#cemetery whump

[iwritewhump]

Gravestone + cemetery

day 12 of whumptember

587 words

warnings: captivity, dead body

~

Whumpee pulls his jacket tighter around himself and exhales slowly. He gathers his strength and stands up. His legs wobble under him and he almost falls over, but somehow manages to stay upright. 

Exhaling heavily, Whumpee walks through the open door and looks back at the only place he’s been the past year. 

Dirt is caked on every inch of the ground, it’s a miracle the bottoms of Whumpee’s feet didn’t pick any of it up. Spiderwebs are in every corner of the room, each and every one of them full of bugs that have been sucked dry of nutrients. The windows cast a dull light into the room, illuminating the corpse rotting on the mattress. 

Shaking his head, Whumpee walks out of the room and leaves it behind him. 

With every step he gains strength and soon enough, he’s running. Running up the stairs from the basement dungeon Whumper had made for him, down the hallway and through the kitchen. 

He freezes. 

Police tape is across the doorway. The door jamb has been kicked in and the door lays on the floor. 

There are no police cars around, so Whumpee ducks under the tape and closes his eyes as the sun hits his face for the first time in months. Exhaling slowly, Whumpee soaks up the warmth from the sun until the cold deep in him disappears. 

For the next couple hours (days?), Whumpee sticks around the house. Mostly, he’s waiting to see who-if anyone-shows up. No one does, so he wanders. 

He somehow winds up at an old, rundown park he used to play on all the time. The swings look mostly sturdy, so he sits down and lets it sway in the wind. 

The sun starts to rise so Whumpee jumps off the swing, not wanting anyone to question why there’s an adult man on the swings. He’s not really sure where he’s going, but every step becomes easier. 

He’s standing at the gate to the cemetery. There’s a service and Whumpee, despite knowing better, walks up and stands in the back of the small crowd. He’s way underdressed, only wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt with an old band logo on it and a jacket, but no one seems to notice. 

The priest stops talking and the sobs turn into sniffles turn into silence as everyone places a primrose on the coffin. Whumpee smiles, those are his favorite flower. 

He cranes his neck to see the name on the gravestone, but everyone is in the way. Reluctantly, he tries to nudge his way towards the front, weaving between everyone to satisfy his curiosity.

There’s only a small group in front of him now and he freezes. Whumper stands with his arm wrapped around Caretaker’s shoulders, her head resting on his arm. 

She sobs softly and stares blankly ahead with unfocused eyes. 

Whumpee tucks behind someone and turns around. Breath coming in quick bursts, he runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. 

“You’re seeing things. There’s no way it’s him.” He tells himself. He peeks around the person he’s hiding behind and stares at the small group. 

Caretaker stands there, leaning heavily on…still Whumper. 

Why would they both be there? Who could bring them both together like this? 

Whumpee keeps his back turned to the small group and finds the headstone. 

He stumbles backward, hand over his mouth. The crowd doesn’t react. He falls to the ground and scrambles back a few more feet, staring at his name on the gravestone. 

[bebx]

❝ I would recognise you in total darkness.

Were you mute and I deaf,

I would recognise you in another lifetime entirely,

In different bodies,

Different times.

And I would love you in all of this,

Until the very last star in the sky

Burnt out into oblivion. ❞

— Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

[ncagutierrezart]

Anger

Because we all love some angst, don't we?

[be-bisexual-eat-hot-chip-and-lie]

not to bring sad sad dia de muertos thoughts to cemetery boys

but i kinda want to see yadriel listening to “amor eterno” (either the juan gabriel version or rocio durcal, either one is Heartbreaking)

[thecyrulik]

An unsuccessful job interview but a successful trip at the same time.

[in-love-with-writing-whump]

Febuwhump 17: Silent Tears

Whumpee stood in front of Parental Figure's gravestone, the sun casting long shadows on the field. Parental Figure had been mostly gruff, and after their lover had passed, there was nobody left to mourn them except Whumpee.

A tear slipped out, burning a path on their cheek. The cemetery was busy that day- with the veteran funerals not too far. They didn't dare make a sound, especially as they noticed a father and his two children shuffle by. They didn't want to make a spectacle, to makes things worse for them.

They choked on their sobs as the tears came silently, all with no one to comfort them like Parental Figure once had.

FEBUWHUMP 2023 IS HERE!

the prompts this year were chosen through a suggestion poll and subsequent vote, where over 350 people voted for their favourites. the top 28 make up the core prompts, and a mixture of the next most popular and this blog’s personal favourites have become the alternatives!

i’m so excited to see what you all create with these prompts, and hope they’re inspiring enough to trigger a whole month’s worth of creativity for you! if you have any questions, make sure to check out the blog’s FAQ, or check out the previously asked questions on the blog before sending one of your own!

please note: this year, notifying the blog of completionist status will happen through a google form that will be released closer to the end of febuwhump.

full write-up of prompts and rules under the cut:

Keep reading

[norbezjones]

AU-gust in September #12: Animal Mages & Evil Kalcal (Romance The Backrooms)

So, here’s the deal.  I couldn’t participate in my beloved AU-gust event / @augustwritingchallenge last month, because I was busy.  So I thought, fuck it, I’ll just participate this month instead, because we as humans can do whatever we want, and screw the rules lmao!  And that’s what I’m doing.

The event is “supposed” to be for fanfiction, but I want to write AUs for my game Romance The Backrooms, a liminal space otome with 5 main love interests, so I’m gonna do that instead.  Like I said, screw the rules! X)

Since September has only 30 days, I’ll treat Day 31’s prompt as a Joker (aka a prompt I can switch out if I don’t like the day’s chosen prompt).

I also incorporated the @whumptember prompt, because I’m evil. C:< Here’s the whumptember prompts, if you want to take part in that events as well!

Today’s Prompts: Animagus/Animal Mages, "Why did you do it?" (new gravestone, confronting whumper, cemetery)

Characters: Glarence & Kalcal

Other Info: Two things:

(1) This is an Evil Kalcal AU, because like I said, I’m evil. :3c

(2) I know the concept of animagus (which is today’s AU-gust theme) is a Harry Potter thing, and that made me conflicted because I fucking LOATHE J.K. Rowling with all of my heart & soul (I’m trans).  In the end, I decided that this will be a story about magic people who can turn into animals, but it won’t be attached to the Harry Potter universe, because fuck that.

_________

“KALCAL!” Glarence shouted, racing after the hyena and into the cemetery.  He was almost out of breath, but he couldn’t stop now.  He couldn’t let his friends die in vain. . .!

Kalcal stopped in front of a freshly dug plot, and transformed back into his human self.  He grinned at Glarence, tilting his head and laughing. 

Glarence a few yards away from the maniac, glaring at him.  “Why did you do it?” he screamed.  “Why did you kill our friends?!”

Kalcal laughed even harder.  “Oh, so you admit they’re your friends!” he teased Glarence with a smirk.  “I never thought Mr. Cold-As-Ice would admit that. . .”

“Enough!” Glarence shouted.  He pointed at the dug plot  “Answer me, or I will beat the shit out of you and throw you into that grave!”

Kalcal chuckled.  “As if you could beat me . . . but fine, I’ll answer the question.

“I killed them . . . because it was fun,” Kalcal said simply, shrugging.  “That’s all~!”

Anger and sadness filled Glarence in equal measure, and he felt himself transforming into his animal form: the bull.  “I’m going to end you,” he growled, before he lost the ability to speak.

Kalcal began morphing as well, into his hyena self.  “We’ll see.

“Let’s finish this, Glarence.  Once and for all.”

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumpee and Caretaker(s) visit Whumper’s grave, and while Caretaker(s) might not understand why Whumpee processes grief (and trauma) the way they do, they are there to support Whumpee through whatever they need, despite their own complicated feelings towards Whumper

@3-2-whump

Caretaker took a quick glance at Whumpee while they drove into the cemetery.

Whumpee cuddles a small bouquet of flowers closer and watches out the window.

Caretaker took in the visible scars that covered Whumpee's arms. They had just gotten a little more comfortable with showing their scars. Caretaker was so proud of them.

Caretaker sighed as they parked near the grave sight of the bastard who placed those scars on their Whumpee.

If it was up to Caretaker, Whumper would have been burnt to ashes and flushed down the toilet for what they had done. Unfortunately, Whumper's family made the funeral and burial arrangements. How they were able to live with the fact that the bastard had done horrible things to others and still give a proper burial was beyond Caretaker.

"Alright", Caretaker turned to Whumpee, "and you're sure you want to do this again? We can go get ice cream, or do something else even. We don't have to be here."

"I-I know, but I want to", Whumpee looked back at Caretaker, "i-is that okay?"

"Yes that is perfectly fine", Caretaker reassured, "I fully support anything you need to do for your recovery. Even if I fully do not like it, and will be honest on that. Your recovery is very important to me. If this helps you, then I will support you."

Whumpee smiles, "thankyou", they whisper.

Caretaker made their way to a nearby bench. It was close enough to watch over Whumpee, but they could stay out of the way.

Whumpee slowly walks to the grave. Caretaker always took in how cautious Whumpee was. Almost as though someone may jump out and startle them.

Whumpee stood at the foot of the grave for a few moments before kneeling down.

Caretaker wasn't close enough to hear what Whumpee said next. This is how it played out every time, like clock work.

After several moments, Whumpee would hold up the flowers as though they were offering them or showing them to someone. They would whisper one more thing before standing and placing the flowers at the head of the grave.

After a few more minutes, Whumpee would then walk back toward Caretaker.

Caretaker would then mumble something like, "Bastard", under their breath, then smile at Whumpee.

"Could we by chance get ice cream?", Whumpee smirked, "you said it, and now it sounds really good."

"We can get ice cream", Caretaker chuckled as they stood.

Whumpee enjoys their ice cream sundae on the park bench while Caretaker drinks a coffee.

"This tastes so good", Whumpee smiles.

"Yes the coffee is good as well", Caretaker agrees.

Caretaker studied Whumpee for a few moments before sighing.

"Are you okay?", Whumpee gives them a questioning look.

"I always tell myself what you do at the grave sight is up to you. It's none of my business, but I'm just curious why you want to go monthly to visit. Then also what you say", Caretaker paused, "you don't have to tell me, of course. Like I said, it's personal to you."

"Oh uh", Whumpee looked at Caretaker and smiled.

Caretaker frowned, "you don't have to tell me."

"No, it's fine. Just part of it is probably a little silly to most. Whumper was always afraid of death. It was their biggest fear. Though they were not nice to me, they deserve to have some sort of visitors. Plus, I can make sure the grave is still there. I can know for sure they haven't somehow came back to life. I know it's dumb, but it's a comfort to know they're dead and have proof of it. I always tell them that I brought flowers, then as I leave I beg them to stay there. For them to stay dead."

Caretaker smiled comfortingly, "I see, you use that as a reassurance that they are truly gone."

"Ymhmm", Whumpee nodded, "stupid, isn't it?"

"No, not at all", Caretaker chuckled lightly, "like I said. I fully support anything you need for your recovery. I fully assure you though. That bastard is dead."

"I know, and I might believe that....once they are gone from my nightmares at least."

Caretaker looked at Whumpee sadly, "I'm sorry you still dream about them."

Whumpee nodded, "thankyou so much. Also, thankyou for helping me. Your support for me has been so helpful."

"You're welcome", Caretaker smiled,"I'll always be here for you."

Caretaker watched as Whumpee took a few steps away to look at some baby ducklings swimming past. Their mind replayed those first few days after Whumpee's rescue. How traumatic it all was. The thing that kept them moving forward was the fact that their Whumpee survived it... all by themself.

Caretaker knew they would never experience what Whumpee had experienced, and they would work hard to make sure it never happened again.

That's why it hurt when they still had to visit that graveside.

Caretaker knew the bastard was dead. Caretaker killed Whumper themself. Unfortunately, the bastard still lived on and Caretaker had no way to quickly dispose of Whumpee's nightmares.

Caretaker just had to wait until the therapy started to work.

Caretaker whispered to themself, "only a matter of time. Everything will hopefully be back to normal. In a matter of time."

I am really sorry about the wait, I had a lot of requests come at me at once, and I got a little overwhelmed, so I needed a little creativity break. I know I'm apologizing a lot lately. So yeah. I really hope you enjoyed this story though. I will attempt to get the next two requests out for everyone. -MJ

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

@theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

@candleshopmenace @whumpanthems

@lavndvrr @ivymyers

@starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

@lumpofsand @watermeezer

@indigoviolet311 @whumpy-mountains

@3-2-whump @risk606

@electrons2006 @paperprinxe

@whumprince @kaz-of-crows

@mis-graves @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

@sausages-things @ragin-cajun-fangirl

@isikedmyself878 @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud

@valravnthefrenchie @glennemerald

@jasperthecapser @does-directions

@deafeninglittlecrown

[victimeyez]

The Dollhouse

Chapter 28 of Professional//Victim

Tommy is paralyzed for his client, and begins his role as a doll.

CW: Captive whumpee, intimate whumper, drugged whump, dehumanization, "willing" whumpee, medical whump, medical torture, doll whumpee, doll fetishization, desecration of remains, and strong horror elements.

~

Dae-Ho opened the door with a warm smile and eyes filled with excitement. Tommy recognized him from the brief video chat they’d had over Caius’s phone. 

“Tommy, Caius, Sam! You came! Please, please come inside!” He ushered them in like family long since seen. Stepping into the foyer, Tommy took a quick moment to take in the place. The lobby more resembled the waiting room of a spa, designed to be warm and calming. A wax heater perfumed the air with some scent, clean and slightly sweet. A fountain feature built into the far wall made for an exquisite accent, incorporating rustic slabs of warm-toned river stones with a little waterfall trickling through merrily. It was carefully fashioned to appear naturalistic, leaning away from a cool cement design that could bring to mind cemetery features. 

Neatly aligned chairs and couches were offered for anyone waiting, furbished with a soft tan hide and cushy padding tight enough to still offer support. An enormous persian rug carpeted most of the room, light and clean with dark blue accents to help balance the warmer tones. There was an office attached, and a small counter crafted to still appear open and welcoming. A soundscape of soothing nature sounds permeated quietly, accompanied by string instrumentals light enough to calm but not depress, 

I could never afford to die here, Tommy thought. There was a distinct feeling he always got when they visited the ritzy places many of his clientele inhabited. Truly, it was almost the same that he felt in his life before. As an impoverished punk in ill-fitting thrift store clothing, whenever he visited anywhere that displayed a modicum of wealth, he got a distinct feeling of being alien and misplaced. I don’t belong here. He knew it, and everyone else did, too. He did his best to act otherwise, but he simply couldn’t hold his space the way people experienced with luxury could. Especially now, deprived as he was within his meager living space. Even the rest of Caius’s house felt too fancy for his worth. 

If Dae-Ho judged him, he did not show it. His eyes twinkled excitedly behind his horn-rimmed glasses, kind and inviting. He was exquisitely dressed in a fitted black suit, with subtle paisley dyed slightly darker in a shadow-like effect. In lieu of a tie, he wore a well tied cravat of magenta with a matching pink and white pocket square. He wore shiny saddle shoes with shiny magenta laces. If he had donned a top hat and a cane, it would not have looked out of place. 

“Tea or coffee for you gentleman?” Dae-Ho swept a hand towards a stand beside the desk, laden with various coffee and tea accoutrements. 

“Coffee sounds good,” Sam suggested. 

“I wouldn’t turn down an earl grey, if you have it. Would you like anything yourself, Dae-Ho? Tommy would be happy to serve you,” Caius asked, his customer service voice in full force. Dae-Ho smiled and waved his hand easily. 

“Nonsense! You are all my guests, I am excited to have new additions to the tea party. I make everything for it myself, though dinner tonight will be catered so we can maximize our time together. If you’d accompany me to the mortuary, I have a sanitized space available where you can prepare Tommy.” Dae-Ho took Tommy’s hand in his and squeezed lightly, giving Tommy a giddy look as if they were sharing a private joke. He led them back down a couple hallways, followed closely by Caius and Sam. 

There was an electronic keypad Dae-Ho unlocked to enter the lab, and he held the door for Caius and Sam without letting go of Tommy’s hand. His grip was oddly gentle, his hands a little damp, the only indication he might be nervous. The flooring inside was a black and white tile dotted with intermittent drains, with a wall of morgue drawers along the back. There was a main slab in the middle of the room, but it resembled an adjustable hospital bed more than a classic metal autopsy table. No railings, allowing for easy access, but it was padded and covered in a shiny laminate for cleanliness. Other rolling racks and trays were stored neatly to one side. Sam whistled, looking around appreciatively, as if being shown some kind of pornography for custom labs. There was an acrid smell to the room here though, a far cry from the melted wax scents in the foyer.

“I have something special for you, Tommy. I had it tailored to you, per those measurements Caius sent,” Dae-Hold told him, dropping his hand to go collect his gift from one of the cabinets. Tommy wasn’t aware of any measurements Caius had sent him, but he knew Sam occasionally took his body measurements when he lost weight. Dae-Ho came back with a long and thin gift box, wrapped and tied thoughtfully with a silky red ribbon. The bow it culminated in looked complicated, and he hesitated to touch it when Dae-Ho set it on the slab before him. 

He had been trying to read Dae-Ho since they met eyes at the door. There were plenty of things he could surmise about him from the state of the manor, the decoration, and his personal sense of style. It was interesting how he was treating them like friends, dropping the formal pretense of a business transaction in spite of his careful state of dress. Tommy had anticipated being regarded as a doll from the very start, not that Dae-Ho would acknowledge him and act so fondly. He had asked Tommy to say hello to him over the phone, but Tommy had dismissed it as a kind of wind-up doll desire. Pull the string to hear what your dolly has to say!

What he couldn’t tell yet was Dae-Ho’s intentions. His joy and hospitality felt very genuine, regardless of the circumstances. 

You know this, you just can’t quite put your finger on it. What does a doll have to offer?

“Tommy?” Dae-Ho prompted, when the gift wasn’t readily accepted.

A doll offers…

The coin dropped. He remembered then, something he had already forgotten that he knew.

A doll offers companionship. He wants a companion. One without needs, one that never disagrees or dislikes the things he likes. Companionship without the emotional risk of genuine human connection. 

A people pleaser. Specifically, a Dae-Ho pleaser. I can do this. I can be this doll. 

Tommy shifted gears abruptly to accommodate, straightening his posture and smiling brightly. Dao-Ho flinched in surprise, but Tommy was tuning in. 

“Wow, this is beautiful Dae-Ho! You are so thoughtful. I’m afraid to open it, it already looks so nice, I don’t even know where to start,” he gushed, touching the sides of the box reverently. He tipped his head down slightly to look up at him through his eyelashes, giving a shy but flirtatious smile. Dae-Ho’s eyes immediately widened, giving him a broad grin back, even taking a step closer as if Tommy had magnetized him. 

“The pleasure is all mine, I wanted you to have it. Would you like help opening it?”

“Yes please,” Tommy said, giving him a little embarrassed smile. Dae-Ho’s eyes gleamed manically, and he tugged on one end of the ribbon, drawing it slowly to watch it unfurl. 

When he lifted the lid, Tommy got a look inside. It took a second to make sense of what he was looking at, but after his experience with all the strappy nightmares Caius put him in, this one was easy to figure out. Unfolded, it was a thickly braided wire armature with leather straps attached to buckle it on. It was shaped a little like a stick figure with no head. He could make the leap without an explanation - this would buckle like a body harness onto him, with a wire skeleton that they could use to pose him. He tested a wire braid with his hands, and it was pretty strong, but still bendable by hand with some force. 

Tommy felt nauseous looking at it. He’d known he would be paralyzed, but this felt grotesque. The threat of impending helplessness made the little color he had drain from his face. 

“You’ll be the best dolly,” Dae-Ho reassured him. Tommy kept his forced smile, but he held it with a grim resolve.

“Thank you Dae-Ho, this is very special.” 

He numbly followed orders to strip, and stand there naked, his arms and legs held away from his body as the armature was attached. The wire at the top had a smaller ring that attached the metal spine through his collar. He supposed it was easier to get it on before he was paralyzed, but once it was on, he was out of time to remain autonomous. Stiffened now with the armature in place, Dae-Ho generously helped him onto the table. As he laid down, he felt as if he was resting his head in the cradle of a guillotine. When Sam lined up a tray of shots and leaned over him, Tommy imagined the rope in his gloved hands, ready to cut it and get the session started in earnest. 

“What I’m going to be administering today is a series of pain blocks at the base of each limb. These are localized anesthetics that will prevent any sensation at all throughout each appendage, until it starts to fade after about seven hours. He also will be unable to move the limbs at all. I had one of these done when I got surgery on my arm – I had to hold my arm in my other hand when I walked for the rest of the day, otherwise it would start swinging like dead meat from my shoulder.” 

Dae-Ho laughed like Sam was telling a joke. 

“The only parts he’ll be able to feel, or have any muscle control, will be from here-” Sam drew imaginary lines with his finger over where Tommy’s thigh connected to his groin over to the base of his hip, severing his legs completely.

“-to here.” He drew lines from the base of each of Tommy’s shoulders down through his armpits.

“Ah…” Dae-Ho flanked Tommy’s other side and reached out to touch him, stroking an appreciative hand down his chest to his stomach. 

“So smooth,” he complimented. 

A gentle hand like that could have been something Tommy enjoyed, but under the circumstances, it revolted him. Dae-Ho’s hand stopped just above his groin and he held Tommy’s hip instead.

“Will he still be able to feel pleasure?” 

Tommy’s stomach churned. Sam looked slightly put off, as if disgusted by the idea. Like he hadn’t unloaded down Tommy’s throat the night before. 

“Yes, he should still be able to feel…everything. Like that.”

“Good,” Dae-Ho breathed. He reached up to touch Tommy’s lips, tracing them with a finger. As part of his “dollification”, Caius had used a lip stain on him that made them look pinker and plumper. He’d even glued on false lashes, delicately curled to give him a more doll-like appearance. The final touch had been the colored contacts, wide emerald irises on top of his natural greens.

“I have a few rules for you, so I need you to listen closely, okay?” Dae-Ho reached up to tap his own ear, as if instructing a toddler. The top of the wire armature was uncomfortable against the back of his skull under where Tommy was laying. He nodded. 

“One - dolls are always happy.” Dae-Ho smiled and pointed to the corners of his mouth. Tommy answered by mirroring his smile in a mirthless mask. 

“Good! Two, dolls do not speak. If Dae-Ho wants you to speak, Dae-Ho will tell you.” Dae-Ho pointed to himself, as if it was not clear, even when slipping into third-person. Tommy nodded. It would be a nice break from trying to guess what the right things to say were, at least.

“Three, dolls do not cry. Dolls are happy to be with Dae-Ho, dolls do not speak and complain, and dolls do not cry. Okay?” 

Hadn’t he just been thinking about that? It was eerie. He definitely hadn’t said anything about it to Dae-Ho, and wracking his brain, he couldn’t recall Caius saying anything about it. They hadn’t discussed it in the short video call. 

Sometimes he did this with Caius, when he would say something and Caius would look at him like he’d just read his mind. I was just thinking that! Are you having one of your little psychic moments, Tommy? He would ask playfully. 

Psychic - as if. If he was, he would have run before Caius could take him. Maybe he wouldn’t have agreed to finally go to church with Mom, for just one Sunday. If he hadn't gone, he never would have met Caius’s mother. He never would have met Caius. And sure, cancelling would have disappointed Ma, but that wouldn’t have been any change of pace. 

“I’ll go start the tea. When I come back - we follow the rules, okay?” Tommy gave Dae-Ho a mechanical nod, and he breezed out. 

Tommy counted ceiling tiles while Sam cleaned a spot by his hip with an alcohol wipe. He hated needles. He didn’t usually go weak at the knees about them anymore, not after all the hundreds of injections they’d put him through over the years. Vaccines, antibiotics, scar treatments, anesthetics, muscle relaxants, steroids, cocktails Sam cooked up and didn’t even tell him what he was being injected with. Not to mention, more stitches than he could count. 

He remembered, suddenly, something he hadn’t thought about in a long time. His piercer, back home, a lifetime ago. She worked out of a tattoo parlor with no name, just the generic TATTOOS sign on the side of an old road in a bad part of town. His bad part of town. But she was gentle, as gentle as one could be with a needle, and he knew because he’d gotten other piercings elsewhere. 

Anika was tall, making him feel especially small when she stood before him as he sat on the edge of the tattoo table. She was so pretty, with all her piercings, her voice deep and sweet. He’d liked her short hair, but her new braids looked good too, loose strands framing her face with the rest swept into a high messy bun. He liked the way she laid her baby hairs, in tiny little curls around her hairline.

“Alright, don’t forget to breathe. Quick pinch. Breathe in…” Tommy took a slow breath in, and the needle slid through the shell of his ear. She quickly slid the piercing into place, leaving it in as she retracted the piercing needle. “-aaaaand breathe out. Good boy, you always take it like a champ.” His heart fluttered a little in his chest, the way she said it. 

Words like that were different nowadays. Maybe that’s why Caius chose him. Saw his hopeless need to please somehow, and decided to make Tommy please him. 

Sam pushed the needle into his shoulder. Breathe in, Anika said, an echo from years ago. He breathed in, slow. The numbness started to streak down his arm immediately, and Sam pulled the needle out. Breathe out…good boy, Tommy, she complimented. It didn’t matter that she never called him Tommy, when he knew her. It didn’t matter that she never even remembered his name. 

She talked him through each injection, comforting even as Sam worked with clinical austerity. Tommy focused on his hands, making them into fists, relax, fists, relax. Curling his toes, uncurl, curl, uncurl. Until they felt weaker, and weaker, and numb, until he couldn’t feel them at all. Like they’d been amputated, no signal at all that they were even there.

The best he could do was wiggle a little by tensing his stomach. His limbs, the bulk of his bodyweight, were suddenly dead weights, fleshy anchors he couldn’t unbind. This wasn’t just being tied up - he was completely imprisoned in his body. 

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop it. It felt like the contacts might actually help a little as he blinked them back, trying to compose himself. Sam returned to his side, holding a steel water bottle. 

“Open,” he coaxed, twisting the lid off. Tommy did, but Sam pinched his nose anyway, pouring the water into his mouth. At least, he’d expected water, but there was a kind of chemical taste to it, something sweet. He swallowed it to keep from choking, but when Sam pulled the bottle back, a pink trickle dribbled down the side. 

Bastard, Tommy swore internally. He should have guessed Sam was drugging him when he waited until Tommy was unable to move to have him drink. Caius pulled a tissue from his bag and dabbed around Tommy’s lips.

Completely unable to move, no matter what happened, for the next seven or so hours. Fed aphrodisiacs, while he couldn’t fight back, while he couldn’t attempt to cover himself. The helpless feeling suddenly became overwhelming, and a few tears overflowed, even as he struggled to hold them back. 

“Oh dear. It’s alright, little one, be brave for me,” Caius cooed. He ran a hand softly over Tommy’s belly, soothing him with a gentle touch. In spite of everything, it helped. He wiped the tears away with the tissue.

“Is it scary?”

Tommy’s throat was too thick to speak. He managed a nod. Caius gave him a look of sympathy, more than Tommy would have expected after his demands. Sam’s face reflected his similar bewilderment.

“This won’t be so bad. He just wants to play with you, he doesn’t have any plans to hurt you. You can eat and drink, he really does have a tea party planned. We will be with you in case you need anything. Did you have fun at the aquarium?”

“Yes,” Tommy croaked, and then cleared his throat. “Yes, I did, thank you, it was beautiful. I had a lot of fun.” Less hoarse this time, and the leaking from his eyes was quickly subsiding.

Caius did a little more shuffling in his bag, and his touch returned to Tommy’s face with a powder brush, covering up the pink on his nose and the red around his eyes. “I had fun with you, too,” Caius admitted, and something about it brought a funny smile back to Tommy’s face. 

Deep breaths. You can do this. You don’t even have to talk. Play dolls with him. Just…babysitting.

Definitely not babysitting, another part of him reminded cruelly. He wanted to know if you can feel pleasure, they drugged you with the aphrodisiac. You’re going to spend the day as the perfect unwilling fuck doll and there’s nothing you can do about it. Tommy tried to shove those thoughts to the side in order to keep his newfound composure. 

Sam pinched and poked his arms to test the numbness. It might as well have been done to someone else, for the amount of sensation Tommy got from it. When Dae-Ho came back, his gaze on Tommy was hungry.

“Let’s get you dressed up again, shall we?”

The armature harness had replaced the fashion harness part of the outfit that he had chosen, but Dae-Ho pulled his stack of clothes from the counter where Tommy had folded them.

Trying to bend the armature to make his limbs follow was unsuccesful. After some fussing, Dae-Ho realized he could bend it much easier by manipulating Tommy’s limbs themselves, letting his weight help apply force to bend them the way he wanted. The wire was strong enough then to hold him in place. Dae-Ho posed him a few times for fun, and then used it to bend his limbs in positions that made dressing him easier. 

“I should use these for all my bodies!” Dae-Ho exclaimed, a little breathy from the effort. Tommy had been dressed by Caius and a few others before, when he was unable - or unwilling - to dress himself. Not in the things some of the clients wanted, especially at the beginning. Tommy knew better than to fight back much anymore, though he had just made his little stand in the car earlier.  

When he was dressed again, in his blousy white dress shirt and black latex pants and matching bowtie, Dae-Ho laced him into a pair of saddle shoes with spats. He was settled into a wheelchair, lowered in with practiced ease by Dae-Ho. He was deceptively strong underneath his fine suit. Tommy was wheeled to the stairs then, Caius and Sam trailing behind, and stopped at a stair lift waiting at the bottom. He’d only ever seen them in commercials before, of elderly people smiling as they buckled themselves into the seat to be pulled up the stairs on a motorized track. He could see it installed up the wall, rounded off at the corners to go up the stairs, turn onto the landing, and continue up the next flight that changed direction. 

Dae-Ho turned to Sam. 

“Doctor, will you please help me move it onto the lift?” Sam had a pinch in his forehead, but after a hesitant look to Caius, he agreed. Not being able to feel or move his limbs was uncomfortable to Tommy - any part of him that wasn’t supported hung limply down, and he couldn’t help at all. As he was settled into the chair and buckled in, his arms bent awkwardly in front of him. Sam moved his hands into his lap, and one immediately fell off, dangling strangely. The best he could do was attempt to sit up and back to move his arms back in, but they were nothing more than warm dead anchors hanging from his shoulder. He also couldn’t adjust his hips to sit up, so he hung uselessly in his harness. 

With the press of a button, the chair let out a grinding sound and started to advance up the wall. At the corner, he heard his ankle bash the wall, but he couldn’t feel it at all. The helpless feeling was significantly worse than when he was bound and he could strain against his bindings - this was more intimate, more violating, the way it robbed him of the little autonomy he had left. 

The machine went slower than walking speed, so the others met him again at the top after passing him. Dae-Ho already had another wheelchair ready, and he flopped haphazardly in with a push. The acrid smell had grown sharper, turning sour and musty, though the upstairs appeared clean and brightly lit. Caius wrinkled his nose slightly, struggling to be polite, but Sam gave a look of open disgust. 

Tommy was wheeled into a lavish dining room, made up as the pinnacle of a lavish art-deco design. It felt like it belonged in a scene from The Great Gatsby. The center of the room was dominated by a round table - and the rest of the company had already found their places. Dolls were seated around the table, some propped up in chairs, others in wheelchairs like Tommy. They were of varying sizes, some child-size while others appeared as tall as Caius. There were a variety of designs among them - some very simple, others far more realistic. One had clearly been a scarecrow, a few were just mannequins, and a couple of halloween prop dummies with plastic heads and hands. One seat held a long body pillow with a pillowcase featuring an anime girl posed in a vulnerable way, blushing. 

There was a gigantic Barbie and Ken, their placid smiles unsettling at such a size. Next to them sat what looked like a crash test dummy that had been badly painted, the mouth too low on the face, the eyes too far apart. A large green power ranger plushie had a spot, as well as a plastic Optimus Prime that stood up stiffly in his chair. One seemed to be an evil clown animatronic, another one a human-sized plushie blue tiger.

 Tommy preferred that to the ones that were obviously sex dolls, made with an attempt at realism that was undermined by their soulless faces and cartoonish proportions. Most of the dolls were dressed in roaring 20’s outfits, but the sex dolls wore skimpy club wear that highlighted their enormous plastic breasts and tiny waists. Other more detailed mannequins had closer to human proportions, all slightly different shapes and sizes, but their plastic faces were identical - one face for all the “women”, and another for the “men”. Their eyes were sunken, but more lifelike in color and size, the glossy glass orbs taking on a wet look. Wigs, flapper dresses, patterned suits, and fake eyelashes abound. 

Dae-Ho’s seat was obvious, as an empty throne of garish gold. He had a sex doll immediately to the left, and wheeled Tommy into an empty spot to the right. Caius and Sam took to a couch on the side, away from the table. 

“You all get to know each other a bit, and I’ll be back with everything for the tea party,” Dae-Ho addressed his inanimate guests, and left the room.

The smell was strong, though if Dae-Ho noticed, he didn’t mind. As soon as he left, Sam started searching the room. 

“We’re not casing the joint, you know,” Caius mused, as Sam made his way around the edge of the room. 

“It smells like - something, I can’t put my finger on it, but it reeks in here,” Sam explained, opening the drawers of a wardrobe. He sniffed over one, made a face, and started to rummage through. 

“We are directly above his embalming room, you’re probably smelling something from that,” Caius pointed out, but they all knew the smell had been fainter in the lab below. Sam ignored him, moving on to another drawer.

“Hey,” Caius said sharply, and both Tommy and Sam jumped. Well, as much as Tommy could jump. 

“We are guests here. Stop touching his things, put everything back exactly the way it was, and sit. Down.” Caius hissed, and it sent Sam quickly packing everything back in. It felt a little like a mother reigning in her boys, though Tommy sat dutifully in his place at the table - not that he could do anything else. 

“Just let me look at the dolls,” Sam mustered, passing the couch to inspect them. Caius sighed.

“If he comes back and sees you, he very well might invite you to the table. And if he does - you will sit down at that table and shut your mouth, so help me god.”

Sam sniffed around the circle, but he mostly just seemed curious about the dolls. He poked the animatronic in the eyes, and posed the Optimus Prime with his little hands on the table. When he got to a sex doll, he squeezed her breasts, giving a mischievous smile to Caius. 

“Jealous?” He waggled his eyebrows up and down goofily. Caius rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his thin lips. 

“Hardly. If you want some big silicon tits, I know a doctor who might be able to help.” 

Sam twiddled with the swollen boobs. “They even have nipples.”

“Of course, how else would she breast feed?” Caius said dryly, but he was enjoying his boyfriend’s antics a bit. 

Sam reached the mannequin beside Tommy, and pulled it back to sit upright so he could take a closer look. 

“These ones have like - I think these are real human replacement eyes, like if you lose an eye? Do they use those on bodies?”

“No, much worse, they put these little hooked pieces inside to keep the eyelids closed,” Caius supplied helpfully. Sam and Tommy made the same face at the same time in response to the information. 

“I knew a doll fucker, this guy Pete. Had a whole ‘harem’ of the things, even had a wedding ceremony with at least one of them. I almost went, just to see, but there wasn’t an open bar and the ceremony was supposed to be like two hours long. But he was collecting these mannequins that they used in a couple high end places in France or something, they were super articulated and rare. These might be those types, or something like it.” Sam squeezed one of the arms. 

“What do you bet all of these have a fleshlight installed? I bet even Optimus over there is rocking something.” Sam pulled the wig hair back to get a better look, and made a face. 

“Oh, shit, this thing stinks. I hope we don’t have a-” Sam stopped suddenly, freezing in place.

“Don’t,” Tommy whispered.

Sam pressed something behind the ear, palpating it with his fingers before switching to picking at it with his fingernails. 

“Sam don’t-”

Sam tugged shortly, and then slower, drawing out an enormous metal pin that had been hidden inside the head. The awful smell grew much more intense, and a foul brown liquid dripped down the side of the doll’s face from where the pin had been pulled. 

Why Sam couldn’t leave it be, Tommy would never know. But when Sam pushed the wig away from the hole to see, the doll’s head shifted and opened like a clam, the face swinging open and away, clicking lightly when it hit the hinge behind the other ear. Plastic blond ringlets fell in the way as Sam let go, but they couldn’t cover enough of what was inside. 

The face underneath was leathery and shiny, with glass-like cracking in areas. All the shellac in the world couldn’t keep a body from rotting. The false eyes were glued over blackened sockets, obtrusive and bulging. Her lips were painted on poorly, closer resembling a beak, and the thin shell of preservative was the only thing shaping the nose, which seemed to have liquified underneath. 

The smell was putrid and overwhelming, and both Tommy and Sam turned away to retch. Sam crossed the room away from it, leaving Tommy dry heaving beside the body. 

With a horrified realization, Tommy looked up and counted the other dolls with the sunken, human eyes. Six total, hunched over in wheelchairs around the table. Sam was swearing, but Caius stepped up beside Tommy to look, holding a hand over his lower face. 

Doing a once over of the "doll", Caius sighed.

"Damn."

~

Taglist:

@suspicious-whumping-egg  @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats @paperprinxe

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

Thank you all so much for reading!!!

[blackrosesandwhump]

100 Drabble Challenge: Gothic Whump Edition

The challenge: pick one of the 60 word prompts below and write a short drabble using it!

Faint

Ashen

Candle

Blood

Delirious

Weak

Coughing fit

Vigil

Drugged

Decay

Storm

Castle

Darkness

Dagger

Chains

Mirror

Poison

Forest

Straightjacket

Stabbed

Masquerade

Dungeon

Bandages

Experiment

Monster

Haunted

Insane

Imprisoned

Laboratory

Obsessed

Isolation

Coffin

Restrained

Ritual

Skeleton

Cursed

Buried alive

Hypnosis

Cemetery

Drained of blood

Nails

Cage

Foggy

Terror

Corpse

Scream

Ruins

Afraid

Locked away

Ghost

Midnight

Crypt

Vampire

Demon

Nightmare

Creature

Crumbling

Torture

Dead

Wasting illness

[reaching-writing]

That Which Remains

In a quiet cemetery, there is a grave. In the grave, there is a body. Above the grave, there is a shadow clinging to a headstone, surrounded by a world that failed to protect him.

(The name on the grave is Daniel Jackson Fenton. It is his grave, so it must be his name. He does not think of himself as Daniel, though.)

In which Danny is dead, but his spirit lingers. He's good at that.

-

Important Tags: Major Character Death, Danny Fenton is Dead, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Whump, Platonic Relationships, Haunting, Character Study, Grave Robbing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

AO3 Here or Read More ⬇️

_____________________________________________

In Loving Memory of Daniel Jackson Fenton

May 18, 1990 - October 16, 2008

“Here lies one from a distant star, but the soil is not alien to him, for in death he belongs to the universe.” ― Clifford D. Simak

_____________________________________________

The gravestone is cool to the touch, chilled by the autumn air and wreathed in shadow from the setting sun.

He shudders, curling closer against the smooth surface, his temple nearly resting against the stone. He isn’t solid enough to touch it, not in any meaningful sense of the word, but he cannot bear to leave it. There is something precious six feet below him, and it tugs at the remains of his consciousness like the moon pulling the tide.

There is a body in this grave. All that remains of a human life has been whittled down to decaying flesh, muscle, and bone. He thinks that there must be maggots in his coffin, that they must be feasting on the opulence of his putrid flesh, but he doesn’t know. For all that he is curious, there is another part of him that feels revulsion — it is the part of him that still remembers, however hazily, living in a human body.

He remembers many things. Gravity, he thinks, is one of the strangest things that he has surrendered in death. He is weightless, his hair floating off of his scalp gently even when he is at rest. Hunger and thirst, too, are gone, but something else has stolen their place. It is a craving, desperate sensation, seated right at the pit of his belly, and he knows that this craving is keeping him… not alive. It allows him to continue to linger, the echo of a whisper in a quiet corridor.

He lingers, a haze of smoke drifting from the embers of a life.

The craving comes and goes, ebbing and flowing even as he stays perfectly still, wrapped around a lonely, cold grave. He does not answer its call, not purposefully, but it is always sated when he receives a visitor.

They bring him offerings during their visits. Flowers are the most common, and he quite likes them. Their petals are soft and the smooth glass of the vases is always pleasant to rub his fingers against. He likes the vibrant colors, and he watches them for hours through his not-quite-eyes. He cares for them lovingly, even as they start to decay, lovely petals withering to a pale, crinkly brown. They are always taken away with a quiet word from the groundskeeper, a hushed prayer on their lips as they carefully remove the dead flowers from their vases.

He wishes that the dead flowers could stay. He likes them.

The living bring him other offerings, as well. They light candles for him, though he shies away from the heat, his not-quite-hands wracked with tremors if he dares to reach too close to the heat. He remembers burning, but not from fire. He remembers cooking from the inside out, hearing a horrible screeching as his atoms denature and reform, coalescing into something else. Something wrong. He retracts his shadows from the candles, because for all that he is mesmerized by the sight of flames dancing over a wick, he cannot bear to remember it all.

He likes it most when the living bring him nothing. They walk up to his headstone, their hands barren of any offerings, and they give him the most lovely gift of all. They cry. He cannot help but delight in the sensation of being fed, his craving vanishing in the wake of the most powerful sorrow he has ever felt.

He doesn’t remember them, not fully. He is little more than a shadow, barely dead, barely clinging to the mortal coil. He holds onto his gravestone, because he knows very few things, but he can feel his body resting below, gently breaking apart with the rhythm of the earth. Six feet of dirt and a half inch of pine wood do not dull the sensation, the careful tug of solidity. He knows his body. His name, however, is a different story.

The name on the grave is Daniel Jackson Fenton. It is his grave, so it must be his name. It tastes strange in his not-quite-a-mouth, sour and stale, as if nobody has used that name in a long time.

He does not think of himself as Daniel. He is a shadow, free floating and unattached, as light as a whisper. He is that which remains after the rot has been cleared away, when a body is nothing but bones and prayer wrapped in soft fabrics. He is the wind gently pressing against the headstone. He is the silence that fills the graveyard. It is his graveyard, filled with a thousand other gently decaying coffins, underneath a thousand other stones. Despite that, he is alone; no other grave hosts a creature like him, a shadow without a body.

He thinks that he must have had a mission, long ago. He must have had a purpose, for all that he is useless now. His purpose must have been wonderful, indeed, if he is still itching for it, even in death. He does not dare to imagine what his purpose once was, lest it tear him from his new mission.

His new mission is clear. He is the creature that remains, the silence following the crash, and his only mission is to remain near his body. He must stay and watch. The rest will follow, he is sure.

The shade curls closer to the tombstone as a human approaches. It is a tall man, with blond hair and a long, brown trenchcoat.

“Hey, kid,” the man says quietly, his accent unfamiliar. Despite a cool exterior, there are waves of strong emotion radiating off of him, and the shade flickers curiously.

The man stands still, maybe reading the words on the stone. Maybe he’s just thinking, because the emotions that continue to emanate from him are powerful. The shade consumes them, finally filling that gaping void that exists at his core, but he continues to watch the man.

There is something not quite right about this man.

“I didn’t believe it, when I first got the call,” the man says slowly, reaching up to rummage through his pockets. He pulls out a small box, extracts a strange-looking stick, and tucks the box away once more. He pulls out another item, but pauses. “…Probably shouldn’t smoke here, huh? You never cared for it.”

He doesn’t speak. For one, he can’t — there are many things required for human speech, foremost among them a mouth — and for two, he isn’t sure what he would say. He does not remember this man.

It’s difficult to say if he remembers anything, really.

The man in the trenchcoat kneels, sinking down to one knee and resting a palm against the grass. His eyes are locked on the stone, and the shade wavers just slightly as the man draws closer.

He isn’t sure why, but this human is interesting. There is a heaviness to his presence, as if the very air around them is anticipating his next move. There is a cunning to his eyes, a sharpness to his smile that leaves the shade wondering just who this man could be.

When the human speaks again, he’s still quiet. “I’ve never been good at this. I’m not good at much outside of, you know… Fuck.”

The shade coils tighter around the gravestone, but he keeps a watchful not-quite-an-eye on the stranger.

He is fascinated, in some small way, by the living. Their skin, so vibrant and colorful, must be warm to the touch. He is nearly tempted to reach out, extending tendrils of shadow and not-quite-hands, but he doesn’t dare. There’s a hidden danger there, he can feel it.

Something very bad will happen if they discover him. He doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t know why, but he won’t risk it.

“I’m in town this week for work. I mean, it’s good to see you, too, but… That didn’t come out right,” the blond man grumbles, his face scrunching up in discomfort before he seems to let it go. “You left behind some restless spirits, kid. They’re… They don’t cope like we do. I guess you must know that, huh?”

He still doesn’t speak, just watches the visitor with curiosity. This man keeps his sadness held close to his chest, as if it’s something that can be secreted away under his trenchcoat. It must be painful, the shade thinks, and if he really tries, he can imagine the sensation.

He can feel the bitter tang of sorrow, metallic and biting, and he wonders if this is taste. He can’t quite remember the sensation, and he doesn’t have much of a mouth anymore, but the flavor of sadness is a heavy, familiar sensation. It burrows in every corner of his shadows, latching onto whatever footholds it may find, and it lingers. It’s like him, in that way — it remains after everything else has been cleared away. It doesn’t choke him, but it stays.

He’s so lost in the taste that he nearly misses the man’s next words.

“I know it’s not… I’m so mad, kid,” the blond man says, his tone hushed like a prayer. There’s something broken in his voice, and his eyes shine in a familiar, startling way. Was the shade once so important, to bring tears to this man’s eyes? 

The bitterness of his sorrow mingles with his voice, but the tears don’t fall. “I’m mad at myself. I should’ve never… Fuck. Fuck. I didn't even come to the funeral, I shouldn't be…"

The shade is utterly helpless for a long moment, nearly taken aback by the sheer force of the man’s whirlwind of emotion. It’s addicting. It’s nourishing. Then, it’s dissipating as the man stands, stubbornly swiping at his face with a beige sleeve. Oh. 

He’s leaving.

The blond man is leaving, but he’ll come back eventually… Right? The shade shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t know. He won’t leave, of course, but… It feels so good to bask in the sensation of emotion. It feeds him. His grave needs protection, of course, but to just feed a bit more…

He forces himself to stay perfectly still as the blond man turns to leave, his blue eyes just slightly red. He takes a half step back, as if held in place by some indecision, before sighing quietly.

“I’ll be back tomorrow… See you then, Danny.”

Oh.

And just like that, he has a name.

-

The shade — Danny, he is Danny, he has a name — waits. There’s little else to do, after all, and his grave is nice and comfortable. He curls around the cool stone, nearly buzzing with glee. He has a name, and it isn’t Daniel, it’s Danny.

Losing one’s identity is a tricky business — trickier, still, is regaining it. His sense of self has all but evaporated, but he knows a few things. He knows that his name is Danny, he knows that he is dead, and he suspects that he was once loved.

He has a few reasons to suspect the latter part, of course. His grave is nice and comfortable, and he thinks that his casket is nice, though he doesn’t want to check. He faintly remembers it, though, a solid wood box with plush, soft lining. He thinks that he remembers being buried, though the memory is fuzzy.

He remembers thinking that it would be nice to remain in such a lovely coffin. He remembers the color of the soft satin lining, and he doesn’t know what it is called, but he thinks that it is his favorite.

He remembers the sensation of being lowered into the ground. He remembers warm hands — a touch on his face, maybe. He thinks that he was held, before they let him rest.

He wishes so desperately to remember that, to be held again in his memories. There is nothing but blank space and yearning.

To pass the time, Danny holds onto those memories. There are precious few of them, but he rehashes them in his mind, what little remains of it. He recalls every visitor he’s ever had, and maybe that’s a clue, too. He’s had so many visitors, and surely one of them loved him.

(In the quiet moments, where the wind is still and Danny is left alone with no company except for the stars, high in the sky, he wonders. He’s the only shade in this graveyard, the only one who seemingly just will not move on. He hasn’t tried.)

It's funny, how long it has taken him to learn his own name. So many of his visitors have their own names for him, if they can even manage to speak through their tears — but not the trenchcoat man. He had said Danny's name without hesitation, without pause. He wonders how he had known the man.

The quiet crunching of leaves tears him from his thoughts, and he extends his senses. He can see broad shoulders and a bulky frame, with dark hair laced with familiar white and silver streaks.

Danny has a visitor.

He remembers this man with his strong, careful hands. He remembers one of those hands brushing against his shoulder, gentle as a whisper, as if afraid to somehow break him. He remembers those hands straightening the collar of the suit he'd been buried in, and that deep voice saying softly that it looked like he was asleep. He remembers the wood of his coffin resting on this man’s shoulder as the procession carried him to his final home.

He doesn’t know this man’s name, and attempting to recall it is as futile as trying to catch smoke in his hands.

The quiet man comes to a stop at Danny’s grave, as he always does. He hasn’t brought anything with him, and it seems like he’s aware of this on some level. His large hands flex and loosen, as if he’s trying to find something to do with them.

“Hey, bud,” the man says, his voice low and quiet as per usual. Danny likes the quiet man’s voice, all deep and rumbling like a distant thunder. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine feeling nostalgia for that voice.

“Hope you don’t mind, I just… Thought I’d stop by. I don’t know why, I didn’t even-” The quiet man cuts himself off, his features twisting in pain. He runs a hand through short, messy hair, his misty eyes settling on the headstone. “I meant to bring something. Didn't know what you'd want, and choosing flowers for your-"

There's a heavy silence, his mouth closing and opening as if he can't quite find the words.

The quiet man is always a fountain of sorrow, but there’s another taste to his emotions. It settles around Danny’s core like lead, thick and heavy until it’s nearly impossible to move around. It’s a bitter feeling, like nostalgia left out in the cold and twisted by time. Guilt.

Guilt pours from the quiet man in waves, like a low-lying fog rolling over the hills. It’s everywhere, but it doesn’t suffocate. It creeps along silently, and Danny wonders what sort of suffering this man must be enduring, to hold in so much guilt for so long.

It nourishes him, and it settles around his core like a block of ice.

The quiet man looks at the headstone for the briefest of moments before wrenching his gaze away, turning instead to survey the rest of the cemetery. In the distance, there's a few livings visiting another headstone.

"So, your neighbors. Are they nice? God, I- I hope so. Hope they're taking care of you, like we…" His eyes are misty again, the sclera tinged with red. His lips thin, and when the tears fall down his cheeks, the fog of emotions surrounding him intensifies.

Guilt, shame, sorrow, grief — it's almost too much. Danny dares to pull away from the headstone, just slightly, and absorbs more of the sensation.

Every visitor is another shard of glass, and together, they create a mosaic of a life once lived. The quiet man must be a big piece of that mosaic, his pieces brittle and chipped, for all that he visits and mourns so deeply.

Danny watches the man dry his face, the atmosphere of shame only growing thicker.

"I failed you," the quiet man whispers brokenly, his voice wavering. Danny watches him, entranced and puzzled in equal parts. "I was supposed to- I was supposed to be on your team, but I couldn't… I couldn't have…"

It feels rather like he's intruding on a private moment, but it's difficult to do anything except bear witness. Besides, privacy is for the living — the dead have very few secrets.

Still, there's a very small part of him that is uncomfortable. It shifts and squirms deep in his core, screaming out that seeing this man at his most vulnerable is wrong. He is watching the breakdown of a person who must have loved him, once.

He thinks that it would be more disrespectful to look away.

The quiet man cries in silence for a while longer. Clouds drift endlessly overhead, casting the cemetery in blissful, dim shadows.

"Sorry," the quiet man chokes out. "I'm so sorry, Danny. I…"

The differences between the quiet man and the trenchcoat man are staggering. Intermingled with the trenchcoat man's emotions had been the undercurrent of anger, of unfairness — but the quiet man bears no anger. He wears sorrow on his sleeve, chokes back guilt deep in his throat, but he is never angry. Instead, there is a nigh-overwhelming shame in every fallen tear.

Danny cannot help but wonder.

The quiet man composes himself gradually, wiping away tears and taking slow, deep breaths. The force of his grief is akin to a force of nature, and it seems like it's all he can do to stifle the emotion under his skin. He hides it well, when all is said and done.

Then, he sits down next to the headstone. He leans against it, a broad shoulder coming to rest beside solid, black and white granite. It feels familiar. Danny wavers, pulling to the farthest point of his shadows and keeping a safe distance from the man.

He does not want to be found, not even by this kind, soft-spoken man.

"Jazz has visited a lot, hasn't she?" The quiet man asks, his eyes distant. "She's been in a bad place, since… We all have. We've stopped asking where she's going, at this point."

Danny isn't sure who this 'Jazz' person is. The name is almost familiar, but he doesn't know what her face might look like. He doesn't get too many visitors, though, so perhaps he can narrow it down with some effort.

"Mom and I…" The quiet man trails off, and there's an expression on his face that walks the line between regret and exhaustion. "We're trying. Jazz is seeing a guy at the wellness center for grief counseling. She says that it helps, so we, uh- we might try that."

Mom. Danny doesn't know who that is, either, but they sound important.

"I'm sorry that I haven't visited you in a while," he says softly, his tone strained with pain. "It's just… It's hard. Sometimes it feels like you're just- you're at school, or with a friend, and we'll see you soon, but… Can't really pretend you're in Algebra when I'm standing in a cemetery. It feels more real."

He's not wrong. There's an atmosphere around the cemetery, a coalescence of the physical and the spiritual that is very nearly tangible. Denying death in a graveyard is a fool's errand, and this man is no fool.

Danny observes him curiously, unable to really help himself. Now that the quiet man is closer, he can make out more details, even with his hazy 'sight.'

The man carries a bone-deep weariness, and his eyes are lined with bags so deep that they resemble bruises. His jaw is speckled with short hairs, not like the beginnings of a beard, but like scruff that one doesn't bother to shave. His hair is shiny with oil, and his clothes are wrinkled. He looks… wrecked. Exhausted.

Danny pauses to consider that. He wonders if it is his death that has caused this man's deterioration. He wonders if that's love.

It must be agony.

The quiet man sighs softly through his nose, that faraway glint returning to his eyes. For all that he looks to be middle-aged, he seems a lifetime wearier than he should be.

"We had a visitor at the lab today," he says, but the hushed tone that he adopts makes it sound more like a confession. "Well, Mom did. I wasn't- I wasn't there. I haven't been there for a few days. Anyways, he said that, uh, that he knew you, before. He said that he'd take care of the rest of the…"

He trails off again, closing his eyes. He rests a hand against his eyes, his lips thinning. Then, the hand falls, and his cheeks are wet again.

"Your mom handled it. She's- she's handling everything better than I am," he says. It seems like it's difficult to admit, and Danny faintly wonders if the man has spoken to anyone else about this. "I'm lucky to have her."

Danny agrees, though he isn't sure why. Instead of thinking about it, he just soaks up more of the man's grief. It wraps around his core like a blanket, and it is unimaginably heavy.

He likes it when the quiet man visits. The powerful emotions are nice to taste, but for the most part, he just talks. He doesn't act like Danny is alive, but he talks about everything. It's nice, when the rest of Danny's existence is so quiet.

It feels like Danny knows him, from these little snapshots of his life. He has visited Danny's grave often enough to feel like an old friend. He quite likes having a friend.

The quiet man sighs through his nose, his eyes catching on the dimming sun through the clouds. His lips twist into a frown.

"I need to get home soon. Today really got away from me." He says softly, and then, there's a mirth in his expression that hasn't been there before. "You'd make fun of me for that. Your old Dad, always forgetting to check the time…"

Dad is a nice name for this man, Danny thinks. His large frame and quiet demeanor seem to be at odds with one another, but he makes it work, somehow. Dad.

The quiet man, Dad, clambers to his unsteadily feet after a moment. His hand lingers on the headstone for a beat before he pulls away, his face twisting in that sorrowful smile once more.

"I'll come see you again soon, bud. Promise."

Danny believes him. He curls up happily around the headstone, replaying the visit over and over again in his mind long after Dad is gone.

-

The moon is high in the sky when he receives a visitor again. The hunger doesn't pull at him immediately, pulling at the very periphery of his senses, so he doesn't realize that he has visitors until their footsteps are too close for comfort.

Luckily, the nighttime is his domain, and Danny pulls away from his headstone almost on pure instinct. He retreats a few feet, slotting neatly into the shadows cast by another grave. He keeps a watchful not-an-eye on his two visitors, and he recognizes them immediately.

The slight, pale girl with the dark clothes is Sam, her cheeks usually stained from the dark pigment decorating her eyelashes. She's quiet when she visits, always under the cover of night, as if she can't stand to visit him in the day. Even now, her eyes slide off of his grave immediately, her face contorting in a pained wince. He wonders why he repulses her so.

She's staring at the grass, her hands shoved deep in her pockets. Her shoulders shudder, just slightly, as if she can feel Danny's not-eyes on her.

By her side is Tucker, his dark eyes locked onto Danny's grave. His gaze doesn't flicker back and forth, instead staying firmly focused on his name above the epitaph. His face is tired, and even through his bulky winter coat, he has visibly lost weight.

These two wear their grief so strangely, but it suits them. He still remembers the day he had learned their names, when they'd visited his grave with shovels and their strange devices, their exhaustion bone-deep and faces determined. He still remembers watching them turn the earth above his coffin, working for hours through the night. He still remembers their despair as they examined his body, desperately pressing buttons on their little machines, their tears when they finally gave up.

Even now, Danny half expects them to be holding shovels every time they show up at the cemetary. He expects his body to be exposed to the sky again, the safety of six feet of earth torn away from him.

He doesn't trust these two, not really, but their emotions sate him regardless. He fights the urge to back away further and nestle himself between the other graves, hiding in the deepest shadows. Instead, he stays nearby, watching Sam and Tucker warily.

When they'd dug up his grave all those months ago, he hadn't been strong enough to fight back. Now, he is the thing that remains in the absence of life. He is little more than shadow, but he will choke out the light that threatens him.

"Any readings?" Sam says suddenly, glancing up at Tucker. When he doesn't respond for a beat, she frowns. "Tuck?"

"Hm?" Tucker jumps, as if snapping out of a deep stupor. He blinks, seemingly processing her question, and looks down at the device in his hands. It has a small light steadily blinking on and off. He frowns. "No. Nothing."

She scowls. She scuffs the grass under her boots, twisting her hands deeper into her pockets.

Danny watches them both, his not-quite-eyes following their every movement. For all that he does not know them, their mannerisms are eerily familiar, the last vestiges of a life once lived. He almost sees familiarity in the curve of Sam's brow, almost feels deja vu from the mist in Tucker's eyes.

Not quite, though. He doesn't quite know them, despite his best efforts, and he doubts he ever really will.

Sam's face contorts in anger. Her eyes turn to Danny's headstone and she wears a look of utter and complete loathing, just for a second. It looks wrong on her features, and maybe she knows it, because it drops quickly.

"I'm still so angry," Sam says quietly, barely a whisper. Her eyes are shiny with tears, but the stubborn tension in her jaw remains. She always looks like this when she's fighting tears, and she does it often when she visits.

Danny wonders why she bothers.

"I know," Tucker says, not looking up from the device in his hands. He's still watching it, so intent on something, but Danny isn't sure what. "I know."

"It isn't fair."

"It isn't."

There's a tense silence.

"Aren't you mad?" Sam asks, turning to face Tucker. Her expression is unreadable, but Danny thinks that there's anger somewhere below the surface. "Even a little bit?"

"Being mad isn't going to bring him back." Tucker's face is solemn, but there's a subtle tension to his brow. He seems less angry and more annoyed, as if he doesn't want to hear anything to the contrary. "I was mad for a while. Now, I'm just…"

He doesn't need to say it. Danny can taste his sorrow creeping through the air, sweet on his not-a-tongue and heavy against his shadows. It's everywhere in the air around him and he absorbs it greedily, the nourishment flooding his core like a balm on a wound.

He doesn't know these two, but their emotions sate him like any other. Sam's anger radiates out from her like heat from a star, but Danny does not bask in its warmth. He shies away, instead curling tighter between two headstones a few rows over. His shadows writhe uncomfortably, being so far from his headstone, but he doesn't dare to approach.

Sam's lower lip quivers, her jaw tight. She huffs out a sigh through her nose and crosses her arms, turning away from the grave.

"Maybe we'll get a better reading if we're out of Amity. You heard his dad, there's too much ambient ectoplasm in the air here-"

"You want to dig him up again?!" Tucker cuts her off sharply, his eyes wide.

Danny's not-stomach swoops, and he recognizes the new tastes in the air — shock and outrage, heavy against the shadows that conceal him. He frantically looks between Sam and Tucker, horrified but not quite surprised.

He will never rest in peace, will he? The thought makes him shudder and shake, his shadows writhing.

"If it'll get us better readings, then yes!" Sam snaps, throwing her hands up in the air. "Unless you have any better ideas?"

He can't hurt them, can he? Not these people who once knew him, once loved him-

"Here's an idea- why don't we let him REST?!" Tucker shouts, taking a menacing step forward. Sam doesn't back away, instead jutting out her chin defiantly. "We already did that once! I'm not doing it again, you fucking psycho-"

"I'm a psycho now? It seems like I'm the only one who cares!" Sam shouts, raising her hands and shoving at Tucker's chest. He stumbles back from the force of the blow, his eyes wide, and she advances. "Jazz has gone dark, his parents are a mess, and the Justice League is too busy with the lawsuit-"

No, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t—

Danny can't take it anymore. He screams through a mouth that doesn't exist, tears at hair that isn't real, and the cemetery goes dark. He can hear a loud, horrible sound, and his shadows envelop the grave before he can even try to pull himself back.

He snaps to awareness all at once, and the cemetary is unrecognizable. The moon in the sky has all but vanished in the wake of his panic, the headstones around him wreathed in thick, writhing shadow. There is only darkness, and it permeates the air so thoroughly that light doesn't even reach the grass.

He is everywhere. His perception extends far beyond his core, he is everywhere that his shadows are — and his shadows are vast and dark. He has consumed all that is around him, he has become the very air itself, he is ravenous and he is consuming all that he can reach—

He breathes with not-quite-lungs and finally looks at Tucker and Sam, his shadows turning inward to stare, unblinking, at the two—

They're looking at him.

They can see him.

Oh.

-

(If you made it this far, consider dropping a comment or reblog! You can also check out my AO3 here.)

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

Back

Masterlist

Well it was short, but all good things must come to an end. (The whump I mean, not the story).

TW blood, dislocated joints, fractures, mouth injuries.

Oh god.

Oh god.

Raphael dropped the lock picker he was holding and ran to Everest. The vampire was dangling from the ceiling like a piece of meat on a butcher's hook. And he was coated in his own blood.

The man quickly untied him, his hands shaking as he took in his state. Everest's body was dislocated, like a broken doll, limp in his hands. His white eyes were half lidded, staring blankly at nothing. Raphael paled, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him as he watched his hands, already covered in blood, so much blood.

- Everest, buddy, you hear me ? I'm getting you out of here.

He kept talking, whispering reassuring words as he lifted the small vampire's body in his arms, even though the latter was clearly too out of it to understand.

Raphael carried him out of the basement, into the night, toward his car.

He drove, both torn with anguish and seething with anger.

He had seen everything from his house, watching the livestream these little fuckers had started on some shady website. Watching, waiting for any clue of where exactly they were.

He had been lucky to recognise the logo of the local university on one of the teen's shirts, despite their precautions. Voice changers and blurred faces, the whole pack, but it hadn't been enough.

Still, it had taken him a week to find who exactly it was, and to follow him and his friends to the local cemetery. To watch them unlock one of the burial vaults, and sneak in.

The following night, he was there.

He cradled Everest in his arms as he got him out of the car, and carried him into the house. The feeling of his bones moving under his skin was unnerving, a grim reminder of what they had done to the vulnerable creature.

A reminder of Raphael's failure to protect him.

The man watched a lot of tutorials the next two days.

He was not a doctor, and he couldn't take Everest to one. So he learnt.

It took him a while, because every time a bone snapped in place in his hands he felt a wave of nausea rising in his throat. His hands were shaking as he washed all the blood away from the wounds, only for it to be replaced by more.

He couldn't do anything for the broken bones, except guide them in place the best he could, but even that made him gag.

The worst, maybe, was Everest's jaw. There was a long gash on the side of his mouth, opening it in some kind of grimace, and it seems like it couldn't close on this side. Raphael had carefully stitched the wound close, but there was an unnatural look to the way the right part of his lower jaw was hanging limply.

The man kept feeding the vampire blood mixed with the medical herbs, hoping that it would help him heal faster. Hoping that he would wake up soon.

It was unlikely that the teens were going to call the cops, or even try to seek revenge by themselves. But still, it was a possibility, and with the policemen's visit the other day, he didn't feel safe here anymore. After all, they said they were searching for Everest, and they clearly believed he was involved in this, in a way or another.

He would do anything necessary to keep the small vampire safe.

Taglist : @sausages-things @jumpywhumpywriter @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @idkwhattodowiththisaltiamsorry

[twilights-stuff]

Trigger Warning: Angst, so so much angst, death and depictions of grief

I'm not sure if anyone has pointed this out, but in all the months I have been in the poolverine fandom, I haven't seen anyone (as far as I'm aware) entertain or acknowledge the possibility or implications of Logan being the one to bury all of the X-men and the rest of the mutants that got killed in the X-Mansion when he found them after coming back drunk from a bar. Like imagine the angst and whump potential of it all, the shock he first felt when he noticed the signs of a break in, then the horror as he sees the bodies, the grief, sorrow and pain crashing down on him as he sees that no mutant survived and everyone in the mansion is dead, his guilt as he realized how he could have been there to protect them and how he blames himself for not being there, for abandoning the people he had grown to care for because he could never allow himself to be part of anything. Imagine the heaviness in his chest as he realizes the only thing he can do for them now is to bury them, each and every single one of them. Imagine how much time he spent in the mansion grounds, digging a grave for each mutant and carrying their lifeless bodies to their final resting place, how he holds their body in his arms, trying to tell himself that they're just asleep yet his sensitive hearing picks up no heartbeat. This is possibly the only time he has ever held any of them close in his arms. They're gone and dead, because of him. He tells himself he's used to it by now, he SHOULD be used to it by now, being the one to bury those he loves. But with every body buried, every graved marked, he doubts that idea. Sometimes, there's not even a body for him to bury or a body whose name he could mark. He grieves that he hadn't been able to know the rest of them well. He finishes by nightfall, X-Mansion now turned into a cemetery, a grim reminder of Logan's failure. The physical embodiment of his title as the Worst Wolverine in the entire multiverse. He tries to deliver them justice, avenging them by hunting and killing those who killed them, he lets his rage and violence win over his grief and starts mercilessly killing, turning humanity even more against mutant kind. Yet, his rage does not linger forever. Eventually, he comes back to the mansion with nothing but a graveyard to welcome him. All his anger have left, his only solace is at the bottom of a bottle. Every night, he stays in the mansion grounds to feel taste of whiskey burning down his throat. Every night, he regrets on what he has lost. Eventually, he leaves and moves from place to place, bar to bar, trying to forget. He can't and he never will. It eats him up inside no matter how many glasses he has downed.

Now, he is with Wade, his pain and loss still lingering but being with his current little family is enough to lessen the hurt. Still, he fears he'll have to bury them too. Yet, he lets his fears be dampened by mouthful merc who took his heart, he assures himself he'll never abandon his family again, that he'll be there. He lets his love foster and his fondness grow. Perhaps, he thinks, one day he would have to bury them, but at least they'll have the knowledge the he'll bury them after loving them enough. Perhaps, he thinks, one day, someone would love him enough to bury him, too.

Look, I just think this concept should be more explored in the fan works. If there are works that did, please send me a link! I would love to read them.

[themerrywhumpofmay]

Merry Whump of May

Spring 2023 Prompt List!

It's May, everyone!! Due to personal and technical difficulties, we're getting the list to you DAY ONE. WOW!

So sorry for the delay, but we have every confidence that despite this short notice, you'll all be able to put out some amazing work this year!

Without further ado, welcome to The Merry Whump of May!

Text ID:

Merry Whump of May

Spring 2023

A month-long whump writing event by @wormwriting and @painsandconfusion.

Extemporaneous style this year-!!

Write, draw, or otherwise create content based on the daily prompts! Participants and completionists will receive badges of honor for their work at the end of the month.

Create original content or fanfiction, all is welcome!

Rules

Tag each day's post with #themerrywhumpofmay, any necessary content warning (eg: #knife), and the day in the following format: #mwmday1)

Adult topics are allowed, but must be well tagged. Send a message to @themerrywhumpofmay if you'd like a second opinion.

Be kind, have fun!

Prompts:

Day One - “No pain, no gain.”

Compass

Haphephobia

Kitchen

Day Two - “Need a ride?

Wrench          

Paranoia         

Club   

Day Three - “You're not looking so hot.”

Lightbulb

Tension

Alleyway

Day Four - “Two birds, one bullet.”

Chess Pieces

Stubborn

Tower 

Day Five - “Do unto others as you would bla bla bla...”

Bow and Arrow

Stalking

Cavern

Day Six - “It's a long story.”

Knife Handle

Gagged

Under the table

Day Seven - “Write what you know.”

Box

Magic

Cell

Day Eight - “Did you read the fine print?”

Circle 

Blinded

Field

Day Nine - “We'll burn that bridge when we get there.”

Collar

Lost

Roof

Day Ten - “Hit the hay.”

Key

Forgetting

Warehouse     

Day Eleven - “Ready set go!”

Plastic bag

Overheating

Restaurant

Day Twelve - “Tabled for Later.”

Thumbtack

Panic attack

Ballroom        

Day Thirteen - “You've made your bed, now bleed in it.”

Sander

Found

Safe Place

Day Fourteen - “Well, well, well...”

Barbed Wire   

Starvation

Drain

Day Fifteen - “The power of god and anime”

Hammer

Over-Exhaustion

Hammer

Day Sixteen - “Take a break.”

Branding Iron

Moonlight

Cemetery       

Day Seventeen - “Going down in flames.”

Pole

Regret

Fireplace

Day Eighteen - “No use crying over spilled blood.”

Cage

Claustrophobia

Ship

Day Nineteen - “Apples and oranges.”

Chainsaw

Surprise

Home Base

Day Twenty - “A taste of your own medicine.”

Zip ties           

Bleeding out  

Office

Day Twenty-one - “Devil's advocate.”

Tome

Desperation

Hiking trail.

Day Twenty-two - “You can lead a bitch to water, but you can't make them drink.”

Origami

Amnesia

Attic   

Day Twenty-three - “Good things come to those who wait.”

Nine-inch-nails

Isolation

Creepy basement

Day Twenty-four - “Bent out of shape.”

Tent Spike

Dragged

Wrong place, wrong time

Day Twenty-five - “It takes two to tango.”

Hot coffee

Doubt

In line

Day Twenty-six - “Hammer time.”

Pocket watch  

Itchy

Waiting room

Day Twenty-seven - “Second mouse get the cheese.”

Knife

Rug burn

Skyscraper

Day Twenty-eight - “A picture's worth a thousand words.”

Chair

Paranoia

Backseat         

Day Twenty-nine - “Lost and Found

Blowtortch

Frostbite

Lake

Day Thirty - “Rain check.”

High heels

Strained

The backroom

Day Thirty-one - “Thin ice.”

Lighter

Chronic pain

Dead end

Alternative Prompt List

Titles  

“Questions? Comments? Concerns? Complaints?”

“Time dies when you're having fun.”

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

“Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.”

“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.”

Items                                      

Wine Glass

Hydrochloric acid

Magnet

Teacup

Wire

Conditions

Sensory deprivation

Blindfolded

Acrophobia

Failed escape

Distress

Locations

The Middle of Nowhere

Forest

Void

Sidewalk

Shortcut

[whumpsday]

Petrichor

Writing Masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, buried alive, begging, rescue, asphyxiation, religious whump, death wish, starvation, claustrophobia, sensory deprivation, touch starvation, comfort, harming self for vampire feeding purposes, possible historical inaccuracies

Whumpmas in July Day 15: Buried Two Weeks of Whump Day 14: Coffin

this is vampire whump, but it does NOT take place in the K&J universe! i wanted to play around with some vampire mythology that i chose not to incorporate into K&J lore.

thank you to @lost-in-labradorite-halls for beta-reading and helping my clueless jewish ass with the christian bits and generally inspiring this piece via the wonderful vampire torture you regularly concoct!!

also have a song:

-

Petrichor's endless, airless torment was punctuated once again by the sound of a shovel entering the earth.

It was worth noting strictly because anything was worth noting down here. The digging wasn't out of the ordinary: it was a cemetery, of course.

This time, it sounded close. Every time it sounded near, Petrichor dared let himself hope it might reach him, though he knew such a thing was absolutely ridiculous. People dug graves to bury bodies, not exhume them.

It was utterly maddening. Someone was so close, another soul- a soul, rather, given he did not possess one any longer- and he was unable to make even the slightest peep to alert them to his distress, all oxygen having vacated his tiny box what must have been decades ago, if not centuries. At least he didn't require air anymore.

A tear rolled down his cheek at the thought, his body unable to conjure up more than that. He could not even raise an arm to tap on the wood of the coffin, the weakness having deprived him so effectively. Petrichor listened to the digging longingly, laid still and silent in his grave, the corpse he was.

I'm here. I'm still here, after all this time. Please, it can't be like this forever. I care not whether I'm rescued or slain, but please, someone put an end to it. Dear Lord, I know I'm not one of Your creatures any longer, but please help me.

As if answering his prayer, the digging slowly grew closer as the hours passed. It was odd: usually there would be a bustle of people around, and only one grave would be dug. But he could hear nothing but the digging, and it almost sounded like multiple graves. Perhaps some tragedy had befallen the family owning the plot next to his.

It was disappointing, in a way. The voices, though he could hardly make them out from under the earth, were the only human connection he had left in his horrible fate. Sometimes, he could even make out bits and pieces of the priest's sermon, which never failed to make him cry. He could not even utter a prayer aloud in his wretched state, if the Lord would even have him as he now was. And clearly, He wouldn't.

Petrichor's melancholy thoughts were swiftly interrupted when the sound of digging grew yet closer. Much closer.

As if it were right above him.

Oh dear Lord, please. This could finally be it, couldn't it? If his grave were to be exhumed, for some odd reason?

The shovel knocked against wood. Petrichor could feel it reverberate through the coffin, the first physical sensation interrupting the suffocating stillness in longer than he could know.

He wanted to weep for joy. It was finally happening, it was over. His prayers had finally been answered!

Someone opened the coffin, trading the wooden finish he'd stared at for so long for a starry sky.

Petrichor gasped for breath, his first in what may as well have been lifetimes, smelling of freshly-turned earth. It was nearly impossible to move, his muscles stiff and dry, but he was able to breathe through his nose, and open his mouth just a small amount. It was more than enough: he had air, his lungs no longer drowning.

"Holy fucking shit!" His rescuer tried to jump back, but they were inside his grave with him, and space was sparse.

It was difficult to move his eyes, but he managed it, fixing them on the first person he'd seen since his funeral. They looked young, around his age when he'd been buried or perhaps younger, dressed in an androgynous black cloak. Their clothes and face all ranged from speckled with dirt to absolutely caked in it.

Petrichor stared at them with wild, desperate eyes, and with fresh air in his lungs, made what little sound he could manage: a strangled, pleading cry.

"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god." His rescuer continued to take the Lord's name in vain and spew profanities, but Petrichor couldn't bring himself much to care. All that mattered was getting out of his coffin, the end of his suffering. But he was unable to move.

His rescuer seemed to recognize this as well, their string of expletives tapering off as they tilted their head, staring back.

They glanced up at his gravestone. "Here lies Petrichor Adams," they read out. "1797 to 1820."

They looked back down at him, squinting. "What the hell are you?"

Petrichor whined again, a tear making its way down his face once more.

His rescuer leaned in, their initial shock having given way to a surprising lack of fear. They knelt beside him, peering at his face. "You sure got some chompers in there, huh? What, like...?" They looked out over the edge of the hole, like someone would come out and announce it was all a trick, but no one did.

Petrichor could do nothing but stare pleadingly.

His rescuer tapped him on the cheek. The first touch he'd felt in forever, it almost tingled. They tilted his head to the side, exposing the scars he supposed must still mark his neck: the fangs that had condemned him to this fate.

"You supposed to be a vampire or something?" they asked, incredulous. Having picked up that he could not reply, they continued on. "Well, fuck. What, you need blood or something, is that it? Oh, no no no. I've seen the movies, I've played the video games, alright? I am not fucking with this." They produced a small rectangular object from their pocket, angling it at him in various positions and tapping it oddly before replacing it in their cloak.

The soaring hope in Petrichor's long-dead heart crashed against the rocks. He could not understand some of what the digger said, but the sentiment was clear: he would receive no help.

He would remain locked in his prison.

Petrichor's chest quaked with dry sobs. He trained his eyes upward, thankful that his wretched body could not produce tears very quickly, as his vision remained unblurred when he took in the stars. The sight of something beautiful, one last time.

The digger sighed, glancing at his headstone once more.

"Well. It does say you were beloved," they remarked. "Beloved son. They wouldn't've put that there if you were some bloodsuckin' serial killer, huh?"

Petrichor made no further attempt to look away from the stars, but allowed himself to hope again. Perhaps he would be allowed out, if the digger would take pity on him.

His rescuer shook their head. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

They produced a small blade, rolled up their sleeve, and sliced themself across the back of the arm. They positioned the wound just above his mouth, allowing their blood to drain across his tongue.

Petrichor had never tasted blood before- not posthumously, that was. He had been buried shortly after his death, without time to fall prey to his new, monstrous nature. It was nothing like blood had been as a human: the coppery taste when he'd split his lip roughhousing as a child. This, this was everything. It was the sweetest honey, it was the finest glass of red wine, it was the flavorful broth of his mother's pot roast, it was life itself flowing into his veins.

Slowly, the muscles in his body lost their stiffness, and he could move once more. He raised his head up toward the source of the lifeblood, but his savior placed their boot firmly on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor of his coffin.

"Think that's enough for now. Don't wanna get woozy." They tore a piece of cloth from their cloak, wrapping the wound. "Cat still got your tongue, buddy?"

"P-please," Petrichor rasped, his voice weak from disuse, "Kind... sir? I cannot go on like this. Whatever fate you'd bestow upon me, I care not, so long as I'm not forced to remain inside this box. I am a vampire, it's true, but I had never consumed even a drop of blood before tonight. I mean no harm. Please allow me to leave this coffin." His voice broke, his words coming out squeaky. "I was human once, too."

Desperate begging. He'd never thought his life would come to this, but he supposed it never had. His life had ended long ago.

The boot was removed from his chest.

"Alright, Petrichor Adams, take it easy," his rescuer said. "I'm not gonna leave you down here no matter what you are. That'd be crazy fucked up." They extended a hand. "Robin."

Petrichor took their hand, his own shaking. "Thank you so very, very much. You've saved me from an unbearable fate."

Robin pulled him up to standing, his bones creaking with the unfamiliarity of movement. "Huh. It's almost like you time traveled or something. Says you died when you were 23, that's like, practically my age. Guess the 200 years in between don't really count."

Petrichor wasn't sure what came over him, but he burst into tears instantly. His body had no trouble with it now, two centuries' worth of crying flowing forth all at once as he bawled.

"They count!" he wept. "I was down there, I- I was down there the entire time! I did not sleep!"

"Alright!" Robin agreed with haste. "Okay, grandpa, you're 226 then, whatever's good. Jeez, c'mon, you don't gotta cry. It's gonna be okay."

They rubbed their thumb over his hand, and he gasped from the sensation. After so long, every touch felt one thousand times stronger than it was.

Petrichor attempted to pull himself together. "Yes, yes of- of course."

"And listen, you gotta be quieter. We're reeeeally not supposed to be out here right now." Robin hopped up, pulling Petrichor up with them.

A knapsack laid at the foot of his grave, varied pieces of jewelry and a few golden teeth visible from the top.

His rescuer was a graverobber and a thief. But Petrichor knew his situation was desperate, and chose to say nothing. He was no better, given what he was now.

Robin noticed the direction of his gaze nonetheless, offering him a mischievous smirk. "Yeah, Graverobbin' Robin, that's what they call me. And by they I mean me, 'cause no one knows I do this." They began shoveling dirt back into his grave. "Good thing I do, though. Never thought I'd save a vampire on my side hustle, but life throws you curveballs, I guess. You know baseball?"

"I do not, I'm afraid," Petrichor replied, watching mesmerized as his coffin became entombed once more.

"Bro, how are you gonna die in Boston and not know baseball? I gotta take you to a game sometime. Literally first order of business, now that I've got money for tix!"

None of it felt real. He was finally out, but two hundred years had passed. Everyone he'd ever known and loved was long-dead.

He turned, looking to his family plot, but his eyes instantly caught a horrible burning sensation. A headstone in the shape of a cross.

Petrichor averted his gaze. Of course: he'd almost forgotten. He was no longer one of The Lord's creatures.

Robin finished, slung their pack over their shoulder, and motioned him to follow. "You can crash at my apartment while you figure your shit out. I'll grab you some more blood from the butcher's once the T starts running. That's like the subway. Uh, I mean- never mind, not important. Hope pig's blood's enough for you, 'cause I can't do that every day."

At the very least, he had Robin.

"That sounds lovely."

-

this was originally gonna be a one-shot but i think i might write more? oh god, am i really starting another vampire series? THIS ONE WILL BE SHORTER. A MINISERIES.

if you liked this but want something a more hurt/no-comfort flavored i recommend Our Man Flint by @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night!!

tune in on tuesday for some kane & jim!

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

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

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

one-shots taglist (this is only gonna have 3-4 chapters max so im lumping it in with the one-shots):

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@whumpycries

@reborrowing

event: @whumpmasinjuly @promptsforyourwhumpfic

[aceofwhump]

hi! do you have any recs for whump fics featuring klaus from the umbrella academy? i saw him on your list and i trust your taste ♡

(i've read all of knobheed's fics so far on ao3)

I do!! I love Klaus whump. Here's ya go :D

I think we're alone now by nishiki Summary: As Diego finds his brother Klaus on the brink of death in that crappy motel room, he decides that taking care of his brother is more important than saving the world.

the visitation of the ghost by allthempickles Summary: Klaus is going through withdrawal. The apocalypse (and Luther) aren't making it easy.

blue thread (whatever, it's not like you care) by VeryCoolKid69 Summary:  in which Klaus relapses and has a few bottles too many. Unfortunately for him, a few too many people care. or, in which Limbo’s a bitch and so is God. (Post season one, but everything turned out fine. No 60s and no Sparrows.)

Ghosts of You(th) by SilvertonguedClotpole Summary: It was a mausoleum, and right now it was probably the best chance they had at hiding from those chasing them. But of course, a mausoleum isn't just a mausoleum to Klaus. It was a hell. And his siblings were about to see a true glimpse of what it was like being Klaus Hargreeves. When they're forced to hide in the cemetery, the siblings get more than they bargained for when they have to fight to remain hidden, and fight to keep their brother from toppling over the edge.

And I'm just gonna plug the ones I've written as well:

One Hand in the Grave, One Hand on My Pulse  Summary: "A bang went off and Klaus felt the impact of the bullet in his gut. He gasped and instinctively pressed a hand to his stomach as blood began to bubble up. Eyes wide, he looked into the stunned face of the drug dealer standing several feet away from him. They stared at each other for a moment, both startled by the sound of the gun going off. The dealer panicked and spun around. He tucked the gun into his pants as he ran off into the night, leaving Klaus alone in the dark alleyway."

Operation: Rescue Klaus  Summary: What if Diego got Patch’s message just a little bit earlier and makes it to the motel in time to be her backup in s01e04 Man on the Moon? A.K.A., I play around with canon events because I needed Klaus to be rescued by a family member and cared for god dammit!!

Not Alone Summary: Klaus is sick but his siblings think he's either drunk or going through withdrawal and dismiss him. Diego notices something is off with Klaus and learns that Klaus has actually been sober for several months and is actually sick. Ben feels helpless. Diego and Ben take care of Klaus