Not really a trope question, but what’s a segment of a fic you wrote that gives you a serious case of the whumperflies?
Oooh, this is a good one! Thanks for the ask :D
Okay, I only have a wip intro to link this to, but this clip is from my novel, which was my first piece of writing and was also written before I knew what whump was. This scene fucking possessed me, I swear to god, and it really hasn't changed much over the course of the many revisions I've put this novel through.
Contents/TWs: female protag, male "whumpee", dissociation, lots of blood, implied and a little active torture, my original flaying scene (yes, i'd say i was meant to find the whump community lmao), a bit of gore, ~450 words
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More red was splashed across his smirking face and the front of his white button-down shirt. His hands and the skin of his forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves were coated in it.
It glistened on the blade of the hunting knife he held in his right hand.
Her gaze followed the path of a fat crimson droplet, beading and rolling down the blade’s edge until it reached the tip and fell with a plop, merging into a small puddle on the floor.
Suddenly, it clicked.
All that red was blood.
Marcus spun, the movement catching her attention as he presented her with his back. His arm moved, the arm holding the knife, and when he turned back around, he was holding up a tan strip, dripping with red—no, dripping with blood.
Alaia stared, a roaring in her ears blocking out all sound while Marcus strode over to her, holding out that strip like some sick kind of offering. Her hands rose of their own accord, and he stripped off her gloves before delivering his gift into her waiting palms.
It landed with a wet squelch, warm, tacky liquid sliding between her fingers.
He opened his mouth, and she tilted her head, fascinated that his lips were moving, yet no sound was coming out. His hand flashed in her peripheral vision, and she blinked, sound rushing back in.
Was someone crying? Maybe it was her. She went to touch her stinging cheek to check but found her hands occupied.
“I said, do you like my gift?” Marcus said, his brows lowering.
He must be irritated, but his tone barely registered, her head feeling stuffed full of cotton wool.
“What?” she said thickly, looking down at the slimy thing in her hands again. “What is this?”
Marcus stepped to the side, gesturing behind him. “It’s a memento, something to remember your former lover by.”
Her breath caught when she finally looked up and saw what… no, who, was behind him.
A gagged, bloody figure tied to a chair, sweaty hair partially obscuring a flushed, tear-streaked face. Familiar pale blue eyes peeked through, so full of pain and sorrow and regret that all the air was sucked from the room.
Serin.
Her eyes traveled down his bare chest, taking note of numerous gaping lacerations and reddened marks that would surely bruise before stopping at an area on his lower abdomen. Sullenly oozing blood, the patch appeared to be a square of raw flesh, missing the upper layer of…
She fell to her knees, gagging as she flung the strip of Serin’s skin away from her. Frantically, she wiped her hands on her skirt, trying to erase the warmth of his severed flesh biting into her palms.
