maybe just whump reblogs idk

sometimes I write prompts main blog: @extemporary-username

[extemporary-whump]

Howdy, the name's Lukka but you can also call me temporary.

Any pronouns

Main is @extemporary-username

I mostly just reblog stuff i like but i write small prompts or draw stuff occasionally.

Mostly abandoned now, whump helped me deal with depression and now I can say I'm in a really nice place mentally, maybe I'll go back to the community one day, lots of love <3

[wolfeyedwitch]

With Bloody Outstretched Hands, Part 14

"Hidden Scar" BTHB / Old Wounds, @febuwhump 2026

This is set in the near future of the story, where Icarus is still salty about everything but civil enough to be in a room with Bailey

CW: internalized victim-blaming, excessive use of force, misunderstandings, past manipulation and gaslighting, past withholding medical care, past electrical whump, past broken bones

Masterlist

—

Bailey smoothed down the fabric of their dress and looked into the mirror. The dress was part of the amazing new wardrobe that Foxfire had gotten them. It was soft, flowy, comfortable. It was exactly the type of thing they would have worn, before.

The only problem was how revealing it was.

Bailey had been just about living in sweatpants and baggy hoodies since making it to Hero HQ. The problem was, the city was going through a heatwave. Even indoors, the AC was struggling to keep up. Wearing that many layers just wasn't feasible.

It wasn't as if the dress were risque. It was sleeveless, sure, but it wasn't as if it were spaghetti straps. It had the same amount of coverage as the tank tops that they'd seen some of the heroes wear. And it wasn't short-short, either; the hem fell just a couple inches above the knee.

If someone had told me back at the start of college that a dress like this would make me worried about the amount of skin I showed, I would have laughed in their slut-shaming face.

Bailey turned so their back was to the mirror and looked over their shoulder. The neckline of the dress stopped just below their shoulder blades.

Which meant there were more than a few scars on display.

They chewed on their lip as they fiddled with the pockets (pockets! Foxfire had gone out of their way to get them a dress with pockets!) of the dress. They could change. No one would know that they'd chickened out.

But…

The heroes had all looked so comfortable in their shorts and tank tops. They'd been so carefree lately, with all the villains seemingly on a vacation to avoid the heat.

And Bailey? Bailey was selfish.

They wanted to be a part of that.

"It'll be fine," they said to their reflection, trying to project confidence. "Airmid and Foxfire have already seen the scars. No one is gonna judge. Not for me wearing a dress, and not for what the dress shows. It will be fine."

They gave a nod, and left to join the others for brunch before they could lose their nerve.

Breakfast was generally a solo meal given all the heroes' different sleep schedules, but Sunday brunches were different. Brunch was sacred and not to be missed. It was a time where no electronic devices, no talking about current cases, and no self-recrimination was allowed. It was a time to relax and recharge and spend time with friends.

Well. Friends, and the villain they were currently allowing to stay. Bailey had offered to eat separately, but Foxfire had insisted that they join. Icarus glared daggers, and Spark watched their every move, but no one had said anything. So, Bailey kept coming.

They took a deep breath and knocked on the entryway to the dining room to announce themself as they entered.

"Good morning, everyone," they said softly.

"Morning!" Foxfire called from the kitchen.

Airmid and Tempest both said their own greetings. Icarus gave a grunt, still looking half-asleep; Spark nodded politely.

Bailey sat down awkwardly. They stared at the table as the others went back to whatever conversations they'd interrupted.

A few minutes passed before Foxfire cheerfully yelled, "I'm plating the last of the pancakes, so you ingrates can start setting the table!"

"I'll go," Bailey said, standing.

"We'll have a side of arsenic to go with our pancakes, oh joy," Icarus muttered sarcastically as he joined them.

"Icarus," Tempest said in warning.

Bailey didn't comment. Icarus had every right to be angry. If this was how he wanted to express that anger, they would count themself lucky.

Foxfire was standing barefoot on the tiled kitchen floor, wearing a pair of athletic shorts that made their legs look a mile long. They were looking at a large skillet on the stove, wielding a spatula with an unfair amount of grace. They paused to look over their shoulder at the two of them and smile.

"Hey, Bailey, glad you could join us!" they said. They spoke loudly to be heard over the fan going over the stove. "Icarus, can you start a fresh pot of coffee? And Bailey, pour yourself something to drink. Then both of you can help carry the food."

"Sure," Bailey said. They followed Foxfire's pointing spatula to the cupboard with the glasses, then poured themself some juice from the fridge. Icarus brushed passed them with full hands and no warning on his way out to the dining room.

"He's just grumpy before the coffee kicks in," Foxfire said. "Don't take it to heart."

"Yeah," Bailey said, hoping they sounded more sure than they felt. If Foxfire wanted to believe that their teammate would get past his very understandable hatred of Bailey, then Bailey wasn't going to be the one to burst their bubble.

They looked to see what needed to be brought to the table and found a bowl of scrambled eggs loaded with cheese, and a mostly-empty glass bottle of syrup. They grabbed both along with their drink and walked back to the dining room.

Foxfire followed with a plate stacked high with steaming pancakes. "Blueberry for those with taste, chocolate chip for those who indulge, and plain for those who can't be bothered."

The heroes all laughed, as though it were an inside joke. Bailey gave a polite smile.

They started passing the dishes and loading their plates. Icarus was in the process of drowning his pancakes in syrup when the bottle ran out.

"Seriously?" he deadpanned at Bailey. "Why bother bringing it out when there's practically nothing in it?"

Bailey ducked their head and focused on the dish in their hands, grabbing a few blueberry pancakes before passing it on. "Sorry."

"That's on me," Foxfire said. "I meant to refill the bottle, it's not their fault."

"Whatever," Icarus said.

Foxfire began to stand.

Bailey hastily got up first. "I've got it, you should sit! You've been standing at the stove!" they said.

Foxfire gave them a lopsided smile. "Thanks. The extra syrup is on the counter, just bring it out and I'll take it from there."

Bailey nodded and turned to walk to the kitchen. They heard a sharp intake of breath behind them.

Well, it had to happen eventually.

They found a plastic jug of maple syrup on the counter and grabbed it. They tried to prepare themself for the inevitable comments as they walked back.

Foxfire's smile looked strained as they took the syrup. "Thanks."

"Of course," Bailey said, sliding back into their seat.

Foxfire took the lid off the now-empty glass bottle of syrup and began pouring more in from the jug.

"Nice scars," Icarus said snidely. "How'd you get them?"

The atmosphere in the room shifted immediately. Tempest, Airmid, and Foxfire all glared at their teammate.

"If you want to be an ass, take it to the bathroom," Airmid said coolly.

"It's fine," Bailey said quickly, before anyone else could chime in. They were already an inconvenience here; the last thing they needed was for the heroes to start arguing because of them. "He's- he's fine. They're… um. They're whip wounds."

Did he want more? They could give details, but they didn't think that was quite the right topic for mealtime.

"Yes," Icarus said. The obviously, you dumbass, was silent, but his tone got it across just fine. "The ones on your back, sure. I meant the ones on your leg."

Bailey's cheeks prickled with embarrassment. "Oh."

They didn't have to ask which scar he was talking about. The branching, fern-like red marking wrapped around their left leg was too striking for him to mean anything else.

They'd known this was coming, but it was still hard to make themself explain.

"It's a Lichtenberg figure," they said. "With actual lightning strikes, they usually go away rather than scar, but…" They trailed off and shrugged.

"Who caused it?" Airmid asked. "I don't know of any associates of Slipknot that have lightning powers."

Bailey would like to curl up and disappear, please. Or better yet, just have done the smart thing and worn something that covered all the scars, rather than showing off all the evidence of their past fights.

"It's… not from any of Slipknot's associates," they said. "I actually… um…"

"Just spit it out already," Icarus said with a roll of his eyes.

"It's from you," Bailey said.

The room went quiet.

"What?" Icarus asked.

This is why they didn't want to talk about it! They were in enough trouble already without added reminders of how they'd fought these people in the past!

"Tempest and Spark, specifically," they said to their plate. "From that time I was the distraction for the break-in at [Place]. She got me in the leg with her staff; it packs a real punch."

The heroes were quiet for a long moment at the reminder of just how much trouble Bailey had caused them.

Well. They'd already reminded the heroes of their past misdeeds; they might as well talk about how well the heroes did in those fights.

"You guys fight really well together," they said. "The weather manipulation and the signal jammer were smart. I barely made it to shelter before I was too cold to function, and I had to call Slipknot for evac."

Eventually, the conversation picked up again. Bailey kept quiet and picked at their food. Even Foxfire's amazing cooking couldn't tempt their appetite to come back.

A few minutes later, Foxfire asked them to pass something. When Bailey held it out to them, Foxfire noticed the scar on their forearm and hissed in sympathy.

"That one looks like it hurt," they said as they took the food.

Bailey gave a wry smile. "Yeah. You're a real menace with your escrima."

Foxfire's eyes went wide. "What?"

Bailey shrugged. "Compound fracture," they said, holding up the forearm in question. "Radius and ulna. This was before I had the armor plating on my outfit. I blocked one of your escrima, and in a contest between bones and weapon? The weapon won."

"Weren't you at [event] a week later?" Spark asked.

Bailey nodded. "Yeah, fighting with the cast on was a pain."

"Wait, cast?" Icarus asked. "Why would you have a cast on? Why didn't you just have it healed?"

Bailey frowned in confusion. "Because I didn't earn it?"

"What do you mean by that?" Tempest asked.

They frowned even harder. They thought it was a fairly self-explanatory sentence. "I only got healing if I did well enough. That fight, I definitely didn't do well enough. Medic got rid of any infection before it could set in, but the rest got to heal the old fashioned way."

They shrugged. "I got good at taking care of myself."

The heroes were staring at them; Bailey did their best not to squirm under the scrutiny. They couldn't begin to guess what the heroes were thinking from their expressions.

Airmid and Tempest were as unreadable as ever. Spark looked like Bailey was a puzzle she wanted to solve; Icarus looked somewhere between baffled and furious.

And Foxfire?

Foxfire looked gutted. Their tan skin was two shades too pale. Their hazel eyes were bright with tears; their normally-smiling mouth was pressed into a thin line.

Bailey didn't know what exactly they'd done wrong, but they knew they'd fucked up badly.

"I… I'm sorry?" they said, then winced when it came out as more question than statement.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Tempest said.

Bailey highly doubted that, but sure. Okay.

"We were just taken aback by some of the details of your situation," he continued.

Brunch ended quickly after that. Bailey's faux-pas had soured the atmosphere, and no one wanted to stick around. They cleared the table, and Tempest and Airmid stayed behind to clean up the kitchen and put away the left-overs.

Foxfire slipped away before Bailey could talk to them. Bailey spent the next half-hour dithering over whether or not to look for them, before eventually giving in to the desire to search.

They found the hero in a shadowy section of the rafters in the gym, one that would be next to impossible to reach without some kind of powers. Bailey did their very best not to look down as they made their way there.

Foxfire sat with their legs dangling into open air, hunched over a tissue box in their lap. They looked up and nearly overbalanced when Bailey called a soft greeting.

"Mother fuck and all her fucklings," Foxfire said. "Shitfuck. Sorry."

"I'm pretty sure that I'm the one that should be apologizing?" Bailey said in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. "I startled you, after all."

Foxfire shook their head hard enough that their bright blue hair fell over their eyes. They shoved it back with one hand, then ran that hand back and forth over the shaved part of their undercut.

"You do not owe me an apology," they said fiercely. "Fuck no. Bailey, I… fuck, I messed up so bad, and I'm so sorry."

Bailey looked at them with confusion and concern. "I'd say I forgive you, but... I don't actually know what you're apologizing for."

Foxfire scrubbed a tissue over their face. They took a deep breath and sniffled hard before fixing Bailey in place with an intense stare.

"We should never have used that much force against you," they said. "It's eleven different types of fucked up that we did. You should not have scars from encounters with us. It's gross misconduct on our part. And it's my fault."

Bailey shook their head. "No, it wasn't you who—"

"Yes, it is," Foxfire insisted. "It is my fault, because I'm the one who wrote up the assessment!"

"What?"

"I wrote an assessment on you. I was the one who fought you the most, so it makes sense that I'd know you the best, right?" Foxfire laughed bitterly. "Except I knew fuck-all, and you got hurt because of it."

"I… I don't understand," Bailey said hesitantly.

Foxfire wiped at their eyes before more tears could fall. "I said. I said, in my assessment, that you most likely had some form of enhanced healing or enhanced durability. I noted down all the times that you took hits that should have taken you out, but you kept going. Like nothing was wrong."

They sniffed again. "Except it was wrong! I was wrong! You were hurt, over and over, because my shitty intel led to us using more force against you than should ever have been allowed."

Bailey swallowed hard. The heroes… that was considered excessive use of force? Against them? But Slipknot said—

And that was the problem, wasn't it. They were thinking that something Slipknot said wasn't just another lie.

"I don't blame you," they said.

"I blame me," Foxfire said.

"No. Foxfire, listen." Bailey made sure to hold the hero's gaze before continuing. "I thought— Slipknot said, that any weakness I showed, when fighting against heroes? It would be used against me. They said… they said a lot of things. A lot of which, I'm learning was absolute bullshit."

They paused, letting the words sink in. "They taught me not to show that I was hurt, ever. That being caught by your side would be worse than death. They did that. Not you."

Foxfire made a sound like a cross between a half-hearted chuckle and a heartbroken sob.

"So if you want to blame someone for this? For these?" Bailey gestured to their scars. "Blame them."

---

You can read about Zera/Foxfire's early impressions of Bailey here, and you can read about the aftermath of the incident that gave Bailey the scar on their leg here.

Taglist:

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world 

@dolls-circus @pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow 

@multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 

@livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly 

@neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump 

@heart4brains @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan 

@whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @we-write-as-one 

@elrysdoesstuff @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme 

@towerlesskey @emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps @whumpycries

[wolfeyedwitch]

🔫 Digging out a bullet + Weapon

>:3

Weapons Don't Weep, Part 12

Whumptober 2025 No. 19: “You’re on your own, lost in the wild.” Dehumanisation | Living Weapon | On Patrol

Is it October any more? No. Is it still 2025? Also no! But the Whumptober prompt went so well with this ask that I had to put them together. Thank you Anon for your patience as it took me so long to answer!

CW: dehumanization, it as a pronoun, minor character death, major character injury, gun violence, non-explicit gore, minor medical whump

Masterlist

---

"Sector clear; no sign of any hostiles."

The Weapon suppressed a wince at the squawk of feedback coming from its escorts' radios. Its own earpiece produced no such extraneous noise. The radio and earpiece were slightly out of sync, a distraction that made it harder to focus on the words being said. It had been a long day of using its powers to clear out the remaining terrorists camped in the ruins outside the city.

The report sounded like they would be done soon, though. It was… relieved wasn't the right word. That was for people. It was satisfied that it had done its duty, and that it soon would be able to rest and recuperate from its fatigue.

"Hold; movement spotted in quadrant 3."

The Weapon and its escorts stopped. One of the escorts sighed before grabbing his radio. "This is Echo Team, do you have a read on that movement?"

He let go of the button before saying, "Fuck me, I thought we were done for the day."

"That would be some good luck for once, though," said the second escort. "And you know how much of that we get."

The Weapon watched the two from the corner of its eye. The first one shook his head before adding, "I bet you were ready to be done, too; right, Weapon?"

"Dude. Why are you bothering?" the second escort asked.

That last bit seemed aimed at his fellow soldier, rather than the Weapon. It focused on answering the first question. "This weapon has no opinion on how it is used, sir," it said.

This handler must be new. It hadn't recognized his voice, but that didn't mean much; it didn't always hear its escorts speak. What was unmistakeable as new was that he was bothering to talk to the Weapon. The other handlers ignored it as much as they could, only speaking when necessary to give orders.

On reflection, it didn't think this one had protested being assigned to escort it, either. Usually there was at least some amount of complaining from its escort about having 'drawn the short straw' and having to 'babysit', though never where Command could hear.

"Well, sure, but you've got to be tired, right?" the first escort continued. "I mean. I'm tired, and I'm not a twig like you. No offense."

It didn't know what that last bit was supposed to mean. "Fatigue is within acceptable mission parameters, sir."

The mission was over when it was over. That was something the Weapon could neither control nor complain about.

Although the longer they stayed out, the more longingly the Weapon was thinking of the IV of electrolytes and nutrients waiting for it back at the base. Fatigue was still within acceptable parameters as it had reported, but that wouldn't last forever. It could feel the mounting toll from using its powers: heart rate increasing, fine tremors starting in its hands, and sweat beading on its skin despite the air temperature being well below its standard operating conditions.

It pushed those sensations aside. It had to focus on the mission.

"I told you, don't bother," the second escort said. "You might as well talk to your own gun for all the conversation you're gonna get. We're here to escort the Weapon, not talk to it."

"I know that," the first said defensively. "It's just weird to be walking next to someone for all this time and not talk to them, is all."

"Someone, sure," the second shot back. "This ain't someone. This is something. Whatever they did to make this thing? It doesn't count as people anymore."

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it? I mean. They sure look like a person."

A snort. "I keep forgetting how new you are, until you say some dumbass comment like that. Just wait 'til you see what it does from up close; you won't be calling it a person after that."

What came next happened in stages.

First there was an impact, a jolt that made its leg cease to hold its weight. It sucked in a sharp breath as it began to fall.

Next came the noise. Its earpiece and its escorts' radios erupted into a frenzy of out-of-time shouts.

"Shots fired—"

"—movement in multiple sectors—"

"—ambush—"

It lost track of the chatter as the final stage hit: pain. Searing, stinging pain burrowed into the meat of its thigh, as though it had been stabbed with a hot poker. It looked down to see the pale blue fabric of its scrubs being overtaken by a spreading patch of red.

The thought came to it with no urgency: Oh. I've been shot.

It heard its escorts swearing. The first escort's voice came double, in its ears as well as its earpiece, as he spoke into the radio. "This is Echo Team, requesting backup! The Weapon is hit, I repeat, the Weapon is hit!"

More gunfire, and then a nearby scream of pain.

"John!" the first escort yelled. His voice doubled again as he said, "Immediate backup required! Johnson is hit as well as the Weapon!"

It had trouble keeping track of everything after that. It remembered a man crouching over it, wearing the uniform and a worried expression. It remembered the man muttering, "I'm so fucking dead, Command is going to hang me with my intestines, how the fuck did this happen…"

It remembered its hands trembling where they clasped behind the man's neck, its mag cuffs holding together where its own strength couldn't. It remembered how foreign it felt to be so close to a person as he crouched over top of the Weapon, crawling along and dragging it with him.

It remembered the pain flaring in its leg, the sensation of something foreign moving inside its body as he shoved gauze into the bullet wound and pressed down.

It remembered him shouting for Johnson to hold on, they're coming, just hang in there, stay with me!

It remembered seeing the person coming towards them, gun raised. No uniform. Not one of theirs.

One of the terrorists.

It remembered being given the order to fire!

It remembered the look of horror on its escort's face after it had obeyed.

—

"…dragged the Weapon to a more defensible position after it and Johnson were both wounded," he said to Command.

She had ordered him to follow her as soon as they got back to the base and the Weapon was taken to the infirmary. She wanted his after-action report, and didn't want to wait for anything to be written. She had taken him to the room adjacent to the infirmary. This way, she could listen to his report while she watched over her precious weapon as the doctors tended to it.

He looked on in fascinated revulsion as on the other side of the window, a doctor dug around in the thing's leg with a pair of forceps. The Weapon didn't even flinch, even though he knew it hadn't been given painkillers. The doctors had used the intercom to confirm with Command before continuing; something about respiration and oxygen sats? Whatever the reason was, they said they couldn't give the Weapon any anesthesia or pain relief.

Command had told them to proceed anyway.

"I packed the wound and applied pressure to stop the bleeding," he continued. "While I did so, one of the terrorists approached. I gave the Weapon the order to eliminate them. Shortly after, the rest of the squad made it to our location. They were able to get me and the Weapon out safely."

"And Corporal Johnson?" Command asked, eyes fixed on her pet project.

"He… he didn't make it, sir," he said.

She gave a little noise of sympathy. "A shame. He had potential."

He didn't let his true feelings show as he nodded.

The two stood in silence for a moment before Command spoke again. "I understand this was your first time seeing the Weapon in action, Corporal."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me: what do you think?"

He stared at the Weapon's expressionless face. He thought back to the moment it had brought its hands up to face the terrorist.

He thought of the moment after that, when there no longer was a terrorist.

"It's… certainly something, sir."

---

Taglist:

@ghostfacepepper @kim-poce @badluck990 @cupcakes-and-pain @lonesome–hunter

@wits-and-wrongs @neuro-whump @winedark-whump @aswallowimprisoned @rose-pinkie

@whumpy-writings @whump-cravings @secretwhumplair @hobiisthesunfiteme @whumpcreations

@myhusbandsasemni @heart4brains @kixngiggles @neverthelass @extrabitterbrain

@towerlesskey @ohnowhump @vickytokio @whumpinggrounds @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@extemporary-whump @pigeonwhumps @w1zguy @aswallowimprisoned @the-magpiesystem

@someonecradlemeintheirarms @sacredwrath @whump-in-the-closet @whumpfessional @cepheusgalaxy

@mylovelyme @whumpacabra @starfields08000 @snakebites-and-ink @oldspruceinn

@painwithoutplot @whump-tr0pes @pickleking8

[iskander-tm]

He was not, in fact, in good hands

[wolfeyedwitch]

With Bloody Outstretched Hands, Part 13

Whumptober 2025 No.2: Taking accountability

CW for flashbacks, panicking, and assumptions of violence to come

Masterlist

---

“What did you do?”

Bailey looked up to see Icarus in the doorway. He looked coldly furious.

“I— what?” 

Nice one, Bailey. Yeah, that’s definitely going to get you in his good graces. Now he probably thinks you’re a dumbass on top of a villain.

He stepped slowly into the room. “The rest of my team seem to think that you’re being sincere about this whole ‘making amends’ thing.”

Bailey didn’t know what to say; every word seemed like the wrong one. They gave a small nod. 

Icarus kept walking towards their bed as he spoke. “But see, that’s not what I see when I look at you. I don’t see sincerity. I see guilt.”

Unease prickled along Bailey’s spine.

“And I was thinking to myself, why is it that my team can’t see it? They’re not rookies; they know how to read people.” He stopped at the foot of their bed.

“But then I figured it out. There’s a reason they don’t see what I see. It’s because you look at me differently than you look at them.” 

He crossed his arms and glared down at them. Bailey wanted to shrink away from his gaze, but knew it was useless. They were already caught; what use was hiding, now?

“You look guilty, but only when you’re watching me,” Icarus continued. “So I’ll ask you again, Poppet. What. Did you. Do.”

Fuck. 

“You remember,” Bailey said. It came out as a whisper. 

“Surprised?” he asked with a sneer. “The doctors said it might never happen. That some amount of amnesia was to be expected with a TBI like mine.”

Bailey’s eyes were burning with the tell-tale prick of tears threatening to fall.

“Was that what you were hoping?” he asked. He uncrossed his arms and leaned on the plastic footboard of Bailey’s hospital bed. “That I wouldn’t remember, and you’d get away with it?” 

“No,” Bailey whispered, looking down at their lap as the first tears ran down their cheeks.

“What was that?” Icarus snapped. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up.”

Speak clearly, little poppet. No one wants to deal with your blubbering or mumbling.

“I said, no,” Bailey repeated louder. More tears escaped, but they didn’t move to wipe them away. They clutched the blanket draped over them like it might be a lifeline. “I wasn’t hoping I’d get away with it.”

“Right,” Icarus said, tone dripping disbelief. “Because you’ve been so forthcoming about it all. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t believe you.” 

They were going to! They had wanted to keep going, to tell Tempest and Foxfire their own sins along with everything they knew of Slipknot’s, but Airmid had stopped them! She’d said they needed to rest and recover from their concussion and wouldn’t allow the interview to go any longer!

I don’t want your excuses, little poppet. I want results.

“You asked what I did,” Bailey said thickly, trying to keep their voice steady. The tears were bad enough; the last thing they wanted was to give Icarus another reason to think they were trying to emotionally manipulate them with sobs. 

They looked up and met his glare, not allowing themself to flinch. “What do you want to know, Icarus? I’ll tell you everything. Do you want to know how long you cursed me out? How inventive the names got?”

Pathetic toy, brainless lackey, stupid attack dog—

“Do you want to know what kind of taser I used?”

Slipknot plucking the gun from their hand, replacing it with a taser that they curled numb fingers around—

They were acutely aware of how close Icarus was to their splinted leg.  

“Or how many bones I broke, before you stopped cursing?”

The other villains cheering them on, shouting encouragements and ideas and just watching like this was some kind of sick game—

It wouldn’t take any effort at all for him to reach out and press down on the bandages, splintering their already-broken bones further until they were little more than shrapnel.

“Do you wanna know how long it took before you screamed?

Slipknot’s breath tickling their ear as they said, “Make him scream. Make him suffer, and plead, and beg.” 

He was reaching out now.

“Or how long you lasted before you started begging?”

“If he doesn’t beg, he dies. Your choice.”

His hand passed over their legs, going higher.

“Just tell me what you want,” they said. Their voice cracked. “I’ll do it. I’ll tell you anything. Everything.”

He was going for something that would last longer than just a broken leg. 

“I’ll tell you,” they repeated. 

What would he pick? Their ribs? Their skull?

They closed their eyes and clenched their muscles, willing themself not to shrink away from what they knew they deserved. “I’ll tell you, I will, I will, I promise I will, just—”

They never figured out what they had been about to say. Their babbling was cut off by an insistent beeping from…

From the… 

Button? 

Icarus leaned back, clenching his hands on their footboard again. Even in the dim light, they could see his knuckles were white. 

Beside Bailey, on the remote that controlled their hospital bed, the “CALL NURSE” light was blinking. 

“If you want to bait me into doing something stupid and getting thrown off this team, you’ll have to try harder,” Icarus bit out. “I’m not like you. We don’t kick people when they’re down.” 

He left without looking back.

---

Taglist:

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world 

@dolls-circus @pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow 

@multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 

@livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly 

@neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump 

@heart4brains @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan 

@whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @we-write-as-one 

@elrysdoesstuff @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme 

@towerlesskey @emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps @whumpycries

[ravenatural]

been building a collection of posts from like minded individuals

[foundfamilywhump]

being aromantic and into whump is like. shoutout to whump for being a great opportunity to engage with stories about intimacy and vulnerability and powerful emotion and physical interactions with other people and intense relationships that are not presumptively based in romance. what would i do without you.

[foundfamilywhump]

i truly love seeing both aro and non-aro people reblogging and agreeing with this sentiment. join me, let's appreciate intimacy and vulnerability and powerful emotion and physical interactions with other people and intense relationships that are not presumptively based in romance. i love you whump genre.

[elfwhump]

Shout out to whumpees that can’t accept comfort.

Caretaker tries to hug them? They freeze up or otherwise panic because Whumper didn’t respect their personal space.

Caretaker tries to make them a good meal? Whumper always drugged their food.

Caretaker wants to praise them? Whumper did that too.

Make every kindness something they’re unable to accept! Make them feel broken and unlovable, like they can’t even properly accept the affection they don’t deserve to begin with!

[wolfeyedwitch]

Luke; Icarus, Fallen

Luke, hero name Icarus. Power: flight.

Taglist:

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world 

@dolls-circus @pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow 

@multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 

@livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly 

@neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump 

@heart4brains @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan 

@whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @neverthelass @we-write-as-one 

@elrysdoesstuff @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme 

@towerlesskey @emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps @whumpycries

[whumpsandwhimpers]

Inspired by this and this post by @painandrecovery and @defire...

Whumpee Punching Bag (literally).

Just... the dehumanization of it.

Whumper literally hangs whumpee from the ceiling by their wrists, chained in place with nowhere to go, no way to squirm away. No way to fight back as they dangle helplessly.

Maybe, so that Whumper's new punching bag lasts longer, they wrap some padding over Whumpee's body with duct tape (or perhaps sew it on their flesh somehow 🤔). Perfect. Makeshift punching bag!

And maybe Whumper doesn't want a punching bag that screams and yells and whines and insults them, so they just gag them, obviously. So many options, too; classic muzzle with a bit, or maybe a cloth stuffed into the mouth with duct tape/more cloth/both over it to keep it in place. Or maybe even something as brutal as stitching their mouths shut. It's not like they really need to talk. They're a punching bag after all.

After that, your Living Punching Bag is ready, and Whumper can finally release all that pent up anger and stress. Whumpee, of course, is the perfect stress relief, the perfect literal punching bag, and once you're done, maybe you'll get some tears running down their face, or a weak glare! Bonus if they're a defiant Whumpee—watch their defiance leave their eyes and slowly make way for resignation!

And sharing is caring. Multiple Whumpers can all take turns, or even have a go at the same time! The sky's the limit!

[defire]

Oo yes. Imagine with martial arts.

A whumper with boxing training doing combos and whumpee starts to recognize the lineup ahead of time. When they see a certain pose, they groan and hold their breath, and whumper grins before they start punching.

Kicks. There are kick combos too. Using a person would mean whumper could practice their targeting too, which means they can target whumpee's most sensitive parts.

Practicing their structure, a slow punch that barely touches whumpee, but they flinch and cry out, expecting a full blow. "Calm down, I'm not there yet." Whumper mutters.

Explaining to whumpee how to take punches. "Don't straighten your joints. And stop holding your breath when you get hit in the gut. You'll puke."

[thewhumpcaretaker]

🖤 Whumpee Looking…Not Okay 🖤

There’s a distinctive moment at which Caretaker realizes something is wrong. Maybe something gives it away. Like…

Staring at nothing.

A nervous habit, like tapping a finger or biting a nail.

Breathing too fast.

Not breathing.

Talking just a little bit too loudly.

Not talking, all day.

Refusing food.

Visibly tired. Eye bags.

Dead eyes.

Eyes slightly widening at the sight of a trigger.

That very small shudder.

Gripping things. Chairs. Railings. Sinks.

Going suddenly pale.

Excusing themself to be alone.

“You’ve been quiet all day. Please talk to me.”

A tear escaping despite their best efforts.

The moment of realization. The way Caretaker’s heart just drops.

[comfortingcatharsis]

The lasting effects of bloodloss that leave a character feeling generally weak, washed-out, shivery, and chilled for days or weeks into their recovery as their body slowly replenishes the vital strength it's lost- they're healing, the wound is mending, but they still feel faded and dull and like too little butter spread over too much toast.

[headspace-hotel]

Notes on Torturing The Character In The Science Facility

my takes on this trope rarely if ever have anything to do with the character being "special" or being studied for powers they innately have, if they are special its something that was done to them

it's about the medical trauma

it's about the violation and lack of bodily autonomy

the "living weapon" trope, but the key characteristic is catastrophic functionality

i love, love, love the concept of "catastrophic functionality" in a person: character that can tank ludicrous amounts of damage and just Keep Going in virtually all circumstances barring outright dismemberment. They can keep going, so do they "deserve" rest and/or pain relief?

after a lifetime of having their distress treated as whiny and unreasonable, they have what would be a dangerously high tolerance to pain and exhaustion.

another key function of the Science Facility is to fix the damage Character takes, maybe using enhanced healing technologies or 3D printed organs or something. this leads to Character's body being treated as relatively disposable cause "we can just fix them"

extreme version of this: Character can't die even if they wanted to

people who work with Character are informed that they're dangerous and arbitrarily violent, and their fear of Character makes it easier to justify restricting autonomy

It is TRUE, cause Character does not have tools to set boundaries or protect their body other than violence. vicious cycle of being perceived as dangerous and therefore denied autonomy, and being forced to use violence to defend autonomy

the restraints used to hold Character look like major overkill, which underscores how dangerous they are. LOVE this trope

character being desexualized to the point that their non-consent to touch, to being stripped down and examined, or to procedures is trivialized. There is no non-clinical context for their body, and the "clinical" framework eclipses any possibility for bodily violation to be understood as violent.

types of uncanniness: Character looks human but has some subtle inhuman traits or characteristics. (I'm obsessed with reflective eye shine, personally.) OR Character looks like they've been taken apart and put back together, like flesh pulled over a much more unforgiving and indestructible metal scaffold. OR Character gives off "undead" vibes; they're just not quite alive in a way that sets off air raid sirens in people's brains

Often, Character is dead and Came Back Wrong (varying levels of literalness)

anyways yeah. i never stopped writing this trope and probably never will. it's a good one

[wolfeyedwitch]

Foxfire

Fox fire: an eerie phosphorescent light.

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world 

@dolls-circus @pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow 

@multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-alise @equestrianwritingsstuff @scp-1296 

@livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly 

@neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway @whumpcreations @wicked-whump 

@heart4brains @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan 

@whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @neverthelass @we-write-as-one 

@elrysdoesstuff @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @ramadiiiisme 

@towerlesskey @emmanemanemm @pigeonwhumps @whumpycries

[extemporary-whump]

Archive

just a big list of whump stuff I’ve read/am reading. Just to keep track cause my memory is almost non-existent (also kind of a whump rec list? idk)

Title (with link to the masterlist) - @creator

synopsis of the ones that have it on the masterlist / tags for the ones that don’t have one

Lunar is @wolfeyedwitch ,  sideblog (sorry if its not the best nickname) is @sideblogformindtrash ​ ,  not gonna tag u on the list cause its a lot & i don’t want to flood y’all

Also gonna go ahead and skip @kim-poce cause ive read 90% of your stuff and that’s way too much to add

Keep reading

[extemporary-whump]

I need to catch up with so much stuff T-T

This were all so good but lately my brain can only focus on dcxdp stuff I wish I could force it to return here I miss talking about whump with my mutuals T-T

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Complicated and Conflicted Whumpers

Whumper who hates hurting people but is convinced god is telling them to hurt people. Which will win: their morals and their faith?

Whumpers who are only in it for the pay and get very quiet when anyone asks about their job because of how ashamed they are of having to resort to evil to make a living.

Whumper who isn’t malevolent; but is just so large, strong, and dysregulated that they hurt people all the time without realizing entirely what they’re doing. People avoid them like the plague because of their reputation, which was rightly earned, but people take being cautious so far that it turns into dehumanization. Who is the real whumper?

Caretaker who is a sadistic whumper at heart but never acts on their urges ONLY because they’re afraid of losing a position of power. Everyone views them as an angel for helping people; but only Caretaker knows how dark their mind can be. What happens when the situation removes Caretaker and Whumpee from the public eye?

Whumpers pierced through the nose and dragged along by a primal need to injure rather than acting of their own accord.

Caretaker who thinks they’re helping Whumpee; but Whumpee is terrified of them because they’re doing everything wrong with their outdated or incorrect medical knowledge (bloodletting with leeches, binding broken ribs, essential oils, crystals, snake oil, antivax, unintentional psychological torture, bad chiropractic skills, etc.)

[extemporary-whump]

The first one reminds me of Life eater, it's a pretty good videogame, I'm not good at giving reviews but i swear it's good. Copyed from steam:

If you don't sacrifice your neighbors, the world ends. Life Eater is a horror fantasy kidnapping simulator where you must become intimately familiar with your targets' lives one intrusive action at a time... and hope that the dark god you serve is even real.

[artistic-freedom-enjoyer]

"Give me your hand."

Whumpee flinched.

"No, please, not the fingers again, please!"

Despite their healing powers, regrowing chopped off fingers was a long and very painful process.

Whumper gave them a sick grin.

"Yes. You're getting really good at guessing."

Whumpee whimpered as whumper grabbed their wrist and fastened their hand to the table.

---

"Give me your hand."

Whumpee flinched violently, rolling themselves to a ball in the corner of the couch, shielding their hand with their body.

"No, please, it won't happen again, I promise, I'll be good, please!"

Caretaker frowned with worry and slowly reached out a hand to gently place on whumpee's shoulder.

"I'm not going to hurt you, but I'll have to look at the cut on your finger."

It took several minutes of whumpee calming down and caretaker convincing them that they want to treat the cut on their finger and not punish them for bleeding all over the onion whumpee was cutting.

Whumpee shakily extended their hand and caretaker made sure to grab it most gently before examining it.

"Wow, it really seems like your healing powers are coming back. It's a good sign that your body has enough nutrients to speed up the healing again, but let me get a plaster anyway, to protect the cut until it finishes healing."