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secretwhumplair · 3 months ago

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Solstice, p.1

1,494 words | No Warrior (sequel to Solstice, p.0)

Content | Idk what to put. Dealing with past trauma, perceived betrayal?

Notes | Well that went well! Until it didn't.

Excited to get back to this story and give it its long-awaited finish! We're not there yet. But I am full of optimism.

Taglist | @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpadump1939 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone @angel-stars @kixngiggles @whumpsy-daisies @briars7

@yet-another-heathen @rosesareviolentlyread @cupcakes-and-pain @hollowtreesinhollowwoods @much-ado-about-whumping

@nine-tailed-whump @whump-em @itsleighlove @newbornwhumperfly @tears-and-lilies

@deluxewhump @whump-cravings @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning @neverthelass

@whumpsday @silent-orchid-lady

Runar felt bad for not offering Yves the option to stay at home with him. But it was the solstice festival, and—no matter how callous and selfish it felt in the moment—he couldn’t put every part of his life on hold for him.

It was, therefore, doubly relieving that Yves seemed to be okay. He kept close to Runar’s side as they made their way to the hilltop where wood had been stacked up twice as tall as Runar was, the yet unlit pile silhouetted against the dusky sky, but that might have been due to how narrow the paths through the snow were—more had fallen just this morning.

It was about time for winter to begin its slow retreat, and Yves seemed to welcome it as much as anyone. There was a shadow of a smile on his face, even.

Runar was irrationally proud of how brave he was being. »I’ll go say hi to my family, and then we can check out the food, yes?«

Yves nodded timidly. They hadn’t had lunch yet; after all, the potluck feast would begin as soon as the bonfire was lit once dark had fallen, which would be soon, and last as long as anyone could still eat. Runar had offered Yves to snack with him, of course, knowing how starved he had been when he first found him, and not wanting to stir up dark memories. But Yves, after hearing his explanation, had declined, had wanted to wait for the feast with him. That, too, Runar was proud of for him.

They trudged their way up the hill, and Runar could feel his mood rise along with their path.

It was going to be good.

* The stars were coming out, and Yves felt nervous to the bone.

Nervous enough to trail closely after Runar, no matter how pathetic it felt, no matter how much it stirred the bitter, helpless anger seething inside him all the time now. It ebbed and flowed—his sword practice, as silly as it was, seemed to help, but then there were moments like this, when his anxiety peaked for no real reason and there was nothing he could do, and it felt so deeply unfair. He wasn’t even properly scared—he knew nothing bad would happen to him, and somehow that made it worse. If his nerves could at least save themselves for actual threats—they should have enough experience with them to know the difference.

Still, Runar’s company comforted him, and the joy he and his family shared rubbed off. When Ingunn smiled at him, he found it easy to smile back.

»Yves! Glad you came too, it’s a big day!«

»Yes… I’m glad too.« And it was true. The air was filled with cheer and excited chattering, even among the cloudy wisps spewed forth by every breath. Soon, the warmth would come—first from the fire, and then, eventually, from the sun.

It was an important event.

Watching the crowd made him feel better as they gathered around long tables set up around the fire, some already taking their seats, but most standing and occupied in various tasks, or simply commenting on the stake and the food the tables were laden with, even as families were still carrying up more filled pots and plates.

No one would go hungry tonight, that much was certain.

Even actually spotting Brandr, who stood with two other warriors near the stake and seemed to be engrossed in discussing the quality of the wood or some such thing by the way he gestured aggressively at one log or another, couldn’t fully dispel the warmth of the occasion.

If Brandr confronted him again, this time, Yves would stand his ground. Or so he told himself, even as his heart beat faster at the thought.

He balled a gloved hand. No, he would. He wouldn’t let anyone take this from him, not when Runar’s family was so welcoming. They wanted him to enjoy the night, and he did too.

Dusk crept by slowly, the rising darkness dispelled only by their cheerful voices, but they became quieter and quieter, until darkness and silence were complete.

That was when the eldest lit a torch, its brightness momentarily burning in Yves’ eyes. Everyone watched, rapt, as she approached the wood and with one decisive strike pushed the torch into it.

The center, carefully constructed from dried leaves and twigs, caught fire at once, and cheers erupted from the crowd. Runar joined in, and Yves, too, though his voice was still drowned out.

The flames licked at the larger wood pieces, climbing up and up, until the bonfire reached high into the night sky. The light and the warmth lifted Yves’ heart. Maybe it was all going to be alright. Maybe the darkest days were truly gone now.

Once the cheering was done, the feasting began. After that, it wasn’t long before musicians picked up their instruments, and many voices joined in songs that must be long familiar to the community. Even Yves had heard some of them before by now, though his voice stayed quieter than the rest. Soon people were dancing, and Runar, after checking in with Yves once more, like he always did, like he never abandoned him without notice, jumped into it too.

Yves was undecided, and even that seemed big. He hadn’t danced in—a long time. It seemed fun. He didn’t know the local dances yet, though, and in truth, he felt a little out of place. So he simply sat and watched.

After a while, Signy fell into the now vacated stool opposite Yves, laughing, one of her spouses on each arm. Her wife let go of her and chattered something about getting some of the fish that was being roasted over the other side of the bonfire before she disappeared. Signy noticed Yves sitting opposite her, and gave him a wide grin. Her face was heated, not just from dancing, but her demeanour was, if anything, more jolly than usual. »Yves! How’re you holding up? Having a good time?«

Yves nodded, smiling without effort. He was having a good time. He was having something close to fun, just like he had wanted. He was still a little nervous, yes, but the all-around cheer of the event was rubbing off on him, and he wasn’t feeling unsafe.

»That’s good! That’s good.« Signy’s grin turned into a warmer, deeper smile for a moment, then she focused on her husband again, so intensely Yves looked away, heat creeping into his own face.

Signy’s wife returned to release him from the awkwardness of the moment—or make it worse, who knew—carrying a plate of freshly grilled fish, which she sat down before Signy, in the middle of the three of them.

»Thanks, s͏w̧e҉e͟t̸ḩe̵àr̀t͢« Signy said and kissed her wife’s mouth. When, turning back to the table, she noticed Yves staring at her, she just gave an enthusiastic little wave with her knife before she tucked into the fish.

Yves, though, sat frozen with realization, unable to avert his eyes from her and her—her wife. Her lover.

Her sweetheart.

Each breath caught in his throat. Was that how Runar saw him—what he expected of him?

Since when had he been calling Yves that? He couldn’t be sure, not with the way his mind raced, but it seemed to him it had been since ever. Since the very start?

Was that the reason he had rescued Yves?

Had all his kindness been a ploy to get Yves to-? The thought was terrifying. But why bother? He could easily overpower Yves.

What did he really want? And why hadn’t he been honest about it?

Yves’ head was reeling, and he dug his nails into the stool he was sitting on, desperate to find a grasp on reality.

»Yves?« Runar.

Yves couldn’t answer, or even look at him. He just stared down at the plate in front of him, trying to figure out what this was, even what feeling it was that was rushing through his heart, fear with flashes of fury.

»Are you okay?«

»No.« The word plopped out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and a spike of panic shot through him. He pushed himself up forcefully, still without looking at Runar. »I’m. Going home.«

»Yves… ?« But Runar didn’t move to stop him, and a word was not enough to, not anymore. There was a bitter triumph in it.

As he walked off into the night, he could hear Runar ask Signy and her companions what had happened, heard Signy’s full-mouthed, »No idea.«

It angered him more. How could they be so oblivious?

It was unfair—how would they know?—but everything was unfair, anyway; why should it only be unfair to him? The darkness swallowed him, the light of the bonfire only faint reflections on the snow as he escaped.

Home, he had said, and he almost regretted it.

#whump #whump writing #yves #runar #signy #we're back!#no warrior #my writing

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wolfeyedwitch · 1 month ago

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Set Up For Failure

Bailey and their no good, very bad day month year

Taglist:

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world @dolls-circus

@pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @mylifeisonthebookshelf

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow @multiple-characters1-acct

@sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 @livingforthewhump

@thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly @neuro-whump

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump @heart4brains

@myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan @whumpsday

@extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @neverthelass @we-write-as-one @elrysdoesstuff

@whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme @towerlesskey

@emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps @whumpycries

#whumptober2024 #no. 3 #set up for failure #OC #digital art #whump art #whumptober #with bloody outstretched hands #bailey the villain #bailey aka poppet #oc whump

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secretsmutcorner · 1 month ago

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A first attempt

1,192 words | No Warrior (sequel to Fall)

Content | NSFW (they don't get very far but there is penis), past non-con, name-calling

Notes | Yves pushes his boundaries. It goes... well, it goes.

Taglist | @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpadump1939 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone @angel-stars @kixngiggles @whumpsy-daisies @yet-another-heathen

@rosesareviolentlyread @cupcakes-and-pain @hollowtreesinhollowwoods @pleasancies @much-ado-about-whumping

@nine-tailed-whump @whump-em @itsleighlove @newbornwhumperfly @tears-and-lilies

@deluxewhump @whump-cravings @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning @neverthelass

@whumpsday @silent-orchid-lady @everynameistakencarrots @scoundrelwithboba

Yves had never in his life felt this comfortable.

Another day was gone, and he lay in Runar’s arms, his hands easily tracing along the muscles in his — his lover’s? Could he call him lover yet? — chest. Runar was caressing him, too, his hand running in long strokes from the nape of his neck to his waist, and hesitating.

Yves was overcome with a rush of boldness, of cheek even. He grabbed Runar’s wrist and guided his hand back and down, a grin easily bursting across his lips as he stared a challenge into his face.

Runar chuckled, clearly surprised, but didn’t hesitate to grab his ass. Gently, like everything he did.

»How does that feel?«

Yves couldn’t answer immediately, too absorbed in the unfamiliar touch — a comforting unfamiliarity, too; the worry of being reminded had crept further and further into the back of his mind over the last few weeks. But as invasive as the knights had gotten, there simply hadn’t been much of anything there for them to grab at. Now, almost a year of good meals and swordfighting practice later, though… there was almost some kind of pride in the way he filled Runar’s, his lover’s warm hand.

That, and a sense of closeness outpacing the anxiety in its growth.

Instead of answering, he shifted forwards for another kiss.

»May I touch you?« The words, barely more than a breath, tumbled past his lips when they were free again, if only by hair’s breadth. He could feel Runar’s breath on his face and the heat rising into his cheeks as he heard what he said. As he processed the desire pooling in his groin. As he realized that, for the first time since the knights had torn him to shreds, he truly wanted more.

»You are,« Runar said, and Yves didn’t know whether he was really misunderstanding or gently rejecting him, but kissed him again regardless. No matter how much his hands prickled with longing, he, too, wanted Runar to know it was okay.

Maybe the warrior was shy in such matters. He couldn’t know.

Runar squeezed his ass while they were kissing, so softly he wasn’t sure it was on purpose, but he couldn’t hold back a groan.

You like this, little whore, don’t you?

He pushed the voice down like he had a thousand times before. It was becoming easier. It should become easier.

Runar pulled back, not sharply, just enough to give him a surprised look, chased by a grin. »Oh.« He kissed Yves again. »Did you mean-?«

Yves didn’t let him finish. »Yes.« He couldn’t look into Runar’s eyes, suddenly embarrassed.

»Well…« There was a deep almost-purr in his voice, a tone Yves hadn’t heard before that sent shivers down his spine, heated him up further. »Feel free?«

He traced his fingers down Runar’s body, warm and soft and strong, and he wasn’t sure his head was still working, and he put his lips in the spot his hands had just vacated, covering Runar’s chest in kisses.

His hands found Runar’s cock, hot and throbbing like his own, like-

Go on, slut. If your runty little hands work me well enough, I might not even stick it in, how’s that?

And then, louder, something more than a memory. Look at you enjoying this, whore. I told you so.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t.

He was sitting up, hugging his knees, tears forcing their way out of his eyes when he had just felt so good.

Always crying when a real warrior graces you with his body, the voice in his head mocked. It’s not your place to choose this, is it, little bitch?

»… sweetheart?« Runar’s voice broke through the shadows enveloping him.

»Please say my name,« Yves begged quietly, feeling, in that moment, that it was far too much to ask.

Filthy whore.

»Yves,« Runar whispered back.

Worthless toy.

»Yves.«

Bitch.

»Yves.«

Slut.

»Yves.«

Runt.

»Yves. Yves Yves Yves,« Runar whispered, over and over. His hand, very softly, ghosted across his back, and Yves realized he was sobbing, and then he threw himself against Runar’s chest.

»I’m sorry.«

»Don’t be,« Runar murmured, his strong arms wrapped around him. »It’s-«

»I’m sorry. I ruined it.«

»It’s not your fault. Shhh, sweetheart, Yves, it’s going to be alright.« And then, quietly, »I love you.«

Yves just curled closer into him, his sobs slowly ebbing as he found himself again, found himself in Runar’s loving arms. Where he had been. The whole time. Why was he crying?

Why were they chasing him, even after death?

»I wanted it. I want it.« But he wasn’t allowed, and he was still so helpless. Powerless fury swept through him. It would never end.

»I’m- I’m glad. But we can take it easy. Nice and slow, as much as you need.«

»I don’t want to! I just want to- I just want to be with my lover, is that too much to ask?!«

Runar looked into his eyes, then kissed away the tears that were spilling again. His hand rubbed circles over Yves’ back. »It’s not fair. But we’ll work it out, yeah? No matter which way this goes,« he added, planting another kiss on Yves’ forehead, »I want to see it through with you, if you’ll have me.«

Yves rested his ear against Runar’s chest to hear the reassuring thump of his heart, steady, if a little fast. »Let’s just go to sleep,« he muttered.

»Mhm. Would you… can I hold you?«

»Please,« Yves whispered, and they nestled down for the night, cuddled up together.

Yves didn’t sleep well, but when he woke in the morning, he found himself wrapped in Runar’s arms and Runar’s gentle eyes upon himself and he felt better.

»Good morning.« He kissed Runar, and Runar kissed him back, gently pulling him closer.

»Good morning, sweetheart. How do you feel?«

The dread question. Why couldn’t he live a life where him feeling alright was a given?

»I’m better.« Before Runar could respond, he added, »I’m sorry.«

»It’s not your fault.« Runar stroked his cheek. »I’m just glad you’re alright.«

»Hm.« Yves returned the caress, wrapped his fingers in Runar’s long hair. »I’d rather it’d have gone differently.«

A small, sad smile. »Do you still… do you want to… ?«

»Yes.« Yes, he wanted to continue. It was downright embarrassing how much he wanted to. »But you don’t… you don’t have to. You don’t have to put up with this.«

»Yves.« A warm, strong arm squeezed him, and he barely held back a sigh. »I’m not… putting up with you. I love you. I want to do this with you.«

»What if they did break me?« He wouldn’t have dared asked the question before, and even now it was a mere whisper.

Runar’s thumb stroked across his cheek again. »I don’t think it’s possible to break you, sweetheart.«

A mangled chuckle wrested free from his throat… but as the words sank in, he found he trusted Runar enough to believe them, a little.

He kissed Runar, and he would do it a thousand times again, and no one could stop him.

He would face this.

With Runar, together.

#no warrior #whump #nsfwhump #yves #runar #my writing #whump writing

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whump-mania · 8 months ago

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nice to see you again! 💖💖💖 my request for a prompt is…perhaps something to do with social whump and shunning? 👀👀👀 perhaps a person not getting the healing they need because they’re disliked for some reason. 🥺🥺🥺 - newbornwhumperfly

Whumpee thought that things would be okay after they’d escaped. For months, they’d been a tortured prisoner of the enemy team, and they’d finally gotten out with their own will and brute force after realizing no one would help them.

However, when they got back to their own team, they were met with scowls and indifference.

“I hadn’t even noticed you were gone.”

“Better you than any of us, I guess.”

“Well you’re back now, aren’t you? Get back to work.”

“What did you tell them? You better not have leaked anything.”

“You came back here and you don’t even have useful information? You’re better off with them.”

Whumpee searched for any sympathy, any semblance of someone who cared about them, but no. It was almost the same as the ones who’d captured them in the first place.

They were forced to cope alone, with no one to talk to and no one that would listen. Whumpee knew they wouldn’t heal that way: they were a lost cause.

#whump #whump blog #whump community #whump writing #whump scenario #team whump #tw implied torture

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whumpletters · 5 months ago

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Dear Morja,

Know that I am always watching you. I am watching how much food you eat. How much of our water you take up when you bathe. I am taking measure of how long you work or how long you take rest you haven’t earned. Nothing goes unmarked, unnoticed, or untallied in my book.

If you forget your place, don’t worry. I'll remember for you and remind you very soon.

Sincerely, Jorah

@newbornwhumperfly

#whump #whump community #whump letters #whump prompt

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stoic-whumpee · 1 year ago

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Trick or Treat!!! (so nice to see you again, my dash has sorely missed you!) 💖🎃💖 - newbornwhumperfly

Hello!

Thanks for the ask :D

Here's a classic but always fun prompt:

Villain opens the door to find Hero's Sidekick, bruised and battered, barely able to stand. "I'm sorry. I don't know where else to go," they whispered, before fainting right into Villain's arms. Villain can recognise the wounds on Sidekick's body were caused by Superhero's power.

Send me an ask with Trick or Treat and I'll post one of my unpublished prompts!

#whump #whump prompt #r prompts #hero whumper #sidekick whumpee #villain caretaker #hero whump #betrayal #emotional whump #whump trickortreat

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haro-whumps · 2 months ago

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@ailesswhumptober day 3: shared trauma! Tagging @newbornwhumperfly also

Gothi stared at the shattered test tube. Big enough for a man. Big enough for a god.

A synthetic god, at least.

It wasn’t—it wasn’t the test tube she knew. The one she’d sat next to, stood next to, again and again, for years and years and years.

“If you really had empathy, wouldn’t you have done more for your friend?”

Such words were only meant to confuse her. Sips had already talked her down from it (and since when was Sips the mature one, soothing and comforting Gothi?) (She loved him so much it felt like carving his initials on her ribs, the sweet heat of blood and sunlight spilling over her fingers as she did so) (He’d only ever been soft for Sneeze, before. What right did she have to his gentleness?). She didn’t need to rehash this.

She’d cared for Xanu. Still did. Two and a half thousand years apart, and she loved Xanu like she’d stop breathing if she didn’t.

Shouldn’t she have done more?

“Gothica?”

Gothi flinched. Squeezed her fingers into the skin of her own arms, a facsimile of hugging herself.

“Gothica, the others are looking for you.”

“Okay,” she said without turning, “I’ll be right there.”

Footsteps, slow and uncertain, approached her. She felt his hand touch her elbow, a little too rough, then almost leaving as he corrected.

“Gothica?”

They stared at the shattered tube together.

“It rouses unpleasant memories,” he stated, low and distasteful. Gothi hunched in on herself further.

“Do you—”

Xanu turned to her. She knew she was trembling.

“Do you blame me?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“I could’ve—I could’ve done something.”

“Gothica—”

“I could have done anything. They were hurting you and I just let them do it!”

“Gothica that isn’t tr—”

“I should’ve done something,” she whined, voice pitched high, tears stinging at her eyes, misting underneath her mask, “I should have done anything, I should’ve done more, but I was scared, and cowardly—

“Gothi!”

She flinched.

His hand touched her mask, missing the first time, fingers twitching as he settled it, rough and uncoordinated and finally, gentle, to cup her face.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, tears spilling out beneath the wood, “I’m so sorry Xanu.”

“Gothica. Nothing that happened to me was ever your fault.”

“But I could’ve done something!”

“You want to think that,” he said, blunt and harsh as he ever was, but with a tenderness he reserved for her. Only ever for her. “But you could not have, Gothica. You were just as much a prisoner in that place as I was.”

“They hurt you,” she whispered, shoulders shaking with tears, “they never hurt me.”

Slowly, fumbling, he drew her close to him.

“Not like they hurt me, no, but they did. They hurt us both.”

“It feels wrong,” she choked, resting her face against his chest, his arms around her, but she still just hugged herself. “Accepting comfort for this. When you had it so much worse. When I—”

“Gothica,” he said softly, and she let go of herself to cling to him, holding him upright with her physical body as he held her while she fell apart. “You want to feel like you had control in a situation where you didn’t. But you didn’t. Nothing that happened to me was your fault. You could not have stopped them. I saw you, many times, when you tried.”

“I—”

“You are allowed,” he pressed on, “to accept comfort from others. You do not have to be the strong one all the time. You do not always have to be the one who holds it all together.”

She wept against him. Clung to him. Felt her wretched, cloying helplessness, her inaction, her grief, her guilt pour over. Xanu, her Xanu, there and here again, her Xanu, a piece of her soul, held her as she cried, muscles sometimes twitching and his knees sometimes locking, or caving, but she held him up, and he held her close.

#ailesswhumptober #fool's gold dnd #gothi #xanu #xanthi #gothica #gothi fool's gold #fool's gold #whumptober #ailesswhumptober2024 #mine #writing #shared trauma #survivor's guilt #it's not your fault #kinda ended up filling all three even though I only set out to do the one XD

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much-ado-about-whumping · 2 months ago

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I want to scoop him up and drop him off in a rage room where he can tentatively break things until he finds all his feeeelinggggssss~

Fears ask game, for Morja: Are you ever afraid of your own anger?

hahahahahahahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAH. 😅🙂🥺

“...What anger?”

Morja is very, very still, an alligator in the water, a deer on a highway, a fly on the wall. Breathes deliberate and slow and shallow, exhales slowly, by degrees. Doesn’t want it to look like a huff because it isn’t. That isn’t what he is doing.

“I’ve been treated fairly. Mostly. And I’m…very grateful. I got what I deserved.”

Behind his back, his palm stings and a crescent-cut wells with blood, seeping under his thumbnail, as a ten so deep under his skin, he cannot hold it, flows out of him with the blood.

“...Not everyone can say the same.”

morja, humming quietly to himself: conceal, don't feel....😭

ask comes from this prompt! 💖

#morja and company #newbornwhumperfly #other people's writing

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whump-tr0pes · 3 months ago

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Relief

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Contents: nightmare, [captivity, beating, gaslighting, forced to hurt someone, torture, flaying, so much blood, begging, death] all in a nightmare, collared whumpee, conditioned whumpee, past murder, PTSD, emeto, comfort, flashbacks, permanent injury, chronic pain, misunderstanding whump, recovery

Morja instantly knew where he was; the peeling paint on the walls, the barred door, and the cold blue lights overhead told him everywhere he needed to know. He was back in his cell room, back in Crayton. He was back where he belonged.

There was an addition to the room, and the room seemed to have grown to accommodate it: a large metal table with leather cuffs at the top and bottom. Morja shuddered as he looked at it. He knew exactly what it was for. He had been on one himself, more than once. He wondered if his anóteros meant for him to climb onto it.

Before the lack of answer could worry him, there was a sound behind him. Boots. A voice.

“Hello, my diathésimos,” his owner benefactor said. A steady hand slid up the back of his neck, over his collar, and knotted in his hair. He dropped to his knees in an instant.

“Anóteros,” he said, his lips trembling. His hands settled in his lap and he tilted his head back, baring his throat. He was where he belonged at last - but his eyes burned, and his mouth was dry. He couldn’t explain it. He belonged at his anóteros’ feet, did he not? He had never known another home than this.

No, there was another place, where he had a bed, not a cot - where there were no bars on the door, and there were windows that opened to the outside–

A blow snapped his head to the side. He accepted it without a gasp. His right ear rang.

“Where did you just go, Morja?” the mayor said, his voice low and smooth. Morja knew better, though - he could hear the threat beneath the words.

He answered honestly. He must always be honest.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and waited for the correction.

Another blow whipped across his face, splitting his lip. Blood began to trickle down his chin. It itched. He did not lift his hand to wipe it. When it dripped on his wrists, then the floor, he knew he would need to clean it after this.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been anywhere but this,” his anóteros said conversationally. “Other than when you are serving me on my missions, of course.”

An image flashed behind Morja’s closed eyes: a breakfast table, laden with eggs, bacon, toast.

“Yes, anóteros,” he breathed.

“Open your eyes, Morja,” the mayor said.

Morja obeyed.

He barely caught his gasp when he realized there was someone lying on the table now: Sam, the youngest of the family that was harboring Gavin Uriah Stormbeck. He remembered where that room was now: in that family’s house.

Their wrists and ankles were strapped down to the table. With the table at eye level, he could see how tightly the restraints were buckled, the leather digging into their flesh. They trembled and stared back at him in terror, their mouth open but silent.

Morja’s owner benefactor drew the knife from his belt and held it out in front of Morja’s face. Morja held perfectly still, prepared for the knife to carve into his own cheek - but the knife hovered there, the blade between him and Sam. He could see himself reflected in the wickedly sharp steel.

“This one was captured harboring Gavin Stormbeck,” the mayor said coldly. “It is your job to punish them for this crime.”

Morja’s throat tightened as he swallowed. His hands shook and he forced him to be still against his thighs. “Punish them… sir?” he croaked.

“Yes,” his anóteros said. “Gavin Stormbeck is a scourge upon this world, and they have actively worked to prolong his reign of terror. There must be punishment for this. You will deliver it.” The mayor flipped the knife so he was holding the blade, gesturing with the grip toward Sam. “Now, diathésimos,” he hissed.

Morja’s legs shook under him as he pushed himself to his feet. Sam met his eyes, and their eyes went wider as Morja took the knife from the mayor. His anóteros stepped behind him as he moved forward, as if in a trance, until his legs pressed against the table. The knife trembled in his grip.

He forced his mind to go cold and blank - like it so often did before the kill - as he brought the knife to Sam Vasterling’s sleeve. He made quick work of slashing it away from their arm until it was bare, the thin muscles rippling and tugging beneath the skin as they struggled to free themself. Then, as he blew out a slow breath through his lips, he brought the knife to their forearm.

“Morja, please,” Sam begged.

The knife froze over Sam’s skin. Morja met their eyes. They looked so frightened, so young, strapped down to the table and pleading for their life.

But Morja had killed younger people than them. And he had never spared anyone just because they begged him to. He forced down the bile that clawed up his throat, and slid the knife into Sam’s forearm down to the muscle.

Sam screamed. They made no effort to bite it back. Tears welled in their eyes and streamed back over their temples. Morja carved into their arm again, staying within the first few layers of skin, fat, and muscle - avoiding the arteries. He could see the play of their muscles in the gash as they fought the restraints. Again, he cut, and veins stood out in their neck as they screamed.

He had seen his anóteros hurt people like this. He knew, now, how very effective it was.

After he had sliced their arm to ribbons, he cut away the rest of their shirt. He avoided touching their skin as much as he could, as if one touch would burn him. They looked at him, trying to meet his eyes, desperate, writhing against the leather cuffs. He looked away.

“Please, no, no, no!” Sam shrieked as Morja sliced through the thin skin over their breastbone. They shuddered and writhed, tears streaming, wrists twisting in the restraints. Morja’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. His hands shook as he gripped the knife. He cut again, and again, and again. Blood pooled in the hollows of Sam’s body. It rolled down their sides and onto the table, then dripped onto the floor. The entire room smelled thick with blood.

And behind him, his anóteros stood silent as a sentinel. He chewed his lip and continued cutting Sam to pieces. They screamed and sobbed. The handle of the knife was slippery with sweat.

“Isaac!” Sam screamed, finally squeezing their eyes shut and turning their face away from Morja. “Isaac, h-help me!”

Morja shuddered. The knife froze above Sam, dripping blood onto their skin.

Sam whimpered and cringed away from Morja. “I-Isaac,” they sobbed. “Please…”

“Continue,” Morja’s anóteros hissed from behind him. A chill feathered down Morja’s spine as he squeezed his eyes shut.

His hand tightened around the knife. The smell of blood was making him sick. Sam was barely more than a child, and Morja felt - he felt, he knew - they had nothing to do with the evil his owner benefactor was claiming. But if he could make them scream loud enough that Isaac heard them…

If Isaac Moore came, he could force Morja to stop this.

He brought the knife to patch of unbroken skin over Sam’s stomach and dug the blade in. Sam screamed anew.

He fileted them open, carving into them with a cruelty he had only seen his anóteros reserve for the most depraved traitors of the North. He flayed them alive until his hands were soaked with their blood. They screamed and screamed until their voice went raw and began to fade. Still, he cut. Still, he carved. He slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. Everything was red. He was drowning in it. And still, Isaac Moore did not come and rip the knife from his hands, strike him down, shoot him dead.

Still, he carved.

Sam Vasterling screamed.

“Keep going, diathésimos,” the mayor said. “Remember, this is the fate that awaits all who harbor traitors to the North. They are guilty. They deserve this.”

The small body on the table juddered and bled and screamed. They barely looked human anymore. Still, they did not die. More blood had come out of them than Morja had ever seen in his life. Still they did not die. They only screamed and bled.

Morja’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He stared down into Sam’s chest, at their beating heart. He had carved away everything else. Still, they lived, and cried, and bled.

“Isaac,” they rasped. “Isaac, please…”

Bile seared the back of his throat.

They raised their eyes to his. Their eyes were bloodshot, red from crying, but they were brown, he noticed. They looked so frightened. “Morja,” they breathed. “Help me.”

Morja stared back at them for an eternal moment. Tears streamed from their eyes.

He raised the knife and plunged it into their exposed heart. They shuddered once, then their head fell back. Their eyes were blank, their mouth open. They were - finally, mercifully - dead.

Morja braced for the correction.

His anóteros said nothing for a breath. Then, the mayor said, “No matter. You still have the rest of that family to get through.”

Morja opened his eyes.

His room was pitch black, and the sheets on his bed were soaked through with cold sweat. He could still smell blood thick in his nostrils.

He staggered out of bed and fumbled for the doorknob. When he found it, he wrenched the door open and dashed down the dimly-lit hall and into the kitchen. He threw open the sliding door to the backyard and made it a few shaky steps before he fell to his hands and knees, retching into the grass. When he was done, he slumped over and sobbed weakly.

He still felt the youngest one’s blood on his hands, tacky and warm. He still smelled it. He still heard their screams. He still felt his anóteros’ hand on the back of his neck.

“Morja?” a small voice called out behind him.

He gasped and spun around. Sam Vasterling stood in the sliding door, silhouetted by the light in the kitchen. The golden light illuminated their curls like a halo. They took a halting step out of the house. Their hand was extended towards him. “Are… you alright?”

Morja blinked. In the fraction of a second that his eyes were closed, he saw them - bound to the table, coated in blood, flayed and screaming and begging for mercy. His stomach heaved again. He bowed his head in shame and horror.

Sam drew closer. They were so young, but they showed no fear as they went to their knees and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Morja wasn’t sure if they didn’t know that he could break their neck with just his hands, could drag them inside and cut their throat with a kitchen knife… or if they knew, and chose to master the fear. He trembled, but held still as their hand rubbed up and down on his arm. The touch was gentle, so unlike–

He flinched at the memory - it was just a dream, but he had so many real memories of it, too - of his anóteros’ hand whipping across his face. Sam’s hand paused on his shoulder. “Is this… is it okay that I’m doing this?” they whispered.

A chasm opened inside Morja’s chest. His face crumpled and he began to weep.

He leaned against Sam, bending his head so low that it rested in their lap. Their hand rested on his shoulder again. He reached out, his own hand shaking badly, and covered their hand with his own. His broad hand swallowed theirs.

“Shhh,” Sam soothed. “I’m sorry, was it… a nightmare?”

Morja shuddered with shame. He pressed his head against their knee and nodded.

Sam pushed out a slow breath. “Gotcha. I… I get them too, sometimes.”

Morja blinked and tightened his hand over theirs. The thought of them waking, cold and shuddering, from a nightmare, made his chest ache. He rolled his shoulder to ease the old twinge there.

“I get them less now,” Sam said, stroking their thumb along his arm. “But they still happen from time to time. About… our time in Colleen Stormbeck’s house. I… I get a lot of nightmares about getting shot.”

Morja’s eyes went wide, and he sat up. His eyes darted over Sam, looking for a scar - and his eyes finally settled on their right hand, the one they always held curled against their stomach.

Sam followed their gaze and nodded. “Yeah,” they murmured. “It was a few years ago now. I was shot by a Stormbeck guard as we were escaping Colleen.” They smiled. “Finn saved my life.”

“Does it hurt?” Morja asked, before he could stop himself. He looked at his hands and bowed his head for his impertinence.

Sam didn’t deliver a correction, though; they said, “Sometimes. Well… pretty often, yeah. It twinges. Sometimes I need to wear a sling.” They shrugged. “But it’s gotten better as time has gone on.”

Morja’s own shoulder twinged again, and he rolled it in its socket.

Sam inclined their head. “You hurt, too?”

Morja’s mouth went dry. “I… no. Nothing so bad as… no.”

Sam looked at him for a long time. Then they said, “Gray says comparing things doesn’t do anyone any good.” They glanced out into the night.

Morja stared down at his hands. His mind churned as he tried to decipher the meaning in Sam’s words. Slowly, he said, “My… shoulder. It hurts. Often.” He pointed to it stiffly.

“Don’t complain, diathésimos, or I will teach you the true meaning of pain. Back up on your knees, or I’ll string you up by your collar. Five more lashes for your impertinence.”

He shuddered and waited for the correction, or the promise of one.

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” they said. They looked toward the house. “I’ll be right back.” They pushed themself to their feet and made their way inside to fetch a cane, or perhaps a whip, to punish Morja for the complaint.

His head dipped low and his stomach churned with guilt and shame - and a flash of something else, something he could not allow himself to name. Something that felt dangerous to feel. Something that rankled for having been guided right into that trap.

Still, he should have known better. He had a lifetime of pain, telling him that he should have known better. His hands curled into fists as he waited for Sam to return. When he heard their footsteps at the back door, and then the swoosh of their feet through the grass, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth together. He must be silent when accepting this correction. He must not wake anyone in the sleeping house with a gasp or a cry.

He had earned Sam’s disgust with his weakness. He must not make a sound, now.

Sam went to their knees beside him, and he held perfectly still - save for his hands, which he slid together, palm to palm, so they could tie him.

“Here,” they said softly.

He held back a whimper. Perhaps they had not returned with a cane at all, but something worse - like a knife. He forced his eyes open. Their hand was moving toward his shoulder - the bad one. He froze. He braced.

Something warm pressed against the knot that always lived in the flesh there. He flinched and uttered a shocked sound.

“Sorry,” Sam muttered. “Is it too hot still?”

Morja turned his eyes to theirs. Their eyebrows were tugged together, holding something out to him - a warm compress. They had another one, balanced on their injured hand. “Here,” they said, holding one out to him. “The heat… it helps, sometimes. With me. Maybe it might with you, too.”

Morja stared at the compress with wide eyes. Sam held it a little higher, and he finally took it. Heat soaked into his finger tips. Sam took their own compress in their good hand and pressed it to their injured arm, over their bicep. They took a deep, shivering breath and let their eyes fall shut.

Morja’s back ached in thwarted anticipation of the cane. He glanced at the compress in his hand, then back to Sam; their face wasn’t twisted in disgust - not at him, nor at anything else that he could see. They were smiling lightly. And they were using the compress. Haltingly, hesitantly, he pressed it to his own shoulder like Sam had done for him.

Heat bloomed in the knotted muscles and he let out a trapped breath. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He slumped a little to the side - a little closer to Sam. They opened their eyes and smiled at him.

“Nice, huh?” they said.

Morja’s throat tightened. His head hung low. A dry sob shivered in his chest.

Sam raised their curled hand and rested it on his shoulder. They slid it across his back, over the healed scars. Morja’s head dipped lower, lower still, until he was folded in half over his knees. He cried softly as Sam rubbed his back, not saying anything at all.

Continued here

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck , @whumps-the-word , @justplainwhump , @finder-of-rings , @inky-whump , @thatsthewhump , @orchidscript , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pretty-face-breaker , @cinnamonflavoredhugs , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal , @annablogsposts , @suspicious-whumping-egg , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump , @theelvishcowgirl , @i-eat-worlds

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just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 1 year ago

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“kneel” for the whump word! 😈😈😈🥰🥰🥰 - newbornwhumperfly

Whumper was so proud of them. They had told whumpee to stay, to kneel, and had left with the expectation of punishing them later.

But when they returned Whumpee was still in position, shivering intermittently from pain and exhaustion.

Whumper gently took their hands and lifted them to standing, cooing at their pain as Whumpee’s legs locked and gave way from hours stuck in the same position. Tears streamed down whumpees face as they crashed to the floor, sensation flooding back into the pinched and deadened nerves.

“I’m so proud of you.”

#whump #whump prompt #hehe thanks raye

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whumpninja · 9 months ago

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🥽🧠💜 for the whump asks!!! - newbornwhumperfly

🥽- what is your favorite nonhuman whumpee?

Answered here, but I’ll do another one! I like fae whump, it’s really fun. Granted, I kinda like it better when the fae are the whumpers, but I’ll take a tiny fairy being whumped too, I’m not picky!

🧠- what’s your favorite type of whumper?

This is gonna be…unusual. I like the whumpers who are unexpected. The nice, quiet gentleman who you would never expect to have a secret torture dungeon in his basement. The sweet, quirky artist lady who paints in shades of blood and tears. The deadpan science student whose “science” is actually completely unethical. I like the whumpers you wouldn’t expect to be whumpers.

💜- what’s a movie/show with whump you recommend?

Marvel’s Daredevil. Seriously, there is not an episode in which that man does not get injured some how, some way. My personal favorite parts of that were in the first season, when he was still figuring out the whole vigilante thing. There were also a good three episodes in which different characters kept scornfully referring to Daredevil as an “attack dog” and lemme tell ya that gave me some thoughts

#jack be answering #whump ask game #whump ask

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secretwhumplair · 2 months ago

Text

Reunion

1,700 words | No Warrior (sequel to Smith)

Content | Injury, past trauma

Notes | Exactly what it says on the tin! Also, throwback (for everyone) to when Yves first arrived.

Taglist | @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpadump1939 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone @angel-stars @kixngiggles @whumpsy-daisies @yet-another-heathen

@rosesareviolentlyread @cupcakes-and-pain @hollowtreesinhollowwoods @pleasancies @much-ado-about-whumping

@nine-tailed-whump @whump-em @itsleighlove @newbornwhumperfly @tears-and-lilies

@deluxewhump @whump-cravings @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning @neverthelass

@whumpsday @silent-orchid-lady @everynameistakencarrots @scoundrelwithboba

»Sails!«

Yves was with the weavers when the call sounded through the village, picked up by voice after voice, and he had never seen them drop their work so quickly. And he understood, more completely than he would have believed — his heart, too, leapt at the message, and following their example, he didn’t feel bad abandoning his work just as swiftly.

It took a long while for the ship that had been spotted to actually reach the shore — long enough for a whole crowd to gather at the pier. Yves stood with Runar’s family, next to Ingunn holding little Bragi on her arm.

Runar would be so excited to meet his nephew. The thought warmed Yves’ heart, even as it hammered against his chest a little too fast. He had been thinking of Runar a lot. Had been thinking about what he wanted to say to him once he returned. About how to tell him how his life, his feelings, his whole heart had changed. How everything was different now.

He wondered whether Runar’s summer had changed him, too.

As the ship drew nearer, its shape seemed more and more familiar, calling back to when he, himself, had sailed. It seemed somehow wrong now that he hadn’t gone with them.

Cheers erupted when the ship came into earshot, from both sides, greetings and welcomes, and Yves, too, called out, his voice just one of the choir.

And yet, amidst the joy, something darker reared its head — a reminder of how he had been when he arrived, the way Runar and the others arrived now, all those months ago, of all that fear and all that pain. Perhaps it had never been away, only dormant.

He had to push it down, that memory of how he had cowered in that same ship as the warriors landed, frozen with cold and terror.

He forced a smile, determined to make it true before the day was out.

* Runar always looked forward to coming home, but this time was… different. And it wasn’t even that he was hoping to meet his sister-child for the first time.

He should pull himself together. Things had been complicated when he left, and if he didn’t fuck it up, this could be a fresh start. But it was hard when they approached the pier, and Yves was right there in the front row, wearing a blue tunic with a striped pattern that seemed just the right level of complexity to be personally made by someone who was, though still with much left to learn, progressing in his weaving skill, and — Runar’s heart skipped a beat — his dark hair, now past chin-length, braided as one who was waiting for someone who had left to sea.

He seemed happy to be standing there, up front, too — at ease and confident enough, and when he set eyes on Runar, a smile broke across his face.

Runar’s heart did a weird little hop, as if it were about to leap out of his mouth.

He swallowed. He had to be sensible.

And there was Ingunn, too, standing right by Yves, a tiny little baby on her arm.

That did not make him feel more normal, but it did help distract him from Yves a little. He’d have to take it easy for him; the baby, on the other hand, wouldn’t care, not yet.

He was among the first to leap off the ship, and his heart was still in his throat, and he couldn’t even decide who he wanted to greet first, swaying like a leaf in the wind for a moment, overwhelmed with joy and love, before Yves, still smiling, waved him towards Ingunn.

»Welcome home! Meet Bragi!« Ingunn sounded as excited as he felt. »Bragi, that is your uncle.«

The little glob of human gripped his finger with a tiny hand as he reached out to him. Runar didn’t think he could get any more emotional, but that nearly brought him to tears.

Eventually, though, he pulled himself free, and that was when — before he could even fully turn — Yves slammed into him, pulling him right into a hug.

And Runar’s heart just melted.

As much as he had tried to be sensible over the past months, he couldn’t deny that as he wrapped Yves into his arms. He had hoped Yves was doing well, of course, but then how could he have expected his poor heart to be normal about actually seeing him before himself with all that newfound confidence and — dare he say — happiness?

The brilliant smile Yves gave him, looking up at him, sure seemed to allow the word. »Welcome back.«

»Thanks. Hi. Are you — you look good.«

Yves nodded, pulling out of his arms. For a moment, Runar was tempted to catch his hand, but he would never hold Yves against his will.

»You look alright,« Yves replied, the smile making way for a more serious expression.

»I’m fine. I’m great, actually. It’s good to be home.« Yves. There he was, right in front of him. »How has your summer been?«

The smile returned. »Good. It was — yes, it was good.« A moment’s hesitation, and then he added, so quiet that Runar almost might have believed his ears were playing tricks, »I missed you.«

Gods. How was he supposed to act normal?

It didn’t help that next on the schedule was the long-awaited bath.

He remembered how it had been last year — how Yves was so insecure on his feet Runar felt compelled to support him, how terrified he had been. They had barely been able to communicate. And now, Yves confidently walked along with him, carrying fresh clothes for them both — just like he had done then. He could barely listen to Ingunn on his other side, chatting away about the news in the village.

As usual, she abandoned them when they reached the hot springs, if a little more careful than usual, with the baby.

Runar undressed, prepared to go ahead and give Yves some privacy. He had taken him to take baths multiple times, of course, last winter, but he had quickly realized it was a sensitive matter for him, and had avoided watching him while he was naked and bare.

But Yves didn’t even hesitate to undress. He seemed so confident that Runar allowed himself a covert look.

He was still slender — he always would be — but nowhere near as agonizingly thin as he had been a year ago, recovered muscle padded in just enough fat now not to be concerning. All his wounds were healed, the scars fading into the skin. There were a few bruises, but nothing, Runar remembered after a moment of alarm, that wasn’t explained by training. He was proud, even, that Yves could apparently handle these minor hurts without being pulled back to darker times. He’d still check in with Yves about that later, just in case.

* Yves had gotten used to taking his baths alone, but he found it didn’t frighten him to undress in company, now.

Not in this company, anyway.

He found his eyes tracing Runar’s form as he went ahead into the hot springs; soft, round shapes moving with such strength, thin white scars here and there-

His heartrate picked up again before his eyes caught on Runar’s left forearm, tidily wrapped in bandages Runar started to undo when he was mostly submerged in the warm water.

»You’re injured.« Yves splashed into the water himself, now hurrying to catch up to him.

Runar turned, smiling. »It’s nothing, just a scratch.«

»Let me help you.« His breath caught in his throat at how easily the words fell from his tongue; his hands barely hesitated when he reached out to undo the bandages Runar was struggling with, with only one hand reaching.

It was so different from how it had been, a year ago. His heart was in his throat, but in a way that was so very different.

When he was done, revealing a long, thin, scabbed-over cut, he looked up to see Runar’s eyes resting on him, softer still than he remembered.

He didn’t know why he blushed.

They bathed together, helped one another clean their backs. Yves’ skin drew into goosebumps, and he almost could have blamed the cold air.

Freshly cleaned and clothed, they went down to the feast.

Yves paused in the doorway to the longhouse, and Runar noticed immediately.

»Are you okay?«

Yves could only nod, unsure how to put into words how overwhelmed he was, not with fear, but with its absence. Maybe there was a little undercurrent of nerves somewhere, but compared with last year, when the filled room with its delicious scents sent him into a panic? He found himself blinking away tears.

Runar gently laid a hand on his shoulder. »Are you sure?«

»Yes.« Yves smiled up at his concerned face. Even Runar’s worry no longer seemed suffocating — just endearing.

They took their seats in the hall, and feasted, and exchanged stories. Yves, with an easy heart, helped serve the table.

That was when Brandr approached him.

Yves straightened. He would not let Brandr take away his happiness — happiness? him? what a breathtaking thought — again.

He was ready.

»I owe you an apology,« Brandr said bluntly.

Yves was so taken aback he couldn’t respond, and to his immense surprise, Brandr reacted by stepping back a little.

»Yes. You do.« His voice came out a little louder than he planned. There it was, that anxiety again. He was talking back.

He pushed it away. He wasn’t even doing that.

Brandr threw up his hands. »So. ‘m sorry. Seems you recovered alright.«

Yves nodded, then after a moment’s hesitation, he said, »Thank you.«

He knew why Brandr was doing this. The community needed to stick together, and he, Yves… he was one of them. It wouldn’t be right for him to hold a grudge.

»Everything alright?« Runar met him halfway back to the table after he and Brandr parted.

»He apologized.«

»Oh.« Runar seemed almost as surprised as Yves had been, but then he nodded. »Right so.«

They sat and feasted long into the night.

And then, when everything was done, Yves and Runar walked home together.

#whump #whump writing #comfort #my writing #no warrior #yves #runar #ingunn #brandr

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