#piercing whump

[pxxppet]

"Now hold still, Dapper."

When I said JJ hates string, it was for a reason. Anti loved sewing into him, especially into his ear cartilage and on the surface layer of his skin. It gave him a power kick, putting strings into his puppet.

[whump-queen]

I rly had to

Collared whumpee who was defiant. Who never cowered, never submitted, never lowered their eyes.

Collared whumpee who had their septum pierced with a thick ring, a chain linking it to their collar to keep them cowed.

[whvmp]

Eric Draven in The Crow (1994) | Part 1 • Part 2

[aceofwhump]

@whumpgifathon | Day 10: "Blinded"

M*A*S*H, 5x03 "Out of Sight, Out of Mind", Hawkeye Pierce

[siren-of-agony]

Take away whumpee's small comfort item that other people aren't even aware is a comfort item (maybe whumpee themselves isn't even aware until it's gone)

[5ummit]

by plasticlamb

[letitbehurt]

Whumpees who sleep on the floor because they grew so accustomed to the hard concrete of a cell during their captivity that they can’t fall asleep in a normal bed anymore.

[painsandconfusion]

There's so many body piercings that are VERY durable - enough that the body can be suspended by them for long periods of time and the skin won't stretch or tear.

I'm just sayin, we need to have some of these permanent piercings on whumpees, then just padlock them to the restraints instead of tying them up every. single. time.

Why not just clip a chain to their back that keeps them in the room? Bonus points if there's not even a lock, whumpee just can't reach that spot on their back to undo the clip.

One example (NOT whump, just a consensual real-life example of a simpler suspension)-

photo credit

[abhainnwhump]

Whumpee being held alone in a cell, their only comfort being an object that used to belong to Caretaker. A hoodie, a plushie, a treasured book. Caretaker might never come for them, but at least they had this.

OR

Whumpee having their ears pierced by Whumper and wear earrings of the first letter in Caretaker's name, just as a remind for the person they will never see again.

[cepheusart]

[ID: Four black and white drawings of different people wearing different whump acessories. The first one is a person with black short hair and loose shorts with corset piercings across their back, looking away from the viewer; the second is a bald person with a collar that has decorative chains attached to it, falling on their chest. There is also an arrow attached to the front of the collar; the third is a person with afro hair wearing a heart shaped eyepatch and many bandages, looking tired; the fourth is of another person with corset piercings, this time on their arm, looking down in pain. /end ID.]

A few months ago, I needed to draw a Whumpee for an art event and I was soo stuck at what tf I was gonna put them in. I remember searching for whump fits on here and I found nothing ;) Since then I started saving a lot of ideas under #whump fashion, and yesterday I thought, well, why not draw them?

Credits go to: This post about corset piercings by @loonybun, this one for the funky arrow collar by @funstealer and this one for the patched up whumpee by @sowhumpshaped

that's probably gonna be part one coz i have more ✨whump fashion✨ ideas

[whumpdidyasay]

Taffin (1988)

He’s literally so pretty, I can’t

[cyberwhumper]

His nose is bleeding.

That’s the first sign of burnout, Victory had warned him. Magic lives in the blood. And when it gets to be too much, it will leave by any means necessary. He had rested his jeweled fingertips over Rex’s heart, then, warm scales glittering like stars. So if your nose ever starts bleeding, you stop and you wait for me, yeah? You wait for me.

But he can’t wait for his dragon right now. Their enemies are too close, too numerous, and the comforting thrum of his and Victory’s tangled pact-brand is all but imperceptible under the thunder of horse-hooves, the cacophony of clashing steel, and the riot of his own racing pulse.

He automatically swipes his gauntleted hand across his lips, succeeding only in smearing the rotten blood across his face. It smells foul, like rust and mildew, and tastes even worse. He grimaces, but the battle is far from won. He keeps casting.

His blue-white lightning arcs through the blade of his massive zweihänder, allowing it to slice through armor and gristle and bone as easily as butter. Men crumple in front of him, bodies writhing with static even once the life’s bled out of them. The power is, admittedly, intoxicating. It’s easy to force himself to keep going, to draw on Victory’s massive pool of power, like drinking deep from a mug of ale without stopping to breathe, even as it begins to turn his stomach.

The mind-numbing clamor of combat is interrupted, suddenly, by a spike of pain in his thigh, in the gap between cuisse and tasset. It takes Rex a moment to understand what he’s seeing, as addled as he is by magic and exhaustion, but once he does, he curses. An arrow, annoyingly well-crafted, with a glossy shaft thick as his finger and—judging by the bone-scraping agony that quickly makes his knee buckle—barbs along the steel head. He feels a distant flare of panic from Victory across their pact. He doesn’t know where his dragon is; he can’t be too far, and he’s alive, clearly, because Rex still is, but he’s not here, and the attackers have opened fire. And Rex’s nose is bleeding.

He plants his blade in the clay and hauls himself upright, lightning burning fractal paths into the ground from the point of impact as arrows continue to rain around him. But then a second bolt buries itself above his clavicle, under the lip of his gorget, and another punches straight through his cuirass, nicking a rib, and Rex falters. The flow of his cast chokes down to a trickle, then stops, but the sick-smelling blood dripping from his nose intensifies. He goes to wipe it again, automatic, but the motion makes arrowheads grate against bone, and his whole body shudders. He growls, half pain, half wolfish rage, but the blood doesn’t stop spilling over his lips, brackish, soaking his cape and making his grip slacken.

You wait for me, Victory’s voice says in his memory.

He wants to. His body is crying out for his dragon, for power, for the healing salve of his scales and the comfort of proximity, if he could just stop the bleeding, hold on a little longer, wait.

Shame. Rex has never been very good at waiting.

[Fic by the exceptionally talented @bxtterflystxtches , who I have the honor of collaborating with for this event. Please show him some love!]

[OC INDEX]

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[pierceofheart]

What about caretakers who were former guard dog whumpees?

Or whumpers who were former guard dog whumpees??

What about them. Because that's in a way interesting though to me personally.

Just looking at the characters, the character (caretaker) that rose to be either better than they were before whether healed or unhealed with trauma and wished to help those who were in the same situation they were. Or to be worse (whumper) than they were before due to it and wanting to install the same fear and trauma to others in the way they had been done dirty.

[whump-card]

what about a corset piercing?

@softvampirewhump

I had never heard of corset piercings before... Thank you for this knowledge...

Art taglist: @angst-after-dark, @whumpsday, @flowersarefreetherapy, @rainydaywhump, @softvampirewhump, @burnticedlatte, @whump-me, @honeybees-125

[letitbehurt]

Did you really think you could escape me?

[wild-lavender-rose]

Hi, I was just wondering if you're planning to do a part 2 for the Hawkeye story where the reader falls and gets hurt?

Hey! So, I was looking over that fic and realized that I promised a part two like, three years ago *face palms*. You are one of the many, many people who have asked me, anon and off, to write the second part of the story. So here we are! The long awaited part two of Falling. Enjoy <3

Falling (part 2)

Warning: description of injury, mention of surgery, cannon typical swearing, brief intense kiss

Time passed by without your notice. You existed in a haze, in and out of sleep as people existed around you, caring for your injuries. The pain that had been absent at first hit you like a bomb. You had a vague memory of screaming before they put you under, begging for the pain to end.

Three nails or four? You couldn't remember. Once, in the blurred existence of your concussion, you heard someone say five nails. Five nails buried deep within your thigh, extricated one by one in a three hour surgery. Twenty five stiches, that you knew for sure. You had asked Margaret once when you were lucid, watching as she changed your bandage with the discreetness of an expert nurse.

"Hawkeye did a great job," she assured you, with a kindness you didn't expect but gratefully accepted. "You'll barely have a scar."

Hawkeye had been there almost constantly. You didn't have to be awake to feel his presence. His presence felt like warm sunshine on a spring morning. You always felt safer, stronger, when he was around. If you had been in your right mind, you would have been embarrassed and ashamed because of his attention. But in your weakened state, you yielded to the attention.

At night, when you struggled to sleep from the pounding in your head, his fingers would card through your hair until you drifted off. He always whispered to you, careful to keep the noise around you lowered as you suffered through your concussion. He told you stories of his dad and things he would do as a boy. Some things were funny, some were sad. When you were awake you would thank him without meeting his eyes. And when you were resting, he would hold your hand. Once, you cautiously squeezed his finger, heart jumping when he squeezed them back.

You recovered over time, until you were well enough to sit in bed and eat the small meals that the nurses brought to you. Radar even brought you a piece of chocolate, and Klinger drove to a meadow three miles outside of camp just to pick you a bunch of wild flowers to put by your bed. Your vision was still blurry, so sometimes B.J. would read to you. Potter ensured that a screen was put up around your bed so that you could have privacy from the wounded soldiers. It felt nice to be cared for. But the best thing was being able to pretend, just for a while, that Hawkeye cared for you the most.

You were testing out your eyesight by trying to read one of Radar's bold printed comics when the sound of an argument burst into the post-op wing. It was Hawkeye and Frank.

"It's not my fault she couldn't keep her balance, Klinger's the one who,"

"Klinger didn't do one damn thing to make her fall, Frank. You were the one who told them to go up there."

"So?!" Frank's voice squeaked. "What should I have done, hang the banner myself?" He scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous."

Footsteps sounded, heading towards your screened in bed. You dropped the comic book.

"Go near her and I'll hang you by your toes, Frank. She's my patient and I gave orders for no visitors."

That wasn't exactly true. When Hawkeye said no visitors he really meant no Frank.

"You can't scare me." Frank sneered. "You're just using her little fall as an excuse to have her all to myself. You can't fool me, taking all the night post-op shifts so you can be with her."

Your heart stopped and stomach twisted. Your fingers fisted the blanket, straining to hear more.

"Shut up, Frank." Hawkeye's tone was even and deadly.

Frank scoffed again. "With the way she looks at you, she probably fell just to get your attention."

"Leave. Now."

Frank was silent. Maybe he had finally noticed the dangerous edge in Hawkeye's voice. You couldn't breathe. The silence filled the room, their words thickening the air.

Finally, without saying a word, the footsteps turned and walked away, followed by an angry banging against the swinging doors as Frank left post-op.

The silence stayed thick and overwhelming. You looked down, feeling self-conscious in the big shirt you were wearing. Some of the buttons were undone. You fiddled with them, shaky fingers trying vainly to button the flap closed. Tears of embarrassment began to make hot trails down your face.

Hawkeye entered your little makeshift room. You could feel his gaze on you.

"I need to go." You whispered, voice cracking. "Back to my tent, away from here."

"You're not ready yet. Your stitches,"

"I'll take care of them myself." You dropped the buttons and tried to wipe your tears away. "Please let me go."

"I can't."

"Please."

The cot squeaked as Hawkeye sat down beside you. You dared to look up at him, surprised to find an expression on his face you didn't understand.

Moving slowly, Hawkeye reached out to cradle the side of your face. It was an action he had done many times when he thought you were sleeping. He leaned forward. Before you had time to think your lips touched and time stopped.

Hawkeye kissed you deeply, earnestly, with a love you had never wanted and desperately craved. Shock melted into relief. Your hands found his hair while his thumbs wiped the tears off your face, kissing him as if his taste was your air. He leaned against you, hands sliding down to your waist.

You gasped softly into his mouth as he eased you back onto the bed, breaking the kiss as your thigh gave a painful throb.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" Hawkeye hovered over you, blue eyes full of concern.

You nodded, hands sliding down to rest on his shoulders. "Are you just trying to make me feel better?"

A soft smile softened his face. "I have many layers of intention."

"What does that mean?" You asked, expecting a joke.

"I love you."

You blinked, your fingers freezing against his shirt.

Hawkeye nodded, smile widening into a grin. "I do, sweetheart. I love you."

Slowly, you smiled back. "I love you too."

"Really?" Hawkeye looked as if he had just won the lottery, his grin making your heart beat hard and fast. "Well then," his grip tightened on your waist. "Next time you want to get my attention, maybe don't fall off a support beam. Deal?"

You blushed and nodded, smiling into another kiss.

And that was the day you and Hawkeye fell for each other.

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