#wij22day3

[callaeidae3]

Whumpmas in July 2022 Day 3: "Lost"

Lost consciousness. Almost lost... you.

@whumpmasinjuly

Scene from The Case of Kindall, K. - Ch. 11

[noirineverysense]

WIJ Day 3 - Lost

Another alarm blares, another warning light on the dashboard. An endless emergency.

"274, 274 come in."

Her eyes widen, scrambling for the radio.

"It's 274 calling into mission control. I've veered off-course, can you- "

"274 come in. Answer."

"Yes, I need a course correction, please can- "

"Have we lost contact?" The voice now seemed to be aimed away from the microphone as if the operator was talking to someone else.

"Can you hear me? I need help."

"274, please answer- ", the voice crackles out and she lets out a frustrated rush of breath.

"Yes, I can hear you. I've veered off course, I need a- "

She's interrupted this time by white noise, she calls again but there's no response.

She pushes down the wave of panic, continuing to try and call base, but the static is all that answers.

Suddenly, there's a rumble of interference and she strains her ears to try and make out words. But then the noise falls into the unchanging static.

Another warning light flashes angrily at her to pay attention. But she doesn't find the strength to try and do something. Instead attempting to contact base again.

But the static cuts, leaving silence.

She checks the warning message, another structural integrity issue. Technically very bad, but it's the fifth one now. She gave up on metal sheeting and screws, instead reaching for a roll of tape, pulling the end out and cutting it with her teeth. She moves in floating steps to stick it in that annoying back corner that won't just stay and sighs.

She looks around the shuttle, finding the patchwork of metal, the rattling screws ready to give at a moment's notice and the thin sheets of metal between her and the void.

She keeps her spacesuit on, it's bulky and terrible to sleep in but at least it'll give her time when the ship inevitably gives up on her.

Strapping herself into her chair, she watches out of the wind shield. She was supposedly meant to be seeing Jupiter around now, spending time investigating it's moons, but there's only an inky darkness. It's not like she could miss the giant gas planet in any case.

She attempts to radio base again, but there's no response, not static or sound at all. They're quick to give up on those they send out.

Maybe 275 is being sent out soon, a friend to join her in the uncaring darkness. To crash on an asteroid or freeze to death, your spacesuit becoming your coffin.

Another alarm sounds.

Limited oxygen.

Or that.

@whumpmasinjuly

[pretty-face-breaker]

Lost - WIJ Day 3

@whumpmasinjuly​

CW. political themes, discussion of potential for war, onset of a panic attack, plane hijacking, manhandling, threatening with a gun, detonation of an explosive, kidnapping

--

Dawn brought a wave of warmth passing over Tariq’s skin, the smell of moss, and awfully bitter coffee. 

“Mr. Rahman, we’re back soon.” 

As the coffee-maker dinged lightly, Tariq watched the co-pilot snatch the pot and top off his paper cup. He returned a tired smile and thanked him as the earthy scent reached his lungs. 

It didn’t matter that the forest near the plane’s landing was so torrid that he could barely breathe or that the heat was eating him alive. If he needed anything right now, it was coffee. 

He had landed no more than thirty minutes ago. The Captain had mentioned something about needing to make a couple calls on the ground and, with the co-pilot out cold, they had rerouted to a runway built near a massive stretch of forest and a little lake that had put Tariq off 

He drank slowly, letting the bitter liquid wash away the crackly feeling in his throat. 

Not my best idea, Tariq admitted to himself a minute later. This suit’s already clinging to me.

Suits, suitcases, jackets folded away into the little plastic cabinets. There were more pleasant things than spending hours lightheaded and nauseous while reading and rereading his script, letting every word ring in his mind. Conjuring up reactions of the politicians.

“Look alive, people. Only a few hours left.” The pilot tossed a glance back to the diplomat, idling still over his coffee, pretending not to have heard.

Tariq ran after the party as they left the cabin. An unfamiliar jet caught his eye across the field and he began to look for someone to ask about that. The group was walking too fast, though. He felt as if he might get lost in the fog.

It’s just anxiety. Deep breathing. They already know about the other jet so there’s no use in asking about it, right?

Though, it was he who was going to sit in a conference of strangers and try to dissolve tension which - if it snapped - would end worse than his speech did. 

Tariq knew the neighbouring attack had been a false flag operation. He knew that. A lousy bid by a weaker nation to get a stronger one to mobilize against his own and it would be his job to assure their allies that exploitation was far from their intentions. That they wouldn’t meddle in another nation’s affairs. He knew that.

He wasn’t sure if they knew that.

After boarding the jet, Tariq flinched a bit as the door spun, shut, and clicked in place. There was something about boarding airplanes that threw him off of his balance and made him hesitant to stand up for any reason. 

Today, especially. 

Tariq took his own seat and buckled up as the pilots disappeared into the cockpit and the guards to the back. It was then he noticed that his fingertips were quivering a bit.

I really need to stop drinking that. 

Swearing quietly, he stood and left for the bathroom, giving the guards a nod on the way. They split and let him pass. He slipped into the stall and let the door shut him in with a small, suctioning click. 

The bathroom here was larger than they usually were on public planes and he was grateful for the space the government could afford him. Especially now, where he might keel over if he didn’t get a few precious minutes of silence and solitude. A curtain was oddly pulled at the back of the stall but Tariq hardly acknowledged it. 

Instead, he watched his hands wander to the sink, as if they were detached from his body, and then unconsciously hunched over. 

Five things you can see. 

His mind replayed what the agent had said earlier that week, about anxiety and keeping collected before things like this. It was just he never had to do something like this and with the fluttering in his chest, he breathed in gulps. His fingertips were cold. Sweat, there was enough on his face. Enough he could feel it cool. 

What if this ends badly? 

Four things you can touch. 

“Two nations, already plagued with a history of-...” Tariq gasped and clutched the metal sink harder until his head stopped spinning. Nope. Again. “Plagued with a history…”

Three things you can-

We can’t handle fucking armed conflict right now. I need to do this right.

“I encourage our allies to ignore the belligerence-” Suddenly, rustles from behind him broke his train of thought.

“Need a little help?” A dark voice asked from behind the curtain.

Tariq didn’t react quickly enough. By the time he had jumped up, a rough hand had already grabbed and pressed him back against the bathroom wall. Another hand clamped over his mouth, pressing so roughly against his jaw he thought it might crack. A knee between his legs, and his assailant’s face so close to his he could feel his satisfied exhale. 

“Mmph-!” 

“Well? Do you need a little help, diplomat?” the man repeated in a dangerous whisper. Tariq’s panic almost whited out his vision but he caught a glimpse of the man. His hair fell almost to his shoulders in clean but untamed strands, framing his sunglasses. He stood, frozen, as if his limbs had stopped working.

Trembling under the crushing grip on his face, Tariq’s eyes flickered to his mouth where he saw the remnants of a white scar. 

Before he could struggle, his assailant grabbed him by the shoulder to spin him around. The other one brought a cold hum of metal against his throat followed by a soft click. Tariq couldn’t stop shaking, suddenly fearing that if his heart hammered too hard against his ribs, that it might set the gun off. 

He couldn’t remember a word of his closing remarks.

The man smiled back nonchalantly at his white terror. “Now, are you going to do anything stupid?” 

Tariq made a sound of fear low in his throat. The weapon vibrated in response. “N-No.”

“Excellent. Now, in a moment, you and I are gonna walk out of this stall together. And when we get out-”

BANG. 

Tariq felt himself jolt back and yelp at the shockwave of whatever had just been set off outside the door but the man didn’t let him go far, gripping him roughly as if he didn’t appreciate the exclamation. Tariq’s breaths came in pants now, his shaking no longer controlled. “What the fuck?” 

His assailant tsked under his breath. “Do not panic. Open the door, Mr. Rahman.”

Tariq’s eyes had glazed over when the door swung open and what greeted him was smoke. Smoke, wreckage, and blood splatters on the windows of the jet, groaning from too many directions. His eyes darted around frantically, searching for a guard but found none who were standing. 

A few windows had been blown open. One of the women lay on the ground, clutching her eyes and breathing in stuttered gasps. One of them must have been a flash bang.

“Nobody move!” 

“Except you,” the man reminded him coldly, nudging him forward with the pistol. “Keep stepping forward until you find the exit.” 

“Hands up or you die!” 

“O-oh, God.” 

Tariq felt a chuckle against his back. “He won’t save you here, Mr. Rahman.” 

Forcing his legs to move, he dragged himself forward through the fog in trembling steps as unfamiliar faces swarmed the jet. Tying, threatening, growing more and more distant from him. He should have fought back, screamed, warned the guards before the grenade had gone off, and attempted to kick off his attacker. Bitten him. Something. 

“What do you want?” He whispered, knowing the man was close enough to hear him.

But he knew he couldn’t have done a thing.

"You’ll find out soon enough.”

Tariq kept moving forward robotically until he could no longer see anything, losing himself in the smoke.

--

I’m not sure if this will be a new series but I started it last year and never posted it. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in the future!

[emcscared-whumps]

WiJ 2022 - 03: Lost (4/9)

WiJ 2022 Navigation Post

I've decided to keep these lil guys (the prompts) fairly short, I think they'll be easier to manage that way :)

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CONTENT and WARNINGS: mer whumpee, fear of the ocean/depths

wc: ~0.3k

It was cold when Pete awoke, so very cold. His bones ached in protest, longing for the gentle heat and rest his days with Timmy afforded him. Thankfully, his coat and scarf still retained a thin pocket of warm water close to his skin, shielding his torso as long as he didn’t move.

Wait…

Water..?

Pete’s eyes flashed open, panic rising in his gut. Above him, there was the bright grey sky filtered by the surface of the churning water, and below, a vast, bottomless expanse that faded into darkness. He’d fall, he’d sink, the darkened depths would reach a smoky up and snatch him away forever!

Terror seized his heart in a grip colder than the water, and his gills flared fast as if he couldn’t breathe. He tried to flail his legs, but in their place, long, orange fins fluttered instead. He couldn’t scream, but Powers know he tried. Adrenaline rushed through his body, lending him the strength to frantically claw at the water and drag himself up.

When the webbing between Pete’s fingers caught only air, he breached the surface with a choked gasp, mouth filling with fresh water. All around him, rain fell in sheets so thick it was impossible to see further than a few meters.

Timmy! He wanted to scream, Liz! Anyone, please! But try as he might, his voice eluded him.

His satchel bobbed at his side on the restless surface, and in it, his phone, no doubt soaked beyond repair. Still, he tried, but the screen remained frustratingly dark.

His ears drooped. No phone, no map, no way home.

Again, Pete frantically spun around searching desperately for anything to save him. His fins curled and twisted with his body, but still nothing.

The choppy sea grew wilder when a strong bluster picked up, sending the rain hurtling sideways into his head, stinging his cheek. He squinted against the onslaught but there was no land or horizon in sight. He didn’t know which way to swim, he didn’t know which stung his eyes more—the rain or fresh tears.

If he could’ve, he would’ve whimpered;

I’m lost.

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[verkja]

Day 3: Lost

Decided to do a one-off story with unnamed characters (lady whumpee, nonbinary 'whumper' of sorts) for this. Some of the future writing prompts, if I manage to do them, might be about my OCs, or I might just do more like this; we'll see.

CWs: Violence, injury, captivity, forced to fight, unwilling whumper, asking for death, mentioned tooth whump, begging, implied starvation, screwy power dynamics, open ending.

Words: About 1K

Their next punch was even less enthusiastic than the last. They doubted it was strong enough to rip through a sheet of paper, had one been present in this bizarre gladiatorial ring.

It still sufficed to knock their opponent to the ground. Again. Frankly, they probably could’ve toppled her over with a light puff of breath at this point, but she kept getting back up.

They’d been panting earlier in the fight, when she’d been putting up at least a token resistance, but that had been long enough ago that they were no longer even slightly out of breath. Taking a few steps back, they watched unhappily as their opponent braced herself against the wall and slowly, painfully, dragged herself upright again.

‘Look,’ they said, as she wiped a trickle of blood from her chin with a shaking hand, ‘you have to know you can’t win by now. Hell, you’ve already lost. Just give up. I don’t want to hurt you any more.’

She didn’t reply, only grinned mirthlessly at them. They’d knocked out a few of her teeth - or maybe she’d already been missing some of those, it was hard to tell. She’d been in bad shape when she entered the ring, covered in bruises, emaciated, with an arm that looked like it had been broken and healed crooked.

They didn’t want to think about how long she’d been trapped here. It had only been a week since they’d been captured, and they were already feeling the effects of the ordeal. The organisation behind this establishment had kept them locked in a small, dark room with minimal food and water, only letting them out to fight as entertainment for the shadowy audience hidden in the shrouded seats around the ring.

It was impossible to know why they’d been chosen for this. They had no fighting experience, weren’t even physically fit - they’d worked an office job, for goodness sakes, their idea of exercise had been walking to the pizza joint a few blocks away rather than taking a cab. But the rules they’d been given were simple enough: Win, and you go free. Surrender, and you stay to fight again tomorrow.

Refuse to surrender, and… Well, their captors hadn’t mentioned that option, and they hadn’t tried figuring it out. Their previous opponents had overpowered them easily, and they’d surrendered before being seriously hurt. It made sense to try and stay as healthy as they could until the organisation matched them against an opponent they actually had a chance of beating.

Now that had happened, but it wasn’t going how they’d hoped at all. When the doors of the ring had opened and they’d seen who they were up against, their heart had leapt. The woman facing them had been slumped to one side, swaying on her feet, unlikely to be a threat even to someone as average as they were. They’d thought it would just take a punch or two before she gave up, and they were free to return to their friends and family and normal, wonderfully boring life. Of course they’d felt bad for their opponent, but it wasn’t like they’d asked to be here any more than she had.

Although she’d put up more of a fight than they’d anticipated, even from the start it had been clear she knew she had no chance at victory. It had almost seemed like she was trying to make them angry, more than anything, and that had mystified them. If she’d tried that on some of the people they’d been up against earlier in the week, and refused to surrender, she’d have been killed without hesitation.

They’d assumed that she hadn’t tried it on anyone like that, but now they were beginning to suspect she hadn’t gotten the chance, and it made them feel sick. The organisation must have only put her up against people who were in similarly terrible condition, to watch the poor captives slug it out until one of them expired from sheer exhaustion or, fragile from malnourishment, broke something serious enough to die from.

To avoid any deeper reflection, they grabbed their opponent by the front of her tattered shirt and yanked, tossing her past them and onto the ground again. She hit the floor and rolled, not on her shoulder or with any coordination, but like an empty can discarded carelessly out a car window.

‘Just surrender already. Please.’

Her shirt folded into a valley between her shoulderblades as she pushed herself onto hands and knees. Before she could rise, they hurried over and shoved her back onto the floor with a heel on her spine.

‘Please,’ they begged her. ‘What’s the point of putting it off? We both know they’re not letting us out of here until one of us gives up, or until one of us dies, and it’s obvious you can’t win. Don’t make me - well -’

‘Do it.’

It was barely audible, a cracked, hoarse whisper against the blood-covered concrete. They might’ve been able to pretend she hadn’t said anything, if the audience hadn’t been so maddeningly silent.

‘Come on,’ they said, leaning down to speak more quietly. ‘I’m not going to - I’m not that kind of person. I can’t do something like that.’

Only the side of her face was visible, cracked lips curved in a smile even with her eye swollen shut.

‘Then surrender.’

They stood back up quickly enough that their head spun.

‘I can’t do that either,’ they said. ‘There’s no way. Look, I have a life, I have -’

They went silent. She probably had friends waiting for her too, a home to return to, pets to care for... There was actually nothing they could say to convince her to give up, was there? She had no more reason to care about them than they had to care about her.

Absurdly, even though she was lying on the floor bleeding, and they were unharmed, the two of them were at an impasse. There was no way out - except to kill her, or to give up what might be their only chance of freedom.

How could this be happening to them? They’d never asked for any of this. They were just a regular, unexceptional person, content to live an absolutely unexceptional life where the hardest decision they had to make was whether they wanted their coffee hot or iced. They weren’t cut out to make this kind of horrible choice, where no matter what they did, something would be lost that could never be replaced.

They closed their eyes and made a decision.

@whumpmasinjuly

[whumpmasinjuly]

Whumpmas in July - Day 3

Day 3: creation prompt - lost Are they physically lost, struggling to get somewhere? Are they mentally lost, searching for hope? Interpret this prompt however you wish and create whatever whumpy content it inspires. Feel to explore any and all aspects of the word: our prompts are open so you can really let your creative whump brain go wild! Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to tag us @whumpmasinjuly​ and #whumpmasinjuly when you do!

[whumpinthepot]

Day 3: Lost.

This is just part of a very rough wip of ive been picking away at. Its un-edited and written between work shifts haha.. Its one of those scenes you see often (Thinking of you twilight) but in my BBU universe. I didn’t know what else to use for this prompt and had this already written!! So here ya go, hopefully its not too bad.

CW for transphobic remarks, creepy men, pet whump, boxboy universe, lost whumpee, slavery

———

The next few people they had come across weren’t so friendly. Two shaggy looking men, with shifty eyes and a hint of a smirk, sitting on the railings of the sidewalk. Ratty side eye’d the two and their instincts kicked in to keep going. No asking these men for anything.

One whistled, and it made Ratty’s skin prickle. Their guard was already up by the time one of the two got up to shout harassments at them, “Hey Girly, are ya lost?”

When Ratty turned around to glare, the man stopped, “Oi, what the hell?” He jeered and looked at Ratty’s features, obviously trying to decide, “Are you a chick or not?!”

Ratty was caught off guard by the question and looked down at their yellow dress. Girls wore dresses didn’t they… “I dunno.” They just shrugged, “Scuse me…. Sir, but I have to go. Bye.”

Ratty spun around and started to trot off, not very impressed at being bothered with stupid questions. The next question out of the man’s mouth had them lose their breath however-

“Sir?” He chuckled with a low growl, “What? Are you one of those pets? No one talks like that unless they are.” He seemed more amused now than before, the smirk growing as he walked after them. The second man was up now too, walking around to start to corner Ratty with casual lazy steps.

Ratty’s eyes hooded as they watched what the two men were doing, stating the only thing they knew to keep them safe, “I have a Master.”

They were claimed, no one else could touch them without their Masters say so. At least that's what they were taught by the trainers.

“Oh yeah? Where are they then? You seem lost to me, maybe we can help you get back to them.” One suggested, but Ratty had already decided that these men were no good.

“No… Thank you, sir. Scuse me, I really have to go now. Back to my Master, yep, so I don’t need your help. You can go.” Ratty waved their hand to shoo them away, very annoyed at this point. All manners were lost in their voice despite the honorifics.

That's when the man closest to them grabbed them by the arms.

[forthetaintedsorrow-whump]

Whumpmas In July 2022 Day 3: Lost

Filling in some of the missing days for this event ^^

Here’s a snippet from my WIP Spirited Away/Princess Mononoke AU: 

Chuuya was lost in the forest when he was five years old.  There’s a legend that something lost will be kept by the spirit world.  Chuuya does not meet another human again for 17 years.

The buzzing chirp of cicadas filled the air as the sun slowly inched its way toward the horizon, the muggy summer air thick with the noise.  A thin breeze wafted through the pine tops carpeting the mountainside, and the trees brushed together and spoke softly.

There is a folktale that something lost in the forest for over twenty-four hours will be lost to the spirit world, when the sun transits below the horizon to give way to the twilight, the space existing between night and the day at the edge of the shadows, where the eye glimpses movement and then turns away, unwanting to see what strange things lie at the edge of perception.  No one knows if the tales are really true, but everyone seems to know someone who swears it is, even if they don’t quite know why they believe.  

It must be something my granddad told me.  

I left behind my satchel accidentally when I was out hiking with my boyfriend.  I went back the next day but it was gone.  What animal would take a satchel with books in it?  

My son went out hunting for interesting rocks and left them piled in his hat when he got tired and forgot to come back for them.  When he came back days later, the hat and the rocks were gone.  Who would take a bunch of rocks?  

My friend took his watch off when he went swimming in a lake near the forest and completely forgot about it.  He came back the next day, but it was gone.  No one lives around there.  He said the forest stood still, like it was watching him the entire time. It was in the light of day, but it still looked dark and he didn’t want to wait around.

The forest, silent among the cries of the cicadas, says nothing.

A cry breaks above the noisy stillness under the orange sky; the cicadas pause in their chattering.

“Mama!  Papa!”

Too far away, and too late, a voice calls, unheard, “Chuuchan! Chuuchan!!”  A mother buries her face in her husband’s chest and sobs.

Somewhere, a lost child’s voice wails.