her.
“No.”
“Nothing is being done to punish you.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
“This treatment is intended to help you.”
“Then tell me what it does.”
The clinician placed adhesive electrodes against Sita’s chest. Another set went along their temples and behind their ears.
The contact points felt cold. Wires trailed toward the monitor.
“What’re they measuring?” Sita asked.
“Neurological response.”
“To what?”
The clinician connected the line from the silver-covered bag.
The tubing was narrower than the saline line. A controlled infusion pump blinked to life.
Sita heard a soft mechanical click.
“People here call the process The Drip,” the woman said.
Sita looked at her.
“What does it do?”
“It reduces harmful fixation.”
“What does that mean?”
“It helps remove destabilizing personal attachments.”
Sita stilled. Understanding washed over them in a cold wavel.
“My memories.”
The woman didn’t confirm it. She didn’t need to.
Sita pulled against the restraints.
The bed frame shuddered.
“No.”
The clinician adjusted the infusion rate.
“No. Stop. Please.”
“Your distress is expected.”
“You’re altering my memory.”
“We’re reducing the material that’s interfering with adaptation.”
“My life isn’t material!”
“Your current identity is incompatible with placement.”
Their breath caught.
The clinician pressed a command on the pump.
The line filled.
A clear fluid moved through the tubing toward Sita’s vein.
They followed it with their eyes, watching as the distance shortened.
Forty centimeters. Thirty. Twenty.
Sita twisted their wrist against the restraint, trying to disturb the catheter.
The handler pressed their forearm flat.
“Stop the line,” Sita said, “Please.”
No one moved.
“I don’t consent.”
The medication reached the junction where the tubing met the catheter.
A narrow, unnatural chill moving into the vein spread beneath the skin of their arm.
Sita held their breath.
The clinician watched the monitor.
“Infusion started at fourteen twenty-three.”
The woman beside the bed opened the tablet.
“Begin orientation reduction.”
Sita stared at her.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”
The woman typed.
Sita said it again.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”
Their voice remained steady.
That mattered.
The cold climbed past their elbow.
“My father is Benjamin Kande.”
The woman continued typing.
“He’s a journalist.”
A picture of their dad at the dining room table, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow immediately rose in their mind. He held a pen between his fingers. A newspaper lay next to him beside a chipped cup.
Dad at the dining table.
They held into the image as best as they could.
Benjamin Kande.
Dad.
His face was long, serious even when he smiled. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes. His left eyebrow lifted higher than the right when he suspected someone was lying.
He’d taught Sita to notice that.
Or they'd had noticed it on their own.
No, he’d taught them.
Hadn’t he?
The room shifted. The ceiling tiles stretched farther away.
Sita blinked hard, swallowing.
“My mother is Aminata Blessing.”
Their mother’s voice answered somewhere inside memory with a sound.
Warm and low.
She was in the kitchen. They could see the back of her dress, deep blue fabric patterned with yellow leaves. Steam gathered near the window and something simmered on the stove.
She was singing.
What song was it?
They desperately reached for the melody but it slipped out of their grasp.
They tried again.
There’d been a phrase she repeated when Sita was small.
French first, then—
Then what?
The thought dissolved before they could finish it.
“My mother’s name is Aminata Blessing,” Sita said again.
The words sounded farther away than before.
The clinician adjusted a sensor near their temple.
“Pupillary change noted.”
The woman entered another line into the tablet.
Sita forced themself to focus.
Facts.
Name.
Father.
Mother.
Dormitory.
Studies.
Restaurant.
The list had order. Order could be repeated.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande. My father is Benjamin Kande. My mother is Aminata Blessing. I’m a journalism student. I was taken from my dormitory.”
The monitor began chiming faster.
The clinician looked at the numbers.
“Heart rate rising.”
“Within expected range,” the woman said.
Sita continued.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande. My father is Benjamin Kande. My mother is Aminata Blessing. I’m a journalism student. I was taken from my dormitory.”
The words had rhythm. They could use rhythm. A memorized sequence could survive when ordinary thought failed.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande. My father is Benjamin Kande. My mother—”
Their mouth dried up. They swallowed.
“My mother is Aminata Blessing.”
The name brought back her hands. She had a small scar near one thumb and a gold band. Her nails were always trimmed short.
They remembered those hands parting their locs when they were younger, a gentle pressure against their scalp and oil warmed between their mother’s palms and a comb placed carefully on a folded cloth.
No.
Wait.
Had they worn locs then?
They could see a comb. They couldn’t see themself.
They reached for their mother’s face again.
Dark eyes.
High cheeks.
A smile—
The features blurred.
Sita pushed harder.
Mom had a gap between her front teeth.
Didn't she?
Someone did.
Maybe it had been an aunt. Or perhaps a lecturer. Or maybe a woman at the restaurant.
The memory folded in on itself and Sita’s breathing became shallow beneath the chest strap.
“Mom’s voice,” they whispered.
They could remember that she’d had one. They couldn’t hear it.
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writing a stoic character who had a spiked drink and now they're in a complete daze, vulnerable and relying on the one person they trust to keep them safe except that one person is also stoic but trying their best to provide care
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
You know what's cute? Whumpees who dissociate during high fevers.
Whumpee has been battling a high fever all day. Caretaker tries to sit them at the dinner table for some soup, to fill their belly so they can take some medicine. Poor fevered whumpee just sits there, listless, with a thousand yard stare and bright red cheeks. Caretaker tries to grab their attention, but it's all for nothing. Whumpee just keeps shivering and staring into the void.
Caretaker caresses their cheek. "You really are not feeling well, are you, sweetheart? Let's get some food into you and tuck you back in bed".
"Go away," Whumpee said in a low voice. "Go away. Go away."
"Whumpee, I'm here to help," the nurse said. It didn't believe her.
"Go away," it repeated. "Away. Away. Away."
"If you just take these pills, the thoughts will go away. Don't you want that? Don't you want to feel safe here?"
"I will never feel safe here," it growled. It was rocking back and forth on its bed, a constant barrage of disturbing thoughts swirling around in its head, and the nurse was promising relief, but relief never came, and certainly never stayed. "Go away."
"Whumper," the nurse called.
Whumpee knew what that meant. They were going to restrain it. Give it the medicine by force.
"Go away!" it screeched, and the nurse looked at it with a pitying expression.
"It'll be better soon, don't worry," she said, and it panicked, and it jumped up on its bed and started frantically tugging at the metal bars on the window. It would've rather jumped than be medicated. The medicine was poison.
"Go away!" it screamed when it turned around for a moment and saw Whumper entering the room. "Go away, away, away!"
"No can do," Whumper said in that gruff voice of theirs. They grabbed Whumpee by the arm and forced it to lie flat on the bed. Then, systematically, they bound its wrists and ankles to the bedposts.
"Thank you, Whumper," the nurse said, brandishing a needle. "Now, as for the medicine..."
"Go away!" Whumpee yelled, thrashing so the nurse wouldn't be able to inject it. "Go away! Go away! Go away!"
"Whumpee, this is for your own good. You really should've learned this by now."
The nurse grabbed it just above the knee, immobilising its leg. She stabbed the needle into its thigh, emptying its contents.
"There," she said, letting go. "I'll undo the restraints once this has had a chance to settle in your system."
Werewolf whumpee who's terrified of their violent wolf side that emerges every full moon, confiding their 'monstrous' secret to their closest companion, whumper, who embraces their shaking body and reassures them over and over that they will always love them despite their condition. (and besides, they're already fairly well-versed in the world of the paranormal themselves. Now how can they help give whumpee the support they deserve?)
From then on, on full moon evenings whumper visits whumpee's home without fail, bringing food and activities and comfort, taking care of whumpee through their pre-transformation symptoms, distracting them from the encroaching next few hours where whumpee's human side will blink out and wake at dawn without any memories of their instincts and actions as a wolf (thank god, not as if they'd want to remember anything anyway-), helping them double-check the thick silver bindings set up in whumpee's basement, and gently assuring them as whumpee chains themselves and curls up to wait that they'd keep them company the entire process of the painful transformation-and maybe a a few hours after that too, all the way to the break of a new day.
It's no trouble at all. And besides, it's the part where whumpee is a giant wolf and not a human that whumper is really here for.
Maybe when wolf whumpee first wakes up and faces whumper they really are just a snarling, vicious beast, or maybe they are affectionate and playful instead. At least to the person whumpee trusts the most.
That doesn't last.
Over the next few months, years, many and many nights of full moons, whumper strategically tortures wolf whumpee throughout the night with tools and tactics both magical and mundane. Breaking the wolf down into total terror and submission towards whumper. After whumper establishes complete power over wolf whumpee, they start releasing them from their chains and home each night and siccing them on their enemies before restraining them again. They've molded wolf whumpee into their own plaything, their own weapon, their own attack dog, and every morning human whumpee wakes back up and doesn't remember a single thing.
"I sat on the stairs with a flashlight and read to it until I got too tired. It was growling and pacing a lot more than usual, but that might have just been because my choice of book was Twilight." Whumper smiles one such morning on the porch, breakfast they prepared for whumpee in hand. "Other than that, I think it really likes me!"
"Werewolves are unfeeling monsters. They can't like anyone." Whumpee rubs their eyes blearily and responds as if by rote. They reach out to grab the food and lean their head down on whumper's shoulder, voice softening. "God, this exhaustion never gets better... but thank you again. Thank you. For everything, ever. You've done so much-you mean so much to me... " Grateful tears burn down whumpee's cheeks as whumper lets them rest against them and strokes their fingers slowly through their hair, patting at their head like a child. Or a dog.
"Of course, whumpee. I adore you. I'd do anything in the world to make you feel better. You don't even have to ask."
If only whumpee wasn't so overflowing with self-loathing and terror towards their other side, seeing their wolf as the ultimate enemy and fighting its influence at every turn... if only one day they could find the strength to accept themselves fully, embrace themselves fully, they might finally be able to access their full memories and finally hear their wolf side, ever-present but pushed down to the deepest depths of their mind, whining and whimpering in agony...
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Love a good change in sound design in visual or audio media when Whumpee is dazed and disoriented 👏 Everything echoing or being muffled or tinny or ringing, that's good stuff
