#whumpuary2024 prompts

[whumpuary]

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

[serickswrites]

"I'm Fine."

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, blood, bloody nose, bruises, rescue

Caretaker quickly made their way through the abandoned warehouse. Whumper had said that they taken Whumpee here. That they tortured Whumpee here. And that they left Whumpee to die here.

Caretaker prayed they weren't too late.

"Whumpee?" Caretaker called, hoping beyond hope that Whumpee could hear them. No sound came. "Come on, Whumpee. I'm here. I'm here. Please, say something."

Caretaker rounded the corner and gave a gasp. "Whumpee!"

Whumpee was slumped over in the chair they were bound to. Blood coated their shirt, parts of the chair, and had dripped onto the floor in places. Whumpee moaned at the sound of Caretaker rushing forward.

"Whumpee! Say something. Talk to me, Whumpee."

"Caretakerrrr," Whumpee croaked. They lifted their head weakly and blinked up at Caretaker. Their face was swollen and bruised, blood dripping in a steady stream from their nose. "'m finnnnnne."

"You are definitely not fine. But I'm here. I've got you. Let's get you out of here."

Whumpee nodded and let their head drop. "'ump'r?"

"Handled." Caretaker quickly began to saw through the thick coils of rope at Whumpee's ankles. "I'm sorry it took me so long to find you, Whumpee."

"'s'kay," Whumpee's voice was barely audible.

Caretaker looked up at Whumpee. Whumpee's face was ghostly pale, and they blinked slowly, their eyes beginning to roll back as they stared down at Caretaker. "None of that, Whumpee," Caretaker tapped Whumpee's cheek as they rose up and began to saw at the ropes on Whumpee's wrists. "None of that. You stay awake and with me, you here? Whumpee!"

"'m 'wakkkkke," Whumpee hissed as they gritted their teeth, fighting unconsciousness. "So.....so tireddddd."

"I know you are, Whumpee. But you have to stay awake. You have to stay awake until I can get you to help. Ok?"

Whumpee nodded, as they swallowed hard. "Stay'ng."

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumpuary Day 17-18

Prompt: Headache (alt)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None

You had not been home long when Daryl came shuffling through the door. He had gone on a run, leaving at the ass-crack of dawn but they were back by early afternoon with two boxes of medical supplies as fruits of their labor. Then he had been helping to move the solar panels and work on the battery hookup with Eugene. You were certain he was thrilled about that. 

You knew he hadn’t stopped; hadn’t told anyone he needed a break. It’s just who he was. Help until the job was done. It was a given that he’d be exhausted. You’d let him relax, maybe shower, while you made a quick dinner. 

Except… he stumbled after closing the door, the tips of the fingers on his left hand pressed against his temple. He didn’t so much as wave before depositing himself face first onto the couch, long legs hanging over the edge of the cushions. If it wasn’t so out of character for him, you’d find it comical. 

“Uh, hi.” You leaned into the room before actually entering. “Rough day?” There was a muffled mhm. “Hungry?” Another muted answer, but this one was mm-mm. God, you wanted to laugh, but that would need to wait until you found out a little more about why your boyfriend came home and immediately attempted to suffocate himself on the living room furniture. 

You knelt slowly, rubbing your hand over the warm leather on his back. You were pretty sure the next noise was a sigh. 

“Are you okay?” You ventured, probing a little more while leaving space in between questions so as not to irritate the archer. You thought he might have said super and was a bit dry, but it was hard to tell with the thick fabric pressed against his face. 

You shifted to properly sit on the floor, moving your hand in random patterns over his back. Maybe if you were patient, he would decide air was a good thing and sit up to enjoy it. You didn’t have anywhere else to be. It took about five minutes for him to very slowly roll his head toward you, expression drawn and eyes squinted. Uh oh. Your Dixon sense was tingling. 

“What’s wrong?”

He visibly attempted a scowl but gave up after only a brief effort. “Head.”

Oh, the jokes you could make. Not the time, Y/N. 

“Headache.” It wasn’t a question. It was blatantly obvious after he’d given you a clue. Judging from his flushed skin and the tension nearly vibrating over his form, it was a bad one. “Okay, just a second.” Daryl didn’t normally get headaches, so you were unsure how to treat one in a man that never complained and despised feeling weak or vulnerable. As you pulled the shades and closed the curtains, you glanced back at him. 

Weak was a fitting word. If a herd plowed through right now, he’d probably thank them when they started to eat him. 

With the room sufficiently darkened, you crouched in front of him, brushing his hair away from his eyes with a barely there swipe of your fingertips. “I’m going to go get a few things for you. Just relax here until I get back.”

“S’okay.” He mumbled, his arm falling away from where it had been tucked at his side. He let his hand hit the floor with little care. “Don’ need ta go outta yer way. M’good.”

A tilt of your head and tender smile should have been enough of a response, but just in case it wasn’t. “You know better than that. Sit tight.” You backed away from him in case he was about to offer any other objections but he surrendered and turned his hand with a thumbs up. 

You made a list in your head as you shuffled around the house. Pain killers. Tylenol would be okay but you were hoping for one of the stronger ones he’d been given when he’d broken his ribs. He was just as stubborn then so there were probably at least a couple left. 

While on your search, you were passing by other things you needed. Washcloths. The small basin that you reserved for cleaning him up when he came home bloody. And eureka! Pills! 

You contemplated getting him some comfortable clothes but the less he moved right then, the better. As an afterthought, you toed off your boots, quieting your steps significantly when you descended the stairs. If he noticed you bypassing him to disappear into the kitchen, he didn’t voice it. He’d need a glass of water to take the pills though you were certain he wasn’t beyond swallowing them dry. You filled the basin with cool water as well and strategically balanced your burden while padding back into the living room. 

Placing the items on the end table, you leaned down to press the most gentle kiss to the crown of his head. His eyes were closed but you were almost certain he wasn’t asleep.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to move around for just a minute and then you can stay still as long as you want. Deal?” 

“Don’ wanna.” He groaned, reminding you very much of a grumpy toddler. Your hands drifted to his shoulders, pulling up as gingerly as you could to motivate him. 

“Come on.” His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw clenched against the throbbing in his skull. Those things were counterproductive when dealing with a headache but if you could get him to take the pills and lie down more comfortably, maybe he’d relax a little. “I got the leftover strong ones so this should start helping pretty quickly.”

“Okay.” He was so quiet and looked so small at that moment. You wanted to wrap him up and hold onto him forever. He held out his palm and you handed over the medication, barely getting the glass in front of him in time for him to swallow with the water. 

“Okay, now you get pampered.” You crawled to the far end of the couch next to your supplies and sat, patting your thighs. “Your pillow awaits, handsome.” You were barely able to stifle the giggle when he rolled his eyes before promptly pressing his palm against his forehead with a drawn out whine of ow. 

He stayed silent while stretching out on his back, his head resting on your lap. You smiled down at him while one hand dipped cloth into the water and squeezed out the excess. 

“You don’t have to do anything. I’ve got you.” You were gentle and careful when lifting his head slightly to place the cool cloth over the back of his neck. He winced at the movement regardless, making you frown. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.” He murmured, but you still felt a pang of guilt. 

The second cloth now wrung out, you folded it and placed it over his eyes. When he melted deeper into the couch with a sigh, you grinned triumphantly. That part out of the way, you pressed two fingers, gently but firmly, against each of his temples and began massaging the area. You could feel the pulsing there, so too much would not be beneficial. You began to alternate between that and carefully scratching your fingernails over his scalp to stimulate blood flow. 

After no more than five minutes, before you even needed to rewet the cloths, he was softly snoring on your lap. Still, you continued, determined to make sure the headache was gone before stopping. 

An hour later, you had removed the cloths and stopped massaging. Your fingers carded idly through his hair as he slept. He had turned onto his side and pressed his face into your stomach, not a single line of pain left showing. 

Daryl so seldom got to relax that seeing him like that and just being able to take it all in was something you found you wanted to do over and over again. Maybe you’d start being more appreciative of the time you could spend watching him sleep in the moonlight from the bedroom window. You knew that was going to be your new favorite bedtime ritual. 

A deep breath drew you from your thoughts and back to him, his eyes fluttering but barely opening. 

“Thanks, sunshine.” He whispered against your shirt, back asleep before you could reply. 

“Anytime, love. Anytime.”

[whumpy-angsty]

Whumper ties whumpee on uncomfortable operating cold dirty table. Stretched out uncomfortably.

Whumper whips whumpee palms and feets till its painfully bleeding and whumpee begging Whumper to stop.

Whumper just continues till whumpee faint.

And once whumpee wakes up they force whumpee to stand on their whipped feet’s. Every time whumpee falls they force them to stand up again.

[whumpatorium]

Whump Prompt #2

Superpowered Whumper brings Human Whumpee to the brink of death/passing out, and the only way for Whumpee to stay alive/conscious is to force themselves to kiss and keep themselves close to Whumper’s body. Bonus points if railing is involved.

[melanie-ohara]

In The Woods Somewhere

Whumpuary2024, Day 05 - (Alt) Prompt: Stabbed

Something in Sabine's burgeoning connection to the Force draws her out to the woods just as the Peridean sun rises…

AO3 Here

Sabine jolted awake and sat bolt upright in her bunk with a gasp. The lights in the room were turned low and the chronometer told her there were a couple of hours to go before dawn, so she slumped back against the pillows and tried to figure out what it was that had woken her. It could have been a dream, but since Mandalore she never remembered her dreams, and she had a distinct image of a forest in the rain still in her mind. It didn't look like anywhere she knew, but the trees looked distinctly Peridean to her. When they had been on the Ghost together, Ezra had visions through the Force - but they were strong and overwhelmed him while he was awake. There was something, though. Some strange pull she felt that coaxed her out of her bed and out of the ship. Ignoring it just made it stronger, so she sighed and got up. 

Ahsoka was probably already awake, so she didn't bother moving quietly when she left in full armour, carrying both blasters and lightsaber. Shin and her bandits hadn't appeared for weeks now, but they were still out there - along with wild Howlers and probably countless other predator species - and it paid to travel prepared. Sabine hopped down from the idling T6 into the Noti camp below it, and made her way to the edge, aiming for the tree line in the distance. Her plan was to walk until it started raining, and then look for a place that matched her vision, but she was still wary: their slow pursuit of Baylan Skoll had skirted around the trees so far, and from what she had managed to decode of the Noti language, they feared the forests as much as the ancient Nightsister ruins. 'The domain of betrayal', if her translation was right. Still, the Noti were pacifists, and Sabine had weapons and armour that far outstripped anything the locals had access to. 

The rain started and the pull got stronger. Ahsoka had told her so often to surrender to the Force when she felt it, but Sabine still found herself trying to resist it: trying to guide herself to a destination she would never find without the help of the Force. It was the Mandalorian in her, determined to make her own way, and while she still hadn't decided the path she wanted her life to take, right now she needed Jedi instincts to find whatever was out there. Something about the pull had changed now - it felt urgent. Desperate, even. Something in the dark between the trees was calling out to her like a distress call. Sabine paused, shut her eyes and took a deep breath, and waited until she could stop second-guessing herself and follow her instincts. When she opened them again, she was already walking.

When she next glanced up from the ground, placing her feet to avoid a series of knotted roots, what she saw in front of her lined up so immediately with the image from her dream that Sabine almost fell over in surprise. At the exact same moment, the tug at her guts disappeared like a cut cord, and she was left standing alone and unsure in the darkness and the rain. Outside the forest, the sun would have risen by now, but under the canopy there was barely enough light to see. 

"Hello?" she called, but received no answer. The trees absorbed her voice before the echo could get very far. She doubted anyone would hear her over the rain.

Sabine tried to place her trust in the Force and took a few steps forwards, but when her gut instinct insisted she was going the wrong way, she couldn't help turning back. And there, slumped against a rock between two trees, was Shin Hati. Her hair was starting to grow out and she had pinned it back behind her head, and her clothes and armour had been adapted and added to with bandit equipment, but it was definitely her. 

Caution dictated she draw a weapon and approach slowly- after all, Shin was a deadly assailant who had spent their entire time on Peridea trying to kill her. It could be a trap. Sabine dimly recognised that after she had started running towards her, and by the time she had crashed to her knees in the mud by Shin's still form all of her weapons were still clipped to her belt. 

"Shin?" she demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking. "Shin, wake up!" 

Why did she care? Why was there a roiling, sinking sensation, like a battleship going down, churning through her guts? Why was Shin not moving? Her hair was plastered to her face, which looked even paler than usual, and when Sabine lifted her eyelids she found her eyes rolled back into her head. Her pulse was thready and unstable, but it was there. She wasn't dead, but she was dying. 

Sabine glanced down, and saw that Shin Hati had been stabbed. 

This wasn't the neat, perfectly circular mark of a lightsaber blade - like the one Shin had given her when they first met - this was a messy, jagged incision that left blood and severed skin behind rather than a perfectly cauterised scar. A lightsaber, even in the hands of whatever Shin and Baylan were, was a Jedi weapon first and foremost, and killing was a last resort. This had to have been a bandit weapon. 

A soft cough turned Sabine's attention back to Shin's face, where she saw the briefest flicker of her eyelids. Her throat worked to swallow, and Sabine tried to shake her again.

"Wake up, blast it!" she growled, but Shin remained silent. "Karabast," she muttered, reaching into her armour pouch for a bacta spray and unclipped the cover from the nozzle. "Don't blame me when you're not ready for this," she said, and pressed the tip against the wound in her stomach.

Shin's eyes shot open and she screamed as the bacta started to knit severed veins back together and stem the bleeding. The sound wrenched at Sabine's heart as much as it did her ears, and she gripped Shin's shoulder with her free hand to try and soothe her.

"I know, I know," she said, concentrating on running the device all the way around the rough edges of the wound. "It stings, I know." 

Sabine had been unfortunate enough to learn a lot of battlefield medicine during the war, and she knew when someone wasn't going to make it without a full bacta immersion. She didn't know if there was a full-scale tank on the T6, but the alternative was that Shin Hati would die out here, from a wound inflicted by her own allies. 'The domain of betrayal' wasn't a myth after all. 

"I have to get you to the ship," Sabine said, trying to sound reassuring and not let on that she wasn't sure that would save her either. The helmet made her sound insincere so she took it off with one hand, scrabbling for a bacta patch with the other. There was no way it would heal Shin's slashed organs or repair her internal bleeding, but it might seal the initial flesh wound enough for Sabine to carry her. She wished she had brought Mirshko the Howler with her, but there was no point thinking about it now.

"Sabine?" Shin's voice was a thin whine that Sabine barely heard over the rain.

"It's me," she said, lifting the tattered remains of Shin's bloodstained robe to press the patch to her skin. The wound was so big the strip barely covered it, but at least the infusion had stopped the more severe bleeding. "You can murder me once I save your life, okay?"

"Took… lightsaber," Shin managed. Her eyes opened for a moment, and a lump rose in Sabine's throat as she saw how bloodshot they were. A second later they closed again, and Sabine worried she had been too late.

"Shin?!" she shouted, and the other woman stirred very slightly. 

"It's a trap," she said. "They're… they're coming."

Sabine's blood ran cold.

[alpaca-clouds]

Whumpuary 15: Like the Sun

Prompts: You're safe, Aftermath, Touch starved

And here it is. The last story for @whumpuary. This time I managed all three prompts - though the main prompt was Touch Starved.

Like the Sun

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Shipping: Astarion/m!Tav Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Astarion had not expected it. Yet, as everything is said and done, Tav stays by Astarion's side.

[rizzoto-whump]

@whumpuary no. 3 - "This is gonna hurt."

"This is gonna hurt," he said, his voice shaking. "But we need to find a safe place for us. Hold on, please. Stay with me." He didn't look back, but he could feel the heat from somewhere behind his back. The bruised man in his arms was getting weaker.

"We're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, Sir."

[penitent-stranger]

Whumpuary Jan 11-12 - Exhaustion / Blindfolded / Old Injuries

(cw: forced labor, abusive environment, loneliness, isolation)

In hindsight, he probably should have known his crew would leave him behind. Really, why else would a team assign the riskiest part of the job to their youngest and least-experienced member? He couldn't really blame them for the actual leaving part, either. Made sense. Why risk everyone getting bagged when you can just cut your losses and dead weight in one go and skedaddle?

And it wasn't like he could get mad at the other crew. They did catch him trying to break and steal their shit. They didn't stuff him through an airlock. They hadn't even shot him. All things considered, they didn't treat him much differently than his old crew had.

Sure, his old crew never blindfolded him or kicked him in the ribs until he couldn't breathe, but, like. He could tell they wanted to, sometimes. Most people did. He had very kickable ribs.

They threw him into a cargo hold as some sort of makeshift brig. The way they’d cuffed his hands behind his back wrenched the old break in his wrist from when he was twelve. He thought about faking tears to get them to cut him loose - or at least to secure his wrists in front instead - but after the first fifteen minutes, he didn't have to fake them. Pins and needles coursed through his hands. Pain shot through his wrist like it had when he’d first broken it, and it splintered up his forearm all the way to his elbow. 

He pressed his forehead to the floor and sobbed until someone heard him. They relented, eventually, and set his hands free. Even gave him a bit to get feeling back before handcuffing him again. Maybe he still looked enough like a teenager to make them feel guilty.

He still was a teenager, technically - but things like that didn’t usually matter in the Long Rim.

At some point, they pulled off the blindfold. The magcuffs stayed. The captain of the ship crouched in front of him, members of her crew crowding around menacingly as he looked up at her.

He had a debt to pay, she told him. Fix the shit he broke, and work to recoup the losses of what his crew had stolen from them. Had they actually grabbed anything worth taking? No one told him. He didn’t feel like asking. He supposed he’d just have to take their word for it.

They ran him ragged around the ship. Typical Northstar transport, barely staffed with enough people to fill two alternating shifts, let alone schedule any overlaps. He’d learned enough from his time in space to not burden anyone with a need for training, and growing up on a station made him handy with a wrench, at least. The things he didn’t know, he picked up quickly enough. The hardest part, though, was the bone-deep fatigue that plagued every waking moment.

Being exhausted all the time did have its perks. It never took long for him to fall asleep. He didn’t get the chance to lie awake for hours missing home - the parts of home worth missing, anyway. He didn't need the warmth of another body next to him or the smell of kitchen spices to help him relax anymore. As soon as the workday ended, he collapsed into his cot and simply passed out. 

The only times he didn't immediately fall unconscious were when his body ached too much for him to get comfortable. The shadowy silence of the ship’s night cycle did little to distract him from his sore muscles. Or to keep his mind from wandering. On nights like that, he curled on his side and tried not to remember the feeling of being held.

He did consider breaking things again, just out of spite. Based on their reaction whenever he messed up on accident, though, he decided not to test it. It was hard enough to work through the itch of dried blood on the inside of his nose, or bruised fingers from where they’d been stomped on. He didn’t want to imagine the punishment for willful negligence.

The captain locked him in the cargo hold again for the first few times the ship docked for refueling. Sans blindfold, this time. Which - he had to admit - was a plus. They did gag him, though. Belting out spacer shanties until his voice grew hoarse and kicking random crates in protest didn’t go over very well with the crew they left behind.

He suspected this kind of discipline was less to keep him in line specifically, but to send a message to the rest of the crew. With such few hands, the captain couldn’t afford to lose any to desertion. She also couldn’t afford harsher measures to prevent it. Not without risking mutiny. Luckily, she had someone aboard who couldn’t hit back. And he always lived to please.

In time - and after enough beatings - they didn’t consider him as great of a flight risk. They let him roam the ship freely when they touched down. A few stops without incident, and they started sending him out with a small group. Always with a hand gripping the back of his neck, and never far from the loading docks. But at least he could stretch his legs. Look at something more than twenty feet away.

When he saw other people for the first time, he fought back the urge to call for help. There wasn’t anything stopping him, really. Just the knowledge that if he did, he’d sport a wonderful array of bruises the next morning. Or maybe they’d stick him in the cargo hold again with the heat turned down. That had been a fun night.

Besides, no one would believe him anyway. And who would even care? He hadn’t seen a star chart in months, but he knew they were nowhere near Calliope. The planet’s resident honor-bound crusader pirates didn’t make it out this far, and no one else really gave a shit about stuff they saw all the time.

Best to play along, for now. The crew’s contract would run out eventually. Or maybe he’d manage to slip away, one of these days.

On one of these jolly little outings, he let his eyes scan the clusters of people gathered around the station terminal. One group in particular grabbed his attention, and only partially because of the obnoxiously huge mechs they stood next to. Swatches of sky blue stood out on their plugsuits. No other markings. 

Were they that close to the Dawnline Shore? No one ever told him the details of where they were going, but he’d been able to pick a few things up. They were close-ish. Still not Ungratefuls-hanging-out-in-port close though.

He kept staring as he walked by, and one of the lancers happened to glance his way. She caught his eyes. For the first time in months, something other than fear or loneliness squeezed at his heart. She saw him. Someone in this godsforsaken wasteland of space actually saw him.

A blue plugsuit alone did not an Ungrateful make. He knew that, of course. However.

Things couldn’t really get any worse, could they?

Taking the first chance he got, he broke away from his crew and bolted toward the lancers. He nearly careened into them, but managed to catch himself on the woman’s arm before completely losing his balance. 

“Please-” he gasped. “You gotta help me. I’m a prisoner on the Diligence. They’re making me work for them, and-”

A hand latched onto the back of his shirt and yanked him away. He’d stopped struggling against whatever the crew threw his way a long time ago, but he struggled now. He tried to fight his way to his feet so he could walk without being dragged, for all the good that did him.

“We spit on the hand that feeds us because it’s not our own hand!”

A savage pull on his shirt collar choked out any other words before they could form.

He was in the cargo hold again when the attack came. He could hardly stand to lift his head off of the floor at the sound of yelling and running outside, nor could he bring himself to care. He always figured he’d die on the ground, curled up like some sort of bug. He was already halfway there. Might as well add a pool of his own blood to lie in.

Human voices gave way to more aggressive sounds: the screeching metal of hangar doors wrenched open, booming rattles of impossibly heavy footsteps. Ooo, stepped on by a mech. That was certainly a way to go.

The noise stopped after a bit. That certainly didn’t take long. Feeling some sort of survival instinct kick in, he dragged his arms underneath him and pushed himself at least halfway upright. He was looking around for some sort of improvised weapon when the doors to the cargo hold opened. He froze.

The woman from the station came into view. The Ungrateful he'd all but crashed into. She scanned the hold until she saw him, then knelt down in front of him. Smiled in a familiar way that made his chest ache.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said. “It’s alright. I’m not here to hurt you.”

He blinked the eye that wasn’t swollen shut and swallowed. He should probably say something. His arm buckled instead, and he nearly collapsed back to the floor.

The Ungrateful caught him before he could fall. She helped him sit up again, and kept a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he swayed in place. The contact made his skin buzz under his sleeve. The first touch of explicit care since…he shoved all thoughts of her out of his mind.

“The sky is as much yours as anyone else’s,” the woman said. “What’s your name, comrade?”

Despite himself, he grinned. There was probably blood between his teeth, but it was the most genuine smile he'd cracked in months. “Call me Kick-back.”

[the11tailedwrites]

Day 5-6 Used as Bait

psst @hidden-scarlet-whispers got more Osiris stuff for you :3

Felwinter raced across the snow-covered grass, gaze set ahead and rage shimmering inside him. Almost six days ago, Lord Sival had betrayed the Iron Lords, taken his student hostage and vanished into the wilds. After so long, they had finally gotten a lead.

As Felwinter pushed through the underbrush, he spotted his student and knew immediately that something was wrong.

Osiris was bound to a tree with thick ropes, and there was a cloth gag around his mouth, keeping him silent. Aside from Osiris, however, no one else was there. Alarm bells rang in Felwinter’s head as he carefully maneuvered over to his student. Osiris’ head rose, and his eyes widened. He let out a muffled yell, thrashing against his bonds. Felwinter realized a moment too late what his student was trying to say. A sharp pain erupted from Felwinter’s neck, and his optics went dark.

Felwinter’s systems protested weakly as his opticis slowly turned on again. It took a moment for his opticis to fix themselves and when they did, his breath caught in his throat.

Osiris hung from a long chain connected to a metal pipe which ran right through the man’s wrists, pinning them together and forcing his arms up into an uncomfortable position. He was shirtless, lashes from a whip creating bloody trails down his brown skin, and he was blindfolded and gagged. His whole body trembled and for a moment, Felwinter thought it was just from the pain from his wrists. That was, until he spotted the blood dripping down Osiris’ feet from his slit ankles. He student had been forced to choose pressure on his wrists or pressure on his feet. To elevate pressure on his ankles, he had to hang from his wrists, to elevate pressure from his wrists, he had to stand on the tips of his toes. A lose-lose scenario. Felwinter moved forward, only for his movement to be stopped by thick void-esc ropes, wrapping him firmly around a pole. Felwinter cursed himself for not realizing he was restrained and focused his attention back to his student.

”Osiris,” Felwinter called and watched as his student’s body stiffened, “Do you know where Sagira is?”

Osiris shook his head and then flinched, obviously in a lot of pain.

Felwinter cursed to himself and tried to reach out to Felspring across their bond. He got no response. Felwinter began to pick at his restraints, hoping to loosen them enough to free himself and then his student, but the ropes stayed firmly wrapped around his wrists.

The sound of a door opening attracted Felwinter’s attention and he glanced over at the only door in what Felwinter assumed was a cell. Former Lord Sival stood in the doorway, slowly rotating Sagira through his fingers. The ghost seemed unresponsive, her lone iris lulling left and right with no clear directive. He released Sagira and she just kind of floated, before bumping into a wall, slowly spinning away.

“Sival,” snarled Felwinter, rage bubbling up inside of him.

”Hello Felwinter,” purred Sival, stopping just in front of Osiris, “You look good in bonds, my dear,”

”I will kill you,” said Felwinter.

There was no desperation nor rage, only a cold promise. Sival laughed at his words and slapped Osiris on the back. Osiris let out a muffled scream, body convulsing against the pain.

”Quite the teacher you got there, Osiris, so willing to kill for you,” said Sival, undeterred by the pain he had caused Osiris.

Felwinter pulled against his bonds, eyes sparkling with hatred.

”You know, Fel, you were always suspicious of me,” said Sival, slowly walking towards Felwinter and crouching down in front of him, “So I want you to watch as I destroy one of the few people you’ve let into that tin can heart of yours,”

Sival rose and turned back to Osiris, removing his belt as he got closer to the weakened warlock. Sival raised the belt and slapped it across Osiris’ chest. Osiris let out a muffled cry as the belt left a dark red mark against his skin. Sival raised the belt and brought it down. He did this over and over again, until new marks appeared on Osiris’ skin, mottled bruises, red welts and deep cuts. Sival switched the belt around so the metal side was facing Osiris and struck Osiris with it as hard as he could. Osiris screamed as his skin tore from the force of the blow.

As Sival raised a hand to hit Osiris again, the door flew open. Sival whirled, clearly taken off guard. As a result, he didn’t manage to dodge the spinning shield in time. The void shield hit Sival directly in the face and the man collapsed, unconscious to the ground. Felwinter turned to the doorway and spotted none other than Saint-14, his whole body a myriad of menace and rage. It faded quickly into concern as he rushed to Osiris, supporting the man’s weight so he no longer had to put pressure on any of his wounds. Osiris visibly sagged with relief.

“Fel,” came a voice from the door and Felwinter turned to see Timur in the doorway.

Timur quickly made his way to Felwinter and cut him free and then extended a hand, which Felwinter took. Timur hauled him up and Felwinter tapped him on the shoulder in thanks. He turned his attention to his student and noticed that Saint had removed the chain attaching Osiris to the ceiling and was slowly lowering the battered man to the ground. Saint tugged off the blindfold and gag and burned them with solar light he rarely ever used. Saint then, as gentle as he could, lowered Osiris’ arms to rest in front of him. Osiris’ face flashed with pain and discomfort but he seemed to relax a little more when he saw Saint.

“My knight in shining armor,” slurred Osiris, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he lost consciousness.

Felwinter crouched down beside the duo and held out his hands. A healing rift took form and the gashes and whip marks on Osiris’ skin began to heal.

“We should finish this back in the city,” said Saint, “Lord Timur, could you grab Sagira and Sival’s ghost?”

”Sure thing,” said Timur before grabbing Sival’s ghost (who had attempted to flee) and then gently guiding the still out of it Sagira against his chest.

Saint picked up Osiris and carried him out of the door, Felwinter following suit with Timur taking up the rear.

Osiris, now securely bandaged and gently placed on Saint’s bed, stirred ever so slightly and opened his eyes. His eyelids felt heavy and yet he forced them open anyway.

He was in Saint and The Speaker’s house, which was weird. Why was he here? He knew their house well, he’d visit them both often, but when had he gotten here?

He tried to reach out to Sagira, but got a wave of static that sent him into a tizzy. He shot up out of bed and cried out in pain, doubling over and clutching his chest tight.

The door slammed open and Osiris looked up to see Saint (in casual clothing) standing in the doorway, eyes wide with concern.

”Do not move, Osiris,” he stressed, rushing over and gently pushing Osiris down.

Osiris fought him, panic welling inside of him.

”Sagira,” he gasped out, “Where is she?”

”It’s okay, Osiris, she’s alright, Lord Felwinter is trying to fix that weird static in her head, right now, but she’s in good hands, I promise,” Saint said, winning the fight and gently lying Osiris down, “But for now, please rest, we had to let some of your wounds heal naturally to prevent infection,”

”Is that why my wrists and ankles still hurt?” croaked out Osiris and Saint nodded.

”Get more sleep, you need much rest,” ushered the Russian exo.

“Sival, what’ll happen to him?” mumbled Osiris, eyes already closing.

”He won’t be bothering you ever again,” whispered Saint, “I will not let him,”

[tabbytabbytabby]

Say You'll Hold On

Word Count: 1,290 words

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Relationship: Derek Hale/Theo Raeken

Tags: Hurt Theo Raeken, Stabbing, Good Theo Raeken, Robbery, Worried Derek Hale, Blood and Injury, Derek Hale is a Softie, Hospitalization, Love Confessions, First Kiss

Summary: Theo finds himself caught up in the middle of a robbery. He plans to just keep the man distracted until the cops show up, but then things take a turn, and he's left bleeding out in the parking lot. His first instinct: to call Derek.

Read on AO3

For @whumpuary No.9 / Alt Prompt No. 1: Stabbed

[serickswrites]

You're Awake

Part 2 Part 3

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, unconsciousness, blood, blood loss, rescue, caretaker and whumpee

Whumpee clawed their way back to consciousness. They were exhausted. Days and days of torture at Whumper's hand had taken its toll on their body. Between the pain and blood loss, Whumpee had passed out while Whumper worked on them.

But now was time to wake up. They needed to be awake. Need to be alert enough to figure out a plan to get away. To escape. They had to wake up.

The dimly room was musty and freezing. Wherever Whumper had been keeping Whumpee, it hadn't been used in a long time. A scraping sound had Whumpee wrenching their eyes open.

"Oh good, you're awake," a familiar voice came from the far side of the room.

"C-C-Caretaker," Whumpee croaked. Their throat was raw from all their screaming over the last several days.

"I'm here, Whumpee, I'm here." Caretaker came into Whumpee's field of vision. They cupped Whumpee's cheek with their warm hand. Whumpee leaned into their soft, tender touch. "I am sorry it took me so long to get here."

"You're here," Whumpee said as they gave a sigh of relief. Caretaker was here. They were saved.

"Let's get you out of these cuffs."

"Whumper?" Whumpee dared to hope that Whumper was gone.

"Taken care of, love. Don't worry. They can't hurt you anymore."

Whumpee sighed. Whumper was gone. Caretaker was here. They were safe. Suddenly everything seemed lighter and softer. They began to close their eyes once more.

"Ah, ah, none of that, Whumpee. Keep your eyes open." Caretaker's voice was urgent. So urgent. But Whumpee couldn't bring themself to care.

"Mmmmm," was all they could manage.

"Shit. Whumpee. Whumpee! Love, look at me. Open your eyes. Where's all this blood from? Whumpee!"

Whumpee wanted to tell Caretaker where Whumper had sliced through layers and layers of skin. Wanted to tell Caretaker where they had been stabbed. Wanted to tell Caretaker about all their aches and pains. But they were so cold. And tired. And most of all, they were safe. Whumpee sank back into the darkness, knowing that Caretaker had them, and they would be safe. No matter what.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumpuary Day 27-28

Prompt: Stabbed (alt)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Blood; Injury

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

You had seen some great plans in your time after the apocalypse. Majestic strategies that led your group to victory and survival. 

And you had seen some terrible plans. Inefficient calculations that brought more wounds and heartaches for the lot of you. 

This? This was neither of those. 

This was a fuckery. A terrible horrible no good very bad fuckery of epic proportions. 

So as you wrestled a living man wearing the skin of the dead for control of your knife, you couldn’t help but wonder how many of you were going to pay for this monstrosity of fucked-upness. 

When you couldn’t seem to get the upper hand, you went for the lower blow, bringing your knee up into the man’s groin and rolling him off of you just in time for the incoming walkers to take over. “Fuck.” You breathed, struggling to your feet. You needed to find the others, to find Daryl. Wiping away the blood from your nose on the back of your hand, you made your way further up the hill. The walkers were occupied but they wouldn’t stay that way long. 

Daryl was fighting two whisperers, kicking one off balance to send them tumbling down past you and into the herd below. You picked up the pace, aiming to help so that the two of you could regroup with the rest of your party. 

It happened so quickly that you weren’t sure you had time to take a breath. The archer’s knife sank into the skull of the man he fought, not seeing yet another rounding the tree. 

“Daryl!”

He pulled his blade free, his arm still in motion but his midriff was unprotected. You could have sworn you felt the pain in your own stomach. You were running, wishing to hell you had your gun. Too far, I’m too far. 

His own knife had been dropped, both hands around the wrist of his attacker. If he held him there, the blade wouldn’t go any deeper. But the fatigue on his face was evident even from the distance that still separated you. 

Stopping, you took a breath and flipped your knife, calling upon every lesson Daryl had given you. If you missed— no, you wouldn’t miss. 

The weapon whipped through the air and met its mark, the whisperer dropping and pulling the knife with him. 

“Fuck!” It took much longer than you liked to finally reach him, his black shirt already saturated before you pushed your hands down on the wound. “I’ve got you. Keep your eyes on me.” Daryl didn’t respond, sweaty and panting, but watching you as you snatched the radio from his belt. “Carol? Aaron? Fucking anyone?!”

“Y/N!”

“Michonne! Thank go— Daryl’s down! The herd’s too close! I need help!”

“Where are you?”

“Fourth mile east from the rendezvous point. Please, Michonne!”

“We’re on our way.”

“Hear that? They’re coming. So don’t do something stupid like die, okay?” You peeled off the flannel over your tank top and pressed it against the wound, wincing at Daryl’s pained groan. 

“Nah…ya have… all the stupid. Ain’t none…left for me.” He coughed, but there was no blood. You refused to believe anything else other than taking it to mean there was no internal bleeding. 

“That’s right. So, you gotta stick around and make sure I don’t do anything stupid, okay?” He clenched his teeth and grabbed your hand over the flannel, the blood making his skin slip across yours. 

“‘M sure as…hell gonna try, sunshine.”

You laughed wetly, the taste of your tears salty on your tongue. “Have you met me? Not a damn thing sunny about me.” 

Daryl grunted and moaned but then settled again. “Shuddup. Eye’a…the beholder…an’ all that shit.” You leaned forward with another laugh, pressing your forehead against his. 

“Daryl Dixon, are you saying I’m pretty?” 

His hand shook when he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, dampening it red. “Eh…you’re alright, I… I guess.” His eyes were closing even as you called his name. You could hear your friends raised voices and knew they’d be able to help. Saddiq was with them. He’d save Daryl. You had to keep him conscious. Biting your lip, you pressed hard against the wound until he arched with a shout. 

“Sorry.”

“What’s a guy…gotta do to…get a nap ‘round here?”

“How’re you feeling, Bowstrings?” You beamed at him from over the back of the couch. Daryl was benched for at least a couple of weeks— even if you both knew you’d be saving his ass in less than one. 

“Like I got stabbed in the gut.” He replied flatly, fingers tapping anxiously against his chest. 

“You could almost pass for a real person in a t-shirt and flannels.”

“S’ comfortable.” He grumbled. You rounded the couch and sat on the arm, just above his head. 

“Good. You deserve comfortable.” He tilted back his head to look up at you while you swept back his hair. “What?”

“You deserve comfortable too.” 

Why did he look so adorable when he blushed?

“Would you still think I’m pretty in flannels and a t-shirt?” You stood up to go grab his antibiotic and some water, almost missing his muttered reply. 

“Wear a garbage bag an’ I’d still think ya was pretty, sunshine.”

@thegeorgiahuntsman @livingdeadblondequeen @feral4daryl @deansapplepie @walker-bait-1973 @lazyneonrabbitt @bizquake @littlelovingideas @ririi-3 @ankhmutes @blackvelveteen1339 @sokkasimp101 @lehhos @loganlostitall @callmeyn @she-who-writes-for-multi-fandoms @gutsby @isakyakiisak @in-this-minute @eljaynosine_triphosphate @abbyreedus @wifeof-barnes @bigbaldheadname @bananafire11 @graciepies @georgiadixon @esgoraths @hutchersonsgurl @she-could-never @Kenzimae67 @nessa-mayfield @ilovedilfs4eversthings @KatelynAngel @richardsamboramylove55 @m0ss-g0blin @annhells @abi67sblog @nessieart @imgeorgeclooney @brinteylovesaliens @eduardast4rgirl @ass-butt-themusical @daryldixmedown @willowaftxn83-87 @ashtonbabe @atyourmomshouse01 @dixonzzgirl @unhingedbiatch @bultamer @lumimon47 @easystreet07

[whumpy-angsty]

villain whumper takes the hero team and force the yougest hero to hurt a civilian.

whumper holds the youngest arm, “ there we go, hold it right youngest”

Youngest is shaking breathing quickly, “i..i cant.”

“Oh you can, dont worry as long you do this right none of your team is going to get hurt. all you have to do it is stab this poor poor civilian. then you and your team can go out, see ? its easy.” Whumper roughly tighten his hold on the youngest hands holding the knife and gesture it toward the squirming civilian who is screaming through his gag looking at them terrfied.

the leader is screaming in the background, the other members are screaming as well trying to free themselves from their chains.

“shhh, let the youngest concenrate. we dont want him killing someone by mistake now, do we?”

“ you will regreat this villain!” the leader screams, “ youngest please,dont do this! we will be f-”

“ they will be fine if you stab him, thats all what i am asking youngest.”

yongest ears ringing, the civilian is screaming through his gag begging something as tears spill from his eyes, almost begging the youngest to not do this.

“ come on youngest, time is ticking and i have no patience.” he leans closely whipering to youngest ears.

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

Whumpuary 3

Whumpuary prompts should theoretically make up one cohesive narrative, though I'm not currently putting in the effort to flesh out the story around the prompts just yet. I have good intentions to do so eventually. Masterlist. Oh yeah and they're totally out of order, chronologically.

((content warnings: Cruciatus torture, bondage, hanging / strangling, interrupted execution ))

promptspiration: @whumpuary 03: Used as bait

Whumpee: Draco Malfoy Whumper: Voldemort Pairing: Harry/Draco whump type: used as bait, torture fic type: Deathly Hallows "Voldemort learns Draco hooked up with Harry" AU

also yikes this is hella first draft forgive me

words: ~850

-------------------

Draco didn't know how long the Cruciatus lasted this time; under Him, it always felt like an eternity…

He curled up on his side when he was free of the pain, not looking up, not trying to see the world, just hoping the pain didn't come again. His body was still trembling, muscles twitching under his skin, and he was trying not to whimper as he breathed.

"Take him to Godric's Hollow," His cold voice said from somewhere so close that Draco flinched. "It's time to make an example." 

—-

Draco was forced to kneel at the feet of the statue of the Potters in the village square. The cursed ropes binding his arms together behind him burned, and tightened if he struggled at all. It was August, and after midnight, and yet he was gripped in a cold sweat.

The  Death Eaters were brazen, walking masked through the village, unconcerned that the Muggles would see them and doubtless enjoying how the magical population locked themselves inside to cower until they were gone. 

They gathered in a circle around him, masks impassive, eerily silent as ghosts. He didn't think his father was there, but… he didn't really want to look up to know for sure. 

When He came into the circle, it felt like the air went cold, like He was a Dementor inside an almost-human skin. Draco didn't lift his eyes from the spot on the cobblestones in front of him. "Draco Malfoy," He said in the measured tone of a statesman, "you are a traitor. You have engaged in relations with Harry Potter which decent people find… abhorrent."

Draco said nothing. He was out of excuses, out of pleas and begging, out of bargains. There was nothing to say. His hands trembled and he clenched them together. The stone gaze of James Potter on the back of his neck felt judgemental.

"It's appropriate that you'll pay for your treachery here," a sneer worked its way into His voice, "at this monument to the futility of love." 

A conjured rope sprang up around Draco's throat and yanked him up off his knees — it latched onto the statue, looped around Lily Potter's throat, and pulled him up off his feet, so he was dangling against the front of it, twisting and choking. His feet scrabbled desperately for purchase without finding any.

Then the world went mad. The air rent with an echoing screech, and there was suddenly a hippogriff? And a flock of something else feathery and diving that sent Death Eaters scattering, yelling, and throwing curses. 

Something hit the rope holding him up and he collapsed to the ground awkwardly, choking and coughing, trying to crawl away in the chaos. The feathered things vanished as they hit the ground — an illusion, a distraction — but there really were at least a half a dozen attackers, on thestrals and a hippogriff, and more boiling out of the village, but there were more Death Eaters, too, Apparating into the square, a trap for a trap. Spells flew in all directions. One of them hit the statue above him and he helplessly tried to cover his head with his shoulders as stone rubble rained down around him. 

He heard someone yell "Draco—!"

When the quiet came, the Dark Lord himself lifted Draco from the wreckage at the end of his wand, holding him in the air. "Potter escaped," he said quietly. Draco's blood ran cold and he was terrified that he was going to be blamed for that.

But instead the Dark Lord smiled a terrible thin smile. "But it seems there is a use for you after all." 

He dropped him carelessly back to the ground and turned away. "Bring him."

—-

Draco screamed. There was only pain. There could never be anything but pain again. His entire body was dissolving in the pain, leaving him a raw soul writhing in agony that danced along his every surface.

But eventually, it stopped. It didn't lessen, it stopped with the suddenness of a guillotine, dropping him back into his trembling physical body on a cold marble floor, the reemergence of sensation so overwhelming that the lack of pain was itself a sort of pain, and he gasped for air, head swimming and darkness closing around his vision.

The blessing of unconsciousness was denied him, barely. Instead he heard the Dark Lord's voice. "I want you to know that I am doing this for Harry Potter." His light steps measured out the space around Draco in a small, sedate circle. "Not merely because of him — oh no. All of this is for his benefit." His shoe settled on the side of Draco's head and turned it to make him look up, pulling on his hair in tiny needles of pain; Draco's eyes flinched away from that hungry red gaze. 

"Every second of torment you suffer, you can lay directly at his feet. He can end your pain. All he has to do is come to me.

"But we both know he won't, don't we?" He stepped back, releasing his head, and lifted his wand again. Draco couldn't help but to whimper and cover his head. "Crucio."

[melanie-ohara]

Do You Want Me On Your Mind? - Chapter 2

Whumpuary2024, Day 22 - (Alt) Prompt: Forced to Watch

There's no recognition in those eyes now, and the love there is no longer for Nocturne

Or, Nocturne made me cry and now it's your problem

AO3 Here

She was coming back.

Word had come in from Rivington, and Viconia had ordered everyone in the cloister armed and armoured. Since Nocturne had taken over as quartermaster, that made it her responsibility to get them ready to kill her only friend. Her own armour felt heavier than usual as she buckled on the leathers and secured the chainmail and plates. She touched the symbol of Shar emblazoned across her chest, and waited. Whatever mission Shadowheart had been sent on, everybody believed it was suicide and the fact that only Shadowheart had been seen made it sound like everyone else was dead. 

The order came from Viconia, and Nocturne watched the other clerics file out past her. Instead of following them, she shut the heavy wooden doors and listened. Shadowheart might have turned away from Shar, but she didn't believe killing her was the will of the goddess - this was Viconia's vendetta. Viconia, who had helped Nocturne transition. Viconia, who she had trusted and looked up to all her life. Viconia, who had used the mirror to drain more of Shadowheart's memories than ever. When she had left, there wasn't a trace of recognition in her eyes as Nocturne handed her a mace and shield and wished her luck. She couldn't stand against her, especially not if it meant never saying goodbye.

The fighting sounded brutal, and Nocturne couldn't bear to even take a peek through the keyhole at the violence. For Shadowheart to make it all the way back just to die here was too cruel to contemplate, but it wasn't long before the House of Grief fell quiet. The silence lasted a long time, and Nocturne found herself incapable of stepping out of the room. She had no idea who had won, but Shadowheart's party numbered no more than four. If she stayed where she was, she might still be alive. 

Eventually, she heard footsteps approaching and hurried back a little way from the door. Her heart was in her throat as it creaked open, revealing a bloodied and battered elf Nocturne had never seen before, dressed in the unmistakable elaborate finery of a bard. Behind them were two tieflings, one tall and fiery and the other smaller and missing his tail, and bringing up the rear, resplendent in shining silvery white armour, was Shadowheart. Nocturne felt her face break into a relieved grin that not even the hand crossbow one of the tieflings had leveled at her heart could dampen it.

"Shadowheart!" she called out. "It's Nocturne. I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again." 

There was no spark of recognition in her pretty green eyes this time around. Viconia had gone too deep. Maybe, if they had enough time together, she could help her unlock the memories again, but now that Shadowheart had slaughtered the entire cloister there was no way she could stay, and no way Nocturne could leave with her. She loved her, but she was an apostate now. Shar was her life, she couldn't turn away.

"Is there going to be a problem here?" the elf asked, fingers lightly brushing the hilt of a rapier as they looked pointedly at Nocturne's cleric armour. 

Nocturne raised her hands. "We don't have to be enemies," she said. "Shadowheart, we were friends once." 

"That's… good enough for me," Shadowheart said. She looked different with her hair bleached. Softer. Younger. It suited her. 

The elf lifted their hand away from the rapier and instead reached out to twine their fingers with Shadowheart's, and when she let them Nocturne's heart sank into her boots. She had never even considered that, without her memories, Shadowheart might have found someone else, but of course it had always been a possibility. 

"It's okay," the elf whispered in her ear. "We'll be okay."

Shadowheart swallowed and nodded, and Nocturne felt a little part of herself die. She could see the trust between them already, the exact trust that she had delighted in herself. It was beautiful, she had to admit, to see that loving smile cross Shadowheart's stressed and downturned lips, but seeing it directed at someone else was like a knife of ice shoved into her throat. She couldn't speak. Hot tears pricked at her eyes but she blinked them away before anyone saw, and forced herself to recover her voice to answer Shadowheart's next question. 

"Can you tell me about me?" she asked, hopefully. "There's so much I don't remember."

It was more painful than any of the tortures she had endured in the name of Shar, but she did her best to hide it as she talked. Nibbles the mouse, and the way Shadowheart had stood up for her when she changed her name. Scars she bore, and their secret hideaway in the storeroom wall that Nocturne had so dilligently protected, hoping against her hope that her love would return to her. And here she was, arm in happy arm with some stranger, completely unaware of the agony it caused her old friend. 

"We grew up together," Shadowheart said, when she was finished. "I wish I could remember you Nocturne, I really do."

"Maybe you could come with us?" the elf offered. They had let go of Shadowheart's hand, and there was a look in their eye that told Nocturne they at least suspected there was more to their shared past that she was saying. Of course, someone in love with Shadowheart would know how much it could hurt. 

"No," Nocturne said, a little more firmly than she had intended. She wasn't sure what the elf was suggesting, but she couldn't stand to be around them. "No, I'll stay here tonight but in the morning I'll have to move on. Maybe there's another cloister out there for me."

"You don't need Shar," Shadowheart said firmly, and Nocturne had to bite back a bitter, sarcastic laugh. After the hurt she had just endured, she needed the Lady of Loss more than ever.

"You don't," she said. "Some of us aren't as brave. Now go. Go and find your parents."

Shadowheart opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it, overtaken with the need to rescue her mother and father. Nocturne closed the door behind them and then pressed her forehead against it to cry. 

It wasn't just that Shadowheart had fallen in love with someone else - if anything, she was some kind of glad that she had found a safe harbour from Viconia's cruel erasure of her memory. Try as she might, she couldn't even resent the elf that enjoyed the boundless charity of Shadowheart's affections. What truly cut her to the quick was, as she supposed was fitting, the loss she felt. All those stolen moments in their hideaway - the times they could be together freely and without the judgement of the world - belonged only to her now. She had felt Shadowheart's hair in her hands as she worked to cut it into the bold new style her friend had told her about. They wouldn't ever again pore over a stolen book of erotica together and giggle at the awful descriptions. Everything they could have had was stolen away, and Shadowheart wouldn't remember any of it. 

For a horrible moment, Nocturne considered going to the mirror herself, and offering up all the memories she had of her. She felt the loss too keenly, it wasn't something she could bear. Shar might even reward her for surrendering memories of a heretic. She knew she wouldn't do it, though: accepting absence would stop the pain, but then there would be nobody who could remember Nocturne and Shadowheart. She couldn't deprive the world of what they had been, even if that only existed in her own fragile memories now. She would shoulder the burden and take it with her, wherever Shar chose to guide her steps next. And as a tribute to Shadowheart's bravery in defying Shar, she would never, ever forget her.