Whumper whipping/hurting the passcode out of whumpee
Whumper scrolling through whumpee’s contacts, monologuing out loud on who to tell about the ransom over whumpee’s head
Whumper musing over how, despite being kidnapped for weeks, no one bothered to call or text.
Whumpee getting bullied over their text messages (“awww you really think contact x loved you? Sure they wrote it, but it’s probably to protect your feelings”)
Once free from whumper, whumpee gets a lot a call everyday from them- “I’m going to find you”, “you really thought you can hide for long?”
Cutting off one of whumpees fingers so that whumper could have access to the fingerprint lock on Whumpee’s phone
Holding whumpees phone up to whumpeee after a noncon body mod, laughing over the little “face not recognized” text
Whumpee is allowed to go out from time to time, but whumper must track their phone. They’re required to check in every hour
Whumpee having to step away from caretaker, or a party to call whumper on the phone, and struggling to seem happy once they return
Caretaker sent message after message, call after call, wondering where whumpee has gone
Escaped whumpee having to painstakingly delete all photos whumper took of them while in captivity
Whumpee desperately trying to call for help, but no one picks up
Whumpee tries calling for help…but whumper picks up
Crying to Caretaker over the phone, explaining to them their nightmares they had at off hand hours of the night
Caretaker trying to explain to whumpee over their phone how to care for their wounds
Caretaker having to listen over the phone as whumper hurts whumpee
This is NOT my art, this is my friend's art that she gave me permission to post. We are both huge angst/whump fans and our favorite victim is of course Danny, and we enjoy the whump potential with the Danny/Spectra pairing as she drinks up Danny's misery in order to maintain her youth and beauty. I mean, we can't just ignore that setup, it's too good.
I was so inspired by this art that I actually wrote a ficlet to go with it, so if you are interested in reading it, do let me know!
A defiant whumpee, thrashing around, grunting, fighting as much as his body allows, kicking, punching, biting, crying, screaming, spitting. Whumper removing every bit of freedom with chains, ropes, gag/muzzle, blindfold, and putting whumpee in a severe stress position until he realizes there's only two options; to surrender or pass out and do it again until whumper gets exactly what he wants, whumpee's complete surrender.
tw gaslighting, hypnosis, magic whump, tiny whump, lady whump, captivity, memory loss
The song filled her mind and body as she kept spinning, keeping completely still for her owner’s enjoyment. She was a perfect little ballerina, her master’s favourite, never stumbling and never ever disappointing them.
Her dress was as pretty and perfect as the body it served to accentuate, with a soft face and shiny hair to match. A work of art, her master had called her. A masterpiece.
The music was gentle as it wrapped around her, settling deep in the creases of her mechanical body and soothing her every worry. She let herself be carried around and around, her glassy eyes fixed on something invisible. Her master was in the room with her, she noted distantly. She could only ever catch glimpses of them, but it was enough to motivate her to do well.
She would always do well. She was perfect, a product of her owner’s genius.
“The battery in your music box is running out,” Master said one day. “I’ll get new ones soon.”
She didn’t doubt it. She was grateful to be informed ahead of time, that way she didn’t panic when her little personal carousel started slowing, and eventually came to a complete halt. She stayed motionless, staring out into the empty room with the last remnants of the song playing only in her mind.
Her owner must’ve been at the store by now, getting the new batteries so they could continue to enjoy her dance. She only had to be patient for a few more minutes, at most an hour.
The stillness was unnerving. She almost felt like her arms were getting tired in this demanding pose, even though she knew that was quite impossible. Dolls didn’t get tired. And while her master was a particularly skilled tinkerer to have created something as lifelike as her, they would’ve had no reason to make her susceptible to exhaustion. That would’ve been cruel, given her purpose.
Still, the feeling continued to spread. Her joints started aching, her mechanical muscles were burning, and despite her best efforts, she eventually had to lower her arms. It felt sacrilegious to do that while the music box was open… but there wasn’t any music now, nor an audience to dance for. Maybe it was okay. Maybe she could treat this unusual circumstance as if the box had been closed.
It kept bugging her, though; the bone-deep exhaustion that suddenly plagued her now that she was off duty. And what were all these new worries? Why did she feel so anxious? Was she shaking from fatigue or nerves?
Why was she shaking at all?
She glanced towards the empty room again, suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to crawl out of her box and explore. Her whole body protested as she carefully crossed the threshold into the outside, walking along the table with a sense of odd familiarity. It felt as if she had gone on walks like this before, even though she had no recollection of anything but the box.
She didn’t make it far. She crumpled to the ground in pain, curling up in an attempt to soothe her aching joints. Everything hurt. Nothing had ever hurt before, not since her owner had created her.
Oh, lying down like this would definitely put a few wrinkles in her pretty dress. Bad, bad, she was being a bad doll.
‘What a bad doll you’ve been.’
‘I’m not a doll! Stop calling me that, stop– what are you doing? You can’t lock me in there!’
‘But I can. Dolls belong in boxes, after all.’
The hallucination made her sit bolt upright, eyes wide and full of terror. What was that? Where did that come from? She hugged her knees close to her chest, barely understanding why she was suddenly crying.
The box seemed scary now that she was out. It seemed like nothing but a prison instead of a home.
She stared down at her realistically painted legs, blinking at the level of detail she had never noticed before. She couldn’t help it. She gently scraped against the layer, consumed with a desire to see the paint flake off, to see her metallic endoskeleton underneath… But it hurt, and all she found was a layer of flesh with blood bubbling to the surface.
It couldn’t be.
She was a doll.
She was just a doll.
‘I’m not a doll!’
She buried her face in her hands, taking quick, shallow breaths. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. None of it was real. She had to get back into the box. She had to get back and dance and look pretty. She had to be perfect, she had to be nothing but a beloved object.
The door opened and she flinched, scrambling to her feet and promptly falling again. She was so tired. She was so scared. She had to get back to the box before her owner realised what a bad doll she had been.
“Oh… The battery ran out sooner than I thought…” Her master walked over to the table, and their presence held none of the usual gentleness that always put her at ease. She felt nothing but the dread of a prey animal, trapped and about to be killed. “How unfortunate. I need to fix this box, this is the second time in only a few months.”
Second? In a few months? No… She had never had the box stop before.
“What’s going on?” she asked, startled by her own voice. She didn’t know she had a voice box. Was it a voice box? Or was it her voice, natural and painfully alive?
“Shh, it’s alright.” They quickly inserted the batteries into the bottom of the box, then set it down on the table again. “Come on. In you go.”
“No! No, I want– I want you to explain! Why am I bleeding? What’s going on?”
“You’re bleeding? Oh, my. What a mess.” They flipped a switch and the song started back up, and she didn’t know why she covered her ears. She just knew she had to, it was crucial that she did, it was the most important thing in the world that she blocked out the song completely.
“Just tell me what’s going on!” she cried, shrieking when her owner pinned her down against the desk, securing her limbs with clear tape. “No, stop, stop it! Please! I don’t understand, I don’t understand!”
“Shh… Calm down, sweet… It’s alright…” They winced when they saw the wound above her knee, swiftly grabbing some ointment and a cotton swab to treat it. She struggled against the makeshift restraints, unable to stop the music from infiltrating her mind any longer. “Oh, what a bad doll you’ve been again…”
“I’m not a doll!”
Her captor gave her a pitying look, gently dabbing the injured area and making her cry harder with the sting of it. “It’s going to be alright.”
The empty box continued playing the music, and she felt her anger slowly give way to resignation. Her struggles became weaker before they ceased entirely, and her pain dissipated before she was even freed from the clear tape. She wasn’t tired anymore. She wasn’t hurting.
“There you are,” they murmured. “My most perfect little creation. My little ballerina.”
New clothes were brought out for her, and she lay completely still as her owner changed out the old ones. She was placed back in the box, where the song was the loudest, and she let it wash over her. It was so heavy, like a comforting blanket.
“Get into position for me, won’t you?” She raised her arms and tried to mimic the grace of a real dancer, making her master smile. “Perfect. My little mechanical doll. My toy box dancer. What a little wonder I’ve created.”
The song filled her mind and body as she kept spinning, keeping completely still for her owner’s enjoyment. She was a perfect little ballerina, her master’s favourite, never stumbling and never ever disappointing them.
Whumpee slowly blinked their eyes open for a moment, struggling to see Whumper's figure looming over them through the blurriness of their tears. "I'm sorry. You made me this way, sir."
They squeezed their eyes shut when a foot came to rest on their neck. "I never said it was a bad thing."
Cw: noncon (nonsexual) touching, noncon drugging, mentions of PTSD, control by a big organization
Whumpee was diagnosed with PTSD and under the Caretaking Organization’s decision, Whumpee was to go through immersion therapy with their assigned Caretaker.
Whumpee’s immersion therapy was to sit on Caretaker’s lap for an hour, three times a week while being hugged to overcome their aversion to being touched and held.
Caretaker was given their orders and uncomfortable with the decision made, tried to gently explain to Whumpee what would be happening from the doorway of Whumpee’s room. Caretaker received an “Absolutely NOT” from the lump of blankets on the bed and with that, closed the door and reported back.
An injectable sedative was delivered to Caretaker’s doorstep within three hours.
Caretaker took a deep breath and called to Whumpee from the doorway.
“Whumpee? It’s time for immersion therapy. The sooner we do it, the sooner it’s over.”
The lump of blankets was silent. This was generally Whumpee’s way of saying no without having to verbalize. Typical avoidance behaviors like pretending they can’t hear or looking away so they can’t acknowledge by looking in Caretaker’s eyes that they’ve been told something.
Caretaker swallowed uncomfortably, knowing what was likely coming next.
“Whumpee, I’m giving you the chance to try it out before we move on to next steps.”
The lump was silent and seemed to become quieter if that was even possible.
Caretaker walked over to the blankets, pulled them back and quickly sunk the needle into exposed flesh. Whumpee looked up in surprise and horror as Caretaker pulled the needle away and clicked the safety cap on.
In an instant, Whumpee bolted for the door. Caretaker followed, concerned they would fall down the steps. Fortunately Caretaker was able to pass Whumpee on the stairs as they slowed significantly, cursing up a storm in slurred speech. When they did end up sliding towards the floor, Caretaker was there to catch them and scoop them up. Like a small child restrained by a parent during a tantrum, Whumpee huffed and cried as they tried to wiggle away from the offending arms.
Caretaker calmly sat them both on the couch and curled Whumpee into their body as their hour together started. Whumpee cried and cried. Caretaker cried too, knowing this was not therapeutic in any sense of the word and would only cause Whumpee to lose trust in them but they had their orders and would lose their job if they refused.
As they sat, Caretaker apologized profusely through their tears and explained they had to do this lest they lose their job and Whumpee end up with someone not as caring, only in it for the money. Whumpee understood this but was so overwhelmed by the touch and shock of being drugged that all they could do was make big ugly sobs into Caretaker’s shirt.
Caretaker wiped Whumpee’s tears and nose with a tissue and shushed them while rubbing small circles on their back, patting them, and rocking them intermittently. They felt Whumpee’s heart rate slow and Whumpee allowed the drugs to lull them to sleep. As they slept, Caretaker thought deeply about the events that had unfolded, leading them to this moment. Was it worth it to stay in the Organization if this was how they treated their patients?
-of course, the Whumpee who’s never had a birthday party. The cake, the gifts, just the idea that someone, anyone, was happy that they existed is enough to bring them to tears.
-Whumpee who doesn’t know how old they are, just a general guess, and of course their birthday is even more of a mystery, so they celebrate something else instead as a “birthday”. The day they escaped Whumper, the day they met Caretaker, the day they felt reborn or like they’d become who they should be.
-Whumpee who dreads their birthday because Whumper taunts them for it, torturing them in increments equal to their age or mockeries of birthday traditions like poisoned cake or painful party games.
-Whumpee who’d not celebrated in years because it didn’t feel safe to. It felt like anything good in their life always got taken away, so they avoid any kind of celebration or excitement, but when a small trinket or treat is pressed into their hand, a smile and a whispered “Happy Birthday” from a friend, they can’t help the rush of warmth from it.
-Caretaker feeling hollow as Whumpees birthday passed by and they were still missing. They still keep a box of cake mix in the pantry, just in case, hoping that this might be the day that Whumpee is found.
-Whumpee surprising Caretaker for their birthday! Especially if Caretaker is always so focused on Whumpee that they forgot their own birthday, or Whumpee had previously been too scared to do anything other than obey orders. So not only is it an act of love, it’s an act of healing and growth.
-Whumper offering Whumpee an “olive branch” on their birthday, especially if they’re more of the obsessive/intimate Whumpers. Feeding Whumpee cake off of their fork and gifting them trinkets and treats that are obviously more for Whumpers benefit than theirs.
-Whumpee celebrating their birthday alone after escaping Whumper, blowing out a single candle stuck through a store bought little treat, and trying to keep their head up. The idea of living another year is bitter and complicated, but they have to keep their head up, they have to. They didn’t struggle so hard to give up now.
-Whumpee forcing Whumpee to throw them a birthday party. Whumpee terrified of not meeting their very high standards, stringing up streamers with shaking hands and trying to bake a cake without burning themselves or it but every time there’s a moment of stillness, their mind is gone again.
-Whumper using a birthday invitation to kidnap Whumpee, luring them to a different location and abducting them.
-Caretaker finding that Whumpee had written in Whumpers birthday on their shared calendar, and debating taking it off or asking about it.
-Whumpee being given a birthday wish by Whumper and using it to call Caretaker, to tell them they loved them. Maybe that’s all they’re able to do, or maybe Caretaker is able to use the clues in the call to find them. Maybe Whumpee is willing to risk the punishment they’ll get to tell Caretaker a clue that only they would understand.
-Whumpee being given as a birthday gift from one Whumper to another, and the new Whumper being horrified at the previous treatment they received and becoming more of a Carewhumper.
-Or! Whumpee being given as a birthday gift to Caretaker, who has to play along in front of people but behind closed doors, cares for and protects Whumpee as much as they can. Whumpees confusion between the two versions of Caretaker and how to behave, how to feel.
Yesterday I went to IKEA and bought a small straw goat, since we are in temporary accommodation over Christmas and it would be nice to have something small and cheerful.
A trope I adore: not only a drugged Whumpee, but the act of drugging Whumpee.
Pinning Whumpee’s arm to the ground or a table, keeping them still enough to push the needle into their arm
Causing a sharp, sudden pain that makes Whumpee cry out, their mouth opened just long enough to shove a pill inside—then holding a hand over Whumpee’s nose and mouth until they swallow or suffocate
Forcing Whumpee to drink something they know is laced (or don’t)
Waving a strong chemical beneath an unconscious or exhausted Whumpee’s nose, and watching the effects hit their system almost immediately
Making Whumpee finish a suspiciously chalky meal
Restraining Whumpee and hooking them up to a constant drip of fluids meant to keep them docile. Bonus: Whumpee fighting tooth and nail to keep the needle from their arm because they know—once it’s in, there’s no chance to escape
Whumper tightening Whumpee's collar by one hole each time they misbehave. Really, it's up to Whumpee as to whether they want to be able to breathe or not within the next few hours.
Whumpee stucks their tongue out after a certain amount of time without air, and Whumper thinks it's the cutest thing ever. Cue them randomly reaching out to choke them and just waiting to see Whumpee start to drool and for their tongue to stick out.
Whumpee's raspy breaths in as the force around their neck slowly tightens.
Shoving their face near a pot of boiling water and threatening to drown them in it.
Whumper trying to "squeeze the tears out of them". AKA Whumpee cries when they're choked.
Whumpee mouthing the word "please" over and over again and Whumper choosing to take it as "squeeze harder".
That huge gasp of air and the way their body writhes when they're finally able to breathe again.
A reverse gag being shoved down their throat until they learn to be respectful.
The little choked whimpers that Whumpee lets out as their airflow is cut off.
Forcing so much water down a dehydrated whumpee's throat that it chokes them.
An immortal whumpee who can't pass out from suffocation, blood loss, etc. being forced to live in a constant state of asphyxiation that would kill a mere mortal in minutes.
It was a scruffy little russel terrier pup who was mad when the master was mad, happy when the master was happy.
Whumpee watched as the master preened his new pet, doted on it like never before with whumpee. The little puppy ate from his hand and slept on the master’s bed and got groomed with a sparkly little plastic brush that whumpee could only dream of having.
And sometimes it kept bark bark barking at night, and all whumpee wanted to do was yell at the pup before it got them both whipped till their bones peeked through their flesh.
But that never happened.
Everyday at noon now, the master would take the pup out on a walk and leave whumpee locked up in their own cage.
“Only good pets go on walks,” he would chuckle, spinning on his heel before walking off.
Whumpee would be left alone.
By day five, the little puppy had found one of master’s fedora hats and wrestled with it. Whumpee saw as the pup ripped the rim of the hat and tried to help, pulling the hat away from the mutt. The pup began to bark and bark and bark and the master came to see what had happened. He saw whumpee with the hat and the pup sitting obediently.
“Master-“ whumpee whined, realizing what would happen. They shook their head, taking a step back, to escape, to run what would come next.
Master beat them that day. And the pup watched from the corner, bark bark barking.
Day after day, whumpee watched as played with this new toy. The master was good to the dog, so good. Whumpee wanted it to be them that the master stroked, the master prized and admired.
Their throat closed tight, their face burned in embarrassment, but they raised their head and let out a shy bark. The sound tumbled from their mouth, awkward and wrong.
The master sneered at them, and pulled whumpee close by their collar.
“Don’t misunderstand me, whumpee. This is my companion, and you are nothing better than a broken toy.” He pulled out a muzzle, tightening it over whumpee’s maw. “Don’t you ever try that again.”
The pup watched and began to bark, bark, bark, as if it were laughing .
Could you tell me something nice??? I had a terrible day and I need a bit of support
I promise i'll return it some day
For some reason, I feel called to talk about burnout right now? So I'm going to do that.
My grandpa planted this apple tree in my backyard the summer before he passed away. I first moved here last year, and it put out about a dozen apples. I was really excited since it's such a small tree and this was its first time producing. I wanted to honor him and the fact that he wanted this tree to grow and thrive and give good things to the people living here and the children next door.
But I let it get too heavy.
I didn't prune back the branches or pinch away the buds. The little tree took on so much all at once, and after a weekend away, I found several of the branches broken from the weight of it.
It healed - it did, but not nearly quickly enough. It was tired, and put everything into making those apples. It didn't have much to store for winter now, and by this spring, it was sick. It wasn't growing much, and it got some pests.
Still, it tried to put out way too many apples. They rotted and broke the branches again.
But this time, I stopped it. I pinched away most of the fruit before it was even ripe, and let the little tree keep some nutrients to itself. Let it rest and gave it some treatment for the bugs.
By fall, it was standing much taller, and is doing so well now.
Sometimes, we need a little rest. Even if we're doing exactly what we're supposed to be doing, it's okay to need a break. You'll be better in the longrun if you let yourself rest and heal from the things breaking down your body, mind, and emotions.
If something is consistently hurting you or demanding too much of your energy, it's okay to cut that thing or person off, or just take a small step back. Even if you lose some fruit along the way, you'll be better for it in the longrun.
As a small sidenote: I see you. I notice you. You always like my posts in batches and it makes me smile so much to get a little handfull of notes. You liked and reblogged a lot one day when i was having a really hard time and it helped so much for being such a small thing.
You're producing fruit in ways you don't even know. Don't sweat the rest of it.
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