#public torture

[auroragehenna]

AI-less Whumptober

Day 1 Torture Tuesday (Public torture/public use, stress position, “If you cry, we’ll go easy on you.”)

TW/CW: Generic character, public torture, public humiliation, medival torture, small nausea-adjacent talk, collar, Word count: 531

The way to their punishment was nearly worse than whatever would await them. The townspeople stood and laughed. Scorned and spit at them. As if any of them were any better! They were just to afraid or didn't get caught!

But his anger didn't help him here and frankly it barely made it throught the building fog of dread and shame.

The guards roughly pulled the length of chain attatched to the rough metal collar around the thieves neck. They had arrived at the 'Trülle'. A narrow metal barred cage, barely large enough for a teenager to stand upright in it, less alone an adult. Before Whumpee could protest they were already pushed into the already opened cage and locked in.

Even for their starved and malnourished frame it was too small, they could only stand cramped and coweringly. The laughter of the people around them only seemed to increase. Spit and rotten food came flying at them and this time they had no way of backing away from it. It burned just as much as their scorn and taunts. And all of this just for a little money and food. This wasn't fair! Why?

Just when they thought it couldn't get worse a guard stretched out their gloved hand and gave the 'Tülle' a hard push. Making it spin fast as a result. Instantly Whumpee felt nauseous, their empty stomach turning inside out. They lost orientation so caged in between metal and the laughter of the people. Their breath quickened between wretches until they were hyperventilating.

But as quick as the spinning started it stopped. Disorientating and sudden.

"Aww, already so done? And you thought you had it was took to steal from the royal family. You're pathetic!". They picked up their lance and shoved the tip through the bars, cutting the thief's cowering form.

Whumpee screamed as the rusty lance cut them bloody. Pain and shock mingling in their vocal cords. The crowd cheered. Tears welled up in their eyes.

"Aww, come on now. Already cyring?" They tutted. "Maybe you should have thought of this before trying to steal." They cut their leg open that time. "Tell you what; If you cry, we'll go easy on you. That's all you have to do, just cry for us. Show them that you're not some masterthief but just some poor, pathetic, little runt. And then we won't have to punish them too in the future. What do you think?"s

If even possible at this angle whumpee's head fell even lower than before. Their eyes downcast-they couldn't look at the guards. At the people around them. It would have been more mericful if they simply cut off their hand. Their pride...what was even left of it? It wasn't worth trying to salvage the broken pieces of it. A single tear rolled down their cheek. Then another. It wouldn't stop until they were shaking from the strain of their body, bleeding and sobbing.

The guards laughed and cooed but they held their word. No spinning or cutting, they simply let them to suffer in the cage and get violated by the crowd. Until they eventually lost conciousness and got dragged to the dungeon.

Taglist: @ailesswhumptober, @yourlocalgaefae33, @bisexuawolfsalt, @greatkittencloud, @princessofhe11,

[whumpninja]

The first of many completely random and nonsensical short bits for my lazy Whumptober!

Prompt used: AI-less Whumptober, “public torture/public use” and “stress position”

Featuring: historical whump-ish, environmental whump, whumper POV

Whumptober Day One: The Tyrant

A storm had battered the fortress all night, and when morning finally dawned, it dawned cloudy and grey. More than the usual chill hung in the salty sea air, and the tyrant drew his heavy cloak closer around him as the wind whirled over the top of the wall he stood on.

The tyrant gazed out over the stretch of coastline as far as he could see. It belonged to him, all of it, and in a dozen years there had never been anyone to challenge him for it. He ruled absolute, alone in his little self-made kingdom, reigning over a small army of soldiers and a few tiny villages along the shoreline. The villagers paid their heavy tributes, the tyrant protected them from any pirates who might sail by (though none ever had) and everyone was happy. So long as no one tried to upset the order of things, the little kingdom by the sea ran well.

But every so often there would be a troublemaker. It was to be expected; there were always hotheads and rabble-rousers and those who thought too much. The tyrant did not mind. He would watch them for awhile whenever they sprang up. Often, they simply faded back into their meaningless lives once their moment of notoriety petered out. It was only a very few that were deemed true trouble.

The tyrant had ways to get rid of trouble.

There had been one of those troublemakers the past few weeks. This one hadn't merely protested in the streets. He'd tried to set fire to the tyrant's fortress. That had made the tyrant take notice, and he'd sent the guards to arrest the young fool. The guards had come back battered, bruised, and empty-handed.

The tyrant had begun to worry then.

He'd sent more guards, and by the time these ones had managed to wrestle the mischief maker into the fortress, the tyrant was well and truly unnerved. The rebel turned out to be a mere stranger who'd been passing through and taken it into his head to dethrone the local lord before continuing on his way.

The tyrant had decided that this one would have to be gotten rid of.

Last night's storm had likely done much of the work for him. The tyrant left his fortress, strolling along the beach with only two guards accompanying him. Seagulls screamed over his head, and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore brought a twist to his lips. The tides were at their highest this season, although it was low tide now. Even the sea seemed to bow to what the tyrant commanded.

The tyrant's boots left wet marks in the sand as he strode out to the pair of heavy wooden stakes that had been sunk into the ground a fair ways out from the tide line. The soldiers, when they had installed them, had guessed that the sea would come halfway up the wooden pikes. But the tides varied- some days the poles were nearly awash, others they were barely wet. The tyrant couldn't find it in him to care very much. Especially after a storm.

The stranger, like a half dozen other fools before him, had been strung out between the stakes, tied with his body in a wide X. From the darkness of the wood, the sea must have been up to his chest last night. And the storm had pummeled the helpless figure- into senselessness or death, the tyrant couldn't tell which.

He stopped a few yards from the stakes, where his boots were just beginning to be wetted. "Are you alive?" he called to the prisoner, laughing.

There was no response from the slumped form.

The tyrant smirked. "If you are still alive, then how does it feel? Knowing that you'll die for absolutely nothing?" He folded his arms. "Those villagers you tried to stir up against me are eating out of my hand again. You had no effect on them, young 'n. Not a spark of rebellion took hold that wasn't doused by the sea and the storm."

He thought he saw a slight motion from the prisoner, so he continued. "You'll stay out there until you're bones, d'you hear? I don't take kindly to insurrectionists. You might have gone your way peacefully, but you simply had to intervene. Well, it all went for nothing, didn't it? You're a fighter, I could see it in your eyes. Try to fight the sea." The tyrant laughed aloud. "It'll be as useless as fighting me, but you're welcome to try. You can-"

And then, he stopped.

The prisoner had raised his head.

He was smiling. Smiling in a way that said he had never been afraid in his life and he did not intend to start now. Smiling in a way that was more a challenge than anything he had yet done. Smiling in a way that dripped with defiance. The prisoner stood, bound and helpless, drenched with rain and waves, and he smiled.

The tyrant stared, open-mouthed. Then, without a word of explanation to his stunned guards, he turned tail and fled back in the direction of his fortress.

Behind him, the prisoner's mocking laughter echoed in the sea breeze.

[victory-musings]

Whumptober 2024: Day 1 - Public Torture

We are BACK gang, yet another year of @ailesswhumptober with yours truly! This blog is just the Whumptober blog now to be honest.

Warnings for: Blood. Torture. Pigeon having the Worst Time of their Life

-

They were divine, once. A god. A King. A leader. They owned the city, their beloved arcadia, and so, they owned the world.

But now, they are a far cry from such things. They are on their knees, their hands tied behind their back, head held up so that they can see the once-adoring crowds that now bark and cheer for their blood.

It starts simple. A single feather, ripped from their pristine white wings. And then another. And another. Little pinpricks of pain as each feather is plucked.

From single feathers to handfuls at a time. As much as they struggle and squirm, they can not stop the torment. Fistful after fistful, their proudest feature litters the ground.

They are shaking, unable to see the carnage behind them but being able to feel the blood oozing from the holes in their wings. Another fistful of feathers, and they bite their tongue.

They will not give these usurpers, these mavericks, the satisfaction of hearing them scream or seeing them cry. They will remain stoic through the pain, as is expected of a leader.

One of their wings, featherless and raw, is spread out for the crowd to see. They hiss through their teeth as their muscles groan in pain.

Of course. All pretense of being stoic goes out the window, the moment a blade touches their wing. A biting pain that causes them to yelp, struggling enough to flip themselves over.

On their back, hands tied, trying to kick at their attacker while the crowd behind them roars.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 1 @ailesswhumptober - public torture/stress position

Asset 48 is accused of insubordination and used as a "lesson".

CW: torture, public torture, living weapon, dehuminisation.

AiLessWhumptober List Complex 27

The midday sun beat relentlessly down on the northern training yard of Complex 27, casting harsh, angular shadows across the rows of assembled assets. Standing in rigid formation, faces blank, eyes locked forward, their posture disciplined and mechanical. At the centre of the yard, a raised platform loomed, a stark reminder of what awaited any who were seen to defy the Facility.

A metallic sound slicing through the eerie silence, pulling every asset's attention to the impending spectacle. The clang echoed off the concrete walls as several handlers approached the platform, chains rattling in their hands.

"Asset 48. Step forward." Sergeant Kerr's voice cracked through the yard like a whip, cold and indifferent.

Ben caught a fleeting glance from Paul standing next to him, a flash of concern in his friend's eyes, an unspoken bond that made Ben feel less alone for a brief moment. He  broke from the formation without hesitation, each step heavy with purpose. He could feel the eyes of his fellow assets on him, they all knew what was coming.

Focus. Don’t show weakness, he told himself, even as his heart raced.

“Insubordination,” they had called it.His refusal to follow a direct order during yesterday’s drill - enough to warrant this public correction.

A message had to be sent. One that would linger, not just in his mind, but in the eyes of every asset forced to watch.

“On your knees,” Kerr ordered, his voice indifferent, as though this were merely another routine part of a normal day.

Ben complied, dropping to his knees, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his legs. He focused on the physical sensation of the concrete, grounding himself as the cold steel of the chains quickly wrapped around his wrists and ankles, binding him in place. Kerr’s voice continued in the background, but Ben had tuned it out. Listening wouldn’t change anything; it wouldn’t ease the inevitable.

Two guards stepped forward with a long metal pole, forcing his arms behind him. They wrenched his limbs into an unnatural position, pulling them high above his back until his shoulders strained under the pressure. Ben could feel his muscles tighten, the ligaments protesting as his body was folded forward, bent at the waist, his chest nearly touching his knees. The pole was locked into place, and with it, the slow, methodical torture began.

A fire ignited within his muscles almost instantly. Stay still. Don’t let them see you struggle. The ache spread, relentless and consuming. Breathe through it. Breathe.

Ben gritted his teeth. Breath shallow. Every inhale burned. The sun beat down, relentless. Too hot. His shoulders - God, his shoulders. Like fire, searing, spreading. He tried to shift, just a fraction, but the chains bit deeper. More pain. Worse pain. Muscles trembling now, quivering. His breath hitched - too fast, too shallow.

Hold on.

His body screamed for release, a primal instinct clawing at his mind, but he would not give them that satisfaction, not now, not yet.

Not ever.

Sergeant Kerr paced slowly around the platform, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes never leaving Ben’s contorted form. His voice, low and deliberate, carried across the yard. “Insubordination will never be tolerated. None of you are exempt.”

His words were aimed at the assembled assets, though none dared meet his gaze. Ben caught a glance at them, all stood like statues, eyes forward, , faces impassive.  They were absorbing the lesson in silence. Each one knew that it could just as easily be them on the platform tomorrow.

Ben was just a warning, a cautionary tale.

Sergeant Kerr finally came to a stop in front of Ben, crouching down just enough so his voice could reach him without the others hearing. “You’re holding out well, Asset 48,” he muttered. “But I wonder how long it will be before you give in.”

Ben didn’t respond. His jaw clenched, breath ragged but controlled. He wouldn’t speak. He wouldn’t cry out. Whatever Kerr was waiting for, he wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

With a small, almost imperceptible smirk, Kerr straightened and turned away, addressing the assets once more. “Remember this moment. This is what happens when you disobey. There is no leniency here. No mercy.”

Great. Just what I needed, another lesson in ‘how much more can I take.’ Kerr should be proud. His prize frontliner, reduced to nothing but a lesson. Muscles trembling uncontrollably, arms numb, his weakness on display for all to see.

I can't give in. I can’t let them win.

The weight of everyone’s eyes. He couldn’t see them - he didn’t need to. He could feel them. A hundred silent judgments. His fellow assets, watching, learning. Kerr’s eyes, calculating, predatory. And Paul... Paul standing so close yet unreachable, fists clenched at his sides, powerless to intervene.

I won’t break. I won’t become another lesson.

Stay strong.

He wouldn’t break.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The command, once so clear, now felt distant. His breath came faster, shallow and ragged, slipping out of his control. He gritted his teeth, trying to block out the burning sensation in his lungs, but even that was failing. The pain radiated through every fiber of his being, a relentless tide eroding his willpower.

I can’t. I—

His thoughts stumbled over themselves, faltering. For the first time, an unshakable truth pressed at the edges of his consciousness. He was going to break. He could feel it, an inevitability creeping in like a tide rising against a shore. He tried to suppress it, clinging to the last shreds of his resolve. But his body was no longer listening. His muscles twitched involuntarily, his vision narrowing to pinpricks of light, and the sounds of the yard faded into a distant hum.

No. Hold on. Just a little longer.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the brightness of the sun, the stifling heat that pressed in on him from every side. He tried to remember something else—anything else. Each breath came shallower than the last, his chest tightening against the pressure building inside him.

No. Just a little longer. Don’t let them win. Don’t let Kerr win.

He searched desperately for an anchor, something solid to hold onto. His vision was tunnelling now, narrowing to a blur of shadows and light. He blinked, trying to clear the haze, but the world remained stubbornly distant. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, a frantic rhythm that made his head spin. His lungs screamed for more air, but every attempt to inhale sent a new wave of pain crashing through his chest.

Don’t break

But his body was no longer listening.

The panic set in then, fast and brutal. His mind raced, instincts screaming at him to move, to fight, to breathe. But he couldn’t. His body was locked in place, the chains biting into his wrists and ankles, the pole forcing his arms up at a horrific angle. He squeezed his eyes shut, the brightness of the sun turning into a blinding white haze. His limbs were trembling, betraying him, shaking violently as the pain overwhelmed every nerve. His breath hitched again.

*No. Don’t. Not here. Not in front of them.*

And then it happened.

The gasp slipped out—barely audible, but it shattered the silence like glass.

It wasn’t a scream. But it was enough.

And then it came.

A gasp.

Quiet.

Barely audible.

 But it shattered the silence like a scream.

He had failed. Right there, in front of them all.

The second gasp tore free from his throat, more a whimper this time, echoing through the yard like a death knell. The shame crashed over him, hot and suffocating, as if the sun’s rays had turned to ice. He could feel the weight of his peers' silent judgments, each stare a reminder of his failure.

His body had betrayed him, proof in his shaking arms and ragged breath. A second gasp escaped him, louder, sharper, as the pain surged again. He didn’t need to look to know Paul had seen - they all had.

Now, they knew the truth: he wasn’t strong enough.

[shinobi-addiction]

Come What May

Legend knew that the knights in his era were still under the spell, but he wanted to spend the day in the market with his brothers. Caught by the spelled knights, he is punished in the Castle Town Square.

Read on Ao3

[fallenwhumpee]

For the prompt, I have an idea ig.. Maybe public humiliation? Like being strung up, for the public to see, their hero or maybe their rebel leader along with two teammates, just how much power the oppressive force has and show the people what happens to people who try to rebel but they dont back down and maybe the rest of team rescues them? And right before leaving the three who were caught and tortured for the public to see let them know that the resistance never quits?

Hehe lemme know what you think!🐈‍⬛💜💜

Ooh this is awesome. I love it. So, here, have my try <3

The Show

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Public torture, humiliation, forced to watch, restrains, multiple whumpees, mentioned execution, mentioned past torture, open ending.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Fear was hardening their every muscle, their hands behind the stretching the metal cuffs digging into their skin. But the source of fear wasn't about the execution scheduled.

It was about the two lifes they were locked up with, and many more they were going to leave behind.

A part of them told that this was a sacrifice. The much needed trigger to finally make the public know about the torment people lived through outside of the capital. But that part was also angry that the people were too blind to see, blind enough to come and watch their execution like watching a movie.

That part was being overwhelmed by their grief. Grief of many deaths at the hand of the government.

All of that was still not enough to take over their fear.

They feared that the rebellion would suffer through this. They feared that the idea they fought for would be lost. They feared that people would obsess with it and become extremists— just as the resistance before them had become after losing their leader.

It would cost them the little sympathy they had. It would cost their— their family's sanity.

Right Hand would mock them forever for going soft if they had learned Leader called them a family.

But they no longer had the energy to lie to themselves. They no longer needed to protect themselves from the heartbreak that would come with the death of their close circle. They were dying before them. Their prayers for not seeing any of their team's death was accepted.

They tried the cuffs once more, a hand stopping them.

"You tried," Rebel One whispered. "Don't hurt yourself. It won't work."

"If I ever gave up when it—"

A guard shoved them to the wall, cutting their muttering.

"Don't speak."

"What about trying this after opening my binds?" They snarled.

"Leader!" Rebel Two hissed.

"And get a hole on my forehead like you? Thank you, but I value my life."

They couldn't hold back a laughter, the other two eyeing them with worry.

"And we're being run over by the government because of the fools like you. Have you ever thought that you shouldn't fear while you're doing your job?" they countered as their laughter died down.

The guard grew silent, and Leader turned to the other two.

"I think I can open your cuffs," they whispered.

Leader would die to protect the lit on the duo's eyes. They reminded Leader much of themselves with their sibling.

Their sibling, who was their trigger for standing up

They didn't want to think about that open wound, placing themselves in front of Rebel One as they reached to the cuffs. At least the duo had their hands at front, so it looked like they were just bundling up together.

One last time, Leader thought. They would get the duo out, but they weren't so sure about themselves.

It wasn't important.

It was hard to lift the plate covering the lock mechanism, but Leader's was determined. The two clicks were enough to assure Leader, the duo smiling as they placed the cuffs back like nothing happened.

"I want you to run when we get out of the vehicle."

"We're not—

"We're in no position to argue. And we all know the cuffs have a tracker inside. I won't risk your rescue."

"Still, we're not leaving you. You're our leader."

"And as your leader, I order you to run when you find the chance."

They still looked ready to protest, but Leader shot them a harsh look.

"Good."

The vehicle stopped soon after, the guard outside opening their cell and the one in targeting their weapon to Leader's back.

It would be a huge mistake if Leader didn't have their hands tied.

They sighed and motioned the others with a nod.

As soon as they stepped down to the concrete floor, they slammed their elbow to one of the guardians' stomach, the other motioning to them.

It was a mistake when there were multiple captives.

Keeping the attention on themselves, they managed to slam their head and break the nose of the guard that slammed them to the wall before. They were brought to their knees as a gun was slammed to their neck, their vision blurring for a moment.

"Did you really think that we wouldn't have a security around here? You only annoyed us more," Whumper chirped, throwing the two right in front of Leader.

A hitched breath escaped their lips.

"One would think a rat like you wouldn't have feelings. Where were they as you bombed and killed dozens of my people?"

No. Leader didn't attack to mere places. And people who weren't in mere places weren't very innocent.

Whumper pulled Leader from their collar. Leader was a lot shorter than them, and they were soon standing on their tips.

"I will enjoy the show you'll put up."

Leader could only snarl as they were dragged to somewhere else, the grunts of the duo following them. Their struggle was useless, their starved and unused body failing them in mere seconds.

"No one should realise that the nuisance they're dealing is just a mosquito buzzing at dark. Where's that sharp tongue of yours? You were more fun when we were gambling with the lives of our little pawns."

Their veins flared with anger as Whumper taunted them until they were brought to their knees under blinding lights. They squinted their burning eyes, their bones aching as Whumper pressed them down.

"Today I present you the murderer of many of our soldiers."

The crowd roared. Leader watched Whumper enjoy the attention before demanding silence with raising their hand. They turned to Leader, a wide and disgusting smile on their face.

"Your little rebellion dies with you tonight."

Leader's eyes finally succeeded to see the faces in the crowd, seeking a glimmer of understanding or empathy. Instead, they were met with cold stares and eager anticipation. The realization hit them like a physical blow—alone, vulnerable, and surrounded by the people either too afraid or brainwashed.

"You can kill me, but you can't shut the voices of reason," they just stared at Whumper. Whumper leaned on them a little, chuckling a little.

"I wish you had a microphone, but I couldn't risk you spreading your plague. Now tell it again."

"I said," they raised their voice but Whumper didn't let them finish, punching their face and sending them to the floor.

Leader spat blood onto the cold concrete, tasting the metallic bitterness. The crowd gasped, witnessing this for the first time.

Leader could perhaps go along with the show if they could show who actually was holding the strings of the government. And they had quite an image to destroy, Whumper's media experts were the best. But they didn't get much chance to do that.

Whumper didn't stop with a punch.

Kicks and hits targeted their openings, pain clouding their thoughts as their bones ached with each hit.

Whumper leaned in, whispering but spatting every word, "Your words mean nothing. You'll be forgotten, and your rebellion will die with you. Like a body with no head, it will crumble, and I will burn it down to ashes."

"They stood without me before," Leader wheezed as Whumper pulled them back to their knees.

"I was too busy with having fun with you that time. But without you in the frame, they will get all the attention. They deserve, don't they?"

"You don't dare."

"I'll enjoy every second of it."

With their body fueled by anger, they slammed their head to Whumper's mouth, causing them to stumble.

"You're weak," Leader panted as they stood. "You are nothing without the fear. And I don't fear you."

As the crowd watched in stunned silence, Whumper regained composure, wiping away the blood from their mouth.

"I dragged this out long enough," Whumper growled, drawing a dagger. "The sentence for disobedience is death. And your death will be an example for many."

Two guards forced them down, bending their arm and bowing their head.

"Severing your head would be kindness," Whumper came closer, stopping for a moment before striking with the dagger.

Leader gasped, unable to pull back as pain dug deeper.

Protests rose, the noise blending into the chaos of their own consciousness fading. But pain and shouts and tears and everything meant nothing.

Because they knew rebellion would move on, with Right Hand rushing to the stage and Rebel One disarming the guard holding them.

It was a good show. And Leader believed that the show would go on.

"They aren't taking you alive."

They felt the dagger crush their ribs as Whumper twisted it up, their breaths dying and body crumbling while Whumper pulled it back.

Their eyes closed with a smile on their face.

[sunfloo-wers]

DAY ONE DONE YIPPEEEEEE

Okay okay okay, I’m using the AI-less whumptober list cause it lends better to visual art so without further ado:

AI-less Whumptober Day #1: Public Torture

Kudos to @/adorkastock for the poses!

[lumpofwhump]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Public Execution/Torture

CW: Gore, emeto, death wish, corpse desecration

--

“What’s this?” Paul Waldrop, co-owner of Waldrop-Thornton industries, asked his old friend, accepting an ornate envelope with a raised eyebrow.

“I have an announcement to make,” John Thorton replied.  “I’ve found the people who took Jinn.”

People, not person, Paul noted, trying to decipher where this was headed from John’s icy, distant expression.  As much as Paul hadn’t liked the disruptively softening influence that John’s missing wife had been having on his partner and their operation, he found this new version of his friend even more unpalatable.

“I’ll be needing to make some changes in management as a result.”

Paul’s blood ran as cold as John’s eyes.  “I’ll be there,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Good,” John said with a thin smile, staring at his friend intently.  “I’ll need your support if things get messy.”

–

“Be careful of his eyes,” Thornton had said to his goons before they’d set in on Barclay Fletcher some seemingly interminable length of time ago. “I’ll want them good and open.”  After the beating, they’d left him bruised and with what he could only imagine were at least a couple broken ribs, alone in a dark room in the depths of the labs to think about this terrifyingly specific request.

When the door finally opened to his cell, his mismatched eyes were untouched but nonetheless ringed by dark circles and temporarily blinded by the slightly flickering overhead fluorescent lights at that.  Before he could fully adjust, Thornton’s men roughly hauled him forward by the arms, not bothering to let him try to keep his balance on his own.

“Ow – Where are we going?!” he demanded in a voice hoarse from screaming and then disuse.

One of his escorts backhanded him hard to the back of his head, eliciting a yelp of pain.

“Hey, careful,” the other said.  “The Director wants him conscious for this.”

They dragged and pushed him as necessary through the lab’s countless winding halls until he was biting back screams of pain from the effort of walking on beaten legs.  Finally, when they came to a wide room cleared of equipment, the two guards released him, leaving him to stumble forward and fall to his knees.  His face flushed with shame, and he looked up, a furious expression on his face.  He immediately went pale as he registered the scene around him.

Genmods.  Dozens of them, as many as a hundred.  He recognized some of them, the ones he had personally experimented on – tortured, some part of his brain corrected, despite himself.  The ones that even bothered to look at him had stone-faced, pitiless stares for him at best, and mocking smirks at his injuries more often than not.

Thornton stood toward the back of the room, looking down at him contemptuously.  Director Waldrop stood next to him, nervously adjusting his tie and pointedly not looking at Barclay, or really, anyone in particular.

“Hey, Fletcher,” came a snide voice from off to his left.  Barclay whipped his head to the side to see Ryan, Thornton’s monstrous, hulking genmod son, smirking at him and towering over another figure.

Director Richardson.

The last time they’d seen each other before he’d been hoisted from his bed, beaten, and locked in a cell some days – weeks? – back, the Director had been furious at him.  He was supposed to dispose of a subject who’d outlived its usefulness… his subject.  He couldn’t, though, for whatever goddamn stupid sentimental reason.  So he’d had one of the med techs sneak it out to the safety of Medbay, conveniently out of his or even the Director’s control.  Unfortunately, the Director had found proof of the call he’d made to arrange it.

You’re on thin ice, boy, the Director had told him.  First you let my servants leave from right under your nose, and now you’re letting useless subjects out against orders… I’m beginning to think through which sort of tests you’d be the best material for.

He’d slammed Barclay roughly against the wall by his throat and watched him frantically struggle and choke out pleas, only to switch his grasp to Barclay’s hair and send him hurtling back toward his room in staff quarters.

We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, the Director had threatened.

Now, though, the man looked if anything more beaten than Barclay imagined himself to be.  His face was blotchy with bruises, one of his eyes thoroughly blackened and swollen shut.  He steadied his trembling, kneeling body on one hand, the other being horrifically twisted and broken beyond all recognition.  He wheezed in pain from injuries Barclay couldn’t see and definitely didn’t want to imagine.

“SIR!” Barclay shouted, or at least tried to.  His voice nearly shook, but he held it together.  For now.

The Director jerked his head up and over toward Barclay with an agonized expression.  “CLAY!” he responded just as frantically, and turned toward Thornton.  “My assistant has nothing to do with any of this, John,” he choked out.  “No more than I do.  Let him go.  If you do anything for me before whatever happens here –” He swallowed.  “Let Clay leave.”

Thornton narrowed his icy blue eyes and scowled.  “I owe you nothing, Dave,” he said cuttingly.  “And your boy here has done enough all on his own.  Pick him up,” he ordered his men, who Barclay vaguely remembered as having tried to drown him some years back.  

They hoisted him roughly to his feet, one of them not-so-accidentally brushing a hand against his broken ribs.  He let out an undignified squeal of pain, thrashing against the men on either side of him.  He glared, humiliated, in the direction of one of the genmods in the crowd who’d started to laugh at him, struggling for his freedom and what was left of his pride but causing himself more pain in the process.

“Don’t let him look away,” Thornton instructed.

“What - what is this?!” Barclay shouted, his voice tinged with panic.  He looked toward Thornton and Waldrop and briefly noticed that the latter quickly averted his gaze.  One of the men at Barclay’s side grabbed either side of his face and forcibly turned it back to face Ryan and the Director.

Ryan smirked at him.

Barclay tried to glare back, but from the genmod’s expression it was clear that he’d utterly failed to be the least bit intimidating.

“Now that everyone’s here, Dad,” Ryan said to John, “mind if I start opening my present?”

Barclay’s stomach turned at the euphemism while some of the genmods surrounding him chortled, if nervously.

“Don’t make it too quick,” Thornton said from behind Barclay, annoyance in his voice.

“Let him go!” Barclay screamed frantically.  “He didn’t kill your wife or whatever, Thornton.  Please!  Let him –”

“What, Fletcher, you’d prefer it was you, then?” Ryan said with a hideously sadistic grin.  With no further warning, he tore the Director’s left arm clean off at the elbow with a sickening sound, made worse by the older man’s seemingly endless shriek of pain.  Barclay’s own scream joined in to create a cacophony of agony.  He felt nauseous.

The Director collapsed forward onto his face, his remaining, shattered hand unable to support his weight.

“Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have started with your good arm,” Ryan said with mock-concern.  “Sorry about that.  Here, catch,” he said, turning to Barclay and throwing the severed limb at him.

Blood spattered Barclay’s shirt as the arm made contact, followed by vomit as the remaining contents of his stomach spilled uncontrollably out of his mouth.  He let out a sob, only to begin loudly dry-retching.  He shut his eyes to block out the sight of the bloodied Director writhing at Ryan’s feet.  This earned him another smack to the back of the head.

“Don’t get yourself knocked out, Fletcher,” Ryan warned him. “Unless you want to give Dave here a few days to develop an infection before we start up again.  Though… hm.  I actually kind of like it.  What do you say, Dad?” Ryan looked past Barclay at Thornton.  Apparently Thornton shook his head, because Ryan followed up with, “So that’s a no.  Eh.  I’m not exactly the patient type, so… works for me!”

With that, he lifted Richardson upside down by the leg opposite to his missing arm and tore it off before letting him drop to the ground with another, hoarser screech.

“STOP!  Stop, please stop!” Barclay begged, trying to pull free from the larger, stronger men holding him back.  Tears flowed freely from his eyes as vomit continued to drip from his mouth onto his knees and feet.

Ryan frowned and raised an eyebrow.  “What, you want to just leave him to suffer like this?  I knew you were a dick, Fletcher, but really, that’s a bit much.”  He shook his head chidingly.

“F-fuck you,” Barclay snapped, then involuntarily sniffled.

“Eh,” Ryan replied with a grimace.  “You’re really not my type.  Anyway!  Here we go with Arm Number Two!”

Even some of the Director’s former subjects were looking away as Ryan knelt down onto Richardson’s prone form, dislocated his remaining arm with a loud snap, and then tore it off with an expression of (im)pure glee.  He was as bloody as his victim now, if not moreso.  The Director, for his part, could no longer force out pleas that were even slightly comprehensible, reduced to sobs, gasps and shrieks.

“Make it stop, you bastards!” Barclay screamed over the din, thrashing as tears and snot ran down his face.  “What do you want?!  You’ve got whatever fucking revenge you could’ve wanted, now let us… let him…!”  He let out a despairing whine. “Sir… sir, please hold on, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, Fletcher?” Thornton said from behind him, sharply enough that Barclay flinched.  The guards turned to let -- or rather make – him face Thornton, who stared completely unimpressed at the pathetic sight in front of him.

Other than the Director’s screaming, the room was silent as Thornton studied Barclay.  Finally, he nodded to his men.  “Let go of him.”  Looking back in Barclay’s direction, Thornton spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear.  “Go save your Director, then, Fletcher.  If you manage to fight off Ryan, I might even let the two of you go.”

“C’mon, Fletcher,” Barclay heard from behind him.  “Davey here can only wait so long before he runs out of blood.”

Barclay swallowed and turned around to face Ryan, eyes burning with tears and hatred.  His whole body was trembling.  He clenched his hands into fists and took a tentative step forward.  He was just steeling himself to make a run at Ryan when the huge man tossed the blood-soaked Director to the side and bore up to his full height, challenging Barclay to attack him with an upward jerk of his equally-bloodied chin.

Barclay forced himself a few halting steps forward on quivering legs.  He faltered as Ryan’s grin widened, and flinched when the genmod picked up one of the Director’s arms and bit a finger off with a gut-twisting crunch, never taking his eyes off Barclay.  He tried to will himself on with everything he had in him, but…

“I-I can’t,” Barclay admitted in a small, shaking voice as he sank to his knees.

“You want to say that again?” Ryan taunted.  “Dave’s screaming made it a bit hard to hear you just now.”

Instead of further humiliating himself for Ryan, Barclay jerked back around to look at Thornton and Waldrop.  “What am I supposed to do here, get myself torn apart?  Was that the plan?  Because - ha - I’m not playing along.  I’m not going to go and let that…” He let out a whimper, with an involuntary look back at Ryan.  “I just… I can’t, okay?” He finished weakly.

“And after all you’ve done for him,” Thornton said to the screaming Director as Barclay let out another sob.  “Hold him, and make sure he’s watching,” he ordered his men.

Barclay bolted before he could think it through, making a run for the door as two, then three sets of footsteps pounded after him.  He had to make it, or at least get them to make it quick for him, get it over with; he couldn’t let them drag him back to face the Director after his failure.

His determination meant nothing, though, as an enormous hand grabbed him by the back of his neck, scruffing him as easily as if he were a newborn kitten.  “And here I didn’t think you were capable of disappointing me, Fletcher,” Ryan said.  “But that… ‘ey, Dad, you sure I”m killing the right person here?”

Barclay started flailing in panic before Thornton even started to answer, imagining Ryan’s powerful hand wrapping around his arm, snapping bones, tearing them apart, his limbs one by one dropping to the ground in front of him.  “NO!  No, no, no, let me go, LET ME –”

“He’s made his choice,” Thornton interrupted with a shake of his head.  “And you have a job to finish in any case.  One thing at a time, Ryan.”

“Do you have to go and make this feel like work, Dad?” Ryan teased as Barclay shuddered at Thornton’s comment.  “Anyway.  Here.”  With no further warning, he pushed Barclay forward, sending him stumbling into the grip of Thornton’s guards.

Either because of the blood loss or because he’d screamed himself raw, the Director had gone quiet other than letting out low whimpers.  As Ryan approached, though, he resumed his pointless struggling, his one remaining limb useless in allowing him to escape.  With the rest of the room gone silent, Barclay could hear his defeated words, let out between painful, ragged breaths.  “Get it over with, you freak.  And then – !” The Director gasped in pain.  “And then let Clay go, he did nothing!”

“You’ve got that right,” Ryan said with a vicious grin at Barclay as tears streamed down the younger man’s face.  “So, what do you say, Fletcher?  Should I make it quick for him so I can start on you, or should I have some more fun here?”

Barclay shook his head as he mutely sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut to get both the Director’s mangled body and Ryan’s knowing, contemptuous grin out of his sight.

“Oops, you broke the rules there, Fletcher.  Not supposed to look away, remember?  Guess I get to choose, then.”  Ryan picked the Director up by his ankle, holding him up high enough to look him in the eyes.  “You really should’ve chosen a better assistant, man,” he said with a shake of his head.

He then tore another strained shriek out of the Director along with his last leg before dropping the helpless torso of a man to the ground, with an air of being disappointed at having broken his favorite new toy.  Ryan shrugged at the onlookers and started to walk away, only to abruptly turn back and make a running start, giving the Director’s head a vicious kick that severed it from his body with a sickening snap and sent it into the crowd of his former victims.

Barclay was helplessly dry-retching at the corpse now twitching lifelessly mere feet away from him.  The arms holding him let him go, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, surrounded and overwhelmed by voices.

“John, what was –”

“Good on you, getting an eyeball!”

“ – disappeared my wife, Paul, they –”

“Get a knife, I want an ear.”

“ – gonna be sick…” The sound of vomiting.

“ – will you do with the boy, then?”

“He’s hardly a boy.  You don’t need to worry –”

Blood stained Barclay’s shirt as he wrapped his arms tightly around something.  It had been thrown at him, or maybe he’d crawled over to it.  He’d already forgotten; it hardly mattered.

“Should we take the arm from him, sir?” a voice standing over him called out.

“Get the rest of the body.  We’ll bring them back to the cell with him.”

Barclay clung for dear life to what he now felt to be Richardson’s mutilated hand, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as a guard grabbed him by the hair and yanked him hard toward the door.  He squealed and thrashed in pain, but his mind was somewhere else, or trying to get there.

In the end, it went blank.  He barely registered being thrown roughly back into his cell - only enough to crawl onto what was supposed to pass for a cot and curl in tightly around the severed arm, still oozing blood.

He didn’t know how long it had been by the time the door opened again, letting Thornton in to loom over him.  He didn’t dare move.

“What a mess,” Thornton said disgustedly, stepping on something laying on the floor with a crack and a squelch.  “And here you are doing nothing about it.”  He walked over and scruffed Barclay by the neck, holding him face down over the side of the cot so he could see.

The Director.  Or at least what remained of him.  Three limbs, stomped and bent all to hell.  A torso with ribs poking out through the bloodied remains of clothing.  And a head torn and beaten and mutilated beyond all recognition if Barclay hadn’t known what had happened to him.

Barclay abruptly started dry-retching again, his shaking arms finally letting go of his macabre comfort object.

Thornton’s hand squeezed tighter around the back of Barclay’s throat, turning his retching into struggling gasps.  “Pathetic,” he sneered, and tossed Barclay face first onto the hard floor.  A beat later, he dropped a bag in front of Barclay.  “I’ll give you three days to clean him up and put him back together,” Thornton said as Barclay shakily emptied the bag to find needles, thread, water bottles, glue, and a handful of other supplies that were hardly up to the task.  “The least you can do is allow him a good burial.”

I couldn’t do anything! Barclay wanted to shout.  You would’ve killed him anyways, and then me…!

He looked at the pack of needles for a long moment.

Maybe I should just…

“If you try to use those for anything other than their intended purpose, Fletcher, I will know,” Thornton cut in as if reading his thoughts.  “There are much more creative things I could do with a corpse.”

Barclay nodded, very much not wanting to know what they were.  “Y-yes sir,” he answered meekly.

Thornton’s lip curled in further disgust at this servile display, and he kicked him hard to the face.  Blood gushed from Barclay’s nose, and his voice was almost entirely too weak to be heard over the crack of breaking bone.

“Get to work.”

He couldn’t, not for the first two days.  Finally, he summoned the nerve to creep up to the body, arrange its dismembered pieces, set out the equipment with shaking hands, and then…  Where was he even supposed to start?!  Everything was slick with blood; the glue held the torn skin together for a matter of seconds before it tore open again.  Trying to sew the Director’s body back together was hardly more successful; even if he had any real experience working with a needle and thread, he could barely see what he was doing in the darkness.

He could only guess that he was running up against the deadline at a certain point, making him desperate enough to do whatever small amount he could for his murdered mentor.  Still, it seemed like he’d spent days making large, choppy stitches and applying thick layers of glue in some small hope of making the Director recognizable again.

The result was, if anything, more horrifying than the dismembered remains had been.

“You never fail to disappoint me, Fletcher,” Thornton said as he picked up Barclay’s best attempt, only to abruptly drop it to the floor.  The glued-on head lolled to the side and broke off halfway.  The more damaged arm flopped to the side, revealing that Barclay had sewn it on backward in his haste.  Barclay let out a sob.  

His eyes went wide, though, as Thornton’s two favorite guards stepped in with hands full of trash bags.

Thornton nodded to them.

“NO!” Barclay screamed, jumping from the cot and landing on the Director’s remains.  One of the two men chortled as he lay face down and trembling in the mess of decomposing flesh. “No, don’t, don’t, DON’T, I tried my best, I tried… sir,” Barclay begged, of Thornton, of the guard standing above him, of the Director’s ghost, he wasn’t sure which.

The man who had laughed grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him away despite his scrabbling hands, and he watched helplessly as Thornton’s other goon scooped up the crumbling body and dumped it piecemeal into the various bags with a look of disgust.

“Consider yourself lucky, kid,” the man restraining him threatened.  “We could throw you into the incinerator with him.  Keep making a pain in the ass of yourself, and maybe we will.”

Barclay froze up, his blood running cold.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thornton said, not even looking in his direction.  “The dumpster will work perfectly fine.”

“No…. you said… you said you were going to give him a real burial!” Barclay yelled in despair.

“Well, you certainly fucked up that chance,” Thornton said dismissively.  “If nothing else, you gave Dave exactly what he deserved.”

With that, he walked out of the cell with a wave to his men, the first of whom flung Barclay against the wall with another short laugh.

Barclay didn’t dare move until the door slammed behind them, and even then he only slowly curled his aching body into a ball.  He tried not to think about how long he’d be here, or for what purposes.  There was no point, where no one would be coming to get him this time.

His nails dug into his knees until they drew blood.  It ran down to the cell floor, mixing with the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

–

It had been two months, and Paul was having the same damn dream again.  The one where John’s son had…

Where Dave had been…

Dave’s eyes had been so desperate, and so unbearably reproachful.

But worse was the boy.

No, not a boy, just like John had said.  Barclay Fletcher had killed subjects.  Tortured them.  Including the now-missing Mrs. Thornton.

Still, he hadn’t disappeared her.  That had been Paul’s own doing.

It was too late to confess it now, he told himself.  It wouldn’t bring Dave back even if he wanted to, and it was probably too late to save Fletcher too.  And besides.

“Paul?” his wife asked drowsily, turning over to face him with a look of concern.  “Is everything alright?”

He couldn’t let that happen to him.

“You know you can tell me,” she tried to reassure him.

For her sake, he told himself.

“I’m fine,” he told her, sinking back into his comfortable bed and disturbed dreams.

--

Based on an in-person roleplay scene between @skinofafish and I. Barclay Fletcher and Paul Waldrop are my characters. John, Jinn, and Ryan Thornton along with David Richardson are @skinofafish's characters.

--

Taglist:

@whumpsday / @skinofafish

@badthingshappenbingo

[gothamstodd]

would it make me famous if I break down in the press? (3697 words) by gothamstodd Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Roman Sionis, Barbara Gordon Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Torture, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Kinda, he's trying, pathetic bruce wayne, the fact that that's not a tag smh, Complicated Relationships, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Hurt Jason Todd, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Public Torture, black mask being a cop out villian for hurt jason stories, Bad Things Happen Bingo, pov: bruce, third person but from his perspective Series: Part 3 of bad things happen bingo Summary: Bruce gets word from Barbara that there's a live video of Red Hood circling the internet, but it's not shaky footage captured by an awed citizen, it's a well-produced video of Black Mask torturing his son. bthb prompt "public torture" requested by @verytiredtrashcan - thanks!!

"A weight settles in Bruce’s gut like a stone, unrelenting and dreadful. Jason’s head is dropping forward, blood dripping from his mouth in a sluggish stream into his lap. He isn’t given much time to recover before the butt of a gun is swung hard into his cheekbone. His head whips to the side with it, but he doesn’t make a sound, chin lolling back to its position dropped against his chest. Bruce doesn’t have the volume on, but he sees Black Mask turn back toward the camera, laughter open-mouthed and cruel.

'Take a good look, Crime Alley.' Bruce reads his lips. Mask reaches around and grasps Jason by his hair, dragging his head back to show off a bloodied and swollen face to the camera, domino off kilter and expression blank, 'This is your hero?'"

[danwhobrowses]

Ashton "I serve the weak, I serve the forgotten, I serve the dirt beneath our feet" Me "Saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"

[mosaickiwi]

your angle... or yuor devil

Emo has some business to take care of... but you're going to a Halloween party together later wahoo!!! [REDACTED] is he/him only for this since there's some other loser in the scene 🙄

cw: torture in the beginning, implied murder

proceed with caution

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

As if contemplating what to watch on TV, [REDACTED] glanced down at the sight in front of him.

Bound in an old, wooden chair, somebody's agonized cries for help went unanswered, muffled by the torn, bloodied knot of fabric tied over their mouth. They'd been nothing but incomprehensible since the first nail was painstakingly pried from their finger.

The bigger piece of torn cloth was bundled in their lap. Its folds held a steadily growing pile of teeth and fingernails. Some were whole, but most were in pieces from the messier extractions.

Normally, the dark haired man would have more satisfying tools at his disposal for the victim. But he didn't have the chance to run home, especially when a Halloween date with you was right around the corner. After a quick stop at a hardware store, today's (un)lucky winner got dragged into the nearest abandoned building.

Only a couple hours ago, hardly ten minutes after the time you normally took your lunch break, this piece of work had approached you. 

Of course, nothing came of it. And you told your beloved partner about the unwelcome interaction right away. Between the usual chatter and flirting once you video called him for lunch, you mentioned it in an offhand comment, a wrinkle in your forehead to boot.

Then you'd gone right back to talking about the holiday, and how excited you were for the party that night. [REDACTED] didn't move on so quickly.

Just as he leaned down, a metal nail poised over the shitstain's knee and a hammer in hand, his phone rang. The items clattered against the floor as he stood and hurried to yank it from his pocket.

The bound and gagged, soon-to-be-done-for stranger looked surprised, but oddly grateful for the brief escape from further torment.

Before he could even offer a greeting, you spoke.

"Hiii! I'm already finished making treat bags at the library. Do you wanna meet me at your apartment for a little while before the party? I'm headed there now."

"I'd love to, but M'not exactly free," [REDACTED] managed to answer calmly despite the whirlwind you lured his heart into. He kept his gaze on the wide eyed stranger in front of him, wondering if they'd test their luck. 

Surprisingly, they did their best to stay quiet, the over-dramatic, obnoxious sobs from earlier slowly subsiding into sniffles. He smugly smiled and turned, walking a few steps away. Even with their impending demise, he didn't want to share your voice with anyone.

"Oh," you said. "That's okay." The notable disappointment to your words pained him, and he had to throw a glare over his shoulder at his victim. 

It was their fault that he would be missing out on extra time with you. Why didn't they just mind their business, instead of trying to chat you up while waiting in line?

But, [REDACTED] shared some of the blame. He'd begrudgingly skipped the usual lunch break visit at your insistence, since you wanted to surprise him with the matching costumes you were picking up.

"So what are you doing then?" you asked, then passed right over the topic. "Never mind. It's probably work, right?"

"... Yeah. Work," he answered. Admittedly, he was thankful you decided to stop asking questions on your own. And that you didn't remember he normally worked from home. "M'sorry, love."

You hummed in thought. "No worries. Programming hours sure are all over the place. I guess they kinda have to be, with the kind of money you make though." There was a sudden, loud commotion in the background and you softly cursed.

"Angel?" your boyfriend worriedly called out.

"I'm fine! My stupid tail just got caught in the — I mean… I'm fine!!"

The hacker smiled in relief, already excited for the costumes you bought. He didn't trail you or sneak a peek at the store's cameras for once, but he did notice the bright red horns poking out of the shopping bag behind you while you ate. You must've changed into yours before you left. An angel and a demon — only you wanted him to be the angel. 

[REDACTED] laughed, almost forgetting the person tied up behind him until they weakly groaned in agony. His smile immediately turned to a frown; he had to hang up too soon for his liking.

He was apologetic as could be. "I won't be able to leave for a while, but I'll make sure to call you the second I'm done."

"You always do," you teased him. "I can't wait to see the look on your face once I give you your costume."

He instantly took the bait, as if he didn't already know. "Really? Why don't y'give me a hint?"

"Hmm… It's… uhh, your favorite thing in the world?"

Ah, that one was too obvious. Still, he wanted to pretend a little longer. The delighted look on your face was sure to be worth the wait. "I'll work hard t'figure it out before I get home."

Your almost impish laughter made his heart skip a beat. "See you soon, Ren."

The phone beeped and the screen went black, taking his good mood away.

With a faint sigh and a roll of his eyes, the dark haired man reached for the sledgehammer leaning against an upturned table. It weighed lighter in his hands than the one he was used to, but it'd do the job just fine. 

He turned back towards the stranger, bruised, battered and much too weak to do anything but stare up at their tormentor. 

All the joy in [REDACTED]'s demeanor was gone, replaced with commonplace boredom as he slung the hammer over one shoulder. "Guess y'kept quiet enough, so I'll make this quick."

[baby-girl-aaron-dessner]

[serickswrites]

When in Rome

Warnings: capture, public humiliation, torture, restraints, whipping, blood, unconsciousness, bedside vigil, defiant whumpee

"I can be a kind and benevolent ruler," Whumper said as they circled their captives. "I think you will find I am a much better ruler than your former monarch."

Caretaker hated listening to this. Hated that they were all in chains while Whumper and their traitorous band walked free. But worst of all, they hated watching Whumpee struggle in the chains that had been thrown on all of them.

"The only thing you are capable of is evil," Whumpee hissed.

"You could give me a chance, Whumpee. If you give me a chance, if you bow, the others will follow suit. So many subjects have already pledged their loyalty."

"I'd rather die." Whumpee thrust their chin out.

"Whumpee, you were your former ruler's most trusted warrior. If you bend knee, needless violence will be avoided. Surrender and pledge fealty or you shall suffer greatly." Whumper's kind, gentle tone began to fray. Their true nature slowly eating away at the facade that Caretaker knew they were putting up.

"Death first!"

"That can be arranged." Whumper said with a sigh. "Tie them to the pole in front of the castle," they ordered one of their minions. "And take the others with you. I want everyone to see what happens when you do not conform to my law and order. What happens if you defy me."

Whumpee struggled valiantly against the many hands that grabbed them. Caretaker tried on their part, too. But it was to no avail. Whumper had too many followers at hand to fight. The rest of their squad was hauled along with them to the castle square.

"Whumpee, Whumpee, whatever they are planning is far worse than surrendering," Caretaker tried to reason with Whumpee. They could not stand to watch Whumper butcher Whumpee.

Whumpee shook their head, drawing themself up to their full height, head held proud. "If we give in we are complacent with whatever atrocities Whumper commits. The people need to see that some one is willing to stand up in the face of evil."

"You will be killed, Whumpee. Please," Caretaker tried again.

"Then that is the price I pay. I will not bend knee to evil. I will stand strong. Perhaps my death will be what one person needs to realize they must fight. That they can fight."

Caretaker opened their mouth to reply, but Whumpee was pulled away as the group reached the central square. A tall post had been erected in the center atop a tall dais. Whumpee was hauled roughly up the steps and chained with their arms above their head, back to the crowd.

"Citizens, gather round," Whumper said as they climbed the steps of the dais, "and see what it means to refuse me." Whumper held a whip in their hand. Caretaker's mouth went dry.

"I am a benevolent ruler," Whumper said as a hush fell over the crowd, "and I will give you one more chance, Whumpee. Swear fealty and you will be spared."

"I will never bow to you. No matter how much you hurt me, I will never bow before you." Whumpee spat at Whumper, their contempt and intentions clear.

"So be it, then. We will start with ten lashes and see how you feel." Whumper raised their arm and brought the whip down across Whumpee's back. Whumpee's skin split and flowed from the wound.

But they did not cry out.

With each crack of the whip, Caretaker flinched. With each crack of the whip the fearful faces of the crowd became more apparent. And with each crack of the whip, Whumpee's blood flowed, but they did not cry out.

After the tenth crack, Whumper stopped. "Anything you wish to say, Whumpee?"

"Fuck you," Whumpee said weakly.

With a growl, Whumper raised the whip again. "Such insolence shall not be tolerated."

Caretaker lost count of how many times Whumper brought the whip down. They lost count of how long Whumper whipped Whumpee after Whumpee went limp in the chains as they slipped into unconsciousness. They lost count of how many times they begged for Whumpee's life. Because they could only see Whumpee's limp, bloody body slumped over at the whipping post.

"Throw them in the dungeon with the rest of their squad. Offer them no aid. See if that's enough to change their mind," Whumper said when they finally grew tired of whipping Whumpee.

Caretaker didn't fight as they were dragged to the castle's dungeon. They watched in horror as two men grabbed Whumpee by the arms and roughly dragged them along to the dungeon. Whumpee didn't so much as groan or raise their head as they were dragged along.

"Whumpee, please, say something," Caretaker said as they were all tossed in the dungeon.

Whumpee had landed in a heap and hadn't made a sound. "Whumpee, please," Caretaker tried again. They weren't sure where they could touch Whumpee without causing further injury. They lowered themself to the ground next to Whumpee.

Whumpee's eyes were closed, but they were alive. Caretaker could hear their short, pained breaths as they got close to Whumpee. "Someone bring me some water from that bucket." Caretaker ordered. "We need to clean their wounds."

Whumpee didn't wake the whole time the squad cleaned and dressed their wounds. They didn't wake as the squad tried to lay them in a comfortable position gently. And they didn't wake as Caretaker stroked their face and murmured soft words to them.

Caretaker sat in the dark dungeon hoping Whumpee would wake soon. They stroked Whumpee's sweat soaked hair. "Please, Whumpee. Don't do this. Please, just wake up. We can come up with a plan. Please, Whumpee. Don't make us watch you die, too."

But still, Whumpee did not wake.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

[archiveofaffinities]

Jenny Holzer, Selections from Truisms, Spectacolor Board, 20' x 40', Installation, Public Art Fund Inc., Times Square, New York, New York, 1982

[geneticcatalyst]

[cherrise-rose]

Pregnant and overdue and on display in a museum with hourly live tours of the human body getting ready to give birth via remote controlled camera guided through pussy, up birth canal, through cervix, into womb, and back out.

Maybe interactive display for extra fee. Visitors flicking your nipples, suckling on your tits, rubbing your big pregnant belly, poking you swollen cuny.

And what if they then have a historical birth reenactment night where I give birth on full display to a sold out crowd. They'll have someone reenacting one of those doctors with only the tools of the time period which more often impede the birth, or even reverse the baby's progress!