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tildeathiwillwrite · 15 days

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genuine qustion, bc i dont understand whump, why do you like it? whats the appeal? am i missing something?

I'm going to assume from the wording of this question that you already have an idea of what whump is, and you're asking why someone would want to read/write it, but if not here is a good post summarizing the genre.

This post is divided into two parts below the cut: the appeal of whump for me, and an explanation of why I like whump.

For me, personally, the appeal of whump comes from putting a character (whether that be an someone else's character, my original character, or a nameless whumpee) in Situations (with or without a whumper), and then having the difficult recovery or healing process (usually with a caretaker). Sometimes I deviate from this pattern, such as omitting the recovery, but that is usually my main focus.

A bit more emphasis on the comfort in hurt/comfort, but there's also hurt in the comfort.

My main love of whump stems from the tropes I enjoy:

Used as bait (where a whumpee is captured with the intent on using them to lure the caretaker into trying to rescue them in order to capture the caretaker too). I like this one because of the suspense of knowing it's a trap, and wondering if the caretaker will manage to rescue the whumpee, or get captured themselves.

Magic whump (whump but in the fantasy genre). This one gives more possibilities or twists on usual whump tropes by adding magic into the mix. Combined with my love for fantasy writing.

Captivity whump (a whumpee captured by a whumper, usually including various forms of torture). This trope is very versatile. Why were they captured? What does the whumper gain by torturing them? So many possibilities. Not to mention the rescue afterwards!

Sickfic (whumpee is sick, usually with a caretaker). Someone else mentioned this before, I don't remember who otherwise I would've linked them, but illness is something rarely seen in existing media. When a piece of media has whump, it's usually torture or a fight scene, but I've only ever seen sickness a handful of times. I like the idea of a character having all these cool abilities but still getting the common cold, especially when they have someone else to take care of them. Also it's easier to write from experience for this then, say, getting stabbed.

PTSD whump (when a character has trauma). This is more of a recovery trope. I hate it when a piece of media has a character go through an incredibly traumatizing event and then as soon as they're out, they're perfectly fine mentally. Let the character have ptsd, dammit! I don't really write this often, but when I do I love writing the nightmares in particular.

Immortal whump (with a character who, for whatever reason, cannot die). I love this one because it opens up even more possibilities for whumping. It usually depends on how the character's immortality works, but they can take a lot more damage than any other whumpee.

Realism in whump (realistic injuries, illness, and recovery). Really just a preference, as I'm studying in the medical field and already know a lot about how the human body works, so I use that knowledge and apply it to my writing. For example, fainting as portrayed in hollywood movies is a lot different from how fainting actually is. Involves a fair amount of research, but I personally think it's worth it.

(side note: I haven't really found any tropes which I strongly dislike, but out of personal preference I avoid smut and nsfw whump such as rape)

As to why I like whump? This was a tough question to answer, to properly articulate. It's fiction. And writing give me freedom to do pretty much anything to the characters and through the characters. I suppose whump is another way to exercise that creativity. "I know how the character reacts to this Situation, but what about this other Situation?"

I know some other writers use whump writing to work through their trauma, as catharsis. Props to them, but I don't write whump for that reason. I always liked putting my characters in Situations, and then a couple years ago discovered what whump was, went "that's a thing?!" and basically dove in head first.

The Tumblr whump community itself has also been very sweet and welcoming, I draw a lot of inspiration from the other writers, especially when I'm trying to figure out what to write next. I doubt I would still be writing whump if the community wasn't as welcoming, and I'm very glad it's not the case. If you go back in my archive, the first writing I started posting was whump. Nameless whump turned into oc whump, which turned into posting about my WIPs. So if the whump community gatekept me out, I probably wouldn't be posting any writing at all (and that's very sad to think about).

I hope this post was helpful to you! I can't speak for other members of the whump community, these opinions and motives are my own. If you have any more questions feel free to ask.

#thanks for the ask!#anon ask #long post #whump #whumpblr #whump blog #whump community #writing thoughts #used as bait #magic whump #captivity whump #sickfic #recovery #ptsd whump #immortal whump #realistic whump

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montammil · 2 years

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whumpee begging to be hurt trope

CW: Intimate Caretaker, mentioned self-harm (by scratching), begging to be hurt

...

It’s been weeks since Whumpee came back, and slowly they were starting to recover. Caretaker has never been so proud, so happy that Whumpee is making progress and starting to be themself again.

Until one day, when Caretaker hears a loud crash. Instinctually, they hurry to the source of the noise and skid to a halt when they see Whumpee, a broken vase below them.

“Whumpee, are you okay?” They slowly walk toward them, kneeling in front of them to look for any cuts, but sigh in relief when they find none. “C’mon, sweetie, let’s--”

“No! It’s okay, I-- I got it!” Whumpee starts picking up the shards of glass with shaking hands.

“Whoa, Whumpee!” They grab their hands and check for any further injuries, gasping quietly when they see a small gash in the palm of their left hand. They look up at Whumpee when they start trembling harder, to realize Whumpee looks positively terrified.

Not at the cut. At Caretaker.

“Please, I’m-- I’m so sorry,” Whumpee stammers in a sob. “It was an accident!”

“Shh, hey, I know, I know it was. You don’t need to be sorry for anything, please don’t feel sorry. I’m just worried, I’ve told you that.”

“Please, just hurt me. Please.”

Caretaker isn’t surprised from the gut wrenching plead. They’ve heard Whumpee beg to be hurt before, like the time Whumpee spilled a cup of water all over the floor, or the time they accidentally hurt Caretaker when they got too close.

This time is different, because never has Caretaker seen Whumpee so sad, so sleep-deprived, so miserable.

“No, Whumpee. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you.”

“Why? Why won’t you just forgive me?!”

Never has Whumpee yelled at them. Behind that pained expression, they see anger. Genuine anger, for the first time ever since they got them back.

“What are you talking about? Honey, there’s nothing to forgive you over. You did nothing wrong. I can replace the vase if that’s what you’re worried about, but I promise--”

“No, you don’t get it! If you don’t hurt me, I’m not forgiven! Every mistake I make will never be forgiven because you won’t hurt me!”

Realization along with heartbreak spreads across Caretaker’s face. They thought Whumpee was just begging to be hurt because that’s what they were used to, but they never really considered this. That must also be why Whumpee is always violently scratching themself when they do something they think is wrong.

“Oh, Whumpee.” They inhale sharply and pull them into their arms, circling them around them securely. “You don’t need to be forgiven by being hurt. That isn’t just awful, but what’ll that do in the long-term? It won’t make you learn from your actions, it’ll just make you scared.”

Even if it did have benefits, Caretaker would never lay a hand in anger on Whumpee. They love them to no ends, but they just wish they’d get that through their head already.

“Then how do I learn?”

Caretaker is sure it’s a rhetorical question, but they answer, anyway. “We talk it out; but believe me, Whumpee, you haven’t done anything wrong since you got here. This was just a mistake. Everyone makes them.”

They sniffle, so Caretaker wipes their tears away with their thumb. They smile at how Whumpee leans into the touch, closing their eyes.

“Let’s go clean that cut and bandage it. Does that sound okay to you?”

Whumpee’s eyes open again. “What about the vase?”

“I’ll get a new one after cleaning it up. Do you know how many times I broke that vase, too?”

“Really?”

“Mmhm. At least four different times.” That’s not true, maybe two at most, but they know that’ll make Whumpee feel a little less guilty. They wish they could take that guilt away completely. They wish they could take all of Whumpee’s pain away, even if that meant bearing it for them.

Thankfully, Whumpee gives a grin. It may be tiny, but it still warms Caretaker’s heart more than words can describe.

#whump #caretaker whump #intimate caretaker #whump comfort #whumpee #recovery whump #whump scenario #whump prompt #whump writing #whump idea #whumpee x caretaker #caretaker x whumpee #hurt/comfort #whump snippet

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befuddled-calico-whump · 2 months

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This is a genuine question: I know you enjoy lady whump as you have some characters that are female and are whumpees. I enjoy it too, sorta. Truth is that I feel guilty.

I know it’s kinda problematic to see lady whump as taboo and immoral but I can’t help but feel like it’s wrong, I come from a country that HATES women (shocker all countries hate women but I mean mine has a huge femicide problem) and I know how stupid I sound “I can’t feel but it’s wrong” like duh it’s whump! But I honestly don’t know how to get over those feelings, it hits too close home.

My question here is did you ever got those feelings of guilt and if you did, how did you get over those?

It's understandable to feel guilty at times, especially when creating or enjoying dark content (and especially if it's something that hits close to home)

Initially, I had some reservations about lady whump, since in mainstream media, violence against women tends to be a sensationalized thing that exists for shock value or to motivate the male lead in some way

(it's worth noting that the media has a history of doing this to trans, gay, and otherwise queer characters and non-white characters as well)

Initially I was squicked out by the idea of lady whump because I was so used to seeing it through that lens (not to mention, as you've said, the real-life examples)

However, I've seen again and again that whump as a genre tends to handle that material well (with all genders, not just females). Instead of the shock value, whump focuses a lot on the emotions, how the harm affects the character being harmed, and more often than not gives that character a fulfilling recovery arc

Personally, that's what shifted my opinion on it

Even then, if it's something you're uncomfortable with, you're not at fault for avoiding or disliking it. It all comes down to personal preference, and whether you'd like to explore it more or just stay away, it's your choice, and you shouldn't need to explain yourself (/gen)

#media consumption guilt is definitely a thing #but stories are a way to deal with uncomfortable realities from a safe spot aswell as explore different flawed perspectives #consuming or creating media that DOES sensationalize/'mishandle' sensitive topics is still not morally wrong #you have the right to avoid it as much as you have the right to enjoy it #but whump as a genre is often misunderstood #yeah we like the violence and angst and fleeting whumperflies #but most people i know in the community care a lot MORE about the characters and how the things they go through change them #and how despite all the shit they're put through they still come out #they can still heal and live a happy life #regardless of age; gender; sex; race; etc #anon #hope this helped!#whump meta

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a-crumb-of-whump · 9 months

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A New Beginning #21: Positive Affirmations

Masterlist | Read on AO3

Content: Self esteem issues, [mentioned] past child whump, recovery, pet whumpee, vampire whumpee, human caretaker, [past] parental whumpers.

I have been in such a slump recently, I'm so sorry for the lack of content </3 either the next chapter or the chapter after is when shit gets real.

“What’cha doin’?” Adam asked one morning as he sat down on the couch with his second cup of coffee. Carlos immediately glanced up from his new diary, a smile coming to his face when he realised that it was a genuine question rather than one asked out of politeness.

“I’m practicing positive affirmations with myself,” he told him. “Trying to write down three things I like about myself, or three things I think I’m good at, or… really, just three positive things. It’s… uh, harder than the people in the video I watched made it seem. I only have one thing so far.”

It was almost sad that he’d only been able to think of one thing in the hour that he’d been sitting here. Despite his humans’ constant flow of compliments and reassurances, his opinion of himself was still rather low, and it felt like there was something physically stopping him from seeing himself in any other light. Himself, perhaps?

Adam hummed, still looking half-asleep despite his attempts to wake himself up. “Can I see what you got so far?”

Obediently, Carlos rotated his book and pushed it towards the human, allowing him to see what he’d written. A single dot point, written in messy cursive that even Carlos found hard to read at times. He hoped that, with time, it would look better.

I’m good at being good.

“You are,” Adam reassured him. “You’re always good to us. What about your art, as well? You’re getting pretty damn good at that.”

The vampire considered that for a moment, thinking back to the last few things he’d scribbled down as of late. He’d certainly been getting better, but in comparison to the few pieces of art Rebel had been kind enough to show him, his was an embarrassment.

He sighed, setting his hands down in his lap as he slouched a little. “But what if I think I’m good at something, and it turns out that I’m really not?” he asked quietly. “I was gonna put down that I’m okay at cooking, or that I’m getting better at remembering social cues, but I don’t wanna do that if I’m really not. I’m scared that if someone sees that I think of myself like that, they’ll get upset with me for… lying? or thinking too highly of myself?”

“Buddy, if you judge your skills by how the people around you perceive them, then you’ll never get anything down. The exercise is to write down things you like about yourself, right?” Carlos nodded, eyes directed at the table rather than at Adam. “Then, if you like that you can cook or do art or pick up on social cues, it counts. Nobody has any right to tell you you can’t like a certain aspect of yourself.”

Huh. He’d never seen it that way. For so many years, any sign of self confidence was promptly beaten out of him, to the point where his entire life revolved around how the people around him viewed him rather than what he thought of himself. It was hard to imagine a world where he could be content with who he was without at least a little concern for the opinions of others.

He reached forward to pull the book back towards him again, idly tapping his pen against the open page a few times as he struggled to work up the courage to write down the things he wanted to be there. For a moment he looked up at Adam for some reassurance, and the man silently encouraged him with a warm smile and a nod.

“I’m… I’m good at cooking,” he murmured to himself as he wrote it down. “I’m good at my art, and I’m getting better at reading social cues. There… those are my three things.”

“Congratulations, man. Are you happy with it? Do you agree with what you’ve written?”

There was a small hesitation before Carlos finally nodded. “Yes, I think so. At least, I know that one day I’ll mean it, right? If I say it enough times?”

It made his heart warm to see Adam nod enthusiastically along with what he was saying. “For sure. You’ll get there eventually. Like most things, it just takes practice. Sort of a… ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ kinda concept. That’s how I did it, anyway.”

“You had to do this, too?”

The man shrugged. “Yeah. Both Ryker and I had to, in our own ways. I grew up being beaten horrendously for liking who I was. My mom and dad saw me as a burden and they hated when I didn’t see myself in the same way. You already know how Ryker was treated. That obviously had major effects on his self esteem, too, which… paired with his ADHD, put it at rock bottom for ages."

He took a sip from his cup of coffee, now staring down at his knees with them brought to his chest and his back against the arm of the couch. “We worked hard to build ourselves back up again, ‘n’ I’m so sorry that you’ve gotta go through that same journey. It fucking sucks.”

“The world isn’t so great,” Carlos whispered after some time spent in silence. His chest felt heavy now, sorrow and guilt having made itself more comfortable there with each word that left Adam’s lips. Humans lived such short lives. Why did so many of them have to spend it recovering from things they had no control over? It didn’t seem fair. “Sometimes I wish that I could create another one, just for Ryker. One where he could have all the friends and family he wanted but never get hurt. He’d have those guardian angels that I read about in a book once watching over him and people to keep him company when he felt alone.”

He adjusted his weight a little before finally glancing up at his human again. “You deserve to know that I would do the same for you, if I could. You protected Ryker throughout the years that I could not and gave me a real home to feel safe in. I owe you more than I can give.”

It surprised him to see a dampness to Adam’s eyes as he smiled over at him. Unlike the ones of reassurance or comfort that he usually gave, this one seemed to be caused by what he’d said. Something that indicated he was happy with his words. That made Carlos happy, too.

“You’re good at making the people around you happy,” he said after another sip of his drink. “Write that down on my behalf.”

Carlos instantly lit up, already pulling his book close again. “Yes, sir.”

@choppedflowermuffinchild @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @emcscared-whumps @espresso-depresso-system @inkkswhumpandstuff @pigeonwhumps @pumpkin-spice-whump @roblingoblin285 @sacredwrath @some-thrilling-heroics @stabby-nunchucks @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @trans-writes @whump-blog @whumpsday @whumpshaped @paniatheweirdone @whumpycries @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thekittyburger @whumpdreamz

#whump #whump stuff #whump things #whump thoughts #whump tropes #whump prompts #whump ideas #whump scenarios

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whump-me · 10 months

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Conquest, Chapter 4: A Valuable Resource

Chapter 4 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, fearful whumpee, royal whumper, whumper POV, knife to throat, cultural differences, philosophy of gender

---

Kezul

The prisoner was no longer drenched in blood and shit and vomit, but that didn’t make him that much more pleasant to look at. He was built like a sapling, and draped in layers and layers of clothing drenched in dyes so bright it made Kezul’s eyes hurt to look at him. His hair was pulled back in a single long braid. The style didn’t do him any favors—it exposed every soft curve of his weak face in unforgiving detail.

The creature kept his eyes firmly fixed on his own shoes—soft and thin things that wouldn’t have lasted five minutes on a battlefield. Kezul heard his breath catch with every inhale as he quivered like a blade of grass in a thunderstorm.

And here Kezul had thought Gyoras’s fawning had been intolerable.

But at least this one meant it. He wasn’t showing obsequious deference while snickering about Kezul’s soiled reputation behind his hands when Kezul was out of earshot. One glance at the prisoner was enough to tell Kezul that every quiver of fear, every catch of his breath, was born of genuine terror.

It was refreshing. At least one person in this palace had a healthy respect for him.

Kezul hadn’t expected respect to make him feel so disgusted.

But then, the creatures of Danelor were disgusting, all of them. Weak things, soft, like worms after a rain. And his father had sent him here because he thought Kezul belonged with them.

Maybe Gyoras had been right, and this prisoner’s best use was as an outlet for his anger. Staring at him now, he found it hard to believe this creature could be useful for much else, except maybe as a gaudy decoration. “Tell me,” he demanded, “why shouldn’t I kill you now and put you out of your misery?”

The prisoner flinched at the sound of his voice. His eyes—wet and glittering, a clear amber color that reminded Kezul of the steps outside the palace—darted up to meet his. The incongruity of it sent a jolt through Kezul. The prisoner looked too afraid to speak, and yet he could do what Gyoras had found so difficult, and look Kezul in the eyes. No doubt it came down to what he had been taught—the people of Danelor probably didn’t know how to show their rulers proper respect. Still, Kezul couldn’t help but see it as an almost shocking act of boldness.

“You saved me for a reason,” the prisoner said. “I don’t think you would have your warriors go to the trouble of bathing me just so you can kill me personally.”

Kezul wouldn’t have been more astounded if one of the palace rats had scurried up to him, knelt at his feet, and offered to serve.

The prisoner’s accent was atrocious, of course. The words sounded smooth and liquid in his mouth, like his soft lips couldn’t keep hold of the sounds properly. On top of that, half his verb endings belonged to some archaic scholarly dialect Kezul hadn’t seen since the lessons he had slept through as a child. But the fact that he was speaking the language at all stunned Kezul into silence.

“I did not intervene to save your life,” Kezul answered once he had recovered his composure. “Your life is worthless. What I did was preserve a potential resource. If it turns out the information in your head isn’t useful to me, you’ll go right back to my Wolves. Or else I’ll kill you myself.”

The prisoner cringed at the sound of his voice, and didn’t stop cringing until Kezul fell silent. In the name of the exalted Unmaker, how had these creatures ever survived long enough to put up any sort of resistance at all? If they were all like this one, they should have keeled over dead at the first sound of a war horn.

“How do you know my language?” Kezul demanded.

“It was part of my studies,” the prisoner answered in the same atrocious accent. “I can read, write, and speak fifteen different languages. I can understand another five passably well.”

“Hopefully you speak the others better than you speak mine,” Kezul said. “Training for what?” He leaned forward on his throne, fixing his eyes on the quivering prisoner.

“Diplomacy, mostly. As a royal clerk, I sat in on diplomatic meetings, and recorded what was said to the best of my ability. I had to understand foreigners’ speech well enough to avoid any dangerous mistranslations in my notes, and then translate the notes later into the languages of everyone who had attended. I also drafted trade and defense agreements, and the meaning of those—as you can imagine—had to be precisely identical between one translation or the next. No clerk wants to be responsible for starting a war with a careless stroke of a pen.”

He said all this without a trace of arrogance, as if he expected Kezul to take it in stride that a trembling beanstalk of a clerk might have the power to launch an army with the mistranslation of a word. Was this the world his father had meant to thrust him into? A world where the stroke of an overtired clerk’s pen could mean the difference between war and peace, between victory and defeat?

And he had thought the test had seemed impossible before.

Forget getting on his horse and riding as hard as he could out of here. He was half-tempted to set the whole damned country ablaze and be done with it. It would be easy to rule over a sea of charred grass.

He pictured his father’s triumphant grin in his mind. He clenched the throne’s carved wooden armrests until the contours of the smooth wood bit deep enough to bruise.

He would not run. He would not fail.

“You say you drafted these agreements,” he said slowly. “Do you mean someone dictated the words to you, and you determined the proper translations?”

The prisoner shook his head—a small, jerking motion. “We clerks would work out the details ourselves. It’s part of why our training takes so long—we need to understand enough of politics to handle that work on our own. The queen and her advisors have more important things to do than fuss over every word.”

Kezul’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Then the royal clerks had the power to set policy.” No wonder Danelor had fallen so quickly, if this one and those like him had been the ones in charge all along.

The prisoner shook his head again. “The queen or one of her advisors would tell us what the document needed to contain—although we would already know that, if we had paid attention in the meetings. Then we would go over it with one of the queen’s advisors once the job was done—or, if it was important enough, with the queen herself. But—if you will forgive me my arrogance—the queen and her advisors couldn’t manage those details as well as a trained clerk could. Knowing the precise tricks of phrasing to make sure the documents say exactly what they’re meant to say is part of what we’re trained for.”

This prisoner had a strange idea of arrogance. Not that Kezul was sure he believed what the prisoner said—surely the difference between one pen stroke and another couldn’t be more powerful than the word of their queen. Either their queen had been exceedingly weak, or Danelor was a land of superstitious fools who believed in the powers of magical incantations—so long as the words were written in a clerk’s hand and sealed with the royal seal.

But the creature in front of him, much as he hated to admit it, didn’t look like a fool. Kezul didn’t know what to make of him, truth be told. Based on Kezul’s first look at him, he hadn’t expected the prisoner to be able to stammer out a single terrified word. And yet he had spouted that lengthy explanation, and in a language not his own, all while quivering like a leaf in a storm. He had even pulled out the most obscure archaic phrases to drop casually into his speech. To the best of my ability? If you will forgive? And the stuffy and old-fashioned word documents, when the shorter and simpler term was used by everyone but the most pompous old academics. Kezul might have thought the creature was trying to show off, if he hadn’t looked so much like he wanted to melt into the floor.

Kezul didn’t know what to think of him. Only a few moments in his presence, and he already seemed to Kezul to be a child’s trick puzzle—a muddle of pieces that would never fit together properly. But if what he said could be believed—and at this point, Kezul had no other option but to believe him—he was an even better find than Kezul had hoped. This prisoner could well be the proverbial jewel plucked from the pigsty—a bit of good fortune dropped into his lap from the heavens themselves.

“Give me your name,” Kezul ordered.

The prisoner answered with a string of slurred syllables that made Kezul feel like he had spun in a circle while shaking his head rapidly back and forth.

“Say that again,” Kezul said irritably. “Slower, this time.”

“Miranelis.” This time, Kezul could make out all the sounds, but he still scowled. He couldn’t imagine saying all that whenever he needed to catch his prisoner’s attention.

“You’ll need to shorten it,” he said. “I’ll call you Mir.”

The prisoner, unexpectedly, flinched at that. “My people don’t shorten our names.”

A child’s trick puzzle, indeed. He had run rather than fought to defend his home and his queen. He was hadn’t offered the Wolves in the courtyard so much as a token fight. But this was the thing he found the courage to object to?

“You do now,” he said. “Your name is too long to use. You don’t want that to be the reason I can’t find a use for you, do you?”

The prisoner still looked unhappy about the situation, but he didn’t offer any more objections.

“And are you a man or a woman?” he asked. He had assumed man at first, but the longer he looked the prisoner over, the less sure of that he was. Mir’s slim build offered no clues, nor did the soft roundness of his face.

“Neither,” Mir answered.

And here Kezul had thought his eyebrows couldn’t go any higher. “You can’t mean to tell me you have nothing between your legs.”

“You didn’t ask me what I had between my legs. You asked if I was—” And here he dropped into his own language for the space of a few liquid words. “Or did I misunderstand?”

“I don’t speak your language,” Kezul snapped. “Say it in mine, or not at all.”

“You asked if I was a man or a woman,” Mir answered. “The mother or father of a child, actual or potential. Is that correct?”

He had dropped into those maddening archaic turns of phrase again. Kezul wished his father had sent along a scholar just to make sense of this creature’s speech. “I don’t see how that changes my point.”

“I renounced the possibility of either when I entered the service of the queen,” said Mir patiently. “I renounced all familial roles—past, present, and future. Son or daughter, brother or sister, aunt or uncle… you get the idea. Everyone sworn to higher service takes the oath—clerks, priests, soldiers, the queen’s personal servants…”

Kezul frowned. “You mean to tell me all the soldiers in Danelor are eunuchs?”

“Eunuchs? Doesn’t that mean you cut…” Mir turned faintly green. “No! It’s about our place in our family and our country, about being recognized as one sworn to service rather than to our blood relatives or the scholarly pursuits. It’s not about… that.” The prisoner looked down at his crotch nervously.

Perhaps this was another thing Kezul would have understood if he’d had the training Szorrol had denied him. He doubted it, though. “Neither, then,” he said, with more than a little irritation. He squinted at Mir and wondered if he could get used to the idea of seeing clerk in place of man or woman.

He cleared his throat and moved on. “How long have you been in your position?”

“Ten years in training,” Mir answered. “Another five in service.”

“They must have started you young, then.” Either that, or Kezul had unwittingly stumbled upon the location of the fabled Caves of Immortality.

“At seven years old,” Mir confirmed.

“And are you good at what you do?”

“Not as good as the one who taught me.”

They flushed a little as they said it. Their lips tightened at the corners in a look of quivering stubbornness. Was this another facet of the creature’s strange humility—that they could admit to having power greater than their own queen, but not to being good at it?

If so, Kezul didn’t have time for their scruples. He leaned forward. “How would you rate your competence at your vocation,” he said, “if your life depended on your answer?” In a quick motion, he grabbed Mir by the back of the neck. With his other hand, he drew his dagger from his chest sheath and rested the blade against the prisoner’s trembling throat.

Mir quivered hard enough that Kezul was afraid they would shake themselves right onto the edge of the blade and slit their own throat. And yet they still didn’t collapse in a mindless puddle of tears on the floor. Ridiculous—they should either embrace their own cowardice, as they so clearly wanted to, or show a little spirit and fight back.

Of course, if they chose this moment to fight back, they would get their throat slit. And then Kezul would be without his only information source.

Kezul was about to repeat his question when Mir swallowed hard and answered. The motion of the throat was enough to vibrate their skin against the freshly sharpened blade. A single drop of blood welled up.

“My teacher said I was the best they had ever trained,” said Mir, as if every word was painful. Or maybe that was just from the blade at their throat.

“Good.” Kezul released them, and was mildly surprised when they kept their footing. He slid his knife back into its sheath. “We’ll see if your teacher’s assessment of you is accurate. You said you were sworn to higher service. You will continue that service. As of now, you serve me.”

Mir blinked at him like a startled cow. “What?”

“I was taught how to conquer,” Kezul said. “I was not taught how to rule. You will show me how.”

Another slow, bewildered blink. “But I don’t… I was only a clerk.”

“And your clerks had more power than your queen, or so you said,” Kezul said impatiently. “Or was that a lie?” His hand drifted closer to his knife. “Do you know what the penalty is for lying to one’s superiors in Kyollen Naskor?”

A full-body quiver ran through Mir. “That’s not what I meant!” They took a breath. Swallowed. “That’s not what I meant,” they said in a slower and more even voice, even though every word was thick with suppressed strain. “We clerks have a very specific area of expertise. That’s all. We know more than the queen does in certain matters, but the queen doesn’t know how to till the fields either, and you would hardly say a farmer has more power than her because of it.”

“Certain matters,” Kezul echoed. “Would it kill you to talk like a living, breathing person instead of some long-forgotten ancient scroll?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Kezul waved a hand. “Your specific area of expertise happens to be exactly what I need. I need to know this country’s politics. Its trade… situation.” His fingers waggled helplessly in the air. “Its relationships with its neighbors. Its… oh, I don’t know—that’s what I need you to tell me.”

“You want me to tell you how to rule my country,” said Mir.

“At last, you’re getting it. Good—if you didn’t have a brain in your head, this endeavor would be doomed before it started. I’ll have you brought to me every day. You’ll teach me what I need to know about your country, and in return, you will be kept alive and well-fed.” He thought back to what Gyoras had said about the farms, and amended, “You’ll eat as well as the rest of my army, at any rate.”

“You want me to be a part of your army.” A crease appeared between Mir’s eyebrows, quickly smoothed away.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Your command of my language can’t be that bad, if you’re throwing around phrases like if you will forgive. Are you trying to mock me by intentionally misunderstanding my words?”

“You want me to serve you,” said Mir. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? Maybe I won’t be holding a weapon, but it amounts to the same thing. I’ll be helping you win this war.”

“The war is already won. And I wouldn’t need your help for that, anyway. I know how to win a war.”

Mir shook their head. “No,” they whispered, almost too low to hear. Another terrified quiver rolled through them.

“What do you mean, no?”

Mir swallowed again. “You destroyed my country. You killed my queen, and the prince—a child—and everyone else I’ve cared about for the past fifteen years. Havedrial…” Mir let out a shuddering breath. “I won’t help you finish the job.”

It took Kezul a moment to remember how to speak. “You’re refusing me?” This pathetic creature? Gyoras, a trained Wolf, had barely been able to bring himself to stand in Kezul’s presence, and then only because he had been ordered to. And yet this tiny, trembling prisoner was saying no?

“And what if I send you back out to the courtyard with my Wolves?” Kezul asked in a low voice. This time, he almost managed to imitate his father’s rumble.

Mir quivered so hard Kezul thought they would lose their balance. But they kept their feet as they said, in a small but steady voice, “Then send me back.”

Kezul stared into the creature’s wide and glistening eyes, and found he couldn’t look away. This was the strangest breed of coward he had ever encountered. They would have made a fascinating curiosity, if Kezul’s birthright hadn’t been on the line.

Kezul drew his knife again. This time, he brought it forward slowly and deliberately, holding Mir’s gaze the whole time. He kept his spare hand ready to grab hold of Mir’s arm if Mir tried to run. But Mir stayed put. Whether they were making a brave stand, or were simply too panicked to remember how to use their feet, Kezul couldn’t tell.

“And if I slit your throat here and now?” he demanded.

This time, Mir’s voice was even quieter. The words were still surprisingly easy to make out, considering their accent. “Then do it.”

Kezul rested the edge of the knife against Mir’s throat. Mir didn’t fight. They didn’t run. One or the other would have made sense, but neither? What was this creature?

One sharp jerk of the knife, and he wouldn’t need to worry about it anymore. He already suspected this prisoner would be more trouble than they were worth. In the time it would take to persuade them to take back their refusal—or even begin to figure out how to persuade an alien creature such as this—he could find another resource to give him what he needed.

There had to be some other resource.

But if he was wrong, what then?

And besides, if Kezul killed Mir now, the only satisfaction he would get from it would be an end to this headache-inducing conversation and an extra bloodstain on the floor. That wasn’t enough. Kezul had saved them from the fate they deserved, and all they were asking in return was a simple exchange of information. Kezul could have understood that kind of refusal coming from a warrior. But a coward who had hid in a closet rather than die in defense of their queen? The only reason for them to choose death now was pure spite.

Such spite deserved to be returned in kind.

He tucked his knife away. “Then I suppose I’ll be forced to find another use for you. I imagine you won’t find it as pleasant as my first offer. Remember, you had your chance.”

Kezul didn’t know what precisely he was threatening yet, but from the way Mir’s eyes went even wider, he suspected Mir had a few ideas already. Good. Let their imagination to torment them until Kezul came up with something suitable. He was sure he could find something. And after a taste of what it meant to be his prisoner, maybe Mir would change their mind about what their spite was worth.

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @halloiambored @whump-in-the-closet @whump-cravings @gala1981 @sunshiline-writes @annablogsposts @whither-wander-whump @seaweed-is-cool

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#whump #whump writing #whump story #whump novel #my writing #my writing: Conquest #fantasy whump #royal whump #nonbinary whumpee

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set-phasers-to-whump · 1 year

Text

shatter

prompt: voice breaking

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

hi hi hi!! sorry it's been absolute ages since i last posted, school was a Thing but i'm on break now so i'm actually gonna finish off this card at long last :) anyways i watched this show a couple weeks ago and really enjoyed it, hope you'll like this fic!

The first time they actually, literally sleep together is the night after Peter returns from wherever it was that the FBI had shipped him off to (information that Rose, apparently, is still not allowed to know). She isn’t expecting him: he’d called her from a burner when he’d landed in DC that morning, but he hadn’t said anything at all about coming out to California.

So she’s understandably surprised that evening when he shows up on her doorstep with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside.

As soon as she’d seen him pop up on her security feed, she’d gone to unlock the front door, and he doesn’t even have the chance to ring the bell before she’s opening the door and pulling him inside.

“Peter!”

She wraps him in a hug, pressing her head to his chest and listening to his heartbeat and just breathing in his presence. It’s only been a little over a month since they’ve seen each other, but the calls had been sporadic and short and anyway, nothing compares to having him here, now, slowly dripping water onto the tiles of the foyer in her small one-bedroom house with all the security features of a billionaire’s mansion.

“Hey, Rose,” he says against the side of her head. His voice is heavy with exhaustion and he’s leaning into her enough that she has to work to keep her balance. He doesn’t show any signs of letting go of her anytime soon, and honestly she’d be willing to stay like this forever, but she can feel herself starting to keel over, so she reluctantly pulls away from him before they both go falling to the ground.

For a few seconds, they both just stand there, looking at each other.

Peter looks terrible. During their one hectic week together (which feels simultaneously as though it had been years ago and just yesterday), when she knows he’d barely slept at all, he’d looked less tired than this.

There are dark circles beneath his eyes, almost black, one puffier than the other. Quite likely there’s a black eye hiding beneath the exhaustion. There’s a fresh scrape across the bridge of his nose and a yellowing bruise on his temple and he’s almost shaking - she can see it in the way his fingers grip the strap of his bag.

“You look terrible, Peter,” she says, trying for a tone somewhere between joking and concerned. She pulls the duffel away from him - he winces when the strap brushes his ear, though there’s no visible injury - and sets it down on the floor.

“Thanks,” he replies. She doesn’t know whether it’s meant to be a sarcastic acknowledgement of her you look terrible comment or a genuine appreciation for her taking his bag.

She’s about to ask this question, but something in the way that Peter is looking at her makes her hesitate. It’s his eyes, she thinks. Their unnatural shine in the soft light. How he looks simultaneously afraid and ashamed and just fucking raw.

“Hey,” she whispers, stepping forwards to grab onto him at the same moment that he all but collapses into her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She guides them both to the ground, leaning against the wall. Peter doesn’t say anything.

“Hey,” she repeats, more insistent. “Look at me.”

He does, but he still doesn’t say anything. He looks so miserable and so tired and she just wants to help but she doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what he needs, doesn’t know what’s wrong. She can make guesses, but she can’t actually - she doesn’t actually know how to help if he won’t tell her what’s wrong.

But she isn’t going to push him. She sometimes forgets that they’ve known each other for less than two months. She doesn’t know everything about him yet. Doesn’t quite know how far, how hard, to push. She’ll let him come to her.

He looks away from her again, stares at their knees pressed together, side-by-side. Then, at long last, he speaks.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“This?” For a heart-wrenching moment, she thinks that he means this, the two of them, and she braces herself for a blow that never comes.

“This,” Peter repeats, gesturing loosely to himself with a hand that is now definitely shaking.

Oh.

“Can I - What do you need?”

She’s never seen him look quite so lost.

“I don’t…I don’t know.” His voice is strained until it breaks on the last word, and Rose doesn’t let herself think. She just reaches out and wraps her arms around him, guiding his head to rest on her shoulder, and Peter freezes up for a fraction of a second, and then he just shatters.

He falls apart nearly silently, but Rose can hear the hitches in his breathing, can feel him trembling, feel the tears soak into her t-shirt.

“I don’t know what to do,” Peter whispers after a while, his voice rough and a little unsteady. One of his hands loosely twists the hem of her shirt, and Rose cautiously threads her fingers into his hair.

“You don’t have to know anything right now,” she whispers back. She imagines the Bureau might feel differently about this, but for the time being, it’s just them. Nothing else matters.

Peter shakes his head against her shoulder. “I thought I would like it.”

“But?”

He shrugs, sniffs. “I was good at it. But - the Metro bombing, the assassination plot - plots - it’s not…it’s not the same as this.”

Rose thinks she understands. There’s a difference between being thrust into something and jumping in voluntarily, between a day or a week and a month. Between being with someone and being essentially alone.

Peter doesn’t say anything else. At first Rose assumes he’s just thinking, and then she realizes he’s falling asleep.

“Hey, c’mon,” she says softly, nudging him. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Peter looks up at her for the first time in what feels like forever. His already-battered face is now tearstained, his cheeks and eyes pink.

“Sorry about all that,” he tells her, as the two of them get to their feet.

“Don’t even think about apologizing,” Rose responds, taking him by the hand and leading him to her bedroom. “I’d say you’re more than allowed to fall apart on me, all things considered.”

Peter doesn’t say anything to this, but he squeezes her hand and doesn’t offer up any resistance when she goes to help him out of his still-damp clothes and shoes.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Rose says, gesturing to the bed, as she leaves the room to sweep the house. She checks that all of the doors and windows are locked, makes sure the alarm and cameras are set, then grabs Peter’s forgotten duffel bag and brings it to her bedroom.

He’s almost asleep by the time she returns. One of his arms has been left outside of the comforter, and there’s a massive bruise on the elbow. She thinks about the various injuries she’d glimpsed while helping him undress and decides to spend some serious time cataloging them all in the morning, if only to make sure that nothing is seriously wrong.

For now, though, she just double checks the window above the bed, changes into her pajamas, and climbs into bed beside him.

There will be time for everything else tomorrow.

thanks for reading!! hope neither of them was too ooc, this is my first time writing them (but probably not my last). love you all (and sorry for the massive unplanned break lmao)!!

#bad things happen bingo #the night agent #peter sutherland #voice breaking #emotional whump #crying #held #comfort #my writing #i say things #anyways i have a lot of thoughts about peter and like him being sent off so quickly after All Of That and the adjustment period that must #come along with going from a basement to the Real Fucking World so quickly and with probably not a whole lot of training cause like #there's a massive difference between something happening to you randomly and you getting put into a situation voluntarily but also not #completely voluntarily if you get me. and so like. you really have to think about what it is you want and whether this is going to be #something you want to do. yknow? anyway.

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a-painful-ordeal · 11 months

Text

5. Satanic and Chained Up

Cw: Slavery, slapping, extremist ideology in a fantasy setting, whumper believes in the Divine Right Of Kings, religious justification of torture, stress position, threats of a flogging, description of a flogging that hasn’t occurred.

Note: whumper and whumpee’s religious stances do NOT reflect my own. This is an exploration of ‘The Divine Right of Kings’ and general extremist bullshit. Evan’s views also are me playing with how atheism can manifest in a world where the gods frequently interact with mortals. Lord Maynard is a paladin and this is a subversion of the usual stereotypes.

---

Evan’s heart races as he stands in a huge bedroom with a four-poster bed. The beauty and size dwarves him in comparison. Beautiful curtains hang from the wooden frame above the bed. To one corner of the room is an ornately painted screen to change behind. The screen stands next to a well-decorated wardrobe. In the other corner, sits a wooden table with a bowl of exotic fruits that Evan has never seen before. A fire sits not too far from the bed, glowing gently in the absence of its master.

Evan moves around the room, checking and double checking the windows for an exit. They are locked. Fuck. They are locked.

His anger and fear blend together. Why couldn’t he have just gone along with those guards and pretended. Maybe no one would have noticed. At least that way, he wouldn’t have gotten a thrashing and- whatever this is…

Deep breath in. And out. Calm. He tries to relax as an eternity passes. Waiting. Focus on something else. Anything else. What would he be doing now…? If he hadn’t been so stupid to think someone would genuinely try to help a street kid. He’d be… bickering with Meg maybe. Arguing about her dumb fictional crushes which he had never been able to relate to. Or maybe he’d be telling her to put another flea-ridden cat she found back where she found it, or so help him… it was always an empty threat. Meg enjoyed the bickering. And in all honesty, so did he. Or, maybe he’d be trying to wash her smelly unicorn toy. That thing was disgusting. M, would probably be hanging around watching, or taking Meg’s side. M had always been soft when it came to the little ones, letting things slide that she’d chastise him for with a grin now. She’d looked out for him like that once, too. A long time ago. But now she counts on him being able to help her look after all three of them. Counted. But she counted on him helping her look after all three of them of them. What would she do now?

Evan rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. No. He will see them again. This is not the end. He’ll get out of here…. Somehow…and move his way back to…. Wherever they were before. It’ll be fine. Or maybe they will rescue him? Find out what’s happened and come to save him.

The doors swing open, cutting off his train of thought, as the large, well-dressed figure of Lord Maynard enters. Evan finally gets a good look at him as the man strides into his chambers. He’s a human man, with well-kept black hair. He has large, broad shoulders and styled black hair. If Evan had seen him around the town, he might have assumed he was a merchant.

Maynard moves towards Evan, like a lion assessing an antelope. Evan swallows, exhaustion from earlier being chased away with a fresh bout of fear. He fights the urge to move back, instead, standing his ground. He raises his chin and puffs his chest out, swallowing back the pain from his beating.

“So. You must be the little slave who stole food and tried to escape?” the Lord asks. His tone is light, with a hint of danger to it.

Evan stays silent. His mouth begins to dry and the urge to back up begins to scream at him.

Maynard steps close. “Answer me when I’m talking to you.” His demands echoes around the room.

Evan feels his legs beginning to shake. Answer or not… this is a trap. Anything he says… he’s fucked.

Maynard walks forwards and strikes Evan. The rings on his hand scour two bloody lines across the cheek. The lines cut into the already yellow and blue cheek, which hasn’t fully recovered from earlier. “You will give me a response or I will have a finger taken off for your insolence.”

Evan’s breath hitches in his throat as he feels his throat begin to constrict. He feels all bravery leave him. “Y-” he coughs “Yes. I am.”

“You will address me as Sir or Master. Understood?”

“Yes… Sir…”

Maynard smiles “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

Evan stays quiet. Unsure what he could say in response.

“Now. Let’s get one thing clear. I will not tolerate disobedience from scum. The gods have placed me on this world to protect the good people from devils like you. And if that causes me to have to whip the evil out of you, then so be it. I will be doing my duty.” Maynard says this with pride in his voice, like man who has achieved something grand.

“You will obey me. And you will learn the place that the gods have allocated to you. Understood?”

Evan blinks. He fights the urge to call this man absolutely fucking nuts. Best not to do that when trapped in a room with him. “Yes…Sir.”

“Good. Now. You will kneel when I enter a room. Understood?”

Evan blinks, taking a small step backwards. His body shouts to run whilst his brain pushes him to fight. A surge of resilient pride runs through him for a moment, just long enough for all sense to be lost. “No-”

What he said suddenly registers, and he wants to kick himself.

“No?” There is a quiet rage in Maynard’s voice.

“Wait, I mean-” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Fear shoots through him. Just comply. Stay alive and live to fight another day.

Evan drops to his knees with a thud that causes him to wince. He stares at the ground. Let that be enough. Please.

“Don’t you dare say no to me.” The Lord growls “But no. By all means. If you don’t want to kneel. Don’t.”

He grabs Evan’s thin wrists in one hand, roughly pulling Evan to his feet and dragging the boy across the room to the four-poster bed. Evan’s wrists are shifted from Maynard’s left hand to his right hand as he grabs some cord that holds the bed-curtain together. He throws it over the wood at the top of the bed, before wrapping the other end, tightly around Evan’s wrists. Maynard then begins to wrench Evan’s weight up, until the boy is on his tiptoes.

“There. Now you don’t have to kneel. How does that feel? Boy? Better. I hope so.” Maynard spits, his voice full of righteous anger.

Evan’s wrists scream at him as the cord tightens, digging into his wrists. His jaw trembles slightly from the pain as the skin on his hip is stretched out. He lets out a small whine.

“I asked you a question. Does that feel better?”

Evan’s mind races. Yes? Or no? What does the man want to hear? Anything. Say what he wants. Fuck bravery and resilience. He wants to make it out of this in tact. Evan makes a split second decision. “No... Master.” His skin crawls at the word. The word fills him with a strange repulsive nausea but he continues. “I would… prefer to kneel…” There is a foul taste on his tongue as he finishes the sentence. He wants to swear and spit and shout… but so far, that had just gotten him hurt. Maybe this will work better? Do what Trygve said… keep his head down?

“That is a shame… you can kneel in the morning. Before I have you flogged for your little scene earlier.”

Evan blinks. That… didn’t work… wait. Flogging. What?

The boy’s shock is clearly evident on his face as Lord Maynard looks at him “You didn’t think that you wouldn’t be punished for your act of dissidence did you?” He shakes his head as he causally begins to the screen to undress for bed. There is the click as he undoes his belt. The sounds of fabric rubbing together.

Evan can see an arm stretch to grab a night shirt.

“You stole from me and injured my employee. Clearly, you deserve some punishment. Otherwise the gods wouldn’t have brought you into my hands. No. But don’t fear. I’m not unjust. The punishment will fit the crime. You stole from around twenty meals. And injured a guard. I’d say thirty lashes should suffice.”

Evan’s stomach drops. And heart races in his throat.

Maynard reappears. “You can stay there till the morning, I think. Until you realize that kneeling for me really isn’t that bad.” He moves a candle to his bedside table. And spends a couple of moments pulling the bed’s covers back, causally. As if there wasn’t someone else in the room. He then climbs into bed. “Thirty lashes. Unless you wake me up. If you make a sound I will make sure that they flay the skin from your back. Understood?”

Evan nods quickly, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Y-yes… Sir…”

Evan’s face has gone pale during this speech. As the realization begins to set in. He’d seen floggings before. Thieves who’d gotten caught, or someone who’d started a fight. He’d seen ten lashes bring a grown man to tears as his skin was abused by knotted leather. Evan’s whole body trembles.

“Good. Much better.” With that, the Lord blows out the candle and nestles down in his bed. Curling up to sleep off the feast.

Evan stands there, hanging silently. His elven blood allows him perfect sight of the dark, grey room and the glowing embers from the fire. Despite the darkness that covers the room. His calves hurt as cramp sets in.

He blinks and hangs there. His wrists hurt as his hand’s circulation begins to go and the cord bites into his flesh.

Big tears begin to well in Evan’s eyes as he just wants to curl up and go home. Fuck why couldn’t he have stayed with Meg? Life had sucked in places before but this… this was worse. Why couldn’t he have decided not to meet those fucking men? Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?

The prospect of a flogging makes his chest heave deeply in a sob. He wants to sniff. To shakily cry and scream openly but he doesn’t. He uses all his willpower to keep himself from sobbing. He will not dig himself a deeper hole. A deeper grave to lie in.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His knees hurt. Fuck. He tries to stretch out one leg to disperse the cramp, but that makes the other hurt more.

He wishes the morning would come sooner. And then wishes that this would last longer. Before his back gets torn open. Skin ripped from flesh. What kind of whip would be used? A bullwhip looks lethal, but what if this man preferred to use a sailor’s whip? Or maybe he would use one which is metal-tipped. Fuck fuck shitting fuck. Evan’s throat contracts slightly as his breathing increases.

Evan had seen the scars before. Of course he had. The only way to avoid a flogging if you were caught stealing or some other crime, was to pay. Gold will get you anywhere. The scars were ugly, and humiliating. They told the world what you have done and there was almost nothing that could undo that.

His legs tremble. He feels sick. Tears won’t stop falling. He silently inhales, allowing the shaky sobs to be as silent as possible. He hangs there, exhausted and terrified. Silently waiting and dreading the dawn.

-------

AN: Hopefully that was alright!! I decided to not put it through grammarly this time so hopefully the grammar and spelling isn't Wattpad levels of bad 🤣🤣

Again please do not mistake any of the characters beliefs for my own. I'm mostly just playing around in a DND setting. Lord Maynard would be a Paladin of Conquest and I'm playing with subverting paladins as a 'noble' class. If you want, feel free to guess Evan's class!

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whumpsday · 2 years

Text

Kane & Jim #25: Happy Birthday

Masterlist

content: vampire whumper, defiant whumpee, captivity

so understanding part 2 will be coming next, i realized this needed to be first bc the events will be referenced in the next part, lol. this is a bit of a short one, my shortest chapter yet i think. next one will be far longer.

takes place about half a year into jim’s captivity, a couple months after his first escape attempt.

Jim hated it here.

Kane had gotten much more violent since his doomed escape attempt. It seemed like the vampire was getting more and more frustrated with him, that every other word out of his mouth was wrong. Jim had always been told he had no brain-to-mouth filter, and now it was biting him in the ass.

He hadn’t so much as seen another person besides Kane in months, and it was starting to drive him mad. He just wanted someone to talk to, someone who didn’t hurt him, who he didn’t have to be afraid of. But here he was, all alone. He might be all alone for the rest of his life.

And his birthday was tomorrow.

Jim hadn’t really done much for his birthday in a good few years, to be honest. Ever since his parents died, money had been tight, and he’d rather spend anything extra on Liz than on a party for himself. She was just a kid, after all. But he’d usually go to the arcade with some friends and then have dinner with Liz, and it was nice. Just being with people he loved. Liz would make a terrible cake that he’d pretend to enjoy, and even though the cake was bad, his smile was genuine.

But not this year. This year he was going to have his neck bitten, his blood drained, and then spend the entire night with the vampire holding him captive, without so much as a “happy birthday”. No seeing his friends or family. Maybe he’d even get roughed up if he was unlucky enough.

Yeah, not worth a “happy birthday” anyway. He wasn’t happy very often these days.

“Stop fucking glaring at me, human. Know your place.” Kane snapped, looking up from his book with a scowl.

“Huh?” Jim had ostensibly been re-watching one of Kane’s VHS tapes, but had zoned out to wallow in his own misery. He’d been glaring at Kane from the other end of the couch without even realizing it.

“What’s your problem? You’ve been acting strange all day.” Kane continued.

Jim was lucky. Kane wasn’t in a bad mood today. Another day, he’d have been hit for sure. Jim had been in fights before, but vampires hit hard.

“If you’ve gotta know, it’s my birthday tomorrow.” Jim answered.

“Oh. March third.” Kane didn’t sound angry or condescending, for once. He sounded... sad. After a pause, he added, “How old are you turning?”

“Twenty.” He’d been looking forward to it, before. Finally out of his teens. Nothing much to celebrate now.

“What do humans do for birthdays?” Kane asked.

Jim shrugged. “Cake. Presents. Spend time with loved ones. You know, all the things I can’t do trapped in here.”

Ah. Spoke without thinking again. Here it comes. Jim tensed up in anticipation.

But Kane didn’t approach. “I get you presents all the time.” he argued. “All your things are from me.”

“That’s not presents.” Jim was feeling bold. Kane had been chill so far today. “That’s just, like, what I need to survive.”

Like taking care of a pet.

Jim quickly discarded the thought. No, he wasn’t going there. “And some other stuff I ask for. It’s not a present if I write it on a shopping list.”

“Most humans don’t get to make any requests, you know.” Kane retorted. “Not that they have the state of mind to do it in the first place.”

Jim rolled his eyes. Kane loved to bring up the fact that Jim was unhypnotized. The worst part was that most of the time, it didn’t even seem like Kane was doing it as a things-could-be-worse argument like he was now. Most of the time, Kane seemed to be talking to himself about it, like Jim wasn’t worth the consideration, jealousy seeping through his words. As if it wasn’t enough to take Jim’s entire life away, Kane wished to take his very mind from him.

“I get it. Forget I fucking said anything.” Jim grumbled, seething.

Kane stood up, lightning fast, hand clenched into a fist. Jim flinched.

“Go to your room. Now.” Kane commanded.

He obeyed, slinking off to relative safety.

Jim woke up depressed.

Happy birthday to me, he thought, laying in his bed.

Usually, he’d get up and make breakfast for himself. He always felt extra dizzy if Kane fed from him before he’d had a chance to eat and drink. But he just didn’t feel like it. He wished he could just have a lazy day in without worrying about the consequences of blood loss, especially on his birthday.

Kane unlocked the door after what Jim would estimate as a good half-hour. He pulled the covers over his head and groaned.

“Come on. Up.” Kane ordered.

Jim was thankful that he didn’t sound angry about it. That was two nights in a row, now. But he wished Kane didn’t say it like he was talking to a fucking dog.

“Fine.” He threw his blanket off and knelt, tilting his head just like he knew he was supposed to. At least Kane had finally been getting the hang of feeding. It still hurt terribly having the same wound re-opened night after night, the flesh around the area always angry and red and purple, but it was a lot better than how it’d been when Kane was still learning.

First neck bite of my twenties, Jim thought bitterly as Kane fed. He sucked in a sharp gasp as Kane pulled his fangs out. It was still hard to get used to the feeling of it, even after months here.

“I’m just gonna stay in here today.” Jim said after Kane licked the wound closed.

“Oh. Okay. Just come out for a minute, I have something for you.” Kane said, motioning for him to follow.

Jim followed, swaying a little on his feet, only to be stunned when he was greeted by an entire chocolate cake waiting on the table in the living room. It looked fancy, like the kind you would buy from a really nice bakery.

“That’s for me?” he asked.

Kane raised an eyebrow. “I’m certainly not going to eat any of it.” Duh. “I got some new movies for you as well. They’re in the cabinet with the other VHS tapes.”

“HOLY SHIT, SERIOUSLY?” Jim exclaimed, forgetting entirely about the cake and rushing over to check out the new material. It was all stuff he’d never heard of. More vampire movies. He’d been re-watching the same few tapes Kane owned for months, and was ecstatic to get something new.

He grabbed one immediately. “Can we watch it now?”

“Sure.” Kane sat in his usual spot on the left end of the couch.

Jim quickly ran back to the human quarters to grab a plate, knife, and fork, his woes momentarily forgotten. After cutting himself a slice of cake, he popped the tape in and sat on the opposite end of the couch to munch away. His hands were shaking from the low blood sugar, so it was good that he was eating cake for breakfast, he figured.

“Happy birthday.” Kane said.

“...Thanks.” Jim didn’t want to thank him. He wouldn’t have been grateful for new VHS tapes at all if he wasn’t held captive in this stupid fancy house. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “When’s your birthday?” he asked, mildly curious.

Kane’s mood change was instant, his vaguely amicable demeanor turning icy. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t talk about my fucking birthday.” He had that sharp warning tone he always used before he’d get violent.

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Jim conceded, tensing up. He didn’t even know what he’d said wrong.

“Whatever.” Kane mumbled.

Jim slowly relaxed as it became apparent Kane was over it. He wished he was home, spending his birthday with his friends and Liz.

But for the first time since Jim had been brought here, things were a little bit okay.

canon drabbles posted between #24 and #25:

Dog

Light & Laughter

Midday Snack

Greatest Wish (cw: death wish)

Five Minutes (cw: gore)

taglist:

@badluck990

@ceph-the-writing-spook

@cicatrix-energy

@crying-wings

@crystalquartzwhump

@cupcakes-and-pain

@cyberneticfire

@darlingwhump

@deluxewhump

@down-in-the-whumps

@elrysdoesstuff

@extemporary-whump

@extrabitterbrain

@harri-00

@inpainandsuffering

@interdimensional-chaos

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@lactose-intolerant-egg

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@littlespacecastle

@little-whumpee

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@myhusbandsasemni

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@neverthelass

@nicolepascaline

@nine-tailed-whump

@no-terms-and-conditions-apply

@octopus-reactivated

@oddsconvert

@onlybadendings

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@quietly-by-myself

@quirkykayleetam

@ramadiiiisme

@redwhump

@scp-1296

@secretwhumplair

@thecyrulik

@thegreatwhodini

@themarlo

@whump-cravings

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

@whump-me-all-night-long

@whumpthisway

@whumpilicious

@whumpshaped

@whumpwillow

@whumpworld

@whumpy-writings

@whumpyzombie

@wits-and-wrongs

@wolfeyedwitch

#kane and jim #whump #my writing #vampire whumper #captivity #defiant whumpee #whump writing

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toyybox · 7 months

Text

Spiderwebs #19: Tape X (Rorschach)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, spiders, hallucinations, bad treatment of hallucinations, briefly implied death of a child, implied child abuse

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

“Do you see that?” he asked. “Size of Texas, I swear.”

Heather only frowned in response. By his estimate, it had been two days since the last experiment, if you could call it that. Two days since the paralysis agent. They had gone through several more rounds of drugs, with varying results. He had eaten three breakfasts, two lunches, and two dinners. Or was it three dinners and two breakfasts? Did Heather ever give him brunch? Anyway, some time had passed. It appeared that, at some point in between those languid hours, a spider had appeared in Jackie’s room.

It was a normal spider, all things considered. Not aggressive at all, but it was larger than he would like. About the side of his hand. Black, furry, and completely still. Not quite as fat as a tarantula, but not any less disconcerting. He’d only seen spiders like that in Halloween stores.

Now, don’t take this information the wrong way. Jackie was no arachnophobe. He actually had a grudging respect for spiders—somebody had to deal with all those fruit flies and centipedes, after all. But Jackie was no entomologist, either. That respect only extended to a certain distance. The arachnid was on the wall across from the bed, and the basement was spacious, but that was still too close for him. He was starting to feel more and more claustrophobic by the day. The room might as well have been a closet. His new eight-legged roommate definitely wasn’t helping things.

“What do you mean?” Heather asked, when he didn’t supply an explanation.

“On the wall.” Jackie gestured his head to the spider’s direction. “Right there. The spider.”

For the first time, Heather did not look angry or smug, or even bored, but instead confused. “Spider? What spider?”

The spider did not move. It remained an intimidating, fuzzy black shape out of the corner of his eye. Was Heather trying to mock him or what? Weird way of going about it. “The spider on that wall. Do you think it’s a tarantula? Are there any tarantulas in America?”

Heather glanced at the wall. Then back at Jackie. Then back at the wall. Then back at Jackie. Then back at the wall. Then back at—

“What are you doing?” Jackie snapped. “Haven’t you ever seen a spider before?”

“Are you trying to be funny? That’s a blank wall.”

Alright. He’d play along if it made her happy. “Sure. Can you get it out of here, though? Buy some bug spray. It’s creeping me out.”

There was that self-righteous rage again, though it was less razor-edged than usual. “Don’t lie to me. You know what I’ll do if you lie.”

“Yeah, I know, of course I fucking know, but I’m not lying. It’s right there.” He punctuated this statement with a few curt gestures. “Can’t you see it?”

“No.”

Jackie hesitated.

“There is no spider,” Heather continued. “Are you sure you’re not just…” She didn’t finish this sentence, seemingly at a loss for the alternative explanation.

“Whatever.” It wasn’t a big deal. Spiders were harmless, especially to an immortal like him. “Forget I said anything. Why are you here? Another experiment?”

“Yes, but I don't know if you're… ready to do the experiment."

“Ready?” Jackie should have been delighted by this opinion, but Heather’s apparently genuine worry was making him nervous. He felt the strange urge to convince her otherwise. “Why wouldn’t I be ready?”

And now she was giving him an odd look. The way people look at little kids who don’t understand certain concepts, asking where Mister Whiskers went after getting run over by an 18-wheeler. Something like condescending pity. Jackie glowered right back at her.

“Okay,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Tell me what you see on that wall.”

“What do you see?”

“Just answer the question.”

“It’s—“ He made a few indignant gestures towards the wall. “It’s a spider! Big black thing? With the—it’s just a spider, okay? What do you want me to tell you?”

“Where, exactly, is this spider?” She approached the wall. “Over here? Am I hot or cold?”

“More to the left.”

She shifted. “Is this it?”

“Yeah.”

Her palm smacked the wall.

The spider skittered away—the only motion it had made since its debut—but it wasn’t quite right. Spiders didn’t move like that. It was more the motion of a fluttering cloth, light and liquid, practically weightless. It stopped a few inches from her hand.

Jackie blinked again, hard, as if that would somehow right this visual wrong.

“Do you believe me now?” Heather asked patiently. Patiently, as if Jackie were a live wire that needed calming down. “It’s not real.”

He didn’t know how to reply to that. It looked real, but didn’t all hallucinations? Was he hallucinating? Why? He felt phantom touches sometimes, in the gray area between sleep and starting awake, sometimes saw a shadow figure or two, but those brief imprints barely counted as hallucinating. Never an entire spider. Never as realistic as this. Never for so long—two days, if he counted correctly. Forty-eight hours.

Oh well. He’d gone insane. That was the only explanation. It would have happened sooner or later. Really, this place would drive anyone mad. Repeating that routine over and over, stuck in a single room. At least this new roommate would bring a change of pace to Jackie’s life—a spider here and there to shake up the monotony.

“I’m sure it’ll go away,” he finally managed. “Can I have breakfast now?”

“Yes.” Heather gave him a brief nod, although she had a distracted flicker to her voice. “Tell me if anything changes.”

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

He waited, glaring at the not-spider all the while. She returned with a plate of French toast and, of course, more pills. New ones. Two pale blue capsules, with a number printed on the side—39 250 mg, whatever that meant.

Jackie wasn’t even hungry. It was just something he said to get her to leave, or at least leave the topic of spiders alone. Asking for food became like chatting about the weather. Small talk, really, something to move the conversation along. What else could he discuss? The gorgeous basement view?

He ate anyway. He needed to eat whenever he got the chance, so the next time she decided to starve him he’d be a little more prepared. Besides, it was a bad idea to rock the boat.

“This is just something to calm you down." She placed the capsules in his palm. "A very mild sedative. I’m not lying this time.”

“Uh-huh.” He curled his palm closed. “And I can trust you because…?”

Heather stood and waited.

Okay, fine. It didn’t matter. Trust was a non-issue. Trust was irrelevant. His compliance was expected no matter what. “I am calm, though. Why do I need this?”

She crossed her arms now, with that impossibly condescending air. She was wearing a neat white blouse today, and her hair was tied up with a thick elastic. Jackie wondered why she bothered to look put-together whenever she visited him. Her sense of style was not at the top of his concerns. Still, he could respect the effort. It made this whole situation a little less abrasive.

He put the pills in his mouth, drank some water, then swallowed.

This was all she needed to see. “I’ll come back soon, alright? Tell me if—“

“I’ll let you know if the spider starts doing backflips, yeah.”

“Okay, then. Bye.”

He waved her off. The door closed. And now, he had to wait.

In one swift motion, he collapsed back into bed. What would this new pill do? Something to calm you down was a vague description at best. With his luck, it would be one of the worst experiences of his life. At least a solid seven on the scale.

What if he threw the pills up? Stuck two fingers down his throat and emptied his stomach into the toilet? He was sure that would work—wasn’t that how you got rid of poison? Someone from his last foster home said so. That was so long ago, though, and he learned to never believe anything shared in a conspiratorial whisper since then. At any rate, Heather would notice. Somehow, some way. She would know.

Maybe she really was being honest. Calm you down. That sounded nice. Maybe it was an anesthetic again. That was nothing to get upset over. He would prefer the painless sleep of medication if she cut out another liver, or a lung, or another one of his arms.

Half an hour passed, by his estimate. The first thing he noticed was the hazy, dim fog that started to seep in. He thought it might just be fatigue—when had he last slept?—but, no, it was not as aching as fatigue should be. Not a bone-deep ache, but a steady and opaque weight over his mind. Seeping, slowing him down the same way mud stops the wiry twitching of hares. Mud, yes—all felt muddy. As if seen through murky waters, rather than the usual roiling, boiling pot. Jackie hadn’t noticed how wound up he’d gotten until the feeling was drowned out.

He was definitely calm. It was a pleasant sensation, he had to admit. All the worries of the material world faded to a faint blur. The metal jaw of fear rusted away at the hinge. He could lay in bed all day and not mind it one bit.

These ambitious plans were interrupted by Heather’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hello,” she said.

He lifted his head and blinked up at her. “Hey.”

“It’s working. Good.” Papers shuffled in her hands, with scrawled notes he could not read, some blotted with wide swaths of black and blue. “Get up. We’re going to do some psychiatry.”

“Psychiatry?” The drugs did not prevent him from giving Heather a short, incredulous laugh, though that appeared to upset her. “Aren’t you a chemist?”

“Biochemist,” she corrected him curtly. “I studied under a psychiatrist once, you know. Besides, how hard can it be? It’s just asking questions.”

“Questions.” He sat up on the bed. The world itself lost some of its sharp focus. All things blurred around the edges. There was no weight or depth to be found.

“Yes. A few questions, that’s all.”

She pushed the chair forwards, in front of the bed. There was that tape recorder, as always. When had she brought it out? It lay on top of his nightstand. The spools wound themselves in infinite circles through the small plastic window, round and round, again and again and again. That perfect voyeur. A watcher’s wet dream. He didn’t have the presence of mind to be afraid.

“Look here, Jackie.” Her voice pulled him out of that trance like a whistle. “What do you see?”

He raised his head and saw that she was holding up a paper. A shape was splattered across the front. It was an inkblot—Rocher inkblot, or something that started with R, maybe Rochester? It was inked in black, symmetrical, a wide design branching out like the splash of a puddle.

“That's easy," he said. "I see an inkblot.”

“Take this seriously, please. I’m trying to help you. I won’t know why you’re hallucinating unless—“

“I get it.” He leaned forward a bit and examined the shape. “It looks a bit like a wolf’s head, doesn’t it?”

“Really? I thought it was a butterfly.”

“Butterfly?” He tilted his head at the picture. “What kind of butterfly is that?”

“No, see here?” She gestured to the tip of the drawing. “That’s the wing, and that over there—“ She gestured to the middle. “That’s the body, with the antennae on top. What kind of wolf has antennae?”

“Butterflies don’t have wings like that. Those are ears.”

“Wolves have pointy ears, though.”

“Maybe the wolf is angry. The ears would be flat.”

“Well—maybe—“ She crumpled the paper up. “You know what? No more ink blots. Don’t know what’s the point of these damned things anyway. Bunch of pseudoscience, if you ask me.”

Normally, he’d point out the flaws in that statement, but he didn’t feel quite up to it today. He was perfectly content to just let her speak while he listened, understanding none of it.

“Now,” Heather continued, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Answer honestly. Are you ready?”

He nodded.

“Let’s get started, then.” She cleared her throat. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Anything about myself?”

“Whatever comes to mind, yes.”

“Okay. My name is Jackie Rockwell. You kidnapped me. I live here now. I was born in April. I have black hair. I think that’s about it.”

She nodded. “That sounds right. Are you afraid of spiders?”

“No.”

“Have you ever hallucinated before?”

“Not… really.”

“Yes or no, Jackie. I don’t have time to decode your answers.”

“No.”

“Does anybody in your family have a history of schizophrenia?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

Impatience flickered across her expression. “What do you mean by that?”

“I wouldn’t know because I never asked.”

“Of course.” She sighed. “I don’t think you’re schizophrenic, anyway. But I’ll keep it in mind. How was your home? Your childhood?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was your home stable? Did you feel safe? Loved?”

He recognized that she was simply covering the surface-level questions—did mommy and daddy love you, did you ever get hit on the head as a baby, et cetera—and it wasn’t meant to be a personal attack, but he still felt a sting of indignation. He leaned back to mask this, hoping for his answer to come off as casual. “Oh, I don’t know. It was fine. Normal.”

“Normal? How would you describe normal?”

“Uh…” It was harder to speak than usual. The drugs were cutting off the connection cables in his thoughts, washing everything out in low static.

“Did… did something happen when you were younger?” Heather leaned forward, narrowing the gap he’d made. There was a glimmer in her eyes usually only seen in curious children and stalking tigers. A sort of hunger. The thrill of the chase.

Jackie’s face fell into a slight frown. “Why would you even need to know that?”

“Listen to me.” She placed her hand on his. “You’re having a psychotic episode. If you don’t get help now, it’s going to get worse. I need to know why it’s happening, or I can’t help you. So, please, be honest. This is strictly for professional purposes. I won’t use it against you.”

He withdrew his hand. “Why do you want to help me?”

“I would rather not have a psychotic test subject. That would completely screw up my findings.”

This was a believable answer, if not a very nice one. He felt upset, but not as much as he should have been—more the upset of spilling a bit of water on the floor, or biting your tongue. Inconsequential upsets. Even though he was sure this answer would have consequences, however small. This moment would shift the delicate balance between them, even if the change was barely noticeable, even if Heather didn’t realize it. If only he had a clear mind. How was Jackie meant to be clever when he could barely remember his own name?

“This is one of those doctor things, eh, doc?” he said. “With the sofa and the clipboard. They’ve always got that chart that they point to. And then you ask me how I feel, or something.”

“I know you’re trying to change the subject, Jackie. But if the sedative works, this should be easy for you.” She tried for a smile that was probably meant to be comforting. “Answer me honestly.”

But to answer honestly was to jump from the frying pan into a slightly hotter frying pan—that is to say, it would not make him any happier. Even sedated, Jackie knew that. So, he said, “Nothing happened. It was normal.”

That made her slow down a bit. She leaned back in the chair, the glimmer in her eyes dented but not dead. She didn’t know what she was asking for. Curiosity killed the cat, right? She was too bold for her own good, or too naive, because Jackie was sure she would regret ever asking if he told her the truth. Or maybe that freak would relish every last gory detail. Either way, this was already more than he wanted her to know. Was he in a hostage situation or a psych eval? Why couldn't she just leave him alone?

Even if he wanted to talk about it, Jackie couldn't remember much. The unpleasant sensations, a few faint flashes, yes, and whatever images haunted his dreams—but he could never pinpoint the exact location or time or person involved. When the authorities took him in for questioning, they assumed his amnesia for shyness. Maybe shyness played a part, but he would have been as useful as roadkill even without the shame or fear. And he'd been so young—only twelve, if he recalled correctly. Only a kid. A stupid, weak child.

In the end, the cops got their evidence, and those were all the answers they needed. A few photographs, the weapon, and whatever the witnesses told them. What was left of his sister. The blood on the wall. The blood on the sheets. But Heather had none of that, and he intended to keep it that way. God knew she already had too much of him for keeps. Even if Jackie lost every other shred of privacy and dignity, she could pry those memories from his cold, dead lips.

His captor asked nothing else of this subject. Her expression was focused, but not on him. Those gears turned again behind her eyes, like a shadow puppet show.

She knew enough. She knew too much. Did this fall under body, mind, or soul? All three, maybe. After all, one could argue that memory lived mainly in the body, in the repetition of muscles and the psychosomatic.

"Is the spider still there?" Heather asked at last. Her voice was distant. Distracted.

"No."

"That’s it, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

From the corner of his eye, the black shape moved. The spider's legs stuttered, as if caught by the motion of a laugh. A stilted, mocking shudder only Jackie could see.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️🕷️ !!!

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

#whump #whump writing #my writing #lab whump #immortal whumpee #Spiderwebs toyybox #we've got the spiders now all we need is the webs #tarantulas actually do exist in North America by the way #apparently even in Washington state

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auroragehenna · 8 months

Text

AI-less Whumptober

Day 12 Self harm, Sacrifice, Character death

TW/CW: Fights, punches, mockery, intimate whumper, chin tilt, low paintolerance whumpee, scared whumpee, implied kidnapping Word count: 872

The young hero approached him carefully. Almost in awe. He disliked it. It’s just his power. Aside from that he was just like them. Just now he was on his way to eat the shitty food from the agency’s cafeteria.

“Superhero! There’s a message from ‘control’ for you!”

“From Control?”, he asked. Looks like there would be no lunch today.

“Yeah. Sounded pretty urgent.”, hero panted out.

Okay so it wasn’t an internal conflict. Definitely no lunch. “Got it. Thanks Kai.”

The boy looked confused, as if he was genuinely surprised he knew his name.

Superhero stood there for a few more awkward moments and then turned around and walked towards control. By now he knew the labyrinth-like halls of the agency by heart. Five minutes later he knocked on the slick metal door.

The two wings of the door pulled back into the walls and Superhero entered. “What is it this time? Amenesias?”

“No. Not Amenesias, we haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Him.”, Superhero corrected.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway somebody else. A new villain. And as long as we don’t know more…-”

“-It’s better if I go check it out, just to be safe.”, Superhero finished their sentence.

“Just so nobody gets hurt.” They smiled.

“Sure.”, Superhero said. Ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. “Let me just get my stuff.”

Half an hour later Superhero was in full gear and had nearly caught up to Villain. They were committing some low-level crimes in the inner city but Superhero was not going to underestimate them because of it. There! They turned around a corner and saw them. A hooded figure was casually walking down the street and cutting things in half. Cars, Benches, hydrants. Superhero couldn’t see how they were doing that just yet but it didn’t matter. They’d be fine. So they sneaked up closer. Only go get hit in the side by a wave of asphalt. He flew into the next building and to the ground. Superhero took a run-up with his legs and pushed himself up with his arms. “Terra.”, what a pleasant surprise.”, they called out.

A malicious laugh was all they heard in response.

"Come out here so I can finish this and work on the actual threat.”, he provoked matter-of-factly.

Next a streetlamp hit him from behind. He got thrown forward onto all fours and used the momentum to roll forward into a handstand and push himself up again. Just in time to see Terra lunge at him. He blocked his stone punch with his left arm and buried his right hand in the villain’s hair. Then he let himself fall and pulled Villain down with him. They dropped to the ground and Superhero straddled Villain and pulled out the gas spewer. A few seconds after they hit the trigger Terra’s body fell limb. Superhero quickly locked their wrists in the power supressing cuffs and then spun around to look for the hooded figure. They were leaning against a sliced car, perfectly calm, watching them.

Superhero stood up and turned around to them. “So what’s your deal, hood-guy?”

“I could ask you the same question. You have some kind of shield?”, hooded asks.

“Just lucky, I guess.”, Superhero replies. And just a moment after his stomach grumbles loudly. He cursed it in his mind.

Hooded cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, definitely, lucky…Tell me do they always use you as cannon-fodder?”

“I’m literally the best choice. To help out if need be and scoop out newcomers. Like you. And since you’re wasting time trying to get into my head you apparently don’t have more to offer than your little slicing.”, Superhero says dryly.

“Hmm, you’re not completely wrong, that is indeed what I’m best at. But I am not limited to only that.”

“Alright. Enough of this.”, Superhero cut in harshly and lunged at the hooded figure.

The figure hurriedly makes a swift flick motion and a scream rips through the air.

Superhero’s scream…

He drops to his knees, hand reaching up to his torse and coming back bloodied. He stares at it, eyes wide in terror. Breath picking up exponentially. Then suddenly two feet enter his vision and a hand sneaks under his chin and tilts it up. Until his wide eyes meet the sinister sparkling eyes of the hooded figure.

“Well, well, well. Looks like you finally found your match little one.”

Tears were welling up in Superhero’s eyes. “It hurts.”

“Aw you really have no idea of pain do you.”, the hooded figure cooed. Superhero whimpered and the sound was heaven to his ears. “Gooosh you’re perfect! Technically I only wanted to scoop out the competition and cause a little trouble. But I think I’m going to change my plans. And you’re coming with me little one. You can call me Supervillain.”

“N-No I-I don’t wanna.”, Superhero whimpered.

Hood-guy lifted his arm and lightly moved his fingers. “Do you want another taste?”

Superhero frantically shook their head.

“Now then. Come on.”

“They’ll-ugh-they’ll search for me!”, Superhero groaned out.

Supervillain only laughed. “I thought you were cleverer than that little one. You remember Amenesias?”

Superhero paled.

“There you go, finally clicked. Now get up and come here before I make you!”

This idea came to me randomly and it blew up on discord. So I wrote it

Taglist: @yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud, @bisexuawolfsalt, ( @eatyourdamnpears, @diamond-flavored-n whump, @sodacreampuff, @suspicious-whumping-egg, ), @ailesswhumptober

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quietly-by-myself · 1 year

Text

An Earthly Cosmological Redshift - Chapter 7 - Fragile Beauty

Masterlist

Thank you to @darkthingshappen for beta reading and helping me work this!

CW: vampire caretaker, human whumpee, cancer, terminal illness, broken bones, suicidal ideation, emeto, human being turned into a vampire, discussion of death and killing, discussion of humanity

===

Being a mafioso, Fearon had seen countless horrors, countless atrocities. He really thought he should’ve been desensitized to suffering, to death. However, as he looked at the skeleton on his bed, the love of his life, withered away into a shell of lumps and skin, he found it one of the most disturbing sights he’d ever seen.

Jules was dying. There wasn’t any other way to say it. Jules’ days were numbered and there wasn’t much time left.

Fearon wanted to relieve his love’s pain. As a vampire, his body would heal from the cancer over time. He knew Jules was scared, but after over two hundred years of life as a vampire, Fearon had trouble understanding Jules’ fear.

The insistence of eating again was, of course, an excuse. Yet, Fearon couldn't figure out what in the world his love was hiding with that excuse. Fearon could smell the death on Jules. He knew that Jules had maybe a week or two at the most.

When Jules awoke and Fearon made an attempt to feed him, only for Jules to throw half of it up, Fearon finally thought to ask the question.

“I know eating is an excuse, Jules.”

Jules froze. Anxiety filled his eyes full of pain. “What do you mean?” Jules’ voice was shaky, afraid. Fearon knew that the fear was from the cancer in his brain - the confusion and delirium that always accompanied the end of a human.

“There’s another reason you don’t want me to turn you.”

For a moment, Fearon considered whether or not he was doing the right thing by pushing Jules for an answer. He was as afraid as Jules was - he didn’t want his love to die before he could do anything.

Jules laughed a little. “Are you really so oblivious, Fearon?”

Fearon sat up a little straighter, rubbing his hands a little. “I guess that I am.”

“I’m scared of losing my humanity.” Jules smiled shakily, tears filling his eyes. “It feels like my humanity is all that I’ve ever had. You reminded me I was human because you fed from me. Our sex was good and connected me to my own humanity, even if you were a vampire. If I’m not human, then what am I?”

Jules broke down into sobs, his smile fading. “I’m too young to die.”

Fearon stayed quiet, trying to feel out if Jules was going to say anything else. When it was clear that it wasn’t a rhetorical question, that Jules genuinely wanted an answer, Fearon decided to speak.

“I thought the same thing, when Galileo turned me. I wasn’t - it wasn’t something that happened willingly. I was younger than you, Jules. I was twenty-four.” Fearon swallowed. “I wasn’t a good kid, either. The whole reason that Galileo was able to turn me - well, it isn’t much different than yours. My parents kicked me out when they found out that I was a homosexual - I was fifteen.”

Jules’ face rippled with surprise. “I thought you would’ve been killed.”

“I don’t know why I wasn’t. I should’ve been, by all means. Nobody ever knew except them and a boy I was dating at the time. But, it didn’t take me long to die. Nine years.” Fearon looked away from Jules, unable to meet his gaze. “When Galileo turned me, well, I abandoned my humanity. I became ruthless. I did a lot of things that I don’t regret. I’ve hurt a lot of people - humans and vampires. I was a monster.”

Fearon shook his head. “The answer to your question I guess, well, is that undead life is what you make it, just like human life. Humans can be ruthless and awful just like vampires. If you aren’t human, you’re still Jules. You don’t have to abandon yourself just because you’ve become undead. There will be a lot to learn and you might not like all the changes, but you’ll be without pain. I think… you’ll be happier.”

Jules seemed to consider what Fearon said for a while. He kept quiet, even as Fearon turned to look at him. Fearon began to worry that he’d scared Jules, that he’d convinced Jules to die a human. After all, it wouldn’t take much.

“I’m sorry if I said too much.”

Jules shook his head. “Thank you, Fearon. I’ll think about it.”

—

The rest of the night passed peacefully, or as peacefully as it could. However, the next night, early enough that the sun poked out, Fearon awoke to a scream.

Jules had rolled over onto his broken arm. However, his head was also tilted to the side in an awkward position.

“My neck! My neck!”

Fearon immediately sat up and ran around the side of the bed to meet at Jules’ side. He gently moved Jules onto his bed, which earned another scream.

“I heard it snap! I think I broke my neck.”

Jules broke down into incoherent sobs.

Panic filled Fearon’s chest. He felt his body go cold, then hot, then cold again. “Can you feel your body?”

“Yes! It hurts, Fearon. It hurts.”

Fearon tried to calm his nerves. He needed to be there for Jules. Jules needed him.

Fearon went to Jules' neck and put a gentle hand on it. Jules screamed in pain again. The flesh was warm and lumpy under his touch.

“Is this cancer going to take me one bone at a time? I fucking hate cancer. I want to die.”

Fearon went cold, as though he were frozen in time. What was he supposed to say to someone who just broke his neck? There was nothing more he could do other than kill Jules - whether to turn him or to put him out of his misery.

Human life was so fragile - their minds so frail and afraid. Fearon couldn’t exactly blame them, either. Nothing hunted vampires like vampires hunted humans.

“I know.” Fearon looked at Jules. “I can’t take away your pain any other way than killing you. Either I kill you to turn you or I kill you so you don’t have to suffer.”

The thought of killing Jules made Fearon sick. The thought of never seeing him again - the thought of being the cause of his demise. He didn’t want to, but he didn’t want to see Jules suffer through the end of his life when there was nothing that could save him.

Jules’ eyes went hollow, empty. “I- you would do that?”

Fearon felt tears well in his eyes. “I would. I love you, Jules. I love you more than life itself. If you want to die and not become a vampire, I can make it painless. But I’d miss you for the rest of my days.”

Jules went quiet, unable to even look at Fearon.

“I’ll do it,” Jules whispered.

“Do what?” Fearon asked, measured, trying to seem neutral but failing entirely.

“I’ll become a vampire.” Jules looked like he hardly believed his own words. “Just make it quick.”

“It’s going to hurt, because of your neck.”

“I know.” Jules seemed less and less sure with each word.

Fearon was starting to get nervous, starting to believe that Jules would really die without anything afterwards. “Are you sure?”

“Do it before I change my mind and die like this!” Jules begged.

Fearon scanned his face, looking for any insincerity. He found none.

Fearon nodded and approached Jules. With all the care he could manage, he tilted Jules’ neck. Jules cried out in pain, but that was just the beginning of it. Fearon sunk his fangs into Jules’ neck, the venom from his fangs spilling into Jules’ blood soon after. Jules broke down into sobs, but Fearon had to ignore them.

He drank and drank and drank. He focused on putting as much venom as he could into Jules.

Eventually, the crying stopped. Jules went limp on the bed. Fearon immediately panicked. Had he done something wrong? Had he really killed Jules? How long would it be until Jules awoke, if he’d done it correctly?

The worry drove him to things he would never normally do. He stroked Jules’ hair, waiting for his love to wake up. If he woke up. Would he wake up?

Tears formed in his eyes again. What if he really had killed Jules? He took Jules’ hand in his own, rubbed circles into Jules’ cold palm. A sob formed in his chest.

Please wake up.

The answer came when Jules moved to stroke Jules’ face.

Those eyes of Jules’ opened, revealing a deep crimson color.

Jules looked hollow, confused. Suddenly, Fearon remembered that newly turned vampires needed blood quickly. He ran to his fridge and grabbed out a packet of blood - the sustenance he’d been living off of while Jules was ill - and broke it, placing it near Jules’ mouth. Jules drank with the hunger of someone who hadn’t eaten in days.

Fearon knew it would be days before Jules could speak, months before he would heal from the cancer. Until then, he would feed Jules. He would take care of Jules. He would make sure that Jules stayed alive.

“I’ll call you Jules. Jules Fallows.”

Something in Jules’ eyes flashed, but Jules gave few signs of life other than his blinking eyes.

It’s going to be okay. He’s alive.

He’s alive.

Well, Jules wasn’t quite alive, but at least it wasn’t the cancer that had killed him.

Fearon had killed him. In doing that, he’d also saved Jules.

Fearon had done the right thing. He’d saved Jules.

Right?

===

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad @whumpsday @pigeonwhumps @oddsconvert @sparrowsage @darkthingshappen

#whump #an earthly cosmological redshift #whump writing #whump fic #whumpblr #vampire caretaker #human whumpee #cancer #terminal illness #broken bones #suicidal ideation #emeto #human being turned into a vampire #discussion of death and killing #discussion of humanity #whump community

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whumpitlikeyoumeanit · 8 days

Text

June of Doom 4

@juneofdoom Day 4: "Does that hurt?" | Fracture

(( abusive parent / broken bone / blood magic mention ))

fandom: Harry Potter whumpee: Lucius Malfoy (age 16) whumper: Abraxas caretaker: Narcissa (age 15) words: 1000

Lucius sent owls to properly ask for both of the Black sisters to meet him on Diagon Alley, under the guise of having Andromeda join him to perform their Prefect duties and help some of the younger students prepare for the next year. To that end, he also invited the next year's incoming Prefects, and the previous year's new students that didn't come from old or well-off families, so that they could be brought up to their classmates' level. He wanted Slytherin to be the best it could be, of course.

And of course, all of that was to disguise his meeting with Narcissa.

He arrived at the Leaky Cauldron first and paid for butterbeers for the dozen students he had coming, and for a while as they filtered in the Slytherin group dominated the pub. He was pleased that Severus made it; he had thought he might have difficulty…

Narcissa was out of place; she was watchful and dour, genuinely didn't like being around people and made no effort to engage, and had no interest in his social attentions like most of the younger ones. It looked very much like she was tagging along with her sister, or had even been forced to attend.

Lucius made sure to pay her roughly the same attention as he did the other younger students, and not draw attention to her in the group setting. After a bit, he had them head out to the Alley and let Andromeda and the younger Prefects take the lead as they made their way to the bookstore.

Lucius mingled there long enough to be seen, paying for a book of curses he thought Severus would enjoy and the rest of his school books while he was at it, then caught Narcissa's eye and slipped out to the robe shop next door. She joined him in a moment, and they disappeared into the racks.

As soon as she was close enough, he reached out and twined his fingers through hers. She relaxed against him, silently holding his hand and her forehead against his temple. She felt good against his side, and for the first time in a while he was able to relax as well. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in her scent.

He would have liked to just stay there. He would have liked to have that freedom. They could only steal a few minutes, though, before they were missed.

He opened his eyes in a moment and squeezed her hand. "I need you," he murmured against her temple.

She glanced at his face. "What is it?" Her voice was equally soft.

"My arm."

She pulled back a half step and looked at his right arm as she held it, but swiftly understood and touched his other, perhaps noticing that he hadn't been using it. He bit back his breath for a split second as her touch drove pain up to his shoulder.

She glanced at his face again; that didn't escape her notice. She didn't take her hand back, though, feeling his arm with exploratory fingers. Under his sleeve, his upper arm was obviously swollen and he knew there was no hiding that from her inspection. He didn't try to stop her. He loved that she would do that, not shy from the pain she caused to do what she must. Not treat him as something weak.

"This is broken," she said quietly, her voice very hard.

"I thought so."

She held his hand tightly and reached up to hold his cheek with the other. "You sent those owls three days ago," she said, voice fierce and almost accusatory. "You've been hiding this for three days?"

He didn't tell her how long he'd delayed in arranging this meeting before that. "Can you fix it?"

She studied his face, gripping his hand painfully tightly, and nodded after a long moment. She perhaps should have let him go and stepped back to a professional distance, but instead she released his hand only long enough to slip her wand from her sleeve, then held his hand and stood close against his side as she focused on murmuring the healing spell over his other arm.

It worked swiftly. His breath was shaky for a moment as the pain suddenly disappeared, a startling feeling it took a moment to adjust to.

She felt her way down his arm, squeezing where the break had been. "Does that hurt?"

"No, you've taken care of it." He wrapped that arm lightly around her. He was lucky to have her. This was magic years more advanced than she should be expected to know, that most people never learned. She didn't have the natural temperament for healing magic, but she had practised to enable her blood magic hobby until she was skilled enough to rival a professional healer. He would have liked to be able to return the favour, but, for all his ability with magic, she had been unable to help him learn any but the most elementary healing. Most likely due to a lifetime of practising curses, he imagined.

She leaned against him, with only just enough pressure to show she was actually allowing him to support her. "What happened?" she murmured.

"It doesn't matter." She knew it was his father. More than that… the details really weren't important. Even to his father. It was just an excuse.

"It's getting worse."

"No, it's not," he assured her. "It just wasn't healed."

"That isn't better."

"It isn't worse."

Her wand hand came up to hold the blood-filled pendant on her chest. "Don't let it go too far."

He didn't answer that, and she leaned against him. She would never say that she needed him, but it was clear she didn't want to let him go. He selfishly didn't mind.

But it was difficult to think of her locked up silently in her grey house with nothing but that to hold onto. "We'll be back to school in a few weeks. Hold out." He rubbed his thumb over her pendant, and she closed her hand around his to hold it together.

They stayed that way until he heard someone else enter the shop. "We'll be missed." He reluctantly let go of her hand. "Give it a moment before you follow."

She nodded without a word, letting him go after an extended moment, and he slipped away back to the book shop.

#teen whumpee #parental whumper #broken bone whump #blood magic #june of doom 2024 #june of doom #lucius whumpee #narcissa caretaker #lucius malfoy whump #narcissa malfoy #lucius malfoy #not a prompt whumpitlikeyoumeanit #whumpitlikeyoumeanit wrote it #whump writing #harry potter fanfiction #lucius x narcissa

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cryptidwritings · 2 years

Text

Comfortember #7 : comfort item

Masterlist

content: implied past experimentation and torture, mutation, inhuman whumpee, scientist caretaker, death mention, needle mention.

...

"The thing in pod eleven won't calm down. Whenever any of us walk past, it starts attacking the glass."

Caretaker looked at the guard, "eleven?"

"Yes."

He turned back to his computer and did a quick search through the outdated database. His teammate assured him that the encryption would be cracked in a few hours, but until then the information he could glean without a secure login was sparse.

All he could see was a brief description. height: 4ft 3in. Weight: a meager 50 pounds. Temperament: Hostile.

"Take me to it," he insisted.

The guard escorted him down two floors where the elevator descended from the open air to surrounded by solid rock on either side. When the elevator opened, he felt like he had stepped onto a new planet.

A series of blue and green lights flickered throughout the space, pointing at pod-like structures with glass that bubbled outward. Only a few were still lit, though when they had arrived, every pod was packed with... things.

Caretaker had helped lead the takeover of this facility. It was supposed to have been decommissioned over two decades ago, but was kept running by dirty money and a sick man's thirst for cruelty beyond anything Caretaker had ever seen. It was this cruelty that led Medic to make the tough decision to put most of the specimens out of their misery.

The report stated that only three were viable. Of the few, two had functional systems but with little to no response besides the occasional garbled sound.

As Caretaker approached pod eleven, he could see the naked frame huddled in the center of the floor, combing its fingers through its thick mop of tangled hair that fell well past its shoulders. It looked up as it heard his footstep along the concrete.

Caretaker was met with hatred as it barred its teeth and hissed, then lunged forward, smacking into the glass with a horrible thump.

The guard reared back in surprise, but Caretaker stood firm then crouched down to look the thing in the eye. If it weren't for its slightly elongated pupil and light purple cornea, the thing could have easily been mistaken as human. Maybe at one point it was.

It continued to bang on the glass, going so far as to slam its own head against it hard enough to draw blood. Then it began to pace, staring at Caretaker with the eye of malice and murderous intent with blood dripping down its forehead.

Suddenly Caretaker's walkie sounded off. The hack was successful, and he was needed.

He stood, and nodded to the specimen.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said, noticing how that statement made the thing growl again, "we can sit and chat. Or just sit."

He turned to walk away, and heard the thump of its body hitting the glass again. That was alright. It was good, because this specimen had Fight, and if it had Fight, that meant it wanted to live.

"Get it some new clothes."

"Yes, sir."

He went back and the new clothes were in tatters, and it was pacing. Caretaker took a seat on the ground, and the specimen stopped pacing, then sat as well, looking into the scientists eye; mocking him.

He sat across from it, and it sat across from him. He studied it, and it glared at him, and after an hour the scientist would get up and tell the thing it would be back again the next day.

So on it continued for another week, then two. The pods were dismantled around it; it's less violent pod-mates moved to another wing for rehabilitation.

This change had little emotional effect on it. Though as more days passed, he would find it sitting on the ground versus hunched over itself.

Then one day, Caretaker walked in to the almost barren room to find the specimen waiting for him, wearing the new clothes, and it looked up at Caretaker with its first semblance of an awkward, but genuine, expectant smile.

On that day, Caretaker wanted to give it something. Something it could use, but not break or use to hurt itself.

He sat on the ground and smiled a bit before reaching into his jacket. The thing saw and watched with careful apprehension, even leaning back and away, as if waiting for something to come through the glass and attack it.

Caretaker went slow, keeping one hand up as he finished revealing what was in his pocket - a whistle. He lifted it to his lips, watching the specimen carefully.

He blew, and the sound of an owl's hoot came out of the end, and the specimens eyebrows stitched together, looking at the object with fascination.

Caretaker did it again, and then offered it through the food hatch.

It stayed there for a moment, and the specimen came closer and timidly reached for the object. It touched the plastic and reared back, hiding behind its own arm for a moment before peeking back out and eyeing the scientist.

It then reached out and grabbed the object, twisting it in its hands as it studied it carefully. Eventually it brought it to its lips, and gave a small blow. The noise hooted in its ears, and something came alive within it.

"It's a bird caller," Caretaker explained, "outside, it can attract real owls if you're patient enough. Maybe one day you can try it."

Specimen looked up at that. It's eyes darkened with skepticism.

Outside. Outside was for humans. Outside was for white coats and needles and fire and excrutiating pain. Inside its pod, it was safer. Not safe - it was never safe - but white coats don't go inside the pod.

It shook its head, but held on to the object, not knowing why, but knowing it didn't want to let it go.

#comfortember 2022 #comfortember #oc vermin #comfort whump #lab whump #scientist caretaker #inhuman whumpee #human caretaker #implied past torture #implied past experimentation #needles mention #feral whumpee

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