whump first and foremost. hallooo! nice to run into you in this corner of the internet :-) heroes, villains, civilians, the lovely odd whump sprinkled in...requests are always open!
Hiya! I'm a used-to-be-lurker now turned amateur writer who's absolutely head over heels for Hero x Villain stories :-)
Requests are open!
A few fun facts about me:
i can hold my breath underwater for over a minute
My favourite ice cream flavour is lemon, rum, mint chocolate, and salted caramel (not altogether!)
the first thing people in real life notice about me is my very funny sounding voice 0_0
as you can probably tell from my username i am not normal about Olaf Stapledon's works I CAN TALK ABOUT HIS NOVELS FOR HOURSSS GRAHHH
In my blog you'll find prompts, drabbles, freaky little scenarios and (hopefully!) longer series! Just be warned: whump, tooth-achingly sweet fluff, and truckloads of suggestive content abound here...
Masterlist
Prompts and dialogue
Aftercare denial
Shitty condescending whumpers
Villain 'helping' hero get dressed for a party
Villain 'helping' hero get dressed for a party (NSFW Version)
Caretaker searching for Whumpee's pulse
Whumper celebrating Whumpee's birthday
Bookworm Whumpees
Getting a distracted Whumpee's Attention
Series
An Angel and Her Honey Eyes (university student Y/N x Injured yandere)
Spitting in Whump
Wandering Hands: part 1, part 2, part 3
The Sweetest Catalyst (Civilian x Villain)
Synopsis: Civilian, a relentlessly sweet new grad student, is assigned as a lab safety partner to their department's terrifyingly quiet and closed off post-doc exchange student. Unbeknownst to them, their inquisitive, oh-so-caring nature is about to entangle them in the undercover Villain's most dangerous conspiracy yet...
oh you watched a movie I recommended????? you listened to a song I told you about ?????? you read one of my favourite books ?????? do you know that I would literally kill for you ????? let's drink each others blood
Whumper loved this new way to torture Whumpee. They discovered it by accident, and ever since then it's become Whumper’s new addiction.
They would edge Whumpee for a few hours until they were so unbearably sensitive. Then, they would make them come. And come, and come, and come until they were nothing but a whining mess of sounds. They wouldn't give Whumpee a small break in between orgasms, either. It was constant, unbearable stimulation.
Whumpee couldn't even beg or speak. Their voice was nothing but whimpers, moans, and screams that they couldn't help but make in between their struggling, heavy breaths. Their limbs pulled and tugged against their restraints in a hopeless attempt to escape, body shining in sweat from all the adrenaline and straining. Tears streamed down their cheeks, eyes dizzy and blurred as they struggled to stay conscious.
They really shouldn't try to fight it, though. Passing out was the only way it was going to stop.
nsfwhumpee who, preparing to tell caretaker about the sexual abuse they endured from whumper, has a movie night with caretaker... except whumpee deliberately only chose movies with rape scenes to gauge caretaker's opinions and reactions to that sort of thing. so many possibilities with this.
do the scenes trigger whumpee, prematurely letting the secret slip?
does caretaker turn the movies off, mumbling something about it being disgusting and gross, making whumpee feel as though they're what's disgusting and gross about it?
does caretaker notice the recurring theme and wonder if whumpee's trying to tell them something? that whumpee was raped... or that whumpee has some sort of kink here?
does caretaker have some sort of kink here, and whumpee ends up finding out because caretaker's body reacts against caretaker's will?
is caretaker also a rape victim, unbeknownst to whumpee, and the scenes trigger caretaker, forcing whumpee and caretaker to switch roles?
or does caretaker already know whumpee was assaulted, and turns the movies off for whumpee's sake? but it still makes whumpee feel ashamed anyway, for wanting to watch and feel so related to such a depiction.
or, when whumpee sees all these scenes of graphic, violent rape... do they start to doubt their victimhood in comparison? does categorizing what happened to them as rape start to feel silly? by the end of the movie night, are they laughing it off and tucking it into the back of their mind, telling caretaker, still laughing, "y'know, i actually wanted to watch these movies to tell you i was like those characters that got raped, but- it wasn't like that when it happened to me. i'm so stupid. sorry, caretaker, let's watch something else-" only to look up to caretaker's horrified face?
Whumpee spitting blood on Whumper's pristine shoes as the whip lands on their back with a cruel snap. It could be voluntary, as a last show of defiance, or ripped out of their wheezing, screaming throat.
Defiant Whumpee spitting at the food they're offered, and when Whumper has had enough, they starve them for days on end, leaving them so weak that they can't muster up the strength to speak anymore.
Withholding water from Whumpee until their lips are cracked and split, and they're begging for Whumper to have mercy and spit in their mouth, they'll do anything to get moisture in their parched throat.
Alternatively, a terrified Whumpee who knows Whumper is going to abuse their throat pleading with them to at least have a glass of water, to prep themselves. Whumper only grins and spits in their mouth, watching some of their saliva dribble down Whumpee's chin and onto their restrained, beaten body.
Whumper gleefully kicking Whumpee down and spitting in their wounds, which elicits a disgusted, pained cry. "Oh, sweetie, don't you just look perfect when you're suffering..."
Domestic whump where Whumper is tenderly embracing Whumpee in their lap, kissing and nipping at their skin, luring Whumpee into a false sense of safety...until a sharp slap tears their head to the side, and Whumper wrenches their head back with a tight grip on their chin, digging nails until Whumpee has to open their mouth to gasp. Whumpee pushes their rough fingers into their trembling mouth, holding it open to spit in it.
"Swallow." The disgusting, sexual connotations of such an objectifying order. Does Whumper clamp a hand over a struggling Whumpee's mouth and grip their throat till it bruises? Or do they force Whumpee to look at them through their red, teary eyes and swallow with their mouth still open, to put on a show for Whumper?
Licking Whumpee's tear streaks to comfort them, only to spit back on their face and laugh as they scrunch their eyes in embarrassment.
A normally defiant Whumpee who's drugged to hell and back, so that they're spaced out and giddy and can only giggle as Whumper maneuvers them to their knees. They crane their head up dreamily, swaying and blinking in a daze, unable to register the danger their poor defenceless self is in. Whumper smiles down at them and gently hooks a finger into their mouth, which they part happily to form a cute, perfect little 'o'. Whumper can't help themselves and spits in their mouth, relishing in the way it only makes Whumpee giggle more... "Mhm, such an obedient darling. I wonder what else your mouth's good for..."
Just...someing about spitting on the other, whether it's a defiant Whumpee or a degrading Whumper, plays into so many juicy power dynamics...it's the most visceral sign of disrespect, it's disgusting, it's wholly degrading...and to a sadistic Whumper, one more way to cross Whumpee's boundaries and claim them as theirs, to reduce them to an object.
The brooding October sky hung low and spread out like a bruise over the city, but the real storm had been brewing inside Y/N since 2:47 that afternoon.
For someone who prided herself on her cheer and contagious optimistism, her smile didn’t reach her eyes today. Today, there was only the thud of her sneakers against the cracked concrete as she sulked down the alleyway across the train station, the weight of her backpack dragging at her shoulders, and the taste of fury as thick on her tongue as a copper rod.
“Professor Josh.”
She spat out every syllable under her breath at the thought of his stupid little bow tie and his smug little smirk and his red pen that had crossed out six months of her life without a care.
"Not sufficiently rigorous," he had replied that afternoon, sliding her thesis proposal back across his desk without even looking at her. He was looking at his monitor. The stupid bug of a man was always looking at his monitor. "Your methodology is flawed. I'd suggest you start over, if you’re even academically committed enough to do that."
Start over. Start over?
Four months of literature reviews that had taken her down to the deepest depths of the library. Six months of pilot studies conducted at 2 AM because the lab equipment was always jam-packed and booked during daylight hours. Six months of her own time and money into overpriced reagents and carcinogenic liquids and the sheer hope that maybe, maybe this discovery would kickstart her career.
Every other professor in her department had called her proposal brilliant. "Groundbreaking,” they said. "and even if it isn't, go for it! This could open up a whole new avenue in metabolic regulation research…”
But to Professor Josh, she was nothing but a nuisance to get rid of.
In frustration, Y/N kicked a loose stone in her way. It ricocheted off the alley wall and disappeared into the side alley. She heard a barely perceptible splash and a cry, like the mewl of a hungry cat, but dismissed the sound. That kick was pretty damn unsatisfying. The whole world was unsatisfying.
"Stupid," she muttered, her voice bouncing off the graffiti-tagged walls as she neared her apartment block. "Stupid academia. Stupid publish-or-perish culture. Most of all, stupid condescending–”
Her left shoelace, untied since her frantic dash from the train station, snagged on a crack in the road.
She stumbled, landing hard on the pavement. Her backpack swung forward, smacking her down between the shoulder blades. She groaned through a mouthful of asphalt and twisted her head towards the alley, hoping that no one had witnessed that fall. But instead, the sight made her gasp–
A corpse…no, a man!
A man, still alive and barely breathing, tucked between a rusted dumpster and a stack of collapsed pallets, half-hidden in shadows. Merely a sprawl of limbs till a rushing car’s headlights illuminated his face. Y/N scrambled to his side.
Dark hair was plastered to his forehead and he trembled with his eyes screwed shut, taking in little huffs of air. Dark red oozed from numerous gashes scattered around his body, like gaping, hungry, cavernous mouths. A smooth little pebble–the one that Y/N had kicked, she realized with a pang of guilt–lay in a growing pool of his blood, seeping into the dirty ground, and he let out another cry.
But his face. Oh god, his face.
Even bruised and battered, Y/N’s heart fluttered at the sight of him. High cheekbones dipped down into a sharp jawline, and he pursed his swollen, beautifully curved lips. Even with this stranger bleeding out at her feet, she couldn’t help but touch the tip of his sharp nose, his soft cheek.
His eyes remained closed. For a few gut-wrenching moments, as she assessed the injured state of his body, she feared they might never open again.
Then his eyes fluttered open.
Honey. A warm and golden and so startlingly bright pair of eyes, stark and rich, contrasted against the ruin of his face. She nearly forgot to breathe.
"Hey. Hey, can you hear me? Are you–okay, no, stupid question, you're clearly not okay. Can you tell me your name?”
His pupils were blown wide, unfocused, swimming in and out of consciousness. His cracked lips parted and he tried to speak, but a wet rasp choked him and forced him to curl into his stomach.
"Well, I’ll take that as a yes." She lifted his head up off the concrete and settled it back on her backpack. "Okay. Okay, we need to get you to a hospital. Can you stand?"
She reached for him without thinking, her hands finding his shoulders, which were broader than she expected, warm and sturdy even under the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt. He flinched at her touch with a gasp, but then he leaned into her desperately.
"'M' not," he slurred. His hand came up, weak and trembling, and curled around her wrist. His fingers were a cold, cruel purple. "Not gonna–"
"You're not gonna die," Y/N finished firmly. "Not tonight. I’m hosting board game night with my friends, for goodness sake! Let’s go now.”
His head lolled against her shoulder when she propped him up. "Angel," he whispered.
Another breath. “Angel.”
Y/N blinked. "What?"
"Angel. You're an angel."
Oh. Oh, he must have hit his head hard. Or maybe the blood loss was making him hallucinate. Either way, the nickname made her flush. She didn't know this man. He could be anyone. He could be a murderer, a fugitive, some shady mafia boss. So why couldn’t she tear her eyes off of him?
"Angel," he murmured again, unable to say anything else, his voice warbling like his head was being forced underwater. Those eyes kept wandering to her face, shiny with pain and desire.
"Thanks, but now’s not–" she started with an embarrassed sputter, but his arm had found its way around her waist, pulling her closer, and his other hand still gripped her wrist like a lifeline, the weight of his body pressed against hers.
"Don't leave," he breathed. "Please, my angel. Don't leave me alone."
She should call 911 and leave it to the professionals to handle this utterly charming, utterly hopeless stranger.
"Of course I won’t," she said softly. Her free hand came up to cup his face, her palm settling against the sharp plane of his cheek, her thumb carefully brushing a scar on his temple. He whined and pressed his face into the touch. "Shit, but don’t distract me any more! You have to help me help you. Can you do that?"
He barely had the strength to dip his chin.
"Good." She pulled back just enough to continue assessing the damage, and grimaced at the bloom of fresh blood gnawing into his lower abdomen.
Instinctively, she yanked at the hem of his shirt, but the fabric was ripped to tatters and stiff with drying blood. He recoiled at the rush of cold air against his bare skin. She fished a pair of scissors out of her backpack, now drenched with blood, and methodically sliced into the hem of her hoodie. It would hardly make for a hygienic bandage, but she had to stem the bleeding somehow.
"This is going to hurt," she said, bunching the bundled fabric against his midsection. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He groaned and his back arched. His hand flew to her shoulder and gripped hard enough to leave her a bruise to match all of his.
"'S’okay," he hissed with his head buried in her neck. "Keep going."
With one hand applying pressure to his wound, trying her best to steady him as he squirmed in discomfort, she dialed 911, but swore as the screen flickered and froze. She had fallen on it too hard, apparently.
"Hurts." The stranger’s honey eyes had squeezed shut again, jaw clenched against the pain. "...want to go home…take me home, Angel.”
"Tough luck," she said, hauling him forward by his shoulders. Her arms screamed at the dead weight of his long, limp limbs. "We’re getting to the hospital even if I have to carry you there myself. And for the record, I'd prefer you take me out to dinner first before taking me home."
She laughed awkwardly, surprised at herself for finding courage to tease. But his breathing was shallow and laboured, so she doubted he would even remember the words.
"Come on," Y/N grunted, shifting his arm over her shoulders. "Up. Up. Work with me…”
His legs pushed against the ground, trembling like a newborn fawn's. The pair shuffled forward, step by torturous step. His scuffed leather boots, nice ones too, dragged across the ground. Her shoelace was still untied, and threatened to send both of them crashing back down.
This wasn't working. At this pace, it would take them an hour to reach the end of the alley, and her frantic reassurances and jokes weren't enough to fight off his fading consciousness.
“Okay,” Y/N panted. “Okay, new plan.”
She bent to scoop him up by the knees and lifted him up, bridal style.
His head dropped to her chest, nose pressing into her skin, and she felt his lips mumble incoherently, almost biting her thin shirt.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "Sorry, angel."
"Stop calling me that." She squeaked, despite her nerves and adrenaline. "My real name's Y/N. Well, it's [Nickname] to my friends, but you’ve gotta survive first to earn that right.”
“Mhm, you’re bossy.”
“Shh, conserve your energy.” She adjusted her grip and kept walking. Y/N ignored the throngs of passers by gaping at them, her focus narrowed to the hospital building three blocks away.
"Y/N? Y/N!”
[Roommate] materialized out of nowhere, a reusable grocery bag clutched to their chest, their face going pale with absolute horror.
"Y/N, how fucking angry at Professor Josh do you have to be to—"
"Sorry, [Roommate]!" Y/N didn't slow down. If she slowed down, her arms would give out, and she'd drop him. "Board game night will have to wait for next week! Feel free to break into my room and take the pasta! It's in the big pot on the stove!"
"What pasta? Who is that? Are you both bleeding–hey!”
Y/N shoved past them, lungs burning and vision tunneling. The hospital doors were right in front of her.
She burst into the fluorescent-lit hallway. There was a desk at the end, and behind it, two paramedics rubbed their eyes as they hunched over a chess board, mid-argument about whether that move was legal for a knight.
They looked up and stared at Y/N.
"Uh," one paramedic said.
"He's bleeding," Y/N gasped. "Stabbed, I think. Or shot? I don't know. A nasty head injury too. He needs–he needs help, please, I can't–"
The paramedics shoved the chess board aside, grabbed a gurney, and called for help. They lifted him by the legs and back, and the absence of his weight made her stumble with a sudden wave of dizziness.
He made a small, unhappy noise and his hand shot out, grasping blindly for her fingers.
"Angel," he mumbled. "No, come back. Don't–need–”
His fingers closed around hers, and Y/N was pulled along as they wheeled the gurney down the hallway. She ran to keep up, her sneakers squeaking on the cold ceramic tiles blurring into a thin strip as they wheeled into the ER. Doctors crowded around him and she scrambled to escape the commotion, her hand torn away from his.
"Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen, possible liver puncture…"
"Head laceration, but we need to rule out a skull fracture…”
"Hurts," he rasped. His head thrashed against the gurney, and a doctor pressed a hand to his scalp to still him. "Hurts, hurts!"
Wordlessly, they forced his mouth wide to slide in a tube, administering a sedative. His eyelids gradually drooped closed. But he still let out muffled whimpers which tore at Y/N’s chest.
She couldn't just stand there and let him suffer like this. She swiped a cloth and ran it under cold water, and pressed it to his forehead, smoothing back the matted hair, wiping away sweat and blood and grime.
"Shh," she reassured softly. "You're okay. You're in the hospital. They're going to patch you up, m’kay?”
His eyes fluttered open a fraction and found hers, and so did their fingers, interlacing like a fragile spiderweb.
"'Scared," he managed to choke out through the tube.
"I know." She squeezed his hand. "Me too. But you're going to be fine. You're much too stubborn to die.”
His lips twitched again in an almost smile before he melted into unconsciousness.
The doctors stitched the gash on his head in twelve neat knots that pulled the skin of his temple back together. They cleaned the gunshot wound, watching warily for signs of infection. A steady stream of antibiotics and painkillers and transfusions bubbled through his IV lines.
It was hard not to notice his body. Even cut open and torn, staring at his sculpted abs and chest made her giddy with embarrassment. She wanted to trace the lines of his sideswith her fingers. She wanted to press her lips to each bruise and make it better. She wanted–
Y/N, pull yourself together! she screamed internally. This man nearly died. He has a gunshot wound and, for all you know, might’ve even deserved it.
But her cheeks still burned as she helped the nurse slip the gown over his head, and she was very glad that no one could read her mind.
In desperation, she dipped low and kissed his collarbone before it disappeared into the gown.
He stirred slightly, a soft, pleased sound escaping his lips, and she jerked back like she'd been burned.
What the hell are you doing?
But no one had seen. The doctors were focused on their work, and he’d be too dazed, too drugged, to ever remember this.
She hoped.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
After an hour, the stranger was whisked off into surgery, and Y/N wasn't allowed to follow. She sat in the waiting room instead, curled into a plastic chair, rubbing her hands stained red under her fingernails. The clock on the wall ticked from 10:47 to 11:23 to 12:05 to 1:42.
Y/N texted [Roommate]: hospital. long story. did you like the pasta? you better be sleeping.
[Roommate] texted back almost immediately: WHO WAS THAT. ARE YOU OKAY. SHOULD I COME THERE. I'M COMING THERE.
Y/N: don't. I'm fine. he's the one who got shot.
[Roommate]: SHOT????????
Y/N sighed and turned off her phone.
At 2:17, a surgeon came out, a tall woman with gray-streaked hair and pretty eyes (though not as pretty as her charming stranger’s) and told Y/N that the bullet had missed his liver by less than an inch. They'd removed it, repaired the damage, and closed him up. Lucky.
"He'll need to stay here for observation," the surgeon said. "At least three weeks, and perhaps more. The risk of infection is high, so we'll need to monitor him for complications."
"Three weeks," Y/N repeated numbly.
"At least. He also has a moderate concussion, three cracked ribs, and deep soft tissue damage.” The surgeon paused, her gaze softening. "You said you found him in an alley? Do you know anything about how he got those injuries?"
Y/N shook her head. "I just... I simply found him. I couldn't leave him there."
The surgeon placed a comforting hand on Y/N’s hunched shoulders. "You probably saved his life. The bleeding alone–if you hadn't bandaged him up…” She trailed off, shrugging.
They let her see him at 4:00 AM, when the last of the monitors had been hooked up and the last of the tests had been run. He was in a private room with floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the city. He looked smaller in the hospital bed, and the gentle bedside light made his bruises look even more vivid, a map of purple and black across his face and arms and the sliver of chest visible above the blankets.
Y/N pulled a chair to his bedside and sat down heavily. Her entire body was trembling now, with the last vestiges of adrenaline sapped from her body.
She reached out and laid her hand on his chest, right over the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His skin was warm through the thin hospital gown.
Alive, she thought. He’s alive. And mine.
She nearly dozed off when a doctor knocked and slipped into the room. He looked at Y/N, then at his patient, then back at Y/N.
"And you are...?" he asked.
Y/N straightened in her chair, pulling her hand back like she'd been caught doing something scandalous with him. "I brought him in from the alley near the train station."
The doctor nodded, scribbling into his clipboard. "Do you know if he has any family? Any next of kin we should contact?"
Family. Y/N hadn't even thought about that.
"I don't know," she admitted. "He hasn't been conscious enough to tell me anything. I don't even know his name."
The doctor's pen scribbling paused. "He'll need someone to make decisions for him while he's here. Medical consent, discharge arrangements. If he doesn't have family..."
She looked down at him.
His lips were parted slightly, and one hand rested on the blanket, fingers loosely curled. She remembered how desperately those fingers had wrapped around her wrist. How they'd clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"Angel," he'd called her. "Don't leave me alone."
She made her decision. "Well, no matter. I'm his guardian now."
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
The three weeks that followed swept Y/N up in a strange, suspended limbo.
The man’s hospital room became a second home to her, a private getaway for every bit of free time she could steal. Page by furious page, her laptop balanced on the arm of the side chair, her fingers flying across the keyboard, she rewrote her thesis to the rhythm of the beeping heart monitor beside her. Professor Josh's rejection letter was pinned to the corkboard above the desk, and every time she looked at it, she typed even faster.
I'll show him. I'll show all of them.
But, above all, her visits allowed her to watch him.
The stranger. Her stranger.
He slept a lot in those first few days, his body hoarding every scrap of energy for the slow, brutal work of healing. When he was awake, he was groggy, half-lost in a fog of painkillers and exhaustion. But his gorgeous, honey-flecked eyes never seemed to leave her face.
"Ah, Angel! You're still here," he said as he stretched awake on the fourth day. His voice was wrecked, barely a whisper, but his hand reached for her out of habit.
"Where else would I be?" She took his hand with a gentle smile, her cheeks growing rosy. His fingers were warmer than hers now, the purple tinge fading from his knuckles.
His thumb traced circles on her wrist. "I really didn’t expect you to stay."
"Well, tough luck. Better get used to it. You're stuck with me."
He now had the strength to smile, beaming up at her with cracked lips. Every bit of him enchanted her, and she had a feeling that he felt the same way too.
It was the way he tilted his head when he was listening, soaking in and cataloging every word she said. The way he said her name–Y/N–gently and careful, full of awe, like he was tasting all of her. The way he watched her lovingly when she was working, his gaze tracing the furrow of her brow, chewing on her lip in concentration.
"Your face does this cute thing," he told her on the seventh day, when she was elbow-deep in a stack of journal articles and using his elbow as a page marker. "When you're frustrated. You scrunch your nose like a rabbit."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's ruining me."
She smacked him with a folder and he laughed, wincing at his grazed stitches. Feeling remorseful, Y/N curled around him and pressed her lips to the stitches, sealing them.
On the tenth day, he was well enough to sit up on his own. The IV lines were still buried deep inside his forearm, and his abdomen was a patchwork of fading bruises and fresh stitches, but he swung his legs over the side of the bed excitedly, kicking the wheels of his gurney.
"What are you doing?" Y/N looked up from her laptop, alarmed.
"Relearning to stand."
She bolted up and squeezed his knees. "Hey, you're not supposed to–”
"I've been in this bed for a week." His jaw was set stubbornly. "Much as I adore it, I can’t have you bridal carrying me everywhere, can I?”
With one hand on Y/N’s shoulder, he managed to stand. For three full seconds, he stood to his full height, towering over Y/N (she gulped at judt how tall he was, wow) broad-shouldered, his hospital gown hanging loose on his frame, his face pale with effort. Then his knees buckled, and Y/N caught him against her chest, cradling him.
"Idiot," she breathed, her heart hammering.
His weight pressed into her, warm and solid like the first time they’d met, and she felt his laugh rumble through his ribs.
"It was worth it," he said, nuzzling into her hair.
She helped him back into bed, and if her hands lingered on his shoulders a moment too long, neither of them teased about it.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
On the momentous eighteenth day, she was curled in the side chair with her laptop open as usual, the concluding paragraph of her thesis glowing blue in the dim light. He draped himself in the bed, propped against his pillows, pretending to read a book even though he hadn't flipped a single page in an hour.
He was watching her. She could feel, almost taste, the honey dripping from his eyes, down her hair and neck and body. It made her shiver with delight.
“I really think you need another brain damage scan.”
His eyes glittered playfully. “What’s wrong with admiring the angel who’s graced my wretched life with her presence?”
She pursed her lips and tried to will her blush away. ”You know my name already, silly. Stop calling me that!”
"So bossy. Would you prefer I call you…hm,” he toyed with his IV. “Darling? Sweetheart? My true love?”
"I'd prefer you call me Y/N." She huffed. “Plain and simple.”
"Y/N." He said it reverently, like a prayee. "Fine then. My angel Y/N."
She threw the chair’s pillow at him. He caught it and reached out, pulling her down onto the bed beside him. She yelped and landed sweetly on his chest, her face inches from his. Her laptop clattered to the floor, forgotten.
"Careful," she whispered breathily, trying to ignore his half-lidded eyes. "Your stitches."
"Forget my stitches." His hand came up to cup the back of her head, gentle and cradling. "I need you more."
The two stayed like that for the rest of the afternoon, her head tucked under his chin, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the bare skin of his arm. His heartbeat was steady under her ear. He carded a strong hand in her hair as they reviewed her thesis defence together. And when they were tired of all the talking, she would close her eyes and pretend that they were anywhere else–anywhere but a hospital room with oppressive, beeping monitors and the ghost of a bullet wound still healing inside of him.
Though he had fallen into a pleasant nap below her, so still and pliant, Y/N’s mind still buzzed, foggy and gradually filling with worry.
The clock on the wall read 8:00 PM. The beep, beep, beep of her beloved stranger’s heart monitor had become background noise by now, as familiar as her own pulse, as familiar as his pulse. But tonight, for some reason, it made her nauseous.
Beep.
The surgery. The blood transfusions. The CT scans. The private room that cost more per night than her rent.
Beep.
The bill she couldn't afford. The debt that her insurance would surely never cover.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
His hand found her waist, fingers spreading across her hip, warm and heavy and sleepy. Of course he wasn't thinking about the bill. She couldn’t burden him with that problem, tired as he was, utterly unaware of the weight pressing down on her chest.
She reached under the bed for her discarded laptop and balanced it on his shoulder, now stronger and firmer round under the thin cotton of his hospital gown. She squeezed it without thinking, and he let out a low, amused chuckle that made her stomach flip.
"Working again?" he murmured.
"Always. And you’re sleeping?"
“Always.”
She opened her document and stared at the cursor, unable to concentrate. Then she opened a new browser tab and searched:
-how to commit insurance fraud-.
She grimaced at the accusatory search results and tried again:
-is insurance fraud really that illegal if you're doing it for a good cause?-.
His hand stroked her waist, testing out how much of her body he could explore. She sucked in a breath and closed the browser.
Okay, why not. she thought. New plan. I’ll sell a kidney. Maybe [Roommate]'s kidney too. Then I’ll take out a loan and max out every credit card I have.
She pushed herself up by her elbows and drank her fill of his peaceful, faraway expression, the healing bruise on his neck that most definitely wasn’t from her, the unbearably handsome smirk that lingered on his lips even in sleep.
She'd figure it out.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
The next morning, he was well enough to take the final trip out of his room.
He stood patiently by his bed, hands clasped and dressed in clothes he had chosen himself–black slacks that fit his strong, supple legs like they'd been tailored, and a soft gray sweater that made his eyes glow gold. Gosh, maybe he’s the real angel and not me, Y/N caught herself thinking as she surreptitiously stared at him through the documents she was packing up.
A greedy smile spread across his face as he sauntered over to her. "Like what you see, Angel?"
"Don't push it," she said, but her voice came out breathless. "You still have a limp."
"Pfft, I think of it more like a suave swagger.”
"C’mon, we have one last appointment with the billing department before you’re discharged.” She elbowed him, no longer afraid that he’d be too frail to handle it. “Can you swagger that far?"
His smile faltered. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes, but it disappeared in an instant. “Lead the way."
The billing department was a windowless room on the first floor, with flourescent lights and a counter that separated the living from the administrative. It seemed to be designed to remove all distractions, to force you to focus as your bank account got sucked dry. Y/N stood beside him, close enough that he could wrap an arm around her waist in reassurance.
The woman behind the counter clicked through receipts on her monitor.
"The total comes to eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and thirty-two dollars," she drawled out with finality. "Excluding follow-up care."
Y/N's heart stopped.
Eighty-seven thousand dollars. More money than she'd seen in her entire life. That was more than her parents’ house!
"Don't worry," she heard herself say. Her voice sounded small. She reached for his hand without thinking and smiled thinly up at him. "I'll figure it out. My credit score isn't terrible so the bank will let me take out a loan. Or I can pick up extra shifts as a tutor, put my chemistry degree to good use, huh?” she tried for a joke.
He squeezed her hand. And he laughed.
It wasn't a mean or malicious or hopeless laugh. It was warm and full of wonder and at ease.
"Angel," he said, with a tender voice that mads her chest ache. "Put your wallet away."
"What? No, I can't let you–you don't have–"
He reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a leather wallet, then a small black card.
"What's that?" Y/N asked curiously.
He wriggled his eyebrows at her as he handed the card to the woman behind the counter.
"Take my stay out from the Thorne Family Foundation grant," he ordered casually. "Oh, and the rest of the patients on my floor? Do put their bills on my personal account."
The woman's eyes went wide. Her fingers trembled as she felt the card. "Of course, sir. We’ll process it immediately."
Huh.
"How the hell did you…”
"What? Pay my own bill?” he pinched her cheek playfully. “A gentleman has manners, you know. I’d sooner die in your arms than let you take on that much debt for me.”
"No, but what did you pay for it with?”
"Bossy as always,” he laughed with a shrug. “The Thorne Family Foundation is the primary donor for this hospital's trauma center. Outside of that, let's just say...my family has been in the healthcare gig for a few generations."
"You–" She giggled at the absurdity of the situation. "You own this hospital?"
"Woah, I don’t own it, per se.” His eyes glinted as he led her out of the hospital, into the crisp November morning. "The Thorne family simply has a major controlling share in, well...everything."
Frustration bubbled up Y/N’s chest, despite herself. "You let me spend three weeks worrying about how to pay for your medical care? I was about to carve out my roommate’s kidneys!”
His expression softened and he rubbed his jaw apologetically. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Shit, well, I didn't know about the kidneys," he said quietly. "But I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry. I just..." His thumb traced her cheekbone contemplatively. "No one has ever taken care of me before. Not without knowing who I was, at least. But you, you became my guardian. I was a mere stranger to you, but you chose to stay. You stayed..."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Y/N's throat was tight. “How could I ever leave you?”
He leaned in, close enough that she could smell the slight scent of antiseptic and rich cedar cologne. "Oh, my angel."
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
A black, gleaming car rolled to a stop before the two. Y/N puffed out her cheeks in surprise. “Wow, flexing your wealth the moment you step out of the hospital?”
“Well, I urgently need to make up for my staggering loss of dignity from wearing that itchy hospital gown.” He offered his outstretched hand as he unlocked the passenger door. "Coming, angel?"
She let him pull her in.
As the car drove away, Y/N craned her head back wistfully to watch the hospital grew smaller and smaller.
"Hey," she managed after a moment. "Wasn't your house on Maplewood Drive?"
He quirked an eyebrow. "So you know where I live?"
"My roommate looked you up. She has a talent for stalking people." She hesitated. (It wasn’t fully a lie; they had worked together to find out more about him). "That's only four train stations from my university."
There was a tinge of sadness in her voice? which she covered with a smile.
"Hey," she tried, bumping her shoulder against his. "At least we can meet up on weekends. Maybe for your monthly medical check-ups too–”
"Y/N."
She stilled and gazed up at him through her eyelashes.
"Maplewood Drive is my guest house," he said with a laugh.
Y/N blinked. "Your...guest house. Okay. Cool.”
"My main property is about twenty minutes outside the city. Not exactly the closest to your campus, but it has a lot of rooms." He paused. "One of which could be yours. If you wanted."
Her heart stopped. Then started again, twice as fast. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Really?"
"I'm asking you to consider it." His hand found hers on the seat between them, fingers dancing on her knuckles, up her arm. "You've spent three weeks taking care of me. Let me take care of you for once."
"Why, thank you, but I don't need–"
"I know you don't need it." He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss. "That's not the point. I want to. I want you."
The car glided through the city streets, past past the train station where this whole insane journey had begun. The late afternoon light filtered through the tinted windows, painting the world in gold.
"Okay," she answered softly.
The usual suave, self-assured smile he’d begun wearing once he felt well enough gave way into his soft, love-stricken smile.
"Okay," he repeated.
“But first...let me take you to dinner. Remember? You said you'd prefer I take you out before you let me in your house. And my house is yours now.”
The memory struck her now. The cold, grimy alley and all the sickening blood. The joke which she blurted out without thinking. Shit, he heard it!
"Well, you’re way out of my league now. I said that before I knew you were a secret goddamn millionaire–billionare?"
"Just about,” he grinned. “Does this revelation change things?"
"No. It doesn't change anything."
His smile widened. He leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips, so close that the world outside the car disappeared. His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, gentle and possessive all at once.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
"Now then, where does one bring an angel to a first date?” he mused, gaze raking over Y/N’s body. "Mhm, what do you say I take you to heaven?"
BONUS:
Y/N sucked in a breath, face flushed with giddiness, and she leaned her forehead into his.
"Dude, let’s blow up Professor Josh's lab first," she whispered. "Then we can talk about heaven."
His laugh filled the car, warm and rich and dripping with admiration. Why had heaven blessed him with such a precious angel?
Villain rolled anxiously on their heels, filled with anticipation that they weren’t used to feeling anymore. A life of villainy was one of grim, macabre deeds. There wasn’t much that excited them anymore considering their life was full of death and destruction, but today was one that made their heart swell slightly.
They stood in front of the door for a few more moments before the sides of their mouth twitched downwards, confused at the lack of a response. Then, they knocked again, this time slightly louder in the hopes that they’d only been too quiet, rather than ignored altogether.
Another thirty seconds passed. Silence. A regular person would have assumed the resident to be out for the day, but Villain knew for a fact that wasn’t the case (how they’d come about this was not a relevant detail and required no further examination, of course).
Villain, petulent and persistent, did not like the prospect of being ignored. For Hell’s sake, they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t have an important reason. So, instead of leaving and returning another time, they knocked again.
And this time, they did not stop. Entirely aware that the house’s resident was home and capable of hearing them, Villain slammed on the door repeatedly and with increasing haste and volume until they heard protesting from inside.
“Ok, ok, ok, Jesus, I’m coming!” came a call from inside that made Villain’s hand retreat from the door and return to its former position: gently cradling the item in their hands.
Sharply, as though its owner was displeased (they were), the door swung open to reveal a particularly disgruntled Hero, hair unkempt and outfit making it clear they weren’t expecting company.
Before they could ask why on earth Villain was at their doorstep, they glanced down to the possession in their companion’s hands, and a look of utter exasperation washed over their features.
“Don’t say it. Don’t.”
“I have to, Hero. It’s the law,” Villain responded far more seriously than the situation required, like they were actually going to be apprehended for this. In actuality, it would be more likely for Hero to arrest them for disturbing them.
Hero didn’t endulge them with a response, staring deadpan at the criminal in front of them. It had been a long while since Hero had felt truly threatened by Villain, so made no move to defend their house.
“Can I at least come in? Because if we have to do this at your doorstep I’m more likely to burst into so—“ Villain was interrupted by Hero yanking them indoors by the collar uninterestedly.
Villain looked around at the furniture, surprisingly colourless and dull considering the date today. They were expecting at least a little something.
“You’re certainly a festive person, aren’t you?” Villain joked dryly as they took in the lack of excitement in the hero’s living quarters. It almost made them a little sad, but maybe they’d been busy or something. “What’s with the lack of celebrations?”
Hero made a notably disapproving face, like they could somehow convince the villain to drop the subject entirely even though they’d never been able to deter the criminal from doing anything.
Especially if it annoyed the crimefighter in particular.
Something inside of them seemed to wear in and they shut their eyes tightly, trying to at least block out as much of the situation as they could if it had to happen. Even though their vision was blocked, they could practically sense Villain’s excitement.
“I’m just not a birthday person, Vil. Not sure why you thought I would be,” they groaned, one hand raising up to softly massage their own temples.
The hero wasn’t the type of person who seemed to particularly look forward to anything, like they’d achieved all of their worthwhile goals and were now just waiting things out until their inevitable closure. Villain supposed they could relate, not one to usually have plans scheduled on their calendar, but at least they tried to put some whimsy into their work.
Hero never appreciated the whimsy. Usually because it made cleaning up a crime scene much less fun when glitter was involved.
“You’ve never been a birthday person before. I get it, your life is all grey misery and dull suffering,” Villain exaggerated their words, hoping that the hero didn’t take it as an offense even though it was true. “No time for happiness when there’s crime in the world.”
“Get to the point, Villain.”
“What I’m trying to say is that your favourite little agency is a bore. I’ve no doubt that you’ve never had a great birthday because I don’t think those morons have a single whimsical bone in their body. Me, on the other hand:” Villain attempted to gesture to themself, only to find their hands frustratingly full.
Their eyes glanced around the room. It was quite an open space, with both the living room and the kitchen sharing the same bland walls. Not a single painting was hung up, with no photographs on any surfaces. Part of Villain wondered if Hero had any photographs of themself that wasn’t just from a press conference.
Then, their gaze settled on the kitchen countertop. Empty enough to free their hands momentarily and almost professionally clean. It didn’t seem like Hero cooked here much. They probably didn’t get enough time (or money, knowing the agency) to cook something fresh.
The criminal walked over to the countertop and plopped down their gift. It was perhaps the most chocolatey cake both Hero and Villain had ever seen, and even looking at it had made their pair feel a tad nauseous.
On top was a concerning amount of candles, making the cake somehow a larger fire hazard than Villain was, a feat seldom acomplished. Villain didn’t actually know how old Hero was, so had opted for just as many candles as they could find ‘to be sure’.
Their uncertainty wasn’t due to a lack of trying, though. Villain had dug incessantly into Hero’s life, and found the agency kept very few documents regarding their personal information.
No government name, no age, no mention of close family or relatives. Just their hero details and a few notes about their recruitment. The only reason Villain had discovered Hero’s birthday was because the agency had a sickening habit of recruiting all their heroes on their birthdays.
“Look, Villain, I appreciate the effort, sincerely,” Hero did not sound in the slightest sincere, but Villain knew that was just how they talked. “But I highly doubt this is a problem you’ll be able to fix, enthusiasm be damned.”
Villain tilted their head slightly. They truly were the closest thing to an excitable puppy that a criminal could achieve.
“I just—“ Hero couldn’t finish their sentence and Villain felt they’d hit a sensitive point here, like a blade slicing easily through its opponents skin but jolting when it hit the bone.
The crimefighter looked up and for the first time today stared directly into Villain’s eyes. Something inside of them wanted to open up but had been so used to the gruelling nature of their job that it felt almost foreign to trust someone so innately.
Hero leant against the back of their couch, hand darting to their mouth as they appeared deep in contemplation. Villain walked over to them slightly. They hadn’t expected this to be something so serious for Hero.
Wordlessly, and after a few moments of shockingly not-so-awkward silence, they reached into their pocket and fished out something small and seemingly worn down by time, folded over so many times that the crease had whitened the paper.
Tracing a gentle finger over it first, Hero unfolded the photograph to reveal a group photo with a much younger Hero at the centre, seeming to be celebrating their birthday in years gone by.
Villain didn’t recognise a single face in the lineup. And that fact alone made them realise exactly what was troubling the hero.
Everyone knew that the hero agency recruited young. They were thrown into action quickly too, most reaching the battlefield before their sixteenth birthday even came around. Hero had been no different, recruited at thirteen.
Villain grimaced at the mental image of such a small, innocent version of Hero being pulled away from their family and friends at that young of an age, if nothing else but because it brought back memories.
Memories of someone they held dear, a few years their junior, being led astray by agency recruiters and never seen again. Villain never knew if they made it past training or not. But what they did know is the path it sent them down, first to hopelessness and grief, and then to an allconsuming desire for justice.
Hero’s voice brought the villain back to the present moment, as it so often did.
“I was never stupid, even then. I knew what they were training us to be. Expendable. And in some sickening way I made peace with the expectation that I’d never last this long.”
“But then you did.”
A brief pause. Hero’s breathing sounded shallower.
“Every time I go out on another mission, I think to myself this is going to be the one. You’ve run out of that foolish luck of yours, and you can’t keep outrunning the inevitable forever. I guess it just feels hard to anticipate the years ahead if it feels like I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
Villain can’t imagine what it must be like: to be trained to die. To be raised with the expectation that you’ll fulfill a short-lived purpose and then fizzle out, replaced by a sharper blade than your own.
The criminal slid a comforting hand around Hero’s side, signalling to the crimefighter that physical contact was welcome if they so desired it, but not wanting to overstep any boundaries.
“I’m sorry Vil, this isn’t your problem, I shouldn’t be whinging to you like this. It’s just been on my mind this past week and I suppose you’re the first person willing to listen,” Hero explained. Clearly the agency had made a point to reinforce that vulnerability was a thing best kept to yourself.
“Look, I’m not going to pretend I know what it feels like. The agency are far more evil than anything I’ve ever done, and I’m malicious by profession. But no matter what, I’m going to stay here as long as it takes for you to feel better, and then some, ok?”
Hero was visibly on the verge of tears, but Villain knew those drops would never fall, barricaded in by a wall of emotion resilience that nobody should ever have to develop.
“Why?”
“Hero, when I met you, it gave me something to look forward to. A reason to await the next sunrise with excitement, not just dread, because I would get to see you. I want to return the favour.”
The criminal shifts their torso slightly, angled towards their companion. Truly, all they want right now is to make sure Hero has someone today. It was supposed to be special for them.
“I don’t understand what it’s like to go through everything you did, but I understand how it feels to be without a purpose. To not feel like there’s anything to look forward to in your life. And it sucks. So I promise you, if nothing else, I will be that for you.”
Hero laughed bitterly, but their mouth upturned nonetheless. In spite of their present titles, they cared for each other dearly. Friends in every manner of the term except for officially as their respective bosses would crucify them.
Then, the do-gooder leaned in, closing the gap and resting their head on Villain’s shoulder, humming slightly as their friend began to stroke their hair in a mind-numbingly soft pattern. It was unfair how well they seemed to know what made Hero happy.
After a few moments of blissful peace, Villain spoke up again, mind still focusing on their original reason to visit.
“Want me to blow up the agency as a birthday gift?” Villain asked sincerely.
“I can think of something better.” Hero maneuvered to look the villain directly in the eyes again.
“Is it explosive?”
“Some might say.”
At that instant, Hero swooped in softly, hands cradling Villain’s face like they were a present themself, and met their lips gently, eliciting a surprised but certainly content noise from the criminal who reciprocated immediately.
“I’m here,” Villaim murmured in between the kiss, slightly breathless from the action. The pair only pulled away for a much needed breath.
“You taste like chocolate cake,” Hero commented lightly, a thinly veiled accusation.
Supervillain and Henchman as a healthy duo
Requested by @luluthespectator
People are genuinely more scared of Henchman than Supervillain, since when the two of them fight together they become near unstoppable. Supervillain they can handle, but if Henchman joins in… [sweats nervelessly]
Henchman sat at home after they messed up the last scheme, feeling like a failure. Supervillain breaks in holding Henchman’s favorite food, ice cream. They both spend the rest of the night having fun brainstorming their revenges on Superhero and new possible schemes.
Supervillain always brags about every gadget, scheme and weapon that Henchman has made for them.
Few people know that Supervillain even has a Henchman. But where Supervillain is so is Henchman, as a silent force taking down their enemy from the shadows.
Supervillain and Villain were life long friends. When Villain dies, Henchman Villain's only child is all that is left. And so Supervillain swear to protect them no matter what.
Supervillain knows that both Henchman and Hero have a crush on each other, and is now on a quest to get this duo of obvious dumb asses together.
Henchman learning that Supervillain’s master plan they spent the last ten years on, was all just to cure Henchman’s sickness/curse.
Supervillain still making Henchman get a uni education because “I don’t want you doing villainy forever”
Henchman is way smaller and quieter than Supervillain. Yet, is able to communicate with Supervillain through only small movements and eye contact.
Henchman sees themself as Supervillain’s knight/protector and Supervillain who sees themself as Henchman’s mentor/guardian.
Supervillain and Henchman who are chaotic ride or die for each other.
Henchman is actually WAY stronger than Supervillain. But they are being held back for the right moment to strike.
Supervillain and Henchman were both past heroes who deserted together, and now knows the ins and outs of both the hero world and the criminal one.
When Supervillain goes to jail, Henchman takes over their work and rapidly becomes one of the most powerful criminal lords in the city. So when Supervillain finally escapes two months later, everyone thinks they are going to have the worst territorial feud in crime history. But instead, Henchman simply hands their criminal empire right over to Supervillain before demanding a two month paid vacation. Supervillain gives them three months.
Supervillain bringing Henchman to the gala. And Henchman steals the show making the heroes jealous.
Everyone got a crush on Supervillain. Several heroes and villains have tried to gain Supervillain’s attention. But then they choose to date Henchman. Why? Because Henchman was the only one brave enough to just straight up ask them out on a date, instead of trying to get Supervillain to ask them.
A Caretaker.. who runs into the middle of a whump session.
They've never seen what happens during a session. There's an uncomfortable guilt that lingers, that this is as much that Caretaker can do for Whumpee, eventhough Whumpee has reassured them again and again that it's alright. Caretaker has only ever been present to collect and heal Whumpee again in the aftermath.
Now Caretaker's feet are rooted to the ground. They had come to pick up Whumpee too early.
It's like watching a tender red rosebud being pried open on an orante ceramic plate, torn apart by Whumper's own hands. Every tear as sweet as dew. Their cries and wails the sweetest birdsong in that gilded chamber.
Whumpee looks beautiful.
Caretaker drinks in every second it lasts.
Caretaker saves Whumpee like always, when it's over. But that night as they settle in to sleep with Whumpee cradled in their arms, the scene replays behind their eyelids without permission.
Over and over.
Caretaker feels they might just understand what Whumper sees.
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