#mute whumpee
Note
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
#SORRY THIS IS BAD#AND THIS ASK IS FROM LAST YEAR#BUT INSPO STRUCK#whump#whump writing#answered asks#whump community#whumpblr#whump blog#whumpee#whumper#captivity#caretaker#pet whumpee#recovery whump#mute whumpee#scar mention#whump drabble#whump prompt
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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.
#whump#whump prompt#mute whumpee#kidnapping#torture#based on a gi joe episode#the new one i mean#the one where the gang were fugitives#tied up
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✧･ﾟRipe, About to Fall - Part 10 ✧･ﾟ
This is an 18+ slowish burn pet-whump story with added romance.
Title from 'Liquid Smooth' by Mitski
Series
First | Previous
Summary: Onthyes and Theodore talk. Ventis doesn't.
Content: whipping, degradation, trauma-induced muteness?, drugs, drug overdose mention
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
Onthyes was… not what Theodore had been expecting.
He’d had this mental image of a strong, steadfast heir. A perfect fit to be captain of the guard some day. And while Onthyes fit the part at first glance, Theodore quickly began to realize that he was far more gentle than he looked. Still, he was determined to do what he came here for - to learn from one of the finest fighters on the coast.
Hefting his warhammer over his back and a sword on his belt, Theodore sought Onthyes out in the vast gardens behind Ventura manor.
He found him lying in a shady patch of clover, staring up at the swaying branches of a willow tree.
“Here.” Theodore tossed the sword, and it landed with a soft thump next to Onthyes.
Onthyes’s gaze turned to the sword slowly. “Why do I need that?”
“We’re sparring. Come on, pick it up.”
Onthyes sighed, his eyes falling closed. “No thank you, Theodore.”
A growl bubbled up in Theodore’s throat before he quickly cut it off. His father was very clear that he needed to keep his draconic impulses at bay, especially in front of others. No growling or hissing or baring fangs. (Maybe he still secretly hoarded gemstones and pretty rocks in a chest under his bed, but that wasn’t anyone else’s business.)
“Why not? Why are you always just lying around? I thought you were supposed to be some great swordsman.”
Onthyes sat up, shrugging. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Are you a fraud or something? Are you afraid I’ll find you out?”
“No, I’m not a fraud. I just don’t want to.”
Theodore did growl this time. Without really thinking, he retrieved his warhammer from his back and lunged forward, swinging it at Onthyes.
Onthyes moved faster than Theodore could comprehend at first, rolling out of the way to get behind Theodore and then kicking his legs out from under him. Theodore hit the ground with a grunt and Onthyes was quick to tear the hammer from his hands, tossing it away.
“Are you happy now?”
Theodore pushed himself to his feet, catching his breath. “No, not at all! How did you beat me so fast? I had the jump on you.”
“You thought you had the jump on me,” Onthyes corrected. “That was your mistake. Any fool with eyes could tell what you were doing. It’s hard not to with such a bulky weapon.”
Theodore huffed. “That hammer belonged to my great-great-great-great grandfather. I must learn to wield it, just as my father did.”
“Then maybe you should learn to fight with it well enough so that you don’t have to rely on surprising your opponent.”
“I’m trying! You won’t practice with me!”
“I’m sorry Theodore,” Onthyes said, sitting down again. “I have a lot on my mind.”
With a dramatic sigh, Theodore flopped down next to him. “Tell me about it, then. Get it off your mind.”
Onthyes picked at the clovers as he spoke. “Well, I used to be a guard in Athos Landleigh’s manor…”
~~~Ventis’s POV~~~
Ventis woke up to the familiar rush of nightspill in his veins. He sighed sleepily, curling into the blankets. His whole body felt pleasantly heavy, his thoughts foggy.
“Good morning, treasure.”
Some of the dreamy happiness drained away at the sound of that voice. Athos. He’d almost managed to forget.
Ventis opened his eyes, forcing himself to look up at his master. He held a whip in one hand and Ventis flinched at the sight of it.
“I figured we would just get it over with,” he said with a smile. “You earned one hundred lashes, remember?”
Ventis nodded, dragging himself out of bed so he could kneel at the edge, his hands braced on the mattress and knees sinking into the carpet.
“You’ve never taken more than fifty at once. Am I correct?”
Ventis nodded again.
“Speak.”
Ventis’s mouth opened, but a wave of fear rushed over him and he snapped his jaw shut. What if it was another trick? What if Athos added more lashes?
"I order you to speak," Athos growled, grabbing Ventis’s hair in a tight fist and pulling his head back sharply. Ventis gasped but still he said nothing. “Stubborn little slut,” Athos hissed, releasing his hold and backing up, hefting the whip. “You’ll talk after your punishment, I’m sure.”
Ventis buried his face in the blankets in front of him, tense with anticipation. He’s been whipped plenty of times - sometimes as a punishment and sometimes just because Athos was bored. But one hundred lashes was unheard of.
The first ten weren’t too bad. Athos was still warming up and Ventis managed to keep quiet aside from a few grunts and hisses of pain.
After twenty Ventis found it hard to suppress his cries and whimpers. After thirty he started yelping and squirming, his body arching away from each strike of the whip.
The fortieth lash had Ventis crying openly, tears soaking the blanket. His legs shook and ached from the effort of holding himself up when all he wanted to do was collapse onto the floor.
Athos knelt next to him, grabbing him by a horn to get a good look at his face. Ventis whimpered, shame filling him as he felt how wet his face was with tears and drool and snot. “Pathetic,” he chided. “We’re not even halfway there.”
Ventis sniffed, trying to convince himself to stop crying, but it didn’t work. He hated when Athos got like this; calling him degrading things. He always was a prideful person, and calling him pathetic or dumb or a slut was a sure way to get him worked up.
“Let’s make a deal, darling. Ask me to stop - with words - and we’ll end it at fifty.”
Ventis wanted to say it. He really did. But he just couldn’t make the words leave his mouth. What if Athos was lying again?
“Really? Are you this stupid? You’d rather take one hundred lashes than speak to me? I’m hurt.”
The lashes started again. Ventis sobbed through the next twenty, ashamed of himself for not just saying the words that would make it stop.
“Maybe you just enjoy the pain. Is that it? Do you like it when I hurt you?”
Ventis shook his head but he couldn’t say it. He could only scream mentally.
Please, no! I don't like it! Stop!
After seventy lashes Ventis couldn’t hold back his screams anymore. He’d crumbled multiple times until Athos had resorted to cuffing his wrists to the bedposts to keep him somewhat upright. He hated himself for being so weak, for being so afraid of his master that he couldn’t even speak.
But after eighty lashes, the hatred turned towards Athos. He did this. He was the one who’d made all of this happen. He was the reason Ventis couldn’t speak, and he was the one hurting him for it.
And what was he fucking thinking, having Ventis’s family over for dinner last night? Ventis had never been that humiliated in his entire life. It was evil. Athos was evil.
And Onthyes… Sweet, strong, gentle Onthyes was probably in a grave by now, assuming his family found his body. He didn’t deserve that. He was good. Possibly the only good person Ventis had ever met. But Athos had had him killed.
Ninety lashes. Ventis screamed, his back arching. His vision was filled with dark spots. He choked on his sobs, sinking his fangs into the duvet until wet feathers tickled at his lips.
One hundred. Ventis panted and sobbed, relieved for it to finally be over.
“That was fun, wasn’t it, pet?”
Athos unlocked the cuffs around Ventis’s wrists and he sild to the floor.
A long, expectant silence.
“Answer me.”
Ventis curled into himself, covering his face with his hands. He couldn’t answer. He wouldn’t. Athos had demanded silence, and that’s what Ventis was giving to him.
A harsh kick to his stomach. “You stupid little-”
Ventis just whimpered, trying to block out the world.
~~~Onthyes’s POV~~~
“You’re really Ventis’s brother?”
Onthyes struggled to wrap his head around it. He could see the draconic features they shared: sharp canines, horns, patches of scales on their skin, but the similarities ended there. Theodore’s skin was tanned, his hair a reddish brown, his eyes deep blue. He was taller, stockier, a far cry from Ventis’s thin and wispy frame.
“Half-brother,” Theodore corrected. “We share a father, but my mother’s human. That’s why I look relatively normal and he…” Theodore shook his head, chuckling to himself.
“And you really had no idea he was here?”
“None at all. Honestly I sort of assumed he’d overdosed on nightspill in some alley by now.”
“That’s a mean thing to say.”
Theodore shrugged dismissively. “It’s always been his vice. It’s what got him disowned, so I figured it would be what kills him as well.”
“And now it’s what Athos uses to keep him obedient. I’ll need to get him off of it once I rescue him.”
“You’re really going to keep trying to save him? It sounds like your first attempt ended disastrously enough to discourage you.”
“It was really bad, but I can’t just give up on him. I just…” Onthyes shook his head. “I can’t think of a plan that doesn’t risk him getting hurt if I mess up again.”
It was really getting to him. Every potential rescue plan Onthyes could think of had too much risk, too high of a chance of Ventis getting hurt. He couldn’t put him in danger again. He already felt guilty enough for whatever Athos had done to him as punishment.
“What if I help you?”
Onthyes looked at Theodore, hope bubbling up in his chest for the first time in days. The way Theodore spoke about Ventis, Onthyes got the impression that he didn’t care much for his brother, but if he’s willing to help rescue him it would change everything. “Really?”
“If worrying about Jas- Ventis is what’s stealing all of your attention, I’ll help you resolve it. Then you can spar with me,” Theodore said with a shrug. “Besides, he’s my brother. It’s… the right thing to do, even if we’ve never gotten along.”
With that they start planning Ventis’s rescue.
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@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet @rainydaywhump @sleepyiswhumping @bitchaknso @unicornbeck
#whump#whump community#whump tropes#whump writing#whumpblr#whumpee#oc#original character#oc whump#nonhuman whumpee#pet whumpee#pet whump#captive whumpee#intimate whumper#whumpee x caretaker#whumpee x whumper#conditioned whumpee#mute whumpee#ventisposting#ventis
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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.
#pet whump#whump#pet whumpee#noncon surgery#whump tropes#whump writing#conditioned whumpee#conditioning whump#noncon body modification#mute whumpee#sort of#kitten whumpee#dog whumpee#sadistic whumper#fantasy whump#dehumanisation tw
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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?
#whump prompt#whump ideas#just some thoughts#mute whumpee#my main oc is a traumatic mute#good thing he's just a lab/weapon whumpee
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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?
#whump#writing#whump writing#caretaker#comfort whump#mute whumpee#disabled whumpee#collapsing#whump recovery#recovery whump#hospitalized#female whumpee#female caretaker#whump scene#blurb#medical whump#for context she crawled for days until she was rescued#hence the horrible bruising/cuts on her hands knees and elbows#honestly this scene is still a draft#but i wanted to share bc i love it :D#lyssa writes
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Caretaker and whumpee being united/reunited…
Whumpee entering a room and immediately being pulled into a teary-eyed hug by caretaker
Caretaker showing up to free whumpee, carefully undoing their restraints
Caretaker: “Its alright, I’ve got you now. You’re gonna be okay.”
Caretaker being captured by whumper and whumpee being both relieved and horrified to see them
Whumpee: “No, Caretaker, you can’t be here. Please, no…”
Whumper allowing caretaker in to briefly treat whumpee’s wounds or drop something off (in a hostage situation like a bank robbery)
Whumper allowing a phone/video call between the two
Whumpee showing up on caretaker’s doorstep
Whumpee: “I’m sorry if this is a bad time, I just- I didn’t know where else to go.”
Caretaker finding whumpee somewhere completely random, like in the forest or on the roof
Caretaker visiting whumpee in prison
Caretaker: “I’m going to get you out of here. It might take some time, but just hang in there.”
Caretaker showing up to free whumpee, but whumpee has dreamt/hallucinated this moment so many times they don’t believe it’s real
Whumpee: “This isn’t real, you’re not real. Just leave me alone.”
Whumpee having been in captivity so long that they don’t even seem like they recognize caretaker
Whumpee being scared of caretaker because whumper convinced them that caretaker actually hates them or is dangerous somehow
Caretaker randomly being thrown into whumpee’s cell
Caretaker showing up out of the blue at a meeting with whumper (maybe a business deal), while whumpee sits silently nearby and tried to calm their racing heart
Caretaker killing/defeating whumper in front of whumpee to free them, whumpee being conflicted about it
Caretaker buying whumpee’s freedom, with whumpee then behaving as if they belong to caretaker, which caretaker hates (Bonus: caretaker having to lead whumpee out on a leash)
Whumpee being extremely cautious of caretaker at first, flinching away from them and eyeing them warily
Whumpee: “Why are you helping me? I’m not worth the trouble.”
Whumpee immediately falling into caretaker’s arms with the trust of a child
Whumper having convinced whumpee that they are bad to the point that whumpee refuses to accept help from caretaker
Whumpee: “No, stay away from me. You don’t understand, I’m broken. I’ll destroy you.”
Caretaker realizing how bad the situation is when they ask if whumpee is okay and whumpee just stares back at them blankly
Whumpee being so strongly conditioned that they won’t leave with caretaker when they come to free them
Caretaker: “Come on, Whumpee, we’ve got to go. What are you waiting for?”
Caretaker seeing whumpee out in the street doing a job for whumper (once they’ve gained enough trust), whumpee trying to ignore caretaker and get on with the job so they won’t be punished for being late
Caretaker: “Oh my god, Whumpee, you’re okay! What are you doing here, why didn’t you contact me?”
Whumpee: “Caretaker… I’m sorry, I have to go before they see me talking to you.”
Caretaker: “Before who sees you? Wait, where are you going?”
Whumpee: “I’m sorry, I just- I’m sorry.”
#whump#whumpee#whump idea#whump prompt#whump tropes#whump scenario#whump community#whump stuff#whump prompts#caretaker#whumpblr#whumper#slave whump#pet whump#conditioned whumpee#silent whumpee#mute whumpee
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Awkward Caretaker and Mute Whumpee
Caretaker isn't the most easygoing guy. He doesn't really know how to talk to people to not make it awkward.
But when the mute Whumpee appeares, Caretaker tries his best to talk over the silence to make Whumpee feel less lonely.
"Oh, well... Today I was watching the news and the lady said- Oh, wait, you were there too... Nevermind"
"Sooo.... Did you sleep well? Yes? Oh, that's good...... Are you- feeling well? Yes? ..........that's good......... Any plans for today? No? Oh......"
Caretaker sings a lot of soothing songs for Whumpee to help them calm down and fall asleep, because Caretaker just doesn't know what to say.
"So er... I'm making tea. Do you want some tea?" "Are you sure you don't want some tea?"
"I've always liked the white hibiscuses. When I was younger, me and my brother used to play on the backyard of our family house. Our grandpa bequeathed this house to my uncle in his will, but my uncle.... I'm not sure why I'm telling you this. Sorry, it's nothing really interesting"
"You.... wanna to turn on the radio? No? Let's listen to a podcast! Oh, you don't want that either.... So what do you want to listen to?"
Caretaker not being used to having a friend that doesn't cut in and actually listens with an interest. So he stops in the middle of sentence, surprised, and there's a moment of silence before he continues.
"I'm not really good for the talks like that. But hey, I'll go for (Leader/Teammate). They always know what to say! ...no? Oh, okay, I can stay"
"I know I'm not the most entertaining kind of roommate, but I'll try my best to make sure you feel well here"
(Caretaker is the one who needs a hug)
(Caretaker being the Awkward Father model like those pixar dads)
#comfort whump#whump#caretaker#writing#writting prompt#whumpee x caretaker#mute whumpee#whumpee#whump prompt#whump aftercare
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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]
#whump#whumpblr#creative writing#whump community#whump drabble#febuwhump#febuwhump2023#febuwhumpday9#mutism#voice loss#speech therapy#caretaker x whumpee#communication#mute whumpee#trauma#writing ideas
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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.
#whump#dnd whump#whump writing#tw blood#tw syringe#mute whumpee#tbf he CAN talk#he's just too terrified#male whumpee#male whumper#magic whump#the caged tiger#whumpblr#rublewriting
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Mute Whumpees
Masterlist
Whumpees who cannot scream for help because all that comes out is air
Whumpees being hurt right next to Caretaker without them noticing
Whumpees who aren't actually mute but their voice went with a nasty cold, making their sudden inability to speak all the more daunting because they're not used to it
Whumpees interrogated and being unable to say anything to convince their torturers, even if they are ready to give up information
Whumpees who had their voice taken by whumper, suddenly unable to communicate with anyone around them who might be able to help
Whumpees who have their voice, but it burns to use it, so they just hope they won't be forced to speak
Whumpees who are conditioned not to make noise, terrified whenever a single sound leaves them on accident
Mute whumpees, everyone, give it up for mute whumpees!
#whump trope#whump#my writing#whump writing#whump prompt#mute whumpee#conditioning#body modification#I'm thinking again...
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The Palette Pt. 21: Jesse
Prev. Next
TW: dehumanization, whumpee as an object, caretaker angsty thoughts, recovering whumpee, mute whumpee
Mark realized he was letting the water run for the third time now. He slammed down the handle and dragged a hand down his face. He was just trying to finish up the few dishes in the sink but kept getting distracted. He couldn't stop watching Jesse.
The kid was curled up on the couch, in a pile of blankets, a few of the dogs tucked in where they could. Lyra was practically sitting on his head.
Jesse had been so worried about her. He could barely hold his own head up but he'd asked if Lyra was okay the moment they were in the truck and heading out of the city. After everything, Jesse was worried about the freakin cat. She has barely left his side since.
Fuck.
This was a lot.
Mark grabbed the same bowl from the sink and swished it through the warm water, scrubbing it for the second time and turning on the water again to rinse the soap away.
Jesse would be okay.
His head shot up with the sound of the blankets shifting. Jesse was just making more room for Cami to lay against his stomach on the couch.
He was fine.
Mark, on the other hand, was pretty sure he was going to be sick. His stomach was a twisted pit of endless worry. Nausea crawled up his throat and his hands hadn't stopped shaking since they got home. He thought doing the dishes might help, but apparently he was wrong.
He watched Jesse slowly stretch out his jaw again, opening his mouth incredibly slow and closing it, clenching his teeth together and making the muscle in his cheek jump. Mark shook his head and closed his eyes, images pouring through his mind. Images of Jesse with that goddamn gag in his mouth, his ankles pulled down so painfully tight, his toes not even reaching the ground, the fucking bruises all over his body.
Jesse had said something about the bruise on his hip being from the box...
“Mark?”
He jumped at the sound of his brother's voice. Mark hadn't even heard him come back inside.
Jesus. He was on edge. When was the last time he slept?
“Damn it,” Mark dropped the bowl back into the sink and turned off the running water, again. He'd worry about the dishes later apparently.
Mitch had decided to stay a few days, just until Jesse got back on his feet. He gave Mark a sympathetic look and leaned against the counter. “I'd ask how you're holding up but I think you just answered my question.”
Mark gripped the counter hard and dropped his chin to his chest, breathing away the fear. In through his nose, out through his mouth...or was it the other way around?
His eyes flicked up and found Jesse again. Mark lowered his voice to a whisper, it still grated against his ears, “How do I tell if he's okay? I mean, I know he's not okay but, fuck," he dropped his head again, "I don't know what to do.”
Mitchell looked over to Jesse and shrugged, “Ask him, maybe?”
The small laugh that huffed out of Mark made him feel instantly lighter.
Well that was simple enough.
“Smart ass.”
Mitchell grinned at him and shoved him out of the kitchen, turning the water back on and grabbing the sponge.
Mark took a deep breath. Why did this feel so different from the first time he brought him home? He remembers feeling scared and confused and angry. But this. This was fear mixed with a thick, cloying grief that wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed.
They didn't do this to a palette this time. They did this to Jesse.
He realized he'd frozen in place again when he finally registered Jesse craning his neck off the arm of the couch and looking up at him. His eyes were tired, the skin pulled slightly tight from the dark bruises, but they were clear and held a warmth in them that always surprised him.
Mark tilted his head and smiled softly. “Hey, Jesse.”
Jesse hadn't spoken since they heard the news about the fire but he gave Mark a small smile and curled his legs up, making room for Mark to sit. Mark picked up the little grumbling old terrier and put him in his own lap as he sat right up next to Jesse's legs. He felt Jesse press his toes back behind Mark's back and the worry in his gut eased down to a gentle roar.
Jesse had been notably more comfortable with asking for touch since getting home. At first, Mark thought it was out of necessity. He was hurt and needed help. But it was more than that. Mark could see the wheels turning in Jesse's head before he'd move, but he'd make the decision all on his own and reach out to him. He'd lean against Mark's shoulder, or play with the hem of Mark's sweatshirt before resting his hand on his arm. Small things, but significant.
Before, Mark was pretty sure Jesse was only allowed to move freely when he was in the closet. So actually moving now, willingly, without waiting for permission, it thrilled Mark to his bones.
He couldn't help but think about how terrifying that must be for Jesse. Free will wasn't exactly in the "objects" handbook of acceptable behavior. Something had happened in Pike's basement though, and that conditioning cracked just a little bit.
Mark could see the freedom Jesse was trying to reach for, but also the uncertainty. He wanted to help him get there with every fiber of his being. He just didn't know how.
Mark sighed. Mitchell was right.
Jesse was watching Mark like he was patiently waiting for him to speak, so he finally did.
"You doing okay?"
Jesse sunk himself further into the couch, smiling as he rubbed his hands over the the soft blanket as if that was all he could ever need.
“I'm so proud of you, Jesse.”
He could watched that kid's face light up like it just did every day for the rest of his life. His smile was only slightly tugged down from the split in his bottom lip but he was still beaming.
"I know you fought him. His face had a hefty scratch on it. That was you wasn't it?" Mark watched Jesse carefully. He didn't want him to think he was in any trouble but Jesse lifted his chin and nodded proudly.
"You're so damn brave," he didn't really mean to say it out loud but he couldn't help but marvel at how much courage that must have taken.
Jesse's smile turned almost shy and he ducked his head and started fidgeting with the bandages on his wrists.
"Jesse," he waited until he looked up again, "I'm sorry he hurt you."
Mark saw tears fill up his eyes but not quite spill over before Jesse pushed his feet even further behind Mark's back. Mark reached over and gently placed his hand over Jesse's. Giving him the touch he seemed to be asking for.
“Do you need anything?”
Jesse scrunched his eyes up a little and leaned his head back against the couch, shaking his head no, closing his eyes.
Mark felt the fear start to melt just a little bit. How could this kid look so content right now? He expected him to be shattered. Fuck, Mark felt shattered. But here Jesse was, all cuddled up with Lyra and Cami and looking more comfortable than Mark had ever felt in his life.
–
What could the palette possibly need?
It's body hurt. Its jaw kept trying to lock itself shut and the palette could barely walk on its own but it was healing. The palette was healing. It already felt so much better.
Mark had let the palette rest on the couch all last night and today. It hadn't wanted to go to its new bed. It didn't know why. But the couch was so much better than healing in a closet. Its hip ached just thinking about that hard floor and how much it always hurt to lay on it after being used.
The palette was safe. The man that stole the palette was gone. Mark had told it that the paintings had burned too. It didn't know why that made it a little sad. Those paintings were ugly and awful, but the palette had given its entire life before Mark to help create them. They were the only reason the palette was kept alive at all. It felt strange to be the thing that was kept when the masterpieces burned. That wasn't how it was supposed to be.
It didn't know how to fix that, though. It didn't know how to ask Mark if it could be fixed.
The palette couldn't seem to let itself speak anyway. It knew it was allowed but it just didn't feel good. Not right now. That seemed okay. Mark didn't seem mad at it when the palette just nodded or smiled. He didn't force the words out that didn't want to come. He did seem sad though. He seemed so worried that the palette was hurt. The palette tried to swallow back the tears that sprung into its eyes.
It really was okay. The palette was used to the pain. It just felt a little lost.
What would Mark think if he knew Jesse didn't want to be a palette anymore? Mark had bought a palette. Shouldn't he get what he paid for? It wasn't its place to not be a palette. It couldn't choose to be something different. It didn't think it could anyway.
“Hey?”
Mark was looking at it again, concern etched deep into his forehead.
“You're thinking really hard over there.”
The palette was taught that thinking wasn't its place. It saw the smile that crossed Mark's face and it knew it was okay. So much was okay here. So much more than a palette was supposed to do, or feel, or think, or be.
All of it was okay.
Jesse didn't know what to do about any of that, but it did know it was warm and its wounds had bandages on them and Mitchell had iced its bruises and Mark had held it so tight.
It maybe didn't want to be a palette anymore, but maybe it could just be Jesse?
It liked being Jesse.
Taglist: @whumpsday, @hold-him-down, @maracujatangerine, @pigeonwhumps, @boxboysandotherwhump, @darkthingshappen, @octopus-reactivated, @whumpzone, @unicornscotty, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @keep-beach-city-werid, @whumpthisway, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump , @onlybadendings, @canislycaon24, @joeywhumpsitup, @thebirdsofgay, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @whumper-soot, @whumpworld, @haro-whumps, @whumpcereal, @scp-1296
#the palette#dehumanization#recovering whumpee#whumpee as an object#jesse and mark#caretaker angsty thoughts#mute whumpee
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guess who’s voice was super raspy and awful yesterday, and is now completely gone! anyway here’s some whump based on my current predicament
-whumpee heard caretaker in the building, calling for them, asking where they are, but they can’t respond because their voice is shot
-caretaker can’t ask whumpee what they need or comfort them because they can’t speak
-gags holding mouths open for so long that the whole mouth and throat becomes dry and difficult to talk with
-whumpee who wants to ask caretaker something, or beg them, or get some comfort, but can’t speak
-various illnesses that come with lost voices
-whumper asking whumpee questions (knowing full well their voice is gone) and punishing them for not responding
-after a few days or however long of not being able to talk after their rescue, caretaker hears just one word whumpee whispers. “please”
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Deaf and mute whumpee who has gotten terribly sick need something but don't know how to get caretaker's attention, so they weakly stumble out of bed and just made it to where caretaker is before they passed out and later wake up back on their bed and caretaker putting a cool washcloth on their forehead, checking their temperature, and giving them water.
Extra fluff please, thanks.
Hi Anon! Thanks for requesting this, I’ll give it a go! (Disclaimer: I’ve never written for deaf and mute characters before so I hope I do alright!)
Whumpee turned over in bed and reached for another tissue. Their hand gripped empty space and fell on the nightstand. Whumpee looked up to see that the tissue box was empty. Whumpee groaned internally. That was the third box in two days. Ever since Whumpee had gotten sick, they couldn’t breathe through their nose for more than a couple of seconds before having to blow it again, not to mention that their throat was killing them and they felt dizzy all the time. Caretaker had instructed them to come to them with anything they needed, which was great, except that Caretaker wasn’t in the room right now. Whumpee would have to venture out of bed if they wanted more tissues, and in their current state, that would be a challenge all on its own.
Whumpee pulled the covers off with great effort and swung their legs over the side of the bed. They shakily stood up and stumbled out of their room to look for Caretaker. They managed to make it to the kitchen, where they saw Caretaker busying themselves with making a pot of soup. Whumpee went to tug on Caretaker’s sleeve, but they had barely made it three steps when the world tilted on its axis. Whumpee fell to the ground with what must have been a loud thud, because the last thing they saw was Caretaker whip around before dark spots filled their vision and their eyes fluttered closed.
…
Whumpee stirred on a soft surface. They opened their eyes to the familiar ceiling of their room. There was something cold on their forehead. Whumpee reached up to feel it, but was stopped by a hand gently grabbing theirs and setting it back down on the bed. They turned their head to the side and saw Caretaker, worry etched into their features.
“What happened back there?” Caretaker signed.
“I don’t know,” Whumpee signed back, “I was looking for you. I ran out of tissues.”
“I noticed,” Caretaker signed; they then pointed to a fresh box of tissues on Whumpee’s nightstand.
“Thank you,” Whumpee signed.
“You’re welcome,” Caretaker signed.
Caretaker reached for a thermometer on the nightstand and held it up to Whumpee’s mouth.
“Open up,” Caretaker said.
Whumpee read Caretaker’s lips and obliged. After a few minutes, the thermometer must have beeped, because Caretaker pulled it out and read the number with a frown.
“What is it?” Whumpee signed.
“Not good,” Caretaker signed, “you have a fever. Let me get you some medicine. Don’t leave the bed.”
Caretaker left the room and came back shortly with two small pills and a glass of water. They helped Whumpee sit up, then handed them the pills. Whumpee took them with a grimace, then washed them down with the water.
“Here, take this,” Caretaker signed.
Caretaker pulled out a small bell from their pocket and handed it to Whumpee.
“What for?” Whumpee signed.
“Ring it if you need me,” Caretaker signed, “I’ll hear it and come to you. I don’t want you out of bed until your fever has gone down.”
Whumpee nodded.
“Thank you, Caretaker,” Whumpee signed.
Caretaker smiled.
“You’re welcome, Whumpee,” they signed back.
“Can you stay with me?” Whumpee signed, “just for a little bit?”
“Of course, I’m not going anywhere,” Caretaker signed.
Caretaker stayed with Whumpee until they succumbed to their exhaustion and fell asleep. Whenever Whumpee would stir, Caretaker would stroke their hair until they slipped back into slumber. It would take days for Whumpee to recover, and until then, Caretaker would be at their beck and call, ready to help their friend in any way they could.
#whumpee x caretaker#caretaker x whumpee#sickfic#whump#hurt/comfort#as requested#whump snippet#whump drabble#snippet#drabble#fainting#unconscious whumpee#mute whumpee#deaf whumpee#sick whumpee#soft whump#whump fluff
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Give me a whumpee who used to believe that help will come. That somebody will save them. Whumpee who kept crying and calling people for help. But none ever came. So what use is to cry now? What use is to call for help? What use is to talk?
-
Aka whumpee who just gave up on speaking and overnight gave in silently to Whumper. Later, when they are rescued (either by friends or new people), they don't speak to anyone, not even Caretaker. Why would they? No one ever came for them. There is no need to talk.
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Rescued
Sam and Lucan masterlist
Lucan comes to live with Sam.
4.4k
CWs: pet whump, dehumanisation, blink-and-you'll-miss-it implied non-con, mentioned shock collar use, mentioned caning, unsafe and inaccurate use of hydrochloric acid
“What the fuck, Luke?”
Lucan kneels on the floor, skin burning under his clothes, listening to the angry hissing, letting his gaze flick up to the two people every so often. He doesn’t know how he’s made them angry, he doesn’t understand what’s going on, and his hair still smells of smoke.
“It was an accident, alright?”
“An accident. You set fire to her house accidentally.”
They sound unimpressed. He thinks their name’s Sam. And the other one’s definitely Luke. Maybe... maybe he did something wrong while he was here earlier. He swallows, feeling the press of soft leather against his throat.
“Alright, fine, I was angry. You would’ve been too, if you’d seen the conditions he was being kept in.”
“Oh?”
“He was in a cage barely big enough for him, no blankets or soft floor or anything besides those thin clothes he’s wearing.” They glance over at him and he wishes he could disappear. Mistress bought these night-clothes because she thought they’d look good, but they’re so thin as to be translucent. He hates them, even though pets shouldn’t hate things. “The only things in his room were punishment tools. The shock collar was charging by the wall. I simply fiddled with the electrics a little.”
“Why’s his hair burnt, then? Didn’t you get him out of the way first?”
Luke shrugs. “I tried, but the fire moved too fast for me. I’m not an arsonist by trade, you know.”
“No, you’re a conman,” mutters Sam, making Luke laugh. “Alright, thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
Luke glances again at Lucan, something like pity in his eyes. “Good luck then. Both of you.”
“And you.” Once the door shuts behind Luke, Sam sighs, raking a hand through their short brown hair. They crouch down in front of him, and Lucan scans them quickly. They’re less put-together than they were earlier, hair mussed, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal lean muscles. Lucan swallows. Sam could do him a lot of damage with those.
“Hi. I’m Sam, but... I guess you know that. I use they/them pronouns, which I’m not sure you know.” Lucan nods. He does know, his Mistress went on a long rant about ‘people like that’ after she’d sent the email. “Oh. You do. Good. Um... can you talk?” Lucan shakes his head. “Okay. Right, well, we need to find some way to communicate, I need to know your name. I won’t call you Puck, I saw how you felt about that yesterday. Can you read and write?” He nods, somewhat hesitantly. He can certainly read, and he used to be able to write, although he hasn’t done so for so long he’s not sure anymore. “Great. I’ll fetch a pen and paper, and you write down your name for me, okay?” He nods again and Sam hurries off, reappearing a second later with a pad of lined paper and a pen. Lucan’s not sure why they keep asking him things, he has to obey anyway, but he takes the proffered pen in a loose grip. “It doesn’t have to be your real name, and I certainly don’t want your true name, just... give me something I can call you.” Lucan swallows. He shouldn’t hesitate, he knows that, but he’s not sure what to write. He hasn’t heard his name for so long but... if Sam doesn’t like it, if they use it to tease him or insult him...
But then Sam wasn’t like that yesterday. And although this must be an act, this kindness, they seem to be trying not to humiliate him.
Slowly, shakily, in large, clumsy letters, he writes Lucan.
Sam smiles, and he thinks he’s at least done something right.
“Lucan. Nice name. And you do use he/him, right?” Lucan nods. “Good, good. So, Lucan, I think the first thing we need to do is clean you up and find you some new clothes. It’s a small flat, but I’ve pulled the sofabed out, you can either take that or my bed. And I guess... do you know why you’re here?” Lucan shakes his head. Sometimes Mistress lends him to people for a few nights, but it’s always after a giveaway, he knows to expect it even if she never explicitly tells him. He doesn’t think that’s what this is. Sam sighs. “Right, well, firstly, you’re not going back to Caroline. You’re staying here, where it’s safer. And you’re not here to be a pet, or any other type of slave. You’re here to recover, and be a person. You’ll be living with me from now on, I hope that’s okay.” Lucan bows his head in submission, the world settling back into place somewhat. He has a new Master now.
That brings its own set of problems, though. What does his new Master want? How can he please them? Now he knows he’s staying here for good, he needs to work out how to act, and Master hasn’t given him any clues at all.
_
Sam watches Lucan bow. They’re not sure what to do really, how to get Lucan to treat them as an equal, not his owner, but seeing someone bow at their feet, so full of fear, makes them feel sick.
“You don’t have to bow. In fact, please don’t. I’m going to take that collar off, okay?” They reach forward and unbuckle the red leather, wincing at the bruising and burns.
They should treat the wounds, shouldn’t they? But they don’t have anything to treat them with. What are they meant to do? The injuries aren’t too bad, right? They’re not going to lose Lucan. Not so soon after he’s arrived.
Okay, they need to calm down. Lucan’s scared, and this isn’t helping. He’s just had his whole life uprooted, even if it wasn’t a particularly nice one, and he needs Sam to get it together.
They take a deep breath and swallow. They can do this.
“I don’t have a first aid kit or anything, unfortunately, so we’ll have to make do.” They look up from Lucan’s neck to see him trembling, head tilted back slightly, giving Sam access to his neck. “Lucan, what–”
They stop. The new burns on the front of his neck. Sam taking off his collar, despite the fact that pet-class slaves are rarely left uncollared. “The shock collar was hanging from a hook on the wall.”
Oh.
“Lucan. Lucan, drop your head, and look at me if you can.” Lucan does so, not making eye contact but watching them enough for them to see that he’s terrified. “I don’t have a shock collar. I’m not going to put one on you, or hurt you in any way. I took your collar off so you’d be more comfortable, not to punish you. Understand?” Lucan nods, but Sam doesn’t think he does, not really. They sigh. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. Um... you really don’t have to crawl, you know.”
Lucan doesn’t take the implied invitation to walk, crawling along on all fours behind them as they head for the bathroom, running a warm bath. Nothing too hot. Then they sit down on the closed toilet, the faerie kneeling at their feet. There’s something they have to do first.
“Can I take a look at your arm, Lucan? The one with the bracelet on.” Lucan bows and offers up their arm, and Sam takes it gently, studying the bracelet. It’s stainless steel, presumably with some sort of lining that’s not toxic to faeries, and there’s a rich blue digital display on each side. One reads CAROLINE JONES and the other 12735. It’s the same colour-coded ID bracelet that all slaves wear, that they didn’t really register he was wearing earlier because it’s so common on faeries. It doesn’t quite sit flush to the skin, and according to what little research they’ve been able to do it will have been welded together while already on Lucan’s body, making it near-impossible to remove.
Near-impossible. Everything has a weak point, and hydrochloric acid corrodes steel. They pull a bottle out of the cupboard, along with some thick plastic sheeting and protective equipment, and open the window as much as possible.
“Put this on.” Lucan slides the industrial-grade mask over his mouth and nose as Sam does the same, checking the fit of them both. “Right. Lucan, I’m going to wrap your forearm in this, under the bracelet. I need you to tell me if it doesn’t cover all of your skin, and I need you to be honest with me, because I’m going to use 38% concentrate hydrochloric acid to remove that bracelet. I’m guessing by your reaction just now that you know what it can do to flesh.” Lucan nods, and Sam picks up the plastic, slotting it under the bracelet and winding it tightly around Lucan’s forearm. “Is everything covered?” He nods again. “Good. Do you know which area of the bracelet was welded together? That’ll be the weakest point.” Lucan points immediately to the side, and Sam can’t see a difference but they trust Lucan knows, turning the bracelet so that area’s facing upwards. They pull a pair of disposable gloves on. “Here we go then.”
And they pour the bottle.
Lucan tenses as the acid runs out, looking surprised when it doesn’t touch his skin. Was he really expecting Sam to pour acid on him?
“I meant it when I said I wasn’t going to hurt you,” they murmur, setting the bottle down and watching the bracelet as they pull off the gloves. “Keep your arm held like that, I’m going to fetch some clean clothes. If you need anything, knock hard on the bathtub.” Lucan nods, and Sam hurries to their room. Lucan’s a foot taller than them, but very thin. Too thin. They have some oversized sweatshirts that might fit, and they grab a couple. Plus spare underwear, just in case. They’ve been trying not to look at Lucan’s body but it’s very much visible under those pyjamas, and they’re not sure if he’s wearing any underwear. Not sure what state it’ll be in if he is, given what they know about the effects of shock collars.
They sigh. Caring for Lucan is going to be even more of a struggle than they first anticipated. And they don’t even know what to feed him yet. How often has he eaten solid food in the last few years, anyway? Shaking their head, they head back to the bathroom (via the kitchen to pick up a sharp knife), where Lucan’s kneeling in the same place they left him.
Kneeling. Like he’s something lesser.
The bracelet on Lucan’s wrist is corroding nicely, and they smile at his wide-eyed look. “Nearly there. I’ve got you some clothes for afterwards, I don’t have any trousers that’ll fit, we’ll have to order something, but you can choose a sweatshirt. Or not!” he adds hurriedly as a flash of fear crosses Lucan’s face, breathing speeding up. “I can choose. What about this one?” They hold up a grey sweatshirt with a Bayeux Tapestry health and safety joke on that Amanda gave them for Christmas one year. Lucan nods. “Good. Good.” They snap a new pair of gloves on and pick up a knife, sending the faerie flinching back, eyeing it warily. Sam curses – they should’ve guessed. “Hey, hey. Easy. It’s not for you. I just need to cut the bracelet off, now it’s probably corroded enough.” Lucan doesn’t calm down though, and Sam has to hold their arm tightly to stop the shaking while they cut through the bracelet. They have to use a lot of force to get through the steel, and maybe they didn’t wait as long as they should have but they’re impatient to remove it.
Finally the bracelet falls away and Sam catches it, dumping it in the plastic bin next to them. Then they carefully remove the plastic from Lucan’s arm, making sure no acid rolls off onto his skin, and throw that away too. They shut the lid and set it outside the bathroom door.
“Right. I’ll deal with that later. That didn’t hurt anywhere, right?” Lucan shakes his head. “Good. You can remove your mask now. And, um, you need to have a wash, so will you take your clothes off?”
Lucan removes his clothes clumsily, fumbling with the buttons, and Sam takes them to set aside (possibly to burn later) when they notice something and stop, horrified.
There’s thin slivers of metal spread around the inside lining of the clothes, which earlier they’d taken to be a pattern of some sort in the fabric, not looking closely. They look to Lucan’s back, which as well as the numerous scars and bruises has a few slivers scattered about, the skin covered in small burns. They wouldn’t be surprised if that was repeated all over his body.
He’s been burnt with iron filings. On the inside of his clothes.
“Well, fuck.”
_
Lucan flinches. He wonders what he’s done wrong now. What’s wrong with him. Is it his skin? He knows it’s not the prettiest, not without make-up on.
“I’m not angry at you, Lucan, I just– she burnt you with iron?”
Lucan nods, frowning. Why’s Master shocked? That’s the SSA-recommended method of punishing fae slaves. Do they not know?
Maybe they don’t. Maybe that’s why they’re treating him like this. Once they find out, he’ll be back to being treated like normal. That’s the only thing that makes sense.
Thee is another possibility. But he doesn’t want to think about that.
“Right. Change of plan. Amanda’s going to kill me for this, so we’re never going to tell her, okay?” They pause spreading towels around the floor to look at Lucan, who nods. “I need you to stand in the centre of the towels. If you can’t, I’ll help you, but I want to wash off the iron filings before you have a bath. Can you try and stand? Lean on the sink if you need to.”
Lucan stares for a moment, struggling to understand Master’s latest command. He hasn’t stood for any length of time in years. Pets don’t stand, and he doesn’t want his kneecaps broken again. But Master wants him to this time, so his kneecaps will be fine. Probably. Hopefully. He crawls over to the sink and levers himself up on shaking legs, about to collapse when Master wraps an arm around him to hold him up.
“Easy, you’re doing well. I can’t wash you properly while I’m holding you though, so if you lean fully on the sink I can do your back.” They let go and Lucan leans over the sink, gripping the edge tightly, bracing himself for the harsh shock of cold water.
The water hits his back and he gasps but... it’s warm. Blasting, pummelling his bruises, but warm. The spray travels down his back and legs and he can feel the remaining iron detaching.
“Turn around.” Lucan does so, and Master looks away as they spray his front. Then they hang up the shower-head again and put an arm back around Lucan’s waist. Lucan fights against the skin-crawling sensation of someone else’s bare skin touching his. Master’s just helping him, and even if they weren’t, even if they were acting like some people have, it wouldn’t matter, because he’s theirs now anyway. Master can do what they like with him. So he needs to stop trying to flinch away. That’s what got him sent to be retrained the first time, and he never wants to go back there.
“Let’s get you into the bath. I don’t want you crawling over the iron filings.” Master half-carries Lucan to the bath and he climbs in, grateful to be allowed off his feet again. He should be grateful for a great many things, actually, Master deigning to take extra effort to wash the iron off for one thing, but he focuses on this. A warm bath, off his feet. He feels very naked without his collar and bracelet, moreso than he ever has, but he’s not sure he wants to put them back on. Master will make him, though, the collar at least. The bracelet he’s not so sure about, he thinks that’s completely broken, but without either he won’t look owned.
He wonders what colour his name-tag will be this time. His old Mistress owned a variety to match different outfits but Master doesn’t seem that type of person. Maybe they’ll take their cue from the one he was wearing earlier, red leather and a small silver tag. Or maybe they’ll want something completely different.
“You’re thinking too much. You’re a pet, 12735, you’re there to obey, not think. Do you need a reminder?”
Lucan shudders as his handler’s voice reverberates around his skull. He’s right, of course. No more thinking. Not unless he wants to be retrained.
It does feel odd breathing freely though, without either leather or plastic at his throat.
He’s startled away from his thoughts as Master scratches the top of his head, and he pushes into the touch automatically, starting to relax as the dopamine hits. He hasn’t had this much, even though he likes it. He’s not a good pet.
“I thought this might help,” murmurs Master, “you liked it earlier. Whatever it was that scared you just now, I hope you know that you’re safe here.” Lucan nods. He has a roof over his head and someone to punish him when he needs it. He’s safe. “Good. Good.” Master scratches down his scalp. “I, um, Luke texted me. Caroline survived the fire. Her house was burnt down though. I don’t know whether you wanted that, but... you should know. You’re the one she hurt.”
Hurt? She didn’t hurt him, that’s how pets are treated. But he nods anyway to show he understands, careful not to dislodge the hand in his hair.
“I assume you know how to wash yourself, but I want to make sure your injuries are cleaned properly. I won’t touch anything private. And, um, your hair needs cutting. I know it’s not right for me to do that, so you can cut it yourself if you want, but the damage from the fire needs trimming. I’m sorry.”
Lucan blinks rapidly. He won’t cry in front of Master, not again. It’s just that it’s been so long since anyone knew or cared about fae customs. For the fae, hair’s sacred, only to be touched by those you love, and it’s been so long since anyone took that into account that he was beginning to believe no-one ever would again.
It’s been so damaged, so violated, over the years, though, that he can’t really think of it as his hair anymore.
“Okay, look, why don’t you tap on the wall once for letting me do your hair, and twice for cutting it yourself. Take your time.”
Lucan thinks. His hair’s a bit distant from him now, and maybe that doesn’t mean anything, he should still cut it himself, but... the thought of that sends a shiver down his spine. His old Mistress would’ve punished him for a hair out of place even if she was the one to cause it, he doesn’t want to find out what Master will do if he cuts it wrong.
He taps on the wall once.
“Okay. Hold still. I should warn you, I’m not an expert in cutting hair, it might not come out too straight. You ready?” Lucan nods, trying to ignore the sense of loss as Master’s hand leaves his hair, and feels a slight tugging sensation on his hair, hearing the snip of scissors cutting through it. The burnt smell drifts away slightly as his hair falls to the floor.
“There. Done. It’s a bit wonky, I’ll show you once you’re washed and dressed. Um... I’m going to wash your back now. I’ll try not to hurt you but I need to clean your burns. If you need me to stop, tap twice on the wall, okay?” Lucan nods, knowing he won’t do so. It’s his place to take whatever his Master gives him.
To his surprise it doesn’t hurt. Well, there’s pain, of course there is, Master’s cleaning out burns and bruises and old cane marks, and they wouldn’t be punishments if they didn’t hurt, but it’s not bad. Master’s cleaning is gentle, there’s no rough, impatient scrubbing that’s only enough to rub the make-up and grime off, scrubbing that sometimes hurts so much he wants to cry out, this is soft. They’re cleaning him thoroughly, carefully, gently, and they’re so patient, the whole way through, even when Lucan’s slow to respond to Master’s requests to turn, or lift his feet. Lucan squeezes his eyes shut to stop the tears but it doesn’t work, droplets hitting the water silently. He doesn’t understand why Master’s being so gentle but he aches for it.
“Okay,” says Master, once his hair’s washed as well, “I’ll leave you to wash the rest in private. Once you’re finished, dry yourself off and get dressed, there’s some clothes... um...” – they frown around the room before picking up a lumpy towel to reveal the sweatshirt and underwear from earlier – “here. I don’t have trousers that’ll fit you, I’m afraid. Once you’re dressed, join me in the living room. I’ll leave the door ajar, if you need help knock on the floor or the wall or something twice. Okay?” Lucan nods, and Master exits.
They exit.
Lucan’s alone.
Lucan swallows. He should make this quick – Master will come to check on him at some point, and if he’s not acceptable by then he’ll be punished. He washes the rest of himself quickly and clambers out of the bath, trying not to revel in the novelty of privacy while he’s naked. It doesn’t happen often. He pulls on the clothes Master left him hurriedly. The grey sweatshirt’s very soft and goes all the way down to the middle of his thighs. It reminds him of something he had before, when he was–
No. No, he’s not going to think about that, it’ll just make him sad. He has more than enough to process without that too.
He crawls out into the living room and Master looks up from their laptop with a smile. “Much better. Are you comfortable in those?” Lucan nods and touches his throat absently. His clothes are comfortable (not that he’d say if they weren’t) but his neck feels wrong bare.
All those years he spent wishing he wasn’t collared and now it’s off he can’t stand it.
“Oh!” Master rummages around and pulls out a multicoloured knitted scarf, with they hand to him. “I dug this out for you. In case you want something around your neck.” Lucan winds it around his neck, its soft warmth comforting, and bows his thanks. “Um... you’re welcome? I promised you could see your hair as well.” They hand Lucan a mirror.
Lucan looks in it. His hair is short and choppy now, coming up to a little above his shoulders. Without any signs of ownership he sees a flicker of his old self, which he quickly banishes. No sense dwelling on the impossible.
He swallows. Maybe, if he thanks Master properly, he’ll be allowed to sleep. He bends down over Master’s shoes, and hears a strangled yelp that makes him jump.
_
Sam lets out a strangled sound as Lucan starts to kiss the air above his boots.
“Lucan, stop.” Lucan pauses and looks up at them, trembling. “You don’t have to thank me like that. I’m happy to give you new clothes and a haircut. You don’t have to show some twisted form of worship to get it. Okay?” Lucan nods timidly and Sam reaches down to scratch the top of his head. “I’m not angry with you, Lucan. I won’t punish you. Just, um, please don’t do it again.”
They were going to ask Lucan to join them on the sofa to help with the remainder of the shopping, but it’s obvious he won’t, so they slide off to join him on the floor, giving him a reassuring smile.
“I want you to see what I’m ordering for you,” explains Sam, beckoning Lucan closer, and the faerie shuffles forward to kneel next to them. They angle the laptop around so he can see, and start scrolling through clothes, keeping a close eye on Lucan’s expression. When Lucan’s eyes light up at the sight of a pink oversized sweatshirt they add it to the basket. Luckily, Lucan’s quite expressive, even if he’s trying not to be, and Sam doesn’t have to add many clothes of their choosing. On the basis that Lucan’s probably going to crawl for quite a while, even if Sam would prefer he didn’t (they’re not sure his legs are strong enough to walk yet though, anyway), they buy some jeans. Hopefully they won’t wear through too quickly in the knee.
Once they’ve added everything they can think of (including the first aid kit and plastic cutlery they added before Lucan joined them), they check out. Lucan looks exhausted.
“Go and get some sleep, Lucan. You can take the bed, turn right and it’s the first room on the left.” Lucan nods, and they think about adding an apology for not having any pyjamas but there’s not much point. With any luck they’ll be here the day after tomorrow anyway, and they’re not sure Lucan will believe them.
Sam waits until enough time’s passed for Lucan to have settled down in their room before calling the search bar back up and typing in three letters.
SSA.
They hesitate before clicking on the website. Do they really want to read this? Find out this way? Not via abolitionist articles or slave recovery forums, through the government’s own horrific site.
Lucan’s been through the whole degrading, painful process, though, so surely Sam can at least read about it. If they want to help Lucan they need to know what he’s been through, at least a little, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that they don’t have the faintest clue what they’re doing.
Navigating through to the page entitled For Owners, they click on the first document and, swallowing hard, begin to read.
Taglist: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump
#sam and lucan#sam johnson#lucan oc#whumpee and caretaker#whumpee x caretaker#fae whump#fae whumpee#pet whump#Sam's in over their head#also I'm aware of the innacuracy of the corroding bracelet#and the unsafeness#but I wrote myself into a corner so#NEVER DO THAT AT HOME KIDS#alright there's my psa for the year#mute whumpee#whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper
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