#alcoholic whumpee
Note
ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)
i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch
because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve
CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt
Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.
-
Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.
God, it looks good.
His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.
He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.
This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.
Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.
Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.
Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.
He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.
He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.
He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.
The burn is perfect.
He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.
He looks up.
Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.
His cost more than five hundred dollars.
He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.
Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.
He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.
Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.
The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.
Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.
Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"
"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."
He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.
"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.
If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.
This must be why Owen liked it so much.
No.
He won't think about Owen right now.
Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.
"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"
Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"
Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"
"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."
Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.
It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?
"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.
"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.
It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.
Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.
Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?
"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"
Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."
There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.
Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?
It's... it's good, almost.
It feels better than he thought it would.
"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.
Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.
They both survived, didn't they?
Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.
"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."
"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."
"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"
There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.
"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.
Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.
Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.
He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.
Oh.
There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.
Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.
Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.
Jameson flinches.
Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"
"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."
"I'm so sorry."
Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.
Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.
But then, it's been months.
Months, he made it without taking even a sip.
He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.
The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."
There's a pause.
"From... me?"
"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"
"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."
"Please."
An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."
"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."
Kauri hangs up.
Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.
He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.
Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.
He should have called his sponsor instead.
Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.
But he deserves it, anyway.
Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.
Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.
"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."
"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"
"I got... I drank."
"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.
"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."
"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"
"I-... I scared him."
"... you scared him?"
"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"
"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"
Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."
"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."
Vince lowers his head into his arms.
"Thank you," He says, muffled.
"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."
-
@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay
#whump#ptsd tw#alcholism tw#withdrawal tw#alcoholic whumpee#recovering whumpee#recovery whump#vincent shield is not a hero#erase to control#since kauri makes an appearance#jameson bb#box boy universe#drunk whumpee#whumpee turned whumper#briefly and not on purpose
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The Hero and the Infant: Part Two
Read part one here
*~*~*~*~*
“Villain.”
The hero didn’t shout it. They didn’t need to. Villain would hear them fine even over all the destruction and screaming and emergency services. Hero just stared from the street up at Villain and Villain looked down at Hero. Hero lifted their hand in a wave and then pulled the cigarette from their lips, exhaling a lungful of smoke.
“Hero –” sidekick began but Hero shook their head.
“It’s okay kid. I got it from here,” Hero said still staring at Villain. “So, you gonna invite me up or do I have to climb twelve flights of stairs?”
Villain just stared. Sidekick moved forward, suddenly hesitant in bringing Hero here. Just as they opened their mouth to say it to Hero, Sidekick was wrenched into the sky by an invisible hand and suddenly Hero and the street were below them.
“Fucking shit,” Hero cursed, flicking their cigarette to the ground as they started running to the apartment building to the left of Villain and taking the stairs two at a time.
Villain stared at Sidekick with a probing, scientific kind of curiosity, like they were able to look under Sidekick's skin and unravel all their secrets with enough determination.
“You’re new,” Villain purred. Their voice like liquid silver dancing its way through the sky to Sidekick’s ears sending a shiver down their spine.
“Yeah. I’m Superhero’s sidekick.”
Villain tilted their head to the side and asked, voice deadpan, “do you know the mortality rate of Superhero’s previous sidekicks?”
Sidekick stared Villain in the eye as they said, “I do.”
“And you took the job anyways?”
“I did.”
“Hmm. Not very chatty. You remind me of an old friend of mine.”
“Forgive me, I don't usually chitchat while floating this high in the air."
"Hmm," Villain rumbled, "how about falling?"
For a single terrifying moment, Sidekick felt gravity's effects on them, yanking them back to earth and they gasped, reaching forward and grabbing Villain's leg like their life depended it.
"NO! Nononononononononono, wait! FUCK!" Sidekick cried as their grip on Villain faltered and they slipped. They fell an inch further in the air before they were suspended again, this time with their back to the ground below, staring up at Villain with wide frightened eyes. The only thing keeping them from the hard tarmac below thirteen stories below and being alive.
Villain turned over in the air, rolling onto their stomach and lying like a schoolgirl on their stomach with two hands supporting their head as they grinned down at Sidekick, drinking in their fear.
"You sound just like my favourite hero, Sidekick. I knew letting you fall would loosen your tongue a bit."
Villain was fucking insane, Sidekick realised, their heart still pounding like a rabbits at seeing a hungry dog catch their eye.
"Hero, I’m guessing?" Sidekick said eventually, though their voice still came out higher than it should have.
Villain smiled a fond smile that went to their eyes and lit up their entire face. “Yes. My dear cantankerous hero, so foul-mouthed."
“I met them today," Sidekick said, just trying to keep Villain talking and keep themselves suspended until Hero was able to talk Villain into hopefully letting Sidekick go. Where the fuck were they?
Villain's interest was piqued and they dove slightly towards Sidekick, grabbing Sidekick by the collar of their shirt and sitting on their waist, legs dangling over either side. Somehow, Villain made sure that even flying in the air, Sidekick could still feel the restrictive weight of Villain on top of them.
"And what did you think of them?" Villain asked.
What did Sidekick think of Hero?
"They were... difficult," was the first word that came to mind. Villain grinned and nodded sagely, agreeing with Sidekick as if it was a sacred moment.
“Nothing easy is worth having, Sidekick. Some parting advice.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“Oh yes,” said Villain with a disarming smile. “Quite literally.”
Sidekick didn’t have time to process Villain’s words before Villain shoved Sidekick down below them and wind rushed through their clothes, through their hair, through them as they fell like a comet to earth. This was how they died.
Then their momentum stopped suddenly, and they were swinging into a brick wall, their arm yanked out of its socket and Sidekick cried out in pain. Craning their neck up, they tried glancing up to see Hero above them, leaning half out a broken window, two feet planted on the sill and pulled Sidekick up despite their cries and cursing.
“God, I know. I’m sorry Sidekick. You shouldn’t have been here, god where the fuck is Superhero in all this!” Hero pulled Sidekick in the window and into their chest before stepping back and setting Sidekick down on the window sill.
“Fucking what the fuck?!” Sidekick mewled cradling their arm to their chest.
“I'm sorry, Villain doesn’t usually act like this,” Hero told them.
Sidekick blinked, pain lancing through their shoulder and down into their chest. “What?”
“They don’t usually act this way. First impressions are everything, but I swear there’s good in them.”
Sidekick blinked at Hero, shaking their head. “You’re defending them?!”
“Well, it’s my fault you see. This whole temper tantrum. I haven’t been returning their texts.”
“You haven’t—” Sidekick asked, then blinked and let out an exasperated “what?!”
“Your shoulder—” Hero said. “It’s dislocated.”
“No fucking shit!" Sidekick mewled. "You yanked it out of its socket!”
“Would you rather be a splat on the concrete? Cause I can still push you out the damn window, kid.”
Sidekick walked to the stairwell, fury and pain mixing in their heavy breaths as they braced themselves against the wall. Hero stepped forward a warning on their lips: “kid, I wouldn’t do th—”
It was too late. Sidekick had already thrown themselves against the wall. A resounding pop echoed throughout the stairs, followed by a sharp shriek of pain from Sidekick as they slid down the wall, breathing harshly through gritted teeth.
Hero opened their mouth, but Sidekick just held up a finger from their good arm and wagged it in Hero’s stupid face: “don’t. Say. A thing.”
Sidekick braced themselves against the wall, sliding up it with a groan of pain and rolled their shoulder. Forwards. Backwards. Then they set their furious eyes on Hero and without a word turned and started ascending the stairwell to the roof.
Hero laughed, stunned at the kid’s resilience, and followed them up the stairs. “Do you want some—”
“Just shut the hell up,” Sidekick said, kicking the door to the roof open and looking down pointedly at Hero who was midway through taking a bag of sweets from their pocket. “And go out and do your job.”
“Yes boss,” Hero said with a smile, putting a fizzy lace through their teeth. They emerged onto the roof, arms spread wide and yelled: “Hey! What the fuck are ya doing?” to Villain who was no doubt still floating in the sky, and Sidekick sat down heavy on the steps and took a few deep breaths.
They nearly just died.
Villain almost just killed them.
They would have killed them if not for Hero, and all they wanted to do was cry, but they were too angry.
“Just go out and do your job,” Sidekick chastised themselves, standing and wiping the remnants of tear trails from their cheeks before joining Hero on the roof.
Crying could come later if they lived that long.
*~*~*~*~*
Continued Here
#The Hero and the Infant#THATI#hero villain story#hero villain snippet#hero villain writing#hero villain whump#sidekick whump#sidekick whumpee#sidekick x villain#heroes and villains#writing snippet#hero x villain#villain x hero#hero villain angst#sad hero#alcoholic hero#reluctant hero#neglectful mentor#bad superhero#neglectful superhero#superhero sidekick#sidekick#villain#hero#sidekick hero buddy cop duo#orphan#orphan writing#whump#unhinged villain
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Favorite trope? Trauma reveal
Hi ✨️
Look I'm a sucker for this happening on accident, better writers than me can make the characters have a good talk, but not in this house!
Whumpee gets drunk and ends up having a breakdown in front of caretaker! Extra points if they're not in the condition to actually explain what is happening. Caretaker might try and get them to bed at that point but going to bed means fast-forwarding to tomorrow and tomorrow means talking so No Thank You!
Whumpee who's having a flashback over something seemingly mundane and now has to either find an improbable excuse for what's happening or come clean about their past.
They meet whumper out and about in the street! Caretaker has no idea why whumpee seems so terrified of this random stranger, they look so nice!
Nightmares! I'm always a big fan of nightmares :D
Caretaker tries to surprise whumpee but ends up instead startling them and Oh No! Now they have to explain how they know martial arts?? what is going on??
Caretaker is helping them clean and finds old photos of them <3
So yes, trauma reveal, good stuff :] Thank you for the ask!!
#ask#thefangirlwriter#ask game#whump#whump prompt#whump trope#whumpee#caretaker#whumper#mention of alcohol#tw alcohol#fern whumps
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a social setting where whumper dolls whumpee up to show them off. Whumpee has so many more etiquette rules to follow around the guests with a much lower tolerance for fuck ups, and inside they're just barely holding it together by a string the entire night.
Then whumper decides to "reward" their good behavior towards the end of the night. A little drink for the nerves? Whumpee deserves a glass of the fancy champagne, there's so much going to be left over after all.
And suddenly, under the influence of the first thing they've consumed all day, whumpee can't hold it together anymore.
#pyreprompts#whump prompt#whump scenario#whumpee#whump prompts#whump writing#whump ideas#tw alcohol#Brought to you by my frustration of bosses who compliment good work then do everything in their power to undermine it#Also forcefeeding alcohol that's a good trope
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Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Prompts and starters
A collaboration with @wormwriting
[Prompt Masterpost]
“How much did you hear?”
Whumpee crouched and trying to stay quiet until they can slip away. Then the cool barrel of a gun pressing against the back of their head. Bonus for ~click~
“You know what happens now, right?”
Whumpee stumbling home, breath ragged and body in shock still. They stare at the liquor bottle - and without thinking, uncap it and start downing as much fire as they can stand. They don’t want to remember what they just saw. For everyone’s sake.
Whumper shoving a bottle against Whumpee’s chest. “You’re going to want to forget that. I’ll check back in tomorrow to make sure you did.”
Walked into the wrong bar at the wrong time - now they’re a vampire’s lunch.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who fucked up everything. Now I need to clean up your mess.”
The shaky hand Whumpee presses to their mouth to try to stifle their echoing breaths. Eyes squeezed shut so hard that they might press the memory of what they saw out of their mind.
“How’s about you and me go for a little walk, hm?”
“Sorry kid - boss said no loose ends.”
Whumpee stepping around the corner to see people and blood and heads slowly turning toward them. Seeing them seeing what just happened. Seeing the blood. Seeing them seeing the blood. Whumpee slooooooowwwwwly steps back, eyes stricken with horror-
“Can’t talk without a tongue, right?”
Whumpee driving in the middle of nowhere - how were they supposed to know it would be fifty miles to the nearest gas station? At least they can cal-......they don’t have signal either…
Whumpee flinching at each echoing footstep, tucking further back into their hiding spot. “I know you’re theeeeerrreeeee~ Come out come ouuuut~”
“You know this isn’t personal, right?”
And escaped whumpee bumping into Whumper completely randomly years later. The s t a r e. Aaaaaaand run-
“What are you so scared for? I don’t gotta kill you~”
“Wh-y me?” “You were the easiest to grab.”
Stepping into a bear trap.
Whumpee getting mistaken for a target. Tortured in their place while pleading all the while that they got the wrong mark. Of course, no one believes them.
“Know what you are? A liability.”
The random guy the villain shoots in a bar just to make a point.
“Don’t. Move.”
[Prompt Masterpost]
(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35)
As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!
(a few of these arent working so if wibbly-wobbly-whump or hold-back-on-the-comfort changed their blogs please lmk <3
#whump#promp list#whump prompt list#collaboration#kidnapping#gun#knife#forced drinking#alcohol consumption#wrong place wrong time#incidental whumpee#murder mention#blood#mouth gore threat#threat#fear#angst#multiple whumpers#wrong whumpee
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Good Boy - Malak
WOHEO Masterlist
cw: pet whump, really just treating a guy like a dog, dehumanization, alcohol use & noncon drinking, multiple whumpers, vampire whumpers
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“Well who might you be?”
Malak made an attempt to follow the source of the voice, but was faced with all eyes burning holes on him.
He… where was he? Malak couldn’t recall how he’d gotten into such a situation. Why boisterous chatter and laughter flowed around him, why faint music drifted from a distance, or why the soft scent of alcohol wafted through the air. The best answer he could muster up was his master having brung him along to yet another one of their large parties, the fact most likely having easily slipped his mind. And if that were to be true, then where were they?
He cringed. Malak didn’t like parties. Hated them, actually. The noise, the eyes, the fear. He no short of detested them. But, his master didn’t know that, and as much as they loved him, probably wouldn’t care. They enjoyed bringing him along just to flaunt to their friends, and occasionally he was granted with such immense, mindless bliss he could forget about the disgusting anxiousness rotting in his belly.
“Dear?”
In a puzzled daze he had accidentally crawled his way through a circle of vampires, breaking through conversation and catching all of their intimidating focus. He shrunk back as they all watched him, each with an intense gaze. What if he’d bothered them? And they’d got upset, and told his master he was being bad? He didn’t mean to be. He was just confused.
“Hm. Can’t speak?”
He could speak. Or, at the very least he could try if they so wanted. He would always do his best to please. Try he did, to answer her inquiry. “Mmm… mmmng… Ma- Maaa…”
Malak frowned, thick brows furrowing. His tongue was just too cumbersome to properly articulate his name. The weight of surrounding vampiric aura was just too overbearing for his mouth to cooperate along with his hazy brain, the feat evidently too tough for him. Frustration tugged at his head.
The group watched as he gave up any attempt to answer, before chuckling at his failure. His cheeks flushed with odd embarrassment. Odd for Malak at least, considering his master often was amused at his short comings. He should’ve been used to it.
“Aw, can’t talk, can you?” Another purred, grinning from ear to ear. He shook his head sheepishly, and the giggles only increased. Shame stinging his face, Malak hung his head low.
A different vampire piped up next, spinning him in circles to keep up. “Hey, c’mere, baby, come on over.” She called, gesturing for him to crawl his way inside the circle, and he obediently followed. One thing he could do was follow directions. Just as he was trained.
Malak carefully crept his way into the group, swaying lazily on his hands and knees. He could faintly sense the sting of eyes lingering on his skin, all of them watching with entertained fascination. He didn’t know a lot, but from the churn of his tummy he knew he didn’t like that.
“Okay, okay,” she said, stopping him right in front of herself, before lifting her fist as means of a signal. “Sit.”
Confused for a beat, he met her gaze. He could… do that. That was easy. Malak plopped his bottom back onto his ankles, seating himself into a kneeling position.
Seemingly he’d done well, earning him claps, smiles, and rounds of praise from the creatures circling him. “Good boy!” The sounds of sweet compliments fluttered and pulsed in his heart, slipping away any lingering sensations of sourness. A toothy and bright smile grew, smooshing his pudgy cheeks and showing off his gums.
The vampire then dropped her hand, leaning forward with a look of satisfaction and interest. “Now, beg, baby. Like a little doggy.” She cooed, awaiting his compliance.
Malak couldn’t help but keen toward her, called forward by her magnificent aura. It reeled him in by the second, fizzling out his thoughts like that and and leaving him an empty, beaming shell of obedience.
It was as if he couldn’t…
Couldn’t…
Think…
For however long he sat there, happily at her feet, his mind was liquidated to putty-like ooze, keeping him focused on the pleasurable sensation of praise. He wanted only and terribly to follow their commands. In the moment, he couldn’t want anything else but to listen to her every word.
Eagerly he did just as he was told, lifting his arms and crudely imitating that of a puppy. He did so as best he could, not a drop of intelligence left in his head.
Malak’s zealous behavior only earned him more applause and laughter, mixed in with the coos and sweet praises. The vampire handing him orders grabbed something off the coffee table beside her. “Here.” She held out a small cookie, of which he excitedly accepted as it was dropped right upon his outstretched tongue. “A treat.”
Without a second thought the woman beside her gripped his attention next, stealing her turn to give commands. “Alright, now lay down.” Malak swiftly obliged, flopping onto his back. “And roll over!”
Again everyone erupted in giggles and cheers as he rolled over himself, supple skin brushed by the fuzz of rug below him, receiving only more heart warming compliments that strengthened the gooey, dopey smile plastered over his lips. “Oh, splendid! Such a good boy!”
It was terribly hard for him to make out what anyone said beside orders, but from their tone of voice he just knew it had to be something savory to his ears. The excited sounds of celebration swirled his mind in heavenly circles, slipping dumb giggles from his lips.
They were happy with him! He must have been doing so good!
A couple of vampires slunk down from their seats, snaking beside him and placing a hand or two to the flesh of his plush belly. On instinct Malak melted into the carpeting below him as they rubbed magnificently mind numbing pleasure through his stomach, that seeped tenderly into the rest of his frame. Thick drool dripped as nimble, heavy fingers dipped over and under the folds of his tummy, squashing his mind to mush through the hypnotic touch, overcome with blissful sensations. He was practically panting with happiness.
Just like the dog they all saw him as.
Inferior.
How splendid! They were all so kind, he never wanted to leave! Malak could barely form a coherent thought, everything so scattered inside him, his favorite enthralled state. When he didn’t need to think, and everyone else would just do it for him. When he didn’t need to worry, because he just felt to far away to so much as know where he was.
“So you like treats, do you?”
Thick and low the words drifted through his ears, almost going unnoticed. Just as the voice had spoken, the rest of the group’s giggles and touch had ceased, leaving him unsatisfied and whining pathetically for more.
Malak shifted, eyes landing on the shining shoes of yet another vampire as he desperately searched for why everyone had stopped. She sat with poise and perfect posture, slender legs crossed. Her stare dug into the others of the group, which the brainless thrall took no notice of.
“Come.” She called to him, overpowering and concise, unlike the sweetness of the others. Still, he obeyed. Of course he would.
It was a difficult task to push his weighted limbs and body up from the floor, flesh practically stuck to the rug. He wobbled along toward the woman, arms shaking from saccharine dizziness.
“Open.” She commanded, as he kneeled below her and obliging without question. “Good boy. Try this for me, darling.”
She clutched an already open bottle of alcohol, swiping it gracefully from the table beside her. The vampire leaned forward, a grin on her face that failed to meet her eyes. A puzzle piece that wasn’t meant to fit.
Malak coughed as bitter liquid unexpectedly flooded his mouth, coating his inside and shoving it’s way down his throat before he could so much as realize. Eyes agape he did his best to swallow, only rising a juicy hack from his chest, choking as rich drink trickled to the floor.
The woman only smiled as he curled in on himself, choking. “Didn’t like that one?” Malak shook his head, thick and shaky coughs still bubbling up from his lungs. “Me neither.”
She studied the bottles beside her for a moment as he regained his sloppy, drowsy composure, breath trembling. “Let’s try this one. I bet you’ll like it this time.”
A different taste entered his lips soon enough, this time far more bearable. Enjoyable, even. Eager to please as always, Malak gulped down the drink as quick as it washed over him, careful this time to focus his brain enough not to allow himself to choke.
She brought the bottle away just long enough for him to fully swallow. “Such a cutie pie. Did you like that? Was it nice? Would you enjoy some more?” She cupped Malak’s chin firmly but gently, tipping the bottle back once again and allowing the sweet beverage to swiftly slip down his throat. It danced around the inside of his mouth, swirling about and dribbling out the corners of his lips. “You’re Addie’s thrall aren’t you? How lucky of them. I’d simply die to have a doll like you in my collection.”
He hummed as the beverage rolled down his throat, gulping down the remaining liquid. She scratched softly on the underside of his chin as he did so, fingernails dancing and eyes traveling into the back of his head.
“How does it feel to be so good? So obedient? There must not be a naughty bone in your body.”
She was so right. Malak was a good boy, such a good boy. Everyone told him so. He’d never been bad, and he never would be. He just wasn’t. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. And Malak wished to be a good boy, with his whole heart. That’s all he could ever want for.
If Malak wasn’t a good boy, then what was he?
What was he worth if he wasn’t a good boy? He’d be worthless. Useless. Malak couldn’t bear to be such a failure.
He wasn’t, though. Right?
Right?
Malak whimpered feebly as anxiousness, with it’s horrible naughtiness and wretched ache, clawed it’s way back into him, attempting once again to infect and plague his consciousness. Somehow, no matter how many times his master fended it off, it always came back.
With his deep, puppy-dog eyes Malak pouted up to the vampire sitting over him, silently pleading for something to satiate his hurt.
“Something troubling you?” She scritched behind his ear as he nodded sorrowfully. “How silly. A stupid thing like you shouldn’t have any worries.” Again, he nodded in agreement.
She grinned, slightly twisted, moisture still coating his chin. “How about another treat?”
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Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @mylifeisonthebookshelf @mis-graves
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#we only have each other#writing#my writing#whump writing#whump#whumpblr#whump story#Malak oc#hypnosis#hypnotized whumpee#hypnosis whump#hypnotized#pet whump#pet whumpee#dehumanisation tw#dehumanization#alcohol#alcohol tw
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Just imagining Team Leader whumpee who has had a particularly bad day and Team knows it, so some of the Team Members go over to their place to check in on them. They knock and there’s no answer so they try the door and it’s open. They walk in and find Team Leader just blasting music and getting cross-faded, absolutely out of it. And that’s when Team realizes just how much of an effect things have on Team Leader.
#whump#whump prompt#whump idea#whump scenario#whump tropes#team whump#team leader whump#team leader whumpee#alcohol#alcohol abuse whump#drug whump#team dynamics#team leader
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Whumper who gives whumpee alcohol to deal with the pain of “training”.
Meaning when whumpee is rescued, their coping skill of choice comes in the form of a whiskey bottle.
They hate how much it reminds them of whumper but they literally do not have the additional mental or emotional strength to fight off a chemical addiction along with trying to untrain themselves.
#tw alcohol#tw alchoholism#whump#whumpee#caretaker#whump prompts#whump prompt#rescue#whump scenario#whumper#conditioned whumpee
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tw: alcohol
whumpers forcing alcohol down their whumpee’s throat !! maybe it’s a punishment or maybe it’s because it’s all they’re being offered as something to drink (and whumpee is so dehydrated). the whumpee recoils and gags and throws it up maybe, only to be punished by the whumper for not being good and grateful for their gift.
maybe the whumper forces them to get drunk. this way, it’s harder for them to resist the torture and the torment that’s being done to them. maybe they even find solace in their drunken haze — it’s not like they’ll remember what happened to them anyway.
#whump#whump blog#whumpee#whumper#whump community#whump prompt#kidnap whump#whump writing#whump scenes#whump scenario#tw alcohol#creepy whumper#intimate whumper#whump ideas#whump inspiration
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hey hey hey I have had a hell of a day (Actually Hell) because I did too many fun things (a problem apparently) and then also we put up the christmas tree leading to the inevitable christmas tree installation arguments (they pop up every year like clockwork!)
anyway i have been overstimulated and stressed (just want to emphasize that there is NO pressure here whatsoever! id like to avoid any semblance of that actually and I know you're already working on 12 days so take your time) and it would be very cathartic to see chris dealing with similar issues (the Wonderful guy. we are pretty similar.) thanks a lot for reading this, even if you don't write anything !
Sorry this took so long, Anon! I swear I've been trying to get this written for literally almost two months now
CW: Some references to Chris's past, overstimulation, anxiety
"Hey, where did Chris go?" Laken blinks and looks around, but the living room of the house they rent - filled with laughing, happy people - shows no sign of Chris's telltale lavender hair with its new-penny copper roots.
One of Brit's friends just shrugs at them and gestures, vaguely, in the direction of the kitchen. "Dunno. He wandered off a while ago, maybe that way?"
"Oh, okay. Huh." Laken steps back, the circle of laughing people closing up tight as soon as they do. Their dark eyes scan the room, but there's no sign of him.
He'd been doing great - all but holding court, one of the most popular people at the party. He's sort of famous, since the Olympics, and people had been peppering him with questions and compliments, crowding around wanting nothing more than to be friends with the ex-pet who stood up to the bad guys on live TV. They'd seen him dancing, too, the music loud enough to nearly make the walls shake. The easy, unselfconscious dancing they loved in him the most.
He'd seemed to be enjoying himself, at the time, but...
Where has he gone?
They weave around people, stopping to pick up an ornament that has fallen off the tree. The scent of pine is subtle and ever-present, and they carefully work the ornament's little loop back over a branch, ruefully watching a couple of pine needles come loose and drift down. The damn thing is already starting to turn a little brown around its edges, thanks to Laken's roommate having insisted on buying it literally the day before Thanksgiving.
Laken doesn't even celebrate Christmas, not since they stopped going to Mass on Christmas Eve years and years ago. Still, in a house they rent with three others, they're the only one who doesn't at least pay lip service to the holiday.
And even if they don't give a fuck about Christmas, they do like having an excuse to throw a party.
The tinsel wrapped in spirals around, over, and below the ornaments glitters in the light, and the look makes them think of Chris, and how his eyes have always looked just the same, to them, when they're out at night and the moon hits the green of his irises just right.
Their search leads them to Ben, contentedly sitting on the couch, a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, quietly reading something there while the party is in full swing around him. He glances up and then instinctively, immediately, uses a finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Hey, Laken. What's up?"
"Is Akio not coming tonight?"
"Oh... no." Ben blushes - it's adorable, and Laken can't help the smile playing around their lips. "He's got some kind of meeting with the gymnastics team, or his coaches? Or... something like that. He said sorry, though."
"Nah, no problem. But, hey, so. Uh, have you seen Chris, like within the last ten minutes or so??"
Someone puts Christmas music on and Laken shudders as they hear that damn 80s pop song start up again. If they have to hear that fucking song one more time...
"Nope. Not in a while." Ben shrugs, taking a drink. Whatever he has in that cup is pinkish-red and probably far more alcoholic than it tastes. Laken's roommate had insisted on a signature cocktail. "You could check outside? Sometimes when there's a lot of people, to Chris it's... too much."
Laken nods, still scanning the crowd, but their stomach knots a little with the first hit of real anxiety. Ben is right, Chris can get overwhelmed by too much noise and movement, but also he's been drinking tonight - they saw the same red punch in a cup in his hands earlier - and he has a tendency to get... hazy, when he drinks. Flirty in ways that aren't natural to him. Willing to let people hug him that he doesn't like, unable to bring himself to stop them. Sometimes his stammer smooths out, which makes people who don't know him feel more comfortable and people who do know him nervous. He starts tipping his head to the side in a way that makes the sweep of his growing-out hair hide the scar on his forehead, biting his lower lip when he smiles. It makes Laken feel a little sick to see it happen and realize Chris doesn't even notice when he's doing it.
The last thing they need is to have to come up with an explanation for Chris losing track of himself again, or why he's eating olives off the charcuterie board Brit brought knowing damn well he'll just go to the bathroom and get sick all over the place again, or... fuck, what if somebody hits on him and he's too drunk to stop it?
That hasn't happened since college, but...
They pull their phone out, uneasily checking for a text, but there's nothing. If he went outside, he'd text, right? He does, he always does. Texts can be easier and Chris is always a little nervous about being outside alone.
He insisted on coming tonight, said he was feeling good lately, but-... what if-...
They flinch when fingers touch their arm, only to see Ben must have stood up when they weren't looking. He slips his own phone into his jacket pocket and looks Laken over more closely. "Hey. It's okay, he's probably fine. You know he gets weird when parties are really going. It's like a light switch, enough to too much, I totally get it. It's why I'm on the couch fucking around on Kindle instead of, you know... talking to people." Ben says it like talking to people is literal hell, and... okay, Laken can see how that might be the case. "He probably just needed to get away from it and wandered off."
"Uh, yeah. I know." Laken rubs at the back of their neck, fingers moving through the soft, shorn undercut beneath their longer black waves. "I'm sure that's it. Just... you know, sometimes he... when he gets nervous..."
"I got you." They adore Ben, sometimes, for how often they don't have to finish the sentences they don't want to say. He knows what words haven't yet spilled, unwilling. Sometimes he acts like he belongs to us, not like he loves us. Sometimes I can't trust him to find his way back on his own. Sometimes I feel like Jake, and I hate feeling like Jake.
Words die in their throat.
Ben squeezes their arm, gently. "Let's split up and search around. I'll go outside, you go around the house, okay? We verify how he is, then whichever one finds him tells the other. Sound good?" Ben smiles, and Laken relaxes a little, finding a smile for him in return.
"Yeah, sounds good. Thanks, Ben."
"No problem." Ben has always understood Chris, thanks to his little brother being similar in some ways. He understands Laken's worry, too, because better than anyone else here - he knows how Chris sometimes gets lost in his past, especially if he's drinking, worse the maybe twice Laken's ever seen him try an edible or a pill.
What if he got drunk and someone offered him something and he took it? Drunk Chris sometimes isn't a Chris who can easily turn down anything he's offered.
This party was a stupid idea.
Laken takes a deep breath and squares their shoulders.
Chris is not a child.
He is a goddamn grown man and Laken is not his keeper. They're not his parent and they're not a babysitter. They're definitely not his fucking... owner or whatever the bastards that hurt him would have called it. They're his partner. He can handle himself, better than they could if they'd lived his life, and they need to trust him to either know his limits and to get away if he can't say no, or to come to them if he wants to ask for help. Otherwise, they're not any better than the bullshit he's been buried in for longer than he's known them.
Ben goes to check outside, slipping silently out the sliding door onto the back porch where a small crowd has congregated in a cloud of skunky smoke, while Laken heads upstairs, peeking their head in to room after room with no sign of him anywhere. They see some movement under a pile of coats, but that's... definitely not Chris, based on the very female voices who yell at them to give them some fucking privacy, please.
"Sorry, Brit," Laken calls, closing the door tightly. "And, um, Leigh. Just looking for Chris-"
"Well, he isn't in here or we'd have kicked him out already," Brit says, cranky but without any real anger in her voice. Laken doesn't recognize the redhead whose eyes pop up from beneath the pile of coats next to her. "Check a different room."
"Yeah, I will. Uh... keep having fun, I guess-"
"That's the plan! Now leave, please!"
The door latches as they close it, and they exhale. There's one room left, at the end of the hall, and they can hear a familiar murmuring from behind the door when they press their ear up against it.
Laken knocks, rapping gently with their knuckles, and turns the knob when they hear no answer - but no demand to stay out either. The murmuring goes silent. They sigh, and the door swings open, light cutting across the carpet until it reveals their wayward boyfriend.
No one has claimed this bedroom yet, so it's bare and empty except for a couple unpacked cardboard boxes, Brit's exercise bike by the window, a couple of her yoga mats, a laundry basket with a few folded towels, and a bare mattress the last housemate had left behind on the floor when they moved out.
Laken's lips press together, eyes scanning the room. Chris's phone is on the mattress, along with an empty beer bottle, but Chris isn't. "Chris? Cariño?"
A muffled rustling makes them jump, heart in their throat, and then they realize the sound came from the closet, where the folding doors are closed. Laken pulls them open to reveal Chris curled up, knees nearly to his chin, an open bottle clutched in one hand, his chewy necklace in the other. He'd chosen the bat one tonight, and his hand is closed around it in such a tight fist Laken can tell his knuckles are white even in the dark.
Chris doesn't look at them. He's swaying, rocking forward and back, his eyes focused on something far, far away from them. There's red lines on his left wrist, where he's dug his nails in, scratching not quite deep enough to draw blood, but close. Laken takes a deep breath, shifting into a crouch.
"Talk to me, Chris."
"No." The answer is flat, and they watch his thumb rub over the little nub of the silicone bat's nose, the points of its tiny ears. "No, no, no. No."
At least he's saying it out loud.
That alone makes the knot of anxiety in their chest start to loosen. If he can say no, he isn't gone, maybe just... standing a little farther back, inside his own head, than the surface.
"Okay. Okay, that's fine. No talking, that's fine. Are you okay, baby?" Laken keeps their voice just above a whisper and lays their hand on the wood trim that frames this shitty excuse for a closet, the floor creaking under them. "You... kind of vanished on me, there."
Chris's eyes flick to them and then away again. "Loud," He manages, and he sounds like he's forcing the word out between gritted teeth. Maybe he is. "Too, too, too... too loud. Too much, too... many."
"I guess Ben called it." Laken sighs, pulling out their phone and sending Ben a quick text that they found Chris and everything's fine. they get a thumbs-up in reply almost immediately. Ben must have been as anxious as they are, if he was just watching for their text to come in. "Do you want me to call Jake to come get you, or..."
"No!" He snaps it, and Laken tries not to wince. He's just struggling with the noise of the party, they tell themself, he's not actually angry. Chris almost never gets angry, and even then it's only at himself. Which... is worse, somehow. "No. Just... Quiet, it's... it's it's quiet."
"Right. Do you want me to stay with you? Be quiet with you?"
He shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything else. His mouth moves, but no further sounds come out.
"Chris, did..." They want to ask, did someone say something to you? Sometimes people said things, referenced pets or something in a way that set him off. But even if someone had... he probably wouldn't tell them, at least not now, not when every word seemed to have to filter through layer after layer of self-protection in his mind. "Never mind. Is there anything I can do for you? Water, or..."
He shakes his head. "No. Just. Um. Quiet... quiet, now. Please?"
"Yeah." Laken leans over and presses a kiss to his hair. He tips his head against their lips and they exhale in relief. "I love you, Chris. Come back if you can, but if you can't, that's okay, too. Just don't hurt yourself, okay? Things should start winding down in a couple hours." They take the little plastic bat and push it against the hand that's still scratching at his shoulder, until he takes hold of it again, pressing it against his mouth and running it back and forth, back and forth.
Chris is quiet, but as they open the door to head back into the hallway, they hear a quiet, "Love, love you," from Chris, barely audible.
They smile as they close the door. Down the hall, the sounds of the party hit them like a brick, beckoning them back to the noise and the cheer and the awful fucking Christmas music still blaring at top volume. Someone yells something out and the whole damn crowd cheers, making Laken wince at it feels nearly deafening.
Maybe Chris has the right idea.
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@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things
#whump#chris the strawberry blond romantic#recovery whump#recovering whumpee#overstimulation tw#autistic whumpee#referenced alcohol use#laken mamani#referenced dubcon#angst#fluff#comf#I guess this is the one that wins out first of the drafts?#we'll see if kauri or vince wins out next
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The Hero and the Infant: Part Three
Read part one here
Continued from here
*~*~*~*~*
Hero threw their arms wide as they strut onto the roof in a gesture of questioning: “hey! What the fuck are ya doing?”
That got Villain’s attention. Violet eyes snapped to theirs, floating a couple metres off the roof. Out of reach for Hero.
“Silent treatment? Really? You just tried to kill a kid, Villain.”
“Superhero’s new sidekick. I did warn them about the mortality rate of such a job before I dropped them,” Villain said with a shrug. Hero looked back over their shoulder at the sound of the roof door opening and Sidekick stepping out, fury winding all of their limbs tight.
“See?” Villain said, getting Hero’s attention again. The Villain’s hand was spread to Sidekick’s appearance. “They’re fine!”
Hero rolled their eyes, scoffing. “Is that supposed to be a justification for attempted murder?”
Hero felt the strong invisible hand wrap around them and yank them up into the air straight into Villain’s awaiting arms.
“Maybe I just don’t like the company they keep,” said Villain, grabbing Hero by the lapels of their duster and pulling them close.
Villain’s nose crinkled up as they said: “you smell like whiskey and cigarettes.”
“It was never a problem before. In fact, I think I remember you enjoying the smell at one point,” said Hero with their dashing smile reserved for only Villain.
“Why are you running around with Superhero’s new scapegoat?”
“Why are you disturbing these good people just trying to do their jobs?” Hero shot back.
“I am a Villain, my dear. It is what we do.”
“And I am a hero, at your every public beck and call. To make sure you don’t do irrevocable damage. Such as killing a child,” Hero admonished and yelped as they felt Villain’s power vanish from under them and they were falling.
Villain held them with one hand over the precipice in their usual showmanship of power. Hero narrowed their eyes and shifted their weight, so they were almost a perfect 45-degree angle to the ground thirteen stories below.
A challenge coated their words as they spread their arms wide, “if you want to kill anyone Villain, do us both a favour and kill me.”
Villain searched Hero’s face for any weakness. Any sign that they were lying and found none. The next thing Hero knows wind is whistling through their ears, stopping only when their back cracks off brickwork and they crumbled to the ground hands catching themselves on the ground, gasping for the air that was wrenched from their lungs.
“Hero!” Sidekick yelled in surprise from the opposite roof.
Hero barely had time to force themselves to stand again before Villain was in front of them, fist bunching in the collar of their shirt. Villain threw a solid left hook. Hero countered, taking the brunt on their forearm before an invisible hand grabbed Hero’s wrist yanking it above their head and keeping it there. Hero’s toes barely scraping the roof below them.
“No fair,” said Hero with a grunt, levelling Villain with a knowing scorn.
Villain’s smile was more of a snarl as they said: “when have I ever played fair?”
Hero threw their other hand out, but Villain caught it and slammed it back against the brick wall, drawing another grunt from Hero. Villain stepped in close, close enough that Hero felt Villain’s breath on their face as those violet eyes peered down at Hero, tightening their grip on Hero’s wrist.
“You look good, Vil,” said Hero softly. “What happened that made you rage against these innocent people today, hmm?”
Villain’s free hand settled on Hero’s cheek and Hero leaned into the touch. “I don’t need a reason.”
“We both know you’re not like that,” Hero said, smiling sadly.
Suddenly Hero was released, and they dropped to their feet, knees bent. Villain was recoiling to the side, hand on their cheek as a once invisible Sidekick became visible again.
“You alright?” Sidekick asked as Hero straightened and nodded.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You looked like you needed help,” Sidekick said, a little breathless and Hero searched the opposite roof wondering how Sidekick had got there so fast but didn’t question it. They could ask later.
Hero fixed their jacket, rolling their neck as Villain’s gaze turned to face the pair. “I had it handled.”
“Sure, you did,” and Sidekick was invisible again. Villain’s eyes burned like the cold fires of hell down at Hero and Hero shrugged with a smirk.
“Kid’s annoying,” said Hero. “But sure, what can you do?”
“Drop them off a building again. Maybe it will work this time.”
“Probably not,” Hero said with a flash of their teeth. “Not as long as I’m here.”
“Well then perhaps I will force you to watch,” said Villain as they shot their hand out. Hero sucked in a breath and felt the pop in their ears as they reappeared behind Villain. They whistled and Villain turned. Hero threw a punch which Villain caught, clenching their hand down around Hero’s fist and stepping forward, pushing Hero back. “You always did think I relied too much on my power.”
“Eh,” Hero shrugged with tired eyes. “It’s an off day.”
Villain’s eyes narrowed, their tone dipping dangerous as they turned Hero’s arm. “Maybe you should have answered my texts then and we could have arranged this on a non-drinking day for you.”
“Come on, Vil. You know me better,” Hero said with a toothy grin. “They are no non-drinking days.”
Villain pulled Hero in and brought a sharp knee to Hero’s stomach. Hero gasped, as Villain leaned in. “We’ll sober you up yet. Just like our academy days, huh Hero?”
The comment had barely registered when Villain squeezed Hero’s fist with their hand, their force backed by Villain’s unfair power.
“No wait, Villain—” Hero protested just before there was a resounding crack over the roof. Hero screamed bloody murder as Villain kicked them back, and unable to catch themselves, Hero stumbled back and fell, their head hitting off the stone roof. White spots burst behind their vision as Hero shuffled back on their good arm. “Motherfucker!”
Hero looked down at their hand, their index and middle finger bent backwards. A deep purple and black colouring the battered flesh. They had to get off the ground. Hero sucked in a sharp breath closing their eyes. Then a boot came to their chin and Hero cursed as their world rocked and their head hit the ground again.
A headache was already forming, and Hero just wanted to lie on the ground and give up then and there. Then he thought of Sidekick who would no doubt lecture them which would only make their headache worse. A rock and a hard place, headache, or worse headache. Before they could decide, Villain stomped on Hero’s ribs, and Hero’s eyes shot open. Their good hand pushing at Villain’s ankle to alleviate the pressure.
“No popping out if your brain’s clouded with pain, ain’t that right Hero?”
“Normal people just say: I missed you,” Hero hissed, they let out a harsh cough. “They don’t try and kill you.”
“What can I say? I’m not normal people,” said Villain with a smile of their own. Then their hand shot out on instinct and Sidekick reappeared two feet away, gasping on no air. Their hands went to their throat with wide eyes. Hero sat up suddenly, but Villain just put more pressure on their leg keeping Hero pinned. “No. No. Don’t get up. Stay.”
“Let them go, Villain!” Hero cried. Sidekick dropped to their knees, face going purple as they choked on nothing, hands clawing desperately at their throat.
Villain tilted their head at Sidekick’s struggles. Hero reached their hand into their pocket, taking out their lighter. “It’s not every day I don’t kill someone first try. The last, and not to blow my own trumpet, but only time that happened Sidekick was with…” Villain turned back to Hero. “Well, was you, dearest.”
Hero shot their hand out, setting fire to Villain’s trouser leg that was currently weighing on Hero’s ribs. Villain gasped, concentration broken, stepping back and Sidekick sucked in a lungful of air. Hero looked at Villain.
“I’ll be back,” they said to Villain as they lunged for Sidekick’s arm, hand clamping around their wrist. Hero closed their eyes, sucking in a breath.
Then pop.
*~*~*~*~*
#The Hero and the Infant#THATI#THatI#hero villain angst#hero villain story#hero villain whump#hero villain snippet#hero villain writing#hero whumpee#hero whump#sidekick whump#sidekick whumpee#villain whumper#hero x villain#villain x hero#alcoholic hero#poor hero#reluctant hero#hero#sad hero#superhero sidekick#sidekick#villain#hero and villain#powerful villain#smart hero#intelligent hero#intelligent whumper#past whump implied#hero and villain have history
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Okay here comes the request. Hope this isn’t too specific :)
Caretaker finds their friend Whumpee drunk out of their mind. They don’t know what happened but nevertheless they bring Whumpee home and take care of them. Whumpee, being rather incoherent, accidentally confesses something (maybe their treatment with whumper, maybe a love confession of what they think is unrequited love, maybe something else…)
Sorry it took me so long to answer this, but there wasn't enough creative juice in me, haha. I know it's not exactly what you asked for, but I still hope you like what I wrote :)
Thank you @whumpinthepot for helping me with this and doing a proof reading.
CW: drunk whumpee, abuse, alcohol abuse, protective caretaker, wounded character
“What are ya' doing Hero?” asked Civilian blinking slowly, trying to get used to the light in the flat while Hero dabbed his face with a wet cloth.
“What am I doing? I'm trying to wipe all the scratches off your face, you- idiot!”
“Wh- what scratcheees?”
“The ones you got when you decided to start a fight with that guy from the bar.”
“Ooh yeees! Well- he deserved it. He shouldn't have taken my drink.” Civilian swayed, and Hero had to grab his shoulder to keep him still.
The night among friends had been going smoothly with drinks and laughter, until Hero lost sight of a drunk Civilian for a few minutes and things got out of control. Resulting in Hero having to drag him out and take him home.
“That wasn't your drink!" Hero started, but he knew it was a lost cause, "ahh- never mind, can you take off your shirt? I want to see that you don't have any more cuts under it.”
“Heh, are you trying to flirt with me?” Civilian teased, trying with trembling hands to remove his torn clothes.
Despite the evening's outcome, the friends were enjoying their time together, but when Hero saw under Civilian's shirt, his face turned pale and the room fell silent.
The multiple scars covering Civilian's chest showed just how negligent Hero had been as a friend. How was it possible? Hero wondered. How was it possible that someone had been hurting his friend and he hadn't noticed?
“Who- who did this to you? When did this happen? Why didn't you say anything?!” Hero bombarded Civilian with questions, while guilt and worry overwhelmed him.
“Wait- m’ head…” -Civilian pressed his eyes closed- “don't talk so- so loud," he said as if what Hero had just found out was not a big deal.
“Tell me, and I swear I will see to it that you get justice.”
“Wha- what ar-e you talking about?”
“Don't play dumb. Where did all those scars come from? Civilian, someone's been hurting you and that's- that's not right...”
In the silence after Hero spoke, all that could be heard was the gentle breeze ruffling the curtains. Civilian was quite drowsy from all the alcohol, and looked as if he would pass out before answering Hero's questions. Until he finally managed to put his words together to give a halfway coherent answer.
“I- well, all these here," Civilian pointed to his scars, "you don't have to wo-worry Hero, they we-were my fau-lt.”
“Civilian..." pity could be heard in his voice, "I don't know who told you that, but it's not true. None of this can be your fault.”
“Yes, yes it was. I- I got involved with the- the wrong-g people. If I had never met Supervillain… things wouldn't have gone this far.”
Civilian seemed lost in thought. But Hero now had more questions than answers. Suddenly, nothing seemed to make sense.
“So, was it Supervillain who hurt you like this?”
Hero was trying to remain calm, but a storm was raging inside him. What could Supervillain want with Civilian? No matter the reason, as soon as he got his hands on that son of a bitch, he would make him regret ever having scratched a kind and gentle person like Civilian.
“Well, yes- in part…”
“In part? What do you mean? Has someone else been hurting you?”
“Ah well…yes… hm- erm, I,” Civilian hesitated looking at Hero in the eyes, “I told you it was my fault… if only I had been better… I brought this on myself."
“Civilian, you have to tell me the truth, you can't go on like this." Hero pressed.
As the conversation went on, Civilian looked more and more stressed until a few tears managed to escape from his eyes. “I- I just, I don't want to tell you.”
“Why?”
“You're going to get mad at me.”
“Civilian, that's not true, we are friends.”
“You won't want to be my friend anymore.”
“Everything is going to be okay. Just tell me. I can't see you hurt like this”
Hero took Civilian's hand into his own in a gesture that was intended to reassure his friend. But, which in fact ended up breaking Civilian, who began to sob inconsolably.
“I'm sorry, Hero, I'm sorry... It- It was you-”
If the night hadn't been strange enough, that last sentence had knocked him off his feet. That was not possible. For a long moment, Hero stood frozen without saying a word, without moving a muscle, just listening to his friend sobbing in the background. Until finally it all clicked. The answer had been so obvious. Only, he had been too blind to see it.
“Villain?” the question leapt from his mind and escaped his lips.
At the mention of that name, the sobbing turned to heavy weeping, and that was more than proof enough. Hero hesitated for a moment, but ended up sitting on the sofa next to- his friend? Perhaps the years of friendship had been a lie, all a great manipulation. It was the first thing that crossed Hero's mind. If it wasn't for the alcohol, Civili- Villain would never have revealed his identity. But the good times he had spent with his friend had felt real, Hero couldn't remember Villain ever taking advantage of Hero's ignorance of his identity and trying to get information out of him as Civilian. Besides, the scars on Villain's body were very real. Those could not be faked. Now that he thought about it, on occasions when Hero had fought with Villain, he had inflicted wounds to defeat him that he could now see reflected in some of the many scars on Villain's body. But he was definitely not the cause of all of them.
With that in mind, Hero moved his arms slowly until he wrapped Villain in a gentle hug. At the unexpected physical contact, his friend flinched, but when the surprise passed, he just rested his head on Hero's shoulder and cried there for a long time. By the time Villain had calmed down, the night breeze had stopped.
“So- you don't hate me?" was the first thing Villain asked, "can we still be friends?"
“Of course I don't hate you. Whatever happened doesn't change anything, you have been my friend for many years and always will be.” Hero shook his head. “I- I just don't understand why Supervillain would do something like this to you, you're his ally.”
If Hero wanted answers, it would be better to get them now. Once the alcohol had cleared out of Villain's system, he would probably return to his charmingly stoic and cocky self. But... was it really the right thing to do to take advantage of the situation? Villain would never have confessed to something like this in his right mind. But before Hero could further question the morality of his actions, Villain voiced one last thought.
“H- he do- doesn't like useless- people. Losing to you…” he sighed, “I will always be a failure to him…”
After that statement, a last tear rolled down Villain's cheek as he fell asleep in Hero's embrace.
Hopefully the next morning he won't be able to remember anything, Hero thought as he laid Villain on the couch to finish treating his wounds. Some of which he had apparently caused himself.
He would definitely pay Supervillain a friendly visit tomorrow.
#whump#hero caretaker#villain whumpee#supervillain whumper#hero x villain#civilian x hero#protective caretaker#scars#abuse#alcohol abuse#drunk whumpee#wounded villain#whumpee#caretaker
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⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 - 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒱: 𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇𝓈 ⚜
*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you again to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!
TW: negative self-talk, panic attack, wound care, alcohol, extreme sexual tension, arguing
Summary: John Wick and The Marquis de Gramont both faked their deaths on that fateful day at the Basilica. But when Vincent seeks John's help, he isn't expecting genuine compassion.
John’s entire body was pounding with adrenaline.
The little sedan’s engine protested against the 90mph he was breaking on the back roads. He couldn’t stop picturing Vincent on the floor where he’d left him. He had been…well, not too harsh. In reality, he should have left Vincent behind for good, if not shot him. But that ship had sailed the moment he had his epiphany about this man. He wasn’t a monster, just a dangerous animal, and that was something John could manage. But striking a balance between managing the Marquis and making him feel unsafe or undermined…that was already proving to be a challenge.
It seemed he had struck the balance correctly this time, at least. Vincent was in good spirits when he walked through the door, and possibly happy to see him for the first time ever. He sat on the edge of the bed, smiling mischievously up at John. Dog ran to greet him – it seemed the two had become friends already. “What did it look like, when you ran them off the road?”
“…Fiery.”
“This is what happens when I am challenged. Those who recognize my eminence will come to my defense.”
“Right.” John sighed. Vincent’s highs were as bloodthirsty as his lows. But he couldn’t help a half smile back at him. “I will come to your defense. Are we good now?”
“We are, as you say, ‘good.’ What did you bring?” He gestured to the bags John had just piled around the armchair.
“Food. Should last a few days so we don’t have to go back out.” He started unloading it into the mini fridge. “Toiletries, bandages, and a change of clothes. Also, painkillers.”
The little exhale of relief that that last item elicited was enough to break John’s heart. Vincent must really be suffering. “Tu n'imagines pas à quel point tu m'as rendu heureux. Donnez-les-moi immédiatement. [You have no idea how happy you’ve made me. Give them to me, immediately.]”
Despite the twinge of guilt that he had inflicted some of that pain himself, John had to refuse him. “Not on an empty stomach. Let’s eat first.”
It was an awkward time for a meal, too late for lunch and too early for dinner, but time had no meaning in this liminal room anyway – except the inexorable progress towards the moment when someone would find them. There was no schedule, no to-do list, only survival. “It’s odd to be on the run again,” he commented as he pushed start on the microwave.
“Not on the run,” the Marquis corrected. “Sending those bastards running from us.”
John didn’t have the heart to answer. Vincent wasn’t quite facing the gravity of his own situation, much less what it meant to John. It felt just like his own days of being hunted. The paranoia. The sleeplessness, too. After watching over the Marquis all night, his hands tingled with low blood pressure and his vision tracked along with an odd lag. It meant little to him – he could go days longer before passing out. The physical effects of exhaustion were merely something to factor in when judging how fast his reflexes could respond in a fight. But his own discomfort didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.
Don’t think that. Helen wouldn’t want – He cut off his own thought with a deep breath. God, what would she think of the Marquis? Of John allowing someone to treat him this way?
But at the same time, wouldn’t she be proud to see him saving someone, caring for someone, offering forgiveness to a real scoundrel as she had once done for him? The fact that he couldn’t ask her twisted him, almost physically, somewhere in the belly.
It occurred to him that he would probably enjoy painkillers for his own headache, with dinner. By that, he meant whiskey. He’d bought that too, and poured it into one of the paper cups supplied by the motel. Upon seeing it, Vincent exclaimed, “C'est encore mieux! [This is even better!] A cup, please.” He hadn’t moved from the bed at all and seemed to thoroughly enjoy being served. Quite the change of tone from last night, when he’d threatened to stab John for getting him a glass of water.
“Choose one: meds or alcohol. You can’t mix them.” He handed Vincent the microwaved meal instead and took a seat at the nightstand, using it for a table.
“Tu ne m'as jamais laissé m'amuser. [You never let me have any fun.]” They were halfway through their meal before the dreaded question came up. “So what did Winston say?”
“What?”
“When you asked how I can survive. What did he say?”
John hesitated, but he wasn’t interested in testing the Marquis’ trust any more today. He had pushed him far enough already. He pulled up the message on his phone and showed Vincent the screen.
Winston: “No, it’s not possible. The entire Table wants him gone. He has made enemies at every turn. If this excuse hadn’t worked, they would have found another.”
John hadn’t replied.
“Bah. He has no idea what he’s talking about.” Vincent’s smile was suddenly made of teeth and extremely fake. He gave an unconvincing laugh. “Quelle absurdité. [What nonsense.]”
Cautiously, “…Did you have enemies? That you knew of?”
“Everyone is an enemy,” Vincent said impatiently. “That’s the nature of every court since the days of the Romans. One builds alliances, not friendships. Of course they want me gone, they want anyone gone who has enough ambition to rival their own. But I have leverage somewhere, I know it, I just have to play them against each other, I have to…” He cut off, shaking his head, once again caught up in wracking his brain to find a solution.
Even more cautiously, “…Are you thinking in terms of regaining your seat, or escaping the Table?”
“‘Escape’ from my life’s work, yes, very appealing. Why didn’t I think of that? I told you, Mr. Wick: your task is to restore my title. Not to shunt me off into mediocrity. I will not hear of this again.” He threw away what little remained on his plate and stormed away to the bathroom. John heard something thrown against the wall, then a long silence.
It seemed unwise to leave him alone in that state. Downing the last of the whiskey, he went to the door and knocked. “Marquis.”
No answer. He took a risk. “Vincent.”
“Laisse-moi. [Leave me alone.]” Even through the door, his voice sounded shaky and clouded over. By the angle it came from, John could tell he was sitting on the floor.
He sighed. There had to be an excuse for every act of kindness. Well, then, he would make one. He went to the shopping bags and fished out a bottle of pills. Returning to the door, he tried, “Tu ne veux pas les analgésiques maintenant? [Don’t you want painkillers now?]”
“Tu es vraiment un – [You’re such a – ]” There was a hint of desperation in Vincent’s voice. John realized that he must be unable to compose himself enough to be seen. All the progress of the morning had been undone in a few minutes. Vincent had been undone in a few minutes.
“Je ne te regarderai même pas. [I won’t even look at you.]”
Another moment of silence, and then the door opened enough for Vincent to put out a hand, expecting a pill bottle. Instead, John gave him individual pills, not trusting him with the whole thing. “Putain, c'est ça ? Donne-moi la bouteille. [The fuck is this? Give me the bottle],” he said. John kept his eyes averted as promised, but Vincent’s tone was hollow and resentful enough to convey the glare that was no doubt directed at his head just then.
“Deux pour l'instant. Ils ne disparaîtront pas si vous en avez besoin plus tard. [Two for now. They’re not going to disappear if you need more later.]”
The door slammed again. Running water, and then a small thump against the ground as Vincent sank back to the floor.
John sunk down on the other side, coming to his level.
Through the wood paneling, he could hear ragged breaths that each died out in an almost inaudible, high-pitched whine of terror. Another panic attack. Vincent was completely raw, agonizingly so. Even for a man with a temper and a bounty on his head, it struck John as odd. You didn’t get to the top if you had meltdowns like this in every stressful situation, and no way to manage them. There had to be something weighing on the Marquis that he wasn’t talking about…either that or he was far more unstable and vulnerable than John had even realized.
He seemed really desperate for the pain to stop. Had the stitches torn out earlier, when he pushed him to the ground? “Je vais attendre en silence, mais quand vous serez prêt, laissez-moi entrer. Je dois refaire vos bandages. [I'm going to wait silently, but when you're ready, please let me in. I need to redo your bandages.]” What a cold thing to say, given the circumstances…John’s protectiveness overcame him again, and he added, “Respirez lentement. Ça va aller bien. [Breathe slowly. It’s going to be okay.]”
Vincent was not in a position to respond, it seemed, so John fell silent as promised. With time, the sounds on the other side of the door slowed somewhat.
But no good deed could go unpunished with Vincent. After a long moment, “Vous aimez ça, n'est-ce pas. Penses-tu que tu es si important que je vais m'effondrer si tu me laisses tranquille pendant cinq minutes ? Tu es l'enfoiré le plus arrogant que j'ai jamais rencontré. [You love this, don't you. Do you think you're so important that I'll fall apart if you leave me be for five minutes? You are the most arrogant motherfucker I've ever met.]”
“Pensez de moi ce que vous voulez. Je suis là pour toi. [Think what you will of me. I am here for you.]”
The door opened, and Vincent leaned back against the wall, giving him room to step inside. “I don’t understand you, Wick. Why are you doing this?”
“You can call me John, you know. And your guess is as good as mine.” He closed the toilet lid. “Sit down.”
Now that he could look at Vincent, the sight made him reel with something devastatingly protective, on the borderline between vengefulness and cuteness aggression. Puffy, damp eyes, reddened around those icy irises, stared numbly up at him from a hunched frame, only inches from his waist in the confined space of the bathroom. Cold sweat plastered Vincent’s hair against his forehead and he still shook ever so slightly. John suppressed the urge to pull him into the tightest possible hug and instead went down on his knees to inspect the bandage, moving slowly to avoid giving pain.
Vincent didn’t fight him for once. His skin was cool to the touch but sweat drenched. Given his condition, John was expecting to see that the wound had become infected, but it was as clean as yesterday. He covered it with waterproof bandages. “You should take a shower. Something warm. I don’t know why you’re so cold…tell me next time, okay? I’ll get you a blanket or something. Don’t want you going into shock again.”
“D'accord. [Okay.]” Vincent swayed weakly for a moment. “I’m not in shock. I’m just…it’s been a hell of a day. I can handle myself.”
“…There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Too far. A glare. “You’re offensively bad at reading people, Wick.” Not John. “I am fine. Or is being shot in the chest not reason enough to have a bad day? I suppose you hardly notice it anymore – a properly conditioned punching bag, aren’t you? Get out before you embarrass yourself any further.”
John sighed. “I’ll leave your new clothes on the sink. Call me when you’re done and we’ll switch waterproof bandages for gauze.”
He sat down in the armchair, facing the door again while Vincent showered. The exhaustion was more bearable when he was up and doing things. Now, he was in danger of nodding off. He was in a sleepy haze when he came back to the bathroom to remove the waterproof bandage and apply gauze and medical tape while Vincent leaned back against the sink, hands braced against the countertop. The room was in a haze too, filled with clinging, misty warmth and the smell of Vincent. Free of the sweat and perfume, his scent was…surprisingly, even sweeter somehow, but in the manner of wild things. A baby animal, a rivulet of tree sap turning slowly to amber… John’s breath caught in his throat and stayed there until his hands were no longer making contact with Vincent’s now glowingly warm, kitten-soft skin. He turned away while Vincent pulled on the shirt.
“Clothes fit okay?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Obviously not, but one must make do. It doesn’t matter to me.” He cast a genuinely miserable glance at the mirror, giving himself away. John had tried to select something that at least wouldn’t disgust him – a grey turtleneck and dress pants, some fresh underwear and socks both in grey as well. But they were Walmart clothes, and that was comically far from being Vincent’s cup of tea.
John wondered if the blood would come out of that button down, and the vest…probably not.
They passed the next few hours slowly unwinding. Another drink, after that mess. John fought to pry Vincent’s freshly warmed chest out of his mind. Vincent, for his part, began to genuinely brood. He complained that the painkillers weren’t working, that he needed more. John gave him one more, and refused him alcohol a second time. But he remained restless, standing up occasionally to pace even though each step was clearly painful, and raiding the mini fridge for pudding.
Shortly after sunset, with a faint pink still penetrating the curtains at the edges, he looked over at John. “I’ve figured out why you’re doing this.”
“Why?”
“You’re attracted to me.”
John almost spit out his whiskey. “What?”
He was leaned back against the bed, grinning smugly, “I know when someone is flustered by my presence. That’s critical information in my line of work. I was just lashing out when I accused you last night, but I was right after all. You carried me out of the car just because you wanted to. You lingered every single time you touched me. You. Are. Attracted.” He pointed the spoon at John with each word. “And that’s why.”
John’s face was beet red. “I get a marker on you if you survive. It’s simple.”
“That’s not what you said in the bathroom.”
“Okay, it’s not about the marker. I don’t know why. But it’s not because I’m attracted to you.”
“Yet you are.”
“…Yeah. I – look, you know what you look like. You don’t need me to tell you you’re attractive. So what’s the point of this?”
He shrugged. “Maybe we could have a little fun. Stress relief.” He was licking the god damn spoon and John found it to be positively urgent that he look elsewhere.
“I don’t do ‘a little fun.’ Call me boring, it’s not for me. Where is this even coming from?”
Vincent’s smile was all teeth and concealment again, as if all his honesty went into his words and he had to compensate by at least hiding his emotions. “I just need something good to happen today. Your painkillers don’t do shit.”
John hesitated. The Marquis had no idea how he was tempting him right now. But he shouldn’t do this. He was buzzed. He was confused about his feelings. It was a bad idea. “I killed two people for you. You got away from the Tarasovs. That wasn’t good enough?”
“Good enough? You should know by now that I expect excellence.” He advanced towards John, managing to swagger even through the pain. John leaned away from him, completely tensed up.
“Back off.”
The Marquis stopped and his smiled faltered, replaced by a blush of his own at being so plainly rejected.
God it was painful to see him like that, knowing that he could just make that feeling go away by saying yes. But he’d regret it. He knew he’d regret it.
“I’m tired. I haven’t slept in a full day. Let’s just…let’s go to sleep.”
“Done watching over me then, as soon as I call you out?”
“It’s not a callout! I’m…not ashamed that I want to. Okay? It’s just not a good idea.” John stood up as if to walk somewhere, realized he had nowhere to walk to, and sat down again. “We have to take shifts. Hold onto a gun, and wake me up if anything happens, or if you get tired. I only need an hour or two.”
Vincent stared at him for a good ten seconds. Then he sunk back onto the bed. “You’re the most depressing person I’ve ever met, Wick. Can’t enjoy pleasure even when it falls in your lap. Would have felt like fucking a funeral urn anyway.”
“Mm-hmm.” John switched off the light.
But the silence was more tense than ever, and even though he’d felt ready to pass out a few minutes ago, it took John far too long to get to sleep.
#john wick#john x marquis de gramont#marquis de gramont#john wick fanfic#wickblr#marquis de gramont whumpee#gunshot#angst#emotional whump#hurt/comfort#whump fic#assassin whump#ao3 crosspost#enemies to lovers#// withdrawals#// alcohol
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A Rose Amidst Thorns #15: A New Set of Rules
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Synopsis: Miguel gets a set of new rules. And learns exactly what he is in this hierarchy
CW: Dehumanization, like HEAVY dehumanization plz be safe, cigarettes, whumpee used as an ashtray, graphic description of mouth burns, EMETO (its kinda nasty so just.. be careful again), forced alcohol consumption, conditioning, altered state of mind, whumper POV
Something had to change. Everything was out of control. Solomon had tried to take his wife. Henrietta thought that somehow, that was fine. Miguel kept fighting back. All of them kept fighting back. It was getting exhausting. It was going to get worse if Xavier didn’t put a stop to it now.
Separating the three of them had been the first step. Solomon was sleeping away his illness in his bedroom. Henrietta no longer had keys to any of the rooms in the house. Even if she wanted to visit him, the threat of death Xavier had loomed over him, kept her at bay for now. Miguel, was back in the hayloft, chained down like the dog he was.
Solomon and Henrietta were easy enough to deal with. But Miguel was proving to be more and more of a problem. He was getting restless. Starting to test the waters as he always did. Xavier preferred him half dead or dissociated to the point where he was a shell of a human. Three days ago, he’d thrown the food he’d been given at Abraham, who’d been on food duty that day.
Today, Xavier would be delivering Miguel’s first meal since then. It had been two weeks since The Solomon incident. After he’d carried Miguel’s unconscious body into the hayloft and clamped the manacle around his ankle, Xavier had deemed it better to leave the kid alone. He needed time to heal. If he looked at him, Xavier was going to smash his head into the wall.
He was calmer now. Calculating. He brought up the tray of food to the hayloft, balancing it against his hip with one hand, grabbing the ladder with the other. Xavier wasn’t surprised to see Miguel curled in on himself, asleep on the cot that had been provided. He brought the tray of food next to the cot, leaving it on the floor.
This had been Miguel’s first room at the Reede Ranch. Thirteen years old and all fire and fury. He had proved himself, gaining a nice cog in the closet in the hallway. Inside where it was warm at night. Where he could join them for breakfast at the table like a human. He had earned that respect. But now, he was back in the hayloft, the metaphorical dog house. Too much trouble. Too many mistakes had been made. Now corrections had to be made.
Gently, Xavier ran a hand through Miguel’s hair.
“Wake up kid. We gotta talk,” he said as soon as Miguel’s eyes focused enough that he was sure the kid was listening.
A frown lined his features as he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. Bare feet resting on the wood floor. Good hand gripping the edge of the cot, his other hand resting in his lap. It was still healing. Stupidly slowly, but Solomon had said that it would. Still though, it was annoying. It had been two months, and that hand was still proving to be useless.
“Are you hungry?” Xavier asked as Miguel glanced at the food.
The boy nodded, eyes wary. Good.
“You can eat in a moment. But right now? We’re gonna set some new rules for you. Yeah?” Xavier didn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “I think you’ve forgotten your place here. The fact that you’re at the bottom of the hierarchy.”
Miguel’s throat bobbed slightly. The bruising had faded to an ugly yellowish color, but it was still there. A testimony to when Xavier had lost a bit of control. Nearly killing the boy.
“You’re the dog here. So here are the rules. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. This isn’t new, but I think you need a reminder. If I tell you to sit, you sit. If I say roll over? Fucking roll over.” Xavier took a deep breath, “I’m going to bringing your food everyday from now on. Unless I’m on business then it’ll be Jesse. When you see us coming up that ladder? You greet us on your knees.” Xavier paused, searching for a reaction.
Miguel’s frown deepened, eyes widening slightly. He opened his mouth slightly, seemingly in an attempt to protest. But Xaviers glare must have been enough of a warning, as he snapped his mouth shut. The boy worked his jaw, gritting his teeth.
Xavier smiled. Miguel at least knew better than to argue.
“Why don’t you practice right now? On your knees mutt.”
There was a moment, a precious moment of Miguel, staring up at him. Eyes wide. Cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. At this moment, he didn’t know if Miguel would surrender, or follow the order. Not until slowly, the kid lowered himself to his knees. Head hanging on his chest. Teeth grinding against each other so hard, Xavier could hear it clearly.
Xavier reached down to grab Miguel’s chin, forcing him to look at him.
“Look at me when I talk to you. You’re so pathetic. Look at you. Groveling at my feet,” Xavier can’t help himself when he laughs, thumb idly tracing Miguel’s jaw. “You look better like this. Okay, back to the rules. If you mention Solomon or Henrietta to me. I will beat their names out of your thoughts. They don’t exist anymore. Not unless I say so. You’re not going to see them for a long, long time. So better get used to it. If I see their names in your hands, I’ll break them again. Nod if you understand.”
There were tears in Miguel’s eyes, making them shine in the dull light. Slowly, he nodded. Bottom lip quivering. Since when has Miguel been so pretty when he cried? Xavier watched as the tears overflowed and slowly started down Miguel’s cheeks. He leaned forward, licking them away with his tongue.
“Don’t cry.. it’s fine. All you need is me anyway. I own you. You’re mine. You were never Solomons, or Henrietta’s. Or even Jesse’s. You’ve always been mine,” Xavier stated plainly. He let go of Miguel’s jaw. Watching him idly. “If you’re ever in the house again, you don’t sit on the furniture. You’re only allowed your cot in here. Otherwise, you stay on the floor where you belong.”
Xavier sighed, pulling out a cigarette and a match from his shirt pocket. Then he lit it. Taking in a puff and relishing in the wave of relief that coursed through him. He leaned down and blew out the smoke in Miguel’s face. His nose scrunched and he coughed. Xavier laughed. Taking a seat on Miguel’s cot with a creak.
“Come here,” he called to him, waving him over to the spot in between his legs. There was a moment of hesitation, Miguel’s expression twisting into one of apprehension. “I said come here Miguel.”
Slowly, Miguel shuffled on his knees in between Xavier’s legs. “Whenever Jesse comes in? You do what he says. If you fight, or hurt him in anyway, I’ll take your tongue. Not like you need it anyway,” he said as he took another drag. Blowing it again in Miguel’s face. Again, Miguel nodded, adams apple bobbing up and down. Xavier was half hard in his pants. But.. he wasn’t here for that. Not today.
“Open your mouth Miguel.”
Another moment of hesitation. The boy swallowed thickly, before slowly opening his mouth. “Close your eyes and stick your tongue out, mutt.”
A whimper came from the back of the boy's throat that sent a heat to Xavier's core. Still, Miguel complied, eyes closing and tongue sticking out. His breathing was hard. Miguel was panting like a dog too.
Xavier took one more drag from his cigarette, then promptly put the burning end out on Miguel’s tongue. One hand grabbed Miguel by the throat, the other on his shoulder to hold him still. His eyes shot open and he screamed. Closing his mouth shut and accidentally taking the cigarette into his mouth. Xavier slammed a hand over his mouth and nose. Growling.
“I didn’t say you could open your eyes, or close your mouth.. so now you have to swallow it.”
Miguel shook his head, trying to free himself of Xavier's hand. Falling backward, Xavier followed him, straddling him and only pushing the hand harder on his face.
“Swallow it or suffocate your choice kid.”
The boy whined, tears starting to flow freely down his face again. Xavier wrapped a hand around his throat, gently squeezing. Finally he saw the boy swallow, felt it slide down his throat. Then he let the boy go. Stepping off him and watching Miguel roll on his side and cough harshly. Miguel started to retch, good hand holding onto his stomach. Xavier watched with disinterest until the boy finally stilled for a moment, pressing his forehead into the hay covered floor. He retched another time, and this time bile, ash, and the cigarette was in a puddle on the floor.
His hand was rubbing circles on his chest as he sat himself up on his knees. Xavier didn’t care about that though. He moved to the front of Miguel, crouching just in front of the vomit on the floor.
“You’re disgusting, you know that?”
Every part of Miguel was trembling, his eyes glassy. Xavier reached out to him, gripping at his hair, before slamming his face downwards. He held his face down in the vomit. That was what people did to bad dogs right? Shove them in their own sick? Miguel was fully sobbing now, but he wasn’t struggling, instead he just laid there. There was a feeling of satisfaction at that. He let Miguel’s hair go. Watching as Miguel slowly let himself sit up again.
“I’ll bring you a bucket and a towel to clean yourself up.”
With trembling hands, he signed a simple ‘thank you’ to Xavier.
“When I come back, your food better be gone. And you’ll be on your knees waiting for me right?”
A sniffle and a nod is what he got in response. It was good enough. Xavier stood up and left. He took a little longer to get the supplies he needed. It would give Miguel a chance to collect himself, to breathe. Sometimes with Miguel, leaving him alone was just as useful as spending every moment with him. The kid was someone who tended to get trapped in his own thoughts. Spiraling lower and lower if left alone in the right environment. Xavier’s sister was similar in that way. When they were younger, she’d follow him around because her thoughts were always too loud.
When he came back, Miguel was already on his knees, chin against his chest. His plate of simple sliced apples and goat cheese was gone. He didn’t think that anything heavier would sit well in Miguel's stomach. His eyes glanced up from the ground and met Xaviers. Xavier smiled, dropping the bucket with water next to them. Miguel jumped a little when it landed.
Slowly, he reached out to grab the towel and squeeze the excess as best he could with one hand. Miguel started with his face and neck, being careful over sore spots, still trying to get everything off his skin. He didn’t dare look at Xavier as he did so. The only noise for a few minutes was the sound of the rag being dipped into the bucket, squeezed and rubbed against Miguel's skin. He didn’t stop until Xavier waved him over, between his legs again.
“Open your mouth for me,” he ordered.
This time, Miguel did not hesitate as he opened his mouth. Xavier could see it there, the blister on his tongue. White and bubbled. His whole tongue was red and irritated as well. Xavier grabbed Miguel’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting his head up slightly to look more clearly.
“Does it hurt?” Xavier asked, slowly, enunciating clearly for the boy to see.
The boy nodded, swallowing thickly. His breath was shaky, hot on Xavier’s hand. His free hand went to his belt, where his flask was. Lately, he’d been carrying it around more often. He twisted it open with his teeth. First, he held it over his mouth, about to tip it in. “If you spit it out, or if any drops. You’re licking it off the floor.”
Then he poured it inside Miguel’s open and waiting mouth. If Miguel could scream, Xavier was sure he would have. But he was forced to let the alcohol coat his mouth. Swallowing with a choked gasp. Everytime Miguel swallowed and tried to take a breath, Xavier poured more down his throat. Making sure it coated his tongue. Miguel’s face was flushed red and his eyes glazed by the time Xavier poured the last bit down his throat. Finally letting go of Miguel’s face.
“Repeat the rules back to me.. All the new ones. I want you to remember.”
Miguel squinted up at Xavier’s lips, whimpering slightly. Xavier waited. Watching him carefully. The boy swayed slightly from his position on the floor. He shook his head and groaned lightly, resting his head on Xavier’s knee.
“No no..” Xavier said, cupping Miguel's face and once again making the boy look at him. “I need you to tell me. It’s best you do it now. Once that whiskey really kicks in, I doubt you’ll remember your own name. You’re a lightweight,” he finished with a chuckle.
Miguel blinked a few times, Xavier could see him thinking hard through the fog of the alcohol. He could be patient, he could wait for him to answer. This was just a test. Finally, after a moment and a short grunt, Miguel lifted his hand to finger spell a rule.
“It’s okay if it’s not the whole rule, you can just sign the basics,” he assured softly.
Miguel nodded and shut his eyes tightly, probably hit by a wave of dizziness. But the boy was starting to finger spell the basic rules.
Always listen, no hurting Jesse, knees when you come in.
“You’re forgetting some Miguel,” Xavier whispered softly. Miguel swallowed thickly again, resting his head in the palm of his hand. He shook his head, whimpering. “You can do it sweetheart.”
No Solomon. No Hen. No furniture.
Xavier grinned, all teeth and fondness. It seeped through everything. Miguel did know how to listen apparently. Despite the obvious issue with his hearing, he was a good listener. His eyes were fluttering shut, full body weight on his hand now. The only thing holding up Miguel's head was Xavier at this point.
“I’m gonna ask you to do one more thing, just one more question for me sweetheart, can you do that?” Miguel groaned, a choked sound coming from him. “I know you’re tired. Just one more thing.”
His eyes drooped but he lifted his head higher to look at him.
“Good boy. What are you?”
Miguel made a face of confusion, brain moving slowly, face contorting with realization as he shook his head. The immediate regret of that action, making him groan and his eyes roll backwards for a moment. Xavier removed his hand from holding up Miguel, and the kid slumped against his knee, slowly sliding down his leg. He made the sign for ‘please’ clumsily. Xavier stared down in contempt, kicking Miguel onto his back. He resting his spur on his shoulder, pressing it into the skin there.
“What are you Miguel?”
A sob emitted from the squirming thing beneath his boot. Coming fully from his chest as he lifted his good hand to grab at Xavier’s boot. He sighed, pressing the spur harder into Miguel's shoulder, a small pinprick of blood started to surround the spur. Miguel groaned and turned his face away from Xavier. But finally, he answered, signing, “Dog”.
Xavier laughed, standing up from his seat and straddling Miguel. Grabbing his face, and leaning forward, they were so close he could smell the whiskey he poured on the boys breath.
“Again.”
Dog.
“Again.”
Dog.
“One more time sweetheart.”
Miguel was fully sobbing now, tears streaking down his face. Snot running down his lips. Truly pathetic. Just how Xavier liked him. He gently leaned forward again, pressing a soft kiss to Miguel’s forehead.
Dog. I am a dog.
“Good boy Miguel. Good boy.”
Now they could start again. Fresh. New rules, new dog. It was a whole new start.
Everything was going to be different now. In a good way. In the best way they could be. Because now, all each of them had was him. That was all they were ever going to need from now on.
___
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lili-loves-whump presents, a 'whump: the musical!' snippet,
Heathers
previous first next
(a tw!! implied/ attempted non-con. be advised)
Whumpee coughs. Their thoughts are sluggish, their head wobbly and too large for their body.
The man across from the bar smiles. His teeth are rotten and yellow. Whumpee takes another sip of they drink, smiling when the warmth of alcohol runs through their bloodstream.
The man scratches at his balding head. A clump of fuzzy blonde hair comes away at his fingertips, but he brushes it away without a second thought.
Whumpee runs the tip of their finger across their drink. The glass gleams in the low light of the bar, and Whumpee can see their reflection.
They look frazzled, headphones still on, but music no longer playing. The time of their nose is pink and their brow is furrowed. The drink burns their throat as they lift it to their lips.
"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" The man says. He doesn't sound friendly, or kind, and Whumpee's mental blocks rise as he speaks.
His eyes gleam with something like malice, and he hasn't taken another sip of his own glass in front of him.
Whumpee feels warm again, despite not wearing their sweater. The door behind them opens, and a gust of frigid air blows into the air, but still, Whumpee relishes the chill of the cool air.
It is dark now. Whumpee frowns. How will they get home?
The man is talking again. He has reached forward and is running a thumb over Whumpee's knuckles. They frown.
"You really are a beauty. Don't worry, the high will kick in soon."
Whumpee sobers.
"High?" they choke out, voice catching.
The man looks sorrowful. Almost.
"It'll be okay, little birdie. Don't worry your pretty little head."
The world spins, and Whumpee feels violently ill. The man has walked around the side of the bar, and wears a name tag that says Wilton.
Wilton places a warm hand on Whumpee's shoulder. Their stomach rolls, and they stay planted in their seat. The world is fuzzy, and Whumpee goes to flinch, but the movements are sluggish and too slow for their liking.
A hand on their thigh. Are they crying? It feels like Whumper all over again. Poison of some description courses through their veins.
Hands everywhere. They were alone.
A breath of icy winter air.
Whumpee's sweater is still inside. It is beginning to snow. The tears on their cheeks dry. Someone is calling out. They walk away from the warmth and fear of the bar.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
#this was hard to write#im sorry#lili loves whump#heathers#poison#whump#whump the musical#drabble#creative writing#trope#oneshots#whumpee#whumper#tw: drinking#tw: attempted non-con#bar#alcohol#Spotify
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40 Immortal Whumpee Prompts/Tropes
1. They never ask for help, having become self-sufficient out of necessity
2. They isolate themself to avoid the pain of losing people
3. They put themself in the way of danger because better them than someone mortal, right?
4. OR they put themself in the way of danger because it’s the closest they can get to an end to their suffering
5. They are genuinely confused when other people care for their well-being
6. “It doesn’t matter if I get hurt, I’m immortal.” | “Yes, but you still feel pain, don’t you?” | “Well yeah, but it will never do any lasting damage.” | “Okay, but it’s still just, like… not good for you to suffer constantly?”
7. They think nothing of going missing or zoning out for extended periods of time
8. They laugh in the face of whumper because no matter what they do, whumpee has survived worse
9. Captivity/servitude doesn’t really faze them much (practice makes perfect)
10. Alternatively, their past experiences affected them so strongly that they are terrified to go through it again
11. They fall into familiar coping strategies very quickly once introduced to a new whumper
12. They view whumper as little more than an amusing child
13. And yet they somehow view caretaker as an equal, if not an elder
14. Caretaker grounds them, reminds them of what it is to have a finite life, keeps them sane
15. They simultaneously abhor and relish in the fact that nobody will ever really know them fully
16. They have lived long enough to have made difficult decisions, made some mistakes, or outright done some bad stuff, about which they are endlessly guilty (they have a lot of regrets)
17. (If they have healing/regrowth) They are far too wiling to cut off a body part/severely injure themself to get free
18. OR (if the can die and come back) They are far too willing to take more drastic measures
19. (If they can die and come back) Whumper puts them in a situation where they die repeatedly (eg. chained underwater, buried alive)
20. Alternatively, whumper just locks them up and throws away the key, and they are stuck there alone as they slowly lose their mind
21. Maybe they use the fact that they can die & come back/heal to prank people… 👀
22. They take everything either way too lightly or way too seriously
23. They dedicate themself to a purpose, because it is the only thing that gives their life any meaning
24. Caretaker regularly has to remind them that there is more to life than just said purpose
25. Caretaker constantly pesters them to make sure they are taking care of themself
26. “Just because you won’t die if you don’t take care of yourself doesn’t mean you don’t have to do it!”
27. They have to stay in the shadows/only trust certain people with their secret in order to avoid people finding out they’re immortal
28. They have been betrayed before so they are very cautious about who they trust, and they are extremely slow to open up
29. When people do find out they are immortal, the reactions can be quite negative
30. They at times lose hope and fall into bad habits, such as alcohol or drugs (if those affect them), or fighting/self-injurious behaviors
31. They have to deal with the fact that everything they have ever known/will ever know will one day be gone
32. They don’t only outlive people regularly, they also survive through plagues, natural disasters, wars, major catastrophes, maybe even the destruction of their planet
33. (If they need need a thing to stay immortal, like a potion or talisman) Whumper denies them access to said thing and repeatedly brings them to the brink of death before finally giving it back
34. They are constantly looking for a ‘cure’ to their immortality, which caretaker simultaneously understands yet is horrified by
35. Alternatively, (if they can give away their immortality, say it’s a talisman) They have to decide when to give it away/who to give it to
36. And imagine, they had decided to give it to someone (maybe their child), but the person dies before they can give it to them
37. They gradually forget things and people which were important to them, such as their parents, significant others, children, and so on
38. OR they are so concerned about forgetting things that they obsessively record everything that happens in a journal or rehearse past events in their head
39. (If they don’t age or scar) They feel invalidated by the fact that their body does not represent who they are and what they’ve been through
40. (If they retain one scar, say the wound that first killed them) They are extremely distressed by what it represents and don’t like thinking about it, but they have to play it off and lie about it when people ask
#whump#whumpee#whump idea#whump prompt#whump tropes#whump scenario#whump community#whump stuff#whump prompts#caretaker#whumpblr#whumper#immortal whumpee#guilty whumpee#captivity whump#self sacrifice whump#drug abuse whump#alcohol abuse whump#masterlist#tag me if you use this#i wanna read it
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