#deaf whumpee

[lumpywhump]

whumpee who went deaf while with whumper, learning sign language from caretaker

(bonus points if caretakers family member is deaf and whumpee gets excited about meeting someone like them)

[ccieatchildren]

Whumpay 24 Day 1: Strapped to an Operating Table

TW: Experimentation, Eye Gouging , Noncon Drug Use

Whumpee jolted awake.

He tried moving his arms, but found them, and his other limbs, clamped down. Cold metal pressed against his back, and Whumpee still felt groggy from whatever sedatives they were injected with before. He pulled and pulled at the restraints, but they wouldn’t budge. 

A hand knocks on the table next to his head, startling out of his panic. A person moves from behind him to another Whumpee notices standing in the corner, craning his head to watch them. 

They begin to talk, and though he couldn’t hear what they were saying– he never could– but Whumpee had become adept at lip reading. Hyper-focussing on the researchers’ lips he tried deciphering what was said, but the shapes they made were unfamiliar. 

He wished his brother was here. 

Not only was he hearing, but he also understood English. Tears pooled in Whumpee’s eyes at the thought of their brother. 

Shifting in his restraints, Whumpee drew the attention of the people once again. They argued with each other for a few seconds before the taller one grabbed a scalpel. The other hurried to a metal cart covered with various other medical tools and drugs, pushing it near him. 

The one with the knife approached their metal bed, muttering a few words until they realized he couldn’t understand them. Seemingly done with trying to communicate with him, the scientist sighed, turning to their partner and nodding. 

Whumpee did understand this. 

He screamed, tugging at the clamps, trying in vain to break the solid metal. The main one barked some sort of order at the other, who sped to retrieve a syringe. They both held his arm down, despite his incoherent yelling, putting the needle through his skin. 

Immediately Whumpee could feel his limbs slacken, brain becoming foggy. They tried pulling away once more, but nothing happened. His head and arms felt as if made from foam, somehow soft but immovable. They tried blinking the sensation away, but even his lids did not reciprocate. 

He had lost sight of the researchers in his panic, but Whumpee was returned to his situation by the scalpel appearing much too close to his eye. He attempted to turn or scream again, but he laid still and nothing but quiet gurgles came out. 

He could do nothing as the blade pressed against the edge of his optic organ. Could do nothing as they slowly scooped out the ball, and still couldn’t do anything as they carefully severed its long tail. Whatever gods were out there were merciful enough to make it painless. 

After they took the first one, then went the second. Both carelessly thrown onto a tray. The organization had no use for his eyes, powerless and inhospitable. 

Unlike his brother’s. If only the rest of his body could withstand the calamity.

Now Whumpee was the recipient of the twisted experimentation instead. 

The uncomfortable sensation of something he needed being torn from him was horrifying. But, much worse, was right before the nerve was split, when he could still see. In a different situation, when he wasn’t being forever altered and his brother were still alive, he would’ve thought it cool. Looking around the room without being confined to his head. Not staring at the bleach white ceiling and unsmiling scientist, but perhaps behind him, or around the corner. The possibilities endless. 

Not now however. One gone, and his vision halves. It is disorienting how quick it is. As if a light turns off one only one side, before the other endeavors to compensate. Second gone, and he sees nothing no more. Stuck in a black noiseless room. Only touch, but even that was muddled by the slowly dissolving sedative. 

Whumpee was used to being a sense behind others, not having the privilege many others had. However, it was all he had ever known, and he never much minded. He did not need sound as the others did, content in his world. 

But having something he had always had a grasp of cruelly taken from him… it will stay with him for evermore. 

Feeling begins to return to his body, and along with it comes the pain. The pits in his sockets irritate from the air, exposed to an element they never should have. 

Nothing else happens in the dark silent void. Nothing else can happen but to wait.

Soon rubber probes around the holes. It is violating in a way he can not explain, and he hopes he never experiences it again. His thick tongue garbles out a protest. He thinks… There is no way to tell anymore.

The prodding gets more aggressive, the touch turning into burning. He can feel his vocal cords vibrate with the scream.

A tug. The string coming out of his eye is yanked, jerking his head with it, and Whumpee whimpers. 

The room gets slightly hotter, close to his yarn. He wails. 

Whumpee’s vision returns. It is once again outside of himself, literally seeing himself from an angle he never will again. 

The researchers watch him, faces blank, focussed only on their work, uncaring of him.

The new orb is shoved back into his skull. It does not fit correctly, unnatural and clearly not meant for him. It knocks against the top of the socket, lids not able to fully close over it, moving flesh in his skull to make space for itself. Fitting a triangle into a square.

He may have his sight back but not his eyes.

The second follows in a similar way, but he has to suffer more, the drug leaving his system. It is agonizing, forcing an item that does not belong, and he screeches and shrieks throughout the whole process. The shorter one is put off by his reaction, steadying his legs. The taller one seems accustomed to his suffering. 

The feeling of needles poking holes behind his eyes will never leave him. But it is finally done.

They hold up the mirror in front of his face, reminiscent of his mother after she cut his hair. But this is much worse. Much, much worse. Because of what stares back at Whumpee, widened in fear and grief.

His brother’s eyes. 

[whump-softie]

When they captured the Siren, the world lost its sound. Everywhere the King looked, everything he heard or commanded, was grey and boring and dull.

But the only way to truly capture the Siren’s voice, their unexplainable gift to command, to demand, was to ensure there was a contingency plan. A person incapable of falling victim, of succumbing, of listening.

When they forced the strongest soldier down, the King had his hand over the Siren’s mouth, knife to their throat. When they tortured the strongest soldier, over and over, forced into submission, took away their voice, took away their hearing, stole their world’s sound, the King only waited patiently.

The only way to ensure the Siren could not speak ill upon the King, could not demand someone to free them, kill them, kill the King, was to deafen someone strong enough to stop them.

When the King held his first meeting since the capture of the Siren, the room was silent. For the King, the people hushed their whispers and bowed their heads. For the Siren, they tiptoed like ghosts and stared like reflections.

For the soldier, who couldn’t hear a single thing, who couldn’t voice their thoughts, the room was quiet and still. For the soldier, throat still bandaged, ears still throbbing, the room would always be silent.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 14 - Querencia

This is the next chapter of Querencia, following Whumptober Day 1!

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @painful-pooch , @pigeonwhumps (thank you for beta reading!), @bookworm2107

Previous | Next | Masterlist

No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.” | Water Inhalation

Contains: dude whump, electrocution, water whump, Deaf whumpee, captivity, restraints, revenge, death mention, noncon drugging, needles, superpowers

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Quinn jolts awake in an unfamiliar room, still half-expecting to be in charge of steering an out-of-control vehicle. Instead, he finds himself in what looks like a warehouse, but definitely not the one they converted into their home. This one is dingy and in sore need of a good cleaning. The events of the evening come back to him in flashes - the park, the drive home…the spike strips in the road and his inability to avoid them or prevent the crash afterward. 

This was planned, whatever it is. And now he’s alone, without his team, and he can only hope they’re all alright.

He doesn’t remain alone for long. The trio that enters the room looks vaguely familiar, but with his head still swirling from unconsciousness he can’t quite place them. Besides, his thoughts are more caught on the fact that none of them are wearing masks or anything else to conceal their identities. Kidnappers without masks generally don’t plan to allow their victims to leave alive.

“The great Electric Eagle himself,” the woman begins, strolling closer. “Right here in our grasp, isn’t it exciting, boys?”

The bigger man circles him where he sits. “Somehow he doesn’t seem quite as intimidating without the whole superhero getup.”

“That could also have to do with the handcuffs,” the second man laughs. 

“True!”

“Where is the rest of my team?” Quinn asks, careful to keep his expression and voice steady. They normally wouldn’t seem very intimidating, but they’ve already proven themselves rather capable of causing trouble. At the moment, though, any fear in him is for his team, not himself. 

“Oh, he’s British! Did you know he was British?” The woman puts a hand to her heart, looking at the other two. They shrug, unimpressed. “I do love me a British accent. But sorry to tell you, honey, it isn’t going to keep me from making you pay.”

“And…what, exactly, is it that I’m paying for?” He knows these three from somewhere, it’s driving him mad that he can’t place where.

“He doesn’t remember.” The bigger man crouches down and grabs a fistful of Quinn’s shirt, yanking him in close to his face. “What, we weren’t important enough for you to think about, once you’d ruined our lives and moved on with yours?”

“You got us arrested, that’s what. None of us even had records until you and your cutesy little team of superheroes came along and ruined it all. We lost all the money we’d gotten, lost our jobs, can’t get hired anywhere else, Greg’s wife left him…”

Oh. Now he remembers them. Criminals, of course, as he’d assumed, but more specifically a gang of three bank robbers that they’d worked together to stop. Which means that it shouldn’t be just him that they have a complaint against.

“Where…is…my team?”

The bigger man, Tommy Lewis, shoves him backwards so that he sprawls on the floor, hands trapped behind his back. “They’ll get their turns! But you’re the leader, so you get first go at paying up, how does that sound?”

He has no idea what they have in mind, but no doubt that it will be unpleasant. Maybe by the time they’re done with him, the others will have come up with some kind of escape plan and will be able to avoid having to go through whatever it is, themselves. If anyone is going to get hurt here, it should be him. 

Greg Sanders, the other man, comes closer, and Quinn’s eyes immediately go to a syringe in his hand. “What’s that, then?”

“Sheila may have lost her job at the lab, but she didn’t lose all of the formulas she was working on in her spare time.” He smirks, waving the syringe a bit. “You all will get to try out a couple of different specialties of hers while you’re here!”

He comes at him with the syringe, and Quinn kicks out with his restrained feet, trying to knock it from his hands. If it’s just something she’s been working on at home, there’s probably a limited supply. He doesn’t know what could possibly be in it, but being poisoned isn’t high on his list of fun activities for himself or his team. 

Greg dodges the kick, and before Quinn can try to roll further out of the way Tommy is on top of him, sitting on his legs and pinning his upper half to the floor. With his hands beneath him he can’t summon any lightning, and the man is too heavy to fight off without leverage. The needle sinks into his arm.

The three criminals step back and stare at him as he scrambles to at least sit upright. He takes it that something visible is supposed to happen, then. His heart is pounding in anticipation, waiting to start feeling excruciating pain or to grow an extra limb or whatever horrible, drastic thing they have planned. 

Then lightning crackles in his palm, without his permission. 

“Aha!” Sheila screeches. “It’s starting to work!”

Quinn swallows hard. If this is something that affects his powers, it could be much worse than he’d feared. As if in response to his thoughts, another bolt arcs from one hand to the other. The trio starts donning long rubber gloves.

“If my powers go out of control, you’re going to need a lot more than rubber gloves and soles to keep you safe.” He’s imagining the whole room filling with streaks of lightning, taking out the lights and the people and charring the walls and floor. 

Meanwhile, electricity snakes up to his wrist and hits the handcuffs, and for the first time since he was just learning to use his power, Quinn actually feels the effects of it himself. He jolts and grunts in utter surprise as it buzzes through his skin. There’s a reason why he and Nari have to be careful to keep their abilities separate. Metal and electricity do not mix well. 

Greg smirks. “We’re not really worried about it.”

Distracted by getting shocked, he doesn’t notice the hose in Sheila’s hand until a blast of cold water hits him in the chest. “Let’s speed this up a little bit, shall we?”

“This is a bad ide-” He gets a faceful of water before he can finish the sentence, leaving him sputtering. 

“Oh, I think it’s the best idea we’ve had in a while! This is going to be fun.”

He tries to scoot himself backwards, away from the persistent stream of icy water, but they just follow, laughing at him, soaking his whole front. They haven’t managed to get his hearing aids yet, thankfully, but he imagines at this point it’s only a matter of time. 

He’s trying to come up with some other way to dissuade them or a way out of this situation when his power activates again. This time it crawls all the way up his arm, hitting both metal and sopping wet fabric. From there it takes on a life of its own. Quinn’s body jerks backwards, his head slamming into the concrete block wall he’d moved up against, before uncontrollable shaking sends him to the floor. Everything burns like there’s fire inside his veins. He’s fairly certain he screams at some point, without meaning to. He knows for sure he bit his tongue, because his mouth is full of the bitter taste of blood when he can finally breathe and see straight again.

The trio is laughing at him some more. He can see that, though he can’t hear it, which means his hearing aids are fried. Fantastic. At least he doesn’t have to listen to their annoying voices anymore. 

Before he’s fully caught his breath, it’s happening again. And again. And again. It seems to be getting worse the longer the drug is in his system, and of course the more they soak him down with the hose. Sometimes he screams, sometimes it gets trapped somewhere inside and feels like it’s ripping through his throat. He doesn’t bother trying to pick himself up after each round. He’s too exhausted, and everything hurts. 

After a while, they must get bored with that method, because Tommy comes over and yanks him up off the ground with gloved hands. He’s saying something… “new game,” Quinn’s pretty sure is in there somewhere, but his lips are a bit of a blur. 

He can’t walk, not with his ankles chained together, so he gets dragged across the room and deposited on his knees…in front of a bucket full of water. He can already see where this is going without needing to hear whatever taunting they’re doing. 

Sure enough, a hand grabs onto his curls and shoves his head down into the water. Instinctively, he pushes against it, struggling to get up while holding onto what air he was able to gulp in. 

He can’t let them kill him. The team needs him, he has to help them get out of here. They can’t go through this. Just the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach. 

His head feels like it’s going to explode. A burst of bubbles escape his lips, relieving a little of the pressure, but now his lungs are aching instead. He needs to breathe, he needs to breathe…

He’s jerked up out of the water by his hair. Rivulets run down his face, over his eyes and into his open mouth as he gasps loudly for precious air. Greg and Sheila are across from him, big grins on their faces. 

One last gasp - not nearly enough - and he’s back down again. This time, though, his power comes to life, shooting up through his body with a force that makes his back arch. His lungs spasm involuntarily, and then he’s choking, coughing, taking in more water, until mercifully the bucket tips over with his erratic movements and he hits the floor, water spilling across him as he continues to shake and cough. 

He can see open air but he can’t breathe. Water rattles in his throat and chest. The lightning stops, but he still kicks and squirms, trying desperately to draw something in or expel something out, anything. 

Someone flips him over onto his side and kicks him hard in the back, and he’s finally able to spew out the last of the water, coughing until his ribs ache and his throat is on fire. 

He’s not even aware of anyone that’s around him until another needle pricks his arm. No, please, no more… They’re talking amongst themselves or maybe even to him, but he doesn’t know what their plans are anymore. If his power goes even more haywire, though, he’s not going to survive it. They’re going to kill him. 

Minutes pass, though, and the only lightning that happens is small, more like the first few times. Enough to make him jolt, but not writhe. It seems to be calming down, much to his immense relief. 

His ankles are released and someone pulls him to his feet. His legs feel leaden, but he stumbles along beside them as they lead him out the door and down a hall, eventually unlocking another door and shoving him inside. 

Immediately he drops to sit on the ground, no strength left. It’s only then that he sees Liliana sitting there, staring at him wide-eyed and fearful. He forces himself to turn, and there are the others, too. Safe.

Everyone’s lips are moving, probably asking a million questions, but he’s too tired to try and comprehend. He just shakes his head. “Aids got fried.” He hates talking out loud when he doesn’t have them in, but signing isn’t exactly an option when his hands are still cuffed and Liliana still doesn’t know much sign, anyway.

Nari’s face is etched with concern, her eyes darting to his ears, then across his soaking wet body once more. “What did they do to you?” Her mouth moves, but she also signs it as best she can with one wrist cuffed to the wall. “We were so worried!”

Quinn’s eyes drift shut, and he shakes his head again. “I don’t…want to talk about it. Not yet.” He'll have to, eventually. He has to prepare them for what they might face. 

They have to figure out a way out of here before that happens. 

[weirdstrangeandawful]

Musician Whumpee who knows and recognises the signs of hearing loss and has everyone they know telling them to take it easy, take a break, give it up… but no one around them knows why they got into music in the first place: to drag them painstakingly out of the darkest of dark places.

Musician Whumpee who pulls a bloody Beethoven because they would rather play a silent symphony than end up back where they were.

[the-whumper-takes-it-all]

~ Prompt 37 ~

Deaf Whumpee gets kidnapped by Whumper who wants to torture them for information. Whumpee tries to show them over and over again that they are deaf, but Whumper doesn't believe them and therefore torture them even more. Will Whumper eventually see that Whumpee doesn't understand them? Does Whumper even care? You decide.

[whumpwordsoftheday]

“Remember to beg and whimper a lot with your next owner. Should be easy, it’s what you were trained for.”

“But-but they’re deaf!”

“I dunno, look pathetic then or something.”

[mj-iza-writer]

Deaf Whump... I've been watching a lot of YouTube shorts from the deaf community lately. I love exclusivity in my writing and making my characters human. Please do forgive any errors I've made in representing the deaf community in this story, I also have two others in the works. I am not hearing impaired, but I support awareness for the deaf community. I hope you enjoy. -MJ

It started with frustration.

Whumper had found out their hearing loss was progressively getting worse. They had months before hearing would be next to impossible unless something was done.

"Hearing aids", Whumper sighed, "and those may not even help."

Whumper wanted to punch someone, hit something. Maybe that would help.

They drove past a clearly homeless person.

"That could work, they won't be missed", Whumper turned around. Without a second thought the person was in Whumper's trunk.

Once home, Whumper left the person in a spare room and got ready.

Whumper walked into the room they could partially hear them yelling... the person was..... signing.

"Shit are you deaf?", Whumper signed as they turned pale.

"Yes" the person fearfully signed, "are you?"

"Almost", Whumper looked down in defeat, all fight left them.

"My name is Whumpee", the person signed, still panicked, "please don't hurt me."

"I'm sorry, I'm Whumper. Please forgive me. I've made a terrible mistake", Whumper looked up tearfully, "I'm so sorry."

Whumper learned that Whumpee's expenses for their hearing loss were what landed them on the streets.

"If you're okay with it, you can stay here", Whumper offered, "it's unfair that we have to pay for our disability, but I'll help as much as I can."

That was a few years ago, and boy did Whumpee liked to poke fun at Whumper with that reminder. They now loved bickering back and forth like it was a game.

"Whumper can you....", Whumpee spoke and signed.

Whumper grinned as they reached for their hearing aids.

"Don't you dare", Whumpee signed frantically.

Whumper pulled their hearing aids out and set them on their lap.

"I don't want to hear you right now", they grumbled.

Whumpee frowned, "then look at me", they signed.

Whumper pulled out their phone and completely ignored Whumpee.

Whumpee picked up a tennis ball and threw it at Whumper.

Whumper just laughed as it bounced off their leg.

"Watch out for my hearing aids", they signed with a smirk.

Whumpee rubbed their temples out of frustration and left the room.

Whumper watched them leave and chuckled to themself.

Whumpee came back after a few minutes carrying a spray bottle.

"Don't you dare", Whumper signed as they watched Whumpee inch closer.

"Put those aids in or sign to me then", Whumpee threatened.

"Fine", Whumper sighed as they placed the aids back in their ear, "what do you need?", Whumper signed.

"I need to go to the store or have a few things ordered", Whumpee signed.

"Okay, well, I need to go to the store anyways", Whumper stood with a sigh, "let's go", they signed.

At the store Whumpee grabbed the few things they needed before they dragged Whumper into clothing.

"You don't need any clothing", Whumper signed.

"Yes I do", Whumpee grinned as they looked.

Their eyes got big as they noticed a display for deaf awareness.

"Look, look", they signed happily.

"Okay, that's cool", Whumper looked over some of the display, "pick out a few things."

A few people walked by and pointed out the display.

"They'll celebrate anything nowadays", someone commented.

Whumpee was too busy to read their lips, but Whumper unfortunately heard the comment.

Whumper tapped Whumpee's shoulder and started signing. Whumper glared at the group as they watched them turn and quickly walk away.

Whumpee looked at them confused, "why are you telling me about a dog driving to the ocean?", Whumpee signed.

Whumper laughed not realizing what they were actually signing, then told Whumpee what had happened.

"Morons", Whumpee signed.

Whumper nodded, "I'm taking a hearing break", they signed, "let's use signing for right now."

Whumpee picked out two ASL (American Sign Language) hoodies, then their was a small statue that they had to have.

Later as they were leaving the store, they saw the group again.

Whumper and Whumpee both glared at the group.

The group held their head low trying to ignore the glare.

Whumper turned up their hearing aids.

"Hey", Whumper called, "keep in mind awareness is important for many groups. What you said was extremely rude and hurtful, and I hope you've learned your lesson."

One person from the group turned and apologized while the rest kept walking.

"That's why we need awareness", Whumper called again, "because some of you just don't get it."

Whumpee nodded.

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109

[newbornwhumperfly]

not light from some dead star...

oh, i do love denial and the suffering it brings....😈😈😈 i chose to write my poor sweet vampire girl, ardiñipén, for this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 24: denial - because you know i gotta starve my hungry vampire...🥺🥺🥺

CW: religious trauma, religious abuse, imprisonment, aftermath of torture, self-loathing

title insp. by the poem "it began right here" by the poet danez smith - "for a second i was unhaunted. i was the sun, not light from some dead star."

~

Under the church, Father keeps no light. 

For her, the darkness is now blessed. Was blessed. Light burns, points its long white fingers through bars at her and all the ways she is wrong and twisted and needs to be hit.

But too much eating and drinking can make you vomit and it has been so long down here in the dark. 

Where here hands are clutched against her chest, her nails are jagged, splintered, by scrabbling at the stone. At the cuffs - iron, thank Father - when panic choked and swelled and vomited out of her. 

Forty days and forty nights. 

Teach you a lesson about your selfishness. 

Her mind wanders, in the desert of the cellar, the pitch-yawning-mouth that is a site of fasting, fasting, take up your cross and burn on it.

She can survive without eating. 

She knows she can survive without eating - she cannot die. Resurrection. The body of Christ is ash in her mouth and his blood does not feed her. 

Cannot stop retching out bread, wine, cannot stop spitting out blessing, gagging on his benediction.

The monster in her that thirsts like a sucking wound is the same monster that will keep her alive. 

She has gone forty days and forty nights in the desert. The is the devil, red teeth, offerijg and offering. Father is not the devil. He is not a devil, he is good and clean, but she…she is so hungry. 

Down here, curled against the wall, a circle of limbs clutching eachother, cold seeps up into her skin - the relief of the chill to the tender heat of her welts, the ones that seep and ooze and stink but never close, now gone. Now, it is just an ache rattling around inside her flesh.

Sinful flesh. 

Cold is better than heat. 

This is what it will feel like in hell, creature. 

Ardiñipén flinches, the clink of chains rattling in the quiet as he arms curl tighter over her own head. 

There is no sunlight. No silver. No fire. 

No fire.

Of course being cold is- is better than burning. Always better than burning. Cold blinks down her cheek, smells a rotting smell, the bank of a dried ocean, as red streaks down her cheek and her numb fingertips catch it, suck it off her fingertips anyway. 

Turn stones into bread. 

She doesn’t need bread. Stupid beast. Hungry sinner. She doesn’t live by bread anyway. 

She can live off the mouth of God, can’t she? She can chew those bones open and suck the meat out. Man doesn’t live by bread. Not just. 

Is it a kind of holiness to not need bread?

Maybe this is the purification Father talks about. Surviving just on words. On love. On His love and his love. 

She has lived a long, long time without love. She has lived a long time without eating. She can live a little longer, a lot longer, not having it. 

The nubs of her tooth prick deep into her thumb, the fingers in her mouth, sucking at the salt, and the shadow of a bite shudders through her. 

So greedy you would feast on your own self. 

The last- last time Father saw her bite her own wrist, she was punished for having a fit. She whines in memory, shuddering against the wall tighter, flinching into the solid corner that is almost an embrace. Not a stretch of pure floor she doesn’t have to worry about ruining, doesn’t have to crunch up small to keep from scorching in its beauty. 

She doesn’t want to be alone here again. 

She wants Father.

She can use this time to be good. 

To learn. 

A little time away is good for her. Denial is- is a good lesson, long and quiet and so, so dark to think about what she’s done. The bread of the word should not make her vomit. 

If she wants Father to come get her, she has to be good.

The creak of the door startles a sharp, high whimper from her, startling hard as her skull smacks against the wall and she curls herself small, humble and penitent, on the floor. 

The stones glow with the yellow of torches, a long beam cast downstairs from the door to the pure space above, before closing again. But a yellow glow - softer and quieter - stays. 

Footsteps shuffle down, down, close, and immediately, Ardiñipén knows something is wrong. No swish of robes over the floor, no slow glide of steps, these are heavier, harder, faster-

This isn’t Father.

The crest of cold through her stomach freezes her chest on the inside and her breath pants out as her thighs squeeze hard together, hands claps, body tightening up, because nonono is it a soldier is it a lawman Father said he’d protect her and nobody’s allowed down here-

“Shhhhh.”

A soft sound. A rustle. Ardiñipén bites her lips until the pulse of hurt is bright and warm and shakes. 

“Please.” Ardiñipén heaves and her air is cut out of her lungs, cold searing as she gasps deeper and deeper. “I am being good- please, Father, please no, am hurt, am hurt, don’t need to hurt?”

“Shhhh.”

Ardiñipén tries desperately to be good. Holds still and clasps her hands and her disobedient lips mouth the shape of please over and over. 

God. Father. Jesus. Help.

She makes a horrible whining noise, another animal that can’t listen, another rebellion, as she looks up, up, cringing, but the light doesn’t leave.

The lantern is yellow and dances with fire and even as Ardiñipén’s skin prickles with recognition, hellflame on earth, the candle is so small. Not enough to tie anyone to. Not enough to set her on. A little bundle - a blanket, a wicker-weave basket, a clay jar. 

A kneeling person. 

The confusion causes her to flicker her eyes up - bad, not allowed, you don’t look betters in the eye - and a little of the terror leaks, ice melting, from its spread through her insides. 

The girl who…cleans, mostly outside, but will come, sometimes, when Ardiñipén is kneeling, a circle, at the pulpit, and Ardiñipénhears her over the whisper of her own praying. 

She hums while she works. 

The swish of broom, the scrub of water-in-pail, dust and soap swirling in the air as Ardiñipén trembled, listening when she should be working, to the movements. 

She looked. Once. When Ardiñipén’s hearing, sharp as a little bat, still, could tell she was turned with her back to the pulpit, Ardiñipén had looked. 

The stolen glance of a blue blur, a- what is called- a halo of black curls spilling from under her head-covering, tall and dark and she moved like waist-deep in water, with heavy steps and a wide standing and she scrubbed and touched everything so normally, like she was touching a house that was not holy, like one would touch any house that needed cleaning, no reverence, just care. 

Ardiñipén prayed fervently and squeezed the blink-bright memory of her shape into her mind. 

Blue. Black. Strong. Singing. 

Ardiñipén blinks up at her face, a warm shadow against the pitch-dark, and the dark brown of her cheeks, her nose, a mouth that isn’t frowning, a smile, what looks like a smile, is studied by Ardiñipén’s wicked eyes as fervently as her verses. 

A finger comes up to her lips and presses. 

Shhhhh. 

A smell swirls around as the woman’s hands this close, strong and sweet, like- like dirt. Black, like those hands, brown so dark, so rich, wet and soft and warm and alive. Things that grow in it too…roses? Yes. That is what they are. A smell like pink and white, like the inside of a mouth, sweet and a taste of spice that makes the sweet brighter. 

The smell of planting. Of gardening. Of sun that doesn’t hurt. 

Her whimpering quiets, little noises she can’t swallow back going soft, soft, and the kneeling lap, the square of blue skirt that smells like flour, the square of brown apron that smells like soap, and she nods dizzily. Trying to show she understands while obeying. 

The woman’s hands move, again, into shapes in the air. Pauses. Makes the same shape again. Hums, that mouth still soft and not-frowning, and shapes. 

Shapes. 

Symbols?

A spike bursts behind Ardiñipén’s eyes as she remembers. Oh, but she shouldn’t- she shouldn’t remember, remembering is bad, she is reborn, a new creature (but still a creature), her old self is dead and she is- she remembers…signs. 

Signs.

Shapes made with fingers to tell thieves things quietly. To tell street-folks warnings. Signals across roads. The language of the quiet - the unhearing, the unspeaking, the afraid. 

The deaf. The mute. The word of God made bread and wine. Symbols make meaning.

(Do you understand?)

Ardiñipén’s hands uncurl, bent and gnarled, shaking - is this speaking? - and…twist shapes in the air. 

(Yes.)

Shaking, hands moving twice to be steady enough, she signs. 

(Not allowed to talk. Just to Father.)

The woman’s mouth bends, the shape of a smile, a soft split of white warmth through the darkness, and she signs.

(Father Paquet says sign is not talking.)

Oh. 

While Ardiñipén is still…wondering (it is saying something and being understood, is that not language, is that not speaking?), the dark hands glimmer with orange and yellow in a new twist. 

Letters. 

(M. A. R. Y.)

She signs again. 

(My name.)

Mary.

Do not be afraid.

(Don’t be scared. I am Mary. No hurt.)

(Mary.)

(Your name?)

(No name. Animal. Daughter of Father.)

(What did your mother call you?)

Mother. 

Mary. Lady of sorrows. Don’t be afraid. Soft brown hands. Red scarf. 

Dead. Bad. Gone. 

Not supposed to know that anymore. She- it- not supposed to know.

She whimpers, clutching her hands back to her chest, shaking her head as a sob rattles through her. 

“Shhhhh.”

(Sorry. Don’t be scared.)

Mary’s hands move in a way that looks like sugar, might be candy, might be you. Flash, again, and the words melt through the terror. 

(Sweeting. Sorry. You are safe, sweeting. Will help you.)

Mary, that is her name, moves her hands in ways that aren’t speaking and draws the bundle at her side closer. There is a rustle, a flap of soft color in the air as something is shaken out, and the flinch of squeezed-shut-eyes hides the softheavywarm falling over her body. 

Blanket. 

It is a blanket. 

Why? Why is Mary blessing her? What has she done to take this? Her throbbing hands grip the edges of the cloth, wooly, sheep-soft, clutching it close.

If the Lord needed blood in the desert, he would not drink it, would he? He is without sin. He would not tempt God with his depraved hunger. 

Does God get hungry?

He must have been cold, right? It was probably so, so cold. 

A high-rasping noise chokes out of her, curling into a smaller circle than before as she clutches the blanket close and rocks against the floor. 

Don’t dash your foot against stone. 

Toes breaking, bending and snapping against her body weight, against the street, broken feet dragged over stone, running, breaking, hitagainstbackoftheheadandfall, so many stones dashing her body, blood, slippery, dashing against stones, thrownrockhithertoothoutsharpandsmallandrollinginthestreet.

“Shhhhhhhhhh.”

The soft noise comes again, a hum, and Ardiñipén’s hands press over her own mouth as she rocks. 

A soft tap against the cloth of the blanket, echoing through her shoulder, where Mary traces words against the blanket. 

(Rest.)

Ardiñipén’s fingers scratch, cold and rigid, against the floor, miserably.

(Not allowed.)

(I allow it. Rest, sweeting.)

Under the weight of that name, that word that isn’t her, the blanket, warmwarmwarm sinking in, some pacing animal in her head sways against denial. Against the sleep she has snatched in shivering hours, little and far apart and so few. 

You can sleep in the desert.

How long she drifts, she doesn’t know, but something soft under her head shifts when she realizes she has been drifting. A folded apron. The smell of flour floods her nose, oil, dirt, soap, and she turns her face into it, breathing deep through her wound of a mouth. Blinks, yellow filling her vision again, and the shifting weight of a hand on her shoulder is rubbing. 

(Wake up, sweeting.)

The folded apron is tugged, softly, and it is gone almost before Ardiñipéncan register it was there. A tapped (blanket?) and Ardiñipén keens with the loss (I know, I know) as it is pulled away and bundled up. Confusing, the torn spots on her struggling wrists, her ankle, tingle softly and when she presses her own wrist to her nose, there’s the smallest, smallest honey smell lingering there, almost gone, a little shine on the skin over the wounds, where the sharpsoreheat is now a low pulse. 

The desert flows with milk and honey and Ardiñipén hiccups softly as she blinks up at Mary, who smiles, sad and glowing. 

(I have to go now.)

A pulse of cold spikes through Ardiñipén’s chest, panic, her stomach plummeting. Thoughtless, thoughtless animal, she curls forehead and her brow scrapes over the store floor, hands yanking against the chain to stretch, stretch, clutch at the hem of that apron and it's warm and she can’t feel herself clinging to it because her hands are too cold but a whine pours out. 

Please don’t go? Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me. 

Mary makes a sound that cuts through Ardiñipén’s high-pitched moan. It’s not a bad creature. It’s not Latin. It isn’t even a grunt, a noise that’s scared or grossed out as Mary should be.

It’s a hum. 

A weight lands on Ardiñipén’s head and she sobs, brokenly, when it does but there’s nothing but weight. A hand. That earth-smelling hand, trembling. Or maybe she, the creature that crawls like a worm in the dark, is causing that tremor. 

Sharp croaks of sobs echo out along the stones as the hand moves. Slow. Heavy. Stroking her hair. Oily, matted, it catches no fingertips, no snagging that tugs hurt fully. Mary is being careful. 

As warmth bleeds, prickling, sharp, into Ardiñipén’s hands, maybe from the sunlight caught in the apron, maybe from how hard her hands clutch, the stones echo with a music that has no language. 

A patch of something hotter and more merciful than the sun settles on the back of her wretched, grasping hands, and the burn shocks and Ardiñipén can’t breathe as she waits and waits for the burn to hurt but it doesn’t. 

The weight of a second hand, just as heavy and slow as the first, squeezes back. Humming, low and constant, a tune that has a rhythm and no dance. Ardiñipéncouldn’t sing along if she wanted to - but Mary isn’t singing. She’s humming.

Sobs go quieter than the song, crying going quiet, not to lose the song, sharp sniffles muffled under the weight of music in this small dark place. 

These hands have no rings, no heavy silver to singes and bruises. They are not cool and smooth and thin. Mary’s touch is a patch of soil, warm and firm, roughly caked, spots worn hard from working, the outsides thick, the center of her palms hot and pulsing soft as petals. 

A hunger that has no name wets her mouth, burrows its strangeness into her chest, nothing like the teeth of her unholy need. 

Mary’s fingertips, the thickest skin of her touch, taps and sweeps signs, signs she knows, over the backs of her clutching hands, even as she strokes soothing into the panic, that heaving flank of a foamy beast, brushing Ardinipen’s hair. 

I’m sorry. Come back. Not leave you here. Come back. Sorry. Come back. 

The word will is pressed harder, firmer, urgently, until Ardiñipén recognizes the symbol for will as a promise.

Will come back. 

And Ardiñipén, tears cooling on the stone beneath her, taps her broken finger back. 

You will.

An emphasis. Taps harder. A stroke, a sigil, anI believe.

She can survive the hands that pull away, the sobs that rasp through and echo with the footsteps, up, up, away with the light and the closing door and the dark and the cold and no Mary and no warmth and no words. 

She can survive without eating. She can survive underground, in the soil, burrowed and icy. She can survive alone. She can bear the denial of eating and drinking and feeling.

There is a promise buried underground, with her, the frost can’t turn. 

Her palm curls around the warm spot where she was touched, clutching it tighter and tighter until every cracked bone sings with heat. Cupping touch over the strands of hair that still smell like dirt and soap and bread and pulling them out, sharp anxious tugs, into a handful to bury her nose in. 

Wonders, for the first time, if she would not rather burn than freeze. 

~

i hope you enjoyed the introduction of my wonderful caretaker, mary, because dini needs some care and love!!! 🥺🥺🥺

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @whumping-every-day @whump-tr0pes @wolfeyedwitch

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[reallyprofoundkryptonite]

sneak peek hehe

[secretlythegodofdesire]

Weapon Prompt 3

Sensory Deprivation

Blindfolds, entrapping Whumpee in darkness

Gags, all whumpee can do is muffle mixed sounds, not being able to stop Whumper

Maybe it keeps their mouth open, ensuring they dehydrate fast, or perhaps the opposite, trapping something intrusive in their mouth

Headphones, playing blaring music making whumpee go deaf

Or perhaps repeating a soft mantra, slowly hypnotizing whumpee into to submission

Perhaps they play a loved ones blood curdling screams, bonus if their live and whumpee knows it

Those strap suits they use at mental hospitals, but instead whumpee is hung upside down in one for hours

Plugging their nose, forcing them to open their mouth or they pass out, then shoving the intrusive object in your mouth

Feeding yourself can become a privilege, feeding tubes, through nose or mouth become medical whump.

When using the bathroom becomes a reward

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

we need more language barriers in whump because it's so fucking good no matter if you use it for whumper and whumpee or whumpee and caretaker or especially carewhumper and whumpee or any combination!!!!

Whumpee not being able to know what the fuck is going on no matter how many times they ask, only being manhandled into various situations because they don't understand how to comply with whatever is being told to them (gently or not is up to you >:3c)

Having to rely on tones and facial expressions to get a vague sense of what the other person is trying to get across, despite all the repetition of sounds and slow pronunciations and childish gesturing

Those little moments where a word just finally clicks for someone, the one piece of common ground, even if they can't fully repeat it back due to an accent that maybe earns them an amused chuckle or a scowl

Endless frustration and exploding so many pent up feelings for a rant that falls on deaf ears, because why is this so hard to comprehend, why can't you just understand my words, why do I feel like such a fucking idiot??? And what do they get in return? Silence...or more foreign gibberish.

Not bothering to keep quiet about their thoughts, agreeable or otherwise, vulgar or polite -- what does it matter? No one is going to understand a lick of it, they can say whatever the hell they want (unless maybe someone does catch a couple words or phrases hmmm)

Whumpers using sweet coos and nice smiles while saying the most awful shit. Caretakers being endlessly patient in trying to foster some kind of trust and feasible communication. Carewhumpers being stern and hands on because there's no time to waste in getting Whumpee to grasp what they need from them.

The longer they're in each others company, the more quirks and micro expressions they start to pick up, long before they ever fully understand a word of what's being said, including when someone is lying or when a nerve has been struck

Realizing which words mean "bad thing" and which words mean "good thing"

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #7: Anger Arrives

Oh boy, this chapter is ROUGH. PLEASE HEED WARNINGS THAT I POST BC THIS IS A WILD ONE. -- Miguel finishes his punishment and Solomon stands up to Xavier after seeing what has been made of his ward. CW: Whumper POV, deaf whumpee, defiant whumpee, ableist language, suggestive comments and actions but nothing super sexual actually happens, broken bones, nailed to the wall, removing nails from hands, Xavier being a CREEP, sadistic whumper, intimate whumper, threats, fingerfucking a hand hole (I am so sorry), whumpee is referred to as a kid but is an adult, dissassociation, blink and you miss it mention of disordered eating, Xavier doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself, uhhhh I think that's it.. but like... let me know if I missed anything -- Previous | Masterlist | Next

Xavier was not one to stay angry for very long. He released his anger once and it was done. This time however, he’d been holding onto the anger for a long time. Three years against Miguel, against Henrietta. It festered and bubbled and destroyed him. Now he would destroy them from the bottom of their souls, break them up, and then put them back together again. Xavier loved putting people back together. Molding them, shaping them. Humans were so malleable once they were broken down to their core functions. 

Lately it seemed though, that Miguel was constantly needing to be broken down, shapened, and broken down again. Miguel was someone who took a little more finesse than what he was used to. Perhaps it was because he started young. Or perhaps it was because Miguel was just that stubborn. Whatever the case, it made Xavier’s blood boil. 

When he made his way back into the barn, the anger was still there. Xavier walked directly up to the boy and sighed, taking in the sight. Blood ran down his arms, dripping from his elbows. His white undershirt was soaked in blood and covered in dirt. Every muscle in his body was wound tightly. He was still on the tips of his toes, trying not to hang from the nails in his hands, his calves shaking. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. It was his hands though, they looked the worst. His right one, the one he had broken, was swollen, purple and misshapen. It was so swollen he almost couldn’t see where the nail had been embedded in the middle of his hand. Xavier smiled to himself, admitting that he admired his handiwork. Miguel’s head rested on the harsh wood, the bridle still in his mouth, teeth clenched down on it. A good distraction, Xavier assumed, from the pain of everywhere else. 

Slowly, he ran a hand over the bit, halfway in his mouth, pressing a finger against his tongue, this caused Miguel to open his eyes, breathing hitching. His eyes were cloudy with pain. Xavier pressed down harder on Miguel's tongue, just to see him squirm before retreating his hand. Miguel dipped his head low, staring at his boots.  

Xavier watched him. An old memory of when he first met the boy flashed in his mind. Scared and hiding behind his father, having to be dragged away kicking and screaming from his family. It didn’t matter. Fighting never got him anywhere. Another memory of the boy holding the gun, pointed straight at him. Xavier wasn’t afraid then, but the anger flashed hot in his stomach now. The kid had always been a pain. 

Reaching out, Xavier wrapped a hand around Miguel's throat, forcing Miguel's head up, grinning from ear to ear. The boy looked up at him. He was met not with pain or even a blank expression like Xavier had originally suspected. Instead he was met with an icy glare. A smile tugged at the corner of Xavier’s lips. 

“Do you hate me Miguel?” he asked, enunciating, speaking slowly so he could read. 

Miguel’s glare faded and he gritted his teeth on the metal bit in his mouth, the sound vibrating through the boy's throat and Xavier laughed. Pressing his head against Miguels forehead. The boy winced as he pressed his head farther into the wall behind him trying to get away. But he couldn’t get away. There was nowhere to go. His family was gone and no one wanted a defective person working for them. Xavier didn’t want him at first. But after the first time that the boy pointed a gun at him, Xavier knew that breaking him would be a fight well earned. It had been fun and interesting to see what broke the boy down, slowly, bit by bit. Sometimes it was successful, other times less so. 

This was one of those times that it was a strange mix of the two. Xavier gave Miguels throat a little squeeze. “I asked a question..” he said, stepping back slightly. 

Miguel nodded his head slightly, movement restricted by the bridle. 

“Oh Miguel.. You don’t have to lie. I saw the way you looked at me. You don’t hate me, you fear me.” Miguel’s eyes were wide, tears starting to stream down his face. “I like you like this. Afraid, in pain, you’re so much less of a problem like this,” a choked sob came from the boy beneath him. Miguel shook his head and closed his eyes. Xavier could hear the way Miguel’s teeth grinded against the metal in his mouth. His grin widened. It was like hearing a real horse chew on the bit. The thought amused him. 

Xavier squeezed again, a choking sound came from the boy but he still didn’t open his eyes. Stubborn mule. His hand retreated from his throat and instead went to his back pocket where the bandana hung loosely. He took it out. It was annoying how much he fought him. Fought what was about to happen, as if he could stop it. Well, if he wasn’t going to open his eyes to listen to him, he didn’t need them right now anyway. Xavier had thought about it before, permanently blinding Miguel, but always decided against it. There was no use in keeping around a blind and deaf person, not unless they wanted what was an equivalent to a corpse stumbling around. The blindfold usually did the job anyway. 

Instead his palm connected with Miguel’s face, the slap loud but not nearly enough to make a lasting mark. However, it was enough for Miguel to open his eyes with a groan as he slipped and hung by the nails in his hands for a second. Another whimper escaped him and Xavier grinned. 

“If you won’t look at me, if you won’t listen, I think you deserve the blindfold,” he stated simply. Dangling the blindfold in front of Miguels face, who was now breathing more heavily than before and shaking harder. He could almost see how he normally responded, the index and middle finger pressing onto the thumb. The simple ‘no’ sign. It was the first sign he ever learned. The first word he saw Miguel speak to his parents. “Shhhh,” he cooed, starting to wrap the black bandana around his eyes, tighter than he assumed was comfortable, and tied it around the back of his head, the knot tangling in his hair. It wasn’t about his comfort anyway, he ignored the way his stomach dropped at the way Miguel whimpered and shifted his stance slightly. Scared and unable to  guage his surroundings. It was his favorite punishment for Miguel at times. It happened less often now. But he always loved the way his body tensed and he strained to understand what was happening to him. The stress of not knowing what was happening, it was exhausting to Miguel. Made his light go out faster. It was why it was a favorite of Xaviers. It was also the fact that Miguel just looked so good blindfolded and shaking like this. He trailed his fingers up Miguels Adams apple, pressing into the soft flesh under his jaw. Xavier dragged his fingers up to the side of his jaw and traced the outline of it. Cupping the boy's cheek, he kissed his forehead again. Sighing softly. “I’ll take you down now. Just a few more things..” he whispered, he knew that the boy could not hear him, couldn’t even tell that he was talking, but sometimes talking outloud helped with the thought process. Xavier left for a moment to grab the hammer. He thought for a moment about hitting his broken hand again with it, but at the look of it, it did not need to be more broken. It would be hard enough dealing with it the way it was. 

It was hard to find where the nail had gone in, the hand was so swollen. But he found the area quickly and with an amount of gentleness that surprised himself, he used the claw of the hammer to pry the nail out. Miguel screamed as the nail left his hand and it was left dangling by the cuff Xavier had put on earlier. The boy groaned and shuddered lightly as he used the claw to pull the nail from his other hand. Then he let the boy hang from the cuffs. 

Miguel was sobbing, barely holding himself up, head bowed. Xavier stared at him, just watching for a moment. How sad it was, that the boy had been reduced to this sobbing, whimpering thing. When he had first arrived at the ranch, he was all fire and all bite. Now he was a good little dog, hanging by broken hands. He took the boy down from the nails on the wall, positioning him on the floor. 

“Good, good, you’re so good for me Miguel,” he cooed gently, running a hand in his hair as the man beneath him withered on the ground. He took a deep breath and pressed his forehead against Miguels, kissing the tip of his nose. Pulling back, smiling at the thing below him. That is, until he was hit with a sudden wetness on his cheek. Did he just.. spit on him? 

“What the fuck?” He wiped the wetness off his cheek, looking down at the smiling expression on Miguel. “You never learn do you? Never. Fucking. Learn.” Every word was punctuated by Xavier forcing his hands above his head, straddling him, and then panting. “I give you clothes, shelter, a job. I make you fucking useful, and you still never learn. You’ll never learn. I should really just kill you. It would be a load off my mind. But..” one of his hands that held onto Miguels wrists, let it go, his other hand still held firm. With his free hand, he pressed a finger into the hole in the hand that wasn’t broken. The one that he could still hurt. “Does this hurt Miguel?” Miguel opened his mouth and the bit was pressed further into his mouth, making him choke. Xavier pressed his finger deeper in and finally, he heard what he wanted to hear as Miguel screamed again, choking on air. Coughing and sputtering on his own spit. Xavier pressed harder into the wound, slick with blood, now he was so deep into his hand that he couldn’t see his first knuckle. Still he pressed harder and further, until he could feel the dirt on the other side of his hand and he stopped when his second knuckle disappeared into the wound. He marveled that Miguel was even still awake. But he was kicking and screaming under him. Miguels knee slammed into Xavier’s back slightly and that only made Xavier angrier. His finger curled into the wound and he pulled slightly, feeling bone and tendons shift. There was a certain giddiness that he felt over it. Miguels hand clenched and he turned his face, screaming again. 

The boy would not stop screaming. That didn’t bother Xavier, not really, it was what he wanted. There was a point after Xavier pulled his finger back and then pushed back in that Miguel stopped screaming. Instead opting to groan and sob quietly. Yes.. yes he was getting it now. The silence that Xavier often asked for. He was so close to being good again for him. He pulled his finger out so only the tip of it rested against the wound, then plunged it back in, curling it again. 

“This is different from what I usually do. I think the difference is welcome though,” he said with a laugh. Then he continued to finger the wound, still not satisfied as the boy eventually stopped groaning and the only sound that came from him were quiet whimpers. Too weak to even try to fight back. Even Xavier was panting by the time he even thought about retracting his finger. He curled and pulled at the wound, widening the hole slightly, one last time before he looked up. 

“What are you.. doing?” Solomon asked, voice tense, expression hard. 

“Having a little fun,” Xavier responded cooly, despite the cold shiver that went down his spine. The anger that radiated off Solomon could be felt throughout the barn. It was thick in the air. 

“You’re done now,” Solomon said, it was not a request. He was telling him that he was done.

“I am now?” 

“Yes, you are. Uncuff him, take that bridle off and get your damn finger out of his wound. You’re going to cause an infection.” 

Xavier sat there for a moment longer before licking his lips. He did follow the orders from Solomon though, retracting the finger and uncuffing the boy. Then he removed the blindfold and the horse bit. The boy was panting under him, eyes closed still and face stained with tears. Xavier gently stroked his face, tapping his eyelid gently. 

When Miguel opened his eyes, his expression was different. Good that was exactly what he wanted. His eyes were full of pain and of fear. “Good. You did good,” and when Xavier kissed his forehead one more time, Miguel did not flinch. Then he stood up, using the bandana that was damp with tears to wipe the blood from his hands. “All yours Solomon,” he said to the man with a smirk. 

*** Solomon was not an angry man. Not usually. But at the moment, it wouldn’t take much for him to snap Xavier’s neck in two. Especially after that smirk. It was the smirk that made him see red. He clenched his fists, clenched his teeth and waited for Xavier to pass him and leave the barn before he rushed to Miguel.

Gently he picked up the boys torso and held the limp body close. “You’re okay Miguel. You’re okay. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered softly, taking the boy's hands, covered in blood and grime. He looked them over. Purple, red, swollen. It was awful. He’d seen worse, but his right hand was something that he could never repair wholly. There was a chance that Miguel would lose all feeling in that hand alone. His left hand had a hole through it that would have  “Oh god,” he whispered. Solomon shook his head and gently looked at the boy's face, he seemed to be staring far away. Not even registering Solomon's appearance, or the fact that Xavier had left.

“Miguel, look at me. You have to look at me,” he said to him, gently cupping his cheek and moving his face so that he looked at him. If Solomon didn’t know better, he would have guessed that the boy was dead. But he was still breathing. He blinked at him slowly and tears came to his eyes again. “There you are. You’re safe. You’re safe..” 

Then Miguel was sobbing, curling into Solomon's chest, hands unmoving. He buried his face into Solomon's shirt, in the space between his shoulder and chest. “Shhh.. Shhh,” he begged quietly, one hand holding Miguel's head for support. Miguel pulled his face away, eyes glazed with pain. Hands twitching. “No no… don’t try to move them. I have to carry you now okay?” Solomon told him, the hand on the back of his head slid to his back, and his other arm cradling Miguel's knees. Then he lifted, staggering to his feet. 

Miguel was surprisingly light and Solomon made a mental note that after he gave the morphine, he’d make Miguel eat something. Miguel cried out when his hands shifted onto his stomach, curling tighter. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” As he walked to the house, Solomon thought of Henrietta. He wanted to blame her. It would be so easy too. But blame never did anyone any good. The only blame that was deserved was Xaviers. He was the one that hurt them, he was the one that threatened them all into compliance, hurt them when they didn’t abide. It was all his fault. Every single piece of this was his fault. Solomon glanced down at Miguel who’s eyes were closed, his body was trembling. 

Miguel was going to need a splint, antibiotics, pain control.. There was so much that Miguel needed right now. Solomon couldn’t possibly do everything all at once. Or maybe he could. If he could get the morphine at just the right dose to let him fall asleep… Yes that was what he would start with. The morphine. 

Solomon walked up the steps of the house, walking through the open door. Then he immediately took Miguel to his room. Solomon’s room was small, only a bed, dresser and bed stand was in it. He never saw a reason to add anything else. He laid Miguel into the bed, letting Miguel curl in on himself for the moment. While Miguel made himself comfortable, Solomon grabbed his medical bag under the bed. Shuffling through it for a moment, he grabbed the morphine bottle and the needle he needed. He filled it to what he thought was sufficient enough, and he didn’t tell Miguel when he injected the needle into his shoulder. He just did so, stroking his hair until Miguel's breathing evened out and he stopped trembling. 

“Will he be okay?” came the voice from the doorway as Solomon manuevered Miguel to lay on his back as gently as possible.

“Leave,” Solomon said, gently taking Miguel’s hands in his. “Now.” 

“You’re in a mood right now so I'll let that go..” Xavier said, leaning against the doorway. “It was a simple question.” “No. He is not okay. You took his hands,” Solomon said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. From Xavier’s smirk, he wasn’t doing a very good job at that. 

“So?” 

“So, he can’t..” Solomon almost said communicate but that wouldn’t prove anything to Xavier. In fact, Xavier would probably laugh at that. Solomon could hear the snarky comment about how Miguel didn’t talk anyway. He didn’t need to communicate to work. All things he’d said before. So instead he tried a different route, “he can’t work. You destroyed his hands and he can’t work for the foreseeable future. He can’t grab the saddles or the leads for the horses. Let alone carry things with these hands for months at the very least.” As he spoke, Solomon cleaned out the wounds, disinfecting them with care so he didn’t cause so much pain as to wake the sleeping figure on the bed. “You put him out of commission as your saddle boy,” Solomon finished. Glancing up at Xavier. Xavier seemed to be contemplating his words for a moment, expression pensive, before it warped into a grin. “He has other uses.” 

“No,” came the automatic reply. 

Xavier let out a snort. “Get your mind out of the mud Solomon. I was going to suggest simple house work.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Solomon said, returning his attention to Miguel’s hand as he set up the splint. Every touch of the boy's right hand made Miguel whimper and groan in his sleep. Pain shot through Solomon's chest and he shoved it down. He could deal with that later. He could try and understand this later. For now he had to focus on the here and now. Like right now, there was a new tension in the room. Xavier pushed himself from leaning against the doorframe. “Watch your words Solomon. I never had to hurt you before, don’t give me a reason to do so now. I know plenty of ways to hurt you without rendering you unable to do your job.” 

Solomon finished the splint, gently placing Miguel’s hand down on the bed. Then he stood from his chair and stood up looking Xavier in the eye. “Here is what is going to happen. I don’t want you or Jesse touching him until I say. He needs to heal and if you or Jesse slow down that progress I will do unspeakable things. I am a doctor but I will not hesitate to use my knowledge to cause pain, instead of relieving it,” he watched Xaviers blank expression shift slightly, “do you understand me Xavier?” 

The silence felt like it was eating him inside, but he did not falter before Xavier smiled again. “Ah, so you didn’t lose that backbone I admired so much back in the day.” 

“Do you understand me Xavier?” 

Xavier waved his hand in a dismissive fashion and glanced back at Miguel on the bed. “Yeah yeah. I understand you. No touching until he’s all healed up right?” 

“Correct.”

“Understood doctor.” Xavier said with a chuckle, “he’ll have to make up for all the work he missed later. But it’ll never get this bad again. He took the punishment well and I’m sure you and Etta will make up for it too, yes?”

Solomon thought for a moment before nodding. “Yes. We can do that.”

“Good, good. Very good Solomon. I’ll let you continue your work then,” Xavier grabbed one of Solomon's braids and gave it a playful tug. It made Solomon's skin crawl. Like he had just touched a part of his soul. Which he technically did, but.. Solomon tried hard not to think about it. Xavier grinned, letting go of his hair, turning around and leaving. 

Solomon collapsed into the chair next to the bed. 

“I’m so sorry Miguel. I’ll get you out of here soon. I promise,” he said to the sleeping figure, rubbing a thumb along Miguel's forearm. 

This time, this time he meant it. 

This would be a promise that he was going to keep. Even if it killed him. Even if he had to sacrifice everything. Miguel and Henrietta deserved better than this. They deserved freedom. Solomon was going to do everything in his power to get them there. He just had to be patient and not let the anger in. 

But the anger was already here. No, he just had to control it now. 

He could do that. 

Solomon had to do that. 

For them. __

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[unforgivenn]

CHOKING IN WHUMP

I know this is like very basic in whump but its something I just CANNOT get over with.

It’s not just about the physical pain but also the mental and emotional anguish. It’s like a perfect storm of fear and helplessness, and that combination really gets me hooked.

Plus, there's something about the dynamic it creates between the whumpee and whumper. It adds layers of control and power plays, which can make the whole situation even more intense. The way it forces characters into such a vulnerable state is just sooo deliciousss.

What I love the most is the thought's that whumpee gets while being choked. When a character is choking, it’s like everything else fades away, and it’s just them and this immediate, life-or-death struggle. The thoughts are the one thing that changes the whole situation. It ramps up the tension and keeps them on edge, wondering how they’ll get out of it or if they’ll even make it.

Whumpee's breaths are ragged, each gasp a desperate plea that falls on deaf ears. The world seems to be narrowing, collapsing into a pinprick of darkness as their lungs scream for air that isn’t coming. Their mind races, a jumble of fragmented thoughts. Is this how it ends?

Whumpee can feel the pressure tightening, relentless. Their vision blurs, and they struggle to focus on anything but the suffocating grip around their throat. The room spins, and their heartbeat feels like it’s trying to break free from their chest. It’s like being trapped in a nightmare where the walls are closing in, and there’s no escape.

There’s an almost surreal clarity in this moment of terror. They think about everything They won’t get to do—no more sunrises, no more laughter, no more moments of peace. All those simple things I took for granted are slipping away, one choking gasp at a time.

Whumpee's hands claw uselessly at the constriction, nails digging into their skin, but it’s like trying to fight a storm with bare hands. Whumpee's thoughts are a blur of panic and regret, all mingled with a helpless resignation. I’m fading, losing grip on everything familiar.

The worst part? The absolute isolation. In this moment, no one can hear my silent screams. I’m utterly alone, drifting into the darkness with only the oppressive pressure as my cruel companion.

Is this it? Is this what it means to truly lose yourself? To have your life squeezed out of you, one choking breath at a time? The fear grips them like icy fingers, and whumpee can’t help but think that there’s no coming back from this.

Oh god oh god oh god Please please Im sorry im sorry

Please let my family be okay..

Finally.

So, yeah, choking in whump isn’t just about the physical act. It’s about the emotions, the stakes, and the dynamic it sets up. :))

[ghost-whump]

Roulette

CW: guns, russian roulette-type game, kidnapping (implied), (let me know if I missed anything!)

Shink.

Into the chamber.

Whirrr.

Spinning around.

…Click.

Into place.

“How many rounds do you think it’ll take?” Whumper smiles, “Till you die, that is. You’ll become concussed rather quickly.”

Whumpee kept their head down. They watched Whumper load each blank in one by one, torturously gentle with each cartridge. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

“Maybe just the first one, if I fire too close. Depending on the distance, it could be a few shots before you even pass out.” Whumper spun the chamber again, absentmindedly fiddling with the revolvers hammer. They spoke casually, as if discussing the weather.

Perched on the table with their legs crossed, Whumper picked up another box of bullets, flipping it over to read the back. “Blanks are really interesting bullets, you know? A lot of people think they’re harmless because they’re not real bullets, but no one knows how dangerous they actually are!”

Whumpee trembled, their handcuffs making a horrible rattling sound from behind their back.

“Sorry, I totally got off track! Anyway, you’ll go deaf nearly immediately,” Whumper continued, putting the box back down, “I wouldn’t expect your hearing to heal. For argument’s sake, obviously. You won’t have the chance, after all.”

They stood, casually stretching their arms above their head. The gun was tossed carelessly from hand to hand, then positioned steadily — point blank at Whumpee’s temple.

Pulling the hammer back, “So, I’m guessing three shots — how about you?”

General Tag: @morning-star-whump

[a-living-canvas]

CW : Female Whumper🐑❤️

Autumn Boy

"Does it hurt?"

Whumper asked, not really caring. She had just punctured Whumpee's back with a few needles, and the poor thing was kneeling on the floor while crying.

Her eyes were empty as she looked at Whumpee. Something about it was so eerie that Whumpee couldn't look at her eyes for so long.

"Answer,"

She gripped Whumpee's chin tightly, tipping his head up to face her. "Me."

Whumpee gulped down nervously, he whimpered as Whumper pinched his bottom lip. "H-hurt..! Hurt…have mercy…"

Whumper hummed, she let go of his chin before standing up straight again. She walked to Whumpee's bed, taking his whale plushie before grabbing a scissor.

Whumpee watched her with a sudden wave of panic pulled on his heartstring. "W-what…are you doing?"

She approached Whumpee again, sitting on the floor in front of him as she started cutting the fabric. Starting with the tail.

Click! Click!

Whumpee's eyes widened, tears running down his face for a million times today . "No! No! Please don't do this!"

He tugged on the chain around his wrists  that were connected to the wall hardly, desperately. But Whumper acted as if it was just a normal day for her. 

"Please!!!"

Whumpee plead again, but it fell on deaf ears. Whumper wouldn't stop cutting, and the cotton inside the plushie now scattered around the floor.

"Stop! Stop!"

"Be quiet…"

Whumper said in an exasperated tone. She's so tired. She wanted to sleep after this. She grabbed a fistful of the cotton and stuffed it into Whumpee's mouth.

"Mmh—"

"There. Quiet now."

She kept pushing and stuffing and prodding it further until Whumpee nearly gagged because of it. He whimpered pitifully and Whumper felt a little better on that day.

"Good boy."

She ruffled Whumpee's hair before standing up, walking out of the basement. The scissor and the torn fabric were left on the floor, and Whumpee mourned for its lost.

~

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