Hello fellow sentient organisms! You can call me Nora, my pronouns are she/her, and I'm apparently an adult (21). I am a very big fan of lab, medical, and non-human whump, but I usually enjoy most tropes. I’ll do my best to tag but please let me know if you need more. Now go out there and torment some fictional people! :)
Fantasy Guide: Common battle wounds and how to fix them
Arrow wounds: Now if the lung, heart, kidney, other major organ is hit, there may be little to do. The kidney has a back up, so maybe a skilled surgeon could save him, not exactly sure however. If hit by an arrow and not hit dangerously in an organ or artery, we can help. Firstly, DO NOT REMOVE arrow by yanking. Arrow must be worked from the skin by skilled hands. Once arrow is out, wash would with clean water/alchohol/herbal remedies. To heal slow, sew up wound and wrap in bandages. To speed it up, cauterise the wound with fire. It will hurt and patient pay pass out but now the arrow wound can heal faster. This works for crossbow bolts as well. On the gross side, arrows may be smeared with dirt or shit, so sepsis is a danger. This is how the great Richard the Lionheart died. Sometimes the mighty lion is killed by a shit arrow. But hey, shit happens. Arrow wounds take a couple of weeks to heal.
Sword slashes: if shallow, wash and bind up. May require stitches. If deeper, repeat process with more stitches and more bandages. Even if shallow, the cut must be washed using alcohol or clean water. May take a few days to weeks to heal depending on wound depth and severity.
Stab wound: Again don’t remove knife or object. If already removed, wash would and sew it up. You may need to cauterise. If guts, organs, brain, is falling out, there is nothing to do. This may take a couple of weeks to months to heal depending on wound.
Broken Bones: A break must be splinted with a board of wood and bandages. Slings can support arms and wrists. If your character breaks a leg, it may be worse. Breaks don’t heal great without modern medicine. Your character may have a limp or leg pain. In you’re are living in a hot climate, you’re pretty much fucked because infection sets in fast. These may take months to heal.
✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.
✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.
✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.
✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.
✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.
✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.
✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.
✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.
✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.
✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.
God sometimes I'm writing smut and I'll like, delete a sentence because I'm like, no, I can't write that. It's too indulgent. And then it's like. Girl, what the fuck are you even going to the candy store for if you're just going to buy raisins. Get real.
princess whumpee who was like the youngest of so many children and ran away to escape whatever “useful” political marriage she would be shunted into
who actually had a life for herself outside the palace walls, filled with friends and love and adventure and life
who gets captured and dragged kicking and screaming back to her home and greeted with two equally terrible pieces of news: that all her siblings are dead, and that she must now serve as queen to whoever else will take the throne
who screams and claws and rails at this treatment, does everything in her power to try to escape - and so her family must do anything it takes to beat her into an acceptable shape
so long as it doesn’t leave a mark anywhere her subjects can see
being late getting into a piece of media or joining a ‘dead’ fandom is not that bad actually cause even if it seems like the party is over there will always be people still celebrating and the decoration is still up and there’s a piece of cake reserved especially for you in the fridge you just have to come and enjoy it.
Content Warning: medical whump, defiant whumpee, electrocutoion (of sorts), restraints.
The hum never stops.
It presses in from all sides—a low, steady vibration under the table, in the walls, in the air itself—threading through him before he’s fully pulled free of the last wave of pain. It settles into his bones, a constant, mechanical presence that makes everything feel…controlled.
Measured.
He swallows. His throat feels dry, tight, like he hasn’t used it in hours.
He doesn’t move right away.
Not because he can’t—because he’s thinking.
Don’t react. Don’t give them anything.
The thought comes slower than it should. It drags through the haze, but it lands solidly enough. Something to hold onto.
Something his.
A faint shift of his wrist tests the restraint. The metal answers immediately—firm, unyielding, cool against skin that feels too warm, a soft clink that sounds too loud in the quiet.
So. Still stuck.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, careful. Even that feels monitored somehow.
There’s a pause—long enough that he almost starts to believe he’s alone again. Then—
A click.
Not loud. Precise. His eyes snap toward the sound.
The door.
He didn’t hear it open. He should have heard it open.
Footsteps follow, measured and unhurried. Not heavy. Not rushed.
Confident.
He tracks them as best he can from where his head is angled, vision still slightly unfocused at the edges, like it hasn’t quite settled back into place. A figure moves into view—clean lines, neutral colors, nothing distinctive except the way they carry themselves.
Professional. Detached.
“Responsive,” the person says, almost idly.
Not to him.
About him.
His jaw tightens.
“I was before, too,” he manages, voice rough but intact. It scrapes a little on the way out, but it holds.
That matters.
The figure pauses at his side. He can’t see their face clearly from this angle—just the tilt of their head, the brief stillness as they assess him.
“Baseline resistance remains consistent,” they say, again not quite addressing him. Like he’s a data point.
He huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “You always narrate your thoughts out loud, or is that just for my benefit?”
There’s a beat. Then—something shifts. Not visible. Subtle.
Interest, maybe.
“Verbal coherence intact,” the person continues smoothly.
He lets his head fall back against the metal with a soft, controlled thunk. The surface is still cold. It hasn’t warmed under him.
Nothing here does.
“Glad to hear I’m performing well,” he mutters.
Another pause. Then the figure moves.
He tenses automatically as something enters his peripheral vision—a tray, stainless steel, set down within reach. The sound is deliberate. Meant to be heard.
Inside it, a small arrangement of instruments. Clean. Ordered.
Not rushed.
His eyes track them despite himself.
Thin leads. Adhesive pads. A handheld device with a smooth casing and a single, unlit indicator.
Not as invasive-looking as before. Which somehow makes it worse.
His fingers flex involuntarily against the restraints.
The figure notices.
“Anticipation response,” they note.
“Or pattern recognition,” he shoots back, a little sharper this time.
Silence.
Then—unexpectedly—
“Possibly.”
That almost throws him.
Almost.
He swallows again, slower now, buying time. Watching.
A pad pressed just below his collarbone—cool, slightly damp adhesive against his skin. Then another, lower, near his ribs. Each one placed with clinical precision, no wasted motion.
He forces himself to watch. To catalog it. To stay ahead of it.
“Comfortable?” he asks dryly.
No response.
Of course.
The device gives a soft tone as it activates. Not a beep—something smoother. Almost pleasant.
A sound that doesn’t match what he knows is coming.
He inhales slowly, bracing without letting it show.
There’s a fraction of a second—
Then—
It starts.
Not sharp. Not like before. This is different.
It seeps in.
A low, crawling sensation slips under his skin—diffuse at first, unfocused—like something moving where nothing should be. His muscles twitch before he can stop them, a small, involuntary jerk that pulls against the restraints with a muted clatter.
He clamps down on the reaction immediately, jaw tightening.
That’s it?
He almost believes it.
Then the current shifts. Finds something. Locks in.
The sensation narrows suddenly—pulling tight into a defined line that bites inward rather than spreads.
His breath catches—not a full gasp, but close. The sensation deepens, tightening into something more focused, more insistent. Not overwhelming—just…persistent. Impossible to ignore.
Like a muscle cramp that won’t release.
He exhales slowly through his teeth, trying to ride it out.
The figure watches.
Of course they do.
“Still boring?” they ask.
He lets a beat pass.
Then, strained but steady:
“Yeah.”
Another pulse rolls through him—stronger this time. His shoulders jerk before he can fully stop it, tension snapping tight across his back. His fingers curl.
The restraint chain shifts with a soft metallic sound.
He closes his eyes briefly—not to escape it, but to contain it. To keep the reaction from spilling outward where they can measure it, quantify it, use it.
Don’t give them the scale.
When he opens them again, he forces his focus back onto the room. The lights. The ceiling seam. The edge of the tray.
Anything but the sensation threading through him.
The hum in the walls continues, unchanged.
The current doesn’t stop.
It builds—incrementally, carefully, like someone turning a dial a fraction at a time.
Testing.
Mapping.
Learning.
A soft note from the device marks each adjustment. He starts counting them without meaning to.
One.
Two.
Three—
His breath stutters on the fourth.
He swallows it down immediately, but it’s too late. The figure’s head tilts slightly.
Logged.
Everything is logged.
“Response curve established,” they murmur.
He lets out a quiet, shaky laugh despite himself.
“Congratulations,” he mutters. “You found…muscles.”
But his voice is thinner now—drawn tight, like it’s being pulled along the same line as the current.
The current surges again—just enough to make his back arch a fraction off the table before he forces himself down, every muscle fighting for control.
The restraint bites into his wrist, pressure sharpening where bone meets metal.
Grounding.
He clings to that instead.
Something solid.
Something real.
Not the current.
Not them.
The figure steps closer.
“Duration will increase,” they say.
Of course it will.
He turns his head slightly, just enough to look at them properly now. His expression is strained, but there’s still something defiant there—something unbroken.
“Then you’d better get comfortable,” he says quietly.
A pause.
Then, almost thoughtfully—
“We are.”
The device hums.
The current holds.
And the seconds stretch.
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whumpee that will only sleep in small, hard to find spaces
whumpee that scares caretaker half to death by not being anywhere to be seen when they wake up, only to be tucked away in some nook or cranny, barely asleep
I literally CANNOT read the words "supine" or "prone" in anything without thinking about that post that's like "supine is when you lay on your s(u)pine and prone is when you lay on your pronis"
Whumpee who doesn’t even realise they’ve passed out before waking up. They were awake, dizzy, too hot, and then dreams start to creep in, and they’re not even aware that what they’re experiencing isn’t reality anymore. Until they wake up to a gentle voice. “Hush now. You’re alright.” Their hands are curled around warm wrists. Their skin slowly registering the soft bedsheets that weren’t there last time. That gentle voice… Caretaker. Where … what happened….
Press that "oxygen" mask onto their face. Watch them struggle to get it off, claw at your arms as you press it further onto their face, their desperation mounting until it slowly starts to peeter out and they fall limp in your arms.
Tie their arms behind their back, watch them whip their head around trying to dislodge it, their shouts of anger slowly turning into cries of desperation as the mask holds firm on their face. Watch as they try to hold their breath, a losing battle you know youve won as soon as you see the condensation of their breath against the clear plastic, the heaving breath ineard that marks your victory. If you watch closely, you can see the exact moment the sparks of angry desperation in their eyes turn into flames of hopelessness.
Strap them down to the operating table. Their eyes follow you suspiciously as you walk into the room with a suspicious tank of something with that damn oxygen mask attached. Do they even struggle as you line up the mask on their face? Or can you already hear the hissing of the gas leaving the tank as they squeeze their wet eyes shut, barely holding back a small crying squeak that you're sure you can hear as you watch their body go limp and that single tear fall into their hair.
Sometimes, fanfiction is carefully plotted out stories, with plot points and call backs and themes that all tie it up in a meaningful and exciting way.
And sometimes fanfiction is, ‘Watch me do a fucking KICK FLIP off this cool sentence!! Also here's some sex'
there will never be anything as funny as the mutual disbelief between long form and short form fic writers about each other's style.
short form writers look at people writing 100k+ fics as though this is some sort of talent given as part of a fae bargain, that the commitment required shows some sort of ungodly mental fortitude.
meanwhile long form writers look at people writing 1000 word one shots like god I would cut off my left nipple to be able to say anything concisely. i would love to play with multiple ideas. free me from the shackles of this child I have birthed. i love them but I now must take them to t-ball and doctor's appointments and they're going to destroy everything I own.
