Whump blog, mainly. I'm mediocre at tagging stuff so proceed at your own discretion. He/Him. Adult. Literally nocturnal. Sometimes socially awkward so I apologize in advance for that.
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uhhhh mentor carewhumpee who’s previously lost a mentee and very hesitantly and grudgingly got convinced to take on another mentee after so long only to witness said mentee come back barely conscious after a fight?
bonus points for something along the lines of, “I knew this was a bad idea. I should have pushed back more against it, I shouldn’t have let them talk me into this.”? Is that too specific?
#377
content: mentor caretaker, mentee whumpee, past trauma, emotional whump, grief, death mention, aftermath of whump
Mentor knew the first moment they lay eyes on Mentee that this had been a bad idea. When they saw Mentee stumble in through the front door of their base, battered and bloody, they just knew. They knew it was their fault.
"Mentor," Mentee rasped, looking away in something akin to embarrassment. "I, I couldn't—"
"Hey." Mentor walked over, quickly but not too quickly lest they scare Mentee further by fussing over them too much. "Come on. Into the medical room."
"I couldn't finish the—"
"It doesn't matter." All Mentor saw when they looked at Mentee was their only previous mentee. Their only one. The one they'd lost and swore never to take on a responsibility such as this ever again. And yet they'd let themself be talked into it by the others. They'd let their reassurances calm the storm in their heart, they'd let them decide for them, and now Mentee was paying the price of not having a better mentor.
Mentor supported Mentee into the medical room. They told Mentee to take their clothes off so they could assess the full extent of the damage, and Mentee seemed ashamed, and Mentor couldn't blame them. They had been raised to believe failing a mission was not just bad luck, which it was, but a personal, moral failure. They had been raised to believe there was something embarrassing about being hurt.
"I can look after myself," Mentee muttered, and Mentor sucked in a sharp breath.
"I can look after myself," Mentee had told Mentor. "I don't need you standing watch, or treating me like a baby."
"I am your mentor, and I will treat you exactly as a mentee is supposed to be treated," Mentor had told them. "Strip."
"I can look after my own wounds!"
"Strip, Mentee."
"Fine, jeez. If you really want to see the stupid, gnarly wound—"
"I don't want to see it, I want to treat it."
Mentee gave them a lopsided grin. "Yeah, sure."
"Mentor?"
Mentor shook their head, getting rid of the image of their previous mentee that was imprinted on their mind. Their current mentee was now stripped to their underwear, and they were shivering. They better get this over quickly, before Mentee caught a cold on top of everything else. "This will sting," they said as they reached for the disinfectant. "But you won't get an infection."
"I know what a disinfectant does," they said, a little indignantly, and Mentor found themself glad they had the wherewithal to be indignant.
"Just relax."
Mentor went through and bandaged every single one of their injuries. Mentee likely had a couple broken ribs, which they couldn't do anything about, and their helplessness made them angrier than it should've.
Their helplessness had killed their previous mentee.
"I knew this was a bad idea," Mentor grumbled as they worked. "I should have pushed back more against it, I shouldn’t have let them talk me into this. But no, they knew so much better what I needed, that I needed a new mentee, that I needed—"
"Mentor?"
Oh. They had been talking out loud. "Sorry, kid."
"I know you don't want to look after me," they admitted, once again with that tinge of embarrassment in their voice. "That's why I said— why I said I can look after myself. You don't need to do this. We can be mentor and mentee only on paper."
"You're my responsibility," Mentor said sternly. "And I don't intend to back down."
"I'm not your first mentee, am I?"
Mentor pursed their lips. They weren't about to talk about their dead previous mentee with their current, dying one.
"What happened to them?"
"Died on the job," they said before they could've stopped themself. "I was there. I saw it happen. I couldn't do shit."
Mentee fell silent. Mentor finished caring for them and instructed them to get dressed again. Mentee did so without another word. Before Mentee left the medical room, though, Mentor stopped them.
"I don't intend for it to happen again," they said.
"I know you don't," Mentee said quietly.
The unspoken part hung in the air between them: nobody ever intended on losing a mentee.
Mentor nodded. Mentee left. They stayed in the medical room, sat with their face buried in their hands. There was no way they would lose Mentee. Even if it meant talking the team into giving them less missions, even if it meant coddling them a little, they simply wouldn't lose another mentee.
I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.
-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a
~*Spiritual Experience*~
I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.
Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.
He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only
BARELY
enough space for the fireworks
and certainly none for his truck.
So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand.
This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.
He begins,
and this is crucial to what happens next,
by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it
unsecured
on his lawn.
Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.
His process for unloading the fireworks is to
1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls.
2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile
He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things.
3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed
4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup.
5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her.
6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house.
7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too.
8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate
9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed
10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.
Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man?
Answer: Absolutely Not.
There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else.
(This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual)
Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally.
Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.
I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.
However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up.
and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop"
And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."
For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."
I move under the eaves.
"Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled."
"Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not."
"Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."
Sometimes,
the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.
The Gods were not merciful today.
It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this,
But I got to see it today.
Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before.
Oh. I realized as it got closer.
That's RAIN.
Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say,
five to tent square miles,
is instead concentrated into an area of say,
my neighborhood exactly.
So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.
The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel.
Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge.
Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.
My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp.
They do not have a tarp.
They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.
Which is when the hail begins.
"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy.
"HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!"
"OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"
I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic.
The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor.
Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.
So.
I was raised Agnostic
-but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.
---
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It's that time of year again and I think we should all enjoy this, as well as familiarize yourself with your local fireworks laws, the non-emergency line or see if there's a fireworks reporting hotline. I would very much like to not be in the path of a wildfire.
Well, despite being Told Off by God and then Fined To Hell in 2023 and missing last year due to being in the hospital with "The Flu", my pyrotechnically inclined neighbor seems determined to double down and also gotten his illicit wildfire-starting devices early this year, as this afternoon's dog walk by his garage revealed TWO palettes of fireworks.
When a character with some sort of medical background is dangerously sick or injured, and they're definitely not in any state to treat themself but on autopilot they start listing out their symptoms in clinical language. Like they can't help but fall back on the familiar routine instead of processing the implications
People in the notes have started talking about the whumpee walking another character through helping them, and don't get me wrong, that's good too. But this post specifically is about when they're not well enough to register and handle the situation like that. I'm picturing loss of control, not taking control. When they aren't willing or able to deal with the full frightening implications so they desperately grasp for something they know and land on cataloguing symptoms.
Like, Whumpee half-delirious with fever keeps trying to sit up while rattling off their symptoms, and Caretaker is pushing them back into bed for the nth time saying I know, we've got it, please relax. Whumpee in shock is gasping out jargon about the type and severity of their injury while Caretaker is begging them to just tell me what to do about it! That kind of thing.
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee
Well... Maybe it wouldn't hurt.
"Yes," you say quietly. "I'm sorry for hitting you." The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Freddie smiles.
"No, it's okay. Here." She drapes the jacket over your shoulders. It's nice and carries the warmth of her body. You feel a little more at ease.
But that's dangerous. You shouldn't feel at ease. You should be on high alert.
But it's late, and you're sleepy, and you're now warm and as comfortable as you'll ever get with your body battered like this. You wish you could fall asleep like this.
"You look tired," Freddie says. "My offer still stands. I've taken in people before— Well, mostly family. But I really wouldn't mind having you in the guest bedroom. You don't look like you cause much trouble."
You pull the jacket tighter around yourself. You can't help but imagine a house as warm as it is, carrying Freddie's scent; a hint of floral and vanilla. It's just a hunch, but you don't imagine she's very organised — her guest bedroom must be cluttered with things she doesn't know where to put. But it must have a soft, warm bed.
No. It's stupid to even go there in your mind. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
"Are you okay?" she asks, worried.
"Yes," you lie. "Just tired. I can give you your jacket back. I'd like to sleep."
"No, keep it. Especially if you plan on roughing it in the park. At least you'll have some protection from this weather."
Do you plan on roughing it?
No. The offer is too good. You want her guest bedroom.
Yes. You can't trust her. But you're keeping the jacket.
Yes. You can't trust her. You're giving the jacket back.
Which reminds me. The work colleague who makes display signage using AI art is finally getting told to knock it off bc a reference librarian overheard some patrons mocking said AI art the other day and also bc we got a write in comment about how disappointed the commenter was that the public library ie an information center would use AI. We come to the brick and mortar library to get away from that etc etc etc. So, you know. Be loud and annoying about it in public, maybe you’ll get lucky and it’ll do something.
"there's a guy in the walls" movies exist in a universe that I fucking WISH was real. imagine how easy it would be to install stuff in walls if the space behind a wall was not 3.5 inches/8.9 cm deep and I could get my whole self in there. of course that would mean a guy could get in there too, but what are the odds.
when i was getting trained as a welder the guys started playing sneaky grabass with each other and with me. i almost hit a few people while holding dangerous tools in my hand because they wouldn’t stop grabbing me from behind, then laughing that i ‘almost’ hit them, so i finally had to go to the instructor and say, look, i’ve had years and years of self defense training due the fact i’m a very small weirdo who is in legitimate danger of getting hatecrimed and at some point one of these guys is going to goose me again and im going to bury a wrench in his eye. get them to stop grabbing me, because i don’t want to get kicked out for hitting people.
the next day i ended up punching someone in the face with a doughnut in my fist because she thought i was being a big fucking buzzkill who tattled to teacher about a harmless game, and, guess what, grabbed my butt. i got icing all over her hair. she complained to teacher...who let everyone know that this was why they weren’t supposed to be playing grabass in the fucking shop.
anyway don’t fucking sneak up on twitchy little queers with hypervigilance, it fucking sucks and you’re lucky if you get a doughnut to a face instead of a hammer.
When a character with some sort of medical background is dangerously sick or injured, and they're definitely not in any state to treat themself but on autopilot they start listing out their symptoms in clinical language. Like they can't help but fall back on the familiar routine instead of processing the implications
People in the notes have started talking about the whumpee walking another character through helping them, and don't get me wrong, that's good too. But this post specifically is about when they're not well enough to register and handle the situation like that. I'm picturing loss of control, not taking control. When they aren't willing or able to deal with the full frightening implications so they desperately grasp for something they know and land on cataloguing symptoms.
Like, Whumpee half-delirious with fever keeps trying to sit up while rattling off their symptoms, and Caretaker is pushing them back into bed for the nth time saying I know, we've got it, please relax. Whumpee in shock is gasping out jargon about the type and severity of their injury while Caretaker is begging them to just tell me what to DO about it! That kind of thing.
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