I thought you had super strength? It still hurts.

Whump Trope:

Gripping the bedsheets really tight when their wounds are being patched up.

John takes care of things

This isn't really related to anything, nor is it in my usual style of writing. It's just a quick little snippet I wrote because an idea burrowed itself in my head, and because I think Sam finally deserves some comfort from John. It's whumpy, but it's also weirdly fluffy, so enjoy <3

Sam barely manages to stumble through the door, hands grappling with the doorframe, probably leaving bloody handprints that John will complain about later, but none of that matters because they're here now and John will take care of things. Their other hand is holding onto their side, sticky with blood and dirt, which their brain tells them should not mix and yet there's nothing they can do about it now. John will take care of things. He always does.

He isn't asleep, even though it's 3 am and he really should be. No, he's reading, a book in some foreign language that Sam doesn't have the capacity to process in this moment, but the minute he hears that knock, that desperate triple knock that could only be one person, he opens the door and catches his friend with open arms.

Sam makes a pathetic noise that they will probably be ashamed of later, but for now there isn't room for shame, only John's soft hands holding them up and laying them down on the soft carpet. Not the sofa, he knows they don't like the sofa. And then the hands are patting them down, checking for other injuries probably, but somehow it's also reassuring and they close their eyes because they're safe now.

"Hey, no, keep your eyes open," comes a voice from above them, John's voice, and it sounds like an order so they obey, because it's an order from John. It takes a lot of effort, but they manage to peel their eyes open, focusing on the kind face hovering over them.

"I'm sorry," they try to get out, "please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... to bother you," and John just shushes them gently, because he knows, and it's okay, it really is. He doesn't ask how Sam got their injuries, even though he has his suspicions, but knowing for sure wouldn't make him feel any better either. He wonders if this happens more often than he knows, if they find other ways to patch their wounds. He's not sure they'd tell him if he asked.

"I should take you to the clinic," he says instead, because there is a lot of blood and Sam is really not themself. But John doubts that it's the pain. It's probably whatever led them to this mess to begin with, and maybe they should have a talk, but not right now.

"No, no," they desperately plead. "N-no questions, no hospitals," and with those words John knows that he's already lost. "I would have... stitched it up myself but my hands were just shaking too much, I'm sorry," they continue. John doesn't want to imagine how they would sit on their bedroom floor, needle in their hand, quietly piecing themself back together. But he doesn't need to imagine. He needs to do it himself.

"Alright, alright," he tries to make his voice sound calm. He smoothes a lock of hair away from Sam'a forehead, and they lean into his touch, so he continues, ruffling through their curls until their breathing sounds less shaky and their fingers have gone still. "It doesn't look like there's much else," he tells them, because they ought to know. "Just that nasty gash on your side, huh? And some bruises. You'll survive." He winks, and sees the inkling of a smile.

Grabbing a first aid kit and some gloves, John comes to kneel beside his patient. His degree doesn't do him much good when it came to stitching wounds, but John has got enough experience in his line of work to do it decently, if not that well. "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt," he says, not wanting it to come as a surprise, and he swears he hears a quiet, muttered 'good' in return.

He sighs, and dabs the wound with antiseptic, eliciting a hiss but nothing more. Continuing, he digs out the numbing gel, preparing to spread it around the gash, not wanting to hurt his friend more than he already has.

But a hand reaches up to stop him. "N-no, I don't... deserve that. I need to feel it, please," comes that pleading whisper from below, and what else is there to do but to obey, however much he hates to have to do it. "I promise, I'll be quiet. No risk of your neighbours waking up," and John can't help but smile at that, because that would have been his last concern but still it's good to know. Of course his friend has thought this through. Of course they will stay quiet. He can't imagine any other way.

Slowly, the needle pierces through the skin, but Sam doesn't react, and John tries not to think about how it might feel. The only thing he focuses on is how the metal slides through flesh, dragging its thread behind it, erasing all the evidence of wrong on Sam's far from pristine skin. Only when the final knot is tied, does he focus on his friend, his patient, his colleague.

"Are you still with me?" he asks, just to make sure. Sam hasn't moved throughout the process. The only signs that John was stitching up their skin had been their shaking gasps, and twitching fingers. "Yes, thank you," comes that quiet voice, still so polite even when marred with pain.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to move you to the sofa? Or give you some painkillers? It would help you sleep you know," he tries again, though he knows his efforts will be futile.

"No, no it's okay," comes that same response as always. "I sleep well enough with pain. I'm happy here." And maybe they mean more than just the floor. Still, he covers them with a blanket, and sits by them with a book.

"I'll read to you, if you would like me to," he offers, because he knows that now is not the time to talk, but sleep will not come easily for either of them. "I don't speak... French," comes the reply. "Or whatever language it is now," and that actually makes John laugh.

"I'll read to you in English, dear, though I wouldn't worry if you don't absorb much in your current state." Sam smiles, eyes finally fluttering shut, and all that John can do is hope that they open in the morning, that they haven't lost too much blood. And so, he starts to read.

傷だらけのリンク

“Anything”

Alright, so this is part 2 of the concerningly consensual kidnapping from before. It goes without saying that if you too find yourself in a situation with feelings that you can’t quite place in a neat box, you probably shouldn’t go and get tortured until you cry. I recommend you try out more sensible options, like taking a warm bath, reading or lying on the cold floor with your eyes closed and contemplating mortality. But Sam’s never made a sensible decision in their life, and they’re not about to start now. Enjoy!

Sam didn’t move, watching as black boots came into their field of vision, Maia’s footsteps echoing across the room. She stood in front of them, but still they didn’t look up, focusing instead on the shiny leather of her shoes. “Look at me,” she commanded, tilting their chin up with her hand when they did not obey.

They stared at her with vacant eyes, unblinking and unflinching, and eventually she let their head fall again. “What do you want?”, she finally asked.

“Anything.” The word came out as a whisper, soft and breathless. Sam didn’t know what they wanted, not really. They just wanted her to do whatever it was she wanted to do and not have to choose.

Maia moved behind them, probably rifling through her tools, though Sam didn’t turn around to find out. They kept their gaze fixed on the wall in front, tracing its thin cracks with their eyes. She approached them again, and they could feel the cold metal end of something tracing along their neck. They shivered involuntarily, not from fear but from the weird tickling sensation on their skin.

“Trust me, you don’t want to give me free choice,” came Maia’s voice from behind them. “Unless you like electric batons, that is.”

Sam did not, in fact, particularly like electric batons, but they didn’t have a chance to say this even if they had wanted to, because suddenly there was a cracklings sound, followed by a sharp pain in their neck, and they cried out with its sudden intensity. But if this was what they were getting, they’d take it as well as they could.

“Yeah, I don’t think you enjoyed that,” she continued, as if nothing had happened. “See, I usually wouldn’t care too much, since that’s sort of the point. But you came here yourself, so I might as well find something better for you, hm?”

Still, Sam didn’t speak. They weren’t in the mood to counter her remarks, and they didn’t want to participate in her selection. It was easier that way to deny that they had any say in this, to convince themself that this wasn’t really what they wanted or what they chose.

“You really are making me do all the work here. Well alright, I have something you might like more.” Sam’s hands were untied, only to be placed in front of them, and restrained again. They heard the unmistakeable sound of Maia’s switchblade being opened, and then their shirt was being cut open from the back, so carefully that the knife didn’t even scratch their skin.

“Do you want me to attach your hands to the wall or will you keep still?” This was a question they’d actually have to answer, so they gave it some thought and told her that they’d stay still. It would be more of a challenge, but they were beginning to get a pretty good idea of what she would do to them, and they didn’t think that it would be too difficult.

More silence, waiting. Then, the all too familiar crack of a whip. “Ready?” Sam closed their eyes and nodded. Then the first lash came. They gasped at the burning on their skin, feeling themself sinking into the well known pain.

More hits came, but they didn’t bother staying silent, soft whimpers and groans of pain escaping them, sounds that they would have been ashamed of in other circumstances, but here couldn’t bring themself to care.

All they thought of was pain, bright and white and burning. There was no room for thoughts or feelings, only the clean oblivion, both nothing and everything at the same time. It was a feeling of fulfilment, like someone had found the final piece of their jigsaw puzzle and set it carefully into place.

They hadn’t realised that the hits had stopped until soft hands were cupping their face and they were looking into Maia’s dark brown eyes, filled with something almost like concern.

“Why… why’d you stop?,” they rasped out.

“You’re crying.” Now that they thought about it, they weren’t sure when they’d started, but now the tears were freely running down their cheeks, and dripping onto the concrete floor below.

“Not from pain,” they replied, as if that would make things better.

Maia just sighed, and shook her head in exasperation. “I kept waiting for you to beg, to ask for the pain to stop. But you never will, I realise that now. I’m not sure you even wanted me to stop.”

“Please,” they weren’t sure what they were begging for anymore.

“You’d let me do anything to you. I could kill you and you wouldn’t stop me.” Their only response to that was another choked sob.

She almost sounded like she was concerned for them, Sam thought. They looked up at her expectantly, waiting for something, a slap maybe, but instead a hand found its way into their hair, pressing their head against Maia’s leg.

The tears kept falling, making her trouser leg damp as they shook with sobs, but she didn’t say anything, simply threading her hand through their curls, so gently that if they didn’t know better, they’d have thought she was comforting them.

“You’re getting my trousers wet, stop crying,” she chided after what felt like an eternity. But instead of pushing them away, she picked them, carrying them up the steps to her living room and placing them on their front on her sofa.

Sam didn’t speak, though they’d mostly stopped crying. “You want pizza?”, she finally asked. They looked up, slightly confused by the offer, but they were hungry so they just nodded slightly, hoping she understood.

“Good.” They watched her move around the kitchen, putting the pizza in the oven and setting a timer. The pain in their back had settled into a warm stinging now that was almost comforting, but they knew that was about to change as the approached them with some dressings and some rubbing alcohol.

“This is going to hurt,” she said, and they let out a short laugh at the irony of the situation, shifting slightly as they watched her pour the alcohol onto a swab and press it into their back. The pain was instant, enveloping their whole body with its fiery intensity, and they gasped.

She carried on, ignoring their uneven breathing and quiet whimpers, pouring copious amount of alcohol on their back, dressing the wounds and every so often, pressing down on the cuts in a way that was nothing if not deliberate. But somehow, they found that it was as enjoyable, if not more, than the initial pain from the whip, and the sounds they made when her cold fingers brushed against their skin were not entirely ones of pain.

“All done,” she finally announced, packing away her supplies and covering them with a blanket. They were still confused by the continuing kindness, but they didn’t have the capacity to really consider it, simply enjoying the comfort that the blanket offered them.

They sat up when they heard the ping of the oven timer, signalling that the food was ready. Maia put the pizza on a tray, and came to sit next to them, pulling them into an awkward hug that pressed on their wounds too much to be an accident. They gingerly held their hands in front of them, still bound by coarse rope. “A little help maybe?”, they joked.

All they got in response was a smirk, followed by a “you’ll manage.” As they soon found out, this consisted of Maia holding the pizza up to them while they carefully took small bites of it, trying not to graze her fingers. It would have been humiliating if it weren’t for the fact that they were so hungry and tired, and honestly didn’t care how she was feeding them anymore as long as she gave them food.

Then, when she had decided that they’d had enough, she made tea, holding the cup up to their lips. They eyed her warily as she tipped it slightly to let them drink, but she didn’t choke them, simply pouring at a manageable speed. They had to admit, the tea was very nice and they almost considered asking her where she got it from, but reconsidered at the last minute.

“Why are you really here?”, she asked softly, after a long period of silence. But as she pushed their head down gently into her lap, all they could think to answer was “I don’t know.” And as they fell asleep, the last thing they remembered were her hands, soft in their hair.

A Whumpee refusing pain medication for whatever reason [history of addiction, is afraid of side affects, et c], and are therefore fully conscious and in agony while they’re getting patched up.

The whumpee’s friend humming or singing the whumpee’s favorite song while they tend to their wounds.