whumperfultime

[whumperfultime]

RULES!

No AI-generated content

Please tag this account if you post your challenge submissions on Tumblr and use the tag 'medwhump may' (as in the tags of this post)

For completionists, all 31 days must be completed (using either the daily prompt or an alt prompt)

Have fun!

I will update these rules if necessary! Happy whumping!

Please reblog this to get the word out :)

#prompts #medical whump #medical treatment

[whumperfultime]

8, 13, 16, 19?

8. Opinion on whump without a whumper?

I typically prefer a whumper, but I can still enjoy whump without one! Angst, accidental falls, hypothermia, heatstroke...still so many possibilities. I've come to appreciate whumperless whump more since joining Tumblr.

13. Favorite type of whumpee?

Oh man that's a tough question - I love almost all of them. The most common thread running through the whumpees I write seems to be a protective self-sacrificial instinct. I love whumpees who, in the midst of their pain and suffering, are driven to protect their loved ones however they can. The "hurt me instead" or "do whatever you want to me but don't hurt them" type. That sort of deep devotion in a character is like catnip to me.

16. What made you create this blog? Do you have any regrets/things you wish you did differently?

I went through a few years where my initial shame of enjoying whump got really bad and had a significant effect on my mental health. Even though I knew the name and knew there was a community around it, I still felt wrong somehow. But looking at blogs helped because it made me feel less alone and I wanted to be closer to that feeling, so I rejoined Tumblr a couple of years ago. I don't think I have any regrets - I'm just glad that I made the decision because it's gotten much easier to accept this part of myself.

19. Opinion on all hurt no comfort?

If it's just a single scene or snippet I can enjoy it, but if it's an entire story where there's no comfort or happy ending I prefer to avoid it. Whump (and fiction in general) is a form of coping and escapism for me. There's enough uncertainty and tragedy in real life - I want a space where everything turns out okay eventually and my whumpees get to heal. I'm glad other people can find enjoyment in hurt/no comfort, it's just not for me.

#answered asks #ask game

[whumperfultime]

Calling myself out with this meme tbh

#memes #about me #listen i know what i like #if it ain't broke don't fix it

[whumperfultime]

WHUMPER-DUMPS ASK GAME

What got you into whump?

What is your favourite type of whump?

Least favourite type of whump?

What do you wish you saw more in this community?

Whumper turned Whumpee or Whumpee turned Whumper?

Do you listen to anything while writing/drawing whump? If it’s music, what genre do you typically listen to?

Emotional or physical whump?

Opinion on whump without a whumper? Ex: Whumpee falling into an ice-cold river and getting hypothermia.

Opinion on illness whump?

Have you ever experienced anything you put your whumpees through?

Favourite whump blogs?

Favourite type of whumper?

Favourite type of whumpee?

Favourite type of caretaker?

How many whump related ocs do you have? How many have you posted?

What made you create this blog? Do you have any regrets/things you wish you did differently?

Freebie! Ask me anything.

Do you prefer visual whump or written whump? Any reason why?

Opinion on all hurt no comfort?

Opinion on little hurt all comfort?

Platonic or romantic whump?

Most controversial whump opinion?

#ask game

[whumperfultime]

The whumpee knew their torture was being filmed and sent to their friends, they knew that they needed to stay strong and put on a brave face. weeks after weeks of torture broke them down, and they couldn’t help but beg and cry eventually. The whumpee felt ashamed, they had always been the strongest in their group, but now they’d been reduced to this.

#prompts #captivity #torture #recorded torture #stoic whumpee #emotional whump #begging #ooh i got perfect ocs for this

[whumperfultime]

Whumpril #28 Fight/Flight/Freeze

Fight

Unbelievably stupid to get caught. Jemma has completed far more dangerous missions. She once single handedly took down a whole platoon of guards; she’d survived a standoff with Fenrir, the last of the Elite-ids (after Darrow, but he doesn’t count); she’d crashed spaceships and moon buggies and drop ships and, one memorable occasion a life pod which was supposed to be impossible; she’d shot her way out of a dozen besieged strongholds, on a couple of occasions with little more than a water pistol…

This should be easy.

But they hadn’t been expecting the state of the art security, not this far from the core words and lightyears from the high profile rebel activity they’ve been stage managing for the last year, for the sole purpose of making this station an easy, undefended target. They’d had biometrics and voice prints and forged security guards. Jemma had studied shift movements and Darrow had drilled her ceaselessly on commands and codes. 

But coded checkpoints and active blood scanning. It’s her own damn fault. She should have called for evac when it was clear that this wasn’t going as planned. Arrogance, pure and simple, had kept her at her post. Worse, the blood scanning has shown her enhancements, so they come at her in force, well armed. 

Her only saving grace is that they want to take her alive. That and her strength and speed and durability. 

She’s just as susceptible to pain though, and they use that to their advantage.

Jemma fights and screams. Shots hit their mark, a squad worth of bodies, but they are a whole space station and she is one. It’s too late now to call for back up, all that ill happen is she’ll doom whoever (Gene) comes for her. When her power pack runs dry, she throws the gun with a force that cracks a face plate. 

She resorts to physical defence, flurries of punches and kicks and holds; and then to dirty street fighting she learned in cantina brawls. She uses every skill she has. Their eyes trick them, expecting certain things of her size and physique, whereas she is actually much more powerful than the next three of them put together. The gouges out eyes, castrates more than a few, pulverises knees and breaks wrists, fingers, femurs. 

But they just keep coming. 

Flight

The manacle is loose. 

The thought drifts slowly across her mind and it takes her sluggish thoughts precious seconds to grab hold of it. The manacle is loose. Not very loose, not unforgivably so, but enough to give her a finger width of leverage. She can yank it off the table, she can break herself off this bench. 

The thought holds her mind together as the electricity courses through her body, then as the needles rip into her skin. She bares bloodied teeth and snarls like a wounded dog, and uses the promise of the loose chain to keep her cries silent. She will tell them everything eventually, everyone does, and when she does they will have her sent to the quarries or the ice chasms or the organ banks. 

At least her enhancements mean they can’t touch her mind. 

But she will not give in today, not with escape so close. 

Still, when her torturer steps outside for his midday meal and a sit down with the news feeds or sport updates or insipid broadcast media, whatever he needs to unwind after the stressful morning, she cannot bring herself to prepare for a fight. Once (when she was captured, yesterday, this morning) she would have ripped her arms free, pulled out the tubes, killed whichever security burst through the door with the tray of instruments and the secretary outside for good measure. She would have aimed for the shuttle bay of the station, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake, carving a bloody path through them so they would know their error in hurting her, in trying to use her against her family. 

She can’t blame lack of strength either: she pulls the thick, imprisoning chain from the mooring as easily as snapping a necklace with a too-careless tug. But she fears losing, fears the consequences of ending up back here for punishment as well as questioning.

And so, shamefully, she prepares for flight. She removes the wires slowly, carefully, using every trick Gene ever taught her to keep the monitors from shrieking her disobedience. She finds discarded scrubs and even a medical mask that covers her face in a locker. She can’t do anything about the wrenched open door, but fashions together a clipboard from a disconnected tablet screen and a stylus. She tidies her hair and washes the blood from her neck. She can do nothing about the bruises on her wrists or her bare feet, but hopefully her disguise is enough to protect her long enough to run.

Even hypoxia on an uninspected spaceship is preferable to another day of this. 

He’s waiting outside the door, picking his nails with the scalpel he’d peeled the skin from her calf with. 

“I thought you hadn’t the strength to pull free. I’ve been waiting all morning.”

Freeze

Jemma’s first response is - has always been - to attack. To fight her way through whatever obstacle has set itself against her and shred it to its component pieces. Failing that, she will run. That’s what she’d done when pulled out of the slave pens, when she’s finally crawled free of the interrogation block. 

She is not an indecisive person. She lacks Darrow’s sheer magnetism, but she is by far the best leader aboard. Jemma can plan and think strategically and people manage. She thinks quickly on her feet and is both strong and clever enough to see her plans enacted. 

And on top of all that, every experience she has ever had has simply sought to reinforce that a single hint of weakness is little more than blood in the water to tempt circling sharks. Strength and solidity and certainty are a better protection even than blasters and blades. 

Yet, here, in the doorway of the cell, she falters. Because Gene wasn’t alone, there had been someone leaning over him, someone with her hands on him, and he’d been crying, panicking. She’d shot before she’d even thought about it. No one has the right to touch her people and cause them that amount of pain, and Gene least of all. 

Now though, the second after the simultaneous thought, action and reaction, she has time to look. Really look. 

And it isn’t the cell, smelling of vomit and unwashed man. It isn’t the marks on Gene - less than hers and far more enraging. Isn’t the sight of him covered in blood, though she knows already that that sight will return in her nightmares for some time yet. It’s his aggressor. 

Familiar slight stature. Familiar tousled blonde hair. A face she sees in the mirror every day. 

All Jemma can do is stare at Gene as he looks in horror at the corpse across him. Her corpse. His mouth moves, soundlessly at first, then she is able to pick up the rapidly whispered, “Not again, not again, not-please, not…” Then the words trail away to a long wounded note. And Jemma stays where she is, frozen with horror in the cell door.

#series #scifi whump #defiant whumpee #captivity #torture #escape attempt #rescue #character death #have i mentioned that i love jemma because i love jemma

[whumperfultime]

Whumpril #27: Please Don't Go

She is the outsider amongst the crew. Not because she is the newest, nor the youngest, though that does exclude her from the years of in-jokes and history they share, not to mention the fact that even the worst of the spacer’s bars on the most questionable of asteroids raise an eyebrow at her, isolating her from the recreation the other crew share.

It’s not any of that. 

It’s not even - exactly - that they are family and she is…not. They are stand-offish, brusque, untrusting; as are the many other rebels she has met during her scant fifteen years. They would welcome her, she could be one of them: a place bought for her with her family name and the fact that Darrow, at least, had a history with uncle Romulus. It’s that she has a family and, alone as she may be now, she is not looking to replace them. 

Academically, she knows they are dead, knows they bought her life with theirs. She has nightmares of them in cells, gaunt and bleeding and grey with exhaustion and pain, memories long buried from her barely-more-than-infancy of her mother, slashed open throat to groin by a stazer whip, hot iron blood pouring over Rosie, the shock that had locked horrified screams behind baby teeth and kept her wide eyed and blankly staring. The last protection her mother had given her. Her mother’s face and blood and howl of agony replaced by uncle Romulus’ and uncle Cyrus’ and her dad’s in turn until she barely sleeps at all, wanders the ship like the restless ghost she imagines them to be.

She knows those visions are likely true. Or, more likely, not true. Her mother’s death was too quick, too painless for what they will do to her dad.

But her heart does not believe it and, though she recognises the brittle loneliness in Nico and Casey, the willingness to welcome and accept her in David and Gene, the cautious and flattering trust extended by Darrow, she can’t make herself take the final step and accept them. She has a family who died for her, and to accept others into her heart seems the worst way to replay them. She, of everyone aboard the Valjean, except perhaps Lee, has never wanted for love or acceptance. She has never known the fear that those closest to her could turn on her at any moment. Rosie has always known deep in her guts and bones and soul that everyone she loves would give themselves up to any fate to protect her from so much as a bruise. She doesn’t know how to love without that assurance, with the caution that Jemma and Jay learned in slave camps and delta grade work parties and Darrow learned from his military superiors and David from his own children who’d reported him to the inquisition. 

Then she falls ill. It’s inevitable. She is barely sleeping, rarely eating and a lifetime dirt-side has left her immune system ill prepared for the recycled air and water shipboard.  

She lies in her cabin, shaking with chills and burning with fever and knowing that she’s going to live through it and still still still won’t get to see her family, her real family, again. Ever again. 

David tends her, reassures her it’s spacer’s flu and they’ve all had it, coaxes her to eat and drugs her to rest and she hates him for not being the retired veterinarian who was the only medical professional her dad had trusted with her. She resents Jemma for stroking her hair and mopping her brow and helping her to change and stripping her sheets. She’s heard enough whispers by now to know that Jemma would love a child but fears to bring one into the world she inhabits. She’s no one's daughter. Not anymore. 

Nico and Casey sit with her, keep her company and she hates herself for how uncomfortable they make her, but she’d grown up in a secluded parochial community. She’s never seen a non-human before. She doesn’t know which of their many eyes to look at, nor how to ask without sounding like a fool and a dirt rat. She pretends to sleep because she can keep her eyes shut. 

Gene coddles the environmental systems in her room so she can change the temperature by the tiniest of increments by voice control. She can alter the gravity, relieving her sore muscles of her weight. And it’s not fair that he can do such a thing when uncle Cyrus would have faithfully promised he was going to and then broken something crucial trying because he was a shit engineer. 

She can barely look at either Darrow or Lee because they still have each other and it’s not fair. Because if she can’t have her dad, even when she’s ill and alone and the pain in her heart is worse than the pounding behind her eyes, then why does Lee still get to have his? She had long since grown out of believing that her dad hung the moon.

My daddy can do anything, she had once told a teacher and never been allowed to forget it.

But at a push, if necessary, he would have caught her if she’d fallen off the edge of the world. So where is he? She knows that answer and it’s her fault, just as her mother’s death had been. Weapon in hand, but unable to bring it to bare with a squirming three year old in her arms, she hadn’t even died on her feet, on her knees hunched over Rosie, making a shield of blood and flesh and bone and she’d let uncle Cyrus and uncle Romulus and dad do the same. As though she’s worth four lives. 

And as though the crew of the Valjean can ever be that to her.

Which is when Jay comes to see her. He looks careworn at the corners of his eyes. She has a vague idea he’d been off ship, searching out information from someone and about something, but her tired, aching head can’t grasp the details. 

“Spacer’s flu, huh?”

She wants to scream. Another person to be kind and sympathetic and treat her like a child and do it wrong. She would sell her very soul to be called Rosie-Posie by uncle Romulus and offered a cup of lime icy that he always forgets is dad’s favourite, not hers. 

Jay settles in the chair by her bed and regards her. 

“You gunna tell me everyone gets it?” she rasps out and is proud of how steady her voice is. 

A smile tugs the corner of his mouth. “Nah. You know that. I’m the last in and Gene loves to state the obvious.”

That almost makes her smile. “You gunna read to me?”

Jay raises an eyebrow. “You want me to?”

No one has asked. They’ve all just treated her like their child and she isn’t. “Uncle Cyrus used to read to me if I was sick.” It both is and isn’t an answer. 

Jay nods and doesn’t reach for his tablet. “You miss them.”

She has to swallow twice to answer like a crew member, not like a little girl. “Gene’s not the only one who states the obvious.”

Once again the near smile tugs at his mouth. “Stupid thing to say.” There’s a silence, long and considering and eventually Jay offers, “I still miss mine.”

“You’re not going to tell me it gets easier?”

This answer comes quick and certain. “It doesn’t.”

Rosie forces herself to sputter a laugh instead of tears. “You are not a comforting man.”

“It gets familiar if that helps. But my-” and to Rosie’s surprise there are tears glimmering at the corner of his eyes. For the first time, such easy trust offered to her doesn’t enrage her. Jay gives her this because their loss is the same, not because he’s claiming her in a way only her family have a right to. “My parents were killed for hiding me.”

“Hiding you?”

“I was born on Adroit. There are strict population controls. I was my parents' fourth child. They hid me until I was almost 6, then my older brother told his best friend and her parents reported mine. My whole family was put to death. I was allowed to live.” Another silence. “I’ve never been sure if that was their punishment or mine.”

Voice tight, Rosie offers, “We were hidden, by the time our proximity alarms went off we were surrounded. Uncle Romulus sent out a message to his contacts, Darrow was the only one near enough to answer. They…they…pushed me into our only capsule, then they made a production of surrendering. The famous Porter family,” her voice turns bitter. “Every ship in the whole quadrant was focused on them humiliating themselves. No one picked up a single capsule.”

Jay nods. Rosie’s not wrong. He was on the bridge. Darrow had been foaming at the mouth, desperate to charge in and help, unable to peel himself away from the vid-screen. It had been Nico and Casey who picked up the weak, encoded transponder, Lee and Jay who reeled the capsule aboard. Darrow had been watching the Porters, looking for a moment to drop a charge on them. If death in fire and explosion was the last mercy he could have given Romulus he would have done it. 

Rosie realises she’s crying. It’s the first time she’s wept in front of any of them. 

Jay does not reach out in an overly familiar way. Does not wipe her tears away with the blade of his thumb as he dad had done; does not sling an arm around her shoulders and pull her into the warmth and shelter of his body as uncle Cyrus used to; does not hold her hand and tease her hair and call her infantile nicknames like uncle Romulus.

He doesn’t touch her at all. 

He offers her a scrap of mostly clean fabric and busies himself looking away from her face by refilling her water glass.

“Do you want me to go?” No one else aboard would have thought to ask that, would have seen a crying child that they should comfort and help and protect. 

“No.” Rosie surprises herself by answering. “No…don’t…please don’t go.”

#series #scifi whump #grief #character death #emotional whump #sick whump #comfort #always love characters bonding over mutual/similar trauma

[whumperfultime]

“I knew you’d come for me.”

vs.

“I knew you’d come for them.”

#prompts #dialogue #revenge #used as bait #protectiveness #caretaker #implied character death #GALAXY BRAIN CONCEPT #favest

[whumperfultime]

Whumpril #22: Stoicism Breaks

Insta-vids, old movies from Earth’s pre-space age, even books (the ones originally written on real paper, not digital ports direct to a reader) would have one believe that when captured and interrogated the victim should strive to repeat only name rank and serial number. 

Name…Darrow has that. His own even. He remembers all the parts to it, first and middle. Christopher Nathan Darrow. He’d been part of a family worth knowing once. He remembers the nicknames his big brothers had called him a lifetime ago (Squirt, Short Stuff, Teeny Bopper, and it hadn’t been fair, he’d been their height by the time he was 15, his grandfather’s genes paying off, but they’d never stopped, not until-); his call sign (Beowulf, matching the theme of his squad and he’d led them against those he believed to be monsters, does it still with his current crew though he hasn’t used that name in almost three decades); Anna and Nicol, wives one and two, and the endearments they’d called him (Angel, Sweetheart, mine,) until their voices blur and tangle together. 

Rank…He styles himself Captain and, in all fairness, it was a rank that he had held. He’s pretty sure deserters aren’t supposed to use their commission and he doesn’t want to hand his interrogator another weapon. More, he values being a Captain on his bridge, on his ship. But here, in this white, too-bright room, to claim an accolade given him by the Domain makes him feel…dirty. 

Serial Number…He’d had one of those too.  

“Give it up, Darrow. Give me just one thing,” the voice flays him worse than the lazer probe.

How…why…would David do this? 

Of all aboard the Valjean, David is the one he thought understood. He thought David knew him: knew that he would suffer and bleed and die for anyone of his crew, would take their place on a table just like this in an instant…but that he cannot give what he knows. The rebellion is bigger than him, than them, than all of them. 

It had killed something inside him to watch Jemma’s breath stutter to a stop. And to watch what that passing had done to Gene. He had taken every blow the engineer had dished out to already damaged ribs and bruised flesh and wished he would do worse because Darrow deserved every mark, because no pain wrought on his body would ever equal the way allowing Jemma to die burned. 

But he wouldn’t…couldn’t change his actions. 

It is not arrogance to say he is a central player in the only resistance against the Domain. If he gives up what he knows, if he allows their clawed out corner to fall…

The others will die anyway. Brutally. Screaming as befitted traitors. Darrow knows that for fact; Beowulf had carried out such actions. Or worse, their minds might be twisted, compressed, rewritten until they don’t know themselves anymore, until they are the very thing they hate as some sick joke, or a plaything for those in current favour. Beowulf had handed men - good men - over for that too. 

He is protecting them by allowing them to pass quietly, peacefully, with their lover clinging to their hand and permitted to cry for their passing.

And David should know of all that. 

Yesterday, he had rasped out a plea with his oldest friend for death. Today he is back here, needle thin lazers burning his flesh, cutting into him and cauterising as it goes, drugs pumping with his blood to keep him awake and alert. He bows and screams, far far far past refusing to give whatever listeners there are the satisfaction. 

The probe trails down his naked body and the shame doesn’t touch him as David’s dispassionate eyes watch its route, merely the fear of the pain as it traverses sensitive areas. 

“C’mon, Darrow,” his voice is cajoling. “Something I can take to the briefing or it’ll be me lying here.”

Darrow starts to choke out his name and rank and the disjointed digits he can remember of his serial number and thinks better of it, turns his head weakly to the side and spits. “Good. You deserve it. Treacherous bastard.”

Something like hurt flickers in David’s eyes. It’s almost laughable. But his hand never wavers, the lazer cuts no deeper. He bites his lip, considering a problem as Darrow has seen him do a hundred times, a curl of hair, once ash blond and now grey as age comes for them all, falls over his forehead. 

“I’ll put Gene here,” he says quietly, a note to his voice that Darrow can’t quite parse. “I’ll make you watch.”

Darrow wishes he hadn’t wasted the last of the moisture in his mouth and could spit in David’s face. He gives a twisted smile and forces down the softer emotions. “You think you can hurt Gene any worse?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean Jemma. I mean what they did to-”

David shakes his head. “Jemma’s fine. I saw-”

“Jemma’s dead. I watched her die.” And then, one last weapon. How often has David accused him of being unfeeling, uncaring, and if it protects Gene, makes it clear it’s worthless to torture him he’ll play that part. “And I said nothing. I could have saved her in a second and I sat and watched as she died and I. Said. Nothing.”

David’s hand still doesn’t waver, the line he is carving down Darrow’s body, collar bone to groin, even and perfect. For a long moment he focuses on his task and Darrow braces as much as he is able, mewling whimpers creeping from his throat now he has no focus for his rage. Tears slide from his eyes and he can’t even reach up a hand to wipe them away, restrained as he is.

David stops moving the lazer as it reaches the centre of his body and Darrow braces. Another fraction of an inch and- He’ll scream, shriek, cry probably. It’s useless to pretend he won’t. He just hopes he won’t shame himself, won’t give up a planet for a little pain. Nothing is worth that, he reminds himself, not even his manhood. 

Not even the threat of his crew here in his place. 

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The words catch him off guard, confusing in their almost-echo of his own thoughts. “Yeah,” he grunts out, trying desperately not to think about the point of the lazer probe and its next obvious destination. “Yeah, because you’re a treacherous cu-”

The words are cut off in a yowl as the lazer skids downwards. David still not done playing with him though because it doesn’t deprive him of his cock. Slicing instead to the side and opening up his inner thigh - deeper than the cut down his sternum - and then just licking against the side of his scrotum. The agony is white hot and blinding, enough to drive a man mad, and Darrow bites his tongue until his mouth fills with blood and pants through it. 

“Star Mother, David- don’t- please don’t do that again.”

David ignores him completely. “You’re here,” he says instead, as though they had never been interrupted, “because your protege is a treacherous little worm. Not,” he punctuates his word with another flick of the lazer, the sensitive skin on the back of the knee this time, though after that last Darrow barely registers it, “me.”

“You mean they-” ultimate weakness, to beg for information from his interrogator, but it’s Lee. He’d raised the boy. “They hurt him?” His voice is soft, small. Grief at what they might have put the boy through dousing even Darrow’s fire for a moment.  

“As I understand it,” the lazer probe moves to the sole of his foot. “Lee offered up everything he knew and then agreed to trap you in this net in exchange for his life. Then he lay on the floor and pissed himself during his own execution.”

Lee wouldn’t- If anyone’s the traitor here it’s David. It’s not Lee. Lee’s the best parts of Darrow and without all his broken edges. Darrow responds to the only part of David’s claim which makes sense. “He’s…dead?”

“Oh no. Very much alive. Would you like to see him?”

The carrot is dangled just as David slams the probe flush against Darrow’s heel burning through flesh and bone and the sound he makes isn’t even human. Tendons cord as he strains against bindings, his foot drums on the table as best it can. Agony is not word enough for the fire coursing through his body consuming everything in its path. 

“Well?” The probe is removed, but the pain lingers. 

Darrow dare not even strain to see, expecting his foot to be little more than a charred black stump. Lee would not have done this to him. Lee would have died first. Lee is everything Darrow wishes he could be. (So is David.)

“Yes,” he whispers.

“What’s it worth?”

“What?” He’s distracted by the probe, at the other end of his body now, flashing tauntingly around the eyes. 

“You know how the Domain get, Darrow,” says that familiar voice that had helped and planned and supported for years. “They get bored. They could execute him after all, they could mindwipe him and drop him on the centre worlds. Since he’s signed up with them anyway, they could put him in one of their uniforms - Darrow’s boy as a jackbooted enforcer. Quite the blow to the rebellion. If you want to see him, you’d best cut a bargain quickly.”

“I-” He can’t. Of course he can’t. He’d let Jemma die because he can’t. Let David shred him because he can’t. 

But it’s Lee.

“Yeah.” Darrow closes his eyes. 

Swallows

And talks. 

#series #scifi whump #captivity #torture #nonsexual nudity #betrayal #burning #OOF THAT'S BRUTAL #guess we know darrow's main weakness now >:)

[whumperfultime]

“I knew you’d come for me.”

vs.

“I knew you’d come for them.”

#prompts #dialogue #rescue #used as bait #both of these are classics!!!!!! #so simple but so good

[whumperfultime]

“you’re safe now.”

“you can rest now.”

“you’ve fought so hard.”

“you don’t have to fight anymore.”

“just sleep, okay?”

“i won’t let anything hurt you.”

“it’s over. it’s all over.”

“you don’t have to worry about anything right now.”

“shh, shh, i’ve got you. you’re safe here.”

“i know it was scary.”

“i know it hurts.”

“you’re all done hurting. there’s no more pain.”

“just focus on resting, okay?”

“you need to save your strength.”

“your job right now is to heal.”

“i’m getting you out of here.”

“i’m taking you home. we’re going home.”

“you’re safe in my arms. the hard part is over.”

#prompts #dialogue #comfort #caretaker #protectiveness #rescue #all of these are excellent <33333 #favest

[whumperfultime]

Whumpril #26: How Could You?

He hadn’t believed it. Not even when it had been David that told him, not even when he’d been offered proof. 

Instead, he’d believed completely in David’s charade, awaiting betrayal and so not seeing which angle the knife aimed at his back truly came from. He’d allowed himself to reject proof of his senses, assuming it was faked or that his mind was being somehow tampered with, because Lee would never…

Except that he would. He did. 

And except that Darrow is no better. He gave up everything, everyone, just to save the person that mattered to him. Lee hadn’t really done differently, had he? Hell, they’d both been saving the same person. 

If it wasn’t for the fact that his interrogator had been David, that David had done his dissembling, that he’d hurt him badly enough and suddenly enough for his confession to turn to shrieks…For all his softness, for all his refusals to kill, for all his regular insistences that he wouldn’t withstand torture, nor sacrifice another of the crew, David has turned out to be the only one with the steel to see through what Darrow has always espoused. 

“How could you?” he asks Lee, and means the question for himself.

His eyes sweep him as they have done a thousand times, cataloguing cuts and bruises and dirt, calculating how badly hurt his child is, what he needs from Darrow. 

Lee turns dull eyes on him. “Are you going to leave me here?” His voice wavers between bravado and demand and plea.

Darrow is powerfully reminded of his sulky adolescence. When every order was questioned. And yet how, he would still seek shelter and comfort in Darrow’s shadow when the bridge shook under fire or the lights flickered for want of fuel. 

He knows how it happens. He had, after all, done the same.

“Of course not.” 

He guns down a dozen guards, burns through crucial wiring that will, if it’s not repaired quickly, condemn the station and all aboard her to a slow burn. He doesn’t offer Lee a weapon, and he lets him walk unaided. 

#series #scifi whump #rescue #betrayal #implied torture #so many layers of angst here 👀

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I love that the nicest community I’ve been in so far has been the pain and suffering community

#memes #whump community #i love it here

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Being an OC whump writer feels like reverse demon possession. You have little people in your head and you do terrible things to them. And instead of you summoning them, they go “poof!” and summon themselves and then you beat them up for it. And maybe when you make them suffer enough you give them a happy ending, but also they have to go through The Horrors first because that’s the price of living rent free in your brain.

#memes #about me

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#listen i will enjoy any of these given the right characters #but man do i love a personal whumper #my primary whumper ocs tend to share the sadism trait

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this or that - environmental whump (3)

#animal attacks can be fun! especially snake attacks #anything venomous really

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Whumpril #24: No Time To Rest

It’s impossible that they have all made it back here, that they are all sitting around the scrubbed wooden table in the mess eating as they have a hundred times before. The Valjean is drifting in the empty, no stars for miles and precious little traffic this far off the main shipping lanes. The computer will warn them if anything unexpected does come within range - and long before it can see them thanks to Gene’s modifications, but the autopilot can handle it.

They can sit, eat, rest. The whole family back together against impossible odds.

Darrow pulled out of an interrogation chamber and Lee from a prison cell. Gene and David and Jemma all in detention blocks, all subject to the Domain’s various flavours of mental torture, but here and whole and hearty and knowing themselves. He and Rosie and Nico and Casey, no damage but a few bruises and glancing lazer burns, a twisted ankle and lacerated tendril. Their impossible rescue a success. 

They should be able to stop.

And yet, Jay can’t. Some is the residual adrenaline, the nightmares and shakes. The memory every time he closes his eyes of that exo-steel wall that they’d come within millimetres of smearing themselves across, the blast that had missed Nico and Casey by a mere hair with him too far away to do anything, the electrical stun that had nearly ended his too-brief stint in command. More is that the men he has followed much of his life are falling apart.

Lee’s actions have trickled through the crew by now. He keeps to himself, locked in his cabin - for his own safety. Jay would have no hesitation is spacing him. Darrow is almost as reclusive. The betrayal by the man he considered a son has emptied him of spirit far more effectively than the Domain has ever managed. 

David, Gene and Jemma haven’t spoken about their experiences, but they’re all pale, twitchy, jumping at shadows. David had ushered Jay and Rosie and Nico and Casey to the medbay, as he always does, taken one look at his equipment and bolted. Jay had patched them up best he can, guiding Rosie through putting surgical staples down his own clavicle where he couldn’t reach with the help of a mirror and a double dose of pain killers. 

The autopilot can probably handle anything in this area of space, and Jay fervently hopes that that is the case, because no one but him is in any state to answer the alarms. He’s taken to dozing on the bridge, lulled by the gentle beep and whir of the scanners, afraid that if he falls deeply to rest in his cabin he won’t be able to respond to an emergency. When the pull of sleep becomes too seductive, too much the promise of a tide to sweep him away rather than a simple, brief moment, he gets up and walks around.  

He checks and inventories their supplies, determined they can stay here for some time yet. Time enough for someone to heal. 

If they do.

Jay has no idea how to help them. Put a ship and a course before him and there’s no one better, a blaster in hand and a plan of attack - well, hadn’t he proved his skills? Even injuries (his staples pull and itch, but they’ll do, and he knows that the ones he placed in Nico and Casey were far more expert. But this? The terrible loss of self and respect and everything yo u build yourself on that the Domain inflicts?

Darrow and Gene and David have always been so solid, the walls against which Jay has always sheltered. How now to shore up those battlements when their foundations turn out to be made of sand?

He sighs. Checks the plotter once more. Debates weighing anchor and risking the sleep that is weighing down both eyes and mind. 

But they can’t take another battle and the Domain must be searching for them. They are unlikely to simply let half a dozen prisoners including the infamous Darrow slip through their grasp without a murmur. 

How could Lee do this to them? He’s grown up with him, thought him a brother…cousin at least. And more, how can one man destroy everything Jay has built his life on with such catastrophic ease? He’d never thought of Darrow as old before, but now it is easy to see his decades, skin haggard and eyes dimmed. 

Jay checks the board again, determines that nothing will need his attention in the next few minutes and goes to check the engine room. Half his life, the engine room has been Gene’s private domain, entry by invitation only, but Gene too is aged by whatever the Domain did to him. Timid, prone to anxiety and completely shutting down if Jemma is not in immediate sight. She’d cut herself cooking one night, and the engineer had cried. 

Jay never thought he’d bought into the idea that men should act a certain way. Stars know, he cries. Jemma is the strongest of them all. He’s never thought about it, but he’d been horrified by the brawny man’s breakdown as he’d curled against the wall, weeping like a child.

He should have rescued them sooner. Not a mistake he’ll make again, if it drives him mad and sleep deprivation liquifies his brain, he’ll keep the Valjean in perfect working order, on his own if need be. He’ll be ready to go and get them, before they can be hurt like this again. 

#series #scifi whump #rescue #recovery #implied captivity #implied torture #trauma tw #exhaustion #sleep deprivation #THIS MAKES ME SO HAPPYYYYYY THEY'RE ALL HERE #i mean they're all enduring the aftermath of unspeakable horrors but they're ALIVE