#whumpers-monthly

[whumpers-monthly]

Issue no 31:

Ambushed at home

The following was submitted by an anon: Person A walks in to their bedroom or living room to see a stranger in their arm chair with their hand fisted in Person B's hair, who is kneeling - bloodied, bound & gagged - on the floor in front of them. Person B is physically subdued but clearly still defiant & struggling. The stranger does a cool villian line like "welcome home, I thought we might have a word . . . in private"

I turned it into the prompt above to make it a bit easier to find something that fits. But of course I and especially anon are happy if you create something closer to anons text. Whatever you create or dig out of your archive, I'm sure it will be great!

Tag your posts with #whumpers-monthly and #issue no 31   If you make a gifset for the prompt, please also add the tag #whumpedit  

If you already made a post that fits this prompt, reblog that post and tag @whumpers-monthly

Please add the name of the whumpee and the movie or show your content is from.

[whump-side]

Shot by an arrow compilation for @whumpers-monthly

[aceofwhump]

The Silencing starring Nikolaj Coster-Waldau

For @whumpers-monthly Shot with an arrow

[whumpypepsigal]

#scars

[iolausian-fields]

𝗫𝗲𝗻𝗮: 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗼𝗿 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀 s2e18 - Blind Faith

[uuuhshiny]

Vladimir Verevochkin in Survival game (Игра на выживание)

[silvermoon-scrolls]

The Sentinel 1x05 Cypher

Blair gets kidnapped by a psychotic serial killer.

[whumpy-side-of-the-moon]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗹𝗺𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘆 𝗝𝗼𝗵𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗻𝘀 1x01 - It's a Kind of a Birthday Present

[whump-collector]

Eamon Farren as Cahir in The Witcher 2x03

For @whumpers-monthly Issue no 21: Fake execution

[astaldis]

Issue no 32 - Kneeling: Everything I do

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Whumpee: Cahir

Relationships: Cahir & Ciri, Cahir & Yennefer, Cahir & Jaskier, Jaskier & Yennefer

Rating: M

Warnings: GDoV

Characters: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold, Isengrim Faoiltiarna, Cahir's horse

Words: 14,592; Chapters: 6/6

Excerpt from Chapter 1: My life is yours

"Princess, I've dreamt of this moment," he says, his voice husky with sudden emotion. A confusing mix of emotions he could not put a name to if his life depended on it. She charges at him.

"No!" Cahir calls out, but, from his dreams, he knows she will not stop. He has his sword out of its sheath within a split second. Not to harm her, to defend himself from her righteous fury. There are things he wants to tell her before she ends him. He cannot let her kill him yet.

Their swords meet, the blades clang against each other. She hacks at him with vicious force, incredibly good for a girl her age. She must have trained hard to be prepared for the day she would meet him in the field. For today. Now they are here, their swords clashing. Cahir has to fall back further and further to evade her blows, every backward step bringing him closer to the edge of the cliff.

"I do not wish to fight you!" he eventually shouts, lowering his sword and sinking it into the ground. Maybe she will not, but he has to try to stop her for a moment so she will listen to him.

"Pick it up!" she screams at him. "Pick it up!" If looks could kill, he would be dead already. 

She comes at him with raised sword, breathing hard from the fight. Like in his dreams, no, nightmares. The tip of her blade is almost in his face as she pushes him and grabs him by the rim of his breastplate's collar, her face a mask of fury. She forces him to lean back, precariously close to the cliff.

"Why?" Her hand holding him by his armour is all that keeps Cahir from falling, from tumbling down into the abyss. Now he is scared, terrified. He groans. But she needs an explanation. He owes her one before the end.

"In the attack in Cintra when I took you," he starts, trying to block out every thought of the precipice, of what will happen if she lets go of him, "I did everything I was asked with no hesitation, but now I can't stop asking questions. I've discovered I was wrong. I can't give you back the life I stole."

She roars and, with force, pushes him down to the ground, not backwards into the abyss. Panting, he gets to his knees.

"My life is yours," Cahir says, gazing up at her as she stands towering above him, glaring at him, her sword by her side, the wind from the sea in her ash-blonde hair. And he kneeling on the ground before the Princess as he should. "So, take it." He is sure she will. He is ready for it.

She takes a step toward him.

"You took everything from me," she spits, her voice full of hatred and heartbreak.

"I know," he says, his heart breaking for her. It is true, too. It is what he did. He destroyed her life. Why did it have to be this way? Because her father ordered it and he was so bloody stupid and blindly followed those orders. But he can never tell her that Emhyr var Emreis, the White Flame of Nilfgaard, is the father she believes died when she was a little girl. No, the truth is too cruel. 

"I know," he says once more, then looks down at her sword. He takes the sharp blade in his gloved hand and raises it to his throat.

"Take this blade." He looks up into her eyes, holding her sword with both hands against his neck. "And let yours be the last face I see in this world. Princess Cirilla. The Lion Cub of Cintra. She who has the power to move the world. I owe you that." He lets go of the blade. The pointed tip of her sword just so touches the collar of his gambeson right below the Adam's apple. Like a kiss. The kiss of death. From her he will gladly receive it. 

"Do it. And forgive me." It is much to ask, he is aware of it, too much, but it would mean the world to him. Her absolution. "Forgive me."

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

((contents: kidnapping, captivity, buried alive, isolation, hallucinations, left to die))

Promptspiration: This week's post result fic, from the "When Caretaker finally finds Whumpee..." poll, and the result "having given up / despairing". combined with @whumpers-monthly prompt this month: "locked in a coffin".

Whumpee: Draco Whumper: randos Caretaker: Lucius Fic type: post-Hogwarts

Draco is buried alive by some of Lucius' unsavoury associates.

((words: ~2200))

-------------

Another bout of unpleasant side-along Apparition, and then Draco was shoved into another man's hands and yanked around. The wizards around him were speaking an Eastern European language, Romanian or Belarusan or something, and they manhandled him around physically instead of trying to instruct him. None of them had answered of his questions or demands with anything but blows, and he had gotten the message quickly and shut up. 

Pairs of hands seized both of his arms, holding him between at least two of them. Someone ripped the dark hood off his head, and he winced away from the glaring white light of a wand that was in his eyes. 

"The Malfoy boy," a heavily accented voice said, the first English he had heard since he was grabbed, and he squinted into the light to see an unfamiliar wizard with heavy eyes. "Your father is Lucius Malfoy, yes?" 

He wasn't a 'boy', he was nineteen, but it seemed he was doomed to be seen that way by his father's associates forever. "It looks like you already know the answer." He jerked against the hands of the wizards holding him. They didn't even come close to letting go. "What do you want?"

"From you?" The speaker shrugged. "Nothing. But your father, he owes us a service he has failed to deliver. Perhaps he can use an incentive, no?" He stepped back, turning away, and gestured with the wand. 

Now that the light was further from his face, Draco could see something of the empty field they were standing in, and the huge amount of dirt piled up beside a dark, hard-edged gash in the ground. There was a rough wooden box leaning against the pile of dirt, a six foot long box standing open, and for a long moment his mind refused to see it for what it was. 

The men holding his arms started pushing him toward the hole, and he resisted just out of instinct, forcing them to drag him along. And then, when he recognised that they were pulling him toward the box, and that it wasn't a box, it was a coffin, he started struggling wildly. "No!" He pulled against their arms, digging his heels into the thick grass. "Don't! He'll do it! He'll do whatever you want, just don't—!"

One of them grabbed him by the back of the neck in a painful grip that forced his shoulders to hunch, and they yanked his arms up so that he could only twist wildly and futilely against them. His flailing kicks made contact with one of their legs and they lifted him up off his feet, and slammed him into the coffin. His face slammed into the rough wood of the back of it, and he shoved back, twisting around to make a last desperate bid for freedom. He managed to face front, but they shoved him back and closed the lid on him while he screamed for them to let him out and slammed his hands against it. 

There was more discourse in their language outside. He threw himself forward, trying to break out. The coffin wasn't well-constructed and slivers of white wandlight fell between the planks, enough to see his hands, enough to see how tight the space was. Rough boards pressed against him on all sides, inches from his shoulders, inches from his face. "Let me free!" he screamed again desperately.

The coffin moved, jostling him with sharp, careless movements, and he slammed against the sides and front of the box with cries of pain and shock. Then there was a loud thud as the box landed hard, and he landed hard inside it, on his back, thrown up so the top of his head hit the top wall of the coffin. 

There was a loose thump on top of the coffin, and he shoved against the lid, yelling for them to let him out. Dirt sifted into the coffin through the gaps between the boards, falling on his face and making him sputter and frantically wipe his eyes and mouth clean, his knuckles and the edges of his hands bumping up against the inside of the lid. The thumps slowly covered the lid of the box with dirt, blocking out the thin shafts of light that were all there was left of the outside as he screamed.

The darkness was absolute. Darker than night, darker than the dungeons, as dark as being blind. 

He had to stop screaming because he was running out of breath and it was making him panic; one solid bout of pounding and kicking at the coffin sent a curtain of dirt falling in on his face, and he was briefly terrified that it was going to keep coming and suffocate him. He covered his head with his hands, arms pressed up against the lid of the coffin.

It stopped in a minute, and he cleaned off his face as much as possible, coughing, and made himself hold still. His muscles were trembling. He had to take stock of his situation. He had to calm down.

Testing the space by stretching out his toes, he touched the bottom, and accidentally shoved his head against the top again. It was only maybe two inches longer than he was tall. There was barely space for him to move his hands, four or five inches, maybe, between his chest and the wood above him. Moving his elbows, he hit the wood on both sides within inches. He was lucky he was not large in any dimension but height; he would not have been able to move at all if he were muscular or even remotely fat. As it was, he could barely draw up a leg to push against the lid with his knee, unable to get any purchase with his feet, and his hands could either rest on his chest or at his sides, nothing else. Only his head could move freely. 

He tried breathing deeply, focusing on control, on separating himself from his emotions. But fear was always the emotion he couldn't compartmentalise away, since he was a child. Fear always won. He couldn't let it now. 

He couldn't think about it. He couldn't not think about it, but he couldn't allow himself to think about it, because there was no path forward for him, and that was terrifying. Nothing he could do, there was nothing he could do to help himself, he was trapped…

He thought about it, and it won. He was trapped. His breath hitched, his control slipped, and then he was screaming again, screaming for help, for his captors to come back, for someone to save him. He beat his hands and knees against the coffin lid until they hurt and dirt was sifting down on him again, and when his throat was too raw to continue screaming, he sobbed. 

Exhaustion was his only respite from the terror; nothing changed except that he was tired and sore along with being trapped, and he held his hands on his chest, trying to get warm, trying to catch his breath, trying to stop crying. 

He had no way of knowing how long it had been, or how long it would be. Maybe it was almost over. Maybe his father would be here soon…

—-

His father didn't come.

He didn't know if time passed, or if it was drawing out forever. Maybe it had only been an hour. Maybe no time had passed at all…

Maybe this would be like this forever.

He screamed. He cried. He tried to calm down. He failed in his control and panicked, beat and clawed at the coffin until he smelled blood and his hands were in agony and he was just sobbing helplessly, knowing he was going to die if someone didn't help him, and no one was there. 

—-

He drifted. He didn't know if he was awake or asleep, the darkness was the same. Everything hurt, but at a numb remove. He thought he called out, but he didn't know if he did or if it was in his mind. Once he heard Voldemort's cold voice mocking him in the darkness and it made him scream and hit his head hard against the inside of the coffin lid.

Occasionally, he thought he heard something else, the thumping of digging above him or the call of a voice far away, beyond the dirt. Every time, it turned out to be a dream or his imagination or a hallucination.

And still, every time, he tore at the coffin and yelled for their help, and every time when he was worn out he stopped and held his breath, waiting for it to come again, and it never did. 

There was only the nothingness.

—-

"Mother… Mother, make him let me out… Mother, please…" Tears trickled over his temples, into his ears. "Mother…"

—-

'Why did you let them take you?' his father demanded. 

"I'm sorry…"

'All you had to do was kill them. I suppose it was expecting a bit much with Dumbledore, but it's not even someone you knew this time — you can't even kill a few petty gangsters? How did you get so weak?' 

"I'm sorry…"

'Do you even care how much trouble you're causing me?'

"I'm sorry… please…"

'And now you're expecting me to fix it for you. Like always. I'm not sure it's worth the trouble.'

"Please come get me…" he whispered. 

—-

No one was coming. 

If his father were coming, he would have already been there. If it were possible for him to do what they demanded to free him, it would already have been done. He had failed, been killed or arrested. Or not tried… 

…Or they had never intended to let him go, even if his father complied. The grave they had dug, it wasn't just a hole, it was so deep. Deep enough to ensure his body was never found. They had always meant to leave him to die, he realised, no matter what his father did. A strangled sob rose in his swollen throat, and he hit the side of his agonised hand against the lid of the coffin a final time. 

"I don't want to die," he whispered, a broken sound that fell flat and faded away in the darkness like it had never existed.

Because he didn't have a choice. 

He had never had a choice. 

All the fighting, the struggling, the pleading, the trying, it had never been any use. No one would ever know and it was going to end the same. An unnamed body in an unmarked grave in an unknown countryside.

He was never going to see home again. The phantom images of white peacocks and the sound of fountains and the smell of flowers flickered so easily across his starving mind, and they wrenched another sob from his parched throat. He just wanted it more than anything, and all he was going to have for the rest of his life was the cold hard darkness.

He was never going to see his mother again…

His hands settled painfully on his chest, and he cried quietly in the dark, thinking of her and trying to find a way to let her go. 

He knew he had to die, he just wished he had been able to say goodbye… 

—----

Lucius ripped the lid from the coffin with the urgency of barely-controlled panic. "Draco…" The word came out in a quiet breath, not a yell. His heart had jumped into his throat and blocked it. 

Draco was lying in the coffin, limp, grey-skinned, smeared with blood and caked with the dirt of the grave, cut through with clean tear-tracks that wound down into his hair. His lips were pale and cracked. The blood-stained rips on the knees of his trousers, the misshapen bruises of a fractured hand under bloody scrapes, the broken and missing fingernails, the splinters embedded in the tips of his raw fingers — all stood in mute testament to his desperate fight to survive. 

And it didn't look like he was breathing. He was sick with himself. Draco had tried so hard, and he had failed him. He was too late. 

"Draco…" There was ice in the pit of his stomach, but he had to know. He set his hand on Draco's cheek and turned his head on a limp neck, trying to get him to acknowledge him. Trying to will him to be alive. "Draco, I'm here." 

And then, incredibly, Draco's eyes did open, a vague gaze that took a long second to focus on him, but alive. After all that, alive. 

"You came…" he whispered, a barely audible cracked breath. He tried to move his hand, to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real, but he couldn't; more than the damage to his hands, it clearly pained him to move at all, from the locked muscles and the pressure blisters of his thin frame forced into one position for three days. 

"I  did." Lucius gently lifted him to sit up and held him against his shoulder, cradling the back of his head. "Of course I did."

[whumpers-monthly]

Issue no 32:

Kneeling

Isn't a kneeling whumpee nice to look at? Were they forced to their knees? Or did they collapse from exhaustion? Was it an act of surrender? Anything goes as long as their on their knees.

Tag your posts with #whumpers-monthly and #issue no 32   If you make a gifset for the prompt, please also add the tag #whumpedit  

If you already made a post that fits this prompt, reblog that post and tag @whumpers-monthly

Please add the name of the whumpee and the movie or show your content is from.

[whump-side]

Frozen @whumpers-monthly

[aceofwhump]

Sherlock 3x01 "The Empty Hearse"

For @whumpers-monthly "Inferno"

[whumpypepsigal]

Dunkirk (2017): “I can’t see.”

[iolausian-fields]

ʜᴇʀᴄᴜʟᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅᴀʀʏ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏꜱ s2e07 - The Mother of All Monsters