#and now to use it as whump??

[cakeinthevoid]

🪃 A favorite weapon/item to whump with?

ooo!

🪃 first thing that came to mind was wand—second thing was LASSO!!! Yes this can 100% be attributed to my current cowboy craze. Just watched an old western where a guy was getting beat and strung up with lassos and I was like oh man. I can actually get behind this. I think it’s because it fits the scene so well?? Like it’s a tool, genuinely used practically in cowboy life. And then it’s turned into a weapon…

… yea I think that’s the theme with my favourite whump tools bwahaha

[greykolla-art]

My blog has become infested with angst goblins, and they must be fed with some hypothetical scenarios!🙏💚

[whump-in-the-closet]

defiant living weapon whumpee who gradually loses their identity to their handler and becomes the very thing they swore they would destroy.

loner caretaker who’s begrudgingly helped whumpee for reasons they don’t fully understand.

whumpee appearing at the caretaker’s door after vanishing for years, only to finish the job their handler gave them.

it’s not friends to enemies if one of them is a shell of their former self and the other is bleeding out on the kitchen tiles

yes this is about my current ocs who are giving me serious brain rot

[stevebabey]

steve harrington but it's that jeff winger moment from community. if u have seen community, u will know... my first stobin-centric piece <3 tw for parental neglect and a prior act of self-harm. this is absolutely on the steve harrington has bad parents train <3

“Steven, this is ridiculous.”

Robin freezes in place. Her hand hovers over the remote she's just placed back down, her limbs locking up one by one at the sound of the voice at the door.

It is not a familiar voice. She knows who it is all the same.

She fights not to move, knowing the couch springs, old and rusted, threaten to reveal her hiding place, even if it is her house. Robin is very much allowed to be here. Expected, even.

But Steve? Steve is not.

It’s why there’s one Christine Harrington on the dingy porch steps.

It’s an unwelcome surprise — even after all the fuss of the 4th of July, a thousand police sirens, endless NDAs, and too much blood on his uniform, Steve’s parents hadn’t shown.

Out of town, Steve had said, his bashed in face making it impossible to read his expression. His eyes were haunted and misty but Robin couldn’t tell if it was from the horror of the night or… a loneliness far older.

So Robin had done the fussing. Had dragged him home with her, shooed away her rightfully nosy parents, and mended him up on her bathroom counter.

Steve had been silent, a little wide-eyed as she worked on each cut, each bruise — but with her gentle touch, he had been helpless to do anything but melt beneath it.

He’d called her Robbie for the first time that night. They’d fallen asleep with their hands intertwined, her arm hanging off the bed to reach out to him on her bedroom floor.

Robin still hasn’t met Steve’s parents, even though it’s been more than a couple months since that night.

She’s been to his house countless times too. She knows where the spare key is, if she ever loses her own copy, that is. Knows which stair squeaks on the way up to the second floor and how the lock on the downstairs bathroom gets jammed too easily.

She’s eaten the best grilled cheese of her life in their kitchen, sitting on the counter.

She’s laughed so hard she’s cried on their couch, getting the throw pillows wet with her happy tears.

She’s still never met Steve’s parents. Til right now.

Christine Harrington has her arms wrapped tight around her frame and Robin has no doubt that on her face is a frown that could make babies cry.

She can’t see her face though. Can only just see a glimpse of her tense body from where she sits. Steve blocks part of her view, his own tense frame in the doorway.

He’d answered the door instead of Robin only because he had the foresight to glance at the front window after the first rap at the door. It was late. Robin’s parents certainly wouldn’t knock at their own home and neither of them were expecting visitors.

The expensive car in the drive, a sore thumb along Robin’s street, had given away the identity of just who was knocking so late in the evening. So, Steve had opened it.

“Mom—”

“I mean utterly ridiculous.” Steve gets cut off without second thought, Christine continuing on as if she hasn’t heard him at all.

“Did you expect us to spend all evening chasing you around? Figuring out where you were tonight from the Carlton’s across the road?”

She’s got this snippy tone that Robin’s heard a thousand times from teachers. Patronising. Too cold for it to seem like a genuinely concerned parent.

“The Carlton’s?” Steve echoes, a bit meek. His shoulders have rolled forward, sinking down a bit and Robin can see his tight grip on the door. Still, she stays frozen, rooted to the couch.

“Yes, Steven.” Christine says his full name again, all bite. “Imagine the shame your father and I felt hearing that. Hearing who you had been associating with.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve grits out immediately, anger bleeding into his tone.

The muscles in his back ripple as he forces his shoulders back, as if he had remembered how to stand up straight at the mention of his friend.

Robin aches; at the reminder of the stark differences of their upbringings and at Steve’s unquestionable loyalty. She finally unfreezes, sitting up a little straighter and leaning forward more— ready to spring up from her seat.

She’s not sure what for exactly. She sorta really wants to go slam the door on Steve’s mom’s face and go back to being bundled up on the couch with him. The urge is strong enough to make her fingers twitch.

“Why are you here, Mom?”

There’s a strain to Steve’s question, even though he doesn’t falter in appearance. Robin can’t see his face either though. She hopes it’s got the bitchiest expression Steve can muster.

“Don’t be smart, Steven.” Christine reprimands coldly. “I know that we may have taken a larger absence than intended but that’s not any excuse to parade yourself around with the strays of this town.”

Strays. Robin feels the word pelt into her and burn into her skin, sinking all the way down. It feels like cold water has tipped down the back of her neck. An unwelcome pit forms in her stomach.

She had known, of course, the reputation of a family like the Harrington's. She hadn’t quite known the extent they would go to protect it. Policing your child's friends over a matter of image is absurd.

Somehow, Robin can see how Steve grows even tenser at his mom’s words— hackles raising like that on a dog. His knuckles turn white. But before he speaks, Christine is barreling on like she hasn’t just slandered every one of Steve’s new friends.

“And to leave the house in such a state?”

Robin hears her sigh heavily, as though this really is the biggest problem in her life — which she can’t fathom in the slightest.

There was nothing wrong with Steve’s house. No mess beyond the usual evidence that someone, you know, lived there.

“Mom, I—” Steve starts again.

“Well, I’m sure you have your reasons. You always do.” She says it so pointedly, like Steve was known for peddling lies to weasel his way out of trouble.

It’s so un-Steve it makes Robin blink hard, wondering if she had heard right.

Steve was honest. He owned his mistakes and he took things on the chin. It was something she had liked most about him in the beginning.

Back when it was all snark and Robin told herself she was never going to be his friend, in this universe or anything other. That even then, reluctant co-worker and nothing more, Steve was honest and decent to her always.

“Now, come on now.” Christine Harrington huffs out her demand. “Your father is waiting in the car and there no use winding him up more than you already have.”

Robin’s stomach turns at her words. It had been a topic of discussion between them, one night weeks ago, lips loosened by the dark. I feel like a dog to them, Steve had admitted quietly, his breath against her pillow and his warmth under her sheets. Like they just leave alone most of the time but expect me to perk up and come running the moment they call. I hate it.

“I’m not coming with you.”

The words stammer on their way out like he had forced them out— and Robin wants to sing she’s so proud of her best friend.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not coming with you.” Steve repeats himself, the words a little firmer this time. “I’m… I’m spending the night here, with my friend Robin.”

He trails off, the words weaker, losing steam. Robin rises to her feet, the tell-tale squeak of the couch springs letting Steve know she was still here. Still right behind him.

It makes him stand a little straighter.

“I— I’ll come home in the morning.”

Christine Harrington makes a little scoffing noise, a high pitched faux laugh as if Steve’s said something amusing.

“Tell me when did I raise such an ungrateful brat?” She muses meanly and Robin doesn’t miss the way Steve flinches lightly. “We give you free rein of the house, apt time by yourself, and yet when we request you to spend a single evening with us—”

“You’re not asking, you’re demanding.” Steve cuts in, his voice more heated now.

“Oh hush, Steven. You act as if we’re so awful.”

It’s all dismissal. Everything, every word, a dismissal.

“I just can’t win with you, can I?” Christine sighs again, disappointment dripping from the sound. “Either we’re not here enough or we’re here but you can’t find time to have dinner with your family. Which is it, Steven?”

In the doorway, Steve begins to bristle. Robin really, really wants to slam the door now — if only to stop this conversation that seems to keep cutting deeper and deeper into her best friend.

She steps closer to him, moving as silently as she can, and makes sure to stay out of sight as she places a hand gently on the small of his back.

He’s shaking, she realises.

Her heart twists painfully in her chest.

Then, deathly calm, Steve says, “Did you know in 7th grade, I lied and I told everyone in my class that I got appendicitis?”

Robin blinks at the change in subject, the strangeness of Steve’s comment. She does remember that, vaguely. A boy in the year above— it had been a wildfire rumour that had turned out to be true.

Or so she thought. Staring hard at the planes of Steve’s back, the pit in her stomach yawns with an anticipation of devastation. Her hand on his back curls up a bit.

“You and Dad were gone for the whole month to Washington. It was the first time you had ever gone for that long and you didn’t even tell me until the day before you left.”

“Steven—”

“I just wanted someone to worry about me.” He steamrolls on, tone too casual for the story he was telling. “And it worked."

A beat.

"But then Cassie Lange asked about the scar.”

Robin’s hand on Steve's back twists up tighter. She feels like she knows what’s coming— but wishes it to be not true.

She doesn’t want to think of Steve, little twelve year old Steve, doing all that he can for a scrap of attention he was supposed to be getting from his parents.

“And rather than admit I’d lied…” The words come out too tight. “I went and found your sewing scissors and I made one.”

There’s this icy bite to Steve’s voice, his shoulders tensed back up. Christine still hasn’t said anything.

“I hurt like a bitch but it was worth it. I got a card from every single person in my class.”

“You wanna see the scar?” He asks— then he’s moving, his hand rucking up his sweater and shirt and exposing the skin of his stomach. Christine makes a noise like a muffled gasp. Robin feels a bit sick. Steve drops his shirt.

“And I kept all of those cards I got —all 17 of them stashed them under my bed in a box that I still have til this day.” He exhales through his nose. “Because it was proof that, at some point, somebody actually gave a shit about me. Because you didn’t. You didn’t then and you don’t get to now.”

His words hang in the air. There’s a long stretch of silence where Steve stares down the woman on the porch— someone closer to a stranger than a friend.

“So, I will see you at home, tomorrow.”

And then he slams the door to Robin’s house shut with a finality that shakes the air. Robin tenses up at the loud noise. Steve doesn't move, just stays staring at the closed door.

Behind them both, one of the noisy pipes in the house makes a loud noise. It sounds worse than usual as it breaks the silence.

Outside, Robin hears the click of heels on the pavement as they quieten, moving further away.

The pit in her stomach tightens immeasurably, a faint bile taste in her mouth. She finally remembers to smooth out her hand, pressing it flat against Steven’s back— another reminder that she was there.

If he wanted to talk or he didn’t, she was there.

Suddenly Steve sighs, an exhale so large that he shrinks down a couple inches, his shoulders dropping. It sounds exhausted.

He finally turns away from the door, to Robin, and she can only hope her face conveys every ounce of love, of support, she feels within her chest.

“Steve…” She breathes softly.

He wasn’t crying but just the sound of his name, spoken so delicately, seems to inspire tears. Robin catches the tremble of his lip and moves without thought— throwing both her arms around his neck and wrestling him into a hug.

Steve goes easy, his arms snaking around her middle and holding her back so tightly it nearly makes her squeak. She doesn’t though— just lets him bury his face in her neck, taking these big shuddering breaths, these half-formed sobs that break her heart clean in half.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there. Car engines drone as they pass by the street. The streetlights seem to get brighter. Steve presses himself so close to her, as close as he can, and Robin hugs back just as tight. She gives him all the time he needs.

She wonders if there’s an indent of him on her when he finally pulls back — a Steve Harrington shaped outline imprinted on her soul. It feels like there is.

If she could trace it, she thinks, it would be whatever shape love takes.

“Thanks Robbie.” He croaks out. He’s started scrubbing furiously at his face and she can see the wet sheen of tears as he wipes them away.

Robin doesn’t move far, just unwinds her arms a bit and lets them fall back to her sides. There’s an ache between her brows from how long she’s been frowning in concern. Steve looks more disheveled than usual, his usually perfect hair looking flatter — but he looks lighter too, somehow.

“No need to thank me, dingus.” She says, voice soft. She faux punches his chest and then regrets it when his lips don’t even twitch upward. It’s weird to see Steve all undone.

Robin thinks back to that conversation and the callousness of Steve’s mom. Her uncaring tone, the use of his full name like an insult.

She thinks of what Steve had said.

“I’m sorry you felt—” The words get stuck in her throat which grows thicker as she thinks about it. About a self-made scar on Steve’s abdomen, made by a twelve year old boy who just wanted someone to worry.

“—That you felt like you had to do something like that to yourself. I’m sorry no one noticed what you really needed.”

Steve nods slowly, his eyes glazed with a far away look as he stares somewhere over Robin’s shoulder. He gives this little shrug, a little huff through his nose.

“It’s okay.” He says, voice a bit distant. “I mean, it’s not but… even if I hadn’t meant to tell you, I’m glad someone knows now.”

It takes another second before he finally seems to shake himself from his thoughts, turning to properly look at Robin. His eyes are red-rimmed and the tip of his nose is pink. Tell tale signs of tears.

“I’ve never told anyone that before.”

Robin swallows thickly and it takes effort to choke down the urge to cry.

“Well,” She starts. It comes out too high pitched and tight and she clears her throat. “Thank you for telling me.

Some kind of smile plays on Steve’s lips, as if he can tell that she’s fighting off her sniffling and it’s sorta funny to him. It is, a little.

Because instead of being embarrassed or feeling pitied, he feels… delightfully surprised to have her care so much. To be so upset on his behalf.

“Oh, c’mon Robbie,” He gives her that same faux-punch in the shoulder she did earlier and it actually succeeds in making her lips pull up at the edges. “None of that.”

“You’re such a dingus.” Robin says. It comes out a bit wobbly still. Sue her— she doesn’t have Steve’s insane ability to bounce from one emotion to another in a single second.

Steve grins. He wanders back to the couch and flops down onto it. Robin follows and when she sits down, it’s a fraction closer to him this time. He gives one last scrub of his face, wiping the last of his tears away.

She nudges him with her thigh. She has to check just one more time.

“You alright?”

Steve smiles, crooked in that way that lets her know it’s completely sincere. He reaches forward and presses unmute on the remote, the film they’re watching starting up again with a buzz.

Steve presses his thigh back against Robin’s and in the dim lighting of her living room, his eyes glitter with an emotion that threatens to make her want to cry once more.

“Course.” He says. “I got someone checking up on me now,”

Another pointed nudge of his thigh against hers. “I’m better than ever.”

[thats-highly-significant]

The inherent homoeroticism of 70s cop shows

[whumpninja]

A mutual lovingly demanded for me to turn this into a prompt, so here goes:

Used as bait with an extra step…one character sees the other one get captured and is unable to stop it in time. Then, when the used as bait situation happens, there’s an extra level of guilt. They wouldn’t be in this mess if the character had tried a little harder, been a little faster, gotten there in time…

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Call Mom

CW: PTSD/flashbacks, BBU in general, haunted, ghosts, reference to a murder, severe chronic panic

Jameson's Masterlist (scroll down)

-

Aw, crap. Hey, Johnny, do you remember where I put that girl's number? Like, Katie, or Caitlyn, or... do you remember? Hey! Johnny! Put down the fucking xbox controller for two fucking minutes and give me a hand, won't you?

Fingers snap right in front of his face.

Johnny!

Jameson jerks in a breath that sounds like a whine, sitting straight up. The fan blows cool air over his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, cold inside and out. The air in his room is freezing, suddenly. Outside it's so dark you can't even see the trees - the power outage must still be going, there aren't any streetlights. Thanks to the clouds, no stars or moon, either.

Just darkness.

Wait, if the electricity's out...

He looks up. The ceiling fan is perfectly still above his head, even while ice-cold air keeps goosebumps rising on his arms, the hair standing up at the back of his neck.

See, was that so hard? It'll take like five minutes if we work together, I swear.

"Nat?" He mumbles. "S'at... you?"

Checked there already, actually. Checked the fridge, too, so where the hell did I put it?

He's the only person in this room.

Jameson goes from still half-asleep to fully, painfully awake and aware in a single breath.

The voice comes as clear as if it was right next to him, a voice as familiar as his own - but he has no idea whose it is. There's no one here but him - even Trash Cat isn't here any longer, probably hunting a tiny piece of plastic downstairs that he'll end up stepping on in the morning. So far she hasn't eaten any of them. He doesn't even know where she's finding them.

Johnny, come on. Let's, like, retrace our steps.

His head starts to ache more with every single word, the pain working like tendrils behind his eyes, a pressure trying to crush his skull from the inside. Something flashes, bright and almost like a spectrum of rainbow colors, in the corner of his right eye, but it won't resolve when he turns his head.

I got home from work, I told you we had a hot customer who gave me her number, and then... then what?

Jameson stares into darkness so complete it feels like it has weight. Like it's sitting on the bed next to him, like the mattress dips underneath it. A body made of memory, slowly pulling together the pieces of what's been hidden. Clawing them out but leaving deep weals across the inside of his mind, like a corpse's fingers digging into loose dirt to climb out of his grave.

"Caitlyn," He whispers, as the thought crystallizes. A memory, pure and perfect. Some sliver of whatever they broke the person he was into. Some small piece of the man who signed up. "Her name was Caitlyn, not Katie. She... wrote it on the fucking paper."

Right! Okay, so, clearly I told you her name, and then what?

Jameson turns his head, and there he is.

Hank.

His breath catches in his throat.

Hank is younger than he is, even though he was older then. The older brother, trapped in time, while Jameson - Jonathan - keeps aging. The rakish smile is still there and, Christ, Jameson had forgotten that he'd done that stupid thing to his hair - you forgot everything about him, you begged them to take him away from you so that it wouldn't hurt anymore. He's still got that one crooked tooth he'd refused to get braces to fix. That crooked tooth had been in his dental records. It was how they identified his body.

The fucking crooked tooth, the silver-colored fillings, then the DNA tests...

"No," He whispers, going for a vicious hiss, but what comes out is far too close to a whimper. "No. This is-... this is a flashback. This isn't real, this isn't-"

Maybe I left it in yesterday's pants?

"This isn't real, fuck off." Jameson shoves himself off the bed, forgetting his stupid fucking legs don't work. His knees buckle as soon as they have to take his weight.

He lands wrong on one arm and the pain spikes up through his shoulder, making him cry out in the hoarse, rasping voice that his life has left him with. "Fuck!"

He rolls onto his side, but he can't stop himself.

He looks up again. He doesn't want to remember Hank but he's desperate for one more look at his face. Just the one more time.

Just once more.

Hank sighs, raking a hand back through his hair, leaving it mussed-up and sticking out, looking ridiculous. He did that all the time. Bit his nails, too, and tried everything to stop but he never did. He wore those jeans with the ripped knee all the time, their mother had hated it. Hank, wearing the t-shirt for the band they'd gotten concert tickets for but never got the chance to see. Hank, dead for years, smiles to one side at a brother who isn't there.

The brother who erased him.

"Hank," He whispers. "Hank, you gotta-... you gotta go. You're hurting me-"

Damn. Man, it wasn't in my jeans either. Well, I'll find it sooner or later, I guess. Hank shrugs. His eyes are in shadow, not quite defined. Jameson wonders if it's because he's forgotten what color his brother's eyes were, forgotten it deeply enough that even this can't pull it back.

It'll be okay, Johnny. It really will. Hank looks right at him. Jameson's breath catches in his throat. The room is so cold the air burns as he breathes. It never gets this cold in California. It can't be this cold in California. I mean it. Don't cry yourself to sleep over this.

"I cried myself to sleep... all the time, but I don't now. I'm not-... that guy." He can barely speak. He sees his breath puff out when his lips move, and Jameson slumps back. His voice cracks, it creaks like old floors. He didn't stop crying for weeks. He didn't leave his bed. He did any drug he could find trying to not think about Hank, until he realized there was only one way to make sure he never had to think about what he'd done, by letting Hank walk home alone that one night, again. He didn't want to think about that pain anymore.

They had promised him he wouldn't ever have to hurt like this again.

They lied about that, too.

Jameson makes a sound he refuses to admit is a choked-off sob. "I'm not him, Hank. I'm not Johnny... not anymore."

Hank stands, and it's impossible. He's not here. But he holds out his hand anyway, and Jameson takes it without thinking. Hank's grip is so cold it burns, but Jameson lets his dead brother pull him to his feet anyway.

He smells like earth and ice.

"I'm not him," He whispers.

Right, like that argument ever works. Hank just grins, shaking his head. The man Jameson was - the one he had begged to leave behind - is the reason Hank will look like this in his memories forever. He's the reason there isn't another Hank, only this one, locked in the memories he wanted to boil and burn out of his own head. They're still there, though. They break through.

They never stop breaking through.

He would crawl back into Robert's cage himself if it only meant he didn't have to remember that it's his fault Hank is dead.

Tears run hot down his cheeks - the only thing in him that isn't frozen is his grief, wildfire in his chest leaving nothing but ash behind. Forests after wildfires are ghosts, Hank said once, when they were both high and everything sounded fucking important.

Jameson had called him an idiot - he remembers that now. But... he also thinks Hank was right. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can, focusing. He isn't here. Hank cannot be here. "I don't remember... remember you-... I don't want to remember you! It was my choice to forget!"

Hank claps him on the shoulder. His smile goes briefly gentle and soft. Jameson can see it with his eyes closed. Whatever you say, man. Just promise me you'll call Mom sometime soon, okay?

The pain is too much. If he can't pass out soon, he might die just from having to experience it, unending, never stopping, rising higher and higher. "Mom...?"

Yeah, dumbass. Mom. Our mother? Who gave birth to us and never lets us fucking forget it? I keep trying to talk to her, but I guess my signal's bad. Hank laughs, and Jameson's whole body breaks with the sound of that familiar laughter. The way Hank could throw his head back without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, how he'd hear that laugh across a crowded room and know it was his brother's, know right where he was.

Until he didn't.

Until nobody did.

Until the cops found what was left.

Until-

Jameson jolts again, and finds himself still lying on the floor next to his bed. He's burning up, boiling hot, pouring sweat until his sleep shirt sticks to his back and his arms feel slick with it, his hair sticking to skin. A droplet trickles down the back of his neck like a fingertip, barely touching. He rips his shirt off, then his pants, throwing them as far away from himself as he can, until he's naked on the floor but it isn't enough.

He's still sweating, still breathing in harsh gasps, fighting around the strength of his racing heart to get enough air to fill his lungs. He looks frantically around, but no one's here.

The ceiling fan circles lazily overhead.

He takes in a breath, his heart pounding. It feels like it's going to grow wings and fly away, up his throat and out of his mouth. He's still crying, he realizes only now. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can and fights tears back through sheer willpower and rage, curling his hands into fists. Just like they used to be, his fingers know - muscle memory of mittens that had kept him powerless, once. Now, he does it on purpose, and he forces them to curl through the pain.

Forces down the dream.

Wills himself to forget he ever had it.

"Four... f-four things you can see," he whispers to himself, slumping back down. His voice keeps trembling, catching, and it's everything he has to open his eyes again around the pounding headache in his skull and look. "The-... moon. Out the... window. The, my dresser... for my clothes... M-My, uh, the picture Nat p-printed of me and Allyn... fuck, the... the doorknob."

Every time he thinks he knows how much of his body can hurt at once, some nerves he didn't know existed decide to join the party. He has to breathe in and out, slow and controlled, trying to will his body to cooperate. He won't walk tomorrow, he can tell already. It'll be a day to spend in bed, or using his wheelchair. It might be a week until his body lets him walk again.

He fights back a new well of rage and despair at how well he knows the next way his body will fail him. He can't think about that right now, or the pain and the panic will spiral out of control. He might hurt someone. He can't hurt anyone, not ever again.

He won't.

"Three... things I can touch," He murmurs. "My, my... my shirt, fuck, gross, sweaty... my... my hair... the floor, feels... cold, feels good... the corner of my bed..."

It helps. He makes himself focus on this, on real things, not the nightmare of his brother.

He won't remember his brother.

He won't.

"Two things I can hear. Uh, the, there's... crickets or something outside, and-... and I can hear-"

Hank's voice whispers right next to his ear.

Call Mom.

His breath hitches.

"Not real," he whispers. "One... one thing I can taste..."

All he tastes is blood, and for one horrified half a second he's sure it's Hank's blood, until he realizes he bit his tongue in his sleep.

The blood is his own.

Call Mom.

-

[pyrepostings]

Interrogation setting where whumpee won't stop mouthing off and antagonizing whumper, so they get gagged during the session and only get the chance to talk after.

And of course, if they continue to be a smartass the gag goes back in between sessions too :)

[fallenwhumpee]

There's not enough leader whumpees. They desperately try to stay strong because people depend on them. They are distant because they are an authority figure. They don't get the attention they need because they seem like they're holding themselves and the team together just fine. They never stop, so the others can. They do everything to keep their people safe. Just. Leader whumpees.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The little "thanks" to the empty room AFTER Simon left killed me. It absolutely destroyed me. He wasn't prompted to thank Simon, he just did WHEN HE COULDN'T GET ANY BROWNIE POINTS FOR IT!! My man has a tight grip on his tragic backstory and Simon just wants a peek at it

“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal | Collapse | Cupcake | Foggy | Cracking | Just Breathe | Urge | Trim | Stupid | Upkeep | Old Defeat | Watching | Simple Loyalty | Overreaction | Set Up for Failure | Burning | Healed Wrong | Haunted | Boxes Buried | Heavy Blow | Loneliness

Rain patters across the windows. The air conditioning keeps the air comfortably dry, and that coupled with the cool blue light from the storm outside makes it almost the perfect temperature for curling up on the couch with a blanket.

So there Major is. Lying on his side, knees up by his chest, one arm hanging limply off the cushion to dangle near the floor.

“Move over. My show’s coming on.” Simon gestures with two hands full of snacks. Popcorn, chips, chocolate.

Major sullenly draws his legs in closer, and his captor settles happily onto the newly available spot. The remote gets snatched up and the TV buzzes as it turns on.

There’s some room for the snacks to be set down, so Simon wedges the popcorn bowl between his thigh and Cupcake’s foot. Then there’s more room, so the candy gets set down too, the chip bag balanced on top.

With the familiar theme song playing, Simon relaxes into the cushions, digging lazy fingers into the bag in search of a chip small enough to shove into his mouth without having to break it in half. He’ll go for a bite of chocolate, next, some sweet to go with the salty…

There’s enough room for the bag of chips to have its own space, now. Simon frowns and glances at Cupcake, who previously was taking up two thirds of the couch, but now is taking up less than half. His legs are bent up tight against his body and that arm is no longer dangling. Now it is braced against the cushion under him like he might need to bolt.

It was only yesterday, the break-in. The house still smells a little of blood. Simon hums around the handful of popcorn he just shoved into his mouth. Major is trying to get away from all points of contact, all warmth. But not getting down off the couch. Scared? Disgusted?

“Cuf-...” Chew, chew, swallow. “Cupcake? What’s up?”

A heavily scarred arm folds and shifts to better hide his head. His face. Major grunts softly in refusal to speak.

“Have some snacks. You like these chips. Come on, eat something.” He pats a friendly hand on the ridge under Major’s blanket that looks like an arm. “Watch the show with me, Cupca-!” A flurry of movement startles Simon into silence, and he registers the dark figure looming over him before he feels the weight across his lap and chest.

The obedient, sullen killer has flung his blanket away, pinned Simon’s arm, and straddled him in under a second. Major’s eyes are wild, his chest heaving for air, as he leans forward hard to keep his captor pinned.

Simon’s eyes flit rapidly between Major’s as he processes this. He feels no edge of a blade pressed to any part of himself, or the muzzle of a gun. He isn’t being threatened with anything. Major looks… empty-headed. His body reacted and he didn’t have a plan.

When Simon laid a hand on him over the blanket, he thought it was his elbow, maybe forearm. But it felt too broad. Must have been Major’s hip. And after yesterday… that must have felt… bad.

“Hey,” Mutters the pinned man without anything accusatory in his tone. “Cupcake. You have three seconds.”

It takes two. Major looks confused, angry, and frightened in a flash, and then he’s clambering off to fall to the side with a panicked grunt. Simon can shoot. Simon has resources, Simon’s quick with his gun and stronger than he looks. In an instant Major remembers all of the sessions they’ve had. The alarming strength Simon can have when he’s excited to cause pain.

The whole couch trembles. Simon lifts a hand to placate, and the couch jerks with the captive’s flinch. Pure adrenaline rules him, after the fright of his hip being grabbed and his body reacting, only to hear a rare and earnest threat. Three seconds then a bullet in him.

“Eat popcorn,” Simon settles on saying, after a brief staredown that Major wouldn’t step up to. “Watch the show. Alright?”

Cupcake shrugs up a shoulder, shifting tensely to flop into a more forcibly casual position. A scar-jagged hand dives into the popcorn bowl and emerges with a fistful of the stuff, shoving it awkwardly into his mouth. Major chomps in a bitter vendetta against the snack.

“There you go, Cupcake. It’s not a session, so I’m not going to hurt you. Relax.”

Against Major’s instincts, against his pride, his muscles go slack in stops and starts. The blanket lies pooled in his lap and his glaring at the screen softens into plain watching. It’s not a session. He gets warnings, before they come. Out here, right now, it’s just snacks and TV. He can relax.

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy, @apokolyps, @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite,

@wollemi-whump, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire, @notactuallyluska

[whumpy-wyrms]

whumper using tiny whumpee as a fidget/stim toy, playing with them in their hands as if they’re nothing but a limp, lifeless doll. whumper tugging at their limbs, their hair, twisting their body between their fingers, squeezing them in their tight fist. whumper putting tiny whumpee in a drawer with all their other fidget toys once they’re done playing with them, forcing whumpee into a small, dark and enclosed space for hours on end. whumpee being surrounded by things that could crush their delicate body, forced to sleep in painful and uncomfortable positions around the fidgets. then whumpee being roughly woken up and plucked out of the drawer whenever whumper needs something to ease their stress, tugged and dragged around as if they’re nothing but an object at whumper’s disposal.

[mearchy]

I used to read a lot of really really dark sad whump fics pretty much exclusively. Characters getting absolutely mentally and physically annihilated in the worst, most soul-crushing circumstances possible. Lots of hurt no comfort. Lots of apocalypses. Over the past five or six years, I’ve turned to reading mostly stories about characters getting dogs and having adventures with them, or growing old together, or escaping bad circumstances against all odds. Fix-it AUs. Slice-of-life fics. I’m not necessarily a happier person. I think I just value those stories more than I did. Something something the dystopia is here something something wisdom comes with age. Dykwim

[necrotic-nephilim]

necrotic whump masterlist

note: as of 10/1/24, i am still writing fics for this! i have about a dozen left in my inbox and this masterlist will continually get updated as i post them.

this is the collection/masterlist for all the fics i wrote based on whump dialogue prompts! none of these fics are on ao3 currently, as the point of them is to be quick and unedited, but if you would like one of these put on ao3 so you can bookmark/download/etc, just let me know and I'll happily cross-post over there! for now, i hope you enjoy all the fics created for these prompts so far! <3

"if i have to force you, i will." [BruDick]

"you're enjoying this, aren't you? freak." [JayTim]

"i think you need a little something to remind you of who you belong to." [JayTim]

"but why should i let you go when you look so pretty like this?" [JayTim]

"can you two manage not to tear each other apart while i'm gone?" [BruJayTim]

"how else am i supposed to learn if you don't punish me?" [BruJay]

"you wouldn't." [BruJay]

"what is this 'mercy' you speak of?" [TimCass]

"i don't care how much you hate me- you need to eat!" [DickTim]

"how else am i supposed to learn if you don't punish me?" [JeanTim]

[galaxywhump]

Starry-Eyed

A little something about one of my D&D characters, an owlin Circle of Stars druid named Gienah.

contents: character expecting to die, dehydration, amnesia.

~~~

He opened his eyes to the endless starry sky above him. There were sensations and stimuli - dull, pulsating pain in his head and back, gentle sloshing of water, a hard wooden surface beneath him - but he was too captivated by the sky to pay attention to any of them, his eyes following the stars, searching for paths between them to create constellations. He couldn’t help but smile, which then turned into almost tearing up from how overwhelmed he was by the beauty and grandness of the sky.

When he took a deep breath, the pain intensified, snapping him back to his senses and making him wince. Why was he in pain?

Where was he?

He sat up abruptly and immediately hissed when his head protested this sudden change in position. When his ears stopped ringing and his vision cleared, he looked around, and what he saw chilled him to the core.

He was in a small boat, alone, and all around him, as far as the eye could see, were the inky depths of the ocean.

There had to be something, though, right? Land or a ship, because he couldn’t have been in this boat for too long, considering he was still alive and felt… alright, aside from the pain. He must have ended up here somehow, but how?...

His head throbbed with agony again, but he was determined as he searched deep within his mind.

“Gienah!”

He flinched at the auditory memory, a word said in an authoritative tone that almost made it sound like he was going to be yelled at.

He? Yes, because the word was his name. Gienah. He was sure of that.

Other than that, though, there was nothing. He was trying to remember, but it felt like he was grasping at the thinnest threads that slipped out of his hands and disappeared, pages in a book that faded in front of his eyes, and there was nothing, nothing, nothing, he was lost and in pain and he was going to die. 

He looked around frantically, but there didn’t seem to be much in the boat, other than two oars. No food, no fresh water - and he did make sure, rummaging through the boat before having to accept that there really wasn’t anything that could help him survive. He had no way of getting out of here- No, he had wings. He was an…. owlin, that was the word. He spread his wings a bit just to remember the sensation, and grimaced when a spike of… something hit his mind. A bad memory, maybe? He’d take bad memories over no memories, but the spike passed, leaving behind a vaguely upsetting void. 

Regardless, he knew he didn’t have enough stamina to just fly forever, so leaving the boat when there was no land in sight would be an even more certain death sentence. He shuddered, imagining crashing into the sea, resigned and exhausted. No, he’d have to choose a direction and row, and hope he would come across some land he could fly to. And then… He didn’t know. He’d decide when he survived.

Dizziness overwhelmed him, so he lay back down, just for a moment, until he felt strong enough to start rowing. Was he even strong enough, though? It sure didn’t feel like it. 

No matter. He stared up at the night sky, at the moon and the stars, and he never wanted to go back to the horrifying reality of his current situation.

As he lay there, slipping into comforting mindlessness, he realized that one of his pockets felt heavier than the other. With a small spark of hope, he reached inside, and his fingers closed around a small object. When he held it up to examine it closely, illuminated by moonlight, he realized that it was some kind of whistle, made of gold-colored wood. He turned it this way and that, looking it over with narrowed eyes, but as much as he’d hoped that his seemingly only possession, barring the clothes on his back, would give him some answers, it ended up resulting in even more questions, especially when he realized that his beak didn’t even let him use it. Why would he have this? Was it really his? How did it end up with him if it wasn’t? He sighed and dropped the whistle back into his pocket, fixing his eyes on the sky again, only to have yet another realization.

He’d chalked the sensation up to hunger up until now, but he realized it was something different, a swirl of… energy inside him, and when he raised his hand, almost automatically, he remembered something, whispered a few words, and a few sparks appeared in his hand, only to fade away. Magic. It was magic.

His name was Gienah, he was an owlin, and he knew how to use magic. That was a start. What kind of magic was it, though? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tuning into the energy inside him, or… not really inside him, not to begin with, instead creeping closer from all around him, from the sea and the sky, from the fish and the seagulls. It came from nature, then. What was this called?

He knew the word, but couldn’t recall it, as if he’d hit a wall in his mind. Not like it mattered right now, anyway; his magic didn’t feel strong and focused enough to help him. He had to do his best on his own, then. He had to survive if he wanted to avoid dying out here and becoming food for the seagulls.

So he sat up, rolled his shoulders, picked up the oars and started rowing. He’d much rather do this during the day, but every second was precious in this race against time. Besides, he could focus on a specific star - the brightest one - and use it to stay on course. He could do this.

Just like he suspected, he wasn’t very strong, but determination pushed him forward. It didn’t matter if his arms felt like they were on fire, he had to push himself far beyond his limits if he wanted to survive, even when the pain was forcing tears out of his eyes. Only when he felt his muscles fully give out did he take a break, letting go of the oars to massage his sore arms and breathe deeply. Looking around, he still saw nothing but the open sea, but it was going to change. It had to.

Having to go back to rowing filled him with dread, his entire body screaming at him to save himself from the strain, but he had no choice. Although… He focused on his apparent magic again. Could he do anything to make this easier for himself, even though he wasn’t especially powerful? Drawing from nature… 

Frowning, he touched one of the oars. It was made of wood, not entirely smooth, though not rough enough for splinters, giving off a makeshift feel. A competent work from an amateur - and he could do something with it.

He grabbed both oars and closed his eyes. Just like with the sparks earlier, it was… an instinct, something that he had practiced so many times that even his mangled memory wasn’t an obstacle. He whispered a few words and tapped his fingers on the oars, and…

He opened his eyes slightly and gasped when he saw the oars glowing with thin veins of light that permeated the wood and climbed up. The oars felt… lighter, somehow, and when he put them in the water and pushed, there was less resistance than before. It worked. He could do this - this time the reassurance had more conviction behind it.

This continued into the next day, casting his spell, rowing, resting, searching for land or a ship, focusing only on the task at hand, because he knew that if he gave in to hopelessness, he would only doom himself. He could barely feel his arms, but he kept rowing, forcing himself into a murderous routine, tuning out everything else. His fingers were sore and stiff, and he felt like they were frozen solid every time he had to open his hands to let go of the oars. The only mercy was the weather, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds from time to time; he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle being constantly exposed to its scorching heat.

Night finally fell, and he took a moment to look up at the stars once again. There was something… soothing about them. They were constant, unchanging, always there, unswayed by what was going on in the mortal realm. Uncaring, maybe, and yet… calming in a way.

Slightly reinvigorated, he went back to rowing until he passed out from exhaustion.

When he woke up in the morning, his throat was bone-dry. He tried to clear it, but all it achieved was sending him into a coughing fit that only made matters worse. He was parched, and there was nothing he could do about it. Hunger was also making itself known, but it was a less pressing concern. Dehydration was going to kill him much faster than starvation.

It took all his willpower to fall back into the routine. Row, don’t stop rowing, ignore the pain, then the numbness, the hopelessness that squeezed his heart like a clawed hand, piercing it, tormenting it. Ignore the shallowness of his breath. Ignore the dark spots dancing before his eyes. Ignore the thirst, the thirst, the thirst. Ignore the fast approaching lonely death.

Then he started slipping. With what little strength he had almost completely gone, even supported by magic, he wasn’t even pushing at the oars hard enough for the boat to gain considerable speed, and the gentle waves, while more welcome than a storm, weren’t of much help. His hands were shaking, his shoulders were locked in agony. He let out a sob, then another, until he broke down fully, still rowing, still fighting, even though there was no point. Tears were clouding his vision until he could barely see anything, and maybe he was going in circles, there were no stars guiding him after all, it was so hopeless.

With a frustrated groan, he fell backwards, hitting the bottom of the boat hard, staring at the heavy, overwhelming clouds hanging over him, as if the sky was threatening to come down and crush him. At least it would be a quicker death.

He shuddered. Despite his hopelessness, he still… he didn’t want to give up. He could still try. At night, maybe, when he could use the stars to navigate. Right now he just needed to rest.

His sleep was fitful, he tossed and turned, unsure whether he was waking up from time to time or simply dreaming. His headache was killing him, his body felt heavy like lead, and his heart had sunk deep into the ocean.

When night came, he opened his eyes, but saw no stars. The night sky was obstructed by clouds.

Before he knew it, he was crying again, dryly, because he was too dehydrated for tears. He really was going to die here, barely remembering who he was and not remembering his life, what had led up to this, at all. Not knowing whether anyone would search for him, miss him, mourn him. Alone, heartbroken and scared, with nothing and no-one to comfort him in his final moments.

Exhausted, Gienah allowed himself to fall back asleep, not knowing if he would wake up again.

[tlou-obsessed]

For anyone who might remember, this is tlouobsessed, I impulsively deleted my blog a few months ago. I used to make analysis posts on the last of us episodes and occasionally wrote a ficlet or two, I have truly missed it on here and need the comfort again, life has been...not so lovely and I desperately need the distractions . Anyways this is like a Hello Again.

[moopiter]

"I Cant Stand to Be Where You Don't See Me" Ch 5 + 6

I'm sorry in advance, have some stuffies to make it better.

It’s finally time to have Homelander over for dinner! Maybe he’ll find what he’s looking for. Maybe he'll just end up staying the night.

But it was all too good to be true, wasn’t it Buckshot?

These chapters deal with heavy things, be warned. Its the beginning of the end.

~🐌