- The Mumble: Whumpee is semi-lucid at best, so close to being unconscious and pain free but oh, it hurts, and they groan and mumble nonsense under their breath as the pain keeps them from passing out
- The Fight or Flight: whumpee is definitely out but is dreaming about the fight/injury/event; twitchy fingers and tossing their head because the danger is gone but the trauma continues to play out in their head
- The Lazarus: Whumpee is finally safe and on a whole lot of drugs (the good stuff) and manages to wake up from their heavy sedation. Caretaker, baffled, tells them to sleep. whumpee basically goes ‘alright peace’ and immediately passes out again
- The Park and Fly: whumpee gets whacked across the head, sits down to recover thinking its fine, promptly passes out without warning
- The Good Stuff: “Hey did you say there was a sedative in this? I don’t think its-”
- The Blink and You’ll Miss It: Whumpee gets clocked and wakes up what feels like seconds later having missed the entire fight
- The “I Got This” : whumpee does not have this
- The “Oops” : well that was stupid but there they go
Fic Summary: Giorno encounters a familiar Stand-wielding white rabbit after being sent home from school. Things are bad enough as it is, but tripping balls with a fever results in some very messed-up fever dreams…and it is unknown if he will survive long enough to get out.
***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
Present (Friday, continued)…
Emma couldn’t hold back her tears as she crouched before the mutilated form of her husband. He’d been stabbed in the chest and through the hand, and his right shoulder hung grotesquely out of place. Blood caked his face and pooled in livid swellings from a recent beating. Red droplets dripped sluggishly off the tip of his nose and splattered, barely visible, onto the rust-tinged burlap on his torso. A haphazard mess of surgical staples did little to contain bone-deep lacerations on either side of his ankle. And a line of slowly oozing punctures trailed their way up both inner thighs until disappearing beneath the sackcloth smock.
She decided to take it as a good sign that everything still seemed to be actively bleeding. Killian did not appear to be moving at all; at first, Emma could not even see any sign of breaths. But as she reached out to seek a carotid pulse, she noticed a slight and labored rise and fall of his chest. Her relief caused a catch in her throat. He was alive… for the moment.
Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and weighed down by the responsibility of keeping him alive until help arrived, Emma fumbled for the phone concealed in her pocket. If ever there was a time for magical healing… Once again, she strained to feel the tingle of light where her power dwelt, a reflex she’d already indulged several times since the Vocivore’s defeat. As before: nothing.
Well, no use bemoaning something she couldn’t change. Her free hand automatically came to rest on Killian’s arm, above the ring and stake, over an unraveling bandage. She was both heartened and dismayed when Killian flinched away from her touch with a whine.
“Killian, hey,” she soothed. “It’s just me.” She hit the button to call EMS, then put her phone on speaker. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She kept a careful watch on her husband while explaining to the dispatcher what was needed: essentially every ambulance and emergency vehicle in the United Realms. As sheriff, she knew they would take her seriously, as well as listen to any special request. So while she did her best to direct them to the scene, she also suggested that they contact David, who knew exactly the route they should take.
In the midst of rattling off her father’s contact info, while also absently holding pressure against as many of the puncture wounds as she could simultaneously reach, Emma felt Killian begin to stir. He shuddered as he tried to drag his eyes open.
“Try and hold still,” urged Emma.
“Swan,” he whispered, wincing.
His recognition of her brought tears to her eyes once more. Another good sign. “I’m here, babe. Just hold on; we’re going to get you all fixed up.”
He shook his head, breathing faster now, trying and failing to reach up and push her away with his stump. “You have to… go…” he groaned. “The monster…”
A flash of extreme pain crossed his face, and the words fizzled out, evaporating into frantic gasps for air.
Emma felt her own breath catch at his obvious distress. “Shhhhh, Killian, shhh… calm down. The monster’s dead; it can’t hurt you anymore.”
Every muscle in her husband’s body stood taut as he fought for air.
“He’s having trouble breathing,” she reported to the person on the other end of the line, as calmly as she could. She listened to the instructions but her attention was riveted on Killian. At long last, he managed to quell the panic and slow the gasping.
“D-dead?” he wheezed, sounding as if he couldn’t even define the word.
“Yep.” She used her shirt sleeve to carefully blot some blood that was trickling into one of his eyes.
Killian finally managed to focus on Emma’s face for the first time, and though he still had an alarmingly dazed look in his eyes, he immediately fixated on a small cut on her forehead.
“You’re hurt.”
He looked as if he were about to raise his left arm despite the blade embedded in his chest. Emma held him down.
“Good to know your keen observational skills are still intact.” She rolled her eyes as he continued staring up at her in concern. “I’m fine. And you’re ridiculous.”
He gritted his way through another wave of intense pain and seemed to forget that she was even there. It was then that she noticed how much he was shivering; whether it was from the practically nothing he was wearing, or from shock, she didn’t know. How was she supposed to lay him flat and elevate his feet with his hand pinned to the frickin’ altar? More importantly, if he stopped breathing, how would she perform effective CPR in this position?
She pushed aside the thought that, with the paramedics at least 30 minutes away, any efforts at resuscitation would likely be futile.
Emma glanced back at Jones, who was gingerly unwinding the costume bandage from his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to provide much assistance, whatever she decided to do.
She felt Killian squirming under her hands and turned her attention back. He groaned and then, as if reading her thoughts, he hissed,
“Please, love… get me free of this… bloody thing…”
His fingers twitched in feeble emphasis. Emma bit her lip, reluctant. “I don’t know, Killian… that may not be such a good idea.”
“Please,” he said again, eyes screwed shut against the pain. “It’ll have to happen… eventually. And I think… it may make it… easier to breathe.”
“It will hurt a lot less after you’ve had some morphine,” she pointed out. But if it really did help him to breathe better…
“Please, Emma,” Killian grunted. “Just do it.”
The dispatcher on the phone asked for an update, and Emma explained the situation while she set squeamishness aside and studied the impaling blade. She had no way of knowing how long it actually was, or how much of it was embedded in the wood. Approximately three inches of sharp steel were sandwiched between the dagger’s handle and Killian’s palm. The heel of his hand and the underside of his forearm glistened with blood all the way down to the elbow. Pulling the dagger free would be inadvisable if she wanted to keep that trickle of blood from becoming a stream. The dispatcher concurred, advising that they wait, if possible. But Emma didn’t know how bad the stab wound to his chest was; he could even have a punctured lung on that side, so relieving the tension on the other side may well be the difference between life and death for him.
As she was agonizing over the decision, she sensed movement behind her, and when she glanced back, it was to see Jones staggering up the steps toward them. He was breathing hard, looked pale and sweaty, but didn’t stop until he reached the top. Grimacing, he knelt, landing hard next to his doppelganger, whose eyes snapped open as he cringed away. Expecting an attack. Emma squeezed his wrist in reassurance.
“Ahoy there, mate,” said Jones softly. He faked a scowl and added, “You know, I haven’t forgotten to be miffed at the pair of you and this insane plot of yours.”
Gratified by the hint of a pained smile on Killian’s lips, Jones turned to address Emma. “Suppose I should offer my help anyway.”
Emma eyed him critically. The Ace bandage was now wrapped haphazardly around his injured shoulder, loosely covering the patch of blood spreading on the sackcloth over the bullet wound. She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re up to it?“
Jones only gave a small, unconvincing twitch of his lips. Emma took her hands away from her husband’s injuries long enough to grip the ends of the Ace bandage, which were merely tucked under one another. She gave a sharp tug to tighten it and tied a more secure knot, hissing,
“What the hell happened back there?”
“Not a clue.” Jones closed his eyes in a brief concession to the momentary increase in pain, then nodded his thanks.
The dispatcher on the phone crackled an update in ETA: 20 minutes, give or take. A long time, in which anything could happen. Most of which would be bad.
Emma gave a sigh of resignation. Then she squared her shoulders.
"Think you can help stabilize his hand?” she murmured, and Jones’ gaze flicked to the afflicted limb.
“Yeah, of course.”
Emma shuffled around to the other side of her husband’s legs, closer to the impaling dagger. With a stifled grunt, Jones made room for her. Killian watched, motionless apart from his short, gasping breaths. Forcing herself to turn away from the pain in his eyes, Emma reached for the dagger’s handle. Behind her, the detective gently wrapped his hand around Killian’s wrist.
In response to the hissed intake of air to her right, Emma caressed Killian’s cheek. “You sure?”
Her husband’s eyes betrayed just as much fear and reluctance as anguish, but he managed a shaky nod. Emma tightened her grip on the dagger. “On three, then. One…” She heard Killian gasp a preparatory breath, saw him squeeze his eyes shut. “Two…”
On impulse, ignoring the blood and sweat staining his face, Emma initiated a furious kiss, at the same time yanking with all her strength on the trapped blade. The unexpected touch of intimacy worked as a distraction for approximately half a second, as a dazed Killian attempted to reciprocate. But then he was pulling away, howling his agony against her cheek. Emma cursed and braced her free hand against the altar as leverage; long seconds later, the dagger popped free of the wood, inevitably jerking inside Killian’s hand despite efforts to keep it still. Though a smear of crimson revealed where a short length of steel had slid free, enough remained within his flesh to hopefully stem the worst of the bleeding.
“It’s done; it’s out,” Emma breathed, reaching for his head and cradling him against her shoulder. She nodded at Jones and, moving in slow tandem, they lowered the impaled limb to rest awkwardly on the floor beside him, the dagger’s handle mere inches from his hip. And Killian’s muffled groans were sweet music, proving his continued existence, his ability to draw enough breath to express his pain.
Even from her strange angle, even through the stained sackcloth, Emma could see the wrong position of his shoulder joint. She cringed and stroked the back of Killian’s head. Then she gently pulled away, asking,
“Any better?”
Killian rested his head back against the altar and squinted up at her, nodding once but not wasting the energy to speak.
“Not touching that shoulder. Sorry.” She spared a glance at Jones, who had sat back and was now massaging his chest despite the length of metal still burrowed into his arm. He grimaced agreement with her decision; even if either of them had the expertise to pop the joint back into place, it had been long enough for swelling and tightening of the tendons and ligaments to make an attempt not worth it.
“Do you want to lie down?”
At first, it looked as if Killian were considering the suggestion. Theoretically, lying him flat could be advisable for multiple reasons, and might make it easier for him to relax, but Emma wanted to leave the choice up to him. In the end, whether he thought he would find it harder to breathe, wanted to avoid the pain of changing positions, or feared the possibility that once he lay down, he may never get up again, Killian answered with a feeble shake of his head.
Emma peeled her jacket off and rolled it into a tight bundle, which she carefully slid behind Killian’s head as a makeshift pillow. Her proximity allowed her a better view of the bulky new collar and its set of screws which, up until now, she’d been hoping weren’t actually drilled into his neck. That explained at least some of that morning’s screams. Emma scowled, feeling sick; she’d granted that villain far too easy of a death.
Killian didn’t look any more comfortable, but grimaced his gratitude at her before suddenly catching sight of the slumped monster corpse in the distance. He seemed to grow somehow even more pale, warily watching the Vocivore for any sign of movement.
“It’s dead?”
Emma rested a reassuring hand on his shin, inadvertently leaving a bloody handprint on a relatively unscathed portion of skin. Killian’s eyes were locked on his tormentor, as if his vigilance were the only thing keeping it subdued.
“Shot it myself,” she growled. “So unless the damn thing can regenerate its ugly, pervert brain, we’re finally done with it.”
As she said this, she realized it may not have been the most comforting thing for Killian to hear: they still had a lot to learn about the creature, and the possibility, however slight, of the Vocivore coming back to life gave her a momentary chill. She could only imagine how it made Killian feel.
“Listen,” she said, “Jones and I both have our weapons and will keep an eye on it. But I don’t think we need to worry about it.”
“And those slaves over there?” added Jones, his voice only slightly stronger than Killian’s had been. “They’re lost. Directionless. The first sign of renewed purpose, we’ll know to be on the alert.”
Emma stole a glance in the direction the detective was looking and saw the slaves, some of whom had been holding her captive just moments before, hunched on their knees, faces in hands. One or two lay stretched out flat, silent and still.
“He’s right. Leave the guard duty to us; you just focus on hanging in there until the medics come.”
Emma did not like the bleak hopelessness with which he reacted to her statement; she knew he was doubting his odds of surviving that long. But he rested his head back and soon had his eyes closed, either deciding to put his trust in her words, or simply too weary to do otherwise.
She tried to remain quiet as she reached across his body for the loose end of the bandage around his left wrist. It appeared to be the same one supplied by Storybrooke General; if its sole purpose was still to cover the wrist ring, it would be of better use staunching some of the oozing injuries on his legs.
“Killian?” she asked, some time later. “How far is Z’s and would you be able to tell me how to get there?”
Her husband didn’t respond.
“Babe?” A gentle finger on his cheek elicited no response, but he did pull away slightly when she got too near an inflamed abrasion by his eye. His breaths were shallow and quick but regular, and he seemed somehow balanced enough even without much supporting him upright. She was torn between staying to monitor his condition and heading off to see what she could find in the way of first aid supplies.
Watching through half-lidded eyes, Jones reluctantly sat up straighter, rousing himself from a pain-driven daze to offer,
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Emma. Go do what you need to do.”
The detective was hardly in a fit state to offer that kind of service; Emma wouldn’t have been surprised to watch him be the next one to pass out. But, grunting, Jones got to his knees and made his way to Emma’s side, dutifully nudging her hand away so he could take over the task of applying pressure. With a stubbornness so much like her own Killian, he even went so far as to use the scarred remnants of his left wrist to cover an additional wound, yielding nothing to the anguish that surely wracked his shoulder with the effort. Emma flashed him look of exasperation before clambering to her feet.
“Five minutes,” she promised, then jogged her way out into the desolate afternoon light.
*****
His Master loomed overhead. Large and menacing. A claw was embedded in his shoulder, another in his hand, severing tendons, removing sensation and function from each remaining finger. Killian whimpered, shifting under questing tentacles pressed hard into burning thighs. Emma, the rescue… all a wonderful, horrible hallucination. How much longer would his suffering drag on?
Tentacles dug deeper, and Killian thrashed with all of his remaining strength. He knew his Master demanded obedience, but he couldn’t do it. Not again.
A startlingly good impression of his own voice floated down from above. “Hey, easy! Easy there, mate; it’s only me.”
Nearly hyperventilating now despite unprecedented agony in his chest, Killian continued to struggle; opening his eyes seemed a monumental task and he would only see that hideous face staring down at him anyway. He had no idea what his Master was up to, or how the creature had managed to mimic his voice, but it hardly mattered.
“Killian, mate; I promise I’m not trying to hurt you. I swear. In truth, I intend to wait until you’re fully recovered. And then… well, after that, all bets are off. You bloody wanker.”
Those words sounded nothing like any his Master had ever said before. Perhaps he was hallucinating this as well? Killian groaned quietly, then peeled his eyes open.
Detective Jones sat beside Killian’s knee, holding pressure on some of the punctures to his inner thigh. The man looked utterly spent, had a blood soaked bandage wrapped carelessly around a shoulder, and wore a grim expression, but his eyes were soft. Upon locking gazes with Killian, the detective flashed a wan smile.
“That’s it. See? Nothing to fear now.”
Killian remained unconvinced that it wasn’t a dream. He scanned the desecrated church, feeling dazed and slightly drunk; his eyes would not follow a steady path and he couldn’t make sense of everything he was seeing. He winced and tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulder, to no avail.
“If you’re looking for Emma, she’s just stepped out for a bit,” Jones told him. “In search of bandages and a blanket.”
“Emma…” croaked Killian.
“She’ll be back soon,” soothed the detective, hiding a wince himself as he shifted his weight. “And not much longer until other help arrives as well.”
Killian brought his focus back on the face identical to his own, blinking heavy eyelids and fighting massive disorientation. “How…?”
Jones gave a wry grin. “Your Swan confessed. I know everything now. You great bloody git. You know your in-laws are going to murder you as well?”
“Can’t murder… a corpse… mate…”
“No, no… you’re not getting out of it that easily.” Jones checked that his hand was still covering the wound before continuing. “You’re obligated to stay alive; otherwise, who will we exact our vengeance upon?”
Killian’s eyes fluttered closed against his will. “The Crocodile… it was his gadget… made this possible.”
Jones laughed once. “Okay, I’m not averse to that idea… but as I understand it, he’s only one third of the responsible party.”
Killian could not keep up the conversation. He was in too much anguish and found his concentration slipping. Jones seemed to sense this and fell silent, but after a moment of quiet, he murmured,
“I understand, mate. I do. And I can’t say I would have done anything differently, given the opportunity you had.”
Killian made an attempt at a grateful smile. But a sudden stab of pain took his breath away, stifling any chance at a reply. Through the gasping breaths that followed, he thought he heard the scrape of the off-kilter door being dragged open, but it could have been his imagination, as well.
It wasn’t. Killian heard footsteps, urgent and self-assured, scuffling along the well-worn paving stones of the sanctuary in a manner very distinct from the ominous clicking he had grown accustomed to fearing. From an impossibly great distance, the garbled voice of his beloved called out,
“How’s he doing?”
“Still with us,” reported Jones, similarly remote. “I was just telling him how much trouble the pair of you are in.”
Killian shuddered at the arrival of another being; it was so deeply ingrained that even the fuzzy outline of Emma’s calmly worried face could not overcome the instinct. Her gentle touch on his knee sent a shock of pain and fear sizzling down to his toes. He hissed, then stammered an apology. Emma ignored the reaction. She had in her grip a ragged brown blanket, which she unfurled and gently spread over his lower body.
“Almost,” she promised in a whisper. Unrolling other scraps of fabric intended as temporary bandages, she added, “I’m pretty sure I heard sirens out there. This is almost over.”
Even in his near-stupor, Killian somehow made sense of the words. He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and began to silently weep.
When the caretaker is watching the whumpee, and they notice that they seem a little paler than usual, but they’re only mildly concerned, until they see the whumpee suddenly go even paler and start to sway. The caretaker rushing to the whumpee and steadying them, looking around for somewhere for the whumpee to sit, but the whumpee passing out in their hold before they can find somewhere. The caretaker gently guiding the whumpee to the ground, and laying them down with their head in the caretaker’s lap. The whumpee coming back to consciousness a minute later, and the caretaker giving them a few moments to get their bearings, then asking if they know why they passed out. The whumpee admitting that they’d barely been sleeping, and the caretaker giving them a disapproving look, then gently helping them sit up. The caretaker giving them a few moments, and then pulling them up to standing, and gently helping them get to somewhere they can get some proper rest.
When the caretaker notices that the whumpee looks a little pale, but they don’t think anything of it until the whumpee collapses in the middle of a conversation. Them diving to catch the whumpee, and trying to figure out what happened, and why they passed out. The caretaker not being able to figure it out before the whumpee starts to wake up, and the caretaker gently questioning them, asking if they have any idea why they passed out. The whumpee admitting that they got hit pretty hard in the torso with something earlier that day, and the caretaker pulling up their shirt to check, only to find colorful bruising covering their side. The caretaker immediately hurrying the whumpee to the hospital, and the doctors telling them that the whumpee was bleeding internally, and would have died if they had waited much longer to get help.
When the caretaker notices that the whumpee is looking a little bit pale, but they think nothing of it until the whumpee starts to sway during a conversation. The caretaker starting to reach out to steady them, and then having to lunge to catch them as they crumple to the ground. The caretaker having no idea why the whumpee passed out, but gently getting them onto the floor, and settling the whumpee’s head in their lap. The whumpee coming to as the caretaker checks their pulse and tries to figure out why they passed out, and the caretaker asking if they know why. The whumpee admitting that they’d been feeling a little under the weather, and hadn’t been getting much sleep, and the caretaker gently scooping them up and carrying them to bed, then making them stay there until they think the whumpee is okay.
“I think my fever’s gone up,” Whumpee says, with only the slightest hint of concern. They lean against the wall for a brief reprieve, feeling the coolness as it seeps through their clothing.
“How bad?” Asks their teammate, watching the door for any signs of movement. They don’t look back to check on them. They can’t leave until the coast is clear, and their window of opportunity is small.
But Whumpee doesn’t answer them. Their “brief reprieve” highlights that not only has their fever gone up, it’s gone too high. In the second it takes them to comprehend what Teammate is saying, they’re on the floor.
Lán Huàn feels the first spark in his chest when Niè Míngjué lowers his weapon, still glaring at Mèng Yáo, still clearly hurt by whatever has transpired between them, and Mèng Yáo looks at him, emotions flickering across his face, regret, grief and fear intermingled, his hands tightening in Lán Huàn’s robes.
Both of them are exhausted, Lán Huàn thinks. They will need some rest and, in time, Niè Míngjué will see reason and Mèng Yáo will have time to explain himself in a calmer atmosphere. And then, his two friends — no, not friends, they mean so much more to him — will be beside him.
Lán Huàn smiles at them and he doesn’t even realise the hope settling deeply into his chest. Instead, relief floods him when he tells them both softly, ‘Let us get you both to a healer, shall we?’
A closes their eyes against the harsh sting of B’s palm slapping their face. They’re hunched over with their hands on their knees. There’s not enough air in the world. Their chest burns from running so fast for so long, it feels as if they’re about to throw up.
B’s hand cups A’s cheek, grabbing the skin on their cheekbone painfully. ‘Get up. Fucking get up A, I swear,’ B yells.
vs
A closes their eyes against the agonising pain of their wound. They keel over, dust parting as they thud onto the ground. It feels as if all they’ve ever known is blinding, burning pain. There’s not enough air in the world. Everything burns.
B skids to A’s side, cupping their cheek softly in their hand. They rub their thumb tenderly over A’s cheekbone. 'Get up. A please get up, I swear,’ B’s voice breaks on the edge of a sob.
Little things in the hidden injury trope that give me life more than water does
Tying something between their teeth to stop their cries from being heard while they treat themselves in the dark
Bloodied bandages stuffed into the gap between the wall and the bed
Whumpee wearing long sleeves/pants but their bandages still finding a way to peek out
Blood running down their limb from inside their clothes and dripping onto the ground
Bloody footprints
Bloody handprints
Faint bloodstains on the floor that whumpee can’t get off no matter how hard they scrub
Whumpee limping as soon as the other person turns their back
Dark undereyes from obv no sleep
Those sexy beads of sweat and pale skin
Leaning against wall/ furniture whenever they get the chance
When a normally talkative character is quiet
Controlling their breath while they try to complete normal tasks but then doubling over and gasping for air behind closed doors
When they peel back the bandages to check their injury and it’s gotten worse
Whumpee trying to bring it up with someone but then deciding against it when the other person starts talking about future plans
Someone in the team feeling like there’s something wrong with whumpee but not knowing what so they don’t bring it up and then the GUILTthey feel afterwards holy
Whumpee FINALLY fainting - behind closed doors and being found by someone later or just dropping to the ground while they’re with someone else
I mean just imagine character A talking and thinking whumpee is beside them and whumpee just drops out of frame with a sigh and a thud
Whumpee trying to tell the others that they’re fine and that they can handle it while they’re literally bleeding out on the ground
Bonus! The scene afterwards when whumpee wakes up and their wounds are bound in those crisp white bandages instead of the bloodied, dirtied torn pieces of clothing they’d used before
NOTE: I’D LOVE TO BE TAGGED IF YOU WRITE OR CREATE ANYTHING INSPIRED BY THIS LIST
Whumpee is kidnapped and tortured for caretaker’s identity. Every time they’re asked ‘What is their name?’, Whumpee always answers the same.
'They never told me. They never told me’
But the punches and the stabs keep on coming. Till Whumpee is on the ground, terribly wounded and barely conscious. They still painfully mutter the same thing.
Till Caretaker shows up after realising that Whumpee is missing. They beat up the kidnappers and untie Whumpee. Caretaker supports Whumpee’s weight, trying to keep them upright. But Whumpee whispers their name, Caretaker’s realname, before collapsing into their arms.
Caretaker had never told them their name yet somehow Whumpee had figured it out themselves. They told half-truths to their kidnappers to protectcaretaker and almost died in the process.
I dare you to write your favourite oddly specific whump tropes
These are mine:
Hidden injury
A stubborn whumpee and a caretaker who’s angry at them for constantly risking their life
Exhausted due to excessive use of magic (and fainting afterward)
Trying to get up, then being immediately hit by dizziness and collapsing
Limping or staggering (this ain’t even a trope but I’m obsessed with how whumpees are depicted as so vulnerable when they can barely keep themselves upright)
Tag a friend or five so they can add theirs!
Some accounts I absolutely adore and would love to hear from (hope you don’t mind):
A character helps others get to safety before falling to their knees. Now that they’re alone, exhaustion grips them and pulls them to the ground. They fall heavily and lay unmoving. There’s no energy left for the way back.
[The first move of the game is always a sacrifice]
Scene opens: Amery stands at the foot of Felix’s bed in the healer’s tent. Blood smeared on the side of her head appears dark in the dim candlelight, blotting out her features. In contrast, Felix is clean and shaven as he lies injured on the bed. Above the blankets, a sash of white bandages crosses his left shoulder.
F: Do you think it’s easy? To choose to put myself in the line of fire?
A: Of course it’s not easy! You- I’m grateful. I’m so grateful, I am-
F: So just thank me and be done with it
A: YOU ALMOST DIED. you almost died
F: I didn’t! And even if I had, I’d do it again
A: Why?
And there it is. Amery holds her gaze on him. Her pupils seem to shake in the candlelight. The word hangs heavy but Felix takes it in, he answers like it’s obvious.
F: Because in case you forgot, you chose first. That bullet was coming for you, because u shot first!
A: So it was my bullet to take. I swore, TO YOU, that I would do anything to win this war by your name. I am your soldier- your pawn. What don’t you understand?
F: This war is not a game
A: You have to sacrifice to gain!
F: Not you. Amery, I cannot give them you.
A: The Knight doesn’t die for the pawns or the King will lose, Captain.
Felix bristles at the formality. His features steele as he realises she won’t reciprocate the tenderness he’s shown her; not like how she used to.
F: Amery. Don’t you fear death? When you were standing there, on the other side of the line, waiting for them to shoot you as you did them.. weren’t you afraid?
A: I was. I was afraid because I could hear you coming for me. That I’d done a desperate, foolish thing and the captain was going to die for me.
Amery starts for Felix’s bedside. A heavy limp appears in her step. Her brow furrows as she tries to hide the pain in her right leg. Felix sighs, knowing that if he nags her about it, she’ll implode.
A: How do you expect to lead now? Bed bound and too injured to lift a spoon!
F: Amery!
A: sir
F: I do not regret taking that bullet for you. I regret that you feel like you need to be shot to prove yourself. You are valuable to me Amery. As a soldier. As a friend.
A: Please do not call me your friend.
F: Ames-
A: Felix, I cannot forgive you.
F: I’m not looking for forgiveness.
A: Thank you, Felix, for saving my life.
Amery turns and limps awkwardly toward the tent’s flap. Felix sighs, unable to hold it in.
F: Amery, your leg-
Amery whirls around, cloak spinning. Tear tracks shimmer on her face, her eyes are teary.
A: I thought you were dead.. and that I’d never see you again. I missed you. I missed you so much, Felix.
Villain challenges Hero who is gasping for air on the ground. 'I want a real fight’
Caretaker crying over whumpee’s unresponsive form. 'Please get up’
'Can you hear me?’
Communications crackle as Hero tries to radio into HQ
Whumpee is fading and can hear Caretaker’s voice as if it is in the distance. Despite Caretaker shaking them, their eyes close and their body becomes limp.
'Here, let me’
A is struggling to complete a task. Impatiently, B takes over.
Whumpee tries to stitch up a wound themselves but their hands shake in fear and pain. Caretaker gently takes the needle and thread from their hands and hands them a bottle of alcohol instead.
'I can’t’
Hero drops the dagger, shaking. 'I can’t. I can’t kill you’. Villain, tied up, huffs and retorts 'So what are you good for?’
Tears run down caretaker’s face. 'I can’t leave you’. Whumpee smiles despite the pain and reaches up to cup Caretaker’s face, wiping their tears gently with their thumb.
'Where have you been hiding?’
Whumper’s sinister call echoes as they search the woods near their property. With those wounds, whumpee couldn’t have gone far.
A strokes hair out of B’s face as they lay beside each other. 'Where have you been hiding my whole life?’ they say softly.
AS ALWAYS, TAG ME @whumpyourenemy IN YOUR HURT/COMFORT WORKS IF YOU USE MY PROMPTS OR TAKE INSPIRATION. I’D LOVE TO READ AND SUPPORT!
Classy (although cliche to most) examples of whump in comedies. I love them so much that even though the whump is minor it ends up being the most memorable part for me.
By trope:
Drunken misadventures
Getting injured while incredibly drunk and not even knowing it. Then, upon waking the next morning, realising that something really hurts and it’s not just their hangover. Cue the awkward small talk about their heavily bandaged limb where someone asks about how it happened and they panic and come up with a crazy story that makes them sound like a hero
Getting absolutely hammered and taking a stranger home. Yet the next morning, the stranger wakes up injured and blames them for it.
Reunited (and it does not feel good)
Meeting a stranger while they’re both in sick bay (or urgent care). Bonus point if protagonist ended up there doing something embarrassing. They tell the stranger all about their embarrassing tale, since of course they’re never going to meet again. Cut to running into them later in life and they teasingly address protagonist by their injury (or a detail from their embarrassing moment).
Protagonist gets into a heated argument with a stranger (be it road rage, they’re taking too long at the coffee shop), yet later they’re injured and find out that the stranger is their doctor
Leaving after an argument only to get injured outside and then having to swallow their pride and call the other person to come get them
Impromptu mentor
Professional (Athlete/ dancer/ musician..) gets injured before a big competition and ends up having to mentor their replacement
It hurts on rainy days
Jokingly showing someone how their joint makes a fun clicking sound but the other person grabs them and tests it out. They cry out in pain, scolding the other person for twisting so hard but the other person just goes. ‘It’s broken’
Trying to reason with others as their limb is being bandaged and casted and they’re told not to use it weeks. The dialogue is so chaotic - 'I’m fine’, 'It doesn’t even hurt’, 'Guys, come on, you’re joking right’, 'This is ridiculous’, 'I’m never telling you anything again’
Fool behaviour
Any instance of dumb protagonist accidentally ramming into another person - be it a door, hitting them with their car, skating straight towards them while not knowing how to stop or steer away
A clumsy protagonist that slips and panics, instinctively grabbing onto another person’s shirt. The shirt rips, causing the person to fall and blackout anyway
Good taste
Character wears things for the sake of fashion rather than practicality:
Thin clothing - they start sneezing and feeling feverish
Tall heels - arguing with others that the heels are actually very comfortable despite how they look, then falling almost immediately and twisting their ankle
Shoes with no grip - causing them to slip and fall hard on their bottom
BONUS - if another character tries to help them but falls in the process too
When they whisper ‘Catch me’ before fainting and the other person doesn’t understand what they said but instinctively reaches out anyway. The dead weight dropping into their arms. The sharp realisation that the other person is really very not okay.
Fantasy prompt on Immortals - Whump, H/C are always a given :)
Characters A and B are a couple that used to love to travel. One day, they’re deep in the forest and come across a cave. Inside, sleeps a minor God who is chained there as punishment for mischief. The couple accidentally wake them. The God is bitter for being woken and reminded of their imprisonment. They lash out on the two humans giving them immortality and no mortal weakness except one.
Each other.
If any other person tries to harm them, weapons will just pass through. No blade can cut them. No poison can kill them. But the catch is, as soon as they are near each other, they are more susceptible to injury. Normal blades can’t cut them but an enchanted one might. And not to leave out the most important part but any weapon or means of killing will work if done directly by the other person. They are completely at each other’s mercy.
The couple feel the ground shake as soon as the curse is given. The cave begins to collapse around them. They just manage to make it out. Adrenaline fading, they look at each other. Both are sceptical but something innate tells them it’s true. They decide to call truce, no longer able to stomach the fact that the other person is how they will die, and separate for centuries.
Until..
A walks out of their house into the crisp morning air. It’s a humble abode they’ve built for themselves in seclusion. The morning is silent save for the crunch of their footsteps.. and the explosive sound of a gun. It’s hits them in the thigh and pain explodes in their leg. They fall, blood immediately pooling on the ground.
Panic sets through A.
‘No, there’s no way.. Impossible,’ they mutter.
It cannot be B, they have always kept tabs on each other’s whereabouts and made sure it was always at least the diameter of the Earth away.
'B!’ A calls. Silence resumes.
Overwhelmed by pain which they have not felt for centuries, A maneuvers themself back inside. They haphazardly stitch themselves up and bandage their thigh. They couldn’t find a bullet so they figure it was a graze. Unable to get up, they lay there. Feeling cold and faint, they stay unmoving and pass out.
A wakes hours later to banging at their door. Grimacing, they pull themselves up using nearby furniture. They move from object to object, limping heavily until they reach the door. Delirious, they open it. Their half lidded eyes open wide in shock. It’s B.
A lunges for them. 'You bastard, you..’ A slurs curse words ancient and new. B grabs them by the shoulders, fingers digging in.
'I should be the one saying that..’ But their words falter when they see the state of A, feverish and bathed in their own blood. B lets them fall into their arms.
'Oof’ B groans at the sudden weight, hand reaching for their side.
When they look down at A, the latter is barely awake. Their face is drained of blood, their body is only held upright by B’s arm.
'Let me go’ A says coldly.
And honestly, B would love to. Holding A’s weight to their abdomen presses on their wound. Yet, they hold A up, helping them limp to a seat before collapsing into one themselves. Unbuttoning their shirt, B bares the bandages that bind an injury to their side. Blood has bloomed through. Face set in a wince, A stares at B’s wound.
'I didn’t..’ They start.
'You give me no reason to doubt that’
'How did you get here so fast?’
'It took me a whole day. That’s not fast.. When did you get hurt?’
'A couple hours ago, I don’t know, this morning’
'No I wasn’t close enough. It couldn’t be someone using the loophole’
'Then who?’
B’s fingers pinch the space between their eyes. They groan.
'The God’
'The God? But..’
'A, we were both shot but there is no bullet. Nothing’
Looking at their wound now, its placement on A’s thigh, they realise it couldn’t have been a graze. There should be a bullet in their thigh. But there wasn’t.
'So what now? We go hunting for a GOD?’ A’s voice is raspy. They’re fading and exhausted.
B nods and stands slowly, hissing in pain. They place a blanket over A’s bloody form as they watch as A’s eyes close.
'But the truce holds, darling. Now that we’re together, I cannot let you out of my sight’
An indestructible hero falls to their knees in pain. Blood pours from a wound inflicted by villain. Hero’s confused face turns to helplessness. Villain’s eyes widen in shock that they were actually able to injure Hero.
‘What is happening? How.. Argh,’ Hero groans as they clutch their wound, the edges of their vision is growing dark.
Villain watches Hero’s face. The way their nostrils flare and their lips curl. Perfect teeth grinding against each other. 'Does it hurt Hero? Do you want me to kiss it better?’
