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2demondogs · 2 months ago

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Dutch x Reader. just pure heartbreaking, soul crushing, stomach aching angst you can write where Reader gets killed by Colm , making them yet another lover of Dutch’s fall victim to him.

We never see Dutch have a breakdown, and not a "Oh my God, we need money or else we all die" breakdown, but a "Oh my God, my whole world just got taken away from me and there's nothing I can do to save them" break down (maybe with Hosea but I need this man to UGLY CRY)

Doesn't matter how you get reader in Colms hands. That's completely up to you! They could be kidnapped and killed, caught in a shootout between Dutch and Colm, perhaps a ransom situation gone wrong! I'm just throwing ideas out there, but I'll say it again it up to you!

I love your writing so much, thank you :))

Thank you! This one got the Evil Gears working. You guys never fail to complete my villainous whump urges. I be like "cut his arm off with a boulder" and y'all are like "he will never love again."

Hosea's there and so's some others... it takes a village. Thank you to my platonic husband once again for some ideas because the block on this one was tuff. I'm sorry if the execution is not that good T-T.

Words: 3.7k Tags: canon typical violence, grief/mourning, trigger warning Micah (and I guess the rest of it)

The muscle memory kicks in before his consciousness does: the boom of a rifle — Charles' bolt-action, Dutch knows in his veins, can usually tell each of his men's guns apart by report — and then instantaneous sit up, find his gun, rub his face into some semblance of wakefulness as he storms half-dressed out of the tent, canvas flapping. Chilly midnight air is hitting his skin before the echo of the shot has faded into the treeline surrounding camp.

The stillness wakes him up the rest of the way. At least, the stillness of the woodlands, eerie-quiet as they always fall after fire. For the camp's part, men are stumbling out and tripping over themselves, tents rustling, and the women are getting up, Abigail shushing a too-loud Jack. Susan nearly beats Arthur to meeting his stride, her kerosene lantern roving light over the dying grass on the ground.

Micah is always first, a dark shadow already standing at the perimeter where Charles is looming over two shapes heaped on the ground. He doesn't think that man ever sleeps.

"Charles!" He calls, and the two turn from talking hushedly. "What's goin' on?"

Charles tenses up, and Micah speaks before he does, face clearing as Dutch squints the blurriness from his eyes. "Your, ah," — throwing a hand up at Charles, starting towards Dutch with his hands out to grab his elbows — "You oughta be warned, sir."

His brows furrow. Micah of all people is not one to beat around bushes, let alone with him. It gnaws at him, some, a vague sense of dread. It passes his mind where you are, but you had a habit of staying nights over in town if it got too dark to ride comfortably.

"What the Hell are you talkin' about?" He repeats. He shrugs his hands off, pushes past him, hears his gunbelt clinking as he stumbles a step. "Charles, what—?"

"Ain't no one else," Charles starts, not stepping from where he stands in front of the tree they'd assigned as an unofficial camp outpost. That's odd, too, and he has a feeling the man doesn't believe there's no one else, not with his gun clenched in his hands like that. No one else? "But there was an O'Driscoll with—"

And then Susan's lantern swings once across the start of the brush, throws light against hair and a fallen hat, laying on its crown. His fingers ready at his trigger, eyes hardening. "How did they find us this goddamn time?" Dutch asks the air.

Unlike usual, Charles does not keep talking once he's put his two-cents in the pot. He has that tension about him that he always does when there's something he would prefer not to say aloud, a habit that scratches Dutch raw in the wrong ways. He's about to spout off some aggressive twist to avoid the one in his gut, something about I'm the fucking man, Thomas, why are you not explaining this to me? until Susan steps the few paces ahead of him to meet the tree, and the warm glow of her lantern lands on familiarity.

His finger slips from the trigger, all curling bone-white around the grip instead.

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, and he waves at the heap with his gun, throat clicking loud enough he thinks he may have cocked it on accident. When he turns to him instead of the ground, he can't make out his son's face in the shadow cast by his own head, only sees glints off his eyes in the darkness.

"You... you take care of this, Arthur," Dutch is saying, feels a hand on his elbow, curling into the inner of it to hold him back, and brushes Micah off once more. Micah, or someone else— the fingers were thinner, but his ears are starting to ring. His throat feels clogged, sticky.

"Dutch," a voice says, and he isn't sure who it is through the roar of blood.

Sanguine is seeping into the ground that Susan's lantern reveals, sliding over the dirt from a gaping hole in the skull of an O'Driscoll. Always goes for the instant kill, Charles does. Green bandana, green vest, dressed like a big green clown by his standards — an imitation of uniform, all of them wannabe munton-shunting clowns wear green, munton-shunter wannabes is all those men are at the end of the day: swine united under one God, hollow be His name — and flailed onto the dirt by the rifle blow. Not from this close, no, he'd be gone from the shoulders up, which means the bastard had almost made it past the perimeter, unnoticed. Dutch can't find it in himself to tear Charles a new asshole for that.

You lay there, too. Unbleeding, but shot all the same.

"Dutch," comes again. He listens this time, because it's Hosea's sleep-ridden nasal and his cool fingers on his burning wrist, pulling him away as his mind grows louder. "Let Arthur handle this."

And he listens to the words this time, because it's Hosea.

He won't think of why Charles is good at fashioning these wooden crosses. Perhaps it's selfish to think that, and to neglect most anything besides the blackness eating at himself— but you are gone.

If he were a different sort of crier, maybe he'd turn to him now and tell Hosea he's lucky to have lived through two. That Arthur and John are, too, and especially Susan— but you are gone, and Dutch only finds one thing funny, in the sour way men laugh over spilled blood and ashes and misfires.

It's own his negligence that must've led to this. Letting you do as you wished, wanting you to be happy instead of entirely safe. If he had only listened to that little voice in his head, surely, you would have come back from town alive and well and pressing some little jewelry piece you'd stolen into his hands like some of promise, the way you always did.

But no, that's not right. The regret is talking now that something has happened, trying to paint over the simple fact that Dutch trusted you enough there were no nagging inclinations when you went out on your lonesome. He wouldn't have liked you this much if there weren't that ability to hold your own, how you offered him some semblance of safety in every regard that he hasn't felt in a long, long while. Give and take.

There is, too, the wish that he had been with you in your last moments. If he were, they wouldn't have been your last; but even if things went the way things always do — which is the end, eventually — he would've liked to have been there, holding you, the way lovers die.

Susan did her best to clean you off and freshen you up. Charles' crosses, and her mortuary sciences. They're both skills that shouldn't be held. Dutch kneeled by your side and gripped the stiffened hand as if the warmth of his skin could've made the flesh tender and rosy once more.

The work is done by the time the sun reveals itself over the treeline. A patch of clearing near camp holds you now, in the grave Charles and Arthur have dug. The two strongest, as reluctant as he was to ask anything of them knowing they were his first choices for scouting a new campsite. He was reluctant to even consider the fact that as soon as you were buried, he might have only a few minutes with that sorry, scored cross that now claims to be you.

Dutch wasn't sure what to do with himself when the work began, and he isn't sure what he spent the hours since midnight doing now that they've passed. He doesn't think he's moved from the spot he stepped into, and Hosea's arm linked through his is so burning hot in the crook of his elbow that he believes maybe he hasn't even breathed.

A respectable distance, in front of the boys. Arthur offers him the last shovel's-worth of dirt, and it means something that Dutch will probably soon regret shaking his head to. His brain skitters at the hard casing of his skull when he does, eyes backed up and stinging. That pain started sometime while he knelt beside you, which seems so long ago now.

Once Charles and Arthur leave, he crumbles onto Hosea, and it all feels very far away. Enclosed in it, locked outside of it; his nostrils burn as if he's snorted capsaicin, mucus coming to his throat without any tears.

"I know, Dutch," Hosea says, voice so weary that Dutch feels his fingers grow stiff and numb with it.

Here he is, and there goes his knees, Hosea stepping back once under his weight but holding him up, in the end, arms tight around his ribs. He realizes it hurts because he's talking, that Hosea has spoken in response to him.

"I should've—" He's starting, but now that he's listening to himself he does not know what he was going to say, and grows frustrated enough that he only groans, inhales a mouthful of the half-dirty collar of Hosea's fur-lined coat.

Here he is, and how he has forgotten what the shards of a broken heart feel like stabbing into a man's lungs.

Dutch has crumbled two sets of tobacco leaves in his fingers, blinking the sun out of his eyes where it crawls up and beneath the overhang of shading the folding chair beside his tent. He sighs sharply, hanging his hands and head between his knees. At this rate, he'll crush every last leaf in his rolling tin and still be out the soothe of nicotine.

Months have passed, but still he struggles to grasp himself again. The idea that you were gone for a job was a lie so clear to him by the end of that first week, Dutch could no longer fool himself on why his cot didn't smell like you anymore. He packed your things alongside his own, but they stay in the crates they were placed into — not stuffed, not like his possessions were — since the gang moved from Blackwater, to Colter, to here.

God, you're all the way back there.

Why did life not cross the border with us? He wonders, at times. He then remembers that it's little use to think that way, before he continues to do it.

There was no use toting a — as impersonal as it sounds, he has no other words for it — corpse around. If he could have, he would've buried you where he believed they might stay for a while. That place hasn't come to him yet, either, as quiet as the overlook seems to be, and so who knows how long he would've been playing that sick game. A proper graveyard was out of the question, if it even could've been done; the only usefulness in such a burial is a relatively sure landmarker by which to find you. Dutch has never been one to go back to the past.

But it's you. He did not go to his mother's grave, and he wouldn't go to hers now. You're more than the past, though. He wishes he could have buried you somewhere beautiful, at least; he wants to go back and sit with you. He doesn't think you will ever be so little as the past.

Dutch doesn't realize he's been mumbling these things to himself until Arthur's voice breaks through the drone of his own, rumbling murmurs and brings them to light amongst the ambiance of camp that he had tuned out.

"You okay, Dutch?" Familiar, gritty like his own voice. Lighter, and concerned.

Dutch looks up at him and sighs, seeing the draw of his brow. His hand raises to gesture before he can think of what he should say— what he even can say, or if there's anything that needs saying to begin with. Finally, the struggle exhausts his mind too much to do anything beyond summarizing his thoughts.

"How many more people I love?" He muses, flicks his wrist and lets it fall back to limply resting on his knee. The sentence cracks and falls between them, Arthur shifting on his feet uncomfortably.

Everyone has been uncomfortable around him, as of late, and that's getting on Dutch's nerves more than it is depressing him. He supposes it does its fair share of that, too. He believes that he does a fine job of swallowing himself and giving them what they need: a leader, strong and shiny and well-groomed, who knows what he's doing, what they're all doing. A man to be proud of, and to make proud.

A man who feels very unlike the way Dutch feels behind that blank expression he lets them paint something better onto in their heads.

Arthur is nodding, looking both ways as if clearing the camp of witnesses before he lays a hand on his shoulder. Lord, Dutch remembers when his hands weren't so meaty and rough. Near dainty, spindly fingers on some teenaged mutt that could barely lift an arm long enough to wave, hands that always seemed too-cold and clammy. That— now, that is the past.

"I know, man," he starts, and says something else he does not hear. All he can think of is when Arthur used to call him Dad, every now and then. "—have to move on," he's saying.

Dutch assumes what needs brushed past, and he has never been a man to agree with the truth, so he asks of Arthur the least he can imagine asking of him. "I know, son," he interjects, gently moves his hand from his shoulder to raise. Arthur steps back, sighs. "Can you...?" Dutch aches, he does; aches for something here that he cannot put a name to, unsure what would soothe any part of him that's currently stirring. He doesn't find the answer as his eyes search the collar of his red workshirt, the treeline past his shoulder where the horses are grazing on the sloping ground. "I need to be alone. Please."

Arthur's jaw clicks as he moves it, then nods and steps away. He pauses before he obeys.

"I..." — that pregnant, lingering thing comes between them again, keeping Arthur's chin raised as he hesitates — "Sure, Dutch," he says, and leaves him to picking up the larger crumbs of tobacco that fell to the ground.

Bitter brown and orange scattered through green grass and patches of raw dirt. In the soil, he figures out that, foolishly, he wanted to be embraced.

Not much more can be done about you. Not now.

It's been burning his skin, this need to be held. It's less than that, Dutch thinks, maybe just a desire for a vague thing like the right kind of comfort.

What can fill a hole this vast?

What can mend a man?

"What's wrong?" Hosea asks, and it's the only what Dutch knows the answer to.

He must know, too. In the lantern light inside Dutch's tent, his face is sliding away from even into one akin to the expression men turn on kicked dogs. They've grating on one another since abandoning the Overlook, and it's been too long since he's seen that much warmth in his eyes.

If only the kinship didn't come from something so terrible. Dutch hasn't pulled him aside this late into the evening since Annabelle's death sent him to nightmares. How strange it feels to taste her name in his thoughts again. Slowly, you've come to stand beside her, to be dead just like her. Nor with as much haste, with hands that shook so hard gripping Hosea's shoulder that he followed without a question.

"I just," — wringing his hands, pacing around the sprawling bear rug thrown over the ground, seems so gaudy now, all of it seems gaudy — "I don't know what to do with myself."

"Ah, Dutch," Hosea says, voice soft. His face grows hot with the sting of oncoming tears. "I know."

His hands are shaking before the words have fully left his mouth. It comes to him that he hasn't cried in the months since you've passed, and suddenly the wave of it hits him at once. He didn't cry for Annabelle until a year had gone by and Arthur had asked, unknowing, if he'd felt the same way with her as he was feeling with that Linton girl.

He had, was the worst part.

He had felt it with you, too. That youthfulness, the carelessness, let them all know; the way his eyes would soften and give him away before he could ever hope to hide it; the burning of loneliness without you, your hand on his arms or how right your skin felt under his palms; how he liked the way you laughed and smiled, so much that it left him bristling with an energy he didn't know how to waste. Dutch was always bad at hiding himself away, in anger or love. His breath never steadied, 'round you. Nothing was even, nothing was ever as clean-cut as he wished it to be. He realizes he's thinking as if he is dead, and stops himself.

It's almost more than you, now. The weight of it takes him to his knees, all the while ashamed in the back of his mind of what he's come to. Hosea follows. Grunting when his knee joint pops, but follows instantly all the same. For some reason, Dutch's face scrunches up harder at that, and he lets it happen when arms link around his shoulders. He remembers the cold of the air the morning you were buried, and lets out a whinging, broken noise.

Time lapses fast and slow. He's unsure how long he spends crying, or how pitiful it must sound. He's unsure when the last time he even cried was. There's not much to mourn in a life spent living amongst the dead, not really— and not much else warrants tears, not out of a man like him.

They come hard, and then dry up enough his head throbs with the strain to find more with which to release himself. His heart races alongside, pounding hard in his wrists where they are both pressed between their stomachs, fingers clenching and unclenching, rings making divets in the webbing that ache. Nose pressed to the breast pocket of Hosea's shirt, gasping breath in between sobs, Dutch comes to a semblance of his senses, to consciousness. It's still difficult to think through the migraine threatening to take out his vision entirely when he attempts to crack his eyelids. It's almost like a first hangover.

Whiskey would do me much better than bawling, he hears himself pondering.

There's nothing more to think of, not about that evening nor the ride you took. There's nothing he has not thought of on the matters of what those groveling weasels may have done to you before they took your life, and there's nothing he has ever doubted on what information they tried to extort from you.

It was personal, it was. No point would have been had in ratting Dutch out to the law, no safety in sending one of his sniffling newsies to the cops only for that one to be extorted and take everyone down with them. Nothing is fair in love nor war, and this feud has always been made of both.

Your death was a chess piece to Colm. If he really meant it, really wanted Dutch to do anything but get pissed off and show his soft belly while struggling to retaliate— Colm would have brought himself and his best men, and he would have dumped your body before him. Personally, like a real bastard. At least, this is the fantasy Dutch imagines in a world where revenge is feasible, and smart.

There's nothing he hasn't done for you in this world besides cry, and if he doesn't stop this heaving, he'll suffocate. His temple is scorching, burns worse when he tries to pull his head away and he cringes, fumbling for his handkerchief to get rid of the mucus sticking his nose to Hosea in thick strands.

"God, I'm sorry, this is— I'm disgusting," he groans, throat clogged. He's on the brink of tears again just from using his voice. It's thick, and he squeezes his eyes shut trying to fix the mess he's sobbed onto him.

Hosea's hand smooths over his shoulder blade. "No, you're grievin'," he says. "You're lovin'."

Curse him and how— how open he is in being kind. Dutch's feverish forehead falls onto his shoulder, but at least these new tears well up right into the handkerchief instead of all over the already soaked patch on his friend's shirt.

Friend. Brother, really. Hosea must be a brother to hold him this quietly as his organs try to squeeze out his body, to give him this thing he never could have asked for in a silence so much more tolerable than lies of how things will be better soon and reminders that men do not show their pulse points like this.

He is getting old, and Dutch doesn't know what he will do. He thinks the last piece of his soul will die with the man.

His mind thrashes so violently inside his head, he thinks it may come out in bloody chunks as he blows his nose. The skin is screaming and raw by the time he can wrangle a bit of air through his nostrils again. Once hot and writhing, he feels his body going numb, painfully empty. His fingers lock up where they cling to each other at Hosea's chest, and it grows hard to breathe; he slumps against him, rakes in air until his stomach feels connected to himself again, and lets out a shuddering sigh that sinks his shoulders back towards the ground.

Wherever he had been, it was very far away. Maybe it was closer to you.

"When does it stop?" Dutch asks, moving to lay his mouth hard against Hosea's collarbone through the shoulder-seam of his shirt. It's sharp and he leans hard enough to feel as though the bone is grinding on his teeth.

He opens his eyes, though it feels more like prying with the drying tears on his lashes, and— looks at the tent, he supposes, but doesn't see much. A crate of your things stares back at him.

Hosea sighs. "It doesn't," he says, pats his shoulder once. "You'll hurt until you join them."

Dutch hates that he's right.

#dutch van der linde x reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #dutch van der linde #dutch x reader #neutralreader #sfw #oneshot #ask #dutchvanderlinde #angst #hurtcomfort #Hurt but there's no true comfort for this kinda hurt so does it really count?#Once again I am so sorry this took me probably a month to write.

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hurtspideyparker · 15 days ago

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Heeey! Idk if someone has already asked you this but, if you could recommend three Stony fanfics which ones would you recommend? And What made you ship them? :] Also love ur writing!

IT'S MY NEW STONY MUTUAL YIPPIE ✨ HI FRIEND. Sorry for the late reply, been busy in my own way. I'm so happy to hear from you! 😸

that is a tough question...

Principles of the Thing by Annie D (scaramouche)

In Tony’s opinion, the only thing worse than having a crush on Steve is: having a crush on Steve while Steve won’t shut up about how great Tony is.

Mainly recommending this because the author's Stony fics are all amazing. They're a fantastic writer and I'm sure there's something there for everyone; I'm still making my way through them and I'm never disappointed! This fic in particular is very sweet and adorable, plus it has my favourite Stony fanfiction device—it's told from a self-deprecating Tony's perspective <3 that's how you know it's gonna be a good one 😌 I need my man to hate himself a little thankyouverymuch. I also think it's cute to have Steve be virtuous in a very sweet gentleman way, instead of the hurting-Tony way (although I like that way a lot too)

Loverboys by theappleppielifestyle

“Here’s the deal,” Tony says. “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to pretend to date me.”

Steve stares at him, but only for a second.

“No thanks,” he says, and looks back down at his algebra worksheet.

(Or, a High School Fake Dating AU.)

I have a soft spot for high school and college AUs okay, sue me! Why I particularly like it for Stony, and what this fic does beautifully, is it uses their class disparity as a point of contention for their characters and relationship. I like young!Tony fics because we see the trauma of his family life and circumstances affecting him in real time. I love to hate Howard Stark <3 plus Stony is all about the tension of their opposing personalities, and AUs like this help highlight Tony's distant family and extreme wealth, and Steve's poverty and loving support system. This fic is also fake dating, which means ✨tension✨. Plus Tiberius Stone is a total guilty pleasure character of mine. Tony has many evil ex's in the comics, and I love to see them used for some good whump. And jealous protective Steve is absolute gold!!! Even if you don't like high school AUs this one is worth a shot because it wasn't written by a high schooler like many are, so it's mature and paced very well.

the girl with the modern face by isozyme

“Nice to meet you. I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve said, sticking his hand out and trying to wrestle the interaction back into something normal.

“I know, sweetheart,” Tony said, ignoring his hand. “Rescue told me all about you.”

“Did you make her?” Steve asked. It had been implied that Tony was a tech-man, and she said he was her boss. It would fit together.

“Yes, the armor, that was me; she’s my bodyguard,” Tony said archly. “Impressed?”

The only good thing about the future is Tony Stark's bodyguard, Rescue. She's beautiful in her red and gold armor, and Steve will never know who she is.

This story changed my brain chemistry when I read it. It's just such a fantastic culmination of so many delicate and beautiful things. Internalized homophobia and identity porn are severely underrated tropes and two of my all time favourites. I find it's hard to get them right, but boy does this story get them right. Also—genderfucked Tony Stark? Yes Yes and Yes. Steve falls for a woman, who is actually a man, who is actually Tony Stark. This hurts both of their feelings immensely. I love the tight-wound Captain and seeing him come to terms with his struggles and bigotry. And the juxtaposition to a flamboyant and open Tony, yessirrrr. Also, comic Stony fics are on a whole other level. They have so much more material to work from, so their characterization and background is really well fleshed out. You don't need to read the comics to understand it, don't worry.

—

I just love talking about this stuff, I will never be short or chill about asks 😅

What made me ship Steve and Tony? Oh GAWSH. Mainly, their opposing natures. Nothing is more compelling than seeing people so close yet so different have this intense magnetism. It's like a puzzle piece, they fit so well because they complete something in each other.

Rivals/enemies creates a lot of tension, especially when they have such a respect and trust for one another even if they don't always like it, it's undeniable. The betrayal and disagreement between them is painful because only those inside your heart can wreck it so intensely. I really like angst, whump, miscommunication, the push and pull. It's so them. They aren't rivals TO friends, they are rivals AND friends. Tony is incredibly Much, Steve is rigid. Tony is controlled by his emotions, Steve is controlled by his morals. Tony is an over-thinker, Steve is all intuition.

Also, have you SEEN the way they look at eachother?!?!? The gazing omfggg. The way they lead together, have such an intense relationship, perfectly in-sync even in disagreement. Their movies? Never without insanely strong feelings for each other, arm touches and long looks, trust broken and rebuilt. TV shows? Eye rolling yet great respect, a deep admiration that will always trump any mistake or disagreement. Bickering boyfriends. Comics? They're so intense everyone just KNOWS something freaky is going on. Divorced /pos. It's always hate or love, these two can never be neutral. Their relationship is incredibly dynamic—they're so soft for each other! They hate each other's guts! They are gonna fuck about it! All three at the same time.

ty for the compliment 🫶 yes this is yap city but I am a very passionate person mk. I could talk about them for hours 💕💔

#stony #ask #seesternsstuff #stevetony #marvel #mcu #marvel mcu #fic rec #steve rogers #tony stark

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daydreamwhumpinc · 1 month ago

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Magical Healing in Whump?

So, I am done with my finals for now and that means that I can write a whole essay on magical healing and what it means for whump scenarios. Plus a few additional prompts to make your whump scenarios more delicious and throw another whump poll in to the abyss ;)

Okay, now get ready for a bit of rambling. I usually enjoy whump in fantasy settings A LOT, but often the author decides to use magic as a fix it for any and all injuries which deprives us all of juicy, juicy whump scenes. On one hand, magical healing can open the door to more severe injuries that, normally, the Whumpee can't survive otherwise. On the other hand, the magic healing can be just used to heal anyone and everyone without the Caretaker (magic healer) and the Whumpee facing any consequences. The sweet spot is somewhere in the middle, but it is not that easy to hit as I found out while working on my own project.

For example, in the Webtoon I'm currently working on, one of my main characters has only defensive/healing/purifyng powers so I'm trying to set certain boundaries so that his powers are not too OP or too nerfed in the grand scheme of the story. Here are some prompts that I thought of that might help you to write your magical healer as someone capable and believable, but still not interfere with your Whump scenes.... ;)

The healer has to use their own life energy to heal the Whumpee, so the healer has to take breaks in between the healing- That way the healer can't heal a big injury all at once and will give the Whumpee some time to suffer and hurt. It will also open the door for the healer themself to be whumped if they use too much of their own life force energy when healing.

The healer has to be versed in medicine to be able to magically heal the Whumpee- Hear me out, this one is a bit weird. Imagine that even though you have healing magic, you still have to know anatomy and medicine, so you can use your magic to properly mend someones wounds. This might pose a problem in actually finding the magical healer with the necessary knowledge level of medicine and healing magic to help the Whumpee.

The healing magic is too potent to have too much in the body at once- I think it can be somewhat interesting to see the healing magic as something that can hurt in big amounts. After all, even water is harmful to the body when there is too much of it. This leads to almost the same outcome as in the first prompt, where the healer has to heal the Whumpee over time, allowing their body to filter out the healing magic.

The healer has to use some outside medium/conduit to heal the Whumpee- This one is a bit different, but I guess alchemy and potions are still considered as magical healing. Therefore, if the healer doesn't have the necessary tools for their healing ritual, then there is nothing they can do at that moment.

The Whumpee has to want to be healed/have enough energy/life force to bond with the healing magic- Another convoluted one, perhaps, but I'll try my best to explain. The healing magic will not work on the Whunoee unless they still have the drive to live and survive. It is something like having the will power to choose to get better and fight through the pain, otherwise the healing magic will just leak out and do nothing in terms of healing. Additionally, it can be linked with how much "life force" there is left in the Whumpee, so the more sever the injury is, the harder it is for the healer to connect with and heal the Whumpee.

The healing process is painful- The drawback of the healing process is the excrutiating pain as the bones and skin are knitted back together. So the Whumpee is pretty out of it by the end, or, once again, has to be treated in short bursts over a period of time.

Healing magic can only heal small or certain medium sized wounds- just have a power limit on the types of injuries the healer can heal with magic.

Happy Whumping and Feel Free to Add On :)

#whump #whump blog #whump community #whump post #whump poll #whump tropes #whump prompts #magic #magic healing #whump prompt #writing prompts #whump writing #writing imsparations #feel free to add on

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writereleaserepeat · 10 days ago

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Hear No Evil - Chapter 2

Masterlist

Chapter 1 // Next (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan hadn’t slept. Ever since he’d signed those papers, and ever since a tag reading sold was affixed to the top of the boy’s cage, he’d been caught in a whirlwind of panicked activity. There was so much to do, and not enough time to do it. As he walked out of the WRU warehouse, his head was spinning. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the essential rescue training he was missing, how much knowledge he lacked compared to the PLF’s experienced rehabilitators.

“Your delivery is scheduled between eleven and one,” the saleswoman had said as she handed him the paperwork, like the boy was a piece of furniture. There’d been no background check, no inquiry as to his credentials, no investigation to ensure that he was purchasing a pet for its intended purposes. The only questionnaire he’d been asked to fill out was related to his satisfaction with WRU’s service at the event – a survey he’d politely declined.

Just like that, with a stroke of a pen and a touch of his credit card to a digital terminal, Rowan had been granted the legal possession of a human being.

Still dizzy from the weight of responsibility he had just created, Rowan came to his senses long enough to make it home from the liquidation event. The rest of the day, and the rest of that night, were spent trying to make his condo ready for the incoming arrival.

Dawn hadn’t yet come when Rowan’s phone buzzed. He stopped fussing with the clothes in the hamper long enough to see it was a text from “Josh J. (Work)”

Sure man, I’ll cover your shifts this week. Everything good? You basically never take PTO.

No, Rowan wanted to reply, things were most decidedly not good. He’d acted on a rash impulse and was way out of his depth. As someone who’d been working for a decade and a half as a pet liberationist, he’d sworn to do good. He’d sworn to dismantle the system, to save who he could, to protest injustice. All that time, all that effort, and he’d still put money right into WRU’s hands in a moment of weakness.

And for what? To bring home a victim he didn’t have the knowledge or skills to help? This wasn’t even a victim that was prioritized for rescue, one with a strong chance at rehabilitation and reintegration into society, but a young man from a liquidation event with some undisclosed and undiagnosed problem.

All of that, however, wasn’t his colleague’s problem. Rowan grit his teeth and drafted what he figured was an innocent white lie.

Yeah, I’m fine. It was a hectic weekend and I realized I haven’t taken time to breathe in years. I’d think I’ve earned a few days away.

He didn’t want to elaborate any further.

Hell yeah. The response buzzed almost instantly. Then another. You fucking deserve it. No one hustles like you, boss. Crack a beer, put on the PGA, and I’ll try to make sure the station doesn’t burn down before next Monday.

Rowan would most certainly not be cracking a few beers and putting golf on the TV. At that very moment, he was doing his best not to get sick from worry or pass out from exhaustion. There were mere hours between his present breath and the boy’s arrival.

He’d spent the night doing his best to get ready to face the consequences of his actions. He’d combed the PLF volunteer site and tried to read every manual they had available on rehabilitating victims. He’d pulled his desk and computer out of the windowless den and set up the futon to make a bed, something resembling a room for the boy to call his own. He’d run out to the nearest department store and filled his arms with clothes that would be close to the boy’s size, at least from what Rowan could best guess looking over the papers. He’d tried to clean up the condo, but it was going to be impossible to make the space look livable before his latest acquisition arrived.

Hole-ridden sheets stretched over an ancient futon, clothes that likely wouldn’t fit right, the last of the toiletries Rowan could find in the drawers, a bathroom that had been hastily scrubbed with Comet from the very back of the closet - it all would have to be good enough for now. It just had to be good enough until Rowan could get his shit together.

It wasn’t much comfort to tell himself that it was probably better than what the boy had had in a long time.

As his shaking hands tried to fold yet another oversized sweatshirt - the boy would like that, wouldn’t he, something comfortable and warm? - Rowan knew there was one more call he had to make before the boy’s arrival. As much as he wanted to run from the reality of what he’d done, hide in shame from the fact his impulses had brought him to such an untenable situation, he also knew that he couldn’t get through this alone. He’d signed the papers, the charge had hit his card, he’d shaken the salesperson’s hand. He now legally owned a human being, a trafficking victim, an abuse survivor.

Folding laundry would have to wait. It was already almost seven in the morning, and the day wasn’t getting any younger. Rowan heaved a shaking breath from his lungs and sat down on the couch cushion next to the hamper. He hated how much his fingers trembled as he hovered over the familiar contact in his favorites list. It was two hours later on the east coast, and Grey would be on his way to the office if he wasn’t there already.

A lump lodged in Rowan’s throat as he hesitated again, face hot with shame. He’d come to his extensive privileges with the PLF through consistent dedication to the cause. His typical level-headedness and rationality had prevailed time and again, earning him promotion after promotion. He was one of their most crucial and well-hidden operatives currently active in the field. And yet, and yet, here he was, a pet arriving at his doorstep with no foresight or forewarning.

“How are you supposed to help this victim recover if you can’t even make a phone call, you idiot?” Rowan chastised himself through a grimace as he rubbed his palm across his furrowed brows. Rationally, making this phone call was the best way to get both himself and his incoming houseguest the help that they needed. Rationally, Rowan knew that he had to make this phone call sooner or later. But rationality hadn’t exactly been the captain of his choices over the last twenty-four hours.

It took another minute of gnawing on his lower lip before Rowan finally brought himself to hit the call button. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and-

“Hey there, Rowan! How’s my favorite videographer and secret agent?” The familiar and ever-cheerful voice washed over Rowan like a ray of welcome sunlight. It was warm and relieving, and some of Rowan’s tension immediately melted away. He could do this.

“Morning, Grey.”

“Yeah, it’s a morning indeed! What is it, not even seven there yet? Early morning for a busy man. You doing alright after the liquidation event yesterday? Any chance to pull footage or sound bytes yet? I’ve told her she needs to be patient, but you know Darcy is when they’re waiting on new content for our socials.”

Rowan took a breath and closed his eyes.

“Listen, man, I need your help. I went to the liquidation event, I got set up to take footage like I always did, they let me in without a hitch. But- but I might have done something a little impulsive when I was there.” The entirety of the admission wasn’t quite ready to come to Rowan’s lips, the words lodged somewhere behind the lump in his throat.

“Please don’t tell me they clocked you,” Grey groaned, his words thick with anxiety. It was the groan of worry that came with all the stresses of Grey’s status.

The two friends might have begun their time at the PLF together back in college, but while Rowan had been content as an agent with boots on the ground and neck on the line, but Grey’s ambition had taken him on the executive track. While Rowan busied himself with infiltrating warehouses and transportation trucks, Grey had climbed the ranks to become Vice President of the North American Division of the PLF. Although their career paths had diverged along with their practices, they’d remained as close as ever through their ideals and hard-fought friendship. And so Grey had become a full-time liberation executive, while Rowan kept his craft to weekends and evenings between his full-time job at the TV station.

“No, nothing like that,” Rowan said, falling over his words as he tried to soothe Grey’s fears. “No cops, no drama, no one suspected a thing. I got all of the footage I’d hoped to get, some sound bytes too. There was some seriously fucked up stuff, worse than usual, and it’ll make some great clips for us, this is some really great material. I’ll be editing it this weekend, at least I’d planned to do that, and-“

“Take a breath, man, take a breath. If you got in and out without a hitch, why’s the sky falling?”

Rowan swallowed, and pressed on.

“I- I, uh- I saw a victim there. I mean, I saw a lot of them, right, that’s the whole point of the event, that’s why we go. But you know, there was this one. There was something different about this one, okay? I can’t tell you what it was, you just, you’d have to see it to believe it, to feel what I felt. I looked at him, and I just- I couldn’t say no. It’s like he begged me to live with just his eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I mean never, and you know how long I’ve been doing this. So I- I guess- I rescued him. Bought him, really, if I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Cash upfront for a lifetime contract, signed on the warehouse floor, delivery set for later this afternoon. He should arrive in about four hours, actually, now that I look at the time.”

There was a pause, and Rowan could hear a slight crackling over the line as Grey took a breath. Finally, when Grey’s voice came again, it was more tired than Rowan had heard in quite some time.

“Jesus Christ,” Grey muttered. Rowan could picture his exasperated face even from more than a thousand miles away. “What were you thinking? You aren’t trained as a rescuer, you haven’t been assigned a rehabilitation team, and there’s no way we can get him in for an urgent medical work-up on such short notice. We’re not prepared for another intake, and you’re not-“

“I know, I know. I fucked up. I fucked up big time.” It was Rowan’s turn to cut his friend off. That guilt, that shame, it was heavier and heavier as Grey confirmed Rowan’s worst fears. This was a fuck-up on a massive scale. But there was no going back now. That boy was going to be in his home today, and he was going to be alive. That had to count for something, right?

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” Grey asked this over the sound of distant keystrokes. It was like the frustration from just moments ago had dissipated, and the confident leader had emerged with an air of business around him. It was that very trait that had made Grey a no-brainer for such a high-ranking role within the PLF. “You rescued him from a liquidation event, so this isn’t going to be a standard rescue case. Give me some more details, and I can try to connect you to a rehabilitator nearby for immediate and emergency intervention. I’ll need you to send me scans of the purchase papers, the ones with your contract, as well as any that come in his box later. Do you have his WRU ID number? I’m opening a rescue file in our system for him now.”

And now it was Rowan’s turn to let out a breath of relief. There was no anger left – no, there never had been anger to begin with – as Grey proved that he was every inch the liberationist that hundreds admired him to be. If Grey was going to scold Rowan, it would come at a much later time.

“I don’t actually know why he was sent for liquidation,” Rowan admitted as he hauled himself off the couch and walked back over to the kitchen table. It was piled with papers and books, all displaced during his frenzied cleaning and preparatory efforts, and it would probably take him some time to figure out where he’d actually put the contract papers. “I only had a few moments of contact with him on the floor, and the sales agent was vague. I looked over the papers, but it was only as far as the sales agent had mentioned in their words – he’s a dual-trained Domestic-Romantic with no apparent problems other than so-called ‘selective obedience.’ He apparently went through their standard and advanced refurbishment programs, but that didn’t fix the obedience issues. Cognitively, he was attentive and lively on the floor, capable of making eye contact and engaging with his surroundings. Physically, well, it was hard to tell under the jumpsuit. I saw some of the usual scarring under his uniform, and some fresh wounds on the sides of his face, but that’s it.”

Grey hummed as the keystrokes continued.

“Alright, well, that’s not really helpful. Sometimes they don’t share the true reason for the liquidation, and it’s up for the rescuer and their team to figure out the extent of the issues. I’ll need to get you a case manager who can follow up once he’s had his medical work-up and paperwork fully reviewed. It looks like our roster has a special-instance rehabilitator located about twenty minutes away from you, and I’ve already got her assigned to the case in our system. She’ll be the person you report to until we get a case manager for you both. She’s been with the PLF for about four years now, with twelve total successful rehabilitations, eight being special cases from liquidation events or other emergency rescues. I’ve sent her your contact information just now, and I told her to reach out as soon as possible. I hope she can get out there today, it being a Sunday and all. Her name is Angela Herrera, phone number ending in 8742, so pick it up when she calls.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Grey.” These five minutes had already changed everything. Rowan – and the boy – weren’t in this alone. They had not just the weight of the PLF, but the power of Rowan’s dearest friend, behind them now. Help was on the way. And by god, Rowan was going to take that help with open arms.

Grey gave a soft, strained chuckle.

“No, you’re the miracle worker today. You have given a human being a second chance at life, and that’s worth more than all the money in the world. Now, I would never recommend what you’ve today done to anyone, and it’s not going to be an easy path forward. But I know you did it with a good heart, and with good intentions. Most of all, I know that you are more than capable to handle this, even in these less-than-ideal circumstances. You are strong and you are smart – you’re going to have to be, for the sake of this boy.”

“I know. I will be. I’m going to do this, and I’m going to do it right from here on out. Even if this is how it has to start, it’s by-the-book going forward. You have my word I am going to put my whole heart and soul into making this right. Not for my sake, but his.”

Even without words, Rowan could feel Grey smiling.

“I know. Of all the people in the world, I can always trust you, even if you’re an idiot sometimes. Don’t worry about the footage from the event until you have your new guest settled in, alright? Any new liberation material can wait, and if Darcy bugs you about it, tell them to talk to me. Make sure you read through the PLF rescue manual on the rehabilitation site, then when you’re done reading it, read it again. When your guest arrives make sure you use a conversational tone, soft voice, lots of praise, slow movements and hand gestures, all of that stuff we went over in training for interacting with victims in the early stages of recovery. I know it’s been years since you took the training, but it’ll come back to you.”

“Of course. I already have the manual printed out and on my table somewhere – fuck, I swear I printed it, along with ten thousand other things, it’s here somewhere – but I read it. I’ll read it again now, as soon as I hang up. I’ll let you go so you can get back to your job saving the world. I’ve got my hands full over here, I guess. And, Grey… thanks for your help. Really. I guess I should thank you for not chewing me out either.”

“Oh, don’t count that out yet,” Grey said. “I’ll save the chewing out for a more opportune time, well after your new guest is settled in. Hell, I hope I can do it in person. We’re overdue for a visit anyway, and of course I’d love to meet your guest.”

“Noted.” Rowan felt his smile twinge slightly into a grimace. Of course, he wouldn’t get let off the hook so easily, not under Grey’s watch. “I’ll be on the lookout for a call from Angela or you, yeah? Otherwise, I’ve got to finish getting ready.”

“Yes, of course. Like I said, call me if you need anything, and I mean anything. Just because I’m Vice President now doesn’t mean I’m not your friend. You call, and I will pick up.”

“Likewise. Always. Chat later, Grey.”

“Later, Rowan.”

As soon as Rowan hung up he collapsed back into the couch, the already-wrinkled rescue manual clutched between sweaty fingers. There was so much to learn, so much to do, and so little time to do it. But it had to be better than death, right? Whether that was a lie or the truth, it was what Rowan had to tell himself now. Grey was on his side, and the weight of the PLF was behind him. They were going to give this boy a fighting chance at life, a second chance to live as a man, and not as someone’s pet.

It would be Rowan’s greatest challenge yet.

---

The third cup of coffee had just finished brewing in Rowan’s coffee pot when there was a knock at the door. It was half-past eleven, and despite knowing that this moment had been coming, the tightness in Rowan’s chest suddenly became as heavy as a stone. There was hardly a breath left in his lungs as he stumbled in a daze to the door.

He peered through the peephole and, sure enough, there were two men in WRU-branded coveralls waiting on his welcome mat.

A final deep breath in, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, and Rowan threw the door open.

“Good morning, Mr. Bailey. We’re here to complete your delivery.” The man’s voice was monotonous, droning, almost exhausted. It was like he was going door-to-door selling gym memberships rather than delivering a human being to a stranger’s home. And just as a salesman would, he shoved a clipboard with a thick stack of papers in Rowan’s direction.

“I need to scan your ID and have you fill out this confirmation paperwork. Once that’s done, my colleague and I will go get your delivery from the truck. As soon as it’s in your possession, you’ll have a final release paper to sign to effectuate the property transfer.”

Property. That’s all the boy was in the eyes of the law. In Rowan’s care he would be so much more, but for now, Rowan had to play into the charade for a few minutes longer. He grabbed the clipboard with sweating palms.

“Yeah, sure. Let me see those.” He scribbled something resembling his signature on any line he could find, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, and slammed the pen down as he reached the final page. “There, I think I’ve got it all. Here’s my driver’s license, that alright?”

The man looked over Rowan’s ID, apparently blasé as he matched the birth date on the plastic to the one Rowan had scrawled on the paper, then handed it back to Rowan with a grunt.

“Looks like everything’s in order here. We’ll be back in about ten minutes with your purchase. Does this building have a freight elevator? Tends to be a bit easier to maneuver for us.”

“Yeah, down the hall and to the left past the fire doors. Can’t miss it.”

“Great, thanks. We’ll be right back.”

And to their credit, they were. After only seven minutes of Rowan pacing his recently-cleaned hallway, all of his shoes tucked in the shoe rack rather than strewn across the tiles, a second knock came at the door. This time, when Rowan opened it, there was a large pine box on dollies between the two WRU personnel. The first thought that crossed Rowan’s mind was how much it looked like a coffin.

“Alright, here’s your delivery. Is the hallway fine, or do you have a room set aside?”

Rowan did have a room, but he didn’t want anyone associated with WRU in his home a moment longer than they had to be.

“Hallway is fine.”

“Great. Then we’ll go ahead and put your box there, and once we’ve got it off the dollies, we’ll require your signature right here.” Another paper on yet another clipboard was thrust into his hands, and Rowan’s mouth was dry as the box was rolled into his hall and heaved off the dolly and onto the floor. There wasn’t a sound except for the slight scrape of pine across the floor, and then the scratching of a half-dead ballpoint pen across paper, and then the shuffling of even more paper.

The WRU delivery staff gave a final look over where Rowan had signed before a forced smile came over their faces. The tall one spoke in a tired service voice, just like a cashier who was pitching a club card.

“Congratulations, Mr. Bailey, the transaction is complete and the property has been fully transferred into your ownership. The rest of the documentation for your purchase and otherwise accompanying the product are contained in the box, including an additional copy of the sales contract and the property’s medical and training records. Further information, if necessary, can be obtained from WRU directly, as can additional copies or digital copies of the necessary documentation. When putting any inquiry in with WRU, please use both your purchase number and the product’s WRU-issued identification number. If you’ve been satisfied with today’s service and delivery, please fill out the survey that will be sent to the email we have on file for you. While the cost of delivery was included with your purchase price, at the conclusion of the survey, you will have the option to leave a cash tip if you were particularly satisfied with today’s delivery service. Thank you for choosing WRU.”

The words bounced off Rowan’s consciousness as his attention turned to the box. The boy was in that box, waiting for him. All he could bring himself to do was wave off the delivery personnel with an open hand.

“Got it, I’ll look for the survey and all that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to tend to my… purchase.”

Before they could respond Rowan shut the door on them. They would receive no additional praises or compensation for their role in facilitating this abuse. What mattered now was that Rowan was, legally, the boy’s owner. And the boy was here now in his possession.

Rare courage overcame Rowan. Perhaps it was the fear driving him, perhaps it was the anticipation, or perhaps it was delirium from the all-nighter. Whatever it was, Rowan didn’t spare a single spare moment before undoing the deadbolts on the top of the box and heaving the lid open.

And there, laying motionless in a bed of straw, naked but for the black leather collar around his neck, was the boy.

---

Light pierced the pet’s eyes like a bolt of lightning. Its ears had been ringing, and although it couldn’t hear what had transpired beyond the walls of its box aside from the slight murmur of voices, it had prepared for the lid of the box to be opened.

You’re lucky, Handler Green had said with his hand wrapped around the pet’s throat, moments before it was thrown into the box and the lid cut off any light. You’re not going to die today. This is your last chance, so don’t fuck it up.

The last few hours – had it been hours, or had it been longer? – in the box had been filled with little more than abject terror. No amount of breathing exercises or attempts at sleep had soothed its nerves. All it could think of was the future ahead, the new master that would await it once the box was finally opened, how it would make its first impression to the person that held its life in their hands. If it failed here and now, it would surely die.

All it wanted now, and all it had ever wanted, was to be a good pet who served its masters well. It rehearsed its positions between waves of panic attacks, it silently recited its old master’s favorite recipes step-by-step until the ingredients sounded like poetry in its mind, and it stretched each morning to keep itself flexible and pliable. It tried its best to listen in training, no matter how hard the ringing had made it. And when it received punishments or corrections, no matter how severe, it remained silent.

Now, with light streaming into its box, it had a final chance to prove that it was good. The pet was certain that it could be good, be useful, be the perfect pet its new master wanted. Though fear was sticky on its parched tongue, it knew from training that fear would lend itself to its determination and would likewise reduce its error rates. Today, on this very first date, that fear would serve it well.

Fear meant that it was still alive.

The pet had been specifically trained for this moment, and it was well-practiced in this first essential maneuver. Handler Green had gone over the routine with it again last night after it had been brought back to the training facility from the warehouse. For once, Handler Green hadn’t administered any additional punishments as they rehearsed the motions. Perhaps that meant the pet had done something right.

In those same fluid movements it had practiced just some hours ago, the pet sat up from where it had been nestled in the straw, heaved a leg over the side of the box, then another, and threw itself to the floor and onto its knees. Its legs tucked comfortably beneath it in the kneeling position, the same one it had been taught to assume from those earliest days in training. Its joints ached from the time in the box, but pain wouldn’t stop the pet now, it never did. The pet did many things wrong, but not this one small thing – it could kneel as long as its master needed.

And though the pet didn’t dare raise its eyes, the flash of movement from its hurried scramble to the floor confirmed its fearful suspicions. That same man that had stood outside its cage at the warehouse, the same one it had accidentally made eye contact with, was its master now.

Hands on its lap, the pet bowed its head, kept its gaze low and fixed on the dark wood floors. Although its ears rang, and although it couldn’t quite hear if Master was speaking, it strained for the relief and release of a command all the same. All it wanted was the chance to prove, once and for all, that it was good.

---

Taglist:

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

#hear no evil #whump #whump writing #whump blog #whump story #whumpblr #bbu #bbu whump #hear no evil chapter 2 #one big change in the rewrite is that grey plays a bigger role - they're best friends after all #also rowan's emotions fluctuate more because that's cool #anyway our poor boy has arrived!#enjoy y'all #this is a slower chapter so thank you for your patience!

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holy-mother-of-whumpers · 2 months ago

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Favorite character from Greek mythology + favorite myth from Greek mythology?

That is a really hard question😂 like what's your favorite music THERE ARE SO MANY!!!

I like to obsess over forgotten minor characters like a true nerd (like Epipole, the Greek Mulan, Thersander, Diomedes fellow Epigone) but except for that, I'm basic.

It's Odysseus ok 😂 he has a lot of whump and a happy ending! All I could ask for.

Also Perseus, the non Ovid version in which Medusa was always a monster.

My favorite myth is Pandora, the interpretation in which Hope is one of the evils, or the worst of them, because it forces you to endure all others for no rational reason. Sometimes you gotta cut your losses, not hope it'll get better.

Plus it's so rad that she got created like this super woman, with all the gods gifting her something, and her job was to open a box?? She didn't even need higher cognitive abilities for that, legend.

I can tell you my least favorite may be Herakles, or Theseus, who looked up to him. I cannot avoid interpreting the 'divine madness' as an excuse for a mean temper and being too cuddled by the gods to suffer proper consequences for his actions. He killed his family and in exchange he became The Hero™️. Rip Megara and kids I suppose, fridged for character development.

I'd love to let a Herakles stan change my mind though.

My least favorite myth(s) are the modern retellings twisting the original's meaning and agency to make a cheap fake feminism point or an over-edgy tragedy in which everybody sucks.

I know people think Miller but I mean more Jennifer Saint, super dry narration, no positive character, the pointlessly saddest endings in the canon wtf

That was a lovely question! Thank you! 🥰🥰

I'd like to hear your opinions too if you feel like coming out!

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zarvasace · 29 days ago

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I just got through reading your white walls au, it was fantastic! My favorite kind of whump. Being the lover of whump/angst that I am though, I have to ask: what would have happened if all the boys hadn't made it out in the end? Would they have been separated? Confined to those small rooms like the one Four was trapped in for a week? Constantly drugged to make escape impossible? Worse?

Well, anon, do I have some answers for you!! Or, well, possibilities. We'll never know exactly what would happen, but there are some options. >:) (also thank you I'm glad you like it!)

This is gonna get hmmm kinda long, and maybe breach a few sensitive topics (nothing unusual for white walls in general) so under a cut it goes!

First off, it's important to know that, although I didn't really talk about it much, there's some internal struggle in Cymatial, due to the boys and some other things. After the Magnetic story, when Lullaby/Shiek finds Four's message, she mentally remarks about someone named "Sahas." In the first draft of the last chapter (excluding epilogue), I had someone call on the radios to tell the guards to stand down. I ended up scrapping that moment in favor of Legend and Warriors being cool, but I did lose that bit of lore. There are people within the company who disagreed with what was happening—only a few higher-ups, since as we saw there were ways of uh, quelling some of the little guys' protests. (Mostly memory manipulation.)

The main dissenter was Sahasrahla, an older man important to some other functions of the company. He didn't have enough power to shut down the whole captivity thing, but he did have enough power to make it more bearable. It's due to him that the boys (and Legend's old group) had any comforts at all, including real food and a communal living area. His influence was restricted, but definitely there.

If some or all of the boys had not managed to get out at the end, though? Sahasrahla would not be able to save them from some things. Someone would undoubtedly be calling for some sort of permanent measures—Legend has a panic-induced thought near the end of the story about them cutting off his feet. That probably is one of the worst things they would consider doing, and dramatic enough that they... probably wouldn't.

Anyway! I think that immediately, not much would change. They'd probably remove some tools and floating things from the rooms and restrict more of the food they have access to. Add a camera in their rooms. Permanent drugging or solitary would be quite mentally punishing, and might hurt the data they really need, so I don't see that happening. As a permanent measure, anyway.

But moving forward, the pressure would increase. I'm picturing more security on the main door, and more restrictions in both entering and exiting the boys' floor entirely. More threats and punishments followed through without a warning or any grace period. More liberal use of sedatives, the solitary cells, and other punishments.

There's also a strong possibility that they'd find a way to leverage the boys' edits for some more control, like they did for Four. Maybe some sort of evil dog whistle only-you-can-hear-it thing for Legend. Wars can take a lot of physical punishment and can heal well later (with the possibility of giving him an extra edit like Hyrule's fast healing, perhaps with some caveats and control), so they could do things to him like cut tendons or even blind him, knowing that it isn't permanent.

If more than just those two were caught, then separation becomes a real possibility—I'm picturing one or two always missing, or maybe everyone held in those solitary cells while a construction crew comes in to build more walls into their usual living area. Imagine the space as a block of cells instead of a communal bedroom and living room.

Ooh... hehehe.

Imagine Wars coming back with blood dripping down his face, too out of it to properly answer anyone's questions, sliding down the wall and functionally alone. Imagine Sky returning with the world's biggest headache, disoriented but resting his head and hand against glass walls in the same spot as Twilight, because all he wants is a hug, some contact. Imagine Wind, too quiet, to the point where they aren't even sure if he's really there or not, leaving a smeared, bloody handprint on the glass. Imagine Hyrule unable to move because he fell from a high spot again, sitting quietly, spiraling in his own head while someone tries to talk to him. Imagine Four reading out loud and exhausted, Time too short to reach the water bottles and nobody able to help him, Legend pressed into the farthest possible corner, Twilight stuck in a half-transformation.

Anyway, I like the happy ending we got and I don't think it would serve the story as a whole to do any of this. But it's delicious to think about! XD maybe an AU of an AU?

#lu #lu experiments au #linked universe #whump #yeah

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love-me-a-lotta-whump · 8 months ago

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My Favorite Whump Lists pt. 1

A list of all my favorite dramas/movies/animes I've made whump lists or Episode Highlights for-- (in multiple parts due to Tumblr's link limit) -- Lists that are my FAVORITE favorites are in italics.

DRAMAS

🇰🇷KOREA

Duel >> {x}

He Is Psychometric >>> {x}

Just Between Lovers >>> {x}

My Love From The Star >>> {x}

W: Two Worlds >>> {x}

I Hear Your Voice/I Can Hear Your Voice >>> {x}

Memorist >>> {x}

Sweet Home >>> {x}

Sweet Home Season 2 >>> {x}

Healer >>> {x}

The Uncanny Counter s1>>> {x}

Lawless Lawyer >>> {x}

Flower of Evil >>> {x}

Memories of the Alhambra >>> {x}

The Arthdal Chronicles >>> {x}

Where Stars Land >>> {x}

Color Rush >>> {x}

At A Distance, Spring Is Green >>> {x}

The K2 >>> {x}

One Ordinary Day >>> {x}

Semantic Error >>> {x}

Bulgasal: Immortal Souls >>> {x}

Lovers of the Red Sky >>> {x}

Descendants of the Sun >>> {x}

Come and Hug Me >>> {x}

Angel’s Last Mission: Love >>> {x}

The Smile Has Left Your Eyes >>> {x}

Uncontrollably Fond >>> {x}

Mirror of the Witch >>> {x}

Snowdrop >>> {x}

Money Heist: Korea: Joint Economic Area >>> {x}

Alice, The Final Weapon >>> {x}

Bad Guys >>> {x}

Big Mouth >>> {x}

If You Wish Upon Me >>> {x}

Blind >>> {x}

Revenge of Others >>> {x}

The Good Detective 2 >>> {x}

Island >>> {x}

Black Knight >>> {x}

Joseon Attorney: A Morality >>> {x}

Bloodhounds >>> {x}

Vigilante >>> {x}

🇨🇳CHINA

The Lost Tomb >> {x}

The Lost Tomb 2 >> {x}

Reunion: The Sound of The Providence >> {x}

Reunion: Sound of The Providence Season 2 >> {x}

Ultimate Note >>> {x}

Sand Sea >>> {x}

The Untamed >> {x}

The Golden Eyes >>> {x}

Psych Hunter >>> {x}

Miss Crow with Mr. Lizard >>> {x}

Legend of Fei >>> {x}

Hello Dear Ancestors >>> {x}

The Blue Whisper >>> {x}

Back From the Brink >>> {x}

🇯🇵JAPAN

Fuujinshi >>> {x}

Virtual Detective Tabito Higurashi >>> {x}

Hiru (Season 1)

Smoking >>> {x}

An Incurable Case of Love >>> {x}

Junkyouju Takatsuki Akira no Suisatsu>>> {x}

Algernon ni Hanataba O >>> {x}

🇹🇭THAILAND

Not Me >>> {x}

------+------

MOVIES

🇰🇷KOREA

Psychometry >>> {x}

Werewolf Boy >>> {x}

Blind >>> {x}

Fabricated City >>> {x}

Abyss >>> {x}

Youth of May >>> {x}

The Great Seducer >>> {x}

Why Her? >>> {x}

The Good Detective >>> {x}

🇨🇳CHINA

The Witness >>> {x}

🇯🇵JAPAN

Ajin: Demi Human >>> {x}

Blind Witness >>> {x}

Rurouni Kenshin: The Beginning >>> {x}

------+------

EPISODE HIGHLIGHTS

🇰🇷KOREA

The Fair >>> {x}

MORE FAVORITES >>> [link]

MORE WHUMP LISTS >>> [link]

#whump #asian whump #whump list #whumplist #asianwhump #whump list library #whump list directory

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deckofaces · 2 years ago

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Step Out of Line

Tw: whump, stabbing, blood, near death experience, dagger mention, Supervillain whumper, Hero whumpee, sadistic whumper (guys I swear it sounds bad but there is caretaking at the end)

@epiclamer I saw your plea in the gc for hero whumpee and villain caretaker. So I was inspired and wrote this, pls accept my offering

Hero groaned as they crashed hard into the concrete. They practically tasted it with how close their head came to smashing into it. Their open cuts and wounds screamed as they hit the floor. The rough concrete scraped against them, each second laying there felt like daggers poking their skin.

Hero laid there dizzily, coughing for a few seconds. Was that blood that just came out of their mouth? Their vision started blurring together. They slowly looked up, two pairs of feet stood in front of them, who else joined the fight?

They blinked a couple times at the figures, struggling to keep their head up. After another few seconds of this, the two pairs of feet merged into one. No one else joined the fight, it was just their vision lying to them.

Hero shakily started to stand up, despite every part of their body just telling them to give up. They were a hero, they could not lay there in defeat. Supervillain stood in front of them and if they could just get one really good punch in, they might just be able to defeat them-

They felt their legs collapse out from under them, and Hero landed back on their stomach. The cool, rugged pavement greeted them once more. They could hear maniacal laughter echoing off the brick alleyway walls behind them.

Hero breathed heavily, they pushed off the ground, oh they could see the dark red blood now. They slowly turned over to lay on their back so they could actually see. More laughing filled their ears, Supervillain crouched down next to their fallen form.

Out of the corner of their eye, they could see something in the evil doer’s hand. Despite the darkness of the alley, Hero could see the almost blinding flash of metal. A dagger, their vision focused just enough to see the outline of a small blade.

Their heartbeat raced, it must have been out of fear. Was Supervillain going to finish the job right there? They didn’t want to die that way. Dying to the filthy hands of Supervillain like so many others before them. Just add them to the list of fallen heroes. Hero would be just like the others, nothing special.

Supervillain held an evil glint in their eye, grinning as they took pleasure in putting the blade directly in their face so Hero could see. “Given up yet Hero? It does not matter, you do not have a choice anyways. You will be dead in a minute.”

“N-no-“ Hero whimpered, oh so desperately trying to back away in their weakened state.

Supervillain only cackled more, grabbing their feet and dragging them back over, which only made Hero cry out in pain.

Without warning, they elicited a scream as Supervillain took their blade and stabbed Hero.

They couldn’t tell where, but the pain felt absolutely horrible. Another thing they knew is that they passed out soon after.

. . .

Hero stirred on something.. soft? Were they hallucinating the comfortable surface to escape the feeling of the wretched concrete?

They opened their eyes but they were impaled by light, which confused them, wasn’t it still night time?

Hero took a minute to adjust to the light, blinking rapidly until it felt like the light no longer hurt them. They looked around the room, this clearly was not the alley, their mind had not been playing tricks on them either.

They were laying on a worn in couch, a soft blanket had been pulled all the way up to their chin. They looked under the blanket and saw bandages wrapped around their stomach, arms, and a cast on their leg. They also noticed bandages around their hands too when lifting the blanket. None of them felt too tight either, whoever did it must have taken great care.

The living room the couch sat in appeared to be small, but it was neat and tidy. They wonder what civilian rescued them, at least they hoped a civilian saved them and they were not with Supervillain. That would be so very cruel, they would rather have died on the pavement than see their face after they had given Hero a false sense of safety.

While scanning their surroundings, their eyes drifted over to the doorway that led to the kitchen. Their eyes widened in shock. Standing there staring at them was not a civilian at all or Supervillain, it was Villain. And they were holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup?

Villain must of been bad news, they started to sit up and pull the blanket off them, but they stopped halfway through, hissing in pain.

Villain rushed over and set the soup on the coffee table in front of the couch. They immediately pushed Hero to lay back down on the couch. “What are you thinking?? If you opened any of your wounds because of this- I swear to gods-“ They groaned thinking about it, shaking their head.

Hero hesitated, they did not move or say anything. That only caused Villain to sigh as they gently helped them into sitting position. They grabbed the bowl of soup directly after, pulling a chair up to sit next to the couch Hero sat on.

Hero looked at the soup with unease. They could not deny that it smelled absolutely delicious and their stomach had definitely been growling, but what if Villain put something in it? “Is that poisoned?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course not,” Villain scoffed. “You are in my home, I plan on taking care of you.”

Hero still looked at the bowl in their nemesis’s hands, unsure. Which in turn only drew out a long sigh from the villain.

“Why would I poison you after taking the time to bandage you up, if you haven’t noticed them already. Let me tell you that it took forever.” Villain gestured to Hero’s hand for reference. “I’m a villain, but if you think I’m cruel enough to bandage you all up just to kill you- I’m offended,” they rolled their eyes dramatically.

“Now watch, Hero.” They took a spoonful of the soup that they made and ate it. They swallowed and gave them an “I told you so” sort of expression. Hero looked sheepish after, letting out a small “oh.”

Villain hummed and held up another spoonful of the chicken noodle soup. “Open your mouth.”

Hero gave them a confused look again, “Are you going to try to feed me?”

Villain still held the utensil in front of the crime-stopper. “Yes,” they said simply.

“But that is embarrassing-! Please just let me feed myself,” Hero complained. They weren’t injured so much so that they could not eat the soup themself.

“Not as embarrassing as trying to challenge someone as powerful as Supervillain. I found you left for dead in that alleyway, and goodness knows you could have died if I didn’t save you. Now open up.” This time Villain did not sound like they were joking. They were stern, but they also held a touch of worry in their voice.

Hero lowered their gaze to the blanket on their lap out of shame and embarrassment. Villain had immediately shut down their complaints just with that explanation alone.

“Why did you help me?” Hero asked quietly. “I’m a hero, I try to arrest you. This goes against what villains sort of well.. do.”

Villain let the spoon fall back into the bowl. They shook their head at Hero. “No, villains break rules and accepted norms dearest Hero, and saving you did just that. I did not step out of line if I was not following a line to begin with.”

Hero only stared at Villain. When they held the spoon up to them once again, this time they reluctantly opened their mouth and accepted the food. And consequently, Villain’s help.

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