snippet #1 - hero comes home with a date

“I really enjoyed tonight.”

“Me too.”

The hero put their key into the lock of their apartment door. It’s been so long since they last had gotten… intimate… They were a bit desperate at this point.

“Do you mind if I came in?” their date asked.

“No,” the hero stroked their tie, wrapping their fingers around the fabric. They were trying so hard to suppress the excitement in their voice.

“I’d like that.”

Their date hummed, then finally, kissed them. The hero caressed their date's locks, but then quickly realized they had to take their date's hands and put them where they wanted them to be.

The hero liked their date, they were incredibly sweet, but this kiss was not as explosive as they hoped. That’s unfair, this was nice and they hadn’t had it in a while.

The hero pulled away from the kiss, leading their date back into their apartment. Their date went for their lips again but this time, they stopped and looked behind them.

Terror rushed their date’s eyes like a tsunami.

“I have to go.” Their date untangled themselves completely from the hero’s grasp. They’re breathing picked up, their voice strained.

“But-” the hero blurted in confusion. What the hell was wrong with them?

“I’ll call you!”

“I-“

Their date practically sprinted down the hall.

The hero, confused, looked behind them and saw only an empty dark apartment.

What did they see that made them run for the hills?

Nothing.. you're just that unlovable.

They closed the door slowly as this ache in their chest started to infect. Suddenly they felt the stinging blisters from their heels, the cold wind hitting their bare legs.

Date after date after date, no one wanted them. No one called them back. No one ever came back.

Are they really that uninteresting? Appalling, revolting? Unlovable? A tear slipped out as they tried to sniff it back. Dating a hero is something no one wants to endure.

They looked in the mirror at their sunken eyes, the hope already drained out of them. They wiped their scarlet lipstick off and let it smudge over their skin.

They needed a drink.

They went to the fridge in search of that bottle of expensive vodka the company gave them as a gift.

They opened the fridge and saw that it wasn't anywhere. They must have already taken it out, so excited to have the place ready for their date only to be disappointed again.

They closed the fridge and gasped at the chuckle of someone’s familiar, cold voice.

In the dark, sat in their armchair across the apartment, drinking straight from their expensive bottle that was already half empty. Lounging without a care like they owned the place, was the villain.

The hero’s heart immediately picked up speed.

“You better pay for that,” they quivered, trying to find the confidence in their voice.

“Your precious drink or ruining your date?”

The hero thought back to the expression on their date's face when they left. Scared.

No, terrified.

“You- What is wrong with you?”

“I thought you of all people would know the answer to that question,” the villain chuckled.

They brought the strong vodka back to their lips that would burn everyone else’s throat, but they were gulping it down like it was water.

“Everything is wrong with me, darling,” they smirk.

The hero stifled the scream they desperately wanted to unleash at the villain.

“Get out.”

The villain only smirked.

“I’m not in any mood to deal with you tonight, okay?” The hero’s voice cracked, and they hated the sound of it.

”Aw,” the villain mocks, “Is my poor little hero sad they didn’t get their clothes stripped off by a random stranger? Or in that guy’s case, carefully taken off with extra precision by a random stranger?”

The hero wanted to smash that bottle right over their head. The only thing that stopped them was the tinge of something else in the villain's voice. Something like…jealousy?

“Aren’t you sad that no one can love you, especially not a guy who clearly doesn’t know how to please you?”

That stung.

“You‘re wrong,” the hero shivered.

“Am I?” the villain said, standing up and gulping down more of the hero’s precious drink. The hero could only stagger back in fear, their body beginning to shake.

“Or did you need to take his hands and put them on your body because he was afraid you would shatter if he dared to graze you?”

The hero backed up as much as they could, their breathing felt tight as they pressed themselves into the front door.

“Did you feel like you had to guide them everywhere, instead of having someone who just knew exactly where to put their hands on their body? Someone who knew exactly, and confidently how to make you writhe?”

The hero gulped as a heat started to envelop them.

“I-um..”

“Am I wrong that you didn’t even like him that much, you just wanted to feel cared for? Wanted?”

The villain walked over to the hero, caging their shaking body.

The villain pressed the hero into the door, still drinking from their bottle. The hero shivered at their touch and the coldness of the glass. The hero was breathing like they ran a marathon.

“Am I wrong that all you want is for someone else to touch you? Love you, that you’ll even sleep with someone you don’t even like to feel like someone would care for you even a bit?”

The hero’s eyes stung from their words and the smell of the vodka on the villain's breath.

“But-“

“That the innocent little hero of this city wants someone to please them, make them cry out and make them beg for them to stop because it's too much?”

The hero didn’t know what to say to them anymore.

“Well?” they whispered.

The villain pressed their body into them more. They caged them in with two hands beside their head, leaning over them.

The hero was in a whirlwind of emotions. They didn’t know if they felt angry, sad, hurt, lustful. They just wanted to stop chasing everyone away and to soothe the ache between their thighs.

The proximity of the villain's body, their cologne and the smell of the alcohol, their mouth was making everything feel hazy.

“Go on,” the villain whispered, their gaze going between the hero’s eyes and mouth. “Tell me I’m wrong, darling.”

They wanted to, they really did, but they couldn't get the words out of their mouth.

Because you want everything they told you...and more.

“You want a drink?”

The hero looked up at the villain's eyes. They nodded their head. They wanted to chug.

The villain didn’t move their hand so the hero went for the bottle. But before the hero could grab it, the villain moved the drink above their heads.

“Wha-“

”Open your mouth.”

The hero stared in disbelief and confusion at the villain. The villain took their hand and opened the hero’s mouth themselves. It shot a wave of shivers through the hero’s body. They held their mouth open, stroking their skin as the hero looked up at them and whined.

The villain began to gently pour the vodka down the hero’s throat.

The drink burned when it hit the back of the hero’s throat, making their eyes sting. It was cold and flooded their senses quickly, making their eyes roll.

But when the hero looked up at the villain, they felt this sense of warmth enveloping them quickly as they stared into their cold eyes. The hero gripped the villain's shirt and their one arm, clenching their thighs, as the villain smirked down. They had to know how they were making the hero feel, and how much the hero liked this and hated that they did.

The hero tapped the villain's arm for them to stop, but… they didn’t. They didn’t let go.

It started to burn their lungs.

The hero’s eyes filled with panic as the villain's smile only grew wider. The villain's hands dug more to their jaw and waist, they pressed the hero more into the wall.

No. No. Please-

The hero could only gulp down the drink more and more. They tried so hard to close their mouth but the villain was too strong. They began to panic.

It burned. It burned tears to their eyes, their throat, and their stomach. They clawed at the villain's shirt to stop but they didn't release them, they just let the rest of the bottle go down the hero’s throat. They started to gargle, trying to say please or anything, but they couldn't. They could only drink. It felt like they were drowning.

The villain didn’t let up, in fact, they kept their hand digging into the hero’s jaw as the hero tried desperately to turn their head away. The villain loved to see their hero panicking, writhing underneath them. The fear flooded their eyes as they desperately pleaded with the villain through them. The villain only pressed them further into the wall and listened to them gulp down their drink and whine like a good little hero.

The villain didn’t want to punish their hero, but they needed to after they dared to show their beautiful, amazing self to another. They were theirs and theirs only.

The hero spurted and heaved the drink up as it burned their lungs. Arms wrapped around their waist as the last cold contents of the bottle spilled over their face and hair. A little of the alcohol seeped out of their mouth, dripping down to their chest.

Their chest felt like it was on fire as they coughed more. Breathing felt like the hardest thing. They already felt the effects of the vodka seeping through their bones, making them mush.

“You made a mess of your expensive drink.” the villain snarked, slowly wiping some of the hero’s drool with their thumb.

The hero didn’t have much energy but they tried to glare, still coughing a bit. The villain reveled in it.

“Don’t worry,” the villain smiled too widely, “I'll clean it up for you.”

The hero didn’t have time to react before the villain gripped them by their hips and waist, and licked a long strip from their neck to where the vodka was seeping out of their mouth. Their hero couldn’t suppress their gasp.

The villain was thinking of doing this for too long of a time. They went absolutely insane when they found out about their little date. They were going to torture and kill them like all the others, but this time they wanted to torture their little defiant hero a bit instead. Teach them a lesson.

And the hero, the hero could only moan and whine underneath them as the villain devoured them, gripping them exactly in the way the hero wanted their date to.

A Rope That Could Never Be Removed

Content: Scars, Death Scare, Shitty Teammate, Caretaker x Whumpee (maybe? idk)

@whumperofworlds told me to write this after I came up with some scraps of an idea, so here we are. I'm much better at concepts, ideas and frameworks than I am at actually writing so it's not great, but I hope it's still enjoyable.

~~~~~

Caretaker rushed into the cell, breathing heavily. Looking around frantically, they spotted Whumpee, a crumpled figure in the corner. Dropping to the floor, they cradled Whumpee’s limp, lifeless form in their arms. 

“Hey, Whumpee? H-hey. You’re okay. We’ve-we’ve got you.”

Whumpee didn’t respond. 

Brushing Whumpee’s ratty hair out of their face, Caretaker desperately tried to spot signs of life. Eyes flitting beneath their lids, a small twitch of their nose, anything. But there was nothing. Panicking, Caretaker shifted, moving the ropes wrapped around Whumpee’s neck to the side, and, far too easily, lifted Whumpee until their ear was against Whumpee’s chest.

“Nonononono. C’mon, c’mon. Please-please be okay. Please.”

There. There. A heartbeat. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but there. Whumpee was alive. Thank fuck. Sighing, Caretaker slumped back with relief, then gently caressed Whumpee’s cheek. 

“Hey… Whumpee?”

Whumpee shifted slightly, then whimpered. Their eyes fluttered open, tiredly glancing around before locking onto Caretaker’s face. A tiny, weak smile slowly appeared on their grimy, bruised face. Whumpee tried to speak, but could only manage a sputtering, gravelly cough.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay. You’re okay, baby. Don’t speak, save your voice. We’re-we’re gonna get you out of here.” Caretaker murmured softly to Whumpee, reassuring them.

“Let’s-let’s get these ropes off you.”

As Caretaker struggled with Whumpee’s bonds, Teammate slinked into the cell.

“Hey hey. Whumper’s taken care of, Caretaker. We’re all clear.” they said, peering over Caretaker’s shoulder at Whumpee.

Caretaker had already managed to get the ropes off Whumpee’s neck and ankles, and were working at the bonds around their wrists.

Frowning, Teammate scoffed. “Really? Look at that. No injuries, no nothin’. We went through all this trouble to save someone that didn’t even bother fighting back? Not worth it.”

Caretaker blanched, horrified. “Stop it, Teammate.” As they worked the last of the rope off Whumpee’s wrists, they continued to admonish Teammate. “How could you say something like that? They’ve been through–”

Caretaker trailed off, and Teammate gasped, as the ropes fell off Whumpee’s wrists. As the two finally took a good look at Whumpee, they realised that Whumpee did fight back. The scars proved it. 

From the old, smooth, rubbery scars that twined around their ankles to the gnarled, knotted scars that marred their forearms, it was clear Whumpee had fought. They had struggled against their restraints, tugging, pulling, twisting, trying to get the ropes off.

And now, even after they had been removed, everyone would forever be reminded of the horrors Whumpee had gone through. The scars on their ankles and wrists could be concealed, but the thick, silvery, twisted scar that encircled their neck was too visible. A permanent mark of Whumper’s possession.

A rope that could never be removed.

When a writer gets to whumping...

It has been a while since I have attempted to actively post my own writing on here. But after a mostly successful NaNoWriMo attempt, and an overall increase in my whump writing, I have decided to take the leap... again. I have been a lover of whump for longer than I have known the name, and a writer of whump probably since I first started.

What you'll find here: - vampire whump - sibling whump - heavy caretaking - plenty of queer characters - creepy/intimate whumpers - smut - NSFW whump

What you won't find: - pet whump or BBU - heavy gore - whump without some form of caretaker - lady whumpee/whumper - major character death

Blog Masterlist:

A Dance of Stars and Curses- (primary WIP)

Tropes: M/M/M Relationship, two vampires and a human, fated mates, reincarnation, ex-lover whumper, NSFW whump, vampire whump, smut

Content warnings: kidnapping, manipulation, character death (with reincarnation), slavery, graphic noncon, as well as graphic consensual sex, mentions of past child abuse, general vampire whump (starvation, forced turning, hurt mates, etc.)

Flashbacks

A Dance of Stars and Curses Snippet

Content warnings: painful flashbacks, character death (temporary)

It had been something so simple. Something that under ordinary circumstances wouldn’t have been a big deal. Leo had been sketching, something he did to keep his mind occupied when he was in a bad place. He had likely just fallen asleep but it was the position he was in. His head at a horrible angle, one that would definitely give a human a neck ache. But it dredged up an even worse image.

pov: your future husband comes to your rescue

All you whump artists are so talented 💕

@fanastyfinder its us

I hope Barbie is so good and successful it makes every executive that’s turned everything bright and fun made for young girls into edgy boring teen dramas for the last ten years spontaneously combust into flames

Fantasy books written by women are often assumed to be young adult, even when those books are written for adults, marketed to adults, and published by adult SFF imprints. And this happens even more frequently to women of color.

This topic’s an ongoing conversation on book Twitter, and I thought it might be worth sharing with Tumblr. And by “ongoing,” I mean that people have been talking about this for years. Last year, there was a big blow up when the author R.F. Kuang said publicly that her book The Poppy War isn’t young adult and that she wished people would stop calling it such. If you’ve read The Poppy War, then you’ll know it’s grimdark fantasy along lines of Game of Thrones… and yet people constantly refer to The Poppy War as young adult – which is one of its popular shelves on Goodreads. To be fair, more people have shelved it as “adult,” but why is anyone shelving it as “young adult” in the first place? Game of Thrones is not at all treated this way…

Rebecca Roanhorse’s book Trail of  Lightning, an urban fantasy with a Dinétah (Navajo) protagonist has “young adult” as its fifth most popular Goodreads shelf. The novel is adult and published by Saga, an adult SFF imprint. 

S.A. Chakraborty’s adult fantasy novel City of Brass has “young adult” as its fourth most popular Goodreads shelf. 

Tasha Suri’s Empire of Sand, an adult fantasy in a world based on Mughal India, has about equal numbers of people shelving it as “adult” or “young adult.” 

Book Riot wrote an article on this, although they didn’t address how the problem intersects with race. I also did a Twitter thread a while back where I cited these examples and some more as well. 

The topic of diversity in adult SFF is important to me, partly because we need to stop mislabeling the women of color who write it, and also because there’s a lot there that isn’t acknowledged! Besides, sometimes it’s good to see that your stories don’t just end the moment you leave high school and that adults can still have vibrant and interesting futures worth reading about. I feel like this is especially important with queer rep, for a number of reasons. 

Other books and authors in the tweets I screenshot include:

TLDR: Women who write adult fantasy, especially women of color, are presumed to be writing young adult, which is problematic in that it internalizes diversity, dismisses the need and presence of diversity in adult fantasy, and plays into sexist assumptions of women writers. 

Never forget the amount of hate R.F. Kuang got for explicitly stating that The Poppy War, one of the most triggering books I’ve ever read, should never be shelved as YA. She did so out of extreme concern of the content getting into the wrong hands without warning.

And then two days later Jay Kristoff said the same thing about Nevernight…and nothing happened.

What Have They Done?

Warnings: torture, captivity, restraints, unconsciousness, fever, rescue, caretaker and whumpee

“Whumpee! Whumpee! I’m here!” Caretaker called as they raced through the halls of the abandoned house Whumper had holed up in. Whumpee had to be here. 

“Whumpee?” Caretaker called, trying not to let the sinking feeling in their belly consume them. Whumpee had to be here. Had to be ok. 

Caretaker had seen various implements of torture as they raced through the house. Bats, brass knuckles, knives, whips, and even various sets of cuffs and chains everywhere. But no sign of Whumpee. 

“Please, please, please,” Caretaker whispered under their breath as they opened the only closed door in this hallway. Whumpee had to be here. Caretaker let out a strangled cry as the door swung open, revealing the room’s sole occupant. 

Whumpee was slumped over in a chair in the center of the room. The rope around their middle was thick and wrapped around them tightly, their hands clearly bound behind their back. They were so still and silent, Caretaker froze in the doorway. “Whumpee?”

But Whumpee didn’t reply. 

Caretaker rushed forward. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.” They knelt at Whumpee’s feet. 

Whumpee’s eyes were closed, their face pale and sweaty. Caretaker cupped Whumpee’s burning cheek. “What have they done to you?”

But Whumpee didn’t reply. 

“I’ve got you, hold on. Hold on. I’ll get you out of here.” Caretaker quickly began to saw on the rope with the utility knife that was laying nearby on the ground. Just out of Whumpee’s reach. They had to get Whumpee to a hospital. To help. Anywhere. 

“Just a bit more, hold on. I’ve got you, Whumpee. I’ve got you,” Caretaker whispered as the rope finally snapped free. 

Whumpee’s body slumped forward completely. But Caretaker didn’t let them fall. They lifted Whumpee into their arms. Whumpee was like a furnace. But they didn’t wake. They were as limp and pliant as ever in Caretaker’s arms. “Hold on. I’ve got you, you’re safe. Please, Whumpee. Hold on.”

And Caretaker started to run once more. 

Who did this to you?

“I was just lost, it was my fault and I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to waste time or resources, Team Leader.” Whumpee was huffing now, the tremble in their hands never quite leaving. “It was only four days, I just need to drink some water and sleep some more.”

“Whumpee, you know that’s not what I’m talking about.” Team Leader was frustrated now, their tone shifting to something more desperate. It was five days, actually, that Whumpee had been missing. A standard training module had gone wrong, they’d all strayed too far from their territory, and they’d been separated. Something simple that’d led to a full-scale search for Whumpee. It shouldn’t have taken so long to find them.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, then.” Whumpee busied themself with tidying up the desk in their bedroom, a thick sweater swallowing their smaller frame entirely, and it didn’t miss Team Leader’s eye the way the sleeves never slipped below their wrist. It was only when Whumpee had first come back that Team Leader knew. They knew the signs, they knew the shake, and when they’d watched Whumpee’s sleeve slip from their shoulder, they knew the bruises.

“Then take off your sweater and roll up your sleeves, if you have nothing to hide.” Team Leader challenged, but their voice was softer. Five days was a long time alone in the woods, especially in enemy territory, and especially alone.

Whumpee paused then, their hands halting over the trinkets they were organizing. Their shoulders were tense and grew only firmer as they turned to face the other, crossing their arms protectively in front of themself.

“I got some poison ivy, it looks gross. I promise I’m fine, can we please move on?”

“Show me.”

“No, it’s gross and I don’t want to.”

“Whumpee, show me, please.” Team Leader was close to begging now, and desperation was fogging their thoughts. They had to remind themself that this was a member of their team, they needed to be emotionally level headed. “Show me, or I’ll take off the sweater myself. It’s your choice, but I need to know you’re telling the truth. I can’t put the team in danger if someone was able to get information from you.”

“You- you really think I would crack? Are you fucking kidding me?” Whumpee gripped the edges of the desk behind them, cheek bones heating. “You really have so little faith in me?”

Team Leader shifted their weight uncomfortably. It wasn’t a lack of faith that had them defensive, it was something personal. Something Whumpee shouldn’t have to worry about.

“Take off the sweater.”

“Team Leader, please-“

“I’ll call in the other members and they’ll help me if you don’t.” It was a bluff, something Team Leader didn’t feel particularly good about, but hot anger was beginning to crawl it’s way up their throat.

At this, Whumpee scoffed. It took a long stretch of silence with the two watching each other before Whumpee’s shoulders dropped in defeat. Team Leader watched as quivering hands tugged on the back collar of the knit sweater, yanking it over their head. They wore only a black tank underneath, but enough skin showed.

There were a few rows of random cuts along their biceps, some shallow and others deeper with one wet and slightly open but no blood falling. Burns were there too, looking as if a flick lighter had been held to the skin until bubbles of burns inched upwards, random perfect-circles of burns nearby. The bruising was the worst, though. The intensely purple to yellow to greenish skin had been slightly swelled in odd places. Nothing obvious was broken, but hairline fractures were almost a guarantee. The marring of skin didn’t stop at Whumpee’s arms though, continuing across their chest and under the protective layer of the tank.

Team Leader stepped forward once they saw, reaching a gentle hand out to take Whumpee’s. Their first instinct was sickness, not because they hadn’t seen more severe injuries, but because it was Whumpee. The smallest, the easiest target of their team, the one they all cherished the most. The one person Team Leader had a crack of feelings for. The anger they’d felt shifted into something darker, something more violent.

“Who did this you to?”

“Team Leader, please don’t.”

“I said,” Their tone was low, clipped, controlled. “Who did this to you?”

good idea: whumper tying their whumpee up and forcing them to cuddle

just… any of the ‘tied up and kept like that’ tropes melt my fucjfen brain

(today’s episode of sticky intimate whumper shit is brought to you by the dual minds of myself and @unorganisedalienrubbish)

Just remember. There is no such thing as a fake geek girl. There are only fake geek boys. Science fiction was invented by a woman.

Specifically a teenage girl. You know, someone who would be a part of the demographic that some of these boys are violently rejecting.

Isaac Asimov.

yo mary shelley wrote frankenstein in 1818 and isaac asimov was born in 1920 so you kinda get my point

If you want to push it back even further Margaret Cavendish, the duchess of Newcastle (1623-1673) wrote The Blazing World in 1666, about a young woman who discovers a Utopian world that can only be accessed via the North Pole - oft credited as one of the first scifi novels

Women have always been at the forefront of literature, the first novel (what we would consider a novel in modern terms) was written by a woman (Lady Muraskai’s the Tale of Genji in the early 1000s) take your snide “Isaac Asimov” reblogs and stick it

even in terms of male scifi authors, asimov was predated by Jules Verne, HG Wells, George Orwell, you could have even cited Poe or Jonathan Swift has a case but Asimov?

PbbBFFTTBBBTBTTBBTBTTT so desperate to discredit the idea of Mary Shelly as the mother of modern science fiction you didn’t even do a frickin google search For Shame

And if you want to go back even further, the first named, identified author in history was Enheduanna of Akkad, a Sumerian high priestess.

Kinda funny, considering this Isaac Asimov quote on the subject:

Even Isaac Asimov ain’t having none of your shit, not even posthumously.

You know what else was invented by women? Masked vigilantes, the precursor to the modern superhero. Baroness Emma Orczy wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel in 1905. The character would later inspire better known masked vigilantes such as Zorro and Batman.

Got that?

Stick that in your international pipe and smoke it

I have literally been telling people this for over a year.

the first extended prose piece - ie a novel, was not, as many male scholars will shout, Don Quixote (1605) but The Tale of Genji (1008) written by a woman

The first autobiography ever written in English is also attributed to a woman, The Book of Margery Kempe (1430s).

The day may come when I find this post and do not reblog it, but it is not this day.

Men will try so hard to cover this shit up and gatekeep us smh

Don’t mind me, I’m just here to add the 1,030,993rd note to this glorious mf and repeat: women have ALWAYS been at the forefront of literature and linguistic revolutions. Especially young women in the latter part of that.

HIGH IN THE MOUNTAINS, DEEP IN THE SPRUCE, ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE, IT’S CAMP LITTLE MOOSE!!!!

High and Mighty

The villain had been debating entering the hero’s cell for what? Ten? Maybe fifteen minutes now? Graceful footing, yet awkward stance as they hesitated in front of the iron door.

It seemed like a terrible idea for the most part. But on the other hand, they owed the hero a visit.

When villain had been imprisoned, Hero had visited them more than once. Engaging in daily conversations and making sure they only received the best of treatments from the guards and other guests.

Yet after eight months of Hero’s capture, Villain couldn’t afford to visit even once?

They hated the feeling of owing a hero, but they hated the guilt of not showing up even more.

Villain braced themselves, placing a hand on the large metal handle. Whatever state the hero was in on the other side was not going to be pretty, eight months locked in an abandoned warehouse at whomever’s mercy was guaranteed to be a nightmare.

Even Villain felt sick when they saw the message shared throughout the villains community. Free use, Hero; tied up in a room full of tools, address is 2509 Pine Street, warehouse on the left, do what you please.

No note of who had caught them nor a tally of who had used them. Villain, honestly, did not want to know.

With one deep breath, trying their best to prepare themselves, and one steady push of the door, they were in.

The first thing to reach them was the smell, metallic and bitter. Bile rising to their mouth before they could see a thing.

Once their eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting, they noticed the stain on the floor. Maroon and sticky, not dried. Then the tools, shelves upon shelves of tools, ranging from dusty and never used all the way to dripping of fresh blood.

Villain wanted to swallow, but they couldn’t. Everything just got worse the longer their eyes stayed open.

“Hero…?” Their voice was tentative, like they weren’t even sure whether or not the person in front of them was who they thought. In the light, they definitely didn't look like their Hero.

The other didn't respond, lifting their face up slightly to catch a glimpse of the newest intruder, of their new torturer. But when their eyes landed on the villain--despite their multiple beatings--they couldn't wipe the grin off their face.

"F-Finally... took y-you a while, h-huh?"

Out of everything the villain had thought the hero might say, this was nowhere near their list. And the comedic aspect that they still managed to bring to the table only confused the villain further.

"What?"

Hero smiled even brighter, leaning their head back. "T-took you a while... 've b-been waiting~"

Villain didn’t trust their voice enough to respond. They were afraid it might crack or they might breakdown completely if so much as a sound escaped their lips. Guilt bubbled up inside them and seeped through their muscles into their bones, into their brain.

It hurt to see the hero like this. They couldn’t help but recoil even if just slightly at the sight. They had done this. They had allowed this to happen. And the hero had been waiting for them all along.

Unawarely, the villain’s eyes avoided the hero, it felt like the longer they stared, the more real it became. By a pure accidental movement, their eyes landed back on the many tools surrounding them. Hero flinched when they saw where the other’s attention had gone, but steeled themselves back over when the villain noticed.

“R-Ready?” Hero waggled their eyebrows jokingly, blood had crusted over them which took any and all lightheartedness from it.

“For what…” As soon as the villain had asked they regretted it. They didn’t want an answer. It was just out of habit to question.

The crime-stopper looked even more exhausted at this point. Having to explain to villain everything while trying to keep the mood light killed what little energy they had left.

Villain noticed for the first time just how small they looked, not all heroic anymore. Dragged by the hair off their pedestal to be ravaged by violent villains from all over.

“Kill me, Villain.” Their eyes began to water as their bottom lip shook. “Please, I-I can’t take this a-anymore—”

Hero kept talking, kept rambling through their emotions. Letting everything slip. Their steeled expression, cocky tone, hidden tears, everything.

Finally letting everything go.

The villain on the other hand, did not have the same idea in mind. “No.”

The mindless rambling stopped. Shutting Hero up so quickly that every word jumbled on their tongue. They looked shocked, but mostly betrayed. They had waited eight months for the villain, knowing they were the only one who would be willing to end their suffering.

And they had said no.

“I won’t kill you.” I can’t. “I’ll do you one better, I’ll kill whoever put you in here.” The villain stuttered, trying to get their thoughts in order. “You don’t deserve to be here.”

Villain took a step forwards, the way Hero flinched only fuelled their anger; their hunger to avenge. “Who.”

“Please, Villain…”

“Was it Supervillain? Superhero? It has to be one of the supers, you’re impossible to catch otherwise.” The criminal scoffed, discussing their thoughts out loud in hopes of the hero’s aid. Meanwhile, their hands got busy with untying the chain that restrained the other. Fiddling with the massive padlock at the end, they searched for something to pick it with.

Hero let their head fall, avoiding the villain at all costs despite having begged for their attention just before. Despite having waited for months for their arrival. Now they couldn’t face their own shame.

They didn’t even notice when their bonds fell to the floor, releasing them after so long. Only coming to when Villain’s hand gently took their chin and tilted their head up. “Who brought you here, Hero?”

Every muscle in their frail body tensed, tensed with shame and failure. The name felt like a bullet to the heart, “Sidekick.”

A family of hurt/comfort aesthetics: knees hitting the ground

Injured character falling to their knees, one hand braced on the ground and the other clutched to their bleeding side, trembling from pain/exhaustion, breath coming in small panting gasps, swaying dizzily as their vision blurs…

Character dropping to their knees beside a companion who is sprawled out on the ground, shouting their name, frantically searching for the source of bleeding / feeling for a pulse / turning them over / trying to rouse them.

Worried friend / teammate running over, feeling their stomach drop, whispering their companion’s name in dismay as they sink to their knees beside the bedroll / pallet they’re laid out on, taking their hand and cradling it to their chest; their injured companion opens their eyes and gives them a weak smile, whispering a barely-audible “I’ll be alright” before their eyes close again.

Defiant captured character forced to their knees by the heavy hands of the guards to either side of them, a kick to the back of the knee sending them crashing hard to the cold, muddy ground as they continue futilely struggling against the bruising manhandling

Kneeling to plead for a friend’s life with no shame or hesitation in their desperation- begging for just a little more food; some clean water; a blanket, please, it’s so cold; some cloth for bandages- untie my hands, please, I have to help them, they’re no use to you dead- please…

A sick character swaying, scarce able to keep their feet, suddenly coming over faint and staggering to a wall, bracing their hand against it as they sink slowly to their knees, dark spots swimming before their eyes and pulse rushing in their ears, the stone of the wall cool against their fever-hot cheek

An only partially-recovered character attempting to get out of bed but just trying to stand sending pain lancing through their body and their legs unable to hold their weight, instead ending up on their knees beside the bed, their landing only partially padded by the ragrug and jarring their injuries further

“Let’s play a game, Whumpee.” Whumper threw a pack of cards at them from the cell door. 

Whumpee stared back sullenly. “Let’s not.”

“Let me rephrase that.” Whumper smiled. “We will play a game. And to make it more fun-” They dragged a bound figure in and pushed them in front of Whumpee “- I’ve brought a friend.”

A small gasp escaped Whumpee as they recognized the face under all those bruises. “Caretaker!” they rushed forward but a shove from Whumper sent them reeling back. 

“Uh-uh. You’re going to play me to get your precious Caretaker back and-” Whumper produced a glistening gun. “For every mistake you make, I’m going to put a bullet in them.” They laughed at Whumpee’s expression as they settled back to shuffle the cards.

“Don’t get too many wrong, Whumpee. I might hit something vital.”

people are UPSET that the fandom blorbo got possessed and traumatized? in my day when our blorbos got bloody broken and bruised and had to fight the evil within them uphill both ways in the rain we didnt complain, we cheered. why are people so soft now? grow up.