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fallenwhumpee · 5 months

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For the prompt, I have an idea ig.. Maybe public humiliation? Like being strung up, for the public to see, their hero or maybe their rebel leader along with two teammates, just how much power the oppressive force has and show the people what happens to people who try to rebel but they dont back down and maybe the rest of team rescues them? And right before leaving the three who were caught and tortured for the public to see let them know that the resistance never quits?

Hehe lemme know what you think!🐈‍⬛💜💜

Ooh this is awesome. I love it. So, here, have my try <3

The Show

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Public torture, humiliation, forced to watch, restrains, multiple whumpees, mentioned execution, mentioned past torture, open ending.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Fear was hardening their every muscle, their hands behind the stretching the metal cuffs digging into their skin. But the source of fear wasn't about the execution scheduled.

It was about the two lifes they were locked up with, and many more they were going to leave behind.

A part of them told that this was a sacrifice. The much needed trigger to finally make the public know about the torment people lived through outside of the capital. But that part was also angry that the people were too blind to see, blind enough to come and watch their execution like watching a movie.

That part was being overwhelmed by their grief. Grief of many deaths at the hand of the government.

All of that was still not enough to take over their fear.

They feared that the rebellion would suffer through this. They feared that the idea they fought for would be lost. They feared that people would obsess with it and become extremists— just as the resistance before them had become after losing their leader.

It would cost them the little sympathy they had. It would cost their— their family's sanity.

Right Hand would mock them forever for going soft if they had learned Leader called them a family.

But they no longer had the energy to lie to themselves. They no longer needed to protect themselves from the heartbreak that would come with the death of their close circle. They were dying before them. Their prayers for not seeing any of their team's death was accepted.

They tried the cuffs once more, a hand stopping them.

"You tried," Rebel One whispered. "Don't hurt yourself. It won't work."

"If I ever gave up when it—"

A guard shoved them to the wall, cutting their muttering.

"Don't speak."

"What about trying this after opening my binds?" They snarled.

"Leader!" Rebel Two hissed.

"And get a hole on my forehead like you? Thank you, but I value my life."

They couldn't hold back a laughter, the other two eyeing them with worry.

"And we're being run over by the government because of the fools like you. Have you ever thought that you shouldn't fear while you're doing your job?" they countered as their laughter died down.

The guard grew silent, and Leader turned to the other two.

"I think I can open your cuffs," they whispered.

Leader would die to protect the lit on the duo's eyes. They reminded Leader much of themselves with their sibling.

Their sibling, who was their trigger for standing up

They didn't want to think about that open wound, placing themselves in front of Rebel One as they reached to the cuffs. At least the duo had their hands at front, so it looked like they were just bundling up together.

One last time, Leader thought. They would get the duo out, but they weren't so sure about themselves.

It wasn't important.

It was hard to lift the plate covering the lock mechanism, but Leader's was determined. The two clicks were enough to assure Leader, the duo smiling as they placed the cuffs back like nothing happened.

"I want you to run when we get out of the vehicle."

"We're not—

"We're in no position to argue. And we all know the cuffs have a tracker inside. I won't risk your rescue."

"Still, we're not leaving you. You're our leader."

"And as your leader, I order you to run when you find the chance."

They still looked ready to protest, but Leader shot them a harsh look.

"Good."

The vehicle stopped soon after, the guard outside opening their cell and the one in targeting their weapon to Leader's back.

It would be a huge mistake if Leader didn't have their hands tied.

They sighed and motioned the others with a nod.

As soon as they stepped down to the concrete floor, they slammed their elbow to one of the guardians' stomach, the other motioning to them.

It was a mistake when there were multiple captives.

Keeping the attention on themselves, they managed to slam their head and break the nose of the guard that slammed them to the wall before. They were brought to their knees as a gun was slammed to their neck, their vision blurring for a moment.

"Did you really think that we wouldn't have a security around here? You only annoyed us more," Whumper chirped, throwing the two right in front of Leader.

A hitched breath escaped their lips.

"One would think a rat like you wouldn't have feelings. Where were they as you bombed and killed dozens of my people?"

No. Leader didn't attack to mere places. And people who weren't in mere places weren't very innocent.

Whumper pulled Leader from their collar. Leader was a lot shorter than them, and they were soon standing on their tips.

"I will enjoy the show you'll put up."

Leader could only snarl as they were dragged to somewhere else, the grunts of the duo following them. Their struggle was useless, their starved and unused body failing them in mere seconds.

"No one should realise that the nuisance they're dealing is just a mosquito buzzing at dark. Where's that sharp tongue of yours? You were more fun when we were gambling with the lives of our little pawns."

Their veins flared with anger as Whumper taunted them until they were brought to their knees under blinding lights. They squinted their burning eyes, their bones aching as Whumper pressed them down.

"Today I present you the murderer of many of our soldiers."

The crowd roared. Leader watched Whumper enjoy the attention before demanding silence with raising their hand. They turned to Leader, a wide and disgusting smile on their face.

"Your little rebellion dies with you tonight."

Leader's eyes finally succeeded to see the faces in the crowd, seeking a glimmer of understanding or empathy. Instead, they were met with cold stares and eager anticipation. The realization hit them like a physical blow—alone, vulnerable, and surrounded by the people either too afraid or brainwashed.

"You can kill me, but you can't shut the voices of reason," they just stared at Whumper. Whumper leaned on them a little, chuckling a little.

"I wish you had a microphone, but I couldn't risk you spreading your plague. Now tell it again."

"I said," they raised their voice but Whumper didn't let them finish, punching their face and sending them to the floor.

Leader spat blood onto the cold concrete, tasting the metallic bitterness. The crowd gasped, witnessing this for the first time.

Leader could perhaps go along with the show if they could show who actually was holding the strings of the government. And they had quite an image to destroy, Whumper's media experts were the best. But they didn't get much chance to do that.

Whumper didn't stop with a punch.

Kicks and hits targeted their openings, pain clouding their thoughts as their bones ached with each hit.

Whumper leaned in, whispering but spatting every word, "Your words mean nothing. You'll be forgotten, and your rebellion will die with you. Like a body with no head, it will crumble, and I will burn it down to ashes."

"They stood without me before," Leader wheezed as Whumper pulled them back to their knees.

"I was too busy with having fun with you that time. But without you in the frame, they will get all the attention. They deserve, don't they?"

"You don't dare."

"I'll enjoy every second of it."

With their body fueled by anger, they slammed their head to Whumper's mouth, causing them to stumble.

"You're weak," Leader panted as they stood. "You are nothing without the fear. And I don't fear you."

As the crowd watched in stunned silence, Whumper regained composure, wiping away the blood from their mouth.

"I dragged this out long enough," Whumper growled, drawing a dagger. "The sentence for disobedience is death. And your death will be an example for many."

Two guards forced them down, bending their arm and bowing their head.

"Severing your head would be kindness," Whumper came closer, stopping for a moment before striking with the dagger.

Leader gasped, unable to pull back as pain dug deeper.

Protests rose, the noise blending into the chaos of their own consciousness fading. But pain and shouts and tears and everything meant nothing.

Because they knew rebellion would move on, with Right Hand rushing to the stage and Rebel One disarming the guard holding them.

It was a good show. And Leader believed that the show would go on.

"They aren't taking you alive."

They felt the dagger crush their ribs as Whumper twisted it up, their breaths dying and body crumbling while Whumper pulled it back.

Their eyes closed with a smile on their face.

#🐈‍⬛ anon #ask #whump #whump writing #leader whumpee #leader whump #multiple whumpee #restrains #public torture #mentioned execution #mentioned past torture #open ending

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lumpofwhump · 1 year

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Bad Things Happen Bingo: Public Execution/Torture

CW: Gore, emeto, death wish, corpse desecration

“What’s this?” Paul Waldrop, co-owner of Waldrop-Thornton industries, asked his old friend, accepting an ornate envelope with a raised eyebrow.

“I have an announcement to make,” John Thorton replied. “I’ve found the people who took Jinn.”

People, not person, Paul noted, trying to decipher where this was headed from John’s icy, distant expression. As much as Paul hadn’t liked the disruptively softening influence that John’s missing wife had been having on his partner and their operation, he found this new version of his friend even more unpalatable.

“I’ll be needing to make some changes in management as a result.”

Paul’s blood ran as cold as John’s eyes. “I’ll be there,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Good,” John said with a thin smile, staring at his friend intently. “I’ll need your support if things get messy.”

–

“Be careful of his eyes,” Thornton had said to his goons before they’d set in on Barclay Fletcher some seemingly interminable length of time ago. “I’ll want them good and open.” After the beating, they’d left him bruised and with what he could only imagine were at least a couple broken ribs, alone in a dark room in the depths of the labs to think about this terrifyingly specific request.

When the door finally opened to his cell, his mismatched eyes were untouched but nonetheless ringed by dark circles and temporarily blinded by the slightly flickering overhead fluorescent lights at that. Before he could fully adjust, Thornton’s men roughly hauled him forward by the arms, not bothering to let him try to keep his balance on his own.

“Ow – Where are we going?!” he demanded in a voice hoarse from screaming and then disuse.

One of his escorts backhanded him hard to the back of his head, eliciting a yelp of pain.

“Hey, careful,” the other said. “The Director wants him conscious for this.”

They dragged and pushed him as necessary through the lab’s countless winding halls until he was biting back screams of pain from the effort of walking on beaten legs. Finally, when they came to a wide room cleared of equipment, the two guards released him, leaving him to stumble forward and fall to his knees. His face flushed with shame, and he looked up, a furious expression on his face. He immediately went pale as he registered the scene around him.

Genmods. Dozens of them, as many as a hundred. He recognized some of them, the ones he had personally experimented on – tortured, some part of his brain corrected, despite himself. The ones that even bothered to look at him had stone-faced, pitiless stares for him at best, and mocking smirks at his injuries more often than not.

Thornton stood toward the back of the room, looking down at him contemptuously. Director Waldrop stood next to him, nervously adjusting his tie and pointedly not looking at Barclay, or really, anyone in particular.

“Hey, Fletcher,” came a snide voice from off to his left. Barclay whipped his head to the side to see Ryan, Thornton’s monstrous, hulking genmod son, smirking at him and towering over another figure.

Director Richardson.

The last time they’d seen each other before he’d been hoisted from his bed, beaten, and locked in a cell some days – weeks? – back, the Director had been furious at him. He was supposed to dispose of a subject who’d outlived its usefulness… his subject. He couldn’t, though, for whatever goddamn stupid sentimental reason. So he’d had one of the med techs sneak it out to the safety of Medbay, conveniently out of his or even the Director’s control. Unfortunately, the Director had found proof of the call he’d made to arrange it.

You’re on thin ice, boy, the Director had told him. First you let my servants leave from right under your nose, and now you’re letting useless subjects out against orders… I’m beginning to think through which sort of tests you’d be the best material for.

He’d slammed Barclay roughly against the wall by his throat and watched him frantically struggle and choke out pleas, only to switch his grasp to Barclay’s hair and send him hurtling back toward his room in staff quarters.

We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, the Director had threatened.

Now, though, the man looked if anything more beaten than Barclay imagined himself to be. His face was blotchy with bruises, one of his eyes thoroughly blackened and swollen shut. He steadied his trembling, kneeling body on one hand, the other being horrifically twisted and broken beyond all recognition. He wheezed in pain from injuries Barclay couldn’t see and definitely didn’t want to imagine.

“SIR!” Barclay shouted, or at least tried to. His voice nearly shook, but he held it together. For now.

The Director jerked his head up and over toward Barclay with an agonized expression. “CLAY!” he responded just as frantically, and turned toward Thornton. “My assistant has nothing to do with any of this, John,” he choked out. “No more than I do. Let him go. If you do anything for me before whatever happens here –” He swallowed. “Let Clay leave.”

Thornton narrowed his icy blue eyes and scowled. “I owe you nothing, Dave,” he said cuttingly. “And your boy here has done enough all on his own. Pick him up,” he ordered his men, who Barclay vaguely remembered as having tried to drown him some years back.

They hoisted him roughly to his feet, one of them not-so-accidentally brushing a hand against his broken ribs. He let out an undignified squeal of pain, thrashing against the men on either side of him. He glared, humiliated, in the direction of one of the genmods in the crowd who’d started to laugh at him, struggling for his freedom and what was left of his pride but causing himself more pain in the process.

“Don’t let him look away,” Thornton instructed.

“What - what is this?!” Barclay shouted, his voice tinged with panic. He looked toward Thornton and Waldrop and briefly noticed that the latter quickly averted his gaze. One of the men at Barclay’s side grabbed either side of his face and forcibly turned it back to face Ryan and the Director.

Ryan smirked at him.

Barclay tried to glare back, but from the genmod’s expression it was clear that he’d utterly failed to be the least bit intimidating.

“Now that everyone’s here, Dad,” Ryan said to John, “mind if I start opening my present?”

Barclay’s stomach turned at the euphemism while some of the genmods surrounding him chortled, if nervously.

“Don’t make it too quick,” Thornton said from behind Barclay, annoyance in his voice.

“Let him go!” Barclay screamed frantically. “He didn’t kill your wife or whatever, Thornton. Please! Let him –”

“What, Fletcher, you’d prefer it was you, then?” Ryan said with a hideously sadistic grin. With no further warning, he tore the Director’s left arm clean off at the elbow with a sickening sound, made worse by the older man’s seemingly endless shriek of pain. Barclay’s own scream joined in to create a cacophony of agony. He felt nauseous.

The Director collapsed forward onto his face, his remaining, shattered hand unable to support his weight.

“Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have started with your good arm,” Ryan said with mock-concern. “Sorry about that. Here, catch,” he said, turning to Barclay and throwing the severed limb at him.

Blood spattered Barclay’s shirt as the arm made contact, followed by vomit as the remaining contents of his stomach spilled uncontrollably out of his mouth. He let out a sob, only to begin loudly dry-retching. He shut his eyes to block out the sight of the bloodied Director writhing at Ryan’s feet. This earned him another smack to the back of the head.

“Don’t get yourself knocked out, Fletcher,” Ryan warned him. “Unless you want to give Dave here a few days to develop an infection before we start up again. Though… hm. I actually kind of like it. What do you say, Dad?” Ryan looked past Barclay at Thornton. Apparently Thornton shook his head, because Ryan followed up with, “So that’s a no. Eh. I’m not exactly the patient type, so… works for me!”

With that, he lifted Richardson upside down by the leg opposite to his missing arm and tore it off before letting him drop to the ground with another, hoarser screech.

“STOP! Stop, please stop!” Barclay begged, trying to pull free from the larger, stronger men holding him back. Tears flowed freely from his eyes as vomit continued to drip from his mouth onto his knees and feet.

Ryan frowned and raised an eyebrow. “What, you want to just leave him to suffer like this? I knew you were a dick, Fletcher, but really, that’s a bit much.” He shook his head chidingly.

“F-fuck you,” Barclay snapped, then involuntarily sniffled.

“Eh,” Ryan replied with a grimace. “You’re really not my type. Anyway! Here we go with Arm Number Two!”

Even some of the Director’s former subjects were looking away as Ryan knelt down onto Richardson’s prone form, dislocated his remaining arm with a loud snap, and then tore it off with an expression of (im)pure glee. He was as bloody as his victim now, if not moreso. The Director, for his part, could no longer force out pleas that were even slightly comprehensible, reduced to sobs, gasps and shrieks.

“Make it stop, you bastards!” Barclay screamed over the din, thrashing as tears and snot ran down his face. “What do you want?! You’ve got whatever fucking revenge you could’ve wanted, now let us… let him…!” He let out a despairing whine. “Sir… sir, please hold on, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, Fletcher?” Thornton said from behind him, sharply enough that Barclay flinched. The guards turned to let -- or rather make – him face Thornton, who stared completely unimpressed at the pathetic sight in front of him.

Other than the Director’s screaming, the room was silent as Thornton studied Barclay. Finally, he nodded to his men. “Let go of him.” Looking back in Barclay’s direction, Thornton spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “Go save your Director, then, Fletcher. If you manage to fight off Ryan, I might even let the two of you go.”

“C’mon, Fletcher,” Barclay heard from behind him. “Davey here can only wait so long before he runs out of blood.”

Barclay swallowed and turned around to face Ryan, eyes burning with tears and hatred. His whole body was trembling. He clenched his hands into fists and took a tentative step forward. He was just steeling himself to make a run at Ryan when the huge man tossed the blood-soaked Director to the side and bore up to his full height, challenging Barclay to attack him with an upward jerk of his equally-bloodied chin.

Barclay forced himself a few halting steps forward on quivering legs. He faltered as Ryan’s grin widened, and flinched when the genmod picked up one of the Director’s arms and bit a finger off with a gut-twisting crunch, never taking his eyes off Barclay. He tried to will himself on with everything he had in him, but…

“I-I can’t,” Barclay admitted in a small, shaking voice as he sank to his knees.

“You want to say that again?” Ryan taunted. “Dave’s screaming made it a bit hard to hear you just now.”

Instead of further humiliating himself for Ryan, Barclay jerked back around to look at Thornton and Waldrop. “What am I supposed to do here, get myself torn apart? Was that the plan? Because - ha - I’m not playing along. I’m not going to go and let that…” He let out a whimper, with an involuntary look back at Ryan. “I just… I can’t, okay?” He finished weakly.

“And after all you’ve done for him,” Thornton said to the screaming Director as Barclay let out another sob. “Hold him, and make sure he’s watching,” he ordered his men.

Barclay bolted before he could think it through, making a run for the door as two, then three sets of footsteps pounded after him. He had to make it, or at least get them to make it quick for him, get it over with; he couldn’t let them drag him back to face the Director after his failure.

His determination meant nothing, though, as an enormous hand grabbed him by the back of his neck, scruffing him as easily as if he were a newborn kitten. “And here I didn’t think you were capable of disappointing me, Fletcher,” Ryan said. “But that… ‘ey, Dad, you sure I”m killing the right person here?”

Barclay started flailing in panic before Thornton even started to answer, imagining Ryan’s powerful hand wrapping around his arm, snapping bones, tearing them apart, his limbs one by one dropping to the ground in front of him. “NO! No, no, no, let me go, LET ME –”

“He’s made his choice,” Thornton interrupted with a shake of his head. “And you have a job to finish in any case. One thing at a time, Ryan.”

“Do you have to go and make this feel like work, Dad?” Ryan teased as Barclay shuddered at Thornton’s comment. “Anyway. Here.” With no further warning, he pushed Barclay forward, sending him stumbling into the grip of Thornton’s guards.

Either because of the blood loss or because he’d screamed himself raw, the Director had gone quiet other than letting out low whimpers. As Ryan approached, though, he resumed his pointless struggling, his one remaining limb useless in allowing him to escape. With the rest of the room gone silent, Barclay could hear his defeated words, let out between painful, ragged breaths. “Get it over with, you freak. And then – !” The Director gasped in pain. “And then let Clay go, he did nothing!”

“You’ve got that right,” Ryan said with a vicious grin at Barclay as tears streamed down the younger man’s face. “So, what do you say, Fletcher? Should I make it quick for him so I can start on you, or should I have some more fun here?”

Barclay shook his head as he mutely sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut to get both the Director’s mangled body and Ryan’s knowing, contemptuous grin out of his sight.

“Oops, you broke the rules there, Fletcher. Not supposed to look away, remember? Guess I get to choose, then.” Ryan picked the Director up by his ankle, holding him up high enough to look him in the eyes. “You really should’ve chosen a better assistant, man,” he said with a shake of his head.

He then tore another strained shriek out of the Director along with his last leg before dropping the helpless torso of a man to the ground, with an air of being disappointed at having broken his favorite new toy. Ryan shrugged at the onlookers and started to walk away, only to abruptly turn back and make a running start, giving the Director’s head a vicious kick that severed it from his body with a sickening snap and sent it into the crowd of his former victims.

Barclay was helplessly dry-retching at the corpse now twitching lifelessly mere feet away from him. The arms holding him let him go, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, surrounded and overwhelmed by voices.

“John, what was –”

“Good on you, getting an eyeball!”

“ – disappeared my wife, Paul, they –”

“Get a knife, I want an ear.”

“ – gonna be sick…” The sound of vomiting.

“ – will you do with the boy, then?”

“He’s hardly a boy. You don’t need to worry –”

Blood stained Barclay’s shirt as he wrapped his arms tightly around something. It had been thrown at him, or maybe he’d crawled over to it. He’d already forgotten; it hardly mattered.

“Should we take the arm from him, sir?” a voice standing over him called out.

“Get the rest of the body. We’ll bring them back to the cell with him.”

Barclay clung for dear life to what he now felt to be Richardson’s mutilated hand, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as a guard grabbed him by the hair and yanked him hard toward the door. He squealed and thrashed in pain, but his mind was somewhere else, or trying to get there.

In the end, it went blank. He barely registered being thrown roughly back into his cell - only enough to crawl onto what was supposed to pass for a cot and curl in tightly around the severed arm, still oozing blood.

He didn’t know how long it had been by the time the door opened again, letting Thornton in to loom over him. He didn’t dare move.

“What a mess,” Thornton said disgustedly, stepping on something laying on the floor with a crack and a squelch. “And here you are doing nothing about it.” He walked over and scruffed Barclay by the neck, holding him face down over the side of the cot so he could see.

The Director. Or at least what remained of him. Three limbs, stomped and bent all to hell. A torso with ribs poking out through the bloodied remains of clothing. And a head torn and beaten and mutilated beyond all recognition if Barclay hadn’t known what had happened to him.

Barclay abruptly started dry-retching again, his shaking arms finally letting go of his macabre comfort object.

Thornton’s hand squeezed tighter around the back of Barclay’s throat, turning his retching into struggling gasps. “Pathetic,” he sneered, and tossed Barclay face first onto the hard floor. A beat later, he dropped a bag in front of Barclay. “I’ll give you three days to clean him up and put him back together,” Thornton said as Barclay shakily emptied the bag to find needles, thread, water bottles, glue, and a handful of other supplies that were hardly up to the task. “The least you can do is allow him a good burial.”

I couldn’t do anything! Barclay wanted to shout. You would’ve killed him anyways, and then me…!

He looked at the pack of needles for a long moment.

Maybe I should just…

“If you try to use those for anything other than their intended purpose, Fletcher, I will know,” Thornton cut in as if reading his thoughts. “There are much more creative things I could do with a corpse.”

Barclay nodded, very much not wanting to know what they were. “Y-yes sir,” he answered meekly.

Thornton’s lip curled in further disgust at this servile display, and he kicked him hard to the face. Blood gushed from Barclay’s nose, and his voice was almost entirely too weak to be heard over the crack of breaking bone.

“Get to work.”

He couldn’t, not for the first two days. Finally, he summoned the nerve to creep up to the body, arrange its dismembered pieces, set out the equipment with shaking hands, and then… Where was he even supposed to start?! Everything was slick with blood; the glue held the torn skin together for a matter of seconds before it tore open again. Trying to sew the Director’s body back together was hardly more successful; even if he had any real experience working with a needle and thread, he could barely see what he was doing in the darkness.

He could only guess that he was running up against the deadline at a certain point, making him desperate enough to do whatever small amount he could for his murdered mentor. Still, it seemed like he’d spent days making large, choppy stitches and applying thick layers of glue in some small hope of making the Director recognizable again.

The result was, if anything, more horrifying than the dismembered remains had been.

“You never fail to disappoint me, Fletcher,” Thornton said as he picked up Barclay’s best attempt, only to abruptly drop it to the floor. The glued-on head lolled to the side and broke off halfway. The more damaged arm flopped to the side, revealing that Barclay had sewn it on backward in his haste. Barclay let out a sob.

His eyes went wide, though, as Thornton’s two favorite guards stepped in with hands full of trash bags.

Thornton nodded to them.

“NO!” Barclay screamed, jumping from the cot and landing on the Director’s remains. One of the two men chortled as he lay face down and trembling in the mess of decomposing flesh. “No, don’t, don’t, DON’T, I tried my best, I tried… sir,” Barclay begged, of Thornton, of the guard standing above him, of the Director’s ghost, he wasn’t sure which.

The man who had laughed grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him away despite his scrabbling hands, and he watched helplessly as Thornton’s other goon scooped up the crumbling body and dumped it piecemeal into the various bags with a look of disgust.

“Consider yourself lucky, kid,” the man restraining him threatened. “We could throw you into the incinerator with him. Keep making a pain in the ass of yourself, and maybe we will.”

Barclay froze up, his blood running cold.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thornton said, not even looking in his direction. “The dumpster will work perfectly fine.”

“No…. you said… you said you were going to give him a real burial!” Barclay yelled in despair.

“Well, you certainly fucked up that chance,” Thornton said dismissively. “If nothing else, you gave Dave exactly what he deserved.”

With that, he walked out of the cell with a wave to his men, the first of whom flung Barclay against the wall with another short laugh.

Barclay didn’t dare move until the door slammed behind them, and even then he only slowly curled his aching body into a ball. He tried not to think about how long he’d be here, or for what purposes. There was no point, where no one would be coming to get him this time.

His nails dug into his knees until they drew blood. It ran down to the cell floor, mixing with the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

–

It had been two months, and Paul was having the same damn dream again. The one where John’s son had…

Where Dave had been…

Dave’s eyes had been so desperate, and so unbearably reproachful.

But worse was the boy.

No, not a boy, just like John had said. Barclay Fletcher had killed subjects. Tortured them. Including the now-missing Mrs. Thornton.

Still, he hadn’t disappeared her. That had been Paul’s own doing.

It was too late to confess it now, he told himself. It wouldn’t bring Dave back even if he wanted to, and it was probably too late to save Fletcher too. And besides.

“Paul?” his wife asked drowsily, turning over to face him with a look of concern. “Is everything alright?”

He couldn’t let that happen to him.

“You know you can tell me,” she tried to reassure him.

For her sake, he told himself.

“I’m fine,” he told her, sinking back into his comfortable bed and disturbed dreams.

Based on an in-person roleplay scene between @skinofafish and I. Barclay Fletcher and Paul Waldrop are my characters. John, Jinn, and Ryan Thornton along with David Richardson are @skinofafish's characters.

Taglist:

@whumpsday / @skinofafish

@badthingshappenbingo

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gothamstodd · 11 months

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would it make me famous if I break down in the press? (3697 words) by gothamstodd Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Roman Sionis, Barbara Gordon Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Torture, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Kinda, he's trying, pathetic bruce wayne, the fact that that's not a tag smh, Complicated Relationships, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Hurt Jason Todd, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Public Torture, black mask being a cop out villian for hurt jason stories, Bad Things Happen Bingo, pov: bruce, third person but from his perspective Series: Part 3 of bad things happen bingo Summary: Bruce gets word from Barbara that there's a live video of Red Hood circling the internet, but it's not shaky footage captured by an awed citizen, it's a well-produced video of Black Mask torturing his son. bthb prompt "public torture" requested by @verytiredtrashcan - thanks!!

"A weight settles in Bruce’s gut like a stone, unrelenting and dreadful. Jason’s head is dropping forward, blood dripping from his mouth in a sluggish stream into his lap. He isn’t given much time to recover before the butt of a gun is swung hard into his cheekbone. His head whips to the side with it, but he doesn’t make a sound, chin lolling back to its position dropped against his chest. Bruce doesn’t have the volume on, but he sees Black Mask turn back toward the camera, laughter open-mouthed and cruel.

'Take a good look, Crime Alley.' Bruce reads his lips. Mask reaches around and grasps Jason by his hair, dragging his head back to show off a bloodied and swollen face to the camera, domino off kilter and expression blank, 'This is your hero?'"

#bad things happen bingo #bthb #jason todd #jason todd whump #hurt jason todd #prompt: public torture #public torture #blood #dc comics #dcu

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pretty-face-breaker · 2 years

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Dragged by the Ankle - BTHB

Requested by @suspicious-whumping-egg for @badthingshappenbingo (original work).

c.w. noncon touching, violent beating, angry whumper, broken bones, head injury, public torture, noncon branding, military whump

—

“No, no, please.”

“What have I told you about English?”

“N-... Nyet, Pavel. Proshu vas, poshchadite menya-”

Pavel’s eyes lit up like a shark who had scented blood at Emir’s broken pleading. “That’s better.” He squeezed his nails further into his wrist as the man tried to scramble away, his eyes flying frantically from the iron set next to the bowl of water and, finally, back to Pavel’s own delighted expression.

That morning, they weren’t alone.

Five other men watched from their beds, all wearing identically lethargic smirks as the prisoner tried to escape his early greeting.

Pavel’s morning tortures had become routine ever since Stanislav had publicly whipped him unconscious. It had set the precedent that Emir was nothing sacred - that discipling him should be a collective effort and, most importantly, it had reminded eager soldiers that nobody was coming to his rescue.

Emir considered this to be the most appealing thought of all.

Anybody could do it, given they were in the mood to wipe the blood off their boots. He wondered if everyone who had watched him getting his back torn into shreds had fantasized about doing it themselves and how it could be possible that he had lived this long.

“Quit struggling, foreigner,” Pavel said, chuckling. “You’re making a scene. Come on, don’t you want a little warming up?”

“Please.”

A round of laughter paralyzed Emir as he continued clawing at Pavel, simultaneously pulling his arm away as he fought for something to hit him with. Pavel snatched his other wrist as Emir attempted to grab his bed’s metal headboard and pulled him so violently over the mattress that, for a second, he felt weightless.

With that, he was pinned against the bed.

“Come, Emir, you’re ruining my mood. It won’t be for long, though, when I brand those gorgeous hands of yours-”

An explosive CRACK and spurt of blood knocked Pavel to the side before he could finish. Emir scrambled away, leaving him groaning and swearing whilst holding the bridge of his nose. He heard another round of roaring, indignant laughter from the onlookers, and at that point, his heart really started to race.

But before long, Pavel was up again, nose bloodied and eyes suddenly lit with a newfound fire. “You…” He started with a half-crazed chuckle.

The intensity of the look made Emir think for an instant that he may have been better off going quietly.

The iron hadn’t moved an inch.

“Really should not have done that.”

Pavel let the blood dribble down his lip and stepped forward, in time for Emir to take a trembling step back. In a sudden explosion of energy, he fucking lunged, too quick for the man to react other than by staring in horror as Pavel’s fist slammed square into his head from above.

He hit the ground with a crack and the voices around him became an indistinguishable flurry.

All he felt were the blows hailing down through his poorly shielding arms, breaking and re-breaking, leaving livid bruises, blinding him until Emir could only thinly wheeze through the mess.

“Ngh- Poshch-'' Emir choked on blood mid-sentence, hearing Pavel’s breathless laugh in return. “S-Stoy-”

“Stoy? I will stop when you’re dead. Though between then and now…” Pavel mumbled, toying with Emir’s lolling head with his shoe. He shot a glance back to the branding iron. “It was going to happen anyway, right?”

A broken sob rang out of his mouth. “Don-... ‘lease. Pavel-” Emir ensured his accent was cleaner when he said the name “You’ll fuck my nerves, you psycopath-.”

Pavel kept his wrists pinned above his head. “Tsk, that is the idea. I was going to be gentle, since you just woke up but my intentions have…evolved.”

As he was dragged across the floor by his ankle, Emir fought and screamed the entire way, trying to latch his fingers into the planks and pulling on his assaulter with as much energy as he had left. It made no difference - the iron only got closer. The whoops and cheers only increased in volume, spiking when Pavel tossed him against a cabinet and his head bounced off the handle of the drawer.

He really screamed at that.

Besides his blood-soaked nose, Pavel was nonchalant as he spun the steel in the furnace and Emir could only weakly watch the glow - a menacing white. Though he couldn’t make out the symbol in the spin. Only that it would soon end up on his body.

He let a few more pleas slip through but none could be heard above the whoops, chants, and now, Pavel’s approaching footsteps. When he reached him, he kicked Emir’s hand out.

“Turn it over.”

“Pavel-”

“I’m running out of patience for you, Emir.”

In turn, Emir was running out of time to be conscious. That, and bones he had left to break.

He weakly complied, tears slipping down his face, and squeezed his eyes shut to brace for the pain. He tried not to think about how this might become a daily occurrence.

Whether Pavel would repeat this performance every day until his body ran out of space.

Whether he would die of infection, in agony, from the accumulated wounds.

But what came next was a splash of liquid cold on his hand that made his eyes pop open and panic stab into his heart. Just as Emir looked down again, pain whited out his mind and within a second, he was wailing.

Pavel had pressed the iron down in its full glory, generating a deafening hissing noise that would have made him sick if he weren’t already screaming.

Right there, in his right palm, as he lay slumped by a cabinet.

Emir didn’t count the seconds of agony the iron pressed home. He only screamed as long as his body registered the pain, his skin melting away under Pavel’s unyielding hand and vicious smile.

His wails grew fainter and fainter until the world dimmed to black.

–-

It must have been the afternoon when the sun cut across his face again. Emir stirred and filled his lungs, feeling unnaturally heavy and damp, as if awakening under thousands of pounds of water. Until he opened his eyes and registered the blood splattered across the floor, dried along his neck and face.

His body was in agony.

As he tried to piece together what the morning had brought, he glanced at his palm where the pain was most potent.

There, almost stitched into the skin, lay an abnormally large “п” character, an inch under his middle finger. The letter was cursively styled and burning, searing red in his palm. Amid his livid confusion, pounding headache and too many sources of pain, Emir tried to remember the letter. His heart stopped when he did.

He stilled, head spinning. Suddenly, the memories of the morning tied together.

And, through the dried tears, blood, and burns, Emir's chest rumbled with laughter.

That lunatic.

Tag list: @straight-to-the-pain @heathenville @quirkykayleetam @yet-another-heathen @undertheburrow @lektricfergus @punchhimagain @whumpasaurus101@crystalquartzwhump @suspicious-whumping-egg

#whump #whump writing #military whump #captivity #sadistic whumper #beating #violent whumper #soviet union #prisoner of war #creepy whumper #noncon touching #begging #Branding #bad things happen bingo #bthb #public torture #original work #prompt: dragged by the ankle

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