#first post for whump

[whumpy-angsty]

Whumper ties whumpee on uncomfortable operating cold dirty table. Stretched out uncomfortably.

Whumper whips whumpee palms and feets till its painfully bleeding and whumpee begging Whumper to stop.

Whumper just continues till whumpee faint.

And once whumpee wakes up they force whumpee to stand on their whipped feet’s. Every time whumpee falls they force them to stand up again.

[gender-thief2]

homeless peter parker whump fics are so unintentionally funny sometimes because they’ll literally be like:

peter (malnourished, dehydrated, wearing his homemade dirty spiderman suit, sporting two stab wounds and three broken ribs, voice cracking): nice to meet you mr stark

tony: yeah this is probably an adult

[whump-supplies]

Medic whump my beloved <3

The world doesn't care that they're exhausted. It doesn't care that their head is pounding and chest aches, it doesn't care how badly they're shaking or how much their legs want to give out.

Their teammates are hurt and sick and dying and they are the only one who can save them, they have a role to fill and a job to do, because no one else can.

And whatever is going on with them? A bit of first aid and however many pain meds are needed to function will have to suffice because "resting" is not conducive to keeping their friends alive

Oh and if one of their teammates is in critical condition? They have to be prepared to stay awake for days on end monitoring (or operating) on them to keep them alive.

They dont get to stop and rest

(At least not until they cant go any further and their body gives out. Delaying much needed rest by slamming back caffeine & pain meds until the job gets done has its consequences after all~)

I love my exhausted medic characters so much <3

[comfortingcatharsis]

A character using their own clothing to tend to a companion- using their coat as a blanket to spread over them; tearing strips from a garment to clean or bind their wounds or bathe a fevered brow; turning a scarf or handkerchief into a sling; slipping a pair of gloves warmed by their own heat onto the companion's hands; using their shirt as padding and the sleeves to bind a splint for the companion's broken limb; crafting a makeshift litter from a cloak or coat and branches; pressing any fabric they can get their hands on to an open wound to stem the bleeding- using the material closest to hand for the good of their companion.

[it-is-whumptastic]

Whumpers saying "I'm sorry"

In a soft coo as a knife is dragged along whumpee’s skin, “I’m sorry, darling. I don’t want to hurt you, you know that but we can’t have you trying to escape, can we?”  

With mockery dripping from whumper’s tongue. “Aw, did that hurt? I’m sorry.” 

Staring into the eyes of whumpee after they successfully escape,  head slightly cocked. “I’m sorry but you were so very easy to hurt, how could I have ever passed that up?” 

“Oh I’m sorry.” Whumper tears out the knife from caregiver’s throat, blood painting over everything like the slow draw of shadows at dusk. “Was that your friend?” 

A hand clasping onto whumpee’s shoulder after they’ve been free for weeks, many months, hot breath tickling the side of their face “I’m sorry, I’m the last person you want to see, huh?” 

Whumpee blubbering apologies at whumper’s feet. Whumper kneels down, taking whumpee’s quivering face in their hands, ever so gently, cupping their cheeks. A smile that could have warmed even the coldest of hearts slid over their lips. “No, no. I’m sorry for thinking I could give you an inch of freedom. I should have known you couldn’t handle it.” 

“Oops, sorry. I meant to carve that into your right side. Guess we’ll have to just do it again, my mistake.” 

“I’m sorry? Do you think that’s good enough? A simple ‘I’m sorry’ after how bad you’ve been? How about you try again but at my feet this time?” 

[buggachat]

Open My Eyes

AO3, 1/15 chapters, post season 5 finale, angst (with a happy ending), Adrien discovers the truth

Adrien smiles as he eats breakfast with Nathalie, smiles as he walks through the halls of his new lycée, smiles as people stop him on the street and tell him time and time again what a "hero" his father was. (Adrien wishes he could've been a hero, too. He should've been. Maybe then his father would still be alive.) (But he's surviving. Everyone may be treating him as though he were made of glass, but he can still go through the motions, he can prove them wrong, he can still smile.) “And you’re… happy,” Marinette spoke carefully, a nervous tilt to her voice, “... right?” (Adrien has some things to find out.)

Hey guys, deciding to force myself to finally start uploading my post-season 5 finale fic! It's already complete and will be updated Mondays and Thursdays.

Basically, it's lots of Adrien angst and reveals dealing with the fallout of the season 5 finale. It was a lot of fun to write.

[evildoctorkisser]

Annoyingly sympathetic whumpee prompts 🙏

> “I’m so glad you’ve found a way to deal with your violent tendencies!” in response to being told they’re here for torture

> grabbing whumper’s hand before they hit them, “wait. How about we talk about what I did to make you angry first?”

> “ngh… h..how… did that make you feel….?” after being hit over the head by Whumper

> Whumpee making Whumper one of those home made stress balls

> Whumpee half-smiling at Whumper after a particularly bad beating, telling them they’ll have to work on more healthy coping mechanisms

> “use your words, not your whi— ACK!!”

[only10th]

Thinking about a what if A-Yuan remembers being placed in the hollow tree by Wwx? What if he remembers Wwx and his family?

When A-Yuan woke up and realized he was in CR he expected for his Xian-gege to appear around the corner. It only made sense since rich-gege was there. Even tho it only happened once, A-Yuan noticed how close his Xian-gege stood to the Rich-gege, and how they moved almost in a synchronized manner.

“Rich-gege, where Xian-gege?”

There’s only silence from the Lan cultivator, eyes already watering and tears quickly flowing down his face. The reaction has A-Yuan confused. Why would rich-gege cry? He saved him and Xian-Gege from the scary people, just like Xian-gege said he would.

The child looks around, patiently waiting. He knows Xian-gege loves to play hide and seek, it’s their favorite game after all! Oh, maybe rich-gege felt sad because Xian-gege kept winning! So, A-Yuan moves closer to LWJ, softly patting his cheek and whipping the tears away. “S’okay! Xian-gege is good at playing hide and seek, sometimes he hides really good! I’ll help you find him!”

That only seems to make the man want to curl onto himself, harsh sobs being wrenched from his chest. He was holding on to something, clutching it close to his chest as if it was part of him. A child can be curious, so he tries to see what it is. He gasps when he notices the red fabric. It’s Xian-Gege’s red ribbon!

“You found it!” A-Yuan celebrates, “Xian-Gege lost it. He’ll be so happy that rich-gege found his ribbon!”

“A-Yuan…” LWJ whispers brokenly. Nothing more comes from him, but now the child is a bit concerned as to why Rich-Gege is crying so much. It reminded him of when he’d see Xian-gege crying and he didn’t like when he cried. So he tries to gather himself and give rich-gege a hug, but the man winces loudly when he tries to round his arms over his shoulders.

“Rich-gege…?” A-Yuan asks alarmed, now noticing the red staining his pretty white robes. Xian-Gege always talked about how he liked rich-gege’s robes, how pretty it made him look even though they looked like mourning robes. The stain only seemed to grow bigger, and only then is when the child starts to panic, “Xian-gege? Xian-Gege will help! Xian-gege, stop hiding, rich-gege needs help!”

“Wangji?” Someone unexpectedly comes speed walking into the room. More people with white robes come into the room, all their faces with alarm and worry. By instinct, A-Yuan stands in front of LWJ. Xian-Gege told him that Rich-Gege was the only good person he knew from the sect that wore white robes, they couldn’t be trusted.

“S-Stay away!” A-Yuan warns, his small body blocking the larger man behind him. “Don’t h-hurt rich-gege, o-or Xian-gege will be mad!”

The healers and LXC can only look at the child, perplexed at how he protected LWJ. Even more so at the term of endearment used to describe their HGJ and the late YLLZ.

LXC tries to step closer, but that only makes the child puff his chest and stretch his arms wider, just like Ning-ge had taught him. “Young one, we are here to take care of Wangji. We won’t bring any harm to him.”

A-Yuan stares at the man that looks similar to LWJ, but he can’t help but be cautious of him. The child shakes his head, “Xian-gege said not to trust anyone that’s not Rich-gege. Xian-Gege and A-Yuan help rich-gege.”

There’s clear conflict in LXC eyes as he looks at the boy and then at his brother. Has Wangji not told him the news yet? But his priority was to take care of Wangji’s wounds, and he could easily just go around the child, but that would only cause trouble. So he nods in understanding, kneeling until he is at eye level with the boy.

“You are a fierce protector, I must admire that. However, my didi needs help. His wounds… are far too great.”

“Then Qing-jie can help! Qing-jie is the best doctor!”

LXC pressed his lips together before sighing, “I’m afraid… Wen Qing is not here to help us.”

Qing-jie still hasn’t come back? But Xian-gege told him she’d come back with Ning-ge. He looks around one more time… where is everyone? Why hasn’t Xian-Gege come out of his hiding place? The boy backs up until his back collides with LWJ's chest, who instantly wraps his arms around him and envelopes him in a tight embrace.

“Rich-gege… Wh-Where is Xian-gege?”

LWJ inhales sharply and then in a mere whisper he says, “I’m sorry…”

It doesn’t make sense, why would he apologize? He didn’t like any of this… he didn’t like the sour feeling in his stomach and he didn’t like how sad rich-gege looked. “I want Xian-gege…”

“I’m sorry, A-Yuan…. I’m sorry…” LWJ repeated with grief, more tears flowing down his cheeks. He had the same expression Xian-Gege had when he woke up after Ning-ge brought him back from his trip. It was scary to see Xian-gege and Ning-ge fighting. “I couldn’t protect him… please, forgive me…” LWJ sobbed as he hugged the child tighter.

At some point, A-Yuan’s eyes started to sting with tears. He wanted his Xian-gege and his popo, and Qing-Jie, and Ning-ge… where were they…?

“Where is Xian-gege…?” He asked again but this time with tears slowly falling down his cheeks. He couldn’t take it anymore, the uncertainty. The sad look the people in white gave him and rich-gege crying.

With a shove, he escapes the safe, warm embrace and scrambles out of the bed and runs past everyone and out of the nice house. The world outside was brighter, it almost blinded him how the sky was so blue and there was green everywhere. It was so unlike the grey and darkness casting over the mountain that he called home.

“Xian-gege!!” A-Yuan screamed as he ran, ignoring the calls from the people in the house. “A-Niang! A-Niang!”

The boy ran, and ran until his little legs couldn’t carry him any longer. He hadn’t realized where he was going, but he found himself surrounded by tall trees. It was too much. He just wanted his A-Niang to come get him. So he cried for him. He cried for his family to come get him.

“A-Yuan!” Someone called desperately, “A-Yuan!”

“A-Niang…?” He swears he saw a flutter of dark robes through the trees, but once the person came into the light he realized it was LWJ. Despair and fear clouded his features as he called for the boy, and it reminded him when he got lost in the market and had met rich-gege for the first time.

Rich-gege was safe, it’s what Wwx always said to him. So A-Yuan stands from where he was hiding and runs towards LWJ, clinging to his leg just like he had the first time.

LWJ instantly crumbles, picking and hugging the boy despite the bloody mess on his back. “A-Yuan…”

A-Yuan sniffles, burying his face on his chest. Staining his robes with tears, “Xian-gege…”

LWJ sucks in a sharp breath, “Gone… Forgive me…”

So both of them cry, being there for each other as they mourn the ones they lost.

[whumpty-dumpty-doo]

Late night mush-brained I-really-need-to-edit-this-draft-because-this-is-probably-all-way-too-much-irrelevant-information late night thoughts

[whumplists]

~Dead Boy Detectives Whumpy Moments~

Extra gifs from the whump list

[sir-fenris]

"Still alive."

Realized today that I didn't post this art yet. So before sleeping, here we go :D

-

(Arts' masterlist) - (Curse of Withering masterpost)

We can have Cyrus being happy once and a while <3 he's a free boy in this.

-

All-content taglist: @whump-till-ya-jump @floral-comet-whump @paingoes @bonbonbobomb @inhurtandincomfort @half-duck @lumpywhump @loonybun @justanotherchangeling

Send an ask or comment on this post to be added to one of the taglists, or to switch taglists! :D

-

[roennq]

Moments: 5/x Matt meets Claire (or to be more precise: Claire saves Matt) ↪ "So, they took this kid just to get to you?" "Yeah, I've been making their lives… difficult lately."

[post-whump-fluff-prompts]

Click here for rules regarding blog feature

[adrift-in-thyme]

@kikker-oma happy belated birthday!!! Sorry it took so long for me to finish this! But I hope it proves worth the wait <333 (Also I hope you don’t mind some whump)

CW for blood and injury, vomiting, a panic attack, and a cave-in (be careful if you’re claustrophobic)

————————————-

In the wake of the explosion, Sky feels nothing. There is a high-pitched ring in his ears, spots in his vision, warm, sticky blood trickling from his nose. But no pain.

Until there is.

It hits like a claymore, cleaving through the half-consciousness he has clung to thus far. And the next thing he knows, he’s jerking upward, gasping. Only, he can’t sit upright at all.

His mind screams the panicked order, his muscles attempt it, but a weak, agonizing twitch is all he manages. Something is holding him down, something massive and heavy. His chest struggles to rise beneath its constant compression.

Sky blinks again, squinting past the tiny eruptions of light and the dust that floats, thick and suffocating in the air around him. There is nothing much to see in the endless darkness. But he can make out jagged shapes, blocky forms, the outlines of sand-covered objects.

Caging him in. Holding him down.

He’s pinned, he realizes with a streak of mind-numbing terror. And suddenly, what little air he had managed to drag in turns to nothing at all. He gasps, eyes blowing wide, as he thrashes.

Or attempts to. All he manages is to bring on a fresh onslaught of dizzying agony. It strikes through to his very bones, sending sharp pricks of static dancing before his eyes and crawling up the back of his head. And for a split second, everything goes a striking shade of black.

Then, he’s breaching the surface once more, too soon, much too soon, skyrocketing back into a world of pain and suffocation.

Sky coughs, choking on blood and tears. He has never really considered himself claustrophobic, but this experience might just change that assumption. Of all the ways to die…

But you’re not, he berates himself. You’re not dead yet, so think, think. Figure out a way to survive.

He can’t reach his pouch. The rubble piled beside him makes certain of that. It presses against him, crushing his side and tugging at the hem of his sailcloth. But if he can move it just a bit…

Trembling hands press to its jagged surface. With a sharp intake of breath, Sky steels himself and pushes.

Something shifts and for a split second, Sky dares to hope that maybe, just maybe he can get free. But then, the rubble on his lower half crawls sideways with the rest. And Sky screams.

The nauseating numbness that had begun to take root vanishes, replaced with the absolute agony that splits through his legs. He turns his head to the side and chokes up bile.

That one moment seems to last forever, pain dancing along his body endlessly. He lies there, limp and gasping, gazing at the blurred splotches his vision has been reduced to. And the waves wash over him, stealing the air from his lungs and turning his thoughts into incomprehensible things.

Needles streak up his neck, bringing with them unnatural heat. His eyelids flutter, eyes preparing to roll back in his head and plunge him back into the painless deep.

“Sky!”

A hand finds his, desperate in the way it grasps at him. Sky inhales sharply, jolting back into some semblance of awareness.

He had thought no other heroes were near the blast. He had thought they were all clear of the area. So, why…

Wait.

Memories crash back into his mind like waves on the sea. Memories of a building crumbling behind him and a boy by his side, running, running away from the collapse, away from certain death. Memories of the fiery knowledge that had situated itself firmly in Sky’s gut, the knowledge that he must protect him, protect the hero who came after him.

Protect the hero who was the first to feel the brunt of his failures, no matter the cost.

His hands fly out on instinct to shove the small figure in front of him through the doorway. Echoes of a terrified voice in his mind as he leaps, meaning to follow, wanting to.

Only for darkness to catch him before he can.

Four. Sky’s breath hitches, a sob of relief and agony catching in his throat. Four is here with him. Four is alive.

And he came back.

“Sky, can you hear me?”

The Skyloftian focuses all his strength. Weakly, he squeezes Four’s hand. The smithy blows out an audible sigh of relief.

“Thank the goddesses. We’re gonna get you free, okay? We just need a minute. If we move anything now…”

Though he trails off, the words left unspoken weigh on the Skyloftian even more heavily than the rubble. He drags in a thin gasp, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

“But I need you to stay awake until we can get you out,” Four continues, forcing a lighter tone into his voice. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” is what Sky means to say. “Hurts,” is the croaked cry that comes out.

Four’s grip tightens. “I know, Sky. I’m-I’m sorry.”

Sky closes his eyes. The darkness there is safer, more comfortable than the dusky dimness floating around him.

“Not your fa-fault.”

“You shouldn’t have pushed me.” The voice is grim and drenched in guilt. Though it aims to sound accusatory, Sky feels that it hardly meets the mark. “‘There was time. We could’ve both gotten out. We could’ve…”

“K-kept you safe.” It is hardly a croak. The word burns in his throat. “Smithy…I w-wanted to…”

He drags his eyes open, stares into the expanse of floating nothingness. He still can’t breathe.

“It’s the least I…could do.”

Four is silent for a long moment. Then, his fingers constrict just slightly. Their warmth is welcome in a world of cold darkness.

“You’re going to get out of there, Sky,” he murmurs and there is something in his tone that Sky cannot identify. Maybe he could if he wasn’t so tired. Far more than usual in fact. This exhaustion drags him down like a leaden weight, pulling at the remaining scraps of consciousness.

“Just hold on,” the smithy says, and Sky pushes back against the endless deep.

Hold on.

He can do that. He can…

“T-tell me about y-your Hyrule,” he croaks.

And Four does. The smithy has many secrets, perhaps, even as much as the old man, and yet, he tells him. Of his grandfather, of Dot, of his home and his world and the tiny creatures known as Minish.

Sky clings to every word that tells him more about the hero who followed after him and the land he fought to protect. He clings to the sound of his voice, the warmth of his fingers, the painting he paints of his life…until his brothers come.

And then, finally, finally, the world is opening back up and the sunlight is streaming in and he can drag in thin gasps of fresh air and…and Four is right there, still holding his hand but gazing down at him now. Concern gleams in his multicolored irises.

Sky offers him a weak smile. “‘M okay now, smithy,” he murmurs, every word agony. “T-thanks for…for staying.”

Four’s face splits into a grin. A teary one, but an expression of joy nonetheless. “I’ll always stay. It’s the least I can do for the person who paved the way.”

There is respect in those words, Sky realizes dimly. Respect and something else…A connection, perhaps, that is stronger even than their bond of brotherhood.

He deserves neither.

But as he lets his eyes slip shut, as the voices of his family swell around him and arms lift him with a gentleness that belies their strength…he is glad to know about their place in the timeline. He understands the look in Time’s eye a little better now, when he gazes upon Twilight.

He is proud of his successor too.

[whimsicalcotton]

so i saw this really cute art from @door-insurance and after having a good giggle at the thought of everybody barging into vic's room unannounced to pester her, i became possessed by the need to write something based off it, so here's a quick little chasemarsh sickfic for the soul <3

She's halfway out of a fever-blurred dream of cheetahs and rabbits when Victoria finally registers that someone is knocking at her door. 

Christ, as if she needs another goddamn visitor today. 

First there came Courtney and Taylor, with their headache inducing yet still appreciated fretting. Then there was Chloe, who Victoria is convinced had shown up solely to cause more ceaseless torment in her hour of need, but at least the movie she'd put on before she left wasn't half bad. Then there was Rachel, who came up at lunch to pester her about drinking enough water. Then, Chloe again, just to open the door halfway and say, “Catch, loser,” before tossing a bag of cough drops over onto the bed and disappearing again. Then, Max, who apparently picks only the most inconvenient times to suddenly become a social butterfly in dire desire of conversation. 

So if any of those three are standing on the other side of that door, she might just lose it. And frankly, even Courtney and Taylor wouldn't be spared from her sickly ire at this point. 

A moment's silence passes. 

Another small set of knocks, a muffled muttering that sounds suspiciously like her name.

Victoria can't help but grumble to herself as she clambers out of bed. Perhaps a little too quickly, judging by the warped wave of dizziness that washes over her the minute she's on her feet. Being some excuse for up and about is also an unfortunately potent reminder of the dreadful lethargy that's taken hold of her, the awful cacophony of aches and pains stubbornly blaring throughout her body. Still, she trudges up to the door with what she hopes is audible frustration. 

She loses a few seconds in between, everything turning all white and fuzzy until she finds herself half leaned up against the doorway. Whatever. It's fine. Probably.

She clears her throat, aiming for the familiar strength and certainty that so often laces her tone. What comes out instead is better described as wispy and pathetic, but she forges ahead regardless.

“Price, if that's you again, I'm gonna sneeze right in your fucking face,” she huffs in place of a greeting, fumbling the door open to see— 

Absolutely, totally, very much not Chloe Price.

“Oh, goodness,” comes the unmistakable weary and helplessly soft-spoken voice of Kate Marsh, her worried expression swimming in and out of focus. “I didn't mean to m-make you get up.”

Something in Victoria's brain must have short circuited the moment they locked eyes, because even with plenty of time to react she still doesn't manage to form a coherent sentence, and any remaining hope of keeping her voice under control evaporates in an instant.

“Wait, I didn't– What're you–”

Kate, apparently feeling brave in the face of Victoria's rare vulnerability, pays her feeble protest no mind. Nor does she say anything about that sneeze comment, thank merciful fuck. 

“You poor thing,” she says, tone brimming with her signature blinding earnestness. “You look awful. C'mon, back to bed with you.”

Much like every other visitor Victoria’s had today, Kate doesn't wait for permission to come in. She does, however, take Victoria by the arm as if formally escorting her back to the safety of her sheets; grip both gentle and insistent, hands soft against her skin.

And seriously, her brain must be full of molasses or something, because for a minute Victoria can't bring herself to pay attention to anything else. Trying to snap out of her daze, first she becomes curious if the burst of butterflies in her stomach is a symptom of whatever she's come down with, and then she wonders if that remark was meant as an insult. 

Which is probably why the first words out of her mouth are a distant, distracted, “I look fine,” and not something more reasonable like what the hell are you doing or why is half the damn dorm waltzing into my room like it has a revolving door. 

Kate's incredibly disbelieving look goes unnoticed as Victoria sets herself back into bed with an unsteady sigh, eyes closed in a half successful attempt to stave off her latest dizzy spell. When she opens them again, she hardly has a second to breathe before she's trapped under the weight of the shameless concern in Kate's gaze and– Oh. Her lips are moving. 

“—really m-must be under the weather. Here, let me just…”

It almost happens in slow motion, muddled and syrupy like she's watching it through hazed glass. Kate moves to lay a hand on her forehead, the other absentmindedly brushing against Victoria's knee as she leans closer. She makes this godawful, adorable little hum of uncertainty, brows knit together and bottom lip worried between her teeth.

Victoria shivers.

Kate's frown deepens 

“You're burning up,” she murmurs, sugared and low in a manner that Victoria knows is astoundingly, painfully, unintentional. “...I th-think you should see a doctor.”

When Kate pulls away, it takes a stupid amount of Victoria's effort not to actually fucking whine at the lack of those cool fingers pressing into her skin. She tries to channel the phantom energy into a refusal.

“No.” In spite of it being the same line she's parroted to anyone trying to point her in the direction of medical attention, the thought tumbles out of her lips tainted with far more honesty than intended. “I fucking hate hospitals.”

And where everyone else has let the subject drop, it's Kate of all people who isn't satisfied taking no for an answer. 

“Well, I'm not just going to leave you like this.”

“Why not?” Victoria asks, before she can wrangle the wretched curiosity back down where it came from.

But Kate doesn't falter. 

“Because you need taking care of,” she answers, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, an effortless truth without a hint of hesitation. 

It gives Victoria butterflies again.

And that's not fair.

That's cheating.

That's–

“That's illegal,” Victoria says, in full seriousness, half slurred and entirely unplanned. She tells herself that it's only the fever making her face run hot, and nothing else.

Luckily, all that time Kate has been spending with Chloe and Max must be giving her quite the tolerance for listening to foolishness. She can't quite hide her puzzled expression, but she manages to continue as if nothing is amiss. 

“When did you take medicine last?”

“I didn't,” Victoria answers in a mutter. She tries to convince herself that her continued honesty is a premeditated defense mechanism meant to ward Kate away, and not an unconscious byproduct of her sluggishness. 

“No wonder you're running such a temperature,” Kate huffs in return, looking down at her with those big worried hazel eyes.

With the way the late afternoon sun is still peeking through her blinds, it's hard not to notice the little flecks of gold scattered through them, the way they brighten up in the light.

Are they always that pretty?

“...Victoria?”

Shit, she must be spacing out again. 

“Hm? What?”

“I was asking when you had lunch,” Kate says, ever patient. “Although I'm starting to dread the answer.” 

Victoria stays quiet. 

The worry on Kate's face turns to gentle disapproval.

“... I haven't been hungry,” Victoria finally grumbles, forfeiting their impromptu staring contest in favor of glowering down at her blankets. 

And again, instead of wilting in the face of her sickened stubbornness like everyone else has, Kate matches it blow for blow.

“Well, th-that won’t do,” she says, matter-of-fact. “I can't have you taking acetaminophen on an empty stomach, now can I?”

Victoria tries — and fails — to sound biting and cold when she says, “You don't have to make me take anything. You could just go back to your room.”

“I could.”

Against her better judgement, Victoria dares another glance up at her. 

Fuck, that smile is so unfair.

“But first, I have to stop by the cafeteria and get you something to eat. Once you've taken some m-m-medicine, I'll get out of your hair, alright?”

Forcing herself not to reply with something idiotic like, no, wait, you can stay in my hair if you want to, Victoria grits out a begrudging mumble of, “…Fine. Whatever.” 

“Good,” Kate says, looking far too pleased with herself. “Why don't you lay back down for a few minutes while you're waiting for me? I won't be long, I promise.”

“What am I, five?” Victoria snaps, in spite of the way she immediately takes Kate up on the offer, making quick work of burying herself in her blankets. The fact that the notion actually does comfort her a little is something she elects to dissect another day, preferably one where head head isn't all fuzzed up with cottony rabbit fluff.

She pretends not to watch Kate make her way back to the door, mulling over the likelihood of getting away with saying an earnest thank you while she's still got the excuse of being feverish out of her mind. The urge swirls to a crescendo as Kate reaches to turn the knob, and her mouth opens before she can think better of it. 

“Wait.”

Kate turns to face her again, brows still upturned in worry. “Yes?”

“I– It's just...” 

Good lord, what is she doing.

“I-If you see Price out there–”

“I'll tell her to leave you be,” Kate finishes the thought for her, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

[violentlyravenous]

Whumper who trains whumpee to obey with the use of a shock collar.

Every time whumpee screws up a command, they receive an intense, painful shock to the jugular that instantly snaps them back to attention. That usually motivates them to quickly fix what they did wrong.

"Did that sting? Good. Now try again, and get it right this time."

If the whumpee continues to fail, whumper turns up the dial, increasing the intensity of the shocks until they're finally corrected.

Some nights after they've been 'training' for hours, the throbbing pain around their neck prevents them from getting comfortable enough to rest- leading to lack of sleep as they toss and turn throughout the night. Replaying the constant, agonizing torture that they endured, still fresh within their head.

Whumper - whether they feel like tending to whumpee's wounds or not - admiring their own handiwork; grabbing the whumpee by the jaw and tilting their head from side to side, inspecting their reddened, tender throat. They can't help but laugh at their misfortune in a cruel, condescending tone.

"Well would you look at that~ Now you have such a pretty, little throat~"

Physical injuries ranging from an itchy, scratchy sensation in the neck to raw burns and tissue damage after receiving a constant current of electricity.

Psychological trauma affects the whumpee as well; everytime they're reminded of the pain, their muscles involuntarily jolt, sending their body twitching and spasming, even spiraling them into a panic attack.