whumpr

[whumpr]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 28 - Fight/Flight/Freeze

Perhaps the first mistake was thinking that a risen demon could be trapped and tamed like some creature, instead of treating Mariano like the person he is.

The second mistake was forgetting that people can and will figure out how to open locks if given enough time and half an opportunity.

The third was thinking that begging for mercy would do anything for you.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper

@bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125 @i-eat-worlds

#sdhjdfjhfjdfjdaffdal #I love the wa yhis wings fill the frame i love him #jjfdkf #other people's heartache #mariano #this is incredible

[whumpr]

TUaTWSI Chapter One: Night Shift

"No one listens to me here.” Mrs. Brewer said after a moment. Tyler set the remote down. He placed his arms on her bed to look at her. “I’m listening.” He said. “What do you need?”

This is part one! Part 2 coming soon. Read in chronological order on Ao3. Contains: Death, Hospital Scene, Hospice scene --

“Do you like stuff like this?”

The television on the wall was playing old westerns. Mrs. Brewer watched with her hands folded over her stomach. She turned to look at the man in the chair next to her, her eyes the last to turn from the TV. Quiet, tinny gunshots rang out from the speaker on the remote in her lap.

Tyler raised his eyebrows, looking between her and the television. Mrs. Brewer looked at the show again–a desperado dressed in all black fell backwards in a cloud of smoke, toppling in a dramatic roll across a bar. Mrs. Brewer curled her lip and looked back at Tyler.

“Do you like stuff like this?” Tyler repeated, louder this time.

“I can’t–” She shook her head and frowned, motioning vaguely to her ears and turning back to the T.V. “Can’t hear you.”

Tyler reached forward, placing his hand over the remote and turning the volume down until it was barely audible. She looked at him again.

“Do you like this show?” He asked.

“No.” She answered. “Not– not when it’s all they show all day.”

Tyler took the remote in his hand. “Alright then,” He answered. “What do you like to watch?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Brewer turned away from the TV. She looked past Tyler to the snowfall just outside the window.

Tyler pressed the up arrow on the remote. He flipped through more westerns–then several sports stations, one after the other.

“Gracious,” He whispered to himself, “How much football needs to be on at once?”

“No, no, I don’t want that.” Mrs. Brewer interjected, loud enough to make Tyler flinch. She made no move for the remote herself.

“I know, I know. I wouldn’t want to watch this either.” Tyler said, flipping through the channels just as patiently. “Does a cooking show sound nice?”

“No, no. I’ve done enough cooking in my life. I don’t need to watch someone else do it.”

“Okay…” Tyler whispered. He manually keyed in a set of zeroes on the remote, taking himself back to channel 3. He went through each station slowly, from the beginning.

“Just say when.” He offered.

The lower channels were mostly late night news and reruns of 90’s sitcoms; she didn’t seem too interested in any of them, but she was watching. Tyler wondered if she just appreciated the effort being put in.

The channels had shifted their focus to shopping, old horror movies, and home improvement shows. Tyler had rested on a nature documentary when voices approached in the hallway. Quickly, he set the remote back down on Mrs. Brewer’s pillow and sat back in his chair.

It took her a moment to notice that he wasn’t browsing channels for her anymore, and even longer to find the words to complain about it. Two nurses entered the room before she could speak, she turned her focus to them.

“She doesn’t typically need much past the basics.” The first nurse said over his shoulder to the other. “Help me change her sheets and then I’ll grab Shelby so you can take your break.”

“Oh, I don’t need it. I never take breaks, it throws me off.” The other nurse offered–a trainee with bright eyes that contrasted with their supervisor’s.

“Will one of you change the channel?” Mrs. Brewer asked.

The older nurse laughed, stripping the sheets off the corner of Mrs. Brewer’s mattress and replacing them with the clean ones. “You want your break.” He answered, “I don’t know where you worked before, but my people get their breaks.”

The younger nurse sidestepped Tyler. Tyler lifted his feet off the floor as they reached back with a foot to roll the chair closer to the window. He couldn’t see much past the younger nurse now. That was fine. He didn’t like seeing nurses move his clients–there was something unsettling about it.

“Every night?” The younger nurse asked. Tyler looked out the window. Snow was gathering on the sidewalk outside.

“Every night.” The older nurse answered. “All your breaks.”

The two nurses didn’t stay for long, and they didn’t talk much as they worked. For a while it was just the gentle narration of the documentary, and the sound of the heater running at the window.

The younger nurse stepped away from Mrs. Brewer, stopping for a moment to look out the window; the older nurse stepped back, old sheets folded in his hands.

“Will you please change the TV?” Mrs. Brewer asked again.

“Where’d you say you were from?” The older nurse asked.

“Tennessee.” The younger nurse answered.

“Not used to snow like this?”

The two rounded the corner, chatting quietly about the snow, and how grateful they were to count on trains instead of having to drive in it.

Mrs. Brewer watched them leave. She didn’t say anything as the room grew quiet again, but as she looked back to the TV, her lips were pulled into a tight frown.

“They probably didn’t hear you.” Tyler offered. He pulled his chair closer again and picked up the remote. The next channels were mostly news stations.

"No one listens to me here.” Mrs. Brewer said after a moment.

Tyler set the remote down. He placed his arms on her bed to look at her.

“I’m listening.” He said. “What do you need?”

Mrs. Brewer didn’t answer him. Her frown only deepened as she looked down to her hands in her lap. He watched for tears for a moment, but let his eyes drift to the clock on her nightstand when he was sure she wasn’t crying.

It was 7:30. It was dark out. The hallway outside was quiet and the lights were comfortable and dim.

“Are you tired?” He asked, “Do you need to rest?”

Mrs. Brewer sighed and shook her head. She looked past him to the window, and he turned around to follow her gaze to the snow gently falling outside.

“Oh,” He looked back at her. “Are you ready to go?”

She kept staring out the window, her lips tight. “It’ll be too cold out there.”

“No, no.” Tyler answered quietly, “It won’t be too bad.” He stood up, taking Mrs. Brewer by the hand and slipping his arm under her back. He helped her to sit up, then to her feet. She only needed his hand to stand up. That was good, she must be feeling lighter already. Slowly, he walked towards the door with her.

He looked back to her bed as he stepped into the hallway. She was motionless–peaceful looking for the first time that night. He looked down at his hand to her soul resting in his palm, a glass-like orb about the size of a baseball, full of red light and swirling, violet clouds.

He ran a gentle hand over the glassy surface; the clouds twisted and lazily followed his fingers.

Tyler sighed gently and brought the soul close to him.

“Let’s go, Ms. Brewer.”

#whump #my writing #tyler whitman #tyler #The universe and those who serve it

[whumpr]

The Universe and Those Who Serve It: Tyler Whitman

“Are you an angel?” Tyler asked. “Not quite.” She answered.

New to you OC! Enjoy! Read in chronological order on Ao3. Contains: Major Character Death, Grief, Hypothermia -- On a cold evening, on a bank in Massachusetts, Tyler Whitman laid still in the snow. He had fallen through the ice on the lake behind his family’s property, and collapsed as he struggled to make his way home. He laid face down, ice clinging to his clothes, his face, to his long blond hair.

Sleep came over him like a warm blanket, and he wasn’t sure how long it was until he awoke again.

The ice didn’t bite him as harshly anymore, the snow felt soft and warm under his hands as he slowly moved to sit. He stood slowly, free from the cold and the weight of the afternoon. He couldn’t see his breath in front of him anymore, but he didn’t notice as he stared down at his own body beneath him.

He was still laying there, his eyes shut gently, as if he were asleep. His face was soft and young and peaceful. He had always argued when his mother had insisted that he was still young, still a child to her. But he could see it now: a child, face down, cold and dead in the freshly fallen snow.

“Hey, come on.” A hand fell on his shoulder, gentle and steady. “Are you alright?”

Tyler blinked slowly. There was a moment where he tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat.

He looked over his shoulder to the stranger–she was a young woman in a tweed vest, her hair cropped short above her ears. She didn’t look much older than Tyler. He looked at her for a moment, before looking back down to his body at his feet.

He had a hundred questions, but he couldn’t quite put words together. He didn’t speak, he just stared at himself and the snow gathering around him.

“Come with me.” She said, “We can get you some tea, find somewhere for you to sit down.”

“Are you an angel?” Tyler asked.

“Not quite.” She answered.

“Death?” He replied.

“In a way.” She said.

His chest was tight, his vision blurry. He shook his head. She hadn’t moved her hand off his shoulder.

“Come with me.” She repeated.

“My mother can’t take this.” He said, voice wavering as his words fell short on his lips. “It’ll destroy her. She can’t–I can’t… I’m…”

The woman squeezed his shoulder, he turned to look at her. Her face was solemn and apologetic. He watched her for a moment. What point was there in begging? In speaking? What was there to say? He looked to the sky. It was overcast and gray, with the first signs of evening settling into the air. His sisters would be coming home from school soon.

He looked to the trail he’d died on; he made a point not to look back to his body.

“Just for a moment.” He said, “You can put me back for a moment. Let me move somewhere else.”

The woman frowned. “I’m sorry.” she said, “No one gets to go back.”

Tyler felt the first sting of tears gathering in his eyes, he shook his head again.

“Please. My kid sisters walk home this way. Don’t make them find me like this. Don’t do this to them.”

Silence hung in the air; she stared at Tyler for a moment before looking over her shoulder. A path into the woods had cleared for them.

“Don’t do this.” He repeated.

“Come with me, Tyler.” She said, “It’s time to go.”

#whump #my writing #Tyler Whitman #The Universe and Those Who Serve It #Ruthie #major character death

[whumpr]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 24 - No Time To Rest

Miguel is @whumpr's, you know the drill, I love them both so much that I'll combust one day

TWs: Fever, exhaustion, blood, collapse

"I know, I know." Mariano said, breathless as he walked. Miguel whined, low and pained in his ear, arms draped around Mariano's neck. He still didn't know what had happened, but Miguel had woken up feverish and weak and needed help soon.

It was a long hike to the car, though. He'd just come back for the tent later. It was fine. "I think we're almost back to my car."

Miguel wasn't the heaviest load he'd ever carried, but the hike was uphill and neither of them had bothered to eat or drink anything since Mariano had woke up to find Miguel so sickly. He seemed to just barely have the strength to hang on to Mariano.

Breathing evenly, Mariano kept going. His boots were steady and didn't slip, even over the slippery leaves that had fallen after the last rainstorm. His biceps and thighs had started to burn thirty minutes ago. It was fine.

He leaned forward when Miguel's hold started to slip, feeling his calves ache. Mariano was hunched over, every step knocking his thighs against the backpacks he'd secured to his front, and the trail wasn't getting any easier. He'd been going since dawn and had been walking for hours. It had to be almost ten by how the shadows had shifted.

He was never letting Miguel convince him to hike out that far to camp ever again, it didn't matter that they were both ex-military and had done longer and harder. Neither of them were teenagers anymore, and neither had been on a Hell Hike in ages.

Mariano's glasses started to slip down his sweat-slick nose. He couldn't afford to let go of Miguel for long enough to push them back up, not on this hill. They couldn't afford to lose the progress he'd made.

Mariano's boot slipped. With a yelp his knees hit the ground and one arm flew out, fingers clutching at the long, sharp grass to anchor them both. It bit into his fingers, sending sharp sparks up his hand. Mariano's other hand flew to Miguel's wrists, keeping him secured on his back as he came to a stop.

His legs and lower back screamed with the relief of kneeling. The grass was still dewy and the aches that flew through his body were bearable if he just held still. He leaned his head against Miguel's arm, groaning.

But Miguel coughed, wheezing and rattling and weak.

Mariano couldn't rest yet. Miguel was depending on him. Taking a deep breath, Mariano centered himself. This was just a hike. He was just tired. He'd done harder, for longer, with heavier loads. He could handle two bags and Miguel uphill on a warm morning.

With blood dripping down his hand, Mariano hauled himself to his hands and knees, then looped a tired arm up under Miguel's thigh. Carefully, he shifted Miguel until he was draped over both of Mariano's shoulders, one arm and one leg held securely.

Miguel whined, but like this Mariano was able to get to slowly rise to his feet again. With all the weight distributed across his shoulders, the hill didn't seem quite as treacherous. The sun still beat down as it continued to rise, but he'd found his second wind.

He was exhausted, but that didn't matter. Miguel was heavy, but he'd carried him this far. The car was still an hour away, but that was only an hour.

He could do anything for an hour, if it meant Miguel would be okay.

Mariano's soles found gravel. His eyes stayed on the top of the hill. He'd just rest later. He'd have all the time in the world once Miguel was in a hospital bed.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125

#MIGUEL AND MARIANO #Baby boy and the traitor #I love this I love the way you write exhaustion #The line about his body screaming with relief. Real. #Fave

[whumpr]

Tyler took a step away, reaching for the gun on his hip; the stranger’s eye followed his hand.

“We’re not supposed to hurt reapers.” The stranger said, “And the rules don’t quite apply to me, but, still…”

Tyler drew his gun and took aim, the stranger reached out and seized him by the wrist. His grip was bruising, his skin like ice. Tyler tried to pull away, but the stranger pulled him closer, leaning down to match his height.

“I don’t want it to come to that.” He whispered. Dark, tired eyes looked to Tyler’s gun, then back to him. “Drop it.”

#tyler #Jaime #my writing #Just a preview

[whumpr]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 23 - Presumed Dead

I'm shameless and I'm not going to apologize for it. Miguel is @whumpr's as always!!

TWs: assumed death, blood, referenced suicidal ideation, grief, kidnapping, drugging/fantasy drug overdose resulting in coma

"Brat!" Dimitri's voice rang out in the tiny room, tight and horrified. "Bastian! Bastian, he's over here!"

Mariano lay sprawled on the floor, bruised, skin almost grey in the light of Dimitri's flashlight. He wasn't even restrained. There was almost too much blood to seem real.

Dimitri sprinted forward, gathering him up in his arms. "No--no, Mariano open your eyes." He pressed his fingers to a too-limp wrist, gripping Mariano tighter when he couldn't feel anything.

He wasn't making any move to wake up. There was no flutter of lashes, no little pathetic noise of him clawing his way to consciousness. There was nothing.

Bastian caught himself on the doorway, breathless from his run down the hallway. Distantly, Dimitri could hear the others fighting the people who'd taken Mariano days ago. The huge dragon fell to his knees beside Dimitri. "Dimitri--hey, he...Dimitri?"

When Dimitri looked up, his gaze met terrified silver eyes. Bastian's hands hovered near Mariano, like he was afraid to touch him. "They drugged him, right?" Bastian asked, voice shaking just so. "I can't feel him."

Dimitri swallowed hard. "I..." He didn't want to say it out loud. He didn't want to tell Bastian, to be the one to break the news to him about what had happened. About how this was the last place Mariano saw. About how he bled out in pain, in a little grey room, alone with people who wanted to hurt him.

Mariano hadn't wanted to die like that in a long time.

"They gave him pact dampeners, right?" Bastian pushed, his hand coming to rest on Mariano's chest. Mariano's head fell backwards over Dimitri's arm when he was shifted again, and he made no move to raise it to a more comfortable position. "That's what's going on, right?

"Right?"

"Bastian, I--" Dimitri started, voice failing. He tried again. "Mariano is--"

Something caught his eye. The glimmering scales on the back of Bastian's hand sparkled as they slowly, so slowly moved in the light. But he wasn't shaking. And neither was Bastian. Readjusting his fingers, Dimitri felt the smallest, fluttery heartbeat at Mariano's wrist. He laughed in disbelief. "I think so. Go get Manuel, he'll be able to tell."

Bastian didn't question it as he scrabbled to his feet, already out the door before he was even properly upright.

Dimitri held Mariano closer, pressing his lips to Mariano's forehead. "You fucking cockroach--" He laughed. Mariano didn't respond, but as Dimitri moved two fingers to press to his neck, he felt another blessed heartbeat. "Scaring us like that, you'd better be glad it was me and not Miguel. Just hold on, we'll get you home soon."

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125

#OUCH #Ohhhhhh Bastian #Kdjdjdnd #Oh godd #😭😭🧍 #The standing emoji was an accident #i'm distraught #Mariano #Bastian #other people's heartache #Dimitri

[whumpr]

No pain greater than realizing you accidentally switched tenses halfway through your draft

[whumpr]

How about some robot whump, where Whumper is going all out on it with Caretaker forced to watch.

The android assures Caretaker, "Not to worry. I cannot feel it. There is no pain."

But that doesn't mean that Caretaker stops yelling at Whumper to stop tearing their friend apart in the most brutal way. Appendages ripped from its torso, wires sending sparks up, the humanoid features slowly but forcefully removed. Oil drips out, leaving dark puddles not quite unlike blood.

All the while, the android keeps diligently updating on its status:

"Sensory functions failing."

"Emotion recognition centre damaged."

"Visuals reduced to 30%."

"It's okay!" Caretaker shouts. "I can still fix you. I can fix it all!"

"Oh, can you?" Whumper croons, fingers teasing over loose wires and smashing a hammer to the core.

"Memory storage compromised," the android croaks, it's voice failing.

"Maybe you can fix it, Caretaker," Whumper says, raising the hammer again. "But will it get you your friend back?"

-

General whump taglist: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @auroragehenna @chaotic-orphan @lolrpop

#Oh hell yeah #robot whump #android whump #whump

[whumpr]

The devastating difference between how much time it takes to write something vs how fast people read it lol

[whumpr]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 19 - "I need you."

Chained, warded, unable to get to each other even at the very limits of their bindings, Mariano and Bastian still reached for each other. So close, but not close enough. Mage and dragon were still separated from the most basic need they had.

That was their captor's first mistake.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125

#😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡 #SAD #Im coming in with the bolt cutters

[whumpr]

welcome home

#Ooooooh #Cool

[whumpr]

[whumpr]

[whumpr]

Shame

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

After so long, Elze'ith has learned how to take care of himself, though that doesn't make it easy.

For @whumpril Day 3: Shame

Contains: Aftermath of noncon, captivity/gilded cage, dissociation/depersonalization, isolation, briefly mentioned desire to self-harm

~~~

It always happened the same way. Lord Denholm would take him to bed. He would stay for a while. And then he would leave, and Elze’ith would try to bind the fragments of his soul back together.

It never seemed to work. It always felt like there was something missing, every single time. Something he could never get back, no matter how hard he tried. Pieces of him lost to the ether, and ultimately he wasn’t sure if anything resembling himself would remain.

Occasionally, Lord Denholm would take him to the bath himself. Even more rarely still, they would bathe together. Elze’ith found himself craving those moments, where he wouldn’t have to think, where he wouldn’t have to force his attention onto his wretched body. But more often than not, Lord Denholm departed straight from his bedroom, or his study, or wherever he had decided they would be coupling that day, and Elze’ith would have to painstakingly gather his strength and carry himself to the bath all on his own. It was never easy. But the idea of lingering in the sweat and blood and other remnants of Lord Denholm’s ministrations was far, far worse. And if he went early enough, the distance his mind tended to keep could carry through to his time in the water, and he could get himself washed without his thoughts dwelling on why.

Not that it was always easy. Just the mere act of being in the bath, no matter how scalding he made the water, could be enough to send chills down his spine. Even when he was alone he could sometimes feel Lord Denholm’s hands on him, sickeningly gentle, mapping out every inch of his skin. Those times were the hardest, when not even the quiet fog in his mind was enough to keep him safe, and he had to hurry to finish and get back to his room before the urge to claw into his own skin grew overwhelming.

Though there was a linen closet not far from his chambers, he started keeping a fresh set of bedding in the bottom drawer of his dresser. As much as he rarely wanted to go through the effort of actually changing his linens, of being faced with the aftermath of his encounters with Lord Denholm, he wanted even less for that evidence to remain. So he kept fresh sets close as hand, to accommodate for the frequency at which he couldn’t muster the willpower to venture back out into the castle halls to fetch something. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough; sometimes his sense of mortification and disgust and the fog that clouded his mind left him feeling immobilized for ages, and he would sleep in one of the chairs in his room rather than face what he and Lord Denholm had done together. But sometimes he could collapse onto a bed that felt cleaner than he ever would, and he knew to appreciate that.

As he appreciated the fact that he could set his laundry outside his door, and one of the servants would take care of it for him. At times like this, he didn’t even care that no one would talk to him, that he couldn’t speak to anyone even if he wanted to, that the halls were always achingly empty when he picked himself up from what he could not refuse. He didn’t want anyone else looking at him, talking to him, knowing him, out of some thorny mix of fear and shame and other emotions he dare not name. It didn’t matter how much part of him yearned for comfort, how much he didn’t want to deal with this alone, how the brambles in his heart felt like they were going to cut him open every time this happened. No, best that he be left alone. There was no helping him anyway.

It was all he could do to help himself. Go through the motions. Heal any outstanding wounds, the pain both grounding and disorienting but never pleasant. Put on clean clothes, so that he might feel more like a person and less like some monstrous, wretched thing. Brush his hair; it always seemed to get tangled. The routine of it was almost soothing in its own right, simple tasks he had completed thousands of times before and that he knew by heart. It was almost enough for him to forget what had just happened, to pretend that he was anywhere else. He never could, but maybe someday that blissful ignorance would come.

But now even what scraps of comfort he tried to stitch together were warped by how much of himself he had traded away. He drifted through a home that wasn’t his, dressed in clothes he would never choose and sleeping on a too-soft bed. There was no solace to be found in these frigid halls, no matter where he looked, and whatever he tried to cobble together was inevitably tainted. He felt like a ghost in his own body, haunting a life that was no longer his. He found himself glad that Lord Denholm had forbidden him access to a mirror. He didn’t think he could look at himself. Not anymore.

And yet he kept living. Day after day. He simply had no other choice. Such luxuries had been taken from him long, long ago.

#nsfwhump #captivity #dissociation (whump) #intimate whump #So sob sob #Ivy this is so fucking goooooooood and SADDDDDDD #Ohhhhhh Elze'ith honey

[whumpr]

When a character is down trying to get up and the villain kicks the shit out of them send tweet

#You're so right you're so right #whump

[whumpr]

When a character is down trying to get up and the villain kicks the shit out of them send tweet

[whumpr]

It’s Not Kidnapping, Okay?

Ryder turned back around, dropping his head against his headrest. “Oh my god, no. Marcello! No! They already think we’re out to get them!”

Borrowed @that-one-thespian’s OC Fletcher for this one! As a surprise!

Contains: Hostage situations, overstimulation

__

Alarms blared and gunfire echoed through the alleyways. Marcello sprinted for safety with Fletcher slung over his shoulder. Taller than Marcello -as most were- Fletcher served as a not-insignificant weight, slowing him down as the sound of barking guard dogs closed in on them from behind.

The escape van waited on the curb of an empty street, and the back doors flung open as Marcello approached. He threw Fletcher in ahead of him, the van rocking with the weight of him dropping to the floorboard.

“You took a hostage?!” Kris shouted over her shoulder before Marcello could even climb inside.

“It’s a RESCUE!” He yelled back. He didn’t look at her, he just slammed the back doors of the van shut and dropped to the floor. “It’s a rescue! Drive!”

Keep reading

#My writing #The team #marcello #sam #ryder #snow #kris