#original whump

[comfortingcatharsis]

A character shielding their companion from the elements with their own body- positioning themselves as a wind-block; sitting so their shadow is cast across their companion's face; leaning over them to provide scant shelter from the rain; curling close to lend their warmth; tucking their companion's face close and cupping a hand over it to block wind-blown grit or sand; acting as a human shield from pelting hail or sleet; cradling their companion in their lap to insulate them from the seeping cold of the ground...

#whumpy text post #original whump #environmental whump #human shield #protectiveness

[thewhumperinwhite]

“Your heart is running itself ragged, little Prince,” Morden says. Andry can feel Morden’s breath on his cheek. “I don’t know if it will take another jolt, but I can make the experiment, if you’d like.”

alternate title via @whump-cravings's tags: #leave him alone you hot cunty bitch

closeups under the cut cause i like how their faces came out 😌

#whump #whump art #intimate whumper #wkw extras #sketches #original whump #oc: andry #oc: morden #bruises #exhaustion #nosebleed #fantasy whump

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Salvation a Scream Away

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

For @amonthofwhump 12 days of Whumpmass, Day 6: Jack Frost | Post-apocalyptic Winter | Amnesia | Comfort turned to Fear | Comfort: Snowball Fight and Day7: Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer | Inhuman Whumpee | Exile | Self-sacrifice | Comfort: You’re Not Alone

-

Kira woke to a gentle tune cradling her as if she were still in her mother’s arms. It almost felt like sailing down a river, rocked to and fro, and she allowed the simple pleasure of peace to envelop her for the moment, drifting just beneath coming fully awake and aware.

She felt so comfortable. So sweetly held by the water, and yet she could still breathe air. Somewhere just beyond the waters was the panic of some predicament she was in, but the song kept her away from it and made her feel so safe. She sighed, smiling slightly, raising her hand to touch the air-

Her fingertips found, instead, the warmth of smooth skin. In her mind, clear as a bell, came a simply sung command. 

Wake up.

Her eyes opened.

She gasped.

The siren’s inhumanly beautiful face was what she felt - her fingers were against his cheek, and she moved her pointer finger along the line of his cheekbone with her breath still caught in her throat. The creature loomed over her, staring down, his face only inches from hers as his last note faded, vibrating between them, as much in her lungs as his when she breathed him in. His hands were flat to the floor on either side of her, boxing her in. The worn-soft linen of his shirt brushed against her.

He was so close he could have kissed her. She’d have clawed his face off if he had, disemboweled him with her fingernails, beaten him to death with the nearest object capable of it.

But he only watched her, with a look of something like confusion or lingering frustration in the furrow of his brows.

Kira, still a little hazy from the song-spell, pressed her thumb lightly against the little wrinkle there between his eyes, just above the bridge of his nose.

He twitched, but he didn't pull back.

Kira realized she was holding her breath and hitched in an inhale, feeling her corset as a kind of soothing structure over her ribs, giving her support. The siren smelled like salt-spray, but not seawater. Cleaner than that. As if he carried a version of the sea with him that had never been polluted by the shipwrecks of men.

Her heart raced, the foggy comfort of the song turned to the sharper, cut-glass terror of being so close to something that could rend her limb from limb if he chose. And yet…

And yet.

He didn’t.

She dropped her hand. His eyes followed its drift downwards, then went back up to meet her gaze. She could be lost in them - and she knew why sailors would dive into the water to follow the song of a siren and think themselves in heaven as their lungs filled with saltwater and the sirens pulled them into the dark.

She might have followed such a lovely face and beautiful song to her death gladly, too.

And isn't that, more or less, what Guilford Wentworth intended to make her do?

She shook herself a little, like a dog shaking off water. “... you are-... very close,” She managed, voice half-whispered. She didn’t know why. “W-... why?”

The siren paused. Then, he said, slowly, “I do not understand you." . He pulled back, finally, and took his scent of sea-salt and the warmth of his skin with him. Kira found herself almost mournful at the loss, then her nose wrinkled with disgust at the thought. It must be the last dregs of the spell he’d had her under, mucking up her mind. She pushed herself to sitting, once he was far enough back, and looked around.

She was back in a bedroom, but not the same one. This one had different portraits of the same people, or maybe other people who looked like the same people. It had the large bed with different canopy and covers, and heavy iron bars on the window, thick enough that the sun barely made its way through. She could feel the hint of iron lacing every wall around her, somehow woven into the very walls. Magic-dampening, leaving her half-helpless, only able to cast spells that only affected her own body. 

At least, until he put iron on that, too.

Would the wedding ring be iron? Or a bracelet, welded on, keeping her forever under the thumb of the Lord Guilford Wentworth’s heinous desires? Just another wife in a portrait on the wall, smiling like dumb livestock because her own needs and dreams had been summarily removed, and no way to defend herself-

No way out-

She swallowed the lump in her throat and rubbed her upper arms with her hands, trying to force her breathing to slow down, and her heartbeat with it. Panic was never of any use, and it never solved a problem. “I-I… what. Ah, pardon, but... what is it you don’t understand, then?” Her voice came out thready and weak, but if the siren noticed, he didn’t visibly react.

“You.” He waved one hand at her, thoughtful. He was bruised in so many places, and she blinked as she realized some of those bruises seemed new. Bright red rings around his neck. Had Guilford Wentworth choked him in his anger, after she had been put to sleep on the floor? Had he done worse than that? “You come to work for him," The siren continued, "You come to chain me with human magic like all the others, and now you fear living the same life you would have made me live.”

Kira blinked. “I-... that’s wasn’t-... that’s not what I came here to do, though.”

Areyto stared at her, disbelief written clearly in the twist of his lips and flash of his dark eyes. Either he wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings, or he wasn’t bothering to hide them from her. “Yes, it is.” He held out his right arm, as if she had forgotten about the spellwork slowly fading from his skin. "You come to make this dark again."

“Right, yes, but-... I didn’t know-... I didn’t know he had a man.” The argument felt weak, and his snort in response definitely emphasized how very weak it was. 

“I am not a man,” Areyto said, voice flat. Fury bubbled just beneath his outward placidity. "How many times he tells me this? I am an animal, a dumb predator who will kill men for my meals and so can be made to do anything without guilt. It is no sin to rend and defile little more than a demon, he says. Yes? Is that not what a siren is? Wicked and wild?"

“No!” She groaned, putting her hands up over her face. “I-I mean... maybe wild, yes, but it’s not-... I didn’t know you were a creature who could think. The job was meant to be spelling a sea serpent-”

“That is what I am."

"You are not!" Why was she arguing? Somehow, Kira couldn't stop herself. She pushed up to her feet, and Areyto followed suit, the two of them close once again, each with a stubborn set to their jaws, each glaring daggers at the other.

Areyto seemed to realize the reflection they made first, and his expression shifted. He turned and went to the window. "The serpents also think. Not that it matters to men."

Kira told herself not to think about the scars she had seen on his back, down in the room with his pool of water. The scars… everywhere, beneath that plain shirt and pants he wore now. She could nearly picture them even now, barely hidden by the thin linen. He had been tortured, here, again and again and again. Because of magicians like her. “You just cannot speak to them to know it," Areyto muttered. "Your kind knows nothing about the waters.”

“Right… right. All right." She took in a deep breath, put her hands up to admit her defeat. "You say it truly, I am ignorant as to the ocean. But… I do promise, I did not know it would be one... one like you! I didn't know-”

“That you would do harm to a creature who could tell you the harm you do, that is what you did not know. You did not know that you would harm something you think to be pretty.” He looked at her over his shoulder, lip curling in disgust.

It made her hackles raise, to be looked at like that. Even if he had every right to loathe humanity, she couldn't stop herself from brushing the wrinkles from her skirt and then drawing herself to her full height. Her hair was coming loose, curling tendrils coming free and making the back of her neck itch. She set her jaw imperiously. "You don't know me so well as you think."

"Don't I? I know the ones like you. All your pity and your sympathies have never stopped you from making me his, again and again and again, you human magicians. You watch him keep me as a pet and a slave to his wants, whisper your sorries and make your sad faces and then watch me when the pain begins, and ends, and begins again. You are no better than the first one to hurt me. You humans are all exactly the same. You fear me or hate me, and if you feel anything else, it isn't enough to make you lift a hand to save me."

Kira opened her mouth to argue, and then slowly closed it again. “You have been-... ill-used by humans for a very long time,” She said, finally, keeping her voice low and a little soft. “I would hate us very much, if it were me, I think."

His expression stayed flat. "Indeed."

"But-... I would like to say that... that I don't like to think of myself as exactly like anyone or anything, and... I think I can do better by you than the other magicians have."

His face didn't move, but something might have softened around the glare of his eyes.

"But... can I ask-... If you hate us all so much, why are you in this room with me? Why not be… anywhere else, in this house, or however far you are allowed to go?”

Areyto did not answer her. He simply kept his eyes on the outside world, for long seconds ticking by marked by a clock on the wall. The sound might drive her mad, if one of them did not break it soon.

Just when she had drawn together her determination to speak again - having no idea what she would even say if she did - the siren turned around. He was close to her before she could do more than back up a few steps, bringing with him the heavy tension of his innate magic, a wild animal kind that the iron couldn’t dampen so well as it did her own. She swallowed, tipping her chin to meet his eyes as his warm hands closed around her upper arms. His irises shifted within themselves, like seaweed moving slowly in some deep dark place under the water. 

“You could use your magic without marking a spell,” He said, voice low. “Without a song. Without the paints or the brush. You did it there, at the table. You could do it again."

Kira shook her head. “I-I don’t know how I did it. We are not meant to be able to-”

“But you did. You must do it again, use that magic. Use it to free me, and yourself, from this place. From this man. That is why I come here to you, and bring you awake so you will speak to me.”

He took her hand in his own, then, closing both of his other her fingers, and she felt an electric charge up her arm as if he were made of lightning. She tensed, her eyes searching his face for the sign of rage, or the rows of sharp teeth she knew were there, beneath the human mouth. But all he did was lean in close, and she felt the puff of his breath as he spoke, pleading with eyes locked on hers. “Please. You are different than they have been before. Be different now. Help me.”

“I’m-... I’m a prisoner as much as you are-”

“Please,” He whispered again. “Please, please help me. You have wild magic. He cannot control that. Not even with my song. Not at all. You must use it to free me, don't leave me here."

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, w-wild-... wild magic-... Look." She shook her head. "No one has that. Magic only works if it's directed-"

“Not yours.” He moved, then, around and past her, to the door. He left her standing there feeling as though he’d taken all the air with him. Left her cold and alone. The door opened and closed, and though when she tried it a half-second later, the doorknob did not turn for her at all, and the iron it was laced with made her palms ache.

She collapsed into an overstuffed padded chair in the corner of the room, a hand to her head, staring at nothing. The spell to make her body her own had faded, while she slept, but if he had noticed he hadn't said anything about that, either. Had shown no sign of even seeing the difference.

His words hung in the air as if he’d carved them into the walls, or painted them onto her skin. A spell, but one made only of terrible, frightened need.

Help me.

-

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee

#amow #whump #12 days of whumpmas #inhuman whumpee #captivity #trans oc #nonhuman whumpee #defiant whumpee #whump writing #original whump #original fantasy #fantasy writing #original fiction #areyto #kiraya losna #siren whump #siren #sirens #male siren #fantasy world #comfort turned to fear

[seasaltandcopper]

Summary: Teddy is a former thrall turned vampire hunter. After a decade of chasing her revenge, she gets wind of a group of Hunters keeping an all-too-familiar monster in their custody. Now finally, after ten years waiting, maybe she'll finally get some answers.

And much needed payback.

Pt 2 | Vampire Hunter AU

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Profanity, non-graphic mentions of torture, violence, imprisonment, starvation, dehumanization, 'it' as a pronoun (only used by one character), referenced past captivity and enthrallment

Teddy left Will to watch the truck while she made the journey into the compound alone to pick up the vampire. He seemed to understand, and didn’t argue or ask why. Just turned up the radio, and leaned back the passenger’s seat to nap until she showed back up to drive them home.

The Hunter Teddy had talked with on the phone—Brooks—led her on a meandering path through the repurposed factory. Past living and dining areas where many Hunters gathered in their off hours, and past the armory in the factory’s basement.

Down, again, to a sub basement that reeked of must and rot and worse. Long used to it, Teddy simply studied the layout, mapping her path back out to the surface, a habit ingrained after years of training in a place not that different from this one.

Brooks led them to what looked like an old walk-in industrial kiln, now fit and reinforced to work as a containment cell. The box was covered in locks and seals, both magical and mundane, layered intricately with each other in a masterful weave.

Brooks glanced over his shoulder as he worked to unlock the cage. “So uh, if you don’t mind me asking, why this one?” He shrugged, clearly asking out of boredom or mild curiosity. “We don’t get many transfer requests out here.”

“Got a score to settle with it.”

Teddy didn’t elaborate, but Brooks didn’t push. The man just nodded, clearly accepting that as answer enough. “Fair enough. Still one less leech I gotta keep tabs on.”

The final lock released with a dull clack, and the Hunter trailed a hand over the wards. They shimmered, pulsing a deep crimson before fading again. Reaching for the handle, Brooks paused long enough to glance at Teddy.

“It shouldn’t give you much trouble, long as you keep it restrained. It’s been here long enough it knows how this shit works by now. We’ve mostly been using it for training and educating new recruits. Put up a hell of a fight when we first processed it though.” Brooks shot Teddy a conspiratorial grin. “I mean, damn. Should’ve seen that motherfucker in the first couple weeks. Had the whole crew taking bets on how long it’d take to finally break it.”

Teddy’s face stayed emotionless, though her eyes flicked to meet the Hunter’s. “How long did it take?”

“Four months, one week, and three days is when Nadia officially called it but—” Shrugging, Brooks gave the door handle a firm yank. The heavy metal groaned, a deep metallic wail like a thing in pain, and swung open to reveal a box of pale firebrick. The creature lay chained on the floor inside. “—between you and me, I don’t think it has yet. You can see it in its eyes. The way it looks at you sometimes.” He shook his head. “Nah. Might be too weak to fight, and smart enough to mind its manners, but there’s a spark of something still in there. Don’t give that motherfucker an inch, unless you’re prepared for it to take it.”

Teddy stayed quiet long enough the Hunter just shrugged again and led them into the tiny room. He strolled inside, aiming a heavy kick at the creature lying curled up on the floor. The vampire grunted, chains rattling with the impact.

“Alright leech, up. You got a visitor.”

Slowly, the vampire moved to comply, pushing himself stiffly up and settling into a kneeling position, bound hands resting on his thighs. He didn’t look up or move beyond the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed air Teddy knew for a fact he didn’t need.

Inclining his head, Brooks stepped aside to let Teddy take the floor.

She’d waited for this moment for over ten years. Before she’d even known she was waiting for it, before she’d been able to hope this kind of reversal could be possible for a vampire’s thrall.

Now that she was here, standing in the room with one of her former masters—one of the keystone pillars of Jericho’s coven, his bloody right hand, his former lover, one of only a handful left that had still been unaccounted for, and the only one left alive who could tell her what she wanted to know.

Teddy still couldn’t believe it was real.

This was a victory. Retribution a decade in the making. Closure.

She drew in a breath. Then stepped forward, heavy black boots thudding hollowly on the bricks. The vampire stayed quiet as she approached, kneeling and hunched forward like just keeping himself upright was a monumental effort. He stared at the filthy floor in front of his knees without acknowledging either of the two humans in the room.

If she hadn’t gotten confirmation of his identity beforehand, Teddy wasn’t sure she would’ve recognized him. Naked, emaciated, filthy, muzzled, bound in iron manacles and so covered in marks of abuse it was a challenge to find an untouched patch of skin. Even the color of his hair was impossible to judge from the matted, shoulder length mess it’d become.

Teddy held her breath. Silence followed. The kind of heavy, pressing quiet, like watching lightning flicker on the horizon before hearing the thunder. A static charge to the air.

She let out the breath in a rush, heart hammering in her chest. Desperate. Frantic. Hopeful.

Furious.

“Mal.” His name dropped from her lips like a condemnation, and that got his attention. He slowly lifted his head, meeting her gaze through a tangled curtain of hair with wary confusion. “Today’s your lucky day, bloodsucker. You’re coming home with me.”

AN: So this is apparently the second time I independently had more or less the same idea. Teddy (and Will) end up in a kind of antagonist role with Mal, and the story progresses as a back and forth between both these povs as they navigate this reversal, and all deal with the messy consequences of the choices they've made and the lives they lived.

If you really want to boil it down to basic tropes I suppose it'd be whumper turned whumpee?

I'm pretty happy with the direction this one is going, I am pondering continuing it. The next 'chapter' would be Mal's pov, so probably much heavier on the whump than this one lol.

Edit: added links to header since this is now an official series

#whump #vampire whump #whumper turned whumpee #original whump #my writing #salt ocs #salt oc: mal #salt oc: teddy #salt oc: will #i actually completely forgot i wrote this #it was older than the other excerpt of a similar idea I posted #apparently my subconscious really wants to put these two #angry feral cats in a room together and see what happens #sorry guys you're my science experiment now #misc aus #vampire hunter au

[whumplovers-collaborate]

Whumpy Works by the Whumplovers Collaborate server

In our recent Multimedia Exchange, about 60 participants made over 140 creations of writing and art and posted them to this collection

We had some very generous participants (:

And 140! Wow 👀 That’s a lot of Whumpy content ✨

In appreciation for their hard work, let’s give their creations some love, shall we?

The following lists link to every work that was posted to the collection, providing the fandom, medium, title, and summary for each one:

Original Work List

Fandom List 1

(Fandoms: Batman — All Media Types, Arrow (TV 2012), Star Wars — All Media Types, Stranger Things (TV 2016), The Umbrella Academy (TV), Good Omens (TV), White Collar (TV 2009), Percy Jackson & Related Fandoms — All Media Types, Teen Wolf, The Professionals (TV 1977), MCU)

Fandom List 2

(Fandoms: Fullmetal Alchemist, Genshin Impact, My Hero Academia, Voltron: Legendary Defender, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Call of Duty, Banana Fish, Doki Doki Literature Club!, [Módào Zǔshī, The Untamed], Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom, Gravity Falls, Tiger & Bunny, JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Tokyo Ghoul, SCP Foundation, Sonic The Hedgehog, Black Butler, Undertale Gears of War, Night Head Genesis)

Fandom List 3

(Fandoms: The Witcher, Doctor Who, Hannibal, Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural, The Magnus Archives, The Last of Us, Bangtan Boys, 9-1-1, Merlin, Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron)

#whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump writing #Writing #fic #art #whumpy art #WLC #multimedia exchange #whump exchange #whump discord server #Whumpy fic #hurt/angst #Fanfiction #Original Work #original whump #original fiction

[whumperofworlds]

#whump #whump polls #original whump #fandom whump #i see a lot of original so i'm curious!

[somnoflesh]

“You’re crying?”

Keeper removes his hands from his wings. He leans forward to grab little bird’s arms from behind and presses his winged back against his chest. Holding him from moving…though he was too struck with a paralyzing fear that he wouldn’t have moved anyway.

“You’re seriously crying, little bird?”

His voice is never raised. He never yells. It’s what scares birdie the most. He seems to have so much self-control despite how often he grabs and pins him still when he weeps. He scolds him so softly, reprimands him in such a kind voice, that no matter the words coming from his mouth, it seems so truthful. Something in your best interest.

“You’re that scared of me, are you? I’ve done nothing to hurt you. In fact, I do so much to help you…yet you cry. You cry like i’m so horrific…like I don’t clean you and feed you. As if I don’t put clothes on your back made just for you…”

Little bird attempts to give a weak and hoarse ‘i’m sorry’ and nothing comes out. Just his ever hitched breathing and scared little chirps each time the keeper adjusted his hold on his wrists.

“That’s enough.”

He lets go.

“I’m going back to my room. Try to calm down before your bath.”

He stands up and leaves with no other parting words. Leaving the door wide open. He left little bird to sit and cry over nothing. He never took his wings from him. He never yelled at him. Yet the little bird couldn’t help but sob.

What a pathetic birdie he was.

(from: chapter one)

#intimate whumper #male whumpee #whump #pet whump #not a prompt #original whump #fic excerpt #winged whumpee #noncon touching #cw gaslighting

[estevesia-whump]

hell's right hand (1.1): the beginning of the beginning

CW/TW: SA (not graphic but it's implied), torture (also not very graphic), abuse, blood, killing (implied), captivity, nausea/dry heaving (brief)

note: the mcs are 18-19 in this and nothing bad happens to the younger kids

-

He can tell from the slight changes in light filtering through the sliver of a window that it's been 10 days, at least, though it's only a rough estimate since he stopped counting at 5. He does know for sure that he needs to leave, somehow, but the second he was dumped in this concrete room, he knew there was no way out. No matter how hard he fought at the start, it only managed to drain out the remainder of his energy.

Something stings, or maybe everything stings, or maybe nothing at all. He's been checking himself for broken bones each time he wakes up and before he falls asleep, but all he can see are the bruises, scrapes and hickeys littered all over his arms, legs and chest. There's dried blood down his inner thighs, and probably on his back as well but he can't be sure. It's okay. They'll clean him soon.

It hurts to sit, so he curls up on the cold floor, back against the wall. Not the most comfortable, but it's better this than to have consistent throbs shooting through his pelvis and up his lower spine.

A few days ago, they stopped bothering to tie him down because he was too tired to do much, so it's just the ankle cuffs now. At least he won't have rope burns.

They clean him up every day (he thinks it's every day, but it might be twice a day -- either way, there's a pattern), blindfold him and bring him to a different room, one where he's cuffed to a bed. The softness doesn't feel good, though, because he's quickly thrust into until he's sticky and sweaty all over and he's sobbing and shaking and begging for it all to stop. It burns from the inside, a searing pain that leaves him feeling raw all over.

He then gets washed and dragged back to the concrete room afterwards. He's hit if he's still crying, so he usually tries to quell the tears, leaving him with a lump in his throat and nausea building in his gut. A plate is pushed in front of him, and he's instructed to eat. Usually it's bread or congee, still lukewarm.

The food itself isn't bad, but he's lucky if he can stomach it especially after the ordeal just minutes prior. If he doesn't eat it in an allotted time, it's taken away. If he throws up, he gets cleaned up and beaten again, but never enough to cause serious damage, unfortunately. He wishes they would deal some actual injuries, though, and then maybe they would just leave him alone.

There's an order to it that he gets used to eventually. He's allowed water every few hours. Food is allowed after he's been on that bed with a stranger (it seems to be a different person each time, judging from the different voices). He sleeps when he can, but it's never for a long time because he's woken up either by a throbbing pain or by one of his handlers shaking him awake.

This is his fault, though. He should've been more careful, should've listened to his parents. Where are his parents? He wonders if they're alright, if they miss him -- the mere thought makes him chuckle weakly. Of course they don't. They're probably celebrating that he's gone.

The door bangs open with a clang, and he's being manhandled, scrubbed down with soap and water, blindfolded and brought to that damned bedroom.

It doesn't hurt as much anymore. Maybe he's just gotten used to it, or maybe everything else just hurts so much that he can't pinpoint the pain. Whoever's with him this time finishes more quickly than the other ones, and Kyre gasps for air when he's done.

It's time for the other men to come in and clean him up now, but nothing happens.

A few seconds of just panting, then the man inside of Kyre falls to the side and the room goes quiet.

Someone, a girl, judging by the sound of the voice, swears. The man is pulled off of him, landing on the ground with a thunk and the cuffs and blindfold are removed, but he doesn't open his eyes, too exhausted to move.

"What's your name?" the voice asks.

What is his name? He hasn't heard it in a while... "K-Ky? ...Kyre."

"Can you open your eyes for me?"

"'M ti...tired," he mumbles, turning his face to the side.

"I can see that. Just open your eyes, please."

Whoever it is sounds urgent, so he forces himself to open his eyes and is met with the face of a girl wearing a helmet. Her face relaxes a little, and he closes his eyes again.

She's trying to help him sit up now, but the movement makes him dizzy and before he knows it, he's dry heaving and he's not sure which way is up so she turns him on his side and pats his back.

"Were you drugged?" she asks once the retching dies down a little.

He shakes his head.

"You sure?"

What do you mean, am I sure?

She sighs. "Let me find you some clothes and then we'll get out of here."

There's rustling, and then she's trying to put pants on him.

A weak moan escapes his lips when she pulls the pants up, scraping the wounds on his legs, and in the stinging pain and buzzing in his ears, for once, he can't feel a thing.

-

So the kid's name is Kyre, apparently. Why does it sound so familiar?

Liexia fumbles around the room, underneath the bed for any clothes she can put on the boy, and finally resorts to the clothes of the man she just killed. There's blood all over his shirt, so she takes the pants that are thrown off to the side. She'll get Kyre a shirt later.

She hoists him up, making sure to keep his head stabilized as he groans, blinking slowly.

"Wh-wha?"

"You passed out for a second there," she tells him. "Don't lean back, 'kay?"

For the amount of muscle he's got on him, he's a lot lighter than she expects, but not light enough to comfortably throw over one shoulder. She resorts to a pack strap carry, and from there, it's not too difficult to get him out of the room and past the bodies in the hallway.

Evander's waiting for her outside with the rest of the kids, who are playing with him and all seem to be fine, shaken at most, thankfully. For some reason, Kyre's the only one that's visibly hurt at all.

The moment he spots her, Evander jogs over to help carry Kyre to the group.

"You got everyone in there?" he asks, intentionally keeping his voice quiet.

"Yup. Made sure they were all dead before I went further in."

"I meant the victims, Liexia."

"He's the only one."

Evander frowns. "What?"

"Yeah. It was just him -- his name's Kyre, by the way -- and the little kids. Did you get their names and ages?"

"Aurelie did."

"Where is she right now?" Liexia asks, looking around.

"She's getting the car."

"We don't have enough seats, though," she replies. "I assume she's driving, and even if both of us don't get in the car, we'll only have 7 seats left. And how many kids are there? Ten?"

"Nine, not including Kyre. It's fine. We could have all the kids squeeze in the back, and one of us can call the authorities and get Kyre some medical care while everyone else drives to the motel. I can take the fall for this if--"

"No, I dragged you two into this, so it's my responsibility." Liexia sighs. "And nothing's gonna happen. We're not in the wrong, for the record, they are, so we're not calling the authorities. They'll find the bodies themselves and deal with it accordingly."

"You do realize the authorities are still going to find you either way, right? You killed a pretty high profile guy in there."

"So? I've done that multiple times even before you and Aurelie joined me. The authorities haven't gotten me once. We'll bring Kyre to the motel with us and I'll have my mom treat him."

"Can he wait that long?"

"He doesn't seem to be drugged, Ev. It's fine."

"Just because he doesn't seem to be drugged doesn't mean he isn't!"

Aurelie pulls up to the curb with the car at that moment, headlights on. "Get in."

Evander has the kids file in first, managing to fit the five older ones in the back row. Three smaller kids sit next to Evander in the middle row with the smallest boy on his lap, while Liexia helps Kyre into the passenger seat and clips the seatbelt.

The car doors close and Liexia climbs up to the car roof, clipping herself onto the top bars.

Aurelie rolls down her window. "Ready, Liexia?"

"Yup."

The car begins moving down the gravel road, away from the now abandoned building tainted of blood.

-

interested in reading more?

Synopsis of 1st arc of series: Liexia, the 18 year-old daughter of a renowned gang boss, goes on missions for what she views as justice: cleansing the world of criminals that are above the law. But when she leaves a trace for the first time in years, a private military corporation tracks her down and will use whatever means necessary to turn her into a full-fledged mercenary.

#whump #whump writing #whump community #whumpee #whumpblr #whump scenario #original character #ocs #writing #whump fic #sickfic #original whump #whump series #original writing #original series #hell's right hand

[whimp-whamp-whump]

a character stumbling through a hallway, knife in one hand, the other pressed against their blood-stained abdomen

(this trope gets me every time and i can never read enough of it— can’t wait to read your interpretation of it!— if you want to ofc no pressure)

(i'm going to write this w my ocs ... give ygs a taste and maybe write more if you like them enough? also sorry for taking so long with this ask TT i've been thinking abt it since i got it.)

CW for blood mentions.

Footsteps clamber down wooden floors, their rhythm staggering as each step grows more and more arduous, wringing out what little strength remains within him. Slickened fingertips searching for purchase on the chipped frames that line the halls only smear the red liquid onto Eric's paintings, marring the glass encasing in swatches of blood.

A wail from the upstairs runs goosebumps down his neck and arms - the noise arises from directly behind him, inhuman and reverberating throughout his skull until he collapses at an end table.

He presses his forehead against the dark wood of the leg; cool against his skin, easing the throbbing as the pressure worsens. The screaming doesn't stop, and even as he screws his eyes shut, the cries only work to deafen him.

A trembling hand curls over his stomach and latches onto his waist. The movements of his subconscious startle him, but when he checks to ensure it's his own arm around himself, he allows his shoulders to slouch. The tension drops to the floor with a thud, and Adam is able to withdraw his hand from his abdomen.

Blood. There's so much blood. The knife he clutches in his other hand rattles on the floor as his shivers worsen. A frenzied feeling winds up in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with adrenaline as the weight of the situation bears down on him, pins him to the floor on his knees - the potency of Eric forces him to repent.

"But I won't," he seethes to the moon out the window, eyes glimmering with an elation he's only ever seen on the painter's worst days. A laugh falls from quivering lips, raspy and strained. It makes him cough and heave; his body rejects the acceptance of his actions.

Clouds pass over the satellite, and it's then his audience is gone. Roars of defiance rip from his throat, raw and angry, as he searches in hysterics for proof: proof he did it. He can't move from his spot, but when his fingertips come back to his stained shirt, he realizes he doesn't need to. Slowly, they work the hem of the cloth from where it's tucked in his pants. It rises, skin of his belly exposed to the open window.

Blood covers his skin as watercolors splash over cardstock, vibrant and red, darkening around the edges where it dries. It clings to the fabric as it coagulates over the surface, sticking to his fingers as they trace over the stains. He laughs again - their path is uninterrupted.

"Nothing." The hem falls from whence it came. His hands drop to his sides, knuckles against the rug and palms turned upward. His eyelids weigh heavily on him now, and he cannot tilt his chin upward to face the moonlight - yet it shines on him, waiting, listening.

"His blood is on my hands . . ."

The knife glints from where it lies on the flooring, wooden handle soaked with carmine hues.

"I killed him."

His eyes flutter shut as he comes to rest his head against the table one more time.

He can't hurt me no more.

(A/N: so idk if u read this but UHHH this features two characters from a work i plan to expand and maybe one day publish? for now they stay in the drafts and i do drabbles for them here and there... but there are references ygs may not understand bc i've legitimately never spoken of them before, and everything i say is intentional. this is not the canon ending to my work lol it's really the opposite, if that word even applies here - let's just say it's drastically different! :D these characters / this story have / has been in the works for going on three years </3 they r my brainchild and they make me so happy (they try to kill each other, but everyone loves tom and jerry couples <3). u can ask me abt them, idm! i might publish more drabbles in the future, too.)

p.s., sorry again for taking so long to get to your ask :( !

#my a/n got long uhhhhh #thank u for reading <3 #whump ask #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump prompt #he's losing it <3333 #original whump #they make me happy #UNEDITED btw i did not proof read either #i'm going to read this in twelve hours like #who let the monkey use the typewriter #but i do hope ygs like it <3

[ghosty-writing]

“goodnight, kid.”

(oc whump thing — 477 words)

.

Blood.

It won’t go away.

“Fuck.” Shaking, clammy hands find the wound, “fuck, fuck fuck, fuck.” Pressure. Apply pressure, right? Keep the blood in. 

“Leon.”

My hands tremble, shoving Misha’s shirt up. The gash is deep, blood redder than wine staining sweat-slicked skin. “You’ll be okay,” Mumbled, “You’re gonna be fine…”

Calloused fingertips grasp mine, not pressing harder, nor pushing me away. “Leon, go.” His voice wavers, cracking in a curt gasp. 

“No,” The quick, automatic response comes easily, “Just—Just stay still, okay? I’ll fix this. I’ll fix you, I promise!” My vision starts to blur, but I wipe any wetness away with my shoulder. Quickly, I shrug off my jacket, using the fabric to press more evenly on the gaping hole. A chill enters my pores, ice flooding my veins, but I don’t mind it. I can’t mind it, now. “We’re gonna leave. We’re gonna get out, I swear. I’ll—I’ll find you help. I-“

“Lyonechka.” Harsh, Misha’s shaky voice cuts through me. “Go. Do as I say.” He grimaces, some phony attempt at a smile, it seems. Some of his teeth are stained pink, a sudden cough wracking his body. 

I swallow, shaking my head. “N-No.” I can’t, I don’t say, Not without you. 

“Yes…” He trails off, gaze turning towards the ceiling, grey cement blocks. He removes his hand from mine, only to reach up and draw a finger upwards, pointing towards nothing in particular. “I’m—“ Another cough, this one spilling blood down his chin. I shut my eyes. Misha continues, “I’m happy here, kid. I’m happy with you. I’m done. Going to see Mama, again.”

I refuse. “No, no, please. Please, Misha. Stay, stay with me.” Not even caring about his wound anymore, I cup his face, smearing blood across his cheeks.

His eyes don’t reach mine, darkened and fixed on something on the ceiling I can’t see. “I made you borsch for dinner, remember?” He whispers, still painting in the air with a trembling index finger.

“W-What?”

“We’re outside… stargazing. A pint of ice cream between us.”

A soft laugh shakes my head, and I feel the tears start to return. I follow his finger, now pointing at the night sky. Grass under us, I remember to brush some hair from Misha’s face, so he can see the stars better. His hand drops to the side. “What flavour, Mik? You can pick.”

There’s a pause, but he decides, “Chocolate. It’s… chocolate. And—And we’ve both got our own spoons this time.”

“Thanks, Mik.”

“You’re tellin’ me all about the space’n stuff. Planets and junk, right? The—The one that has the rings on it. What’s that one…?”

“Saturn, Misha. That’s Saturn.”

“Saturn… That’s my favourite.”

“That’s a good favourite. It’s—It’s a good one.”

“I’m tired, Leon. I’m going… I’m going to sleep now, okay?”

“Goodnight, Misha.”

“Love you, kid.”

“…I-I love you too, Misha.”

“…”

#writing #original character #whump writing #whump #tw death #original whump #misha (oc) #leon (oc)

[comfortingcatharsis]

A character self-tending wounds that are located such that they’re difficult or impossible to see without the aid of a mirror, angling themselves such and leaning in close to catch the reflection, having to concentrate to compensate for the reversed mirror-image in the delicate process.

#original whump #whumpy text post #self care

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #broken bones #magical healing #painful healing #guilt #manipulative whumper #brainwashing and manipulation #<-it's not like Being Done in this chapter but thorne is. Feeling Some Cognitive Dissonance and he Doesn't Like It #back injury tw #burns tw #referenced noncon

[emcscared-whumps]

WHUMPTOBER 2023 - 02: “I’ll Call Out Your Name, but You Won’t Call Back.”

Whumptober 2023 Navigation Post

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

Wow I'm a dumbass LOL, you see, I MEANT to have a rough limit of 0.5k, but here we are, 4 times that.

Regardless, I had a lot of fun with this one, and it wrote so easily once I changed up what caused the delirium.

This takes place roughly one year before Shifting Phases, Pete is 17 here and is suffering a very weird symtpom of moon deprivation... :)

CONTENT and WARNINGS: Nonhuman whumpee, impaired awareness, referenced/implied childhood trauma (not described)

wc: ~2k

WHERE ARE YOU?

Pete’s Perspective

Pete should have been safe.

As soon as he got the dates for the big exam, he checked the calendar. It was a Final, one of several across each of his subjects for him to pass before he would graduate and proceed with his post-schooling courses. His first fear was that it was the day after a full moon. The Final was for Essay and Literature, one of the core subjects where a pass was required to graduate at all. With such an important exam coming up, Pete nearly collapsed with relief when he found the full-moon fell on a night two weeks away.

For once, everything seemed to be working out; he was finally in The Powers’ favours. He was tired, of course, but the preparational classes his school ran were all making sense; he even managed to retain most of the content where he’d failed to take notes; and he’d got an early start.

Hunched over a desk layered with pages and printouts underneath open novels and textbooks, Pete worked studiously to prepare against a growing mental static until the sky turned orange, red, and then fell dark.

Slowly, the words began to sway and swim on the pages. It was getting hard to focus. Blinking, Pete leaned back in his chair and sipped from the luke-warm cup of tea Ma had left him, curling his toes in his slippers, and massaged his temple with his free hand. It was as if the darkening sky had draped a blanket of tiredness over his body; cold, heavy, and uncomfortable. It bogged down his thoughts.

Maybe I’ve studied too much, he thought idly, cracking open an eye.

He set his tea back on the desk and looked down on his work only to find the words that he had just written foreign and difficult to understand.

What had he been studying...?

Oh, right, it was...

What was it...?

Whatever it was, it felt important, he had to press on.

Pete tried to take more notes, but found he had nothing to write. Anything was better than nothing, so he soldiered on, all that left his pen was a mishmash of different letters. They looked right, but something seemed wrong. Pete couldn’t work out what, but it made his heart pound.

He leaned back again, groaning.

The movement made his stomach turn and his head spin. His body followed the loll of his head and he slouched further into his chair, dimly staring at his surroundings.

Something was wrong, he could feel it. Nothing looked right.

“Why...? It’s wrong, why?” he mumbled, unable to hear the way he mangled the words.

It was wrong.

It wasn’t his home, wasn’t his room. Something was just wrong with it all. Where is the moon...? he found himself wondering. It should’ve been there, shining onto him, making everything okay. It should’ve been there.

But it wasn’t.

A call rose from somewhere. The word sounded familiar.

He rose from the chair, work forgotten, and padded to a door and left the room. There were stairs just across from him, and that strange call came again, drifting up the flights; “Hey, Pete! Tea!” it said, and it continued on, but the words bounced off his mind.

As Pete descended the stairs, he felt he was supposed to be afraid.

Why did he need to be afraid? He didn’t understand that instinct until he reached the bottom of the stairs and followed the voice to a different room, lined with cupboards.

An older woman with curly blonde hair and a soft white cloth draped over her shoulders brightened at his approach, and pushed something with rising white curls toward him. It made a clattering sound as it went. She smiled, but something didn’t feel right, it felt wrong, wrong enough to make his heart squeeze itself in his chest.

Something in her face changed, she wanted to know something. She wanted something from him. Why was he here with her? He should be with Ma, not this woman.

He felt his brow crease further—had it been creased the whole time? — and he took a step back for every step she took toward him.

“Pete...?” she asked in his ma’s voice, “Are you feeling alright? Is something wrong?”

Pete didn’t like those probing questions, he shouldn’t answer them. She shouldn’t ask him. They weren’t safe.

He wasn’t safe

“Pete?”

He frowned. That was not his name, not his name.

Something beeped from the room lined with cupboards, and a humming sound ceased. What was that...? Pete craned his neck to find the source of the sound, and while he was distracted, the woman covered the distance between him and took his hand, saying something.

Pete jumped with fright, a yelp escaping him, and tore his hand from hers. He curled his lip in the beginnings of a snarl. “Who a-are ye,” he half-hissed, “k-keep yer—yer hands off.”

From the way she looked at him, wide eyed, mouth slightly agape, something was wrong with the way he spoke. The words didn’t feel right in his mouth either, and that frightened him.

The woman frowned deeper, saying something in a questioning tone before rushing away and reappearing before he could think to turn and run instead of stumbling backward down the long part of the room.

In her delicate, tanned hands was a long, white object with a tapered body and a blunt metal tip.

She tried to get close again, but he wouldn’t let her. Close was dangerous, no matter how much good she thought she was going to do. It wouldn’t be good for either of them; especially not him.

Why?

It doesn’t matter, he thought, eyes darting between the stairs, outside, and soft, comfortable-looking furniture until he found another door. He couldn’t let her touch him, not when everything in him screamed to keep her away, and so he shoved her hands down from his shoulders and arms and ran.

Outside was past that door; he could see the darkness of night illuminated by streetlamps, tantalisingly close. The moon was outside. If he got out, he could get away from this unfamiliar woman and this unfamiliar place, he’d be safe, and the moon would shine down on him with its soft, pale light, and everything would be okay.

He had to get outside.

He had to find the moon and make sure it was still there; he wanted so badly to feel okay.

Before Pete realised, the cold brass of the doorknob was pressed into the skin of his hands. It felt like the crisp night air.

He needed it.

He cried in frustration when it stubbornly resisted his weak, shaking grip, and the fumbling turn of his wrist, refusing to set him free from the foreign walls which shrunk down on him each second he struggled. And the woman, she was fast catching up, sounding concerned as if he were her child. He was scared, he wouldn’t be scared of his own mother, she couldn’t be his mother.

Finally, Pete bumped the door’s deadlock and the door released, finally letting him escape the stifling confines of the woman’s home and into the fresh night air.

~*~

Kate’s Perspective

The second Pete appeared from the hall and cautiously approached her in the kitchen, Kate knew something was wrong.

Her Pete always came down with a soft smile on those handsome features, thanking her for whichever snacks or tea she brewed for him during his study. Tonight, he looked tired and gaunt with deep shadows under those usually bright blue eyes, and suspicion and confusion lined each small crease that formed along the furrow of his brow.

Was he sick? Tired? Was he finally succumbing to the overwhelming pressure the school put on him to succeed?

“Pete?” she asked, “Are you feeling alright? Is something wrong?”

He simply stared at her, turning his head slightly as if intimidated. Kate rounded the peninsula and approached, but for each step toward him, he took a step back.

This just wasn’t like him; he had acted this way only a handful of times after he’d settled into her home all those years ago, she couldn’t blame him for having such episodes. For such a small child to witness a horror like that was a true tragedy, and though his mind had seemingly locked up those memories, sometimes, they resurfaced. In recent years, it began to look slightly different, maybe even more severe.

Was that what this was? Another episode of his mind trying and failing to comprehend what he saw as a child? He’d always avoided her offers of getting him help. Maybe she should be firmer before it’s too late.

He was still staring, guard up.

“Pete...?”

A small spark of hostility flickered in those shadowy eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared when the microwave beeped and turned off, drawing her son’s attention.

Kate took the oppourtunity to move closer, picking up his hand and pressing her palm into his. His hand was delicate in hers, chilly and fine, and shaking. In her softest voice, she said, “You can tell me what’s going on, I’m always here if you need, okay? Is it about that night?”

In a delayed reaction, Pete yelped and tore his hand away as if burned, curling his lip and snarling.

Kate’s heart stopped. Those wild eyes, those too-sharp teeth... in that split second, they made him look the perfect, terrifying picture of something else entirely.

Slowly, his gaze shifted into one of fear that passed straight through her. Even the heavy, panting breaths he took seemed full of confused fear. He didn’t respond or even seem aware that she spoke to him again, telling him that she’ll take his temperature and put him to bed, and that if he was running a fever, she’d help him with a tepid shower.

When she returned with a thermometer, Pete bolted for the door and cried when he couldn’t get it to open, clumsily rattling the brass knob with the tremors that wracked his body. Hearing him sound like that broke her heart. Finally, the door opened, and he ran down the entryway stairs.

“Pete! Slow down, what’s wrong?? Please, talk to me!” Kate called, hurrying after him, but it was to late. There must’ve been a light rain at some point this evening because the pavers gleamed with a thin layer of ice that Pete didn’t notice until his slippers slipped, yanking a leg out from under him, sending him crashing down the rest of the stairs.

He could do little more than turn his head and let out a winded whine on the path where he came to a stop. He seemed to be searching for something, but couldn’t find it. His eyes flicked over Kate and the terrace, but it served only to worsen his confusion; he didn't recognise her at all. He tried to pick himself back up, but each attempt ended in misery and a thud. His eyes glistened with tears, and he sobbed brokenly; the only discernible parts were about being lost, and then he quieted as a distraught daze crept over him.

“Oh Pete,” Kate murmured, carefully descending the slippery stairs to where her son laid, “You’re alright, you’re home, let’s get you back inside.”

He didn’t resist when she took his hand and pressed the back of her own to his forehead, only whimpering about something only he could understand.

“No fever, but you feel a little chilly. Let’s get you to bed and warm you up, my sweet. I’ll make sure you get an exemption from the exam tomorrow.”

It was slow going, but Pete seemed to register a few of her words, she hoped, and the small movement of his head looked like a vacant nod. Thankfully, he cooperated, allowing Kate to lend her support and balance to him and walk him back into their home and up to bed where she laid him gently to recover. With her son tucked in and laid an extra blanket over his doona, Kate pressed a kiss to his forehead and switched off the desk lamp, leaving the moonless night to shroud the room in darkness.

Taglist

@a-crumb-of-whump

@dang-i-like-whump

@nowjustanothermain2notjudge

@painful-pooch

@pigeonwhumps

@whumplovers-collaborate

@whump-cravings

@willowtreewhump

If you would like to be added or removed, please let me know <3 More info [here]

#whumptober 2023 #no.2 #i'll call out your name but you won't call back #thermometer #delirium #OC #writing #whump #whump writing #emc's writing #Pete Spencer #original whump #nonhuman whumpee #nonhuman whump #oc whump #Kate Spencer

[montammil]

I really loved the sick drabble you did with Marshall and Lawrence ❤️ can you pleeease do a sequel? Maybe Lawrence really doesn't want his son to get better and keep him delusional... 👀

CW: Parental/creepy whumper, drugging, sickness (through being drugged), platonic bathing, infantilizing behavior, food, affectionate nicknames, crying, delirium

Lawrence glances in the living room to see Marshall disinterestedly staring at the TV playing cartoons. He doesn't care Marshall looks so bored, at least he's watching them. He knows if Marshall knew Lawrence saw him watching them, he'd insist he wasn't. He decides since it's getting late, this would be the best time, because in the morning, it'd seem less strange for Marshall to get sick again. It wouldn't seem as suspiciously sudden.

He prepares Marshall's food, as well as some apple juice, which luckily he knows Marshall enjoys. He puts the crushed dust of the pill in, and takes a small sip. It's not that noticeable. He's done his research, and everything should come into effect two to eight hours later. It's just enough inauspicious to work without Marshall becoming set on accusing him of anything.

"Time for dinner, buddy!" Lawrence calls from the kitchen.

Slowly, Marshall trudges in. He just got over that fever yesterday, and Lawrence can't say he doesn't miss Marshall's dependence… how he called him Dad. He hopes this'll make him just as if not more dependent. He hopes Marshall will call him Dad again. He'd give anything to hear that word from his mouth again.

"I made garlic and chicken potatoes." He puts the plate in front of Marshall, then the glass of apple juice. He prepares himself some of the food as well, then sits across from him and starts eating. He tries not to make it obvious he's staring at Marshall, waiting to see him sip the apple juice. He hopes it's not noticeable.

Marshall first takes a sip of the apple juice, and Lawrence quickly averts his gaze. After a couple of seconds, he glances up again to see Marshall picking up his fork, unknowing.

Dinner goes fairly smoothly after that. They don't speak much, even if Lawrence wants to ask how he's feeling, but he doesn't know if that'll be suspicious. If everything goes as planned, Marshall won't even have the ability to think that hard about it in a few hours from now, but he just wants to play things safe, in case things go wrong.

He wishes he did some research about how effective it'd be if crushed into apple juice, but he didn't think of it.

"I'm gonna go to bed now," Marshall mumbles, putting his dish and empty glass away. Despite how Marshall makes it clear he isn't content with any of this, he always maintains his manners. One of the many things Lawrence loves about him.

Lawrence smiles. "Want me to tuck you in?" He knows the answer, it's the same every time he asks, but he hopes one day, he'll want him to. He hopes it changes soon.

Marshall used to look so anxious each time he'd ask that, sometimes even a little angry, but recently he grew an emotionless expression to that, and all of Lawrence's affectionate nicknames.

"No thank you." He leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

Lawrence sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket, double-checking the side-effects of the drug. A person who owed him a favor managed to get it to him with no trouble, and told him mostly everything he needed to know, but he just wants to look over everything again.

Headache, drowsiness, weakness, nausea and vomiting, muscle pain, fever, and chills.

Perfect to imitate sickness.

Satisfied with his findings, Lawrence heads upstairs, and changes into his sleepwear before climbing under the covers. Once he closes his eyes, he falls asleep.

...

Lawrence wakes up at the usual time, and the first thing in his mind is to check on Marshall. He changes into some clothes for the day, and then exits his room to the one just a door down. He doesn't bother knocking, since Marshall doesn't wake up this early most of the time, and finds him surprisingly awake.

It doesn't help that he looks miserable. His eyes have dark circles under them-- darker than usual-- and he's never bundled himself in so many covers.

"Oh, sweetie, what's wrong? Are you okay?" Lawrence tries hard to fight a smile that it worked, kneeling down in front of the bed to look more closely at him. He brushes some hair away from Marshall's face and runs his thumb over his cheekbone.

Warm breath fans Lawrence's hand as Marshall says raggedly, "I think 'm sick again."

"I can see," Lawrence chuckles, but makes sure to keep his voice sympathetic, too. "I'm sorry, buddy. Here, let's go take your temperature again. Maybe I'll call a doctor soon." Which isn't even a doctor. Just another person that owes him a favor.

While being carried, Marshall doesn't even insist he can walk himself. He goes practically deadweight in the blond's arms, legs dangling from his sides.

Lawrence sits him on his usual chair, then grabs the thermometer from one of the top shelves' cabinets. He cleans it, then puts it in Marshall's mouth, not having to intruct him to put it under his tongue. A much deeper concern creeps into Lawrence's heart, wondering if he went too far with it…

It comes back at exactly 100 degrees Fahrenheit, which is good. Not too high, but not unconvincingly low.

A frown sets itself across Lawrence's face as he places the thermometer back on the shelf. "100 degrees… I'm sure it'll only go up from there…"

"Great," Marshall huffs.

"It's okay, kiddo. Why don't I build us a blanket fort, we get all cozy and watch a movie? I'll even make us hot chocolate."

Marshall seems to ponder about it briefly, then nods. His expression is beyond displeased, but also too tired to argue.

Eager to cheer him up, Lawrence walks ahead, humming to himself. He starts with making the blanket fort, then comes back into the kitchen to carry Marshall to the living room, and to the newly made blanket fort. He bundles him in two blankets, kisses his forehead, and leaves the room to make hot chocolate.

Lawrence is determined to make sure this goes correctly. If everything really goes according to plan, maybe he won't let Marshall off the medicine for a while. Just until Marshall can properly bond with him.

When he comes back, he sees Marshall already half-asleep. He sits next to him, pulling him in his lap after setting the hot chocolate aside to cool down a little. He suppresses a coo at how Marshall shivers and leans into him.

"My head hurts," Marshall says quietly.

"Aww, I'm sorry, bud. Do you need any medicine? I completely forgot, I'm sorry." He untangles himself from the younger man, and goes back to the kitchen. As he gets some medicine for the headache, he thinks about it for a moment, then puts it away. Instead, he grabs half a pill more of the drug he used in the first place. A little more wouldn't hurt.

Marshall looks confused when Lawrence comes back with only half a pill. He takes it and the hot chocolate, swallowing it down.

"It's strong, so I decided half a pill is best for now," Lawrence tells him. "If your headache doesn't go away in a couple more hours, I'll give you the other half, m'kay?"

"Okay." Marshall takes another sip of the hot chocolate, and then puts it next to him, letting Lawrence pull him back into his lap, not fighting or tensing like he normally does. He falls asleep before Lawrence can even ask him what he wants to watch. Not that Lawrence minds.

...

"It hurts," Marshall cries two hours later, clutching onto Lawrence's shirt. "Everything hurts, I hate it. It wasn't this bad last time." His voice is in a whine, and he's shivering significantly more.

Gently, Lawrence runs his hands through the young man's hair. "I know, I know, hon. I'm sorry. Can you be a little more specific with me? Is it your head, your tummy?"

Marshall grows more frustrated, whining out, "Everything. Everything hurts."

Lawrence presses a kiss to the top of his head. He hates himself for giving that extra half, he knows he shouldn't have done that. He just wanted Marshall to be delirious enough to call him Dad again. His hands get shakier as he continues to run them through his hair. "Okay, okay, Marshie. How 'bout I check your temperature again? Is that alright?"

The younger man nods, still whimpering slightly.

"I'll be right back." Lawrence leaves back to the kitchen, cleans the thermometer, and comes back. "Open up."

Hesitantly, Marshall opens his mouth and Lawrence puts the instrument under his tongue. It beeps and he pulls it away. It's now at 100.2. He's surprised to see it hasn't changed almost at all. He's really hopes he didn't go too far. He pulls Marshall back up in his arms and says, "I'm gonna give you a bath. Is that okay with you, kiddo?"

"Mmph."

"I'll take that as a yes." Lawrence is eager to take care of him like an actual father. He carefully undresses him, gets him in the tub, and makes sure to get the water warm, but not hot. "This should make the pain easier to deal with. Then it's back to bed with you. Maybe after some soup."

Marshall doesn't respond, only starts crying as soon as Lawrence starts to wash his hair. "Hurts," he cries again. "Hurts, Dad."

All of Lawrence's slight regret is thrown out the window when he hears those helpless words that somehow bring a small grin to his face. He doesn't even need to hide it, with how delirious Marshall seems.

"Oh, Marshall, I know," Lawrence says softly. "I wish I could take away the pain from you, I'm so sorry I can't." He finishes cleaning him, and picks him up, wrapping him in a towel and drying him off. He gets him into some comfortable clothes, then carries him in his room. He tucks Marshall in, a rare occasion, and says, "I'm going to get some soup for you. Tomato again, right?"

The young man doesn't even reply, just groaning.

Lawrence doesn't feel a hint of guilt or remorse anymore. He got what he wanted, and it was so worth it. Maybe he won't do this on regular occasion, but this definitely won't be the last. He doesn't think it's so wrong to just want to be treated like a father.

He hopes Marshall will appreciate what he can remember when he wakes up. Thankfully, the drug didn't mention anything about memory loss.

Lawrence turns around When he returns to the room, he smiles gently at Marshall, who is staring at the ceiling miserably. "I'm back, honey." He sits down on the edge of the bed. "Can I spoon-feed you?"

Marshall makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a protest, but he nods.

He smiles and does so, reminded of the time Marshall got sick in the first place. After a majority of the soup is gone, he puts the bowl away and sweeps back his bangs. "Good job, kiddo. I'm gonna go put this away, I'll be right back."

"Stay." Marshall grabs onto his sleeve. "Stay. Don't wanna be alone. Dad, stay!" He gets himself worked up, and starts crying again.

Frowning, Lawrence bends over, putting his arm around Marshall. "Dad's not going anywhere, buddy."

"…don't leave me."

"Never." Lawrence gets in bed with him, holding him close. "Dad's got you. Just get some sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise."

It doesn't take long for Marshall to listen and fall asleep. His fists in Lawrence's shirt loosen, and soon his quiet snores can be heard. He drools on Lawrence's shirt, but Lawrence doesn't care one bit.

He'll definitely be doing this again soon. He closes his eyes relaxedly and hums a song to Marshall, a song his mother used to sing to him.

"Goodnight, sweetheart. Dad loves you so, so much."

"…you too," Marshall mutters into his chest.

Marshall is truly fast asleep before he can feel the older man's tears hit his hair.

#whump #parental whumper #lawrence oc #marshall oc #cold cold eyes #original whump #whump ocs #whump writing #tw food #tw parental whumper #tw drugging #tw infantilism #tw infantilization #tw sickness

[whumplovers-collaborate]

Original Work List — Whumpy Works created for the Multimedia Summer Exchange in the Whumplovers Collaborate server

This list features Whumpy original writing and art of OCs

Writing

Life Excerpt #4 - Routine Cumbersome Visit by LizzyDizzyYo

Another illness. Another run to the hospital. Another moment James realizes he isn't ready to lose Als.

This is (or will be) a part of an extended universe revolving around the characters Als and James, and one among many fics in the non-linear series about these two. It can be read as a standalone, but will probably make more sense once this fic is connected to the rest of the series. You can read the other fics in the series later for background information.

Trials of Thanatos by shadowsofourdeepestmind

Thanatos Iuventus is focused on nothing more than getting home to his husband on a miserable rainy evening in February. Percival Capuano, a newly-fledged mafia boss, has other plans for the vampiric therapist. Thanatos just has to hold out until the Archfey can find him, or at least, that's what he tells himself. But every day is more difficult than the last and he is not known for his tenacity. Hopefully, when the Archfey arrives, he'll still be in enough pieces to put back together.

the best mage in the whole empire by Kanraxing

A young mage captain returns from the frontlines victorious, but finds himself thrown in a prison cell.

dinner party by Kanraxing 

in a world where superheroes and villains are constantly at odds, a young villain ends up a renowned superhero's plus one to one of the biggest events of the year...

Out to Shore by fluffae 

As much as Sea loved Archer, Sea knew Archer could never love him back.

my hands they drip tears, my eyes they weep blood by the_diving_fox 

Cerberus is an aasimar rogue on the run after a brutal fight that he wasn't on the right side of. He's found bloody and beaten by kind strangers who do their best to nurse him back to health.

i am so terrible at titles *hands you some fae siblings* by beebeebees

Art

Treat for ritz by Anonymous

Tick. Tock. by kas_intheshadows

Crimson has gone without human interaction and food and water for nearly 2 days and he’s losing it. The clock on the wall hasn’t stopped, it’s all he’s heard and all he can think about. When Eugene finally shows up, he’s different to usual and the change is unnerving Crimson further. Through all of this, the clock keeps ticking and Crimson can’t shut it out of his mind.

I Know You're There, Maxie~ by emcSCARED @emcscared-whumps

(ARTWORK) Kian, a troubled hearteater, has gone off the rails. Drunk on the scent of blood, she chases down her adversary, Maximiliano.

Midnight by emcSCARED @emcscared-whumps

(ARTWORK) Being a Midnight Child is an invisible curse whose only signs are the wounds and fear it leaves on its bearer...

What happened here? (pic) by winterseasons

Cutter is separated from his team when a ghost hunt goes wrong. He comes across a bloody scene and realizes the killer ghosts are still in the area.

WLC 2023 Multimedia Summer Exchange Gift by Alexander_Rietveld @tiny-feral-arachnid-man

Assorted drawings of Chordata7's ocs (Erin R. Watski, Asura Dara and Kurama).

The Bad things by BeneathAScorpionSky @beneathascorpionsky

Aaaaaaa giftart

Sacrifice by Anonymous

POV youre about to get sacrificed to Erducenzi by Axel Gawain Ozul and Ash Necronium Hler-Ozul.

Fever by John_in_Art

Marcus hoped he didn’t go too far. You can't get information from a dead captive. His skin was clammy under his fingers - he might be going into shock, Marcus thought - but he was breathing and his pulse was strong. He could take a little more.

Tears of Anguish by Silver_Treats (SuperSilverSpy)

Maximiliano is having a hard time…

Treat for Aquamaris by the_actual_letter_n

Portrait of her OC Sorren!

Robot's Treat by Anonymous

Chordata's Treat by Anonymous

Bagelistrying's Treat by Anonymous

Art of Alexander_Rietveld’s OC by Quillwritesometimes @onlywhump

Ed is having a bad day

Hiding in the Shadows' Treat by Anonymous 

Plague Doctor Simp's Treat by Anonymous 

Sparrow's Treat by Anonymous

Arizzo's Treat by Anonymous

Writer of World's Treat by Anonymous 

Tic Tac Murder Spaghetti's Treatby Anonymous

Open by the_actual_letter_n

Flaming Psycho's Treat by Anonymous

Bincaptain's Treat by Anonymous

Breaksbones's Treat by Anonymous 

Truthfully a Fangirl's Treat by Anonymous 

Just A Trick of the Light by Flat_San @willowtreewhump

“They’re not real,” he thought to himself, swallowing thickly around the cold lump of fear in his throat. “There’s nothing there. I’ll close my eyes… and everything will be fine.”

Hurt Pete :( by itstanzaniteuniverse 

Bloody Flames by Sishal @sishal01

Diana had a real fun night.

Jack by Sishal @sishal01

Jack had a rough night.

Emc's treat by Anonymous

 

Kanra's treat by Anonymous

Strange Encounters by Steefwaterbutter 

Formoso the mer meets Jiang the water dragon

Siegrrun's Gift by Anonymous 

Fandom List 1 — Fandom List 2 — Fandom List 3

#whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpy art #whump art #WLC #exchange #multimedia exchange #writing #original whump #original fiction #original art #original character #original writing #whump discord server

[andromeda-whump]

Immortal Whumpee gets something heavy, like a rock tied to them, and thrown into a tank of water. They struggle, and try to scream, and Whumper watches them like a tv show. Eventually their fight gives out, their screams become pained whimpers, and listlessly float in the water, tired and hurting.

#immortal whumpee #drowning whump #new whump blogs #new whump blog #whump blogs #whump blog #drowning whumpee #original whump