#whump cw: burns

[zanazirafanfic]

Summary: "'Mierda…' Javier whispered behind his hand, sounding like he might be sick. Even Charles, who unquestionably possessed the strongest constitution of the four of them, couldn't quite manage to keep the look of horrified disgust off of his face, though he carefully schooled his expression back into a mask of calm by the time Sean removed his other boot and looked up at him.

'I, eh… warned ya it weren't a pretty sight, boys,' Sean said with a shaky laugh, as if that weren't the understatement of the goddamn century.

'Not a pretty sight? Sean, they… what the hell did they do to you?'"

Arthur, Charles, and Javier come to Sean's rescue outside Blackwater after his capture by bounty hunters. Unfortunately, he's a little worse for wear than they expected.

Whumpcember 2023 Day 13: "Restraints" + "Collapse"

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Rating: Teen & Up Audiences Category: Gen Fandom: Red Dead Redemption Relationships: Sean MacGuire & Arthur Morgan & Javier Escuella & Charles Smith Characters: Arthur Morgan, Sean MacGuire, Charles Smith, Javier Escuella Chapters: 1/1 Word Count: 3,110

@photo1030 @cassietrn @meeks-just-wants-to-scroll

[the-bar-sinister]

Whumper who is a smoker

Whumper who enjoys a smoke after ‘working on’ their whumpee.

Whumper who sits in a captive whumpee’s room and smokes.

Whumper who blows smoke in their whumee’s face.

Whumper who leaves a pack of cigarettes on the same table with the tools they use on whumpee.

Whumper who offers whumpee a smoke.

Whumper who smokes big, fat, smelly cigars.

Whumper who smokes a specific brand of cigarettes that their whumpee will later associate the smell of with them.

Whumper who burns whumpee with the tip of their cigarette or cigar.

Whumper who sets their whumpee on fire and lights a smoke off of them.

Whumper who always talks about quitting, and no one is sure if they mean the cigarettes or the whump.

[deluxewhump]

bahkauv

cw: nonhuman whumpee, hunters of nonhumans, torture, burning as torture, fire-induced temporary blindness, mentioned digit crushing, self healing whumpee, it as a pronoun, restraints, muzzle, purchased for research

note: I've taken great liberties with this little german mythological creature. As you will see, its physical appearance is about ninety percent human in this story.

one: hunter's camp

The creature was in the worst shape Arthur had ever seen anything alive in. The fact that it looked so unnervingly human, especially from a distance, unsettled him even more.

Once they heard what it allegedly was, Stephan said it should have big paws and the short golden fur of a lion. Francis said that wasn’t right at all— it should have a human head and torso, legs like a calf with cloven hooves, and soft brown, white or black ears like a calf too… Stephan eventually elbowed Francis into silence as they approached a muddy paddock where the ill-fated things were corralled after being caught. 

It was mostly vampires in the hunter’s camp. Vampires were such a problem in the region that Arthur himself had been nearly recruited as a hunter this spring past. He’d been intrigued by the commission bonuses, the idea of travel and sleeping under the stars. He’d eyed the weapons and tools the hunters wore at their belts and tucked in their boots with admiration and envy. But he’d lost his stomach for it after seeing what he would have to do to the vampires he caught.

The Bahkauv was no exception, it seemed, despite being a rarer and much more regional phenomenon, not at all the infamous menace vampires had become. In fact, it seemed to Arthur that the thing was human as it cowered in the mud, eyes tracking the hunter that circled it. 

“How do they know it's a Bahkauv?” he asked aloud, not expecting his friends to have a response he didn't have himself. 

Meanwhile, the hunter sloshed a bucket of thick, oily substance onto the cowering creature and struck a match. 

“Oh good God,” Francis breathed beside him. All three of them were frozen in place, waiting to see if the hunter would toss the match.

He did. 

The substance now covering the Bahkauv was clearly some sort of accelerant. Pitch, maybe. Immediately, the fire spread over it and leaped three feet high so the creature appeared as a burning ball, invisible inside a wall of orange flame. Though they could not see it very well, they could hear it. Its shrieks of terror turned to screams of pain— agonized and gut wrenching. Francis was gripping Arthur’s forearm without realizing he’d done so, as if to say do you see this?His mouth was open in shock at the scene before them. Arthur glanced about. Some of the people, hunters and civilians alike, had stopped to see what this particular commotion was about, but they went back to their own business once they realized. This was not out of the ordinary. 

“We use the sun on the vamps,” said a hunter who had come up to the fence to watch. “Easy and extremely effective. But that thing doesn’t burn with the sun. They find drunken soldiers and latch onto them until they’re weak enough for them to attack. Vicious, thieving little creatures. And since there’s a lack of drunken soldiers wandering around alone here lately, who do you think we found this one leeching on?”

“A hunter?”

The hunter nodded.  “Unwise little thing, no? Sunlight doesn’t really bother it, but we found it a similar experience…” he nodded at the twisting and writhing flame in the paddock.  Whatever the substance was was finally burning off. The flames dwindled in the wet mud until they could see the creature beneath, now naked and terribly burned, but clearly alive. The screams tapered off to loud, alarming moans, separated by thin breaths drawn with great difficulty. 

“Why?” asked Arthur with an incredulity he later realized must have sounded terribly naive to a hunter. 

The hunter looked at him, deciding how to answer. In the end he just laughed, and clapped Arthur on the shoulder before wandering away toward the north side of the encampment.  

The one in the ring, dressed identically to the one Arthur had just spoken to, approached the Bahkauv. Arthur was now convinced it was not human after all, or it would not have survived that sustained heat for so long, with no oxygen to breathe. Right? Surely.

The hunter watched the thing struggling to breathe for a moment, tilted his head and toed it in the ribs with his boot. It shrieked in pain, eyes blind and white, blood and saliva dripping from its open mouth, its burned lips. The hunter seemed to consider the condition of the skin, which looked from a distance as though it was already changing from charred to red, from red to pink. 

“Is it healing?” Stephan asked in a low voice. He was not sure he wanted to know. 

“So quickly,” Francis muttered, his forehead deeply creased in distress. Even so, Francis could not help but watch. Arthur knew he was sharply observing, forming questions. His curious mind would not allow him to look away. 

Arthur, by no means a scientist or a scholar, wondered why it was he couldn’t stop looking. The hunter splashed more of the pitch-like substance onto the creature, who howled and threw up its hands protectively, uselessly, against the second lit match that was coming. 

“No,” Stephan exhaled in disbelief. “So soon?”

The flames flew to the accelerant faster than their eyes could follow, and the screams began in earnest again, filling the paddock. Arthur winced and looked away. 

“I need it,” Francis said, nodding emphatically. “Not a vampire. I need to take that to the University. Why study what everyone else is studying? Sure they’re rare, but that means my research would be rare, too. Possibly unique.”

“You don’t know what it’s capable of,” Stephan cautioned. 

“It likes to eat drunken soldiers, for God's sake," Francis argued to the backdrop of horrific wailing. “It will be tied up and muzzled, if we have to. And it's so... pathetic. Look at it."

Arthur and Stephan did. The flames had burned off again. The unfortunate creature was attempting to crawl away from the hunter, who was following it slowly. 

“It’s probably less dangerous than a vampire anyway. And it can move in the sunlight without being carried or making a scene.” Francis looked to them for support. Nearby, a shrieking vampire was being dragged into the sunlight. 

“This place is making me a bit ill,” Stephan said.

"I did warn you both." Arthur turned to Francis. “If you really think it’s a good idea, I’ll bargain for you. You’re too excited about it. They’ll realize they can rip you off.”

—

The Bahkauv was badly burned. This was nothing new, but each time was its own unending Hell. Every inch was agony as it crawled, blindly, across the paddock. The cool mud might have been a relief but for the way it sucked at the skin of its hands and knees, taking much of the ruined flesh with it as it made each slow inch of progress. It didn’t know where it was going. It only knew that staying put would mean more pain, and it could not tolerate any more pain. It was stripped to its barest instincts, and its instinct was to get away.

Dimly, it remembered the hunters didn’t like when it tried to get away from them, even just a few feet to curl up in a corner or against a fence. They’d stake it in place with one of their sharp vampire-sticks, through its hand or the tendons of its foot, grounding it in place to torment until it was mindless, incoherent and screeching like an animal.

Its melted sight began to come back, and it could see the blurry outline of men’s legs standing in front of it. It stopped crawling, paralyzed in fear. It could do nothing but lie on the ground and pant, throat and lungs burned from inhaling fire, but unable to die, just like the vampires in the sun.

A heavy collar was fitted around its neck like a yoke, and someone was yanking it roughly to a standing position. The Bahkauv shook so badly from the recent pain of burning that it collapsed once, twice. It cringed deeply as the hunter who held the leash backhanded its burnt cheek. “Up,” he hissed. “Do you want another round as a parting gift?”

“It’s fine,” said a new man's voice. “Enough. Enough. Here.”

Through slowly improving vision, it saw its leash change hands. It was not prepared to look anyone in the eye, even once it could see well enough to distinguish faces again.

It kept its eyes down, trembling violently as ropes were wrapped around its wrists and then looped through the collar so its hands had to stay crossed near its chest. A leather and iron muzzle was fitted over its head and tightened around the back of its neck. The sharp bit went to right the back of its throat, almost far enough to make it gag. The sides bit into the burnt flesh of its face. Once, it would have been ashamed of how it drooled pinkish foam in front of all these humans. Now it neither knew or remembered shame when the threat of more pain was present, which was always.

A man was picking it up. It hurt terribly, but all the Bahkauv dared to do was whimper through frantically grit teeth. Another pair of hands went under its armpits and hauled it higher, up and into the saddle of a chestnut horse. Each point of contact from the saddle was fresh pain, burnt skin and nightmarish friction. It tried to sit up on its own for as long as it could, but lacked the strength. Once the horse began walking in the direction of the road, it had no choice but to slump weakly against the chest of the man sitting directly behind it and holding the reins. 

It received no punishment, except for the way the man's rough clothes touched its skin. As the Bahkauv's sight returned to normal, it looked about to see two more men on horses of their own. Its healing skin itched and burned, but all it could do was twitch helplessly and watch the horse’s bobbing mane in front of it, or the leafy spring forest pass on either side. It shivered intermittently.

"Give it a blanket, Francis," one of the men said.

"Won't that hurt it? Its skin still shines like a burn."

"Remarkable how minor a burn it looks already though," said the man behind it in the saddle. "Considering."

The human voice, so close it could feel the vibration from it in its back, set it to trembling again.

Exhaustion from the days torture soon set in, and it fell into bouts of unconsciousness that only resembled sleep. It woke from one such period of dreamlessness with a startled flinch, unsure where it was or what was happening. The man he was riding with had his arm around its waist, anchoring it so it did not slump to either side and fall from the horse.

Dread and fear pooled in the Bahkauv’s stomach at the human contact, a large gloved hand splayed across its naked belly. Humans were cunning and cruel. They loved fire and tools, like the metal ones they used to crush its fingers and toes in the evenings when the sun was down and the screams of the vampires had quieted. 

It felt one of the others’ gaze on it and turned its foolish head, accidentally locking eyes with one of the men it was now traveling with. He was young, dressed in a jacket of dark green wool. He reminded the Bahkauv of the new recruits the hunters would bring in now and then, to see what they had the stomach for. Heart pounding, it looked away, and did not dare lift its eyes again until nightfall prompted the men to stop and make camp.

[shaykesqueer]

Whump Month starts today!! And I'm so excited 😭

Thank you @cirrus-ghoulette for organising, check out all the prompts on the original post here <3

Day One: Burn

Poor Sunny just gets overwhelmed sometimes...

Instagram | Pillowfort | Tips | Patreon Coming Soon!

[lights-out-knives-out]

Happy 4/20

its days like these where you have to drug whumpees out of their mind. dope them up, give them every drug you have on hand. get them hiigh, then tourture them, come on itll be fun.

[fanby-fckry]

Ok, so the context of where I saw this doesn’t matter:

But for a second I legitimately forgot that most people do not seek out gore of their comfort characters.

While I prefer the terms blorbo and catharsis character to comfort character, I would still classify many of my special guys as comfort characters. And my comfort can absolutely come from seeing them in horrific situations. <3

I am genuinely thrilled when I see gore of my comfort characters. Hurt/comfort: their hurt is my comfort. I’m practicing second hand sadomasochism via fictional characters.

I want them bound, burned, and bloody. Incapacitated, inconsolable, in pain. Sobbing, shivering, shaking. Dismembered, dissociated, destroyed.

I’m either going to be kicking my feet and giggling, weeping uncontrollably, or jerking off.

[arkeusruin]

WHUMP MONTH DAY 1 : BURN

I tried a lil shitty sketch thing for whump month but I had a high fever so it's fucking wACK

Cw: kinda graphic burn wound/scar under the cut

I was going for a kinda past life Phantom flashback like thing?

[towerofluin]

SBI Whumptober Day 9: Burn Wound & Day 12: Hiding an Injury

this was a very quick piece buuuuut its inspired by a conversation anarchy-and-piglins had a couple months ago (I think) about how techno would have been hurt in the blast at the red festival too, and how he didnt really have any allies at the time so he would have had to deal with it himself

[a-painful-ordeal]

4. Endless Lists of Don't do That Again.

CW: implications/references to non-con/sexual assault. References to burning. References to slavery. Botched escape attempt. Beating with a belt. Fear of non-con. Non-consensual stripping.

“Just keep your head down, alright?” Was the last thing Trygve told Evan before showing him to the kitchens. And that was exactly what Evan intended to do. At least until he got the opportunity to run.

Over the next week, he’s given a variety of jobs, though by far the worst one is turning the spit that meat is cooked on. The hours on end of turning the meat on the heavy iron spit makes his back and neck ache; the proximity to the fire leaves him with blisters on his hands but worst of all, the smell makes his hip scream and nausea seep into his throat.

The kitchen itself is huge with at least 20 other people all scrambling to get things done. At first, he expected that at least a few of the kitchen people would be here voluntarily, but the stone-faced guard at the door, and the silence, other than hushed whispers attempting to coordinate jobs, suggested otherwise.

Evan’s job gives him a good view of the kitchen, and the repetitive nature allows him to make notes. When the guards changed. How can careful they are. At what stage they seem to get tired and distracted. Where the spare food ends up.

The guards seemed to change as the preparation for a meal ended. The kitchen itself had only a few small windows for natural light, and very few of them were allowed to leave their place in the kitchen outside of latrine breaks. Most of the staff also tended to sleep in the kitchen rather than elsewhere. This meant that the meals were the best attempt at keeping track of the hours that passed. So, the guards were likely changing every 3 or 4 hours.

The guards' distractibility seemed to alter depending on who was there. Some didn’t leave their posts at all, whilst one, slightly greasy-looking man seemed to take a liking to one of the maids, choosing to spend parts of his shift escorting her out of the room for a while.

Evan can only guess what was happening from the twitchy fear on her face before she was called away, and the blank expressions after she’d been brought back. The other kitchen staff seems to cover her absence seamlessly, and with her return small, discreet hand squeezes are exchanged. Evan meanwhile finds himself imagining several different ways it could be possible to ram a knife through the back of the fucker’s throat. It’s a surprise no one had even tried it yet.

Over the week, Evan uses his proximity to large amounts of food, to slip extra off plates. He stashes it in a small corner near where he sleeps. However, for anything that looks particularly perishable, Evan makes the quick decision to eat immediately. He needs to put on some weight if he’s planning on lasting any time without food. Evan has spent years watching how M works. How she uses her large dress to conceal what she’s taken. Evan is clumsier than her and a large shirt isn’t quite as good, but he seems to make it work.

***

The week passes, during which he hears whispers of a large celebration that is being held. The work on the day is more hectic than normal, and Evan feels his bones and joints hate him. The day goes on and food preparation dies down, and the kitchen seems to slump collectively.

Evan finally has a moment to breathe as the fire dies down and the pan scrubbing subsides. His knuckles had blistered from the heat and then been scrubbed raw in the dishwater. He moves across the room to a small pan of cool water that he uses to soak his bloody, painful hands.

That’s when he notices it. The guard is gone. The man had been here most of the time, but he had been sloshing back a couple of glasses of wine towards the end and now… there was no one else there. They were probably all at the feast… and…. Oh. A small surge of adrenaline bubbles into excitement. He, however, forces himself to stay calm as a half-drafted escape plan begins to be cobbled together. He lets it simmer whilst he covers up the second wind of energy that he’s experiencing by shifting his expression to one of exhaustion.

He moves his way slowly through the kitchen towards where he’d been collapsing most days to sleep, unnoticed by most of the exhausted people. As he passes, he picks up a silver plate, like the sort that they had been using today to serve food on.

He quietly and fluidly takes out some of the food he’d been quietly stashing and lays it neatly on the plate. Now the trick came down to confidence. Confidence that he was where he was meant to be. How confidently and precisely could he navigate his way through the building?

He weaves his way through the kitchen, keeping his head down. He can be certain the people here are too tired to care. And he doubts they’d hand him in. Not really. The guards were who he had to be wary of.

He exits the kitchen, scanning left and right before choosing the right corridor. Where he’d first entered had been heavily guarded. So, he may have better luck going in the opposite direction.

He threads his way through the corridors. Trying to prevent himself from speeding up as adrenaline pounds through him. There’s a momentary pause as the corridor bleeds into huge, grandiose halls. It’s more glamour and money than Evan had ever really seen in one place. Even compared to when he still lived with his grandparents.

The walls are decorated with expensive portraits and are lit by large candelabras Music and chatter echo from where the feast is going on. Right. He stops blinking in awe and wills himself to relax and think. Best to avoid that route then. He changes direction and begins moving through the halls and away from the large dining room.

Evan manages to get a good distance away from the party. He follows to where

the doors should be logically. Away from kitchens and dining rooms. Somewhere near a staircase. Rounding a corner his eyes fall to two large doors.

The entrance.

That’s when he hears footsteps and laughter. His breath hitches. But he forces himself to push through. Keep calm. Keep steady. Keep walking. He wills himself to remember that if he looks like he belongs. It’s no one will notice.

The steps get closer and closer, he steps to one side to let them pass respectfully. Heart thumping away in his chest. Praying they couldn’t read minds.

Two guards, clearly a little too drunk approach and begin to pass him.

Evan exhales as they keep walking and begins to move towards the doors.

The steps stop.

Keep walking.

“Hey… the feast’s this way.” A guard calls over. His voice slurs slightly from the alcohol.

Evan keeps walking. Slow. Steady. He’s doing a job. There is a reason he’s going this way. He has a purpose.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me?” the guard calls at him.

Evan stops. His heart is in his throat. There are two choices. Run or pretend. Play along and certainly get caught out… or…. The door is so close. He has a head start… it could be so easy. Pretend or…

He breaks into a sprint. Food scatters to the floor. He finds himself gripping the plate tightly as he does.

It takes a second for the alcohol-addled guards to process what’s happening.

Evan reaches the door and goes to wrench it open, as two large men barrel towards him shouting. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The door opens and as quick as a street cat, he’s out the door. His feet pounding against the cobblestone.

Despite the alcohol, the guards close the distance with ease. Hands lunge to grab at him.

Evan takes the opportunity and frisbees the plate off in a wild direction. His only weapon clangs as it cuts into the brow of one of the guards. “Fuck!” spits the now very, pissed-off guard, rapidly blinking, trying to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes.

Evan digs his toes into the stone path as he bolts for the gate. A huge weight body slams into him. He hits the ground with a crunch as the full body weight of a man is on top of him. All Evan can do is put his hands out to stop smacking his head into the cobblestone.

“Look! He tried to make a run!” The guard on top of Evan proudly declares, gripping the boy’s hair and yanking it to one side. “You thought you could try and get away, did you?” The smell of liquor on his lips is strong.

Evan struggles. Trying to shift the weight off him, the guard moves so his knee is in the small of Evan’s back, and he kneels over the top of him. His hand remains in Evan’s hair, gripping it painfully and forcing the boy’s head to the floor. “I wonder what sort of reward we’ll get for this.” The tone is low, and sickly.

Evan’s mouth goes dry and his mind flashes blank as fear creeps its way through his body. No. Gods no.

A kick to the ribs pulls him out of it making him gasp. “Fucking prick” the guard with the cut brow snarls. He slams two more into the boy’s chest.

“Excuse me!” Evan’s hair is released, as the man pinning him down sits up to look at his colleagues.

“That little shit just cut me. You can save-” he gestures wildly “-Whatever this is, till later! Right now. He’s mine.”

There’s a long, elongated sigh from above. “Fine.” Evan feels his hands being pinned but the pressure from his back is gone for a moment, only to be replaced by the feeling of hands at his waistband.

The fear is back. Colder than ever. He goes to kick but feels a shoe pressing his legs down. He attempts to crane his head around but all he can see is the dark evening sky.

His breeches are dragged down and there is a small jangle of a belt being unbuckled.

Evan goes still, the fear makes him sick and-

There’s an audible crack as the belt contacts the bare skin on his lower back and upper thighs. Red-hot pain shoots into the back of his throat. The leather stings uncomfortably and the shock causes his lungs to rake in more air.

There's another strike and another, layering themselves on top of one another. Burning and stingy, aching and throbbing. The leather cuts through his skin, ripping jagged, bloody lines into the boy’s pale lower back. The impact of the leather tears into him in a pain that leaches its way through his body and into his throat.

Evan feels the desperate urge to cry but as each strike drives air from his lungs, he finds that he can’t.

After what feels like hours, there’s a pause. Some sounds of shuffling. Before two, very weighty strikes come down. The guardsman is clearly putting his whole shoulder into it as he does. A large chunk of metal scours bruises into his flesh, as the belt buckle is brought down on the boy’s body.

Finally, after an eternity. It stops. Evan lies there. Panting, pain ringing out through him, and tears begin to well in the back of his throat. The pain throbs in the gentle breeze, but the humiliation feels worse. The heat of being held down and beaten like a petulant child, and the fear of what else they could do, rises in his cheeks as he swallows back tears.

He is pulled to his feet, hands pinned behind his back to stop him from running.

“Good. That’s a lot better.” Bloody brow seems more relaxed. “Take him to Lord Maynard then? I’m sure he’d want to know about this little escape attempt.”

Evan’s captor sneers “Oh so you get to do what you want with him and not me?”

“Yes. Because getting in trouble with the lord is not my priority tonight. Come on. And let him pull up his fucking trousers. I don’t want anyone to think I’m that drunk. Even if you are.”

Evan quickly pulls his waistband back. The fear is back. Like hell does he want to see this lord… But he has very little choice as he is marched back into the manor and into the loud feast room.

The room is lit by blazing torches, food that Evan had been working with a few hours’ prior litters the table, mostly still intact due to the quantities.

On entering, some of the chatter dies down. A rather large man, at the head of the table, makes his way down “What is the meaning of this?” his voice demands the attention of the room.

The bloody brow takes a step forward whilst the other guard, forces Evan to his knees, by kicking in the back of his legs. “We found this boy trying to run.”

The Lord paces slowly towards Evan, looking him over as he approaches. “This is the new one, is it not Sir Ademar?”

The hulking knight who had bought him looks up and sighs very slowly “Yes, my lord. It is.”

Lord Maynard approaches before finally stopping in front of Evan. He hums slightly, as Evan glares back in defiance.

Sir Ademar looks to his lord “He was stationed in the kitchens, my Lord.”

Maynard looks at Evan a bit longer before smiling. “Have him reassigned to me.” His gaze pierces through Evan’s very being before he looks to the guards “Take him to my chambers. And remember to lock the doors.”

The guards nod as Evan is pulled to his feet.

“Of course, My Lord.” Sir Ademar nods before gesturing to the half-orc, Trygve, to pour his wine. Trygve begins to pour, but for a moment he locks eyes with Evan. A look of frustration, sympathy, and pity. The message is clear. I told you to keep your head down.

-------

AN: And now we can move to needlessly tormenting my boy! :D Shout if you spot a typo or want adding to the tag list!!!!

Masterlist Next

Tag list:

@sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @pumpkin-spice-whump

[onlythegoodpretzels]

Burnt but Alive

Spent some time with my markers drawing Rost from HZD with his burns from surviving the Proving explosion in my Sunmarked AU.

You can read it on AO3 here: Sunmarked by OnlytheGoodPretzels. This picture goes approx with Ch 4 where Rost is starting to get some mobility back.

Super happy with how this one came out! I really enjoyed working on the wound textures. Trigger warnings for large area burns, stitches, wounds, and blood. Content warning for nonsexual nudity.

Full image below the cut.

This for is for @whumpcember's day 7: kidnapped, and I'm so excited it's finished I'm posting it now.

[whump-in-the-closet]

First off, I absolutely love your writing! It truly is incredible. If you like the idea, would you be willing to write about a hero who is deathly terrified of fire and extreme heat? They have kept it a secret all their life, but the villain just found out about it and uses it against them. And the villain taunts them throughout the extreme mental and physical torture? Thanks!

more than willing! hope you like it and thanks so much!

cw: sadistic whumper, hero whumpee, burning, exploiting a phobia (maybe, idk?)

Click. A spurt of yellow flame shot up against the shadows as Villain lit their cigarette. They watched intently as Hero flinched back as far as they could in their restraints.

Villain exhaled a puff of smoke, leaning forward to breath it in Hero’s face.

And there it was again. The veiled panic, flashing across Hero’s eyes. As bright as any flame.

Villain toyed with the lighter. Clicking it on and off. On and off. They circled Hero, watching the city’s savior tense.

They stood behind Hero, still messing with the lighter. Leaning close, they held the lighter in Hero’s face.

Hero inhaled sharply, jerking back. Something like a curse, more of a strangled cry, forced it’s way out of his mouth.

“Hero, you aren’t scared of a tiny lighter now are you?”

“—No,” The lie was spat out too quickly to be believed. “No, no— God—”

Villain had shoved the lighter closer. “Methinks you doth protest too much.” They grabbed a handful of Hero’s hair, forcing Hero to look up.

Dilated eyes locked on the tiny flame.

Sharp, painful breathing.

Villain smiled. “To think the city’s mighty hero is scared of a wee bit of fire.” They held the flame dangerously close to Hero’s hair. A little closer.

“I’m not—”

“Oh, you’re terrified. Don’t deny it.”

Closer still. Dark hair burst alight, burning faster than straw.

Hero yanked against Villain’s hand— that was singed hair he could smell— burning, burning, burning red and gold.

Villain put the flames out by slapping Hero’s head.

Hero collapsed against the wooden table, pressing his face to the cool surface like it was his own personal coffin. Vaguely, he was aware of Villain running their hand through the singed patch of hair. “Don’t cry, my friend. You and I are you going to have loads of fun with this.”

***

Hero could handle anything. Had handled everything. Could take the punches, the pliers, the water boarding.

He could handle it all.

Except fire.

Never that. Never the curling scarlet that set alight every nerve in his body with throbbing red.

***

Open flame spiraled into the low ceiling of the cell.

Vivid blue and brighter red. The colors sank into the walls, the floor. They bled out into the ceiling. Heart-pulsing, throbbing red.

Bruising blue, the color left behind by a fist.

Hero stumbled, knees giving out on him. The world spun and fractured and burst into flame.

Villain hauled him to his feet. “You are so beyond pathetic. It’s just fire.”

Just fire.

“And sure you’re going to stick your arm in it, but, hey maybe after we can make s’mores.”

Hero’s stomach dropped. The words had been like a white-hot knife. “What?”

“Did you say you were left handed or right handed?”

Hero held both arms to his chest. “Please, please, please—”

“Begging? Huh that’s a new low.” Villain’s voice twisted into one of Control. Their abilities far outstripped Hero’s now, after weeks of captivity. “Put your right arm in the fire.”

Crimson-bleeding pain. Hero sobbed even as his arm was dragged forward.

—twisting, murderous pain started at his fingers and crawled upwards— a tattoo of never ending pain—

And Villain? Villain laughed.

Hero’s sobs turned to screams.

“Hey, Hero, Hero,” Villain snapped their fingers to get Hero’s attention. “Smile for the camera.” Click. “I think I’m gonna caption this as ‘Too Hot for You’.”

Again, that laugh.

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 27: Leannan Fucks Everything Up

2973 words

CW: past institutionalized slavery, religious themes, book burning, conditioning

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~~~

“This place is amazing,” Jeanette said flatly, petting the purring cat in her lap.

She and Enjolras sat opposite each other on the couches in the Longhouse common room.

“It is,” Enjolras agreed, sensing Jeanette meant more than she was saying.

“You have electricity. Water systems. Plenty of food,” she tilted her head to the side, “I assume the city beyond the island has similar resources?”

“The same, if not better.”

“Why not expand, then? Share this wealth with more people?”

“We’re not expansionists,” Enjolras said, “We would never take control of more territory by force.”

“But you could take on more territory. Support more people.”

“Only if they want us to, and… we did sort of tank our reputation, twelve years ago. The kind of people we would want to join us tend to despise us.”

“How do you keep all this secret? The Iowans, I mean.”

“The general population in the city has no idea. Only a select few La Libera agents know the details. We have good people. We’re lucky.”

“Now that I know the secret, am I forbidden from leaving?” Jeanette asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“Not at all,” Enjolras said, “I think you…” she paused, “I’m not sure. I just trust you.”

Jeanette looked away, her hands pausing on the cat’s back.

“I don’t think I would, you know,” she said, “Leave, that is. This place is…”

“It’s pretty magical, right?” Enjolras grinned.

Jeanette shot her a rare smile.

“It is.”

“Hej, you let me know if there’s anyplace you have trouble accessing,” Enjolras said quickly, “We can whip up a ramp for your wheelchair no problem. I’m looking into getting you a better one, too, maybe even one with a motor.”

Jeanette blinked in surprise.

“Thank you, I,” she faltered, “I’m used to being confined to one place. One room.”

“If you’d prefer to stay in, that can be arranged too.”

“No, no,” Jeanette said, “I like…” she glanced at the piano, “I’d like to be able to get around more.” Enjolras watched her as she stared at the floor for a bit before mumbling, “I used to think it was bad karma, or something…”

“Wait, how do you know what karma is?” Enjolras asked, but before Jeanette could answer the door opened and Leannan walked in.

He looked utterly exhausted and defeated, his shoulders slumped and his eyes red.

“Oh, karulino,” Enjolras stood and went to him, “What do you need? What can I do?”

“Can I go lie down?” Leannan whispered.

“Of course, there’s a room all ready for you. Let me show you.”

They left the common room and went down the hall. The doors were numbered, and Enjolras opened number six.

It was a cozy little room. The furniture was all pine: a full-size bed, a dresser, and a bedside cabinet. There was also a small mirror, a woven wool rug, and a vase of flowers. The single window had the curtains drawn to keep out the heat of the sun. As Leannan looked around his face tensed like he might cry again.

“I’m not usually…” he cleared his throat, “I’ll be better tomorrow.” He glanced nervously toward Enjolras, unable to look directly at her.

“You don’t have to be better tomorrow,” Enjolras said, “You can take all the time you need.” She tilted her head, watching him. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just say so.”

“If you could just tell me what to do,” Leannan whispered, “Because I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not your master, Leannan. You don’t have to do what I say.”

“Then what do I do?” Leannan swiped away a stray tear.

“Whatever you want.”

Leannan looked around the room again, chewing his lip.

“I’d like to be alone. Please.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said gently, “You can stay here as long as you like. Maybe we’ll give you a proper tour tomorrow, yeah?”

Leannan nodded, still unable to look at her.

Enjolras didn’t really want to leave him alone. He looked terribly forlorn, standing lost in his room, trying not to cry. But respecting Leannan’s wishes was a top priority at the moment.

She stepped out of the room, closed the door, and went to talk to Jeanette about karma.

~~~

Leannan didn’t like the goats, and the goats didn’t like him.

He was headbutted by one as soon as he stepped into the pen, sending him sprawling into the dust. When Teresa tried to show him how to milk one, he spent far too long hesitantly squeezing a goat’s teat with zero results, until the goat lost patience and kicked the milk bucket into him. One change of clothes later – into a burnt orange-colored set, which made him irrationally upset – his tour of Goat Island continued with the chicken run. The children showed him the nesting boxes and collected the fresh eggs, and Leannan, of course, dropped one. Then Peter and Rory made him hold a chicken, and he did, just to humor them, but the bug-eyed creature squawked relentlessly and finally escaped by digging its talons into Leannan’s wrist. Then it was off to the restaurant kitchen, where there was a first-aid station set up in the corner. Shannon, who had been helping prepare lunch, washed and treated the scratch, wrapping it up and declaring him good as new. Then Peter and Rory were bouncing up and down demanding to show Leannan the arcade cabinet and the pool table downstairs, and the look Leannan shot Shannon must have been so pathetic that she took pity on him.

“Okay, Peter? Rory? Why don’t you go play downstairs, I think Leannan needs a break.”

They were surprisingly receptive to this, though they made Leannan promise he’d come look at their toys and games soon. Then they took off, and Leannan’s body sagged as their boundless energy left the room.

“They’re a handful at that age,” Shannon said knowingly, “You’re doing great.” She smiled. “Come on, I have someplace a little calmer and quieter to show you.”

The two of them walked back to the Longhouse, Shannon politely waving off the occasional Iowan who wanted to join them. They passed Jeanette and Enjolras chatting in the common room – Leannan couldn’t help but notice they hadn’t moved since he’d left that morning – and Shannon led him through the first door in the hallway. She turned and spread her arms with a grin.

“Welcome to the library!”

Leannan froze.

He was surrounded by books. It wasn’t a large room by any means, but the walls were lined with floor-to ceiling shelves and each shelf was at least half full of books. Dangerous books. Unholy books. More than Leannan had ever seen before in his life.

There were a trio of armchairs in the middle of the room, and Leannan grabbed the back of one as he swayed with shock.

“Leannan?” Shannon touched his shoulder, worried – his horror was apparent on his face.

“You can’t have these!” Leannan yelped, grabbing her arm, “These are dangerous, Shannon, books bring evil, and destruction, I’ve seen it, they – why are these here?”

“They’re not evil!” Shannon argued, a bit bewildered, “Leannan, books are just… words, they can’t hurt you.”

But Leannan knew that they could. Jeanette’s collection of books, a mere fraction of the amount gathered here, had been the catalyst of Donda Island’s destruction. He couldn’t let that happen here, too.

“They can, and they will! Shannon, God will punish us for keeping these here, we have to get rid of them!”

Her mouth fell open slightly as she realized how serious Leannan was.

“Leannan, we’ve been building this collection for years, if God was going to do anything about, it would’ve happened a while ago.”

Enjolras appeared in the doorway, drawn by the sound of their argument.

“What’s…?”

“Enjolras, you saw it!” Leannan desperately tried to pull her to his side, “The whole of Donda Island burned and it was all because of a box of books! Tell Shannon, we can’t keep these!”

Enjolras let out a slow breath.

“Leannan. Books aren’t dangerous.”

“But!”

“What happened on Donda Island was people taking advantage of the fear of books. People, doing things, not God, and certainly not the books themselves.”

Leannan’s shoulders slumped. He could tell he wasn’t going to convince either of them. They didn’t understand, not like he did. They hadn’t seen what he had seen.

Leannan was withdrawn the rest of the day. He smiled and laughed at Rory and Peter’s antics like he was supposed to, but internally he was haunted by the presence of blasphemous texts in their midst.

It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t right.

His distracted state didn’t go unnoticed. The children whined that he wasn’t really looking when they showed him their toys and games and he only nodded halfheartedly. At dinner the adults tried to engage him in conversation, but Leannan just couldn’t keep up.

He slept restlessly that night, trapped in a half-asleep nightmare of fire, fire, fire. He finally jerked awake, drenched in sweat, and knew he had to do something.

It took him five tries to light the wood stove in the common room. His hands kept shaking, and he kept flinching back from the tiny flame that erupted from the end of the taper as he struck it. But he got it going, somehow, and fed it a log.

Then he started feeding it books.

He went to the library and gathered as many into his arms has he could and carried them back to the common room, setting them down in front of the stove. He shoved in as many as would fit, and watched their covers curl up and the pages catch and the words disappear into smoke.

Then he did it over again.

He felt a little sick, maybe from the heat, maybe from the physical exertion. He was shaking, and sweating, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. These books would destroy this place, destroy Shannon, and Rory, and Peter, and Lena, and Enjolras. They’d almost destroyed Jeanette once already. They’d almost destroyed him. Leannan couldn’t let that happen again. He could feel the panic deep in his gut, staggering his breaths and bringing heat to his eyes, and he soothed it by throwing more books into the stove.

He finished a row on the first shelf, and kept going.

Leannan couldn’t read words, but he could read clocks. The one on the wall of the common room read 1:20. The books took a long time to burn, even as the fire roared brightly. He hoped he’d be able to get rid of most of them before anyone woke up.

Heat enveloped the room, rolling off the stove in waves. Leannan’s shirt stuck to his back, and his curls pasted to his forehead. He bore through it, feeding the fire more books, swiping sweat and tears off his face with the back of his hand.

Shannon and Enjolras would be angry with him. That thought was scary. But they didn’t understand.

He added another book, and another, and…

He stopped.

He was holding a red and black book, with an image of two figures standing by a wall.

It was a copy of one of Jeanette’s books. The one she’d read to him. The one about the nameless woman.

It was the one he’d seen ripped in half. The one he’d been sad to see ripped in half, because there was a person in there. There was a person in the book, telling her story, showing him her strange world. Missing her daughter.

He sat and stared at the book for a very long time, as if just by looking he could hear the words inside again. He turned it over and looked at the back. There was a whole block of unintelligible white text, and up in the corner a tiny photograph of a woman with a mysterious smile.

Leannan swallowed hard around a lump in his throat.

It was just another book. A cursed, unholy item that would bring him only misfortune.

And yet, he couldn’t throw it on the fire.

Tears dropped from his cheeks onto the book, and he instinctively wiped them away, not wanting to damage the cover. He sobbed as he realized what his action meant, overwhelmed with helplessness and confusion.

What if all the books had people in them.

“Enjolras!” he staggered to his feet, clutching the book to his chest, “Enjolras!”

He panted from the high temperature, wandering out into the cooler hallway.

“Enjolras!”

She burst out of her bedroom, running down the hallway to him.

“Leannan! What’s going on? Why do I smell smoke?”

Leannan couldn’t answer, his throat was too choked with tears. Enjolras swept past him into the common room, and cursed.

“Diable – Leannan, what did you do?!”

Others were poking their heads out of their rooms now, and Shannon rushed to Leannan’s side.

“What’s happening?” she asked, worried.

Enjolras returned, ducking into the library.

“Fuck!” she shouted. Leannan flinched. Shannon ran past him to look into the library, and then into the common room, putting the pieces together.

“Oh! Oh, Leannan, no!” she cried, “How could you!”

The hallway was crowded with spectators now, frowning adults and wide-eyed children.

“What’s going on?” Aisling called, her hands protectively on Peter’s shoulders.

Shannon stormed back into the hallway.

“Leannan’s been burning books!” she shouted. The group fluttered with murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” Leannan whispered.

“Two dozen, at least!” Enjolras joined them, “Leannan, what…” she spotted the onlookers, and took Leannan’s arm, “Okay, come this way – someone put the kids back to bed, this isn’t…” Enjolras sounded unusually lost. Leannan saw Aisling nod her head before he was pulled into the stifling heat of the common room. The fire still burned brightly, and his unfinished stack of books sat before it.

Shannon followed them, running her hands through her hair.

“Leannan, what were you thinking?” she pleaded, “What would make you think this was a good idea?”

Leannan couldn’t look at either of them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, breathing hard.

“Leannan, this is serious,” Enjolras said, “Some of those books were incredibly rare, it’s taken over a decade to collect them all.”

Leannan finally cracked.

“I’m sorry!” he sobbed, “I’m really really, sorry, I was trying to do the right thing, I don’t want anything to happen to anyone, I don’t want anyone to die, and I thought, I really thought, that the books, they’re not – they’re not safe, but I shouldn’t have, not without your permission, I’m so sorry, I think…” he started to cry harder as it hit him, still clinging to the book, “I think I’m not supposed to be here, I think I was sold for a reason, I don’t think God wants me to be here, I think I should have stayed with Phineas…”

He gasped as Shannon grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

“God’s not real, Leannan!” she shouted at him.

Leannan stared at her, at her teary eyes and trembling chin, until his eyes slid off, gazing into space. Of course they were heathens. Of course they were.

“Enjolras,” he croaked, “Enjolras, you have to punish me.” He spun around when she didn’t reply, rushing over to her. “Enjolras, I – I disobeyed, I burned your things, I knew I shouldn’t have, I knew it was wrong, you have to punish me for being bad, please.”

Enjolras looked at him sadly.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“No, no, Enjolras, you have to, I did something wrong, please,” he dropped to his knees in front of her, his voice rising in volume with his panic, “You’re my master, if I do something wrong you have to punish me, if you don’t then God will and it’ll be worse, please, Enjolras, you have to punish me, please punish me, ple-e-ease!” Leannan’s words fell apart into wails as he doubled over, hunching around the book he still cradled.

“Leannan,” Enjolras’ familiar hand rested on his back, “Let’s just go to bed, huh?”

“Yes!” Leannan’s head whipped up, determined to seize the opportunity, “Yes, I can do that, I can do anything, Enjolras, I’ll do anything you want!”

Enjolras shut her eyes, wincing.

“No,” she said firmly, “No, that’s not what I meant. I just want you to go to sleep, and we’ll figure out what to do in the morning. Okay?” She opened her eyes again, and while she didn’t look angry her gaze burned Leannan down to his core.

“Yes, Enjolras,” he breathed. She took his elbows and helped him to his feet.

When he turned around, everyone was staring at him.

The children and teens had been convinced to stay in their rooms, but all the adults had witness Leannan’s breakdown. They wore a range of expressions from horrified, to sad, to… disgusted. Leannan’s stomach flipped. Shame clenched around his heart, making it beat a trapped, panicked rhythm.

They weren’t like him. They didn’t understand. They hadn’t seen the world out there. They hadn’t seen the wrath of God, up close and personal, as Leannan had so many times before.

How could he ever explain twelve years of… that?

The only person who didn’t look upset was Jeanette. Her gaze was as icy and calm as usual. She leaned against the back of the couch and held out her hand.

“Leannan,” she said simply.

Leannan moved towards her like a magnet, taking her outstretched hand. They supported each other, and the small crowd parted to let them through. Jeanette guided him down the hallway to his room, and they climbed onto the bed. Leannan lay on his side facing the window, hugging the book to his chest, and Jeanette curled comfortingly around his back and rubbed his arm.

“It’ll be okay,” was all she said.

He didn’t believe her.

~~~

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Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

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[deluxewhump]

the bahkauv: part three

Prev

CW: hurt, more hurt, no comfort yet but a glimpse of it. Brief verbal threat of noncon, pliers as torture device, muzzle, broken bones, ear and hand whump, nonhuman whumpee, burning alive, immortal/quick healing whumpee, slight language barrier, brief thoughts/ideation of death and mortality, multiple whumpers

Hunters camp (before):

At first, the hunters thought the Bahkauv was a vampire. It made sense, in the confusion of the moment. Vampires were far more common than its kind was anymore. That and it had fangs.

At the camp, they soon realized the Bahkauv was not a vampire. This revelation did nothing to protect it. Close enough, they said. It was still a non-human creature, and had a long history of attacking, robbing, and even killing humans.

The first day in captivity, nothing happened. The Bahkauv twisted and pulled at its restraints, trying to no avail to find some give in the ropes that bound it hand and foot. How naive it had been. It had no idea the depth of the hatred these humans had for it, and for the vampires they didn’t kill outright.

One of the hunters caught it trying to manipulate the knots and beat it with fists and boots before putting its first muzzle on its face. At first it had been angry, hissing and spitting at the hunter’s hands that were wet with its own blood. That got it a backhand that made its ears ring and its head ache. The bit was sharp and huge, shoved to the back of its throat so it gagged and secured so tightly it thought it would choke. Humiliated, it had shrunk against the clapboard wall and sulked.

Pride would soon be a forgotten luxury.

The next day, two hunters came for it, dragging it stiff and sore from its first beating out into the yard along with a couple of screaming vampires. The sun was climbing in the sky, which was why the vamps were screaming and carrying on so. It felt an intense gratefulness that it could not burn from the sun as they could. One of the hunters grabbed its muzzle and turned its chin to force it to look.

“You see that? You think you’re better than them, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

Another hunter joined the first. He had a mocking, self satisfied grin. “Let’s teach it a lesson in humility then. What are we waiting for? It was going to tear Byron’s throat out before we netted it.”

“Look at these. Is this fur?” the first hunter stroked one of the Bahkauv’s ears with the pad of his thumb. It shuddered at the unexpected touch. It was not affectionate, or kind, but it happened to be very gentle, and its ears were as highly sensitive as its sharp canines. It recoiled in disgust from the hunter’s hand— and its own reaction to it.

“It appears human when it’s not attacking. Except for a few details. The fangs are one. The ears. And of course it’s utterly vicious, despite being relatively intelligent. Can’t teach it a thing.”

“I bet I can teach it something,” grinned the first. It took the Bahvauv’s fur-lined ear between its forefinger and thumb again, this time pinching so tears sprung to its eyes and it bit back a surprised gasp of pain.

“Don’t be shy. Let’s hear a pretty little whimper at least. You’re going to make a lot of noises here.” The hunter pinched the sensitive skin and cartilage harder, his nails breaking skin beneath the soft layer of orange fur. The Bahkauv grit its teeth as best it could around the bit, and would not make a sound.

“No?” The hunter took something from the belt at his waist. Cold metal replaced fingers. Though the Bahkauv didn’t know it yet, it would come to know the word pliers very well. Such a simple tool, and so effective. Humans love tools— pliers and muzzles and fire. The teeth of the pliers bit down.

The Bahkauv screamed around the bit. It tried to pull away, but the hunter had it firm by the muzzle.

“There we go.” He gave the pliers a few sharp tugs, eliciting high pitched yelps. Its delicate ear was caught between the mean metal teeth like a fishhook.

“That was a healthy scream.”

“It’s an angry scream,” said the second. “That will change. If you take that thing clean off, you can dry it out and send it to your kids for good luck. Like a rabbit’s foot.”

It made an indignant sound, half-scream and haf-growl, saliva tinged with blood dripping from its muzzle.

“Well shit, that’s a good idea. I already ruined this one for now, it’s got a hole in it. I’ll get the other one.”

The hunter had been right that its silence wouldn’t last. It screamed as it was parted from its left ear.

—

It did not take the camp of hunters long to figure out that it regenerated itself quickly. Its ears grew back slowly, as did its fangs when they were later pulled. Everything that had a human appearance healed faster, though all the more painfully for it.

The first time they burned it, they didn’t know if it would survive. Neither did the Bahkauv. When it did, and its skin began to immediately repair itself, they were delighted. The Bahkauv was horrified. If that could not end its suffering, what could?

It was put back in its cell at dusk. It was unnatural for a creature like itself to dwell on death, but after being burned alive all morning and afternoon, over and over, with no more than an hours’ reprieve in between, it began to despair.

“Don’t cry,” crooned one of the hunters from the door of its cell. It scrambled into a sitting position, startled. It had thought it was alone.

“You were a favorite today. We all feel so much better for having played with you. A real morale boost. Look how quickly all that pretty hair has grown back. Your nature works hard to protect your disguise as human, doesn’t it? If I cut myself, the blood would clot and the skin would eventually knit back together. But not like you.”

The Bahkauv pressed its back tight against the wall as the hunter approached. This man was one of its torturers earlier that day— a younger one, not twenty five, tall and broad chested, with colorless blue eyes and close-shaved pale hair. He slipped a pair of pliers from his belt— the teeth were thick and blunt, not sharp like the ones they used to cut its ears. “And who knew you could speak? Do you understand, or did you just learn a few words like a talking parrot?”

The hunter squatted in front of it. Its heart pounded wildly, the staggering, paralyzing fear from the day returning and overriding its exhaustion. He took one of the Bahkauv’s hands in a strong grip. The pliers covered the first knuckle of its pointer finger, still pink and healing from the fire. It crunched down, shattering the first knuckle so it felt like gravel inside its skin.

It wailed, wildly trying to wrench its wrist from the hunter’s grip. It was so weak— like in a dream where it could not run or fight back. Healing and burning and healing again had sapped all its strength. Its anger at the hunters had long been replaced by desperation. Why did they want to hurt it so badly? How could it get the pain to stop? When it couldn’t, it stopped wondering why. It knew why. And this hunter was about to remind it.

“God, you sound like a person. You look human. That makes them hate you more, do you know that? It’s uncanny. Except for those devil eyes, you could be a boy of twenty summers, or less. Some of them even wonder if you’d be worth fucking. I think a lot of them wonder, and who could blame them? But no one wants to be the first to try it.” The pliers traveled to the next knuckle and perched there, waiting, on its freshly formed skin.

“No,” the Bahkauv whispered, tears flowing, saliva dripping from the corner of its mouth, raw and chafed from the bit that was always shoved to the back of its throat. “No. Pl-please.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Do you know those words? They’re the only ones you used all day. All goddam day, even in such unfathomable suffering. I could smell it every time your flesh melted, and still you only said no, and please. But do you understand?”

It was beginning to. Its own mother tongue was not human. But it had the same capabilities for language as the humans. More, even, and could infer with greater accuracy things the humans thought and felt as they spoke, which helped decode the words.

“A thing like you shouldn’t beg, anyway. It won’t work. You don’t deserve our mercy.”

Muscles flexed in the hunters thick, tanned forearm as he squeezed the plier handles together. Another crunch, and a second knuckle was destroyed under their powerful metal bite like glass broken inside a cloth sack. It shrieked so it thought its throat would tear open, pounding its foot uselessly against the wooden floor. The hunter narrowed his blue eyes as its scream tapered off into raw sobs, shaking its head no, over and over.

The pliers retracted and settled over its middle finger, on the first knuckle. The Bahkauv keened in dread, looking into the hunters face and finding not a flicker of regret or a glimpse of mercy. It knew hurting it entertained each hunter in different ways, but it pleased them all none the less. Each crunch of the tool was cataclysmic, and it was hard to imagine how at any point today it would have chosen this immediately to get the fire to stop, because now it did not think it could handle another crushed bone. And it had many more knuckles.

“Either way,” sighed the hunter. “Tomorrow we will burn you again, and see if you know any more words, little parrot.”

__

After they made camp, the three friends slept around the dying fire in their bedrolls. Francis tied a rope to his own waist and looped the other end around the Bahkauv’s collar so it slept six feet away from him. No more escape attempts. If it moved, he would feel it, and they both knew it.

The men slept. The Bahkauv tried to lie awake and alert, but its exhaustion was too great, and soon it slept too. The howling of wolves woke all of them in the wee hours of the morning. Disoriented, it leapt awake, scrambling along the length of its rope. In the hunters encampment, this would have led it to a solid wall it could press itself against, but now it led to Francis. It bumped into him and whimpered, waiting for a backhand or a cuff to the ear.

“Hey. It’s alright,” Francis told it gently in the darkness. Why were their voices so soft and blameless when they spoke to it? It had been waiting all day and now all night for the first blow, the first violence or pain from its captors, and still it had not come. It was like waiting for the pliers to crush another bone.

“They won’t come much closer. You’re alright. You’re safe with us. They sound kind of beautiful, don’t they?”

Stephan and Arthur got up out of their bedrolls to settle the horses, who were stamping their hooves and whickering nervously.

It hadn’t meant to crawl so close to its captor, but once again it was not punished for doing so. Something was different about them than the hunters, but it didn’t know enough about humans to assign much meaning to this observation. It was true the unmistakable sounds of the wolves had frightened it awake, and made the fine hairs on the back of its neck stand up. But it wasn’t afraid in the way it understood fear now. That kind of fear was reserved for humans, with their tools and fire and deliberate malice. But what a strange thing to say. Safe with us. Like they would protect it. It could not imagine humans as protectors.

Still, it slept closer to Francis til first light, with three feet of slack in the six foot rope.

-

Tags

@paperprinxe @whumpsday @i-eat-worlds @handsinmotion @stormchaser819

@annablogsposts @clickerflight @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud @scoundrelwithboba, @blood-and-regrets

[whumpshots]

Can I request the "tortured for information" square from your bad things happen bingo card???

hiya. oh ye can certainly request something from this card, it's been a while so ah'm very excited! thank ye for the ask!

_

_

The cold metal under their skin makes whumpee shiver as whumper looks down at them with a neutral expression. Days have passed during which whumpee kept their mouth shut, but they know that the next days are numbered.

How long until they break?

How long until they something slips out of their mouth?

Whumpee doesn't exactly know what whumper has planned to do, but they feel the fear and nervousness creep in, holding onto their heart that races and stutters against their chest. Whumper doesn't even speak when they first cut into their skin, eyes fixed on whumpee, who bites their bottom-lip to keep themselves from making any kind of sound.

Another cut, no discernable pattern in which whumper does whatever seems to feel right and whumpee's warm blood oozes out of the wounds, onto the cold metal table and under their skin, where it feels sticky, warm and wet. It feels disgusting.

Just as disgusting as the sharp blade that cuts their skin like its nothing. The pain only arrives after it's done, alerting whumpee that somethings very wrong. Their heart beats faster and faster against their chest and they bite back another sound, only for a whimper to escape their lips.

"Ah, your first sound in two days," whumper says in a monotone voice and looks at whumpee, a cigarette between their lips from which they take a drag. The heat of the cigarette only arrives at whumpee's brain when it's already too late and their flesh is burnt. A grunt, a short scream and whumper nods their head.

"Been waiting for this for too long now. You either give me what I want or you and I will have a lot of fun the next few days." Whumper comes closer and their eyes burn with anger and determination. "Either this or I'll make sure you won't be able to talk for the rest of your sorry life."

Cuts were only the beginning. Burns only a taste of what comes next as whumpee finds themselves screaming and begging. Bones are broken, skin is cut and burnt, whumpee is starved and dehydrated. It takes longer than whumper anticipated when whumpee croaks out two words.

Two words that seem to be enough for the other, who leaves them on the table, broken, bruised and scared, lying in their own blood, sweat, tears and urine. Whumpee wants to close their eyes and never open them again.

[sunshiline-writes]

Drabble: All The Useless Flesh

I think this might be the most horrific thing I have ever written so uh PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE heed warnings. Cw: GORE, BLOOD, Burns, Degloving, hand whump, whumpee sticks their hand in boiling water, VIVID DESCRIPTIONS OF GORE, like this is fr visceral, creepy/sadistic whumper, alluded amputation idk I don't think I missed anything but if I did please let me know

__

It just takes a moment to really register. The way Whumpee’s hand is forced into the boiling hot water. Kept there for a minute but it feels like so much longer. They have to physically watch as their skin reddens, blisters and even as some of the first layer of their skin peels away and floats in the pot. It is constantly moving and twirling as it is forced to move by the bubbles in the water. The water turns white and when they can no longer see past the white of the water, Whumper finally relents and lets them pull their hand from the pot. There is no pain. There was pain it only lasted for a second before all the nerves were burnt away by the heat. That is the worst part, whumpee thinks, its not the way their skin is half hanging off their hand, layers on layers, blistered and a cruel mixture of white, pink and red. It’s not the way Whumper barely seems satisfied by their lack of reaction, most likely due to shock. It’s in the way it doesn’t hurt. But it *looks* like that. Looks like the opposite of what would happen to chicken when boiled. Pink to white, fully cooked. No human skin isn’t like chicken. It’s human skin, and whumpee is certain that they are in shock now because they are thinking about their hand and comparing it to chicken. 

Whumper is saying something but they can’t hear over how cold it feels. Aren’t burns supposed to.. well burn? Their knees buckle underneath them and Whumper catches them under their armpits. “Hey hey, you’re fine shhh,” Whumper coos. 

Whumpee realizes that they are sobbing and Whumper sinks with them onto the kitchen floor. “Look at that,” they say, and Whumper is pressing their thumb into their mangled hand and the thumb squelches into the skin far more than it should. The horror of it all is almost too much and Whumpee’s eyes roll to the back of their head. “No, no you can’t leave just yet, come on get up,” whumpee is brought back to focus through small smacks to their cheeks, “Just a little more and then we can be done,” and their attention is diverted back to the thumb that easily rubs off the second layer of skin off their hand, the blisters popping and oozing. The more Whumper touches their hand the more the pain in their hand comes back. Burning, pulsing, and whumpee screams, fighting against Whumper’s grip. The fight only makes Whumper laugh and they wrap their own hand around the injury and in a weird rendition of jerking off rubs against their hand. Skin peeling off, until in some places the white color is surely bone. Whumper is laughing in their ear as Whumpee finally passes out against their chest. “Well.. I didn’t think you needed that hand anyway.” 

__ Drabbles taglist: @painsandconfusion @whumpbees ask if you'd like to be added or removed

[oncemorewithwhump]

Rating: T

The ambulance doors shut, and the engine rumbled as it rolled off, taking Rebecca Bryant off to the hospital.

It was that moment when Reid collapsed.

For the @whumperless-whump-event

Prompt: We Didn't Start the Fire

severe burns / "I know it hurts. Breathe."