whumper-whimsy

[whumper-whimsy]

tw: domestic whump, bruises, physical abuse

“Stop—! You, you can’t just keep hitting me whenever you want.”

Whumper smiled.

“Oh yeah, I bet that hurts you, doesn’t it.”

“Could you be serious for just one fucking second? You seriously can’t keep doing this anymore. People are starting to notice!”

Whumper scoffed. “Please. Whose ‘people’?”

“My coworkers—yesterday somebody asked me if I was ‘okay’— I told you that concealer wasn’t doing shit for the black eye.”

“I don’t give a shit what your coworkers think.”

“But I do. My job could be on the line here!”

Whumper’s face twisted.

“So? That stupid job is the only reason I don’t have you completely to myself.”

Whumper advanced, forcing whumpee to back away.

“Seems like if you lost it you’d have more time on your hands for more important things.”

“Like being your fucking punching bag??”

Whumpee let out a tiny gasp as their back hit the wall. Whumper hummed, amused.

“Well for starters, yeah.“

[whumper-whimsy]

AGHH I ALMOST MISSED MERMAY HOWEVER

little siren boy... wanna lock him up in a soundproofed chamber for monitoring...

[whumper-whimsy]

Bought a card game called Fork Milk Kidnap???? It's like Kiss Marry kill but with more verbs to pick from— three of which being (stab with a) fork, milk (them), or kidnap (them)??? HELLO?

I might make whump polls with some of them

[whumper-whimsy]

[whumper-whimsy]

[whumper-whimsy]

I'm broke so I can't chain twinks to radiators I gotta use the dollar tree handcuffs and make a long string of zipties so they can maneuver around the portable space heater and when I tie them to it it's basically like a big weight cause the heater isn't attached to the floor. and I'm like well can you at least appear uncomfortable and they squeak a little but it's obvious it's not actually that hot so I just get bored and leave them there while I walk outside onto the street to steal a 6 pack from the corner store and I'm immediately hit by a car

[whumper-whimsy]

- read someone else's whump story

- daydream ab their characters and scenario

- love it so much you need to write it

- forget it isn't yours

- remember

- cry

[whumper-whimsy]

"Well well, look who came to spring the trap."

All three of them spun around, Whumpee the most reluctant as they recognised the familiar voice and fear rooted them to the spot. Caretaker's hand moved to the gun on his hip, Team leader had his already raised with the safety clicked off. Both took a step towards each other, shoulder to shoulder, to stand in front of Whumpee.

Whumper merely raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Let's not get too excited, hm? All I want..." His hungry gaze slid in-between the two and fixed on Whumpee, who had no weapon drawn and seemed closer to backing away than to stand with their team against him.

Caretaker peeked a quick glance back at them, before focusing on Whumper again. "A trap?" He almost scoffed. "You're outnumbered and unarmed. What makes you think we can't stop you?"

"Oh sure. You can stop me from taking them." Whumper's chin tipped down and he leered at Whumpee. "But can you stop them from coming to me?"

[whumper-whimsy]

Slanted Light, Spilled Gold

prev | Seven Masterlist

Tags: servant whump, domestic whump, burns, restraints | Words: 1.8k

༻✦༺ 

Seven stirred when he felt something sliding across his face. There was pressure around his ankles—he hardly registered that he was being dragged.

He jarred awake with a cry when his bruised face hit the floor. The carpet—gracious carpet—certainly could’ve been worse. He tried to bring his hands to his face—tried to cup the bruised eye socket that screamed against yet another impact, but his arms didn't budge—they stayed stuck to the small of his back, locked in place by the cinching metal. His wrists were numb. 

What time was it? Seven blinked and squinted against the bright light that hit the side of his face that wasn’t pressed to the floor. Sunlight peered through the blinds. 

“Get up.” Wes gave Seven a good-morning kick in the ribs. 

“Breakfast. Now.” 

It was an order. 

Seven tried to move but was immediately stopped by Wes’ foot stepping down on his head. 

“And for the record, I’m still mad at you.” 

Wes bent down to unlock the cuffs, sparing no weight to grind Seven’s face into the floor with the sole of his foot. Seven groaned as his bruised eye was ground hard into the rug. It was agony on the wound, all tiny rough fragments that dug into his purpled flesh. 

Freeing Seven’s reddened wrists, Wes slid the cuffs into the back pocket of his jeans. Seven gasped as he slowly brought his arms in front of him for the first time since last night. He saw angry red at his wrists—rings of raw flesh—what looked to be dried blood cracked over in a few places. 

His shoulders seared in pain at the position change. He’d slept all night like this. No wonder it hurt so bad. His breath caught in his chest as he tried to flex his stiff muscles. He clenched his teeth, sucking air through the gaps between them like water through the jaws of a whale. 

He clenched his fists. Made a point of moving all his fingers around. Each movement sent pins and needles stabbing up his arms. 

Wes wasn’t patient today—no more than any other day—and gave Seven’s ribs another hard kick, earning himself a choked cry. It’d hit just atop the still forming bruises from the night before. 

“I don’t have all fucking day!” Wes shouted, even though Seven could hear him just fine. 

Wes turned and slammed the door behind him. 

Another bright morning in the penthouse.

Groaning against the protest in his arms, Seven pushed himself off the floor. He rose, staggering a little, aiming to address his wardrobe and the general—he looked down at his bloody wrists—state of himself. 

He washed his wrists and face in the adjacent bathroom, wincing at the way his face looked—his left eye was swollen, a deep red ring formed beneath his eye, like the markings of a red raccoon. More discoloration darkened his brow bone, deep reds and purples and blues. Seven touched the skin, experimentally. His jaw tightened. It felt tender and hot. 

There were other bruises on his face, but that eye stood out like a bright red beam. There was absolutely no hiding it. It would be there for a while. 

Wes didn’t normally hurt him this badly, not anything this visible anyway. Seven figured he’d wanted to make a statement. Not that he’d needed to, but that fine detail was as dead in the dirt as Seven’s hope for a pain-free morning. 

He slipped into a soft t-shirt and some loose-ish jeans. Old clothes from Wes. They were a little big on him, but Wes had told him not to wear his manor uniform since they’d moved into the penthouse. Inclined towards casual joggers and t-shirts himself, one might infer that Wes didn’t want to be out-dressed in his own home, especially not by his own servant. The theory remained unspoken, though no doubt Wes would have had choice words for anyone with such a presumptuous opinion.

Seven ran his fingers through his hair before opening the door with a slight groan. Making a noise helped, sometimes. When Wes wasn’t around to hear him. Praying that Wes was open to bribery this morning, Seven padded down the hall and made his way towards the kitchen. 

༻✦༺ 

There was a science to the Apology Breakfast. Emulsifying the hollandaise just so, Getting the bacon to that perfect stage of crispiness, cooking the hash brown into a perfect, crisp pancake. It was the same meal every time, and after this many apologies, Seven had it down pat. 

But he didn’t feel his usual rhythm today.

The ache in his arms didn’t subside as he prepped the ingredients— it seemed to grow worse with every minute that passed since he’d first moved them. 

It wasn’t supposed to be that labor intensive, Eggs benedict. He’d made it a hundred times. But his arms ached—and between the strain of cracking the eggs and stirring and flipping and roasting and chopping, he found his shoulders slowly starting to go numb. His hands shook as he held the spatula. 

He just needed a moment. Everything was cooking. Ignoring the mess on the island behind him and leaning against the counter by the stove, he let his arms drop, his head fell to his chest, his eyes fell shut. He was so fucking tired. And sore. So so sore.

He blinked up in a panic when he heard a noise that was not correct. The high pitched sizzling of the sauce—too hot—overheated. His hand jolted to the burner dial but it was too late—seconds passed and the boiling didn’t subside. In a rush to save it, Seven opted to remove the pot from the flame entirely. 

That was when he fucked up. Grabbing the handle in one hand, his arm muscles suddenly gave out when he tried to lift. The pot was going to tip, he could feel it. That was his second mistake—sticking his other hand out to steady the pot, and yanking it back immediately when it felt his skin sizzle against the heat of the metal. He lurched, his other arm flying to protect his freshly burned hand and flinging the pot of sauce in the process.

He watched it happen in slow motion. Right in front of his eyes. As the pot tipped on the side of the stove and went down. A loud clang echoed through the penthouse when the pot hit the floor. Seven’s whole world froze. His heart had stopped working, he was sure. He was sure he would die right then and there. 

But he noticed a heat creeping on his toes and was forced back to the realization that this had indeed happened—and there was sauce everywhere. On the stove, on the floor, it was starting to seep up onto his toes when he scrambled back instinctively, grabbing the paper towels but knowing an entire roll wouldn’t be enough. 

He could feel tears pricking his eyes as he scrubbed at the floor, using large bundles of paper towel to soak everything up before—

“Why am I even fucking surprised.”

Seven’s blood ran cold. Wes wasn’t even yelling. His tone was low, angry, but eerily calm. Seven could handle the yelling, expected the yelling, but the fake calmness almost scared him more. 

“I—I’m sorry sir,” Seven choked out, scrubbing the floor with his burned hand and watching his tears fall into the tile below.

“Why the fuck did i think you could handle anything?”

Seven cringed at the sharpness. There was the edge he’d expected. “I,” Seven’s tongue felt too thick for his mouth. “I—I’ll fix it. I’ll clean it up.” 

“Yes. You fucking will. And if you burn anything or fuck anything else up, you can spend the rest of the day on your knees.” 

“Yes, sir,” came Seven’s frantic response. Anything to appease him. 

He could smell the food starting to burn. 

“Please just, just let me fix it, sir,” he raised his hands in a show of innocence, afraid to rise off his knees without Wes’ permission. 

“Fucking do it, then,” Wes hissed, turning and stomping back to the living room, vowing to think of a way to punish Seven accordingly, after he had his Apology Breakfast, of course. 

Seven scrambled to mop up what he could—the deep clean could come later. There was no time to tend to the burn—he washed his hands and wiped his forehead, before turning back to the stove. Apart from the complete collapse of the hollandaise sauce, everything else seemed to be okay. A little overdone, maybe, but not quite burnt. Seven wasted no time plating the meal and placing it on the table where Wes now impatiently sat, monitoring Seven’s progress from across the room.

Wes considered the plate in front of him, then considered Seven. His gaze made Seven squirm, and he could read that something was wrong. Hoping to appease him, Seven dropped to his knees by Wes’ chair. He was only met with more tense, heavy silence.

Wes looked back at the plate before he spoke. 

“There’s no sauce,” Wes’ voice was casual and dry.

“I—y-yes, sir, I’m sorry. I would remake it but I—” Seven struggled to explain himself, as though caught in a lie, despite the fact that Wes had witnessed the whole thing. “I didn’t want the rest to get cold, sir. Or, or burn…”

The beat of silence that hung only made Seven tenser. Wes just stared down at him.

“I could make some more if you—”

“No,” Wes cut him off. “It’s fine.”

Seven was about to lower his head, arguably out of respect or mostly just desperately wanting to escape this situation, but he froze when he saw Wes’ hand approach his face. 

He flinched back, expecting to be hit, but no hit came. Wes simply slid his finger down Seven’s cheek. A small drop of sauce still lingered there, he hadn’t noticed, with everything else. Even worse, Wes brought his finger to his mouth and licked his fingertip clean. 

“It’s a shame,” he remarked, “It's actually really good.”

Seven felt an awkward twinge of both pride and shame. He knew why this was the Apology Breakfast. Wes liked it. It made Seven proud when Wes liked his cooking. Like he was being useful. Like he could do something right, for once in his stupid life. 

But this had been a disaster. He supposed he could’ve burned it. That would’ve been worse. At least Wes hadn’t beaten him for it, yet. 

Seven knelt on the floor in silence while Wes ate his food, until at some point, Wes seemed to remember he was there. 

“Fuck are you just sitting there for. Don’t you have a mess to clean up?”

Seven had enjoyed the brief respite—his arms were more than thankful. But yes, he did. 

“Yes sir,” he said, rising to his feet.

Wes was being so nice about this. Really, Seven was lucky. 

“Thank you, sir,” he added, quieter this time, before shuffling back to the kitchen. 

“Don’t think you’re off the hook for all this shit. I just want you out of my sight.”

Seven should’ve expected that. Of course it wouldn’t be enough. Cleaning the kitchen wouldn’t be enough—it was merely the first in a long line of steps to eventual repentance. He could only be grateful that Wes was giving him a chance. 

༻✦༺ 

I dont know, was he mean enough to him yet - i dont think he was. Might have to continue this and Make it Worse

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[whumper-whimsy]

Back home drabble- Recreational use

A/N: Enjoy some drabble i started in Dec. 2023 💀

somewhat proofread!

. . .

During whumpee's first/original capture

They/Them used, both characters w/ male anatomy + genitals

Tw: explicit noncon/dubcon, drugging, captivity, pet whump, needles.

Whumpee was curled up on the floor of Whumper's small library, watching the flames flicker in the encased fireplace. They wore only a pair of black boxers and Whumper's cozy blue sweater.

Whumpee heard Whumper turn the page of their book, humming to themself. Whumper loved to read when they were bored, they'd noticed.

The tall window in the nook didn't provide much light during the new moon, but everything felt dark, cozy, warm, and safe inside the little room.

Whumpee closed their eyes and listened to the crackle of the fire, their finger idly tracing circles in the shag of the carpet.

"Whumpee," Whumper said pleasantly, drawing their attention.

Whumpee looked up at them, sitting up alertly. "Yes? Anything you need?"

Whumper sighed, closing their book. "Come here, would you? Come sit in front of me."

Carefully, Whumpee got to their hands and knees and crawled to Whumper. Their hand found Whumpee's hair, caressing it gently. Whumpee leaned into the touch with a smile, looking up at the calm expression on Whumper's face. "It's been a long day, baby. Do you wanna help your owner feel better?"

"Of course! What can I do?" Whumpee smiled warmly, excited to help in whatever way they could.

Whumper seized Whumpee by the throat and yanked the smaller closer. Whumpee squirmed, whining softly.

"Why- what are you-?" Whumpee cried, terror gripping their heart. "Whumper!"

Their owner shook their head. "Hush, hush. I need to have some new fun, dear."

Whumpee went still, their eyes flickering around the room. "What kind of fun..?"

They were never given a proper reply. Whumpee was dragged to the kitchen and lifted onto the island. The cool marble beneath their bare thighs made them shiver.

Whumper walked to a locked cabinet, fishing a key from their pocket and clicking it open. They picked up a small vial of liquid and two little pill bottles, setting them next to Whumpee. "Back in a sec," they said. "Sit pretty for me."

As they left, Whumpee glanced down at the vial. They weren't supposed to read. Whumper hadn't made it an explicit rule, but Whumper never supplied them with anything to read and treated them like they didn't know how. Whumper liked to read things for them. It was easier that way.

Whumpee waited until Whumper was gone for sure, then picked up the small bottle. They looked it over, running their finger over the label.

Oxytocin Peptide

Not for recreational use.

Whumpee hummed and set it down. They didn't really know what oxywhatever was. The vial seemed harmless enough.

From what Whumpee could gather, one pill bottle was for some kind of male stimulant. They weren't quite sure what that meant either. The other was the steryotyical transparent orange bottle. It had no labels, just a bunch of white pills.

Whumper returned a bit later, holding Whumpee's little black bag. Whumpee's breath hitched— they knew what was coming when they saw it.

"Whumper, do we really need to-"

"Shush, shush. Get the sweater off." Whumper began pulling things from the black velvet bag. The bundle of rope, their fuzzy cuffs, their metal cuffs, a ball and ring gag, a few blindfolds, a couple toys... all the necessities for these nights.

"Alright, here we go." Whumper laid out their chosen items. They had picked a blindfold, gag, remote-controlled toy, and handcuffs.

"I- I don't know about all this... I'm still not fully recovered from last time..." Whumpee glanced at the assortment of items with a nervous swallow.

"I promise you'll like it." Whumper assured, grabbing their things from the island. "Follow me."

They followed Whumper to the bedroom, where they were made to kneel on the fancy red rug that dominated the floorspace. Whumper had something in their hands— a little pink bullet vibrator that connected wirelessly to a matching remote.

"Please, not that..." Whumpee whimpered, feeling themself be pressed into a more convenient position. "Stop, stop! I don't like the vibrator, please!"

"Shhh... it's a really little one, kay? And I'm not turning it on yet." Whumper patted their cheek. "You want the blindfold on beforehand? You have a needle coming soon, too..."

Whumpee stared up at Whumper, scared.

"Yeah... let's get the blindfold on." Whumper confirmed with themself and touched Whumpee's shoulder, smiling. "It'll calm you down a bit." The blindfold was soon fastened securely to their face. Without asking for permission, they also went ahead and cuffed Whumpee's hands behind their back.

Whumpee heard the lube uncap and squirt out a bit, then felt Whumper's thumb prodding around at their entrance. Whumpee leaned away from it.

"Stop, I don't want this-! Stop," they squeaked, unwelcome to the intrusion on their bruised entrance.

"Hush, baby. If you don't relax, we'll never get anything done."

"I don't want anything done!"

"Tsk, that seems like a you problem."

Whumper's thumb eased its way in, gently stretching them out. "Deep breaths... relax."

Whumpee meweled in displeasure as the toy slid in. It may have been one of Whumper's 'small' ones, but with them, 'small' could mean 'painfully filling'.

Whumpee shifted, biting their lip. "It hurts... it hurts..." they whined.

Whumper's fingers found Whumpee's shoulder, massaging the area. "It'll get better... now take in a big breath."

Whumpee knew well what that meant.

"No- fuck, not the needle, please-"

"Hush, hush..." Whumper pet Whumpee's hair. "That's it, Whumpee. Big, big, big breath. In and out, darling." Whumpee winced in pain as the needle pierced through their muscle. Whumper purred in their ear, "Good, good... it's all over..."

Whumpee didn't even have time to speak before a handful of pills touched their lips.

They swallowed them down without a second thought, so used to Whumper feeding them a cocktail of drugs. "What did you give me?"

"Not important. Just open your mouth for your gag, kay?" Whumper pressed the ball behind Whumpee's teeth, clasping the buckle around their head. "All set. Now. I'm gonna carry you over to the closet, okay? It's all empty and cleaned for you."

Closet? Whumpee's brow furrowed. Whumper picked them up and placed them in the smaller space. The closet was cold, and the hard flooring made their back ache impossibly more. They let out a low whine, trying to get an ounce of sympathy from their master.

"Those cuffs are tight, arent they? Stay still." Whumper fretted over them. Whumpee preferred this side of Whumper. Back when Whumpee was first taken adopted, they had spat and kicked and thrashed against their cuffs. But Whumper had trained all that out of them— they were only angry back then, providing Whumpee only what they needed to survive.

Now, Whumpee was only beaten when it was necessary, when they were blatantly disobedient.

For the first time since this had started, Whumpee wondered if this was a punishment. The restraints and sensory blockers seemed like overkill. Usually, when the gag and toy were brought out, it was for sexual reasons, but Whumper hadn't started anything yet. Maybe Whumpee had disobeyed.

Whumper's hands moved quickly as they unlocked the cuffs and readjusted them.

"Sorry, love. Locked 'em too tight." Whumper's hands worked between Whumpee's shoulder blades, massaging their aching muscles. "You feel better?"

Whumpee nodded, still feeling lost. They were sat back down, Whumper rubbing their back in a soothing way. Whumpee's skin felt like it was buzzing under Whumper's fingers.

"How are you doing in there?" Whumper cooed, their voice seeming muffled.

Whumpee tilted their head up and hummed, all the more they could respond. Everything felt fuzzy, liked it had happened five minutes ago and was happening at super-speed simultaneously.

Whumper's voice was too close and hundreds of miles away as they spoke, "Baby, it's gonna get dark, kay? And I'm gonna go. You're gonna feel good."

A kiss landed on Whumpee's head, and the door clicked shut. No light filtered in through the blindfold, leaving Whumpee in complete darkness.

The first buzz came quickly, and Whumpee's whole body jerked. They groaned, holding their breath in anticipation as the toy went quiet. It went off again, vibrating for a few seconds. Whumpee wailed against the gag, squirming and kicking their feet on the floor. "Mmhhgh—!"

Seconds of this.

Minutes of this.

Hours of this.

Whumpee wasn't even near being aware of what was happening by the time the closet door cracked back open. It could have been minutes, could have been days.

Whumper's wedged shoes tapped on the hardwood as they strode in, the loudest sound Whumpee had heard since all this began. Their voice carried to Whumpee's numb ears, sounding soft and honeylike.

"Ohhh, Whumpee," they purred, sliding the blindfold off the smaller's head, "you did so good! You never even passed out, did you?"

Whumpee groaned in response, their eyes stinging as they adjusted to the blinding light filtering in through the hallway. "Mmggh?"

Whumper chuckled, rubbing Whumpee's jaw as they unclasped the gag with their other hand. "Ohh, I bet that's sore, baby. What were you asking?"

"How long..?"

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't even know." Whumper looked down, huffing a scoff at the puddle of semen on the floor. "I'm pleasantly surprised, though. Four hours."

Whumpee's eyes widened in shock, unable to produce a response. They simply gawked at the situation as Whumper scooped them up.

"Betcha Caretaker couldn't keep you going that long, hm?" Whumper mocked, rubbing their nose against Whumpee's cheek playfully. "Come on now, love. Let's get you all cleaned up for dinner. We have guests, you know."

[whumper-whimsy]

Thank you omfg I am sick and tired of seeing it used incorrectly (as someone who was a victim in a bad relationship and is still trauma bonded to their ex.)

Also people romanticising it???? No???

Writing it and showing all the aspects of it? ✅️✅️✅️

Claiming you want it and playing it off as relationship goals? NO BIG NO ❌️❌️❌️❌️

Just a psa for fic writers who use the “trauma bond” tag, please make sure you’re using it correctly. A trauma bond is not two people who experience similar trauma and bond over it. It’s a carefully curated, manipulative bond between abuser and victim to keep the victim coming back because of the addictive highs and lows that come with abuse.

If you want to tag two characters bonding over shared trauma, a good substitute tag would be “bonding over shared trauma.” Trauma bonding is, by definition, an abusive relationship and may steer people who have experienced it away from your fic. Please spread the word and happy writing!

[whumper-whimsy]

Just wanted to say I like the Back Home story you wrote!! Not sure if you plan on continuing or not, it's fine if you don't, no stress, just wanted to say it's a good read!

Hope you're doing well!

I'm glad you enjoy! The next part is in the works but i honestly have been so burnt out with classes the past few months 😵‍💫😵‍💫

I've been on somewhat of a hiatus, but just know that I'm not gone forever and i have no plans of stopping the series! ❤️❤️❤️

[whumper-whimsy]

[whumper-whimsy]

spin this wheel of fanfic tags. this will be the theme of your day tomorrow.

[whumper-whimsy]

whumpee and caretaker finally getting a few moments of peace and quiet, cuddled up together in bed...

... when Whumper's men suddenly burst through the dor and rip them away from eachother, knocking out Caretaker and shoving Whumpee into the back of their van.

[whumper-whimsy]

Rich bratty whumpee trying to say "don't you know who I am!?" and Whumper who's been stalking them just says "yes, yes I do."

[whumper-whimsy]

pet whump, death, captivity

...

just thinking ab pet Whumpee getting really sick and Whumper having to euthanize them and Whumpee trying to convince Whumper that they're okay... AGH ♥︎