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i didn't want to write anything from povs like this, i wanted to exclusively tell the story from sheila's pov so the reader never really gets to know what is happening... but i can't resist. so here's a peak behind the curtains
masterlist
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, child whumpee, minor whump, child whumper, lady whump, lady whumpee, lady whumper, sadistic whumper, restraints, gagged, dehumanisation, gore, eye gore, knives, stabbing, gutting, dismemberment, child groomed to become a whumper
Jack woke up in a daze. He didn't know where he was, and when he tried to move, he found he couldn't. The dim lighting in the— wherever he was illuminated two figures before him. He wanted to call out to them for help, but his mouth had been taped shut.
Panic was starting to set in.
"He's awake, Daddy!" the... child? said. Was this a father-daughter duo?
"I can see that, sweetheart. Thank you."
Whatever was going on was not right. Something was horribly, horribly wrong, and Jack didn't know why, or how this had happened, and tears quickly started welling in his eyes.
"Can I remove the tape? I like talking to them," the girl who must not have been older than 10 said. Jack nodded eagerly; maybe he could talk his way out of whatever hostage situation he'd found himself in.
"Go ahead," he said, and the girl skipped and hopped over to the chair, reached up, and tore the tape off his mouth in one swell swoop. It stung, and Jack couldn't stifle a pained groan.
"Don't start with the noises yet," the girl said in a chastising tone. "It's not time yet. Men are supposed to be strong. Only weak people—"
"Help me," Jack cut in, desperate. "Please. Tell your daddy to release me. Please, little girl."
There was something wrong with the girl. She didn't look at all innocent, and her half-a-monologue was very out of place as well, but she was Jack's only chance. There was no way he could convince her father to let him go, if he'd already gone through the trouble of kidnapping a person.
"My name is Adela," she said, ignoring the pleas. Yet again, she sounded chastising, like he was supposed to know that.
"Adela, please, I don't know what's going on, I am very scared—"
Adela giggled and stepped back. Jack tugged against the ropes holding him tied to the chair, to no avail. "I'll tell you what's going on!"
It was so eerie, the way her father did basically nothing but supervise. Supervise as his young daughter talked to a captive in a basement. He could only assume it was a basement.
"Daddy kidnapped you because you were silly and went on a midnight walk alone!"
Her tone was cheery, her demeanour was somehow both child-like and beyond her age, and all Jack wanted to do was pinch himself to wake up from this nightmare. "That's it?" he asked, tears streaming down his face now. "That's my crime? That I took a walk?"
"You're so pathetic," she said, and he could tell she got the vocabulary from her father. "Why are you crying? I haven't even done anything yet."
"And you won't, right? You won't do anything? You and Daddy just wanted to scare me a little, right?"
Adela laughed. "Daddy would never run a pointless errand like that! And where is the fun in just catching something and releasing it immediately? We're not fishers!"
The dehumanisation in her language didn't go unnoticed, and it just set Jack more and more on edge. Something in his mind was telling him this wasn't the girl's first time in this basement with someone captive.
"Listen to me, Adela," he pleaded, and she stopped laughing, listening intently. "What you're doing right now is very, very bad. It's a crime, and it can get you locked up in a very bad place."
"Nope!" she said in a sing-song voice. "I'm too young to be held criminally responsible!"
How did she know those words?
"It can get Daddy locked up, since he's your father," he tried again, from another angle.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked, rocking back and forth on her heels and toes, hands clasped behind her back. The very picture of child-like innocence, in cirtumstances that were anything but.
"Adela," her father cut in, apparently knowing what she was about to say.
Adela turned back towards her father. "What? Does it matter if he knows? He's not leaving this basement in one piece."
Jack's blood froze in his veins. She said it so casually.
"I suppose that's true," he relented. "Fine, sweetie. Go ahead."
"Yay!" Adela turned back to him and walked over so she could whisper in his ear. He didn't know why that was necessary, since the only other person in the room already knew what she was going to say. "Daddy knows all the police in town. He's good friends with them. People have tried to get him in trouble before, but he knows what to say and who to call. You will never get anywhere."
Then, she skipped back to the centre of the room, smiling sweetly at him. Jack was stunned.
"S-So there's— there's nothing I can do?" he stammered out. "I'm going to die?"
"Yep! But look on the bright side," she said, holding up a finger, "you'll be good practice for me!"
"I have a wife! And two kids!" Jack sobbed. "My youngest is about as old as you are, Adela. What would you do if someone ripped your daddy away from you and killed him in a basement?"
"Nobody would do that to Daddy, because he is strong, and he knows all the right people, and he's careful!"
"Don't you have a smidgen of empathy?"
The smile disappeared from Adela's face. It was like she suddenly ceased to be a little girl, assuming the personality and expression of something ancient and terrifying, something Jack never wanted to see in a dark basement.
"I don't have empathy for low-lives like you," she said, deadpan. "You're nothing but a sack of meat for me to butcher. You're garbage, picked up from the street to make it cleaner. Your family won't miss you. Nobody will."
It sent shivers down Jack's spine. This girl was no ordinary girl, she was a monster. Maybe trying to convince the dad would be a better move after all? But as he raised his head to look at the dad, he found him smiling at his girl with pride.
No. It was definitely him who had trained her.
"Adela—"
"Let's start!" she said, cheeky grin returning to her face. She hopped over to a table Jack hadn't noticed in the dark, picking up an instrument he couldn't see in the dim lighting. It was only when she walked back to the centre of the room, under the one working light bulb, that he could see it was a butcher's knife. Was she... serious about the butcher comment? "Daddy says that even though my attempts in the past failed, because I wasn't strong enough, I should continue trying and seeing if I can finally sever limbs!"
"Adela, listen to me—"
"What do you want cut off first? Hands or feet?"
Jack felt like he was sweating blood. The light reflected off the blade and Jack could see tiny spots of what must've been dried blood on there. It looked sharp. And though Adela's tiny arms were not particularly muscular, he had no doubt in his mind that she could do a lot of damage with a butcher's knife.
"If you don't choose, I'll choose," she said, with the smile of a cat who got the cream.
"Do you want to start with that?" her father cut in, and Jack held his breath. What other thing was there to start with that wasn't even worse than this? "Remember last time? Chopping them up is usually the last thing we do. Don't you want to try out some other things first?"
"But I want to see if I've become stronger!" Adela whined, like... well, like a child.
"Patience is a virtue."
Adela lowered the butcher's knife. "Fine," she said, pouting.
"What are you going to do?" Jack asked, petrified.
"I guess I can start by gouging your eyes out," she said, like it was a chore.
"You what?"
Adela went back to the table and put the knife down. She didn't pick up anything else. Was she going to— to do it by hand? She was going to gouge his eyes out?
"Adela! Adela, please, I don't know what your daddy told you, but this is wrong, this is—"
"Open wide! Your eyes, I mean. I know doctors usually say that about your mouth." She approached him, and Jack immediately squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could.
"Adela, no!"
The girl laughed again. "They always do this, Daddy, don't they? I wonder if it's because I'm small. Whenever you give orders, they seem to follow them a lot better."
"You'll get there," her father said encouragingly.
Adela pried one of his eyes open, then took her thumb and dug into the inner corner of his eye, and he screamed, and there was blood, and suddenly he couldn't see out of his left eye anymore. The pain was unbearable, and Jack thought he might pass out from just imagining what the damage must've looked like.
"That's one down," he heard her say over the sound of his laboured breathing. "Daddy says there are bad people out there. People who look at little girls like me with bad intentions. You will never look at anything ever again."
She pried his other eye open and repeated the process, leaving Jack fully blind and reeling from pain. His tears were mixing with the blood.
"Adela... Adela, please..." he said, but at this point, he knew it was futile. She was cruel. A monster, created and engineered to be as demonic as humanly possible, likely from a young age. "Please, stop..."
"If I'm not allowed to chop you up yet, I want to feel you," she said, and though he couldn't see her anymore, he heard her walk over to the table. "Daddy likes this part best, he told me. So I like it too. I mean, not like... I don't just like it because Daddy does. I like it myself. From myself. By myself."
"Please, no..."
"I will cut across your tummy so your guts spill out," she said with a girlish giggle. Jack thought back to his wife. To his kids. They would never see him again. And though Adela said they wouldn't miss him, he knew they would. And they would keep wondering. Would his wife think he'd left of his own volition? "Ready? Set, go!"
Sharp pain exploded in his stomach. He had been stabbed. And then the girl started dragging the knife across, and Jack screamed, and screamed, and screamed until there was no air left in his lungs.
Then she started... fondling his insides. There was no other way to describe it. The sounds were absolutely horrifying, paired with that persistent giggle, and Jack was suddenly glad he didn't have eyes to see this with anymore.
"So warm," Adela commented. "It would be nice to crawl inside another human on a winter night. Have you ever thought about that?"
There was nothing but pained moans and groans coming from Jack anymore. He didn't understand how he hadn't passed out yet.
"Daddy, he stopped talking. Does that mean I can try to chop him up now?"
A sigh. "I suppose so."
"Yay!"
The small, curious hands retreated, and Jack was left there in the dark, with his guts spilling out onto his crotch and the chair underneath.
"I'll be good at this one day," Adela's voice came from close up, and Jack could only assume she had the butcher's knife in hand. "Like, really good. Daddy will be proud. Mommy... Mommy doesn't have to know."
So there was one sane parent at home. Good to know, Jack thought distantly.
"One, two, three!" The knife came down on his left wrist, and he screamed again. "Aw... It didn't go all the way through."
"Try again, sweetheart. That was a good blow."
"Okay!"
And that marked the beginning of Jack's last minutes spent conscious. Blow after blow to his extremities, Adela missing and having to retry, then finally severing some limbs... It was torture, plain and simple, even if she didn't intend for this part to be.
Hello and welcome everyone! This year, as it has in the past few years, we are celebrating Whumpmas (in July). With the original hosts' blessing and two new hosts/mods: @set-phasers-to-whump and @yet-how-they-creep
We are working day and night to make it happen as smoothly and professionally as it runs every year, the prompts will be announced in a day or two (before the 1st of the month, don't worry).
The rules stay the same: tag your works with #whumpmasinjuly2026 and #whumpmasinjulyday[X] and mention @whumpmasinjuly-archive so we can find and reblog your submissions.
For FAQ and more in depth rules take a look at the old account: @whumpmasinjuly
Stay tuned and help us get the word out, so everyone can find this blog!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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black whumpees. black whumpees who were raised in a lab/living weapon facility/something to that effect and never had anyone teach them how to take care of their hair and always just had it roughly untangled with no regard for their pain meeting caretaker (also black) who knows how to do wonderful cornrows in whimsical patterns and softly comb their hair with more gentleness than they've ever known before. black whumpees with a creepy whumper who thinks their eyes—dark as the night, just as deep, just as starry, just as infinite—are the most beautiful thing on the world. black pet whumpee with a godawful no-good whumper who forces them to speak "proper" (= standard english or their setting's equivalent, whumper's definition of unproper being AAVE/ebonics) and who finally finds a safe space to let go and speak normally during recovery. black whumpee who got their hair forcefully cut/shaved in captivity getting to wear bright, beautiful extensions and braids to try and make up for what was lost, now that they have the freedom to. black whumpee snatched up and raised in captivity and isolated from their culture being tended to by a community who helps them reconnect with the lost time, good food making them tear up with nostalgia longing for a time they barely remember existed.
black whumpees in all shades of skin from bronze terracota to the deepest mahogany & with all kinds of hair from a curly cloud of sheep's wool to a fluffy, looser kind of curls & black whumpees in all shapes & sizes & all kinds of gender and sexuality or lack thereof & as robots and fairies and angels and vampires from all kinds of backgrounds & with all kinds of trauma. yes please.
There’s something that makes me go insane and it’s the image of someone cradling a dead body tenderly. They’re already gone but you still try to comfort them. They’re already gone but while the warmth in their body still remains you can pretend. They’re already gone and you were too late but still you hold them like your kindness can bring them back.
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I'm sorry this was so late my friend, work got crazy 🥲 I got @a-rat-named-corban's boy Corry for the latest @whump-art-exchange's whump exchange 2026! This poor guy got caught by the Joker (crowbar because if you know you know)
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, lady whump, lady whumpee, past noncon, past trauma, slut-shaming, child whumpee, threat of self-harm, restraints, broken bones mention, minor whump, grooming a child to be okay with torture and participate in it
It had been seven years.
Two months of Errol trying to get her pregnant.
Eight of carrying the child.
And about six years of the baby being trained like some sort of attack dog.
Adela hadn't gone to kindergarten, because Errol wanted to keep her home as long as possible. And with enough money, you could do basically anything you want. She would've been homeschooled as well, starting this year, but Sheila managed to shed enough tears and beg him pitifully to let Adela attend a real school. She wasn't equipped to teach her at home, and she wanted Adela to interact with other kids her age instead of hanging around Errol and his 'friends'.
It turned out to be a bad idea.
Adela came home from her first day of school with red, puffy eyes, and she slammed the front door so hard that Sheila jumped. "Adela?" she called, and her daughter walked into the living room and threw her schoolbag on the floor.
"I'm never going back!" she cried. Sheila was by her side in an instant.
"Adela, sweetie, what happened? Did someone say something to you?"
"It's your fault!" she went on. Sheila was taken aback. "Everyone knows you're a whore!"
How Adela even knew that word, Sheila didn't understand. And what… what even was this about? How did people know something like that, when it wasn't true? "Sweetie, let's sit down."
"I don't want to sit with you!"
"Please, let's sit."
Adela huffed and puffed but eventually took a seat on the couch. Sheila sat next to her. "Can you explain what you think a 'whore' is?"
"Someone like you! Who had sex super young and got pregnant! Everyone knows that's what you did, everyone calls you a whore, everyone says I'm gonna become a whore too!"
Rape culture was well and good, Sheila thought distantly. Victim blaming too. She didn't have a choice. Errol had made the decision that as a forty-year-old man he would go after her, a teen, and get her pregnant. She didn't have a choice. She couldn't run. She couldn't fight off someone twice her size. She couldn't abort when Adela was just a little fetus in her womb. She didn't have a choice in any of it.
"A 'whore' is a bad word used to describe sex workers," Sheila said as calmly as she could. "Sex workers are people who offer sexual services for money. Did I do that?"
"I don't know."
"I didn't. Will you do that?"
"No!"
"Then you won't be a 'whore'. But that's a bad word, Adela. Derogatory. Do you know what that means?"
Adela shook her head.
"It means it belittles those it's used against. Do you want to belittle others? Do you want to belittle me?"
Adela looked away. Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. "It's your fault. All of it is your fault."
Sheila's heart was breaking for her. Errol had ruined both of their lives. Speaking of Errol, she wouldn't have been surprised to learn he had planted the seed in the kids' heads about her, that he somehow played a role in everyone knowing she was a teen mum.
But maybe the most horrible aspect of all of this was seeing how Adela looked at her with less and less love as the days passed. She didn't outright say she wanted to belittle Sheila, but Sheila wasn't sure she would've said no. Her outbursts were becoming more and more frequent as well.
"I can go in and talk to your homeroom teacher about bullying," Sheila offered.
"Yeah, right. And make it worse. I dealt with it."
Sheila froze. There was something about how she said that that made her afraid. "You dealt with it?"
"Yes."
"How, sweetie?"
"I pushed Claudio off the stairs when we were going to recess. Nobody saw it was me, I made it look like he just tripped and fell. Nobody believed him when he said he was pushed."
"Adela, that's… That's not a good thing to do."
Adela reached down and pulled something small out of her sock. It was a Swiss blade. "I could've used this. I will if he says something again."
Sheila snatched the Swiss blade right out of her daughter's hand. "Adela! Are you insane?" She regretted saying that as soon as the words left her mouth. But she was so flabbergasted, she was so— terrified.
"Give that back! Daddy gave that to me!"
"You're not getting it back! I'm putting this away, and you're definitely not bringing it to school, and you're most definitely not hurting others with it!"
"Claudio deserves it!"
"We're going over to Claudio's house right now, and you're going to apologise for pushing him down the stairs!"
"We can't."
"What?"
"Claudio's not home."
"Where— where is he?"
"In the hospital. He broke his arm when he fell."
Sheila closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. There was no remorse in Adela's voice. She didn't even know why she expected it, after all of this. "Okay. I'm going to school with you tomorrow, and we'll see if Claudio comes. If he does, and if he's dropped off by his mother, we'll talk to them."
"I'm not talking to him."
"You are, and you will admit to what you did, and you will apologise."
"Daddy wouldn't make me do this!" Adela snapped. "Daddy would be proud that I dealt with it on my own, without any help from any of you!"
"Well, Daddy isn't home. So unfortunately, you're stuck with the worse parent."
"Yeah, a whore parent."
Adela was too young for discussions of rape, Sheila told herself for the hundredth time. This wasn't the time to explain it. It wasn't. No matter how much she wanted to defend herself, this just wasn't the time. "Grab your bag and go to your room. I'm not taking you out of school just because you had one bad first day. You're going back tomorrow."
"Just wait until Daddy comes home."
"I don't care what Daddy says!" she snapped back, and once again, she regretted it as soon as she'd done it. She took another deep breath. "Daddy and I disagree on most things. I don't doubt he will be excited to hear this story of yours, but that doesn't mean what you did was right."
Just then, the front door opened. Errol walked in.
"Daddy!" Adela jumped off the couch and ran over to him to give him a big hug. She didn't hug Sheila anymore. "Mommy is being really mean to me! But I know you won't be! Can we go out?"
"No," Sheila said from the couch.
"Why does Mommy have your knife?" Errol asked when he saw her holding it.
"She took it away!"
Errol gave her a look. Sheila didn't care. He admired her strong will and personality so much, she would get a piece of it today. "I took it away because she threatened to hurt a classmate with it. Which, I assume you'd agree, is bad."
"Well, what did that classmate do?"
"He called Mommy a whore and said I'd grow up to be a whore as well!" Adela said, filling him in. "But I dealt with it. I pushed him down the stairs and he broke his arm. I made it look like an accident."
Errol ruffled her hair. "That's my girl."
Of course he would do that. Adela was beaming now, tears long forgotten. "Can we go out now?" she repeated, and Sheila wanted to tear her hair out. She hated these outings. She hated the violence Adela was exposed to, ever since she was a baby. She hated that her daughter was growing up to be cruel. "I can chain Mommy up for you."
Sheila's eyes widened. Adela had never said that before. "Adela—"
"I think that's a good idea," Errol cut in. "Bring me the chains and the lock."
Adela ran off. Errol walked over to her, still sitting on the couch, and grabbed her wrist, twisting the knife out of it. "This is Adela's, I believe," he said with a smirk. "So I'm giving it back to her."
"You're raising a monster," she hissed.
"I got it!" Adela yelled as she ran back into the room with the chains and lock.
"Good. To the radiator, just like I do," Errol instructed, and Adela walked over and grabbed Sheila by the hand to lead her to it.
"Come on, Mommy."
Sheila wasn't moving. She wasn't about to be chained to the radiator by her own child. With her dad's approval.
"Mommy!" she repeated, and Sheila recognised it as the beginning of a temper tantrum.
"Mommy doesn't want to be chained," she said calmly. "And Mommy doesn't want you to keep going out with Daddy."
Adela turned to Errol. Errol looked back at her in a sort of 'well, what will you do now?' way. He wanted to test her. Whether she could do what she'd set out to do.
Adela began crying. "Mommy doesn't love me!" she bawled. Sheila knew this was an attempt at emotional manipulation — Adela knew well that she hated so see her cry, and would indulge her when it happened. But not this time.
"Mommy loves you very much, sweetie, but I won't be chained."
Adela kept weeping and tugging on her hand for a few minutes, and while Sheila's heart was breaking, she wasn't budging. The tears stopped almost in an instant when Adela realised they weren't working. It was scary.
"Daddy?" Adela asked.
"Yes, sweetheart."
"Give me my knife."
Sheila's heart was racing as she watched Errol hand her the knife. Adela made the blade pop out, and Sheila was about to get up and literally run out of the room— when Adela placed the blade against her own arm. "If you won't let me chain you up, I'll hurt myself, Mommy."
Sheila just sat there. Bewildered. Reeling. Before she knew it, she stood up and walked with Adela to the radiator. Adela chained her right hand to it, then popped the lock in place. Then, she put the Swiss blade back into her unicorn pattern sock.
"Good job, Adela," Errol praised, and Sheila was too shocked to say a word. "Now, let's go. I'll buy you some ice cream on the way."
"Mommy said I need to apologise to Claudio," Adela said in a tone that was so clearly looking for her dad to completely contradict Sheila and get her out of the obligation.
"The kid who said those awful things? Oh, no, sweetheart. You did what you had to do. Kid had it coming."
"Yay!" she said, bouncing after Errol. "I love you, Daddy."
Author's Notes: this took forever and i'm not thrilled with it but hey it's done! Apologies for any mistakes, I didn't do a final read-through because I'm sick of looking at it lol
Despite his best efforts, Owynn is no closer to learning what the King wants from Myrie or why she won't give in even under the most brutal torture he has ever seen. Ecker keeps a book, thick and bound in leather, the pages filled with notes and sketches. Owynn has yet to get a proper look, but what he has glimpsed does not bode well for the fairy.
When he finally works up the courage to ask his commander, the answer is so mundane it makes him even more confused.
"The King only wishes to open up old trade routes," Sir Gavyn explains. "It is not in violation of the treaty, and he believes our kingdoms have much to offer each other. He planned to go discuss this with the Fairy Queen, but her willful daughter seems to think we mean to bring them harm. She will not agree to arrange a meeting."
Owynn's brow furrows. He knows little about trade or treaties, but a meeting to discuss such things would not be such a bad thing, would it? Her resistance seems extreme, but then, so does torturing a princess in response. There must be something he is missing, or something he simply doesn't understand.
Do you mean to bring them harm?
The thought comes unbidden and he is immediately appalled at himself for even thinking it. Of course they don't.
"And...why must the torture be so severe?"
"Fairies are not as fragile as they may seem. They are quite powerful, in fact, and as such they require more powerful means of persuasion." He nods towards the door. "Go on, now. Stop asking questions and get to your station."
"Yes, Sir."
-
He intends to ask Myrie about what he learned, hoping it will somehow make sense. But when he arrives, Ecker is already there, standing over the princess. She is on her knees, hunched over and cradling her hands to her chest. Sobbing.
Ecker grabs her by the arms, trying to pry them open. The fairy resists, crying out, "please, no!" and trying to squirm free of his grip. It's useless, and Ecker pulls her up onto her feet again, holding her arms out. Only then can Owynn see what he has done. Every one of Myrie's fingers is broken, as well as both of her wrists. Her swollen hands twitch. Owynn can't help but flinch; he once broke two fingers when training with his sword and it was horrid. He cannot imagine the pain she is in.
"Well, boy, don't just stand there. Get over here. You might learn something."
Owynn moves closer, remaining a few feet behind Ecker. Myrie glances up, her face the picture of misery. Each breath she takes is a hiccupping sob. Her legs tremble like they might give out at any moment. "It-" hic "h-hurts-" hic. One of her hands gives a sharp twitch and a shudder runs through her body. She whimpers, head drooping forward so that her hair conceals her face.
"I prefer to face opponents who can defend themselves," Owynn says, bitterness seeping into his voice. "A knight does not inflict violence on innocents." Even as he says it he knows it to be untrue, for Sir Gavyn has never hesitated to harm Myrie.
Ecker chuckles. "You disapprove of what I do. I have seen it since the beginning. But I fill a vital role. For knights and nobles to hold such lofty ideals, for kings and queens to keep their hands clean, men like me must exist." As he speaks he lifts Myrie's arms out to her sides, pulling them taut past the point of mere discomfort. The princess whines. Her legs finally buckle but she is held aloft by the man's tight grip.
"Do you feel no pity?" Owynn demands. He wouldn't dare speak this way around Sir Gavyn, and knows there is a risk word will get back to his commander.
At that, to his surprise, Ecker stops pulling, momentarily easing the strain on the fairy's arms. She gasps for air, visibly relieved.
"I am not heartless. It may surprise you to know I have family who I love deeply. I feed the birds outside my window and toss coins to children in the streets. You will learn, in time, that you must reserve your pity for those deserving of it."
Then, as if to emphasize that this does not include the princess, Ecker gives both of her arms a sudden, violent yank, dislocating both shoulders in an instant. Myrie's head snaps back and she lets out a scream that makes Owynn's skin crawl. For a moment he forgets to breathe, watching her face twist and her body spasm as she continues to wail, as those wails turn to gasps, as she struggles to breathe. Shuddering, her eyes roll back and she goes completely limp.
Ecker presses cruelly on one of her crushed little hands to try to rouse her, but she only groans.
“Ah, well. Too bad. We will have to resume tomorrow.”
He binds her wrists with string and lifts them above her head, eliciting a string of more broken moans from the unconscious fairy. He attaches the string to a hook hanging from the ceiling. Once he lets go, her arms bear all of her weight, and however slight it may be, it is sure to be excruciating when she wakes.
"Here is how it works," Ecker begins. "When they are new, fresh, you overwhelm them with pain. You show them just how far you're willing to go. Most break then and there. But the stubborn ones...let them heal. Provide them small comforts, some hope, remind them what it feels like, but never let them forget that you can take it away. Then you ask them again. Many more give in here, before they can acquire any more damage. But if they resist, you reintroduce pain..." he pulls down on Myrie's ankles, slowly increasing the strain on her arms until she is stretched as far as possible without breaking or dislocating more of her. She groans loudly, miserably, stirring just enough to feel the pain but too overwhelmed by it to form words or even open her eyes.
"You layer the pain until they reach a breaking point," he continues, so casual, as if he is teaching Owynn how to build a fire. "If they still refuse, try something new." He releases her ankles, but the damage is done, and the fairy continues to make soft sounds of distress.
"Now, my human subjects tend to either cooperate, die, or go mad after just a few rounds," Ecker explains. "I admit I am impressed by the princess's resilience. She may be my greatest challenge yet."
This is the first thing Ecker has said that gives Owynn pause. Things have been done to Myrie that would kill or cripple the strongest human man. Yet the princess recovers every time with barely a scar to show for it. Perhaps he has underestimated her.
Perhaps that is what she wanted.
He turns away from Myrie. His services aren't needed at the moment and despite all his doubts he hates to see her suffer. Without another word he leaves the dungeon and returns upstairs, feeling more conflicted than ever.
–
Every subsequent visit, Owynn finds Myrie a more and more broken.
First go her arms, broken in a dozen places or more and twisted around each other unnaturally before she is strung up by her wrists again, the position infinitely more excruciating.
Next her knees and ankles are crushed and she is strung up again, only this time with her feet touching the table, forcing her to choose between putting pressure on her legs or her arms. It does not take long for her body to decide for her; Myrie's legs give out and once again her poor arms must bear her weight all night. By morning she is delirious with pain and exhaustion.
After this Ecker gives her a couple days of reprieve. Not enough to heal, only to return to her senses.
Then he starts on her ribs.
He breaks them one at a time, starting at the smallest ones low on her sides and working his way up, careful and methodical so as not to accidentally kill her.
He dislocates both legs at the hips, presses on her sternum until it cracks, even fractures her spine in several places, though he stops before he can cause too much damage.
What remains is a trembling, twitching mess, so swollen, bruised and tender that inflicting new pain is no longer necessary. Neither is restraining her. Ecker leaves her out on the table overnight, shivering without any cover while her body throbs all over from countless broken places, simultaneously too hot and too cold.
Owynn is tasked, as always, with the simple tasks of bringing her food and water. Myrie drinks little and eats less. She rarely wakes enough to speak but hurts too much to get proper rest, and so she spends long hours half-conscious, moaning and mumbling faint pleas. All of Owynn's attempts to soothe her are futile, his medicines useless. When he is with her he places her on a cushion and covers her with a cloth, trying to offer at least some comfort and warmth.
Sir Gavyn and Ecker visit, too. They press on her shattered knees or squeeze her bruised sides, ruthless in their interrogation. Myrie writhes and weeps, barely able to breathe through the pain, let alone speak.
It becomes unbearable to see her like this, and so Owynn takes drastic measures.
One night he arrives for a late shift with instructions to give the prisoner water and crumbs, nothing else. And so he does.
But prior to this, he went to the physicians again, telling them he has been beset by terrible nightmares these past weeks. It isn't entirely a lie; his dreams are filled with the same conflict he feels in waking life. Some show Myrie as a helpless victim, tortured to the brink of death, but Owynn cannot reach her, cannot help. In others, though, he frees her, only for the fairy to lay waste to the castle and all who live there, guilty and innocent alike.
And so he is happy to accept a sleeping draught, most of which he uses himself, but saves a few drops to add to Myrie's water.
The princess has little strength left to eat or drink, but she does not need much. Within minutes the draught takes effect. Owynn sees the moment it happens, when her twisted expression softens and her twitching limbs go slack. She falls into a deep sleep and, when he checks on her just before the end of his watch, she is still asleep, and even seems a little improved.
-
Healing is slow and arduous. It is delayed by malnutrition and no care beyond what little Owynn can provide when it is his turn on duty. Whatever human concoction he gives her, she doesn't know, but nor does she care. The hours that follow are the only time Myrie is free of pain. By morning its effects wear off and she wakes to a chorus of throbs and aches, ten times as loud for having been forgotten.
For a while she is too weak to do more than sip sugar water. Unable to sit up on her own, Owynn must support her shattered body with one hand while holding the liquid to her lips with the other. As the days drag on he starts bringing crumbs of bread and bits of dried fruit for her to nibble, in hopes that she will regain her strength.
It feels like an eternity, but she does. First she can speak again, then sit up, then stands. Eventually one day, though sore all over and unsteady on her feet, she manages to walk without holding onto Owynn's finger. That night he finds her collapsed at the far end of the table.
Just when Myrie can truly say she feels better, she wakes abruptly to a searing-hot touch. A steel vise is rapidly closing down on the fairy's slender ankle, the cool metal burning her flesh. Myrie doesn't hear her bones crunch beyond the sound of her screams.
Both ankles, both wrists, and a few small ribs later, the princess is half conscious, delirious with pain and wheezing as she struggles to breathe. Her head lolls from side to side. She can't settle; it's all too much. She opens her eyes.
Through the tears clinging to her lashes, she can just make out Owynn standing against the wall behind Ecker. His eyes won't quite meet hers, but they are damp and his face is red and his fists are clenched and shaking. Just as his body is encased in armor, the gentle young man she trusts is trapped within the role he has chosen for himself, the promises he made. It hits her then in a way it hadn't before:
He won't save her.
He can't save her.
He may want to. He may be the best of them. But he is still one of them.
For a few days now there has been a pressure in Myrie's back, just between her shoulder blades. The fairy knows by some instinct deep within that these are the first signs that her wings are finally beginning to regrow. She has never felt more afraid.
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Peeling the veins out of my celery stick like whumper pulling veins and arteries out of whumpees arm one at a time without anesthesia 🥰🥰 puuuuull riiiiiiiip
Oh your pet whumpees is sick??? Bring them to the vet!!
If the whump is common place and societal, it’s artificial lights and tile floors, overly cheery nurses and waiting rooms crowded with other terrified whumpees. Clinical discussions in oversanitized rooms fitted with padded restraints to hold whumpee down. Meds that barely work and taste even worse.
If the whump is more underground, expect a back alley treatment, corralling whumpee into an abandoned brick building. Bloodstained concrete floors hastily hosed down, people in cheap doctor’s coats to seem professional. Casually clinical discussions where whumpee is strapped to a metal table with belts and handcuffs. Shady pills that may work, or it may just kill whumpee, who knows.
