I love the dynamic of a talkative whumpee and a stoic whumper. Especially a comedic/lighthearted whumpee who uses humor as a coping mechanism
Because it’s the perfect storm for Whumpee to be cracking jokes, trying to make small talk with the villain or the sidekicks, hoping someone will have mercy because come on, they’re just a little guy. And the rising panic as they realize that no one is responding. In fact, few are even looking straight at them.
All the while Whumper walks slowly and deliberately to a torture tool Whumpee hadn’t noticed until now
Whumpee’s slow gulp before they pour all their charm, all their wit, all their thirst for approval into a grin so bright it could reflect off the face of a blade. But Whumper’s face remains immovable as ever, eyes slightly crinkled at the edges with what could be disgust or mild amusement.
“Woah wait,” Whumpee stammers, trying to push away. “Wait now, now hold on, let’s talk about this.”
Whumper’s head tilts a fraction to the side as if to say there’s been enough of that.
Words pour lightning fast from Whumpee’s mouth. Sloppy one-liners, pleading babble, Later, they can’t remember what exactly they said, only that the power they once found in words was ripped from them like a scream.
I saw you were taking whump requests!! Could you maybe do something where Whumpee is injured but is still trying to go on missions so Caretaker has to sedate them for their own good???
Sorry this took so long. I've been working on a book and all my time goes into 1) my job and 2) the book, which for the time being is an unpaid second job. But here it is at last!
Let's sedate some whumpees!!
--
cw // sedation w/ fade to black, sedation for whumpee's sake, dizziness, referenced past physical trauma (broken bones, beating), medical language, bad(??) caretaker
(as always, please let me know kindly if there are tags I miss and I will add them)
--
"Any questions?"
Leader crosses his arms and watches the team digest the mission plan. Silence doesn't settle over the room so much as turn in restless circles like an anxious dog.
Everyone wonders if they should be the one to speak up. Of course there are questions. Or, at least one. Only one that matters.
Is Whumpee really coming along?
No one looks at Whumpee, sitting straight-backed in their seat, arm free of its sling a week too early. The bruises on their cheeks and neck are long faded, but under a careful eye, a yellow tinge still lingers beneath the surface. Stitches weren't enough to make up for the small chunk missing from their bottom left, leaving it misshapen. Thanks to Healer's handiwork, Whumpee is in much better shape than they could be (or should be), but no where near completely healed.
Leader looks at each team member one by one. One by one, they feel his gaze, and Leader watches every pair of eyes drift toward Whumpee's chair. This plan hinges on everyone playing their part to the letter. No room for screw ups. No room for weak links.
Healer bounces a knee beneath the table. In the cool light, her eyes flash almost threateningly.
Finally, Leader looks to Whumpee, who returns his gaze with unwavering determination.
"No questions," they say, as resolute as a charging chariot.
--
The team is dismissed to prepare for the mission at hand. In the hallway, Healer catches Leader by the crook of his arm, her fury barely reined.
"You cannot be serious."
Leader looks down at Healer's hand, raising an eyebrow. "About?"
"Don't you dare." Healer's voice is more than angry. It's vengeful. "Whumpee should never have been in the field in the first place. They weren't ready and you knew it. But you sent them anyway."
Leader wrenches his arm free. Rather, Healer lets him loose. She can't stand to touch him anymore.
"Whumpee has skills I needed to utilize. What happened was a terrible accident--"
"They were almost killed."
Leader huffs something almost like laughter. "I'm not the bad guy here. We all know the risks. This is a job like any other, and if they can't stand the heat--"
"Listen to me. Whumpee's bones are barely healed. They haven't passed a single stress test since....since it happened. They're too weak to be of any use." Harsh, maybe, but Healer can't afford to be sensitive when Whumpee's life could be on the line. "If they get into trouble, there may not be any getting out. Not like last time."
I may not be able to fix them like last time.
Leader walks away but Healer is right on his heels. "Their role is a stationary one," Leader says, unperturbed. "Very little chance of trouble finding them from a surveillance van. If they want to back out, they need only say the word."
Fury ablaze, Healer steps in front of Leader, blocking his path. She ignores how a dangerous look flashes across his face. "Whumpee would step in front of a moving train if you told them to. To prove that they could. To make you proud. Don't you dare take advantage of that. They are not your soldier."
More than his usual annoyance, the new look on Leader's face puts Healer at unease. But she stands her ground, refusing to step aside. It's not a look of anger, of indignation at her disrespect. It's thoughtfulness. Like he's just been handed a fun new toy. Like he can't wait to see what it can do.
"Loyalty," he says, and the way the word rolls off his tongue makes Healer's stomach drop, "is a valuable gift. To give, and to be given. Whumpee's loyalty makes them an incredibly important asset to the team....and you're right, Healer. You're absolutely right. Whumpee should be safeguarded, given time to heal and regain their strengths. Effective immediately, they're suspended from the mission."
Healer can't find it in herself to be relieved. There's a caveat coming, she can feel it.
Leader lays a heavy hand on her shoulder, and her stomach drops. "We'll be leaving in an hour. Best give Whumpee one more check up, don't you think?"
--
Excitement runs hot and electric through Whumpee as they practically run to the medical wing. Time for another mission, but more than that. A second chance.
They knock on the examination room door, but don't wait for permission to enter. At this point, this room is as familiar to them as their own quarters. They've spent the better part of a month inside these sterile white walls under Healer's masterful hands.
Healer works at the counter, her back to Whumpee.
"You can't seem to get rid of me, doc!" They hop on the examination table, jarring their sore arm, but they don't let on how much it hurts. They've been practicing.
Craning their neck, they try to peer over Healer's shoulder but can't catch a glimpse of her work. Their thoughts swiftly drift to the mission, and their eyes to the anatomical posters hanging around the room. Skeletal system, nervous system, muscular, endocrine. Diagrams of the human brain. Healer had shown Whumpee what was happening in their body when she healed them from Villain's beatdown, how her powers combined with the medicine she prescribed facilitated almost miraculous repairs.
"Whip up some of your magic so I can get out of here!" Whumpee pinches a corner off the paper covering the exam table. "I still need to get my things ready. Lots to do. I didn't pack enough snacks last time. Or gauze." They shake away the memories. This time, they'll be more careful.
"I just want to make sure you're all set for field work," Healer says. Something clatters on the counter. "Can't be too careful."
Whumpee slowly flexes their sore arm, rolling their eyes. If there's one thing they've learned about Healer through all this, it's that she's inhumanly thorough. No stone unturned, no ailment untreated. Her attention to detail combined with unmatched empathy made her a good medic. The best Whumpee has ever seen, actually. And she tells it straight, the good and the bad, no lies to spare your feelings. Whumpee knows her tough love is the real reason why they've healed so quickly from the worst beating they've ever survived.
"Leader seems to think I'm ready to get back out there. I've got an important role in the plan. You heard him, he said--"
"Leader isn't your doctor."
Healer's voice was hard edges and ice. Whumpee had heard that voice before, usually when she found out that they'd been negelcting physical therapy. Whumpee felt themself shrink a bit in their seat, disappointed to have been a disappointment.
Healer exhales a slow breath, her back and shoulders deflating until she, too, seems smaller where she stands. "But…he believes in you. You've made a lot of progress. I'm very proud of you. You’re gonna do great."
Healer turns around and walks to where Whumpee, ever the model patient, sits on the cushioned table. In one hand she holds a bottle of water, and in the other, she pinches a small paper cup between her fingers. At the bottom, two blue tablets lay like pale snapdragon petals.
She holds out the water and cup. "Down the hatch."
"What's this?" Whumpee asks, but takes both from her.
Healer adjusts the pillow at the head of the table, hair obstructing her eyes. “Pain relief.”
Easy enough, Whumpee knocks the pills back. With the water, they go down smoothly. “That’s it then?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Thrill rushes through them. Back in the field. Another chance to prove their skill. Their capability. Their worth.
Leader believes in me, they think. Healer is proud of me. They don’t know which is the sweeter thought.
They jump from the table, mind already back in their room, gathering up what they need for the mission. No sooner do their shoes touch the tile floor than that shock of thrill turns cold, then fuzzy warm, and then the lights are too bright. And the room is tilting.
“Woah—”
Their knees buckle beneath them. They reach for something to catch but it’s too late. They’re already falling and the world is out of reach.
Strong arms scoop them up. “Easy does it.” Healer’s voice.
“Healer, I…I feel…”
“I know.”
Grotesque diagrams of flayed human bodies warp beneath the harsh lights. There is something here, in this room where safety could once be trusted. Something wrong.
The horrible images all slide away, replaced by a cold, rectangular sun. Healer is somewhere, close and distant, laying them back on the table with arms too long. Softness embraces their head but Whumpee finds no comfort in it.
Half of what they mean to say is lost, butchered as it passes through the sieve of their tongue and teeth. “Healer...(help)...I'm...(feeling)...wrong."
“Shh, I know.”
Sharp metal gleams on the border of their sight but when they turn to see what instruments of pain and horror await, there are only blurred silver sheets where tables once were, and Healer’s sad eyes.
Then Whumpee understands. And they know they’d take ten broken bones over betrayal's deep, hollow pain.
Maybe there were real words on their tongue, or a scream, or a curse, but all that comes out is a high whimper—weak, pathetic, helpless—that follows them into sleep.
thinking about a Whumpee who has never known a kind touch. Or who’s been hurt for so long that they can’t remember how gentle human touch can be. But here is someone cleaning their wounds. Treating and bandaging them with touches so light that they could almost mistake this for care. It is a sensation so surprising, so sweet, that all they can do is turn their head and gaze into Caretaker’s face in wonderment as something like bliss washes over them. Because they can’t be real, can they? And if they are real, they can’t be human. Caretaker pauses to look at them, a little taken aback by tear-brimmed eyes so wide, so adoring, that they actually blush, before returning to their delicate work.
Whumpee is usually very articulate. But under intense stress, they stutter badly and there’s no hope of getting control of it until they’ve calmed down
Whumper treats it like a little game. How badly can they make Whumpee stutter? What triggers it the worst?
One day, Whumper holds up a card for Whumpee to see. Sweat drips down their cheek, mixes with old blood. Handwritten on the card in uncharacteristically clear scrawl is one word: allegorical.
“If you,” Whumper taps Whumpee’s nose, “can say this,” they wiggle the card, “without messing up…I will let you go.”
Whumpee’s heart leaps in their chest. Cruel hope. Cruel mockery.
“I c-c-c-can’t—”
“Yeah, probably not, but don’t sell yourself short.” Whumper kneels in front of them, smiling with many teeth. “I believe in you. Best case scenario, you win, and I let you go. You get to breathe good air and see deer and whatever else you’re imagining right now.”
Shame warms Whumpee’s cheeks, like they’ve been caught in something perverse. Hope has become a forbidden fantasy.
“Worst case scenario…” Whumper pauses, absentmindedly folding the corner of the card while they think of a suitable consequence.
Whumpee swallows. “I st-st…” The game is already lost. They can’t even tame their tongue on a single syllable word. “I st-stay here?”
Whumper’s eyes raise without their head moving to follow. The effect is wolflike, predatory. A spark flies across them suddenly, the flash of an idea. Whumpee’s blood runs cold.
I live for this!! I especially adore new caretakers tending to scared whumpees. Give me that trope for days. Here's some concepts...
backing away when Caretaker steps toward them
maneuvering to keep a barrier, like furniture, between themselves and Caretaker
never breaking eye contact so they can read Caretaker’s intentions
never making eye contact, either because they’re too afraid or they’ve been trained not to by Whumper
waking up somewhere safe but unfamiliar, so they immediately hunt for weapons of opportunity -- fork, paperweight, a dense book, rock, chair, table leg, scalpel, shard of a mirror, glass cup, or vase
clutching whatever they find to their chest like a lifeline
Caretaker walking in to see whumpee holding out their strange weapon, trying to look bigger, more intimidating, as they stand there trembling
hiding under furniture when the door opens (good for physically small whumpees who can fit under tables, etc)
if they're bedridden, pulling the covers up under their chin or over their wounds
misinterpreting something caretaker says, even an innocent question about their wellbeing, or a request to see their wounds. Immediate begging or bargaining to avoid what they think is going to be more hurt
begging to be left alone -- "please, please don't, don't don't don't--" // “DON’T touch me.” // “I don’t need help.”
too scared to speak, the only sounds they can make are whines or heavy breathing
flinching, flinching, flinching
hard flinches. Jerking their whole body away from even the lightest touch
pulling away so suddenly that they bang their arm against the table, or back up hard into a wall
small flinches. In the fingers, at the corners of the eyes. Trying not to show fear but unable to control their instinct to pull away
hard, silent stares
defiant whumpees knocking water/food/clothes/medical supplies out of caretaker's hands
Caretaker taking a bite/sip of the food/drink first to show that there's no catch, there's no trick. "It's just soup. See?"
and when they finally start to trust Caretaker (or maybe they don't still, maybe the pain is just too much for them to refuse treatment any longer) absolutely melting under their touch
that delicious trope when Whumpee tries with all their might to be strong and keep it together. Their breath through their nose quickens and gets louder as the panic sets in, or the pain worsens, and they release the tiniest broken whimper
numbing salve pressed to their wounds. Whumpee crying in spite of themself, the relief is so soothing
Heroes having their abilities ripped away and the ramifications.
A mind reader, who has only ever wished to be able to turn the voices off, feels they'll go mad in the silence. They're forced to face their own thoughts when they were always able to drown them out.
A teen who could speak with the dead can no longer see or hear their friend's ghost. They must relearn how to connect and interact with the living.
The telekinetic always used their ability for fun and convenience. The new effort they have to put toward everything, and the time they feel they waste, leaves them depressed and drained.
The pyrokinetic suffers a form of phantom limb syndrome, reaching out to connect with a life force that will no longer respond to their call.
The hydrokinetic, turns out, has always been afraid of being powerless and overwhelmed. It's just more obvious now that, for the first time in their life, they're at a very real risk of drowning.
A shapeshifter is forced to revert to their original form the first time in years. They're a stranger to themself.
