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thewhumperinwhite · 1 month

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WKW: The Truth, Carefully Chosen

Masterpost // previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff

TW for: minor character death/murder, decapitation; referenced beating/caning; abuse of power, basically an interrogation under threat of death/torture; temporary paralysis; noncon touching (nonsexual); possible/threatened brain and heart damage, nosebleed.

gonna ride this unexpected burst of motivation as far as it will take me. thanks for the positive response to last chapter, it was a surprise!! hope you like this one too.

----

The Winter King seems to have burned through most of the incandescent rage that animated him back in Thorne’s quarters, barring the occasional flicker in the depths of his black eyes. Morden has entered the Healer’s parlor carrying a small golden chest under one arm, which he sets gently on the floor. Then he settles into the chair beside the Healer’s operating table; Andry lies there, able to keep his eyes open- but little else. The cane Morden did not quite finish beating Andry to death with is not in evidence.

“Tell me about your sister,” Morden says.

Andry feels his heartbeat, already rabbit-fast, stumble a little faster. A long night of being dragged back and forth across death’s threshold has wrung all the fear out of his mind, but evidently there is still room for it in his body.

“Wait,” Morden says, when Andry has managed to convince his mouth to open. “Before you begin. Insurance.”

He lays his hand on Andry’s shoulder—Andry feels the muscles in his back spasm slightly as try and fail to go tense at the touch—and a faint jolt of energy shoots from Morden’s palm, branching down Andry’s arm and in towards his fluttering heart.

For a second it doesn’t feel like much at all; and then it reaches his ruined arm and explodes back upward like lightning hitting a dead tree. White spots burst across Andry’s vision; he hears the thunk of his own head hitting the table as his back arches on its own. His head doesn’t hurt until a few seconds later; by then his heart is pounding hard enough that his chest and temples feel hot and sore. His head has snapped to the side, so that the new stream of blood from his nose is dripping down the side of his face. There is blood in his mouth, too; he must have bitten his tongue.

He tries to swallow, and winces. The back of his throat feels like broken glass.

Morden is watching him closely, though he seems focused on something other than joy at Andry’s suffering, for once. Andry wishes he could find that comforting. The air between his face and Morden’s has taken on a faint purple shimmer that he realizes a second late must be magic. The pain in Andry’s arm settles slowly into an almost-bearable background hum, though the muscles in his bicep keep jumping, making the metal cuff clatter against the table.

“If you want to live, Highness,” Morden says, “don’t lie.”

Andry tries to nod, and realizes that he can’t; the muscles in his throat and back have stopped responding to his commands. He blinks once, rather slowly, instead.

Morden nods to show he understands. Andry hates him. “Who is your sister?” Morden asks, his tone firmly neutral.

Andry—breathes in. His throat is cracked and dry and tastes like blood; it takes him three tries to make any sound at all.

“…inth,” he manages. Closes his eyes, breathes, tries again. “Hya… cinth. Of… Rose.”

Morden nods again.

“Very good. There’s a start. How about this, then: describe her.”

Andry swallows, and is immediately sorry; the shudder that runs through him afterwards is weakened by exhaustion, but still hurts the wrung-out muscles of his back and stomach. He feels as though he has tried to swallow his Father’s sword. Or one of Karya’s antlers.

“Faster, Little Prince.”

It took all the energy Andry had to move his arm to stop the Healer from killing herself; at least he does not have to fight to keep from making rude gestures at the Winter King.

“…Blonde,” he manages, after he wrestles past the bloody-tasting lump in his throat.

Morden’s black eyes flash, and for a moment Andry thinks that he has finally done it, finally reached the threshold of the Winter King’s limited patience, and without being ready for it this time. Then Morden raises his hand again, and presses two gloved fingers against the side of Andry’s throat.

Andry closes his eyes, since he cannot back away. He can feel his heart fluttering against Morden’s fingers, like a bird in a cat's mouth.

The air shifts as Morden gets to his feet. Something soft brushes Andry’s cheek. When Andry opens his eyes, Morden is leaning over the table, his face very close to Andry’s, the long black curtain of Morden’s hair hanging around them both. His fingers are still pressed just under Andry’s jaw, palm now resting lightly across Andry’s voicebox.

“Your heart is running itself ragged, little Prince,” Morden says. Andry can feel Morden’s breath on his cheek. “I don’t know if it will take another jolt, but I can make the experiment, if you’d like.”

Andry breathes out, thinly, past Morden’s fingers on his throat. There’s little enough else for him to do.

“Describe Lady Hyacinth of House Rose, Prince,” Morden says. His voice is soft, as though speaking to a lover. “Not her hair. Her heart, if you please. What kind of woman is she?”

Andry wants to shake his head. Perhaps it is fortunate that he cannot; he doesn’t know if Morden’s spell will count feigned ignorance as lying. He blinks again, instead. Morden sighs, sounding indulgent, if anything. His hand on Andry’s throat—the implicit threat there, and Andry limp and unmoving under it—seems to have calmed him; he looks almost affectionate, now.

“Surely you don’t want me to be cross with you again already,” Morden says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Andry is very aware, this close, of Morden’s beauty; fear is starting to lick at the edges of Andry’s mind again, like fire catching on paper. “Come, Prince. Talk. I’m sure you can think of some simple words that won’t hurt your poor pretty throat too much.”

Andry does not close his eyes; that would mean dropping Morden’s gaze, and he doesn’t have the strength left to do that.

“She's... clever,” he rasps, after a moment. He can’t think of anything else that isn’t a lie.

Morden stays where he is for another long, torturous moment. Then he sighs and sits back the Healer’s chair, crossing his arms; Andry breathes out, feeling limp and wrung out with relief.

“Yes,” Morden says. “I got that impression. And is your sister kind, Prince?”

Andry stares at him. It is—it is unfair of the Winter King, to lay traps like these so soon after trying to kill him. If Morden had given him another hour or two to gather his thoughts, he would not feel so much like he was walking beside a very long drop with no light by which to see the edge. Andry tries to push aside the childlike anger that is threatening to make his eyes well up; it is more difficult than usual.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is still a burnt-dry rasp; now it is also trembling. He feels his face heat up with a nonsensical embarrassed flush.

Morden shakes his head, gives one huff of mirthless laughter. “Fine. Better question.” He leans forward, watching Andry’s face closely. “Does your sister love you, Summer Prince?”

Andry stares at him.

He still cannot see the edge. But he knows what is at the bottom of that long drop: that the wrong answer will hurt him, will hurt Asher, as every wrong step in this House has always threatened to do—might hurt Cinthy, the last safe unthreatened thing he has.

Andry cannot move. But that is nothing new; he is used to this House binding his hands and breaking his back; he has never been able to move freely. Andry closes his eyes, gathers what he has, all the skills he has learned after all these years in his Father’s house, and thinks, instead.

He thinks of Cinth’s face, of the arrogant lift of her chin, of her mouth twisted in disdain at Audoine’s back; of her the speed with which she could slap Andry’s hands away from a coveted book or toy without their mother seeing; of her sharp words and her sharper elbow aimed Andry’s ribs under the table; of the fierce narrowing of her eyes as she corrected his posture, and her own. He thinks of Hyacinth, her cleverness, and ambition, and anger. It has been months, now, with no word from the Rose Trellis; who knows what plans she might have made, if she has decided to give him up?

“I don’t know,” Andry says, and it is true exactly long enough to matter.

Morden watches him, waiting—the same as Andry is—for his spell to tell him that Andry is lying. When nothing happens, Morden hums thoughtfully, and then bends down to retrieve the little golden chest he brought with him into the room. He sets it on the table, where it sits coldly against Andry’s aching ribs.

“Lady Hyacinth has sent me a gift,” Morden says. “It’s a—oh, what would the word for it be, in your tongue? A dowry.”

Andry does not know what expression he makes, but is an honest one; he doesn’t have time to hide it. Surprise is too mild, probably. Maybe horror. It seems to satisfy Morden, either way. His eyes are no longer flashing; they have simmered down to their customary amused twinkle.

“It’s rather extravagant, Highness. Here,” Morden says, “I’ll show you.”

Andry will never forget what his father’s head looked like, when they threw it at him on the balcony, and Thorne held it up for everyone to see. This is—both better, and worse. It has clearly been longer; time and travel have not been kind to Cinthy’s gift. It takes Andry a long moment to recognize the face of Cinth's grandfather, the Rose Count.

“Custom dictates I reciprocate, I believe,” Morden says, though Andry only half hears him. “What do you think your sister has asked for in return, Summer Prince?”

----

“I am begging you, Lady,” General Amara says, while Lady Hyacinth is drafting her letter, two weeks before it arrives, battered parcel attached, on the Winter King’s desk. “Ask for something else.”

Hyacinth does not look up from her desk, where her quill is moving swiftly along the current parchment sheet, half-hidden among a small graveyard of balled-up rejected drafts. Her mouth is pressed into a tight line, and a few strands of hair have come loose from her elaborate braid. If she knew her Lady even slightly less well, Amara would believe her wholly unbothered. Lady Hyacinth’s hands are still pink from over-scrubbing, but she is clean of blood.

“You cannot do this, my Lady,” Amara says, not for the first time.

“I’ve already cut it off, General,” Hyacinth says, tearing this sheet of parchment free from the pallet and throwing it over her shoulder. “It would be a waste not to send it now.”

Amara shakes her head, strides up to stand behind the Lady at the desk, shuddering slightly at the sight of the gold box perched upon it, looking neat and innocent now that it has been shut and locked. “No, my Lady. I have agreed to this—plan; I have not tried to steer you from this course; we have gone too far to turn back now. But I must counsel you, please—ask for something that will be of use.”

The Lady’s expression does not change, but her quill snaps in half mid-stroke. She sets it down on the desk, her movements calm and deliberate.

Amara winces. “Sorry, Lady. I didn’t mean—you know.”

The Lady takes a visible breath, and squares her shoulders. Then she turns in her seat to meet Amara’s eyes. Amara wilts under her gaze. Even now—eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, hands clasped neatly on the table to keep them from shaking—the Lady is very beautiful. Amara feels, not for the first time, that she would be much better at her job if the Lady were plain.

“General,” the Lady says. “Do you trust me?”

It isn’t as simple as that, and they both know it. The Lady is an excellent liar, and Amara is better at seeing her tells than most, and is almost sure that what Cinth has told the officers, that the Count’s death was natural, and to her great sorrow she has no choice but to make use of the opportunity, is a lie. So, in point of fact, she does not trust Lady Hyacinth; it is just that she has—begun following the Lady, and keeps letting the Lady have her way, and doesn’t seem to be able to stop.

“…Yes,” Amara says, reluctantly, and has the unsettling impression that the Lady knows exactly what she means.

“Good,” Lady Hyacinth says. “Then fetch me another quill.” She turns her back on Amara, and Amara sighs, and does as she is told.

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #truth spell #exhaustion #magical torture #minor character death #beheading

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whump-in-the-closet · 10 months

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The Scarred Among the Mundane.

cw: mentioned death, magical torture, failed escape, inhuman whumpee

previous. masterlist. next.

— —

Finn wakes to a bucket of water in his face. He jerks upright, coughing with enough force to make his ribs ache.

Freezing water drips down the back of his ripped shirt. With a disgusted flick of his wrist, he pushes wet braids out of his face. Droplets of water are thrown in every direction as he peers up at Verne.

She holds an empty bucket in one hand, flame-red hair bright against the darkness. She smiles. “Good morning.”

I hate you. I will rip your throat out with my teeth.

The sorcerer doesn't seem to realise the imminent danger she’s in because her smile brightens.

Finn bares pointed teeth in a snarl.

A threat for a threat.

Verne drops her bucket and kicks it aside. Finn watches it, gaze darting from the bucket to the closed door.

To the unlocked, closed door.

A trembling hope– the colour of yellow– rises inside him.

Verne’s voice cuts through his thoughts with all the force of a physical blow. “Stand up, elf.”

Snarling. “No.” Finn's eyes never leave the door.

Verne sighs. “Go ahead and try.”

The world stops spinning. “What?”

“Try and escape.”

She’s far too calm for this to be anything but a trap. But the glimmer of hope is now an explosion. He’s on his feet, scrambling for the exit, a fire burning behind his eyes.

“Idiot,” says Verne and she’s smiling.

But Finn’s hand is on the door and escape is so close he can taste it –

His body ceases to be his own. He stiffens, hand falling to his side. Breaths come in odd gasps that are ripped out of him.

He’s forced to turn around, back to Verne and to the cell full of shadows and echoing screams.

Verne’s hands are twisted into wierding shapes. Her smile is unwavering. “Are you paying attention now?”

What else can he do? He can barely manage the required nod.

“Good.”

Finn finds something very, very bad with how she says ‘good’. It feels like a threat. A skin-crawling, mind-numbing horror about to be released.

Verne’s voice is dangerously low. “I’m going to try something familiar first. Perhaps you remember…I used it only two days ago.”

Has it only been two days?

His stomach drops.

“The spell I used isn't supposed to render a human unconscious. It's supposed to kill them.”

She waits for that to sink in.

Finn’s eyes widen. It’s sinking in.

“Did I try to kill you? Well,” she shrugs. “You were trying to burn down the Monarch’s castle. But you– somehow– are still alive. Oh, it's fascinating. I wonder how many other spells you can hold up against…I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Finn stares in silent horror.

“Let's see how long you last this time, my elf-friend.” She lifts her other hand with a shark-toothed smile. “Remember, deep breaths.”

And Finn’s world shatters.

He can feel his body reacting— twisting into a voiceless scream. Crumpling to the ground, legs giving out on him, horror upon horror upon horror. But for a moment, he remains detached.

He manages a huh, that looks painful–

And then he joins in the screaming.

His blood is ice inside him. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything is wrong. Blood isn’t supposed to be a mountain-range under his skin.

This is his last coherent thought.

Blood in his throat, tasting like an open blaze.

Spiralling darkness. It spikes through blood cells, spearing the crimson red with shadows.

–He is an insect, pinned to a wall with needles–

Finn’s view of Verne’s boots and the scarlet-stained floor starts to fade.

Verne’s hands drop to her sides. The relief of unconsciousness is denied to him. She sways on her feet, wiping away the sheen of sweat on her forehead.

Her hand comes back red.

She looks at the blood. Sighs. Glances at Finn– shivering elf, all shadowed skin and ripped clothes– still alive. Judging by his shattered breathing, at least.

Despite her exhaustion– the mind numbing, void-filled exhaustion– Verne laughs. It dies on her lips.

But–

But the elf’s still alive.

Her theory is correct.

A dozen more spells burn at the back of her mind, demanding to be tested. And for the first time in ages, she’s excited to test them.

“I’ll be back,” says Verne. Not that Finn can hear her.

Finn curls up tighter on the ground, trying to convince himself this is some bad dream he’s trapped in.

This can’t be real.

This nauseating pain cannot be real.

tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast (lmk if you want to be added/removed!)

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astaldis · 3 months

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Whumpers-Monthly Issue No 25 - Blindfolded: Not cruel by nature

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher TV

Whumpee: Cahir

Whumper: Tissaia de Vries

Caretaker: Marti Södergren

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Published: 2022-10-19, Completed: 2022-12-14

Words: 26,422 Chapters: 17/17

Summary: Botheration! How is this possible? She takes another deep breath and adjusts the firm position of her fingertips a tiny fraction of an inch. Why on earth isn't it working? It should be by all means, she is an expert at this! Not that she has done it against the person's will that often, nor does she enjoy it like some others do, Philippa Eilhardt, for example. No, it is not in her nature to be cruel. But cruel she must be. This once. For Yennefer's sake. It isn't as if the prisoner doesn't deserve it, either. The memory of the badly burned and screaming Triss and all her fellow mages who died in the battle will forever be imprinted into her mind. And here she has him, the enemy commander, the one responsible for the slaughter, his life and sanity in her hands. Perhaps she does feel some sort of sick satisfaction after all while her strong, slender fingers dig painfully into his temples? While the man, fettered to the stone chair, is screaming his lungs out ...

Tissaia is trying to extract information from the Nilfgaardian prisoner in the Aretuza dungeons with Vilgefortz's help. Cahir is not having a good time ... Lucky for him, Marti Södergren is a dedicated healer.

#whumpers monthly #whumpers-monthly #issue no 25 #blindfolded #the witcher tv #the witcher fanfiction #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #cahir whump #marti södergren #tissaia de vries #the witcher season 2 #magical torture #cahir #aftermath of torture #vilgefortz of roggeveen #fanart #cahir fanart #aretuza

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dont-touch-my-soup · 1 year

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Blackbird

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CW: captivity, failed escape attempt, multiple whumpees, manhandling, threats, torture, magical torture

Kell didn’t want to wake up. His sleep had been dark and dreamless. But now pain and fear started to seep through the fissures of his consciousness like water into a sinking boat. He knew he was waking up and there was nothing he could do about it. Still, he desperately clawed to the darkness wrapped around him. For a while his mind faded in and out, but the darkness cleared inevitably.

He hated his own body for betraying him like this.

Tears leaked through his closed eyes as pain pulsated trough his body.

He had forgotten how much he hurt.

Distant voices drifted through the fog in his mind. He wasn’t sure who they were or what they wanted but he knew better than to move.

He shakily took a breath. Then another one.

He had to stay calm. He had to stay still.

But the pain was like a needy child screaming inside of him.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. It hurt to move.

His head felt like it was pinched with needles from the inside and his eyes burned when he tried to blink them open.

He had to open his eyes. He had to know what would happen next.

Opening his eyes was a herculean task. And when he finally managed to hold them open long enough to see something, the room started to spin around him.

Hastily he closed them again.

Nausea hit him in waves, and it took him a while to calm down enough to try again.

As soon as the cool air met his dry eyes, they started watering. It took a while until he could see through the veil of tears.

He was still in the cursed theatre. Laying helplessly on his back.

At least his arms weren’t restrained anymore. He carefully moved his head to his side.

He wasn’t prepared for what he saw there.

His arms were littered with burns. Some had already formed blisters, others were oozing. He slowly moved his fingers in disbelief. It truly was his arm. He started to tremble.

“No,” he said. But only air came out. “No,” he said again. Tears started to run over his face.

Kell’s heart beat painfully fast in his chest. He had to calm down. He had to calm down. He had to ...

Kell tensed as footfalls came closer.

He wasn't alone.

Oryn, his brain finally connected the noise to a name.

Kell held his breath trying to locate him.

Oryn kneeled on his side, his face swam into Kell’s vision. Kell squinted his eyes closed and turned away, tried to shield himself, tried to prepare himself for another wave of pain.

A pained whimper formed deep in his throat as Oryn vehemently turned him back on his back. Then something pressed against his lips. Cool water ran down his throat. He nearly choked but then he managed to swallow. The water tasted so good, so cool against his raw throat.

He opened his eyes. But it wasn’t Oryn who knelt next to him. It was Blackbird. Kell blinked in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He flinched at the sound of his own voice. It was so hoarse his words were barely intelligible.

At least he still had a voice.

Blackbird just stared back at him without answering and Kell realised his mistake. Of course, he wouldn’t answer. He barely spoke any Varsennan.

But something still didn’t add up. Thinking was hard and he was thankful when Blackbird pressed the cup against his lips again. Kell drank another cup of water until the thought finally manifested fully in his brain.

Why was Blackbird here all by himself?

Why would Oryn let him walk around here freely?

His thoughts were interrupted when the door was yanked open. Kell tensed before he even saw Oryn.

“Rise and shine, my darling bird,” Oryn chirped.

Hands pulled him up into a sitting position and Kell hissed in pain as Oryn’s finger pressed on his burns.

“How do you feel?”

“Like someone burned me with a spoon,” Kell answered weakly.

Oryn’s hand was in his hair before he had even finished his answer and yanked his head back painfully. “If you can’t answer my questions politely, I expect you to stay quiet.”

“If you want me to answer politely maybe you shouldn’t ask stupid questions.”

Oryn smacked his face so hard, Kell toppled to the floor again. For a second his vision turns white.

“Let’s try something else.” Oryn’s voice sounded from far away.

Cold fear crept up Kell’s spine and wound around his throat. He could barely breathe around it.

It was quiet for a moment. Then he heared someone singing. A dark and heavy tune that laid down on him like a blanket. The voice was low, barely audible but Kell recognized it immediately. He opened his eyes in confusion. Why was Blackbird si-...

A slim hand winded around Kell’s wrist and he flinched as fingers met his burns.

Then the whole world exploded in agony. Pain flooded his body. So sudden and so fiercely he started to scream. Kell tried to get free, kicking and screaming violently, but there was no way out of it. The world grew dark and hazy around the edges. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. There was only pain.

And then the darkness swallowed Kell.

***

For a moment Kell didn’t know where he was. Then he remembered.

He was lying on his side, hugging his own body, desperately choking for air.

He couldn’t hold on to his thoughts. They slipped away like quicksand.

His face was wet and hot.

Fingers carved through his hair as if to soothe him. It only made things worse.

He wished they would just stop touching him.

He concentrated on the ground under his body. Steady and cool.

It took a long time until Kell had calmed down enough to blink his eyes open.

Oryn’s face hovered over him. It was blurred and when he opened his mouth the words didn’t reach Kell. The room moved around Kell, and he pressed his eyes closed again.

Something cool brushed his face. Someone cleaned his face.

He was on the verge to fall into darkness again when a finger flicked against his cheek. Again, someone was talking to him.

He opened his eyes again.

Oryn was smiling down at him without the least vestige of kindness. His eyes looked nearly … hungry.

New tears fell over Kell’s face.

He still hadn’t processed what had happened, but he knew it was magic.

The realisation was enough to bring back memories he had pushed into the deepest corner of his brain. He desperately tried to concentrate on the present but every time he closed his eyes, he could see broken eyes and blood.

Kell swallowed once, twice. His stomach still felt nauseous, his mouth so dry his tongue was glued to the roof. “Water please?” he whispered.

His chest rose and fell. Two words had been enough to drain him from his remaining energy.

Oryn motioned to his left. A hand moved into Kell’s peripherals, and he flinched when he saw Blackbird. He tried to shove himself away from him, but he barely managed until hands held him back.

“Still,” Oryn ordered, holding Kell’s left arm in an iron grip. “He will only hurt you when I tell him to.”

He took the water from Blackbird and to Kell’s lips. Kell drank.

Most of the water landed on his clothes but for now it was enough.

When he finished, he was still shaking. His whole body was covered in sweat, and he was shaking from a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“Do you have an answer yet?”

His head was throbbing. It was hard to think. He had almost forgotten why Oryn was torturning him.

A single tear fell over his cheek. “Pl-please,” he whispered, his voice shaking.

“So no,” Oryn said. He nodded to Blackbird.

Kell rolled to his side, tried to escape his reach, but Oryn pressed him firmly to the ground.

This time it was even worse. It felt like lava, eating its way through his body, until he thought he would just die of pain.

He choked on his own tears; the suffering never seemed to end.

The fire extended all over his body until he wasn’t even sure he still had a body. There was only pain.

He tried to regain his breath, but it didn’t matter how many times he inhaled, his body just wouldn’t take it in. His lungs were burning and Kell's vision started to get hazy when Blackbird finally let go of him.

As sudden as the pain had started, it stopped. Kell turned to his side, hugging his own body, pressing his knees to his chest. He didn’t care how the cloth pressed painfully to the the burns on his arms. The pain in his chest was just so unbearable. He drank in the air around him so desperately, he choked on it.

No matter how hard he blinked, the white dots in his vision didn’t vanish.

“You still don’t want to tell me?” Oryn asked. Somehow, he had the audacity to sound offended.

Kell desperately shook his head. He wasn’t sure if his mouth could even form words anymore. He didn’t have the energy to try.

Oryn sighed. “Help me understand. Why did you try to run away?”

“I gave you everything. A warm bed, food, wasn’t singing always your dream? I made it real. I made it happen. Thanks to me you are famous. You could have had everything. And still you tried to run away.”

The silence between them grew, only interrupted by Kell’s panting breaths. It took a few seconds until Kell realised, Oryn really wanted an answer.

“Dunno,'' Kell choked out, his lips felt numb and the words came out slurred. “Maybe because of the torture?”

He hadn’t expected Oryn to slap him. Somehow the pain of that stroke helped Kell ground himself a little.

„Haven’t you thought about what I’m going to do to your little Sparrow when you try to escape? I thought you cared about him.”

A joyless laugh escaped Kell’s throat. “He is gone. You can’t hurt him anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Oryn asked. “Last time I checked he was practising his new song in the rehearsal room. Where else would he be?”

Kell’s heart stopped for a second.

“You’re lying.” The words tasted like poison.

“Why should I lie to you?”

“He is gone. He is … You are lying.”

“I can get him here if you insist,” Oryn said. “You do love having an audience, don’t you?”

_______________________

Thank you for reading! @whumpzone @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @whump-cravings @tears-and-lilies @imagination1reality0 @suspicious-whumping-egg @i-can-even-burn-salad @siren-of-agony @villainsvictim (please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

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#unsung heroes #captivity #whump writing #defiant whumpee #burns #torture #magical torture #I am sorry?#I promise he will be okay #checks plot #*sweats nervously*#:)#they are totally finnneeee

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rocketbirdie · 3 months

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deranged picnic

#obsessed with how this game manages to maintain a consistent utterly unhinged vibe for its entire runtime.#this scene is immediately followed by him receiving a letter from his girlfriend saying she's breaking up with him.#he gets the letter from an eldritch abomination in the form of his mentor's face on the body of dead dog as it turns into magic dust.#also his gf broke up with him because he wasn't returning any of her messages while he was being tortured in a dungeon for four years.#which is actually how he finds out it's been four years. he's been under the impression that it's been like. 2 weeks lol #the guy on the left is perfectly alive and monologuing the whole time.#and he happens to be the same guy that made clones of himself and went on a crusade to eat chunks of the protagonist's hair.#sighh..... crisis core my beloved........#(derogatory)#my art <3 #ffvii #crisis core #oh god i forgot his scar. nobody look. don't look. you don't see shit.

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dapper-lil-arts · 12 days

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It's never too late to love, it's never too late to live.

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chaikachi · 9 months

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Quick outfit swap for two wizard boys. I think they'd make good friends. 🥰

#little princes who are both wizards with moon themed love interests #big red accent on shoulders/green eyes/and (pre tdp timeskip) the same haircut #captured tortured and forced to use magic when they don't want to #they are the same #the dragon prince #tdp #callum #oscar pine #rwby #fanart #fan art #my art

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abhainnwhump · 3 months

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Defiant Whumpee with the ability to see the future is stuck in captivity. They see their future self broken and conditioned without any fight left in them. No matter what they choose, they will always end up as Whumper's pet. The question is just when and what will do the trick.

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump prompt #whump tropes #conditioned whumpee #pet whump #pet whumpee #psychological whump #psychological torture #magic whump #fantasy whump #nonhuman whumpee

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blackrosesandwhump · 21 days

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Whumpril Day 4: Swaying

CW: 2nd pov, magic whump, creepy whumper

The moment whumper’s spell hits you, you know you’ve made a terrible mistake, even without the burning pain that instantly radiates from your chest. Your vision fizzles out into darkness, and you sway on your feet, blind, breathless from pressure and agony. You don’t know what kind of spell it is, but that doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it feels like it’s destroying you from the inside out.

Your side and temple hit the ground as you collapse, gasping. Darkness, and muffled sounds, and pain. That’s all you know, all you feel. That, and someone’s hand brushing against your cheek.

“Effective, isn’t it?” says a voice close to your ear. “I invented that spell. Though I have to admit, I’ve never seen someone collapse as beautifully as you just did.”

#whumpril2024 #whumprilday4 #swaying #magic whump #magical torture #2nd pov #2nd person pov #creepy whumper #collapse #unconsciousness #blackroseswrites #pain #magical whump #magic whumper #breathless #whump prompt #whump challenge #whump drabble #whump snippet

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whumpygifs · 1 year

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#till the end of the moon #episode 35 #tantai jin #cang jiumin #whump #magical restraints #magical torture #pain #screaming #exhaustion #collapse #loss of consciousness #my gifs

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itsscottiesstark · 6 months

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So you know about the headcanon saying that Crowley drew on Azi's mustache before the magic show, right? Well, lemme introduce you to "Crowley also did Azi's bow tie because he was too excited and his hands were shaking".

So, whatever you do, don't imagine Azi's hands shaking after Crowley came so close to draw on his mustache, his head basically inches apart from Azi's mouth, Crowley struggling to pay attention to the mustache and not the angel's lips.

Now, whATEVER you do, don't imagine Azi fumbling with his tie afterwards, trying to hide his embarrassing blush (but being unable to, since he's got a whole ass mirror behind him and Crowley can see *everything*) and Crowley quietly going "I can help you with that too, you know". Azi's head would just snap back, blinking rapidly.

Don't- and I mean don't imagine Azi's blush getting worse (matching Crowley's, most probably) when he felt his hands so close to his throat.

And, anyway, the last thing you wanna do is imagine Azi giving in to his urge to place a soft kiss on Crowley's lips at a moment where the demon, in concentration, leaned in excruciatingly close where kissing him was the only logical thing to do at that point.

(update, I did a thing 🫣)

#and all that because Aziraphale's tie was a little crooked #i actually have a whole scene in my mind #my brain keeps on finding new ways to torture me #I've been reading too much fanfiction #good omens #good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #michael sheen #david tennant #good omens 1941 #good omens magic show #headcanon #good omens headcanons

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dnd-smash-pass-vs · 3 months

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On the left, Orog! 7 ft (2.1 m) tall, they're basically the underdark version of the mountain orc. However, while everyone else who goes to the underdark turns evil, these orcs just improved thier smithing and came back basically the same. just got a trade degree and a bit pale. Tougher and more knowledgeable than the average orc, that's the power of an honest education in a trade you enjoy. If you're interested in an orc that would be forklift certified, this one's for you!

On the right, Death Knight! Corrupted paladins brought back by dark magic. Used to be fighters and rangers too, but 5e changed that. They can't heal anymore, but spells like Hold Person or Command might interest you! The most famous knight even turned into one of this due to a tragic romance, they've got that corrupted good thing going on!

#orog #death knight #smash or pass #dnd 5e #dnd #d&d #5e #d&d 5e #seriously every single thing that goes from aboveground to underdark goes evil #from latent magic or mindflayers or torture or just the harsh survival conditions #and these orcs just went there and back unfazed #like just figured out smithing and better mining and came back 1000s of year later #bigger and stronger and ready to go back to thier old normal ways. just with better stuff now. fucking legends.#I mean yeah the book acts like they're meaner cause they started bullying thier weaker mountain orc cousins that didn't go to the caves #but that's kinda just normal behavior? as if those mountain orcs wouldnt do the same it the orogs came back weaker?

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astaldis · 6 months

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No. 18 Blindfold / Tortured for Information

Fandom: The Witcher (TV) (Season 2, Episode 1)

Whumpee: Cahir

Illustration for Chapter 2 of 'Not Cruel by Nature': Tissaia is trying to extract information from the Nilfgaardian prisoner in the Aretuza dungeons with Vilgefortz's help. Cahir is not having a good time ... Lucky for him, Marti Södergren is a dedicated healer. Written for Whumptober 2022.

Chapters: 17/17, Words: 26,422

#whumptober2023 #no.18 #blindfold #tortured for information #the witcher tv #the witcher netflix #the witcher season 2 #fanart #magical torture #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #cahir #tissaia de vries #eamon farren #myanna buring #the witcher fanfiction #cahir whump #torture

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iamnmbr3 · 2 months

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harry definitely not heterosexual potter is the funniest thing to me because i literally cannot remember a single time in the book where he thinks “i should probably be nervous about draco trying to kill me because i am literally convinced that he is willingly working with voldemort.” no. he was like “oh draco? yeah he is definitely working for voldemort and he is so evil because did you see the way he is combing his hair now? probably switched shampoo. he would never change conditioner, that thing works wonders. what do you mean, this is common knowledge. anyway, he is so evil and definitely working for voldy. but of course he won’t kill me, are you crazy? who would he talk to across the great hall? like literally you don’t even understand.” and everyone just WENT WITH IT.

Hahahahaha I KNOW! Would he feel this safe around literally any other person who he suspected of being in league with Voldemort? I think tf not!

Even once Draco has Harry incapacitated and totally at his mercy on the train Harry at no point thinks that he's in danger. Even after Draco breaks his nose he doesn't think it. After that incident Harry still is all 'can't wait to break into the Room of Requirement BY MYSELF while Draco is in there so I can see what secret evil mission he's working on for Voldemort' and at no point does he worry that going in without backup could end badly. And HE'S RIGHT. When Draco has Harry at his mercy he never seriously harms him and risks everything multiple times in book 7 to protect him. This is NOT Harry seeing Draco with rose tinted glasses. This is Harry deeply and intimately understanding that Draco will not hurt him and feeling comfortable around him on an instinctual level despite every reason he has not to.

And let's not forget why Harry finally stops investigating Draco in 6th year. It's not because he decides he's wrong about his whole "Draco is a Death Eater on a mission from Voldemort" theory nor is it because he gets worried that since Draco is a Death Eater on a mission from Voldemort looking into this could get Harry or his friends hurt. No. He stops because his investigation leads to Draco getting hurt. And Harry is so horrified by this that he completely backs off and gives up trying to stop the super secret evil mission from Voldemort that Harry is sure Draco is on. Harry is like 'foiling an evil plot masterminded by Voldemort himself isn't worth it if it could lead to me hurting Draco.' He really said 'I can excuse putting myself in mortal danger on a regular basis to stop Voldemort's plots but I draw the line at Draco being upset.' In canon.

And yeah Harry cares about people in general but not to this extent. When Umbridge gets carried off by centaurs Harry doesn't even think of going after her. He's just like 'lmao bye bitch.' He straight up KILLS Quirrell in first year and when he finds out he's like 'well that sucks for him.' Tons of Death Eaters get hurt and maimed at the Department of Mysteries and Harry never even stops to check if they're ok. In second year he forces Lockhart to enter the Chamber of Secrets first in case there's a Basilisk waiting at the bottom of the chute.

But anytime he sees Draco in danger he does whatever he can to help without even thinking about it. From the time in first year in the Forbidden Forest when he immediately throws his arm out to stop Draco walking towards Voldemort to 7th year when he risks his own life and that of his friends to pull him out of the fiendfyre and reveals his presence while running through the battle so he can stun a Death Eater threatening Draco. And he does it automatically, without a second thought because Harry can't fathom a world where he wouldn't protect Draco.

#this ask made me lol so much. it's so. SO true.#(I'm now imagining Harry being like Doug from Up going “Squirrel!” but about Draco every time he sees him. Oh wait. That's canon.)#Shoutout to the time Harry sees Draco forced to torture Rowle and is horrified because of how upset and scared Draco is #and doesn't even think about Rowle at all.#Can you imagine him telling Rona and Hermione about it like 'it was horrible'.#'Yeah I guess even though Rowle is a Death Eater he didn't deserve-'#Rowle? Who cares about him? He was just getting tortured. The point is Draco felt bad about it.'#Also. Nose breaking is pretty minor given that 1) in the magical world mundane injuries can be easily fixed and #2) Draco is a literal Death Eater.#And later Draco risks everything to save Harry's life at the Manor.#He also alerts Harry to his presence in the Room of Requirement #tries to stop Crabbe & Goyle from killing or hurting him #and doesn't call Voldemort or tell anyone he's seen Harry.#asks #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #drarry #drarry in canon #hpdm #h/d #harco #harry x draco #harry/draco #drarry meta #drarry g

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