#whump

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

fanfic writers are so fucking awesome man. they write novel length fics that are sometimes even better than some published bestselling books written by professional writers. like fanfic writers are professional writers to me and they gift us their masterpieces for free. they give us something we can look forward to after a long day. something from which we can seek comfort when life is hard. something that can be our own little getaway. in a world of capitalism, despite everything, they give us all of these for free. like holy fuck. shout out to every fanfic writer. I wish all fanfic writers a very ‘I love you with all my heart and soul. I thank you from the bottom of my heart’

[wordsofdiana]

Henchmen coded content

we should call it this again

[ssaintsofviolence]

whumpee was allowed a diary during their captivity. they loved it, used it to track the days, to scream the words they couldn't to whumper's face, to describe what was happening to them, keep themselves grounded, to try and remember how caretaker's face looked like. it was also the only thing caretaker found with them after they were rescued. bonus points if upon reading it caretaker is absolutely horrified.

[questions-about-blorbos]

Every poll on this blog is about fictional characters only. This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[whumpster-dumpster]

Breathing but make it whumpy:

Bruised/broken ribs and the pain that shoots through their chest with every breath.

Caretaker: "Just breathe. I know it hurts but you're doing great."

Whumpee desperately clawing at whumper who is pinning them to the wall by the throat.

When the stoic whumpee starts shaking and hyperventilating

Oxygen masks (and whumpees who keep trying to pull them off)

Whumpee holding their breath as whumper shoves an anesthetic mask on their face. How long can they fight it?

Visibly struggling to breathe. And audibly struggling - just all the raspy, wheezy and labored breathing.

That injury whumpee said was "nothing"? It's a pneumothorax and it's slowly getting worse.

Panting, then finally collapsing with a thud.

Yesssss 👏👏

[oligoweee]

ALL OF THESE. ME.

been building a collection of posts from like minded individuals

[savage-sinister]

All my fan works are deeply niche and incredibly self indulgent.

I am serving myself. I am throwing an exotic and strange banquet. I am not expecting any guests but you are more than welcome to attend.

[silverskye13]

Hello! I was just wondering but what would happen if Tanguish died for the last time/was running out of time right in front of Helsnight?

Good afternoon! You seem possessed of the desire for heartbreak! This made my hands shake to write, so thank you for that! If you need me I will be pretending it's the coffee jitters!

Helsknight has seen this before. It's been awhile since he's felt it so closely, though. The fainting. The listlessness. The lost time. He's seen it all before. Dead eyed paladins wandering like sleepwalkers through their tasks. The strong made weak by the jaws of the universe as they're eaten away. The long sleep. The watch for waking. The hopeless vigil. The waiting, waiting, waiting, for inevitability. The knowledge that soon, inexorably, like the setting sun, night was falling.

The sun would never rise again, and there would be no stars.

To be swallowed whole by something that doesn't care, that doesn't notice, what it's taking.

Tanguish sleeps more than he wakes now. He looks deceptively peaceful, laying there in bed. Helsknight moved him from the couch weeks ago. He deserves comfort. He deserves peace, and warmth. He deserves... Well. He deserves better. Helsknight can't give him better. Even if he knew what to give, he couldn't bring himself to leave Tanguish's side. Not anymore.

"I would fight the Universe for you if I could," Helsknight tells him, kneeling beside the bed during one more of those long, silent, lonely vigils. He has Tanguish's hand cupped in both of his, the scarred knuckles pressed to his lips. Helsknight doesn't cry. He never cries in front of Tanguish. It feels rude. Disrespectful. This isn't about him. If anything he is just a helpless bystander. He is not to be comforted. "I would pry back the jaws of the Universe if I could reach them in a way that mattered. You know I would."

Tanguish doesn't respond. He's been asleep for a long, long time. Helsknight knows the pattern. The ebb and flow. The drowning slip. Last time it took Tanguish days to wake. He doesn't think this time there will be a waking, but he waits for it anyway. All he has left now is the hope, however fleeting, to see those eyes flutter open, the tired smile and soft voice. Tanguish saying reasonably, as though Helsknight were making a big deal about nothing, "Why are you still here? I'm alright, Helsknight. You don't have to wait for me."

They talked about it, in that rare glimmer when Tanguish was lucid. Helsknight had explained what he knew of what was happening, what he'd seen. He explained the sleep would last longer. That if Tanguish didn't get himself killed, the Universe would simply take him one day, quietly, in his sleep. Tanguish had seemed relieved. He didn't want to die painfully. This was the best possible scenerio for someone who feared hurt and wounding. To slip away, unnoticed, uncaring. It had been a soft conversation, and it had taken all of Helsknight's strength not to be angry. Not to rage in the face of fear and loss. He wanted to be kind for Tanguish. He wanted his friend to leave thinking everything would be okay. He wanted him to feel loved, and looked after, and like the world would mourn his passing but not be broken by it.

This time, there will not be a waking. Helsknight can feel it in his bones. It makes his heart sick. He feels like, if he convulsed hard enough, his soul might vomit, riot out the tangle of emotions he has long grown weary of feeling, that stick in his ribs like claws.

This time, there will not be a waking.

[Tanguish always hated being a burden.]

Helsknight was broken. He sighed a lot. There was something wrong with his stomach and chest, like if he exhaled deeply, smoke and despair would come spooling out of his lungs. He wished he could purge the empty ache buried inside him, calm the nervousness of mourning. There was a little animal inside him that wanted to run, which felt his pain and fear and said something fatal must be happening, and fight or flight should move him to self preservation.

He couldn't bring himself to leave the house. Every moment they had left felt stolen.

Besides, he could run for the rest of his life and never outrun this. He could slay every god and saint in hels and it wouldn't change a thing. Impotence was a poison in his soul.

He felt sick.

"I'm sorry I couldn't fix it," Helsknight whispered, kissing Tanguish's hand gently. "I would have tried harder. You know I would have."

Tanguish had asked him, in one of those rare, lucid moments, not to bother Tango. Just let it happen, he'd said, brushing strands of hair out of Helsknight's face. It's okay, I'm not afraid.

Helsknight didn't know what time it was. He stopped caring about things like that awhile ago.

He kissed Tanguish's knuckles again, and wished he could pour his own life through his skin. Tanguish's hand was warm in his, he'd been holding it so long. It felt stupid, but he spent a lot of time washing his hands now. His hands and his hair. He put on lotion, and honey-scented oils, because Tanguish told him once his sealing wax made him feel safe, and this was the closest smell to it that he had ready. Every time Tanguish woke, he wanted him to be held in kind, gentle hands. To card his fingers through clean, soft hair. To smell safety and comfort. Helsknight kissed Tanguish's knuckles again. It was all he could do. It was all he could do.

Time crawled by like a wounded animal. Helsknight sat very still. He kissed Tanguish's hand when it seemed necessary, the gentle brush of lips against fingers that never moved. Sometimes he would press his thumb to Tanguish's pulse just to remind himself he was still alive, only sleeping. He didn't cry. He said only kind things; whispered poetry, soft platitudes. When his helpless anger abated and left him hollow, in the ebbs and tides it lived in, he prayed. They were hopeless, stupid prayers. He didn't know what to pray for anyway. Only the repeated mantra please, please, please, begging for his Saint to listen to... Something. Please save Tanguish. Please end the waiting soon. Please don't make Helsknight suffer the waiting alone. Please, if he must suffer this, take the feelings away. Take the pain away. Make it stop. Make it stop...

Helsknight knew he fell asleep only because he woke up hours later, and when he woke, he was alone. The bed was empty, blankets barely disheveled. Still, Helsknight was filled with the half-mad thought that Tanguish had woken and crept past him, leaving him to sleep. Helsknight got to his feet, joints protesting after so long waiting in stillness.

"Tanguish?" Helsknight called into the empty room, searching every corner, as though he would be hiding. "Tanguish you shouldn't be up by yourself. Where--?"

Helsknight rubbed sore eyes and walked into the living room. He felt disoriented, not all there, like he'd woken from a bad dream. His mind dragged behind his body, thoughts tilting haphazardly through sleep and stress. He was exhausted. Had he not been sleeping lately? Gods. It was hard to remember.

Helsknight looked quietly around the living room, suddenly confused as to why he'd come in here. He was looking for something... right? Something important. His hands were shaking. He felt sick. Something very, very important. His stomach twisted in knots. His chest hurt. Was he having a panic attack? Why in hels was he having a panic attack?

"I need to lay down," Helsknight said to no one, because no one else was here. When had he gotten into the habit of talking to himself? His chest hurt. He felt sick. He wanted to cry. What the fuck was wrong with him?

[Lost something. Lost something.]

Helsknight stumbled back into his room, his mind a hazy mess. His bed was an oasis of calm in a storm. He needed to lay down. He felt raw and wounded, like someone had reached hands inside him and started pulling out entrails. It was a despair so thick he wanted to vomit. He placed his hands on the bed, steadying himself, trying to convince himself if he could just crawl in--

The bed was cold. Colder than was normal. A tear rolled down his cheek. He could cry now. He was allowed to cry now. No one was here to see.

Why would someone be here? Why would he even need to cry? Helsknight rubbed at his face, and he searched his bed, his nightstand, for anything that made sense.

A little black stone, obsidian, hard to carve and harder to break. There was a name carved there that wasn't his. Memories that had been floating away like fading dreams, fast into the jaws of the void, slammed back into him so hard he staggered. It was a blow that should have killed him. He'd felt gentler wounds from blades in the Colosseum.

Helsknight's reaction was immediate. His breath left him, half gasp, half groan. And he was sobbing, great, wracking, gasping sobs that were halfway screams. Helsknight grabbed the little stone, carved with Tanguish's name, and clasped it to his chest. He clung to it like it could somehow pull Tanguish back to him, like it could tether his soul, already gone. Then Helsknight did scream, because his chest hurt, his soul hurt, and he was powerless, powerless, powerless to do anything about it.

"I didn't mean to forget," he sobbed, his whole body bent in apology, like a sinner at an altar. "I d-didn't mean to forget. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I--"

The night was long.

The world was dark.

Somewhere, a bright, bright star dimmed and died, and no one seemed to notice.

And the Universe said, I do not love you, for I did not make you

And the Universe said, You were never meant to exist, so you do not

And the Universe said, All is right with the world.

Isn't it?

[whumblr]

Whump prompt #71

Whumpee's gaze followed the length of the whip. "You're really desperate to get me to kneel, hm?" they said, riling Whumper up even further who tightened a hand around the leather.

They didn't move a muscle, didn't even think of sinking down. Their gaze snapped up.

"Bringing out the big guns like that..." Whumpee looked him dead in the eye. "You could almost say it's the same as begging."

[yasmiralotta]

Yeah, accurate 🤷‍♀️

[seth-whumps]

throw a caretaker in a time loop and force them to watch whumpee die over and over. then take them out of it and put whumpee in minor, nonlethal danger. so that caretaker loses their mind, you understand,

[lovelizards]

thinking about a 'whumpee who cried wolf' who thinks they see whumper in every busy street and crowded bus.

eventually caretaker starts to get frustrated by it, accidentally gaslighting whumpee and insisting that they're projecting their fears because of anxiety. because 'there's no way its actually whumper, he's gone/dead/locked up/etc.'

they don't know how easy it is to stalk someone, to hide in plain sight. no one asks questions about the unfamiliar man in a hi-vis jacket and hoodie lingering near a construction site, or wandering around a busy hospital in scrubs and a face mask.

even so, caretaker refuses to take whumpee's concerns seriously, maybe tensions run high, and they argue. whumpee desperately tries to get caretaker to understand but they won't.

until one day, whumpee doesn't come home.

their phone goes directly to voicemail. they aren't at friends houses, or even any local hospitals.

they've just disappeared, and caretaker realises its all their fault.

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

I am very normal about my new lab rat

Ignore the gloved hand lol, I absolutely hate it.

[nightmare-ish-writing]

So you’re telling me this whole time I’ve been healing myself without knowing? Nice. 

[bebs-art-gallery]

The Lovers (circa 1917)

— by Gallen-Kallela