Using gun but without shooting it. It's a intimidating factor and a possibility. In extreme case it can be shot to a non vital part,
But what's more fun is:
Punch to the jaw while holding the gun: classic trail of blood down the forehead.
Shoving the gun in whumpee's mouth: what's a better way to silence a talkative whumpee.
Guiding whumpee's face up with it: To see what's deep rooted in thier eyes, Fear or defiance?
Pressing it into their back: Or their side, while whumpee is unaware of what they are going to get into. The bruising pressure against their bone, guiding them.
Choking them with it
Hitting the wrist with it: perhaps to make whumpee drop thier own weapon
And one different trope that those above,
Keeping it trained on someone Whumpee cares about: can whumpee call the bluff? Will whumper actually go to the lengths and shoot? Kill? Or hurt "loves one" ? Should they lunge for whumper's gun?
Kurt Wagner aka Nightcrawler in the circus. He's quickly deteriorating, between the whipping from the ring master, the items thrown at him by passers by, and the constant sedation so he dosent teleport away, hes not going to last much longer. The solution the ringmaster finds to keep his favorite monster alive is you, a healing mutant. You get thrown in there with Kurt. Kurt dosent trust you, spitting German slander at you, hes been tricked by the ringmaster before. But you just sit there, in the corner, picking at hay, when he finally does stalk towards you, you hold out your hand, the second he takes it, he can teleport. He teleports as far as his broken body would let him. He looked back to see you sitting in the cage curling closer and closer in the corner. He knows you'll face consequences, but he's too terrified to care.
(But it’s uh. Lowkey sad. Since most of y’all didn’t know about the uh. Arc Radiant and Flint had with this post yesterday)
NPT: uhhhhh @butternutt613, @sapphirethorne, @light-of-the-room (too tired to tag the whole squad) and YOU
TW: blood; mention of previous beating
Oliver had seen injuries before. With Quidditch, it was rather uncommon for anyone to come out unscratched. Quaffles don’t get caught and break your nose. Your twin Beaters decide it would be hilarious to charm the Bludgers narrowly miss the team’s bodies every time they fly by, which means you swerve for no reason. Chasers decide they’re going to braid each other’s hair mid practice and get run over by the Seeker.
Seeing all of these though? It still couldn’t prepare himself for the amount of blood pooling around this body.
Radiant’s body.
“Glasspetal?” Oliver asked, kneeling to the ground next to his Chaser’s body. He grasped onto her hand, hating how slow her pulse was. “Lass, what happened?”
Radiant coughed as blood trickled down from her nose and onto her lips. The skin around her left eye was swollen, making it look as if she was winking at him. “Would you—” she coughed again, a few droplets of blood landing on his face. “—you believe me if I told you I tripped?”
@whumpuary Day 12: Day 6 prompt (I accidently posted the prompt I meant to post today on the 6th) Share your favorite whump creation.
Because I am vain apparently, this is one of my own creations. It's part of a longer whump story I am too chicken to post in full. But this is my favorite chapter that I wrote.
Time was irrelevant. Unreal. Seconds, minutes, hours. They all dissolved down to moments. Undetermined, indiscriminate crumbs of existence marching one by one in single file through reality. If you could survive one moment, you could survive the next, and the next, and the next. And if you could survive all the moments you'd already survived through, then you could survive all the ones you still had to survive through.
That had become Heather's existence. No more memories. No more thoughts. Even the fear seemed to have faded into the background. She just lived in each separate moment. Surviving it so that she could get through the next one as well.
She hadn't had feeling in her arms since she had kicked the box out from under her, who knows how long ago. The ringing in her ears had become constant and grading. Her throat was chapped from dehydration and screaming it raw, and she could taste the metallic flavor of blood though she couldn't imagine how it had gotten there. Everything below her neck felt shredded and pulled apart. Excruciatingly painful, but so tangled and mottled together that she couldn't identify the sting of an oozing cut, or throb of a bruise, from the ache of her lungs that were still so diligently insisting on working. She couldn't even differentiate the pain of the brand anymore, though she knew it was still burning hot as an ember sucking all of her heat away into itself and festering somewhere against her t-shirt.
Cynthia had come once since she had branded Heather. She'd landed a badly aimed punch to her face that had left Heather with a bloody nose, clogging one nostril, and what she assumed was a black eye under all the tape. Cynthia had then beat her with a belt across her less injured back.
It was sickening how comforted Heather was by the familiarity of the belt. Cynthia's favorite method of punishment. Even when the beating went on for what felt like eternity and Cynthia started venturing lower on Heather's body to the sensitive backs of her legs. Even when she'd turned it around and started smacking the metal buckle hard against Heathers broken body, the last bit of warmth she had left in her curled and hummed with joy that even if the ground she was standing on was on fire, it at least was solid.
Heather had been too exhausted at that point to flinch away when the leather or metal made contact with her. She didn't even have it in her to try and make a sound. Cynthia had stopped twice to check her pulse and breathing, and after the second time had seemingly given up. Apparently bored now with the state of things. Heather had had enough wherewithal then to know that wasn't a good thing. That Cynthia was dangerous when she was bored, and was going to return diabolical. But even the thought of what Cynthia might do to Graham could only do much to keep Heather alert.
It wasn't that she didn't care about him anymore. Or that apathy had set in and she was hoping he'd take some of the burden. She wanted to protect Graham, and wanted to think of a way to keep Cynthia's attention on her. But she couldn't think. Every thought in her head slipped away like she was trying to hold water. The more she struggled to keep it, the faster it disappeared. Graham seemed nothing more than a dream now, and she was neither asleep enough to grasp him, nor awake enough to wonder about him.
She had long lost the cognition to notice the vibration of the storage container when the garage door opened, and the ringing in her ears was so loud that she couldn't even hear the incomprehensible sounds of a struggle, or yelling. So her first indication of a change in the status quo around her wasn't until someone practically slammed into her. The sudden abrasive contact lit up all of her wounds at once, especially the burn which began to sting so fiercely she managed to identify it over every other pain spasming through her.
She took a strangled breath in through her one functioning nostril, because she could take a breath. Who ever had slammed into her had grabbed her around the waist and lifted her just enough for her to take a real breath. And they were holding her there too. It was the most pain Heather had been in so far. Whoever was holding her was pressing too hard against the welts in her back, pushing in on her cracked ribs, and somehow managing to continuously rub the fibers of her shirt into her burn.
The pain made her teeter so close to the edge of unconsciousness that she actually fell off, dicending into the void and the darkness. But with the oxygen filling her lungs had come thought.
Graham
Heather grabbed onto the last bit of consciousness she could reach and pulled herself back. If someone was holding Heather, grabbing her, hurting her, that meant Cynthia was back. And Cynthia had been bored. Which meant Graham was now in imminent danger.
With some new found strength Heather didn't know she had, she began to struggle against Cynthia. Twisting and kicking her legs. Doing anything to fight her. At the very least pique her interest again. If only she could get her arms free...
Her arms were free. Almost as soon as she had thought it her arms had fallen from their place above her head and all her weight was collapsed on Cynthia. Thankfully, Heather couldn't feel her arms. And as it turned out couldn't move them either. But every already aching muscle in her back suddenly screamed and stretched as though being ripped. Even as that was happening, her chest muscles relaxed and Heather took in an almost involuntary deep breathe of air.
All the new pain, combined with the sudden ability to breathe again made Heather dizzy. Her existence turned grey for a moment, and when she pulled herself back she realized for the first time that there was more than one set of hands on her.
Cynthia, or who she had thought was Cynthia, had their arms firmly around her waist. they were holding her pressed to them and lowering her to the ground. Heather could feel their fingers pressed into bruises on either side of her waist. But there was a third hand spread over the back of her neck and supporting her head.
Was Cynthia making Graham help her? Had he given up and talked? Panic rising in her chest Heather began to struggle again. Only now, being on the ground, totally engulfed by maybe-Cynthia's embrace with one leg on either side of their body, Heather had much less leverage to fight with. She couldn't do much more than squirm, and maybe-Cynthia held her tighter to them while maybe-Graham held her head steady and pushed something pointed against the tape by her ear.
A few moments later the pointed object broke through. Heather could finally hear something other than ringing in her ears, and it was the sound of multiple people talking at once. One of the voices waas very close to her.
"Heather, it's us!"
It wasn't Graham's voice. Nor was it Cynthia's. It was Pete's.
Heather froze. She had all but forgotten that they were waiting on a rescue. The Family must have finally tracked them down and come to get them out. Bring them home. For the first time since Cynthia had first captured them, hope began to bubble in her chest.
Heather tried to turn her head towards Pete's voice, but found that her neck was too stiff to move and pain shot up over the back of her skull and shoulder blades. The hand on the back of her neck, she was pretty sure now it was Pete's, curled gently and began to stroke feather light against the unmarked skin there. She hadn't noticed before that the hand was warm against her icy skin, and his gentle touch, the first thing she had experienced in ages that didn't hurt, sent a ripple of pleasant warmth through her that made the pain a little less excruciating.
"Hold still for a minute" Pete continued speaking and the hand disappeared from the back of her neck "I'm going to get this tape off and I don't want to cut you"
Heather tried to hold still as best she could, but she had only just remembered she had arms as feeling came rushing back into them. From her shoulders all the way down to the tips of her fingers it felt like she was being branded again. A million hot rods pressing into her skin and burning her down to the bone. She wanted more than anything to try and shake the pain out of them, like you do to wake up a sleeping limb, but her muscles and nerves didn't seem to want to work yet and they hung limply around the neck of whoever's lap she was in. As though in compensation, she wriggled more or less unconsciously in their arms to try and deflect the pain somewhere else as she simultaneously focused on reminding her self that it was Pete picking at her face with a knife and not anyone she needed to be afraid of.
Whoever the other person holding her was wrapped their arms a little more tightly around her again, unknowingly brushing up against the bruises from her belting and tried to hold her still.
"I know you must hurt so much Baby" They said "Just hold still until we can get this tape off of you and then you can shake and cry all you want."
It was Lincoln. Even if Heather couldn't recognize the voice, he was the only person she knew who called anyone baby. She hated the pet name, but he did use it for everybody so he got a free pass. And right now the term of endearment made her want to melt into him.
She tried to get the squirming under control, and just about had until Pete ripped a large chunk of the tape freeing the entire front of her face. The sensations that hit her were numerous and overwhelmingly intense, not least of which the feeling that she had just lost her eyebrows and eye lashes.
Her contacts had long since dried out, leaving her eyes irritated. A fact she had been able to ignore up until this point. Suddenly being able to see again aggravated them and made the itching flair, even as she couldn't make anything out with her new found sight other than blurs of light in various shapes and colors that all seemed far to bright and harsh.
With her mouth uncovered her jaw fell limply open and she drew in a breath that felt like a balloon expanding in her chest. The breath was too quick, too deep, she could feel her lungs press against every single one of her ribs, moving them in ways they weren't meant to, and the sore, stiff muscles around them began to spasm. Before Heather could feel the dizzying relief of oxygen again, she was coughing. Her whole body jumping and shaking as her lungs fought to bring in air while her chest pleaded to stop being moved. Her vision went white with the pain of it and she felt shredded again. She couldn't even feel Pete and Lincoln's hands on her, tipping her back, trying to open her airway and mumbling soft encouragements as they did so, until she finally got her breathing under control.
There was something wet on her lips now and she could feel one of the boys run a finger over it to brush the moisture away. There was an extended silence and Pete murmured something about Heathers arms. Lincoln took one arm off Heather's back and moved it to the back of Heather's head, replacing Pete's hand. He then maneuvered her until she was leaning forward with her forehead pressed into the crook of his neck. One of her limp elbows lay on the opposite shoulder while her other had slid down his fore arm, held together still by the handcuffs that Heather thankfully couldn't feel yet as her nerves and muscles still burned with their newfound blood flow.
Lincoln replaced his hands at the waistband of her jeans and ran tiny circles over the visible skin there with his thumbs, rocking ever so slightly as Heather breathed unevenly against his skin, letting out exhausted sobs at the pain each breathe sent sparking through her.
"That's it Baby," he cooed "Just breathe. That's all you gotta do right now. Pete and I will take care of the rest. We got you Baby."
Heather's vision had never come back after her white out, but she realized after several shaky breathes that it was because her eyes were closed. Remembering the too bright lights and fuzzy shapes that were useless for identifying anything, she decided it was better to keep them closed for now. Pete jostled her arms slightly and Heather made a tiny noise of protest deep in her throat as sparks of pain shot up from her wrists. He apologized profusely and explained that he was getting the hand cuffs off of her along with a promise that he would be more careful.
Heather didn't protest any further, preoccupied with the newfound realization that she could make noise. If she could make noise then she could talk, probably, and though she knew she was quickly approaching unconsciousness, there was something she had to make sure of before she passed out. After taking several preparatory breathes Heather attempted to swallow and had the immediate sensation of razorblades in her throat. She took several more breathes to recover and then with a mighty effort attempted to form a word.
"Gr-gra-gr"
It was all she could get out. A small pitiful noise like a dog's whimper that she could feel rather than hear. It was all she could do though, and miraculously Lincoln seemed to understand.
"Oh Baby" he cooed "Shh. Graham's fine. His brothers are taking care of him. He's going to be okay. Just focus on yourself now. Everyone is safe."
The relief felt euphoric. Warmth and comfort washed over Heather and for a pleasant moment all her pain melted away into a numb joy.
Graham is fine
He's going to be okay
He is safe
He's with his brothers
And then the illusion broke so quickly Heather actually gasped.
This is all your fault
In the whirlwind of rescue, Heather had forgotten her promise to Graham's brothers. She'd forgotten that she had failed to protect Graham, and forgotten just how far his brothers were willing to go to protect each other. Her brain fizzled and short circuited on the sudden confusion of what was going on.
Why were Lincoln and Pete helping her? Why were they being so nice? Surely Graham's oldest brother, Adrien, the leader of The Family, would have ordered them to leave her behind. Or maybe he wanted her rescued so that she could answer to him before he threw her back out to the wolves.
Cynthia wasn't Heather's only enemy. When she had tried to give up her life of crime and went to go live with Cynthia, most of her former associates had taken the move personally. Marked her as an enemy and a double agent. Even now that she was clearly a failed convert, the only reason she could walk the street without fear of the many crime lords she had wronged was because she was under the protection of The Family. Without that she wouldn't last a week.
This is your fault
You're a bad person
You deserve everything that's happened to you
As Heather's mind spun woefully out of control Pete finally finished picking the lock on the hand cuffs and pulled the arms apart with an audible squelch of coagulated blood. They had cut so deeply into her skin that Pete had to tug at them to get the metal off of her. He miss calculated the amount of force he needed though and jostled Heather's entire upper body as he pulled. Every single one of her muscles spasmed and she tensed against Lincoln. Her vision sparked white again and she let out a tiny cry of protest before finally, blissfully, falling into unconsciousness.
Sidekick fell to the ground with a wheeze as they were knocked down once again. "And bang, you're dead... again," Hero sighed, bored. "I have a feeling someone didn't train like they were asked to."
Sidekick gulped at Hero's strong tone. "I'm sorry, I- I had so much to juggle and-"
They were cut off as Hero kicked them harshly in the ribs, "I don't care! You can't have too much to juggle if you have to save the world! Oh sorry hero, I couldn't save that family in the burning house because I had an important class test," Hero mocked.
Sidekick bit the inside of their cheek, trying to hold in the tears.
"OH! And now you're going to cry about it?! Jesus Christ, I've recruited a wimp! A good for nothing wimp!-"
"Stop it,” Sidekick growled.
"Oooooo!!! Acting all tough now I see. And what are you going to do about it?" Hero jeered.
Sidekick heaved breaths and slowly stood up. they felt a voice in their head, screaming at them to stop and not do what they were about to do. but they ignored it. They raised their fists and stood in a fighting stance.
Hero chuckled, "Oh, bring it on."
Sidekick hadn't fully recovered from all the attacks from previous days, so Hero had even more of an advantage. They gulped and quickly stepped in for a punch. Hero was quick to grab their wrist and pulled their back right up to their front, keeping Sidekick in a chokehold.
Sidekick let out a cry.
"This is your last chance, give up now and learn your lesson, or, continue this little cute fight and learn your lesson. Ill give you a tip, the latter will end in more pain," Hero whispered in Sidekick's ear. Sidekick grinded their teeth. They could prove to Hero how strong they were, they could show them what they were actually made of. Or, they could not embarrass themselves in front of their old idol and be in less pain.
"I tap out," they whispered. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that."
"I said-" Hero's grip tightened, giving Sidekick the message to never raise their voice at them, "I said uhm.. I tap- I tap out." Hero's laugh sent shivers down Sidekick's spine and suddenly they were sent sprawled onto the ground as Hero dropped them.
Just as Sidekick went to get up, a heavy boot landed on their back and Sidekick was shoved to the ground, "Stay. down."
Sidekick didn't even dare to ignore that command. Hero was angry at them enough.
Hero circled around Sidekick slowly. Each footstep inclining Sidekick's terror. "You're sloppy at training, you're making excuses, youre talking back, and then you try to fight me?! My my Sidekick, that's really something," Hero emphasized the word with a hard kick to Sidekick's ribs.
Sidekick let out a cry and slowly tried to curl in on himself, "HNG- Hero, please!”
“What? Can you not handle it? I have fought so many Villains and battles and you can't handle one kick!”
Sidekick whimpered, “Please, I-I cant! Not today!”
“You can't choose the days of your battles!!! You find yourself standing face to face with a villain one day, you can't just beg them to wait another day. You gotta stick out your chest and fight. Fight like a hero.”
Another kick. And another. Sidekick found their breath being knocked out from them. They let out uneasy gasps. “You've gotta toughen up. And there's only one way to do it.” Hero kicked them over and over. It felt like it was never going to end. Sidekick tried to get at least one moment of peace, but the kicks were brutal. And all on their ribs. Where no one could see.
Hero froze at the sound of rustling behind them. They quickly looked behind them but couldn't see anything. The alleyway was empty. Sidekick was wheezing on the ground, trying to normalize their breathing back to normal.
“I can't afford to get caught, c’mon, quick!” Hero yanked Sidekick up by the shirt and dragged Sidekick over to the car. Sidekick let out cries but Hero quickly put their hand over Sidekick’s mouth, “Shut it! Nobody can save you!” At least, that's what they thought.
... you ever just want one of your fave fictional men to get beaten so badly they can’t even get up off the ground? Like, dirt and blood in their hair and they’re stubborn as hell so they’re still trying but they just can’t?
