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chaotic-orphan · 4 months

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Winter Whumperland: day??

Trapped // bedside vigil // used as bait

Comfort mistletoe

Guardian of Blood

I know it’s so late, but my exams are finally over and I can get back to writing!

Also the only thing keeping me sane was bloodborne so enjoy this heavily blood imbued story!

TW: blood (lots of it), loss, friend’s deathbed, graphic injury, graphic depictions of violence, self-harm esque depictions of violence, wrist cutting (not self harm but still graphic and possibly squidgy, it made me uncomfortable to write but it just made sense for the story), powerless whumpees, betrayal, mentions of death, mentions of burial

*~*~*~*~*

Hero sat at Friend’s bedside holding their clammy hand and rubbing soothing circles over it, mumbling a soft spell of soothing under their breath as they went. Villain walked in during it, going to the other side of the bed and taking the damp cloth from Friend’s forehead and taking it to the kitchen.

They came back a moment later, the cloth dripping with cold water and placed it back on Friend’s forehead. Villain sat down on their chair, glaring at Hero as they whispered their spell.

“It’s not helping,” said Villain with a huff.

Hero stopped the spell and looked up at Villain. “It might be we don’t know.”

“They have the blight, Hero, magic doesn’t work and you know it!”

Hero stood up, dropping Friend’s hand. “Well at least I’m doing something!”

“Something useless! Magic is what brought on the fucking blight and—”

“So what?! You give up just like that,” Hero yelled with a click of their fingers and the candles in the room flared taller, “and rely on failed human remedies for a magic fever?! What, are you going to pray to a mythic god now to save you too? Be my guest!”

“Maybe if you—” Villain said pointing a finger at Hero before freezing, narrowed eyes widening a fraction as they looked down at Friend.

“What?!” Hero barked, throwing their arm wide. Below them Friend moaned and Hero’s anger dissipated as they sat down again, grabbing Friend’s hand. Villain leaned down and wiped away Friend’s hair that stuck to their forehead back.

“Friend,” Villain whispered softly. “Hey.”

“Cah—” Friend mumbled then coughed, their ribs hollowing with their cheeks as they descended into a coughing fit. Villain reached for the cloth and smoothed it down Friend’s face, gently shushing them. After a few seconds it died down, and Friend blinked glazed glassy eyes up at Villain and smiled a watery smile. “Can I not get a mom—” cough “—moments peace with you two?”

“Friend,” Villain smiled shaking their head down at them.

“We’re not arguing, we’re just worrying,” Hero told Friend. Friend turned their head very slowly and smiled at Hero.

“You worry very loudly.”

Hero laughed at that, looking up and meeting Villain’s gaze who was also chuckling softly.

“How are you feeling?” Villain asked, feeling Friend’s forehead with the back of their hand and hissing, sharply pulling their hand back.

“I’m freezing,” Friend said softly, “but other than that dying has been peaceful.”

“You’re not dying,” Hero said, tightening their grip on Friend’s hand. “You’re not.”

Friend huffed out a laugh and asked, “can you name one person who lived from the blight, Hero?”

Hero’s lips quivered against their chin and sniffed, turning their head away to fight the tears that threatened to fall.

“We won’t let you,” Villain told Friend, voice determined. “You can’t die. We won’t let you. We’ll find a way!”

“Stronger covens than us have tried,” said Friend, voice hoarse. “They all failed.”

“We—”

“No we,” said Friend, taking their hand and pressing it gently on Villain’s wrist. They tightened their hold in Hero’s hand and smiled, squeezing both their hands reassuringly. “Me.”

Hero broke down when they felt their connection ignite like a tuning fork finding perfect pitch. Friend’s power was so weak, blipping in and out. Something dark clawing it back as Friend tried to send it out, something trying to snuff out their light. It was ravenous and monstrous and more vicious than anything Hero had ever felt and they cried.

Villain was shaking above them, slowly getting to their knees, mouth open slightly in a slightly shocked expression. This is the first time that Friend had let them feel what they were feeling. The first time and maybe the last time that they would all feel each other’s magic. That they would all feel whole.

“I want you to know that you both mean the world to me. If I could do it all over, I’d always find my way back to you. We are bonded for this life and the next, and I’ll always be here with you. Stop arguing. Stop fighting. Comfort each other, lean on each other.”

“Friend,” Villain blubbered, sniffing back emotion. “Please, please don’t leave us. Please!”

“I’ll hold on,” Friend told them kindly as they let their connection fade. “I’ll hold on until I can’t anymore. I just needed you to know.”

“We love you too,” Hero said wetly.

“More than anything,” Villain agreed.

“Bury me the proper way,” Friend said. “Burn me, let my soul go with the wind. Promise me.”

Villain descended into sobs, so Hero was the one who agreed. “We will, we promise.”

“Good,” Friend said with a soft breath. “Good. I’ll sleep again now, but I won’t go yet.”

Hero felt their energy slowly dwindle until they went limp again in Hero’s hold. Villain’s entire body was shaking, shoulders jerking up and down with the sharp movements. Hero got up from their seat and walked around the bed to Villain and wrapped their arms around them.

“I know, I know,” Hero whispered, rubbing Villain’s back as they turned and buried their face into Hero’s jumper, clawed fingers grasping at Hero’s back and pulling them in closer. Their movements desperate and weighed down with an awful kind of grief.

“We can’t just let them die, Hero,” Villain wailed into Hero’s chest. Hero held them tighter, tears of their own trailing down their cheeks as they looked at Friend’s chest rise shallowly.

“We won’t, Villain. We’ll find a way. We’ll do whatever we can. Whatever it takes. I promise.”

*~*~*~*~*

The next day Hero woke in Villain’s armchair beside the bed, a blanket had been draped over them as they slept. They smiled a little, drawing the blanket closer over their shoulder as they slowly opened their eyes. Friend’s chest still rose and fell. Hero got comfortable and drifted back to sleep.

The smell of coffee woke them up the second time that day. They stretched and let out a sigh feeling refreshed as the blanket fell from their shoulders pooling around their waist. Hero’s eyes went to Friend, their chest rising and falling and then they focused on the coffee.

They rose from the chair, discarding the blanket behind them and walked past Friend’s bed into the kitchen. Villain was standing at the counter, an old tome open in front of them, a steaming cup of coffee warming their hands.

There was another cup of steaming coffee at the end of the counter and Hero smiled, walking towards it and blowing on the black liquid to cool it.

“You’re awake,” said Villain dully, their arm moving robotically as they took a sip from their coffee and turned to face Hero. Villain hadn’t slept in a while, their eyes weighed down with tired bags gathering beneath them.

“Thank you for the blanket,” Hero said.

Villain’s eyes glistened as they met Hero’s. “I found it,” Villain said, swallowing another gulp of coffee.

Hero blinked. “Found what?”

“I found a way to stop the blight,” Villain said, their voice croaking. Hero put their coffee down on the counter.

“Don’t mess with me Villain.”

“I wouldn’t mess about this, Hero. I found— I found a way. We can save Friend.”

Hero didn’t dare let hope bloom in their chest. Not yet.

“Tell me everything.”

Villain hesitated. Hero frowned. “Villain?”

“It’s just— I need, it— it’s a blood spell,” said Villain and Hero nodded. They knew it was something bad. “Listen, Hero I know, but it’s not like your average blood spell, okay? There’s a reason why no one has used it to survive the blight.”

“Okay,” Hero nodded, crossing their arms over their chest. “What is it?”

“The spell requires sanguine blood.”

Hero swallowed the lump in their throat. “Sanguine blood.”

Villain nodded. “I know. If you don’t want to do it—”

“You’re sure it will save Friend?”

“It’s our best chance,” Villain said earnestly.

Hero ignored their gut, ignored the flash of their grandfather’s face telling them to never use their blood in magic. That it was different and they were just guardians of it, that it wasn’t their blood.

But it was.

It was Hero’s blood that Villain and Hero needed to save Friend. The same blood that ran through their veins.

Hero met Villain’s gaze again. “Let’s do it.”

Villain crossed the distance between them in a blink and wrapped Hero in their arms. They were taller than Hero, so Hero’s head hit a hard chest before they knew what was happening and then they wrapped their arms around Villain’s waist.

“Thank you, Hero. Thank you. Thank you.”

Hero just tightened their arms around Villain in reply.

This better work.

*~*~*~*~*

A few hours later Villain came back into Friend’s room and nodded at Hero, running a hand back through their hair.

“Everything’s ready.”

Hero swallowed hard, taking their hand from Friend’s, the soothing spell dying on their lips.

“Okay,” they said because there was nothing else to say. They had agreed to this. Friend needed to be better. Villain nodded and went back to the kitchen, Hero following slowly after. Their hands were shaking so they clasped them in front of them.

Villain was leaning over their black clay bowl of mixed herbs and other ingredients needed for the spell. They smiled encouraging at Hero.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Hero?”

Hero nodded.

“Hero,” Villain said again, and Hero met Villain’s gaze with wide eyes. Villain walked around the table and walked to where Hero lingered by the door. They put a hand on Hero’s cheek. “I need you to tell me you still want to do this. You don’t—“”

“Friend would do it for me,” Hero said, cutting Villain off.

Villain’s expression softened. “That’s not a yes, Hero.”

“Of course I want to do it.”

“Say it again.”

Hero swallowed again. Closed their eyes as they took a deep breath, then exhaled. When they opened their eyes again they were more focused.

“I want to do this, Villain. For Friend.”

“For Friend,” Villain said again. Then they placed a gentle kiss on Hero’s forehead.

Villain withdrew and Hero found themselves chasing their warmth but they caught themselves as Villain returned to the bowl and picked up their wicked looking knife. Made of bone and whittled sharper than a razor, the handle a fine smooth wood.

Hero forced their legs to move and walked over to Villain, standing beside them gazing down dazed into the bowl.

“Uh, I— I need—“”

Hero rolled up their sleeve and held out their arm. “Take what you need.”

Villain’s hand cupped the back of Hero’s and held it over the bowl. With a sharp movement Villain drew the knife over Hero’s palm. Hero hissed and tried to pull their hand back but Villain held their hand firm.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Hero hissed.

It took a moment for the blood to appear, but when it did it streamed quickly down over Hero’s palm into the bowl below. Villain stared eagerly down into the bowl. Hero pulled their hand back once the stream had stopped but Villain frowned.

“What?” Hero asked, the blood having coagulated already.

Villain screwed their lips up. “I— it should have—“”

Hero frowned staring into the bowl.

“It didn’t work?”

Villain didn’t answer. Instead they turned and walked over to the counter where the book sat open on the page of the spell.

“It should have activated the ink.”

Hero blinked down at the bowl. “Yeah. It’s definitely not doing that. There’s barely a shimmer let alone a glow.”

“Maybe I did it wrong—“” Villain muttered.

Hero looked over their shoulder at Villain. “Or maybe we need more blood.”

“Hero—“”

“No. It’s okay,” said Hero already rolling up their other sleeve and grabbing the bone dagger. “It will hurt too much if we go over the same cut, so just use the other hand and go deeper this time.”

“Hero—“”

“Villain, trust me. How many times have we done spells and underestimated one aspect? It has to be the blood.”

Villain crossed to the table again, taking the knife in shaky hands. Hero looked up at them, smile encouraging and nodding. Villain licked their lips as they met Hero’s gaze before looking down quickly again and cupping their hand around Hero’s.

“Good and deep,” Hero said with a nod and Villain let out a breath. Then they sliced. Villain’s hand tightened on Hero’s again as they jerked their hand back and squeezed it, forcing the blood flow out faster.

“Are you—”

“I’m okay,” said Hero, biting their cheek to stop themselves from crying out. They watched the blood pump from their hand, more black than red. Hero remembered learning bright blood is light blood and they wanted to get sick at the colour streaming down their hand.

The pain melted away when the bowl below their hand ignited, glowing a dazzling maroon. Hero retracted their hand and Villain stopped them. Hero looked up at them in question as Villain wrapped a cloth around their palm before tying it off.

Hero didn’t say thank you. Instead they smiled at Villain when they finally released their hand.

“We should go as quick as possible,” Villain said, grabbing the bowl and walking quickly back into Friend’s room, Hero hot on their heels. “Hero would you light the candles and grab the knife from the kitchen?”

Hero clicked their fingers and the room flooded with light, every candle in the room igniting. Hero grabbed the bone knife and returned to see Villain scrawling strange symbols on Friend’s forehead, chest and hands.

“Good,” Villain said, putting the bowl down on the table beside Friend’s bed. “You stand the other side of the bed so the spell is balanced.”

Hero did as they were told and waited. They didn’t know the spell, if there were even any words at all.

“Hero, grab Friend’s hand.” Hero did so. Then Villain was reaching over the bed with an outstretched hand and Hero took theirs too. Hero and Villain held the knife between their palms.

Hero felt the connection sing between them, but there was something different about it. Something unusual. Hero put it down to the fact that they were using their own blood as a catalyst that made their heart lurch in their chest.

Villain started saying the spell and Hero felt their limbs lock into place. Even if they wanted to end it now they couldn’t. The flames around Friend’s bed burst into skinny pillars of flame as was natural with a spell of this nature. The doors slammed shut to the kitchen and the en-suite in Friend’s room.

That was the first pull Hero felt in their energy. They would have collapsed if it wasn’t for the spell keeping them in place.

“Villain—“” Hero called but Villain continued the spell.

There was a roaring in Hero’s ears like the wind was rushing through the house, through their clothes, through their hair like a thunderstorm. Everything seemed to go too fast, too loud, too violent.

Then the bone blade between Villain and Hero’s hand began to burn. Hero hissed in pain as the blade burned their hand as hot as an oven top and Hero screamed as it continued to get hotter and hotter and hotter.

“Villain! Stop!” Hero cried as their energy drained more and more until everything seemed to stop. The flames went back to normal. The wind stopped rushing. Hero’s hand stopped burning.

Then an almighty kick through their energy sent Hero and Villain back to the walls on either side of the room. Hero’s back hit the wall hard enough to knock the wind from their chest as they fell to the ground. Hero groaned, pushing themselves up to their knees. They cried out when their burned hand hit the wooden floor and sat back onto their knees, hissing.

Hero looked at their palm and saw a black symbol branded on it. A half circle, almost whole but fractured and cracked in places. Flames licking the sides of it like a half sun.

Hero glanced up to see Villain who was staring at Friend. Hero followed their gaze and froze in their spot. The bone blade was hovering red above Friend’s bed where Hero and Villain held it between their hands. Only now the red light almost engulfed the room, all the candles blew out and all that was left was the red bone.

Blood spurted from it like an fresh injury, a quick slice to the carotid artery, fountaining out and covering Friend’s bed in blood. Hero pushed themselves to their feet making their way towards Friend’s bed, but was stopped by an invisible wall two feet from Friend’s bed. Hero threw their hand forward but it couldn’t break the barrier, just bounced off.

They looked through and saw Villain doing the same thing from the other side, wide eyes panicking as they threw their shoulder against the barrier.

“Villain?!” Hero called and Villain met their gaze across the room. “What did you do?!”

Villain didn’t answer. Hero called out again, louder, more hysterical. “What did you do?!”

Hero watched as the blood started dripping from the bed onto the floor into a deep dark pool, spreading faster than it should have towards Hero. When the blood reached Hero’s feet it stopped moving. Hero stared down at it, heart hammering against their skull. They could feel the pulse in their throat.

Then a single strand of blood shot out of the pool like barbed wire and imbedded itself through Hero’s wound in their palm. Hero cried out as they were wrenched forward and fell through the barrier. The wire dragged Hero to their knees in the pool of blood by Friend’s bed before a second wire shot out of the pool and wrapped itself around Hero’s other hand.

Hero bit back a startled cry, biting their lips to stop themselves from making any sound. Villain was still pushing against the barrier, stuck on the other side. Screaming Hero’s name and Friend’s name, powerless to help either of them.

Hero closed their eyes and started mumbling a spell under their breath. They had only got two words out before a hand gripped their cheeks and yanked them forward.

It pulled hard on the wires in Hero’s palms and they cried out when they met two golden eyes. Hero froze.

This isn’t real.

The hand holding Hero’s cheeks in a merciless grip was attached to a man crouching on the end of Friend’s bed like a gargoyle. He tilted his head at Hero, then tilted Hero’s head with their hand to mimic him. Hero pulled at the barbed wire and grit their teeth to keep from crying out, glaring at the man from the blood.

“You made a mistake, little one,” the man cooed tightening their grip. “You should know that Sanguine blood is sacred. Holy. Surely you have heard the stories, hmm?”

Hero glared at the man remaining stubbornly silent. Then the man let go of Hero’s cheeks and Hero could sit back on their knees again, stretching their jaw and cheeks.

“What is the family motto?”

Hero said nothing. The corner of the man’s lips tugged up into a half smile. Then the blood started moving towards Friend and Hero’s heart leapt into their throat.

“Custos sanguinis!” Hero bit out.

The blood stopped flowing towards Friend and retreated back to the man.

“And what does that mean little one?”

Hero swallowed, something huge dawning on them. Something like terror and realisation all mixed into one and they suddenly felt so stupid for going against their instinct. Their family.

“It is not our blood,” Hero remembered their Grandfather say with urgency in his voice. “We are just guardians of it.”

“Guardians of the blood,” Hero said, their voice cracking weakly.

The man smiled and got off the bed, crouching down to Hero’s level. Two glinting golden eyes stared at Hero, so close, too close. Inhuman and wild.

“Whose blood?” The man asked quietly. Hero shook their head but the man didn’t let them. They reached a hand out and cupped a hand under Hero’s chin. “Answer me, child.”

Hero felt the cold grip of panic seize their throat. “It’s— it’s just a story,” Hero tried but seeing them there in front of Hero, Hero knew they were lying to themselves.

The man’s hand tightened, even though Hero knew he wasn’t really a man.

“Whose blood, child?” He asked, impeccably calm.

“The infernal one,” Hero whispered. The man smiled. The thing smiled showing his pointed canines. He let go of Hero’s chin and stood up letting out a long, luxurious sigh. Then he raised a hand and clicked his fingers and Villain fell through the barrier with a sharp cry. Their hands fell straight into the black blood.

“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” the infernal one said turning to face Villain. Villain was trying to pull their hands back but the blood stuck to them and pulled them back in. “I guess I have you to thank for freeing me.”

“We didn’t know,” Hero said, panic seizing their words, desperate for the demon to turn and face Hero again but he didn’t. His golden eyes were blazing down at Villain.

“I don’t know, child. I think one of you knew,” the man said, a smile in his voice. Hero didn’t care for it though, instead they looked at Villain’s face because surely… but the moment their eyes landed on Villain all they could see was guilt.

Hero couldn’t keep the accusation out of their voice: “You knew?!”

Villain didn’t look at Hero, instead they kept their gaze fixed on the demon. “Yeah. I knew, but it’s the only way to save Friend Hero! You said you’d do anything. Whatever it takes.”

“I like your ambition,” the demon said. “You want me to take away the blight.”

“Yes,” Villain huffed, emotion clogging their throat. “Please. I’m begging you.”

“Villain! Don—” Hero squeaked and then their voice was gone. They opened their mouth to scream but no sound came out. Hero pulled against the wire keeping them in place, trying to get their legs under them and wincing, screaming silent.

“What’ll you give me in return?”

“I freed you,” said Villain. “I was hoping—”

“Nothing is for nothing. The guardian could have told you that,” the demon said, looking over their shoulder at Hero with a wicked sharp grin. Hero grit their teeth and pulled at the wire, getting one of their feet under them until they were dragged back down to their knees. Wires wrapped tight around Hero’s thighs locking them in place. The demon didn’t take away Hero’s ability to cry and tears started streaming down their face. “What will you give me?”

“Anything,” Villain said without hesitation. “Please. Friend is the best of us. They don’t deserve to die. Please.”

The man reached down and put a hand on Villain’s head. Villain stilled, eyes finally crossing the room to Hero. Hero jerked forward but didn’t get far.

“A favour,” the demon said finally and Villain’s eyes flickered up. Hero’s heart lurched in their chest. That was the one thing that Hero’s grandfather had warned them about. Their struggles renewed but Villain didn’t notice, their attention was only on the demon.

“You’ll cure Friend of the blight?” Villain asked.

“They’ll be good as new.”

“I want them healthy, the way they were.”

“You’re not a fool,” the demon hummed. “You have my word. Your friend will be cured.”

“And I want them immune from the blight.”

The demon tilted their head. “Would you like to be immune as well?”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

“And the guardian?” the demon asked. Hero stilled.

“All of us,” Villain said without hesitation.

“Alright. You have yourself a deal. Stand.”

The blood melted down Villain’s arms and they gingerly pulled their hands back. They glanced at Hero who shook their head. Villain’s expression fixed into an apologetic one.

“It’s the only way, Hero.”

The demon looked over their shoulder at Hero, lips quirked up. “Hero,” the demon said, as if testing how Hero’s name felt on their tongue. Hero glared at the demon, but they probably looked pathetic with their tear stained cheeks.

The demon turned to Villain again and grabbed their hand.

“What’re you—?” Villain asked, but by the time the words left their mouth the demon had already rolled up Villain’s sleeve and curved their fingers into talons befitting of a giant beast.

“Hey, wait— FUCK!” Villain cursed as the demon sliced down Villain’s inner arm, elbow to wrist and stopping in the middle of their palm. Four claw marks gushed deep, dark blood and Hero wanted desperately to look away but horror rooted them in place staring vacantly at Villain.

A river of blood spurted out of Villain’s wound and all colour drained from their face. They looked like they were about to faint and Hero’s heart lurched in their chest screaming Villain’s name.

“There we go, almost done,” the demon said, switching the blade to their other hand and cutting their own wrist. The demon held their wrist over Villain’s wound and let the blood drip slowly down into Villain’s veins. The moment the blood touched Villain’s the wound knitted itself back together with black veins.

Villain was ashen as the blood pumped from their wrist.

“Sssh, ssh, ssh. You’re doing so well, little one.”

After the demon ran their blood down Villain’s wound until it all stitched together again, the demon sliced their wrist again and dropped Villain’s hand. Villain stumbled back a step but the demon grabbed the back of Villain’s head and shoved their wrist against Villain’s mouth. Villain pushed back against it, but they were too weak to fight off the demon in their state.

The demon stepped closer to Villain as Villain tried to step back, shushing them all the while. “It’s almost over, once you ingest my blood the deal is sealed.”

Villain didn’t fight the demon anymore after that. They just accepted the words and went limp in the demon’s arms.

“Good,” the demon said, pulling their wrist away from Villain’s mouth. “Very good. You feel that connection Villain?”

Villain stumbled back. Then they gasped and grabbed their freshly healed arm as if it was in pain.

“Good,” the demon said. Villain looked up through pained eyes before their eyes rolled to the back of their head and they collapsed.

“VILLAIN!” Hero cried, their voice thick and raw as if they had been screaming for hours. The demon turned to face Hero again, golden eyes inquisitive.

“How unusual… I suppose I am over exerting myself on the first day of freedom, but still,” the man said, tilting his head at Hero. “You guardians always did intrigue me.”

“Why?” Hero asked, their voice coming out through shaky whispered breaths.

The man shrugged. “Because I can. Because Villain was desperate, and I am the only thing that could cure the blight. It is my disease after all.”

The shock must have shown on Hero’s face because the demon laughed. “Yes, oh yes. The price for locking me away, Hero. Didn’t any of your bloodline warn you against blood magic? Sanguine blood magic?”

“They were…” Hero said, swallowing hard. Their eyes flickering back to Villain’s body crumpled on the ground. “They were just bedtime stories, not histories.”

“Mmm,” the man hummed. The wires tightened around Hero’s thighs and they winced. “Tell me Hero do they feel real to you?”

“You promised you’d cure Friend,” Hero spat instead.

The demon smiled. “Oh I intend to, and don’t worry. They’re still alive for now. If I let them die then Villain doesn’t owe me a favour anymore and we both know I always cash in on my favours.”

“They didn’t know what they were agreeing to,” Hero pleaded. “Punish me instead, give me the favour.”

The man’s hand morphed into the beast claw if was to cut Villain’s. “If you want Hero I can make you a deal as well.”

“No,” Hero said. “Then you’ll just have us both.”

“So you are intelligent. Good.”

The demon clicked his fingers again and the wires melted away from Hero’s thighs and hands like water. Hero glanced up at the man, waiting for the trick but he didn’t seem bothered by Hero’s suspicion.

“I have been locked away for years, Hero,” the demon told them. “I would really love a cup of tea.”

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evilwriter37 · 4 months

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Winter Whumperland Day 6

Prompts: Post-Apocalyptic Winter, Amnesia

Rated: teen

Warnings: implied/referenced death

Relationships: Hiccup & Toothless, Hiccup & the Dragon Riders

Word Count: 1,797

Summary: Hiccup is hit in the head from a fall on Toothless. He comes to not remembering the world he’s in.

A/N: Actually trying to finish this challenge.

#winter whumperland #amow winter whumperland 2024 #whump #angst #hiccup whump #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock #toothless #fanfiction #writing

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jedi-lothwolf · 5 months

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Winter Whumperland Day 6: Jack Frost (Amnesia)

Fandom: Star Wars The Bad Batch

Summary: After a reg attacked Hunter, he finds he can't remember anything.

When Hunter woke up, he couldn't remember how he had gotten to this white room. He wasn't sure who these people around him were. He didn't remember anything.

"Hunter, you're awake!" The tallest man yelled.

"Don't yell." The man that talked looked robotic.

Someone stood nearby. He looked worried but didn't say anything.

"Who are you?" Hunter asked.

He watched the tallest man hold back tears. "I'm Wrecker, your brother. Do you not remember?"

A man with the glasses walked to the other man's side and put a hand in him. "Hunter hit his head extremely hard when he was attacked. Amnesia is not a surprising result."

The man in the corner spoke up, "I'm going to kill the mother fu-" he was interrupted by the man with glasses.

"That won't help." He sounded robotic, like his voice should belong to the cyborg standing by the tallest of the group. Still something was comforting about it.

"What's going on?" Hunter asked as he tried to sit up. He noticed how bright the lights were and laid back down for a minute. His head hurt. "What happened?"

"One of the regs hit you with the butt of their gun" hissed the gray hair man.

"Regs?" Hunter wasn't sure why that stood out the most. "What?"

"Let's introduce ourselves. I'm sure it's not very fun being surrounded by a bunch of people you don't know must be unpleasant. I'm Echo. I work with you."

"Alright." Hunter sat up this time. He looked around and shook his head. "Where are we?"

"This is the Kaminoan cloning facility. It is also our home. I am Tech, one of your technically millions of brothers."

"Don't break him" the gray hair man spoke.

"I'm Wrecker! I'm one of your brothers too!"

"Yeah I remember you saying that earlier." Hunter tried to make sense of the knowledge he had. He was a clone. That wasn't the most surprising part. What surprised him the most was how many clones existed. Why did they exist? What purpose had they been made for?

The others looked at the gray haired man, trying to get him to say something. When he didn't, Tech took over. "This is Crosshair. He is also a clone. We are your batch mates and work with you. Echo joined after being turned into that."

Hunter tried to look at Echo. "Okay." Slowing the group explained the war and how he was a sergeant in the army of the Galactic Republic. They explained some of their relationships with him and how they grew up together.

For a long time Hunter felt empty. These people around him had so many memories of him but he barely knew who they were. He watched them grieve over a man who he didn't know; over a man he had been.

It took time. Recovery always takes time. The clone that had caused the trauma to Hunter was never punished. The Kaminoans didn't have the time. Hunter grew strangely close to some regs, despite never liking them before.

The batch started to think he would never remember who he was before. But with never remembering, Hunter could forget the blood and death he had seen before. He could forget all the ways the regs had done them wrong and he was growing a relationship with some of them. He seemed happy.

Then he remembered. Slowly, Hunter had been getting back little memories. Small things like short memories from when he had been younger. But one day he just knew who he had been before.

It had been months. The memories were overpowering. Hunter felt confused and lost. He felt both frozen and on fire. The memories of who he once was seemed like a distant lifetime ago. He remembered he had liked red more then blue and how he hadn't liked lemonade, even though he loved it now.

It was strange. It felt like he was a completely different person now. Hunter liked talking to the regs, or at least most of them. He had known a life that wasn't on a battle field, even if he was preparing for war. His biggest problem had been the regs and not the droids on the other side of the war.

The first thing the man did was tell Echo. He had grown closer to him then before. Soon he told the others. They seemed overjoyed to have their Hunter back but Hunter wasn't so sure. He still liked lemonade and the color blue more than orange juice and red. He still wanted to be friends with the regs he was around.

As time moved on, Hunter got used to being himself again. He felt more confused then anything. At first he wasn't sure that he wanted his memories back. All the death and destruction his two eyes had seen was overwhelming. But he got used to it.

Hunter finally felt normal again. After months and months of not knowing who he was and not know what to do with who he had been, he grew to like the person he was now but also who he had been. He liked knowing about his brothers and who they had been. He learned to cherish his memories. After all, nothing is permanent.

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alpaca-clouds · 5 months

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Winter Whumperland Day 01: His Shadow (Astarion-centric)

And this year I once am balance out the fluff with some whump, curtesy of @amonthofwhump's Winter Whumperland. For this I decided to center it all around Astarion (and at times my Tav), because this man just... is just a prime whumpee.

My first prompts are both Claustrophobia and Panic Attack, as both things kinda lie close together.

His Shadow

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

It has been only days since the Netherbrain has fallen into the Chionthar. Being forced into the shadows again, Astarion finds himself alone in Tav's dingy attic room and haunted by whispers of his dead sire.

You can find a complete overview over my December Challenges here.

Obligatory Tags for @0nelittlebirdtoldme and @missmacfire

#winter whumperland #winter whumperland 2023 #whump #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #cazador szarr #male tav #my tav #astarion x tav

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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 year

Text

A Lot Like Christmas

CW: Pet whump, dehumanized whumpee, references to beatings and torture, burns, sadistic whumper

Antoni’s tag | Masterlist (scroll down)

For @amonthofwhump, day 3: Forced Celebration

On Christmas morning, the ashtray wakes up on his little cot in his tiny room to cold sunlight through the bars of his high, small window. His nose is so cold that it feels like it all but burns his hand when he presses a palm against it to warm it, burying himself even further under the scratchy but warm wool blankets he is given in winter.

The light makes a broken square on the floor, and he lays there watching it slowly move, bit by bit, as the quality of the light changes.

All down his back the newest burns ache and itch. They’re slathered with the heavy, healing cream that would keep him from scarring if Mr. Davies did not burn him again and again in the same places. As it is, his master is pressing new burns over old scars, and the ashtray shifts only a little as the itching grows with every second he thinks about it, gripping hands onto his collar to keep himself grounded, to feel safe.

Last night had been a night of bourbon, warm and brown in a glass, clove cigarette smoke down his throat filling up his lungs, holding perfectly still for every bright hot pain until finally he could not hold back his whimper.

Last night had ended like so many nights end now, the smoke driven out of his throat by something he will not think about, will not remember, will simply put somewhere else in his mind. Mr. Davies, afterward, had fed him sips from the glass of bourbon and whispered, “It’s after midnight. Merry Christmas,” and sent him with a jar of the salve to his bed, to rub all the wounds he could reach and ignore, as hard as he can, the greater wounds inside.

A bird calls outside the window.

Eventually, he hears the sound of Mr. Davies on the stairs, and he pushes himself up to seated and then to standing. His feet freeze on the chilly concrete floor, and he shivers in the loose sweats he is allowed to wear.

It takes four steps to cross from bed to door, three if he lengthens his strides.

He opens the door, peering out into the hallway. The warmer air in the heated part of the house hits him like walking into a wall, and he comes to a sudden stop and lets his skin prickle and goosebump as it acclimates. The burns itch worse in warmth, but he ignores that and pads barefoot down the hall, walking on the heavy soft rug.

He can hear the clinking of silverware against dishes as he nears the kitchen. His own stomach twists, empty and light, at the scent of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls. He enters with his eyes down, letting his gaze move to Mr. Davies’s feet in his fuzzy fur-lined slippers.

“Ah, the lazy little pet wakes,” Mr. Davies says, with amusement. “Say Merry Christmas, darling.”

The ashtray looks up to follow his command, only to realize it isn’t meant for him.

Next to Mr. Davies is the woman, who looks at him with blank eyes that see but don’t comprehend. She just stares at him, blinking once or twice, and then says in a soft voice, “Merry Christmas.”

The ashtray thinks she probably had a lovely way of speaking, a long time ago. She forms each word like a singer, all enunciation and melody, but it’s a harsh rasp now, a broken violin voice.

Her hair is perfectly curled and pulled back at her nape, with tendrils framing her face. Her lower lip is busted, a burst of bright red where she was bleeding, but she doesn’t even seem aware of it. She just puts a forkful of cinnamon roll into her mouth and chews. Any awareness she had of him seems gone in an instant.

“Very good, love.” Mr. Davies is rubbing her back with one hand. If she tenses a little at the touch, it isn’t obvious beneath the warm, fluffy robe she wears in a deep royal purple lined with gold thread embroidery. “Say Merry Christmas, ashtray.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Davies. Merry Christmas, ma'am." The ashtray’s voice is low, carefully shaping each word to make his accent as slight as possible. He almost succeeds, and it’s enough to win a rare smile from his master. He doesn’t feel warm at the sight of it - only the absence of any new fear of punishment.

“Come and eat,” Mr. Davies says, gesturing broadly.

The ashtray’s eyes drop to discover an empty plate and set of silverware, a mug of steaming coffee with a little carafe of cream beside it. He dares to look back at Mr. Davies, and finds him smiling.

"... at the table?”

“Yes, at the table, you brainless thing. Sit.”

The ashtray moves forward, jerking like a puppet moved by strings, and finds himself sitting at the table staring across at the woman, who doesn’t look at him anymore, only off to the side, as if dazed or dreaming. There are bruises layered dark over her wrists, in the shape of the ropes Mr. Davies ties her with at night. She sleepwalks, he explained once to the ashtray, who had not asked. He’d said it like testing out the story, the way you practice a speech to a wall. She’ll wander out into the street and get hit by a car, you know. I have to keep her in one place. Anything could happen if she leaves.

There’s a threat, in those words, and the ashtray heard it. He only nodded, and wondered what in his face had made Mr. Davies feel the need to explain.

Her black eye from last week has nearly healed, which he knows only means another one is coming soon.

The cook puts a cinnamon roll on his plate, and the ashtray thanks him. He receives no reply, but he didn’t expect one either.

Warm, fluffy cinnamon-sugar sweetness bursts in his mouth when he eats, and he shivers at how unfamiliar it is to eat warm food, or to eat anything that tastes this good at all. He exhales, and takes another bite, and another. Somehow, the whole thing disappears into his mouth before he even understands that he’s eating it.

He stops when Mr. Davies starts to laugh, with cruel good humor, and looks up, briefly meeting those cold eyes.

“... Mr. Davies, I’m sorry, I did not mean to eat so quickly-”

“Hush. Call it a gift. I’ve nothing for you under the tree, after all.” He turns to the woman, who doesn’t look at him, only stares through the window at the trees outside, as if she could will herself out there if only she could remember how to walk out. Mr. Davies leans over to give her a kiss to the side of her head, and the ashtray watches her eyes briefly close, then open again to focus back on the world just beyond the walls.

“Darling,” Mr. Davies says in a low voice, “My ashtray and I need a smoke, I think. Will you go and wait by the tree for me? I’ll open your gifts for you afterward.”

The woman looks at the ashtray.

Just for a moment, something surfaces from beneath the still pool of her mind. She knows what happens when he and Mr. Davies are alone in the office, he thinks. And for just a second, he can see that she feels all the grief for him that he tries to feel for her.

Then her expression goes blank again and she nods, standing and drifting into the grand living room where the 12-foot-tall Christmas tree glistens with perfectly coordinated ornaments, tinsel, and a star on top.

The last the ashtray sees of her is how she sits on the couch with her hands in her lap, and turns her eyes back to the window.

Then Mr. Davies’s hand is on the back of his neck, and the ashtray’s stomach flips. Suddenly that perfect warm soft sweet bread sits like a brick in his stomach, and he wonders if he’ll keep anything down after they’re done. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes after-

But it’s not happening.

It doesn’t happen to him.

Not if he doesn’t let himself think about it.

Nothing happens in the office.

Mr. Davies is already lighting a cigarette, the scent of cloves is settling against his skin and soaking into his hair, his sweatshirt and sweatpants, burying itself so far down in his lungs that he will never escape the way it steals his breath.

The burns from last night itch.

The older ones do, too, as the ashtray follows Mr. Davies to the office and wonders where the new ones will go now.

His master’s hand rests at the base of the ashtray’s spine, stealing up under his sweatshirt to press like a brand against his skin.

The ashtray burns long before the embers ever touch him.

Mr. Davies hums as he walks.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlinthesnep @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @emdeighamae @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #whump #forced celebration #holiday whump #christmas whump #antoni sings lullabies #dehumanization #pet whump #domestic violence tw #drugged whumpee #(not antoni but still)#burns tw #cigarette burns #sadistic whumper #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #amow #amow winter whumperland #winter whumperland

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whumpitlikeyoumeanit · 5 months

Text

Winter Whumperland 8

((content warnings: kidnapping, captivity, beating, knife torture, cruciatus torture))

promptspiration: @amonthofwhump Winter Whumperland Day 8: Held Hostage / Forced to Watch

Whumper: ??? Whumpee: Draco Malfoy whump type: captivity, torture fic type: post-Hogwarts

More of a story starter, really...

words: ~600

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

Lucius and Narcissa looked together at the contents of the package spread out on the table in silence. A series of photographs, a note, and a pendant filled with a pearly pink liquid.

"Who's done this?" she demanded quietly.

He didn't answer. He flicked the paper away with his fingertips; it said 'What happens next is up to you.' It provided no answers or further clues, no secret messages, no signature, not so much as a perfume or watermark.

The photographs…

Each of them was of Draco, capturing about twenty seconds of time before they replayed from the beginning. In the first, he was bound to a chair, glaring at the camera, defiant and offended. The pendant was tied around his neck like a collar, and the liquid in it was white. They could see him snap something to his captor, but of course the photograph was silent and they couldn't hear what he said. Probably a threat.

The second photograph was from much closer; a gloved hand took Draco by the chin, turning his glaring eyes upward to no doubt look at its owner, and then viciously struck him across the face. The pendant flashed pale red, and then subsided back to pink.

The third one had clearly been taken after that; there was a dark bruise on his cheek and a black eye, accompanied by a split lip. They had beaten him and given him no healing. He still looked angry, but he was quiet this time, no longer talking back, and he flinched at something off camera. The pendant was solidly pink.

In the next, there was a knife. Draco turned his face away, trying to avoid it, and it slid down his cheek, leaving a deep cut over his cheekbone and a line of blood running toward his collar. The liquid of the pendant turned dark red.

In the final photograph, Draco was screaming and straining against his bonds, under the effects what appeared to be the Cruiatus curse, and the pendant's liquid was a sustained, bright, bloody red.

"It's measuring his pain," he said, pulling the pendant closer on the table. It was warm to the touch, and heavier than it looked. But for now, it was only pink, the same colour as in the photograph after he had been beaten. "They sent it so we'll know when they're hurting him. They're leaving him alone, for now."

"They still have him," she snapped. "Who?"

"I don't know," he admitted. He looked over the photographs again. All he could tell from the hand of Draco's torturer was that it was male. What little background was visible in the photos showed him only a blank, generic wall. That did not help at all. "There are no demands."

"Obviously they want money. Pay them."

If that was what they wanted, he would. And then he'd make them pay for their audacity. But there was no indication that this was actually about money. No demands, no suggestion he would be contacted again, no further instructions. Just blame. 'What happens next is up to you.'

"Lucius."

"I will, when I know who to pay." He spread out the photographs again, letting his eyes scan over the scenes of Draco's torture.

Narcissa picked up the pendant, cradling it gently in her hands. He glanced at her face and knew better than to insist on keeping it with him. "I need to go out for a little while," he told her. "I'll find out who has him and bring him back."

She watched the pendant for flickers of red and nodded.

--tbc--

#whump writing #winter whumperland #amow winter whumperland 2023 #day8 #held hostage #forced to watch #not a prompt whumpitlikeyoumeanit #whumpitlikeyoumeanit wrote it

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wolfeyedwitch · 1 year

Note

not to be evil but standing cuffs for celeste

Yes to be evil. You 100% mean to be evil. Don't even try to lie.

Also for @amonthofwhump day 6: stress position

CW for female conditioned vampire whumpee, it as a pronoun, manhandling, stress position (duh, but I figured I'd say it anyway), sadistic whumper, pet whump, multiple whumpers

Masterlist

---

The vampire never knew what to expect when it was dragged to this room. It seemed that every time, its trainer brought something new.

The only constant was that it would hurt.

The men dragged it in and hauled it to its feet. Its legs quivered under the strain of its own weight, receiving a nasty chuckle from the men in response.

“Tired already, pet?” came its trainer’s voice.

Its eyes snapped to the man. Stupid, stupid, stupid, it had been too focused on its escorts to even notice the trainer. It couldn’t afford such mistakes!

Hesitantly, it nodded. It had long since learned not to speak. Words are for humans, not vermin, after all.

The trainer smiled like a shark. “Good.”

It tried to ask with its eyes, hoping he would condescend to explain what he meant.

“Your existence is no longer your own. You’ve begun to accept that, finally.”

“Took it long enough,” one of its escorts muttered.

The trainer gave him a sharp look before continuing. “Now you must accept that this applies to everything else about you, as well. You no longer set the terms of your un-life. That is for your owner to do. You will do as your owner directs, even if such things seem impossible.”

It didn’t like the sound of that. Fear started prickling along its limbs and gnawing at its empty stomach.

“Hands,” the trainer commanded.

The men restraining the vampire extended its hands towards the trainer. He grabbed something hanging from the ceiling, then fastened what turned out to be manacles—thankfully steel rather than silver—around its wrists. He stepped back. The others followed suit, letting the vampire fall.

It didn’t make it all the way to the floor. The chains connected to its manacles stopped its collapse, resulting in a harsh yank to its already injured shoulders. The vampire couldn’t hold back a whine at the pain.

The men only laughed.

At a nod from the trainer, the chains began shortening. The vampire was dragged upwards by the wrists, and it scrambled to get its feet under itself to decrease the awful strain on its arms. The chains only ceased shortening when the vampire was balancing on its toes, heels hovering off the ground.

The trainer stepped forward again, looking the vampire over as it struggled to remain standing.

“This,” he said, soft and sweet as poisoned honey, “is where you belong. As entertainment for your betters.” He patted its cheek, the touch too hard to be comforting but not quite hard enough to be a slap.

It was just grateful he wasn’t wearing the silver gloves today.

He stepped back with another sharp-edged smile. “Your task for today is simple: remain silent. If you can manage that? I might consider rewarding you,” he said.

It nodded fervently. It could do that. It would do that.

One of the others held out a leather pouch to the trainer, who accepted it and poured the contents into his hand. They looked like…

Oh, no. Oh no.

If it hadn’t just been told to be silent, it would wail in despair.

The trainer held up a handful of what might have been jacks, if not for the sharpened points. The metal gleamed unmistakably.

“Silver caltrops. Let no one accuse me of being too soft on the pets I train,” he said with a smirk. “If I were, how would you learn?”

He stepped behind the vampire, and it stiffened as he disappeared from its view.

The next sound it heard was that of metal against stone. It stiffened; tears pricked in its eyes.

It could feel the hated heat of silver beneath its feet.

It struggled to grasp the chains connected to its manacles, to both ease the strain in its shoulders and avoid the caltrops by holding itself up. The men laughed at its display.

“Like I said,” came the trainer’s voice as the man circled back around to face the vampire. “Entertainment.”

---

Taglist:

@kim-poce @cupcakes-and-pain @nonbinary-disaster @onlybadendings @neverthelass @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog @ghostfacepepper @someonesnamesblog @rainbows-and-whumperflies @extemporary-whump @thecyrulik @myhusbandsasemni @heart4brains @kixngiggles @whumpsday @whumppsychology @elrysdoesstuff @towerlesskey @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @haro-whumps @pigeonwhumps @cc1010foxy

#the heart and the hunger #vampire whumpee #vampire whump #bthb #standing cuffs #winter whumperland #amow winter whumperland 2022 #stress positions #celeste the vampire #pet whump #manhandling #sadistic whumper #multiple whumpers #female whumpee #the vampire is female #it as a pronoun

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serickswrites · 5 months

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Elf on the Shelf

Warnings: kidnapping, restraints, gag, threat of torture, blood, wounds, stabbing, unconsciousness, used as bait, rescue, hospital

Everything was wrong. Everything was wrong and Caretaker didn't know how to make it right.

It had started with them getting into an argument with Whumpee and Whumpee storming off, mumbling something about going for a walk to clear their head. Caretaker hadn't noticed how much time had passed because they were trying to clear their head. Whumpee had been right, of course, but Caretaker needed to cool off before trying to apologize. It was only when Caretaker realized it was dark and Whumpee still hadn't returned what had happened.

It didn't take them long to get to Whumper's compound. Caretaker knew that Whumper was using Whumpee as bait for a trap, but they couldn't leave Whumpee to be tortured to death at Whumper's hand. And so they walked into the compound knowing very well that they would not likely leave, but Whumpee would.

That was wrong too.

Caretaker found Whumpee bound and gagged in the center of a room with Whumper. Whumper loosely gripped a knife in their hand as they circled Whumpee.

"Let them go," Caretaker called, not daring look Whumpee in the eye. They couldn't bear to see the terror in Whumpee's eyes.

"You know what I want, Caretaker. Are you going to give it to me?" Whumper stopped as they stood in front of Whumpee, obstructing Caretaker's view of Whumpee.

"Yes. Let them go and you can keep me." Caretaker ignored Whumpee's muffled cries of protest. If they could do one thing right today, it would be to save Whumpee. They could do that.

"Just like that?" Whumper began to smile.

Caretaker nodded. "Just like that. Now let them go, Whumper."

"Ok," Whumper said with a wicked smile and they plunged their blade into Whumpee's stomach and pulled. Blood poured from the wound as Whumpee screamed in agony. "You never specified if I had to let them go while they were alive, Caretaker. That's on you for not using your words."

Caretaker lunged at Whumper. They were going to end Whumper. They were going to make Whumper pay. They were going to stop Whumper and get Whumpee to help. And then they could say they were sorry. They would never stop saying they were sorry so long as Whumpee lived.

Whumper was easily overpowered and knocked out. But Caretaker wasn't quick enough. By the time they had gotten Whumper settled and were ready to free Whumpee, Whumpee was barely hanging on.

"Baby, I'm sorry, hold on. Baby, I've got you," Caretaker said through their tears as they made their way over to Whumpee. Whumpee was slumped over in the chair, their front shiny with blood. Their eyes were barely open and Caretaker could see Whumpee struggle to take shallow breaths.

Caretaker removed the gag first. "I'm so sorry. Whumpee, baby, so sorry," they sobbed.

"'s 'kay," Whumpee whispered. They blinked heavily as they swallowed.

"Save your strength. I'll get you out of here. And I'll get you to a doctor. And you'll be right as rain. Just stay with me, baby."

Whumpee blinked once more as Caretaker began to untie them. "Almost there, just a little more," Caretaker murmured as they unwound the coils of rope.

In their haste to free Whumpee, Caretaker knocked the hilt of the blade. Whumpee screamed once, the terrible sound ripping itself from their throat, and they went completely limp. "Baby," Caretaker said as they tapped Whumpee's cheek. "Open your eyes. Baby, stay with me. Whumpee!"

But Whumpee didn't open their eyes. Their body slumped forward as Caretaker removed the last of their bindings. "Hold on, hold on, I've got you. Hold on."

Caretaker repeated the mantra over and over. Repeated it for so long they had to believe it was true. It had to be true. They couldn't stand the thought of failing Whumpee one final time.

And so Caretaker kept a silent vigil at Whumpee's bedside. They hadn't moved from the uncomfortable hospital chair that the kind nurse had shown them to. Hadn't moved from Whumpee's side. Hadn't moved because they couldn't. They couldn't leave Whumpee alone. The last time Whumpee had been alone, Whumper had taken them. And Caretaker couldn't let the enemy lurking in the shadows take Whumpee now. So long as Caretaker kept watch over Whumpee, death couldn't claim them.

"Stay with me, baby. I'm here. I've got you. You're safe," Caretaker whispered to the silent room. "Please, Whumpee. Stay for me."

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a-reader-and-a-writer · 1 year

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Update

I know no one ever really reads these updates or cares, but just in case, Winter Whumperland is on a temporary hiatus. I am dealing with a lot of personal stuff and I can't handle writing at the moment. Hopefully, I will be able to finish before Christmas but we will see.

Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, reblogged, and/or supported me with Winter Whumperland so far and my writing in general. It means the world 💖

#updated schedule #winter whumperland #temporary pause

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cricket-reader · 5 months

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Silent Night

Summary: Tony is always working. Even during the holidays, the grind doesn’t stop. A break-in at the tower results in an endless loop that he doesn't know how to get out of. Forced to watch those he loves get hurt over and over takes a toll on Tony. He starts to question if his team would be better without him.

Warnings: language, canon typical violence, temporary death, self-hatred/blame

Word Count: 4,222

A/N: Today's prompts from @amonthofwhump were power outage, time loop, overworked whumpee, and snuggling by the fire. Enjoy!

Tony Stark can’t honestly remember the last time he got any sleep. The only fuel to his body is cups upon cups of glorious coffee. There’s too much to get done. Clint needs some new and improved arrows, Pepper wants the model of the newest StarkPad out before Christmas, and a whole slew of other projects and tasks sit at the forefront of his mind.

He’s finishing up the specs for the StarkPad when everything goes dark. Furrowing his brows, Tony looks up from his project. “J? Talk to me, bud.”

Silence

His heart clenches in his chest. Red lights begin to flash, the symbol of a break-in. His head spins as he jumps to his feet. The room tilts back and forth as does his body as he meanders to his suits. Tony suits up as fast as he can in his surprisingly weakened state, and races to find the intruders.

Continue reading on A03

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 1 year

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dead, to begin with

A few weeks after the loss of Stephanie Brown and the return of Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne is visited by the ghosts of Robins past, present, and future.

____

@amonthofwhump‘s 12 Days of Whumpmas Prompt: Holiday Haunting

You can find resources related to the current Roe crisis on my sideblog here.

(tw blood, gore, unreality, past child death, past child abuse, past malnutrition, animal death, forced feeding, strangulation)

Also posted on Ao3 here.

_______________________________________________

There’s a body squirming against him, warm breath stirring across his cheek. For a heartbeat Bruce wonders if it’s another date whose name he’ll have to pretend not to remember, but no, even before he cracks his eyes open he can tell that the body is far too small.

He turns his head slightly, blinking against the low light in his bedroom. There’s a tangle of black curls snuggled up under his arm, chin resting on his chest. Blue eyes blink up at him, tiny lashes fluttering.

For a heartbeat he thinks Dick, but then the boy speaks: “Hiya, B.” His voice is Crime Alley rough, with none of the Romani accent Dick had as a child.

Bruce lets out a long, slow breath. Jason never slept in his bed before...before. He tried once, but he woke up screaming and clawing at Bruce, begging him to get away, get the fuck away, before recognizing Bruce enough to break down sobbing and apologizing, and then avoiding him for the rest of the day. They never tried again.

But Jason’s here now, young and calm and whole and all the things he isn’t anymore. He smiles up at Bruce, and his grin is a perfect reflection of the cocksure smile Jason had given him while standing there with blood on his hands just a few weeks ago, rain glinting against his leather jacket.

“What’s wrong, B?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bruce swallows hard, forcing his racing thoughts to calm. “This isn’t real,” he says, trying to pitch his voice into a proper growl. But Jason is so warm against him, his little chest rising up and down, and Bruce’s voice breaks off into a trembling warble.

“Oh?” Jason sits up and he--he’s wearing his Robin uniform, smoke curling off his shoulders like dark wings. “Christmas is a time of miracles, isn’t it, B-man? Maybe you just need to expand your mind.”

Bruce coughs, throat aching with the memory of fire. “Jason--” he forces out, fighting the urge to scream or cry.

His son smiles, a tiny hand reaching to press gently against his cheek. “Bruce.” There’s a bruise spilling down his cheek like a flower, black and purple shimmering before Bruce’s eyes. He smiles and his mouth is full of blood and missing teeth.

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.” Each word grows deeper, Jason’s voice sliding down the vocal register as his shoulders broaden before Bruce’s eyes, bones cracking and shifting in a sickening chorus. His forelock lightens to a jarring white and his eyes harden, something cracked and hungry crawling in behind them.

Bruce tries to lunge upright, but Jason’s faster, one knee slamming into Bruce’s stomach and knocking him flat to the bed, the hand on his cheek growing larger and more callused as it shifts to Bruce’s throat. Jason squeezes and Bruce rasps for air, choking on the aftermath of an explosion.

Fight, he tells himself, but Jason’s eyes are twin spots of green ice freezing him stiff. His son’s breath is warm on his face, impossibly alive and tight with the kind of fury Bruce has seen in himself so many times.

“You can’t keep your ghosts out, Bruce baby,” Jason croons, bearing down with his full weight. He’s gotten so big, so strong, pushing down with the weight of a fallen star. There’s black creeping in at the corners of Bruce’s vision and Jason’s features ripple and blur, distorted to monstrous proportions.

“That’s it.” Jason’s forehead rests against his, impossibly tender. “Let it out, let it go. Stop fighting, Bruce, you knew from the start that you weren’t gonna win. We were all dead from the beginning, remember?”

“Jesus Christ,” someone calls from the corner of the room. A girl’s voice, young and agonizingly familiar as Jason’s. “They weren’t kidding when they called you a drama queen, Jay.”

Jason’s fingers relax and he settles back on his knees with a huff, letting Bruce draw in great, desperate lungfuls of air. The smell of smoke still hangs around him, but at least it’s no longer suffering.

“Seriously, Blondie?” Jason calls over his shoulder. “You couldn’t let me have my moment?”

“You had your moment, honeybunch,” Stephanie Brown shoots back, sashaying out of the shadows of Bruce’s bedroom. She’s wearing her Robin costume, but it’s stained with blood in the same patterns Bruce remembers from her Spoiler uniform, the same patterns he had stared at for hour after hour. “You’ve had oodles of moments. Let some of us take a turn.”

Jason crosses his arms over his chest with a pout, his face darkening and features shifting as he shrinks back to his Robin self. “Whatever,” he huffs.

“Attaboy.” Stephanie’s eyes flick back to Bruce--she’s got bruises of her own, pushing out from under her mask. “And you, boss, you’ve gotta get up. We’ve got work to do.”

Bruce blinks at her; he wants to say I’m sorry or forgive me, but the first words to come out of his twisted, aching throat are “What work?”

Stephanie chuckles. “What work, he says.” She leans closer, and he can see that her headband is really a bloody bandage. “What work? Gotham-work, silly. Isn’t that what this was all about?”

Bruce’s eyes flick between the dead girl and the undead boy. “I don’t--”

But Steph’s already turned to scoop Jason up and toss him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring his kicks and cruses. She grabs Bruce’s hand with her free one and yanks, pulling him out of bed with impossible strength. “Come on, boss,” she says, and her smile has wolf-sharp teeth now.

Bruce wants to protest, but he’s already being dragged across the room, stumbling past a tangle of children’s toys and glinting weaponry that definitely wasn’t there before. Steph tugs him out the door and down the hall, past the images of blood-soaked family members smirking at him from behind filthy glass frames. He jerks to a halt before one painting of Thomas and Martha Wayne kneeling in an alley, one on either side of a corpse charged beyond recognition. “What--”

“Come on, boss!” Steph snaps, yanking hard enough that Bruce almost face plants on the carpet. He barely manages to keep his balance as they round a corner and hustle down the stairs, the dining room door swinging open to welcome them with a wash of bright light.

Bruce staggers to a halt, blinking and rubbing his eyes as they try to adjust. Stephanie dumps Jason on the shoulder and he turns back into an adult as his feet rug, glaring down at her.

“You’re so mean,” he whines, exactly the way he used to do as a child. “I had a whole speech planned--”

Someone lets out a contemptuous little tutting noise from down the table. Bruce turns to see a small figure, smaller than either Steph or Jason, sitting at the head. Their features are obscured by a hood, but he can see that they’re wearing a version of the Robin costume--and that there’s blood shining on their chest like a flower.

“Who’s that?” Bruce asks, and he can’t quite blame the strangulation for how small his voice is.

“Him?” Steph says breezily, flopping into a chair. “Oh, he’s not important--” A dining knife comes whizzing through the air and she ducks, letting it slam into the wall behind her head. “I was going to say not yet, gremlin!” she yells, seemingly unbothered by the murder attempt.

The boy in the hood crosses his arms and slumps back in his chair with a huff that feels impossibly familiar. A cat pokes its head up from his lap, giving Bruce an unimpressed look that reminds him, oddly enough, of Alfred.

“Little psycho,” Jason says, plopping down in a chair and putting up his boots up on the table, taking a gun out of his pocket to stop cleaning it. He shoots Bruce a defiant look, like he’s daring him to say something about it, only there’s a bloody mass where his eye used to be.

“Don’t just stand there, boss,” Steph chides, gesturing at a pulled-back chair. “Take a seat! You’re the guest of honor, remember?”

Bruce takes a breath and carefully sits down, feeling the wood creak under him just the way that the old dining chairs used to. He makes himself look from child to child, forcing him to look at each one without flinching.

“This is not real,” he says, calm and steady, like a man in charge (like a mentor, a fa--) “None of this is happening. It’s a--illusion, of some kind.”

“You keep harping on about that,” Jason complains. “Who give a flying fuck if it’s real?” He smiles, and for a second his face is bone-white and twisted, tinged with sickly green. Bruce jolts at the sight before he can help himself, hand flying towards a Batarang that isn’t there.

“Don’t worry, boss,” Steph chides. “You’ve got nothing to fear, honest. There’s more than gravy than grave about us!” She laughs at her own joke, mouth opening wide enough that he can see blood down her throat. “And speaking of gravy, I’m friggin’ starving.”

She claps her hands and Bruce very nearly falls out off his chair, but suddenly his family’s finest dinnerware is laid out in front of them, candles blazing with Christmas cheer. On each plate, he can see...

“Like it?” Steph asks. “We were going to go with geese, but they all froze to death. Turkey’s more Thanksgiving-ish, and besides, Jerry’s off the menu. And lamb was kind of too on the nose, so...” She waves her hands, broken fingers swinging awkwardly. “Ta-dah!”

They’re birds. Neat, plucked, stuffed little birds, all arranged prettily with feathers spread out behind them. Bright red feathers, like spilled blood and rosy cheeks and...

“Mmm,” Steph says, taking a bit of her robin, cheeks bulging like a little chipmunk. “Alfie’s really outdone himself this year.”

Bruce can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t tell if the weight pressing down on his chest is guilt or horror or some twisted cocktail, but it’s heavier than Jason was.

“Rich boy feeling like a picky eater, huh?” Jason says, rough and sardonic. “So goddamn spoiled.” His skin presses tight against his bones, a mirror of the malnourished child who almost killed himself trying to jack Bruce’s tires. “There were days I woulda killed for a spread like this.”

The boy at the end of the table tuts against and lifts a glass to his lips. You’re too young to be drinking, Bruce wants to say, but no, the boy isn’t drinking. He’s spitting into the glass, red blood dribbling out of the darkness beneath his hood.

Steph swallows and says, “You need to eat, boss.” There’s a piece of her cheek missing now, ragged with the memories of teeth. “It’s how you get big and strong enough to keep Gotham safe.!

“I...” Bruce coughs. His ribs feel like they’ve been smashed in and his ears are ringing and the candles are burning far, far too hot. “I can’t eat this.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Bruce. You liked it perfectly fine the week before and the week before that and the week before that. It didn’t bother you in the slightest to chew us up and feed us to that city of yours, did it?”

His stomach roils and Bruce shakes his head wildly. “I didn’t, I didn’t--”

“Tt,” the hooded boy says, and this one is as sharp and dismissive as a gunshot in the alley.

“Come on, old man,” Jason says. His eyes are white now, glinting like bloody domino lenses. “It’s us. If you can’t be honest with your goddamn ghosts, who can you be honest with?”

I didn't know, Bruce wants to say, but the truth claws its way out of his throat instead: “I’m sorry,” he whispers, a broken, aching rasp. “I’m sorry.”

“We know you are, boss,” Stephanie says, and her eyes are soft and tired, her voice stained like an old woman’s. “But it doesn’t really make it better, y’know?”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeats stupidly, helplessly. He wants to get up and run--where? Towards them, away from them, out into the night where the bats will keep him safe or down into the shadows of his cave? It doesn’t matter, because his limbs aren’t working anyway, frozen like rigor mortis.

“You know what’s funny?” Jason asks. “I think I might have kept loving you even if you weren’t. But you are, just not enough.” The candles flicker and crackle like laughing clowns, sneering gangsters, the roar of something unnamable. “And that makes it so much worse.”

The Robin at the end of the table jumps up, high green boots clunking against wood. Now that he’s standing, Bruce can see the sword sprouting from his chest, hilt emerging from his back to open into limp, dripping wings, dark red like an omen. The sight hurts more than it possibly could for a child he’s never seen before.

“I love you,” Bruce whispers, voice shaking. “I loved--I loved all of you, I--”

“Hush,” Stephanie says, voice trailing like a dying sigh. “It’s okay, boss. We’ve got it. We’ve got you. We’ll do whatever you need us to do.”

Robin crosses the table in the space between heartbeats and drops to one knee in front of him, hand shooting out to grab Bruce’s face and squeeze. Bruce gags, mouth forced out, and he can’t fight, can’t move, his training reduced to nothing just like it always is--

“Here comes the airplane,” Stephanie sings in his ear--when did she get behind him, her hair tickling his cheek? And that’s Jason hands resting on his shoulders, holding him down. His boy’s fingers are so large now, but the indexes still tap in time the way Jason’s used to do.

The Robin on the table cuts a slice of meat and holds it up to his face. It smells good, like Mother’s perfume and Father’s cologne and all the things that Bruce lost before he knew how enough to hold them tight. He can see hear the meat sizzling against metal, tines blackening before his eyes.

“No,” Bruce forces out, but it’s garbled, smothered, like a baby bird’s last few cheeps. The kneeling Robin reaches for him and the meat presses against his mouth and it cuts--

“Master Bruce!”

His eyes open and he’s on his back in his father’s study. Alfred’s got him pinned down, kneeling over him with wide eyes, wrestling shards of glass from Bruce’s hands.

Behind Alfred’s head Bruce can see the same window that broke all those nights ago, shattered yet again to let in swirls of freezing air. Bruce’s mouth is stinging and there’s blood dripping from his hands, painting the floor dark and ugly.

“Alfred, let me up,” he grits out. “I’m all right, I’m all right, I promise.”

“You were about to eat glass, sir,” Alfred huffs, eyes a little wild. “Forgive me if I’m a little doubtful--”

“Alfred!”

Alfred lets go and pulls away, shifting back onto his knees with a grunt. “Hold still,” he says, reaching for Bruce’s hands. “I’m going to wrap these up and then we are calling Miss Zatanna.” His tone of voice brooks no argument.

Bruce closes his eyes, too tired to argue. He swears he can still smoke in his mouth, heavy and bitter.

“I fought a witch last week,” he says. A small-time crook, really, but the blast she’d caught him with...he’d been foolish enough to think it had just made his head swim. Perhaps she hadn’t even known the real impact of the spell, but still. He should have called Zatanna (he hasn’t talked to her since she stood with him next to a defunct Lazarus Pit, talking about ghosts).

“Yes, you did,” Alfred replies carefully. “And you...you saw something, didn’t you? What did you see?”

Bruce takes a slow, deep breath, thinking of shadows and blood and feathers and--and that’s it. His mind is a blank, a swirl of ugly flickers and whispers he can’t quite make out.

“Nothing,” he says, and he almost, almost believes it.

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