#grian whump

[saccharine-stories]

~Clipped Wings~

Summary:  However, he was a bird with clipped wings. In this cruel game, freedom was one thing the Watchers could not allow. Suddenly, he felt the tingle of his wings snap away from his control like a severed cord. Then, his body began to feel heavy, the effects of gravity ruthlessly tugging him back down. Down to his death.

A/N: I saw the @whumpcember event going on so i wrote this on a whim. I hope to write something at least once a week!! I wrote this in like 4 hours, so I hope y'all enjoy it.

Prompt: Day 1, Broken Bones

Fandom: MCYT. This takes place in Grian's series "Wild Life" and is inspired by the moment in session 7 when he tried to fly and fell instead.

Grian flashed a grin at Mumbo as they stopped in the shelter of the forest. Although it was genuine, there was a bit of an edge to it. He had been unprepared for this twist, and still felt as though the return of his teammates was a slight against him and him alone. The others didn’t understand. They thought it was just part of the game, but he knew better. This was some sort of retribution, though for what, he wasn’t sure. 

He remembered how Mumbo died and the memory replayed vividly whenever he looked over the edge of the Spider’s Nest. How his friend got caught up in the heat of the Watchers game and paid for it with the last of his lives. Before now, Grian was only able to blame the Watchers for the game alone. All the tragedy, all the death, all the betrayals. All the cruelty came from their own actions as they sought to survive and win the game they were all trapped in. But this?? This was uncharacteristically cold, even for them. The Watchers had not only brought back both Mumbo and Skizz, but given power over them to Cleo, who promptly turned them on him, causing him to lose a life. Later, he had been able to steal her power, so now here he was, stealing a quiet moment with his friends in defiance of the Watchers’ cutthroat game. Grian paused for a moment, watching Mumbo laugh and taking in the broken body of his friend, whose eyes were clouded with decay, and yet still seeing and filled with mirth despite everything. 

“Well,” Mumbo chuckled, “Our time’s almost up. Don’t you need to leave or something?”

Grian turned away slightly and nodded, putting aside the bitterness that always flared when the game started its downhill descent into overwhelming thirst for victory at any cost.  

“Yeah, yeah. Get back to your new friends. I’ll be seeing you!” 

Mumbo laughed in response, and Grian flashed him a cheeky grin, this time without the edge. He stepped back and crouched, ghostly scarlett wings materialized at his back, courtesy of Pearl’s power that he nabbed earlier. They were a faint mimicry of the ones he had on his home server, but man had it felt good to fly again. He jumped up and his wings blasted him into the air. He soared up, high above the trees, bases, and chaos of this tiny death world, relishing the peace that the altitude brought. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, taking in the untainted air that rushed past his ears. The sun was warm and the air was cool and quiet, and for one moment, one precious moment, he felt free. However, he was a bird with clipped wings. In this cruel game, freedom was one thing the Watchers could not allow. Suddenly, he felt the tingle of his wings snap away from his control like a severed cord. Then, his body began to feel heavy, the effects of gravity ruthlessly tugging him back down. Down to his death. He keeled backward, heart slamming a deadman’s rhythm against his chest. Air rushed past him, stripping the screams from his throat and muting his final moments. And when they came, they came with an explosion of force and pain Grian had never guessed was possible. Bones snapped and shattered at the impact, twisting his body into a mess of blood and dirt. His life was gone, destroyed at the point of impact. 

Though his life was gone there would be no sweet release to end the pain. There never was. Not for him. Time slowed as this life bled away, trapping in the death throes of his agony. Bones ground as he tried to breath again, popping out of place as his chest rose and fell with the quickness of tortured and panicked breaths. He felt his sweater, his pants, the ground, his hair, become warm and heavy with blood, shards of bones piercing through his skin and tearing his flesh. The intensity of the pain was unbearable. 

So Grian screamed. He screamed into the purple stained void that had replaced the living world with its timeless limbo. Screams of pain resonated through his body, screams that cursed the deal he had foolishly made long ago. He cried and begged and screamed for an eternity, but though his pain was seen, his pleas were not heard. 

Then, at some point in this timeless hell, the renewal process began. His bones started to realign, tearing through his flesh to sink back into their proper places and all the jagged fractures seared in blinding intensity to become whole once more. Grian’s body convulsed and writhed as undone joints and sinews knit back together, tightening around bones that felt white hot inside him. Wounds burned as they closed up with unnatural quickness, leaving no scar and no trace of the fatal damage that had once been. 

Then life started to come back to him. It hit him like a second impact, flooding him with an overwhelming torrent of energy that was strong enough to bring the dead back to life. It crushed him beneath its force, nearly rattling his bones out of their newfound places. It burned and chilled. It stabbed at him, through his body and his soul, into the dividing veil so that he could be allowed to return. 

Grian opened his eyes, breathlessly staring into the void that was becoming more and more solid by the moment. He saw the Watcher’s eyes around him, glowing in neutral silence like a thousand cold stars. It frightened him to see them here, reminding him that their game had no room for carelessness. The agony was starting to fade, leaving room for writhing fear to fill his gut, chest constricting at the feeling of being perceived by a host of malevolence. 

Shivering, he closed his eyes again and did not open them until he felt the breeze on his face, and heard the sound of the living world return.

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 5 - Sunburn

title: survive the sun

fandom: last life smp

cw: sunburn, heat exhaustion, vomiting

~

“Rules are rules. You can’t join the Reds unless you’re killed by a Red.”

Scott huffs, crosses his arms. “You weren’t killed by a Red.”

Joel shrugs. “I was the only one. I get to make the rules.”

“Was Grian killed by a Red?”

“I was killed by Joel,” Grian reminds him. “So it counts.”

Scott has the sneaking suspicion that they just made up this rule to exclude him. He can’t really remember how everyone else died (the last week or two are something of a blur), but he’s sure that some of them weren’t Red kills.

“Basically, if you want to join we have to kill you,” Grian says helpfully.

Well, that’s a problem.

“You can’t kill me,” Scott points out. “I’m already Red.”

Joel shrugs again. It’s clear that he doesn’t care at all about Scott’s status, Red or not. “Sorry. No deal.”

Scott looks toward Grian, raising an eyebrow. Grian doesn’t show any sign of give.

They’ll try to kill him if he isn’t allied with them. He’s a threat, now, and he has allies that will join him as soon as they turn Red. They’ll want to pick away their enemies as soon as possible.

“Well, I can’t let you kill me. Is there anything else I can do to . . . join you?”

Maybe if he acts like he wants to be on their side, they’ll accept him. They need more people in their two-man team. They need him.

“Sorry,” says Grian. “Rules are—”

“Wait,” Joel says suddenly.

Scott doesn’t like the look on his face as his eyes travel up and down Scott, something dark in his gaze.

After a moment, Joel turns, drags Grian by the arm with him several meters away. They whisper to each other for a long couple of minutes, occasionally glancing over at Scott.

Scott shuffles his feet, examines his nails. They’ll probably send him on some task, won’t they? Like what Etho gave to Bdubs. Off to kill a friend to prove his loyalty, or something like that. He can kill Martyn, or Ren, or someone. Someone who is his ally by convenience, not by choice. And either one of them is mellow enough to not begrudge him for it too much.

Eventually, Grian and Joel turn back to him. There’s a smile on Joel’s lips—wolfish, his teeth almost too sharp. It reminds Scott too much of Third Life, of his crusade against the Red King, of everything terrible that had happened just after.

“We need you to prove your loyalty,” Joel says, and they don’t give him a chance to change his mind before lunging for him.

-

Scott tugs a little at his wrists, testing the knots. They don’t give.

“We’ll be back at sundown,” Grian says, pulling tight the rope around Scott’s ankle. He stands, dusts his hands off on his trousers. “Comfortable?”

Scott glares at him. “Oh, yes. I’m so comfortable here, tied to these posts.”

Two posts, about a meter and a half between them. Scott’s wrists are tied to a pole each, same with his ankles. The binds aren’t too uncomfortable, all things considered—Grian knows how to tie a good knot. More uncomfortable is the fact that the only clothes he’s wearing is a pair of boxers, his pale chest on display, the tan lines on his forearms stark.

The sunlight is weak, the air still chill enough in the early morning to send goosebumps sprouting across his skin, his feet wet with the dew beneath them.

There are no trees in this field, just grass and the occasional flower. Nothing to shield him from the rising sun.

“Right, well, we’ll be back at sundown,” Joel says jovially, clapping Scott on the back. Scott grimaces at the feel of his rough hand against his bare skin, clenches his fingers into fists.

It won’t be too bad. He won’t die, at least. A good regen potion, maybe some fire resistance, and he’ll be good as new.

If he’d been given the choice, though, he would’ve elected to make an enemy of Joel and Grian over this fate. Avoiding them for the next week would be easier.

“Try not to get too busy,” Joel calls over his shoulder as he and Grian pick up Scott’s things. “Have fun!”

Then they both hurry off, leaving Scott alone.

He rolls his shoulders, straightens his stance. He can do this, easy. It’s temporary, anyhow. It’s—it’s hazing. That’s all it is, an exercise in hazing to prove that he belongs here, that he has a place among the Red names.

He should’ve just opted to wait for Pearl and Cleo to go Red, huh?

The sun rises. It’s already a bit warm on his back, and he shifts just slightly.

Hopefully it doesn’t get too hot today.

-

There’s no way to drink any water.

Scott realizes that about an hour in, and by hour three he’s desperate for something to drink. It’s hot out, hotter than he expected—probably the hottest it’s been all week, but that could be attributed to the utter lack of shade in his position.

The sun beats down on him mercilessly, more and more painful with every ray. Scott clenches and unclenches his fists, breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.

He hasn’t had a sunburn in weeks, now. In the early days of the game, his nose and cheeks were dusted with a light pink burn, clear evidence of his living outside. He’d tanned, though, and built a house, and this world tended toward cloudy days, so he’d pretty well avoided any damage to his skin after that.

In comparison, this is torture.

His back hurts. It burns, pulsing agony from his neck to his waistband, and his legs are probably burning, too, but the pain is inconsequential compared to his back. It genuinely feels like it’s on fire—and Scott’s stumbled backward into lava a few too many times to not know what that feels like. It’s awful, it’s so bad that each breath leaves him in a wheeze as he tries to restrain his panic at being stuck in this pain.

It’s just for a day. Just for a day, then he can have potions and—and water, and food.

He needs water. He needs water, more than he needs to get out of the sun. He’s never had heatstroke—Jimmy got it, once, in that horrible desert, and Scott had spent all evening fanning him and pouring cool water on his body, coaxing health potions down his throat—and he doesn’t want to start today, but he’s afraid he won’t have a choice.

It’ll be bad if he gets heatstroke. The Red Names aren’t in any position to offer him the medical help he would need.

There isn’t anything he can do about it, though—there isn’t a way to power through and not get heatstroke if it’s too hot out. There isn’t any way to manifest the day being cooler.

He has to wait it out, or hope that someone finds him before the day ends.

`

The sun’s almost directly above Scott’s head (not quite, the brunt of it focused on the back of his neck and shoulders) when his knees try to buckle. He groans, his throat dry, forces himself to stay upright. It would strain his shoulders too much to try to kneel—he doesn’t think it would even be possible, with how closely tied to the posts his wrists are.

He’d kill for water. He’d even kill his own allies for water. Wait, he doesn’t have any allies. Perfect. Then nobody will be upset when he kills them for water.

Maybe they’ll take pity on him. Maybe Grian and Joel will come back early, realize that they’ll surely kill him by leaving him here all day.

They won’t come back. They told him that he could join them if he survived this—they may want him to die. 

The burns are bad. The burns are really bad—he’s afraid that even with a health potion, they’ll scar until a respawn. 

Scott grits his teeth. He isn’t going to die here. He won’t let himself die, no matter how bad the burns get, no matter how delirious he becomes.

At some point, the sun reaches its zenith. It’s enough of a relief to not have it directly on his back (though it is still on his shoulders) that he allows himself a moment of slumped stance, hanging down as far as his binds will allow him.

He can survive this. He will survive this.

His face, chest, and stomach take the full force of the sun for the next couple of hours, and that hurts like the absolute devil. He’s not sure he’s ever gotten a sunburn on his stomach, but it’s excruciating—the burn feels like it creeps into every fold of his skin, and he tries to stretch away from it but that only serves to expose more of his stomach.

The heat on his face makes everything worse. His cheeks flush under the burn, his lips cracked lips tremble, his eyes begin to ache.

Scott starts getting delirious around then, he thinks. He needs a drink of water, he needs to get away from the sun before his legs utterly give out, as many times as they’ve tried already (and each time he slips, he can’t bite back a hoarse cry as the pressure on his shoulders shoots up). Tears slip from his eyes when his knees buckle for the third time this hour, and Scott takes a moment to cry, his head hanging down.

The skin on his nose is peeling, his cheeks are on fire, but that doesn’t stop the tears running down them like daggers dragging their way through his skin. It’s only when he watches the third tear hit the grass that he remembers how badly he needs water, and how much more crying will dehydrate him.

He frantically tips his head back, trying to keep from crying, but his head tilted up puts his eyes staring into the sun and that just makes them water even further. Scott curses raspily, turns his head so that he can bury it into his reddened shoulder.

This is torture. This is literally torture. They’re torturing him for no reason, and he can’t escape it.

He can’t quite reach the ropes well enough to try and chew through them, but even if he managed it, what would he do? He’s practically naked, no tools or weapons or supplies. Joel and Grian are the only people allowed to help him. If they came by at sundown and found that he had freed himself, Scott has no doubts that they would kill him.

It’s hard to remember that this will ever end. There’s nothing but Scott and the sun and the heat, and his swollen tongue and burned skin and shaking limbs, and his scratchy throat and rope-burned wrists and too-dry eyes.

“I want to survive,” he croaks to nobody. There’s nobody, nothing. “I’m . . . I’m gonna win.”

The sun glares down at him accusingly. It’s right, he supposes.

How is he going to win when he can’t even survive the sun?

-

Scott’s barely conscious by the time Grian and Joel return, chatting idly, their armor clanking.

They don’t talk to Scott. Grian sets to work releasing him (every touch is dull fire against his skin) and Joel mutters on about fireworks and crossbows or something. Scott doesn’t listen. His ears hurt.

Grian unties his left side first, instead of his arms first or his legs. Scott isn’t sure why, other than perhaps it keeps him in something of a standing position while he works on the right arm.

He blinks slowly, captivated by the way the setting sun seems to make Grian’s hair glow. It even hurts to blink. His eyes are burnt just as red as the rest of him, he’s sure of it.

His very brain feels like it’s burning. Is this dying? Is he on fire from the inside out?

As soon as his right hand is undone, Scott crumples to the ground on his back, thudding onto the hard dirt. Joel snorts; Grian sets to untying his ankle.

Something hits Scott in the face and he hisses in pain, shifts just slightly so that it slides off of him. Then he opens his aching eyes, sees a pile of cloth beside him.

A glimmering potion lands on top of it, then a second one, the glass clinking on impact.

“Your clothes, healing, fire resistance,” Joel lists off boredly. “Your boots and other stuff’s at home, didn’t want to lug it all the way back.”

He should take one of those potions now. You aren’t supposed to drink fire resistance for sunburns, Scott knows that, but he isn’t quite sure what you are supposed to do with it so he settles on the health potion. Somehow, he manages to move his terribly weak arm enough to loosely grasp the bottle, but there was no way he was going to be able to work the cork out. He lets his arm fall, unable to contemplate it any longer.

Joel sighs, stomps around to that side and crouches beside him. He takes the potion from Scott’s limp grasp and tugs the cork out, then presses the potion to his cracked lips and pours it in.

It burns going down his throat, the sickly-sweet melon flavor overwhelming on his thick tongue and dry throat when he’s had nothing to drink in hours, and he coughs and coughs and coughs until his gag reflex triggers.

Scott throws up all over himself, mostly bile and a bit of pink health potion, and Joel leaps back in disgust as he chokes, his own vomit trying to slide back down the wrong tubes.

Grian yells something, and the next thing he knows he’s on his side, someone beating on his stinging back. He coughs even more, chest constricting feebly, until he feels like he can kind of breathe again. His nose is running and eyes teary and there’s the smell and taste of vomit everywhere, but he doesn’t have the strength to wipe his face. He just leans back against whoever’s holding him up, exhausted.

“Give him some water,” the person behind him commands. Scott takes in a shuddering breath, only for another bottle to be pushed into his mouth.

It takes every ounce of control he has in him to not choke as water starts pouring down his throat, lukewarm but water, too much and not enough all at once.

The person keeps giving him water, but they pull it away every couple of swallows and wait until Scott is pushing his head toward them, blindly seeking more, before returning the bottle to his lips.

“This is disgusting,” the person giving him water says.

The one holding him shifts. “It was your idea to leave him like that. I said he should just get fireworks, but no. Let’s see if he can survive the world’s worst sunburn.”

“I thought it’d be funnier, sue me.”

“Yeah, well, we want him alive, remember? We need him on our side.”

The water gets taken away again, and Scott feels more tears building up. He feels awful—he’s shaking, his throat hurts, his whole body feels like it’s on fire, even his brain—but when he leans forward for more water, the water is replaced with the health potion.

Scott drinks this as well, feels the fire in his brain cool slightly, his body losing some of the burning sensation. He opens his agonized eyes and sees a blurry Joel in front of him, holding the health potion.

Joel doesn’t speak until Scott’s drunk the entire potion, by which point he feels at least slightly capable of being alive. He shifts in—in Grian’s arms, lets him ease him into a sitting position.

Joel looks uncomfortable, but he doesn’t speak. He just shoves Scott’s clothes and the fire resistance potion toward him, then gets up, shoving the empty potion bottle into his pocket. He stalks off into the woods with a look back.

Grian fumbles in his own pocket for a moment, before withdrawing a strength potion. He reluctantly drops it in Scott’s lap and follows Joel.

They leave him there, practically unconscious from the pain, barely able to move, alone, as night comes on.

Scott’s trembling fingers try to make a fist. He can’t quite manage it.

But he puts his hands to the ground and starts to push himself up.

-

Scott doesn’t stumble into the Red Life base until about an hour later, when night has truly fallen. He ignores both the others and their awkward gazes and instead collapses onto the bed they’ve set up on the opposite side of the room from them, not even bothering to shove his boots off it and onto the floor. His clothes chafe against his untreated burns and his head is woozy from pain and dehydration, but he made it in one piece.

He’s up until late into the night, applying the fire resistance with low hisses and pained groans. Joel and Grian don’t speak, and eventually, they both bury themselves under their blankets and ignore Scott entirely.

Scott vows, then, as he carefully dabs fire resistance onto his eyelids, that he will kill them. He’ll kill both of them.

And then he’ll win.

[amethystfairy1]

I gave it a good try 😭

Academic hell aside, I missed a few days for Febuwhump this week...I'm still gonna go and fill back in those prompts as soon as I can, though! I have really good ideas for them so no way will I just leave them behind! For day though, you get new chapters I already had completed because I wanted to post something but I didn't have time to write for the prompt today either...I will catch up, though!

One apiece for Through the Sky-Blue Cracks and Traveling Thieves! Please check them out! 💖

[chemdisaster]

@whumpthemusical prompt 6 - newsies - chronic pain

in which i project my joint pain onto scar + hotguy cuteguy fluff

body of years

After yet another successful mission, Scar watches Cuteguy field questions with remarkable dexterity and focuses only enough to know when to laugh and nod along, and does his best not to think of the daggers that shoot down his legs and feet. As always, it's easier to ignore pain that you've been dealing with your whole life when said life is in imminent danger.

[the-introverted-writer-for-life]

Whumpcember Day 1: Broken bones + Day 26: Falling

Fandom: Hermitcraft SMP (MCYT)

Word count: 785

Summary: Grian falls off his season 10 base, and breaks his arm.

“Let's see what profits we have in here, shall we?” Grian said to no one in particular as he pushed open the spruce doors of his red sand and mushroom shop.

As predicted, the red sand had no sales.

“Mushroom?”

The regular mushroom blocks again had no sales, but he found a nice surprise when he opened the mushroom stem chest.

He whistled. “Sold out. Right! Back to the mushroom farm.” Grabbing the diamonds, he slammed the lid of the chest shut and stuffed his profits away in his inventory, before exiting the shop and taking off back to his base.

The flight wasn't too long, thankfully, and he got to see a lot of the other Hermit's bases through taking the quickest route: Ren’s armadillo scuteball arena, False’s huge circular structure, and then the bright pink leaves of the cherry trees on top Magic Mountain, the huge hill around which seven of them had built. After circling a little way around, he saw the familiar blue and red houses sticking out from the mountainside - and the harbour and docks and barn beside it.

Ooo, there was a window design he had seen a few days ago. He could try it on the barn…

No, Grian told himself firmly. There will be other times.

Oh, but it would look so lovely…

Grian moaned at himself. He was going to be unable to rest until he'd tried it out. It would only take a minute, and then he could farm as much mushroom as he needed.

Grabbing some deepslate slabs and a couple of spruce stairs, he used the pre-existing scaffolding he'd used to block in the windows to climb up and start working on the top. One slab here… a stair there���

Soon, he was able to step back and see how it looked.

He hadn't been wrong. The design fitted perfectly, but with the empty window, there was something he didn't like.

It didn't take him long to work out that the thing that was bugging him was on the interior - he'd somehow managed to place a stair wrong on the big metal beam that ran across the width of the barn high up, forming the lowest level of the rafters. It would only take a second! Then he'd farm the mushroom, rest assured, but he couldn't leave such a blatant error unattended for long.

He flew in through the open window and straight up to the beam, not bothering to scaffold up. Trying to keep his balance, he swung his pickaxe, breaking the stair that was placed wrong. It dropped, and he picked it up and crouched down to slot it back in. He didn't care too much about if he fell - there was water beneath him, so he didn't even need to use his wings if he didn't want to.

Of course, with many things like this, thoughts like these are exactly what cause accidents. Grian was no longer worried about balance, and as he slotted the stair back in the right way, he could feel himself tipping - but realised it too late.

He fell.

His gaze whipped to the ground, and there was water beneath him, wasn't there?

Oh void no there isn't I'm too far over I'm gonna hit the sidewalk -

A sickening crunch tore through the air at the same time as a wave of agony bloomed in Grian's right arm. He had landed on it - hard.

Why didn't he use his wings?

Well this isn't good.

The pain wasn't necessarily anything he hadn't felt before, but it still hurt. A lot.

Then he found himself slipping… or was that just his imagination?

Then he was falling.

And all of a sudden he was wet and he had fallen into the water and he couldn't swim with one arm out of action and he couldn't keep himself up and he was going to drown and have the worst respawn ever and he -

Strong arms grasped his outstretched hand and pulled. Pulled, pulled him up, out of the water, into the air, the beautiful air, oh, the air…

“Grian! Grian, G! What the heck!?”

“Hey, G… you're ok, alright? I've got you…”

He was back on solid ground. Somehow. And though his arm felt like it might drop off, and his stomach felt ready to empty the entire contents of the universe out into the world, he was ok. He was gonna be ok.

“Pearl…”

“Hey! G, I'm here. We're gonna get you all patched up, ok?”

Grian gave a tiny nod, too exhausted to do anything else. He felt Pearl begin to shift his position, but his brain decided it would be better to black out.

So he did.

[trainforanother1000years]

the fandom better behave with the watcher shit this season.

[chipjrwibignaturals]

honestly a little impressive jimmy ISNT more popular he fills the White Guy Who Constantly Suffers fandom role really well tbh. unfortunately most ppl fill that niche with grian (using yhs/evo/'watchers' to stand in for the suffering) as a holdover from the preexisting hermit fanon

[honeylashofficial]

— Hermittober + Whumptober — sand and hostage

Chapter Five: From Sea to Sand and Back Again [Royalty / Pirates AU]

Danger comes in the most striking of colors at times, doesn’t it?

[paradoxlemonade]

I have a question:

What is "whump"?

I saw in the tags of a post you are a "whump writer" and i've never heard that phrase before?

(I really don't mean to be disrespectful, and im so sorry if im coming off that way!)

You're good :DDDD you're not being disrespectful at all! I love getting asks about whump :D [you have turned me into an unskippable cutscene]

Whump is allllllll about characters in immense pain. It has significant overlap with angst and hurt/comfort as fic genres, though there are a few differences. Angst has a general lean towards psychological issues/trauma/mental health (there are varying degrees of angst), whereas whump is more active torment/torture/traumatic event in the current moment, and it tends to be darker or extreme. Whump almost always has some sort of physical aspect, but it's not an absolute requirement. Some newer fandoms just use angst as a catch-all for angst and whump, but I prefer to separate them.

Hurt/comfort, as the name implies, must be a character getting hurt followed up with comfort (either a little or a lot). Whump and angst can also be hurt/comfort, but they don't require any comfort if the author doesn't want to write any. I tend to prefer comfort, but some of my favorites don't have any!

The term is said to originate from the Stargate fandom in the late 90s as an onomatopoeia for the fan-favorite character Daniel hitting the ground, though this is disputed and the term may be older. Source: the Whump fanlore page (also contains further reading on the topic!)

I like whump for the same reason a lot of people like horror: it's fascinating and visceral. There's this one Tumblr quote I utterly adore that sums up my feelings on the matter: "Characters are like geodes—in order to see their inner beauty, you have to break them."

People like whump for a lot of different reasons and like different facets of it. For example, I prefer either a prideful/stoic whumpee (character getting whumped) who is broken down during the fic, or an absolutely pathetic wet cat that the universe itself seems to bend to hurt. My favorite whumpers (character doing the hurting) are either cold and methodical (big big fan of medical whump!) or environmental whump (natural disasters, stranded, exposed to the elements, sickfic, etc.). That said, I'm much less picky with my whumpers than I am with my whumpees!

Current favorite whump tropes: nonconsensual body modification (!!!! Big on this one, ties into medical horror), scarification, head injuries/concussions, character forced to hurt a friend, hostage situations, psychological conditioning, and hypothermia :D (I am normal I promise lmao)

TL;DR: Whump is torturing characters for the funsies, comfort optional. Being my favorite character is a threat to that character's well-being! <3

[cupcake-bee-boy]

Here’s an AU I’ve been working on!! For right now, the important part is that Grian and Jimmy are brothers and tiny canary hybrids. Only a few inches tall. They’ve lived in the wilderness their whole lives, only hearing the horror stories of tiny hybrids getting taken by humans and never returning. That was until a human came across Jimmy while he was gathering berries.

Please, I’d love if anyone has any questions or comments!! Reblogs are very much appreciated, and my ask box is always open.

Image ID under the cut.

[Image ID: A ten panel comic.

In the first panel, Grian and Jimmy, two tiny canary hybrids, are carrying berries. Jimmy is further back from the other, and he looks very tired. Jimmy says, “Can we be done yet? I’m tired.” Grian responds, “I know, I know. But we should get a few more to be safe.”

The second panel is Jimmy from the waist up. He is sighing and rolling his eyes as he says, “Fine! I’ll go get it!” Although Grian can’t be seen in this panel, there’s a text box for him saying “Thank you!!”

The third panel has Jimmy stretching his arm as far as he can, trying to grab some berries from off their branch. He is thinking, “Almost… got it…”

The fourth panel is a close up on Grian when he hears noises. He hears rustling and a thud. Grian looks confused and concerned.

The fifth panel is still close up on Grian as a look of pure horror comes across his face as he sees what’s making the noise.

The sixth panel is what Grian sees, a human covered in shadow, reaching down to snatch Jimmy.

The seventh panel is Jimmy, unaware of the human even as its shadow covers him, still trying to grab that berry.

The eighth panel is when the human grabs and squeeze Jimmy. He screams and struggles to no avail.

The ninth panel is Grian hiding from the human behind a leaf, watching as they take his brother away.

The tenth panel is of the human who captured Jimmy holding a box. Jimmy is implied to be in the box, although he is not visible. They stand next to another human and tell them, “Got one for ‘ya. Caught and boxed.” The other human asks, “Any more around here?” The first human responds, “Not that I saw.”

End of ID]

[lady-astras]

Obedience (Febuwhump Day 4)

This thing couldn’t go in alphabetical order or something like that?

Alphabetical order by last name would be good too. Then he wouldn’t be at the beginning or the end. Right in the middle. Woohoo! Grian knew his alphabet. Jazz hands.

He gulped at the heavy iron door, wondering what horrors he might face. 

To recount, Gem now had severe trust issues, Etho was still recovering from the dark, and Tango was some form of emotionally scarred. What trauma would he be left with? Would they… would they take his wings? No, not again, he couldn’t lose them again-

They came back. He had them back. He wouldn’t lose them again if his life depended on it. A memory, sharp despite the fog of time, resurfaced, and he shook it away with the metallic sound of a door slamming open.

Eerie, he noted, walking in holding a torch, just the glowing embers remaining. There was some weird echoey black mist that enveloped him, suppressing what was left of the light. His torch fizzled out, leaving him with nothing but a charred driftwood twig.

Welcome. 

That voice was in his head, repeat, he was imagining voices. But somehow, it was so familiar, too… put together to be his imagination.

”What are you - no, where are you?” He demanded, raising the stick as though it wouldn’t collapse into ashes as soon as he swung it.

We are everywhere and nowhere at once. 

“Shut up. Oh, I know. You’re watchers.”

We do watch, yes. But we hold more power than those. Watchers? They are our minions.

“So… you’re gods.”

We do not use such simple terminology to define ourselves. We are everywhere, nowhere, in the very air you breathe, in the void that suffocates you. 

“STOP IT!”

You defied us, little one. You weren’t supposed to leave the watchers guild.

“I was never one of them.”

You could have been. You rejected power as it was given to you in your hands. You could have joined the ranks as a watcher, but no.

“You lost me the day you told me I was no longer an avian. That I could no longer keep my identity.”

Identity? Who wouldn’t trade identity for power in a heartbeat? We all did it and look where we are, look where you are.

“Call me stupid then, but I wouldn’t. Only power-hungry freaks do that.”

You insult us? Very well. Influence or not, your wings belong to us.

There was a strange tug forward, and Grian fell forward onto his knees, compelled by some mysterious force. He tried to get back up, but this weird string-like feeling kept him down. It was horrible, but what could he do but listen? He closed his eyes, not that that helped because everything was pitch black anyway. 

There was a loud metallic sound, familiar, as though a sword was being drawn from its sheath.

A swish through the air and a clean slice, so it took him a moment to register the weight change and most of all, the pain.

He gasped at first, then as the pain began to set in, let out an almost unearthly scream. No, no, no-

He’d promised not to lose them. Promised to himself and most of all his mother.

One of the only things he had left from her.

“Why,” he choked out, cursing the mysterious air around him.

What beautiful treasures. They will look nice wherever we keep them. Oh, how we were missing such colour in the divine realm.

And then the mist disappeared suddenly, along with the breath in his lungs. He gasped for air, something, anything, to distract from the pain in his back. It was such a clean slice, maybe once it healed he could go back to those old days of practising balance and wearing elytra to soothe the emotional pain. He could pretend that this year had been a fever dream.

He tried to wrap himself in his wings for comfort, only to remember that their feathery presence was gone. A new round of sobs wracked through him.

They would ask questions. His friends. They asked questions when he got the wings, admiring and proud ones. He couldn’t stand to see the dismay on their faces, something akin to bitterness, his own emotions reflected on their beautiful faces. 

Everything hurt so bad. Flares of pain along his back, where the roots of his wings once were, everything felt like it was on fire. He was probably covered in his blood right now.

Then the unexpected happened - the door unlocked. Grian stared at it incredulously. Had it already been the standard twenty-four hours or was the room - or the gods, watchers, whatever - being nice to him? He wouldn’t put it past the mysterious forces to let him die, letting him respawn out of the room when his time was up. 

Nah, just kidding, the door didn’t unlock. Grian just really wished it would so that he could get out of here and deal with the pain of losing his wings. Get some proper medical care or the like. Bitterness welled up with everything else. Why. Not a question, not to himself, but a command to those blasted beings who were too pompous to call themselves gods even. Ugh, everything hurt.

No one else so far had sustained such major physical injuries, Tango had almost died but due to the nature of his room, hadn’t. 

The corners of his vision began to black out, weird lights flashing in his vision before causing more dark spots in his vision. Gosh, he was going to pass out, wasn’t he? Stay awake, stay awake, stay…

Why didn’t you just listen? The ethereal voice was back in his head, cutting through his hazy thoughts. Wild animals like you have to learn obedience in some way. You could have obeyed us and you wouldn’t be in this situation. There was an eerie silence. Ah well, there is no matter for us anyway - one loss is inconsequential in our world.

And that somehow hurt, knowing that he was nothing to the Divinity anyway.

[amethystfairy1]

“I think that’s a bit excessive…” -Pearl, probably

I finally missed a day of Febuwhump yesterday! 😭 but I will make it up, don’t worry! In the meantime, heres some avians in Traveling Thieves, our first look at the colonies!

[chemdisaster]

@whumpthemusical prompt 28 - the rocky horror show - obsession

grian trying and failing to get a mending book

the angel that i couldn't kill

Grian sighs and shifts on his perch. His joints creak, unfamiliar with his new position. His wrists ache from holding on to his fishing rod, too—he'd wager his grip is all off, but he can't back out now. Not when he's so close. With his free hand, he fingers his stubble. It's nearly long enough to be considered a full-on beard by now. Maybe he should grow a moustache.

[sodascribbles]

thinking abt the one post that's like "scar would rather die than be grians enemy and grian would rather kill scar than be his enemy" and it Devastates Me /pos bc no matter what it's always scar who will die and it's always grian who will be left to grieve.

having not seen double life, my favorite example of this is from the end of third life. "For all you have done to keep me alive this long, you may slay me." now as we know grian doesnt kill him then and there but it's still grian who's the last one standing, grian in a ring of cacti with bruised knuckles, grian who has to kill himself because scar's not there to do it for him.

i just. there's something about it, man (gender neutral)