#curse whump

[marvel-ous-whump]

aftermath of statue curses

Let's be honest. We all love a good "Turned to stone" or "Turned to ice" curse right? The angst of a caretaker finding a whumpee like that is just *Chef's Kiss* so good. But we're really snoozing on the aftermath. of what happens to poor Whumpee when the curse is broken. Seriously;

Atrophy or weakness of the muscles.

Gravel Rash everywhere. (for the stone curse)

Frostbite EVERYWHERE (for an Ice curse)

frequently recurring chills (both, Stone is still cold y'all.)

incredible disorientation or dizziness.

coming out of the statue starved and dehydrated.

Whumpee collapses into Caretaker's arms the minute the curse is broken.

Coughing up particles of whatever they were encased in.

Whumpee is desperate for the Caretaker not to leave them, ever. Especially if they were somewhat conscious inside the statue

[thewhumpcaretaker]

🝊 Curse in Two Bodies: 3 - Runaway 🝊

Masterlist| Summary: Despite the contract, Adelais refuses to take the curse back into his own body. In his absence, Ninlen starts to despair.

TW: hospitalization with ventilator and IV, suicidal ideation, starvation, discussion of a car hitting a pedestrian

Author's Note: We're back to the regular timeline, from before the Christmas special took place. Also if you're wondering why Ninlen isn't being intubated, it's because the tubing can't pass through his throat effectively. The ventilator is a magical system that pierces directly into the lungs. They haven't yet developed an equivalent system for delivering food into the stomach. Would the ventilator collapse the lungs in real life? Probably. Did I think enough about any of the medical implications? Not really.

Oh God Ievenar! Oh Ievenar, God of Justice! Oh God, Ievenar, who holds the scales! Please! I am so sorry…

But what happened, it was never the agreement! How could I live that way? Was that supposed to be my life? Even now, is this -

But I should collect my thoughts.

I was, when I prayed to you recently, still housed in that sort of…meeting room where I first encountered Adelais. Hours passed, in which people attempted to move me. Nurses, guards…I think I resisted but I can’t be sure. Every movement was pure agony. Nonetheless, they eventually moved me, and I could not speak to protest.

They put me in a room. I would call this a guest room, but I think it is my bedroom now.

Don’t think I am ungrateful, please. I spent much of my first day on the job unconscious, and that is a mercy. There have been many mercies. The room to which I was transferred is absolutely lavish. Green velvet and dark hardwood surround me, an entertainment center sits across from me, and the walls are papered with delicately painted scenes of the royal gardens blooming in spring. I have never laid in a bed this comfortable, under a crisp white duvet so fresh and airy as this one. It’s changed twice a day, in conjunction with a great deal of fussing over the IV. Although I have been treated like a mere machine by every person who has interacted with me, I have never been treated more like a precious machine, which must be meticulously maintained.

But Ievenar…Adelais von Korsaivar has shown me no mercy of any kind.

He left me there, to bleed and choke on myself. Painkillers have no effect on your workings, and so I had no relief. I have only images from these past days, flashes of moments. The light rising over the far wall as the pain consumed the night and the dawn. The glassy pressure of the ventilator tubing parting my flesh with something foreign that will not leave. The constant drip of blood into my stomach.

Adelais’ voice in the hallway. “There is no agreement. I don’t care what he signed. I didn’t sign shit.” The door stood ajar and I could see him. He still appeared quite weak, leaning heavily against the doorway. “What, an entirely secret contract is supposed to be binding? Who’s he going to sue in this state? I don’t care what you do. Burn the contract, shove it up his - ”

“Your highness, I appreciate that,” said Quincy, from out of sight, “But it’s only for fifteen minutes. Ten, even. Just so as he can eat, and then the pain will be completely removed again. Think of it as a short medical procedure.” My heart sank as I realized the topic of their argument.

“It’s an unnecessary procedure. He doesn’t need to eat; he can be fed by IV.” By this point, I had dragged myself upright enough to bang a hand against the side of the bedside table in the only audible protest I could make. Adelais eyes shot to me with something more than disgust. With a kind of fear. His beauty, even then, was terrible. I tried to convey to him by my look that I meant him no harm, only wanted enough relief to survive and keep helping him.

For his part, I don’t think he even regarded me as human. How could he afford to, when my torture staved off his own?

“He won’t last forever that way,” said Quincy urgently, “and if he dies the curse will fall back – “

“QUINCY! YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME. There are no rules to dictate how long that grubby lump of a man can play host. If his death is an issue, keep him alive. Get a tertiary curse bearer if you have to.”

“There’s no such – “

“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear: I will NEVER feel that way again. Not even once. Do your job and find another way.”

He departed. Again, my memory fades to images and chaos, this time interspersed with bouts of fear at the thought that I might never escape. More than once, there was shouting. People struggling with Adelais. Sometime in the afternoon, bells rang out from the towers and bootsteps rushed over the marble tiles outside my door. I texted Steward Quincy for information. “What’s happening?” And then, in case he was reluctant to tell me, “Has Adelais run away?”

He did not reply. Instead, he came to my bedside, trembling in a way that did not console me at all. “We’ll get him back. Everything will be sorted.” And he hurried away again.

I was hungry by then. The IV replenished most things, enough for me to survive, but there was a dull aching for food, a faintness, and it started to frighten me. A healer came and relieved it in some measure, but to heal damage already caused by hunger is far more difficult than simply giving food. And over time, I knew…

Still, I held out hope. They were trying to get him back. The Prince could hardly be allowed to run rampant through the streets, and everyone seemed intent on making sure he took on the curse again.

Day passed into night, and then into day. The news held no indication of what was going on, not even a mention that the Prince was missing, and no one told me anything no matter what I asked. Without a voice, and unconscious half the time, I was easy enough to ignore. I focused on the pain, trying to see if I could take a breath in spite of it. It is narrowly possible, but breathing forms a kind of death rattle and threatens to produce a coughing fit that would be fatal anyway if I weren’t ventilated.

Almost a week had passed when Queen Annelin von Korsaivar appeared, out of breath and clutching something in her fist. She’s smaller in person, though her greying golden curls look no less manicured. I can see the origin of her son’s sharp features. And just as Quincy had done, she trembled in a way that betrayed a certain desperation.

“Mr. Loch,” she said to me curtly. “Please pay me no attention. I only need to access some papers.” Fumbling with my bedside drawer, she pulled out my contract. She thrust it down on the table next to me. I sat up in alarm and she startled, whether from fear or guiltiness I can hardly tell. But in any case, she put the bedside table between us after that, and wouldn’t look at me, even as she spoke. “Unfortunately, the situation has taken a turn. My son has put forward certain…conditions under which he will return to the palace. So.” I then noticed that the object in her fist was a bottle of white-out.

I typed frantically into my phone and held it out to her. I banged against the bedframe. It didn’t matter – she wouldn’t look in my direction, just focused intently on the white-out. In the silence while it dried, I could hear her breathing slowing. She seemed to gather control of herself. “The curse…will only be transferred…at Prince Adelais von Korsaivar’s discretion. It need never…be transferred…unless he wishes,” she read, while writing over the top of it in black ink. Then she left, already video calling Adelais as she made her way out the door with proof of her sincerity.

That was when the despair set in.

I had started to adjust to the wound itself. I can bear the pain a little better than he - my body is used to such things. But it’s not just pain, I’ve realized. There’s a kind of panic in the thought that it might be eternal.

By text, I asked for your sigil, which a servant kindly brought to me. But I was too sick to think. Too sick to pray. Do you understand what it is to go from believing I would spend half of my time incapacitated in exchange for payment (a dismal prospect already), to believing that I would be completely incapacitated for the rest of my short life without a single reprieve? That I would never taste food again, or even draw a full breath? That I would wither away my strength for months or years until I died an early death, and that my family would never truly know what had happened to me? I felt like a corpse buried alive and waiting to suffocate.

I don’t think I’m insane for considering suicide. What would it matter, if I couldn’t expect another enjoyable or even decently bearable moment until the end?

But it would matter to Adelais. His punishment would come back to him sooner. That was the only fact stopping me from pulling both glass needles from my chest and driving them into my heart. I know now what Adelais suffered, and it is a horror. I can’t blame him for running, wrong as it may be. Ievenar, do you know what it is to know something is wrong but that it is not blamable? How can it be that a mortal grasps this, but a god doesn’t?

He came home and the palace quieted. Somewhere through the walls, to the right of me or behind me or in front of me, up above me or below, Adelais paced and thrived and savored all the little joys of living. The thought transfixed me and sustained me. These were my thoughts: pain, pain, pain, Adelais. There is this difference between what I faced and what Adelais faced: my pain has a purpose. Someone benefits. Maybe I should have hated him for that, for benefiting from my pain. But it would have been unbearable if he didn’t.

He came to me, finally, deep in the night. My light was already on, and I was not sleeping. Softly, still in his silvery-white waistcoat and not at all dressed for sleep, he shut the door and took the chair beside my bed. What did his blank face mean?

He folded his hands in his lap and looked at me and looked at me.

At last, he spoke. “On the way out of the palace, a gate officer…” He swallowed, and fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “jumped…in front of my car.”

I just looked at him, obviously.

His eyes flickered to mine and then back down. “He's alive. What, he has a broken leg, some sick leave? It’s a vacation. He’ll be fine. Just…what an idiotic thing to do. Even if it was his duty to stop me, no one does that. So stupid.”

I typed into my phone, “Why are you telling me this?” and showed him the screen. He tensed, as if a lamp or a character on the television had started talking to him. This was, it seemed, a one-way confession.

“I…I don’t…” and then very rapidly, “I thought you might have some fellow feeling for him. The two of you suffer from a similar breed of idiocy.”

Again, I typed. “It’s not naivety. I understand why you ran away. This is horrific and I’m sorry you had to endure it.”

“You’re just sorry you have to endure it now.”

“Not only that, but yes, that too.” I hesitated and typed again. “You could make it stop for me. Even for a second.”

“No. I won’t bear the curse. I won’t do it again.”

I confess that I was, in my desperation, manipulative. I made a grasp for his pride. “You mean you can’t bring yourself to do it.”

“I could,” he insisted. “But - ” He’d trapped himself. But I willfully refuse to help you was too openly cruel a sentiment to utter, and it was the only alternative. His hands had closed into fists in his lap and he rose suddenly, overwhelmed by my presence, by the sight of my body. “I won’t be back.” So confident of his own say in the matter.

My last chance, then. My last chance for even a moment of peace. Ievenar, how could you blame me? If he couldn’t bring himself to do it, I’d do it for him.

Using what little strength had not dwindled away, I lunged forward, heedless of the needle shards that broke off inside my abdomen and the equipment crashing to the ground in a clattering of metal. Without air, through blinding pain, I overpowered him.

I don’t fully remember what I did. I think, unfortunately, that it wasn’t any kind of graceful moment of defiance. I just sort of…collapsed on top of him, bringing us both down. He was too shocked to struggle much, and still as weak as me. So I took his wrist, just took it, and shoved his hand clumsily against my throat.

The relief! It was almost instant. Even with needles in my lungs, I drew deep breaths and laughed and hardly noticed the tears streaming down my face. But he was already starting to suffocate. My first use of my restored speech was to scream for help. I pushed off of him and pulled him into my lap. His eyes rolled wildly in terror. “They will come for you. It’s okay. I’m so sorry. I had to. You were killing me. But it will be over so soon.” He shook violently and curled against the only soft thing available, which was me.

I’m not much good at healing magic. But I kept the oxygen deprivation at bay until the nurses came, with some difficulty. As for his fear and hatred, there was little I could do.

Adelais’ wishes, it seems, are almost as easy to white out as mine. Now that he’s incapacitated again, I’ve been allowed to eat, and to spend a full hour moving and breathing. I won’t take quite that long, but I needed this. I needed to talk to you.

Not long ago, I begged forgiveness for taking the curse out of him. Now I beg forgiveness for putting it back. Of the two, I blame myself more for this one. But I don’t really blame myself for either. Because why did he come to me, and confess to me, if not for the knowledge that he was in the wrong? And Ievenar…could he have succeeded in taking my pain if he really had no pity for me? We both know I shouldn't have to do this alone.

And the truth is...I can't.

[papa-goose-ollie]

Why do we even need a watch here? This place is desolate.

Kremy was shaken out of his self-pitying thoughts by a rustling far off in the forest. He turned his head to the sound and tried to pinpoint the location.

He heard another sound to his left, the sharp snapping of a twig followed by a muttered curse.

----------------------------------------------

Kremy turned and only saw the dark blue glow of a blade before Gideon dove between them, he grits his teeth as he suppressed a yell, “Son of a bitch!”

Gideon grabbed the bandit by the collar of his shirt and punched him with the force of a freight train, sending the bandit flying off into the thick bushes outside of their camp.

Kremy stepped in front of Gideon, “Hey, are you okay? You don’t look so- Oh shit”

Gideon slumped forward, his eyes rolling back into their sockets. The second Gideon hit the ground he started violently convulsing.

---------------------------------

Carnivale Lecroux got attacked by bandits who had a cursed weapon, Gideon saves Kremy but will Kremy be able to save Gideon before he succumbs to his magical wounds?

Fandom: legends of avantris, once upon a witchlight

Pairing: Kremy Lecroux X Gideon Coal

Words: 7,8K

Language: English

Content warning: graphic depictions of violence, major character death, dissociation

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 116

Write something inspired by this concept:

Hero is cursed to transform into a monster, but every time he dies in his monster form, he comes back to life as a stronger, more hideous, more beastly version of that monster. Hero tries to hide this fact and his transformation from everyone, because the more times he dies and transforms, the less human he becomes. But villain finds out and hunts him down.

[redd956]

Mini Whump Prompt 150

"So...." Caretaker's voice trailed off, as they analyzed the cursed sword now in their hands. They read the curly and cursive writing etched into the blade over and over, fully taken in what it looked like to have their own name on it. "What will it be like?"

Whumpee gulped, trying to find their words, "Hell."

"Well... I guess I'm ready for it, as long as it brings you relief."

"Please, don't do thi-"

Caretaker already passed whumpee's curse onto themself.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

The Journey South

The Watcher and the Thief, Chapter 3 Scene 1

Whumptober Day 22: 22 BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES | Tourniquet | Reopening Wounds | "Oh that's not good"

Whumptober Day 25: SURGERY | Stitches | Being Monitored | "It's for your own good."

Whumptober Prompts List | Masterpost

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

<- Previous | Next -> (coming soon!)

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 1600

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west

CW: blood, stitches, wound cleaning, worry

A/N: Hector and his stubbornly optimistic apprentice Luc have begun their journey south in search of a magician who can reverse Luc's curse. But can they find her before Luc bleeds out? A Watcher met on the road may provide an answer.

----------

Three days earlier…

“We’ll rest here.”

“Are you sure? There’s still a few hours of daylight left.”

Hector gave Luc a flat stare. While his apprentice was clearly trying to put on a brave face, his body language betrayed him. Exhaustion lined every inch of Luc’s body, and the way he held himself in the saddle betrayed how every movement bothered the wounds in his back and chest. Every sway and dip was accompanied by a wince or a tightening of the jaw as he tried to hide his pain.

But he knew Hector’s eye for detail better than anyone, and his shoulders slumped. “Okay, we can stop here.”

‘Here’ ended up being a spot a short distance from the road, hidden behind a small hill and the tall scraggly bushes common in the sparse plains southwest of the Fells. They had left the blockade as soon as they were able, but progress through the Fells on horseback was, as usual, slower than Hector would prefer, losing most of their daylight navigating through barely passable terrain.

Hector dismounted and secured their horses before he helped Luc down. Luc hissed through his teeth when he hit the ground, jaw clenched. “That’s… that’s gonna be pleasant.”

“Silas said to change the dressing every morning and evening. You think you’re up for it now?”

Luc hesitated before responding. “Let’s get it over with.”

Hector unloaded their supplies from the horses, setting them down beside Luc as the boy slowly lowered himself to the ground, face set against the pain. It was only until after Hector finished loosening the saddles and removing the bridles from both horses that he realized he was stalling.

He exhaled sharply and went back to Luc, digging the medical supplies out of the saddlebags. The elves had made sure they would not run out of things like bandages, dressings, augri for cleaning wounds, or various medicines on their journey. Understandable, considering Hector wasn’t certain how long it would take before they tracked down Qila Scoria. Magicians were unpredictable in how they chose to use their gifts, but last anyone in the Fells had heard, she was near Valdove, a few days’ journey south.

He was stalling again. “Shirt off,” he commanded, a little too sharply for the situation from the sideways glance Luc gave him before complying. The young Watcher hissed through his teeth again as he raised his arms above his head and worked the shirt over his head in slow movements.

Hector set his jaw when he saw the state of the bandages wrapped around the wounds on Luc’s chest and back. Blood was beginning to seep through the cloth and in some spots had entirely soaked through. Stitches or no stitches beneath the bandages, the carved runes were proving their refusal to properly close.

“Is it bad?” Luc asked quietly.

Hector untied the knot holding the bandages tightly and began to unwind them. “They haven’t gotten worse, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well…” Luc began, thinking, “I suppose it’s all I could be asking for. Every day that passes without infection is a good day for me.”

Hector finished removing the bandages and set them aside, trying to ignore his nephew’s blood on his fingers as he pressed a clean cloth reeking with pure alcohol to the small, uniform cuts. Luc stiffened when the cloth made contact, but he did not cry out. “Still finding the silver lining,” Hector muttered, methodically working his way across Luc’s back, “I admire your perseverance.”

“I try,” Luc said, wincing with each movement. The runes sliced into his skin had been stitched shut by the elves, but that didn’t prevent the curse from continuing its work and keeping the wounds from closing.

Hector worked in silence, moving on from cleaning the wounds as quickly as possible. Rewrapping was much the same as unwrapping, although Hector felt his work was clumsier than that done by the practiced hands of the elven surgeons.

How many more times must I do this? He wondered as he put away the medical supplies. Luc’s blood was no longer on his hands physically, but he could still feel the thick, sticky liquid every time he rubbed his fingers together. How much longer until he bleeds out?

…How much longer until I have to bury another family member?

He didn’t voice any of these thoughts aloud. Not when he gathered some fallen branches from the nearby shrubs to start a small fire. Not when the fire grew hot enough to cook with. Not when he prepared their evening meal. Not when they ate in silence, the chill of the autumn night pressing against their backs.

Hector didn’t voice any of the thoughts aloud.

But he suspected, from the way Luc occasionally shot glances his way, that he could still hear them, even if he didn’t answer aloud either.

Facing your own death is one thing. Hector faced his so often that such a threat was almost meaningless.

Facing the death of your apprentice is another.

And facing the death of your apprentice when it might happen through circumstances utterly out of your control? Another thing entirely.

Not to mention the very real possibility that Qila Scoria, once they found her, would be unable or unwilling to provide aid. Then what? Search for the next magician? And the next? What if they encountered the one who had done this to Luc in the first place? They had only gotten away alive because Hector had caught her by surprise, he doubted the same thing would happen twice.

“I can help keep watch,” Luc offered as they were settling down for the night.

Hector looked at him sharply, about to argue, but Luc continued, speaking quickly. “I’m not going to be able to sleep well anyway, no matter which way I lay down I’m going to be on the stitches, and you can’t keep watch all night and navigate the next day, so get a couple hours of sleep, at least….”

Hector exhaled in frustration. He had a point. “Fine.” He unclipped his pistol from his belt and held it out to Luc, still in its holster. His apprentice stared at it for a long moment before hesitantly taking it. “I don’t expect you to have the same range of motion as you would normally. I’ve seen you shoot, you’re a good marksman.”

Few Watchers carried firearms, most in Hector’s generation preferred the bow or crossbow, having used them for decades. But Hector knew a dangerous and useful weapon when he saw one, and so when he got his hands on one he made sure he learned how to use it well. Such skill was imparted onto Luc, although you wouldn’t know it by the way he handled the weapon like a hot coal.

Hector contented himself with the crossbow he had inherited from his own mentor. Luc was as familiar with it as Hector himself, but the extra exertion from reloading the bolt was guaranteed to tear the stitches in his back.

“First watch?” Even before the words completely left his lips Hector knew the answer.

Luc nodded, turning the pistol over in his hands. “Perhaps when my watch is done I'll be exhausted enough to actually get some sleep.”

Hector allowed himself to return his nephew’s smile. He hoped his optimism would be able to last long enough for the curse to be reversed.

*****

They met the unfamiliar Watcher ten hours later.

The sun had only just risen above the horizon, the last wisps of morning fog yet to evaporate. She was walking south along the road, the same direction as Hector and Luc, and from her unbothered disposition when they caught up, she had heard them coming a while before.

“‘Morning,” she wished them as they rode up on her right. She wore a cloak dyed in the recognizable greens and browns of a Watcher, although hers were a more muted shade than Hector's own coat. Her curly brown hair was tied back in a low ponytail. She carried a bow in one hand, a quiver hanging from one hip and a short sword on the other.

Judging from her relaxed posture as she walked, she deemed them no threat. But her short sword was at easy reach, and any number of other weapons could be hidden within the folds of her clothing.

As Hector made his assessment, the way her eyes darted between him and his apprentice showed how she made hers. She frowned when she noticed Hector’s pistol holstered on Luc's belt. “Watchers in the north carry firearms now?”

“Fires faster than a bow or crossbow,” Hector countered.

“Hm. Noisier too.”

“Easier to carry.”

“Harder to acquire ammunition.”

“Yet.”

She sighed. “Fair enough.” She closed the distance between them and stuck out her hand towards Hector. On his horse, she came to the middle of his chest, estimating her height around one hundred and seventy centimeters. “The name's Kaira. Kaira Ta'ruen.”

He shook the offered hand. “Hector Epsilona. This is my apprentice, Luc.”

Kaira nodded to his nephew before turning back to Hector. “What brings two northerners to this lonely road?”

“Could ask the same of you.”

“Fair enough. I came from west of here, was called out to find a couple missing folks. Tracked them almost to the Fells where….” She narrowed her eyes. “You two wouldn't happen to know something about a serial killer up in the Fells, do you?”

Hector glanced back at Luc, who gave him an imperceptible shrug. Probably the best he could do without bothering his wounds. “As a matter of fact… yes. We do. We were called in from Caenum to help with the elven blockade….”

[clickerflight]

Clove: Part 11 - Unburied Grief

Masterlist

Part 10

Hey! Look at that! A vampire who is having a bad time!

Content: Werewolf whumpee, emotional whump, fear of going back, disassociation (?)

Vampire whumpee, laceration across the chest, curse whump, emotional whump, grief

...........................................

Hyrum didn’t know why they stopped on the hill, only that Ephraim stared at the cottage with widening eyes. He looked down at Hyrum and whispered, “Goldenrod, I need you to be very brave, okay?”

“What?” Hyrum asked, clutching his toy tighter to his chest. 

“I think there might be someone dangerous here. I need you to go hide in the village. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

Hyrum’s mind sparked with waves of panic. “What do you mean?” he whimpered, his trembling growing stronger. 

“Just go to the village. Please,” Ephraim said, gently propelling Hyrum down the slope. “Go.”

The urgency in Ephraim’s voice raised Hyrum’s thin hackles and he nodded before turning and running back down the hill, his heartbeat in his ears. 

The rattling of his toy did not cover the sudden scream of rage, nor the horrible shrieks and hisses of an angry vampire. 

Hyrum whimpered, running faster down the hill. He screamed as he tripped, his legs feeling like jelly underneath him and he rolled down the hill, limbs searching for some way to stop himself. 

He finally came to a stop in the dirt road when he heard more nightmarish sounds from the top of the hill, and that pushed him to his feet again. 

An endless stream of whimpers fell from Hyrum’s lips. He needed to stop. He needed to find somewhere to hide, he needed to be quiet. Jack would punish him if he was too loud. He would have to kneel on silver for hours if Jack heard him whimpering. Weapons didn’t whimper. He knew that. 

But there was a quiet voice inside of him that told him he wasn’t a weapon. One that smiled with a chipped fang and pressed kisses to the top of his head. 

Just as this thought was starting to pull him from his panic, someone touched him and he scrambled to get away, yelping and crying. 

“Hey, hey,” a deep voice said soothingly. It didn’t sound like Jack but it smelled human. “It’s okay, lad. Where’s Ephraim?”

Hyrum sobbed, pushing at the firm, though gentle hand that had wrapped around his arm. He was going to be taken and put in a dark room, he knew it. He’d get so hungry he’d start eating beetles and stones again. He didn’t want beetles and stones, he wanted berries and stew and bread. He didn’t want a cold cage, he wanted impossibly soft blankets. He didn’t want punishment, he wanted soft touches and gentle hugs, and loving kisses. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t handle it. He would surely break. Every small part of him would crumble away and he would become the dust underfoot. He would shrink away to nothing. He would flee his own still breathing body. 

When Hyrum was picked up, arms around his torso to keep his arms pinned, he screamed. He had never before known anguish so terrible. Never had he imagined that his soul could hurt so badly. There had been light after so much darkness and the darkness was all the more terrible for knowing he wouldn’t see that light again. Like fate had handed him love and kindness only so he could know what it was like to lose it. 

How much more would he be forced to bear?

……………………………….

Ephraim stumbled into the village. The wound in his chest was deep and ached with each breath. It wasn’t healing like it was supposed to, and he could feel a small curse eating away at his flesh. It wouldn’t kill him, though it might leave a scar. 

Ephraim didn’t have time to think about scars, though. He had found Hyrum’s toy dropped at the bottom of the hill and picked it up, trying to find his little werewolf. 

“Goldenrod!?” Ephraim called, disregarding the fact that he was certainly waking people up. “Sweetheart, where are you!?”

“Ephraim!” 

The vampire spotted Anna stepping out of her house. When she saw the blood in the moonlight her eyes went wide and she firmly closed the door to keep her eldest from coming out and seeing it. 

“Stay inside. Everything is fine,” Anna said through the door before rushing to Ephraim, steadying him and pulling at his torn shirt to see the cut better. “Ephraim, what happened?”

Ephraim bore his teeth, a hiss escaping before he could find his voice. “There was a madman in my cottage. He was trying to take Hyrum from me.”

Anna only just managed to keep from covering her mouth as her hands were covered in Ephraim’s blood. “No! And he did this to you?”

“Yes. Have you seen Hyrum? I sent him down here to be safe.”

“I haven’t, but I did hear someone scream-” Anna admitted and Ephraim surged from out of her grasp. 

His voice broke as he called, “Hyrum!? Goldenrod!?”

Doors were opening all down the street, voices asking what was going on, but one person’s voice boomed over the rest. 

“Ephraim! He’s over here!” Guntar called. 

Ephraim practically melted with relief, stumbling over. Guntar caught him as he tripped on the first step. Ephraim felt the spell eat deeper into his chest and he coughed as it caught in his lung, gripping onto Guntar as he spasmed. 

“Anna!” Guntar said, “Get Margie.”

He helped Ephraim into the house as Anna disappeared into the darkness. 

Ephraim got his breath back, his healing pushing the curse away from his lungs where it became invested in his sternum. 

“Goldenrod. Where is he?” he asked quickly. 

“In here. I don’t think he knows where he is, poor lad.”

Ephraim pushed past Guntar, looking around wildly for the werewolf. 

He found him hiding under the well carved kitchen table. He was laying perfectly still, nothing to prove he was alive besides a faint twitch every now and then. 

Ephraim slid to his knees, pushing in to scoop the boy into his arms. Hyrum was limp, his head lolling back as Ephraim did so. The vampire pressed the boy’s head into the crook of his neck, pressing kisses all along the side of his head. 

“Goldenrod, I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here. Please, you’re okay, please, come back sweetheart.”

Hyrum twitched, his breath catching in his chest. He whined, high pitched and scared. 

Ephraim did nothing to stop his tears from running down his face, soaking into Hyrum’s golden hair. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I-”

Ephraim choked on his emotions, sobbing in rhythm with the curse throbbing in his chest. He wanted to apologize for the terror Hyrum lived with every day, he wanted to apologize for not killing the man who had done this, he wanted to apologize to a fledgling who wasn’t here, who he hadn’t seen for just over 40 years. None of this would do either of them any good, so he cried into Hyrum’s hair while the werewolf fell asleep in his arms. 

“Alright, what’s all the fuss about?” a crotchety old voice asked. “Ephraim, I really hope you don’t mean for me to go under there to treat you.”

Ephraim tried to slow his sobs, but only managed to make them wretched little hitching things. 

“Oh,” Margie said, a softness entering her grizzled tones. “Ah, Guntar, could you help Ephraim out?”

“Yeah. I’m going to pull you out now, Ephraim.”

Guntar’s large hands pulled him and Hyrum out before the butcher gently coaxed Hyrum out of Ephraim’s arms. 

“I’ll put him in bed,” Guntar promised as Ephraim gathered himself to pull himself up into a chair. 

Margie pulled back his shirt, eyeing the wound and the curse that was starting to play across Ephraim’s ribs. She muttered something and the chewing pain that had been crawling through his chest faded as she stifled and put out the curse. 

Ephraim took a shuddering breath, moving to look at the wound in his chest and see how bad it was when Margie’s weathered hands cupped his face. He looked into the old crone’s eyes, unchanged from the beautiful woman she had been 50 years ago. 

“Ephraim,” she said softly. “What happened?”

Ephraim stared for a moment, captivated before he found his voice. “There was a man in my home. The one who……”

“I see,” Margie said, reaching for a rag to clean out Ephraim’s wound and see if it was healing. “He was there to take Hyrum, hmmm?”

“Yes,” Ephraim breathed. “I was going to kill him.”

Margie hesitated. “And you didn’t?”

Ephraim’s eyes burned as he looked away. “He.. ah, he said he knew where Ben was.”

Margie froze at the mention of her older brother, eyes wide for a moment before she narrowed them again, cleaning Ephraim’s wound a touch more fiercely. The softness in her voice was gone as she said, “Ben is dead. You said so yourself. You couldn’t sense him through the bond. That means he’s dead.”

“No. It means one of two things. He’s dead, or-”

“You don’t seriously believe in the fae courts, do you?” she replied harshly. 

“I’ve met the fae. Just because they haven’t been seen for a long time, doesn’t mean they’re all gone. The man said that Ben had been taken by the queen.”

Margie gritted her teeth. “Then Ben’s as good as dead. We can’t get him back, even if there was such a thing as a fae court. You should have just killed the fool.”

Hurt, Ephraim looked away, towards the room Gunter had taken Hyrum. “I’m sorry, Marigold.”

Margie ignored him, and finished looking at the wound. She rubbed some balm in and patted his chest. “Go sleep,” she said. “I’ll check your cottage in the morning. If that man could cast that sort of curse on you with just a cut, I can imagine he left some rather nasty traps for you.”

Ephraim nodded, standing up. He opened his mouth to thank her, but she was already gone, refusing to meet his eyes. He stood in Gustav’s house, exhausted and drained, and he let his clenched fists relax as he turned. 

Gustav was still in the bedroom with Hyrum. He was running his hand over Hyrum’s back over the blankets. He looked up when Ephraim entered and whispered, “Before you say anything, you can stay here for the night.”

“Thank you, Gustav.”

“Do you need something to eat before you go to bed?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Ephraim said with a weak smile.

Gustav stood up and Hyrum whimpered at the loss of contact. “I’ll bring the blood to you. Why don’t you stay with him?”

Ephraim nodded and sat in the chair, putting his hand on Hyrum’s head. The new hair and fur starting to grow in were already so much softer than the rest of it, and Hyrum seemed to enjoy it the most when Ephraim wiggled his fingers into his curls to find the softest of it. 

Hyrum’s small, crooked, questing hand reached out and grabbed at Ephraim’s arm, following it back to his shirt before weakly tugging. 

Ephraim leaned forward, but Hyrum didn’t stop pulling until Ephraim realized what the boy wanted. 

Ephraim sighed and slid into the bed, pulling the covers over both of them. Hyrum curled up against his chest, and Ephraim could feel the tiny tremors that vibrated through Hyrum’s body. 

Ephraim held the boy close, running and hand down his back silently. 

Gunter came back with a cup of blood, which Ephraim drank quickly before curling back up and closing his eyes, listening to Gunter leave and get settled again before falling asleep. 

………………………………..

“You shouldn’t go up there alone, Margie,” Anna said. She had come by in the morning with her youngest to pick up something for a cough he’d picked up to find the old woman preparing to go up the hill to the cottage. 

“I may be old, but I can take care of myself,” Margie replied. She was rather testy that morning. More so than usual though Anna wasn’t easily scared off. 

“I’ll have Josh go up with you.”

“I don’t need your husband to-”

“Margie, you are taking someone with you,” Anna said sternly, and Margie glowered at her, trying to decide if it was worth the energy to keep arguing with the determined mother. 

“Oh all right,” Margie sighed and Anna nodded firmly. “Now, you’d better not go up alone.”

Margie grumbled as Anna gathered up her youngest and headed back out, leaving Margie to finish packing her bag with the things she would need to take care of any curses or traps she found. She hoped there was nothing too surprising up there. While she had a lot of practice with countering curses or even casting them, she was self taught and she knew there was a lot she still did not understand about magic. 

He left her house, taking her cane with her. She usually didn’t use her cane, but she had woken up with aching knees and there was no way she would be climbing up that hill without it. 

She walked through the main street of the village, passing by the shops and homes and making it out to where the dirt road thinned out. She was halfway up the hill before she heard someone jogging to catch up behind her. 

She smiled to herself and called out, “Slow this morning, aren’t we, Josh?”

Josh snorted as he caught up. “Only because Kate was throwing a tantrum. So, what’s the story? I know there was someone here who attacked Ephraim last night.”

“Indeed, and he’s a nasty piece of work. Throws curses wherever he goes, it seems. I’m here to try and clean up any traps or curses he may have left behind. Ephraim has enough going on without needing to worry about that too.”

Josh nodded. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Oh, yes. Trust me, I’ll put you to work.”

Josh smiled and looked up at the cottage. The door was open, a little askew on broken hinges, the inside yawning darkly at them. It felt so wrong to look into that friendly cottage and feel a strange prickle of fear on the palms of his hands. 

Margie sighed. “Yup. Lots of work to do.”

Part 12

Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff @honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs

[whumpspicelatte]

Briar Corbin and/or To Curse A Conqueror - Royalty Whump!

To Curse A Conqueror is a bit of an AU of mine where King Terrance I, freshly coronated after the death of his older brother in battle, lays a trap for the invading forces of a warrior prince when it becomes clear that they cannot defeat him through battle or find a position of strength that will let Terrance negotiate for the safety and continued wellbeing of his royal nephew and nieces :3

Prince Amaltheas arrives with his forces to find a capital city and palace bereft of all life save for the king himself seated on the throne, the palace cleaned up and prepared richly to welcome the invading forces, and while he and his army are initially wary, nothing seems to be wrong. No traps, no poison, no tricks...

Well. Save for one.

A curse laid by the king himself to ensure the safety of his nieces and nephews and the kingdom he rules, set upon the one who claims his throne and crown >:3

And what better Trojan horse than King Terrance and his palace, all ripe for the taking?

Features an arrogant young prince desperate to prove himself who ends up getting way more than he bargained for when he claims the throne of a freshly conquered kingdom, a king turned war prize who doesn't give a second thought about giving himself up for the well-being of those he holds dear, and a newly deposed prince and princess who have little interest in leaving their uncle to his fate :3

I'm not sure when I'll focus on this idea, but I do like it, so I'll likely come back to it at some point. Plenty of royalty whump, plenty of messy dynamics. Main characters off the top of my head would be Prince Amaltheas, King Terrance, Prince Otmar and Princess Florence.

Some of these names may be familiar >:3

[whumpwillow]

what do you think about curse whump? (ask inspired by some art I've seen recently of sora kingdom hearts being forced to eat a poison apple)

*looks at my current wip* uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

but no really, I think it's really good! depending on the nature of the curse, you can get really creative with it and it can lead to a lot of interesting scenarios

[foundfamilywhump]

being aromantic and into whump is like. shoutout to whump for being a great opportunity to engage with stories about intimacy and vulnerability and powerful emotion and physical interactions with other people and intense relationships that are not presumptively based in romance. what would i do without you.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Oh yeah.

Ohhhhhhhh yeah.

I know this is niche, but magic whump where whumpee slowly becomes less physical.

Perhaps its a curse, where Whumpee slowly turns into a ghost. Or a punishment for using forbidden magic. Could it be a disease?

What happens when Whumpee starts phasing through things? Do they get a twisted feeling in their gut because nerves did not recieve a signal they should have? Do physical objects feel cold/hot?

Whumpee craving physical touch because they can't touch anything. Caretaker wanting to hold them so dearly but their hands just go straight through.

Whumpee getting lost in the ground, not knowing what way is up and desperately searching around for the surface. How long are they stuck before they break down? Is Caretaker worried about where they've gone?

Is there a certain material they can make contact with? Does Whumper use it against them? Does Caretaker use it to aid them?

Magic whump that changes Whumpee's physical state.

[tansyuduri]

Art by @kairennart for "Nine Lives" Based on the Five Of Swords Tarrot Card.

Arthur smoothed Merlin's hair again, trying to calm his own breathing. “He’s not waking up,” Arthur’s voice cracked.

“Give it a moment. His body has been through a lot,” Gaius told him. Arthur nodded and tilted Merlin's face upward again. “You’re alright,” he whispered again, “you’re alright. Everything is alright.” Except it wasn’t, and Arthur had no idea how the curse would strike next. 

He watched Merlin, trying not to hyperventilate as he cradled the other man’s cheek. His thumb stroked it gently. “Come on…” Arthur begged, “wake up… You’re alright…” He had to be alright.

Finally, Merlin’s eyes slowly flickered open. The blue that reminded Arthur of a night sky flicked around the room quickly before meeting Arthur’s own eyes and focusing slowly. It was the most beautiful sight Arthur had ever seen. 

It was all he could do not to kiss him right then and there. Let him breathe, he reminded himself. Let him breathe. His thumb continued to stroke Merlin's cheek. He bent forward and kissed his forehead again. Pulling back, he discovered Merlin's eyes still focused on him. 

“Merlin…you can hear me?”  Arthur asked.

Merlin gave a very slight nod, eyes still staring up into Arthur’s. 

“Good, it's about time you woke up from your beauty rest.” It was all Arthur could do to keep his tone even and his voice from cracking as he spoke. 

Merlin’s gaze instantly switched to being utterly incredulous. His eyes practically screamed “you ass”. 

Arthur started to laugh hysterically, and he leaned down, embracing Merlin with both arms. Taking a few deep breaths of his own before pulling back, he sat on the end of Merlin’s bed and pulled the other man close. One hand rubbed up and down Merlin’s back while the other caressed the nape of his neck and the bottom of his black hair. Arthur’s lips pressed over Merlin’s skin wherever he could reach.

Internally, he continued to panic, because this could never happen to Merlin again. And it would if he didn’t do something. An idea struck him, perhaps he could plead with the witch— convince her that her revenge was better if the victim of it was him. 

Fic found here!

[thewhumpcaretaker]

🝊 Curse in Two Bodies: 2 - A Text from a Gilded Cage 🝊

Character Descriptions | Last Installment | Summary: Ninlen pretends he’s fine while texting his mother. No trigger warnings.

N: Hi mom. It’s Ninlen. The palace gave me a new phone. Contact me at this number from now on, okay? They’re shipping the old one back to you.

M: Oh good, I needed a new phone. Can I wipe it and start using it?

N: Yes. It’s already wiped.

📞 Call Declined

N: I can’t call. I’m sorry.

N: The palace has really strict security.

M: Well, I have to hear your voice or I don’t know if it’s you. There’s too many scams going around these days. At least let me see a photo of you.

N: I can’t send photos either.

N: Here: when we lived in that old house on Wilder Ave, my friend Ike put a frog down my shirt at my birthday party in the backyard. And I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “thank you for the frog.” Nobody else would know that. At least, I hope they wouldn’t.

M: Hi Ninlen 😆

M: No, they wouldn’t. I didn’t tell anybody 🤐

N: Hahaha

N: Thank you mom. 

M: So is the job going okay then? Did the transfer go through?

N: Yeah. It’s not so bad. They gave me a nice room.

M: The curse doesn’t hurt?

N: No, not that much. I think it’s probably because it just doesn’t hurt as much for the curse bearer, or something like that. 

N: My first check is getting shipped to you with my phone, by the way.

M: Well, good, but I want to know when I’m going to see you again. 

N: I don’t know.

M: What does that mean?

N: I haven’t gotten my schedule sorted out. 

M: You’ll be off for Yule, though, right? I mean, even they have to let you off for a federal holiday. Your niece will be seeing her first one, and Edna said she can bring her. I’d better look up what they named the baby again before we both insult her.

M: Esmerelda, that’s her name.

N: Okay. I’ll remember that.

N: I love you.

M: Love you too honey. You’re sure everything’s going okay?

N: Yeah. I live in a castle now. It’s surreal, I feel so rich. You should see the bedroom they gave me - I just wish I could send pictures.  Seriously, it’s completely fine.

M: I know, I worry too much. It’s what us moms are here for. I’m glad you’ve done so well for yourself. 

N: Thanks. I’ve gotta go for now, okay? They’re keeping me busy. 

M: Busy carrying a curse? All you have to do is exist.

M: (Sorry. Kidding.)

N: *Sigh* I’ll talk to you soon.

M: Good.

[echoingalaxies]

Whumpee has been given some kind of drug (or is under a curse) that heightens their senses by a lot, to the point touching anything or moving will cause them unbearable pain. They're in agony even by the mattress they're lying on.

But Whumpee's friends don't know this - all they know is they're in pain and don't know what it is or how to help. So they stroke Whumpee's cheek, hold their hand, rub their back, trying to provide comfort. They don't know if Whumpee could speak, they'd be pleading for them to stop because every touch, no matter how light, feels like a blowtorch on their skin.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Cursed Heart, Part 3

Part 2

Whump Prompt 53

BTHB: Get It Over With

Fandom: Original work

Synopsis: While pursuing a lead that might free him from his curse, Ciaran falls into a horrifying trap.

CW: blood, captivity, aftermath of poison, magic whump

The air in the alleyway is silty-thick with magic.

Ciaran stumbles against a brick wall, dizzy, ready to collapse. Even without the miasma surrounding him, his head swims and his breath comes shallow and raspy. Aftereffects of the assassin’s poison, along with the lingering nausea in his stomach. Nothing that he can’t handle.

But immortality doesn’t lessen the effects of torture. The assassin’s tests have made that excruciatingly clear.

A cold breeze sweeps through the alley, drying the beads of sweat on Ciaran’s forehead. He brushes a strand of damp hair out of his eyes and squints through the dark at the pock-marked ground and ramshackle walls rising on either side. One of these crumbling buildings has to be the right one. Where else would a practitioner of dark magic be hiding? He takes a deep breath, inhaling the murky scents of garbage and potion fumes. His stomach churns again. He takes a step forward, then another, one hand steadying himself against the grimy wall, his heart pounding.

There. A lighted window. A silhouette moving against the visible wall inside.

He knocks on the wooden door before he realizes what he’s doing.

“Enter,” grates a low voice from inside. Ciaran steps in, his head ducked to avoid hitting the door frame. Another wave of dizziness washes over him. The smell. Singed hair. Burnt flesh. Caustic smoke and unreal fire. The perfume of dark magic.

“You need something, I assume.” The magician’s chair creaks away from a desk covered in black feathers. He looks about as healthy as Ciaran feels, down to the dark circles under his eyes and colorless skin. “No one wanders down this alley without a purpose.”

Ciaran tries not to look around as he answers. “I need to get rid of a curse.”

The magician’s expression turns keen, and he nods. “You’ve come to the right place. Sit down.”

He gestures to a stained, rickety wooden chair, and Ciaran reluctantly obeys, his heart racing. Not much longer now until he’s free. Maybe the assassin will show a little mercy and kill him once and for all.

Jars and tools clink as the magician starts taking things down from the shelves. “What kind of curse?”

The words taste strange on Ciaran’s tongue. Since his last waking, he hasn’t told anyone his secret. “My heart. It never stops beating. I’m immortal.”

The magician pauses, facing the shelves, a vial of something blood-red clutched in his hand. His eyes flash as he turns to Ciaran. “And you don’t want to be immortal?’

“No.”

It happens before Ciaran can even think: thick black vines snaking around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the rickety—no, the iron chair.

“What are you—" His mouth snaps shut before he can finish.

“Don’t speak,” the magician orders. “You’ll distract me.”

Then get it over with, Ciaran wants to snap back—but his mouth is fixed tight and all that comes out is a muffled series of grunts.

The magician—he doesn’t even know the man’s name—shuffles around him, his left hand making small, complicated gestures while his right sprinkles black dust in the air. The sick feeling returns to Ciaran’s gut. Something isn’t right. The chair’s transformation—the fetters strapping him down—the magician’s dark, flashing eyes—

The blade of a dagger lances down Ciaran’s forearms in lightning-quick succession. Crimson trickles immediately from the wounds and turns to a white-hot—emptiness.

What’s happening to me…my blood…why is it flowing so fast—

The magician is muttering something to himself, words in a language Ciaran can’t understand. And his blood keeps flowing, spiraling through the air, pooling in a large vial the magician holds almost reverently in his hands.

His blood. The magician is draining him of his blood.

The room turns cold, and Ciaran shivers in his chair, unable to cry out or even speak. Unconsciousness lurks almost on top of him, clawing at the edges of his mind. Can he live without blood? Can his heart beat without it? His senses start to flicker in and out—the scent of blood, cold air, his laboring breath, the magician’s muttered spell—

A knife flicks out of nowhere and impales the magician’s hand. A shout of pain. The spell ceases. The flow of blood dwindles to a little trickle down the chair arms. Ciaran gasps for breath.

“Let him go. He belongs to me.”

The assassin’s voice.

“I said, release him!”

A second blade, this time in the magician’s shoulder. The man reels backward; the vial of blood smashes across the floor. Ciaran’s fetters vanish. He finds himself slumped in the rickety wooden chair, his forearms sticky with blood.

“I’m glad I found you,” the assassin remarks, helping Ciaran to his feet. “I made a few adjustments to the latest serum, and I need to test it tonight.”

@forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumping-to-conclusions @whumping-out-of-time @simplygrimly @weirdghostboi666 @wolfeyedwitch @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @throwawaywhumper @leyswhumpdump @whumpinthepot @badthingshappenbingo

[taylrartz]

The Ballad of Never after mini-comic for ur feeds💓