#prompt: sensory overload

[serickswrites]

Overloaded

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture, sensory overload

Whumpee was ready to come out of their skin. They couldn't endure another minute of the blaring alarm, the bright lights, or the rough fabric of the bag over their head. The bag did nothing to prevent the light getting in, it merely scratched their skin, driving them mad.

The rough rope around their wrists and ankles were a distant memory. Nothing compared to the incessant klaxons or the brightness of the lights aimed at their face. Whumper was cruel. They had tied Whumpee up and left them in this state, chuckling as they left, knowing that Whumpee would soon be overwhelmed and overloaded.

Whumpee was overloaded. Their senses were torturing them relentlessly. And there was no end in sight.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @piplupfluffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat @sowhumpful @whump-till-ya-jump 

[canthandlethishit]

prompt: autistic tim drake fic about how he handle the burst of sensory overload during his robin and ceo hours

[cianmarstoo]

'shut up. shut up. shut up!' with alex and meredith and derek, but hurt/comfort and not genuine acting out? 🥺 just him having trouble with big feelings

This has literally taken me like a year to write! I'm sorry you had to wait for so long but I hope that you like it!

I'm not sure if sensory overload counts as big feelings but it definitely feels like it to me haha so yeah... here you go :)

Going to New York in the summer was the dumbest idea Alex thought anyone had ever come up with, and he was an expert in dumb ideas!

But instead he was stuck staying in Derek's old bedroom with his mom and dad at his grandma's house, the rest of the house full of their family who had come together to celebrate Caroline's birthday, even Owen and April had been made to come along.

New York sucks, that was what Alex had decided. Sure there were some fun things: the natural history museum, the ice cream museum, Aladdin on Broadway, the parks, and the several summer markets set up, and activities specifically for Littles.

But the rest of New York fucking sucked. It was too loud, and too busy, it was too hot, and too sweaty, and it was just too much!!!

It would be better if he could escape from it like Jackson did, he was staying in a hotel with his parents, whereas whenever they got back to Caroline's house everything was still so loud and too much.

His aunts were arguing, something which seemed to be the norm between all of them, Nancy and Kate were getting onto Liz about something, Liz was standing her ground, Amelia was trying to back Liz up, but Liz didn't seem to really want much to do with any of her family, she didn't need an ally.

Lucas was arguing with his four sisters, reminding Alex too much of what Derek was like, Derek was playfully arguing with Meredith about which city was better - New York (Derek's choice) or Boston (Meredith's choice). April was talking with some of Derek's pre-teen nieces, the ones who weren't Lucas' sisters, while Owen's booming voice was pounding in Alex's ears, as he talked to Caroline about something which was probably boring and army related.

Alex was surrounded on all sides by everyone as they walked through the door, the house was too hot, the AC had been off while they'd been out and the house had been baking in the New York heat, and Alex's skin was raw from sweating so much.

"Alex! Alex!"

It was one of Alex's cousins, Rachel, one of the youngest of Derek's nieces, 14 years old, so much older than Alex was when he was dropped, but he wasn't dropped right then, still she had decided that he was her younger cousin to try and boss around even when he was fully big.

"Alex!"

It was all too much.

He clapped his hands tight over his ears, even that could not block out all of the noise. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" his voice filled the room up, finally silencing all of them, still even now they had all done what he had demanded everything was too much. Meredith and Derek moved in front of him, their mouths moving, their words muffled as he pressed harder against his ears, so tight that he could feel his ear canals start to hurt. He squeezed his eyes tight shut too, even the light was so much that it hurt him.

He was suddenly in Derek's arms, his hand on the back of Alex's head, holding his face to hide against his shoulder. Alex whimpered a protest, his hands still firmly over his ears.

Eventually the noise quietened, Derek was still holding him, now they they were reclined somewhere, Alex became aware of the ache in his arms from being held against his ears for so long, he wasn't even sure how long it had been, but he slowly cracked open his eyes.

It took him a few seconds to place the dark room they were in: Derek's childhood bedroom they'd been staying in, still covered in trophies from Derek's high school hockey career, Star Wars posters, framed family photos, little things similar to how Alex's room was full of little things. The curtains were tightly drawn, still letting in little streams of light despite being drawn. The only light was his nightlight projecting stars onto the ceiling, and the ac was finally on.

Meredith and Derek were both there with him, he was cuddled to Derek's chest, Meredith watching them, she was the first to notice that he had stopped his.... tantrum?

God he'd had a tantrum, that's what that was, no one would want him around them anymore.

"Hey," Meredith's voice was low and soft. "You don't have to talk if you can't or don't want to right now, do you remember the ASL you learnt?"

Alex slowly closed his hand into a fist then made it 'nod'.

"Good job," she praised. "I've got you some water, I put it in your owala so you don't have to move off of Derek.

Alex 'clapped' his thumb with his pointer and middle finger twice.

"Yes, Alex," she told him firmly, "we've been out in the sun and the heat, you're going to drink half of these and eat the applesauce packet I've brought up." She held out the water bottle until he took it, watching him as he put it to his mouth and began to drink.

The water was icy cold to the point that it almost froze his throat as he drank it - it was perfect, he hadn't even realized that he was thirsty. As soon as he drank it all and the straw made a slurping noise Meredith switched it with an applesauce sachet.

Alex ate it, then the next one she handed him.

"Can you talk now?" Derek asked, "Or do you need us to ask you yes or no questions? Answer one or two?"

"I can talk," Alex spoke softly, his throat a little raw but it had largely been soothed by the water and apple sauce. "I'm really sorry," he added quickly before they could start on at him, "I'm gonna apologize, I shouldn't have... I didn't mean to have a tantrum, I'll apologize to everyone-"

"Wait, wait, wait," Meredith's hands came up in a 'slow down' gesture, "Alex you have nothing to apologize for."

"I do-"

"No," she told him firmly, "you really don't. And you didn't have a tantrum, not even slightly, you were just overstimulated."

Alex already had his mouth open ready to argue, but Meredith's statement put a pause on any arguments about it. "I... There weren't any sirens or alarms or shouting patients, I wasn't-"

"-That's not the only thing which can cause overstimulation, Alex."

"I'm not like Jack-"

"We know that you're not," her voice was still both firm and soft in a way which Alex wasn't sure how she could make it. It was clearly a mom power. "But we also know, like you know, that ADHD and Autism can have a lot of overlapping symptoms, including sensory issues."

"And not only things at the hospital can cause overstimulation," Derek added, he was still holding Alex as Alex hadn't tried to move away from him even a little. "It's been hot and busy, there's been a lot of people and noise, it must have been a lot for your brain to take in."

Alex shrugged slightly, trying to think it through before denying it, but... he guessed it made sense, mostly for other people though, not for him, because.... well he didn't want it to be effecting him when he was supposed to be having a good time.

"I... I didn't realize."

"It's okay," Derek assured him, "I'm sorry that mom and I didn't notice it was getting this bad."

"I should have noticed myself."

"It's hard to see it when you're going through it," Meredith told him, "that's what we're here for- to help you through everything. I'm guessing that being cramped in a house with loads of people hasn't been helping?"

Alex shrugged, "It's... it's mostly been fine, it was just... I don't know."

"Next time we come here we're staying in a hotel like Mark did." Derek used his 'this is final' voice.

"But I like being here," Alex protested, and he meant it.

Sure his cousins argued a lot, and bossed him about a little, but Lucas was genuinely cool and funny, and he had ADHD too so he spoke faster than everyone else here which was the perfect speed for Alex to listen at. Plus his other cousins were largely chill other than the arguing, they were largely up for having fun.

"And Auntie Melia shouldn't have to be stuck here with everyone."

"It's up to her where she stays, but we'll let her know before we all do this again, if she wants to stay here she can - if she wants to stay in a hotel she can also do that." Meredith told him. "I know we only have three days left here but we can still book a hotel for the rest of the visit, if you need to."

Alex shook his head firmly. "No, can't we just... I can make it three days, I swear! I just... didn't realize that I'd get this bad." He watched Meredith and Derek exchange a look with each other. "I pinky promise, I'm not back to normal right now but I will be. I really want to stay here. Please mommy?" He put on his best puppy dog eyes, he could see Meredith start to sway away from immediately denying his request. He looked back at Derek, increasing the pout and the big eyes, "Please daddy?"

Derek sighed heavily. "We're keeping an eye on you." He told him finally. "A very close eye on you. And you're going to be taking a lot of breaks with us, a lot of places we're planning on going to have both Little rooms and sensory rooms, we're going to be using them a lot."

"And," Meredith added, "while you take a nap with your dad, I'm going out to get some ear protectors and some more sensory stuff, there's a Little store near here which sells some stuff, I know we only brought some fidgets with us, so we're getting doubles of things for you, and carrying them around all the time."

Alex let out a groan, hiding his smile against Derek's chest, "I'm going back in time to tell you what a mom you're gonna become." He heard Meredith laugh, before she dropped a kiss on the top of his head. "Thanks... both of you." he said quietly: he was still getting used to having people, a family, who cared about him, who understood him better than even he did.

"It's no problem," she assured him sincerely, before leaning up to kiss Derek.

Alex couldn't resist to make a gagging noise despite not looking at either of them. He could practically hear their eyerolls.

"Be good for your daddy," Meredith only half teased, "take a nap please, don't try to convince him that you don't need one."

"Bu-"

"-Not happening, trouble, you're taking a nap and we're having an easy rest of the day."

"No fun," Alex mumbled.

"But just what you need. Shut your eyes baby, mommy will be back soon, you don't need to drop unless you want to, but you do need to sleep."

Alex let out a small whine but he listened out for Meredith gently shutting the door before he would let himself close his eyes. Maybe if he slept now he could be awake by the time Meredith was back. He held gently onto Derek's tee, slipping the thumb of his hand into his mouth as he did. Derek must have been worried about him during his sensory overload because he didn't even pull it out.

Alex slowly drifted off to sleep, exhausted, but now content.

[whumpbug]

i hope you don't mind another prompt from me!!

i just have a thought in my head of Simon having to do emergency first aid on Archie while in a crowd. running it well, telling specific people to grab this kit, do this, all while keeping Archie calm while he's in pain and afraid.

(plus I feel like Archie would find Simon being so smoothly in control very soothing. Simon is here. he'll be okay because Simon is here.)

- @whump-kia

i will never mind a prompt from you kia you have the best ideas on how to torture these boys (≧▽≦)

this one is admittedly not my best work BUT it was still so fun to write and broke my heart seeing archie so overwhelmed BUT HIS HUSBAND BEST FRIEND CAME IN CLUTCH

also really quick, i just want to say that i decided on archie's alias during this fic. basically, since he never had a formal name, people just started calling him "the vigilante", and then just shortened it to "vigil" so his alias that the crimelords and civilians know him by is just simply. Vigil.

OK onto the fic!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Apparently, Archie had died and woken up in a universe where no one knew what the hell personal space was.

He had been downed in the street. His first mistake was even pursuing a chase so openly in the middle of the afternoon with civilians everywhere, but he was just so close. One of the major names in the drug ring was right there, and he almost had him.

Until the guy pulled out a gun and fired practically point blank into his side.

Archie was lying on his back, gasping for air that would not come. There were hands on him, cold hands, rough hands, calloused hands, sweaty hands, and he wanted them all off.

He let out a low whine as he tried to jerk his body away, but he only succeeded inducing an intense jolt of pain, which caused him to curl up reflexively while the hands held him in place.

“It’s going to be okay dear, we’ll call an ambulance,” A woman cooed, gently patting his chest. Get off.

“Should we sit him up to get him some air?” A deeper voice said, hand grasping his shoulder. Don’t touch me.

“No way! Is that Vigil?! I heard my parents talking about him!” A smaller voice shouted, right next to Archie’s ear. Shut. Up.

Archie knew this wasn’t like him. He always strived to be the kind, empathetic, forgiving symbol of hope everyone expected him to be, but right now, he just wanted out.

His side hurt, his head hurt, everything hurt and every tiny movement sent him biting his tongue to avoid crying out. To make things worse, he could feel the blood leaving his body through the open wound, and it was.. not a pleasant feeling. Sticky blood was pooling below his lower back and his skin began feeling clammy and cold, and he knew he was losing precious seconds and where was Simon.

A familiar buzz on his wrist brought him slightly back to the present. It was his emergency signaling bracelet. It meant that Simon was on en route, if he recalled correctly.

Thank god.

Simon had probably been alerted to Archie’s vitals dropping to dangerous levels out of nowhere, and dropped everything to get to him.

He couldn't help the weak sigh of relief that escaped him. He was content to resigning himself to the torture of these civilians manhandling him, because he knew Simon would be there soon to make it better. All he had to do was wait as patiently as he could.

Until he felt fingertips grip the edge of his domino mask.

Archie’s identity was the one thing he had to himself. He went to great lengths to ensure that no one revealed it because it was the only way he was able to live a life as a civilian where people weren’t walking on eggshells around him. And it was about to be stripped away from him.

A strangled cry tore from his throat.

Suddenly, he was thrashing desperately, despite the seething pain, trying to get everyone off of him. Everything was too loud and too bright and he was so dizzy and people were touching his mask.

His bloodied hands flew up to his face, holding his mask down and batting away the offending fingers. He needed space, he needed air, he couldn’t breathe—

“Everyone stop crowding and back up. I’m a medical intern, and Vigil is clearly in distress. Give. Him. Space.”

Archie knew that voice. He could have sobbed. 

The group of bystanders murmured, before shuffling out of the way and making room for Simon.

Simon’s scent whooshed past Archie and then settled as the bystanders gave the two a wide berth. He kneeled beside Archie, and immediately took off his sweater, balling it up and pressing it into his wound.

“Eyes on me Archie.”

Archie’s breath hitched. The world was spinning around him, whether from his hyperventilating or his blood loss or the pain, he didn’t know, but all that mattered was that Simon was here. He reached a clumsy hand towards Simon, whimpering softly. "Hurts.."

“I know, I know.. it’s okay.. I’m going to help you,” He hummed. He lifted the fabric lightly to get a look at the wound and winced. “Just.. stay awake for me, okay?”

Archie hummed noncommittally. 

“You,” Simon pointed to the man from before. “I need you to go into that shop over there and check for a first-aid kit under the front counter. The ambulance won’t get here in time.”

The man nodded and disappeared behind the door.

“And you,” Simon motioned towards the woman. “Come here and hold pressure on this.”

The woman blanched slightly, but with Simon’s guidance, she was quickly situated with her hands pushing firmly on Archie abdomen.

The man came loping back with a small box in hand.

“I got it!” He shouted, tossing it to Simon.

The next moments went by in a blur. Archie saw Simon swiftly unwrap packets of gauze, and felt the strange sensation of them being shoved into his wound, but he was too focused on forcing his eyes open to give the pain much attention. It was kind of nice honestly. Not the pain, of course but seeing Simon handle everything so efficiently. Usually, Archie felt the need to be the one always in charge, always figuring something out to help everybody else.

It felt good to have Simon fill that roll too.

He was blinking in and out of consciousness now, but every time he’d look up, he’d see Simon’s face right there, steadfast as ever, and he felt just a little safer.

Eventually, he felt himself being lifted from the ground and held close to a warm body. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until he felt Simon against him. He heard Simon barking more orders at the bystanders, presumably telling them to get out of the way, and soon, he was nestled in the backseat of his car. It was finally, blissfully, quiet.

“Just stay awake a little longer Archie.. we’re almost there,”

“Hnnng..” was all Archie could manage.

He blinked, and the next thing he knew, he was being carried up the stairs and settled into Simon’s soft couch. The couch smelled of him, and he inhaled deeply.

Simon pulled up a stool beside Archie, pulling gloves over his already bloodied hands. “Just hold still for a bit, okay? I'll make this quick.”

Again, Archie was in and out of consciousness while Simon worked to clean, suture, and dress the wound in his side. It hadn't been too bad, just bled a lot. Luckily the bullet hadn't gotten stuck in it, and it missed anything super vital. Simon had numbed the area with gel before beginning (no needles, of course), so the pain was slightly more bearable (though not by much). Once it was over, Simon saw that Archie was flagging. He decided to take pity on him.

“Wait here.”

Archie’s head lolled to the side. This was getting ridiculous. How much longer was he going to have to stay up?! For as much emphasis that Simon put on getting rest, he sure wasn’t making it easy for him.

Suddenly, a straw was being shoved between Archie’s lips.

“Drink. It’s apple juice. Once you down the cup, you can go to sleep.”

He downed the cup, feeling exasperated and spent. His eyelids were already drooping by the time he got down to the last sip. He stopped fighting it, letting them flutter close.

The last thing he remembered before drifting off was a soft blanket being pulled up to his chin, and a hand slipping into his.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[mossymandibles]

I would enjoy some asks if people had any questions about characters or something?

I’m kind of bored and wanna take my mind off the absolute dread I feel for the work week.

[sobri-k-eyt]

Body Swap AU (Azrael and Zurian)

She blinked. Her wings opened and closed, and it took her a moment far too long to realize that she had too many of them. Now, as a creature whose form was fluid, she could of course have more wings if she pleased. But she didn’t please for this, nor was she in a fluid shape. She was very, painfully, solid, and much heavier than her normal form felt. Her hair was short and her body ached with unfamiliar weights and movements and sensations. She flexed her fingers, pushing at them to lengthen, only they didn’t at all. They were also not her fingers. Azrael looked up and saw herself staring- only that the eyes in her body were an all too familiar red. “What-” she spoke quickly, but clapped golden clawed hands to the mouth the spoke, because that was surely not her voice. No, it was male and familiar again. “Zurian, what’s going on?” she hissed, speaking in his voice. Her own eyes blinked back at her, confused and wary. “I’m not sure, ‘Rael. I can’t change forms. Nor sense anything else. It’s not a matter of forms- it’s yours. Not mine.” She flinched. The second set of wings along with them, and the dual tails bobbed up and down. That alone nearly made her try and claw them off. This wasn’t her body. This wasn’t her, and she was feeling this she’d never felt before, not just with fake sinews and leaves beneath the skin, but echoes of blooming grass and rustling animals. She fell to her- his knees. She covered her feathered ears and whimpered slightly. Everything she was used to was gone. And her body was heavy and moving in ways that wasn’t her own. It was heavy and not hers. It wasn’t. She felt a delicate push on her shoulder, familiar fingers gracing her shoulder. She flinched, the touch cold and icy and far too much for her sense to handle.

[mariasont]

limerence

you're not a fan of fireworks. luckily, spencer's not a fan of letting you suffer in silence, especially when he has obscure marine biology facts and lap space to spare.

pairing: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: fluff yipee, fireworks, some discussion of sensory overload, reader in spencer's lap (we up!), spencer is very in love, established relationship, kissing prompt: here! wc: 0.6k

“At night, the jellyfish showed an increase in the time to first pulse and the time to reach bottom compared to during the day. This increased latency in response to stimulus indicates that Cassiopea have reduced responsiveness to stimulus during the night.”

The article is still warm from its ill-fated stint on the radiator, a rushed drying technique he knew was a bad idea, but tried anyway.

He smooths a corner with one thumb, eyes scanning each line. He printed it after you mumbled something about fireworks being… well, not fun. You didn’t say you hated fireworks (you would never be so bold), but just gave him a thoughtful wrinkle of your nose, followed by, “I don’t think colors exploding overhead is my thing.” 

Which, coming from you, translated almost perfectly to please don’t make me pretend I like loud things for your sake.

And If he were being honest, and he’s not, because you’re very pretty and he’s only human, he would admit that he studies you more attentively than he’s studied any dissertation subjects. A concerning thought for his sanity, less so for his ego.

Now you’re tucked against him on the couch, limbs tangled and deposited half-haphazardly across his lap. Your toes nudge his thigh once, then again.

“Out with it,” he says.

A sour look fortifies on your face as cock your head to one side. “What?”

“That face. The I-have-a-question-but-I-don’t-want-to-seem-annoying face. It’s very cute. Not very stealthy.”

He does not mention, of course, that it’s his favorite face. Or how, embarrassingly, he’s sort of banking on you never perfecting your stealth because then he might stop getting to decode all your thoughts in real-time. Which would be weird, obviously. So instead he bites the inside of his cheek.

“So they slow down when it’s dark, but you’re telling me that’s not sleep?”

“Well, what we define as sleep involves identifiable neural oscillations and circadian regulation. Jellyfish lack a centralized nervous system, so technically, they’re not sleeping. But they exhibit behavior that’s, functionally, sleep-adjacent.” He pauses, glancing at you. “You’re not convinced, are you.”

“Sleep-adjacent feels like a cop-out to me, but okay.” You’re moving mid-sentence, elbows and knees negotiating gravity as you clamber into his lap.

It’s entirely impossible for him to continue arguing with you, especially when a firework splits the sky behind you, washing your face in quicksilver blue glow.

Your eyes dart briefly toward it, reflection shimmering against your lashes, before returning to him. He sets the paper aside, letting it flutter to the floor as his hands come to cup the curve of your spine.

He feels your heartbeat beneath his fingertips, fluttering quicker with every sudden burst overhead.

“You’re going to make a terrible research assistant if you keep rejecting my terminology.” There’s a hint of smile tugging at his lips. “But I guess I could keep you around for… morale.”

You gasp. “I would be an excellent research assistant. You’re the one who brought reading material after promising to relax for once.”

“I did promise that, didn’t I?” He muses. “Relaxing is subjective.” One hand rises to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “And you make it easier. So technically, this is collaborative rest.”

“Is that in the paper, too?” you whisper, fingertips tracing the edge of his collar, the slow movement sending a flush of warmth straight through his bloodstream. “The part where jellyfish respond better to affection-based co-regulation?” 

He exhales, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, gaze dipping involuntarily to where your red-painted nails press into his skin.

“That, uh…” he murmurs, “no, that wasn’t explicitly covered in the research.”

“Feels like a major oversight.” You tilt your head, bottom lip jutting out. “I’ll submit an addendum.”

A firework cracks sharply behind, and Spencer nearly jumps this time, though he catches himself just in time. You would never let him live that down.

“Add it to the record,” he mutters — and then he kisses you. Thoroughly.

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

maria's red, white and bau masterlist

[whumpril]

Whumpril 2025 approaches!

Rules:

Anyone can participate.

Any media form is allowed (art, fic, gifs, music, whatever).

AI-generated content is NOT permitted.

You can participate however much or as little as you want, no pressure to complete every single day.

You can post your work anywhere on the internet, Tumblr, Ao3, etc.

Tag potential triggers and NSFW accordingly.

If you want to be counted as an official participant and have the chance to be featured on the blog, post your content during the month of April. You can still use the prompt list after April ends.

I can’t guarantee that every single work will be featured but I’ll try to reblog as many as I can.

To increase your chances of being featured here, tag your post with the event name and the prompt of the day that you used (For example: #whumpril2025, #whumprilday1, #hug) 

You can also @ the blog, @whumpril.

Full write-up of the prompts can be found under the cut!

Whumpril 2025 Prompts:

Hug

Lies

Sore

Threat

Neglect

Distrust

Restless

Burnout

Stranded

Bandages

Grounding

Dislocation

Head Injury

Lost/Found

Belittlement

Waterlogged

Interrogation

Mood Swings

Fetal Position

“You’re next.”

Stage(s) of Grief

Dehumanization

“Don’t you dare.”

Sensory Overload

Too Weak to Stand

The Kind One Snaps

Tossing and Turning

Inexperienced Caretaker

“Get your hands off them!”

“You’re/I’m not going anywhere.”

Alternative Prompts:

If there’s a prompt above you don’t feel inspired or comfortable doing, you can switch it out with one of these alternatives!

X-Rays

Hazing

Clammy

Trampled

Cowardice

Unsanitary

Congestion

Silent Tears

Falsely Accused

Slammed into Wall

Missed Medication

Heimlich Maneuver

 “Why won’t you believe me?”

[mrrharper]

Player Of The Month

You can support me at ko-fi.com/mrrharper

It did not take long.

Jake got a notification saying he'd been chosen as the Player of the Month from the server he's been playing on for months now. He was very excited about this as he's never got any in-game title like that before.

He clicked on the notification and scrolled through all the buzzwords to see what rewards he would be getting. Weirdly, there was no mention of any items, upgrades or other perks. Instead there was a button. "Brand new personalized experience".

Jack eagerly clicked the button, the only option avaliable to him. At first nothing happened and he just assumed the game was loading some new assests which would probably take some time.

Suddenly he felt some buzzing in his head, followed by a sharp pain and a feeling as if his headset was tightening around his head. He was paralyzed by this for a moment, his mind completely losing track of what was happening with his body as it was experiencing sudden sensory overload.

And then he was back in the game, but something was different. He was transported to Iron Gym, a locaton on the opposite side of the map from he was just a minute ago. He looked down and saw that his avatar had changed completely. He tried to access his character menu to see what had happened but he couldn't, so he walked up to a mirror.

In in he saw someone completely different. A young dude, clearly muscular, wearing a backwards cap and a pair of tight compression shorts. He looked like a gym bro! Not only that, he looked pretty similiar to the NPCs that populated this area of the game world, which Jake found very strange. Something went wrong here.

Wait, where was his headset? Jake put his hands on his face, but couldn't find the bulky gear he had to wear to play. What was going on?

A player came up to Jake and chose the option to initiate the conversation.

Jake #27AD0019 turned around to face Player#A97F4. His eyes flashed red, showing he was now in interaction mode.

"ey dude, ya got any issue with me bruh?" he asked, an arrogant streak in his voice. He then waited for the player to choose a response form the dialog tree, entering one of his idling animations, moving slightly from left to right and flexing his bare chest.

"Damn, that's a new one, didn't see this character before here" the player muttered to himself, clearly intrigued by the sudden appearance of a new NPC. He then chose a response.

"No, I just noticed you're a regular here and you seem to be doing pretty good, so I wanted to say hi."

#27AD0019's changed his attitude from annoyed and arrogant to proud and cocky. A new animation was triggered by the player's response, making him flash his teeth in a cocky smile, then flex his arms in a double biceps pose.

"hell yeah bruh, am the top dawg here dude"

The player focused on the NPC's muscular arms, while the character kept them in a flexed position up in the air. Player#A97F4 was starting to enjoy the conversation and knew exactly what dialog option he would choose.

"I see, you clearly work out every day. Your form is very impressive."

This prompted another few animations, in which #27AD0019 flexed his arms, chest and legs, showing off his muscles to the player.

"fuck yeah bro! i lift, like, all day dude, gotta work for guns like this bro huhuhuhuhuhuh" He let out a low, dumb laugh. The player grinned as he saw one of the potential responses he had avaliable.

"So not much happening in your life except the gym, right?"

A few calculations happened int he background that determined whether the NPC would respond positively or with anger. The result then took into account the character's intelligence statistic - 3/10. This gave the player the exact result he was looking for.

"huhuhuh yeah dude, am a real gym bro dude, ain't nothin' more important that liftin' bro. head empty, just gains huhuhuhuhuh" The answer triggered another loop of flexing animations.

#27AD0019 was going to be a very popular NPC.

[bunny-loves-stars]

I remember last year, because I had no support and no actual 24/7 care, I didn’t have showers for weeks at a time, didn’t change my clothes for weeks, never brushed my teeth, i could only eat what I could cook which was toast and cereal, I had go through sensory overloads with out headphones, fidget toys etc because “ I didn’t need them.” I couldn’t even leave my room because of transitions , no one to verbally prompt me, no one to physically help me, because my old caregiver believed I had level one autism and convinced everyone else that I had “mild autism” and it’s not true, I am in the middle of level 2 and 3, that’s one way how neglect can happen to autistics, high support needs autistics are high support needs even without support

[delicatebarness]

But these prompts with CryBaby reader & Bucky would be 🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻 (where A is Bucky)

Character A can tell Character B is getting nervous in a big crowd, so A slips their hand into theirs to help them calm down.

"You don't have to hide your tears from me."

"Just please, don't leave me."

Cry Baby | "Just please, don't leave me,"

Summary: ^^ Requested Prompts.

Warnings: Sensory Overload.

Word Count: 390

Series Masterlist

A/N: I love these prompts! Thank you sooo much for requesting them, I loved writing this, and I may be crying with Cry Baby on this one 😭😭😭 I really hope I did it justice for you! Also, I can already hear the cheers from everyone who wanted more Cry Baby before Tuesday.

You and Bucky moved through the crowd, the neon lights cast a kaleidoscope of colors over the mass of people. There was a constant noise of chatter, horns honking, engines roaring, and street performers filling the air. A sensory overload, it was difficult to escape. Glancing over at you, Bucky noticed the tension in your posture, he was used to seeing your eyes flicker nervously from one face to the next, yet tonight, he felt it too.

Bucky could see the signs of panic seeing in, the crush of people seemingly too much, your breath became quick, a slight tremor in your fidgeting hands. Without hesitation, Bucky reached out, gently slipping his hand into yours. Your fingers tightened around his, a silent plea for comfort. 

“I’m right here,” Bucky said softly, leaning in close. His grip kept a firm hold on your hand, guiding you through the crowd. Navigating through the sea, Bucky leads the way with a determined stride. 

He kept talking to you while you walked, his voice was a soothing constant. Slowly, he felt you begin to relax, your grip on his hand easing as you focused on his voice rather than the world around you both.

Eventually, you find yourselves in a small park, a quiet green oasis. The sound of the city was muted by the rustling of leaves, and the traffic, a distant hum. Bucky sat with you on a bench under a large tree, never letting go of your hand. 

Bucky’s eyes searched for any remaining signs of distress. Your eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and your vulnerability lay bare once again.  “You don’t have to hide your tears from me,” he whispered a promise of unwavering support, his voice soft. 

“Just please, don’t leave me,” you pleaded, your voice barely a whisper as the tears began to spill and your throat choked. 

Squeezing your hand, Bucky pulled you into a gentle embrace. “I’m right here,” he murmured into your ear, “I’ve got you.” 

You sat like that for a moment, the world outside the park continuing to rush around you. But, in that brief moment, it felt like you were the only two people in the world. The tension slowly left your body, your hands stopped shaking as they clung to his jacket. 

At that moment, that was all you needed. Him.

[serickswrites]

i have a specific idea that i really want someone to write 🙏

whumpee and caretaker are in a relationship, childhood friends to lovers kind of thing. whumpee is autistic, and obviously caretaker knows everything there is to know about it because they’ve grown up with whumpee.

whumpee gets taken by whumper, and during their time there, whumper takes advantage of whumpee’s specific sensitivities, i.e. touch, unfamiliar environments, itchy clothing, inability to understand micro-expressions.

whumpee gets rescued, and they only let caretaker near them, as caretaker is the only person whumpee can trust. everyone else might want to hurt them. they no longer trust their ability to recognise good intentions from bad intentions, and that terrifies them.

Hey, Anon! Thank you for the prompt. I am going to do my best to capture what you are asking. I have a lot of neurodivergent people in my life, but I can only hope but to capture a little bit of their experience as a neurotypical person. I hope you enjoy this!

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced manipulation, white torture, sensory overload, rescue, PTSD, anxiety, hospital, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time. Whumpee could feel everything. They could feel the normally soft blanket covering their legs, though now they could feel each thread. Could feel the fibers scrape across their skin. They could feel the soft, feathered pillow beneath their head. Could smell each feather. Whumpee felt nauseous. But worst of all, Whumpee could feel their bones. This was not good.

They didn't want to draw attention to their panic. Didn't want to alert the nurses that something was wrong. Whumpee logically knew the nurses were there to help them. But they couldn't be sure. They struggled on a good day to read faces, to understand tone. Today was not a good day.

Caretaker. They wanted Caretaker. They needed Caretaker. Caretaker was the only person they could trust. Where was Caretaker?

For a brief moment, Whumpee wondered if they had dreamed up their rescue. If they had dreamed up being taken to the hospital. That they were still with Whumper.

Whumper.

Whumper was the worst person in existence. They took advantage of Whumpee's inability to read cues. They had taken Whumpee and promised they wouldn't hurt Whumpee if Whumpee could tell them how they were feeling.

Each day, Whumper would sit and talk with Whumpee. Each day they would quiz Whumpee. Each day they would prompt Whumpee to make a guess. Promising that they would never hurt Whumpee because they just wanted to help Whumpee learn.

Each day Whumpee guessed wrong. Whether it was because they were in a new, unfamiliar place and was more anxious than normal, or because Whumper had given them the most uncomfortable clothes, Whumpee could not guess right. They couldn't read Whumper's face. Whumper's tone of voice.

"It is so obvious, Whumpee," Whumper said exposing all of their teeth, their eyes pulled tight, "you can do it. I won't hurt you if you do."

And yet Whumper hurt them. Hurt them for days. The worst was when they plugged Whumpee's ears with something painful and scratchy, covered Whumpee's eyes with something too cold and smooth, and stuffed Whumpee's mouth with the most foul tasting fabric. Whumpee was left in sensory agony for who knew how long. It was torture.

Whumpee could feel their heart pounding in their chest. Could feel their breath becoming more and more shallow. This wasn't real. This was new torture. They had never escaped.

A warm, gently finger caressed their palm. Whumpee's eyes shot open. Caretaker. Caretaker was there.

"I won't touch you, love," Caretaker murmured gently, "I only wanted you to know I'm right here."

Whumpee began to cry. It was all too much. They couldn't even speak. It was too loud. Everything hurt.

"I'm going to have them turn on the shower, Whumpee. We'll stay in there as long as you need. Let's get these itchy clothes off. I got an order to bring your blanket and clothing from home. We'll shower as long as you need and then get you more comfortable."

Whumpee nodded, still not speak. Caretaker was the only person who knew them. Who understood them. Who loved them. Whumpee could only trust Caretaker. Caretaker would help them. Caretaker always helped them. Whumpee hated that they were such a mess right now. Hated that they couldn't regulate themself. Hated that Whumper had used their sensitivities against them. Had hurt them so terribly. Whumpee sobbed harder.

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere. I've got you." Caretaker's voice was quiet and smooth. Caretaker was there. Caretaker had them. They were safe. They trusted Caretaker and only Caretaker. Caretaker loved them. "I've got you, love. It's ok. It's ok."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[amonthofwhump]

It's that time of year again! AMonthOfWhump's Winter Whumperland event runs from December 1-12, with a collection of prompts for your inspiration each day. To participate, create in any medium and share your works on Tumblr. Use the event tags or @ us in your post to get reblogged here. Prompt list transcript, tagging info, and a free-to-use post header under the cut.

1: Santa Claus

Claustrophobia

Forced Celebration

Panic Attack

Comfort: Secret Santa Exchange

2: Krampus

Sensory Overload

Temptation

Whipping

Comfort: Decorating Cookies

3: George Bailey

"We've lost everything we have."

Disowned

Drowning

Comfort: Christmas Market

4: The Grinch

Sedatives

Blackmail

Yandere Whumper

Comfort: Ugly Sweater Party

5: Ebenezer Scrooge

Power Outage

Time Loop

Overworked Whumpee

Comfort: Snuggling by the Fire

6: Jack Frost

Post-apocalyptic Winter

Amnesia

Comfort turned to Fear

Comfort: Snowball Fight

7: Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer

Inhuman Whumpee

Exile

Self-sacrifice

Comfort: You’re Not Alone

8: John Mclane

Held Hostage

Russian Roulette

Forced to Watch

Comfort: Rescue

9: Jólakötturinn

Feral Whumpee

Left Behind

Collared

Comfort: Wiping the Other’s Tears Away

10: Tio de Nadal

Conditioning

Left to Die

Final Countdown

Comfort: Holiday Traditions

11: The Yule Goat

Branding

Stitches

Public Whump

Comfort: Trimming the Tree

12: Elf on the Shelf

Trapped

Bedside Vigil

Used as bait

Comfort: Mistletoe (or avoiding it)

Event Tags: #amow winter whumperland 2023, #day1, #claustrophobia, (tag the prompt you're using)

And lastly, here is a post header to use for the event if you like. Happy whumping!

[amethystarachnid]

Hi! 🤍

For my second request, I'd love to request a college student! Tony Stark or a young! Tony Stark (after college) story for your Marvel Holiday Special, whichever one you prefer to write for.

I'm thinking of the prompt [ 8. First Christmas Together  – Share a special first holiday celebration with your character, complete with shared traditions and sweet moments. ] for him and Fem! Reader, with lots of cute moments such as buying/decorating a tree together, going to a Christmas market, exchanging sweet, thoughtful gifts, making peppermint hot chocolate, etc. (I understand if you can't fit all of this in; please feel free to pick and choose which ideas you'd like to write about the most.)

Thank you so much, and I'm looking forward to seeing all the stories you'll gift us this holiday season! 🤍

FROGS, GLOBES AND BURNT CHOCOLATE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.5k

ᯓ★ Summary: it's the first Christmas for you and Tony in your shared apartment and you are really excited: will it be a complete disaster or the best Christmas ever?

ᯓ★ TW(s): fluff

ᯓ★ me when soft men and Christmas

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The biting December air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, the door swinging closed with a quiet thud behind you. Snowflakes drift lazily from a slate-gray sky, dotting the ground with a fresh layer of white, and the smell of pine and roasted chestnuts lingers faintly in the air. The shopping plaza is bustling with life, from bundled-up couples carrying oversized bags to kids chasing each other, their laughter cutting through the cold. Beside you, Tony Stark, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, surveys the scene like he’s about to conquer it.

“You realize,” he starts, cocking an eyebrow at the giant inflatable Santa looming above the store entrance, “this is all part of a grand capitalist scheme, right? They’re counting on saps like us to drop a small fortune on plastic snowflakes and gaudy lights.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm playfully as you step closer. “You say that now, but I saw how excited you got when I mentioned a tree. Don’t try to pretend you’re above it.”

“I’m excited because I’m picturing us building some kind of robot that lights the tree for us. Or—ooh, one that launches ornaments like tiny projectiles. Think about it: automated Christmas chaos.”

“Or we could just have a normal Christmas like normal people,” you suggest, looping your arm through his and steering him toward the store entrance. The warmth of his body seeps through the layers of your coat, and you feel a spark of giddiness bubbling in your chest. This isn’t just any Christmas; it’s your Christmas together, in your new apartment. The thought alone is enough to make your heart skip.

Tony hums noncommittally, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as the automatic doors slide open. “Normal’s overrated. But fine, I’ll humor you. Lead on, holiday spirit incarnate.”

The store is a sensory overload of glitter and color, every aisle packed to the brim with tinsel, ornaments, and lights. A soft instrumental version of “Jingle Bells” plays over the speakers, adding to the festive chaos. Tony lets out a low whistle as he takes it all in.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. This is…a lot,” he says, plucking a sparkly green bow from a nearby shelf and holding it up. “Tell me you don’t want me to wear this.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you reply, snatching it out of his hand, “but now that you mention it…”

He grins, a boyish, lopsided thing that makes your stomach flip. “You know, I’d do it for you. I’d make it look good, too.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you steer the cart down the first aisle. It’s stocked with strings of lights in every color imaginable, and you pause to inspect a box of classic white ones. Tony, naturally, zeroes in on something completely different.

“Multicolor. Obviously,” he says, holding up a box of lights that blink in erratic patterns. “This screams fun. And by fun, I mean mildly seizure-inducing, but hey, memorable.”

“Memorable is one word for it,” you reply, raising an eyebrow. “But I was thinking classic. White lights are elegant.”

“Oh, I see. You’re going for classy,” Tony says, resting an arm casually on the cart’s handle. “But come on, we’re young, living in sin, and this is our first Christmas in our place. It should be fun, not…a Martha Stewart catalog.”

You laugh despite yourself, considering his point. “Okay, fine. But we’re compromising. White lights for the tree, multicolor for…something else.”

“Deal,” Tony agrees, tossing the box of multicolored lights into the cart with an air of triumph. “This is how we build a healthy relationship. Compromising over Christmas decorations. Dr. Phil would be so proud.”

“You’re impossible,” you say, rolling your eyes even as a smile tugs at your lips.

“And yet, here you are, willingly cohabitating with me. Who’s the real winner here?”

You shake your head, but the warmth in his voice and the sparkle in his eyes make it impossible to be annoyed. Instead, you grab his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Come on, Stark. Let’s find a tree.”

The tree section is overwhelming, with rows upon rows of artificial evergreens of varying heights and degrees of realism. Tony takes it upon himself to test the sturdiness of each one by shaking them, earning a few disapproving looks from nearby shoppers.

“This one looks like it could survive an earthquake,” he says, gesturing to a six-foot tree with perfectly symmetrical branches. “What do you think?”

You inspect it critically, running your hand over the faux pine needles. “It’s nice, but…is it too perfect? I kind of like the ones that look a little…messy. More natural.”

Tony steps back, rubbing his chin in mock seriousness. “You want messy? Oh, I can find messy. But let’s just hope it doesn’t come pre-infested with fake squirrels or something.”

“Fake squirrels?” you echo, laughing. “That’s oddly specific.”

“What can I say? My imagination is a gift.” He grins, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple before turning to scour the rows for the “perfectly imperfect” tree. The simple gesture sends a warm glow through you, and you find yourself marveling, not for the first time, at how easily he makes you feel cherished.

After some debate—and a bit of mild bickering—you settle on a slightly uneven but charmingly full tree that Tony immediately dubs “Frank.” The name sticks, and by the time you’re wheeling the cart toward the ornament aisle, you’re both brainstorming ways to make Frank the star of the apartment.

“Obviously, Frank needs a killer topper,” Tony says, scanning the shelves. “Something that says, ‘I’m the king of this Christmas.’ What about this?” He holds up a comically oversized star, glitter raining down from it as he tilts it from side to side.

You wrinkle your nose. “It’s a little…much.”

“That’s the point,” he insists, but you shake your head, and he relents with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You pick. But if you pick something boring, I reserve the right to judge you.”

You smirk, holding up a simple yet elegant angel with golden wings. “How’s this?”

Tony eyes it for a moment before nodding. “It’s got class. I approve.”

“Good,” you reply, adding it to the cart. “Now let’s talk ornaments.”

Tony immediately gravitates toward the more unconventional options—a hamburger, a miniature disco ball, a tiny rocket ship. You can’t help but laugh as he piles them into the cart with zero hesitation.

“We’re going for eclectic, right?” he says, grinning at your expression.

“Eclectic is one way to put it,” you reply, picking up a box of glass baubles in varying shades of red and gold. “But I think we need a little balance.”

“Sure, sure. Balance.” He waves a hand dismissively before adding a dinosaur ornament to the pile. “Like this guy. He’s green, he’s festive, and he’s clearly balancing the holiday spirit with prehistoric flair.”

You groan, but it’s impossible to be annoyed with him. His enthusiasm is infectious, and you find yourself laughing more than you have in weeks. By the time you make it to the checkout line, your cart is an eclectic mix of classic and quirky, much like the two of you.

As the cashier rings up your items, Tony leans against the counter, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts fond and amused. “You know,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear, “I think this might be the most fun I’ve ever had in a store.”

“Really?” you tease, arching an eyebrow. “Even more fun than that time we got kicked out of IKEA?”

“That wasn’t fun; that was an adventure,” he replies, grinning. “This is different. This is…nice.”

His words, simple as they are, make your chest ache in the best way. You reach out, slipping your hand into his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Yeah,” you agree softly. “It is.”

By the time you get everything loaded into the car and head back to the apartment, the snow has started falling harder, the flakes sticking to the windshield as the wipers sweep them away. Tony hums along to the Christmas music playing softly on the radio, and you can’t help but smile at how relaxed he looks, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his knee.

When you finally arrive home, the two of you haul your bags and the boxed-up tree upstairs, collapsing onto the couch in a heap of exhaustion and laughter. The apartment is warm and cozy, the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle you lit earlier filling the air. Tony stretches out, his head resting in your lap as he looks up at you with that lazy, lopsided grin you love so much.

“Ready to turn this place into a winter wonderland?” he asks, his voice tinged with mock seriousness.

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

And with that, the two of you set to work, turning your shared space into something magical. Every ornament, every string of lights, every silly joke shared along the way feels like a promise—of love, of laughter, of a future together that’s as bright and colorful as the tree now standing proudly in the corner.

Tony sprawls out on the floor, an open box of ornaments beside him, his legs kicking lazily as he examines a particularly garish one: a glitter-covered pineapple. He holds it up to the light, squinting as if he’s inspecting a fine piece of art. “This one,” he declares, pointing at the pineapple and then at you with the seriousness of a presidential speech, “needs prime real estate. Front and center. It’s the kind of ornament that demands attention.”

You glance over from where you’re untangling a string of lights, your hands already glittery from the process. “It’s hideous. If it’s going on the tree, it’s going in the back where no one can see it.”

“Hideous?” Tony gasps, clutching the pineapple like it’s a wounded comrade. “This is a conversation starter. It says, ‘This tree belongs to people with taste and a sense of humor.’”

“It says, ‘This tree belongs to people who lost a bet,’” you counter, tossing a rogue light bulb into the trash pile.

He drops the ornament into the box with an exaggerated huff, crossing his arms and leaning back against the couch. “You have no appreciation for the avant-garde. Next, you’re going to tell me my disco-ball ornament doesn’t make the cut either.”

“Oh, that’s going on the tree,” you say with a smirk, plugging in the lights and watching them flicker to life. “I have to draw the line somewhere, but even I’m not heartless enough to deprive you of a tiny disco inferno.”

Tony grins, clearly victorious. “That’s the spirit. All right, let’s light this bad boy up.”

The two of you tackle the tree together, winding the lights around it in haphazard loops. Tony insists on controlling the rotation of the tree while you maneuver the lights, which leads to a fair amount of bickering, punctuated by his constant reminders to “watch the top—Frank’s got dignity, you know.”

“You named it,” you mutter under your breath, stepping over a stray ornament. “You’re not allowed to treat it like it’s a fragile piece of Renaissance art.”

“I named it because I care,” he replies loftily, holding the tree steady as you stretch up on your tiptoes to loop the lights higher. “And because I think Frank deserves respect for the sacrifices he’s making to be part of our inaugural Christmas.”

“He’s a fake tree, Tony.”

“Fake doesn’t mean he’s emotionless,” Tony quips, grinning at you. “I mean, look at me. A solid 50% of my charm is artificial, and I’m still delightful.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you finally secure the last strand of lights. “Okay, fine, Frank. If you’re sentient, blink twice.”

Tony leans in close to the tree, squinting at the lights with mock intensity. “Was that a blink? Did you see it?”

“Definitely not,” you reply, rolling your eyes as you pick up a box of ornaments. “Now let’s get to the fun part.”

Tony takes an unceremonious dive into the box, emerging with the hamburger ornament in one hand and a golden bauble in the other. “Burgers or boring?” he asks, holding them up like they’re dueling gladiators.

“Both,” you say, plucking the bauble from his hand and placing it carefully on the tree. “It’s called balance, remember?”

He makes a face but hangs the burger ornament on a branch anyway. “Fine, but I’m putting it next to the dinosaur for thematic consistency. Carnivores stick together.”

“Carnivores?” you repeat, laughing. “You’re putting way too much thought into this.”

“Hey, someone has to,” Tony says, standing back to survey his work. “Look at that. A prehistoric picnic. The tree’s already a masterpiece, and we’ve barely started.”

The decorating continues in a flurry of glitter, laughter, and occasional sabotage. Every time you carefully place a glass ornament, Tony finds a way to “accidentally” bump into the tree, sending it wobbling precariously.

“Oops,” he says innocently, steadying the trunk. “Guess Frank’s not as sturdy as we thought.”

“Keep doing that, and Frank’s going to end up on the curb,” you warn, pointing a candy-cane-shaped ornament at him like it’s a weapon.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tony replies, his grin widening. “Not with all the blood, sweat, and glitter we’ve poured into this.”

“You’re testing me, Stark.”

“Oh, I live to test you,” he says with a wink, before dramatically hanging the pineapple ornament directly in the center of the tree. “There. Perfection.”

You groan, but you’re laughing too hard to argue. Instead, you reach for the tree topper—the angel you picked earlier—and hold it up for inspection. “Ready to crown Frank?”

Tony salutes you, stepping back to give you room. “Do it. Make him majestic.”

You climb onto the arm of the couch for a little extra height, balancing carefully as you place the angel on top of the tree. Tony’s hands hover near your waist, ready to catch you if you wobble.

“There,” you say, stepping back to admire your handiwork. “What do you think?”

Tony tilts his head, his arms crossed as he surveys the tree. “I think Frank’s looking sharp. A little eclectic, a little classy. Just like us.”

You smile, nudging his side. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he replies smoothly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. “So, what’s next? Stockings? Mistletoe? A twenty-foot inflatable snowman for the balcony?”

“Stockings, yes. Mistletoe, maybe. The snowman? Absolutely not.”

“Buzzkill,” Tony mutters, but he’s grinning as he grabs a pair of stockings from one of the shopping bags. “Do we hang these by the nonexistent chimney with care? Or do we just toss them wherever and hope Santa’s GPS works?”

You snatch the stockings from him, rolling your eyes. “We hang them on the wall, genius. Like civilized people.”

As you arrange the stockings Tony rummages through another bag, producing a tangled mess of garland. He holds it up triumphantly. “What do you think? Wall art or trip hazard?”

“Knowing you? Both.”

He laughs, draping the garland over his shoulders like a boa. “You’re no fun. But fine, I’ll keep it classy. Where do you want it?”

After some debate—and an accidental garland lassoing incident—you manage to string it up along the window, adding a cozy, festive touch to the room. By the time you’re finished, the apartment feels transformed. The tree twinkles in the corner, the stockings hang proudly on the wall, and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle still lingers in the air.

Tony collapses onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, patting the space beside him. “All right, decorating queen. Come admire our masterpiece.”

You join him, tucking your feet under you as you lean against his side. He throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as the two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching the lights on the tree blink and twinkle.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his voice softer than usual, “this actually turned out pretty great.”

“You sound surprised,” you tease, resting your head against his chest.

“I’m not surprised,” he replies, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I just… I don’t know. It’s nice. Having this. With you.”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice, and you tilt your head to look up at him. His expression is uncharacteristically serious, his brown eyes warm and earnest.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your hand finding his. “It is.”

He squeezes your hand, his usual smirk returning as he glances at the tree. “Although I still say the pineapple should’ve been the topper.”

You groan, laughing as you swat his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he quips, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Guess that makes me irresistible.”

“Or maybe I’m just a saint,” you reply, grinning up at him.

“Either way,” he says, settling back against the couch with a satisfied sigh, “this is shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.”

And as you sit there, the soft glow of the tree lighting up the room, you can’t help but agree.

The snow falls gently, blanketing the cobblestone streets of the Christmas market in a powdery white. Strings of twinkling lights are draped between booths, casting a warm glow over the bustling scene. The air is rich with the mingling scents of roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, and sweet pastries, and the faint hum of Christmas carols played by a live quartet in the distance adds a magical touch to the atmosphere.

You clutch Tony’s arm as the two of you wander through the market, your boots crunching softly against the snow-dusted ground. He’s wearing his favorite dark coat, the one that hugs his shoulders just right, and a red scarf that you gave him last Christmas. The scarf is slightly askew, and it makes him look effortlessly charming in that disheveled way only he can pull off.

“You know,” he says, his breath puffing out in little clouds, “this place is like a booby trap for wallets. Everywhere you turn, something’s glittering and saying, ‘Buy me! Buy me!’ It’s diabolical.”

You laugh, tightening your grip on his arm. “It’s a Christmas market, Tony. That’s kind of the point.”

He grins, his brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah, well, just remember, you’re in charge of stopping me from buying a chocolate fountain or a solid gold Santa.”

“Solid gold Santa? That’s oddly specific.”

“Give it time,” he replies. “I’m sure there’s a booth for it somewhere. Maybe next to the artisanal hot chocolate stand.”

As if on cue, you pass a booth selling gourmet hot chocolate, complete with toppings ranging from whipped cream to crushed candy canes. Tony slows, glancing at the display with obvious interest.

“Should we?” he asks, already reaching for his wallet.

“Tony, we’ve been here five minutes, and you’re already caving,” you tease, pulling him away gently. “Let’s at least make it past the first aisle before we start buying things.”

“Fine, but I’m circling back for it,” he says, shooting the booth a longing look as you guide him onward.

The market is a sensory overload in the best possible way. Every booth offers something unique: hand-carved wooden toys, blown glass ornaments, cozy knit scarves, and even quirky items like soap shaped like reindeer. Tony, naturally, gravitates toward the most absurd finds.

“Look at this!” he exclaims, holding up a ceramic frog wearing a Santa hat. “Tell me this isn’t peak holiday spirit.”

“It’s…something,” you admit, trying not to laugh. “But do we really need a festive frog in our lives?”

“We don’t need it, but we deserve it,” he counters, raising an eyebrow. “You’re really going to deny Frank the Frog a warm, loving home?”

You snatch the frog from his hands, placing it back on the display. “Frank the Frog will have to find a family that appreciates him more than we do.”

“Cold,” Tony mutters, shaking his head as you move on. “Heartless. And here I thought you were the soft one in this relationship.”

You glance back at him, smirking. “You clearly don’t know me at all.”

“Oh, I know you,” he replies, falling into step beside you again. “I also know you’re going to want to buy something completely impractical any minute now. And when you do, I’ll be ready to gloat.”

“Fat chance,” you say, but you can already feel your resolve slipping as you pass a booth selling intricately detailed snow globes. One of them catches your eye—a small, delicate scene of a snow-covered village illuminated from within. You reach out to pick it up, turning it over to watch the snow swirl inside.

Tony sidles up next to you, a smug grin on his face. “And here it is. The impractical thing.”

“It’s not impractical,” you protest, cradling the snow globe carefully. “It’s…beautiful.”

“It’s also one more thing for me to dust,” he teases, but there’s no bite to his words. He leans closer, examining the globe with genuine interest. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s pretty cool. But do we really need it?”

You hesitate, your fingers curling around the base of the globe. “Probably not,” you say reluctantly, setting it back down. “But if I’m not allowed to buy the snow globe, you’re definitely not allowed to buy Frank the Frog.”

“Deal,” he says with a laugh, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the next aisle. “We’ll save our money for something really ridiculous.”

The snow continues to fall, soft and steady, as you explore more of the market. Tony insists on sampling every food item in sight—gingerbread, roasted chestnuts, candied almonds—and you can’t help but laugh at the way his face lights up with each new bite.

“This,” he says, holding up a stick of caramel-dipped apple slices, “is how you do a Christmas market. Pure sugar, zero regrets.”

“You’re going to crash so hard later,” you warn, nibbling on one of the apple slices he offers you.

“Worth it,” he replies, his tone entirely unapologetic. “Besides, I’m burning calories walking in circles and fending off your bad taste in snow globes.”

“Watch it,” you say, swatting his arm lightly. “Or I’ll let you buy something ridiculous just to prove a point.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he replies, grinning. “You’re too responsible for that.”

“Don’t test me,” you warn, though you’re smiling too.

Eventually, the two of you come across a booth selling handmade ornaments, each one painted with intricate designs. Tony picks up one shaped like a tiny sled, examining it with a critical eye.

“Okay, this one’s actually pretty cool,” he says, holding it out to you. “And it’s functional. In an emergency, we could probably use it to deliver tiny presents.”

You laugh, taking the ornament from him. “I don’t think it’s meant for that, but it’s cute. Should we get it?”

“Absolutely,” he replies. “Frank the Tree deserves at least one classy ornament.”

“Classy? From the guy who wanted to buy a glittery pineapple?”

“Hey, I contain multitudes,” he says with a shrug, handing over cash to the vendor.

With the ornament carefully tucked away in a bag, you and Tony continue your stroll through the market, the lights twinkling above you like stars. He keeps a running commentary on everything you pass—mocking the price of hand-knitted mittens, marveling at the craftsmanship of a miniature nativity scene, and cracking jokes about a booth selling gourmet dog treats.

“Do you think they’d let us try one?” he asks, holding up a bone-shaped biscuit labeled ‘peanut butter delight.’

“Tony, no,” you say, laughing as you drag him away.

By the time you reach the end of the market, your hands are full of small treasures—a bag of candied almonds, the sled ornament, and a knit scarf that Tony insisted would “complete your winter aesthetic.” The snow has begun to stick to your hair and his, and the cold is starting to nip at your cheeks.

“This was a good call,” Tony says, his arm slung casually around your shoulders as you head back toward the entrance. “Although I’m still not sure how we managed to resist buying the frog.”

“Self-control,” you reply, leaning into him. “A concept you’re not usually familiar with.”

“Hey, I’ve got self-control,” he says, feigning offense. “I just choose to apply it sparingly.”

You laugh, your breath puffing out in the cold air. “Well, I’m proud of us. We didn’t blow our entire budget on useless stuff.”

“Not entirely useless,” he corrects. “The sled ornament is both decorative and practical, remember?”

“Right,” you say, grinning up at him. “It’s a critical investment.”

He smirks, brushing a snowflake from your cheek. “Exactly. And anyway, the best part of the market wasn’t the stuff we bought. It was spending the evening with you.”

Your chest warms at his words, and you pause for a moment, looking up at him as the snow falls softly around you. The twinkling lights of the market reflect in his eyes, and the grin on his face softens into something more sincere.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, though your voice is full of affection.

“Only for you,” he replies, leaning down to kiss you gently, the cold of his lips quickly warming against yours.

The two of you stand there for a moment, surrounded by the magic of the market, the snow falling around you like a scene from a movie. It’s one of those moments you’ll tuck away and remember years from now—simple, sweet, and perfect in its own way.

As you pull apart, Tony grins, slipping his hand into yours. “Come on, let’s go find that hot chocolate stand. I’m not leaving here without it.”

“Hot chocolate sounds perfect,” you agree, your fingers lacing through his as you head back toward the market, ready to end the evening on a sweet note.

The smell of something burning wafts through the apartment as you step out of the bedroom, pulling on your favorite fuzzy socks. It's a warm, cozy kind of Christmas Eve, with snow falling softly outside and the apartment glowing with fairy lights. Except for one thing—the scent hanging in the air doesn’t scream “cozy Christmas.” It screams, “Tony Stark’s been unsupervised in the kitchen.”

“Tony?” you call, heading toward the source of the smell. “What’s going on in there?”

“No need to panic!” his voice answers, though it’s far from reassuring. “Everything’s under control.”

You round the corner into the kitchen to find him standing at the stove, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. There’s a pot on the burner, filled with what can only be described as a charred, lumpy mess, and a thin haze of smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling.

“Under control?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is this your definition of control?”

Tony glances at the pot and then back at you, his face a mix of sheepishness and determination. “It’s a minor setback. I was…experimenting.”

“With what? Kitchen sabotage?”

He scoffs, leaning against the counter as though the mess behind him doesn’t exist. “For your information, I was attempting to make homemade peppermint hot chocolate. Thought I’d surprise you. But apparently, chocolate has a vendetta against me.”

Your lips twitch as you try to suppress a smile. “Let me guess. You burned it?”

“Burned is a strong word,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’d say it’s more… caramelized.”

You peer into the pot, wrinkling your nose. “Tony, this isn’t caramelized. It’s cremated.”

“Details,” he replies breezily, but you can see the frustration behind his teasing tone.

You sigh, stepping closer and nudging him aside gently. “Okay, chef, move over. Let’s salvage this disaster.”

Tony steps back, his arms raised in surrender, watching as you turn off the burner and grab a fresh pot. “You’re really just going to take over? No faith in my culinary prowess?”

“I have faith in many of your skills,” you reply, dumping the ruined chocolate into the trash. “Cooking? Not one of them.”

“Fair,” he admits with a grin, hopping up to sit on the counter. “But in my defense, it’s chocolate. You melt it, you stir it, you drink it. How hard can it be?”

You grab a bar of good-quality chocolate from the pantry and start breaking it into pieces, throwing him a look. “Clearly harder than you thought.”

Tony chuckles, watching you work. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? My moment of weakness.”

“A little,” you admit, your lips curving into a smile as you measure out milk and pour it into the pot. “But mostly I’m wondering how you managed to mess it up so badly. Did you even melt the chocolate?”

“Define ‘melt,’” he says, his grin widening.

You groan, shaking your head as you stir the milk over low heat. “Okay, new rule: You’re not allowed near the stove unless I’m supervising.”

“Oh, come on,” he protests, hopping down from the counter and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder, and his breath tickles your ear. “I was trying to do something nice for you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Your heart softens, and you turn your head slightly to meet his gaze. “It does,” you say, your voice gentle. “But maybe next time, start with something less…flammable?”

“Duly noted,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before stepping back. “All right, teach me, master chef. How do we make the perfect peppermint hot chocolate?”

You laugh, handing him the whisk. “First, you don’t burn the chocolate. Now, stir the milk gently while I add the chocolate pieces.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, adopting a mock-serious tone as he starts whisking. His movements are a little overdramatic, and the milk splashes slightly, but it’s endearing.

“Gentle, Tony,” you say, biting back a smile as you add the chocolate. “This isn’t an arm workout.”

“Sorry, force of habit,” he quips, his grin unapologetic. “I’ve only got one speed: full throttle.”

The chocolate begins to melt, turning the milk a rich, velvety brown. Tony leans in closer, his expression a mix of curiosity and concentration. “Okay, this part’s kind of fun. It’s like alchemy.”

“Sure,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “The alchemy of not burning things.”

As the hot chocolate comes together, you grab a bottle of peppermint extract and hold it up. “Now for the magic ingredient. Just a couple of drops.”

Tony watches as you add the peppermint, the warm, sweet aroma filling the air. “Smells amazing,” he says, his tone genuine. “Almost makes up for the fact that I nearly burned down the apartment.”

“Almost,” you agree, giving the mixture one last stir before grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.

As you pour the hot chocolate, Tony wanders over to the counter, his movements casual—but there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes. Before you can question it, he points upward.

You follow his gaze and spot a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. “When did you—?”

“Earlier,” he says, his grin widening. “Figured it might come in handy.”

You shake your head, setting the mugs down and stepping closer. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“And yet, you love me,” he replies, his voice softening as he leans in.

You meet him halfway, his lips warm against yours despite the cold air outside. It’s a sweet, lingering kiss, and when you pull back, his eyes are brighter than the Christmas lights strung around the room.

“Mistletoe is definitely your best idea today,” you say, your voice teasing but full of affection.

“Better than cremated chocolate?” he asks, feigning surprise.

“Much better,” you reply, laughing as you hand him his mug. “Now, let’s see if this is worth the trouble.”

The two of you settle on the couch, blankets draped over your legs as you sip the hot chocolate. It’s rich and creamy, with just the right hint of peppermint, and you can’t help but sigh in contentment.

“This is perfect,” you say, leaning your head against his shoulder. “See what happens when you let me help?”

He nudges you playfully, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. “Okay, okay, I admit it. You’re the hot chocolate queen. But next year, I’m making it on my own. No supervision.”

“You’re never living this down, Tony,” you reply, grinning up at him. “But nice try.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Merry Christmas, troublemaker.”

“Merry Christmas,” you reply softly, the snow falling outside and the warmth of his arms making it the perfect end to the day.

The apartment is quiet save for the crackling of the fireplace video looping on the TV and the faint hum of Christmas music in the background. The room is bathed in a soft, golden glow from the tree lights, the perfect backdrop for the growing pile of wrapping paper at your feet. It's Christmas morning, and for the past half-hour, you and Tony have been exchanging gifts, both of you trying (and mostly failing) to keep your emotions in check.

Tony’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing the pajamas you picked out for him—flannel pants and a red shirt that says “Official Cookie Tester.” His hair is a mess from sleep, and he looks so boyishly excited every time he hands you a new box that you can’t help but fall a little more in love with him.

Your own pile of gifts so far includes a pair of earrings that match the necklace he got you last year, a first edition of your favorite book, and a framed photo of the two of you from your first vacation together, one of his rare sweet gestures that never fail to make your heart swell.

“Okay, your turn,” you say, handing him a flat, rectangular box with a silver bow.

He narrows his eyes at it playfully, shaking it gently. “Feels suspiciously light. Did you get me socks?”

“I’d never waste good wrapping paper on socks,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “Just open it.”

He flashes you a grin before tearing into the paper, his eyebrows shooting up when he sees what’s inside. It’s a custom leather-bound notebook embossed with his initials—a thoughtful, elegant gift you’d spent weeks planning.

“I know you’ve been sketching a lot lately,” you explain, watching his face closely. “I figured you could use something a little more…official.”

Tony runs his fingers over the cover, and for a moment, he’s completely silent. Then he looks up at you, his expression soft and unguarded. “It’s perfect,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. “Seriously. Thank you.”

You smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

He clears his throat, a telltale sign he’s feeling emotional, and sets the notebook carefully aside before grabbing a box from behind him. “All right, your turn,” he says, handing it to you with a slightly smug expression. “Let’s see if I can top that.”

You laugh, untying the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a delicate bracelet inlaid with tiny gemstones, each one sparkling in the light. It’s understated but stunning—classic Tony.

Your breath catches as you lift it out of the box, and you glance up at him. “Tony, this is—”

“—just a little something,” he interrupts, brushing off your awe with a wave of his hand. “Figured you could use more jewelry to match your impeccable taste.”

You set the bracelet down carefully and throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I love it.”

He hugs you back, his hand warm against your back. “Love you more,” he murmurs, and for a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of you.

When you pull back, you swipe at your eyes, laughing softly. “Okay, before I cry and ruin the moment, I think it’s time for the last gifts.”

“Ah, the pièce de résistance,” Tony says, his grin returning as he reaches for a small, sloppily wrapped box on the coffee table. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

You hand him a box of your own, equally poorly wrapped, and exchange a knowing look. “You first,” you say, gesturing to his gift.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He rips into the paper with an enthusiasm usually reserved for high-stakes projects, and when he finally pulls out the contents, he freezes. His hand lifts the small ceramic frog in a Santa hat—the one you’d teased him about at the Christmas market.

“No way,” he says, his voice full of disbelief.

“Way,” you reply, biting back a grin. “I couldn’t let Frank the Frog end up in someone else’s house. He belongs with us.”

Tony stares at the frog, and for a moment, you think he might actually tear up. Then he looks at you, shaking his head with a mix of laughter and affection. “You are ridiculous,” he says, but his voice is thick with emotion. “I can’t believe you bought this.”

“Well, I knew you’d never forgive me if I didn’t,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.

He sets the frog carefully on the coffee table, like it’s a priceless artifact, and then leans over to kiss you, his lips warm and lingering. “You’re the best,” he whispers. “Seriously. This might be the greatest gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you reply, though your cheeks flush at his words.

“Your turn,” he says, gesturing to the box in your lap. “Prepare to have your mind blown.”

You laugh, unwrapping the box, and the moment you see what’s inside, your laughter turns to a choked gasp. It’s the snow globe from the Christmas market—the one with the tiny snow-covered village you couldn’t stop staring at.

“You didn’t,” you say, your voice wavering.

“I did,” he replies, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “Figured if I couldn’t have Frank the Frog, the least I could do was make sure you got this.”

You lift the globe out of the box, turning it over to watch the snow swirl inside. It’s just as beautiful as you remembered, and the thoughtfulness of his gesture makes your chest ache in the best possible way.

“Tony…” you trail off, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“Don’t start crying,” he warns, though his own eyes are suspiciously bright. “You’re gonna set me off.”

You laugh wetly, shaking your head as you set the snow globe on the coffee table next to the frog. “I can’t believe we both bought the stupid things.”

He laughs too, leaning back against the couch with an incredulous shake of his head. “We’re a mess.”

“A perfect mess,” you correct, leaning against him.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. “Agreed. And now Frank and the snow globe can live happily ever after. A Christmas miracle.”

You snort, burying your face in his shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”

“And yet, you love me,” he replies, his voice smug but affectionate.

You glance up at him, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah, I do.”

He leans down, kissing you softly, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. When he pulls back, he grins. “Best Christmas ever?”

“Best Christmas ever,” you agree, snuggling into his side as the snow falls softly outside, and the room fills with laughter and love.

[year-of-whump-tropes]

Month 7, Week 2 prompts

Monthly theme: Captivity

Weekly theme: Sensory tortures/restrictions

Day 1:

Darkness/blindfold

Headphones/earplugs

Day 2:

Isolation/solitary confinement

"Make it stop."

Day 3:

White room torture

What torture would be most effective against your character(s)?

Day 4:

Silent treatment

“It’s not real.”

Day 5:

Sensory bombardment/overload

Deprivation or overload? Why?

Day 6:

Sensory deprivation

“Please…”

Day 7:

Sound

Lights

[the-most-humble-blog]

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✍️ YOU DIDN’T FAIL WRITING. WRITING FAILED YOU. 🧨 A Blacksite Literature™ Recovery Transmission

—

You were never the problem. Not the blank page. Not the spirals. Not the obsession, the apathy, the deadline grief, or the 3AM shakes.

What broke you… was worshipping teachers who only ever wrote for grades, applause, or tenure. What burned you… was chasing advice designed for minds with no storms inside. No spirals. No symphonies. No sensory overload synced to memory scars.

They gave you formulas. You were trying to write a revolt.

—

You don’t need prompts. You need reprogramming. You need cadence entrainment, mirror neuron seizure, and post-traumatic spellbreaking. You need the un-curse of everything they told you about “what makes a good writer.”

Because here’s the truth: You were never meant to “fit in.” You were meant to detonate.

They called you dramatic. But you were archiving pain that hadn’t been named yet.

They called you inconsistent. But you were fighting cognitive wildfires with a Bic pen and no backup.

They called you blocked. But your mind was building something that didn’t exist before.

—

I don’t teach writing. I undo damage. The kind done by decades of bland MFA sermons, Tumblr “tips,” and teacher trauma that made you hate your own voice.

If this transmission made your stomach lurch… That wasn’t marketing. That was recognition.

You’re not broken. You’re divergent. You’re divine.

—

🧠 Follow if you’ve been haunted by silence. 💾 Reblog if someone you love stopped writing and you didn’t know how to save them. 🧬 Patreon vault is now open. The real rewiring starts inside. https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-PURGE IN: 06:06:06] -->