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21 / Some NSFW and dark content / Blog for writing prompts and stories and anything related to that, I won't discriminate between dark, smut, fluff, and whatever else comes up scroll at your our risk. I'll try to tag trigger warnings with TW: [the thing]

[for-the-ouchies]

Whumpee who, with less than an hour left to live, runs away and hides somewhere dark and quiet and still. It will be better if no one has to see them die, they think. Or if they don't have to spend their last moments dealing with the grief of their teammates.

Whumpee's team, who takes hours to find whumpee- to find the body. Who fret and worry and when they do find it, when the worst is confirmed, they blame themselves for not even being there for whumpee in their last moments.

[bladeinmyribs]

Y'all know Whumpee who gets conditioned to associate something with pain?

Think about that but with Whumpee's name.

Whumper makes sure to repeat Whumpee's name over and over every time they hurt them or torture them to the point that every time they hear their name, they flinch.

When they're rescued, it doesn't take long for everyone to realize that Whumpee starts crying and panicking when someone says their name. Now they have to figure out how to get around that without completely othering Whumpee.

"Whu- um... They asked me to give you this..."

"They need more medicine." "Who?" "Just... Them."

Eventually it could turn into only using pet names for them. Calling them Sweetheart like that's their name. When introducing Whumpee to someone, they get questioned on their "weird" name, but no one is willing to explain Whumpee's trauma to a stranger.

[tracingthetapestry]

"does it hurt?" caretaker asks whumpee, carefully prodding at their skin. it does— agony whites their vision out for a second as they blink hard and breath deep. their tongue is tucked neatly behind their teeth so they don't bite it through.

"no," whumpee answers. they hope they didn't exhibit any outward sign of pain, of weakness. when they used to, whumper would sneer at them, poke harder, snick at the skin, dig their nails in— until their cries would quieten and they would be stiff as a statue, muscles locked and mind elsewhere.

caretaker shoots them a dubious look, as if they don't know what to make of it. as if it should hurt.

so they keep prodding. whumpee wonders what are they being punished for, their shoulders rising a little further with every new touch, their words slipping away and out of their reach. they silently pray for caretaker to miss the patch where it smarts the worst— they are sure that that would be unbearable, sure that they won't be able to curb the pained whimpers.

but then caretaker's finger catches at the dreaded part, digging in with more force than expected—and they jerk away from the pain.

whumpee's eyes widen when they realise what they did, forcing themselves to reacquaint with caretaker's touch, exposing their weakness so caretaker can dig their nails in, even as they want to hide away, away, away— curl up tight and fall unconscious, miles far from their stinging wounds and unwanted memories.

caretaker immediately pulls back, the apology on the tip of their tongue cut short as they take in whumpee's state— the sweat on the bridge of their nose, hands clenched into fists, lips pressed tight.

"does it... hurt?" caretaker asks, the same question carrying an entirely different weight.

they feel their heart clench at the harried shake of whumpee's head. guilt is a physical thing that piggybacks on their shoulders as they put the ointment on. how could they have missed it? they think, watching as whumpee struggles to stay alert and awake, stiff muscles giving way to an exhausted tremble that ripples through them. how could they have been so ignorant?

the numbing sensation isn't what whumpee was expecting. but the lack of pain quickly drains the adrenaline out of them and they slump against caretaker, half asleep. "thank you," they whisper absently.

caretaker feels tears burning in their eyes. "anytime, buddy," they whisper back, wrapping a blanket firmly around whumpee's shoulders.

[tracingthetapestry]

whumpee who would do anything for the slightest scrapes of kindness. they don't mind being starved for days if they'll get to spend an hour with their favourite person in turn. they don't mind being beaten black and bloody if someone will whisper "you didn't deserve that," afterwards— even if they know it is completely untrue. they did deserve that, but just the sentiment has their eyes watering with tears of gratitude. they don't mind sleeping on cold, hard floors for weeks on end if they'll get cuddles— someone carding their fingers through their hair, petting them oh-so-gently.

they'll do anything, anything at all— because something is still better than nothing.

[for-the-ouchies]

All whumpee wants is for someone to care enough to break them.

[luna-azzurra]

Tips for Writing Emotional Breakdowns

✧  Crying isn’t pretty. It’s snot, blotchy faces, gasping for air, and red-rimmed eyes. Forget the single tear rolling down like in Hollywood.

✧  Anger often hides hurt. People lash out, slam doors, shout, not always because they’re just mad, but because they’re covering up fear or pain.

✧ Shaking is common. Stress dumps adrenaline into the system. Hands tremble, voices break, knees won’t stay steady.

✧ People go quiet, too. Not all breakdowns are screaming and sobbing. Some are dead silence, staring off, numb responses. Equally devastating.

✧ Exhaustion hits after. The “post-breakdown crash” is real ... headaches, sore eyes, complete emotional hangover. They’ll want to sleep for hours.

✧ Words get messy. Rambling, repeating the same sentence, stuttering, saying things they don’t mean. Emotions trip over themselves on the way out.

✧ Breathing changes. Short, shallow breaths, hiccupping gasps, or holding their breath without realizing. Sometimes it even feels like they’re choking.

✧ Embarrassment creeps in. Once the wave passes, a lot of people feel ashamed, apologizing or avoiding eye contact. Vulnerability often leaves guilt in its wake.

✧ Physical pain shows up. Tight chest, stomach aches, tension headaches. Because emotions don’t just stay in the mind , the body carries them too.

[luna-azzurra]

Tips for Writing Injuries

✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.

✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.

✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.

✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.

✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.

✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.

✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.

✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.

✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.

✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.

[fangirlmenace]

Don't forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character

@mer-acle

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[sentientsky]

on usefulness. on becoming both the blade and the lamb

tumblr user @/divorcefemme // Anaïs Nin // tumblr user @/willowcrowned // Mitski, “I Don’t Smoke” // Lilith Kerr, "bite back" (from unloving the knife)

[howifeltabouthim]

“‘It would have been happier for many of us had we died in infancy.’ 'Would it have been happier for you?’ 'Yes,’ she faintly said. 'I have had more than my share of sorrow. Sometimes I think that I cannot support it.’ 'It is not past, then? Have you sorrow now?’ 'I have it always. I shall have it till I die. Had I died a child … I should have escaped it. Oh! the world is full of it! full and full.’”

— Ellen Wood, from East Lynne

[wolfythewitch]

i have so much rage in me one day i think i will explode. i dont think i know how to forgive as much as i know how to forget

[writing-prompt-s]

There is a forbidden type of magic out there. It isn’t forbidden because it’s inherently evil, or forces you to lose your humanity, or requires human sacrifices - it’s just forbidden because it’s annoying as heck to fight against.

[hestia-and-the-court]

“Ma’am, I really must insist that you pay for the room and board I’ve been giving you! It’s been a week!”

“Fine, fine,” I grumble. “I have a few options for payment: I could give you paper money, cheap gaudy jewelry, chocolate coins, spiders, some pretty seashells-”

“Spiders????” he repeats, baffled.

“Spiders it is, then,” I agree equitably, and with a wave of my hand the bed I’ve been sleeping in for the last week turns into a writhing mass of various spiders.

Worth it.

—

“Stop right there! You’re under arrest for fraud, destruction of property, and-!”

I yawn. “Didn’t ask, don’t care.” A few gestures, and the guards’ swords are all transmuted into spiders, and then they’re too busy to worry about little ol’ me.

—

“You have insulted my honor and humiliated me in front of my children! I demand satisfaction! I demand a wizard’s duel!”

Shrugging, I say, “Sure, okay, whatever. Right here and now okay?”

The pompous wizard-noble blinks. “I- you don’t want to prepare? Get your wizard’s staff or anything?”

“Nah, I’m pretty good with somatic gestures.”

“Well, if you’re sure… here and now then! Have at you!” He slams his staff down on the ground dramatically, a small shockwave of fire radiating out from the impact.

So of course, I turn his staff into spiders.

“AHHHH WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK”

“So if you’re too busy screaming to cast spells, does that mean I win?”

“AUGH ONE OF THEM BIT ME”

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

—

After that, they start coming at me in waves, with cheap wands and staves and swords and bows bought in bulk, hoping to exhaust my magical reserves so they can get close enough to put a magic inhibitor on me.

They did not expect my reserves to be as vast as they were, not did they expect me to be able to transmute the inhibitors themselves into spiders.

“Didn’t you take Magic Basics in wizard college?” I yell at the panicking mages. “Inhibitors aren’t immune to magic until the moment they activate! Serious weak point in the design, tell your magitechnicians to fix that!”

—

So of course they try assassins next.

Poison fails, because I transmute any food and drink I get into spiders and then transmute them back. Pretty easy way to get rid of poison.

So then they try knives in dark alleys. The knives bruise through my full-body spider-silk outfit, but do not penetrate, and they only get one shot before they have bigger problems.

Next is killing me in my sleep. None live to report back that the human-shaped lump under the blankets is actually a mass of highly venomous spiders.

The kingdom throws everything it has at me, and I continue to walk away, heralded by the chittering of spiders and the screams of everyone else.

—

Finally, I stand before the king himself in his overly opulent throne room, and by now he is a broken shell of a man in the face of my unorthodox tactics.

Good.

“What do you want?” he practically sobs. “You’ve singlehandedly redirected the entire crown’s budget for the next three years into replacing every weapon you’ve turned into spiders. Much more and we’ll be invaded by our neighbors! We wouldn’t be able to resist being annexed! So what can I give you to make you stop doing this?!”

I pause and pretend to consider, tapping a finger against my chin thoughtfully. “You know, you sent my brother off to war a few years back. That conflict with the Yughs up north, I believe. He didn’t want to go, so your guards forced him at spearpoint. I haven’t seen him since.”

He seizes on that, as I expected. “Yes, yes, I’ll have him returned right away! Tell me his name and I’ll honorably release him from duty and have him escorted safely home!”

“Oh?” I raise one sardonic eyebrow. “Are you able to bring back the dead now, oh wise and glorious king?”

He pales, and it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve seen in years.

“You have nothing I want,” I growl, letting the anger slip through for the first time in years. “You cannot bring him back, you cannot make up for my loss with all the riches in your kingdom. The only thing I want is to take everything from you, the way you did to me. Your kingdom will bleed out of resources, one of the neighboring countries you’ve been trying to conquer for decades now will take advantage and annex this place, and you will either be executed or forced to work for a living for the first time in your life.”

I glare at him, and he refuses to meet my eyes. “You will lose everything you ever cared about in your life. One spider at a time.”

I transmute his throne and crown into spiders (non-deadly; he doesn’t get to escape my wrath that easily), then turn and walk away, ignoring his screams and sobs.

—

And that’s why, when the Yughs finally annexed the kingdom I grew up in, they preemptively made Transarachnomancy a forbidden magical art. Not sure how they intend to enforce that, mind, but I’m not looking to challenge that. I’ve gotten what I wanted; if some other aspiring mage wants to try and follow in my footsteps, that’s not my problem.

Besides, in terms of magical skill, I’ve always been an outlier anyway. Most mages would be lucky to turn just one knife into a spider at a time; I can turn ten thousand with a few gestures. I doubt anyone will outdo my legacy.

But hey, if you want to try and surpass Georgia of the Spiders? Feel free. I’ll welcome the competition.

[werechicken-deactivated20241121]

IM

[sniperct]

[anagramofbrat]

Amazing A+ no notes

[9fruit]

— joy sullivan

[mango-pickle]

[warning : there will be mentions of death in this piece. please read with caution.]

Apathy as a form of self-preservation

May 2021

She sat curled up in a blanket by her window. Leaning her head against the glass, she looked down at the deserted street. Below her, the lamplights cast pools of shimmering light onto the rain-drenched street. Behind her, her small apartment throbbed in loneliness.

Today was a productive day. Work call after work call had sapped her of her energy. She hadn’t even realised how late it was when she finished her last call for the day. She liked these kinds of days, when she was so busy that she didn’t have time to think about the world, about all that was going on - the sorrow, the grief, the tragedy.

But now, all alone in the dark of the night with only her thoughts and the mice scampering across the street to keep her company, her heart ached. She felt hollow - as though whatever it was that made her human had been scooped out inside of her and thrown away. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and sob and spend days suspended in a grief-induced limbo, but she didn’t have the liberty. Not that she could, even if she had the luxury of doing so.

Some days she felt she was nothing but a faded husk of what she had once been. She closed her eyes and tried her hardest to produce tears, but none came. Opening her eyes, she saw her reflection staring back at her from the glass. Her eyes seemed blank, lifeless.

Exhaling deeply, she took a sip of her chamomile tea and tried not to think about the bodies she had seen being buried in the news the other day. Growth was up by 2.31%, and management wanted her to conduct an employee survey tomorrow. Her manager had lost his mother yesterday. When he had given her the instructions for the survey, his voice had sounded as lifeless as she felt.

Idly, she wondered what she would wear for work calls on casual Friday this week. Maybe that cute sundress she had bought last year to wear for her sister’s birthday picnic, which she hadn’t had the courage to take out of her closet ever since she got the news? She squeezed her eyes shut at the memory of her sister, limp and pale in the hospital bed. Too soon.

Every half hour or so, the wailing of an ambulance would pierce the silence of the night as it passed under her window. A little more than a year ago, such a sight would have made her sit up in worry and look out of the window at the pristine vehicle and hope that whoever was inside would make it. Now, she just rested her head on her knees and looked blankly at the glass as the brief wash of red and blue light illuminated her face.

Why had she stopped feeling anything when she saw the dead bodies, the funeral pyres? Why would she just stare blankly at the TV screen, a gaping hole clawing away at her where her humanity had once been?

She sighed, got up, and headed to bed. On her way to the room, she shook a sleeping pill out of the bottle near her bed and knocked it back with the rest of her tea. Sure, it wasn’t healthy for her. But at least it was better than lying awake for hours staring at the ceiling and starting the next day exhausted.

She needed sleep. Tomorrow was going to be hectic.

[the-faultofdaedalus]

I had a dream that the king and the queen of a small country had a daughter. They needed a son, a first-born son, so in secret, without telling anyone of their child’s gender, they travelled to the nearby woods that were rumoured to house a witch.

They made a deal with that witch. They wanted a son, and they got one. A son, one made out of clay and wood, flexible enough to grow but sturdy enough to withstand its destined path, enchanted to look like a human child. The witch asked for only one thing, and that was for their daughter.

They left the girl readily.

The witch raised her as her own, and called her Thyme. The princess grew up unknowing of her heritage, grew up calling the witch Mama, and the witch did her very best to earn that title.

She was taught magic, and how to forage in the woods, how to build sturdy wooden structures and how to make the most delicious stews. The girl had a good life, and the witch was pleased.

The girl grew into a woman, and learned more and more powerful magics, grew stronger from hauling wood and stones and animals to cook, grew smarter as the witch taught her more.

She learned to deal with the people in the villages nearby, learned how to brew remedies and medicines and how to treat illness and injury, and learned how to tell when someone was lying. 

Every time the pair went into town, the people would remark at just how similar Thyme was to her mother. 

(Thyme does not know who and what she is. She does not know that she was born a princess, that she was sold. She only knows that one night after her mother read her a story about princesses and dragons, her mother had asked her if she ever wanted to be a princess.)

((Thyme only knows that she very quickly answered no. She likes being a witch, thank you very much, she likes the power that comes with it and the way that she can look at things and know their true nature.))

The witch starts preparing the ritual early, starts collecting the necessities in the winter so they can be ready by the fall equinox. Her daughter helps, and does not ask what this is for, just knows that it is important.

The witch looks at Thyme, both their hands raised into the air over a complicated array of plants, tended carefully to grow into a circle, and says, sorry.

Keep reading

[aceofwhump]

Hey Ace, hope you have a fantastic weekend! If you are busy then feel free to ignore this ask.

I was wondering, can you think of any scenes in shows or movies where one character is being tortured or hurt while their friend or another character is forced to watch and isn't able to help them? Something like season 1, episode 12 of the Following when Mike gets kidnapped and Ryan tries to help him through the glass. I enjoy this trope because of the comfort and aftercare afterwards!

Hi nonny! That is an excellent trope! I have several examples for you. Enjoy!

Hawaii Five-0 6x01, 10x22

Hudson & Rex 3x09

Stargate Atlantis 3x07

Chicago PD 3x01

Castle 3x13

NCIS 7x01

Supergirl 2x07

Teen Wolf 3x04, 4x01

NCIS: Los Angeles 5x01

Stargate SG-1 5x07

Sense8 2x11 and show finale movie

Legends of Tomorrow 1x05

Killjoys 1x05

Supernatural 1x22

[whump-or-whatever]

Defiant whumpee who copes with humour dialogue pt. 2

• • •

Caretaker: *upon finding Whumpee standing over Whumper’s body* “What happened?”

Whumpee: “Would you believe me if I said they fell on the knife?”

• • •

Whumper: “Caretaker will never want you back”

Whumpee: *speaking as they would to a small child* “Aww, are you projecting your abandonment issues again?”

• • •

Whumper: “Finally I have you, what could be better than this?”

Whumpee: *singing softly* “if you only had a brain”

• • •

Whumpee: *literally dying*

Caretaker: *panicking* “Hold on, just hold on!”

Whumpee: “To what?”

• • •

Caretaker: *upon finding Whumpee during rescue* “Oh thank god you’re okay”

Whumpee: “I am so far from okay right now”

• • •

Whumpee: *being held prisoner*

Whumpee: *singing* “I’m breaking out, when September ends”

Whumper: “… It’s July”

Whumpee: “Shh, let me have my moment”

• • •

Whumper: “I’m going to kill you”

Whumpee: “Ugh, can you at least have someone else do it? No offence but I’d rather not have your face be the last thing I ever see”

• • •

Whumper: *locks Whumpee in a bare cell*

Whumpee: “You know, a throw rug goes a long way”

• • •

Caretaker: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!”

Whumpee: “How about what slowly kills you from the inside?”

• • •

Whumper: *revealing their dramatic backstory*

Whumpee: “I think I’ve seen this episode of Criminal Minds”

• • •

Whumpee: *chained to the ceiling shirtless*

Whumpee: “Finally, all those years of belly dancing are paying off”

• • •

Whumper: *walks into Whumpee’s cell*

Whumpee: *yells suddenly* “What are you doing in my swamp?”

• • •

Whumper: “I’m going to be gone for a few days”

Whumpee: *sarcastically* “oh good, you deserve a break”

• • •

Caretaker: “How did you escape?”

Whumpee: “pulled some real Houdini shit, you’d never believe me if I told you”

• • •

Whumpee: *yelling for several minutes to piss Whumper off*

Whumper: *storms up to them angrily* “What is your problem?”

Whumpee: “I have several, you’ll have to be more specific”

Whumper: “why are you screaming?”

Whumpee: *grinning* “I just think it’s neat”

• • •

Whumpee: *shows up on Caretaker’s porch after being missing for months*

Whumpee: “surprise motherfucker” *collapses*

• • •

Whumper: “It’s time for our daily session.”

Whumpee: “Oof, I’m sorry, you’ve caught me at a bad time. My schedule is booked wall to wall. Does next Thursday work for you?”

• • •

Whumper: “Stay quiet and do as I say and we won’t have any issues.”

Whumpee: “We’re going to have issues.”

• • •

Caretaker: “How bad is it?”

Whumpee: *putting pressure on a stab wound* “Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but Tis enough”

Caretaker: “FFS WHUMPEE NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR SHAKESPEARE”

• • •

Feel free to add!