whump-and-tea

[whump-and-tea]

The caretaker tenderly cupping the whumpee’s face, resting their forehead against theirs as they finally let themself break down into strangled sobs. 

[whump-and-tea]

Feeding a whumpee is always such a sweet scenario.

A is so feverish and lethargic that they literally can't keep their head up. B is extremely worried, since A has skipped a few meals in a row.

So B sits on the edge of the mattress and carefully lifts up A's head. With gentle words and reassuring strokes, they manage to slip a few spoonfuls of broth through A's lips.

A is just so exhausted, they keep going cross eyed with the effort of staying awake, and B tries to talk to them through the whole ordeal, to keep them alert enough not to choke themselves on food.

As soon as A is done, they fall asleep straight away. B sighs, heartbroken. A doesn't look well at all, but at least now there's something  nourishing in their belly.

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Something was clear, when Whumpee was thrown in the horrible situation they still wouldn’t talk about - the one that scarred them so deeply there wasn’t a single night they didn’t wake up screaming - they didn’t have the time, energy, or perhaps the strength to brush their hair, especially with how long it was.

When Whumpee came back, it was so matted - especially the lower part - that it was nearly impossible for anyone but Caretaker to untangle it.

Caretaker spends days after they find Whumpee trying to untangle the mess of their hair, using some of Caretaker’s own hair oils and the finest comb they had, gently unsnarling Whumpee’s locks, trying not to let their tears spill as Whumpee flinched from their touch.

[whump-and-tea]

two prisoners are kept locked up together. they hate each other. both are defiant, full of attitude, and distrusting to a fault.

one of these prisoners is their captor’s focus - the one with more strategic value - while the other is simply kept there out of convenience.

the prisoner of value is poorly behaved, referred to as wild by their captor. every time they act out, the other prisoner is marked with a gash, or a burn - a single, distinctive injury that will scar in line with the others.

the prisoner of value doesn’t care at first - the other prisoner doesn’t seem phased, and they’re an asshole with questionable morals anyway.

…it starts to affect the prisoner of value when their cellmate has enough marks to make moving an agonizing ordeal. that prisoner tries to hold still, takes shallow breaths and hardly talks back anymore, no longer spits out insults and retorts. they actually flinch the next time that a punishment is earned for the prisoner of value’s behavior, when another mark is gouged into their body. this time, the pain makes them whimper and then fall unconscious with a few short, strained breaths.

eventually, both prisoners end up with mild, careful behavior - one, out of agony, and the other out of worry.

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B was getting frustrated. 

They remembered a little of what they had been like before. B had been able to do so many things. They had been a star in the rising, they could have achieved so much, if only they’d been given the chance.

Now, look at them.

They were pitiful.

Someone so useless, they couldn’t even stop their hands from shaking and eat soup in a normal way. 

Maybe C was right in saying they should have died that night, in saying they did deserve all of this, that they’d earned it-

“B? You alright there?” A said, putting a hand gently on their shoulder. A would never hurt them, B knew that, still they couldn't help but flinch. “You zoned out for a bit”

“Yes, I’m sorry” B’s voice was other thing that had changed. Before everything, it was clear and filled with barely contained laughter. Now, A had to strain to hear it. 

A kept quiet, silently prompting them to finish their sentence. B was trying to learn how to do that again, too.

“It’s just-” they looked down to their plate and the mess on the table “the soup and- and my hands- I’m so sorry”

A gave a little squeeze to their shoulder before releasing it, and moving away, just enough so they could grab a cloth from a nearby counter, and B could feel themselves relaxing just a little at the increase of distance.

They hated themselves for that.

Much too soon, A returned and talked to them in that gentle tone they had taken to using lately.

A had changed too. B remembered them as hot-tempered and always ready to make remarks, not that they’d cared before. Now, A speaks as if they could break B with nothing more than a bad word choice. 

Thinking about it, B thinks they are right.

“Hey, baby steps alright?” A started to diligently clean the drops of spilled soup off the table “No one’s asking you to be better this quickly, healing is a process, you know.”

B just nodded, trying hard not to think about how much they were inconveniencing A. Poor, kind A, who was stuck with a mess like them.

They needed to man up and get back to normal quickly, if just to lift the burden off A. 

“B?” 

A was still now, sitting in the chair beside them, pulling B out of their thoughts yet again. They didn’t notice A getting there, but now the table was clean and the used cloth was gone and B had to resist the urge to cry.

“Yes,” they managed to say through the lump on their throat.

A sighed gently and stood up, facing the window. After what felt like an eternity they spoke again.

“You know, the garden has been a little sad without you. All the flowers are in need of some water”

They recognized the invite immediately. 

B had taken a liking to tend to the garden on the days where they were well enough- present enough- to do it.

It was a thing they could still do. They could gently pour water over the flowers, and watch how little drops raced to fall down the leaves, they could make sure none of them plants was left thirsty. They could fo that.

They always set the hose at its lower capacity, only a tiny thread of water flowing out, so there was no way they could fuck anything up. It took far more time than it should, but A didn’t seem to mind, and B had decided they would try not to mind either.

Out there, they could feel the wind sweep through their hair and the warmth of the sun on their skin. They had liked that before. They still liked it now. 

They sensed themselves relaxing, just a little.

“What do you say? Shall we go?” B could hear the smile in A’s voice, and could feel the start of something close to eagerness in their own.

“Okay”

The garden seemed like a good idea.

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The caretaker’s been seating in the waiting area of the emergency room for six hours now.   Their eyes hurt, and their wrists are on fire from when they’d unconsciously scratched; a nervous habit that never really faded over the years.

They’d gotten the call that morning.

After three long weeks, the whumpee had been found. Inside an abandoned house, chained to the ceiling, they’d been told.

They hadn’t seen them before entering surgery, but they’d overheard the nurses talking about the poor kid who’d been abducted and had arrived in such a poor condition, blood loss and cold being almost too much for their already weak body. That it would be a miracle if they did survive.

Oh God.

The whumpee was finally safe, finally there, just behind a closed door, and they couldn’t do anything to help them. Nothing but sit and pray to whatever deity was listening.

Help them, please. I’d do anything.

The caretaker had tried to be strong, to be enough to protect the whumpee - tiny, fragile Whumpee who would never hurt anybody in their life - but it was never enough. Whatever they did was never enough. They always made a mistake, and now it had almost gotten the whumpee killed.They were useless, and it was tearing them appart.

A nurse came out of the door then, stern-looking and grim. Their heart rate spiked, and everything narrowed to the red haired woman who could bring world-ending news for them.

The caretaker almost screamed in frustration when the nurse walked past them to speak to a woman that had been sitting quietly, three seats apart.

They didn’t hear a word.

The whumpee had to survive. They had to get better to hate the caretaker and make them pay for being too weak, for not being enough. The whumpee had to get better to punch the caretaker in the face and tell them that they never wanted to see them again.

The whumpee had to survive, they had to.

Because the caretaker didn’t know what they would do if they didn't.

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“What the hell were you thinking?! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“It would be no less than what I deserve!” B snaps, and A's eyes shot open in their direction.

B couldn’t be saying this. They were the best in their field, they had no remorse, no feelings, they were nothing but a killing machine.

They had to be, for A had been treating them as such since forever. Moreover, when B’s slip made their mission fail and had gotten their teammate killed, A had become merciless, dragging B's every mistake in their face in hopes of getting any human emotion out of them. Even then, B didn't yield, and remained as unreachable as ever. That had been over three years ago.

Why, then, did they chose to sacrifice themselves just now?

“You said it yourself…” B continues firmly, but trains their eyes on the floor, “it was my fault, all of it. It’s only fair I die trying to fix it.”

They walk to the door, leaving a stunned A behind.

“So don’t try to stop me this time.”

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B’s eyes look up at A as they wake up. After everything that happened to them, A was used to seeing them wake up frantic and afraid. Terrorized of  all the pain the day ahead would surely bring. Now, they look tired. Like they don’t even care about what happens to them anymore. Just a hollow, ghostly version of themselves. As if B is gotten used to the agony. A doesn’t know which is worse.  

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The caretaker softly waking the whumpee on the first days after their rescue, ambling towards the bed and taking a deep breath knowing full well that the whumpee is still too out of it to even recognize them. 

They cradle the whumpee's hand when their eyes shoot open because of a feather touch of the caretaker. They whisper sweet nothings when they bring the tray of food in front of them, watching the whumpee eat out of an irrational fear of what the caretaker would do if they refuse the food. 

They try to smile reassuringly as the whumpee shrinks and flinches with their touch, muttering weak pleas of mercy - please, they are so sorry, they want to be good - even though the caretaker is being nothing but gentle in cleaning and dressing the wounds that still cover the whumpee’s body.

When they finally get out of the room, leaving the whumpee too exhausted to do much more than sleep, they are unable to stop the tears from falling.

How is the whumpee going to recover from something like this? 

[whump-and-tea]

A feels guilty for the many scars on B’s body. 

Maybe they had some part in the wounds that caused them, maybe B got hurt because of A’s recklessness, or maybe they were present when B was hurt, with no way to stop it from happening, but they felt like an accomplice just by having been unable to stop it. 

They feel a pang of guilt stab their chest every time B rolls down their sleeves when they enter a room, or when they seem to always carry a sweater on around them, not caring if it’s the middle of summer or if the heater is on full power in the room. 

A knows damn well they will never make up for causing B so much pain, and the thought that B still had to deal with the consequences of A’s foolishness even after all this time keeps them awake at night more often than not.

It's not until later that they accidentally learn that the B has no problem in showing their scars around their other friends, it’s just A that they’re still wary about. That B can easily walk around in a tank top and shorts if A’s not there.

It makes them feel even worse.

Did B still think of them as a monster? 

One night, after having a little too much to drink, A confronts B about it. They feel guilty and confused and hurt, and they want to tell B that they would chop off their own arm instead of laying a finger on them again, that B doesn’t need to be afraid anymore, they swear on their life, B is safe with them.

Imagine their surprise when B tells them with a sad smile that they are not afraid of A, they haven’t been in a long time. That they only cover their scars in front of A because B can’t stand the look of guilt in A’s eyes everytime they look at them.

[whump-and-tea]

The whumpee’s bed is shaking from all the coughing. They have been sick for a week now.

The cough has gotten so bad they can barely talk before another fit overtakes them, and to try and swallow even the softest foods has proven to be a huge task, for their throat hurts so much. Their head hurts like a bitch, too, and they think that they had a mild fever that morning. Probably.

They keep telling themselves it’s just an allergy, that it will pass soon. There's no need to worry the caretaker about it, they can take care of themselves, dammit. They just need to sleep it out.

They are trying to sit on their bed, just enough time to reach for the water bottle on their nightstand and drink what little water is left in there when another fit comes. They raise a hand to their mouth to try and muffle the coughs that wreck their body. When they finally put their hand back, their chest feels like it's on fire, and the tissue they are holding is stained with blood.

Bonus points if the caretaker enters the room then, too worried about the self-destructive tendencies of the whumpee to stay away any longer, and their eyes widen at the sight of the blood. "What happened to you?!"

[whump-and-tea]

The caretaker has to decide whether to use what little water they and the whumpee have in their cell to clean the whumpee’s wounds or to give it to the whumpee who’s feverish and dehydrated.

If they clean the wounds, the whumpee might faint from severe dehydration, with no guarantee they’ll ever wake up again; but if they give the water to the whumpee, the wounds might get infected, making the whumpee even sicker, and it would drastically decrease their chances of making it out alive from their captivity.

Whatever choice they make, the whumpee will end up suffering anyway.

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The caretaker's bloody, trembling hands reaching out just after the whumpee has been taken away to another round of torture.

The caretaker can't do anything about it, except to wait for the broken whumpee to be brought back to their cell, bleeding and delirious, and hope they are able to dress their wounds just enough so the whumpee survives the night.

[whump-and-tea]

write your whumpee screaming as loud and hard as they can. if that’s out of character for them, make it a nightmare or a hallucination or a memory. write them absolutely losing their composure, breaking down, getting loud and messy with their frustration and hopelessness and despair.

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Whumper starving the whumpee for hours on end, punching or kicking their empty stomach whenever it growls. Ribs break, bruises swell and Whumpee isn’t sure what’s going to make them faint first, the pain or the hunger.

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That moment when…

Charachter A is hurt really bad and is trying to breathe staring into space with unseeing eyes, and Charater B is trying to get Character A to look at him but he is too out of it

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Of cold, trembling hands and glassed eyes

Fisrt things first: I started this blog because I couldn’t possibly have a bleeding out tag right next to a picture of kirby holding a pink flower on my main blog.

Just kidding. Kinda.

My name’s Emma, and this is the space where I will hopefully be sharing whump related content that I enjoy.

I’m guessing that for the time being, this blog will be only about reblogs, whith the ocational three-lined prompt while I gather the courage to post my own whump stories and OC’s, so bear with me, aye?