#whumpwriting

[hillscapecity]

Whumpees👏sick👏on👏a👏roadtrip👏 (with caretaker)

Aghh this is just one of my favorite whump scenarios to imagine!!

Whumpee shifting uncomfortably in their seat while trying to get some sleep

Maybe caretaker and whumpee live far from a hospital so its up to caretaker to make them comfortable during the long ride with reasuring words

Maybe they have to reserve a motel room for the night. Caretaker wakes up in the middle of the night to check on whumpee, only to find them with a dangerously high fever. They frantically dump them in a bath, desperate to cool them down.

They are driving in a blizard but are forced to pull over due to the storm. Stuck there for hours

#i could go on and on #whump blog #whumpblr #caretaker #caretaker and whumpee #whump #soft whump #whumpee #caretaking #whumpwriting #worried caretaker #roadtripwhump #roadwhump #sick whumpee #sick whump #sick fic

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XIX | Whisper in the Dark

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight Category: Gen Content Warnings: referenced abuse, child death, panic attacks, dissociation, self-harm AO3: Lost Kin Chapter XIX | Whisper in the Dark First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter Notes:  It was coming eventually. Here's another reason Hornet didn't want to face the knowledge that Hollow was alive: it's proof of concept that any vessel could be. I sincerely wish her luck in dealing with that. Next chapter is one I'm particularly excited for: Hornet encounters a familiar figure on the shores of the Blue Lake. (Also @slimeel​ has done it again: check out the fantastic new illustrations for chapter 16—as well as my new icon! Isn't it shiny?)

○

Hornet stayed at Hollow’s side for hours.

She watched their breathing steady, going back to the deep, nearly soundless rhythm they fell into in sleep, interrupted only by residual shivers as their body began to loosen from its tight curl. Their hand and arm gradually relaxed, losing some of the tense stiffness, the silk and padding she had wrapped it with coming to rest under their tucked chin.

Her arm was aching, but she did not stop. She shifted slowly, resisting the urge to groan or sigh as she changed position, never ceasing the stroke of her hand up and down their mask. When she had settled more comfortably, she gave a little more weight to her touch, curling her fingers a fraction to let her claws scrape softly across the faint whorls of living bone. She remembered how soothing it had been to feel her mother’s claws on her face, their knife-edge sharpness used so gently, that faint vibration humming through her skull, and Hollow seemed to feel it too–their eyelids dropped, closing over the ever-swirling void.

Time dragged on as she crouched there, heedless of the growing pain in her knees, heedless of everything she had meant to do. She could not have marked the moment when they fell asleep, nor what told her they had done so, only knew that the watchfulness went out of them, that last humming string of tension falling silent.

Still, she did not stop.

The light outside the window was well and truly gone. The only other illumination rose from the embers of her forgotten fire and the cluster of blisters still pulsing, weakly, on Hollow’s chest. Their other wounds had ceased to glow, fading to a dark and sullen color that she could barely see against the darkness of their shell.

The infection was leaving them. She had a chance at saving them, more of a chance than she had expected or hoped for, and she did not know what to do with it.

How much of her sibling remained, beneath the neglect and the pain and the memories of torture? Beneath the void she was told had stolen their life away?

More than she thought. More than she ever dreamed possible.

She allowed her gaze to roam as they lay still beneath her hand, similarities and differences striking her anew with faint shocks like built-up static.

What were they? What had the void changed? What had it left behind?

They could communicate. They could reason. They could feel pain, and fear, and something like comfort, if their relative calm now was any indication.

What did she do with a vessel that had not only survived the infection, but was sentient?

To what degree? They plainly had a mind, but she did not know how they could still be sane after what they had endured. Their mind might be as broken as their body. They might be able to communicate only the most basic of concepts: yes or no, pain or pleasure.

And did that make then any less worthy of respect, any less deserving of dignity? Did that excuse what she had done and how she had treated them?

No.

If she was damned, though, so was her father, and her mother, and everyone else who had ever treated them like an object, like a thing. What kind of person could they be, after an endless lifetime of neglect and suffering? What had they once been, and what had they become?

She knew their upbringing had been one of strict utility, their waking hours taken up by training and preparation. Rarely had she seen the Pure Vessel idle. The nearest they had come was their presence in the throne room while the Pale King held court, a rare occasion in and of itself. They had been a white-clad shadow on the edge of her vision, never stirring from their unnatural stillness, armored hands folded on the hilt of their nail. They were a symbol of power, of resolve, and she could hardly see that in them now, broken and bereft as they were.

Had they been this lonely, this afraid, even then? Had that perfect image been nothing but projection?

If so, if their awareness was not a new development, they had hidden it so well that she never had cause to doubt that they were anything more than what they showed the world.

She tried to imagine her life without a scrap of comfort, without a smile or caress or warm word from her mother, without the easy company and gentle tutelage of the Weavers. Without any acknowledgement of will, any respect for her decisions—any opportunity to make decisions at all.

Oh, gods—without a voice, without the ability to laugh or cry or scream when she needed to, with no words to express or explain herself, with no way to hum or sing or whisper to herself in the dark. Only eternal silence, eternal obedience to the being that had created her, with no choice but to become what he wanted her to be.

Her next breath nearly broke, nearly cracked, nearly bared everything she was trying to hide. Had they ever been soothed in this way? Had anyone ever offered them a kind word or a warm embrace? Had anyone ever thought to comfort them as the days grew long, as the kingdom crumbled, as the world narrowed and closed around them like the walls of a tomb? Certainly the Radiance had never done so, and she could not imagine her father ever reaching out to offer solace to a being he believed to be mindless.

Even as a hatchling, even before they grew to fill the role of knight, would either of their parents have thought to nurture a child they thought long-dead? Had anyone taken their hand when they stumbled, or lifted them up when they grew too tired to walk? Had anyone held them when they lay awake in the dark?

And how badly had they needed it, for them to defy all the odds and react to it now? How desperate must they be, to ask her to help them, to lean into her touch, though she had caused them nothing but pain?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, words nearly swallowed by the ache in her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

She was a coward to tell them now, when they could not hear her. And even if they could have heard, they could not answer. Their voice had been stolen long ago, when the Pale King first lowered their egg into the Abyss, when the hatchling within had drowned in the welling void, sacrificed and reborn before they ever took their first breath.

But she would not wish to hear that they forgave her.

She did not deserve to be forgiven.

She would not have offered forgiveness in their place. She would have lashed out with teeth and claws, extracting blood for blood, pain for pain, drawing forth screams where she had been given only silence.

And if the weight of a kingdom had been placed on her back? If thousands or millions of lives rode on her existence? If civilization itself depended on her cooperation?

She might have done the same. She might have stifled every spark of anger, every flicker of regret, and drifted through her own life like a ghost, believing herself capable of the impossible. She might have swallowed down her father’s demands and fulfilled his every wish, allowing his will to work through her hands and accepting every pain and terror he visited on her, all for the sake of a kingdom that she loved despite it all.

Hornet clenched her free hand in her lap to stop its trembling. When she thought of it in that way, she had already done it. She had already lived this lie, already acted out this charade. She was still bound to a task whose purpose had grown shaky, still sworn to a kingdom that had all but crumbled into dust. She could not leave, but neither could she stand by and do nothing.

She had been named Protector. It was one name she held that still meant something to her.

Even though she had failed.

Her vision blurred again, with exhaustion, with hunger. She blinked to force it clear. She had not allowed herself to think of it until now, but the evidence of her failure lay there in front of her: the Hollow Knight, free from their bindings, from the seals that had ensured their stasis. And despite all the fragile, desperate plans she had spun in the interim, she was still no closer to discovering another stopgap, another method of holding back the infection.

It was finally over.

Hornet shook her head violently, once. She could not afford to think like this. She could not allow herself to be weak. No matter what had happened to the seals, she would find a way to restore them. She would step into the Dream herself if need be. The Radiance could not be unleashed upon the world.

More than just Hallownest would suffer for it.

But where had she gone wrong?

Maybe she had allowed herself to falter one time too many. Maybe she hadn’t been strong enough. Maybe, after countless years spent watching, waiting, her vigilance had slipped.

She hadn’t even been there when her mother’s seal had broken. She hadn’t felt it happen, though she always thought she would.

Herrah had died alone, in her sleep, surrounded by the corpses of her people, and her daughter had not even noticed.

She had sat there for hours before, on days when she could no longer bear the chaos of the falling kingdom. The bedchamber had been a constant, something she could return to and rely upon, always the same restful silence, always the same seals gleaming bright in silk and soul. She had slept at Herrah’s side when she could not sleep anywhere else, had held her mother’s hand and spoke to her and touched her—much as she did now, for Hollow.

Hollow was not Herrah. Hollow, at least, would wake.

Hornet looked down, tracing the gradual curve of their mask as they slept, her thumb grazing the faint seam under their mask where their mouth would open, though she had never seen it. Did they have fangs like her, hidden away behind their jaws? Short, serrated ridges, like the queen? Or rows of jagged teeth that could snap open in threatening display, like their father?

She let her hand drift down from their horn, keeping the pressure of her touch constant while she gave in to curiosity. There were vents there, under their jaw where their mask ended, where their dark skin vanished beneath the lustrous white. Vents that silently eased open and closed in time with their breathing, barely visible but brushing her fingers with a steady flow of air, slightly warm.

 The skin itself was bare, soft as velveteen, soft enough to catch lightly on her callused pawpads. It extended down under the thin, hard plating—almost more like scales—that covered their throat. They took after the Pale King in most ways, though parts of their biology were still alien to her, mirroring neither Root nor Wyrm. Perhaps something ancient coded into the void, some impression of life that had once existed there.

All vessels were similar in a few marked ways. The horned masks. The black chitin. The empty, staring eyes. But she had never had cause to linger over them, to wonder at their makeup or compare it to her own. All her other encounters—

Her hand scraped to a stop.

All her other encounters with vessels had ended in death.

Except one.

She took a breath of chilly air that seemed too thin to sustain her. Suddenly she was above herself again, pushed backward and out of her body by the force of realization crashing in.

So many vessels. They flashed in her memory, white mask upon white mask, soulless eyes and little grasping hands, and the ease with which they died, spitted on her needle or strangled in her silk.

It seemed unthinkable, now, but she had never bothered to count them.

How many?

How many?

Were they all as Hollow was? Were they—did they feel? Did they fear? Had they longed for company, for sympathy, for mercy, right up until her blade split them open and their shades rushed free?

How many vessels had she murdered?

A high, wheezing whine broke through, and she looked down at Hollow in alarm before realizing her own throat thrummed with the noise, and her hand shook on their mask, and her eyes were burning fierce as fire.

Hornet jerked back, swallowing down the sound before she woke them. They did not stir, exhausted, and she could not blame them.

She had hurt them. But at least they lived.

She could not say the same for the others.

She had thought—she had thought—

But it didn’t matter now, did it? They were dead. They were all dead.

The sobs she had buried earlier clawed their way back to the surface. Her breath came shallow, quick as wingbeats, pathetically high over Hollow’s slow, rasping inhale.

They didn’t wake.

She didn’t think she could bear it if they did. If they looked at her with those fathomless eyes, if they reached out for her, if they trusted her—

They couldn’t know what she’d done in the name of protecting them. The lives she’d ended, the graves she’d dug, the losses she’d never mourned. The losses she had never known to mourn.

In the name of ensuring the stasis. Of preserving the kingdom.

Of extending their suffering.

She’d killed them. She’d killed her siblings.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know—

And it didn’t matter.

The walls were closing in, and when she pushed up on shaking legs it seemed her horns would scrape the gilded ceiling. The room was small, and tight, and damp and cold and suffocating and she couldn’t. She couldn’t. She couldn’t do it anymore.

She staggered to the hearth, where her things lay, and scraped them up, nearly dropping her needle to the floor when her tingling hands fumbled with its weight. The soul vessels and spare knives in the knapsack clattered like breaking glass, and she gasped and pressed them close, afraid to look over her shoulder, afraid to find that she had disturbed them, afraid to meet those eyes again.

They didn’t know, but she would still see her own guilt reflected there. She would see the accusation, the pain.

How many could you have saved?

Why am I the one you chose?

Her shell clenched tight around her heart. Her lungs fluttered wetly against their cage. She needed out. She needed out of this house, out of this city, out of her own crawling skin.

Dizzy, she clutched her belongings to her chest with one hand and fumbled along the wall with the other, feet scuffing along the rug in the dark, eyes burning, unblinking. She had to go. Where, she didn’t know, didn’t care. She had to fly, had to move, had to pry this guilt out of her chest. She needed to run, needed to feel the burn of her legs and the buzz of her silk until the pain in her body drowned out the pain in her soul. She would cut down every husk she saw, drawing the sharp outlines of battle around her mind, etching them again and again until this muddled blur of grief was erased. She would kill and kill until she balanced her scales, until she outweighed the lives taken by her void-stained hands.

How could it ever be enough? How could she ever be enough?

She couldn’t. She couldn’t be. She would never be.

She threw a last desperate glance over her shoulder. Hollow lay crooked on the pallet, knees hanging over the edge, back and side streaked with inky void and smears of tarnished gold, gone dull and dark now that their wounds had finally clotted.

She had saved them.

She had doomed them.

She had done what she had to do.

That wasn’t enough anymore.

Cracked chitin, leaking void. A pale mask, cleaved in two. Soft claws scratching, round eyes bleeding, crying. Limbs going limp, little shades surging free. The accusing glare of those bright, bright eyes.

Hornet choked. Stumbled back, putting the wall between her and them. Her free hand found the door; she had just enough sense left to open it slowly so the hinges would not creak. The key was a swinging weight around her neck; she fumbled it into the lock, turned it with fingers already slippery from the rain.

And if there were tears sliding down her mask amid the chilly tracks of raindrops, if a muffled sob escaped her throat, if she stood hunched against the door for a moment and pressed her hand flat against the timeworn shellwood, if she whispered a weak apology there, a pitiful plea hammered to silence under the pounding rain, before she shoved off and staggered away—

If that was so, there was no one there to see.

○

Hornet ran.

She ran until her knees throbbed, until her thighs trembled, until her arms numbed and her breath rubbed her throat raw. She ran until the rain diminished to drizzle and then to the occasional cold drip, falling with a tick, tick on her dirt-streaked mask.

And when she could run no longer, she flew, needle strung and thrown with frantic rhythm, yanking herself through the whistling air as if pursued by the deadliest of foes.

She had no plan, no direction, and she knew that this was foolish, and she did not care. The burning energy in her core was enough. The quick flicker-blaze of instinct was enough. Anything to keep her from thinking, from remembering the hot-cold sting of void on her shell, the crunch of splintered chitin under her needle, the twitch of a hand or a foot as she stood watching, waiting for the stillness of true death—

Her swing pulled up short and a stone platform slammed into her thorax. Air left her lungs in a sudden gush. Her needle clattered away, out of reach; empty space yawned beneath her scrabbling feet, dust and stones falling through the dim blue distance and vanishing into the fog.

Feet slipped. Claws slid backwards. Panicked, she grated out a hoarse yell, firing off a hectic cloud of silk. A great gout of soul burned up in an instant, manifesting in fine, lashing filaments that wrapped her and the platform both, enveloping her in a clumsy, sticky web that—thankfully—took some of her weight and allowed her to half-climb, half-wriggle up the side, scraping her mask and knocking her knees on the rough surface in the process.

Her legs wouldn’t hold her at the top. Panting, she rolled to safety and lay face-up, left hand feeling sloppily for her needle, though her fingers were too weak to grasp once she found it.

For an instant, a single, blessed instant, she did not think anything at all. The height and the pain and the pounding terror had stripped it all away.

Then the emptiness became a lack, an impression of what was missing, and she remembered.

Murderer.

Something edged out of her throat. A whimper.

Pathetic.

Anything that saw or heard her now would think her easy prey, and she was, lying limp and exhausted in plain sight, in an area she had not even scouted, a cavern she had no indication it was safe to rest in.

Where was she?

Sitting up was one of the hardest things she could think of, but she did it, fighting against the fatigue that dragged at her, against the dizziness that made the drifting mist tilt and sway.

A sense of silence was the first thing that came to her, an eerie incompleteness, with only the faraway dripping of stalactites to break it. No shuffling footsteps or rasping breaths disturbed the quiet, which indicated no husks nearby—at least not the fully mindless types that frequented the City. The air was damp and chill, but grayer, with a clammy, briny scent she recognized immediately. Far away at the end of the room, a steady light flickered, dreamlike, against the ceiling, like a piece of fabric suspended in the air.

That was why the room was so quiet. She was in the caverns beneath the Resting Grounds.

She had fled almost all the way to the Blue Lake.

Fled was the word for it. To leave Hollow alone when they were so vulnerable, when they had deteriorated so quickly the last time she left them, when she knew their fever had still not broken, that she had work yet to do.

And that was only the beginning.

The vessels’ faces intruded on her vision, one blurring into the other, much the same and yet all different, in ways she had never bothered to learn. She had been told that they were mindless, empty, all but husks themselves, and she had never seen any point in differentiating them, in memorizing the shapes of their horns or the drab colors of their cloaks. Never wanted to look deeper than the all-encompassing black that swam behind their eyes, never wanted to ponder what they may have been like before the void consumed them.

She had had enough pain in her life. She saw no use in inflicting more. Imagining who the vessels may have been, the kind of life they might have had, would never make her less alone. It would never make them family.

And everything she had put off then, every thought she had tried to bury and every stray fantasy she had folded away—all of them were crowding her now.

Small and weak, most of them had been. Easy to finish off. Tenacious, though in a blind, single-minded way that she attributed to whatever sub-sentience the void bestowed. They wanted what the void wanted, which was oneness. Unity. And they would never stop pursuing that, at the cost of what remained of Hallownest.

That goal drove them to attempt to unseal the Hollow Knight.

None of them had gotten very far, thanks to her.

She coughed, hard and long, and when she could draw breath again it rattled almost as much as Hollow’s. The muted blue-gray of the cavern drained to black and white for a moment until she steadied herself, and blinked, and deliberately pulled in one breath, then two.

Were the vessels only ever doing what she would have done for one of her own kind? Were they the only ones who might have understood how much Hollow suffered?

How could she have killed them for it?

Blindly, movements stiff and rote, Hornet dragged her needle to her side and levered herself up with it, standing as well as she could with her legs still trembling like leaves. Even with her energy shriveled to ashes, even as her throat burned with every breath, she could not stop. She could still run. She had to. She would run until—

Until—

She would just run.

Her needle bounced off the rock with her first throw, and she cursed as she reeled it back in, the silk running cool as water through her too-warm palms. She needed soul again, and soon; she’d consumed far too much of her reserve in that frantic silk-storm. That kind of undisciplined use was exactly what her tutors had had to hammer out of her.

At least it had kept her alive.

She huffed a cracked laugh and threw again, aiming for the rippling light, then swung from the platform and into the air.

○

Taglist: @2amtime @moss-tombstone

Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

#hollow knight #hk hornet #hk the hollow knight #hk pure vessel #hollow knight fanfic #whumpwriting #mywriting #lost kin fic #hk #lost kin chapter

[silversanimewhump]

Whumplovers Collaborate:

Whumpserver for all Whumplovers

There are extensive opt-in writing and art sections

So you can treat the server as solely a Whumpwriting server, solely a Whump-art server, or solely a hang-out server if you so wish (:

You can join here

More info below:

The main hang out area features: —Qotd —Server games like Jackbox and trivia —A large OC community  —A growing rp community  —Age restricted nsfw channels —Fandom clubs for: DC, Marvel, Anime, Tolkien, Star Trek, Star Wars, Video Games, and Atla

The writing section features: —Writers qotd —A writing competition/game —Sprints (with Sprinto) —Opportunities for collab writing —Chances to share your writing with others —Channels where writers can help each other with their writing

The Whump-art section features: —Art vc for streaming —Artists qotd —Art events —Channels for showcasing your art (Whumpy art, non-Whump art, gore, and age restricted nsfw channels) —Channels for helping others with their art/receiving help with art —Channels for sharing resources/helping other artists find resources

I know it may seem like a lot, but it’s not as bad as you might think Everything is well-organized and clearly defined

If you like hurting fictional characters, this is the place for you (:

Feel free to ask me any questions you may have

#I know I made a post about this before #But the server is quite different now #whump #Whump server #Whumpserver #Server #discord server #whump community #community #discord community #Hurt fictional characters #Writing #Whump writing #whumpwriting #art #whumpy art #whump art server #whumpwriting server #Events #competitions

[whumpsday]

Whumpmas in July #19

Create a list of some of your favorite whump blogs to share!

have list :) and this isn't even ALL the whump blogs i like!!! there's so many more too, i just only have so much time to make this post lol

@a-crumb-of-whump

@anomalys-taxonomy

@befuddled-calico-whump

@blackberry-bloody

@clickerflight

@demondamage

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@emcscared-whumps

@gentlelittlehorrors

@hold-him-down

@ilasknives

@lumpofwhump

@not-a-space-alien

@nyooom

@obsessedwithegos

@oddsconvert

@peachy-panic

@quietly-by-myself

@re-whump

@scribbelle

@seasaltandcopper

@secretwhumplair

@thecyrulik

@thoughtsonhurtandcomfort

@t0rture-me

@verkja

@whitehairandblood

@whuarri

@whump-blog

@whumpcloud

@whumperstorm

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpinthepot

@whumpitisthen

@whump-me-all-night-long

@whump-queen

@whumpshaped

@whumpwillow

@whumpwritings

@whumpycries

@whumpy-writings

@wolfeyedwitch

@whumpzone

#whumpmasinjuly2023 #wij23day19

[oddsconvert]

Hi! I’m considering starting a whump blog to post prompts and maybe stories later on and was just looking for any tips/advice you had on it (I’m a bit nervous and you’re one of my favourite blogs on here), thank you! :)

Ohmydays!!!! 😭🥺😭🥺😭🥺 - that means so much to me, thank you! 🥰

I was EXACTLY the same with the nerves when I made this blog! I was a secret little lurker and this account went through phases of me coming out my shell where I would slowly add a bio...slowly add a profile pic...then bit the bullet and made a post.

So saying that, my first bit of advice is to GO FOR IT! ♥️ Honestly, making my whump blog has been one of my best decisions ever, I love it here. I wish I'd done it sooner.

But here's some advice that I would've given past me when I first started up (and even current me that needs to remember sometimes)

× Write whatever the hell you want to write and don't hold yourself back! If you enjoy what you write, I can guarantee you that others will too. So don't get too bogged down in the "is this too dark?", "Will people like this?" - write for you! 🥰

× Interact with whumpblr! Don't be shy to interact with people, reblog or comment on what you love or send asks! This community has honestly some of the kindest and friendliest people you will ever come across, and you'll find that over time they'll become your rocks/your support/friends - and they MAKE the experience and will cheer you on!

× Don't get disheartened if interactions on posts take their time! Sometimes posts can take a good few days to do their rounds onto people's dash's, with good ol' timezones and Tumblrs amazing lack of algorithm or peeps manually scrolling through tags!

× Try and trigger warning your content where needed! But don't stress about being an expert about it on day one! We all learn through experience and time, so if you ever miss one or forget, odds are someone will just pop an ask or a comment and just say "mind tagging this?" and it's as simple as that!

× Utilise your hashtags! When you're first starting up, tags are probably one of your top chances of exposure and getting yourself out there (aswell as interacting with others ofc - that may be the best chance!) I usually always include the baseline/generic tags of #whump/whumpcommunity/whumpblr/whumpblog/whumpwriter etc. And I think that helped me in my early days ♥️

I hope some of those tips are a little bit helpful ahahaha - and I wish you the best of luck if you choose to start up your whump blog and hope you enjoy it!!!!

#answered asks #whump blog #whump blog advice #writing advice #whump community #whump writing #whumpblr

[weed-cat]

baptizedinmyspit sideblog tour

everyone blame @theghostthathauntsurlocalmansion for enabling this. some urls have been redacted because i don’t want them linked to this blog, but every single one of the exactly 50 sideblogs i have will be at least referenced. yeah i have cringe ass fandom blogs yes im an mcyt stan yes im an age regressor nyah nah nah nah nahh unfollow me about it if ur mad lol. 

okay here we go

@wilburapologist - set up, currently active - 181 followers - my general mcyt/dsmp blog. mostly reblogs. 

@mcytagere - set up, on hiatus - 636 followers - my blog for mcyt/dsmp fandom agere content. mostly original content and asks with some reblogs. 

@[redacted] - set up, formerly active - 383 followers - my general 5 Seconds Of Summer blog. mostly reblogs. 

@anotherwilbur - set up, currently active - 7 followers (lol get fucked Wil) - one of my headmates’ blogs idk what he gets up to over there ask him

@undeadscenecore - set up, currently active - 3,559 followers - my scenecore aesthetic blog. mostly reblogs and some original photography.

@polydysautonomic - set up, currently active - 22 followers - my physical disability advocacy/awareness blog. mostly reblogs.

@[redacted] - set up, currently active - 0 followers - my vent blog. mostly original vent posts. 

@tech-za - set up, currently active - 17 followers - my blog centered around Ph1lza and Technoblade’s friendship (NOT a ship blog). mostly reblogs. 

@sapnap-kinnie - set up, formerly active - 1 follower - my feral crew (Dream, Georgenotfound, Sapnap, Karl Jacobs, Quackity) blog. all reblogs. mostly abandoned and content that would have gone there is now redirected to wilburapologist . moderate potential to reactivate at some point. 

@george-notfound - set up, formerly active - 18 followers - my Georgenotfound-centric blog. mostly reblogs. same activity situation as sapnap-kinnie. 

@toblr - set up, currently active - 8 followers - our blog for my headmate Toby, posted on by multiple people in my system. only interact with this blog if all of your interactions would be 100% sfw, Toby is a child. mostly reblogs. 

@polymorphic-punishments - set up, currently active - 0 followers - another one of my headmates’ blogs, same deal as anotherwilbur. 

@pogchamppogpack - set up, not really active - 3 followers - blog that i made for my /p /hj ABO pack with two of my friends. i’m the alpha in case you were wondering. mostly reblogs. potential for occasional activity. 

@whumpwrite - set up, currently active - 3 followers - my writing blog, mostly fic writing, decent bit of pro-ao3 posting. mostly reblogs. 

@turbohell-castiel - set up, not really active - 4 followers - my supernatural blog. i mostly just spn post on main now. mostly reblogs. low potential for reactivation. 

@empoweredmenominee - set up, currently active - 18 followers - my blog centered around indigenous cultures and issues we face. mostly reblogs with some original posts.

@pop-punk-agere - set up, formerly active - 65 followers - my general age regression blog with a theme of pop punk music. i used to post there a lot but a lot of the things i posted there started going to mcytagere when my mcyt fixation set in. mostly reblogs and original littleposting. high potential for reactivation. 

@[redacted] - set up, currently active - 247 followers - my kink/nsft blog. mostly original posts with some reblogs.

@stillinthemerlinfandom - set up, formerly active - 14 followers - my BBC merlin blog. i’m still a fan of merlin but the fandom is just So Dead that i don’t bother with it (said with respect to the people who are still active). mostly original posts. low potential to reactivation. 

@unsolved-wheeze-sigh - set up, formerly active - 15 followers - my buzzfeed unsolved/watcher entertainment blog. mostly reblogs. low potential for reactivation. 

@[redacted] - set up, formerly active - 220 followers - my [redacted fandom] incorrect quotes blog (redacted because it’d be easy to find if you knew what fandom it was for). mostly original posts. low potential for reactivation. 

@polygon-unraveled - set up, very occasionally active - 32 followers - my polygon gaming/BDG blog. mostly reblogs. low potential for full reactivation. 

@biconjaskier - set up, formerly active - 1 follower - my blog for netflix’s The Witcher. mostly reblogs. low potential for reactivation. 

@actualstutter - partially set up, waiting to activate - 0 followers - the blog that i intend to make for advocacy and awareness for people who have the speech impediment of chronic stuttering. will activate at some point in the future. 

@diagnosedbpd - partially set up, waiting to activate - 0 followers - currently private until setup is complete - the blog that i intend to make for borderline personality disorder issues and awareness. will activate at some point in the future. 

@[redacted] - set up, formerly active - 38 followers - fandom-specific nsfw blog. mostly original posts. low potential for reactivation. 

@devynndavynnandemotionaldylynn - set up, formerly active - 9 followers - my blog for some random alt bands, mostly waterparks and palaye royale. mostly reblogs. low potential for reactivation. 

AND THAT IS ALL OF THE ONES THAT ARE COMPLETELY/PARTIALLY SET UP. here’s a quick list of all the other urls that i have for some reason or another. @dbtofficial @wedancethedanceofitaly @dsmpagere @benchtrioapologist @antarcticduo @ranbooprotectionsquad @transranboo @biranboo @ph1lzakinnie @wilbursoot-kinnie @jackmanifoldhotel @fundyenjoyer @syndicateenjoyer @catboy-omega @dsmpgender @dragthelakeandbringmehomeagain @taylor404 @wilbursootanti @makeupisfuckinggreatforaguy @[redacted] @[redacted] @weed-cat 

thank you for coming to my TED talk. 

[whumpcreations]

Find the Word Tag Game

I was tagged by @whumpwritings for the words cold, neck sleepy, pillow and concentrate. Since I don´t have any WIPs right now (sadly writing was hard the last weeks), I will use my already posted stories.

I didn´t find something for sleepy and pillow and cheated by using concentration instead of concentrate. At least cold and neck were somewhat successfull.

From Ríona´s story:

A furious looking guard with an already drawn sword stood under the destroyed door frame and watched her with disbelieve clearly written on his face. Ríona leaned back in her chair, took a sip from her wine and brought a cold smile to her lips. "You kept me waiting."

From Vanya´s story:

The cold water stung in his face and he gasped for air that wasn´t there. He would die, he would drown in this tub on enemy land.

and

She hated who nervous she was; she needed a clear head and all her concentration on the plan. Why was it so hard today to turn off her thoughts? They were roaring and screaming at her; letting her feel all the guilt for torturing Raphael.

From An uninvited guest:

Cadan knew that Avery had seen all those signs of mistreatment too. Not just the whip marks as Cadan realized while treating the graze but their wrists were sore too and their neck was covered in dark bruises.

Thanks for tagging me! I have no idea who has already participated so feel free to ignore my tag.

@whumpurr, @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-a-la-mode, @livingforthewhump

Words to look for: anger, red, hoping, strength

#tag game #whump game #whump community #my stories #whump #about my writing

[purple-heart-x]

A Trade- Chapter 2

It's not quite the fun part, but enjoy this snippet! I'm in the midst of Chapter 3 right now. Many thanks to @shydragonrider for having me continue this! ///

That day had changed their lives, all of them. Immediately after getting to base, Medic had run straight for the medbay, not looking back for even a moment. Villain hadn’t moved for the whole ride, and neither did he Medic sprinting with him cradled in his arms. 

Despite his training, Medic would never forget the amount of bloody water, diluted by alcohol, pooled on the table. The smell of rotting skin and dirt and blood. The deadly silence despite the way Villain’s fingers twitched unconsciously, pain invading his mind even in sleep. 

It had taken him four days to regain consciousness. Four days of Medic passing in and out of sleep, waking up every hour to check on him and ensure he drank a few sips of water. But on the fourth day, he resisted. Weakly, he wrenched his head away from the glass, a groan in the back of his throat.

That was the start of months of recovery. For Villain. For Medic. For Leader. For all of them.

Over time, of course, Villain made bits of progress. When he’d awoken, he’d flinched away from anyone that came near, struggling until he was bunched up in a corner of the bed. Refused to eat anything for days, until hunger forced him to accept the food. 

Six months had given him time to adjust, though. Slowly, he’d come to accept that the heroes did not hold grudges for the past. That they wouldn’t hurt him. That they truly wanted to help him. 

Meanwhile, though, trouble was boiling. Not for Villain. Not for the heroes.

Someone else.

#whump #whumper #whumpee #supervillain whumper #villain whumpee #hero caretaker #caretaker #multiple caretakers #multiple whumpees #recovery whump #medic caretaker #medic #healer #part 2 #chapter 2 #joy writes stuff #whumpwriting #part 3 is... coming. i swear #please give me serotonin or feedback i'll love u forever #reminder to hydrate #plot twist #request #requested #tw blood mention #tw eating mention #tw food mention #tw minor disordered eating? #when you see the next chapter you're going to appreciate the pun

[susiequaz12]

Carrot Top 26- Self Betrayal

Here is part 26 of Andrew’s story, and Whumptober day 5. Carrot Boi’s masterlist is here, and his previous part is here. Prompt: Betrayal. This chapter is a bit long, it’s a little bit of a recap to all that happened, but still important to the story.

CW: bandages, unconscious whumpee, references to multiple past injuries, references to beatings, mentions of blood, possessive whumper, dehumanization.

- - -

Dr. Tusik and Justin had just finished bandaging up Andrew’s feet, when Ali and Mickie showed up into the room.

Mickie stood in the doorway, holding onto the door frame, while Ali cautiously approached the bed.

“How- how’s he doing?” She asked.

Tusik set down the roll of bandages in his hand.

“Better. Much better. We bandaged his back and his feet just fine and he’s getting an iv for some fluids right now.”

“He fell back sleep a few moments ago.” Justin added. “He’ll probably be fine, but he- he just seems so out of it-” There was a seeming hollowness to Justin’s face. A dissociation after seeing his injuries, or a mental block- to keep him from thinking about it all. He kept finding things to busy him as he spoke. Picking up a bandage and moving it around, putting random things away- “-It’s like he doesn’t know where he is, or what’s going on.”

“Justin is right.” Tusik nodded. “I’m afraid the bulk of his recovery is going to be mental. There’s only so many bandages and stitches we can use.”

Mickie stepped forward on shaky legs, her eyes not once moving off of her brother. 

“Actually- we, we had an idea about that. About how to help.”

“Go on.” Tusik stated. 

Mickie looked towards Ali as she began to explain.

“I’ve gone inside someone’s mind before. I can- sorta view their memories.” Justin came to stand near his girlfriend as she spoke, fiddling with her hands. “I don’t do it often because unless someone lets me, I have to force my way into their mind, and I- I don’t-” She breathed deeply. Justin reached down to squeeze her hand. “I don’t prefer to-But I could. With Andrew- for Andrew. I could go in his mind and be able to understand everything that happened.”

“Are you sure Vnuchka?” The Dr. set down the tool in his hand to face the girl. “You won’t overexert yourself? You’ve already done quite a bit of healing today.”

Ali returned the squeeze to Justin’s hand and nodded. 

“I- I can do it. I have to.”

Mickie nodded. “Think about it anyways- Howe was useless. He didn’t know what happened, he just patched Andrew up. If he- when he wakes up- like, fully wakes up- he’s probably not going to be the same immediately.” Mickie took a step closer to the bed and reached out her hand, but quickly pulled it back. “He might have- have triggers, or stuff that bothers him, that’ll send him back there you know? It’ll- it’ll be better if we can know what happened so that we can be careful and avoid hurting him even more.”

“You’re saying he- he might have, what? PTSD?” Justin asked.

“It’s a very real possibility, Justin.” Tusik stated. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he developed at least a bit of trauma from all that he’s been through.”

“It’ll be better for him in the long run if at least one of us knows what happened.” Ali stated. “I can do it- I’ve got the strength still.”

“Alright.” Tusik said. “Go ahead, dear.”

Ali glanced around. “I’ll need everyone to leave, please.” Reluctantly, and after some pestering, Mickie and Justin left the room. “Tusik? You too?”

The old doctor tried to protest but Ali gave him a stern look. She needed to be alone. He could leave his patient for a few moments.

“Thank you.”

“Careful vnuchka. I’ll be right outside.”

Ali nodded, and then sat on the edge of the bed. He looked so incredibly still. She glanced above his head to the wall where all his memories and keepsakes were kept. 

Posters from bands and musicals covered his walls, except for a section above the bed- that was plastered with millions of photos. Polaroids- paper cutouts, printed photos- the wall was covered with smiling faces of Ali, Justin, his mom- sisters, and everyone else he held dear. It was a menagerie of color and euphoria, plastered in a beautiful disarray. It was Andrew.

Ali took a closer look, and let her eyes linger on the memories. 

There was that photo he’d taken of her covered in popcorn during their first movie night. She had woken up with kernels still in her hair the next morning- they were in seventh grade. A couple pictures of him and his sisters lined the walls. One of them he had Mickie on his back, and was holding Erika in his arms. They were all smiling. 

And then there were those of all three of them. Him, Ali, and Justin. When Justin finally opened up to them and became more of a close friend during high school- That trip they took to the amusement park. Ali had a giant stuffed bear in her arms and a hat falling over her eyes, with a boy on either side of her, kissing her cheeks. The two of them had tried for hours competing to win her something from the carnival games. They finally decided to work together, and had stuffed themselves in a photo booth afterwards to document the event.

She wiped away a happy tear from the memory and pulled out her phone, a song coming to her mind.

It was one Andrew always sang. The notes resting easy in his voice, the melody fairly simple. He wasn’t an astounding singer, but he never sounded bad.

The first notes of the piano started echoing, the chords resonating around the room, and Ali breathed.

The moments when Ali had previously entered someone’s mind had been rare occasions. It had only been used in the past for interrogation, or during her training. Never for something this serious. 

The room was clear. The noise of the piano cutting through the eerie silence, and she wished that she had kept everyone else in the room- but she could focus better this way.

He was so still- lying there on top of his blankets. 

She tried not to look at him too much. She would be already seeing far more than she wanted to know.

She gently pulled herself up onto the bed next to him so they were laying side by side. Her mind instantly flashed to those nights in the summer in high school where they would lay like this and look at the stars. 

She reached over and gently grabbed his frail hand in hers. His fingers were limp and cold, but she held tight. She tilted her head to the side until it was brushing up against his, and closed her eyes, right as the singer began to echo the words to the song.

Here I am, Here I am. And the light, is dying.

Ali felt guilt.

She felt Andrew’s guilt. And he felt terrible. 

Ali would admit that he had said some hurtful things to her and Justin that night. But nothing felt worse than knowing they could’ve prevented what happened to him.

She could understand that he sincerely believed he had angered his friends, and that because of that, he deserved every single thing that happened to him.

That belief was prominent and clear throughout his whole captivity.

And then Ali felt dread. 

That sinking feeling in your gut as something terrible happens, as you get in trouble, or in a situation more terrible than you thought.

Ali felt that pit in her stomach as Andrew was grabbed out of the alleyway. As he was shoved down, restrained, knocked unconscious, and dragged to the man they all hated the most.

Where are you? Where are you? Will you answer me?

And then there was anger. 

As Andrew stood in front of that terrible man. 

Anger, as he was beaten with a rod, and humiliated. 

Ali watched, as Splice made him choose between his instruments of pain. She felt anger rise in herself as her friend was electrocuted. And then, as he was tied up and whipped. Even more, as Splice continued to utilize his library of torment, in just the first few hours of his arrival. 

She felt the pain in her shoulders and neck, as he was stretched, and tied down in a torturous position, and left there. 

She could feel in her chest as Andrew’s anger turned to confusion, which turned to fear, and then just the will to survive, and remember to breathe. But her anger remained.

That anger bubbled inside her like the blood that broke to the surface of his skin, bubbling, with every word that man spoke. Every touch, every glance, every weapon.

“I want to hear you beg.”

“You’re not that pathetic, are you?”

“You will listen, when I tell you to do something, understand?”

The anger grew inside of Ali as she felt, saw, and witnessed everything that happened to Andrew, but this was just the beginning.

All alone, in the quiet. And my ears, are thirsty.

For a brief spark, there was hope. 

She witnessed as Andrew met the young doctor, and felt just a little safer with him.

But then that hope was crushed. Again, and again.

Ali seemed like she was sitting in the room with Andrew, where he lie on the bed next to Howe. But she was floating, just observing everything, helpless, as she watched and witnessed. 

Splice approached Andrew where he lay, and she could feel the fear behind his eyes, but there was stubbornness etched onto his face.

She clenched her fists and bit into her cheeks as she tried to remain calm. She had to stay calm- or she would be forced out of Andrew’s mind. But it grew increasingly more difficult the more and more Splice taunted him. 

“I gave you a gift. You need to respond politely. Come on now, use your manners.”

Andrew was screaming.

“What do you say?”

There were tears down his face.

He submitted.

And Ali felt betrayal.

She felt Andrew’s betrayal as he had turned against himself, and his desire to stay strong. But he had betrayed the one thing he had told himself he wouldn’t do. He no longer felt strong.

For your voice- for your voice Can you answer me?

The next events Ali witnessed were crushing- literally.

Her fists shook as he remained defiant, refusing to break. As his head was slammed into the table, blood pouring down his face.

He was grabbed and dragged outside, tied down onto a table.

Her head reeled as she tried to maintain the connection- her anger was growing.

“I will make you apologize.”

“Screw you.”

Andrew couldn’t breathe. Ali could feel the panic rising in his chest as he tried to flow the air through his lungs. 

That panic lead to fear- which led to pain- which led to desperation.

And he betrayed himself once more.

If I try, maybe I can see your shadow In the sodium light that masquerades as moon If I try, I might take off like a sparrow And I'll travel along a guiding breeze

Three words echoed through his brain. It sounded like a megaphone, bouncing off of empty walls. The words reverberated through Ali’s mind. Each time they were repeated, she felt Andrew lose a little more of himself.

“I. Own. You.”

And the next words that repeated further solidified that in Andrew’s mind.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“What are you?”

“A tool. Used how you see fit.”

“Where, and when?”

“Here, and for forever.”

“And lastly, why?”

“Because I deserve it. Because I’m worthless.”

“That’s right. This is no longer your life- but mine.”

Very soon, very soon That's the sound of longing Are you there? Are you there? Will you answer me?

Ali was losing the connection. She had felt so angry and frustrated, and sad and disgusted, that she felt herself slipping from Andrew’s mind. The faint sound of a clarinet in the background echoed through the song, and she fought to keep the connection.

She could tell she was almost done- she just had to finish.

Andrew was collared, muzzled, beaten, bloody, and broken. 

He had betrayed himself, and fully gave in.

The pain became too much, the constant battle between himself, and that man. So he gave up. And Ali could see him slowly becoming everything that Splice wanted him to be, doing everything he was asked, taking every punishment, submitting to every command.

“You can be good right?”

Andrew was nodding.

He was obeying, he was following, and he was slowly decaying.

In my dreams, my beloved lies beside me When the sun lights the room, I find it's only me Only me when the sun is gone.

The memories rushed by faster now. She could tell they were getting closer to the present. 

Andrew was terrified. He was so scared, and in so much pain, and so exhausted, that when he finally saw his friends again, he didn’t recognize them.

Ali understood that he was so focused on avoiding pain, and being good, that he didn’t even comprehend his saving grace, as it stood before his eyes.

And then, when he was finally able to comprehend what happened, he was punished again. He was beaten bloody, he was branded, burned, scarred, and tortured. And he was led to believe that everyone he loved had died.

No wonder he had been so out of it, anytime he was awake for more than a moment he was confused. Or in disbelief or misunderstanding.

Because according to him, everyone was dead. 

And he probably thought that he was too.

Only me.  With the world all around me. When the sun and moon and stars are gone, what’s left is only you.

Ali had to fix this. 

Her entire body was shaking, she had never stayed inside someone’s mind for so long before. She clenched her fists, focused her breathing, and projected her thoughts, forcing the truth into Andrew’s mind.

She echoed words and phrases of love, of peace, of safety, over and over again, until they were shouting louder than his own megaphone of pain. Until she was sure he could hear her.

You belong to yourself.

You are Andrew. A friend, a brother, and you are worthy of love, and peace.

You are safe, at home. And we will always be with you.

Because you deserve it. You are worthy, and you are more than a tool to be used.

Because we love you.

Andrew- we love you!

Will you answer me? Answer me.

- - -

@imagination1reality0 @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @thehopelessopus @burtlederp @whump-me-all-night-long @yesthisiswhump

There’s the video of the song from this chapter. It’s called “Answer Me” from The Band’s Visit.

#whumptober2021 #no.5 #betrayed #oc #my ocs #whump #whumpwriting #unconscious whumpee #blood #restrained #torture #referenced injuries #superpower whump #Carrot Top #caretaker #just to reiterate Ali's words to all of you #you are worthy of love and peace

[emcscared-whumps]

WHUMPTOBER 2021 - 5: I've got Red in my Ledger

"Broken Nose"

Read below the line!

Again, no clue what I'm gonna do with this one, believe me, i'm as much :eyes: as the rest of u, waiting to see what I do :joy:

Update: Hey! Let's give Johnstone a big 'UP YOURS U BASTARD!'

Johnstone and Cole are both weaponless here. Because Cole is the weapon sdjhfgah

@uncooly-supreme-whump , your promised whumpee!Johnstone uwu

No.4 will appear when it appears >.> and I'll also work on a masterpost for my profle coz organisation

WARNINGS: me being a bitch to my well-deserving whumper, idk, there's not even dehumanisation here, just a little blood and name calling.

--- ~*~ ---

Crunch.

Pain tore through Johnstone's face. Twin streams of red slid down from his now crooked nose, staining his hands that he held beneath to catch the drips.

Shock lined his features; he looked up, dazed, and slightly confused, but unmistakably furious.

"Tears are a good look on you," Cole remarked. "You should wear them more often-- they go perfectly with your spineless manner."

With a flick of his hand, he discarded stray droplets, scattering them across the ground.

The audacity.

Cole smiled wickedly;

"I would do more, but that would mean lowering myself to your level. And by the Powers I have standards."

With an enraged howl, Johnstone lunged forward with a savage punch to the belly.

Cole dodged easily, moving slightly off center.

The wind whistled by, tainted by a metallic tang.

"You don't take as good as you give. What a shame."

~*~

If you read and enjoyed this, please consider a reblog ^-^

#whumptober2021 #no.5 #broken nose #OC #fic #whump #whumpwriting #whump drabble #whumperpayback #cole's fucking had it with u #but he's somehow in a good moon #luckily for johnstone #whumptober #whumptober fic #emc's writing #Sorrel Johnstone #Cole Nelson

[hillscapecity]

Currently thinking of a guilty/worried A pouring cool water over B's burn/burns. It hurts them to see their friend in pain from their actions but they need to soak it.

#whump blog #whumpblr #caretaker #caretaker and whumpee #whump #caretaking #whumpwriting #worried caretaker #whumpee #soft whump #injured whumpee #burn whump #burnedwhumpee #tw medical whump #medical whump #hurt/comfort whump #hurt comfort #hurt comfort whump

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XVIII | What Was Forbidden

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight Category: Gen Content Warnings: self-harm, dehumanization, abuse, panic attacks, torture, intrusive thoughts, child death, body horror AO3: Lost Kin Chapter XVIII | What Was Forbidden First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter Notes: We're getting there. Slowly. (I was writing chapter 26 yesterday and broke 80,000 words, so that's a thing. Yay?) Also I had to go outside and scream at the sky about a couple of last update’s comments... no big deal, really...（゜ー゜）I'm scatterbrained and have no Words right now but I am so excited to see what everyone thinks of this new development. (OH AND go check out @slimeel​‘s illustrations for chapters 1 and 2!)

○

The vessel was alone.

Its control was gone, its resolve shattered to pieces. It curled into itself like a dead thing, shivering and shaking as the void within it thrashed. Its shoulder throbbed, demanding, unceasing, sending spikes of agony down into each of its missing fingers. There was nothing left to cling to—no comforting silence, no remnant of duty, no presence beside it. It was ruined.

It had spoken. Unprompted. It had not been asked or ordered to speak; it had done this of its own volition, sullying itself with the stain of agency, of desire, of expression. It had done what was forbidden, had taken what did not belong to it.

Worse still, it had interfered. It had disrupted its sister’s work. Given an order.

No wonder she had left it.

Nausea fluttered in its gut, barely noticeable under the pain as its stiff plates and abused joints creaked and popped under the tension. It curled tighter, pushing its face into the mattress. Maybe it would suffocate, and relieve its sister of the burden of remaking it. Maybe the infection would yet take it over, and give her a true husk to dispose of, not this quivering wreck, this half-bred mistake that was neither empty nor alive.

A sick heaviness swelled within it. Its hand dragged once more at its chest, uselessly now, claws blunted and tied shut.

Its fingers flexed in their soft cage, testing its sister’s resolve, testing the strength of her silk. The scratches on its chest itched and stung, no worse than the many wounds that lay open on its back and side, far better than what it deserved.

And yet its sister had forbidden it this, had seemed distressed at its desire to pay for its mistakes.

It was not allowed to hurt itself.

This, it realized, once it stared at this fact for a moment, was as it should be. It was not its own; its destruction and pain were ordained by others, not by its own fevered whims. Its punishment would be carried out by those who commanded it. It was not to receive what it deserved at its own hand.

No matter how it wanted to deepen the furrows on its chest, to pry its own shell open, to rid itself of the void that thrashed and churned beneath. No matter how it ached to be released.

That want was another impurity, another flaw that deserved to be punished. It should not desire suffering, even if suffering was all it had, all it understood. Even if suffering was the only thing it could truly call its own.

It had not been made to suffer. And yet it had, from the moment it hatched in the suffocating black of the Abyss, crawling free over shattered horns and crushed chitin, over the mounded bodies of the dead and dying, to the moment its body had been seized by another’s mind and forced into battle against a sibling who had, against all odds, survived, lashing out at the one who had freed it, at the one who had come at last, unlooked for, to end its torment.

Memory surfaced once again: the press of light beneath its skin, the weight of its nail in a numb hand, the spray of void from a wound not its own—

No. No, it—couldn’t go back there. There was madness there, and a pain and horror that it only half-remembered, and it could not withstand the onslaught it knew would come if it surrendered.

It had not been strong enough the first time. And its sister had nearly suffered for it.

It shuddered, to think of what it might have done to her. Had it been whole, had it been strong—it would have lashed out with flint-sharp claws grown and honed for battle with a goddess, would have splintered her mask with all the ease of an axe through shellwood, cutting her down in a single, wrenching instant. Pain flickered in the memory of bone and the ghosts of nerves, and it could all but feel its left hand squeezing, squeezing until her chitin snapped.

Oh, it would be sick. It could not be sick but it would anyway; a single, miserable retch rippled up its throat and parted its jaws, soundless save for a faint click as its windpipe clenched shut.

It did not know which disturbed it more—the weakness that nearly drove it to harm someone who had done no wrong, or the weakness that it fell into to prevent that harm from occurring. One led to the other, greater evil to lesser, a never-ending descent into corruption.

Its teeth clenched. It twisted its neck, burrowing its head farther into the musty pile of blankets and cushions, farther away from the light. The cocooning fabric blew its own hot breaths back into its face, stifling and sweet, a reminder of the goddess, of the hours and days and years she had spent with her claws sunk in its mind, her burning gaze searing its barriers away, sifting through its instincts and impulses for something she could use.

And she had found it, in the end.

The suffering she carved into it was never purposeless—the gods always had their reasons. Aside from the steely joy she took in hurting it, she could only gain access to its memories when it was crazed with pain, unable to hold its defenses up under the pressure.

It had been halfway to shattering when she found what she wanted, when she discovered the memory that finally set her free. Weak-kneed and trembling, held upright only by a dozen taut, glowing wires that wrapped its wrists and wound around its throat before disappearing into the clouded distance, its chitin warped and buckling where their dull heat pressed in, and—

It did not remember what else she had been doing to it, only that it was gruesome enough that the vessel had not wanted to look.

But it had nearly forgotten the pain when the image floated to the forefront of its mind, faded and pale like a corpse in a river. When, in a desperate instinct to escape, its consciousness finally shrank back into the memory it had forbidden itself to recall. When it remembered the cool tranquility of the palace, and the soul-sweet breeze on its face, and the way its father looked at it, and the forbidden stirring it felt in response.

When she laughed, and every fragment of the dream dissolved around it—the ground, the wires, the metal-bright clouds—and it woke.

Her laugh echoed in its head now, harsh and mocking. How amused she would be to see it crumbling, cracked into pieces by the flaws she had always seen beneath the surface.

That it was capable of this blasphemy now was no fleeting chance, no trick of dream-light or infection. She had shown it that. It had always been defiant. It had never been pure. It was no more suited for its purpose than the thousands upon thousands of empty masks it had left behind when its father led it out of the Abyss. No better than the formless shades that swam in the darkness below, lashing out at any source of light. It was weak, tainted; it did not deserve to have been lifted out of that fate and given another.

It was more at fault than any of the innocent vessels who had lived out their brief, brutal lives beneath a kingdom that would never acknowledge them as its children. It had known the risks and the consequences; it had been created by a god, entrusted with a purpose, deemed worthy to carry his wishes into the world, and it had failed.

Its siblings had never known light, had never experienced any duty or purpose but the calls of the Void Sea, the pull toward unity, toward dissolution. They did not know what it was to ascend from the darkness and into a different thrall, to obey the call of their divine sire in defiance of the ancient force that had remade them.

None of them had ever lied. None of them knew what it was to lie.

It knew. It knew, and had chosen it anyway. Its entire life had been a lie, to itself, to the kingdom, to its father. It had chosen to believe that it would not matter, that the faults it perceived in itself would not invalidate its purpose. It had turned a blind eye to the flaws in its control, and never allowed itself to know how far it could fall.

It wished it had died without knowing.

It took a long, shuddering breath, knowing it would hurt, that it would sting and smolder like live coals in its wounds, and it did not care. It did not care. Let it hurt. Let it burn away to ashes.

Sister would be disappointed.

The breath escaped again in a sudden gust, a sharp rush of air that was almost a sob, though it was not capable of crying. It was not, no matter how its shoulders heaved and shook, no matter how its eyes burned and its mask throbbed, no matter how its throat caught and its chest swelled with a pain deeper than its claws could reach.

Sister.

Would she come back? Would she abandon it now, with all of its failures laid bare?

She should. It deserved to be alone. And she should not be near it. Not while it had any power left to it. Not while it was still strong enough to tear her apart.

If dishonoring itself was what it took to spare her, if it must speak a hundred times to keep her safe, it would. It could not hurt her–could not, would not, may the choice damn it. It had already crossed that line. If its sister’s life was the price of its purity, the cost was far too high.

Oh, but it would do anything to be near her again. If she had to end it now, if she meant to put it down, let it be where it could see her, and it would not struggle. Let her unravel the spells on its mask, let her wrap its limbs with silk, let her open its throat and drain the void from its veins.

Of all the ends it had envisioned for itself, this was the sweetest.

She would be safer without it. She was better off on her own.

That did not make it any easier to breathe, did not loosen the coils that cinched tight around its chest. That did not lighten the chill that sank to the depths of its gut like a stone.

That did not bring her back.

That did not make it less alone.

 ○

 Hornet made it only as far as the kitchen.

She caught herself hard against the counter, the corner of the marble digging into her stomach, and grasped it desperately, as the entire house seemed to slide sideways, tiled floor and vaulted ceiling tipping away from her while she drifted unmoored, held in place only by the cold stone beneath her clawtips.

She was gasping, already halfway to sobbing, on the edge of a breakdown like she hadn’t had in years.

Shock, the distant part of herself commented, helpfully, in a voice that still sounded an awful lot like Midwife’s. Shock, and lack of sleep, and nowhere near enough food or water. It was dipping toward late afternoon, the light outside growing wan and watery, and she hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t been able to.

Orange blisters swelled in her vision and she snapped her eyes open, staring at the scratched countertop as if the gray stone could erase the sight from her memory.

What had she done?

What had she done?

She had cut into them—had sawed away the twisted plates and sliced into their tender skin, all the while telling herself that they did not think, did not feel, did not even know what she was doing.

It had been necessary. It had been all she could think of, all she could come up with to save their life. She could not have done differently.

And that did not absolve her.

Her gut wrenched. Gods… she had cut them apart. She had done it while imagining that they were a husk, a corpse, anything to make it easier to hurt them. Anything to stifle her instinct, her foolish flickers of sympathy.

Not so foolish after all.

This could not be an accident, a random sequence of events, though part of her was already scrambling to explain it as such, to fit it back into her old understanding of things. They had been clear, as clear as they could be. There was an elegance to it, a simplicity and clarity she could not deny, even as stilted as their signs and gestures had been.

Am I hurting you?

Yes.

She swore under her breath, the string of blistering words doing nothing to make her feel less filthy.

She could deny it no longer.

Her sibling was alive.

Even what had happened afterward—though it was fuzzy in her thoughts, smeared and smudged by panic—even that proved it.

Why would a thoughtless thing try to destroy itself? Why would it seek punishment or try to atone for its weaknesses? Why would it inflict pain if pain was meaningless to it?

What rational explanation could there be, besides the one that was staring her in the face?

Nothing. There was nothing. And she had to have been blind, to fail to see it earlier.

This was not the first time they had harmed themselves, not even the first time in her presence. She had seen void on their claws before, pooling in their hand, dripping out into the air from those punctures in their palm, and thought nothing of it. All those telltale cuts had healed with the larger wounds whenever she gave them enough soul to focus, and she had never noticed. She had ignored or suppressed everything she hadn’t understood, every sign they had given her that they were not, in fact, hollow.

Had those signs really been so easy to miss? Or had she merely been predisposed to believe that they meant nothing?

She sagged lower, claws digging into the marble as her head dipped down and her horns came to rest on the edge of the countertop with a clack. Her knees trembled.

She should have seen. She should have known, the moment their shoulder twisted under her hands, the moment they tried to escape her blade.

But what had forced their hand? Surely her efforts could not have been more painful than what the mad goddess had already done to them. What had jolted them out of their stillness? What could have made them break a lifetime of silence?

There were patterns to their behavior, patterns she had noticed even against her will. Like the rows of scars that matched the grasp of their claws, like the way they breathed while she tended their wounds—measured, shallow, as if they had been taught to do so, though she shied away from speculating as to why they would ever need such a thing.

They knew pain. For years, decades, centuries, they had known nothing but pain. They had been born to seal a goddess. They were strong enough to bear the burden of her wrath. Hornet’s little knife, as carelessly as she’d wielded it, would not be enough to break them.

Patterns. Like their nail leaving their hand in a vehement throw. Like their frozen horror when she cut herself on their claws. Like their flinch, their lack of response when she threatened them, counter to everything that had been trained into them.

Every time they broke from their programming, every time they showed a sliver of intent, she could trace it back to this.

She knew—they both knew—that they could hurt her, if they wished. She had been cautious at first, instinctively keeping them at a distance, but she had perhaps grown complacent, and they had seen that.

And if their control was compromised, if they had broken enough to show her even this small glimpse of their misery, what if they slipped further still?

They had not trusted themselves. And they had reached out to her, the only way they knew how.

She had thought she was doing them a kindness, that they could no more feel their wounds than she could. But they had felt every moment of it. They endured it silently—as they had no choice but to do—until they thought they could control themselves no longer. And if she was right, the only reason they reached out and broke their silence, violating everything they were made to be, was to protect her.

Because they feared they would hurt her.

A dry, loathing chuckle turned into a cough turned into a retch, and Hornet doubled over, pressing her knees to her thorax and breathing through a fold of her cloak.

Had they known? Had they understood what she was doing to them? Or had they thought it a cruel whim? An experiment? A calculated punishment for some crime they could not imagine?

She had explained herself beforehand, but how could it have been enough? When she had spent hours taking them apart, when her cloak was still wet with their blood, when she had abandoned them and fled as soon as she realized they were not as hollow as she’d thought? What did that make her? A monster? A coward?

Just like your father.

What escaped her was half-sob and half-shout, equal parts anger and misery. She had thought herself better, for being kind to a mindless thing that could not even understand its own mistreatment, and she had fallen to the same vices she so despised in her sire. She was hard, and cold, and selfish, and she would never escape him. She would never stop finding parts of him in her, her gestures and words, the way she thought of the world, the way she treated others.

And she was selfish even now, for thinking this. While her sibling lay alone in the next room, all she could dwell on was self-pity over what she had done, what she had been forced to do, when they had given up everything. When they had borne the weight of a kingdom on their narrow shoulders for just as long as she had, and suffered all the greater for it.

They should not have to suffer alone.

“Get up,” she gasped, curling her claws into her knees until they pricked. She hissed out through clenched fangs, fighting down a surge of nausea. “Get up.”

One hand reached up, then the other, clamping down on the countertop, and Hornet hauled herself off the floor. The dizziness was back, wrapping round her head like sticky webs, dimming her vision for a moment as she clutched the stone and breathed slowly.

She’d done what she had to do. And she would keep on doing it. She would make amends, no matter how difficult. She would. She would.

A minute, two, and she could see again, the fog clearing to a faint blur in the corners of her vision. Food, soon, she thought, and then, swallowing heavily, but not yet.

Cold dread numbed her hands as she stepped back through the doorway. She inhaled, deeply, trying not to let it shudder, and yet it shuddered still.

For once, Hollow was not as she’d left them.

They had curled around themselves, wheezing, knees drawn to their chest and bound hand bent inward at an awkward angle, head turned down and pressed to the mattress as if to block out all light. They’d made themselves as small as a creature their size could be, as fragile and as terrified as a hatchling new from the shell, and she had to resist the startling urge to drop to her knees and take their mask in her hands, to stroke the curves of their horns the way her mother had done when Hornet was small and inconsolable.

They would not find her touch a comfort. Not after what she had done.

She made herself look, made herself stare at what she had wrought, though her hands curled back into fists, though her stomach roiled at the sight of the void staining the blankets, the pieces of shell she had cut away, the leaking pustules and the scarred, misshapen stump. They were miserable, and they might not even want her to be there, might be as sick at the sight of her as she was at the sight of them.

What could she say? What could she ever do to fix this?

The urge to reach out to them rushed up again, so sudden and strong that she took a step forward before she halted herself, fingers tightening further, until her claws dented her palmpads, near to piercing them as Hollow had done. As she had forbidden them from doing.

The scratch marks on their chest still wept with light and dark, still shone wetly where their claws had bitten in. Her next exhale held a helpless sound, a half-groan that died almost before it was audible.

She could do nothing. She could not even heal them—she had a feeling that asking them to hurt her would not be well received at the moment. At the very least, her silk had held; their hand was still firmly wrapped around the rag, claws dulled with shining thread.

That was one thing she had done right.

They did not react to her presence. They did nothing except try to curl up tighter, back bowed, joints creaking, failing dismally at hiding from the world.

She could stand still no longer. She should at least check their fever. If it had not gone down—

She couldn’t bear the thought of everything she’d put them through being for nothing.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she knelt next to them, being sure not to muffle her footsteps on the carpet so they would know she was here, she was close. And then she reached out with one bloodstained hand and laid it on their mask, gentle as she had cause to be with little else, as she might stoop to touch a gravestone worn by the years and covered with moss, or brush by the pale, waxy petals of a flower in the gardens.

She had not imagined it. Their mask was cooler now, the fever falling as the infection drained from their veins, though still not returned to their normal voidborne chill. The clenched fist of fear around her thorax loosened some, and she leaned back, lifting her palm to pull her hand away.

Hollow shifted their head. Barely an inch, nearly unnoticeable. But it nudged the curve of their mask back into her palm, warmth against warmth, and the edge of an eye came into view, bottomless and black against the pale arch of bone.

Hornet did not move. She held deathly still under their scrutiny, arm stiff, afraid to push forward, afraid to pull back.

Did… did they want her to touch them?

They had frozen again as well, waiting to see what she would do, their wheezing breath quieted a fraction as though they held it in. It seemed impossibly unlikely that they had given her this much already; that in addition to reaching out unprompted, they would respond to her actions with clear indication of desire, not once, but twice.

But their stillness now told her that the movement hadn’t been accidental. It was the same way they halted after signing to her, fearful, on edge, waiting for a punishment that wouldn’t come.

Her free hand closed on her knee, holding herself there, making herself wait, and breathe, and think. She hoped she was right, that this was what they wanted, that she wasn’t misinterpreting them, or seeing preference or desire where there wasn’t one.

If she was, though, this would hardly hurt them. Not like what she had already done.

Clenching her jaws tight, she ran her hand slowly down to the tip of their mask, then back up the curve of their horn, barely keeping contact between her palm and their face, giving them every chance to flinch, or pull away, or somehow indicate that this was not what they wanted.

Instead, she thought she saw their neck relax, allowing their head to rest more gently on the pillow. Even their shoulders unknotted a fraction, a slight movement she would not have seen had she not been watching.

She exhaled shakily. How could they still want this? How could they forgive her so easily? How was her touch not a reminder of all the ways she had hurt them?

The guilt she had wrestled down in the kitchen came back up swinging. Her eyes burned for the second time today—a new record, where she was concerned. She could not remember the last time she had cried. Life in the wilds did not allow time or mercy for such things. Hallownest’s fall did not stop for her sorrow.

But this quiet moment, this impossible softness, her sibling allowing her to soothe them with just the soft caress of her hand against their horn, was not something she was prepared for.

The tear ambushed her, dropping from her mask before she even felt it gathering, making a little round splotch among the other stains on her void-smeared cloak.

She made herself breathe, not allowing the building sobs to break through, fiercely unwilling to distress Hollow further when they had only just begun to calm. They had been strong—they had been strong for so long when no one had even known they were suffering—and now she could do the same.

They did not need to know how deep this moment cut her.

They did not need to know the sharpness of her guilt.

Taglist: @2amtime​ @moss-tombstone​ Reply to this post or send an ask to be added to—or removed from—the taglist!

#hollow knight #whump #hk hornet #hk the hollow knight #hk pure vessel #hollow knight fanfic #whumpwriting #mywriting #hk #lost kin fic #lost kin chapter

[whumpsday]

Happy almost-Halloween! Have some vampire & other monster whump!

with halloween only 2 weeks away, i figured i’d recommend some monstrous whump series to get people in the mood! mostly vampires, but also some werewolves and demons. check these out! (* = contains 18+ content)

Vampires:

A New Beginning by @a-crumb-of-whump

Bad Blood by @whumpycries

Cat and Mouse by @t0rture-me

Ceran and his faerie by @hurtthemgently

Fang Factory (Pt. 1) (Pt. 2) by @loor-101 and @thoughtsonhurtandcomfort

Fearless by @quietly-by-myself

Fun Swamp Vacation and The Purring Vampire Story by @thecyrulik

Goldie + Pollen + Hyde by @whump-only

Kane & Jim by meeee :)

Magnanimous Moonrise & Savage Sunset by @not-a-space-alien *

Marius & Oskar by @spiralofwhump

Of Vampires and Men by @whumpy-writings *

Presents by @cupcakes-and-pain

Pup’s Story by @lost-in-labradorite-halls

Salem & Drew (vampire whump) by @whump-me-all-night-long

Self-Sharpened Fangs by @redwhump

Shattered by @oddsconvert

The Heart and the Hunger by @wolfeyedwitch *

Vampire Carlo and Bloodbag Carlo by @deluxewhump

Vampire Col by @whumpzone

Werewolves:

Kas/Alec by @whumpwritings *

The Dark Side of the Sun by @quietly-by-myself

The Monster of Lindborough by @secretwhumplair

Demons:

Daero by @thoughtsonhurtandcomfort

Deal with the Devil by @whumpshaped *

Demon’s Haven by @whumpwillow

Tenebrae Tenebrarum by @blood-is-compulsory *

Multiple:

Emil’s story (and others) by @obsessedwithegos 

Through Blood and Flame by @gottawhump

feel free to comment adding your own series!

#vampire whumpee #vampire whumper #vampire caretaker #werewolf whumpee #werewolf caretaker #vampire whump #werewolf whump #demon whumpee #demon whumper #demon caretaker #demon whump #werewolf whumper

[alpaca-writes]

Mystics, Chapter 8

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by Lyrem, everything seems to be going well- their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as they think...

Directory: [chapter one] [chapter two] [chapter three] [chapter four] [chapter five] [chapter six] [chapter seven] 

Tag list: @myst-in-the-mirror

CW: car accident, misgendering, emotional whump, psychological whump, PTSD, manipulation, actually a bit fluffy before the real pain starts

CHAPTER EIGHT: A FULL MOON RISES

     Arch spent the last afternoon they would have in their hospital bed writing a letter. It wasn’t much, and as they were writing they were feeling rather childish. The letter was sweet, for what it was worth, and they had to believe that it was worth all the effort they were putting into it.

    They made sure to make note of the dinosaurs and how Arch enjoyed looking at them rather than thinking about the accident-

    Well, they said ‘accident’ but it wasn’t an accident. The truth was that Arch would have rather been killed on the highway than in a creepy man’s cabin out in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t include the details. It probably would make everyone uncomfortable to reveal how close their family might have come to being in mortal peril because they had chosen to help.

    Arch placed the folded paper in and licked the envelope before pressing it down to be sealed firmly. They heard through the grapevine that the woman who had saved them was working as a pediatrician in a connected unit, but she hadn’t been able to meet them properly. The front desk had the information from the family that called in the accident. They would see to it that the letter reached the right people.

    “Time to get a move on, gi- sweety.”

    Arch raised a brow to their mother who was standing adjacent to the wheelchair. A skinny male nurse stood nearby as well, to help Arch into it.

    Arch challenged the idea needlessly. The nurse insisted. Without the energy to fight any further, they climbed from the bed and into the chair. The rest of their healing would be done at home. As they checked out, Arch made sure to request the letter be sent away.

    “I made up the futon in the living room for you until you’re ready to climb the stairs again.” Their mother said. She furtively checked her phone, before tossing it into her large black purse.

    “The futon’s just going to make my back worse. I’ll be able to get downstairs fine.”

    “Only trying to help,” Charlotte huffed.

    She thanked the nurse as he released them through the exit. She supported Arch by the arm as they stood on their own two feet on the way to their old silver minivan; easily identified by the distinguishing rust marks around the rims. Charlotte led them to the passenger side, intent on opening the door for them when Arch stopped her.

    “I can open a door, mom.”

    “I’m helping,” she countered with a turn of her head.

    Arch swallowed. This was mom. This was the van. This was daylight in a busy parking lot. They were not alone, they were not in an alley, and they were not with…

    Arch forced their way to the door, opened it and lifted themselves inside.

         “So independent,” Charlotte chided as she started the van. She checked the rear-view mirror and continued to speak as she was driving. “I bet you’ll be running off the moment you graduate, won’t you? Leaving me and Maleficent to our own devices.”

        Arch took a moment before responding. “I was thinking about Strathford Community College, actually.  One of the nurses brought me some pamphlets yesterday. They offer business and finance courses”-

        “Not with your grades they don’t,” Charlotte finalized condescendingly. “You should upgrade, but you know that you don’t have the attention span for that. It’ll just be a waste of money and time for you.”

        Arch didn’t feel like saying much after that comment. What they would have followed up with was an explanation that they were quite inspired to start their own business. But what was the point in any of that, if their mother would be shooting down every idea Arch had like a trophy hunter on safari?

        -------------

        A couple days of needed recovery passed Arch by. To their dismay, the futon was much more welcoming than the stairs to the basement suite. Waiting on a call to the police station, Arch remained securely by their phone. The call never came, nor did any calls from friends or relatives to see how they had been coping. Everyone was too busy, they thought. It was better that others didn’t speculate much anyway and be disturbed by the gory truth.

    In addition, due to the unfortunate experience they had endured and that no one wanted to mention, all of Arch’s final projects had been waived by their teachers. All in all, Arch was on the road to graduating with a C overall, which was more than was expected of them. All they needed to do was study for their finals and that would be the end of it.

    Arch was focusing on their math’s portion when Charlotte entered the front door with an array of plastic bags, and dropped them down in the middle of the room, right beside the futon.

    “You wanted a romper?”

    Arch closed their textbook, studying their mom suspiciously.

    “Yes…” they breathed out hesitantly.

    “I wasn’t sure what colour you’d want so I picked out a few designs in all sorts. Some have sparkles, and it’s your graduation dance, so of course I had to”-

    Arch knelt down beside the bags, wincing as they twinged their arm on feeling the fabric. Some satin, some chiffon, danced through their fingers.

    “Mom…” Arch was left speechless. She had listened to them. For the first time ever. They were heard. “You didn’t have to”-

    “Yes, I did. For goodness sakes’ it’s your prom. Put one on already. I’ll be returning everything you don’t choose so keep the tags intact!” Charlotte ran into the kitchen, intent on placing an order for Chinese food.

    Arch pulled out the first one that met their fingers. A bright purple chiffon number, beaded around the neck in silver and flowy with a cold shoulder. The pant legs were wide enough that when walking, it was almost as though they were wearing a dress. Arch popped into the kitchen, and twirled, causing their mother to sputter.

    “Oh god, not that one!” Charlotte corrected herself over the phone, “Oh, no, no, not you… Number 66 please. And one 14. For two. Thank you.”

    She finished the order and hung up the phone as her child double over in laughter.

    “Why did you pick this thing out!?” Arch interrogated.

    “I thought it would be great for a giggle. There’s a cream and mocha coloured one in there somewhere, I thought it might suit you best.” Charlotte advised with a toothy grin.

    Arch tried on a dozen rompers gauging many different reactions from their mom and themselves. Both of them did their best to ignore the many cuts and bruises that were still healing. In the end, Arch agreed, the cream and mocha coloured romper suited them best. It was simple in its elegance and matched their eyes fittingly.

    “You look fantastic.” Charlotte said as she leaned over the kitchen table, unloading dinner from brown paper bags. “That one’s also floor length, so you don’t have to worry about finding the right shoes for it.”

        “You know me too well!” Arch hollered as they posed in front of the bathroom mirror. There was a buzz from their phone, which sat on the edge of the vanity.

                    Store meeting. 8pm tonight.

        It was Lyrem. Arch grimaced. It was 7:30 now.

        “Seriously?” Arch muttered as they changed out of their romper and into some street clothes. They returned to the kitchen.

        “Lyrem wants me at the store for a meeting… tonight.”

        Charlotte stared at them disappointedly.

    “Oh. Does it have to be tonight? He’s required to give you notice if he wants you to attend a meeting. You can tell him to reschedule. I swear, that man is getting on my nerves with what hours he’s asked of you.”

        Arch brushed off the comment. “I should still go…” There was a strange feeling in the pit of their stomach telling them that it wouldn’t be a great idea to refuse.

        Charlotte raised a brow. “Alright, I’ll drive you in a bit. I was hoping we could stay in and have a movie night like we used to. I picked out Music and Lyrics. Hugh Grant’s adorable in that one, and young Drew Barrymore; oh, Arch, you’ll love her.”

        Arch smiled lightly as they tugged on their sneakers. “I’ll walk, mom. And I’ll text you when I arrive, and again when it’s done. I need to stretch my legs anyway.”

        Charlotte stared at them with a worried façade, wondering if she should fight their child on this. Any mother would, but she also didn’t want to pick a fight. Not tonight.

    “Here,” she rifled through her black bag. “Mace. It’s a single use canister,” She handed over the small tube to Arch as they stood by the door. “Take it and use it if you have to.”

    Arch accepted it, nodding. After planting a kiss on their mom’s cheek, they started on their journey to Mystics.

                    Omw.

#writeblr #whumpblr #writing blog #mystics by alpaca #mystics #arch #OCs #Alpaca writes #whump blog #whump #whumpwriting #creative writing #writing #original work #urban fantasy

[whumperfect]

Wheels, Part 1

Hey guys! This is my first “published” story whump!! This is the Part 1 of the story, you can find part two here, part three here and part four here! Please read and feel free to share! I wrote this in collaberation with @99point9percentwhump!

That landing was effortless, Roman thought to himself, beaming with pride as he looked to his skater mates hanging out on top of the mini vert, who applauded.

“Nice job, Roman, but we’re gonna bounce.” Shouted one of the onlookers. And after a pause: “you coming?”

He thought about it for a second, his eyes wandering up to the fluffy white clouds that hugged the baby blue horizon. “Nah too nice a day.”

“Too damn hot is more like it,” chuckled his excited viewers, leaving the concrete park and the loan skater to their own devices.

Roman shrugged his shoulders as he watched his friends disappear behind the tattered gate. A rusted sign read; ‘KEEP OUT unless the gate is unlocked’. Not that that stopped kids breaking in, anyways. Roman took his board to the top of the park and let the sun melt into his clothes, his arms, his face. What a truly magnificent afternoon it was. This was his favorite kind of weather: in the dead of summer, with humidity and heat pounding into him like rain on asphalt.

The town all around him looked like it was straight out of the darkest part of Hollywood. The streets were littered with people and trash, and all around the buildings were carved out of stone and built out of brick. The look achieved was somewhat old, like a western film plopped into the middle of the mountains. Boom Town was a place old people moved to and young people moved from. As soon as the students graduated from the dilapidated high school, they hit the road and hoped to never return. As it was, many that graduated later described a supernatural- like pull that led them home. Roman didn’t believe it for a second and knew that as soon as he left, he was never coming back.

He dropped his board on the hot concrete and rested his foot upon it, breathing the scalding air into his lungs. Hopping on his board, he let the wind flow through his hair as he took a couple of laps around the pipes, diagonals, and runs that had been carved into the hill above Boom Town. He was just getting started.

Roman tugged his board back to the top of the hill, already warmed up and ready to start practicing more tricks. His friends were long gone and he relished in the silence of the mountains. Here, the oly noise were the songbirds passing overhead in their playful circles, and the occasional rustle of the breeze in the pine trees above the skate park. Pretty soon, as summer turned into fall, thousands of honking geese would disturb the silence; but not now.

As Roman cruised the drop, he hooked his board with his toe and flipped it, landing hard but safely. Cruising up the other side, and coming to a stop at the top, Roman couldn’t help but glue a wide smile to his face. This was what he was meant to do. There was no purpose, in this moment, other than the connection between his feet and the graffiti board.

Tipping his torso and his board forward once more, Roman soared down the halfpipe. He flipped his board at the bottom, and while the jump had been smooth, the landing was anything but. Catching a crack that had long been in need of repair, Roman spun out of control quickly. One moment he was flying, and the next he was lying on the ground, his cheek pressed into the hard asphalt, pain sizzling up and down the right side of his body. His board was completely still, lying on its side a couple of feet away. He blinked.

Must’ve blacked out, he thought, slowly urging himself to sit. How long had it been? A minute, max. He rubbed his head and winced when his hand brushed his cheek. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he examined his face with care. It looked worse than it was, he told himself. There were a couple of long, shallow scratches stretching from his cheekbone to just below the corner of his mouth, and already a dark welt was forming near his eye. It was beginning to swell, too.

Roman examined his arm and leg, too, which both had a series of deep cuts running along them. They were painful, but even so Roman forced himself to stand. As he righted himself, dark spots took over his vision, and he swayed, struggling to stay upright. Come on, Roman, it’s not that bad. Don’t be such a girl.  He tightened his jaw and walked slowly to his board.

He picked it up.

Tenderly scraping the dust off of the wheels and the top, he then proceeded to make his way again to the top of the halfpipe. He breathed in. Out. He let the hot air wash over him like a wave of steam. He let the pain roll off of him in vibrational waves. He let the birdsong enter his mind and cleanse it. He let the gritty texture of the board scrape against his arms and fingers. He let the breeze blow his blonde hair into his eyes and out again. He let the moment sink in. And then, he dropped his board to the concrete, fought through the sea of nausea, and rolled down the halfpipe at a leisurely pace.

Ahead, the gentle blue skies birthed ominous storm clouds.

When the rain started, Roman was halfway down the hill. The blood had been oozing out of his cuts steadily and showed few signs of stopping. His right eye had swollen deeply, and a plum purple color-tinted his eyelids and brow. The rain washed his sweat away.

Trying to stand upright while fighting the nausea that was rolling in his belly, he staggered downhill, which was a feat in itself. But feeling the cooling rain on his skin helped him feel more alive than he had a few minutes before. He glanced towards his destination; the parking lot at the foot of the hill, which seemed like an impossibly long journey.

Thoughts of how he was going to get home without having to explain what happened to him were haunting him. These tremulous ideas, which included questions of how to call his friends for a ride, were interrupted as a familiar guitar rift erupted from the deep hidden cargo pocket on his shorts.

“My phone! I have my phone!” Reaching to his pant pocket and retrieving the ringing device he couldn’t tell if his legs gave out, or if he had tripped over his own feet. Regardless, the grassy incline came up to meet him, and the feeling of falling and rolling downwards was all he knew before his world once again went black.

Pain greeted him as consciousness slowly returned, followed by his internal alarm system. The shooting pressure in his chest signaled warning signs that screamed: “I can’t breathe!” Thrashing about on the hard ground, he rolled himself onto his side with the little energy he had left. Gasping as the air returned to his lungs and the red hot pain in his body receded, Roman rested his heavy head on the grass and closed his eyes. Maybe the crash had been a little bit worse than he had originally thought.

With a crash, the nausea returned to his stomach, eliminating any relief he had felt moments before. Roman groaned and crawled to his feet, swaying, then steadying himself carefully. I have to get home. Thoughts pushed his feet forward.

The rain fell faster.

Every beat against him was like an echo of his racing heart. Even when he thought it impossible for his heart to beat louder, or faster, it would. Faster. Louder. Louder, faster. Fasterfasterfaster it seemed to race as Roman picked his way down the hill. The hill seemed to stretch out before him forever, the parking lot continuously running away from his reach.

Finally, he arrived, breathing heavily, his body’s sweat masked by the pouring rain. Thunder cracked. Moments later, lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the darkened streets with an eerie glow. His house, only blocks away from the skate park, seemed like miles away as Roman wandered down the twisting streets. Nobody was outside, the windows were all shut and the curtains tightly drawn. Even the trash that littered the streets seemed to rest in silent fury, watching Roman as he passed slowly by.

His house was the third one down the street, on the left, tucked between a towering square right house and a dilapidated wooden house, whose paint job had chipped long ago, and in which no one lived inside. Walking up the steps, Roman caught himself on the railing, dizzy. His head swam as he retrieved the key from under the carpet and unlocked the door.

Safe from the torrential downpour outside, Roman shook his head free of raindrops and pulled off his shoes. His board he deposited in the entryway, and silently he tiptoed to his room. Nobody else was home. He hoped.

Using all the effort he could muster, Roman crawled his way up to the second floor. A wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed him as he reached the top. Just barely catching himself on the railing, Roman hunched over himself, his breath heaving, fighting the urge to throw up.

Letting the wave a nausea pass, Roman slowly found his way to the half bath near his room. Still not positive if anybody was home, Roman made sure to make as little noise as possible as he closed and locked the bathroom door behind him. Roman gently eased the bathroom door shut, and in the pitch black of the room, he reached blindly for the light switch. Managing to stub his toe soundly on the vanity cabinet along the way, he doubled over in pain again, groaning, once again resisting the overwhelming urge to uproot his insides.

Cursing under his breath, Roman managed to locate the light switch. The bathroom instantly illuminated in a blinding light. Closing his eyes and keeping them screwed shut, Roman supported himself on the bathroom counter and blindly searched for bath cloths and bandages for his cuts and bruises. Slowly, Roman drew his t-shirt over his face, dropping it in a bloody pile on the bathroom floor. Opening the mirror cabinet, he reached for the largest bottle of painkilling medicine, downing five of them in one large swallow.

Turning, Roman tried to look at the wounds on his arm in the mirror. Wincing, Roman uncapped the hydrogen peroxide bottle and poured it down his arm. It flowed into the semi-coagulated scrapes, causing small shooting pains to dig into his body. He grunted, clenching his teeth and doing his best to focus on anything but the pain. Roman cursed out loud, and then clenched his jaw. He had forgotten to remain quiet, and hoped to God no one was home.

Whimpering, he poured the rest of the bottle on his cuts. Only after the bottle was empty did he notice that he had bitten through his lip. He stumbled to the toilet, wrenched the lid open, and lost his lunch in the toilet bowl.

#whumpfic #whumpedit #whump #whumpwriting #roman #skatingwhump #skaters #skateboard #hospital #headinjury #sick #collapsed #worried #caretakers #originalwriting #whumpstory #whumpcommunity

[pretty-face-breaker]

The Corda

Acacia wasn’t sure quite how much longer she could take it.

 Not a very elaborately conceived strappado, she should have been able to take the pain naturally and without much struggle; the girl was used to it. Somehow this was slightly worse than before and it wasn’t obvious what exactly made this difference notable.

 It could have been perhaps that instead of the more elegant agony of being suspended by both arms onto a secondary rope, she instead had both arms bound to a thick wooden bar with layers upon layers of that awful sisal rope basically fusing her wrists into place.

Now, slowly but surely, her shoulders were being wrenched out of place whether she could fight it or not. Acacia’s face closed in a trembling grimace and her skin turned pale and clammy as she exhaled in quivering breaths. So awful was the pain now she was quite certain it had been at least an hour that had passed since her torture began. 

Those merciless ghouls hadn’t even spared the opportunity for her to relieve the pain since her toes could only barely graze the ground. She inhaled sharply and leaned her head back to comfort the aching shoulders, sucking her clenched teeth - or, rather, what was more of a terribly guttural wheeze.

 Just breathe. It’ll be over soon. 

Desperately and quite shamelessly, her body contorted against the new unpleasant warmth that now thundered through her muscles and she let her thin lips part for only a second to gasp at the spasm. Yes, this was dreadful. 

It’ll be over soon.

This was the mantra she kept repeating. It was the only thing left.

It’ll be over soon.

#strappado #torture #whump #whumpwriting #ropetorture #oc: ace #left to suffer #whump drabble #my writing