#''How many fingers am I holding up?''

[numinous-scribe]

First time participating and first entry of the season! Enjoy!

Rating: Teen and up

Characters: Tim Drake, Kon el | Conner Kent, Cassie Sandsmark, Bart Allen, Amazo

Warnings: Canon typical violence, heart attack (kinda), panic attack, internal injury, ear related injury

Summary:

Tim had been having a pretty good time. His pile of casework was at an all time low― the likes of which hadn’t been seen in several months ―and what was left was low stakes enough that he could afford to put it off for just a little while. All school work was completed and neatly tucked in his backpack back at the manor. The world wasn’t actively ending and Bart, Cassie and Kon were granted a little freedom away from their responsibilities. They’d made a day of it; lunch, movies, the mall― A classic teenage experience.

So, naturally, the universe just had to take offense to four superhero teenagers enjoying their day off. What was that phrase Kon had been using lately? Ah, right: Can’t have shit in Metropolis.

+++

Whumptober Day 1: Swooning, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

[deadpoetyogurt]

I like to headcanon Medic as having the worst eyesight in the world. Like you can't tell me the prescription on his glasses isn't thicker than soured milk! Bonus points if he's fine with his glasses on but as soon as you take them off he can't see A THING

[jasmines-library]

Just One Big Headache

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Day one, prompt "How many fingers am I holding up?" FANDOM: Supernatural Summary: A routine salt 'n' burn takes a nasty turn when the spirit directs its anger towards you, leaving you with a nasty concussion, but not to worry, the Winchesters are there to look after you. Warnings: Head injury, concussion, loss of consciousness, violence, weapons, broken ribs. Word count: 1.8k Author Note: Aaaaaand its off! Welcome to jedi-archives whumptober 2023! I promise i'm going to try my best to get these out everyday but i can't make any promises. My prompts are coming from a mixture of the official @whumptober prompts and my own. I'm starting off with something slightly fluffy to ease us in. With that said, happy whumping!

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

'it's just a salt 'n' burn' they said. 'it'll be fun' they said. Oh boy were they wrong. 

The air was crisp as you stepped out of the Impala. You watched as the little clouds of air rose before your face, illuminated by the street lamps which flickered haphazardly. Tugging your jacket closer to your body you made your way around to the back of the car, following the crunch of Sam’s shoes as he walked across the frosted grass. Dean propped open the trunk and made quick work of loading rock salt into his rifle and ensuring that there were enough matches inside his pack. The other Winchester hauled the shovel from the car and leaned it against his shoulder; it was hefty and made with iron, caked in mud and rust. The pistol that you shifted between your hands was so familiar, like an extension of your body. It fit snugly in your grip. Flicking the chamber open with a metallic click, you made sure it was fully loaded before snapping off the safety and slipping it in a holster on your belt. 

The grass was damp from the frost that had settled on the grass in the graveyard. It had managed to claw its way up the gravestones and trees like fingers too. It seeped uncomfortably through the toes of your boots as you trudged towards the grave. Small and unkept, it sat located towards the west side of the gravesite. It belonged to a young woman who was brutally murdered a few years ago, but who’s case ran cold. It was safe to say that she was pissed; her revenge taking the form of hunting down those who were associated with the woman who killed her. But what started out as unfinished business soon turned cold and twisted as she turned to others who had wronged. Her grave stood out on the line of tall, pearly stones with dainty flowers laying at their feet. It was dark and clad with weeds. Unloved.  

Dean’s duffel landed with a thud next to the grave, unsettling the ground around it. The shovel went down next to it. 

“Alrighty.” He said, rubbing his hands together. “You know the drill.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but brought out his hands in front of him anyway. “Seriously dude, I don’t even know why we bother anymore.”

“It’s a game of chance, Sammy. Now shoot.”

After the count of three, you and Sam shaped your hands into a fist and brought them forwards. You smirked. Dean had played scissors. With a groan, he pulled his hand back and reeled his body away. 

You laughed. “Scissors everytime, Dean.”

The eldest Winchester grumbled something underneath his breath, but picked up the shovel and begrudgingly began to dig until the shovel hit something solid, you and Sam kept your eyes peeled for any sign of the spirit. 

“Okay. This is it.” he confirmed, hauling up the lid of the coffin. It creaked open on unsteady hinges. The corpse beneath still had skin attached to its discoloured bones. It pooled loosely around the woman's frame. The putrid smell that emerged would have made you gag had you not already had your fair share of salt ‘n’ burns. “Keep an eye out for that son of a bitch.”

Sam lent a hand to haul his brother out of the newly dug pit. From where you were standing, a few feet away, you could see the top of his hair poking out from the top of the opening. Almost mechanically, the brothers began to tip the gasolene and sprinkle the salt onto the body. 

The deathly howl that suddenly emerged in front of you snapped you awake. The spirit raced towards the Winchesters, gritting her teeth and scowling. Her vacant eyes narrowed at them as she got closer, but your fingers were on the trigger before you could blink, sending her away with a shrill cry and a cloud of grey. 

“Hurry.” You told your friends, who had moved from preparing the body to the old duffel on the ground. Dean rummaged around desperately on his knees, not caring about the cold, until he felt the familiar grit of the matchbox against his fingers. Tugging it out, he ran back to the body. Sam tugged the shotgun tighter to him and positioned it in front of himself. The two of you danced around, keeping your eyes peeled for the ghost.

The spirit appeared behind you this time, wailing like a banshee. Sam shot it in the chest before it howled shrilly and disappeared. 

“Dean! Hurry up!” You cried as it reappered again. He was busy fumbling with the matches, which refused to light on the cold box. He pushed too hard against the cardboard and felt the stick snap and splinter. He cursed loudly. 

“I’m trying!” He huffed back through gritted teeth. 

All it took was that one look over your shoulder to Dean for the spirit to catch you off guard. Sam’s shout of your name was a second too late as a ghost appeared behind you, wrapping its cold, bony fingers around you and flinging you away. You cried out in pain as your head collided with one of the neighbouring gravestones and your body slid to the floor. 

“Dean!” Sam yelled out for his brother, firing his weapon at the creature and sending it dissipating to somewhere else on the property. 

The match slipped between Dean’s fingers, twisting in his grip as he tried to create friction between the two objects. Time seemed to stop as Sam raced towards your side to be cut off by the woman re-emerging in his path. That was when the match tumbled from his brother’s grasp, landing on the heap of chemicals and starting the chain reaction of events. 

The woman reeled back as she burst into flames like a candle. The sound she made was dreadful, it cut right through you as she writhed on her feet. When she finally finished her onslaught of screaming and her bones were no more than a dismal pile of ash, Sam fell to his knees in front of you, cupping your head in his hands. It lolled to the side, unable to hold itself up against the throbbing pain in your skull. Sam was suddenly aware of the blood that trickled from your temple and coaxed his fingers, crying out again for his brother, he gave your face a gentle tap. Your eyes fluttered beneath heavy lids.

“Hey, Hey. Kid. Stay with me.” He pleaded, searching your face. “Open your eyes Y/N, come on.”

Your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. Your head felt hazy as you peeled them open, watching Sam swim before you. 

“That's it! Keep them open Y/N.”

Dean was to your left, his hands roaming your body for any other injuries. You whimpered when his fingers flushed against your tender skin on your upper back. You were sure you had a broken rib. Or three. 

“I know. I know sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s face was close to yours as he tilted it upwards. He saw the way that your pupils were dilated; one the size of the fucking moon, the other lagging behind. 

“Shit. Dean?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Dean prompted, “Can you stand?”

He moved to position himself under your arm, wrapping it around his neck. Sam’s arm weaved around your waist and the two of them hauled you to your feet. The movement made you want to hurl and you cried out as the pressure in your head and ribs increased tenfold.

“You’re okay, sweetheart, You’re okay.”

Your movements were sluggish as you floated towards the car. your vision doubled and you were now struggling to differentiate left and right. Your legs trembled in your fogginess, you seemed to lose all control of your limbs, relying heavily on the arms wrapped around you to aid you back to the Impala. It was when your vision blurred and your legs completely folded beneath you like a crushed can that Sam scooped you up into his arms. He cringed at your noise of discomfort, but raced behind his brother to the old car which was parallel parked across the street. 

“We’re nearly there kiddo,” He hushed. “Just keep those pretty eyes open for me, okay?”

You tried to keep them open. You really did, but it just became too much. Your body became slack in Sam’s arms as you gave into unconsciousness. 

~

The light was too bright when you peeled your eyes open again. You were back in the bunker, propped up on pillows in your bed. Your whine alerted Dean to your awareness. His hand, which was clutching yours, moved to wave in front of your eyes.

“Y/N? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Sam rolled his eyes, swatting his hands away. He saw the way you squinted painfully against the light and moved to the switch on the other side of the room to dim it, before promptly coming to perch on the edge of your bed. . Satisfied, you hummed and scanned the room, eyes landing on the two worried Winchesters who loitered in your room. They breathed a visible sign of relief when they saw your eyes focus on theirs. Your ribs still stung, and the throbbing in your head was still present. You reached up and trailed your fingers across your temple. The skin had been cleaned there, the dried blood no longer glued to your face. You could still feel it in your hair where Sam hadn’t quite managed to get it all out. The skin was rough and had begun to scab over. A pair of hands wrapped around your wrist and pulled your fingers away. 

“Don’t touch.” Sam said tenderly, handing you a glass and a handful of painkillers. The glass was cool against your lips as you swallowed them thickly. “It should heal on its own. It didn’t need stitches.”

 You blinked groggily. “What happened?”

“Ghost got you good.” Dean told you. “You have two broken ribs and a concussion.”

“And the ghost?” you asked.

“Taken care of.”

Nodding slowly, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

“I-” Dean stuttered. “You had us worried Y/N”

“I'm sorry.”

Sam shook his head firmly. “Not your fault.”

“But-”

“Nope. Not hearing it.” He said sternly.

You sighed. “So, what's the damage, Dr Winchester?”

The youngest brother chuckled at the remark, glad to see that you were feeling more of yourself. “You are going to stay in bed and rest for a few days. We are going to stay here and look after you.” he told you before you rolled your eyes at the idea of being bed bound. 

“I suppose I could do that.” You shrugged, not opposed to the idea of having the Winchesters as your personal waiters for the next few days.

“I thought you’d be happy.” Dean shook his head, then gestured to the covers and the tv which was mounted on the wall. “Room for two more?”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

DAY TWO

🏷️ Whumptober Taglist

[that-fish-who-writes]

hello.

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.

.

*deep inhale*

KEEFITZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

...uhhhmm.

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what's a keefitz...?

I don't think I've ever heard of such a thing :( sorrryyyy /j

anyways wanna see this cool drawing I made of a certain two characters? :3 !!

[cloudinal]

POV you are Narancia

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2023

No. 1: “How Many Fingers am I Holding Up?” | No. 5: Debris

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (pre-relationship)

Setting: Prison era

Warnings: Head injury

‘Please, don’t be dead. Please, don’t be dead!’ The railing on the stairs wobbled— a testament to the poor solidity of the building— as you hurried down the two floors separating you from the archer. The both of you agreed to tread carefully when entering the old hospital, the look of it not inspiring confidence but the probability of what it could contain overpowering any hesitance. Medical supplies were scarce in this world. Two Tylenol tablets and a pack of gauze would mean everything in what used to be the simplest of situations. 

“Daryl?” You called as loudly as you dared after shoving open the heavy metal door to the ground level. The hole in the flooring was easy to spot with the beam of your flashlight, several feet wide with dust still rising from the collapse. Your stomach twisted when there was no immediate reply, but another call was not necessary when you saw a piece of debris shift. A low groan followed the movement. You would swear that the moisture in your eyes was from the dust in the air. 

You had to hold the light in your mouth to help move the rubble covering him, but there he was. A little worse for wear but in one piece and blinking up at you with a dazed expression. The flashlight was propped against some of the wreckage so that your hands were free to help him sit up. 

“Are you okay?” He blinked a few more times and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. He didn’t answer, minutely swaying where he sat. “Dixon, are you with me?” 

Daryl finally seemed to realize you were speaking to him and met your eyes, more than a little disoriented. “Huh?” 

Worry gnawed at your heart. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“Like I jus’ fell through the floor fer a half full bottle’a meds.” His speech was a bit slurred, his movements slow and jerky. He held up the aforementioned antibiotics and shook the bottle lightly. “Still got ‘em though.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Let me look you over and then we’ll get out of here.” You left no room for argument. The archer quickly squeezed his eyes shut when the flashlight was pointed toward his face, swatting at your hand lazily. “Stop it, I need to look at your eyes, you big baby.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He slowly peeled open one and then the other, keeping his hand in front of them while they adjusted to the light. After a few seconds, he dropped his arm so you could see two evenly sized, reactive pupils. 

“Good. That’s good.” Lowering the light, you reached for the back of his head before he could think to stop the unwanted touch. Your fingers quickly probed at a wet, raised area. 

“Hey! Tha’ hurts, woman!”

“You’ve got a decent sized bump on your noggin, Dixon. How many fingers am I holding up?” You had perfected the art of ignoring his griping over the span of months you’d spent with him, a feat that the others in your little apocalypse family wished they all could achieve. Or maybe he just wasn’t as grumpy with you to begin with. Your hand hovered between you, three fingers wiggling to get his attention. 

Daryl scoffed and began preparing himself to stand, nonchalantly flipping up his middle finger. “How many m’ I holdin’ up?” 

You sighed with a fond smile, dropping your hand to his arm to help him get to his feet. “Yeah, you’re okay enough to get back to Hershel.” It was a bit of a struggle getting him upright, and he swayed a little before you settled his arm over your shoulders. “I’m driving.” 

“Hell no, ‘ve been through ‘nough today.” His tone was gruff but not angry. 

“And I’d like to make it in one piece. I bet you see two of me right now, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing, don’ reckon.” 

You could feel your cheeks burn. You ducked your head when you felt him staring at you and pinched his side playfully. 

“You must’ve really hit your head, Dixon.”

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 1: Swooning, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Welcome back to whumptober yet again >:D I’m going to try and do all 31 days again, we’ll see if I can manage it!

Anyways, this got longer then I meant it to, but I had to corral the ending into something that made sense XD Enjoy!

Read it on ao3

————————————————————

“You find that key yet, Rancher?” a voice called from way off in the distance.

Twilight barked back a negative, and continued to sniff around for the key to the exit of the room the others were in. There’d been a spot only his wolf form could easily get to, and so he’d climbed up to it and crawled through, moving soft dirt with his paws until he’d entered into the more spacious area he was in now.

The room appeared to be circular, but there were several high walls he couldn’t see over so he couldn’t tell for sure. They were somewhat maze-like, and confusing in their layout, so Twilight was forced to rely on scent, searching for the metallic, and no-doubt rusty-smelling key.

He turned several corners, following a faint metallic smell he hoped was his objective. There wasn’t much in the maze apart from a few rats and the concerning remains of a skeleton, and Twilight padded cautiously on, perking up the moment the glint of a treasure chest finally caught his eye. He ran up to it, and transformed back into a Hylian, eagerly opening the chest.

A dark, shining key sat inside, just what he’d been looking for.

Twilight reached inside with a warm feeling of satisfaction, then heard a faint click as he lifted the key. A cloud of dark particles shot up from the chest, blowing right in Twilight’s face, and he gasped involuntarily, inhaling a good portion of it.

He began coughing as the dust coated his throat, the dust making him choke as he stumbled backwards. The cloud settled after a moment, but Twilight kept coughing out whatever he could, blinking tears from his eyes and wiping dust off his face.

He patted himself down, and looked around for any threat or danger to his person, but the room was as silent as it had been, and apart from the dryness of his throat, Twilight felt no ill effects.

Must have been an old boobytrap, he thought to himself, coughing a bit more as he pocketed the key and headed back the way he came. Arrows or something were probably supposed to fly out at my face... Whatever it was probably disintegrated because they were so old.

Twilight coughed again, and shook more dust out of his hair.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t here a few decades sooner.

Twilight made it back out of the maze and into the other room without further incident, though the skeleton tried to grab him as he walked by. He easily fought it off, and told the others about it with a laugh as they continued through the dungeon, and the strange black dust entirely fled his mind.

The dungeon was large, obviously some kind of fort once upon a time, but it had been long abandoned apart from the monsters who’d taken up residence inside. The heroes ran into a large group of them shortly, and they set to work, room echoing with shouts and screeches alike.

Twilight went for a troublesome-looking gibdo (one of Legend’s fortunately, apparently his didn’t scream), and began attacking, slicing at the strangely thick bandages.

Sky was fighting another one nearby, and a little further away Legend was yelling something as Wild shot several fire arrows. A group of the gibdos burst into flames, but Twilight tried to focus on his own battle, even as Legend yelled at Wild again.

The gibdo wasn’t fast, but it was sturdy, and it took a lot of time for Twilight to make any headway in hurting it. He jumped around to the back of it more than once, slicing in the same spot, and the gibdo finally seemed like it was flagging after several of the attacks.

It made a move for him, swiping at his middle, but Twilight took the opportunity to roll around and run it through with his sword, the monster letting out an odd moan before collapsing into dust.

Twilight glanced at where the gibdo had swiped at him, but his tunic wasn’t even ripped. Satisfied that he was fine, he jumped back into the fray, avoiding a stalfos that jumped at him and nearly sliced off his arm. Twilight immediately went on the attack, blocking another swipe with his shield, and lunging forward to swipe at the monster.

But the moment he stepped forward, a strange wave of something swept over him, making him stumble. He blinked dizzily, head lightly spinning, and looked around in confusion.

His head felt light, the battle around him fading at the edges, and he put a hand to his head, wondering what on earth was going on.

He felt almost as if he was suffering the effects of an injury, a knock to the head, blood loss or something similar, but that gibdo had barely touched him, why was he..?

Twilight stumbled as he avoided a swipe from the stalfos’s blade, clumsily blocking it with his shield. The crash of the weapon hitting it made him wince, and he desperately tried to gather his wits about him so he could fight back.

What was going on here?

Twilight tried to go on the offensive, swinging his sword, but somehow he missed the stalfos entirely. The lack of resistance made him stumble, and the stalfos let out a strange clattering cackle as it swung at him again, red eyes blurring in Twilight’s vision.

A glowing blade suddenly entered his sight, and Twilight watched as Sky swiped straight through the stalfos that had been hedging him, the bones falling to pieces. The room was suddenly a lot quieter, and Twilight distantly realized that that must have been the last monster.

“Twilight, are you okay? That thing nearly got you!” Sky said with a smile, his voice only mildly worried as he sheathed his sword.

Twilight gave him a nod, blinking as he tried to make the room quit swimming around him. It refused to stop though, and Sky’s expression turned more truly concerned.

“Twilight? Are you all right?”

“Fine, I’m... I’m fine,” he said a little shakily, resting a hand on his head. “Think I... just...”

He coughed, black flecks falling on his hand, and his mind abruptly flashed back to the dust in the treasure chest.

...perhaps the boobytrap hadn’t been as ruined as he’d thought.

Sky’s eyes went wide, and the room suddenly lurched, shaking and wavering all around. Twilight heard a shout, but it was muffled and strange, and didn’t make any sense to his ears.

He couldn’t hold his weight any longer, and he felt his eyes roll back in his head as his legs gave out.

(...)

Something shook him, a bit frantically, and Twilight sluggishly came back to awareness.

He blinked his eyes open, and bit back a groan as he closed them again, his vision swirling and rolling around. Something was shaking him again, but Twilight didn’t reopen his eyes, afraid he would throw up if he did.

“Rancher, open your eyes, come on.”

Twilight reluctantly cracked them open, several things moving above him in dizzying color.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” the same voice asked him, and Twilight blinked, trying to focus on the things in his vision that kept blurring in and out of focus.

“Quit movin’ th’m,” he mumbled, and more voices echoed above him, making him only feel more dizzy as he tried to listen to them.

“Concussion you think?”

“He didn’t hit his head, there’s no injuries there I can find.”

“Well what’s wrong with him then?!”

“Has he had anything to eat today?”

“Probably needs a bath, he’s filthy.”

“Don’t be stupid, that wouldn’t make him faint!”

Twilight’s breath caught funny in his chest, and he coughed again, a sharp wave of vertigo hitting as someone sat him up. A groan escaped his lips, and a hand gently turned his head.

“Twilight, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Twilight blinked hazily, trying to focus on whoever was talking to him, but his vision refused to do what he wanted it to, and his dizziness grew to an excruciating degree.

He let out a whimper, uncertain of what was going on, and felt a sudden sharp pain in his chest, intense and painful. It spread through his body like liquid fire, and he cried out, moving suddenly agonizing.

“Twilight!”

The hand was back and frantically patting his cheek, and something moved in front of him again, but all Twilight could do was focus on the dizziness and pain that was demanding all of his attention.

“Twilight, please, focus, do you know what happened?”

Twilight breathed in shakily, tensing as another wave of pain ripped through him. He had to tell them what was wrong, he had to warn them in case there was more of the dust, in case it hurt one of them— but all he could do was try not to scream.

“Twilight?”

Twilight squeezed his eyes shut, then reopened them, trying to meet whoever was in front of him’s eyes.

“Th... dust...” he moaned, voice barely more then a whisper, “brea... thed...”

His breath caught with pain, and Twilight heard someone shout as the dizziness overcame him again, darkness washing over his vision.

(...)

When Twilight woke back up, he was being held between two people, arms over their shoulders.

He blinked dizzily, and saw stone under his feet, moving slowly as he was carried forward. We must still be in the dungeon.

Another wave of that strange fiery pain ripped through him, and Twilight gasped, making whoever was holding him startle.

“He’s awake!”

Footsteps clattered on the stone, and hands poked at him, lightly holding up his chin.

“Rancher? How are you feeling?”

Twilight couldn’t manage anything more then a groan, and something gently ran through his hair.

“Okay, that’s alright, you’re going to be fine. Can you drink something for us? Warriors thinks a potion will help.”

Twilight mumbled something he hoped was a good enough reply, and something cool was pressed to his lips. Sweetness hit his tongue as it was tilted back, and Twilight drank, waiting for the potion to kick in.

The very beginnings of warmth began to settle in his chest, but then his stomach lurched, and he jerked forward, coughing up the healing draught and gagging at the taste of it coming back up. It felt weirdly dry as well, nearly making him choke, and Twilight felt the arms come up to prop him into a slightly different position.

“Easy Rancher...”

“Should we give him another?”

“He won’t be able to keep it down, not with the way he’s acting.”

“Well now what?!”

“...Guys? He’s... not just throwing up potion.”

The room went oddly quiet, apart from Twilight’s harsh breathing, his stomach and head now swirling with nausea. He’d finished throwing up, but now his tongue and throat felt like sandpaper in his mouth. He coughed something out, and there was a hand on his cheek again, holding him steady.

“Four said he mentioned breathing in dust earlier... do you think that’s what he meant?”

“I don’t see what else he could have meant.”

“So the dust is making him like this... we just gotta get it out somehow!”

Twilight moaned as his head swirled, and something touched him, gently rubbing his shoulder as his awareness started to fade again.

“Don’t worry Twi, we’ll fix this. Just hold on.”

(...)

Twilight came to with a jolt the next time, something forcing his mouth open, air being pulled through his lips.

He heaved in a gasp, and hands moved to hold him down, voices talking far above his head and the ground rolling up and down under his back. He tried to struggle, but the hands were firm, and something brushed through his hair as he tried to drag in another gasp.

“I’m so sorry Twilight, but this’ll help, try and stay still.”

The wind increased in its intensity, and Twilight felt like every bit of air was being sucked from inside him, leaving him unable to breath, unable to fight, to get away they were holding him down—

A sob choked from his throat, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t resist, couldn’t stop them from doing whatever it was they were doing and it made him feel sick. What felt like sand fell down his cheeks, and he let out a breathless scream as the air continued to be pulled from him, the fire in his limbs blazing, his head swirling.

There was more talking but Twilight couldn’t focus on any of it, his world narrowed down to pain and wind and a scratchy feeling in his throat and lungs and all over inside of him.

It hurt.

He still couldn’t breathe, no matter how he thrashed or cried out and the pain was so intense and thick that the darkness soon dragged him under yet again.

(...)

A hand was brushing through his hair, teasing out knots, gentle in its motions.

Twilight didn’t do anything but focus on it for a minute, the touch soothing and calm. Then he realized just how dry his throat felt, his insides hollow, and he let out a breathy moan, trying to open his eyes.

“Whoa, easy,” someone said, and Twilight finally dragged his eyes open, pleasantly surprised when his vision didn’t smear. He was able to look to the side and meet who turned out to be Four’s eyes without any swirling spots or fire in his chest, and he felt a spark of equal relief and confusion.

“...’thy?” he rasped, and Four nodded, looking pleased.

“Hey, he’s awake!” another voice said, and Sky leaned over into Twilight’s vision. He looked tired, but there was a smile on his face. “Good to see you up, Rancher.”

“Oh thank Hylia,” another voice gasped, and Wild appeared in his vision as well, looking utterly relieved. “We weren’t sure if that was going to work or not.”

“If what w...work..?” Twilight croaked, and Sky, Four, and Wild all looked at each other.

“We had to get the dust out somehow,” Four said quietly, guilt thick in his voice. “I figured since you inhaled it... sucking it out would be our best bet.”

“Four has an item that worked rather well,” Sky said, though his smile had grown tight. “We weren’t sure at first if it had helped, but... well, we’re glad you’re all right, Rancher.”

Twilight blinked, and looked between the three. He was having some trouble following exactly what was being said, he felt sore and tired, and a bit like a paper straw someone had sucked air through a few too many times, but even he could tell that Four felt awful.

And sure, he didn’t quite know why, or remember exactly what had happened, but Four had helped him, and that was enough for Twilight.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, and worked past the bit of dizziness still in his head to reach over and pat Four’s hand. “Thank you.”

He couldn’t manage anything further, but it seemed like it was enough. Four took his hand in his and gave it a squeeze, and Twilight dredged up a smile.

“Screw dungeons,” Wild muttered fiercely, and went back to playing with Twilight’s hair. “They’re stupid and they suck.”

Twilight barked out a laugh, wheezy and uncomfortable, but it was worth it seeing the relieved looks that were exchanged above him.

“Agree. Screw ‘em,” he croaked.

[serickswrites]

How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up?

Warnings: rescue, captivity, torture, unconsciousness, restraints, poison, caretaker and whumpee

“Whumpee! Whumpee! I’m here. I’m here!” Caretaker shouted as they ran to the basement where they knew Whumper had to be keeping Whumpee. They had checked the rest of the house and Whumpee was nowhere to be found. 

Caretaker kicked open the door and hesitated on the stairs. Whumpee was slumped over, arms pulled at an awkward angle by the chains that kept them attached to the wall. “Whumpee?”

They could see Whumpee’s body move with each breath, but Whumpee didn’t respond to their words. Caretaker hurried forward. “Whumpee?” They rolled Whumpee onto their side. “I’m here Whumpee. Whumpee! Say something.”

Caretaker gave Whumpee a little shake. Whumpee blinked open bleary eyes. They blinked, their gaze unfocused. “C-C-Caretaker?” 

“I’m here, Whumpee. I’m here.” Caretaker said softly as they looked for a way to get the cuffs off Whumpee’s wrists. 

Whumpee’s lips twitched as their eyelids drooped closed once more. “Hmmmm,” they hummed once before going quiet. 

“Stay awake, Whumpee. Talk to me.” Caretaker worked quickly. 

“Mmmmm. ‘m ‘ere,” they whispered as they struggled to open their eyes once more. 

Caretaker tapped Whumpee’s cheek as Whumpee’s eyelids fluttered. “Whumpee. Keep your eyes on me.” What had Whumper done?

“C-C-Can’t. T-TTooooo ‘ny. ‘zzy.”

“Whumpee, how many fingers am I holding up?” Caretaker had a sinking feeling in their stomach. “Whumpee, how hard did you hit your head?”

Whumpee blinked up at Caretaker with fever bright eyes. “No. P-P-Poi--” their words cut off as they began to cough. Loud, wet coughs wracked their body as they tried to speak once more. Caretaker rubbed Whumpee’s back as Whumpee kept trying to speak.

But Caretaker knew what Whumpee was going to say and didn’t need Whumpee to finish. Whumpee had been poisoned. Rage boiled in their stomach as they realized Whumper had set this trap for Caretaker. Made it easy for Caretaker to find Whumpee. But didn’t make it easy to save Whumpee. Caretaker made a silent promise that they would pay Whumper back in kind once they got Whumpee to safety. 

“It’s ok, Whumpee. I’ve got you. I’m going to save you,” Caretaker said as they lifted Whumpee into their arms. 

Whumpee had gone silent after the last bout of coughing. Terribly silent and still. “Whumpee?” Caretaker tapped Whumpee’s cheek as they started towards the basement stairs. “Come on, Whumpee. Wake up.”

Whumpee’s only response was the quiet, irregular wheeze that let Caretaker know they were still alive. “Hang in there, Whumpee. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Hold on.”

[clintbartonruinedmylife]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 1

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Barton!” he could hear from somewhere far away. His hearing has never been the best but at the moment it sounded as if the someone who just talked to him was wrapped in cotton candy. 

“Ouch,” Clint moaned and tried to sit up but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“No such thing,” the voice said. He knew the voice but right now he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

“Wha…” he mumbled. “Wha’ appen?” 

“You fucking idiot went alone against Rhino. Spidey told you to wait for him, but…” the voice sighed and somehow he remembered that sigh. 

“Can you open your eyes?” the voice said now and this was the moment Clint realized that it was dark because his eyes were closed. He blinked and from one moment to the next it was too bright and he groaned again. 

“Hur’s…” he moaned. 

Something appeared in front of his face. A hand. A weird hand. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” the voice asked and Clint glared at the weird hand. It was… it was metal. “Come on, Clint, how many fingers?” 

“Thirteen,” Clint muttered. 

“Okay,” the voice huffed. Bucky! Clint remembered. The voice belonged to Bucky! “Hospital it is.” 

“No,” Clint protested. “I don’eed a ‘spital.” 

“You definitely need to see a doctor,” Bucky said. “Rhino hit you harder than we expected and…” 

“We?” Clint asked and tried to sit up but Bucky put his hand - the weird  hand, the metal hand - on his shoulder and held him in position.

“Spidey and Steve are here, too. They're fighting against Rhino,” Bucky said.

“‘N you?” Clint slurred. 

“I’m staying with you till we can bring you to the hospital,” Bucky said. 

“L’ve’u,” Clint mumbled and closed his eyes. Bucky was quiet for a very, very long moment, then he whispered.

“Love you, too.” 

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 1: “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Read it on Ao3

- Wild & Four

- Summary: On the battlefield, Wild suffers a concussion and Four has to split to keep him safe

CW for head injury/concussion and brief mention of vomit

—————————

“Champion! Behind you! Look out!”

Four knows it’s too late even as he shouts. In the time it has taken him to turn around, catch sight of the armed moblin, and open his mouth, the monster has already raised its weapon. And at the distance he is from Wild, there is no possible way he can make it to him in time, even at a sprint. But he tries anyway. Cutting down the nearest monster, he breaks into a run.

Wild whirls around as his warning registers, sword held ready. His eyes widen as he sees the moblin and for a split second Four dares hope that maybe, just maybe he will have a chance at defending himself or getting out of the way. Sure enough, Wild throws himself into a sideways leap. But even as he does, the moblin swings its weapon in a wide, horizontal arc.

The sword catches up with the champion at the tail end of its journey. It collides with his side with such force Four is certain he can hear the bones in his arm breaking from here. Wild goes flying head over heels, then lands a few feet away in a heap of bloodied tunic and spread-eagled limbs.

“Wild!”

Four looks between the champion and the monster that has now turned its eyes on him. If the others were here perhaps he could afford to rush to his friend’s side immediately. But they are back at the camp, awaiting the results of their patrol.

A patrol that was never supposed to lead to a camp full of black-blooded monsters.

Gritting his teeth, Four makes his decision. Holding the sword high, he closes his eyes and lets the familiar sensation wash over him. Magic flows through him and out, his emotions splitting and solidifying.

“Oh no! Wild!”

No sooner has he opened his eyes again, Red catches sight of their fallen friend. His face spasms as he takes a step forward.

“We’ve gotta help him!”

“You go to him, Red—” Vio says.

“And hurry it up,” Blue interrupts, gesturing toward the monsters that are now closing in on Wild’s prone body. “He hasn’t got much time.”

Vio nods. “I’ll come with you.”

“We’ll handle the monsters over here,” Green says, already turning on his heel. Blue lunges after him without hesitation.

Red doesn’t have to be told twice. He rushes over to Wild as fast as his legs can take him, cutting through any monsters within reach. Once he reaches the fallen champion, he skids to a halt. Sheathing his sword, he hits the ground on his knees beside him.

“Wild?”

Wild looks far worse from this proximity than he did from far away. His arm is indeed broken and lying at an unnatural angle. Blood darkens his tunic on his right side where the weapon hit him the hardest. The crimson liquid trickles down his forehead too and an angry bruise is already forming beneath it. Its purples and blues and golds stand starkly against the pallor of his skin.

Bright blue eyes blink open, then promptly shut. Wild groans.

“Is he awake?”

Vio comes to kneel beside Red, brows pinched in a frown. Red wipes at his eyes, swiping away the beginnings of tears.

“I-I think he’s waking up.” He leans forward. “Wild, can you hear me?”

“Mhm.” The champion groans again, shifting a bit. “Hurts.”

Red puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re here now. We’ll make it stop hurting.”

Vio turns away and starts rifling in his pouch. “Prop his head up, Red.”

With gentle hands, Red complies, guiding the champion’s head into his lap. Wild pries his eyes open and squints up at him.

“Wha…happened?”

“You were wounded in battle,” Vio says. He is in the process of setting out supplies now. A bottle of potion stands amongst the blades of grass, its crimson contents glittering in the midday sun. A bundle of bandages joins it. “Though we’ve yet to ascertain the severity.”

Red thinks for a moment, then holds two fingers in front of Wild’s face. Try as he might, he can’t quite still their trembling. But it doesn’t matter if anyone sees. Not now, with his friend so severely injured. And besides, he wants to help in any way that he can.

“How many fingers am I holding up, champion?”

Wild blinks mismatched pupils, trying and failing to focus on the appendages. After a moment, he snickers.

“Four.” He starts to giggle. “Like–like you. Four Fours.”

Red looks over at Vio. The violet-clad hero pauses in the middle of unscrewing the potion, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Seeing double, acting loopy, pupils in two different sizes – the symptoms all point to the thing he had suspected since seeing Wild’s head injury. A concussion.

“Hey!” Blue calls from a short distance away. The screams of monsters drift over from where he and Green are still battling fiercely. “You guys gonna keep us updated or what? Is he okay?”

At that moment, Wild’s laughter turns into a wet, hacking cough that shakes his injured body and brings tears to his eyes. Cringing, Red strokes his hair in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

This situation is getting worse by the moment, he is sure of it.

“He has a concussion,” Vio calls back. “And some bad bruising, broken bones. I can’t be certain of the internal damage.”

“But the potion will take care of that, right?” Red asks, desperately.

Vio shrugs. “For now. But we need to get him back to camp as soon as possible. He’ll need rest and a fairy. Here, he can’t get either.”

Wild’s coughs subside, though he shivers with the aftershocks of them. He slumps back against Red, breathless. Sniffling, the hero reaches down and slips his hand into Wild’s.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

He squeezes and the champion squeezes back, albeit lightly.

“Don worry bout me,” he slurs, gazing dazedly at nothing. “Be fine.”

The very fact that he isn’t even attempting to get up, tells of the lie in his words. But neither Red nor Vio sees fit to point it out. Merely sharing another glance with Red, Vio sets aside the cap of the bottle. He watches Wild for a moment to ensure he won’t begin coughing again, or worse, vomit. Then, when he is relatively certain he won’t do either, he touches the bottle to his lips.

“Here, drink.”

He tips it back just enough that the liquid slides sluggishly into Wild’s mouth and the champion swallows obediently. Once he has drained it all, Vio places the bottle back in his pouch and turns his attention to the bandages. Green and Blue jog up to the little group as he unravels them, sheathing their swords. Wild looks up at them, a slight grin tugging at his lips.

“Four Fours,” he chuckles, and Blue’s face instantly folds into a death glare.

“What on earth is he rambling on about?”

“He’s out of it,” Green says, taking note of the bleariness in Wild’s unfocused eyes and the blood still drenching his tunic. “You said he had a concussion, Vio?”

Vio nods. “The potion should take effect soon, but he’ll still need to rest up.”

“We need to get back to camp as soon as possible.”

“Yes. Here, help me move his tunic out of the way.”

Green bends and lifts the fabric up and away, revealing a sizable gash marring the champion’s left side. He lets out hiss as the air touches it, hold on Red’s hand tightening.

“It’s okay,” Red murmurs.

Vio immediately gets to work, cleaning the wound as best he can and then wrapping it in the gauze. The other three help in any way they can and between them all, they manage to make quick work of it.

“That’ll have to do for now,” Vio says, standing up and brushing off his tunic.

Blue blows out a sigh. “Great. Now we’ve gotta get him back.”

“I can walk,” Wild croaks. He is a bit more alert now that the potion has had some time to work. But still in no state to go skipping back to camp.

He looks up at them, familiar determination coloring his eyes. “Sorry, but you guys definitely can’t carry me.”

“No, we can’t,” Vio agrees, calmly. “Not unless we absolutely have to, at least.”

“But we’ll support you every step of the way!” Red promises.

Green nods. “Of course we will. Every step of the way.” He unsheathes his sword and holds it high, already beginning to shimmer in colors of four. “Though we’ll do it as one.”

Between one blink and the next, one small hero is standing before Wild. He offers the champion a small smile.

“But don’t worry. No matter what you won’t be alone.”

He bends and hooks his arm under Wild’s shoulders. The height difference makes maneuvering him upright difficult, and when Wild stumbles, both of them nearly topple. But Four manages. And soon they are limping down the hill, back towards camp.

Back towards safety.

Four breathes a sigh of relief. His body is vaguely sore from the battle and splitting, his mind worn from worry and strategy. The sooner they can return for both of their sakes, the better.

“Hey Four,” Wild mumbles, beside him.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Four smiles. “Anytime, Wild.”

[quietlyimplode]

the language of flowers and silent things.

Whumptober 2023: Day 1 - How many fingers am I holding up

Warnings: perceived death (no death I promise), panic

Word Count: 2.3k (gif not mine)

Summary: The marriage of Clint and Natasha.

A/N: there are people that stand with you in darkness, brave the shadows and not shy away, if you have friends like that hold them tight. This is for you @broken--bow .

Friend, without you there would be no whumptober, there are no words for the consistency of friendship you have supported over the last month, and thank you doesn’t seem enough. I wish it were more, but thank you all the same.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

KASHMIR

2011

“It’s cold,” Natasha grumbles.

“Yep,” Clint replies, popping the p, and trudging on through the snow.

“How far?”

The snow is white and endless, and Natasha is sure they aren’t going the right way. Her rifle, slung across her shoulder, rubs and feels heavy, as it hits the back of her thighs; even though likely it’s her backpack that has the weight.

Clint glances at the gps, a small look of surprise on his face.

Natasha stops.

“What?”

“It’s less that two hundred metres,” he says, pointing to the left.

He adjusts his pack and trudges forward, giving Natasha places to put her feet as she grumbled again.

“You’re Russian!” he says, exasperated as the safe house comes into sight.

She throws him a look a rolls her eyes.

“I don’t like the cold,” she deadpans.

Approaching the house, they both split up, covering the front and back and simultaneously breach the door way.

Covering the rooms in a pattern, Natasha is first to call all clear, followed by Clint, as she beelines for the generator and sets up the heater.

.

The white noise of the generator infuriates Clint as he keeps the first watch; more snow falling. He

wonders if it will ever stop.

The cold that penetrates is icy, even though they’ve used spare blankets under the doorways and old newspapers on the window.

Natasha was finally asleep.

He knows by the soft breaths, slow and even.

She doesn’t like sleeping in the cold, and he knows why, it reminds her too much of the barracks of the Red Room.

She berates herself about becoming too soft, even as she makes their apartment and their rooms a constant temperature.

Less nightmares.

He tells her it’s not a bad thing to protect yourself from bad dreams, but it never seems to stick.

She sighs audibly and he wonders what she’s dreaming.

If the snow continues to fall at this rate, they’ll be snowed in. The trek here all uphill, and he hates Maria a little for directing them to this one.

“Hydra,” she’d said, “they’ve taken advantage of the political climate, and infiltrated the region.”

It’s a shame; he think idly, Kashmir is beautiful, but the evil that has infiltrated made it unsightly.

The man that they had killed was wanted by Interpol, crimes against humanity and all that.

Natasha’s kill shot hitting him between the eyes, as Clint had done the calculations quickly around wind speed and elevation.

One shot, one kill.

They made it look easy; isn’t that why Fury sent them?

Now, stuck in the snow, in a quaint house, Clint has too much time to reflect and worry about the repercussions of not being extracted until the snow stops.

His grip tightens on the gun, and he adjusts his position.

.

Natasha focuses on the landscape, the parts she can see anyway. Snow covers the door, just reaching the window and she feels vulnerable at not being able to see all the ways around them.

She knows if she looks at Clint, she won’t be able to hide her disappointment.

He won’t be able to hide his fear.

The satcom phone lays inert, as they await the next call.

Any way out.

Any opportunities for exfil.

Not likely for the next twenty four hours anyway.

The tension in the room is palpable. The generator has enough petrol for the next five hours, and the temperature is far below zero.

.

Clint focuses on the bowl of cereal, the snow still around them.

This was supposed to be easy.

He suppresses a shiver and pulls his coat around him trying to gain any heat he can.

The one room they’d kept heated, now growing colder.

He knows they both feel it.

Natasha pushes away her bowl, half eaten.

“You gotta eat, Nat,” he murmurs.

“We need to leave,” she argues, “the generator is done, the food almost gone, and the pipes are frozen. We have no water apart from what we have in that bucket.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s cold outside, no one is coming here in that weather; plus where are we gonna go? We have to wait for them to come.”

She’s knows he’s right. Standing and staring out the window, she shivers.

It’s not a good sign.

“Clint.”

The seriousness in her tone has him on edge as he joins her.

“It’s stopped snowing.”

They both know, when the temperature drops the snow stops, the sun, or what was left of it, hides behind the dark as the black starts to descend, night approaching; though the hour not late.

“What are we going to do?” she whispers.

.

They move to the smallest room, a tiny broom closet, big enough for the both of them. No windows, blankets piled in.

“I hate the cold,” she gristles, her teeth gnashing.

Clint pulls her closer, trying to stay warm, even though he’s sure it’s not helping.

“Talk,” he asks, “take my mind off this.”

The request isn’t lost on Natasha, the beginning of the third day had begun and they still had no way out, the sat phone silent, stood next to the door.

“Mmmm,” she says; trying to stop her teeth chattering.

“If you changed around this house, what would you do to make it better?”

It’s an old game, one they used to play when nightmares would keep either of them awake and neither wanted sleep.

Clint bites, he wants nothing more than the deep dread that fills his body to go away.

“Thicker windows,” he starts, “and for there to be a better security system.”

Natasha grunts in agreement.

“Insulation,” she continues, “the bedroom, I’d move to the back of the house, maybe another bathroom.”

Clint snorts.

“Like our house?”

She laughs, shivers hard and suppresses another.

“What’s that like again?”

He sits up a little straighter, and starts talking about the blueprints he’s sketched out when they’d first started dating.

“You know, you’ll have a library, and I’ll have a target room, the kitchen will be big, and the bathroom always warm.”

“The house is always warm,” she corrects.

“Heated floors?”

He nods, “definitely heated floors.”

She rests her head on his shoulder.

“”It sounds nice.”

.

The night passes slowly.

Both in and of consciousness, eating where they can and bodies shivering hard against the cold.

“My lungs hurt,” she grunts, forcing herself to take a breath.

Clint can’t answer, he agrees, but can’t do anything but nod his head.

She’s terrified; not because she’s going to die, but because he is.

“Talk to me,” she says, her teeth chattering.

She remembers Russia, the coldness of the room and the lack of heat in their dormitory rooms. The blankets thread bare.

She felt it then, but had no context about how warm the world could be.

“You think the world is warm?”

Natasha hadn’t realised she was talking out loud.

“It’s different, here, don’t you think?”

He swallows, trying to readjust his position but finds his limbs uncooperative.

She’s not making sense and he’s worried. He can’t think straight though and maybe she can’t either.

They won’t die here.

Someone will come.

.

“When we get married,” she starts.

They both laugh.

But it’s the silence that hangs.

“What are we going to do, Clint?”

She can see their breath, and movement is getting harder. Natasha knows this cold, Russian winters this biting, freezing kind of bitter. If they die….

If they die it’s not a bad way to go, here, safe with someone she loves and a life she curated for herself.

If she dies…

“What kind of wedding will it be?”

Clint stops her train of thought.

Desperate to change the subject to anything apart from their imminent death, he hugs her closer, trying to not be unnerved by how cold her skin is.

“Small,” she considers, indulging him.

“I’ll wear white, you’ll wear a tux, but it’ll only be our closest friends.”

He nods.

“Who are we inviting?”

“Maria.”

“Coulson.”

They take turns naming their friends.

“Pepper.”

Clint frowns, “really?”

“Yeah, why?”

The shiver stops him from answering, and she tries to pull the blankets more around him.

“If you invite Pepper, we’d have to invite Tony,” he says grumpily, disliking the fact that someone who heavily objectified Natasha would be invited.

Natasha’s head rolls over to him, a smile on her cracked lips.

“We’d make him sign a NDA,” she almost laughs.

“He wouldn’t be able to talk about it, and it would destroy him.”

Clint laughs, a cough bubbling as he sucks in too much cold air.

“He’d probably get a good present anyway.”

“Fury?” Natasha asks, and Clint nods.

“Yeah I think so.”

He sighs.

“Is it sad it’s such a short list?”

She shrugs.

“Who else would you invite?”

Clint knows.

Family. Isn’t that who you’re supposed to invite for your wedding? For you brother to be your best man? Or for your mother and father to sit in the front row and cry?

“Who’d walk you down the aisle?”

She ignores the question.

“I’d invite Yelena,” she decides, looking wistful.

Clint rubs her leg.

“Yeah. I’d invite Barney,” he agrees. Even though it’s likely his brother and her sister as long since dead, it’s a nice thought to have.

“Your mom,” she opens the thought.

Natasha stops but continues after a moment.

“I think I would have liked our mothers to come, even if mine abandoned me.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say.

“I would have liked that too,” he breathes.

“I think you’d walk me down the aisle,” she whispers, coughing into her gloves.

“Where?”

He knows where, he just wants her to say it.

“Okinawa,” she smiles, knowing he loves the shores of the tiny island as much as she does.

“Of course,” he smiles back.

They sit in silence

“We can find them, I think.”

Clint says it with conviction.

Natasha looks at him intensely, breath white, nose red.

They’re going to die here, he thinks idly. Why not give them another mission, even if it only gives them hope.

“Our parents?”

He shakes his head.

“Our siblings.”

Natasha sees Yelena standing at the door, sad eyes, hands waving goodbye.

Her eyes open and close languidly.

“Okay.”

She knows what he’s doing.

Offering hope when there isn’t any.

Gloved hand reaches out under the blankets and takes his.

“If we survive this, and if we find Barney and Yelena, we will get married. You just have to ask,” she proposes.

Clint nods, his movement slow, his voice quiet and somber.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Natasha? Will you marry me?”

Head against his, she kisses him slowly, purposefully; like it’s the last draw of breath she’ll ever take.

“Yeah, Clint, of course I’ll marry you.”

.

Maria panics at the empty house, wondering where her friends are.

If they thought she wasn’t coming, maybe they left to find safety; it would have been a death sentence.

Temperatures outside so cold it had taken far too long to trek anywhere for safety, the snow too deep.

As it was, it had taken too long for the helicopter to land anywhere safely.

Maria looks around.

Two people that already have so much trust issues, she’s not sure what they would have done.

She’s sure they would have thought no one was coming.

In the instant, Maria feels panic.

She clears the first room and the medic clears two more rooms; then — Maria finds them.

Huddled together, Natasha’s head on Clint’s shoulders their faces pale and they look half dead.

She calls the medic over, unwrapping them from the blankets.

“Thready,” the man tells her, assessing Clint, then Natasha.

They drag them out, laying them down on stretchers as they both call it in on the sat phone.

Maria places the warmers over their chests, as the medic works on placing an IV for both of them.

They work quickly and efficiently; slowly working to warm their friends, hoping against all hopes that the hypothermia has no permanent effects.

.

Natasha hears before she sees, the whir of the plane, the pain in all her muscles as life starts flowing back into her.

“Clint,” she tries.

Voice cracking, not loud enough, she can’t see him or hear him, her heart hurts and her thoughts race.

They’re going to get married.

They’re going to find Yelena and Barney.

They’re going to…

Breath comes fast, alarms blare and she panics; sitting up, eyes now open she finds herself connected to machines and monitors.

Clint lays next to her.

Laying back, doctors surround her.

“Clint,” she says again.

Maria appears in her field of vision, a stoic face.

“He’s okay too,” she clarifies.

Panicked eyes greet her.

“Natasha,” Maria says, “look at me.”

Wild eyes look her.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

She sticks two fingers in Natasha’s face, and predictably, her friend rolls her eyes.

“Two.”

Maria puts three more.

“Three.”

She nods.

“He’s okay,” she assures.

Closing her eyes, Natasha grunts and sinks back into a deep sleep.

.

“God you’re both so predictable,” Maria grunts, half holding him down.

“She’s fine, look, okay?”

Clint gives her a goofy smile, clearly still delirious.

He sees Natasha, oxygen mask on, eyes closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he tells her, words mumbled.

“What?”

Maria thinks she misheard, because neither Clint or Natasha feel like the marrying type.

He nods, “jus’ gotta find Yelena and Barney.”

Clint’s eyes slip closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he says again, falling back into a drugged sleep.

.

[symbolicbluecurtains]

rough wip, ill finish and touch it up tuesday, probably, but I wanted to get Something out before today ended

[cindfourth]

Whumptober 2023 Day 1

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Camilla Hect blinked into the light, trying to bring the fingers into focus. Where was she? Her eyelids were so heavy. They fell back closed.

“Cam, how many fingers?”

She looked up again and–oh, there he was. The Warden was looking at her with a rather excessive amount of terror on his face, holding three fingers up between them. She had fallen during a duel in the Spire and knocked herself briefly unconscious. He always overreacted. “Seventeen,” she said. 

His features relaxed, but only slightly. “I should write that down. You’ve failed my screening and now you have to go lie in bed for several days.”

Camilla quirked an eyebrow at him and felt her lips twitch with a suppressed grin. She sprang to her feet. “You’d have to catch me first.”

Palamedes pushed his glasses up his nose and opened his mouth–

“Hect!” 

Camilla opened her eyes. Harrowhark Nonagesimus knelt before her. Blood still stained her torn robes and was drying on the hand she held up, but Camilla could see no sign of injury. “How many fingers?” Harrow demanded. “I don’t know what exactly it’s supposed to test for, or what I would possibly do if you couldn’t tell me,” she muttered to herself, “but Sextus–”

Camilla’s heart felt like lead. She looked at Harrow expressionlessly. Harrow chewed on her cheek. “Well,” Harrow said. “At least your eyes are open.”

Harrow turned away and Camilla lurched to her feet. She embraced the parts of her body that were screaming in pain–all of them, frankly–because it was far easier to manage than anything else she was feeling. Seemingly satisfied that Camilla was not dead, Harrow had returned to kneel before the body of Gideon Nav. The Ninth cav looked peaceful, smiling softly. She’d died doing her duty. Camilla envied her.

As Camilla limped past Harrow, the Ninth necromancer turned her head towards her but her eyes did not look away from her cavalier. “Where are you going?”

“I have to find him,” Camilla croaked. She hadn’t expected to sound so hoarse. “What’s left of him.”

Harrow was silent for a long moment. Then she nodded, once. “Well. Hurry back.”

When Camilla returned with her pathetically small collection of bone fragments, Harrowhark–along with any chance she had to see if she’d found enough–was gone.

[evillittlebirdie]

Salvation (Tav/Kar'niss)

Tumblr Prompt Fill for Tezzy

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine

Kar'niss was the latest addition to the menagerie and stuck out more than anyone. By all rights, Tav's interaction with Kar'niss should extended to combat only. She should have looted his body and moved on. 

Tav could not admit that she had a masterful experience with Drow. But, she knew that the abominations were paying the price of folly and incompetence. They failed a test and as such, were punished. She should have ignored Kar'niss like she ignored the numerous unnatural phenomena. But instead, she allowed a nagging sense of compassion to override good sense. 

Kar'niss lingered on the line between death and life. Most of his legs were broken and twisted. Blood coated his lips. Still, even in apparent agony, Kar'niss tried to reach the Moon Lantern. Astarion had already grabbed the lantern and was enjoying goading the pixie inside. Kar'niss was using his arms, shaking from exhaustion, to pull his body along the ground. As heavy as his abdomen was, Kar'niss only managed to pull himself a few inches. Desperation clouded his eyes before he finally collapsed. The Harpers and Tav's party did a number on his body. 

Tav walked over to the drider and raised her leg. She would give him a proper stomp to the head. Her body weight coupled with metal boots would ensure a cracked skull. Before she delivered the final blow, she heard a sudden whine. Something in her body lurched as Kar'niss' whimpers devolved into cries. Wretched, anguished sobs radiated from the drider. His voice was faint, but she could hear his pleas. He begged for his Majesty's protection, for the Absolute to save him. 

Lolth disfigured him and now the 'Absolute' would abandon him. 

Tav would later tell herself that his fanatical devotion would be useful. She would tell herself that his broken mind could be molded. He would be a loyal pet. 

Tav returned her foot to the ground and pulled a potion from her backpack. She stared at the health poultice in her hand before kneeling. "Shh, shh," She hummed to Kar'niss. 

"Heretic, don't touch me," Kar'niss hissed out, pain dripping from each phoneme. Tear tracks were running down his filthy cheeks. His capillaries had burst, reddening his vision. 

"Just drink," Tav insisted, taking the cork out of the bottle.

Kar'niss began to lose the ability to utilize his words. He merely pulled back from Tav, shutting his mouth tightly. The eyes collected on his forehead blinked unseeingly through strands of unwashed hair. 

"Hells," Tav muttered. "Stubborn little bastard." She did not want to utilize her tadpole, especially on such a delicate creature. But she pushed herself into his mind. 

Voices bounced in Kar'niss' brain, bounding off the walls of his skull. Tav could barely decipher the madness inside the drider's brain. Her pity for him increased, as well as her desire to save him. Tav had to compete with the Absolute as well as the broken man's illness. "Drink..."

Kar'niss suddenly stiffened. His eyes turned to Tav but he kept his mouth closed. "I want you to live," Tav told him through her connection. "Please drink."

Kar'niss kept his eyes on her before finally opening his mouth. Tav sighed in relief before she slid forward. If the scene involved one of her companions, she would have told them to lie on their back. Then, she would support their head as they drank the poultice. But Kar'niss was awkwardly on his chest, his abdomen preventing him from rolling over. Tav quickly problem-solved. She used her free hand to tilt Kar'niss' head up. She could feel the particles of grime, the notes of blood. 

"They are a True Soul. They would touch me..."  The voice sounded astonished, almost bewildered. 

"Yes, I would," Tav told him with a gentle smile, invoking a soft gasp from the drider. "What's your name?"

Suddenly, a foreign vision assaulted Tav's mind. A feminine voice, demanding and harsh, shouted, "Kar'niss!" A vile mixture of guilt, fear, and self-loathing twisted angrily before leaving Tav's cognition. 

"Kar'niss. It is a lovely name. Mine is Tav."  Tav brushed the hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. 

"They walk without a lantern. They are sent from Her Majesty...A Chosen. A Fourth to the Three."

Tav could not deny Kar'niss and risk him rejecting the help again. "Yes," She lied to him, hoping that deception could carry telepathically. 

"I accused you of heresy. I attacked you. Why would you save me?"

Tav could not give him a forthright answer. Instead, she ignored his question.

"Be careful swallowing," Tav advised before bringing the poultice to his lips. She tipped slowly and watched as Kar'niss took in the potion. She kept an eye out, watching as the cartilage in his throat moved. He didn't choke or aspirate. Tav let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. He would recover. 

"Breathe," She stated, using her voice instead of the tadpole to communicate with the drider. She pulled the potion from his lips, allowing him to inhale. 

To say the least, the adventuring party was not surprised when they learned of their new companion. "Tav, my dear, you have a penchant for collecting strays," Astarion told her with a playful smirk on his lips.

***

Tav knew of a small cave near the Last Light Inn under Isobel's protection. No one would bother Kar'niss. Once Kar'niss' legs healed enough to support his body, Tav split from the group to take him to the cave. Kar'niss still was not speaking to her. Instead, he kept his gaze on her in an intense fashion. Tav truly hoped that saving the drider wouldn't bite her in the ass later. 

"You can stay here. It's safe. The shadows will not find you here. I promise," Tav told him, bringing him to the mouth of the cave. Kar'niss looked around the cave and a small chitter reverberated in his throat. Hopefully, that was a good sound. 

"I imagine you would prefer raw meat, but there's a lack of that around with the shadow curse," Tav continued, not sure what would happen next in the care and feeding of driders. "But my friend, Gale. You saw him. He was the human wizard that..." Tav paused before she continued awkwardly, "was probably responsible for one or two of your broken legs. Anyway, he is a lovely cook. I'm sure he can whip up a nice haggis." 

Kar'niss turned to look at her. He pursed his lips before inquiring, "They would concern themselves with my subsistence?" After speaking it aloud, Kar'niss visibly mulled over the dynamic. "They are too kind. To heal a wretch, shelter them, and feed them."

Tav's pity for Kar'niss intensified at hearing his words. Knowing how the Drow ostracized and abused driders, she was not surprised at his attitude. "Oh...well," Tav cleared her throat nervously, "I need you to regain your strength. And you need care, rest, and food to do that."

Kar'niss nodded, accepting this proposition, "They are merciful and benevolent."

Tav felt their cheeks flushed with guilt. If only he knew how close he was to having his skull smashed under her boot. She quickly changed the subject.

"Do you need anything for your nest?" Tav inquired. She looked past him to the cave. The ceiling was high and deep enough to deter claustrophobia, but small enough to sustain a web. 

"I will not bother them with non-necessities," Kar'niss stated firmly, as though the idea was out of the realm of possibility. "Not spoiled, not needy," Kar'niss added, his tempo increasing, "I will make them proud, and make them pleased to save this unfortunate being." The words invoked a time long ago. Tav didn't have to be a genius to see the poisoned memory in his eyes. Kar'niss had a story that led him to this point.

***

Tav returned to the cave with dinner for Kar'niss. As she approached the lair, she was surprised to see how prolific he had been. Even halfway healed, Kar'niss had managed to spin a sturdy, intricate web in the space. Tav could see his nimble fingers moving along the strong strands, weaving the material. Kar'niss was so engrossed in his work, that he did not notice Tav's entrance. It was not until he looked up that he saw her. He let out an almost frightened gasp, "Her Majesty's Chosen!" He skittered from his place on the web, traveling to the mouth of the cave. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your work. I just wanted to bring by dinner," Tav offered with a smile. 

Kar'niss stared at Tav, bemused by the offering. His gaze traveled to the bowl she had in her hands. He raised his hands almost hesitantly. His eyes darted back to Tav, and a breath caught in his throat. Confused by Kar'niss' hesitance, Tav cleared her throat, "Haggis, like I said before. But I can get you something else." 

"Her Majesty's Chosen would allow me to take?" Kar'niss questioned. 

"What? Of course. That's why I brought it to you," Tav insisted. 

Kar'niss raised his hands as though to take the bowl before suddenly jerking, taking a few steps back. Tav could see the tension in his jaw traveling down his neck to his shoulders. He whimpered before returning to his position in front of Tav. "They shame me, Her Majesty's Chosen. They offer food with no stipulation. I return their pity with uncouth behavior." 

Tav needed to add Lolth to the list of gods she planned to kill. 

"Hey, it's alright, Kar'niss. You almost died today. You have the right to be a bit skittish. Here, take it," Tav offered once more. She kept a smile on her face, hoping the gesture made him comfortable with her. "Also, 'Her Majesty's Chosen' is a bit of a mouthful. Please call me Tav." 

"Tav," Kar'niss repeated, his lips pursing at the sound. "It is not proper." But Kar'niss did not press the issue. He slowly reached to take the bowl. Tav took in his hands, especially his fingers. They looked normal at first glance before they morphed into talon-like claws. He took the bowl from her before retreating into his cave. 

Tav let out a sigh. She could take minor victories where she could

***

"Her Majesty, I am forever in your debt. Thank you for sending me your Chosen. Thank you for leniency. I will serve them until I am cast away. Speak through them and I will obey." 

Kar'niss climbed into the top cavity of the cave. He could see if anyone would invade his space before they could even notice his web. It was a fine nest.

"They speak sweetly. They offer. No demand. No request."

Tav, as she told him to call her, was beautiful. Even though his lantern lay broken, he could feel a light shone on him through her gaze. Her words foretold of a future where he could serve safely. Her hand was steady and gentle. If she were to punish...

"And yes they would punish. Because I am weak, your Majesty. Foolish, lazy, spoiled boy! But they would punish to correct. Only to correct, like you would. Not like Matron. Too far. Too much. Ilhar, Ilhar, please, I am sorry. Despicable, useless boy!" 

Kar'niss could feel his body tremble as his mind took him to his childhood. He shook his head and ran his clawed fingers along the wall of the cave, hoping the sensation would ground him. 

He would ensure that Tav would not regret wasting her time, her healing supplies, on him. 

"I have no right to ask this of you, Your Majesty. But if you could spare me one more blessing, please do. I wish to recover quickly. I shall protect your Chosen." 

Kar'niss' heart began to race as he thought about Tav. If her smile would shine on him once more if he served her well. Until he was healed, he could not physically protect her on her journey. But perhaps there were other ways to show his appreciation. His throat vibrated at the implication. But reality slapped him.

"Foolish thing. Your Majesty, guide me. Give me humility. They have a harem of males to serve them. To think they would allow me to serve her in that manner. Hideous, twisted, castrated, pathetic."

For once, the voices lowered to whispers. And Kar'niss could give into his exhaustion.

[whumpshots]

Whumptober #1

Trope of the day: “How many fingers am I holding up?”

_

The ringing in their ears gets louder and louder. Voices come through the various noises, unfiltered and loud. A grunt that sounds far too loud in whumpee's head escapes their lips as their eyes flutter open, everything around them blurry.

"Oi! Wake up, kid," they hear as someone softly slaps their cheek to which they try to blink their sight a little bit clearer. They finally make out the shapes in front of them, some moving, some staying still.

Pain makes them whimper as something touches their abdomen, someone slightly moves their head. Whumpee feels their heart stutter as panic takes them with a surprise, closes its fist around them.

"Don't worry, it's us," the voice says and whumpee tries to focus on the still figure in front of them. "They got you good ... Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?" Whumpee squints at the shape they finally identify as a hand, but more seems to be impossible.

A soft grunt escapes them as they squeeze their eyes close, hoping the nausea doesn't get worse. "Too many," whumpee finally rasps and whimpers when the figures around them move their body.

[celasteria]