whumpflash

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I'm a sucker for unassociated Good Samaritans who are willing to risk it for Whumpee even though they're a stranger. Showing the kindness to help simply because they can tell Whumpee has no one else. Even if they patch them up, send them off and hope for the best, never seeing them again -- or even if they end up facing a whumper who comes looking and asking questions and have to feign ignorance or stand up defiantly for a victim they barely know

[whumpflash]

(rb because I've tried all of these at various points with people who were bigger/heavier than me)

- if the whumpee/person being rescued is fairly small, or at least smaller than the rescuer, all of these are fairly easy over a short distance

- if the whumpee is bigger than the rescuer, oh boy, things are going to get rough (and fun! Let the rescuer angst over their struggles to save whumpee)

- neck drag absolutely sucks

- kit/arm drag is a LOT faster (even accounting for situations where the characters need to take cover), and is probably the quickest/simplest for unconscious whumpees. You can do it to people who are bigger than you, you can stop and go with relative ease, and if you have to detach yourself and fight someone off it's as simple as letting go

- support carry is easy and less strenuous but can make movement awkward. Most effective if whumpee has a concussion/is otherwise dizzy or disoriented but can still stand on their own. Good for longer distances. If whumpee is practically falling over, the drag would be better/faster

- (for Real World Purposes, eg. maybe if the person you're supporting can't see or is very dazed for Some Reason, the easiest way to do the support carry/walk is to thread your arm under theirs and grab their belt/pants to keep that hand locked in, using your other hand to grab their wrist or hold their hand. This also offers greater support if they're having trouble walking. If you have a second person on the other side, you can practically carry the middle person. Y'know, just in case anyone out there needs this)

- pack strap carry was actually REALLY easy. If whumpee can stand for a short period or be helped to stand for this purpose, it's great for medium distances. The weight distribution also makes this doable for smaller rescuers, it's easier and comfier than a fireman carry, and it's fast. Downside is that it's a more obvious/large target and if you trip or fall it's gonna hurt more

Whump & Carries/Drags

After going down that Combat Medic rabbit hole, allow me to put heavy emphasis on the one-person drag. Specifically, the Neck Drag pictured at the bottom right of this image.

Yes, we see the support carry, arm drag, and pack-strap carry very frequently in fiction. I would really, really like to see the Neck Drag used more frequently (please do hmu if you have written or read something with this drag being used <3).

The neck drag is when the injured party clasps their hands together behind the medic's neck, or the medic ties their hands together if they're unconscious. The medic then bear crawls forward until cover or safety is reached, where they can change to an easier carry or drag position, address immediate medical needs, or get carrying assistance from another medic. If the injured party is heavy, the medic would have to crawl forward in short bursts (almost like a scooting motion).

This makes for a very uncomfortable but effective way of extraction for the injured party. Now, if you like romantic tension when writing, this is a great form of forced proximity because the characters are practically on top of one another for the entire duration of this carry - not to mention the medic has to straddle the injured party at the start. Obviously they would have more pressing matters in mind, but us writers are all the same and you know it <3

So, take this idea and run with it! I already mentioned this resource in a previous post, but I'll share it again if you want to see more details. It's very helpful for writing research! Plus there are video demonstrations on how to apply different types of tourniquets, and of course the different carries and drags like the ones mentioned above.

Ran out of brain juice, so I'll stop here. I'm serious about recs with the neck drag though!

[whumpflash]

Black Holes (Solid Ground)

a whump compilation music video!

contains scenes from The Recruit, Slow Horses, Wreck, Tell Me a Story, A Town Called Malice, Travelers, Mortel, Mr & Mrs Smith (TV) and Graceland

[whumpflash]

Peak representation of girl experience

twt

[whumpflash]

Jon Bernthal as Frank Castle — DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN | 1.09 Straight To Hell

[whumpflash]

Neutralizer: Poison and Too Much Patience

Finally, I am going to run tests on this little fucker. He keeps being really stupid and stubborn and making this worse for himself it's hard to watch sometimes like bro what are you doing

←Previous - Masterlist

Ingredients: yes he gets poisoned yes we stick it in there with a needle, shock collar is used, also drugging, The Piss occurs accidentally but it is kept pretty vague

At some point amid the weeks of bandage changes, blood draws, T shots, and two paperback mystery novels, Xavier let himself think that his situation might not be as horrible as he first feared.

This was a very stupid thought.

As it turns out, Makena was just waiting for his wounds to heal before starting the goddamn show.

The day began like any other, which is to say it absolutely did not. Instead of food, Xavier got an electric shock for breakfast, and while he was trying to recover from the fact that that just fucking happened, Makena wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed them.

"What the fuck is going on?! Take this shit off!"

"Have you considered that I put those on you for a reason?" Makena sounded as annoyed as ever, grabbing his bicep and giving it a tug. "Come on now, let's go." She started dragging him out of the room.

"No, no, don't make me go through the fucking fence," Xavier protested, digging his heels in. This did not accomplish much, given that he was wearing socks on a tiled floor, but he had to try or he was gonna get shocked again.

"Relax, I turned it off before I came in here. Why would I want to make getting you to the testing room more difficult than it needs to be?"

"T-testing room?!"

"Did you seriously forget that you're a test subject?" Makena sighed.

"No, I just-I just don't want to be I'm not gonna let you fucking experiment on me."

"Ah, just like you wouldn't let me strap you down or draw your blood or put that collar on you? How'd that work out?" Xavier's face burned, but he knew she was right. Despite his struggles, they were making steady progress down the hall, and it wasn't long before she dragged him into the room at the end.

It was just as bright white as the rest of the place, various screens and monitors plastering the walls. There were shelves of supplies and countertops covered in instruments and tools, but the thing that stood out most sat in the center of the room, a bright lamp above acting as a spotlight.

A padded table, completely empty save for the leather straps sprouting from its dark surface.

"Fuck, no, no, no I'm not gonna-" Makena shoved him against the edge of the table, the blow to his stomach taking his breath away.

"Figured." There was a quiet rustling, a small click, and then an awful pinch in his shoulder as Makena injected him with whatever the hell. Xavier felt his limbs grow heavy, his eyelids drooping. He tried to kick her away, tried to at least protest, but he could barely move at all.

Seeing as he was already slumped over the table, it wasn't too difficult for Makena to shove him fully up onto it. She uncuffed his wrists, and it stung that he was still just as helpless with his hands free. He couldn't do a goddamn thing as he was rolled onto his back, stripped of his shirt, and strapped down at the wrists, ankles, hips, chest, and forehead. Makena did it all with the same bored look on her face, like strapping a man to a table was just a normal Tuesday activity for her. He supposed it actually was, though, given her job.

Once he was secured, Makena grabbed a little scanner like at the grocery store and scanned his stupid ear tag, nodding to herself as she looked at one of the screens out of his view. After that, she completely ignored him, busying herself gathering supplies around the room and typing away on the computer. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to pay attention to him or not. It was a little infuriating being drugged and tied down and then just left like this. Why did he have to be here right now if she wasn't doing shit to him?

"It's always funny, seeing you like this." Scratch that, she was looking down on him now, that smug smile he hated plastered over her face. "You're always so loud and angry and squirmy, but now you're just…" she poked his cheek, and he wished he could snap and bite her, but his jaw just lolled open a little wider. She giggled. "So docile. Unfortunately, I have to wait for the sedative to wear off before I can begin the experiment, which is why I saved it as a last resort. But I can't say I didn't expect this," she sighed.

Well, well-good then. He'd successfully wasted her time. That was all he could really do at this point, anyway. He couldn't fucking save himself, not from any of this, as much as he didn't want it to happen. And he could waste her time more by just being still and quiet and pretending to still be drugged and then maybe she'd run out of time for the experiment and have to try again tomorrow. That could be pretty funny.

So, even as his fingers and toes started to tingle, the heaviness leaving his limbs, he stayed still. He didn't make a sound as Makena attached one of those little alligator monitor things to his fingertip, playing with his limp fingers slightly as she did so. He didn't squirm when she taped the heart rate monitor sensors to his chest, didn't try to flinch away when she pried one of his eyelids open wide.

But when she activated the shock collar, he screamed.

"Puta-what the hell was that for?!" he gasped, the beeping of his heartbeat too fast for his liking.

"I hypothesized that you were just pretending to still be drugged so you could delay the experiment, and I see now that I was correct."

"Yeah-well-well hypothesize my fist in your face," Xavier blurted, which he immediately realized was a really stupid thing to say when he could not move either of his arms.

"Okay, yeah, you're back." Thankfully, Makena didn't pay the remark much mind, just grabbing another fucking syringe from the little rolling table. Despite the weekly T shots, he wasn't any less scared of needles, especially not ones that he didn't know what they were gonna do to him. Makena noticed his poorly-hidden fear, shaking her head slightly. "I told you that you're going to have to get used to injections."

"K-kind of hard to be fucking calm when I'm strapped to a table and I don't know what you're gonna stick in me." Xavier shivered as she disinfected the inside of his elbow.

"I doubt you'll be any calmer once you know what this is. In fact, you'll definitely be more upset." Makena pressed her fingers against his skin, looking for a vein.

"That doesn't make me-Fuck!" Once again, he couldn't stop himself from fucking crying as the needle slid into his vein, shuddering as she pulled it out.

Makena disposed of the syringe, grabbing a notepad and pen and coming back to stand over him. "Do you want me to tell you what it is?" she asked tiredly.

"Of course I do, I want to know what the hell you're doing to me!"

"It's cyanide."

"Cy-wait what are you-you're just-all of that and now you're just going to fucking kill me why-" Makena slapped a hand over his mouth, cutting off his panicked questions.

"Calm down, it's nowhere near a lethal dose, and I have the antidote right here. I just need to ensure that you have a typical reaction to the poison. As much as I dislike you, subjects of the appropriate blood type are rare enough that I can't just eliminate you whenever I feel like it. Now," she lifted her hand, "how are you feeling?"

"Vete a la verga."

"Angry, still high energy," she muttered, taking notes. She checked his finger thing, noting that shit down, too.

Xavier was about to curse at her again when he felt the first wave of dizziness hit him, pain creeping into his head along with it. He jerked against the straps, wanting to hide his face from the bright lights and Makena's piercing gaze. Fuck, he felt like the world was starting to spin. What…what was happening? He was going to die, wasn't he? She was lying. This was the end.

And then all of a sudden he felt like there was a hand wrapped around his neck, pressure on his chest, and just breathing became difficult. He tried as hard as he could to suck in every ragged breath, each clumsy exhale making the world swim more and more. Makena was saying something, gloved hands touching his face, and all he could do was wince as he focused on trying to keep breathing, stay alive, don't let it end here. Wherever here was, he wasn't entirely sure. All he knew was that he didn't want to die.

But, as his vision started to go dark, he remembered that what he wanted didn't matter anymore.

A third needle jabbed into his shoulder, pulling him out of the blackness.

He gasped, coughing, as things started to come back into focus. Bright lights, annoying beeping, tight straps, cold air, pounding in his head, the eyes looking down at him not the slightest bit concerned despite his brush with death.

"There, that was it. You did well. Now, tell me, what did you experience?"

"I…" he wanted out of here, off this goddamn table, away from her observant gaze, picking him apart in her head, but he also wanted to resist, to punish her back for fucking dropping him off a cliff and catching him at the last second. "I felt totally fine the whole time. No symptoms."

Her finger swiped at the corner of his eye, coming away with a teardrop clinging to the surface of the blue glove. "These say otherwise."

"That was just 'cause of the needle."

"Uh-huh." Makena removed the sensors from his chest and the little thing from his fingertip. "Well, if you need a little more time to reflect on your experience, that's fine," she said as she busied herself turning off the various screens around the room. Once she was finished, she stood in the doorway, hand over the light switch. "I'll let you have a little alone time to think about it. Be back in a few hours." She flicked the lights off, plunging the room into blackness.

"Hey, wai-" The door clicked shut, and Xavier was left alone in the dark, unable to move.

Maybe that hadn't been the smartest decision, but he was stuck with it now.

Xavier wasn't afraid of the dark, at the very least. And there was a bit of light from under the door, anyway, so it wasn't totally black. He was totally stuck, though, and he was not a fan of that. Especially not lying on his back like this, the same position he was in every time Makena drew his blood or like when she'd buckled the stupid fucking collar around his neck. Not to mention the awful shit he just went through. No way was he ever sleeping on his back again.

This was even more boring than being stuck in his cell. At least there he could fucking move and there was more to look at than just darkness. And he had access to a bathroom, which he was kind of starting to want. He hoped to fuck Makena came back and let him up before that became a problem.

Did that mean he was going to answer her questions when she came back? Yeah, he supposed. If she'd done this experiment before, she probably had an idea of what symptoms he should have experienced, so lying wouldn't really be possible. He bet she was just asking to get him in the habit of cooperating and answering her honestly, which, hell no. He'd lie later, when he could get away with it. Sprinkle it in with the truth enough to mess up her stupid data.

Makena was really taking her sweet-ass time coming back. She had said a couple of hours, and, once again, he was stuck in a windowless void with no great way of telling time. He knew his limbs were getting a little numb and stiff, random itches that he couldn't scratch popping up all over and driving him crazy, growing hunger in his stomach, and a building pressure just below it. He didn't know how much longer he could last.

"Makena! I fucking give up! I'll tell you about my dizziness and my headache and shit just come back already! Makena!" He yelled as loud as he could, but he didn't hear a single footstep in the silence between shouts.

He wasn't gonna make it.

Somehow, he'd managed to humiliate himself even more than the fucking dog collar ever could.

Maybe she wouldn't notice. His sweatpants were black, after all. Maybe she'd be gone so long that it'd all be dried up. He still wanted off of this table, but if staying here a little longer meant she didn't know what had happened…maybe that would be better.

As if on cue from the god of inconvenience, the door opened and the lights clicked on a few minutes later. He saw the way her nose curled at the very distinctive stench that he had forgotten to take into account, and that was that. She knew.

"Maybe I left you a little too long, huh?" Well, at least she wasn't laughing at him. "I assume you're ready to talk, then?"

"Uh, yeah." Xavier swallowed. "It gave me a headache and made me dizzy and it was really hard to breathe. And I almost passed out." There was a pause. "Is that enough?"

"Yup. See how easy that was?" Makena finished her notes and began to release the straps holding him down. "Are you going to let me take you back to your cell without a fuss? You should have clean clothes there."

Xavier was doing a lot more cooperating than he was used to, but, what, was he gonna try to run like this? And maybe she'd have to clean off the table, which would be annoying enough for her right now. "I'll go back," he grumbled, wincing as he sat up, his numb limbs tingling now that they were free.

Makena simply nodded, probably not wanting to push her luck with his compliance. Still, once he'd stood up, her hand wrapped around his wrist, not too tight, but enough to remind him not to run. Whatever, fine, just take him back and leave him alone already.

"I'll bring you lunch after you clean yourself up, alright?" she said as she lightly pushed him through the doorway into his cell. Xavier just nodded and pulled his arm out of her grip, not turning around even after he heard the door shut.

He undressed quickly, throwing his soiled clothes in the corner of the room before grabbing a fresh set from one of the unlocked cabinets. Just plain white tank tops, boxers, and black sweatpants. Not clothes he particularly disliked, at least, if he had to wear the exact same thing every fucking day.

Clothes in hand, he went into the bathroom and started the shower, making it as hot as he could stand. He started furiously scrubbing his thighs, trying to get rid of the sensation of warmth leaking out all over them, and before he knew it he'd sunk to the floor, the sobs crawling up his throat making it clear that he was crying, even if he couldn't feel the tears on his cheeks.

If-no, when he got out of this, he was never, never, never gonna tell anyone about that. He'd tell them about the captivity, the experiments, maybe even about the awful, annoyingly waterproof collar, humiliating as it was. Those were things he survived, things that made him tough to have lived through, but being stuck tied to a table for a few hours due to his own stubbornness and fucking pissing himself like a toddler? That was just stupidity. Weakness. Pointless defiance.

He couldn't make himself stop fighting, but he was starting to wonder how much it was going to cost him.

Taglist (i want YOU to join my army 🫵👁👁): @befuddled-calico-whump @weibun-art @rainbowsandwhumperflies @catnykit @vampiresprite

@yet-another-heathen @suspicious-whumping-egg @toyybox @ziptiesnfries @whump-queen

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unushya

previous // Masterlist //

cw: vaguely referenced abuse/fear of abuse

§•§•§

They wintered by the sea. 

In the days Tansy spent healing, Cerus regained some of his strength, no longer looking like he was hovering on the verge of death. Warmth and sleep chased away his fever and the worst of his cough, and weeks of good food began to soften the sharp angles of his face and frame. Despite returning to something that almost resembled wellness, some of his injuries lingered, and Tansy knew the journey to the little village of Unushya was to be a slow one.

Winter warmed into spring, and as the weather eased, Tansy and Cerus began their journey southward, leaving behind the cold sea winds and cobblestone of Tansy’s village. Their uncle sent them off with good wishes and plenty of provisions, shaking his head at their decision, though they swore they saw a smile cross his wrinkled face as he bid them goodbye.

It felt almost a relief to be on the road again, to fall into the rhythm of travel. How strange it was, to find a journey into the unfamiliar more familiar than the place they'd so long called home. How strange, to leave their village willingly, seeking a new life instead of fleeing for survival. Strange, and good. Less like the death of something old than the growth of something new.

When they at last reached their destination, the greens of spring had begun their slow crawl across the land. Unushya was small. A few scattered farmhouses surrounded a commons; a chapel and a hall and a handful of shops with a stone square at the very center of it all. Oceans of grain and tall grasses spread out to the east, and a thick treeline sat to the west, what looked to be a mile past the border.

The village was nearly deserted at the hour of their arrival, but a brief exchanging of words with a passerby directed them to Tess, the older woman with whom the council had spoken to directly. Her face was weathered and stony, but her eyes were not unkind, and she looked Cerus over with a gaze that was more appraising than judgemental.

“Not a lotta meat on him, eh? And he's supposed to till an acre?”

Perhaps afraid this would turn ill, Cerus didn't speak, only bowing his head at her words. 

“He is to work the fields,” Tansy said carefully. “By order of the council.”

Tess chuckled. “He's got a crooked stance. I'm not all that keen on setting him at a plow.”

They could sense the tension growing in Cerus, and it was difficult to keep his unease from seeping into themselves. But instead of following with some darker suggestion, Tess only shrugged.

“He can work in the chapel gardens. The labor there is a shade gentler.”

Their eyes found Cerus's. His expression was hard to read, but some of the fear seemed to have gone, at least for now.

It was a start.

Tess gave them a brief walkabout of the town, pointing out shops and neighbors, met with friendly greetings at every turn. Some of the strangers—well, Tansy supposed they were the strangers here—fixed them with stares or curious looks, but there seemed to be no hostility. After the rounds had been made, Tess steered them towards the edge of town, where a cottage stood.

It was a worn little building, stone and thatch weathered by storm and sun, but there was a certain charm to it, perhaps greatened by their weeks on the road.

“This should suit the two of you. Might do with some cleaning, but…”

“It's wonderful,” Tansy said, offering her a smile. They'd been uncertain of what may lay ahead on their travels, prepared for meeting the worst. A little home was far from the worst.

“I'll leave you to get settled then,” Tess said, reaching out to clasp Tansy’s hand, returning their smile with a warm one of her own. Then, to their surprise, she turned to Cerus. He flinched back when she reached for his hand, eyes widening as if searching for the woman's intent.

Tess withdrew her arms, clasping her hands together instead. Her smile softened, but did not wane. “We hope you feel welcome at Unushya, Cerus Hollowthorn,” she said, giving a small inclination of her head before turning away and walking back towards the village proper, silhouetted by the falling sun.

Beside them, Cerus let out a shaky breath. “I'd thought she might…”

“I understand.” Tansy'd thought as much too. They might have believed Unushya had been untouched by the war for its people to view Cerus without malice, but they'd witnessed the truth themselves, seen the marks of flame and ash, the fresh repairs and new growth. They'd suffered with the rest of Feyadel. Had something as impersonal as a council decree truly shifted their opinions?

Perhaps that was a part of it. In any case, they should be grateful for the lack of hostility; the careful promise of peace.

“Shall we go in?” They laid a hand on the wooden door, polished and new compared to the rest of the structure, pushing inside as Cerus gave a nod.

The interior was dim, and they propped the door open to allow for more light. Before them was a small common area, furnished with wooden floors and a simple table and chair, a hearth opposite the door with an iron kettle strung over it. A second door past it led to a pair of rooms. Each had a clean straw-stuffed cot that looked to be newly made, woolen blankets folded neatly over each. The smaller of the two was lined with shelves, and may have once been used as a pantry. Cerus took it without prompting.

“Should I leave you alone to rest?” they asked, lingering in his doorway for a moment as he ran a shaking hand over the blanket.

“I… yes. It's been a long day.”

And a new start was overwhelming. Tansy could remember the days after they'd joined the army, keeping still and quiet, afraid of making trouble, uncertain of what to do next. Nearer still, they could recall when they first returned to their home village, surrounded by ghosts of the familiar, feeling like they were walking through a memory with no substance. Both times, they'd fallen into step quick enough, but they'd never faced the uncertainties Cerus was likely poring over. Would the townspeople harm him? Could they be reminded of his reign and turn their backs on him? 

“They seem like a good people,” Tansy offered, hoping it would ease his worries. Instead, Cerus’s brow furrowed.

“They are not so forthright as the others,” he answered. “I do not know how long that will last.”

“They were given order not to harm you,” they pressed.

“And since when do orders stand in the way of—” Cerus cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “I cannot trust it. Not yet.”

They understood. Only time would tell. “Don’t forget that I am your protector. I won't see you come to harm.”

Something soft and pained entered Cerus's expression as he looked up at them. “You give me too much.”

Similar conversations had been spoken on their journey here. As always, Tansy only gave him a small smile. “It's a duty I chose, and one I take pride in.”

“I doubt others will see the honor in guarding the shadow king.”

“Ah, but you’re not the shadow king.” Their smile tipped up on one end. “Last I heard, you were a gardener.”

That at least got a muted snort from Cerus, the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose.”

“Rest. Tomorrow may be another long day.” How strange it was, to give a command to a once-king, yet it had become nearly mundane in their weeks spent together. Tansy pulled Cerus's door closed on their way out, stepping into their own room.

Stranger still was the notion that this was their home now. How long had it been, since they'd considered themselves at home? They were comfortable at their uncle's house, yet they'd always felt like something of a guest or a caretaker. Years, then. This wasn't home yet, but could it be? They looked around the nearly-bare room, imagining where they could put their few possessions, where they might string up a dried bouquet or lay a trinket. 

Somewhere to stay, somewhere peaceful. Somewhere new, mending and growing and kind in spite of the war. They could learn to tend a garden here, right alongside Cerus. They could befriend people who didn't remember them as a child or view them as a soldier. Hunt in the woods and explore the surrounding fields. A new beginning.

It wasn't home yet, but Tansy thought it very much could be.

It wasn't home yet, but it felt like a promise.

§•§•§

tag list:

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chiswhumpcorner  @whatwhumpcomments , @dont-look-me-in-the-eye , @turn-the-tables-on-them , @pigeonwhumps , @itsmyworld23 , @andromeda-liske , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @haro-whumps , @kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @whumpedydump , @mannerofwhump ,  @delicateprincepaper , @sonder35 , @currentlyinthesprial

[whumpflash]

I don’t know why but I’m imaging Nisha in a world where healers are used as kind of glorified slaves, and then they get assigned to one that’s already been through a lot of shit and is tired and bitter and poor Nishas just rethinking their world view and being like

???it wasn’t right that they got whipped for forgetting to say sir once?? This isn’t ok, they’re trying their best and they’re not a criminal? What do you mean this is how all healers are treated?

oooooh

Nisha raised in lower nobility, taking the role of healers for granted because they've always been there. Perhaps the ones they grew up around were treated well, never giving them a reason to wonder. They were busy with other studies after all.

Of course a war healer might be treated worse, more overworked and in danger. Maybe even expendable, if there are enough of them in a camp. There to serve the soldiers, not held in any high regard, and commanded to show respect.

I think Nisha would find it disgusting if it came to light, or if a camp healer were punished for "disrespectful" to another general. Even if there were a surplus of healers, they're still necessary and deserve their own respects

[whumpflash]

In the interest of time, I'm sure I will write this Iron Hawk AU one day if full comic doesn't happen. But for now! some highly specific whump. Griffith is physically disastrous after enduring a month of torture but returning to command has him right back in the saddle, which isn't ideal for his recovery. He's developed an issue with Guts touching him, which results in angry outbursts and hurt feelings. Guts being conflicted about being by his side or leaving him be is so delicious to me.

[whumpflash]

OH FUN. grabbing a magic system I made for a dormant novel (that I wanna reuse at some point)

magic is One Big Dude

magic lives somewhere else

if you wanna do something you need to let the Dude into your house

there are special keys made for this

or if you're more ambitious you can make out with the Dude and channel shit directly through yourself (takes much energy)

if you're really cool you can learn the Dude's name and start a partnership (rare)

the Dude has a different name for Every Single Task (because of course)

leaving it an open tag!!

Badly Explained Magic Tag

Explain the magic system of your current WIP as poorly as possible. Bonus points if you use bullet points

Ooooo, bullet points. This’ll be fun. Thank you for the tag, @inhurtandincomfort

Magic is oil.

Put the oil in your car to make it go! Put the oil in your iPhone to make it do things! Or put the oil in your veins to make yourself do things! (Yes this is written by an American, how could you tell?)

Want the servers to stop going down from high traffic? You need more magic.

You need more magic? Kill people who live where there’s lots of magic! :)

Aw damn…now they’re going to war with you…Who could have foreseen this turn of events?

I shall tag @paingoes and @catnykit and ummmm…I’m gonna be real, I’m not sure who else is writing a magic system, but if you are, feel free to join!!!

[whumpflash]

Neutralizer: Drawn-Out Defeat

in which Xavier fights more and loses more. who could have guessed.

←Previous

Ingredients: slightly rough wound care, manhandling, a tiny bit of choking, blood draw

After threatening to fucking kill him, Makena left Xavier alone to eat his boring hospital food in peace, so that was something. After that, he really did get up and stretch a bit. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious after passing out, and as much as it would be nice to know, the thought of how long it might have been scared him. What if it'd been days? Though…what did it matter? His chances of rescue were slim at best, no matter how recently he'd disappeared. He was too deep in enemy territory, not even being kept in a POW camp like any rescuers would expect.

All he could do was hope that the war would be over soon, and that Rimdall was on the losing side.

Until then, he was on his own. 

While he was waiting for Makena to return, Xavier explored his small…room? Cell? It wasn't much, just a hospital bed with a beside table, a locked cabinet, and a connected bathroom that had a walk-in shower and some basic toiletries. He was tempted to look in the mirror, but ended up deciding against it. It wasn't that he was scared to look at the ear tag or his haircut, he just…he just didn't want to right now. He just wanted to remember what he used to look like for a little longer, and that was it.

The hospital bed had a little remote that adjusted the angle and the like, which was convenient since there wasn't even a chair in here. Well, there was one of those little rolling stools, but chairs without backs were always uncomfortable after a few minutes. He'd stick to the bed. 

Though, looking at it from a different angle…there was something hanging down from under the bed. He grabbed it, examining the sturdy leather and soft pads.

Restraints. Of course.

He knew he was probably going to be tied up at some points during this experience, hell, he had a goddamn chain around his ankle right now, but that left him with a decent freedom of movement, mainly preventing him from attacking Makena an running out of the room. But these…he'd be pretty much immobile, trapped on the bed, completely at Makena's or whoever else's mercy. Fuck that. No way. He wouldn't let them. 

He'd already made it clear he wasn't gonna be a good little lab rat, and that wasn't gonna change anytime soon.

In the spirit of being a pain in the ass, he discovered that his bed remote had a little red call button, which he pressed incessantly until a very annoyed Makena burst into his cell.

"What in god's name do you want?" 

Xavier met her glare with an innocent smile. "I didn't think it worked."

The look she gave him already made this stunt more than worth it. "Yeah, right." She checked her watch. "You know what, fine, if you want some attention, your bandages are due to be changed anyway. Take your shirt off."

The one thing he wasn't going to resist was his very necessary medical care, so Xavier obeyed and carefully pulled off his tank top, gritting his teeth as he shifted his wound. "Did the bullet go right through me?" he asked as Makena collected supplies from the now-unlocked cabinet. 

"Yes. You were lucky it didn't hit any vital organs or major blood vessels." She pulled the stool up the to bed, sitting down beside him and beginning to peel of the bandage on his back. "You still lost quite a bit of blood since you hit your head, too. Thankfully, the medics they brought you to had O negative blood, since you likely would have died otherwise."

Despite how much this situation sucked, Xavier was still glad he hadn't bled out unceremoniously in the dirt. "What-ouch-what if I had a different blood type? And you didn't-" he sucked in a breath as Makena dabbed stinging disinfectant on his wound, definitely not being as gentle as she could be.

"You wouldn't have been worth the effort to keep alive otherwise, so they probably would have just left you there." She said it so matter-of-fact-ly, like it should have been obvious to him that his life would have been judged as unnecessary if he hadn't fit the bill for a test subject. Not something he particularly wanted to dwell on.

Unfortunately, he was finding it hard to make conversation about anything unrelated to his current situation, so all he could do was move away from the whole "your life isn't worth anything outside of this experiment" topic. He spoke up again as she pressed a new bandage on his back. "What's so important about my blood type, anyway? I know it's the universal donor, but…"

"Hmm…I could tell you, but I don't really want to. I think it's funnier when you're stuck wondering what's going to happen to you." He knew Makena was a jerk, but geez.

"So you're not going to tell me anything, then?" he huffed, turning around so she could take care of the other side of the wound.

"Maybe I would if you behaved like this all the time, but something tells me you won't."

"Okay, that's fair, because I won't."

Makena sighed wistfully. "I miss Number Eight." Xavier thought about asking who that was, but his guess was another test subject of hers, and given her tone of voice…he couldn't let himself end up like that. He wouldn't.

He stared down at the short line of stitches on his stomach, the light pink skin around them standing out against his usual tan. "These are looking good, at least," Makena muttered as she started slathering disinfectant around the area, once again not being all that careful. Xavier just clenched the sheets in his fists, figuring this was his punishment for spamming the call button.

She repeated the process with the injury on his head, and he was glad when it was over and she stepped back out of his personal space. The relief was short-lived, though, her hand wrapping around his wrist after he'd put his shirt back on.

"What are yo-Hey! Fuck, stop it, let me go!" Xavier squirmed and tried to pull away, but Makena managed to buckle one of the bed's restraints around his wrist with practiced precision. She grabbed his other hand as he tried to free himself, poking her finger into the stitches in his stomach. Xavier howled in pain, pausing his struggles long enough for Makena to slam his other arm onto the mattress and hold it down while she wrapped the padded cuff tightly around it.

"Fucking stop it! I'm not gonna let you do this!" He tried his best to kick her, but she managed to grab the chain around his ankle and yank it down.

"That's why I'm not even bothering to ask." She made quick work of strapping down his first leg despite his attempts to kick her with his free one. Sighing, she looked over at him, clearly just annoyed with his resistance. "Are you going to give up now? You've already more than lost."

"I haven't lost if I'm wasting your time, pendeja," Xavier growled, trying to kick her again.

Something died in Makena's eyes. Probably the hope that he was going to behave for her ever. The fact that he was getting to her was enough for him to keep up his fight even as she wrestled his last free limb into the cuff and buckled it down tight. "There. And because I know you'l-yup." Her hand caught Xavier's throat as he sat up to try and headbutt her, slamming him back onto the bed. He choked and coughed, head throbbing, as she wrapped a final strap over his upper arms and chest, her hand only leaving his neck to pull it tight and secure it.

"F-fuck y-cough-you," he sputtered, squirming against the straps. He was out of options now, strapped down and helpless like he'd sworn he wouldn't be a half-hour earlier. 

"Yeah, fuck you, too," Makena said hollowly as she ripped open an alcohol wipe. She rubbed it around the inside of his elbow, and Xavier realized he had been too caught up in the fact that she was strapping him down to think about why she was strapping him down. 

When he saw the needle, hot anger dissipated into cold fear.

"N-no, what the fuck are you-get that away from me!"

Makena just laid it out on the table, the sharp metal point taunting him as she tied a rubber strip around his upper arm. Memories came back to him, of being pressured into donating his precious blood, of doing it because he needed to be a man and get over his fears if he ever wanted to be a man, of trying his best to be brave and keep it together, of crying and passing out before he was even finished.

Was Makena already going to see him break?

"Do you freak out this much every time you have to take your testosterone?" she asked, setting out two small glass vials.

Xavier swallowed, hoping he could keep his voice steady. "I'm not-I use gel." 

"Ah. Well," Makena leaned over him, waving the needle in front of his face, "you're going to have to get used to these. Let's use testosterone injections to help you practice. Exposure therapy." Given the way she was smiling, there was no chance she meant that sincerely. 

"Vete a la verga you just-you just wanna make me suffer." 

Makena shrugged. "Not particularly. You won't behave, so I have to discipline you. Simple as that. If you just cooperated, I wouldn't need to be as harsh with you."

"Of course I'm not gonna fucking cooperate with you, you're keeping me locked up as your prisoner and forcing me to undergo…whatever the hell this is!" The rage was starting to come back, and that was good. He could hold onto that. Use the flames to keep terror at bay, even as she readied the needle and brought it towards his arm.

"Discipline it is, then. Now, please try to relax. Being so tense will only make this worse for you." Xavier wanted to argue, but this was happening, and he wasn't going to be able to stop it. He tried to let go of the tension in his arm, stifling a whine as the needle slid into his arm, eyes snapping to the ceiling after he caught a glimpse of his blood moving through the little tube. The sensation was awful, the needle far more present in his arm than the one for the IV. 

His ears started to ring, dark spots blooming in his vision as more of his blood left his body. The world was spinning, and he didn't know if he could have moved even if he wasn't strapped down. Something warm slid out of the corner of his eye, and as much as it made him want to scream, he didn't have the strength. It hadn't even been a day and Makena already knew his biggest weakness. He was a fucking failure.

Xavier couldn't suppress a gasp as the needle slid out, the feeling just making him tear up more. I-it was over, but it had happened and it was going to again and again and again.

Makena grabbed his chin, turning him to face her. "Good to see you've finally settled down. I think I'll just leave you like this for a bit, let you think about if all this fighting is really worth it." She let him go and collected the two small vials of his blood, holding them up so he could see them. "And just to prove I'm not trying to make you suffer, I'll bring you something sweet to help get your blood sugar back up, mmkay?"

Xavier nodded weakly, just wanting her to leave him alone so he could collect himself, not fully relaxing until he heard the door click shut.

He finally let the tears fall freely, fists clenching at his sides, frustrated that he couldn't even wipe them away. Fuck, he was pathetic.

But the only thing more pathetic would be to give in. To let her do what she wanted with him like a scared little rabbit. No way in hell.

If he was going to suffer either way, he'd rather make her suffer, too.

Taglist (i want YOU to join my army 🫵👁👁): @befuddled-calico-whump @weibun-art @rainbowsandwhumperflies @catnykit @vampiresprite @yet-another-heathen @suspicious-whumping-egg

[whumpflash]

Neutralizer: Rescued...?

New series real!!!! I just need to torment a man for science it's in my blood and I had a lovely idea a few weeks ago so now we're here wheeeeeee

FYI this is set in like an alternate modern world because I wanted to make up fake countries having a fake war and probably some fake science. Pretty much everything else is the same as this world thanks <3

Ingredients: noncon piercing, slight dehumanization, there is an IV but we don't see it going in

The last thing Xavier remembered was the bullet piercing his side. Collapsing in the mud. Hitting his head on a rock. Screaming for help as his squad ran away. And then…

Xavier jerked awake, the beeping of the heart-rate monitor attached to his chest speeding up even as he tried to calm himself down. White walls. Cold sheets. An IV in his arm. His dog tags on the bedside table. A clipboard at the end of the bed.

He was in a hospital, and he was safe.

Sighing in relief, he laid back down, wincing at the pain in his side. Yup, he definitely got shot. Hopefully the bullet was out now.

But…something was weird about the way the pillow touched the back of his head. He could feel it against his neck, like his hair was-

His hands flew up to his head, a sob catching in his throat as his hands ran though what was left of his hair. It had been buzzed short all over, not just around the bandage over his wound. It was a bit longer on the top of his head, but not by much. He'd cut all his hair off when he first started to transition, but he'd ended up hating having short hair, and now he kept it a little past his chin and dyed bright red. He hadn't had it redone in a while, and he sadly wondered if there was even any red left.

Maybe there had just been too much blood and dirt matted in his hair? He couldn't think of any other reason a hospital would do that. He just wished they'd asked his fucking permission.

Really, it was a little unsettling how clean he was. He'd fallen in the mud and definitely bled a lot from his head and his side, but there was no trace of anything on his skin. The thought of the hospital workers stripping him and scrubbing him down and cutting off his hair while he was unconscious was more than a little unnerving. He crossed his arms over his chest, wondering if they were going to respect him or not now that they'd seen his body.

Just as the unease had started to shift into boredom, the door finally clicked open. A Black woman walked in, her dark locs tied up in a messy bun. She gave him a warm smile when they made eye contact.

"I'm glad to see you're awake, is it…Mister Fierro? I'm Dr. Kamau. How are you feeling?"

"Y-yeah. Mister. Um… I'm okay, I guess? My pain's not too bad, so I assume this stuff is helping." He pointed towards the IV bag hanging next to him. Dr. Kamau nodded as she scribbled on his clipboard. "But, um, can I ask why…why did you cut all my hair off without asking me? I-"

"We're sorry about that, sir." She hung her head slightly, frowning. "It was just so matted with blood and dirt, and we needed to take care of the laceration on your head quickly. You'd lost quite a bit of blood between that and your gunshot wound."

Xavier pressed his lips together and nodded. It was the response he expected, but it's not like that would make his hair grow back now. "I understand. A-and thank you for saving my life. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful, I just…"

Dr. Kamau held up a hand. "It's our job, sir. We're just glad we found you in time. Now," she flipped through the pages of the clipboard, "I have a few questions for you, and then I'll go and grab you something to eat. Could you confirm your name and date of birth for me?"

"Xavier José Ramirez Fierro. I was born on August 22."

"Matches up, good, good," she muttered. "Are you on any medication besides testosterone?"

"No. Will I still-"

"Yes, of course. We'll ensure you continue to receive it during the duration of your stay. Do you have any allergies?"

"Shellfish and cats. But I assume the hospital kitchen isn't going to be serving oysters anytime soon."

Dr. Kamau laughed a little at that. "No, no it will not be. Shrimp and crab on occasion, though, so we'll keep that in mind." She finished writing down what she needed to and looked up at him. "Alright, well that about covers it for the basics. I'll go and grab you something to eat, so why don't you try to get up and stretch a little bit? Just be careful of your injuries."

"Sounds good." Once she was gone, Xavier ripped off the blankets over him, moving to swing his legs over the edge of the bed-

There was a chain around his ankle.

Everything started to fall into place.

The lack of windows in the room. The forced haircut. The absence of his phone. The fact that a doctor was tending to him instead of a nurse.

His team didn't come back for him after all.

Xavier gripped the edge of the mattress tightly, the world spinning around him as the beeping of his heartbeat steadily sped up. He ripped the monitor off, trying to focus his racing thoughts. He-he'd been captured by the enemy, and the fact that they were taking care of him meant they wanted something from him. Probably information. They were going to torture him, beat him within an inch of his life once he'd recovered enough not to die in the process.

When Dr. Kamau returned with food, the smell only made him nauseous.

"What the fuck is going on here you-where the hell am I?!" he yelled as she walked in.

Dr. Kamau's demeanor changed immediately, professionalism falling away. "Thank god you finally realized. I was getting tired of putting on that act. I can't believe you were too stupid to notice the chain until I basically told you about it."

"I-chinga tu madre, I have a fucking gunshot wound and there's a lot more things I'd rather pay attention to than my goddamn ankles. Now answer my fucking question."

She rolled her eyes. "You're in a research facility in Rimdall." She smiled smugly. "Eastern Rimdall. You're hours from the border, so don't get any dumb ideas about running."

Xavier swallowed the lump in his throat. "No, wait, go back-research? What the fuck do you mean by-I'm a human being!"

"And?" Dr. Kamau stared at him for a moment. "That doesn't matter to the government. Besides, I'm sure you'll be much more useful as a test subject for us than you were for your own country doing…whatever it is you do." Xavier opened his mouth to retort, but she waved a hand and continued, speaking over him. "Now that you actually know what's going on, I need to give you your barcode before you're allowed to eat."

She pulled out a weird fat pen with a needle at the end from her bag, and after seeing the reservoir filled with black ink, Xavier knew exactly what it was. "N-no, no, I'm not gonna let you fucking tattoo that shit on me. No fucking way." He scrambled backwards in the bed as far as he could, legs ready to kick her if she got any closer.

"Are you actually serious right now?" Dr. Kamau just looked annoyed. "We both know you're not going to win this fight. Just get over yourself, Xavier."

"No, I will not," Xavier leaned forward a bit to read her nametag, "Makena."

She narrowed her eyes. "Doctor Makena."

"I don't give a shit about your pinche evil medicine degree. Now get away from me before I kick you in the face."

"Oh my fucking-" she groaned under her breath as she sighed. Lowering the gun, she took a step back. "Fine, if you're going to be a child about this, will you let me do the alternative? It's less permanent, if that's what you're so hung up about."

Xavier weighed his options. It was either struggle and most likely ultimately lose and get tattooed, or give up for now and let her do whatever the other thing was. Less permanent did sound like a better option…"Fine." He relaxed slightly, crossing his arms.

"Alright. Sit on the edge of the bed, please." She put the tattoo gun away, rummaging around for her next mystery tool.

"Only because you asked nicely." Xavier scooted to the edge of the bed, watching as she pulled out a different little gun and one of those tiny alcohol wipes. Before he could ask what she was going to do to him, she rubbed the wipe on his right earlobe, confirming his suspicions. He still wasn't happy about this, but he'd take it over a tattoo.

"Hold still," she said as she positioned the piercing gun around his earlobe. Xavier winced as it poked through his ear, doing his best not to flinch. "Good." She pulled the gun away, and Xavier hesitantly reached up and felt his new earring.

It was a fucking tag, like the kind you'd put on cattle, and he felt himself go red as he ran his fingers over it.

"Don't you dare take that out or I'll tattoo the barcode on your goddamn face, got it?" Makena growled.

Xavier nodded, looking away. "Fine, I get it, alright? I don't wanna give you an excuse to put your creepfuck hands all over my face."

Makena grabbed a fistfull of Xavier's hair, making it very clear why it had been left longer on top. "Look, kid, I'm not thrilled about having to deal with you either. I've cursed the fact that you have O negative blood about thirty times in the past ten minutes. But I'm gonna have to deal with you, and you're gonna have to deal with me, so tone it the fuck down or I'm gonna end up making sure you fail the experiment on purpose."

Xavier glared back at her. "Why the hell would I just roll over and let you treat me like a lab rat just because you like my blood type? I didn't fucking ask to be here, so maybe I'll fail the experiment on purpose myself just so I don't have to see your stupid face anymore."

A smirk appeared on Makena's face. "You wanna know what happens if you fail the experiment, Xavier?"

"I get sent the fuck out of here."

"No, you idiot," her hand cupped his cheek, patting it, "you die."

Taglist: EMPTY i want YOU to join my army 🫵👁👁

[whumpflash]

castys being eaten alive by a bunch of animals

OKAY sorry for the long wait please enjoy <33

Castys Masterlist

Ingredients: gore, animal attacks, eye whump

People didn't really think about how evil trees could be until they decided to be evil and, today, Castys was people.

He had just been minding his goddamn business in the woods during a storm, trying to leave, actually, abandoning his fishing rod and everything, but, no, not allowed to leave, get pinned under a fallen tree, idiot.

Castys sighed, drawing patterns in the mud he was laying in. Really, he wasn't sure how the fuck he was gonna get out of this one. A giant fucking tree had decided to land right on his back and upper legs, crushing his fucking spine and probably his femurs, he wasn't sure. Obviously, he had died since then from blood loss or exploded organs or something, so now it was just the extreme discomfort of being crushed, with added flair from the bone fragments and tree splinters that were probably sprinkled around in there.

He'd tried to pull himself out using his arms, tried to move his legs at all, tried to twist around and push the tree off, but nothing was working. The stupid thing was just too heavy. He could have gone the crazy route and tried to cut himself out, but guess where he knife was? That's right, at his belt, under so much Tree that there was no chance of him getting to it. And, yes, he'd tried.

He was really starting to get bored when a large, black bird landed in his peripheral. Mm, he was probably a wounded, dying animal as far as it knew, huh? Nice and bloody, not able to move much as it approached. Just great.

Castys tried his best, swatting at it and yelling at it to fuck off, but he was evidently not very threatening, his attempts just met with a cocked head and some cautious pecks, no sign of the stupid thing fleeing. Well, no, the bird was probably smart in this scenario since it could tell he wasn't actually a threat, because he really wasn't, as much as he tried to be.

So here he was, laying on his stomach, pinned under a tree, a big black bird perched on top of his fucking head. He'd already tried smacking it, but it just dodged his awkward swipes and planted its clawed feet on his scalp once more. Bro was determined to just sit on him. Hopefully sitting was all it would do?

Just as Castys had that thought, the bird's head appeared at the top of his vision, peering at him upside down. "What do you want, jackass?" he grumbled. The bird cocked its head, and Castys sighed, rolling his eyes. "You better not be like Crabst-"

With one little peck, the bird proved it was exactly like Crabstard.

"Fuck, are you serious with thi-cut it out!" Castys swatted frantically at the bird, but it was too late, the thing flew out of reach, Castys's left eyeball skewered on its beak. He cupped his fingers over his remaining eye, glaring at the bird as it nibbled on its prize. "Dickhead. Bitchbird. I'm not letting you get the other one."

But, as usual, things got worse. Now, the scent of fresh blood was in the air, and everybody and their fucking mom had to stop by the idiot buffet. First it was more birds, pecking at his arms and face until his other fucking eye was gone too. Then it was…something bigger that had teeth? Look, he was fucking blind right now, so how the fuck should he know? It poked at him with its wet nose, and he was too tired to care anymore, so he didn't bother trying to fight it off.

He was rewarded with teeth in his side, ripping him open, pulling out chunks of his guts, fists clenching in the mud, hot blood dripping more steadily out of his empty eye sockets it was blood, right?, ragged cries sounding in his parched throat as he waited for the dizziness to finally take him so he could at least have a fucking break before all this started over again keep going keep biting keep eating get it ov-

Man, it was nice to have eyeballs again. He was still stuck under a fucking tree, but at least he could…see what was going to eat him next. And prepare himself. What really fucking sucked was the fact that, unless some rando came along to help him, being eaten was probably the only way he was going to get out of this mess.

Days went by, animals came and ate and went, and no such luck. Every time he died, he woke up still very much attached to the portion of his body that was pinned under the tree. The other, much worse possibility of having to wait for the damn thing to rot started to swirl in his mind, having to just fucking lay here as the seasons changed, spending years stuck in this one goddamn spot, picked apart like a cheese platter the whole family was sharing. Or a roast pig, maybe that was a bit more fitting because pigs have bones and stuff and cheese doesn't. Unless the cheese was really fucked up. In conclusion, he would like to get out from under this stupid fucking tree and go eat things instead of being eaten.

So when he saw a bear headed his way, he actually found himself getting excited.

"Hey, hey there buddy, come on over, you wanna eat me sooooooo bad come on maul me maul-" Castys cut himself off, watching the bear more closely. It was swaying as it walked, stumbling almost, its eyes sort of glassy, its mouth ringed with foam. That…that wasn't right. "Okay, actually, change of plans, could you leave me alone, please? Just go on your merry way. I don't know what everyone else has been telling you, but I really don't taste that good."

The bear stopped for a moment, and Castys nearly let out a sigh of relief. Did that actually-no, nope, it did not work at all, the bear was charging at him now, eyes focused, closing the gap between them, pouncing, its sharp teeth digging into Castys's hea-

Castys woke up with a start, gasping as if he'd just had a nightmare. He-he didn't feel-a smile broke out on his face as he looked down at the rest of his body, flung a little ways away from the fallen tree. Finally. But he could hear…huffing. Ripping. Cautiously, he looked to where he'd been trapped, and…yup, the bear was still there, ravenously tearing off chunks of his previous body. It must have just ripped off his fucking head and tossed it aside to get to the good stuff. Brutal, but it worked out in his favor.

He didn't dare move until the bear was long gone, sitting up slowly and wiping a grayish chunk of…ew, was that his fucking brain? He didn't know what else would have ended up on his forehead like that, so that was great. Anyway. No more flesh bits on him. After a little debate, he ventured over to the carnage left behind by the bear.

Broken bones, torn muscle, unidentifiable bits of organs, enough blood puddles to splash in…yeah, there was no way he was getting any of his belongings back. At least he always came back to life with pants on, for some weird reason, and his neck pouch was enchanted to show up at his house if it was about to be destroyed or off of his person for three days, so no harm there.

Well, that was enough of that. He was thirsty as shit, and was starting to feel a little hot, so he knew what is next step was.

Time to find some water.

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump​ @blackrosesandwhump​ @fanmanga1357-blog​​ @thehopelessopus​ @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi​

@hearse-song​ @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101 @yet-another-heathen​​ @galaxywhump​ 

@starnight-whump​ @his-unspoken-words​ @misspelledwitch​ @suspicious-whumping-egg​ @pumpkin-spice-whump​ 

@painsandconfusion​ @i-can-even-burn-salad​​ @befuddled-calico-whump​ @whumpinggrounds​ @whump-queen​

@whumpedydump​ @catnykit​

[whumpflash]

….pst hey, hey you. I-I asked around and heard you were a dealer. Listen man I got some compliments, only two because I’m strapped for cash, but I was wondering if you…got the goods if you know what I mean/s

(skdjdjkeke)

I may have a few things up your alley, we got classics like...

- wrong-place-wrong-time post-apocalyptic pet whump

- cringefail evil overlord falls into the hands of his subjects

- sad babyboy ex-prince doesn't remember who he is

- pirate captain loses more than he thought he would

and

- we promise this dragon torture is for the greater good

...other daily specials can be made available on request :)

[whumpflash]

In League – Chase (Hugh pt 2)

Masterlist

Just a little more backstory to this tiny side arc. Immediately follows this. Late-19th century whump. Dubious caretaker stalking whumpee who doesn't want to be helped.

Hugh’s mouth waters as he unwraps the damned parcel.

For all he knows, it may well be a rock. But it’s not, it’s a pasty. Edges neatly crimped, not a single seam run over by the filling escaping. He can’t remember the last time he tasted meat. His stomach, reawakened by the close promise of food, aches for the first bite. He lifts it to his mouth but the image of the older boy, smirking as he forced Hugh’s hand, flashes through his mind and fills him with bitter shame. 

Stupid. So stupid. For unwrapping it and for taking it at all. Should have let the dog have it. Left it like the milk and the last pie. 

He knows better. 

The shortcrust is buttery-smooth and flaky under his fingers. Hugh lifts his hand, angling to throw the whole damn thing into the river. 

But that cocky older boy thinks he’s won. Thinks he has the upper hand, imagining the weak, street urchin eating up every morsel of charity he’s granted. 

He carefully rewraps it, tying off the string exactly as before. 

It’s not difficult to find him. Having followed him in return, Hugh knows his routines well, excepting the deviations of his hell-bent pursuit. Even more reason not to accept anything, not knowing why the leader of one of the most notorious gangs in the city would spend so much time seeking him out.  

***

Something flies at Wyatt, hitting him square in the chest. He catches it and frowns. 

It’s the fucking pie, still perfectly wrapped. 

The square is unoccupied, not another soul in sight. The angles are all wrong to throw it from the streets or one of the alleys. He resists the urge to search the branches above him, knowing himself to be observed. The idea that he cares what the urchin boy thinks of him is as curious as the hunger strike of the very same. The wrought iron fence bordering the park poses too much of an obstacle with high hedges serving as a visual perimeter on the inside. There isn’t even an entrance to the park in this square, it’s around the corner and a block away.  

He almost laughs. Exactly why the boy picked it. 

Sure enough, there he is, finding space where there is none. Stood up on the footer of the fence, he’s a head taller than Wyatt. Even armed with this and the iron his shield, he leans as far back as the shrubbery behind him allows. His expression is equally guarded, painstakingly stripped of emotion to the point of transparency. The tell couldn’t be plainer: this confrontation is not something he’s comfortable with. 

“Midge is a good cook, you know,” Wyatt tells him, stepping back to lean against the tree. The sole feature in the square, flanked by a neat ring of cobblestones and its own miniature wrought iron fence. It repays the honour by unsettling the entire surface of the square millimeter by millimeter with its splaying roots. “I can’t abide wasting food either.” 

He betrays no reaction as Wyatt eats the pie in front of him. One of the three buttons on his grimy shortsleeved shirt is missing, probably the same one he wore the night Wyatt first laid eyes on him. He’s pale from the cold, the only colour on his face the dark circles under his eyes. Wyatt wonders when he last slept truly at ease. 

“I have another, if you’ve any inclination—” 

The boy’s glare stops Wyatt from reaching for it. A stare sharp enough to cut ice. Jaw tense and twitching like he’s grinding his molars together. “What do you want?” He asks in a rush, bullying it down to one word. Whadyawant? 

“Nothing,” Wyatt answers easily. Too easily. The boy narrows his eyes. “To talk,” he amends. “I just want to talk.” 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. Fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Itching to run. 

“Let me start from the beginning.” By some miracle, the boy humours him. “I’m Wyatt—” He extends his hand, stopping before he breaches the fence and holding it there. “And you?”

The boy shakes his head like surrendering his hand or name would be akin to signing away his life. For all Wyatt knows he could be a scarper. 

“Fair enough.” He lets his hand fall and waits with baited breath, knowing it’s a risk to think the boy will break the silence. 

But with a huff of frustration, he does. “I-I know…know who y-you are.” There’s challenge in the question, the lift of his chin once he poses it, and perhaps something more Wyatt can’t yet see. 

“I can’t say the same.” 

The boy glares. “W-w-why are you, you, f-following me?” 

Wyatt wonders if his dysfluency is borne of fear. “If you know who I am, you must know something about what we do.” 

He nods, a single jerk of his chin. 

Wyatt pretends not to notice the lad’s flinch as he lifts a hand to hold onto the bars. He taps his fingertips along it absently, wondering how many cards to reveal, distracted by the thrill of the game escalating so suddenly. “What do you know of the others? The Boys?” 

He narrows his eyes, suspicious. 

“A fair few came in off the streets or workhouse. Orphans, runaways—” 

“They’re in-in-indebted to y-you.” 

“Quite the opposite. I owe some of them my life twice over. Even if I didn’t, there’s nothing to earn or owe between us.” 

Wyatt can all but see the gears trying to turn in his head but nothing has ever gone smoothly for him, that much is plain. 

“There’s safety in numbers, in our ranks. We own this side of the city and watch out for each other.” 

The boy’s eyes snap to his, for once vulnerable. It’s like seeing them for the first time, bright hazel that catches light where there is none. Embers of topaz in sun, yellow enough to evoke a feline quality, something inhuman. Coupled with his dark hair and alabaster features, he could only ever be called striking, never handsome, never homely. Perhaps evoking reactions of a similar extreme. “W-w-why?” 

“Because,” Wyatt says, gentling his voice and answering the hidden question. “We know what it is to be cold. What it is to be hungry. What it is to be alone in all the world.” 

The boy looks away. Wyatt suppresses a smirk, imagines his eyes filming with tears, that he finally found a way to reach him. When he turns, he’ll—

“You, you p-prey on them.” 

Wyatt bristles, brings his other hand up to grip the iron bars between them. “Perhaps it’s too much to wrap your head around from inside your cage.” 

“It’s-s n-not.” 

“Lad, it’s as much a prison as a protection. The very thing keeping you out of reach prevents you reaching anything.” 

He shakes his head adamantly. “Just, just be-be-because my loyalty can’t-can’t be b-bought—” 

“Again, underscoring my point. You only limit yourself.”

“You’re n-n-nothing, nothing but a h-hunter,” he spits. 

Wyatt sighs, disappointed in his lack of imagination. “If that were true, I could take you by the throat this instant.” The boy stiffens, eyes darting to Wyatt’s hands, both still wrapped around the bars. His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, perhaps already imagining he can’t. “I could have you gasping for breath under my fingers. Leave you bloody and bruised.” Wyatt rests his forehead against the iron, like he can’t bear the weight anymore, and softens his voice. Nearly a whisper. “To what end, lad?” 

It’s not his imagination that the boy leans in, just a fraction, for just a breath, before he realizes and overcorrects, shoulders pushing into the unwelcoming shrubbery behind him. With equal sacrifice, he rebuilds his guarded expression. “It’s all, all, always the s-same.” 

Wyatt tilts his head. “Enlighten me.” 

“You-you’re…” He searches Wyatt’s face, incredulous. “You’re s-s-serious?” 

He nods. The more Wyatt can learn about his limited view, the better chance of reframing everything to fit it, to make him understand. 

The longer the silence draws, the more Wyatt thinks the boy won’t tell him. That for all the sparring they did, this round will end in yet another fruitless draw. A raindrop lands on the back of Wyatt’s hand and runs down his knuckles. Another falls onto the boy’s eyebrow, making his eyelashes flutter. Wyatt can’t bear the thought of the boy sentencing himself to another night out in the rain. 

“I’ve already revealed my hand, nothing up my sleeve. What do you have to lose? Fortress or cage we both know I’m not dressed to scale this barrier and you’ll be in the wind by the time I make it to the entrance. You ensured I was alone.” He smirks. “I could learn a thing or two from you about tailing.” 

The compliment earns him a flicker of a smile. “That you, you c-c-could.” But even as the boy teases him, he withdraws, turning his gaze skyward to observe the gathering rainclouds. “No-no one’s ever t-t-tried so, so hard. I-I don’t, don’t understand.” 

“It’s not you, it’s anyone like you.” 

Those strange eyes study his face. 

“Won’t you tell me? I promise not to seek you out again. I’ll leave you be.” 

There’s a flash of something like confusion or dismay across his sharp features. “The only-only p-p-place for me is, is with m-myself. I don’t—” He shakes his head. “It-it never, never works anywhere else. People don’t-don’t abide d-d-differences.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

“I know th-that,” the boy snaps. “It’s e-e-everyone else.”  

Wyatt considers him for a moment, weighing the delicacy of the situation. It’s likely he’s heard every version of every lie that might have gotten his labor, his company, his trust, only to have it turned around. The rain falls more insistently, in just a few minutes the sky will open up to pour. “I can’t promise you anything except a roof over your head, a lock on your door, and the only key in your hand. The rest, well, the cost to bear would be time.”

The boy only chews his lip but, for the first time, his fingers and hands have stilled and it’s the slowest his breath has been. 

“Think on it,” Wyatt says casually, as if they’re only talking about which pub to visit. He has to be the one to end this exchange. To prove he’s not doggedly trying to change his resolve, the ball must remain with the boy. Draw or not, Wyatt is optimistic this conversation will not be easily forgotten. 

A gust of wind cuts through the air and the boy blinks out of his concentration with a shiver. 

In a snap decision he may later regret, Wyatt shrugs off his jacket and threads it over the crossbar of the fence. “I’m certain you already know where to give it back, perhaps even faster than I can return home myself.” 

He expects the boy to decline immediately and is fully prepared to leave the coat there. 

As if aware any remaining warmth inside the garment is fleeting, the boy pulls it into his arms immediately. He hesitates only before pulling it on, lips pressed together as he searches Wyatt’s face. 

“Hugh,” he offers and slips his thin arms into the sleeves. He wraps himself up, rather than fastening the buttons, crossing his arms over his middle, and shivers into the shelter of the coat. 

Wyatt almost smirks at his insistence on leveling the exchange. “Hugh. Take care of yourself. You know where to find me.” Against every impulse, he walks away. 

When he turns onto the street, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the fenceline is empty. 

Even so, he considers it a win. 

Masterlist

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

@writereleaserepeat @meetmeinhellcroutons

[whumpflash]

lay with me//out on the prairie: prelude

1,207 Words | AO3

The Butcher grew up in a house of violence. He’s used to the sound of hog screams, rattling chains, and sobs against his ear—hidden behind bedroom doors. The smell of iron, chemicals, and death seemed permanently seared in his nostrils. 

By the age of ten, he already knew how to hang said hogs and bleed them dry. He would learn to gut one at the age of thirteen. Clean hand. Dirty hand. The knives used to bite at his fingers, leaving behind thin, little scars. 

He did not have his father's tongue. In speech or in taste. The man was charming, with an appetite for meat. He could talk himself in and out of any situation. Often flirting with the waitress right in front of his mousy wife. “You got your queerness from your mother—” he had said once, a cigar pinched between his teeth. His father cackled, a meaty hand slapping at the butcher’s shoulder blades. 

The butcher would become familiar with Mr. Delaney around 13. A striking man who walked with a cane. He was always dressed in crisp jeans, a colorful button up, and a heavy gold watch. Mr. Delaney was a quiet man compared to his father. They were an odd couple at best. 

He’d stop by once a month, his cherry red pickup truck gleaming in the sun. He would greet the butcher first, digging into his pockets and slipping a caramel into his palm. The butcher was not used to such sweet things, but he immediately loved how the stiff block melted against his tongue. He'd develop a sweet tooth not long after, followed by his first cavity. 

Mr. Delaney was always accompanied by two men. Black boots and black jeans with pistols strapped to their hips. Some nights they’d show up and roll a body out of the back of their truck. Head bagged. The body would kick and yell, digging its heels into the dirt.

Sometimes the butcher could swear he heard screaming. Different from the hogs. It wouldn’t be long before he learned he was right. 

The kids at school regularly teased him about his silent, brooding demeanor. He was small back then. Freckled, pale, and dark eyed. Voice stolen from him after getting sick as a child. And then in seventh grade, he grew like a great oak tree. Sturdy and broad. And just as violence was used against him, he used violence to defend himself, exchanging blows with kids after school behind the dumpster. When he came home with a black eye, his father put a butterfly knife in the palm of his hand.

It mostly stayed in his pockets, collecting lint. 

He started work young. Most of his evenings after school were spent helping his father out at the shop—pushing slabs around in the freezer or packaging fresh cuts. Soon enough, he’d graduate to actual butchering. He didn’t mind the work. In fact, he found it sort of calming. Carefully slicing open the abdomen and removing intestines, liver, stomach, heart, and lungs. Creating husks of bodies that he’d later cut apart into slabs and strips. There was a strict order to the work. A system. He liked the rhythm. The feeling of the firm, marbled slabs in his hands. Slick bones. 

When he was sixteen, he gutted his first human. A man who reeked of cologne and was covered in faded tattoos. His father showed him how to carefully dismember the man, carving away “the good bits” before feeding the rest to the hogs. 

They ate stew the next night. A hearty mix of tender meat and vegetables. 

A year later, his father would die in a car crash. It was the dead of winter. An elderly couple driving on the I-90 saw the wreckage from the road. His truck crumpled in the ditch. The sheriff ruled it as an accident.

“Black ice.” 

His mother, who had also been in the truck, had somehow survived the crash. She’d been in a coma for a few months before finally awaking to a half paralyzed body and disorganized memories. Mica couldn’t bear to leave her bedside. 

The bills were piled high by then. Eviction notices pasted to the screen door. The butcher had no family to go to. And just as Mr. Delaney had come to his father, he came to the butcher. “We can help for a few favors. Favors your father promised.” The butcher knew it wasn’t really an offer. It was a reminder.

A threat. 

The shop would stay open, but the butcher would go to live at the Delaney’s ranch (their home had been officially seized by the bank). Taken under Mr. Delaney’s wing like a long-lost son. They talked about business and ranching. He taught him the trade of cleaning money. The Butcher would continue his work—bleeding farm animals and dismembering squealing men.  

The Delaney’s were mostly kind, if not a little odd. Not that the butcher could speak of peculiarities. Mrs. Delaney was stiff and aloof. She hardly ever showed any affection. Only occasionally did the butcher witness a tender kiss take place between the aging couple. Her schedule never varied; up by six, breakfast by eight. Errands until noon. Lunch. Work around the house. Dinner by six. Bed by nine. She could lift most animals with ease and outwork most of the ranch hands. Never drank, but always had a pack of smokes tucked in her breast pocket. 

They had four boys; two adult men and a set of twins. The two men had homes of their own close by. They handled the goods while their father dealt with money. It wasn’t uncommon for them to throw fists at each other and make up on the same day. They didn’t like to share. Didn’t like to be bossed around by anyone but their mother. 

The twins were often up to mischief. Two teens that love to steal the butcher’s knives and pour oil on the floor. They’d let the sheep out and spray their older brothers with the hose. One of the twins, Ryker, regularly followed the butcher around, chattering incessantly. Sometimes making funny faces or sounds as if trying to get a reaction. The butcher was hardly amused (if not very annoyed) at his working being delayed. He frequently caught the boys whispering to each other, eyes gleaming with the promise of trouble. 

He would get used to the chaos of a full household. Weekly visits to his mother in a care facility always helped give him a well needed break. She would hum old folk songs and mend his clothes. Sometimes they watched soaps or old thriller movies to pass the time. His mother would make him hold her hand during the climax, her free hand covering her eyes. Mica often fell asleep, head resting on the bed next to her.

They never spoke of his father.

The butcher had a name once. A name passed down from his mother’s family. He hardly heard it anymore. Meatman. Freckles. Mike. The butcher. Sometimes his name was no more than just a grunt. Little by little, the small bits and pieces of him were rinsed away. Replaced with the gristle and gore of strangers. His hands, permanently stained with red.

[whumpflash]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Never, Never Cover Reveal

Never, Never by Callie Taylor (aka @befuddled-calico-whump aka @whumpflash) releases on April 1!

James has lost his ship and crew to Peter, his first mate. Now he’s forced to play Peter’s games. And Peter’s games are bloody. This retelling of Peter Pan flips the classic story on its head and asks the question: what if Peter Pan was the bad guy? This is the fourth book in the 12 Months of Whump series. Each month in 2025, look out for a new standalone whumpy book!

Preorder your copy here!