#Whumptober2020 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whumptober · 4 years ago

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Whumptober 2020 - Updated

Welcome to Whumptober 2020! We’re doing things a little differently this year so please make sure to read the Event Info carefully. We are also excited to announce the addition of an AO3 Collection, which can be found here.

We hope you’re as excited as us to watch the Whump Community come together once again for a month of bone-crunching creativity and collaboration!

(All 31 Themes + Prompts, Event Information, and FAQs are posted below the cut!)

No 1. LET'S HANG OUT SOMETIME Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY "Pick Who Dies" | Collars | Kidnapped

No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint

No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING? On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue

No 6. PLEASE.... "Get it Out" | No More | "Stop, please"

No 7. I'VE GOT YOU Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

No 8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO? "Don't Say Goodbye" | Abandoned | Isolation

No 9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD "Take Me Instead" | "Run!” | Ritual Sacrifice

No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

No 11. PSYCH 101 Defiance | Struggling | Crying

No 12. I THINK I'VE BROKEN SOMETHING Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? Branding | Heat Exhaustion | Fire

No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWN Possession | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong

No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

No 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING Blackmail | Dirty Secret | Wrongfully Accused

No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO Panic Attacks | Phobias | Paranoia

No 19. BROKEN HEARTS Grief | Mourning Loved One | Survivor's Guilt

No 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE Lost | Field Medicine | Medieval

No 21. I DON'T FEEL SO WELL Chronic Pain | Hypothermia | Infection

No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU? Poisoned | Drugged | Withdrawal

No 23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE? Exhaustion | Narcolepsy | Sleep Deprivation

No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation

No 25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears

No 26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD... Migraine | Concussion | Blindness

No 27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD? Earthquake | Extreme Weather | Power Outage

No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS. Accidents | Hunting Season | Mugged

No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR Intubation | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

No 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE Experiment | Whipped | Left for Dead

Alternate Prompt List

Alt 1. Punctured

Alt 2. Falling

Alt 3. Comfort

Alt 4. Stitches

Alt 5. Stoic Whumpees

Alt 6. Altered States

Alt 7. Found Family

Alt 8. Adverse Reactions

Alt 9. Memory Loss

Alt 10. Nightmares

Alt 11. Presumed Dead

Alt. 12. Water

Alt. 13 Accidents

Alt. 14 Shot

Alt. 15 Carry/Support

Event Info

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 Official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. They are meant to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don't have to include the exact wording into your work). Additionally, there are 3 prompts for each theme. These are optional suggestions and can be used in conjunction with the theme, or as options/alternatives. We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, and photo/video/audio edits. Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag the with:

#whumptober2020 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(theme number)

#bruised, #stabbed, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#fandom or #OC

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Keep in mind not to add “tw” in front but only use the word/trigger itself, because tumblr sucks)

#nsfw, #nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober2020 blog. They must be tagged in the order above.

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month.

Questions not addressed below can be directed to this blog as well.

Thanks for reading, and happy whumping!

Frequently Asked Questions

Q. What kind of content can I make? Can it be NSFW?

This is a MIXED MEDIA event! You can write fic, post meta, doodle or paint, create a gif set or photo edit, link a song, or get crafty with video - anything goes. As for NSFW, make what you like, we just hope that you’ll tag your work accordingly so that others participating in the event can stay safe :)

Q. Do I have to do all 31 Days? Can I post early/late?

Participate as much or little as you like, and post whenever! Just be sure to tag your posts properly (ex. #no.11, #psych101). Combining prompts into one piece of work is okay, and posting late is as well so as long as it’s in October.

Q. What if I don’t understand a theme?

Send us an ask! We’re happy to help clarify. That said, the themes are entirely up for interpretation :)

Q. Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges?

Absolutely! That’s like shooting two whumpees with one bullet :)

Q. Can I upload/repost my whumptober content to other social media platforms?

Of course! We’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there. The archive can be accessed here. The blog is the official archive, so please respect the boundaries of any closeted whumpers in your social circle :)

Q. Can I use prompts to write a new chapter for an existing fic?

Yes

Q. An existing fic I am currently writing contains many of the Whumptober prompts, can I use it?

If you are actively writing this fic at the moment with the whumptober prompts in mind, yes. If it just conveniently checks the boxes, then please don’t. You can, however, add new chapters answering one or more of the prompts.

Q. What kind of characters can I write for?

Fandom characters, OC characters, human, furry, alien, cyborg, whoever you like.

Q. Can I use a prompt multiple times?

Yes, but it only counts once

Q. If I’m not comfortable with one day's prompts can I use a prompt of a different day as a substitute and still be a completionist?

Yes, but please do not use a specific prompt twice. We have also created an alternate prompts list that you can draw from [here].

Q. Where can I post my work?

Post where and how you want. You don’t even have to (cross)post it to Tumblr. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive.

Q. Can I start posting early?

You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? That being said, you can post early, but we won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st.

Q. Do I have to finish a fic I started/can I post WIP’s.?

Yes you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish it in October for it to count towards being a completionist.

Q. Is co-writing allowed?

Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you :)

Q. Do I have to create 31 standalone pieces to be considered a completionist or can I write one continuous story?

One continuous story is fine. The challenge is to write something for 31 prompts. If that’s spread over 31 fics or just one, you are still considered a completionist. (The same goes for every other media you choose.)

Q. Is there a min/max limit on word count?

There is no limit

Q. Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many?

No limit and combine as many as you’d like.

Q. Is a hc/angst focus ok?

Of course!

Q. What’s considered nsfw?

See this post

Q. What's whump?

See this post

Q. My interpretation of the prompt isn't whumpy at all, does that count?

No, sorry, but keep in mind that whump [see definition] is something very nuanced and different for everyone and emotional whump/angst is just as much part of it, as is physical whump and torture. So before you dismiss your idea, think about this.

Q. Can I start working on the prompts before October?

Absolutely! That’s why we posted the prompts a month in advance. We recognise how difficult it can be creating for 31 days in “real time”.

Q. How do I tag triggers?

tw at the end of the word, ex. emeto tw

Q. Do I have to use your tags?

Yes, if you want your work archived on the blog. If not, feel free to use whatever tags you want.

Q. Does combining prompts count towards completion?

Yes

Q. Can we @ you?

Yes but we mostly rely on the whumptober2020 tag

Q. Is there anything we are absolutely not allowed to write?

There are no rules, just be sure to properly tag your trigger warnings. And keep in mind Tumblr’s policies if you are posting it here (or the policies of whatever site you use).

Q. Where can I go for brainstorming help?

Here on Discord

Q. My characters are minors, is that ok?

Yes, but as with everything else, tags are your best friend.

Q. Can I cross post on other blogs?

Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable. You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once.

Note: This is a creation challenge, please don’t repost your old work under our tags (unless it’s been changed or edited for the event).

#eventinfo2020 #whumptober2020 #whumptober #promptlist2020 #prompt list #FAQs #event info

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wolf-the-whumper · 1 year ago

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Just... this is one of my favorite fics ever. I find myself re-reading and still get whumperflies.

this cup of yours tastes holy (this lie is dead)

“I think you might have missed the part where I said that you almost died,” Logan says, and his voice is steady, but his hands are not, trembling where they have balled into fists on his lap.

He blinks, at a loss.

Janus attempts to save Logan from being poisoned. In the moment, switching out their glasses seems like a perfectly rational idea.

It is not, in fact, a perfectly rational idea.

Content Warnings: poisoning, mentioned blood, mentioned death (no actual death though), mentioned violence

Word Count: 5,772

Pairings: Loceit, background Prinxiety

Written for Whumptober2020 theme no 22. “Do these tacos taste funny to you?” with the more specific prompt: poisoned.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

The banquet hall is bright, noisy, and crowded, full of laughter and music and talking, and Janus is almost certain that the ambassador from Halledrin has just slipped poison into Logan’s wine.

No one else seems to have noticed. Janus can’t say he’s surprised. The formal dinner is over; now is the time for mingling, and everyone is deeply involved in their own conversations, their own social circles. Roman knows how to throw a good celebration, if nothing else, and now that the pressure is off of him to preside over all the little details, Janus spots him off to one side, shamelessly chatting up Virgil, who seems… exasperated, if not entirely displeased. He spares them a glance before turning back to Logan, who seems to be doing his level best to escape the conversation, but the ambassador— and just what is his name? Janus has entirely forgotten— is persistent, and Janus would think it no more than an annoyance if he weren’t fairly certain that he saw the man brush one hand against Logan’s wine glass while gesturing broadly with the other.

Which, no. That is absolutely not permitted.

Keep reading

#whumptober2020 #no.22 #poisoned #sanders sides #fic #tw blood mention #tw death mention #tw violence mention

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fleur-de-violette · 3 years ago

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Bravery, and everything that looks like it

A3O

Summary:

Bruce had promised Dick a fun and chill weekend. Instead, they find themselves in the middle of a burning chemical facility.

When he thinks everyone should have been evacuated, Nightwing finds a scientist trying to secure some sort of container.

She’s either very brave, or she has a death wish.

Whumptober day 25: Disorientation, blurred vision, ringing ears.

Note:

Okay, so I tried and failed to make this one a little less angsty. So, warning for discussion of self-sacrificing thoughts, poisoning, explosions and fire.

Now that this is out of the way, I want to share with you that I partially wrote this while on a discord call with a friend who told me she was still working on a challenge from October. Which was funny because I’m still working on a challenge from October, too. But October 2020.

Also, the events of Infinite Crisis (namely, here, the destruction of Blüdhaven) had happened in this fic. I know I tend to ignore it sometimes (it’s convenient to have Blüdhaven still there), but here I’m acknowledging it.

Hope you’ll enjoy the fic!

The flames are licking Dick’s back.

“Come to the-” he takes a breath, tasting the stale air of the inside of his gas mask- “manor this weekend, he said.”

The floor had collapsed in the corridor he intended to pass to get out of the building. Alright. He can do this. He takes a few steps back and jumps, ignoring the way his lungs protest with the effort and the limited oxygen. When he reaches the other side, the floor cracks a little, but thankfully holds up.

“Fun and chill weekend with your siblings, he said.”

“Nightwing,” comes Bruce’s voice thorough his comm, sounding more annoyed than worried. “If you have the breath to complain, you have the breath to get yourself out of this building faster.”

“This is less a building than a-” he dodges a gas bottle that comes through the wall on his right, propelled by its own pressure- “giant OSHA violation.”

He hears Jason snort. Good. “Seriously, why was this factory still allowed to function? Couldn’t your Wayne friend do something about it?”

“Nightwing.”

Second warning. Bruce doesn’t like to be kept waiting. But still, his point stands. The chemical factory and lab had gone up in flames so fast, the workers had to thank the local vigilantes for the lack of casualty. There were still some serious injuries, and the fire is far from being controlled yet. Still, their job ends here; the firefighters would have to do the rest. Now that everyone had been evacuated-

A noise from above him distracts him from his thoughts. It doesn’t sound like an explosion or the natural sound of a building burning. More like a strained breath.

Everyone had been evacuated, hadn’t they?

“Oracle, can you confirm that no one except us and the firefighters are in here?”

Bruce goes to say something, but Barbara cuts him off. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t. There are no databases on entries and exits, and no functional cameras to scan everyone who entered.” Figures. Security didn’t seem to be more of an issue when the building was functioning than when it had been designed. “I think there is no one left, but… I wish I could tell you for sure.”

That’s not enough and they all know it. He would take an assumption from Oracle over a certitude from anyone else any day of the week, but when it comes to lives, an assumption is not enough.

“I think there’s still someone above me.”

“You think?” comes Batman’s question. Dick understands what isn’t said: Bruce wants to know how sure he is.

“It’s not like my thermal camera can read anything.”

“What’s the probability?” Bruce is definitely annoyed now. Worried, too, if Dick has to guess.

“Does it matter?” It doesn’t. They all know it. When there’s a life at stake, probabilities don’t matter. Bruce is the one who taught him that. If it was him and not Dick in that building, he wouldn’t even ask the question. “I’m going up.”

Batman says something else; Dick doesn’t listen, focused on finding the best spot to plant his grapple. He hesitates to remove his comm but decides against it. A few years ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice before shutting Bruce’s voice, but Damian had cut his comm a few too many times for his liking since. Now that he knows what it’s like to be on the other end, he leaves his comm on more often than not.

It doesn’t stop him from ignoring whatever Batman is saying and jumping up to the floor above him, or what’s left of it. He moves some debris, making room for himself to get toward the direction of the noise. He thinks for a second he might have imagined it, or that it might have just been his own breath, but then he sees someone.

With one quick jump, he reaches the scientist. She’s crouched down on what’s left on the ground, frantically working on removing a canister from the wall. One more look shows him she’s wearing a worn-down mask. He quickly takes a spare mask, thankful he still has one left, and gives it to her.

She only seems to notice his presence when the gas mask is shoved under her nose. She takes it and keeps working. He doesn’t know what she’s doing, but he has to get her out of here. Now.

He takes her by the waist, and she begins to struggle in his arms. “No!” she yells, now on the communication channel since she’s got a Bat-tech mask on, “I have to get this away from the fire, or half of Gotham is gone!”

“I’ll do it!” Dick screams into her ear even if he knows the actual distance between them doesn’t matter, since they’re communicating via the technology in their masks. “I’ll get you to safety, and then I’ll do it.”

She stayed. She’s the only one who stayed to make sure she could secure whatever is in that canister. She’s either very brave, or she has a death wish. Possibly both. In Dick’s personal experience, the two can be hard to distinguish.

The woman looks at him with wide eyes. He hears Batman say his name in his ear, and then…

Nothing. Or, more accurately, everything.

It’s instinct, more than any rational thought, that has him pushing the scientist to the ground, protecting her with his own body, as a pipe explodes. The sound is overwhelming, taking over his entire world for a second or two. When he dares to get up, his ears are ringing. He’s down one sense, and his only way of communication with his family during the crisis. Great.

By some miracle, the canister that the scientist wanted to secure so badly held on. Dick has the feeling neither of them would be there if it hadn’t.

The scientist looks at him, but she doesn’t seem to see him. She’s hyperventilating inside her mask, and he’s worried she’s going to pass out soon. He can’t blame her for finally losing it; she’s done amazing so far, but everyone has to break down eventually.

He doesn’t waste time in securing her in his arms, getting his grapple to the more stable looking wall, and getting them both out of the window. The fall, even slowed down by his line, is short, but it seems like an eternity, knowing that the canister above him can explode at any given time, and that it can apparently take out half of Gotham.

Was it an exaggeration? Or is this thing really that dangerous? He can still remember the city in ruins, after the earthquake, and he never wants to see anything like that again. He might not be as much of a child of Gotham as Bruce, Jason, Tim, Steph, and Duke are, but this is still his city. Maybe the one he stayed in the longest in his life.

He can remember another city, the one he actually called his going down in toxic chemicals and radioactive fumes. He remembers the fear, the screams, the deaths. Will this one be as devastating?

He doesn’t intend to find out. As soon as the scientist is secured on the ground, firefighters running towards her, he pulls himself back up into the flames.

When he reaches the floor he met the scientist in, the canister is, thankfully, still there and still intact. It is also, unfortunately, still attached to the wall. His ears are still ringing from the explosion and he has to push back the idea of permanent damage: anything that isn’t an absolute emergency has to be forgotten for now.

He can’t think about his ears. He can’t think about Blüdhaven. He has to focus solely on that canister.

He has already started working on the screw holding the canister in place when he notices he’s crying. Weird. He’s the first one to admit that he tends to cry easily compared to Bruce or Alfred, but he’s not one to cry in the middle of a mission. His tears usually come after the job is done, with only the night to see them. He supposes it comes from his family history: he remembers seeing his parents’ eyes shine once or twice while they were bowing for an exceptionally cheering audience, after the show, but never during the performance.

The show must go on. And, as he grew up, the show ceased to be a trapeze act and started to be rescues, arrests, and overall vigilante work.

And now, he’s crying. His eyes hurt, too, he realizes as one of the screws comes loose. His vision is growing more and more blurry.

His mind takes a while to catch up, and he would be ashamed of himself if he wasn’t so focused on detaching the canister. There is something in his eyes.

He’s wearing a gas mask, which covers his entire face, plus his own domino. Nothing can get in his eyes… unless his mask is compromised.

He gave his last spare to the scientist. The pipe that exploded earlier and deprived him of his hearing is still leaking a white, dense smoke. A smoke he’s right in, on top of everything else floating in the air.

He can’t hear a thing. He doesn’t know if anyone is coming to his aid. And now he’s slowly starting to lose his vision too.

Another screw comes loose in his hands. There is just one more to go before he can take the canister out.

He can do this.

Gotham will not burn (or explode, or suffocate, or whatever this thing does) tonight. Not if he can do something about it.

He feels, more than he sees, the last screw. His hands may feel weaker than he’s comfortable with, but he keeps going.

His lungs burn with every breath, crushing a little more under the weight of whatever goes past his mask. He resists the instinct to tear it away from his face; even broken, it has to protect him at least a little. He would’ve passed out from the smoke inhalation only if it wasn’t.

Time seems to stretch out as his hands slip and slide around the screw. He would have cursed if he had any breath for it.

Finally, he feels something going loose in his hand and falling to the ground. He takes the canister and pulls: the thing comes off easily. He’s done it.

It’s still too early to cheer, the Batman voice in the back of his mind reminds him. He doesn’t have to say it: Dick knows. He doesn’t bother securing his line this time; no point if he can’t see anything. He just jumps, holding the canister and hoping this thing isn’t sensitive to shocks.

The fall is fast, and the impact with the ground is painful. He braces himself for it, and he can actually hear the thud of his shoulder on the ground. This would feel him with relief if he wasn’t busy rolling down with the force of the impact, hitting other things expelled by the burning facility.

When his infernal spinning stops, he doesn’t know where he is, or when the canister is. The fact that there is still a him means the canister is probably intact. He’s probably also not far from the factory, which means there are firefighters and vigilantes nearby.

His vision is still blurry, his ears are still ringing, and he breathed in who knows what. He needs help.

He gets to his hands and knees, looking around himself wildly for anything, but none of the colorful shapes he can distinguish seem to be on their way to help him. He scrambles to his feet, up and down mixing as the world spins around him. It is, unfortunately, not the first time his sense of balance has betrayed him, but that doesn’t make it any easier. It takes away a little more of his control over the situation.

“Nightwing!”

The name might have been screamed, but he barely hears it. Sure enough, there is something coming toward him. Not something, someone. He can’t really see who it is yet, but this is the help he was looking for.

He needs to call them, to explain everything. He needs to tell them about the canister, and he needs to check on the scientist he saved.

Most of all, he needs to sit down. The familiar feeling that tells him he will pass out if he stays up washes over him suddenly, and he barely has time to resist before his legs give up on maintaining him upright.

His fall is stopped by a pair of arms, and he hears his rescuer huff under his weight as they slow his descent to the ground.

He blinks, and his vision clears enough that for a few seconds, he can see a familiar emblem. It reminds him of other times, simpler times. He knows it’s impossible, but…

“Babs?”

His mask is gently removed from his face. When his rescuer comes next to him, he can see she removed hers, too.

“Sorry, other Batgirl. Or, I mean, other, other Batgirl,” he can hear her say, now that the ringing in his ears is lessening.

Despite the situation, he smiles. Steph has this gift, getting some spark of joy out of others, even in dark times. She would have done well in the entertainment industry, he thinks absentmindedly.

“The canister?”

He tries to move, but she’s fast at getting him back on the ground. “The thing you fell with? I’ll have Red recover it.”

She puts her hand to her ear, activating her comm, and he doesn’t listen to what she says. He refocuses when she puts something in his eyes. His vision doesn’t clear, but the burning feeling he had barely registered before recedes a little.

“Breathing is heavy but not compromised,” Steph says in the comm. “We need the Batmobile, but not an emergency evac.”

Dick is suddenly hit with how grown up she is. She’s handling the situation with calmness and confidence. She made so much progress since the first time he saw her, she became brave where she had been reckless.

She’s putting in another dose of whatever it is she’s putting in his eyes (saline, probably) when the Batmobile pulls up next to them. A black blurriness takes the place of the purple one.

“Can you stand?” Bruce asks. His hand hovers over Dick’s face. Dick knows the instinct to wipe up the tears is stopped by the knowledge, or more accurately, the lack of knowledge, about what his gloves had been in contact with; there is no need to compromise Dick’s eyes more than they already are.

“I can try,” Dick murmurs, taking in both how weak his voice is and how tired he is, now that the adrenaline is wearing off.

“I’ll take it.” He can hear the smile in Bruce’s voice before he’s pulled up. He has to close his eyes in an effort to stop the world from spinning so much.

“Red Robin, Batgirl. Take this thing somewhere safe and analyze what is in it,” Batman orders and Dick can hear two simultaneous “yessirs.” Though they sound all responsible and heroic, there is a faint fear that wasn’t there before, when Steph was taking care of him. He can understand it all too well: now that Batman is here, they don’t have to be the responsible ones, and some of their worry unconsciously slips out.

Dick thinks, as he is gently dropped in the Batmobile backseat, that he will have to reassure them he’s alright later.

Later, this will be one of the last things he’ll remember from that night. That, and Batman’s voice, telling him distinctly, “Don’t fall asleep.”

When he wakes up, he’s in his bed, in the manor. His ear has stopped ringing, and he can see well. This is a relief, and so is the fact that, even though his head spins for a few seconds after he gets up, he can properly stand after that.

His head is killing him. That, along with the slight nausea, is a definite sign of poison of some sort. But since he’s out of the med bay and alone in his room, it must not be too bad. He makes his way downstairs, the sun shining through the manor’s window. Bruce raises his head from the tablet he’s working on when he hears him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hungover,” says Dick, falling gracelessly onto the chair in front of his dad. He guesses it conveys the feeling well enough, even though by now, he had been poisoned by unknown substances more often than by alcohol. A glass of water, aspirin tablet, and a plate of mashed potatoes and carrots magically appears in front of him.

“Thanks, Alfred,” he says, not even surprised the butler managed to sneak up on him. It’s a gift that runs in this family, after all.

The old man smiles. “I’m glad to see you awake and well. You gave us quite a scare.”

“Sorry I passed out on you-” Dick starts before being cut off by Bruce.

“You didn’t. You were awake for all the tests, until you were cleared and went to bed. Though, some dark spots in your memory are to be expected.”

Dick hums, taking in the information. He tries to reach back for the memory, flashes, anything, but comes up empty. It’s not the first time he’s been missing a night, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“What was in that canister?”

“Some nitroglycerin derivate. The scientist you saved was right: it would have blown up half of Gotham, poisoned the rest.”

Dick focuses on his food. He stirs the puree, trying to get images of another city out of his mind. “Why did they have that?”

“It’s still under investigation.” Sure enough, Dick can see that the tablet Bruce had been working on is displaying a copy of the company’s bank statement.

“The scientist?”

Bruce sighs. “She didn’t know why it was there, just that it was. She’s in Gotham General, being treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation. I need to do a background check, of course, but Wayne Tech is launching a new research project on clean batteries. We might need chemists.”

Dick hums again. “She was brave,” he says.

He keeps eating, feeling Bruce’s eyes on him. “I need you to know,” he finally says after a while. “What I did was bravery too. I did what I had to do, and I came back out of that factory.” It wasn’t a death wish, that much he knows. And he needs Bruce to know it too. Because it looks too much like what happened years ago, in Blüdhaven, but his mindset is completely different this time.

“It’s what you would have done,” he adds when Bruce stays silent.

His father sighs. “You’re right. It’s what I would have done.”

Something in the way the sentence is said drills a hole in Dick’s heart. He’s hit with the realization of something he always knew. His voice feels small to his own ears when he asks, “Would it be bravery or…?”

“Yes.” Bruce takes his hand on the table. “Yes, today, it would be bravery.”

“After Jason?” Dick asks, even if he knows the answer. After Jason, the heroics of Batman weren’t powered by bravery, but by a death wish. It didn’t take being as smart as Tim to figure it out.

“And before you came into my life, yes. I struggled with similar feelings. But,” his hand squeezes Dick’s, looking at him in the eyes, “This isn’t your burden to carry. What matters is that you’re here, now, and you’re alive. And so am I.”

Dick looks away. It might not be his burden to carry, but he still feels like he should do something about it.

“Steph did well last night,” he says, because he doesn’t know what he should say, what would make everything magically better.

“She did,” Bruce agrees and Dick lifts his head quickly. It’s rare to hear praise from the Batman. “And so did you. You’ve all grown so much, sometimes I forgot you can take care of yourselves.”

“They were scared, though,” Dick says, because he can’t get himself to say, “we still need you.”

Bruce’s hand tightens a little more against his, so maybe he understood anyway. “I’ll have them come for dinner tonight, so you can reassure them.” Dick nods. “And, after all, I promised you a fun and chill weekend with your siblings, didn’t I?”

Ending note: Hope you enjoyed the fic! Many thanks to JustJellyJackal for beta-reading!

#dc #batfam #batman #bruce wayne #dick grayson #nightwing #Stephanie Brown #batgirl #dick grayson whump #angst #whump #whumptober2020 #disorientation #ringing ears #blured vision #explosions #fire #poison

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ladtheove · 4 years ago

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Nightwing rescuing Jason (Robin) from the Joker. Fast doodle.

#whumptober2020 #no.5 #rescue #batman #trafitional art #jason todd #robins dc #Nightwing #Dick Grayson

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darklesmylove · 4 years ago

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me laughing to myself as i write an angsty chapter that i know will destroy my readers:

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lisbeth-kk · 1 year ago

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You can feel his pain!

Inktober # 26 - Migraine

Black + white ink and alcohol markers on grey cardboard, A4.

From the @whumptober2020’s prompt list for Inktober.

I have struggled with headaches and quite a number of PTSD issues in the past days, so the prompt fit well today. Another try with markers.

Do not post this on other sites/social media or use in any other way without my written permission.

#sherlock #whump #benedict cumberbatch #migraine #sherlock holmes #sherlock bbc #whumptober2020 #no.26 #gorgeous absolutely stunning #gorgeous fanart #gorgeous sherlock art #beautiful benedict

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random-fandom-whump · 4 years ago

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Whumptober Day 11 – PSYCH 101 Defiance | Struggling | Crying ↳ Supernatural S04E10

#whumptober2020 #no.11 #psych 101 #crying #supernatural #dean winchester #emotional whump #spn 4x10 #ep: heaven and hell #jensen ackles #men crying #aftermath of hell

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camelotsheart · 4 years ago

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Whumptober 2020 #6 “Please...”

#whumptober2020 #no.6 #please...#bbc merlin #gifs #tw: death #tw: corpse #merlin season 5 spoilers #merlin spoilers #merlin edit #merlin bbc #merthur #wow I really stretched these prompts didn't I?#no I didn't run out of ideas I just thought outside the box #....not #I really wanted to do the scene in arthur's bane where arthur pleaded morgana to spare merlin's life #but I couldn't find out a good way to do that #so here we are

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asweetprologue · 4 years ago

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hematoma of the heart

Octoberfest 9: Wound reveal (whumptober #30)

Hitting the tree is more surprising than painful. A strange shock goes through Jaskier’s entire body when it happens, a litany of unspoken no no no through him as his side slams into the wood and he topples to the ground. For a moment he can’t see, can barely even think, just feeling a dizzying sense of wrongness that makes his skin buzz with anxiety.

Then, finally, the pain does come to him, bursting from his ribs. If his breath hadn’t already been crushed from his lungs, he would have wheezed at the intensity of it. He lies there for a long moment, curled into a protective ball and trying to get his chest to expand beyond the jagged feeling in his ribs. Through bleary eyes, he can see that Geralt is still fighting the fiend, twisting and rolling deftly around it. That’s good, Jaskier thinks. Gives him some time to sort this out.

The fiend hadn’t even really been paying him any mind, which was almost more embarrassing. Jaskier had gotten in the way, a bit, though it wasn’t really anyone’s fault that the fight stumbled its way so close to his hiding spot. Normally Geralt would never allow Jaskier to tag along to a fight this dangerous, but as usual trouble found them. Geralt had picked up the smell of the fiend on the breeze, and the noble bastard hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone. His stubborn bravery and selflessness is one of the many reasons Jaskier loves the man, but at this exact moment he finds himself wishing that, for once, they’d just kept out of it.

After a long moment of lying still and trying to gather his wits, Jaskier slowly sits up. He leans his back against the offending tree and tries to stay as still as possible, not wanting to draw the fiend’s attention or break Geralt’s stride. Mentally he takes inventory. Toes and fingers wriggle when he tests them, so that’s good. No pain in his neck, though it radiates out from his left side and across his back like a sunburst. When he sticks a hand against his shirt he doesn’t feel the wet, tacky sensation of blood, so aside from a few abrasions it looks like he’s escaped with his skin intact.

Jaskier knows his ribs are bruised, maybe even slightly broken, but overall it’s not as bad as it could be. Jaskier watches as Geralt’s sword descends into the neck of the fiend, a hot spray of blood splashing across the ground and Geralt’s face. The second the beast falls to the ground, Geralt looks up and finds Jaskier’s gaze, his own eyes wild.

Jaskier realizes two things at once. One: Geralt is going to be livid if Jaskier was hurt during a fight, and there’s a very great chance that it will make him not want to take Jaskier on hunts in the future. He’ll say that Jaskier is at risk and is a risk himself, likely to cause Geralt to get distracted and wind up with one of them dead. Never mind that Geralt often needs help after a hard fight, might not be able to make it back on his own or just needs a hand patching up the worst of his wounds. Never mind that Jaskier hates being left behind, hates sitting in a cold, empty camp or inn waiting to see if Geralt will come back this time. Never mind that Jaskier’s entire supposed reason for being here is to get first hand experience of what monster hunting is really like, even if that maybe isn’t so much the reason he’s so dedicated to the Path anymore.

And two: Geralt will blame himself.

Jaskier decides, in the span of a second, that he’s not going to say anything. It’s not so bad, after all. How hard could it be to keep a few bruised ribs to himself?

In the time it takes for him to determine this course of action, Geralt is upon him. He doesn’t touch - Jaskier touches Geralt. Geralt does not touch back, unless it’s to manhandle Jaskier out of danger. Jaskier tries not to think too hard about why this is. Geralt looks at him, his eyes intense but unreadable as always, and Jaskier takes a steadying breath that makes his ribs ache.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, almost more of a grunt than a name. He’s only breathing a bit more heavily than normal, as if he’d just been on a light morning jog. “You alright?”

Jaskier nods, forcing himself to climb unsteadily to his feet. The movement is agony, his back screaming as his muscles shift and stretch. He bites his cheek, forcing himself not to gasp or wince. The pain isn’t sharp, just pulsing, which is a good sign. He thinks. “All accounted for,” he says to Geralt, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound too strained.

With another human, Jaskier doesn’t think he’d have been able to get away with it. No one would be able to get thrown against a tree with such force and pop back up perfectly alright. But Geralt isn’t human, and over the years of traveling together, Jaskier has realized that Geralt knows fuck all about how much humans can withstand. He is both terrified of their fragility and entirely unaware of their limits. He grew up around witchers and has never stuck around any human beings long enough to figure out what really could hurt them. Jaskier thinks, sometimes, that maybe Geralt doesn’t touch him because he’s afraid Jaskier will break. But then Jaskier falls from a horse or gets punched in the jaw or stumbles over the side of a small ravine and Geralt will act surprised when Jaskier’s ankle is twisted or his face is bruised. The witcher just has no idea what will actually cause damage and what Jaskier can walk away from.

So Jaskier plasters on his most convincing court mask and gives Geralt a winning smile, and he knows he’s won when Geralt gives an almost imperceptible shrug. Jaskier watches his shoulders drop ever so slightly, his expression loosening just a fraction. Jaskier drinks up Geralt’s worry like a man drowning of thirst, but he’s still relieved when Geralt turns back towards the fiend. If Geralt knew he was really hurt, his tender concern over Jaskier’s well being would morph into guilt and anger, and that’s the last thing Jaskier wants. So he forces himself to follow after Geralt, and he doesn’t even limp.

Jaskier does not limp as they set up camp that night, or as he follows Geralt to town the next day, or over the course of the next week on the road. It’s probably making the healing process longer than it needs to be, he knows, but he’s in too deep now to back down. And if he winces occasionally when he’s getting up in the morning, stiff and sore and aching, or if he sucks in a breath to hide a yelp when someone brushes past his wounded shoulder in an inn, Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. Jaskier changes when Geralt leaves for breakfast or to take a piss or to bathe and he thinks he does an okay job, overall, of hiding it. It hurts in another way, deep in his gut, that Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier doesn’t want him to say anything, doesn’t want him to know, but in another way he does. He really does. He wants Geralt to find out and be upset because he cares about Jaskier, cares about his well being and whether he’s in pain. He wants the full force of those golden eyes on him with total attention, those broad hands running across his flank to search for damage. Jaskier wants.

Maybe that’s why he lets his guard down. Or maybe he’s just healing nicely, and so for a few hours Jaskier just… forgets. They’re in a tavern, stopped in a small town a week and a half away from the fiend encounter, and Jaskier is a bit drunk. He’s been playing, for the first time since he was thrown into that tree, and it felt so good he got a bit lost in it. The crowd was small but invested, lively and eager for entertainment, and Jaskier had been passed more than a couple of tankards. Geralt had watched it all unfold with mild amusement, matching Jaskier cup for cup but barely tipsy by the end of the night. Jaskier had stumbled up the stairs with Geralt close on his heels, likely making sure he didn’t tumble back down the steps. He isn’t that drunk, truly. Barely wobbling as he’d made his way into the room. But as he tugs off his boots now and tosses aside his doublet, he’s drunk enough that he forgets, for the first time in a week, that he’s got something to hide. He turns away from Geralt and unbuttons his shirt, yawning around some garbled sentence about how many ales he’s had. The fabric has barely left his shoulders when he hears Geralt make a strangled sound, and turns to find himself nose to nose with the witcher.

“Uh,” he says, articulately, and hisses as Geralt’s fingers come up to prod his side. Oh, right. Fuck. He’d been doing so well.

“What the fuck is this?” Geralt asks, and his voice comes out as a low, warning growl that Jaskier feels in his toes. It’s threatening, he reprimands himself. Geralt is scary when he’s mad. Not hot. Scary. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier snaps back to the moment.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, too quickly. He’s trying to pull his shirt back up to cover up the canvas of blue-purple-yellow that’s scattered across his ribs and shoulder, but Geralt’s hands are in the way. He must be truly surprised, to break his own rules about personal space like this. “I fell, it looks worse than it is. Nothing to be concerned about, truly, I don’t even think my ribs took too much damage -”

“When?” Geralt says. His tone and his hands are demanding, pulling Jaskier’s arm up away from his body so Geralt can get a closer look. Jaskier feels himself flush under his touch, and he’s annoyed at himself for it.

“Uh, a - a week ago? Around then? It’s been a few days.”

Geralt looks away from the bruises, his eyebrows pinched together. His golden eyes are intense, searching Jaskier’s face for a lie. There’s a moment of quiet between them, Geralt thinking with his hand spread across Jaskier’s ribs, and then his face softens with surprise. “The fiend hunt,” he says, and then his face shutters into that expression, furious and guilty, that Jaskier was trying to avoid this whole damn time.

“I was fine,” he tries to say, but Geralt is already growling at him.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Jaskier?” he snaps. Gentle-rough hands push Jaskier down onto the one bed in the room. They’d decided to share, to save money. Always to save money. Geralt starts pacing, not an aimless trek but a journey around the room, pulling various supplies out of their scattered bags. “You could have died. What if your lung had been punctured? Or your kidney ruptured?” A jar and a roll of bandages are thrown down by Jaskier’s side, and the bard winces at the sharp movement. Geralt stops in front of him, fists clenched at his side, glaring down at Jaskier’s face. Accusation in every line of his body.

Jaskier sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide the wince as it pulls at his side. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, and his voice is smaller than he’d like it to be. He didn’t do anything wrong, really. Geralt isn’t entitled to know of Jaskier’s every scrape and bruise. Yet Jaskier feels guilty regardless. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The fiend was there, so was I, I ended up fine! I’ll be better in another week or less.”

Geralt looks away, jaw clenching as he studies the far side of the room with intense scrutiny. Without looking back, he says, “You should have told me.”

Before Jaskier can respond, Geralt turns and gathers up the supplies on the bed and sits down beside him. The lid of the jar pops off, releasing a cool, minty smell into the air. “Lift your arm up,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier does. He can only go up so far without pain, so he rests his forearm on Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly aware that he’s bare from the waist up and Geralt is still fully dressed. It makes him feel off balance and short of breath, for some reason. A moment later Geralt’s fingers are smoothing lightly over his ribs, rubbing whatever salve was in the jar across Jaskier’s bruises. The gentle touch steals the rest of the air from Jaskier’s lungs.

Jaskier lets Geralt work on him in silence, the minutes stretching out silently between them. He’s not sure what to say - how to tell Geralt that he didn’t want him to be mad without sounding like a child, how to make Geralt feel less guilty without being patronizing. Jaskier never quite knows how to manage Geralt’s emotions, not like he does everyone else’s. A crowd, a pretty barmaid, a professor at Oxenfurt, all of these are easy to push and pull where he pleases. Easy to predict. Geralt… isn’t. He digs in his heels when Jaskier tries to lead him, closes himself off when Jaskier tries to get a peak under the mask. Geralt is, Jaskier thinks, perhaps one of the most complicated people Jaskier’s ever met. He knows that’s part of the draw. But it’s frustrating in moments like these, when Jaskier wants so badly to say just the right thing to make Geralt’s shoulders relax, to make the deep frown marring his lovely mouth loosen into a smile. He thinks he could figure it out, given enough time. If Geralt will let him.

When Geralt finally moves to face away from him, to attend to his back, Jaskier speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he forces his voice to be steady and firm. “I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to feel bad for not - That is, I don’t blame you. And I didn’t want to slow you down.”

Geralt's hands still on his back, his warm palm burning where it rests on Jaskier’s shoulder blade. It’s so hot in the room, sweat prickling against Jaskier’s brow, and Geralt’s hand doesn’t move. “I don’t care if you slow me down,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier can feel his breath on the nape of his neck, and he can’t suppress a shiver. Geralt must notice, but he doesn’t comment.

“You very much do,” Jaskier argues, irritated. “You remind me on a near nightly basis that if I’m not up when the sun is you’ll leave me behind. I don’t even bother to ask for a break anymore because you never fail to remind me that it’s my choice to be here. And it is, I know that. I’ll keep up, and if I can’t I’ll take my leave. You’ve made it quite clear that the onus of responsibility rests with me, and I accept that.”

From this close Jaskier can nearly hear Geralt grinding his teeth together. “Not at the expense of your health,” he says, and he sounds properly angry now. “Fuck, Jaskier, you can’t think I’d - That I wouldn’t wait, that I’d leave you behind when you were hurt. You could have fucking died, if it’d been more serious. You couldn’t have known that it wasn’t, right away. What if I’d woken up the next day and you’d choked to death on your own blood in your sleep? What if you’d -” He cuts himself off.

Now Jaskier turns to face him, shocked by the display of emotion, feeling Geralt’s hand shift across his back. Geralt looks away from him, hiding, but the expression that Jaskier catches on his face is… pained. As if it would truly hurt him, to see Jaskier damaged beyond repair. Hesitantly, Jaskier reaches out and touches Geralt’s knee. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just didn’t want you to take it personally.”

Geralt’s eyes meet his again, smouldering in the low light. Jaskier suddenly remembers that he’s a bit drunk, and they’re so, so close together. The space between them is warm, and Geralt’s hand slowly slides down his back to rest at Jaskier’s hip. “I always take it personally when it comes to you,” Geralt says. Jaskier breathes out shakily. Geralt reaches out with his other hand and gently grasps Jaskier’s elbow, making Jaskier’s fingers press more firmly into his knee. “Tell me next time,” Geralt says. And then, “Please.”

Jaskier is powerless to refuse him anything in this moment, so he says, “Alright. I will. Just don’t leave me behind.”

“I won’t,” Geralt says softly. “I won’t. I promise.” Something tense releases in Jaskier, because Geralt is not frivolous with his words and a promise means something coming from him. He won’t leave Jaskier behind.

“Well good,” Jaskier says, and smiles easily at him. His side feels better now with the salve and the fuzzy layer of alcohol in his system, and every part of him touching Geralt is tingling pleasantly. It’s a lot of parts, he realizes giddily. He’s nearly in Geralt’s lap, held close by Geralt’s hands in something that’s nearly an embrace, and Geralt’s lips are right there. All Jaskier would have to do is lean forward just a smidge, press them together gently, soft as a feather -

Geralt’s eyes flicker to his mouth, and Jaskier flushes hot all over. Gods. Just a look and he feels undone.

But before he can do anything, Geralt is up and halfway across the room, tucking the jar away like nothing had happened. Jaskier lets out a breath that’s equal parts disappointment and relief. A moment later Geralt is back at his side, holding the roll of bandages.

“This will keep you from pulling them while they heal,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier obediently raises his arms up as much as he can. Geralt wraps up his ribs efficiently, and it does feel a little more stable. It will help him sleep, at the very least. Just before he wraps the light gauze around Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt leans in and drags in a deep breath.

Jaskier splutters. “Are you sniffing me, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt huffs out an amused breath against his skin. “Checking for infection. You don’t smell sweet, so you’re probably alright.”

“I smell plenty sweet,” Jaskier gripes. Geralt finishes the bandages, tying them off neatly. Jaskier feels compressed, a bit, but it’s for the best.

“You smell like ale,” Geralt says with a raised eyebrow. “And the salve. And that lavender soap I hate.”

“You only hate it the first day I use it,” Jaskier points out. The smell is too strong for Geralt to abide by. Jaskier tries not to use it unless they’ll be apart for a day or so. He’d bathed with it the day after the hunt, hoping that the intensity of it would mask anything else Geralt might scent on him. Pain, or distress. Geralt had supported a pinched look of annoyance for a full half a day.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it sounds annoyed and fond at the same time in equal measure, which Jaskier wouldn’t have said was possible before he met Geralt. The most complicated man he’d ever met. “You need to rest.”

“Up at dawn?” Jaskier guesses, shucking off his pants and settling under the covers. Geralt removes his own boots and pants and crawls in on the other side, settled between Jaskier and the door. Jaskier’s not sure if it’s to protect him or to keep him from running off. As if he ever would.

“We’ll leave when you're ready,” Geralt says, snuffing out the candle flickering on the bedside dresser. In the darkness, Jaskier hears, “I’ll wait for you.”

For once Jaskier has nothing else to say to that, so he settled down into the covers and plans to sleep past noon.

#whumptober2020 #whumptober #whump #no. 30 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #october2020 #my work #fic #writing

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