#whump-it is cooking

[where-is-my-whump]

Criminal Minds 15x09

[thereweredragonshere]

Hey sometimes you just gotta appreciate how some things look 🤷‍♀️

[nachocheezos21]

idk if anyone actually made a fic of this but uh............

i'd be so down to read an angst fic relating to sebastian and his religious belief

sebastian's half-chilean, and chile's biggest religion is roman catholicism. i'd imagine he grew up with his mom teaching him how to pray and all that, as well as being an active member of the church. perhaps he still believes in his god, maybe not as much as before due to college, but he still actively prays and what-not.

how would he deal with urbanshade contradicting his beliefs? the pentagram plastered all over the blacksite just uneases him in some way, but never thinks too much about it. it's not his place to ask, after all.

would he be praying as the doctors and scientists performed on him? genetically mutilating him for the purposes of science – destroying how god intended the human body to be. imagine his prayers for forgiveness for even participating in something like this, even unwillingly.

even in his monstrous form, would he still be blaming himself for how he looks? i mean, he's no longer molded into what his god deems as human – artificially modified, unethically interfering with the divine natural.

what about when he's being hunted down by the player? how he would cry for his mother's warmth once more, while begging for forgiveness for all of his sins – intentional or not – to a god that didn't even hear his pleas.

[whump-galaxy]

Just imagined the caretaker coming back home, finding the whumpee in the kitchen. Maybe it’s clean, maybe it’s a mess, either way, the whumpee is distraught. They just wanted to make a simple meal themselves before the caretaker got home. They just wanted to do something for themselves and not be useless for once.

[whumpbug]

i have so many thoughts on the word “drowsy”. GOD i can’t get enough of it. i LOVE the implications of it bc it can be related to so many different scenarios with similar vibes

maybe whumpee has had an extremely exhausting day. i’m talking manual labor— working for hours to get something done and they’re finally home and they are BONE tired. maybe caretaker brings them some food and runs them a hot bath, and once they’re warm and their belly is full they find it physically impossible to stay awake. their head keeps bobbing up and down with threats of nodding off, their eyes have that glassy, drowsy, far away look to them, and they’re barely coherent anymore, just focused on keeping their eyes open, but it’s a losing battle. eventually caretaker sidles up to them and guides their head to lay on the space between caretaker’s chin and shoulder and sleep finally takes them

or maybe whumpee has been in a fight or is severely injured or something of the sort, and they’ve been patched up and pumped full of pain meds and are lying in a hospital bed. caretaker is beside them, gently carding their fingers through their hair with a quiet conversation and the gesture as well as the copious amounts of drugs in whumpee’s system is making their eyelids droop. they feel the pleasant buzz of the pain relief and they finally get to rest after whatever unfortunate circumstance landed them in the hospital in the first place and caretaker notices them losing the battle with sleep because their conversation becomes more of a drowsy mumble and then whumpee’s breathing evens out and they’re out

i just love a sleepy whumpee i wanna hold them and let them get the sleep they deserve (੭ ˊ^ˋ)੭ ♡

[elliehallers]

Me with my favorite OCs:

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Concept: Hiccup starting to overshare when he unconsciously realizes he has close human friends and accidentally sharing some very depressing facts about his life that he doesn't realize are actually depressing because he is so used to them and the Dragon Riders are just 😶

[whumpy-wyrms]

Silas having a snack :3

[lovelizards]

Iska spent three days in the experimentation room.

She had lost count of the times the slender man drew blood from her arms, worsening the mottled bruises that throbbed dully under her skin.

She had lost count of the potions he had injected into her. One of them flushed her whole body with unbearable heat, one of them had locked her limbs and caused her body to seize.

Over and over, hour after horrific painful hour, all to the sounds of bubbling alchemical tools, dripping liquids inside blown glass containers, and the low hum of the slender man as he worked.

She had fought at first, the way she always tried to. After each potion, the slender man would ask her how it felt, and each time she would snarl: "Go to hell!"

But he had left her on the table overnight, strapped down and aching inside and out. And, deprived of rest, the second day started to break something in her.

The slender man had tried to feed her an elixir of her own blood mixed with arcane reagents, and she'd spat it back in his face.

"I admit it," he had sighed, "you are a hellion, and ill-tempered besides. But that fire in you - I will crush it out with my heel, you mark me now, Iska."

"Go to hell, you sick bastard," her voice was a hoarse cough, but that was the last thing she said that day.

The slender man had gagged her with a wooden bit, and continued on with his work the same as the day before. The drugs he used on her that day affected her mind, made her dizzy, and caused her to hallucinate - and the things she saw, crawling in the shadows, flashing in the lamp-light, dancing on the back of her eyelids....

Those things started to break her.

He left her there, in pitch blackness, unable to move, unable to speak or beg or scream, for another full night.

And by the time the morning of the third day finally arrived, Iska could barely think. Her consciousness faded in and out, spiking with each prick of a needle, with each weak flinch as another potion was forced down her throat.

She was barely there. Was she still a human body? How long had it been since she came to this hell? How long since she had seen the outside? Did she have a family...? A name...?

"Iska? Did you hear me, darling?" It was the voice of the slender man, but his image was blurred in the weak tears that pooled in her eyes.

"Hear you...? Please...I...I can't..."

"I know, sweetheart. You're doing very well today. Drink this, now."

She was so thirsty, so hungry, that she swallowed the liquid without protest. It burned her throat on the way down, like she had drunk acid, but she couldn't even groan.

The tears boiled over in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, pooling in her ears.

"I can't...I can't...it hurts..."

"That was the last one, Iska, dear. I'll unbuckle you now, take a moment to rest and I'll sent Meres to collect you."

Iska felt the leather straps loosen at her wrists and ankles, but she lay in that position for a while, she couldn't fathom how long. Eventually, almost of their own accord, her limbs shifted and pulled themselves down.

"Aaghh!" A low cry of pain burst past her dry lips, the sharp stabbing pain of her joints screaming as they moved for the first time in days.

And there she lay, tears falling, body damaged, and mind broken until eventually a shadow shifted into her unfocused vision.

"Oh, Iska..."

A familiar voice, gentle, and so full of pity.

"Kill me..." she breathed weakly, "kill me...please..."

But the shadow didn't kill her.

It tenderly, carefully picked her up from the table - flinching at her cries of pain as her fragile body was moved - and carried her out into the harsh light of the hallway.

She didn't want to go back. Not again. Not to that room.

But there was nothing left in her.

And the arms of whoever was holding her were warm, and soft, and their heart beat a drumming lullaby against her ear as she rested her head against their chest.

Iska could only hope, as she closed her eyes, that she would never open them again.

『 Previous / Next 』

[sickficsaturn]

Is this anything?

A psychic caretaker knowing their partner is sick before they do. Either long beforehand or like

“Those sneezes don’t sound too good.”

“What snee-?“

Ah, those ones.

[whump-side]

Whumperless Whump Event

Day 2 - Does your insurance cover this? : Car accident / Bystander caretaker / “Eyes open, ambulance is almost here.”

[serene-cinders]

A Caretaker adopting a pet Whumpee from a shelter out of pity. Whumpee’s been abused. Maybe they can’t, or won’t speak, so their pain is a mystery, but it shows in their empty eyes, maimed form, scars running criss-cross all over.

Maybe Whumpee’s on the older side. Maybe they’re not conventionally attractive. They’ve been abandoned by the world, they’ve been at the shelter for years, and they’re slowly succumbing. Dying.

Caretaker never agreed with this ‘human pet’ business. They find it despicable, and wouldn’t support it. But… that wretched husk, so rigorously broken down, brings tears to their eyes. And they can’t bare the thought of somebody dying alone in this unfeeling, underfunded shit hole.

So, Caretaker makes the choice to give them the kindest few weeks of their life.

[whumpster-dumpster]

Just had the phrase "Lost in the sauce" pop into my head where it's a tiny whumpee dropped into a sauce pot the whumper's bringing to a boil hehe

[snakebites-and-ink]

Everything is fine

CW: Came back wrong, undead whumpee, caretaker in denial, (unintentional) mind control

Floating. Peaceful.

Then an unexpected tug.

They were pulled in a direction that should have been impossible, then all their senses whirled out and new ones phased in.

As disorienting as it was, this was familiar. A more solid phase of existence. From before. Whumpee felt anew a physical nature they hadn’t thought on much since then. A stricter awareness of form.

They inhaled suddenly, gasping unevenly as if they were relearning how to breathe. Movement and feeling returned to a body that didn’t feel like theirs at first, but held an old familiarity as they settled.

Whumpee felt confusion humming under their skin. They…weren’t supposed to be there, right? They looked around, able to move normally even though they didn’t feel quite normal.

They were in Caretaker’s house. And there was Caretaker, surrounded by a strange assortment of objects and candles, unfamiliar books at their side. Whumpee felt a rush of warmth and loyalty. Their other concerns were pushed aside as they focused in. Caretaker was more important.

“Caretaker?” They croaked from a throat rough with disuse.

“Whumpee!” Caretaker rushed to them, holding Whumpee’s face between their hands, looking into their eyes, feeling their restored heartbeat. “It worked. I did it, oh my gosh.” They hugged Whumpee.

Whumpee hugged back automatically, following Caretaker’s lead. “Caretaker, what…?” They started to ask in confusion, but their friend was too swept up in the emotion of their return to listen to the question.

“You're back, you're back,” Caretaker sobbed into them. “Everything's going to be okay now.”

Whumpee found themself flooded with faith and reassurance. Caretaker was right; everything would be fine.

Whumpee was back. But…they weren’t quite the same. And even if they weren’t now, they had been dead, definitely.

For a while they were content to just enjoy their renewed life. They had no shortage of care and companionship from Caretaker, who was so happy to have them back. For a while they fell into a rhythm where things were almost the same as they were before. It was what Caretaker seemed to want.

But it wasn’t actually quite the same, so eventually Whumpee went looking for answers.

The best place to find them was in Caretaker’s books: strange tomes that hadn’t been there before Whumpee died. They were all on the same subject—Necromancy.

Whumpee found one on the undead and searched through it for how they’d been changed by revival. Not a ghost: they were totally corporeal. Not a zombie: their mind and flesh were as intact as any living person’s. They flipped through the book, looking through types of undead familiar from popular culture and ones they’d never even heard of. Most had some physical difference from when they were alive, and the few that didn’t weren’t themselves in mind. Until:

Shade

A shade is one of the cleanest imitations of life. A shade retains the memories, personality, and physical form they had before death. They can think and act as they did during life but will only do so as long as it is in line with their ressurector’s wishes. A shade is wholly bound to the necromancer’s will. Despite their intelligence and variation in personality, shades are obedient and easily controlled.

Whumpee frowned. This book didn't seem like it was written for good people. They knew Caretaker was in the right, of course. Whumpee completely agreed with Caretaker’s decisions and knew they weren't a bad person. They must have just had limited options, or wanted to pursue every possibility. 

Whumpee still didn't think they really liked the book. 

It was over dinner that they brought it up.

“Caretaker?”

“Yes, sweetness?”

“Am I a shade now?”

Caretaker frowned. Whumpee immediately felt a sense of wrongness at having upset them. “You're you, Whumpee. Labels like that are just dehumanizing language used by people who use necromancy the wrong way, so they don't have to acknowledge that they're using people for their own ends. I don't want you reading those books anymore.”

“Yes, Caretaker,” Whumpee accepted instantly, though they weren't sure there was a right way to use necromancy.

“Thanks, sweetness. I just don’t want you to start believing unfair things they say about you, or having to concern yourself with the less pleasant side of necromancy. We can put all that behind us now that you’re back. Now, what game would you like to play once we’re done eating tonight?” Caretaker’s expression lightened a little with the change of subject.

They finished the meal on a slightly lighter note and got out the game of Whumpee’s choice, where they were able to ditch their concerns in favor of the warmth of camaraderie. 

Eventually Whumpee moved on entirely from thinking about the books or their undead state; clearly Caretaker didn’t want them dwelling on it, and Whumpee was sure Caretaker was right about that. There was no need to worry about it. Everything was fine.

[cicutagreninja]

Vampire whumpees. Yes.

Making themselves wear a muzzle so they don’t hurt their friends, even though they hate it, so much.

Caretaker purposefully cutting themselves so a starving Whumpee can get anything, even just a few drops.

Being bandaged and sore in multiple places because of sunburns

Having tender scars on their skin from being splashed by holy water.

Whumpee losing control from hunger and pounces on one of their friends. Having to be held back.

If they have bat wings, imagine the membrane being slowly ripped apart by Whumper. Or maybe getting it caught and tearing.

[the-broken-pen]

could you write a snippet where hero and villain both show up at the same time to rescue civilian from supervillain please?

The hero’s pulse pounded in their ears, panicked and so loud–there was so much blood, oh god, they couldn’t tell where it was coming from–that they didn’t hear the villain behind them until they were slamming their elbow back into their ribcage. The villain caught it with one hand, running their gaze over the hero and their blood slicked hands as if assessing for injuries. When they did the same to the civilian, the villain went so still the hero wasn’t sure they were breathing.

The hero felt a little dizzy, actually, and they were trying incredibly hard not to cry, because that was their friend on the floor and they were never supposed to be involved in this–

“Hero,” the villain’s voice was stern, but not unkind. “Breathe.”

They choked on their next inhale, and the villain pressed against their chest with one hand until they breathed out again. There was something about the villain’s face, smooth and unyielding like stone, that pulled the hero into focus enough for them to suck in another breath.

“They need help,” they managed to gasp. The villain gave them a singular nod in confirmation.

“Yes. They do.”

“We need to–”

“You,” the villain interrupted, “need to calm down.”

“They’re dying.”

“And that’s not going to change if you’re too panicked to see straight. So take. A deep. Breath.”

Miraculously, the hero did. It was easier on the next breath, and the next, until their vision was clear and they could see the horror in front of them with all too much clarity.

The civilian was still breathing.

The villain released the hero’s elbow as soon as they realized the hero wasn’t about to panic again, grazing their fingers over the civilian’s tattered clothing in search of the worst wounds. They prodded something and the civilian winced, face bruised and entirely, blessedly, unconscious. “Pressure,” the villain gestured, and the hero. complied.

The hero knew better than to let up when the civilian, abruptly half-lucid from pain, tried to bat their hand away, but bile still rose in their throat.

“How are you so calm,” they said, and even they could tell their voice was slightly too close to hysterical. The villain glanced over at them, eyes dark, before ripping a makeshift tourniquet to tie around the civilian’s leg.

“I panicked once,” some memory, deep and dark and full of pain, flashed through the villain’s eyes. “I promised I wouldn’t do it again.”

The hero took the wad of cloth the villain handed to them, pressing it back down over the civilian’s stomach. It turned red under the hero’s fingers far faster than they would ever have wanted it to. Not that they would ever want it to, but if someone was bleeding they would at least want it to be slow–

“Oh,” they managed, voice strangled, and the villain took a moment to assess them once more. 

“Breathe,” the villain reminded. “They’re not dying. They’re beat up, but they’re stable. Emergency services are already on their way.”

The hero watched more blood well up around their hands. Pressed harder.

They would be digging red flakes out from under their nails for weeks.

“You’re normally calmer,” the villain remarked casually. If the hero’s brain wasn’t so stuck on the image of their friend bleeding below them, they would have recognized this for the distraction that it was.

“They didn’t choose this,” they whispered, throat raw. The civilian didn’t have powers, and they hadn’t chosen to use them for good or evil. They just lived, so kind and so normal.

“Neither does any other bystander,” the villain said.

“They’re my friend,” the hero willed the villain to understand, somehow, the enormity of this. The pain of knowing that it should have been them on the floor, that supervillain had done this because the civilian had been there and the hero had not.

A mistake of epic proportions. The biggest failure of their life. Not being there.

“So?”

“So it's my fault,” the hero’s voice broke, and they ducked their head down to hide the tears as they welled in their eyes. Distantly, they could pick up the barest trace of sirens, almost out of reach of their enhanced senses.

“Hero,” the villain said, voice gentle. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

The hero shook their head–

“No, listen to me,” the villain’s voice gained an edge to it. “It’s not your fault. I pissed supervillain off this week. They know the civilian is my friend. This was deliberate to hurt me, and I need you to get it through your thick skull that there was nothing you could have done to stop this.”

The hero wasn’t sure who the villain was truly saying this to–the hero, themself, or the version of the villain that had panicked so long ago, and suffered for it.

“I could have–”

“You couldn’t.” The villain’s stare was all encompassing. The hero wanted to believe them. “Stop blaming yourself for the pain other people are causing.”

“That’s kind of my whole thing,” the hero tried for something light, airy. The both of them watched it fall flat off their tongue.

“No, it’s not. Your thing is saving people, not beating yourself up over everything you think you could have done better.”

The hero didn’t have a response to that. Just stayed staring at the villain as the ambulance skidded to a stop, the red lights flashing off the villain’s hair and eyes.

Someone reached for the hero’s hands, still pressed tightly to the wound, and they flinched away, gritting their teeth. 

The paramedic raised their gloved hands as if comforting an animal. “I’m here to help,” they said slowly. 

It felt terrible unclenching their hands, letting the paramedic take their place, sliding the civilian onto a stretcher an unending minute later.

The hero swallowed hard, knees numb against the pavement, and let the villain hook their arms under the hero’s armpits to haul the upright.

“Alright, there we go,” the villain murmured easily. The hero tracked the paramedics as they closed the doors of the ambulance. 

“I should–”

“No,” the villain interrupted. They seemed to be doing that more often than usual, the hero thought slowly. “You need to get cleaned up, and eat something.”

“I need to go to the hospital, I can’t just leave them alone,” the hero argued. They tried to jerk themself from the villain’s steadying hold, and failed.

“Trust me, they’ve got a whole team keeping them alive. They’re in good company.”

“I’m failing them.” It was an entirely irrational thought, but it stung in the hero’s chest, burning its way into their ribs as an ‘almost’ truth.

“You’re taking care of yourself so that you are able to take care of them. You can’t pour from an empty cup, and you're at empty. So, we’re going to get you some clothes that aren’t covered in blood, a sandwich, and go from there.”

The hero realized between one blink and the next that they were exhausted–bones aching and made of stone, dragging them down further with every second. By the time they reached the villain’s car, the only thing that was holding them up was the villain; the weight of panic and a too long day spent trying to save the entire city pressing down on them.

They were dumped into the passenger seat without fanfare, and if they weren’t so tired, they would have protested about the blood, or question how the villain had gotten their car here.

The villain slammed the door, settling themself into the driver’s seat a moment later. They dug through the center console, too dark for the hero to make out what they were grabbing, before they scrubbed the hero’s hands with a baby wipe. 

They had the engine started before the hero had a chance to look down at their own–now clean–hands.

“It’s not your fault,” the villain said again. Their tone left no room for argument.

“You keep saying that,” they watched as the city lights flickered through the car windows. “Why?”

The villain’s jaw clenched in the periphery of their vision. When they answered, it was so soft and quiet the hero almost didn’t catch it.

“Because nobody said it to me.”

The hero let their head slump against the window, half-asleep as they watched the roads vanish behind them.

“Hey,” they said quietly. They didn’t have to look up to know the villain’s attention was solely on them.

Sleep pulled on them until their voice was little more than an exhaled breath. 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

The villain sucked in a shuddering breath.

“It isn’t your fault.”

Before sleep managed to swallow them whole, the hero swore they caught a single tear streaking down the villain’s cheek.