#trade whump

[jordanstrophe]

During a trade, how do you imagine whumper handing whumpee over?

I like to imagine whumper has a henchman take whumpee to caretakers side, as the henchman is trembling having to walk towards a seething caretaker.

Especially if whumpee can't walk and they're dragging them. 

[pixelatedraindrops]

A highly feverish Yuma and Makoto 🌡️ (39.05 c)

This was an art trade I received from BBQchap0 on twitter ✨

Small Rambling below

original and copy, same body, same mind, same frail immune system (they often get sick at the same time)

The 2 worlds greatest minds are going to have to take some time off working today. They’ve unfortunately both been afflicted by a sudden spiking fever and can hardly move. As they lay in bed, fatigued, aching, and sweating through their clothes, they could only struggle to try to help themselves.

This is such an attractive piece. I think I’m in love...

I could go on about this but, I'm literally about to combust 😳💦

In shorter words:

This is the most lovely art trade I have ever gotten and one of the most gorgeous pieces of art I've ever gotten in my entire life.

I cannot praise it enough, this belongs in a legit art gallery... I'm so honored to have gotten something this pretty I could cry...

💕💦(┬┬﹏┬┬) 💦💕

HOW did they make these disheveled sick boys look so BEAUTIFUL??? I can legit FEEL their struggle, its too good I could die

What a vision…makoto's uninterested yet tired expression...yuma with the thermometer in his mouth as his clone weakly assists him...and those glorious skin flush tints of red and pink coupled with the beads of sweat and messy hair…

AND THOSE COLORS…

Yeah. I’m not normal 🫠

Its…perfection

[whumpy-wyrms]

@blood-and-regrets i drew your batboi Louis :) this was a lot of fun, hope you like it!

[whump-art-exchange]

2024 Whump Art Exchange

A tldr info sheet for the main important points can be found here. This is the full sheet.

This is a whump art exchange that is OC focused but ocs are not required. If you are an artist you can sign up by filling out a google form found below and you will be assigned a partner at random to draw a gift for based on their requests. It works the same as a secret santa event, so keeping the person you get a secret is strongly encouraged. You will most likely not have the same person you are drawing for be the one doing art for you, everyone is assigned a different person. At the end of the event, you will post your gift art to your blog with all of the tags required (that are stated below) and it will be reblogged on the event blog.

Sign up sheet can be found here and the form closes on March 30th 2024. You will receive your partner’s information in the first week of April 2024, either in your email, tumblr dm’s, or ask box depending on your preference stated in the sign up sheet. You’ll have a month to complete the art, and you will post the art on May 1st 2024 with all of the required tags included. If you haven't posted after a day or two I may check in with you to ask about your progress. 

When you post your piece tag it under #whump_art_exchange_2024, and tag @whump-art-exchange, as well as tagging the person you made the art for. I will reblog all of the finished pieces so that people can see everyone's creations.

This is a minor friendly exchange, do not submit sexual content for this event, even if you are an 18+ blog. If your blog is not minor friendly please check that off in the form and I will assign you appropriately. 

Sign ups are open to all skill levels, and partners are assigned at random with the exception of triggers, 18+ blogs, ect. All works must be fully completed with a clear image of the art, and effort must be put into it. 

If you are assigned a person who doesn't work for you, dm me within the first day and I will try to sort it out for you. Please only do this if it's a high risk situation such as triggering content, or a safety issue. If you are unsure, shoot me a dm and I will try my best to accommodate. 

If you are unable to complete your gift, or need to drop out of the event please let me know as soon as possible so that I can assign a new artist for your partner. If you need a time extension please let me know so that I know you are still participating!

Harassment, or hostility of any kind will not be tolerated and anyone doing so may be blocked or asked to leave the event. 

Inbox or dm me if you have any additional questions.

[bumblingdragon]

The @artwhumpersanonymous discord finished their OC Trade Event reveals yesterday! So I can finally post this! 😁

I got to draw Asha for @dragonpyre 🫶 I had lots of fun. Everyone's art and fics were incredible <3

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2024, Day 25. Waterboarding

Art for @coyotehusk of his ocs Mica and Nancy!!

Mature art tag: @frogkingdom @coppercoyote @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts @ilasknives @alittlewhump @demondamage

[sunshiline-writes]

Ribbons

This is a little fic I wrote for @befuddled-calico-whump for their OC Hunter! This was for the @artwhumpersanonymous trade event on the server!

God this was so much fun to write and I loved reading everything about Hunter for Calico's T$S story. 10/10 I totally recommend reading it! Great art and great story. Linked HERE !

CW: GORE

The room was cold. Hunter could hear the way the water dripped from the ceiling. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Why was it always him that got the short end of the stick? He was always the one left behind. Well, he did deserve it didn’t he? With all the colors of irritation that followed them whenever he was around. Maybe he got too much again, left people with the sour taste in their mouths. He was told to wait by the door, be a lookout. He only saw the bright flash of orange a second too late before rose petals of pain blossomed from behind him. Then darkness. 

Now he was here. Somewhere dark and cold with a goddamn leaky pipe. One that he was unfortunately handcuffed too. What was this? Some kind of shitty warehouse basement? Like the ones on tv. The ones where people get kidnapped and there’s always a way out. Hunter needed their luck. Movie protagonist luck was probably the best luck someone could have.. Or the worst. Yeah nevermind, maybe he didn’t want that type of luck following him around. His own was bad enough as is.

Drip, drip, drip. 

There was a sound of a door opening, creaking slowly. It grated against Hunter's ears as he looked back at the small glow of warm light that came from the staircase. A basement then? Is that where he was? The man walked down the steps and flicked on the lights. He was surrounded by a bright red glow. A walking stop light. Danger. Hunter smiled at him. 

“Did you know that your pipes are leaking?” 

“What?” asked the man, raising a brow at him. The bottom half of his face was covered by a bandana. Grey colored with a pattern. There was a flash of yellow in the aura. He didn’t know what that was. 

“You have a leaky pipe. Annoyed the shit outta me.” 

The yellow flash stayed steady as the man chuckled, shaking his head slightly. He took a few steps toward Hunter, crouching to his level on the ground. Heading tilting to the right. Studying him. The soft red glow that surrounded him only got brighter, burning into Hunter's eyes. Right above his brow. 

“Yeah. Been meaning to fix that. Never got around to it. Busy I guess,” his tone was casual as he reached toward Hunter’s handcuffs. “I’m gonna uncuff one of your hands. Try anything and I’ll break your arm, you hear?”

Hunter scoffed but nodded as the man unlocked one cuff. Then he let Hunter move his hands from around the pole he was handcuffed around, moving his wrists and shoulders. Orange sparks coming from the joints. The man cuffed his hands in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him upward by the shoulder. The red glow got softer, less angry, less dangerous. Hunter felt himself inhale. The man made eye contact with him. 

Now Hunter had never been the king of smart decisions. He was in trouble constantly. Bored, elusive, desperate for something to take his mind off the thoughts that plagued him at times. But this had to be one of his dumbest decisions he ever made. Especially as he beared down and slammed his shoulder into the guy's chest. Knocking him backward for a few steps. That red flash came back in an instant as Hunter started to turn the other way. 

One, two… three steps around the table in the middle of the basement before Hunter's scalp was on fire. Orange dandelions exploded in front of his eyes as he was yanked backward by a hand in his hair. No no no. He screamed out for a second as his balance failed him and his head was slammed into the table. More sparks across his vision as he groaned. 

“Fucking.. Little shit..” the man growled, trapping him with his own weight pressed on top of Hunter's back, making it hard to breathe. 

“Get off me! Fucker. Asshole. You bi–” Hunter screamed again as his head was slammed into the table a second time. His vision went black for a moment. The world flipped around and he couldn’t lift his head. The world was spinning and if he kept his eyes closed it felt like he was being lifted. Hunter groaned as his body moved. Handcuffs unclinking and reclinking. God, everything was swimming in orange. 

“You look better when you can’t even lift your head. I warned you man,” his captor mused. Moving his arm off the table, letting it hang off by the elbow. Hunter finally found it in himself to open his eyes. Swirls of orange and black all around himself. The red of the man dressed in black bright and pulsating. His temple was wet, probably with blood. Something inside him screamed at him to fucking move. Get up, fight, do something. 

He tried to push himself up, get his chest off the table, but he couldn’t move. He twisted his head to see the rope that held him down. Tying his waist to the underside of the table. His legs were tied together and to the underside of the table too. Did he pass out? When did this guy tie him up? Black cracks started to form in his vision, surrounding his arm that hung limply off the table. Hunter moved it slightly, and a hand wrapped around his arm, just above the elbow. 

“I warned you what i’d do if you tried anything, remember? Say it.”

“You.. You said you’d break my arm.” 

“Oh so you were listening, that’s good.” 

The grip on his arm tightened and black cracks made their way up his arm, crawling up to his neck, making it hard to breathe. 

“Wait! Wait wait–” he lifted his head, struggling as the other hand came down just beneath his elbow. Oh god, oh god, oh god. “COME ON MAN, JUST WAIT.” 

The pressure built up slowly at first, before there was a horrifying snap. The world exploded into a firework of orange, black, yellow and red. Then his vision went black for another moment. 

A second of peace. Of forgetting that he was in someone's shitty basement, with a concussion and a broken arm. Forgetting that he was just left here and that no one was coming to get him. Hunter had a moment of peace. Of perfect, inky stillness. All good things must end right? All good things must end. 

His eyes opened and he was met with a stark contrast of white and red. Shattered bone sticking out of his skin and blood dripping down slowly. He couldn’t feel his fingers. That was a bad sign right? Meant the nerves were damaged or something? Orange flowers danced around the oddly angled arm, making his head pound. His eyes burned with tears. 

God he couldn’t cry now. If he cried now, he’d look stupid. 

“Shut up,” said the man, dragging a chair to sit next to the dangling arm. Grabbed just above the break on the part that was still on the table. “You’re whining and whimpering isn’t going to save you. In fact, it’s been long enough. I doubt anyone’s gonna save you.” 

Hunter whined, lifting his head, gathering salvia in his mouth. Then he spat on the man. Glob landing on his cheek. Just above the bandanna that covered his mouth. His eyes hardened, and the red pulsated again. 

“Fuck you.” 

The man laughed, actually laughed. Short and melodious as he wiped the spit off his cheek. Then he squeezed his arm, blood flowing more freely as he did. Hunter bit back a scream, his other hand curled in a fist. That was not his smartest decision. 

“How many layers of skin do you think it’ll take for me to get down to your bones? Ten? Fifteen? Wonder if I’ll hit an artery on my way down.” 

Bandanna Man took a knife from his back pocket and held it to the part of Hunter’s arm that dangled freely. Bone moving as the arm moved against his will. The pain burned into his shoulder, up his neck, and made his face heat up. A sob escaped him before he could even stop it as Bandanna held it straight, skin catching on bone, and brought the knife to the skin. 

“No.. N..no please… Please..” 

“No use begging, why don’t you just keep count yeah?” he said casually as he slowly and carefully cut away the first layer of skin. 

It was pink for the first layer. Red for the second, red for the third. Oh there was so much red. Blood pouring down his arm and steadily making its way to the floor. Sometimes, if Hunter focused more on the colors, rather than the burning, white hot pain, he could almost ignore it. Almost. His throat was raw from screaming and the deep ache settled in his chest. One that he recognized as hopelessness. It sat heavy on his body, squeezing all the air out of him. Making the room spin and the walls turn into grey nothingness. 

Muscles split down the middle, blue veins carefully being ignored. Yellow fat moved to the side. 

“Sixteen..” Bandanna said, voice coming back into focus as he leaned in close to Hunter's face. Tilting his head. “You still with me Harbor?”

Harbor, Harbor, Harbor. Hunter squeezed his eyes shut. He never told this guy his name. He never even got the chance. 

“Harrrborrrr,” Bandanna sang, gently tapping Hunter’s temple with the butt of the knife. “I need you awake. If you don’t open your eyes, I’ll just take them out.” Hunter's stomach lurched as he forced himself to open his eyes. The world was spinning still and it took a moment to focus on Bandanna's face. 

“There you are, your team is on their way you know. Got the location about an hour ago. We’re almost done. If you manage to live, I think they’ll be impressed,” the man said nonchalantly as another slice of tissue was taken from his arm. They rolled back elegantly toward his wrist. Ribbons. It reminded him of using scissors on a piece of ribbon. Scraping it on the material and then it rolled and curled up. That was his skin. Layers upon layers of curled up ribbon. “I’m impressed. I think we’ll make it to twenty, before we reach the bone. Really incredible,” the Bandanna man sounded far away, distant. 

Drip, drip, drip. Splash. 

Leaky pipe, blood dripping down his arm, onto the floor. Hunter was painfully aware of the sound. The sound of the knife cutting away at skin was awful too. The smooth shlick of it peeling back and the sound of Hunter's quiet sob mixed together. Orange, red, black and grey fireworks were everywhere.

 Finally, white bone appeared in his vision. Hunter was being fully held up by the ropes now. Body weight on his hips, but the ache was just a distant echo compared to the fire on his arm. Bandanna laughed and it echoed. Gently he stroked the bone, caressing it like it was something to treasure. 

“You did well Harbor.” 

Then he let the arm drop down again. Let it dangle there. Gravity pulling the weight of all the skin, muscle and fat down to rip down the rest of the way. Making him scream and his vision went white. The sound of tearing skin and the way it all hit the floor was the last thing he heard before his vision went black again. 

He was going to die here. 

Echoes of a past life surrounded him. Purple, blue, green colors blurring together in a mess above his head. Hands gently touching his head, his shoulders, holding down his legs. His vision cleared for a moment and he was greeted with a familiar, pained smile. 

“Don’t worry Harbor, we got you, we got you. You’re going home.” 

Home. If he was going to go home. He should really remember whatshisfaces name. Barney? Bacon? No.. something else. Benji. His name was Benji. 

A gentle hand wiped the blood from his forehead. Oh he really was going to go home now wasn’t he? His arm was fucked, his head was scrambled eggs but they actually came for him. They came for him and.. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be left behind after all. He let the thought settle in. 

Then he drifted again. Into a swirl of colors he couldn’t remember the names of. But he was in the arms of people that cared. That was enough for him to sleep. 

[starfallsoup]

🔪 CW blood / implied violence

part 1 of an art trade with my friend @bymidnightsmoon of their oc beaten up !!!

[jordanstrophe]

Caretaker and whumpee are trading with whumper. It was just one item for another, but whumper can't seem to take their eyes off whumpee.

Suddenly whumper deems the trade unfair and wants them to throw in a little something extra: Whumpee.

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

All fae know who Puck is. Bright, bold, and beautiful, he shines by Oberon's side. Sometimes here, sometimes there, sometimes in the shape of a horse, a hound, a chair, a flame. Sometimes even in the shape of another fae. His wit is cutting, and he has a tendency to walk a thin line, slipping just shy of any blame.

No one knows who Puck is. Not really. They see the flame of a fairy carrying out his king's will with glee. They never see the leash Oberon wrapped around Puck's throat long ago. The hold the king has over him is ironclad and unwavering. It allows Puck freedom and protection, but in return binds him utterly to Oberon's will.

Puck loves his king. He does, truly.

But sometimes, he'll lie awake at night, unable to banish thoughts that would surely be considered treason.

He's so sick of being obedient.

[whumpy-wyrms]

to @kyp-the-spacekiwi of their character Eda for the @whump-art-exchange event!!!! i LOVE this character and had SOOO much fun drawing her!! i thought it was really cool that she’s the ghost of a magician who was killed during one of her dangerous acts, and wanted to show that in the art! she might’ve just died, but she still wants to give the audience an amazing performance! hope you like it!!! :D

here’s a version with no background and one with slightly different colors :)

[whump-art-exchange]

TLDR WHUMP ART EXCHANGE INFO SHEET:

2024 whump art exchange. Full info here.

Sign up form here. Closes on March 30th 2024.

Assigned partners will be sent to dm’s, inbox, or email in the first week of April 2024. Keep your partner a secret until posting day. 

Post the art to your blog on May 1st and tag it #whump_art_exhange_2024 as well as tagging the person you made it for and tagging the blog @whump-art-exchange.

No sexual content allowed. Minor friendly event. 

Inbox or dm mod for additional questions.

[hummingbird-of-light]

June of Doom 2024 Day 8 (@juneofdoom)

8. “This is your last chance.”                   

| Drowning | Chair | Prisoner Trade |

~

"This is your last chance, Vulcan. Tell us what we want to know or you'll regret it."

S'chn T'Gain Spock didn't even blink an eye as one of the pirates put a blade to his neck. He knew that it would do the man no good to kill him. After all, he wanted information. And he would certainly not get it after Spock's death.

For this reason, the Vulcan remained silent, as he had done for days. The pirates would learn nothing from him about the newly discovered planet Farus V and its important resources as well as its intended, strategically important position within the Federation.

It had now been exactly 3 days, 14 hours and 23 minutes since Spock and the rest of the research team had been ambushed and abducted. By now, the Enterprise must have become aware of the disappearance of the landing party. It had not been in orbit at the time of the attack – it was supposed to be a fairly simple mission, after all – and it had been decided to carry out some repairs at a nearby starbase during the short research mission.

"Talk!"

The blade of the knife cut through Spock's skin. Green blood gushed out, but he barely felt the sensation that his pain receptors perceived. His mind was much stronger than his body. Even the other wounds that had been inflicted on him would not make him talk.

"It's no use. The humans didn't survive the torture and the Vulcan won't tell us anything," groaned the accomplice of the man who was threatening Spock.

"Then what are we supposed to do with him, huh? We need the information for the boss! Remember?"

A conspiratorial grin formed on the second pirate's face as he listened to his irascible colleague's questions.

"How about we try to retrieve the recently lost slaves and colleagues from our partner shuttle? I'm sure the boss will be delighted if we rescue his mistress."

The pirate with the knife also had to grin, baring his ugly teeth.

"A prisoner trade? Not a bad idea at all." He turned his head from his partner back to Spock. "Maybe you're still valuable to us after all."

"But we should hurry. You know how quickly that woman takes care of her goods," Number 2 said cryptically.

Number 1 nodded and lowered his knife.

"Then we'll contact her right away. Let's not waste any time."

~

The next time the door to his cell slid open, Spock raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had expected the pirates, but they were not alone.

A tall lady with violet skin accompanied the men. Darker spots adorned the area under her eyes and her forehead. She wore her white hair tied up. A long blue dress flattered her slim figure.

Spock recognized the lady immediately. He had often enough looked at the sketch that the Enterprise's chief engineer had created. The chief engineer who had once fallen into the clutches of this woman and had only survived by chance.

"Ms. Farie, I presume."

Ms. Farie. A restaurant owner who was always searching for exotic delicacies to serve her guests.

A surprised expression washed over the alien woman's face, but eventually she smiled.

"You know me. I'm impressed. Very few people in this sector of space know my name. Apart from my wonderful negotiating partners here, of course."

Pirate number 1 seemed to have no desire to listen to this conversation. He took a step forward, next to the woman.

"You see, Ms. Farie? A Vulcan. Just as we promised. You are very welcome to take him with you. All we want in exchange are the members of our group and the slaves you captured yesterday."

Spock remained silent. Most intriguing. The pirates were trying to negotiate with a species that was obviously superior to them.

Ms. Farie chuckled softly when she heard those words. She turned to Number 1.

"A single Vulcan in exchange for twelve other creatures? That doesn't sound like a good deal to me. Think of all the guests that visit my restaurant every day."

The pirate just snorted.

"Come on, ma'am, we both know that Vulcans are an endangered species and therefore much more valuable than any other species."

"You're right about that, of course." Ms. Farie put her head to one side thoughtfully and eyed Spock, who was dangling from chains on a wall, from head to toe. "I've heard a lot about Vulcans, but I've never met one in person. I was told that you originate from a very warm planet so I assume that your lovely skin has a special texture."

Interested, the lady stretched out one of her long fingers and approached Spock's face, but just before she touched his skin, she hesitated.

"Is it true that Vulcans are touch telepaths?"

Spock didn't say anything. Ms. Farie wanted to make him talk, although she obviously knew the answer already.

A smile crossed her face and she nodded in understanding. She realized she couldn't play with the Vulcan the way she wanted to.

"Then I'd better not touch you. The strong emotions I'm currently feeling would surely overwhelm your mind. And ... I'm not a big fan of torturing my goods."

"So we have a deal?" pirate number one asked impatiently and Ms. Farie gave him a quick glance, before she looked back at the Vulcan in front of her.

"We do."

Number 1 grinned, but it quickly disappeared as the pirates' guest raised a finger.

"On two conditions. Firstly, I never want to see your runabouts anywhere near my hunting grounds again. I know full well that your people were planning to acquire new slaves from my regular catchment area when we captured them. However, you know very well that you should stay away from these planets."

The pirate grunted in annoyance, but then nodded.

"Understood, ma'am. And secondly?"

The smile on Ms. Farie's face widened and her eyes seemed to bore into Spock's exposed torso. Her long tongue ran across her lips.

"I want to try a piece. After all, I need to know if it's worth such a high payment."

Number 2, who was the one carrying a knife with him this time, laughed as he handed it to the alien lady.

"Feel free to take whatever piece you like. The Vulcan is all yours."

Spock watched as Ms. Farie took the weapon and examined it for a moment. It was quite obvious that she preferred her own equipment, but she would need to work with what she had.

"They say that Vulcans are able to block out pain with the power of meditation. I really wonder if that's true."

Spock thought for a moment about informing the lady that he was only half Vulcan, but he came to the conclusion that it would be an irrational remark. Judging by Mr. Scott's stories, it didn't matter anyway.

Ms. Farie was looking for exotic specialties to offer in her restaurant. It didn't matter to her if he was Vulcan or half-Vulcan. His rare flesh would certainly please the alien woman's guests.

"Just a small piece."

The blade of the knife cut deep into Spock's arm and he wondered for a moment if he should show the pain it was causing him. Would it scare off the woman who pretended she didn't enjoy seeing her goods suffer? No. For it had clearly been a lie.

Ms. Farie's blue eyes twinkled with amusement. An emotion that Spock normally only saw in the eyes of humans. An emotion he himself had only felt in a few moments of his life, when his human side managed to gain the upper hand.

Green blood gushed from the gaping wound left by the cut. Spock watched stony-faced as Ms. Farie examined the piece she had removed.

"It seems almost ... perfect." The smile on the woman's face turned into a grin, revealing the pointed teeth.

Spock couldn't deny that the sight of flesh made him uncomfortable. It was something he didn't often see as a Vulcan. Something he loathed. His human side really seemed to be coming out. And with it, disgust and ... fear.

Ms. Farie raised her hand and was just about to eat the thick strip of 'delicacy' when the pirates' ship suddenly shook.

Surprised, even frightened, both the pirates and the alien looked around. They wondered what had happened. Only Spock regained his composure.

The Enterprise had found him. And not only him. But also the woman they had been looking for for quite some time. Spock could hardly wait to tell Mr. Scott about the news.

A/N: This is based on last year's June of Doom Prompt 15

[whumpinthepot]

I kinda want to host a whumpy art trade event but like, only if ppl are into that yk. Thoughts?

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #20: Catharsis

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, murder, brief blood/gore

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Heather was angry, and she had no idea why. It was just one of those days. Outside her bedroom window, snow fell like nuclear ash, a thick blanket of about four or five inches. The world was reduced to a blank slate of white. No footprints disturbed the perfect surfaces. Flat, clear snow. What was that poem, again? The snows of Tyrol are not very pure or true. But anyone would stand in awe of this secluded wilderness.

That meant she would have to shovel the driveway. Not a great start to her October morning. It was too early to snow, to make things worse. They usually didn't see anything until at least November. The radio hosts and newscasters were going wild over this fact. Slow day for news, then. It would melt regardless; the weather was supposed to warm up for the next week. And how she dreaded the cold weather. How she hated the dry, cool air blowing over her burning heart. An autumn wind to stir her, like leaves from the pilings. 

The rage did not quiet before that peaceful sight, nor did it rest when she got up out of bed. Nothing was wrong. There was nothing to fix. Regardless, the feeling simmered. 

Was it Jackie? Of course it was Jackie. He'd done nothing wrong, yet he managed to irritate her anyway. He was too stubborn, too contrarian—or maybe he was just in the way. Wrong place, wrong time. He was a variable outside her total control, yet so pivotal in her life. If he ever escaped, she was done for.

Or the rage was less sophisticated than that. She had failed at something. The only thing she had learned about Jackie’s psyche was that he couldn’t recognize a butterfly if it hit him in the nose. This revelation told her nothing about the hallucination. He was a hollow nesting doll, a matryoshka with all the smaller parts misplaced, and she had failed to uncover his core. Failure! It was a lesser indignity to die. The fear of both was equal—to fail was to kill a potential, to die in a single aspect that could never be resurrected. Heather was good at a great many things. She was good at nearly everything. She wasn’t supposed to fail. 

As she stood by the window, the doorbell rang. Some individuals loved to hear that sound, but she did not. No criminal finds the public eye reassuring. Paranoia narrowed the possibility of getting caught into every stranger, every knock at the door, every chiming of the bell.

But she couldn’t stay in her bedroom and wait for the visitor to leave. That would look suspicious. Appearances were important. She quickly got dressed and approached the door.

The bell rang again. Can’t wait one second, can they? She placed a hand on the doorknob and pushed it open. 

“Hello?” she said, fighting to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“Hello. I’ve come to assess your infestation.” Heather did not recognize the man standing before her, not even slightly—he was a total, perfect stranger. “You’re Miss Wright, yes?”

On any other day, Heather would tell him that he’d gotten the wrong address and shut the door in his face. However, this was not any other day. Heather was heated up like dry kindling, and this was all the friction she needed to catch fire. Most people found catharsis in taking a run, or talking their feelings out, or some other pansy nonsense. Heather found her release in the hot spill of blood. The rush of a blade, the splitting of skin. Exactly what she needed. That would make her feel better. 

Besides, why would a stranger come all the way out here? It couldn't have been a mistake. He wanted something. He was a threat. The how and why didn't matter. Would a wren in a weasel's nest stop to question the how and why? He was a threat, and he would need to be disposed of.

“Miss Wright. Yes. I’m her.” She stepped aside so that the man could enter. “Forgive me, but I can’t quite recall your name. I assume you’re the exterminator?”

He nodded as he walked past her. He was a rough sort of fellow, not in an intimidating way but in the general sense of his appearance. The face of a sculpture forgotten halfway, cut in broad strokes and sharp lines. He was, however, very neatly dressed. “My name is Matthew. You had the animal in your attic, right?”

“Attic?” Here, she pushed her lips slightly apart, to give him an expression of innocent confusion. “No, the animal is in the basement. It’s been screeching for the past hour. You must have misheard me. ”

“Sorry about that, then.” He dipped his head for a second. “I’ll take a look and give you an estimate. Where’s the basement, by the way?”

Oh, this was funny. He didn’t suspect a thing. 

“Right.” She smiled apologetically. “It’s down the hall.”

Down the hall they went, as casual as ever. The exterminator didn’t have a clue. Like leading a lamb to the chopping block. Really, she was shooting down low-hanging fruit. It was almost too easy. Unless Matthew also turned out to be immortal, the whole affair would be quick. Heather, like any good butcher, knew how to make the kill clean and fast. She had plenty of practice so far, hadn’t she?

“We can usually get the guys in here after three business days,” the stranger rambled. The basement door drew closer, shut like lips over a gaping maw. “Cost can be hard to calculate but with something like this, it usually doesn’t total over three hundred. Do you know if there’s a nest?“

“I don’t think there is.” She twisted the lock until it clicked open. “Just the one animal. It’s somewhere down here, come on.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to go inside?”

“Of course,” she replied sweetly. “Don’t be shy. It doesn’t bite.”

This managed to draw a bewildered look from the exterminator’s face, but he said nothing as she opened the door. The stairs followed down before them, the steps like rings of cartilage around a throat, the lighting just a touch dimmer than the rest of the house. 

Matthew began his descent, proceeding with the cautious gait of a caver. She followed close behind him, desperately trying not to burst out laughing. Five steps left, then four, then three… the rest of the basement was now visible. 

Predictably, Jackie was still there. He was sitting by the writing desk, apparently lost in thought. When his head lifted, there was a grin on his face… which then shifted to a brief look of confusion… then blatant concern, in the corners of his wide eyes and the small downward curve of his mouth.

What the exterminator felt, she could not see. His back was turned to her. Matthew froze. He did not look scared—though there would be plenty of time for that—but simply a little stiffer than before.

“There’s your pest. Play nice, you two.” Heather gave them both a beaming smile. “Keep him entertained, Jackie. I’ll only be a minute.”

She stepped backwards, out of the basement. The door closed, and the lock clicked behind them.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

She didn't waste any time. Heather had never used the chainsaw on anyone before. It had mainly cut down diseased trees, before taking its final resting place in her garage. Until today.

Heather lifted the heavy tool by its handle, hoisted it to her hip. It was a gift from her dad, not too long ago—a year before he died, in fact. It had a bulky, squared off body, the underlying machinery almost visible like muscles under its metal skin. The chains were a bit rusted, sure, but it would work. By God, it would work.

She walked downstairs. Neither the exterminator nor Jackie had moved. They were staring at each other, caught in an eternal moment of tension. Heather was happy to split that silence. Both heads turned when she turned the saw belt on. 

The cord cranked back one, two, three times. The blade whirred like a living thing, a machine of organic teeth and claws, buzzing beneath her grasp. The noise came in loud like the summer cicadas—a monstrous, dull buzz, hazy as the June heat. 

With a jerk, she shifted the saw upwards, then aimed it. Just above his neck. With the trees, she learned to aim higher than estimated. It was something you had to learn about striking; you had to feel the arc of the swing before it ever descended, feel the bat hit the ball before the pitcher ever moved. Although any swing was a good swing here. Heather knew that as long as she hit flesh, this would work out fine.

The exterminator attempted to flee a second too late. His limbs drew up, as if to shield himself or fight back, but they went limp as soon as the first tooth dug itself into his neck. Blood spurted in a thick, arcing spray, heady as the first flower of springtime, dark as velvet. Muscle and flesh were rendered into a shredded mass, splitting under the unwavering push of whirring metal. 

He collapsed before the beheading could really begin, but at that point it was unnecessary. Matthew died long before he hit the ground. And when he finally did hit the ground, it was with a dull, wet crunch. Gaping, bloodshot eyes gazed up to the heavens with those pinprick pupils, the glaze of death glinting like wood-varnish on their surface. His limbs stuck out at odd angles over his body. His neck was nearly ninety degrees with his head. The blood continued to seep, on and on, a seemingly infinite supply. Heather couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t. It had been so easy. It was just too good. She laughed. A short, barking laugh—the terse laugh of coyotes after dusk.

“Ewwww.” She became aware of Jackie’s presence once more, as he stepped away from the corpse. “What the hell was that?”

She drew herself up, shook out the remainder of her early-morning blues. The chainsaw hung lifeless in her grip. “Do you think he’s immortal too? Wouldn’t that be such a coincidence?”

“Hope not. This basement is small enough as it is.” He had been standing an unfortunate distance near the late Mr. Matthew, so he was soaked with the brunt of the blood and gore. “You didn’t answer my question. What the hell, Heather?”

She shrugged. “He was being annoying.”

“Of course. Of course he was.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” She swung the chainsaw up to point at his, frankly unimpressed, expression. “He could have been an undercover cop. Even if he wasn’t, what would I do if he found you? It was a necessary sacrifice.”

“That guy probably had a wife and kids, you know.”

“Yeah, well, bummer for them.” She took in a deep breath, let it out in a huff. So much for clean. The blood and viscera had even reached a bit of the ceiling, red and pink flecks to speckle the white. At least she was right about ending it quickly. The golden rule. If you can't do it fast, don’t do it at all.

“Did he…” Something like hope lit up in Jackie’s face, brief and dull though it was. “Did he come for me?”

“You?” Heather laughed again. “Oh, Jackie. You’re funny, I’ll give you that. Nobody’s looking for you.”

This wasn’t entirely true. Heather had seen an alert in the newspaper for Jackie Rockwell, currently labeled a missing person, just days before. It had given her quite the shock, but that initial gut reaction had faded soon enough. They didn’t actually know where he was. Getting into a car crash was just as likely an explanation as kidnapping, perhaps even more likely. After all, how many kidnappings occurred in that quiet corner of Washington? One or two every decade? Even then, the only people that got kidnapped around there were criminals and little kids.  The alert was nothing more than a formality.

The spark in him dimmed. "Oh."

"Don't look so disappointed. He's dead either way."

"Dead." Jackie gave the body an appraising glance. "What are you gonna do with him now?"

"I'll need to get rid of the evidence, I suppose." She knelt down to search the body, despite the disgusted look Jackie was giving her. There, in the left pocket. Car keys. 

Heather thought that the odds were weighted in her favor. Assuming that Matthew came to the wrong address, the cops wouldn't have any leads on her. In the event that he was a plainclothes trying to get a read on Heather, she could eradicate the evidence before the police ever had a chance to investigate. Even if they knew she did it, their claims were nothing but hot air without proof. 

She would figure something out for the body, but getting rid of his car would be easy. She’d simply drive it to a remote location and come back on the bus, or a taxi if she had to. 

The keys swung and clattered in her hand as she got up to her feet. "Alright, then. I'll see you in an hour or so."

“You’re going to leave me here? With the corpse?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, corpses just make for dry conversation." He sat back down in his chair and crossed his legs. "Have fun. And hurry. That thing is going to smell, and I'm not sleeping next to a dead body."

The body did smell rather foul, as one would expect. Aside from the slick of blood, there was something sour, as if the meat was already starting to decompose. "Fair point. I'll be back before nightfall. You have my word."

By the look on his face, she could tell that her word meant very little to him. No matter. She left the basement with a spring in her step. Heather had just successfully killed a man, and she was feeling great.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

D:

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

[kira-the-whump-enthusiast]

Aaaa did an art trade with @befuddled-calico-whump and yay!!! Isaac art!!!!

It is. Really fucking gory. Be awarned.

Look at him he’s so suffering shaped <2

Inspired by a writing I’m gonna post for WIJ :D