#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: 1 - Involuntary 🝊

Character Descriptions | Summary: Ninlen meets the afflicted prince and agrees to carry the prince's curse in his own body.

TW: blood and gore, mention of gagging

Oh Ievenar, God of Justice who holds the scales, who never gives less pain than it is righteous to give: I will not ask you for mercy. I will give you information, that’s all. Let me plead my case for what is righteous.

You have to understand my desperation. Even my family didn’t want me to do it. “A curse bearer? Don’t you dare, Ninlen, don’t take the job,” that’s what my mother said to me. “I don’t care how much. Acting against justice itself, undoing the work of the gods…it’s a kind of blood money.”

“Don’t I already take blood money?” And I believe that. If the scales are against me, this will not tip them any farther. I can’t bring myself to believe that you would rather I keep draining the mana out of the living ground in Montagleo, leaving it ashen and lifeless and cracking open. It tears a man’s heart out just to walk over the dust of the mana fields, to taste the emptiness. It all goes to light the prince’s precious fucking chandeliers anyway. You can’t possibly rather I keep chipping away at the vibrancy of the world itself, than simply take a man’s pain upon me…whether he deserves that pain or not.

But even knowing that, I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to forgive him, not really. Not him, and not forgive. I knew I was doing something, but I didn’t know what or with who until it was far too late. I was, for instance, already in Steward Quincy Jack’s chauffeured car when I was told that I would be working with the prince himself. I had suspected as much, given that he hadn’t made a single public appearance since the return from the Montagleo campaign. But I’d written it off as an impossibility, my own hyperactive imagination jumping to the glitziest possible conclusion, until Quincy began explaining the situation.

Even then, I protested. “Couldn’t he have worked with a friend? Or a relative?”

“…No. The transfer wouldn’t complete with any of them.” Lord... Typical Korsaivar family.

“Am I the first person outside the family to give it a go?”

Again, “…No.” Quincy straightened the papers of my freshly signed NDA against his briefcase. A bump in the road undid his work and he promptly tried again. Inflectionless and formal against the implications, he avoided my eyes. “More than twenty volunteer co-bearers have already been tried without success.” Volunteer was a strong word for a position paying 250,000 a year, with the benefit of all-expense paid housing in the royal palace. And not one of them could stomach Adelais von Korsaivar enough to muster the genuine pity required for a co-bearer? Not even empathy, just…pity. Not one?

Or maybe they refused to touch him in the first place, to even attempt the curse transfer. I can't say which is worse.

He had to be wholly rotten, I thought, watching the city give out onto black lines of firs that swung away like the motion of spokes pulling me forward and forward into the shadow of that glowing manmade mountain which is Korsaivar palace. The sun was just striking on the gilt spire of the west turret, sinking down through veils of mist, onward, downward, plunging our car a little further into chilled air. Quincy didn’t bother futzing with the heater. “We’ll be indoors in five minutes,” he said. We skipped the tourist lines at the first gate where Quincy showed his palace employee badge and skipped the car search at the second gate when he showed it again, and every moment felt a little colder. It was a rotten situation that you sure as hell would not like, Ievenar, but I couldn’t turn back now.

They put us in a room with him. Rolled him in on that glorified hospital bed – and I do mean glorified, because the guard rails were mahogany. A high-collared white hospital gown of some sort hung open at the chest to reveal tubes piercing into his flesh. They extended not down his throat, but directly to his lungs, operating via some advanced, mana-based form of respirator I’d never seen before. No doubt he has access to the best doctors in the world.

I’m afraid I stared, Ievenar. He wasn’t at all the same as his image on the evening news. I didn’t realize how small he was, I didn’t really feel that he was two years younger than myself until that moment. Yes, there was that characteristic, breathtaking, doll-like opacity to him – skin of unyielding porcelain, eyes like black stones. But his hair, in a sheen of near-transparent yellow, had such a thinness to it. That, and his frame itself, which was wasted and atrophied.

This is what you have done to him. I know you see it. But I am making you look at it again, as I had to. Because, as you see, I am a just man.

“Ievenar has elected to seat the curse in his throat. No doubt for His Majesty’s skill as an orator.” If Quincy had intended those words to win any favor, he had failed. Adelais’ eyes shifted from the dead space between us to glare at him. Quincy cleared his own throat – an unfortunate choice of mannerisms in my opinion – and continued, “He won’t be able to speak to you. He can’t eat. Sometimes he can breathe, but it’s better not to let him try.” A nod to the servant. “Show us.”

The prince’s delicate hands toyed nervously with the sheets in some involuntary stirring, anticipating a familiar spike of pain as she unbuttoned his high collar and pulled it back, exposing the flesh. A revolting, raw gash touched air and sent him recoiling. He squeezed his eyes shut, those listless hands drawing to fists. It looked halfway beheaded. The blood dripped down his chest in thick, burgundy rivulets. Horror, Ievenar. Purely and truly.

“…I see.” It was a kind of gasp. Any kind of social grace was failing me. I could hardly bring myself to speak myself, with this raw, brittle thing in front of me, but it seemed crueler not to. “Hello, Your Majesty. I am Ninlen Loch,” I addressed him, haltingly.

The act of turning his head towards me proved too much for him. The wound gushed, and his muscles spasmed against it with what would have no doubt been retching if his throat had been unblocked. Even as he tried to control himself, it sent him clutching at the rails as if in search of some relief that wouldn’t come, pitching forward and backward, and we watched the spectacle in silence. There was nothing any of us could do for him.

Except for me.

“Do you pity him, sir?” said Quincy, almost too eagerly.

“Don’t stand so close!” I backed away from his preening. I didn’t, not quite, not yet. Because who had he tortured deeply enough to deserve this? Wasn’t this revulsion intended to reflect an inner repulsiveness, by your will? You must credit me, Ievenar, that I tried to reason with myself even then. “…Are you allowed to tell me what he did to earn this, Quincy?”

But he never answered. He never had the chance to answer, and I think, if he had, he would’ve just said, “No.” Anyway, Adelais seemed to take this to mean that another candidate had failed, that he would be left in misery even longer.

You may wonder, “What was his great redemption? What did he do or say or signal that could possibly have changed your heart, Ninlan?” Or you may not, if you see clear through my heart already. But one way or another, the fact is this: he didn’t do a single redeeming thing.

He cried. That was all.

He cried, every sob sending him into further spasms as it wrenched at his throat, and I couldn’t hold myself back any more than he could. We are mortal, Ienevar. We aren’t supposed to see tortured souls writhing in hell – it’s too much for us while we still live. And that’s what it was for him: hell. There is a force in me that cannot be tamed by justice, some animal thing that started dragging me forward by the inside of my ribcage, a wrenching kind of thrill, an absolute urgency.

Tears sprung into my eyes. My hands flung themselves around his throat, holding it like a broken winged bird. Secure. Gentle. Ready to be stained with blood. He looked up at me in breathless shock, and I knew then that I would never be divided from him.

It only took a moment. It felt a little like the sudden realization that you’re getting a cold, that tickle at the back of the throat. And then it just…tore itself open. I clutched at it and felt blood bubbling hot over my hands, tasted its copper in my mouth mixed with something hideously bitter, and I took all of it, the full brunt of the wound at once. I felt a shove. I must have doubled over, but I don’t remember it – my vision kept going black from pain. Somewhere above me, he was screaming for water. He had forgotten me, shoved me off of him to writhe on the floor until unconsciousness took me. I knew, both before and after, that there was no rational reason to save him. Not even gratitude.

You see now? I didn’t mean to pity him. I hardly did it myself. My self didn’t do it, not my logic, not me. My body did it, my mortal soul did it. And how dare you condemn me for what comes of my nature? I am as I am. He is as he is. And I will pray to you every day Ievenar: don’t you punish me for what I am. It isn’t right. I know it in my bones.

So for the sake of justice, please, oh my God Ievenar, please: make the pain fucking stop...

[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

[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.

[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!

[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.

[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.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Geralt is cursed to have his internal monologue visible on his face.

Of course, Jaskier finds him and questions the bag over his head.

*Bag falls off* Geralt: "shIT-" *quickly puts it back on* Jaskier: "What did that say??? 'I love...'?" Geralt: "ROACH. I love ROACH. AND ONLY ROACH. NOBODY ELSE. THERE'S NOBODY I WANNA THROW OVER A TABLE AT AN INN AND FUCK UNTIL HE CRIES. NOBODY I WANNA MARRY IN THE SPRING. NOBODY." Jaskier: "..........Geralt, darling, are you feeling alright?????"

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 89

Write something based on this concept:

Hero's cursed weapon allows him to fight villain more effectively and powerfully, but the more he uses it, the more quickly it will destroy him.

Villain finds out about the curse and turns this knowledge against hero, forcing him to use the weapon over and over again until he's barely capable of fighting back.

[letitbehurt]

Whumpees who used to be notoriously heavy sleepers, but after their captivity they hardly sleep at all and the smallest sounds jolt them awake.

Caretaker hardly dares to breathe when Whumpee falls asleep around them. They silently threaten anyone within earshot not to make a sound. They protect Whumpee’s rest with a vengeance, because it’s so rare.

[whump-galaxy]

Magical chains that aren’t visible to outsiders. Magical curses that don’t allow the whumpee to speak about them. Magical torture that forces the whumpee to forget everything outside of the bubble they’re trapped in.