#pyre whump

[whump-card]

A lil one-shot featuring Jactana! Based on a prompt sent in by @pyrepostings, thanks so much!! (I fucked up my draft and lost the ask 😭)

726 words

CWs: panic, battlefield setting, not that bad honestly! Character called "girl" pretty often is an adult.

~~~

They’d looked after the lost Ranger for only a few hours before a heavy barrage hit. The noise was too much; she jerked into movement like a marionette, limbs moving of their own accord, eyes refusing to register the mercenaries trying to stop her. She twisted out of their hands, breathless and weightless, propelled by a deep drive to run and think of nothing else.

Jactana followed, until the elf girl crested into no man’s land. The old sellsword paced the trench, debating, until time made the decision; there was no way the girl was still alive, running straight for the Ardent war machines like that. Jactana set aside her guilt, and returned to her party. At least without a shellshocked greenie to look after they might be able to make some headway on the battlefield.

They found her again two days later.

The mill building was long abandoned, the machinery inside butchered for precious metal. Most windows were blown out and the roof sagged but it still made a decent enough place for the mercenaries to shelter – only, they weren’t alone.

“Hold,” Jactana lifted a hand, “It’s the kid.”

“Ludo, don’t be stupid,” Boris muttered, “She’s dead.”

“Hey, which one of us has the footlong ears?” Jactana sniped, “Stay here.”

The elf left her party of humans standing in the moonlit doorway and strode farther into the decrepit building. It was faint, but she could hear wheezing breath and shivering scuffles, feel the presence.

“Hello, little sis?” Jactana switched to elvish, soft and rolling, “This old lady won’t harm you.”

The breath caught, feet scraped. Jactana spotted her: pressed into the farthest corner, near flush with the wall, skinny, dirty, bloody. Jactana stepped slowly around a dismembered gearbelt into a shaft of moonlight coming through a high window, lifting her hands. She could see even from several paces away the girl’s chest rise and fall painfully fast and pronounced, the whites of her eyes glowing dully. Jactana sank to her knees, sitting back on her heels and resting her hands on her thighs.

“Hey, little sis, won’t you come talk to me?”

The girl remained paralyzed, though her gaze was fixed on Jactana.

“What’s your name, little sis?”

Nothing. Jactana tilted her head.

“Are you -”

The windows rattled from a nearby detonation, the low boom tapering off into crackles. The Ranger yelped, her feet scrabbling as if she pushed hard enough she could meld into the wall.

Scared of losing the girl, though she wouldn’t have admitted it, Jactana took a different approach and made her voice loud and commanding, carrying over the eddying rumbles. “Ranger! To me!”

The girl’s training was good – or too recent. She sprang away from the wall, half fell, pushed off the floor with a hand, and careened towards Jactana. Jactana rose up on her knees, catching the girl and pulling her to her chest, the two of them falling back onto the floor together. The Ranger clung to Jactana like the girl she was, and the mercenary smoothed a hand over her tangled hair.

“I’ll keep you safe, little sis, don’t you worry, I’ll get you home, we’ll get out of here,” Jactana soothed, “Come on now, what’s your name?”

“Uh, Undine,” the girl whispered.

“And how old are you, Undine?”

“Twenty-two.”

Rage boiled in Jactana’s gut, too young, but she pushed it down. Now wasn’t the time to rail against the machine of war.

“Hold on to me, little Undine, and don’t let go. You hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” Undine affirmed, but who knew if she truly understood.

“Up we go, alright?”

Together they struggled to their feet, Jactana doing the brunt of the work. Something was wrong with the little Ranger’s balance, maybe a shell had knocked an inner ear out. Jactana kept an arm tight around her shoulders, determined not to let her go.

“One foot in front of the other, let’s go.”

Boris whistled low when they approached.

“The kid was alive after all?”

“Pack it in, pups,” Jactana said, switching back to human speech, “We’re going home.”

“What about the job? The northern point?”

“The northern point can eat ass,” Jactana snapped, “I’m getting this stupid kid home.”

Boris smirked. “Ol’ softie.”

“Shove it, B.”

With that, the mercenary party and their little rescue started the long journey back towards some scrap of safety.

[mercurywaters]

fuel the pyre of your enemies

ao3, multi-chapter (1/4), 5k words

Months after the Pogues’ return from South America, Rafe kidnaps Kiara in retaliation for stealing his yacht in Barbados. J.J. will stop at nothing to get her back.

🛥 CHAPTER ONE 🛥

[pyrepostings]

Martyn Gale: *is violently interrogating Kevin*

Gale: "Tell me what I want to know! Where is your camp?"

Kevin, through a mouthful of blood: "Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy"

[pyrepostings]

Drawing practice got a little away from me. Here's stained-glass Sahota:

Test Track AU (T$$ AU Masterlist)

previous /// next

as suggested by @suspicious-whumping-egg !

waterboarding was also suggested by @firapolemos05 :)

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden , @snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday @suspicious-whumping-egg, @cryptidwritings , @painsandconfusion

[yet-another-heathen]

Wick's Whump Drive - I

This is a commissioned piece for @light-me-on-pyre, who was kind enough to participate in my ongoing whump drive for Palestinian aid.

Want in? Donate $5/€5 or more to ANY Palestinian fundraiser, send me the receipt, and I'll write a custom whump drabble for you, too.

Prompt: "How would you write deconditioning?"

[ My lessons on how to write realistic conditioning can be found here. ]

---

TW | realistic whump recovery, emotional whump, brief argument, PTSD, flashbacks, intentional deconditioning attempt, implied past character death (whumper)

It wasn't the word itself this time. It was the way Caretaker said it.

"Kneel."

Whumpee went down hard. The mental cursing began when his knees were about two inches from hitting the ground. Too late to stop the movement. Plenty of time to hate himself for following through.

Where his knees hit, the jarring spike of stacking bruises felt like a punch. Failure.

Another. Fucking. Failure.

Whumpee groaned in frustration, hands balling in his hair. Then he was on his feet again, pacing. "Again."

"Whumpee, I think we've had enough for toni—"

"No! No, I need to try again! I have to get this right just once before I stop." He turned again on his heel, leaving another path in the carpet. "We keep going. I just— I just need to keep going."

Caretaker raised an eyebrow, not moving from where he knelt. With that endless patience that was beginning to grate on Whumpee's nerves, "...we have been at this for an hour. Your nerves are getting more and more frayed by the minute. You said yourself that this works best when you're calm."

"And what if I'm wrong?" Whumpee whirled around on him, tears in his eyes. "I keep failing. I've barely managed to stop myself three times this whole week. Out of what? Four dozen attempts? Five? Every time I quit I end up backsliding more and more. I can't keep giving up. This has to work."

"It will be easier—"

"Are you going to say it or not? You said you would help me!"

Caretaker looked taken aback. And just as quickly, his expression shuttered.

"What do you think I've been doing for the last hour?" he asked. "Don't forget— I still get to say 'no', too."

The reminder hit like a slap. Not because Caretaker was wrong. Because he was right.

It had taken everything Whumpee had just to keep making it through the practice sessions. With how bad things had gotten, he barely had the capacity to take care of himself right now. Let alone worry any of the people around him.

Was that how he'd been acting? Was that what Whumpee was denying him? Even the choice to be a part of this?

After standing there for another far too long moment, Whumpee let out a sigh and came back over to Caretaker. He slipped to the floor beside him, folding his knees up to his chest, back pressed to the couch.

Quieter, rougher, "...Yeah. Yeah, you do." He couldn't bring himself to look at him. "I'm sorry."

Although Caretaker didn't say anything, Whumpee could see the moment the tension in his shoulders let go. The fight passed over them like a distant shadow.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this," Whumpee murmured. He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on his forearms. "Between the nightmares and the memories... I'm just... I'm so tired." Quieter still, "I can't seem to get that monster out of my head."

"You've not been sleeping." It wasn't a question.

"...I've been trying to. I really have. But I end up just laying there, thinking the same five thoughts on repeat, over and over and over. Things haven't been this bad since—"

A flash of bright light. Wrists rubbed raw. Whumpee was doubled over, arms wrapped around himself. Screaming himself raw with a flood of relief and despair and a hundred other emotions that he could never admit aloud. Blood spreading on the cement floor. Blood that finally, finally wasn't his own.

Whumpee flinched, twisting his face away from the sight. As if this was something he could just look away from. As if the memories weren't printed into his retinas like the afterimage of lightning.

He took a few slow, steadying breaths, shaking on every exhale. Clenched his trembling hands, open and closed. Open and closed. Eventually he managed a raspy, "...since before."

Caretaker watched, worried. But he knew better than to reach for Whumpee without asking first.

"Whumpee... you've been butting up against this same block for weeks now. I've watched you try everything except the most obvious thing there is. You need to rest." Whumpee opened his mouth to say something, but Caretaker cut him off before he could argue. "—I'm not telling you to quit. I know why you can't, and I would never ask it of you. But there's a difference between giving up, and taking enough time to catch your breath before the next sprint."

Whumpee averted his eyes again, throat working against the burn of building tears. But he was listening.

Softer, "You said this was something you'd be working on for the rest of your life. If that's true, then there's time. For just a few days... give yourself some of the softness you went so long without. Take enough time to be gentle with the man you're trying so hard to save."

The words had hit their mark. He watched as Whumpee's face crumpled. His breath hitched once, and he broke into a sob. Then Whumpee finally reached out for him, and Caretaker didn't hesitate to pull him into hug.

He buried his face against Caretaker's chest, everything he'd been holding back falling apart at once. Pain. Despair. Hope. Grief. All of it came pouring out with his voice.

"There. I've got you," Caretaker murmured, closing his eyes. Exhausted, but relieved that something had finally gotten through. "...I've got you."

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 9, Day 12, Day 25

“I made a mistake.” | “I can’t stand seeing you like this.” | Guilt

<<< previous | next >>>

Contains: royal whump, lady whump + dudewhump, restraints, gagged/muzzled, death mention, grief, collar (implied), threats

WC: 740

One grievous mistake

“Would you like to see your sister?”

The seer nodded, clenching his jaw around the bit between his teeth. How humiliating it would be to have her see him like this: weak, overpowered, bound, reduced to such a pathetic state. But his pride withered. Stronger, much stronger, was the need to know she was alive.

The usurper smirked and departed without another word, though it seemed he did not tread far. His voice, full of harsh, throaty notes that bespoke a deeper darkness than his cold grey eyes conveyed, drifted in through the open door as he gave orders to the guards outside: “Bring the girl.”

The girl. Not the princess, not Her Highness. Her title gone, sundered and burned on the pyre of their old life. Along with their family. Along with . . . everything.

The girl—his sister—the only family he had left.

The grief struck him so suddenly and with such violence, he gagged on a wave of nausea and convulsed in panic that he would die after all, choking to death on his own despair. Dead. They were dead. His mother, his father, his brother, who had still been round-faced and bright-eyed with youth. Tenacious and wild, outspoken and courageous.

And dead.

Yet he, a crown prince deserving of no crown and nobody’s veneration, lived. Why? What had stayed the usurper’s hand, stopped that blade from spilling his blood, too? A stroke of cruel mischance? An unhappy, wretched mistake?

It was clear, all too clear: his whole life had been one grievous mistake.

What if . . .

“Now. Hold still.” The usurper reappeared suddenly, clutching something in his hand. The seer shrank away, but where he could go? Nowhere.

Something pressed against his neck, snug and cold. The seer went rigid, certain he was about to be strangled, but the pressure did not tighten.

“There.”

No yanking, no choking, and no explanation. Whatever the prince had hung around his neck, it caused no further pain, but its purpose remained a mystery.

“What is this?” the seer demanded, but if the prince understood the garbled question, he did not deign to answer.

At that moment, rapid footsteps caught his attention, pattering down what sounded to be an echoing stone staircase, then over the dungeon floor.

“Let me in to see him, please!”

His sister’s voice gasped through the rank, rancid air. He straightened, dizzy with relief—and with concern.

She burst through the door.

A disgruntled-looking guard followed her, clinging tightly to the tail of a rope whose other end was wrapped around her wrists. She strained, trying to reach the seer, as he did the same in an effort to reach her, shouting uselessly into the muzzle.

“Let her go, you bastard!”

She seemed, as far as he could tell, unharmed: a faint crimson stained marred her throat, as if blood had dried there and then been weakly washed away, and she still wore her nightclothes, diaphanous and revealing to her captors in a way that made his stomach turn. If she realized or was bothered, though, she hid it well.

“Please,” she said, her eyes wide and desperate as she pleaded with the usurper, “untie me, let me go to him. Look at him—what have you—”

The prince tutted, grabbing her arm and wrenching her toward him. As the soldier released the end of the rope, the prince lifted her bound hands as if to inspect them. “What’s this, now? Disgraceful. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she said, pale as her nightgown, “nothing, I just—”

“She was fussing with the window when we went to get her,” said the soldier, cutting her off. “Trying to get it open. Looking for a way out.”

“Is that so?”

His sister didn’t answer, instead stealing a glance away to meet her brother’s gaze.

Quick as lightning, the usurper slapped her.

She cried out, her head whipping sideways, and the seer roared. Neither protest changed a thing.

“I asked you a question. Is it true? Were you trying to open your window?”

“Yes, but—”

Once again, the soldier spoke over her, letting her protest crumble into defeated silence. “Leave to speak, Your Highness?”

The usurper smirked. “Granted.”

“This one will turn on you, my lord. On us all.” The soldier fingered his sword, eyeing the two former royals with distaste. “She isn’t worth the trouble she’ll cause. Let me kill her for you. Let me kill them both.”

June of Doom Masterlist

<<< previous | next >>>

@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[victimeyez]

Vote for your fave while I’m still building the chapter(s?) Suggestions and extra votes in comments are welcome 🙏

Context: Doll Whumper Dae-Ho from Professional//Victim

Chapters featured:

Playing Dress-Up

The Dollhouse

Taglist:

@suspicious-whumping-egg  @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

[amethystfairy1]

I finally caved in and decided to read traveling thieves and AHSBDKDHSVDKDHDVVS SUPER TASTY SO FAR! I knew that if I started reading it I wouldn’t be able to get anything done ever because I would just keep reading and reading BUT HAHAHA IM READING IT AND EVERYONE IS SO SILLY HGRHEGSVDJ AMETHYST YOURE INCREDIBLE! I haven’t gotten all that far yet but it’s amazing so far!!

I also just read chapter 2 of Sun-Burned Beauty and I really like what you’re doing with the notes from Doc at the end. They’re super interesting information-wise, AND we get to see the care put into the book so that Tango would have the knowledge that he’d have obtained if he hadn’t been cast out of his pyre. VERY COOL! :DDD

I'm so glad you're enjoying Traveling Thieves!!! Yay!!!

Silly is one thing you can call them. Angsty and traumatized is another. But hey, it's the whump AU, that's what they're all there for anyway 😆

I'm so glad you like Doc's notes in Sun-Burned Beauty, they're so fun!!!

[whump-galaxy]

End of the year whump community tag list!

I’m so honored to be tagged by so many wonderful people. I’m so, so happy I could inspire all of you. I wish you all a Happy New Year, and hope you have another wonderful year of artistic creation, creativity, and fun!

@hywenhei

@thewhumpcaretaker

@skittles-the-whumpee

@bilightningwhumper

@eyehartart

@whumpisgoodwhumpislife

This tag list is non-exhaustive, and I include every single person in my notifications as a huge inspiration. You all inspire me to keep going and writing.

@whvmp @lightningmindwhump @bloodyfeverdreams @whump-witch @whumpacabra @literarystarfish @novawhumps @weirdstrangeandawful @st0rmm @whumpitisthen @voidwhump @pigeonwhumps @bookworm7543 @j4yj44y @light-me-on-pyre @nothingbutwordstuff @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts @elfo8792

Thank you all for another wonderful year, genuinely. I’m happy you’re all here 💖💖

[liketwoswansinbalance]

“Salt & Storybook” Analysis and Trivia

@anobody277642 If you’re interested, I will take your reblog as an invitation to pinpoint some of the other things that went into the whump fic. Sorry in advance about the length. You can disregard this if you want.

If anyone has any questions or would like clarification, don’t hesitate to ask!

⸻

First though:

1. You were absolutely correct about Rafal’s Bird Motif! And yes, there are a few other instances wherein it appears. (I will list and explain the remaining ones later.)

(And I’ll go through everything in a vaguely chronological order after I respond to your points, because, honestly, that’s the easiest way for me to keep track.)

2. You are indeed correct about the bookcase! It was a direct callback to that TLEA moment.

3. Yes, that was intentional. I think I paraphrased a line that occurs around the point of Rafal’s return to the School in Rise, while Rhian’s in exile.

4. Interesting! I will take you at your word on this one since I’ve forgotten how exactly that happened specifically. I thought it happened at the end of AWWP, but Tedros frequently gallivants around shirtless, so I just… don’t know. I’m sure you’re right nonetheless.

5. That section was not intended to evoke the Black Swan gold, but it could. Actually, I had slightly different thoughts around it.

I just invented these hummingbirds because I thought they'd fit and they worked in line with the bird motif. Also, their being "vampiric" parallels Vulcan himself—matching types of villainy and all.

Plus, I had been thinking of the Capitol's biochemical warfare in the Hunger Games, with their Mutts. This could be a less technologically-advanced form of that, in the world of the Endless Woods.

Besides, Akgul was canonically a prosperous kingdom and did mine during the day only to carouse all night, which I think does work with this concept starting up in the first place, with these birds as their "watchmen,” to safeguard all that wealth required to maintain their lifestyles.

⸻

Additional things of note:

1. Foreshadowing of the literal salt that appears later:

“The floor crunched underfoot with every step he took, a mosaic of inedible salt and pepper,”

2. The excerpt of the Vulcan song from Rise, I decided to include:

It exemplifies Rafal’s whimsy and mockery as character traits I sometimes forget about. I do have more to say about this, but instead, it will go into a future post since it would divert too far from this.

3. The shifting frequency at which Rafal drinks and how I tried to narrow the span of time/reduce the number of words between every time he interacts with his wineglass:

Essentially, I wanted to increase the frequency of Rafal reaching for his drink or sipping it and decrease the proximity of those lines in the narration itself to do so, so it would happen more and more often, narrowing the focus as an effect. That way, it’d be as if he’s losing control in the most minor of ways to start us off, down his decline into misery.

The whole decision to try to contextualize and justify the whump in the first place was kind of an interesting phase as well since it seemed to require perhaps more actual thought and reasoning than the pure action sequence sections did? I tried to integrate the tower’s design features into the setting and incorporate nearly every one of Vulcan’s named objects, so overall I’d be accurate to canon, while attempting to sound novel in my slightly altered descriptions of them.

4. This probably unobtrusive line:

“Here, he’d remain, ’til the end of time.”

This thought is stated positively here, yet it is given a negative spin much later, and is turned on its head (around the part about the bandages and musings about living an immortal life).

5. When Rafal burns Vulcan’s things in a pyre:

Rafal burns something; Rafal gets burnt himself—it’s a really loose line of cause and effect, and a close equivalency. I wanted it to seem like it was "an eye for an eye" situation in some sense.

6. Possibly symbolic foreshadowing?:

“the deformed periscope Rafal had knocked the lenses out of,”

This was unintentional, but I realized that this line could be read as Rafal losing his physical sight later, temporarily, and also losing his rational judgment (or “foresight,”) while it's impaired by his drinking. I mean, he does it to himself. It’s not anyone else’s fault.

7. I wanted the thermal imagery I deployed to parallel the state of the plot:

“The rising heat was hellish.”

Like: rising heat? Rising stakes. It’s the start to all the rest of the Hell references since what he goes through is obviously hellish in its own right.

8. Overall, how unreliable Rafal’s narration is:

“Then he set to work, freeing the storybooks.”

Yeah right. He’s an oppressor if anything. Again, true enough yet horrendously biased, acting as if he's the savior, which, that’s fair. He sort of was for a short run in Rise. But still. It's another instance of: look how full of himself this man truly is.

Another such instance of his own biases:

“charting such a course for the students once again under his eminent tutelage.”

And then, there’s several other instances of unreliability in which he either believes he’s shouldering all the responsibility, or in which he devalues Rhian directly and/or makes false statements about Rhian.

The truth is, Rafal won't let anyone else clean up the literal and plot-level messes. He thinks everyone else is incapable, when they're truly not. Except, he's rather earned the right to think that way, given the catastrophes he's had to deal with in the past, only to unfortunately be proven right by his false belief, time and time again, effectively reinforcing it—all due to horrific happenstance. Thus, from a more sympathetic angle, I don't 100% blame him for thinking that way. The problem is: he’s just handicapping himself doing it all solo.

9. These lines and the irony:

“He wasn’t Rhian’s personal manservant. What a degrading role that would be.”

Is he not though? Truly? And yet, Rhian implicitly expected Rafal to clean up for him later on. Well, I’d like to think Rafal’s just in denial about his “role.”

10. Parallel sentence structure:

“He and he alone would restore the storybooks to their former, casual glory in their places of honor, just as the brothers themselves had been restored by the Pen.”

I suppose you could say this relates to the Meleager reference (coming up soon, wait a bit) about lives tied to the storybooks. Thus, the storybooks and the brothers have the same fates. Both fall. Some from the shelves. And those two from power, from the Storian's grace.

11. Reference to how Rafal did this once before in Rise:

“Naturally, Rafal stacked all of Evil’s tales at the top of the tower’s shelves, for his own reference.”

12. A double meaning:

“That batty substitute had no place in his School.”

13. This parallels Rhian's small cut later:

“his pale hand was dotted with pinpricks of blood.”

14. In my opinion? This bit is massively ironic (or that was my intention, at least):

“Rafal tended to cast off pain with ease, like it was just another one of his overcoats.”

15. Could be interpreted as an appearance of the bird motif:

“In a glaring, grandiose script, the tale’s cover read: THE UGLY DUCKLING.”

But actually, it's simply a reference to Vulcan calling Rhian "duckling," which I assumed would and could enrage Rafal.

16. More of Rafal’s bird motif:

“as if he were plucking feathers from a wild fowl to be cooked”

17. This next one, which you pointed out, does a few other things, too:

“It caught on the fireplace’s grate, angled like a broken bird.”

It’s not only the bird motif but foreshadowing. Rafal himself becomes the “broken bird,” of course.

To some extent, what he does to the storybook happens to him. Again, it’s the fairy-tale element of karmic equivalencies, of deeds being paid back or paid forth to the next in a sequence (or there’s Newton’s third law). I just felt like it could be a law of their world or of classic fairy tales as a whole. The balance.

Also, this may be a stretch—but you could view the storybook as functioning like a sinister talisman of a certain kind. It being tossed into the fire right before Rafal’s torture began could be read as similar to Meleager's life being tied to a piece of wood, in classical mythology. He died when it was burnt.

In Rafal's case here, the burning storybook could represent how he's brought punishment onto himself, marking himself as not wholly a victim but as a deeply flawed vandal.

And, fun fact: in the myth, when Meleager's prophesied death came true, his sisters were turned into guineafowl. So, more birds!

18. The Storian’s pov leaking through, taking over the narrative momentarily, at various times, just as it overpowers Rafal:

“The Pen’s tip brightened to a blinding, radiant, white pinprick, as if it were readying itself to defend its tales from the scourge of Evil it had allowed to take up residence in its tower.”

This also serves as one of the demon references, even if it’s indirect. We know Rafal calls the Pen “the little devil,” but what if that sentiment were mutual? Could it be applied in the other direction? Like: that demon! That monster of the School Master! All he does is wreak havoc!

19. Rafal is light-averse and thus, “dark:”

“Rafal squinted at the light.”

Yes, this is only justified situationally in the fic, by the sheer brightness of the Storian in that one moment. I’m fairly sure it’s not actual canon that he avoids bright lights, but it could explain why Evil’s castle was dimly lit, and that could serve as a counterpoint to his typically being insensitive toward most stimuli, however implicit it may be. (Maybe, I’m just projecting because I avoid bright lights under certain circumstances, haha.)

In fact, this was not intentionally set up in this way for the sake of the fic, but I figured it would fit my case to point it out now. The same thing happens later with Rhian’s gold light anyway.

20. Bird motif again:

“The storybook’s binding rocketed out from its resting place, where it had nested in the grate, flying at him like a missile, sizzling through the air, like a shot bird with its flaming wingspan spread, its front and back covers open, its spine cracked.”

21. A distorted view of himself:

“Yet first, Rafal strained his neck and examined his distorted, many-eyed reflections in the shards beneath him,”

For all the eyes present, he truly lacked the foresight that could’ve saved him here. And, his self-image changed, especially after the Rise morality-reversal plot twist and his supposed “Goodness.” So, this is a lead-up to that since that event hasn’t happened yet, considering where I would hypothetically insert this fic into the duology’s timeline.

The reflections could also be read as an indirect reference to the mythological figure Argus Panoptes or to the structure of a panopticon in a prison.

Like: Oh, you live in a tower cell? Isn't that basically a form of imprisonment, aside from the imprisonment of an eternal life?

For reference, here is a definition of “panopticon” from the internet:

“The concept is to allow all prisoners of an institution to be observed by a single corrections officer, without the inmates knowing whether or not they are being watched.”

This would imply the Storian is the brothers' prison warden. And, of course, Rafal didn’t know he was being watched earlier, by the Pen.

22. Evil thorn motif:

“thin rivulets of blood trickling down his neck, criss-crossing in a fine, thorny latticework, ultimately staining his starched, white shirt collar.”

This motif is just common imagery in the series, and I wanted to imitate it here, without the use of literal thorns.

23. Signaling Rafal’s personality through a kind of visual shorthand:

“he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, the one, restrictive one that always pressed against the base of his throat, so he could breathe properly and catch his breath.”

He's often so stiff and buttoned-up in demeanor, so I wanted to make that literal.

24. Every time a thought like this crosses his mind:

“He’d served the absurd, seemingly arbitrary punishment the Pen had dealt him and it was now well over with.”

Every time he thinks it's all over, it's actually the start of a new wave of pain. For the dramatic irony, I just wanted him to be wrong, haha. “Arbitrary” is also incorrect; he’s just not self-aware enough to see everything for himself.

25. Light and dark imagery:

“As it neared, the bookcase grew larger and larger in Rafal’s sightline, rushing forward rapidly, encroaching on him, almost eclipsing him.”

It could connect to Rhian’s light later, the moment Rafal was discovered in the dark.

26. Bird motif:

“his vision dimmed, turning to a feathery blur.”

27. The “suffocating weight of history” fits the Nevers themselves in general, past their not-yet-existent 200-year losing streak. Thus, this could be considered foreshadowing on a larger scale.

28. The final bird motif:

“The structure of the shelf collapsed further, the more he struggled beneath it, like a snare closing in on a bird, threatening to cut off its circulation—”

And this one is specific. It could be considered my very niche reference to the “springes to catch woodcocks" moment in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Huzzah!

29. The Milton reference:

“His students would dance over his grave—dancing in the chequer’d shade… come forth to play, on a sunshine holiday—how’d that line go? And which tale was it from?”

As I was thinking about this line while writing, I realized I had made a mistake, and yet, the mistake actually served to further the story.

First, John Milton was a poet from the 17th century and the most recently dated tales in the world of SGE are from the early 1900s (Peter Pan), meaning, Milton’s body of work could plausibly exist in the Endless Woods, depending on how loose the Woods’ parameters of what a “fairy tale” could cover are.

Here’s the catch though:

As a writer, Milton was hyper-literary, and I’m not sure if he ever did write for children, seeing as there were many fairy tales that were eventually sanitized and assigned morals for children’s consumption. (Back in the day, fairy tales were once considered more low-brow literature, being as scandalous and riveting as they were, like their time period’s “thriller films” or “commercial/genre fiction,” even if a lot of them were told through oral storytelling that could be modified when there were children in the audience.)

Moving on, Milton references classical mythology a lot in his work, which is, in a way, a close relative of fairy tales, or at the very least, part of humanity’s collective folklore. Therefore, could Milton's work exist in the Endless Woods? Quite possibly.

Ok, this part could be controversial, but Rafal literally works in academia, so I think he’d be familiar with some poets. Then, to elaborate on his confusion: he conflates two, entirely different poems while drunk.

And, that line, “[...] dancing in the chequer’d shade [...,]” from the poem “L’ Allegro” stuck with me. Something about it, the imagery probably, just made it take root in my head, so I had Rafal make the same mistake I had momentarily made, attributing that line to the other, second poem, the epic “Paradise Lost,” that recalls the “tale” of Satan's fall.

Here's an excerpt from “L’ Allegro”:

“When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the live-long daylight fail;”

30. The recurring demon, “heathen,” or “monster” in the dark comparisons and more of the Storian’s pov dominating for a second:

“Wrapped in a delirium, he thought of the sprawling tale of Satan’s fall. Demon, chastened and exiled. Hell. What had he gotten himself into? Hell.”

“That was the moment the Storian chose to attack with a new vengeance, redoubling its efforts against Evil incarnate.”

31. The same material the plates in TLEA were made of, which Sophie commented on—a call forward in time (since I can’t call it “foreshadowing” in any meaningful way):

“His ears rang with the strident sounds of shattering bone china”

So, I assumed the brothers would have those plates now since why not?

32. The lack of an apology to Rhian:

“But could apologizing be any worse than where he lay now? Perhaps, he should.”

Rafal doesn't apologize later, mainly because I realized his feeling any kind of remorse would possibly be a step too far and too sympathetic. He can't possibly be that Good, at least not at this point in time?

Also, I wanted the thrill of a potential set-up, like a red herring, only to subvert it in the end. Thus, Rhian gets no apology whatsoever and Rafal mistreats him in return with his harsh, cutting words—just after he was mistreated by the Pen! Ergo, there's an underlying cycle of abuse going on here, like they’re playing pass the parcel (pain).

33. Betrayal:

“In that instant, his vision whirled, reddening, and his body betrayed him, surrendering to the Pen as he blacked out.”

I specifically felt like I just had to use the word "betray" because it fit the recurrent "everyone is a traitor" theme in Rise. Rafal constantly and always betrays and gets betrayed, so why not have it happen on the self level?

34. Another TLEA reference:

“New, youthful skin was already beginning to pave over his cuts,”

This was a call forward to when Excalibur cleaved through his skull, except it’s a different area of his body healing.

35. TLEA zombie/necromancer reference:

“A copious number of bandages dangled from his outstretched arms as he shuffled back into the main chamber of the tower like one of the undead.”

36. Embalming and Sherlock Holmes references:

“At last, when he was partly wrapped up, he resembled a dehydrated corpse that would be preserved for the rest of time, forever bound to his duties, like one of the undead, who hadn’t the mind to know when to let go, tugged along by the colorless skein of an immortal life.”

Here, I riffed at mummification and the general concept of achieving an eternal life of the soul by preserving the corporeal body, and that all marginally related to the concept of immortality in the flesh, not just an immortal soul.

And here is a probably semi-famous Sir Arthur Conan Doyle quotation I drew from:

“There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it.”

In truth, I haven't read much of Doyle’s work at all, yet I knew enough to twist this to fit my purposes of alluding to misery, immortality, and the banality of life, of living, of acting for nothing when everything is futile, no matter what you do in a world governed by predestination.

37. The omnipresent thematic idea of literal darkness = hopelessness and misery and Rafal’s aversion to light again:

“He didn’t bother to light a candle.”

This same idea would also apply to the “moonless night” Rhian observes later.

38. Situational/dramatic irony:

“His brother was often a spoilsport and Rhian wouldn’t have been surprised if Rafal had tossed their last bottle.”

Rhian ends up with many subverted expectations. I may’ve exaggerated it a lot, in retrospect. Yet, these expectations demonstrate how the twins aren’t actually in sync, despite being magically-inclined twins.

39. Rhian counting his chickens before they’ve hatched (not technically the bird motif though):

“Indeed, maybe the Pen really was on his side, and Rhian could check that item off his list now.”

40. A very slight nod to Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz (a “fairy tale” in the SGE world iirc):

“the stairwell was coated in dust, like it had been beset by a cyclone of some kind.”

41. Book one reference:

“Now, it wasn’t unlike the Nevers themselves to bathe in dust,”

I think Agatha lied and claimed she took dust baths, when Tedros accused her of being a witch.

42. Biblical reference/Rhian-as-God imagery:

“Rhian lit his fingerglow. It burned with warm, pure, golden light, gilding the stones around him. He would vanquish any threat that lay ahead of him.”

“a scene of total carnage flashed into existence.”

I’d like to think that this particular diction harkens back to God creating the world, like this:

"And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, and it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness."

Also, later, Rhian is backlit in the doorway and Rafal is blinded.

These bits happened sort of serendipitously while I was writing, when I realized I had a clear set-up to use with Rhian’s light, in contrast to Rafal's "heathen"/dark “monster.”

43. The curtains and Rhian’s wrong-headed assumption:

“the presumably monster-clawed, blood-encrusted, silver curtains”

I imagined that Rhian, as well as Rafal, would’ve become more paranoid about intruders after the Vulcan incident, so that’s why he jumps to the worst possible (conceivable) conclusion (aside from the inconceivable: Rafal literally being the torture victim).

But, all this goes back to Rafal, within his world’s context, being a skeptic, an “atheist,” or a disbelieving "heathen" of some kind, especially because Rhian was always more faithful with his comparatively more unquestioning belief in the Pen.

44. Rhian’s (unconscious) word choice:

“in the confines of his own home.”

Clearly, “home” and “confines” are in conflict, and besides, Rhian is confined to the outer limits of his role as a School Master, to limited human contact, relationships, and possibly, geographical areas. We could assume that both brothers were sort of supposed to remain at the School. Forever.

45. Rhian’s assumptive dialogue:

“Where’s our intruder then? Have you burnt up the corpse?”

Ideally, Rhian's first assumption was intended to characterize both brothers at the same time. I, personally, thought it was a little funny, and ironic that in Rhian’s mind, the blood could never be Rafal’s.

46. The ice:

“Ice. Bring me ice.”

My hope was that this line came across as blisteringly cold, so the ice could work a dual purpose in the story.

Rafal ices Rhian out, symbolically and literally, by not telling him a thing. He leaves Rhian in the dark about what went on while he was gone. And, by ordering him away, to get the actual ice, Rafal literally sends Rhian away.

47. “The Evil School Master” epithet:

“Now,” the Evil School Master cut out caustically. “And not a word about the Pen favoring Good.”

Using “the Evil School Master” reduced the psychic distance between Rhian’s pov and his brother. I felt as if it were a better decision than calling Rafal “Rafal” during that particular moment since he is leaning more into his Storian-given role as opposed to being his more human self.

Rhian may not be as close to Rafal anymore, with this one-day time gap in his knowledge, and I wanted to represent that state in some way, hence the use of the epithet.

Additionally, it’s also the Evil School Master, who, as an authority over his students, reinforces and perpetuates that very same cycle of violence, when he tortures them in Rise. And, considering that this fic slots into a hypothetical space in the canon timeline prior to the Doom Room’s construction, we could say that this torture event theoretically could’ve made him worse. It could’ve led him to inflicting more pain back onto his Never students.

This line is probably one of my favorites, partly because I had the idea to use the verb “cut out,” seeing as Rafal was cut up and figuratively cuts Rhian back. It wouldn’t only be the students as his victims. He dealt back the pain he received to Rhian.

48. Not-Fun Fact: A long time ago, several days or weeks after I had the initial concept for this fic, I somehow walked into and cut my shin on a sharp, metal chair edge. And the interesting thing I learned from that encounter is that certain things can cut through fabric more easily than you’d think.

49. Last line:

“Rafal hadn’t learnt his lesson and never would.”

I wanted to try to go for maximum impact with the last line, so this line played with the idea of: is Rafal more subdued or not by the end of it all? And the answer had to be “no,” which is why I hope it read as ominous or heavy.

I'd like to think nothing of him would change. He’d carry himself with the same defiant, unbreakable spirit as always (probably).

By my interpretation, the actual change in him would be that he leans into being a slightly more extreme version of himself, that he’s more paranoid. Or, at least, that’s how he’s supposed to have changed, over the course of this story.

My second intention with the last line was to allude to future Evil Rhian, worsened by Rafal’s verbal mistreatment of him. So again, we have the theme of Rafal dooming himself!

50. Absurdism and Kurt Vonnegut:

I just learned that apparently this fic could possibly fall under the category of absurdist fiction (because immortality suddenly becomes slightly undesirable to Rafal, unlike in canon):

“Absurdist fiction is often used interchangeably with ‘absurdism.’ What is absurdism? It is a style of writing that calls existential concepts (such as “truth” or “value”) into question. It portrays the experiences of characters in situations who cannot find purpose or meaning in their lives or actions.

Absurdist fiction writing leans into unconventional imagery, plot structures, and formats to convey meaning. It is a book genre defined by pervasive themes of nihilism, existentialism, and purposelessness.

While absurdism aims to derive purpose from a seemingly pointless or meaningless event, this doesn't mean the event is an inconsequential one—in fact, most absurdist fiction is about traumatic experiences.

[...] Traditional storytelling uses systems like setup and payoff, playing on audience expectation and tailoring reality to make a satisfying narrative. But life isn’t like that. Trauma isn’t like that. And neither is absurdist fiction.”

I had tried using an online writing style analyzer on the completed fic, and I got Kurt Vonnegut as a result. I had never read his work, so when I started to do some research about it, I stumbled onto the topic of absurdism, which was apparently a decent match by sheer coincidence.

Here are two sources on absurdism, style, and verbiage:

https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/slaughter/style/

[whumper-whimsy]

okay WOAH guys i did not expect my art offer to blow up like this haha! Thank all of you for the love!

It will take a while to get through everybody's, and i apologize for that. I'll do my best to keep working on them diligently!

In order, this is who will get theirs first!

@light-me-on-pyre (done)

@violets-whumperflies (done)

@erdarielthewhumper

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@whumperofworlds

@waywardwizzard

@whumpbug

@spuddypotat

@vivulapom

@littlefaefeather

@thefirelily0518

@theauthorintraining

@shshshquietnow

@actress4him

@whumble-beeee

@brutal-nemesis

IF YOU STILL WANT ART, YOU CAN STILL ASK!!! I know it is scary messaging another creator but i promise it does not bother me! :)

(If you sent an ask/dm/reblog and you aren't on the list, last me know and I'll put you in your spot! I'm very forgetful haha)

Might open commissions up on here because wow 😵‍💫 you all have such amazing characters and are all people that are full of love for others in the whump community!

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Goddamn! Now I want your specific flavor of angst. Anyway I'ma go reread slipping under and probably cry.

Probably also insect and pyre after for more tears. I'm hungry for whump lol.

Bwahaha don't worry, no matter what they're gonna fall into a very fucked up version of love, but do enjoy the other angst I've got floating around! Home is Where... and All Over Me are also great sources of it lol

[staykimchay]

Thank you @cloudburst-ink and @lori0018 for tagging me 🥰 this is the first line ao3 tag where I’ll be sharing the first line from my last ten fics posted/updated on ao3! They are, of course, all kimchay 😂 I’ll be going from most recently updated backwards!

1. Dancing With Our Hands Tied which is a fic where I take post canon, add Chay whump and slowish burn and dramaTM to the mix.

The line: It’s dark when Chay pauses in the open doorway of the bar.

2. Heaven Can’t Help Me Now which is a fic where I gave Chay many kinks and let Kim be his feral predator self.

The line: It doesn't take long for Chay to realise that he’d had it easy when he’d been the one chasing Kim.

3. Read Between the Lines which is #50 of the Fucking Friday (FF) smut series @cloudburst-ink and I have got going on.

The line: In the end they barely make it to the library quad.

4. Only Needs a Spark (to Start a Pyre) is my witch hunter Kim/witch Chay smut snippet hehe

The line: “M’not a witch,” Chay squirms in his seat until the ropes that bind him tighten to an uncomfortable degree.

5. It’s a Wild, Wild Word is that FF snippet I wrote which was me testing if people were into a cowboy au 😂

The line: “I have a confession,” Chay says as Kim tips him back onto the blanket they’d laid out by the water.

6. We Could Do This (Baby All Night) is the FF fucking machine ficlet 😏

The line: Chay tries to wriggle, to grind back against the force that’s fucking into him so beautifully, but his arms are bound and his thighs are strapped onto the machine he’s laid across, stomach hot against the cool metal.

7. In a Winter Wonderland is the mistletoe FF 🥰

The line: When Khun had insisted on a family trip to a ski resort, Chay’s first instinct was excitement.

8. He Built a Fire (Just to Keep me Warm) is a lovely messy Yuletide FF ❄️

The line: “Is the Yule log ready?”

9. It’s Coming Down, No Sound, It’s All Around is the FF in which I tried temperature play for the first proper time hehe

The line: The windowpanes are frosty. Chay presses his fingertips to the glass and then flinches backwards with a quiet laugh.

10. 5 Times Kitty Chay Sat Somewhere He Shouldn’t Have which is the sequel to the Chay turns into a kitten fic I wrote a couple months back! You do need to read that fic to understand this one really 😂

The line: “You need to stop ruining the curtains.” Kim sighs as he grabs the end of the material and pulls, exposing the numerous claw marks that go all the way to the curtain rail.

I apologise in advance if any of the links don’t work I am not a tech wizard 😂

Tagging @justanothervariant ♥️

[bookshelf-full-of-bruises]

A Flame Extinguished

FebuWhump Day 1: Helpless

Robbie faces one of his greatest failures. Trigger Warnings for minor whump, up to and including death of said minor by burning at the stake. This one’s heavy, so proceed with caution

As flames spire towards the smoke stained heavens and screams pierce the air, Robert Gardner can only assume that he has finally found for himself that ashen plane which mortals call Hell. No matter how he struggles, a wall of arms holds him steady to watch his worst nightmares spring to life before his eyes. His own voice is drowned out in the cries for vengeance. For justice.

Atop a pyre, the young Paragon of Prophecy pleads for mercy from an unyielding mob as fire climbs its ladder of straw and wood. He is seventeen. Still just a boy, with baby fat softening his terrified features. Piercing blue eyes scan over so many angry faces, hoping to find his sister or mother amongst the scores.

Finding himself disappointed, Daniel turns that terror towards his mentor. He begs. He pleads for help from a man who is helpless to do anything but observe. He sobs and cries and screams as the bleeding sunset meets its end, and the shadows of night descend upon his execution.

In the end, Robbie find himself doing the very thing he was meant to do in the first place. He watches. He watches as the flames of hatred consume the child he had taken under his wing so many moons ago. As his failure comes to bear in such a brutal way that he finds himself choking on it, he still claws and strains against fate with every breath. Smoke and desolation cloud his lungs as screams climb higher, and the ashes begin to smell of flesh.

It is not until silence descends that he is released.

The very second he is able to, he is sprinting into the tower of flames, scorching his palms as he pulls the now motionless body from its boiling tomb. He drags the boy he had come to think of as his son from the ashes, and cradles him close. His tears clump the ashes of his ragged clothes, now reduced to dust.

“Cowards!” He screams, voice raw with pain and horror as he picks his head up to level the gathered people with a distraught glare. “He was but a boy! And all he did was to warn you!”

Just as before, his cries are met with the indifference of those too willfully ignorant to see the truth in anything other than that which resembles their own. Father Bailin, disdain written clearly across his face, steps forward to speak.

For a moment, beyond the roar of the fire still consuming the wood of the pire, there is utter silence.

“Leave this place, Robert. We know you cannot be killed. But let this be a warning to you. If you return, you will burn as well. And as with this,” his voice dips with contempt as he nods towards the burnt corpse of Daniel Caughlin, “sorcerous filth, we will not cut you down until you have stopped screaming.”

It takes everything in Robbie’s being not to rip the priest apart with his bare hands now that he is not being held back by half the village. But they both know he won’t. They both know he has something more important to do.

Without another word, he stands, cradling his boy close, and walks into the night. It is a long trek to the lake where the willow keeps watch, but he will make it. And as the morning sun rises over a freshly mounded grave, he will take a moment to look into her placid waters and wonder how to carry himself into tomorrow

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Yes, yes - different one is good! Who do you think about?

Dying at you just tossing my other OCs on the sacrificial pyre to keep me from hurting Danny more... I don't know! Who would you like to see whumped?

[prince-liest]

the speed at which I'm pulling up your ao3 account looking for the hawks wing fic broke the sound barrier just fyi

HAHAHA, oh lord, I have a lot of My Hero Academia fics, let me help you: It's The Sword of Damocles is Swinging, the fic that was until like two weeks ago my most popular one (it was recently beat by Genshin porn, go figure) and that is still the longest individual fic I've written!

I wrote it in 2020 as my first full-fledged foray into writing fic on AO3, so my writing style has changed a lot since then, but I'm still proud of it. It's a gen Hawks-centric character study made in a witch's cauldron with about 3kg of whump. He doesn't actually get his wings pulled off, but he comes close to it happening near the end in the middle of a fight.

Enjoy!

There's also by Pyre or by Knife if you like that particular flavor of whump, which features him getting his feathers clipped as a kid in one of the chapters and then follows with the theme of harm to his wings from there throughout his life. It follows the "Dabi and Hawks were childhood friends" headcanon!