#tw infected wounds

[bonebabbles]

The Infected Wound

"Yeah Clear Sky isn't perfect and he made some mistakes but--" Shut your mouth. Read this first;

Thunder is about 6-ish months old, the WC equivalent of a 13-year-old. He has the 'audacity' to confront his dad about all the murder he's been doing to pointlessly expand his borders, and in response, Clear Sky summons Frost, whose wound hasn't healed from a forest fire.

He publicly humiliates him, ordering him to flash his weeping wound to all the cats in the clearing, announcing that he is a danger to everyone now because he is weak and must be exiled.

And he finishes with,

Because, this is a test.

This is a mind game that Clear Sky is playing with Thunder for standing up to him. Once again, he's creating a situation that will HURT Thunder, to watch him follow his orders, to prove Thunder's loyalty and his own power over him, because he's mad. This is retaliation.

This is not a mistake.

This is abuse. Intentional, malicious, controlling behavior, involving Frost's life in the game he's playing for his own ego. This has NOTHING to do with the "wellbeing" of SkyClan. He did this in response to Thunder pointing out that the forest is healing and there is no need to murder more innocent people.

And if that wasn't enough, he even took his teenage's son's face and shoved it in the festering, reeking wound, telling him to lick it.

Was that an accident? Did he slip and a billion monkeys on a typewriter came up with "lick his wound clean"? Did Clear Sky effectively utilize girl power for the good of the Clan when he shoved a child's face in infected pus?

Next there's a fox quicktime event where a random fox is in the camp, because the writers have never heard of pacing, and Clear Sky blames Thunder for attracting the fox (somehow), shoving him off the rock to fight it.

Then Thunder leaves to bring Frost to a doctor.

What all of this says about Clear Sky, what we can observe all the way back to Sun Trail, is that we know what he wants to do with power. Even as early as the Sun Trail recruitment, he is trying to pressure Bright Stream into coming. Later, he's already getting in public fights with Storm and his controlling behavior is a reason why she leaves him. He does nothing as Fox mauls Gray Wing on his orders, squealing when Fox is killed in accidental self-defense.

Now he uses his power to neglect and harass people who are disabled and infirm, saying that the presence of "weakness" is a threat to his Clan, using Frost as a pawn in an controlling display over his child.

Power reveals. This is who he is. This is who he has always been.

[little-peril-stories]

Whumptober 2023, Day 26: "You look awful."

Whumptober 2023 Masterlist

Read at your own risk! They're only snippets of a larger story, with no resolution that will be posted online anytime soon; they are being posted out of order; and the characters don't have names. Enjoy!

Contents: prison camp, forced labour, infected wounds, bullying, humiliation, taunting, restraints, all the delicious things

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Word count: 2150 || Approx reading time: 9 mins

"You look awful."

Teaser: The heat was cruel, not just to him, of course, but to all who toiled beneath it. The back of his neck, his face, and his arms all stung as salty sweat and flecks of dirt ground into his sunburnt skin.

“Whichever road I take, I’ll be incurring someone's wrath.”

Thoughts had all but faded into silence.

Dull buzzing filled the scholar’s mind, the only thing he could coax himself to produce. That he used to read—and write—academic texts, to spend hours poring over books and filling his mind with all the wondrous knowledge he could get his hands on, was nothing now but a sick joke.

He wasn’t like her. She’d loved working outside. It was who she was—a girl of sunlight, of green leaves, of fresh air, bracing wind, fragrant rain, pollen and petals, wings and feathers and earth and sky. He’d never understood, but he loved her for it. He loved her. He loved her. Always had. Still did. Always would.

You killed her.

I didn’t.

You killed him.

I did it for her.

You deserve this.

Did he? Under her blazing sun, more exhausted than he’d ever been, with callouses on his fingers and chains on his feet, he wasn’t certain anymore.

The heat was cruel, not just to him, of course, but to all who toiled beneath it. The back of his neck, his face, and his arms all stung as salty sweat and flecks of dirt ground into his sunburnt skin.

That discomfort was nothing, of course, compared to the wounds on his chest.

Insisting to himself the pain was not so terrible, he kept his eyes on the ground. If he didn’t keep his gaze trained on the task at hand, it would fall on the hostile glares that followed him everywhere he went. If the eye contact didn’t set off another round of taunts, jeers, and retribution for a crime he had not committed…well, then it would still remind him of how thoroughly meaningless his life had become.

The cuts were festering; he was certain of it. Instead of healing as they should, the letters throbbed red-hot, infection encouraged not only by a knife that must have been teeming with filth but also by the grains of black powder rubbed into the broken skin—like salt in the wound but infinitely worse, for it did not merely burn. It stained.

And every time he looked down at his own skin, he was forced to reckon with what he was—visible now to anyone else who knew where to look.

Water, soap—no use. He wasn’t convinced that even magic, if he met a healer who might be willing to put their hands on him, would scour away the gruesome art piece on his chest.

He blinked and kept moving. That was all he could do. If he stopped, everyone would look at him, prisoners and guards alike. The prisoners would simply sneer their insults and threats—in fact, they would anyway. But if the guards grew impatient, they might grow angry. And if the guards grew angry, they might grow violent.

He didn’t need any more pain, nor any more marks on his skin.

But the sun was beating down, hot as the hateful stares of everyone around him, and the air was heavy and humid, and his bones were so weary and his muscles ached as they never had before, and the letters, they burned—

“Get up,” the nearest guard said, and the scholar realized he had dropped to his knees.

Gods, if he lifted that whip—

“I told you to get up.”

All too cognizant of the laughter drifting in fragments around him and only getting louder, the scholar stood.

“Keep. Digging.”

Nodding, the scholar did.

Whether or not he deserved it no longer seemed relevant. Whether or not he would survive it—far more pressing.

“What’s the matter, professor?” someone howled. “Not feeling good?”

He clenched his jaw and didn’t look up.

“Bit sore, Book Boy? Getting tired?”

Ignoring them, he knew, was the only solution, the only weapon he had. They’d clobber him on a good day, even if he wasn’t on the verge of collapse—and they knew it.

The taunts ebbed and flowed in time with the rotation of the patrolling guards—when those braided-leather whips got too close, the others were quiet. As the guards walked on, though…

“Gonna keep saying you didn’t do it, are you?”

“When we get to do round two?”

“Come on, thought you were a big, powerful guy. Killed a soldier, didn’t you? I wanna see how strong you are. When’s my turn to have a go?”

“Yeah, you better hide that ugly face, coward.”

“Still got nothing to say? How’s about—”

“Gods. You look awful.”

The scholar froze.

No. That voice—it couldn’t be—

As taken by surprise as he was, apparently, the guards started barking orders at the inmates. Someone shoved the scholar back to his knees, but this time, everyone else knelt, too.

He was here.

He was here.

Guards were stammering out questions, wondering why the prince had come—to this, of all places, to this stinking pit of the unredeemable, the vile, and the depraved.

“I’m here for him.” The scholar didn’t need to look up from the dirt where he’d  been digging in straight lines for hours to prepare for the construction of a new road. He knew the prince was waving a lazy hand toward him.

He had also known this day would come: that his stint as a labourer would end, his supposed reprieve from the reality that he was a murderer—that, at the end of the day, murderers had to die.

A few whoops and jibes rose from somewhere around him, but a guard roared for silence, and the command was obeyed.

“Been busy making friends, I see.” The prince was before him, staring down with pitiless amusement. “How terribly unlike you.”

The scholar swallowed and did not speak.

“Come on, now. Didn’t we used to be friends? Speak. Have you been making acquaintance with the other killers and traitors?”

The scholar didn’t move, and still he said nothing.

“Hmm.” The prince sighed softly, rampant disgust in the quiet exhale. “And here I thought you were such a grand coward.” He lowered his voice. “That’s the story I heard, anyway. Murdering the weak and defenceless, and whatnot.”

The scholar’s face burned.

“Disobeying an order from your prince, however? That’s new. You’ve changed. Didn’t I ask you a question?”

The scholar didn’t raise his head—merely stared at the grime and blood crusted underneath his nails and tried not to think of how they were the dirtiest they’d ever been. He tried not to think of the eyes, far too many, that were fixed on his back. He tried not to think of the man who stood before him and how his hands had been the ones to hold her prisoner, and his words the ones to obliterate the scholar’s reputation. And he tried with every fibre being not to dwell on his inevitable exodus from the hell of the camp, or on what reason could impel the prince to summon him into fresh misery.

“Gonna get yours, pervert,” someone hissed, and this time, nobody told them to be silent.

The prince chucked as if he’d heard. “No matter. Get up. You’re coming with me.”

Muscles long used to obeying orders—he had devoted his whole life to this royal family, until that fateful day—twitched in the desire to do as they were told. The scholar bid them to be still.

Something sharp and stinging slashed over the scholar’s back, and he gasped at the fresh, searing pain.

“You know you’re coming back with me whether you like it or not,” the prince said. The scholar took a dim measure of satisfaction in the surprise colouring the prince’s voice. “Now get on your feet before I have someone assist you.”

The scholar knew everyone watched him still—now, not simply because they expected him to be thoroughly humiliated by the prince who’d sent him away in chains, but also to see if the commander-killer were as audacious as he spent so much time pretending to be.

There was no question in his mind that the prince would make good on his threat to order one of his men to assist him in rising from the ground, nor that the manner of assistance would be less than gentle. Without a doubt, the scholar would be hauled away from the camp no matter what he chose. And wherever he went, the whispers would follow, wouldn’t they?

Finally, the scholar raised his head until he met the prince’s gaze.

The summer-lush grass, soon to be dead and torn from the earth, was crushed beneath his knees; the earth under it pressed back, rigid and unyielding in the heat. Above, dotted with distance birds of prey soaking up the sun’s warmth, the sky was a sleek, brilliant blue. Before him, the prince waited, the silk of his jacket waving in the breeze. “Well, well. After all this time, look who’s grown a spine.”

He nodded toward one of the royal guards he had brought with him, and the scholar was wrestled to his feet—not before one of them cuffed him on the side of his head for his recalcitrance, which sent his cracked, near-useless glasses askew. He didn’t know why he bothered wearing them anymore; being able to see or not made little difference. They could throw him around, shackle him, and do as they pleased—and they had.

The scholar gave a strangled cry as a guard accidentally nudged the wounds on his chest. At the sound, the prince’s eyes narrowed. “So you haven’t lost your voice entirely, then. What’s wrong with you?”

When the scholar didn’t answer, the prince jerked his head at his guards again, and a rough hand tore at his shirt, pulling just enough to reveal the glistening, inflamed skin. At the sight, the prince cursed, then chuckled.

“I suppose that answers my question,” he said, glancing around at the inmates still kneeling and waiting for permission to return to work. “It doesn’t appear you’ve made any friends here at all.”

Without warning, he stepped forward, for the first time putting his hands on the scholar himself, eliciting a gasp when he touched one of the seeping wounds. “Murderer,” he read, revealing the word, “and pervert? Gods, seems like you’ve made yourself a charming set of enemies, in fact.” He shifted his hand upward and forced the scholar to look up from the ground. “There’s no question about what you are, is there?”

The scholar tried to move his head, to look away. His effort only earned him another blow to the back of his head.

“Answer me,” the prince said softly, tightening his grip just enough that the scholar’s jaw began to ache.

The scholar forced out, “I know what I am.”

Silence coated the land around them.

“Yes,” said the prince, smiling now, “as do I. A failure.” Snickers rolled through the kneeling inmates. “And if you, in fact, have not accepted that to be true…you will soon.” He tilted the scholar’s face from side to side, let go and plucked at the filthy shirt. “Any other delightful decorations I should be aware of? Any more injuries, before I take you back?”

“Just hurry,” the scholar said, “just get on with it and let me die already.” He was tired, so tired. From the work. From the infection. From the guilt. From wondering of where she had gone after she fled. From the constant, cutting terror of what might happen if she were found again.

Someone ordered him to show some respect, a laughable suggestion if he’d ever heard one, and the strike that landed sent him reeling. Chained now, he hit the ground hard, writhing in the dirt where he’d been toiling mere minutes before.

“Oh,” said the prince. “You think you’re going to your execution, do you?”

He turned, giving orders to his royal guards and to the ones who patrolled the camp, not another glance or word spared for the scholar. One of the iron-gripped soldiers wrenched him to his feet yet again and informed him that if he didn’t walk, he’d be dragged away, and that it was his choice. To himself, the scholar laughed, for choice had become an entirely foreign entity.

This fact was something no one else seemed to understand, for when he’d been loaded into a wagon, the prince addressed him again. His eyes roamed over the shackles, the magic-suppressing bands, the limp way the scholar’s shirt hung off his shoulder to reveal the cursed black letters on his skin. “If only,” he said, “you’d made the right choice, perhaps we wouldn’t be here.”

“I would do it again,” the scholar said. If the choice had been to help her escape or to let her be caught and subject her to the prince’s whims instead, what choice had ever existed at all?

Pearly teeth flashed as the door closed. “Well, you say that now, old friend. But we shall see.”

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[thatbendyfan]

doodle of the entity from @adultfromthebackrooms :) finally got a design for it

[sporeclan]

< Previous | First | Next >

Leaf-bare again and we're already off to a bad start :')

[serickswrites]

When You Can't Run

Warnings: captivity, torture, escape, hidden injury, infection, blood, wound, unconsciousness

"If you can't run you walk. If you can't walk you crawl. And if you can't crawl, I'll carry you."

Those were the words Team Leader always preached to their team. Team Leader would never let their team give up. Would never let a member fall behind. And they would never leave a teammate behind.

Team Leader trailed behind Teammate One. They felt like they had been walking for hours, but knew it had likely on been half an hour since they escaped Whumper's compound by the skin of their teeth. Teammate One had really stood up and taken charge the moment it became clear it was their time to run.

Team Leader was glad for that. They didn't think they were up for much of anything they were so weak. It wasn't the days of torture that had them so weak. Nor was it the minimal food and water that had them so weak. It was the deeply infected wound on the small of their back that had them so weak.

But they had to keep going. They had to get out of there. And Teammate One wasn't likely to leave them behind if Team Leader said they would wait here for rescue while Teammate One ran for help. Teammate One would never leave anyone behind.

"You ok, Team Leader? I can slow down if you like." Teammate One peered over their shoulder.

Team Leader shook their head. They could feel the blood dripping down their back as the wound reopened for the umpteenth time in the last hour. "I'm right behind you."

"You always said to us 'when you can't run you walk,' so let's just walk together." Teammate One slowed down until their strides matched Team Leader's clumsy ones. "Are you sure you're ok?"

"Just a little under the weather. Days of torture, you know," Team Leader joked, though they couldn't quite muster the energy to smile.

"Yeah, it was pretty shitty, wasn't it?" Teammate One said as they faced forward, though they kept one eye on Team Leader.

Team Leader nodded weakly as they stumbled. Teammate One grabbed their shoulder and was the only reason they didn't face plant on the dirt in front of them. "I.....I....I thinkkkkkk I......I.....I nnnneeeedddd y-y-you tttttto d-d-d-d-oooo th-th-the rest....st...st," Team Leader mumbled, unable to bring themself to say the rest of the words they always told their team.

"Team Leader?" Teammate One shouted as Team Leader's knees gave out and they collapsed. "Team Leader!"

Team Leader fainted dead away in Teammate One's grasp. They didn't hear Teammate One's frantic shouts. Didn't hear Teammate One's gasp as Teammate One finally found the wound on their back. And they didn't hear Teammate One curse as Teammate One lifted them.

"Don't you dare quit on me, Team Leader. I will carry you. And when you're awake, we are going to have a discussion about amending our team motto." Teammate One ran as fast as they could through the forest, Team Leader clutched tightly in their arms. They would get Team Leader to safety. Team Leader couldn't crawl, and so they would carry Team Leader the whole way home.

[aceofwhump]

Outlander 7x04 - William Ransom whump part 2

[pigeonriot]

imagining this made me physically recoil gdfgdfghdf

[whumpshots]

Whump ABC #9 - Infected Wound

Based on the results of this poll.

_

Caretaker furrows their brows as they look at whumpee who is struggling to keep in the soft pained noises that interrupt their shallow and hectic breathing. They are drenched in sweat, hands shaking at the pain they must be in.

"How are the injuries?", caretaker asks in their professional tone, trying to keep their worry at bay. It's been a few days since they rescued them, but they haven't gotten better - only worse. Caretaker assumes the worst, but whumpee tries to shake it off.

"Fine," they rasp as they rest their head back in the pillow, swallowing hard. Caretaker only hums and lifts the other's shirt, who is too weak to protest. They carefully undress the wound, already seeing what they feared - the wound is swollen, surrounded by reddened flesh.

"That doesn't look fine ..." Caretaker takes a closer look and is met with an unpleasant smell, the wound itself is not the worst thing he has seen, but definitely not the prettiest either. They look up to ask whumpee how high the pain is, but the words die in their throat as the other tenses up and screws their eyes shut with every little touch of caretaker.

"This got infected pretty badly, kid. Hang on, I'll give you something for the pain, but I need to take care of this, too. The antibiotics might do their work just fine, just hang in there, okay?" Whumpee manages a nod and bite back a grunt.

Just when they thought the worst was over ...

[whumpypepsigal]

The Last of Us s01e08: “Joel? Joel, where the f*ck do I put this?”

[n0thingiscool]

[tranakin-skywalker]

The melty boy

[mystery-star]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 13 | Infection

Gladiator (2000)

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

the website I just looked up seems to be saying i should possibly seek medical attention for this so uh. prayers that it doesn't get infected or anything?

[emimushroom]

Мне пришла идея иза тренда с пони вирусом создать свой но по румсуту :]

Еще аушка в процессе

[tobiaswexley]

@ivyemerscn

[serickswrites]

Tattered and Torn

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture, wound, infection, infected wound, caretaking performed by whumper

Whumper stared down at the heap they had left Whumpee in after their last torture session a few hours ago. Whumpee hadn't moved. Hadn't stretched to the length of the thick chains that kept them near the center of the room. Whumper only knew Whumpee was breathing because of the irregular wheezing sound.

"Get up," Whumper growled.

Whumpee didn't reply.

Whumper crouched down next to Whumpee. Whumper could see their face was sweaty and pale. "Just great," Whumper said as they pulled back Whumpee's tattered and torn shirt to reveal the wounds Whumper had inflicted days ago. The wounds that were now very infected.

Whumpee still didn't reply. They just lay there and wheezed.

"I'm only going to do this because I want to prolong our time together. I'm only doing this this once," Whumper muttered as they unchained Whumpee. "Don't say I didn't give you warning."

Whumper easily lifted Whumpee into their arms. Whumpee clung onto them, even in their feverish state. As Whumper carried Whumpee into a spare bedroom, they realized they weren't sure how they were going to help Whumpee.

Whumper carefully lay Whumpee on the bed. Whumpee lay on the thick coverlet, shackles still around their wrists providing a sharp contrast to the soft bed. The room was dim though the sun pressed against the thick curtains. "Care'r," Whumpee croaked. "T-T-Tiredddd."

Whumper froze. Did Whumpee think they were Caretaker? "I'll make you all better. I promise, Whumpee." Whumper smiled. Perhaps taking care of Whumpee could have its fun, too.