"You should have plunged the knife in when you had the chance." || Wick || transmasc🧑🏻🦽|| 28 || Intimate whumpers, defiant whumpees, and a lot more hurt than comfort. All NSFW content is thoroughly tagged. Check out my active series!
Set in 1,200 BCE. The Jackal of An-Nadr follows the capture of Nadeem, a date-farmer turned thief who was abandoned in the wastes of the desert when he tried to steal from the wrong ship.
Stranded and alone, he is found and enslaved by a crew of ifrit—towering demons that roam An-Nadr in ships that can sail the sand. Will he become a plaything of the creatures from his nightmares? Or is there something more for him waiting in the hands of his would-be captors?
This series follows Wesley Page, a daring vigilante best known by his alias, Deimos. When he steals and exposes a massive library of blackmail owned by one of the city's worst villains, their entire criminal world goes on a manhunt to track him down. Captured and alone, Deimos is subjected to the revenge and torture of not just the man he stole from, but every villain whose crimes he exposed.
Does he have it in him to withstand their torture long enough to escape? And if so, will he still have the strength afterward to heal?
Content | sci-fi, cyberpunk setting, superpower whump, kidnapping, very brutal torture, gore, repeated noncon // PTSD, an old friend (who just happens to be the city's most powerful villain and a renowned psych professor) turned caretaker. LGBTQ+ fiction. Frequent NSFW content, almost exclusively noncon.
Luca and Garcia
An offshoot of Liliholm and Page. A dynamic duo of bastards that you absolutely hate to love.
Content | EXTREME GORE, VIOLENCE, whumper POV, all hurt no comfort, character death, incredibly brutal whump, painful healing, immortal whumper-turned-whumpee, agender protagonist, villains that are so human you want to strangle them yourself. Aro/Ace friendly!
Cast | Wesley Page, Henry Liliholm, Yalom, Luca, Garcia
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Writing Prompts
All my writing prompts are free to use and can be found under the tag #words of a heathen.
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The Hare Trap Chronicles - [X]
This story is not one of mine, but one submitted to me in series by my beloved 🐇 Anon. Follow the story of Ignacy, a hedonistic young aristocrat-turned-vampire, and his many lifetimes of misadventure as he lives out his centuries as the 'black sheep' of his family's estate.
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CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera, Stara Emrys
MASTERPOST
Daveed doesn’t cry loudly.
There is no dramatic break, no shuddering collapse that announces itself. What comes instead is quieter and somehow worse—a tight, uneven sound dragged from his chest, like his body is still unsure it’s allowed to fall apart. His wings tremble once, feathers ruffling in a way that speaks of pain rather than threat, and then they go slack again, heavy with exhaustion.
Rook does not let go.
They shift carefully, easing Daveed more fully into their lap, one arm braced behind his shoulders, the other curled protectively over his ribs. Their grace hums low and steady, not flaring, not reaching upward—just present. A guardian’s warmth rather than Heaven’s glare.
“I’m here,” Rook repeats, not because Daveed needs reminding, but because repetition matters. Anchors are built from consistency. “You’re home.”
Home.
The word lands deep. Daveed’s empathic field stirs in response, fragile and aching, like a muscle unused to stretching. Pain flares briefly—too many emotions waking at once—but it doesn’t overwhelm him this time. It rolls outward instead, brushing against Rook’s awareness like a plea for permission.
Rook accepts it without hesitation.
They let themself feel him.
The aftershocks of Hell still cling to Daveed’s emotions—anger burned down to embers, humiliation wrapped tight around his spine, grief pressed so hard it aches. Underneath it all is a deep, bone-tired love that has nowhere to go, coiled and restrained for far too long.
Daveed inhales sharply, eyes still closed. “It hurts,” he admits hoarsely. “Everything feels too loud. Like… like I’m bleeding feelings.”
Stara clears her throat softly from where she stands near the window, arms folded, eyes sharp but not unkind. “That tracks. Your empathy’s coming back online without filters.” She tilts her head. “It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight it.”
Daveed huffs a weak, humorless breath. “That’s terrible advice.”
“It’s accurate advice,” she counters. “Terrible comes standard.”
Rook’s mouth twitches despite the tension. They adjust their grip slightly, careful of Daveed’s wings. “You don’t have to take it all at once,” they murmur. “You can lean on me.”
Daveed hesitates.
That hesitation is loud to Rook’s senses—not fear of closeness, but fear of burdening. The reflex runs deep, carved into him by centuries of being useful only when he gives and gives and gives.
Rook tightens their hold just a fraction. “Daveed,” they say, gentle but firm. “Guardians exist to carry weight. Let me.”
Something in him finally gives.
Daveed nods once, barely perceptible, and allows his empathy to bleed outward instead of inward. The pressure eases almost immediately, emotions redistributing between them. Pain shared becomes pain survivable.
His breathing evens.
“There,” Stara murmurs. “That’s better.”
Daveed opens his eyes at last. They’re unfocused at first, pupils blown wide with sensory overload, but they settle quickly on Rook’s face. Recognition floods him, followed by something softer—relief edged with awe, as if he still can’t quite believe Rook stayed.
“You didn’t leave,” he whispers.
Rook’s brows knit. “Why would I?”
“Because I’m… like this.” Daveed gestures weakly at himself. “Because Hell keeps pulling me apart. Because Heaven’s watching you. Because—”
“Stop,” Rook interrupts, not harshly, but decisively. “None of that makes you disposable.”
Daveed swallows. Tears sting again, but this time they don’t fall.
Stara steps closer, crouching to Daveed’s level. “You’re going to need rest,” she says. “Real rest. Emotional rest. No feeding. No Hell assignments. No heroic self-sacrifice.”
Daveed winces. “I’m terrible at that.”
“I know,” she says flatly. “That’s why I’m saying it.”
Rook lifts their gaze to her. “How long?”
Stara considers. “Days. Maybe longer. Empathic burnout this severe isn’t linear.”
Rook nods. “Then he won’t be alone.”
Something unreadable flickers across Stara’s face—respect, maybe. Or concern. She straightens, wings rustling. “I’ll check in tomorrow. Call me if he spikes again. Or if Heaven does something stupid.”
“When,” Daveed mutters.
Stara snorts. “Fair.”
She pauses at the door, glancing back once. “You’re not broken,” she adds quietly. “You’re injured. There’s a difference.”
Then she’s gone, the apartment settling into a hush that feels earned.
Daveed sags further into Rook’s hold now that the tension of being observed has lifted. His head tucks instinctively beneath Rook’s chin, seeking shelter the way his body always seems to know before his mind does.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” he admits, voice muffled. “When Hell summoned me… I felt Heaven tugging at you. Like a hook.”
Rook stiffens slightly. “I felt it too.”
That gets his attention. Daveed lifts his head just enough to look at them. “Did they say anything?”
“Not yet,” Rook replies. “But it wasn’t a request.”
Daveed’s jaw tightens, anger sparking briefly through the fatigue. “They don’t get to take you.”
Rook meets his gaze steadily. “They don’t own me.”
The words are quiet, but resolute. Daveed feels their truth resonate through him, grounding and fierce. It steadies something inside his chest that Hell tried very hard to break.
He exhales slowly. “You’re still a guardian,” he says, half-question, half-reverence.
“Yes,” Rook answers. “And I’m choosing to guard you.”
Daveed’s breath catches.
He laughs once, wet and shaky. “Heaven’s going to hate that.”
Daveed lets his eyes fall shut again, exhaustion reclaiming him now that it’s safe. His empathic field hums softly, painful but no longer suffocating, held steady by Rook’s presence.
As sleep takes him, his fingers curl weakly into the fabric of Rook’s shirt, clinging.
Rook stays perfectly still.
Outside, the city moves on. Heaven watches. Hell plots.
Inside the apartment, a guardian angel keeps vigil over an incubus who feels too much—and refuses, finally, to face it alone.
Rook tightens their hold just a fraction. “Daveed,” they say, gentle but firm. “Guardians exist to carry weight. Let me.” ← how can they say such a terrible thing so gently? 🥺
She pauses at the door, glancing back once. “You’re not broken,” she adds quietly. “You’re injured. There’s a difference.” 💜
CW: collapse, unconscious whumpee, bedside vigil, incubus whumpee, painful empathy, empathic whumpee, hell as a whumper, grief
TAGLIST: @oddsconvert @flowersarefreetherapy @angelwings-onfire @yet-another-heathen @cepheusgalaxy @flailingfrog (let me know if you'd like to be added)
CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera, Stara Emrys
MASTERPOST
Morning does not arrive all at once.
It seeps in slowly, cautiously, as if even the sun isn’t sure it’s allowed to touch this place yet.
First there’s light—pale and diluted—spilling through the narrow gap between the curtains and crawling across the floorboards. It catches on the edge of Daveed’s wing, turning the normally rich purple dull and gray, like ash after a fire. Dust motes drift lazily through the beam, suspended in the quiet.
Then sound follows. A delivery truck idling outside. A distant horn. The muffled cadence of human life resuming its rhythm, unaware that something precious and broken lies on the apartment floor.
Daveed doesn’t wake.
Rook hasn’t moved for hours.
They sit on the floor with their back against the couch, legs folded awkwardly to support Daveed’s weight. His head rests in their lap, curls damp with sweat, face drawn tight even in unconsciousness. Rook has adjusted him again and again—tiny movements, careful and reverent—to keep his breathing steady, to prevent pins and needles, to make sure his wings aren’t trapped at a painful angle.
Their own wings ache from holding still, feathers twitching with restless instinct, but they don’t shift.
They won’t.
Daveed’s empathic presence is… wrong.
It’s still there—Rook can feel it faintly, like a distant hum—but it’s muted in a way that sets every guardian instinct on edge. Empathy usually spills. Leaks. Breathes. Daveed’s has folded inward, compressed so tightly it feels like listening to a heartbeat through layers of stone.
Alive.
But buried.
Stara sits a few feet away, cross-legged on the rug, posture immaculate despite the tension in her shoulders. Her powder-pink skin glows softly in the morning light, freckles standing out against the pastel warmth. Her bat-like wings are tucked close, blue hair gathered into a loose puff that bobs slightly every time she shifts her focus.
Invisible sigils hover in her sight. Diagnostic constructs only a demon doctor would think to use. Her thin tail curls and uncurls, the diamond-shaped tip tapping softly against the floor in an uneven rhythm.
Worry.
Rook has learned that tell, too.
“He’s not slipping,” Stara says quietly, without looking up. “Before you ask.”
Rook exhales a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding. “Then what is this?”
Stara tilts her head, analytical eyes narrowing. “Empathic submersion. Extreme case.” She gestures vaguely toward Daveed. “His mind shoved everything down to survive. Pain, grief, overload. It compartmentalized so aggressively it knocked him out.”
“Like a shutdown,” Rook murmurs.
“Yes. Except it wasn’t voluntary.” Stara’s mouth tightens. “Hell pushed him past sustainable limits. Again.”
Bright, sharp anger flashes through Rook, restrained only by centuries of discipline. “They broke him.”
“They tried,” Stara corrects. “He didn’t let them finish.”
Rook looks down at Daveed’s face. Even unconscious, his brow is furrowed, jaw tight, as if bracing against something unseen.
“What do we do?” Rook asks.
Stara finally looks at them. “We wait. And we anchor.”
Rook nods immediately. Anchoring they understand.
They settle their focus inward, letting their breathing slow, their thoughts align. This isn’t about command or judgment. This is the quiet work of guardianship. The kind Heaven rarely celebrates. They allow their grace to exist gently, contained and steady, like a hearth fire rather than a beacon.
They place one hand over Daveed’s heart.
It beats slowly beneath their palm. Solid. Real.
“I’m here,” Rook whispers. “You don’t have to hold everything. I’ve got you.”
Something shifts.
Daveed’s breath catches. It's enough to make Rook freeze. His fingers twitch against the fabric of Rook’s pants, curling weakly as if searching for purchase.
“Daveed?” Rook murmurs.
His lips part. A sound escapes him, half breath, half word.
“…sorry.”
The apology is barely audible. It lands sharply anyway.
Rook leans forward instantly, wings rustling. “No,” they say firmly, voice low and steady. “No. Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The empathic field ripples in response. Raw, reflexive pain spikes briefly before softening again, as if soothed by the certainty in Rook’s voice.
Daveed doesn’t wake, but he drifts closer to the surface. His expression shifts, tension easing slightly as memories bleed through. They're not the worst ones this time.
Rook feels it happen.
The grief changes texture.
Warmth.
Instead of the crushing weight of loss, it becomes something bittersweet and aching. Images flicker at the edges of Daveed’s presence: a cramped college apartment, mismatched furniture, laughter too loud for the hour. Tyell sprawled on a couch, grinning, throwing popcorn at Daveed while insisting he absolutely could finish a paper in one night .
Joy.
Love uncomplicated by guilt.
Rook swallows hard, tightening their grip on Daveed’s hand. “He mattered,” they whisper. “He still does. You didn’t imagine that.”
Daveed exhales a long, trembling breath and his empathic presence loosens just enough to breathe. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it reorganizes, no longer sharp enough to cut.
Stara stands slowly, careful not to startle either of them. “That might be the pivot,” she says quietly. “When he wakes, he’ll be sensitive. Raw. His empathy will hurt for a while.”
Rook nods. “I’ll stay.”
Stara studies them, really studies them this time. “You know Heaven won’t approve of this bond.”
“I know.”
“And Hell already considers him compromised.”
Rook doesn’t look away from Daveed. “Then they’ll both have to deal with it.”
A faint, sharp smile curves Stara’s mouth. “You’re going to be a problem,” she says, fondly.
Hours pass.
The sun climbs higher. The apartment warms. Rook shifts only once, carefully, to ease Daveed’s neck, never breaking contact.
When Daveed finally wakes, it’s gradual.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused and dark with exhaustion. Panic, raw and instinctive, spikes instantly. Recognition follows almost immediately.
Daveed blinks, swallowing hard as awareness settles into his bones. Pain hums everywhere but it’s distant, dulled, wrapped in something gentler than he expects.
“…Tyell,” he whispers.
Rook’s chest tightens. “I know.”
Daveed squeezes his eyes shut, a tear slipping free despite his effort. “I thought I lost him again. I thought….I thought Hell took him from me twice.”
Rook leans down, pressing their forehead to Daveed’s. “You didn’t. And you didn’t lose yourself either.”
Daveed’s breath shudders. A quiet sob escapes him, unguarded and real. His fingers tighten around Rook’s hand, grounding himself in the warmth and certainty of it.
For the first time since Hell tore him open and Heaven began watching too closely, Daveed allows himself to rest.
And Rook - still a guardian angel, still whole, still watching - keeps their vigil.
CW: empathic whumpee, sensory overload, collapse, unconscious whumpee, bedside vigil, grief, referenced character death (in memory), hell as an antagonist
Time stretches strangely after Daveed collapses. The apartment settles into a hush that feels held rather than empty, as if the walls themselves have leaned inward to listen. City noise dulls to a distant thrum, traffic and voices softened by Stara’s wards. The kettle clicks itself off on the stove, forgotten steam ghosting into the air.
Daveed doesn’t wake.
Rook stays exactly where they are, seated on the floor with Daveed half-curled in their lap. His weight is solid—warm, real—and every slow rise and fall of his chest feels like a counted blessing. Their legs go numb. Their wings ache at the awkward angle. None of it matters.
Stara moves quietly, precise as a surgeon even now. She redraws sigils by millimeters, not inches, muttering clinical notes under her breath.
“Empathic collapse,” she says softly. “Acute. Compounded by punitive exposure. Hell still deploys empaths like siege engines and acts surprised when they shatter.”
Rook doesn’t look away from Daveed. “He said empathy hurts.”
Stara huffs. “Of course it does. Pain keeps it sharp. Keeps him useful.” A pause, then quieter: “Also keeps him kind. Which Hell hates.”
Hours pass.
Somewhere near dawn, when pale light begins to creep across the floor, Daveed’s emotional field shifts. Rook feels it immediately. Not waking. Not consciousness.
Memory.
It hits like a rip current.
Grief rolls through Daveed in heavy, crushing waves, so dense Rook has to brace themself to keep from being swept under with him. This grief is old, but it’s never dulled. It’s been folded and refolded so many times it’s worn thin.
“Oh,” Rook whispers.
Stara looks up sharply. “What is it?”
“He’s remembering,” Rook says. “Someone he lost.”
The name isn’t spoken aloud, but it’s unmistakable.
Tyell.
The memory pulls Rook in despite their best instincts. It's not a vision forced upon them, but as something Daveed’s empathy bleeds outward, raw and unguarded.
College.
A cramped apartment with peeling paint and a radiator that rattled all winter. Two mismatched desks shoved together, textbooks stacked in chaotic towers. Tyell’s laughter—bright, effortless—cutting through Daveed’s constant emotional noise like sunlight through smog.
Then the night it all went wrong.
A storm. Sudden and violent. Rain slamming against pavement hard enough to sting. Tyell had insisted on walking home instead of waiting it out. “It’s fine,” he’d said, grinning, hair plastered to his forehead. “I’m already soaked.”
Daveed had felt it then. A wrongness. A spike of unease that made his chest tighten. He’d grabbed Tyell’s sleeve.
“Wait,” Daveed had said. “Just—wait. Something feels off.”
Tyell had laughed, gentle and fond. “You always feel things, Dee. Doesn’t mean the world’s ending.”
The memory fractures.
Headlights flaring too bright through rain. Tires screaming as they lost traction. The sound. Rook shuddered at the sound. It set his teeth on edge. It was metal on bone and the sickening thud of a body hitting asphalt.
Daveed had been there in seconds. Knees hitting the ground. Hands shaking as he pressed them over the wound, empathy screaming so loud it had nearly blinded him. Tyell’s emotions had been everywhere—pain, fear, shock, and underneath it all, stubborn reassurance.
“Hey,” Tyell had whispered, breath bubbling red at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t—don’t do that face. You’re gonna be okay. I’m okay.”
He hadn’t been.
Daveed had felt the exact moment the thread snapped.
One second, Tyell’s emotions had been a bright, warm presence in Daveed’s chest. The next, nothing. A sudden, brutal absence that hollowed him out so completely he couldn’t breathe.
Daveed’s scream echoes through the memory, raw and animal, empathy flaring too late, useless and devastating. Sirens. Rain mixing with blood. His hands slick and shaking as he begged a body that could no longer hear him. He hasn't spoken for months after that. Dropped out of college. Avoided the funeral and all of Tyell’s family for years.
Back in the apartment, Daveed exhales sharply.
His fingers twitch.
Rook tightens their focus instantly, offering steady, quiet calm with no judgement the way they’ve done for centuries. They don't try to erase the pain. They can't do that. It would be with him forever. The only thing they can do is keep it from tearing him apart at this moment.
“You didn’t fail,” Rook murmurs, voice low and even. “You were there. You loved him. That matters.”
Daveed doesn’t wake, but his breathing evens slightly, like something knotted in his chest has loosened a fraction.
Stara watches, expression uncharacteristically gentle. “That kind of death,” she says softly, “leaves a scar on empaths. Sudden severance. No time to prepare. No chance to compartmentalize.”
“Is that why it hurts so much?” Rook asks quietly.
“Yes. Because every time he lets himself care, part of him remembers exactly how it felt when the world went silent.”
She sighs. “Mads and I had to make sure he didn't join Tyell. That was the first time we dealt with this, I think. He was bleeding empathy everywhere even though he'd shut himself away.”
Daveed stirs again, brow furrowing. A faint sound escapes his throat, like he’s trying to speak through water.
Fingers curl weakly, clutching at Rook’s sleeve like it’s the only solid thing left in existence.
Rook stills completely, heart aching. They don’t pull away. Don’t overwhelm him. They simply remain.
“I’m here,” they say, steady as a vow. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.”
Daveed’s grip tightens just a little.
Outside, the city wakes. Inside, a guardian angel keeps vigil over an incubus who feels too much, who once loved a human so fiercely it nearly destroyed him.
And this time, this time, when the memories come, Daveed is not alone.
CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera, Stara Emrys
MASTERPOST
Stara arrives quickly. Too quickly for someone who normally complains—at length—about teleporting through wards that aren’t hers. One moment the apartment is quiet except for Daveed’s uneven breathing and the faint hum of the city outside; the next, the air folds in on itself with a soft pressure-pop that rattles the windowpanes.
The lights flicker.
The plants along the sill shudder as if a storm passed through them.
Then Stara Emrys is standing just inside the doorway, boots planted, wings half-flared, powder-puff blue hair escaping its tie in frantic wisps. Her skin glows a gentle pink, but there’s nothing gentle about the way her blue eyes snap across the room, cataloguing everything in an instant.
Daveed.
Collapsed.
Unconscious.
Empathic field still bleeding.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
Rook is kneeling on the floor beside the couch, Daveed’s head cradled in their lap, fingers trembling where they rest against his shoulder. His wings are slack and wrong, dulled, edges trembling like they can’t decide whether to exist in this realm or not.
“He didn’t wake up,” Rook says, voice tight and controlled in the way only someone used to command-and-collapse can manage. “He told me to call you. For empathic overload. Then he—he just—”
Their throat closes.
Stara moves immediately. She crosses the room in three precise steps and drops to her knees, skirts flaring, tail snapping once before going still. She doesn’t touch Daveed at first. She never does when it’s this bad. Instead, she hovers her hands over his chest, eyes unfocusing as she reads the layers of him. Emotion and resonance and damage that doesn’t leave bruises.
“Incubus Knight,” she mutters. “Empathic subtype. Trauma saturation past safe threshold. Gods, Daveed, what did they do to you?”
Rook flinches at the edge in her voice.
“He was summoned to Hell,” they say. “They didn’t let me go with him. He came back like this.”
Stara’s jaw tightens. Her freckles stand out sharply against skin gone pale with anger.
“Of course they did,” she says. “Empaths make excellent weapons and terrible survivors.”
She finally touches him then. Two fingers lightly press below his sternum, searching. The reaction is immediate and terrifying.
Daveed’s body arches violently. His breath stutters, a raw sound tearing out of his throat though his eyes never open. His empathic field flares like a blown circuit, emotion slamming outward in jagged waves. Pain. Fear. Fury. Shame. Love. They're all so intense Rook gasps as if struck.
“Stara!” Rook says, instinctively tightening their hold.
“I know,” Stara snaps, already pulling back. “I know. I shouldn’t have touched him bare.”
She reaches into her coat and produces a small glass vial etched with stabilizing sigils. It's a cool, quiet magic meant to dull, not suppress. She uncorks it, and the scent fills the room: rain on stone, slow heartbeats, the deep silence after a storm has passed.
Daveed doesn’t respond.
Not even a twitch.
That’s worse.
Stara swears softly under her breath and presses the vial against the air just above his chest, letting the contents bleed into his aura instead of his body. The sigils glow faintly, spreading outward in careful rings.
Still nothing.
Rook’s chest tightens painfully. “He’s not reacting.”
“I know,” Stara says, voice gone sharp with focus. “He’s too deep. He shut himself down.”
She glances up at Rook, eyes narrowing slightly. “Guardian. I need you to pull back.”
Rook stiffens immediately. “I’m not overwhelming him.”
“No,” Stara agrees. “But you’re bright. You’re worried. You love him.” She says it like a diagnosis. “Right now, he can’t filter that.”
Rook swallows hard. Their wings twitch, feathers rustling with restrained emotion.
Slowly, painfully, they do what they’ve been trained to do since the first human they ever guarded: they compress everything inward. Fear, devotion, fury at Heaven and Hell alike gets folded down into something small and steady.
The room feels quieter.
Daveed’s breathing evens out by a fraction. It's just enough to matter.
“There,” Stara murmurs. “Good. That helps.”
She sets up wards around the couch. They're subtle, humming softly instead of flaring. Emotional dampeners. Resonance buffers. Nothing that would alert Hell or Heaven to what’s happening here.
Rook watches her hands move, precise and practiced. “Is he… in danger?”
Stara hesitates.
That’s never a good sign.
“He’s not dying,” she says finally. “But he’s unconscious because his empathy overloaded past his ability to process it. Think of it like emotional hypoxia. His system shut down to survive.”
Rook’s hands curl gently into the fabric of Daveed’s shirt. “When will he wake up?”
“When his mind decides it’s safe.”
“That could be—”
“Hours,” Stara says. “Days, if something external keeps pulling at him.”
Rook’s wings flare despite their effort to stay calm. “Hell.”
“Yes,” Stara says bluntly. “And Heaven. He’s caught between two gravitational fields, and empathy means he feels everything.”
She studies Rook for a long moment, something softer slipping through her clinical sharpness.
“You’re anchoring him,” she says. “Even like this. That’s good. But you need to be careful.”
“I can be careful,” Rook says immediately. “I’m a guardian angel.”
Stara’s mouth twitches. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Daveed doesn’t stir.
His face is slack with exhaustion, lashes dark against his cheeks, mouth parted slightly as he breathes. He looks younger like this. More fragile. Less like a Knight of Hell and more like the man who waters plants and hums while he cooks.
Rook lowers their forehead to his temple, not touching skin, just close enough to feel his warmth.
“I’m here,” they whisper, voice steady and quiet. “You don’t have to wake up yet. I’ve got you.”
Stara watches them in silence as she finishes the last ward.
Far below, Hell marks Daveed’s absence with irritation.
Far above, Heaven feels its guardian’s tether strain. It tightens its gaze.
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Daveed doesn’t step back into the apartment so much as collapse into it.
Space snaps shut behind him with a concussive thrum, infernal sigils flashing once in the air like a dying heartbeat before burning themselves out. The heat of Hell peels away from his skin in an instant, replaced by the cooler, softer atmosphere of the apartment—and the contrast hits him like a blade.
He drops to one knee, then both.
His claws scrape against the hardwood as he catches himself, breath tearing out of his lungs in sharp, uneven pulls. His wings shudder violently, ruffling and then locking too tight against his back, every muscle seized with strain.
Empathy detonates.
The moment Hell releases him, every dampener he relies on vanishes. There’s no gradual easing, no buffer. It's a tidal wave of sensation crashing straight into his chest.
The city outside presses in: restless humans, late-night loneliness, fleeting joy, dull despair. The plants along the windowsills hum faintly with the calm he fed them earlier. The apartment itself holds echoes of warmth, safety—
And threaded through all of it is Rook.
Concern. Anticipation. Love. Fear that hadn’t yet found a reason—until now.
It slams into Daveed all at once, too bright, too intimate. His vision blurs instantly, white sparking at the edges.
“—Daveed?”
Rook’s voice reaches him like a lifeline, but even that hurts. Sound vibrates through his skull too loudly, too sharply. He swallows, gagging as the pressure behind his sternum swells, hot and crushing, like his ribs are being pried apart from the inside.
“Daveed, what—”
“I’m—” He tries to stand. His legs buckle immediately.
Rook crosses the room in two strides, wings flaring instinctively as they catch him. Their hands are steady; their emotions are not. Fear spikes sharp and electric the moment they touch him—and Daveed feels every ounce of it, amplified, reflected back until it’s unbearable.
He gasps, claws digging into Rook’s sleeve as his knees hit the floor again.
“Don’t—don’t pull back,” Rook says quickly, misreading the flinch, holding him tighter. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The reassurance is meant to ground him.
Instead, it breaks something open.
Rook’s concern pours straight into Daveed’s empathy unchecked, flooding him with warmth so intense it burns. His breath stutters, chest locking as if the air itself has turned heavy.
“Too much,” he manages hoarsely. “Rook—listen—”
Rook cups his face, thumbs brushing frantic, reverent circles into his skin. “Hey. Stay with me. What did Hell do to you?”
“Not—Hell,” Daveed pants. His pupils are blown wide, irises glowing faintly as his empathic sense spirals out of control. He can feel Rook’s pulse. Their worry. Their love. Gods, their love—
It’s exquisite.
It’s agony.
“I can’t—filter,” he gasps. “Everything’s… everything’s coming through.”
Understanding dawns on Rook’s face, sharp and immediate.
“Empathic overload,” they whisper.
Daveed nods weakly, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He forces himself to focus, to speak before the pressure drags him under completely.
“Call—” He swallows, breath hitching as another surge crashes through him. “Call Stara.”
Rook blinks. “Stara? You’re hurt—”
“No—” Daveed shakes his head, the movement sending a spike of sensation straight through him. He winces, claws flexing reflexively. “Not injuries. Empathy. I—I can’t shut it down. I need…. Dampeners. Please.”
Rook’s emotions spike again—fear sharpening into urgency—and Daveed nearly blacks out from it.
“Okay,” Rook says instantly, voice tight but steady. “Okay. I’m calling her. I promise. Just—stay with me.”
Daveed exhales a thin, shaking breath. Relief flickers through him at the certainty in their voice, and even that nearly tips him over the edge.
“Don’t—touch too much,” he murmurs, hating the words even as he forces them out. “You’re—loud. Right now.”
Rook flinches—but they don’t pull away entirely. Instead, they adjust, easing him down with careful precision, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other bracing his knees. Their wings curve protectively around him without brushing his skin.
“Tell me what you need,” Rook says softly. “I can be quiet.”
Daveed huffs out something that might have been a laugh if he weren’t shaking so badly. “You always do.”
His strength gives out then.
The fight drains from his body all at once, wings sagging, tail going limp as the overload finally overwhelms his ability to stay conscious. The pressure peaks—blinding, brilliant, unbearable—
And then his mind simply lets go.
Rook barely catches him in time.
“Daveed—!” They ease him onto the couch, hands trembling now as they guide his head into their lap. His breathing is shallow, uneven, but steady. Alive. Still here.
They press two fingers to his throat anyway, just to be sure.
Strong pulse.
Rook lets out a shaky breath and brushes his hair back from his face, eyes scanning the faint glow of infernal markings along his skin, the way they flicker erratically instead of settling.
“Idiot,” they whisper, voice breaking. “You should have warned me.”
Daveed stirs faintly, brow furrowing, fingers twitching before curling weakly into the fabric of Rook’s shirt like muscle memory refusing to let go.
Rook stills, chest aching.
“I’ve got you,” they murmur, one wing lifting to shield him instinctively as they pull out their phone with the other hand. “I’m calling Stara. You’re not doing this alone.”
They glance down at him once more before hitting the call.
Howdy! Wanted to say I'm really sorry people are being so racist in your asks and posts. You do so much to speak up about anti-black racism and do NOT deserve to be treated so badly. Anyways made a donation to my local Black community event organizers. And pls have a pic of my late cat Pookie along with :3. I hope you have a better today, tomorrow and onward <3
And just like that, everything that happened today has been paid off 😭 okay money! I'm really excited for that group!
And Pookie 🥹🫂 God bless their spirit, I know they were loved.
As always, I heavily encourage people to research topics thoroughly when writing as it is important to avoid stereotypes/misinformation. This list's intention is not to glorify/romanticise sensitive topics in any way.
This part one-of-three comprehensive lists of injuries, Illnesses and tropes - including those from the Whumptober 2023 trope vote!
All submissions are listed in italics, and those who wanted to be tagged will be included at the end. If you have any more submissions: please send them via DM/my ask box.
[I-Q]
[R-Z]
[NSFW List]
List below the cut:
#
"I don't need your help."
"I'm doing this to make you better"
"I'm fine, take care of them!"
“I’m Fine”
"Kill me instead"
"Let me in."
"Look at me."
"Should I know you?"
"Take me instead."
(No) Anaesthetic
A
A Good Ol' Sickfic
Abandoned
Abdominal Pain
Aching Wounds
Acne
Adrenaline Crash
Adrift (in space/at sea)
Agoraphobia
Airsickness
Alien abduction
Allergies
Alopecia
Ambulance Ride
Ambush
Amnesia/memory loss
Amputations
Anaemia
Anesthesia
Angina (Heart condition that causes pain)
Animal Attack/Bite
Ankle Sprain
Anthrax
Anxiety/Anxiety attack(s)
Aphasia
Appendicitis
Arrested
Arthritis
Asking for help
Asphyxiation
Assumed Dead
Asthma/Asthma Attack
Auctions
Autoimmune disease
Avalanches
B
Backache
Bad Caretakers
Bandaged Head
Banished
Barbed Wire
Bear trap
Beaten up by ex-friends
Beaten with blunt object (i.e, bat or pipe)
Beatings
Bedrest
Bedside Vigil/Hospital Vigil
Begging
Betrayed by close friend/team/family
Bites (Animal, Bug, Human….)
Biting
Black Eye
Blackmail
Bleeding Out
Bleeding Through
Bandages
Blindfolded
Blindness (this could be temporary or permanent)
Blisters
Blood Loss
Blood Poisoning
Bloodied Knuckles
Bloodstains/blood trail
Bloody handprints
Bloody nose
Blunt force trauma
Blurred vision
Body modification
Body Sharing
Body Switching
Bounty on their head
Brain Damage
Brainwashing
Breakdowns
Breathless
Bridal Carry
Broken Bones (Ribs, Arm, Leg)
Broken Nose
Broken Promises
Bronchitis
Bruises
Building Collapse
Bullet Removal
Bumpy roads jarring injuries
Buried Alive
Burning Building
Burns/Scalding
Busted kneecap
C
Cancer
Caning
Capgras syndrome/delusion (belief that someone close to/important to the person has been replaced by an imposter)
Capsulitis
Captivity
Captured
Car chases (and maybe a car crash)
Carbon monoxide poisoning
Cardiac Arrest
Caretaker has to “play nice” with whumper.
Caretaker has to hurt whumpee while undercover.
Caretaker sacrificing something dear to them to get something the whumpee needs.
Caretaker turned Whumpee
Caretaker-whumper who's a parental whumper. But their "love" is not real love. Or even right treatment.
Carsickness
Cataracts
Catatonia
Caught in a fire
Caught in an explosion
Cauterization
Cave In
Cavity
Celebrity whump (exploitation in the music/movie industries…)
Chaffing from ropes/handcuffs/shackles
Chained/Shackled
Checking for injuries
CHF - congestive heart failure
Chicken Pox
Chills
Chloroform
Choking
Chronic pain
Claustrophobia
Cleaning wounds alone
Cold/Flu,
Collapsed Lung
Collapsing (into someone’s arms is usually nice, bonus points for cradling their head as they lower the whumpee to the floor)
Collapsing after they win
Collapsing/Fainting/Passing Out
Collars
Coma
Comfort after a nightmare
Common cold
Completely betrayed by their own team
Complications
Concussion
Confusion
Constipation
Constricted Airways
COPD - Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease makes breathing increasingly more difficult.
Corporal Punishment
Corset too tight and won’t unbutton
Coughing
Coughing Up Blood
CPR
Cramps
Crikes (intubation through neck)
Crush injury
Crying
Cuddle pile
Curses
Cuts/Grazes
Cutting off hair (more of an emotional hurt)
Cyanide poisoning
D
Damaged Larynx/Vocal Cords
De-aging
Deathbed Confessions (don’t have to actually die and stay dead, just the threat of dying)
Defeat
Defenestration (throwing out a window)
Dehydration
Deja Vu
Delirium (bonus points for this being drug/ fever induced)
Deluded whumper/thinking they’re helping the whumpee
Dengue Fever
Denial
Depression
Dermatitis
Diabetes (type 1 and 2)
Diarrhea
Diseases ('mystery' diseases are the best kind)
Dislocations
Disorientation
Disowned by Family
Displaced hip
Dissociation
Distress call
Dizziness
Dragged Away
Dream sequence
Driving to the hospital with a whumpee slumped barely-conscious in the seat of the car
Drowning
Drunkenness
E
Ear Infection
Edema (swelling from build up of fluid)
EKG
Electrical Burns
Electrical shock
Electrocution
Emergency field surgery
Emergency Surgery
Emotional angst
Emotional manipulation
Endometriosis
Enemy to Caretaker
Energy Drain
Environmental whump
ER
Execution
Exes reunited with one wanting a relationship and the other just wanting friendship.
Exhaustion
Experimentation
Exposure
Extreme Weather
Eye injury
F
Facing Phobias
Failed Escape
Failure to thrive
Fainting
Fainting (but also fainting aftermath) / Fainting due to lack of sleep, food, or overworking fainting from exhaustion
Falling
Falling for Caretaker/Whumpee/Whumper
Falling Through Ice
Fatigue/Exhaustion
Fever
Fibromyalgia (Chronic Pain)
Field medicine
Fighting (while injured)
Financial difficulty faced + how whumper might take advantage of that + how caretaker handles everything (well/badly)
Finding your loved one dead without explanation but thinking they’re still alive.
TAG LIST:
Thank you very much to the following people for submitting ideas! (I apologise if some tags did not work, I'm not sure why tumblrs not letting me tag you!)
Had a really good conversation with a friend yesterday about how people with disabilities often struggle to live sustainably. She’s a part of the climate team on campus and is very passionate about sustainable living. We somehow got on the topic of disability as well. I was telling her that people with disabilities often face criticism because many physically cannot live sustainably. Like, a lot of PWDs rely on single-use plastic medical supplies, pills come in plastic containers, they may not be able to use sustainable options (ex: someone who cannot wash dishes and who lives on their own might need to use disposable dishes).
I was actually surprised when she knew exactly what I was talking about. She brought up some ways that her organization is addressing this, such as getting disabled people on campus more involved in other ways rather than emphasizing that every aspect of their life is 100% sustainable. She even told me about a few studies she had been reading up on, including ones where scientists were developing things like recyclable or biodegradable pill bottles. It was a very interesting conversation, and it was really really nice to talk to someone who was also passionate about disability.
I also think that there’s a lot that nondisabled people or differently disabled people can do for each other to both help out each other and the environment. When I’m having a really bad flare up and can’t wash dishes, a friend coming over and washing dishes for me means that I use less disposable dishes. If you make extra soup and take it to your elderly neighbor, he’s using less packaged ready-made food. If someone with mobility issues can’t keep up their native garden anymore, having someone help out can keep the city from spraying the whole yard with pesticides and losing that whole habitat. A disabled person with a backyard can keep a compost pile for a themselves and the people they know in nearby apartments. Someone who knows chronically ill people and needs a lot of little containers can get loads of pill bottles to reuse instead of buying something new. Everybody working together can achieve a lot more than each of us alone
I've got a couple thoughts as a spoonie on a bunch of meds with a pile of pill bottles I'm trying to do something with beyond "reuse them for my own purposes:"
It's a program that would probably need to be organized as a group to help disabled people because of the prep involved, but Matthew 25: Ministries does take clean, label- and residue-free pill bottles to reuse by mail. It could be a decent "let's all go to someone's place or a third space that has hot running water pill bottles to soak and then scrub off/wipe while having a (masked?) socializing session and meal afterwards" monthly or quarterly event to catch up with people and process bottles for mailing without having to take it all on alone. It would also cut down on shipping costs and materials if you send one shipment, reuse a box or bag (taping up a paper bag from a grocery store is a good medium-sized option), and use something like Pirate Ship to find the cheapest postage.
Some city recycling programs do take empty pill bottles specifically, but many don't because they're #5 plastic, and are small enough to fall through sorting machines. A city nearby (sadly not where I live) does specifically say that they take them in the recycling bins on their "Accepted for Recycling" webpage; I just had to go through some webpage trees and then open up some drop-down menus to find it.
The "upcycling" solutions don't really work long-term when you have such a buildup of pill bottles that you're never going to use the dozens or hundreds that you accumulate in a year, but it's possible that local creative reuse stores might take the bottles (clean, no identifying information/residue/etc., brings us back to the "having to clean them party"), but personally I'd see if you can find sewers or knitters who need places to store pins, small thread scraps or notions, stitch markers, etc., and need small containers, or specifically upcycling artists in your area who do higher volume material reclamation.
That was a lot of words to say "I agree with @the-habitat-ring that it's a lot easier to do this if we help each other out," but hopefully adding a couple of specific ways we could, in fact, help each other out is a welcome addition.
From what I remember, Bob Jones— the main character— is the leader of a naval shipyard in California, round the 1940's. He's got a lot going for him; a good lover, a good job, a good education. But in the span of four (?) days, his whole life gets thrown off due to the racism of the world around him. It's a good read from what I remember, let me see if I can find an online version
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if you're in the US or Canada and interested in learning a language using a free app please get a library card and download MANGO. it's very good and extremely free with a library card (there are many public libraries and universities using the service, so make an account and use the search feature here to find out if there's one near you).
mango currently has 72 available languages and dialects (that's right! different courses for french or canadian french! spanish or latam spanish!). it's set up basically like an audiobook with text. the idea is that the narrator explains the words while you read, and you repeat after them or say the translation out loud when prompted. there's a daily review where you go through flashcards. you can also use the flashcards at your leisure and create your own. at the end of each chapter there's a listening comprehension quiz and a reading comprehension quiz. i cannot emphasize how effective this all is. and it's free with a card.
if you're not in the US or Canada and/or looking for something more like duolingo (don't use duolingo btw tldr they fired translators and replaced them with "ai"), then try BUSUU! it only has 14 languages atm but the lessons are really descriptive and effective. it also has a feature where you can correct other people's open-ended speaking/typing exercises. you set your fluent languages, and exercises by people learning those languages will appear in your feed for you to correct. you can even add others as friends! and, much like duolingo, it has a streak and leaderboard system for you to strive for, minus the guilt-tripping owl.
busuu is free (you watch ads to unlock lessons and they're all skippable after like five seconds), although it also has paid premium/plus versions (i don't use the paid version—the language courses are available for free, and the ad system is Really unobtrusive).
so that's my wisdom for the day. mango and busuu. please check them out :)
Engineering teams around the world have been attempting to develop new methods of seawater desalination.
Scientists in China have developed a more efficient form of solar desalination that uses 47.4% less energy than alternatives. After the first year of testing, the scientists believe that at scale it would be able to desalinate water more cheaply than producing bottled water.
The goal is now to scale the technology for use in coastal areas and islands experiencing water insecurity.
A flock of mostly grackles I think, although there could be other blackbirds in it, in mid-July a few years ago. They flew so close I could hear their wings and almost feel the air. It gave me goosebumps. I had never seen anything but starlings fly in a group like this.
all that to put a mentally ill aroace filipino in a problematic familial relationship with an okay-for-their-time aroace white person but you know what. you know what
figuring out which century to put them in is surprisingly hard... renaissance would be tempting but not how i see their society... otoh setting it any earlier than the renaissance takes away a lot of their vibe... and ofc during the renaissance there were still many places that retained ways of life and thinking from earlier medieval periods... BUT the black death would be a really fucking good catalyst for thistle's overprotectiveness/delgal's fear... auuuughhh
the age disparity issue is so key to this family that i'll have to do some ageswap fiddling and say thistle (who actually is named thistle in this - he got it while he was in india) arrives at the melini household as a young child (~4) while delgal is about a decade older in his teens and already had a son/married young. thistle is still meant to take care of him, acts mature for his age, delgal happily takes advantage of his favorite new little "brother" to clean up after him and be his bestie but also grants him a lot of privileges outside his rank. eodio grows up and has a kid incredibly young too (when yaad is born thistle is in his late teens, delgal a young-mid adult) - and the au is set primarily when yaad is a teenager (thistle is an adult working as an alchemist/astrologer while delgal is middle aged)
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So every year, my aquarium does a captive lobster hatchery project (hence all the loblings). The reason we’re doing it is because in the wild, loblings only have a 1 in 25,000 chance of surviving their larval phase. They’re plankton as babies and everything eats them. Additionally, as the Gulf of Maine warms, they are having even lower survival rates because the blooms of copepods they feed on as babies are happening earlier in the year, and they’re missing it.
Obviously, the goal of this experiment is to grow the lobsters until they’re big enough to settle to the seabed and then release them, because they have a much higher likelihood of surviving to adulthood when they’re able to hide. Ideally, captive lobster hatcheries can boost the wild population and keep things stable, so we don’t have a major crash in a decade or two.
The first year we tried this was pretty bad. We had a lot of eggs, but very few babies. It turned out that the CO2 levels in the building spiked as more guests visited throughout the summer, and that settled into the water and threw off the pH and caused a chemical reaction that prevented a lot of the eggs from hatching. I think we ended up releasing three baby lobsters (which is still better than their wild survival rate but not great).
The second year was a little better. We added a de-gasser to the aquarium and got a ton of larval lobsters, but right as they were settling to the bottom we had a disease outbreak that killed most of them. We ended up releasing four babies at the end of the season.
But this year? Oh boy. We have so many lobsters that we had to release the first round early (usually we wait till September or October so guests can see them). We just released a total of FIVE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE baby lobsters, and we still have over a hundred who haven’t settled to the bottom yet. I genuinely don’t even have words to explain how cool this is. OVER FIVE HUNDRED. We just added hundreds of lobsters to the wild population that wouldn’t have been there otherwise.
