#mute whumpee

[whumpberry-cookie]

(Tw: swearing, pet whump)

Whumper got his defiant Whumpee muted, so they can't say anything mean. They can only communicate by pressing given talking buttons.

"You are very well behaved today. You may have back your Bitch Butto-"

"BITCH-BITCH-BI-BI-BI-BITCH! BITCH BITCH BITCH-"

"Well as long as you have fun"

-----------------------------

[whumporama]

A whumpee who won't speak or communicate in any way after their rescue, and Caretaker doesn't know why. A few days/weeks in, and suddenly Whumpee whispers "I'm sorry."

They don't speak or look at Caretaker after that, those two words were all they said. Caretaker is left to try and figure out what is going on in Whumpee's mind.

[the-dump-of-whump]

Mute Whumpee who uses some form of sign language has their hands bound I a way where they can’t properly sign.

Bonus Whumper doesn’t know whumpee is mute or pretends not to and/or doesn’t care.

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

Hungry

TW: Blood, captivity, emeto (soft)

Masterlist

- Hungry, leech ?

The vampire was jolted awake by the sound of the hunter banging on the bars of his cell. He instinctively curled up to protect himself, a feeling of dread pooling in his stomach as he finally made sense of the words. Hungry ? Of course he was hungry. He hadn’t been fed in… years. He was starving. But…

- You’ve been so quiet recently, we thought you deserved a reward.

No. No no no. They knew about his weaknesses, everything about him. He scrambled away, his back hitting the wall behind him as the hunter unlocked the door and entered, a bloodbag dangling from one of his hands. He shook his head desperately, trying to convey silently his panic. Please. He was already hurt. The hunter smirked, noticing his expression. He knew, of course he knew.

- You don’t look very grateful, leech. You want more, maybe ?

The vampire struggled, but he was frail and weak from the torture and starvation, and he was soon pinned on the floor, the hunter straddling him and holding him down. The blood bag was opened, and the hypnotising smell made him salivate heavily. He could not control his body’s reaction, the way his lips parted, his jaw aching where his fangs used to be. The hunter chuckled, and pried his mouth open further with his free hand. The vampire whined, the gesture pressing the silver implants in his mouth against his gum, but he didn’t struggle. All his will had disappeared, replacd by a wild and uncontrollable hunger.

When the blood was poured down his throat he gulped it down eagerly, like a mindless animal. The hunter stood up with the empty blood bad, an amused smile on his face.

- You leeches love to pretend you’re people. But it doesn’t take much to show your true nature, does it ?

The vampire didn’t answer, too busy licking the blood that had dripped down his face. He suddenly stopped, tears pricking his eyes as realization dawned on him. He stifled a sob and looked up at the hunter pleadingly, before suddenly lurching forward, his hands clenching on his lower stomach. The tears were streaming down his face now, both of pain and helplessness, the blood like acid in his tummy. It hurt, it hurt so much. He gagged, covering his mouth with both hands. He needed to keep it down, just a little bit longer. But he couldn’t, the pain and the nausea overwhelming him. His shaking grew stronger, and he cursed the genetics that had made him so unnatural his body was unable to digest the thing that it was made for.

The hunter looked with a grin as the hybrid jolted forward again, emptying his stomach from the blood he had just ingested.

The miserable creature didn’t look up as the hunter locked the cell and left, curled up on the cold concrete, shaking with silent sobs. He just wished he could feed like a normal vampire, instead of being destined to suffer and starve endlessly.

[oddsconvert]

Mute Whumpee having been forced into silence until they hear a certain “permission” code word.

Caretaker thinking that Whumpee is just mute from trauma now, and after about a week into their rescue they accidentally let that word slip and next thing they know, Whumpee is sobbing and apologizing and pleading-

Caretaker always liked the peace and quiet.

The sound of his own footsteps down an empty hallway, the creak of the floorboards beneath him, the soft whirring of the air conditioning unit in the corner. He liked the way the silence seemed to wrap around him like a blanket, shielding him from the outside world. He liked the way he could hear himself think, hear his own thoughts crystal clear when it was nice and quiet. When there were no distractions. When Caretaker could just be, without worrying about anything or anyone else.

Solitude is a blessing. Caretaker wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the whole wide world.

Caretaker used to like the peace and quiet…at least, before Whumpee fell into his lap.

The silence is now deafening, ear-piercing. The birds have stopped singing, the only sound is the wind rustling through the crunchy leaves scattered on the ground outside. The air is still and heavy, and the only movement is slow, steady drip of rainwater from the trees.

It is a silence that is full of fear and anticipation, and it is a silence that is waiting for something to happen. The quiet sounds like failure and disappointment. Another day blurs past in the blink of an eye - another day where he’s no closer to Whumpee speaking. Caretaker doesn’t even know the name of the man he rescued from the pits of hell, nor does he know his story. He doesn’t know the sound of Whumpee’s voice. If he has a family and friends, searching day and night to bring him home.

Whumpee is a mystery to Caretaker. And Caretaker is a mystery to Whumpee.

Caretaker peeks through the crack in the door, checking on Whumpee as he sleeps…on the floor. Whumpee lies huddled on the cold, hard ground, ignoring the perfectly made bed in the corner of the room. Like he’s not allowed to sleep in it. He writhes and flinches in his sleep, kicking his legs and whimpering like a dreaming dog. Whumpee is in there, somewhere, even if Caretaker can’t reach him just yet. He has tried everything he can think of, lost countless nights of sleep tossing and turning, and thought of every way to pull himself out of the darkness in his head, but nothing seems to work.

Whumpee suddenly awoke with a start, screaming and covered in cold-sweat, his eyes darting in horror around the room. Dark circles hang beneath his eyes, every inch of him vibrates in terror. When he spots Caretaker lingering in the doorway, he flinches and chokes on a sob.

“Hey, hey! Shhh, you’re okay!” Caretaker bursts through the doorway, rushing over to Whumpee’s side, “You were having another nightmare-”

Caretaker rubs Whumpee’s back as he heaves for air, “Would you like me to stay?”

Whumpee smiles, but it does not reach his teary eyes. His muscles tense like a spring about to bounce, and still he nods his head in agreement. Or submission.

Somewhere, somehow - Whumpee must understand and realise that this is safety. Caretaker is safety. His wounds and gashes are scabbing and closing, dark bruises fading into his pale skin. His belly warm and full. The dog collar strapped tight to his throat when Caretaker found him - long gone. Caretaker burned it.

“I’m so sorry. I wish I knew how to help -” Caretaker holds Whumpee's face, cupping his cheek.

There’s that damn silence again. Whumpee sniffles and wipes at his nose, refusing to even look at Caretaker now. He has all the answers, just not the words to reveal them. So close yet so far.

“I want you to know I will never hurt you, Whumpee. I just want to help… I just…I just want you to heal-”

Whumpee’s eyes go wide with horror, and he freezes like a statue. Caretaker can hear their heart racing in both their chests. Before Caretaker could stop him, Whumpee is kneeling at Caretaker’s feet, wrapping his arms around his legs, clinging like a baby koala and bursting into tears.

“Th-Thank you! Oh, thank you s-sir - thank god!” Whumpee wails, his voice deep, hoarse and scratchy. Caretaker can hardly believe his ears. It feels like a fever dream. Whumpee just spoke. What just happened?! What changed?!

“Whu-Whumpee?!” Caretaker gasps.

“I’m so sorry sir!!! I waited - and waited and…and I tried! I tried so hard to be good. I thought you’d never say it- I thought you'd never release me-”

"Release-"

"Heel. You - You told me to heel-" Whumpee slumps back onto the heels of his feet, sitting by Whumper's heels, his hands folded limp in front of his chest - begging. "My release word. I-I did good? I didn't speak, sir!!!"

"No…" Caretaker falters, "No, you didn't."

---

Drabble taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername  @whumpsday  @sparrowsage  @whumperfully  @wolves-and-winters @canislycaon24 @happy-little-sadist @darkthingshappen

[whumperofworlds]

Whumper kidnaps Whumpee, ties them up, and threatens to torture Whumpee if they don't spill out any information.

The problem? Whumpee can't talk. Whether they're just mute, got their vocal cords removed, or anything like that, Whumpee can't speak or even scream. Even after Whumper tortured them, they realized they couldn't scream or speak.

[kabie-whump]

✧･ﾟ Ripe, About to Fall - Part 11 ✧･ﾟ

This is an 18+ slowish burn pet-whump story with added romance.

Title from 'Liquid Smooth' by Mitski

Series First | Previous Summary: Ventis still isn't talking, and Athos takes advantage of it. Theodore visits Athos and has a chat with Ventis. Content: non-con oral onscreen, beating mentions, degradation, trauma-induced muteness?, character death mention, (let me know if I missed a tag I'm brain soup right now)

Onthyes does not belong to me. He was created by my wonderful gf @sapphicccici and I have kidnapped him.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Ventis’s whole body ached as he sat at his master’s feet. It’s been at least two years since he was last beaten as badly as he was yesterday, but still not a word escaped his lips. 

He didn’t really know why he wasn’t talking. He’d like to believe it to be a brave act of rebellion, except he really did want to give in. He didn’t like being beaten up, didn’t like the threat in Athos’s eyes every time he responded to a question with a nod or shake of his head. Ventis was a lot of things, but he wouldn’t consider himself to be brave.

But the words just wouldn’t leave his lips, no matter how desperately he tried to convince them to.

At least he didn’t have to wear such revealing clothing today, since Athos wanted to keep the worst of the bruises hidden.

“He really is beautiful, Mr. Landleigh. You’re a lucky man.”

Ventis blinked himself out of his thoughts, glancing up at the source of the words. Dwen. One of Athos’s newest business partners - a man probably only ten years older than Ventis. He stood out in a room otherwise filled with people old enough to be Ventis’s parents or even grandparents. Dwen was a hungry young man in more ways than one, and he never kept his eyes to himself.

“Indeed,” Athos hummed, reaching down to pat Venits’s head. Ventis couldn’t help but lean into the touch, finding comfort in the gentleness despite its source. “He requires a fair amount of training and upkeep, but he’s certainly worth the trouble.”

“I’ve been considering getting a pet of my own. You do nothing but rave about yours. But I fear it would be challenging to find one that lives up to him.”

Ventis looks up at Athos, watching a smirk cross the man’s face. The look that means he’s up to something, and Ventis isn’t going to like it.

Athos ran his fingertips along Ventis’s cheek lovingly. “Isn’t that sweet, treasure? My friend here envies your rare beauty. Do you want to give him a taste of what it’s like to own you?”

Ventis swallowed hard, shaking his head. He knew exactly what Athos meant. Athos had let his friends use him before, but it was a rare occurrence and only when he was particularly upset with him.

 “Hm. I don’t hear a ‘no’.” Athos said with a grin. “That’s very generous of you, darling.” He stood, grabbing Ventis by a horn and dragging him over to kneel in front of Dwen.

Dwen smiled down at Ventis, his hands moving to his belt. 

Ventis’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

“I know you haven’t been feeling well recently,” Athos said, leaning down to speak softly into Ventis’s ear. “If you aren’t up for this, just tell me. I can make it all stop.”

Ventis shook his head again, pleading with his eyes. 

Athos’s lips were still set in a smile, but his eyes shone with disappointment. “Oh, you don’t want to stop? Alright then. He’s all yours, Dwen.”

Ventis steeled himself as Athos returned to his seat and struck up a casual conversation with his other partners. He could deal with this. He had plenty of experience. It wouldn’t kill him, and his veins were thumming with Nightspill, helpfully numbing the sharper of his emotions. 

I’m fine. I can handle this.

Dwen’s hand found Ventis’s hair, guiding him in closer until his lips touched hot flesh.

Just tune it out. 

Ventis closed his eyes, praying that Dwen would at least be gentle. Not that anyone ever was. His training took over and he opened his mouth. His fangs dug into the scarred-over spots on the inside of his lips. Better they pierce his own skin than the skin of his master, and the taste of blood wasn’t too bad once he got used to it.

Ugh. He needs to bathe.

Ventis focused on shutting down his need to breathe. He wouldn’t (couldn’t) choke, thanks to his elemental ancestry. That didn’t stop his throat from burning at the slight stretch. He clenched his fists in his lap.

Dwen let out a shaky groan, his hands grabbing for his horns to pull him even closer. “He’s… cold,” Dwen said with a chuckle. “Even on the inside. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“An air genasi quirk,” Athos quipped. “Not every man’s cup of tea, but I find it quite enjoyable. If it’s too bothersome I have a fix for that.”

Ventis couldn’t help but whimper at the thought. The ‘fix’ in question involved him chugging scalding hot water. He hadn’t been able to swallow without pain for a week after the last time. 

“It’s alright. He’s plenty tight, so I don’t mind it.”

Thank the gods.

Luckily, Dwen didn’t last long. The men Athos lended him to rarely did. As awful as his situation was, Ventis found himself somewhat prideful of his skill in this area. He couldn’t step outside on his own, but at least he could deliver a world-shattering orgasm in mere minutes when he needed to. 

He returned to his place in front of Athos, subtly stretching his sore knees as a nearby servant rushed over to fix his hair and wipe his face clean and polish the fingerprints off of his horns. Ventis’s tongue ran over the twin spots inside his upper lip where his fangs had inevitably pierced the skin. The blood masked Dwen’s taste well. Still, he was grateful when Athos offered him a sip of wine.

The guests left soon after, leaving Ventis and Athos alone. Ventis looked up at his master, unable to stop himself from glaring at the man.

“I asked you if you wanted it,” Athos said with a shrug. “You didn’t say no.”

The two spent the next couple of hours outside in the garden, in a sitting area under the shade of a tree. Ventis allowed himself to enjoy it - the taste of fresh fruit on his tongue, the sounds of wind rustling leaves and soft flutter of Athos turning the pages of his book, the scent of roses. Seated at his master’s feat like always, Ventis rested his head against his thigh and closed his eyes, clinging to the sliver of peace.

Ventis heard a servant appear and have a short conversation with Athos, but he didn’t care to decipher the words. The servant left and Ventis started to drift off, lulled towards sleep by Athos’s fingers in his hair.

Then, “Ah, the young Lord Riinturuth returns!”

Ventis sat up straight with a jolt, his eyes snapping open. There, escorted by the butler, was his younger brother, Theodore. Ventis squinted at him, curious about why he had returned after that awful dinner, but Theodore made a point of not even glancing in his direction. His eyes were on Athos alone.

“Come, sit down! What brings you back to my humble manor, my Lord?”

Anyone else would find Athos’s voice nothing aside from welcoming, but Ventis knew better. He knew that edge of caution hiding under his words. 

Theodore sat in a plush chair and the butler poured him a glass of wine. “Please, just call me Theodore, Mr. Landleigh. There is no need for formalities with me. I come to you today as little more than a student.”

Ventis resisted the urge to snort. Theodore was never the ‘student’ type. He’d always been more interested in hunting and fighting and honing his magic.

“Oh? You intrigue me, Theodore. Do go on.”

“Well, I have a request for you. You are an influential person in this city, which is why my father wanted us to have dinner together at the start of my stay here. But the truth is, he looks down upon those who find their power through economic pursuits. To him, business is too fickle of a thing to rest your legacy on.”

Athos hummed, displeased.

“But I could not help but respect you, sir,” Theodore pressed on. “Being born into power is one thing, but having the ability to take it for yourself? To me, that is much more impressive. My time in Nimbria was only meant for me to study leadership with the Venturas, but I believe it would benefit me to learn from you as well. If you will have me, I would love to observe your business practices from time to time. And in return I can promise that your business will always have a friend in my kingdom’s ports.”

Athos considered Theodore with a raised brow. “And you are certain that this proposition has nothing to do with your long lost brother here?” Athos’s hand rested atop Ventis’s head.

Theodore’s eyes flicked to Ventis for a second before he fixed his gaze on Athos once more. “I can assure you, sir, that he means nothing to me. It is thanks to his absence from home that I was able to ascend to my position as our father’s heir. Our shared past will cause no issue.”

Athos hummed, absentmindedly stroking Ventis’s hair as he thought. “Very well. I have no children of my own, so maybe it will do me some good to have an eager young mind to shape.”

“Thank you, sir. You will not regret this.”

The two sat and chatted for a while as Ventis tried to come to terms with the fact that his brother would be coming by even more after this. Had he not been humiliated enough already?

“Ventis, go fetch more wine,” Athos said after he and Theodore had finished off what was left of the previous bottle.

Ventis stood with a short nod and walked inside.

Moments later, as he was just passing through the doorway into the servant’s corridors, a hand grabbed his arm. He gasped sharply as the fingers dug into bruises. Ventis turned, his eyes going wide when he saw his brother staring back at him.

“Jasper,” Theodore said, his voice low. “I’m here to rescue you.”

Ventis took a small step back, shaking Theodore’s hand off of his arm. Why was everyone trying to save him all of a sudden? More importantly, why would Theodore want to save him? They’ve always been rivals. Theodore said himself just earlier today that Ventis’s absence had been good for him. Ventis couldn’t believe for a second that Theodore actually cared what happened to him. His actions five years ago had proven that all too well.

How was Ventis supposed to believe that the very same person who had singlehandedly ruined his life actually wanted to help him?

Theodore definitely saw the blatant disbelief and confusion on Ventis’s face. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice even lower.

“Listen, brother. While you are still under Landleigh’s thumb, Onthyes Ventura will not train me, and that is the entire reason I am in this city in the first place. I am helping you whether you want me to or not, so I suggest you make this easy on both of us and not be so fucking stubborn for once.”

Ventis’s heart stopped.

“Onthyes is alive?”

Those were the first words he had spoken in days. They came out as a broken whisper. A tiny sliver of hope in a world that had seemed so dark for so long.

Theodore looked taken aback. “Yes, of course he is.”

“I…” Ventis sunk to the ground, squatting on his heels and threading his fingers through his hair. His breaths came with far too much difficulty and his vision blurred. “I thought he was dead.”

Suddenly, everything was different. There was hope. And Ventis didn’t know what to do with it. He choked out a sob, covering his face with both hands.

“Jas- Ventis?” He could feel Theodore getting closer and squatting down in front of him. 

“How?” Ventis croaked. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“After he failed to rescue you, his guard friends knocked him out and left him there. They didn’t kill him.”

“I-If you’re lying, Theo-”

“I’m not lying. He can’t come to see you himself, obviously, so I’ve come in his place. I will get close with Landleigh, and at the first opportunity I will get you out of here. But you have to work with me. You have to trust me.”

Ventis glared at Theodore through his tears. “Trust you? After what you did to me? Are you joking?”

Annoyance flashed across Theodore’s face before he schooled his expression back into neutrality. “You’re still on about that? It was five years ago. I was fourteen. Grow up and move on.”

“Move on?” Ventis hissed. “That would be easy for you, wouldn’t it? You’re not the one who…” he trailed off, not wanting to say the word. They both knew what it was anyway, and it hung between them, unspoken.

Died.

“You came out fine in the end,” Theodore muttered. “I am not responsible for the way you decided to cope.”

Ventis glared at the wall behind Theodore. “I do not want your help.”

“You do not have a choice. Onthyes is useless to me without you.”

Theodore extended a hand down to Ventis. Ventis glared at it, then rose to his feet on his own.

“Like it or not,” Theodore continued, “I am currently your only hope of seeing him again. I can not force you to cooperate with your own rescue, but I would encourage you to think it over.”

With that he left Ventis alone, headed for the exit. Ventis took a moment to collect himself, scrubbing tears away with his sleeves, before he resumed his journey to the wine celler. 

When he returned to Athos’s side with a fresh bottle the man’s eyes searched his face immediately. Ventis glanced away with hope that he wouldn’t notice his watery, red rimmed eyes. 

Athos took Ventis by the chin, forcing his face up towards his own. There was a little smile on his face as he brushed his thumb across Ventis’s bottom lip.

“You look beautiful today, treasure,” Athos said gently.

“Thank you, master.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Next

I'm sorry this one took so long omg. I'm at a point in this story where I just want to skip to the recovery but I gotta get there first, so I keep writing scenes for the future because that's more exciting to me right now. Luckily, that means I'm impatient and Ventis is probably going to get out in the next chapter or two! Yay!

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet

@sleepyiswhumping @bitchaknso @unicornbeck @wounds-seen-and-unseen @3-2-whump

@looptheloup @rainydaywhump

[secretwhumplair]

Departure

1,424 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to Ozriel)

Content | Power imbalance, mute whumpee, language barrier, mention of/implied: past captivity, past torture

Notes | Orafin and Elgar go on their way!

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog @scoundrelwithboba @whumpcreations

Night had now properly fallen. The crown let them have their hug for a long moment—Elgar could feel their eyes on him like burning fire, and wondered what went through their head, seeing their regal brother so closely entangled with one like him; surely it reflected on them if it were known, somehow? he couldn’t imagine they approved, however affable they had been, but he desperately needed that hug—but eventually, they sat up all businesslike, and that little movement was enough to signal to the prince it was time to stop.

»You should get some rest,« the crown said, gently, when the prince turned back towards them. Their eyes, once again, grazed Elgar as well, as if they meant them both. »But we should lay out some plans. As soon as you feel ready to travel—«

The prince nodded firmly, and looked over at Elgar, who joined in, rather more hesitantly. Yes, no, he was ready to travel. He just wasn’t ready for this whole situation.

»I think the best thing will be to come back to Akreh with me, then Orina and her escort can take you from there. You’ll go to Borrim until you’re fully recovered, then you can return to Atcill. Although…« They sighed. »You should probably appear as soon as possible.«

The prince nodded, his eyes determined. Atcill was the capital of Ochuria, Elgar knew that much—as for Borrim, he could only guess. A sickhouse? Would a royal go to a common sickhouse, moreso if they weren’t physically ill?

The prince had scribbled something down on his slate, and now the crown eyed him with plain worry on their face. »If you’re quite sure.« Then they turned to Elgar. »You will travel to Borrim together, one of our countryside estates—it will be nice and quiet. His Highness has requested you go via our capital, so he may make a public appearance and put the people’s minds at ease about him.«

»Yes, your Majesty.« Elgar idly wondered if the offer to send him back home was permanent, or whether he had missed his chance. Not that it mattered, really. What could he do, anyway?

The crown considered him for a moment, then they nodded briefly and returned to the prince. »We’ll have to find someone to teach you to speak with your hands, of course. All of us, actually, when we have time. Why, of course,« they added with a small smile when the prince looked just about moved enough to start crying, giving him another half-hug. »And you,« they turned to Elgar once more, »will have to learn spoken Ochurian as well, if you intend to stay. It is probably best if you learn to read it, as well,« they added with a glance down at the prince’s slate.

»Yes, your Majesty. I—I would like that.« It was a terrifying prospect, to be stranded in this strange land with no way to communicate.

He wouldn’t be stranded, of course.

He would be at the mercy of the royal family. No one would be able to help him if things went awry.

He had to shove these thoughts down. The prince had promised to protect him. He simply had to cling on to that promise.

Presently, the crown smiled. »Very good. That’s settled, then. If you both are ready, we will travel tomorrow morning. After breakfast, you look-« They fell silent, their eyes filled with worry when they looked over their brother, skin and bones, worse than Elgar. He remembered how light the prince, who in his mind could not have been further from a prince then, had felt in his arms.

The prince swallowed, but smiled, and nodded.

* Orafin woke early, the first light of dawn barely creeping in, yet found Elgar already awake, lying with his open eyes resting on him. Ozriel was already up—they had gone to sleep beside him, but now they were at the desk, writing letters. It felt so warm and safe to see them there, all busy being monarch; although the thought was immediately followed up with the sting of knowing it would never be their mother doing these duties again.

They immediately glanced over to him when he sat up. He shoved the grief aside for the moment—there would be time to grieve, surely; now wasn’t it—, smiled, and waved good morning.

Their smile in return looked strained. »Good morning. One moment.«

Orafin looked over to Elgar while they finished their paperwork. He couldn’t do anything but smile at him and squeeze his hand and he couldn’t wait for him to learn to read, for both of them to learn to speak in and understand signs, and he couldn’t even tell him that.

Elgar smiled and squeezed back, but his smile, too, seemed strained.

Orafin wondered whether he was still in pain, now unhappily looking forward to travelling with it. He had told the medic he was sore, but he hadn’t elaborated—and Orafin hadn’t wanted to expose him—and whether his body had been able to fully recover in the past two days, while dealing with the starvation and the exhaustion and the obvious anxiety, Orafin didn’t know.

It seemed unlikely, after everything Orafin had witnessed. Elgar had never been given time to recover any more than he had, and though his injuries might be subtler, Orafin didn’t doubt they were still there, struggling to heal amid renewed assaults.

It would probably hurt him to ride. But Orafin couldn’t tell him to tell the medic without revealing at least some of what had been done to him to Ozriel or someone else, so he could only hope Elgar would know to speak up if things got too bad.

Orafin would hurt, too. He was bruised all over. But it would be worth it to see his sister, and go home, and see the rest of his family and friends.

Once Ozriel had finished what couldn’t be more than the sentence they had been writing, they called for breakfast. Two days of consistent food hadn’t been enough to take the magic out of it for Orafin. He briefly tried to remember his manners before the crown, like he was supposed to, but Ozriel just shook their head.

»Please just eat. No-one’s here to watch.« They were speaking in Teeradian, and once again included Elgar with a smile.

Maybe, if he stayed with them, he would eventually have to learn courteous manners. Orafin hoped he wouldn’t mind.

Then it was time for Orafin to get used to his legs again.

They felt fragile and weak under him, having been out of use for a week now. Ozriel helped him up and called for one of his attendants to support him on his way to the stables, so that Orafin could pick out a horse.

The soldiers cheered when they saw him, and his lips smiled all by themselves. He even managed a little wave.

Terrav was going with them, and pointed out the horse they had arrived on. By light of day, and with a clear mind, the mare was certainly nothing special; a pack pony probably, black and soft-eyed and small next to the crown’s horse, Maple, who stretched his head out to welcome his master.

Yet Orafin instantly knew he didn’t want to leave her behind. But now that he thought about it-

Elgar should have her. He took her.

The corner of Ozriel’s mouth twitched. »You’re right. This horse is rightfully yours,« they continued towards Elgar. »You took her as your prize. You can keep her, or you can sell her later when we can get you a better ride.«

Elgar simply stared at Ozriel, then at Orafin, who grinned at him, giving him an enthusiastic nod. »The horse… belongs to me?«

»Yes, if you will have her. You should probably name her.«

»Um.« Elgar stepped up to the pony, who was clearly indifferent to all of these humans around her, but accepted an awkward little face rub. »I think I’ll call her. Sparrow?«

He met Orafin’s eyes, and Orafin thought they were both reminded of the night they met the horse.

How Orafin had convinced Elgar to come with him by mimicking the protection of a vulnerable small animal. An injured little bird, perhaps.

Orafin swallowed down the knot in his throat, and nodded earnestly. He didn’t need to be reminded of his promise, and he would make sure his actions would eventually convince Elgar of that.

At sunrise, they left the outpost.

[abhainnwhump]

This is a concept I can't get out of my head and I need to write it down so I don't put it in my draft where it wouldn't fit.

(Content warning: Pet whump, dehumanization, noncon body modification, therapy-can't-help-you-at-this-point Whumper)

Whumper wanted to dehumanize Whumpee as much as possible. They already force them to sleep in a dog bed, make them eat and drink from dog bowls, make them perform tricks, maybe even had them surgically altered, but that still isn't enough for this asshole Whumper.

They make them to only speak in barks/meows, whether by surgery, magic, or plain conditioning. The only way they can "talk" is through tones of voice. Whumper coos over how cute they are when they don't use words and bark when they're happy. Whumpee is so worn out that they just don't care, the praise is good.

After rescue, they need to relearn how to talk with words. Or maybe Caretaker finds a way to communicate through handle signals until/if they get to that point.

[dragyouthroughthewhump]

I think it'd be interesting to have a whumper who loves to hear their whumpees make noise, encounter a traumatic mute.

Like, what to do then? Your toy is broken, but not in the fun way. Sure it looks cute, but dang it, they aren't making the cute sounds!

Does the whumper get rid of them, or do they have to try all new methods to get their whumpee to make noise?

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Quick!! Link a scene or piece of work you're created that you're proud of! First one that comes to mind!!

*bounces in place* ohohohohoho you've gone and done it now!!! Feast your eyes on this scene from one of my many WIPs - I hope I'll finish it one day. It really is one of the Big Three of my Magnum Opuses.

Below the cut:

Female whumpee

Mute whumpee

Disabled whumpee

Female Caretaker

Recovery

Mentions of Scientific/Medical Trauma

Bruises and bandages

Collapsing

Fatigue/Weakness

Samira slept for another day. Until the pangs of hunger and other necessities grew to be too much to ignore. She drew in a slow breath and sighed, then lifted her arms in a stretch. The skin of her elbows pulled uncomfortably and she stopped at the telltale sensation of scabs beginning to split. Even now, days later, she felt the bone-deep ache from her journey here. The dull throb of a lingering headache. The pulsing pain in her knees. Her hands still held a tremor without the slightest provocation. More than anything, she wanted to go back to sleep until the soreness went away, but nature had other ideas.

Turning her head, she saw she was alone. The lights to the room were dimmed low, and the only other source of light came from the glow of a safety light in the bathroom five feet away. Blessedly, she saw the IV pole was on the same side of the bed. All she had to do now was walk. Piece of cake. Pulling the blanket back, she slung her legs over the side of the bed. She stopped long enough to wonder at the sight she saw.

Socks. Soft, fuzzy yellow socks with grips on the bottoms. She turned her attention to her gown. It, too, was buttercup yellow, decorated with bumble bees and daisies, and the hem - stopping at her knees - even had the tiniest decoration of white lace. She longed to rub the material between her fingers, but the bandaging on her hands prevented her from doing so. It would have to wait. Besides, the thick wads of cotton taped over each knee ruined the effect. Her skin, she noticed, was far paler than its healthy cinnamon color, and even the patches of vitiligo, normally rosy, held a sickly shade. She frowned, feeling like the ghost of her former self.

Gripping the IV pole for balance, Samira scooted forward. Tentatively, she settled her feet on the floor. No fear driving her to move. No dizziness. It didn’t matter how many times she had tried to stand on her way here. She was stronger now. She was rested. She could do this. Carefully, as if to balance on an egg without breaking it, she put weight on one foot. Her knee began to quake and she grabbed the IV pole with her other hand, clinging to it, and the momentum of doing so forced her full weight forward. Quickly, she brought her other foot forth to catch herself.

For the briefest of seconds, she teetered, awkwardly poised between the IV pole and her fawn-like legs. She could feel the cuts in her palms reopening as she clung to the pole, the gauze slackening her grip. Then the wheels of the IV pole rolled. Samira flailed, gasping as her crutch moved before she was ready, and tried to snatch it back. It fell, and she followed, knocking a metal tray and its contents to the floor with a great crash.

She might have cringed at the noise if she hadn’t instinctively tried to catch herself. Though the gauze cushioned the fall somewhat, it didn’t stop her knees and elbows from cracking against the hard tile - biting through the cotton and clawing at her already-shredded skin. Tears sprung up and a mute yelp rattled her throat before she could stop herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and still a hoarse sob wrenched itself from her chest.

Hurried footsteps sent a dart of panic up her spine, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The lights switched on, then a set of hands were on her. She flinched, but they didn’t release her.

“Samira.” Jean. Jean was there. “Samira, it’s alright. It’s just me.”

Without waiting for a response, Jean lifted her back to the bed as easily as a child might lift a dropped doll. Samira tucked her hands beneath her chin, arms pressed against her chest, and tried to control her breathing - all while fighting the urge to curl in a ball right there. Hot, thrumming pain rolled up her limbs, coiling into tight knots and biting, clawing, digging into her bones. Why did it hurt so much? How could things go wrong so quickly? She opened her eyes from where she’d squeezed them shut, peering between wet lashes at the mess she’d made. Fresh, unused medical supplies lay strewn about on the floor. The IV pole lay on its side, and the tray had skidded a couple feet away. She drew in a shaky breath, shame heating her cheeks.

Automatically, an apology tried to leave her lips. Instead, it came out in a pitiful wheeze.

Mistaking the gesture for one of pain, Jean smoothed a hand over Samira’s back. “It’s alright, Samira. Do you want something for the pain?”

Samira shook her head and hid her face behind her hands, the gauze absorbing her tears.

“It’s okay if you do. You don’t need to be brave, not here.”

Samira shook her head again, gulping back another sob before it could surface.  She already owed them so much, and it shamed her to anticipate their response to her inability to speak - and now, it seemed, the inability to walk. Had the Team left any part of her untouched?

[whumpwordsoftheday]

“I am so tired of you talking, always talking. You just don’t shut up. So I’m going to make sure that you’ll never talk again”

[the-whumpening]

The Caged Tiger | Part 1

Masterpost | Next

CW: captivity, needles, blood, threats of violence and death, restrained, dehumanization

-----------------------------

The oncoming army fades from Ash’s vision, warbling green magic replacing the bright snow all around him. As if attached to a string, he feels himself being pulled—a harmless tug at first, but quickly yanking him off his feet. Within the green mist, a cacophony of voices clamor: it’s as if he’s in the middle of a tunnel, with his friends calling him on one end and confused strangers on the other. But he realizes, with dread, these voices aren’t unknown to him. As he calls out, stretching through the spiraling path before him, the portal slams shut. He tumbles to a hard stone floor, catching himself on his hands and knees.

“Wow,” one familiar voice muses. “I didn’t know it could do that!”

“Indeed,” the other replies.

A slender hand grasps his hair and lifts his head; icy spears of panic pierce his spine. He may not know exactly where he is, but he does know his captor.

Ozmund smirks coolly, a devious glint in his narrowed eyes. “You look quite different, Ash—I almost didn't recognize you.”

-----------------------------

A nagging ache radiates throughout Ash’s body. But it isn’t the soreness that wakes him; rather, it’s the sharp, jabbing pain in his arm. He tries to jerk away from the source as he groggily comes back into consciousness, but his arm refuses to move, as if bound in place.

“You should stop your whinging; it’ll only make this worse,” Ozmund calmly chides, drawing up the plunger of his syringe. The chamber floods with blood, and Ash’s stomach churns at the sight. He turns his head, a cold sweat forming on his brow. As he wriggles, the cold metal around his neck presses into his skin; the attached chain clangs against itself.

What–? Is this . . . a collar?

Flashes of memory return through the queasy haze: a fight with Owen, frantic and feral, each exchanging hit after heavy hit; then a puff of sweet-smelling perfume, and the room swirling as he crashed to the floor. In the dreamlike stupor, he could feel his bare back against the stone wall and the stretch of his arms above his head.

Finally fully awake, fear and rage take the place of his confusion. He tries to calm his panic; he’s not sure if Ozmund knows about his new form, but he doubts anything good could come of him finding out. Stay calm, stay alert. He repeats Kane’s words to himself like a mantra. Use your head.

With as little movement as possible, he takes in his surroundings. The room is cold and sterile—nearly every surface is made of stone or metal. Clean, glass-framed cabinets hold an array of tools he can only guess at the purpose of. Aside from his stable-like holding cell, the rest of the space seems to be set up as a laboratory. What exactly does he do here? His muscles shake against his will—both from the fatigue and terror wracking his body as well as his desperate clinging to his human state.

“Oh, please. A beast, afraid of the sight of blood?” Ozmund scoffs. He withdraws the syringe, pressing a cloth against the wound. A shimmer of green passes through Ash’s veins, and the puncture disappears as Ozmund removes the cloth. Did he just . . . heal me?

Ash tries to speak, but terror has gripped his throat in a tight embrace. All that comes out is a strangled whimper.

Ozmund ignores his panicked squeaks. He deposits the contents of the syringe into a vial, then cleans his hands and drops his equipment on a nearby tray, all the while leaving his back turned towards Ash. Taking advantage of the moment out of his line of sight, Ash pulls uselessly against the restraints. They don’t budge; he realizes that not even his legs are entirely free. He wonders if his bindings are reinforced with magic—even his immense strength proves futile against them. Though he tries to subdue his terror, barely-audible keening cries slip out from his quick, panicked breaths.

With an exasperated sigh, Ozmund turns on his heel. He stalks closer to Ash, each sharp tap of his boots against the hard floor echoing in Ash’s ears. His voice low and ominous, he slams a hand on the wall beside Ash’s head and leans in. “You will cease that pathetic mewling.” For a reason Ash can’t begin to fathom, his expression almost . . . softens. “Don’t fret. I have no intention to kill you anytime soon. I want so much more from you than you can give, I assure you.

"After stealing away my apprentice and ruining all my plans, well, the first thing on my mind is—of course—revenge.” A devilish grin creeps across his face, and he drags a long, manicured nail down Ash’s cheek. “But," he continues, "I have something more practical planned. Such a unique specimen like this, delivered so unexpectedly on my doorstep? I'd be a fool to pass up the chance; I've had my eye on studying you for quite some time. It's funny—I've heard you were trying to become a scholar yourself. Is that right? The little kitten playing Wizard with Nekane's washed-up uncle!"

From within his overcoat, Ozmund reveals Ash’s spellbook. "You won't have any need for this now." Emerald flames erupt from his hand and engulf the book; within seconds, all of Ash’s hard work—the undeniable proof of his intelligence—is reduced to a pile of soot on the ground. Ozmund dusts off his hands and lifts Ash’s head up by the chain. "Follow my orders and serve me well, and you might live long enough to see your friends' inevitable rescue mission. Test my patience, however, and I'll send you back to them—Piece. By. Piece."

A shudder ripples up Ash’s spine, and he fights to keep his expression stone still. As much as his feral side wants to fight back—to lash out at Ozmund, rend flesh from bone, and destroy everything in his path to return to his friends—he knows he can't risk it. Ozmund is far more powerful than he can even imagine, and far less predictable. He can’t seem to anticipate any of Ozmund’s actions; every shift in his demeanor is frightening and unexpected. For once, Ash genuinely fears for his life.

"I can't say I'm not a little disappointed," Ozmund says. "Where's your fight, cat?"

Ash remains silent, dropping his gaze to the floor and turning his head away in shame. He wonders the same; he’s never let fear grab him so fiercely before, but now . . . he can’t help but be paralyzed. Since when has practicality and personal safety mattered to him in the face of danger? Why do I feel so helpless?

"Well, no matter."

He tenses, trying not to flinch, as Ozmund snaps his fingers. The shackles around Ash’s limbs fall away, leaving behind sore impressions in his wrists and a weakness in his knees. What kind of trick is this? What's going on?

"We'll coax that rage out of you soon enough." With a tug of the leash-like chain, Ozmund pulls Ash along behind him.

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

Masterlist : Blood and tears

A half-vampire gets captured by hunters. He can't remember his name, or anything that comes before his capture. The hunters have fun with him.

Please read Everest's introduction before ! I promise the story will make more sense.

Another thing: if you have an idea, a request, a prompt you think could suit, please submit it ! I live for interactions.

The links are in chronological order.

Captivity:

Silver fangs

Alone

No escape

Hungry + art

Unfair

Goodnight

Left behind

Rescue:

Found

Broken

Thankful

Home

Nameless

Named

Still hungry

Wasting away

Revelation

Hope

Good job

Fear

Please

Back

Leaving

[scratchandplaster]

FEBUWHUMP 2023 DAY 9 - Voice loss

CW: mutism, trauma

You got a mute Whumpee on your hands, so what's next?

Depending on the reason why they remain silent (trauma, disfigurement during torture or even innate mutism/deafness) Caretaker has different options to interact, especially if they start out as an unaware stranger:

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Non-Verbal communication:

Not just gestures or facial expression can convey Whumpee's current mood

Different sounds (e.g. humming) are often clear to everybody

The pitch or tone of these noises can indicate rejection or approval, up to requests for interaction → a curious trill can show their counterpart to continue talking

Written communication:

They just write down what they need, be it on a phone or a notepad

If you sprinkle a bit of a language barrier in there, it gets even better

Cards with pictures of everyday activities or objects. They shorten the time to write down and break any language barrier (a good example is the K&J x MMSS 2 crossover by @whumpsday and @not-a-space-alien)

Text-to-speech with short pre-programmed questions and answers for everyday living, therefore making responses quicker. It also teaches Whumpee to use technology → Whumpee can also customize their voice, thus getting used to "speaking" again

Sign language:

Caretaker and Whumpee can learn to use signs together and practice with each other

They can settle for ASL as a recognized and widely practiced language, visit local classes or make up their own signs if they don't have the options or the setting limits this accessibility

Bonus → Speech therapy:

A bonding moment for Whumpee and Caretaker

BUT also a root for lots of angst and anger, e.g. Whumpee being frustrated with their (lack of) progress and getting upset

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

@febuwhump

[Febuwhump 2023 Masterlist]

[painsandconfusion]

You have a mute whumpee?? I've never seen that before

I think it's just that one scene I have them in and Whumper makes an ablest comment about it, so it's not exactly my favorite rep for diversity among my characters. In the other scenes, you don't even know they're mute. Doesn't happen to come up.

Their name is Gigi, by the way. Darling bean. I never had a harder time writing anything in my entire life as I did in killing them in that scene.