Does anyone have the guts to shut me up?

heather - they/them - serial whumplover - widowmaker my love

[whumpdreaming]

My introduction!

Hi! My name is Heather (they/them). I've been a lurker for some time, but I now realize what I've been writing has been whump all along, so.. hello!

My first encounters with whump were in Sunday school 😭😭 some of those kid's bible books were insanely whumpy for no reason at alI, and then it's only now I learn what the term actually is. I speak decent French (getting back into it after not using it for a few years), I intend to go to culinary school and become a professional chef, and my main fandoms include Overwatch, Baldur's Gate (not into it as much anymore, sadly), Epic: The Musical, and Ultrakill and FNAF (which I don't write much fic for).

This blog will never contain NSFW content! Kink blogs and antis please DNI!

What this blog will contain:

Whump (obviously)

My own writing (lots of drabbles, occasionally some events sometimes)

Lots and lots of reblogs since that's easier than actually writing 😅

Keep in mind that this isn't a NSFW blog and I won't be posting anything sexual/explicit, but I'm a fan of intense/graphic whump and things can get pretty dark. In those cases, there'll be a warning at the top of the post along with the content listings just to make sure everyone stays safe!

Some of my favorite tropes:

Living weapons!!

Gore (I'm not a fan of major character death, so I like it best when a healing factor is involved if it's very intense)

Parental caretakers

Transition/weight gain in recovery

Recovery in general, especially when difficult!

Lab whump!

Pet whump!

Chronic pain (totally not coping with this one)

Dehumanization!!

Vivisection!!

Panic attacks

Emotional distress of all kinds

Sickfics!!

If you send me any asks or requests or interact with my posts or say literally anything nice about me whatsoever I will give you my firstborn child

Some of my favorite whump blogs that inspired me to make a blog in the first place: @painonthebrain @whumpninja @defire @whumpwordsoftheday @sowhumpshaped

@sickfictropes @allthingswhumpyandangsty @writinglittlepains @whumpyourdamnpears --- sorry in advance if you didn't want to be mentioned! 😭

Btw --- check out my Widowmaker whump fic :)

Series:

Barbara Summers has a bad time with the mob (I'll update it someday I promise) ; also called "Consequences"

Intro

One

Two

Drabbles: (Electrocution+Unconscious+"Say Please") (Warm Bath + Fresh Bandages + "..Nothing. It just hurts") (Broken Fingers+Trying not to scream+"Aw, poor thing")

---

Crownchain

Character/setting introduction

"Foul Play"

"Pulling Strings"

Whump+Hurtcember: (Day 1: Collapse + Broken Bones) (Day 2: Breakdown + "This is your fault") (Day 3: Blood + Begging) (Day 4: "Help me" alt prompt + "This isn't my blood") (Day 5: Faint + Concussion) (Day 6: Touch Starved + "Please stop") (Day 7: Abandoned + Kidnapped) (Day 8: Cuddle + Fire alt prompt) (Day 9: Exhausted + Shaking) (Day 10: Touch Aversion + "Let me help you") (Day 11: "It's my fault" alt prompt + Manipulation) (Day 12: Cry + "I have nowhere else to go") (Day 13: Nightmare + Trauma) (Day 22: Self Harm + Hallucinations)

(Poisoned + Pleading + "You never do shut up, do you?")

---

Hemopenia

Stages of blood withdrawal

Stage Zero

Pilot

Not Dead

Stage One

Lively

(Delirium / Good dream with an unpleasant wake-up / "..Mom?")

---

Taby's terrible horrible no good very bad life

Intro

One

---

Various unnamed superhero things

(Anxiety attack / Apologizing / "I just.. I just need a minute.")

Febuwhump: (Day 1: Vocal Chords) (Day 2: Holding Back Tears) (Day 3: Pinned Down) (Day 4: Major Character Death, alt prompt) (Day 5: Not Trusting Reality) (Day 6: Forced to Stay Awake) (Day 7: Alternate Timeline Self) (Day 9: Necromancy) (Day 10: Magic Exhaustion) (Day 11: Blowtorch, alt prompt) (Day 12: Used as Practice) (Day 13: "I don't trust anyone else") (Day 14: Becoming the Monster)

August of Whump: (Day 1: Brainwashing / Heavy / Overheating) (Day 2: Sold Off / Bleeding Heart / Bargaining) (Day 3: Greed / On Display / Black and Blue) (Day 4: Blurred Vision / Hallucinogen / Haunted) (Day 5: Shadow / Rules / Ransom) (Day 6: Coughing Fit / Bone Saw / Seeing Red) (Day 7: Flashback / Faint / Noxious) (Day 8: Defiance / Distrust / Numb) (Day 9: Simple / Disgust / Gutting)

That's about it for now!! Thanks for reading!

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 18

Written mostly by @featherlovesrobots with some help and light editing from me. featuring the Creature

Day 18: zip ties / taut / torn muscle

Daybreak gasps, collapsing onto the concrete. She can't move her legs, although she can definitely feel them, erupting in pain. She can see sunlight up ahead, filtered through a grate. She just needs.. to get to the light..

The concrete is cold. Scratches her arms as she drags herself forward. The pain radiates up to her lower back, springing tears to her eyes and squeezing her lungs taut. It makes her dizzy. She bites down on her tongue. Something screams behind her, shrill and shuddering. Ugh. Come on, Erin. Not much farther…

She wishes she could run. Her muscles feel like they’re splitting apart, piece by piece. The pain flares when a cold grip closes around her ankle and yanks. She shouts and grabs at the floor ahead, reaching up towards the light — it’s so close. Not close enough. And it recedes when she’s pulled backwards, scraping across the ground. She wants to kick. It’s no use.

Teeth sink into her flesh, and blood is siphoning through her calf, pulled forward and out. The pain actually recedes. Some kind of numbing venom? Whatever it is, a part of her wants more of it, but a bigger part of her recognizes the danger and forces her to try and kick it away.

Heat swims under her skin, gathering at her core, the way it always does when her powers are charging. But the venom is too much, spreading and reaching through her body, snaking up and down like spilled blood. Warm, tingling sensations, and then nothing at all. The last thing she sees are those lines of sunlight, beaming onto the cold wet ground.

[mysticalwhump]

looking for whump acc moots!

hello hello! i'm returning to the whump community after a long break, this time as a writer. i'd love to meet some other whump writers, so feel free to drop a comment/reblog/like if you wanna be moots!

i'm a huge fan of defiant whumpees (who isnt), and i love dnd-esc or cowboy-time settings. I'm also a huge fan of hero/villian whump.

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 15

Written by @featherlovesrobots and very lightly edited by me :)

Day 16: body swap / disorientation / dissection

“I can’t believe this,” Snake Eyes says under her breath. “Ugh. I cannot stand superheroes. At this rate.. well, I’m not above using my powers on you again, you know.”

Being taken apart is that much worse without Surgeon’s healing. The pain when the knife dragged down Daybreak’s abdomen, when a hand gripped some tender part of her insides. It felt like coming undone, like the destruction of her sanity. She can’t believe she thought it was bad before. Her brain buzzes from the loss of blood and she can’t feel her feet or fingers. That numbness is a small blessing, but it’s not where she wants it. She’d bleed dry if that meant the pain would stop.

But she wouldn’t give up Sabitra. At least, she hopes she wouldn’t. She’s always been so much weaker than Audrey, hasn’t she.

“Just try it, you—” A wad of cloth shoves into the back of her throat and she chokes on it. Before she has time to get her thoughts together enough to spit it out, a rough blanket is pushed against her face and secured around the back of her neck.

Snake Eyes’ voice is much closer now, almost tickling the edge of her ear. “If you don’t have anything useful to say,” she murmurs, and a hand brushes over Daybreak’s blindfold, then cards over her hair, before gripping and pulling it to yank her head closer. “Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.”

She flings Daybreak’s head back down against the table. It barely hurts. Everything barely hurts, drowned out by the agony swimming through her midsection. She can physically feel her intestines moving around on their own, squirming like worms against the horrifically frigid air. Her stomach roils in protest against the sensation, and hot blood rolls down her sides, pooling under her, sticky and thick. The smell is indescribable, and definitely isn’t helping her nausea.

At least she’s managed to upset Snake Eyes. It would be more fun if she could feel or think about anything other than the pain. The knife’s edge meets something in her, lower down. All her organs are exposed and shivering — there’s no way to pinpoint which one Snake Eyes is touching, and at this point, Daybreak can’t manage to care. The knife digs in, and there’s no way to avoid the muffled scream that tears from her, drawn out and shuddering, reverberating through her whole body as it seizes up against her restraints.

“Oh, what’s that? You don’t want an impromptu appendectomy? Just nod once if you’re ready to tell me Starstorm’s real name.”

She nods. And suddenly she’s watching herself from outside her body, unable to stop what she knows is about to happen. Snake Eyes removes the blanket and the gag, and then there’s a silence. Anticipation, while Daybreak struggles to get enough air in to force the words out.

She opens her mouth to say it. Sabitra Moon, a bakery owner, married, any information Snake Eyes wants, just to make the pain stop — but she can’t. It’s not her being noble. She doesn’t deserve that assumption. She’ll never be Ultraviolet. But she can’t say it. She couldn’t handle betraying Sabitra like that. She couldn’t handle being hated by her, ruining the only good thing that’s ever happened in her life. It’s pathetic, selfish, but she couldn’t handle it. She grits her teeth.

“Her… real… name.” Daybreak gasps. “Is Starstorm. B####.”

[thethumpinthenight]

this is incredible, I need 15 more just like these on my desk by Monday morning, thanks!!

[thethumpinthenight]

Hi There!!

My name is Rosey, you can call me Rose for short. And this is my first 'serious' blog that I actually wanna post on: I love writing, reading, musical theater, and I do enjoy whump!

My asks are always open, give me you recommendations, inspo, questions, comments, tips or tricks, PLEASE TALK TO ME (I WILL LITERALLY NEVER BE BOTHERED IF YOU DO, YOU WILL ACTUALLY MAKE ME THE HAPPIEST GIRL ON THE WORLD)

There will NOT be NSFW, and very little gore on this blog. I focus more on the comfort and recovery. Some things you will find:

Team Whump

'Youngest' Whump (The youngest person on the team is whumped, idrk what else to call it)

Recovery

Sickfics/Sick Whumpee

Parental Caretakers

Lady Whump (Not always, but that's usually my go to)

((I'm very open to trying/writing new things so don't let my personal preferences deter you from sending an ask your interested in))

I'm also a MINOR please don't be weird

I hope you stick around ❤️❤️

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 17

Written by @featherlovesrobots and edited by me again :)

Day 17: panting / panic / pet names

Audrey’s head spins as she blinks her eyes open, finding blessedly dim light. She groans, shifting to turn over — when she realizes she’s not laying down, she’s in a sitting position, and her center of balance seems to shift painfully. There’s a soreness crawling all over her skin and in the deepest recesses of her body, stiff and stretched. It feels like she’s been stuffed with molasses, and stuck together with glue like a doll. She shuts her eyes again.

“Oh, look who’s awake. Good morning, sunshine!”

Right. She’s still here — bound by the limbs, stitches running across her body. There’s no gag in her mouth now, but dryness clings to her tongue and the back of her throat. Her brain feels swollen, aching and whining under her skull, like it’d been taken and played with as much as the rest of her. She can’t manage to speak, especially not with the feeling of phantom cloth coating her mouth, but a pitchy whine escapes her.

“Aw. I know the first time is always rough, but don’t worry, I took the liberty of dimming the lights for you. Everyone else did complain of a bad headache. I gave you some painkillers, too.”

Something isn’t right. Even though Audrey’s thoughts are coming pathetically slow, and the world feels like it’s swaying around her, somewhere she recognizes that this is Evelyn’s voice and Evelyn isn’t sympathetic. At least, not genuinely. She’s the one who tortured her last night. So what’s happening now…?

Evelyn steps in front of the chair she left Audrey bound to, and her periwinkle eyes come into view, shimmering lowly. She smiles, reaching forward to run her knuckles over Audrey’s face. The smile fades when Audrey jerks away, sluggishly hissing through her teeth in protest. “Don’t be like that, dear," she murmurs with a click of her tongue, “I’m only— hm. Is ‘dear’ the best for you? What do you think, do you prefer it? Is 'hon' better? Or should I just leave the pet names at the door?”

Now she’s talking to her like a pet — like a toy, in a different way than before. Her voice soft, gentle, but so jarringly patronizing all the same. Audrey knows full well she doesn’t care how she wants to be referred to. So she doesn’t bother even trying to answer.

“Hey. I asked you a question.” Evelyn says, a dangerous tone dancing at the edge of her voice. She sighs. “Come on, you can’t give me the silent treatment forever. It’s too early, and I’m not in the mood to play with you yet, but if you don’t behave…”

Audrey flinches. She can’t stop her eyes from widening, her jaw from tensing. Her heart thuds in her stomach and nausea washes over her at the thought of having her body opened up and her organs touched again, in such a way without even Surgeon’s healing. Answering a simple question, one that doesn’t even betray her teammates, wouldn’t that be worth it?

So, she slowly opens her mouth to speak. Only her voice comes in a weak rasp, then catches in her throat like cobwebs and seizes her in a coughing fit. Her breath shudders and she fights for air, lungs straining. When it passes, she’s gasping.

“Oh! So sorry, I forgot to give you any water, silly me. Here, I’ve already filled a glass.” She slips out of view, then returns, pressing a cool cup to Audrey’s lips. It’s a new kind of humiliating, to be fed water by her captor like this, so gently. She hates it almost enough to spit it right back in her face. But then when would she be offered a chance like this again? The shame burns. But she drinks.

The water tastes better than anything she’s ever had, and relief spreads over every part of her, as her chin tips up to reach more of it, faster, desperately. It’s over too fast. Soon the cup is empty and taken away, which is probably for the best — though her throat begs for more, her stomach is too full, and threatens her again with nausea. She breathes in desperate huffs; she hadn’t noticed how much air she’d missed while thirsty.

“That’s better, isn’t it? Now, what do you think?”

Audrey looks up, water still dripping down her chin. Evelyn is smiling again, and it’d be a pretty smile too, if looking at her didn’t make her sick. “Just… call me Ultraviolet.”

A slap, stinging and harsh against her cheek and whipping her head to the side. She coughs again, shutting her eyes against the way it brings her back to herself. Evelyn’s breaths are quick, shallow. Then they stabilize, turning deeper and more even, and fingers brush against Audrey’s chin, made to face her. “Sorry about that, but you have to understand that calling you by… that name is simply unacceptable. It makes you sound so far away from me! The least you could do would be to tell me your first name, so I could use that. You already know mine, don't you? — And never suggest I call you by your alias again, please. I’ll do what I have to to make you understand.”

Evelyn smiles again, but this time it feels plastered on, stretched thin. Her tattoos glint in the bare light. Audrey looks down. And, slowly, she says, “call me whatever you want. Just… not babe. Anything but that.” She pauses, reluctant, but eventually adds, “thank you.”

Evelyn smiles. "I think ‘dear’ will do just fine for you, then! Oh, here, let me untie you — it was lucky you woke up when you did. I have just finished sprucing up your room…"

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 16

Written by @featherlovesrobots and very lightly edited by me :)

Day 16: body swap / disorientation / dissection

“I can’t believe this,” Snake Eyes says under her breath. “Ugh. I cannot stand superheroes. At this rate.. well, I’m not above using my powers on you again, you know.”

Being taken apart is that much worse without Surgeon’s healing. The pain when the knife dragged down Daybreak’s abdomen, when a hand gripped some tender part of her insides. It felt like coming undone, like the destruction of her sanity. She can’t believe she thought it was bad before. Her brain buzzes from the loss of blood and she can’t feel her feet or fingers. That numbness is a small blessing, but it’s not where she wants it. She’d bleed dry if that meant the pain would stop.

But she wouldn’t give up Sabitra. At least, she hopes she wouldn’t. She’s always been so much weaker than Audrey, hasn’t she.

“Just try it, you—” A wad of cloth shoves into the back of her throat and she chokes on it. Before she has time to get her thoughts together enough to spit it out, a rough blanket is pushed against her face and secured around the back of her neck.

Snake Eyes’ voice is much closer now, almost tickling the edge of her ear. “If you don’t have anything useful to say,” she murmurs, and a hand brushes over Daybreak’s blindfold, then cards over her hair, before gripping and pulling it to yank her head closer. “Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.”

She flings Daybreak’s head back down against the table. It barely hurts. Everything barely hurts, drowned out by the agony swimming through her midsection. She can physically feel her intestines moving around on their own, squirming like worms against the horrifically frigid air. Her stomach roils in protest against the sensation, and hot blood rolls down her sides, pooling under her, sticky and thick. The smell is indescribable, and definitely isn’t helping her nausea.

At least she’s managed to upset Snake Eyes. It would be more fun if she could feel or think about anything other than the pain. The knife’s edge meets something in her, lower down. All her organs are exposed and shivering — there’s no way to pinpoint which one Snake Eyes is touching, and at this point, Daybreak can’t manage to care. The knife digs in, and there’s no way to avoid the muffled scream that tears from her, drawn out and shuddering, reverberating through her whole body as it seizes up against her restraints.

“Oh, what’s that? You don’t want an impromptu appendectomy? Just nod once if you’re ready to tell me Starstorm’s real name.”

She nods. And suddenly she’s watching herself from outside her body, unable to stop what she knows is about to happen. Snake Eyes removes the blanket and the gag, and then there’s a silence. Anticipation, while Daybreak struggles to get enough air in to force the words out.

She opens her mouth to say it. Sabitra Moon, a bakery owner, married, any information Snake Eyes wants, just to make the pain stop — but she can’t. It’s not her being noble. She doesn’t deserve that assumption. She’ll never be Ultraviolet. But she can’t say it. She couldn’t handle betraying Sabitra like that. She couldn’t handle being hated by her, ruining the only good thing that’s ever happened in her life. It’s pathetic, selfish, but she couldn’t handle it. She grits her teeth.

“Her… real… name.” Daybreak gasps. “Is Starstorm. B####.”

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 14

Written mainly by @featherlovesrobots but edited slightly by me.

Day 14: lacerations / limping / intubation

There are no lights here. Only the dim glow of liquids in tanks and flashes from machines. Beeping, humming, buzzing machines — and chatter through monitors and a faint, steady ringing. Sabitra’s arms are bound, and her torso and legs. Or, wait…

Not bound. Paralyzed. She can barely feel a thing below her neck, and she can’t move, either. But there are definitely multiple of what feel like giant IVs, shooting something cold into her stomach and limbs. Her throat hurts from the tube running down it, forcing her to breathe at a steady rate. The realization makes her dizzy, but she steadies herself and looks around. Nothing but walls and more machines, large and small, equipped with dials, levers, screens filled with numbers and blurred words. There’s a door — double, metal, probably pressurized. And a window, oval-shaped and—

Ocean. Brightly illuminated, probably by a light coming from the outside wall, but the light only reaches so far. Nothing but water and a few legs of kelp. Something tightens in her chest and it doesn’t help that her senses are coming back to her, that she can almost vividly feel liquids being pushed into her body and others siphoned out. Every organ under her skin is trembling, and nausea grips her from the throat down. But there’s no risk of vomit, not with her stomach so empty.

Last night. What happened last night?

It was a scout mission. She was looking for Corruption, so were the kids. Oh, the kids.

They couldn’t be here too, could they? No. No, she’d see them, wouldn’t she? Unless they’re being kept in separate rooms. There’s no reason to panic — they want her alive, clearly, so it must be the case for the others too. And there’s no proof they’re here too. Were they there? She barely remembers anything past going off to check for stragglers.

There’s a hiss, and a deep humming sound — the pressurized door. Then another, closing the room in. Soft footsteps on tile floor. She lays still, but keeps her eyes open.

“Sabitra Moon.” A curt, cold voice. “Let’s keep this short. I’m sure you recognize me, but my name is Corruption. You’ll be staying with me for a while. No, I didn’t take any of your allies, yes, I know your name from a close source, no, it isn’t common knowledge, and I can keep a secret.”

A dark shape steps in front of Sabitra’s line of vision, and she can just barely make out the edge of a black gas mask. “And, yes, there will be what you might refer to as ‘torture.’ Although I also accept 'experimental science', 'assisted stress testing', or 'asymmetrical collaborative research'.”

Corruption circles around behind Sabitra, placing a gloved hand on her chin and tilting it upwards. It feels demeaning. Petty. A bead of sweat falls down Sabitra's forehead despite the cold.

"In fact.. I have great faith in our productivity. Don't you?"

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 13

Technically it is still the 13th for me so I did actually post this at the right time and did not totally forget until I saw @featherlovesrobots' message, who wrote this prompt by the way they're amazing

Day 13: countdown / marked / shame

Daybreak will never get used to seeing Starstorm in action. She’s just always so… nice. Polite. Careful. But she turns into this harsh, efficient leader in the field — no room for nonsense, and all that. Giving orders in that clipped mission-voice. Cutting across rooftops or through parking lots or between crowds. Pinning some guy to the ground and then the next, and the next. Sometimes it feels like she’s invincible. Until she isn’t.

Headliner holds Starstorm’s chin under one hand, keeping her still with another one. Daybreak keeps her eyes fixed on Starstorm’s. She’s not usually sensitive to this kind of thing, but that stab wound is too much.

“Let’s try this. I’ll count. On five, I drop her,” Headliner muses, shifting to hold Starstorm teasingly over the edge of the roof. Every muscle in Daybreak’s body seizes up and she bites down a growl. Talking back will get Starstorm killed. Lunging forward would be even worse. Ugh. Audrey would know what to do. Headliner turns back, pressing Starstorm’s practically limp body again against her chest, one arm over hers to stop any squirming. Not that Starstorm would try that — she’s behaving perfectly, chin down and hands dangling at her sides. Hopefully that means she has a plan. “Ooor, if you do one little favor for me, you can have her back.”

Daybreak had forgotten how much she hated Headliner’s voice. She wants to scream — she wants to curse her out and grab her by the collar and jam her bare hands into her stomach and just twist, grip, tear until there’s nothing left but—

She takes one breath in. She can’t be Erin right now; she can’t be the hotheaded trainwreck who picks fights and punches walls. She needs to be Daybreak. For Starstorm.

“What’s the favor?” She manages, just over a whisper, voice wet with carnage.

Headliner smiles, and it’s a horrible smile. Too many teeth, too wide and crooked. Her eyes glint like scales in the fleshing streetlight below. “Simple, dear Day,” she lilts, disgustingly sweet. “Tell me something nice.”

Daybreak swallows.

“One.”

Something nice. What could she possibly—

“Two.”

What? God, how is she supposed to—

“Three.”

“Stop, just—” Daybreak breathes out through her teeth. “Okay, just— just hang on—”

Headliner moves to hold Starstorm by the collar of her suit, inching her towards the edge. “Foooour…”

“I SAID STOP, YOU’RE—” She shakes her head. Shuts her eyes. “You’re— you’re—”

“F—”

“Pretty. Okay?!”

There’s a pause. Headliner tips her head, holding Starstorm steady in one hand.

Then Starstorm is thrown in Daybreak's direction, and she scrambles to catch her by the upper arms. The weight is almost too much all at once but she takes it and eases her to the ground. The blood is hot. “Hey, hey— stay awake, okay? You—you always tell me to stay awake.”

Starstorm doesn’t respond. Her eyes are barely lucid, almost glazed over. She mumbles something, and it’s no use asking what she meant to say. Her eyes close. Dangit. Daybreak wraps one of her arms around her shoulder and, shakily, stands. Base isn’t too far from here. If she can get help from Ultraviolet, they should be there soon, and Starstorm will be fine.

All she has to do is get back to base.

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 11

Finished just before the deadline by @featherlovesrobots <3

Day 11: nausea / squeeze / vertigo

Audrey has never killed anyone before.

Or, well… she didn’t think she had. Thinking back, how many people has she slammed into walls or concrete, or tables or windows, and how many times has she watched them lay still afterwards? She’d always assumed they were just unconscious, breathing and stable and that they’d wake up in a few seconds with a bad headache, so she had to move fast. But they could’ve laid there forever and she’d never have known.

There’s no questioning this one. The body is visible, some 100 feet down. Pools of red around it. The ghost of his jacket over her hands is still there. The place on his shoulders she grabbed before pushing him down. She didn’t mean to. But she did.

A man is dead.

She isn’t sure how long she’s been staring, but a crowd has formed. Soon they’ll check his ID and know who he is — was. A criminal. A murderer. The kind of person who would be fighting someone like Ultraviolet. It won’t take long for them to figure it out. She should run. She should turn and get her grappling hook and hop from roof to roof until she loses altitude and she’s nowhere near the scene. But her feet have rooted to the ground.

A sudden-onset sickness creeps into her middle, and her hand absently reaches to grip the fabric over her stomach. The world swims around her, melting and smudging. Heat roils under her skin like she’s feverish. And how long have her hands been shaking so hard?…

She killed someone. She killed someone. Oh, god, she killed someone.

A voice buzzes to life in her comms and she can’t tell if it’s Sabitra or Erin. None of the words come through, just the sound. And it only pushes her further into oblivion. Her chest is tight; her head is heavy. Every inch of her feels like it’s purging something from the inside, a heavy, jittering feeling. She still can’t move, but she also can’t stop shaking. She killed someone. She killed someone. Shekilledsomeoneshekilledsomeoneshekilledsomeone—

Hurricanes surge in her stomach now and, somewhere, she must have fallen to her knees. The harder she breathes, the less air there is — her lungs closing in on themselves, shivering and cracking. Her fingertips turn icy and blank. She wants to clap a hand over her mouth, but none of her muscles give her enough slack. All she can do is turn her body before vomit erupts from her mouth.

She gags a bit, after. Her body still seized up, curled in on itself. But there’s nothing left. She should feel better. As a kid, she always felt better afterwards. Now, she just feels weak, and small, and so much dizzier than before. A gust of wind could knock her down.

Her ears ring, but the comms are still rustling with Starstorm’s voice. “Violet, hello? Please, Violet, just let us know you’re okay—”

“’M here,” Ultraviolet manages, through the acid burning the back of her throat. “Sorry. I—” Her breath hitches. Get it together, Audrey. “I think I screwed up.”

“Hang on, I’m headed to your location. What do you mean? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

A sob catches in her throat. She shakes her head, which only makes the vertigo worse. “Nh. No, I’m— I’m sorry, I’m just— I don’t—”

“Hey, calm down, I’m almost there. Talk to me. Are you in danger?”

“… No.”

“It’s okay, then. Just wait for me.”

The comm line clicks off. And Ultraviolet is alone again. She tries to keep her eyes off the distance. Looking up means looking around, means looking at the scuff marks on the floor from the fight, means looking at the railing she shoved him over. How could she do that? What was she thinking? She wasn’t. Starstorm would never make that kind of mistake. Even as a veteran vigilante, she probably never has.

Audrey really isn’t worth it.

People are shouting, down there. It reminds her she should really be leaving the area, that she could get in serious trouble if civilians knew it was her. But she can barely stay up on her hands and knees. Her lungs tighten again, heart pounding in her throat. Tears prickle in her eyes. But before they fall, there’s a pattering of footsteps on the roof beside her.

“There you are, hey, what happened?” Sabitra’s voice, soft and careful. She must be looking at the vomit now, because she whispers, “oh, babe,” and Audrey feels a warm hand on her shoulder.

“I killed him.” It comes out as a pinched whine.

The hand flinches, a little, then another one is on her cheek, tipping her head up. Sabitra’s eyes are wide, but present. “Who?”

“Greg Myers. Civilian criminal. No—no powers, or… no anything.” The words sit in her chest, even after they’re said. She still feels sick.

Sabitra pulls her close and two arms are around her. Sabitra’s breaths are slower than hers, steady and clear. Ultraviolet grips the back of her costume, and the tears stream hot down her face. Slowly a hand starts to rub circles on her upper back, while the other one settles behind her head, and Sabitra sways slightly. She’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t so comforting.

“I’m sorry.” There isn’t anything else to say.

“It’s okay,” Sabitra responds, gently. “It’s okay. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 10

This is my personal favorite so far!! Everyone say thank you @featherlovesrobots for being amazing

Day 10: overthinking / meat / memory loss

Bone, under Reagan’s teeth. It snapped and crunched like twigs, disappearing into the void that tore her apart from her core. Blood dribbled down her chin to her chest as she dug her teeth into something else — she wasn’t paying attention. Just ripping out the most tender places, the visceral organs. The heart tasted the best, once she managed to get at it from all those ribs. The liver was fiercely bitter, cutting into her tongue. She tore it apart but that wasn’t enough.

Soon there were mouths on her hands, mouths where her eyes were — teeth and tongues melting and mixing on her body to bite, bite, bite. Brain matter was disgusting, but she swallowed it and it felt good. She shoveled more into every mouth. She needed more. She could keep eating forever but it wasn’t enough, like everything she consumed dispersed inside her. It hurt. But it was the only way.

The longer she ate, the worse it got. The clawing pain at her center, seeping into every inch of her and making her ache. The bones were gone. Only meat left. Bitter, sweet, disgusting, delicious meat.

But soon that was gone too. She screamed. Nothing was left of the doctor but she still felt so empty…

She realized she couldn’t see. Eyes formed in some part of her and fixed on the camera at the corner of the ceiling. Someone was watching that camera, watching her through it. This lab was full of prey. All she needed to do was get out and find them.

Her eyes blink open and everything is dark.

Oh. Right. A dream. That makes sense. But she can still feel it — that phantom starvation, the gnawing hole crawling up her throat. She wanted to rip someone apart again. She wanted to feel bones break under her teeth, to taste another heart, another liver. Every inch of her shivers for it. Her hands tighten into fists and she takes two deep breaths.

She stands up — throwing the comforter on the floor — and steps toward the kitchen. Maybe something in there will be enough.

[whumplent]

whumpee kept by non-human whumper and coming out mostly human but also not quite. stronger than they should be for having no meat on their bones. senses a little too keen. reaction times a little too sharp. covered in scars that form too fast. the core of them whittled away and patched with something different, and it’s too late to do anything about it.

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

HEY!

So, I don’t know who this is going to reach, but I hope it reaches anyone or everyone <3

I really want to meet small whump creators on here. I do obsess over a lot of whump creators who are big and somewhat popular, and I always wonder how to find smaller blogs that are lurking around like I do. As a small blog myself.

So if you’re a small whump blog and want to meet new friends, I’d love to read your stories and see what you create. Even if you don’t make anything and just reblog, that’s okay too. I really do think there are hidden gems out there that I’d love to find, but sometimes it’s hard to.

And if you interact with this post, we’ll all find each other and make more friends. At least, that’s what I’d like to think would happen.

And while you’re here, maybe say something in the comments about yourself, your blog, or your stories. What’s your favorite whump trope? What have you put your characters through? What’s the whumpiest media you’ve consumed lately?

As usual, I’ll say that I obsess over everyone’s OC’s and literally want to eat every crumb of lore I can get. I love drawing them too! So please talk about them!

Have a whumperful day!

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 9

Written by me for once :)

Day 9: simple / disgust / gutting

"See, now here's the problem I have. If I tie you down on your back, it's less fun because your inside bits aren't going anywhere, but you're also more vulnerable. So it's more fun. But if you're standing up.. well, I guess a chair is a good compromise. What do you think?"

Audrey looks up at Evelyn, her limbs bound tightly to a simple steel folding chair. A single unreliable lightbulb flickers above, lighting Evelyn's casual form. And the jagged knife held in her hand.

"I'll keep it simple. Understandable. No super powers or anything. Easy and accessible. You know, some G-rated fun for all ages."

Audrey's breathing is ragged. Her throat is dry. Her bare skin is cold against the air in this dark room, wherever she is.

Evelyn circles around to behind Audrey, leaning over her shoulder and caressing her face with one hand. She brings the knife in front of her so Audrey can get a better look at it. It looks like a steak knife or something similar, meant for cutting meat, with a thin handle and a serrated edge.

Audrey whines slightly as Evelyn presses the tip of the knife to her lower abdomen, then — flinches as the cold blade enters her body. Despite herself, she gasps, crying as Evelyn shushes her, letting out a sob as the knife begins to saw through her skin. She feels every millimeter as it splits apart, blood starting to spill down onto her thighs.

"See? Now this is interesting. Now this is something worth crying about."

Evelyn, with her other hand, digs a few fingers into Audrey's exposed intestine. The feeling of it, and the sight, makes her deeply nauseous, and suddenly fighting the urge to vomit.

By this point, Audrey is fully screaming, gasping for what air she can manage in-between breaths as Evelyn shoves the knife in deeper. She's fully hyperventilating at this point, sobbing loudly, while Evelyn says nothing, only watching with mild interest. She pulls up Audrey's bloody skin, rooting around inside her intestines, making sure she sees the way she's been cut open. Warm blood pours down her thighs and onto the floor.

Audrey sputters, her throat constricting, the air being given less space to move through. The foul taste of bile fills her mouth, her wrists and ankles rubbed raw by the tight binding. She screams again, tears running down her cheeks, and she can sense her vision blurring as Evelyn frowns at her.

"Aw. Going into shock already? Better luck next time, I guess."

Audrey closes her eyes.

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 8

By @featherlovesrobots, I promise I wrote some prompts too they just haven't been posted yet </3

Day 8: defiance / distrust / numb

The streets are almost empty. A sheet of paper crawls by in a gust of wind, falls to the road, and crumbles under the tire of a speeding car that whizzes by. Erin’s eyes catch on that paper, flattened and crumpled. Then she takes a step forward, and another, until she can’t look at it any more without turning her body. A streetlight flickers. Someone is talking on the phone.

Oh. Wait. This is different, isn’t it?

This isn’t the surgery theatre. This is the city. Okay. That’s… How did she get here? It doesn’t matter. She should find Starstorm. Report back. She was captured during… what was the word…

Patrol. Yeah.

Sabitra will be at the bakery. The bakery is two blocks from the apartment building. Where was the apartment building again? … She should call Sabitra. Her phone isn’t there. Right… she’s still in her suit. So there’s nothing she can…

Wait. Comms. She can use comms. “Hey, I…” She’s supposed to turn them on first. Okay. Right. “Hey, I’m… Somewhere.”

Did she actually turn them on? Maybe she didn’t. It doesn’t matter. They’ll find her anyway, or… they won’t. How did she get here?

She can’t feel her hands. Maybe it’s cold. Doesn’t feel like it, though. Feels warm. It’s weird, actually — she’s never had to feel like this before, unless she was strapped down. She can move, but not really. It’s like controlling her body with strings, or sticks. Pins and needles racing over her skin. Her foot catches on something and she’s falling.

The concrete doesn’t feel like anything. Nothing feels like anything. How did she get here? Wasn’t she just standing up?

She should call Sabitra.

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 7

I forgot to post this earlier as I've been busy!! Writing by @featherlovesrobots as usual

Day 7: flashback / faint / noxious

(context: there was a poison gas situation and Erin’s mask was damaged, so Audrey took hers off and put it on Erin)

“I hate you, you know that?”

Audrey sighs. The gas is far away by now — once everyone had gotten out, they’d shut the doors, and Erin grabbed her and dragged her what felt like a mile up the steepest road she could find. But the residue still feels like hot iron in her lungs, pressing down and burning. She’d swallow if that didn’t make it feel even worse. Her back’s been against the cold, wet wall of a foreign alleyway for the last hour, knees spread out in front of her, since she can’t stand up or lie down without pain shredding through every tender muscle in her chest. She should’ve expected Erin would fault her for that.

It doesn’t hurt to hear Erin say that. She knows she doesn’t mean it. And, if it did, she’d blame it on the poison.

“Erin…” She winces.

There’s a sharp huff, but Erin doesn’t say anything else. Not for a bit, anyway, before she starts up again.

“You keep doing this,” she spits, like the words hurt her tongue. “Always — you always have to be the hero. The martyr. Little miss perfect, who can do no wrong and just wants to save everyone. Can’t stand getting a smidge of tarnish on your precious image.”

“It’s… not about my…”

Erin tenses, whirling around to face Audrey. Violence in her eyes. “It is, though. I know you think you’re just trying to do what’s right, or whatever, but when it comes down to it, you do always have to be the hero. That, back there, people are going to call it selfless, brave, all that junk they always say. But people got hurt because all they had to save them—” Her breath hitches. “Was me.”

It takes a minute for her words to sink in. Erin shakes her head and turns back around, eyes on the sidewalk. Audrey presses the back of her head against the wall.

“I’d… do it… again,” she rasps.

“Yeah, I know,” Erin snaps. Then her voice gets low, just above a whisper. “That’s the problem, Sherlock. You always do it again.”

[whumpdreaming]

August of Whump Day 6

Everyone go tell @featherlovesrobots how cool and awesome they are

Day 6: coughing fit / bone saw / seeing red

Shattered was a dutiful soldier, an assassin, and a weapon. Solar Flare, a symbol of change and hope, a paladin, an atonement. Luce…

Well. Luce, it must be supposed, is a child.

It is a strange situation. A strange, new identity. Luce Moon, adopted child of Sabitra Moon — and, technically, Jean Moon as well. He has never quite needed to maintain a civilian image to this extent before. His father hosted events in the past, but he was never expected to speak, only stand at the foot of the table or beside his father's chair, chin up and arms at his sides. The bakery is much different. There is a constant swarm of strangers, and Sabitra has encouraged him to talk to them. It is a new task, but one he is more than willing to take on. The first few dozen attempts may have gone awry — certain customers have mistaken his smile for a grimace or his polite greetings for veiled threats — but he will succeed. He has done all the necessary research on socializing. How difficult could it be, after all else he’s mastered? Luce Moon will be a charming, approachable, and quite frankly delightful socialite. There is only one small issue.

He cannot quite breathe.

There seems to be something in his lungs. Heavy and itching. It collects and tightens, closing a grip around each breath he takes. No matter how long or how hard he tries, there simply is not enough air.

It is not much of an affliction, really — taking into consideration how much worse he has experienced. He has undergone poison endurance training, he has been choked, he has even been shot directly in the lung. And never has he allowed such things to stop him completing his mission. So, now is the time to continue on, and perhaps after the bakery has closed, then he can attempt a remedy, or simply allow himself some rest. All he needs to do is get through a busy day.

He is no stranger to masking weakness. He times his breaths, deepens them just enough while keeping them the right amount of shallow as well. Too small and the lack of air is too much — he could end up stumbling or worse, gasping. Too large and the cough reflex intensifies, like spore clouds puffing up his throat and scratching. The most important thing is to keep up an image — even if he cannot move or speak with optimal ease, he will appear as though he can. He will not tarnish Sabitra’s image; not after all the kindness she’s shown him and the faith she seems to have in him, despite how little he has done to earn it. Ironically enough, this task could prove to be one of his most important yet. A minor illness stands no chance against his skill and resolve.

That is what he reminds himself of as that pesky cough reflex drags up and down his windpipe for what must be the thousandth time this day, hyperbolically speaking. The only thing to do is hold his breath until the sensation settles. The elderly woman in front of him, to his internal gratitude, does not appear to take notice.

“And the new decorations are so lovely!” She muses, absently fingering the silver necklace around her shoulders. “I remember when this place first opened — oh, a decade or so ago now, can you believe it? — there was hardly anything to look at. The young couple are so sweet and helpful, too.”

Luce could agree on that. He smiles with the optimal amount of wideness, sure to tense some crinkles around his eyes as well — he practiced in the mirror for nearly an hour, it must be perfected now — and nods, the way Audrey suggested. “Ms. Sabitra is very kind, and her husband is quite tolerable.”

The elderly woman frowns, lines creasing around her mouth. “You two don’t get along?”

“I am not sure what you mean. I just said he was tolerable.”

She laughs under her breath at that. Slightly confusing, but a positive response nonetheless. Luce is clearly excellent at this. And now that this customer has been conversed with, it is time to move on. Perhaps he should continue — when he researched small talk, he came to the conclusion that three certain elements are what can lead a conversation to success. Compliments, questions, and comments. Compliments to pacify or please the individual, questions to express interest, and comments to show the knowledge gained from answers. Luce is meant to repeat these steps a few times, at least, in order to make a full impression. However, his voice is thinning against the strain in his throat and every breath he takes is beginning to physically sting. His chest rumbles, subtle but audible enough, and the irritation is enough that he needs to grip his wrist in order to keep his hand from clamping over his mouth.

Before the elderly woman has a chance to say another word, trapping him in a longer interaction, he turns and glides past the crowd — admittedly, more clumsily than he typically would. He even bumps someone’s shoulder. There is no time to mend the situation by way of apology.

The iron knob of the restroom door is shockingly cold. He stumbles past the threshold, shuts the door and instantly the coughs rip from his chest. He is clutching his stomach, a sour taste in the back of his throat, and fresh pain swamps the initial relief. A twisting, tearing sensation — a tightness that finally unravels but breaks something in the process. He wanted it to be quiet, quick, but he cannot seem to stop. He shoves his arm to his mouth, the sleeve of his jacket at least a muffle.

The fit seems to last forever. Wet, shuddering and burning inside his chest. Eventually, it subsides. His body is satisfied with all it has expelled, or perhaps it has simply been exhausted, and it permits him to breathe again. A fatigue is left in its wake — muscles utterly spent, protesting against how he tensed them. Every one, trembling. He pulls his arm away from his mouth, eager to take in as much air as he can now that his lungs have been cleared, at least a small amount and at least for the time being. His vision swims for a moment and he shuts his eyes against it. When he opens them he sees red.

The thought occurs to him that this could be a hallucination, but his blood tastes sharp at the back of his tongue and he can smell metal as strong on his breath as the sleeve of his jacket. He could never mistake it.

Something must be seriously wrong, because at the sight of it, his first impulse is to cry. This is not a reaction he has. But he just took refuge in the bakery’s bathroom to collapse into the mess he’s been trying not to be all day and everything hurts and he was supposed to make an impression, he was supposed to show how much he’d learned about civilian life and he’s not even injured and he has been choking on his own blood. After so many years of efforts to appear as strong as possible for as long as possible, after so many years of refusing to show any form of distress if he could help it, he still has rarely needed to prevent himself from crying. Still, that is no excuse for the way he…

The way he is now. Hugging his midsection, hands gripping at his sides. Tears gathering in his eyes and trailing down his cheeks like fingertips. The taste of blood seems to be rotting in his mouth, nauseatingly bitter. He leans heavily against the doorframe, breathing harder now. Luce Moon, as it turns out, is pathetic.

He does not open the door, and he does not step outside. As much as he wants to — as much as he knows he should hide his bloodstained sleeve behind his back and talk to Sabitra’s guests, not hide from the crowd as he has so many times before — he does not. He couldn’t stop himself from seeking her out and clinging to her. And his weakness would ruin such a good day for her business.

Furthermore, he can feel that he is on the verge of another fit.