#if this needs any cw/tw lemme know btw

[the-stove-is-divorced]

Day 1483943 of being cursed with Batman brainrot so snippet of young ghoul!Bruce wip, that may or may become a oneshot one day.

Bruce wants to vomit.

His heart, a stupid sluggish thing, which beats far too slow to sink into the bounds of normal, truly begins to pound furiously now, desperately, ready to yank free from the cages of bone and fatty tissues, the too dark blood and pale skin. Bitter bile begs to be released as he trembles, helplessly trying to keep the blood from his mother’s side, where it's staining the ground in spite of his efforts, so terribly warm and worse yet—a horribly sweet.

It actually smells sweet.

Bruce wants to vomit.

His heart, a stupid sluggish thing, which beats far too slow to sink into the bounds of normal, truly begins to pound furiously now, desperately, ready to yank free from the cages of bone and fatty tissues, the too dark blood and pale skin. Bitter bile begs to be released as he trembles, helplessly trying to keep the blood from his mother’s side, where it's staining the ground in spite of his efforts, so terribly warm and worse yet—a horribly sweet.

It actually smells sweet.

Sweet like candies do, soft and delicate like cotton candy, like cakes fresh from the oven, caramels carefully salted, but its blood. His stomach, this stupid body, is panicked and horrible and hungry, because the blood is fresh and warm upon his hands, the scent thick and nearly choking upon his nose, and he’s never wanted to throw up more. His vision blurs, swimming, details cast aside as body deforms into dark, bloody shapes, stiff and still, frozen in horror. 

He knows their hearts cannot beat anymore, the familiar pitter patter like rain against a windowsill, the pleasant hum like the fridge in the kitchens, like the distant buzz of a hive at work, is cut. Finished. Struck and left rot, stagnant. 

And still, in spite of him, in some horrible, awful might of the wretched, this wretched body, the smell is sickeningly sweet, fresh and truthfully, insidiously, delicious. His parents, the bodies, are ripe like fruit, sickeningly fresh, coating the back of his throat with the slow trickle of hunger, the stench of buttery baked goods, a touch of saltiness, an overwhelming soft sweetness, just begging for just a single, tiny, bite. Their bodies fell like the too fat fruit hung from the property’s trees, blood splatter like bruises across their skin from the impact. 

If Bruce closes his eyes, stunning backward and hitting the wall, ignoring the rattling breath and horrible hiccups, he’s been shoved into a shop, goodies and treats to be devoured, the very touch of a perfectly soft, heavy cake desperate for his teeth to sink in and finally chew. 

 As the roar of the sirens grow closer, the red ooze coats his trembling hands like syrup, Bruce’s stomach growls, cruelly, and his mouth, betraying, is filled with drool. 

The wretched stain of hunger paints the memory still. 

———

“Master Bruce? Are you hungry?”

No, he thinks, he won’t be ever again. He scarcely even turned his head, rooted to his parent’s bed and wishing it would just swallow him whole, spare him the mercy of existing, the prickling pain of hunger, the choking memory of blood at the back of his throat, oh so sickeningly sweet. 

The funeral was a blur of tears, muddled blurring tones of weary speeches, cousins he didn’t care for, food he didn’t—couldn’t eat, and others he couldn’t make himself swallow. Again, his stomach squirms in the discomfort of hollowness, to be empty, but Bruce doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything. He tries to sleep, but mockingly, it doesn’t come, exhaustion perched right beside him, filling his limbs with concrete, but blissful unconsciousness avoids him like the plague. 

Alfred lingers by the door. Warm, yellow light spills in from around his looming shadow, but it does nothing to curb his vision, darkness and light nothing but a blur, a matter of taste and not a dive into blindness, because his eyes are different, his body is monstrous, and yet he still survived. Untouched the rain of bullets, the spray by blood.

“Not even a snack?” Alfred tries. He can hear the trying smile.

A short sniff, and the speckle of animal blood lingers in Alfred’s fingers, finely chopped chunks of meat arranged in simple shapes, triangles, circles, barely cooked and raw. Savory, juicy, and bursting with flavor to make saliva pool in his mouth. Disgusting, foul, wretched, that makes him squirm. 

But Bruce just buried his head underneath a pillow that still carries his father’s cologne, and trembles. One day it will fade and Bruce will bath it in bottles of cologne to make it stay. He’ll buy the whole company just for a single, fluffed pillow. 

Alfred steps closer. A specific spot along the floorboards creak, announcing the distance, but Bruce can’t make himself care. He just aches.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to inhale cologne over blood. He tries to ignore how his stomach feels like a knife trying to carve him open, despairingly empty. It hurts. As he sinks into the sensation, clawing and desperate, a gloved hand finds itself in his hair, incredibly gentle, so horribly soothing, undeserved, and he begins to crumble. He is held, gently rocked and whispered meaningless promises, lies of getting better, and they loved you, and I’m sorry’s, but the ache inside him is blooming, swelling, overrides his senses and brings him to tears, clinging onto the touch, starving. 

When he wakes in his parents bed hours later, there is a meal, warm, sitting by the nightstand and a small cup of blood, cool, beside it. His body is a weak thing, shaky and oh so cold. The blankets upon him are thick, suffocatingly warm, windows shut and curtains drawn, but he’s chilled to the bone. His stomach wants.

And it’s right there. 

He brings it to his lips, hands shaking ever so lightly, grabbing bare with his own palms and sees the blood coat it, syrupy. He wants to lick it. He wants to throw up. The body wants to eat. He feels so weak, and his body, this body, it demands and screams and aches. He puts it in his mouth. He wants it to taste like ash and rot, he wants it to taste like chewing molding wood and inhaling dirt, he wants to taste like dirty sewer water, putrid and foul. 

It doesn’t. It’s incredible. 

It’s undeserved. 

[signanothername]

Btw I never mention this but

If you ever think I should tag something with a certain tag, or you have a specific fear/ something that makes you uncomfortable (no matter how silly it seems, I’ll never judge)

Lemme know yeah? <3

Anon is open on my account so feel free to send an anon ask telling me what you wish me to tag

I’ll be sure to tag my posts, I just usually tag the more frequently viewed tw/cw like blood, or certain frequent phobias

And ngl but I’m a person that doesn’t get disturbed easily by stuff, so tagging stuff is a bit hard for me cause I never know when it is considered in “you should actually tag this” territory

So feel free to lemme know if I ever need to tag any of my posts, or if you have certain tags you wish I’d keep in mind for my future posts <3

[a-whump-dis-aster]

Masterlist and FAQ

(Masterlist is broken.... bolded links work, and I'm trying to get it back up. Sorry!)

(If you AREN'T a whump blog, and see me spam-liking your post: Apologies. It's my main.)

Hi! I’m Aster! (she/her, they/them, he/him or fae/faer)!  This is a blog where I post all my whumpy fanfics and reblog my favorite tropes and prompts! This is a non-NSFW blog, and used mostly for prompts, writing and blurbs and the occasional gif set.

I'm really trying to get more into original storylines, so if I'm posting a lot of angry emojis or crying on main, that's probably why.

I used to have a different blog under feelingwhumpy, but Tumblr decided to be stupid when I was trying to delete a different side blog and instead got rid of everything... but at the bottom, I'm gonna tag a bunch of the whumpers that I used to follow! I can't remember all the usernames, but you guys do so much awesome work!

My dream order at a hurt/comfort!fic restaurant would be a nice juicy Past Trauma, seasoned with a bit of Disassociation and Conditioning. Perhaps a side of Amnesia?  And a tall glass of Touch Starvation to wash it all down.

I don’t really have many squicks, but there’s a few things I don’t really enjoy writing:

Bodily Fluids (other than blood and saliva) 

NSFW or non-con/rape

Resurrection/came back wrong.  Not really a squick, but I just don’t really find the trope interesting.

Major character death - I literally can’t handle this much angst

PLEASE, NOTHING WITH EYES.  ITS LITERALLY MY IRL PHOBIA.  I CAN'T THINK ABOUT IT WITHOUT PHYSICALLY CRINGING. 

Scarpia Ultimatum

There’s a few things I might write for, depending on circumstance.  You’re welcome to send in asks about these, but please don’t be offended if I turn them down (even if they aren’t on the list):

Amputation (and phantom pains)

Impaling

Body mods (e.g. cybernetic limb replacement, purposely scarring)

If you decide to follow me, and have things you DON'T want to see, please block # (subject) cw . I chose CW over TW and CW because I'm more likely going to remember one tag versus two.

Eg: #knife cw or #shock collar cw

If you notice something that bothers you that isn't specifically tagged, send me an ask and I'll tag it (and any future posts involving it). I read that Tumblr sometimes only tracks the first word or two for tag blocks, but it might be wise to block both because I have scatterbrain and the tags will be hit or miss with 'CW Knife' or "Knife CW'.

As I add more Fics and whatnot, links to them will be below!

Prompts and Ideas

Wow, look! It's my entire blog theme in one GIF!

Whumpy Song Lyrics (This list is ongoing so lemme know if you have any ideas!)

Self-Punishment, Now With Knives!

Post-Rescue Microchip Whump

Freedom's Only Temporary

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Whumpees

Caretaker + Whumpee = Snuggle Buddies

Giddy On Drugs

"Oh, you have to FEED them?"

Flipping The Switch

Giddy on Drugs

"You're... allowed to need things." "Really? Okay, cool. BTW, expect no alone time for the next 3 to 5 business months."

Comforting Items (Also an ongoing list; send in ideas!)

(Too) Quick To Trust

Ready To Attack?

Gone Too Far

Post-Rescue Drugging

Bad Things Happen Bingo

Card

Trust Issues

It's All My Fault

Tranquilizer Dart

Conditioning

Locked in a Cage

Blood from the Mouth

Memory Loss

Neglect or Abandonment

Verbal Abuse

Power Suppression

Pinned to the Wall

Not Used to Freedom

Worked Themselves to Exhaustion

Defeated and Trophied

Captive Push

Forced to Beg ✓

Fevers

Cry Into Chest

Traumatic Touch Aversion

Grabbed by the Chin

Nervous Breakdown

CPR

Gunshot Wound

Blindfolded

Fainting

---

List of awesome whumpers! Go follow them right now!

@aceofwhump @whumpster-dumpster @whumpthencomfort @whumpinbloom @whumphoarder @sorryforpartywhumping @gimmethatsweetwhump @softwhump @allthewhumpygoodness @the-wandering-whumper @justwhumpythings