#continuation of merry whump of may

[sparrowsage]

Revenge, Part One: Ghosts of the Past

Hello! I know I haven't posted in while. I've had some major stuff pop up in my personal life, but things are on the mend! This is the first part in a mini series that takes place six months after the end of Warehouse. It's very far out in the timeline for the Warehouse series, but my brain wanted to write this, so here it is! I'd like to give a special thanks to @oddsconvert and @darkthingshappen for the mention of their oc's Henley Allen from A Taste of Your Own Medicine and Agent Vaughn from Brothers Keeper. And I'd also like to thank them as well as @whumpcereal and @flowersarefreetherapy for their support as I wrote this! I got the inspiration and motivation for this piece from day four of the Merry Whump of May event as well and it was a ton of fun!

TW: Vague mentions of past captivity, vague mentions and implied past noncon, kidnapping, noncon drugging, mentions of past character death, threatened murder (if I missed any, let me know and I'll add them!)

MWoM Prompt: Day 4 “Forgettable, ‘Who are you?’ Lamp, Alleyway” 

If Sparrow would have been asked when he was teen where he thought he’d be when he was an adult, his response wouldn’t be what you’d expect. As far as he knew, he was going to be in the Warehouse facility for the rest of his life, or with some random person who had bought him if he ever got to the point of being sold. Not once did he ever think that he’d be living with a close and trusted friend, free to make his own decisions, able to finally carve out a life for himself of his own free will. 

It had been six months since the Warehouse had gotten raided. Six months since Damon had tried to escape the facility with him in tow. Six months since he was reunited with his friends and finally free from the hell he never thought he’d be away from. 

Sparrow snapped out of his thoughts as he heard his friend giggle, looking over to him as Felix spun around in a small circle, arms outstretched. 

“It’s been so long since I’ve been able to go and see a live show like that!” he exclaimed. “Thank you for coming with me.” 

Sparrow gave his friend a soft smile, putting his hands in his pockets as they walked back to their apartment building. “Thanks for offering to take me. I’ve never seen something like that! I’m surprised they have all those lines and stuff memorized, it looked like a lot!” 

Felix nodded, looking up at the clear night sky above them for a moment before looking back at his friend. “It’s their job, and it does take a lot of work, but it’s totally worth it. I’ve often had thoughts of trying to get into theater like that, but I think my stage fright would get in the way of it all.” 

Sparrow chuckled, giving Felix a light nudge as they continued on their way, “With how often I hear you singing in the apartment, I know you’d do great!” 

Sparrow let out a sigh, recalling the memories. It had been a whirlwind to try and get things back on track once he was released from the hospital this time. He still had weekly therapy appointments with Alex, but it had been more difficult to fall back into old routine with Felix this time around. There had been a short period of time where there were awkward conversations when the two interacted, both from Felix’s guilt over the invitation Damon had sent out and Sparrow not showing Felix the invite before he left amongst other things. Over time, they had talked things out and their friendship only got stronger from there. Henley still came by frequently as well, often spending a lot of time with Sparrow when he was free, which Sparrow appreciated. The two of them would help teach Sparrow how to read and write alongside teaching him about other things while also having some fun. 

At the thought of Henley, Sparrow took his hand out of his jacket pocket, looking at the digital watch Henley had given him a few months back. 

“Hey, it’s already 10:43. Do you think Henley would mind much if we moved movie night to tomorrow?” he asked. 

Felix looked at his own watch in return before looking at Sparrow, “I don’t think he’d mind. We did warn him the show may run late and he seemed fine with the possibility of postponing movie night. We’ll text him when we get home.” 

Sparrow hummed in agreement, putting his hand back in his pocket as they continued home, looking around the street as they walked. Due to how late it was, there weren’t any people out and about, the only lights coming from the lamp posts lining the sidewalks and the light up signs in the shop windows, long since closed for the day. 

Being outside at night was something that Sparrow had never realized he’d appreciate so much. Sure, there was anxiety lurking in the shadows, often keeping the man on edge, but nights like this where he could look up at the clear sky and see the glittering stars and enjoy the light breeze and inhale the nightly air, it felt freeing. 

As the two passed by a dark alleyway, some rustling caught Sparrow’s attention. He paused his steps, Felix looking back at him a few seconds later when he realized his friend wasn’t beside him. “Sparrow, you alright?” 

Sparrow stared into the dark alleyway, trying to see what was hidden in the shadows before shaking his head slightly to clear it. “Y-yeah, just thought I heard something is all.” 

Just as he was about to continue walking, a voice called out to them, “P-please help me.” 

The two hesitated, giving each other a look before Felix hesitantly approached the entryway to the alley. “Are you alright sir?” Felix asked. 

“Do either of you have some spare cash, or some change?” the voice asked, his voice sounding rough and raspy. 

Felix squinted as he hovered at the edge of the alleyway, trying to make out whoever was talking to them. “I-I’m sorry, but we don’t have any cash on us.” 

“That’s quite alright,” the voice responded. There was something about the voice that seemed off to Sparrow, but he couldn’t place it. There couldn’t be a way for Sparrow to know that voice, but the fact that it sounded familiar ate away at him the more the stranger spoke. 

“Felix, we should be getting back home,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. He didn’t want to scare Felix just because he felt uneasy. It was probably nothing. 

“Could you just help me up, sir? Before you leave? I have a bad knee.” 

Felix looked back at Sparrow for a moment before he stepped into the alleyway, the shadows swallowing him, “U-uhm, yeah sure.” 

From Sparrow’s spot on the street, he kept an eye on the dark alleyway, expecting Felix to come out seconds later, but all he heard was rustling before a muffled shout came from the shadows. 

“Felix?” Sparrow asked, taking a step towards the alley, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. 

Something was wrong. 

Sparrow heard some more rustling and a bit of muffled cries before he spotted a figure in the shadows of the alleyway. 

“You should teach your friend to be more careful. Helping the wrong stranger is going to get him into trouble,” the figure said. 

“Who are you and what do you want?” Sparrow asked, his body frozen in place on the sidewalk. 

The figure started walking forward towards him, an unmistakable limp to his step that made the blood in Sparrow’s face run cold, further cementing him to the sidewalk. 

This can’t be him, Sparrow thought. He didn’t remember Agent Vaughn telling him about some Keeper’s getting free from the raid. He thought that since his name didn’t get brought up in the court case or the fact that he didn’t see him in court meant that he died during the raid. 

“I bet you’re surprised, aren’t you?” the man asked, the light from the lamp posts illuminating his face as he stepped out of the alleyway. “Because who would have thought that you’d be seeing me, of all people, again after so much time.” 

“What do you want with us, Logan?” Sparrow asked again, his voice low but lined with fear. 

“You’re in no place to be demanding answers here, Sparrow. You should know that. Has living outside the facility for six months really put you back so much on your training?” 

Sparrow’s hands balled into fists at his side as he tried to figure out an answer. Logan took the hesitation of an answer to motion whoever was behind him in the alleyway to step forward, causing Sparrow’s breath to hitch. 

Five more people stepped out of the alleyway, one of which had Felix flush against his chest, a hand clamped over his mouth while the other held his wrists behind his back. Felix looked at Sparrow with a scared expression, his whole body trembling as his eyes started to water. 

“It’s been hard, these last six months, you know,” Logan started, slowly walking towards Sparrow. “Having to hide from the police all because the facility got shut down. They’d arrest us on sight if anyone found us. But you know what kept us going?” 

Sparrow let out a low and quiet growl as Logan got close to him, taking a small step back as Logan leaned in close. “Finding a way to get back at the person who ruined the entire operation.” 

“Felix wasn’t the one who took down the Warehouse, the FBI did,” Sparrow said, his gaze flickering between Logan and Felix. “You have no business with him.” 

Logan straightened himself as he faked a look of thought. “You’re right, it wasn’t the runt who got the Warehouse shut down, not in full. But he played a part in it.” 

“Vaughn was the one who found the place, not Felix.” 

“Yeah, that fucking agent found the place, but you know who went crying to the FBI when you didn’t return home that night you went to that party? Him. And why did he go to the FBI? Because you managed to escape and make friends, connections, something of which you had no right doing. He cared about you so much that he did everything he could to find you and get you back safely. If you hadn't defied orders and escaped the facility ten months ago, then we wouldn’t be here now.” 

This wasn’t good, Sparrow didn’t know what to do! If it were just him facing off against these guys, he’d fight back, but with Felix trapped, Sparrow couldn’t risk his friend getting hurt all because of his actions. 

“Just let him go, Logan,” Sparrow tried, a hint of desperation leaking into his voice. “You have issue with me, not him. Let him go and we can work this out.” 

At that, Logan let out a laugh, as did the other men standing around them, causing Felix to squeak in fear at the sound. “You think it’s that easy, pleading with me to let your friend go? And that I’m here for you? I often forget that you’re not that fucking smart when it comes to how the real world works. We came here for him and you just so happened to be with him. We’ve had our eyes set on this runt for months, we just needed the perfect moment to grab him, and what better night than tonight!” 

Sparrow glared at Logan as he spoke, trying to work out a way to get them both out of here safely, but anything he thought of wouldn’t work. In every idea he thought of, Felix would get hurt and Sparrow couldn’t let that happen. 

Logan looked around the empty street for a moment, turning on the spot to look back at his men and Felix, who stared back at Logan in fear. “Get him ready to transport, we’ve spent enough time here.” 

At the word ‘transport’, Sparrow started towards the men around Felix, anger and fear powering his limbs. “Don’t you fucking touch him!” he shouted, lunging for the closest man that was around his friend. 

Before he could get very far, three of the remaining four men pounced on Sparrow, quickly grabbing onto him as the fourth man grabbed a prepped syringe from his pocket. Felix started squirming the moment Sparrow was grabbed, just about missing the needle headed straight for his arm. He let out a loud but muffled yelp as the needle was jabbed into his arm, causing Sparrow to struggle even harder, but it was no use. The three men holding onto him were too strong and he was very outmatched. 

Amongst his struggles, Sparrow watched as Felix started to grow limp, his eyes slipping shut as the drug he was injected with took hold of him, forcing him into an unwanted sleep. Once he was under, Logan turned his full attention to Sparrow, who only continued to struggle. 

The former Keeper nodded to his men and they forced Sparrow to his knees on the ground. Sparrow let out a hiss as the gravel and pavement dug into his knees as he tried to pull his arms out of the grips that held them, but he slowed his attempts as Logan stepped closer to him, leaning down at the waist slightly. 

“I swear to god, Logan, I’m going to fucking kill you if you hurt him,” Sparrow growled as he glared at the former Keeper. 

Logan chuckled at the sight of the former pet, letting out a short sigh. “Your threats don’t work on me. Over the twenty years I worked to train you, you’ve only come close once, and that’s because I let my guard down. I’m not making any mistakes this time. You’re going to watch as I destroy your friend, bit by fucking bit, til there’s nothing left of him, and you’re going to help me do it.” 

Sparrow tried to jerk one of his arms free, his gaze never breaking from Logan as he let out a grunt at the wasted effort. “You’re fucking crazy if you think I’d willingly hurt him.” 

“Ah, well you see, I know you. You’d do anything to trade places with him, no matter the cost, and I think that seeing you get tortured in more ways than one will do just as much damage to him as if he were the one being hurt.” 

Sparrow stilled as the words registered, his expression falling for a moment. Logan was right, he’d do anything to make sure Felix didn’t bare the front of what they were about to endure, even if it meant sacrificing himself. 

“You’ve been told, time and time again by multiple people that you’re not supposed to form connections or to make friends because it isn’t your place to have feelings. Your job is to serve and please whoever owns you, doing whatever they ask of you with no hesitation. I am excited, if I’m to be honest, Sparrow. You know why that is?” 

“Why?” Sparrow asked through gritted teeth. 

“Because I get to hit you where it hurts. Just because we were going after him doesn’t mean that I won’t be paying special attention to you. You’ve caused me so much trouble ever since you were brought into the facility, especially after Damon took on your case. Now it’s my turn to level the playing field. You remember how you used to protect Jayden when he was alive? How compliant you got all because of a simple threat to his well being?” 

Logan stood then, nodding to one of the men holding Sparrow. “Well, you know that I won’t hesitate to kill your friend here if you step a toe out of line. I highly doubt that you want another one of your friends to die all because of you.” 

The mention of Jayden made the blood drain from Sparrow’s face as a new fire blazed inside of him. This wouldn’t be a repeat of what happened with Jayden, Sparrow couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let another one of his friends die by the hands of this fucking bastard. 

Just as Sparrow was about to start struggling again, he felt the pinch of a needle in his neck and a coolness spread throughout his body. As his vision started to tunnel, he looked up to see Logan start limping back into the alleyway as he started to lose feeling in his limbs.

“Let’s get these guys into the van, and don’t forget to restrain them. The runt will be out for a while, but with this shit’s tolerance, I don’t know when he’ll wake and it’ll be easier to handle him if he can’t move.” 

The last thing Sparrow remembered seeing was a set of headlights turn on far back into the alleyway and hearing an engine roar to life as the drugs dragged him under. 

Taglist: @mannerofwhump, @honey-is-mesi, @painful-pooch, @whumperfully, @hiding-in-the-shadows

@flowersarefreetherapy, @goronska, @blueyellow8green (If you want to be added, let me know!)

[shywhumpauthor]

The Merry Whump of May—Day Twenty-Two (Hero saved by supervillain part 3)

“You can lead a bitch to water, but you can’t make them drink”

Origami | Amnesia | Attic

Alt prompt- Teacup

Previous || Merry Whump of May Masterlist

Hi yes I know this is awful and doesn’t make sense really I was really rushing to get it done if/when it’s continued I promise the next will be better

Cw: Kinda kidnapping, mentioned torture, disorientation, kinda implied drugging maybe

Hero woke up feeling warm and comfortable.

It wasn’t a startle awake, like the brutal grounding after their typical nightmares, not one that left them drenched in sweat and out of breath. It wasn’t one where they woke up screaming, sobbing from the twisted memories that plagued their sleep, no.

It was a nice, gentle wake, dawning on them slowly like a morning sun rising to cast a soft glow over their face. Their body felt surprisingly light, without a single worry weighing down on them. Nothing prompting them to get up, no sirens or screams for help or urgent assignments from the Agency. There was nothing but their own will to guide them as they lay there for many minutes longer, before finally opening their eyes.

They were in a king-sized four-poster bed, sheets as soft as cashmere pooled around them, a thick duvet pulled to their shoulders. The room they were in was large and airy, a wall of windows gaping out towards a cityscape on their left. They could see the sun, just barely peeking around the side of the window, the bed positioned in such a spot where the light could bathe over them without glaring. The room was furnished to follow a French country sort of theme, whites and beiges layering with just enough color spotted around to not make it feel washed out.

Hero was warm, the room a perfect temperature where they could be cocooned in blankets without overheating, but not cold enough to force them to stay huddled in bed.

They took their time getting up, blissfully ignoring the memories of what had happened when they were last conscious. At least, until they tried to sit up, and a tight pain tugging across their chest stole their breath.

Hero couldn’t help the gasp, a hand raising unsteadily to their chest as they fumbled to get the blankets off of them.

Their torso was bound with soft white bandages, tight enough they could feel the pressure against their sides, but not for it to be uncomfortable. Across the front of their chest, spots of blood had managed to seep through where the wounds had been deepest, but they looked like they had dried since.

They couldn’t ignore the flashes of memory any longer. Things were spotty after their encounter with Villain, but they remembered enough to know what had happened.

They remembered the gash in the back of Villain’s head, caved in and deep enough to reveal slivers of skull.

Hero forced themself to push that from their mind. They couldn’t think about that. Not with their stomach already twisted in knots, bile leaving a sour taste in their throat.

Shakily, Hero climbed out of the bed, bracing their hands against the high mattress as their legs trembled under their weight. They gave themself a moment to stable, looking around the room as they did so.

They knew exactly where they were.

Questions and fear stung their mind, but they were able to dismiss most of them. They kept their mind steady, forcing themself to remain rational as their eyes fell upon a neatly folded stack of clothes on the nightstand next to the bed.

Supervillain. They knew that. Supervillain had killed Villain and saved them. Kidnapped them? Saved? Hero’s hand rose to the clothes, unfolding the shirt from the pile. It was long sleeved, made of soft, breathable cotton. Below them, a pair of comfortable lounge pants, which Hero realized just how desperately they needed to change as they took in the sorry state of their current—remaining—attire. Their shirt was gone, pants ruined, stained with blood and dirt and things that Hero didn’t even want to think about, torn at the knees and various places where they had scraped against the pavement.

They didn’t think twice as they changed, tugging off their clothes with a bit of difficulty from their limited motion, frowning at the state of their skin below before pulling on the provided ones.

Hero knew they were going to fit before they had put them on, but still, it was unsettling how they fit perfectly. Just the way they liked, too. Not too tight around the arms, fitted shoulders but with enough give they could move naturally.

They braced a hand against one of the bedposts, turning to face out at the room. Unsure what to do, they tried to fold their dirty clothes and tuck them aside, but they slipped from their hands and Hero couldn’t bend to pick them up, so they shuffled them into a pile with their foot and hoped that was good enough.

It felt so wrong compared to the classy, clean aesthetic of the room, but what were they going to do about it?

Across the room, there was a large arching door, propped open a few inches with a doorstop.

They weren’t a captive, that much was clear by now. Or at least, if they were, it was one of the most civilized hostage situations they’d ever been a part of.

Hero liked to think that they were rational. That they thought things through, planned before acting. And most of the time, they did, but there was something, a certain weightlessness to their thoughts that dissuaded any sort of forethought. They heard faint music, the airy sounds of a piano and strings, content and cheerful that made all of their worries and fear slip away.

They were following the sounds out of the bedroom, down a large hall with a carpeted runner, and into an open kitchen before so much as thinking about what—more specifically who—they’d encounter outside.

Before last night, Hero had never seen Supervillain. At least not clearly. Blurred, grainy images from security cameras, a single glance on the news, but never enough to see them.

It was… odd, seeing them. Even from the night before, Hero’s sight had been obscured by tears and shadows, they hadn’t gotten a good look at the supposed criminal who had saved them.

They looked normal.

No, that wasn’t right at all. They were about as far from normal as possible. They were tall and built sturdily, a power radiating off them that could be felt even from across the room, and not just in terms of supernatural abilities. Supervillain sat at a counter island, sipping from a teacup while humming along to the music that played from a concealed speaker. There was a book open in front of them, and they were dressed in a simple white shirt and sweats, as unthreatening as they could ever possibly appear.

Still, it was almost dizzying, as Hero took a hesitant step into the kitchen, socks sliding soundlessly across the vinyl floor. They barely dared to breathe, but still, the criminal must have heard them, turning to look over their shoulder.

Their mouth cracked into a warm smile, but the kind effect was destroyed by the jagged scar that twisted from the corner of their mouth up towards their eyebrow, and Hero couldn’t help the sinking stone of fear that dropped into their stomach. Hero certainly hadn’t noticed that the night before.

“Oh Hero, I didn’t think you’d be up yet,” Supervillain set their cup down, and it looked almost humorous dainty in their hand. They stood up, letting their book flip closed. “Here, sit, you shouldn’t be on your feet this soon. Breakfast is almost done, it’ll be ready in just a few minutes,”

They were on the other side of the kitchen, but in just two steps, Supervillain was by their side, pressing a gentle hand against Hero’s back to guide them forwards.

A wave of disorientation crashed over them, the blissfully thoughtless feeling that had led them to the kitchen gone. Their mind was still spinning, trying to comprehend how Supervillain had moved—until they were being guided to sit in one of the island’s stools, a steaming cup of tea placed in front of them.

“You must be starving, you poor thing, I’ll get you some fruit to snack on while this finishes, alright?”

At their side one moment, gone the next, Supervillain stood in front of the fridge digging through the shelves, pulling out a package of freshly bought strawberries.

Then they were back standing next to Hero, placing a small bowl of the freshly cut berries in front of them. Feeling them startle, Supervillain rested a light hand on Hero’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, Hero, I’ll explain everything in a bit, okay? Just eat for now, we’ll talk after breakfast.”

With another smile, Supervillain had moved again, standing by the stove at a sizzling pan.

————————————

@themerrywhumpofmay

@annablogsposts

I know this is actually awful I hate it I’m sorry I’m really fucking stressed rn and I feel like crap I just really wanted to post to not fall behind

[whump-in-the-closet]

General Masterlist/ Intro

Hey there! Call me Troy. I’m at university currently, procrastinating on my assignments by writing for this blog. So, suffering is the name of the game here, if you weren’t sure before lmao. It’s always SFW and either hero/villain or fantasy whump orientated. Let me know if you want to be added to any taglists!

I go by he/they pronouns (this is an update)

While fantasy whump will always have a hold on my heart, i love excess gore and violence— i will devour gladiator whump, field whump, angst, hurt/no comfort, captivity and royal whump, whumper turned whumpee, revenge and corruption arcs the whole work

some other tropes i would die for:

Nonhuman whumpee/ Dehumanization/ Voice cracking from disuse/ Stoic whumpee finally breaking down/ Magic used as a torture method/ breaking kneecaps

I haven’t written any series that I liked to enough to continue writing so I mostly write short whump scenes or prompts and sometimes continuations of them if I get invested enough.

Asks and requests are open!

Whump Prompts

Whump Drabbles

Helect CYOA: Forgiving your enemies is something you’ll never do. Right? You’d gladly take revenge on those who betrayed you, but when your nemesis begs for your help, you’re more than a bit conflicted. Someone else has already beaten your nemesis to a shadow of their arrogant self. [interactive whump, fantasy setting]

Other:

[Merry Whump of May 2023]

[Recommended Stories]

ko-fi i guess?

[broodwolf221]

THE MERRY WHUMP OF MAY

13th — Restless; “tell me how it feels," needle, trail ao3: The Huntress Pursues the Wolf

cws: slightly graphic violence; war mentions

859 words

"Would they still call you Wolf, if they saw how you fled?"

"You are not here," he told the shade of Andruil, who smirked at him.

"I am not far, Wolf."

"So you've been saying."

This projection was vague, the edges of it blurred and unsettling. She was able to follow him, knew where he was, but that did not matter. All that mattered was that he stay ahead.

She was trying to distract him.

"You could have had everything," the shade mused, passing effortlessly through the thick growth he struggled with. "You could have been a god."

"I am no more a god than you," he snapped. He was tired, frustrated… and easily goaded, it seemed.

"Tell me, Wolf," she said, and there was something different to her voice, something he struggled to place, "how does it feel?"

"How does what—"

He jerked, her laughter a sharp peal that carried through the woods. As piercing as one of her arrows. Damn her. Damn them all. And damn his own foolishness, his fatigue, his distraction.

He bit his lip until it bled, focusing on the burst of iron in his mouth and trying to ignore the stinging misery that cloaked his body. The war had changed everything, even the land itself, and the scars remained. In her pursuit, she had driven him into one, like driving her quarry into a corner.

They had taken much from the earth. Veins of bright magic, used to forge their very flesh. In war, they had discovered what they'd done, the brutality they'd enacted upon beings unknown to them, and these scars were littered with traces of that same blood. But unlike what had given them form, these remnants lived still, and they recognized what he was.

Tiny shards of lyrium bored into his skin, and around the blue pins bloomed red blood, a crimson flower with a center of lightning. At least until the 'flower' broke and trailed down.

Any single shard would be unpleasant, but given the volume of lyrium scarring this land, it felt like he was being shredded alive. He summoned a barrier, but the mass pressing against it had him pouring more and more magic into maintaining it, and still the ones already within his flesh continued their work.

These shards did not seek only to harm him, but to kill him. They would force themselves through flesh, muscle, and bone, aiming for the complex organs that made up his internal structure. It was now a race: either he would pass through the scar, and the shards would lose their tether to the memory of life and power that enervated this place, becoming nothing more than a mineral thread through with magic...

Or they would kill him.

Assuming Andruil did not grow close enough to put an arrow through his heart.

"Tell me how it feels," she said again, her voice mocking as her shade swooped close to him. Of course this projection was unharmed by the lyrium, for whether it sensed her or not, sensed its blood as her flesh or not, it had no means of interacting with the hollow specter.

"It feels," he growled, "like you are desperate, huntress. Reliant on trickery rather than skill." He felt a rush of satisfaction, tainted by pain, as the shade flickered beside him. "Will you be satisfied if I die by this memory? No arrow through my heart, no victory to claim? 'I slew the Dread Wolf,' you shall say, and then have to admit, 'well, the blood of our enemy slew him.'"

Projections such as hers were incredibly useful. They moved through obstacles and could not be directly affected. But they were also risky, for one could not hide the storm of strong emotion, not within this hollow facsimile. "The heart of a traitorous pup does not deserve my efforts," she said, and he grinned through the pain at how miserably obvious the deceit was. For all of Andruil's skills, trickery was not ranked among them. And even if it was, he could witness within her the ripple of her discontent, her frustration, her humiliation.

Instead of her arrow through his heart, he had lanced a barb of words through hers. And as he kept going, as he kept forcing himself to take trembling step after step, he began to feel the lyrium weaken.

Caught between the edge of the scar, the loss of their memorialized life, and his own power trying to protect his skin and his core, little progress was being made by the thin pieces, even countless as they were. And Andruil's projection hissed when he finally stepped free of the range, gasping with relief—but refusing to fall, to linger, to pause even for a moment.

Instead he laughed as the lyrium, once an assault, now settled into his flesh. It healed where it had harmed, energized where it had sought to destroy, and he knew now that Andruil would not catch up with him.

She would not wade through the risk of that scar. And he would not wait for her pursuit to go around it.

The Wolf ran free, for now.

[jedi-lothwolf]

The Merry Whump of May Day 2: "Don't You Dare."

Fandom: Star Wars The Clone Wars

Warning: Character Death

Summary: Obi-wan never thought a memory of the past would be ruined during the war. Anakin was never a fan of listening to other people.

    "Anakin, give that back." Obi-wan sighed

    Anakin held his master's lightsaber, taunting him. "What are you gonna do?" He was ready to run away. 

   "Don't you dare" Obi-wan told his Padawan.

    At the tail end of 'dare', Anakin took off down the hall. "Anakin!" Obi-wan yelled after him. Chasing him down the hall, the Jedi knew it would be a while before he got the boy to train. Like most ten year olds, he was difficult.

    However, Anakin was his padawan. Training him was a pain but something told him it would be worth it in the end. Watching the kid run away with his lightsaber, Obi-wan couldn't help but smile. As frustrating as it was, it had some humor to it.

    It had been years since Anakin had stolen his lightsaber and made Obi-wan  chase him around the temple to get it back. As the years passed, the little boy that Qui-gon had picked up on Tatooine, grew into an adult.

    Now the two brothers were generals in a war. They would fight side by side from time to time. Today was no different. "Hello Anakin."

    "Hey Obi-wan. Good to see you."

    "Likewise. Shall we go over the plan?"

    "Probably."

    Sitting together, the two looked over the battle plans and created them. They carefully thought out each attack and strategy, trying to find one that would take them to victory with the least amount of casualties.

    The battle had started as they normally did. Hours of combat seemed to never end. Now they were pinned.

    "What now?"

    "I have a plan but you're not gonna like it."

    "What's your plan?" Obi-wan asked Anakin.

    Explosions went off all around them. Obi-wan's ears were starting to ring, a sound he never did quite get used to.  "I'm going to take out the command tank."

    "You'll die before you get there." Dismissing the thought, Obi-wan started to come up with another idea.

    "Do you have such little faith in little old me?" Anakin joked.

    Rolling his eyes, Obi-wan ignored the comment.

    "I'm going to do it. It's our best shot."

    "Don't you dare." Obi-wan told his padawan.

    Anakin didn't listen. Running towards the command tank, Anakin deflected bullets. He got to the tank and slashed it with his lightsaber. The droids attacked the tank, using it as a weapon to kill Skywalker. Pieces of the tank scattered across the field. Anakin's body lie burned and still not far from the biggest part of the tank.

    "Anakin!" Obi-wan screamed, Cody kept him from going to him.

    The clone's arms wrapped around his body. "The medics will help him."

    The world felt colder than he remembered. Trying to shake the feeling of loss was harder with Anakin then Qui-gon. Then again, Obi-wan had time to grieve with his father.

    The battle couldn't stop for one man. If it could, there would never be any fighting. Kix pulled Anakin away from the scene and tried to find his vittles.

    Cody got Obi-wan away from the scene. The fight continued and ended with a Republic victory.

    Staying with Obi-wan, Cody never left his side. He already knew that General Skywalker had died. He had seen it in Rex and Kix's body language. Somehow, he knew Obi-wan knew.   However, for everyone's sake, it was best to keep that quiet.

    No words were exchanged when Kix hand Obi-wan Anakin's lightsaber. Maybe if Anakin had just listened.  Anakin never liked to listen.

[dokidokisadness]

Merry whumpmas! You've been snowballed by a secret whumper. To continue, send this ask to five other whump blogs with a topic of your choice: What's the fastest way to break Mai?

The fastest way is probably with isolation. He is already very poorly socialized as is, but now that he has already seen people and pets forming relationships and connections, he craves it.

Despite not knowing how to ask or react to interaction, he really wants it and is happy to have his trainer visit him everyday.

If you keep him confined and alone in a room he'll most likely fall to a deep depression and in a few weeks he'll most likely break.

You can also overwhelm him with loud noises and constant touching ( he isn't used to being touched so he feels quite uncomfortable ), although that would be a temporary shutdown, not really breaking him.

[hiding-in-the-shadows]

No Pain, No Gain - the merry whump of may day one

compass | haphephobia | kitchen

@themerrywhumpofmay

CW: unedited and written in 20 mins 😱, self harm, burning, description of burn, conditioned whumpee sorta/I think, makeshift gag, (lmk if I missed something)

Click.

Whumpee turned the stove on.

Click, click, click.

Whumpee turned it up many more settings, heat radiating from the glass surface. They needed this. They needed this more than anything, and if Caretaker wasn’t going to do it for them, they’d have to do it themself.

They grabbed the burnt kitchen rag hung from the oven handle, setting it to the side as they waited for the temperature to rise. Every so often, they glanced behind them to see if caretaker had crept up on them, but they were relieved to find the kitchen still empty.

They’d been bad. This was the right thing to do, right? Caretaker would probably be so proud- maybe that’s what they had been waiting for the whole time! Maybe Caretaker would finally treat them how Whumpee deserved. Hopefully.

The heat was strong now. They could feel it despite being at least a few inches away, hand hovering over it. It was now or never.

Whumpee picked up the cloth and stuffed it between their teeth. It tasted of burnt toast and bacon, but that didn’t matter. They sucked in a deep breath through their nose, terrified, yet also excited. As their soft skin pressed down on the burning glass, their makeshift gag served them well. They screamed muffled sounds, but the pain was very much clear. It shot through their bones like a bullet, never ceasing. Even as they brought their hand away from the stovetop, it continued.

The only thing worse was what they saw. A mutilated mess of a hand. Red blisters already forming, and was that… was that bone? Their shrieks only escalated until they were a mess of tears and sweat. They spit out the cloth and screamed, “CARETAKER! HELP!” They didn’t know why.

Why would they instinctively scream for them? Maybe it was a sudden move of desperation, but Whumpee couldn’t help but believe it was something else. A feeling locked deep inside of them. Trust.

[muchamusedaboutnothing]

Heart of a Hunter Act VII - Ch. 17

Heart of a Hunter Act VII - Ch. 17

Characters: Dean x doctor!Reader, Sam Winchester

This story is Act 7 of a saga.

New to the story? Get caught up on the Heart of a Hunter Saga here.

All your favorite Winchesters are alive, in spite of the curse that nearly took them from you. After coming so close to losing the only family you have left in this world, you’re taking matters into your own hands. There’s a witch to hunt.

Series Warnings:

Character injuries/sickness - Take note that no one is excluded from this.

Canon-typical violence and language.

Lots of whump.

Lots of caring for hurt characters.

Smut (18 Only. NSFW. You were warned.)

Angst.

Fluff.

Medical talk. Is that even a warning

Image Credit: bing image search, google image search

Wordcount: 2007

Author's Note: Merry Christmas! ;)

Chapter  17

Your return home had been everything you'd hoped it would be. The day passed quickly, as time often does when things are pleasant. After dinner, Addie announced she'd be flying out the next day. It was written all over her face that she hated to leave Sam, but she had work to get back to.

"I'm sure Jim and Cheryl will be happy to have you back," Dean said to her.

"We can't thank you enough for your help," you told her, giving her a hug. "We'll miss you. But we'll plan a visit down to see you soon."

"You'd better," she said with a smile.

Sam was putting on a pretty brave face, considering he was probably pretty tore up about her leaving. It broke your heart a little for him, and you weren't surprised when he and Addie decided to turn in early to enjoy their last night together.

You gave Jonah a bottle while Dean took a shower. Then you and Dean bathed him together and read him books in the nursery until he fell asleep in your arms. Once he was settled in his crib, it was your turn for a shower.

Spending so much time in the bunker throughout your pregnancy and since Jonah had been born had spoiled you, and your brief stint in a dingy motel room had been just enough to make you appreciate a nice, long, hot shower at home once again.

When you walked back into the bedroom wrapped in an oversized towel, you found that Dean had brought some things from the infirmary to help you get fresh bandages put on.

"You be thinking about where I can take you for that fancy dinner I still owe you," Dean said as he helped you tape a clean gauze square in place on your side.

You considered him for a moment. "You know, I may just let you surprise me."

Dean quirked an eyebrow and his tongue peeked through his teeth a little. "I can make that happen."

He helped you put a new bandage around your thigh next, and then you leaned back against the headboard. "Do we have to wait till I'm all healed up to celebrate in other ways?" you said coyly, sliding your fingers beneath the bottom of his t-shirt to graze along his abdomen.

Dean bit his bottom lip and looked you up and down. You hadn't had sex since Jonah was born, and even though the recommended time had passed since then, you'd been too busy trying to keep your family intact to do much else.

"God, that's tempting," Dean said, his voice a little wrecked. "Are we okay to do that now? With you wounded?"

"Well, I was going to let you do most of the work, Winchester, but if you're not up to it … " You slid your hand south to cup him through his jeans.

"Hey, hold on now. I never said that," Dean argued. "Besides, there is nothing about having my hands on your body that qualifies as work."

You cupped him tighter, earning a sharp little gasp. Then you opened your towel, letting it fall backward.

He moaned, a deep rumble in his throat, and ducked down to cover your mouth with his.

Your heart did a wonderful flip. You loved that Dean could still do that to you. Make your heart swell and heat flush in your cheeks. He continued to kiss the everloving hell out of you, releasing your mouth only briefly to gently coax you down flat on the bed.

You closed your eyes shut tight for a second to enjoy the feel of his lips on your skin as he trailed a path from your lips down along your throat and collar bone.

“It’s been so long,” you whimpered. It wasn’t like you to sound so needy, desperate. And while he didn’t answer with words, it was obvious Dean needed this as much as you did. The two of you had been through so much together recently.

You wanted to be as close to him as possible right then. To have his hands remind you how well he knew every inch of your body. To have his lips worship you like you were something to be cherished. You just needed him.

His fingers brushed along your skin, going around the bandage on your side and pausing to rest at the dressing covering the bullet wound on your thigh.

"I'm going to be proud of those scars," you said to him, the corner of your mouth tugging up in a smile.

He sat up a little, resting his weight on one elbow as he leaned over you to gaze at your face adoringly. "Not as proud as I am. And sweetheart, you've never looked so damn beautiful.”

And just like that Dean made you feel comfortable and sexy in your own skin, despite the fact that your body was still softer than you were used to. Every touch made it clear that he appreciated what you'd been through, both in carrying the baby and in your recent battle with the witch and demons to protect your family.

Dean quickly shed his own clothes. Propped up on one elbow, he stretched out next to you on the bed. With one hand between your legs, he kissed your mouth while his fingers mercilessly teased you into oblivion.

Dean always had this way of knowing exactly when to pull back long enough for you to suck down a breath of oxygen, but not so long that you had a chance to miss the taste of him on your tongue.

He slipped a finger inside you then, moving slowly but deliberately before adding a second finger. He continued to kiss you while massaging you from the inside out from every angle imaginable. He took his time, and the moments stretched out, languid, hot, torturous in the best ways.

When he added his thumb to the mix, caressing that bundle of nerves in your center, you felt your thighs tremble with anticipation.

"Dean … " you breathed as he swallowed up his own name from your lips.

"Just," he whispered before he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth. "Let … " He kissed the little V in your top lip. "Go…." His tongue flicked gently along the roof of your mouth while his fingers pistoned in and out of you across the ridge of your G-spot, causing pleasure to burst behind your eyes as your muscles clamped down powerfully around him with the force of it.

He leaned back just far enough to let you breathe through your orgasm, fingers gently working you through it.

Your head was light, your tongue heavy. You couldn't have formed words if you'd tried. But Dean didn't require words to know exactly what you needed.

He tucked his head down to nuzzle at your breast, tongue swirling around your nipple, teeth gently flicking over the tip and causing heat to quickly pool in your center again.

Your hand went to the back of his head, nails teasing at his scalp while you encouraged him to continue the assault with that glorious mouth of his.

His fingers began curling and stroking inside of you again as her continued to wake and soothe all the little nerve endings that might have been traumatized during the delivery, and before you knew it he was drawing more wetness from you than you'd have thought possible.

When he covered your mouth with his own again, you realized he was only just getting started.

He scissored you open with two fingers, working in a complete circle so as not to neglect any part of you. When he was satisfied with that, he lightly nibbled on your bottom lip while adding a third finger inside you.

He continued to massage you with his fingers, stroking, pumping, flicking, grazing. Your eyes were shut tight as you tried to take in all the sensations at once.

Dean gently nudged you onto your left side to protect the injury in your right thigh and your waist on the same side. He settled himself directly behind you, easing your legs apart and resting one over his hip.

As he eased himself into you from behind, he was gentle and attentive, lighting your nerves up in ways that made you feel alive like nothing else could. He took his time, letting you wiggle back onto him slowly so as not to do too much too fast.

You were grateful he'd done so much to prepare you for him, and after a moment he was fully seated within you. The two of you lie there for a few seconds, just breathing together and enjoying the feeling of being so inextricably connected.

"I've missed having you inside me, Winchester," you breathed.

His lips tickled the tender skin on the back of your neck as he pressed a kiss there. "Feels like home, sweetheart."

His palm cupped your breast, gently kneading your flesh, fingers plucking at your nipple. When his hips starting rocking gently, the pleasant drag of him along your core had your breath catching in your throat.

"God, you feel so good," he groaned. His teeth dragged languidly across your shoulder blade, lips kissing your skin like he couldn't stand to keep his mouth off of you for more than a second.

He recognized the change in your breathing as a sign that you were getting close again. He continued the pattern, using his hips to angle a little deeper as he continued to drag along your nerve endings, lighting you up from the inside.

When you began to tremble he nuzzled your neck, whispering, "Come for me. I've got you."

Three strokes later and you found yourself clenching around him as your body tried impossibly to pull him closer, further inside you while waves of pleasure rushed over you.

"That's my girl," Dean said, thrusting slowly as you rode out the pleasure. "Damn, sweetheart. You feel incredible."

A light sheen of sweat now covered your skin, and your heart thrummed beneath your ribcage like a little bird trying to escape.

Dean continued moving in and out of you, the head of his cock dragging pleasantly right where he knew you liked best. He knew every inch of your body, having made it his life's goal to continue finding new ways to open you up, set you on fire. Tonight was no different.

His hand slid down between your legs again, finding just how wet you still were; evidence of just how receptive your body was to him. He gently rubbed at your clit, and you jerked a little in surprise at the feel of him there again, but you breathed into the sensation and relaxed against him as he continued to stroke you.

Dean's fingers, along with the way he was pleasantly dragging in and out of you with practiced precision, were the perfect combination. He stoked another fire in you that wouldn't be satiated. Your breath caught in your throat as the orgasm tore through you with such force it made the others seem like ripples before a tsunami.

You were still clenching rhythmically around Dean when he curled around you from behind, muscles bunching with the intensity of his own release.

He pulled out afterward and nudged you onto your back again, resting his head on your chest, ear pressed where he could hear your heart beating frantically after your orgasm. He cherished the sound as it slowed.

You casually ran your fingers through his hair, floating in blissful content.

After a moment, his gruff voice broke the silence. "Doc?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

You looked down at him in surprise, but couldn't see his expression with the way he was nuzzled into your chest. "For what?"

"For coming back to us."

Your throat was suddenly tight with emotion at the sentiment. You pressed your palm to his stubbled cheek and kissed the top of his head fervently.

Act VII Masterlist.

You can find the Masterlist for the Heart of a Hunter Saga here.

Please consider supporting my writing by buying me a coffee. In my case, it’s Dr. Pepper, but a little caffeine goes a long way when it comes to writing and posting this labor of love.

Tags are currently closed. Message me if you’d like to be added to the tags for when it opens again.

*HOAH Text divider by the brilliant Talesmaniac89

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[sticks-and-stones-are-great]

Merry Whump of May - Day 5

“Do unto others as you would bla bla bla…”

Bow and Arrow

Stalking

Cavern

(BBC Merlin)

@themerrywhumpofmay

“Quick, it went this way!” Prince Arthur hissed, leading the way into the cave.

Merlin furrowed his brow, panting, and shifted his pack further up on his shoulder. He stopped at the threshold of the cave entrance and looked up at the rocky ceiling and darkness within. Arthur was rapidly disappearing, his quiver of arrows on his back the last thing to vanish.

Something curdled in Merlin’s gut. They should not be going into this cave.

Besides, why would a startled deer run into a cave for safety?

A moment later, Merlin ducked into the cool dim shadows of the rock. He followed Arthur as best as he could, stumbling over loose stones. 

“Torch!” Arthur whispered from somewhere up ahead. “Now, Merlin!”

Merlin swung the bag off his shoulder and grabbed one of the torches, fumbling with his flint. 

When he raised the lit torch, hissing with fire, Arthur sighed. The Prince turned back.

“Finally.”

“Sorry.” Merlin grumbled. 

Arthur continued into the cave.

“Do you-” Merlin started, but Arthur shushed him. 

Merlin lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you really think the deer ran in here?”

“Where else would it go?”

They had lost sight of the doe several times in the chase. Merlin speculated that it was probably anywhere in the forest but here.

“I suppose.” He sighed, following the Prince. 

As they walked, Merlin noticed something dark on the cave walls. He paused. Then moved over to it and raised the torch. The cave wall was covered in paintings. Very old paintings. In colors of dark brown, black, and reddish clay. And it looked like they were all paintings of the same thing. 

Merlin swung the torch around. The entire cave was covered in paintings of bears. 

Very large bears.

“Uhh, Arthur?” Merlin took a few steps back, back towards the entrance of the cave. “Arthur, I think we should go.”

Arthur turned back to Merlin, face illuminated in the torchlight. “Really, Merlin? It’s just a cave!”

The torchlight also illuminated a pair of yellow reflective eyes in the darkness behind Arthur. They blinked once.

“Arthur, run!” Merlin cried, and ran towards him.

Arthur faced the eyes and a low growl echoed around them, so loud that it bounced and seemed to come from all sides at once. Arthur raised his bow and nocked arrow, letting it fly towards the beast in the darkness. 

An earsplitting roar shook the cave.

They ran together. Stumbling and falling towards the distant daylight. The torch went out. Darkness fell suddenly. Merlin lost track of Arthur. The beast’s snorting and rumbling growls coming from all sides at once.

He was blind.

Merlin fell to the ground. His head bounced off a rock. Something wet and hot trickled down the side of his face. 

He peered into the darkness, using his gift to part the gloom for his eyes.

He saw Arthur on the ground.

He saw a massive bear over him. 

Merlin scrambled over. He jumped between the Prince and the bear. 

He had to stop it. So they could escape. 

Merlin extended a hand to the cave ceiling and reached with magic. Reached, and twisted, and tore a rock from the cave.

A fiery pain erupted into his back. Merlin screamed. 

He could not breathe. 

Did a falling rock hit him? He did not stop and pulled the rock from the ceiling so that it fell between them and the bear. A small barrier, but enough to give them a chance to outrun the beast. 

“Come on!” Arthur was still blind in the dark so Merlin grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards the daylight. Towards the entrance. They ran and ran.

The full light of the outside hit them and they were surrounded by the green forest again, a cacophony of colors. And they kept running. 

Merlin fell behind. Every breath was an agony. He saw Arthur disappear over a small hill. He was gone. Oh well.

Merlin felt his knees hit the mossy ground. He was dizzy. And he could not breathe.

Oh well.

The next thing he knew, his cheek was pressed against damp, earthy-smelling moss. Someone was calling his name. Merlin cracked his eyes open and the daylight hurt. His head throbbed. His back, around his left shoulder-blade, burned and raged. Every breath an effort.

He was turned onto his side, the movement jostling the wound in his back. Merlin cried out, wheezing.

He looked up. 

His head was in Arthur’s lap. Prince Arthur’s eyes were wide and he was pale.

“I shot you.”

“What?” Merlin rasped.

“There’s an arrow in your back, Merlin. I shot you.”

“Oh.” Merlin closed his eyes.

So that’s why it hurt so much.

“Wake up!”

Arthur’s voice hurts too. But Merlin opens his eyes.

Arthur’s face is closer. “I’m taking you back right now. But not if you’re going to die on the way. I’m not going to the trouble of carrying a corpse all the way back, alright?” Arthur’s voice trembles and there are tears in his eyes.

Merlin nodded a little. “I would carry your body back, you idiot.”

“Yes, well.” Arthur wiped his eyes. “Do unto others as you would, you know, blah blah. Right?”

“I wouldn’t shoot anyone in the back either.” Merlin whispered.

Arthur hiccuped out a laugh. “Would you be willing to tell everyone you shot yourself in the back?”

“Idiot.” Merlin sighed, and closed his eyes.

[bluejayblueskies]

ao3 year in review 2022

happy new year!! 🎉 with 2022 done and gone, i wanted to take a quick moment to look back on the fic i wrote last year 💜

Top Fandom: Malevolent (15 works, including anonymous fics and fics on my separate nsfw account)

Date of First Fic Posted: January 2, 2022 (it's my party and i'll cry if i want to, Encanto, 5.6k words)

Top Multi-Chapter Fic: ten thousand flowers in spring, The Magnus Archives, 47.5k words

I finished this one just a few days ago and I had such a good time writing it! It also may very well be my last major TMA work (unless the TMA muse returns to me at some point) and I'm happy with it being the capstone on my multi-chapter TMA experience 💜

Top One-Shot: The Cube Rule of Food Identification, The Magnus Archives, 1.6k words

This fic surpassed 1.5k kudos recently and I never expected it to 😂 it's the silliest fic I think I've ever written, given that I usually trend towards angst and whump, and I'm glad that people enjoyed it!

(more under the cut!)

Fic I’m Most Proud Of: whisky old fashioned sour, Malevolent, 58.5k words

I love whisky 💜 this fic is my baby at the moment, ngl, and I'm so excited to wrap it up in the next month or two (depending on how fast I write). People have made some truly spectacular art for it that continues to blow me away every time I see it, and the community has been so wonderful and encouraging over this AU that I thought nobody would really find interesting other than me 💕

Fic I Wish Had Gotten More Attention: cicatrix, Malevolent, 4.7k words

I get why this one didn't get a lot of attention--it's a niche AU (a daemon AU) that's rather whumpy, and I posted it at a weird time. Still, it was (and still is) a concept that really excited me, and I still wish it had gotten a bit more attention. Oh well! That happens sometimes. I like to think that I've gotten more resilient about writing weird niche things that will get like 5 comments and 20 kudos max XD

Fic That Challenged Me The Most: Fata Morgana, The Magnus Archives, 41.7k words

I wouldn't necessarily say that any of the things I wrote this year were particularly challenging (unless you count the HTML stuff in whisky 😂). However, I did have a super rough time starting this fic. It really did not want to get off the ground for whatever reason, and it fought me hard for the first couple of chapters. It was pretty smooth sailing after that though, and I'm proud of the final product!

Favorite Quote/Passage: I always struggle with this question because I forget what I've written beyond what I wrote like. Yesterday lol. So I think I'll just pick a selection of lines I enjoy!

from whisky old fashioned sour:

This close, John can count every single one of Arthur’s freckles—or he could if he had the time, which he immediately adds to his to-do list. Does Arthur have freckles on his shoulders as well? His back? The inside of his thighs? John has never needed to know something so badly, so desperately.

from pov you're an arkham taxi driver:

The last glimpse you catch of him is in the bright white of a lightning strike, high above in the clouds. He looks … taller, somehow. Like his shadow has peeled away from the ground and now looms ominously above, an unholy specter of darkness that winds around him like it’s trying to consume him utterly.

from merry and bright:

There was a choir somewhere else in the festival, and the faint sound of Christmas carols mingled with the jingling of bells and the crackling of fire and the ever-present crunch of snow underfoot. The sounds, along with John’s descriptions, painted a brightly-colored picture: vendors adorned with reds and greens and silvers, children with one hand clasped in a parent’s and the other clinging to hand-carved wooden toys or big round lollipops, people with handcarts peddling candied orange peel and apple cider and warm roasted chestnuts.

from do the stars gaze back?:

Then, Jon reaches out a hand and traces a finger along the curve of Martin’s cheek. “You have constellations within you as well,” they say softly, mapping out the spaces between Martin’s freckles and leaving a warm, tingling sensation in their wake. Their finger reaches the bow of Martin’s upper lip, and they hesitate before shifting and cupping Martin’s cheek in their palm. “They’re lovely.”

from live wire:

They’re beautiful, Jon thinks. In the same way that poison dart frogs are beautiful and belladonna is beautiful and a knife is beautiful right before it buries itself in your lungs.

Total Words Posted: 253,945 words

I suppose I did write two full multi-chapter works and one almost-full multi-chapter work this year, but wow that's still more words than I expected! I'm super happy with the progress I made last year, and I plan to continue writing and posting in 2023 🎉 Thank you SO much to everyone who has commented, kudosed, reblogged, chatted with me in DMs or discord servers, and otherwise supported my writing--I appreciate all of you 💜

Some things to look forward to from me this coming year 👀

Malevolent

The last few chapters of whisky 🥃

Episode 20 time loop fic with themes of whump and heavy angst

Some assorted oneshots, including a Christmas PWP I really meant to have done last year and an exchange fic!

More selkie AU 🦭

TMA

Some assorted oneshots via the bunnies in the archives event that I'm participating in

A oneshot where Tim and Jon quit the Institute together in season 4 that I'm planning on finishing and posting!

A magic AU featuring magician Martin who may or may not have accidentally summoned a Jon by writing sad poetry. Featuring hurt/comfort, sickfic vibes, and a happy ending 💜

[shywhumpauthor]

The Merry Whump of May—Day Fifteen

“The power of god and anime”

Hammer | Over-Exhaustion | Hammer

Bite sized cause I only have interest rn for the cyoa and u wanted to post before something for mwm so I don’t fall even further behind

Masterlist

Cw: torture, implied broken bones, blood, filming, abuse, gagging, restraints, choking/suffocation mentions

Whumpee’s screams were muffled by the tape pressed over their lips, duct tape wound around the back of their head, catching in their hair. A knotted cloth had been stuffed in their mouth, their jaw held open awkwardly beneath the makeshift gag. It was really starting to ache, they knew they wouldn’t be able to speak after it was finally taken off, but that was just about the least of their worries.

Tears ran down their cheeks, catching along the line of duct tape, but they did nothing to loosen the layered adhesive. Blood dripped from multiple scratches and lacerations along their face, a cascade of red staining down their chin from both nostrils,and they had to keep their head tilted forwards to not choke to death on their own damn blood.

It was growing increasingly difficult to continue breathing, every raspy breath they were able to draw in not nearly enough. Their lungs ached, chest burning as they slumped forwards against the ropes that bound them to the chair, trying to keep from hyperventilating, as they were sure that would only lead them to suffocating faster.

Whumper, if they noticed, didn’t seem to care. They’d let Whumpee choke to death on their own blood, they were sure. Because that’s the kind of bastard they were.

“Lift your head up,” Whumper commanded, standing a few feet in front of Whumpee, fiddling with a camera positioned on a tripod. “Show your family just how pathetic you are.”

Humiliation burned like a fire in Whumpee’s chest, nearly as hot as the lighter Whumper had used to burn the skin along their forearms. Their cheeks flushed, though under the blood, sweat, tears, and dirt, it wasn’t really visible. Whumper stepped away from the camera, a little red dot to the right of the lens indicating to Whumpee that it was filming. They dropped their eyes to the ground, swallowing back a sob.

Whumper picked something up from their workbench, testing the weight of the object in their hand before smirking.

“Now, Whumpee, the deal with them was no money in two weeks would cost you a hand. I’ll even be as nice as to let you choose.” Whumper swung the hammer with a careless ease, unbothered by anything.

“Shake your head for left, nod for right.”

—————————————

@themerrywhumpofmay

I think I’m going to try for shorter pieces, so I can keep up with this challenge

[whump-in-the-closet]

Merry Whump of May

@themerrywhumpofmay

May 12th- "Time flies when you're having fun."

[Thumbtack | Panic attack | Ballroom]

***

(tw: caretaker turned whumpee, lady whump, panic attack, creepy whumper, forced to dance)

Caretaker watched quietly as Whumper spun Whumpee in a circle. Chandelier light fell across Whumpee’s face, throwing glittering gold across their teeth and hair. 

Caretaker sat in the corner of the ballroom, gripping her glass with a white-knuckle grip. Shadows hid the hatred written in every line of her face. It was inscribed into her stiff posture and clenched jaw. She dared not intervene, but it looks could kill, Whumper would be a corpse.

Whumper did as Whumper pleased, and that was that.

Whumper pulled Whumpee close, whispering something into their ear.

Whumpee paled, looking like they might be suddenly sick all over Whumper’s suit. They managed a nod and Whumper smiled.

Caretaker barely resisted the urge to smash her glass against the table. What a shitshow this was. She didn't want to watch this.

The music, grand and achingly deep, echoed across the room. More couples joined Whumper and Whumpee and laughter melded in clear tones with the orchestra. 

Caretaker stayed in the shadows, watching. 

Spinning clothes and gloved hands and glinting gold all washed by her in a single blur. Caretaker pressed her hands into her eyes, trying to stop the burning. 

Scarlet burning. A burning that reached past her eyes and could not be stopped. 

She had told Whumpee to run. She had told them not to trust Whumper. Did they listen? Did the idiot listen?

No. No they did not.

The burning reached into her mind, digging into her skull with knives for hands. It became a voice, cutting deeper than the knives.

Pounding, digging, clawing. 

A dozen different voices. 

You messed this up. You could have saved them. But you didn't.

Caretaker was having trouble breathing. She was breathing too fast and too hard to be able to think. 

Coward.

Why was the music so loud? It reached a fever-pitch and Caretaker clamped sweaty hands over her ears, trying to block the noise.

Stop, stop, stop–

The weight of a thousand wrongs crushed her, hanging on her shoulders and smiling as they choked her.

Her pointed earrings dug into the palms of her hands and she pushed on them harder.

Couldn’t breathe. 

Caretaker couldn’t block out the music and she couldn’t block out the voices and still behind her eyes, Whumper and Whumpee were dancing. 

Spinning, whirling, laughing. 

You failure. 

Whumpee would have told her to take deep breaths. Well, Whumpee wasn’t there. Whumpee was dancing across that polished floor. Leather jacket against smooth stone and laughing without showing any teeth. Terrified out of their fucking mind.

Caretaker did not take deep breaths. 

What she needed, desperately, was a cigarette. Right now. Fight fire with fire. She would burn away the scarlet pain with bright ash and dark smoke. But she would never be able to burn away the image of Whumpee trying not to cry as Whumper danced with them.

Never. 

Breathing came easier at the thought of a cigarette. In a moment she would stand up and the world wouldn’t spin and the voices would shut up. In a moment– 

“Caretaker?” Whumper’s voice sounded like it came from the end of a long tunnel. “Are you alright?” 

Caretaker lifted her hands from her ears, carefully wiping the sweat off on her pants. She glanced at Whumpee on Whumper’s arms.

They made a point of staring at the ground. But they couldn't completely hide the bruises under their eyes.

Was that concern or mockery in Whumper’s voice? Caretaker couldn’t tell.  

Whumper followed Caretaker’s gaze and smiled down at Whumpee. "I think we should have one last dance together."

To Caretaker they said, “I’ll be back to continue this conversation. Time flies when you’re having fun, I suppose.”

Caretaker has to bite down on her tongue to keep from answering Whumper’s condensation with biting sarcasm.

Caretaker didn’t wait for the song to end, but stood and left the ballroom with shaking hands and red-rimmed eyes. 

She couldn’t watch this.

[broodwolf221]

THE MERRY WHUMP OF MAY

14th — Punchable; “I just want you"; rock; closet ao3: False Impossibility for False Divinity

cws: violent fantasies

457 words

Solas smiled politely at Elgar'nan, and fantasized about punching him.

He was a strong man, even aside from his magic. Likely, Solas' strike would have little effect. Still, it was a pleasant fantasy. He imagined the look of shock across the All-Father's face, blood trailing from a swollen nose. Imagined the reaction of the other Evanuris, the stunned disbelief. Imagined that disbelief transforming into laughter.

"All-Father," he greeted cooly when Elgar'nan deigned to meet his eyes, looking bored. "You have need of me?"

"Perhaps I just wanted you," he said, the flash of teeth revealed as he grinned. "Your company seems to thrill so many of my people."

"I stand in service," he pointed out, Elgar'nan's eyes narrowing before he made himself comfortable, expression slipping to a cool disdain.

"I am certain," he drawled. "What better task for a dog than to fetch?" Solas did not let any reaction disrupt his careful facade, but he did think about punching him again. About leaping onto him and hitting him again and again with impunity.

If only.

"And what is it you would have me retrieve?" Elgar'nan's lips twitched into a smug grin as he raised a single finger, a page floating up from his desk before being accelerated towards him. He managed to catch it before it struck him, just barely, as his hands clasped behind his back delayed the reaction. But it did slice through the skin of his palm, a thin red edge to the parchment.

"I expect you to deliver within the week," Elgar'nan told him imperiously, and Solas forced himself to incline his head respectfully before departing.

He let his hand continue to bleed, unwilling to use magic and advertise his healing so close to the All-Father. He did not, however, resist the urge to read what was written as he walked away. His lips curled with disgust before he crumpled the paper in his hand, the sting of it pressing against the cut almost imperceptible against the sting of frustrated humiliation.

Wolf,

Deliver to me your arrogance. Your Pride.

Kneel bare upon stone and feel how unforgiving it is. And when that stone yields, that is when I will welcome you back to my halls.

God speed,

— Elgar'nan

He had a week. A week to make stone yield. A petty game, the riddle of an overconfident child. Elgar'nan attempted to craft a challenge without solution, but Solas would always find a solution. He would obey the tenants laid out, but no more than that.

There was a small room, half-forgotten and used now for storage, where the stone tiles were in ill repair. The door would preserve his privacy, and the tiles would yield in time.

Elgar'nan would never win, not against him.

[its-my-whump]

Sad tales of Andrew Samuel Cooper

In his young years he was called Andy, but after a shitload of bad luck in his childhood, he changed his name to Sam.

He just came out of nowhere and found his way into my short stories during the writings events of this years. I never know, where he will end up, but it will almost always be bloody. I really do feel sorry for him, but still I can't help myself. He just stumbled into my life, drawn to be my favorite whumpee. Sorry Sam.

Andys/Sams destiny kind of developed. So there might be some continuity problems, there are leaps in time and he most definitively wouldn't be still in one piece. But that's the beauty in ficition. Anything goes!

For Whumpril2023

Bloodstains

Forced to kneel – Grabbed by Collar

Punishment

Holding Hands – “Don't let go.”

For the The Merry Whump of May

Desperation - hiking trail

Amnesia

“Good things come to those who wait.” - Isolation

“Bent out of shape.” - Dragged - Wrong place, wrong time.

"It takes two to tango.” - Hot coffee

"Hammer time”

Knife - Rug burn

"A picture's worth a thousand words."

Blowtorch - Frostbite

"Rain check." - Strained

"Thin ice." - chronic pain

For June of Doom 2023

"Don't move."

"I made a mistake."

"You'll get used to it."

"It's really not that big of a deal."

"I can't stand seeing you like this."

Hummingbird (whumptober 2023)

TBC

[darkthingshappen]

No. 7 THE WAY YOU SHAKE AND SHIVER

@whumptober

Follows from this Merry Whump of May post.

As ALWAYS, thanks to the AMAZING @whumpcereal for the beta. And to my whumperful crew that always cheers me on: @oddsconvert and @sparrowsage as well as @quietly-by-myself. Y'all are the best!

Warnings for character death, violence, threat of murder, aftermath of torture.

Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attack

Whumpee walked silently behind Whumper.  His hands shook, and the chains around his wrists rattled.  His wrists had never healed right after whumper had broken them.  He’d followed through on his threat and hung Whumpee from his broken wrists in the barn which had become his new home.  He didn’t think he’d ever forget the pain of hanging from broken wrists. 

His hands were mostly useless now for any fine motor task.  His fingers had curled and petrified into place.  The tremors that ran through his hands were often painful, like an electric tingle running from the tips of his fingers and up and down his arms.    

He knew about electricity too.  That was one of Whumper’s favorite things to do to him while he hung from the wooden beam.  He’d shock him with a picana over and over and over.  Whumpee had never even heard of a picana before Whumper took him.  He fucking hated it.  He’d lost count of the amount of electrical burns his body bore now as a result of that specific toy. 

How long had it been?  Enough for his fingers to stop really working.  Enough for him to stop fighting and just do as he was told.  

Whumpee stumbled as Whumper yanked on the chain.  Luckily, he didn’t fall.  

“Come on, move it you lazy brat,” Whumper growled.  

Whumpee had almost forgotten what it was like to be in normal society.  Whumper lived so far out in the country that Whumpee hadn’t seen a soul the entirety of his captivity.  Not one.  The only thing he was let out of the barn for were these occasional hunting trips.  Whumper didn’t have a dog.  He had Whumpee and a really long length of chain.  

Whumpee hated hunting.  He saw himself in every dead animal he was forced to retrieve.  How long until it was him at the other end of Whumper’s rifle?  With each step, he felt like he was walking one step closer to his grave.  

“Here we are, lazy bones.”

Whumpee looked up.  There was a long, narrow hole in the ground in front of him. It wasn’t too deep, but it was clear someone had dug it themselves.  Whumper tugged him to the edge of the hole.  

“Now, we’ve had a pretty good run, you and I, but this is the end of the line.  You’re rather useless now, and I think it’s for the best that I put you down.  “

“Wha-? N-no.  No please.  I’ll be good.  I’ll do whatever you want.  I’ve been good.  I have.  I’ve gotten all your birds and rabbits.  P-please.  I even got that deer last week.”

“That deer didn’t hardly weigh anything, and you barely got it through the door.  You’ve been a good stress reliever, but it’s time for me to find a new assistant.  Now, on your knees.  Don’t make this difficult.”

Whumpee could feel the panic rising.  No.  No, he would not just kneel down and be shot so that he could fall into some prepared grave.  But Whumper was right?  His hands were useless after all the abuse he’d endured.  Still, maybe if he got away?  Got actual medical aid?  Maybe he could be fixed?  He couldn’t do that if he was dead.

“Now! On your knees now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Whumpee shook, his head snapping up at the horrible order.  He had nothing left.  Nothing at all.  Fear and panic bloomed inside of him and he couldn’t move.  He felt his heart race beyond what he thought possible, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.  He didn’t want to die, especially not like this - shot by his tormentor and dumped in a desolate unmarked grave.  No.  No, he couldn’t just lay down and die.  

He stumbled a bit as he moved closer to Whumper, but he didn’t move to stand in front of the grave.  He couldn’t.  

Whumpee took a shaky breath and steeled his resolve.  He looked up and met Whumper’s eyes for the first time in months.  Fast as lightning he ducked under the rifle pointed at him and barreled his shoulder into Whumper.  It wasn’t like it was going to work.  He was going to die out here.  Today.  But he wouldn’t go down without putting up some sort of fight, some small resistance.  No one would ever know.  He’d be buried out here where no one could find him.  But Whumpee would know, even as their blood pooled beneath them and their vision grayed–they would know that they didn’t die beaten.  

But then, Whumper was falling, stumbling backwards toward the grave.  Whumpee couldn’t hear anything because of the ringing in their ears.  The gun had gone off, and now there seemed to be no sound.  

The grave had evidently been dug to whumpee’s proportions.  Whumper was almost a head taller than Whumpee.  As he stumbled backwards with the force of Whumpee’s unexpected blow, Whumper’s head caught on the outside ledge of the hole.  

Whumpee didn’t hear the sickening crunch of bones as Whumper’s neck snapped.  But he saw the shocked expression on the man’s face, saw the smoke still rising from the end of the rifle, saw the larger man’s body suddenly go completely slack and the rifle slip from his limp hands.

Whumpee knelt on the ground at the edge of the hole, just staring.  His ears were still ringing, but he could just make out the gasps that Whumper was making as he tried to pull in a breath with muscles that no longer responded.  He saw the man’s eyes turn red as his blood vessels burst from lack of oxygen.  He watched in disbelief as the Whumper’s body twitched, and then there came a sickening rattle of breath from the man’s mouth.  

Then, it really was quiet.  

Whumpee still couldn’t move.  They kept their gaze fixed on the unblinking eyes in front of them, certain it was a trick and that Whumper was going to start laughing at them and shoot them dead.  

The seconds ticked by and turned into minutes.  Whumper didn’t move, their body resting in a grave meant for their victim.  A bird flitted down and sat at the edge of the grave before giving a loud chirp.  The sudden sound was loud after all the stillness, and it startled Whumpee out of their fear and disbelief.  

He moved slowly as he crept toward the body.  He took the gun with his bound hands and pulled it away from Whumper.  When Whumper made no move to hold on to it, Whumpee moved more confidently.  He pawed at Whumper’s clothes until he felt the outline of Whumper’s hunting knife. Maybe his hands were ruined, but he still had to try.  

Whumpee’s numb fingers shook as he tried and failed over and over to cut the ropes around his wrists.  Tears ran down his cheeks as the sun started to dip beneath the horizon.  It was going to get cold soon, and Whumpee had no idea where they really were.  The truck was about a mile or two back near the trailhead.  

Whumpee finally managed to get the knife pinned between his knees so that he could cut the ropes off of his wrists.  Once his hands were free, he clawed at Whumper’s pockets until he found the keys to the dead man’s truck.  Without a backward glance, he gathered the gun, hunting knife and keys and turned from his tormentor and started walking.  It didn’t matter how long it took or if he even found the damn car.  He was alive.  He was free.  

[sparklingbinjuice]

Merry Whump of May | Day Two

Prompt: ‘Beg to differ’

Topics: Denial | Confined | Eye contact

Content Warnings: implied torture, implied past rape/non-con

The soldier wasn’t supposed to remember. That was the whole fucking point of him. But something about last month’s incident with the cryo unit had managed to lodge itself very firmly in the piece of Swiss cheese the scientists called his hippocampus.

He did  not  want to go back on ice.

Rollins swore quietly, then took a deep breath and began to assess the results of the soldier’s latest little outburst as calmly as he could.