#drunk whumpee
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Febuwhump Day 15: "Who did this to you?"
Content warning: drunk Whumpee, noncon kissing, kidnapping, intimate whumper
By the time Whumpee stumbled out of the bar, reeking of cheap booze and cigarette smoke, it was already pitch black outside. The air was frigid, snow an ugly slurry of refrozen water and dirt beneath their feet.
It was absolutely miserable out, and if the bartender hadn’t cut them off, they would’ve stumbled back in for another drink.
Whumpee sighed, half spoken curses leaving their lips. They squinted into the dark, looking for a sign, a landmark, anything that would help them remember the way back home. Or to another bar.
“It’s a beautiful night out, isn’t it?” a voice asked, suddenly beside them.
Whumpee turned towards the noise, squinting as a lanky figure had moved to stand beside them. Their face was turned up towards the night sky, though their gaze flicked downward to glance as Whumpee.
Whumpee hadn’t even heard them approach.
“Who the hell are you?” They slurred, drunken indignance on their face.
The figure smiled, cheeks painted red from the cold. They gave a theoretical half bow. “Whumper. Consider me a…friend.”
Whumee didn’t want a friend right now. “Fuck off.”
Whumper only laughed in response, and there was something so light, so unbothered in the noise that Whumpee felt their anger slipping away. They watched as Whumper dug into their pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. They elegantly lifted one from the package, offering it to Whumpee like a peace offering.
The cigarette was from their brand, back before they’d quit a few months ago. Distantly, they knew they should refuse. But it was late, and they were tired, and it wasn’t as if they’d gone out to get blackout drunk for their health.
Whumpee took the cigarette from Whumper’s hand, fingers brushing against theirs. Whumper’s fingers were boney and thin, almost delicate.
Whumper gave a pleased hum, stuffing the pack back into their pocket. A moment later, they were offering Whumpee a light. Whumpee accepted it without a word.
They took a deep inhale, warmth filling their lungs. The smoke tasted like chemicals on their tongue, unfamiliar in a way that caught them off guard. They must’ve forgotten how horrible they tasted.
The smoke left their mouth in a cloud, floating into the air.
And then the two of them were walking.
They were the only two on the street. The pair walked side-by-side beside empty roads, passing rows of shops long closed for the night. The only sound was the crunch of snow.
Whumpee’s footsteps were uncoordinated and wobbly, like a child still learning to walk. Each footfall threatened to send them stumbling to the ground, ice and snow working diligently against what little balance they had left.
Each time the ice got the better of them and they began to fall, a firm hand would set them on their feet again, lingering only long enough to ensure they’d remain upright.
Whumper effortlessly glided through the snow beside them, footsteps sure. There was a smile on their face, perfectly content, almost giddy. As if stopping a drunk from bashing their face on the cement was their favorite pastime.
Distantly, Whumpee wondered if they’d overdone it with the drinks. They took another inhale of the cigarette, smoke still foul in their mouth.
“Who did this to you?”
It took their mind a long moment to realize the silence had been broken.They turned, meeting Whumper’s eyes. “What?”
“This,darling,” they gestured to Whumpee’s disheveled state, a frown coming to their face. “A pretty thing like you, all twisted up with anger and grief, drowning your sorrows late at night. Who sent you there?”
“I…”
They’d done it to themselves, they knew. Like always. Because they always messed things up. Because they never saw things breaking apart until they were cutting their feet on the shards.
Because there was something wrong with them. They were stupid. so, so damn stupid. Because Caretaker–
Look I can’t–I can’t do this anymore. Whumpee, I can’t–
Because Caretaker deserved someone better than them.
The truth felt like a slap in the face. They took another drag, burning it until heat danced across their fingers, deep and choking, and prayed it would chase it away.
“It was Caretaker, wasn’t it?”
Whumpee could only nod, tears stinging their eyes. Had they mentioned Caretaker? They didn’t remember. “H-how do you–”
“They’re a idiot. An absolute moron, to not see how special you are,” Whumper interrupted them, voice sharpening. The change in tone was so dramatic, for a moment, Whumpee had to turn to confirm that the same stranger stood beside them.
Whumper’s gaze turned to them. Sharp, bright, so intense it stopped Whumpee in their place. “They looked at you and didn’t realize it was a honor to have your attention. They were blind, Whumpee. I would never do something so stupid. If I had something as valuable, as perfect to myself as you, I would never let go.”
“N-no I– fuck, it was my fault–,” The words fell out of them, unorganized snippets of half formed thoughts. They didn’t even know what they were trying to say.
Was this normal? The tension in Whumper’s words, the anger, all for a stranger they’d only just met? They didn’t know. Something was whispering in Whumpee’s head, anxious and frantic underneath the layers of haze. A warning alarm in the far distance, barely audible.
They didn’t want to think about it. They wanted to take any comfort they could, wrap themselves in the stranger’s anger and forget their hurt.
And yet there was that alarm, distant and full of warning. They could barely hear it, but they couldn’t ignore it either.
Hazy eyes glanced at their surroundings, and for the first time that night, Whumpee realized that they didn’t recognize the direction their feet had taken them. This wasn’t their street, it wasn’t even near their street. They didn’t recognize a single thing around them.
How had they gotten there? Had Whumper been following them as they walked aimlessly, or was Whumpee letting themselves be led to nowhere? They didn’t know.
They blinked, shaking their head in hopes of regaining any semblance of sobriety. Instead their vision smeared, a wave of dizziness hitting with such force that their legs gave out beneath them.
A pair of boney hands grabbed them.
“I’ve got you. Shh, I won’t let you fall, I promise.” The words were whispered against the shell of their ear. Whumper pulled them to their feet, moving one of Whumpee’s arms to rest over their shoulder. Their hand found a spot on Whumpee’s waist and didn’t let go.
And then they were moving again, Whumper guiding them
Whumpee could barely get their legs to work. They could only stumble along, The ground shifting unnaturally beneath them as they were all but carried along. They found their eyes slipping shut without their permission.
Whumpee’s head felt light on their shoulders, like it would separate from their body and float away. Their body felt so, so heavy. They didn’t know how Whumper was managing to carry them.
They weren’t a lightweight. They knew they’d drunk too much, but it shouldn’t have been this hard to stand. It shouldn’t be so hard to pull a thought together.
They blinked their eyes back open at the sound of a car door opening. Before they could speak, they were being rearranged, boneless body being all but carried into the passenger seat.
They wanted to say something, but the words turned to smoke in their mouth. The door was closed shut behind them.
A moment later, they heard Whumper slide into the driver’s seat. The car came to life beneath them.
Whumpee felt a hand run through their hair, the touch nearly revenant.
“I love you. I adore you; from the moment I saw you, I knew we were destined to be together,” their words were barely a whisper, but it filled the small space. They felt Whumper’s breath brushing against their face.
Whumpee tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.
“You don’t know how long I’ve waited, how much it hurt to watch someone else touch what was mine. But we’re together now, finally. I’ll never hurt you like they did,”
Whumper leaned close, and the only resistance Whumpee could muster was a feeble hand against Whumper’s chest.
When a mouth pressed against their own, insistent and bruising, Whumpee couldn’t couldn’t move. They simply sat limply, mouth ajar as Whumper’s tongue moved.
When Whumper finally pulled away, they were panting, the smile so wide on their face it looked painful. Whumpee was barely awake anymore.
“I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
#whumpee#intimate whumper#whumper#febuwhump#febuwhump day 15#febuwhump 2024#kidnapping whump#drunk whumpee#my stuff#caretaker x whumpee#yandere whumper
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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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stumbling home half drunk from party is a very whumpee feel
head spinning, legs moving but unable to feel them, skin is numb
it's late at night, so you just keep moving forward, hoping that nothing will stop you from getting home safely, but it's hard to discern anything in the shadows of the dim streetlamps
something or someone could jump out at any time
get WHUMPD
#no i did not sober up before writing this#still feelin a little tipsy i won't lie to you my loyal whumpists#whumpblr#whump#whumpee#drunk whumpee#i luv u all ur great <3#mwah
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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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All That Matters
[masterlist]
prepare for very silly and self-indulgent 1800 words of comf... with some slight alluding to ava's past :D this is a callback (call-forward??) to Warmth! they cuddle so often that he instinctually remembers it post-recapture
CW: drunkeness, past pet whump (implied)
“Attie, wake up. We're home.” Aveline calls over her shoulder, while Atlas just grunts, his face sleepily mushed against the window of her car.
After a moment, he stirs, leaning away from the window and looking around to search for her. It takes a while for his eyes –half-lidded and hazy– to focus on her, but he visibly relaxes as soon as they do.
It’s not far from her car to the front door, but the distance barely matters with Atlas’ state. Plus afterwards, they’ll still have to conquer the stairs, and Aveline can only hope that everything goes smoothly, that there is no accident, hope that she is prepared for an accident, and–
She stops that mental list from spiralling further. She doesn’t need to worry about accidents, everything is fine.
Instead, she heaves Atlas out of the car, putting one arm around his waist to stabilise him and begging to God that he will at least try to help with the walking. In comparison to her Attie, she has always been small, and that has rarely ever helped her.
His head immediately lolls to the side, resting on top of hers, and Atlas sighs deeply, almost sinking into her embrace. It’s awkward, the way his hefty frame bends and leans on her like a puppet with its strings cut.
Carefully, Aveline directs and announces every step for him to follow as he clumsily tries to get his legs to cooperate. Despite what she considers his best efforts, Atlas nearly pulls them both down multiple times. Her never-aching bruises serve as enough proof for the frequency, and Aveline would really prefer to avoid more of those.
No amount of covering is able to hide freshly forming bruises from Atlas, who has spent enough of his lifetime receiving them. And without fail, seeing them would drive him near tears and to endless apologies for pain he wouldn’t be able to cause even if he wanted to.
Finally, they reach the front door of her cosy home, which Atlas has also made his. Aveline is already out of breath and rests Atlas against the wall to get her keys out. Immediately, he slides down in a fit of nonsensical giggles.
It’s warm inside, thankfully. Aveline can still feel the chill on her skin from Atlas’ freezing touch. He had been lying in the grass for God knows how long, drunk and left alone by his so-called friends. Or maybe it was his own foolish decision to go home alone, even though he knows how dangerous that is and she just cannot understand why he’d do it anyways!
She takes Atlas’ hands to pull him up again and he looks at her, confusion creasing his brows again, even though he can barely keep his eyes open.
“Wha…what ‘m I”, Atlas pauses as if willing his tongue to form the words, “doin’ ‘ere?”
She hates this, she really does. But it doesn’t matter.
“You’re home.” Aveline sighs. “It’s like four in the fucking morning and you called me.” She stops herself. “No, forget that. It’s good that you called me. The rest doesn’t matter, let’s just get inside, please.”
“M’kay”, he slurs, his eyes closed.
For a second Aveline thinks he will fall asleep right then and there, but then he gets on his hands and knees and starts crawling inside. Still, he is swaying heavily and crashes into the doorway at one point, when she offers him help.
“I can… I can do… this! Bes–besides, I’m used…”, Atlas swallows thickly, “I… know this.”
Something about that makes her sleep-addled brain feel… off?
Aveline closes the door behind him, taking in a deep breath. Now that she is surrounded by the welcoming warmth of her home again, her exhaustion comes back crashing in, and she is barely able to stifle a yawn.
Atlas is already losing the battle against his shoelaces, with clumsy fingers grabbing at nothing. His head keeps falling forward like it weighs too much for him to hold up and he is blinking repeatedly, as if that would clear his blurry vision. Only with her help is he able to free himself.
“You think you can make it upstairs, big guy?” Aveline asks, laying one hand against his cheek to stabilize him. Almost instinctively, Atlas leans into her touch. His body follows, slumping heavily against her.
Sometimes, it confuses her how such an imposing guy can make himself so small, when he curls up against her, seeming to chase any warmth possible.
The thought makes her heart ache and she wraps Atlas in a one-armed hug, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.
Her Attie.
He lets his head drop against her chest, as she plays with his hair. It’s the closest thing to “petting” him that she will do and it calms him quickly. It usually does.
Against her touch, Atlas’ breathing starts to even out, his eyes slipping shut. It’s as good as any sign that it’s now or never to get him into bed. Aveline can just barely manage the task of moving him when he can stumble along. It becomes all but impossible when he is fully asleep.
With a smile on her lips, she nudges him a couple of times, until he blearily opens his hazy eyes again, making a confused noise that disappears into a hiccup.
“Come on, Attie. Up you go.” With that, she hoists him up again, slinging one of his arms over her shoulder, holding it tight with her own. Atlas overcorrects, throwing their fickle balance off-centre sending them stumbling into the nearest wall and Aveline prays to God that it won’t leave any unfortunate bruises this time.
Atlas braces himself against the wall and it takes her a moment to find a more secure position with her other arm wrapped around his waist before she continues their journey up the stairs. Sometimes, Aveline wonders if Atlas even guesses at the worry this brings her every time.
What if they fall down? What if she slips and sends him tumbling down the stairs? What if anything happens and he breaks something or ends up with a concussion or hypothermia if she can’t get to him fast enough? What the hell is she supposed to do when she can’t even bring him to a fucking hospital?!
Doesn’t matter. Stop.
This Atlas, the one that is not in her thoughts, dying hundreds of frightening deaths she couldn’t prevent, seems completely oblivious, babbling on about what Aveline assumes is a drinking game they played. However, she is pretty sure he is mixing up at least two if not three different games and frankly, he is not explaining them well.
When they reach the top Aveline is panting with exhaustion. Atlas is already quite hefty and it doesn’t help that he is as good as dead weight in her arms, his legs just barely cooperating.
She tries to steer him into his room, the old floorboards creaking under their feet, but Atlas resists, shaking his head vehemently.
“No… no, please… I don’ wanna… no”.
Oh. Right.
Even blackout drunk, Atlas is eerily good at begging, the words sounding too desperate to fit the playful lilt of his voice. The reminder makes her stomach drop.
He stumbles out of her grasp and away from his room as if he can’t stand the sight of it. He barely makes it down the hall, clinging to her doorframe after just a couple of unsteady steps.
“Atlas, what…? What are you doing?”
Atlas, her dear Attie, flinches so hard he tumbles back onto the floor, lowering his head and fixing his gaze on the ground.
“‘M sorry. I wanna sleep… wanna sleep here. ‘M sorry. Please?”
It breaks her heart, the way he avoids her eyes. Even without seeing it directly, she knows there are tears in his. It feels twisted to hope that he hides them from some sense of embarrassment, but it’s better than the fear that tears are forbidden.
“Please, Ava… I don’ wanna be ‘lone.” Atlas pleads, mistaking her silence for rejection. In an instant, Aveline kneels down in front of him, closing the distance he surely imagines to be greater.
She can try to pretend that she gives in just for Atlas, to calm him down in what she already knows is a too-vulnerable state. But it would only be a sad attempt at covering the truth that Aveline will already spend half of her night checking up on him, to make sure that he is still breathing. In the end, that’s the only thing that matters.
“It’s alright. Of course, you can. I won’t leave you alone, Attie, I promise.” As if the decision is any trouble for her. As if it doesn’t calm the ever-present worry gnawing at the back of her mind.
The effects are instant though. Immediately, his shoulders slump in relief and his features relax. Atlas meets her gaze with tears shining in his eyes and lets himself fall back into her embrace, squeezing her tightly. Aveline can only just catch herself before she topples over from the unexpected weight, but it’s worth it.
It takes even more energy she hardly has anymore, but Aveline manages to lift Atlas up again, just enough to sit him down on her bed. Promptly, he flops down, somehow worming his way under her blanket despite his incoherent state.
After a moment, she changes back into her pyjamas that she left haphazardly lying on the ground after she got the call to pick Atlas up, and joins him under the warm blanket. Atlas is still in his day clothes but she has decidedly not the energy to do something about that, and much rather deposits the responsibility of cleaning onto her tomorrow-self.
In no time at all, he wraps her in a loose hug, sighing into her hair. Aveline doesn’t mind, even if his breath carries the biting scent of alcohol.
“Missed you tonight,” Atlas mumbles. “Was nice… jus’ not the same.” A sigh escapes him. “You wouldn’t… wouldn’t let it get… this bad. ’M sorry, Ava.”
Aveline can’t bring herself to say It’s alright. It just isn’t. But he can’t change what he’s already done and she loves him anyways, always.
She pulls herself closer to her Attie, pressing her ear to his chest, right above his heart. The exasperation, the worry, the exhaustion, none of it matters if she is just able to hear his heartbeat, to feel his breath on her hair. He is alive.
Atlas is alive and that is all that matters.
taglist: @octopus-reactivated, @sodacreampuff, @topsheepstudent
let me know if you want to be added or removed :)
#i had this written for a while but debated if i should even post it#but why keep them being silly to myself#plus i haven't posted about them in a while#Holding Up The Sky#aveline king (oc)#atlas/mutt (oc)#honey's writing#drunk whumpee#whumpee and caretaker#recovering whumpee#past pet whump#hurt/comfort#exhausted caretaker#unhealthy coping mechanisms#hugs#gentle caretaker#drunkeness
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Whumpee awoke on the floor of the bathroom, shielding their face from the lights as their eyes fought to unblur their vision. The fan was loud and they could taste the sour bitterness of cheap alcohol on their tongue.
Memories of the night before flashed in their mind, never making a full picture. Their only clue was the feeling of dread in the pit of their stomach, and dried tears on their face.
#whump writing#whump scenarios#forced to drink#drinking#drunk whumpee#whump community#drinking tw#memory loss tw#memory loss whump#writeblr#originalfiction
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Year of Whump January 22 Prompt!
grabbed in the dark / public humiliation / hospital emergency department /soft weighted blanket / “You must have imagined that, dear”
Some Actor Mark whump since there is quite a lack of Iplier ego whump! One of Actor's first encounters of fully falling into the Other World due to an unexpected death.
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Mark is wasted. Shirtless and unshaven, in a sagging off sleep robe, stumbling down the streets alone. A whiskey bottle kisses his reddened lips over and over. The cobblestone street is rough and unbalanced below his stumbling. He doesn't remember leaving his house. Fuck, the voices won't stop. He is surrounded by laughing and taunting, leading him along with their jeers. "We'll poison the king, we'll poison the king!" it shrieks directly to his left. He swings around with a gasp, and watches a shadow dash down an alleyway.
"Hey- hey you!" he slurs, and follows it in a half stumble half sprint. He runs down, braced along the grey and red wall of the alley, but hits a fence at the end. Panting, he glances around, then sinks down against the wood. "F-fuck," he sobs. He's going insane. He must be going insane. It gets worse every day, the shadows and voices, the coldness and dust floating in his peripheral. He slugs back whiskey through a sob.
He sees a shadow approaching him, and sobs harder, throwing his arm over his face. "Just- just let me be," he cries.
Until a very real man becomes visible before him. Mark can only register an unshaven, rotten toothed face before a pistol's cold, dark metal presses into his bare stomach. His eyes bug out in his head, mouth agape, staring at the mugger, not sure if this is real. Is anything real these days? His hand nearly drifts up to touch the man's skin in his shock.
"Yer that rich little crumb of an actor, aren't you?" he sneers. "Bet you can cough up a pretty penny. Gimme the hooch and the cash," he swipes Marks whiskey away in a quick movement, and Mark screams. It's not proud, he sounds like a terrified toddler. Mark curls up around his own body, sobbing openly.
"Fuckin' coke-snorting pretty boy, I said gimmie your money!"
"Leave me alone!" Mark screams, shrill and terrified, as his hand strikes out at the man.
In the dark-cornered haze Mark registers the man's nose spurting blood. As his own head lolls backwards he registers the impact, the deafening bang, the spray of dark, dark red coming from his left shoulder. He faintly hears his own scream through the increasing, imposing whispering voices as he sinks deeper and deeper into the blackness, dust particles and an odd greenish hue overtaking him entirely. The last real thing he sees is the mugger's horrified, cursing face before the man runs away.
----
Mark is floating. He would call it walking, but that doesn't describe it properly. A bouncing, a hobbling, a drifting. Like a bee between flowers.
It's the same street, the same town he grew up two miles away from. He breathes out, slow, slow, a puff of clouded white. His hand is against the buildings along the way. The stone is tinged black or green. His body radiates a slight red. He doesn't know what to do, but it feels so much better here. The voices sound… nice. He can hear Celine saying her wedding vows. He can hear William's drunken laugh that always makes them all burst. He can hear Celine humming him to sleep. He can hear Damien's gentle and affirming voice talking him through his woes.
He smiles dazedly, stumbling. His bare shoulder gushes red-black sludge, but it doesn't bother him. It doesn't hurt. It feels warm. Everything else is slightly cold.
"It's not fair," something whispers. It sounds like his own voice. He chuckles, dopily walking towards it.
"Ahm, silly bastard, let me near you," he smiles. He falls to the cobblestone, his crash and soft 'ah' echoing, resonating.
"You can't go yet," Celine's voice teases as he's leaving for a photoshoot, beconning for a kiss.
"C-cel-line," he slurs, still drunk. He recognizes his front garden, the round drive with well trimmed shrubs.
"Come sit here, Mark," Benjamin's voice soothes when his back is aching.
He lets out a shaking, comforted breath, laying down on his front stairs. "Can't go further, I'm sorry Benj…" He trails off, and the green is slipping to black, black, a calm and soothing black. The sludge of his shoulder is climbing back up his arm, the droplets on the floor float up and sink back into his wound. But Mark is asleep by then, breath slow and soft as his wound swells and then forces itself closed.
---
"Mark? Honey?"
Warm, soft, blackness but with a light behind it. His eyelids, of course. And Celine's sweet voice.
He opens his eyes, and shuddering sigh leaves him. It all looks real. The master bedroom, the photos of his friends and family. There is a heavy warmth on him; the sheep's wool quilt that Benjamin joked must weigh 20 pounds when picking up the package.
"Mark?" a soft call and a hand on his cheek turns him to his wife. His vision is blurry with hangover, but he sees mussed black hair, pale skin, and a black robe. He smiles at her. "Did you nightmare again last night? The gardener found you outside, said you looked half dead. The butler carried you in but you slept right through."
The night rushes back to him in a quick-pooling pit of dread in his gut. "Celine-" He sits up and hugs her as tight as he can. "Celine I was shot! Oh, oh my god, a man shot me- Was there an awful amount of blood? Do I need to go to the emergency room?!"
"Mark, Mark, darling," she shushes, brushing a worried hand over his hair. "You must have imagined it. A nightmare, from all the alcohol. There wasn't a drop of blood at all, no wounds or any of that. You're safe, Mark." She hugs him back pulling him close.
His robe shifts on his frame from the force of her comfort-hug. Mark nuzzles against her, eyes shut. He opens them with a semi-content sigh, face downward towards his own frame.
The shifting of the robe slides away to reveal a thin but wide round white scar. As though a bullet had passed right through his arm.
And Mark's dread coats his bedroom in that familiar green and red; blood and sick at the sensation of once more - forevermore - not knowing reality from the Other world.
#actor mark#wkm#who killed markipler#wkm actor#wkm actor mark#whump#whump fanfiction#markiplier whump#markiplier fanfiction#mugger whump#caretaker whump#whumpee#drunk whumpee#hallucination whump#hallucinations#drunk tw#hallucinations tw#mugger tw#robbery tw#wkm celine#wkm the seer
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An Old Friend
Writing Masterlist. may or may not get a full series.
Content Warnings: unhealthy amounts of alcohol, vomiting (as a result of said alcohol), kidnapping.
The fifth anniversary of Ryan’s first murder found him in a crowded nightclub, alone. He was drunk enough that he couldn’t quite think or walk straight, and he liked it that way. He’d moved into a new town a week or so ago, and he hadn’t told anyone from his old life where he was. The only people he knew in this town were his coworker in the convenience store, his boss, and his landlord.
As he stumbled through the hot crush of bodies, he tripped onto someone much bigger than him. The man was holding him up and shouting, but Ryan couldn’t hear him over the music. He looked at the man uncomprehendingly, and then found himself being carried somewhere.
Outside, the air was cool and quiet. Ryan was lead to a car, but it was the wrong shape and color. He looked up at the man holding him up.
“This isn’t my car,” he said. Then he added, “Do we know each other?”
The man said, “Just get in, alright? And don’t throw up in it.”
“Okay,” Ryan said, too drunk to think about anything other than how big and strong the guy manhandling him was. He was buckled in, and then the car began to move.
The man was already in the driver’s seat- when did that happen? Ryan was comfortably disoriented, and couldn’t bring himself to ask what was going on. He drifted off to sleep in the stranger’s car, and didn’t wake up for a good, long while.
When he finally woke up, his head was aching and his stomach was churning. He opened his eyes and found that he was in an unfamiliar bedroom. In a moment of nauseous adrenaline, he forced himself out of bed to throw up into the trash can.
When his body responded to his brain again, he sprawled himself out on the carpet. The walls of the room were soft blue. He could see a framed painting of a beach on one wall. Tired, he laid an arm over his eyes. He heard the door open.
A voice he knew from somewhere said, “Wake the fuck up.”
Ryan shifted his arm enough to see who was talking. He definitely knew this guy from somewhere, but he couldn’t place it. “Who’re you?”
“Don’t you remember?” The guy looked down at Ryan with heartfelt disgust. “How many people have you killed since we met?”
Ryan shrugged. “When did we meet?”
The guy kicked Ryan in his side, which did nothing to jog his memory and mostly just hurt.
“Helps a lot, thanks,” he wheezed, the nausea returning. After a few deep breaths, he slowly sat up.
The man crouched down to Ryan’s level, and wrapped a hand around his little neck. “I’m your old friend Tybalt. Maybe it��s been too long, but we used to be close.”
“Oh,” Ryan said softly. “And then I killed your friend, didn’t I?” His heart was beating frantically. The hand around his throat was warm. It tightened slowly, until Ryan was wheezing for breath. His watery eyes darted around Tybalt’s face.
“Yeah, you did.” He let go.
Ryan gasped for air, automatically bringing a hand up to his throat. “You’re still mad about that.” He looked up at Tybalt, all tensed muscles and angry expressions, and felt nothing but guilt. But something didn’t add up. “…So you brought me to your house?”
“I brought you here to die.” Tybalt grabbed a fistful of Ryan’s hair, and dragged him to his feet. “As penance.”
—-
Note: I really have not had the energy to write whump lately, so whether or not this’ll get a full series is entirely up to chance. I didn’t want this to fester in my drafts, though, so I’ve posted it anyways.
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“You’re drunk,” the villain said, voice tinted with surprise.
The hero hiccuped.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No—wait, why are you here?”
The villain laughed.
“Someone told me a party was going on, and that I should crash it. I didn’t expect it to be yours.”
The hero blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears.
“Not really mine any more. So if you had any reservations about crashing…”
The villain arched a brow, and sat down on the slightly damp grass across from the hero.
“Are you saying you want me to crash your party?”
“Not my party.”
The villain tugged out a piece of grass.
“Why isn’t it your party anymore.”
“It just isn’t,” the hero said around a sob.
The villain studied them, too observant, too seeing.
“Does this have anything to do with you being drunk?”
The hero hiccuped again. “No.”
The villain hummed.
“I thought you had a problem with alcohol. Because of your—“
The hero stuck their hand out, pressing a finger to the villain’s lips.
“Can we not?”
The villain had the audacity to smile.
“Stop smiling.”
The villain obliged.
“Did you…did you want to get drunk?”
The hero didn’t answer, and the villain stiffened. Their eye caught on the empty solo cup, abandoned on the grass beside them.
“Please—and I mean this in every sense of the word—tell me that those ‘friends’ of yours did not spike your drink.”
The hero shrugged, noncommittally.
“They just wanted me to relax. Have fun. It isn’t their fault.”
When they looked up again, the villain was seething.
“They drugged you.”
“That sounds so bad—“
“Did you give consent?” The villain’s face was carved from stone.
“I—they wanted me to relax.”
“That’s a no.” The villain grabbed the hero’s chin. “If it isn’t an enthusiastic yes, it’s a no.”
The hero moved their head from the villain’s hand.
“It’s fine.”
“It isn’t.”
The hero looked back at the villain. The villain sighed.
“You’re even more stubborn when you’re drunk.”
Ridiculously, the hero smiled.
A moment later, the villain held out their hand.
“Come on. Let’s go get you some better friends—these ones are trash.”
The hero blinked uncertainly. They shot a glance back at the house, humming with music, and laughter, and light. The hero doubted their friends—their ex friends—had even noticed they were gone.
They took the villain’s hand.
“As long as they aren’t douchebags.”
The villain laughed. God, they had a nice laugh, and led the hero away, down the street, and kept holding their hand the whole time.
The only friend the hero ended up making that night was the villain.
And in the end, they were the only friend that mattered.
#villains and heroes#hero/villain#writing#writing community#creative writing#snippet#angst#heroes and villains#fic writing#ficlet#writing prompt#drunk#hero whumpee#ish#idk#have I posted this before?#whump
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Moonflower #3
Masterpost
Previous
Next
Warnings: fear of non-con (brief)
He was already awake when the knock came. Kit opened the door.
“Her Majesty wishes you to join her for dinner,” said the servant.
“Yes, sir.” Kit closed the door behind him. A guard was posted nearby, and how long had he been there?
He followed the servant, keeping his eyes down. There were so many people in the halls, and all the eyes on him made him feel even smaller than usual.
It was a good thing he had time to nap, because the walk was long. He couldn’t keep track of all the turns and staircases.
Eventually they came to a large room with a long table, not unlike the ones at revels. But instead of being laden with food and wine, it was very nearly empty. Only a white lace tablecloth and a candelabra at the very end, along with two place settings.
Mistress was sitting at the head, and she gestured for him to sit at her right.
He obeyed.
“I thought we’d start off simple, with four courses.”
Kit didn’t understand what she was talking about, but he nodded along.
“This is your soup spoon” she pointed, “and then we move to the salad fork. Followed by the entree utensils, and then dessert.” Oh. Four dishes. That made sense.
“Yes, Mistress.” he looked down at the cutlery on the table. Silver, by the looks of it.
“If you forget which one to use, just work your way in. Any questions?” He better ask, so he wouldn’t get punished so badly when he messed up.
“What if I can’t remember which one I just used?” If four courses was simple, what was complicated?
“You leave the utensils on the plate, and the servants will take it away when you’re finished. Now, do as I do.”
Kit copied the way she unfolded her cloth napkin, placing it just as she did.
Two servants came through the doors from what smelled like the kitchen. One with a crystal pitcher of water and the other with a bottle of wine.
“Tonight we have butternut squash soup, a seasonal salad with a honey vinaigrette, balsamic glazed lamb shank with white bean purée, and a honey yogurt panna cotta with blood orange sauce.” rattled off the servant while she poured them water.
Shit. There was honey in two of the four planned dishes. Were they trying to get him drunk?
“Chef has picked out a white wine with notes of pear.” The servant with the wine uncorked the bottle, and held it near Iris for her to sniff.
“Excellent. Thank you, Percy.” Percy poured her a glass, and turned to Kit.
“Wine?” he asked.
They didn’t know. Kit glanced at the queen, who was swirling her glass. He nodded, unsure if it would offend her to decline.
He’d just have to avoid the honey as much as possible, and drink the wine. It smelled… alright. Almost like faerie wine if he ignored the bitter acrid scent.
Maybe it tasted better than it smelled.
The servants left, leaving the pitcher, and he hesitantly took a sip of water. Blessed water, clean and cool.
Kit avoided gulping it down, as it was clear this was an etiquette lesson, and making a fool of his mistress would have terrible consequences.
Instead, he sipped it slowly before putting the chalice back in its exact place. Not a hair off.
Percy came back, two steaming bowls of soup perfectly balanced on his tray. He placed each one in front of them, Iris first, and then him before leaving.
“I informed the chef to make all of your food without salt, and in copper pans instead of steel,” said the queen.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“Iris, when it's just us.”
“Yes, Iris.”
The soup was delicious. Kit wasn’t much of a cook himself; preferring to hunt and forage over the effort of building a fire and such. Of course, at this point any meal would taste fantastic. He copied the specific way she ate, keeping the spoon from clinking against the delicate china.
Soon they were finished, and Percy whisked away the bowls and replaced them with the next course.
“You don’t speak much, do you?”
Kit hesitated. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Queen Iris picked up her salad fork. “Do I frighten you?”
“Yes.” What was the point of all this? What did she want from him that required intimate knowledge of forks?
He took a bite of the salad; he no longer cared about the honey.
“I don’t mean to,” she said. “Really, I don’t.” There was that casualness again, but she was stiff. Like the servants were listening in and she didn’t want to be caught.
“Okay.”
She smiled at him, and then suddenly smoothed her expression, reaching for her wine.
Was it an accident, or more manipulation? Either way, the result was the same. If she was kind to him to achieve her own ends, that was still kindness. He’d take it, and use it to his ends.
“What do you want with me?” Kit asked.
“We’ll discuss that later, when we're alone.”
His insides squirmed at the potential implications, and he ate to cover his discomfort. The honey was getting to him a little, more than it would if he weren’t so sick.
Percy brought in the lamb. “Would you care for more wine, your grace?”
“Ah, no thank you Percy.”
Percy turned to Kit, and he shook his head. He hadn’t touched his wine glass yet.
The lamb was tender and made his mouth water in between bites.
“Your chef is very good,” he said, surprising himself. Damn honey.
“Isn’t she?” said Iris, her posture relaxing. “I’m quite fond of her. Between you and me, I think she’s trying to impress you.”
“Oh?”
“Lamb is usually for special occasions or on request.”
“She doesn’t need to do that. I don- didn’t- often cook anyway.”
“Well don’t tell Christine that. I could do with a little spoiling.” winked Iris.
Dessert came too soon, with more honey on his plate. Kit already felt a little flush. He couldn’t afford to be rude, so he took a small bite of the dessert. The taste of oranges blossomed on his tongue, the perfect balance of tart and sweet.
Just for a moment, it reminded him of home.
The honey relaxed him, tension leaving his shoulders and flowing out of him. His head was pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.
Luckily for him, the mortal wine seemed to have the same effect on his mistress.
They finished the meal, and the queen stood. “Come,” she said. “We’ll talk more in my rooms.”
taglist: @paintedpigeon1
#Chef Christine: everyone likes honey right? RIGHT?!#Sous chef; sweating: uh huh definitely!#Kit; also sweating: are they trying to get me drunk???#my writing#whump#slavery whump#fae whumpee#royal caretaker#whumpee x caretaker
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Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves (2023)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Click here for more GIFs
#whump#whump blog#whump gifs#whumpee#my gifs#collapse#exhaustion#drunk#chris pine#edgin#michelle rodriguez#holga kilgore#dungeons and dragons honor among thieves#dndhat#dnd
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You don’t have to write this if you don’t want to, but there’s an idea that has been on my mind lately and I just need to get it out there and share it with someone. Lately I’ve been thinking about a whumpee sitting in the passenger seat of caretaker’s car, being driven home after caretaker picked them up from the bar. Under the influence of alcohol, whumpee starts casually rambling about the fucked up shit that whumper did to them, all of which caretaker was completely unaware of. Whumpee wasn’t normally the type to open up to them. Caretaker is horrified, while whumpee is too drunk to even notice caretaker’s stunned reaction.
CW: References to domestic violence, drug use, derogatory self-talk, Kauri being a Drunk Mess. Takes place early after Kauri starts coming to the safehouse.
"I said, 'Oh my God, look at that face,'" Kauri sings, voice husky and cracking, boneless against the passenger seat. "You look like my next mistake-"
"Annnnnnd we're not listening to this," Jake interrupts, leaning forward to switch from the random dance-pop playlist to his own personal one. Kauri's glimmering smile fades into an overwrought pout in response.
"Boo. You have the worst taste in music."
"I do not. I just don't want to listen to you drunk-sing Taylor Swift, that's all. Not again. Last time you cried."
"Excuse me, Jakob Stanton, that was a private performance and you should be glad I didn't make you pay for the concert of the century." Kauri kicks his dirty Vans up on Jake's clean dash, crossing his legs at the ankles. He drops his right hand down to pull the little lever on the side of his seat, the back falling backwards until he's nearly lying down. "Not my fault I get carried away with emotions."
"Ever tried not doing that?"
"Yeah." Kauri smiles again. Jake pretends not to glance sidelong to watch his eyes move, like he can see the stars right through the roof of Jake's car. There's a hickey on Kauri's neck, bruising in the shape of teeth and tongue. Might be lipstick smudged on an earlobe. Kauri's own mouth seems too red in the dark, yellowed under the occasional streetlight.
It isn't the answer Jake expects. "What?"
"Course I tried. You think I let this pretty face be ruined by all those ugly tears before? It's in my training, you know. No tears unless he wants them, no screams he doesn't demand, nothing left that he didn't pay for. He wants a gorgeous face, not some asshole who feels things and has opinions."
Jake falls quiet. His music seems incongruous now, clashing with Kauri's soft voice. He takes a turn, driving out of downtown where he'd found Kauri giggling outside yet another bar, dancing with a group of people who looked just as wounded as he does.
He isn't as good as Kauri is at knowing, but he thought at least two of them probably had barcodes hidden underneath jewelry and long sleeves, too.
Romantics run away often, it's in Jake's literature. But they struggle once they're out. They don't know how to make a living. They tend to shoplift because no one showed them how to pay, they can't get a job anyway even when they know what to do. They get treated like shit and taken advantage of... and they go back. They're bad at hiding, at blending in. They get caught, or they go back.
"There's a lot in you that nobody made but you." Jake wishes he was better at this. He's still kind of new at it, and Kauri hasn't been coming around that long. He still has some bandages under his shirt, covering the fresh scar on his collarbone.
"Therein, Jakob, lies the problem." Kauri intones the sentence like a professor delivering a lecture. "Mr. Owen hated all those parts, because none of them were in the person I was supposed to be."
Jake tries not to grind his teeth too obviously. Mr. Owen. Fucking asshole.
"I tried not to feel things that I wasn't supposed to. I was great it, too, for a while. Even better at lying once the feelings showed up anyway. But that wasn't enough, because it was a lie and we both knew it. Love is just lying, for us. To ourselves. To the owners. To everyone. We don't really mean it. We don't know how."
Jake licks at his lips. They sit at a stoplight, and he wishes he'd told Nat to get Kauri instead. Or had told Kauri no, figure it out, it's late and Jake doesn't want to be doing this.
But Kauri called, and he came.
It's a bad habit he can't let himself get into, or he'll be who Kauri always calls on nights like this.
He hopes so, anyway.
"We lie." Kauri's voice is a haze, fog rolling in off the bay. Kauri sounds the way someone looks when they're far enough away that every edge has softened. "We manipulate, we steal, we plead and flatter and fuck like rabbits. And there's absolutely nothing underneath."
"Kaur, you know that isn't true-"
"Every time there was," Kauri continues, as if Jake hadn't spoken, "He hurt me, and then he put me back in my box."
The light finally turns green, and Jake presses down on the gas. "Your box?"
"My delivery box. He kept it, set it up against the wall. When I couldn't be empty enough for him, when he remembered it was all just the two of us lying to each other, he would put me back in it. In the dark... all by myself." Kauri blinks rapidly, and Jake sees streetlight gleam, dim and yellow, off the tears escaping the corner of his eye to soak saltwater into his hair, just above his ear. "Can't feel anything. Can't see anything. Can't hear anything. He'd leave me for hours. One time for-... for over a day. Once he even moved it around like he was sending me b-back."
"Holy fuck."
Jake thinks about that.
He thinks about the way Kauri flinches away from small spaces, sleeps outside because the doors don't lock when there aren't any.
"Jesus," He whispers.
Kauri doesn't seem to notice.
"I just got so tired of pretending I didn't feel it when he hit me," Kauri says, holding his hands up, looking at his own palms. The leather bracelet that hides his barcode looks like handcuffs at this angle, in what passes for light at midnight under nothing but tree canopies lining residential streets. "I couldn't keep it up and he couldn't keep remembering I'm not ever going to suddenly become Vincent fucking Shield, even if he killed me. And... and he was gonna kill me sooner or later, right? After the choking started, the..." He touches his collarbone over his shirt. "He was going to, soon. And nobody would care."
Jake swallows, hard. "That's not-"
"I almost didn't even care anymore, either."
There's no way to respond to that.
He just listens.
"I got so tired of being empty. I couldn't lie to him any longer. Couldn't keep lying to me, either. I'm a failure, a broken pet. I wanted to tell the truth. Just the one time, I wanted to tell the truth without being put in the box, Jake. I wanted to say that I could hate him more than I loved him. I wanted to get to hate him at all. But there's... there's a problem with that."
"Is there?"
What the fuck else can he say?
"Yeah." Kauri digs a hand into his pocket. He swallows something before Jake can stop him. Maybe it's just Tylenol to hold off the hangover. Maybe. Probably not. Kauri'd smile swims, uneasy and seeming oddly seasick. "The problem... is that the truth isn't what I want it to be."
"Kauri-"
"I am empty, Jake. I got away from him and there isn't anything in here. They're right. I'm not even a person. Just a face and a cock. Just the cold and the walls and... and the box."
"That's not true-"
"It's okay." Kauri, absurdly, lays a hand on his arm to soothe him. "It's okay. I don't even mean it. I'm just rambling, Jake. None of it means anything. I am so drunk, just ignore me, yeah? Just talking shit, that's all." He suddenly smiles, bright as any star, and jerks his seat back upright. "Hey, can we go to Burger King? I want some fries."
The sudden swerve of mood feels like driving right off a cliff but finding yourself suddenly flying a plane.
"What? It's twelve-thirty in the morning-"
"Drive-thru is open til one. Come on, Jake, please?" Kauri's eyes are absurdly wide, too blue.
Jake groans. "Yeah, fine."
Kauri claps his hands together with glee, half-lunging to grab Jake's mp3 player. "You're my favorite person on earth, Jake. Now, where is the list with the pretty orangey looking background color..."
Kauri keeps his eyes carefully unfocused so he won't read the letters. The guitar starts up for the first song in the list, and Kauri grins. Whatever he swallowed is already starting to work on him, pupils wide, wiping out so much of the gorgeous blue.
This time, Jake doesn't stop him from singing along.
-
@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @autophagay @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things
#whump#kauri's poor life choices#writing#bbu#box boy universe#box boy#trauma recovery tw#recovering whumpee#runaway whumpee#escaped whumpee#caretaker and whumpee#erase to control#jake the shelter guy#drug use tw#alcohol tw#drunk whumpee
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Prompt 3
Villain is attending a formal party. This was originally to gain information on the plentiful of righteous minds that would be attending tonight. They walked around in formal clothes, greeting somewhat familiar faces with charm. There was no fear of being discovered. No one knew their face, but they knew the heroes’.
Finally Villain’s eyes land upon precious Hero. They knew right away they had to enjoy their oblivious presence. The smug smile Villain’s lips were pressed into, quickly faded they closer they became to Hero. Something looked greatly off, making the very tight formalwear Hero donned uncomfortable to think about.
Hero’s normally lively face was flushed into a worrying hue, where the blush could be seen on their cheeks. They teetered on the heels of their expensive shoes. A deep red cup of wine was being rotated in their hands. They spoke in slightly slurred speech to a unfamiliar person. A person who’s sneer felt so much more diabolical than Villain’s.
Villain didn’t think much of it, til after the party, when the suspicious person was the only thing keeping Hero standing. The person spoke commandingly to Hero, constantly using gestures to emphasize their aggressive voice. They left Hero leaning up against the building, before going inside to retrieve something. Villain thought this the perfect time to investigate.
“Hey Hero. Where are you going?”
“Just somewhere...I guess ... Person promised to...take me home...”
“Why don’t I take you home?”
“Sure”
Hero would never agree to let a stranger take the home.
Slight Continuation/Rewrite Here -> O
#this is pretty bad#I'm too tired to write these#whump prompt#prompt#writing prompt#villain whump#villain caretaker#hero#villain#hero x villain#villain x hero#supervillain#superhero#hero whump#whump fic#whumpblr#writing#drunk whump#whumpee#whumper#caretaker
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I need more whump stories where the Whumper absolutely refuses to touch the Whumpee, not even going within 4 feet of them on most occasions. Whumper just wants Whumpee to themself but doesn't want to chance hurting them. All to the point that Whumper even scares off the people Whumpee surrounded themself with so that Whumper is the only one they recognize w
#im not finishing this.#i made this while drunk and i dont know where i was going with it.#take it as you wish.#CONTINUE as you wish.#psychologically torture your whumpee#isolate them until they know nobody but whumper and whumper doesnt even go near whumpee so in reality whumpee has nobody#whumper just watches#whump prompt#whump#writing prompt#half written writing prompt made while drunk#that should be a tag#rifts writing
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JOD - day 14 - What A Night...
Drunk Villain shenanigans, with a very tired and annoyed Hero trying to stop them from getting into trouble. Chaos ensues.
****************************************************
Masterlist
Day 14: “What were you thinking?” | Slurred speech | Impalement | Fight |
Hero heard a crash in the alleyway. ‘Probably rats.’ They thought, puling the hood of their hoodie up as they kept jogging. The sound of retching made them stop again. The cold wind of the night blew against their loose, sweaty clothes.
They had gone for a jog because of the peace and quiet of the night and yet, here they were, interrupted. Approaching the sound cautiously, they looked around a bin, finding someone on their knees, throwing up their guts.
“Hey, do you need help?” Hero asked, touching the shaking person’s shoulder. They slurred some words that sounded like cursing in response, then looked up at Hero, who felt a chill rush down their spine.
It was Villain.
“Villain? Are you okay?” Hero asked, kneeling down to their level. “Shhhhhhureeeee…” The stench of alcohol wreaked from Villain’s breath. Hero felt conflicted, on one hand, this was Villain, their mortal enemy who had tried to kill them multiple times, but on the other hand they were vulnerable here in the street. Villain usually had a gravitas, an air of grandeur and confidence, but not right now. They were a sweating, slurring, spewing mess.
“Do you need help?” Asked Hero, their tone slightly amused. “Nahhhhhh. I’m finnnnnnne.” They gagged as more puke came up. Hero jumped back avoiding the acidic substance spilling from Villain’s mouth, but not before grimacing at the smell. “Yeah, you’re not fine.” They stepped around the new puddle, pulling Villain’s arm over their shoulders and guiding them out of the alley. Villain stumbled as they gained their footing, or at least attempted to. “Whaddaya doing?” They asked as they realised what was happening. Hero helped Villain down, off the curb and onto the road.
They crossed the street with them, which took them to the local park. There was grass there, so if Villain had to throw up, at least there would be something to absorb it a little. Hero helped them sit on a park bench, steering clear from the splash zone in case of any potential vomiting happened.
Villain lay back and stared at the stars.
Hero sat tentatively next to them, hunched forward. They pulled their hood off their head. Villain turned to Hero, “Why are you helping me?” Their voice wavered as they slowly and clumsily formed each word. Hero glanced up, “You’re drunk.” Villain looked back up at the stars. “I might be a little bit drunk,” Villain started, earning a snort from Hero. “A little?” Villain looked at Hero, “Okay pwetty drunk. But my point schtill schtannnns.” They lifted a floppy hand to point at Hero. “But I know… who ya are… You’re Hero.”
Hero sat up properly, their back dead straight as a chill ran down it. “Yeah, I am, Villain.” Villain leaned onto Hero’s shoulder, making Hero turn their head to save their nose from the smell of beer and puke. “Shho, why are you helping me… If you hate me?” Hero froze for a second, considering the question as Villain hiccuped. “I have no idea.”
Hero stared out into the park. They used to skateboard here as a teen, they could see the outline of the bowl in the distance. Hero searched for the right words. “I can’t believe I almost have sympathy for you right now. You’re a bad person, I shouldn’t waste my sympathy on you.” Villain nodded, hiccuping again. Their voice was quite matter of fact as they spoke up. “Everyone hateshme...”
Hero pouted in slight annoyance, “Of course people hate you, you ruin their lives, take everything from them. How can you expect love and kindness when all you give is hate?” They shrugged Villain off their shoulder. “You’re showing me kindness.” A quiet voice pointed out. “You could leave me here, but you’re not.”
Hero sighed in frustration. “That’s what I do, I guess. Help people without judgement, even if I don’t want to.” Villain patted Hero on the back, “That’ssh a good thing. I wisssch I co-could be more like you, Hero…” They drunkenly patted Hero on the back.
Villain stood, swaying as the stumbled down the path towards the skate bowl. Hero tiredly stood, walking behind them slowly, annoyed. They were gonna have to babysit Villain till they sobered up. “Great.” They muttered to themself.
They reached the edge of the skate bowl, Villain sniffed, looking down into it, leaning too far over. Hero grabbed their shoulder and pulled them back. “Careful idiot, you’ll fall in.” Villain staggered, as Hero tugged them to the ground. “If you have to go over here, at least sit on the edge.” They lowered Villain’s legs over the edge of the steep bowl, staring into the dark abyss.
Villain swung their legs against the edge of the bowl. “Shooo...” Hero plonked down next to them as they lay back against the ground. Villain smiled at the stars above them, reaching their hand up and counting then. “They’re shooo pwetty...” They gurgled, before they rolled and threw up against the concrete below them. Hero scrunched up their face and inched away a little. “Gross.” They mumbled. “I heard that...” Villain remarked, before belching. Hero’s face said it all at that point, “You’re disgusting.”
Villain shook their head. “No, I’m dishgusting when I’m drunk...” “Which you are.” Hero retorted. Villain stared at the stars with a sad look on their face, “My life hasssch fallen apart, Hero... I’m alone in the world, with nothing and nobody. No home, family, life… all I’ve done is dededi-dedicated myshelfff to this purssshuit of power. Annn for what? What do I have to show for it? Nothhhing...” Hero lay back against the ground more, “You did this to yourself.” they answered. “I knooooooow.” Villain sighed, grabbing at more stars. ‘This is so weird...’ Hero thought to themself.
Villain glanced at the tired Hero, “You could take me out right here. When I can’t fight for shhhhhit. But you’re not. Shhhome people would say you should take advantangshhh of the shhhituation... I think a little part of me wantssshh you to... An a little part of you too...”
Hero shook their head in disbelief, “You’re serious? No, Villain. I’m no gonna hurt you.” Villain cackled, kicking their legs in the air, hiccuping again. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Hero’s exasperation was increased. “Hero. I didn’t think it’d be like thisssh, when we were out of the ussshhual scenario.” They went silent for a moment before saying something that made Hero sit up in confusion.
“I wasss always jealoussh of you, Hero. You sssave people and everyone likesshh you. I want that shhometimes...” “You have to earn that and it isn’t easy. I don’t live a glamorous life like you Villain. Hell, I live paycheck to paycheck. You live in a mansion.”
“But are you happy?” Villain countered, a snide smile forming. “Sometimes. Sometimes I just want to walk away from it all though... Why am I telling you this?” Hero asked themself, astounded. Villain’s smile faded as they sat up, patting Hero’s shoulder. “You’re a good persshhon, you know.” Hero rolled their eyes, “So I’ve been told... repeatedly.” Villan shook their head violently, “No. I mean it. You’ve make people feel hope, feel shhhafe. You’re a hero for a reasshhhon.”
Hero turned, frowning at Villain. “Yeah, because I protect them from people like you.” Villain sighed, looking genuinely guilty. “I know. But I’m too far gone now. I don’t even have hen-hent-schhhmen anymore. I am alone in a marble boxshhh and you... you have a life beyond this...” Villain gestured at them both.
“What do you want Villain?” Hero ran a hand through their hair. “My identity is a secret. I don’t get paid for what I do, I work a shitty 9-5. You are set for life with all the money you’ve stolen or made doing things for other villains.” “But I don’t have any joy. Every day is the same. We aren’t shhhho different, you ‘n me, Hero...” Villain’s slurred speech began to get worse, “Hey... I don... ffffeel sssshhhgood...” They grabbed Hero’s arm as they fell forward, pulling them both down into the bowl.
Hero tried to grab the edge, but Villain’s dead weight pulled them too fast. With a crack, Hero’s head hit the concrete at the bottom of the bowl, as a streak of pain shot through their head and they gasped in pain.
Hero moaned as they clutched their bleeding temple, coming to. They heard shuffling around the bowl and Villain muttering something. As they lay there, they realised what they were saying, “What were you thinking...? Ssshtupid Villain. Sssshhtupid. You were finally getting ssssomewhere and you sc-screwed it up. You killed them...” Hero sat up, a wave of vertigo washing over them. Villain noticed they were awake and with a gasp, rushed over. Their face, illuminated in the moon light, wasn’t much better than Hero’s, though Hero couldn’t be sure how much blood was theirs.
“You’re okay!” Villain whispered, hiccuping as they stuck their face close to Hero’s. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Hero grimaced, moving their nose away from Villain’s breath. “Just... Help me stand up.” Villain obliged, helping Hero to their feet and steadying them as they swayed, vertigo getting worse. “You’re not okay...” Villain pointed out, also swaying, probably more than Hero.
“Leshshh get outta here...” Villain mumbled, falling on their butt. Hero pressed their hand against their head, it seemed to help the swaying subside as they finally got their balance. “Wait there.” They mumbled, taking a couple steps back. They did a quick run up, leaping and scrambling out of the bowl. They lay on their stomach and reached a hand out. “Grab on.”
Villain crawled over shakily, reaching out and grasping Hero’s hand. Grunting, Hero eased the struggling Villain out of the skate bowl, before pulling them up to their feet. Villain began to tilt backwards, “Oh no you don’t.” muttered Hero as they grabbed onto them, guiding them away from the edge. They both collapsed onto the grass, panting as the cool, wet blades pricked their skin. Villain wretched, causing Hero to rapidly scramble away, but there was nothing left to come up.
Villain coughed, before slumping back down onto the grass. “I feel like shit.” Hero sighed, finally done with Villain’s escapades. “Well, what were you thinking getting so drunk then? You did that to yourself.” Villain rolled over with a great effort, moaning dramatically. “Nooooo, I hurt you. When I woke up, you were still out and when I tried to wake you... You wouldn’t wake up.” A tear welled up in Villain’s eye. “I never wanted to hurt you, Hero...”
This made Hero scowl, “You’ve shot me, blown up a building on me and done just about everything you can to hurt me. I was in a month long coma because of you at one point, Villain! I am covered in scars, most of them are from you.” They groaned, running their hand through their hair in frustration. “Stop throwing yourself a pity party, and actually do something with your life. For fuck’s sake Villain, look at yourself!” Hero began to storm off, Villain calling out behind them, “I meant it Hero! It’s different when we are doing our jobs, but I never meant to hurt you. Please! Wait.” Their whines got further and further away as Hero marched down the footpath.
The wind ripped at their hoodie as they tried to start jogging again, but their head hurt too much. Sighing, Hero turned around to head back the way they came to go home. “Wait... No, NO!” Villian’s agonised scream ripped through the air causing Hero’s head to snap up. “What?” They breathed, taking off toward the sound, ignoring the pounding in their head.
Reemerging at the park, Hero gasped in horror at what they saw. Superhero was standing over Villain, a dripping knife in their hand. Villain’s arm was bent at a strange angle as they lay on the ground, breathing heavily. Hero reached for their phone, dialling a number. A sleepy Sidekick answered, “Hero, what the fuck it’s 3am?” “Sidekick. Get to the skate park in North Beach, now.” Their tone of voice was enough to make Sidekick hang up immediately.
“Hey!” Hero called out to Superhero. “Oh, Hero... Well this is a pickle.” They pressed a heavy boot square on Villain’s chest, making them cry out in pain, “...stop...pplease....” They stuttered, shuddering. Hero saw red, rushing at Superhero, feeling their body explode with adrenaline. They didn’t care about anything anymore, Superhero was out of line, beating a person while they were down. Superhero let Hero rush into them, shoving them.
“Why!?” Screamed Hero.
Superhero snarled, “You said it yourself, Hero. Honestly I couldn’t have put it better, but then again, you were always one with words.”
Hero felt their breath hitch, “How long have you been watching?” Superhero shrugged. “Long enough. Well, long enough to know you were too weak to do the right thing.” The final two words sent a shiver down Hero’s spine as Superhero drawled their smooth, suave talk. “I don’t hit someone when they are down. I have restraint. I have a conscience. I know right from wrong, and this... this ain’t right.” They growled, assuming a fighting stance. Superhero smiled. “Oh, you self righteous little prick. I’m going to enjoy this.”
Superhero swung at Hero with amazing speed. Hero managed to duck, slipping behind the hero’s body and kicking their knee. Superhero fell to the ground, before picking themself up and swinging at Hero. Hero jumped back, avoiding the punch by a hair and stumbling. They glanced over at Villain for a fraction of a second. They were pressing their chest, a small amount of blood bubbling out.
In that brief moment of distraction, Superhero’s fist cracked against Hero’s jaw, their foot meeting Hero’s chest, sending them spinning to the ground. Landing hard, the wind knocked out of them, Hero spat blood. “I never liked this part of the job, but it is my duty to weed out the weak, Hero. It’s a shame really, you were always so promising.” Hero felt the rage inside them explode.
“Are you saying, all this time, the heroes going missing and ending up dead... that was you?” Superhero smiled sympathetically, “I can’t take credit for all of them, but yes, a lot were me. I have to ensure that the heroes protecting this city are strong, without compromise. If not, the villains will win.” Hero scowled. “You’re wrong!”
Rushing at the hero, Hero unleashed a series of punches and kicks, Superhero blocking and giving just as many, if not more. Hero’s body was screaming for them to stop, as Villain gasped. Hero instinctively looked at Villain, who’s face gave them all the warning they needed. They twisted out of the way, but not before a strong hand caught their arm, pulling them close.
The knife pierced their stomach before they realised what was happening. The pain cut through everything else and the world felt still and quiet. Hero’s senses were all firing at once, but they felt nothing as they slumped to the cold wet ground.
Bright lights lit up the park as Hero heard a car door slam. Superhero glanced up, before taking off into the night.
Hero felt themself growing cold, the world growing dark as they tried to breathe.
They groaned as the annoying beeping cut through the pitch black silence. Peeling their eyes open, they shut them immediately as the bright white light pierced their retinas. They felt someone grab their arm and they flinched. “Hero it’s me.” Sidekick’s low, quiet voice comforted them. Hero opened one eye, looking at their ‘partner in crime’.
“Where... am I?”
Sidekick raised their eyebrows, “Hospital, Hero. You were stabbed pretty badly. It was touch and go there for a while... You scared me.” Hero squinted, trying to remember what they could of the night. It was all a blur. Suddenly, a knot caught in their stomach, “Villain?” their anxious tone quite obvious. “They’re on the mend. I won’t say they’re fine, they had a collapsed lung. But they should recover with time.” Hero sighed with relief.
“The mayor also wanted to send their regards. You managed to get a few good hits on Superhero, they were found a little way away, licking their wounds. Anyway, they won’t be doing anymore crime fighting any time soon. Rest up Hero, I gotta let the nurse know you’re awake.” Hero nodded, feeling fuzzy from the medication they were on.
What a night they had had...
#whump#hero whump#villain whump#hero whumpee#villain whumpee#superhero whumper#drunk whump#June of doom 23#day 14#these are getting longer and longer holy shit#this went in a direction i didnt think it would#i actually rewrote this one and i like it so much more than before lmao#snaillamp#original post
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Forcefully getting Whumpee drunk so that they'll blab all their sweet little secrets to you and forget about it by the morning, only able to think about the headache and nausea all day while Whumper now has an arsenal of intimate information to use whenever they see fit
bonus points if Whumpee was previously given a medication for one of their injuries that has quite the adverse reaction to alcohol
#and ESPECIALLY if whumpee gets handsy during their drunk episode because they're so desperate for affection#whilst admitting whumper aint too bad on the eyes#sharing their traumas#their deepest fears and regrets#plans that others may have been making for whumpee's rescue and/or whumper's downfall#crying in whumper's arms and passing out in their lap#but whumper continuing to give them more and more alcohol no matter how sick and slurred they get#this is basically me thinking about malik getting jonas drunk because baby boy only drinks like one glass of wine and champagne#and cannot hold his liquor in comparison to malik who's only buzzed by the time jonas is shitfaced#and jonas is aaaaaaaall over him and telling his sob story like his life depends on it#while malik is just like 'damn that sucks we should fuck about it maybe?'
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