#bleeding comfort fic

[celestial-sinner]

Imagining Miranda (self-insert) pregnant after she and Ren escape Strade and he's doing cute things like softly kissing her tummy and listening to the baby's heartbeat with his enhanced hearing.

He'd be so worried and protective of her and the baby and making sure she's safe and happy ;u;

[i-like-to-look-at-your-back]

Busy morning

Inspired by Mornings, With You (and coffee, too) by @lurethegalaxy

[kybercrystals94]

Six Weeks

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2024 - Day 22 - Prompts: Bleeding through Bandages // Reopening Wounds

Rated: T (for mentions of injury) | Words: 1391

“You have two choices, captain. You can spend the next six weeks in medical under the careful watch of a medic to make sure you don’t do anything stupid; or, you go home for six weeks and let your brothers make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” 

Omega rolls her eyes. “You forget it was my brothers who taught me most of my ‘stupid’ stunts, Hera.” 

“Maybe,” Hera admits. “However, one look at your injuries, and I have a feeling they’ll become the most insufferable mother nexus you’ve ever seen until you’re cleared for active duty.”

“That’s not a feeling, Hera,” Omega groans, trying to shrug into her jacket with her one good arm, “That’s a kriffing fact. I’m never going to hear the end of it when they find out what happened.” 

“You haven’t told them yet?” Hera gasps, helping Omega thread her injured arm through the other sleeve. 

“Of course not. If I did, they’d be storming the base right now demanding to see me. It’s not like I’m on my deathbed, Hera. I crashed, I survived, I’m fine.”

“Your definition of ‘fine’ needs work.”

Omega slides off the medical cot, favoring her left leg. “I’ll take that into consideration while I’m forced to lie around for a month and a half.” 

“Good.”

As Omega starts to limp out of medical, Hera stops her, pulling her into an embrace, carefully avoiding Omega’s cracked ribs. “I’m so happy you’re alright, Megs.” 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Omega mutters with a grin. 

Hera laughs. “Don’t give your brothers too much trouble, got it?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

**

On General Syndulla’s orders, Omega is not allowed to fly herself back to Pabu. Instead, she is being transported by a shiny new recruit everyone calls Iggy, for whatever reason. They land in the middle of the planet’s night cycle, Omega directing Iggy to the cave that typically houses her own ship when it isn’t being held hostage by Hera. 

“Need help with your bags, captain,” Iggy asks as Omega pushes herself unsteadily to her feet. 

Omega waves him off. “It’s one bag, and I’ve got it. I’m not a complete invalid.” 

That makes Iggy grin. “Understood, captain.”

Despite protests, Iggy does help her down the ramp and hovers as Omega gets her footing on the uneven cave floor. He tries to convince her to let him walk her up to the house, but Omega insists that she’s fine. She finds one of Batcher’s long pieces of driftwood the hound has a habit of hoarding in the corner. “See, I’ve got a walking stick, I’ll be fine.” 

“If you’re sure,” Iggy relents. He gives a sloppy salute. “See you in six weeks?” 

“Six weeks,” Omega agrees. 

Omega watches him off, leaning heavily on her makeshift cane. Somehow, being so close to her brothers and their anticipated mothering makes her feel less valiant about her wounds. No matter how old she gets, how experienced she becomes, she feels like a child again with her brothers nearby to protect her. 

As she makes her way up the worn path, her injuries make themselves known. The laceration on her thigh pulses under the bandage, her sprained shoulder and elbow ache in her sling, her cracked ribs throb with every intake of air. Maybe she should have let Iggy carry her bag. 

Omega focuses on her surroundings, the familiar sound of nighttime breathing around her, the muted roll of waves on the beach. The scent of fresh air and sea laced with the sweet smell of local flora. How many dark nights did she sit with her brothers, watching the stars and listening to stories? Countless nights leaning against Hunter or Crosshair or Wrecker until she fell asleep to the rumble of their voices, to then be coaxed awake to go to bed. 

When she finally makes it to the back door, she pulls out the key already tucked in her coat pocket, and makes her way inside. She drops her bag by the door, propping her stick next to it, then limps as quietly as she can to the kitchen. She hopes to find leftover supper put away, or, better yet, cookies in the corner cupboard. 

She checks for the cookies first and finds them, plucking the box from the shelf and putting it on the counter before turning to get two cups. Right on time, the kitchen light clicks on, and Omega smiles. 

“Omega?” Hunter asks groggily. 

She doesn’t turn. “Took you long enough,” Omega says lightly. “Hungry? I was just making myself a snack.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?” 

“I wanted it to be a surprise. Did it work?” 

Hunter snorts. “We would’ve waited up for you if we’d known.”

“Exactly,” Omega says, moving to get out the milk, “you old guys need your sleep.” 

She hears Hunter step closer. “Omega, are you injured?” 

“I’ll be alright,” Omega says, but her body betrays her and she nearly stumbles on a side step. 

Hunter catches her bad elbow. 

The pain is immediate, and Omega tries so hard to stifle the cry that reactively comes. It only partially works, the sound escaping like a shrill whine in the back of her throat. 

“What–where are you hurt?” Hunter demands, withdrawing his grip but stepping closer. 

Omega leans against the counter, waiting for the wave of pain to fade. “Uh, that’s not a short list,” she grits out. 

“You need to sit down,” Hunter says. “Did you walk all the way here from the cavern?”

“Yeah, not the wisest decision I’ve ever made,” Omega admits. 

She finally turns around, letting the light expose her visible injuries. She hasn’t looked in a mirror recently; however, she knows must look even more awful than she feels. The look in her brother’s eyes confirms it. 

His expression tightens. “You should be in a medical bay.” 

“Well, it was that or this, and I’d take an opportunity to visit my brothers any day.” Omega lifts her good arm, and Hunter brings it over his shoulder, taking most of Omega’s weight as she hobbles into the common room. Omega is thankful he doesn’t try to carry her. 

Once she’s settled on the couch, Hunter looms over her. “Well, I’d like that long list of injuries now.” 

With a sigh, she gives it to him, doing her best not to gloss over pertinent details. When she gets to the laceration on her leg, Hunter looks down at the bandaging. “Looks like you reopened it with your little hike from the beach,” he says, and Omega glances down. A small bloom of blood stains the careful wrap. 

“Kriff,” Omega curses. 

Hunter massages the bridge of his nose, heaving a lung deep sigh. “I’ll check it over and get it re-wrapped. We’ll send for AZI in the morning.” 

Omega nods, sinking into the worn cushions. “Okay.” 

Hunter stands up, but before he leaves, he rests a hand on Omega’s head, calloused fingers tousling her hair. “It’s good to see you, kid.” 

“You too,” Omega returns softly. 

She knows her brother will take care of her, just like he always has. 

**

Omega wakes to sunlight pouring through her window. Miraculously, neither Wrecker or Crosshair woke up during the night while Hunter redressed her wounds and got her situated in bed. She can’t even remember Hunter turning out the bedroom light before she fell asleep. 

She turns her head and sees an old comm unit on her bedside table, a torn piece of flimsi propped against it. Do not get up. Call if you need anything it says in scrawled letters. Omega rolls her eyes and smiles. 

“Do you think she’s awake?” Wrecker’s version of a whisper practically rattles the door. 

“If she wasn’t, she is now,” Crosshair hisses back. 

Omega’s smile deepens. “I’m awake!” she calls out. 

The door flies open, Wrecker’s exuberant presence filling the room. “Megs! Why didn’t you tell us why you were coming?” he cries. 

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Omega says, laughing, moving to push herself up on her good elbow.

Crosshair is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. “Liar. You just didn’t want to tell us you crashed a stolen TIE fighter.” 

“It’s a good story, I promise,” Omega assures him. 

The ex-sniper smirks at her. “It better be.”

END

A/N: I actually had a little bit more written for this; so I might add a second part if I get that portion finished ;-;

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

Tag List: @followthepurrgil @arctrooper69 @groguandthebadbatch @proteatook @ezras-left-thumb @maeashryver @baddest-batchers @laughhardrunfastbekindsblog @omegafett99 @heidnspeak @fionas-frenzy @dreamsight73 @royallykt @merkitty49 @blackseafoam @illogicaalbraindump

[luxaofhesperides]

"I see you, and I love you" + hurt/comfort ; requested by @oops-i-dropped-the-galaxy!

Danny can handle being a halfa. He’s had years to get used to it, switching between dead and alive, living boy and ghost, always living in flux. He’s settled into his identity as one of the few halfas in existence, navigating the living world and the Infinite Realms with ease after years of practice.

What he can’t handle is becoming an Ancient.

Apparently, while most Ancients are born into the role, ruling over their domain, some can grow into it. It’s rare, practically unheard of, but not impossible.

Danny is growing into the Ancient of Stars, changed from the inside out by his love of space. 

He would be happy if it didn’t hurt so much.

Danny can’t sleep at night anymore. When the stars are out, he can hear them singing, each windchime voice echoing through his ears. Though he can’t see them from beneath Gotham’s cloud cover, he can feel them shining brightly far above him. 

He lays in bed with Duke, curled up in his side, trying to muffle his whimpers as his bones creak and hollow, his soul growing too large for his body to handle. He is space contained in a human body. It wants to be free, to stretch from its suffocating confines and fill every dark space with cold light. His skin feels too tight and his teeth ache. 

All Danny can do is clench his jaw, wrap his arms around his stomach as tightly as he can, and try to weather through the pain of changing.

The agony of it comes in waves. He doesn’t know how long it takes until it recedes enough for him to feel like he can breathe again, trying to suck air in as his lungs are crushed by his ribcage. Slowly, Danny pushes himself up, taking care not to wake Duke, and stumbles out of bed. His throat is dry and feels as if its been scraped raw by sandpaper, and all he wants is water.

He gets halfway down the hall when the next wave hits.

Danny collapses, gasping for breath, and can only watch through tear-filled eyes as his fingers go dark, the same black as deep space. His body shifts, bones cracking and muscles stretching like taffy, and suddenly he’s big larger than life a galaxy a black hole there is darkness everywhere it is alive it is full of stars the stars are singing the stars are singing the stars are si

“Danny? Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?”

That’s Duke’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere, even from miles away, even when he’s sure he doesn’t have ears anymore. It takes all his effort to pull himself back to Earth, back into their apartment, blinking up at Duke as the stars in his eyes fade away. 

Duke kneels before him, concern clear on his face, gentle hands reaching out to hold Danny steady. The feel of his warmth grounds him, keeps him more securely in his body. The pull of space is still there, tugging at him, trying to pull him out of humanity and into the form of an Ancient, but Danny can resist it so long as Duke keeps him tethered to the ground.

“It hurts,” he croaks, shivering.

“Shh, I know, baby. How can I help? What do you need?”

Danny leans forward, burying his face in Duke’s chest as tears slip out of his eyes. “It hurts,” he says again, voice shaking. “I keep changing and growing and my entire body is being torn apart and—” he gasps, cutting himself off. “I keep disappearing. I don’t want to disappear. I want to stay here but it takes me away and then I’m too big and no one can see me and I’m alone—”

“You’re not alone, Danny,” Duke says, holding him tightly as if his arms will be enough to keep Danny from breaking out of his own body, ridding himself of a mortal vessel, his only remaining tie to this world. “I see you, and I love you. Even if you have to change and go far away to be happy, I’ll find a way to follow you there, okay? I’m with you for as long as you want me.”

“I don’t want to hurt so much,” Danny whimpers, black fingers speckled with stardust clawing at Duke’s arms. 

“Just breathe through it, sweetheart, you can do it. Let it pass through you. I got you, okay? Just let the pain pass and you’ll be fine.”

He wants to snap at Duke that it’s not fine, that the pain will be forever, it’ll linger in every one of his joints, that he can’t just stop fighting it because it’ll hurt even worse then. But his jaws are aching, his teeth sharpening, and there’s a black hole in his throat that he refuses to let loose. He lets out another pained whine, shivering, and in his chest a star is formed, burning bright and angry.

“Breathe, Danny, breathe,” Duke soothes, rubbing a hand up and down Danny’s back.

It’s habit to relax into his touch. They’ve spent so many nights working through night terrors and injuries, comforting each other through gentle touches. The pain eases a bit, and Danny sighs, frost on his breath. 

“There we go, sweetheart, that’s it. You’re doing just fine.”

Another tear slips down his face, but the ache in his entire body as his growing ghost form tries to escape begins to fade. 

He’s spent so many nights in pain, waiting for the sun to rise to muffle the singing of the stars. If he can get any relief, he’ll take it, even if it means losing his human form.

Danny stops fighting. His resistance to this change falls away. There’s a moment where the pain disappears entirely, the world going still, but before he can let out a relieved sigh, the change hits him like an asteroid, sudden and instant and inevitable.

A cry is ripped from his throat, but it doesn’t sound like him. It echoes, deep and inhuman, and suddenly Danny is every dark space surrounding the stars, the arms of every galaxy, suns burning bright and dying, supernova, cold and ice and the slow drifting of planets in orbit. His body grows, expands, no longer a ghost but an Ancient, body curling into itself to stay within the walls of the too small apartment, large hands cupped around Duke to keep him safe. 

He can feel the cold of space. Orbits dance in his mind. Meteorites and asteroids drift without pattern across his chest. Danny can see everything with too many eyes, and he can cup planets in his palms, so much larger than possibility. His chest opens and expands and his body can curl around Earth and keep it safe. 

He feels settled in this new body, senses stretched in every direction and the universe is so much lovelier than he could have ever experienced it in a halfa’s body. 

Danny, Ancient of the Stars, hums and the universe shivers, singing back to him.

The pain is gone completely. He wonders why he resisted so hard; this is what he’s meant to be. He’s never felt so right before.

“Danny?”

Duke’s voice is small, but only because he is small when compared to Danny in his Ancient form. 

Duke, he tries to say but his vocal chords have changed. Instead of words, a deep hum erupts from his throat, similar to the purr of a particularly large cat. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Feeling better?”

Danny nods, pulling himself back together to feel his body more keenly, no longer stretched across the universe, cradling every star in his reach. Duke reaches a hand up and Danny reaches back, folding himself back into his body. His human eyes return and he realizes the apartment is completely covered in darkness with stars sparkling all around them. It recedes as he fits himself back into his body, the black on his fingers fading away until his hand is indistinguishable from a normal human’s. 

He takes hold of Duke’s hand and tries to stand. His legs are weak and unsteady and he falls onto Duke, who catches him with ease and sweeps him up into a princess carry. 

“There you are, honey,” Duke says, voice warm and relieved. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Good. Do you need anything? Hot chocolate, heating pad, sleep?”

Danny thinks for a moment, then says, “Hot chocolate.”

“You got it. Let me just set you on the couch and I’ll have it out in a minute.”

He carefully sets Danny onto the couch, then tucks the blanket they keep folded over the back around him. Once he’s satisfied Danny is comfortable, Duke heads to the kitchen, flicking on the light as he does. 

Danny sinks into the couch cushions, carefully moving all his fingers and toes to make sure they’re fine. He’s a little sore, as if all his bones where put through the ringer, but it doesn’t feel any different from when he has a particularly rough training day. 

What’s more important that his physical body is the fact that he can feel his core, settled deep in his chest. It’s no longer the cold of ice, but it burns coldness, a white star embodying his soul, a changed core to reflect his transformation into an Ancient. 

A baby Ancient, technically. He still has some growing to do, but the rest should be easier and, hopefully, less painful.

He closes his eyes and begins to drift off when he hears Duke return. It takes some effort to open his eyes, and his smiles softly and sleepily when he sees Duke set down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

“Love you,” he mumbles, freeing a hand from the blanket to try to pull Duke down to join him.

Duke goes to him easily, sitting next to him and pulling Danny in to cuddle against him. It’s been so long since he last felt so comfortable at night, not writhing in pain and biting through his lip to keep quiet, that he can’t help but sink into it. A purr starts up in his chest, and Duke startles.

“Sweetheart, are you purring?”

Danny flushes and tries to hide his face. The purr doesn’t stop. He’s always been able to purr after becoming a halfa, though purr is just an easier way to describe it. It’s less of his vocal chords vibrating and more of his core rumbling in contentment. Usually, it’s unnoticeable, barely able to be felt let alone heard. Apparently, becoming an Ancient and therefore a much stronger ghost means his purrs are also stronger and louder.

“You’re so cute,” Duke says, pressing a kiss against Danny’s forehead. “Drink your hot chocolate, and then we can go back to sleep.”

He makes grabby hands at his mug, and Duke laughs and picks it up for him.

“Love you,” Danny repeats, voice less muffled.

“Love you, too,” Duke says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I’m glad you were there to help me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s a good thing you’ll never have to find out. I’ve got you, sweetheart, always.”

Believing him is the easiest thing Danny has ever done. If Duke says he’ll be there for, then he will. 

Always, always, always.

. . .

[send me ghostlights prompts!]

[serickswrites]

No Trace

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture, unconsciousness, rescue, blood, blood from the mouth, mcd, hurt/no comfort

Caretaker's whole body ached. Everything ached. Everything had been aching for so long, they weren't sure if it would ever stop aching. They had been hog tied for so long, their hands and feet had gone numb. Their back ached from being stretched the wrong way. Everything was pain.

Their pain didn't compare to Whumpee's though.

Caretaker couldn't see Whumpee. But they could hear Whumpee. Could hear every whimper, every cry of pain, and every single blow Whumper inflicted on them.

"It's going to be ok, Whumpee, someone will be coming for us soon," Caretaker had said hours ago when Whumper had left the two of them alone.

"Y-Y-Yeah?" Whumpee finally managed to rasp out. Their voice was so hoarse, no doubt their throat was painfully raw from all the screaming.

"Yeah. You just need to hold on. Someone will find us."

"I....I don'ttttt know. Hurtsssss."

Caretaker's heart hurt at the sound of despair in Whumpee's voice. "Don't lose hope, Whumpee. Someone will find us soon. I just know it."

Whumper had returned not that long after and had resumed torturing Whumpee. Caretaker had yelled and hollered at Whumper, but Whumper paid them no mind. They only had eyes for Whumpee.

The next time Whumper left, Whumpee hadn't responded to Caretaker. Caretaker knew Whumpee was still alive because they could still hear Whumpee's wheezing breaths. Perhaps Whumper had tortured them until they fell unconscious.

Caretaker hated the silence. It was painful. Painful as they waited and listened for Whumpee's next breath. Painful as they waited and hoped for help to arrive. And painful because there was nothing they could do but wait and hope.

The sound of the door banging open had Caretaker jumping. They had to get Whumper to hurt them. Had to get Whumper to give Whumpee a break. They had to. "ME!" They shouted. "Hurt me!"

"We're not here to hurt you," an unfamiliar voice came.

Relief flooded Caretaker in waves. They were saved. They were saved. Whumpee was saved. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," Caretaker repeated over and over. Whumpee was safe. Help was here. Help had arrived.

"My friend," Caretaker said as a pair of boots came into their field of vision, "how's my friend?"

The person knelt down. "Let's worry about getting you out of these ropes for now."

"Please, help my friend!" Caretaker tried to struggle, but they couldn't move.

"They're being helped, don't worry. Let me help you."

"Are they ok, please, tell me they're ok!" Caretaker said as their rescuer disappeared from their field of vision.

"Yes, they're fine. They're being helped. Are you hurt?"

Caretaker sagged with relief. Whumpee was being helped. Whumpee was going to be fine. "No. Not really."

Caretaker could hear boots thundering into the room. They tried to crane their neck to see what the commotion was, but their rescuer began to talk to them again. Caretaker answered all of their questions. Though the other rescuers were loud, it took all of Caretaker's concentration to answer their rescuer's questions.

"There you go, all free," the rescuer said as they cut through the last piece of rope keeping Caretaker down. "Move carefully, I imagine you've been tied up for a while."

Caretaker's limbs were on fire as feeling came back. They cried out with pain. "Are you sure you aren't injured? Let me check you out."

"I'm fine," Caretaker hissed. "Whumpee. I need to see Whumpee."

Before their rescuer could stop them, Caretaker quickly rolled over and began to crawl towards where they thought Whumpee was. They took a stumbling step as they rose. Whumpee. They wanted to see Whumpee.

Caretaker froze once they finally lifted their head and could see Whumpee. "NOOOOOOOO!" Caretaker screamed, their weak limbs nearly giving out.

Whumpee lay on the ground, arms splayed out to the sides. They were completely still and unmoving. Blood dried on their nostrils and ears, but was still wet on their lips. But what had Caretaker screaming, had Caretaker crawling their way over, was Whumpee's eyes. Whumpee's half-lidded, lifeless eyes.

One of the rescuers that had gathered by Whumpee peeled off, attempting to stop Caretaker. "You don't want to see them like this, let me--"

"I NEED TO SEE THEM!" Caretaker sobbed.

The rescuer nodded. "Let me help you over to them, then."

Caretaker was too weak to fight against the hands that helped them to stand. Too weak to fight as they were guided to Whumpee's side. And they were too weak to fight as they could finally see all of Whumpee.

"I'm so sorry," Caretaker sobbed as they took Whumpee's hand in theirs. Whumpee's fingers were cool and limp. "Please, Whumpee, please."

Caretaker turned to one of the rescuers. "Do something! Help them! Please, do something!"

One of them knelt down next to Caretaker, putting a gentle hand on their shoulder. "They succumbed to their injuries before we got here. There had to be massive amounts of internal bleeding. I'm so sorry."

Succumbed to their injuries before help arrived. Whumpee had died hours ago and Caretaker hadn't even known. Caretaker had lied to Whumpee. Had given Whumpee false hope. Had Whumpee died hopeful that help would arrive at any moment? Caretaker stared into Whumpee's empty eyes. There was no trace of Whumpee in those eyes.

"Where's Whumper?"

"They're gone. They left no trace. It's like they didn't even exist. If you weren't here, if Whumpee wasn't....well, like this, I would have guessed this place had been abandoned for years."

Gone. Whumper was gone. Whumpee was gone. Everything was gone. Caretaker squeezed Whumpee's fingers tightly. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[whirlybirbs]

emotionally, i am toshinori yagi using his favorite curse word: "shit"

[writing-whump]

Big brother to the rescue part 2

The very much requested part two of hurt Hector with Isaiah. Enjoy :)

"Branch leader, Grayson? Really? You let this crazy, competitive, arrogant little prick without friends lead a freaking branch?" Isaiah was muttering to himself as he drove.

He was fuming. The whole situation was so normal and so stupid and so dangerous.

Hector should know better. Grayson should know better. Delaney, Hector's second, should fucking known better than to leave Hector out of her sight. Or did she not know about the accident?

Yeah, that might have been it.

Hector was sagging in the passenger seat, leaning against the window. Isaiah wanted him close to watch him, but Hector was simply exhausted, head lolling to the side.

Hector wanted to go home. To sleep it off, hopefully, keep Arnie from worrying too much.

Isaiah didn't tell him he disagreed, and Hector was too out of it to notice. Served him right.

Isaiah parked the car under his own apartment, letting out a deep exhale. Hector didn't stir as they stopped, but there was sweat pearling on his forehead and he was that sickly white colour that looked horrible on his sunny tan.

The bandages helped a little, but the bleeding wasn't quite stopping. Just slowing. What the hell was wrong with Hector's shadow? Even if the biggest injury was the internal bleeding, his shadow should have been able to cover for the bites by this point. At least close them so Hector could stop losing blood.

That would not help the shadow. It was totally out of character, going against survival instinct.

"Let's get you inside," Isaiah said, when his glaring didn't wake Hector up.

He circled the car, hoisting Hector up, arm around his torso. It would have been easier to carry him, but he didn't particularly want onlookers noticing how badly injured Hector was. It was the middle of the night, but it wasn't out of the question someone from the Stark pack or any other territory they passed, didn't have their eyes on them.

This way it looked more like Isaiah was just supporting him casually instead of dragging him forward.

Isaiah breathed out only as they entered the elevator. Hector was blinking, slowly coming back to himself.

"Almost there. Hold on a little longer. Even better if you could manage to stand so I could open the door," Isaiah told him.

Hector's arm twitched as if he tried to move them, then went back to hanging helplessly at his sides. "Uhmmm...I don't feel very good."

Isaiah sighed. "Yeah, I know. That's why we are going there."

"...where?"

Great. Just great. "If you don't call for backup, I'll call mine," Isaiah said, fully prepared for incoming protests.

Hector said nothing, swaying a little in Isaiah's hold as they exited the elevator.

Isaiah propped him up against the wall to get out the keys from his inside pocket and open the door. "Wait here a second."

"I-Isaiah-"

"Just a second," Isaiah said roughly as he got the door open and switched the light on, trying to decide the best course of action.

On the couch? Maybe he could use towels so it wouldn't get ruined by the blood...but how would he stop the damn blood? That was the bigger concern. He should figure out why Hector's shadow-

There was a thump that had Isaiah's head turning immediately.

Hector slid down the wall all the way to the floor, looking dazed.

Isaiah jumped to his side. "You couldn't have warned me?"

"I feel weird..." Hector said, more confused than before, looking up at Isaiah with a lost, distressed expression. "What...what happened?"

Isaiah clicked his tongue. "It's the blood loss. You need to sleep." He pulled Hector up again, maneuvering him through the open door all the way to the couch.

"Lie down-"

"No, I want to sit-"

"Can't you listen to me for once? I know what I'm-"

"But it feels-" Hector swallowed heavily, "it feels like I'm gonna pass out if I-"

"Jesus Christ." Isaiah took the stubborn blond by the shoulders and pushed him down. He gathered the rest of the pillows under Hector's feet, stretching them up. "This will help with your stupid blood loss. Do I look like I don't know my way around some fucking bleeding?"

Hector whined, whether at the manhandling or at the tone, Isaiah wasn't sure.

This wasn't good. Isaiah was too freaked out. The calmness he felt in distressing situations, the reason he could pull over himself like a coat was nowhere to be found.

This was Hector. And it wasn't an appendix or a broken leg - something painful but safe and controllable. This was dangerous.

Isaiah had always done his best to prevent either of his two brothers and now his two packmates, to get into such a situation. His reasons were entirely selfish.

He couldn't bear it.

Nervous out of his mind, Isaiah walked over to the kitchen and the hall, switching the light on where he could. Like a signal flare. He wasn't trying to be quiet anymore.

That had Matthew, hair all ruffled, getting out of the room, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. "Zaya, what's going o-"

"Hector's hurt," Isaiah said curtly. "Wake Seline up and help me."

Matthew frowned, shaking his head like he could shake the sleep off with it.

Isaiah cringed at his tone and formulation - he never barked orders at them like that, he wasn't one to forget manners - but Matthew only nodded. "On it, man."

...

"Do you have an idea why his shadow isn't responding?" Seline asked as she searched through the cupboards in the kitchen. In her hurry, she didn't change out of her PJs and just wore a bathrobe on top that looked like a gray-pink kimono.

"It could be exhausted, humiliated...I don't know. He had been in a car accident this week, it could be too much to handle. It did heal whatever internal injury he had, but his stomach is bloated with the blood he keeps bringing up..." Isaiah's voice trailed off. He had a strong urge to rip at his hair or kick something, which wasn't productive the least.

"If we clean his wounds, will it just make them bleed again?"

"They are bleeding already as it is. Slow but steady." The bandages on his arms were seeped in blood and Hector was dazed and unresponsive.

"I need access to them if I try a song," Seline cleared up.

"Then I can- I could rebandage them and you could try it in the between and-"

Seline suddenly took his face into her hands. Her grip was gentle but firm. "Look at me. We can handle this. He isn't dying, he is just bleeding. He will be fine."

"You can't know that," Isaiah whispered.

"Sure I can. It's freaking you out cause there are some uncertain factors right now, but he isn't in danger. Okay?"

Isaiah's lips twisted tightly and he planed his hand on her wrist, leaning his forehead briefly against hers. The reassurment had something warm sickering through the freezing layer of panic over his mind.

Seline poured the hot water into the big cup with crushed herbs and went into the living room, Isaiah following close behind.

Matthew was crouched next to Hector, who had no shirt on so they could have access to the bites on his arms. Blood was running down both of them from the wounds in tiny streams.

Hector had his eyes closed, breathing ruggedly like each took an effort.

"Look, your worryrat of a brother is coming," Matthew said, gently shaking Hector by the shoulder, avoiding the wounds.

Hector didn't respond, eyes still shut.

"How do you always end up beat at my door, I wonder?" Matthew continued.

That had Hector's eyes fluttering open and he spluttered for air. "What- you jerk, last time I hauled your sorry ass through whole Vienna when you-" he interrupted himself with a cough, something wet in his throat.

The cough turned into a gag soon after, Hector barely managing to lean over the edge of the sofa.

Matthew, already used to the routine, held the trashcan closer so Hector could splatter some more bloody mouthfuls inside. The red wolf even rubbed Hector's back as he struggled, another cough bringing up a stream of dark red liquid.

"Was that really necessary?" Seline gave Matthew a stern look as she crouched beside Hector's head.

Matthew helped Hector to lie down on his back again, his tone completely innocent. "Yes. It's the best way to see that he is still alive and kicking."

Seline gave him an angry look, gently carding her hands through Hector's hair.

Only a witch could touch a wolf unannounced. Even when they weren't family or in the same pack, or had never touched each other before.

Hector winced, but then relaxed as he felt the hum of magic in her skin, face smoothing over.

Isaiah knelt by Hector's legs, planting both hands on his knees to keep him steady. Or maybe for his own sake, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of a lot of things today. For example, what would come out of his mouth, if he opened it.

Seline started to sing. It was a German song, probably because of the Austria setting it happened at. They usually talked in English at home.

Isaiah didn't recognize it, but it was soft and melodic, like a lullaby. Something about stars and moons coming together. The words didn't matter as much as the meaning in the witch's mind. The blood didn't go back, but as she continued to sing, she nodded at Matthew to take the bandages off.

The bites were open wounds that should have been, by all means, bleeding. Isaiah could actually see the skin closing itself together, though not healing like it would through a shadow. The bleeding stopped, the blood glinting, but not spilling over.

Hector squirmed under the spell like it hurt. Matthew and Isaiah both held onto him in case he moved too much, but the hurt wolf's expression didn't actually change as the song floated above all of them. The effect was like falling snow, big snowflakes caressing the skin, bringing comforting sparkling coldness.

They could all feel it.

Seline finished the song, looking at Isaiah. "Leave the herbs to steam. Saffron will help calm him down. Maybe even to coax up his shadow."

From that point onwards, somehow, without Isaiah's doing or asking, Matthew and Seline both divided the tasks so that Isaiah wouldn't have to leave.

Matthew cleaned the trashcan, Seline refilled the water and the aid kit, they both cleaned up the table.

Isaiah held watch over Hector, feeling both entirely useless and like he couldn't possibly move anywhere else.

Hector cleared his throat, opening one eye to a slit to look at him. "Anyone tell you that you are pretty scary when you are pissed off?"

Isaiah chuckled, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders. He shifted closer to lean his elbow next to Hector's head, turned towards the couch on his knees. "Once or twice."

"That's a good motivation as any to keep away from trouble," Hector said. Isaiah heard the unsaid promise in it.

The black-haired wolf sighed. "How are you doing?"

Hector wiggled experimentally on the spot. "Uhmmm...arms don't hurt that much."

"How's your shadow? Not coming up yet?"

Hector made a face, eyebrows drawing together. "I don't get it. I keep reaching for it, but..." He looked at Isaiah expectantly, like his older brother should hold all the answers.

Isaiah huffed. "I have a working theory."

"Yeah? Spit it out."

"Your shadow doesn't want to heal you so you can hurl yourself towards the nearest danger before it recovers."

"My shadow agreeing with you?" Hector scoffed, closing his eyes again. "No way." He shivered violently. "Could use a blanket or some shit. It's freezing here."

Isaiah got up, but Matthew beat him to it, hauling covers from the bed and throwing them over Hector. "There. Isaiah's, so you don't get freaked out by the scent."

Isaiah rolled his eyes. "You could have brought fresh ones, you know."

Matthew grinned and stalked away, unbothered.

"Think I could get a shower here?" Hector asked, fighting with the covers to get his arms on top.

Isaiah sat back down to wrap them in fresh gauze. Not so tightly this time, but to cover up what was still open. "Not until you can stand on your own, you can't."

Hector shivered again in response, grinding his teeth together. Isaiah finished with the right arm and went to work on the left.

"Any other complaints?"

"...Stomach still hurts. Not that bad as before."

Isaiah finished with the bandages and reached out with his hand towards Hector's torso. "Can you tell where you got hit?"

"Ow! Your hand's cold!" Hector complained. Isaiah was so glad to hear the energy back in his voice. "And stop touching my stomach, Jesus Christ."

"Oh, don't be so modest now, you have been lying here half-naked all night."

"Not my decision."

Isaiah ignored him, touching around. He could feel the swell of Hector's stomach still sticking out, but whatever he touched seemed to be okay until he brushed over the right lower area.

Hector groaned at the touch, curling up into a ball immediately.

"Ah, there it is. And you are still bloated as heck, I think that's the blood not digesting."

"Urghhhh...think you could...sit me up?" Hector's face turned paler than it was a minute before, so Isaiah complied. He slid a hand behind his back and lifted him upwards.

Hector sagged against the cushions, head tipped back with a deep sigh. A deep shudder ran through him.

Isaiah adjusted the covers so they reached all the way to his chin. “You are feeling nauseous again, aren’t you.”

“Shut up,” Hector grumbled, huddling more into himself. 

“But you keep bringing such small amounts. We will be here all day with that tempo going on,” Isaiah mused, reaching for the mixing bowl on the table. It was smaller and easier to place into Hector’s lap. 

“You got better ideas?” Hector swallowed nervously, glaring at the bowl like it offended him before looking away.

“If we triggered your gagging reflex so you could bring it up all at once…” Isaiah poured a glass of water from the pitcher, offering it to Hector. 

“Terrible idea. I’m starting to doubt your medical experience,” Hector complained, turning green. His arms twitched uselessly at his sides.

Isaiah held the glass by his lips. “Drink it quick. The blood can’t be doing you any favours and it won’t let you rest if you keep throwing it up.” 

“Horrible, horrible idea.” With another reluctant look, however, Hector opened his mouth so Isaiah could help him chug the glass down. His throat bobbed loudly as he drank, finishing the glass in one go. 

“Okay, that hurts,” the blond said through gritted teeth, leaning forward. He took quick breaths through his mouth. 

“Let it happen,” Isaiah said, planting his hand in the middle of Hector’s back. “It’s going to help a ton, I promise.” 

Hector’s stomach let out a loud gurgle that echoed through the whole room. “This is humiliating as hell.”

Isaiah rubbed his back up and down with careful strokes. “Nobody’s looking.”

“Your freaking pack-”

“Is not here and they have been concerned and helpful all night. And right now it’s just me. Relax.” He followed Hector’s spine with his fingers as his stomach whined again. 

Hector gulped down on air, but hung his head above the bowl, lips parted. A bit of drool dripped into it. He shuddered again, hand darting into Isaiah’s sleeve.

Isaiah blinked, a little surprised but he let Hector grip his arm.

There was no coughing or gagging this time. Just a bubbly sound of liquid going up and streaming from Hector’s lips almost without effort. Came out without struggling as if it was only waiting for the opportunity.

Hector moaned after the first gush, wanting to lift his head, but another followed right after. It was pure liquid tinged red, which had Isaiah’s body locking up with worry, but each wave came as easily as before, only climbing in intensity. 

“Okay. All good now. You are doing great,” Isaiah said quietly as the vomiting slowly tempered off. Hector coughed up last remnants of pinkish saliva into the bowl, slumping back in exhaustion. Isaiah quickly moved the bowl away from sight and smell. Hector’s fingers were still curled up in his sleeve, but he wrapped the other around his back. “There you go. Now you can sleep and you will be all better, when you wake up.”

Hector grunted, eyes falling shut immediately, though his chest was still rising in fast succession. He trembled under Isaiah’s touch, goosebumps on his back and arms as he let go of the older wolf’s sleeve.

Isaiah tugged at Hector towards his lap. “Come on, lie down.” 

Hector’s amber eyes flared open. “I-I’m not-”

“Don’t be such a baby about it.”

“I’m trying not to be!” he protested weakly, but gave up the resistance, falling across Isaiah’s lap. He nuzzled his head into Isaiah’s knee, shuddering again as his body warmth adjusted to Isaiah’s. 

Isaiah pulled the covers over him, rubbing at the goosebumps on his shoulder and arm, away from the bites. “Gonna be warmed up in no time,” he promised. He was already getting uncomfortably hot under Hector’s weight.

The blond finally relaxed completely, as if he forgot he had been hurt in the first place. 

[creative-caramel-coffee]

Inconvenient hours of overtime

Pairings: Wednesday x Weems (Platonic)

Word count: 1.7K

Summary: Wednesday finds herself in a stick situation and ends up tying weems into it.

TW: Periods? Blood, cramps, breaking and entering, Wednesday being Wednesday.

A/n I got so sunburnt at the beach … whoops.

Wednesday woke to a stabbing pain in her lower stomach. under normal circumstances she would be overjoyed. Perhaps Pugsly had finally become more adept in his knife studies. However, upon opening her eyes she let a small groan escape before snapping her jaws shut.

She was at school. Enid slumbered on over on her side of the split attic room.

Wednesday knew exactly what this feeling was. the monthly cycle, her period.

Reaching a hand down slowly to feel the sheets she almost groaned again at the sticky feeling on her fingers. Even in the low light she had seen enough blood in her teenaged existence to know she was lying in a pool of it, and being at the school that made things harder, not impossible, but harder.

Wednesday sat up and climbed out of bed. She left the sheets for now and grabbed some clothes from her dresser. Carefully, so she didn’t wake enid she snuck into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Enid slept heavily so it shouldn’t be a problem.

Usually, she would deal with this herself, so she didn’t need enid to wake and freak out over the blood.

She stepped into the steamy shower and scrubbed herself clean, glaring at the pink water that circled the drain as if it had personally offended her. Which it had … it woke her up. Her mother always said murder had a prerequisite of at least eight hours sleep.

After a quick shower to clean herself up she slipped into some black underpants lined with an overnight pad. pulling on a spare change of black Pjs she gathered up the soiled clothes and left the bathroom. Throwing the clothes on the bed she peeled off the sheets and bundled them up.

Grabbing her lock-pick from the drawer she paused remembering the student use washing machines were broken and needed to be fixed. A couple of rowdy furs had been wrestling and broke the doors off and pulled out the plumbing by accident.

Knowing that left only one choice, Wednesday debated which was the worse option. Deciding to just go for it she set out for Weems study, which was connected to her own personal quarters, which were most likely equipped with a washer she could use, maybe even a dryer. Otherwise, she had no issues sleeping on damp sheets.

Stopping outside the big double oak doors, Wednesday held the bundle of fabric under one arm whilst she picked the lock. After a few seconds of expert work which involved a lot of precise jiggling; it clicked undone.

Wednesday opened the door and crept into the study, making her way to the door at the back which led to the headmistresses' personal quarters. Wednesday shivered and opened the door.

Normally she may have just sucked it up, but the sticky texture of her own blood was raw and awful against her skin, and she didn’t want people asking her questions.

Wednesday opened a few doors before she found the laundry. Stepping inside she opted to ignore the light-switch for obvious reasons and began to put the machine on. Closing the door quietly she pressed the on button and stood back and simply watched.

She stared blankly at the machine as it threw the black sheets and clothes around and simply reflected on how tired she was. She longed for nothing more than a few more hours of sleep. She would defiantly be sneaking into jericho for a quad over ice in her first lesson tomorrow. Heaven forbid, someone found her asleep at her desk in classes.

fifteen minutes had passed when all of a sudden, the light came on. If Wednesday hadn’t been so sleep-addled, she may have been more aware of the principle no longer being peacefully resting in her room.

She squinted up at the person in the doorway who was rubbing her eyes and frowning.

Wednesday simply glared back.

“It’s three in the morning Ms Addams. What are you doing here??!” Weems asked sounding frustrated and bordering on angry.

Wednesday schooled her expression, which did not go unnoticed by the ever-observant Principal Weems.

“Blood on the sheets is only acceptable if I’m not sleeping in them.” She huffed. Weems stood a bit taller seeming more awake at the mention of her student's blood.

“Wednesday its three am, it's too early for your riddles.” She glowered down at the addams but it lacked the same ferocity as before.

“I got blood on my sheets and needed to wash them.” Wednesday shrugged growing tired of talking and her lips thinning in annoyance, she just wanted to sleep.

“At 3am? Are you injured?” Weems asked coming over and tilting Wednesday's head back with gentle fingers to assess her physical form for signs of trauma or distress.

“No more than any other women once a month.” She stated with an edge to her voice. Weems dropped the hand on her chin and took a half step back out of respect for the Addams need for space and the face she would very much like to keep all ten of her fingers.

“Oh… do you need anything?” The ever-patient headmistress asked.

“Clean sheets.” Wednesday replied curtly. Weems rolled her eyes and suppressed a smirk by lightly biting the inside of her cheek.

“Other than that, you impossible child.” She fussed massaging her temples in feigned annoyance.

“No. i enjoy the cramps.” Came the response.

“Wednesday!” The exasperated teacher scolded.

Wednesday ignored her and turned back to keep staring at the washing machine but Weems would not be deterred, no matter how odd the situation. She had come to expect the unexpected with the Addams family years ago when she still roomed with Wednesday's mother in her own years of schooling.

“Have you got… supplies?” She asked kindly.

“Ms Weems” Wednesday huffed in a very un-Wednesday manner due to her lack of sleep. “I would have to be an idiot without a single brain cell to not be prepared for what is an assured monthly event.” She sniped back not looking away from the sheets and willing them to wash faster

“Ok … alright.” Weems said smoothing her hands down her silk nightgown to reign in her thoughts.

“The student washers are broken curtesy of the furs, and I did not even begin to entertain the idea of sleeping in blood-soaked sheets and shorts.” Wednesday explained.

“Quite understandable.” Weems nodded.

“I assumed as much.” She huffed.

“Next time, knock. Wake me up please dear child. Don’t just break in. Under different circumstances I would have you in detention for a week. But for now, simply come with me. I have a spare bed that could use someone sleeping in it.” She said holding out a hand for the young Addams to take.

Wednesday stared at the extended hand, before glancing back at the machine She let out a tired sigh and relented. Her body simply was screaming for sleep as soon as possible and her limbs felt heavy.

“Alright.” She said after a moment of deliberation, she pointedly ignoring the hand that was offered to her. Weems nodded again and led her to a room with a bed in it, her hand on the child’s lower back in a motherly fashion. Wednesday was too tired to care. She wasted no time hopping in and getting comfortable.

Weems smiled from the doorway. “Wait here and don’t go to sleep just yet Miss Addams.” She said and disappeared for a minute. Wednesday huffed and tried to ignore her but her body seemed to obey as sleep evaded her.

A moment later Weems returned with a glass of water and two small white tablets in one hand with a heat pack in the other. Wednesday rolled her eyes.

“Ms Weems-“

“Wednesday,” the headmistress said sternly. “You're sleeping in my apartment with my rules, so you take the medicine and heat pack or find somewhere else to sleep.” She said.

Wednesday was too tired to fight anymore, she was exhausted, and her body was screaming for sleep. She relented. Allowing Weems to deposit the medicine directly into her mouth before taking the glass from the women and drinking some water.

Weems watched on with a fond expression and pulled the sheets down slightly to press the hot pack to the Addams’ stomach before pulling the covers up again and tucking her in. Pointedly ignoring the almost healthy colour that had seemingly come into the child’s cheeks as a result of her actions.

She walked back over to the door and turned out the light. She looked back at Wednesday, as she watched from the bed. Weems smiled and bid her sweet nightmares as she had every night for morticia during high school.

Wednesday frowned in the darkness at the stirring of emotion in her chest before she clamped down on it, hard. She would not be feeling anything. It was most likely the lack of sleep she reasoned to herself. And then, she folded her arms over her chest as the Pharos did and she was asleep.

Weems was already planning to excuse her from her first two classes, the bags under the child’s eyes not having gone unnoticed by the British blond even at three in the morning.

The child was smart enough she probably already knew the terms content for her classes and the principle had decided that the teen needed sleep more than school stress.

At that the headmistress went back to her own bed, nursing a cup of tea she made to help her sleep. She finished the last dregs in the cup and set it on her nightstands to be dealt with in the morning. Sliding under the crisp white sheets she sighed in content.

And things went back to how they should have been at three in the morning, with all parties, students and teachers alike, asleep in bed under the restful wake of dreams and soft snores.

[indigosunsetao3]

Whumptober 2024

No. 27: VOICELESS

Laboratory | Muzzled | “I have no mouth and I must scream.”

First time ever doing Whumptober. Hopefully I tagged everything right.

Another day, another mission.

It wasn't the same without Soap. The team felt hollow, like a piece was missing, even though Price had finally filled the vacancy with another person. There was nothing wrong with the guy, Crane, as they called him. He could shoot just as well as the rest of them, fell in line easily, wrapped up the job without issue, and could be depended on to make sure they all made it home alive.

But it still wasn't Johnny.

"Ghost and Crane," Price ordered, pointing toward double doors as they all stood in the now-cleared hallway. "Gaz, you're with me."

Blood coated the walls, the windows, and even the ceiling in places. The bodies of the enemy were scattered all over the place, and Ghost knew that if he touched one, they'd still be warm.

The underground lab had begun to feel like a myth. No matter how much intelligence they gathered, they were not able to find it. Each location they were sure it was at ended up being a dead end. Or an empty shell of what it used to be, the enemy one step ahead and clearing out. Ghost had begun to wonder if the whole thing was just a wild chase to keep them occupied while Markarov executed a greater plan. Keep the cats chasing their tails while the mice plotted.

"On me," Ghost said with a nod to his sergeant, his replacement sergeant.

Crane nodded back and raised his gun as he followed the Lieutenant toward the doors. Per the blueprints, there should be a larger room on the other side with offshoots of other hallways and rooms, a spoke-and-wheel layout. Price and Gaz were headed the other way to find the main security room to gather any intelligence they could. Ghost and Crane were charged with clean up and finding anything else useful.

Shouldering open the swing doors, Ghost swept left and right, looking for enemies before he walked pressed against the wall, continuing his sweep. Crane went the opposite way, and they both peered under tables, behind cases, and tested doors to see if they were open or not. All of them were locked.

"See what you can find," Ghost said as he let his gun down to his side.

He zeroed in on a computer, shoved a USB into the slot, then waited as the decryption code did its thing. Crane was opening cabinets, pulling out paper files, and tossing them onto tables.

The main heart of the laboratory was sterile white, with metal tables and machines all along the walls. Some of the machines themselves were still whirring, as if the 141 showing up had actually been a surprise for once. Markarov was always one step ahead. Always. It almost felt like a trap with how easy it was to get inside, relatively speaking.

When the code finished, Ghost began digging through files. Everything had a code name, most of it in Russian, but he was able to figure out the gist of what was being said. As he dragged the files onto the USB he glanced up at Crane who had paused in his digging to flip through a file.

"Anything in there about Project Trojan?" Crane asked. He walked over, tossing the file next to Ghost. The file was covered in redacted lines, but Project Trojan was in big, bold letters on the top, with dates in the past and future listed. It was all a bunch of nonsense with so many blacked out words. But one stuck out to Ghost as Crane pointed at it.

MacTavish.

He grabbed the file and tugged it toward him before typing on the keyboard to search for the project. It came up instantly, but it was locked. Even the decryption code built into the USB couldn't break it, but he kept trying. Kept trying to force the password, force the code to try and jailbreak it.

Johnny had been killed in the tunnels thanks to Markarov's Trojan Horse virus. It was probably just a recap of what had happened, but seeing Johnny's name on the paper, as if he were just another throwaway piece of data in Markarov's game, set him on edge. He wanted to know exactly what Markarov had written and what he was planning. Most importantly, he wanted to know why his Sergeant's name was still in the fuckers mouth.

-----------------------

He stood behind one of the heavy metal doors, watching. Waiting.

He had been let out of his restraints with his orders to stay behind. To wait for the enemy to come to him and then clean house. Live up to his name.

He ran his tongue over the hard rubber bit in his mouth. The mask that was over his face dug into his skin as the straps wrapped behind his head, holding it tight in place. They kept him muzzled. He said he talked too much and asked too many questions. It was easier if he was quiet, forced to listen instead of interupting.

Issue was they never took the muzzle off.

It was kept tight on his face day and night, pumping his oxygen in for him through the hose that ran into a pack on his back. Or to the wall when he was shut into his bed. Food was through a tube. No need to ever take the mask off.

The first long while of the mask had been a panicked blur. He felt claustrophobic with it and fought to pry it off his face. So they restrained him until he settled. Then, they started to let him out to experiment on him. Little by little, as time slipped by, he began to lose himself in this life. He stopped fighting because there was nowhere to go and no one to fight for. He couldn't remember anything before this, couldn't see a life in his haze of a mind outside of the four walls of his room and the lab.

The lab where two men were standing digging through files. Not for long. He was told to clean house, and that was what he would do, least he displease his commander.

-----------------------

"What the fuck is this," Ghost demanded as he finally cracked the code.

Johnny's birthday and death date.

He began opening files and scrolling through the data he found. There was so much data on Johnny going back to his damn birth certificate and fucking newborn footprints. Why did they need all of this?

"Call Price, tell him what we found," Ghost ordered Crane. He was too enthralled with what he was doing to tear his eyes away.

He opened another file, and it was full of medical charts. Information Ghost already knew, but then a plethora of things he didn't. Probably because they were labs done on Soap well past his death date. Past the date of his funeral in the Scottish Highlands. The newest had been...three days ago.

This had to be wrong. It felt wrong. It felt like bait to keep him distracted, and it worked. Ghost stood up from his hunched position, grabbed his gun instantly, and prepared to fight some unseen enemy.

No one else was in the lab as from Crane as he scanned his surroundings. The man had moved back toward the main doors to try and get Price over the comms; the underground lab was messing with their ability to call one another.

But the situation changed in an instant.

Time seemed to slow as one of the locked doors opened, and a soldier stepped out, gun raised. Ghost twisted to aim his own at the man, but the eyes that met him over the mask made him hesitate.

Johnny.

-----------------------

He had waited for them to split up.

When the smaller man had his back to him, Soap stepped out from his hiding place. It was almost too easy to down the one by the door. He didn't even have a chance to turn around before Soap pulled the trigger in two quick successions. A shot to the back and head.

The man fell in a heap to the ground, blood already pooling out from both wounds. The sight kept Soap's attention for only a moment, something jarring in his memory, like a glitch. But he blinked, and it was gone, and he turned his attention to the other man by the computer.

He had only seen his side profile and back from his hiding place, but out in the open, he had a full view of him. He was massive and donned a mask like him. No, not like him. His was cloth, easy to remove. He only wore it to cover his face, the scars that littered his pale skin. He could still talk while he had that mask on, could still use his lips to suck on a cigarette that he offered. To nip at his neck in the dark.

Soap hesitated. How did he know that? What were these memories?

As if in response, his mask hissed as it released more oxygen and the green gas they used on him. He tasted the bitter mixture in the back of his throat before all thoughts aside from the job ebbed from his mind.

-----------------------

Not again. Not another Sergeant.

Ghost stared at where Crane had fallen, where half of his head was missing. He hadn't neutralized the threat when he could have, and he lost another man because of his inadequacies.

The Deja Vu and pain nearly stunned him into immobilization. A year ago, he had arrived a step too late, a shot too slow, to find Johnny bleeding out on the floor. He had frantically pulled at his vest and shook him to wake him, but Johnny's hadn't stirred. He felt no pulse as he pressed at his neck and the blood that oozed from his wounds seeped into Ghost's pants as he refused to leave his side.

They had scattered his ashes had said their goodbyes. He had his fucking id tags around his neck still, pressed tightly against his own, under his bulletproof vest. Hell, he had a small urn at his nearly abandoned flat, and he had a bit of Johnny there. A small scrap of him in the place they shared in secret.

The feeling of being frozen only lasted for a moment, his natural instincts to survive taking over as Johnny shot at him. The computer he had been behind exploded and he dropped to his knees to watch as the man prowled toward him.

He couldn't shoot him. Even if Johnny was actively shooting at him he couldn't take the shot.

The logical part of Ghost's brain told him that this lab, this thing, was an experiment. That the Russian's had perhaps perfected cloning and had made a mockery of the 141 by creating a soldier they killed into a weapon to use to taunt them. But the way he walked, the slight lean to the side for his shit knee was a tell. And how he cocked his head to listen because his right ear had begun to go deaf.

It was Johnny. His Johnny. Even though he had seen him die, had told his distraught mother he had been killed, said his goodbyes, and packed away his things after six months of staring at them. He was very much alive and trying to kill him.

-----------------------

He wasn't fighting back. He was hiding.

Soap smirked behind his mask, the feeling painful as his cheeks dug into the unforgiving plastic of his mask. This would be easy work if the man had just tried to hide and not fight back. There was nowhere to hide in this place. Soap knew the laboratory inside and out, there was only one way in or out, and he was between this man in the mask and his exit.

He took another shot at the table, sparks flying as the bullet hit metal. He was going to spook him out, force him to move, and come out to play. He so rarely got to play these days.

Kicking a chair out of his way he crouched to peer under a table before having to twist quickly to the side. A knife whizzed for his arm and it sliced down the sleeve of his suit before embedding into the desk behind him.

This man had shit aim.

No, he didn't. A voice in his mind screamed at him that this man...this Ghost did not miss. His use of knives was well known. His aim superior and his ability to kill lethal. He hadn't aimed to kill him. He had aimed to...distract him. To..

Fuck. He had to roll to avoid the boot that seemed to come out of nowhere in his distracted thoughts. He ducked it and rammed the butt of his gun up hard to connect with his enemy's gut. It hit home but the man countered, using his considerable bulk to continue the momentum of the swing to throw Soap off balance.

-----------------------

It was easy to fight your enemy when you were the one who taught them many of their moves. How many times had Johnny and Simon sparred? How often did their matches end in draws because they could counter one another all day, and Price grew tired of watching? Too many. And as the gun came up to catch him in the stomach, Ghost actually grinned behind his mask. He was familiar with the move and was able to instantly go with it to use the force against Johnny.

The elbow that came up caught Ghost in the jaw made him see stars for a moment. Johnny wasn't pulling his punches like they did when they practiced. He grunted and grappled to get Johnny in a headlock but he was faster and the man slipped away.

When the gun muzzle was raised and aimed right at his chest, Ghost kicked out to knock Johnny back,, and the man collided with the table behind him. Taking the moment in his daze Ghost grabbed the gun and yanked. Hard. The strap that was still over Johnny's shoulder snapped at the force, and he threw it hard across the room. They would fight this out the old way.

"Come on, Johnny, guns are cheatin'," Ghost taunted as he looked at him, glaring up at him. His blue eyes, so blue they used to steal the breath from Ghost when he'd look into them as they laid in bed, were tinged green. Something was off, wrong. Johnny wasn't just fighting him because of some sort of amnesia. There was something else driving him. And as Johnny inhaled sharply, the mask on his face hissing quietly Ghost took a guess what it was.

Whatever was in that mask was poisoning him.

-----------------------

Johnny. He knew that name. He had been called that in the beginning as a taunt. As a way to break him down, to hurt him. That was his name, and only one person got away with using it. Just one. He blinked up at the hulk of a man standing in front of him and stared for a moment. The guy, the supposed enemy, wasn't attacking him. He was waiting, watching. As if giving him a chance to figure things out.

Soap swallowed trying to get his thoughts straight but the quiet hiss of his mask went off and he inhaled.

He had a job. And that job was to kill the man standing there staring at him.

Reaching for his vest, he loosed two knives and fisted them, ready to fight hand to hand. If he couldn't use his gun, these would have to do. By the time he was done with this man, he was going to wish he had taken a bullet like his friend had.

-----------------------

He had to get the mask off.

Ghost snarled with pain as one of the fists he knocked away was followed too closely by another, and the knife drove into his forearm. It went in deep, and he flinched as Johnny tugged at it, slicing a long gash into his flesh and muscle.

The blood flowed freely from his cut but Ghost didn't let up as he fought back, letting the pain drive him. He needed to get the mask off Johnny and restrain him. Get him to see reason, to see what was happening.

But Johnny was too fast. Faster than he had ever known him to be and, honestly, that he thought possible. Another knife to the thigh made Ghost buckle, dropping down to one knee in the pain.

Johnny took advantage of the position change, but Ghost met him. He grabbed his booted foot and twisted hard. He heard the sickening snap and felt the vibration of the crunch as he dislocated Johnny's knee, his bad knee.

The groan of pain felt like a lance down Ghost's spine as Johnny went down. He collided hard with the tiled floor and grabbed at his knee for a moment, eyes snapping up to Ghost with malice in them. Yet, through all of this, Johnny never cried out. Never said a word. A virtually silent killing machine, which was not like him at all.

Johnny had always been a chatter box, making Ghost roll his eyes with affection and sometimes annoyance when he just wanted quiet. But now there was nothing, not even a taunt.

-----------------------

He couldn't use the leg. The second he felt the snap, he knew his knee was obliterated. He had been foolish in putting that much weight behind the hit; the man knew how to use his own bulk against him.

Scooting back, he flipped the remaining knife he had, the other still stuck in the man's thigh, and waited. He could easily flick it at him, bury the blade between his eyes but as he glanced at the hazel irises watching him he hesitated.

He knew those eyes. Knew them...intimately. He could read this man's moods, seemingly his thoughts, with one look at his eyes in the before. And now as he looked at him he could see the pain, the physical as well as emotional. And the calculation.

He didn't have time to scramble away as the man launched at him. He tried to yell behind the mask as hands tore at his vest, his mask. He couldn't take the mask off. If he took the mask off he was punished. Brutally. No he couldn't take it off, he couldn't. He fought back against the hands as they ripped at the straps behind his head to loosen them.

Blood smeared on the side of his head from the man's bleeding arm as he fought, and he felt the panic bubble up. He had been like this before. He had been bleeding out of his head in the very spot when they came and took him. He couldn't go back. He wouldn't go back. They couldn't make him.

Twisting and snarling in his chest, Soap fought back. As his knife found home, once, twice, three times, in the man's back, he finally felt him let up. But not before he shakily pried the mask off his face and threw it to the ground.

-----------------------

Johnny's face and skin were deeply indented from the mask and the straps that held it in place. As Ghost looked at it on the ground, he could see the blood and drool that caked the mouthpiece, the dents of Johnny's teeth in them as he bit down on it who knew how many times.

Ghost flicked his eyes to the face he knew well, staring up at him in a panic. Johnny took deep, steadying breaths as he wiped away the drool down his chin. His hand was coated in blood, Ghost's blood, and it smeared around his mouth as he continued to feel at his face.

Feeling unsteady, Ghost fell back on his haunches, his eyes drifting to where the knife in his thigh dug so deep it was sure it hit bone. He couldn't feel it. The adrenaline did not let him feel any pain at all, only vaguely aware of the throbbing wounds in his back.

"Johnny?" Ghost asked more than stated as he looked at the man on the floor before him. His vision swam, and he knew he swayed, but he threw a hand out to grab a table to keep his balance.

-----------------------

Soap reached for the mask, feeling as if he were hyperventilating without it on. He couldn't get enough air; he felt light-headed and confused. And terrified. The last time he got out of his mask it had been a horrendous time. He had been punished for days, weeks? He couldn't remember. He had been broken and put back together so many times he wasn't sure any part of him was still the original him anymore.

But as he breathed in fresh air, the fog of his mind began to clear with each gulp. His memories were confused mussed, but one thing stood out clearly to him.

Ghost.

He had been fighting against Ghost. Trying to kill Ghost, who had only defended himself instead of fighting back properly. And as he looked down at his hands, he realized they were both free of his knives but covered in slick, hot blood. Ghost's blood.

Simon's blood.

As Simon pitched to the side, eyes rolling back, Johnny shot up and grabbed him. What had he done? What had he fucking done?

He screamed then. The first time he used his voice in...a year? Two? It didn't matter. The scream ripped at his throat, tore his lungs, and rang in his ears. The pain of the sound reverberating out of him stung as he leaned Simon back against a table and he tried to find where the blood was coming from.

There was so much of it. His leg oozed slowly, his arm bled freely, and the stab wounds in his back were running blood in time with his heartbeat. Blood dripped out from under his shirt in an uneven staccato, running down his back to splash to the floor, mixing with the growing puddle and smears from their fight.

Johnny grabbed Simon's face with his hands, and he peeled the mask away to look at him properly. Look at the face he knew so well, the face of who he had just tried to kill.

"Simon," Johnny said hoarsely, barely a whisper, as he cocked his head back to get him to open his eyes to look at him.

"Johnny," Simon answered with a soft slur, his lips attempting a smile as he looked into Johnny's eyes. They were blue, just as he remembered them, not a hint of green in sight.

This was the better final memory to have of Johnny. His eyes open, looking at him, alive and breathing. Not dead on the floor at his knees.

As Simon slipped under, he heard Johnny scream out again. But it was okay, Simon thought as he faded. Johnny was alive, and that was all that mattered.

[solar-halos]

i really wanna write a fic where finnick gets so overwhelmed with everything in the capitol and annie is being really insistent on helping him through it after he gets home but since she doesn’t fully understand it on a personal level she just ends up overwhelming him even more and he just snaps at her. like that sounds interesting to me cos in canon they’re just depicted being so lovey dovey and it would be cool to deviate from that without taking away how intensely they do love each other but at the same time. i cannot write it. it always ends in annie lashing out at him even harder and i just don’t think that would really work for them i really think that might just be a deal breaker idk

[unhealthy-leon-brainrot]

i would like to thank every single leon x reader fic writer who has written about reader being generally insecure about their self and their worth in the relationship 💐😭

(if you’ve written one, please reblog with a link to your fic!! i promise you ill read it and hype it up !!!!! i seriously love supporting the leon kennedy nation!!! 💞)

[celestial-sinner]

If you wanna listen to me ramble about my BTD AU I will gladly do so. Seriously I want to talk to people about it aghhhh

[btheleaf]

"I'm not happy without you." Pemzin

This one got a little long so I'm just going to do an ao3 link.

Hold me gently and I will bleed

Relationship: Pema/Tenzin Hurt/Comfort rating: teen and up words: 1.6k Summary: Pema has been avoiding Tenzin. Her eyes are haunted when she thinks no one is looking and her spark of life seems all but snuffed out. Tenzin finds her preparing to leave the island for good. Is there anything he can say or do to make things right between them?

warning: I hurt my own damn feelings with this one :(

[kybercrystals94]

Unconventionally Easy

(Part 2)

Read here on Ao3!

Read Part 1 here!

By KyberCrystals94

Whumptober 2023|Day 11|Prompt 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.” | Captivity

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Bleeding Out

Rating: T

Words: 1080

Summary: Tech is worse off than he first let on to Echo.

The first thing Tech is aware of is pain. Although difficult to pinpoint, after some experimental movement, he decides that it originates from three significant places: his right thigh, the right side of his abdomen, and his right arm in its entirety. Cleverly, he deduces that he must have landed on his right side.

Next, Tech becomes aware that his helmet is missing, and that he also has a head wound, though it is not nearly as sensitive as the three other injuries. Mild concussion? Likely. However, blood loss is his greatest enemy at the moment. However, if their brothers find them in a timely manner, he should be safe from immediate demise.

He is about to work on locating Echo when the scream practically gives him cardiac arrest...not something clones are prone to, at least at this age in their development. However, so startling in the silent darkness comes the blood curdling cry, that it takes every ounce of resolve to prevent a fear induced verbal reaction.

“No! Let me out!”

Tech has never heard Echo sound so panicked, so utterly terrified. Even during night terrors. Tech calls out to him in a frustratingly unsteady voice, “Echo!”

A beat, a choking breath from just a few meters away. “Tech...” Another gasp, a sob. “Help. Don’t leave me here. Please.”

Tech tries to steady his voice. He needs to keep Echo calm. Who knows what injuries he might have, what he might aggravate if he struggles. “I am not going anywhere, vod. We are going to be okay, Echo, but we must remain calm.”

It takes a few minutes of careful conversation before Tech is confident that he has talked Echo off the ledge of a hypothetical cliff of hysteria.

“What are your injuries?” Echo asks.

Tech responds vaguely but honestly. “Several lacerations on the right side of my person, possible concussion.”

“Are you bleeding badly?”

“It is difficult to tell,” Tech lies.

He knows that Echo is far too intelligent to believe him; however, his older brother does not push the point. After all, what good would it possibly do? Not trapped as they are. All they can do is wait, and hope that they are found before it is too late.

The heat that scorches the planet is deadly, and Hunter is fully aware of this. Which is why he calls for a break again, insisting that Crosshair and Wrecker drink electrolyte mixture added to their canteens.

“We don’t have time for this,” Crosshair says, snatching the packet out of Hunter’s outstretched hand. “They could be dying down there while we just sit here.”

“We aren’t just sitting here, Cross,” Hunter argues. “We won't do them any good if we collapse from heatstroke.”

Wrecker has already downed one canteen and is reaching for another. “Do you think they’re okay?”

Hunter doesn’t answer right away. Honestly, he isn’t even sure at this point if they’re rescuing brothers or recovering bodies. It’s been almost two hours since the blast, and they are still sorting rubble in hopes they won’t cause further collapse. The trackers on Echo and Tech’s comms are pinging a signal, so they know they are digging in the right place. What they don’t know is how they are injured, what will cause further injury, or if they are already dead.

“We’ll find them,” Hunter answers with empty certainty, “and they will be.”

Echo knows something is wrong when he can smell the metallic tang of blood through the dust and ashes of destruction holding him down. He tries to keep his voice as level as possible when he asks, “Tech, how badly are you injured. Really.”

“I have lost a substantial,” Tech pauses breathlessly, “amount of blood…I’m afraid.”

Echo curses under his breath. There is literally nothing he can do except lay here while his brother bleeds to death.

“Echo…” Tech says, “I don’t feel well.”

“I know, vod.” Echo swallows. “The others will be here soon. I know they will.”

“Not in time, I think.” Tech’s voice breaks at the end.

“We’re not going to talk like that,” Echo says firmly. “You said you’d stay with me, remember? I’m going to hold you to it.”

There is a long silence that stretches between Echo’s words and the ones Tech utters in transparent anguish. “I’m sorry, Echo.”

Between dehydration and trying to keep Tech conscious through endless, meaningless words, Echo’s voice scrapes like sand in his throat. He isn’t sure when his brother stops responding except that he doesn’t stop trying, even when it feels like he has to scream to manage an aching whisper.

Something shifts above him, and that’s when he hears familiar voices filtering through the barrier between himself and freedom. “Hunter!” he calls out, but his voice rasps pathetically.

But Hunter hears him. Thank the force for enhancements.

“Echo! Keep talking, we’ll get you out.”

“No, get to Tech first,” Echo says, “He’s to my left several meters. Severe blood loss. He lost consciousness a while ago…”

“Okay,” Hunter says, “we’ll get him. Are you injured?”

“Nah,” Echo tries to say lightly, “just in a tight spot.” The joke falls flat.

“We’ll find him,” Hunter says, voice so much stronger and sure than Echo’s.

Echo takes a breath.

He’s not alone anymore.

“Thought I’d let you off the hook just because you were bleeding out?”

Tech winces awake to the bright, white light of a medical bay. He blinks as comprehension sifts through foggy awareness. “I am alive. That is most fortunate,” he says, voice hoarse from disuse.

Echo scoffs, and Tech turns his head to see the reg sitting next to him. “Yeah. How fortunate.”

“I suppose this is the part where you would like for me to admit that you were right,” Tech returns with a faint smile. “They did get to us in time.”

Echo grins at him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was barely right…and besides, you were the one who said they’d get to us soon first, so I suppose we can both take credit for being right.”

“And we completed the mission, I assume? Supposing the data stick was not damaged in the fall.”

“Shockingly, it was one of the only things not damaged in the blast. You should design your armor like you do your pockets.”

“Another successful mission,” Tech says contentedly. He settles back, closing his eyes. “And I’ll keep that armor design in mind for future alterations.”

END

Tag List: @isthereanechoinhere96 @followthepurrgil @amorfista @patapouille

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[oatsynalliums]

Mistakes do happen.

//tldr: reader looses a hand, aiden was barely there to catch them

It happened very quickly.

TOO quickly, i might say.

I was opening a crate at first because it had caught my attention, much to my companion, Aidens, dismay.

The next thing I knew, something had jumped out - it took me a few moments to process what had happened but when I did all i felt was pain. Excruciating pain.

All i could do was stare at my hand, or i suppose i should say, lack of hand; whatever had jumped out made a point of removing it completely.

I must have started hyperventilating- struggling to breathe, because I remember Aiden trying to ask me something although I couldn't hear him over the sound of my thoughts and rapidly rising heart beat; I remember him sounding concerned though.

The next thing I remember is me trying to take a few steps back, and losing my balance and falling - I expected to hit the hard floor but I was surprised to land on something soft. Aiden must have hurried over at this point due to my lack of responses because I had fallen onto his lap. He was kneeling.

There are holes in my memory so i don't remember too much but i DO remember getting picked up, i believe they call it a bridal carry? I'm unsure, but I do know that my head was on his chest because I am very certain I heard his heartbeat - it was calming, I barely remember falling asleep. Most likely due to blood loss.

I woke up a little while after this, maybe a few hours. I could barely hear or see anything for the first few minutes, but when I did finally come too I took the time to look around.

I was in the security office, on the couch covered by Aidens vest; he must've not been able to find anything else. I did take note of my arm, which was patched quite well; with a lot of care - I bet it was aiden.

The next thing I noticed was the smell of the room. I know this smell - it was vanilla. I remember Aiden asking about what smell I liked the most, I never expected him to remember it, though.

I must've been making a little too much noise because I heard movement. I looked over to where I heard it to watch aiden sit up, I took a few seconds to examine him and sure enough it was my aiden - the one with the cracked lens. He looked horrible as a light way to put it, i could see how exhausted he was by the way he sat up and looked around drowsily.

It took him a moment to wake up fully, but when he did he got up almost immediately and rushed over to my side, he must've seen I was up.

He said a lot of things at once, talking over himself as he looked me over to make sure I was relatively unharmed while he was sleeping, calming down enough to sit on the edge of the couch next to me - visibly worried though.

I sighed, reaching my one good hand over to cup the bottom of his head, moving it to face me - making eye contact with his lens, speaking in a low voice akin to one you'd use for a scared animal;

‘’ aiden, aiden.. See, im fine, neither of us would've known it was there - you patched me up really well, i'm still here and well, aren't i?’’

That didn't seem to sway him though, it only made him more upset, causing him to lift out of my hand as to not hurt me before looking away; grabbing onto his sleeve and messing with it. I have noticed that he does that when he gets nervous, it's very cute.

I would sit there to think a bit, moving onto my knees to lean over him - which startled the other a considerable amount.

‘’Aiden, you know it isn't your fault, i should've listened to you when you told me not to wander off’’ i spoke, with certainty - receiving a response that was low, barely above a whisper

‘’I should have been over there with you, though - to make sure that didn't happen, like I promised..’’ he stopped a bit suddenly, i could tell his voice was wavering - he was about to cry.

I took a minute to examine him before I exhaled, shuffling a bit and getting off the couch; of course this got aiden attention, mostly him trying to get me to sit back down because I was still incredibly dizzy from the bloodloss.

I was stubborn though, he always did call me that.

I handed him back his vest, to which he slipped back over his shoulders, before having him sit further back onto the couch so i wasn't worried he was about to fall off; i then sat back with him, i had his full attention now.

‘’Aiden, big guy, im fine, neither of us could have been prepared for it, like, at all - and you WERE there, you caught me, i remember that’’ i spoke, taking a pause ‘’ you did what you could, whatever took my hand ran off afterwards as to not have anymore conflict, it probably didn't mean too’’ the last sentence got a skeptical look out of him, which made me chuckle a little bit - causing him to turn away, probably embarrassed.

‘’What i'm saying is -’’ i started to speak again ‘’ don't beat yourself up over it, thats other entities jobs, you'll put them out of work’’ i snickered a bit, gently punching his shoulder

‘’ [y/n], please don't say such things,’’ he responded, looking over to me - visibly embarrassed.

‘’And why shouldn't i? I'm right.’’

‘’ goodness, you really are headstrong, aren't you?’’

‘’ maybe, but you like that about me, don't you?’’ I retorted, teasing. - of which it got a snort out of the latter.

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment before he leaned over and pulled me into a hug, firm yet gentle; like I would break any further if he was too harsh - the hug didn't last long before he pulled away, reaching somewhere and pulling an almond water over. He opened it before handing it to me, knowing I would have had a problem with the task, he was very sweet.

I took a much needed drink of it, sure - it was a bit weird to be watched while you drank but i became used to it, it was just aiden after all. My aiden.

‘’Sweetheart, are you feeling any better?’’ he asked, the sentence take a moment to register

‘’Sweetheart?’’

‘’Im sorry, it just sli-’’

‘’SWEETHEART?’’

[serickswrites]

In My Head

A/N: I have never combined events before (idk i'm super rigid in my thinking sometimes lol) but there was so much excellent crossover between these events, I couldn't not combine them lol

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, blood, bleeding out, mcd, survivor's guilt, self destructive behavior, caretaker and whumpee, hurt/no comfort, grief

"Now, Caretaker," Whumper said as they circled around the chair they had chained Caretaker to, "I don't want to have to say this again. You have until I reach the end of the countdown to tell me what I want or else I will start carving into Whumpee and I won't stop until you give me what I want."

"I keep telling you, I don't know anything! Please, please! Hurt me," Caretaker begged. They couldn't let Whumper do this. They couldn't let Whumpee suffer for their mistakes.

"It's ok, Caretaker. I'll be ok," Whumpee said as they smiled weakly at Caretaker. "Whumper's all talk and no action. Don't worry, I'll be ok." They were in standing cuffs opposite Caretaker. They stood, shifting their weight from one leg to the other as they waited.

"Five," Whumper said as they stopped in front of Caretaker.

"Please!"

"Four," Whumper said as they stepped back.

"Whumper, I don't know anything!" Caretaker had to get Whumper to believe them.

"Three," Whumper said as they fingered the knife in their belt.

"It's ok, Caretaker. Really, it will be ok. They're bluffing," Whumpee said quietly. They watched Whumper.

"Two," Whumper said as Caretaker realized that Whumpee was the one who was bluffing. They could see Whumpee's eyes were a little wide with fear. They were putting on a brave face for Caretaker.

"Whumper, please. Please. I'll give you anything. Carve me up. Just please, leave Whumpee."

"One." Whumper smiled darkly as they pulled the knife from their belt. "Don't say I didn't warn you, Caretaker. This is all your fault."

"WHUMPER!" Caretaker screeched as Whumper cut along Whumpee's collar bone. Whumpee's skin split and blood spilled down their body.

"It's fine," Whumpee hissed as they winced.

"It is not fine! It should be me!" Caretaker shouted.

Whumper raised the knife once more. "It should be, but it isn't. Just remember you did this to Whumpee. You, Caretaker. You did this."

Caretaker didn't know how long they screamed at Whumper. Didn't know how long they begged for Whumpee's life. They knew their throat was raw and voice was raspy. They knew that they had tried to save Whumpee. They just knew it didn't work.

"I warned you, Caretaker," Whumper said as they stepped back to admire Whumpee's bloodied body.

Whumpee stared at Whumper with half-lidded eyes. They struggled to keep on their feet between the slick pools of blood at their feet and blood loss.

"Please, Whumper, please," Caretaker tried one more time.

"Are you going to give me what I want?" Whumper asked as they walked behind Whumpee, fisting Whumpee's hair suddenly. Whumpee struggled weakly in Whumper's arms, their chest heaving as they tried to move.

"I...I don't know. I've been telling you the truth. I don't know what you want!"

"And as I said before, Caretaker. I don't believe this. This is all on you," Whumper said as they brought the knife across Whumpee's throat.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Caretaker screamed as they watched Whumpee sputter and choke on the blood filling their mouth. Whumper chuckled as Caretaker screamed and shouted. Caretaker's voice was one continuous screech as they watched Whumpee's eyes grow empty and their body go limp in the standing cuffs.

"NOOO! WHUMPEE!!!! NOOOOO!" Caretaker sobbed as Whumpee's body swayed on the chain.

"This is all because of you, Caretaker," Whumper said as they fisted Whumpee's hair once more, lifting Whumpee's head up to stare into Whumpee's lifeless eyes. "This could have been avoided if you had just given me what I wanted."

***

Caretaker wasn't sure how many days had passed since they had been rescued. They weren't sure how many days had passed since they had been freed from their restraints and collapsed at Whumpee's feet, begging for forgiveness. They weren't sure how many days had passed since they had been pried away from Whumpee's corpse.

The passage of time didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Whumpee was dead. It was their fault that Whumpee was dead.

"You have to eat, Caretaker," Friend said as they sat at the edge of Caretaker's bed.

Caretaker hadn't gotten out of bed in days. Hadn't eaten in days. Hadn't done anything but lay there and sob. They didn't deserve to eat. It should have been their body hanging on the chain. It should have been their throat that was cut. It should be their funeral that Whumpee was trying to plan.

But it wasn't.

"Please, just eat a little something, Caretaker," Friend tried again.

Caretaker didn't reply. Friend would give up and leave some toast for them. They just wanted to be alone. They didn't deserve sympathy. They didn't deserve help. They didn't deserve anything. They deserved to be dead.

Sure enough, Friend left, setting a plate of toast and a jug of water on Caretaker's nightstand. They squeezed Caretaker's shoulder as they left. Caretaker didn't react. They couldn't react. They couldn't do anything but cry.

Whumpee was dead and it was all their fault.

"You're still alive in my dreams," Caretaker whispered to the empty room. Every time they shut their eyes to sleep, Whumpee was there. Whumpee was alive and well. They wanted to stay there.

"Why can't it be me? I would do anything for it to be me. I wish it was me. I wish I could bring you back."

Caretaker swiped at their eyes. "I'm so sorry. So so so sorry. I'm sorry Whumpee. Please. I wish it was me. I wish you were here. I wish it was me in the morgue. Why can't my dreams be real? Please, Whumpee."

But no matter how much Caretaker talked to the empty room, no matter how much the begged and cried, Whumpee didn't respond. Their dreams did not become real. And Whumpee remained dead.

Tags: @artisticdemon

@mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe