#fireside whump ideas

[whumpbythefireside]

Thoroughly obsessed with a whumpee who’s absolutely done with being patronised.

They hate how everyone seems to walk on eggshells around them. They hate how everyone seems to treat them like a child.

They hate it, but they’re too weak to complain.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Slide (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Modern AU Rated: T - language, suggestiveness, whump/blood/injury Word count: 5.4k

Summary: Benedict takes you on holiday to a remote bothy in the Scottish highlands. But things do not go according to plan.

Author's Note: This is an anon request fill for Benedict and Reader stranded in a cabin with an illness/injury. You can't threaten me with a whumpy good time, because this idea completely took over my brain and I wrote it in a day. 😅 Enjoy

“We should take advantage of the break in the rain. Let’s go on a little hike.”

“A hike?” You looked up from the sofa where you sat curled with a book. Benedict was standing by the door of the bothy, excitedly pulling on a coat. You had been having a relaxing holiday. Five days in a private luxury bothy in the Scottish highlands. He had been coming to the spot alone for years to paint and now wanted to share it with you under the pretense of your dating anniversary. You didn’t know if you believed such things deserved celebration, but your work in the city had been draining you lately and the reprieve was much appreciated. 

As luck would have it, your trip coincided with the rainiest weather in decades. It was always raining somewhere in Scotland but this was something else entirely. Torrential downpours for sporadic periods each day. But that hadn’t dampened your time together. Thus far, four days of nothing but lie-ins and fireside bottles of wine; reading while Benedict painted from imagination; lazy sex in the mornings and raucous sex at night. It was a bit dangerous that the bed was lofted, as your activities threatened to send you flying off of it. The little hideaway was so secluded that there was no internet and no cell signal, and that was one of the reasons Benedict loved it so much. He said he could hear his muse more clearly without the rest of the world butting in. Neighbors were also an impossibility, as the bothy was situated in a little copse of trees accessible only by crossing a footbridge that skirted a rough cliff edge. Nothing too high off the ground, but narrow enough that your car was parked half a mile away on the other side of the bridge. It was a tiny paradise, just you and the trees and the birds. The rain had occasionally relented to allow you a few rambles nearby, but you hadn’t undertaken anything as ambitious as to be called a ‘hike’.

Benedict was pulling his boots on and waving you toward the door. “Come on! Fresh air will do us good. Let’s go.”

You were remiss to leave your cozy nest but you knew he was right, and his crooked smile was irresistible. With a sigh you rose to your feet, donned your own coat and followed him.

He took your hand as you traipsed through the wet grass down the trail toward the bridge. The air had an earthy musk scent from the previous night’s deluge. It did feel good to stretch your legs. You didn’t even bother asking where you were headed, you would let Benedict lead you. But he suddenly stopped short. 

“You’ve got to be joking.” 

The path before you no longer led to the footbridge. Instead it ended abruptly at a slanting jumble of boulders. A rockslide off the side of the nearby cliff had completely blocked your exit.

You both stood dumbstruck, puzzling out your next steps.

“I don’t know how we didn’t hear this,” you murmured, imagining the rumbling crash of so many large stones piling upon themselves. 

Benedict chuckled next to you. “Well, one of us was being exceptionally noisy last night.”

You smacked him but it only made him laugh harder. Your frustration was building, so unused to being confronted with an obstacle you couldn’t quickly surmount. Or perhaps you could.

“I’m going to climb over.” You said definitively. “It looks solid enough. I’ll get to the other side, go back to the car and get help so this can get cleared away.”

“Well, I’m going with you.” Ben’s brow furrowed, something anxious in his eyes.

You shook your head. “Maybe. But one at a time. Let me test it out and find the footholds. I’m lighter than you.”

“Be careful,” he urged, but you were already clambering onto the nearest rock, pulling yourself over the larger pieces and tentatively resting your weight with each careful step. The top of the mound rose about eight feet off the ground and you scrabbled your way to it easily enough. Standing on top, you could see on the other side that the footbridge was still intact. It gave you a surge of confidence and you stepped forward, eager to scurry down the other side. Then everything sank, your stomach and your optimism as your right foot found a weak spot and shuddered downward in a small cascade of stones, sinking in up to your thigh until you felt it pinned at the ankle, the rocks trapping you in place.

“Shit!” You hissed, tugging uselessly to free yourself. It didn’t hurt, but it had immobilized you.

“What’s wrong?” Ben called from below, panicked.

You gritted your teeth. God, this was embarrassing. Off you had gone with bravado and now the universe was going to show you better. It was going to double down in fact, because you felt the first drops of rain spattering you from the dull grey sky. You clawed at the stones around your leg, able to toss some aside but others were so large you’d never be able to lift them. An animal part of your brain was starting to flood with fear, but you fought to keep your voice steady.

“I’m bloody stuck.” You lamented. “My leg is caught.” It wasn’t a request for assistance, but you should have known how he would react. 

“Hang on, I’m coming!” From your vantage point you could see Ben dash forward and begin to climb the rocks, not caring to test the stability of his steps, just rushing toward you. You opened your mouth to tell him to slow down, but your voice caught in your throat as everything suddenly rumbled, an ominous herald of what was coming. You both froze, staring wide eyed and feet apart from one another. Then everything shifted and fell away. 

Your entire sense of gravity tilted as the rocks beneath and around you slid, all jumbling together as they surged further away from the cliffside. You felt your leg snap within the grinding stone and cried out, landing on your side and feeling a jagged edge glance across your forehead. Your eyes fell on Benedict clamoring to reach you as he lost his own footing on the tumbling wave. He was unsuspecting, his eyes locked only on you when a massive boulder came rolling as easily as a toy ball and slammed into his side, knocking him out of view and into the tumult of roiling earth beneath you. You screamed his name but it was lost to the thunderous clatter. 

Amidst the chaos, one thought began to form clearly in your mind. This was how you would die. Crushed in a rockslide thanks entirely to your own stupidity. And worst of all, you had dragged Ben with you. The nightmare deepened as the sky ripped with a clap of thunder and rain began to pummel you in earnest as everything continued to slide and roll around you. Numb with anguish, all you could do was bury your face in your hands and wait for fate to claim you.

But it didn’t. In what felt like only a moment, everything stilled. The rocks had stopped moving, their sound had died away, and you were lying on top of the mound sensing nothing but the cold patter of heavy rain. You were still alive, a fact that was confirmed by the burning pain you felt pulsing in your leg. Looking down you saw that it was freed, released from the churning rocks, but it was bloodied and wouldn’t respond to your attempts to move it. Though it was a novel experience for you, there was no doubt in your mind that it was broken.

That was the least of your worries. As you came back to your senses they all tuned to one goal. You had to find Benedict. You called out for him, voice croaking, but were met with silence. You pushed yourself up to look around. The slide hadn’t buried the trail any further, only shifted on top of itself. You could see the path back to the bothy on one side and the footbridge on the other. But no Benedict. You screamed his name again, louder. Nothing. A sickening dread started to rise from your stomach as you began to pull yourself over the rock. You couldn’t stand properly and even if you could, you didn’t want to risk disturbing anything. It was better to spread your weight across the surface and so you began to slither on your belly, fingers bloodying themselves on rough edges as you dragged along in the direction you had last seen him. Everything was turning slick and muddy with the rain. You moved back down toward the trail, eyes sweeping, and just near the bottom is where you saw a spot of orange amidst the rubble. His shirt.

“Ben!” You shrieked, half-rising on your good leg to hobble over to him. You reached the bottom of the rock pile and saw him lying at the edge of it. You chanted his name desperately as you landed at his side. He was on his back mostly unhidden, a few small stones piled around his limbs which you pushed away, but one large one wedged over the right side of his chest. He was frighteningly pale and seemingly unconscious, lying still as he was battered by rain.

“Ben,” you called to him, taking his face in your hands. “Ben, wake up!” When he didn’t respond, your heart started hammering. No, no, no. You bent an ear to his mouth, silently praying to every deity you had ever heard of. To your great relief, he was breathing. But he was struggling. Your eyes landed on the boulder, covered in lichen and mocking you. You suddenly hated it more than you had hated anything in your life. With a surge of strength you didn’t know you possessed you drove yourself against it, leveraging with your good knee. It felt like fighting a brick wall and yet somehow after a moment, it loosened and you shoved until it tumbled backward and off of Benedict. 

Immediately he took a loud, wheezing inhale followed by a groaning “Fuuuuucccckkkkk.”

You would have laughed with relief if you were not so strung out on adrenaline and hell bent on getting as far away from this death trap as possible. 

“Ben,” You shook him lightly. “Benedict, open your eyes.” 

He did so, blinking against the rain, taking a moment to focus. Those bright, gentle eyes gazed back at you and made you feel rooted to the earth again. 

“We need to get back to the bothy. Can you stand?”

He stared at you, seeming dazed, then brought a hand to your forehead, speaking softly. “You’re bleeding.”

As his fingers came away red, you were surprised that you didn’t feel any pain other than the dull throb of your leg. None of this was important right now. You had to get to shelter and then you could assess all of your wounds.

“I’m alright.” You stated firmly. “We need to go, come on now.”

He wrapped his right arm around your shoulders, the sleeve of his coat ripped and dirtied. You braced against each other as best you could and tried to stand but both fell back with shouts of pain, you unable to tolerate any weight on your shattered leg, and him clutching at his right side. You were in bad shape, but had no other options than to push through. No one was coming to help you and neither of you would leave the other.

You locked into each other’s eyes, breathing hard, and a silent understanding passed between you. Now was not a time for weakness. You would need to be strong for each other. You banded your arms around each other once again and, wincing and gasping, slowly staggered to your feet. Ben leaned heavily across your shoulders while you hopped on your left foot and dragged the other behind you.

Somehow through the pouring rain, with the screaming throb in your leg and Benedict swaying weightily beside you, you inched back along the trail to the bothy, soaked to the bone once you finally shambled inside. You maneuvered to gingerly lay Benedict onto the sofa but he still cried out at the movement. Then he laid still, eyes screwed shut against the pain as he exhaled raggedly through his nose. Spurred to action, you hopped loudly around the small space gathering towels, blankets, water, and the tiny first aid kit stashed in a cupboard. What use it would be, you didn’t know, but it was all you had. You checked your phone, already knowing there was no signal to dial out but instinctively needing to confirm it. Your mind spun. Plans. Actions. Steps. You were going to fix this. You were going to get out of this situation. You just had to keep your head, which was significantly harder to do when the man you loved was lying nearby as pale as a ghost and groaning. But you could get yourselves warm and dry. That was a first step.

After stoking a fire in the woodstove you lowered to sit next to the sofa, clumsily tumbling onto the floor as you winced at the shooting ache in your leg. Benedict’s eyes flew open and he looked at you with concern. “Your leg’s broken?” He intuited.

“Mmhmm,” You nodded, breathing through the pain. “But I’m fine. We need to check you out.”

You mopped his hair and face with a towel, the friction and heat from the nearby stove bringing some color back to his skin. You searched his eyes.

“What hurts? How do you feel?”

He grimaced. “Dizzy, but not too bad. I don’t know if I’m concussed or if I just got hit by a great bloody bunch of rocks.” He ended with his telltale smirk.

You were feeling anything but humorous at that moment. His joke made your insides seize, worried something may be seriously wrong.

“Have you been concussed before? Do you know what it feels like?”

He grinned further. “I have. You don’t grow up with seven siblings and not end up concussed. This doesn’t feel the same, but I can’t be sure.” Your mind started to quest through any errant information you had about concussions. He could read the panic in your expression and brought a hand to wrap around yours. “Hey, it’s going to be alright. If I start to go loopy that’s not a good sign, but I really think I’m okay.”

All you could do was nod tightly, imagining a dozen horrific scenarios and realizing there was little to nothing you could do about them. You simply had to stay focused on the moment and the fact that he was clear headed now. 

“What else?”

He waved a hand vaguely over his right side. “Something bad, here.”

As carefully as you could, you worked in tandem to peel off his sopping coat while bit back yelps of agony. You frowned at the sight of his right arm, scraped and lacerated shoulder to wrist, but it didn’t appear to be broken. Then you lifted the hem of his t-shirt and he arched as best he could so that you could pull it off, turning his face away as he seethed into the cushions. You sucked in a breath, horrified by what you had uncovered. A bruise, black and purple and green, mottling the entire side of his body and rippling with each breath. Cursing to yourself, you rested fingertips lightly over it and even that caused him to flinch. 

“I think…” you wavered. “I think your ribs are broken.”

He stared at the ceiling, his voice tight but sarcastic. “Yep, that feels about right.”

“Can you breathe?”

“Well enough,” he sighed. 

The severity of the situation was sinking in. Hysteria was starting to bubble in your chest but you locked your jaw, determined to keep it together. “What do I… What should I do, Ben? How do I fix this?”

He turned to look at you, his expression going soft. “You can’t fix it.”

That threatened to push you over the edge. Your constitution slipped, your chin started to tremble, tears mounting in your eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He cupped your face with a large hand, pads of his fingers pressing into your hair, urging you to focus. “We’re going to be alright. This is what’s going to happen. Tomorrow is our last rental day and the owners visit the property between guests. So they’ll come, see the path is blocked and know that we’re stuck here. They’ll get help. We just have to wait until tomorrow. We have everything we need here. We just have to be still and wait.”

You nodded, swallowing hard against the tears, ashamed that you couldn’t be stronger but breathlessly grateful that he would comfort you even when he was grievously injured. You kissed the palm of his hand and steadied yourself against its warmth. So very little was in your control, but you were determined to right the things that were. Moving carefully and trying to ignore the protesting pangs from your leg, you dried him off and piled him with blankets. The stove was burning high and the bothy still had the cozy air you had enjoyed the past few days. You stripped off your own soaking tops down to your bra and wrapped yourself in a blanket. Then you wet a rag and started to clean the cuts on his arm, dressing them with the ointment and bandages from the first aid kit.

Benedict watched you silently, something twinkling and bemused in his eyes. You worried that if you stared at him too long you were going to cry, so you focused on your task. Once you were finished he held out his hand.

“Give me the rag.” You handed it to him. “Come here.”

You shifted up to face him, concerned. “What do you need?”

Wordlessly, he pulled your chin closer with one hand and began to lightly dab at your forehead with the other. You closed your eyes, feeling the tears threaten again. If there was one thing Benedict Bridgerton would never cease to be come hell or high water, it was a caretaker of others. You weren’t quite sure what you had done to deserve such a man, but you knew it was imperative that you never let him go. As he wiped the blood away, your cut started to sting. You hadn’t found a mirror to examine it and you frankly didn’t want to. He was your only concern right now.

“Does it hurt?” He asked softly. You were too overcome to do anything other than nod. Then he pulled your chin down even further, leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to your wound. 

That’s what broke you. You finally let the tears spill down your cheeks, burrowing your face into the side of his neck. “I’m so sorry, Ben,” you whispered.

“What are you sorry for?” He asked, bewildered.

“I should never have tried to climb those damned rocks.”

He huffed. “You were trying to help us. I’m the one who shouldn’t have jumped up after you.”

You pulled back, sniffling. “You were trying to help me.”

“And look where all of that help landed us,” he smirked, causing you both to chuckle. But his laugh almost immediately turned into agonized gasps. 

“Alright, alright,” You put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “No laughing.”

“You need to splint your leg,” he rasped.

“How precisely should I do that?”

His eyes darted around the room. “The kindling for the stove. Take two long pieces and tie them off with towels.”

You began to drag yourself across the floor toward the woodpile, a realization forming that perhaps two people with zero medical training between them should not be as drawn to outdoor isolation as you were. You gathered two sturdy sticks and a handful of dish towels and then scraped your way back to his side.

“Make sure your leg is straight and tie it tight,” Benedict instructed. You nodded but were filled with apprehension. Ever since you had collapsed on the floor, your useless leg had been twisted at an appalling angle. You knew setting it was going to hurt. Taking a deep breath, you reached forward and tugged it straight. A white hot jab of pain jolted through your whole body, causing you to scream. Distantly, you could hear Benedict speaking to you, his hand rubbing circles across your back. His touch was what you focused on, the only thing helping you to fight the nausea as you lined up the wood and tied it tightly on either side of your broken limb, whimpering with each knot pulled. You fell back against the side of the sofa, panting as you found equilibrium and the searing pain faded back to an insistent throb. Benedict wrapped an arm across your chest, the closest thing to an embrace he could offer. You lay in silence together, exhausted, settling in for what was sure to be the longest night of your life.

Warmed by the fire and lulled by the rain driving against the windows, the atmosphere inside the bothy would have been dreadfully romantic if you weren’t both immobilized by broken bones and stranded, awaiting rescue. It would have been all too easy to fall asleep, but you were determined to stay awake until help arrived. You scooched yourself around the floor with all the grace of a geriatric slug, feeding the stove and brewing tea which you helped Benedict to drink as he lay flat. Out of habit you kept checking your phone, wondering if by some miracle a cell signal would appear.

“Sorry there’s no service here,” Benedict frowned. “Part of the whole appeal. Going off the grid.”

“I know,” you ran a reassuring hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault, I just can’t help checking. We need something to occupy ourselves.” Your eyes fell to the stacks of books beneath the coffee table, a motley assortment from the owners and you suspected, prior guests. You began to assess the authors, gauging his reactions.

“Dostoevsky?”

He grinned. “Well, I would enjoy that but I know it would put you to sleep.”

He was right. You set it back. “Ooo! Byron!” You lilted, waving the book at him tauntingly.

He groaned. “God, please. I’m in enough pain already.”

You laughed and tossed it aside. Next was a sleek, mysterious cover with a blurb promising ‘luxurious, unbridled passion’. You smirked. That seemed exciting enough to keep you both awake. 

“We’re reading filth,” you announced, settling in next to him again. You had expected something humorous, the kind of tawdry romance novel that every aunt seemed to be fond of. But while the story started out playful enough, the simmering sexual energy woven by the author’s talented prose was so evocative, you both started to squirm. The fearless, beautiful depictions of the lovers’ encounters were so salacious that you were too stunned to keep reading them aloud, your mouth falling open as you blushed instead. Dimestore trash this was not.

Benedict shifted behind you but you couldn’t look at him. “Maybe save that one for later,” he croaked. “Jesus, who wrote that?”

“Faye someone.” You mumbled, setting it aside with a mental note to steal it or buy your own copy.

“Please make me think of something else now,” Benedict pleaded, his voice tight.

“P.G. Wodehouse it is.” You smiled, grateful to have found something light and familiar.

“Brilliant.”

By the time you finished the short volume it was dark outside but the rain hadn’t let up. You could have switched on the lights but that seemed too harsh for the states you were in. The fire was a more relaxing illumination.

Your stomach rumbled, waking up after an extended period of anxiety. “We should eat something.” You had food enough to cook meals for one more day, but could scrounge for now. You trailed a hand lazily over Benedict’s cheek. “What do you want?”  He raised a brow. “Scotch. Neat.”

“You’re not drinking in your condition.” You said firmly, eliciting an exaggerated pout from him. “And neither am I. Do you have an appetite for anything solid?”

“Not really.”

“Just bread?”

You knew that would bring a light to his eyes. “With butter?”

You grinned. “Of course.” It was never a question with him. That was the one thing he would always happily eat. Setting off on another crawling journey across the floor to the kitchenette, you cobbled together your dinner. Bread, butter, a bit of cheese, a jar of olives. It would do. It was damn near continental. 

After your haphazard meal you found Benedict’s eyes drifting closed, everything about him looking utterly spent.

You held his hand in your own and kissed his bloodied knuckles. “Ben, you’re drifting off. Should you…can you sleep with a concussion?”

His eyes fluttered open, bleary. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Just wake me up every couple of hours to make sure I know my own name. Ask me some questions.”

“Alright.” You nodded, trying to ignore the spike of fear inside. What if he was hiding how he truly felt for your sake? What if he did have a concussion and got worse while he slept? What if you couldn’t wake him up again? Part of you wanted to plead with him to stay awake through the night, but it was overruled by the part that told you to trust him. Choosing hope, you squeezed his hand and laid it across his chest.

“What about you?” He was fading fast, eyes closed.

“I’m not tired,” you lied. “Get some rest.”

Then your vigil began. You set your phone alarm to go off every three hours and brewed another pot of tea. You would stay awake. If anything was compelling enough to combat your wearied body’s exhaustion, it was the need to make sure Benedict kept breathing and that he could come back to you when you woke him. You stayed at his side, studying the angles of his handsome face in the glow of the fire, grateful that he seemed to be peaceful. And you waited.

__

“Ben?”

“Mmm?”

“Where are you?”

“In Scotland.”

“Why are we here?”

“We’re on holiday.”

“Who is your eldest brother?”

“Anthony.”

“Alright, go back to sleep.”

—

“Ben?”

“Mmm?”

“Where are you?”

“In the mountains.”

“Why are we here?”

“I wanted to paint.”

“Where did you take me on our second date?”

“I said, ‘What do you say we go to Marseille?’”

“Yes, it was awful of you. I finally committed to you and then you said cheesy mad shit like that.”

“But you came with me.”

“I did.”

“And you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did. Go back to sleep.”

—

The third time you woke him, the light was turning grey outside and the rain had weakened to fits of spray. It was the day of your rescue. You just had to wait a few more hours. You decided you should probably wake Benedict for good.

“Ben?” You ran your hands through his hair, coaxing him back.

“Mmm?” 

He had awoken so easily each time, it was reassuring.

“Where are you?”

“I’m with you,” he slurred.

Your heart faltered, touched by his response but also concerned at its vagueness. 

“And who am I?”

Even though his eyes remained closed, his lips tilted into a small smile. “You’re the love of my life.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Exhaustion, fear, relief and love heaping upon one another.

Your voice trembled. “Where are we both right now?”

“We’re stuck in the bloody bothy.” He spat.

You chuckled, running your thumb over his forehead. He seemed to be lucid. “Why are we here?”

“I wanted to ask you,” he sighed, sounding almost as if slipping back into sleep.

You were confounded. “Ask me what?”

At last his eyes blinked open, settling on you with the steady, blue-grey stare that you could drown in. 

“Get my coat.” 

Still confused, you did as he asked, pulling his coat from the side of the sofa and handing it to him. It was only when he began rummaging through the pockets that realization struck and you froze. Time seemed to slow as he finally pulled out a small box and tossed the coat aside. He pried the lid open and brought it to rest on his bruised chest so that you were staring face first at a silver ring twined with a sapphire and pearls.

“Ask you to be my wife.” He declared, that timeless cheeky grin lighting his face. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t move. You weren’t sure if you were delirious with exhaustion or dreaming. He continued. “The hike was to an overlook. The landscape I painted that you love so much? I wanted to ask you there. I’m sorry we didn’t make it.”

Everything was falling into place. His insistence on this holiday. The uncharacteristic request for a hike. He had meant it to be one of the most memorable days of your life. It had certainly turned out that way, but not in the expected fashion.

Entirely ignoring the beautiful ring, you pulled him into a kiss.

“Oh, Ben.” You weren’t sure if you were laughing or crying or about to faint. You just needed to have him close.

He nuzzled his nose against yours, trying to convey as much affection as he could while not being able to move.

“This isn’t how I wanted it to be, but I need to ask you before anything else goes wrong.”

You stared back at him in alarm. “Nothing else is going to go wrong. Don’t you dare say that.”

He only smiled, devastating with his boyish grin and the cheerful crinkles around his bright eyes. 

“So? Will you?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I will.” Your words were muffled into his lips as you kissed him again, hands wound tight into his hair, never wanting to let go. You didn’t feel tired anymore. You didn’t feel your pain. All you felt was him. Even now he smelled so wonderful, tasted so wonderful. He was light and certainty. He felt like home. 

When you managed to pry yourself off of him, his eyes were glittering. He plucked the ring from its box and slid it onto your shaking hand.

“In sickness and in health.” He beamed. “I think we’ve already covered that bit.”

“Yes, we have.” You fell upon him again, breathless, everything fading behind the reality that he would be yours forever. It was a twist of fortune you’d never feel worthy of.

A few hours later you were snogging rather ferociously when someone began pounding on the door. It was emergency services. Just as Benedict had foretold, the bothy owners had seen the rockslide and sent help. He was infuriatingly correct in that way most of the time. A team of people dressed in yellow bandaged you both further and expressed surprise as how well you had handled yourselves under the circumstances. The rubble would take too long to be cleared but with specialty equipment they carried you expertly over to safety and into awaiting ambulances.

Your tallied damage was three leg fractures, three forehead stitches, three broken ribs and no concussion. ‘Symmetrically maimed’ as Benedict proudly announced to your family members who sped up to Scotland to collect you. In the subsequent weeks everyone was so busy fluttering around your injuries that no one noticed your ring finger. You and Benedict made a game of it, placing bets on who would be the first. You won the bet when three weeks in, Violet suddenly clamped eyes on your left hand and started yelping. Then added to the endless questions about your harrowing tale of survival, you were peppered with questions about wedding plans. Muscling through each day as a couple of lovesick invalids, you hadn’t found time to make any, but you had agreed on one thing. No matter where you went on honeymoon, hiking would not be on the itinerary.

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @faye-tale

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

you’ll never make me leave

I was feeling very whumpy after my nasty day at work, so here’s Jaskier being accidentally poisoned by, nursed back to health by, and confessed to by his idiot Witcher.

title from MCR’s “Thank You for the Venom”

thank you to @thecomfortofoldstorries for helping me out and giving me the good ideas (and also here’s some Julek content for ya)

tw: poisoning, Jaskier whump, angsty-ish but mostly just an excuse for Geralt to be real fuckin’ soft w/the bard

---

First Jaskier’s quiet fireside singing and playing slowed to a stop, his fingers slipping clumsily against Sexy’s well-tuned strings in a worrying kind of way. Geralt watched in silent confusion as Jaskier set his lute in its case and gently closed the lid. The bard’s usually bright blue eyes went glassy and glazed over. Any remaining focus in Jaskier’s gaze disappeared as he stared off at some distant point, pupils wide and unmoving. He sat like that for one minute, then two, totally unblinking. 

The worst sign of trouble came last, when the bard collapsed suddenly forward and began to shake uncontrollably atop his spread bedroll like a fish out of water. Geralt rushed to his side and dropped to his knees in the dirt, pinning Jaskier’s shoulders down so that he could assess the situation with his enhanced abilities. Already, he knew, this was very bad. 

The bard’s skin was white-hot to the touch, even through the material of his thick autumnal chemise; dangerously feverish for a delicate human like Jaskier. The Witcher tamped down his panic and tried to think as rationally as possible. It wouldn’t do Jaskier any good if he lost control now. The veins in the bard’s neck were pulsing with an odd violet tint and Geralt realized with a start that the thing ailing Jaskier was his fault entirely. 

The Witcher had only vaguely remembered the mushrooms from some book in Vesemir’s personal library. He thought they were safe for human consumption and that the poisonous hallucinogenic compounds would only affect Witchers like himself. As he knelt between Jaskier and the fire he had the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he’d probably gotten it backwards, and that he was the one who would be unaffected by ingesting them. He couldn’t test it now, though, because he needed to tend to his sick companion.  

Jaskier arched up against Geralt’s restraining hands, his slender hips and surprisingly strong shoulders twisting in some kind of panicked attempt to relieve the pain. His spine bowed and buckled in oddly timed waves as the toxins from the fungus raced through his bloodstream and pricked at his nervous system. Guilt and terror twisted in Geralt’s stomach like twin knives and he leaned down to press an apologetic kiss to the bard’s sweat-soaked brow. 

The contact was brief and burning and the Witcher’s slow-beating heart caught suddenly in his throat. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out, arms reaching and eyes searching blindly as if the Witcher wasn’t leaning over him. Wasn’t holding him tightly to keep him from getting hurt in his own frenzy. The bard released a low, shuddering moan followed by a harsh sob, begging: “Don’t leave me behind, please! I swear, Geralt, I can keep up! I can! I promise! Please!”

The Witcher had never felt such acute emotions so intensely before. The love he felt for Jaskier ached and stabbed and rippled out through him. The bard was afraid that Geralt wanted to leave him behind, which meant that somehow, in some way, the Witcher had failed to make his companion feel wanted or welcome. The truth was, the Path didn’t feel right when Jaskier was away.

“Julek,” the Witcher tried to sound as soothing as possible with his gravel-rough voice. He flinched when he heard himself and lowered his tone to a whisper, “Jaskier, I’m here. I’m not leaving you. I’ll take care of you; I’m so sorry.”

“Please,” the bard sobbed, wriggling violently in an effort to escape, “Please, no! Ger-a-a-alt! Come back!”

The Witcher’s heart cracked wide open in his chest when he heard the anguish in Jaskier’s voice. 

“Julek,” he breathed. He brushed the bard’s damp fringe away from his forehead and placed the back of one cool hand against heated skin. “I will keep you safe until you’re well again, sweet Julek, and then I’ll prove that I’m still worth all the time and effort and love you pour into me.”

“Hnn,” came Jaskier’s high whine in lieu of reply. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” Geralt asserted. “I swear I won’t.”

He wouldn’t. He would die here if he had to, curled around the bard, keeping him warm on the side that the fire didn’t reach in an effort to sweat the poison out faster. He would die protecting and caring for the one person who’d always cared for and protected him. In ways Geralt was only just beginning to properly fathom. 

Eventually, after much tossing and turning, Jaskier fell into a fitful but deep sleep.

---

Geralt stayed at his side all through the night, rotating which parts of him were facing the warmth of the fire and regulating his body temperature to the best of his ability. Jaskier released sad moans and pained whimpers every once and awhile, but what frightened the Witcher most were the snippets of sleep-talk,

“I swear I can be good,” he would whisper, sounding panicked. “I promise I’ll stay far away. I won’t touch you or Roach. I won’t. I just...”

Geralt’s heart clenched in his chest. Eventually he replied, trying to ease the bard from whatever hallucinogen-induced nightmare was plaguing him. “You just what, Julek?”

“I just want to be able to be near you.”

“Why?”

A flush lit up Jaskier’s pale cheeks, staining them violet with his tainted blood. “I- don’t make me say it, Geralt. You’ll run off again and I’ll be all alone. Always alone.”

“Say it, Jaskier. You’ll never make me leave.”

A sigh. Two blue eyes opened and met Geralt’s with a semblance of awareness and understanding: “I love you, Geralt.”

The Witcher leaned forward and pressed a soft, urgent kiss to Jaskier’s overheated forehead. “I love you, too, Julek. Now rest for me. Get better.”

The struggling stopped, then, and Jaskier sank into a deep and peaceful slumber.

---

“I had a horrible dream,” Jaskier rasped, waking Geralt from his slumber. “That you’d left me at some healer’s back down the road and continued on with out me. I don’t know why I would have such a horrible dream, but I’m glad it’s over and that I’m awake.”

“I love you,” Geralt declared. The bard rolled over in his arms and stared up, shocked. 

“Come again, oh great and broody Witcher of my heart?”

“I love you, Julek.”

“Oh, Geralt!” A pair of warm lips were suddenly pressed against the Witcher’s. Geralt pulled back and glanced away, biting his lip anxiously. Jaskier’s brows furrowed cutely. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my fault you got so sick in the first place and had that horrible dream,” Geralt explained. “I’m so sorry for hurting you like that. I should have paid better attention.”

“You’re forgiven,” Jaskier replied. He burrowed closer to Geralt’s chest and pressed a kiss to his Witcher’s clavicle. “But only if you hold me a little longer. I like this.”

“Hmm,” Geralt rumbled, finally content. “Me too.”

[crushcandles]

i came here for your d/s content but fever song just blew me away. so more whump? if you would like to 👀

Considering I’m the person who watched “Bottled Appetites” and thought, “This was great. But was if it was 10 times worse?” and then spent the next two years writing a short novel that includes: fireside bandaging, bedsharing for warmth and comfort, pain hiding, selflessness self-perceived as selfishness, blood, blood, blood, and someone so hurt they’re crying pink tears as they confront their own mortality, writing more whump in 2022 seems like an extremely good idea for me.

I’m so happy to be in a fandom where physical injury, stressful situations, and mental anguish are easy to come by. I don’t know if any of my current WiPs are whumpy, but it’s only February…

I would also love to write more D/s, but am not sure what that looks like for me in 2022. I welcome people’s input on the matter! Is there a D/s prompt list??

Tell me what I should be writing

[quillyfied]

playing catchup, here’s some thoughts about DCA episode 120, with 121 coming here in a bit.

- I love these fireside episodes, and Satine Phoenix is an excellent person to mediate their discussions; she’s very warm and empathetic and these losers need that desperately

- Strix’s timeline is screwy, as I believe I have discussed on this blog before, but…uh…there’s a particular piece of Strix backstory Holly wrote that if it happened before she went to Baba Yaga…yikes. I don’t want to discuss it in too much detail but Strix would still have been so, so young for this particular piece of trauma, that’s gut-wrenching to think about. All of their childhoods included some form of trauma at a heartbreakingly young age and all of it is hard to think about but wooow.

- Paladin training is no joke, but I wonder how much younger than the others Evelyn was, to have advanced to full paladin status at 22 (probably younger). Given her leg, that’s really hella impressive.

- Relissa and Kagan are TERRIBLE and I can’t wait until we meet them, I am hoping for bloodshed on Diath’s behalf. But now Diath’s question to Paultin during the therapy episode makes more sense—“Was she nice to you?” KILL ME

- Diath’s fond smile and his tone of voice when he says her name after Strix says “so we CAN kill them!”, I’m drowning in my feelings pls help

- Yeah, trying to parse the conversation better, it does sound like Diath was dating both of them. So polyamorous Diath is most likely canon, which is…huge, honestly.

- Just going off of the body language and his facial expressions…that is not Diath’s root fear of cages and enclosed spaces. He probably had that long before Relissa and Kagan got to him. If anything, being imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit would probably crystalize that fear into a full-on psychosis, if it wasn’t there already

- okay imagining little bitty Evelyn zipping around in her boots makes me SO HAPPY, what a cutie patootie she must’ve been. Her expressed desire to be helpful is also very telling of an active child who felt useless bc she couldn’t get around as well, and I’m sure Father Sunbright capitalized on that desire to be useful to turn her into the self-sacrificing paladin she is (I’m sure to make her self-sacrificing and indebted to him personally, not just Lathander, but I’m bitter about him and hope either he doesn’t get raised or if Telastin tries, he just doesn’t come back…sidenote, I wonder if Chris is worried about too many plot threads out there waving in the wind that he has to braid back together, I’m sure he can do it, but this season is so complex compared to others)

- MORE ABOUT PAULTIN’S CHILDHOOD PLS. NATE. NATE PLS. I know that alcohol-induced amnesia is a huge part of Paultin’s character as an in-game expression of Nate not having much of a backstory for him, but come on, it’s been years XD He probably wouldn’t spill about it just yet, anyway, Diath hasn’t. I’m just grumpy and impatient.

- Aww yeee plot pie

- I feel like Paultin and Sandra having a rental is an important detail in this particular case; it feels like a setup, if this crime family was making a habit out of going into noble houses and Paultin and Sandra’s house was close to one. Maybe Sandra was mixed up in something she shouldn’t have been and Paultin didn’t know about it bc he’d been busy with work before she died, but the face-mangling in particular is suspicious to me. The whole death scenario in general is just brutal, suggesting extreme emotion or senseless bestial mauling (leaning towards the second), but making the face unrecognizable…there’s usually a reason why that happens, and that reason is usually either trying to cover their tracks or body-planting. So what I’m saying is, I’m reserving a shred of suspicion that Sandra might not be dead (actually evil, off doing other things, not sure what the motive would be, we just don’t know enough about her for me to make a clear judgement, but I’ve got my eye on you, Chris). I do not want that to happen at all in the least, for many reasons, but still…hmm.

- Diath’s reticence makes so much more sense now but I’m still a little heartbroken that he doesn’t feel comfortable enough with Strix, at least, to divulge a bit of his childhood to her. Yes I am upset as a viewer that there’s still so much we don’t know (upset AND excited), but after everything the Waffle Crew has been through together, it’s still baffling to me that they have mistrust and uncertainty. But them’s people, I guess, they all have their trauma that they’re carrying around.

- “Please don’t call me Hokage” OMGF JARED

- For real, though, after the clusterbumble Plurio tried to pull with saying Paultin owed him, seeing the real legit 100% authentic Diath express yet more of his devotion to his friend by tracking down people who hurt him deeply in the past has me absolutely sobbing, these stupid boys care about each other so much. Also vengeance!Paultin is kinda terrifying to watch but it’s been a while, it will be interesting to see where his rage takes him this time.

- (Esepcially given the talk he gave Alisanda about rage and revenge and how that hatred never goes away and changes a person for the worse, hoo boy, I hope for their sake that Relissa and Kagan really didn’t kill Sandra)

- EVELYN NO THAT’S NOT HOW YOU CHILDREN. My inner daycare teacher is screaming.

- Nat’s devotion to Diath is a+++++ and I think she in particular is very good for Diath’s development as a person and a leader. Also Anna and Jared using sign language onstage was great, I don’t know if all if it was legit since I don’t know much, but it was still cool to watch.

- Diath needs to go bond with Simon next…especially once next episode finally sinks into him :P (I am pretty sure they let slip to Diath what happened with Simon and the kid during the therapy episode, but the players forgetting details is okay, they’re all human beings with busy lives and insane schedules)

- Paultin acknowledging Evelyn as Simon’s mom is the BEST, I’m just waiting for Simon to call them Mom and Dad out loud now :P

- THROW THAT SHADE, PAULTIN, YOUR SON HAS LEARNED FROM THE BEST. YES DIATH, LET’S DISCUSS HIDING THINGS.

- AGREED, VLAHNYA, THEY SHOULD ABSOLUTELY TALK MORE.

- Squiddly’s mode of breaking the fourth wall without actually breaking the fourth wall is amazing, I’m not sure what to call his in-universe fluidity with the rules of reality but it’s delightful, I’m so upset it is a little weird for Nate to hold entire conversations with himself in a dnd setting

- They need to learn to take care of the kids…and themselves…AND EACH OTHER…I think I feel a whump fic coming on

- All of these poor broken adults need a mental health day where they just do things for themselves, where’s that special episode, Chris Perkins

- little lesson about love~ (once again getting SO CLOSE to someone explaining to Strix about feelings and giving her context for romantic emotions, WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP CHICKENING OUT ON HER, SOMEONE EXPLAIN THIS BEFORE I DIE)

- Paultin’s face-touch to Diath is a masterful little touch of comedy, combining Paultin’s two favorite pastimes: 1. Messing with Diath, and 2. Bringing back random plot elements and using them to greatest effect. I am 99% sure that part of Paultin’s motivation for doing that was planting the idea in Diath to touch someone ELSE’S face :P Or at least, the part of me that knows Paultin ships his friends as much as we do wants to believe that. Jared’s face through the whole thing was killing me.

- Parenting, you guys. PARENTING. BEING RESPONSIBLE ADULTS. Oh gosh they’re going to have to leave Waterdeep at some point (bc I have a suspicion that Dungeon of the Mad Mage is going to be, if not THE last, then one of the last arcs DCA has, IDK how much longer fifth edition is gonna last and how many adventures they can turn out for it?? How often do they update DnD???), which means leaving the kids, which means there’s going to be a goodbye episode and I’m NOT READY.

- Elements of this are bleeding pretty flawlessly into the next episode, whether Chris actually watched the fireside as of streaming 121 or not, so once that post goes up, I’ll be glad to explore more about Simon and why I’m screaming in terror and delight.

[whumpbythefireside]

When they…

Get thrown against a wall, causing them to faint

Shakily get to their feet, only to fall back down as they try to walk

Ask for something just before they faint, especially if they trail off whilst speaking (“Sorry, could you quickly fetch me a…” *plonk*)

Are too weak to stand unassited

Feel themselves starting to pass out, so they grab onto the nearest person for support

[whumpbythefireside]

Bleeding heavily…panicking…knowing they can’t panic…shakily taking a flask of some strong spirit…almost spilling it as they’re trembling so much…sipping some of it…trying to calm themself down…standing up…putting away the flask…clearing their throat…mounting their horse…hand over the wound to staunch the blood…riding back to the rest of the team…

Actually, I should just write the scene.

[whumpbythefireside]

At last they faint where they stand- be that a dungeon, or a battlefield, or perhaps in a cold, dark forest, and when they’re wake they’re comfortable in their own bed.

*I take a deep breath*

*I explode*

[whumpbythefireside]

Terribly squeamish character in a historical setting becomes unwell and awfully feverish, meaning that a physician has to come and bleed them. Since they’re already semi-delirious, this is not a fun situation.

[whumpbythefireside]

Characters falling ill in the era when looking ill was in fashion:

“You look frightfully pale.” “Do I? Do I really?” “Yes, and- I wasn’t trying to flatter you, you know!”

“Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look alright.” “I thank you for the compliment, but I assure you I’m quite well.”

“We really must stitch it, we can’t have you bleeding to death!” “No, but surely you can leave it a bit longer? I want that…bloodless complexion everyone has these days. You know I hate powder.”

[whumpbythefireside]

Oh, drops of blood on the snow.

[whumpbythefireside]

I love a chap who gets so stressed he works himself up into a fever, then when somebody else (his lover?) asks if he’s alright, he’ll say “Yes, I…” then trail off as he collapses, preferably into their arms.

Medical accuracy? No, I’m afraid I don’t know her.