#trope snippets

[tragedykery]

I ❤️ self-loathing characters, characters who struggle with monstrosity (either fearing or embracing it), characters who are so lonely, who have a gaping hole in their chest, who bottle up & repress their feelings, who claw their way up & have ambitions, who fall down & lose everything, who search for identity & purpose yet can’t see themselves outside of what others want from or expect of them, who are hurt & hurt others, who long & grieve, who lie & pretend. characters who are messy & flawed & human

[withdrawingramen]

i think shame & its manifestations in whump is not talked about enough. like i love when whumpee is physically unable to tell caretaker about all they went through, not only because it is insanely distressing to relive but also because it's humiliating. 'how can someone be so cruel?' is another question, but we're also talking 'how did i let that happen to myself?' from whumpee's perspective. often times post something traumatizing whumpees develop this deep-seated feeling of hopelessness & helplessness & misguided anger which is just in sweet words not cool

because think about it, the whumpee could not stop anything from happening to them. there's always this notion of having to stand up for yourself, but whumpee didn't even get the chance to. who should you be angry at? whumper? the system? yourself?

the fact that it happened is so terribly real and if paired with the conditioning of whumper & possible victim blaming, the shame eventually turns into this twisted form of denial, where whumpee is unable to confront the fact that they were hurt so bad and it just turns into oh my god i hate that it happened to me. i want to erase that it all happened. i wish i could live just one day forgetting it all and wake up thinking what was i so stressed about? i wish i could walk past whumper and think 'who were they again'? nobody should know about this because i cant deal with it myself and i don't know what i'll do if it all goes out

yk what im talking abt?

[the-ellia-west]

I don't usually make whump posts but here we go

New Whumpees.

Whumpees who don't know where they are or who this person in front of them is. Whumpees who can't handle one cut without screaming.

Whumpees who are either too eager or too afraid to talk back because they haven't had the time to learn yet.

Whumpee having a panic attack right before being tortured.

Whumpee asking too many questions. Whumpee thinking they must have done something wrong.

Whumpees asking 'what are you going to do with that?'

Whumpees panicking when they get hit even after they spilled the information.

New whumpees who don't know how to hide the pain that makes Whumper happy. New whumpees who can't stay awake when they need to. New whumpees who self-sabotage so much they nearly die from the pain.

A new whumpee who is confused, scared, and for the first time, alone.

[chaotic-orphan]

Concussed villain gets kidnapped?

Villain showed up on Hero’s doorstep, heaving in breaths as they slammed their fist on the door. Their arm was ridiculously heavy, and it took everything in them to throw it mercilessly against the wooden door. The effects were meagre knocks that Villain prayed Hero would hear.

If Hero was even home.

What if they were working tonight? Fuck, why didn’t Villain think of that? Their head was pounding so they rested their forehead against the cool wood, letting out a shaky, shallow breath, trying not to anger the fire in their ribs. Blood continued to trickle from their hairline down over their eyes and dripping onto their cheeks.

That wasn’t good.

They heard footsteps behind the door and Villain almost broke down there and then, relief flooding them like a tsunami of feeling, washing away everything that was keeping Villain upright. Tears poured down their cheeks at the thought of safety, hero looking after them… their hero. They could tell them about Superhero’s plans.

They could tell them… Villain put a hand against the door and pushed themselves backwards. They would’ve fallen if not for the arm that snaked around their waist. Villain blinked dumbly and glanced down. Arm around—?

Before they cry out or scream in warning a hand clamped over their mouth and Villain was ripped away from the door and into the shadows. Villain thrashed, struggling in their attacker’s grip, all their screams and cries muffled to nothing but silent pleas.

The door opened and Villain’s struggles renewed but Hero wouldn’t be able to see them from here. Hero wouldn’t know they were even there!

“Hello?” Hero asked into the darkness and Villain whimpered against the hands holding them in an iron cage. Villain threw their body forward, back, trying to dislodge their attackers arms but they didn’t budge even a little.

“If you want Hero to continue to draw breath, Villain, you’ll come quietly.”

Villain froze at the voice. That was… Superhero… the reason why Villain was in this state in the first place. Villain’s struggles renewed as Hero stepped out of their house. If they could even sense something was amiss so close to them then they would investigate. Hero would have to investigate, right? And Hero was in danger too!

Villain had to warn them, they had to!

“Hello?” Hero asked, a note of agitation creeping into their voice.

I’m here! Villain wanted to scream. Hero please! I’m right here.

A pinch in their neck and Villain’s fruitless struggles seized, their blood running cold. They flinched as cold liquid was pushed into their neck. No… no, no, no, no. “That’s it, Villain,” Superhero whispered. “Don’t fight it.”

The hazy world blurred even more and Villain fell back against Superhero’s chest, the fight leaving them almost instantly. What did Superhero drug them with?

Their eyelids shut and Villain forced them back open, with a gargantuan effort. The last thing they saw was Hero frown and close the door before their entire world faded to black in the arms of their enemy.

[writersloveroe]

one bed trope dialogue prompts

♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎

•”wait- there’s seriously only one bed?”

•”no i insist, stay in bed with me,”

•”i didn’t mean to end up so close to you that night we were sharing the bed,”

•”it was so awkward- i woke up and we were cuddling like a couple,”

•”i hope you don’t snore,”

•”can you come a little closer? it’s cold in here,”

•”you know your head was resting on my shoulder as you slept right?”

•”you’re a cute sleeper,”

•”i know this is a bit weird, but can you hold me?”

•”stop hogging the covers!”

•”you kicked me seven times while sleeping,”

•”can you talk to me? i can’t sleep,”

•”there must’ve been some mistake there should be two beds,”

•”sharing a bed with you isn’t the worse thing that could happen, right?”

•”i’ll sleep on the couch- fine, i’ll sleep with you on the bed,”

•”you have cute bedhead,”

[villain-enthusiast]

The hero knew they'd be found one day.

So they weren’t entirely surprised when they were ambushed in their house, drugged, and dragged off to the enormous castle that they used to call home. But their anticipation didn’t stop the dread from pooling in their gut as they were tossed, unceremoniously, onto the ground.

They stifled a groan, flexing their bound hands behind them as they tried to shake off the last of the sedative in their system. Someone grabbed the scruff of their collar and yanked them up to their knees before pulling down their blindfold.

They blinked several times at the ground, squinting through the sudden change in light. As their vision cleared, the marbled pattern of the throne room's floor came into view and they involuntarily stiffened.

"Dismissed."

Fuck. That voice. The cold, cutting power laced in every syllable, the venom in each word that had haunted the hero's dreams for years, even after they escaped. Or so they thought they did. The hero's mouth went dry.

They kept their gaze trained down, hearing the guards behind them leave and close the doors with a harsh, resolute click.

Silence stretched between the hero and the villain, who sat languidly on the throne in a grotesque show of vanity. Of pride.

After a moment, the villain sighed. "So you thought you could get away."

The hero swallowed, hard. "I guess I was just playing hard to get." They hated how unstable, how hoarse their voice was.

The villain chuckled dryly. "You, my prized possession, the greatest weapon I've ever had the pleasure of crafting, were just playing hard to get." The hero heard them shift in their seat. "I'm sure that's a fantasy you'd love to be true, but I knew you'd run. Did you really think I haven't dealt with this before?"

"Guess I thought I'd get lucky." The hero looked up then, to stare the villain straight into their eyes.

The villain held their gaze and smiled, flashing teeth. "Unfortunately, even the most precious treasures are always found at some point." They tilted their head, brow furrowing. "Come here."

The hero did not move.

The villain tapped a finger, and an invisible force pulled the hero taut, dragging them towards the foot of the throne. They grit their teeth, knowing better than to struggle, but hating the agonizing memories that flashed through their head of when they used to fight back, of what the villain was capable of beyond simple commands.

"I see you've grown into disobedience after so many years," the villain tutted. "That's certainly fixable, but what I want to know," they dragged a hand through the hero's disheveled hair, who shuddered at the familiar touch, "is if you still remember what I've taught you." Their touch suddenly turned sharp as they grabbed a fistful of—

The hero's body reacted to the pain before their mind did, and they kicked their leg around, slamming their foot into the villain's forearm. Apparently they still remembered a thing or two.

They landed on their stomach, panting as they faced the wide expanse of the gilded room before them. The villain crouched down beside them, placing a boot on their back and squeezing the air from their lungs.

"Look at you. You could've had all this," the villain hissed in their ear. They grabbed the hero's chin, forcing them to look up. "You could've been by my side, sitting with me on the throne. But you chose to run and try to become someone who could overthrow me, the very person who created you. You are nothing, nothing, without me."

For the first time since they've been back, fear struck the hero deep in their heart. "Please," they breathed, and immediately realized their mistake.

Begging was a weakness. A crack in the boulder. An infection in a festering wound. And the villain saw it all too well.

"Forgiveness," the villain murmured, honey-sweet, "is for the traitors. Punishment is for the cowards. Which one do you think you are?"

As the villain's hand tightened on their face, the hero closed their eyes, knowing the question had already been answered for them.

[istoleyoursphenoidbone]

Would You Fall In Love With Me Again?

DPxDC (With a smidgen of Epic the Musical)

Okay, so yall really liked my last one (and thanks to all of you, I'm glad you guys enjoyed). I wanted to try my hand again and see how this goes, idk about you guys, but Epic the Musical has been my soundtrack for weeks now, and the Ithaca Saga has my heart so...Husbands!Danny and Jason torn apart due to bad resurrection? Why not.

Warning for referenced character death and blood mention, nothing too graphic, tho. Pit Rage makes people do questionable things, ya know?

The Justice League's meeting room was cloaked in unnatural shadows, the atmosphere thick with tension, like the heavy silence before a storm. A team from Justice League Dark stood in the center, preparing for a ritual. Zatanna, her voice a whispered incantation, traced glowing glyphs onto the marble floor. Constantine, who had been trying to tell them all this would be a bad idea, leaned against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the no-smoking signs, while Doctor Fate floated nearby, his ethereal presence a calm amid the chaos.

Batman stood at the edge of the circle, arms crossed. He hated magic—always had—but these were desperate times. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, had been spiraling for months. His vendetta against Gotham’s Rogues had left behind a trail of bodies, destruction, and secrets too dangerous to let slip. But it was more than just Jason’s rage. Strange energy readings tied to the Infinite Realms had begun to swirl around his every move. Whatever connection Jason had to that otherworldly dimension had become unstable, and they needed answers—answers only the Ghost King could provide.

“Are we ready?” Batman’s voice cut through the room. Zatanna nodded, stepping back as the last glyph flared to life. “The summoning spell is complete. Brace yourselves. This entity isn’t like anything we’ve dealt with before.” Constantine snorted, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “Ain’t that just bloody reassuring.”

The air split with a deafening crack, and green light spiraled upward, forming a vortex. From it stepped a figure draped in black armor, a faint crown glowing above his head, his eyes burning with an eerie green light. Danny Phantom, the Ghost King, stood before them. "Who dares to summon the High King of the Infinite Realms?" His voice carried an unearthly echo, a stark contrast to the mortal men and women in the room.

Constantine muttered something under his breath—likely a curse—but Wonder Woman stepped forward, her voice steady. “We require your assistance, Ghost King. There’s a man, the Red Hood, aka Jason Todd, whose actions have drawn the attention of both our realm and yours.” Danny’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening. “Jason Todd?” Batman stepped forward, his voice rough but resolute. “He’s my son.”

Danny’s gaze snapped to him, the glowing green light flickering with intensity. “Your son,” he repeated, his tone colder now, sharper. Zatanna stepped in to explain, her voice calm but urgent. “Jason is targeting Gotham’s Rogues, several have been killed. But it seems he has a connection to the Infinite Realms. His ectoplasmic energy is spiking. We believe he’s drawing power from your domain, whether he knows it or not.” Danny’s expression darkened, and his voice dropped to a low, almost imperceptible growl. “And you want me to stop him.”

“Not stop,” Wonder Woman corrected gently. “Help. If he’s tied to your realm, we need to understand why—and how to sever that connection, if necessary.” Danny stood motionless, the green light in his eyes flickering with a mix of emotions none of them could decipher. After a long moment, he nodded, sharp and final. “I’ll handle it. Alone.” Batman started to protest, but Danny cut him off with a steady gaze, his voice softening, just a fraction. “You’ve done your part. Let me do mine.” Without waiting for a response, Danny turned and stepped back into the swirling portal, leaving the Justice League in a heavy, uneasy silence.

---

The Infinite Realms churned around Danny as he passed through the portal, an energy that mirrored the restlessness gnawing at his heart. When he had been summoned, he had expected a crisis—another rift in the realms or a rogue spirit threatening the balance, hell even just cultists trying to mess with the order of things again. What he hadn’t expected was to be summoned to deal with him.

Jason...his sweet and loving Jason.

As the portal closed behind him, Danny heard Batman’s grim explanation echo in his mind: Red Hood was spiraling. He’d already killed Joker, Riddler, and Two-Face. And it seemed like Penguin was next. The Pit Rage had taken hold, and no one—least of all Bruce—had been able to pull Jason from the edge. The Justice League had turned to him because the energy Jason radiated had drawn their attention to the Infinite Realms.

It had been twenty years since Jason disappeared from the Realms—twenty long years since Danny had watched his husband, the man he had married in death, pulled from his side and resurrected in the mortal world. For Danny, it felt like an eternity.

As Danny emerged from the portal into Gotham’s shadowed streets, the oppressive energy in the air pulled at him, thick with Jason’s rage. He could feel the ectoplasmic aura that surrounded him, like a storm cloud about to break. But more than that, Danny could feel the familiar tug of Jason’s presence. It was raw, chaotic—lost.

And Danny? He was all too familiar with being lost.

There was no turning back now. Jason was out there, a tempest of pain and blood, and Danny couldn’t stop the wave of dread that surged through him. This was his husband—the man he had fallen in love with, over and over again—and now he was out of control.

Danny’s eyes glowed as he moved deeper into the city, knowing that whatever happened next, he wouldn’t be alone in facing it. Not this time. Jason Todd stood among the wreckage of a smuggling ring’s hideout. The docks were eerily silent except for the gentle lap of water against the pier. Blood slicked his gloved hands, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The Pit Rage roared in his ears, demanding more—more destruction, more vengeance, and more blood.

The ghostly glow appeared behind him, and Jason spun, guns drawn. The figure emerging from the green light made him falter.

Danny.

Jason blinked, the haze of rage momentarily thinning. He couldn’t trust his eyes, not after everything. But the way Danny looked at him—with love, pain, and something infinite in his glowing green eyes—cut through Jason’s defenses. “Jason,” Danny said softly, his voice trembling but steady. Jason lowered his guns, his shoulders slumping. “Danny?”

Danny stepped closer, his glowing cape billowing behind him. “It’s been twenty years.” Jason flinched. “Eight.” His voice cracked. “Only eight here.” Danny’s eyes softened. “It felt like forever.” Jason staggered back, shaking his head. “I’m not—” He gestured at the blood staining his armor. “I’m not who I was. You shouldn’t be here.”

Danny reached out but didn’t touch him, his hands hovering just inches away. “You’re still you, Jason. You’re still my husband.” Jason’s laugh was bitter, almost a sob. “You don’t understand. I’ve killed them. Joker. Riddler. Two-Face. There’s no redemption for me. I’ve left a trail of blood and bodies. I’m not the man you fell in love with. I’m not—”

“Stop,” Danny interrupted, his voice firm. “Stop telling me who you think you are. I know you. I’ve always known you.” Jason clenched his fists. “Would you still love me if you knew all I’ve done? The things I can’t take back? The lives I’ve destroyed?” Danny took a step forward, his expression raw with emotion. “Yes. I would. I do.” Jason’s knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, his hands covering his face. “I’ve tried to fight it, Danny. I’ve tried to be better, but the rage... it doesn’t stop. It’s like drowning, and every time I surface, there’s more blood.”

Danny knelt in front of him, his hand finally resting on Jason’s shoulder. “I know,” he said softly. “I’ve felt it too—the weight of things you can’t undo. But you’re not alone anymore. I’ve been waiting for you, Jason. Waiting for you to come back to me.” Jason’s breath hitched, and he looked up, his blue eyes rimmed with tears. “How can you still love me after everything? I’m not... I’m not the man you knew.”

Danny smiled, his own eyes glistening. “You’re still the man I fell in love with. You’re still the man who carved our initials into a tree in the Infinite Realms. The man who made me laugh, who promised me forever. And I meant it when I said forever, Jason. No matter where or when or what you’ve done, I’ll love you. Always.”

Jason let out a shuddering breath, and for the first time in years, the weight on his chest lightened. He leaned into Danny’s touch, the Pit Rage ebbing as warmth spread through him. Danny cupped his face, their foreheads touching. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Let me help you. Let me love you.” Jason closed his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.” Danny’s laugh was soft and full of love. “That’s for me to decide. And I’ve decided—over and over again—that I’ll always choose you.”

Jason’s arms wrapped around Danny, holding him tightly as if afraid he might disappear. But Danny held him just as firmly, grounding him, anchoring him. The green glow of the Infinite Realms pulsed around them, a quiet promise of redemption, of love that could weather even the darkest storms.

---

Danny didn’t leave Jason’s side that night, nor would he ever again. Together, they began the long, painful process of healing. The road ahead wasn’t easy, but they faced it together, their love, a beacon in the darkness.

The heroes would just have to get used to the unearthly presence of the Ghost King in their plane of existence. And no matter how much time passed, Danny knew one thing would never change: he would fall in love with Jason Todd, over and over again, for eternity.

[forwhump]

a/n; spoilers for the first three sentences : it’s been haaaaaaaard to always call silas “silas” because he calls himself “seven” for so much of the rest of the story that I get confused when I think about him & it alternates in my head LOL

tw/cw: captivity, medical torture, random acts of violence, gore, amputation, caning

living weapon whumpee

Asset Eleven Seventy Seven, they call him. 

Seven, he thinks of himself. 

Unfortunately, Seven has no will of his own. 

He spends a lot of consecutive time in that small, grey room, in that grey bed, under those grey sheets. Surgeons in black come and go to poke and prod at him — so do doctors, so do nurses, always in black. Seven’s hair is black; everything else is kinda grey, his clothes and his sheets and his pallor. One of his legs is a polished, silvery chrome. Everything else seems to be discoloured scar tissue. 

When he gets to leave the grey room, he gets muzzled with iron and taken further underground. They take him to spaces they call arenas, made to look like the wilderness or like cityscapes or desert landscapes, things Seven has never seen, things he doesn’t really understand. 

He doesn’t need to. They take him to these places, and they remove the muzzle. The shackles. 

They tell him to kill, so he does.

It’s fun. He’d be a filthy fuckin’ liar if he said it wasn’t. It’s the only bit of fun he has. It’s colourful, too. The arenas, too, colours Seven was unfamiliar with, but the colours of violence are his favourite. Splashes of red and pinks and yellows over the endless grey. He doesn’t care for bruising, the blues and the purples, the patterns of them. He doesn’t know why. He’s sure it’s something from before, something he doesn’t remember. 

He knows there was a before. They won’t tell him, and he couldn’t ask if he wanted to, but he’s sure there was. Doctors come to poke and prod at him. Soldiers come to escort him downstairs. Before they do, they muzzle him. They strap him down. Soldiers are always standing guard, hovering close when the doctors come to inspect him. They watch him, and they’re weary. He did something before, something probably horrible. He makes them uneasy. He doesn’t know why, but he likes that he does.  

Still, he does what they tell him to do. He sits in his little grey prison, and he kills when they tell him to kill. Time passes. He isn’t sure how much. 

The cityscape probably isn’t his favourite arena, but it’s where he’s most comfortable. There’s a lot of concrete, a lot of grey. It reminds him of home. 

The uniform they give him is black. It’s the only clothing they give him that’s properly fitted to him, a bulky silhouette that he imagines makes him look like a nightmare. Seven hears a lot of last words, and a lot of them are some version of what the hell are you?, or, amongst themselves, some version of what the hell is that thing? Or please, but that speaks less to Seven. 

Above him, hundreds of feet above him, massive fluorescent lights in the ceiling act as sunlight. The buildings are all hollow blocks of concrete, windows carved from the walls but hollow, emptied of glass. Seven is allowed weapons during these times, he’s allowed to inflict violence to his heart’s desire, but Seven’s never been allowed anything that might potentially show him his reflection. He couldn’t even begin to guess why. He also doesn’t care enough that he’s ever thought too hard about it. 

He doesn’t need his reflection, anyway. He knows well enough. He can see it in the way they always look at him. He can see it in the way the soldier looks up at him from the concrete, his helmet knocked away, his mask bunched up around his throat. He’s crying, and that always makes Seven smile. 

Slowly, he pulls his hands from the opened cavity of the other soldier’s stomach, shreds of tissue and his uniform. They wear black, like Silas. It’s almost funny. 

Even slower, Silas stands. He takes his time pulling his bloody hair back, tying it into a shitty knot at the nape of his neck with bloody hands. He toes the corpse at his feet over onto the open wound that was once his abdomen. Slower still, he steps over him. 

“What the hell are you?” The soldier snivels, pathetic, and Seven thinks, hah. 

He crouches next to him. With a shaking hand, the soldier reaches for his gun, and Seven catches him around the wrist. Crushes it. 

The soldier screams, flails with his other hand, and Seven takes him by that wrist, too. Braces his other hand against his ribcage. Pulls. The sound is as loud as any alarm, echoing off of concrete and metal, a crack and a wet, fleshy sort of sound as Seven severs his arm at the socket. He pulls it from his torso, threads of flesh and sinew that snap, veins pulled loose and stringy. 

The soldier doesn’t scream. The noise he makes is kinda soft and really wet. 

Seven digs his fingers into the open wound and he does scream, that time. With a grin, Seven holds him against the concrete and opens his throat with his fingernails. The soldier gurgles, something panicked, and Seven grins again as he pulls out a handful of flesh and his windpipe. 

He dies quickly. He dies messy. 

Seven stands. Wipes blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. Smears more blood over his face for his efforts. Steps over another body. 

There’s a specific target today. Seven doesn’t know why, what the point of any of this is, why they give him rules, sometimes, but it’s more to do than sit in a bland, grey room, so he does what they tell him to do. Today, he’s looking for somebody in particular. They’d had a picture of him, taken in front of a wall that looked a lot like any of the walls in the district. He was a particular threat, they said. Seven should be careful. Seven needs to do everything in his power to make sure that he dies. 

Seven finds him in an empty, grey building, one with a lot of windows, a lot of fluorescent sunlight. He’s bigger than the other soldiers have been. Noticeably. Not big like Seven is big, but he isn’t one of them, either. He’s somewhere in the middle, something between them. Seven starts to think he might be in for a better fight, and he’d be lying again if he said he hadn’t been itching for one. Slaughter is fun, but that’s because it’s his only fun. Monotony is monotony. 

He doesn’t get a fight at all. The soldier looks up at him, in a black uniform, but it’s different from the soldiers and it’s different from Seven, too. He looks at Seven different, too. He looks at him, and he looks at him for a long time. Seven doesn’t recognize the look on his face. He doesn’t say what the hell are you? or what the hell is that thing? 

He says, “Silas?” 

He says it with a sort of familiarity that stops Seven in his tracks. He doesn’t look tense, or like he’s scared of him at all. Seven doesn’t think he likes that. He thinks he’s disappointed. 

He closes the distance between them and takes him by the throat. The soldier flails, but not for a weapon; he grabs Seven around the wrist. 

“Silas!” He says loudly. “What are you doing?! It’s me!” 

He’s saying a lot of things Seven doesn’t know, but he says it like he should, and it makes him feel — Seven doesn’t know how it makes him feel. He doesn’t like it. He can’t quite breathe around it, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. His lip pulls back from his teeth. 

“It’s me!” The soldier tries again. 

Seven lifts him off his feet. 

The soldier flails again. Grabs Seven’s forearm. “Silas,” he chokes out as his face starts to purple, “what are you doing? It’s me. It’s Hal.” 

Seven can’t explain why he does it, because he doesn’t think about it. It’s an instinct more than anything else, but with a snarl, he drops the soldier on his feet again. 

He inhales deeply, covering his quickly bruising throat with a shaking hand. “What the fuck was that?” He rasps. 

Seven snarls again. Takes a step back. 

The soldier watches him closely. His voice is getting rougher when he says, “what’s wrong with you? It’s me. It’s Hal.” 

Obviously, Seven doesn’t remember Hal, and he doesn’t like the way it’s making Hal look at him. There’s something doe eyed and pathetic about it, something pitying, and it makes Seven’s skin crawl with something like disgust and he doesn’t know why. His hands have been shaking since he woke up in that grey room but they shake a little worse with this. Again, he considers killing him. For some reason, he doesn’t. Takes another step back, instead. 

“It’s me,” he repeats, eyebrows pulling together in the middle, like he’s hopeful this time it’ll spark something. 

Seven angles his head. He doesn’t fuckin’ know. 

The soldier looks at him again. Studies his face. “Silas?” But his voice has gone unbearably soft. 

Seven’s shaking hands twitch. He takes another step back. 

The soldier drops his hand and Seven can hear him swallow. “You don’t know who I am?” 

Seven shakes his head once, just barely. 

“What the fuck?” He exhales softly. He pulls himself up a little straighter, looks at Seven a little closer, studies him like he’s looking to catch him in a lie. Seven doesn’t think he has it in himself to lie. Did he use to? 

Crushed, apparently, by whatever he finds in Seven’s face, the soldier exhales, “what the hell did they do to you, man?” 

But Seven doesn’t know. Seven doesn’t know fuckin’ anything, not before and not since. 

That feeling he doesn’t like, the one he can’t breathe around, the edges of it are sharp and they wedge under his ribcage and it hurts in a way that’s unfamiliar. Usually, these slaughters they send him on are senseless, violence for the sake of violence. All the soldiers killed in these places had been green, unprepared — they never stood a chance against Seven. It’s never even been close. 

Except this one. It’s bigger than the rest of them. It isn’t afraid of him. It remembers him, and it isn’t afraid of him. 

Maybe that’s what his problem is. Seven doesn’t remember a lot, but in all the grey time and slaughter he remembers, he’s never come across even a single person who hasn’t been scared of him. He doesn’t quite know what to do with that. What could he have done that the shadow of it is still splattered across the walls and ceilings of this place but this one, lone soldier isn’t still afraid of him? He looks disappointed, in fact. What does he know? 

What he says is, “we’ve been so worried about you, dude.” 

For some reason, it hurts under Seven’s ribcage just as much as the other thing. He can’t even begin to guess why it hurts. 

“You went to find Wren and you just disappeared,” he’s saying, and he says it with a sort of familiarity, like he’s already forgotten Seven has no idea what he’s talking about and Seven feels like he’s out of his element, Seven feels like he’s drowning. “You all just disappeared. Fuckin’ Point’s been gone, too. We thought —,” and he exhales sharply, “we knew something really fucked up had happened to you.” 

Seven snorts. He can’t help it. 

The soldier smiles, kind of sad, but he has a big smile, regardless. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says, and it feels like a punch to the chest for some reason. “Is Wren okay?” 

Seven tilts his head. 

“Wren,” the soldier says slowly. “Who’s been with you. Right?” 

A lot of people are around Seven, pretty constantly. He doesn’t know a single one of them by name. 

His face is falling again. “You have no idea what I’m talking about,” he realizes. Seven kinda shrugs, and he asks, “do you remember…anything?” 

He heaves a wide shoulder. The soldier exhales like Seven hit him. Seven’s already forgotten what he said his name was, and he couldn’t ask again. It’s guilty, the pain this time, and that surprises him. 

“Oh, man,” he says softly. “Wren’s gonna be so bummed.” 

The sunlight, leaking in through the windows, turns red. The bellow of the alarms start to pound, so loud it makes the soldier jump as Seven’s lip curls away from his teeth. He’s familiar, unfortunately, with the sirens. His time’s up. 

The soldiers swarm not seconds later, and Seven scoffs but kneels obediently to be muzzled and shackled. 

“Silas —” the soldier starts to cry, and then he’s gone, dragged from the grey building with his hands tied behind his back. 

“What did he say to you?” one of the soldiers hisses, urgent, but Seven couldn’t tell him if he wanted to. Wouldn’t, anyway. 

With a growl, he cracks the end of his gun into Seven’s mouth, and Seven quickly tilts his face to spit blood at him before the muzzle is pulled tightly over his face. He smiles beneath it. Makes sure his eyes crinkle the way the soldiers’ always do. 

Seven is taken from the arena, but not back to his grey room. He’s taken to a different grey room, stripped down to his grey, thermal pants and led into another grey room, so cramped Seven can’t stand up straight, has to duck his head. He gets shackled to the ground by his throat. They shackle his hands the same. They don’t remove the muzzle. They leave him there. 

Seven can’t say for how long. It feels like it’s a long time. It might be days. 

Eventually, a soldier joins him. “Did you remember?” He asks. 

Seven tips his head back, bored. Of course he didn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything. 

The soldier curls and uncurls his fist. He says, “why didn’t you kill him?” 

Seven couldn’t answer that if he wanted to. First, he can’t speak. Second, he doesn’t know why he didn’t kill him. He could’ve; he was bigger than the other soldiers, but he wasn’t like Seven. Not even close. What did he say his name was? How would Seven have known him, if that guy wasn’t one of these soldiers? What the hell is that guy? What the hell is Seven, for that matter? 

The caged freak. Was he a soldier once? Was he like that guy? Why would they do this to him? What could he have done? 

The soldier clicks his tongue, unimpressed. He’s been leaning hard on a cane, one that he apparently doesn’t need. He shifts his weight onto his feet and swings it up onto his shoulder. 

Seven doesn’t know a lot of things, but he knows weapons. He thinks, ah, fuck. 

“When the captain gets back,” the soldier explains, “you’ll be disciplined properly. In the meantime,” he says, and he swings his cane into Silas’ back. He can feel the way his skin splits around the impact, but he doesn’t feel himself starting to bleed so much as his back just starts to feel wet. “You’ve been a bad dog,” he says. “Point’s going to be disappointed.” 

He swings the cane again. Hits almost the same spot, and Seven can feel the way his flesh splits, all the way through the meat of his back, a pain that resounds in his bones. 

It’s probably not supposed to, but it makes Seven think. The soldier strikes him again, a solid strike to the chest, and this time, a steel barb at the end of the cane sinks through Seven’s skin and pulls a chunk of meat from beneath his ribcage. 

It’s a pain that's really, oddly familiar, and it makes Seven think. He has a feeling they think that he doesn’t, that he’s incapable of conscious thought, and he can’t speak to tell them otherwise, but it isn't true. He’s left on his own so often he doesn’t do much else but think. He thinks, now, of how familiar this pain is, as the soldier swings again and skins a good portion of his back, peeling flesh back from tissue with a slick sound that’s almost as familiar. 

It seems like an overreaction, really. To skin him for his failure? It makes him think. They’re scared of him, much more scared of him than he realizes, probably more scared of him than he can properly wrap his head around until he knows what he’s done to these people, until he knows what it is they remember when they look at him. They’re scared of him, they don’t trust him, and the field test was a lot more than just a field test. It has to have been. It was something else, something bigger, and Seven failed. Seven disappointed them. They didn’t like what they saw. 

Why? 

He can’t ask, and he doesn’t get a lot more time to think about it. This soldier is just like the other ones, and he’s seeing something in Seven he doesn’t like. He’s trying to get a reaction out of him, and he isn’t getting one. Seven kneels, shackled to the floor, and bleeds quietly, bleeds without a word of complaint. 

The soldier doesn’t like that. He swings a little harder, swings the barbed end of the cane into Silas’ neck. Pulls his throat out. 

Seven finally does make a sound, an involuntary gurgle. He slumps forward, watching the blood shimmer around his knees, and he doesn’t think much at all as he watches the way the colour shines in the fluorescence. 

The soldier groans in frustration. “You used to be more fun,” he says. 

He hooks the end of the cane into the hollow of Seven’s throat. It sinks through shredded tissue, scrapes the bone of his jaw from the inside. 

It hurts for only a moment. 

Mercifully, then, Seven bleeds to death. 

When he wakes up again, in that bland, grey room, under those bland, grey sheets, his chest, his throat, and his arms are all bandaged. Beneath, he feels tender and sore. He can't remember why.

[the-bar-sinister]

“You’ve had me here for weeks now. Please tell me you’re going to untie me. I won’t try to escape.”

“Sorry, babe , trust isn’t won that easily.”

“How can I get you to trust me, then?”

“You could kill someone. How about that? I’ll bring someone here, and you kill them, and then I’ll trust that you’re not going to run away and cry to the cops about this.”

[ghost-bxrd]

Sharing more snippets of this because nobody’s gonna care for this fic anyway but I need to get it out of my system so badly I’ll be useless for anything else if I don’t lol

[invalidstories]

Enemies at the Café

Warnings: suicide mentions, dark themes

The moon hung low in the night sky casting a soft glow casting over the rooftop where Hero and Villain always found themselves locked in conflict. Each breath they took was visible in the cold foggy night.

Villain's eyes gleamed with malice as they observed Hero's approach, every step deliberate, every movement calculated. They had spent their whole night planning and preparing to show of their newest device to Hero.

But as Hero drew nearer, Villain couldn't help but notice the weariness etched into their features, their shoulders slumped with the burden of their endless battles, and the dark circles under their eyes from sleepless nights.

"You're late," Villain taunted, their voice dripping with contempt as they walked towards their nemesis.

Hero rolled their eyes, a wry smile playing at their lips. "Oh, please," they retorted. "Like I have anything better to do than deal with you."

Villain bristled, their grip tightening on their weapon. But before they could act, Hero held up a hand, resigned.

"Save it," Hero sighed. "I'm done playing this game. Just shoot me and get it over with."

Caught off guard by Hero's surrender, Villain hesitated, their weapon hovering in midair as they stared at their enemy in disbelief. Never had they imagined Hero would surrender so easily.

"There's no fun in fighting a hero who doesn't want to fight," Villain replied softly, their voice gentle as they lowered their weapon and took a step forward. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

Hero said nothing as they allowed Villain to hold their hand and lead them away, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night.

As they disappeared into the darkness, Villain couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled over them. At that moment, they realized that victory meant nothing without a worthy adversary to challenge them.

As they reached the end of the street, the Villain hesitated, turning to face Hero.

"Hey," they said softly, "I know this might seem like an odd question, but... do you want to grab a coffee with me?"

Hero blinked in surprise, the weariness momentarily forgotten as they met Villain's gaze. And for the first time in a long while, a small smile tugged at the corners of their lips.

"Yeah," Hero replied, "Sure."

Entering the cozy coffee shop, the atmosphere shifted from the chill of the night to the warm embrace of coffee and soft murmurs. Hero couldn't help but chuckle at one of Villain's jokes, the tension of their earlier encounter slowly easing.

Sitting across from each other, Villain couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Hero's demeanor. The weariness that had weighed them down moments before had been replaced by a spark of life in their eyes.

"You seem a bit better," Villain remarked, a teasing grin playing on their lips as they took a sip of their coffee.

Hero chuckled, a faint blush dusting their cheeks. "Yeah, well, you're surprisingly good company," they admitted, their voice soft.

"Told you," Villain smirked taking another sip of their drink.

But as the laughter faded, Villain's expression softened as concern crept into their features. "Hey, Hero," they began, their voice serious. "I know we've had our differences, but... I think you could benefit from some help."

Hero's smile faltered, their gaze dropping to the table as they considered Villain's words. It wasn't often that they heard genuine concern from their nemesis.

"I'll think about it," Hero replied, their voice soft but resolute. "Thanks though, Villain. For everything."

Villain grinned, reaching across the table to give Hero's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Anytime, Hero," they said, "Just don't forget to bring your sense of humor next time."

The hero couldn't help but smile at the playful jab, the weight of their troubles momentarily lifted by the simple act of having an unlikely but nice companion. As they walked home, Hero felt a glimmer of hope that maybe they didn't have to face their struggles alone anymore.

"In the end, we're all just humans, trying to find our way in this chaotic world."

Masterlist

[withdrawingramen]

honestly whumper just sitting with their back turned against a scene of conflict, legs crossed, calmly listening and immersing themselves in the sounds of violence, sipping on a drink while they leave whumpee to get brutalized and fight back against a dozen other trained fighters is such a sick trope

and then have them dragged up all bloody and on the brink of death to be bleeding out on their knees held up by others just for whumper to look down on them <333

(thank you for the whump gyeongseong creature season 2)

[echoingalaxies]

Underrated piece of dialogue: "I know," spoken by Caretaker, softly and sympathetically, but from a place of helplessness – when Whumpee whispers it hurts so much, I was so scared, I still have nightmares all the time, and Caretaker is unable to do anything to make it better.

Only show they understand.

[chaotic-orphan]

Heyy a writing request! How about a whumpee that wakes up on the side of a road and someone finds them (that someone can be whumper or just a stranger your choice :D)

Whumpee was shivering violently when they woke up. Had Whumper taken their blankets again? The rock of a mattress they lay on seemed more firm and cold than before and Whumpee moaned, reaching for the covers just in case they were kicked off the bed somewhere.

Whumpee’s hand wound through something wet and stringy and their eyes flew open.

They weren’t in the room.

They weren’t in their cell that they had called home for who knows how long? Whumpee shot awake, eyes wild and frantic. The darkness surrounded them and took a while for their eyes to adjust as they scrambled back on grass.

The memory came flooding back then and Whumpee stilled. They… they had escaped Whumper, they made a break for it and they ran and ran and ran, and ran some more and… they must have lay down to rest for a while or passed out or something. But they ran! They hoped they were far enough away now to be safe. They didn’t even remember the direction they were running from, they just kept running.

Whumpee wrapped their arms around themselves and shakily got to their feet. Their teeth were chattering uncontrollably, the sound grating a headache that was scraping itself around the edge’s of Whumpee’s skull.

They were still out.

They had broken out of Whumper’s home.

They had escaped Whumper…

That thought warmed their chest and Whumpee… for the first time in a long time, Whumpee smiled to themselves and laughed like a madman into the night air.

Okay, first things first, find a road and then follow it to civilisation. Whumpee could do that. They could do that. They could wave down a car with the sound of their chattering teeth it was so fucking loud.

They laughed to themselves again. Jesus, when was the last time they laughed?

They found the road pretty quickly, it was a miles walk away and then followed it along, walking hopefully in the direction away from Whumper. It was hard to tell in the dark where they were, but they were… they were outside. They were free.

Holy fuck… they were free.

They were freezing; the socks on their feet soaked through and their feet more like two frozen, cement blocks attached to their legs but they were moving and they were away from Whumper, and…

oh god, was Whumper…

They stopped dead in their tracks.

What if the next car that drove by them was Whumper, looking for them? What if Whumpee accidentally flags them down and Whumper opens the door and tells them to get in, god, no. They couldn’t go back.

They couldn’t go back.

Fuck, fuck, they couldn’t catch their breath, it eluded them and they thought it was better to go towards the light. Go into the light. Whumper wouldn’t be in—

A honk of a car horn and the sound of brakes squealing and Whumpee turned away, their hands over their head as a car swerved around them. Whumpee flinched, eyes wild as they turned and looked into the car, but there was nobody inside.

“What the FUCK were you doing?!” A harsh voice demanded furiously. Whumpee backed up as a man approached them, they shook their head, hands flying up in front of them to make the stranger stay back.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, please!”

“You’re in the middle of the fucking road!” The man bellowed. “What do you mean you’re sorry, I could have hit you! I could have killed you, you fucking—”

The man stopped when Whumpee whimpered. The man’s quiet was worse than when he was giving out to Whumpee. “Hey… sorry, um, sorry for shouting, you scared me is all. I was…”

“I’m sorry sir…”

“No, hey, no. Listen, I— sorry. You uh—” Whumpee looked over at the man. “You have no fucking shoes on. What the fuck? It’s almost freezing and you’re playing Tarzan in the fucking woods? Get in the car.”

Whumpee froze. “What?”

“Get in my car. It’s freezing! You need to warm up or you’ll get pneumonia or something.”

“No, uh, thanks.” Whumpee said, hard to get words out their mouth was chattering so uncontrollably. “I’m— I’m—”

“Look, you’re not okay. We both know that. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying otherwise either. I’ll give you a lift into town, and maybe some socks. That’s all I’m offering. You’ll die before you reach the nearest town walking.”

Whumpee stared at Caretaker. Something like realisation flashed across Caretaker’s face, though it was hard to see in the dark, Whumpee could feel the shift.

“Oh. Right. I’m uh, like… I’m not a serial killer or anything.” He laughed then turned, his hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing at the skin. “Although that’s probably what a serial killer would say.”

Whumpee let out a breath of a laugh. “Most people would say I’m not a murderer, how many people you killed?”

Caretaker’s head snapped up. “No! No, I didn’t, I haven’t— ahahah, I’m not a murderer either, my hands are clean! Look.”

Whumpee felt their fear leave their body as they laughed again. God they felt so light when they laughed. It had been so long since he did so freely.

“Okay. I’ll take the lift.”

Caretaker smiled. A flash of teeth. “Great. Come on, I’m fucking freezing.”

Whumpee followed him to the car and climbed in the passenger side. He was right. The car was warm. When Caretaker climbed in and shut his door he blasted the heat on Whumpee’s face, body and feet. Whumpee melted into the warm leather like goo.

“Oh yeah. Heated seats are nice, huh?” Caretaker asked as he moved the gear stick and reversed before the car pulled off down the road again and they were driving.

“Really nice,” Whumpee hummed, watching the blackness of trees melt into one constant loop as they drove.

After a while Whumpee could feel a question buried beneath Caretaker’s tongue brewing. Maybe because he glanced at Whumpee every so often, catching Whumpee’s attention from the corner of their eye. Maybe it was because his fingers drummed a beat against the steering wheel.

Eventually, Caretaker plucked up the courage and asked: “Can I ask why you were out here on your own? With no shoes? And looking five minutes away from death?”

Whumpee swallowed, and it seemed like the warmth was sapped from their body. The thought of mentioning Whumper sent a shiver down their spine despite the heat, and they debated whether or not they should tell Caretaker.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Whumpee said, their voice quiet.

A pause. “Okay.”

A beat. “It’s just that it’s dangerous to be outside in this weather. And alone in the woods? You’d never know who you’d run into. There’s dangerous people out here,” Caretaker said.

I know, Whumpee thought, but didn’t say. Whumpee shrugged.

Caretaker shaked their head. “You’re lucky I found you,” Caretaker said with a little laugh. “I mean, I wouldn’t even be out here usually. I guess it’s fate that I happened upon you. I’m Caretaker by the way.”

“Whumpee,” Whumpee replied.

Caretaker smiled. “Nice to meet you Whumpee. Are you warm enough?”

“Yeah,” Whumpee said with a smile. They were warm now, and toasty.

“Thank god,” Caretaker said and turned down the heat. “Sorry, I run hot,” he said by way of apology.

Whumpee laughed. “You should have told me.”

“I had to thaw you out first. Don’t want you dying on me in the passenger seat.”

He kept glancing ag Whumpee from the corner of his eye. “Hey, you look— well, like shit, but exhausted. Just relax and try to get some rest. I’ll let you know when we’re in town and we can bring you to the police station or something, okay?”

Whumpee hummed their answer. They didn’t know if it was a yeah or no, because the mixture of the heat and the hum of the car lulled Whumpee into a heavy, deep sleep.

They woke when the car turned into a driveway, slowing down as it went, the bumps jostling Whumpee’s head and they opened their eyes, blinking awake.

“Ah, sorry for the road,” Caretaker said with a little laugh as they continued down a tree lined road. “I just have to stop off at a friend’s before we go to the town, if that’s okay? It’s uh… kinda the whole reason I’m out this way at all.”

“Yeah, no,” Whumpee said nodding and stretching as they sat up properly. “That’s fine.”

“Thanks, my friend isn’t exactly known for being patient.”

Whumpee laughed, thinking of friend. “We all have some friends like that. It’s all good.”

Caretaker laughed too, his shoulders relaxing a bit as they took the last turn into a drive. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

Only when the house came into view did Whumpee stiffen in their seat. They were… that was… fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Was Caretaker— were they? Oh god, Whumpee got in the car willingly, like an idiot.

Whumper is impatient. Whumpee knew that.

“You— you—” Whumpee stammered. Caretaker smiled over at Whumpee but his eyes immediately widened, suddenly concerned.

“Hey, Whumpee. It’s okay! It’s— this is just my friend’s house.”

“I— you… Whumper—”

“Whumper?” Caretaker asked, a furrow forming between his brows. “How do you know Whumper’s name?”

“I have to— you—” Whumpee stuttered, hands flailing as they reached for the handle of the door. The car was locked. Oh god. Oh fuck. “Please, please, don’t send me back there. I’ll be good. I promise! I promise!”

Whumpee yanked on the handle over and over. “Please!” They wailed, tears streaming down their cheeks. “Please, fuck… I only— I just—”

The car stopped suddenly. Caretaker’s foot slammed on the brake and the two of them lurched forwards. Whumpee gasped as they were flung back against the seat.

Caretaker turned their body to face Whumpee. “Whumpee! Look at me! Look at me, now!”

Whumpee flinched at the harsh tone but obeyed. Caretaker’s eyes were still wide with concern but now something else lingered behind that concern, something horrified and confused.

“Are you… are you saying you look like death because of Whumper?”

Whumpee shook in the heated seat beside Caretaker. If they said yes, what would Caretaker do? Bring them back, drag them by the hair? What if Whumper wasn’t bothered to go out and look for them so he called his friend to pick Whumpee up on the way?

A knock on the window and the pair jumped. Caretaker turned, swallowed and rolled the window down a fraction.

“Hey,” a smiling voice greeted them. Whumpee froze in their seat. That was… Whumper, oh god. He was here. It was only a matter of time before he saw and when he did— “I saw the lights but then you stopped up here, just came to make sure you didn’t have a puncture or anything.”

“No,” Caretaker said quickly. “Sorry, thought I saw a deer. You never know out here.”

Whumper laughed. Whumpee swallowed a whimper. “Yeah. You’re right. Okay then, see you back at the house. It’s freezing out. I’ll leave the door open, just let yourself in.”

Caretaker didn’t hesitate. He kept up his friendly demeanour as he spoke to Whumper like they were old friends, which they were, Whumpee had to remind themselves.

“Yeah, of course. Go. It’s supposed to go below zero today, so get inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Cool,” Whumper said and tapped the car twice before his footsteps disappeared into the darkness. Caretaker didn’t roll up the window until he was sure Whumper was gone.

The pair of them sat like icicles, too afraid to move and break the weighted silence around them. Eventually, Caretaker snapped out of it and rolled the window up. Then he straightened.

“Did Whumper hurt you?”

Whumpee was silent.

“You can tell me, Whumpee. If he hurt you we are backing out of this driveway right now and I am calling the police.”

Whumpee sniffled. Caretaker audibly swallowed. “Okay,” he said with a breath that reflected in the car. “Okay.”

Caretaker nodded. Then he grabbed the gear stick and put the car into reverse. Whumpee’s cried got louder and more strangled as the house disappeared from view again, and the realisation settled heavy in their chest.

They were actually escaping.

They did it.

They escaped from Whumper, and now Caretaker, Whumper’s friend, was about to call the police to help Whumpee. Ready to throw their years of friendship away for Whumpee.

“Thank you,” Whumpee weeped. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” they blubbered. With every expression of gratitude they felt the weight of relief crush them further and further into the seat.

“It’s okay,” Caretaker said. “You’re okay. You’re safe now, Whumpee. Whumper won’t hurt you again.”

Whumpee continued to cry as they pulled out onto the main road, until the heat blasted again, and Caretaker told them to go to sleep. Whumpee obeyed, for the first time in a long time, they went to sleep with a smile on their face, warm and safe.

[ilkkawhat]

[catzy88]

Butchlander Hanahaki Disease AU with Homelander who has always craved love, looking for it in all the wrong places, falling in love with his nemesis Billy Butcher who hates him and wants him dead. All the emotional hurt and angst in the world with Homelander's already unstable mental health declining further into deep depression and self-hatred. His physical health deteriorating slowly as well, because even the strongest supe alive isn't immune to the deadly flowers blooming inside him.

Butcher finds out and is gleeful, rubbing it in Homelander's face when they meet. Saying, that it's no wonder the supe has fallen victim to the sickness caused by one-sided love, because who could love a monster like him?

At this point Homelander is already quite far gone with the disease, and hearing the object of his love telling him that he's "an unlovable cunt" causes Homelander to start violently coughing and vomiting a blooming Trillium recurvatum. Looking up at Butcher with wide and terrified eyes, Homelander takes wobbly flight.

Naturally, Butcher doesn't recognize the crimson flower, coated with more crimson of Homelander's blood. But he takes a photo of the mess, and when he shows it to the Boys, they make a reverse image search.

Trillium recurvatum. Bloody Butcher.

And when all heads turn to look at Butcher, there's not much else to say than, "Fuck me", paired with a diabolical grin. Because Butcher just found a way to finally kill the worst supe cunt on Earth. And what a poetic way, too. Homelander destroyed the love of Butcher's life. Now Butcher's going to do the same to Homelander with his mere existence.

But a supe of Homelander's caliber doesn't succumb to any illness or ailment nearly as fast as a regular human would. So, there's a lot of time for Butcher to find more dirt about Vought, since getting rid of Homelander is only one part of dismantling the megacorporation.

So, one day searching an abandoded facility that looks like it had been a lab of some sort at one point, Butcher stumbles on a box with old VHS tapes simply named "John #001", "John #002", "John #003", and so on.

Butcher begins watching the first tape, where there's a small blond, blue-eyed baby that makes Butcher feel at unease. The feeling increases with every video as the child grows and is subjected to absolutely inhumane conditions and torture. And when the child finally gains blood red eyes, shooting lasers from them, there's no doubt about the child's identity anymore. John is Homelander.

Butcher's conflicted. Very conflicted. Because he has this image of Homelander as a ruthless and sick psychopath set in stone. But these videos have made his conviction waver.

So, after all the emotional hurt and angst (not depicted here, because I fail), there's a happy ending with Butcher having snatched Vought's crown jewel right under their nose, slowly warming up to the man known as John, finally returning his feelings, and becoming a real family with their son Ryan.