#this is barely whump tbh

[bandtrees]

girl that make me happy, girl that make me cry a girl that passed away back in 1985 a girl i plan to marry, a girl i plan to wed a girl that i can choke because my baby is already dead 🧠💙🪦

more palette stuff ft gojoken, and cemetery girl by icp

i feel like i havent really been on my a-game creatively lately but stuff like this is fun to do

[wardenred]

Whumptember 8: "Don't Come Home"

I wanted whump with dragons, I somehow ended up with a dark fairytale and a new fantasy world I want to play in, RIP.

Once upon a time, I used to have a home. It was a beautiful place hidden away in the tall, wintry mountains. Ice glistened on the rocks. Blood-red flowers broke through heaps of snow. Endless pine-trees tickled the sky. The sun didn't come out every month, but when it was there, it would linger about for days, casting a golden glow over the wild streams that never froze over.

What made my home all the more beautiful were its people. Our community was small but tight-knit. Everybody knew everyone else, and everyone was there for each other, through thick and thin. Whenever a child got sick or an old woman got lost in the woods, the entire village banded together to solve the problem. No one ever went unfed or unclothed, even if they couldn't work.

There was only one thing the community asked of each other, one rule for everyone to abide. If the dragon steers under the Gruesomest Rock, the elders will cast the holy stones and call out a name. Then, a person shall walk to the dragon's cave with a single promise: "Don't come back."

I had a home, once. Then the dragon steered, and the stones spelled my name.

* * *

The last flames crackled over the ashes. Deep in the cave, water dripped, dripped, dripped down the stone, the kind of sound that could drive a man insane. The bone-chilling cold seeped in through the cracks in the stone.

"Is this some kind of joke?" the villager asked, willing their voice not to shake. "Are you trying to mess with my mind on purpose? There's no need to tell me my story. I know it."

The dragon laughed, drowning out the incessant drip, drip, drip. It emerged from the darkness, uncoiling, and its scales burned just like the dying coals: no brighter, no dimmer. 

"Do you think," it asked, "that your story is so unique? There are seventy-seven souls steering in my gut, little one. All of them came here from the same place, to the same end."

The villager swallowed, or tried to. Their throat was as dry as the great serpent's voice.

"Worry not, though," the dragon continued. "This is the last time this story gets told. For you shall be the seventy-eighth; a full deck. The spell shall not hold anymore, and the village will get what's coming. Now, stay still."

It advanced, and the villager wanted to run, but couldn't.

[bitterrobin]

you, batman/batfamily fan, can you be normal about parents and their flaws without making them exaggerated abusers?

can you absorb the fact that Jack and Janet Drake were not perfect parents, but they still loved Tim? and that Tim loved them enough that he tried to tear a razor sharp boomerang out of his father's corpse with his bare hands? that the Drakes were not millionaires who forced high society values onto their son for the sake of a public image? (that they weren't even rich for that long of a time?)

can you be normal about how the deep recesses of poverty affect a family unit while allowing a parent nuance? can you write Willis Todd without making him a classist caricature of an abuser? can you write Catherine Todd and Crystal Brown without portraying their drug addictions as fodder for their children's whump? (I added in Crystal bc she canonically suffered from drug addiction, but I haven't seen much of her in fics tbh)

can you accept that as much an abuser David Cain was, he still loved Cassandra enough that he utterly fell apart when she left him? That he was genuinely astonished/proud of her when she spoke to him for the first time even as she threatened him? he still sucks majorly, but you can't deny that he loved her. that's what makes their relationship so painful.

can you be normal about Talia al Ghul? can you write her without making her an ooc rapist or child abuser or cold dragon lady? can you acknowledge that every ounce of her characterization surrounding Damian is vastly different from her original pre-Morrison personality to the extent that og Talia would never even have a child in the League?

can you pick apart when a parents portrayal is out of character, that a writer made them hit or neglect their child because above all else they exist for drama and action? that you can find DC characters who actually had traumatic childhoods instead of grafting them onto a Bat-character? (> this last sentence is mostly about Tim btw)

Exploring a character's parents and how they affected them is always interesting, but I've seen fics that genuinely steer towards character assassination rather than an exploration of events written in the comics. They exaggerate a parent's portrayal not to write about a complicated parent-child dynamic but so they can have Bruce or Jason rushing in to comfort them (yes, this is about the Tim Drake shrimp fic). Idk, I think most of my ire just stems from the fact that content about Mia Dearden or Todd Rice or Grant Emerson aren't widespread, Mia specifically always gets explored in Bat-circles as someone that just adds to Jason's character rather than analyzing her on her own, in addition to the constant hell that Talia goes through in both canon and fanon.

[love-me-a-lotta-whump]

로기완 - My Name is Loh Ki Wan - 2024 - Whump List - 🇰🇷

Whumpee: 로기완 (Loh Ki Wan) played by 송중기 (Song Joong Gi)

Synopsis: Loh Ki Wan is a North Korean defector. He has arrived in the unfamiliar country of Belgium from China because of his mother. He wants to start a new life in the country, but his only hope for him to stay is to receive refugee status from the Belgian government. He then meets Marie. She is a Korean who received Belgian citizenship. Unlike Loh Ki Wan, who came to Belgium to live a new life, Marie doesn't have a reason to live. They have an unpleasant first meeting but fall in love with each other. (MDL)

Genre/Tags: Refugee, Survival, Romance, Collapse, Drugged, Constant Emotional & Physical Whump

Watch On: Netflix (Original), DramaCool, KissAsian

⚠️Caution: this film contains a couple s**cide attempts as well as a few mentions of the topic)⚠️

WARNING: THERE ARE SPOILERS BELOW

0:56 - stressed, bloody hands, exhausted

13:08 - coughing

15:53 - asleep in the hall

17:16 - freezing, having to sleep in a public bathroom, curling in on himself

18:30 - throwing up

21:28 - scared, repeatedly kicked, robbed, stumbling, freezing, fell into cold water, collapsed, shaking, heavy breathing, bloody face

24:20 - (flashbacks: scared, chased, found his mother dead)

28:00 - asleep, robbed

28:40 - anxious, emotional, angry, crying, (flashbacks: told his uncle sold his mother’s body, crying), trying to commit s**cide, stopped, fought, manhandled, slapped, scolded, held, trying to clean her blood off of the asphalt, stressed, bloody hands, exhausted, crying, sobbing, grieving)

41:29 - desperate, fought, grabbed, thrown

49:20 - trapped in a walk-in, anxious, semi scolded

1:10:42 - harassed, thrown, fell

1:13:12 - asleep in a cell

1:16:00 - upset, scared, crying, begging to know why he was betrayed

1:19:36 - semi stumbling, holding his wounded hand, using a wall for support, concerned for someone

1:30:09 - stopping someone from hurting themselves, bloody hand

1:30:35 - concerned for someone, scared, bloody hand, taking drugs to stop someone else from doing it, collapsed, shaking, concern for him, coughing up liquid, asleep, pale, concern for him, barely conscious, struggling to speak

1:37:30 - traumatic past reveal, comforted, held while he cried

1:46:53 - concerned for someone, grabbed, thrown, kicked, fought, kicked in the ribs, fell, grabbed, strangled, attacked with a knife, concerned for someone, covered in blood, shaking

———+———

MORE WHUMP LISTS >>> {x}

Side note/translation note: The title I’m seeing on Netflix (my Netflix language is set to Korean) is just “Loh Ki Wan” However tbh the English title fits the story better. (If you watch the whole thing then you’ll see why)

[blackcatsnstrawberries]

Iron Flame Thoughts! (Spoilers)

I finally finished Iron Flame (IF) and I definetly have some thoughts about it. I've seperated my thoughts into Liked, Disliked, Predictions BELOW THE BREAK LINE so people don't have to see spoilers. Also it's not in any particular order, just how it popped into my head.

Liked:

Tarin and Andarna's bickering. Her sassiness with his grumpiness was just the bees knees of adorable.

Cat, this may surprise some people but I really liked her development as she and Violet got to know each other

Gryphon Riders in general were a nice addition, I want to know more about their school/lifestyle/countr(ies)

Violets development was really good. It was great to see her know her own strength more and stand up for herself/dragons/loved ones. Huge contrast from Fourth Wing (FW)

The relationship between Violet, Mira and Brennan. Loved the way Mira punched B when she saw him but ultimately loved having her brother back. Can't wait to see more

Mamma Sorrengail's sacrifice for her kids/everyone. Heartbreaking but only way she could redeem herself

Dain's return to the "good" side. It was great development to have him see the error of his ways, say no to Varrish (which is huge for him) and then prove himself again during the hike with the Riders and then again in the final battle.

Aaric/Cam, I love me a rogue Prince so this hit all the right spots (more on him later)

Andarna being a seventh dragon. Excellent. Amazing. Can't f*cking wait to know more

The reveal of Xaden's second signet. Shook, but obviously bb knew how to control it

The relationship between the main four in Iron Squad (Vi, Rhi, Ridoc and Sawyer.) I love a good platonic friendship (more than romance stories) because I think having found family in your friends is just friggin beautiful

Sawyer and Jesinina (I know that's spelled wrong)

Varrish, bare with me I hated him but props to RY for writing and awful character. I clapped when he died.

The battle at the end

HALLUCINATION LIAM!!!

Disliked:

XADEN AND VIOLETS CONSTANT BICKERING. It gave miscommunication trope over and over.

Xaden and Violet fighting and then being like you are my gravity, I love you so f*cking much etc. This seemed very Twilight-y (and toxic TBH)

Xaden with holding everything from Violet because she wasn't asking the right questions. Frustrating.

Having Vi tortured/injured over and over again (and I say this as a whump fan) I think she does it to show Violet's strength/resilience, but it's not necessary we know she's strong.

Markham being an asshole =(

Jack Barelow coming back- I understand why I just don't like him and wanted him to stay dead

Honestly, don't like Xaden turning Venin. Obvs as of right now we don't know why she made that choice, but I don't like it.

What I think will Happen Next

Next book Xaden is going to be fighting his Venin nature for the whole book but will ultimately choose to leave at the end- fourth book he will be barely there and fifth he will either come back still fighting his Venin self OR be full Venin.

Navarre/Basgiath/Aretia will fall to the Venin

Aaric/Cam will ultimately become important because I think the King will die and Aaric will have to step up as next in line.

Andarna will be the most badass dragon in the world

I do think Violet and Xaden will be endgame IF he lives. Here are my thoughts on that:

1) Violet and the others will find a cure for the venin and save Xaden

2) Xaden will become a full Venin but when it comes time to kill Violet he will unalive himself instead (Ben Solo redemption arc) in a moment of regaining his former self. I don't want this to happen at all.

I think Xaden's mom is the Queen/Lord of the Venin, which is why they want him so badly.

This is everything that came to mind, I am sure I will find other things that fit into these lists. Let me know what you thought, or we can compare lists!

[whumper-whimsy]

Modern fantasy setting (D&D-ish), terrorism, capture, environmental whump(?), kind of gore???, idk what to tag this with tbh

lots of ouch, semi-graphic depictions

Whumpee coughed into their elbow, their whole body tensing and curling with the effort. The air around them was filled with thick dust, clogging their lungs, laying a thin film across their skin, and weighing down their lashes.

They barely remembered what had happened. One minute, they had been talking with Hero, sucking up to them and joking around, and the next, there was noise and commotion and rumbling and everything shook, and—

Whumpee bit their finger, recalling their fear as the building began to shake.

Hero had wrapped them in their arms for a moment, hastily telling them that they were safe, that they'd be okay. Whumpee was safe with Hero.

Then, Hero's close team member screamed, and Hero was at their side, leaving Whumpee shaking in the lobby. They had looked around frantically as some of their winged peers booked it for the windows, busting through glass to get free. Others ran for the stairs, desperate to get down the three flights to the ground. Some simply used their magic, teleporting from the room. Whumpee, the only one without such powers, had only been able to crouch on the floor.

A boom had echoed, and everything got hot. Whumpee had frozen in the middle of the room as everyone else got free, waiting for the only person they had been able to trust from day one.

They had screamed for Hero as flames roared through the complex. Hero's seemingly indestructible base was crumbling.

Whumpee was alone now— everyone else had made it out. As they finally attempted to stand, the ceiling above them had fallen apart.

The floor had caved as the building groaned, collapsing in on itself.

Whumpee plummeted three stories with the floor, eventually landing at the bottom. A chunk of concrete pinned their leg, and the other supports and rubble had created a cave-like area around them. The fires burned down, leaving Whumpee trapped.

Whumpee hadn't seen anyone else in the rubble, and nobody had seen them. They had been under there for... it had to have been a day by now, right?

Breathing raggedly, Whumpee tilted their head all the way back. They got a peek of the dusk sky where the rubble hadn't blocked them in.

Hero and Whumpee weren't quite an item or anything with a label... but they were inseparable nonetheless. Hero had to be coming back. There was no way they didn't, right?

...

right?

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

A whole day had passed. No one came looking for them. Nobody rushed in to pull them to safety. Not even Hero, who had the powers to do so.

Whumpee heard distant voices during the day as reporters swept in to alert the city of the vicious attack. They tried and tried to yell, but the hours of inhaled dust rendered their cracking throat useless. They were starving, losing blood, and it was getting harder to breathe.

Hero wasn't coming. They didn't care enough for Whumpee, evidently. Hurt settled deep in their chest, much worse than the physical pain of their crushed leg. Whumpee loved Hero. Considering it might be their last day alive, Whumpee might as well admit it.

But now, it didn't feel right. How could they love somebody who left them like this?

No, Whumpee couldn't love Hero. They didn't, and they never would again. Not after this.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Voices woke whumpee up a few hours later. Through the little gap to the sky, they could barely make out the stars.

Whumpee sat up the best they could, trying to yell, but— as usual by now— no noise past a whisper escaped their lips.

Still, the murmuring voices came closer and closer; they were climbing through the wreckage.

A low, smooth voice carried its way to their ears, crooning, "Whumpee, are you down there?"

It wasn't Hero's voice. Whumpee didn't know if they should feel good about that or not.

"It's okay. We're almost there to get you. We know you're in there," the voice called. It was foreign being spoken to after days of solidarity.

Whumpee strained their head to the side, squinting. Their vision was blurry, but... was that the shape of a man against the navy sky?

Wings splayed out slowly behind the individual— massive wings! Was this Whumpee's guardian angel? Were they saved?

Two others walked behind the man, much shorter in stature. They might have been dragging something with them, but Whumpee couldn't tell what. Horns curled from their heads, and their legs ended in hooves that clopped against the cement— satyrs, then.

Their angel reached them, his hands reaching down to his belt to retrieve a flask. He crouched beside Whumpee, barely illuminated by the moonlight.

As Whumpee's cheeks were cupped and they were carefully fed water, they looked up at their savior.

The man's skin was a warm tan color, with black curls topping his head. His wings were not the white of an angel's, but black as the darkest obsidian. His hands were graciously gentle, helping them sit up.

Something about him was strikingly familiar, but Whumpee couldn't put their finger on why. They focused on the cool water that coated their dry and cracked throat.

His men were young satyrs— maybe 25 years each. Their faces simultaneously serious and satisfied. Whumpee watched as they set down whatever they had been holding and stood behind the man.

Whumpee sighed, leaning against their savior. "Thank you... what is your name?"

The man smiled, running his warm hand over their cheek. "Whumper," he purred, "relax and drink, okay? You're welcome."

Whumpee nodded, their lips parting as they drank once more. Whumper's movements were slow and careful, sliding behind them to support them in sitting up.

The men that had followed Whumper were at the chunk of cement that pinned Whumpee's leg. Whumpee tensed as they noticed, but Whumper hushed them, blocking Whumpee's view with his wings.

"Relax, dear. We gotta get you out of here and get you home," he soothed. "Deep breaths."

Whumpee cried out as the concrete was hefted off of them. Whumper continued to speak, their voice soothing. Whumper's wings folded back in, and Whumpee could finally see their mangled limb.

It was a horrible red-purple, with an akward angle that made them want to puke.

As soon as they were able to see, one of the satyrs raised his axe— why did he have an axe?— over Whumpee's leg.

"No!" Whumpee choked out, fear running through every nerve in their body.

They were amputated above the knee, the cut clean and quick. Whumpee vomited promptly, squirming and writhing in agony.

"Whumpee," Whumper said brusquely, "if we left it on, the toxic blood would have gotten to your heart and killed you. They saved your life." Whumper wiped Whumpee's lip gently.

"Now shut your mouth and let them bandage you up," he said, stroking Whumpee's hair.

Whumpee sobbed into Whumper's shirt, wailing in pain. They had never known pain so sharp, so fierce. Whumper's fingers brushed through their hair, his voice muffled in Whumpee's ringing ears.

They were dimly aware of their leg being bandaged up, though it was hasty and rough.

Whumpee spoke up finally, voice shivering with pain. "Could we go to the hospital?"

Whumper sighed, a low chuckle rumbling into Whumpee's ear. "No, no, my dear. You're gonna be coming home with me. We can't trust the doctors to take care of you. You're much too valuable for us to just let you free."

Whumpee tensed at his words and his amused tone. "What are you talking about? I- I need to go to the hospital!" Whumpee cried, heart pounding in their chest.

"I know how to take care of you, Whumpee. I'll make it better. Just trust me." Whumper glared down at Whumpee, "you're the only full-fledged human for miles— nobody else here knows how to treat you delicate creatures."

That look in Whumper's eyes was achingly familiar. Whumpee racked their mind, trying to match this look to a face.

"Whumper, please–" they begged, shushed by the imposing man's hand on their cheek.

"Be quiet and hold still. You'll be home in no time."

Whumpee exhaled shakily. "Okay... okay. Hero will know what to do," they spoke mostly to themself, but caught a glimpse of fury burning in the man's eyes at the mention of Hero. "I live at—"

"You'll be coming home to my place," Whumper interrupted, standing somewhat abruptly and letting Whumpee slide back to the ground.

Whumper snapped their fingers, and their henchmen perked up. Whumper's voice was clipped, "chain their wrists and bind their thighs," he said, standing over Whumpee.

Whumpee was in shock, barely thinking to struggle as the satyrs chained them up.

There was noise in the night, outside the rubble.

Whumper straighened, quickly bundling Whumpee into their arms and nodding to the henchmen. "Meet me at the base. Don't be seen."

Whumpee squealed as Whumper crept out of the wreckage, his nails digging into their skin.

A voice called out, "Whumpee?"

Whumpee perked, craning their neck backwards. "Hero? Hero!"

Their heart soared. Hero was here! All previous thoughts of resentment left their body.

Whumper suddenly took flight, heaving Whumpee into the air with him. Whumpee screamed, watching the ground get further and further away.

Hero chased them as far as they could, watching Whumper and Whumpee soar off.

"Villain!" Hero screamed, voice cracking. Their cry echoed off the buildings around them, carrying their anguish.

"Villain?!" Whumpee cried, heart dropping as pieces clicked into place. Villain's mask usually covered their face, so Whumpee didn't recognize their and Hero's greatest enemy. "Hero! Help me!" They pleaded, squirming in Whumper's arms.

Villain swooped down and sped up, dodging around the tops of buildings.

"Hero isn't gonna help you now, Whumpee." Whumper's voice rose above the rushing wind, warm breath on their ear.

"You're mine."

[3-2-whump]

Caretaker 2 Intro: The Flicker of a Spark

<prev next>

Thank you @whumped-by-glitter for beta-reading this monstrosity!

TW/CW: blood, briefly mentioned scars, not sure what else, tbh

Author's Note: I know like a high school level of Spanish, I studied abroad in a Spanish-speaking country for one semester in college, and I spent more than two hours researching what cholo Spanish sounds like. That being said, if I got anything wrong, please tell me, and be kind about it. I am only human, but I would very much like to know one way or the other <3

Set five days after this

Nico, dude, pls respond.

Read 01:10 am

Khaled shook his head with a frustrated huff. Here he was, walking the streets several blocks away from his master’s apartment well after dark, texting his best (only) friend on the clandestine cellphone he had gotten for him, and that bastard left him on read. He lobbed a discarded can across the sidewalk with a well-placed kick.

 He had never realized how used to his friend’s welcoming smile and wholesome presence he’d become, until he’d had to go without. It had been five days. Five days of eating alone. Five days of trying to meet his eyes when they drove out at the end of the day, but to no avail. Nico could barely look at him, and the few times he did, it was with such palpable guilt.

But there was no reason to feel guilty. Even if he did feel betrayed by how easily his supposed friend fell in line, Khaled knew Nico didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, he has every right to choose his own future over a relationship with me. I would’ve done the same, he justified.

I’m not worth the trouble.

He was so lost in his mind as he mulled over the day’s events, that it took an unfamiliar presence bumping into his shoulder to bring him back to the present. A large man with a goatee bore his tobacco-stained teeth at him. “Hey, you, watch yourself!”

He ignored the stranger who bumped into him as he brushed past him and kept walking.

“What, you’re just going to ignore me, now? Who do you think you are?!” the man shouted.

A shorter, thin-eyed man walking alongside him joined in the provocation. “You heard him, vato,” he sneered, pockmarked face scrunched in a scowl. “You gonna come back here and apologize, or are we gonna have to make you?”

And, honestly, Khaled probably could’ve ignored the heckling and went on with his night in peace, until one of their tattooed hands gripped his shoulder and pulled him back towards them.

Within seconds, the larger man howled in pain as he recoiled his broken fingers from Khaled’s personal space. The other guy cursed something in a language Khaled did not understand, then turned toward him, fury blazing in his eyes. “¡Pendejo! So, that’s how it’s gonna be?!” With no other warning, he rushed toward him with a roar, his hands curled into fists. Were it not for the many escape attempts that devolved into fistfights, Khaled probably wouldn’t have stood much of a chance against his opponent. However, all that experience running away from and fighting off the mafia’s cronies had finally paid off. He deftly evaded the man’s haphazard punches, weaving in and out like a stubborn mosquito until he was finally able to land a jab up his opponent’s ribcage. Just as the second man crumpled gasping to the ground, the first one got up again, charging with his good hand raised. Khaled dodged that fist, too, quickly catching it and wrenching the man’s arm painfully behind his back. A well-placed elbow into his stomach knocked the breath from him. It could’ve been worse –he’d dealt with much harder hits before –but it was enough to make him loosen his grip. His opponent wrestled back control of his arm and punched Khaled square in the jaw, his teeth rattling discordantly in his mouth. He tasted the metallic tang of blood. He collected himself just enough to block the second hit in time, though the force of it felt as if it would break his forearm. A kick to the back of his knees brought him down to the concrete with a harsh thud, and soon the second man was dragging him up, arms pinned helplessly behind his back. “You shouldn’t have fucked with us, you-”

“Vatos, vatos, cálmate, todos.”

A clear voice rose from the fight scene. The man pinning Khaled dropped him instantly, letting him fall onto the pavement as he reverently addressed the source of the voice. “Julio,” he greeted, instantly backing away. Khaled glanced to the other man, who was also opening space between them as he tucked his broken fingers into his side. In front of them, along with half a dozen other men, stood one tall, thin young man in the center carrying himself with the confident presence of an apex predator, a leader –or a Boss, Khaled’s thoughts supplied. His dark hair was shorn close to his scalp, save for a choppy bleached mohawk running down the center. A glimmer of a piercing shone in the right cheekbone of his olive-skinned face, matching the barbell in his left eyebrow and rivaling the dangerous glint in his knife-sharp eyes. He wore an oversized army green parka over his upper body, well-loved and well-worn, if the custom patches and frayed seams were any indication. His long thin legs were clothed in dark track pants, tapering to spotless Chuck Taylors on his feet. Those feet walked calmly towards the three, stopping a mere pace and a half from them. “What’s going on here, primo?” he asked the first man, the one who provoked the fight. “It’s not like you to go two on one on some poor fucker like that.”

“I know, I know, but I didn’t think it would be so hard to beat some sense into him,” the man complained. “That little twig really made me and Luis work for it!”

Julio glanced skeptically at Khaled, who had just recollected himself from the ground. “What, him?” The corners of the Boss’ mouth turned up in a deriding smirk. “Are you getting so rusty, Alphonso, that you can’t even handle one skinny little twink?”

“Why don’t you try fighting this ‘skinny little twink’ yourself, you fucking beanpole?” Khaled’s mouth replied before his common sense could catch up. The smirk on Julio’s face dropped only a moment, until it was replaced with a wider, shit-eating grin. The golden hazel of his eyes reminded him of a cat’s eyes in the way they glowed with the pleasure of finding a mouse to toy with before they eat.

“Alright, he speaks!” He reached a tattooed hand from the depths of his parka to help Khaled stand up on his feet. His knuckles read ‘FUCK.’ Khaled didn’t have to guess what his other hand said. “You wanna go, pendejo, let’s go!” Julio laughed. He stepped back to his entourage to shed his coat, revealing long, sinewy tattooed limbs sticking out from a large t-shirt, its sleeves cut off and band logo long since faded. The gang formed a circle around them, giving Khaled and Julio plenty of space to have their fight while making any chance of escape impossible.

“Look.” Khaled raised his hands palms-out, his momentary bravado quickly forgotten, “I just want to go home, okay?”

“And you will, if you win,” Julio said, stretching his long limbs methodically as his catlike eyes sized up his prey. “But you wandered into our territory, and you pissed off my cousin. You gotta answer to that, you know, and if I win, I will make sure you do.” He dropped into a crouching stance, muscles tense as a bowstring, practically twitching with anticipation. “Now, let’s fight!”

Cheers erupted over the impromptu crowd as the two circled around each other, looking for the right place and moment to strike. Julio’s fist arched up like a whistling arrow and bore down toward Khaled’s face. He blocked it, wincing a little at the impact on his already bruised forearm. For being as skinny as he is, this guy sure has some force behind those hits, he thought. He successfully blocked a couple more punches –though barely-, and gradually Julio drove him from the sidewalk to the middle of the road, the crowd parting for the fighters and cheering all the while.

After another successful block, Khaled found an opportunity to land a kick to his opponent’s ribs. He swung his leg toward the man’s ribs. Just before his foot could meet Julio’s side, the tattooed hand whose knuckles spelled ‘YOU!’ caught it in a death grip. Khaled paled. “Nuh uh,” Julio tutted. He yanked up, unbalancing Khaled and sending him crashing to the hard asphalt. The fall knocked the breath out of him for only a moment as he fell onto his back. With enough presence of mind to remember he was still fighting, he swept his other foot at Julio’s ankles and brought him tumbling down to the trash-littered street too.

The crowd’s cheers grew frenzied as their Boss and the trespasser tackled, rolled, and straddled each other across the broken glass and loose rubble on the ground. Khaled wrested his fingers into Julio’s mohawk to hold him still as he hit him. Julio sunk his fingers into the top portion of Khaled’s undercut and slammed his head into the asphalt. Golden eyes like knives gleamed with the promise of a painful end as the man on top of him snarled like a beast. All too soon, Julio ended up mounted on top of Khaled, sitting on his chest, one hand on his throat, the other hand raised and primed.

Is this it?

The wildcat could finally eat his kill.

Is this how it ends?

In place of fear, or sorrow, or even the base need of every creature to get up and fight in the face of a threat to their survival, Khaled surprisingly felt nothing but peace as he stared into those aureate irises.

Why am I so okay with this?

“Go ahead,” Khaled spat between bloodied lips. He no longer pressed against the hand holding his throat. He lay his head back beside the ashes of long-extinguished cigarettes. “You win.”

Those knife sharp eyes met his, and for a second, they softened. Golden hazel melted into deep brown. The wildcat sheathed his claws.

It was only a second later that Julio was helping Khaled off the asphalt, brushing the dirt and broken glass from both their clothes all the while. The keen sharpness of his eyes returned, as if the momentary lapse in the Boss’ composure had never happened. “Hey, you got pretty close, man.” He collected his coat back from his posse and fished around the pockets, eventually pulling out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. He wordlessly offered Khaled one, but he politely refused. “Been awhile since I threw some serious chingasos,” he said as he lit his cigarette. “Been even longer since someone was able to throw it back at me.” He leaned against a nearby lamp post as he huffed a plume of smoke into the night. “No way just some random guy could stand a chance against me. Who are you with, twink?”

“The name’s Khaled, beanpole,” Khaled bristled. “And I’m with the Costas.”

“Ha, the Costas? The Costas?” Julio took another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, and I’m the fucking pope,” he snickered. His gang awkwardly laughed alongside him.

Khaled brought his bloodied fingers up to the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head and turning around to show his exposed back and shoulders. The laughing immediately ceased. The bluish-black ink of the skull and snake insignia was tattooed starkly on his skin, just above old, crisscrossing scars. “How in the fuck–you bear their mark, you really are a –but, how?” he sputtered. “They’re old-school mafia, there’s no way they’d just let you –you’re not even –how?!”

He slipped his shirt back on and turned to face his astounded former opponent. “It’s a long story that I don’t feel like telling,” he muttered.

“What about those scars-”

“-but I am unquestionably a Costa, and therefore I am under my Boss’ protection,” Khaled continued, interrupting Julio’s question. Speaking of ‘Boss,’ he’s gonna kill me he if he wakes up and finds out I snuck out this late, he belatedly realized. He awkwardly raised a hand and waved. “Now, I really must get back to my Boss. Goodnight.” He turned to leave.

He didn’t make it more than two steps before the rival Boss called out to him. “Wait, Khaled-”

All too suddenly, the moment of potential comradery was ruined by a car pulling up next to their semicircle. The gang protectively huddled around their leader as some of them immediately assumed defensive stances. The window to the familiar car rolled down.

“Khaled! Jesus, I was worried sick!” Thomas shouted, his voice nasally and unusually low with congestion. The man paused his scolding when he took in Khaled’s new cuts and bruises he didn’t make. “What happened to your face?” He turned his head to glare at Julio, who was glaring back with equal amounts of animosity. “Estrada, did you do this?!”

“Boss, I’m fine, really,” Khaled said, leaving the tightly knit group of guys and making his way to his master’s car. “I was going to get you some cough drops -you’re out, remember? It’s settled, I won… I think…” He made his way to the passenger side door and let himself in. “Let’s just go home so I can ice my face, okay?”

The man grumbled his dissent, but reluctantly pulled away, driving Khaled back to the apartment they shared.

“Those chop shop sons of bitches are bad news, boy,” Thomas warned. “They’ve got no honor! Stealing and scrapping whatever they can find, infringing on our territory, the territory my family fought for, just to –they kill for cash, you know!” They pulled into his usual spot in the underground garage as the rant sent the boss into a coughing fit. “Shameless,” he sighed. “I don’t want you anywhere near them, understood?”

Khaled wisely said nothing.

Thomas glanced at Khaled’s lap, frowning when he didn’t see a convenience store bag in his hands. “Did you even get a chance to buy those cough drops?”

Rather than being caught in his lie, Khaled decided to go for a half-truth. “No, master.”

Thomas huffed, which triggered another cough. “You know, you are so lucky I am sick right now,” he groused on the way from the parking garage to the elevator. “I barely had the energy to drag my ass down here to get the car and rescue you. And I definitely don’t have the energy to beat some sense into you!”

As Khaled later stripped himself to prepare for a shower, he paused as he noticed a small business card in his pants pocket. How in the hell –what? His mind replayed any and every possible moment Julio or someone else could’ve slipped something into his pocket without him noticing.

He carefully lifted it out as he shucked his pants off his legs and threw them into the hamper. It was the business card to an auto repair shop, with ten numbers underneath.

“Wait, Khaled-” The way Julio said his name replayed in a loop in his head as he stared at the ten-digit phone number with his secret phone in hand.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee

@generic-whumperz @bamber344

[astrowhump]

Hide and seek

TW: captivity, angst (nothing too extreme tbh)

“where you hiding, kitten?” a playful voice calls out in the painfully unlit living room.

Isak holds his breath, still as a statue behind a thin and tall cabinet of antiques. His heart beats miles per hour, his face drenched in cold sweat. Something brushes against his bare feet in the dark and he almost jumps, barely able to suppress a scream with a sharp gasp; but even that sound is loud enough to alarm the predator. A complacent grin creeps its way to Tal’s face, though he keeps his footsteps slow and steady, moving in a different direction than where he now knows his kitten’s holed up.

“come on out, kitty kitty…I don’t bite, I promise,” he churrs in a mockingly childish tone. Isak’s knuckles go white with his tight grip around the back edge of the cabinet as the footsteps quiet down. He sharpens his ears and tries his best to detect Tal’s movements over the erratic sound of his own heart beating against his ribcage. He can’t. The bastard moves like a snake on sand.

Isak presses himself further back into the wall, hoping that would somehow make him harder to detect. Despite never being that religious, he prays –with the last strands of faith left in him, to whoever might or might not be listening- that his hiding spot wasn’t outted.

Tal’s long fingernails scratch along multiple cabinet doors leading to the one giving Isak cover. The annoying sound of scraping wood follows him as he takes one painstakingly slow step after the other. Even if he didn’t already know, Tal could find his prey with his eyes closed now, as the sound of Isak’s adernalin-driven heart fills the room with an unmistakeable thud-thud-thud. He almost feels bad about how awfully easy it is to descry Isak.

Isak presses his eyes shut, forgetting to breathe through the sheer stress. A wet drop falls from his face onto the polished parquet; a drop of sweat, or tear, probably both. The cold wall to his back keeps him in place, no matter how hard he tries to melt into it. The anticipation doesn’t last long as skinny fingers snake around his neck, squeezing the air out of his throat as that familiar voice cooes again.

“you’re so bad at this game, kitten,” Tal teases. Isak’s eyes snap open. He looks at his captorr through eyes blurry with tears and horror.

“p-please…no more…please…” Isak forces the words out of a crashing windpipe.

“but what would be the point of playing if the winner doesn’t get his chicken dinner?” Tal pouts. Isak’s brain isn’t receiving enough oxygen to react to the disgustingly child-like expression on his captor’s face.

For a second, the edges of Isak’s vision gray out, giving him a glimpse of sweet painless uncosciousness. Unfortunately for him, Tal knows exactly when to let air flow into his lungs again. His hands let go of his victim’s throat with a disappointed tsk-tsk, right when he starts going limp in his grip.

Isak’s body swallows the granted air involuntarily, despite his undying desire to be pushed over the edge. Maybe someday, Tal would go over board with him; hold a tight grip on his throat for too long, slash a cut too deep; the possibilities are infinite. It doesn’t matter how, as long as it all stops.

“time for my prize now!” Tal says gleefully as he throws his arm around Isak’s neck and pulls him along like they’re football buddies. Isak doesn’t resist; resisting is never the answer, as he has so thoroughly learnt over time.

there'll probably be a part 2 to this. I'm not used to writing short stuff. also, more whump for everyone.

[whumperofworlds]

this is just a random fear that popped into my head but do you think that if you were the suspect in a murder case, the prosecution could use your whump blog/whump posts as evidence against you? like obviously I know that liking whump doesn't equal enjoying RL violence (like i can barely even watch someone trip without wincing) but couldn't it be used as evidence of your character (even incorrect as it is) to convince a jury that didn't know better of your intentions?

i know you probably have zero actual legal knowledge to respond to this with it's just an irrational fear that suddenly hit me lol

TBH, I don't really know the answer to that. Though all things considered, I have a therapist who says straight up that writing is healthy and such, despite the nature of the writing (he even said that he'd be MORE concerned if I stopped writing) so I'm sure that a judge would be aware that it was just for writing my stories, so I'm not that worried about that I guess?

This reminds me of a joke post someone made... I need to find that.

[dangerpronebuddie]

Hiii Maggie 💕💕💕

For the wip ask game (the highlighted ones ☺️)

-❤️🪐

Hiiii Saturn 💕💕💕

Slight Air and Purging Fire is so precious to me. The Eddie whump is absolutely fabulous if I do say so myself lol, even though he does end up with broken ribs in a similar manner to my Distress Call fic. (Oops. Tbh I didn't even realize that until I'd posted that fic 😅). But oh well! There's burns, the broken ribs, a fistfight... Poor guy really goes Through It™. Here's a little snippet for you:

The back door opened, but Eddie kept his eyes on his assailant. "Eds? You get lost?" Oh no. Eddie looked up to tell Buck to go back inside. The man swung with all his might, landing a blow to Eddie's ribs. The force knocked him to the side and into the cold brick. The man swung at his ribs again. Eddie knew he heard a crack. He gasped for breath and clutched at his side. "Buck," he wheezed out. "Evan... Go!" "Eds? What's going on?" Buck rounded the partition and froze.

I talked about I feel like I might sink and drown and die here, but I have a snippet now! (Tagging @loveyouanyway I really wanted to share a snippet in your ask darling, so Ta Da!)

“About what I said,” Buck begins, “in the car…” “You don’t have to-” “Don’t give me the out,” Buck almost pleads. “I… I don’t want to keep hiding it from you.” Eddie ducks his head. “Buck-” “Eddie, the only way I don’t tell you is if you tell me there’s no way you feel the same,” Buck persisted. Eddie stays silent. “I have been… a complete idiot when it comes to you. From the moment I met you, Eddie,” Buck says. “You were so laid back, and confident, and- and competent and I just felt all these things about you that I didn’t understand.” Buck shifts a little closer to him. “Most of it was just jealousy, if I’m honest.” “I kinda figured that one out,” Eddie teases. “You know, my ankle still bothers me.” Buck ducks his head with a bashful smile, feeling his face heat. “I’m never gonna hear the end of that one, am I?” “Never,” Eddie beams.

Ooh, When You Bite Your Lip was giving me trouble for a while, but I fixed it! I changed it to Eddie's pov instead of Buck's like in part 1. I'm hoping it won't stay on the back burner, I really want to finish it, but the dozens of other ideas usually get in the way. Have a small snippet:

He barely has the door open before he hooks an elbow around Eddie's neck, hauling him into a searing kiss as he walks them inside. He easily spins them, pushing Eddie against the door as he licks deep into his mouth. Eddie slips his hands beneath Buck’s shirt again, desperate to see and touch and taste more. Buck is addictive, a drug that produces a high Eddie's never experienced before. He doesn't know what the come down will feel like. He doesn't care. “Off,” he mutters against Buck's lips, curling his fingers in the hem of his shirt. Buck smirks and kisses across his face to his ear. “Someone's impatient,” he says smugly before sucking a mark behind Eddie's ear. “Says the guy who- ah- oh fuck.” Eddie can't even finish his snarky reply because Buck slots a knee between his legs, gripping his ass to guide the uncoordinated rock of his hips. Buck is hard again, the heat of him pressing against Eddie's hip. “I think I broke you,” Buck chuckles. “Not yet,” Eddie manages to say, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him down to meet his lips.

Ask about my wips! 🩷

[whumpshaped]

gosh, i’d love another severe separation anxiety drabble with caretaker + whumpee— anything your brain comes up with tbh i love your writing so much

the other separation anxiety drabble i wrote. these r not the same guys bc i didnt have any inspo for them but heres smth that sounded nice in my head

tw hybrid whumpee, separation anxiety, captivity, betrayal, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, choking

"This is the only way we'll ever get out of here. Do you understand that?" Caretaker resisted the urge to shake Whumpee by the shoulders as they said that, but just barely. Weeks of captivity had taken a toll on their mental stability and patience. They wanted out.

"No, n-no, there has to be another way, please–"

"If there was, I would take it. But there isn't."

Whumpee whined in the back of their throat, a sound that was nearly constant whenever the two of them got separated. Their ears and tail indicated clear distress, and the tears in their eyes just kept gathering until eventually they overflowed. "So stay! We can stay here! It's not that bad!"

"Whumpee–"

"I can't stay here alone! I can't, I can't do it, I can't do it without you!"

"I will come back for you immediately, I'll call help and–"

"No! No, no, no, either we get out together, or we don't! Please! Please don't leave me!"

"We can do it the other way around," Caretaker tried desperately. "I know how to get one person out! You can be the one to call for help, and I'll wait for you patiently–"

"I would never leave you!"

Caretaker let go of them and took a few deep breaths. Whumpee watched them intently, they could feel it. Both of them were desperate. Both of them were in a very bad way. They needed to do this.

"Whumpee, I'm sorry. If you're not willing to call for help, then I'll have to be the one to do it. I'm so sorry. I'll come back immediately–"

"Master!" Caretaker's eyes widened as Whumpee rushed over to the bars of their cell, screaming at the top of their lungs. "Master!"

They jumped up from where they were sitting, tackling Whumpee to the ground and trying to cover their mouth. They were almost successful, until Whumpee bit them. "Whumpee, what the fuck?"

"Master! Master!"

The door leading to the large basement soon opened, and several people ran down the stairs. Caretaker was now trying to protect Whumpee from a possible fight, but Whumpee wasn't even having any of that. They wriggled out of their grasp, pressing themself against the bars as much as they could, immediately going on a rant when they saw Whumper.

"Master, please, Caretaker is planning an escape, you can't let them escape, please, I just want to stay here with them, but they want to leave me behind, they want to escape!"

There were no words to describe the feeling of betrayal that washed over Caretaker's entire being. It was paralysing. They didn't even know what to say. They just stared at their friend — who they thought was their friend — in shock, unable to move a single muscle or react in any way.

"Calm down, calm down." Whumper grabbed their collar through the bars, choking them a little until they stopped barking nonsensical half-sentences. "Calm down. I'm very glad you decided to alert me, but you need to quiet down."

"Don't let them leave me," Whumpee rasped.

"Oh, I would never." They let go when Whumpee started to struggle and turn a little blue, letting them collapse onto the ground. Despite everything, Caretaker was by their side in an instant, making sure they were okay more out of habit than genuine care. "Unfortunately, that does mean dear Caretaker needs to be punished... But don't worry. I'll let you watch the whole thing, as a little reward."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[patchworkgargoyle]

I'm here for more "mouth of the wolf, eyes of the lamb"

Man, this one I'm just so excited for. It definitely seems to be a favourite among my moots (and tbh if I didn't have to work on my steddiebang I'd be working on this exclusively).

I don't think I've given much of a summary yet? Other than everyone knowing it's roughly a kas!Eddie fic. But it's based off of a prompt from @steves-strapcollection that's spiraled into something we're now collaborating on, where, a few months after the end of season 4 and right in the midst of a worsening apocalypse in Hawkins, Steve finds Eddie in his backyard after they'd all thought he'd died that day in March. But, of course, Eddie's come back changed, body and mind, and the changes keep worsening, much to Eddie's horror. At the same time, they also have to figure out how to put an end to the apocalypse and Eddie might just hold the key.

It's body horror, truly raunchy monsterfucking, so much whump and angst, romance in during an apocalypse, and a promised happy ending despite all the rest!

Anyway, here's a snippet~

Aggravated, in pain, and not quite thinking, Eddie figured he’d get the rest of it over with and shoved his boxers off, kicking them away while he grit his teeth and breathed harshly. Eddie could barely hear Steve talking to him, low and comforting, over the rush of water and his own blood in his ears. Couldn’t spare a thought to the fact that he was fully naked in front of Steve. All that existed was the heat. The pain.

He stretched into it, towards it, arching his back despite the awful twisted cramping in his sides until it finally relaxed. The pressure in his mind went quiet and still. Eddie let out a sigh so massive he thought the shower walls should’ve shook with it. And then, his legs gave out.

“Oh shit!”

Steve caught him in a panicked scramble, hands grabbing him under the arms before Eddie’s knees smashed into the tiles, but not fast enough to keep both of them from collapsing in a soggy heap.

[heytheredeann]

Febuwhump 2023 (stop laughing at me), Day 2 - Flinching

Tags: Post-Canon, Napoleon Solo Whump, Hurt Napoleon Solo, Injury, Hospitals, Guilt, Illya Kuryakin Needs a Hug, Could read as Gen or Slash or OT3 tbh, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendly fire

Notes: Okay so LOL, this was written for the prompt "flinching" for Day 2 of. uhm. Febuwhump. Yes, 2023. I DID FINISH IT (barely) BEFORE FEBUWHUMP 2024 AT LEAST, RIGHT???? But BUT, extra funny? This is also for @cha-melodius, who inspired this with a comment that she left on a fic way back in drum roll MARCH 2022! So here you go everyone, if you've sent a prompt in my inbox ages ago and I never filled it, never give up, you don't know the length that my stubborness will go to when I decide that something Must Be Finished! LOOOL So, yeah. Have fun with this totally-on-time-in-every-way piece of whump!

.

He walks back in with no little hesitance, a bottle of water and a sandwich at hand. Though he can see her eyes running in his direction, testifying that she did notice his entrance, she doesn’t turn to him, nor does she acknowledge him in any other way.

That is probably the best reaction he is going to get from her, so he swallows and steps forward, holding out his offerings with no explanation.

It’s been a while, she needs to drink and eat something, or she’s going to crash at some point. He’s worried about her, though how he can spare enough space in his mind to worry about anything other than Solo at the moment is a mystery to himself before anyone else.

Gaby gives him a look that isn’t the least bit benevolent, but she accepts the water and the food, taking them from him and turning away like he isn’t there at all. He can’t spare the energy to be offended, and he certainly doesn’t blame her for not wanting anything to do with him.

Her screams are still echoing in his ears as he sits down, at more distance from her than would probably necessary. The look on her face when he told her is burned in his eyes, the way she went from worry, fussing over his graze as soon as Solo was out of their sight and she noticed the blood gushing out of his arm, to horror followed closely by disdain—he remembers her taking a step back, her hands still hovering between them for a few moments, and then there was only screaming.

He got out of her face when ordered to do so, numbly finding someone to take care of his stupid little wound just because he wasn’t sure he could bear to be alone with his head.

It was such a stupid mistake, and it’s going to cost them their partner’s life.

[More on Ao3]

[sam-loves-seb]

I love all your ideas for gallavich fics - everything you write is gold and am so happy those little hamsters on wheels are constantly running in your amazing brain.

I would love to read the AU fic ideas as I can’t get enough of the whole different ways they fall for each other and their magical firsts.

I am in love with your whump series but I absolutely adore your fluff too. Whichever story would have the most whump and angst and then fluff and love and smutt and more fluff is the one I would go for!

Also the S3 canon divergent one is so interesting. Where is Mickey after so many years? Svetlana, Yev still in the picture? Is Ian back to stay or moving with the army?

aw thanks so much anon!! you're too kind, this is so sweet <3

(if you're following along at home they're referring to this post)

the s3 canon divergent idea is one of my more recent ones tbh so i don't have a ton of it fleshed out yet, but i do have some answers. as for ian, he's home for good, or at least he's leaning towards that idea. he has no intention of enlisting again at the start of this story.

as for mickey and the rest of them--well, i can't divulge too much (in case i do actually write this some day). i image writing it from ian's POV so he and the reader start off with the same questions you do: where's mickey and what is he up to?

short answer: he's doing fine. he has a job he doesn't hate and he lives in an apartment with mandy. his life isn't anything special, but it's still leagues better than it was when he was eighteen. he doesn't really date, barely even fucks, but whatever. he doesn't give a shit.

until one day mandy says that ian gallagher--and fuck if he hasn't heard that name in forever--was spotted at the Alibi last night.

and now mickey can't really stop thinking about his ex.

not that he ever could.

[narcolini]

the last stretch

lalo salamanca & gn!reader, whump, 18+, 1588 words

warnings for major character death, descriptions of blood & injuries

for day 8 of whumpril : dehydration

a/n: just a short one today, and tbh it feels more similar in style to my original fiction vs. my fanfic, so i hope u enjoy! are they friends? enemies? who knows!

tagging: @hausofmamadas @drabbles-mc​ @cositapreciosa​

You’ve been walking for hours, a day, maybe, or two, without getting anywhere at all. As far as you could bare to endure in one direction, and then back to the car, then as far as you could manage the opposite way. Never straying far from the crash site, never letting it out of your view on the horizon. You couldn’t. Lalo wouldn’t let you.

No matter how tired you got, no matter how chapped your lips, how sore your heels, how sharp the headache—it was the same, over and over. ‘Keep looking, carnal,’ he’d say, ‘there’s got to be life here somewhere, right?’

In this particular effort, you’ve managed to find a—well, you don’t know what the fuck it is, really, or what it used to be. Right now, it’s a three-walled structure, with half a roof and enough shade to make it look like a haven.

He doesn’t complain when you suggest taking a break there. Just for a bit, just long enough to relax your eyes from the permeant squint they’ve adopted. It’s probably because he knows that you’d ignore him if he did, or tell him he can go back to the busted vehicle and drink the gas from the tank. Light yourself while you’re at it, cabrón.

Sitting down feels like dying, in a way, it takes everything out of you to do it slowly, and somewhat carefully. If you didn’t put actual effort into avoiding it, you probably would’ve dropped hard enough to break something, right on the tailbone. You probably would’ve shattered from the blood-level dehydration you’re suffering through.

You sigh, testing your head against the brick before settling it there. At first, you expected it to be scalding hot, to singe your scalp the way the sun has, but it’s cool. Cold, even. Long enough in the shade, that it feels like sticking your head in the drinks fridge at Safeway.

‘We’re going to die out here, aren’t we?’ you ask, eyes closed, feeling Lalo sit beside you.

He grunts as he lowers himself, his boots catching on your jeans as he stretches his legs out in front. ‘Oye, maybe. Maybe not.’ He groans again, getting comfortable, because he’s a man of that age and that’s all they do. ‘You should have stayed when I told you to, carnal.’

You laugh, snorting hot air over your desert-dusted face. ‘I should have never fucking met you in the first place.’

‘Come on,’ he croons, ‘we have fun, no?’

Had, past tense. You turn your head to look at him. ‘If we survive, I’m killing you before anyone else.’

He smiles, all in the mouth, unable to lift it into the creases by his eyes. The time you’ve spent out here has got to him, worse than it’s got to you. ‘Alright,’ he nods, ‘if that’s what you want.’

As if he’d go that easy, as if he’d even let you get close enough to try. The only thing that would kill him is—

‘But, I thought you were done with killing,’ he says, and it feels like he’s laughing at you now, not with you. ‘Ya no es divertido, Lalo,’ he mocks, doing the worst impression of your voice that he possibly could. ‘What happened to that, hm?’

You happened, you want to say, you and all your charm and all the bullshit it comes with. ‘The same thing that always happens, Lalo, money.’ And lack of it. ‘You know I never would’ve come out here if I wasn’t desperate.’

He shakes his head, amused by the non-confession. ‘Wow, and I thought we were good together.’

‘Define good,’ you snort, putting your head back to the wall. The cold is helping, you think, making things seem real again. Sharpening the mirage. ‘I think you were the worst thing to ever happen to me.’

You know that he’s grinning. He would be. ‘Is there a prize? I’ve got the perfect place for a trophy.’

‘Yeah,’ you tell him, ‘yeah, I’ll get you a fucking trophy.’ He can put it on the dashboard of his stupid immobilised car.

After a moment, or ten minutes, Lalo sighs. ‘You know,’ he says, linking his hands over his lap, ‘there’s a flare in the trunk.’

‘What?’ You snap back to him. ‘A flare?’

His eyebrows go up at your alarm, face coming alive with false offence. ‘What? I can’t be smart like that? Soy un hombre del mundo, ya sabes.’ He pauses. ‘Y chulo, sí me sientes.’

You tut, putting a lifeless tonto under your breath.

‘There’s even a first aid kit,’ he adds, steaming with pride. As if the contents of his trunk excuses the rest of the shit this chingamadre has put you through, as if it wasn’t his fault that you crashed out in the first place.

‘I think it’s a little too late for that.’ A bandage won’t undo any of this, it won’t even touch the surface.

‘Si,’ he agrees, sighing wistfully afterwards. ‘But the flare can help, no? Oooh,’ his eyes go wide again, ‘maybe they’ll airlift you out.’

‘Or maybe no-one will see the flare at all, and I’ll be right back where I started, Lalo.’

‘Eh.’ He shrugs, waving you off. ‘It’s worth a shot. One of us should get out of here alive, to finish business.’

You look at him, then his arm, broken still, with white bone through the skin of his elbow. There’s red on his forehead too, now, that you’ve seen before, but had forgotten about. Blood dripping down and over his eyes, clotting in the lashes.

He laughs. ‘Y, no seré yo, verdad?’

You nod. It’s not going to be him.

It takes hours, though it can’t have, that’s just how it feels. How slow time passes under the pulsing ache of your head, the dead weight of your feet. It crawls by, slower than you’re walking. Minutes, hours, days. You don’t even care any more. What matters, is you made it back to the crash site. To the car, exactly as you left it, but no longer on its side.

The smoking from the engine has stopped, and it doesn’t appear to have burst into flames the way you thought it might. No exploded gas tank, no shrapnel, metal and flesh alike. Just the car, on four wheels again, with its nose in the ditch. It must’ve fallen somehow, corrected itself in your latest absence.

The initial impact of the crash had burst the trunk open, luckily, not fully, but enough to get both arms in and root around. If there is something in there, you’ll be able to get it free from the wreckage. Probably. You haven’t tried flexing your fingers around anything in a while, so they might snap off completely when you do, dry enough from the heat that they crumble like driftwood at the slightest bend.

You put your thighs to the tailgate, leaning all your weight onto it, because stationary and upright isn’t a thing you can manage right now, and begin digging in the contents of the trunk. You pull out the bigger stuff first—tarp, garbage bags, a crow-bar—and dump it at your feet.

The guy drives around like a cartoon villain, and for what? None of this shit can help him now.

When it’s empty, you find no flare—obviously, there’s no flare—and feel like screaming because of it, like forcing the bent trunk shut and swearing into the sky, but all of that requires more energy than you have left. You’re too tired to call a bastard, a bastard, even when he’s sitting right there in the driver’s seat.

May as well say good-bye, though. If you’re going down that route, all out of options at last.

You pick up a foot, put it in front of the other, repeat. Drag yourself from the back of the car, to the side, world spinning as you make it into the deepest part of the trench.

Before you can peer through the open passenger door, you spot an unnatural shape beneath your shoe. A phone, a fucking, satellite phone. One that’ll get reception, unlike the useless one you’re carrying. Unlike Lalo’s, that’s in his front pocket still, untouched because you were too sentimental to try and reach for it.

You bend, pick up the phone, check the screen—full battery—and laugh. Fuck, it was worth it, then. Coming back here. He was smart enough to carry a phone that could survive the desert when nothing else did.

‘Lalito,’ you say, folding at the waist, free hand on the roof of the car. ‘You might’ve just saved my life, man.’

He’s moved since you last said good-bye. Fallen back from the wheel and to the side slightly. His broken arm sits on his lap now, beside the gun that his other hand had never lifted to his head, you assume. Dead from his injuries before he could finish the job himself.

‘Thank-you,’ you tell him, lifting the phone limply—unable to give it the smug, victory shake that you’d imagined. I won, you think, me, not you. I found the phone first.

He doesn’t answer. You can’t pretend that he does, either, when he’s slumped against the window like that. Chin on his chest, blood over his eyes. He doesn’t spring to life in your imagination like he had done before.

It’s shame, really, because you were just starting to get attached.

[warlordess]

Ooooh mind telling us about the stobin paranoia one? Or the country club meet cute?

Oh gawd, oh gawd; my dumbass critical anxiety (on top of being exhausted after working 32 hours in two days; tbh it's mostly that second thing) kept me from answering this until now.

I do want to remind whoever, including OP, that I don't really have anything more than bare bones synopses for any of the ideas I mentioned. Also, i haven't talked up a thing I've created in so long that I don't know if I remember how.

That being said, another Steddie acquaintance, @ataliagold (go read their Steddie things maybe?? They're very good, gimme just the right amount of yummy whump) asked me about both of these in PMs so I have shared a little bit about each and they liked both concepts a lot, which gave me some courage.

So, anyway, as for the Stobin paranoia fic, which I've wondered if perhaps "paranoia" is too strong a word but eeeh... Basically, it takes place right after Starcourt (maybe like the week following or so). It's pretty well-established that Steve and Robin were still at least a bit high and hopped up on truth serum during The Bathroom Talk, not to mention the memory blurring is probably even more effed up by Steve's 74th concussion in three years (lol... sorta), so Steve gets it in his head that he somehow forced Robin to come out to him and, knowing how important safety is for a hidden queer person, especially in a place like Hawkins, he starts spiraling and isolating from her. He doesn't deserve to have his person if he has to manipulate them into divulging their secrets to him after all, she's far better off without the resident douchenozzle, Steve Harrington, invading her space and privacy and having any intimate (platonic) expectations of their relationship. While he's all in his own head about that, Robin starts coming around to check on him, only to realize she's being ignored. This causes her to eventually start spiraling too - of course the great King Steve couldn't handle being friends with a fucking dyke, of course he would snub her after the smoke and fog cleared and he remembered that she'd spurned his advances, what a load of crock, she should have known better - thus their newly formed super bond starts having holes drilled into it... Anyway, the fic is about that whole misunderstanding and them trying to work through it. I just love that kinda trope 'cause I'm the worst.

As for the Steddie country club meet-cute, it starts off similarly to a couple other fics I've read here Eddie is forced to go straight (financially only) after Reefer Rick is arrested and his supply dries up and the cops have hounded him and Wayne enough times and etc. He ends up employed at the semi-local country club predominantly as a caddy. Decent pay, some tips even, enough downtime while standing on the sidelines and aimlessly following his current client around that he can think up some future campaign ideas... and, early on, another perk introduced is his good-looking apparent coworker (who he unfortunately crosses paths with while coworker is being reamed by one of the more infamous club members). He and Steve pass each other a few more times and begin engaging, closing some distance until it's unfortunately revealed that Steve is NOT his coworker and is in fact closely related to the rich fucker that was seen yelling at him on day one. He had a good excuse for being in uniform that first time but has obviously decided to lie in order to fuck with Eddie every day since.

Well, anyway, those are the general premises of those particular fics. I feel like I gave too much away but also like I didn't really say anything at all. Lol.