Hurts So Good

S. Did someone say whump with extra angst, a lil trauma, and comfort on top? 🖤 •Mostly reblogs• ~Some NSFW content so please beware~ BACKUP ACCOUNT: @whatwhumpcomments

[whatwhump]

Ex-Villain Whumpee: Pt. 4!

Hello lovely whump community! I apologize for how long this took me; I’m in school so it can be hard to find time to write sometimes. :) 

Anywho, thank you for all of the encouragement for this story! I’m excited to announce this will be an ongoing series! I’m not sure for how long, but what I anticipated as being only a few posts I think has potential to be a larger arc. I’m really excited to dive into these character’s relationship dynamics and plan to use all of my favorite whump tropes! I’ve got some pretty evil fun ideas in the works. ;) My goal is to update this story bi-weekly. 

This is by no means my best work because I’m just doing this for fun. I hope you don’t mind and still walk away with whumperflies! 

**For list of character names/roles as well as Parts 1-3, see the previous post here**

TW: whipping, torture, beating, self-harm reference, suicidal thoughts (of the passive ideation variety), severe self-esteem issues; bad caretaker

“I. Won’t. Break.” 

Despite their diminutive stature, Charlie towered over Alex as they writhed against restraints on the table of Eric Goodgrave's torture chamber interrogation room. 

Charlie stared down at their victim grimly. “You will. You have to,” they responded matter-of-factly. 

Both of them were sweating beneath the bright, hot lights. They were going on hour three of their little dance, now. Charlie still held the whip but it now dangled lifelessly beside them. They simply stared down their victim. Cool. Calm. Collected. 

Alex–lying on their stomach–strained their neck to glare back at them, practically seething with rage. The anger protected them; as long as they held on to the fury deep within, it helped distract them from the excruciating burning all across their bare back. Yes, inside that room and beyond, anger protected them from the brutal realities of life as a hero. 

Charlie began the interrogation in a suit with a buttoned-up white dress shirt. By now, though, they had abandoned the blazer and rolled up their sleeves. It struck Alex as a strange juxtaposition. Here they were, being torn apart by this…this psychopath, as if they had just arrived home from their 9 to 5 to find the dog had peed in the house and were slightly irritated.

“Tell me where the team is,” Charlie murmured, slowly raising the whip up off the ground in a warning. 

Alex wanted the suffering to stop more than anything; they’d already passed out–twice–and hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in at least two days. But not more than they wanted to keep their teammates safe. No, they cared about them too much. They would die for them, there was no doubt in their mind. Alex scowled; unfortunately, although they wished to spit right in Charlie’s stupid face as they had at the start of the session, their parched mouth could no longer produce any saliva. I think I might die here, they thought to themselves…

That’s when they saw it. How hadn’t they seen it before?! 

Charlie’s dress shirt had shifted just enough to reveal a tattoo on their collarbone—a tattoo of a sparrow…the symbol of the hero's resistance. Identical to the tattoo they had as well! 

A roguish smile crossed Alex’s battered face. 

“So…what’s it like to be a traitor?” Charlie’s brows furrowed in confusion. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Your defection from the Hero’s League, silly!” Charlie’s face flashed with surprise momentarily before they returned to their stoic expression. 

“I think the blood loss is getting to you.” 

“Come on! Spill the tea!” cried Alex. Charlie tightened their grip on the whip and took a menacing step forward. 

“Ughhh–FINE, Mopey-Pants,” they said rolling their eyes. “Lucky for you I’m a good guesser. Hmmm….let’s see. You…stole documents with sensitive information?” 

Charlie sighed. “Stop this. Just spit it out already. There’s no other way you’re getting out of this.”

“Ok, not that one, then. Ummmm…failed a dangerous mission that resulted in the deaths of thousands?  Yikes, that’s definitely a big no-no! How about…unencrypted the hero’s security system? Staged a coup?”

Charlie was starting to get red in the face. Of course, this only provoked Alex to push further. 

“What about damaging top-secret technology?” 

“Alex–”

“Oooh oooh, I know! You shared your secret identity? Took an extra tray of tater-tots in the cafeteria?” 

“STOP,” Charlie exclaimed, adjusting their stance uncomfortably. They weren’t used to these things not going their way, of not having total control. The grin on Alex’s face spread even wider. 

“What about just sucking at doing your job, plain and simple?” 

“I will give you twenty more lashes if you don’t–”

“I’ve got it! You fell in love with a co-worker!” 

Alex opened their mouth once more to continue their diatribe but paused. It was slight, barely perceptible, but they saw it. Charlie’s eyes had widened a bit on that one… 

“Wait…seriously? Oh. My. GOD!! You actually–” Alex burst into laughter. But honestly, it wasn’t just to piss them off. It was genuinely ridiculous to them. (And the blood loss and malnutrition wasn’t helping either). 

“You have got to be kidding me! But I guess it’s kinda sweet; you had a little office crush!” Alex mocked, their eyes sparkling in pure, unbridled joy at the humiliation evident on Charlie’s face. 

“That’s–that’s not true,” Charlie stammered. “You’re just making shit up! Stop this nonsense because I swear I’ll–”

“You were actually so butt-hurt that after they broke your heart you became evil?” 

“Shut–”

“Your self-esteem is so fragile you actually became a villain! Like a coward! A self-pitying, coward!” 

Charlie was pissed now. Mortified and pissed. Their chest heaved as their breathing grew heavy and their nostrils flared. They couldn’t get a word in as Alex continued to denigrate them.

“What are you, an incel?! How absolutely–” 

“STOP–”

“PATHETIC!” Alex wheezed. They were howling with laughter now. So invested in the hilarity of the situation and having pulled one over on their abuser, Alex didn’t notice as Charlie…well…broke. 

“You were NEVER a true hero! You’re just a slimy, insecure, foolish bastard! Oh lord, whoever broke up with you dodged a HUGE bullet! Like what kinda idiot thinks you of all–” 

“SHUT UP!!!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!! DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK OF THEM! DON’T YOU DARE INSULT THEM IN MY PRESENCE!” 

What happened next was a blur, for both hero and villain. Charlie whipped out the knife from their pocket and slashed it across Alex’s face. Then, they wrenched back the whip and slammed it against Alex’s back, over and over and over again. They were absolutely relentless, the entire time screaming, “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” 

Alex screamed as Charlie used more force than they had before. The lacerations already on their back deepened, scarlet red practically flooding off the sides of table. Charlie’s barrage just would not stop. Tears streamed out of Alex’s eyes as apologized profusely and begged for it to stop. Soon their vision grew blurry and they silently thanked God for the embrace of unconsciousness. But they knew this nightmare would still be here when they woke up. 

Before they completely lost touch, they managed to shriek…

~ 

“I’LL TELL YOU!” 

Alex shot out of bed with a whimper. They ware disoriented at first, still babbling through sobs, before their eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. They are in the cell. Goodgrave’s cell. The small skylight above them emanates the soft, bluish glow of early morning hours. Dew drops dot the dirty glass and they become aware of just how cold the room is. The calmness felt eerie and unsettling after such a nightmare. 

Then they looked beside them. 

Seeing Charlie asleep in the bed brought back a tsunami of memories from the day prior. It generated a visceral reaction in them–making their stomach churn in knots and their heart pound even faster. Immediately they bolted off the bed, backing away until they were on the other side of the room. They sunk down to the floor and watched as their enemy remained asleep. 

Charlie had the blanket draped over them but it was thin and raggedy; no match for the icy, winter morning. They shivered and their teeth clattered slightly. They were still covered in blood and bruises from the night before and hugged the broken arm to their stomach. It bent at a disturbing angle and was an angry red color. But what Alex noticed the most was their pallid face. It was drawn down in frown. Grime and blood painted their cheeks. 

Without even thinking about it Alex’s finger softly ghosted along the scar across their face. They stood up and crossed the cell to the small mirror hanging above the dirty, old sink. They’d become used to it by now. Their mind spun in circles, overrun and overwhelmed. 

The prone figure behind them couldn’t hurt them now. Not just because they were asleep, or because they had become weak and sickly after their time with Eric, but because by the time Charlie was taken captive by the Hero’s Alliance eight months prior they were a shell of themselves. The stoic, fearsome interrogator they once knew was replaced by a nervous, obedient individual. Ripley said Charlie seemed genuinely repentant. To the point of self-disgust. Alex refused to believe this. (They did notice the way Charlie avoided looking at themselves in the mirror, and a couple times noticed the scars they tried to hide beneath long sleeves. They noticed it because Alex used to be like that, too. But Alex didn’t care…how could they?) 

“Alex.” 

Alex jumped, startled by the groggy voice, and spun around. Charlie was using their good arm to prop themselves up. They could only open one eye, the other nearly swollen shut and mottled with purple, black splotches. 

“Sorry,” Charlie whispered. They ducked their head as the tips of their ears reddened. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Alex hummed in response. A moment of awkward silence elapsed. Alex focused on removing a piece of lint from their shirt and did their best to look completely unperterbed despite their recent dream.

 “Are you…um…are you okay?” Charlie asked. 

“I’m fine.” An awkward silence filled the space between them once more. Charlie tried to move from their position but quickly regretted it, hissing as their broken arm was jostled. Cautiously, Alex neared the bed. They shifted their weight as they watched their enemy struggle to sit up. 

Charlie appeared to still be in the throes of a fever. They let themselves fall back on the bed. Their eyes seemed glazed, lids half open and struggling to stay that way. Again, they tried to sit up but only managed to hurt themselves once more. They moaned as their arm burned and their head throbbed with a migraine. 

Alex hesitated momentarily, and then untied the sweatshirt from around their waist. “We need to do a make-shift cast for your arm. It will take some of the weight off it.” 

“Oh no, it’s fine. Really. You keep it. It’s cold in here. Thank you.” 

“No, you need it or it’ll get worse.” 

“I swear I’m fine. You need it, you–” 

Alex huffed stubbornly and began reaching for their enemy anyways. They were taken aback when Charlie flinched. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, you idiot,” Alex bit out, annoyed. I should be the one flinching, not you! They thought to themselves. Resentment bubbled up to the surface and Alex tried to focus on putting villain in a positon where they could make the cast to distract themselves from it. 

“Sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I did that. It was–yeah. I’m–” 

“Just stop talking, okay?” Alex barked. Charlie bit their lip and nodded ashamedly. 

Alex’s resentment manifested as roughly tending to the villain. Charlie did their best to not make a sound but when Alex harshly man-handled the broken arm into it’s place in the cast they winced and whimpered. 

“Stop whining. You’re the reason we’re in this mess. You should have left when I told you to!” 

“I know…I’m so sorry.” 

“If Team Lead had just listened to me in the first place…ugh. They’re way too nice to you. You don’t deserve their sympathy. Pff. You don’t deserve anything really.” 

“...I–nngghhh–agree,” mumbled Charlie weakly.

“Yeah right. I don’t believe you.” Alex grins as they glance over to see Charlie’s face; they wanted to watch their words hurt in real time. Instead, Alex didn’t feel the joy they expected. They could tell Charlie was holding back tears. One escaped and Charlie hastily wiped it away. 

Something felt wrong in the pit of Alex’s stomach. Their grin quickly dissipated. 

They had finished with the cast and were about to get up when they noticed just how much blood still covered Charlie’s neck and chest. They retrieved and wet a cloth like they had the night before. 

“Let’s clean this up a bit. I don’t like the smell of blood,” they rationalized. Charlie’s eyes were half-mast and they nodded woozily. While wiping their face Alex felt heat radiating off their nemesis’ forehead. 

Charlie swayed slightly and they steadied them. 

“You feeling nauseous?” Charlie shook their head. Alex shot them a look. 

“...A little. But it’s really not that bad. I’m fine.” 

“Here. Drink this. Then you need to lie down.” They took a cup of water they had filled at the sink and made Charlie take a few sips. Alex put their hand behind Charlie’s neck and slowly lowered them. Charlie hissed in pain once more. 

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be quiet” they reassured. 

Within a few minutes Charlie’s eyes were closed. Alex decided to lay down again and try to get more rest if they could. It was quiet except for the slightly congested breathing coming from Charlie. 

Faintly came the sound of someone whistling. It grew closer and closer until footsteps echoed outside in the hall as well. Charlie’s eyes shot open and they strained to sit up, a look of horror on their face. 

“He’s coming.” 

“It’s probably the guard. Go back to sleep,” Alex warned. 

“NO. It’s...” 

Abruptly, keys rattle in the door and it swings open. Eric Goodgrave’s lanky frame waltzes in and a mischievous smile spreads across his face. 

“Oh goody, you’re both awake! Alex, my dear: may I ask you a personal question?”  

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[whumpninja]

Enemies Closer

Part 3: Iron

Featuring: medieval whump, unconscious whumpee, mentions of torture, threats of murder, chains

Masterlist

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They nearly came to blows. Leander sprang around the side of the bed to seize Rainier’s arm. Rainier shook him off, growling, turning the dagger in his hands. He was taller than Leander, more muscled, better practiced, but Leander had the grim determination to stop him slitting Emauri’s throat. He flung himself over Rainier’s shoulders, clinging on as Rainier stumbled backwards, falling heavily to the floor. Leander reached over him to grab the wrist that held the dagger.

“Let it go,” he panted.

“Have you gone mad?” Rainier bucked, trying to throw him off.

They thrashed on the floor, Leander keeping hold of Rainier’s wrist with gritted teeth. “Let it go!” he shouted again. “Let go, Rainier!”

Rainier tried to shake him one more time, and then- reluctantly- he opened his hand and let the dagger clatter to the floor. Leander released him to snatch it, and by the time he’d scrambled up, Rainier was on his feet too.

They faced each other, chests heaving, standing over the bed where Emauri lay.

Rainier spoke first. “You know who he is.”

Leander didn’t bother denying it. “Yes.”

“You know what he’s done.”

“Yes.”

“Why won’t you let me kill him, then?”

“Look at him.” Leander gestured to Emauri’s still, pale form. “He’s half dead already.”

“Then it would be a mercy.” Rainier spoke with clenched teeth. “A mercy he doesn’t deserve. You know what he and his father did. To you. To me. To Abril!” His voice was getting louder. “How dare you, Leander? How dare you bring him here? How dare you bring him anywhere near my wife when he’s part of the reason she wakes up screaming at night?”

“It was Baron Antonin that hurt her, Rainier.”

“And that little snake stood by and watched! And laughed! Laughed, while his father tortured a woman who had done nothing to them!” Rainier stepped around the bed, grasping Leander by the shoulders. His eyes were filled with real concern, mixed with the anger. “The Tarasques were almost your death. They took me, they took Abril, they hurt us to get you to surrender. They would have given you to the king in chains. You would have been killed, Leander, and not quickly. Not like I’m going to kill him.”

“But they didn’t.” Leander reached up with his free hand to close it over Rainier’s. “You got Abril out and got to me in time. The king is dead and I am alive and he’s paid for it, Rainier, he’s paid. You didn’t- you didn’t see the gaol.” He turned away, closing his eyes as the memory of the dark cell floated up before him like a ghost.

Rainier threw another glance to the pitiful sight on the bed. “How long?”

“I think almost since the last battle. Seven years. Years, certainly, if not all seven.” Leander clenched his fist. “They had him in the lower cells. There’s hardly any light down there. It’s dark and it’s wet and it’s cold and he was chained and he’s sick and I-I couldn’t leave him.”

Rainier was silent.

“Part of me wanted to. Part of me said it was justice. The road to where we are now was such a hard one to walk. You know it, Rainier, you walked it with me. But nothing I went through is worth a man dying slowly for seven years.”

“Is what Abril went through worth that?” Rainier challenged.

Leander shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I don’t think you can, either. Tell Abril. You’re my captains. If both of you can’t stand it, I’ll send him away.”

“Back to prison?”

“I- I can’t, Rainier. I’m tearing the old gaol down.”

“We have other prisons.”

“He’d die. He might die even now. But another prison would kill him for sure.”

Rainier jerked a shoulder in a way that very clearly meant And?

“I’ll send him somewhere far away.”

“That’s worse.” Rainier shook his head, his ginger ponytail flicking back over his shoulder. “I don’t want to be wondering when he’ll sneak back in the night. Friends close but enemies closer, right? Does that door lock?”

“Yes,” Leander answered. “I picked this room carefully.”

That didn’t stop Rainier. He moved all around the room, checking the windows to be sure they couldn’t open, looking over the furniture for sharp or heavy pieces, examining the lock on the door at a dozen different angles. When he straightened up, his eyes were hard, and Leander knew he was talking with Second Captain Velue, not his friend Rainier.

“I am posting a guard outside this room.” The words were cold and measured. “At all times. You, myself, and Abril may enter. No one else goes in, and no one else comes out.”

“He’ll need a healer,” Leander pointed out.

“I’ll speak with Master Brindle. After I speak with Abril.” Rainier looked over again at the still form on the bed. “And Leander- you don’t come in here alone.”

That had some of his friend in it, not just the captain of his guard. “He’s too weak to hurt me,” Leander said.

“I don’t care.” Rainier folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going to give him the chance. You come here with me, or with Abril. If she decides she can stand to look at him.” His lip curled.

Leander sighed. “All right, Rainier.”

“One more thing.” Rainier glanced at Emauri again. “If he wakes, will he be able to leave that bed?”

“No. There’s something- his leg. And he’s not strong enough anyway.”

“I want to make sure of it. Even if he’s weak as a kitten, I’m having him chained.”

“Rainier, no. He can’t even stand, he doesn’t need-“

“I don’t care, Leander.” Captain Velue had melted away. He was Rainier again. Somehow that might have been worse. “I don’t care. I will not risk you, and I will not risk Abril. It’s shackles or the dagger, Leander. Choose your iron.”

Leander could have ordered him not to do either. He could have ordered him to stand down. He was the Lord Protector. He could have.

He did not.

Instead he let a sigh slither between his teeth, and gave in. “A chain, then. A light one. And on his good leg.”

Rainier answered that with a single nod. “Come on out. I’m locking him in while I wake Abril.”

Leander followed him out of the room, watching as Rainier locked the door and made doubly sure it had bolted. And then they were friends again, and Rainier clapped him on the shoulder before he went into his and Abril’s quarters, and Leander heard her shout grumpily and the distinct thud of something heavy and Rainier cursing her impeccable aim.

It did not make him feel any better.

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[whumpninja]

Enemies Closer

Part 2: Alive

Featuring: medieval whump, historical whump, non-sexual nudity, graphic descriptions of starvation/injuries/sickness, blood, bathing, whumper turned whumpee

Masterlist

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“Beggin’ your pardon, Lord Protector, but there’s a man at the kitchen door with a dead body in a wheelbarrow. Says it’s for you.” The young serving girl giggled nervously as she delivered the message, her eyes wide.

“Thank you,” Leander replied, sending her into another round of tittering. They always laughed at the way he said “please” and “thank you” when he addressed them. He felt impolite just barking orders at them, no matter how many times they assured him it was how things were. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

The girl left with a curtsy, still laughing behind her hand.

Leander’s boots sounded very loud, thudding on the reed-strewn floors as he made his way down to the kitchens. The castle was relatively quiet this time of night, but a few cooks and kitchen maids still tidying up gave him puzzled looks and confused bobs of their heads as he came into their territory. He’d tried to make sure as few people would see him bring Emauri into the castle as possible, but it would never have gone completely undetected.

Leander headed for the big main door where deliveries were trundled in. Sure enough, a man stood waiting in the little courtyard beyond, leaning against the handles of a wheelbarrow. The contents were covered by a piece of rough cloth, but one pale arm dangled out of the back. It did look concerningly as though a corpse had been brought up to the castle.

The man who had brought it was not one of Leander’s own guards. He’d not wanted to risk the gossip being spread around the castle itself. A courier from the town would likely talk as well, but it was more likely to be dismissed as the oddities of the nobility. And anyway-

Leander tossed the man a golden coin, then held up another. “For your discretion,” he said firmly.

“Oh, of course, sir,” the courier replied, his eyes on the money. Leander handed it over and moved to the side of the wheelbarrow, steeling himself before pulling the cloth sheet back.

Emauri was breathing, but that was about the best that Leander could say. He looked worse in the moonlight, sickeningly pale and frightfully thin. He was bleeding from somewhere, and the fresh blood stuck to the dried grime coating his skin. He wasn’t conscious. Leander hadn’t thought he would be.

“You’ll want to keep that cloth on him, I expect,” the man said, looking faintly amused. “Them rags fell right off when the guard pulled him out of the cell.”

Leander hastily wrapped the roughspun cloth close around Emauri’s frail body and lifted the limp form into his arms. Godsbelow. He’d probably weighed more when Leander had met him as a boy.

Emauri’s head kept falling back, lolling on his neck, and Leander found he couldn’t bear the sight of it. It looked too much like a dead man. So he shifted his grip, adjusting his hands so he could brace Emauri’s head against his shoulder. His long hair was stringy, caked with sweat and filth; it felt like wet straw. Leander pulled a fold of the cloth up to hide Emauri’s face.

He met with a few castle residents on his way back through the kitchen and up the stairs. Several of them looked taken aback at the sight of the Lord Protector carrying an unconscious man through the corridors. “Someone I used to know,” Leander explained whenever he ran into someone, and left it at that.

He’d chosen the room carefully. It had crossed his mind that he could secure Emauri in the castle keep, which functioned as a prison but was far and away better than that hole he’d been rotting in. But Leander somehow hadn’t wanted to see him behind bars again. So he’d found a spare room in a quiet wing of the castle, on one of the highest floors. It had wide windows that would let the light in, but none of the windows on the upper floors opened, which Leander felt was a good precaution. He’d made sure the room had a sturdy, comfortable bed- it was obvious that Emauri would not be able to leave it for some time- and had asked one of the servants to bring up a tub and draw a warm bath.

Some part of his mind still railed at him, insisting that he was treating an enemy too kindly. Leander ignored it. Emauri was a traitor’s son, but he didn’t deserve to die forgotten in a dungeon.

Leander elbowed open the door of the room he had chosen. The bed had been made up just as he asked, piled with thick furs, and a tub of water stood against the far wall. A soft cloth hung ready over the side.

“Here we are,” Leander told the near-corpse in his arms, unsure why he felt like he should say it. He crossed the room in a few swift strides and set Emauri down next to the tub, pulling back the roughspun wrapped around him.

“Godsbelow,” Leander muttered, his stomach roiling.

He’d seen Emauri’s pitiful state in the dim light of the prison and the cold gleam of the moon. Now, seeing him in proper firelight, Leander wondered if he’d only brought him out of prison to die more comfortably.

Emauri was skeletal. Not thin, not even starved- skeletal. There was no meat, no muscle left. He was jutting bones draped with skin, washed almost translucent by years without sunlight. Bruises stained his face, marched their way down his arms, spilled over his chest and stomach. Any areas that weren’t bruised or cut were dotted with festering sores, and his whole frame was caked with filth. His body was cool when Leander reached out to touch it, and he snatched his hand away, thinking of the cold flesh of dead men.

The fresh blood was coming from a couple of deep gashes in Emauri’s back. They didn’t look newly inflicted; rather, they looked like older wounds that refused to heal properly, tearing open at the slightest movement.

Leander had intended to get started right away, but he found himself sitting back on his heels and just- staring. It seemed very much as though Emauri had been thrown in that cell seven years ago and simply left there. Leander knew the guards had to have fed him and given him water at least sometimes, but it looked as if they hadn’t. Had they ever bothered to go inside the cell and see how wretched their prisoner had become? If they had, had it mattered to them?

How long has he been like this? Surely not the whole seven; he would have died by now. He must have been slowly fading, the end rushing up faster than the beginning. It was easy to imagine the boy Emauri had been, still strong and healthy, pacing the cell and snarling arrogant curses at the guards.

It was also easy to imagine when that voice had finally fallen silent.

“Enough,” Leander told himself sharply. He’d meant to get the worst of the blood and filth off before bathing Emauri properly, and he set to it now. He dipped a corner of the roughspun into the tub and attacked the darkest patches of grime.

It was slow going. He’d feared to use soap or wine in case Emauri couldn’t stand it; his only weapons were water and the roughspun. Seven years of grime resisted him valiantly. He learned his lesson about scrubbing too hard and fast when a too-vigorous motion succeeded in knocking a crust of dirt from Emauri’s shoulder, but tore open one of the sores beneath. Leander had to be careful, after that.

Eventually, though, he felt as though he’d gotten the worst of it. The roughspun was black with filth. He’d burn it when he had a moment. For now, though, it was time to get Emauri into the proper bath.

Emauri was frail, but he was tall- Leander had remembered him shorter than himself, but stretched out on the floor of the castle he could tell Emauri had gained an inch or so on him. It was easy to lift the collection of bones Emauri had become. It was not so easy to sort them out into a tub of water that seemed suddenly much smaller than it needed to be. Emauri’s eyelids flickered when Leander lowered him into the warm water, and he made a sound that might have been an attempt at a word but was more likely just a feeble moan. He did not wake. Leander wished he would; senseless as he was, he couldn’t hold his own head up, and Leander had the difficult task of bathing him and simultaneously keeping him from drowning.

The water almost instantly turned a horrible grayish-pink, the color of rotting flesh. Leander stared at it, feeling oddly overwhelmed. I should have known one tub wouldn’t be enough.

He set his teeth, wet the soft cloth, and started in. He found that he could use an arm to brace Emauri up while leaving his hands free, as long as he resigned himself to being thoroughly soaked. Emauri did not resist him at all, so it was easy to reposition him as needed. And with the water softening the coat of dirt and dried blood, Leander could work a little harder at removing it without causing fresh damage.

When the cloth started to drip greyish instead of clear, Leander carefully positioned Emauri’s head back against the side of the tub and went down for a fresh bucket of water. He could have had one of the few servants who were still awake bring them up, but somehow it felt right to do it himself. Besides, they had enough to do keeping a large cauldron of water ready to fill the bucket when he needed it. They watched him flinging quantities of filthy water tinged with blood out the kitchen door and said nothing. Leander wondered if they would, if they knew who he was attending to upstairs.

Six trips up and down the stairs for more water, and Emauri finally began to look something like the boy Leander remembered. His dingy hair washed out to the silvery blond Leander knew, and he was able to work the worst of the knots out of it. The skin that had hidden beneath the coat of grime was papery and pale, and the bruises and cuts showed up far more starkly against it. There were dozens of marks and wounds Leander hadn’t been able to see before. A scar at his temple, quite old. A ring of raw flesh around his ankle where the shackle had been. That collection of cuts on his back, which Leander guessed had been made by some sort of lash. Several of the nails were missing from his hands and feet. One of his legs had been broken and healed badly. Leander was no physician, but he knew Emauri would not be able to walk on it.

He also knew that the former prisoner was ill. With what, he couldn’t have said. But Emauri’s thin body trembled, and it went beyond cold. Even after Leander had lifted him from the tub and dried most of the water from his skin, a sheen of sweat formed over it. When Leander pried up one of his eyelids, the slate-grey eye beneath was glassy with fever.

But Leander had to attend to what he could first, and he could do nothing for whatever disease had claimed Emauri in the prison. He could, however, get him proper clothes- save for the fact that Leander was shorter than Emauri and far more broad in the shoulders and chest. None of Leander’s shirts would fit him. He’d have to borrow one from some servingman or one of the guards.

Leander moved Emauri closer to the fire and folded the cleanest corner of the roughspun over his emaciated frame, just in case someone got curious and looked in. Then he turned to the washtub, deciding he might as well see to that, too, and fetch a shirt on the way back.

The full tub was heavier than he expected, and a frustrated part of him that had never bothered with castle manners wished that the windows up here did open, so he could throw the water out and only have to lug the empty vessel. He dragged it as far as the staircase before realizing that he was inevitably going to slop water all down the stairs. Someone could slip and be injured. Worse, the senior housemaid would be livid. And he still hadn’t found anyone to borrow a shirt from.

The answer to both Leander’s problems came with a chuckle and a rattle of armor. “Leander, what are you doing?”

Rainier Velue- Second Captain of the Royal Guard, tall as a pine, slim as a reed, and Leander’s closest friend in the whole world- stood behind him on the staircase, looking bemused at whatever Leander was trying to accomplish.

“Help me,” Leander panted, hefting the washtub down the first step.

Rainier obligingly took hold of the rim, and Leander gasped in relief as the washtub became much lighter and easier to balance. Together they heaved it down several flights of stairs which hadn’t felt so numerous when Leander had merely been toting a bucket, and sluiced the water out the kitchen door to join the rest of it. Even the last of the kitchen staff had gone to bed by now; they were alone.

“Should I ask why there’s blood in that water?” Rainier said quietly. “I’ll keep your secrets, you know, if you’ve done something stupid.”

Leander snorted, then turned it into a heavy sigh. He could trust Rainier, he knew that. But Rainier had very good reason to despise the Tarasques even more than Leander himself had. Could he be trusted with this?

He has to be, Leander decided. He’s my captain. And my friend. He has to know.

“Can I borrow a shirt?” Leander asked instead of answering.

They went up to Rainier’s solar together, keeping their steps as quiet as they could- Abril, Rainier’s wife and Leander’s First Captain, was sound asleep. They both knew that if they woke her she would not hesitate to make her displeasure known. Lord Protector or not, she’d thrown boots and books at Leander’s head more than once. Her aim was wicked.

Rainier slipped in to retrieve a shirt and came back victorious and unbruised, a bundle of muted blue cloth under his arm. “If this is for you, it won’t fit,” he warned, his green eyes twinkling. “For all the rich food the cook shoves at you, you’re still a scrawny shepherd boy.”

Leander jabbed an elbow in his ribs for that and led him, almost without knowing he was doing it, down the corridor to the room where he had put Emauri. At the door he turned to his friend. “I won’t ask you to agree with me on this,” Leander said. “But I will ask you not to tell anyone else except Abril. I wouldn’t make you keep a secret from her. And the two of you can be as angry with me as you want, just- be angry with me alone. It was my decision.”

Rainier’s easy smile had dropped from his face. “Leander, have you done something you shouldn’t?”

“Probably,” Leander sighed, and pushed open the door.

Nothing had changed. The fire had burned a little lower, perhaps, but that was all. Emauri lay on the hearth, still silent, still senseless, wrapped in the roughspun.

“Mother of mountains,” Rainier swore, his eyes wide. “Who’s that? What’s happened to him?”

“I found him when I went to look at the old gaol,” Leander answered. He crossed the room and bent down beside the almost-lifeless form, working the shirt over his head and his arms and settling it over his chest. It still fit badly, but better than one of Leander’s would have done. He balled up the roughspun and flung it into the fire. “Help me get him on the bed.”

Rainier pulled back the furs on the bed and Leander gathered Emauri into his arms again, setting him down on the mattress. He thought Emauri’s eyes flickered again, but once they had settled him, he lay still.

Rainier was looking him over, his lip caught between his teeth. “I think you’d better get Master Brindle to have a look at him, whoever he is,” he said. “He’s sick. And starved, and-“

He broke off suddenly, brushing a lock of the silver-blond hair away from the face and bending down to look more closely. Leander knew he’d worked it out, then.

Rainier turned disbelieving eyes on him. “Leander,” he said, very softly, “tell me this isn’t who I think it is.”

“It is,” Leander answered. “I don’t know how it is, but it’s Emauri Tarasque. Alive.”

“I can fix that,” Rainier bit out, and drew his dagger.

——————————————————————————

Taglist: @incoming-crisis @stars-hide-our-fires @vampiresprite @melpomenelamusa @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @pigeonwhumps @yougivemewhumperflies @starryybrained @scoundrelwithboba @whumpyreader @f1shs-b0nes

[leavley]

Guilt in whump. Heavy emphasis on that guilt being felt by Caretaker or anyone close to Whumpee.

I love it when Whumpee isn't taken seriously. Maybe before the Whumpening™, they were known to be overdramatic, or are a 'person who cried wolf' type. So, when they tell Caretaker, who is actively tending to visibly wounded patients, that they're hurt, all they get is a brief once over and a "can't you just take a pain reliever? I'm busy."

And it happens, time and time again. Maybe Whumpee seeks out someone else, but everyone has the same dismissive attitude about it. Perhaps it gets to a point where people aren't just annoyed, but frustrated. 'This is serious, Whumpee, we don't have time to be messing around!' After numerous attempts, they still won't receive any help, and so they stop asking.

Things have seemingly gone back to normal. Then, Whumpee's legs give out, and they're unconscious before they even hit the floor. Caretaker is first to look, and feels their heart drop into their stomach when they find out Whumpee was, if anything, underestimating how bad it was.

They must have been hurting for days, possibly weeks. They came to Caretaker, whose entire job is to ease pain and mend wounds, and were turned away without much of a thought. They can't furrow their brow this time and ask Whumpee "why didn't you come find me?" because they did— over and over.

Bonus points if Whumpee is alone when they finally collapse. No one finds them until they're in a puddle of their own blood, pale and far too easy to pick up.

[ayoooooooooooooooooo]

Whumpee’s hands were shaking as they wrapped them around the door handle. Free. They were free.

Sure, their ribs ached like the fiery craters of Jugnus, and they couldn’t really feel their fingers anymore, but they were free. How long had they been down there, they wondered. How long had they been tied up, sustaining hit after hit from a monster they’d once considered a friend?

They knew one thing for sure, though: Caretaker wouldn’t hear a word of this. If only Caretaker wasn’t one of only two doctors working on the ship. It was fine. They could go to Medic. Medic was cool. Medic let them calm down little kids who’d seen far too much in their war-torn homes. Whumpee liked helping with that. It gave them something to do rather than wander around, only allowed on the rescue vessel because their sibling worked on it.

Medic had a habit of tattling on Whumpee, though. Better to not tell them about Whumper, either. Easy enough. Whumpee would rather swallow hot coals than talk about that monster ever again.

-

Medic was having a rough day.

They’d just landed on a new planet, and then Whumpee had to go run off to who-knows-where. Not that Whumpee were obliged to help Medic out—the kid was still, well, a kid, after all—but usually Whumpee agreed to help without much urging. Not today, though. Whumpee was nowhere to be found that morning, leaving Medic alone to deal with half of the injured population of Urding. Great. They could do that. This was what they were paid for, after all.

They were tending to an old person when the door swung open. They took a deep breath, put on their best calm-understanding-doctor face, and turned around to tell whatever injured citizen had just walked in to wait their turn.

It wasn’t a citizen, though. It was Whumpee.

Medic’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Whumpee, hey, thank the stars,” they sighed, managing not to wince as their patient pursed their lips at the show of unprofessionalism. Whatever. Medic was done with this crap, and they needed their crowd-pleaser.

“I need help,” Whumpee said, and Medic bit back the urge to groan. Old Person probably wouldn’t be too pleased to see that, after all.

“Not right now. It’s really fucking busy,” a hmph from their patient, “And I need you working the waiting room.”

Whumpee faltered, and Medic prayed that the kid wasn’t in a dramatic mood today. Normally, they treated Whumpee’s eccentricity with all the patience they could manage, but that amount had exponentially dropped after working for 12 hours straight.

“Medic, I—”

“Whumpee,” Medic snapped, and thankfully that seemed to get the kid in line.

“I’ll… see what I can do,” Whumpee said, voice far fainter than it usually would be.

Medic had been too harsh. But then Whumpee was walking out to the waiting room, and Medic didn’t have the time to apologize for hurting their friend’s feelings.

-

Whumpee spent the next few hours comforting a planet’s worth of people as they waited for their turns. Half a planet’s worth, they reminded themself, since Caretaker would be taking the other half.

It was a small planet. Barely ten thousand people. But five thousand people feels a lot bigger when everyone’s stuck in an albeit large waiting room built for smaller rotations. It was weird to have everyone on board. Hadn’t they just gotten there? Or had they been there for months? The whole kidnapping thing had screwed with their sense of time.

Everything finally wrapped up about nine hours later. Whumpee could see the sun rising through the ship’s reinforced windows. Their head was spinning, and the numbness had spread from their fingers to the better part of their arms, but everyone had either been seen or decided to get attention tomorrow.

Whumpee hobbled to Medic’s office. They fumbled with the handle, muscle memory failing them as their muscles called them out on their shit, but eventually got the door open.

Medic was slouched over their computer logs. They looked on the brink of death. They certainly didn’t seem to be in the mood to help another needy patient.

But Whumpee had never been good at keeping their mouth shut.

“Medic?”

“What?” Medic snapped. Their voice wasn’t filled with anger but exhaustion, but it made Whumpee flinch all the same.

Not Whumper. Not Whumper. Not Whumper.

“Could you… maybe look at me now?” they asked, far meeker than they’d usually whine. The room was beginning to tilt, and Whumpee wasn’t sure if they could feel… anything at this point.

“I told you, Whumpee, I don’t have time for this right now.” Medic ran their hands over their face. “Why don’t you go see Caretaker?”

Whumpee’s heart sank, and they somehow managed to go even more numb.

“Medic…”

They couldn’t go to Caretaker. Caretaker would freak out, and then Whumpee would have to talk about it, and they just couldn’t do that. Not now, with the hurt so fresh. Not ever.

“Are you on the brink of death?” Medic asked, tone clipped. They turned so they were facing Whumpee. They looked so tired.

“I don’t know—maybe?”

Medic groaned and looked away like Whumpee had told a bad joke. Then they got up and trudged to the sink to start washing up.

Whumpee watched in a dazed stupor. Was the faucet really loud, or were their ears ringing? They got the sudden urge to let themself collapse into a pile of hurt right here on the floor.

They realized, not with any small amount of delirium, that Medic would get annoyed by that.

Whumpee left the room.

-

They went to their sleeping quarters, then. Best Friend glanced up at them with a smile that quickly turned into a frown as Whumpee stumbled onto their bed.

“Whumpee?” they asked. Or… had they asked that? Maybe they’d said something different. Something smarter. Best Friend was smart.

Maybe they hadn’t said anything at all.

Whumpee fell asleep around then.

-

Whumpee couldn’t breathe.

They woke up and they couldn’t breathe. Every time they tried to inhale, their chest would refuse, squeezing so tight their eyes began to water. It was like being crushed, but there was nothing on them.

If they didn’t go to someone, they were going to die.

They supposed that that would be harder to explain than the bruising.

It felt as though it took them years to stagger to their feet, and even then, they had to hug the wall to make it to the door. Every step sent a dull burning through their bones. They felt like they were melting from the inside.

Everything sort of… fazed out from there. They didn’t remember walking through the hallway. They didn’t remember navigating through a busy waiting room far quieter than the one they’d been in yesterday. They didn’t remember forcing a door open.

They just remembered Caretaker’s startled look at the bang that followed.

“Whumpee,” Caretaker said, their expression lacking its usual fondness. They looked tired. Just like Medic. Just like Whumpee. “Now is not the time.”

“I’m hurt,” they croaked out, and a twinge of concern pulled the corners of their sibling’s mouth downwards.

“What is it? Eat something funny?”

They hesitated. Had they eaten something funny? No. No, they didn’t remember Whumper feeding them anything. The bastard would’ve had to force it down their throat, and they were fairly certain they’d remember something like that.

But as they opened their mouth to correct them, they felt the overwhelming nausea at the thought of Caretaker knowing.

Caretaker didn’t need to know. They could just treat the symptoms, couldn’t they? Yeah. Yeah, that would work.

“Guess so,” they said, jaw aching with the blatancy of the lie.

“Take some Ibuprofen. It should be in the same place as usual.”

“Caretaker,” Whumpee whined, and they could see by the tension lining their sibling’s frame that this was not the time.

“Whumpee, please. I’m busy.” They gestured to a little kid sitting on the examination table. The kid had their pant leg rolled up, revealing a terrible burn on their knee that seemed to be covered in dust.

Whumpee swallowed. Yeah. Okay. They could wait.

“Sorry,” they muttered, and that was all it took for Caretaker’s gaze to slide off of them.

Whumpee left the room.

-

Everything was aching.

Whumpee didn’t leave their bed that much for the next few days. Best Friend gave them worried glances, but Whumpee wasn’t in the mood to comfort anyone. They could only manage to curl up and wish for oblivion.

“Y’know, maybe you should see a medic,” Best Friend said one day. They were sitting on their bed, tinkering with some spare parts. Probably making a really cool contraption that would revolutionize the ship. Like a third medical wing. That would be nice.

Whumpee processed what their friend had suggested 10 seconds after they suggested it.

They snorted.

“Nahhhhhh,” they said, voice cracking from disuse. Best Friend straightened up, startled at the disjointed sound.

“I’m serious, dude,” they said, voice a few notes higher. “You’re not yourself.”

Maybe that’s a good thing, Whumpee thought bitterly. “Themself” had gotten kidnapped and beaten by a deranged sadist. They thought that at least if they were lying still, they couldn’t get any more hurt.

-

Maybe that’s why they weren't the medic.

-

They woke up in the middle of the night to a sharp pain in their side. It was unlike anything they had ever felt before. It was worse than the beatings, worse than the palms and fists that had done this to them in the first place. Those were aching, but this? This was dying.

They were dying.

Fuck.

They didn’t remember standing up. Their mind blanked out after their fifth failed attempt, but at some point, they were up on their own two feet. That point was very brief, though. They didn’t remember the fall. Didn’t remember much of anything after that point.

All they could recall was the terrible, awful pain that ate away at their bones and organs.

-

Caretaker was tired.

Leaving Urding had lessened the workload, they were ashamed to say. Not at first, but without the constant stream of people, Caretaker was able to make their way through the rescued population as quickly as was reasonable.

They weren't done. They were never done. But all of the most terrible wounds had been tended to, and finally their waiting room was empty.

The ship didn’t have any wood to knock on, unfortunately.

The door slid open with the metallic whoosh Caretaker had grown to dread. Feeling very much on the brink of passing out, Caretaker forced themself to their feet and trudged out to see who it was.

“Caretaker!”

Caretaker startled. It was Best Friend. The engineer looked harried in a way Caretaker had never seen before. Best Friend was known for staying up for days on end working on their projects, yes. And they never quite managed to look completely sane, no. But the kid had always exuded an eccentric kind of composure that they were painfully lacking now.

Wrenched from their sleep-deprived stupor, Caretaker tensed, heart beating fast. “What is it?”

“It’s Whumpee,” Best Friend rushed out, and Caretaker felt their heart sink.

They tried to think back to the last time they’d seen their sibling. They remembered the kid saying they were going out to meet a friend on Urding (should probably check in and see if the friend was dead), but that was right after they’d landed. Everything after was rapid-fire diagnoses and stitches and balms. Caretaker couldn’t remember a single patient’s face from the last week, and they were usually good about stuff like that.

“What’s wrong with them?” they asked, hoping and praying to whoever was out there that their little sibling was fine.

“You gotta come,” Best Friend said, and—and they were crying.

The two took off.

-

They found them lying on their bedroom floor, a puddle of blood under them. Caretaker froze, their mind blanking, utter confusion seeping into their nerves.

Then they remembered.

“I’m hurt,” Whumpee had said.

Caretaker managed not to throw up as they and Best Friend carried the pale child down to Medical, but it was a near thing.

-

Medic got the message just as they were dozing off for the first time in days. They snapped to attention, panic easing back into exhausted exasperation as they checked their communicator. It was a message from Caretaker:

blue wing asap

Medic made their way across the ship with a distinct mix of annoyance and concern. The doors whirred open, and both emotions blinked out as a wave of disbelief crashed over them.

Whumpee was lying down shirtless on a medical bed, the sheets stained scarlet. Caretaker looked up at them as they walked in, eyes crazed.

“Get over here,” they barked, and Medic did as commanded.

-

Whumpee awoke with the vague notion that they were dead. The pain was still present, still excruciating, but it had eased off as soon as they’d passed the currently-dying stage to the already-dead one.

“Whumpee?” Caretaker asked.

At least it sounded like Caretaker. Except Caretaker wasn’t dead, so Whumpee must be mistaken.

“Whumpee, hey, I know you’re awake.” Whoever it was sounded desperate. There was a hand on their cheek, then, and all Whumpee could manage was a discomforted squeak. The hand withdrew immediately.

“Alright, alright,” it said, now a chastised whisper. “You can rest.”

-

The next time Whumpee awoke, they felt like they were dying again.

I thought we finished this part, they thought as their ribs burned and their skin stung.

“Medic! Get in here!”

Footsteps, quick footsteps. They went step, step, step, but faster, like step-step-step. Then there were more voices talking, but Whumpee couldn’t make out what they were saying for some reason. They realized belatedly that it was because of the incessant beeping coming from somewhere in the room.

Hands on them again. Their eyes fluttered open as red-hot pain stabbed through their stomach, and they howled just as they had when they were with Whumper. Were they back with Whumper? Surely not. They’d escaped. They’d lost a part of themself in the process, sure, but they’d done it.

The hands didn’t go away, though. They tried to squirm out of their reach, but the hands were too strong and Whumpee was too weak.

“‘top—” they sobbed, their lips numb and useless.

But the hands didn’t stop, and soon the pain was too much, and they fell into darkness once more.

-

The next time, they were back to a normal pain level, and their head felt a lot clearer than it had before. Not just before in the dark—they felt better than they had before they died.

Being a little more lucid, they began to question how realistic that thought was.

They opened their eyes. The room was dark. Dark, dark, dark. Light enough to tell that they were indoors, though.

They were… in bed. A bed stained red. Had they made all that mess? They felt their cheeks begin to heat, but they were quickly distracted by the person asleep in a chair at the bedside.

Caretaker.

Not dead, then. Unless something had gone wrong with Urding’s evac.

“Caretaker?” they croaked, and Caretaker’s head shot up.

They looked at Whumpee with red-rimmed eyes that widened impressively as they took in their injured sibling, awake and somewhat aware.

“Whumpee,” they said, more of an exhale than a word, like anything else would shatter the kid lying in front of them.

“‘ello…”

Caretaker’s expression crumbled even more, and they reached out for their sibling before hesitating and drawing back. Whumpee shifted uncomfortably. Had they done something wrong?

“How’re you feeling?” Caretaker asked, voice strained with more terror than Whumpee had ever heard before.

Their mind blanked on the question. They were in a lot of pain, yes, but relatively speaking, they were alright.

“Been better,” they settled on, trying to smile convincingly.

Caretaker worried their lip between their teeth, eyes intense as if they were trying to memorize Whumpee’s very essence. “How much do you remember?”

Whumpee’s body stuttered like a scratched record. The memories surfaced just as quickly as they blotted out, ink spilling across anything too graphic. They shrugged. Caretaker grimaced.

“Whumpee,” they pleaded, and Whumpee shrank under the guilt of it all.

“Tell me what happened?” Whumpee asked, their request as selfish as it was necessary.

Now it was Caretaker’s turn to tense. “You…” they started, voice cracking horribly on their first word. They tried again, “You passed out, Whumpee. Best Friend found you, but, uh… we’re not sure how long it took them to.”

Passed out. That was probably the “dying” part they remembered.

“I’m sorry,” Whumpee mumbled, their ears warm from Caretaker’s burning gaze.

“Whumpee,” Caretaker said, aghast. “Do not—no. No, just—please, Whumpee, tell me what happened.”

Whumpee shook their head, vision blackening for a few seconds at the very idea. Caretaker looked destroyed, and Whumpee knew it was their fault, but they were too weak to give their sibling what they wanted.

“How long have you been hurting?” Caretaker asked.

Whumpee knew this one. They knew it, they knew it, they knew it, but they still had to dig deep into the depths to retrieve the information.

“A bit after we landed.”

“Why didn’t you—” Caretaker cut themself off, somehow managing to look even more pained. “No, no, you did, you…”

Whumpee frowned in confusion. Caretaker looked away.

“You came to me. I remember.”

“Caretaker—”

“I turned you away.” Caretaker’s voice caught on every word, forever brittle. “Whumpee, I—Whumpee…”

“Don’t. Don’t do that, please—”

Caretaker hugged them, desperate but gentle, and Whumpee managed to bite down the sound of hurt fighting to get out of them. To rip their sibling apart even more than they already had.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I’m—” Caretaker whispered into their hair, every apology a stab to their heart.

“Stop, stop, stop—” Whumpee gasped, curling further into Caretaker, who obediently fell quiet.

Whumpee was shaking, and they needed to stop shaking because it was really hurting them, but they weren't in control of their body anymore. Whumper had taken that control away and abused it until Whumpee was nothing but a broken toy, forever doomed to be theirs.

Caretaker ran their hand through Whumpee’s hair, and Whumpee did their best to ignore the fact that it was shaking.

[leavley]

The agency’s holding cells were weak. Before they could be sent to an actual prison, much less court, Villain broke out. However, during their time in captivity, they received an implant they remain ignorant to. They only find out about it once they’re tracked down again.

Villain is hiding out in a warehouse by the port when they're discovered. They ready themselves for a fight, spotting only Hero and Superhero— manageable foes, even in a 2-on-1.

However, they notice the two seem to be arguing. Even as Villain comes within their sights, they don't stop. Villain taunts and mocks as usual, but suddenly, Superhero lifts their arm to reveal a switch, and Hero fails to stop them before they press it.

Villain feels a horrid shiver down their spine. Within seconds, their legs betray them, and they collapse to their knees. Staying upright goes from difficult to impossible by the end of the first minute, and Superhero approaches them, followed closely by Hero, who radiates guilt.

"This must be confusing," Superhero says, "I'm certain you yourself found it odd when you failed to locate any sort of tracking device."

Their face against the concrete, Villain slurs, "what'd... you do... t'me..."

"We tried something new. Something that doesn't buzz with radio waves."

Superhero kneels down. They lift Villain's head by their hair, body sagging behind them.

"A sedative pump," Superhero finally answers, "I'm glad to see it's functioning properly."

They let go of Villain's hair, letting their head hit the ground. While darkness seeps in through the corners of their vision, their gaze flickers to Hero. She only meet their eye for a few seconds, looking someplace else to stifle their remorse until Villain falls unconscious.

[leavley]

Guilt in whump. Heavy emphasis on that guilt being felt by Caretaker or anyone close to Whumpee.

I love it when Whumpee isn't taken seriously. Maybe before the Whumpening™, they were known to be overdramatic, or are a 'person who cried wolf' type. So, when they tell Caretaker, who is actively tending to visibly wounded patients, that they're hurt, all they get is a brief once over and a "can't you just take a pain reliever? I'm busy."

And it happens, time and time again. Maybe Whumpee seeks out someone else, but everyone has the same dismissive attitude about it. Perhaps it gets to a point where people aren't just annoyed, but frustrated. 'This is serious, Whumpee, we don't have time to be messing around!' After numerous attempts, they still won't receive any help, and so they stop asking.

Things have seemingly gone back to normal. Then, Whumpee's legs give out, and they're unconscious before they even hit the floor. Caretaker is first to look, and feels their heart drop into their stomach when they find out Whumpee was, if anything, underestimating how bad it was.

They must have been hurting for days, possibly weeks. They came to Caretaker, whose entire job is to ease pain and mend wounds, and were turned away without much of a thought. They can't furrow their brow this time and ask Whumpee "why didn't you come find me?" because they did— over and over.

Bonus points if Whumpee is alone when they finally collapse. No one finds them until they're in a puddle of their own blood, pale and far too easy to pick up.

[whatwhump]

I absolutely LIVE for this shit

[justbreakonme]

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Huh?” *said character has been doing the absolute roughest bare minimum possible*

[belovedwhump]

Beloved Whump Prompt #158

Medic Caretaker who has several team members to treat and wait until last with Stoic Whumpee because they seem the most fine. Bloody but fine (they're all bloody, most of it not their own). Just to lift up their shirt to see a huge about-to-pass-out-from-blood-loss kind of wound.

"What the hell, Whumpee, why didn't you say something?!"

[belovedwhump]

Beloved Whump Prompt #105

Whumpee getting to sleep in a bed for the first time in months

[belovedwhump]

Small silent check-ups/comforts

A hand on the shoulder.

A hand on the back.

A look across the room or above/around other characters.

A hand on the elbow holding Whumpee back for a moment.

A hand steadying Whumpee.

A hand steadying Whumpee mid-conversation.

A hand steadying Whumpee while Caretaker is talking to someone else/not even looking at Whumpee.

An arm thrown over the shoulder, taking part of Whumpee's weight.

A thumb rubbed over knuckles.

A squeeze of a hand.

A hand on Whumpee's neck.

A silent question, asked with a look/without words.

A hand ruffling Whumpee's hair.

A small smile.

A nod.

A worried look turning into a small smile when Whumpee nods.

An arm wrapped around Whumpee.

A hug.

[painwithoutplot]

picks up your ill and injured whumpee who has been left to sleep on the ground, regardless of how they ache to their bones and struggle to draw breath, and tucks them into a clean soft bed supported by plenty of pillows. btw

[whumperless-whump-event]

🌱 WWEVENT: JULY 2026 🌱

Welcome to the 2026 Whumperless Whump Event, where we celebrate all kinds of situational, accidental and environmental whump! If this is your first time, welcome in--if you've been here before, thanks for coming back!

FAQ and text version under the cut!

Frequently Asked Questions:

Q: Where can I find the prompts list?

A: @whumperless-whump-event on Tumblr.

Q: How are the prompts divided?

A: Each day has a "title" or a vague theme, followed by two tropes and one dialogue prompt.

Q: Can I use the title as a prompt?

A: Absolutely.

Q: Do I have to use all of the prompts?

A: Not at all.

Q: Can I use all the prompts?

A: Absolutely.

Q: If I'm writing a chronological story, can I swap days to fit the timeline?

A: Yes, just make sure you tag your days and prompts appropriately. If you're writing for day 6, but you post it on day 12, tag day 6, not day 12.

Q: Can I have early or late entries?

A: Yes. This is a very laid back event, and meant mainly to inspire lots of whumperless whump. It's not a strict writing challenge.

Q: Is there an Ao3 collection?

A: Yes! This year's collection is linked here. The parent collection also includes 2024 and 2025--make sure you select 2026.

Q: Can I write [insert anything here]?

A: Yes. However, this blog will not reblog certain topics (ex. nsfw or suicide), so please tag your works appropriately, so anyone can filter out anything they don't want to see.

Q: Can I use AI?

A: No.

Q: Can a whumper be included in the prompt fill?

A: The short answer is no. The long answer is that you cannot have the role of whumper in your prompt fill (aka: no whumper-on-whumpee); however, if the character you want to be a whumpee or a caretaker happens to be a whumper, then as long as they are not fulfilling the role of whumper, it's fine. Also, if there is a whumper, it must be totally impersonal and faceless. Here are some examples for clarification:

A character's drink is spiked at a party. OKAY: The whumper who spiked the drink is never mentioned and is completely faceless, and the story is directly about whumpee recovering. NOT WHUMPERLESS: The whumper who spiked the drink kidnaps the whumpee.

A character is left alone in a storm. OKAY: The character is stranded or lost. NOT WHUMPERLESS: Whumper tied them to a post and left them in the storm.

A character is mugged on the street. OKAY: The whumper is a stranger, faceless, and the focus is on Whumpee. NOT WHUMPERLESS: The whumper is a stalker and there to kidnap Whumpee.

All in all, if your goal is to fulfill the event, then try to avoid a whumper. If you're using the prompts elsewhere, then ignore this, but in the spirit of the event, no whumper roles please.

Q: How do I tag my posts?

A: Tag with #whumperless whump event, #wwevent 2026 and #wwevent day [x](Don't just tag wwe, that's wresting.) Make sure to tag the fill type (art, fic, music, etc) with #fic, #art, #et cetera. Then, tag triggers and content warnings. Please put these first in the tag order! It just makes it easier to reblog.

Q: How do I get reblogged?

A: Mention this blog in your post! It's the easiest way for me to find you. Otherwise, I won't reblog it. (This also means if you do not want your post reblogged to the event, just don't mention the blog, and it'll stay private.)

Q: I disagree with something/have an issue with a prompt/want to address a problem. How should I do it?

A: Send me an ask and we can fix it. I am more than willing to work through any problems--I am human, and not without fault.

I think that's about it. That's a lot, so if you've got any other questions that aren't on the list, feel free to shoot me an ask. I'm happy to help!

Plain Text:

Like a Baby Seal to Water: Fishtailing / Near drowning / "I thought I was going to die."

Somebody's Gotta Do It: Unexpected caretaker / Touch starvation / "You don't have to hide from me."

A Lull in the Chaos: Bedside vigil / Checking vitals / "Can you… sing? Until I fall asleep?"

How Are You So Oblivious: Unknowingly feverish / Falling asleep at work / "Can you drink some water for me?"

Wilderness Experts: Poisoned / Caught in a trap / "I don't know where we are."

Down The Wrong Pipe: Choking / Seizures / "Call an ambulance, tell 'em they're not breathing."

Wrong Place, Wrong Time: Panic attack / Overstimulated / "Get me out of here."

Are You Sure This Is Normal: Natural disasters / Scared of thunder / "We're safe in here, okay? I think."

Dropping Like Flies: Multiple whumpees / Caretaking while sick or injured / "I'll get some rest soon, I promise."

A Warm Welcome: Coming home from the hospital / Cuddle piles / "You scared me so badly…"

Bodily Betrayal: Stomach sick / Carried to bed / "…Yeah. I can call in sick for you."

You Make Me Lose My Breath: Wheezing / Altitude sickness / "You're not making sense."

Waking In A Cold Sweat: Midnight hospital visit / Allergic reaction / "I thought you were getting better."

The Final Straw: Grief / Mental breakdown / "You don't need to be okay right now."

Caught Off-Kilter: Earthquake / Claustrophobia / "We're here! Help!"

Listen Very Carefully: Medic whumpee / Coaching through first aid / "I'm going to scream. You have to keep going."

We All Make Mistakes: Injury while cooking / Soft wound tending / "Let me take care of you this time."

Losing Your Sealegs: Too dizzy to stand / Motion sickness / "Can… can we pull over?"

Out of This World: Magical exhaustion / Cursed / "We'll fix this, I promise."

Here Comes Bad News: Scary diagnosis / Distress calls / "I'll be right here the whole time."

Hold Your Tongue: Fighting with a friend / Parting words regret / "I'm sorry, I'm just… not thinking right."

Oh So Inconvenient: Trapped inside by weather / Worsening infection / "I didn't know where else to go."

All Hands On Deck: Multiple caretakers / Travelling while injured / "Hold on a little longer."

Uncharacteristic Behavior: Clinginess / Falling asleep on Caretaker / "Are you… feeling okay?"

Respiratory Distress: Coughing up blood / Sick and injured / "Don't make me laugh, it hurts."

In Hot Water: Hurt while on the run / Bystander caretaker / "You can turn me in. Just help them. Please."

Break the Surface: Coma / Retrograde Amnesia / "You were in an accident."

When The Night's Out To Get You: Nightmares / Chronic insomnia / "I'll stay awake, you can sleep."

Too Hot (Hot Damn): Wildfire / Heatstroke / "This isn't how I thought tonight would go."

Don't Lose Your Head: Inexperienced caretaker / Severe concussion / "I don't know what to do."

With a Little Help (From My Friends): Waking a caretaker for help / Delirious confession / "Why didn't you say something?"

Alternative Prompts:

Last Chances: Scouting for a healer / Field medicine / "You can scream. It's safe now."

Literally Biting You: Animal attack / Venom / "Someone get a medic!"

Tick Tock: Losing track of time / Dissociating / "Look at me, please. There you go."

That's a Lot of Blood: Hypovolemic shock / Nosebleeds / "Please don't pass out on me."

Floor Time: Vasovagal syncope / Phobia reveal / "Don't look. Trust me."

[whumpie-comforts]

The many uses of Whumpee being incredibly beaten up. Covered in bruises and cuts and maybe a few gashes, add a broken bone in if serious injuries are your thing. They aren’t fatally wounded, but it looks ugly. Maybe whumper realizes they went way too far after seeing just how fucked up Whumpee looks. Maybe Whumpee is getting rescued and caretaker/ team gets to see. Maybe Whumpee is trying to hide the whump and can’t anymore. Also Whumpee just looks very weak and damaged and vulnerable, which is bad for prideful and stoic (possibly living weapons and defiant too) Whumpees.

[whumpie-comforts]

Whumper/Carewhumper who realized they pushed Whumpee too far. Maybe Whumpee has been stoic this entire time and now just won't stop sobbing. Maybe Whumpee was defiant and now is just... complacent. Maybe there was something Whumpee always cared about, a comfort object or person, and now when Whumper tries to tempt them with it Whumpee just shakes their head. Especially good with a Whumper or Carewhumper who thought that what they were doing was best for Whumpee, but now they very clearly pushed them too far.

[alittlebitofwhump]

Me when the whumpee is compliant: omg yeey

Me when the whumpee is defiant: omg yeey

Me when the whumpee is visibly scared: omg yeey

Me when they whumpee is stoic: omg yeey

Me when the whumpee is crying: omg yeey

Me when the whumpee is screaming: omg yeey

Me when the whumpee is quiet: omg yeey

[justlikeotherchemists]

Team Leader saying "Leave. That's an order." hits twice as hard, when they're the kind of person who hates hiearchies and avoids giving direct commands.

[snarehare]

Whumpee who mistrusts that Caretaker isn't the new Whumper.

They're wary. They're careful. They can practically feel the other shoe dropping. Nothing happens. It's not normal. They can't be calm when Caretaker is in the room.

Eventually, Caretaker has to mirror an action that Whumper used to do. Maybe Whumper always used to make Whumpee bathe with them: Whumpee runs a horrible fever and can't get up on their own.

Caretaker is running the bath while Whumpee lingers in the back of the room, perfectly still.

"You don't have to get fully undressed if you don't want to," Caretaker says, "But take off what you can. We need to make sure nothing gets infected while you're sick."

When they turn back around, they find Whumpee already knelt on the tile, facing the wall. Their back, hatchmarked and wounded, exposed under the yellowish lights.

There's a pause.

"...Whumpee?"

"I believe that you are lenient," Whumpee starts. "I think you are kind. Kinder than others I've lived with. But it's been a long time. I can't stand the waiting anymore. Please, if you really are merciful, do it now. Where I can see it coming. Where I can clean it up easily."