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bunny300 · 3 years

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I want a story/scene where A is captured by B's army/nation/country (whatever) and brought to B.

Now who is A? I don't know. Is he someone important in the country/nation/army he came from? In all the stories I've read with similar situations, the other person usually is important, so what if A isn't? What if he's just normal/average rank in the army?

Like, imagine A being super bright but never having an opportunity to succeed. He picks things up quick and is an excellent soldier and strategist but maybe because of where he comes from, who his family is or something along those lines, any advancement was stopped. Because of that, his rank never improved so he isn't considered anyone important in his country/army by any means.

But say the camp he was at is invaded by the enemy and he responded the quickest. A was the one that crippled B's army invasion the most and actually created a situation where multiple companions successfully escaped, but he was ultimately caught, and to his surprise, finds out the order was to capture him alive and keep him alive.

While waiting for the inevitable meeting of his captor, B, he hears that his general/head of the army encampment or whatever, had been killed and that the majority of his fellow men were captured, all still alive.

This puzzles A. Why? Because B's country/army is widely known for NOT taking prisoners. In any invasion, they kill all those that fight against them. It is known that they won't kill unarmed civilians, but anyone in the army or carrying a weapon by time of invasion is better considered dead. If they're in the army, it doesn't matter if you surrender, they will kill you. Better yet if A's country has mandatory conscription and at a certain age or time they don't even have a choice. Maybe it's one of those, one man/person of eligible age in the family must serve or something.

So then now we have A, who hears that he was ordered captured alive, and his fellow brothers he's fought alongside are also alive, just held in a separate area. A finds it odd he's held isolated, alone in a cell, when it's become clear to him, by either being told or by listening to guards or other people that his companions are held in another area together. And so he waits. He can't do anything else. And after however long, he is brought before B.

Imagine A being pushed to his knees, forced to look up to meet B's eyes. And it becomes that beautiful "become mine" trope.

"Become mine."

"...what?"

"You are wasted as you are. From now on you'll be my strategist... As well as my companion. You'll follow my orders. You'll help me wage war. And you'll warm my bed."

"You're disgusting."

"You'll be the second most powerful man in my army."

"I won't do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."

B signals to someone, and the doors open and A finds C being dragged inside the room. C was just one of the many he'd gotten close to during his service. Imagine C being pushed to ground and held there, unlike A, who was left kneeling alone, C had a guard on both sides of him, holding him firmly.

"You know, A, we don't take prisoners."

Imagine A immediately making eye contact with B, "you can't."

"I can," he says, stepping closer to the still kneeling A making A crane his neck to maintain eye contact. "And I will." Imagine B reaching out and caressing A's hair and A jerking his head away on reflex. "I don't think you understand," he says before grabbing A's hair, "I'm trying to get along here. I could torture him before I kill him." B let's go slowly before running his hand through his hair, pleased that he doesn't move. "Whether I take prisoners or kill them all... It's all up to you."

I honestly love this whole frickin trope. It fills me with warm and fuzzy feelings.

#i love this trope #it's one of the best #threaten all their lives #and make him listen to you #dominate him please #oh my lanta yes #whump #whump trope #captivity #angst prompts #whumper #whump ideas #the whumpy warm and fuzzies #yes please #whump whump whump #whump tropes #this brings me so much joy

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flufftober · 2 years

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Umm..!!

What are guidelines for making a story fluff one??

I think i plotted a story and it was supposed to be a short crackfic but now somehow there is accidental adoption so I am not sure I can mark it under family fluff?

Hey there 😊 this is actually a really intriguing question 🤔

Okay, let's start with some "official" definitions I found:

Fanlore says

Fluff is often used in fandom to characterize any pleasant, feel-good work. It is sometimes described as the opposite of angst. Fluff may lack plot; however, unlike a PWP the focus is not sex, but displays of affection between two or more characters, whether their relationship is romantic or not. A fluff story may be gen and focused on family (or found family) interactions. It may also indicate a mood piece with warm, uplifting descriptions (...)

Yeah, I think this is already a very good definition! But let's continue:

WritingBeginner has a lot to say about the topic, like

You write fluff by defining your characters, setting, and goal. Then, you narrate a happy sequence of events between characters who have a strong, sometimes romantic, bond. You include meaningful dialogue and action to show them happy and in love. You also avoid any drama, conflict, or angst.

Honestly? I would say, let's scratch that last part! I love some angsty, whumpy fics that turn fluffy... or the other way around 😉 but they also say

Fluff writing is any story with a positive plot and happy ending. Fluff is popular in fanfiction and some roleplaying games. These stories tend to focus on happy themes and make readers feel good.

I think especially that last part is important here and it's probably what I would've told you if I hadn't searched for "official" answers first. You wanna have your reader leave your fic with a happy smile on their face and a warm, fuzzy feeling. Basically, you want them to be this gif in the end:

Now, all that being said, lemme fall back on our normal mantra: whatever our prompts inspire in you is alright! You think it is fluffy? Then go ahead and submit it 😊

Personally, I had some partially angsty fics among my 2021 entries because I write for fandoms that generally have darker themes. So naturally, those bleed into my fics. But as long as you feel that your fic still deserves the fluff tag (or the fluff & angst tag), then, by all means, go for it 💕

I really hope this answered your question 😊

#flufftober2022 #rules #fluff definition #ask answered #dragonwillow

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maracujatangerine · 3 years

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Christmas gifts

- a gift for @whumpzone at @saintwhumpolas Whumpy Secret Santa Event 2021. All characters belong to Cerys and you can find her story here.

Linden was standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The snowflakes were dancing under the streetlights and covering the parked cars, the benches and all the naked trees with a soft, silent layer of shining snow.

He had helped Colton brush his teeth. Well, it was more accurate to say that he had brushed Colton’s teeth for him. Since Col had such a hard time even grasping the toothbrush, Linden had decided that he had to make sure it was properly done at least a couple of times per week.

Like every previous time, the pet had sat on the toilet seat and obediently opened his mouth for the toothbrush. He never resisted, but despite Linden trying to be as gentle and careful as humanly possible, Colton never stopped shivering either. Linden sometimes wondered if he even understood the purpose of the exercise, or if he somehow just thought that Linden enjoyed his discomfort. After the ordeal was over, Linden had asked him to change into his pyjamas and then come downstairs.

The pet stopped in front of the mirror and tried unsuccessfully to push down his unruly hair. He was wearing his new pyjama. The red flannel felt soft and warm against his skin. The top was a bit on the large side for him, but his Master had made sure that he would be able to simply pull it over his head. “Then you won’t have to fiddle with all these buttons,” Master had said. Colton was grateful. Still, the sight of the neat row of buttons made him uneasy.

Did Master want to undress his pet like a gift? Slowly revealing inch by inch of skin and devising new ways to hurt him for each newly opened button?

Col shivered at the thought, but forced himself to keep moving down the stairs. His Master had ordered him to come. No matter what he wanted him for, the pet only had to obey. Padding barefoot down the stairs, he hurried to kneel at Linden’s side. His Master smiled down at him, that genuinely warm smile that always awoke a little answering tendril of joy in Colton’s stupid heart. In the gullible part of him that wanted to believe that Master was as kind as he seemed.

“There you are, Col.” His Master sounded pleased. “Look, it is snowing so much! Isn’t it quite beautiful?” The pet nodded shyly. “Y-yes, Sir.” It was beautiful, even Colton could see that. But if his Master had said that the white snowflakes were apple blossom petals, Col would likewise have agreed. Whatever your Master wanted to hear…

“I have something for you.” Col’s heart skipped a beat, but before he had time to fully panic, his Master handed him a light, gift-wrapped present. “I wanted to give it to you while it was just the two of us here.”

Was he supposed to tear at the package? To destroy that beautiful, glossy, red wrapping paper with ugly tears that would cross the surface like scars? He would have liked to open it carefully, but with his broken hands, it would be impossible. Not knowing what to do, Col looked helplessly up at his Master. Linden smiled, a small, kind twitch in the corner of his mouth.

“Would you mind if I helped you?” He asked.

“Please...”

Please, help this incompetent excuse for a slave. Take mercy on me, for even this simple task is beyond me. But there was no mocking in his Master’s dark eyes when he reached out and pulled on one side of the string tied up in a bow. The whole knot unraveled easily. With shaking, clumsy hands, the pet unfolded the red wrapping paper.

Inside were a pair of mittens.

They were knitted in dark grey yarn with an intricate, white pattern. When Colton reached out a shivering hand to touch them, they were made of the softest, warmest wool imaginable.

“It’s alpaca.” Linden explained. “The inside is all rugged up and fuzzy, so they should be warm and comfy. Go on, try them on!”

When Col did, they felt so warm and gentle and safe that he almost cried.

“Thank you, Sir. Thank you! B-but, Sir, I have nothing for you.” Linden smiled.

“That’s no problem. Just you liking them is definitely reward enough.”

Col looked up at Linden, clasping his mittened hands together. “I-I like them so much. Truly, I do. Thank you, Sir.”

The next morning, Colton awoke early. He had slept uneasily. Half-nervously, half excitedly pondering his plan. Now, it was time to make it happen.

As quietly as possible, the pet snuck out into the kitchen. On the very doorstep, he was almost tripped up by a very excited Jaffa. The grey cat was weaving herself affectionately around his legs, making little inquisitive sounds in surprise over the early company.

“Shh, Jaffa” Col whispered. “Please, be quiet!” He hurried to give her a little food. With profound relief, he saw that it was enough for her to busy herself with crunchily chewing the kibble.

The pet couldn’t fully shake the feeling of being bad. Since that time when he scalded himself, his master had been clear in that he was not allowed to work in the kitchen alone. But surely, since it was for a gift, his Master would allow it this time?

Colton continued his preparations as quietly and quickly as possible. In another house, this would just have been a normal thing for a slave to do. But his master had never asked him for it, not once.

He almost spoiled the surprise by noisily dropping things while moving about the kitchen. But when his Master’s clock rang, Colton was ready with his preparations and had managed to avoid any accidents.

After Linden shut off his alarm clock, he heard a timid knock on the door and cautious steps departing. When he rolled out of bed and opened the door, the corridor was empty. To one side of the door stood a tall glass of chai, covered with a saucer filled with biscuits from the tin in the pantry. He took a cautious sip of the hot brew. It was properly whisked with milk, strong and sweet, just like Linden liked it.

Merry Christmas, Cerys! 🎄❤️🎄

And thank you to @saintwhumpolas for organising the event! ❤️

#a gift from saint whumpolas #christmas whump #pet whump #pet whumpee #maracujawrites #original writing

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wolfeyedwitch · 2 years

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Current mood: dealing with IRL whumpy medical BS without a dedicated caretaker. (My SO is great but they're up to their eyeballs in their own shit so they're kind of Busy.) Could I please get some virtual hugs and warm fuzzies please?

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whumpinggrounds · 3 years

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Just As Sane As I Am

Short piece today because Covid fatigue. For @febuwhump day 19, “delirium,” Liam is getting a fever like me!

Tagging @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @brutal-nemesis, @deluxewhump, @whumpy-writings, @hearse-song, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @lonesome--hunter, @diyalogues, @warm-my-whumpee-heart

CW: male whumpee, big whumpee, little whumper, female whumper, creepy whumper, fever, delirium (duh), angst, noncon touch,

Liam knows when the fever starts. He doesn’t get sick often, but he vividly remembers his bout with appendicitis when he was thirteen. The itchy feeling under his skin. The heat. The tightness. The way his head aches, his tongue dries out, his whole body gets heavy as rocks. He knows a fever, and he knows when he starts to feel warm for the first time in Delilah’s cabin.

And then, too warm.

Still, Liam knows better than to say anything. He doesn’t want Delilah’s attention, even as he drinks more and more water, shivers hotter and hotter curled up on the couch. He holds out as long as he can, not wanting her to touch him. He’s not sure if she’s playing along, enjoying the sight of him getting weaker, or if she genuinely doesn’t notice his obvious weakness. He’s not sure which thought he finds more disturbing. Whatever the case, neither of them can ignore it anymore when Liam passes out cold on the cabin floor.

One minute he’s upright – swaying, sure, but upright – and the next, the dark rushes in. Black clouds sparkle across his vision, and his legs get fuzzy and weak. When he blinks back into awareness, he feels the chill of the cabin floor down his front, a faint ache in each of his knees. Over him, Delilah is cooing, her voice high and sweet and concerned, but the words come to Liam all bleary, confused. He lifts his head, but the room twirls around him as he does. Delilah makes a chiding sound. Surely, there are words in that blurred stream of sounds – but there’s no way that Liam could pick them out. Dizzily, he lets his head fall back to the wooden floor.

Time passes in a haze. Liam couldn’t tell if it’s minutes or hours slipping by, just that he’s hot and cold, he feels hands on his skin, he can’t see past the throbbing in his skull. He sees swirls, hears talking, singing, groaning. He doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not. He can’t focus on what he’s seeing or hearing, not past the crushing weight of what he’s feeling.

It’s not the itchy tightness of his skin, or the burning heat that alternates with bone-deep cold. It’s not the sweat wetting down his hair, nor the welcome chill of the cabin floor against his overheating skin. None of that bothers him in the slightest, not when he has other things to focus on. Not when he feels…not when he feels…

He feels someone cradle his head in their hands.

He feels someone pull him into their lap.

He feels fingers and hands, light little hands, and quick darting fingers, running up and down and down his chest.

He feels it all, over and over. When he twitches, or brushes distractedly at the touch, sometimes he realizes there’s nothing there. Sometimes there is – his fingers hit – and then it’s gone again, gone away, gone beyond reach.

Fingers. Hands. Touch. All over him, all over him. Some of it’s real and some of it isn’t – or all of it’s real and none of it isn’t – maybe none of it’s real, and all of it isn’t.

Liam doesn’t know.

He can’t find out.

He just lies on the floor of the cabin and shivers.

#liam and delilah #febuwhump #febuwhumpday19 #febuwhump2022 #delirium #fever #sickfic #collapse #big whumpee #male whumpee #female whumper #creepy whumper #little whumper #long term captivity #noncon touch

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justbreakonme · 2 years

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Hi! I'm so glad to have found your blog, your writing and prompts are so whumpy and I love them so much!

Would you be okay if I were to use your prompts for writing something in the near future? If you don't mind, how would you like to be credited? It's also totally fine if you don't prefer it!!

Thanksss I hope this didn't come off as too on the nose, but if it did I'm sorry!! I'm just really, reaaaalllyyyy enthusiastic about you and your brain 🙈🙈 thank you for existingggg

Thank you so much! Absolutely, use anything you’d like, just tag me cause I’d love to read it! And again, thank you so much, I feel all warm and fuzzy now

#asks #answered asks #whump #caretaker #whump prompts

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flowersarefreetherapy · 2 years

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For the emoji ask: 🥺?

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

Yes, yes! Every time Daniel and Star have a cute domestic moment! Those moments never fail to bring me happiness and warm fuzzies (which is why there’s a lot more of those moments with those two as compared to whumpy moments)

#ask game #marz actually talks #h query

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patheticlittleguy · 3 years

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Fairy Dust

Masterlist. Part four of a series.

content warnings: hospital settings, descriptions of magical healing. Things are finally getting whumpy!

The Healer arrives at ten o’clock sharp. Like all Healers, he wears a white jacket with red hems and a big red plus sign on the breast. This particular Healer has short, dirty blonde hair, and looks mildly inconvenienced by everything around him. Leo kind of thinks he’s cute.

“What’s wrong with you?” The Healer says, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Instead of waiting for a response, he puts a hand on Leo’s waist.

Leo knows he’s in pretty bad shape down there, but he hasn’t really been thinking about it. As the Healer mutters to himself, Leo gets a vague idea of how bad it really is.

“Well, man, I think you’ve broken some kind of record for most bones broken. Congrats, I guess.”

Leo snorts at that, and though the statement had some troubling implications, he can’t help but smile a little bit.

The Healer’s face is suddenly serious again. “This is probably gonna hurt, alright? Let me know if you need to stop.” He carefully sets a hand on Leo’s chest.

It feels warm and itchy, and then it burns. Leo can’t breathe. He feels something shift, and then it’s over. The Healer takes their hand away. Leo can breathe, but it’s shaky.

There’s a long moment where the Healer waits for Leo to catch his breath, and Leo tries not to cry. He finally manages to calm down, and then the Healer splays a hand on Leo’s right hip.

Leo nearly panics, and he forces himself to keep breathing steadily. He feels the itchy heat of the healing again. The muscles in his leg twitch minutely, weakly trying to jerk out of the Healer’s grasp. Pain pierces through his bones. Something shifts, and he cries out.

The Healer stops, giving Leo a moment to catch his breath. Leo swallows thickly. Everything is sort of fuzzy, like someone put TV static in a humidifier and left it on high.

A nurse says in a sickly sweet voice, “I think he’s done for the day, alright?” She shoos the Healer out, which frustrates Leo a bit. He never got the guy’s name.

Leo spends the rest of the afternoon fiddling with shadows. The nurses lower the amount of pain medicine he’s on, and he’s sound of mind enough that he can finally reach out with his mind and feel them. It’s like seeing an old friend again, partly because Leo has had a sad and lonely life and the shadows are like a companion to him.

He passes the time by seeing how big and silly he can make a shadow look before any nurses notice. As it turns out, people rarely pay attention to something as mundane as a shadow. He manages to keep a straight face as he makes a nurse’s shadow look like a cartoon monster, and then shrinks it back down to normal size before the nurse sees. It’s entertaining for a little while, but then he gets bored and stares out of the window again.

It occurs to him, out of the blue, that he hasn’t had a haircut in a while. He’s been more lax about them ever since graduation, a few months ago, but now it’s really starting to get long. Not that it matters that much. There’s no one he cares about enough for their opinion of him to matter.

Two days later, the Healer comes back. This time, his jacket is rumpled and his hair looks unwashed. Leo tries not to wonder if everything’s alright- the Healers are here to help him, not the other way around. There’s a time and a place.

The Healer has a hand on Leo’s knee- or, rather, the brace wrapped around Leo’s knee- when Leo blurts out, “What’s your name?”

The Healer’s eyes flick up, but his face is still angled away. It makes him look even more tired, somehow. “I’m Matthew,” he says. “Now, you know the drill. This is gonna hurt.”

Leo nods, and takes a deep breath. The pain is sharp and sudden, this time, and Leo instinctively tries to gasp but his lungs are already full. He exhales like a balloon popping, and another burst of pain leaves him gasping and shuddering.

“There, there,” Matthew says awkwardly. Leo’s throat aches with the need to sob. The Healer adds, “I’m all done. You can breathe now.”

Leo does breathe, in big gasps like he’s drowning. His whole body gradually goes limp again, ragdolling in slow motion. A nurse puts the back of their hand against his forehead, as if there isn’t a thermometer handy. His vision is blurry with exhaustion and tears, and he can’t make out who it is.

He’s still sniffling weakly as he falls asleep. When he wakes, he will not remember having dreamt. Diego will run his fingers through Leo’s hair, and say, welcome back to the land of the living, big guy. Leo will be perfectly content that way.

—-

taglist: @lave-whump @whumper-in-training

(Let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from the taglist!)

#leo the lab rat #whump writing #magical healing #recovery whump #hospital whump #broken bones #injury whump #implied injury #caretaker

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actress4him · 3 years

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In Irons 6 - Lashes

(For @brutal-nemesis ‘s Salt Water Day)

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @a-series-of-whumpy-events , @ladydani101 , @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: lady whumpee (male whumper), restraints, imprisonment, corporal punishment, whipping, blood, mild gore

It isn’t Marshall who comes down to the brig to fetch her this time. She hasn’t seen him at all since she was thrown down here what must have been at least twelve hours ago. Despite the fact that he’s just a pirate, like the rest of them, and that he helped tie her to the mast for her last major punishment, she still finds herself wishing that he was there, wondering why he’s not. He’s at least semi kind to her.

The two men that grab her by the arms have no intention of being kind, nor gentle. Their grips are bruising, their steps far too quick for her weary legs to keep up with. When she trips on the stairs, they just keep pulling, banging her shins against the wooden treads until she can get her feet underneath her again.

Everyone is gathered around when they emerge into the early morning sunlight. It can’t possibly be a good sign. She knows that she made the Captain plenty angry with her disobedience, but is every single crew member that eager to see her punished? Or is this some kind of twisted, mandatory gathering?

There’s a path through the men leading straight to the center mast of the ship, where Captain Payne is waiting, and for a moment she thinks she’s going to be tied up again. Her breathing picks up just thinking about it, the heat of the sun and her lips cracking and bleeding and visions coming to haunt her…

“Miss Gray.” The Captain’s voice booms across the otherwise silent ship, startling her out of her downward spiral. “You defied a direct order from your captain. Your punishment shall be twenty-five lashes.”

Adelaide is fairly certain that her heart stops beating altogether, but it doesn’t keep her from hearing the chorus of boos that arises from the crew.

Captain Payne waves a hand over the disgruntled crowd. “Yes, I know, only twenty-five, such a pitiful excuse for a punishment. She’s only a lass, however. We mustn’t break her...too much.”

He gets a few chuckles for that, but she hardly pays them any mind. Only twenty-five lashes? She can’t even imagine one. There’s no way she can survive that...can she?

Before her brain can even begin to process what’s about to happen to her, she’s being shoved forward, down onto her knees in front of the mast. The manacles around her wrists are yanked up over her head and fastened to a hook that she had previously noticed but never known the use of. Now that she knows, she thinks she might be sick.

It’s all happening too fast even for that, though. Something cold and sharp pricks the nape of her neck, and she begins to panic, but instead of pain following - yet - there’s a terrible ripping sound and the warm breeze hits her back.

Her bare back. Soft and pale, marked only by the same freckles that dot her face. More muscular, perhaps, than it had been a couple of months ago, but still utterly unprepared for the pain that’s about to be inflicted on it.

She hears the first strike just before it bites into her skin. It stings just as badly as she feared, worse, even, and she gasps loudly. The second comes before she’s recovered from the first, drawing a whimper even as she attempts to bite down on her lip to keep further noise in.

The third and the fourth have her squeezing her eyes shut, trying to take in deep, even breaths through her nose. These men already see her as weak. She can’t prove them right.

When the fifth lash laps over two of the others, her head jerks backward, and she bites down so hard on her lip she tastes blood.

It’s after that when she begins to lose track of the number. She needs to count, she thinks, needs to keep track so she can make sure they don’t go over, but what would she even be able to do if they did? She’s in no position to contest them. She’s not even sure she’ll still be conscious by twenty-five.

The deck has gone eerily silent, more silent even than during the night watches, only the awful cracking sound of the whip breaking through the rush of the wind and lapping of the waves. It’s as if every man on board is holding their collective breath, waiting for the moment she breaks and begins to scream and cry.

And Adelaide tries so hard not to satisfy them. But the lashes go on, and on, and on, and every bit of her back feels as if it’s been set on fire. Each strike of the whip on top of already burning skin is absolute agony, and soon the tears that automatically spring to her eyes spill over and soak her cheeks. Soon she can’t hold in her noises of pain anymore, grinding her forehead into the wood of the mast and finally allowing herself to gasp and grunt and even whine.

But she doesn’t scream. No matter how much she may want to, she won’t give them that.

Not when one of the lashes - oh stars, can’t this possibly be the last one? - wraps over her shoulder, ripping skin away as it’s retracted. Not when she starts to become aware of blood soaking into the waistband of her breeches.

Not when her stomach churns and her hearing starts to go fuzzy, and she’s almost certain that she’s going to faint.

At last, at last, no more lashes come. Adelaide hangs limply from her restraints, panting, vision still black around the edges, unable to think of anything past the all-encompassing pain. The mumble of voices from behind her sounds like it’s underwater. Vaguely she feels the vibration of footsteps, but she’s unaware of anything that’s happening until sudden, startling, cold water crashes over her, running down across her wounds and mixing with her blood before pooling around her feet.

And Adelaide screams.

The pain before was so incredibly terrible, but this is somehow so much worse. It feels as if a thousand knives have been stabbed into her back all at once. She throws her head back, wailing, uncaring now of whether or not they find her weak. It’s all too much.

She loses all awareness for probably no more than a few seconds. When she comes back to herself she’s slumped over again, manacles digging bloody rivets into her wrists. In the corner of her eye she barely registers a pair of shining black boots and a cane, which quickly turns into the smiling face of Captain Payne.

“That should get you nice and clean. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ an infection or anything.”

Salt water. Of course.

Noise resumes around her, but it’s just that, noise. Adelaide remains in a daze, unsure from moment to moment whether or not she’s actually even fully conscious. Something is jiggling her hands, and she cries out as they’re lowered to her lap, rippling the muscles in her back. Her ruined shirt slides down her arms. She can’t even bring herself to care. But someone almost immediately covers her with something that feels like a coat, draping it carefully over her uninjured shoulder and holding it tightly against her on the other side.

“Come on,” a low voice that should be familiar murmurs in her ear. “Let’s get you to your bunk.”

Lying down sounds wonderful, but she can’t. There’s no way she can even begin to move from this position. The person must gather this, because he presses a shoulder into her stomach and scoops her up, wrenching another short scream from her throat.

By the time he’s taken three steps forward, Adelaide has given into the blissful call of the darkness.

#whump of the month #saltwater day #saltwater day 2021 #in irons #adelaide the pirate #whump #whump writing #lady whump #lady whumpee #imprisonment tw #restraints tw #corporal punishment #whipping tw #blood tw #mild gore tw #pirate oc #pirates #pirate captain #original fiction

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itcantbe · 3 years

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Whumptober No. 28: Good, you're finally awake

I've got two more whumpy things for you before the end of the month! I'd expound on what I was doing here but I fear I'd ruin it so I won't! Have you been to Elma Knoll? I picked it off the map and then ran there in the game to make sure it was a nice spot and it was!

No. 28: Good, you're finally awake

BOTW 1000 words On AO3

They’re lying on Elma Knoll. He’s on his back, and she is too, her head resting on his shoulder. It’s a beautiful day. Sunny, warm, bright. He runs his hand through her hair, combing the strands up with his fingers, watching as they glitter in the sunshine.

“It seems strange to lie here doing nothing,” he says.

She hums in agreement. They had spent so much of their time previously racing about the country, taking her to pray at the springs, inspecting the divine beasts, or visiting the various villages and settlements, that both of them are unfamiliar with idleness. It’s like some kind of dream.

Link sighs.

“But I suppose we should head back.” Where? To the castle, he supposes. Where else? The why of it eludes him but he doesn’t care. It’s hard to care much with the sunshine and the particular delight of being able to lie here with her like this, just like he’d always wanted.

He gropes next to him, seeking the sword that has been his constant companion since he was 12 years old. His brows pinch in consternation when he can’t find it. Where is it? Why doesn’t he have it? But then his brain supplies the answer. That’s right, they defeated the calamity. That’s why he and Zelda can enjoy the afternoon on the side of a grassy hill. They defeated the calamity, and he … he put the sword back in its pedestal in korok forest. So it could rest until it was needed again.

He doesn’t remember doing that, journeying to the lost woods. Lighting the torch to help find the way, winding through the misty trees until he reached the sunny glen where the sword lived when it wasn’t needed by a hero … none of it. But he must have. Why else did he not have the sword? But it doesn’t matter. He’s simply relieved to have finally shed himself of it. The sword itself only weighed a few pounds, despite the strength of the steel, but to wear it had felt like carrying the world on his back, bending him over and holding him down.

Now he was free.

He next wakes to the faint light of morning, sheets soft against his bare skin, and smiles at Zelda, nestled warm and just as naked next to him. He takes a moment to fiddle with the ring on the third finger on his left hand, its weight strange and unfamiliar. Well, he hadn’t been wearing it long, Zelda sliding it onto his hand only the day before. He holds it up, the gold gleaming in the early morning sunlight, and frowns.

He thinks most children dream of their wedding day, finding that one person they will spend the rest of their life with. It had been everything he had wanted — but he’s surprised how little of it he remembers. The other champions must have been there … he has a vague impression of red hair the color of the desert sunset, a beak as sharp as the Hebra wind, hearty laughter like boulders rumbling down the mountain side, a sweet voice that held the music of a cold stream tumbling through a meadow. But not much else.

But it doesn’t matter. He knows his wife — he smiles at the word, hardly believing he could be so lucky to ever say it, much less apply it to her — she had looked beautiful that day, he was sure of it, even if the details were fuzzy. He remembers her golden hair, and the way her eyes had sparkled like dew on summer grass. He struggles to remember the day for a moment more before giving up. The part he was really looking forward to was this, waking up next to her, finally having her all to himself. He’d imagined it so often it was hard to believe it was real. He rolls to his side and wraps his arm around her, burying his face in her hair, and goes back to sleep.

Now he’s at her coronation, and he stands behind her, like he always has. He looks down to see that he’s in his royal guard uniform, the collar just a bit too tight and the boots a bit stiff — everything is brand new. It’s blue, everything is blue. He’s aware of a vast crowd before him, stretching out from the balcony of the castle and packing the streets. The city is a riot of color, blue and gold and blue and red, and every building is bedecked in banners and bunting, flags flying from nearly every window and rooftop. There’s cheering, a constant roar as the people joyfully welcome their new queen.

He stands next to someone, the impression of a large, imposing man beside him. It's her father, he guesses, but he can’t really see him. It’s so blue, it’s so bright. He only has eyes for her anyway, watching her shine golden as she greets her people as queen. He burns with pride, and love, and happiness, to see her come into her own. He feels alight with joy that he can be here with her, to see this day at her side. It’s like a dream come true. The crowd roars, the sun is so bright, a golden light shining in his eyes. He squints, trying to see her; he wants to remember every detail he can. But all he gets is a flash of gold, the green of emeralds.

The light is so bright, it’s all he can see. He closes his eyes to shut it out. But it does no good, the light fills him up, refuses to let him turn away. The golden light calls to him to wake up, wake up. Open your eyes. And he does, wet and cold, in a room pulsing with blue light. He feels like something has slipped away while he slept, but he can’t remember what. He can’t remember anything.

#whumptober 2021 #no. 28 #good now you're awake #legend of zelda #fic #breath of the wild #zelink #itcantbe a writer #itcantbe a fic

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usaonetwothree · 3 years

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First of all thank you thank you thank you so much for the johnny whump!!!

Also wondering if there's any chance you will be writing any johnny whump featuring more johnny/Carmen? Maybe an extension of that part of The Agreement where she's examining his injuries? The thought just gives me total whumperflies!

Thank you so much for the message, Anon!! And you're most welcome! The show is just teeing it up so nicely. I'm really just continuing what they started :)

I hadn't thought about an interlude to The Agreement, but now my plot bunnies are going. Give me a few weeks to see what I come up with! I'll post it here for sure, and if it's long enough, I'll copy it over to ao3 as a second chapter.

In the interim, I have the start of a whumpy two-chapter fic that I don't know if I'm going to finish. Working summary is "Johnny doesn't have time to get sick. Besides, it's just food poisoning... right?" I'll post the completed first chapter below, and the plan for chapter two would be from Carmen's point-of-view from the ambulance ride through surgery and Johnny finally waking up. I wrote a lot of the ideas I had for her part into Conflict, which is why I think I'm stalled on it here in coming up with something different. I don't know how long it'll take me to figure that out (if ever) but at least you'll have the first chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Thank you again for the kind message!

Pain exploded in his side, worse than he’d ever felt before. He had reference for this: he’d torn, strained, bruised, strained, dislocated and broken many things in the past. This pain blew them all away. It was he’d been stabbed with a hot knife up to the hilt, and someone was twisting it around in his guts.

His hand went to the area, came away warm, but he wasn’t bleeding. Felt like it. Felt oozing and wet and raw.

Somehow, above the nausea, above the stabbing ache in his head, he knew this was serious. And he needed help.

He couldn’t remember where his phone was. Didn’t have time to stop and think.

With every inch of his skin on fire, he leveraged himself off the couch and almost screamed as utter agony raced up his side. His knees buckled but he didn’t let himself fall. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t get back up.

Partially hunched over, he stumbled forward, careful not to jar his torso. He caught the door before the handle, barely cracking it open before he almost fell through. He jabbed his right elbow into the stucco wall, used that as a guide.

Elbow on the wall, left hand on his abdomen, trying to hold whatever was wrong in. One foot in front of the other.

It was the only thing going through his head.

Left.

Right.

Left.

A chill tore up his spine. His brain went fuzzy for a second and his elbow came away from the wall.

He almost went down again, caught himself at the last second. Leaned so far right he almost bashed his head into the stucco.

But he was vertical again.

He kept going until he hit another door.

The door that could help him.

Everything hurt now. He was sweating, burning up. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head, and his limbs were trembling.

He tried to knock, lost his balance. Went down in a heap of limbs.

His side crashed into the ground and fire tore through his abdomen, pain so sharp and intense he couldn’t speak—couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.

He thought he smelled something familiar. Heard something close. Felt something against his forehead.

But it was lost in a wave of blackness.

A * A

Twelve hours earlier…

Daniel LaRusso walked into Miyagi-Fang to hear a sound he was uncomfortably familiar with. As his own stomach churned in sympathy, he stepped closer to the small wood door leading to the bathroom and rapped on it.

“Everything okay?” he asked, scrunching up his nose as the stench filtered out into the dojo.

“Fine,” a thin voice gasped.

“Johnny?” Daniel rapped harder on the door. “Let me in.”

“‘m fine.”

Daniel then heard the toilet flush and someone heave themself upright, before the faucet was turned on.

“Johnny, what’s wrong?” The worst-case scenarios were flashing through Daniel’s head: Johnny had gone after Kreese and gotten his ass kicked, he was drunk and trying to sober up before class…

But when the door slid open and a pale-faced and miserable Johnny stepped out, Daniel knew both were wrong.

“Are you sick?”

Johnny shook his head, then winced. “Don’t think so,” he said as he shuffled to the inlaid bench and sat down, propping his head against his hands with his elbows braced against his knees. “Bologna might have turned."

“I told you you should stop buying that stuff,” Daniel said as he fetched a water bottle from the small fridge and sat down beside Johnny, sliding it between his side and forearms.

“Then what am I going to have for breakfast?” he groaned, ignoring the bottle of water.

Daniel lightly wiggled it so it tapped Johnny’s arm and side. Groaning, the other man straightened up so his head was leaning against the paneling and took the water. “Cereal.”

Johnny took a small sip of the water and grimaced. “Milk goes bad,” he said faster but in a much steadier tone.

“Drink it faster. Or have eggs and bacon.”

Johnny groaned and clenched his jaw as his chest heaved painfully. “No more… food talk,” he ground out.

“Duly noted.” Daniel stood again and grabbed a towel, wetting it in the sink and laying it over Johnny’s forehead as he sat back down.

At first, Johnny pulled back in surprise, the towel slipping, but then he caught it and visibly relaxed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, closing his eyes and resituating the towel.

“How are you going to teach like this?”

“It’ll pass.”

“Uh huh.”

“Weren’t supposed to... be here this early,” Johnny mumbled as he shifted in his seat. He winced again then slowly lowered himself so he was lying on the bench, bringing his socked feet to rest on the wood as well. Daniel, who had originally been in the way, just shifted so Johnny could lie down unimpeded.

“That’s not making me feel a whole lot better.”

“’ll be fine by four,” Johnny replied. “Got like... an hour right?”

“Thirty minutes at best, and you know Miguel is always early.”

“’ll be fine by then,” Johnny repeated, somehow sounding so sure that Daniel found himself believing him.

He stood, then lowered the singular shade over the window. “I’ll come get you before class starts.”

Johnny just shook his head, though Daniel had yet to see his posture actually relax.

And yet, twenty minutes later, Johnny was standing in the backyard, dressed in his gi, looking… surprisingly normal. He was still a little paler than usual, but had clearly tried to push some color back into his face, judging by a few fading streaks on his cheeks.

“How?” was all Daniel could ask. The last time he’d had food poisoning, it had taken him four days and a trip to urgent care before he could leave his bedroom without puking.

“Mind over matter,” Johnny mumbled, straightening up as the kids began to stream in through the door.

That was… bullshit? Unbelievable? Incredible? But at the core of it, so very Johnny.

The kids were so caught up in the latest non-karate drama at the high school that none of them shot Johnny another glance. He did look at Daniel, grinning genuinely, and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Daniel just nodded, then set out doing the last bit of preparations for class.

A * A

If Johnny was being honest with himself, he should have known something else was wrong. His stomach had been hurting all day, even though he’d barely eaten anything since dinner yesterday: fried bologna, ketchup and some leftover rice Carmen had brought a few days ago.

But there was too much going on for him to be sick. There was getting the kids ready for the All-Valley, so they could once and for all remove Kreese from Cobra Kai—not that Johnny would be reinstating that name anytime soon anyway; his budding relationship with Carmen—which Miguel still did not know about; and the knowledge that Robby and a handful of his other students were doing who-knew-what under Kreese’s command.

There wasn’t any time for his problems.

So he’d taken a Tums last night, not really understanding how that had shown up in his medicine cabinet, and tried to sleep it off.

He’d shot awake somewhere around two, tangled in a thin sheet, sweating so badly it felt like he’d just come in from a run. But something else was wrong. His face felt too hot, the skin too tight, and his stomach continued to flip lazily, despite him begging it to stay where it was.

He’d cranked up the fan, and sipped some water, which was a mistake.

His stomach had rolled and he was puking up his meager dinner not long after. He sat there for a long time, head leaning against the cool seat, until he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken again when his forehead slid off the toilet and thudded into the vanity.

He was cool this time, freezing, and shit, that was signs of a fever. That much he knew.

He did not have time for this.

Still on his knees, he managed to reach the shower dial and turn it on. Then he crawled into the tub, clothes still on, and sat there, letting the cool water beat on him while he shivered uncontrollably.

He could not get sick. This had to be a twenty-four hour thing. The kids all came in with their runny noses, who knew what they got into at school. Maybe it was time he caved to LaRusso wanting hand sanitizer stations on the way out for those germ-minded kids.

Eventually the freezing water had become unbearable and he barely managed to reach back high enough to turn it off. Then came the more difficult task of stripping off his wet clothes, which he ended up doing still sitting in the tub, because the act of fighting with his clothes while standing seemed rather exhausting.

But then, he did have to get up, and it took everything he had to stay that way. His head swam and his stomach lurched.

That was when he felt a stabbing pain in his stomach around his navel.

No way this was some sort of flu.

He was reminded of Miguel pulling the package of bologna out of the fridge and frowning at the date. “This is over a week old, Sensei.”

“It’s fine,” Johnny had said.

Miguel had looked a split second away from pitching it, but had put it back in the fridge and chosen the bag of pretzels on the counter instead.

So this was food poisoning. It had to be.

He’d be in for a rough night, but it should be over by tomorrow, when he needed to be at the dojo, when he needed to be on.

The knowledge didn’t make his illness any easier, but it had made it manageable. He’d thrown up a few more times; felt his stomach cramp so severely, it doubled him over; and had eventually fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, ankles bracing the toilet, head leaning back against the far wall.

He didn’t feel better, per say, when he woke, but good enough to haul himself out of the bathroom, change into a loose shirt and sweats, and into the kitchen where he sipped at some OJ, literally the only thing in his entire kitchen that didn’t send his stomach rolling again.

At some point, he’d passed out on the couch watching TV and had jarred awake two hours before class.

He had to be there.

So he’d dry swallowed some aspirin and chewed another Tums, begged whoever was up there to keep them down, and headed out with the OJ tucked under his arm.

He’d barely made it to the dojo when his stomach began to cramp again, induced by the shifting horizons while he was driving. LaRusso found him and his once-nemesis had been surprisingly gentle. When he was better, Johnny owed him more than just a quick thanks for being decent about it, instead of leaving him to suffer on his own.

He’d had to pull over on the way home to puke again. Though he didn’t know what he was bringing up at this point. It was all acid and gunk from what he could see.

He was less than a mile from his apartment complex and he sure as hell wasn’t walking, so he slid back into the car, focused with all his remaining energy and went approximately ten miles an hour in the righthand lane the remaining way.

His fever was kicking up again as he parked, and his stomach began to ache with new intensity. He barely made it to the couch before he was retching again into the bowl he’d so left there earlier for just that purpose.

His head was pounding, his ears ringing, and the pain in his stomach had shifted so it was on his lower right side. He’d bruised a kidney before and it’d hurt in its own way, but it had been nothing like this. He hadn’t even fought anyone since Kreese. Couldn’t risk injuring himself and getting benched. Not with everything that was at stake.

It felt like he was getting the massage from hell, but inside, down in his guts. They were churning, dancing, twisting, oblivious to the pain they were causing. His actual organs hurt, however that was possible.

He sipped at the water, and immediately retched it back up.

Somewhere deep down he knew that was bad. Knew he needed to stay hydrated. Knew he hadn’t drunk enough the past eighteen hours. Knew he could replenish some of it from the shower, but it was so far away.

He just leaned his head against the arm rest, shifting until he found an angle that didn’t make him violently nauseous, and must have passed out.

It was only when he woke up that he knew something was seriously wrong, and that he had to get some help, and ended up passing out again in front of Carmen’s door.

Only it hadn’t been Carmen who answered.

“Sensei!” Miguel shouted, trying and failing to catch the older man. “Mama! Yaya!” he shouted as he dropped to his knees beside his Sensei, whose face was red and flushed but otherwise seemed uninjured.

“Sensei, please.” Miguel begged, tapping Sensei’s face and feeling the heat radiating off it. “MAMA!” he yelled again as he jabbed his fingers into Sensei’s neck, finding a thin pulse.

Then arms were on his shoulders, pulling him away, as his mom replaced him.

“¡Llame una ambulancia!”

Yaya was telling him to back up, was shoving her phone into his hands.

He didn’t remember making the call, but he must have. His mom was trying to rouse Sensei, had unbuttoned his shirt, and was swearing.

“Qué pasa?” Miguel demanded, but she didn’t answer.

“Ice, Miguel,” his mom was ordering, still bent over Sensei. “Quick!”

His feet were moving, grabbing whatever frozen vegetables they had in the freezer and handing them to his mom, who was placing them around Sensei’s neck, under his arms, around his groin.

Sensei groaned, flinched, but didn’t rouse.

“What’s wrong?” Miguel heard himself ask, but his mom was telling Yaya to take him in the apartment instead of responding.

“No!” he shouted, planting his feet. “I'm not leaving.”

His mom turned to look at him, a bit of panic in her eyes before she could hide it. “Go inside, Miggy. Please,” she said very carefully.

As much as Miguel didn’t want to, he did. Until he heard the sirens. Then he was outside the door again, watching as the paramedics swarmed Sensei.

They were asking his mom a bunch of questions and she was rattling off the answers. Then Sensei was on a gurney and they were rolling away and his mother was climbing into the ambulance with him, and then they were gone.

Miguel felt Yaya’s arm wrap around his upper back, not tall enough to reach his shoulders, and he turned and buried her head into her shoulder, letting the tears fall.

#johnny lawrence #carmen diaz #daniel larusso #cobra kai #cobra kai fanfiction #asks #answered #THANK YOU

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justanother-unluckysoul · 4 years

Text

OUAT fanfic: Working My Way Back To You 1/?

Killian gets captured. When Emma finally rescues him, he’s traumatized and nearly broken from the torture he endured. Angst and h/c galore as Emma helps him through it.

I tried to go easy on the whumpy side of it since it's supposed to be for Comfortember, but it's me so I probably failed lol

Hi all, just a short prologue today to set the scene, but I have four proper chapters ready to post and more in the works. I plan to get one posted each week. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Working My Way Back To You

Prologue

Killian can’t be certain how long he’s been here, the blow to his head already making things fuzzy and every ache from his beaten body further clouding his mind as he fights the need to sleep. His legs demand rest, shaking beneath him. But each time he involuntarily gives in to that need, his knees buckling, he’s pulled abruptly back to awareness as the shackle bites into his wrist and his weight is caught by the chain, yanking roughly at his right shoulder. A soft growl escapes his throat as he struggles once again to keep his legs under him, and he tugs uselessly at the restraint, vaguely hoping he can get free this time. He can’t, of course. He’s tried so many times since he woke up here, but there’s no give in the iron shackle around his wrist or the chain that holds him against the stone wall. There’s not even enough length in the chain to sit down.

Killian starts to shiver as the temperature in his prison slowly drops, and he assumes by that observation that night has fallen. Again. His captors had delightedly stripped him of every item of clothing he had, including his brace, leaving him with no protection from the chill now pervading the room. His head aches, pounding out a nauseating beat in time with his heart. Clenching his teeth against the helpless whimper threatening to escape, Killian leans back against the wall, the stone rough against his bare skin but at least it takes some of the strain off his legs. His breath hangs in the cold air.

“I could really use some help here, Swan,” he mutters.

He has no doubt that she’d find him, of course. She always does. But what condition he’ll be in by that time remains to be seen. No, he can’t wait for a rescue, and Killian already has a plan in place to get himself out of this damn prison. The door swings open and he straightens up quickly, his mask of indifference sliding back into place.

“Sleep well, Hook?” asks Killian’s jailkeeper, with a nasty grin.

He knows full well Killian hadn’t gotten any sleep at all, that was the whole point of tying him up like this.

“Aye,” Killian gives a wide smile of his own because he knows how to play this game, “The room was a little breezy, but I’ve slept in far worse quarters.”

He knows he’s only going to make it harder for himself, riling his captor up like this. He can see it in the way the man’s smile drops away and his eyes harden at Killian’s teasing response. But Killian can’t help it; even naked, exhausted, and restrained he can’t. He’s always been too cocky for his own good.

“That’s good because you’ve got a day ahead of you,” the man says, stepping forward to unlock the shackle from Killian’s wrist.

There are two guards just outside that door, Killian knows, so he doesn’t try anything. It wouldn’t do him any good. He must time this right because he’ll only get one chance. The shackle comes loose, and Killian hides the wince as his shoulder protests being moved back to its natural position.

“Another beating, mate?” he asks, in the tone of someone who is bored with all this.

“I would love that, but no. But we’ve got something even better in mind.”

The dark pleasure in the man’s voice gives Killian pause and he wonders just how much he’s going to regret stirring trouble. The keeper leans closer.

“I know you’re planning an escape, Hook. But you won’t do it. Because we’re going to break that spirit of yours and destroy any hope you have of escaping.”

“And just how do you plan to do that?” Killian asks smugly, his eyebrows lifting, ignoring the way his skin is prickling under the man’s warm breaths, “Short of actually killing me, I doubt there’s much you could do to me that hasn’t already been done before.”

He makes a show of remembering, “Oh no, wait, I actually have been killed before, and that didn’t stop me either.”

He grins but he’s acutely aware of how naked he is, how close the jailkeeper is, and how quickly his heart is beating in trepidation of what exactly his captors plan to do with him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Captain. You won’t have to wait long to find out. Come on.”

The man grabs Killian’s upper arm roughly and all but drags him from the cell.

To be continued...

#captain swan #comfortember 2020 #captivity #killian whump #i promise the comfort is coming lol #my fanfics #once upon a time #cs ff

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