#Aftermath of Torture

[martyr-inthedark]

Favorite Food

Tw: food whump, aftermath of torture, unreliable narrator, unreality

"Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

Whumpee's eyes snapped to look up towards Whumper (not at him, never to look at him).

"S-sorry, sir?" It's best to ask for clarification than to do anything too soon. It was a lesson that caused Whumpee to chip a few too many teeth. Their heart pounded in their ears. It's been so long since they've heard their own name.

"I said," Whumper's fingers tapped the table he was sitting at, and his nose crinkled, "Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

Dread swelled in Whumpee's chest. There was a right answer, surely. They took a breath, a whimper escaping their throat. Did they really have a say? Was this just another trick? A test Whumpee was doomed to fail? There were two options. They could be honest, and risk Whumper ruining another part of their identity. Or, they could lie, and Whumper could punish them for lying (he knew every time, the bastard-).

"Everything okay?" An intense blush filled Whumpee's pale face. Shit. Shit, they took too long. There was a right answer to this riddle. There had to be.

"Sorry, my lord. I am only deserving of what you give me," Whumpee finally choked out. They did not see but rather felt Whumper's eyes fall on their face for the first time all day. They could do nothing under his gaze except tremble on their knees and silently pray for mercy. They sat listening to the gentle 'hmph' from their master.

Whumpee flinched when Whumper stroked their hair, their first sign of affection in a long time. Whumpee wilted into their hand as cold finger tips traced down the side of their head, pushing hair behind their ear, falling down their cheek and finally landing under their chin. Whumpee's lip trembled as their gaze was directed to Whumper's fierce expression.

"Oh, my poor doll," Whumper tsked. Whumpee's new tears followed the same route Whumper's fingers did just moments before. "Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

"I'm sorry," Whumpee started, mostly to soothe the risk that Whumper was getting frustrated with them, but also to buy themselves a moment to think. They had not thought of their favorite food in so long, after realizing that going home was not an option (anything to ease the pain of loss). Thinking back to a time that felt far away, it came to them, what they missed most. "I'm s-my apologies, sir. Um. I really love... it's hard to pick. Potato soup, or really any soup. Mostly potatoes. Sir."

"That's really interesting." Whumper let go of their chin and their eyes finally fell to their rightful place on the floor.

"Sorry," Whumpee whispered, falling quiet once more. They braced themselves for a bitter insult, a smack on the back of the head, anything, and nothing ever came. They continued to silently cry. What was Whumper going to do? They answered the question. Was it right? The not-knowing was killing them. How could they be good for Master if they didn't know what he wanted?

...

Evening rolled around and Whumper beckoned Whumpee to sit at the table. Dinner had been set, and Whumpee sank into their seat, not wishing to further annoy their master. It wasn't unusual for Whumper to want Whumpee to sit with them. However, it was rare that they had a plate or bowl, and the conversation from earlier still haunted their day. Whumper gestured, and Whumpee lifted the cover off their meal, and—

Potato soup.

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed they dared to look up at Whumper. This wasn't for them, it couldn't be. Whumper had already started eating, and though he had his mouth full, he commanded Whumpee to eat. Tears swelled in their eyes and they shook their head. They weren't supposed to eat until Master was done.

"Whumpee," Whumper warned.

Whumpee flinched. Whumper's chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. Whumpee shuttered at every slow step toward them. Finally, Whumper crouched down below Whumpee, taking their quivering hands.

"Look at me, sweetheart," Whumper said, gently stroking Whumpee's forearm. Whumpee sniffled and did as asked. Whumpee, for the first time all day, saw Caretaker's loving and concerned eyes. "The soup is for you, Whumpee. Just for you. You can eat it, or not eat it. Whenever you want. If you want to wait for me to leave, that is okay. If you want to eat it now, that is okay, too. Your decision is safe here, okay?"

Whumpee nodded, and wept. And they wept hard. No sniffles. No simple tears. They properly wept as Whumper-no-Caretaker pulled their starving frame into a hug.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm so sorry, Caretaker." All Whumpee could do was breathe out the words between sobs. They never felt more broken, more irreparable, than right there in the reality of Caretaker's arms.

"I know, doll, I know. You don't have to be."

"I thought—I must be an awful person—I thought you were him."

"You're okay. You're not in trouble. I'm glad you see me, now. I'm glad you're here."

Whumpee felt sick of themselves. They wished for a day they could wake up in the morning and feel whole. They wished for a day they weren't afraid of blinking wrong. They wished for a day where they could just eat their favorite food and it not be cold from waiting on them to get over their meltdown.

[whumblr]

Can we talk about one of the overlooked duties in a Caretaker's life? Informing the others what happened to Whumpee afterwards? Because it's a whole 'nother flavour of angst that I'm here for.

Caretaker having to call Whumpee's partner, family, friends. Bonus if they call from Whumpee's phone and they hear a cheerful 'hey love' or 'why you calling so late', and the tone just shifts when they hear a shaky voice that's not Whumpee's.

"Are they okay?!" And Caretaker turns to the still figure in the hospital bed and goes: "Well, they're alive and out of danger."

Maybe Caretaker just breaks, their own pent up stress and fear finally releasing, and they're sobbing on the phone, either in relief or in "I don't know if they're going to be okay." "Please come quick."

Or a calm "They're going to be fine." Long pause. "Physically."

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 3 Part 3

Again the winner of last week's poll! There won't be a poll this week because I'm planning something a bit different. I hit 1000 followers this past week and have been wracking my brain about how to celebrate! Wasn't up for doing prompts or adding more projects to my list, though, so I didn't want to go that route.

But I did come up with something that I think everyone will really enjoy. Especially those of you who have been voting for Carry Your Heart (I see you in the tags!). So look out for that post.

In addition, I've just posted the first chapter of Arc 2 on AO3! Link below.

Story Summary: Jack and Maddie install a new ghost shield on the house which activates the moment Danny tries to step into his home. His secret is out and his parents are determined to excise the ghost from their son.

Luckily Danny isn't alone. The Young Justice, Sam, Tucker, and Jazz aren't going to leave him to suffer.

Arc 1: AO3

Arc 2: AO3 (incomplete); Tumblr - First, Final

Arc 3: First, Previous

Word Count: 1.4k

-----

Fire rushing through him jolted Danny awake. His back arched as he cried out. He screwed his eyes tight, not wanting to see what torture his parents were going to come at him with next when he realized what the sound of his cry meant: the muzzle was gone.

As were the restraints. And he was lying on something soft. Trying hard not to hope, he opened his eyes.

Sam and Jazz were leaning over him, concern clear on their faces. They were in some sort of ambulance or van.

“How are you feeling,” demanded Sam.

Danny took a moment to answer, his chest was pure agony. He didn’t even want to think what it would feel like to sit up. And even past that, everything was sore. Though the fire that had woken him up had dissipated, the tell-tale feel of ecto-dejecto. “Pretty much the worst I’ve ever felt,” he answered honestly.

Sam and Jazz both winced and his sister grabbed his hand. He squeezed her fingers weakly.

At the foot of his bed stood Tim in full Red Robin getup and Kon as Superboy.

He couldn’t hold back the smile as he met Tim’s gaze. “You came,” he said.

Tim didn’t smile back, but some tension eased out of his shoulders. “I always will,” he said. “Been telling you that since we were ten years old.”

“I know. I’ve always known. Thank you.”

Jazz squeezed his hand again and he looked at her. “Red Robin and Superboy are going to take you away from here. Robin will help you recover.”

Sam nodded. “Yep. And the rest of us are gonna focus on making sure Amity is safe for ghosts once and for all.”

Danny shook his head. “I should be there with you guys, fighting.”

“Nope!” interrupted Jazz. “Not even a little. You’re going to focus on getting better, got it, Danny? That’s all we want from you.”

“But the ghosts—”

Sam covered his mouth with her hand. “Stop it right there. Tucker is working with Impulse and Wonder Girl to get the portal locked up. No one will be coming through. No one—ghost or human—will be in any danger while you’re gone. I promise.”

Danny slumped into the bed. Even the slight change in position caused waves of pain to radiate from his chest even through the healing ice he could feel implanted in his body. He whimpered and closed his eyes until the throbbing receded just a bit. “I trust you. I do, it’s just…”

“You’re used to taking care of everyone,” finished Jazz for him. “We know. So let us take care of you for a change. We love you, Danny.”

“Love you, too, Jazz. Sam.”

“Be good for bird-brain there, got it?” ordered Sam.

Danny gave her a half-smile. “Are Tim and I ever good together?”

She laughed. “Well, don’t burn down Gotham, capiche?”

“Capiche.”

“We have to go now,” said Jazz.

Danny gripped her hand tighter. “Don’t leave me.”

Jazz winced, but leaned down to kiss his forehead. “We need to make sure the Guys in White aren’t going to get involved further. And you need to get someplace safe.”

Danny huffed a half laugh. “Gotham is safe?”

Jazz rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at a joke. “For you it is. Now, I’m leaving Red and Superboy with a case full of ectoplasm for you and our entire supply of ecto-dejecto. I just gave you your first injection. Please try and eat something and drink your ectoplasm regularly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Jazz.”

Jazz sniffed and it was only then that Danny realized it was wetter than usual and her eyes were watery. He tried not to feel bad for his jokes when she replied, “Yes, it is whatever I say. Glad you agree.”

Sam cackled, and now that he was paying attention, Danny could hear the hysterical edge to it. “You’d better text us multiple times a day, ghost boy. Don’t try and lie to us, either. Kon’ll tell me the truth about your condition. And as soon as we can arrange it, we’re coming out your way for a visit.”

“Course I will, Sam. Give Tuck my best?”

“Duh. He wishes he could’ve come with us, you know.”

Danny nodded. “But he’s better with the tech stuff and that is just as time sensitive.”

“Yeah. Now, get some sleep,” Sam ordered. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”

Danny gave the rote answer after too many all-nighters taking care of ghost attacks before school, “I’m dead, I don’t need sleep.”

His sister squeezed his hand. “Ghosts who just went through what you did need their sleep. Love you, Danny. Get well and I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you, Jazz.”

She kissed his forehead one more time, followed by Sam. And with another two rounds of farewells and love yous, he was alone with Tim and Kon.

“Thanks for coming,” he said again.

“Obviously we weren’t going to leave you there,” said Kon. “Being a lab subject isn’t fun. Especially not that kinda lab experiment.”

Danny couldn’t quite hold back the flinch at that description. It was accurate, but blunt.

Tim walked over until he was sitting by Danny’s bed. “Just listen to Jazz and get some rest. We’re going to be taking the long route to Gotham by going south to start. If we stop for food in a few hours, think you could handle a smoothie?”

Danny shrugged and bit back a yawn. “Could try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Kon moved towards the front of the vehicle as well. “Looks like it’s time for us to skedaddle. I’ll keep the road from jostling you, ghost-boy.”

Danny gave a small smile and let his eyes close. As he did, he tried to mumble his thanks and he hoped it came across.

---

The next time he woke was more gentle. Someone was tapping on his shoulder and calling his name. But even so, as he was pulled closer to awareness, the pain made itself more and more known. He tried to cling to the darkness, but the tapping wasn’t stopping, nor was the person calling him.

He blinked open his eyes to see Tim’s concerned face. He wasn’t wearing the domino anymore, or his costume. Just a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Hey, Danny,” said Tim. “I’m going to need you to try and eat a bit right now. Kon got us those smoothies I mentioned. I’ve also got yogurt if that’ll be easier for you. But the smoothie will have more nutrients.”

Danny closed his eyes. He wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to eat. Why did Tim have to bring him back to consciousness for this? He hurt and just wanted to sink back into oblivion.

The tapping on his shoulder began again. “I know, Danny. But you have to eat something. And you should take some ectoplasm, too. So just stay awake for a few minutes.”

“Mm ‘wake,” said Danny without opening his eyes. He shifted his weight, hoping to push himself up to eat, only to scream in pain as his chest protested any movement.

“Shit! Don’t move,” said Tim too late. “I’ve got a spoon here. I’ll feed it to you, okay? So just stay exactly where you are.”

Danny gripped his sheets, unable to do anything else as wave after wave of pain over took him. Tim kept up a litany of reassurances and stroked his hair. Eventually, Danny was able to think past it again.

“Don’t think I can sit up,” said Danny.

“Of course not,” agreed Tim. He held a styrofoam cup between his knees and carefully took off the lid and straw. “Just let me. Take at least a few bites. Swallow as is, don’t try and chew. Just do what you can, okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Danny and Tim fed him the first bite.

Danny hated this. Hated it so much. Here he was being spoon fed like a baby all because his parents… He shut his eyes and took the next bite. He wasn’t going to finish that thought. Tim was here and that’s what mattered.

Danny wasn’t sure how much he ate, but it couldn’t have been much. His eyelids were getting heavier and heavier and the pull of oblivion stronger.

“Wait, Danny. Stay awake just a little longer, okay?”

Danny groaned but forced his eyes open again.

Tim showed him a bottle of ectoplasm. “Just a few swallows of this, too. Okay?”

He didn’t want to. He’d rather just go to sleep again, but he opened his mouth obediently. By the time he finished his third spoonful, he couldn’t fight it anymore and slumped into the bed. The pain receded back into blackness for a time.

-----

Next

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Danny is going to be getting all the comfort throughout this. All of them will, tbh. Because no one is happy and they all need a hug or five.

Let me know what you think!

[aceofwhump]

Torchwood 4x07 "Immortal Sins"

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumptober Day 30

Recovery - Hospital Bed - Holding Back Tears - "What have I done?"

Warning amputation... quadruple amputation.

Quiet moans left Whumpee's lips as Caretaker adjusted them to a sitting position and tucked pillows around them to keep them sitting up.

"How are you feeling this morning?", Caretaker sat down in a chair next to the bed, "did you sleep well?"

"S-still sore from the procedures", Whumpee whispered, "I still feel them", Whumpee's eyes began to water.

Caretaker reached for a tissue, and dotted at Whumpee's eyes.

"I know" Caretaker sighed, they looked down at what was left of Whumpee's arms and legs. They had been removed by a madman with a power saw. After their rescue, doctors had to go in and correct the amputated limbs, making the stubs even shorter.

"Is it okay if I apply the medicine ointment now for you?", Caretaker smiled weakly, "I know those phantom pains are horrible. Would a little massage help you?"

Whumpee shook as they tried not to cry, they nodded to let Caretaker start.

"Here take a drink first my dear", Caretaker reached for a cup and placed the straw to Whumpee's lips.

Whumpee took small sips, they felt their was a knot in their throat.

Caretaker set the cup down and cupped Whumpee's cheek.

"You don't have to hold back tears in front of me.... you know that right? You have every right to cry, scream, and be angry. What that person did to you... what they took from you... I understand. You are uncomfortable and trying to be brave, but you don't have to do that, not any more."

Whumpee huffed a few times, trying to contain themself. They looked down over themself. Their missing arms and legs. Just stumps.

"Wh... why did this happen... who does this to someone?", Whumpee whispered, "please Caretaker. Help me understand?"

Caretaker looked over them, "I know you are use to me being the fix all the problems person. I unfortunately don't think I can fix this with just talking, and I don't think I have the words that can even start explaining how sorry I am that this happened to you. The guilt I feel that I wasn't their to protect you. I'm so sorry."

Whumpee sniffled a little.

"Can I, can I have a hug", Whumpee whispered.

"Yes you can absolutely have a hug", Caretaker stood from their chair and leaned over the bed, "you know you can always have hugs."

Caretaker lifted Whumpee up and pulled them close.

"I'm here for you. I will help you to the best of my abilities", Caretaker cuddled Whumpee, "I promise you."

Whumpee nodded. They buried their face into Caretaker's shoulder and started to cry.

Caretaker gently ran their hand up and down Whumpee's back.

After a few minutes Whumpee looked up.

"H-how am I supposed to live like this. The doctors already said prosthetics wouldn't work for me. I can't even correctly ride in the car."

Caretaker nodded, "well, in a few days, we will receive a harness seatbelt. This will be able to be installed into any cars you ride in. It will keep you safe", Caretaker started to lay Whumpee back down, "for everything you can't do... you have me to help you. Oh, and you will get a few nurses to help you as well. You'll have one every other day."

Caretaker started to massage the ointment on, "after this and breakfast, what would you like to do? We have some free time today."

"I don't know", Whumpee watched them, "I don't have a lot of energy right now."

"Well I get that. We can have a low energy day if you like. How about we find a series to watch. I'll order some snacks and drinks; we can cuddle if you like", Caretaker smiled.

"I don't know if I can stay awake long enough to watch movies", Whumpee started to get upset again.

Caretaker looked at them with concern, "hey", they whispered.

"I'm sorry", Whumpee sobbed, "I don't... I don't mean to be mean, but..."

"Whumpee you don't have to feel bad or anything. If you are not feeling up to it, that's fine. I'm just talking out loud for if you wanted to do something", Caretaker smiled, "we don't have to do anything at all if you don't want to. I will quite literally sit beside you all day and keep you company or climb in that hospital bed to cuddle with you if you want me to. Anything you want."

Whumpee sniffled a little, causing Caretaker to grab another tissue.

"Cuddles would be nice", Whumpee hiccuped from crying.

"Yeah, we can cuddle. I'll get breakfast in you, then you can pick where we will cuddle", Caretaker smiled, "do you want me to read to you?"

"No", Whumpee looked down, "can we just talk? Like we use to."

"Yes absolutely", Caretaker nodded.

Caretaker laid Whumpee into their bed. Then climbed in with them.

"Alright scoochie, scooch", Caretaker joked as they squeezed in. Whumpee's bed had guard rails on the side so they wouldn't roll out. This made their bed a little snug.

They laid on their side and hugged Whumpee close to them.

One hand wrapped around Whumpee in a hug. Caretaker played with Whumpee's hair with their other hand.

"What do you want to talk about?", Caretaker smiled, they leaned in and placed a gentle kiss to Whumpee's forehead, "I'm all ears."

"Anything except for the amputation", Whumpee sighed, "but I might warn you. I may fall asleep."

"That's fine", Caretaker chuckled, "you need your rest. I may fall asleep as well. We can have a sleep day today."

Caretaker thought for a few moments.

"Ah, I know. That writer you like.. they are coming out with a new book, and I've already pre-ordered it for us", Caretaker smiled, "while you were resting in the hospital I went ahead and read the series as quickly as I could to get an idea of what was going on. I am completely caught up, and I understand why you enjoy the series."

Whumpee's eyes twinkled, "you did?"

"Yes we still have a month or so until it ships to us, but we can read it together if you like" Caretaker smiled, "or if you want, I'll help flip the pages for you while you read. I'll read it after you're done. Whichever you want."

"That would be fun to read it together", Whumpee smiled.

Caretaker grinned, that was the first smile since the accident.

Caretaker watched as Whumpee's eyes closed and opened again.

"I think you are getting tired", Caretaker sat up for a blanket.

"I think so to", Whumpee smiled weakly as Caretaker pulled the blanket up and covered them both.

"I think I am too", Caretaker yawned back, "do you want your bed back, or do you want me to stay here?"

"Please, will you stay with me", Whumpee pleaded.

"Yes of course I will" Caretaker went back to playing with Whumpee's hair, "I'll stay right here for as long as you need me to... I promise."

Whumpee nodded.

Caretaker left another gentle kiss on Whumpee's forehead when they finally fell asleep.

'I'm so sorry', Caretaker thought to themself as they cupped Whumpee's cheek, 'you have been through something I would never wish on anyone. You are being so brave, but I know you Whumpee. You are so scared. Even a little ashamed. You are always so self-conscious.'

Caretaker lovingly watched them sleep.

"I love you so much", Caretaker whispered, causing Whumpee sleepily smile.

Caretaker leaned up one last time to kiss Whumpee's forehead.

"I promise... everything is alright."

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

@theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

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@starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

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@whumprince @kaz-of-crows

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@deafeninglittlecrown @jumpywhumpywriter

@blackbirdsinatrenchcoat @mylifeisonthebookshelf

@thenormalestever @whatwhump

@galatic-worm

[ro-sham-no]

Sam’s wall breaks, and he won’t stop screaming.

it's his birthday so you KNOW i had to whump my boy

It’s been two days and fifteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming. 

Blood droplets fly out of his mouth with wracking coughs as he chokes on hurried inhales, mucosal spit gumming up his trachea.

It’s been two days and sixteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

The only times he’s been silent in the last two days and seventeen hours is when he’s unconscious. The first bout - four hours and twenty-three minutes of silence - Dean’d just clocked him in the jaw when it was clear Sam was going to scream himself into involuntary suffocation - diaphragm and abdominal muscles locking up from the abuse. Dean knocked him unconscious for those four hours and twenty-three minutes, after six hours of his weeping and gnashing of teeth.

By the time he had woken up, Dean had shots of sedative and they were two hours into a twenty-eight-hour drive to Bobby’s - if nothing else, Dean’s efficient. Sam didn’t take notice.

And if the sounds he won’t stop making can be described as screaming, then the sounds he makes when Dean has to touch him while he’s awake can only be described as a death wail. Wailing and scrambling to get away from Dean with a fervor that earns them both violent shades of bruises.

It’s been two days and twenty hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

During the drive, whenever Sam’s anguish would escalate back into hair-tearing, along with beating his fists against his arms and thighs and threatening to bash his head into the windows of the Impala, Dean would pull over to force another dose of sedative into him. 

The sounds he makes while Dean tries to subdue him… Well, even in the most remote location on their route, Dean was afraid the farmer whose house they could just barely see in the distance would be able to hear. It had to have been at least three miles away, with how flat the land was, and Dean was still worried that someone would hear. 

Sam won’t stop screaming, and his screams are deafening- except when he’s unconscious, from the shots Dean gives him, the screaming is just in Dean’s mind. A haunting kind of tinnitus that rings in Dean’s ears, just as nauseating as the real deal, but a touch less heartbreaking.

He only allows himself to sleep for the first few hours of Sam being down for the count, despite the catatonic state that seemed to have taken over him. Dean wasn’t about to risk Sam waking up without him. They sleep together in the car, in the weeds and the bramble off of back roads, hidden from view. Baby’s paint has never been so scratched up.

It’s been two days and twenty-three hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

They’ve been at Bobby’s for the last twenty-four of those, trying to hold back on the sedative, because god knows they can’t keep it up forever or Sam’s heart is liable to just straight up quit, so they’ve been rationing it. Walking the nerve-wracking line between acceptable amounts of incomprehensible human suffering and causing an overdose that could just kill Sam, for good this time.

On the 72nd hour - that’s two days and twenty-four hours, or three days and zero hours, or 4,230 minutes and zero seconds, or 259,200 seconds and -

It’s been three days and zero hours, and Sam is awake, but he stops screaming.

And on the third day he will be raised…

Dean rushes over to check on him, but Sam is still breathing, heart still beating, body still holding itself upright, and he’s stopped screaming.

Now, though, two lines of salty tears trail down his face. For all his hysteric shrieking over the last three days, through all the rocking and swaying and the occasional distinct syllable of “no” over and over again, he hadn’t actually shed a tear, until now.

It’s been three days and zero hours and Sam’s tears are silent. 

He’s staring far off into the distance - into the wall that’s four feet in front of him - and he is silent. Even his gasps are inaudible. No sniffling, not a single huff or quiver of breath. Just tears.

It’s been three days and zero hours and two minutes and both Dean and Bobby are in the room now, staring at Sam with undisguised fear-horror-confusion. 

They stare at him and he begins to shake. Lightly, at first, but it grows. It always grows. Sam is silent, and he’s shaking, and his eyes stream tears with the consistency of a downpour, and Dean moves back in front of him. He’d stepped away to yell for Bobby out the door when it looked like Sam would live after his abrupt descent into silence. Dean steps back in front of him and reaches out to touch Sammy, and now Sam’s not silent. A three-minute silence and now it’s broken by Sam scrambling backward with a gasp that’s really more of an inhaled moan of fear, hastening back so far that he pushes off of the bed he’d been sitting on.

He crashes to the floor, out of Dean’s reach even as the man leaps forward with a cry of, “Sam!”

But Sam’s flight had been too fast, so he crashed to the ground and has now fallen silent again, but Dean can’t tell if there are still tears because Sam has wedged himself into a ball in the crease between the floor and the wall, form-fitting his back and ass over the baseboards hard enough to bruise. He’s hiding his face in his knees, still trembling, but still silent, so Dean can’t tell if the tears have stopped. He isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.

Because now it’s been three days and five minutes, and Sam’s curled up in sublimation. 

He’s crammed against the wall, his knees are up in front of him, spread only far enough to shove his head between them - but down quite far, uncomfortably so, contorted - but his hands aren’t curled up like the rest of him. Instead, his hands are held out around his legs, stretched around them and then upward, palms out like he’s receiving something sacred. Or like he’s giving it away.

It’s been three days and six minutes and Sam is trembling in sublimation.

The room is silent, Dean and Bobby don’t know what to do, but he isn’t hurting himself and he isn’t screaming so they wait him out.

It’s been three days and thirty minutes, by the time anything happens.

At first, Bobby thinks it’s the creaks of his house. At first, Dean thinks it’s the creaks of his soul. They’re both wrong, they realize, as the sound is actually coming from Sam, but it reverberates in such a way that it’s equally loud from every corner of the room. Dean wonders, faintly and somewhat hysterically, when Sam learned ventriloquy. 

It’s a low but resounding utterance, indistinguishable at first, but becoming more distinct with every syllable, losing its eerie ambience and beginning to actually come from Sam as its focal point. Whatever Sam is saying, deep into his chest in a tone that aches, becomes clearer, but neither of the other two men can understand it.

Sam’s palms are still held up in front of his shins. His head is still shoved between his knees, and he’s still trembling. He finishes his recitation but doesn’t fall silent. Instead, he switches to a language that Dean realizes with a jolt that he can understand the words, seconds before Bobby realizes it, too. 

“Pater noster, qui es in שְׁאוֹל, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in שְׁאוֹל et in terra.”

A sickening aura falls over the room as both lucid men hear the exceptions to the otherwise familiar prayer. “On earth, as it is in שְׁאוֹל,” Sam had said. Sheol, the subterranean final resting place. The pit. “The place of no return, the land of utter darkness and deep shadow.” 

Hell.

Our Father who art in the pit of utter death and darkness…

It’s been three days and one hour by the time Sam finishes his contritions. 

By then, he’d recited that first chant in the same unknown language twice more, alternating it with the Latin rendition of the Lord’s prayer.

Hallowed be thy name…

Dean has a gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what that other language is.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in שְׁאוֹל, the deep shadow.

The cadence, the tone; they’re the same. Distorted by the foreign, guttural tones of the other language, but they cut through Dean with the same taste. Sam is repeating the same thing over and over again, just in alternating tongues. The familiar Latin combined with the unfamiliar, grating timbre of the other. 

The repugnant language of the wretched Divine.

Those accursed, winged beasts, just like the one his brother, his Sammy has been locked up with for an earth-year. And who knows what that timeline looked like, in the depths? Nothing sears in your mind quite like the crushing realization that virtually no real time has passed when you return from it, Dean remembers. The rock constantly lodged in the base of Dean's chest, taking up space where his lungs are supposed to go, which screams out, your pain was never real.

Did time distort further the further down you went in hell? Was Dean’s 40-year stint a mere blink in the face of the time Sam had been locked up with that thing that did this to him?

The only reason Dean’s stomach isn’t on the floor in front of him is because his stomach is empty, the pervasive ache of the last few days locking it up tight. Sam has been screaming and Dean hasn't been eating, but he's never been less hungry in his life.

It’s been three days and one hour and Dean’s been crying for every single second of them.

The wailing and screaming had gouged at him, in that way little baby's cries gouge at unsuspecting figures passing by, striking that deep, maternal cord within them. The same way little toddler-Sam’s cries had always gouged at Dean. The same way, too, that not-so-little teenaged Sam’s sniffles into his pillow that he thought were muffled had always gouged at Dean. 

If the screams had been gouging at him, this reverent recitation was gutting him. Viscerally, like a fish being pulled sharply off of a too-big hook that it had somehow managed to swallow down too far. Catch and release turned into a pitiful horror.

But it’s been three days and one hour, now, and Sam’s finished his latest round of the Lord’s prayer - Latin this time - and he’s fallen silent again.

His hands are still held out, despite how bad it must make his shoulders and wrists ache with the tension of his stillness. Before Dean can think to do anything, though, Sam continues, but he breaks the pattern. Instead, his voice is much shakier now, and he starts to plead, the only term applicable to the tone of voice Sam has taken on: wretched, and full of supplication. Pleading, in Latin still,

“Elohim, Messiah - Please take this temptation from me. Please, as you have so graciously promised, benevolent Savior, tempt me not with this Sin of the Flesh. I am too weak, Father. This temptation is too great and I cannot bear it.

Temptation? Father?

The formal tone rankles. The self-deprecation vexes. The use of Father to refer to the most foul being to ever walk above and below the earth seethes and horrifies. Dean is rankled. Dean is vexed. Dean seethes, and he is horrified.

“Take Him from my sight, יהוה, keep me away from His fraternal presence, please, Lord. Balm though He is to my soul, grateful though I am for this offering, I am too weak to refrain from Sin.”

Fraternal? Sin?

“I would naught but bastardize this precious gift, and thine hand wilt be forced against me, as thou shalt flay me apart; dissect me to make penance for my transgressions. I do not wish this, Father, so please: Take Him from me, do not allow my wretched Sin to pervade in thine realm.”

Just because Dean’s stomach is empty doesn’t mean it isn’t trying valiantly to make an appearance. At the word “fraternal,” Bobby had started pushing him out the door. Stunned, Dean hadn’t fought back. There’s bile on Bobby’s hardwood floor outside the bedroom Sam and Bobby were still in.

Sam spoke as if Dean’s presence was the temptation, one too great to bear. And he spoke as if to God, but Dean knew better, he knew where Sam had been. Where Dean let him go. No gods to be seen, not there. What Sin had Lucifer contrived between them, to make Sam pay penance for? What occurred between them for Sam to be… Flayed alive. Dissected. 

Dean’s not stupid enough to believe that's anything but literal.

Bobby swings the door mostly-closed just in time for Sam to finish his pleas and lower his arms.

It’s been three days and one hour and ten minutes, and Sam raises his head.

Dean watches through the crack in the door, concealed in the darkness of the hallway. He’s holding his breath and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for not rushing right back to Sam's side. But something is holding him back, and he doesn’t want to name it. 

(Fraternal… Sin?)

Sam raises his head but keeps his eyes scrunched shut - tears and snot are dripping down his face, which is a blotchy red but somehow still pallid with fear. He’s shaking worse than before as he straightened his back out, sitting up and letting his legs fold down so he’s cross-legged. Not relaxed, but no longer contorted. Finally, he releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes, pointing down at the floor.

Bobby shifts his weight purposefully and Sam’s eyes fly to him with a wild flinch of fear. It hangs in the air uncomfortably long before he recognizes the man in the room with him, and he lets out a sob of what Dean hopes is relief.

He quickly bows his head and shifts up onto his knees in a simple prayer position, hands pressed together in a booklet of gratitude as he sobs out, “Thank you, Messiah, Morningstar. Thank you.”

Then, with a big sigh, he allows himself to look back at Bobby, but his gaze is clinical, observing. He whispers, through his hitching, wet breaths, “He did it. I can't believe he did it. He’s gone. I don’t have to do it again, not yet.”

Sam’s face crumples as he’s hysterical with relief, and Dean’s clawing his own arms raw and bloody outside the door, desperate to get to the crying baby and soothe it, desperate to kiss toddler-Sam’s scraped knees, desperate to tell teenage-Sam that nothing will ever change the way Dean feels about him, despite whatever darkness he seems to think is inside of him. But still, he’s held back by that unspeakable Sin between them. Lucifer didn’t contrive it, Dean knows that. He holds himself back.

Bobby speaks up then, gruff and wary, “Don’t have to do what, yet?”

Sam startles before finally, really looking at Bobby like he’s a human on the same plane of existence as him, not like he’s a mildly interesting fixture on a non-existent wall.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, Bobby. It’s good to see you,” Sam cracks a smile, and it encapsulates one thousand shades of grief.

Sam continues quieter, once again to himself, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. But you’re not Him, so it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Bobby squints at him long and hard, eyeing his more relaxed posture and at least somewhat lucid speech - odd though it may be - before he glances at the crack in the door and gives a tiny eyebrow raise that says, get your ass in here.

Dean slowly cracks the door open and calls out to his baby brother, just as he comes into view, “Sammy?”

His reaction is violent. If Sam was pallid before, he’s now a putrid shade of green, face twisting up in horror as he shakes his head, wringing his hands and mumbling out at first, devolving quickly into yells into the aether, into the corners of the room, “No! No, no- please, you promised, no-”

He collapses into himself on the floor, half hidden behind the bed, putting it between him and Dean. The trembling returns with moans and cries incessantly pouring out of Sam’s mouth as he buries his head in his hands, gripping at his face and whatever hair is in reach with too much force, wailing out a constant stream of no, no, no!

Dean takes an involuntary step forward into the room, drawn in by that maternal wretchedness. Desperate, always desperate, to comfort his baby brother. 

When his boot sounds on the carpet - muted but oh-so-loud to Sam’s ears - the cries lose their shape, hiccupping wails of no quickly becoming unintelligible and increasingly frantic, building and building until it can only be described as a howling scream.

It’s been three days and one hour and fifteen minutes, and Sam won’t stop screaming.

[aquabluejay]

Give that anthropomorphic personification some soup! (After you whump the hell out of him.)

I sketched these illustrations for the fic Run Through by celestarium / Meadow (see tags for warnings about graphic blood and torture) when it was still just a WIP. It took me longer than I expected to dig them up to finally share and it turns out the file name is "Hole punch soup Dream" .

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1256

Submitted by Anon - thanks!

TW: starvation | disordered eating

If a character has become accustomed to prolonged under-nourishment, they probably won't be "fine" as soon as they can eat adequately. Of course there's the psychological recovery from whatever experience(s) they had, but also their body may not remember how to deal with normal amounts of food.

A few things they may experience when they start eating more (severe cases can be dangerous and require medical intervention, these are just in the "unpleasant" range):

Poor appetite and rapid/disproportionate satiety

Bad stomach aches

Increased lethargy/fatigue, in general but especially after meals

Suddenly needing a lot more sleep

Dizziness/shakiness/weakness if they haven't eaten for a few hours, even if they don't feel hungry.

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound + daero

Prompt from the Augusnippets @augusnippets challenge!

Path of Comfort: day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

Could loosely be read as a follow-up to this, with the same caretakers

Content Warnings: demon whump, aftermath of captivity, aftermath of torture, trauma, nightmares, comfort, rescue, recovery, pain medicine

----

A week later and it still doesn't feel real.

The two humans tell Daero that he is safe and sound. That there will continue to be food and water, that their hands won't strike him. Their touches are soft, their voices quiet. They smell like citrus and cinnamon.

But still Daero flinches when either one enters the room. He still expects to wake in that damp dungeon, chained, beaten and starved.

Nightmares plague him, disrupting his much needed rest. On the worst nights, like tonight, his cries wake the humans and they are quickly by his side.

He is just awake enough to hear and feel them. One soothes him with kind words while wiping his tears away. The other holds a spoonful of pain medicine to his lips until he drinks. Then they sit on either side of him and wait.

In the moments just before falling asleep, when the medicine kicks in and he melts into the cushions, Daero feels something like peace.

[kabie-whump]

WoW Birthday Whump Day 9

Prompt: Aftermath of rescue / Sickness / “You’re burning up.” Additional Content: torture mentions

“I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you now.”

Whumpee whimpers softly, leaning heavily on Caretaker’s shoulder as the car makes a sharp turn. Caretaker holds them close, gently laying them down so their head rests in their lap. 

Whumpee looks awful. They were only with Whumper for a few days before Caretaker found them, but that was clearly enough time to do a lot of damage. They’re covered in deep purple bruises, their clothes tattered and bloodstained. The signs of torture are clear - straight, intentionally placed cuts on their thighs and cigarette burns on their palms. One of their eyes is swollen shut, and their nose is clearly broken.

Sighing, Caretaker brushes Whumpee’s hair from their forehead. Their skin is unnaturally hot under Caretaker’s touch. “Shit,” they murmur. “You’re burning up.”

“Don’t feel good,” Whumpee groans, their body twisting awkwardly like they’re trying to get up.

Caretaker stops them with a firm hand, laying them back down. “Don’t move, Whumpee. I’ve got you. We’re going to the hospital right now, okay? You’ll feel better soon.”

Whumpee doesn’t seem too convinced. “It hurts. Everything hurts.” Hot tears leak from their eyes, making streaks in the dirt caked on their cheeks. 

“I know. I’m sorry. We’re almost there.”

[whumblr]

That wave of shock that hits Whumpee full in the chest when their Whumper is declared 'not guilty'.

They shrink in their seat while Whumper stands tall, proud, confident because there was never an option of another outcome, right.

The little smile, the brief eye contact when Whumper walks past them, saying either as little as 'well then' or as much as a silent promised 'We'll talk soon'.

When they are told that, sorry, your detailed testimony wasn't enough. Or worse: the jury didn't believe your testimony.

[hurtcomfortguaranteed]

Bheem works to rescue the best friend he wrongly believed had betrayed him, in the masterpiece of bromantic cinema that is RRR.

[whumpshaped]

Whumpees who only have each other for comfort and care in between the sessions of hurt

Bonus points if they can't stand each others guts

also fuck it im gonna plug this story here bc i feel like its similar enough lol

tw reluctant caretakers, captivity, multiple whumpees, implied torture, aftermath of torture

“Sit still,” Caretaker hissed.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Next time when you’re digging around inside my open wound, I’ll–” Whumpee froze with their mouth agape, almost allowing a pained whimper to escape. Fuck, it hurt. It hurt badly.

It wasn’t often that Whumper allowed them actual medical supplies. They were very clear on the fact that this was a privilege, and truth be told, Whumpee was sort of glad that Caretaker was there to help them with it. If only it was anyone else but them, it would’ve been just perfect.

“Do you want me to clean this or not?” Caretaker asked, annoyed that Whumpee kept unintentionally trying to pull away. “I said sit still, or I’ll just give you the stuff and let you do it yourself. Do you want to die of an infection?”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” they choked out. Caretaker scoffed.

“Nothing better than sharing a cell with a decomposing body.”

Whumpee tried their best to stay put, letting Caretaker roughly treat their wounds. They were pretty sure their reluctant medic had quite a bit of fun hurting them under the guise of helping, but they didn’t blame them. Whumpee would’ve had some fun in their place, too.

“Fuck, finally,” Whumpee sighed when Caretaker let go of them. “You take fucking ages to do this.”

“I can undo it much quicker, if you like.”

Whumpee made a face and crawled out of arm’s reach, leaning against the wall. “Yeah. That’s something you’re good at, at least.”

Caretaker took the rest of the supplies and started treating their own wounds, applying ointments and struggling with bandages one-handed. Whumpee watched for a while, occasionally making a comment about the clumsy attempts, before motioning them over.

“I’m not letting you touch me,” Caretaker grumbled.

“Oh, fuck off. I’m not gonna kill you.”

“Not on purpose.”

Whumpee rolled their eyes and dragged themself back to where Caretaker was sitting, snatching the bandage roll out of their hand. Caretaker didn’t resist, not really. “Sure. As if I want to spend days with a rotting corpse, you fucking idiot.”

[mcuthoraction]

Summary:

Thor can’t even recall what it was that he had been seeking, that day. Of some plot, some scheme, only the Norns know. But he had ended up in front of Loki’s cell in the pits of Asgard, separated by glass as if they were warden and prisoner, not brothers. 

After the events of the Avengers (2012) Loki is tried and sentenced to imprisonment in the dungeons. Thor avoids seeing his brother in there, until he does not.

Fic written by @mayonaisie for the Thor Gotcha for Gaza for @/scribbles_pen's prompt: Hurt/comfort, Thor does something to trigger loki's flashbacks to when he was being tortured by the black order. This turns into a panic attack and it takes multiple attempts for Thor to properly calm him down. It's also eye-opening for Thor, realizing he really doesn't know how much lokis been through.

[25centsoda]

Whumptober 2024 - Day 17, SW

Summary:

After taking Luke from the medical facility he was imprisoned at, Vader brought Luke to the Executor. Luke is still processing the change. Day 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | “We had a good run.”

A continuation of my 2021 fic Safety's A Breath Away

Excerpt:

Luke furrowed his brow, daring another glance down the durasteel hallway.

Since when had there been stormtroopers everywhere, and so many officers? Of all the people that had walked by, he didn’t think he’d seen a nurse once. Was there some kind of inspection? Takeover?

...it was an Imperial facility, right? Who else would get a former Inquisitor?

No, no; he’d definitely seen the Imperial cog around.

He shook his head as if to clear it. The new staff didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out, now matter how difficult the building suddenly was to navigate.

[starliight-whump]

Stitches

Augustofwhump day 22: stitches / robbery / insects

James is forced to stitch the cuts on his own again, but the extent of the damage yo his hands is starting to become apparent.

contains: aftermath of torture, stitching of wounds, nerve damage.

“Come on, James. You really should do it. You're better at this than me, it’s part of your job, after all.” Harrison smirked and leaned back in his chair as he watched him.

This was very different from his job, much more difficult than his job but James didn't argue, instead he looked down at the needle. All the pain, especially the stinging pain from the fresh cuts made it incredibly hard to focus, James really wanted to just pass out so he didn't have to feel all of it. With a shaky breath James tried to pick up the needle but his hands trembled so badly that it was really difficult, and the partial numbness in his fingers didn't help. James let out a frustrated groan and tried again. Eventually he managed to get the needle up but that was just the first part, no matter how hard he tried to keep his hands steady they just wouldn't stop shaking. Even though he had noticed it before James hadn't realized just how serious it was and that caused a sinking feeling to settle heavily in his chest.

“I- I can't do it.” James stammered with tears in his eyes, afraid that it would make Harrison angry. His captor often didn't take kindly to not doing as he was told.

Harrison rolled his eyes. “Just calm down, take a few deep breaths and try to get your hands to stop shaking.

James shook his head. If only it was that easy… It wouldn't have been the first time his hands were shaking from fear, but that wasn't what this was; James knew that. The numbness and that prickling in his fingers that wouldn't go away proved as much. It wasn't something he wanted to tell Harrison, but lying would be worse. “It's not that, I-... Something’s wrong.”

Realization seemed to flicker in Harrison’s eyes and a smirk settled in his lips. “Oh, is it? Well, I guess I’ll have to do it, and then we’ll examine this further.” James hated how pleased Harrison sounded and all he could do was to look away and try not to scream at the pain as Harrison dug the needle into his skin and stitched the cut together.

---

taglist: @augustofwhump, @darkredrevolution, @uvanuva