Someone taking their sick friend/partner's temperature while they sit on the bed or the lid of the toilet or the edge of the bathtub, leaning their too-warm head against the healthy one's leg or hip until the thermometer beeps
Julio from the Spanish series “Gran Hotel”, expect him to be all over my wall for the next couple of days :) It’s a goldmine for this one…
Prior to this GIF set, Julio and his love Alicia are caught in an explosion which knocks them both out. He wakes up wounded and finds Alicia missing so he spends the whole episode holding his stomach in pain in search for her, until it all gets too much for him and he passes out due to the shrapnel embedded in his stomach… Oh and in that last GIF from the left, he wakes up and feverishly imagines Alicia taking care of him…
Special thanks to @mickeymckeown and @marysherlocked for shedding light on this show! It’s a whumpfest!
[UPDATE] GIF set from episode 3x01 (not episode 9 as I earlier mentioned)
Basically just what the title says: a masterlist of the GIF's/GIF sets I've made 😇.
Click on the letter to see a complete list of movies / TV series and whumpee actors/actresses I have made GIF's for.
New gifs will be added asap after posting.
Note/warning: since this is a whump blog, all gifs are whump themed😁
Weapons. Trained, tested, forged in steel and fire. Failure is an inevitability that ends in death. Pain should not be felt--it should be recognized, familiar, and inconsequential
Martyrs. In the form of servants and princes, of leaders and underdogs. If blood is necessary, the martyr will lift their hands and offer it all
Shields. Like tempering a sword, but only to bear and not to lash out. Wounds are medals--not symbols of pride, but symbols of worth. A pretty shield is useless; scars mean a job well done
Experiments. Raised on the cold comfort of a lab table. Restraints are only necessary when they're not in their right mind. Is it honorable, to be twisted beyond recognition? Or is it just a necessary evil?
Monsters. Cruelty, caution, and regarding one as a creature beyond reasonable thought is tempering in its own right. But if you keep a leash at the right length, perhaps the massecre won't reach you. One can hope.
Idols. Pretty face, pretty name, pretty hands around their shoulders and throat. There to seduce, manipulate, force any feeling to come to the surface and twist it to their favor. Any genuinity stays locked behind the guilded cage that surrounds their pretty little heart
Trophies. Status and wealth and the traditions that keep someone at their heels, on their knees, to display and serve and decorate one's ballroom.
Sacrifices. Drenched in honorable clothes, prepared and adored and cleansed. The gift of hope at the cost of one's life. Is it taken with no fight? How can you escape the ropes you were born in?
anyone else prefer whump without a whumper?? just me??
i mean like. there’s a whumpee and a caretaker + the rest of the team (if there is one). but no whumper
like. instead of the whump coming from a whumper, it comes from natural causes instead. so like sickness, weather (think whump involving hypothermia, heat exhaustion, getting sick from the rain, etc), events (like getting injured from let’s say a building collapse or breaking a bone or something like that)
THAT’S the kind of whump that really gets me going. no torture tropes, nothing like that. idk i just feel very much alone on this one, so i think it’d be neat if there were others out there who feel this way too
My first Bad Things Happen Bingo space! Prompt is Russian Roulette!
Characters: Jason Todd, Roman Sionis, Dick Grayson
Words: 1121
Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Gun violence
Enjoy!
(cross--posted on ao3)
Click.
Jason doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look down at the pistol pressed into thigh, right above the rope keeping him bound to the cold metal chair. Black Mask leans in,
“Eight chambers, one bullet.” he drives the gun in harder, “How lucky are you feeling, Red Hood?”
Jason sets his jaw, breathing hard through his nose. He couldn’t answer that if he wanted to, with the wad of fabric shoved behind his teeth and tied in place. It’s a bad situation. A stupid situation, tied up for Roman Sionis in just his cargo pants and his mask. But he doesn’t show his hand. He glares right into Roman’s eyes.
Pull the damn trigger. See if I flinch.
Sionis’ lip curls, he pulls the trigger.
Click.
Jason tries to smile around the gag at Sionis. He wonders distantly if he even can die. If the universe would even let him go back to sleep.
“You’re fuckin’ nuts, kid.”
Roman withdraws, half-smiling, and stalks around Jason slowly. The room behind him is dark, dirty, a garage. A couple fluorescents dimly flicker above them, making the tools on workbenches, covered in rust, or blood, gleam.
Roman’s dress shoes halt behind him, as if he’s done thinking.
Fingers wind into his hair slowly, deliberately. Sionis likes to gloat, especially over the Red Hood, especially since Jason’s pretty sure the last time they met he made Roman piss himself. Or was it the time before? The memory makes him chuckle, or what passes for a chuckle around the gag.
Roman yanks his head back sharply, bending his neck at an uncomfortable angle, and before Jason can get his bearings the pistol is jammed under his chin.
“Somethin’ funny, asshole?”
Jason can’t control the way he grunts in surprise, or the ragged inhales through his nose caused by the awkward angle of his neck. Roman talks close to his ear,
“Remember, kid, I don’t need anything from you.” He yanks Jason’s head back harder, presses the gun further into the soft flesh beneath his chin, “You’re here because I wanna see you squirm before I drop you in the fuckin’ river.”
Jason swallows hard, trying to will his composure back. He’s not someone who squirms.
“You feelin’ brave?” Roman pulls the hammer back on the pistol, “Feelin’ lucky?”
Jason holds his breath.
Click.
“Ha!” Roman releases his hair, patting him firmly on the shoulder, “Look at that—look at that.”
He takes slow steps back into Jason’s view, and sits heavily on the stool facing Jason. Roman takes a long swig from a beer bottle, draining it, and then lets it clatter to the floor.
“Let’s try again, huh?”
Roman lunges forward, shoving the gun into Jason’s ribs.
“This is your last dance, Hood.”
Click. The gun moves to his kneecap. Ice slides down Jason’s spine—how many duds have they gone through? Three? He’d almost rather take a bullet to the head than his––
Click.
Sionis sucks on his teeth, “I’m almost sad to see you go, honest.” The gun comes down on the back of his hand, the one they broke earlier, pinning it to the arm of the chair with the barrel. Jason can’t stifle his pained yelp behind the gag,
“Almost.”
Not his hand, not his fucking—
Click. He lets out a breath, twinging his broken ribs. Four? That was four, he thinks? How the fuck did he lose count? Did Roman say six or eigh—?
CRACK. Jason sees stars, his head thrown into his shoulder when gunmetal hits his cheekbone. Rough fingers latch onto his chin, forcing him to look right at Roman as he holds the gun against Jason’s shoulder.
“Fifty–fifty shot.” Jason hears the hammer pull back, “It’s this, or the next one goes in your head-–”
BANG.
Jason screams behind the gag, head lolling forward, body trying to curl inward as Sionis howls with laughter. Blood pours down his chest, his ears ring, his eyes water at the burning, clawing agony of a point blank gunshot.
While Jason struggles to draw down a breath, Roman reloads the pistol, saying something Jason doesn’t quite catch. Not that he thinks he misses much, when the gun barrel presses into his other shoulder.
Fuck. He protests behind his gag, he can’t help it, but at the same time he forces his eyes up. Forces malice into his expression as Roman leans in again, digging the still hot gunmetal into his collarbone,
“You gonna sing for me again?”
Jason swallows around the cotton in his mouth. He won’t. Not if he can help it. Roman grins.
Click.
This time, Jason’s breathing stays even, his mind focused on his bleeding shoulder. He thinks the gun clicks again, but things start to go fuzzy around the edges.
Shutting down would really piss Sionis off, but it would be a resignation. Giving up on not dying this way.
But Jason can’t always help it. Sionis’ words start to melt together, his mind no longer tracking how many times the gun clicks against his wrist, his temple, his sternum.
Fuck, Jason, focus.
Maybe it’s the blood loss, his shoulder steadily draining his awareness away. He slips, and slips, and–
Reality snaps back into sharp, agonizing focus. Jason can’t make sense of it though, there’s shouting, and his shoulder hurts, it hurts so fucking bad and…
Someone has their fingers in his shoulder.
He yells through clenched teeth, jerking against his restraints in a vain attempt to get Roman off of him.
“--It’s me, Red Hood, breathe.”
Who?
Jason can’t seem to get his eyes to focus properly, but he finds the fingers driven into his shoulder. Blue and back fingers smeared with red.
Dick?
“Don’t look at it.” A hand—a much gentler hand than Roman’s—turns his jaw away from the sight, “Backup is coming.”
Jason finds Dick’s face. Nightwing’s mask. He looks serious, and Jason finds he has to focus hard to follow what he’s saying,
“--Hey, Can you hear me? You’re losing a lot of blood, I need you to stay awake.”
Jason hears himself agree. When did he lose the gag? Dick’s free hand snaps in front of his eyes,
“Focus.” It sounds like Bruce. Before Jason knows it his head is lolling forward again,
“Red Hood.”
Jason blinks hard, trying to clear the black dots spotting his vision.
How did Dick find him? What happened to Black Mask?
He thinks he hears other voices, and Dick shouting. He tries to stay awake, he really and truly does.
“Red Hood.”
A car engine, the smell of blood and leather,
“Jason!”
Someone digs into his shoulder. He tries to stay awake…he tries…it’s fucking cold.
When warm darkness embraces him, he can’t find it within himself to keep resisting.
kianamaiart
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