#whumpuary prompt 2

[fanfictasia]

Whumpuary Prompt 2

Choking

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from The Nighttime Fear

“You’re weak,” Krell snarls, stalking towards him. “You’re a failure!”

He feels frozen. Trapped. “No.”

“You have a duty!” his voice rings out though the darkness of Umbara. “You had orders! You’re a part of something larger than yourself. Or are you too narrow-minded to see that?”

Krell used to say things like that. All the time. Always. “My duty is to my brothers,” Hunter says, “To protect them first.”

Krell scoffs, turning away. “And how are you doing at that?”

He’s a failure. He is. He knows that. Doesn’t want to think of it, though. He – he’s made so many mistakes. Everything – everything that’s happened was his fault. Hunter was supposed to protect them. He should have kept them together, kept them safe. He always fought to keep them together before, but…

He failed them. In every way he could have.

“You should have stopped them!” Krell snarls, and Hunter gasps as his hand wraps around Hunter’s neck, crushing.

He might’ve hurt them before, but this is a first. First Hunter’s dreamed of, anyway.

“You’ll fail them, too,” Krell hisses, “You’re weak. You’re soft.” It’s an echo of what Crosshair had said, and Hunter struggles in his grip, but Krell has always had a Wrecker-level strength.

[serickswrites]

Clear Away

Warnings: left for dead, wounds, bruises, broken bones

Sidekick trudged through the snow. They focused just on putting one foot in front of the other. They had to focus on one foot at a time or else their mind would wander to the pain.

Pain. So much pain.

Sidekick was fairly certain their right wrist was broken, but that their cheek was only bruised, not broken. Their whole body felt bruised, but their wrist was too swollen to be not broken. They supposed they should consider themself lucky that they were still alive. They had thought it would all end when Other World Beast hurled them at the tree. Their world went dark and they thought that was it.

Clearly Hero did too. Hero was nowhere to be seen when Sidekick came to. Hero couldn't even be bothered to bring their corpse back to Base. If they had, then Sidekick would be healed in the med bay by now.

But instead they trudged through the snow, cursing Hero with each step. Sidekick paused long enough to clear away the snow that had accumulated on their shoulders and back. They needed a plan. Something more than just walking and cursing Hero.

They needed help. That above all else, they needed help. And Hero wasn't the person to give it to them. Sidekick smiled as they changed direction in the snow. Hero may not help them, but Villain would. Villain never left a man behind, even if they were clearly dead. Never left a man behind even if they risked their own life. Hero always split without saving anyone. But not Villain. Villain always helped, even those beyond helping. Yes, Villain would help them.

Perhaps Villain wasn't so terrible after all.

[shywhumpauthor]

Whumpuary Day 2

What’s in a Name?

infection | bruises | held at gunpoint

Prev. || Masterlist

Cw: self sacrifice for a cause, captured spy, accepting death, guns, slight choking/strangulation, implied upcoming torture

It took Noah a while to find words, but once he did his voice came out nothing but a timid squeak. Real scared.

“My… my real name?” They echoed, eyes widening as they stared down the barrel. Their expression betrayed a terror they only felt minimally, rather the sinking feeling in their chest was the weight of a future they had for so long thought about settling into the present. It was no surprise, but by now Noah had learned to act rather well, a necessary part of any undercover mission, so feigning such naivety at the time was not overly complicated. “What the hell do you mean?! My name is Noah-”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Every hint of the previous smirking, friendly person in front of them had melted away, Declan’s voice as sharp as a knife as it slit across Noah’s skin, leaving a pained stinging in its wake. “I know who you are. Perhaps if you tell me your real name, I might let you walk out of this room, rather than be carried through the door in a body bag. Who are you, and why are you here?”

In a moment, a thousand scenarios seemed to flick through their mind. The plan had been molded to their capture, the torture, the interrogations, but they had never gone over protocol on how to act, what to do, nothing. All they had to do was keep their mouth shut, but this? This felt… different. Unlike any scenes he had spent hours agonizing over, laying awake at night. There was something about it, the tension in Declan’s muscles, the smoothness of his voice, it set Noah off.

All they had been taught was to simply not get discovered, and if they did get captured, to stay quiet at all costs. The information would begin transmitted from the moment they pressed the button, the device stored nothing. If it were to be found and destroyed at any point, that wouldn’t matter, whatever had been uploaded would continue to send, fragment by fragment until it was intercepted back at their base. Noah was never a part of the mission, they knew that and they knew it well. It had never been a plan tailored to their safety.

When no one had stepped up to teach Noah what to do upon their practically inevitable discovery, how to avoid getting tortured and killed, he had tried to make a plan themself. Thinking about what they would say, how to deny the accusations. They had always assumed they’d be killed on the spot, especially after meeting Declan for the first time. He hesitated for nothing. Not anyone, not under any circumstances. The pull of a trigger, that’s how the man dealt with his problems. Noah had never supposed they’d be any different, so that’s what they had planned to. An interrogation, if Declan was in a good mood, then death. It had taken them a while to learn to accept that, but they had, and they tried not to fear it.

Tried being the key word. Their heart began to beat rapidly, the blood rushing to their face and painting their cheeks a flustered shade of red. A response rested against their tongue, one that would certainly get him shot in a matter of moments, so he kept his mouth shut and instead settled to pull a fearful, panicked expression, not too deviant from his true emotions.

He didn’t want to die, but if he had to, it was best for this cause. Declan was a bad person, he was dangerous. As time passed, his technology only advanced, and was nearing the point of being unstoppable. He needed to be stopped.

“Sir, I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, I apologize-”

Noah was cut off as Declan suddenly stood, his other hand slamming down against their desk as he nearly knocked his chair over in haste. Noah flinched at the noise, pressing back in the chair. He was trained for torture, to withstand pain. It wasn’t pleasant, but he knew how. Pain was even more unavoidable than death, whether those two arrived hand in hand or drawn out across a stretch. Keep up the act as long as possible, just do his job. Keep his mouth shut, whatever it takes.

“Who do you work for?” Despite his outburst, Declan’s voice was chillingly calm. Eyes dead set on Noah’s. And for just a moment, a split second, Noah’s projected mask of terror flickered, his lips twitching before he managed to get ahold of himself. Blinking hard to get his eyes to water, je tried to play off the falter as a shiver, but the way Declan’s eyes narrowed, he could tell he wasn’t convinced. That realization may have slipped into Noah’s expression, but fuck it he had to continue, cling onto the quickly fraying threads of hope that maybe Declan would believe their lies.

“I- I work for you,” Noah insisted, a pinprick stabbing through his lung, and his breaths grew tense. He tried their best not to recoil as Declan straightened up, the gun’s aim never wavering as he slowly began to circle around the side of the desk. Perhaps if it did, if the aim faltered for just a moment, Noah would make a move. He knew how to fight, enough so that if they took Declan by surprise maybe he’d be able to knock the gun away. In a perfect fantasy, he could see himself snatching the weapon from Declan’s cold hands, pressing it to his boss’s forehead and pulling the trigger without a second of hesitation. He’d solidify his death sentence then, but at least he will have done more than his mission asked for them. If Declan was gone, the rest of Noah’s organization could take down the compound with ease. Without their leader, the ring would fail, production would bomb—pun intended, Noah thought with a bitter twist to his lips—it would be chaos in less than a few hours. Sure, Noah was confident he’d be killed before he could see such effects, but imagining the situation was almost enough satisfy him.

But the gun didn’t waver until it was pressing against Noah’s forehead, the cold metal leaving marks against his clammy skin. With their free hand, Declan reached forwards and grabbed Noah’s tie, the fabric tightening like a noose around his neck as Declan pinned him in place. Noah couldn’t help the gasp that caught in his throat, breath trapping in his lungs.

“That’s bullshit, you and I both know it.”

Noah felt tears begin to sting his eyes as he drew in a shallow, raspy breath. He didn’t miss how Declan’s finger tensed over the trigger.

“I will give credit where due, you’re good. You fooled us all.” Declan chuckled, but his voice was sour, no amusement behind the laugh. “You’re smart, I can tell. I genuinely liked you, Noah. We could have been good friends. I could have taken you farther than whatever your pathetic job ever could have.”

Declan’s hand that held Noah’s tie began to twist, pulling the thin loop of fabric even tighter. The knot dug against his throat, nearly making him gag with the pressure.

“All you need to do is tell me. We can consider this a mistake.” Mistake? Bullshit. Declan did not allow for mistakes. “For that to happen, you need to tell me the truth. I can be forgiving.”

Forgiving. In another world, Noah may have scoffed. Declan was many things, but he was not merciful. He did not forgive.

Before Noah could begin to comprehend just what he was doing, he was speaking. He had been taught not to be impulsive, but in that moment any fragment of his training that remained in mind disappeared.

“What- what gave it away?”

With those four words, Noah threw away every last chance of reasoning he had. Any potential he had to convince Declan that he was mistaken, gone. He didn’t know why the fuck he said it, in that moment he might as well have grabbed the pistol and pulled the trigger himself. Essentially, that’s just what he did. Stupid. Fucking stupid.

Even Declan was thinking it too. His lips twisted up into a smirk, an air of triumphant victory settling across his cold expression.

“I suppose that’s as good a place as any to begin.”

—————————————

Next

Tag list: @pickleking8 @whumpuary

[tildeathiwillwrite]

The Whumping™ shall continue into the New Year!

Welcome to Whumpuary 2024!

Whumpuary is a whump themed mixed-media creation event/challenge taking place in January.

This year the prompts came together through a community submission form and then a poll, where I picked the 53 most voted prompts! There are 15 numbers with 3 prompts each, plus 8 alt prompts. The dates are just meant to be a general guideline for those who want/need some structure in a challenge (e.g post every other day), but you don't actually have to create/post on those dates. You can combine prompts any way you want or just pick one of each number, do every single one or even all of them combined into one big creation (or just use one single prompt. That's already an achievement!) If you don't like any prompts of a number you can also replace or combine them with an alt prompt. The main or alt prompts don't have to be done in order.

Go here for more information, rules and the tagging system Go here for FAQs

The inbox is open for any questions!

Text version of all the prompts is under the cut

Whumpuary 2024 Main Prompts 1. (Jan 01-02) Captivity / Snow / Secret Revealed 2. (Jan 03-04) "Get away from me" / Collapse / Choking 3. (Jan 05-06) Used as bait / Stumbling / "This is gonna hurt" 4. (Jan 07-08) "Help me" / Lightheaded / Kneeling 5. (Jan 09-10) Can't move / "Stay. Please" / Kidnapped 6. (Jan 11-12) Exhaustion / Blindfolded / Old Injuries 7. (Jan 13-14) "I didn't know where else to go" / Bruises / Drugged 8. (Jan 15-16) Muffled Screams / Hostage / "You look awful" 9. (Jan 17-18) "Make it stop" / Restraints / Hair Grabbing 10. (Jan 19-20) Desperation / Gunpoint / Can't stay awake 11. (Jan 21-22) Blood / "Just get is over with" / Memories 12. (Jan 23-24) "You're awake" / Rescue / Unfair Fight 13. (Jan 25-26) Left to die / Barely Conscious / "I'm Fine" 14. (Jan 27-28) Flinching / Breakdown / Sleep Deprivation 15. (Jan 29-31) You're safe / Aftermath / Touch starved

Alt Prompts 1. Stabbed 2. "Let me see" 3. Recapture 4. Forced to watch 5. Headache 6. Gagged 7. "Do you trust me?" 8. Blood Loss

[fletcherwilbury]

@whumpuary Day 16: Alt Prompt 2: "Let me see."

Warning for Injury, broken bones, pain, medication, overworking

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumpuary Day 1-2

Prompt: Snow

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; blood; head injury

gif by r66dus

“Why are we patrolling when we can’t see ten feet in front of our faces?” You were yelling into the wind, only satisfied that the archer may have heard you when he turned halfway. 

“Wha’?” Daryl called from beneath the bandana that shielded the lower part of his face from the biting cold. 

Taking a deep breath, you moved your scarf aside and shouted louder. “Why are we—” The slightest crinkle next to one eye gave away the smirk hidden beneath the black and white patterns. “I hate you!” You could barely hear him chuckle. 

“No, ya don’!” At least he was kind enough to wait for you to trudge through the steadily deepening snow to reach his side. “Ya should head on back if it’s that hard on ya!”

“Please. Like I’d leave you out here alone!” You sputtered indignantly when he ruffled your toboggan hat. The man knew exactly how to rile you up, and he did it as often as possible. Though you acted perturbed, you actually enjoyed the times you could see a smirk or a small smile. 

Daryl smiled a lot more these days. It was one of your favorite things in the chaotic, dystopian world. After Rick and with the Whisperers still lurking, you wouldn’t blame him for wearing a permanent scowl like the old days. 

“We can cross over here n’ circle back.” He pulled down his bandana and motioned toward the frozen river. “Froze solid. Won’ fall through but be careful anyway.” He started across, sensing you weren’t following. “Wha’re ya doin’?”

“Keep going. I’ll catch right up.”

“Y/N, wha’re ya doin’?” He repeated more sternly. 

“I need to pee, Daryl!” You frowned when he smiled and there was the slightest bounce to his shoulders. “It’s not funny.”

“Yer gon’ freeze yer ass off.” The ‘literally’ hung in the air, but you knew he was thinking it. “G’on then. Ain’t nothin’ I’ve not seen b’fore.” 

You pouted. “You can’t watch me pee!”

“Ya do it ev’ry mornin’ while ‘m brushin’ my teeth.”

“Yeah, but this is more…open!” When he titled his head with a look that clearly stated you can’t be serious, you huffed. “Shut up, that’s different too!” Your cheeks were suddenly warm, even against the frigid gusts. Daryl had been up close and personal with your lady bits more than you could even begin to recollect. 

With a grin, he held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll keep goin’. Slow. Wanna be close jus’ in case.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, daddy.” When a dark brow arched, you feigned displeasure and grabbed a gloveful of snow and tossed it at him. “Go away, pervert.” He was still grinning as he turned to put a little distance between the two of you. Pants and underwear were down to your knees quickly, the urge nearly unbearable by the time you’d convinced him to keep moving. You couldn’t stop the relieved groan even if you’d tried. 

You had expected to hear him laugh but thankfully, the wind was just too loud. With the wonderful lack of toilet paper, drip-drying was the only option left to you, though you were certain your vagina would be full of ice by the time that happened. After several moments, you pulled up your pants and secured the button and zipper, then your belt, curling your lip at the yellow patch of snow. The apocalypse was gross. 

“Done!” You announced cheerfully loud. 

“Wash yer hands?” He chuckled when you were close enough. 

“Oh, shut up and walk.” A handful of poncho enabled you to spin him around and shove him forward. You were smiling to yourself when the hairs stood on the back of your neck. It wasn’t from the cold. “Daryl.” It felt like someone was watching you. Your eyes met his. He had felt it too; was already pulling his crossbow from his back. 

“C’mon.” He motioned you closer while you each surveyed your surroundings. The Whisperers had been absent since the cold had set in, but it was possible they had returned. Over the scream of the harsh wind, neither of you heard the low growls coming from below. 

Daryl yelped when a hand caught his ankle and gave a sharp tug. You could only watch as his boot slipped and he tumbled, the back of his head bouncing off of the ice with a sickening crack and splatter of red across white. His weapon slid to a stop several feet away.  

“Daryl!”

The walker was trapped in the snow, only one arm and half its face exposed. Enough for your blade to find its mark. Dark, congealed blood covered your knife as it fell next to the archer, your hands on him immediately. He remained unresponsive to each shriek of his name, but you had to find some measure of calm to assess his condition. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

The frosty vapor that formed in front of his lips showed him to be breathing. You quickly removed a glove to press your fingertips to his neck, finding a thready pulse rather quickly. With the gentlest touch you could manage, you slowly, carefully lifted his head, nauseated at how boneless he appeared. You were terrified of moving him. Head and neck injuries were never a thing to play with, even in the old world when hospitals were abundant and functional. 

Holding his head only slightly off the ice, you whimpered at the moderate amount of blood that had covered the pale surface. Head injuries bleed a lot. He’s fine. He is fine. Your teeth were nearly puncturing your bottom lip while you probed the back of his head blindly. Through his wavy hair, it was difficult to find the injury straight away. Once your quickly numbing fingertips pressed onto a swollen split in the skin, you were forced to turn his head for a better look. 

The laceration was small but deep, most likely near to the skull. You couldn’t see bone, but the snow and blood made that nearly impossible. For now, you needed to take care of the blood oozing from the wound and over your fingers. The cold would help with the active bleeding but you unwound your scarf and placed it behind his head. Why the fuck didn’t you bring medical supplies and food on patrols when shit like this was a distinct possibility? 

“Daryl.” You said loud enough to be heard over the wind but with a calm that betrayed the panic stirring within your chest. You had to move. The two of you freeze if you remained. There was also the possibility of walkers or Whisperers, and you were sitting ducks. “Come on, baby, wake up.” The pet name flowed out easily, reserved for intimacy or comfort. 

You were met with unrewarding silence for a moment that seemed to last forever but finally, your archer groaned and grimaced. He made to turn his head before even opening his eyes, gagging almost immediately from the pain that surely accompanied the movement. 

“Stay still for a minute. You’ve got a concussion for sure but I’m worried about more.” You soothed, rubbing his chest in lieu of touching his face or hair. “Getting back is gonna suck. Take some time to get yourself ready.”

“Survived worse.” He slurred. You didn’t need to see his pupils to diagnose the head injury. He had hit so hard that you wondered how the ice didn’t splinter from the impact. You kept a sharp eye on the surroundings to buy him some time. Both of you knew what the journey back to the gates would entail, short as it would be. “Le’s get outta ‘ere.” Daryl shifted toward his side to get an arm beneath him. He had yet to open his eyes, likely knowing the tilt of the world that awaited. 

“Slowly.” You kept your hands on his arms, his shoulders, prepared to assist and comfort. “That’s it.” The archer barely made it to a sitting position before retching, cognizant enough to turn the opposite direction from you. Your hand rubbed circles over his back, a grounding comfort that was also a display of gratitude for not vomiting on you. “I’m sorry.” Your heart ached with a need to draw the pain from him and take it upon yourself. The whimper that followed the sick was the only indicator of the agony the action had likely caused. 

“M’ready.” He panted. 

“Okay, let me grab your crossbow.” You scooped up your scarf, stuffed it into your coat pocket, took carefully swift steps to collect the weapon and strapped it to your back as you returned to his side. “Okay, grab my shoulders and pull yourself up slowly. I’ll help balance you but you go at your pace, okay?” There was the slightest dip of his head in an almost nod before he thought better of it and mumbled an ‘okay’ that you couldn’t even hear. 

You planted your feet, watching the area for any signs of threats while Daryl used you to begin levering himself upward. At the first pull of his weight, you grunted and he let go. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you, baby. I promise you won’t hurt me.” You smiled, hand on the crook of his shoulder with your thumb stroking his collar bone. He didn’t balk at the endearment, not even the usual scoff. 

“Okay.”

The process began again. Daryl was stout, but the challenges of surviving had helped you build strength. While it wasn’t easy, it was not impossible for you to bear the added weight. On his feet, the archer swayed and granted you the first glimpse of his unfocused blue eyes. One pupil was noticeably larger; worrisome but you couldn’t do anything about it. He needed medical attention that the infirmary could hopefully provide. 

You were quick to grab his elbows and steady him when he stumbled backwards. “You’re vertical. I’d say we’re making progress.” One of his arms pulled across your shoulders, the two of you embarked on what promised to be a difficult trek home. 

You’d only been walking for about five minutes, when Daryl lurched forward and vomited, painful heaves that made keeping him upright nearly unattainable. He groaned, clenching his eyes shut and spitting onto the dirt. 

“You can do this. Just hold onto me.” You frowned at the hardened blood on the back of his neck, frozen into flecks by the bitter cold. 

The process repeated several times and by the time the gates were a looming shadow beyond the whiteout, Daryl was putting nearly all of his weight on you, toes of his boots dragging with each slow step. 

“Almost there.” Your voice was no longer reaching him. As the gates opened, the archer went down and dragged you along with him. You began shouting for help, silhouettes of your friends growing more perceivable with each hurried step. “Help! Daryl needs help!” 

Your worry for him was overriding the urgent voices surrounding you, blurred hands coming into view to settle on your archer. You had no choice but to step back and allow them to take him, following in a daze while more hands guided you along. The panic you had stored away was finally able to break free. 

You cried. 

Stitching the wound had been a brutal excursion. Daryl needed to be held down as the near frozen skin, hypersensitive in the heated infirmary, was forced together. Aaron and Gabriel assisted, their guilt for the required intervention was evident in both faces. You sat in front of him, whispering encouragement and reminding him how much you loved him. The archer vomited from the pain alone before unconsciousness mercifully claimed him. 

Without the means to confirm, Daryl was released on strict bedrest in case of a skull fracture. He could sleep as long as you were near to monitor for any changes in his vitals. He would become confused, nauseous, and irritable. You were there to hold back his hair, mindful of the stitched wound. You needed to remind him of where he was and what had happened. At one point, he had even asked for your help in finding Merle, who had died years before. 

After a while, he settled and dozed, Dog on the bed with his furry head on the hunter’s thigh. You finished your list of chores quickly, placing a steaming bowl of soup and a cup of tea on the nightstand by your side of the bed. Daryl was awake the moment you had stepped inside the room. Damn hunter’s senses. 

“Hey, Humpty Dumpty. How are you feeling?” Settling yourself with your knees resting against Dog’s side, your fingers gently brushing back Daryl’s hair. The archer hummed, and caught himself seconds before he would have moved his head to scowl at you for the nickname. 

“Had worse.” He croaked. 

“Doesn’t mean this can’t hurt like a bitch.” You countered immediately. The archer hummed once more. It probably hurt less than speaking. You had helped him clean up just after his release to recover at home. If he was stuck in bed, you were going to make damn sure he was comfortable. The flannel pants and Ozzy t-shirt at least made him smile. “Do you need anything?” You adjusted the blanket Carol had left once during a visit. 

“Jus’ you.”

You smiled, your face and neck flushing. You pressed your lips to his temple, the brush of your mouth against his skin but a mere whisper. 

“You’ve had me for a while, Mr. Dixon. That’s not gonna change now.”

[medusapelagia]

Running From The Daylight - Part 12

Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9,Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, (coming soon Part 13, Part 14, Part 15)

Written for @whumpuary

Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Prompt: Rescue TW: romanticization of death Words: 1065

The fire keeps crackling behind them, but it's getting thinner and thinner, soon only the burning embers will be left and Eddie can't find the strength to get up and feed the fire more wood. They have been snowed in for almost two days, and even if talking with Wayne boosted his morale a little, now Eddie feels hopeless again. Steve is badly hurt and the weather is getting worse, there is no way the rescuer will be able to get there soon if the road is still covered in snow.

In his troubled sleep, Steve whines a little and Eddie shushes him, kissing his forehead.

"You are good... we just have to wait a little longer..." Eddie whispers on his lips, feeling like a liar. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he has almost accepted that rescue will not come, or at least it will not get there in time. There is something sad and romantic in dying together and being found like the embracing couple in Pompei that he saw in a picture during high school.

Eddie tries not to linger on these thoughts, but it's hard not to. He opens Steve's mobile phone and writes a quick message to Wayne.

I love you Wayne.

Then he turns the phone off and tries to sleep, next to his boyfriend.

***

The first thing Eddie hears are the voices, calling their names.

For a moment he wonders if he is asleep and the voices are just a dream, but when catches a glimpse of the torch lights he breathes a big breath of relief.

"They are here! Steve! They are here!" He shakes his boyfriend, but the chestnut haired boy remains unconscious in his lap. Eddie stares at him wondering if he should stay with him, but resolves to begrudgingly leave him and get outside to call for help.

The air is freezing, and it's snowing again "Here! We are here!" Eddie yells in the dark, and when finally the lights turn in his direction he starts to sob, falling to his knees, crushed by the emotions.

"Are you hurt?" One rescuer asks him while gesturing something to another.

Eddie shakes his head, while the second rescuer gets to him and wraps him in a thermal blanket "My boyfriend..." He musters to say between tears.

The rescuer holds him tight, smiling "Don't worry, we will take care of both of you. What's your name?"

"Eddie. My name is Eddie." He whispers.

"Hi Eddie, I'm Donovan. Would you let the doctor have a look at you?" The man asks, dragging him away from the chalet but Eddie starts to trash around.

"Steve! Steve is inside and is injured!" He screams, still crying.

The two rescuers share a look, then Donovan turns and asks him "How do we get inside safely?"

Eddie tells him that the bathroom window is safe and that Steve has a broken leg and maybe a concussion.

The two rescuers talk with each other and they decide that Donovan will try to get in the chalet and if it's safe enough, the doctor will join him, while the other rescuer tries to convince Eddie to get on the ski stretcher but he keeps refusing, his eyes glued to the bathroom window, waiting for Steve, but all he can see is Donovan's head, calling for the doctor and a stretcher.

It takes forever, but when finally Eddie sees the stretcher coming out from the window he runs toward it, calling Steve's name; the boy is still unconscious and in the torchs' light looks even paler, tugged into the golden space blanket.

"We have to bring him to the hospital as soon as possible." The doctor says, checking on Steve's pulse "He has a bad fracture and he is developing a chest infection."

"But he will be ok, right?" Eddie asks, staring blankly at the doctor who doesn't answer but calls two of the rescuers, asking them to bring Steve down to the ambulance with the ski stretcher and get him to the hospital as soon as they can.

The two rescuers nod, take their ski, and start descending taking Steve with them.

"Can you ski?" Donovan asks Eddie, who shakes his head meekly "Ok. Then we will wait here for a bit, ok?" He tells him, guiding him toward a sheltered point "Have you eaten?"

"Not really."

"I have a few energy bars if you want one."

Eddie isn't hungry, but he knows that he has to eat something so he nods and takes one of Donovan's energy bars.

"Nice place." The rescuer says, trying to make small talk "Do you like mountains?"

"Steve, my boyfriend, he is a very sporty guy. He wanted to go hiking. We were getting ready and then we heard a sound and I moved toward the window... Why did I get closer to the window? If I hadn't Steve would be ok!" He mutters, crying even harder, feeling the ice-cold air on his cheeks.

"Eddie, it was an accident. It's not your fault. Ok?"

Eddie rubs his eyes, wiping his nose on his jacket's sleeve "Steve..."

"Steve will be ok. I'm sure that my team already got him to the hospital and they are taking good care of him." The man shows him a sat phone "Anyone you would like to call?"

Eddie takes the phone in his trembling hands and calls Wayne, who answers at the first ring.

"Eddie? Is that you?"

"It's me."

"Are you ok? Hopper called and told me that the rescuers found you! Are you ok? Where are you? I'm coming to get you."

Eddie tries to take some deep breaths to ground himself before answering "I'm still at the chalet. There are some rescuers with me but it's still snowing so they skied to get here. They got Steve out and they brought him down with a ski stretcher. He was so pale, Wayne... I'm scared... I'm scared I will not see him again!" He finally admits, crying on the phone.

"Listen to me, kid, everything is going to be ok. Just stay calm and let the rescuers do their job." Eddie hears the sound of a closing car's door "I promise you I'll be the first person you'll see as soon as you get to down, ok?"

"You promise?" He asks in a voice so little he almost feels ashamed.

"I promise."

[lestatslestits]

@whumpuary Prompt 2 — “Get Away From Me”

Fandom: Doctor Who

Word Count: 1069

Warnings: Emetophobia, contagious illness, spoilers for the 2023 Doctor Who specials

The problem with inviting a nine hundred plus year old Time Lord into your home is that suddenly you’ve got a nine hundred plus year old Time Lord in your home. This means various things in various circumstances, but in this particular circumstance it means being awakened at half-three in the morning to the sound of said Time Lord in the loo vomiting his brains out. Donna Noble traces the noise and finds him huddled on the tile floor, sweat drenched and shivering. His face is a constellation of burst capillaries that burn bright red against his otherwise stark white skin, and his eyes stream tears involuntarily as he recovers from what is clearly not his first round of painful heaves.

Leaning on the door frame, Donna tightens the belt of her dressing gown so that she has something to do with her hands. “Oi, Spaceman. What’s all this, then?” Her words are familiar, practiced, but she keeps her tone uncharacteristically soft. He glances up at her, slack-jawed and swallowing convulsively.

“Donna, get away from me,” he orders with all of the authority he can muster. Which isn’t much (he’s barefoot and clad in silk pyjamas).

Read the rest on AO3

[angeygirl]

Whumpuary 3 - "This is going to hurt"

Crying Child Weekend Bash - Blood/Fun

2 for 1 deal (TW for animal death/animal cruelty)

(Spoilers for Act 2 of the Crying Killer AU)

In his attempts to find something worthwhile to say about all three of this offspring, Father only said two things about Evan, 'he's awfully polite' and 'quiet people are good listeners.' Evan was proving the second point quite well. He could hear everything, the slush beneath his shoes, the wind rattling the barren tree branches, even the chattering of this own teeth But his ears were trained on another sound, the sound of rattling metal.

The cage had been left out overnight, and a day later, the trapped prey was still fighting to find a way out of the bars. Evan stepped closer and looked down. It was a rat, a pretty scrawny one. Hmm, well, it was better then nothing.

He knelt next to the cage. "There's no use in all that." Evan had gone so long without using his voice that words felt foreign on his tongue.

"This is going to hurt, but look at you. If I didn't do it, the cold would."

The rat snapped its teeth.

Was it the natural way he spoke, or did some part of him want to comfort the creature? Evan looked at the rat and saw an equal. His brother was a fox hunting a squirrel, but this? This would be fair. It was going to hurt, but...

What Evan did next was perfectly fair.

This was how big kids had fun, after all. This was perfectly normal. Never mind how the thing squealed, never mind how it bit in vain against Father's work gloves made for protection against fire and steel. Never mind all the blood in the snow.

Maybe it was fun not holding back. Maybe it was fun winning without a single scratch. Maybe it was fun to be in control, dominant. Maybe it was fun to make the thing hurt.

Evan moved the trap away from the bloody site and reset it. Then he trekked back home, still listening to the chattering of his teeth and the wind in the branches and the slush under this shoes. Father's gloves were so dirty with soot and grease that a new stain wouldn't be noticed, but Evan took a shower to get the blood off if himself.

It was odd, he supposed to be standing in a half full tub of icy, reddened water fully clothed, but it was a necessity. He had only gotten a bit on his jeans, but was it worth the risk? Who knew what diseases the thing might have had. Besides, this was a sort of cleansing ritual. When he was a child the sight of a scraped knee was enough to panic him, but now? He could do so much worse.

Did he enjoy it? Was it fun? He didn't know. It was only rats and squirrels for now.

Vermin, like him.

-------

Hope I did both prompts thoroughly enough. I'm actually really liking getting to write mini-oneshots to go with the drawings.

@whumpuary

@and-stir-the-stars

[workingdownthewordmine]

Love Thy Neighbour - Chapter 2 Shadows in the House

Bucky is haunted by an unwanted presence all too close to home.

Read this chapter on AO3 here.

Chapter 1 | Chapter3

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes Rating: T CW: Threat, injury, paranoia, hearing voices, flashbacks, choking Prompts filled: Fandom Free Bingo (Frosty Edition) card 1: Helping the injured @fandom-free-bingo Febuwhump 2024: Day 18 - Too weak to move @febuwhump Multifandom-Flash (Round 2): Through the eyes of madness @multifandom-flash Multifandom-Flash (Discrimination): Dehumanizing insult Whumpuary 2024: Day 2 - "Get away from me"/collapse/choking @whumpuary

Dividers by @unfortunate-beetle-and-friends

“Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?” 

Plato 

The temporary soothing effect of the whimsical gift and its accompanying note wore off as soon as night fell. There was work to do before he could turn in. He travelled every floor, setting his alarms, dragging armfuls of lumber with him to plug up as many points of entry as he could. If someone was going to get in here, he wanted to know exactly what route they’d have to take. No one was going to sneaking up on him down some eccentric crawlspace left behind by decades of half-funded renovations. Every pinch he squirmed through seemed to reveal another crack in the building’s shell until he was choking on dust and the ache in his shoulder and side was making his entire torso throb. How could a building so full of holes still be standing? Even when his lumber supply dried up and he was forced to return to the apartment, he couldn’t stop circling from one window to the next, scanning the streets outside. What had been caution wound about him tighter and tighter until he moved through his home like a deadly sharp coiled spring, poised to taste blood. Eventually he did force himself to lie down, but it didn’t do him much good. The spring would not unwind. 

Bucky slept about as well as he predicted – a little worse than an insomniac who’d been trying to treat their chicken pox with cocaine. He lay with his back pressed to the wall, trying to shield himself against the phantom fingers waiting to close around his throat. 

The voice that crept from his lips was barely a breath in the dark. “I won’t go back.” He dipped his chin in the tiniest nod. “I won’t go back. I won’t go back.” 

He shunned his sleeping bag. He needed to sleep lightly, not lulled by softness. He felt every splinter in the floorboards. Every change of light through the window above him or soft creak from the aging building had his hand tightening on his sidearm, jerking his shoulder until each movement meant a wince and an effort to stay silent. Even without his almost hourly patrols of the building, gun in hand, the night was more exhausting than the day. 

Daylight came as a relief, for as much as fifteen minutes. He lit the stove and poured hot water onto half a cup of coffee granules. Nothing less had a hope of making it through to his central nervous system before his body neutralised it. By the same token, he downed a handful of pills with the first scalding swallow. In defiance of Hollywood’s beliefs, pain wouldn’t sharpen his reflexes, just hinder his control. And he needed to be in control of himself. The painkillers hadn’t even kicked in before his short-lived respite was over.  

It was no more than a car backfiring. He was certain of that. He was no raw recruit filling his shorts with shit at the snap of a twig. So, why was it a full ten minutes before he could thaw from his crouch at the window and stop examining every inch of Legion Street through his scope? Why was every nerve ending already blazing when the alarm sang out overhead? 

Fuck. Fuck. He’d fucked up. All the traps he had laid, all the potential openings he’d boarded up… useless. Someone was up there right over his goddamn head. Useless. Fucking useless. He strapped a knife to his thigh opposite his gun, hesitated, and added another to his shin. The he removed the board from the wall cavity in the hall closet as quietly as possible. 

He’d walked into this situation and no one was going to save him if he didn’t get his shit together and do it himself.  

Even if they could, why would they bother? They’d probably be relieved to have the embarrassing fuck-up taken care of…  

The reptilian voice crawled through the back of his mind as he eased through the gap and into the dark, dusty recess. They wouldn’t come, not even if he called, not when he’d pushed them all away. 

He pulled himself around a beam, metal fingers biting deep into the wood, struggling to breathe in the suffocating gloom. And he couldn’t call. Because his phone was back in his apartment, now fifteen feet below him. Because he knew, didn’t he? He knew and had always known that the best, kindest – hell, the only- thing he could do for anyone he cared about was to stay away from them. Stay entirely out of contact. 

Higher. No beams here. Back and feet braced against either wall. Level with the third floor ceiling with the alarm still wailing above him. Idiot. The noise would tell whoever was up there that they’d been detected. There went any element of surprise and any chance he’d had of tracking their movement until he had eyes on them or that fucking noise stopped. Fucking stupid of him. The shrieking alarm reverberated around his skull. The only thing worse than a monster was an incompetent monster. He moved slower. He pushed through prickling sheets of insulation. The air in his chest burned and his head spun. The shrieking alarm mingled with the mocking sneer inside his head. What good was this half-assed fucking around inside a fucking wall? Without his leash, he was no better than a stray dog loose in the traffic, waiting for a speeding car to end his miserable existence. 

Head already spinning, he didn’t realise he was falling until he smashed through a beam and twisted, raking down the rough wall, the light from his own apartment flashing past him and receding, disappearing into the darkness along with everything else. Ice cold air tearing past him. Agony searing through his arm, rock and snow racing up to meet him… Worthless piece of shit… 

He woke and fought not to scream. The debris around him gouged his flailing body as he wrenched free. He rolled, dropped again, then he was kneeling, shaking, on the mouldy piss-stinking basement floor. He groped at the cracked edges of tile around him, grasping in desperation. Cold, dark, pain… he could feel  the restraints around his limbs dragging him down. The scream ripped free. He kicked furiously, scrabbling for purchase in the dirt, throwing himself towards the doorway and the dim light filtering down the stairwell. His shoulder slammed into the doorframe. He felt the wall tremble as though the whole building was ready to fall.  

Do it… bury me down here. In the pit. Where I belong. 

Merciful darkness swallowed him. 

They took a little longer to reach the basement. They followed the sounds. His fall. His scream. The ringing impact of Vibranium on concrete. Then they hesitated at the head of the last flight of stairs. If he was still conscious, what sort of condition would he be in? To them it seemed most likely they’d find him catatonic or maybe crazed with distress, like a wounded, cornered animal… They’d heard those sounds before. No one who made sounds like that was going to be in a state to roll out a welcome mat. Softly, they descended. 

He woke in a rush of panic, his eyes and lungs burning, unable to recognise his surroundings. There were straps on his arms. His legs. His chest. No. No. No! He forced himself upright, wrenching his left arm across to tear at the fabric binding his right, heedless of the pain in his shoulder. Fresh blood welled under his digging fingertips. He had already shredded the fabric before he realised it wasn’t secured to anything. There was still an intact sea knot amongst the pieces he had stripped away. The cloth was tacky with blood. Not restraints – bandages. Someone had bandaged him while he was unconscious. He heard his own harsh breath filling the room, bruising the silence, as he scanned frantically.  

Newspapered walls. Light blotted out by heavy boards across the windows. The floor stained and pitted but fairly clear of garbage… because he had shovelled it all out into the alley during his first week here. He remembered deciding he’d get his own place fixed up first but that he wouldn’t leave all that gross shit and trash to stink everything up and rot the wood even further. It had taken him a day or two to haul everything out. Him. He was in one of the downstairs apartments. Alive. Unrestrained. No more harmed than he’d been after…  

The fall. That fucking voice. He whipped around, ignoring the flares of pain all over him, expecting to find a familiar silhouette looming over him. Expecting rusted metal to choke him at any moment. But he was alone. The only presence he could detect was his own. Still, he didn’t trust it yet. He hadn’t forgotten the story Steve had related – waking up in a room Fury’s people had designed. Who was to say the same wasn’t happening to Bucky right now? Maybe they’d decided they weren’t comfortable with having him on the loose after all. Maybe Hydra had copied the trick. He wouldn’t put it past them. But why now, when they’d never troubled themselves to make him feel at home before? 

It was only as he got stiffly to his feet that he noticed he had not been lying on bare floor as he’d assumed. Where his head had rested there was a bundle of cloth. He pulled it towards him and it unrolled into a stained black hoodie, heavy with the mingled smells of blood and sweat. And someone had rolled it up into a pillow for him. He dropped it beside his feet and paused to examine his bandages more closely. They didn’t look like they’d been very neat even before his violent clawing but those that had survived his panic were still fairly secure, tied off like the one he’d destroyed, not pinned or taped. The worst of his wounds – a deep gash in his right thigh – had an extra strip of fabric tied over the top of the crepe bandages. Improvised bandages had changed somewhat since France; the addition wasn’t scavenged linen. He plucked at the thin stretchy cotton and recognised part of an old t-shirt. He grunted with amusement, in spite of the weird situation, when his probing fingers found a green paw mark printed on the black fabric. That, more than anything else, struck him as an unlikely ploy for any of his enemies. He thought of the plant in its bright pot and the friendly note that had accompanied it. 

He tested his arm and legs. Bruised, bleeding in a few places, but nothing broken. His bones didn’t break readily. He took a deep breath and doubled over choking. His throat was raw. His cheeks grew hot at the memory of his terrified screaming. It was probably too much to hope that no one had heard. 

What an embarrassment you are. So much training wasted… 

He had to get out of here. 

The stairs were a difficult climb. His lungs were full of fire. The absence of the tripwires on his floor registered mostly in relief that he wouldn’t have to negotiate them with watering eyes and stumbling feet. He stepped carefully round the stakes he had embedded beneath false patches of linoleum in his entryway, holding the wall for balance. He squinted painfully out of the window, trying to gauge how long he had been incapacitated. Looked like afternoon. Hours, then. Guilt and shame twisted in his gut.  

He stared through streaming eyes between the doorways of the hall closet and his bedroom. He wasn’t exactly going to be safe with that big fucking hole into the wall  sitting there open and visible, but how safe was he anyway? He’d completely failed to make this place any kind of fortress. The alarm was no longer screaming. Had the battery died? Had someone turned it off? He swayed as he turned his gaze to his sleeping bag. God, he needed rest. How long had it been since he had screamed so much that it hurt to breathe? He ran his hands over his torso, searching, but the pain wasn’t right for broken ribs and he found no evidence of them. Gravity pulled at him. He leaned on the door jamb, willing the smooth surface to cool his prickling forehead. Was it possible to come down with the flu in the space of a couple of hours? Could he even still catch the flu? That was enough thought to set his head spinning. His fingertips splintered the doorframe as he rocked on his feet. Down. Lie down. Important. The sleeping bag seized his gaze again.  

You’ve been sleeping all day. Why should a performance like today’s earn a nap? 

The last word was spat in his face, with all the disdain the childish concept deserved.  

What do you think you deserve for humiliating yourself? A pat on the head and a cookie? 

“I’ll do better…” he found himself muttering. He scrubbed his hand across his red eyes and drew in a sharp breath at the fresh wave of pain left in its wake. Mastering himself, he crossed back to the closet and hauled up the board that covered the hole. He set it in place and cast about for the tools to fix it there. So dark in this shadowy recess, out of sight of the apartment’s few windows. He blinked, trying to clear the terrible gritty feeling from his eyes. The closet seemed darker each time it came back into view. The darkness flickered like the static on a television set. The unsteady floor rattled as he crashed down on his knees then pitched forwards onto his face. 

Consciousness returned with punishing weight, yet left him in the dark. The force that had woken him pressed him down against the bare wood. He jerked under another blow, the impact echoing around his skull. Stop. Please. I’ll do better… Please. Another thud. Pleading never helped… Another wince. A voice. He flinched, expecting more pain. But the voice was outside of his head. No… No! He fumbled blindly for his pistol. Both arms were too heavy to move.  

To think I called something like you an asset…  

He gulped, throat closed, no sound beyond a gurgle. Had he- was his jaw broken again? Thud… Thud, thud. The blows sporadic and somehow distant. He couldn’t pull himself from the past, his weakened body seeming to occupy both at once. He groped for the gun again. Couldn’t grip. Slipping. There was a soft scrabbling at the front door. The knob rattled. He made one more grasp for his weapon, then the darkness of memory closed over his face.  

[walker-extended-universe]

We Need To Talk About Henry

Relationship(s): Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, August Walker & Emily Walker & Stella Walker

Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Wakes & Funerals, Family Reunions, First Meetings, Awkward Conversations, Angst

Summary: A Henry Winchester Verse spinoff in which Cordell was the one that died and Sam and Dean have to pass on hunting knowledge to the next generation.

Written for @whumpuary prompt 5: "Stay. Please."

Part 2 of Walkernatural Extras

Taglist: @theladywyn, @ihavepointysticks, @klaatu51, @itsjessiegirl1, @neptunium134

-------

Dean had almost been excited when his phone rang. After taking out God, monster activity had slowed to almost nothing, likely thanks to Jack’s influence on the world. Dean wasn’t exactly complaining about the lack of people dying, but he was starting to get antsy, stuck in the bunker for weeks on end without anything to do or research. There were only so many times he could wash Baby and clean his guns before that got old.

“This is Dean,” he greeted without looking at the caller ID.

“Hi…. Dean. It-It’s Emily. Are you busy? Is Sam there?”

“Ah- Not at the moment. Why?”

“Can you get him? I-I have news.”

Dean had a sinking feeling it wasn’t news either of them wanted to hear. “Yeah, just let me find him.”

He found Sam in the library (of course) and sat across the table from him, putting Emily on speaker and setting the phone between them. “Okay, Emily. We’re both here. What’s your big news?”

“I- Well….. It’s Cordell. He- He’s dead.”

Dean’s stomach dropped and his eyes flicked to Sam. They hadn’t had the best relationship with their other brother since he left all those years ago but it had gotten slightly better over the years, with Cordell helping some of their friends have a normal life. But things had always been different between the twins.

Sam swallowed hard but had no other outward reaction- yet. “What- What happened?”

“It was…. It’s just the job. Just… Just a normal raid,” she said quietly. “There were more guys there than they expected and he got separated from his partner…. He didn't even make it to the hospital.” Her voice wavered on the last sentence.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. What else was there to say?

“Me too.” Emily sniffled then spoke again. “Look, we’re holding a funeral here in a few days after the DPS has their pony show funeral for their ‘hero’. It’s just gonna be a small thing, family and close friends. People that know about you. I… I think he’d like it if you came. And… I want you to meet the kids. I think it’d be good for them.”

Dean looked back at Sam, waiting for some kind of response. They should go to their brother’s funeral, but he didn’t like how quiet Sam was.

“We’ll be there,” Sam said. “Just text us the time and address.”

“Okay. Thank you. I-I’ll be in touch.” She hung up and Dean slid the phone into his pocket. 

“Sam? You okay?”

“He’s dead, Dean. How okay do you expect me to be?” He pushed himself up from the table and left the room.

Dean didn’t have an answer to that.

—------------

Cordell was dead. Henry was dead. His twin was dead.

No matter how Sam turned it over in his head, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

Cordell was supposed to be the safe brother. He got out of hunting. He got married, started a family, paid a mortgage. Sure, he worked in law enforcement which was only a few steps down from hunting, but they had far better protection than any hunters did.

The idea that something as simple as a bullet could take his brother from him just didn’t seem possible.

“Sam, you ready?”

Sam snapped out of his thoughts and realized they were parked in front of the ranch where Cordell’s private funeral was being held. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m ready,” he muttered, opening the door before he could be questioned further.

There were a few other cars. Emily did say it was going to be a private thing. Sam and Dean still wore suits, just in case.

Sam let Dean take the lead and stood a little behind him as he knocked. They only had to wait a few moments before Emily answered. She smiled softly at them and stepped aside to let them in. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I- Everyone’s out back. We- Cordell wanted his body burned on a pyre so we set something up in the yard. I guess that’s what you call a hunter’s funeral? He put in his will so… Can’t really argue with it. I was just going to cremate him but this is what he wanted.”

Sam couldn’t look her in the eye, but he could tell she was wrecked. Not that he could blame her. He knew the pain of losing someone he loved. She was handling it better than he or Dean ever did.

“Yeah, that’s a hunter’s funeral,” Dean said. “Kinda surprised he asked for one, but I guess it never hurts to be careful.”

“Yeah, I guess not….” Emily led them out of the back door of the ranch house. There was a small group of people standing near the pyre,

There was an older couple that Sam vaguely remembered from the last time they’d been in Austin almost 15 years ago, when they were looking for Henry after Jess died. They were talking to a man Sam didn’t recognize. Standing a few feet away were two teenagers, the kids Emily had talked about before if he had to guess. They were talking to another couple that Sam didn’t recognize at all.

He had expected more people. True, Emily had said this was going to be private, but he expected close family and friends to include more people. Maybe that was just his imagination running away with him.

Emily led them over to the teenagers first. “Stella, August,” she started, “these are the… extended family I told you about before. Sam and Dean. Sam, Dean, these are your niece and nephew.”

Extended family was probably a better term than they deserved. “It’s nice to meet you two, finally,” was all Sam could think to say, smiling as best he could.

Stella regarded them cautiously. “Glad you could make it,” she muttered. 

Her brother smiled at them briefly. “It’s nice to meet you too. I… I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Hi, I’m Geri. This is Hoyt,” said the woman standing near them. “We’re friends of Cordell. I’m glad you came.”

“Glad to be invited,” Dean said.

Emily smiled tightly. “Right. Well, I think we’re about ready- Oh, Larry!” She waved at someone behind them. “Larry, Did you bring what I asked?”

Sam looked over his shoulder to see a newcomer. “Ah, yes, I did,” the man said, holding up a gas can. “Still can’t believe he asked for this….” He eyed Sam and Dean curiously, looking to Emily with a silent question.

“Oh, right. Larry, these are Cordell’s other brothers, Sam and Dean. Sam and Dean, this is Larry James. He’s… Cordell’s partner. With the rangers.”

Sam felt more than saw Dean stiffen. He knew exactly what his brother was thinking; Henry’s partner was supposed to watch his back. And he failed. He grabbed Dean’s arm, silently begging him not to make a scene. Not here, not now.

“Nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you from Cordell. Maybe we can get drinks and swap stories together while we’re in town,” Larry offered.

“Not sure we’ll be in town that long,” Dean said curtly.

Emily coughed and took the can from Larry’s hands. “Let’s just do this? Abby’s got lunch made for everyone inside. You can all talk then.”

Sam discreetly kept a hold on Dean’s arm while they watched Henry’s body burn. He was afraid of what Dean might say or do on his own, watching someone else light the body while the man who was (partially) responsible for his death stood there like he belonged. It must kill Dean as much as it was killing him that they, Henry’s brothers, felt like the outsiders here.

The man of the older couple put out the fire as the ashes started to die down and everyone went inside. Emily introduced them to Liam, Henry’s “brother” and Abby and Bonham, the owners of the ranch and the people who had taken Henry in after he left all those years ago.

Honestly, Sam was happy for his twin. He’d managed to do something none of the rest of the Winchesters did; he built a life and a family of his own and kept them safe in every way he could. But, all the same, he was hurt that he’d essentially be replaced in his brother's life. And he knew Dean felt that too.

Sam was glad they came to the funeral. He just wished it didn’t hurt so much.

Larry James was the first to leave, not without promising to follow up on that drink offer. Sam smiled because Dean wouldn’t and they were left with the rest of the Walker family. Listening to them tell stories about Henry only served to make Sam and Dean feel more outcast and unwelcome.

They braved the stories and inside jokes they couldn’t participate in for as long as they could before they took their leave.

Emily stopped them before they went out the door. “You could stay,” she said, almost desperately. “There’s plenty of motels in town but I’m sure Abby and Bonham would let you-”

“We don’t want to outstay our welcome,” Dean muttered.

“Please, stay.” Emily's hand rested on his arm. “I- Maybe it’s not fair of me to ask this but you being here does help. And….” she sighed. “If you need a real reason to stay, Cordell never got around to telling them about monsters. I wanted him to tell them sooner but…. He always said he wanted them to have real childhoods and monsters weren’t part of that.”

Sam looked at Dean and knew what his answer would be. Whether they were welcome here or not, those kids were family. Family that was very much at risk without a skilled hunter around to protect them. If Henry couldn’t pass on the family business, they would have to do it for him.

“We can do that,” Sam said.

Emily smiled and thanked them. “I’ll- I’ll talk to the kids and let you know when to come by and give them the talk.”

“Sounds good.” Sam could only hope the conversation would go as well as Emily hoped it would.

—-------

Dean drove them to the Walker home in the suburbs two days after the funeral. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” he said, looking at the deceptively picturesque house from their spot on the curb.

“Someone has to talk to them,” Sam said. “They need to know the truth before they learn it the hard way.”

“Yeah, well, they won’t wanna hear it.”

“They never do.”

Emily greeted them at the door and led them into the living room where Stella and August were waiting. Again, August smiled at them but Stella refused to make eye contact.

There wasn’t a single universe within anyone’s imagination where this conversation wasn’t going to be awkward. No matter how much Emily smiled or how gentle Sam and Dean tried to be with it or how interested August tried to look. It was never going to go well. No one ever reacted well to hearing monsters were real. Dean could only imagine how much more awkward it would be when you were also learning that most of what you knew about your Dad was a lie.

But, as Sam said, someone had to tell them. It may as well be their family.

They didn’t get much further than ‘Monsters are real and we need to teach you how to kill them’ before Stella stopped playing nice. “This is bullshit.”

Emily stared at her. “Stella-”

“It is!” Stella pushed herself up from the couch and glared at her mother. “You can’t expect us to just go with this. You randomly tell us Dad has two brothers we’ve never heard about before, then they come in and tell us monsters exist so they have an excuse to hang out with us, and we’re not supposed to think that’s weird? No. I’m not doing this.” She stormed out of the room and Emily followed on her heels.

August stayed sitting at the table, staring at his hands. “You guys should probably go,” he muttered. “It’ll be a while before she calms down and she still won’t listen to you.”

“Right. Okay. Tell your mom ‘bye’ for us,” Dean muttered.

It probably could’ve gone worse, he thought to himself while mindlessly flipping through tv channels in their motel room that night. He tried not to think too much about why he and Sam weren’t packing up yet, when it was so obvious they didn’t belong here.

Then, there was a knock on the door.

Dean exchanged a look with Sam and cautiously approached the door. It was too late to be housekeeping and there was no one else who would bother them here.

Dean checked through the peephole before answering the door. “...August.”

The kid stood in front of the door, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “Can I come in?” he asked in a small voice.

Dean stepped aside to let him in. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

August glared at him. “I’m 15, not 5. I don’t have a ‘bedtime’.”

“Curfew then.”

“It’s not until midnight. I have time. And Mom knows I’m here anyway; she told me where you were staying.”

“That’s all well and good, August,” Sam said from his spot on the bed. “But that doesn’t answer the question. Why are you here?”

August unhunched his shoulders and looked at them with a determination that reminded Dean a little too much of Henry. “I want to learn how to kill monsters.”

“You sure about that, kid?” Dean asked. “Your sister didn’t seem too jazzed about the idea.

August looked down. “Yeah, well…. She doesn’t get it.”

“What doesn’t she get?” Sam asked gently.

August shrugged, looking away from Dean. “It’s just….Dad’s always protected us,” he said quietly. “From people and… I guess monsters too. But he’s not here now. Someone has to look after us since he’s not here anymore. Uncle Liam is going back to New York soon and Gramps is getting older and you two won’t be here forever. So…It has to be me.”

It has to be me. Practically a Winchester motto. He didn’t even need to look at Sam to know what he was thinking. “You’re a little young to be thinking that way, kid,” Dean said.

August deflated. “...So you won’t teach me?”

“Didn’t say that,” Dean said. “We will teach you. We’ll teach Stella too if she’ll let us. We owe it to your dad.”

“But it’s not gonna be easy,” Sam warned. “Fighting monsters is dangerous. There’s a reason your dad kept it a secret for so long.”

“I know. I’m ready for that.” But he didn’t know. And he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

“Right. Well, either way, we’re not starting your lessons now. Go home and get some rest. We’ll start in the morning,” Dean promised.

August nodded and left, leaving the brothers alone again.

Dean sighed as the door clicked shut behind him. Guess we’re staying in town for a little bit.” He only hoped they’d stay welcome.

[fanfictasia]

Whumpuary Prompt 2

Bruises 

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from Leap of Faith

“You’re injured,” Crosshair states finally after several minutes of absolute silence.

When she turns towards him, he’s looking at her, or rather, his helmet is turned in her direction. “Yes,” she confirms, though he already knew that.

“You should put bacta on them,” he tells her, standing, “Can’t send you back injured.”

Despite his brusque tone, Omega is starting to suspect that’s his way of showing that he cares, but even if it’s not, she can’t say no to getting treated. She aches all over, and her injuries are throbbing much worse now that she no longer has to worry about getting caught, not to mention how exhausted she is. Standing, she limps after him to the main hold, sitting in a seat and watching as he pulls out a medpac.

“Do you need help?” Crosshair asks, and she blinks in surprise at the question. In truth, she hadn’t even thought about it.

“Probably,” she admits, lightly pressing a hand to her side. “I can get most of it though.”

He pulls off his helmet, setting on a nearby chair and walking over to her, dropping to one knee. “Let me see it.”

Wincing as she moves, Omega reveals the deep blue-purple bruise on her side. Crosshair’s eyes are icy, but he doesn’t say anything as he takes off his gloves, reaching for the bacta in the medpac. With far more gentleness than she thought him capable of, given his disposition, he rubs the bacta into her skin, over the injury. “Nothing is broken,” he assures, not looking at her. “What happened?”

“I got hit by a stunrod the second time I tried to escape,” she admits. Which was only a couple days before her last, successful, attempt.

“Hm.”

She can’t decide if he sounds impressed or disbelieving. Or neither. They don’t talk as he helps her apply bacta and bandages to the rest of her injuries.

“Rest,” he says when they’re done. “I’ll tell you when we arrive.”

[serickswrites]

Noggin

Warnings: concussion, head injury, blood, injury, caretaker and whumpee

“Whumpee, look out!” Caretaker shouted as they saw Whumper swing the crowbar. 

But it was too late. Caretaker heard the crowbar connect with Whumpee’s temple and watched as they dropped like a stone. Whumper dropped the crowbar and ran. But Caretaker didn’t care. They only had eyes for Whumpee. 

Whumpee who was laying in a heap on the ground. Whumpee whose clothing was soaked through as the puddle they landed in seeped into their coat. Whumpee who was unnaturally still. Whumpee who was eerily quiet. 

“Whumpee! Whumpee! Say something!” Caretaker shouted as they dropped to their knees next to Whumpee. 

Whumpee groaned as Caretaker reached them, hand going to their bloodied temple. Blood was actively flowing from a wound at their temple, coloring their hairline, and dripping down their cheek and collecting under their chin. 

“Shit,” Caretaker said as they tried to help Whumpee to sitting, but Whumpee tilted sideways, almost hitting their head on the ground once more. 

“C-C-Caretakerrrrr?” Whumpee’s muffled words were slurred and quiet. 

“I’m here, Whumpee, I’m here.” Caretaker looked around for help. Someone. Anyone. Whumpee needed help now. 

“H-H-Hurts.” Whumpee closed their eyes, face pinched with pain. 

“I know. I know. We’re going to get you out of here. I promise.”

Whumpee lifted one hand to their mouth, the other hanging limply at their side. “G-G-Gonnnnnna sssssick,” Whumpee whispered as they clamped their hand over their mouth. 

Caretaker didn’t like that Whumpee couldn’t move their other hand. Didn’t like that Whumpee wouldn’t open their eyes so Caretaker could check their pupils. This could be more than just a bad concussion. They didn’t have time. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean you up. I’m sorry about this,” they muttered as they scooped Whumpee into their arms. 

“Dizzzzzyyy, sickkkkkk. S-S-Stopppp.” Whumpee grit out through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to get you to help. You’ll be ok. You’ll be ok,” Caretaker murmured over and over as they ran to their car with Whumpee in their arms. They tried to ignore how Whumpee fell silent. Tried to ignore how Whumpee grew heavy in their arms. And they tried to ignore the terror writhing in their belly that they wouldn’t get Whumpee to help in time. Whumpee would be ok. They had to be ok.  

[shywhumpauthor]

Masterpost

<<Please read before requesting>>

I accept requests for drabbles, snippets, prompt lists, asks regarding my series, pretty much anything—given that the topic of the request is within my comfort zone

Art sideblog: @charcoalsketches

Spam sideblog: @coal-commits-arson

(I will try to keep this updated to current)

Writing Challenges

The Merry Whump of May 2022

Summer of Whump 2022

Whumptober 2022

Whumpuary 2023

The Merry Whump of May 2023

Two Weeks of Whump 2023

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Prompts

Plushie Whump // Defiant Lab Whump // Desert Whump // Mute Whumpers~Caretakers // Shivering // Doctor Whumpers // Comfort Plushies // Healing Powers // Betrayed by Team // Humane Whumpers // Bath Time With Trauma // Short Betrayal Thing // Mean Caretaker // Lab Rat Whumpee = Lonely // Some Dialogue // Whumpers Who Get Carried Away // Rating Whump Locations // Experiment Prompt List // How Whumpee Meets Caretaker Prompt List // Mock Executions // Captured Prince Prompt List // Teammate Caretaker x Leader Whumpee // Belts as Restraints // Recovery Center List // Doghouse // Feral Whumpee Recovery // Torture Idea // Both Caretaker and Whumpee are Captives // Ribbons (Short Snippet) // Safety in Restraints // Two Beds // Caretaker is New Master // Brutal Whump Idea // Bleeding Ungrateful // Old Wounds // Tally // Injured Back // Tied to a Table // Driver // Redeemed Villain Captured With Team // Gentle Pet Whump // Ear Pains // Hero Being Manipulated Snippet // Signs of Whump // Morgue Prompt // Cold in Captivity // Sharp Teeth Supernatural Whumpee // Broken Whumpees and Regret // Possessive Whumpers // Tucked in // Auction Prep // Emergency Contact // Marbles // Familiar Whumpee and Whumper // Sunburn +Whipping // Overworked // Branded Handprints //

Other Prompts

1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10 // 11 // 12 // 13 // 14 // 15 // 16 // 17 // 18 // 19 // 20 // 21 // 22 // 23 // 24 // 25 // 26 // 27 //

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Drabble Masterpost

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Series

The Prince of a Bloodstained Game (completed)

My first ever series, made a while ago. Royal Whumper Leonidas, spy Whumpee who was sent to kill him Harlow. My advice, just don't. Don't go there. I haven't looked back. Who knows what horrors await in my old writing

A Drop Of Honey

Probably my most consistent series tbh, ongoing for months. I only work on it when requested. Bitch Whumpee called Bee, no other characters are worthy of names. We've got Friend and Whumper, that's it

Red Stained Riches

(Whumptober 2022) Kaden shouldn't have gone to the party. Rich creepy whumper named Mathias. Ongoing.

Surveillence

Whumpuary 2022. Ignore how the first 12 parts are nameless, I’m slowly going back to fix it. Noah is a spy, and hell is he in over his head

Landline

Coriander took a turn a bit too fast during a storm, and they ended up on the wrong person’s doorstep.

To the Victor the Spoils

A choose-your-own-adventure, interactive whump series

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

My Old Writing Masterlist

In my most professional opinion, just stay away.

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[whumpuary]

Whumpuary 2025!

(edit in case anyone actually reads this, i messed up and put "i'm fine" in twice for day 25 and alt prompt, so either ignore that or you can use "do it" as an additional alt prompt)

these prompts came together through community submissions and then a voting form where people voted for their favorites, here are the top 53 prompts

i want to try a slightly new format where there are still only 15 days for creation prompts but with additional community prompts/questions. those are entirely voluntary but are here to possibly inspire some community interaction and trying new things

i'm excited to see some awesome creations in january!

go here for info/rules/tagging go here for faqs

(note: number 31 is not a creation prompt and therefore not required to complete the challenge, it's just colored black so the colors add up)

text version of the prompts and rules is under the cut

(image description note: there are 31 numbered prompts, on each odd number the text color is black and on even numbers the text color is white)

Whumpuary 2025

a whump-themed multi media creation event for january

create for at least one prompt from each odd/black number to complete the challenge community prompts (even/white) numbers are voluntary

main prompts

1. sacrifice | headache | "this will hurt" 2. how did you find the whump community? 3. choice | storm | black eye 4. what are your favorite whump tropes? 5. "do you trust me" | manhandled | chills 6. share your favorite whump creations (others or yours!) 7. unfair fight | insomnia | "no one is coming" 8. what media genre do you like whump in? 9. trapped under rubble | gunpoint | out of time 10. write your own whump prompt 11. "i didn't ask for this" | blood | abandoned 12. create something in a new/less familiar medium 13. close call | sleep | choking 14. what's your favorite character dynamic? 15. handcuffed | dead | "please, stop" 16. leave a comment on a whump fic/art/creation 17. drugged | "i'm glad you're alive" | revenge 18. favorite whump medium? (movie, book, art, ...) 19. "let them go" | overworked | head injury 20. send a nice message to someone in the community 21. bruises | "who are you?" | immortality 22. take 10 minutes to work on a wip 23. backhand slap | alone | "i can't do this anymore" 24. what do you take inspiration in? 25. "i'm fine" | missing | drowsiness 26. draw/doodle something whumpy 27. stuck in a loop | twisting the knife | rescue 28. find a creator in the #whumpuary tag and send them an ask 29. kidnapped | "don't leave me" | devotion 30. make a whump meme 31. say something nice about your own work

alt prompts

hiding impaled "i'm fine" rain betrayal hair pulling darkness falling (added later, not in the image: "do it")

rules & info

-any medium is allowed (art, writing, gifs, edits, ...) -prompts are open for interpretation (but the context does have to be whumpy) -create for at least one of three prompts on creation prompt days (black/odd numbers) to complete the challenge -if you're not aiming for completionist you can do however many prompts you want any way you want -community prompts (white/even numbers) are voluntary and don't count for completionist (but can be combined with creation prompts if applicable) -use alt prompts to replace main prompts you don't like some works posted on tumblr will be reblogged if tagged correctly -#whumpuary2025 -#whumpuaryno1 (number of the prompt(s)) -#sacrifice #head injury #"i'm fine" (the prompt(s) you're using) -any trigger/content warning tags -any additional tags (fandom, oc, other used tropes, ...)

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Sketch of Sophie pointing a gun directly at Eliot, who is tied to a metal post with rope around his wrists, which are behind his back, his torso and upper arms, and his neck. He has bruises and open wounds on his face and collar bone, and is looking directly back at her. Both have Redemption season 2 style hair. End ID]

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Whumpuary prompt fill for Held at Gunpoint

A con goes sideways and Sophie ends up having to shoot Eliot in order to not blow her cover, which would get them both killed.

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Redemption S2 spoilers below cut

If you wanted added angst and drama, this all happens because of things in Sophie's past that she was keeping from them, and Parker is super angry because her keeping secrets almost gets Eliot killed (maybe he has to go to a medic because it takes a long time for the crew to get to him and save him after the gunshot wound).