#whumpee's fine dw

[whumperofworlds]

Whumper about to bring Whumpee for one more torture session before killing them, but Whumpee begged them to at least let them say goodbye/"I love you" one last time to Caretaker/the team before they go.

Reluctantly, Whumper lets them, albeit within a time limit.

Whumpee hurriedly said their goodbyes/"I love you"s to Caretaker/the team, and if they have a love interest(s), they would kiss before Whumper says, "time's up" before dragging Whumpee away. Caretaker/the team could only scream and plead for Whumper to spare them, but Whumper wasn't going to change their mind...

BONUS: This was Whumpee's first confession of their love to love interest(s).

[frantic-fuck]

Snakelet - Chapter 6

@augustofwhump Day 9 - Caged @augusnippets Day 9 - Overheating

Word count: 494

Masterpost

Content: Nonhuman/vampire/reptilian/satyr whumpee, very small cage, burning, overheating, delirium, some emeto

Back to your regularly scheduled Ziri torture~

~

He begged not to rest in the freezing cold next time.

He can't stand the way it slows every organ in his body to a stop, forces him into an uncomfortable half-hibernation, only for the next asshole to force him back out of it.

Of course, they said.

How cruel of us, they said.

We'll make it up to you, they said.

Their mock sympathy echoes in his ears as they fold him into a horrifically tiny cage and suspend it above the ground. All at once, the dark room brightens in every direction, and he can't help but quietly laugh when his eyes adjust.

Reptile lamps. He's surrounded by giant reptile lamps.

How thoughtful.

It's not too bad, at first. It's comparatively comfortable, if a bit warm.

Soon enough, though, he finds himself panting, the warm light beating down on him, soaking into his scales, his fur, his feathers, the metal bars pressed against his bare skin.

He can handle it, he tells himself. He can handle a little heat.

But his panting gradually gets heavier, more desperate. The air rushing through his mouth is the only temperature regulation his cold-blooded body has, and as time goes on, it's clear that's not enough.

The lights start to dance around his vision as he gets dizzy, his eyes struggling to focus. The metal bars are almost searing his flesh. His insides feel wrong. Everything feels wrong. He feels sick, sicker than he's felt in centuries.

When he vomits blood, the sight of the little food that was left in him, now in a puddle far below his reach, terrifies him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He needs that. He can't afford to lose any blood, not if they won't feed him.

Too desperate to feel ashamed, he laps up the few droplets left stuck to the bars. The burnt tongue he earns only exasperates his heat-fueled panic.

He needs shelter. He needs to cool down. And he needs it now.

His thoughts blurring more and more, he instinctively tries to leave the light, to hide, to move at all, surprised by the cage every time he sears himself by pressing further into it. With each frantic movement, the cage swings and spins more and more, compounding his dizziness, scrambling his thoughts, further disorienting him.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

He weakly headbutts the bars over and over again, the impacts and clangs doing nothing to help his growing delirium, until his horns get caught in the top of the cage. He jerks his head wildly, only managing to get himself more stuck.

He can't move.

He can't leave.

He can't hide.

Everything's wrong.

Everything's wrong.

MAKE IT STOP.

Black dots swarm across his vision as his head starts to feel heavy.

He's dying. He's dying. He's dying.

No no no nononononono—

His panicked struggles only serve to exhaust him more and more, until all he can do is succumb to the darkness.

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

I'm NOT whumping it. it has plenty of time to rest and recharge all the time. and it can handle it! my computer loads ridiculously fast despite the (43 currently) open tabs!

my toxic trait is that for the past few months i've had at least six tabs permanently open on my laptop and they're all different masterlists of stories that i want to get around to reading

[fallenwhumpee]

Why howdy!! 'Tis I, :D anon, unable to resist the call of the arrow that has struck me thusly. Anyway here you go :)) dw I have put one (1) bandaid on the wound upon removal. I see no way that can go wrong.

-

In Leader's defense, Teammate looked like shit.

What else were they supposed to do? They were the captain, after all, and Teammate did just recover from a nasty infection. They couldn't risk catching the bug going around this time of year. So of course Leader coaxed them into their bedroom, quietly making sure Caretaker kept an eye on them while they took Teammate's work into their own hands.

(Besides, if Caretaker was busy with Teammate, that meant they couldn't pester Leader with stuff like "resting" and "holy shit, Leader, put the coffee down!" as if either were viable options.)

The clock on their desk had been turned face down. The term "plausible deniability" flit through their head. They slammed a metaphorical flyswapper on it immediately.

No light was filtering through their curtains anymore, but that was fine. The sun was setting early these days, anyway. Besides, the reports weren't going to do themselves. Teammate's portion was finally finished, and they set it aside to do their own work.

(If they winced as they moved, nobody was there to see it.)

It was standard stuff they expected to see after being rescued: injury reports, health leave, etc, etc. It was all perfectly mundane deskwork, especially in comparison to what Whumper had--

No, nope, not thinking about that. Focus, Leader, they scolded themself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. If they had to do it through their mouth and ignore their screaming ribs, then so be it.

Distantly, they were aware that if any other member of the team tried to pull this sort of stunt, they would've suspended them from their duties and put them on bedrest faster than Whumper could--

No! They weren't supposed to be thinking about that! They shouldn't. Just head down, focus on their work. If they couldn't even do that, how else could they help their team? No, they couldn't give into that weakness. It was just a report. They could do this without having to stifle these irrational thoughts about-- about the past few months. They had to, or they'd spiral, and that would do nobody any favours.

Getting up only to dim the lights (to save power, they told themself. It had nothing to do with their head), Leader continued to work as the moon climbed higher into the sky, trading places with the sun.

(And if they simply curled up on the floor of their office after finishing the report, unable to make it to their room... well, hopefully nobody would notice.)

-

Tada :)) first snippet of the new year I suppose :D happy new year btw!! Gotta love starting my new year with some leader whumpees who try too hard

Also, totally unrelated to the whole "struck by an arrow" thing, but is it just me or is the room spinning

Hi, dear anon!

Oh wow. Just... just the hypocrisy. The hypocrisy and denial. Those two things will never fail to give me good whumperflies. And overworking can always distract you from every unpleasant thought crawling through the edges of your brain. Focusing on something is like putting a shadow or drawing a curtain over everything. They still stay there, but you don't see, only until your eyes get used to dark— starting to do the job automatically in this case. And sleeping on the floor is awful, they will be so sore when they wake up (with a nightmare would be delicious, but poor leader seems to have enough demons to deal with, since it's possible that they will feel guily about not completing the work anyway)

Happy New Year to you, too! You chose the best way to start the year :) I also posted traitor as my first writing of the year hehehe.

Please go lay down! I may not be a mama bear like a caretaker but I won't stop bullying a friend to rest/sleep/eat/get hydrated. If you hadn't done any of that in the last two hours, go and do it. Take care of yourself, please.

[emcscared-whumps]

Johnstone, Johnstone, my darling boy Johnstone. "Pleading" on the BTHB card for him?

ID: Bad Things Happen Bingo Card

BTHB 1C - Pleading

BTHB Masterpost

Sorry about the wait, but I don't like rushing UwU Johnnybastard is certainly tough to make plead, but I think I have a way of forcing him :)

CONTENT AND WARNINGS: Dehumanisation, it/its as dehumanising pronouns, whumper turned whumpee, this episode, on 'How Homoerotic Could This Conceivably Get?' (even though Dathrir's gender is unfathomable, the spirit is there, (it's sfw tho dw)), wait, how the FUCK did I write hand whump (sliced thumb, EW), noncon turning (not a vampire thing, but a demon thing... even though vampires are a type of demon in these realms... idfk but Johnstone gets the worse deal) it's not transformation /yet/, forced blood drinking

wc: ~1k

“On your knees.”

Dathrir grabbed the restrained human’s throat, and with their free hand, their fingers wandered through its hair, and the clawed tips scraped over its scalp. The threat sent a chill down the human’s spine despite the snarl that stayed fixed on its face.

It took nothing to force it down, despite its viciously growled protests.

Compared to when he stood tall as a House Master, the human in front of them was small. It was probably the ragged clothes, and grimy, bloodied face that gave that impression.

Fallen from humanity’s grace.

A traitor.

A smile crept onto their features. “What a fun game…” they purred.

Fury burnt in those strange, odd coloured eyes. Dathrir recalled that eyes of odd colours were unusual in humans. It’d make a striking demon…

The human gnashed at the cloth gag, as if sensing the malice Dathrir exuded. The way it tried to cling desperately to any power or authority it previously had was amusing, but did not excuse its insubordination and crimes.

“You stole that belunae from me, you know. By getting greedy, sloppy. By getting stupid. I thought you were one of the more intelligent ones. If you had simply followed protocol, well... perhaps even... made a special request...” Dathrir drawled, “we wouldn’t be in this little mess now, would we?”

Their wandering fingers snapped shut and gripped a fistful of ratty blond hair, tearing scalp. The human let out a muffled roar that was as angry as it was pained. Blood seeped through its hair and a thin trail slid down its forehead.

“Hm, let me think… You failed to appoint another Head Hunter, lied in reports on multiple occasions, knowingly appointed a belunae in your Squad—one that you should have passed up—and you kept another as a pet in your little power fantasy. I must say, I admire your ingenuity… but not your stupidity.”

The human glared.

“Sorrel Johnstone, wasn’t it?” they asked. A shadowy smirk darkened their features as they tugged the gag from the human’s mouth. They spoke again, “You broke the House Order. Beg for forgiveness you pathetic fucking dog—give me one good reason not to execute you for treason, and I just might let you live.”

“NEVER, YOU FUCKING PRAT,” it spat.

Dathrir’s eyes narrowed, “You might consider trying again.”

“I. Will. NEVER YIELD!”

“Ever the fool… That’s okay though, I’ll enjoy spilling your blood.”

In a flash, a blade spun in their hand, the tip finding the snarling human’s throat.

The human inhaled sharply and froze, eyes going wide with an entertaining mixture of fury and fear.

Dathrir hummed a giggle, “Cat got your tongue…?”

The spark of defiance in the human’s eyes brightened to flames at the taunt. Its body quivered. Dathrir could hear the way the human’s hands worked in their bindings, itching to break loose and unleash the rage that so clearly roiled within. In the face of Dathrir, the bravery was almost admirable—it was willing to start a fight it surely knew it would lose. Then again, bravery was just a term to comfort the foolhardy.

Dathrir released the human, but not after a light swipe that left a fine, weeping mark across its throat. Perhaps now it would consider the command.

“This can go on as long as you’d like, but I’m sure you’d like to get back to business and rebuild your House,” they said with a quirked eyebrow. “So, why don’t you make it quick. Beg sweetly for me, and I will let you go.”

This got the human’s attention.

Clearly, it had expected to die here, but a change in tactic seemed to yield the results Dathrir desired. The rage still burned beneath its skin, its heavy breathing was a sure tell.

“Let me go,” Johnstone started in a low tone.

“Tsk tsk, the magic word...?”

“Please. Let me go please.”

“Oh I’m sure you can do better,” Dathrir quipped, “after all, you’ve heard it plenty of times, haven’t you?”

Even if only a mockery, the human’s next attempt was at least a fraction more believable, “Please let me go—I’ll do anything...!”

They would make them beg.

Dathrir stroked its hair. “Good boy... That wasn’t so hard now was it? There’s just one more thing before you go,” they drawled with an odd smile, unlocking the cuffs that bound the human.

“And what’s that?” it said, strangling its harsh tone.

Perhaps there was hope, it knew its unspoken boundaries and attempted to adhere, if only as a means to an end.

“This—” Dathrir sliced their thumb on the knife. Thick, dark blood immediately pooled at the tip and dribbled down in a fast stream. Dathrir lunged at the human faster that, it could blink, and shoved their thumb between its lips.

The human recoiled instantly at the taste of Dathrir’s foul blood and tried vainly to spit it out. Dathrir sealed its mouth, but it bit down hard through its clear disgust, tearing at their skin with blunt teeth, clearly trying to dismantle their hand one digit at a time. Had Dathrir been human, they would have screamed.

Instead, what they called pain was a warmth that blossomed and spread up their thumb and through their hand. The tears in their skin simply released more of their blood, prompting a muffled, frustrated scream from the human at their mercy. It struggled harder. It gave up causing them pain, instead trying to quell the sickening burning in their mouth and remove the substance that caused it.

Dathrir smiled, satisfied when the human had swallowed enough. They released it suddenly, letting it hurl itself across the floor. Blood glistened on its lips and the corners of its mouth, and more, mixed with saliva dribbled out of its mouth as it coughed and gagged, groaning lowly.

“What the fuck was that,” the human spat in a raspy voice.

Dathrir smiled, revealing fangs. “Oh,” they purred, “you’ll see.” It won’t be human for much longer, they thought, to be hunted by one’s own people is the most fitting punishment for a traitor.

“Guards, get rid of it. Take it to an alley near here, and then leave me,” they said, “I’d like to watch the show.”

“What the fuck—do you mean, you demon piece of shit?!” the human seethed between coughs.

Before Dathrir deigned to give another vague answer, the human twisted suddenly with a scream, no doubt caused by the corruption that flooded its body.

“Make it stop—! ARGH!” it yelled, agony cracking its strained voice. “Let me go and I’ll—consider letting—you live! If the other houses found out—”

“They won’t,” Dathrir said, “they haven’t for almost a thousand years~ Besides, no one would ever listen to a demon.”

“Let me FUCKING GO!” it screeched, leaping up and lunging toward Dathrir.

The guards caught it and held it back a mere inch from the unflinching Dathrir’s throat. It scrabbled in their hold, the bout of corruption seemingly over. The first ones they endured, Dathrir noted, always seemed less severe, and were shorter. For now, the pathetic creature that struggled restrained before them, murder in their eyes, would be fine. Perhaps it wouldn’t even notice what was happening until it was too late.

It was always captivating to see what a hunter would do when stripped of their humanity. Perhaps this one would be especially interesting, given its ego.

Dathrir hummed lowly, an ominously victorious, jovial sound, “As you wish.”

If you read and enjoyed this, please consider a reblog ^-^

Taglist

@dang-i-like-whump

@whump-cravings

@willowtreewhump

[jordanstrophe]

Hello awesome writer 💛💛💛💛

It's been ages since I've asked you last. But dw I hardly miss anything you post 💛.

For the ask : Can we have a "I'm not faking" prompt??

Like whumpee is actually really sick, but Caretaker keeps pushing them and ignoring their symptoms thinking that whumpee is just faking or overreacting at most. Until whumpee reaches their limits and eventually collapses.

Then it'll be time for regret+ comfort+ fluff.

Thank you and much love ❤

Hello hello! Thank you so much!

CW: Fever, collapse, neglectful caretaker

Whumpee tucked their knees to their chest trying to hold their shaking legs still. They had been quivering since this morning; their heartbeat was quick and they couldn’t stop sweating.

Only a few more hours, then they can go home, sleep it off, and be fine the next day.

At least, that usually did it...

"Hey! We have to go." Caretaker ran in looking a tad rushed.  "I know!.. I know. Just give me three seconds." Whumpee huffed, cleaning sweat off their red cheeks. Caretaker looked them over, before letting out a subtle sigh. "I know you're not feeling well, but please try and hold it together. We really need you here today." Caretaker urged. 

"Well I'm feeling a little more than just unwell." Whumpee stammered, half way chuckling just to lighten the mood from caretaker’s pressure. 

"If it helps I'll walk you there. There's somethings I want you to take a look at-"

~Caretaker's voice seemed to fade out. They could see their lips moving so casually, but they could only hear faint ringing. They watched caretaker's face turn confused, before they visually sighed and took their arm.

They could swear their grip was the only thing keeping them standing. Their vision blurred, twisting the hallway into what looked like a fevering nightmare.

They were brought into their office and let go. It felt like the last thing anchoring them had dropped, their whole posture swayed and they almost fell on the spot.

Caretaker gathered papers and laid them out on the desk, but all whumpee could see was an ocean of blurry letters. Caretaker pointed at them urgently like it was something they could understand, like they were important. 

Then their face twisted from frustrated, to concerned.

"Whumpee?" Caretaker asked. Whumpee didn’t seem to have heard them, their head was down staring at the floor, eyes half open in a stream of gloss. 

"Whumpee!" They shouted, noticing their eyes shutting and trembling legs begin to buckle. They caught them just before they hit the ground. Caretaker laid their head on their lap and brushed their hair back to feel their forehead.

"Oh no, oh no no I should have listened to you- I should have-  ... why didn't I pay more attention- why didn't I stop you!?" Caretaker cursed themselves and called for help down the hall. Some people rushed in and caretaker barked a few orders to call a doctor and bring a glass of water. They draped their jacket over their shoulders and ran their thumbs down the sides of whumpee’s face.

 “I’m so sorry.... Whumpee please-”......

-----

Whumpee’s eyes opened just a sliver. The room was dim and quiet, the sound being the ambience of a running fan. They peeled their eyes open further, feeling a cool damp cloth draped across their forehead. They twisted their head to the side, finding caretaker sitting by their side with their gaze fixated out the window. They hadn’t even noticed them wake up.

“Hey...” Whumpee murmured for their attention. 

Caretaker’s head snapped towards them, their face lighting up and they gasped a sharp breath.  

Que the last remaining blubbers of apologies caretaker had been building up the entire time they were unconscious. It lasted quite a while before whumpee told them to calm down, their ears were beginning to grate. 

It’s dangerous to go alone, here, take this~ ♡ @grizzlie70​  @lave-whump​ @amethysts-sideblog​  @whump-it-like-its-hot​  @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight​ @yet-another-heathen​ @whatwhumpcomments​  @hamiltonwhumpdump​   @as-a-matter-of-whump​ @whumpasaurus101​ @lonesome–hunter​ @digitalart-dwa​ @mabledonut​ @myst-in-the-mirror​  @melancholy-in-the-morning​ @anonintrovert​  @sunflower1000​  @shywhumpauthor​  @dont-touch-my-soup @batfacedliar-yetagain  @uvanuva

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Okok saw ur post abt wanting asks so I decided to help y’a. Okok so how about a hero whumpee who gets in a fight with Supervillain and has to crawl into a random persons house and turns out its Villain who now begrudgingly has to become caretaker. :D if not dw (love your work btw)

Thank you for this ask. And also, I love your work as well.

This is short, yes I know, and I am very willing to continue it! I just wanted to work on a few other things to get things ready for this week because school starts in exactly 10 hours and 24 minutes.

Passing By

@the-sky-writes

Warnings: blood, injured character, reluctant caretaker, passing out

~

Hero slumped against a window of a nearby house. His face smashed into the cool glass. It felt so good to be this close to comfort, even if he was still devoid of it.

He had just escaped an attack from the pesky Supervillain. She was, though the Hero Agency refused to acknowledge it, stronger than most- if not all- the heroes. But of course, his boss's arrogance sent Hero out to fight and fight he did.

And fight he lost.

Hero allowed a tear to escape his flimsy defenses. He was bleeding out, and very rapidly, from a bad wound to the side of his leg. His vision was beginning to splash black and white dapples at him, but he forced himself from his lazy slouch to a more upright position. The movement made him uncontrollably dizzy, however, and he collapsed to the side. Arm over his head.

"Who's out there?" Came a growling voice. Hero groaned and tried to use his near-lifeless arms to push him up, but had no prevail.

"I said, who's-" the voice cut short as a shadow passed over the quickly blacking out hero.

"Hero?" A concerned voice spoke. Hero vaguely recognized that the voice's owner crouched down low to him, resting its warm hand on his shoulder. He sighed underneath the touch, instincts toying with the idea of whether or not it was a threat or help.

He prayed it was the latter option as he fully passed out.

Hero came back to himself with a dramatic twitch- not remembering where he was, though the previous night's events caught up with his memory. The fight, the dagger to his leg, collapsing by someone's house and then... and then...

Hero groaned, he couldn't remember. He didn't think it was some form of amnesia, or maybe it was. Maybe he hit his head.

"How are you? No, don't answer. I really don't care. You are alive so you are fine," came the voice, which Hero gradually came to realize, from earlier.

Still, unsure of the situation, Hero pushed himself upwards only for his leg to flare up in pain. He grimaced and cried out as his vision blurred out then blackened.

When everything cleared out again, the first thing Hero was conscious of was two hands- one on each shoulder- supporting him.

"Lost you there for a moment," a person, a girl, chuckled as she laid him back down. "Easy does it."

"Mmmnh," Hero groaned in an attempt to speak, but he was too lightheaded to do such a thing.

"I saved your arse you know, you're welcome."

Hero looked up at her, instantly knowing that it was his more personal nemesis with the name of Villain.

"V-v... n," Hero tried to wheeze, though it came out broken and scattered. He pressed his head into the pillow, the cool pillow, and closed his eyes. Sleep was dawning near.

"No." Villain smacked his flushed cheek. "Stay awake. You had enough rest considering you were out cold for like twelve hours or so."

Twelve hours? Hero briefly wondered. I need more than that...

"Stay awake... damnit Hero!" Was the last thing he heard before unconsciousness.

[whumpster-dumpster]

Whumpee not getting proper sleep and accidentally injuring themselves the next day from being tired (it’s me I’m whumpee but I’m fine dw)

I’m glad to hear you’re okay, but make sure you get some sleep!

[whumperofworlds]

Self sacrificial whumpee who shields a friend/lover/sibling/etc from an otherwise fatal attack. As they're laying there, bleeding, as their friend/lover/sibling/etc places them on their lap and freaking out, Whumpee asks them:

"Are you hurt?"

[set-phasers-to-whump]

impaling

prompt: impaling

whumpee: will riker

fandom: star trek tng

hi folks it’s me here with another whumpee with like three other fans! if you’re one of them hi hi hi it’s been a hot second since i’ve written riker but i will always love to hurt him :) i hope you like this fic!

Several members of the Engineering division had been working on an experiment for a few days now. Riker had figured it was about time that he checked it out, if only to have something to say to Data during their shift when he inevitably brought up Geordi’s involvement. 

It was a weird-looking thing. Various lengths of thin metal rods stuck out from a wall in one of the lab rooms. Strings of something were looped around the rods, with some kind of glowing material traveling along them. Riker stepped closer, touching one of the strings. A jolt of electricity zapped his fingers, and he pulled them away in surprise. He made up his mind to not touch anything else, and turned around to comm Geordi and ask him what all this was. 

Just then, the ship jolted sharply, like it’d been hit, and he went stumbling backwards, slamming into one of the metal rods. 

The rod caused only a minor ache in his back, so he stepped forward, intending to rush to the Bridge and see what was going on. But the second he moved his foot, something was...pulling? on his shoulder, effectively trapping him to the wall. He reached up with his left hand to hit his communicator, and suddenly his shoulder exploded into pain. 

He turned his head to look at it, then immediately wished he hadn’t. It had barely hurt before he’d looked. 

The metal rod was sticking clean through his left shoulder, its tip gleaming red with blood, which he could see steadily dripping down his shirt, darkening its red color. 

It hurt. His shoulder felt like it was burning, a white-hot pain that made him wish he’d passed out. He could feel the blood dripping down his back as well as his front, sticky and warm and altogether an extremely discomforting situation. He made a soft noise of pain that could have generously been called a wince. 

Who the hell gets impaled on a starship? he wondered briefly, and half-grinned to himself at the absurdity of the situation. It was better than crying about it, anyway.

“Commander Riker, report.”

He groaned. I want to report, he thought at Captain Picard’s voice, but certain circumstances have made that impossible. His left arm refused to move, and he worried that moving his right would only twist the metal inside of him and make everything worse. He hoped that his silence would serve as a good enough cry for help. 

“Commander Riker. Report.” The Captain’s voice was straddling the line between angry and worried. “Commander.”

The room fell silent as Picard stopped talking, leaving only the unsettling sound of his own blood steadily dripping onto the floor. Riker hoped the silence meant that someone was coming to get him. 

Moments later, the door to the lab slid open. Riker glanced to it, relieved when he saw the familiar shape of Captain Picard.

“Captain,” he said, in a voice much weaker than he’d ever admit to using. He’d never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

“Will,” said Picard, reaching for his combadge. “Picard to Crusher.”

“Dr. Crusher here.”

“I’m with Commander Riker in Lab Four. He’s been impaled on a metal rod.”

There was a brief moment of silence. “Impaled?”

“Yes. You may want to come down here, he’s lost quite a bit of blood already. I don’t know that moving him is the thing to do.”

“On my way.”

“Y’r....not gonna move me?” Riker asked. He didn’t like the sound of that. How was he supposed to get help if he couldn’t move? Was he dying?

Picard, evidently sensing his fear, quickly said, “We will move you. Dr. Crusher simply needs to figure out how.” 

“Okay.” That sounded better than dying, anyway. 

Dr, Crusher herself arrived a couple seconds later, hurrying over with a variety of medical supplies in her arms and a look of worry on her face.

“How did this happen?” she asked gently, checking his vitals.

Suddenly, he recalled the ship’s sudden movement, and a jolt of worry went through him. What had happened? Had they been hit? 

“Wh’ happened? Ship moved.”

“We brushed against the edge of a geomagnetic storm. I suppose you were unlucky enough to be standing in front of this contraption at the time,” said Picard, looking warily at said contraption.

Riker nodded slightly. “Fell back on ‘t. Didn’t even feel it at first. Then I looked.”

Dr. Crusher made a noise of sympathy from where she was inspecting the wound. She poked around it for a few seconds and pressed something to it (which hurt, despite his best efforts to appear to the other two that it hadn’t). “We need to cut this metal away from the wall,” she decided.

“Why?” Riker asked, as Picard went to get the necessary tool. 

“I don’t want to take you off of this rod, not yet. We’ll keep it in you until we get you to Sickbay, and then I’ll remove it.”

That sounded like a suitable plan, he decided. Sickbay sounded like the best place in the universe to him at the moment. 

Picard returned with some cutters just as Dr. Crusher was saying, “Will, you’re going to have to stay awake for this.”

He nodded. He didn’t particularly like that fact, but he understood well enough that if he were knocked out, he’d slump over and probably only make his injury worse. Granted, he wouldn’t be awake to feel it…

The actual cutting of the metal took only a second, but as soon the piece inside him was disconnected from the wall, he almost collapsed to the ground, crying out in pain as the movement jostled the metal rod. He would have completely collapsed, had Picard not caught him. Apparently his legs hadn’t been holding his body up so much as the metal had been forcing him to stand. 

An arm wrapped around his right shoulder, taking on his weight, and a hand grabbed his left hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Dr. Crusher to Transporter Room Two. Three to beam directly to Sickbay.”

The second they arrived, people were rushing up to them with all manner of supplies, and they sat him down on a table, and suddenly the metal rod was being pulled out of him, excruciatingly slowly and painfully, and quite a bit of blood went along with it, and he wondered whether or not that was supposed to happen, and then finally he felt the prick of a hypo, and finally the pain stopped.

aaa thank u for reading this!!! dw he is fine i just get tired of writing hospital waking up scenes lmao. 

[brutal-nemesis]

I'm late again, but in case you're still answering the trope asks, how about sensory deprivation, drugging and being buried alive?

Oh honey I’m always down for talking bout troupes dw

Sensory dep:

:( This is one of the ones that’s just like boring to me idk. I prefer direct application of pain and visible wounds, and this is neither of those. I get that it can fuck you up psychologically and I might enjoy it if I read it but I’d never write it

Drugging:

:| I like my whumpees to be awake and aware at all times so I can revel in their reactions. Some drugs are like paralytic and so that’s like fine cuz they’re still conscious of what’s happening they just can’t move, but I just prefer tying them up. Using a paralytic to get them into said restraints is hella cute though, just that feeling of helplessness as their freedom is taken away, especially if they’re so strong that they would’ve been able to easily protect themselves if they weren’t paralyzed.  

Buried alive:

:D EHEHEHEHEHE A lovely way to cause fear and panic! I’m not a huge fan of suffocation tbh, but I love the idea of a whumpee feeling their own doom grow closer with every shovel of dirt. Bonus points if bugs crawl on them :)

[caddy-whump-us]

I got tagged by @the-wandering-whumper!

Name: Cat

How old were you when you first realized you liked guys getting hurt?: I'm not completely sure, but I can definitely remember really liking any kids' cartoon that had the characters getting captured or kidnapped for an episode or two--and I still have an inclination towards captivity whump. I know that by the time I was a teenager and getting into animanga, I got into Gundam Wing and X/1999 and I really did like seeing Quatre and Kamui getting thrown around (those two especially).

What was that very first scene you remember gave you those glorious butterfly feelings?: Probably the scene in Disney's Robin Hood where Robin Hood's disguise at the archery tournament is literally sliced off him and Prince John just says "Seize him" and the next thing you know he's pounced on by guards and he's all wrapped up in chains and ropes and looking helpless.

Or else it was a scene in a Wonderworks cartoon where a werewolf has captured a young human character in a forest, rendered them unconscious, and then the character wakes up tied sitting in wooden chair with tall sides (so the character's hands are tied above their head to each side) and they wake up pulling on the ropes and saying, "Please let me go!" but the werewolf is very precisely telling them that he is going to bite them at midnight so they'll turn into a werewolf too--I literally recreated this scene secretly in my room with my toys I liked it so much.

Bonus for the text-based choose-your-own-adventure RPG computer game I played in 5th grade where one of the paths ended with "you" being captured, tied up, and dumped off the back of a truck in the woods (and I always pictured a boy character for this).

And there's an episode of the original TMNT where April is held captive by Shredder for, like, the whole episode and it was my secret fave, but that centers around a female characters, so does that count?

When and how was it that you realized “Hey, I’m not so messed up in the head!” and that there’s a definition and community for this sort of thing?: I guess I never really thought I was all that "messed up" for liking this (after all, they put these scenes in kids' movies), but it seemed like it was just something that one wasn't supposed to talk about. It was a bit like liking scary movies: some people like it, but it's creepy to most people, so it's not polite to talk about it. (I was always afraid of getting in trouble if someone found some of my writings and drawings, but some of it was more vent art than whump stuff.)

I played out some whumpy scenes in my LJ and DW RP days without knowing the terminology for it at the time ("hurt/comfort" was a more common term then) and wrote whumpy stories with OCs for years and years. But it's only been in the last few months that I've realized there's a separate, identifiable community just for these kinds of scenes, even though I've been either imagining or writing them for ages. And y'all are the nicest bunch of sadists I've ever met, it's really true.

What’s your favorite whump trope?: The Helpless Look. You know the one. It's the face-down/eyes-up, soft mouth look when a whumpee is good and stuck and hurting or about to hurt. It's so good. (Weirdly young Hugh Grant makes this face a lot--albeit in non-whump scenes?)

Along with that or following after it is the Submissive Look Down, which is like, so yummy, with the whumpee both feeling helpless and afraid and accepting of the circumstances. Bonus points for a little heavy breathing here.

Helplessness seems to be a recurring theme for me and whump. It may be why I really like whumpees in bandages too--especially kind of trying to get on with things despite hurting. Patched-up and bandaged is a great look for whumpees.

But I'm also a fan of Tied Up and Tied to a Chair and Tied Down to a Bed. Chained to the Wall with a Collar is good, and so are cages, but I'm really more fond of just Tied Up.

I do like a good beatdown, sure, but I really seem to like a lot of "non-traditional" whump, like non-con body mods (ear piercing or tattoos or traumatic haircuts). Surprise, whumpee: you're now part of a human experimentation project, so hold still while we ink on your identification numbers with a needle. Or, oh, hey, the whumper just carved a magic sigil into the whumpee body, making the whumpee into an unwilling magical familiar and storage space for the whumper's spare magical energy.

What’s a whump trope that you hate?: Mindless or aimless physical beatings. It just gets boring to me? I really need some connection between the characters or something to make the situation more interesting. I'm also not a huge fan of whump by inanimate object--like a car accident, say--unless there's some good focus on the aftermath.

What’s your favorite whumped character?: I'm honestly not into all that many fandoms and I've found I really dig OC whump, strange as that sounds. But if I have to choose, I'll look to my past: Kamui Shiro from X/1999 is so pretty when he bleeds or when he's wearing all kinds of bandages.

Quatre from Gundam Wing takes a stab to the gut with a broken fencing foil late in the series and I loved that (and the dozens of doujinshi where Trowa comes to his rescue after) along with the Zero Wing mind-control stuff (again, rescue).

Now for the last several years, I've been hung up on Cain Hargreaves from Godchild/Cain Saga. He's got a painful childhood (which is another issue), but he takes a few hits now that he's grown. He's quite pretty when he's helpless. Now, his faithful servant Riff gets fully whumped on several occasions, which leads to some wonderful emotional whump for Cain, so that's a win-win.

And Setsuna Monou from Angel Sanctuary is great for blood and bandages and drama--he’s a bit spunkier than some, but he gets whumped quite a bit too, and he’s pretty, so it’s nice.

I really think Kamui and Quatre are the base elements for my favorite OC whumpee Julian.

What’s that whumped scene(s) that you’ve watched over and over again. (We know you do it and we understand): I actually don’t have an answer for this? I’m really not into a lot of fandoms (especially not television or movie fandoms), so I’m going to have to skip this one.

Bullet or stab wounds?: Stab wounds, for sure. They're somehow...slower? More intimate? Don't get me wrong: a good bullet wound is fine too (and I wrote a very long big bang fic about the Clint Eastwood character The Man With No Name that involves both bullet wounds and a no-holds-barred beatdown--it's on my ao3 if you want to see it, wink wink). But I love knives--for stabbing characters, slicing characters, holding to their throat, &c. Mmmm good stuff.

Fevers or Hypothermia?: Fevers! Hypothermia doesn't really do it for me, but I bet there's some good whumpy hypothermia that would. But, of the two, fevers: whumpees confined to bed, with caretakers (grumpy ones, kind ones, unwilling ones, resigned ones), labored and shuddering breathing, chills and sweats, delirium, bad dreams, glittery feverish eyes--I love it.

Emotional or physical?: Psychological, actually. That is, what the whumper is doing might or might not be all that painful physically, but the psychological toll might be higher than the physical. I think it’s somewhere between emotional whump and physical whump--or it unites the two.

If I have to choose between the two, though? Physical, but I really need some emotional involvement in it. It's not just about the physical, it's also the emotional (whether I know what the emotional whump is because I know the story or I'm picking up/projecting the story).

Injured and asks for help or tries to cover it up?: Both of these are so good! I think it depends on the character and what's going to make for more delicious whump, really. Because I've got some OCs who are delicious when they're hurt and asking for help and others who are amazing when they try to tough it out.

My fondness for helplessness really does mean I like both.

Lastly, does anyone know about this addiction of yours?: Not...that I know of? Now, someone might and they just haven't told me that they know. I was always down for a whumpy scene in my LJ/DW RP days, but that wasn't so unusual there--it was all for the sake of character angst (as we called it then). I've not confessed to my addition to anyone, though. So there you have it.

Pass this on!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

breathe in breathe out

Prompt: delayed drowning

Whumpee: Nick Burkhardt

Fandom: Grimm

hey folks what’s up!!! brief fun announcement from me i finally got my drivers license today (only about two years late but shh) and i’m very happy ab that!!! anyway i hope that you enjoy this fic, it’s set right after the events of la llorona  and i did a Lot of research about delayed drowning for it!! (did you know that they no longer refer to it as things like ‘dry drowning’ or ‘secondary drowning’? i did not you learn new things every day up in here) anyway yeah i hope you like this fic!!!

They’re both fairly exhausted after the day they’ve had. Teaming up with a not-really-FBI agent to find a murderer, learning that ghosts might actually be real, saving the lives of three kids, and losing their would-be killer tended to do that to people. But it’s Halloween (sort of), and the both of them could do with a little winding down and trying to make sense of the events of the day. 

So they’re in Hank’s living room, talking about ghosts while a scary movie plays on the TV, muted. There’s a small bowl of Halloween candy on the table in front of them, and Hank is eating a kitkat. Nick is decidedly not hungry - his throat feels sore, which he supposes is a byproduct of his time in the river. 

He coughs, suddenly, startling Hank, who drops his candy. “You good?” he asks, and Nick nods. 

“Probably just a leftover from-” he starts, but cuts himself off with another harsh cough, and then another.

“You’re sure?” Hank asks. “Those don’t sound good. Do you feel sick?”

Nick waves him off. “I’m fine,” he says, and reaches for his glass of water. He takes a sip, hoping to calm the coughing, but instead nearly chokes on it, and feels, briefly, like he’s back in the river, fighting la llorona, watching her slip away…

And then the feeling fades, and he feels Hank thump him on the back. “I’m good, I’m good,” he assures him, discarding his glass in favor of putting his hands on his knees and taking a deep breath. 

“I don’t know, man,” Hank says. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Hank,” Nick insists. “Probably just swallowed some water earlier.”

Hank doesn’t look convinced, but he stops talking about it, and Nick settles back into the couch, leaning his head against the cushion. He blinks and feels his eyes fight to remain closed. He checks the time - nearly one a.m.

“I think I should head home,” he says to Hank, who turns away from the TV and looks at him.

“You alright to drive?” he asks. “You don’t look too great.”

“I’m fine,” Nick says, for the hundredth time. “Really, I promise.”

He yawns, and once again feels his eyes slip closed for longer than they should. On the other hand, maybe he’d just fall asleep right here...Hank wouldn’t mind, right?

He decides that the answer to that question is no, and brings his legs up onto the couch, curling up as best as he can in the small space. 

“Hey, what’re you-” Hank starts, but he stops upon seeing that Nick has already fallen asleep. He sighs, muttering about how Nick better not get any dirt from his shoes on his couch. 

He doesn’t mind, though, really. Especially when he takes a good long look at Nick’s sleeping face - though being asleep has lessened the effect slightly, it’s clear Nick is absolutely exhausted. His face is paler than it normally is, and there are marks under his eyes. He’s long since changed into dry clothes, but his hair is still damp, curling slightly against his forehead as it dries. Hank gives him a smile and locates a blanket to drape over him, then turns off the TV and the lights and heads to his own bed.

--

Nick wakes up an hour or so later with a burning pain in his chest. He tries to take a deep breath to get the pain to stop, but feels it catch in his throat. He breathes in again, and feels the same result. 

A panic starts welling up under his skin as he continues to struggle to breathe - his lungs are burning and there’s no air in his body and he’s dizzy because he cannot breathe. He tries to shout for help but chokes on the words, and then coughs, and then he’s coughing again, like before, only unlike before because he can’t stop. He keeps coughing without a breath in between, and every cough feels like it’s tearing its way out of his lungs and his throat, and he can taste the river on the back of his tongue, and he doesn’t know what this is or why it is happening and he still can’t breathe. 

He tries to stand up, knowing that he has to get somewhere, find someone, but the second his body leaves the couch he’s pitching forward and he’s still coughing and he thinks he is never going to stop, and then - 

Then there is a pair of arms wrapping around him, easing him to the floor, and he still can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’tbreathe, and he reaches out a desperate hand which wildly misses its mark. 

He hears, over the sound of his own coughing, Hank’s voice, and he is saying something but not to Nick. He can’t understand what it is Hank is saying, and he can’t see him, either - the force of each cough is making his eyes water so badly the world is nothing but a fuzzy blur, so he knows Hank is there, but he doesn’t know where and he can’t think or process what is happening, but he is afraid and he can’t stop coughing and his chest is on fire. He wants Hank, and tries his best to call out for him. 

And then Hank is there, and his hands are on Nick’s shoulders and he’s saying something to Nick this time, but Nick still can’t hear, still can’t see Hank beyond a vague smattering of colors and light. Cough after cough tears its way out of him and he reaches out a hand yet again. 

This time, it hits its mark, and Hank’s hand wraps around his own, steady and warm, and he says something against the side of Nick’s head which Nick still can’t hear, and then Nick is aware that he is being moved, and then something thumps him in the chest and he coughs somehow even more harshly than before, and then his body instinctively turns to the side and he coughs up a small amount of water which burns horribly, and then he coughs a few more times, and then, all of a sudden, it stops. 

He takes a shallow breath, and then another. He feels himself being moved again, and something in his brain recognizes the motion - recovery position, he thinks, and then there is a hand between his shoulder blades and Hank’s voice, again, and Nick can actually hear him this time. 

“It’s okay, Nick, you’re okay,” he is saying, but he sounds scared, and Nick is scared, still unsure of what exactly had happened to him and why it had stopped and if it was going to start again. He feels himself start to cry, his eyes which had just been starting to clear up fogging over again, and he takes a shuddering breath that burns but doesn’t make him cough. He wants to ask what happened, but his throat feels like he’s swallowed a bucket of nails and crying is already aggravating it enough. 

He feels the hand leave his back then, and makes a completely involuntary noise at the loss of contact, feeling the pain in his throat spike. 

But just as quickly as it had left, the reassuring contact is back, in front of him this time. He feels Hank lie down next to him, feels a hand on his face, hears Hank say those words again: “You’re okay, Nick, it’s alright.” 

But it’s not alright, he is still scared and in pain and confused and so, so tired. His hand reaches out for the third time, and Hank knows exactly what it means, without Nick needing to say the words. He moves an arm to wrap around Nick’s body as best as he can in their current positions, and he pulls Nick gently towards himself. 

Nick leans his face into Hank’s shoulder, relaxes ever so slightly, and breathes.

hi idk if this was any good or not but i had a good time writing it!!! i am gonna be honest the stuff about whacking him in the chest is pure bs from me but i Wanted to include it so i did lmao. the rest of the stuff is pretty true to how delayed drowning happens tho!! its pretty wild like you can be fine for several hours and then boom. also i didn’t say this in the fic but dw hank was calling 911 and nick will be fine!!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

stitches

Prompt: stitches (alt no.4)

Whumpee: Nick Burkhardt

Fandom: Grimm

hi wow creative title by yours truly. anyway i am sorry that this fic is not very good, i didn’t get to start writing til like 9:30 bc i had friends over and it was a While lol. anyway i hope you like this despite all of that!

“We should go this way, right?”

“No, look at the map, it’s to the left.”

“It is? Where are we then?”

“Nick, have you ever used a map before?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, I’m telling you, it’s to the left.”

Nick shrugs. “Okay. It’s to the left.”

Monroe pats him on the shoulder. “Knew you’d come around.”

They turn down the trail to the left, stepping over a fallen tree. They make it a few hundred yards before Rosalee stops in the middle of the path.

“Is something wrong?” Nick asks, immediately on the lookout for danger.

Rosalee stays perfectly still for a moment, then sighs and relaxes. “I thought I heard something,” she says. “But I don’t hear it anymore.”

“What kind of something?” asks Monroe, looking around cautiously. 

“It was probably nothing.”

“I’ll keep an ear out.”

“So will I.”

“Really, guys, I’m sure it was nothing. It was probably just-”

Whatever Rosalee had been about to say, it certainly wasn’t what came crashing through the bushes in front of them: a figure, cloaked in black, brandishing a shiny silver dagger. 

The trio freeze in surprise, momentarily, but Nick’s cop/Grimm instincts kick in quickly enough, and he steps forward, positioning his body in front of his friends.

He raises his hands slightly, hoping to show that he’s not a threat, and says, “could you put that down? There’s no need for this to get out of hand.” 

Of course, he doesn’t know what, exactly, it is, a fact that the cloaked figure points out. “You don’t know what this is,” it says. “But you will.”

Before Nick has a chance to react to that foreboding message, the figure is rushing forwards, and Nick reaches an arm behind him to cover Monroe and Rosalee, pushing them to the side and trying to step out of the figure’s path.

Which only half works. Monroe and Rosalee get out of the way, and Nick steps to the side, but the figure reaches out with the dagger, and then Nick feels the metal stabbing and ripping into his skin, and then, abruptly, it is gone, and he collapses to the ground with a yelp.

For a second, all he can think of is pain, hot and sharp and very terribly wet, and then there’s a noise nearby and he thinks of his friends.

“Monroe,” he calls out, “Rosalee. You okay?”

He hears a rustling from nearby, and then a gasp and a groan of sympathetic pain. “We’re better than you, buddy,” says Monroe.

“Where...where’d he go?” Nick asks. 

“That cloaked dude?” Monroe looks around worriedly. “He just kinda...disappeared.”

“Great,” Nick says, and then he tries to stand up. He is almost immediately stopped by Rosalee’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t do that, Nick,” she warns. He decides it’s a good idea to listen, and lies back against the rocky ground. 

“How bad is it?” he asks. Judging by the amount of blood he can feel soaking into the ground around him, he has a pretty good idea, but he needs to hear it from someone else.

She sighs, poking his stomach gently to confirm the size of the wound. “It’s not great. Several inches long and pretty deep, too. Monroe’s calling 911.”

“No, I’m not,” Monroe says, sounding agitated. “I’m trying, but we’re kinda in the middle of nowhere out here.” He holds out his phone. “No service.”

“Can we walk back?” Nick suggests, not feeling too keen on the idea of dying in the middle of the woods.

Monroe and Rosalee share a glance, but neither of them says anything.

“What?” Nick asks. “I know it’s bad. Tell me.”

“Realistically, no,” Rosalee says. “That wound is too deep, and you’re bleeding too much. You’d...you’d die before we got out of here.”

“We can stop the bleeding, though,” Monroe says. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my backpack, there’ll be something in there.”

Nick breathes a sigh of relief as Monroe starts ruffling through his backpack. He tries to listen to the quiet conversation that Monroe and Rosalee are having, but he finds his mind increasingly wandering back to the very familiar topic of pain. Which is, itself, not that bad, in the grand scheme of things. Nick’s had worse, for sure. But he’s never been bleeding out in the middle of nowhere before. It’s not an experience he’d care to replicate.

Monroe breaks him out of his slowly spiraling thoughts. “I’ve got something. You’re not gonna like it, though.”

Nick shakes his head. “Don’t care,” he says. 

“You might,” Rosalee suggests. “It’ll hurt.”

“Will it stop me from dying?”

“Probably,” Monroe says, and then he says, “ow!” when Rosalee smacks him on the shoulder. “It should,” he amends.

“Then I don’t care.”

“Okay,” Rosalee says, and then her voice turns professional. She instructs Monroe to take off his jacket and bundle it up to put under Nick’s head, which Nick wishes she’d done sooner. It feels quite a bit nicer under his head than the ground. Then, she’s cutting at his shirt and peeling it slowly away from his body. He tries to pay attention to anything else besides the pulling feeling as the fabric is pried away from the tacky blood holding it in place.

Then, water is being poured onto his stomach, and it kind of burns but also feels nice, a pleasant cool against the warmth of his own blood. Rosalee kneels down next to him, then, and gives him a shaky smile. Monroe kneels next to her, grabbing Nick’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Rosalee asks.

Nick finally thinks to ask what exactly she plans to do, though he’s got a pretty good idea. 

“I’m going to give you stitches,” is Rosalee’s reply. “We don’t have anything to numb the pain, though. Just a needle and thread.”

“Do it,” Nick decides. It won’t be that bad, he figures.

And then the needle enters his skin, pulls through, leaves, and he can feel the thread stretching across his body and he thinks it might be the worst feeling in the world. 

Rosalee does what feels like hundreds of stitches, each one more painful than the last. The whole time, Nick is shaking involuntarily, and he’s biting on his tongue to keep from screaming. His nails dig into the skin of Monroe’s hand, and he clenches his hands up so hard that they start to cramp. Tears are streaming down his face and he’s sweating, both from pain and from the sheer effort it’s taking him to keep quiet. Everything burns, and his skin feels hot, and every movement of the needle may as well be another dagger stabbing into him. 

Finally, finally, the last stitch is pulled through. The second Rosalee ties off the thread, something in Nick decides it’s held on enough, and a faint whimper of pain escapes him. And then Rosalee’s hands are on his face, and she’s telling him it’s over, it’s over, and she’s crying too, and everything in the world is pain and he’s trying his best not to let it overtake him, trying to focus on her voice saying, “it’s okay, Nick, it’s okay.”

Monroe shifts, then, and moves behind Nick, helping him into a sitting position as gently as he can. He whimpers again - everything hurts - and then Monroe’s arms are around him, warm and steady and blessedly not painful. He leans back into them for a second, and then there is movement, and everything explodes back into pain, pain, pain.

Nick passes out just as Monroe picks him up. He shifts Nick slightly in his arms, cradling his head against his chest in the hopes that he won’t get bounced around too much. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says quietly, leaving no room for argument. 

They start walking, Rosalee leading the way, going as quickly as they can without jostling Nick too much and potentially tearing open his new stitches. With every step, they’re looking out for the hooded figure, but whoever it was seems to be long gone. 

Finally, they arrive back at the car, and Monroe deposits Nick carefully into the backseat, then settles himself into the driver’s seat. Rosalee climbs in the back next to Nick, pulling his head to lay on her lap. He’s far too pale, and still trembling, and sweaty, and there’s dried blood all over his body and dried tears all over his face. She runs her fingers through his hair and hopes desperately that he’ll be okay as Monroe starts the car and they begin the journey to the nearest hospital.

The ending of this wasn’t very good but i didn’t want to write Another hospital scene so i decided to leave it there lmao. Anyway dw nick is going to be fine i just didn’t want to keep writing. Hope you enjoyed this story and thanks so much for reading!!