#whumperflies
Top 10 whump things:
(Featuring gifs)
1. Whips
2. Hair whump
3. Blade to the throat
4. Kneeling
5. Being pinned down
6. Heavy breathing/ breath quickening
7. The in their face power play
8. Head thrown back/back arching in pain
9. Arms/hands restrained behind the back
10. The simple, yet effective nervous gulp
Ummm, loved the whole bit with Killian and Hades, and DEFINITELY needed a LOT more whump.
The hair grab, though… .
content warnings: torture, non-consensual body modification (scarification), branding mention.
Martin Viklund-Reid is, in all things, a craftsman. An opinionated one to boot. The artist’s eye is lauded as paramount but it kneels to two things, in his practice—first, a steady hand. Things such as these were an act of translation, figment into form, and as such a clear voice was crucial. A smooth, gently curling line? His forgeries of jealousy.
The second is simple patience.
“Good, love,” Martin murmurs. “Easy.” Pausing to take note of the quiet yet rapid breaths, he presses one hand to the middle of his boy’s back.
He thought he had prepared him enough, introducing each step bit by bit—the workroom, the restraints, the long and close physical contact, gradually increasing the time spent in tolerance of each. Had hoped a sedative wasn’t necessary, because it would just make things harder to monitor. There were certain positionings here that were necessary to minimise cramping for Lev, or waking up with a sore back tomorrow himself. More abstract, here he wanted the annealing that only pain, shared and savoured pain, could bring.
But the setup, he had to admit, was intimidating. And Lev had started breaking down as soon as he’d entered the room.
Whump Prompt #41
Write something inspired by the line
“I can’t…I can’t breathe…”
Thinking about these supremely whumpy words again.
So much potential.
So many whumperflies.
Not sure what it is about me and breath whump, but here we are.
In the Dark 2 - New Order
This is before M craved the, well, “M.” on Ashtray’s face.
CW: dehumanization, cigarrette burns, cane, broken bones.
=-=
In the past, speaking was natural, enough for Ashtray don’t think much of it, but after so many punishments —training, they were trainings it was so they can be better— meant for them to learn to keep their mouth shut, after so much fear, after everything, it was so so hard to speak.
For their —sick— relief, they weren’t allowed to actually talk, they must say trained expressions such as “yes, sir,” “no, sir” and “thank you, sir.” They also beg some mumbled words that almost never work, and can even make things worse. Those words lost their sense and were just trained responses now.
That day was much like the previous ones, the door opened allowing light just for a few seconds, M. walked around doing something Ashtray had no matter meddling with, later he sat on his armchair and smoked, which of course meant to use Ashtray as always.
“Something feels missing,” M. said, feeling Ashtray’s cheek with his thumb, “I don’t know what it is yet but I’ll find out,” he let go of them and they carefully did NOT let out a sigh of relief.
M. closed the cigarette pack. It’s over. Ashtray thought to themselves, trying to ignore how small and lost they feel in that dark room when they are not touching something to locate themselves. He is done, he will order me to go lie down and-
“Leon on,” M. ordered, well, the tone was the sweet one he uses to order when he isn’t angry, but that order was different. Ashtray didn’t know what they were supposed to do, lean on what? How? when?
They groaned when M. slapped them hard, making them fall down, “On my hand you idiot!” M. complained as if Ashtray could’ve guessed or as if they could see anything in the pitch-black room. “What am I even expecting from a useless thinglike you? You must lean on my hand. Understood?”
Yes, sir. Were the words Ashtray should’ve said. Yes, sir. Two words trained into them with pain. Yes, sir. But the fear made their throat close, and speaking felt impossible so they nodded. It was their mistake.
The bells in different places have different sounds, so M. recognized the nod, of course he did, but it didn’t change the fact that it was a visual response, the type that Ashtray —should’ve— had long learned NOT to use.
“S-s-so-so-sorry, I’m I’m”
“The cane,” M. ordered, cold anger in his voice. Ashtray couldn’t breathe.
“P-p-p-ples-p-”
“Now.”
Ashtray clawed to the front door, patting the floor to find the heavy wooden cane, they had barely handed it to M. when the first hit came, on their side, making them groan loudly.
M. grabbed Ashtray’s collar, he didn’t mind explaining what he was doing, he didn’t even order his captive to hold his wrist; Ashtray already knew they should hold M.’s wrist and force themselves still, they recalled just how bad things can get if they let go before the punishment is over.
Astray groaned again with the second hit, same spot; once M. picked a target he only hit the same sore spot. By the fifth hit Ashtray was sobbing, their grip on M.’s hand was tight enough to bruise. Anything as long as they kept holding.
In the eighth hit there was a crack, M. let out a laugh while Ashtray broke into a scream, hands almost letting go. “p-p-p-pleas-”
The hit on the broken rib almost made Ashtray pass out, they only managed to stay awake because they were focusing on their hands. Can’t let go, can’t let go, can’t let go, can’t-
M. stopped on the tenth and let go of the collar, allowing Ashtray to finally let their arms fall down. Tired. Even breathing was hurting now, flinching too, crawling would be a nightmare.
“Leon on,” M. ordered, and Ashtray immediately learned their left cheek on his right hand —relieved they guessed right which, and where was the hand M. wanted them to lean on—. “You really only learn with pain, don’t you?” he asked, wiping away Ashtray’s tears as if he wasn’t the reason they were crying to begin with. “Useless things.”
Ashtray closed their eyes, the last thing they felt before passing out was the fingers running on the skin of their cheek.
=-=
Taglist:@whumpsday,@sideblogformindtrash (tell me if you don’t want to be tagged), @extemporary-username
Just thought of a sickie who feels feverish and hot so they open their window to get some cold air in, it’s soothing enough that they fall asleep but later in the night wake up to find they’re absolutely freezing and it’s started to snow - right through the window and onto their bed.
