#fingore whump

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

unpopular opinion but whump should and deserves to be messy

"Yeah duh there's plenty of scenarios with blood and tears--" no. I want more.

I want pink tinted spit dribbling out of Whumpee's mouth. I want strings of saliva connecting between their busted lip to Whumper's tongue. I want drool running down the corners of their mouths because of a gag that makes it difficult to swallow.

I want sweat making Whumpee feel sticky and clammy to the touch. I want their skin to be slick and soaking into their soiled clothes. I want them to squirm in discomfort of a dirty shirt clinging to their back from precious fluids that are going to risk further dehydration. I want their hair to be continuously damp and hanging in thick strands in their face.

I want the scabs to turn white with pus and black with infection. I want old wounds to tear open and bleed a thick red. I want the pink flesh underneath to pulse and quiver, the sight of yellow fat and cartilage. I want blood vessels and capillaries to burst and spread over an area, I want burns to start brown and peel away to a tender pink.

I want Whumpee to vomit out of their nose because their mouth is gagged. I want bile to reek on their clothing and on their tongue. I want them to grow use to the taste of bitter blood and burning chyme forever in the back of their throat. I want them to have to snort and hack to be able to spit out whatever was still caught on their tongue or risk swallowing it down.

I want their tears to remain unwiped and crusting over their eyes. I want snot to smear over their cheeks and leave their lips uncomfortably tacky. I want their face to remain blotchy and red because they just can't get it clean. I want dirt and blood and skin to build up under their fingernails to the point they risk infecting their own wounds if they try and mess with it. I want Whumpee to only be sprayed down with cold water and an old towel, never any soap and never in all the creases of their body.

I want their bodies caked in grime and viscera and bodily fluids. I want Whumper to never give them the luxury of feeling clean and in fact actively making them more filthy each time. I want Whumpee's clothes yellowed and their hair matted and their skin sickly. I want injuries to never properly heal so that the only option is to amputate the necrosis. I want Whumper to force Whumpee to clean up whatever kind of mess they made by licking it off the floor.

I want arteries to spew like a garden sprinkler. I want the exposed roots of pulled teeth to dangle freely in their mouth. I want Whumpee's hair, including all of their body hair, to grow to unruly lengths that are constantly tangled and ingrown. I want them to find comfort in starving because it means there's nothing to risk throwing up. I want them to scrub their skin raw and bleeding, uncaring how much it aggravates their injuries or how the soap stings, the first chance they're given for a real bath.

I want it to be nasty!!!!!!

#whump #whump community #whump scenario #whumpee #whumper #whump ideas #implied whump #whump prompt #whump writing #whump tropes #whumpblr #mouth whump #teeth whump #fingore #hand whump #tw blood #tw vomit #im sorry if this is vile but that is simply how i feel #uuuhhhh i tried to tag things i think i mentioned that are yucky but if i missed something lmk #yeah anyways tho -- MESSY GROSS WHUMP!!! MORE THAN JUST TEARS AND A COUPLE DROPS OF BLOOD!!! #whumpee is gonna puke! they're gonna piss their pants! they're gonna be sweaty like a full body work out every day! #and if it's an intimate whumper on top of that??? so many nsfwhump fluids to be added...

[whumpshaped]

tw depersonalisation, derealisation, self-harm, gore (fingore)

Whumpee was getting a little too hasty with the knife as they diced their onions. The blade cut through the flesh of their finger like butter, and blood quickly pooled to the surface in its wake.

They stared at it, uncomprehending. It didn’t even hurt. It looked like their finger and their blood, but it didn’t… feel like it.

They used the tip of the knife to poke at the wound, sliding it under the half-detached flap of skin and folding it back. They dug the sharp point into the raw flesh and their muscles twitched, but at best they felt like they were a doctor, hitting someone else’s knee with a reflex hammer.

Blood, so much blood from just a tiny little cut. Maybe Whumper was right. Maybe they had gone easy on them. Maybe it wasn’t that hard to leave them in a puddle of their own blood.

They angled the knife and made another cut, severing that small piece of flesh entirely. They made another cut, entranced by the idea of dicing up their own fingers along with the vegetables. Were they even their own fingers? They should’ve felt something by now, right?

“Whumpee!” Someone grabbed them by the shoulders and pulled them away from the cutting board, and the knife fell from their hand, loudly clattering to the floor. “Holy shit– fuck– what are you doing?”

They were guided to the sink and their hand was put under running water, but they couldn’t tell whether it was cold or warm. They felt nothing apart from fascination with the way it painted the sink pink.

“Whumpee,” their friend tried again, and they slowly looked up to meet their eyes. They looked so concerned. And for what? They were completely fine. “What were you doing? That– that doesn’t look like an accidental cut– and there’s so much blood…”

“Dicing.” Their voice sounded distant and unfamiliar, and they wondered whether they’d ever find their way back to their own body or they were permanently locked outside. “I was dicing.”

#whump #whump drabble #self-harm #gore #fingore

[ashintheairlikesnow]

IRL whump but it's me cutting the tip of my finger off with a mandolin slicer

Description includes blood and discussion of pain and what it looks like below cut

I was trying to make spring rolls. I was slicing carrots and cucumbers and sliced a huge chunk off and my finger won't stop bleeding because, like, a big part of it is missing and my kitchen looks like I committed a gruesome murder against some cucumbers and rice paper and I had to dig out my skin from the fucking mandolin I had to DIG IT OUT and I could SEE THE EDGE OF MY FINGERPRINT

Also it fucking hurts like hell, the pain is sharp and throbs with my heartbeat and we don't have any gauze WHY DO WE NOT HAVE GAUZE so I had to wrap paper towels around it but I kept bleeding through them it took so fucking long to stop bleeding and all my nerve endings are PISSED OFF and I am. I am so mad at the mandolin right now.

It took my fingertip as a blood sacrifice. It cost ten dollars and it requires blood.

I can see the fucking wedge missing. I liked that wedge. It was my favorite finger skin! Which I did not know until it was gone and left me with PAIN.

When I can write again I am doing this to a whumpee and they will feel my pain

Probably Kauri or Chris

#whump #irl whump #hand gore #finger whump #blood tw #I gave you blood blood gallons of the stuff #gave you all that you could drink and it could never be enough #- me singing MCR to my mandolin slicer #fingore

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Hands in Whump

- Caretaker with shaky hands as they dress a deep wound for the first time in their life

- Whumpee’s fists clenching absentmindedly while they are restrained, as the only way they can possibly calm themselves

- Whumpee who puts their hands in their pockets to hide the fact that they’re bruised and bleeding (and the pain that comes with shoving your raw hands into rough denim)

- Whumper who strokes their torture implements to show them off (or because they’re just fascinated by them) before using them

- Whumpee who bites their hands out of nervousness

- Caretakers with a featherlight touch and steady hands

- Accidentally getting a nail ripped off in an accident

- Nerve damage from getting a hand sliced through with a knife

#whump #writing prompts #whump prompt #finger gore tw #fingore tw

[whumblr]

First, a finger...

Continuation from Half strength CW: Fingore, broken bones

-

With an almost desperate scream, that just lacked the volume to intimidate, Whumpee launched themself at Whumper in what was to be a final attempt to gain the upper hand.

The man stepped back with a sly grin, easily deflecting the weak punch, and turned with Whumpee’s momentum, grabbing them by the wrist when the follow-up punch sailed past his face. He cranked their arm up, twisting it up their back. Then he swiftly stepped behind them and pressed them further against him with his other hand around their throat.

Whumpee writhed against him, doubling over in an attempt to gain distance. But he wouldn’t let them; the hand on their throat tightened, encouraging them back up.

Their entire body was more interested in just collapsing than to gather the final bits of strength they needed to break free. Why bother, seemed to be the message.

But Whumpee didn’t want to give in. Their shoulders bucked uselessly against him. In reply his hand just tightened around their wrist and they whimpered when their arm was forced ever further up to their shoulder blades in an unnatural angle that nearly tore their tendons.

“Oops,” Whumper merely said, something akin to a chuckle in his voice. He let go of their arm and pushed them away from him. “Nearly forgot myself there. Not yet.”

Whumpee stumbled, nearly fell over nothing but air as their own body was too keen to tilt to the floor. They drew up, just in time, to see him advancing on them like a panther stalking its prey.

“Come on, now. Fight with all you have,” he taunted, “While you still can…”

And they did. They had. They had fought with all they had, they fought with their freedom – their life – on the line. So why, why were they still beaten into the ground.

A final punch connected hard with their cheekbone and the next thing they knew they crashed hard against the concrete floor, with nothing to break their fall.

Arms trembled under their weight, but didn’t even have the strength anymore to lock at the elbows or to push their body more than a few inches from the floor. They slumped back down, the low fall still punching the remaining air out of their lungs.

And they remained there, breathing hard.

They flinched, the clacks of hard heels on the concrete drawing closer, and with a mewl they drew in on themself, expecting a gut-wrenching kick to their stomach.

But nothing happened, and the shiny black shoes –speckled with dust and some drops of unclear colour – walked past them.

“Now then…”

Whumpee winced at the sound of his voice, curled in on themselves on the floor. Everything hurt. Everything. Like they’d been stretched out too far, crumpled back up and smashed to the floor and just remained there.

“Get over here.”

No… No, they couldn’t get up! They couldn’t even move. And they knew what would happen when they struggled to their feet, when they were in front of him.

The sinister promises rang in the back of their mind: First… a finger.

They mewled softly into the crook of their elbow. They couldn’t handle more.

Then your wrist.

This was just the beginning, just like he had promised. With everything - from their blood to their spirit - beaten out of them without mercy. And still, still it was not enough. They were already in so much pain and they were doing all they could to pass out to avoid the pain to come. But their body refused.

“Whumpee.” The warning in his voice made them snap out of it and they glanced up.

He sat there, leering at them, leaning forward, arms resting over his knees with his hands clasped. They could see the blood on his knuckles, but he made no attempt to wipe it away. Probably didn’t even bother him. In fact, those hands ached for more, to feel the crunch of bone.

“Get over here. Now.”

They shook their head. “No… no, please, I— I can’t get up I—”

“I don’t care if you have to crawl over here. Do not make me say it again.”

A sharp yet sniffling intake of breath shuddered through them. They closed their eyes for a second. Then their hand scraped through the dust on the floor and firmly settled under them.

They yelped, they hissed, pain and exhaustion slowing everything as they tried to push themself to their knees. They buckled as soon as a hint of their weight rested on their ankle. They glanced up where merciless eyes took in their struggles and silently demanded for them to try again.

With every bit of effort, sobbing in pain and humiliation, they dragged themself over to him. Not even on their hands and knees; barely by their elbows, one knee, and their one leg that still had a bit of strength to propel them forward.

They came to a halt in-between his legs, pushing themself up – without even the dubious help of a hand to drag them up by the hair – and leaned heavily against his knee, panting hard.

He held his palm up. “Hand,” he merely said. Gestured impatiently up with his fingers. “Now. Or I’ll break two.”

They slid a trembling hand into his palm and he folded his other hand over it. Almost as if protecting it, but Whumpee knew better. His index finger slid under their fingers, nudging them up one by one, before settling on their ring finger. He lightly pushing it up until it strained and he grabbed it tight.

Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut, against the pain and they didn’t want to see the increasingly unnatural angle of their finger being forced back.

“Watch,” came the cold command. “Keep watching, don’t close your eyes. See how it folds back—” Whumpee did, feeling ever more sick with every tilt further, “—Feel how the tendons strain against the pressure. Feel the bone gritting against its joint, until finally—” Something snapped and a scream rose up. “It explodes.”

Whumpee’s hand jerked in his grip, but he didn’t let go. His own finger stroked lightly over their knuckle, the dislocated digit poking out at a sickening angle. Whumpee couldn’t take their eyes off it, even though it disgusted them. Whumper noticed, seeing their eyes gleam with tears.

And his grip moved over to their wrist.

“No…” they sobbed, but didn’t dare protest further. They weren’t even half way. And he could make things still so much worse.

Whumper shushed them gently. His other hand gripped their wrist as well and Whumpee twisted their head away. But besides the vice-like grip, two hands tightening and pulling at their arm, nothing happened.

He chuckled lightly. “Why, I’m flattered you seem to believe I’m strong enough to break this with my bare hands.” Another squeeze in their arm before he let go. “Believe me, I wish I was.”

He sat forward, moving Whumpee a bit so he could get up.

“As a reward, I’ll make this as swift as possible.” He gently pushed them off and stood straight.

Whumpee slumped as soon as the support of Whumper’s leg was removed. He walked behind them and Whumpee could hear him rummage about. They didn’t pay it much mind, much more concerned with their hand in their lap. But when they heard a clanging behind them and the scraping of iron over the floor, their shoulders shot up to their neck and their head spun back to see.

Whumper crouched over a metal crate, and in his hand he loosely held a crowbar. As he stood, the bar scraped over the floor, before the end flew up and came to a rest with a firm pat in Whumper’s palm.

“Put your arm on the chair.”

They did. Trembling and sobbing, but they did, without complaint. Four fingers rested shakily against the surface, with the one just sticking up at a painful angle.

A heavy and cold pressure settled on their wrist, with Whumper letting them experience the weight of the steel. With effect; it made them panic even more. But they made sure to keep it in. Their heartbeat thundered in their chest, creeping up higher and higher in their throat, fear settled in their stomach with a weight equal to the steel on their wrist, and their pleading was kept silent with only their lips moving.

As he raised the crowbar, they squeezed in on themself, eyes shut, shoulders shooting up again, and they turned their head away.

But the blow didn’t come. All they felt was a brush of air.

They peeked an eye open. Another when they saw the crowbar hovering over their wrist. They glanced up, hoping for a ray of mercy in the form of his sly grin, that this was just all meant to scare them and that their palpable fear had been enough to sate him.

His merciless cold eyes looking down on them told them otherwise.

“I said,” he nearly hissed, “watch.”

And before they could even protest or look away, the crowbar sliced through the air and crashed down on their wrist.

They howled in pain. They twisted in his grip but he held their arm firmly down.

Cool steel teased over the hot skin, the blood rushing under it already forming a lump. The cold was nice, but merely a drop in the ocean as the pain flared white hot through their arm.

His hand firmly pressed their arm to the chair and with the other ran the crowbar from their wrist over to the thick part of their forearm, just under their elbow. Then he raised the steel again.

“No!” They shrieked by now. “No, no, pleA—AaahH!”

A final hit. A last scream tore their throat. Steel tore through bone. They felt the snap of their radius under the force, and they were pretty sure they heard it.

Full on sobbing, heaving gasps, they bend over their arm, a half-hearted attempt to protect it. But that wasn’t necessary anymore… right? It was over. He delivered on his promises. Surely now… they were allowed to… pass out?

Hands curled over the back of the chair. Whumpee glanced up through their tears, barely making out an almost soft and fond expression on that always cruel face.

Then he tore the chair away from under them and they collapsed in a heap on the floor.

As predicted, as promised, they couldn’t do more than further curl in on themself in pain, cradling their arm, their only defence a soft mewl when he stood in front of them.

But the black shoes inching dangerously close to their shattered arm remained at distance and he crouched down and merely whispered to them:

“Welcome back.”

-

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whump-me @briars7 @dustypinetree @whump-it-like-its-hot

#whump #whump writing #recapture #fingore #torture #sadistic whumper #beating #captivity #one sided fight #no holds barred #broken bones #hand whump #whumplr #angst #been a while since I wrote some full on torture #my writing

[galaxywhump]

[SV-240 AU Masterlist]

Part two of Berkeley's Revenge AU.

contents: recapture, defiant whumpee, tied to a chair, death threats, past fingore/amputation, traumatic haircut, shock collar.

~~~

Berkeley winces, picking up Wren’s severed finger through a tissue, which instantly turns crimson, soaked with blood.

“It could still be attached back,” he sing-songs, smiling at Wren before tossing the tissue into a bin. “Whoops, nevermind.”

Wren barely hears him, his wide unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breathing ragged, his forehead lined with cold sweat. His finger is gone, it’s been cut off, and its absence, once it finally registers, feels so weird and so wrong. He flinches and gasps when Berkeley grabs his left hand and starts playing with his fingers, smiling to himself.

“I guess when I feel like hearing you scream again, I can just take my pick.” He lets go, circles the table, and gets to cleaning and dressing the wound on Wren’s right hand, chuckling a bit at his instinctual attempt to wrench his hand free. “Try not to get an infection and die, but it should be fine. You'll live. You’re so tough, after all.” He glances at Wren’s face, listening to his frantic breathing. “Why so quiet, Rackham? No more jokes? Figures,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “We both know how pathetic you really are.”

“You cut off my fucking finger,” Wren rasps.

“And I can do it again if you don’t stop swearing.” The terror in Wren’s eyes when his head jerks towards Berkeley makes him smile. “Yep, I think that’s a good idea. Cutting off a finger every time you swear.”

“Y-you’re-”

“I’ll let that one slide, though.” He gives Wren a bloody pat on the cheek. “Cause you didn’t know, you poor thing. But from now on you better keep that in mind. Got it?”

Wren hates himself for his immediate feverish nod.

“Good. You have your moments of obedience, don't you? It's a shame Daniel never enforced it more, but now he's gone, you are mine, and I'll change things up a bit. No swearing is a good start." Berkeley cocks his head. “Yeah, feels good to say it. You’re mine, Rackham, and I can do whatever I want to you.”

His words chill Wren to the core more than Daniel’s similar musings ever did. He knew what Daniel wanted, and after a year or so surprises had become scarce. All he knows about Berkeley’s wants is terrifying.

Kill you. More modifications.

And who knows what else.

“Alright, let’s get you off this table for now.”

Wren follows Berkeley with his eyes as he crouches down next to a duffel bag on the floor and rummages through its contents, which Wren would rather not imagine, suspecting he won’t like whatever Berkeley’s about to take out now.

Sure enough, he retrieves a shock collar.

“What the-” He stops himself from finishing at the last possible moment, but fear still sets in and he shivers. It was obvious what he was going to say, and if Berkeley considers it enough to…

“Good, you’re learning.” Berkeley smiles, standing next to the table, right by Wren’s head. “You know what this is, right?” He dangles the collar, made of flexible metallic material with a tiny box attached on one side, in the air. “Daniel had one of these too. Tell me what this is, Rackham. Three.”

“A shock collar,” Wren rushes to answer, not wanting to find out what would happen if Berkeley had counted all the way down.

“Very good!” Berkeley coos and snickers. “So I take it you’ve had to wear it before?”

“Yeah.” It was once or twice, really, but Wren chooses not to specify. He’s already obediently answering Berkeley’s questions way too much for his liking. 

“Not enough, in my opinion, but we’ll fix it.” Without further ado Berkeley treads the collar under Wren’s neck, making him jolt in place when the cold metal touches his skin, then brings it around and tightens it until it fits snugly. “Mhm, much better. You’re a natural. I’m going to untie you now, but you will stay nice and still, cause if you so much as make a move to attack me, I’ll click this little button-” he waves the small remote in the air “-and then cut off a finger or two, unless I come up with something more exciting.”

“Okay,” Wren says, contemplating the ceiling and trying not to cry. The collar doesn’t stay cold for long, but it’s still uncomfortable, and swallowing makes him shudder, and… it's going to stay now, for however long Berkeley wants. 

At least Daniel-

Shut the fuck up.

He can’t completely silence the thoughts, though. At least Daniel never cut off his fingers. At least Daniel didn’t want to collar him for good; the few times he’d done that he almost looked disgusted and made sure to take it off as soon as it was no longer necessary - as if a shock collar was ever necessary for a human being.

He quite literally jolts back to reality when the collar activates, sending a bolt of electricity through his body. It ends as soon as it started, as if it never even happened, and once the initial shock wears off, he remembers Berkeley’s warning and his heartbeat picks up, his blood running cold.

“B-but I-” He looks at Berkeley, who’s watching him with a smirk, his finger resting on the button of the remote. “I didn’t even move!”

He can’t cut my finger off, he can’t, I didn’t do anything wrong, but he can do anything he wants, no, no, no-

“I know, idiot.” The insult sounds almost affectionate. “I wish you could see the look on your face right now, so terrified. But you’re right, you didn’t move. I just wanted to see if the collar works.”

The relief that overwhelms Wren makes it hard to breathe, as if the collar wasn’t making a good enough job of that.

Berkeley struggles with the sturdy knots of the restraints before finally untying them and motioning for Wren to sit up, nice and slow, no sudden movements. He grabs him by the arm and helps him get off the table, and his grip tightens when Wren sways on his feet a little.

Wren’s forced to take a few shaky steps, his legs barely cooperating with him after being immobilized for… however long it had taken him to wake up. With a push he finds himself sitting on a chair, which seems inconspicuous until Berkeley presses a button under it, causing armrests to slide out of the back. When his wrists are grabbed and slammed down on the armrests, it turns out that the chair is also outfitted with metal restraints, which snap closed, bringing Wren’s temporary freedom of movement to an end.

“I’d stay still anyway,” he sneers when Berkeley crouches down to tie his ankles to the legs of the chair, this time with regular rope.

“I know,” Berkeley says as he straightens up and smiles at Wren. “But I just like seeing you like this, and I’m sure you missed being tied up.”

“Not really.” Wren rolls his eyes, but he can’t ignore the sense of familiarity at being restrained like this. A feeling of resignation creeps up on him, but he tries to fight it, push it away, because he’s not resigned.

Right?

There’s an unpleasant scraping sound when Berkeley grabs the chair, turns it, and pushes it forward a bit, grimacing with effort.

“Maybe,” Wren says, looking up at him with a mocking smile, “you should’ve put the chair where you wanted it to be before, you know, strapping me to it.”

“Or it should’ve been a hover chair,” Berkeley snorts as he lets go and walks up to the closet in front of them. “But we’d already modified this one, so.” He shrugs, pressing one of the buttons on the side of the closet, causing its door to convert into a mirror, then walking away.

Wren wanted to keep his eyes on Berkeley at all times, but once he sees his reflection, he can’t look away, staring at it with wide eyes, his lips parted a bit, an attempt at another snark shut down in an instant.

The collar around his neck and the bloody carved word on his chest are jarring, mocking him, and his hand… He forces himself to look up from it when nausea creeps up on him. The worst part, though, is his face. His eyes are hollow, with tears glistening in their corners, and his expression is both familiar and new - familiar pained tension, new pure terror caused by the prospect of imminent death.

He never wanted to look like this again.

He closes his eyes only to flinch and open them when he hears a series of sharp sounds. In his reflection he locks eyes with Berkeley, who grins, standing behind him, wielding a pair of scissors.

“What…” Wren trails off, but realization dawns on him and his heart sinks.

“Come on, even you should be able to figure out what I want to do.” He snips the scissors again and can’t stop himself from laughing when Wren shivers. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m pissed that I had to cut my hair off thanks to you, so it’s only fair you get a haircut too.”

Wren tenses up, his heart beating fast, his mind a mess of protests he can’t say out loud.

It’s just hair.

But it’s not, and waiting for the first cut is unbearable.

“You cut your hair yourself on SV-240, didn’t you?” Berkeley runs his fingers through Wren’s hair to untangle any knots, not caring enough to try and avoid pulling. “And then you regretted it.”

“A little bit,” Wren says through gritted teeth, looking down only to wince when his gaze stops at his bandaged hand, he cut off my fucking finger, it’s gone. “It’s just hair.”

“Bullshit. Don’t lie to me.” Wren gasps when Berkeley closes his fist in his hair and wrenches his head back. “I can’t wait to see you cry, Rackham, cause you will cry.”

He swallows, which every single time only serves to remind him about the collar and his throat being squeezed tight, when Berkeley grabs the sides of his head and forces him to look straight ahead. The scissors are freezing against his cheek, but when they disappear, it’s anything but a relief.

“Did you cry?” he asks, trying not to shiver when Berkeley separates a strand of his hair and puts it between the blades of the scissors; before he can brace himself, they close, making him flinch.

It’s just hair. It’s just hair.

“A little bit,” Berkeley sneers, cutting off another lock - not completely short, much to Wren’s confusion. “But I had no choice. With some time it’ll just grow back, right? Of course, you don’t have that kind of time.”

As much as Wren wants to respond, he doesn’t. His impending death is something he’d rather not protest against, not wanting Berkeley to take it as a reason to kill him sooner. He stays silent, doing his best to hide his shivering and forced breathing as brown hairs keep falling to the floor, some clinging to his skin, tickling and annoying him, and he can’t even brush them off.

“I’m afraid it won’t be a flattering look on you.” Berkeley clicks his tongue, not pausing his work for a moment.

“How tragic. Are you telling me you’re not a professional hairdresser?” Wren raises one eyebrow even as he struggles to hold back tears. It’s not just hair, it’s a part of himself that Berkeley is taking away from him with a promise of taking so much more.

“No, but I mostly don’t give a shit whether you’re a pretty corpse or not.”

There it is again, and Wren is sure that the reminders will only get more and more frequent, harder to ignore. Even now he can’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario, someone finding his body, maybe barely recognizing him after Berkeley’s done with him-

Pull yourself together.

I won’t die here.

The scissors keep cutting.

I’m going to escape or be saved, he’s going to get locked up, I’ll… I’ll…

“Alright, let’s see.” 

Berkeley grabs him by the hair and cuts a little bit more off.

Leaving just enough length to be able to get a good grip.

“Perfect.” Berkeley leans down to rest his chin on Wren’s shoulder and smiles. “We’re short-haired buddies now, how cool is that?”

He doesn’t get a verbal reply, but the tears glistening in Wren’s eyes are enough of an answer for him.

“Remember what this means,” he says quietly, laying his hands on Wren’s arms and giving them a light squeeze. “You may have gotten a taste of freedom, but now you’re back where you belong, as someone’s property, tied up and collared, and I can do whatever I want to your body, understand?”

A second’s pause makes it clear he’s expecting an answer, and Wren nods, averting his gaze.

“Ah-ah, look at yourself, Rackham.”

When he obeys, hating himself for it, Berkeley gently wraps his hand around his neck, teasing with his thumb just above the collar, smiling when Wren shudders.

“What do you see?”

When Daniel put him in front of a mirror, he did his best to snark. He was so different back then, scared, but determined, having only experienced being restrained, silenced, and beaten, which now seems like a laughably mild treatment. He’s still determined, he’s still hopeful, the last thing he wants to do is give up, but he recognizes that in his current situation, and with his current captor, following his spark will only lead to retaliation that he might not be able to handle.

And so he lets his despair talk instead, his voice barely audible, giving Berkeley the answer he probably wants more than all the others that come to mind, captive, idiot, pathetic crybaby.

“Property.”

"That's right."

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @wibby-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#captivity whump #defiant whumpee #recapture #traumatic haircut #tied to a chair #fingore #shock collar #wren rackham #peter berkeley #sv-240 #sv-240 au #berkeley's revenge au #my writing #aka 2 berkeley 2 revenge #apparently sometimes i need a mix of a change of surroundings nicer weather and polish music to be able to write #so this wip finally worked #and i hope y'all like it

[whumpberry-cookie]

(Cw: implied fingore, finger whump)

AI chat bots make writing so much easier.

Now I just write to the "Writer's helper" and they respond with description how the wounds after losing nails heal and how the hands look afterwards.

And I don't have to write in google search very sketchy and awkward questions.

(Tho I still overexplain to the bot that it's for the story and I am in fact NOT a murderer)

#i'm a silly little writer don't fear me I just bite from time to time #biting with love like a gremlin that struggles with showing affection #chomp munch munch #fingore #implied gore #implied torture #whump #finger whump #hand whump #hand gore

[scratchandplaster]

Stack The Deck - PART 6

CW: hand gore, broken bones, violence, passing out, emeto warning, torture

PART 5 ⇽ [Masterlist] ⇾ PART 7

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

With the fifth blow, he finally came to.

Fighting through the wild ocean drumming inside his skull, he felt white-hot pain creeping up his arm, unknown in his source. As he tried to pull his hand towards him, dizzy with nausea and not sober enough to realize what was happening to him, the pain only started to multiply.

With every second that passed, hundreds and thousands of tiny needles made his nerves mewl in chaos. The signals normally designed to keep him safe and alert ran rampant up to his neck and directly behind his eyes; dragging and dragging to no avail, his hand stayed wrenched against the table.

"Just one more..." a voice at the end of the storm spoke, soft words accompanied by a sickening crack just beside him.

As the steel met flesh again, the world went blinding white.

If he were able to hear his own screams, he would have noticed his scarf slipping back against his palate, the awfully familiar threat of choking came to his mind. Helpless to any of it, the pain rutted itself deeper into his insides, spreading throughout his whole body.

Even as he finally managed to rip his limb protectively to his chest, the despair kept on building. 

Blooming itches crept up and down the limbs, a primal attempt to push out as much pain as possible. His heartbeat frantically pressing against the hand on his chest, which started to feel more like a liquid; flowing through itself and back down his forearm, it became dangerously shapeless, numb at the places where skin split to let agony flow freely to the outside.

What did I do? I haven't… I wasn't...

A face became visible behind the white fog clouding his vision. Morris called out to him, pushing the squirming form back into the chair and held him in place. 

He did this. 

The fog, a presence he was too familiar with by now, gave room for just one single thought. 

He did this to me.

Elliot had never seen him so nervous, quickly talking to him but keeping an even level to eye him thoroughly. He must have knelt down to continue his gibberish. His face had gone rosy again, eyes bulging out of their sockets to underline his panicked expression.

"-ve to take a picture. I fix you right up, okay?"

Snatching back control over his body, Elliot used the fading shock to bring his head forward, smashing it against Morris' nose. Instantly, the pressure on his chest faded away and without thinking any further, he jumped up to get as far away as possible.

--------

Morris snapped back quickly after Elliot, obviously confused and semiconscious, pressed his forehead uncomfortably harsh against the other's face. It didn't even hurt, Morris was too agitated himself to react in any other way.

The wild expression in his captive's eyes was surrounded by a light splatter of red. Somehow, his method of choice must have spread the escaped blood all over its surroundings.

With a kick to the bound legs, useful for once as a point of contact, Morris simply knocked him down to the floor again to curb any kind of escape attempt.

He should have stayed asleep, that's all he tried to achieve with this theater, but nothing seemed to go as planned anymore.

As he laid on the carpet, still cradling his left hand and utterly lost in painful shivers, Morris quickly used his opportunity to grab him by the ankles.

He couldn't work like that.

Elliot had gone slack again, staring up at the ceiling with watery eyes so raw around the edges, it looked like they too were about to stain him red. 

Pulling him through the threshold, Morris managed to get them both settled onto the bathroom floor, ripping fingers away from the protective grasp and fixed them quickly onto the once white tiles.

--------

He remembered everything now. The car, the alley, even the fight that followed shortly after - like time was turned back to the biggest mistake of his life, to give him another chance. He would make use of it. 

Spurred by his new will to survive, Elliot let his free hand grab up into Morris hair, nails digging into the soft scalp and twisting the head away from his mauled side. 

Both their breathing went rapid now, but Morris still had the upper hand. His knee connected painfully with Elliot's stomach, threatening to cause even more damage than intended. Taking advantage of his loose grip, his right arm was ripped to the floor and kept in a tight squeeze under Morris' knee.

"Don't make me do this, Elliot!"

Never even thinking about stopping his struggle, Morris looked down at his captive horrified, nearly apologetic, as he pushed the fingers apart with his own. Trapped in violent hand holding, the man above let his body weight shift onto the vice-like grip, thus leaning directly into the abused flesh.

Unable to keep himself together anymore, the agony took over his higher brain functions with a high-pitched wail. Pushing the cursed scarf out of his mouth through a simple retch, everything his stomach could handle during the day just emptied itself onto the bathroom floor, to find its place within blood and tears.

A broken yelp slipped through the room, as Elliot let go of all consciousness; escaping his torture after all.

--------

He should have never done this alone, how stupid could he be? The mashed appendage on the bathroom floor let its blood pool freely, teared skin ripped open to reveal thin bones underneath, visible for anyone who would watch.

"Fucking hell!" Morris murmured to himself, taking a good look at the surrounding damage.

The tremors ripping through Elliot didn't seem to halt for even a second, though his eyes were half-closed and staring blankly into the void.

It was better that way, gave him more time for clean-up. Grabbing the first aid kit from his bag, he nearly forgot about the photo until the antiseptic fell out of his shaky grasp.

He needed to calm himself, immediately. A voice deep inside forbade him to leave his little bane on the ground like that, between piss stains and vomit. He tended to underestimate the risk of infection when it came to this house.

Snapping some quick close-ups of the mess Elliot caused him to inflict, Morris could finally get back to damage control.

If Amber wouldn't answer now, what would be had left as an alternative? He didn't plan anything after this point, frankly, not even after he got Elliot to the house.

His gaze stayed fixed onto the man's face: The horror of the last minutes, or day maybe, was etched into his features. Old and new bloodstains finding each other to blend seamlessly into his clothes and hair.

Morris would not resent him for this, he wasn't erratic enough to expect a man just to sit and take it.

Not knowing what else to do, he started to pour the disinfectant over the open gashes, thinned crimson seeping into the grout.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Febuwhump 2023 Masterlist]

@febuwhump

#whump #whumpblr #creative writing #whump community #whump drabble #febuwhump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday21 #gore #fingore #broken bones #emeto tw #throwing up #disfigurement #torture #fighting #violence #carewhumper #morris gets lima syndrome?! #regretful whumper #defiant whumpee #reluctant whumper #stack the deck

[pigeonwhumps]

oooo could we maybe cut some of fangs fingers off?!

CWs: fingore, non-human whumpee, lady whump, torture

"Mm. I like that." The Mask strides over to a rack of tools and runs his hand along them. "What to use, what to use. Ah! I know!" He picks up a tenon saw and grins. "Haven't used this in a while. Hey, Fangs. Give me your hand."

Fangs extends her unbroken hand, trembling hard, and The Mask takes it, pulling her over to the table and pushing her hand down onto it. He spreads her fingers and starts sawing at her little finger.

She screams as the saw hits bone, cutting through with a nasty crunch. The Mask keeps going, chopping it right off and laying it neatly in the centre of the table before starting on the next one.

Fangs screams herself hoarse until all that comes out are hitched pants. It's easy to hear the squelching flesh and crunching bone over them.

When two fingers are sitting in the middle of the table and blood's oozing from what remains of Fangs' hand, The Mask stands up straight and turns to the camera. He waves Fangs' mutilated hand at the audience and she squeaks in pain.

"That's all the fingers you're getting cut right now, folks. It takes some time for them to grow back, you see, and I do need some left intact for more of the session. But feel free to ask again later. It's always fun to see how Fangs reacts to losing body parts."

He smiles and winks.

A/N: This is interactive! Please send asks with your requests for The Mask to do!

Torturing Fangs masterlist

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy @nyooom @blood-is-compulsory

#whump #whump writing #lady whump #non human whumpee #vampire whump #vampire whumpee #whumpee and whumper #torture #fingore #hand whump #edith oc #torturing fangs

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

he's not a big fan of copycats...especially the ones that go after his final girl

#whump #my art #whump community #whumpee #whump scenario #whumper #mcd #major character death #tw blood #tw gore #guro #hand whump #fingore #masked whumper #slashers #whump art #whump prompt #boy couldnt even get his pants/shoes right smh my head

[whumpshaped]

Whumper walking on Whumpee during their escape attempt, where Whumpee has somehow escaped their restraints and managed to get a weapon. Bonus points if Whumpee is surprisingly competent with weapons.

this doesnt get bonus points but its so close i have to link it

tw guns, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, gore (fingore), death threat

Whumper froze for a moment when they saw the empty shackles, knowing well that they’d left all their usual weapons in the cell with their captive. If their captive was out–

“Don’t move,” Whumpee said calmly, punctuating it with the click of the gun being cocked.

“Now, let’s not get carried away.” Whumper slowly turned their head to look at Whumpee, flashing them a charming smile while trying to reach into their pocket. “I think–”

Bang. The bullet hit their hand with clinical precision, blowing two fingers clean off. Whumper let out a scream of sheer horror at the sight, cradling their wounded hand against their chest.

“Don’t. Move.”

“What the fuck?” they shouted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Whumpee didn’t waver; their hand stayed steady, and the gun was still pointed straight at them. “I’m going to tell you exactly what to do, and you’re going to do it. Every time you fail to comply, I’m putting another bullet in you.”

“Oh, you’re going to run out very fucking quickly,” they snarled, and Whumpee allowed themself an amused smile.

“I know exactly how many bullets this has — the last one is going in your head. But at that point, I’d wager it’ll be at your request, as a last little mercy.” They tilted their head to the side, and Whumper saw nothing in their eyes but the murderous intent to support that statement. “I’ll give you a moment to think about whether you really want to spite me.”

#asks #whump #whump drabble #guns #whumper turned whumpee #whumpee turned whumper #gore (fingore) #death threat

[stab-the-son-of-a]

Family Business

No. 3 A HAIR’S BREADTH FROM DEATH

Gun to Temple | “Say goodbye.” | Impaled

TWs: Child abuse, child whumpee, emotional abuse, child endangerment

He holds himself so still his muscles ache with the effort- yet his face is placidly calm, his posture deceptively loose, and he absolutely doesn't look away from the man pressing the gun to his temple.

Hazel meets hazel. His own eyes stare back at him, wizened by a few decades. Maybe three. Who ever really cared about that sort of thing? 

"C'mon pops," he jokes. Two short words are not enough to betray the tightness in his throat or to allow his voice the chance to crack, but for a moment, he's sure his old man heard. His father has always read him well, but he's changing the pages every year, learning a cypher for his thoughts and his behavior to keep Dad out of his head.

After a long moment of uncomfortable eye contact, his father speaks. "Taunting your captor will serve only to irritate them."

That's the point, he doesn't say, but he allows his lips to smirk, allows that bit of information to pass through his filter. "Epic."

His father's brow furrows, a flash of confusion, before the barrel cracks against his temple harder.

He sees sparks and tastes the iron and heat that comprises them. His head spins on his shoulders, balance slipping and forcing him to adjust. The wire holding his wrists together cuts deeper into his skin. There's a wetness that tells him that he's making progress in at least slicing open his flesh. How lovely.

"Answer the question, son, before I shatter your jaw next."

"I wouldn't be of much use now would I?" he quips. He keeps his father's attention on his words, on his overly animated expression, on the smirk he paints across his lips, all to distract from what his hands are doing behind his back. It's difficult, his father's gaze trying to rip the intention from the slightest of tells, but he's learning, rapidly, and he's working just as quickly.

His fingers have gone numb hours ago, so he works carefully, but he slips them between the exposed cable and the bit of rubber coating, fibers catching and breaking his nails as he works. 

"You'd be a damn sight less irritating, that's for certain." 

Each metal strand, wound together, slowly frays. He's not sure if the blood from his nailbeds and fingertips helps or hurts his cause, lubrication of sorts, maybe.

"Don't push your captors to think of you as more trouble than you're worth."

"'And I'm not worth much'," he paraphrases his father's next words.

Dad almost smiles. It's just a hint of amusement, of warmth, in his gaze, but it's there.

But then Dad's eyes widen slightly. It's not much, but it may as well be a dramatic gasp, complete with heart clutching theatrics, for all the action is so out of character. 

Smirking, he bats his lashes up at his father, the trick knife resting against where his kidney should be. His own blood trickles convincingly down his wrist, and the open sores on his fingertips stain Dad's pristine white shirt.

"Oops," he says, voice and head light with giddiness. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning, pops. My treat."

Once his hands were freed, it was child’s play to reach into Dad’s jacket pocket for the knife he kept there. Always on his right side. ‘Don’t be predictable’ had been one of his very first lessons, and yet, here they are.

Carefully, Dad schools his shock into something less visible, and for a split moment there's doubt- did he do right? Did he still fail?

But then the gun falls away from his temple and Dad is smiling, even more apparent now. He pats him on the head, not remembering the other cracks he's taken to the skull this week, and then wraps his arm around his shoulders to lead him out of the testing range.

His chest feels ready to burst and it's not the broken ribs. It takes everything in him not to grin at his father.

"Why not between the ribs?" Dad asks. It's not a criticism. It's a genuine question. The same sort he asks of his business partners when trying to understand their thought processes. 

He feels for the first time like an equal to his father.

"Name of the game is switching roles. Making you as useless as a gasping fish wouldn't've helped my position."

Dad chuckles. "No, I suppose not. Good work, son. I’m proud."

The warmth in his chest overwhelms the burning pain in his hands.

#whumptober2022 #no.3 #Gun to Temple #OC #fic #fingore #finger trauma #implied child whump #child whumpee #emotional abuse #child abuse #child endangerment #threats of violence #gun violence #emotional manipulation #live feed supplement #twisted perspective #LF Redacted #pistol whipping

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Two Truths and a Lie, Whump Edition #1: Fingore

Which of the following is not inspired by true events I have either experienced firsthand, or heard firsthand accounts of?

CW: Light mention of animal harm from an automobile; broken finger; nail whump

1.) Whumpee accidentally peels off their own pinky toenail in the middle of conversation because they got too excited about being able to talk about their interests. They don’t realize they’re bleeding or in pain until they go to the bathroom to trim the part of the nail that refuses to come off. They leave the remaining nail alone, spray ointment on the wound, and dress it in a bandage.

2.) Whumpee rescues a squirrel they found injured on the side of the road. It is still conscious, so Whumpee takes their scarf off, placing it over the squirrel’s eyes so it doesn’t freak out when they move it. This, however, only works to calm the squirrel’s visual perceptions, and not its physical sensations; Whumpee accidentally manages to press on an injured area of the squirrel, causing it to lash out and crunch their knuckle to the bone. Whumpee lifts the squirrel more carefully the second time and drives home one-handed, with the injured hand in the cup holder to collect the blood.

3.) Whumpee is working on a carpentry project while wearing leather shop gloves. They accidentally misplace their hands while working with heavy equipment and experience a blinding stab of pain in their finger; when they look down, they see it is bent 90 degrees. Whumpee, very logically, decides to grab a hammer and pound the broken digit in the opposite direction until it is straight again. This works. Whumpee removes the glove to inspect the injury and realizes it is an open fracture; there is blood everywhere. Whumpee proceeds to pour straight rubbing alcohol into the open fracture, wrap the wound with duct tape, and shove the whole hand back into the glove.

#whump prompt #whump #writing prompts #two truths and a lie #Gonna make this a series #fingore

[when-the-feet-hurt]

cw: finger + mouth gore

“You have a lot of nerve.”

“I know.  Isn’t it charming?”

Whumper glares at Whumpee as they tug on some gloves.  “If I thought it was, then neither of us would be here right now.”

“You just don’t want to admit that you love me.”

Whumper shakes their head.  “Is this your idea of love?  Were you already fucked up before you came here?”

Whumpee shrugs.  “Maybe.  Maybe not.  If you want to know for sure, you’ll have to get closer to me!”

“I have no intention of doing that.”  Whumper grips a pair of needle nose pliers in their hand, their other encircling Whumpee’s wrist, even though it’s already tied to the chair.  “Honestly, I’m contemplating killing you.  Your voice annoys me.”

“What?  You’d really kill lil’ ol’ me?  How—”

Whumpee cuts themself off with a curse, biting their lip as Whumper rips off one of their nails, an awful sting pulsing in their finger as blood blooms from the raw, pink flesh of their nail bed.  Unbothered, Whumper opens the pliers, letting Whumpee’s nail fall to the floor without a sound.  Metal teeth grasp another one of their nails.  It comes off.  With tears in their eyes, Whumpee clenches their uninjured hand into a fist.  A third nail comes off.  Whumpee can’t hold back the tears.  Blood pours from their nailbeds and pools underneath their fingertips.  The fourth nail comes off.  Whumper holds down Whumpee’s forearm as they thrash.  The fifth comes off.  Agony eats at Whumpee’s fingers, anything and everything painful, even the slightest shift in the air.  It deafens them to their own screams.

Whumper cleans the pliers of any blood, face blank as always.  “That’s what you get for trying to scratch me.”

“F-Fuck,” Whumpee heaves, “fuck you.”

Kneeling back down, Whumper forcefully unfurls Whumpee’s undamaged hand and rips out their nails in quick succession, leaving Whumpee without a moment to catch their breath as the pain overtakes their body, as their throat grows sore and dry from screaming.

“Did you think this is high school, where you can just get away with a slap on the wrist?”

Whumpee looks up at Whumper.  They smirk, eyes narrowed.  “You know, this isn’t as bad as some of the punishments my teachers gave out.” Whumper takes a fistful of Whumpee’s hair, crouching down to eye-level and staring them down with green eyes.  “I’m sick and tired of your jokes.”

“Oh?  Maybe we have different ta—”

Blood-stained pliers grab Whumpee’s tongue, and as Whumper pulls and pulls, Whumpee finds that they can no longer scream.

#whump writing #defiant whumpee #fingore #mouth whump

[painsandconfusion]

Sir

Little Fox - Part Fourteen

(tw: impalement, hand gore, broken bones, fingore, burns, punishment, escape attempt, murder, blood, carnage, corpse, rotting corpse, death, intimate whumper, needles, injection, dead body, gore)

[Previous | Masterlist | Next]

Kara had long fallen numb, just staring at the spatters of crimson and watching the blood dry. Puckering around the edges and flaking away in others. 

It was probably hours, but to the mind that swam in darkness and agonizing blur, it seemed like an eternity.

Or. Maybe just a few moments. 

Alec returned, whistling a nursery rhyme as he trotted down the stairs, filling the small basement with clanging echoes of his heels hitting the sharpcut steel, accented by the piercing whistle. 

Kara’s eyes mashed shut, chin tucking into her shoulder. 

Alec’s laugh warmed the sharp sounds away as he stepped up to her, kneeling on the blood-smeared cement - evidently not caring if the tacky red stained at the knees of his jeans. 

“Aww..little fox, you look so tired.”

There was barely any malice behind her voice. She couldn’t muster much at all. Just a semi-robotic, dull, “ffuck you.”

Alec raised a brow, leaning back. “You want me to leave again, then huh?”

Kara’s eyes pinched desperate, flicking up to him.

Alec smirked down at that. “No?”

She swallowed thickly, tongue pressing to the back of her throat and sticking in it’s dryness. “..nno.”

Alec’s smirk warmed just a touch as he reached out, delicately combing hair from her face with gentle fingers. Her skin shivered and pinched under his touch anyway. “You ready to get down from there now?”

Kara’s eyes closed again. She was tired. So tired. Tired and sick and trembling with the static, numbed pain. “..y es”

Alec hummed, knuckles hooking under her chin to pry it up - face curling toward him. “Ask nicely.”

Kara’s stomach rolled. 

The smallest piece of her, long buried in darkness, wished she would say no. Spit in his face. Lash out and kick him. 

But her legs were all but numb. There was no spit in her mouth to hurl his direction. She had no more quips to give. No tools to use against him. Not even for something as simple as this. 

“..pl-ease” crackled from her dry throat. 

Alec hummed a smile, pinching her cheek lightly and shaking it like she was a goddamn toddler. “I think a ‘sir’ would make that ask stick a little better, don’t you~?”

Kara grimaced, face pinching around his grip. Trying to ignore the bruise even if every flicker of pain made her head spin. 

Fine. 

She wanted to lay down. She wanted to be done. She didn’t want to be here anymore. 

She couldn’t sit here, kneeling and nailed to a pole any more. 

She wanted to be done. 

So the words slid out of her, clattering down from her lips, dispassionate and empty. “..please sir.”

A grin pulled across Alec’s face now. He let go of her cheek, thumb smoothing out the forming bruise. “Good girl. And here I thought you were gonna be difficult.”

Regret immediately blooms in her gut as Alec stands, wandering toward the shelves to grab something - supposedly to get her down. Even Alec had more faith in her. 

Shame starts sprouting up alongside the regret. 

Metal pulls rippling clangs from the shelf as Alec drags a hammer from its place. “This is going to suck. You know that, right?” 

As if her stomach wasn’t already in knots. 

She didn’t know why she was so stupid as to assume that when she was ‘done’ she was done. But no.

No, there was a fucking nine inch nail ripped through her hands - of course getting down was going to hurt. 

Kara’s eyes squeezed shut again. If she weren’t completely out of tears, they’d be rolling down her cheeks again. “..y-yeah-”

“Good.” Alec kneeled down in front of her again, reaching up to wipe a little blood away from the head of the nail. “I’m going to hurt you. Very badly. Then you’ll go back to your room and I’ll get you some food and water and you’ll sleep.”

She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see his face as it pressed closer to her. Feeling his warmth parallel her own as he reached up to where her tingling hands fell limp on the nail.  Her arms once again stretched up a little - shaky in their attempt to take weight off the wound. “..kk-kay-”

Her breath was coming shallow again, churning her stomach in short, choppy punches. Quick and breathy as she tensed - ready for the hurt. 

It was blinding. 

She’d thought her hands were finally falling numb, but as the cool steel pressed against her palm they started tingling to life just in time to feel every little ripple and snap of the bones in her palm. 

A ragged, raspy wail clawed up her throat as she felt bones break and flesh rip. It rang through her skull and left her empty, crashing to the concrete once the nail was gone. 

Glitching, shaking arms tried to pull closer to cradle her mutilated hands to her chest, but they wouldn’t quite listen. 

Alec sighed, sitting down cross-legged. He took one of her arms, ignoring the scream that followed. His hand started working up it. Gripping and massaging at the muscle. Making sure the shoulder and elbow were properly in place. “You know, you’re not the only one who’s had a bad day.” Slightly teasing, but there’s a bitterness behind it. 

Kara’s eyes finally opened, blurred by hot, salty tears - evidently she’d had some left after all. She just..stared at him. Half pleading, half judging. Her fingers twitched, pulling squeaks and whimpers out of her as he worked blood back up her arms, one at a time. 

Blessedly, he did manage to stay away from her hands, working only at the fiery muscles until her arms were able to move properly. 

“Alright, that should do ya.” He let her arms fall back to her, letting her clutch them against her chest, breaths short and punching down her throat as she tried to get a grip on the pain. 

It wasn’t going well.

Alec nodded toward her door. “Go on, get back to your room.”

Kara’s eyes strained up, across fifteen feet or so of concrete toward the open door. 

She looked back at him, desperation and exhaustion in her eyes. How was she supposed to get there? Her hands were ruined and her feet burned to oblivion and back. 

Alec just rolled his. “I don’t care if it hurts, just get there. You can crawl.”

She just..stared.

Alec’s eyes darkened a little. “Or I’ll nail you to the beam again and you can stay out here?”

A little panic surged through her, and she pushed herself up to sitting. Almost. 

Pausing for a breath.

“Go.”

Kara’s stomach churned - it didn’t seem to be stopping that new favorite activity. She muttered out a ‘ffine-’ and fell onto her elbows and knees, forcing half numb legs to shove her forward through the agony. 

The thick, pointed steel of the hammer curled around her jaw, pulling her back to face Alec. “What I’m looking for here is a ‘yes sir’.”

She didn’t have it in her to fight anymore. 

Fuck, she just wanted to lie down why couldn’t she just lie down??

But she didn't want to stay here - didn't want to spend another second next to the long-cold corpse.

The words dropped from her mouth without much care. “Yesssir.”

Alec hummed in approval, letting the hammer fall away from her face. 

Kara didn’t know how she shoved through - probably because individual steps didn’t hurt that much more than holding still. That, and the blind fear of Alec bringing the hammer down on her skull if she took too long. Either way, she dragged herself - somehow - back into her room, collapsing on the floor by her bed. 

Alec didn’t follow. 

She had a few blessed minutes of solitude. The cool concrete pressed against the edges of her burns, pulling soft whines from her throat, but soothing aching muscles anyway. She just let herself lie there, eyes closed against the pain.

But pain returned anyway. It pushed open the door, holding a small glass and a box. Wearing a soft smile. 

“Awwww,” it cooed. “You’re so cute all curled up like that.” He shifted to sit on the bed, arms scooping up under Kara to pull her up to him. 

She blanched at the pain, head swimming and whimpers falling from her lips. He didn’t care. She ended up curled up in his lap anyway. 

“Shh..no more hurt, I’m just getting you some basics.” He reached for the glass, pressing it to her lips.

Kara hesitated, breath stinging against her ribs. “Whh..at is-”

“Mostly water. Some vitamins. It’s warm but won’t burn you. It’ll help.”

Her nose wrinkled up, but she let the rim of the glass slip between her lips, hesitant at first, then drinking greedily as he tipped it up.

Little by little, he let her finish off the glass, then sat with her, hand carding softly through her hair. 

She didn’t care much at the prick of the needle. That much was familiar. What she didn’t know was why. Why he cared to give her her daily doses. Why he cared to get her prescriptions right. She didn’t bother wondering how he knew what she took or how often. She was done questioning his sleuthing skills. 

She just..curled into him, exhausted, twitching, and oddly grateful for the touch. The estrogen. The water. The bed. 

She knew vaguely that she should be pulling away.

Should be upset.

Should be rejecting this. 

But instead, she just found her eyes closing, breaths rough but shallow. Small. Curled into him and relishing the fingers in her hair.

She let go, letting him whisper soft praises and slipping away into a gray fog. 

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(tags: @prisonerwhump @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing  @there-will-always-be-blood @wormwriting @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @deltaxxk @warm-my-whumpee-heart @whumpy-catfish @whumpasaurus101 @looks-better-in-blood)

#impalement #hand gore #broken bones #fingore #burns #punishment #escape attempt #murder #blood #carnage #corpse #rotting corpse #death #intimate whumper #lady whump #female whumpee #needles #injection #carewhumper #creepy whumper #alec #kara #alec and kara #little fox #whump #whump series #i guess this is off hiatus #wooooooooooo! #everyone thank that one anon for requesting this or it would have waited another year and and a half asdkfaskd #dead body

[galaxywhump]

wasn't sure since it didn't seem like you'd written anything in a bit and i didn't want to just put you on the spot! so we've seen wren experience panic/triggering from pre daniel trauma and daniel's reactions to that. i'd be interested to see daniel's reaction to wren getting triggered/having a panic attack/flashbacks from something daniel has done to him (whipping, breaking his fingers, stabbing through his hands)

Took me a while (what else is new), but here you go!

[SV-240 masterlist]

contents: forced relationship whump, slavery whump, creepy/intimate whumper, trauma, flashbacks, panic attack, creepy comfort, referenced: broken fingers, whipping, cutting.

~~~

Wren has gone through so much pain since he was captured; torture has become just a fact in his life, something Daniel loves too much to let it go. 

The regular torture methods he has gotten used to. They hurt regardless, but he's used to the sight of the whip or Daniel's favorite knife, and the way they bite into his flesh.

But then there are the others, the ones that have only happened once, in circumstances he'd rather not relive. The more time passes, the fuzzier the memories become - but the memory of the pain becomes exaggerated, and when he catches himself thinking back to it against his will, all he remembers is agony.

But all of that is behind him, hopefully. He's learned to block it from his memory - until now.

"Give me a break."

It's just a movie. They're sitting on the couch, Daniel's arm wrapped around Wren, holding him close, and they're watching a movie together. It means over an hour of relative silence between the two of them, since Wren's not in the mood for commenting on what's happening on the screen. He was relieved to hear that this was the plan for the day, that Daniel wanted to relax too.

Then he hears the words. They're just words, just that one common word that he's heard again and again here, but this is different, and it takes him back, like he's been punched in the face and sent flying backwards into the past, but then ended up here again, on the couch, in Daniel's casual embrace.

"You're breaking my heart."

His hands are trembling, fingers stiff; he's scared to move them, expecting agony accompanying a nauseating crack. He can hear it so clearly, one after another, and he can hear something else, laughter, so much laughter, Daniel's and Berkeley's, laughing at him as he sobbed into the couch, unable to resist while his fingers were getting broken one by one.

He jolts in place when someone grabs his hand, he can already feel the pain even though nothing has happened yet, tears gather in his eyes and trickle down his face, and he can barely breathe.

"No!" he cries out, wrenching his hand free and backing away, scrambling to the end of the couch, his breathing quick and shallow. Breaking echoes in his head, the word said in Berkeley's voice and the sickening sound reverberating from his fingers, which hurt so much.

"Hey."

Daniel's voice. It's different, there's genuine worry where there used to be sadistic satisfaction, and yet it's nowhere near soothing, it never is. He shakes his head, curling up, holding his hands close to his chest.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Daniel frowns, moving closer and reaching towards Wren, not stopping when he flinches away. 

"N-no," Wren chokes out when Daniel grabs his arm, but he can't free himself, it wouldn't change anything, he was only punished even more harshly for trying to run. "Stay away, d-don't-"

"I'm not doing anything. Did the movie remind you of something? Whatever it was, it's okay now. You're here, and you're safe with me."

"You did that to me!" Wren curls up more to protect his hands, terror only increased by hopelessness, because if Daniel really wants to repeat that torture, there's nothing that can change his mind.

"Did what?" Daniel tightens his grip on Wren's arm, looking him up and down, and realization finally seems to dawn on him when he notices the way Wren's hiding his hands from him. "Oh. You mean breaking your fingers?"

Wren shivers and doesn't respond, but Daniel doesn't seem to need his confirmation.

"Oh, sweetheart…" Wren can't back off any further and has no choice but to let Daniel pull him closer and wrap one arm around him again; Daniel doesn't let go when he feels Wren tense up, his breathing still strained. "That was ages ago, and I promise it was a one-time thing. I'll never do that to you again."

Wren exhales, doing his best to calm down, but Daniel being so close is anything but calming, and then he whimpers and tries to pull back when Daniel gently takes his hands.

"No…"

"Shh. It's okay. I won't hurt you like that again." Daniel squeezes his hands and smiles.

"You're still hurting me," Wren whispers, his voice shaky.

"I know, but there are things I won't do, again or at all. That is one of them."

And yet Wren's breath catches in his throat when Daniel takes hold of his fingers and curls them slightly.

"Relax, sweetheart. I won't do anything."

"Then let go."

"Just trust me." Daniel leans his head against Wren's. "We'll finish the movie some other time, okay? Or we can watch something else. For now just try to calm down."

It's hard when Daniel continues playing with Wren's fingers, squeezing his hands from time to time, knowing well that it’s counterproductive to his goal of making Wren calm down, but choosing to do it anyway. Not hurting him, just reminding him that he can, at any moment, whenever he pleases, while Wren can do nothing but follow his suggestion and do his best not to reminisce about that nightmare any longer.

~~~

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#slavery whump #forced relationship whump #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #flashbacks tw #trauma tw #creepy comfort #fingore #wren rackham #daniel rooney #sv-240 #my writing #thanks for the request! sorry it took so long #please let me know if the taglist work because the post editor in asks is horrendous #i think i'm just gonna take screenshots of asks next time