#whumprilday29

[piplupfluffwritingstuff2]

Whumpril 2026 Day 29: I'm Not Giving Up On You

Whumpril Masterlist

This one is pretty short!

Villain had barricaded the door to Hero’s room. Superhero and the others banged on it, trying to break through the red energy barrier.

“Villain! There’s nothing you can do for them anymore! Let us in!”

Villain’s hand traced over Hero’s knuckles. They slowly, carefully, removed the catheter from their arm, then the cannula from their nose.

“Villain,” Vigilante tried, “they’re gone, okay!? They need to be put to rest.”

Next came the hard part.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Villain whispered.

They pulled up a chair and sat facing Hero’s side. They concentrated, putting a hand to Hero’s head. The hospital’s scanners could reveal a lot, but Hero’s signs of life were so faint that it had flagged them as nonexistent. Villain’s senses were much stronger than any machine.

They searched through the black nothingness in Hero’s brain. Nothing so far.

The banging on the door became louder.

“I’m going to break in through the window,” Teammate’s voice echoed.

Villain’s brow furrowed, but they continued searching. A lot of murky silence and heavy fog met their mind. They swam through the debris of dendrites and neurotransmitters. They paused.

A small light bobbed on the surface, threatening to sink below the depths. Villain reached out with red energy. Got it.

“Three, two, one!” Sidekick shouted.

The window shattered; the door slammed open. Villain stood at once, pulling Hero’s soul up with them.

They created a forcefield around the bed.

“Villain! Stand down!” Superhero shouted, “you’re making this harder for all of us!”

“…Villain?”

Villain whipped around, letting the field dissipate. Hero’s eyes fluttered just as Vigilante tackled Villain to the ground.

“Sorry, Villain, but you gotta let them go,” Vigilante said.

The needle was in their neck before they could throw them off. Villain cried out while Vigilante held them in an iron grip.

…

“Vigilante? Stop…stop…” Hero muttered.

The entire room froze. Vigilante dropped Villain to the ground and rushed to the bed.

“Hero!?” Vigilante cried.

“…Yep…I’m tired…”

“Oh my gosh…” Sidekick’s face cracked into a huge smile while tears brimmed in their eyes.

“You’re- you were dead,” Superhero’s voice trembled.

“Hm? I was having weird dreams…”

Superhero helped Hero sit up and checked their vitals. They were weak, but life-sustaining.

“Get the doctors,” Superhero told Teammate.

Teammate nodded.

“Villain was right,” Superhero spoke around the lump in their throat.

“Oh heck, Villain!” Vigilante exclaimed.

Sidekick helped Villain into a chair.

“Jerkwads…” Villain slurred.

“You did it, you saved them,” Sidekick said quickly, “Hero’s alive.”

“I know. You people…never…listen…”

“How much did you give them?” Sidekick demanded.

Vigilante gritted their teeth and sucked in a breath.

“Enough,” they admitted.

Villain’s head dropped to their chest. The doctors came rushing in, Teammate right behind them. They began tending to Hero while the team got Villain settled in on the couch. Superhero draped a blanket over their form. When they got the go-ahead from the doctors, Hero drifted off soon after. When the two woke up, a slew of apologies would be in store for both of them.

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Whumpril Tag: @whumpril

[isilme-among-the-stars]

forward, together

Maglor is determined to get Caranthir to safety for @whumpril day 29: "I'm not giving up on you"

“I’m slowing you down,” Caranthir croaked.

Maglor’s horse was strong enough, but she was not so agile bearing two riders as she was one.

“Yes, you are,” Maglor agreed, panting as he swung a blow wide and low past Caranthir’s knee. “We’re still moving faster than your foot soldiers.”

Leaderless, the traitorous Easterlings were disorganised, and the tide of the rear battle was turning in favour of their kindred that fought under Bór’s banner, though it remained ferocious. Maglor had to get Caranthir away from the fighting. The mare, too cumbered to dodge the soldier rushing toward her, kicked instead. Caranthir listed sideways and might have fallen, had Maglor not righted him. The blow Uldor had dealt him, from behind, and unexpected, had been significant. He couldn’t fight in this state.

“Káno,” Caranthir said. “I’m overburdening your horse. She can’t evade properly.”

“Why do you think she’s trained to kick?”

There was a line of Fëanorian pikemen ahead. If they could just move forward a few yards…

“If you don’t let me down, I might get you killed.”

What, and consign you to near-certain death? Maglor thought. That, I won’t do. “Blood loss is addling your brain. Stop trying to think.”

The small knot of foes caught between them and the pikemen fought fiercely, unwilling to give their lives cheaply. Caranthir could see as well as he the difficulty that presented. “You know I’m right.”

“Yes, but you’ve forgotten something.” Maglor leaned forward, urging his mare into an opening gap to the left while he parried a blow to the right. “I’m not giving up on you.”

[lostwhump]

@whumpril | Day #29: "Get your hands off them!" Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984)

[robyn-runestone]

Whumpril Day 29 - "I'm Not Giving Up On You"

I wish you didn't have a purpose, Wanderlust.

Ever since you were a child, I would look at you and my heart would break, knowing that you would never get the chance to choose your own path. I wish I was strong enough to give you that choice. I should have been strong enough. You deserve so much more freedom than the power of a prince can give you.

Night Swan made you believe she could give you that freedom, to save you from your purpose. But she only forced you into another one. This pain isn't going to end with her help, and I think you know this deep down. My wonderful son is still in there, and he still has the chance to make his own freedom.

The prophecy may have put you on this path, but only you get to choose how to traverse it. Only you get to choose who will walk by your side. Nobody can control your strengths and weaknesses, nor your kind heart and unflinching determination. When the time comes, I know you will make the right decision.

Because that decision will be your own.

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

Whumpril Day 29: "I'm not giving up on you"

Not a good time. Really, really not a good time.

Raph might have tried to spell that out for Casey (again, over and over—How many ways could he say “Back off, just forget about the me you knew” before he got the point?!) but he was rather preoccupied trying not to keel over as The Excess clawed free of his chest in the form of hot and cold tar, flecked with crystalline shards that tore his throat on the way out.

His eyes watered at the force of it. Then the tears thickened too, swollen eyelids sticky and stinging as he blinked hard. He knew without looking that there was pity in Casey’s eyes. He sensed him trying to inch closer while he was too busy hacking up a lung to chew him out.

A leaden arm, a shivering, shimmering hand lifted anyway—to reach out for Casey’s help to draw a weapon. A loose hold but a warning nonetheless. Casey stopped short, shoulders slumping. Smart choice.

“How long are you gonna keep running, man? What’s it gonna take for you to let us help ya?”

Raph coughed, half-crystalized clots of blood seeping down his chin. “Don’t…need…your ‘help’. I…ghh…got everythin’ I need already.”

“Look at yourself! It’s tearin’ you apart! You can’t keep—”

“Don’t t-hghh—” His gag reflex squeezed. “—tell me what I can’t do! I’ll do…whatever I gotta do.”

“Right back at ya,” Casey spat. “I don’t care how long it takes; I’m not givin’ up on you. One way or another I’m gettin’ you home to your dad. I promised.”

“…We made a promise too, Case.” Bitter tendrils of smoke seeped between clenched teeth, hoarse voice dropping to a low, layered growl. “Y’know I’ll break you before I ever break that.”

[just-a-space-rabbit]

Whumpril Day 29: “I’m not giving up on you”

Prompt List

“we're not giving up on you. So, please don't give up on yourself.”

[dragon-swords-prophecies]

whumpril 29

prompt is "i'm not giving up on you"! I could write so much more of this. I will at some point probably but I need to stop or else i'll never finish :(

word count: 1180 tw/cw: mentioned death, mentioned war, mentioned illness context: Ronald was the second oldest of 6. He has not seen his siblings since his father died in 1910, but that doesn't mean one of them hasn't been looking. Shortly after Ronald's death, his baby sister finds out where he's been all these years. Version of my day 13 / alt 11 prompt where Ronald is alive!

--

“Ronald Wilkes?” He looks up. There's a woman standing to the side of his desk. Her voice is shaking. Around his age, maybe younger. Hair a mosaic of brown and gray.

People came, sometimes, to see James or Alex, mostly to complain. But any complaints for the sports editor were generally in writing, and more about the sports than his coverage of them. He had quit replying to most of them fourteen years ago, but he still read every one.

“Yes?” he asks, sparing her a single glance before returning to his notes and papers. It was the world series week, and the game would be soon—time to sit by the radio in the hallway and frantically scribble, then rush to type it all up before the printers deadline at 8 o’clock. The cord didn’t reach nearly far enough, but it was too loud in the newsroom to hear anything, so he had to sit at the landing and pray no one tripped down the stairs.

A brief pause. “Helen and Frederick Wilkes son?”

Ronald’s head shoots up, and the rest of his body follows. A sharp pain arcs through his shoulder at the movement, and he has to sit down again, swearing softly. Ronald tries for nonchalant, but lands somewhere around scared instead. Helen and Frederick Wilkes son.

How long had it been since he heard that? Decades? It felt like centuries. “What did you say your name was?”

“Ruby Helena Wilkes.”

The pen in his hand clatters to the ground.

How long had it been?

1905. No—that was Vic. December, 1904. Maybe January. Christmas—or was it 1903? He couldn’t remember. Was mother there? No, that didn’t narrow it—she had died in June, wracked with chills even as the summer sunshine poured through the oft-drawn curtains.

Fifty years, give or take. He thought he would never see them again. He thought it would stay that way. Except. Except there’s a woman standing in front of him, one hand covering her mouth and the other reaching out, fingers splayed, on his desk; towards his arm.

“Ronald…” she whispers, and all he can think is why here. Why now. In the middle of the Herald—where else?—, half a century after he had last seen her—because I ran away.

He wishes Donovan was here. He might not be able to fix anything, to make anything one ounce better, but he wants Donovan back more than anything, and he wants him back here and now more than he has in years.

“I didn’t…” His hands shake, and he tries to open the drawer. Ronald fumbles the cigarette packet, nearly dropping it four times. “I didn’t think you could remember me.”

“I can,” she whispers. Ronald’s fingers brush his cheek as he brings the cigarette to his mouth, and they come away wet. Fumbles with the matchbox, too, and then suddenly he stands. Another lancing pain—but he ignores it.

“Morgan—you have the first two innings,” he calls to the junior sportswriter, staring curiously at them across their linked desks. “If I’m not back you can have the rest.”

Morgan’s brow furrows, but she shrugs and agrees. “Aye aye, Mr. Wilkes.”

Through the newsroom door—the landing. He can’t stand the staring, and no one’s staring yet but they will soon. Of course they will. He closes the door behind his sister—my sister…—and takes a long drag on the cigarette. “Why?”

“Everyone else is gone. Only you and Vic.”

Fifty-five years ago, Donovan Gates’ front hallway. It’s only in the light from the doorway that Ronald realizes just how pale Vic is, and how thin. It isn’t just his eyes that are like mom, he realizes. He has TB, too. His call for Vic to wait, to ask if that’s the real reason Grandmother turned him away, dies on his lips.

“Vic…” Ronald sighs. “Vic died, fifty years ago, Ruby. Last time I saw him he had TB, and…” We both know what a sentence that is.

“Ah.” Ruby is quiet for a minute. “Just you, then. Us. The only Wilkes left.”

Ronald’s heart catches in his throat. “What do you mean, the only—”

“Calvin… died, not long after the Depression hit.” Ruby coughs thickly. “Sammy died in the Great War. He was 18. Stephen…” She looks at her shoes. “Stephen caught TB, too. Died in 1912.” She shudders.

The year Amelia—the year his niece was born.

“Oh. I’m—I’m sorry,” Ronald says. He doesn’t know what else to say. He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Do you. Erm. How long are you in town?”

“A few days, maybe longer. I don’t—I never married, you see.” No one to go back to.

“Ah.”

“What about you?”

Almost. Once. I might as well have been. “No, ah, no. Never married.” No one to go back to.

Silence. Finally, Ronald works up the courage to ask the question burning in the back of his mind. “How did you know I was here?”

Ruby makes a noise, but he doesn’t know what to call it. Not a sob, not a cry, not a laugh or a gasp or anything else in particular. “When I went home, back to the city, I heard the stories. ‘Ronald Wilkes and Donovan Gates ran off West, and no-one ever saw them again.’” She sends a sidelong glance at Ronald. “How is he?”

How is—oh, I wish. I wish. “He, erm.” Ronald coughs, and looks at his scuffed shoes. “Donovan—” Another cough. Don’t make me say it. Please—. “Donny died. In 1929. Murdered.” Half his cigarette is gone now, burning away faster than ever.

“Oh, that’s awful—I’m so sorry.” She does seem, remarkably, genuinely sorry.

Silence. Silence for so long that Ronald starts taking the next cigarette out of his pocket, ready to light it from the stub of the old, and then someone opens the door.

“Ronald!” Alex. Alexandrina McLelland. Alexandrina McLelland, the spitting image of her father, so similar that even Ruby with a memory worse than swiss cheese could place her—

“Oh, sorry, are you busy?”

He can’t speak. Something is caught in his throat, and Ronald coughs once to try and clear it. Then he descends into a coughing fit, and he can hardly hear over the noise—

Alex stares at Ruby. As soon as Ronald stops coughing—and crumbles out the butt of his first cigarette in the ashtray, though not before using it to light his second—she whirls to face him. “I thought all your family was dead.”

So did I. “Ms. Ruby Wilkes, please meet Miss Alexandrina McLelland, investigative reporter. Alexandrina, this is Ruby. My little sister.”

“Your… I thought—” Alex shakes her head. “I thought…” she repeats again, and trails off. She studies Ruby for a moment, arms crossed and considering, head tilted like a confused duck. Ruby looks at her, and then at Ronald, and then to Alex again, finally holding her gaze.

Alex drops her arms and straightens her head. “She looks like Amelia.”

Oh, god. She does.

[gean-grey-blog]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82618886/chapters/221581896

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82618886/chapters/221585401#workskin