Bone-Crunching Time

It's me, I'm Twitchy. Whoops I made a whump sideblog | main blog: 1stlieutenanttwitchy | icon by thesilvertophat

[penitent-stranger]

Twitchy's Writing Masterlist

I suppose if I wanted to start sharing my writing again, I should enable people to actually Find It, huh.

All stories take place in the ttrpg setting of Lancer, a self-described mud-and-lasers scifi setting in a gritty and political far-flung future. It's got corporate greed, space fascism, unknowable beings of cosmic unreality that can be downloaded onto a thumb drive, and of course, Giant Mechs.

Whumpuary 2024 - got halfway through before running out of steam. <3 I have two more completed, but I was waiting until i finished the rest before posting them again.

Character intros found in #oc posting - Jaye + my unnamed backup character belong to me, the rest are my friends' pilots from our Lancer campaign

Snow / Secret Revealed (Jaye)

Choking (Alba)

Used As Bait (Jaye)

Lightheaded (Jaye)

Kidnapped (Cygnus)

Exhausted / Blindfolded / Old Injuries (Unnamed Backup)

"I didn't know where else to go" / Bruises [COMPLETE]

Muffled Screams / "Let me see" (Jaye)

Hold On For All It's Worth - big project where I torture my backup character. For some reason I thought posting to Ao3 was the best way to go about this, but. I write out of order a lot. I think I'll start sharing stuff here to motivate me better.

Character intro - pending

[befuddled-calico-whump]

me: My stories have to have deeper meanings. Themes are very important. I want to inspire readers to question life and morality.

the stories: lol watch this bastard get absolutely rekt

[abyssaldyke]

*smirking* you couldn't waterboard that out of me, but even if torture was an effective method of information extraction and not a futile display of state-sanctioned sadism, the high percentage of false confessions it produces would mean that even if you could waterboard it out of me, could you even trust the veracity of my statement?

[thornsinyourskin]

If that character is being held captive and ISNT being tortured/abused you are doing it WRONG

[spinzzee]

you can pull recovery whump tropes/cliches from my cold dead hands. every time a caretaker waits at a distance for whumpee to touch them first, only to have that moment be when they fall asleep on their shoulder and they are DESPERATE to be chill and cool and not freaking out theyre so not brimming with excitement over this- an angel gets its wings

[rebeckeronie]

Theres so much possibility with having a character who Does Not Remember something in an interrogation where the enemy Does Not Believe Them.

[diablo-sera-tops]

hey don't cry. blorbo coughing up blood

[diablo-sera-tops]

blorbo writhing in agony ok? don't cry

[diablo-sera-tops]

blorbo screaming so much their voice becomes hoarse and weak and the pain still won't stop

[diablo-sera-tops]

blorbo unable to close their eyes and avoid the visceral sight of their own body

[diablo-sera-tops]

blorbo suffering unimaginable pain and being powerless to stop it ok? ok

[crazysnor1ax]

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1738

Your pilot/driver is badly sick/injured... but there's still a job to do. So they put on a smile, buckle into the chair and move as little as possible as blood pools on the leather beneath them. They think about pressing a hand to their wound, but they need all the grip they can get on the controls.

Bonus points if they're hiding this illness/injury, and it's not noticed by the caretaker until they pass out at the wheel (after they get everyone to safety, of course).

They're found a little while later, hunched over the wheel/console. The caretaker jokingly tells them that "piloting isn't that tiring, is it?" but they get no response - no smartass quip, or a roll of the eyes. Huh.

[whump-side]

Brace for the storm 🌩️

[comfortingcatharsis]

Passing an injured or ill character from one companion to another- the first companion has the character resting in their lap or leaning against their side or propped against their chest and they carefully shift them to transition them to the other companion, who slides into place and settles the ill or injured character back into the same position in their own hold, being careful to move the character as little as possible in the process.

[peachbrine]

team leader character dizzy from blood loss, overwhelmed and struggling to stand but shouting orders even as their legs give out. the team medic catches them, feeling them scramble for purchase. they can't find their feet.

medic can feel a warm, wet patch spreading across their clothes. their captain isn't trying to stand anymore, being held entirely upright by their arms. they're still insisting they're fine, even as they slump forwards.

[writingphoenix]

Every whump writer’s favorite phrase: “I could make it worse!”

[suchprettypieces]

Riko hasn’t wept in years, but standing outside his pod for– what must be hours– no, days– he feels his edges crumbling. He’s about to cry. He really is. What the fuck.

CW: Exhaustion, compromised mental state, nosebleed, seizure

Signal War /// Afterburn Arc /// Part 1

<< Main Masterlist

Note: This happens during Riko's stint in Hollowroot, years after the events of Selah. Yes, Mish will be making an appearance in this arc : )

Purgatory

Riko is on his eighth attempt, and he still can't get the door to his pod open. It would be hilarious, if he didn't honestly feel like he was dying.

He stares at the mocking red light on the door access panel, dull-eyed. Tries again.

Another beep. Red light. Again. Red light. Again.

It feels like purgatory. Time stretches meaninglessly.

He thunks his head against the door, and the impact reverberates through his skull. It feels light and empty, as if someone has packed it with hemo foam.

Riko hasn't wept in years, but standing outside his pod for-- what must be hours-- no, days-- he feels his edges crumbling. He's about to cry. He really is.

What the fuck. He's been stabbed, blown up, shot at by a sniper, glared at by Mish with her deadly laser eyes... and this door is the thing that finally crushes his will. This fucking-- goddamn-- cursed-- fucking-- fucked--

He drops his field pack on the floor next to his still-muddy boots and rolls his head on the door in anguish.

"Come on, man," he grates. "Get it together."

He takes a breath, working himself down from the heights of despair. His fingers don't feel like they're part of him, but he reaches them out toward the door panel again. Tries the code, carefully.

Red light. Beep.

He's going to die here.

He considers the possibility of folding himself onto the floor next to his field pack, in the corridor in front of his pod, and simply expiring.

Riko imagines his dorm mates stepping over him on their way to their shift. The cleaner mopping around him, shoving his bag closer to the wall to make way for that squeaky bucket on wheels.

He pictures Mish finding him. Would she cry? No. She'd be so pissed. She'd more likely kick him in the kidney because he'd promised to water the plant she gave him, and of course, he had to go and die just to get out of doing this one simple thing.

"It's not my fault," he mutters. "I'm trying my best."

Red light. Beep. Red light. Beep.

Purgatory. Stretching. Endless.

Finally he gets it right. He doesn't even know how. Green light.

The door slides open.

The relief almost undoes him. The urge to cry with hysterical relief rises. Is wrestled down.

He walks carefully into his pod, dragging his field pack in with him like a dead body. His head is a balloon, floating in untethered from the rest of him. He imagines it bumping against the low ceiling of his pod, making hollow rubber sounds.

He stops and stands in the middle of the pod, feeling out of place. Is he in the right room? He thinks so. The plant Mish gave him is on the desk, browning, a mere whisper away from death.

Riko feels a sudden kinship with it.

This is his room. But the light is weird. He always set it to low, but now it's too bright. And it's flickering. There's an obnoxious buzzing. He can't figure out where its coming from.

Time moves in staccato. He thinks he might be falling asleep between blinks.

It’s too cold in here. Or hot. His skin crawls.

He just needs sleep. That's all.

His boots are still on. He should fix that.

He drops onto the cot. The impact feels like a punch. The springs squeal despairingly, like a small creature being murdered. The sound grates against every nerve. And then he can't remember what he was supposed to--

Boots. Focus.

It takes him several long seconds. He lifts one foot, clawing his fingers around the fabric of his pant leg and dragging it up. Brings his foot to his knee. Fumbles at the laces.

His fingers lock and tangle.

Purgatory again. He'll be stuck here forever.

They'll find him here, mummified by the facility air filters, his fingers tied in knots in his bootlaces, dried and desiccated like his plant.

"We didn't notice anything," his neighbours would say, "There was no smell, nothing." And Mish would say, "That fucker said he'd water the plant, I knew he couldn't be trusted--"

He finally jerks the boot off, and drops it. It lands hard on the floor. A dead, hollow sound.

The other boot waits for him. Dread fills his chest, like dark water rising, taking up all the space between his ribs and under his sternum.

"Let's go," he grits.

He reaches for it. It's so... far. And getting further. Reality stretches like taffy.

The room tilts. Slow and wide, the floor rushing away from him, the walls stretching up and up and--

"No-- No, we're not doing that." He grips the edge of cot, grinding his teeth together, hard enough that he thinks they might be sinking into his gums.

The moment passes.

"Okay," he says cautiously. He reaches again for the boot.

He's bent over his knee, fingers trying to make sense of the laces, when a bright, red drop falls on the laces. A big, fat splat.

His hand goes up reflexively to his nose. "Ahhh fuck-"

He looks at himself in the mirror across the room. The lower half of his face is red, and blood has dribbled down the front of his shirt.

"Fuuuuuu-- not this again. Come on."

He tilts his head back. The light flickers.

Unfamiliar... It isn't the sickly grey non-light from the overhead panel.

This... shimmers. Dense and radiant and alive.

There are iridescent colours exploding impossibly in the space above his desk.

They are... His eyes cross, trying to make sense of what he's seeing.

Fireworks.

Explosions of light in his tiny, grey room. Luminous and layered and deep.

His brain stutters and twists, trying to understand the spatial logic of what he's seeing. It must be a projection. Or... or a hologram. Somehow installed in his pod as a prank. Someone must have... This must be a-- a--

Slow, silent bursts. Huge. Taking up real, three-dimensional space. Gold radiating outward. Rose pink. Ice blue. A deep violet. Impossibly saturated colours, searing themselves into his retinas, unfurling like violent exhalations.

They unfold with weight. Layered over each other, suspended in the sudden and immense darkness of his room.

His eyes open so wide he can feel the stretch of them in his face.

The hand he's holding to his face drops forgotten, onto his lap.

“Wow...” The word slips free before he knows it. His face is unguarded, held open by wonder.

He feels his jaw fall open. He must look stupid, but he can't bring himself to close his mouth. Because this-- this is--

It's real. He can see the reflections of the colours on his furniture. His eyes track the light as it ripples across old shapes... his desk, the wall, his field pack. Ordinary things made radiant.

Even the sad little plant has caught the kaleidoscope and is throwing a flickering shadow on his wall. The multiple shadows cast by his discarded boot are dancing in rainbow hues across the grey expanse of his floor.

And... he can feel the light on his face. Soft, jewel tones pressing into his skin with gentle weight. Flickering slowly across his skin. Rolling gently across his cheeks and forehead and neck.

Something unlatches inside him. Small. Vital.

A pause. A moment where the slow blooming intensity of colour bursts peter gently out. And then--

The fireworks multiply.

He watches, rapt.

They fill everything. Flowering bursts stacked atop each other, now too fast to follow. Silver, gold, then blinding violet-- each explosion bigger, more enveloping, swallowing the last. There is no pause or negative space between them. Light. Expanding. Crashing. Brighter--

His bloodstained fingers twitch on his lap.

So bright. So bright!

His eyelids flicker.

He tilts sideways. Slow, like a tree going down. The cot catches him. The springs give, then bounce once, gently.

Blood slips down his cheek in a wide arc. His throat moves meaninglessly.

A violent spasm. The cot rattles.

Slowly, his arms lock, hands curling into claws. His spine arches. Eyes roll back.

The bed frame shakes violently as his whole body convulses.

His wrist slams into the rail. His shoulders twist. His legs kick against the foot of the bed. His head lashes hard to the side, sending red droplets onto the wall.

Metal rattles under him. The cot jerks so hard that it moves across the floor. The boot still laced to his right foot kicks violently, sending the laces whipping back and forth.

No one comes.

He seizes alone, in a dim room, under flat facility light.

(Next chapter coming soooon)

<< Main Masterlist << Signal War

Note: Yasss Riko is baaack. This is one of my favourite arcs. I really hope you guys enjoy it!

Taglist (comment or DM to be added or removed): @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen // @starlit-hopes-and-dreams // @deadbvcky // @pumpkin-spice-whump (personal space, what personal space?)

[lokincest-deactivated20180601]

Fanfiction Work-In-Progress Guessing Game

Send me a word, if it’s in my wip document I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in

[painsandconfusion]

fun fact: the collarbone is designed to be broken. it absorbs impact when you fall so the force doesnt go straight from your shoulder into your spine and paralyze you when you catch yourself. It's thinnest in the middle and can heal and break many times over with minimum ill effect on the body.

Source: The Bone Museum (New York)

[suchprettypieces]

Inspired by this prompt by @dying-crying-pining

Featuring: Team whump, leader whumpee, whumperless whump, whump/angst with a happy ending

CW: broken bones, blood, punctured lungs, some naughty words, disassociation

Practice Run: Part 1 ▸ Part 2 ▸ Part 3 /// More Team Alphabet: Rabid ▸ Endurance ▸ Accelerated Healing Factor /// Masterlist

Practice Run pt. 1

It's just a practice run. He knows that. But he's still annoyed by the way B has been chattering over the comms.

The man, the kid... the MAN-CHILD has left his comms channel open, giving a running commentary about what he's doing and about to do. "So, I'm taking cover by the door, see. Before I enter a room, I make sure I do a couple of scans first. We don't have drones for this practice run, so no LIDAR. We're only required to do enhanced sound and visual scans, but I like to run an additional scan for... "

A shakes his head. All this posturing is for C's benefit. The new team member. He glances at her, where she's ducked down behind a crate.

She's diminutive. Cute. B stands up straighter around her.

A sighs. He can tell this is going to be a problem.

Command said she was the best in her cohort. Nobody else operated the exo-suit like she did. He'd seen videos of her graduating test, where she walked up walls with barely any incline, like one of those fucking mountain goats. The clip that made the news was the one where she bounced off surfaces like she was-- as if she--

He can’t even describe it. It barely looked human.

A squints at her. He can hardly tell she's wearing it. It doesn't change her silhouette at all. If not for the stirrups that run around her boots, the gloves that show up under her sleeves, and the shoulder straps that peek through when her collar shifts, he wouldn't know she had it on.

Crouched behind the crate, she looks nothing like the steely-eyed exo-suit operator he'd seen on the news. He doesn't know how she ended up on his team. He's barely middling as a team lead.

It probably has something to do with B's last name.

A really doesn't think he has the leadership capability to handle such a high profile asset. He can barely handle B, who was the bottom of his graduating cohort.

A feels a vicious stab of resentment at being suspended in the middle of the shining top and the grotty bottom.

Speaking of which. B is still going on and on.

A sighs. Triggers his own comms. "Less talking, more doing, B."

A sees C purse her lips. Like she's suppressing a smile.

"Right right right," B says. "I'm going in now." He slips into the room.

A is really going to have to tighten up the language they use over the comms.

He rocks up on his feet, looking to C. She's already up, sim weapon at the ready, eyes on him and waiting for his sign to move.

Top of her cohort.

They move, taking the position B had occupied by the door before.

B has moved ahead too quickly. He's supposed to be taking cover behind the crates conveniently placed in the room for such a purpose.

Instead, A watches him round the corner, moving into the corridor.

"B, you're moving too fast, you're supposed to--"

B's comm channel is still open, so A hears the sharp intake of breath. And then a soft, "--the fuck?"

A's annoyance rises. He wonders if C will write a report on what a terrible team she's been assigned to, and ask to be transferred. If the team lead can't even handle a practice run without--

"Shit--" B's voice cracks through the comms. "There's-- fuck!" The last word sounds like he's a squeaky toy and someone has stepped on him.

They hear him stumbling and knocking things over through the comms.

That clown. A has seen B trip over his own laces before. The pinwheeling arms. The leg kicked up into the air. A real-time comedy.

That idiot. That fucker.

B voice cracks and pitches up hysterically. "Run run run!"

His footsteps clatter, echoing through the corridor.

C throws a look at A across the doorway. Gentle puzzlement. Mild consternation.

A grits his teeth. It's one thing to be saddled with the dregs of the academy, but to fail in front of someone who... Okay, maybe if he resets the entire practice run, he'll have a chance to win back some of his reputation.

He stands up, steps into the doorway so B can see his disapproval.

"Enough," he sighs. "Mission reset--"

B skids around the corner, and A sees his face, white and terrorised.

"No!" he gasps, "A, get down! Take cov--"

+++++++++++++++++++++

A can't breathe. He can't bring his chest to rise. There's something over his face. There's a ringing in his ears.

He thrashes under the thing weighing him down, and only then it occurs to him to open his eyes.

Someone's hand is over his face. He tugs it off, and it flops off without resistance.

A body is over his. He blinks hard, taking in the dusty hair, the torn collar, the bloody jawline.

It's B. B's body is on him.

Fuck. FUCK.

He coughs hard, and then finally takes in a big, gasping inhale.

He grasps B's uniform with both hands, tugging at the weight as he rolls himself up into a sitting position.

The entire warehouse they use for practice missions is in shambles. The crates are shattered around them, one of the walls of the room they had been about to enter blown completely open.

And B--

B is face up on his lap. He's coughing up blood, his mouth opening and closing, trying to breathe. His eyes are rolling, terrified.

"Bomb," he wheezes. "Numbers, red-- bomb!"

His panicked words send blood spray onto A's face.

A can feel the crackle of B's broken ribs under his hand.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-- where is C?

He snaps his head up, and finds her, knees drawn up to her chest, seated against the wall that was still intact. Her eyes are huge and blank, her weapon clutched against her chest.

He tries to get up, but he feels agony stab through him, in several places. His leg. And... his chest. Collarbone? And ribs, all down his left side.

He rolls B's body as gently as he can, to look at his leg, and-- it's broken. He can feel the edges of his broken shin bone grating against each other. Yup. Definitely broken.

B makes an awful sputtering sound in his lap.

He smacks the insensate face. "B, you gotta stay awake, come on B."

Nothing.

A coughs. Smoke is filling the warehouse. He hadn't noticed that the room was on fire.

Stupid. Stupid.

He was going to get all of them killed.

C. C can get them up. With her suit.

"C," he calls urgently, as loud as he can. "C! Hey C!!"

Her eyes remain wide and unblinking, fixed in the middle-distance. Her mouth is moving silently, like she is praying. Or chanting. The smoke is getting so thick he can hardly see her.

A puts his hand to his ear, to manually trigger his comms. But the ear bud is missing. Oh wait, no, it's shattered. There are pieces of it embedded in his ear and the side of his face.

He checks for B's ear bud. It's gone, blown off him in the blast.

Without comms to radio back to HQ, and with them off campus at the practice warehouse... nobody will find them in time before the smoke overwhelms them. And they aren't wearing their combat vests with the beacon triggers on them. Why would they, this was just supposed to be a practice run.

They are well and truly fucked.

Practice Run: Part 1 ▸ Part 2 ▸ Part 3 /// More Team Alphabet: Rabid ▸ Endurance ▸ Accelerated Healing Factor /// Masterlist

I NEVER intended to make Team Alphabet a thing. But they keep showing up again and again.

[whump-im-serious]

Caretaker holding whumpee’s head up gingerly, their fingers in whumpee’s hair, while bringing a glass of water to their lips.

Whumpee being too weak to hold their head up for long and only taking a couple small sips. They then drop their head back on the pillow and breathe heavily, already tired, with their eyes closed.

Caretaker places the glass on the nightstand and wipes whumpee’s face and neck with damp cloth. Whumpee sighs in relief.