Just a hint of Pain

What can I say? I like when characters are hurting.

[just-some-pink-frosting]

Sweat glittered like rhinestones on her chest, catching the low light of the bathroom with every stuttering breath.

He studied her, leaning on the door frame and eyeing the internal struggle that was leaking out into the movements of her arms, legs, and lips. Shivering. Twitching. Tiny whimpers escaping her slack mouth as her body turned against her.

She had propped herself against the wall, eyes shut and head thrown back, and he could practically see the pulse bounding in her throat. She looked rough.

Which made him even more surprised when she suddenly moved, tilting forward and reaching blindly around the countertop. Her fingernails were painted (chipping) with bubblegum pink nail polish.

"Looking for this?" He punctuated the words by rattling the barely present contents of the orange bottle. He kept his voice cool, didn't stop the smirk that crawled across his lips as her gaze found him. Her turquoise eyes were feral and frightened and she tucked herself further into the wall.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" She asked, her normally bubbly voice low and rasping like it was dragged over broken concrete.

"You left the window cracked in the den. I almost knocked over your fish tank, darling."

Those eyes shifted to the bottle and her shivering renewed.

"Give that to me."

"Hm. This? Do you need this?"

"Yes, now give it here."

He played a thoughtful expression over his face, contemplating the few pills he could see within.

"I don't think I will, actually. I have never seen you in such a state. It's almost concerning." His voice was soft and teasing, something that was not lost on her. She bristled.

"I could kill you."

"Oh, on a good day, sure. You almost did last month, do you remember? That bleeding just would not stop." He crouched before her, studying her expression and the rising tremors in her limbs. "But right now? No. No, pet, I don't think you can. You're worse than I've ever seen you."

To her credit, she did catch the man off guard as she lunged for the bottle. He truly didn't think she had it in her and he laughed, actually laughed, as her hands scratched at his chest and arm.

"GIVE. IT. TO. ME. NOW." Her voice dissolved into a choked off sob as her energy seemed to fail her and she crumbled into his lap.

The man, to his credit, didn't shove his nemesis off of him. He waited, steadying his own breathing as he watched her back rise and fall sluggishly. He could feel the heat of her seeping into his legs, feel the shivering intensify. Another glance at the bottle and the man sighed.

Laying a hand on the woman's back, he was shocked to feel the beating of her heart through her fevered skin. It was like a drum.

"Have you already taken some of these tonight?"

A pause. "Yes." Her reply was quiet, muffled by his thigh. Shifting himself, he turned her over so he could see her face. Gently, he laid two fingers along her throat while he unscrewed the bottle with the other hand.

"What do you use these for?" He asked, reading the label.

"Power dampeners." Not what the label said.

"Perscribed? Or street?"

Another pause. A hiccup in her breaths and a short slip of her pulse. "Street. Titan doesn't know."

He nearly chuckled again. That big bastard would likely kill her if he knew she was chemically weakening herself like this.

"Why not just quit?" He tipped her chin up and dragged his thumb over the line of her jaw as she spoke. Her voice was losing strength.

"I play 'too crucial of a role'." She mimed air quotes when she said this. Sighing, he held the little green pill just over her chapped and parted lips.

"You are killing yourself with these. You know that, right?" She nodded. "Before I give you this, I want to propose a deal."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed and a violent shivering swept over her as she opened her eyes to catch his own.

"Yeah?"

"You have 3 left after this. Once they are gone, you will stop buying trash to poison yourself with."

Her brows furrowed.

"I can't buy-"

"Let me finish. You will stop buying these off the street and you come to me instead. I will supply you with medical grade inhibitors."

"And what do you get from this deal, hm? Surely this isn't out of the goodness of your heart." His grip tightened, just a little, and she smirked. "What's the catch?"

"No catch, my dear. I get money, you get clean 'medication'. That's all."

"Right. Definitely not you seeking leverage over the third highest ranking super in the city." She shivered again, eyes squeezing shut and breath all but stopping. A moment of worry flashed through the man as he watched, but it passed as she relaxed once more.

"Not at all." He lied, "Purely transactional." He touched the pill to her lips and she took it eagerly, swallowing it dry. Within a handful of minutes, she seemed to breathe more easily and the tremors ceased. She almost dozed in his lap, his fingers carding slowly through the tangle of her hair.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" She asked in a whisper.

"Bare minimum for my new client." He whispered back. "I never let anyone dose alone."

"How considerate."

"Doesn't do me any good if they OD on my product."

"Villain."

"Pfft. Hero."

[proper-enrichment]

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[just-some-pink-frosting]

If I keep fighting, you'll think better of me, won't you?

There will be pride in your voice, praise in your touch, maybe?

If I push this blade deeper or bite this throat harder, I will be given a chance to rest.

I want to rest so badly but only in the looming sour dark that comes for me once I've been put away.

When I'm glinting in the sunlight, polished and pure, my bones hum with your command, and your power moves me forward, and I cannot bear the thought of standing still.

Who will fire the gun if not me? Who will relish the heat of the bloods splashed over my skin and the chill of the blades in my chest if not your confident, perfect little weapon?

I will keep fighting, keep pushing, keep digging my palms into my own body to stem the ocean within me from drying up, but promise me one thing?

Promise me rest when I am done. Promise me food and sleep and somewhere soft to land when I can no longer carry the weight of the battle.

I am yours to wield and yours to destroy. Maybe i can be yours to keep?

Maybe?

[seth-whumps]

caretaker is ill, feverish, barely awake. a loved one taps them on the shoulder to check on them, concerned. caretaker, in their delirious state, acts on instinct, reaching out to cup their friend's chin, whispering their name, already looking over them--as if they aren't the one nearing danger.

[bebx]

[needhealing]

Whumpee with Whumper as their emergency contact

Whumper doesn't know that they are, so they are surprised when they get a call one day from the hospital stating that a patient named Whumpee has come in.

Whumper knows who that is, is curious why they are listed and not Caretaker, so they go to the hospital to find out.

[just-some-pink-frosting]

Hey, friends! I made a quiz! ✨️

I've never done one before so be gentle, but it will tell you which of my living weapon OCs you'd be!

I'd love to hear your results if you do it!! I can go further into the details of the character if you want, too. Have fun!

[jordanstrophe]

Every day, Whumpee is brought to a room with a bolted chair, a tray of tools, and a mirror.

They're tortured to a brutal degree. Whumpee screams, sobbing through the pain, “Why!? Why are you doing th-this? Just tell me what you w-want!”

Their captors never speak; whumpee's never even heard their voices. Sometimes, they grab their face and force them to look into the mirror bleeding, shaking, barely conscious.

Then the moment ends, and it starts all over again.

On the other side of the glass sits Caretaker, watching while unharmed and being questioned.

Every time they don’t have an answer, whumpee takes the hit.

[seth-whumps]

brainwashing tropes are fantastic and I love a deep POV whumpee fighting against their own mind but I just had a vision of the team, weapons raised against a feral opponent wearing the face of their friend, turning towards caretaker/leader/whoever knows them best. "you're the only one they'll listen to. Tell them to stand down."

caretakers with hoarse, pleading voices, hands raised in surrender. "it's me, you know me! why are we fighting? you don't want to hurt us!"

leaders who hate their authority, commanding a firm, no-nonsense tone. "weapons down, Whumpee. that's an order."

brawn characters, arms outstretched, speaking plainly. "come on. y'know i don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to."

the rest of the team waits with bated breath. if this doesn't work, blood will be spilled. their last hope of getting Whumpee back relies on one character's words. that tense, pleading standoff, conflict in their eyes.

does it work? or does it take a fight to wake their friend from the nightmare?

[syncopein3d]

I like the idea that there's simply no hesitation in disabling whumpee, because the team and Leader know that they'd rather be critically injured than cause critical injury to the team.

There's guilt afterwards, everyone questions that decision, but recovering whumpee firmly supports Leader's decision to shoot them 5 times in the body and then choke them out manually when they didn't go down fast enough.

Whumpee maintains this support through their recovery from trauma surgery to survive bleeding and pneumothorax, and through the subsequent infection and fever. It's the only thing that eases their own guilt, the knowledge that both they are suffering for it and that the damage could have been so much worse.

They thank Leader for it time and time again, holding tight to their hand as they lie trembling and bandaged and struggling to breathe.

[needhealing]

🤌🏾

[silvercap]

Wahh anyone got any good whump scenarios bouncing around their head that they'd like to share with the class?

[syncopein3d]

A team member concealing an injury heroically helps pilot a plane or spaceship to safety. They tell the others they'll be right behind them, but something about their tone seems off to Leader, who comes back to check and finds them sprawled in the doorway to the cockpit. They're unconscious, pale, bleeding, and there was no sign of it five minutes ago that anyone could see. What does Leader do? Do they call everyone to help, or try to give the secretive member some dignity by treating them more discreetly?

[needhealing]

🤌🏾 chef's kiss!!

[needhealing]

Addicted hero with supplier villain

Hero takes meds to numb their physical and mental pain, knows it's hurting them more but they can't/won't stop.

Villaim provides but only if they get what they want from Hero. Favors, using Hero like a weapon or forcing them to hench for them. One day, Hero is out and begging Villain for more.

Villain agrees but only if Hero turns on their team.

"Either confess your little secret to your team..."

"I can't..."

"Or, you didn't let me finish, leave them. Work for me. Give yourself to me and I will take the pain from you permanently."

[whump-galaxy]

Something about a whumpee with regenerative powers. No one really takes it seriously when they get injured cause it really will just grow back. Even the whumpee is a bit blasé about their wounds.

But when the team completely ignores them in favor of another teammate’s injuries, not even stopping to give the whumpee pain medicine…

That’s a pain their body can’t fix.

[needhealing]

Writing down part of a whumpy dream I had last night so I don't forget to write it out later.

Captured and sold into a strange kind of servitude. Kept in a facility with tiled walls and tiny rooms lining corridors. There's 10-20 others here of a variety of genders. I meet a soft spoken woman that I am delivering items to (my first task). She is setting up her room with new items since she saved up enough money from the little jobs we get used for.

I am assigned to a tall, thin man. He smokes cigarettes and promises to take care of me as long as I work hard. He gifts me a radio for my tiny room.

My first big job is to drive with him across town to pay respects at a funeral. I'm dolled up and silent as he drives. He talks about how I need to control my emotions because my heartbeat will give me away if I'm not careful. His knuckles tap my chest rhythmically as he talks.

Funeral is a big affair. I stick close to my tall man and politely engage when I'm spoken to. I'm given a name that isn't mine and I roll with it. At some point I get very dizzy and I collapse, making everyone rush over. In my head I'm terrified I'm doing something wrong by making a scene and I'll get in trouble, but I can't move. Someone pours water into my mouth and I'm lifted and moved into a car.

(That's all I remember)

[needhealing]

Brutus II

On the walkway, surrounded by the hiss of overheated mechanical joints and the shouts of other staff as they try to work around them, the medics try to resuscitate a pilot.

There's five of them, an appropriate amount for the task, but to Eigen, it made the space far too crowded. Their hands were folded one over the other and settled over the sternum of one very still, very injured Brutus. They rocked their weight down in textbook compressions as the medic across from them called out orders.

The Guerrilla peered down with four massive eyes, making Eigen keenly aware of all the eyes in the hangar. Watching. Critical of every move, every second that went by that the pilot did not make a move.

They were failing her.

Eigen had never met Brutus. Most pilots received their maintenance from their handlers and not the regular medical team. They were only called upon for emergencies and this station had been lucky to not have many of those. Eigen spent most of their time treating scrapes, burns, and the occasional broken bone.

But now? Here was a pilot, a great hero of stellar battles, under their hands, in their care.

With no heartbeat.

A curse finds its way between Eigen's gritted teeth. 'I'm not failing you, Brutus. I won't.'

A call for defibrillation has them moving back and lifting their hands, waiting. The spidery machine clamps onto Brutus' bruised ribcage and, for a moment, every muscle in the woman's body tenses before relaxing. The AED drone eases its grip, but does not move. It waits for a other command.

With bated breath, Eigen leans forward to hover an ear over the pale lips, fingers searching at the throat.

"Pulse restored. We got her." Brutus breathes in short, whispering bursts against the medic's cheek and they watch the shaky movements of the (definitely broken) ribs. They sigh through their nose, relieved, before straightening their back.

"Let's move her. Ain't out of the woods yet."

The stretcher hums to life, lifting the pilot a few feet from the ground and the team guides her through the crowd of cheering mechanics and techs. Eigen winces, glancing back at the Guerrilla .45 and its dark gaze. The machine's body reflected the damage seen on its pilot and mechanics raced to stop leaks, reset joints, and pump fuel back into vital areas.

Brutus. Guerrilla. 45.

Machine. Weapon. Damaged. Dying.

(Thank you @syncopein3d for the spider defib idea!)

[needhealing]

His pilot is failing.

He stands with the others, watching the screens displaying her vitals and gritting his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache.

His pilot, his sweet, talkative, smart little pilot is DYING and he can only stand there and watch.

The mechanics are racing along the platforms outside the control room, preparing to secure the massive mech being piloted into the hangar by the reckless (and still dying) pilot.

"Come on, Brutus. Get in here." His voice is low and grating. His eyes watch as a new screen pops up. HULL DAMAGED. PILOT OXYGEN AT 86%.

Not good.

The scream of the too-fast flight grows louder and the shimmering diamond hull of the Guerrilla .45 comes into view. Someone is shouting to brace and the flying armor slams into the securing station with enough force to shake the entire hangar. Clamps descend from the ceiling and clamp the mech under its arms as its feet are locked into place. Naturally, the machine shuts down and the chassis, crisscrossed with jagged gashes, opens with a groan to reveal its pilot.

Brutus hangs limply in her harness, her hands slack around the dual helms and her curls falling loose from a high bun. Smoke winds lazily from the dash and the screens before him blare again. HULL CONTAINMENT DISENGAGED. PILOT OXYGEN 80%.

"Get her the fuck out of there!" Someone orders beside him. His boots seem to be made of lead as he watches the medical team swarms the Guerrilla. Brutus is lowered from the cockpit and settled onto a stretcher on the floor. He loses sight of her immediately but he understands what is happening all at once. He sees one of the medics begin bobbing in a steady, rhythmic pattern just as the HUD overhead reads a perfect little flatline. 'Oh, Brutus...'

His pilot is failing.

(Continue?)

[needhealing]

Really obsessed with the idea of "pulled from the machine too quickly" whump

Mech pilot that plugs into a massive mech suit and is ripped away from the machine before they have time to prepare

Exploration of normally unsafe places through a human body piloting a robot that is elsewhere and forgetting what it's like to be human after unplugging from the devices

Shaking, nausea, seizures from the sudden throwback into a soft mortal shell

Misfiring ports that cause memory loss, temporary blindness, or arrhythmias

Addiction to the power of the machine, the highs of that strength and freedom

Overdoses on stimulants to keep the human body powered enough to continue piloting

Uuugh I want to read fics or RP this right tf now

[parsonkenny101-deactivated20161]