kind of wild how much fiction still treats torture as something that objectively works when every study has shown that it does not work at all and is possibly the least effective way to get correct information
I mean to be clear I love me some whump and have tortured many of my ocs but like. it doesn't work guys. I'm not saying your characters have to know that, but it doesn't.
opens box that reads "i wanna draw again". inside lies a note. the note says, "mental illness and difficult circumstances have taken years of interest, accessibility, and skill away from me. i want to forgive myself for that. i want to heal my relationship to my hobbies. i want to feel connected to something that once made me feel good, but the cyclic discouragement is difficult to overcome." i turn over the note. on the back it reads "wannta drawe sexy bodies awooga"
Fandom: God there’s like NO content anymore. I wish we could get more art and fanfics :(((
Someone: Hey, I can’t draw anything digitally, because I can’t afford a tablet, but here’s a pen on paper drawing that I spent a lot of time and hard work on. Also, I took a shot at my first fanfic and I’d really like some feedback or at least some kudos if you enjoyed it :)
Fandom: Oh... yeah sorry no... not you. We actually meant writers that are already well known and popular to produce MORE content... I mean, if a popular blog shares your work then maybe. And we don’t really like pen to paper art. We just don’t think it’s professional or even looks good :/
This is why I try to reblog things that have little notes - the fandom NEEDS new people, or it dies, but the OLD people are there to support the new creators! New creators will leave and forget if the fandom doesn't welcome them, because they feel left out. We should remember that all great artists and writers, even the famous ones in big name fandoms, they all started from nothing.
If you don't want a fandom to die feed the sparks that come anew, don't blow on the old burnt ashes hoping they'll start again.
Grayland lets the monster take over the hunt, distractedly fixing his suit’s cuffs. The screams barely reach his ears, and any who do take note of the struggle keep themselves more than busy. Self-preservation without a single consideration for another; it is why Navamora is more than a wonderful place to find food for the Shade.The Monster comes back to him in a flurry of bones and blood, Grayland clicking his tongue as he dusts off some of the red flecks that follow his shadow. He sighs, easily shifting forward and walking to the man now half-dead, keeping track of the soft thud his cane makes on the bloody alley.He can see the last desperations of Life's end. They were more than common, Grayland noting every small movement that always comes with the dying corpses. Glassy eyes try to find the noises; heaving lungs try to drag air into a broken body. Limps no longer supporting skin and bones fidget in muscle memory.Fear, bleeding out further than the blood from their veins, makes the Shade excited.Grayland smiles as he stops before the body, taps his cane against the head. It makes the body stop, limps trying to move parts they no longer hold to face him. Not even the neck gives much of an effort, the head barely wobbling before it gives up and goes still. He hums with the reaction, drops down to his haunches as he gently brings the face for inspection.“I do wish you hadn’t been so uncooperative. I merely wished for Knowledge; all you had to do was tell me what I wished to hear.”He sees the spark that comes, frowns as the dying body actually manages to move according to the brain’s desires.Spit mingled with blood is poorly launched, sticking to the glove that is holding the chin. Muddy red staining itself into the soft white. Grayland blinks, a hum rising as he watches the body, sees the eyes shining for another moment.An act before death; the last show of bravado.Grayland smiles, holds the chin still as he brings his cane into the focus of the dimming eyes."How crass. And here I was, about to allow you the mercy of the Shade’s jaws.”
i was reading about the myth of prometheus today when the phrase "new liver, same eagles" popped into my mind, so i'm keeping that in mind for the next time someone asks me how it's going
must a fictional relationship be “healthy” or “functional”? is it not enough to simply watch two made up people destroy each other, hand in unlovable hand???
girlcreator
hey what the fuck is wrong with you people
kendallroy
idk, what is wrong with me? i’m in a healthy and stable relationship with a great partner, i’ve had lots of therapy that has helped me establish strong boundaries and recognize red flags, and i have an active social life and fulfilling career. could it be that i just… like to read books and watch movies and tv shows about dysfunctional people??? you tell me, tumblr user girlcreator!
derelict-stranger
You’re a bourgeois degenerate who wants to see shitty despicable & violent relationships for your disgusting sense of entertainment— and you should feel fucking ashamed of yourself.
I agree with @girlcreator but I definitely know there’s something wrong with you. People like you are a huge red flag to me. Bad vibes, for sure.
shakespeare frantically rewriting macbeth’s marriage to be healthy and adjusted becuase no one will ever want to watch the original
lucy-wf
reblog if you’re a bourgeois degenerate who wants to see shitty despicable and violent relationships for your disgusting sense of entertainment (and you should feel fucking ashamed of yourself)
Welcome to the Writing Blog! We are the Not Yet Dead Author, Natsume Rune! You may call us Rune or Natsume, either is fine! Our pronouns are we/they, and we are an aromantic/asexual genderfluid cluster of whispers from the Void who wish to reach out and touch the Worlds in a more pronounced way!
how is it almost july how are we almost halfway through the year how are we almost closer to the start of 2023 not the start of 2022 what has happened to the last six months why am i continuously shaken by the undeniable passage of time i think I need to lie down
Hello, Anon with the ask about whump getting to you emotionally!
I’m not posting your ask directly because some of the stuff in there felt to me like it might make some current whump writers try to decide if you meant them/their stories or not. But I still want to answer some bits and pieces:
For the past few months (about a year or more, I think) I feel like whump has been giving me more anxiety than enjoyment.
So, this is 100% not uncommon. There are whumpblrs who pretty routinely take breaks from both writing and reading because they need to kind of disconnect out of that whump headspace for a while or they start to feel a little rough. It sounds like you’re empathizing with the characters, especially when you mentioned that the lack of knowing there’s a light at the end of the tunnel seems to affect you really heavily.
I can’t tell you what to do about getting too attached, but I think you might have the right idea on needing to step back from the specific stories you mentioned. One thing you can do without blocking, for the record, is to block specific content tags or filter them out. You can filter a username, or if you know the whumpblr uses a specific tag for the writing on this character, you can filter that (for example: if you filtered #chris the strawberry blond romantic, it would filter my Chris stories). Yes, you can still click to read, but you’ll have to click twice, and maybe that extra moment to choose will help you feel some distance.
Don’t get down on yourself for having feelings, Anon. It’s totally normal to get emotionally wrapped up in a story and struggle when the character struggles, and whump can be especially rough since some of our stories really are just like… so much pain and fear and agony. When that’s the vibe you want, it’s perfection, but please absolutely - do not feel bad if you need to create a sideblog or just step back entirely and maybe just not read whump much at all for a while. You can always bookmark specific blogs you want to check up on still.
I’m not sure if any of this will help you, but I wanted to tell you don’t worry about sending it to me, and I hope venting helped you out a little bit. And I hope you’re able to get some distance and deep breaths and get back to that story when you’re ready.
If it’s ok to add onto this; I would recommend taking a peek at this post I made a bit ago that I find very relevant to this topic of getting too in your own head when it comes to whump and when it’s time to take a step away from it for your own mental health❤️
CW: Recovering whumpee, Kauri’s Poor Life Choices Redux, alcohol use, alcohol abuse, angst, drug use
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“Hey, Jer.” Tim, the other bartender, nudges Jeremy with his elbow while he pulls a beer, the pint glass expertly tilted, tipping back to normal until it’s full with only the thinnest layer of white foam above the dark stout beneath. “Look over at the corner.”
Jeremy’s busy shaking up a cocktail, but he looks the way that Tim points, both of them going through the motions of their job with mindless perfect precision even as their minds are entirely elsewhere. “What’m I looking at, Tim? I just see the usual crowd.”
“Yeah, maybe a little too usual.” At Jeremy’s obvious confusion, Tim laughs and sets the beer down in front of the customer who ordered, giving him a wave as he grabs it and turns around. “Who do you see who hasn’t come around in a while, huh? Take a look.”
Jeremy checks again.
His eyes roam over the crowd - mostly men, although there’s some women here and there. Men moving together on the dance floor, shimmery with sweat and more than a few with glitter, too. That’s enough of a bitch to clean up after the bar closes for the night that they mostly just let it be.
He sees Kenny, Brent, Ollie, Robert, Emory, Kauri, Isaac, a guy who tells everyone to call him Remington that Jeremy badly wishes he could throw out for that reason alone-
One of Jake’s rescues becoming ill, but managing to keep their condition to themself by mostly sticking to their room. Until their fever spikes, and half the safehouse witnesses them collapse when on their way to the kitchen for water.
CW: Sickfic, feverish whumpee, sick whumpee, memory loss, BBU, past pet whump referenced, caretaker and whumpee
This is for @vickytokio who has been so patient in waiting for this moment.
-
There is a hand at his elbow, and he shakes it off, shifting to press his back to the wall. It's cool, cold enough to make him shiver, and his shirt sticks to the sweat on his lower back as he tips his head back.
"Eli?" Antoni leans over him, eyebrows furrowed in a slight, soft concern.
Better him than anyone else, Eli thinks.
"I'm fine," Eli says, voice low. The music of his natural singsong, the softest hint of an accent from the mystery of his birth, is buried beneath a hoarse, husky overlay. His throat aches, stabbing sharp pains with every swallow, making him wince. "Just thirsty."
Antoni’s lips thin, and there’s a tension to him. Eli’s eyes roam slowly over the lines of his shoulder beneath the heavy sweater he wears, linger on the single ancient round scar on one side of his neck. “You are sick,” He says, softly. “I know sick.”
“Oh, do you.” Eli pushes himself to his feet, using the wall for balance, and when Antoni wordlessly offers a hand he pulls away from it, moving further down the hall towards the kitchen.
He wishes he didn’t have to shuffle not to feel like he’ll fall over. It doesn’t help him seem as fine as he’d like.
“You should… you should rest,” Antoni says, a little helplessly, as he shadows Eli down the hallway. Eli sets his jaw and ignores him. The rough touch of the hallway along his fingertips hurts. His skin feels stretched over empty air inside him, and he shivers at something like a breeze.
“I want a drink of water,” He says. He can’t keep his voice low enough to disguise the roughness of it. There’s a pressure above and beneath his eyes, throbbing as it pushes against the bone beneath. He has to squint against the ache of the light. “I’ll lay down after that, An-... Antoni.”
“Please,” Antoni says, and there’s something tentative and nearly tremulous in his own voice. “Pozhaluysta, Eli, let me help you.”
Eli pauses, and the corner of his mouth twitches, the faintest, faded hint of a smile. “Mne ne nuzhna tvoya pomoshch', Antoni.”
He risks the dizziness to turn, just so he can see the look of shock on the other man’s face. “You-... you-... ty govorish' po-russki?”
“Da.” Eli laughs, raspy and barely-there, and wanders into the kitchen. It feels like it’s taken weeks, months, ages just to walk from his room in the back into here. Sunlight streams in from outside, and he shudders against the stabbing pain of a memory of a warmer sun in a hotter place, of a different kind of hand pressed to his forehead. A whisper of a woman’s voice, Asahaay bachcha. Ab so jao, Jairaj.
Her eyes and skin and hair were all so dark, blocking out the hated, hurtful sun when he burned, warm as a blanket when he froze. Warm hands on cold skin, cool palm to sweating forehead or the back of his neck.
He tries to forget it as quickly as he can, to let her voice slip back and away. He can’t take the migraine that comes with memories, on top of all his other hurts. The bones of his very thighs ache as he makes his shuffling way to the fridge, opening it up.
“Since-... since when do you-”
“My master,” Eli says, pulling out a bottle of vaguely-gray-blue Gatorade, twisting off the top and drinking the cool, sweet liquid until it runs out of either side of his mouth. “Loved opera. We went to the Bolshoi at least once a year, the two of us. He had friends who were Russian. I learned to pass the time. There was…” He hesitates, staring at the Gatorade. Somehow, half of it is already gone. “There was so much time.”
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