#nonverbal whumpee

[brainrotlesbian]

Something about a whumpee experiencing a speech shutdown after their rescue from whatever trauma. Maybe they were gagged for almost their entire captivity, maybe they were physically punished for speaking/saying the wrong thing, whatever.

And Caretaker can’t get them to open up about what happened, but they can see the effects (scars, injuries, changes in whumpee’s behavior), so all they can do is be there for them. Or maybe there isn’t a caretaker, and it’s just whumpee on their own having to deal with their trauma and being unable to open up about it to anyone.

[wolfeyedwitch]

The Heart and the Hunger, Part 15

Whumptober 2024 Alt Prompt: Communication Barrier

Strap in, folks. The communication is staggeringly terrible here.

CW: conditioned female nonverbal whumpee, it as a pronoun, implied past torture, pet whump, implied past NSFWhump, whumpee tries to seduce caretaker.

Masterlist

--

The vampire didn’t bother watching as its owner gathered up items to prepare to remove it from the bathtub. It stayed still, enjoying the feeling of being clean. It had been… it didn’t even know how long, since it had been this properly clean. 

“Okay, ready to get out?” he asked.

It nodded, knowing the right answer to give regardless of its actual feelings on the matter.

His hands were gentle as he lifted it out and wrapped it in a towel, then set it down on a stool. He took a second towel and began to dry its hair. 

“Now that you’re cleaned up, I want to look at your wounds again,” he said. He gave it an expectant look. It took the vampire a moment to realize he wanted a response. 

At its nod, he continued. “Okay, good. And just like before, let me know if you want me to stop, alright?”

It repeated the action he had shown it, tapping a knuckle against the stool it was perched on. 

“Just like that,” he said with a smile. “Good job.”

The praise settled something deep inside the vampire. As strange as this situation was, it was doing well. Its new owner was pleased. 

That settled feeling carried it through the discomfort of having the towel peeled away from its form. It carried the vampire through having salves and bandages applied to its various wounds, especially its wrists, ankles, and back. 

It gave the vampire the push it needed to thank its new owner properly for his kindness and generosity.

As he finished cleaning and bandaging its throat where the collar (silver, burning, always burning) had left its mark, the vampire turned its head so his hand cupped its cheek, and nuzzled into his touch. 

He was silent for a long moment, thumb slowly rubbing across its cheekbone. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion it couldn’t place. “You did so well with that. Great job, kid.”

It pressed further into his touch. Its owner was pleased with it; it should make the most of this.

It was a good pet. It knew its place, its role. If it wanted this owner to keep it, it needed to make him happy.

There were only so many reasons to keep a vampire pet, after all. 

Slowly, avoiding any moves that could be mistaken for aggression, it turned to press a kiss to his palm. His eyes were wide with surprise when it glanced to see his response. 

It took that as a sign to continue. 

Kisses were a gamble, and not one it wanted to push too far. They put its fangs far too close to vulnerable human skin. Some enjoyed the thrill of that danger, while others didn’t want any such risk. It didn’t know yet how this owner might respond, so it didn’t continue.

(It remembered. Remembered kissing lines up from vulnerable wrists to even more vulnerable necks, seeing its prey shiver with delight and anticipation as its breath caressed their pulse points— No. No. The past didn't matter. Only the present.)

It turned so its cheek was once more in his big palm and raised one hand—slowly, always slowly—to touch his. With its other hand, it began tracing a line from its knee up its inner thigh, spreading its legs as it went. It arched its back and let out a soft moan. 

It didn’t have much to offer, but it knew how to play this part. It knew how to offer itself up for its owner’s pleasure.

“Stop.” 

The word was sharp, unmistakable as anything other than a command. 

It obeyed immediately. 

When it dared to look at its owner’s face, it knew it had made a horrible mistake.

He was furious.

---

Taglist:

@kim-poce @cupcakes-and-pain @nonbinary-disaster @onlybadendings @neverthelass 

@its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog @ghostfacepepper @someonesnamesblog @rainbowsandwhumperflies @extemporary-whump 

@thecyrulik @myhusbandsasemni @heart4brains @kixngiggles @whumpsday 

@whumppsychology @elrysdoesstuff @towerlesskey @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries 

@thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @haro-whumps @pigeonwhumps @cc1010foxy @bloodinkandashes

[3-2-whump]

The Scent of Jasmine

<prev next>

Who's in the mood for some carewhumping after the emotional rollercoaster of almost dying? I know I am!

Thank you @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for being awesome beta readers

TW/CW: aftermath of mock execution, trauma aftermath, extremely dubious consent, nonverbal whumpee, whumper turned carewhumper, dubiously consensual nudity, death threats, chastity devices (yes, it’s back), forced domesticity, food whump (sort of) (tagging it anyway to cover my bases), intimate whumper

The boss noticed Khaled’s grateful enthusiasm slowly fade into a catatonic silence on the drive home. He didn’t think much of it, though. Poor boy is just shocked is all, he told himself, we can work on that. He parked, got out of the car and led Khaled out of the garage and to the elevator.

His first order of business was to strip Khaled when they got home. The poor thing was soaked in melted snow and cooled piss. He was barely responsive as Thomas pulled him into the laundry room and slowly peeled each layer of clothing off his shivering body. “You need a bath, Khaled.”

Khaled didn’t reply, instead opting to stare at his bare feet with empty, starless eyes. I can’t blame him for being quiet. Anyone would be a little messed up after a mock execution, he figured. He sighed, gently taking the slave’s hand in his and leading him to the master bathroom.

Once inside, Thomas deposited him at the entrance and turned on the lights and the fan. Khaled stood silently watching him by the door as he knelt by the large, deep bath tub. “Come on in,” he beckoned. Khaled inched closer to the bath tub as Thomas poured a generous glug of bubble bath solution into the marble expanse and cranked the water full-blast, making micro-adjustments to make sure the temperature wasn’t too hot. As a finishing touch, he uncapped a tiny bottle of jasmine oil and dripped a few drops into the tub. The floral scent rose on the plumes of steam coming from the frothing tub.

Once the tub was full enough, Thomas turned off the tap and pulled Khaled closer to the tub. He effortlessly scooped the young man’s cold body into his arms, settling him on the edge of the bath tub before gently lowering him in. “I’m going to help you wash your hair and body. Nod if you understand me.”

Khaled faintly nodded, eyes fully closing as he slumped into the soapy water. “Good boy.” Nothing but a small, contented sounding whimper answered him. At least he’s becoming verbal again.

Thomas methodically washed the young man’s body and hair, being mindful of not getting any soap in his eyes as he massaged his scalp with the shampoo. He noticed the newly forming chafe marks on Khaled’s wrists as he scrubbed his body. All the while he whispered sweet nothings into his ear, like “good boy, you’re being so good right now, we’re almost done, I gotta rinse you off and drain the tub next.”

The awareness in Khaled’s eyes was flickering back on once Thomas helped him out of the bath tub and began towel-drying him. “Back with me, beautiful?” he teased.

“Mmm.” Inky dark eyes glittered up at him from dark lashes and damp strands of black hair as Thomas wrapped a soft fluffy towel around his shoulders.

“Yeah, good. Very good.” He procured something small and metallic from behind his back.

Khaled instinctively backed away as soon as he saw what it was. “Khaled,” he warned. It was all he needed to say for the boy to stay rooted on the spot. “I haven’t forgotten about you running around and getting an STD,” he explained as he wrapped the cock cage around Khaled’s privates. “And I’m still mad about it. But maybe I will let you out once we’re both all better.” He padlocked it in place and held the small caged appendage in his hand. “Or once I put that dumpster lover of yours under, like the horndog he is. Whichever comes sooner.” He marveled at how it was but a microcosm of Khaled’s greater captivity. As he craned his gaze upwards, he saw Khaled pout. “Oh, don’t give me that look –I’m doing this for your own good!” The boy smoothed his frown back into a neutral expression of apathy as he hid his eyes behind his lashes.

“That’s more like it. Now, can you change into your pajamas and wait in the living room until Master is done in here?” He measured out his words slowly and carefully, explaining it as if Khaled was a child again. Another quiet hum answered him. “Good boy. When I’m done, we can eat, and then we’ll watch whatever you’d like.” He gestured him out with a small wave of the hand, then hopped into the shower for a quick rinse off himself.

When he got out of the shower, towel-dried himself, and changed into a fresh pair of flannel pants and a wife-beater tank top, Thomas made his way to the living room, where Khaled sat on the floor, at the foot of the couch, gazing down at the carpet with desolate eyes. He was still wrapped in the bath towel. Seeing him there brought back memories of when Khaled was younger, when he would lean against his shins and let him brush his thick black hair. The memory brought back fond feelings in Thomas’ chest. He turned around and went back to the bathroom for a hairbrush.

Once he was done brushing his slave’s hair, they ended up sitting opposite each other at the dining room table, each with a plate of reheated takeout from a new Indian restaurant Tom had wanted to try. While the boss himself ravenously devoured the bhuna ghost, Khaled kept tearing the same corner of buttered naan between his fingers while staring apathetically at the murgh cholay.

“Are you sure you don’t want any more food?” he asked again. “You hardly touched your portion.”

The boy merely shook his head.

“Come on, at least two more bites, Khaled,” he coaxed. “Give me at least two more bites before I put it away.”

Khaled cast him an empty, weary stare, not breaking eye contact as he tore off the weathered chunk of bread, dipped it into the curry, and ate exactly two more bites.

They ended up cuddling onto the couch together after dinner, a rarity in their household. Thomas man-spread on the couch and rested his arms outstretched along the back. Khaled, still wearing nothing but a damp bath towel around his shoulders, leaned against his side with his head resting on his chest. His hands curled around a steaming mug of chai, which he occasionally sipped as they watched a rerun of the AFC World Cup. Khaled didn’t cheer, or groan, or offer any commentary of any kind throughout the whole match. It was unusual for Khaled to remain this quiet and glum during a game. Thomas gently took the mug from his hands and set it on the table. “What’s wrong? Why are you so quiet this evening? Is it –oh, is it because of that little scare off the side of the road?” he guessed. Khaled pushed his weight up against him, just short of burrowing into the man’s side.

“I guess I scared you pretty badly, didn’t I? Look, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I know now it wasn’t you, but I had to be sure. I promise I will never fake you out like that again.”

The young man remained silent as he leaned against his chest.

“If anything, you should be blaming that boyfriend of yours,” he continued. “I bet he never would’ve attempted that hit if he knew what I was about to do to you tonight. But, what’s done is done, and now you’ll never see him again.”

Khaled did not respond.

It took about an hour more of mind-numbing soccer footage for him to realize the boy had fallen asleep on him.

Oh. He softly smiled as he turned off the TV. He carefully got up and lowered Khaled onto the couch, disentangling the towel from his unconscious, nude form. He propped a throw pillow behind his head, then unfurled a fleece blanket and draped it over him, making sure his feet were covered and he was properly tucked in for the night. “Goodnight, Khaled,” he whispered, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on the side of the boy’s parted lips. “I… love you...”

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire

[whump-about-it]

I’m writing a story where one of the side characters is non- verbal and it got me thinking about the angst of a recently non-verbal whumpee (either by choice or injury) trying to navigate life after escaping Whumper:

The struggle to figure out how to communicate in a way that people will understand, and the frustration trial and error brings.

The inability to explain what happened to them, or ask for help when they are hurt or scared.

The loneliness and isolation that not knowing how to communicate brings, on top of the loneliness and isolation that going through something traumatic already leaves them with.

Maybe they start missing being with Whumper. Because as horrible as it all was, they at least knew how to communicate with Whumpee.

Bonus points if Caretaker really does care, and really is trying to help Whumpee, but they've never been in this sort of situation either, and can't even begin to figure out what "help" looks like.

[oligoweee]

• some whump things I love !!

I don't really make my own whump posts but will give it a try, so here's some I've thought of that I love :)

—

1. Whumpee that can't communicate and due to the injuries caused by Whumper, they have trouble moving due to being in pain and this leads to them just kinda laying in their room alone and crying as they wait for Caretaker to come check on them and gently comfort them.

2. Caretaker wrapping an upset Whumpee in a soft blanket and carrying them to a rocking bench where the two sit down and Caretaker comforts them as they continously rock back and forth until Whumpee calms down.

3. Whumper comforting Whumpee after putting them through a round of torture, they are extremely gentle before proceeding to start hurting them again. Bonus if Whumper still comforts them in a taunting way as they're causing harm.

4. Imaginary/Ghost Caretaker that comforts Whumpee after each and every one of Whumper's outbursts and when Whumper notices that Whumpee is calm they just kinda shake their head disapprovingly and try to come up with ideas on how to break Whumpee.

5. Whumper that conditioned Whumpee to not speak at all and then proceeds to get angry when Whumpee doesn't respond to a question that they can't answer by shaking/nodding their head. Bonus if Whumpee forgot how to speak entirely and it's not just the conditioning.

—

I got inspiration for these from quite a few things so yee ‼️

[weirdstrangeandawful]

Nonverbal Whumpee screaming wordlessly. Caretaker knows something is very, very wrong but they need Whumpee to calm down enough to communicate.

It's even more heart-wrenching if Whumpee is nonverbal under stress, but because they can speak most or much of the time, that is still their main (maybe only) method of communication.

[whump-cravings]

Tortured Prince - Dead Man’s Tears

Tortured Prince AU Masterlist - TR3 Masterlist

2.4k words | Original Work: Tortured Prince AU of The Royal Three. Set pre-escape right before Ritual, with a few possible timing inconsistencies because I realized the last bit would work better taking place at night.

Content: extreme depression, suicidal thoughts, whumpee gone nonverbal, carewhumping, sleeping drugs mention, whumpee thinks they’re being taken somewhere to die, torture and noncon mention, mention of traumatic haircut. “Tears” is said SO much in this bit sorry

Baltar had thought the lightheaded feeling was a hangover from the drug, but an edge of dizziness persisted even hours after Venja had left him. The tiniest movement of his head returned his attention to the missing weight.

The young man sat slumped before his journal—rather, the journal Venja allowed him to use. It laid open to Baltar's the last entry. 'It seems that'—the sentence cut off. What had he been writing? Did it matter? He had meant for it to help him keep his wits about him, but what was the point? If they were wise, his family had given him up for dead. No one was coming for him.

Hot tears escaped abruptly—not for the first time that day. He breathed out a heavy sigh, tired eyes drawing shut. Wiping his tears away would be pointless. They would only fall again.

Venja had carved and carved at everything that made him Prince Baltar. Was there anything left to take? What would Venja do if he came back and Baltar had perished?

He couldn't find the will to wrap his chains around his own throat. Was it cowardice that kept him alive? It just... seemed like so much effort. Did it even matter? He was already dead.

Everything was so heavy. He bent forward, resting his forehead on his journal as his tears stained the pages.

----

The main door opening roused Baltar, registering Venja's return dully. Baltar listened to him moving through the place.

"Good morning," the man called cheerily, voice and feet approaching. "I brought you something, Prince."

Such a statement would normally prompt nervous dread, but now... it was what it was. Baltar closed his eyes again.

"What, you're not talking to me now?" the man said from the doorway.

No more putting off sitting up, he guessed. Sighing silently, Baltar slowly picked himself up. The parchment stuck to his cheek briefly. He saw Venja's boots out of the corner of his eye, but couldn't be bothered to look at the man.

"Come now, you can't still be upset."

Another hot wave of tears brimmed over, slipping off his chin. Couldn't he be? Should he be? Was he? Baltar didn't know anymore. He sniffed, nose congested enough that he needed to breathe through his mouth.

Venja stepped up next to the chair. "Look at me, prince."

Baltar tried. But he only managed to bring his gaze to Venja's clavicle before his weeping blurred his vision so badly that he couldn't see anything. He dropped his head again.

Grabbing his chin, Venja lifted his face. He let all the weight of his head rest in the man's hand, relieving some of the ache in his neck and shoulders.

"What's going on?" the man demanded. "Talk to me."

Baltar had no words for him, only more silent crying. He slumped as Venja let his face drop.

"I could give you something real to cry about," Venja said, hand settling on the back of Baltar's neck. "I've been wanting to try tearing fingernails off."

He numbly accepted the potential future. If nothing else, Venja had taught him that nothing he did or said mattered. It was useless to fight.

The man grunted, leaning down. "What do you think happens if you ram a tube straight into an eyeball?"

Why would it matter whether Baltar could see anymore? He was never leaving this place.

Venja slammed his hand against the chair, making it jerk across the ground a few inches. The barest sob left Baltar, water dripping from his chin, down his throat.

Uncharacteristically switching tracks, Venja straightened and said, "Tell me what you want for dinner tonight and I'll make it."

Baltar couldn't remember the last time he'd tasted something.

"Would you like to see your present?" the man cajoled. "It'd go nice with a hot bath."

Baltar took in a breath as if to speak, only to let it out in a miserable sigh. I'm so tired. If only he'd known the way to get to Venja was to just cry silently, he'd have started long ago. But now it didn't matter. He just didn't have the strength anymore.

"Tch." Venja turned on his heel. "If you're going to be like this, I'm just going to have to come back later. See you in a while, prince."

And that was that. Baltar stared down at the ground, tears still dripping off his lashes. The entrance door closed, leaving him alone again.

Venja had moved the chair too far for Baltar to continue to rest in a semblance of comfort on the desk. And his body ached a little more than baseline from sleeping that way anyways.

Numbly, tears still sparsely escaping, Baltar got to his feet. Wavering, he shuffled the few paces to the bed. Moving the bedspread felt like holding up the sky. He collapsed onto the mattress, dragging the blankets up to his chin.

His dreams only held blackness.

---

He didn't know how long he'd slept when he next opened his eyes, only that he was no more rested than when he had first laid down.

He closed his eyes again.

---

Venja's voice woke him. "You're asleep again?"

Baltar stirred, forcing still-puffy eyes open and softly releasing a bleary breath.

The man's weight dimpled the mattress as he sat on the edge. A nauseating dread balled in Baltar's stomach, and he accepted it. It didn't matter what happened to this body. As he had the thought, a numbing chill spread through him.

But Venja only reached over to brush Baltar's forehead, resting his hand there.

"Are you sick?" the man asked.

Was he? Baltar didn't know. He felt... not good. The number of times he'd felt good in Venja's care were few and far between, but this was different. He gave a noncommittal shrug.

Venja grunted, leaving without another word.

---

"...asleep, like I told you."

"Hey," a familiar woman's voice said, the bed jarring as if kicked lightly. "Sit up."

It took a few moments for Baltar to return to himself. Tears were already in his eyes, though he didn't know why. Slowly, he stirred, getting an arm beneath himself to raise himself up to sitting. He slumped in place, his head spinning.

It was Imota, one of the people who had helped kidnap Baltar. She had been the prince's de facto physician in captivity, and eyed him critically now with a frown.

"Take off your shirt," she instructed.

Numbly, Baltar obeyed. Tears fell from his lashes as he sat, letting her look over his naked torso.

Imota leaned forward, her cool fingers touching his scarred skin and rolling away a bandage as she examined his latest wound. "No infection," she said. "This is all?"

"Everything else has healed," Venja said, watching intently from a few paces away.

The woman grunted. "Put your shirt back on." After Baltar did, she took his chin to turn his face towards her. "Open your mouth."

That triggered further tears from Baltar but he did so, Imota's face blurring in his vision. He waited for some kind of intrusion, but none came.

"Dry mouth. Bad breath." Imota tapped the bottom of his chin. He slowly eased his mouth shut. "When was the last time you drank anything?"

The prince couldn't think of the answer. He shook his head.

"No? 'No' what, you won't say?"

He looked at her through his tears, opening his mouth to try to speak. A soft, wordless noise was all he could muster.

"Is something wrong with your voice?" Imota asked with a note of exasperation.

Baltar shrugged a single shoulder with a single nod.

"Sometimes he struggles to speak," Venja added. "Usually when he's in a lot of pain."

Imota's lips pursed briefly. "When was the last time he ate?"

"Why would I know? He takes care of that."

The woman turned an annoyed, raised brow look on the prince. "Have you eaten today?"

Baltar shook his head.

Imota stood up, turning to Venja. "Congratulations. You fucked him up." She walked out.

Venja started, following after her. Their voices reached Baltar from the hallway as they moved towards the front door.

"But you can fix him, can't you?"

"Most people kill themselves before they get like that," Imota said matter-of-factly.

Baltar laid back down.

"What are you saying?" Venja asked.

"You can't keep slicing somebody open and expect a fucking bandage to fix it every time."

"Thanks for being completely useless."

"Sure. That'll be a crown."

"You didn't even..."

The sound of their bickering faded out as Baltar stared at the wall across the room. Broken. A child's plaything, worn to tatters by rough handling.

Yes, that sounded right.

Baltar started from a doze when Venja dragged a second chair into the room, setting it next to the head of Baltar's bed like a nightstand. On it, he placed a cup and a plate of simple fare, then pulled up the chair at the desk to sit in.

"Sit up and drink," Venja ordered, holding the cup out.

Still moving slowly, Baltar wearily complied. The water was bitter. Maybe Venja had slipped something in it, but it didn't matter.

"Eat," Venja said, holding a slice of utuhev at mouth level. When the prince didn't lean to get it, Venja leaned in to push it into his mouth, and Baltar didn't resist.

"Is this what we're gonna do now?" the man asked while Baltar ate the morsel. "Crying and spoon feeding?"

Baltar had no response, save for a few new tears staining his skin. Venja gave a short sigh, tearing off a piece of stale bread and feeding it to Baltar. Piece by piece, the prince's belly filled.

Venja tucked Baltar into bed when the food was gone, stroking his head a few times before leaving.

---

Days or weeks passed in a gray blur. Baltar no longer left bed unless he had to, typically by nature's call. Venja became a constant, a caretaker to the silent, morose prince. The taste of a certain sedative was now familiar for Baltar, as at first Venja dosed his food with it, but then began giving the tincture directly to Baltar, who took it without complaint, when he had to leave outside of mealtimes. He was never gone for longer than a few hours, now.

Venja didn't hurt him anymore, either, and only occasionally coaxed pleasure from his body. The prince might have once considered the arrangement nice.

Despite Venja's vigilance, Baltar wasted away.

---

Eventually, things changed. Baltar was too attuned to Venja to miss even the most infinitesimal difference in the man's demeanor. He wouldn't have asked what had changed even if he could, but his instincts, deeply buried as they were, still twinged with anxiety.

Venja brought him dinner and he tried eating. After managing to swallow the first spoonful of sedative-laced stew, he tried for a second and his gut heaved violently, skin flushing with an uncomfortable, clammy heat.

"Fuck, you could have just said you don't like rabbit stew," Venja said, then chortled to himself as he took the bowl away. He returned a few minutes later with sliced fruit. This, too, tasted of the sedative.

Baltar's stomach didn't take kindly to that either. Venja got a piece into his mouth, but when came to swallow, Baltar was unable. He tried for a good minute, feeling Venja's silent frustration building. He finally had to spit it out amidst tears.

For the first time in a while, he couldn't do what Venja wanted.

"Alright," Venja muttered, setting the food aside. His foot tapped a few times, an uncharacteristic fidget. "That's alright. It's not your fault if you can't eat."

Baltar found no relief in that. Venja rarely left at night, rarely had reason to drug him. What was going on?

Venja stepped out of the room and returned with some brown cloth in his hand. "Put this on."

Baltar slowly took the item, unfolding it. It was just... a bag.

Oh.

This was it, then.

He stared at it for a few moments, dully accepting its meaning. Venja had tired of him at last. Opening it, he gave Venja one last teary-eyed look before sliding it over his head.

"...Good," Venja said.

Baltar sat perfectly still as the man adjusted his restraints, clipping his wrists together while removing the heavy leash on his collar to replace it with a shorter chain.

A hand on his elbow guided him to his feet, then away. Evening air kissed his skin for the first time since that fateful night, sending a shiver through him, which took hold of him quickly. Venja huffed, pausing to drape a coat around Baltar's rail-thin frame.

It was such a curious kindness to give someone marching to their death.

Baltar heard the horses before Venja got him to the carriage. The man lifted Baltar up by the waist without so much as a grunt, setting his feet on wooden floor. Baltar shuffled in as Venja came up behind him, shutting the door.

Venja pulled Baltar down to sit next to him. Dizzy, weeping silently, and shaking, Baltar laid his head in Venja's lap.

The man sighed softly, and as the carriage began moving, he lifted the bag from Baltar's head. Baltar closed his eyes, feeling his tears wet the man's knees.

Grant me this one last thing.

And Venja did, softly carding his fingers through Baltar's hair.

Baltar remembered being a young boy, resting like this on Hakon or Rohisa's lap. He had loved them so much. If they still lived, he wanted them to continue doing so. He wanted them to remember how he had been, happy and bright. He hoped they would be well.

The ride was short. Perhaps that was for the best.

Venja replaced the bag over Baltar's head and led him out. Baltar let himself be led, mind distant and body numb. He barely noticed climbing stairs, or turning down hallways, or the terrain changing from tile to plush carpet.

When it came time for him to kneel, a small corner of his mind appreciated that his knees were cushioned for this. How dreadful it would be to die on a patch of dirt somewhere.

The bag was pulled off his head. A woman sat before them, eyeing Baltar with some mixture of disgust and hate.

"Venja, you always bring me such lovely things," said Ochvlita, Queen of Beor.

taglist: @nabanna @emcscared-whumps @nicolepascaline @i-can-even-burn-salad @melennui​ @thecyrulik

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumptober Day 29

I only sink deeper the deeper I think / scented candle / Troubled Past Resurfacing / "What Happened to me?"

Whumpee gave an awkward apologetic smile to Caretaker as they smelled the tenth candle in the aisle.

Caretaker smiled back, patiently letting them pick the one they wanted.

"It's okay, take your time", Caretaker replied happily.

All of the fall scents were amazing, it was hard to choose.

"This one maybe", Whumpee held it to Caretaker's nose.

Caretaker took a wiff, "yes that one smells good."

Whumpee set the candle in the basket.

They took one more off the shelf.

"One more for good measure", they held it to their nose.

Caretaker watched as Whumpee zoned out, and froze. Fear spread across Whumpee's face.

Whumpee felt as though all air had left their body. They stared at the floor, trapped in fear as dread washed over them.

Caretaker smiled weakly as someone walked past eyeing Whumpee. They quickly grabbed the candle from Whumpee and placed it back on the shelf.

Whumpee whimpered as Caretaker pulled them down to the floor. Caretaker sat down with them and cuddled them close.

"Okay Whumpee I'm right here with you", Caretaker talked slowly, "you are in a panic attack right now. We are going to ride this out together."

Caretaker slowly rocked Whumpee.

"Are you able to hear me Whumpee?"

Whumpee nodded into Caretaker's chest, their eyes had glazed over now.

"Are you able to speak, can you tell me where you are mentally right now?", Caretaker played with Whumpee's hair.

Whumpee shook their head no.

"Okay, that's okay. You went nonverbal that's all", Caretaker sighed, "okay, I'm going to start working you out of this attack, okay."

Whumpee nodded, internally pleading with Caretaker to rescue them

That smell brought them to a place they had long, purposely forgotten.

Whumpee felt Caretaker doing their best to break them out of the trauma response. Caretaker had pulled another candle off of the shelf.

"Okay Whumpee, I need you to breathe with your nose", they held the candle under their nose, "right now I am making your senses work so your brain will focus on that. If I overwhelm you, just look at me, okay."

Whumpee breathed in the candle's scent.

Caretaker put the candle to the side, and gently reached for Whumpee's hand.

"Nomph", Whumpee pulled their hand from Caretaker, and tucked it away.

"Okay", Caretaker gently rubbed Whumpee's back, "that's is okay, thankyou for letting me know."

Whumpee screamed at themself for reacting like that.

"They're trying to help you idiot", Whumpee screamed in their head, "it felt like that horrid man though", their inner monolog fought.

The candle scent came back as Caretaker gently talked to them.

Whumpee finally started to phase out if it.

"I like that scent to", Whumpee sighed, then buried their face into Caretaker's body, "I'm sorry."

Caretaker rubbed Whumpee's back, "don't apologize, panic attacks are going to happen. You did just fine."

"I'm sorry I pulled away from you, I know you were trying to help", Whumpee started to sob, "it scared me."

"It's okay, I should have told you what I was doing. You reacted just fine and told me what you need", Caretaker looked down at them.

"Do you want to talk about what happened now, or should we get our things and go home?", Caretaker smiled.

"Can we go home?", Whumpee looked up from burying their face, "is it okay if I'm nonverbal though? Talking is too much right now."

"Yes, absolutely, you don't have to ask, but thankyou for letting me know. If you need anything just point at it, or poke me", Caretaker promised.

Whumpee nodded and started to get up, and Caretaker followed.

Caretaker took a whiff of the candle that put Whumpee into the attack before putting it away. They wanted to have an idea of what the smell was.

Once home Caretaker put away everything.

"We got both of the candles you liked, should we light one?", Caretaker held them both. They had decided to grab the one they used for Whumpee as well.

Whumpee nodded with a smile, and pointed at the one they wanted.

"Okay, I'll light this one", Caretaker smiled, "let me know when you are ready to talk about what happened. Please stay nonverbal as long as you need though, we can wait."

Later that evening, Whumpee found Caretaker in the kitchen.

"Caretaker, I think I'm ready. Are you available?", Whumpee stood at the doorway, hugging a stuffie."

"Yes of course, let's go to the living room", Caretaker smiled.

"So what happened?", Caretaker watched them get settled.

"The house I use to live in, that house use to smell like that candle, at least close enough. When you asked where I was mentally, at that time I was kneeling in front of my abuser. When you grabbed my hand, it felt like they were grabbing me", Whumpee looked down, "I felt like I was there again."

Caretaker jotted a few notes down for Whumpee's care journal, including the name and brand of the candle.

"It has been a while since we've seen your past resurface", Caretaker looked up from the notes, "is there anything that we need to pay attention to, are you feeling alright."

"Right now, I feel okay, still feeling the low after the attack though", Whumpee thought for a second, "I think that's all."

"Okay, let's allow a couple days of rest for you to get back up again, and regain your energy", Caretaker wrote while talking, "if you notice anything change or you feel another attack coming on let me know."

Whumpee followed the scent of dinner a little later. They came down to the kitchen to find Caretaker getting ready to set the table.

"May I help Caretaker?", Whumpee stepped into the kitchen.

"Yes, if you are feeling up to it, that would be great", Caretaker handed them some plates.

Caretaker and Whumpee sat down to dinner.

Finally Whumpee was feeling better again.

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

[thekittyburger]

Whumpee villain going nonverbal in a fight with Hero, while Hero teases them for it

Can be in a whumper way or they just don't realise they've triggered something

[whump-in-the-closet]

what are ur fav tropes for stoic whumpees? love da blog

stoic whumpee tropes that are a 100/10:

"I'm fine" and then immediately collapsing in front of their loved ones in a bleeding pile, revealing a hidden injury that has festered for far too long

silent, muffled crying with shaking shoulders and a bloody hand clamped over their mouth because they view crying as weak and beneath them and they're stronger than this, they're stronger, they can take it--

the moment they close their eyes in defeat and it's all over and they fucking know it, and when they open their eyes again all that remains is a glassy-dead stare

adamantly refusing medical treatment even when they need it. Shoving away everyone who comes close to them, a choked sound in their throat, fighting back with everything that's left in them.

when they kneel at Whumper's feet, eyes on the ground, white-lipped and tense. The only betrayal of emotion is their clenched fists and tight breathing. In every other way, they're compliant.

refusing to talk about what they endured at Whumper's hands after they're rescued, but the scars tell the story for them. They don't have to say a word, but their team's pitying gaze follows them wherever they go

normally unaffectionate and distant but exhausted and defeated they rest their head on Caretaker's shoulder or Whumper's lap, just finally admitting--nonverbally-- that they can't take it

reversely, more willing to be tortured than to ask for help-- If I'm breathing, I'm fine

stitching their own wounds back up with an unsteady hand, painful stitch after painful stitch. Deep breath and pull. Working in a dimly lit apartment with bleeding clothes on the floor around them and the bed unmade

sacrificing themself for their team. "Take me! Do what you want to me. Not them." And their team watching as the torture takes its slow toll and Whumpee-- the one they look up-- falls apart.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

🤍 Subtle Signs of a Caretaking Dynamic 🤍

Caretaker stepping in front of whumpee instinctively when there's gunfire/a loud noise/etc.

Whumpee looking towards Caretaker instinctively when faced with danger or a difficult question.

Caretaker carrying whumpee's belongings for them or opening doors for them. Generally making tasks easier for whumpee.

Caretaker knows things about whumpee's recovery or medical situation off the top of their head, without even having to think about it.

Or Caretaker gets defensive when asked about whumpee. "Why do you want to know? What do you want with them?"

Whumpee leaning against Caretaker's shoulder when they're next to each other.

Caretaker lightly brushing a hand against whumpee's hand in a gesture of comfort. Or whumpee initiates that, and Caretaker picks up on a hint and holds their hand.

If the relationship is fated or somehow bound, there may be markers of a unique bond, such as tattoos, bite marks, etc.

Their tone of voice changing completely as soon as they start talking to each other. Maybe they're shy with everyone else but joke with each other. Or maybe they act cheerful with everyone else, but turn serious as soon as they can talk to the one other person who knows what's really going on.

Nonverbally checking if whumpee is okay with meaningful glances across a room or "thumbs-up versus thumbs-down" gestures.

Caretaker immediately noticing when something is wrong for whumpee and getting visibly stressed.

[wolfeyedwitch]

Masterlist

With that settled, Charles figured he should excuse himself and leave the vampire alone.

"Well, then, with that settled, I will leave you now. If you need anything, knock at the door or wall. I'll keep an ear out for it and come check on you. Beyond that, I will visit you tomorrow and we can talk more then. Good day."

And he left.

So far, so good. The vampire didn't have any major issues, they were able to communicate, and no one is suffering too much due to this circumstance. Therefore, things were going well.

Hopefully they could stay that way.

CW: severed tendons

The vampire waited until long after it could no longer hear its owner's footsteps before it dared to move. Even then, it moved slowly and cautiously. No need to make any noise that might cause him to come back.

He had said it had permission to move, but he'd also said any noise would cause him to check on it. It didn't want to learn what exactly that meant. Not yet.

The fresh blood it had been given was already starting to heal its severed Achilles tendons. The hot-stabbing-needles sensation of its unnatural healing was a welcome pain. Maybe this new owner would let it walk, rather than crawl? He had said given it permission to move.... No, better to not get its hopes up. Even if he did decide to give it that long of a leash, that would most likely not be for some time. It would have to prove it could behave, first.

Either way, that wasn't the problem at hand. The problem at hand was that it was a mess. It had been hasty, greedy, gulping down the blood it had been so generously given without any thought of the consequences. Now, it could feel the blood beginning to dry and crack on its skin.

No one likes a messy pet. Messy pets make for angry owners.

It needed to clean itself up.

It crawled to the doorway across the room, hoping that its suspicions were correct about where it led. Almost there...

Yes!

The adjoining room was a bathroom. It could almost weep with relief. Now it could get clean; it could wash away the evidence of its monstrous nature before its new owner would be reminded once more.

This new owner already had a favored pet. It was unwanted, unneeded.

The last thing it wanted to do was give him any reason to get rid of it.

[3-2-whump]

Mini-Comfortember Day 9

Prompt 9: Home(wards)

And so concludes @azertyrobaz's mini-comfortember! Thank you so much for having this event, I enjoyed writing/drawing/creating for it so much!

This story is inspired by this art work, which took place after this chapter.

TW/CW: medical whump, aftermath of a surgery (tonsillectomy), slave whump, intimate whumper, (temporarily) nonverbal whumpee

“Awww, my sweet boy, did you miss me?” Thomas asked.

He knew Khaled might not respond, with his throat still healing a mere twelve hours after surgery. However, the way the boy pressed up into him and buried his face into the crook of his neck communicated the exact answer he was hoping for. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he replied smugly.

He enjoyed the clinginess for another minute or so, then carefully broke the embrace to pass his slave a backpack. “It’s a spare change of clothes -some of your more comfortable ones- and a cup of applesauce,” he explained. His dear boy was still shirtless, with nothing but the red sarong on his waist and golden chains on his body. And he knew he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. “I figured you’d probably want out of that, and to eat something besides whatever intravenous crap Lenore’s been feeding you.”

Khaled took the backpack and unzipped it to inspect its contents. A t-shirt, a pair of yoga pants, clean boxer briefs, socks, sneakers, and a cup of applesauce (sans spoon to eat it with) –it was all there. The boy smiled, then looked up to his master with gratitude written all over his expression. “Thank y-”

Thomas raised a hand. “Stop. Stop talking. Stop, you sound terrible.” Khaled shut his mouth and hung his head self-consciously, rummaging through the backpack and taking out each item one by one to lay on his hospital bed. Thomas sighed. He only said that so as not to aggravate the healing process; the sooner Khaled’s throat healed, the sooner they could resume their usual activities, but until then? “Don’t talk any more than necessary, and finish getting changed while I get you discharged,” he told him. Khaled had already slipped out of the jewelry and was tugging on the t-shirt when he left him to check out.

A desk was positioned outside of the winding corridors and near the front of the entrance they passed through late last night. Another woman, dark-skinned with limp wavy hair, sat at the desk, staring dead-eyed at the computer as she input data and intermittently slurped a liquid from a straw in a tumbler. The austere-looking collar around her throat marked her as another one of the doctor’s …assistants... Unlike the last one though, this ‘assistant’ didn’t have a scar over where her vocal chords would be.

The printer whirred to life behind her as it output page after page of discharge paperwork. The woman swiveled around in her desk chair and retrieved it, as well as a bottle of mystery pills she conjured up from below the desk. “Read this, sign this, pay here, and make him take these,” she recited lifelessly. She took another loud slurp of the mystery beverage.

Thomas skimmed the paperwork, signed and dated where he needed to, and only groaned a little when he slid the payment across the desk. A visit to Lenore was going to be expensive, he’d prepared for and accepted that fact, but it still hurt to fork over so much money, even if it was for a good cause.

Speaking of which, that good cause came hesitantly walking out to the front desk area, fully changed now, with the backpack slung over one shoulder. Thomas quickly forgot how much money he’d just dropped. What mattered was that Khaled would get better, and that he wouldn’t have to go another night without him. “Come on, boy,” he beckoned. The slave came to his side quickly, letting himself be led out of the clinic doors. “Let’s go home.”

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz

@bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire @phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling

[defire]

Breaking a stoic whumpee

They might do as ordered when threatened, but they're not going to pretend to like it

Whumper may simply dish out cruelty after cruelty without giving a reason, to break down whumpee's walls

Stoic whumpee demanding "what do you want?!" After so much of this they feel like they're breaking

Eventually asking, begging to know what whumper wants, anything to stop the endless torture

And maybe whumper just wants to make them scream. Maybe it's more fun to force someone to scream when you know they're doing everything they can NOT to

Freeze response turning into fawn. "Please. Master, sir, whatever you want me to call you, I'll do whatever you want, HOWEVER you want. Just please..."

If a stoic whumpee gets rescued, maybe they'd go completely nonverbal for a while because that was how they were just before they broke

Maybe they keep fawning to caretaker, believing that they have to if they want any mercy

Never, EVER talking about it

[unhonest-iago]

whumpee who's been trained to be a weapon, essentially whumper's second in command meant to keep all their underlings in line. but whumper's extremely lenient and whumpee's been conditioned to ask them for permission before beating someone to a pulp. over the years, having bulked up in muscle. those who knew whumpee in the past would probably be disoriented at how cold and callous they were now.

how the air around them was now suffocating, a string held taut. whumpee's just itching for a fight to the point they daydream over it. salivate over it. their muscle strewn in knots from the anticipation of the nonverbal signal whumper will give them. their eyes in a constant thousand yard stare. unbeknown to whumpee, whumper had their sights on a specific target for them to sink their teeth into; caretaker. the only person who was able to dislodge whumpee from their grasp.

there was a time span lasting a month where caretaker was able to pluck whumpee from their grasp. it would be the perfect test to see if whumpee's undying loyalty was true or not. they end up passing with flying colors. caretaker is strewn across the linoleum in a pool of blood, barely breathing. whumpee hadn't recognized them or their pleas for them to stop.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

A gently runs their hands over B's now-frail body, checking for injuries that B might not be able to express. B’s eyes wander blankly into the distance and he remains silent and limp. Overcome with grief, A stops for a minute and places a long, tender kiss on B’s forehead. Their fingers wander down to B’s hand.

The moment they pick it up, it flails away reflexively and a breath – a silent cry of discomfort if not pain – escapes B’s lips.

“Does it hurt, hon?” A searches B’s eyes for any response. Receiving nothing, they run their hand gently along B’s arm and hand, wincing as they scan B’s eyes for pain.