#Every whumpee’s needs

[of-wounds-and-woes]

Whumptober 2022 | no. 5: Every Whumpee’s Needs

Blood Loss | Running out of Air | Hyperthermia

From the Brazilian series Além da Ilusão episode 166

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee watches the Whumper pierce the top of a small glass bottle with a syringe. They are a black silhouette in front of the single lightbulb casting a dim glow in the basement where the Whumpee sits tied to a chair. Something about the way the Whumper tips the bottle upside down and extracts the liquid makes the Whumpee start to laugh. The Whumper sets the bottle down and clinically flicks the air bubbles out of the needle, but cast a few glances at the laughing Whumpee as they do. “Now you know I’m going to need to ask what’s so funny,” the Whumper says in their usual detached tone. The Whumpee tries to stop but just ends up letting out hitched high pitched moans that devolve back into laughter. The Whumper waits as the Whumpee’s mad laughter quells. Eventually the Whumpee gathers themself enough to speak. “My father was in the hospital when I was a kid. And I was watching the doctor do just what you’re doing in front of this bright window, like some kind of Hitchcock rerun I seen. And that’s when he asked everybody to leave the room so he could talk to me.” The Whumpee’s chest heaves as they gather their breath, and their face, still smiling, starts to turn angry. “And you know what he said? He said he was disappointed in me. Death was knocking at his door, and he told him to wait - not to love me for a moment longer, but to tear me down one last time.” The Whumpee’s smile has completely faded and they spit out these last words. “The funny part being?” the Whumper asks. The Whumpee stares fiercely through blackened eyes at their captor. “It’s just funny what people choose to do to me in the moments before they die. That’s all.”

[littlebunnyman]

Sweet thing

When you don't pay your debts, your debtors find other ways to get their money back as Peter Nureyev finds out.

Read on Ao3

Day 5, fic 5! Todays prompts are: Every whumpee’s needs | Blood loss | Running out of air | Hyperthermia

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[alasse-earfalas]

day 5 | fluff-whump-tober

The hot springs on Death Mountain were magical. 

Wild ducked his head under the water a few times, seeing how long he could hold his breath before he ran out of air. The regenerative properties of these springs were amazing: even if he’d lost most of his blood during a fight, the hot springs would restore it. 

The heat made his head fuzzy, but he didn’t mind. Whatever damage was done would be healed by these waters anyway. He leaned his head back against a rock and dozed. 

…

“Hi there.” 

Wild opened his eyes to see Sky standing in front of him, the dim light of pre-dawn illuminating his back. “Sky?” he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “It’s not even sunrise, what are you doing up so early?” 

“I am a morning person.” 

Wild frowned. “Um, since when? You’re always the last one to—” He stopped, his nostrils flaring at the scent of burning flesh. 

He pulled himself out of the hot spring, then remembered where he was and splashed back into it. “Sky, get in here,” he beckoned. “It’s not safe out there.” 

Sky stepped into the hot spring. But the smell of cauterized flesh didn’t leave the air. Wild tried to find the source, frantically turning around until—

He heard a familiar chime. Except it wasn’t a chime. It was more like a scream. 

“I am a morning person.” Sky’s voice quivered as he brought the blueish blade to Wild’s throat. Only now could Wild see the strange black pigment that wound through Sky’s veins, a darkness that looked far too much like malice. He realized with a start that the burning flesh was Sky’s hand, where the sacred blade was burning it in warning. 

“I… am…” He was fighting it. Sky was fighting for control. 

Something crazy popped into Wild’s mind, but he had no other options. He batted the Master Sword away and tackled Sky into the water, holding him there, praying the healing properties of the spring would be enough to counteract Sky losing air. Sky fought and struggled, but eventually passed out. 

Now for phase two. 

Using the Master Sword—the only blade readily available—and wincing as it burned his own palms, Wild opened one of the main blood vessels on Sky’s neck. He lifted Sky up to bleed outside the healing water, worried that the black in his blood might taint it, removing its healing properties. He kept the rest of Sky’s body squarely in the hot spring, praying this would work. It was a hair-brained idea and he realized with horror that he could have just killed his brother of the sacred blade. 

The black began to rapidly fade from Sky’s veins, but so did the red. Every so often the magic would chime, signaling that the spring was still healing him, still keeping him alive. Wild had to reopen the gushing wound several times to keep the blood flowing, to purge whatever darkness had infected him. 

A hoarse voice. “Wild?” 

“Sh,” Wild replied, watching the last of the blackness on its way out of Sky’s body. “It’s almost out. Just a little longer.” 

Sky hummed in acknowledgement. Wild was grateful for the reassurance that he was still alive. 

At last every trace of black was gone. Sky’s blood was back to its normal, untainted color. Wild stopped reopening the wound and let the hot spring work its magic. 

“Thank you,” said Sky. After a moment he reached up and wiped sweat from his forehead. “It’s really hot up here.” 

“It’s safe in the hot spring,” said Wild. “Warm, but safe. What happened, anyway?” 

“Don’t know.” Sky looked at his hand, flexed his fingers. “We’ll have to figure that out when we get back.” 

Wild nodded. “Yeah. We definitely will.” 

@flufftober prompt: “Oh no, you’re a Morning Person!”

@whumptober prompt: Every Whumpee’s Needs | Blood Loss | Running Out of Air | Hyperthermia

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42067278/chapters/105892323

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Pt. 21: Every Whumpee’s Needs

TWs in the tags

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Blood loss | Running out of air | Hyperthermia

It’s been too long since Jane last hurt you. Something’s coming. You wish you were brave enough to run again, but you can’t even think about it without thinking of overwhelming pain.

Your wounds are finally healed. You can finally move without restriction or pain. Everyone’s relatively okay. Kit is mostly healed. It’s absolutely terrifying.

Your nightmares are getting worse. You are constantly full of dread and fear.

You keep practicing holding your breath. You alternate between freezing cold and boiling hot showers. You sit in uncomfortable positions for hours, trying to learn to handle stress positions. You eat less, hoping to get used to hunger.

You wake up crying often and beg Kit and Dollie to not let her hurt you, to protect you, please please please.

You know it’s not fair. You can’t protect them, to expect them to protect you is unfair. Still, you want so badly to feel safe.

It’s almost a relief when Jane calls you down to the basement. Almost.

You’ve been doing this thing lately, where you compare the fear of living here to your old greatest fears. Would you rather spend an hour in the basement or a day in an airplane? Get beaten with a crowbar or bitten by spiders?

Over and over, you come to the same answer. You would rather be anywhere than here. You’d be less afraid if you were walking down a staircase to be executed.

“Hi, Bunny. Give me your collar.”

You slowly undo your collar and hand it to Jane. It’s a lot easier to breathe without it, but you know that won’t last long.

“That’s a good Bunny. What’s your name?”

“Bunny, Master.”

Jane laughs. “No, not yet. But we’ll fix that, won’t we?”

“Master, please.” There’s nothing else to say.

Jane just smiles. “Kneel.”

You kneel.

Jane produces duct tape and tapes your mouth shut. And then she plugs your nose.

Your lungs start burning almost immediately. You didn’t get a chance to take a breath.

“Liam.” Jane’s voice drips with an emotion you don’t recognize. “Liam.”

If you could breathe, you would laugh. It’s so stupid. Just saying your name over and over again while she tortures you. And even more stupid is that it will work, because it worked on Dollie and Kit and they’re stronger than you. You’re going to be too scared to even think of your name because of something so stupid.

Tears leak from your eyes and your vision blacks out. You think, for a moment, that she’s going to let you pass out, but she lets go. You breathe as deeply as you can through your nose.

“You’re so cute. I know you’ve been practicing holding your breath for me. Sweet little Bunny. Show me how good you’ve gotten.”

Jane plugs your nose again. The fact that you practiced does make it less scary, makes the feeling of suffocation more familiar. But you don’t have any control. You’re not the one choosing to hold your breath, and it won’t end until Jane wants it to.

Your practice and preparation don’t matter. It never will. You’ve been spending all this time hurting yourself when you should’ve just been enjoying the time you had where you weren’t being hurt. Kit was right. Of course they were right.

You can’t beg. You know it wouldn’t help anyway, but somehow that makes it worse. You’re completely powerless against someone simply plugging your nose.

You force your hands to stay down at your sides and try not to squirm. Fighting her will do nothing at best and get you punished at worse. You squirm anyway. God, you’re so fucking weak.

It’s amazing how long a minute can be. Jane once again releases you right before you pass out. You inhale, and she cuts off your air supply once again.

“Does it help? Do you feel powerful? In control? Strong? Was it worth it?”

You can’t answer.

“I doubt it. There’s only so much air your lungs can hold. You’ll always run out of air pretty quickly, no matter how much you work on it. Liam. My Bunny. You’re not the brightest, are you?”

Your vision swims. Can she do permanent damage, like this? You don’t know. Isn’t it three minutes of oxygen deprivation before your brain gets damaged? No, wait, that’s before you die. You can go three weeks without food, three days without water, and three minutes without oxygen. But you remember something about people surviving being stuck under ice for hours without air… Where did you even hear that three rule, anyway? Was that even true?

Jane is still talking, saying your name over and over. Your insides burn, but you feel nice. Ha, she’s trying to torture you but instead you feel nice. Wait, why’s she trying to torture you? You didn’t do anything. What’s happening? Why can’t you open your mouth?

The world spins and your vision is tinged with dark blue. Jane lets go. You still can’t get enough air. She plugs your nose.

You smile beneath the tape and close your eyes. The ground is rippling, up and down, up and down. You think this wouldn’t be the worst way to die. Are you dying? Where are you?

You feel like you’re floating. You feel like you’re a flame, flickering, flickering, flickering. You feel like…

You feel like…

You wake up sweating.

You lie on the floor of a room you haven’t seen before. It’s so fucking hot. Your clothes are soaked with sweat. It’s so hot.

Your head hurts. Your mouth is still covered with duct tape, but your hands are unbound. You could take it off. She never told you to keep it on, you wouldn’t be breaking any rules.

Or maybe she did tell you to keep it on. You stopped listening to her, while you were being suffocated. You should’ve been listening.

Best not to risk it. You don’t want to give her any reason to hurt you worse.

You slowly get to your feet. It feels a bit better, to not be making as much contact with the hot concrete. But it’s not enough.

This is the hot room. You try to remember what Kit told you about it. They didn’t say much, except that usually Jane leaves people in here for longer than an hour.

You’re not sure how this is supposed to help with the goal of forgetting your name. Maybe it’s not. Maybe Jane just wants you to suffer.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, after only a few minutes of standing. You feel nauseous.

The door doesn’t have a handle on your side, and it won’t push open. Like always, there’s no escape. You will be left in here until Jane wants to let you out.

Your heart pounds. You shouldn’t be panicking, that will heat you up even more. Still, your thoughts race. How long will she leave you in here? You don’t want to be in here, you want it to stop.

You double over at another wave of nausea. The room spins. The duct tape is loosening from the sweat on your face.

What would Kit do? What would Dollie do?

You wish Kit had given you advice. That’s what you wanted, when you asked what things might happen. Is it better to take your clothes off, or are your damp clothes keeping you cool? Should you be standing, or should you be finding a position that takes less energy while still lessening contact with the ground?

You don’t know. You wish Kit was here, which makes you feel bad. You shouldn’t wish they were being tortured with you. But you know it would be easier if they were here.

Tears fall from your eyes. No, you can’t lose any more water! You have to stop!

But your panic just makes the tears fall faster. You want to curl into a ball, but that will just make things worse.

The duct tape over your mouth falls off. You would put it back on, to avoid upsetting Jane, but being able to breathe through your mouth makes you feel one hundred times better.

And, well, now it’s already fallen off. So if Jane told you to keep it on, you’ve already failed. No point in going back.

Your hand spasms and you gasp. It reminds you of being electrocuted and it /hurts/. Is that normal?

When your feet start spasming, you have to sit down. You try to focus on your breathing, but your mind keeps going back to how hot you are.

And how sweaty you are.

And how badly your head hurts.

And how your throat hurts.

And how you’re dizzy.

And how you’re thirsty, so so thirsty.

And how you’re nauseas.

And how your muscles keep spasming.

You’re going to have to get better at distracting yourself if you ever want to handle situations like this. You know you’ve experienced it before, that feeling of separation from your body and the pain, but right now you are stubbornly locked inside your body.

Your nose starts bleeding, because of course you need to add blood loss to the long list of things going wrong with your body.

She won’t let you die. She said that that was a long way away. She won’t leave you in here long enough to die.

You don’t know if that’s a relief or not.

You recite songs in your head (not out loud, you’re too thirsty for that). You count the minutes. You focus very hard on not crying. Blood and sweat and maybe some tears drip onto the ground.

Your chest hurts. Is this it? Did she go to far? You throw up and it hurts, it hurts your stomach and your chest and your throat and your head, and you can’t breathe. You hands spasm at your sides.

There’s only so long this can go on. Either she’ll let you out or you’ll die. This will end.

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra. This will end, this will end. It can’t go on forever. This will end.

You start to feel like you’re not so much breathing as moving air around. Hot air comes in and out of your lungs, and it doesn’t help. You’re suffocating, you’re dying, oh god you don’t want to die, you don’t you don’t you don’t. You need to get out!

You are overwhelmed by dizziness. You know, suddenly, that you’re going to survive. You’re starting to realize that what you need to survive and what you need are two very different things.

Your body falls forward, and you’re unconscious before your head hits the concrete.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset

[mannerofwhump]

I’m Sorry for Leaving

Whumptober Day 5 - every whumpee’s needs | blood loss | running out of air | hyperthermia

content: major character death, stabbing, begging

tell me if i missed anything!

———

“I’m sorry for leaving.” Whumper doesn’t pause. “I’m so so sorry for leaving. I won’t do it again, I swear.” The words leave Whumpee’s mouth as fresh tears leave their eyes when they see Whumper raise the sledgehammer again. They promise that they’ll be good now, so very good. No, Whumper, no need to break the other leg. Please, there’s really no need. They’ll behave well, they will. Please please please don’t.

The hopelessness doesn’t stop them from trying. But Whumper doesn’t care. Whumper barely notices as they raise the sledgehammer again and again and again, and Whumpee’s screeams slowly die out as their vocal cords can take it no longer. What good will it do, anyway? An abandoned warehouse with no one nearby merits no chance of a rescue.

“You lost that chance, Whumpee. You lost it when you ran away. I’m not looking for defective toys, you’re nothing to me now.”

They nod frantically, trying so hard to appease the person holding a weapon above them. Please, they’ll do anything. Please, make it stop.

“You want it to end, don’t you?” Whumpee’s eyes dare to light up with hope. That expression falls and gives way to pure terror when Whumper pulls out a knife. “I’ll grant your wish.”

There is no voice left to scream when Whumper starts stabbing, and stabbing; an insanity borne from fury driving their actions. Eventually, they stop, straightening their clothes and drying the knife.

They smile, before turning to leave. “I’m sure Caretaker will be glad to see you again.”

—

An eternity of pain came, never leaving, never ending. They waited. For what, they weren’t sure. Whumper had left them to suffer alone. To die alone.

Why had they mentioned Caretaker? Had they killed them too? No, they couldn’t think that way, they couldn’t. Then, there would really be no hope left in the world.

Whumpee heard frantic footsteps, getting louder and louder. Had Whumper came back for them? Did they regret what they did? They almost snorted; Whumper was too self-assured to ever regret anything. To ever feel guilt.

“Whumpee, can you hear me?” Huh, that’s funny. It sounded like Caretaker. “Whumpee, please. Please tell me you’re still here.”

Slowly, they opened their tired eyes. If they squinted, it kind of looked like them too. Only a little bit though, their eyes were blurred by now. They couldn’t make out any distinct features even though the person was right above them.

A hand touched their shoulder, and they flinched. The hand pulled away quickly.

Wait, was that…real? A real hand from a real person, could it be?

“Caretaker?”

The figure nodded, quickly quickly quickly. The hand reappeared on their shoulder, and this time they didn’t flinch. Caretaker’s voice cracked. “Yes. Yes, Whumpee, it’s me. Don’t leave, I’ve just found you again.”

“Your clothes…they’re gonna get bloody.” Whumpee’s voice was soft, gentle. They couldn’t speak any louder, anyway.

“They don’t matter. My clothes don’t matter so, please.”

Whumpee smiled weakly. They knew there was nothing they could do. “I’m sorry, Caretaker.”

I’m sorry for leaving.

———

ask to be added to the taglist!

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@spookyboywhump

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Not This Time

(follow-up to “This Time”, but can be read as a stand-alone)

Whether God worked a miracle or Hell spit him back out remains up for debate, in Athos’ opinion.

In any case, as it turned out, his friends hadn’t been too late after all. Having prevented the last two Spaniards from taking Athos’ head off, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan had somehow managed to keep Athos’ guts from spilling out onto the cobblestones, had bandaged him up, and Athos, unconsciously, had contributed to the rescue effort by keeping enough blood inside him until they’d transported him to Lemay’s surgery.

The docteur had cleaned and sewn up the wound and declared that it was all he could do for the wounded Musketeer. Athos’ fate was in God’s hands now (or, the Devil’s, as Athos keeps insisting). Lemay hadn’t been sure if the blade had nicked Athos’ bowels. If it had, Athos was sure to die a slow and agonizing death. If not - well, they would have to wait and pray and hope.

Blood loss had been an additional worry. Athos himself doesn’t remember how pale he’d looked in those first few days after the fight, but his friends - Porthos in particular - aren’t getting tired of telling him that he’d looked so white, “I could see right through yer skin an’ see death grinning underneath”.

And Athos, now propped up in bed, less ghostly in appearance, but still physically incapable of escaping his brothers’ care, rolls his eyes at Porthos’ exaggerations while, secretly, acknowledging them for what they are: an expression of relief.

And it’s easy for him to dismiss the drama of the last ten days. After all, he’d been unconscious for most of it.

He vaguely remembers the night it happened and Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan saving him from those Spaniards at the last second. He remembers Aramis’ hands pressing something against the wound in his belly, remembers the sudden, infernal pain and being too weak to scream. He remembers slivers of sky above him and being jostled about, a big hand - Porthos’, this time - holding his. He remembers d’Artagnan too, holding him down with his strong, young hands, as Lemay worked on him and Athos was thrashing in agony.

Mercy had him pass out then, for the rest of the gruesome procedure, and he has no clear memories after that. Blood loss, a fever and a raging infection had made him drift through a whole week of darkness that little could penetrate - the occasional word of prayer whispered by his ear in Aramis’ supple tenor: d’Artagnan’s pleas to drink; Porthos’ booming baritone fading in and out of his fever dreams.

But although he’d missed most of it, Athos is aware of how close a call it’s been this time. He can see it in his brothers: they look thinner, haunted, and although he’s improving steadily now, sitting up, eating and talking, they don’t seem to want to leave his side.

“How are you, Aramis?” Athos asks his brother who’s just tied a fresh bandage around his arm - that particular wound almost an afterthought compared to the hole in his stomach, but pesky nonetheless.

“Me?” Aramis looks at him in surprise, brows lifted in wonder. “I’m not the one who almost died.”

“No, but you look like you did.”

It is true: Dark circles ring his brother’s eyes and his skin seems to have lost its natural tan. While he’s tied his hair back in a haphazard ponytail today, he otherwise still looks less groomed than his vanity commonly allows.

Aramis sits back and heaves a heavy sigh.

“We almost lost you, you know?” Something burns in the darkness of his eyes.

Feeling guilty, Athos closes his hand around Aramis’ wrist and squeezes.

“But you didn’t.”

“No, but…” Aramis shakes his shaggy head. “We never got this close.”

He shifts his hand to hold Athos’ fingers. There’s an unusual gravitas about him now, all levity cast aside, his eyes darker than Athos has ever seen them.

“You may not remember this, but… you stopped breathing.”

“I did?” Athos is surprised more than shocked. “Then how…?”

He lets the question hang in the air, the ramifications of what his brother said still sinking in.

“D’Artagnan hit you.”

Pulling his hand away, Aramis shakes his head, the impossibility of what he’s describing written in his face. He gets up to start pacing.

“After you’d stopped breathing. He slapped you in the face. Screamed at you. He just didn’t want to let you go. He didn’t want to accept it. Porthos tried to stop him, but it was impossible! And then he started pounding you in the chest.”

The horror of that night is audible in Aramis’ voice. He sounds hoarse, hollow, and Athos is a bit shocked.

“That’s when Porthos got him off of you,” Aramis continues. “And that’s when you started to breathe again.”

Athos doesn’t know what to say. All his jesting that Hell spit him back out - it looks like it was true after all.

“Aramis…”

Athos wants to reach for him, but the Spanish Musketeer keeps pacing.

“I don’t know if that was what brought you back”, he says, dismayed. “Him hitting you. Or his screams. Or my prayers. Or Porthos’ tears.”

He cannot stand still, cannot look Athos in the eyes.

“Whatever it was - don’t ever do this to us again.”

Athos remains silent for a moment. They both know it’s an impossible demand. They’re Musketeers. Soldiers. Death walks with them every day, with each of them, not just Athos. But he also knows that Aramis needs this now, this bit of denial, of reassurance, the belief that he won’t have to bury Athos alongside the dozen brothers he lost in Savoy. D’Artagnan may have lost it for a moment back there, when he pounded the life back into Athos; Porthos may be the easiest to break into tears; but it’s Aramis who cannot take another blow.

Athos knows this.

“I won’t,” he therefore says, and even if he still cannot reach his restless brother with his hands, he at least manages to catch his dark gaze and hold it.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Aramis stands still now. He looks for the truth in Athos’ eyes, finds the good intention in his lie and takes it. It’s got to be enough, for now.

“Good.” Aramis nods, weary and worn. “Good.” He picks up a wad of discarded bandages from Athos’ bedside table and a half-eaten plate of stew. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And then they both go back to healing.

Also on AO3, if you prefer:

[viva-la-whump]

Because of COURSE things aren't going well on the planet surface...

@arctrooper69 are you getting notified of me tagging you in the tag section? Yours are coming in just fine, btw! Thank you!

[eliza-fernway-art]

It’s coarse, rough and gets everywhere :(

[of-wounds-and-woes]

Whumptober 2022 | no. 6: Proof of Life

Ransom video | I’ve got a pulse | Screams from Across the Hall

Home and Away 4104

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[letitbehurt]

A Whumpee kept in isolation long enough to fear that they’ve been forgotten there.

[ofwhump]

<3 if you see this can you do me a huge favour & prettiest please reply/reblog/drop by my ask box do whatever you want or need to do & let me know your favourite trope of all time please <3

what is the common denominator in everything you create or consume ?? what haunts the stories you think about more than write ?? what do you seek out when you’re looking for something to read ?? what do you think we need more of ?? what makes you weak at the knees ?? what makes you foam at the mouth ??? bare your teeth ??? bark ????

prettiest please let me know <3 im doing some fancy research 🧐

[geminihurt]

Whumptober 2022 | Day 05

Every whumpee's needs | Running out of air

"Peter, I trust you"

White Collar 1x08 | Neal Caffrey - Matt Bomer

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

The Whumper knows exactly where Whumpee is hiding, but they pretend they have no idea.

The thrill of the chase is half the fun, to catch Whumpee scrambling from one place to another out of the corner of their eye, to see the traces left behind in the form of open vents and bloody smears that create the perfect path to them. Whumper always makes sure to linger just in front of where they've tucked themself away, calling out to them, checking every nook and cranny except the one they know contains Whumpee.

And as soon as they leave, as soon as Whumpee dashes out of the compromised room for a new hiding spot, the hunt is on again to be as prolonged as Whumper desires.

[one-piece-aus]

Whumptober Day 5

Brook x Reader

"Brook... I'm getting cold," you whisper, pulling your jacket closer together.

"Here, take my coat," Brook offered, placing the garment around your shoulders. "I don't need it, after all, I am just a skeleton, yohohoho."

You laugh at his skull joke, it might have been annoying at other times, but you'll take the light heart laugh. Brook kept you in high spirits despite your situation, you only lasted this far thanks to him.

"Mmmmm, I feel warmer already," you told as you snuggled into his coat. "Any luck finding the exit to the cave?"

"No, I keep getting lost and have to go through the walls to come back." Brook shook his head.

"It would be easier if we didn't have actually walk through the tunnel to get out. Er, I guess I'm the only one doing the walking..." You glance down at Brook's broken leg.

It had broken when the two of you fell into the caves, yours were only bruised. You had been carrying him around and he has been using his spirit to find the correct path. You've avoided dangerous traps and animals that could've killed you. You two made a great team, yet time wasn't on your side.

"Let's get some sleep for now," you suggested and yawned. 

You push your back against the stone wall, trying to get cozy. You use Brook's coat as a blanket, though your eyes couldn't help but notice some holes. He must've not noticed the holes since the attire didn't exactly hug his bones. You sigh, knowing it won't provide much warmth for you but your eyes tear off the jacket when you notice Brook using your thighs as a pillow.

"Just getting comfortable, yoho," Brook sheepishly told you.

You break into a fond smile and pet his lash afro. "Just wake me up when you do alright."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I think that was the best sleep I ever had," Brook yawned and stretched his bone arms. 

He rubbed his nonexistent eyes, still waking up. He became puzzled when he felt something cold that wasn't made of stone. Glancing at the source, he noticed your hands were holding onto his, they were freezing. His eyes grazed over the rest of your form and saw you were shaking in your sleep, small clouds coming from your nose.

"[Y/N]!" Brook cried alarmed and started to shake you awake.

"Hm?" You stirred, fluttering your eyes open. You sat up and a wave of freeze glossed over you. Instantly you brought your knees up to your chest, shaking like a leaf. "Why- why is it so c-c-cold?"

"The night's wind must've blown into the cave last night," Brook theorized and tried to use his coat to cover you better, that's when he realized how useless it was. He felt your fingertips, they were beginning to discolour. This wasn't good. "Uh, here I'll warm you up with my own heat."

Brook wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You let him but still shivered in his arms. A realization cracked in Brook's mind and for the first time, he hated how he was just a skeleton. You look up at Brook, hearing sniffles, and saw him crying.

"What's- what's wrong Br-Brook?" you stutter with your chattering teeth. You place a hand on his cheek, trying to wipe away the tears.

"It's no use," Brook sobbed and cupped your cold hand in his. You felt the dryness of the bones and you felt them get colder as he held your hand. "I can't make you warmer. I have no heat to give to you. All I have are these useless bones that can't bring you any warmth. What kind of person can't bring warmth to the one they love?"

"Brook..." You slowly hugged the skeleton despite your shivering state. You rubbed his back, trying to reassure him.

"If only I had flesh. If only I were alive then I could provide you with the warmth you need," Brook cried on your shoulder. "I wish was human again."

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee wasn’t supposed to be alive- after all the whumper had killed them in front of everyone. The team had already grieved and moved on, it had been years after all, but all of a sudden the whumpee is found deep within the whumper’s lair, completely disheveled and injured beyond what’s humanly possible, but somehow alive. A majority of the team doesn’t even believe it- surely this must be some kind of trap, right?