#whumpay2022

[whumpay]

It’s that time of year once more! May approaches, and we get ready for pain… Welcome to Whumpay 2: Electric boogaloo.

Rules:

Every day has a prompt that links to a tv tropes page, but you don’t have to follow it exactly—just follow the spirit of the trope, and it works! If you aren’t sure if it counts, you can throw an ask over to this blog. (If you aren’t sure exactly what’s intended with a prompt, or what the trope really means, you can also send an ask!)

You only have to use one prompt a day! But you’re welcome to use multiple if you want to!

I know the description of the blog says it’s a writing event, but if you want to draw or make other kinds of content, that’s cool too.

Have fun, tag content warnings (such as noncon, graphic violence, etc) and try not to be crushed by the mortifying ordeal of posting your writing.

This is a pretty chill event so you can start posting whenever but I’ll be reblogging posts made to the #Whumpay2022 tag throughout May.

Written list (+ links to tv tropes pages!) below the read more

PROMPTS:

Day One: Now, Let Me Carry You / “I’m not leaving you.” / Appendicitis

Day Two: From Dress To Dressing / “You’re not dead yet?” / Gunshot

Day Three: I’m Having Soul Pains! / “Just breathe.” / Bruised

Day Four: Damsel In Distress / “I had it handled.” / Burns

Day Five: The Secret Of Long Pork Pies (CW: this trope deals with cannibalism.) / “When’s the last time you ate?” / Starvation

Day Six: Broken Tears / “What did they do to you?” / Panic Attack

Day Seven: Break The Cutie / “Why didn’t you tell me?” / Lost Voice

Day Eight: Headache of Doom / "I'm fine, don't worry." / Migraines

Day Nine: Because You Can Cope / “You never listen.” / Abandonment Issues

Day Ten: I Can Still Fight / “I can’t stop.” / Exhaustion

Day Eleven: Empathetic Healer / “I feel you.” / Self Sacrifice

Day Twelve: Mutilation Interrogation (CW: This trope page has an image of a torture scene, with blood.) This is going to hurt.” / Fingore

Day Thirteen: It Never Gets Any Easier / “They wouldn’t do this.” / Nightmares

Day Fourteen: Break The Haughty / “There’s no shame in asking for help.” / Reopened Wound

Day Fifteen: Heroic Safe Mode / “Do you remember that?” / Self-Hatred

Day Sixteen: Buried Alive / “How did you get out?” / Carbon Monoxide Poisoning

Day Seventeen: To The Pain / “It’s alright.” / Delirium

Day Eighteen: Verbal Salt In The Wound / “I’m just trying to help.” / Coughing Up Blood

Day Nineteen: Clothing Concealed Injury / “I didn’t want you to worry.” / Infected Wound

Day Twenty: Sickening “Crunch!” / “That didn’t sound good.” / Broken Bones

Day Twenty-One: Stoic Woobie / “How bad is it?” / No Anaesthesia

Day Twenty-Two: Broken Angel / “I wish I could do something.” / Harming Self

Day Twenty-Three: Dragged By Collar / “Let go of me!” / Suffocation

Day Twenty-Four: Forced To Watch / “I can’t do this.” / Held At Gunpoint

Day Twenty-Five: You Can’t Go Home Again / “You're worrying me.” / Touch Starved

Day Twenty-Six: Gilded Cage / “Let me help you.” / Long-Term Captivity

Day Twenty-Seven: Get It Over With / “I don’t have a choice.” / Choke Hold

Day Twenty-Eight: Working Through The Cold / “I’m about to pass out.” / Fever

Day Twenty-Nine: Revenge By Proxy / “I know it hurts.” / Near-Death

Day Thirty: Sole Survivor / “It’s (/not) your fault.” / Survivor’s Guilt

Day Thirty-One: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished / “I’m here now.” / Killing In Self Defense

ALTERNATE PROMPTS:

Alt Prompt #1: Puppet

Alt Prompt #2: “I need help.”

Alt Prompt #3: Cold-Blooded Torture

Alt Prompt #4: Impaled

Alt Prompt #5: Asthma Attack

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Whumpay Day 21: "How Bad Is It?"

before the final scene in Tithonus | @today-in-fic, @whumpay2022

"How bad is it?" She mumbles from a hospital bed, her head thick and fuzzy with medication. She tries to take stock of her own body, but her eyes are heavy and bleary and everything feels dulled, slowed. There's a throbbing in her stomach that isn't quite pain yet, and her throat hurts. All she's really certain of is that Mulder is here, sitting in the chair beside the bed.

"Six hours of surgery, two blood transfusions, more epinephrine than I want to think about, and they finally took you off the ventilator a couple hours ago," he rattles off, his voice sounding unsteady. He probably had to call her mom, didn't he, to tell her that her daughter was dying again. Scully thinks suddenly of Fellig telling her to look away, of her barely-conscious obeying.

She swallows carefully, her throat dry. At least now she knows why it hurts. "Did I code?" She asks softly, tipping her head slowly to better look at him. She sees the way his face flickers, how he momentarily clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut.

"No," he replies, casting her a lopsided, exhausted smile. "Thank God." For once, she thinks he means it.

(If she was more awake, less drugged under, she might notice the glint of gold under the collar of his shirt. She might ask, and he might break and tell her of how he'd cried when an orderly gave it to him, covered in blood. They'd apparently misinterpreted the meaning of the word partner, and while he's never been more grateful for that, his hands shook when he washed her blood from the intricacies of the chain. There was nothing he could do but put it on.)

She blearily watches him watching her for a few long seconds before she attempts speaking again. "Have you been here the whole time?"

Mulder ducks his head, shaking it. "I got here while you were in surgery," he says. "They, uh... they couldn't tell me if you'd make it or not," he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper, like it will crack if he speaks louder.

"I'm here," she murmurs back. It's a reassurance for both of them; maybe it's the drugs, but she still feels a little unsettled. She should have died, but she didn't. How many times has she cheated death? Then, a little louder, "I'm thirsty."

Mulder lifts his head and looks around before reaching over to the table beside the bed. She hears a quiet rattle, then he leans forward and offers a spoonful of ice chips, which she receives gratefully. Once she's finished, a little too aware that she has to pace herself, he stays there, hovering over her, and his fingers carefully trace the outline of her face for several long, quiet moments.

"Mulder," she whispers, fumbling toward the edge of the bed. His hand drops from her face to take hers, wrapping it in both of his with his thumbs stroking her wrist like he's not even thinking about it. She tries to squeeze back, but finds herself too tired.

"Scully," he breathes, bringing her hand up to his lips to press a long kiss to her knuckles. They need say nothing more. She drifts off again, lulled by painkillers and Mulder's presence.

[rizzoto-whump]

Whumpay alt prompt 3: Cold-Blooded Torture

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Collared and Chained

@whumpay2022 , @badthingshappenbingo , @whumpers-monthly​

TW: Bruises

"Wakey, wakey, baby!" The tug of the chain slightly choked him and made him coughed before he was released again. Ronald chuckled, then gently touched his battered back. Just because of the eye gaze, he had to endure such severe torture.

"Time to get up and get to work!"

[just-horrible-things]

Whumpay Day 4 Damsel In Distress | "I had it handled." | Burns

She is the sweetest of them. The most delicate. The only one not yet hardened to this.

When she’s taken, they drop everything to find her.

But they aren’t the first on the scene. Inside the building, they find carnage. Blood. Bodies. The enemy are on high alert, holed up in defensive positions. The fighting is fierce, but they make their way down to the basement cells.

They’re all empty.

She’s not there.

They find the torture chamber. The slab table with straps to hold a victim down. The wall of tools – pliers and saws and hammers, an electric drill, a blowtorch, a car battery. The blood.

They find her hair on the floor, cut away in handfuls.

They sweep the rest of the building. They kill everyone who crosses their path.

Until eventually they find her.

She’s in an office on the topmost floor. She has her back to them when they kick open the door. She’s building a barricade across the window, stacking chairs on chairs. 

She whirls, grabbing a gun from the table beside her.

Her hacked-short hair sticks up in tufts. Her clothes hang in sliced-up tatters from her body. Beneath, the brown of drying blood, the deep red of wounds, the glistening blister-white of burns.

She smiles, seeing them, eyes mad and fever-bright.

“What are you guys doing here?” she asks. “I had it handled.”

She takes a couple of steps towards them, and for a second they could almost believe that the horror they see written across her skin must be somehow fake, she seems okay – and then her features go slack and she first stumbles then crumples – boneless – to the floor.

[veryrealimagination]

James had been reworking a prototype for the last two days. Unsurprisingly, he’s had troubles over a section that wasn’t catching right. It’s all he’s been focused on, even ignoring Sally unintentionally. His assistant had brought food and drink, which he ate one handed as he tried to pinpoint the exact issue while watching the device move over and over. Eventually, he realized that the room had gotten very dark. Someone had turned off all but one light to the room and it was night. The young man that he had hired was standing by the table. “Mrs. Pendrick said that this would be the third night you didn’t go to bed,” he said, walking over to the table.

He stopped his latest round and turned to the young man. “Watts, I can’t see in this low light,” he stated.

“That is the point,” he mentioned, sitting down, “You haven’t had any intentional sleep for two nights. Merely falling asleep on your blueprints for an hour before waking up in a frenzy.”

“I’m in the middle of-”

“A very important, revolutionary, world changing invention that will net you another million dollars, a new award, more people groveling at your feet,” Watts mockingly extolled, vaguely picking old sentiments and speeches out of the air.

Pendrick wasn’t amused. “Mr. Watts.”

His smile was. “You’ve done nothing else but work on your new project. No meetings with investors or board members.”

“My investors will understand.”

“Your board members do not,” he said, “Three have come by in the last two days, since your first overnight. Demanding to see you, but I reminded them about your own rules. They might break in if you do it again and have no meetings tomorrow. Or, well, later today.” He sat across from him. “Mr. Opeck will be disappointed if you fall asleep during his business update.”

“Mr. Opeck will have to wait.”

“Misters Nielson and MacPherson will not,” he reminded, “They had an appointment over your electrical device that you worked on with Tesla.” Drat, he did forget about that trying to get this going. Watts, who had the inability to keep his hands off of anything, carefully pulled one of the arms away. “What hasn’t been working?”

He sighed, “The engine hasn’t been completing intervals.”

“What happens when you watch it?”

He shook his head. “It’s working as intended.”

“Are you sure on that?”

His head snapped up to the young man. “Your mind may be completing the cycle as you think it’s supposed to be,” he said, “But you’re actually missing the problem. You’re exhausted, Mr. Pendrick. Two nights of no sleep, your brain needs to shutdown for a bit before seeing it again. And before you talk to investors or boardmembers.”

He was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. "I can't stop," he stated.

"You're not. You're pausing your work, not stopping," he reminded, "Please go to sleep, Mr. Pendrick, everyone has been growing concerned over a few of your sleepless habits." Defeated, the man allowed his assistant to walk him out, turning off the last light before locking up.

[storyweaverofgondor]

Summary: Alonzo is targeted by Macavity a few days after the Ball. 

My fourth fic for @whumpay2022

@uppastthejelliclemoon @alonz-ho

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Whumpay Day 28: "I'm about to pass out"

during Unruhe | @today-in-fic @whumpay2022

Scully wavers as she exits Schnauz's trailer, the clear sunlight sending what feels like a red-hot spike through her skull. Would an icepick through the eye have felt like this? It's the side affects, aftereffects, of the mishmash of medications Gerry had given her; a bone-deep ache and waves of dizziness washing over her. She looks at the ground, tries to steady herself.

"Are you okay?" Mulder asks, suddenly at her side, and she can't deny that she's grateful. Her heart is still pounding with fading terror, and the way he touches her waist reflects the same in him.

She starts to shake her head, but winces at the pain and instead just utters a small, "No." She's not alright. She wants to sleep until the drugs are out of her system, but isn't sure that's safe. She wants to not be afraid anymore.

Mulder leans down so he can see her face and she can't help but relax; he's blocking the light and easing some of her pain. On the other hand, it only makes her more aware of how shaky and dizzy she is. "You should get checked by the paramedics," he says carefully, like he thinks she'll argue. She tries to take a step, though in what direction she isn't sure, but has to catch herself against his shoulder.

"Mulder," she whispers, suddenly feeling very small, "I think I'm about to pass out."

The last thing she registers as the dizziness and drug-induced exhaustion take her over is Mulder's arms coming around her to break her fall. The first thing she registers a few minutes later, coming to with a paramedic checking her over, is also Mulder, his lips pressed to the top of her head and one hand stroking up and down across her back. He's still holding her, and she can't help but be grateful, for both their sakes.

She'd heard the desperation in his voice screaming her name earlier, when they'd both thought he would be too late to save her, and she hears the gentleness now as he whispers I've got you into her hair, and for the first time, she realizes he might love her.

[just-horrible-things]

Well this got waaaay away from me.

Whumpay Day 10 I Can Still Fight | "I can't stop." | Exhaustion

The jungle is dense and moist and thick with insects. Everything rots. 

The medic scrubs antiseptic into the long gouge where the bullet clipped him. “You should go back to camp,” she tells him, wrapping gauze tight over it, “and stay there until this has closed up. If it gets infected, I won’t be able to save it.” “If it starts to get hot, I’ll go,” he says. “We can hope for good luck.”

Wounds don’t heal cleanly out here. But his does. He rubs his fingertips over it often, feeling the profile of it through the dressing and the plastic cover that keeps the rain out.

He wonders if he really is that lucky, or if his good fortune is the work of an unseen force moving, the ripples cast by something swimming beneath the surface. The jungle is hot and humid, but goosebumps shiver across his skin as if a cold wind blew.

He gets shot again in a skirmish, an ambush gone wrong when they stumble across the enemy sooner than they expect. It’s a victory, still – they have the element of surprise – but they lose half their number.

A bullet goes clean through his thigh and out the other side.

“It’s a miracle you didn’t bleed to death,” the medic tells him after, although he feels almost as if he did. He didn’t lose it all, but still a lot of his blood soaked away into the spongy, foetid ground. She taps a finger to one side of the entry wound. “An inch further this way and you’d have been dead in a minute.”

A miracle. He wonders if she’s right. The thought is as thrilling as it is unnerving.

The trek back towards the camp is gruelling. Wounded lean on wounded. Grief hangs about them, as palpable as the clinging wetness in the air, as sharp-toothed as the leeches in the water.

He expects to be dizzy and barely able to walk, but he finds unexpected strength – a second wind that shouldn’t help with blood loss. Some nameless, fierce emotion coils inside him and sends chills across his skin.

When they hear the rattle of the enemy’s guns up ahead, from the same direction as the camp, the lieutenant curses a dozen different ways. They halve their pace, exhausted scouts creeping constantly ahead and back and ahead again.

“I’ll take a turn,” he volunteers. “You’re shot,” the lieutenant counters. “And we’re all dead on our feet. I can walk and I can fire a gun. I’ll do it.”

The long trek to the top of the ridgeline is not rewarded with a view of the terrain beyond. The vegetation is too dense. But at least it’s downhill from there. His leg burns fiercely, but it takes his weight.

They get the drop on the enemy scouts. It’s a brutal business of knives and of hands clamped over mouths until the twitching stops. “We turn back,” the lieutenant orders, hushed. “We can’t take the rest of ‘em. We’ll go around.”

They aren’t so lucky.

He freezes when the first shots ring out. Panicked instincts still haven’t gotten the message after four months of combat. He still wants to run, or fling himself at the dirt. Instead he pivots towards the godawful noise and starts shoving his way through the choking vegetation.

It’s near impossible to tell friend from foe without getting so close as to get shot first. All you can do is try to remember where your friends were and do your best. He unloads in the direction of the shooting, and keeps stumbling forwards as his hands go through the motions of shoving a fresh clip into place.

The crashing of someone else trying to run through the dense understory makes him whirl to his left. He holds his fire trying to get enough of a glimpse to decide – and the enemy reaches a conclusion first.

It’s like getting kicked in the chest. He’s shocked that it doesn’t hurt more. He staggers, and autopilot keeps his arms moving even as he’s trying to process that he’s been shot in the chest, he’s dead –

He opens fire, and at least he gets to take the fucking bastard down with him.

He knows, as he claps his hands over the bullet holes and feels blood pour over his fingers, that it won’t help. His knees give way and he collapses backwards, gasping. The foliage closes over him like black water, swallowing him.

He’s alone in a coffin of dark leaves and spiny stalks, twitching and kicking in the wet, spongy leaf litter as he struggles to fill his lungs. He can’t believe that he thought it barely hurt. 

The world has narrowed to just the struggle for air, the pain, and the rushing freefall certainty that he is hurtling towards the end.

It seems to last for an age.

The shooting keeps going. There is shouting and cursing, in two languages. There are screams, one close enough that it seems he ought to be able to push a leaf aside and make eye contact with the other casualty. More gunfire.

Then there is quiet.

Slowly he starts to face the creeping suspicion that he might not be quite as fatally shot as he thought.

His hands are still clamped over the wounds in his chest. When he gingerly eases up on the pressure, he expects more blood to well up, hot and wet under his palms. And it does, a little, but not the flood he’s expecting.

Maybe the bullets… lodged in his sternum, or his ribs, or something. He’s heard of that. It still hurts to breathe, but he definitely hasn’t drowned in his own blood. Very cautiously, acutely aware of his heart still thudding I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive in his chest, he props himself up on one elbow.

He tries to get a look at the wounds and he sees holes and he can’t look any closer, hot darkness washes over him and he flops back to the wet dirt. It’s almost funny. He ought to be used to blood by now but apparently that’s too much.

Flies are already starting to try and land on the wounds, so he puts one hand back over the mess, refusing to think too hard about what the front of his chest looks like right now, and with the other arm he levers himself up to his knees. From there, taking it slow so as not to faint again, he gets to his feet.

He doesn’t know where to go.

Everyone else, friend and foe alike, has vanished into the jungle. He won’t find them. He could walk right over a body and not see it. Even if he called out, the vegetation swallows up sound. And he’d as likely be heard by an enemy who’d execute him as by a friend.

He checks his compass, and starts walking in the direction that they were going before the fighting. The direction that should be back to camp, if camp still exists.

By all rights he shouldn’t make it. He should collapse, or he should walk right past it, wander endlessly into this hellish wilderness and die alone.

Stumbling out of the treeline with his hands in the air, he thinks – wouldn't it be ironic if after all this luck, it was a twitchy sentry who shot him dead?

As soon as they see the state of him – the amount of blood on him – they call for a doctor. Relief steals all the strength from his legs and he can’t make it across the firebreak before he collapses again, but soldiers are hurrying out to help him.

They’re bundling him onto a stretcher when the doctor gets her first good look at the wounds, and she stops dead. He gets a glimpse of the shock and confusion on her face before they pick him up and he’s preoccupied with the pain of being jolted around as they run him to the hospital tent. The doctor stays frozen for a second, then follows after.

She cuts the blood-soaked shirt away from the wounds and she freezes again. So too does the medic on the other side of the table. They look at each other. The medic’s mouth is slightly open. Both look like they’ve seen a ghost. “What?” he demands. “What is it?”

The doctor’s gloved hands are shaking as she reaches out to touch the closest wound. Her fingers feel around it for a second and he groans. Then she puts her finger inside and he screams.

“I don’t understand,” she is whispering when he manages to get a hold of himself. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

“Hey!” he shouts as she whirls abruptly away, dragging the other medic by the wrist. “Hey, where are you going?” 

But neither of them look back. He’s left alone, still strapped to the stretcher, to wonder what the hell is going on. It takes him longer than he’d care to admit to find the courage to lift his head and look at what they saw.

The holes are scattered across his bare chest, six or seven where he thought there could surely surely only be one or two. He should be bleeding. You only don’t bleed out of a hole like that if you’re already dead. Nausea rises in his throat, his head spins. He spots what looks like a glimpse of white bone in one of them – and that’s the final straw, he blacks out again.

By the time he wakes up for real – not just remembering what his chest looks like and slipping straight back under – the commander is there.

“-- lungs should be so much mincemeat,” the doctor is saying, talking too fast, “and full of blood besides, he should still be bleeding, he shouldn’t have enough blood left in his body to sustain a pulse let alone remain conscious –” The commander holds up a hand, and she falls silent. “Can you hear me, man?” she asks. “Yeah,” he croaks, head spinning, ears feeling full of water. “Not feeling too hot, but I hear you.” “Good.” Her voice is firm and steady. “Stay calm. Can you look at me?” He does, and she nods approval. She takes his hand and he grips hers tight. “Doc, put a sheet over him would you? That’s better.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, she debriefs him. He clings to her hand like it’s all that’s keeping him afloat, and answers questions about everything that happened since he left camp. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” he confesses in choked tones once he can’t put it off any longer. “I knew I was hit but I thought I got lucky. I thought –” “Easy, man,” she assures him. “You got hit, and then what happened?” He can’t tell her at first. He’s stuck on the thought of it. He was bleeding when he was first hit, he felt it spill hot across his fingers. But she coaxes him onwards and, faltering at first, he tells her the rest.

Once it’s all said, there is silence.

“Medically speaking, you should be dead,” the commander tells him, calm and level as everything else. “Obviously you are very much alive. I don’t suppose you have any idea how or why this might be the case?”

He opens his mouth to tell her no, but it all comes crashing back.

He didn’t believe it. It saved his life twice and he still thought it was just good luck. He was so convinced it couldn’t be real that he forgot all about it when the pain knocked pretty much every other thought out of his skull.

The commander must see the stricken look in his eyes, but she waits patiently for his answer.

“The rock,” he croaks at last. “Which rock?” “You, you know which.” He wheezes a painful thread of a hysterical laugh. “The black rock.”

The one they didn’t make camp around, even though it would have been an excellent place to put some artillery. The one that juts up from the forest floor, square-sided like a giant’s table, ominous as silence in the heart of the jungle. The one that’s so black it seems to eat the light, so black that black doesn’t seem like an adequate word to describe it.

The one they all quietly left alone because it made their fingers itch and their teeth hum to be near it. 

Someone said it was made of magnetic iron. The magnetic field was really strong and that’s why it felt so weird. No one believed it, but everyone spread the explanation around.

“Can you explain a little more?” the commander prompts. He groans, or perhaps it’s more of a moan, weak with pain and horror both. “It’s – awful,” he confesses. “I shouldn’t, I shouldn’ta done it…” “Done what?” He tries to let go of her hand, but her hold remains steady. “You remember the prisoners.” He doesn’t want to be saying this. He feels sick again. “The ones we shot.” “That was a terrible thing to have to do,” the commander nods gravely. “I gave that order. You were one of the soldiers who carried it out.” It’s almost a question, like she doesn’t quite remember. “Yeah,” he agrees. “We marched ‘em out in the forest and we killed ‘em. They” – his voice breaks – “were brave. But the last one…” a distraught whisper, “we took the last one to the rock.”

“That wasn’t part of your orders.” He can hardly understand how she keeps it a calm observation when he deserves a biting accusation. “I wish we hadn’t,” he moans. “I wish we hadn’t, we shoulda stayed away.” “Why did you take him to the rock?” “I don’t remember, it was a joke or a dare or, I don’t remember, it was a stupid idea.” “And then what happened?” “We climbed up on it, me and one of the guys and – the prisoner. And we killed him there – I killed him. We said it was a, a prayer, a sacrifice but we didn’t mean it, it was a stupid joke I swear we didn’t mean it!”

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” She’s squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay?” He breathes, acutely aware of the fact that medically speaking he should not be able to. “People do stupid shit all the time, okay? I just want to understand what happened.” He nods jerkily. He wants to run a hand across his face but he’s still strapped down and he can’t blame them for that. “You killed him, and then what happened?” “Nothing. We just – came back to camp. I never thought anything would happen but god, what else can it be?” “Okay, breathe. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.”

“Does it hurt?” the doctor asks softly into the silence. “Yes it fucking hurts,” he almost laughs, “I have – so many bullet holes in me, of course it fucking hurts.” The doctor makes eye contact with the commander, and waits for her nod before turning to get him something for the pain.

“You’re going to stay here for now,” the commander decides, letting go of his hand to pat his arm instead. “I’ll leave it to the doctor to figure out what we can do for you medically. I want you to know that you’re still one of us, whatever has happened to you.” “Stay here.. in the hospital?” Anxiety is a sudden prickle across his skin. “I have to stay here?” “You look like a colander,” the commander reminds him with a wry smile. “Where else would you be? Your condition could change at any moment. We don’t understand what’s happening right now, so I want the medical professionals to keep an eye on you in case you, I don’t know, suddenly start bleeding.”

In case what? In case I turn into some kind of zombie? In case you want to cut me open to see what’s going on inside?

“I don’t think I’m dying,” he insists, a little frantic, “I walked all the way here, I can fight.” The commander looks down at him sidelong. “We have plenty of soldiers here, the wounded don’t have to fight.” “I can though,” he insists. “I want to. Give me a gun, I can do it. I’m – I’m bulletproof, right? Don’t you want me out there? I could be fucking unstoppable.” The commander and the doctor share an inscrutable look. “You’re staying here for now,” the commander repeats firmly. “That’s an order.”

[lydiagrimborn1117]

Whumpay Day 3

Prompt: Bruised

Characters: Viggo Grimborn/Caldor

Whumpee: Viggo Grimborn

Whumper: Caldor

Summary: Caldor is examining the wounds on Viggo's body to see if they're healing properly.

Caldor examined Viggo's body quietly, making sure all the whip lashes and cuts were healing properly and weren't in any way infected. Viggo shivered in disgust as Caldor's hands ran over his thighs. Thankfully Caldor only asked Viggo to take of his shirt and nothing more.

"How are your bruises healing?" asked Caldor as he examined the large bruising on Viggo's arms and shoulders.

"They're fine I think," answered Viggo "They just hurt is all."

Caldor nodded and kissed Viggo's forehead. He was glad to see that Viggo was healing better than expected. After all, there was only so much the man could take.

[siderealdei]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Naruto Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Senju Tobirama, Black Zetsu (Naruto) Additional Tags: Whumpay 2022, Missing-Nin Senju Tobirama, Exiled Senju Tobirama Series: Part 9 of Whumpay 2022, Part 5 of missing-nin tobirama au Summary:

Whumpay Day 11: Empathetic Healer / “I feel you.” / Self Sacrifice

Tobirama is finally ready to face down Zetsu.

[veryrealimagination]

Whumpay Day 01

I didn’t do all of them, likely won’t. But I will post the ones I managed.

Murdoch Mysteries - Appendicitis, William Murdoch

There was pain radiating from Murdoch’s side as he walked in the Station House. Julia had jabbed him in the side during the night, and he seemed to be still feeling the effects of that. He was also warmer than normal, and he hoped he wasn’t coming down with the sickness that had been passing through Toronto for the last month.

George and Henry weren’t around, which he took to meant that they were out on patrol. Detective Watts was clacking away at Henry’s desk. He caught a quick glance at Murdoch and frowned. “Detective, should you be in today?” he inquired, “You’re paler than normal.”

“I’m fine,” he said, looking over several notes and letters that he had gathered from the front desk. A particular spasm forced him to stand still for a few seconds before continuing to walk, breathing through the pain as he made his way to his office. Watts narrowed his eyes at the move, but didn’t do anything except turn back to his own reports.

Staying at his desk did nothing to stop the pain in his side, or the heating of his body. Murdoch even felt nauseous, grabbing a bucket and keeping it nearby in case he was sick. Which he did, when everyone started getting lunch and he smelled some of it wafting in his office. Watts, who had been looking every fifteen minutes, was particularly disturbed when he started coughed up the last of his breakfast and stood up to dump the contents and wash it out. The pain in his side flared with a burn, and he silently gasped before grasping the offending side.

Watts jumped up and entered his office without a knock. “Detective-” he tried, before the man was feeling his forehead before placing a hand on his bad side and pushing in. This time, his yell wasn’t silent and his knees buckled before he was grabbed and gently lowered.

“Constable McNabb, call for a wagon!” Watts ordered, getting attention from the rest of the bullpen.

“What are you doing to Murdoch, Watts?” Brackenreid questioned, seeing the younger man holding Murdoch off the floor.

“Checking my suspicions,” he said, watching McNabb ring up a wagon and another coming in after Brackenreid, “Appendicitis. I pressed on his right side and the pain got worse, evident by his scream.” The two of them hoisted the man back to his feet.

Murdoch didn’t like that implication. “I didn’t scream,” he defended.

“Scream and yell are roughly the same in meaning,” Watts stated, turning back to their superior, “Someone should alert Doctor Ogden that her husband will be heading into surgery.” The prospect didn’t agree with Murdoch, who somehow went even paler.

“Watts!”

He turned to the Inspector. “Words cannot be minced at this time. He has appendicitis and he will need to be operated on soon.” The constable and himself supported Murdoch to a waiting wagon that was told to rush if possible. “We will be back after seeing him in and making sure the doctor knows.” He got in with a returning Crabtree, who was shocked at the sight of the older detective and went along with them.

The bumps and drops that they encountered caused a never-ending amount of pain to go through his right. At least he hadn’t tried to be sick again, instead curling to protect his side.

Those at the hospital must have been warned about their arrival, taking Murdoch almost immediately. Julia was also waiting for the two in the waiting room. “Detective Watts, George,” she greeted.

“Hello, Doctor,” George greeted back.

“Doctor Ogden,” Watts nodded.

“I have you to thank for my husband’s quick diagnosis,” she said to Watts. He ducked his head in slight embarrassment, the novelty of being praised for his knowledge instead of admonished still new and shiny. “Although, I must admit, I’m curious as to how you figured it out.”

He straightened out his back, if not his gaze, keeping it down to the floor behind them. “There was a man, a Doctor Blumberg, that came to Temple while he was traveling through Canada. He talked about it to a couple of medical professionals. It was fairly interesting.”

“Blumberg?” she asked, “Oh, he’s a gynecologist, recently talked with him about some of the less than legal aspects of our line of work.”

“Doctor!” George said, mockingly scandalized.

“Oh, hush, George,” she waved off, smiling. “I believe the two of you will need to head back to the station if William is bed bound for two weeks. Cases will start piling up.”

[godestof3worlds]

Live. Die. Repeat AU except it's called Love. Die. Repeat.

-

The Merry Whump of May Day 8 - Begging Whumpay 2022 - "You're Worrying Me."

@whumpay2022 & @themerrywhumpofmay

[storyweaverofgondor]

Summary: The Battle in the Museum goes very differently. 

@whumpay2022 Bonus Day!

[whumpay]

Well, the poll has spoken. If you have suggestions for prompts, you can send an ask or put in a submission here. Thanks I’m advance.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Whumpay Day 13: nightmares

set mid-s2 | tagging @today-in-fic, @whumpay2022

Scully wakes, a cry of fear, or maybe pain, just barely contained in her throat. She lies there, gasping for breath and praying for her pulse to slow down, until she can recognize where she is. The crisp, starched sheets and unfamiliar surroundings give it away; the hotel room is connected to Mulder's by a thin door, and she's glad she didn't cry out for him to hear and be alarmed by. He never sleeps, but of the two of them, she thinks these days she's getting less rest.

She's not sure what possesses her to get up and walk over to the door, let alone knock — maybe the memory of his arms around her after Donnie Pfaster took her, or just a need for something, someone to ground her. All she can think of is the brightness of her nightmares, the counterintuitive white light that sparks uncontrollable terror in her chest.

Mulder opens the door fully awake, just like she'd expected, and the first words out of his mouth are, "Are you okay?"

Scully nods, then realizes that it's a lie, and the truth probably shows on her face. "I can't sleep," she says, not meeting his eyes. "I just-" she shrugs, suddenly feeling immensely vulnerable. She thinks of the Bureau therapist telling her to trust him, and she does; still, she doesn't want to be seen as weak.

Mulder seems to understand. "Is there any way I can help?" He asks, voice quiet and warm.

Scully swallows hard, because it hits her then that she wants someone to reassure her that it's all in her head, like her parents or siblings would when she was a child; but this isn't just in her head, she has a missing three months and a medical record to prove it. She shivers, whether from the AC-born chilliness of the hotel or from her own thoughts, and then Mulder's hand on her arm snaps her back out of her thoughts again.

"You're shaking," he says, and Scully looks down at her hands. They're trembling, visible even in the darkness. "You sure you're okay?"

All she can do is shake her head. "I just need to... to not be alone," she manages, and when she finally brings herself to look up into his eyes, Mulder offers a small, sad smile.

"Okay," he replies simply, and Scully crumbles.

She finds herself, again, wrapped in his arms, and she knows there's rules about being in the same hotel room like this, but she sleeps better leaned against Mulder, his arms loosely around her, than she has in weeks. Somehow, the nightmares can't get to her. She's safe with him.