crazynancy1989

[crazynancy1989]

How young might he be? Eleven? Twelve? His face and body are covered with bruises...

The wanderer, who discoveres him, feels his heart breaking when he sees it - he has children on himself. He comes closer carefully.

"Hey..." he whispers softly for he doesn't want to frighten the boy, "What's happened? Are you allright?"

(To be continued...)

a "pretty boy" has been found sniffling and whimpering in the wilderness

[crazynancy1989]

Ship of no mercy - 2

Far down the corridor, a door slammed shut. Peter raised his head. Hard footsteps came closer and closer. Two figures stopped in front of his door. "Reilly, Peter!" one of them barked. Peter stood up and took a deep breath. "Yes." A bunch of keys rattled against the door. The two figures entered the cramped cell, one of them yanking Peter's arms behind his back. Sharp metal cut into his wrists. He pressed his lips tightly together so as not to make a sound. "Come with me!" They dragged him out of the cell, down the gloomy corridor. "Mr. Reilly!" The little old lady with the mop bucket cried out as he was led past her. He turned to face her. "'Bye ma'am - it was nice knowing you." "Shut up!" A rough shove in the back made him stumble, only the hard grip that held his arm saved him from falling. He was dragged along, up stairs, along iron corridors… …An area had been cleared in the large hold, part of which was blocked off with a grating, in the middle of which was one of the iron girders supporting the ceiling. Peter took a look around and realized that apparently everyone available had been brought on board as an audience. He took a deep breath. An example was about to be made here - on him. He closed his eyes for a moment. For a tiny moment, the thought flashed through his mind that he could spare himself all this. All he had to do was say… No! Peter pressed his lips tightly together. He opened his eyes again, his eyes fell on Max and Pavel, who were standing close behind the barrier. Pavel was just skin and bones; whatever was about to happen here, he wouldn't make it out alive. He didn't get a chance to think any further. The handcuffs were removed, but his guards remained close beside him. "Peter Reilly!" "Yes." "You're sentenced to forty strokes for stealing food. Take off your shirt!" Only now did Peter notice the sailor standing next to the pillar, sliding a belt through his hand with a malicious grin. He gritted his teeth, unbuttoned his shirt and carefully hung it on a hook on the pillar. The next moment his arms were yanked upwards and secured to the pillar with handcuffs. A wide leather strap was placed around his neck and pulled tight - tight, but still loose enough for him to breathe. A second strap was placed around his waist and he felt the buckle being fastened. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and held it. A loud bang, like a gunshot, cut through the silence and at the same moment a hot pain seared across his shoulder. Peter pressed his lips together and buried his face against his upper arm. 'It will pass…' he told himself as the next pain burned across his upper body, 'It will pass, just like it always has… Just keep breathing…' Peter breathed. As the pain seared his bare skin again and again, he breathed in and out deeply, trying to breathe the pain away. He looked up once and saw his two friends - Pavel had his face buried on Max's shoulder, Max was stroking his back reassuringly… Peter closed his eyes again, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. He felt sick and strangely dizzy. Darkness came upon him in waves, slowly at first, then more and more, a strange numbness flooding over him. 'Everything will be all right,' thought Peter, 'Everything will be all right now - it's over in a moment…' The darkness fell over him and pulled him deeper and deeper. Only from very far away did he hear a rough, indifferent voice: "He's had enough!" And then darkness fell around him.

"He's had enough!" The sailor responsible for the punishment lowered the belt and looked questioningly at the commander. He nodded. Two sailors approached the motionless body on the pillar. The leather belts were unbuckled and the handcuffs opened. Peter's body hit the damp ground like a wet sack. The commander indifferently threw Peter's shirt onto the motionless body and turned around. "Back to work!" No one in the crowd dared to protest. After a few minutes, the hold was empty - except for a motionless body in the middle of the floor...

[crazynancy1989]

A cabin-boy - Part3

...Something heavy was dumped on the pile next to Jens, something warm and damp dripped down on his cheek. He struggled to fight the scream that choked his throat. Paralyzing horror gripped him, pulled him into the depths, into a black pit, he fell, fell so deep…

It was getting on towards evening when all the sentences were carried out and Georg and Baart began to throw the headless bodies into the pit that had been dug for them. Georg was tired and felt sick. He reached for the next body, the ship's boy - almost at the same moment his stomach seemed to freeze. The narrow shoulders, the skinny arms tied behind the back - they were still warm. He bent over the boy and shivered. The small chest rose and fell, only slightly, very slightly, but nevertheless… Georg raised his head. "The boy is still breathing!" Executioner Rosenfeldt turned around and came towards him. His voice sounded tired. "I know." The executioner took off the cloak he had already draped around his shoulders and stretched out his arms towards the boy: "Give him to me!" Georg hesitated. Baart, who had just thrown up for the third time, now came too. "Please…" his voice trembled. Rosenfeldt made an inviting gesture with his hand. "Give him to me!" he repeated. His tone didn't allow any other protest. Georg swallowed hard and obeyed. Godefray Rosenfeldt wordlessly pulled a knife from his belt and with a quick jerk cut the ropes that were knotted around the boy's wrists. He carefully crossed the little arms on the boy's chest, then he wrapped the motionless little body in his cloak and picked him up. "Please!" Baart's voice wavered suspiciously, "Don't make it hurt! Don't cause him pain! Please!" "Go back to work!" the executioner simply replied, "And then come to me, to fetch what you deserve for your work!" He turned around and carried the boy from the place of execution.

Godefray Rosenfeldt trudged along the rain-soaked path, carrying this light-weighted bundle, feeling a little head under the cloak leaning at his arm. His way led to the secluded house he had been assigned to live in. It was a large house, built for an executioner's family and a family - his family - had lived there until a few years ago. Then the fever had come and emptied the house: first his two little daughters, then his three sons, then his wife… A sharp voice snapped him out of his thoughts, it was one of the city guards: "What are you carrying, executioner?" Rosenfeldt nodded, silently hoping that the boy had not yet come back to consciousness and was listening in. "Only what I was allowed to take: I'll need some new poor sinner's lard.* Next time you have rheumatism, you'll thank me for it!" The guard laughed as he turned to move on. "That’s all right then - I'll see you when it's that time again, hangman!" Godefray Rosenfeldt did not reply and walked on hastily. The raindrops fell thicker and thicker and he was glad when he reached his large, dead-silent house and closed the door behind him. Outside, the rain pattered as Rosenfeldt carried the little bundle into the kitchen and slowly placed it on the large table. He folded back the woolen fabric of the cloak and looked silently at what he saw ahead of him: A small, skinny boy's body, in dirt-streaked rags, a tiny, pale face, muddy and bloodstained, wet hair, caked with dirt... His stomach seemed to knot up all at once. He took off his hood, went over to the cupboard, took out the bottle of schnapps and poured himself a generous swig. The brandy ran fiery down his throat, warming him, washing away sickness and discomfort and leaving him with a feeling of relief. Rosenfeldt went to the stove, built a fire and put on a kettle of water. When he came back to the table, he saw that the boy had opened his eyes. Godefray Rosenfeldt took a deep breath and looked the boy up and down again. There were tears in the boy's eyes now. Rosenfeldt shook his head tired and sorrowfully.

*Poor sinner's lard: a kind of fat, which was extracted from the bodies of executed people in the Middle Ages and sold by the executioner as a medicine.

[crazynancy1989]

A Cabin-boy - Part 2

Hamburg, Germany, October 1402: Klaus Störtebeker, known as a pirate, and all his crew were sentenced to dead by beheading - from the captain down to eleven year old cabin-boy Jens. Executioner Godefray Rosenfeldt has to carry out the sentence - his two helpers Georg and Baart have to pile up the bodies of the decapitated men and bury them later… (For the pre-story feel free to check out my blog...)

Jens’ cheek touched wet grass and his little body lay on muddy, cold ground, feeling heavy as lead. He whimpered faintly. "Shhh! Don't move! Don't talk! Act like dead!" The voice above his head was just a low hiss. He obeyed. As if from far away, he heard loud jeering and laughter and mocking shouts. Every now and then he heard loud, horrified screams, full of fear and panic, which stopped abruptly each time. Something heavy was then dragged towards him and dumped somewhere next to him. And then everything started all over again. Jens gritted his teeth and tried to dream himself far away. It had always helped so far - but not this time... Loud screams again, another voice he knew. Fiete, seventeen years old - he had cooked for the crew and had the most cheerful laugh Jens knew. Now he was screaming desperately and heartbreakingly for his mom. Again and again, until it ended with a thud and enthusiastic bawling could be heard. Something heavy was dumped on the pile next to Jens, something warm and damp dripped down on his cheek. He struggled to fight the scream that choked his throat. Paralyzing horror gripped him, pulled him into the depths, into a black pit, he fell, fell so deep…

[crazynancy1989]

please consider a whumpee who can never get dry

maybe they work on a ship or in a job related to the water, or maybe they just live in a climate that’s always wet and rainy. whatever the case, make sure that it’s impossible for them to ever get fully dry, or warm, or comfortable. Make sure the damp chill clings to their bones, and no amount of blankets or time in bed can chase away the deep cold in their core.

oh, and if you’re feeling especially cruel, add a stiff breeze that blows straight through them.

[crazynancy1989]

About a "Störtebeker"-Story...

... what would you think about a beginning like this: 20th of october 1401, Hamburg, Northern-Germany Executioner Godefray Rosenfeldt and his both helpers Georg and Baart have to do a Job this day: Pirate-Captain Klaus Störtebeker and his whole crew are sentenced to dead by beheading. None of the three does this job because he wants: An executioner's son in this time had no other choice than becoming an executioner on himself - if he wanted or not. Georg escaped from serfdom - living in a free town for one year and one day would set him free forever, and in the first he had been relieved that Rosenfeldt hid him and gave him work and bread. And his colleague Baart from Holland had been in a similar situation, when he joined his job as a hangman's helper.

... Georg took a deep breath while he pulled the headless body to the side - to the heap that was already lying there. His job here wasn't the worst: Baart - the bony, quiet Dutchman - and he didn't have to kill at least. They just had to clean up the remains afterwards...

Loud screaming tore him from his thoughts - the guards were bringing the next pirate. Only a few moments later, the desperate cries fell silent. Something bumped lightly against his foot - the condemned man's head. The silence that followed was almost eerie. Georg heard a deep breathe from Rosenfeldt and a low, trembling "Godsvadoorie!" from Baart. He didn't even have to look to know that it was now the ship's boy's turn. Georg gritted his teeth. He didn't want to look - and all the same he did. In front of the executioner stood a small, skinny boy in rags, with a bruised, deathly pale face and naked fear burnt in his dark blue, wide-open eyes. Georg struggled to suppress the sickness that rose up in him. He glanced at Baart, who was visibly struggling to keep himself under control. Poor guy - he was married and had a son of his own, something like this always got to him!

"Get on your knees now!"

Master Rosenfeldt's voice under the hood sounded calm. The boy didn't move, he seemed frozen in horror. Baart now approached him and helped him to his knees in an almost fatherly manner.

"Do you know a prayer?" he asked the boy.

He received no answer. Georg glanced briefly at the executioner, who now raised his sword, ready to deliver the fatal blow, and then turned his head to the side so as not to have to see anything. The pirate boy was so small - his neck so far down... Georg prayed fervently that the executioner would get it right first time. The next moment he heard disappointed shouts from the crowd - but no other sound, no cry of pain, nothing... He turned around again. The boy was lying on the ground at the executioner's feet - unharmed, but motionless. Baart now bent over him, then looked up, looked at the executioner and shook his head silently.

"What is it?!" One of the aldermen, watching the execution from a stand, jumped up impatiently, "Do your duty, executioner!"

Master Rosenfeld paid no attention to the alderman. He turned to Baart.

"Put him with the others!" he ordered in a loud voice, "I have not sharpened my sword for the dead!"

Georg watched as Baart bent over the lifeless little body on the ground and picked it up, as carefully as if he were holding a sleeping child. Just as carefully, he carried it to the pile of decapitated bodies and laid it on the wet grass. Georg saw Baart move his lips - in prayer? Or was he saying something? Speaking to a dead ...? He didn't get a chance to think about it further, because the next pirate was already being dragged before the executioner - the slaughter went on...

[crazynancy1989]

Another whump-and-comfort-idea...

...has anyone (who doesn't live in Northern Germany) ever heard about Klaus Störtebeker? He was a sailor-captain, famous as a pirate, but most of his lifetime he fought and captured for somebody else who paid him for it. At about the year 1401 his ship was attacked and defeated by a warrior-ship from the city of Hamburg. Although (as later turned out) Klaus Störtebeker and his crew had been legal warriors for a chieftain in this time, they were sentenced to death as pirates and all beheaded - from the captain to the ship's boy... ...really? Some legends want to know better - and more comfortingly: some of Klaus Störtebeker's crew are said to have survived in one way or another. Ship's boys at that time were barely older than ten, eleven, twelve years at most. Could it be possible that someone - someone who would have been able to help in some way - would have taken pity on such a little fellow and… -?

[crazynancy1989]

Ship without mercy

(first try of a scene) "Peter, no!" Max sounded worried, "Please! You don't know, what they'll do with you!" Peter shook his head resolutely. "I do. And Pavel is too weak for it: he's completely haggard for he secretly shares everything with Lucie. Whatever they would do to him… Listen, Max, I'm more robust. And I can take a lot…" For a moment, Peter thought back to a time so long ago. All the thrashings back then… "I'm used to things, I can get through it. The only thing you have to do is stop Pavel from admitting that he stole the food!" Peter reached for his friend's hands through the iron-bars. They were cold as ice. There were tears in Max's eyes now. Peter looked at him insistently. "Promise me!" Max swallowed hard. "Okay - I promise." "Thank you. - Now go, before they discover you!" A final handshake, then Max disappeared into the dusky corridor. Peter sat back down on the floor, leant his back against the wall and took a deep breath. He was afraid. But he was ready.

[crazynancy1989]

Crazynancy is still alive...

...struggling with Robyn and Johanson - - and also with an idea for a second story: Peter, Max and Pavel, best friends since their school days, had made it: they were successful and internationally recognised: Handsome, kind-hearted and thoughtful Peter as an actor, witty, likeable (and cardiac) Max as an artist and deep and quiet Pavel as a sought-after composer. They were therefore not surprised that they were immediately given a passage on a rescue ship after rumours of an impending disaster. Peter had even managed to get a ship's ticket for his girlfriend Agnes as well and Pavel somehow smuggled his wife Lucie on board. But the exciting adventure suddenly turns into a cruel reality: disaster strucks - with far greater, more apocalyptic proportions than ever feared. During the hasty departure, Peter and Agnes are separated and loose sight of each other. The three friends find themselves on a ship of horrors, having nothing more left than the clothes they wear - and the captain runs a regiment of terror and forces his passengers into slave labour. Brutality, cruelty, poverty and hunger are the order of the day, the slightest offence is severely punished - and that is only the beginning… The three friends have to face a completely different life as they've had before - Peter, as the eldest, worries about Agnes - which seems to be vanished into thin air - and all the same tries to protect his both younger friends. And then there is still Pavel's beloved Lucie, hidden on the ship as a blind passenger, who needs to be provided as well... Do you think it would be worth to write some whump about this?

[crazynancy1989]

Crazynancy is still alive...

Hi, all together! Very much has happened since I've been her the last time. Very very much. I'm just going through one of the darkest and hardest times of my life. But I'm still alive and - thanks to a very special person, a very special kind of man - I think, I'll even be able to go on writing. One day. In the meantime, he helps me to at least keep my imagination and my (day)dreams alive. I'll be back one day - sooner or later. Meanwhile I'll be a silent reader here, looking for some more inspirations. Kind regards, Crazynancy

[crazynancy1989]

Robyn and Johansson - continue... A large, heavy hand grabbed the back of his neck and forced him to lean forward. Robyn pressed his lips together tightly. Don't cry out, he thought desperately, don't... and cried out. Two hands grabbed him by the shoulders, yanked him up, shook him roughly.... "Stop screaming!" His cries became desperate whimpers. The next moment he received a slap on the cheek - strong, but not brutal. The voice now sounded concerned... "Boy! Come on, wake up!" Robyn jerked his eyes open with difficulty. Bending over him was Johansson - the executioner - no one else was in the room... Robyn let himself sink back onto the mattress with a low wail and buried his face in both arms. A large, strong hand rested gently on his back. "Did you have such a horrible dream?" Robyn nodded mutely. He sat up slowly and looked around. A small, windowless room. Sparsely furnished, though someone had obviously gone to great lengths to make everything look as cosy as possible. In one corner a washing dish and a bucket with a lid, in the other a stove. Two armchairs, a small table and the resting bed on which he sat. Lots of pillows - and draped curtains in front of non-existent windows and doors. "Where am I?" he asked quietly. "In safety."

(to be continued...)

@warmblanketwhump

@whump-it

@gottawhump

@pepperonyscience

@kerryrenaissance

#robyn berlund#johansson#execution

Blaze

4 notes

[crazynancy1989]

Struggling with "Robyn and Johansson", so here comes some stuff from another story of mine: On a cruise-ship: Young Maurice (inspired by the main-actor from the music-clip "Velvet") has injured his hand, but didn't really care about it. Now his hand is infected and he has fallen ill. His best friend Sebba, the ship's machinist, takes him to his own cabin and cares for him...

... "Heh! Boy! How are you?"

Maurice blinked exhaustedly, his teeth clashing.

"... So cold ..." he mumbled.

Sebba stood up and took a knitted jumper out of his locker. Already a bit aged, but soft and warm - above all warm, that was the most important thing now! He carefully helped Maurice into the jumper and slipped a second pair of woollen socks over his feet.

"It'll be better in a minute!"

The machinist tucked the young man in tightly and spread a second woollen blanket over him.

"Thank you..." murmured Maurice. He gave another shivering shrug and closed his eyes again. Sebba gently stroked a few strands of hair out of his forehead. He would have to ask Dr van Santen to take a look on Maurice's infected hand again, he thought. …

[crazynancy1989]

So what about him: His name is "Axe" and he doesn't fear dead, devil or hell.

"Boy?" Axe's low voice, "Are you still awake?" Maurice dared not pretend to be asleep and slowly opened his eyes. "Listen," Axe sounded friendly, "We down here … we might be a bit rough from time to time. But we don't mean it. We won't hurt you here, you hear!" Maurice nodded silently, lowered his eyes and swallowed. He had heard such assurances many times before - too many times to believe them anymore. He did not see Axe look at him, worried and troubled, and shaking his head. "Sleep well now!" Axe's voice was almost tender. The woollen blanket was placed carefully around his shoulders. Then Axe's footsteps moved away. Maurice closed his eyes. He worriedly listened for the sounds in the dark for a while, but sleep finally overcame him...

okay but like. monstrous caretakers. caretakers who are quite literally eldritch abominations. caretakers whose appearance would make a lesser man want to curl up in a ball out of fright alone. caretakers who just feel off — not necessarily in a bad way — but in a «getting deja vu from a place you’ve never been to» kind of way. caretakers with multiple eyes or bloodied scleras, with a mouth just a bit too wide and teeth just a bit too many. caretakers that smell of moss and burnt flesh and souls lost in the moors.

caretakers that despite their appearance and mayhaps even their nature are a safe haven in whumpee’s world of cruelty.

[crazynancy1989]

To any fic writers who worry they are wasting their time... I read a fic for a relatively small and inactive fandom about three years ago. And there was one specific scene where a character watched another dancing like an idiot to a beyonce song and it was so sweet and loving that even now years later I have that song on one of my spotify playlist so every once in a while it will play and remind me of that fic, and every time it does I smile and feel a little happier.

The stats on a fic will never really tell you if your writing touched someone. There's no numerical way to show you what impact you made. Maybe you are wasting time, or maybe you are writing something that someone will remember for a long time, something that will never fail to make them smile.

[crazynancy1989]

A-HA - Velvet 2000 Ohhhhhhh - this boy... -

[crazynancy1989]

Newkirk: Whoops.

Hogan: Whoops? Whoops?!

Hogan: This is not a “Whoops” situation. We are far past whoops. Whoops is a distant speck in the rear view mirror. We are solidly in “Oh fuck” territory, and I expect you to act like it!

[crazynancy1989]

Love how different coughs can be a dead giveaway of what's going on with your poor whumpee.

Annoying, dry tickle? Probably just a cold in the early stages or a sore throat!

Loud, hoarse bark? Laryngitis!

Painful, deep rattle? Bronchitis!

Prolonged wheeze? Probably asthma!

Dripping wet, weak coughs? Sounds like pneumonia to me!

Continuous productive cough that brings up a lot of stuff? It seems like they're finally getting over their flu!