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
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.
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.
Loud, thudding steps made their way slowly to her cell. She scrambles to the corner desperately, tears already starting to pour as she mumbles to herself. “Please, no, please, help me, someone.”
The steps come to a stop and she squeezes her eyes shut, pretending to be somewhere else, but the familiar, awful smell of her captor made her incapable of escaping reality. There’s a huff of air and she flinches at the small sound.
“Look at me.” The voice is stern and deep. Her eyes open wide but are focused on the floor, too afraid to face her captor.
There’s another huff and she jolts before forcing her gaze to the man’s eyes, dilated and manic.
“You know, they’re talking about your disappearance on the news.” Her captor says casually. He watches her terrified expression as he plays with a large, serrated knife. “There are a lot of people looking for you, you know. Do you think they’ll find you?”
She starts to rock, her lips screwed shut as tears began to drip to her cheeks.
“It’s no fun if you don’t answer my questions, dear. Do you think the police will find you, or your parents? Maybe even your boyfriend?”
She whimpers again and he sighs. He crouches to his knees and grips the braids of her hair. “Answer me.”
Her quivering lips manage a word. “C-Coming.”
“What?”
She squeezes her eyes shut, “They’re coming to s-save me.”
He was close enough to her now that she coulfd feel his breath on her face, the alcohol on it stinging her nostrils.
“Is that so.” She watches his lips pull into a smirk, “Well, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to use this knife- yes, don’t shake your head at me- I’m going to cut you and cut you until you believe that no one is coming to save you.”
She bites her lip as she begins to sob, her body almost jolting with her shivers. “Please, please! Let me go! Please!”
“I’m going to cut up your legs,” he ignores her as he places the blade of the knife onto her right calf. “Your arms too,” he makes a tiny cut on her forearm and she lets out a squeal, watching with horror as deep red blood dripped from her dark brown skin.
“Then we’ll go all the way up-” His knife trails up her body until it rests on her tear stained cheek, “-until I mark up that pretty face of yours. How does that sound?”
“Please, sir!” Her voice wobbled as she cries, “No one’s coming to save me. Please don’t hurt me!”
Her captor instead gives a sadistic grin, “Don’t lie to me, darling. I know you don’t believe that. But don’t worry. I’m here to make you.”
He moves closer and she starts to scream before the knife even touches her skin.
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.
For @whumpay2022 ("why didn't you tell me?") and @themerrywhumpofmay ("Relax", comfort, branded, trembling - yes, I hit them all) day seven!
series | Captive Princess
words | 958
notes | Slavery, having been branded, Italian swearing, missing romantic cues! This would be set after Mads has realized that Piero is a villain and he knows she knows, and he has taken some action. This one is for @stripedroseandsketchpads!
The pain was so much sharper than the bruises she was used to, though of course not as bad as the time that she had been run through with the sword. (A little humor to help take her mind off it. It did not help.) Having to kneel made it worse, and every time she moved it twinged as well, her skin pulling at the edges. There was really nothing to be done with it – it was not in a position where she could tie a bandage, and she couldn’t spend the day in bed with a compress on her hip. So she clenched her teeth and tried to endure it the way that the queen’s pet had to endure whatever she was feeling privately while the ladies of the court joked and conversed around her. Lady Arianta, who was using her as a music stand, was playing her lute badly, and the faltering notes in uneven rhythm grated on her ear even more than was reasonable.
Marina had been on the other side of the room for some time, leaning on the sill as she stared out of the water at the Grand Canal. It would probably have been better to be less obvious about waiting for a response to her message, but perhaps, Maddalena thought, she was just being resentful. The queen has to keep you like this, she reminded herself. She must keep up the pretense.
But when Marina finally turned away from the window, stretching out her arms and rolling her shoulders, she met Maddalena’s eyes and immediately assumed a concerned expression, although she tried to hide it. To help her, Maddalena averted her own eyes, concentrating on watching the music upside-down so that she would know when to turn the page.
“You are all dismissed,” Marina announced abruptly. “I have an itch, and I want my pet to scratch it.” Maddalena’s cheeks burned, but it worked: the ladies gathered their things, handing them to the pages, and headed for the door. Lady Arianta closed her music and reached out to run a fingertip down the side of Maddalena’s face until the kneeling woman looked up and took in the lady’s smirk. Finally, they were alone, and Maddalena slowly began to stand up. At her wince and stagger, Marina strode forward and helped her up, and Maddalena reflexively looked around, although the door had been shut behind the courtiers. “What did he do to you?”
“I – it’s …” Maddalena hardly knew where to begin, and decided to simply avoid the need to describe what had happened by settling herself on the bed and lifting her skirts and petticoats to show the livid brand on her hip. It seemed larger than she remembered, and she had to look away from it, holding her breath to stop the tears. Marina was leaning on the bed above her and staring down at it, her face pale, until she finally pushed away and paced about the room.
“Accidenti al cazzo,” she said, seething. “Ucciderò quello stronzo!”
Weakly, Maddalena hushed her. “They will hear you, Serenissima, and these are not the kind of profanities that would be expected under the circumstances.”
Marina was not beautiful, but the anger that animated her strong features made her stunningly fierce as she stalked back to Maddalena and loomed over her, hands placed on either side of her body on the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, and Maddalena flinched without meaning to – and Marina froze. There was a long, still moment, and then the queen retreated to stand up in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she said in a slightly strangled voice. “You – of course. May I –?”
“Yes, Serenity,” was the quiet reply. Maddalena tipped her head back and examined the underside of the silk tester as she clenched her fists around her skirts; Marina leaned forward again, more gently, to investigate. She reached out with a finger to touch the reddened skin around the edges of the brand, and Maddalena found herself trembling without being entirely certain why.
“That’s my seal,” Marina said. Her voice was quiet now, but it trembled as well. “He used the royal seal to brand you like – like an animal.”
“It’s very clever.” Maddalena sighed and tried to relax despite the finger brushing her hip. It didn’t hurt, but she couldn’t help but be aware of it in a way beyond the ordinary. “If anyone were to see it, they would assume it was done by you in a temper, or by someone else on your orders. Queen Marina and her terrible temper, how poorly she treats her innocent slave, and so on. You know … they will be talking about this. Queen Marina and her inflamed lusts, she dismissed her court in the middle of the day because she was desperate to make use of her innocent slave’s tongue. And so on.”
The disadvantage of being so fair-complected was that the slightest of blushes always made itself instantly known on Marina’s face. Well, Maddalena didn’t like to be so blunt, but it was what the courtiers would be saying. They would need to improve their strategy to combat such gossip, somehow.
Marina climbed up on the bed beside Maddalena and pushed herself back toward the pillows, then pulled up her skirts slightly and ruffled them about. “Go to the physicians and tell them that I require them to treat you,” she said as she pinched her cheeks to make them even more flushed.
“This has been rather short,” said Maddalena. “Our sequestration, I mean.”
“Well, everyone will know how good you are, then,” said Marina, and bit her lower lip hard. “Or how lusty I am. Either way, they will still believe it.”
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.
