#I really like whump

[ladyladywhump]

Revival Whump

Whumpee who killed themself for the freedom/relief of death is brought back to life against their will, kicking and screaming as they are brought back to Whumper

Whumpee is a lab rat used to figure out what happens after you die

Whumper figures out a way to come back to life every time Whumpee/Caretaker kills them so Whumpee can never be free

Whumpee is raised from the dead and made into something else. They are mindless, unable to do anything but listen to Whumper's orders... or so everyone thinks. While their body is ruined, their soul/spirit is a ghost wandering around, begging Whumper to kill them so they can return to the afterlife

Whumpee dies somehow and the afterlife is worse than life. They are relieved to be back with Whumper and Whumper is overjoyed to see their subject/Whumpee behaving itself

Whumpee is so distraught about Whumper's death that they bring them back like a good little Whumpee

Whumpee's species goes back and forth between death and life, like a phoenix. The experience is excruciating but Whumper drugs Whumpee so it happens more often because they find it fun to see how Whumpee suffers

Whumpee comes back exactly the way they were but Whumper is still convinced that something is wrong with them and is determined to experiment on them to figure out what

Whumpee who is desperate to live is killed publicly by Whumper, reacting extremely emotionally. They are publicly humiliated when Whumper brings them back to life

Whumpee is brought back to life and it's like they're two/multiple people, as though when they died they were split into multiple pieces

Whumper treats Whumpee like a stress toy, destroying them and bringing them back like a pop-it so they can play over and over again

Whumper doesn't have to go easy on Whumpee; they can destroy Whumpee completely and have them back in time for dinner

Revival takes a long time to complete and so by the time they're awake, Whumpee is old/still young but everyone they loved is dead - except Whumper

Female Whumpee is killed on their period and brought back to life when it's over so Whumper doesn't have to deal with all that 'gross blood'

Whumpee is older/younger when they are brought back to life

Pet Whumpee who doesn't realise their Whumper is immortal/will come back to life is distraught over Whumper's death and kills themself. When Whumper comes back, they are extremely annoyed at their henchfolk for allowing them to do it.

[aphel1on]

nothinggg better than torturing an emotionally repressed character until every single trauma they've ever refused to process starts spilling uncontrollably out of the cracks. like a matryoshka doll situation of repressed trauma and baby you better believe i'm going in there with a hammer

[callmeizukunotdeku]

one of my favorite brands of Jason and Tim angst is when Jason realizes that Bruce had been treating Tim like his replacement, not as Robin, but as Jason

Robin's a mantel, a mask that gets passed down from one brother to the next

Jason is a person. full stop.

just,,, something about making Jason's thinking shift from "Bruce replaced me by getting another son" to "Bruce found a kid that looks like me and he acts like the kid is me"

and Jason trying to bring this up with Tim, who knows better and expects worse just replying "at least, now that you're back, he's stopped calling me by your name"

and Jason is like "no, no, you should be asking so much more from him; this is Batman for god's sake"

"yeah" Tim agrees "I asked him to keep me around even though he doesn't need me any more. he seemed to be fine with the idea"

"need you? tim that's a fully grown adult he doesn't need you to do anything for him"

and Tim just gives him a you haven't seen the half of it look and Jason remembers that technically he's right

tim didn't need to do anything, he needed to be someone. and now that Jason is back, he doesn't need to be anyone anymore

but how much of himself did he lose trying to become someone else?

[pearynice]

Eddie doesn’t like spending time away from Steve. 

He’s fine during the day. He can do his job and chat with his coworkers and do what he needs to do without thinking too much on it, but there is nothing in the world that he looks forward to more than being able to come home every evening to the love of his life. Nothing more gratifying than being the person that makes Steve smile when he walks through their front door. No better feeling than Steve welcoming him home.

So call it unhealthy, call him whipped or codependent or whatever else, but Eddie doesn’t like spending extended time away from his boyfriend. Maybe it was the more-than-one near death experience, the nights they spent in hospital waiting rooms, not allowed to be at each other’s bedside, but being away from Steve, especially at night, makes him anxious. Makes his heart rate pick up and his palms sweat, makes him ruminate on whether or not Steve is okay.

So Eddie hasn’t exactly been sleeping. Or eating all that well. Not for the past three days, at least. Because Steve is at a teacher’s conference in Chicago for the week, only leaving under Eddie’s profuse and continued promises that he’d be fine. That Eddie can survive a week without him. 

Which he can. It just doesn’t mean it’s exactly pleasant. Especially today. Because Eddie has the day off, and there’s not much to distract him from the gaping, Steve-sized hole in it. 

He starts by doing the laundry. Washes their sheets. Washes every throw blankets and every towel, moves onto the kitchen while the washer rumbles and does all the dishes. He goes on the truly spiritual experience of cleaning their dishwasher. Which, why must things that do the cleaning need to be cleaned? He scrubs the grime from the shower and wipes the spit from the sink, vacuums the rugs and wipes down the windows, organizes their pantry and cleans out the fridge. 

By the time he’s done his fingers ache. His back smarts from where he spent too long hunched over their tub, and still he misses Steve. 

Who is coming back tomorrow. Late in the evening, sure, but realistically Eddie only needs to survive another 30 hours. 

Which is far too long. 

He considers baking something. Like those those blueberry muffins Steve likes so much, but Eddie just knows by the end he’d have shitty muffins and a dirty kitchen.

So he tries to read. Tries to play guitar and write some songs, tries watching TV and listening to music, even tries going on a walk to pick up some dinner he knows he won’t eat, finally taking Steve’s advice on fresh air to heart. But as the clock ticks on, the itch under his skin only gets worse.

Not even their nightly phone call helps. 

He can tell Steve knows something’s up, keeps reminding him he’ll be back tomorrow, that it’s just one more night, because despite Eddie’s best attempt at deflection Steve knows him far too well.

“Tomorrow.” Steve reminds him, again, at the end of their call.

“Tomorrow.” Eddie repeats. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, baby.”

Eddie misses his boyfriend. 

He tries to sleep. Can’t, of course. He tosses and turns in his bed and then tosses and turns on the couch with the TV humming staticky with whatever late-night garbage he has it on. 

And he just—has to do something. Keep occupied until the sun comes up and he can go to work and lose himself in whatever car some idiot brought in because he didn’t change the oil. Keep his hands busy enough to keep his mind busy, too.

He sits bolt upright. Remembers, suddenly, the bleach and hair dye he’s almost positive Robin left here. 

It doesn’t take him long to find. He’d organized them, without even realizing, nestled them between all of Steve’s bottles and jars and potions. 

Never one for instructions, Eddie remembers Steve mixing the bleach with something else before he smeared it over Robin’s hair. 

It was white. He remembers that much. Thick and gloopy. Like… conditioner?

He mixes the two together in an old Tupperware with a toothbrush, the smell sort of making his eyes water. 

He can’t see much of the back of his head, but he’s just getting the ends, anyways. 

Eventually the toothbrush becomes cumbersome, and he massages the last of it in with his fingers. 

He’s pretty glad that part goes quick because after a minute he can feel his cuticles begin to burn. 

He remembers Steve wrapping Robin’s hair in a plastic bag, and he finds one, eventually, has to fish out a crumpled receipt but sticks that over his head. And waits.

He forgot about the waiting part. That he’d have to sit here while the bleach did its thing and then again when he puts on the red. 

He sits on the toilet with the lid down, picking at his firey cuticles. The clock in the hallway reads nearly 5 a.m., which means Eddie has at least four more hours to kill. 

He goes through their drawers again, wondering if Steve maybe has a different color hiding around. He thinks green would be cool. Maybe pink.

But Eddie doesn’t find another color. He finds, instead, his sewing kit. And he thinks of all the goofy tattoos his has. The goofy tattoos he gave himself. His dice. His Tree of Gondor. His triceratops. And, really, how it’s a shame he hasn’t gotten one for Steve. 

He knows what he’s doing and where before he even has all the supplies, snapping a ballpoint into a small dish and sterilizing the needle with his lighter. He shaves his inner thigh and washes out the bleach from his hair, which is a little underwhelming, honestly, having done little to lighten his dark locks. 

He puts the red in regardless, puts his plastic bag hat back on and gets to work on his thigh. 

And that’s how Jeff finds him. Appearing, in Eddie’s bathroom doorway, two coffee cups in hand. He takes in the plastic bag, smeared with red, on his head, Eddie’s bald and inky leg.

Eddie has no idea what time it is.

He looks down at himself. “I think Steve is… 86% of my impulse control.” 

Jeff doesn’t say anything. Just rests the coffees on the sink and crouches to look at Eddie’s fresh ink. 

“Is that… hairspray?”

“Three puffs!” Eddie answers, a little deliriously, and dips the needle back into the ink to start the third said puff. “How’d you get in here?” He asks, not taking his eyes off the needle. 

“How do you always forget you gave me a key?” Jeff snorts, and then, a little softer, adds, “Steve asked me to swing by before your shift today, you know. Bring you some food.”

Eddie’s gaze flicks to the coffee as he dips his needle in again. “I only see caffeine, here, Williams.”

Jeff’s quiet for a moment before, “how about you finish that up, wash that dye from your hair, and then I’ll give you the food?” Jeff’s voice is still all gentle and obnoxious, and Eddie resists the urge of poking him with the needle.

But Eddie’s almost done with the last puff, anyways, and… breakfast does sound nice. 

“‘M almost done.” He mumbles. 

Jeff sits on the bathroom floor, sipping his coffee and watching Eddie finishes. Then he helps him untangle the plastic bag from his hair. Then makes sure whatever soap they have is unscented, makes sure whatever Eddie’s about to slather all over his thigh won’t turn it septic. 

Damn paramedics. 

In the shower, though, Eddie’s exhaustion starts to creep up on him. Four days with little sleep makes his eyelids droop in the warmth. Makes his shoulders sag as he washes the dye out of his hair. Makes his limbs heavy as he cleans his new tattoo, which, looks pretty damn good, if he does say so himself.

A can of hairspray. Three puffs. 

Eddie towels off, only a little disappointed that the dye didn’t do much. He can see it, a little, but only if the light hits it just right.

Jeff’s waiting for him with a greasy breakfast sandwich and coffee, and Eddie bites into it before he’s even seated, moaning at the taste. 

“Jesus.” Jeff mutters, “let’s wait until Steve gets back for that, okay?”

Eddie doesn’t have the energy to bite back, just takes another bite before he swallows the first. “Fank ‘oo,” Eddie grunts, word garbled around egg and sausage and cheese. He swallows. Looks down at his hands. “For.” The skin of his inner thigh is pink. “Everything.” He takes another bite. 

Jeff smiles. “And miss whatever disaster just happened in your bathroom? Not a chance, Munson.” He puts down his coffee cup. “I did call you in sick from work today, though. Just so you know.”

Eddie drops his sandwich. “Jeff!” Egg flies across the table. “What the fuck!”

Jeff raises his eyebrows and dusts Eddie’s food from his shirt. “You can barely keep your eyes open. I’m protecting you from dropping a car on yourself during a tire rotation.”

Eddie swallows, hands already twitching, “dude. I’m gonna go insane here by myself.”

Jeff raises his other eyebrow.

“More insane.” Eddie corrects. His leg starts to bounce.

“Good thing I’m gonna be keeping you company, then.” Jeff leans back in his chair, picking up his coffee and tilting the styrofoam at Eddie. “Movie marathon?”

Between he and Steve they only have about three decent movies, but Eddie finishes his sandwich on the couch as Jeff fiddles with the VCR. 

The movie begins, and that wave of exhaustion returns. Floods him. It’s hard to keep his eyes open. He leans into Jeff’s side. Who isn’t Steve, but who smells nice. Like linen.

Jeff rests his cheek on Eddie’s head. “Sleep, man.” He mumbles.

So Eddie does.

He doesn’t know how long he was asleep. But he wakes to a hand in his hair. To fingers massaging his scalp, and he knows before he even asks. “‘Teve?”

“Hi, baby.” Steve whispers, his hand stills, and he pulls Eddie closer. 

Steve feels so good. Warm and strong and here and here. 

Eddie opens his eyes only to bury himself in Steve’s chest, his boyfriend falling back onto the couch to accommodate, his arms winding around Eddie’s middle. 

“I missed you.” Eddie murmurs, and breathes Steve in, presses his nose into his sweatshirt and curls closer, fists his hands into Steve’s clothes and holds on tight.

“I missed you, too.” Steve sighs. He sounds tired. “Let’s… not do that again.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Never again.” He agrees. 

Steve shifts, opens his legs so Eddie falls between them. “I played hooky on the all-hands luncheon today.” Steve admits, quiet. “Didn’t feel like sitting around with them all day when I could be here with you.” Steve’s hand returns to his hair, twirling the strands between his fingers. “Did you… dye your hair?”

“N’ got a tattoo.” Eddie hums.

Steve giggles, and kisses the top of Eddie’s head. “I like it.” Steve’s fingers dance across his scalp, and Eddie never wants to go another night without this. 

“I like you.” Eddie volleys back, and he feels Steve laugh, feels it rumble through his chest because Steve is here and he’s laughing and then there’s another kiss placed on Eddie’s head before Steve murmurs, “I like you too, baby.”

My permanent tag list 💗: @hotluncheddie @hitlikehammers @hbyrde36 @littlewildflowerkitten @chaotic-waffle

@westifer-dead @perseus-notjackson @finntheehumaneater @theheadlessphilosopher @spectrum-spectre

@itsall-taken @marvel-ous-m @bookworm0690 @acasualcrossfade

(Sorry taglist that you’re getting tagged late I’m still getting used to tumblrs new STUPID TAGGING SYSTEM)

[whump-in-the-closet]

what are ur fav tropes for stoic whumpees? love da blog

stoic whumpee tropes that are a 100/10:

"I'm fine" and then immediately collapsing in front of their loved ones in a bleeding pile, revealing a hidden injury that has festered for far too long

silent, muffled crying with shaking shoulders and a bloody hand clamped over their mouth because they view crying as weak and beneath them and they're stronger than this, they're stronger, they can take it--

the moment they close their eyes in defeat and it's all over and they fucking know it, and when they open their eyes again all that remains is a glassy-dead stare

adamantly refusing medical treatment even when they need it. Shoving away everyone who comes close to them, a choked sound in their throat, fighting back with everything that's left in them.

when they kneel at Whumper's feet, eyes on the ground, white-lipped and tense. The only betrayal of emotion is their clenched fists and tight breathing. In every other way, they're compliant.

refusing to talk about what they endured at Whumper's hands after they're rescued, but the scars tell the story for them. They don't have to say a word, but their team's pitying gaze follows them wherever they go

normally unaffectionate and distant but exhausted and defeated they rest their head on Caretaker's shoulder or Whumper's lap, just finally admitting--nonverbally-- that they can't take it

reversely, more willing to be tortured than to ask for help-- If I'm breathing, I'm fine

stitching their own wounds back up with an unsteady hand, painful stitch after painful stitch. Deep breath and pull. Working in a dimly lit apartment with bleeding clothes on the floor around them and the bed unmade

sacrificing themself for their team. "Take me! Do what you want to me. Not them." And their team watching as the torture takes its slow toll and Whumpee-- the one they look up-- falls apart.

[den-of-whump]

A guilty whump pleasure of mine is when a character in a fantastical setting is being tortured and something in them just breaks. They suddenly manifest magic super powers, or if they already had those, they suddenly go into overdrive and the character just murders everyone there.

[whatiswhump]

We talk about aching of old wounds and breaks that pulsate in throbing unrelenting anguish years after…

But I’m here to posit that the worst kind of haunting wound is nerve damage. Nerve damage spasms in electric like stabs that feel raw from the very first shock. Nerve damage feels like you’re being electrocuted at any given moment and the pain receptors are eternally sharp and much too sensitive, unlike the throbbing that eventually dulls into bluntness of the aforementioned aches.

Nerve damage makes your whole body twitch if it is unexpected and significant enough, even if you’ve had a thousand before that should have primed you to hide it.

Nerve damage feels like glass is embedded inches into your skin, waiting like shrapnel to cut in afresh at every movement.

Nerve damage doesn’t just remind you of your past but haunts you with shocking clarity like the first time every time.

[writinggremlin]

A Whumpee who has spent their entire life under the control of another, without any autonomy or independence.

One day, after their rescue, they finally realize that they now *do* have autonomy, and that the others in their life respect that. They have independence, they can do whatever the fuck they want, they don't need permission anymore.

And that feels... weird. Surreal. Freeing. Confusing.

They're just holding this revelation in their hands like "What is this? What do I do with it?"

[rosieposey-torturedpoet]

Okay, so this is really random: but I see a lot of like 'inexperienced' Whumpees who are the weakest/youngest out of the group

But like what if the youngest is the one everyone fears, I mean they're in the group for a reason

Picture this very specific scenario: The team is captured by Whumper and they are all taken to the same room, chained up to keep them from running or trying anything: and here comes Whumpee (a teenager that's like half the size of everyone in the room) with these insanely complicated locks, maybe they're wearing a straight jacket, with multiple guards while the rest of the team got one or two

Because if you think about it, younger people would have to work harder to prove their strength and 'worth' to the team. There has to be a reason for them to stay on the team

However my personal favorite of this trope is that the youngest is just so unpredictable; not only are they talented/wise beyond their years but you truly never know what they'll do next with all the talent they harbor

Maybe Whumper hates them because at least he can fall into this rythme with the rest of the team and learn their habits: but he physically can't do that for youngest because there is no routine or habit to fall back onto

Maybe they mastered a rare magic form at a young age, or were trained as a soldier

Then think of the CARETAKING OPPROTUNITIES?? A parental Caretaker that shows Whumpee what it's like to be a kid, who worry about they're little reckless living death wish 24/7, and give them a mom/dad that they deserve

I just love young, anti-hero, vigilante Whumpees who have seen so much and learned so many things at such a young age, to the point where they are constantly on the verge of villain because of their genuine desensitization to it all

Which causes everyone to be at least a little afraid of youngest, in some sense of the word

[smthnsmthn-whumpblog]

you know what i love? prison whump. and i barely get to see any :(

but seriously, the prison system is so incredibly fucked up, the opportunities for whump are endless. beatings from the prison guards, beatings from the other prisoners, forced labour, all kinds of neglect (emotional, physical, medical, hygiene, etc.) and just so much misery. being forced to live in crumbling cells, full of rat shit and bird droppings, not to mention their own filth. being sentenced to solitary confinement for a minor indiscretion, maybe the whumpee criticises the treatment they’re getting, and is forced to sit in a cold small cell by themself for two days or more, the only social interaction they get is an apathetic guard giving them a measly meal twice a day. all of it just adding to the intense isolation and loneliness.

and that’s just modern prisons; are you doing historical whump? oh boy, that shit was utterly awful. corporal punishment galore - getting flogged, whipped and birched, leaving scars (both mental and physical) that will last a lifetime. public humiliation, being strung up in stress positions and displayed for all passers-by to point, laugh and scorn. worked to the bone, doing menial, pointed tasks for inhuman hours, getting beaten when they collapse of exhaustion. going to the toilet in a bowl they have to sleep next to, having to clean it out themselves every day. being locked up in minuscule cells, too small for whumpee to move, their muscles atrophying. chain gangs. and that’s just a few examples off the top of my head.

oh, and if you’re doing fantasy whump? you can do literally whatever you want. you can make up the rules, decide how severely whumpee gets punished for something small. the world is your bloody oyster.

and the fact that it’s a prison, and they’re a criminal - maybe the whumpee didn’t do anything wrong, maybe they got framed or falsely imprisoned. maybe they did do something ‘wrong’, something deemed a crime by their society but something that isn’t entirely their fault and requires help not punishment (like drug abuse or stealing to keep themself/their loved ones fed). or maybe they did do something wrong, a sort of whumper-turned-whumpee vibe, but the punishment goes way too far.

anyway, fuck the penal system.

[sadiecoocoo]

Ao3 is so devoid of Jayce whump like yes I know his husband is chronically ill but what if we made the pretty boy mortally wounded so they could match

[shywhumpauthor]

A Whumper with fire powers branding their Whumpee not just with their name or initials, but their handprints.

Two palms scarred against either side of Whumpee’s neck, fingers wrapping around their throat in a collar that can never be removed. Hands on their sides, just below their broken ribs, a touch that will never relent. Fingers wrapped around their wrists in shackles that won’t be unlocked. A handprint against their face, cupping their cheek that had already suffered so many punches. The small of their back. A single hand just between their shoulder blades. Dragging down their thighs.

Just. Branded handprints.

[sad-leon]

firefight animatic for my lovely friend @remedyturtles [Spoilers up until Chapter 9]

unfortunately the last chunk of frames are incomplete and will likely remain that way as i have hit a massive mental brick wall -- probably an ugly mix of depression and burnout -- but I wanted to share my vision, so I edited what I had

Song Used: Dancing After Death by Matt Maeson

wish I had more to say but im dead on the floor,, sorry

[the-broken-pen]

love your writing yo can I ask for a little hurt-comfort mlm

“Oh. Oh. That’s—that’s a lot of blood,” the voice above him sounded strangled, like they were choking on every word.

The hero cracked an eye open, dizzy and cold and tired, and hummed something that could have been an agreement.

“Hey,” he said, voice raw, and his friend stifled a sob as they collapsed onto their knees at his side.

Their hands pressed hesitantly against the wound, and they were trembling. His hands were slick with blood. It took everything in them to drag them, shaking, to rest on top of his friends, and press down hard.

The pained noise he made caught in the back of his throat. Just barely.

“You have to press harder,” he managed. The pain had swelled to something almost unbearable. He was drowning in it, to the point where it was almost the kind of pain where it became something wretched, something else that swallowed you whole. “The bleeding, it—“ he had to stop, gasping for a breath.

His friend had started crying, but they pressed harder, dutifully. He loved them for it.

“I don’t know what to do,” they sobbed. “You don’t do hospitals. What do I do.”

He let go of his friends hand, digging for his pocket. His grip slipped the first two times; he managed it on the third, sliding his phone onto his stomach.

“Speed dial,” he offered, and closed his eyes before the look on his friend’s face made him vomit.

“Speed dial? Speed dial. Okay. Okay,” his friend said. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.” He was certain his friend wasn’t saying it to him. Their free hand scrambled for his phone.

By the time they managed to get it to ring, the world around him had turned into something muffled and cotton around him.

“You? You’re his speed dial—don’t…I don’t know what….bleeding…not responding…please, just….”

A crack cleaved the air, the smell of ozone suddenly stronger than the smell of his own suffering, and then a hand was replacing his friend’s. The other found the side of his face, thumb curving under his jaw.

“Hey,” and oh, he knew that voice—something raw in his chest eased. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

He managed, just barely, and the villain peered down at him.

“Hey,” he croaked.

“You’re bleeding out,” the villain said, and it was the softest he’d ever heard him. “You need care, or you’re going to die. Can I move you?”

Do you trust me?

“Always,” he tried, but it came out weak and desperate.

The villain pressed harder, and he keened high and pained in the back of his throat. On instinct, his hand darted up to the villain’s wrist, latching on too tight for anyone without superpowers to handle. The villain didn’t flinch.

“You’re okay,” the villain murmured. His thumb brushed over the hero’s jaw, soothing.

There was something the hero was forgetting—

“My friend,” he choked out. “Where—are they—where—“ he struggled to sit up, and the villain simply guided him back down.

“They’re fine,” the villain promised. “I sent them home. Maybe a little traumatized, but they’re okay.”

“Okay.” The hero nodded to himself, or he tried, or he didn’t. “Okay. They’re okay, okay, I’m—“

“Okay,” the villain finished for him, and even half sick in pain the hero could tell he was intentionally keeping his voice easy. “You’re okay. You’re going to be just fine, I promise.”

His hand shifted underneath the hero’s back.

“Breathe for me?” The hero tried, and managed a half wheeze. The villain just nodded. “Good. This is gonna suck.”

His other hand wormed its way underneath the hero’s knees. He blinked, trying to clear his blurry vision, and the villain stared at him. Barely disguised concern was written into every inch of him, like the only thing his bones could remember was panic. For him.

The villain was scared for him.

That was bad.

“What’s going to suck—“

The villain hauled him upwards, and his vision went white.

He woke up some time later, chest heavy and head floating somewhere above his body.

He hummed something that might have been a question, and the villain was above him in an instant.

“Are you in pain?”

The hero blinked at him for a moment. Mostly because he couldn’t really remember how to do anything else. The world felt sluggish. A second delayed behind normal. Which should have been concerning, panic worth and world ending, but it simply just…was.

“No,” he said finally, and his voice sounded weird. His throat ached, separated from him by a wall of warmth. “I was screaming?”

The villain swallowed, hard, and the hero managed to drag his gaze down to the needle and thread clutched in the villain’s hand.

“Yeah.” The villain sounded like he was choking on the words. “You were screaming.”

He opened his eyes whendidheclosethem and peered upwards again. He was on a couch. Or a bed? Bed, he decided a second later. The villain was kneeling next to him, and there was something soft tucked around his legs. He went to sit up, look down at his stomach; the villain’s hand came up to rest on his forehead, gently keeping him down. He must have made some noise of displeasure, because a moment later, the villain’s hand carded through his hair.

“Easy,” he murmured, focusing back onto the hero’s side. He heard the snip of thread; the sound of the villain throwing something onto a side table without care.

“What did you give me?” The hero’s tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Lots,” the villain said.

“Lots,” he said back, managing to sound more incredulous than he actually cared to feel at the moment, and the villain snorted. “Haven’t heard of that one before.”

“Had to make something special for the boy wonder,” the villain smoothed a hand down his side, and the hero half leaned into it. Mostly he managed to sink further into the mattress. “You burn through shit fast, you know?”

The hero did know. He knew very well, unfortunately.

“Thanks,” he managed. His head lolled to the side without his permission, resting against the villain’s arm.

“You’re going to pass out again,” the villain informed him. He made a noise in the back of his throat that could have meant anything. The villain seemed to understand regardless.

Am not, he tried to say.

The haze of medication and blood loss stole him first.

The next time he woke, he was half sprawled against the villain’s side. Something cold was set onto his cheek, and he reached up to remove it, hand clumsy. The villain caught it before he managed to remove anything.

“You spiked a fever,” he said quietly. “I just got it back down. That’s probably why you woke up. How are you feeling?”

That was…a lot.

“No pain,” he said eventually. He thought he felt the villain give a heavy sigh of relief.

The world was clearing itself up bit by bit, settling the furniture back into the correct places until it no longer felt like things were sliding around him.

The villain’s hand was back into his hair again.

“Good,” the villain said, but the hero wasn’t really sure it was meant for him.

Something in his chest loosened.

“I thought I was going to die,” he admitted, and he wished his tongue was still numb, because the villain stilled, hand curled in his hair.

“That’s not what you told your friend.”

And yeah, the hero half remembered the pieces of that. A promise he was okay. Everything would be fine. He was always fine, wasn’t he? How strongly do you have to will to will someone to stay. Exactly how many pounds of force does it take to stop someone from bleeding out—

There was a chill curling itself around his ribs.

“I thought I was going to die,” his voice was raw. It wasn’t because of his throat. He sounded afraid, even to himself.

“I would never have let you do that,” he managed a moment later. His hand resumed in his hair.

And somehow, despite the knowledge of how hard it truly was to save someone, how long it took to learn that kind of information, the knowing of exactly what was survivable and what couldn’t be escaped, how strong you had to be to shift through rubble—the hero believed him.

“I know,” he said, because the villain had to know. That he believed him. That he would always believe him.

He melted into the villain’s side.

I trust you, I trust you, I trust you

The villain hummed, in that way of his that told him he understood exactly what the hero couldn’t vocalize.

“I’m your #1 speed dial?” He questioned after a moment.

The hero huffed a laugh.

“You’re my only speed dial.”

The villain froze.

And then he was shifting, pulling the hero closed to him. The villain tucked him close, chin settling onto the top of his head. The hero pressed his face into the hollow of the villain’s neck.

“I will always come,” he said, and this time, his voice was the one that was raw. “You call, and I will be there.”

He said it like it was easy. Like it was that simple.

Maybe it was.

Maybe for them it always had been.

A fondness he couldn’t put words too settled onto his shoulders.

He simply breathed into the villain’s neck, and the villain’s arms looped around him a bit tighter.

“You’re okay,” the villain said into his hair. Like he was confirming it.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re lucky you have super healing.”

“I’m lucky I have you.”

The villain laughed softly.

“Suck up.”

“And what? You gonna stop me?”

He could practically feel the eye roll. “Been trying for years. Hasn’t stuck.”

“Well, you had the perfect opportunity—“

The villain hushed him.

“Just. Shhh for a bit,” he said softly.

The hero, obediently, shhh’ed.

The villain’s hand ran through his hair again, and his eyes shuttered closed, settling further against the villain’s chest.

“Cheater,” he murmured, and the villain huffed a laugh, but didn’t deign a response.

And together, comfortably, curled around one another like two halves of a whole, they just breathed.

[whumpy-wyrms]

tumblr sexyman poll but whump oc edition. who agrees

[whump-galaxy]

The whumpee intentionally breaks something of the carewhumper’s to get their attention. The carewhumper goes deathly quiet, staring at the pieces on the ground.

As the seconds tick by, the whumpee begins to regret their choice. They wonder if the carewhumper will finally drop the caring act.