#whumpy

[save-the-villainous-cat]

The hero let out a wet groan, pushing themselves up as the blood ran down their side. It was in itself a funny feeling.

It was a good feeling.

Absolutely no one in this rotten city was able to challenge them. Physically, they were stronger. Mentally, they were quicker. And their dedication, their devotion was like a holy prayer that guided them through their nights.

The hero knew it wasn't a good thing - the longing for a challenge, the desire for an opponent that could actually make them a better fighter. It was a dangerous wish and they had to remind themselves regularly why they were doing this job in the first place.

To do good. To be good. Not to find someone who was their very own nemesis.

However, with the villain's boot on their ribs and that brutal nature of theirs, the hero was struggling not to find this utterly satisactory.

"Yeah, right there," the hero wheezed. "Make me scream."

The villain tilted their head and tutted, nearly bored of the hero's games. They let out a sigh and grabbed the hero's hair, yanking them up.

Another wheeze.

And the villain crouched, holding the hero by their hair. Very close. Very intimate.

"Do you think I am stupid?" the villain asked. Their lips brushed the hero's ear and despite the pain, or maybe because of it, the hero could only concentrate on the adrenaline rushing through their body.

"No," the hero said. They had to grin. Sometimes, they wished they could devour the villain, that they could change them and ultimately, that they could control them.

The hero knew it wasn't right. They knew it wasn't good. But they had never felt this kind of obsession towards anyone. In previous relationships, they hadn't gotten jealous, they hadn't gotten angry. They had never struggled like this. They had never doubted themselves like this.

"I know your dirty little secret," the villain said. "I know you like me. You like this."

"I didn't try to hide it," the hero said.

"Not from me. But the public."

"What are you trying to...?"

"Oh, poor hero," the villain murmed. "See, the difference between you and me is, that I do not care about you. If this gets to one, just one flimsy reporter, the people will turn against you. I can ruin your entire career. Your entire life."

The hero had miscalculated. Obviously, they hadn't expected their nemesis to feel the same. But they also hadn't expected them to tell the public. To use the public against the hero. It was a little shameless. But the hero was even more disgusted by their admiration for it.

"So?" the hero asked. Losing the public was a detrimental loss, that much was clear. But was it even measurable next to the fights with the villain? Did it even matter? When the hero could feel this euphoric? This alive? When had the public ever made them feel that way? "I would still have you."

"I do not love you," the villain argued. "You're not as important to me as you think."

"Give it some time," the hero said. "You will love me, don't worry. Everyone does."

The villain simply laughed at that. It was nearly soft. Or maybe the hero wanted it to be. It didn't matter.

"I have to admit, I am quite interested in what you have in store for me. How will you act once the public calls you a traitor? What will you do when I refuse to fight you? You are-" with their index finger, the villain traced the hero's thoat "-so very unique."

"Is that attraction?"

"Obligatory interest."

"And you say you're not in love."

They stared at each other until, finally, the villain dropped them. They cleared their throat and tilted their head. But the hero swallowed blood when their head nearly smashed against the concrete floor.

"I like toying with you, that is all."

"Sure," the hero said. They clutched their heart, tried to breathe. Being close to the villain was a gift, no matter how much it hurt. The hero loved it, loved their words, loved their personality, loved the challenge. It was insane, the hero felt completely deranged. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

And the hero was excited. So very excited for the next weeks.

[mostlywhump]

Infected leg surgery

[whumperer-86]

Snowy Night: Timeless Love ep5

The male lead is getting hurt every two episodes in this drama alone

he was whumped for about 6 times now in 14 episodes

[ppiripampam]

A Shop for Killers ep 7

[bmtillerbabe]

Ooo, would you be interested in writing some super whumpy Ghoap where one of them is captured (maybe by Graves?) and the other one is forced to watch in person or sees over a live feed until they can break them out?

Oooooooo yes!! This sounds fun! 😍

Hope you enjoy, dear 😘

✨

CW : People getting beat up, some torture, blood, hitting, kicking, Angst, Ghost is gonna have Hella revenge..... 🫢

Take care of your mental health! I tried to keep it descriptive, yet vague - because torture is one of my triggers and I typically get so pissed at the character inflicting it!

But rest assured - Ghost is gonna kick this mother fucker's ASS off! ❤️

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

Ghost rattled the chains that bound his fists behind his back, thrashing against the metal that locked him in place.

He growled loudly, pulling his arms with every bit of strength he could muster - screaming, yelling, crying out as he tried to break free, but to no use.

His jeans were filthy and his knees ached, strained from the Heft of his weight being on them for so many hours; mud and shit and sludge caked into his denim and the patches of skin that poked through the holes torn from the concrete beneath him.

Distant sounds of creaking and groaning gave him no clues as to where he was currently being held, and the room itself was dome-shaped and dark with no windows and no views of the outside world.

If he even was outside.

It was dark, dirty, damp and disgusting - meant to isolate and incite panic.

Meant to.

Ghost cussed himself with a grunt, trying to concentrate on getting at least one of his wrists free, (debating on how stupid is would be for him to break his wrist or a couple fingers to slip free....), instead of counting each steady drip-drip-drip of the leak overhead.

He should have known better than to hesitate when he and Soap got to the Exfil location, and nothing was there. He'd sensed something was wrong in his gut right then, but ignored it; choosing to be ever the obedient solder instead of following his gut.

And now he was paying the price for it.

He'd been in situations like this before, sure. He'd been trained on how to remain calm, and trained in hundreds of ways to break free of traps and bonds. He'd been trained to keep his mind cool, and his breathing in check.

He'd been trained not to fear for his life.

..... But it wasn't his own life he feared for, now.

It was Johnny's.

And he hadn't been trained for that.

Ghost yelled in anguish, pain evident in his voice, eyed locked onto the staticky, cracked screen on the curved wall above of him.

And Johnny - his Johnny - was on it.

And it was his fault.

"Soap!" Ghost screamed at the top of his lungs, wondering, hoping that maybe, just maybe, their rooms were close enough for the to hear the other. "Johnny!"

But the Scot didn't move, his eyes darting around, taking in his surroundings and struggling against his bonds much like his Lieutenant.

Ghost was left helpless, angled in such a way that he was forced to watch Soap breath heavily and anger flash over his features.

He could see the fire in his Sargeant's eyes, could see his mind racing with plans of his escape, and taking in anything he could about his surroundings.

Any other day, Ghost would have beamed with pride at seeing just how far the Scot had come in the short time he'd been enlisted.

But today was not the day.

Ghost was just about to make the decision that a broken wrist could heal eventually - when the flourescant green light of the room, and the TV screen, suddenly shut down.

He froze his movements, going still and quiet in the shadows.

Drip..... Drip..... Drip....

A power play, no doubt, he knew. Just reminding him who was really in charge, and that it wasn't him.

Several seconds later, only the TV flicked back on, fuzzy feedback whistling and crackling through the empty space. Ghost's eyes were locked to the screen, and he felt his face flush with rage when he saw another face appear as it adjusted the angle of the camera and came into focus.

"Well, lookie here."

Ghost would recognize that nasty, southern drawl anywhere.

"Seems I've managed to catch both the Ghost and his little guard dog."

Graves.

Ghost released a heavy, throaty growl at the mere sight of the blonde traitor who flashed a crooked grin at the screen, yanking against his chains like a rabid beast ready to maul him to shreds. He wasnt sure if the American could hear him, so he didn't speak.

But it didn't take long for Grave's twisted lilt to fill the space.

The man loved to hear himself talk.

"Now. I bet you're wonderin' why I got you both tied up an' bound like this." Graves proclaimed, almost proudly, sauntering over towards Soap. The Scot eyed him with pure disdain, his face twisted in a putrid scowl as the man neared.

Ghost watched through the screen as Graves went over and gripped Soap's chin, tilting it side to side, up and down, like he was inspecting goods.

"Well, see..... We caught you snoopin' round where you shouldn't be." Graves smirked as he leaned near Soap's face with a devilish grin, knowing damn well that Johnny could do absolutely nothing with his hands chained to the ground behind his back.

He could spit though.

Making a sound as he did so, Johnny reared back and spit a huge glob into Grave's eye, glaring at him. Graves reared back in shock, but once he processed what happened, his brow furrowed and he reached down to give Johnny a good slap across the cheek - hard enough that spit flew from his mouth.

Ghost yelled as he watched the impact from his side of the screen, his eyes wide and pained, trying again to break free of these damned chains---!

"Is that all ye got, ye pussy?" Johnny managed to chuckle darkly, shaking his head and spitting out a good bit of blood. He stared Graves down without an ounce of fear. "I've had new recruits hit harder than tha'."

Graves shook his head, but returned the smile to the Scot before facing the camera - facing Ghost.

"See the disrespect in this one?" he shook his head. "Should've kept this dog on a tighter leash, there, Ghost."

Ghost couldn't help but bite out an angry yell at the screen, though he knew it was probably useless. "Graves, I'll fucking kill you!"

Johnny kept his eyes trained on Graves as the man circled him, his breathing heavy and lip oozing a tiny trickle of blood. The American stopped and stooped down to Soap's eye level and clicked his tongue.

"Now, lookie here, Soap, the way I see it, we got two options."

Soap didn't respond.

Graves continued.

"We can either do this the easy way, and you tell me just where that laptop yall stole from that K-27 base is...... Or I can just rip the answer right from your throat. Quite literally."

Ghost was breathing heavily, watching the crappy screen helplessly, knowing exactly what Soap was about to say. His heart ached and time seemed to stop around him. He watched Johnny lean in to Graves and utter,

"Go ta hell."

Graves let out a barking laugh, licking his lips as he stood up full height.

The without warning, reared his leg back and kicked Soap right in the gut with what looked like his full strength.

Ghost screamed in the dark silence, willing the chains to break free so he could get out and punch that fucker face through the back of his skull - might even wear it over his balaclava after - eyes locked onto the screen, unable to do much else but watch.

Graves walked behind Soap as he was catching his breath, gripping his mohawk and ripping it back to Soap was now looking directly at the screen.

"See, we thought you might choose the hard way." Graves drawled with a grin, patting him on the cheek several times. "And that's why we're making your buddy there, watch...... And why I'm gonna have a lot of fun with this."

Soap didn't even have time to prepare or react before Graves was in front of him and punching his jaw, landing blow after blow on the bound man.

Ghost had done his fair share of torture. Hell, he was typically the one that most people feared based on reputation alone. He himself could withstand any amount of pain inflicted upon his body, or mind. Had the years-honed ability to dissociate, even welcome the pain.

But never had he been subject to a torture like this - - being forced to watch his Sargeant, his best friend - his lover - take the wounds that should be going to him instead.

It was his job to make sure this didn't happen, it was his job to make sure that his team and his men got home safe and alive. And yet, here we was, yelling angrily at the expanse as he was forced to watch Graves pummel into Johnny.

It pulled his heartstrings when Soap, already beaten bloody, spit out what looked like a tooth, and eyed the man before him.

"All this time, and ye still fight like a bloody girl."

Graves seemed to have had enough and landed another series of blows across his face and chest. Gripping Soap's cheeks, he forced him to face the screen again.

"You about ready to talk yet?" He drawled with a pant.

Ghost knew he wasn't talking to Soap.

Graves was talking to him.

When no answer came through, Graves just shook his head and sighed, turning back to Johnny.

"Sounds like your friend there don't much mind if you die in here."

Soap glared at him through a swelling eye already turning purple, thrashing against his chains. Graves merely chuckled and looked into the camera again.

"You just let us know if you decide his life is worth that laptop of yours."

Soap coughed up blood when Graves kicked him again, no doubt having broken a rib.

"N-no! Ghost! Simon! Don't listen to him! I can take it, I can---!" He ended with a kick to the gut before Graves walked over to a shadow in the background and soft clinking sounded through the fuzzy speakers. He pushed over a small cart full of different knives and..... Tools..... Lifting each on in the air to inspect them.

Ghost couldn't remember the last time he cried.

Hell he couldn't even remember the last time he even felt sadness.

But this sight damn near broke him in two - a single tear slipping through his long, blonde lashes, obsorbing into the balaclava.

The cries and screams of pain from his friend - his Johnny - kept his eyes glued to the screen, forcing himself to watch; taking a mental note of each and every injury Graves inflicted onto Soap :

Because not only was he going to get himself and Johnny of here alive - he planned to inflict every wound back to that fucker tenfold

.

.

. Hope yall enjoyed, reblogs and comments and hearts are SO appreciated - always! ❤️

[blitzsicedcoffee]

He's a nervous bean :)

Little pic of Blitz in the first chapter of my stolitz whump fic that I am having a very hard time writing lol. I'm sure it will be ready and able to post soon!

Enjoy!

[generic-whumper]

Zodiac Signs & Whump!

This is just a fun silly lil’ poll, nothing serious! I’m just wondering which of the signs is most into whump, or if there are a couple/few signs predominantly into whump. The term “whump” here is all encompassing, it can be whatever type of whump, nothing in particular!

*I will also be doing a poll of MBTI types & whump after this one!

[the-daiz]

#12— contemplating your own death

—Angstober day 12: Rotten touch

Pairing; Zombieman x reader

warning(s): !!!! GORE, BODY HORROR, VERY DESCRIPTIVE, vomit, ptsd, blood, squeamish reader

Synopsis; Zombieman had always been reckless, it's not like he needed to be vigilant. He was undying. Yet as he watches you retreat into a shell of yourself, stripping him away from the warmth he once relied on, he wonders if he could've acted differently that day.

✎Word count; 3.7k

♪ Playlist; Twilight

A/N; I'm so late help, I got busy with studying and stuff, anyway I was rlly descriptive with the gore srry , and I rushed this rah

Adrenaline coursed through your system, the muffled sound of your furious heartbeat did little to drown out the gruesome sound of ripping tendons, bending and cracking of bones, and the splatter of blood.

Your brain frantically attempted to piece together the events a moment prior to your current situation. You were walking in the streets, beside Zombieman, then—

Then what? Everything happened so quickly. Everything was so loud. You just remembered being pushed back by something-- or someone,  and falling onto your hind.

You propped yourself up by your elbows as you opened your eyes slowly, blinking rapidly as you tried to make out your surroundings. You coughed as dust and debris particles tethered in the atmosphere encasing you. Your nose crinkled at the smell of sweet iron, more in confusion than anything.

There was something wet and cold on your face, almost getting into your eyes and obstructing your vision. You wiped at your eyes with your fingers, then looked down.

It was red. So were your clothes. You were completely soaked with blood.

Were you hurt? You couldn't feel anything. It was probably the shock stopping you from sensing your wound. Wounds? Maybe?

You frowned as you finally felt the heavy weight pressing down on your stomach. You moved your palm away from your view to get a good look at your body. There was something— you blinked again, your view starting to become static.

It was a irregular cylinder of black cloth, wrapped around something. No- it was leather cloth? Your brows knit together as your disoriented gaze trailed to the side of the object, locking onto something grey at the end of it.

A hand.

It was an arm.

His arm.

Your airway narrowed and your pupils trained at the limp hand you were tenderly grasping only a minute ago. The ringing blared louder against your ear, the chaotic noises around you now muffled as blood rushed through your brain faster. You blinked a few times, mouth agape as you took in rapid, strained gasps, you then whipped your head to the opposing side of the arm: The amputation site.

It wasn't a clean cut, there were long, thin pieces of tissue hanging from its end, coloured with different shades of red, some pieces even sticking to the side of your thigh. The pigment engraved itself into your head.

Dilated pupils watched as the crimson liquid slowly poured out the vein and soaked into your already scarlet uniform.

Your stomach lurched at the sight, your mind screaming and scrambling for solutions, or directions or answers or anything!

After who knows how long of silently, not quietly, leering down at the mass atop you, your gaze caught a shift at the corner of your eyes.

Your neck rigidly craned up, eyes locking with a blurry silhouette of a dismantled, large build standing before you.

Your eyes kept focused for a few seconds, your brain adjusting to the sight.

You could barely make out the outline of his black, leather coat as you stared up at his back. Your gaze first settled onto the socket where his arm was supposed to cling from, blood squirting out but thankfully the noise was muted by the incessant ringing in your ear, lapping with your ragged breath and your pulse.

Something kept you from looking away, despite the utter revolution in your gut.

Your pupils dragged up onto the side of his face. You couldn't make out much, except for the missing half of his lower jaw, the skin once tethered to his face now torn off. It was all a tangle of blood and tissue and bones and teeth and wan skin.

The stinging bile rose further when his head moved to the side, at you, showcasing more of the grotesque scene. Your body is entirely overwhelmed with horror, your stare blows wider as it takes in the view of the eyeball just dangling from his head, somehow having wrung out of its socket.

The next thing you knew, you were hunched over a public toilet in a nearby mall, completely crowded with people who were also escaping the chaos, some hurt and some simply in mental shock.

If you were injured, you wouldn't be able to tell. You lurched forward again as more vomit seared up your esophagus, burning with unrelenting loathe. Tears pricked the rings of your eyes, knuckles painting white as your quivering hold tightened on the sides of the cold toilet cement.

Every time you thought you had already expelled everything there was to possibly expel from your system, the images flash against your closed eyelids then the metallic smell of fluids drenching you stirs inside your nostrils, and your stomach spasms once more. At some point, you were simply just dry-heaving in pain.

Another mental blur. Head exhaustedly pressed against the head of the toilet, murmuring answers to the frantic medic workers, checking you for any wounds so they could know whether to deem you a priority or not.

Then you were home—your home—his home. Then you were in the shower, your clothes from earlier, absolutely marinated in blood like a canvas of filth, discarded carelessly on the bathroom floor, tainting the clean tiles. You just scrubbed.

The water burned your skin as your hand scratched it aggressively with the loaf, reddened by the harshness. You stayed there for hours, constantly applying, rinsing, scrubbing, inhaling, and holding back a heave.

By the time you had finally stepped out of the bath, your fingers resembled raisins. Yet you still felt soiled.

You tip-toed around your clothes, refusing to let the mush red ruin you again. You wrapped your body with a towel and gloomed out.

"Sweetheart?" A familiar voice hums from behind you as you are about to step into your room. Every muscle in you reacts adversely, straining against itself. Your eyes enlarge and your breathing halts. "I was starting to get worried, you were taking concerningly long. I already asked, but you're not hurt, are you?"

How long has he been here?

You stood frozen for a few seconds, then slowly turned your head to glance at Zombieman.

Your body recoiled further, eyes widening as you took in his complexion. He looked completely fine like none of the previous events ever occurred. He was cleaned up with a new change of clothes. Yet while you stared into his red irises, your mind flooded with recollections. The stench hit you again like a wave.

He frowned at your odd behavior and stepped forward, as soon as he did, however, your face morphed into one of utter horror, and you flinched back.

You felt like screaming, you were about to scream but something else blocked your airway instead. You doubled over, your shoulders shaking as you gagged out nothing but saliva. Your neck hurt. You sucked in a few frantic breaths, your eyes screwed shut then another lurch jolted through you.

You were too busy trying to get yourself to stop throwing up, that you only realized how close he was once his palm connected gently with your shoulder. You sucked in a sharp breath and yelled, slapping his arm away as you jumped back, shriveling into yourself as tears began to run down your face uncontrollably.

"Go away!" You wailed, governing your running face with your arms. "Please, please-! Just get out!"

In the middle of your turbulent state lapped with sudden gags and coughs, you couldn't see the absolute hurt on his features. After a pause, with his lips parted but his words coiled in his throat, he retracted his hand and clamped his mouth shut. He was quick to rise to his feet and leave the apartment.

He sat, his back against the door of your home, a cigarette pinned against his index and middle finger. He sat there for hours, his heart cracking with every pained gasp of yours that was dulled by the wall between you. The one thing stopping him from completely losing sense of his sanity was the sweet sting of nicotine scrapping against his trachea.

If it wasn't for the large open window, the hallway would've been a mess of smoke and the essence of sizzling lungs.

His face wrinkled as he recalled that repulsed twist on your face. It made him feel inhuman, the one thing he never felt around you. He brought the bud to his mouth, sucking in a deep puff, his chest rising as the smoke in his lungs wreathed around his anguish. He drew out a long breath,  letting the cigar lightly hang between his teeth.

Another breath escaped his lungs as he shut his eyes and pressed his head back. He tried to remember you. The you from yesterday that gleamed at him so fondly, that looked at him with nothing but sincerity. You made him feel so alive.

He would be lying if he said the way people looked at him for the first time didn't even slightly sting him. He'd grown accustomed to it: The lingering gaze on his skin, or the paused stammer as they stared into his eyes, prominent against his pale skin. But you? You looked at him with every unspoken whisper he had hoped to hear, to consume, to feel.

Sitting there, with the knowledge that you were wracked with agony because of him? It destroyed him. He just wants to hold you and rock you in his arms, to whisper that he's sorry and he will always be there to keep you safe. But he knew he couldn't even do that. You could barely even stand to look at his face.

His eyes slowly fluttered open and he pulled out the cigarette from his mouth, silently listening for any sounds from the house. It had been silent for a while now. No shuffle, no sniffle, no ungovernable panting.

He was vigilant as he stepped into the apartment once more. He steadily made his way to your shared room, his gaze softening as it fell on your form, sprawled onto the bed with little care. Half your legs were off the bed.

He carefully hoisted you up comfortably on the bed and draped a blanket over you. He held his breath as he did so, afraid he might wake you up. But it seemed like the exhaustion from the whole day had completely spent you.

He cleaned the blood trail on the floor that you had absentmindedly left behind. He cleaned up the bathroom and carefully got rid of your soaked and battered clothes.

After a few solemn moments of gazing at your sleeping form, heart clenching at the puffed-up state of your eyes, he left.

He sent you a message, telling you he cleaned the house and took care of everything for you. That he's sorry. That he'll give you space. That he loves you.

The next day when he had seen that you'd replied to his messages, he felt a small sense of ease wash over him.

'Thank you,'

His shoulders sagged for a moment, then rose and readjusted as he started typing away at his phone.

He wrote that you needn't thank him, and he'd do much greater things for you. He followed that by asking how you were feeling and then stating that he was going to be staying somewhere until and unless you were ok with him coming back. He wrote that if you needed anything, just text him.

The shame clawing at your stomach was unbearable. You frowned as you peered down at his tender words, the side of your face pushing further into your pillow. You could hear his voice simply from the soothing tone in his messages. You wanted to hear his voice, to melt against his touch, to seep into his warmth.

Seep.

Your eyes wrinkled shut and your features crinkled as a roll of images flashed in your head. An exhale made its way out your nose as you slowly opened your eyes again to gaze over the texts.

You sent him a few, snipped messages then closed your phone and flipped it so the screen was pressed against your mattress.

You retracted your hand and pushed it under your cheek, the guilt within you coiling further. You wanted to see him, even if it was just to catch a glimpse of him, to see if he really was doing ok, but even the mere remembrance of his eyes made your quenched throat flex. You felt the unpleasant sensation of acid rising once again, which you hurriedly swallowed down.

The rest of the day went by on autopilot, the only way you could physically function without any disturbed thoughts or reactions: with your mind somewhere far and distant from your present.

When you finally decided that you'd like to see Zombieman again, an agonizing few days had passed, slow and unrelenting to you, but nonetheless had given you enough time to process everything. You thought you had, anyway.

Yet as he stood before you in your once comforting abode, where you cradled each other and shielded yourselves from the judgmental whispers of the world beyond these walls, you felt yourself sink into another pit of dread.

A grin, far from reaching your eyes, held up as you gazed at him.

He looked clean, he smelled nice, and the scent of his signature cologne embroiled itself in you. At the familiar smell, your muscles almost allowed themselves to relax but your sight did well to remind you.

His hands were jittering aimlessly at his sides, whilst his hesitant gaze kept fixated on you. He held back the eagerness within him. All he desired was to pull you close and have you cry all your heartache to him, but he knew better than to act rash. He had so much to tell you, so many things he wanted to apologize for.

And so did you. You had rehearsed what you wanted to say as you paced around the room, waiting impatiently for his arrival.

His stare held nothing short of warmth and his soft, riant smile coudln't match more perfectly. It always befogged you how someone with such an intimidating build could look so gentle in your eyes.

but just like sand, the admiration and love you tried to grasp onto slipped between the cracks of your fingers.

Your smile was no longer a smile but a taut tilt, the resigned and shaken look on your temples betraying any little calmness you tried to portray.

You swallowed hard, blinking a few times.

You couldn't keep looking at him. Not his face. Not his eyes. You tore your gaze away and trailed down to his torso. Again he wore black. He enjoyed dark colours. You knew this.

By the time your eyes locked onto his gruff hands, your grin had long been replaced and remolded.

You couldn't stand it.

Your eyes bulged as the grey colour of his skin consumed your vision like blotches slowly spreading and hindering your ability to think.

Grey, red, black.

Grey, red, black.

His skin, blood his eyes, his coat.

The weight of his amputated arm on your abdomen.

Your brain screeched with memories of crimson, so bright against the ashen cells. It was immediate. The deprivation of blood to your dread-filled face. The dilation in your pupils. The rapid thumping of your heart.

The air felt heavy as you gasped to suck in enough oxygen. You shook your head, hands quivering as you slowly lifted them to clutch at your face and turn away from him. You retreated into yourself with a weak tremble and stepped away from him. His brows creased inward at your state and his lips parted in an effort to help.

"I can't look at you." Your voice was strained as you pushed the words out your lungs, as if fighting a battle between your past self and your new corrupted one. "The skin. I can't do it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just please leave."

You're not looking at him, too engraved in your own muddled mind to catch the sorrow in his own as he turns to leave without another word.

You suppressed the sounds of your wails with your pillow, your face pressed suffocatingly hard against the cushion. Guilt chewed at every part of you.

You felt like a prisoner in your own being, chained and shackled down by the unfortunate sights your mind could hardly absorb. You didn't feel like yourself, and nothing you tried to do helped.

In the two weeks that passed, you had kept contact with your lover through texts. It came easy talking to him through the phone, and it was frankly the best part of your day.

Eventually, Zombieman came back to settle in your shared home. You mostly co-existed than you lived together. You didn't look at him much, at least you'd try not to, despite the way you felt his gaze sear your back as you faced away from him in bed. He'd leave early for his job and would come back late, notably extending his work.

You spoke, though. Well, he did. He knew you didn't mind him speaking, as long as you weren't looking at him. In the rare occurrences where the both of you were awake and present at home at the same time, he would speak about everything and anything, even complimenting you between topics. You chuckle, hum, and smile to yourself in response.

Those few moments helped in easing the twinge of discofitense you felt in his presence. But it did little to dull it out after.

Desperation, perhaps. Maybe yearning. Maybe that is what made him do it. He had always been level-headed and calculated, but that didn't mean he was immune to weakness, not when for weeks he'd been kept at arm's length. So close yet so unbearably distant. Quelling back his aching and the vacancy within him for your sake. He didn't regret it, but he couldn't deny that it had taken a light strike to his own self-consciousness.

You stood before the window, light filtering through and outlining your figure. Your eyes were fixated on your clothes as you ironed out the wrinkles along them, your focus elsewhere as you think of your day's schedule.

Your thoughts screech to a deafening halt as you choke back a yell. There was no mistaking the firm arms encasing your waist and the soft breath against your neck. You froze, pulling the iron off your outfit and gripping it with every ounce of strength you had, trying to ground yourself in any way possible.

Your breath paused but your heart beat with furious intensity and your mind raced with too many thoughts.

He didn't know what he was doing. He just held on, waiting for something. For some sort of receprocation. For anything. He thought maybe if he held onto you for a little while, your mind would quieten and you'd ease into him. And you'd come back to him.

You hoped so too, as you stared straight ahead with slightly widened eyes. For a moment, your eyelids relaxed, and you thought maybe this time you were the one controlling your body.

Then, at the faint un-tensing of your shoulders, his grasp slightly tightened around your waist.

You sucked in a sharp breath, the whole of your frame growing rigid.

The weight. the stomach-- Your stomach, it's crushing you again.

Don't look don't look don't look don'tlookdon'tlookdontlook

You tried to force yourself to shut your eyes and to push away every memory. But you couldn't.

The sound of his breath made your ears ring.

"I'm sorry, ok? I miss you. I miss you so much." His voice vibrated into your skin, but you could hardly focus on his confession as the heavy drag of blood clung onto you, and the scent flushed into your nose again.

You swallowed hard, and he pressed his arms firmer, and you looked.

Your eyes blinked down. His sleeve was black and his hands were grey.

This time, your breath came in a screeching gasp. Your face awashed with horror and you flinched, your hands frantically and sloppily pushing away his arms and pulling away from him.

He quickly let go of you, stepping back in dread. Your petrified gaze fell on his face, and for the first time, you finally saw that sting of hurt lining his features. You didn't know if the jolt that wracked your body was a painful reaction to realizing how much he's been holding in, or if it was your stomach again.

Your hands tremble uncontrollably and you gasp in air. Your mouth opened for a moment. You didn't know what you were about to say- if you were going to yell, apologize, or tell him something else. The words missed the finish line again, however.

You think you bolted? Your mind was in too much of a haze to really process anything right, and the familiar convulsion of your body only made your thoughts ink together in deeper disorientation. Your head was over the toilet again, retching out the contents in your system.

You wanted to sob. You were so exhausted from everything. You strained out an incoherent curse between heaves.

"Easy." The words echoed soothingly beside you. They were quiet, almost hesitant, And so was his touch as he pressed his large palm against your back.

The smooth circles he traced made your scrunched face relax slightly, de-knotting a tad bit of tension in your hunched posture.

Your mind, wracked and exhausted, didn't piece together who the radiating presence beside you was, the one it associated with grotesque clarity.

But you could.

At that moment, where you were in such a vulnerable and feeble state, was the only time you could finally rekindle that small thread of connection you shared with him.

He felt it too. It gave him hope. Maybe things could go back to how they were.

Yet as he kneeled to your aid, tentatively watching your shoulders shake as you gagged and coughed, he rethought his hope.

He was willing to wait. He was willing to let you push him away and cry at his mere touch, and he would ignore the sharp impale he felt, every sting and burn you shot with your conflicted gaze. If it was for you? He'd endure a thousand times more.

But could you endure this tormenting turmoil any longer?

[emachinescat]

A Year in (Book) Review: My 2024 Reading Journey 📚

#46 - The False Prince by Jennifer A. Nielsen

Low Fantasy / The Ascendance Series #1 / 352 pages / Published 2012 / Finished May 27

One Sentence Review: I've read this book more times than I can count, and I love it just as much every time - Sage is the perfect narrator (sassy, secretive, and too clever for his own good), and the twists and turns throughout the book never fail to keep me on the edge of my seat (even though I know all the twists and turns by heart).

Favorite Quotes (possible spoilers)

"'You have a clever tongue and an arrogant tilt to your head. I'm surprised Mrs. Turbeldy hasn't beaten it out of you.'

'You mustn't blame her. She beat me the best she could.'"

*

"My father said a person can be educated and still stupid, and a wise man can have no education at all."

*

"If you can't give anyone pain, you can't give them joy either."

*

"'Have you come to kill me?' I asked. 'Because I'll scream when you do and it'll wake up the princess and probably a whole lot of other people, and you'll get into trouble.'

'You'll be dead.'

'Yes, but you'll be in trouble.'"

*

"You should always choose on the side of hope."

*

"'You won't kneel?'

'Would a prince?'

Connor raised his voice. 'You're not a prince until I say so.'

'I don't need you to say so, sir. As you see me standing here, I am the prince of Carthya.'"

*

"'Hail His Majesty, the scourge of my life,' Connor said to Roden and Tobias as he stomped up the stairs. 'I fear the devils no longer, because I have the worst of them right here in my home!'"

My rating: 5/5

A Few More Thoughts (Spoilers):

This is one of my favorite books - and series - and Sage/Jaron is one of my favorite narrators / main characters. The book is fast-paced, full of action and political intrigue, and it has one of the most impressive unreliable narrators I've read. It's filled with adventure, secrets, loveable but flawed characters, and fantastic, complex villains. It's one of Nielsen's best (though book 2 is probably my favorite in the series).

The. Whump.

Every time I read this book (this was 7? 8? More?), I find myself in awe at Nielsen's expertise at writing an unreliable narrator. It's rare to find a book with a main character who has such a huge, plot-shaking secret that they are able to effortlessly keep from not only the other characters, but also from the readers, without it feeling contrived.

I have such a deep and abiding love for this book and this series (and author!), as well as the world and the characters. This is a fast, exciting read with an enormous twist, and even after knowing said twist, I can read it over and over without getting bored.

[just-a-space-rabbit]

trick or treat!!!!!!!

As decided by the wheel you get 🍬 Treat! 🍬 Bibbidi bobbidi boo! Here is a prompt for you! 🪄

Before Whumper took Whumpy. Caretaker and Whumpy always loved halloween and scaring each other. 

After Whumpy returned home however, they were no longer the prankster Caretaker knew so well. Instead they have shrunk into themself and become easily frightened and silent. 

Caretaker was happy to have Whumpy back home. However they dreaded the upcoming halloween and was worried how Whumpy was going to handle it.

So when Caretaker came home early on Halloween night, only to find all the lights being out. They slowly began to panic that something must have gone horribly wrong. “Whumpy?” they called walking slowly into the house. When suddenly! 

“BOO!” Whumpy yelled as loud as their small voice could muster. Caretaker jumped to the side, clutching their chest as Whumpy took off the white cloth they had draped over themself. “Got you” Whumpy laugh softly.

And Caretaker smiled as they finally saw a bit of the old Whumpy shine thru.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

"Gimme...just one second, okay?" the villain asked. They coughed up blood, felt it trickle down their throat. It was warm and thick and the villain truly believed they could never get used to that feeling, even if that wasn't the case. They couldn't get rid of the hope either. The hope, the desperate and dumb hope that all of this could end one day.

"You're awake..." the hero said, their voice not even above a whisper. It was sort of comical how their lips curled into a sweet smile. Their relief warmed the villain's totally failing heart. They kneeled beside them and their hand found the villain's dislocated shoulder. "I really thought this was it."

"You're way too optimistic," the villain said. They were choking on their own blood, drowning in it. It was madness.

"You're way too dramatic," the hero answered. They pushed some hair out of the villain's face. Soft fingers touched bruises and cuts. The villain couldn't tell if it was a gift or another cruelty from the universe. Seeing the hero, feeling their touch. The villain had hated them for years.

Had loathed their perfect teeth, their bright smile. Their dumb comments.

"If I asked you..."

"Yes," the hero said. "I would say no."

The villain let out a long and laboured breath. But the hero had broken into their heart of concrete, had managed to make the villain smile even on bad days.

"It would put my mind at ease."

"You would suffer," the hero said. "And I like to avoid that."

Something popped in the villain's torso and the familiar feeling of a rib snapping back into place overwhelmed them a little. They could never get rid of this curse.

"But what if I never die?" they asked. They squeezed the hero's hand as the cut on their arm healed. It was painful and even more annoying than being sliced open.

"Why won't you see this as a blessing? Think about all the things you can accomplish. All the subjects you can study. All the people you'll get to know."

Again, the hero's hand touched their cheek gently, as if the villain could break any second.

"And what about the people I will lose? What about you?" The villain spit out some blood and sat up, their body slowly getting all its functions back. "What if you grow old alone and I have to watch? Has it ever occurred to you that I want to do that with you?"

"Believe it or not but life expectancy among heroes is pretty low," the hero said, smiling sadly.

"God, then please just try it. Shoot me, cut my head off, whatever..."

"I am not going to do that," the hero said. They kissed the villain's forehead. "It isn't easy for me either. I want a long life. You don't want eternity. We don't get what we want."

"I have to protect you, then," the villain decided. "And find a way to heal like a normal person. I need to do experiments, I need to-"

"My love."

"-find a way to injure myself without healing within seconds. I need to find my weakness, I need to find something, anything-"

"My love." The villain stopped and stared at their hero. "It's alright."

"No. But I will make it alright."

That was also some sort of madness.

[mostlywhump]

The wildest ep of the Macgyver reboot

Sometimes I think fondly about Macgyver (2016) season 3 episode 13 Wilderness + Training + Survival....and how absolutely batshit this episode was. If the creators had decided to confidently maintain these chaos levels, I think the show would have been better and had a longer run in general (but that's just my opinion).

Some random insane details that got fully brushed over but make me lose my mind every time:

Mac actively choosing to bring no emergency supplies out of pure god complex.

That time the bad guy leader tore Mac's beanie off and grabbed him by the hair sexual-style. Absolutely no other character has thought to grab Mac by the hair in the original show or the reboot like wtf

EDIT I've been reminded by some friendly reblogs that hair-pulling happens in a couple other episodes. Regardless, it cracks me up every single time. The guy seems to do it out of pure frustration and that is so funny to me.

Riley wearing acrylics into the wilderness

The bad guy just up and massacred his entire squad so he wouldn't have to share the money. Like he just shot them all in cold blood. That's some GOT shit.

Mac getting shot in the thigh from like two inches away and not having his entire femur shattered.

Riley and Bozer running into a clearing scattered with dead bodies?? With Mac bleeding out (?) in the middle?? No questions asked.

At least two of the bad guys were SEVERELY injured and they just got left to die in the absolute middle of nowhere after all that emphasis on how dangerous the wilderness is lmfao

RILEY WEARING ACRYLICS INTO THE WILDERNESS

Bozer being totally confused by the word yarrow implying that he did literally none of the reading.

That one guy who was blinded by burning poison oak and left to die in the woods

Mac doing math and science word problems outloud while a group of murdering criminals stare at him in confusion

Why did he have a random hillbilly friend in the mountains

Why did he suddenly have a pickup truck for the occasion

anyway i miss Macgyver and i wish it would come back RIP ok bye

[whumperer-86]

Biting his own hand from the extreme pain, Concerned for him, and being manhandled by close people to him

[ppiripampam]

My Man is Cupid ep 16 part 2

⬇️⚠️SPOILER ALERT⚠️⬇️

He's a cupid, there's a way for him to come back to life ;D

[redd956]

Mini Whump Prompt 101

"Come on whumpee- Wake up please! You promised me-", Caretaker's words were lost to a sob.

They clung to whumpee's shirt, planting their head against the unconscious person's chest, listening to whumpee's low breathing.

[alexandenigtscreations]

Original character Gyra Blackwell trying to find out through the blood loss if the people who fished her injured butt out of a river are friends or foes. Blood loss doesn't help.

Redraw of an old inktober piece from 2016