Manhandling to Help

A non-exhaustive list of reasons your caretaker or teammate could participate in this wonderful trope.

A whumpee is caught trying to escape or fomenting rebellion. They are dragged out into a public place and bound kneeling with their hands cuffed to the ground in front of them. The ritual number of lashes is given, furrowing their back and flicking around the edges of their shoulders, their arms, the bare soles of their feet.

When the whip stills for the last time, they sag forwards, hardly able to believe they survived. But they are not released, and dimly they hear the number of hours they must wait under the sun before they will be released.

They took a whipping. They can survive the waiting.

They can’t muster the energy to flinch when something weighted thunks down near their slumped body, but it doesn’t inflict more pain on them, and they ignore it in favor of making sure they manage to take one breath, and then another.

They can hear people passing by. They’ll be a spectacle, a lesson, a witness to the folly of resistance.

They’ll be a symbol, a sign, a marker that there are still those who dream of freedom.

Footsteps pass closer. It’s fine, they have to get through the square somehow. But then they pause, and the whumpee cracks tear-crusted eyes open to see an arm dipping into the bucket that’s been left next to them.

They catch, briefly, the look of regret on the civilian’s face – and behind them the watchful guards – before they toss the handful of salt across the whumpee’s torn-open back. 

When awareness fades back in from the white-hot spike that pierced them, the whumpee cowers from the sounds of more people passing through the busy square. Each one slows, as they must, to dip their hand into the bucket and offer tribute to the spectre of order propped up by looming guards and the vice of collective fear.

He loves when they scramble away. When he opens the cellar door, and starts down the steps, and they start panicking before he even touches them.

This pretty, pretty warlock is finally properly terrified. It took a few days, and many times being choked until he passed out. Now he wakes up with a jagged gasp, shoves himself back against a wall, looks around desperately for any sign of his torturer.

The Hunter smiles on the way down the stairs, today, and heads right over to the corner to drag the prisoner out by the ankle. He straddles the young man and puts his hands right on that black and blue throat. Raspy little pleas make it out before he crushes his hands down and in, applying pressure to cut off the warlock’s air.

Javi, this one’s name is. Javier. The Hunter thinks that he’d like to see Javier struggling to breathe for every moment that he has left. A too-tight collar? Yes, perfect.

“I have a present for you today, darling,” He murmurs to his prisoner, reveling in the sounds of failed breaths. “Shh, go on, take a moment to breathe while you still can.” His grip leaves that throat and the warlock sucks down air harshly.

With a flick of his hand, the Hunter summons a thick metal collar to his hand. He slips it onto the prisoner’s neck and clicks it into place so it fits snugly. It will not be left this loose.

The warlock’s eyes, dark and dilated in the dim light of the cellar, seem to twinkle with fear. They’re beautiful.

“I’m going to tighten this,” The captor informs, tracing a finger along the solid collar. It doesn’t seem like it can be tightened, since it’s not malleable and there is no buckle to pull. But magic can easily crank it smaller and smaller as if it’s nothing more than a zip tie with ridges to allow adjustments. “Until you can barely breathe. Stay calm and keep still, just keep on breathing. This won’t stay on forever if you’re good.”

Javi’s brows furrow and he clenches his teeth. The Hunter’s hands press to either side of the collar, and with a spell, the metal creaks inward, cinching tight around the prisoner’s neck. The Hunter stops it here and there, listening to the changes in Javier’s breathing. The warlock’s lips are parted now as he pants thinly, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Do you think that’s tight enough, handsome? Seems like you can breathe just fine.”

The warlock whimpers, head tipped back uselessly. There’s no escaping the pressure. A few wheezy, straw-brittle sounds come out, and the Hunter wonders if that was an attempt at forming words.

“Tighter?” He asks, teasing, and the breathless, panicked whine in response makes him repeat the spell, hands on the collar.

Javier’s breaths are nearly nonexistent now. It takes ten full seconds for him to draw an inhale to fill his lungs halfway.

“Poor thing, you can’t breathe, can you? Looks like I set it too tight. If only you could beg me to loosen it.”

The warlock tugs his hands free from where the Hunter’s been pinning them under his knees, clawing at the collar, twisting fruitlessly.

“Say please, warlock. Beg, or you’ll die right now. I’ll toss your body in the alley where I left all your friends.”

Javi bucks up once, twice, then chokes out a faint, “-ease…”

“The whole word, darling. Put some more air into it.”

“P-...lea-, -ease…”

The metal cracks open and falls away, the prisoner coughing and dragging in enough air to satisfy his burning lungs.

The Hunter pins him by one shoulder and then touches that bruised neck, hand sliding roughly over the dark marks before settling up under the jaw, then moving again. Javier trembles, breaths hitching all the while.

“You’re going to have some real trauma if you ever get out of here,” His captor muses adoringly. “If anyone ever touches your throat. You’ll never wear a tie again. A necklace. You know, I think you need a scar here. That way, people will know why you flinch. Your friends will know not to touch, and your enemies will know exactly how to scare you.”

“Please,” Javi rasps, voice cracking, at the sound of the Hunter’s knife sliding out of its sheath.

The blade is lined up to lie across his throat, digging in. “I’ll try not to make you bleed out. Not to ruin your voice box, either. Any last words in case I do?”

A faint whimper, and then Javi licks his lips, throat lifting the knife and then letting it sink low again as he takes a deep breath. “Di-, Dios te salve, Maria, llena eres de gracia - el Seńor es contigo. Ben- nnnh!” The Hunter presses the knife in, drawing blood impatiently. “Ben-, bendita tú eres entre to-, todas las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. S-, Sa-, Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.” A broken little sob, and then, “Amén.”

“Shh, it’ll be alright, you’re not going to die today. I’ve heard that before, Javier, that little prayer. It hasn’t saved anyone before you.” The knife slices deeper - he’s aiming for thick, raised, ropy scarring. “But maybe you’ll be the first.”

“If you really wanted me to stop, you’d stop crying and just say so, wouldn’t you?”

Content warning: heavily implied/non-graphic depiction of noncon, drunk character, reference to a drugging, victim blaming. Please mind the tags.

Crow sits on the edge of the cot, tense, ears straining for any sound that might indicate Silas has returned from the bar. He goes there often, and sometimes doesn’t return for a long time, leaving Crow handcuffed to the metal loop in the wall at the head of the cot. Crow sometimes wonders what that loop was used for before he came to this place.

I haven’t done a comic page since forever so here’s this! Massive thanks to @friendlylocalwhumper for the idea and @clockworkgalaxies for helping me with the dialogue! this was good practice for my patience because I tend to not go beyond the sketch which is something I’m trying to change, i’m so tired on working on this tho but all in all I had a blast doing it and it was time to awaken this boy’s self-loathing because let’s be honest he’s had it too good for too long ;D

Whumper grabbing the whumpee’s hair and using it to slam their head into a wall 👌

Manhandling

You know those moments when a character is treated with excessive force but not necessarily with the sole purpose of bringing pain?

Allow me to expand on that:

Fern is sleeping when it starts, tucked into the corner of their cubby with their knees up against their chest and their head tipped back into the corner of the walls. The hands descend upon them swift and harsh, pinning them down by shoulders and ankles, covering their mouth and eyes, so many hands, all gloved, all pushing harshly at their body until they think they’ll be pushed right through the wall. Their panicked yelp is swallowed by the gloved hands crushing their jaw closed, their startled, flinching instinct to get away strangled by the hands pinching at their arms and legs.

“Shut up, shut up, stupid Path,” someone hisses in their ear. “If you try to scream, if you make any noise, you’ll be dead before the guards even get near, so you’d better shut up and listen if you want to live.”

Fern shakes and tries to swallow the whimper trembling at the edge of their mouth. They’d nod, if they could, if the gloved grip on their jaw and the one across their eyes weren’t pushing their head back into the wall so hard.

Keep reading

can we get more whumpees getting their head slammed into the floor/wall using their hair thanks

Underappreciated whumpable body part: wrists.

There’s something about wrists, man.

They can be so slender and fragile. Especially on a thin, frail whumpee. But even a stronger one, the wrist is a small, vulnerable part.

Some wrist whump inspiration:

-Broken, of course. The snap. The sharp pain. Cradling it to their chest. Unable to move or use it. Hand shaking. Skin hot and swelling.

-Sprained is good too! Still painful, allows for maybe a little more mobility with it but using it is painful in itself.

-Wrists that are just sore, whether from an uncomfortable position to lifting something to trying to hold onto a ledge so they don’t fall. Or an old injury flaring up.

-A frail whumpee with thin wrists that a whumper can wrap their entire hand around to yank them by, or drag them across the ground while they struggle, or drag them across the ground while they’re passed out and limp, or throw them into something with. The whumpee just manhandled and jerked around by their wrist. Or the whumper just…snaps it with their bare hand, fragile bones shattering, or uses it to twist their whole arm a way it wasn’t meant to go.

-The whumper stepping on or roughly grabbing an already injured wrist. Deliberately digging their fingers into it and watching their hand tense and twitch while they scream.

-Bound wrists, of course. With rope that rubs their skin raw, with wire that cuts and makes blood drip down their fingers, with cuffs that chafe. Zip ties, electric cords, barbed wire, fishing line, so many painful possibilities. Or something deceptively soft in contrast with their situation: cloth, ribbon.

-Bound above their head as they’re pinned up to the wall. Bound above their head as they’re hung from the ceiling, straining from their own weight. Bound in front of them as they’re led by a rope like an animal. Bound behind them to a chair or pole. Bound behind them by cuffs while they’re curled up on the ground from a beating. Bound and dragged by them.

-A caretaker gently cradling the whumpee’s hand and wrist to inspect the damage. Tending to cuts and raw skin with a cool cloth and medicine. A cold pack held to a swollen wrist. A wrist wrapped in soft white bandage. In a splint while it heals. Flexing their fingers, testing to see how well they can use that hand. A loved one kissing their wrists, telling them everything will be okay.