A kinda specific whump concept I’ve been stuck thinking about:
Doctor has to preform some sort of medical treatment on the field --cauterizing a wound, removing an arrow, it doesn’t specifically matter--on Whumpee. Of course, without any pain medication or anesthesia.
Whumpee isn’t exactly thrilled at the concept. Maybe they’re a rambling mess, giving a pained grin as they desperately try to convince their team that they’re fine. “Th-, ah, this? It’s nothing, I-I’ve taken worse, ya know? So, uh, so let’s just keep going and do this later, yeah?”
Or maybe they’re angry; fear and pain and bone deep exhaustion coalescing into a feral rage. They back away, scowling and looking ready to fight despite their injury. “Just leave it the hell alone! I swear to god--I swear, if you don’t fucking drop it, I’m going to--...Leave me alone!”
Or maybe they’re just plain terrified. Terrified of being hurt again, especially by people they’ve grown to trust. And they can’t bring themselves to do anything but beg, choking on their own sobs and curling inward. Can’t they just rest? Haven’t they been hurt enough? “Please! Please just stop! I can’t do it, I can’t I can’t--please.”
Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter. As much as the team doesn’t want to hurt Whumpee, there’s no other choice.
And the moment I’m stuck on is the switch. The moment when Whumpee goes from pleading or fighting or attempting to run to simply crying, to weak and exhausted to escape. I want them to cling to Caretaker desperately, even though they were fighting against the embrace moments ago. I want them to break in Caretaker’s arms.
And I want Caretaker to hold them tight. Hugging them close, both to comfort them and to restrain their flailing, desperate attempts to escape. I want Caretaker to whisper assurances into their ear, trying to distract them from the pain for even a moment. I want them to pull Whumpees face into their chest, because if they can’t avoid the pain, at least they don’t have to see it happening.
