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painsandconfusion · 7 months

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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)

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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)

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secretwhumplair · 7 months

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In a room

709 words | Sequel to Possession

Prompt | No. 1 "But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.” - @whumptober

Content | Captivity, aftermath of Doing Horrible Things, hand gore, implied fainting

Notes | I didn't prepare as much for whumptober as I would have liked to but I have this! And plans for continuation c:

Our unfortunate possessed is continuing to have. A time.

»Sorry it’s a little… like that, I wasn’t really expecting a guest.« Their good samaritan gave an awkward laugh as they showed them into the bare, little room with nothing but a mattress leaning on the wall and a dim lightbulb dangling from the ceiling.

They didn’t know what to say, or what to think of all this. They were already overwhelmed, and that was before the flood of gratitude at this stranger helping them out when they had nowhere else to go.

They entered the room on shaky legs. Something inside their gut felt wrong, but everything was wrong today.

»No, it’s - thanks. Honestly…« They felt the urge to explain themself, even if they knew they wouldn’t be believed. How would they? And yet- »I - I don’t know if you know what - I didn’t do anything. I mean, I didn’t mean to, I-« They realized they were just digging the hole deeper - everything they said sounded like an excuse.

»No, I saw it on the news.« His voice came from right behind them, in the doorway, soft and reassuring. »But like - it’s clear that - look at you now, you couldn’t do those things.«

That was another relief, that he knew what had happened and still wanted to help. They wouldn’t have to worry about him finding out and ditching them at the nearest police station when they had nothing to say in their defense that didn’t sound batshit insane. They were so tired and confused and afraid.

»No, I really - I couldn’t.«

»Can’t wait to hear what it has to say about it, though.«

They turned around. The stranger was still standing in the doorway, watching them with an odd look in his eyes. But then he would be - they were covered in blood and - and really, they needed rest. A hospital would have been ideal, but that certainly wasn’t an option, not after what had happened.

What had he just said?

»I…« They didn’t want to be ungrateful. The feeling in their gut was pounding at their aching skull and broken ribs, begging to be acknowledged - to be recognized.

They were still covered in blood, sticky where it hadn’t yet fully dried. »Can I take a shower?« they asked quietly, already more than the obvious question. He would say yes and help them with their injuries and maybe they could call a friend despite everything-

»I’m not sure that’s safe.« He smiled at them with apparent benevolence.

They looked down at themself. The thought hadn’t occurred to them. What if - whatever it was came back?

»Don’t worry, you’re safe here.«

»I need-«

»I’ll take care of it. Get some rest, will you.« The smile was still there, unwavering, as the door closed between them.

It was a sturdy metal door, wholly out of place in this little suburban house he’d taken them to.

They stared at it for a full minute, then it became to much to just stand here, and they backed up against the wall and let themself slide down to the floor.

Everything hurt, still. Every breath stabbed at where the chair had hit their body to the complete indifference of the - well, of it, whatever it was. They examined their hands, bloody from the nails down. Several had torn, and one was ripped off almost completely, hanging by the side. It was a sickening sight more than feeling; maybe they were still in shock, and this didn’t help. They half-thinkingly pushed the loose nail back onto its bed and whimpered at the sensation.

This, everything, was all wrong.

They felt dizzy, fuzzy, not-quite-there. The small, bare room was stuffy and starting to fill up with the stink of blood. They really needed a shower. They probably needed a doctor. They needed to sleep.

Well, there was a mattress.

They tried to get up to put it on the floor, but they were hit with such a rush of nausea they collapsed right back onto the floor.

»I - I need a sip of water,« they mumbled, their best attempt at a shout, but of course there was no chance the stranger had heard them through that door.

That was when they noticed the camera stuck in a corner of the ceiling.

Everything was wrong.

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #lyric #original content #whump writing #captivity #hand gore #gore #my writing

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whumblr · 2 years

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Heyyy, id like to request a whumper driving nails into a whumpee's leg(or anywhere you want)

develop the idea if and however you like <33

Whumpee just watched as Whumper came in, carrying a box of nails and a hammer, humming a cheerful tune. The faint curiosity in their eyes betrayed a certain hope. A hope quickly squashed as Whumper sat down in front of them, cross-legged, and gave the box of nails a little shake.

"Are you redecorating this mess of a basement?" they tried, giving them the chance to swallow their nerves and keep up an appearance of defiance.

"In a way, sure," Whumper said as he opened the box and rummaged through, making the nails clink and shift about as if wanting to find the right one. The sound had the right effect and he watched in glee as he saw the goosebumps spread over his captive's arms.

His eyes snapped to Whumpee and his hand clamped over their wrist, pressing their hand to the floor.

"Open up, darling," he said, teasing the nail over their clenched fist. "Open up, or I'll drive them into some muscle first."

Trembling hard, Whumpee opened their hand, planting their palm against the wooden floor.

"That's it," Whumper purred. He held the nail in-between their thumb and index finger, pricking it into the little web of skin between their fingers.

"No... no, please..." Whumpee whispered.

"Shh," Whumper shushed. He removed his hand from their wrist, not without giving it a little squeeze in warning first, and picked up his hammer. "Don't move now, don't pull away. Or I'll break your fingers first." He let the cold steel of the hammer rest over their knuckles.

"Shh," he shushed again as soft whimpers rose up. "This won't cause too much damage, it's not like broken fingers, or a nail through the hand, shh. I just want to give you a little... test trial. You know, to see if this will help you to stay in one spot. Instead of flitting about and trying to get away all the time. Because if that happens again... should I misplace you again..." The hammer hit home, piercing the nail through skin and into the wooden floor, and he had to pause as Whumpee interrupted him with an agonising scream.

"If this time I can't find you where I left you," he said in a more sinister voice, rubbing his thumb over Whumpee's hand that they didn't dare move. "I will put a nail through both your hands and pin you to the fucking wall and we'll see about redecorating this basement."

Tagging, sorry if ya dont like hand gore ^^: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @myst-in-the-mirror @whumpawink @painsandconfusion

#whump #hand whump #hand gore #captivity #failed escape #I've no idea what this is #so for more nail pain I refer to chapter 26 of hiwthi :D #bonus points to the dutchies who can guess what he's humming #my writing

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whump-tr0pes · 1 year

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Hate in My Heart

(This was supposed to be an assignment for an anthropology class, but I couldn't help but make it whumpy. Hope you guys enjoy me being a goof.) Rhaeti (Ötzi the Iceman) thinks it would be a good idea to spend a few days in the mountains.

Contents: historical fiction, hand gore, neolithic field medicine, revenge, murder, major character death, spoilers on a 5300 year old murder

Rhaeti’s right hand stung. This cut was deep, far deeper than any cut he had suffered before. He cursed the gods, and his luck – but it wasn’t his luck to blame, it was his damned slow bones. And that damned boy Breun. Rhaeti had known the boy was going to get into trouble someday, he just hadn’t figured the trouble was going to be trying to overpower him. And over the ownership of a damned bow. The boy could make his own damned bow if he wanted one so badly, or just have Isar make one for him. He didn’t need to take Rhaeti’s.

Damn, damn, damn.

Still, it was good that Rhaeti was giving the boy a few days to calm down. Rhaeti had beaten him soundly after Breun had come at him with a hatchet, damaging his hand – his good hand, gods damn him. Staying away from the village was the careful thing to do. And you didn’t live as long as Rhaeti had by not being careful.

Gods, but his hand hurt.

He drew in a slow breath, pushed out a gusty exhale. The afternoon was warm, the sun beating down on the naked rocks around him, warming him through his leather clothes and bearskin hat. His grass cape kept off the breeze. He needed his cape this far up; the trees offered no protection. They did not grow, this close to the sun. Still, he liked it up here, where he could see the mountains stretching farther than any man could see. He didn’t mind waiting up here, where no one but the gods and the wind could hear him, while that damned fool boy cooled down from his stupid ideas of having Rhaeti’s bow for himself.

His hand was throbbing, though, so he settled himself down on a rock. His knees and back ached. He knew he would have to return to the healer to have more tattoos drawn on him to stave off the pain. The tattoos helped for less and less time, now. Still, he was grateful that he was old enough to have sore knees and a stiff back. It meant he was still alive.

He dug through his pack and pulled out the large, soft mushroom the healer had given him. He took a small bite and ground it to a paste between his teeth. Gently, he smeared the paste in his cut, wincing as he did. He pressed bog moss over the poultice to bandage it. Still, the medicine did nothing to stop the pain.

Damn that boy and his damned envy.

He stretched out his legs, groaning as he did, and reached into his pack again. A meal of deer meat, ibex fat, and bread would do him good after his hike up into the mountains. His legs were strong, but he wasn’t the young man he once was. As he ate, he hoped his stomach wouldn’t hurt after it so often did when he ate ibex fat. Still, it made him strong. He would not give it up, just because of a little pain. He sighed as he tilted his head back and let the sun warm his face, wondering how much farther he would hike today.

Venos’s heart leapt as he laid eyes upon his target. He ducked behind a large rock, grateful for the cover in this land of no trees. He peeked around the rock, hands tightening around the bow he held – his father’s bow, the one he had taken from his home, swearing to his father that he would take his revenge.

Rhaeti – the gods damned old man who had crushed Venos’s happiness in a single afternoon – was staring up the mountain, away from Venos, his foot up and braced against a rock. He was about thirty meters away, but Venos’s eyes were sharp; it was why he was celebrated as the village’s best hunter, why he came home with ibex, red deer, fox and beaver, enough to keep everyone well-fed and healthy. Enough to keep the old man standing on the slope above him clothed in his fine pelts, outfitted with tools he did not even know how to make. All so that he could take away Venos’s joy, then escape into the mountains as if it meant nothing.

Not today. If the gods did not punish Rhaeti for his sins, then Venos would. He blinked tears from his eyes as he nocked an arrow to his bow. The old man had not moved, but still looked upward at the terrain above him, as if looking for the best route up. Venos drew the string back. He took aim at Rhaeti as if he were an animal, ready for slaughter.

“For you, Breun,” he whispered as he let the arrow fly. It struck Rhaeti behind the left shoulder. The old man crumpled to the ground.

Venos leapt towards the fallen old man, clambering up the rocks and reaching him in what felt like a breath. Rhaeti lay on his stomach, his left arm collapsed under him. Blood poured from his forehead from where he’d struck it on a stone. He moaned as Venos grasped the arrow and twisted.

“My brother died from his wounds this morning,” he hissed, his voice shaking. “You killed my brother, old man.”

“Please,” Rhaeti mumbled.

“I have nothing but hate in my heart for you,” Venos said through his teeth, tears flowing freely now. He jerked the arrow from the wound he had made. It was fatal, he knew, but he would not grant the old man the relief of a quicker death than this. “And I’m not wasting one of my arrows on you.”

He turned to go, wiping his eyes on his sleeve so he would not slip on the rocks as he made his way down the mountain.

#historical fiction #Ötzi the iceman #field medicine #hand gore #revenge #murder #major character death #spoilers #I actually did an unreasonable amount of research on this so please be nice #I'm just being silly here

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everyothermouse · 7 months

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Cringetober day 14: candy gore :D

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whumpberry-cookie · 1 year

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(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

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whump-me-all-night-long · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 12

No. 12 What Could Go Wrong?

“Mayday, Mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

CW: hero whumpee, villain whumper, intimate whumper, victim-blaming, manipulative whumper, failed escape attempt, hand gore (stabbed through the palm with nail), a lil sensory deprivation at the end, as a treat

The hero found it laying under a corner of their bed, hidden in the shadows. They wouldn’t have even noticed it if they hadn’t been curled up on the floor next to the bed, refusing the comfort the villain offered them, attached to far too many strings.

The small, rusty nail was less than an inch long, but it wasn’t too dulled, the hero noted as they gently pressed the tip into the pad of their finger.

Slipping the nail into their closed fist, the hero knew what they had to do. How they could get free.

The next time the villain came sauntering in, all insufferable smiles and haughty looks, the hero waited until they were less than an arm’s length away before lunging towards them, sharp end of the nail aiming right for the villain’s eye.

However, the villain was too quick and easily dodged the hero’s attack, moving swiftly enough to the side that the nail ended up only scratching their cheek, not even hard enough to break the skin. The hero’s momentum had them still stumbling forward, and they were unable to stop themself as the villain stuck out a foot in front of them.

The hero came tumbling to the ground, their head slamming against the hard floor, immediately sending stars across their vision. Blinking slowly, the next thing the hero knew, their arm was in a vice grip as the villain dragged them along, out of their cell and back towards their torture chamber.

Somewhere along the way, the hero must’ve dropped their nail because, as their head was still reeling and thoughts still fractured, they cried and pulled uselessly at the villain’s grip with empty hands.

The villain threw them into a high-backed wooden chair. Not even letting them recover from the additional impact to their skull, the villain set to work tightening straps to keep the hero immobilized, restraining their ankles, knees, waist, chest, elbows, wrists, and even a strap across their neck, pulled so tight the hero choked.

Pulling up a small stool, the villain settled in front of the hero, with a small tray next to them with items on it that the hero couldn’t make their blurry vision focus on.

The hero slowly dragged their gaze back to the villain’s face as the villain moved their head with a gentle hand on their chin.

“Oh, love,” they sighed. “I don’t know why you keep fighting me. You know it can only cause you more pain.”

The hero couldn’t seem to summon more than a couple words at a time, to string together a coherent sentence. Definitely a concussion, then, they noted mentally, somewhat detached from their current reality.

The villain reached to grab a few things and, as the cold metal lightly touched the top of their hand, the hero understood with sickening clarity.

Immediately thrashing in the chair, the hero couldn’t control the tears streaking down their face. “Please!” they sobbed. “I’m sorry! I-I’ll never do it again! Don’t do this, please! I’m begging you!”

The villain lightly rested a finger over the hero’s lips, instantly silencing them. Sighing, they stood up for a moment before returning with another item in hand. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, my darling,” they said regretfully. “I do quite love the sound of you begging me. However, now is simply not the time for it. Open up.”

Their nails dug into the hero’s cheeks, forcing their lips to part. The hero could only whine in defeat, eyes squeezed shut and head flushed in humiliation as the villain forced the ball gag behind their teeth and fastened it behind their head, the edges already digging into their cheeks painfully.

Then, the villain picked up the hammer and nail again, making eye contact with the hero. In a soft and deadly serious voice, they said, “Don’t look away. If you do, I will put a nail into every single one of your fingers then hang you by them and whip you till you’re unconscious.”

The hero whimpered, nodding their head minutely in understanding. The villain smiled, before turning their gaze downward, the hero’s following suit.

It wasn’t too bad, the hero mused, at least between the concussion and the tears, I can barely see anything at all.

They may not have been able to see, but they still felt as the metal pierced their hand, sliding against bone and muscle and sinew. It took several swings of the hammer to get the nail all the way through the hero’s hand and secured firmly in the arm of the chair.

The hero was sobbing freely now, each fall of the hammer wrenching another bloodcurdling scream from their throat. Their vision was dotted with black by the time the villain started on their other hand, but the villain lightly slapped the side of their face several times, not even offering them the relief of unconsciousness.

“Remember, my little hero,” the villain commanded gently. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Somehow, the hero ended up making it through their second hand, although most of their coherence was long gone. Their head swung from where it was strapped to the chair, unable to hold itself up any longer, and the hero was only able to make small, weak mewling whimpers as wave after wave of pain swept over them.

The villain stood up, towering over them. One hand rested on their cheek, the hero flinching slightly at the contact. “I didn’t like this any more than you did, my dear,” they said sadly. “But this seems to be the only way you can learn.”

Then, they were slipping a blindfold over the hero’s eyes, completely blocking out any light or movement. The hero yelped softly, head shaking in panic.

“I’m going to give you a little alone time, love,” the villain continued, “so you can think about your choices.”

Then the heavy metal door clanged shut and the hero was alone with only the pain and darkness for company.

---

Taglist: @badluck990 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-vagabond-nun @shywhumpauthor @panic-and-chaos @freefallingup13

#whumptober2022 #no. 12 #rusty nail #oc #fic #hero whumpee #villain whumper #intimate whumper #manipulative whumper #victim blaming #hand gore #sensory deprivation

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redstainedsocks · 2 years

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Devils in the Details

This is just a little piece of experimentation writing, I had an idea and ran with it just to try out the Vibes. I had to give them names for it to feel right, I guess we'll see if either of them show up again in the future. I wanted to try something here, starting with the small detail and slowly widening the lens... I like how it turned out!

Contents: aftermath of torture/interrogation, mob/crime type setting, hand whump, knives, guns, blood, threats, all that juicy stuff.

It hurts like hell as his hand is lifted—the mangled broken one with its cracked bones and dislocated joints—so the pad of his thumb can be pressed to the fingerprint scanner. Of course it’s the broken one that Blake uses, not the one that’s chained to the table leg.

Gil grits his teeth through every tiny shift, air whistles past his teeth as he hisses, almost a whine. And then he breathes, swallows, gets air into his lungs just in time to be able to gasp as his hand is laid back down on the surface of the table and the pain spikes all over again. There’s a gentle clunk in front of him and he opens his eyes to see his phone shining up at him.

“Now the passcode.”

He looks up, licks his lips. The handcuff rattles as he tries to raise his right hand. Blake holds his gaze, waiting perched on the edge of the table.

“The passcode.”

They’d asked for it before, but that was hours ago. Hours before the pain he’s in now. Long before he’d reached the point of caving in, willing to do this—to make it stop.

“Y-yeah, give me… yeah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s out of options, or at least out of options that don’t involve more pain.

It’s a special kind of agony to raise his hand and use the back of a knuckle to key in the four digit number. It aggravates the injuries, but it cuts deeper too. He knows he’s giving in; too weak to hold out. But wouldn’t anyone, after all this? He isn’t sure.

“Very good. See how easy this can be?”

He scowls, face twisting in disgust. Gets a laugh for it.

“I know, you have your orders, your principles to follow. Unfortunately so do I, it’s a shame they clash. I’m sure neither of us wants to be here.”

No, he doesn’t want to be here. Would walk out if he could, if his legs would even hold his weight after all the pain, the exhaustion.

“Not exactly my choice for a vacation, no,” he replies, stifling a cough as his lungs protest. Cracked rib, then. Or bruised at least. The chair squeaks under his weight, the legs crooked. His knee knocks against the table but it’s too solid to wobble. Had held his weight well enough while they worked him over.

Blake leans back, spreads his arms wide. “We do our best with what we have.”

And what they have is a pile of shit. Fuck all. Until now… until he gives them everything he has. Maybe not everything, he’ll have to see what he can hold on to. He takes a steadying breath. Pulls himself back from the points of pain in his body, into the room to focus on what he has to do next.

“Now, let’s go through this a bit at a time.” Blake swipes the phone and clicks around. “Contacts first, one by one. I show you a name or number, you tell me what their relation is to you and your operation. Understand?”

“Can I have some water?”

There’s a silent exchange between Blake and the man guarding the door. It’s thick and heavy--the door, and the man-- off to the side near the corner, opening to a room longer than it is wide, but not by much. Not big enough for Gil’s screams to echo, but big enough that his eyes can wander over cracks and peeling paint on the walls. He snaps his attention back to Blake as he gets his answer.

“After you answer some questions, sure, then you can drink.”

His throat is like sandpaper, raw and rough. He bobs his head anyway. What else is he going to do?

“Of course you’d say anything right now to get this to stop, wouldn't you?” Blake appraises him over the phone, the blue light glinting in his eyes. Makes him look even more unnerving, eerily otherworldly. But he’s only a man, he just happens to be a man on the winning side of this exchange.

Another hesitant lick of his lips. “I… no, I mean, I’m cooperating?”

“Right, sure.” The phone is waved around as Blake squints, thinking. “But even so, you know I’ll need to verify each thing you tell me, independently. You talk, we check, then we move on. I can’t take your word for anything under these conditions.”

These conditions. The ones where he’s ratting out everyone he knows. “I understand.”

“Great, so, first things first—your role. And your real name?”

He must hesitate a fraction of a second too long because there’s the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and the large man blocking his exit comes into his field of view. Finger casually held down the side of the barrel, gun turned slightly in his direction. He sinks down in his seat, bare feet sliding on the boards underneath—slick with blood. With other things.

Blake shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s not necessary, Crill. No, no death is not what’s going to motivate you right now is it?”

He clenches his jaw, rotates it, grinding his teeth. Took one too many hits to the face and it’s all swollen, bruised and hot. He shakes his head, or at least, he shakes.

“No, the threat of more pain, that’s your motivation.”

“You don’t need—” he starts, desperately, and is cut off as a large, sharp knife appears in Blake’s hand from the sheath at his hip. He follows it, can’t look away from it. “Please, come on, I won’t…”

“Won’t what? Talk?” The knife twirls, the point edges towards him, wobbles like a wagging finger.

“Won’t hold back!”

“Keep doing what I ask and we can relax while we wait for your stories to be corroborated.”

That gets a smile, the knife sidles closer, plucks at the collar of his shirt and swipes downwards slowly until the top button strains and then pops. He looses a breath with it as the button bounces out of sight, a whine stuck in his throat.

“I know,” Blake replies.

His shirt is already in tatters, burnt, ripped, soaked in blood. Not like he's going to miss that one button but the casual destruction fills him with dread as Blake rounds the table, picks up a pad of paper and a pen. A second phone. Settles in like this is a business meeting. As if one person at the table hasn’t been brutalised, isn’t bleeding.

The morning light just peeking through the mesh covered window paints the entire scene in bleak, grey tones. A washed out horror show that he’s too tired to make sense of.

That makes him shudder. How can he relax like this, alone, haunted, hurt? His mind drifts out of the window. There’s an entire world waking up outside. Getting out of bed, eating, starting the day right. And yet he can’t wake up from the nightmare he was dragged into. He blinks, stupidly, trying to clear some of the haze from his mind. His wits are nowhere to be found, though. Must have bled out of him along with his screams.

That smile again, small, but so confident. “Let’s begin.”

#none of the other things in my drafts will let me title them so you get this instead #quick to write quick to post #implied torture #torture tw #interrogation #hand whump #hand gore #broken ribs #broken bones #handcuffs #knives tw #guns tw #threats #beaten #injuries

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crash-bump-bring-the-whump · 1 year

Text

Again

TWs: Burns, harm to self, institutional abuse, desecration of a corpse, hand gore

Magic ripped through Mariano, burning all the way from his chest to his fingertips before it leaped from his skin. Sweat ran down his neck, icy fingers that wound through his hair and slipped down his spine. Focused black eyes surveyed his scarecrow target--burned to a crisp, a smoldering pile of stuffing.

"Again."

Mariano swallowed hard, chanting the spell in his mind again. His well of magic was still inaccessible without it, but the half-second delay didn't matter yet. Stomach turning as the world greyed at the edges, the bright streak flew from his fingers, pulling more of his strength with it.

The next target burst into stinking smoke as it caught fire. Burned hair, cooking fat, it all filled the area with its smell. He didn't think he'd ever get used to it. His instructors ensured that they all would.

"Again."

Mariano's hand shook, his glasses slipping down his nose a little more. His shoulder screamed and creaked. How long had he been doing this? Did it even matter?

He couldn't feel the sear this time as the magic launched itself forward. His hand was angry, red, the heat only soothed by how his blood had begun to well up through the cracks in his skin. More sputtering, black smoke plumed up from the target.

The body shifted where it lay, closed eyes not flinching. The man was long dead, skin dry. His muscles contracted from the heat, making it look like he was writhing. There wasn't any screaming, though. His class wasn't at that level, yet.

"Again."

Mariano launched his magic, watching how his own skin blistered the same as the man's. The smell was the same, too. It was almost like a barbecue. Were his hands going to be able to uncurl after this?

The man curled in on himself. The fire ate at his clothes, stripping him down and wrapping around him. Where had he gotten his clothes? Had someone made that necklace for him?

"Again."

The magic ripped through the air, raising the temperature even higher. It took a while to fully cremate a body. Mariano knew the times. He remembered the variables involved, how to ensure the task was done.

Cracks echoed through the training field. The man's body was shattering. Muscles no longer held back by the mind were pushing bones past their limits. The man's limbs twisted in the dancing fire.

"Switch hands. Again."

Mariano let his blistered, charred hand drop to his side. His other stretched out, towards the blaze. He didn't want to keep doing this.

The man was screaming now. Air whistled through his gritted teeth as he burned, the only voice he'd ever have again. Mariano wondered what he'd sounded like before it all, when he was alive. Had he liked to sing?

Mariano fired his magic. The scream grew louder with the crack-snap of fire until it sputtered back into lifeless silence. Again, and again, he repeated the process on command. The impassive gaze of his instructor watched him, taking notes as Mariano's other hand began to redden and blister.

Only once the man was nothing but brittle ash and bone, flesh burned away by the magic's sustained heat, did the instructor begin to walk back inside.

"Go to the infirmary."

#mage of violence #burns #abuse #institutional abuse #desecration of a corpse #hand gore #I'm sure there's stuff I've missed but uh #just be careful with this one

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