#i will whump them as i please

[cityandking]

oc asks: not-so-nice edition

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there's no one around to see them?

betrayal: Has your OC ever been betrayed by someone they thought they could trust? Has your OC ever betrayed someone who trusted them?

bound: Has your OC ever been imprisoned or captured? What happened? How did they get out? Did the experience leave any scars?

break: What would cause your OC to break down completely? What do they look like when that happens? Has anyone ever seen them at their lowest?

desire: What's one thing your OC wants more than anything in the world? Are they open with that desire? Why or why not? What would they do to fulfill it?

failure: What's your OC's greatest failure? Have they been able to move past it? Does anyone else know about it?

fear: What is your OC's greatest fear? What do they do when confronted with it? Are they open with their fear, or do they hide it away?

future: What's the worst possible future for your OC? Are they taking steps to avoid that outcome? Are they even aware it's a possibility?

ghost: Who or what haunts your OC? What happened? How do they live with their ghosts?

guilt: What is your OC guilty about? How do they handle their guilt? Do they try to avoid guilt, or do they accept it?

hate: What does your OC hate? Why? How do they act towards the object of their hatred?

heartbreak: Have they ever had a relationship that ended badly? Experienced some other kind of heartbreak? What happened?

hide: What does your OC hide? Why do they hide it?

hunt: Who or what is your OC hunted by? A person, a feeling, a past mistake? Is your OC able to let their guard down, or are they constantly alert?

mask: Does your OC wear a mask, literally or figuratively? What goes on beneath it? Is there anyone in their life who gets to see who they are under the mask?

midnight: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

mistake: What's the worst mistake your OC ever made? What led to them making it? Have they been able to fix it? How have they moved on?

monster: Is your OC monstrous in any way? Is there something that makes them monstrous? Are they aware of their own monstrosity? Do they accept it or reject it?

nightmare: What does your OC have nightmares about? How do they deal with their nightmares? Do they tell people, or keep it to themself?

pain: What's the worst pain your OC has ever felt? Do they have a high pain tolerance?

secret: What's one secret your OC never wants anyone to know about them?

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

torture: Has your OC ever been tortured? Would your OC ever torture someone else?

wound: How does your OC handle being wounded? Are their wounds mostly physical? Mental? Emotional? What's the worst wound your OC has ever experienced?

[tender-traps]

grab them by the hair

grabbing a fistful of their hair to hold them in place for the next punch or slap

grabbing their hair to force them to look at you

grabbing their hair to make them bow

grabbing their hair to slam their head back into the wall

grabbing their hair to smash their face on the floor

grabbing their hair to make them bare their throat to you

grabbing their hair to stop them moving away from the blade or syringe at their neck

grabbing their hair to dunk their head under water

grabbing their hair to rub their face in a mess

grabbing their hair to pull them across the room before throwing them down where they belong

grabbing their hair to hold them up when they’re about to slump over

grabbing their hair to drag them up to their knees from where they lay on the floor

placing your hand in their hair when they’re already kneeling just to remind them what you could do with it

stroking their hair as a half-hearted apology after pulling a little too much

comment more please :)

[prettyboytortureclub]

Thinking about defiant whumpee being held down while a muzzle is forcibly strapped over there face

[littlelightfish]

Kuro is always the one to die first. Mickbell is the one that has to go through the anguish of knowing he saw the only one he truly considers a family die. Look at his face when he realizes Kuro died/is going to die.

Mickbell doesn't cry here because he's afraid for his own safety or scared of what just happened. He cries because Kuro put himself into great danger and got killed.

I'll always wonder what would happen if Mick gets killed first.

[notfeelingverywell]

near-drowning is such a good whump trope, not just on its own but also for what comes after

convulsive coughing or vomiting water after being pulled out

violent shivering and/or hypothermia (or concern about potential hypothermia)

bruised or cracked ribs from CPR

rapid breathing and heart-rate for hours afterwards, even if their body is tired and achy

Exhaustion and chest pain - they're limp, lethargic, but still needy for touch and comfort

Chest infections settling in their lungs from the cold and the dirty water they inhaled

Lingering trauma about the event- nightmares of sinking, panic attacks in darkness, nervousness around water, claustrophobia

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

i know the whump community hates women characters or whatever but the lesbian in me is dying for bloody femininity please

let them have thicc thighs and bazoinkas and wear dresses with the hem ripped to shreds so they can run faster. have them sprint in heels. have them use their stilettos as weapons when they jam it into a person's eye. girls kissing girls. beautifully manicured nails chipped and broken away or idly tracing the length of a blade. fishnets and stockings with runs gouged in them. low cut blouses that leave their collarbones exposed to be traced with the tip of a weapon. tight dresses that hug every curve to distract wandering eyes while they spike a drink. girls kissing girls. long silky hair to be wrapped around a hand and pulled. messy curls. a sultry villainess or a vixen in distress. smeared lipstick and mascara running down their cheeks. jewelry ripped from their necks and earrings torn from their lobes. clawing their way out of the carnage to emerge victorious, drenched in blood, beautiful in their madness. being upset that their hair was forcibly cut or their favorite bra was snapped or missing their skincare routine. girls kissing girls. feeling icky when they've been stripped of their womanhood. being empowered when they reclaim what's rightfully theirs through any means necessary. using their sweet face and lilting voice to draw a false sense of security in their victims. feminine rage and revenge. being underestimated because what could such a pretty little thing like her do? girls kissing girls. ultra femme cottagecore babe drenched in red. black leather dommy mommy being the gentlest caretaker. sisterhood. to be kind and nurturing or cold and cruel. did i mention the girls kissing girls.

[stevebabey]

steve harrington but it's that jeff winger moment from community. if u have seen community, u will know... my first stobin-centric piece <3 tw for parental neglect and a prior act of self-harm. this is absolutely on the steve harrington has bad parents train <3

“Steven, this is ridiculous.”

Robin freezes in place. Her hand hovers over the remote she's just placed back down, her limbs locking up one by one at the sound of the voice at the door.

It is not a familiar voice. She knows who it is all the same.

She fights not to move, knowing the couch springs, old and rusted, threaten to reveal her hiding place, even if it is her house. Robin is very much allowed to be here. Expected, even.

But Steve? Steve is not.

It’s why there’s one Christine Harrington on the dingy porch steps.

It’s an unwelcome surprise — even after all the fuss of the 4th of July, a thousand police sirens, endless NDAs, and too much blood on his uniform, Steve’s parents hadn’t shown.

Out of town, Steve had said, his bashed in face making it impossible to read his expression. His eyes were haunted and misty but Robin couldn’t tell if it was from the horror of the night or… a loneliness far older.

So Robin had done the fussing. Had dragged him home with her, shooed away her rightfully nosy parents, and mended him up on her bathroom counter.

Steve had been silent, a little wide-eyed as she worked on each cut, each bruise — but with her gentle touch, he had been helpless to do anything but melt beneath it.

He’d called her Robbie for the first time that night. They’d fallen asleep with their hands intertwined, her arm hanging off the bed to reach out to him on her bedroom floor.

Robin still hasn’t met Steve’s parents, even though it’s been more than a couple months since that night.

She’s been to his house countless times too. She knows where the spare key is, if she ever loses her own copy, that is. Knows which stair squeaks on the way up to the second floor and how the lock on the downstairs bathroom gets jammed too easily.

She’s eaten the best grilled cheese of her life in their kitchen, sitting on the counter.

She’s laughed so hard she’s cried on their couch, getting the throw pillows wet with her happy tears.

She’s still never met Steve’s parents. Til right now.

Christine Harrington has her arms wrapped tight around her frame and Robin has no doubt that on her face is a frown that could make babies cry.

She can’t see her face though. Can only just see a glimpse of her tense body from where she sits. Steve blocks part of her view, his own tense frame in the doorway.

He’d answered the door instead of Robin only because he had the foresight to glance at the front window after the first rap at the door. It was late. Robin’s parents certainly wouldn’t knock at their own home and neither of them were expecting visitors.

The expensive car in the drive, a sore thumb along Robin’s street, had given away the identity of just who was knocking so late in the evening. So, Steve had opened it.

“Mom—”

“I mean utterly ridiculous.” Steve gets cut off without second thought, Christine continuing on as if she hasn’t heard him at all.

“Did you expect us to spend all evening chasing you around? Figuring out where you were tonight from the Carlton’s across the road?”

She’s got this snippy tone that Robin’s heard a thousand times from teachers. Patronising. Too cold for it to seem like a genuinely concerned parent.

“The Carlton’s?” Steve echoes, a bit meek. His shoulders have rolled forward, sinking down a bit and Robin can see his tight grip on the door. Still, she stays frozen, rooted to the couch.

“Yes, Steven.” Christine says his full name again, all bite. “Imagine the shame your father and I felt hearing that. Hearing who you had been associating with.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve grits out immediately, anger bleeding into his tone.

The muscles in his back ripple as he forces his shoulders back, as if he had remembered how to stand up straight at the mention of his friend.

Robin aches; at the reminder of the stark differences of their upbringings and at Steve’s unquestionable loyalty. She finally unfreezes, sitting up a little straighter and leaning forward more— ready to spring up from her seat.

She’s not sure what for exactly. She sorta really wants to go slam the door on Steve’s mom’s face and go back to being bundled up on the couch with him. The urge is strong enough to make her fingers twitch.

“Why are you here, Mom?”

There’s a strain to Steve’s question, even though he doesn’t falter in appearance. Robin can’t see his face either though. She hopes it’s got the bitchiest expression Steve can muster.

“Don’t be smart, Steven.” Christine reprimands coldly. “I know that we may have taken a larger absence than intended but that’s not any excuse to parade yourself around with the strays of this town.”

Strays. Robin feels the word pelt into her and burn into her skin, sinking all the way down. It feels like cold water has tipped down the back of her neck. An unwelcome pit forms in her stomach.

She had known, of course, the reputation of a family like the Harrington's. She hadn’t quite known the extent they would go to protect it. Policing your child's friends over a matter of image is absurd.

Somehow, Robin can see how Steve grows even tenser at his mom’s words— hackles raising like that on a dog. His knuckles turn white. But before he speaks, Christine is barreling on like she hasn’t just slandered every one of Steve’s new friends.

“And to leave the house in such a state?”

Robin hears her sigh heavily, as though this really is the biggest problem in her life — which she can’t fathom in the slightest.

There was nothing wrong with Steve’s house. No mess beyond the usual evidence that someone, you know, lived there.

“Mom, I—” Steve starts again.

“Well, I’m sure you have your reasons. You always do.” She says it so pointedly, like Steve was known for peddling lies to weasel his way out of trouble.

It’s so un-Steve it makes Robin blink hard, wondering if she had heard right.

Steve was honest. He owned his mistakes and he took things on the chin. It was something she had liked most about him in the beginning.

Back when it was all snark and Robin told herself she was never going to be his friend, in this universe or anything other. That even then, reluctant co-worker and nothing more, Steve was honest and decent to her always.

“Now, come on now.” Christine Harrington huffs out her demand. “Your father is waiting in the car and there no use winding him up more than you already have.”

Robin’s stomach turns at her words. It had been a topic of discussion between them, one night weeks ago, lips loosened by the dark. I feel like a dog to them, Steve had admitted quietly, his breath against her pillow and his warmth under her sheets. Like they just leave alone most of the time but expect me to perk up and come running the moment they call. I hate it.

“I’m not coming with you.”

The words stammer on their way out like he had forced them out— and Robin wants to sing she’s so proud of her best friend.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not coming with you.” Steve repeats himself, the words a little firmer this time. “I’m… I’m spending the night here, with my friend Robin.”

He trails off, the words weaker, losing steam. Robin rises to her feet, the tell-tale squeak of the couch springs letting Steve know she was still here. Still right behind him.

It makes him stand a little straighter.

“I— I’ll come home in the morning.”

Christine Harrington makes a little scoffing noise, a high pitched faux laugh as if Steve’s said something amusing.

“Tell me when did I raise such an ungrateful brat?” She muses meanly and Robin doesn’t miss the way Steve flinches lightly. “We give you free rein of the house, apt time by yourself, and yet when we request you to spend a single evening with us—”

“You’re not asking, you’re demanding.” Steve cuts in, his voice more heated now.

“Oh hush, Steven. You act as if we’re so awful.”

It’s all dismissal. Everything, every word, a dismissal.

“I just can’t win with you, can I?” Christine sighs again, disappointment dripping from the sound. “Either we’re not here enough or we’re here but you can’t find time to have dinner with your family. Which is it, Steven?”

In the doorway, Steve begins to bristle. Robin really, really wants to slam the door now — if only to stop this conversation that seems to keep cutting deeper and deeper into her best friend.

She steps closer to him, moving as silently as she can, and makes sure to stay out of sight as she places a hand gently on the small of his back.

He’s shaking, she realises.

Her heart twists painfully in her chest.

Then, deathly calm, Steve says, “Did you know in 7th grade, I lied and I told everyone in my class that I got appendicitis?”

Robin blinks at the change in subject, the strangeness of Steve’s comment. She does remember that, vaguely. A boy in the year above— it had been a wildfire rumour that had turned out to be true.

Or so she thought. Staring hard at the planes of Steve’s back, the pit in her stomach yawns with an anticipation of devastation. Her hand on his back curls up a bit.

“You and Dad were gone for the whole month to Washington. It was the first time you had ever gone for that long and you didn’t even tell me until the day before you left.”

“Steven—”

“I just wanted someone to worry about me.” He steamrolls on, tone too casual for the story he was telling. “And it worked."

A beat.

"But then Cassie Lange asked about the scar.”

Robin’s hand on Steve's back twists up tighter. She feels like she knows what’s coming— but wishes it to be not true.

She doesn’t want to think of Steve, little twelve year old Steve, doing all that he can for a scrap of attention he was supposed to be getting from his parents.

“And rather than admit I’d lied…” The words come out too tight. “I went and found your sewing scissors and I made one.”

There’s this icy bite to Steve’s voice, his shoulders tensed back up. Christine still hasn’t said anything.

“I hurt like a bitch but it was worth it. I got a card from every single person in my class.”

“You wanna see the scar?” He asks— then he’s moving, his hand rucking up his sweater and shirt and exposing the skin of his stomach. Christine makes a noise like a muffled gasp. Robin feels a bit sick. Steve drops his shirt.

“And I kept all of those cards I got —all 17 of them stashed them under my bed in a box that I still have til this day.” He exhales through his nose. “Because it was proof that, at some point, somebody actually gave a shit about me. Because you didn’t. You didn’t then and you don’t get to now.”

His words hang in the air. There’s a long stretch of silence where Steve stares down the woman on the porch— someone closer to a stranger than a friend.

“So, I will see you at home, tomorrow.”

And then he slams the door to Robin’s house shut with a finality that shakes the air. Robin tenses up at the loud noise. Steve doesn't move, just stays staring at the closed door.

Behind them both, one of the noisy pipes in the house makes a loud noise. It sounds worse than usual as it breaks the silence.

Outside, Robin hears the click of heels on the pavement as they quieten, moving further away.

The pit in her stomach tightens immeasurably, a faint bile taste in her mouth. She finally remembers to smooth out her hand, pressing it flat against Steven’s back— another reminder that she was there.

If he wanted to talk or he didn’t, she was there.

Suddenly Steve sighs, an exhale so large that he shrinks down a couple inches, his shoulders dropping. It sounds exhausted.

He finally turns away from the door, to Robin, and she can only hope her face conveys every ounce of love, of support, she feels within her chest.

“Steve…” She breathes softly.

He wasn’t crying but just the sound of his name, spoken so delicately, seems to inspire tears. Robin catches the tremble of his lip and moves without thought— throwing both her arms around his neck and wrestling him into a hug.

Steve goes easy, his arms snaking around her middle and holding her back so tightly it nearly makes her squeak. She doesn’t though— just lets him bury his face in her neck, taking these big shuddering breaths, these half-formed sobs that break her heart clean in half.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there. Car engines drone as they pass by the street. The streetlights seem to get brighter. Steve presses himself so close to her, as close as he can, and Robin hugs back just as tight. She gives him all the time he needs.

She wonders if there’s an indent of him on her when he finally pulls back — a Steve Harrington shaped outline imprinted on her soul. It feels like there is.

If she could trace it, she thinks, it would be whatever shape love takes.

“Thanks Robbie.” He croaks out. He’s started scrubbing furiously at his face and she can see the wet sheen of tears as he wipes them away.

Robin doesn’t move far, just unwinds her arms a bit and lets them fall back to her sides. There’s an ache between her brows from how long she’s been frowning in concern. Steve looks more disheveled than usual, his usually perfect hair looking flatter — but he looks lighter too, somehow.

“No need to thank me, dingus.” She says, voice soft. She faux punches his chest and then regrets it when his lips don’t even twitch upward. It’s weird to see Steve all undone.

Robin thinks back to that conversation and the callousness of Steve’s mom. Her uncaring tone, the use of his full name like an insult.

She thinks of what Steve had said.

“I’m sorry you felt—” The words get stuck in her throat which grows thicker as she thinks about it. About a self-made scar on Steve’s abdomen, made by a twelve year old boy who just wanted someone to worry.

“—That you felt like you had to do something like that to yourself. I’m sorry no one noticed what you really needed.”

Steve nods slowly, his eyes glazed with a far away look as he stares somewhere over Robin’s shoulder. He gives this little shrug, a little huff through his nose.

“It’s okay.” He says, voice a bit distant. “I mean, it’s not but… even if I hadn’t meant to tell you, I’m glad someone knows now.”

It takes another second before he finally seems to shake himself from his thoughts, turning to properly look at Robin. His eyes are red-rimmed and the tip of his nose is pink. Tell tale signs of tears.

“I’ve never told anyone that before.”

Robin swallows thickly and it takes effort to choke down the urge to cry.

“Well,” She starts. It comes out too high pitched and tight and she clears her throat. “Thank you for telling me.

Some kind of smile plays on Steve’s lips, as if he can tell that she’s fighting off her sniffling and it’s sorta funny to him. It is, a little.

Because instead of being embarrassed or feeling pitied, he feels… delightfully surprised to have her care so much. To be so upset on his behalf.

“Oh, c’mon Robbie,” He gives her that same faux-punch in the shoulder she did earlier and it actually succeeds in making her lips pull up at the edges. “None of that.”

“You’re such a dingus.” Robin says. It comes out a bit wobbly still. Sue her— she doesn’t have Steve’s insane ability to bounce from one emotion to another in a single second.

Steve grins. He wanders back to the couch and flops down onto it. Robin follows and when she sits down, it’s a fraction closer to him this time. He gives one last scrub of his face, wiping the last of his tears away.

She nudges him with her thigh. She has to check just one more time.

“You alright?”

Steve smiles, crooked in that way that lets her know it’s completely sincere. He reaches forward and presses unmute on the remote, the film they’re watching starting up again with a buzz.

Steve presses his thigh back against Robin’s and in the dim lighting of her living room, his eyes glitter with an emotion that threatens to make her want to cry once more.

“Course.” He says. “I got someone checking up on me now,”

Another pointed nudge of his thigh against hers. “I’m better than ever.”

[whumpshaped]

ok please share in the tags the phrases that give u instant whumperflies (potentially for no discernible reason)

aside from classic ones like "good boy" mine r "there you go" and "oh my/oh dear" like if those r part of a character's vocab im sorry its over for me lmao

[whump-in-the-closet]

Drabble prompt? A whumpee that went from sarcastic to silent. And then finally raw, ridiculous rage.

OH HELL YEA

cw: whumpee-turned-whumper, whumper-turned-whumpee, creepy whumper, mentions of past torture, current torture, electric baton is used (idk what its called), dehumanization, whumpee is muzzled, defiant whumpee, captivity whump

Day 1.

Whumpee relaxed against the wall as much as they could, shoulder blades aching with the dull pressure building up between them. Their wrists were pinned to the blank-white wall above their head.

Whumper looked them over, mouth set in a knife-thin line. They studied Whumpee, and they felt their skin crawl.

They were an insect pinned to a corkboard.

No. They refused this identity. They refused outright and wholeheartedly, nauseous at the thought of becoming something other than themself.

"Like what you see?" Whumpee tilted their head to the side, strands of hair falling across their face. They forced a smile-- I'd bite you if I could.

Whumper crouched down. "I've waited a long time for this, old friend." He spat the word out like a curse.

"I know you missed me just so, so much." Whumpee strained against their chains until their face was inches away from Whumper. "Didn't you?"

Whumpee saw something flash in Whumper's dark eyes--pain, terror-- and then it was gone. Delicate scars peeked out from Whumper's turtleneck and out his shirt sleeves, faded but ever-present.

Whumper placed a hand on Whumpee's cheek, running a thumb over their lips. He smiled, vicious and sharp.

And the only answer Whumpee received was a backhanded slap. Their head cracked against the wall. Stars and bright colors flashed before them, burning their vision with stark whiteness. Copper filled their mouth, just as roaring filled their ears. 

They saw double. Two bright lights. Two walls of tiled white. Two of Whumper, with two leather jackets and too many rings to count. When their vision refocused, Whumper was standing again, twirling something in his hands.

Something that zapped and glittered blue at its tip.

"Aw, Whumper, trying to be something you're not?" Whumpee coughed out. The side of their face burned.

Whumper snarled, raising the electric baton. He jabbed Whumpee in the ribs.

Whumpee inhaled sharply-- white, white, white-- behind their eyes. Bright agony everywhere, ingrained in their bones. They couldn't breathe.

Whumper hit them again. And again. And again. "I'm going to ruin you, like you--" Another harsh zap. "Like you ruined me."

Day 7.

Whumpee didn't look up when Whumper walked into the room.

Their throat ached and their tongue felt like cardboard inside their mouth. They swallowed, nervous, and tasted iron.

Whumper whistled. "Eyes on me, Whumpee."

Whumpee groaned.

Can't.

One eye was swollen shut, the other blackened and purple. Where had Whumper learned to punch like that? Without holding back?

They shuddered.

Whumper kicked them. "C'mon," they teased. "No comeback? No wiseass response?"

Whumpee's vision blurred. They couldn't lift their neck to look up, even if they wanted to.

"Pathetic," laughed Whumper. "God, you're nothing. I can't believe I was ever scared of you."

Whumpee's ears rang.

Pathetic.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

Whumper grabbed their face with rough hands.

Whumpee tried to pull away, but Whumper slammed the back of their head into the wall-- fuck-- until they fell still.

Horror became a reality. 

Something hard was shoved between their teeth. Leather fitted over their face, straps tightening around their head, cinching it in place. 

And it was over. 

And it was only just beginning. 

Whumpee gagged. 

Their mouth tasted disgusting. 

They went numb. They didn’t want to feel that disgusting thing in their mouth. 

God. 

In their mouth? 

This. 

This was too much. 

They couldn’t take it.

Muzzled. 

The burning threatened to turn into sobs. Leather over their mouth and in their nose and in every part of them. Eating at them. Sticky blood dripped down the side of their face, smeared into their hair and skin.

They couldn’t breathe. 

Kill me. 

Please. Humiliation flooded every fiber of their being. Please.

And Whumper laughed, stroking the top of their head. "Not so tough now, huh?"

Whumpee closed their eyes, breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, like each and everyone would be their last.

Day 15.

When Whumpee was conscious, they were aching.

At some point, they had thrown aside their dignity and become something else entirely. Biting and hurting and-- oh god, everything throbbed with that furious agony that had been the only constant in this white room, now splattered with dried blood stains.

Whumper entered the room whistling. He glanced at Whumpee, helpless and weak, with the bruises from the muzzle straps still on their face.

Whumpee kept very, very still.

Not scared. Not scared not scared not--

"I never heard you say thank you for taking the muzzle off yesterday."

Whumpee clenched their hands into fists until their nails bit into their palms and drew blood. The bright crimson blood cleared their mind.

Not scared--

--Not pathetic--

They waited.

Very still.

Very quiet.

Whumper wrenched Whumpee's chin upwards. 

Not pathetic--

Whumpee, eyes wild, snarled. But their voice was raw. "Fuck-- fuck you."

Whumper had long stopped seeing Whumpee as a threat. He lightly traced a finger down Whumpee's throat. Whumpee seethed, trying and failing to twist away. They flushed fever red at the treatment.

"Say, thank you." Whumper reeked of alcohol and expensive cologne.

Something twisted inside Whumpee and they saw red.

Whumper sighed in seeming disappointment. He ran a thumb lightly over Whumpee's bleeding lips. 

Whumpee visibly shuddered. And then bit down. 

Hard. With all the strength they had left in their body.

They spat blood out. Not their own. A feral light filled their eyes– they didn’t look quite human– bruised but undefeated. Wild. They yanked against their chains until the metal broke the skin, and they did not even stop then.

"Fucker-- Let me go! You-- you--" they yanked again, and again, trying to get at Whumper. "When I get my hands on you, you'll-- you'll be begging, do you hear me? Fucking begging!"

Whumper stumbled back and his expression darkened. "What is wrong with you?" He clutched his injured hand close to his chest. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be the one begging.” Not a threat, a promise.

Whumpee was past caring. They thrashed against the chains. More than anything in the world, they wanted to get their hands around Whumper's throat. They wanted to destroy him.

[converse-luke]

Hey fellow Astarion whump writers fun ideas for you to consider:

1. Spawn Astarion being forced to drink holy water

Next one is also a treat for the bloodweave writers bc I’m obsessed with it.

2. Astarion being so hungry he drinks from Gale, knowing he tastes awful, and continuing to drink anyways from how much he needs blood.

[tomurakii]

My last post about bloodweave was pretty negative (though necessarily so imo) so I wanted to talk about the little things about the bloodweave dynamic that I DO like and want to see more of in fic (under the cut).

- the orb means Astarion can't start their relationship transactionally. Gale can't give Astarion blood, and also can't have sex with him (and presumably would refuse casual sex anyway). How would the relationship develop without Astarion being able to rely on the give-and-take, forced instead to just trust Gale will watch his back? Astarion isn't a plans guy, I imagine having to come up with something on the spot (considering none of the other companions are reeaaaally an option either) would lead to a lot more emotional vulnerability as he tries to take a route he has much less experience with. Not to mention that the flirty and standoffish front isn't exactly going to endear him to Gale, who approves of the capable, loyal, and righteous. How long can Astarion pretend to be invested in Gale's wellbeing before it becomes true?

- they both have bad ascension endings, but different natural outcomes. Gale is considered the more morally upstanding one, but in their solo states (without the player's influence) Gale will go through with ascension and Astarion won't. Would they goad each other on? Gale disapproves of Astarion's ascension, using arguments that could apply to himself about the personal sacrifice and loss of the soul. Would Astarion flip them around, become defensive? Their dynamic could mean the power hungry character ending up discouraging the pursuit of godhood, or the two of them hurtling over the edge together. Or, maybe, Astarion encouraging Gale to ascend and having to trust him to return.

- they're the party members with the most life experience, and they're also both pretty well-educated (even if Astarion's law qualifications may well have expired by the events of the game). He spent his time under Cazador sewing (like Gale in his Baldur's Gate epilogue) and learning languages (of which Gale knows four). They have enduring common interests beyond their circumstances. Gale can help Astarion rediscover the latent nerd potential he lost when he died, and lord knows he would love to pick his brain for a first hand account of the mid-to-late 12th century.

- Astarion recently regained hope for his future when the tadpole freed him, Gale recently lost all of it. While act 1 is a continuous series of positive discoveries for Astarion (tadpole frees him from cazador -> ceremorphosis is held off by the dream visitor -> tadpole can be controlled), Gale's life gets worse with time as his treatment stops working. It's a dynamic that could give Gale hope, force Astarion to practise empathy, or put them completely at odds.

- Astarion's all-encompassing desire to reclaim his life could be inspiring to Gale. Moreover, I imagine seeing just how passive Gale is about his death would infuriate him. To have so little regard for his real, mortal, free life? It's a great source of angst, and also a great starting point for Gale to start wanting to live again. Because after learning about Astarion's past he would agree, he'd recognise how much value a mortal life was supposed to have. He'd think himself ungrateful or impolite for entertaining the idea of throwing it away when Astarion would give anything to have what he had. This would lead to guilt, and potentially self-loathing, unless someone was there to help pick up the pieces.

- If Astarion meets Oblodra before Gale's act 2 romance scene, (or for a fanfic plot, just before Gale is confident enough to confess) they most likely won't have sex until the graveyard scene in late act 3 (or the post-ascension equivalent). It means that rather than the fuckfest we so often see from bloodweave fics, the relationship is almost entirely a slow-burning, emotionally intimate affair. I'd really love to see that play out, the progression from semi-horny yearning on both parts as the orb keeps them apart, to two love confessions that are followed by the both of them experiencing non-sexual intimacy for the first time in years. I doubt Mystra was one to hug her chosen, after all, or hold their hands.

I just love a bg3 ship that forces the characters to take different actions than they do in canon. It makes me feel like I'm developing a broader understanding of the characters, you know?

[forwhump]

a/n: ;-; I feel a little silly introducing myself on a writing post but I feel sillier just starting to post my writing w/out any sort of introduction at all, so hi ! I’m Tina ! I’ve semi recently gotten introduced to the whump community because the content I create has been whump the whole time I just didn’t know it & thought I was alone in it !

now that I realize I’m not, I figured I might as well start posting my blurbs somewhere ! I don’t know if it qualifies as conventional whump, but is there such thing as conventional whump ? so what the hell

I put my two favourite oc’s through the horrors so often I have so much whump content w them & it’s just going to waste in my google docs & my notes app ! I’m chronically shy about posting my work online but I figured somebody out there might see this & maybe even like it so what’s the harm in sharing !

if you do see this & maybe even like it, yay ! I’m so glad ! thank you for even reading it <3

tw/cw for aftermath implied rape, mentions of being gutted

Wren has always been beautiful.

Silas had always thought so. Even at Wren’s worst, even when it wasn’t wholly appropriate to think. Silas had thought so since that very first day, since he was dragged into this place clawing and biting, since Wren had looked up at him from his place in the common room and smiled at Silas, sympathetic, as he was dragged into hell.

It was striking, even then, even disoriented and scared and confused. Wren was a bright spot, a glimmer of light in a bland, grey prisonscape. He’s beautiful like no other person Silas has ever seen, beautiful in a way reserved for the sunrise and the moon, so beautiful it actually gives him an eerie, kind of inhuman quality, even now, even still.

Wren has always been beautiful and Wren is beautiful still. But this —

There is nothing beautiful about this.

It’s ugly. It hurts something low in Silas’ chest.

It’s a film strip that’s been double exposed. Wren’s always been beautiful, and so particular about his hair; Wren has fairytale hair. It’s impossibly long, fairytale long, and the colour of snow, kinda, but he’s always so particular about it, he takes such good care of it, something that’s only his, something that belonged to him before this place, something they let him keep, and his hair always shimmers, perfect, iridescent. Silas has always found it kind of hypnotizing. Wren’s always so careful about how he braids it.

His hair is a mess. It had been pulled up into a ponytail with a piece of pink ribbon that’s gotten mostly lost in the tangles of his hair. Loose strands stick to his face, his throat, his waist, the insides of his thighs with tears, spit, sweat, semen, blood. He’s wearing some demeaning little pleated skirt, the same pale pink as the ribbon, and it’s short, it’s so short, and there’s so much visible skin that Silas can see almost every bruise, big and purple and splotchy and broken, like road rash. He can see all the blood tracked down the insides of his bruised thighs. He can see handprints. Tooth prints.

How is this happening? How did it get to this?

“Wren,” he hears himself say.

“Leave me alone.” His voice is the flattest Silas has ever heard it. He doesn’t lift his face from the carpet.

“Wren.” He doesn’t know what he’s gonna say. What can he say? He reaches a hand out, almost instinctive.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Wren —“

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Wren snaps, almost screams, and he finally lifts his head as he flinches away.

Most of the left side of his face is that same broken, road rash bruise. His mouth is swollen. His eyes, from crying. He doesn’t have hickeys, but proper, scabbing bite marks, bruising his jaw and his throat.

So much bruising. So much blood.

Silas knows what to do.

He struggles with that, sometimes.

Wren was allowed to keep his hair; Silas was, as well. It’s all Silas got to keep.

No part of Silas is the same as it was when he got here; no organ, no arterie. Silas isn’t human anymore, Silas is a weapon, but he tries, oh my god, he fuckin’ tries, if nothing else he tries, and he’s getting better, he thinks. He just struggles sometimes with human emotions, with feelings, thoughts, with what to do, what to say.

He knows now, though. What to do.

No part of Silas is really human anymore, but most of him is all still attached. His left leg, however, isn’t, and the replacement he’d been given, as a massive, inhuman superfreak, is heavy and deadly and fuckin’ uncomfortable. It pinches. Silas hates it almost more than anything. Unless he absolutely has to wear it, he gets around in his chair. It’s how he gets back to his room, where, without even a groan of displeasure, he makes quick work of his superfreak prosthetic.

On his own, he stands. Onto his chair, he piles one of his crewnecks, a favourite of Wren’s because of how cartoonishly large it fits him. Silas piles his comforter on top. From Wren’s room, he grabs his hairbrush and a pair of his joggers. Their clothing is the same dull grey as everything else in hell — prison grey, Silas thinks of it.

He limps his chair back to the common room. He folds the sweatshirt and joggers over the back, brush hooked in one hand as he holds open the blanket. “Okay,” he says. “Come.”

Wren’s head is down again. He’s right where they dumped him, a pile on the common room floor. “Leave me alone, Silas.”

Silas frowns. “No,” he says. “Come. I won’t touch.”

Slowly, Wren lifts his head. He blinks up at Silas with huge, wet eyes. “What?” He says, less sharp but a bit more broken. “What are you doing?”

Silas shakes the blanket at him. “Come.”

He isn’t expecting the way Wren’s face crumples, or the way he sobs. Softly, he says, “Wren?”

Wren turns his face away, but when he sobs, he sobs, “Silas.”

Folding the blanket and the brush back onto his chair, Silas limps around it to slowly, awkwardly maneuver himself onto the carpet next to Wren. Within reaching distance, but he’s careful not to touch.

Wren doesn’t lift his face and sobs into the carpet.

Slowly, Silas lies down, on his back next to him. He reaches out, he doesn’t touch, but he invites, and without looking at him Wren shifts into his arms and sobs into Silas’ shoulder.

Silas covers his back with a massive, gentle hand and lets him cry.

He cries for a long time.

Eventually, his sobs soften to sniffles and the hitching of his back slows under Silas’ hand. He says, into Silas’ grey sweatshirt, “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Why?” Silas asks.

Wren’s chest hitches. His voice cracks when he says, “I’m disgusting.”

He frowns. “You’re not disgusting.”

Wren hiccups out a sob.

“Wren,” Silas says, “you’ve held my organs inside my body for me. This is nothing.”

He sobs again.

Silas thumbs slowly across his back, over the stiff, ripped material of his shirt. “Let me take care of you this time, Wren,” he says. “Please.”

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me,” he says softly.

“I don’t,” Silas says. “I want to.”

Wren’s small fist curls into Silas’ crewneck. Into his chest, he whispers, “they really hurt me, Silas.”

“I’ll take care of them,” Silas promises. He already knows how he’ll do it. It won’t be slow but it will be painful. “Let me take care of you first.”

Wren doesn’t answer him, but he nods into Silas’ shoulder.

Softly, Silas asks, “can I pick you up?”

He nods again.

Gratefully, gently, Silas lifts Wren into his arms and from there, into his chair. He pulls the grey blanket around his shoulders and Wren sinks into it gratefully.

The bathroom is cold, and the water doesn’t get hot, but it gets warm, so Silas runs it warm before he limps across the bathroom to gather an armful of towels. He held Wren to his feet, and leaves the towels in his place.

“You don’t have to do this,” Wren says softly.

“So?” Silas says.

He blinks up at him, a bit taken aback.

Supporting most of Wren’s weight, Silas says, “do you want my help getting undressed or do you want me not to touch you?”

Wren blinks up at him again, sniffling. “Would you help me?” He asks, so soft he’d barely spoken.

“I’ll do anything you ask me to,” Silas answers.

Wren makes a soft sound, and Silas is careful not to touch any of the bruises as he bumbles through small buttons and zippers with huge hands. He helps Wren out of his ruined skirt and into the lukewarm water. Silas doesn’t undress, but he follows him in, letting Wren lean hard against him as he lathers a washcloth he hands to him before getting to work untangling his hair.

It’s a careful few hours of effort, because Wren has so much hair and it’s so matted, caked with blood, grime, semen.

Silas is meticulous. He brushes it out. Washes it. He isn’t a great braider yet, but June had been teaching him the basics, and he can struggle his way through a sloppy French braid. He tugs the elastic out of his own hair to tie it off, and once he’s done, Wren turns to look up at him and he’s crying again.

“Wren?” He says.

And Wren surges forward, pushing his face into the hollow of Silas’ sternum, arms tight around his waist.

“Thank you,” he whispers into his wet sweatshirt.

Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand. “It’s okay,” he says.

In truth, he would die for Wren in a heartbeat. This is nothing.

[spiltcandycoatedpunkblood]

one thing i always undeniably get nostalgic and giddy about considering tennant's doctors' is that besides now being a whole new gay perspective on both of my favourite characters ever is that he looks and sounds incredibly attractive when they're being whumped. he just has the look. there's just so many things packed into one alien that make them my favourite characters ever, but the fact of different bad things happening to them just...make them so much better.

[geode-crystal]

@whumperofworlds this one is for you!

Characters involved:

Whumpee: Darius, "the Shining Knight"

Caretaker: Mianu, "the Lost Prince."

Some random Whumper idk

Contents: kidnapping, restraints (chains), a little bit of torture, a little bit of blood, a whole lot of angst

--------------

The prince’s quest was noble. No one could deny that. Noble, but very, very dangerous. And Darius had sworn—both to his prince and to himself—that he would protect Mianu with his life.

Prince Mianu’s self-assigned mission was meant to be kept secret. His identity was meant to be secret. No one, aside from those who needed to, was supposed to know he had even left his kingdom. It didn’t matter that he was still trying to set right what had once gone wrong. They were all aware of the risks. Of what might happen if someone found out he was royalty.

Darius was never going to forgive himself when he got out of this.

If he got out of this.

The first thing Darius had done when he was alert enough to be fully aware of his situation was fight against his chains.

This was a living nightmare.

Everything that had led to his capture came back to him in a rush. It had all been too simple. Too easy. He was supposed to be better than this. But a simple ambush had been all that it took. He’d allowed himself to get distracted. He’d been naive enough to let Mianu wander a few feet out of his sight. And he’d been jumped. Just like that.

Darius had put up a fight. But it wasn’t enough. All too soon, the world had gone dark.  

And now… here he was. Chained in enemy territory. No armor. No weapon.

Darius had been through a lot in his life. But had never felt so exposed and vulnerable.

He had to get out of there before anything else happened.  

His training ran through his mind. Don’t make any noise, don’t alert the enemy to your presence… but the enemy already knew he was here. Hells, they put him here. Find something to use to your advantage… but the tiny, dark room he had been thrown into was completely empty. And his hands were chained high above his head. Of course, there were cuffs around his ankles, too, despite being dumped awkwardly on the floor, left on bruised knees. He could barely move, let alone investigate.

Really, guard training had much more to say about avoiding getting into these situations than what you should do to get out of them.

He would have to complain about that later.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. I was starting to think my crew had been too rough on you.”

Darius went rigid. He’d never heard that voice before, but he knew that tone too well. His eyes quickly scanned the little room. Nothing. It looked empty. Felt empty.

Darius hissed out a rather un-knightly word. Magic. The one thing he couldn’t defend against.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “Show yourself!”

He could have sworn his captor was smirking. “Well, if you insist.”

There was a soft sound, like a curtain being drawn. And then someone stood before him. Nearly towering over him. A bandit or a mercenary, by the looks of her clothing and the dagger at her belt. A successful one at that. She was practically littered with rings, her belt embedded with gemstones. A pendant with a golden chain dangled from her hand.

Darius’ breath caught in his throat.

That was his pendant. The one that Mianu had given him. One of a matching pair, enchanted so they could keep in contact even if they were apart. So they could find each other when they needed to.

Seeing it in that woman’s hands made his blood boil.

“Who are you?” Darius snapped.

The mercenary raised an eyebrow. “You’ve used that one already. I’d hoped a royal knight would be more versed in the art of conversation than that.”

No. No. This wasn’t just some random kidnapping. She knew exactly who he was.

“Whatever it is you want, you’re not going to get it,” Darius said as firmly as he could.

But how? They’d been so careful not to be recognized...

The woman made a soft sound, almost a laugh. “Alright. I’ll play along. What, exactly, makes you think I want something from you?”

Dread seeped into Darius’ heart. He refused to let it show. He glared daggers at his captor, surging against his bonds as though he could break free by sheer force of will. His wrists were definitely mangled at that point. He didn’t care.

“If you wanted me dead, I would be by now,” he hissed. “You’ve had plenty of chances.”

“True.” The woman still spoke as though they were chatting about dinner. “But I have something else in mind.”

She took a single step forward. Darius stayed frozen, torn between trying to back up and trying to lunge forward again. He knew both options were stupid and pointless, anyway. But he wanted to do something. Anything, to try to get out of this, to try to get back to Mianu before his captor did something much worse than just knocking him out and chaining him up…

But the woman only dangled the pendant in front of him. The deep emerald in the center shone, even in the dark room.

“What a fancy little toy you have,” the woman sneered. “Not something an ordinary knight carries around, hmm?”

All of his instincts told him to turn away. To hide. But Darius refused to back down. He couldn’t show any weakness. Not now.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied.

The gemstone flashed again.

The woman rolled her eyes. “Please. I daresay I know more about magic than the likes of you. Which is exactly why I need your darling little prince.”

Darius couldn’t keep his expression steady this time.

This was exactly what he’d been afraid of.

“What did you do with him?” Darius’ voice was far too soft for his own comfort.

And the woman had the gall to laugh. “Nothing. Not yet, anyway.” 

“If you’re expecting me to help hurt him—”

“No need to worry yourself over that,” the woman cut him off. “No harm will come to him. Or you, for that matter, as long as you both behave.”

“I will never do what you ask,” Darius snapped.

The woman’s smile was heartless. Sickening. “No need to be so modest. You’re already playing your part wonderfully.”

And abruptly, Darius understood.

Whoever this woman was, she didn’t have Mianu. But she needed him. Everything had been a trap... but for Mianu. Darius was only the bait.

He’d rather die than get Mianu mixed up in this madness.

“It won’t work,” he said firmly. “Whatever you want, he’ll never give into your demands.”

“Won’t he?”

The woman’s tone was still cool. Confident. She was utterly convinced she had already won.

“We’ve all seen how… fond the poor little lost prince is of his dashing knight,” she went on. “Hard to blame him. What a handsome face.”

She gripped his chin, twisting his head this way and that. Darius jerked free.

“Whatever sick game you’re playing—”

“Oh, enough,” the woman snapped. “Don’t you have anything better to say? Besides, we don’t need him, really. Just his magic. I’ve heard the princeling has a certain affinity for working in the shadows.”

Darius’ heart could have stopped beating and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“No… no,” he choked out. “He won’t—you can’t.”

He struggled against his chains again, knowing full well it was useless. He didn’t care. He couldn’t let Mianu use that dark magic again. Mianu had sworn he would never call on the shadows again. The magic was powerful, but dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. Mianu had almost lost an arm to those dark powers. He’d nearly lost himself. If he fell into that darkness again…

Darius couldn’t lose him. Not like that.

“You can’t make him use that magic,” he said almost desperately. “I won’t let it happen.”

“That is not for you to decide,” his captor snapped.

She straightened up, holding the pendant closer. It kept flashing. Mianu was desperately trying to contact his knight. And the mercenary knew it.

“Let’s send him a little message, shall we?” she smirked.

She ran her thumb over the face of the gem. And instantly, the flashing changed to a solid glow. Mianu’s voice filled the air.

“Darius? Darius, are you there? Where are you? What happened?”

“Good evening, little prince,” she said with a smirk.

The panic and desperation in his voice made Darius’ heart fracture. But he stayed silent. It was the only weapon he had.

Of course, his captor had other plans.

Mianu’s reply was instant. “Who are you? How did you get his pendant? What did you do to him?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said the mercenary. “He’s right here with me. I promise he’s all in one piece. And if you want him to stay that way, then you’ll come and meet us. Alone.”

“Prove it,” Mianu demanded. “Prove that he’s there. Alive.”

The silence from the pendant was deadly.

Then...

The woman shrugged. “A reasonable request. Darius, dear, won’t you say ‘hello’ to your prince charming?”

If glares could kill, the woman would have fallen on the spot. But Darius said nothing.

The woman sighed. “Have it your way, then.”

There was a brief flash of light. A single whispered word. Darius had no idea what spell hit him. But it felt like a knife slicing right into his side. It must have made a seeious cut. He could feel the sting of it. Could feel the blood slowly soaking his tunic.

But aside from a quick gasp, far too soft for the pendant to pick up, he made no sound.

The woman clucked her tongue, as though chiding a small child. “You’re only making this more difficult for yourself, you know.”

Darius still said nothing. Not aloud. But in his heart, he screamed out, as though Mianu could hear his silent prayers.

Don’t listen to her, Mianu. Just run. Don’t let her get to you. It doesn’t matter what she does to me, as long as you’re safe…

His captor scowled. She closed the distance between them in a few strides. And she kicked him, hard. Right in the gash she had just made under his ribcage.

Darius screamed. He couldn’t help it. The cry was forced from him as easily as the air was forced from his lungs.

Mianu swore. “Darius! Just hold on. I’ll find you. I’ll get you out of there, I promise.”

“No!” Darius’ shout was more like a cough. “Mianu, don’t! Stay away! She’s going to—”

He was cut off with another cry as his captor delivered another sharp kick. Darius was nearly doubled over at this point. If it weren’t for the chains holding him up, he would have crashed to the floor.

“You’d better hurry, princeling,” the mercenary sneered. “Or your knight in shining armor will face far, far worse than that.”

“If you touch him again, I swear you will pay,” Mianu growled.

“And if you try any tricks, he’ll be the one to suffer for it,” the mercenary replied colly. “See you soon, your highness.”

She ran her thumb along the gem again, cutting off the connection. Then she tossed it over her shoulder. It clattered to the floor in some hidden corner of the room... where it distinctly cracked. Darius winced. He hadn’t just failed to protect his prince. He’d managed to lose an important gift from him, too.

He was a failure. As a knight. As a partner.

The mercenary’s eyes flashed. She looked almost like a kid on her favorite holiday.

“Well done,” she hissed.  “You played your part perfectly. Just like I told you.”

And something inside of Darius snapped. He forced himself as upright as he could get. It took much more effort than he would ever admit. And he couldn’t get his breathing steady. He hated himself for being so weak, for nearly crumbling after so few blows.

Mianu deserved better than that.

But he would not show this monster how weak he was. He would not allow himself to truly fall.

“You’ve made a big mistake,” he choked out. “Mainu’s stronger than you know. And he will show you no mercy.”

If he had hoped to intimidate his captor, he was severely disappointed.

“I don’t doubt his power,” she said smoothly. “I need it. Or have you already forgotten? I didn’t hit you in the head, you know. Though that can be arranged.”

Darius didn’t rise to the jibe. He kept fixing the mercenary with the coldest glare he could manage.

And she laughed again. “What a pathetic showing. I’m sure you think your prince is strong, but I promise you, I am more than powerful enough to handle anything he will attempt to use against me. And failing that… I hold all the cards.”

She sneered at Darius. Darius kept his expression cold and harsh. At least, he tried. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

Hope and fear warred inside of him. He knew that Mianu was on his way. That the prince would do everything in his power to save him. It would have been reassuring… if that hadn’t been where the danger truly lay.

If Mianu was hurt—or worse, if he actually gave in and broke his promise, if he used his magic again—it would be entirely Darius’ fault.

A part of him truly hoped that Mianu wouldn’t risk something like that. But his hopes were dashed all too soon. It wasn’t long at all before Mianu arrived.

The first sign of it was the cold. One moment, the small room was just as annoyingly warm as always. The next, the air was like ice.

The door burst open. There was a hissing sound, one that was all too familiar to Darius. And a figure stood in the doorway, a single point of brightness against a wall of shadows. Magic curled around his arm like whisps of smoke. 

A powerful voice rang across the room. A voice full of the type of fury that only royalty could truly summon.

Royalty… and a very pissed off boyfriend.

“Let. Him. Go.”

Shadows howled along with him. Darius’ heart pounded. Mianu had found them. And his power was already unleashed.

[sideblogforweirdshit]

Whump Reference Post for Fingernail Removal Torture

 Hi whump writers of Tumblr! I recently made a little introduction post in which I said I’d be making reference posts. This is one I already had typed up, because for some reason this was the first thing I thought of.

There are no images attached, but I’m putting the rest of the post under a readmore since the majority of the content is semi-graphic written description of the how-to’s and wherefore’s and such of fingernail removal torture.

To be clear: I will be going into as much depth as I possibly can without using images. The content of this post will be purely academic. There will be no artistic liberties taken. This post is meant to be as accurate to (and descriptive of) a real-life situation as possible.

I hope some part of this post eventually winds up being a helpful resource for someone!

1) Not as painful as it’s made out to be

-It's painful, but definitely not to the extent it’s shown in movies or whatnot. A lot of the "pain" comes from the shock factor of seeing your body without something it’s always had, as well as the inherent "wrongness" that comes with experiencing a part of your body being removed.

2) There is very very thin film of skin between the fingernail and the finger.

-If one is careful in removing the fingernail by peeling it back slowly, one can preserve this thin piece of skin. -If one pulls the fingernail back quickly and without taking care, this thin film will rip, and the nail will pull away with bits of flesh attached.

3) The flesh under the nail will be vertically striated.

-If one uses the peel-back method, and is careful to not let the thin film of skin between the nail and the flesh rip, the skin/flesh underneath the nail will be as visibly striated as the fingernail itself. If you look closely at your fingernail right now, you’ll see that there are many tiny grooves from the tip of your nail to the base. This is true for all human fingernails. If the nail is peeled back with sufficient care, those striations will be echoed on the skin underneath the nail.

4) The  “peel entirely off” method versus the  "peel back and then stop" method versus the "pull out entirely" method.

-The “peel entirely off” method is how I will refer to the method of grasping firmly the tip of the fingernail in some sort of vice (usually pliers) and then peeling it backwards, moving the pliers from the nail at the tip of the finger towards the hand itself. Using this method, the nail will remain firmly grasped in the pliers the entire time. The movement of the pliers only stops when the base of the nail is ripped entirely out of the finger. This will necessarily result in ripping out a fair bit of skin past the cuticles, as the technical base of the nail (aka “nail matrix”) is generally around half a centimeter hand-wards past the cuticles (and follows the curve of the nail, so is deeper than the cuticles as well). Due to the nature of skin, I would expect a tear reminiscent of an extremely deep hangnail that goes from the base of the cuticles to at least halfway between the first and second knuckle (and at most goes to the second knuckle). In this case, it is not guaranteed that the nail will grow back. There is a chance it’ll come back, but there is also a chance that the nail matrix is permanently damaged and will not be able to grow a new nail. Since every human is different, there’s not an exact science to determining where a person’s nail matrix is before it’s ripped out. A (very) general rule of thumb is to follow the curve of the existing fingernail, and draw a point on that curve before it hits bone. Obviously, this is extremely subjective.

-The “peel back and then stop” method is how I will refer to what is essentially the previous method, but one stops before the nail-ripping goes past the cuticle and snips off the peeled part, leaving a milimeter or so of fingernail existing on the nailbed. In this case, it is assured that the nail matrix is undisturbed, and the fingernail will grow back. This is the method I will assume is taken for the future steps

-The “pull out entirely” method is how I will refer to the situation where one grasps the protruding part of the nail firmly, and applies force away from the hand and in the direction the finger points. In this case, there’s a large chance that the nail will rip. This depends largely on the care taken with the pulling object (pliers, usually) to grab the nail exactly parallel with the sides of the pliers. If any part of the pliers digs into the nail at a singular location, this will create a point at which pressure will build up, and the nail will likely rip at this location. The strength of the individual’s nails also affects the ripping. The individual’s nail strength can vary based on nourishment as well as on a general person-to-person basis. Personally, I do not recommend this method.

-If one wants to make the removal definitely permanent, there’s the possibility of peeling it back all the way down and out, and then chemically burning where one assumes the nail matrix is. (Some serious irl hikers do this to their toenails on purpose, to reduce the chances of getting ingrown toenails from being laced into hiking boots for days on end.) Removing the nail permanently will obviously reduce the opportunity to peel it off again, but will give a permanent Horrific Aspect to the victim.

5) For the first three days, the exposed flesh will be painful.

-The entire tip of the finger will be a constant deep and throbbing pain. Any deviation from this norm will be an increase in pain, never a decrease (save medication or an ice-bath-for-full-minutes immersion to the point of numbness).

-Any contact with the exposed nailbed will increase the pain. Knocking the exposed flesh against anything, even extremely gently, will result in a visible bright red welt under the thin layer of skin (bright red on light skin only! on darker skin, the welt will still be visible, but will show as a dark red-brown). It is a visual similar to an extremely tiny, non-protruding blood blister. Knocking the nailbed against something less gently will result in fully scraping off that delicate outer layer of skin.

-Using the finger for anything will be painful (though not unbearably so), and it may even be painful to bend the finger at all.

-Any moisture on the exposed flesh (including anything from regular water to antibiotic ointment) will hurt a lot. This will intensify the throbbing at least twofold across the entire nailbed, and will also result in an amount of stinging as if one had just realized one had been stung by a bee.

6) For treatment and healing thereof (if quick healing is desired)

For those first three days, any bandaid application is inadvisable -The exposed flesh will be so tender and vulnerable that any bandaid (even the non-stick kind) will stick to the exposed flesh and rip it upon removal. I can only assume this is in part due to the curvature of the finger, which means that any wrapping-around type bandaid will inherently put pressure on the nailbed, resulting in sticking.

-To promote healing, the first three days should be without any sort of covering on the wound.

After the first three days, a scab will form. -At this point, the pain will be much less. it might be uncomfortable to bump the nailbed into objects, but it will not be the same pain as in the first three days.

-The wound will also be much less sensitive to moisture.

-When the scab starts to crack (usually a vertical crack), one should apply antibiotic ointment and a bandaid. At this point in the proess, it is desired for the scab to remain as consistently moist as possibly. This will help the scab fall off when it is ready to do so.

-At this point, the finger can be used normally (within reason) without much (if any) pain.

After two or three days with the bandaid covering, the scab will start to fall off.

-One may expedite this process if one is careful.

-At this point, the skin on the nailbed is sensitive to the touch, but not to the point of pain.

-There will be some dry, loose skin around the edges of the nailbed.

-The previously visible striation will no longer be there.

-Pressure on the exposed nailbed will not be necessarily painful, but it will feel decidedly Odd. Though not painful, It will be an extremely sensitive area.

-The nailbed will be a delicate pinkish color.

Around a week after the initial scab falls off, there will appear to be another scab. It will be a relatively thin layer of dry, dead skin.

-If the nail is allowed to grow normally, it is likely that it will cover this second scab before it has the chance to fall off.

-If the stub of the fingernail is trimmed routinely, it is possible for the scab to fall off, leaving only relatively smooth unblemished skin where the nailbed is. This skin will be roughly the same color and texture as the skin on the tip of the finger. 

7) The rate at which fingernails grow back is extremely slow

-The average growth rate is about 3.5 milimeters per month. There are several factors that can cause this to vary:

-Fingernails on the dominant hand grow back faster than the nails on the non-dominant hand.

-Fingernails grow back faster than toenails.

-Nails grow back faster in warm weather than in cold weather.

-Depending on the nail and the aforementioned conditions, one can expect a total regrowth time of anywhere from three to six months (or more).

8) Life Without Fingernails

-Fingernails affect a large part of our everyday lives. We mostly use them when we’re manipulating objects with our hands, and we use them to scratch. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s a lot. It’s hard to explain just how weird it is to not have fingernails to someone who’s never experienced it, but here goes:

-Fingernails are the Hard Backs used to brace our fingers against a hard shell when we manipulate something with our hands. If you pinch your fingers together right now, you’ll see a white band along the top of your fingernail. This is where the pressure from the pinching goes; it’s braced against your nail.

-Picking something up without fingernails feels extremely odd the first few hundred times you do it. It takes a long time to get used to it.

-Writing is even worse. Without the hard shell backing your fingers, the pencil tends to slip out of your grip more often. If you usually have long enough fingernails that you balance your pen/pencil on them, you’re extremely likely to have the pencil completely slip out of your grip multiple times a sentence.

-You don’t realize how much you unconsciously scratch itchy parts of your body until you no longer have the ability to do so. If you’re only missing a few nails, you have to consciously adjust your hand so that you can scratch with the existing ones. If you’re missing all of them, you have to actively find an external object to alleviate the itch.

Some places on the body one can scratch with their teeth, but for most places, one needs to either find an “itch stick,” or rub that part of their body on something scratchy. A lot of clothing is scratchy enough to work for this. One needs to learn how to vary the pressure so that one can alleviate the itch without tearing through the skin or scratching themselves.

Pros:

-Body horror

Fingernail removal is a more mentally significant mutilation than cuts or burns, if only because it draws on the "that was there and now it's not" aspect of body horror.

-Can be inflicted more than once

Since fingernails grow back, they can be removed again and again and again. Though it may take some time for the nails to regrow, it isn't even close to the type of permanent that’s chopping off a finger or a toe.

-Helplessness

Since it takes a few days for the nailbeds to heal enough to be able to use one's fingers, a complete removal of all fingernails will take away one's ability to use their hands. Even after this initial period of extreme sensitivity, the lack of fingernails is something most people aren’t prepared for. The previous section explaining how fingernails affect daily life is significant here.

 Cons:

-Can’t repeat often.

Once a fingernail is off, it's not coming back for at least three months (likely longer). It doesn't have the relatively quick reset time that burns or cuts do.

-Relatively short amount of time in pain

All of the pain is in the first few days. It is inconvenient afterwards, but there is little to no pain at this time.

-Amount of care needed

One needs to be relatively careful inflicting this. Fingernails are not as resilient as you'd think, and the likelihood of them ripping before you can finish ripping them off is fairly large if you're not being careful.

If you have a short-tempered or impatient whumper, this might not be their particular wheelhouse.

 Conclusion

Overall, I’d say that the effectiveness depends entirely on the desired result. The time it takes for the fingernails to regrow versus the amount of time in which the subject is in pain is not a very productive ratio, so if you’d want your whumper doing a particular torture regularly, I wouldn’t recommend this.

However, if the whumper’s goal is to appeal to the body horror aspect without permanent damage, this is a great option. The fact that it takes nails so long to regrow gives the victim a sense of horrified freakishness. It also has the added benefit of reducing the victim’s maneuverability far after the fact.

The semi-visible nature of this method of torture can be effective if one wishes to horrify characters outside the whumper/whumpee relationship. You don’t immediately look at other people’s hands when you meet them, and as such it might take a while for outside characters to notice the lack of fingernails (especially if they’re past the three day mark). But once they notice, it will be hard to look away.

[treehuggerthegreat]

something i really need to get off my chest even if i just post this privately is That i really dislike ‘caretakers’ in whump writing. or ‘whumper’ i feel like it makes a character (even if they’re just a hypothetical one) feel very 1 dimensional and it makes me so OKAY JUST HEAR ME OUT!!! whumpee i don’t mind much, it makes the prompt or what your talking about a little clearer. But it feels like it’s putting it into a box and making sort of roles which makes it feel less like a prompt and more like we’re in an omega verse fandom and i mean this really lovingly and affectionately and no hate to any of yall. I have a vast amount of characters and i write stories and books and I can say with out a shadow of a doubt, not ONE of them fall under ‘whumper’ or ‘caretaker’ because i develop them as their own individual character. Not even my antagonist are ‘whumpers’

So one of my main antagonists literally burns cigarettes on the MC and abuses the MC. Tries to kill her on her 18th birthday. Shes her mom, and the main character PHYSICALLY cannot leave that situation with out getting the authorities involved until she turns 18. Mom sounds like an ass, she beats ‘whumpee’ up! why would i NEVER call her a whumper? because she’s a whumpee by that logic. Her mom was extremely emotionally abusive, and half the time not fully there. Her shitty ass dad got murdered in front of her when she was just a kid. but Her mom isn’t a whumper either, because she too would be considered a whumpee. She was a world renowned flapper girl, everyone loved her. she LIVED for the fame and her face in newspapers. But behind the scenes she was actively ignoring her distant parents as they continued to try and marry her off. She was then forced into the marriage when she got pregnant with the guy (much so against her will which is why she killed him.) and ever since she’s been delusional and not fully there. It’s generational abuse.

more ramble under the cut + extra clarification on what I’m trying to say

okay but that’s just generational abuse right? There are other whumpers in the real world! Yeah i guess there’s sadists and serial killers, but like, there’s SOOOO much more guys.

I have a mini antagonist, he’s in highschool and he’s meant to be the toxic narcissistic ex of one of my characters. But he’s falling apart trying to get attention, he’s not fully aware of the damage he IS doing. Ass he may be but again behind the scenes he’s constantly fighting with his dad who refuses to do anything around the house and who is also transphobic (she’s bigender but i’ve been using he to make it less confusing right now) and now she has to take care of her little sister and act like a whole ass mom. As a sophomore. In high school. Not only that but her mom died, so she has to struggle with that. She’s just an annoying ass teenager, she doesn’t understand how to treat people or how she’s supposed to be handling what she’s dealing with. But getting attention and being liked at school? now that’s the shit. That’s like drugs for her. But to what lengths does she go to get that extra validation? He uses his boyfriend almost like an accessory. He’s not considerate of his feelings, and most likely doesn’t understand what a relationship is SUPPOSED to be.

Unless you’re making a sociopath character, which i LOVE a good sociopath character, you have to treat them like they also have humanity. Most of the time villains don’t just. Do shit to do it, they have some sort of background that lead up to this!!! And also even then with sociopaths they’re their own individual characters separate from the people they hurt!!! and also NONE of these are end all be alls and all characters must be developed this way!!!!

just my advice and stuff <3 i love all of you out there and i can understand why using certain roles and terms are the go to, and i’m not stopping you!!! i just really wanted to give my two cents so i can possibly help other writers!!!