#issue no 41

[whumpers-monthly]

Issue no 41:

Trapped

This month I'd like to see some trapped whumpees. They can be stuck in actual traps, trapped by a fallen tree, rock,... Maybe they are trapped by someone, you decide.

Tag your posts with #whumpers-monthly and #issue no 41 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.

[astaldis]

Issue No 41 - Trapped (under rubble)

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Whumpee: Ciri, Cahir

I will bring you ruin Chapter 1: Buried

Published: 2023-10-05; Completed: 2024-04-24; Words: 11,585; Chapters: 5/5

"Ciri?" the Witchers shout, her name echoing from the stone walls of Kaer Morhen. "Ciri? You here?" There is no answer.

"Geralt!" Like out of nowhere, Regis has suddenly appeared next to him. "I've located them. They're buried under the wreckage. Over there. We have to hurry!"

"Fuck, Regis, is Ciri alright?" The Witcher grabs his friend by the shoulders, staring at him with wild eyes.

"Her heartbeat is strong. However, the structure of the stones is unstable. If the rubble shifts, she might get crushed beneath it."

Geralt lets go of Regis and starts to run as fast as never before in his life, Coen and Lambert following closely behind. Regis disappears in a cloud of black smoke. Geralt does not know where to, however, he has no time to wonder.

"Ciri? You in there?" he shouts, standing by the pile of stones that was an ancient tower just minutes before. This time he can hear a faint voice. Her voice. Thanks to Melitele, she is alive! With his enhanced Witcher senses, Geralt can hear a soft heartbeat, too. Regis was right, it is strong and regular, but beating fast from panic. The thumping sound comes from underneath the stones, luckily not from where they are piled up highest but from a little to the side. There are still plenty of stones and other debris to be moved away, though, in order to dig her out. It would be a lot easier if they could just blast everything away with Aard, but it is too risky, more stones may come sliding down and crush her. No, they will have to do it by hand, quickly but cautiously. Geralt climbs over the stones and splintered wooden beams riddling the yard to get closer to where Ciri's voice has come from, coughing from the thick clouds of dust in the air that he inhales. Ciri is coughing too. Hopefully, this will not bring down more rubble onto her.

The closer Geralt gets, the more agitated he becomes. In spite of the dust, he can smell it. Blood. And not just a little.

"Ciri, can you hear me?" he calls again when he is almost there.

"Daddy?" Her voice is muffled from the thick layer of debris covering her but Geralt can easily perceive the fear in her voice. Not only her heartbeat is too fast, but also her breathing. Fuck, she is hyperventilating. He cannot blame her. He felt much the same way when he was caught in the avalanche back when they had to cross the Mortblanc pass on their way to Stygga. Being buried alive is an experience he does not wish on anybody. And now his daughter is caught in such a horrible trap right inside their beloved home. What an evil twist of fate. Cursing under his breath, Geralt scans the pile of rubble. If they can move this one large stone slab and the heavy wooden beam it is lying on top of, it should not be too difficult to dig her out as the rest of the rubble is mostly smaller stones that can be easily carried by one or two strong men. They will have to hurry, too, the smell of blood is growing stronger by the minute.

"Ciri, are you alright?" Geralt asks, trying to sound calmer than he is while motioning for Lambert and Coen to come over to help him with the heavy slab.

"I - I don't know. I can't breathe," she pants, "and there's blood everywhere."

"We're getting you out. You'll be okay, my daughter. Just hold on and try to calm down. Lambert and Coen are here to help. We'll be as fast as we can. It won't take long, I promise. Just a few minutes."

Ciri starts to cough again, violently. Damn, let it just be the dust, not blood, Geralt prays to all the gods he knows. But what if her ribs are broken and one of them has punctured her lung— No, he must not even think it, Geralt berates himself. The mental image alone of Ciri coughing up black blood makes him break into a cold sweat. How he wishes Yennefer were here. With her magic, she could easily lift the stones and debris and whatever, they would grab Ciri, Yennefer would heal any injuries in a jiffy, and they would live happily ever after. Why for Melitele's sake did she have to attend this fucking Lodge meeting? Those meetings have never brought anything but bad luck. Fuck them all. Angry at the whole world from worry and at the Lodge of Sorceresses in particular, he grabs the huge stone slab.

"One, two, and on three," Geralt counts. With loud grunts, the three Witchers lift it off the pile of rubble under which Ciri is trapped and, groaning from the strain, carry it a few metres out of the way, then drop it onto the ground. They gasp for air and sweat is streaming down their brows. However, there is no time to rest, not as long as Ciri is in danger.

The wooden beam actually was a heaven-sent as without it, the stone slab would have fallen directly onto the girl, most probably crushing her, but it is impossible to move, not without magic. Perhaps Ciri can crawl out from under it as soon as they have removed the smaller pieces of rubble? The three Witchers get onto their knees and, with all haste, start to dig. More dust rises into the air, but they hardly notice it so focused are they on their task. Ciri barely stops coughing. Now she is sobbing, too.

"Don't cry, Ciri. We're almost there, I promise, just another minute or two," Geralt tries to soothe, but it does not work.

"It's all my fault," she blubbers out. "I didn't want this to happen, I swear. Geralt, I - I think, I killed him."

"Ciri, what are you talking about? Killed who?" Geralt asks, confused. Then it dawns on him. Regis said they were buried, not she. Cahir. Worried out of his mind for his daughter, he totally forgot that his friend was missing, too. Maybe it is his blood, not Ciri's? 

[astaldis]

Issue No 41 - Trapped (in an avalanche)

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher

Whumpee: Geralt of Rivia

Published: 2021-10-02; Completed: 2021-10-08; Words: 8,746; Chapters: 3/3

Winterlude II:

Chapter 3: The White Death

"Ice giant! Take cover!" Geralt yelled in alarm, jumping off his horse. However, there was no cover. The avalanche set off by the boulder came straight at them with incredible speed. A blurry, unstoppable swirl of white that would swallow them all in an instant with no way to escape. And swallow them it did. Not all of the company, though. At the very last moment, Regis transformed into a bat and flew off. There was nothing he could do for his comrades.

The snow slide hit Geralt like a wall, knocking the breath out of him. He heard Angoulême's muffled shrieks through the masses of snow that carried him off across the ravine, threatening to trap him, to bury him alive. Instinctively he tried to make swimming motions to stay on the surface but to no avail, the moving snow was too powerful. When it finally came to a halt, Geralt was covered by a thick, heavy layer of the icy substance, battered, not able to move, hardly able to breathe. Trapped under tons of white snow. Was this how it would end? The tragic story of Geralt of Rivia and his hanza's ill-fated journey to rescue his child surprise. Entombed in a frozen, lonely, forgotten grave - Mortblanc, the White Death, a fitting name indeed ...

[astaldis]

Issue no 41 - Trapped (in a cellar by a cannibal)

@whumpers-monthly

All Is Not As It Seems

fandom: The Witcher (TV)

whumpees: Coën, Cahir

For a moment, Coën stares at the tall blonde man, disoriented. Then his memory clicks into place. Soren. The cottage in the heath. The delicious meal and the nice guest room with the one bed. Cahir snuggled up close to him. Fuck, this is not the bed he fell asleep in, he suddenly realises. It feels like he is lying on a wooden table instead, and his hands— Dammit, what is going on here? And where is Cahir?

With a start he sits up and looks around wildly, clenching his bound hands into fists. In the dim light of the oil lamp that is hanging from the wall, Coën sees a second big table, on it his boyfriend. He is not moving, and for a split second, Coën fears he is dead. Then he sees Cahir's naked chest moving slightly as he breathes in and out, either sleeping deeply or unconscious. Coën listens into the semi-darkness. With his enhanced mutant senses, he can hear his lover's heartbeat, slow but steady.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he growls. If he could, Coën would jump from the table in one leap, tackle the treacherous Soren to the ground, scoop Cahir up in his arms and make a run for it. Yet, he cannot do it. His legs are tied up and bound to the table. He should have known that everything about the cottage, about its owner was just too good to be true. Now they are trapped. But why?

"You better stay put and don't try anything stupid," Soren says, raising his hand. The blade of a big butcher's knife flashes in the shine of the oil lamp. "I'll be back in a minute with more sedative. I'm not a monster. Although the taste of the meat is supposed to be better when the cattle is stressed before the slaughter, I prefer to do it humanely. I have sensitive ears. You and your friend won't feel a thing. A quick cut to the throat while you're fast asleep and you'll bleed out before you even notice."

"What are you talking about, man?" Coën asks, aghast. Soren does not mean to slaughter his guests for meat? This must be a nightmare, a most horrible one, but with his wrists tied up, he cannot even pinch himself to find out if he is awake or not.

"Cooking, of course, I'm talking about cooking. You said yourself that my stew was exceptionally delicious. For a great meal, you need the best quality meat. In my experience, there's nothing better than healthy, young, free range humans."

Continue reading on AO3 (mature)

[astaldis]

Issue No 41 - Trapped (inside a wardrobe)

@whumpers-monthly

Fandom: The Witcher

Whumpee: Jaskier

An Escapade Gone Wrong

Published: 2023-11-23; Words: 1,605; Chapters: 1/1

Damn, this cannot be happening, can it? For the umpteenth time, he presses his full weight against the smooth wood, however, there is no effect. At all. Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

Cursing inwardly, Jaskier slumps against the soft fabric behind him with a heavy sigh. In the course of his many escapades, he has had to hide naked inside a wardrobe before - from slightly suspicious to mad murderous husbands, or wives for that matter - and sometimes he had to climb out of windows and escape across the roofs with his pants barely on, but never has he found himself in a pickle like this. Or rather in a tight spot like this, for it definitely feels uncomfortably crowded inside the wardrobe although it is a pretty big one. This is due to the one of the two dire problems he is facing, Jaskier suspects. It is completely dark and he cannot see a thing, but he is almost certain that he is not alone in the wardrobe. Carefully and as soundlessly as possible, he gropes around a bit more. And shudders. Yes, there is definitely another man hiding between what must be frilly dresses, a man as naked as he himself. The stranger's bare skin feels a lot colder than his own, though, and the man does not move nor make a sound. Is he unconscious? Or, gods forbid, dead? Hell, having to share this cramped place with another person is bad enough, but a dead or possibly dying one? Bile rises to Jaskier's mouth. He swallows hard, his thoughts spinning. It all would not be quite as bad if there was not dire problem number two. And it is not, as many might believe, the issue of getting out of the girl's bedroom unnoticed, no. He would not give a rats arse about the fact that it is a sunny late morning but flee through the window in a rush, no matter how many neighbours or random people in the streets might spot him while making a run for it. Unfortunately, though, he cannot do it. For the wardrobe is locked and does not open. He has tried everything already that can be tried without making much noise, but nothing has worked. The damn door stubbornly refuses to budge.

All of a sudden, a horrible thought crosses the bard's mind. What if the other man is dead indeed and died here locked inside the wardrobe? Of dehydration, or lack of air, or of an all-encompassing, stifling, heart-stopping fear? Shit, he should not have gone with the gorgeous young girl after he had finished his usual performance at the tavern. But how was he supposed to withstand a beauty like this with her very low, risqué neck line that revealed a perfect pair of big, scrumptious tits, with her voluptuous curves, her sensuous lips. She was a true admirer of his art, too, and claimed her husband would be away on business for a couple of days at the least. It was an opportunity he could not miss. The night with her had been everything he could have dreamt of in the sexual department, too. Only the untimely and unfortunate return of the husband was a drop of bitterness spoiling the otherwise very enjoyable party. Well, considering the presence of not only one but two naked men in her wardrobe, the husband's jealous fit that he witnessed from the perceived safety of his hiding place does not appear to be totally unwarranted, Jaskier has to admit. Judging by the very revealing noises he overheard after the cuckolded man's furious shouting, the couple must have had lots of angry sex afterward. Then they left chuckling and laughing in perfect concord, obviously having thoroughly made up again. To Jaskier's chagrin, the girl must have, equally thoroughly, forgotten about him and his fellow sufferer inside her wardrobe.

At the very moment, Jaskier can hear the faint sounds of the couple talking and laughing amicably, probably from the kitchen where they are having a nice, late breakfast together. At the thought of food, his tummy starts to rumble despite the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if he never gets out of here again? If he is trapped forever? Will he slowly decay, his flesh rotting from his bones until nothing but the skeleton is left? Or will he dry up and shrivel like a mummy? For just one night of lust and sin? Is this his punishment? No, he, the famous bard and poet, cannot die naked inside a fucking wardrobe!

[uncube]

Allow uncube to introduce you to not just an architect but also a painter, draftsman, geometric mastermind and an uncompromising, rebellious and committed visionary. Sunflowers, crowbars and polyhedral perfectionism – it can only be: Zvi – uncu.be/M5aWWa