i would like your whumpee to be found slumped against a wall, so thoroughly bloody and bruised and broken that the caregiver doesn’t even know where to start
i would like the gasps of horror at the state of the whumpee, gasps badly concealed because the caregiver knows the whumpee wouldn’t want to be gasped over
i would also like some stifled moans of pain at every touch, please
"You need to be on a flat surface, or else you'll slip."
The presence behind him is warm and soft, pressed into his back. Steadying. But he can't help the tremble in his fingers. The increase in his heartbeat. The buzz along the hairs on the back of his neck.
"Angle down, then pull it backwards. Pull. Don't press."
The hands guide his own through the motion, sliding back until they almost hit his stomach. "Good. Now forwards." The voice leaves a puff of air against his shoulder.
He's not scared of the knife. Just a tool, like any other - a shovel, a can-opener, a corkscrew. Just arrangements of simple machines, each with a use and a purpose.
He's not scared of the knife.
"Well done. Now, thin slices." Gentle thumbs press in, moving him, moving with him. He watches as a bead of liquid trickles down, dripping slowly.
He knows the only thing the tool is meant to do, is to modify the world around it.
"There. Doesn't that feel good?"
He doesn't know what he will be like when it's done.
A normally cocky whumpee who doesn’t extend more than a handshake becoming extremely timid and clingy after their trauma. Their body language is far more closed and they constantly need to be by someone’s side.
Hi there! 👋 My name’s Maxim and I figure that I should probably introduce myself. I’m a guy in my twenties that just really likes to see people get beaten up, and I like to write about it too. From what I can tell, I’ll be in similar company here.
I like torture and captivity. Aftermath is really good, too, especially if it’s somehow even more painful than the incident itself. This is probably really specific, but I love love love when a victim has mixed feelings about what happened to them, and mixed feelings about their torturer/captor. More specific things that I like include dehumanisation, stress positions, restraints, burns, mutilation, magic/fantasy whump, and people being extremely inappropriate about scars. I like to write about trauma turning people into worse versions of themselves.
I love writing from prompts, and eventually I plan to do one of the longer challenges, like Bad Things Happen Bingo. I also like to reblog art and other aesthetic pictures that give me ideas.
A list of everything that I’ve written so far can be found in a list here, which I’ll try to keep updated, or in my #writing tag in case I don’t.
Anyway, I think that I’ve rambled about myself for long enough. Nice to meet everyone, and I look forward to being here!
As soon as I saw this prompt I had about three separate ideas for things that I wanted to write, and I might come back to this again because it’s so fun and the range of possibilities is fantastic. This is one idea, which is connected to this story.
Contents include cutting, stress positions, and injuring someone for the artistic merit (and taking pictures of it). The arrangement that the two characters have is consensual in theory, but in practice is just super awful.
* * *
Mauri’s cool fingers unbuttoned the collar of Dan’s shirt, then slowly worked the top half of the shirt open. He pushed the fabric back so that it fell over Dan’s shoulder. The shirt was a few sizes bigger than what Dan would have chosen for himself, but Mauri had chosen it because he liked how the fabric hung off Dan’s body.
“You’re sweating,” Mauri said, without looking up at Dan. “Is it too hot in here? Are you nervous?”
“Nervous?” Dan repeated, almost breathless. He looked over Mauri’s head, at the rest of the studio. Large sheets of paper with concept sketches scrawled across them. Some of Mauri’s favourite photographs, framed and hanging on the wall.
Dan swallowed thickly.
“No, I trust you.”
“Good,” Mauri said. He took a cloth and wiped down a patch of Dan’s skin, then reached for the gift that his grandmother gave him before she died, Mauri’s most valuable possession. She’d been an artist, too, and Mauri admired her greatly. Dan didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want Mauri to flip out and beat him senseless, so he never asked what she’d make of his work, whether it would be too violent for her taste.
Dan didn’t want to look at it, and so he studied Mauri’s face instead.
It was a knife. A knife that Dan had seen many times before, one of the two that Mauri had pointed out as his favourite tools. The other was a razor, like what Dan imagined self-harmers used; Mauri liked it because it cut deep but gave him a lot of control over the body. But the blade that Mauri had now was a sturdy steel paring knife with an ornate handle.
From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of a flame. Mauri held his knife over it, and Dan again looked up. He didn’t want to see this. When Mauri was hard at work it easily felt like Dan wasn’t even there, like he was just watching Mauri adoringly work on a body that wasn’t his wasn’t him that had nothing to do with him, and Dan really wished that was true.
The lighter returned to the floor. The plastic rustled as Mauri put it there. Mauri raised the knife, and Dan saw a flash of red-heated metal, the ornate handle sitting grotesquely in Mauri’s delicate hand, and Dan’s breath hitched. He looked away, not wanting to think about this, not wanting to think about how much it would hurt, not wanting to let Mauri down because he’d trusted Dan. He was going to be paid a lot for this commission, and Dan couldn’t disappoint him. Mauri had been going through a tough time lately, financially, and someone was going to pay a lot of money for this.
Mauri started to carve.
It hurt as much as Dan thought it would. He grit his teeth, trying to relax even as the hot knife sliced his skin open and left it blistering. He tried to give in to the pain, but even as he willed his body to just do what Mauri wanted his skin still resisted. The knife worked through him, opening Dan up, and with each cut he felt more hollow. At the back of his throat was the beginning of a whine, but he clamped his jaw shut and breathed heavily through his nose.
He didn’t want to break Mauri’s concentration.
It took half an hour for Mauri to finish. He had to reheat the knife twice. When Dan realised that he’d stopped Mauri was cleaning the blade, staring up at Dan intently with a critical eye.
“I think that should be enough for the first round,” he said, setting the knife with his other tools. Mauri stood, then helped Dan to his feet. His chest felt like it was on fire, and he felt an itch as blood trickled down his chest.
“How badly is this going to scar?” Dan asked, as Mauri helped him to another part of the studio, guiding him to the ground. He closed his eyes, leaning against the chair behind him. His legs felt weak, and the pain in his chest just kept aching.
“Probably worse than some of the others,” Mauri said, “but not too bad. Think of it as scarification.”
Dan nodded. He was floating. Distantly he heard Mauri moving, opening draws and walking across the floor. It all sounded so far away. And Dan himself felt like he was far away, floating far above his own body—except for the pain in his chest, that kept him pinned there like an anchor.
“What’ll you do when I’m too scarred?” Dan’s words were slurring.
“Too scarred?”
“Yeah,” Dan said. “When you can’t cut me up anymore. When I’m too ugly.”
“I guess I’ll start a new photo series,” Mauri said. “I doubt I’ll ever find a model that lets me work on their body like you do.”
A brief flicker of warmth ran through Dan and he smiled, the sense that he was loved and wanted momentarily blocking out the pain. “What kind of new photo series?”
“Something to do with your scars, obviously.”
“Yeah,” Dan said, feeling stupid for not considering it.
He must have blacked out for a moment because the next thing he knew, Mauri was behind him, pulling his left arm around his back and wrapping a length of rope around it. Dan’s stomach dropped. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t expected this—Mauri restrained him often enough during the photoshoots themselves, but usually he had some preparation. Usually he had some time between being injured and the photography sessions, to rest, like a piece of cooked steak.
“Already?” Dan asked, trying to look over his shoulder.
“Specifications,” Mauri said. He took Dan’s other arm, and rather than pull it around his back like he was handcuffing Dan, he pulled it over his shoulder, stretching the muscles in his chest. His fingers didn’t touch naturally, but Mauri wrapped the rope around this wrist, too, and pulled. Inch by inch he brought Dan’s hands closer together, pulling at both of his shoulders until Dan was sure that he couldn’t stretch any further, and finally closing the gap.
He cinched the rope, then let the end of the rope drop.
It hurt so much that Dan couldn’t breathe. The pull of his arms burned, deep under the skin, close to the bone, and there was no way for him to shift or adjust his position whatsoever to take the pressure off of his arm. Stretched like this, with his chest totally exposed, the shirt falling over his shoulder revealing what Mauri had carved into him, Dan was helpless, and vulnerable. Breathing pushed against the wound, hurting it further. He still felt blood against his skin.
He whined this time, and Mauri laughed. He stood in front of Dan, looking down at him thoughtfully.
“I’ll leave you like this for a bit,” he said. “I want all the pain on your face to look genuine this time.”
“But it’s always genuine,” Dan said.
“Sorry, that isn’t what I meant,” Mauri said. “I want you to look helpless, and truly resigned. I need to get you to the edge of what you think you can handle, then go over that.”
He hated himself for still trying to find a way to take the pressure off his shoulders, because Mauri was thorough and never left any slack when he tied him in this kind of position.
“Mauri,” he said, “can we think of something else?”
Mauri shook his head. “No, this is what we’re doing. The payoff will be great. Besides,” he grinned. “You look really good like that. I think I’m gonna leave you there for a few hours.”
“No!” Dan shouted. “Mauri, please, I can’t–you’re going to break something.”
“I won’t,” Mauri said. “And anyway, who are you to say that I can’t have my entertainment?”
He knelt in front of Dan, then, bringing one hand up to touch his bare shoulder with such loving tenderness that it made Dan shivered. He closed his eyes, willing himself to pull away rather then press into the touch, but when Mauri cupped Dan’s cheek in his hand he couldn’t resist. He turned his face against Mauri’s open palm, shuddering.
“I can’t do this,” Dan said, thinking already of the hours ahead of him where he would remain like this. Trapped, unable to do anything to relieve the pain, the pressure slowly getting worse until he was out of his mind and barely coherent, just a body that was hurt. Even after Mauri finished the photoshoot and got everything that he wanted, there was no guarantee that Mauri would let him go—and knowing Mauri, he probably wouldn’t.
That was something that Dan let himself forget too often, because how could he cope if he knew that he’d be spending hours like this?
A crack exploded across the side of his face, and Mauri’s hand vanished along with all warmth in his voice. “You can and you will. Stop acting like you have a choice.”
Dan stared helplessly as Mauri stood, then dropped his head. He couldn’t stand to see the coldness in Mauri’s gaze as he looked at Dan, as if he were something disgusting. The protests, the begging, the whimpering died in his mouth, frozen there by that stare.
As if he could protest.
As if he had any right to back out now—he’d agreed to this, after all. He felt sick, his legs like jelly, his arms like fiery pain attached to his torso and the decorative mark that Mauri had put there, had carved out of him, over his chest, hurting deeply. As if Mauri had carved him open and left him to spill out.
victims returning to their loved ones after being kidnapped and tortured, who are changed in almost every way, except for how much they still love the people they left behind
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
amandla
stormborns
origamiaround
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
