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kaiwewi · 2 months ago

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Their First Villain

Secret Santa gift for @the-modern-typewriter Prompt: "Scary villain x hero in a Christmas setting of your [the writer's] choice. Could go spicy, could go whumpy, could go unexpectedly sweet!" Hope you like this! Merry Christmas!! 🎅🎁

“You recognised me,” the villain observes, his tone unnaturally flat. His face betrays no emotion.

“Kinda hard not to, with your…” – the hero tilts their head at where the villain’s magic continues to spread, coiling around their limbs and securely fixing them in place – “…snake thingies?”

The individual tendrils really do vaguely resemble snakes, although the magic in its entirety reminds them more of some writhing alien monster plant from an old Sci-fi B-movie whose title they cannot remember. It’s not a good comparison anyway. The movie hadn’t been scary at all.

They experimentally try to wrestle one of their arms free, but despite the magic’s apparent fluidity, the moment they push or pull in any direction, whatever give appeared to be there all but disappears and they can’t move a millimetre.

“Oh.” The villain’s eyes widen. “You can see it.”

“See it. Feel it. Didn’t expect it to be this hot.”

An awkward pause follows.

They are decidedly not blushing. It’s just warm. All of them is so warm now that the villain’s powers have moulded themselves around the hero like something liquid but alive. Wherever the tendrils touch bare skin – their ungloved hands and that area just above their ankles where their pants don’t quite meet the rims of their boots – the raw energy buzzes, prickles just short of stinging.

They’d been shivering just minutes ago in their much too thin poncho and the not seasonally appropriate Agency office uniform. Well, they still are shivering, just no longer from the cold.

Where the villain’s magic is fever-hot, his scrutiny runs icy.

“You can see it, but not fight it,” he muses. “How curious. The Agency must be understaffed to send their defenceless little office drones out into the field.”

The hero would be glaring if the villain weren’t underscoring the point by pulling his magic tighter with the mere flick of a finger. That small, anxious sound that escapes them in response brings a self-satisfied grin to the villain’s lips.

“It’s Christmas,” the hero says, once the magic has settled again.

The villain raises a brow.

“Most of the regulars are on holiday, Christmas being a time best spent with family … or so I’m told.”

“Yet you are working.”

“Don’t have anyone.” They aren’t technically without family just … Sometimes, family isn’t a place of refuge and welcome. Not a home to turn to for holiday celebrations or company. Some families fashion themselves exclusive clubs with strict rules that refuse or revoke memberships as they please. The hero forces some levity into their tone. “I have nowhere else to be today, so, I’m helping out here.”

The villain chuckles. “Helping is perhaps not what I would call that.”

“Hey, I did recognise you,” they say, defensively.

“And look where that got you.” His smile is sharper than before, meaner. “Am I your first villain? My heartfelt condolences.”

They don’t dignify that with an answer. But the answer is yes. The villains they watched being interrogated through one-way mirrors at HQ don't count.

“Pity,” the villain says with zero warmth, “that you couldn’t just look the other way. What is it with you people that you're always so eager to cause unnecessary conflict.”

“Reporting suspicious behaviour is kind of my job.” It comes out barely above a whisper and carries the distinct cadence of an apology.

“Ah yes, and my mere existence struck you as suspicious behaviour because …”

Admittedly, once they’d recognised the villain, they hadn’t taken the time to consider his appearance beyond the magic he’d been wearing around his shoulders like a particularly weaponizable scarf. The lack of a combat suit in favour of a sleek, dark coat over a woollen jumper and cargo joggers – either an outfit designed to blend in or just what the villain happens to like to wear when he isn’t working – hadn’t registered any more than the total absence of weaponry other than his powers. And while he could have hidden those better, it’s not like he could have simply left them at home.

There hadn’t been time to ponder. It had all happened so fast. Their eyes had met, and a moment later the hero had already been scrambling away from the crowd, past a stall selling mulled wine and into the nearest alley, where they’d scrolled through their contacts with stiff, unfeeling fingers. The villain had caught up with them before they’d managed to call for backup.

Their gaze darts to the remnants of their smashed phone, sprinkled across the muddy snow, mere metres away but entirely useless even if they could reach it.

What if the villain hadn’t had anything nefarious planned? What if the hero’s brain had naturally jumped to the most prejudiced conclusion all on its own?

Of course, it is unfair to treat his mere presence as if it is a crime. But the things he could do ...

They think about the parents with their cameras, filming their ice-skating children, the squealing toddlers on the merry-go-round, the nice old ladies selling tea out of the back of a car.

“You could be a danger to all those innocent people,” they defend their judgement.

“And you could be a danger to me,” the villain replies coolly. “Would be unwise, letting someone roam free who can pick me out of a crowd with a glance. Perhaps I should thank you for revealing yourself. Very ill-advised. But quite convenient. You were so obvious about it, too.”

He has crossed the distance between them while speaking. Close enough now to reach out and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind their ear with his cold, slender fingers. His other hand settles almost gently on their throat, atop the magic that has slivered around their neck at some point during the conversation.

The tip of a new tendril is in the process of worming its way lower, nestling into the collar of their shirt. It laps against the crook of their neck and they cringe away from the touch as much as the magic allows. It doesn’t hurt. It would be so much easier if it did. The touch is light; it kind of tickles and, given the overall direness of the situation, the hero really isn’t in the mood for that. Or, they shouldn’t be.

Unhelpfully, their traitorous mind supplies them with a thoroughly inappropriate image of what else someone who isn’t the enemy could be doing to them with magic such as this.

“Tell me,” the villain says as the power shifts upwards, tilting their chin back with the movement, so his nails can bite into the newly exposed skin below their jaw, “is there anything else troublesome about you, or is it just the eyes?”

He looks most pleased when their breath hitches despite their best efforts to remain stoic. His grip tightens. He’s studying them intently, staring at their eyes like those are priced gems he considers adding to his collection.

Maybe, underneath the mockery, he actually does consider them somewhat of a threat. If he didn’t, why would he be looking at them like that.

It’s stupid, truly and utterly stupid, to feel flattered. This is not respect, they know, just sharp, calculating consideration. His attention promises imminent danger, might turn lethal at any second. It’s not something they should revel in. Still, it feels good, too – being seen.

Has anyone ever really seen them before?

Or perhaps that is the lack of oxygen speaking.

They struggle to focus their vision but all the twinkling Christmas lights in the trees are starting to smudge into dull, red and golden blurs. Vertigo is clawing at them.

There is absolutely nothing they can do against the villain's grip. They're so pitifully out of their depth.

They think about their bland, only half-furnished two-room apartment; their first day at the Agency HQ; their nth day – no more eventful than the first – sitting at the exact same desk in the exact same office and working on the exact same old computer; their colleagues’ looks of pity when their 14th application for a transfer to field work is being denied and their boss tells them, in stern admonishment, that their skill sets just aren’t suited to solo missions. They think about her condescending smile when she finally does assign them the Christmas market job, clearly convinced the worst thing that could possibly happen here is people getting drunk enough on punch to start throwing punches.

They think of their first split-second impression of the villain as just another guy standing by the ice rink with a cup of something steaming in his hands and a mellow, unguarded smile curving his lips.

They hope this montage doesn’t count as their life flashing before their eyes. It’s way too sad a summary of their depressing lack of accomplishments.

They think, with equal parts age-old bitterness and new-found sarcastic vindication, about their colleagues’ infantile, unofficial, end-of-the-year office rankings where flashier heroes with more impressive abilities always receive titles such as most likely to hook up with a hot reporter or most epic battle or best one-liners.

Meanwhile, all the hero has to show for are three consecutive wins of least likely to die on the job.

Which might have been a reassuring sentiment if it weren’t so clearly code for “you’ll never be a real hero”. Real heroes risk their lives on the job all the time.

Well, look at them now!

Will their colleagues manage to come up with a new title for them in time, they wonder, if the villain kills them now, just a week before this year’s poll results will be released?

Most unexpected death has a nice ring to it.

They should be trembling in terror. Might have, if the villain’s magic weren’t encasing them so – tight but soft and deceptively warm, lulling them in. The sticky heat of it leaves them squirming, stuck in a confusing limbo between gooey not-quite-discomfort and hot-bath sluggishness.

They’re drifting. Until they’re not.

It’s impossible to discern how much time has passed or when exactly the villain has released them; but their thoughts are beginning to clear and their brain catches up to the fact that there is air in their lungs again, and that the breathless, hiccuping gasps uncontrollably tumbling out of their mouth aren’t sobs. It’s laughter.

“Are you enjoying this?” The villain sounds incredulous.

They shake their head. “I don’t know,” they manage, between hysterical giggles. “Maybe. Yes?”

“How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t.”

That startles a short laugh out of him.

“I’ve never” – they pant, still struggling for air – “felt this alive before.”

“That sounds ... unhealthy.”

There is a long pause in which the villain silently stares at them while they are more or less regaining control over their breathing.

“You wouldn’t get it,” they say then, perfectly aware they must seem most unhinged. “Bet you don't even know what boredom is. Because your life is fun. Mine is not. I practically live at my stupid job, and my stupid job doesn't even pay well. No one there gives a fuck about me. And nothing exciting ever happens. So can I please just have this one damn moment without being judged?”

The villain hums, low. “And here I thought we were ruining each other’s days.” He presses a hand to their forehead. “Did the heat fry your synapses?” he asks, sounding more amused than concerned. His other hand comes up to cup the nape of their neck, as if he can’t help but reach out. Just as they can’t help but lean into the cooling touch. His gaze drops, as if drawn, to their lips. “Or, are you just naturally this unusual?”

They can smell gingerbread and mulled wine on his breath.

“Are you going to kiss me?” they ask, because yes their synapses are definitely fried and they do not care about consequences, awkwardness, or sanity anymore.

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

“I’d certainly much rather be kissed than killed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, smirking. “But we've established I’m not about to kill you. And that wasn’t a yes.”

“It’s not a no either.”

“Not how consent works, darling.”

They scoff. “You didn’t ask for consent first when you strangled me five minutes ago.”

The villain laughs again, in genuine delight judging by how his magic ripples and purrs.

“Okay, fair enough,” he whispers, shifting so his lips almost brush theirs.

The kiss that follows is sweet, surprisingly chaste, and initiated by the hero.

“So, since you mentioned earlier you have nowhere else to be today,” the villain says, afterwards, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Have you ever had the pleasure of being kidnapped?”

Pleasure, as it turns out over the course of the next few hours, is an understatement.

If anyone at the office were to find out what the hero has been up to during their first (and best) and possibly only solo field mission, not only are they guaranteed to get fired, their colleagues will also surely create an entirely new office ranking category in their honour:

First to be seduced by a supervillain.

#secret santa #secret santa snippets #secretsantasnippets2024 #the-modern-typewriter #merry christmas #heroes and villains #hero x villain #scary villain x inexperienced hero #snippet #writing snippet #writeblr

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 1 year ago

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Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; blood; injury; vomiting.

A/N: Another whumpful chapter. My little whumpy heart is happy. But some feely feel good moments too. And then some not so feely feel good. I don’t hate Andrea, I promise.

You couldn’t begin to guess what time it was. Between caring for Daryl and vomiting every drop of water you’d tried to intake, you barely knew where you were anymore. You tossed a few sticks into the fire to keep it burning low before lowering unsteadily to your knees beside the archer.

Daryl hadn’t regained consciousness since his one-sided conversation earlier in the night. He was restless, quietly groaning; head turning back and forth with a pained grimace etched onto his features. His breaths came in shallow pants while his pulse palpitated wildly. His skin was still cool. You found yourself petting his hair and shushing him gently. Somehow, that felt okay.

You ran a hand through your hair and exhaled shakily. How were you supposed to get both of you back safely the next morning when you were rapidly weakening and Daryl could hardly stand? What if you couldn’t even get him to rouse? Slapping your palms against the gravel, you forced yourself to your feet and began pacing.

You were yearning for your father’s advice; missing him to a debilitating degree. For all the mistakes he’d humbly own up to, the man had never steered you wrong. He was never harsh, always finding a way to ensure you were laughing through your tears.

“Perk up, peanut. Nothing’s that bad! When life gives you lemons—”

“I hate lemonade, daddy.”

“Forget lemonade! Why are you taking food from a stranger?”

“You’re so corny.”

“But you’re laughing. Mission accomplished.”

You wiped away a tear and smiled. You had been so lucky to have a father like him: patient, kind, funny, stern when he needed to be but never cruel. You stilled your steps and turned your gaze toward Daryl. On the surface, the hunter seemed to be the opposite of everything your father had been. But you had been granted the smallest glimpse through a crack in the archer’s self-preserving armor.

When you were so incredibly sick in the woods, every touch had been gentle. Every syllable had been soft. Daryl was capable of tenderness and—while he may never be like your father—you easily believed the archer would be a wonderful dad in his own Daryl way.

You sat down with your back against the tree, watching Daryl sleep. Fierce determination settled against your heart, smothering out the panic that always hid away there. You would get you both out. If you had to drag Daryl up the rocky slope tied to your back, you would persevere. You were all three going to survive this.

You stayed in that spot, absorbing all the courage and strength the universe was offering. It wasn’t a supernatural event, but a personal battle against the weakness you had been allowing yourself to wallow in since the attack on your camp. Daryl was something in your life. More than the father of your baby. A friend? It didn’t matter. You needed him to be okay.

As the sun began to rise and the fire burned out, you knew it was time to start the literal uphill battle toward getting back to camp. Taking a deep breath, you held it for a heartbeat as you looked at Daryl. The man was anything but weak but he was so pale, pain written plainly on his face. Exhaling, you crawled the short distance to where he lay, unsure how to approach this.

“Daryl.” A gentle shake to his shoulder. Another whisper of his name with another simultaneous joggle. His eyes clenched, brows drawing together. He was in pain. It was obvious. Still, you had no choice but to insist. “Come on, Daryl. Open your eyes.”

He did. “Wha’?” The archer immediately tried to sit up, but the wound’s sting held him in place. “Fuck.” You absently brushed your fingertips across his jaw.

“Do you remember what happened?” You asked sincerely, helping him into a sitting position. It was a slow, painful endeavor but a success nonetheless. With an arm wrapped tightly around his middle, he pinned you down with a look just shy of a glare.

“Thought I remembered ‘til I saw ya here.” He adjusted how he was sitting with only the slightest hint of discomfort. “But then I knew it couldn’t be real cause ya ain’t dumb enough to come out here alone.” Once he settled, Daryl arched an eyebrow at you.

“Color me an idiot, then.” You shrugged with a feigned smile. He was clearly unimpressed.

“Ya gotta stop thinkin’ s’just you anymore.” Your eyes followed his right hand as it moved from his midsection toward yours but pulled back quickly without touching. “I ain’t worth riskin’ our kid.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the first time he had acknowledged the baby as both his and yours. You decided that pointing it out was not in either of your best interests.

“You’re important too, you know.” You argued instead. A retort was on the tip of his tongue, his mouth opening but you gave him no time to argue. “Here, you need to eat.” You grabbed his left wrist and plopped the apple onto his palm. “You really need more than that. I could reheat the beans from last night?”

“Don’t need to do all that. Just give ‘em here.” The spoon you had used was still in the can when you passed it to him. You sipped water from the canteen as he ate, watching him scrutinize every inch of the area you’d soon be climbing. Using the spoon, he pointed. “That your rope?”

“Well, technically it belongs to a moron that fell into a ravine on top of his own bolt.” Your grin met his deadpan expression. “I swiped it from your tent. Had to cut it to stop you from becoming walker chow though. Sorry.”

He simply shrugged. “Ya ain’t eatin’?”

Shit. You were truly hoping he wouldn’t notice. “I ate.” Not a lie. Technically.

“If you have to say ‘technically’, you’re already in trouble.”

Your father’s voice echoed in your head. Goddamnit. “I can’t eat anything right now. Given all the shit we’re about to do, I shouldn’t have drank anything either.”

“They couldn’t find the meds?” He looked stricken and you found that caused an ache in your chest that you didn’t care to ever feel again.

“I don’t know. I left before they got back.”

His face morphed into an annoyed scowl. “You’re an idiot.” He grumbled. He continued to eat, though he seemed more hesitant with every bite. Did he feel bad eating in front of you? “So let me wrap my head ‘round this.” That calm tone that was about to build up into his pissed off rampaging. “I can hardly move an’ you’re gonna be upchuckin’ ev’ry ten seconds, but we’re s’posed to climb outta here?”

“More or less.” You shrugged.

“What could go wrong?” He grimaced at the empty can before tossing it aside. He stared at the canteen you held out to him but eventually took it.

“I’ve got another, so drink up.”

Daryl hummed and then drained every drop from the container.

You stuffed it in your bag and slipped your arms through the straps. “We gotta go. Let’s get you up.” You stood only to crouch behind him, snaking your arms under his to lock your hands on his chest while carefully avoiding the wound. His muscles tensed at the contact. “This is gonna suck but on three?” He mumbled ‘fine’ under his breath and planted his hands on the ground to help push himself. “One, two, three!”

There was a cut off shout on the journey upright. He staggered backward but you planted your feet firmly to stabilize him. He was panting and swaying, both arms wrapped around himself tightly but he was taking most of his weight.

“You good?” You asked, sliding your hands to hold just above hips, silently giving the bandages a once over for any fresh blood.

“M’fine.” He managed to breathe. He didn’t sound fine but you’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Very slowly, you pulled your hands away, ensuring he could remain standing.

Next order of business was strapping his crossbow onto your back. It took some time and maneuvering but you finally managed.

“I can take that. Ya don’t need to be carryin’ all that shit.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Walk over here and you can have it.” Your eyes held a challenge, and you were certain he would rise to the bait, even knowing it wouldn’t end the way he wanted. He managed one step before he staggered. “That’s what I thought.” Confident he wouldn’t try again, you pulled and shifted the weapon’s strap while you studied the hill you two were about to tackle. “Jesus, this thing isn’t nice to sore tits.”

“Why your tits sore?”

You found him looking adorably confused. “It’s a pregnancy thing.” His eyebrows raised, his mouth forming a silent ‘o’. “Welp, let’s get started.” Daryl didn’t argue this time when you ducked under his arm. He needed as much strength as he could save for climbing. “Think you can make it to where the rope ends?”

The hunter narrowed his eyes. “Yeah.” He didn’t look any more confident than he sounded.

“Okay, I’m gonna stay behind you until we get there. Then I’ll go first.” He nodded without argument. He must have felt awful if he wasn’t even trying to suggest something else. He grunted with the first uphill step, right arm encircling his middle while he breathed through the pain. “You okay?”

“Ain’t really got a choice.”

Unfortunately, he was right. You couldn’t leave him to fetch help and couldn’t drag him up the hillside. He managed another step, your hand reaching out to lie against the small of his back as you followed. Hopefully, you’d be able to stop him from falling.

Halfway to the end of the rope, you barely received any warning before you pitched to the side and vomited all the water you had drank.

“Oops.” You wiped your mouth on the back of your hand, catching Daryl’s gaze from over his shoulder. “I spilled it.” He rolled his eyes and continued upward while you smirked at his back. Things sucked. Making light of it all wasn’t going to change that.

After another block of several minutes, Daryl could almost reach out and touch the rope. He gripped a sturdy branch and pulled himself up further, falling short and curling inward with a sound dangerously close to a sob.

“Daryl?” You grabbed the nearest rock and hauled yourself up beside him. “Are you okay?” He wasn’t. That much was clear from the way he visibly trembled and the tension you could see in his jaw. “Let’s rest here for a minute.”

“M’fine. Keep goin’.”

“Daryl—”

“Said m’fine!” He snapped, beginning the ascent once again. You glowered at his back for a moment more before deciding it was pointless to argue. Once you made it to the rope, you’d take the lead and control the pace. You’d damn well make him slow down. “What now?” He panted, holding tightly to an unearthed root to keep himself from tumbling. You didn’t answer, but began to tie the rope around his midsection. “What the—ya need this more than me.”

“Shut up.” You finished the knot and reached above to give the rope a firm tug. Without a word, you climbed your way above him and grabbed onto the rope. You were certain you could make it just holding on and climbing. Your stomach was trying to revolt once again but at least you’d have the security of not falling as long as you held on tight. Hopefully, you wouldn’t accidentally puke on his head.

With concern clearly on your face, you continued to look back. Daryl was taking significantly longer, breaths coming fast and jaw clenched. He was clearly struggling to keep quiet so you wouldn’t stop. Idiot.

“You doing okay back there?”

“Just go.” He snapped, hissing through his teeth immediately after. If you could make it fast enough, maybe you could pull the rope to give him some support. The thought had no sooner crossed your mind before you bent forward and dry heaved, hardly able to maintain your grip. “Hey. Ya alright?”

You nodded, keeping still for a moment. The world was spinning. You couldn’t risk climbing. Your baby was more important than attempting to race your way to the ledge. If you fell—

A cool hand came to rest on the middle of your back, the vibrations of the tremors his body was suffering were felt clearly through your shirt. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He was worried for you and for the baby. It was a new but not unwelcome feeling to realize you weren’t unimportant to him. He didn’t see you as an incubator. Being friends that happened to share a child wasn’t such a terrible feeling.

“I’m okay.” You pulled air in through your nose and pushed it out through your mouth. The breathing helped alleviate the nausea and any panic that may have accompanied it. “Let’s keep going. We need to get you back.”

“Need to get you back too.” He argued while removing his hand. He started to climb again before you were ready to move. There was no way you were letting him above you. If he fell, he’d take you with him and you wouldn’t have the rope to slow your descent. You scrambled quickly and carelessly, making it up to at least be beside him. And just in time.

The rock Daryl placed his left foot on came loose from the soil. He let out a curse as he began to fall but you were quick, twisting at the waist to grab hold of his wrist. The sudden movements irritated his wound, your heart clenching when he cried out and pressed his forehead against the ground.

“C’mon. Ya done half. Stop bein’ such a pussy.” He muttered to himself.

You almost let the laughter that bubbled up force its way from your mouth. Almost. It was only slightly difficult not to tease him when he was in such a shape. You kept a keen eye on him as he repositioned and found a solid foothold. When he looked up at you and nodded, you noticed how badly he was sweating and he was growing even more pale. Reluctantly, you released your hold but kept your hand outstretched just in case.

“You good?”

There was a look that crossed his face, like he was about to say something snarky, but it faded just as quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, m’good.” Upon turning back to your own climb, you smiled to yourself.

It was unsurprising that you reached the top first, keeping the rope in hand as you climbed the last several feet to the ledge. Once you had hauled yourself up, you shed your bag and his crossbow before you sat close to the tree and pulled up all the slack. If he were to fall now you’d need to brace your legs against the trunk to be able to hold him without being dragged off yourself. Little by little you pulled as he got closer. From where you were positioned, you couldn’t see him so the rope was the only clue you had as to where he might be.

“Daryl, are you okay?”

He didn’t answer but was still moving, albeit slower. Until he appeared to stop. Shit. Taking a risk, you let go and crawled to the edge. The archer was just below the tree root. His arms were trembling, his forehead was pressed against the dirt, and worst of all, there was fresh blood spreading across the back of his shirt.

“Daryl. Daryl, answer me.”

“Just—just need—a minute.” He slurred. Your worry compounded, a sick feeling in your gut that had nothing to do with that hullabaloo word that Hershel had given you. That god awful feeling was constricting your chest, making it hard to form any sort of coherent thought, let alone a plan. Eyes on the archer, you could see his fingers loosening around the limb and rock that were keeping him there.

“Daryl!” You barked loudly. It had the intended effect. His body visibly jerked and he lifted his head, dazed eyes searching until they found you. You had to make a choice: try to pull him up or go down to get him. Your hands pushed you up and allowed you to spin with your legs over the edge. Leaning forward the slightest bit, you started down as you had the day before, sliding your ass against the ground.

“Y/N!” Daryl’s voice, though angry, held very little ardor. He was barely hanging on, literally and figuratively. “Don’t—don’t ya dare come—down here.”

“Try and stop me.” You knew it was a risk. Frankly, you were fed up with risking your baby but you told Daryl he was important, too. “You can yell at me later.” Your gaze continued to flit between your path and the hunter. He had rested the side of his face against the ground again and was trying to watch you through eyes that were fighting like hell to close.

Seconds later, his hand started to fall away from the rock, just for yours to push it back down. His grip instantly tightened. Your other hand moved to grasp his chin.

“Daryl.” His gaze was unfocused but he was still holding himself there. “Daryl, I need you to climb. I’ll help you but I need you to try.” When you had to shake his head a little, you felt a tickle on your cheek just as your lip quivered. “Please.” He remained still, leaving you envisioning him letting go. If he fell, it might not kill him but you would never be able to get him back to this point. You were running out of ideas. Adjusting yourself to reach across him and hold his left hand around the limb, you grabbed the right and pressed his palm against your stomach. “If not for you or me, try for them!”

There was nothing for a moment more, long enough for you to lose hope. You let your head fall forward against the back of his shoulder and cried in earnest, knowing you’d have to climb up eventually.

His fingers twitched against your belly. He started to move, slowly. Very slowly. Hell, sloths moved faster. You reeled back, observing, ready to do whatever he needed. Right then, you just started whispering encouragement as he reached for something to continue pulling himself upward.

“That’s it. Keep going. I’m right here.” You climbed beside him, careful of where you put your feet. You would reach out each time you moved up, just placing your palm on his back to assure him you were real and you were there. “Almost, Daryl.” The two of you had passed the root that held the rope when the trembling worsened but he didn’t stop. His teeth were bared, clenching so tightly that you thought they might shatter.

When he was close enough, you scrambled past him and to the edge. You couldn’t pull his full weight, but you knew he’d rather fall than pull you over. If he couldn’t fight his way up, he’d let go. It was a terrible fact. You reached for him—over his shoulders—grabbing under his arms to give him some support when he dug his fingers into the dirt to drag himself up the rest of the way.

You both collapsed onto the flat ground beside the tree, panting and staring up at the canopy. You rolled your head and smiled at him, though he seemed to be only halfway present. Your smile was still in place when you looked back up at the cloudless blue sky.

“Well, that was fun.” You chuckled.

Daryl groaned and weakly lifted the arm closest to you and placed his hand over your face. Somehow, that only made you laugh harder.

The two of you were worse for wear by a mere hour into the journey back. You were in a violent cycle of drinking water only to vomit it up moments later while Daryl could barely stay on his feet, stumbling and catching himself against a tree if there happened to be one. If not, you’d stagger over and let him use your arm to lever his way back to his feet.

Neither of you had said a word. You were dehydrated and in desperate need of sleep. Daryl was actively bleeding, growing paler by the moment. You forced him to drink when you did, paying as much attention as possible to the amount left. The next time you doubled over, you found him leaning heavily against a tree, watching you.

“G’on ahead.” He made a weak gesture and began sliding down until his ass met the dirt. You began shedding your bag and his weapon while shuffling over to him, dropping them both within reach before you mimicked his descent and ended up shoulder to shoulder.

“I didn’t go through all that shit just to leave you behind now.” The canteen was right on top when you opened the pack. You held it out to him while you grabbed the remaining apple. Daryl struggled with the lid while you took the smallest of bites, praying that what Lori had said about the fruit alleviating nausea was true. You traded after that, but the canteen never made it to your mouth nor did the apple make it to his. His head fell back against the tree and yours to his shoulder.

“Shouldn’a come—out here in—the first place.”

You’d never tell him no one else was willing, though he probably suspected it. “Told you. You’re important too.” You sighed and closed your eyes. You wouldn’t sleep. Both of your senses were dulled, which made the two of you a walker buffet if they approached undetected.

Daryl snorted, though it sounded more like a stunted exhale through his nose. “Yeah. Right.”

You wanted to glare at him but you were comfortable. “Shut up. You are to me.”

“Why?”

“Besides the obvious?” You lifted your head and busied yourself checking his wound. “You just are. When you’re not being a hotheaded jackass, you’re actually pretty good company.” You looked up just in time to see him avert his eyes. He apparently still had enough blood in his body to color his cheeks. Your head found his shoulder again. “Not to mention, you’re a great lay.”

“Stop.”

Your smirk remained while you forced yourself to drink a few sips, hearing him bite into the apple. Aside from dehydrating and slowly bleeding to death, the moment was nice. You couldn’t help but think back to Carol informing you that Daryl didn't like to be touched. Yet here you were using him as a makeshift pillow. Maybe it was a pregnancy perk or maybe he really did consider you a friend. He was slowly making it obvious that he cared. You’d take what you could get as long as the two of you could manage to co-parent.

When you shifted to put away the canteen and reached for the remainder of the apple, you found his head hanging with the fruit loosely held in his palm. Checking his breathing and pulse, both were not at dangerous levels but he needed help and soon. You took the apple and put it away.

You would let him rest a while longer before you’d be forced to press on if you were going to make it back before sundown. He became your pillow for a third time while you kept watch and listened to his shallow panting, just content with the fact that he was still breathing.

“We’re almost there.” You all but groaned, your hand clutching your rolling stomach while Daryl stumbled along beside you. He had taken his crossbow a while ago when you fell to your knees while vomiting. He was holding the strap and dragging it along behind him.

He grunted in reply, pale face grimacing as if each step was more painful than the last. Probably is. You clutched Sophia’s doll against your hip. They would all probably be so busy fussing over the state the two of you returned in to listen if you told them to check your pack.

When you walked out of the trees and into the field, the house and camp in view, you could have cried. Well, maybe you couldn’t have. It depended on how dehydrated you were at that point.

You let your steps slow to stay close to Daryl in case the adrenaline that got him this far suddenly diminished with the relief of being so very close. There was a shout in the distance and you smiled as four of them began running toward you.

We made it.

You allowed your steps to slow and then stop as Rick, Shane, T-Dog, and Glen closed in—with guns drawn?!

“Is that Daryl?” Glenn exclaimed. “Y/N?”

“S’the third time ya’ve pointed that thing at my head! Ya gonna pull the trigger or what?”

“Third time?” You asked, beyond confused. Before anyone could say anything else, a shot rang out and Daryl crumpled to the ground. Rick was yelling but you only had eyes for the archer. You stumbled over and fell beside him, holding your breath. When his eyes fluttered open and he reached toward a gash above his temple, you forced out a sob and laid your head against his shoulder.

Hands encircled your midsection and gently pulled you back, T-Dog’s voice in your ear. “It’s okay. They’ve got him.”

“I’s kiddin’—” Daryl slurred as he was pulled to his feet between Rick and Shane. His weary gaze met yours before his eyes rolled back and he slumped.

Rick must have seen the look on your face because he was already bringing two fingers to the archer’s neck. He nodded at you and your legs nearly gave out. You gave T-Dog a smile and patted his arm, getting your feet underneath you to follow along beside Rick. Glenn was hovering in your peripheral. Probably a good thing. As soon as Daryl was being seen to, you were sure to collapse yourself.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, is he dead?”

You turned to find Andrea running toward the group of you, your tired eyes narrowing. She wasn’t a great shot, that much you knew. Surely it wasn’t—

“Unconscious.” Rick answered. “You just grazed him.”

“You?” You hissed, bringing everyone to a stop. “Who the hell is letting you shoot long range?!”

Clearly offended, Andrea took a step toward you. “It was an accident. It didn’t kill him.” She vaguely gestured toward the man that you had risked your life—your baby—to bring back alive.

“You bitch.” You sucked on your teeth, digging deep for some semblance of control.

“Seriously? I went out of my way to be nice to you. I think we’re square here.”

You nodded. “Square. You think we’re square.”

“Come on, Y/N.” Rick lifted his arm away from Daryl’s hand on his shoulder in an attempt to usher you along. Spinning to your right, you snatched Rick’s gun from Glenn, switched off the safety, and had Andrea in your sights before anyone could blink.

The blonde’s hands raised while voices escalated in panic. All the shocked expressions were meeting one another, clueless as to how to handle the situation. You fully expected to be taken down and locked up somewhere.

But no one touched you.

After a very intense moment, you flicked the safety on and held the gun back out to the kid.

“Square would be grazing your pretty cheek or maybe a little bit of ear. Unlike you, I was raised with a gun. I rarely miss.” You sneered. “Then we’d be square.” Panting from the exertion, you staggered, your own adrenaline running on fumes.

“What’re you gonna do with her?” Andrea demanded, pulling against Dale’s arm when Rick and Shane dragged Daryl past her. “She aimed a gun at me! What’re you gonna do?”

Lori wrapped an arm around your back, “She didn’t shoot you, Andrea. We can talk about this later. Come on, let’s get you inside.” You saw Maggie approaching, felt her take your other arm as the world tilted. Somewhere past the darkness that was looming you heard:

“Guys! Isn’t this Sophia’s?”

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defectivehero · 1 month ago

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Hi hi! Just found your writing blog and I love it!

If someone hasn't already asked, could you do touch starved on your bad things happen bingo?

You can do whatever you want, but I'd love to see one where the Whumpy refuses to let go of their rescuers?

Thankyouuuu!! Also happy holidays :3

did someone say villain caregiver and hero whumpee??? MWAHAHAHAH

@badthingshappenbingo Prompt: Touch Starved

“I’d never leave you in such a state.” The villain sighs as they enter the scene, fighting off the disgust and anger boiling in their chest at the sight of the beaten and bloodied hero. They make quick work of the chains on their enemy’s wrists and offer them a hand, which the hero takes.

“Thank you.” The hero murmurs. There are dark circles under their eyes, and they almost seem to waver on their feet. Their enemy leans into them and the villain hesitantly allows them the support, wrapping an arm around their waist.

“What’s gotten into you?” The villain hums as they start walking. “You’ve never been so grateful before. It’s a nice change, actually.”

There’s no response from the hero. They continue their slow path to the villain’s closest base of operations. When they finally make it into the building, the hero’s hand pushes their arm away. Before the villain can truly comprehend what’s happening, their enemy’s hand is sliding down their forearm and clasping their hand.

“Okay.” The villain says, unable to hide some of their concern at the hero’s sudden touchy behavior. “I guess this is fine.”

They walk hand-in-hand for a while, the villain only growing more worried by the moment. What’s going on? And just what happened to the hero during their brief captivity? “I need my hand to open the door,” the villain says carefully as they approach the security door leading to their lair. The hero just hums and slides their hand to their elbow, allowing their enemy to press their hand to the digital scanner and permit entrance.

The villain guides the hero to the nearby sofa with the promise that they’ll return in a moment. They step into the bathroom for a minute, returning only to find the hero waiting for them just outside the door.

The hero blinks for a moment, before stepping out of their way. “Sorry.” They say, averting their eyes.

“Don’t want to be alone?” The villain asks. The hero’s silence is enough of a confirmation. “I suppose I can understand, after what you went through.” The villain remarks, the words leaving their lips before they can second-guess them. They’re still not exactly sure what happened, but it must’ve been suitably traumatizing for their enemy to be acting like this.

The hero’s surprised expression reassures them they made the right choice in speaking on their thoughts. “You didn’t expect me to be understanding, did you?” The villain grins. They put a hand on their shoulder reassuringly. “I can be compassionate when I want to be. I simply… never want to be.”

The hero’s uncharacteristic silence is starting to truly concern them. The villain guides them to the sofa once more, before giving up on their plans for the evening and sitting next to them. “I suppose you’re an exception,” the villain says, allowing the hero to toy with their hand and eventually grasp it. “Seeing you like this… is unnerving, I must admit.” They stare ahead, afraid of seeing the hero’s expression at that. The hero just clings to their side even tighter, as if afraid the villain is going to get up and leave.

“It’s okay,” the villain says somewhat awkwardly. Their enemy leans their head into the crook of their shoulder; the villain resolutely pretends not to feel anything. “You’ll be okay.” They punctuate the reassurance with a gentle hand on their knee.

They’ve never been so affected by the hero’s injured state. After all, usually the villain is the one to hurt them. But something about seeing their enemy so powerless, vulnerable, and hell, actively looking for their reassurance… it rubs them the wrong way. They don’t like it one bit.

“I already know who did this to you,” the villain states, if only to fill the silence. They feel a fleeting grin twitch on their lips. “And let’s just say I have some new methods of torture to try out.”

The hero doesn’t argue, which is truly representative of their current condition. There’s no noble remark, no denial, not even a scoff. Spurred on by their enemy’s quiet, the villain continues.

“First I’ll chop off their fingers,” the villain says, their hand still clasped in the hero’s. They briefly break their grasp to tap the hero’s fingers one-by-one. “A classic. Then I’ll get to the good stuff.”

They’re not sure how long they sit there, their enemy sidled up against them, before they realize they’ve neglected to treat their injuries. The villain sighs. “We should get you cleaned up.” The villain attempts to get up, only for the hero to tug them back down to the couch. “Or… not, I guess.”

The hero’s arm is around their waist now. There’s no room for pretense as they share this small space, this quiet moment. The villain finds they don’t mind nearly as much as they should.

“Later, then.” The villain whispers. They’re not sure if the hero is even awake to hear it.

Bad Things Happen Bingo Masterlist

tag list: @lateuplight @wit-is-wisdom @greengableswriting @whump-me-all-night-long @noawhite @rekhyt-of-arcadia @the-blind-one-speaks @sufferfictionalcharacters @basically-psyduck @alexkolax @subval01 @emerald-blade @felicia609 @surplus-of-sarcasm @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @a-chaotic-gremlin @unknownogre @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @whatwhumpcomments @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @agayprince @starsick1979 @a-lonely-little-ghost @agayprince @plum-tello @miashico @pleaseenterbloghere @c4xcocoa @crotchgoblin69 @unicornbeck @atomicduckthefirst @33shadowhunters @sacratos @theoneandonlyech @mafia-fish

click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

#defectivehero #hero x villain #heroes and villains #hero and villain #whump #hurt/comfort #hero whumpee #enemy caregiver #short fic #snippet #writing on tumblr #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #blah blah blah you get the idea

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wufflesvetinari · 4 months ago

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ok i'm going to write a ted lasso episode. whumpy but in the way canon can be whumpy. ready? here we go

it's early season 4. ted is back, with henry flying in soon to stay in richmond for a year. ted's set up his bedroom, stocked the apartment with Nerds (henry's favorite candy and a bit harder to find in the uk), even bought a goshdarn ps5. this is going to be great!

meanwhile, jamie has an extremely difficult session with dr. sharon where he ends up unexpectedly unpacking amsterdam for the first time. she did NOT know this was coming when he started telling her the plot of major motion picture the fault in our stars and she did NOT lead him into it as gracefully as she would have liked. you can tell that she's trying to end the session in a less raw place but it is NOT working because she lets him sob about stroopwafel for too long (in an attempt to end on positive memories with his mum) before realizing it's not about the fucking stroopwafel

when the hour is up he bolts out of there despite her best efforts. she drops her rock-solid professional neutrality, presses her forehead into her hands, and says "maybe fucked that one"

but you know what? jamie is handling it. he wakes up the next day, cleans all the snotty tissues off his bed, and comes up with a PLAN.

see, the thing is, he was WAY more stable when he was a prick. and he's practiced so hard NOT being a prick, so...it's overtraining, innit? he forgot to rest his emotion muscles so now he's raw everywhere and cries too much in therapy and wants to fucking scream all the time. so the obvious solution is to take a rest day from having emotions. easy!

and you know what makes it super easy to not have emotions? being a massive prick! it's fine. it's for his health!

MEANWHILE, ted wakes up to news that a storm's grounded henry's flight on a layover. and that something went wonky with his ticket so the airline couldn't immediately find his reservation/rebook him, which was super scary for henry bc the flight didn't have someone attending him the way they were supposed to. and as much as he wants to be with his dad it's already stressful to be leaving the US for a year

so everything's gone wrong, and he called ted like four times but ted slept through it. so by the time they connect henry's super stressed and kind of. yells at his dad for the first time.

so that's a bad start to the day! ted is so disoriented he brings the shopping bag of Nerds to work instead of his lunch

jamie shows up to the locker room having pasted his s1 body language onto his s3 self. he had meant to keep to himself today, but unfortunately his prick persona is an ENTIRE persona, and it doesn't super feel like a choice when he starts making snide comments and sneering at everyone. it feels a bit like one of those horror movies where you can't take the creepy devil mask off, EXCEPT IT DOESN'T, because feelings are absolutely not happening right now, which is! great! fine!

everyone is disturbed (except for ted who's caught in phone tree purgatory with british airways, sorting nerds by color on his desk). jamie insults colin's new threads, implies isaac can't handle the captaincy, turns down a high five from dani with a roll of his eyes, says hi to sam.......actually, he talks to sam completely normally. everyone makes vigorous questioning gestures at sam behind jamie's back. sam shrugs

it gets worse on the field, where the mood is already tense and darkens further when jamie refuses to help richard up after a tackle. beard and nate accuse roy of having given jamie the prick signal by accident somehow. roy denies it but starts second-guessing himself under scrutiny, trying to dissect whether jamie had interpreted the extra paprika he'd put in the curry when meal-prepping for jamie this week as a fucking. secret signal or something.

meanwhile ted is offering his life to british airways. indentured servitude. anything. he would take back 1776 on behalf of his people if he could. he is constantly on the verge of a panic attack and that REALLY bothers him, because it feels like all his progress is going up in smoke over henry hanging up on him

higgins finds him alone in his office gently thumping his head against the desk. "you know, you're such a great dad," ted tells him. "you've built a beautiful family. there's no...gnarly intergenerational emotional knots, no conflict in the House of Higgins. how do you do it?"

higgins blinks at him. "ted, dana knocked terry's tooth out last month. lindsay is a priest."

"well hey now, that's not inherently--"

"no, but it does suggest the presence of some interesting intergenerational emotional knots."

ted blinks up at him. higgins smiles; takes a seat. he says, "fathers and sons."

back outside, roy's starting to lose it. he's becoming honestly scared for jamie, but every time he tries to start a conversation jamie fucking...twists it into a fight, and roy fucking FALLS FOR IT like an IDIOT even though he knows better. because he's gotten out of practice dealing with Prick Jamie and also because jamie knows all of his weak spots now. it's freaking him the fuck out

and jamie is also starting to scream in his own head a little bit. like yeah he'd actively decided on Rest Day, but now he isn't sure how to stop doing Rest Day, and everybody is looking at him weird and that makes it worse, doesn't it, because his stupid lizard brain says he's under attack.

the prick persona is protective, so he keeps on pricking. ignores dr. sharon's phone call. ignores keeley's suspiciously-timed text about getting mimosas. ignores nate trying to give him a helpful-mean speech on the sidelines. ignores--well, no, he slaps sam on the back like usual.

can't be a dick to sam. it's sam, like.

roy mimes furious questions at sam, who's accepted this day for what it is and shrugs harder

ted's out on the sidelines by now, but he's still on the phone. he finally gets henry's ticket sorted, and calls him back in the airport. henry's in tears apologizing for yelling, but ted is just happy he's okay!! and he's going to be with him in london soon!! and...maybe ted didn't handle that perfectly, but it doesn't have to be some grand referendum on ted's parenting ability or his mental health. it's just a missed flight. slow progress is still progress. he's ok. they're both ok

practice ends. jamie slinks back into the locker room with everyone else. he changes into his street clothes lazily, dismissing any attempt to talk to him (ignores jan, ignores zoreaux, ignores roy, says "bye sam" - roy yells "fuck!" around the corner)

the locker room's almost empty. ted calls, "jamie, could you just stop by my office for one sec?"

jamie braces himself. ted fucking lasso is the last thing he needs. ted's the final boss of Rest Day. ted's going to say something that makes him feel fucking terrible about his behavior, and he's not even going to be able to apologize because he's fucking stuck like this, isn't he? like a car stuck in reverse. all he can do is go further back into prickdom: bluster his way through until ted gets fed up and sends him home.

he slams the door closed behind him. "so you got any pearls of wisdom for me, coach? some yoda shit? because i'm getting pretty tired of you pretending to be my fucking dad when we both know--"

"just wanted to give you these," ted says calmly, tossing him a ziploc bag. it's full of yellow Nerds. several little boxes' worth.

"what" jamie says

"i know you only like the yellow ones. needed something to do with my hands, so i sorted some out for you. we won't tell roy, ok? a little extra sugar never killed nobody. except i guess for diabetics, but, well--"

jamie stares at his bag of nerds. he stares harder. he bursts into tears and sinks onto the office floor.

after a beat, ted sits down there with him, waiting for him to get the words together--he babbles something about dr. sharon, and how bad today's been, and about how he really didn't mean to be awful and he thought he was over all this already--both over amsterdam and over treating his friends like this (ted has no idea what "amsterdam" means here but he nods sympathetically)

and he tells jamie about henry, and about how badly he panicked today, and about how progress isn't linear. and it's nice. and jamie gets a hug and puts himself together well enough to run out and catch up with the team for drinks

the rest of the coaches creep back into the office.

"how the fuck did you do that?" roy demands. he is texting jamie as he speaks. he will make him a big, bespoke breakfast tomorrow after their run and glower about it. he will fail to put any of these feelings into words. "how did you--fucking--manually override prick mode?"

nate's eyes are a little shiny for reasons that are NOT projection. "yeah, ted. i mean, things haven't always been smooth with you and jamie, but it's like you've...learned, over time, just what to say. i really do admire that about you."

"oh, well," ted says from the floor. he nods absently to himself, pushing his tongue around the inside of his cheek.

beard leans back in his chair. "you had no idea any of this was happening. you have no clue what we're talking about"

"nope,” ted says. "no, sir, i do not. just thought the kid would like some nerds"

"FUCK" roy says

#this should just be a fic but i don't have the willpower #ted lasso #jamie tartt #sam obisanya #roy kent

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misc-obeyme · 10 months ago

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do you think Barbatos will act like he's smoking everytime he's eating one of these in private or is it a human thing

ok but you know how in a cool whumpy scene a character smokes. now imagine. a box of these (and other sweet things perhaps) in his dungeon because he doesn't enjoy smoking just wants to be a dramatic bastard. no you can not change my mind

You know, I think Barbatos acting silly when he's by himself is really dang cute. So I hope he does lol.

I agree that he likely wouldn't enjoy smoking. Too toxic! This guy likes subtle flavors like tea and sweet flavors like pastries. So I think if he was gonna do something along these lines, those would be the perfect choice.

I love the image I have in my head right now, absolutely fantastic.

#a great idea I love it #he would never be caught dead doing it though #gotta keep up that serious butler persona #obey me #obey me barbatos #expressionless-fr #cc mutuals #misc answers

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whumperfultime · 1 year ago

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Tarot-Inspired Whump Prompts

I'm enthusiastic about both whump and tarot and those interests were bound to collide at some point. So I wrote a list of writing prompts inspired by the Major Arcana! Five prompts for each card, so there should be something for everyone. Enjoy!

(Also, if you happen to write anything based on any of these, feel free to tag me! I'd be honored to read it.)

The Fool: Accidental whump. Misplaced trust. Leap of faith. Taking a risk. Falling from a high place.

The Magician: Magical whump. Manipulation. Mind control. A charismatic and confident character. A table full of tools for inflicting pain.

The High Priestess: Keeping secrets. Blindfolded whumpee relying on their other senses. Guarding something or someone. Intuitively noticing when something or someone has changed. Cult setting/dynamics.

The Empress: Gilded cage. Lady whump (if you're into that). Comfort in material things. Gentle caretaker. Whumpee not used to experiencing abundance and safety.

The Emperor: Strict whumper and/or strict rules. Royal whump. Wartime. Stoic leader trying to remain calm for the sake of their team. High security.

The Hierophant: Religious whump. Institutionalized whump. Punished for questioning authority. Pressure to conform. Power leading to corruption.

The Lovers: Yandere whump. Sadistic choice. Forced to watch. Protectiveness. Multiple whumpees, whumpers, caretakers, etc.

The Chariot: Car crash. On the run. Kidnapped and forced into a vehicle. Lost and stranded. Unwanted and distressing thoughts.

Strength: Whumpee turned caretaker or whumper. Monster character. Patient caretaker. Animal attack. Emotional support animal.

The Hermit: Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Neglect. Feeling like an outcast. Going into hiding.

Wheel of Fortune: Bad luck. Time heals all wounds. Long-term captivity. Painful anniversaries. Wrong place, wrong time.

Justice: Whumper being arrested. Detached/indifferent whumper or caretaker. Wrongful imprisonment. Privileges vs. punishments. Shutting off emotions so logic can take over.

The Hanged Man: Stress position. Caught in a net. Restrained and abandoned. Hanging. Standing cuffs.

Death: Grief. Recovery milestones. Immortal whumpee dying over and over. Left behind. Visiting a grave.

Temperance: Drugged whumpee. Personality changes due to trauma. Angel character. Poisoning. Mad scientist whumper.

The Devil: Demon character. Sadistic whumper. Addiction and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Pet whump. Collared.

The Tower: Building collapse. Struck by lightning. Drastic change. A character being overpowered. Shocking revelation or betrayal.

The Star: Bathing (whether this is peaceful or whumpy is up to you). Drowning. Finally being able to rest. Anything having to do with recovery. Dehydration.

The Moon: Nightmares. Lost in the woods. Werewolf character. Illusions or hallucinations. Running on pure survival instinct.

The Sun: Sunburn. Public figure whumpee. Forced to perform. First time outside after being held captive. Heatstroke.

Judgement: Revenge. Sound torture. Deity character. Punishment. Resurrected from the dead.

The World: Endings (positive or negative). Breaking the cycle of abuse. Overwhelmed by choices. Regaining personal autonomy. Closure and acceptance (or lack thereof).

#whump prompts #whump ideas #whump community #whumpblr #this was really fun to make and i'm very proud of the finished result #if i get really brave maybe i'll post a scene or story of my own someday

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arliedraws · 1 month ago

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sirius/ james. 8. “Who did this to you?”

Okay, I had already started a whumpy Slytherin!Sirius ficlet, so here’s James finding a tortured, former Death Eater Sirius.

Prompt: “Who did this to you?”

He felt rather lucky.

Although one might not consider blood seeping from the corner of a man’s mouth to pool on the stone floor at his feet to indicate good fortune, Sirius Black’s perspective was influenced by the fact that he should have been buried years ago. The fact that he was alive at all was a small miracle, even though Bellatrix melting the flesh from his arm to remove the Dark Mark hadn’t felt much like a miracle at the time.

Fragments of bone swam in his left leg, his wrists were raw where they chafed against iron cuffs, and his eyes were straining to focus on the broad crack that split across the floor. They’d left him dangling on his toes. He knew it wasn’t on purpose—something had drawn them away quickly. Perhaps their Dark Marks had burned. He wouldn’t know anymore. His arm burned all the time now that several layers of epidermis had been torn away.

The tower was cold, and the spitting rain of March dribbled from the arrow slits and saturated the stone walls. Sirius couldn’t feel his fingers or his toes. His were stretched over his head, held aloft by chains, making it difficult to breathe.

If he’d had a moment to prepare for this, he would have taken his own life before they brought him here. The truth, however, was that the torture had scarcely begun. What they were doing now was simply interrogation—breaking his body was only to convince him to tell them when he’d turned, when he’d forsaken his master. The nightmare would begin when they decided he would never answer, and what he needed was punishment. Perhaps they might bring in a dementor to finish him off…

The door burst open.

Sirius labored to lift his chin. His eyes strained, but he was too tired. He didn’t care who’d come to torture him now. He let his head fall forward.

“Oh, fuck.”

The voice drew a chuckle from Sirius. He swayed in his chains.

“James,” he crooned. Or, he might have crooned if his voice worked properly. Instead, it was a breathy rasp. “James. Come save me.”

“What the fuck?”

“James,” said Sirius again, reveling in the name. He’s here; he’s come for me. He’s here. He’s come to rescue me. The chains clinked as he tried to straighten, but his knees wobbled and he pulled heavily on his wrists.

The blur of James moving swiftly towards him made Sirius dizzy.

“Christ, Black. What happened to you?”

Warm, rough hands cupped his face, and he felt a twinge of shame to be caught like this. Sirius had always known it would end in pain and humiliation, but it was something else for James Potter to see the consequence of his choices. Sirius avoided his eyes.

“This?” Sirius forced a laugh. “This is nothing. You—you should see the other guy.”

“Who? Who’s the other guy? Who did this to you?”

He shut his eyes when James wrapped an arm around his chest, muttered a spell, and made the chains dissolve. Sirius slumped, saved only by a strong embrace.

“You’re so warm,” Sirius whispered, tipping his head back against James. “You’re always so warm.”

#sirius black #james potter #prongsfoot #slytherin!sirius black au #auror james potter #my fics

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serickswrites · 3 months ago

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Better Me Than You V

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, referenced burns, referenced drowning, electrocution, knife, forced to watch, forced to hurt, infection

"I have the most amazing idea," Whumper said excitedly as they returned.

Team Leader refrained from groaning. All of Whumper's ideas were painful. All of them were difficult to endure. But Team Leader had to endure or else Whumper would surely kill Smallest Teammate.

"Chain them up in those standing cuffs," Whumper ordered Smallest Teammate.

Smallest Teammate helped Team Leader stand. Team Leader's body ached with each small movement. "I'm sorry," Smallest Teammate said again.

"It's ok," Team Leader said as they slowly walked to the cuffs. They weren't going to do anything to provoke Whumper. Smallest Teammate was gentle as they raised Team Leader's wrists to the standing cuffs, gently clicking the cuffs in place.

"Excellent, let me get the other part set up," Whumper said, their glee evident from the skip in their step.

Team Leader sighed. Whatever Whumper had planned. It would be painful. But they had to endure it. They could endure it. They had no choice.

They could endure being burnt again. Probably. The burns that littered their body were definitely infected. But they could endure that pain.

They could endure being drowned again. Probably. That was harder. To lay there and not be able to breathe. But they could endure the fear.

But as Whumper turned around, cattle prod and knife in each hand, Team Leader wasn't so sure they could endure. "Take these," Whumper ordered Smallest Teammate.

"No," Smallest Teammate said quickly, not even glancing at Team Leader.

Team Leader worked to keep their face blank. They weren't sure they could endure being shocked again. They weren't sure they could endure being cut up. That might be too much. Their body was so weak as it was. But they had to endure. Or Whumper would kill Smallest Teammate.

"It's ok, Smallest Teammate," Team Leader said quickly. They braced themself. They could hold on. The rest of the team would be here soon. "Do as Whumper orders. It will be ok."

Team Leader hoped they were right. They hoped that the team would arrive soon. And most of all as they watched Smallest Teammate take up the knife and cattle prod with shaking hands, they hoped that Whumper wouldn't let this go on for very long.

Tags: @aarika-merrill @gala1981 @lthrboy @bookworm7543 @echo-of-umbra

@whump321 @st0rmm @whump-lover-and-reader @corbytheking @acer-whumpstuff @annng567

@defire @artisticdemon @tender-traps @crazytechpersonzreal @orangeduckweed

@st0rmm @a-living-canvas @whumpy-mountains @pic-star01 @mousepaw

@jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump @steh-lar-uh-nuhs

@celestialsoyeon @ay5ksal @corbytheking @dragonfireridge @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #tw captivity #tw restraints #tw torture #tw referenced burns #tw referenced drowning #tw electrocution #tw knife #tw forced to watch #tw forced to hurt #tw infection #queue

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befuddled-calico-whump · 1 year ago

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Whump Community for Palestine

(inspired by @i-eat-worlds ! Their post can be found here, and they're offering 500-word drabbles)

I'll draw the character of your choice with a screenshot of proof of donation made to:

PCRF (Palestinian Children's Relief Fund)

UNRWA (United Nations Relief and Works Agency)

CareforGaza

Doctors Without Borders

OR the donation of an eSims ($14+ USD). Here's a guide

You can pm me the screenshot, and we'll talk about what you want in your piece!

🇵🇸

more details/art examples under the cut:

proof of donation of 5+ USD equivalent: black and white bust of your character of choice OR a chibi

proof of donation of 10+ USD equivalent: colored + minimally shaded bust of your character of choice

donation of 14+ USD equivalent or an eSim: colored + minimally shaded 3/4 body of your character of choice

~hands, poses, and props can be included depending on the complexity!~

I will draw:

- injuries/gore

- suggestive/nsfwhump (must be 18+)

- whumpy and non-whumpy poses

- OCs (hell yeah)

If you aren't sure, ask! I'm pretty flexible and willing to draw a lot aha

#whump community #free palestine #art commisions #donations for gaza

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shadowgast-recs-weekly · 3 months ago

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Featuring Astrid and/or Eadwulf

Sometimes, meeting someone's ex can tell you a lot about a person. I imagine that's especially true if they were in a traumatized teenage assassin polycule together. This week, we've got seven fics that feature Astrid and/or Eadwulf - and as always, don't forget to comment or kudos if you like them!

All this, heaven could never describe by Kaeda (112238, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Temporary character death

AU in the Tusk Love universe where Bren never killed his parents, has a THING going with Essek, and is told by an alternate self to form the Mighty Nein.

Reccer says: Delicious intimate moments between Caleb and Essek. I also love how developed Eadwulf is!

Please keep lying to me by idontreallylikebutterflies (3076, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb and Essek are spies, and should not be hooking up. They are however hooking up. Caleb is not as subtle as he should be, his friends suspect.

Reccer says: Is there anything better than finding eachother in impossible or just very stupid circumstances and having good redemptions and amazing relationships? Bonus because this is part of a series.

Another Time, Another Place by Operafloozy (9780, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

A time travelling assassin epistolary AU where Bren and Essek are rival time travelling assassins.

Reccer says: I like the twist at the end with Astrid and Eadwulf

Neighborhood Watch by Timbrene (2800, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

These are the facts. Essek Thelyss is a traitor to the Dynasty. He has collaborated with the Cerberus Assembly on dunamantic research. His loyalties are an entirely unknown quantity, and likely nonexistent. He is, above all else, a liar. Also, he all but lives in the neighborhood now, and it’s very uncomfortable.

Reccer says: I love this Astrid POV of Essek (and Caleb), and what it says about all three of them

cradled in fault lines by Anonymous (1732, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Astrid has learned to live with one eye by now. It’s manageable, most days. Until one evening, when the wine she’s pouring for Caleb sloshes out onto the table and directly into his lap.

Reccer says: Excellent characterization! I remember who wrote it before they anonymized it, and they are one of my favorite authors of all time. It’s incredible

one small step by 100batmans (2919, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb being super into watching Essek & Eadwulf together.

Reccer says: Hot and sweet!

Whistle song by Chekov (115412, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb and Essek have settled down, living a peaceful life in Rexxentrum, that is, until someone tries to assassinate them. It goes as well as one can expect, it goes actually a lot better than they expected.

Reccer says: It has been so long since I read this, but the cast is great and the relationships are well written as well. And I always love a complicated but trying so hard Blumendrei friendship.

and then, for this last one, we have two recs!

do you have enough love in your heart, to go and get your hands dirty? by SaltCore (4355, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Caleb is rescued from a dire situation. And Astrid is carefully observing the Shadowhand's moments

Reccer 1 says: I'm a fan of the whumpy hurt/comfort tenderness that happens in the fic. I also found it a bold and effective choice to be in Astrid's POV and written in 2nd Person Reccer 2 says: Mutual distrust layered inextricably with affection and so much history. (The housecat conversation is particularly delicious.)

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation.

And hey, anyone includes you, if you're so inclined!

Next week's theme is supernatural creatures! Vampires, Werewolves, Fey Creatures, and the like Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #critical role #cr fic recs #fan fiction rec list

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dying-crying-pining · 4 days ago

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I don’t know if this would be called a trope (or if it even exists), but “child/teenage!whumpee protecting an adult whumpee”? It’s a thought thats clawed at me for several years and now that I’m writing a story with this in it, I’m curious what people think about the idea, if they think of it at all.

i love this idea, anon!

my personal preference would be a focus on the adult’s whump with mostly emotional whump for the kid/teen.

like, what if the adult hides an injury/illness because they’re the kid/teen’s only guardian so they have no other choice but to keep going? eventually, they literally cannot physically take another step and collapse/keel over. you’ve got boundless possibilities for physical and emotional whump. the guilt, the angst, the trauma reveals! the adult can’t relax or rest because they’re terrified of what could happen to their kiddo while they’re out of it, so healing takes way longer.

off the top of my head, ‘the last of us’ series had a fantastic version of this when joel is stabbed and incapacitated and ellie has to take on the role of protector/caretaker. the movie ‘light of my life’ also had some good whumpy scenes where the dad is beat to hell, shot, passes out and the daughter uses all the skills she’s learned from him to keep them alive/patch him up.

idk if i answered this the right way, anon. you’re my first ever ask! thank you for sharing!!!

#whump #whump community #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpblr #whumpy thoughts #whump prompt #whump ask #tw parentification

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 24 days ago

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Whumpuary 2025 4

Prompt 4: Insomnia

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reading

Warnings: None

A/N: Not very whumpy but I went where the muse took me.

“Hey.”

Daryl turned toward the sound of your voice, his tense posture relaxing the moment he laid eyes on you. It was that initial reaction to clue you in that something was wrong. Beyond that, he looked terrible. His skin was waxen, prominent circles blooming below his eyes.

After a moment and a look that told you he had realized you had seen too much, he turned back to his small fire. “What’re ya doin’ out here?”

You sat down next to him, frowning at how he angled his face away, hiding behind a dark curtain of hair. “Checking on you, of course.” He grunted and reached for his knife beside the stump, sliding it into the sheath on his thigh after he stood. Then he was walking away from you, pausing at the entrance of his makeshift shelter. “Daryl.”

He paused, not quite looking over his shoulder. “Y’should get back ‘fore it gets dark.” Then he was out of sight.

You tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, delicately pinching the skin for just enough discomfort to steel your nerve. On your feet in a flash, you stomped through the entryway with an utter disregard to what he was doing. You found him sitting on his sleeping bag, knees drawn up with his arms wrapped around them. The poncho he’d been wearing had been removed, tossed aside. His wide-eyed expression was warring somewhere between surprise and outrage.

“The fuck ya th��”

“I told you I’m not letting you do this.” You snapped, dropping unceremoniously to your knees.

“Do what?” Now he just appeared bewildered.

You knew he thought you meant to admonish his tireless search for Rick, but that wasn’t it. “All the way back at the farm, I told you I won’t let you push me away.” Understanding settled into his gaze, his head dropping to turn away again. “I meant it then.” You crawled forward, sitting back onto your heels once you’d reached him. He didn’t fight you when you cupped his cheek and guided him to look at you. Your voice softened even more than your eyes. “I mean it now.”

His jaw worked, the muscles and bones shifting beneath your palm. “Sorry.” He finally muttered. Your lips tilted into a gentle smile, thumb stroking over the darkened skin beneath his eye.

“It’s okay.” He looked even worse up close: eyelids pale with a purple hue, lips dry and cracked. Haggard. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself.” When he scoffed and attempted to jerk free of your hold, you reinforced it with your other hand cradling the opposite side of his face, holding him steadfastly. “You haven’t.”

“M’fine.” Even without the ability to turn his head, he averted his gaze, only looking back when you chuckled. “What?”

“You’d say that even if you’d just lost a limb in a herd.” Allowing your fingers to slide up past his temples to card through his hair, gently working out the snarls, your eyes danced back and forth between his. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

His tongue slid out to run across his lips. He was carefully considering his words. “Hard to sleep knowin’ he could be out there.” Not exactly an answer. “Can’t sleep even when I try.” He was torturing himself, once again shouldering a responsibility that wasn’t his. As much as it pained you, Rick made his choice. He wouldn’t want Daryl running himself into the ground.

“Where’s your map?” You queried.

“Why?”

“Where is it?” You held his gaze, observing the exhaustion there. It was likely that same exhaustion that had him giving in so easily. He pointed toward a small table. The map was spread open, decorated with pencil marks. It didn’t take long to piece together his search pattern, and with a tap of your finger against the parchment, you glanced at him over your shoulder. “You stopped here,” you tapped again. “I’m gonna go search this area and you’re gonna sleep.”

“I ain’t gonna—”

“You’re gonna sleep.” You challenged, turning to cross your arms, eyebrow arched. “What does it matter as long as the search goes on?”

“Matters.” He sniffed, looking away.

“Daryl.” Crossing the space, you crouched in front of him. “You need help out here.” Your hands were already out placatingly when he shot you a look. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.” You studied one another for a quiet moment, the silence not entirely uncomfortable.

“Y’need to be back with everyone else.” Daryl finally drawled, the first to avert his eyes. “Don’t need to be out here.”

“And you do?” You shot back, plopping backward into your behind. The archer sighed with a slight sway of exhaustion, still looking anywhere but at you. He was going to cave the moment he met your gaze and you knew both knew it. “Look at me.” And he did, blue eyes dancing before he dropped his head.

“Fine.” He huffed.

“Settled!” You clapped your hands together, granting an apologetic look when he started and glared at you accusingly. “Sorry.”

With a resigned eh, he stretched out on the sleeping bag, arms folded behind his head. “Gonna drive me nuts.”

“And you love me for it.” With one last look at the map, you checked your weapons on your hips and thighs, smiling at him before stepping out of the shelter. You missed the upturn of one side of his mouth, his eyes already heavy as he watched your shadow on the tin walls grow smaller and smaller.

“Guess I do.”

#whumpuary2025 #whumpuaryno4 #insomnia #daryl dixon #murda writes #the walking dead #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon the walking dead

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