#caning whump

[thattripleabattery]

If I had a nickel for every time I had to headcanon that the scientist who uses a cane and has dealt with chronic pain most of his life is more likely to know his limits and know that he would be more efficient when not in agony as opposed to his lab partner situationship who’s more likely to ignore/not remember his own needs and limits to his detriment

I’d have two nickels

[paingoes]

Rubies - Trial III

the prosecution makes its argument

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past trauma, referenced child abuse, referenced caning, past emotional abuse, war, guilt, parental death mention, child death mention, emotional whump, crying, angst, comfort)

In the Emperor’s quarters, the dead far outnumbered the living. Delta knelt upon the bearskin run and ran his fingers through its thick white fur. He wanted to reach for the mouth of it, to feel the teeth, but he dared not move without permission. The fresh cane marks along his calves made sure of that.

“Here, boy.”

The Emperor had taken to calling him boy, which he found strange and overfamiliar. To his handlers, he had always been One-Oh-Seven. More and more, it has simply been Delta. There was no need for numeration when there were no others.

He rose up off of the carpet, taking silent steps until he stood in front of the weary form of the old man. 

The doctor was nowhere to be seen. For this, he was grateful.

A hand heavy with time and with rings pressed against his forehead. Did he look sick? He didn’t mean to. The Emperor would find no fever there, at any rate. Delta ran cold.

“Are the stars all in alignment tonight, poppet?” He withdrew his hand. “Will today be a good day?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was no gap in between their words. There was no hesitation. He would be punished for lying just as quickly as for failing, so he was careful not to lie. Of course today would be a good day. 

Delta was excellent.

But the Emperor still searched him. It was not illness he had sensed. 

“Is everything alright?”

The concern in his voice only made the sting worse. Delta looked down in shame.

It was sullenness. That was all. He was cold all over, soaked with shame. It was bad, he knew. He was supposed to take all punishment without complaint, but Delta so seldom needed correction. It hurt all the more when it did come. He couldn’t get the chill of it to leave him. He’d been torn into. 

Unfit, the doctor had said. Unworthy of the privilege. Disgraceful.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Delta responded, the shame of it deepening. He hadn’t meant to sulk about it. He was only proving their point.

There was nothing wrong with his ability to perform, which is all the Emperor had really been asking. A little emotional hurt had never impacted his powers before — thank god for that. Today would be no exception.

With that, the Emperor rose up. Delta followed a half-step behind him. He was getting on in age. It was never hard to keep up.

They walked all the way past the war room, out onto the deck of the ship. The air was thin in the upper atmosphere, but it was getting more bearable upon the descent. There were a collection of advisors and generals gathered about by the railing. Delta kept his head bowed respectfully, careful not to look them dead on. With the Emperor there, he knew they wouldn’t dare touch him. But it was a deeply ingrained habit and one he saw no reason to break.

There was a pressure at his shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but it only scared him worse. He could see the target below. Its perimeter was painted in a pale orange color.

They wanted showy this time.

Space was made around him as they clicked the collar off of his neck. He closed his eyes. The light was painful. All the hearts beating so close were distracting. 

Disgraceful. He felt the sting of fear in his chest and prickling at his eyes. It was going to hurt. He was getting frigid in a way he hadn’t before. He didn’t want to be hurt.

He zeroed in on the target anyway, visualizing its delimitation among the pale. He wished they’d given him something to hold onto. All he had now were his own hands and his nails cutting indents into the palms. Showy. The world snapped as the target was turned to dust.

The collar clicked back on. Blood was already pooling in his throat and in his sinuses. The migraine aura descended. He swayed, but not fall. The Emperor’s hand steadied him there. It moved calming circles into his back. He heard the applause, but to him it sounded miles away.

“Incredible.” The Emperor had whispered into his ear. “You were wonderful.”

And like that, he was glowing. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t supposed to feel a thing, but the warmth of the praise made itself at home in him. It was the only time he let himself feel anything close to pride — and he could have lived in its light. It was almost worth it. He felt sick enough to die and it was almost worth it.

~~~~~~

Silas placed the blank sheet of paper down onto the desk and slid it towards him. His expression was grim.

“I want you to write down every target you can remember hitting. Names and dates. It doesn’t have to be exact.”

The room was small and dark, not much bigger than a broom closet. Maryam sat beside him at the table. He had a legal right to keep her there — and thought he had not asked her to, she volunteered to accompany him. 

Delta rocked his leg a little as he felt at the rough graphite of the pencil.

He took the order for what it was. He had a good sense for it. There were some things he struggled to remember, but in general, his memory was better than most. He had been allowed no distractions. He’d had no choice but to focus in.

He started with the earlier days of his imperial career — the battleship he’d crushed on the water, the first show of strength before the purchase was made. And then there was all that came after. He was never told until the day of what he would be after, but he remembered them all the same.

Marisol

Pyrha

Holliday

Basalt

Clover

Killian

Versus

He wrote mechanically, appending the dates as best as he could. He’d already made up this list in his mind several times. He’d have offered it to Levon if things had gone differently, but as it stood, he’d never been given the chance.

Regina

Ursa

Deidra

Anatol

Timber

Jocobe

Weissan

He soon ran out of space on the page. He write in a smaller script around the margins.

“That’s enough,” Maryam said, eyeing the prosecutor nervously. Delta kept writing.

“You can stop now,” Silas agreed, reaching to take the paper back.

“I’m not done,” Delta snapped. 

He recoiled just as soon as he’d said it. He didn’t know where he’d gotten the nerve to speak like that, to talk back at all, and especially not to them. He dropped the pencil and drew back into the chair, fully expecting to get smacked in the mouth, bare minimum. 

The hit didn’t come. Silas took the paper and examined it without much reaction. It was a long list — and that was only with the Emperor. He hadn’t even gotten to Paris yet.

“Can I ask you something? For my own curiosity?” Silas said.

Delta looked up at him.

“About how far away from the target are you when activated?”

“…A mile, sir.” Delta tapped at the chair.

He nodded. “What’s the closest you’ve ever been to someone you’ve killed?”

He heard Maryam scoff beside him, but he thought it was a fair question, if an abrupt one. He had to think about it for a second. As the answer came to him, he felt the shock of ocean water, stealing just as much breath from him as it had the first time.

He held his hands up to demonstrate, having no other way to quantify the distance. Right up against his body. He’d garroted him, wrapped the chains around his neck and held him there. The water had done the rest. He hadn’t even used his powers.

“Daniel Martino,” he answered quietly, “The same night I got picked up.”

It was his most recent kill  — and if Levon’s word was anything to believe in, it would be the last. 

He hadn’t told anyone about it until now.

“Your handler?” Silas asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Silas and Maryam exchanged a look he could not read.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t fault you for that.” Silas folded the paper into his pocket.

The clemency caught him off guard. Delta looked down, embarrassed all the same.

~

The shades were drawn in the conference room. It was a stormy day outside — Delta could imagine how the static might’ve felt on his skin had he been out there. For now, all he could do was imagine it.

“Delta,” the prosecutor drew his attention back, “I asked you a question.”

Silas was sharper with him when there was a crowd. He was familiar with this tactic. It didn’t register to him as a surprise, only as a kind of dull pain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Delta said weakly, but sincerely. “…Could you repeat it, please?”

He usually would not have been bold enough to make requests, but then he usually wouldn’t have zoned out in the first place.

“Were the accounts of lateral violence within the Institute true?” He asked, then clarified: “Were the students there encouraged to hurt one another?” 

“Yes, sir.” Delta closed his eyes. He did not need to guess the next question.

“Did you ever use your powers to injure the other students?”

Not because he wanted to. He didn’t know if he was allowed to answer with that. It had been a yes-or-no question — and his handlers had gotten mad whenever he tried to explain himself around it. He didn’t know if the same rules would apply here.

“Yes, sir.”

He caught the concerned looks of the others at the conference table. The council members had shown him no scorn so far, in spite of everything. He dreaded losing it. But in his mind, it was an inevitability. He couldn’t make himself look back.

“Did you ever kill any of them?”

It wasn’t the same as injuring. The administration had loved to use him as a threat long before he was in the imperial service. He’d always be the first they brought out they sent to scare the others into submission. After the first few times — cracked ribs, broken arms, and painful shocks — any actual violence wasn’t needed. The threat alone was enough.

That wasn’t the same as killing. While the punishment had been painful, the kills were quick. Those were for safety alone. Nobody ever died as a punishment. They died because they were about to kill everyone else.

It’d been a yes-or-no question. The answer was yes, obviously.

“Yes, sir.” 

He kept his eyes down. Kitty shifted a bit to his left. He didn’t want to see the way her face changed when she found out.

Silas ended his line of questioning. The lights dimmed further as the video began to play.

PYRHA 08

SOL 07

The caption showed against the grainy white backdrop. He could see the town in his mind before it was shown on the screen. It was before the disaster. Jade was pushed up into the edges of the home. All their streets were still cobblestone. From above, as he had seen it, the town looked to be built into a crescent moon shape. The blue tops of buildings stood out against the pale sand.

“…There was this burning, endless light…”

The voiceover played over still frames of the cloud. The images clipped together in animation. He saw the tip of the airship approaching the edge of the sky.

Whoever had produced the documentary had no knowledge of the cause. How could they? It was a superweapon, they were sure, but how could they have known what? 

All they could do was to quantify it. The ground temperature had reached the same peak as the sun. The duration lasted ten to fifteen seconds — 12.945 seconds, Delta corrected in his mind. There’d been no warning. 2,031 people had died. About five hundred families.

The focus was the math — and more than that, the footage. Few of his attacks had ever been so well documented. But almost as an aside, they had spoken to some of the eye witnesses.

A girl with chestnut brown hair smiled sadly into the camera as she held up the picture. The image quality changed again as a video from inside her house began to play. He could not tell if she was the infant or the child holding onto it inside the cedar living room. The camera shifted angles to capture their mother grinning on the couch, clapping along to the silent song. 

There was some primordial ache in him that would not sleep. It’d always burned too hot. After the first few times, he’d learned not to touch it.

He felt it burning now, pressed up against his skin with no escape.

“And my friends always made fun of me for being such a townie, because I had to ride the bus two hours just to get to school,” the girl chirped softly, “And I remember that morning, my mom telling me not to stay too long after classes. She wanted me to come straight home that day because-“

Her voice broke. 

“Because we were going to go out as a family.”

The clip cut away to the moment the sky tore open.

Delta stood up before he knew what he was doing. He stumbled blindly away from the table, pushing out into the hall.

He’d taken her parents from her. Ripped her away from them, the same way he’d been ripped away from his own. The loss cut through him sharper than he could ever remember. 

He was crying. He couldn’t stop it. The sorrow and fear enveloped him in equal measures. He’d walked out. He hadn’t been dismissed, he’d never walked out like that in all his life. But he couldn’t stand to hear anymore. He didn’t want them to see him cry.

He wanted his mom. It was silly. He didn’t even know what she looked like. She clearly hadn’t wanted him.

“Delta?” Levon called after him. He stopped dead. He was recall trained — he wouldn’t dare move farther. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. He didn’t think he could.

He sank to the floor instead. He tried to hide his tears, but his body shook from the effort. He was still good about being quiet when he was hurt. He was trying very hard to be good about it.

A soft sob escaped him anyway. Levon bent down onto the floor beside him.

“That was too far. I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.” Levon placed one hand lightly onto his shoulderblade. His thumb worked over the knots that had formed there, so bound up and painful.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said. It was always the first thing to come out of his mouth these days, no matter how much they tried to correct it. 

He remembered how young he was at the time. He remembered how proud he’d been.

“I didn’t know,” Delta said through tears, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know, baby,” Levon’s voice got quiet. It didn’t echo. No one else could have heard. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Then, even quieter, the admission: “It’s not your fault.”

Delta sobbed into his sleeve, leaning over so that his face almost touched the ground. He wished he could stop it. It was taking everything out of him.

He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve. It was an invitation. He accepted it before he could stop himself, too desperate for any semblance of comfort. Levon pulled him into the hug. His cries grew muffled as he hid his face in the fabric of the shirt.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Levon said, the pain audible in his voice. He carded his hands through the boy’s hair, doing all he could to soothe him.

“I didn’t mean to,” came the soft whine in response.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter

[weirdstrangeandawful]

If we’re going to have physically disabled whumpees making miraculous recoveries in whump then we at least need some more variety, eh?

You can keep the whumpees relearning to walk after time in a wheelchair (if you show the insane amount of work that goes into that recovery, that is) but let’s add some more:

Whumpees who need custom orthotics, pacing themselves just enough to be able to wear those fancy shoes for a night

Whumpees who use crutches discovering building enough wrist strength to use a cane (or two canes)

Whumpees with crutches moving from four-point gait to alternating gait

Whumpees in wheelchairs learning to self-propel with their feet

Whumpees who use shower chairs learning some compensatory techniques to avoid fainting for short periods of time so they can take warm showers again

Whumpees progressing from two-wheeled walker to four-wheeled rollator and going zoooom!

And lastly let’s not forget the all-important

Physically disabled whumpees who discover the freedom that is mobility aids

[dragyouthroughthewhump]

Augusnippets Day 11 : Breaking the Conditioning

I kinda like this one a lot? I can totally make a part two to this if there's interest.

CW : It as a pronoun, conditioned whumpee, living weapon whump, implied team whump

It stood there, staring out the window. The others were running back and forth, kicking some ball between them. It didn't know the rules of the game but could tell there were two teams and by the happy shouts when points were made.

It was analyzing their moves. Second needed to tighten their core. Fifth needed to stretch their legs more. Eighth needed to relax their shoulders and breathe deeper.

It continued with mental notes as it watched. Though it knew that these comments weren't to be made aloud. They would stay as notes. The group wasn't training. They weren't acting as weapons. Despite what it would call a war game, this was just only a game.

It didn't react as Caretaker walked up beside it, having heard the soft telltale footsteps of their house-shoes. It knew and cataloged each one's footsteps. Whether firm, soft, loud, short, even the cadences across the hallway and stairs. Even though the group was no longer at the compound, it had kept up its observational skills.

"You're analyzing again, aren't you, First?" Caretaker's face was in their peripheral now, their tone not accusing, just curious. It nodded, "They would not be acceptable like this. Before." Caretaker nodded, "The teams are uneven, have you considered joining them?"

"It-I. Had not considered joining. They would not act this way if I were involved." It knew that it had not made as much 'progress' as the others and usually it's presence alone made them all act in accordance with their training. It didn't know if it would ever learn to be a person.

"You're can't know that for sure, First. My recommendation is to try." It glanced back as Caretaker went back towards the kitchen, the smell of lemon flavored powder and cut citrus rinds were likely snack preparation for after the game. It disliked Caretakers 'recommendations'. It wanted orders, corrections, tasks, a mission. It wasn't supposed to think about going outside for 'fun'. It wasn't supposed to grapple with the decision to stay and watch or participate. It wanted to go back so often. To something familiar.

It blinked and glanced around as it was no longer looking at the game from behind the glass but had stalked it's way out the door in frustration. It wasn't supposed to be frustrated at all, it wasn't supposed to think or feel; but here it was letting thoughts run rampant because Caretaker wouldn't give it an order.

The others had paused their game, taking the chance to catch their breath, each set of eyes looking at First. But, their stances remained casual, no one moving to attention or straighting their posture. "It. I would like to join. If that would not be intrusive." The others glanced at each other, then Second smiled and nodded, "We needed one more to make it even. Need a brief of the rules?" It nodded and moved over to the smaller team as the rules were listed. It was surprised for so few rules, just manipulate the ball with your feet, no excessive force, keep the ball in the set perimeter, and two small sections were the targets. The game would end when they tired and the most target hits would win.

It glanced at the others and nodded to start the game again, a small bit of hope that it's presence wouldn't change the dynamic. The difficult part was refraining from using combat when it ran up to Third, who had the ball. It paused slightly as it adjusted to just using it's feet and Third grinned at the opening, taking the chance to run pass further down the field.

It immediately turned and went to grab Third's shirt. At the last moment it left it's fingers open, realizing that the action wouldn't be considered fun. Instead, it ran faster to catch up. It felt uncoordinated as it tried to kick out for the ball, only for it to be sent down the field towards Fourth.

Third smiled, "That wasn't proper footwork at all. Perhaps you can have fun." First flushed a few shades of red and glanced over. "Perhaps, I can. With all of you."

[just-here-for-the-whump]

Murdoch Mysteries 1x11 Bad Medicine

[whumpypepsigal]

Slowly, his limp pronounced but his back straight, Kaz made his way down the final flight of stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. When he reached the bottom, the remaining crowd parted.

Haskell’s grizzled face was red with fear and indignation. “You’ll never last, boy. Takes more than what you got to get past Pekka Rollins.”

Kaz snatched his cane from Per Haskell’s hand.

“You have two minutes to get out of my house, old man. This city’s price is blood,” said Kaz, “and I’m happy to pay with yours.

Excerpt From Crooked Kingdom, Leigh Bardugo

[doumidas-whumps]

afraid to touch me?

[serickswrites]

hello, I'm so happy you're back! I hope you're doing okay now

can I request something about a whumper who is always unsatisfied?

whumpee cleans the house? not clean enough

whumpee follows every command and behaves? not obedient enough.

whumpee messes up and apologizes? not sorry enough.

it's never enough, so whumpee gets tired with all of this and snaps, relishing a moment of dreadful eye contact with a much angrier whumper ready to punish them, they don't even have time to apologize

Hello, Anon! I'm glad to be back (while I can) since things are a little complicated right now. But writing is such a good outlet for me that I'm trying to be more committed since it makes me feel better when I do write.

I can absolutely write this request for you. I hope you don't mind, but this definitely feels like a good pet whump scenario in my brain. I hope that's ok!

Warnings: pet whump, emotional abuse, degradation, physical violence, caning, cruel whumper

The Pet hurried to finish cleaning the kitchen. They had spent the last hour ensuring it was spotless before the Master arrived home. They wanted the Master to be pleased. Things were much better when the Master was pleased.

The Pet knelt in the entryway, waiting for the Master to arrive. They had their arms outstretched ready to receive the Master's coat and bag.

"What is this," the Master said as they dumped their coat and bag into the Pet's waiting arms. "Can't you do anything right?"

"Master?" the Pet didn't understand.

"You're supposed to have my drink ready!" The Master said coldly as they walked into the kitchen.

The Pet quickly jumped up and put the Master's belongings in the coat closet and hurried to the kitchen. They had prepared the Master's drink. Usually the Master didn't want their drink as soon as they walked in the door. "My mistake, Master. Won't happen again, Master."

"And this place is filthy! What have you been doing all day? I should be able to see my face in this pot!" The Master threw the decorative pot at the Pet.

The Pet ducked. "Apologies, Master. Won't happen again, Master."

"You are absolutely useless!" The Master raised their voice further. "You are a waste of space. An absolute waste of money. A disgrace to the shop I bought you from! Kneel to receive punishment!"

The Pet dropped to their knees in front of the Master. "Yes, Master. As you wish, Master."

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU! YOU AREN'T DOING AS I SAY! WHERE IS MY DRINK YOU PIECE OF SHIT?"

The Pet flinched as the Master raised their fist. The Pet didn't know what they were supposed to do. The Master said kneel, so they knelt. The Master said get their drink, so they got the Master's drink. What else could they do? "Master?"

The Master grabbed the cane they kept in the kitchen cabinet and swatted the Pet across the arm. They kicked the Pet so their back and butt were exposed. "YOU." Swat. "ARE." Swat. "A." Swat. "WASTE." Swat. "OF." Swat. "SPACE." Swat.

The Pet tried not to scream or cry as the Master caned them. The Master didn't like when the Pet screamed or cried. "I....I....I am, M-M-Master," the Pet gasped as the Master hit them harder.

"Good," the Master sneered as they raised their arm once more, "you finally got something right."

[whumblr]

Scary words

Continuation from For Science - pt 1 here

-

“Wake up, Dani, darling. Time to learn something new.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dani shot back, scowling up to the ceiling. She was already awake, just lying flat on her back on the bed, staring up, waiting for him to unlock her door. Unfortunately, he lingered. Meaning he had plans. With her.

She turned her head towards him, but didn’t move to get up yet. “Me or you learning something new?”

Roman leaned casually against the doorframe. “I’m sure it will be beneficial to both of us.”

Mostly for him, then. And whatever she learned in the process was also positive for him. Reluctantly, she peeled herself from the bed and strode past him, shoulders held high.

She turned the corner, taking a first step in the direction of the library. She could still hope it was a day for theoretical knowledge instead of practical. But a soft “Uh-uh” made her stop. She turned and Roman was shaking his head, calling her back to him with a two-fingered gesture, nodding down the stairs and her stomach sank.

She should’ve known – he was wearing black, always a bad sign – but hope got her through most days.

Refusing to come with was no option, she’d learned. She could either walk along behind him, or be thrown ahead and be the first one down…

Dread increasing with every step, she followed him down to another set of stairs leading to the basement.

He held the door open for her. “Ladies first,” he said holding out his hand.

Without much choice, Dani went ahead. She braced herself for a shove in the back, hand tightly on the railing to catch herself, but there was nothing of the sort. Merely a soft nudge in the back to encourage her further in downstairs, as she couldn’t help freezing up at the by now familiar sight of the dark basement and the gleam of sharp objects in the sparse light there was.

He brushed past her, guiding her along with a hand on her shoulder blade.

And as he did, the sharp scent of his aftershave hit her. The sickly crisp smell lingered inside of her, unwilling to be expelled even as she exhaled hard. It swirled around, coated her stomach like oil, lining it with a fresh layer of fear.

“Come along,” he crooned, way too upbeat as he walked over to the wall where he had his tools displayed.

His voice snapped her back; lighting the flammable part of the fragrance lingering inside in anger. Though the next words also made her shoulders hitch.

“A wonderful day to experiment with nociception...” he said, fingers eagerly flicking the air as he tried to make a decision. He settled on a long, thin cane, tapping it against the palm of his hand as he turned to her.

“So, I noticed you’ve been reading the book on neuroscience and I want to know what you know about the receptors for sensation and pain.”

More than you, was what she wanted to bite back, but the words stuck somewhere along the way; either held back by some protective barrier in her brain or because something was growing inside her throat. Also, maybe she knew more about the receiving end of those receptors, sure, but unfortunately, he had her on practical know-how.

Not to mention the sadism part…

“I don’t think I’m up to that chapter ye—”

“Do not lie. Then why did you wince at the word nociception?”

“Because it’s a bad sign when you’re throwing big words around.”

Roman merely smiled at the little lie, but his expression turned menacing when he tipped his chin down. “Well, there are all kinds of scary words we could dig into today... Asphyxiation, flagellation..."

“Castration,” she offered.

“Your fire is amusing, but it does not hide your fear. Now…” He raised the cane, pointing at her and asked in a stern voice: “Nociception is...”

“To detect sensations of pain,” Dani droned, feeling it was better to cooperate here.

“Mhm,” he hummed in a neutral tone and he started forward, slowly circling her, tapping the cane in front of him on the ground. Soft taps echoed along with the clicks of his footsteps as he sauntered about. When she didn’t continue, his eyes snapped up, finding hers instantly. “Go on.”

“Erm…” She racked her brain trying to remember what else she’d read in that chapter. Not a whole lot, to be honest; she’d pretty much skipped ahead. In her current situation her life was filled with enough pain already, she didn’t really want to read more about it. Not to mention that she didn’t fully understand it all, either. The book went on and on about the chemical reactions in the body in response to stimuli, about neurons, enzymes, the central—ah.

“It’s a way for the central nervous system to detect stimuli that are damaging to the body and so to avoid further damage.”

“Good enough... you just earned yourself one less lash.”

How nice.

“Now, to put the theory to practice…”

Before she could even recoil, the cane snapped hard against the bare skin of her upper arm. She bit back a yelp and shot back. A red mark already blossomed up that tingled in the afterglow. Goddamn neurons. She covered it with her hand, glaring up at him, clenching her teeth to keep the pain bottled up.

“Oh. That didn’t hurt? You’re right I guess, I don’t need to hold back on you.”

He pulled the cane back in a backhand with a wicked smile. This time it cracked hard against her shoulder. Followed up with another just below the welt on her arm.

“So, your body remembers that pain and will try to avoid it again. Instinctively, you will recoil…” He raised the cane.

But she didn’t. Instead, she snapped forward, twisted her body along with his to avoid the hit and used his momentum as the cane swooshed wide past her to wrench it from his hands. She twirled on the spot and took a few steps back, now pointing the cane at him.

“Maybe you should adjust your hypothesis, asshole.” She couldn’t hold back a smug smile.

He didn’t seem fazed. “Maybe I should put in a punishment for each swear…” But while he still had that smile adorning his lips, the smile he always had when he tolerated – maybe even encouraged – her outbursts, his eyes told a different story.

He stepped forward and she raised the cane in self-defence.

“Try to hit me,” he said calmly, as if she wasn’t holding his weapon, “and I will show you a level of agony we haven’t even touched upon yet.”

Fuck that, she wasn’t even going for the ‘return tenfold’ thing. Instead, she grabbed the cane at both ends, flexing the thin wood lightly and letting it bounce back a few times. She could hear it – feel it – crackle in protest and when she couldn’t bent it any further with her hands, she slowly raised a knee.

“Break it and I’ll revoke your library card.”

Dani actually gaped at that, indignant. The cane sprang back as she let one end go.

His lips pressed together, stifling a smirk. “Now give it back.” He extended a hand and she resisted the urge to snap the cane across his open palm.

She should. She knew she should. But she also knew what would happen as soon as that cane was in his hands again. He was fucking right; both her body and mind did try to avoid that pain. And if she listened to her heart that yelled at her to throw the goddamn stick right in his face, well, that would make matters even worse…

Keeping a fair distance between them, she extended an arm and merely let the tip of the cane gently fall into his palm.

“Thank you.” Roman adjusted his grip on the thing, looking it over, checking for damage.

Then without warning, he snapped forward.

And she couldn't help it. She startled and stumbled backward before her stubbornness could literally put a stop to it.

Where usually he’d saunter up to her, slowly, twirling whatever weapon he was holding, he now marched up, large strides quickly closing the distance.

She backed into the wall. Pushed forward to slip past him. He easily caught her. Shoved her back with such force it slammed the air from her lungs.

Air she couldn't immediately get back. Before she could gasp in, the cane pressed hard against her windpipe, cutting off her air. He stepped in, his body flush with hers, the cane horizontal against her throat. He pressed harder, bending the wood until both ends touched the wall, keeping her contained.

“Maybe we should go for some big words after all,” Roman growled, but with no anger. “We’ll start with the A for asphyxiation.”

Dani snarled. Her lips moved but she had no air to turn into words. She twitched, bucked against him, and gasped hard when he let up to hear her speak.

“O-only if… we c-continue with my C for—”

He pressed the cane back, not letting her finish, and lightly shook his head. “Oh, love. I don’t think we’ll get that far.” He smirked, lowering himself towards her and whispered in her face: “After all, we have to get past B for broken first.”

-

Continued here

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @whumpy-daydreams @whumpyourdamnpears @aurora-gehenna99

[ennead-of-whump]

there’s just something so perfect about this idk

[weirdstrangeandawful]

Cane users... I have a question: ...how?

I use forearm crutches and I finally decided to get a cane. It's currently like 12 cm too long so my friend and I are going to cut it but I am struggling to figure out how to use it. Am I putting too much weight on it? It is so unstable and (sort of as perdicted) my wrists hurt trying to stabilise it even though I've only had it half a day and I've only used it for walking around my flat. I thought it would be more convenient than a crutch in my really tiny flat and it is but I don't know how to use this thing.

I initially thought I wouldn't ever be able to use a cane because of my joint instability and maybe I'm right?

[ironwhumper359]

The Tenets of Growth: Part 4

Atonement

First: The Path of Cultivation Prev: Flowering || Next: Replanting

CW: torture, restraints, hung by wrists, stress position, beating/caning, religious themes, religion used to justify torture, multiple whumpers.

Word count: 1900~

Author's Note: Putting the author's note at the top this time because this is it lads, this chapter actually contains actual, physical whump. Not referenced whump, not whump that's alluded to happening, this is an actual scene with two whumpers physically hurting a whumpee. Hooray! As much as I love the character and world building I'm doing, I do also love writing whump for whump's sake, and from here on out the amount of whump in this story is going way up, so if you saw the previous parts of this story and thought "hm, not whumpy enough for my tastes" then I'd ask you to check this chapter and the next chapter out and reconsider, because we're getting into it in earnest now! Anway, I'll stop rambling and let you enjoy the show <3

---

The guards came for the thief early in the morning. They yanked him to his feet, clapped iron cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and threw a bag over his head before hauling him out of the prison. 

The transport was a confused blur full of manhandling, jostling, and painful jabs, and by the time they reached their destination, the thief had nearly gone slack in the guard's grip. He let himself be dragged through he didn't know how many hallways and corridors, until finally coming to a halt.

He heard someone knock, followed by the sound of a squeaky hinge, then he was shoved so suddenly that he fell forward, catching himself awkwardly on his hands and knees. 

“Ah, excellent. His papers, please?” said a woman’s voice, followed by a rustling as the guards complied with her request. “Thank you. You may go.” 

The guards’ footsteps receded, but before the thief could even catch his breath, a new pair of hands grabbed him by the arms and tugged him to his feet. His arms were pushed above his head, and he heard the rattle of chains before the hands retreated. He tugged experimentally, and found that the cuffs on his wrists had been attached to something above him, forcing him to keep his arms raised. 

“Very good,” said the woman’s voice. “I must see to other preparations now. Inform me when he is ready for Replanting.” 

More footsteps, then the squeak of the hinge again, followed by the clang of the door shutting. The thief swallowed, doing his best not to think about what the other prisoners had said. 

“Some folks say they get killed…used as sacrifices in rituals and the like.”

That had to be nothing but a rumor, he simply couldn’t believe that the Order was performing secret human sacrifices. Perivyta was a harvest goddess, for goodness sake. But why else would they chain him in a dungeon like a slaughtered pig? Was there some other ritual they performed that required a live victim?  

“I don't know what happens in those Nurseries of theirs, but mark my words, boy. It's nothing good.”

“Lift him,” said a low voice, interrupting his thoughts. 

The thief barely had time to wonder what “lift him” meant before the sound of a crank turning filled the room and his wrists were raised higher above his head. With each rotation of the crank, his arms were pulled higher and higher, until his bare feet were scrambling against the stone floor for any purchase he could get to relieve the pressure on his wrists and shoulders. 

“Enough,” the low voice finally said, and the cranking stopped, leaving him precariously balanced on the tips of his toes. “Remove his clothing.”

“What?!” the thief cried out. “Hey! Stop!” 

He jerked wildly as a pair of hands began pulling on his trousers, but he froze when he felt something cold and sharp press into his neck. Once he stilled, his trousers and shirt were briskly stripped away, leaving him in only his underthings. The blade withdrew from his neck, and he shivered, from cold or fear, he wasn’t sure. 

"Remove the hood."

He blinked at the sudden flood of light as the bag was pulled roughly from his head, then quickly looked around, trying to get a read on his surroundings.

The room was fairly small, with wooden walls and a stone floor, and he was suspended from the ceiling in the very center. Two people stood in front of him; one was shorter and wore a simple robe of undyed linen tied with a red sash, while the taller man wore a robe dyed fully red, tied with a sash that matched. Both had the hoods of their robe pulled up, and their sleeves were tucked into the ends of thick leather gloves. This alone made for an unsettling silhouette, but what were particularly nerve wracking were the cloth masks covering the bottom halves of their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. 

 “What’s going on?” he asked, hoping that his voice didn’t betray his fear. “What are you going to do to me?” 

Neither responded, but the shorter one in the uncolored robe glanced briefly to the taller one in red. 

So, there was a hierarchy between the two.

As if to confirm his suspicions, the man in red nodded to the other, who stepped behind the thief and out of sight. The man in red tilted his head back, lifted his hands up, and spoke.

“To walk the path of Perivyta is to embrace Her will and grow in Her light. When we forsake Her ways, we forfeit our place at Her Table of Plenty.” 

The man lowered his hands and looked the thief in the face. 

“What rot has manifested in your life that has brought you here to me?” 

“I- what? What are you talking about?” 

The man did not reply, and looked over the thief’s shoulder. Before he could turn to see what the man was looking at, he heard the sound of the crank again and found himself being hoisted higher, until he was dangling nearly a foot off the ground.

“What rot has manifested in your life that has brought you here to me?” the man repeated. 

“Nothing!” the thief exclaimed. “I don’t know what you mean!” 

The man just shook his head. 

There was a *thunk* from behind, and the thief craned his head, trying to look at where the sound came from. The assistant had dragged over a crate, and the thief watched in morbid curiosity as they reached inside and pulled out a set of iron spheres connected by a chain.

“Listen,” he began. “I don’t-” 

His words were cut short by the assistant, who draped the chain connecting the spheres over the cuffs between his ankles. The weight couldn’t have been much more than five pounds, but it was enough to put noticeable strain on his already aching shoulders. 

“Every time you lie,” the man in red said calmly. “The weight will increase.” 

“But I’m telling the truth!” the thief insisted. The assistant added another pair of weights, and he grunted as the pressure on his shoulders intensified.

“I will ask until you answer,” the man said. “What. Rot. Has manifested in your life.” 

“I don’t know!” The thief groaned as the assistant placed more weights. “I don’t know what you mean, what do you mean?” 

“When rot enters our lives, we forget Perivyta’s way,” the man said. “We turn from her path of light and lead lives that bring only suffering, to ourselves as well as others. What rot has manifested-” 

“Theft!” he cried, understanding at last what the man wanted from him. “Theft, I- I stole from people. Broke into their houses.” 

“How many lives did you allow your rot to poison?” 

“I…don’t know,” the thief said. The assistant added even more weights, and he choked back a cry of pain.

“How many lives did you allow your rot to poison?” 

“I, I broke into three houses,” he said.  “I don’t know how many people- agh!” 

“Still you continue to lie,” the man said, shaking his head. “Or perhaps you are merely a fool.” 

“I don’t know!” the thief insisted. “It was three houses, I don’t know how many people lived there- no!” 

His shoulders were screaming with agony; every additional weight threatened to pop his arms out of their sockets completely. Tears welled unbidden in his eyes, and the man in red stepped closer to him. 

“The Goddess knows the truth of your heart,” he said. “You cannot hide your wandering from her, and you cannot atone until you admit fully to what you have done. How many lives did you allow your rot to poison?”

“I- ten,” the thief gasped. “I robbed ten houses, please, I don’t know how many people were there but I robbed ten houses, please, please…” 

“Repeat these words: I submit to Perivyta’s will, that she may welcome me once more to Her Table.” 

“I- I submit to Perivyta’s will,” he repeated helplessly. “That she may welcome me once more to Her Table, Please, no more, I’m sorry, please…”

The man in red nodded to the assistant, and after a moment the chain holding the thief up suddenly went slack, dropping him back to the floor. His feet had gone numb and he landed hard on his knees, but the sob he let out was one more of relief than of pain.

The assistant quickly gathered up the weights, returning them to their crate. The man in red lifted his hands above his head again and turned his face up towards the ceiling.

“The Goddess has heard your confession,” he said. “We prune away our rot in life, so that in death we might rightfully join with Her and be fruitful in Her eyes.”

He lowered his hands, then nodded to his assistant. 

“Position him.” 

The assistant began to turn the crank again, and the thief’s eyes widened as his arms were pulled back over his head.

“Wait, wait!” he exclaimed. 

He tried to scramble to his feet, but a gloved hand pressed between his shoulder blades, forcing him to stay on his knees. 

“I confessed!” he pleaded, looking up at the man in red with wide eyes. “It was ten, I robbed all ten houses! I confessed!” 

“You did,” the man in red agreed. “And now you atone.” 

The man held out his hand, and the assistant appeared, placing a long, thin cane in the man’s grip. 

“Turn him,” the man commanded.

“No, stop, just wait, please-”

His begging fell on deaf ears, and the assistant grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around so that he was facing the opposite wall. His breath caught in his throat, and he stared in horrified disbelief at what was now visible to him. 

The wall was neatly lined with dozens of tools: blades, pliers, shears, chains, whips, coils of rope, and other things he couldn’t even name. This wasn’t a cell, as he’d first assumed. 

This was a torture chamber.

“In Perivyta’s name, I restore you to Her favor,” the man in red said, and the thief braced himself.

The first strike across his back was harder than he’d thought it’d be, and he let out a strangled cry. 

“One,” said a small voice, the first time the thief had heard the assistant speak. 

The cane connected again and the thief’s body jerked. 

“Two.”

Again and again, the cane cracked across his back, and again and again he spasmed with pain. The assistant counted quietly for each strike, and the thief tried to focus on their voice, on counting the tools on the wall, on anything other than the white hot pain exploding across his back. 

After the sixth blow, there was a pause, and for a moment he thought it was over, but then the man spoke again. 

“Repeat these words: I give thanks to Perivyta for this Pruning, that I may walk Her Path of Light anew.”

“Please,” the thief whispered, tears streaming down his face. 

“If you do not, then we will begin again.” 

“I…I give thanks to Perivyta for this P-pruning….that I may walk Her Path of Light anew.” 

The cane struck, and he screamed. 

---

Prev: Flowering || Next: Replanting

Tenets of Growth Masterlist

[letthewhumpbegin]

Kaz has a panic attack.

Shadow and Bone, s2e5

[just-here-for-the-whump]

Magnum P.I. 3x12 Of Sound Mind

[volfoss]

It is genuinely so frustrating how fandoms sees a disabled character and then make content of them w no research of their condition

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: The Voice That Shakes The Stones (Part 2)

Continued directly from this, but will make more sense if you've also read The Rose Queen parts 1 and 2.

This one follows part one in terms of getting some plot stuff out of the way up top and then some Really Heavy Whump in the back half lmao

TW for: broken bones (including ribs and spine), blood, aftermath of beating/caning, past/referenced child abuse, referenced parental death, referenced decapitation, Again Broken Bones To The Extent That It Is Essentially Body Horror.

----

Morden raises a sculpted eyebrow at Tern. “Been opening my mail, have you?”

Tern looks at him; or at least Morden assumes he does. Tern wears an elaborately constructed mask sewn out of feathers and leather and bone, and removes it very rarely.

“I open everyone’s mail,” Tern says.

Morden knows this, of course. He has no secrets to keep from his own Falconers, and if and when such secrets do arise, he will simply have Thorne deliver them. If Morden feels—caught off guard, set on edge, it is no fault of Tern’s, and snapping at his own Scout will not help him feel more in control, anyway. Morden arranges himself more casually at his desk with a bit of effort.

“What do you think of the Lady’s proposal?” he asks, forcing his voice back into its usual light and airy register.

Tern tilts his head. The mask makes him the most actually-birdlike of all the Falconers, a fact Morden usually finds endearing, though he is struggling not to be annoyed by it at the moment.

“It’s my job to know things, not to act on them,” Tern says finally. Which is a letdown after such a long thoughtful pause, even though it is also true. Morden does not roll his eyes, but the temptation is there. “What do you think, Mord?”

Morden sits up straight and brushes his hair from his face. What he thinks is, she must have eyes in the Castle that Morden can’t see, to be able to time this missive so exactly. But that thought is uselessly paranoid—Tern would know, and Tern would tell him—so he is not entertaining it. Or vocalizing it, either.

“I think she’s audacious,” he says instead, which is true. “And I think I had better consider carefully before I think anything much else.” He folds the letter back up, so that he will not keep reading it uselessly over and over, and looks up at Tern, pretending to make eye contact through the mask. “In the meantime, make sure the Prince doesn’t die, will you? I may finally be able to put him to some use.”

Tern nods, and stalks out silently, still in his soft-soled scouting boots.

Morden makes it, optimistically, another five minutes before he unfolds the letter to read it again.

“Your desires have aligned neatly with our own, dear Crane,” reads the now-familiar script, “and the appropriate sacrifices have been made.”

Morden has not yet opened the accompanying jeweled and gilded casket, but the size and heft of it—and, more importantly, the smell—makes him fairly confident he knows what will be inside.

“A healthy partnership ought be reciprocal, however,” the letter goes on.

Morden chews his thumbnail, a nervous habit he does not often indulge. He scolds himself; he is only now realizing how he has begun to enjoy his exchanges with the Rose Queen, how they have begun to feel so like a game of chess against an interesting opponent as to make him forget the stakes. It has left him feeling—exposed, now, at best; trapped if he is not careful.

He needs to make a plan.

----

This is not part of Crow’s job.

It’s all very well for Tern, who relays Crane’s instructions—“Fix up the Summer Prince; the White Crane had his fun and now wants not to play with broken toys”—and then scurry off with the excuse of some Important Scouting Duty, which Crow suspects is probably bullshit.

When Morden introduces the Falconer’s, he says that Crow’s job is “Throatcutter,” the one who makes sure everyone’s theatrics have resulted in actual corpses at the end of every ambush and skirmish. And although that isn’t all he does—far from it—that is certainly part of his job. If the White Crane had said, “I’m too busy to finish killing the Summer Prince, finish that up for me, will you?” Crow would have done it, and with a whistle and a spring in his step.

Crow is built for ending lives, it’s truly what he’s best at. He doesn’t prolong pain on purpose; he isn’t Raven. Once a creature is past a certain threshold of injury, keeping it alive becomes—boring and sad, and little else.

The Summer Prince flops slightly at Crow’s feet, as if hearing him think this. He is moving like a deboned fish. Sounds a bit like one, as well.

Morden is going to owe him, and Morden doesn’t enjoy owing things, even to his own Falconers. So at least, Crow thinks, there is that.

“I don’t suppose you can walk,” Crow says. He slides the toe of his boot underneath the writhing shape of the Summer Prince, meaning only to nudge him slightly.

There is—more give in the ribs than there should be.

The body at his feet spasms violently as the Prince tries to curl in around himself. He manages to twist his torso in a way that makes Crow’s gorge rise a bit in spite of himself, his handless arm flopping over and up to haphazardly cover his face. His legs don’t move at all.

Crow contemplates, very briefly, the idea of picking the Summer Prince up off the floor and carrying him to Heron’s quarters, or more probably to the Castle’s Healer. He doesn’t mind blood, as a rule. The blood would not be the problem.

The Prince heaves in what must be his first full breath since Crow entered the room several minutes ago. It scrapes audibly against his throat; the effort of taking it arcs his back up off the floor, except that his legs still haven’t moved. Something—either ribs or spine, Crow isn’t sure which—grinds audibly inside him and he loses whatever air he has managed to take in in a single quiet, bubbly-sounding wail.

“Eugh,” Crow says, and turns his back on what is rapidly becoming the corpse of the Summer Prince. Where has that bloody wolf pup got himself to? Cleaning up Morden’s messes is literally that kid’s whole job.

----

(Andry can’t see. He can almost breathe, if he tries very hard. It feels like lifting a very heavy weight, and at the height of each breath there is a sudden stabbing pain in his back, just left of the center, that makes him twitch. He is in—water, maybe. Or anyway his face and shoulders and ears feel wet. His lips feel wet, too, although the inside of his mouth feels very dry indeed.)

(He must have hit his head, he thinks. He knows that burning cracked-egg feeling well enough, in his temple and below his right ear and on the high point of his opposite cheek. And his back is cracked open that way too, not sharp and bone deep like the whip but broad and blunt and shattered like his father’s cane.)

(His father is—dead, he thinks, around the buzzing in his head, like bees tangled up in cotton wool. The White Crane cut off his father’s head, and Andry could not catch it when it was thrown. And now he cannot even tell if he is sorry. His father did kill him once, after all.)

(He had known where he stood with his father, though. His father was not elegant and smiling, like the White Crane.)

(Although the White Crane was not smiling this time, was he, Andry thinks; no, this time he was angry, and the worst part is that Andry does not even know why.)

(…Andry thinks that is the worst part. Then he tries to move his legs.)

----

Heron is the Falconers’ battlefield medic, and he is not a healer. He has smelling salts in his bag that will get a man to his feet and into the fray with an arrow through the stomach; and skill enough with a needle and a bandage to patch up even serious punctures well enough to heal on their own. He even knows the basic alchemy needed to keep a wound from going septic about seven times out of ten.

In this situation he is useful only in that he has a stretcher he is willing to bring to Thorne’s chamber in exchange for the privilege of seeing a mutilated body.

Crow returns with Thorne and Heron after about five minutes, and it is clear as he nears the threshold and begins to hear the Prince’s breath whistling in and out, like wind blowing across a broken bottle, that the boy has not done him the great favor of dying in the interim.

One of the Prince’s eyes is open when Crow stands over him again, but it is rolled back in his head far enough to hide all but a thin ring of blue-purple iris. The other eye is already swollen too far to open more than a crack. Every time he takes a far-too-audible breath he shudders, violently, exactly twice. His torso is still twisted at that odd angle, as though he has tried to roll over onto his side without lifting his hips.

Thorne has been helping Heron carry the stretcher. When he enters the room he drops his end of it with a loud clatter.

Heron does not seem to notice, though he gamely drops his end of the stretcher, too, so that he can dart closer to the body, his pale eyes glittering behind his physician’s mask.

(Tern and Heron are both masked more often than they aren’t; both masks, as far as Crow is concerned, are products of paranoia. Tern is convinced some authority or other is going to discover his identity, as though that would matter now that he is at the right hand of the conqueror of a whole damned country. Heron is concerned about inhalants. This seems sensible sometimes, even to Crow; Heron takes apart something like a half-dozen cadavers a week in pursuit of his craft. However he also wears the mask when it is just the eight of them alone in the Nest or in their rooms here at the castle, and that seems like overkill to Crow.)

As always, Heron’s hands are light, and clever, and ruthless. He pulls the Prince’s fluttering eyelid up and peers closely into his eye, tipping his head back quite gently. Then he presses his fingers against the Prince’s shattered ribs with slow, deliberate pressure, using his hand in the Prince’s hair to keep the Prince from curling up in a ball at what must be excruciating pain. Heron’s face is quite close to the Prince’s answering gasp. Crow, a safe distance away with his arms crossed, thinks to himself that perhaps Heron wouldn’t need the mask if he was willing to do his job without getting so very close.

When the Prince has relaxed out of his pain-spasm, Heron taps twice on the sharp edge of the Prince’s sharp recently-starved hip bone with a gloved fist. The Prince’s gasp this time is much quieter, more of a hiccup than an airless scream.

When Heron stretches out a booted foot to give the Prince’s calf a not-particularly-gentle kick, the Prince doesn’t react at all.

“That’s interesting,” Heron says, his voice dark with things Crow finds professionally distasteful.

----

Thorne left Andry—what, thirty minutes ago? An hour? Surely no more than that. Thorne left Andry asleep on the couch at the foot of his bed, wrapped in Thorne’s borrowed sheets, curled up like a child with the stump of his missing hand tucked under his chin.

Thorne’s bedsheets are in disarray, now, on the floor in front of the couch. There is blood on them. There seems, at least to Thorne’s suddenly spotty and blurred vision, to be blood more places than there isn’t.

Heron’s hand is on Andry’s throat, now, prodding narrow deep bruise that is forming there. Heron is hovering over Andry with the same excited twitchy over-interest with which he treats any sick or injured person. Thorne is familiar enough with Heron’s attention to remember the growing unease and sick, crawling discomfort it inspires.

He usually finds it easier to look away.

“Well go on,” Crow snaps at him from where leaning against the wall, looking mildly disgusted but little else. “Get him on the fucking stretcher already.”

Thorne’s instinct to obey is honed sharply enough that he moves to follow the order without thinking. So at least there is that relief.