#get me a sick whumpee snowed in any time

[sickfictropes]

Do you have any of your favorite holiday/winter whump prompts? Low-stakes, heavy on the comfort, tiny bit of humor is perfectly acceptable, or go crazy :-)

slipping on ice! hurts like a bitch but usually isn't harmful. short story i stepped on ice a few years ago and fell flat on my back like someone had flipped me with a spatula. my friend asked if i was okay and all that i could manage was a weak, sad, whined "my body" because every part had hit the ground at the same time

no heat fics!! middle of winter, someone's heat stops working. caretaker takes them over to their own home and warms them up, then lets them crash on their couch (or maybe even in their bed).

being snowed in is a classic, but can be even better if caretaker was visiting whumpee to bring them supplies when they're sick and ends up staying for a while. by the time they're ready to end the visit and leave, they can't get out of the parking lot of their apartment.

a sick character throwing a holiday party and overworking themselves preparing everything, cleaning and decorating. by the time their friends arrive, they're falling asleep sitting up.

a sick character being bummed about being too sick to go visit family over the holidays, so their friends visit to help them feel a little better.

that's what i've got!! thank you for sending this and i hope you liked some of them! :)

[whumpy-butterflies]

Golden Cage - 6

Tags/CW: Defiant whumpee, nonhuman/monster whumpee, temperature whump, snow whump, whump aftercare

Sorry it took so long, but here’s finally the last part of the snow event! I got a massive writers block, but finally I managed to beat it. Good to be back, and always good to be torturing Cyrus! 

---

In the wake of the terrible cold, being in a comfortable warmth was almost difficult to understand. Ever since arriving in the hell Desmond had designed Cyrus had been cold. The cell they were kept in was drafty, and when they had finally gotten used to that they had been thrown out into the punishing cold. They had almost started to forget how warmth felt, and they had been scared they would never feel it again, left to die in the snow and ice. Yet now they found themselves in a warm, comfortable bed. Warm duvets were wrapped tightly around them, a shield against any cold that tried to make itself known. They were sitting up in the bed, leaned back against a mountain of pillows placed just right to support their back but giving their wings space. A tower of pillows supporting their spine, softer than anything they had felt for... damn, it had to be months by now. For the first time in their capture Cyrus was completely relaxed.

They had spent at least a day in that room, being nursed back to health and treating the fever that had ravaged them. It was only in the last couple of hours that the fog in Cyrus' head had begun to clear, allowing it to really sink in what a sadistic piece of shit Desmond was. The man really had been completely fine with watching Cyrus freeze to death, simply waiting for them to break enough that they would "learn their lesson." There was something sick, something so horrible, in that. It made Cyrus shiver, despite the warm layers around them.

"Fucking asshole", they muttered in the empty room. And, as if he was simply waiting to be called, the door opened and Desmond stepped in. Cyrus hated the way their muscles tensed up, and they sent Desmond a dark glare.

"Feeling better, my jewel?" Desmond asked softly, an easy smile on his face.

"Go to hell", Cyrus scoffed, but their voice was small. Desmond didn't like that kind of language, and they really didn't want to get thrown back out into the snow again. But Desmond didn't show any sign of reacting to the words, his smile going strong as he walked up to the bed. Cyrus let their gaze slide away, staring down into the covers as Desmond sat down on a chair by their bedside.

"You look much better now", he said, his voice so soft and gentle Cyrus could almost trick themself into thinking there was genuine worry in it. But they knew better than to think that.

"No thanks to you."

"Still talking back to me?"

Cyrus snapped their head up, staring at Desmond. Their eyes darted over his face, desperately searching for the anger that would get them chained up outside again. But Desmond only chuckled quietly, and reached over to pat their shoulder.

"No need to worry. A bit of backtalk isn't why I put you outside, after all. That's not what I expected you to learn."

Desmond's hand reached up, gently brushing over their cheek, and Cyrus could barely keep down the shudder of both fear and disgust at the touch. It made them want to scream, but nothing would be able to get over the cold lump of fear in their throat. In the end, all they did was sit quietly, feeling gentle strokes over their dry skin. The tension weighed down the air around them, making it almost hard to breathe in. They clenched their hands underneath the cover, wishing Desmond would just leave them alone already.

"Treasure." Desmond's soft voice made the hair on the back of Cyrus' neck stand on end. "Give me your hand."

The ice from outside came creeping back again. It wrapped itself around Cyrus', pushed itself into their veins and sank into their hollow muscles. It filled their spine, taking root in their core, and for a horrifying moment they almost believed themselves to be back outside, chained up and left to die. Despite everything in them screaming at their muscles to move, to attempt to get away, all they managed was weak trembling. Their fists were shaking under the covers. Yet Desmond remained calm, hand still held out in expectancy.

"Your hand", Desmond urged, a hard edge entering his eyes now.

"No", Cyrus breathed. The resistance wouldn't give them anything but pain, either dealt to Riley or through cold raking its claws through their muscles. They didn't have any way to escape, too weak to move out of the bed. At the moment even Desmond, a man most at home in plush armchairs in a well stocked library, would be able to overpower them. But... they couldn't stand the very idea of being forced outside again. Anything but that, even meaningless struggling.

Desmond's eyes grew even harder at the disobedience, and he leaned forward to grab Cyrus' arm. Finally Cyrus' muscles responded to the panicked orders from their mind, sparking to life for one glorious moment. They pushed themselves back, knocking themselves into the headboard, before they fell over. They buried claws in the sheets, attempting to get away from the man behind them, dragging themselves to freedom with all they had. Desmond's hand closed around their wrist, and he effortlessly hauled them back up in a sitting position.

"What was that?" Desmond asked, his voice that cold and even tone that meant rage Cyrus didn't want to experience. Their head was still spinning from the sudden movements, and despite using all the strength they had they couldn't pull their wrist free from Desmond's grip.

"No!" Cyrus gasped, something feeling far too much like tears burning in their eyes. "Let go of me!"

"You've only just made it inside, and you're already being disobedient?"

"I haven't done anything! You have no reason- Don't put me outside, I didn't even do anything!"

A knot of tears closed up their throat, making it hard to speak, but even in this state Cyrus refused to go down without a damn fight. They pulled one more time, finally managing to get themselves free, and they tried to scoot back again. They didn't make it anywhere before Desmond grabbed them by the arm and pulled them towards him, forcing them to look at him, kept in place by the iron grip on their arm.

"Calm down", Desmond said, the edge in his voice defrosting slightly. "What's going on?"

"You-" Cyrus' voice faltered for a moment, struggling through a hitch in their throat. "You wanted my hand. You're gonna hurt me again. But I haven't done anything!"

"You thought I was gonna hurt you simply because I asked for your hand?" He shook his head slightly, an almost amused smile on his face.

He let go off Cyrus' wrist, and Cyrus quickly snatched it away, pulling their hands up to their chest, out of reach for Desmond. Their black wings closed in on them, as if they were trying to form a shield from the pain and hurt Desmond brought with him. But they didn't manage to close all the way, nor even move close enough to brush against Desmond's side. One of their wings was still trapped, squashed against the headboard, as they sat on the edge of the bed, trying to lower their head to avoid Desmond's prying eyes. Desmond sank back down in the chair with a soft sigh, simply looking at the wreck he had created.

"Treasure, I wasn't planning on hurting you." He said, his voice soft and gentle. "But even if I was, you're not allowed to refuse an order. No matter the consequences, you will do as I say."

He held out his hand towards Cyrus once more.

"Give me your hand."

Cold swept over Cyrus, ice digging into their raw skin, drawing whatever blood their cold veins could offer. Their brain was flooded with the twisted relief when their legs went numb so they didn't have to feel the pain of kneeling for so long. The padlock on the collar burned their skin, a small, inextinguishable fire that scorched at every touch. It had been hell, the very memory of the pain and fear overwhelming their senses. Their hands had been the worst part, drenched in chillingly cold water that formed a cover of ice, biting like sharp fangs whenever Cyrus tried to move. Giving up their hand was the same as allowing it to be chained to the metal pipe outside, to be flushed in cold water and left to die.

But in front of them Desmond was sitting, hand out, waiting for obedience. Giving up their hand meant pain, but disobeying also meant pain. They had learned that well enough after the long time spent in the snow. There was only so far Desmond would allow them to go, and stepping over those limits meant being subjected to whatever that sick bastard dreamed up as a punishment. It was disgusting, horrifying in a way that knocked the breath out of them, when they realized how intensely they hoped for mercy. A mercy that could only be granted by the pleasantly smiling man, glasses slightly askew in a charming way, and a glimmer in his eyes. A mercy that wasn't promised by that smile, the smile that could just as well be hiding a shark's bite. And yet...

Desmond's hand was unexpectedly warm, in a comfortable way. As if he had been sitting with a cup of coffee warming his hands before he was tugged away by the need to check on his disobedient, annoying pet. He was surprisingly gentle as he held Cyrus' hand, only slightly tilting it in order to inspect the reddened, dry skin. 

"Such a shame", Desmond mumbled, and dread stirred in Cyrus' chest. Holding onto them with one hand he reached over to the bedside table. A small, round, plastic container was standing on it. The soft pink color and white lid made it melt into the background, inoffensive to the point of being forgettable. But as Desmond smoothly opened it, the soft aroma it gave, together with the fact that Desmond was using it, tipped Cyrus off that whatever it was probably had a steep price. Not that Desmond cared, scooping up quite a bit of the white cream, generous bordering on wasteful. But all such thoughts fled when that cream was placed on the back of their hand, and the soft coolness gently kissed their skin. It was everything Cyrus could have asked for in that moment, short of freedom with Riley, or for the whole ordeal to have been a nightmare. The cream did its best, though, and Desmond's touch was still light as a feather as he spread it. Gentle, careful. The pressure from his fingers was only stepped up when he began massaging the cream into Cyrus' dry, thirsty skin.

Cyrus couldn't keep down the sound of comfort that escaped them, and the corners of Desmond's lips twitched upwards. He was perfectly gentle, taking the greatest care. When he finally let go off Cyrus' hand it was already better, greedily drinking the cream that soothed the red, rough skin. Desmond scooped up more of the cream from the container, and Cyrus offered their other hand. At that Desmond did smile, properly. His eyes glinted with something pleased, a triumph, and it took a moment more before Cyrus realized why. By that point Desmond had already begun working on the other hand, the hand that Cyrus had freely offered without even being told, without even a hint to it. Eager. Asking to be handled.

A burning sensation spread in their chest, closing their throat and boiling their blood. It wasn't until the world blurred that Cyrus realized just how far they had already been broken. They struggled to blink it away, trying to not bring attention to that or how they were suddenly struggling to breath. In a small act of mercy Desmond pretended not to notice, even as Cyrus' hand shook in his grip. They hated him for it. For all of it. But the hatred was drowned out by the yawning abyss of self-doubt that opened up underneath them. Because even though they despised it all, they still remained, their hand in Desmond’s, without fighting back. Because they still craved the soft care of the cream. They still wanted the attention they were given. And that was worse than anything they had been through so far. 

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Can you do a part three of this?

For You Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

Thank you for asking for a continuation! I actually had one started, but thanks for the reminder to keep it going!

@forestfanders I didn't know if you wanted to be tagged again, but if you did here.

Warnings: cannibalistic behavior, implied sleep deprivation, fainting, mentions of eating animals in a gross way, vampires, blood, feverish whumpees, delirium implied, hospital setting, drugged mention, dead (minor) characters

~

Supervillain was knocked to the ground by a comet of murderous ferocity. Involuntary reflexes kicked in and there legs instantly shot up to block the attack, but Villain was quicker and was already clawing at Supervillain's chest.

Realizing that Villain had the upperhand, Supervillain grabbed the walkie talkie from their belt, pressed the botton and yelled,

"I need assistance in Villain's room!"

And then they went back to working on calming the thrashing villain down.

"Villain," Supervillain pleaded. Fierce yes, but also incredibly weak, the villain slowed their assualt.

Supervillain took the opportunity to grab one of Villain's wrists and twist it around. They stood up and flip Villain back onto their stomach.

Suddenly being completely vulnerable, Villain ceased all struggles and laid there limp, sobbing. Sounds of distress tore their way out of Villain's throat in animalistic tones.

"Villain," Supervillain released some of the pressure on Villain's arm and leaned close to their ear. They whispered soft words of comfort as a herd of henchman galloped into the room.

Instantly, the breathless cries coming from Villain were masked by the ramble of incessant questions.

"Are they okay?"

"What happened to them?"

"Have they... turned?"

"Why are you pinning them?"

"Oh my gosh, what happened?"

"Supervillain... are you okay? Tell me you are okay!"

"Should I call an ambulance? Or Hero?"

"Oh my, what do I do? I dunno what to do."

Supervillain didn't answer any of their concerned henchmen and gathered Villain into their chest, hugging them tightly while rocking back and forth. The movement made their heavy head drop, forhead nearly resting against Villain's head...

"Boss?"

Supervillain jerked, trying to remember what they were just thinking about. They must've dozed off for a second as they couldn't recall anything...

A hand was resting against their shoulder. A voice whispered something. But Supervillain ignored all signs of life outside their tunnel vision. They stood up on their knees, and clumsily shoved Villain back onto the bed.

They didn't notice a henchman help them.

Upon completing their task, Supervillain stood completely up.

Then it hit them. A wave of dizziness crashing down to make them stumble.

"I'm fine... f-fine... just lil'..." Supervillain slurred as they swayed.

"Boss?" Distant and cold.

As if they were buried under the snow.

Supervillain tried to step forward. "I-i-i... I..." they mumbled just as they fell to their side- limp as a wilted daisy.

"Someone, catch them!"

Two arms under their armpits.

And then they descended into darkness.

The door barged open and a steaming henchman entered the cozy bedroom that could also be described as a generous cell. Hero raised an eyebrow at the seemingly mad lackey.

"What can I do for you? Is it time for my blood to be mercilessly spilled for the sake of dear Villain?" Hero asked smugly.

"You mean the 'dear villain' that fed you, risked their life, and nearly died for you?" Henchman sassed back.

"I reckon that'll be the one," Hero confirmed, a smirk growing on their face. "Are they still sick? Or have they turned?"

Henchman replied with their own question, "How do you contain a vampire?"

And it kind of answered Hero's question as well.

"Well, you are containing me right?"

"A vampire that just wants to kill."

"Oh you don't," Hero said quickly. "Just give them a rat or something."

"We should feed you a rat, with mashed up worms as garnish."

"I'd prefer a cheeseburger."

"Well-" a sound of static interrupted Henchman's retort.

"Hello?" Henchman spoke into their walkie-talkie.

"Boss woke up, muttering something crazy. Looks feverish," came a reply from the other end.

"Figures. They wore themselves out pretty good," Henchman replied.

"Yeah. They said something about a magician, but we really can't trust anything they are saying right now."

"What about this magician?"

"Dunno, but apparently they know about vampires."

"So does Hero-"

"And how to un-vampire them."

"Oh," Henchman tutted, glancing at Hero who was unceremoniously making faces. "Knock it off!" Henchman growled.

"What's that?"

"Nothin'. See if you can ask where this magician is."

"As I said, we can't-"

"DO IT!"

"Okay, okay... hey boss, where is your magician friend?"

A bunch of garbled nonsense sounded from the other end.

"Someplace in the darkside of town," the henchman on the walkie-talkie said.

"Tell whoever assumed leadership that I'm heading out," Henchman said.

"'Kay."

Henchman turned to leave, but Hero's voice stopped them.

"If you don't feed Villain soon, they are gonna starve. They need to resume a human status soon. Can't you give them the pills?"

Henchman left without another word.

Henchman sauntered through the lazy streets, barely looking over their shoulder. They were somewhat accustomed to the creepy, dark and stagnant environment of the neighborhood.

The neighborhood must've got bored of whatever inactive game it was playing as a group of men and women jumped over fences and rushed at Henchman with guns in their hands.

Henchman pulled out their own handgun.

"What brings you here?" A classy man spoke, his voice taut with some kind of accent.

"I am searching for a magician."

Rumbles of murmured voices rang through the threatening crowd.

"We have no magician," the man spoke. Henchman raised their eyebrows- that was obviously a lie.

"Hmm. I see. What if I told you that Supervillain orders this?" Henchman asked.

There was no time for secretive whispers. An old man pushed himself through the crowd and hobbled over to Henchman. Despite the old, lethargic impression he gave, his voice was unnaturally deep.

"Henchman," he boomed. "Welcome to The Alley."

Supervillain woke up to flashing LED lights and the beeeeeep of monitors, signifying their awakening.

They coughed, trying to remember what just happened...

Villain. Attacking. Falling. Darkness... Supervillain shuddered. The hospital room surrounding them made sense now. They tried to sink back into the less than comfortable mattress, but a nagging reminder of Villain kept them from falling back asleep.

What if they were getting sicker? They didn't have anymore pills- that happened to cost ten grand a piece- so changing them back to human was not an option.

What if they attacked someone? Supervillain couldn't deal with three vampires. Two was more than enough.

Hero.

They thought of that insufferable luggage contently laying in a perfumed guestroom. Supervillain snarled. Once the drugs wore away, they turned into a little brat- sassy without a care for the world.

"Looks who's awake."

Supervillain's gaze shot to the door as Doctor and Henchman2 walked in. They craned their neck to look for Henchman, but discovered that they weren't there.

"Where's Henchman?" They asked, worry knitting at their voice.

"They went looking for a magician that you kinda fever-ordered them to pursue," Henchman2 replied. "They've been gone about seven hours."

Magician...

No.

"Gotta get them back," Supervillain speed-yelled. "They are in trouble."

Henchman2 flinched back towards the door instinctively.

"What do you mean?" Henchman2 asked.

"Magician, he..." Supervillain shook their head. "Never helps anyone."

(Flash foward in time)

Supervillain spat at the ground, wrists bound and tied above their head. Their henchmen were in a similar predicament, bound, or unconscious...

Or dead.

A voice cackled through the auditorium as a shadowed figure made its way through the red curtains.

"Welcome, my lowly servants." The voice, so familiar, yet so uncharacteristic rang through Supervillain's ears.

"Today," the voice continued. "I have a special demonstration."

The figure stepped to the center of the stage, dragging a bound and gagged hero behind them.

"I am going to show to you what happens when you mess with the master," the figure continued and drew a blade. They pressed it against Hero's artery.

But before they plunged the dagger, they whipped off their hood to reveal a pale, stony face.

Their eyes were sunken and devilishy black.

They were Villain.

[whumpingcrow]

"Lifeguard on Duty"

Another first person August drabble, focusing on parallels with Allen x August and Elias x August :)

CW: pool setting, drowning themes, injury descriptions (graphic), hypothermia mention, patronizing/degrading language, self destructive/masochistic whumpee, old injury being re-injured, stabbing mention, drug use/description (explicit), ptsd/flashback mention, weight mention, creepy/intimate/sadistic whumper, breaking bones, ableist themes, gun use (graphic), character death, blood (graphic), restrained whumpee (let me know if I missed anything!)

"Please," Allen whined for the umpteenth time, struggling helplessly against my tight grip. He'll bruise from it, I know, I've seen countless bruises blossom underneath my fingertips against his pale skin. He must be iron deficient, with how easily I can damage him. Unless I'm just much more rough with him than I realize. "Please, it's c...cold, I don't want to!"

I laugh at him. There's a sharp panicked edge to his begging, as if I'm not just tossing him in the damn pool, as if he's not a grown ass adult. I wonder if he knows how to swim. I don't ask him, deciding it would be more entertaining to find out this way. "I know it's cold, idiot, that's why it's fun."

Allen scrambled away from the edge of the pool that I'm dragging him towards, already shivering before he's even touched the water. He was only in a thin pair of boxers, and I bet anything the snow is making his bare feet burn. He gasps as I easily hoist him up, struggling, before I even knew him he was this small and pathetic thing, and sometimes I wonder if he sticks around me as a new form of self-destruction, if his bad habits before were getting old.

"P-please, I don't want to-"

I try to imagine what he feels when his body hits the water as I drop him carelessly in. His lungs probably constrict in shock alone, and judging from the way he doesn't move for a second or two, his muscles must be taught and paralyzed from the cold. When he does start moving, it looks like it might be taking great effort.

I watch in amusement as Allen thrashes about in the freezing water, gasping fearfully as he tries to keep his head above water. "You can't swim?" I tease him. Then, as if the idea of him keeping himself up by desperation alone isn't delighting me, I say: "If you told me that I wouldn't have thrown you in."

"N-no," Allen chokes out. "I-it's my leg-" his head slips back underwater, and he's only able to kick back up because of the panic that's overtaking him. I forgot about the old injury he told me about, one I've often thought about repeating, a pocket knife straight into his thigh, severing muscle and nerves. It must hurt to try and keep himself afloat in the bitter water with the not completely healed scar. And I nearly forgot that before we came outside, I had gotten him aggressively high, and he was complaining about his head spinning. I wonder how it feels now that he's nearly drowning. I can see his eyes search frantically for some sort of ladder or steps, but the pool is deep all the way around. It's surprisingly easy to remove ladders from a pool, if you've got the right tools. "P....please, August!" He begs again, reaching one trembling hand out desperately. He has no idea what it does to me when he cries my name that way.

"You're turning blue," I respond, kneeling down next to the edge. "It probably doesn't help that you're so thin, huh?"

Allen chokes on some water, pulled back under the waves once more. He stays under for a few seconds, allowing his legs to rest for as long as he can without letting the icey water or the lack of air take over. How much pain would it take for him to consider staying under, letting it overcome him? How long until he gives up, succumbs to the dark, choppy waves and sinks to the bottom, defeated?

Then he pushes himself back up above the water, his lips a slightly purple hue as he takes shivering, gasping breaths in through them. I want to kiss them until they're pink again.

"August," he wheezes weakly, the cold water is no doubt tiring out his muscles. "August, baby, I c...can't swim anymore....my leg...please..."

Again, my name coming out of his mouth in this way, soaked in desperation and agony and terror is too much, makes me melt on the inside. And then he's saying "August, baby," and it makes me think about how I'm going to have to warm him up somehow and I should probably get him inside and out of his wet boxers and start warming him up, that would be responsible of me. So I hold my hand out toward him. Allen takes it gratefully, eagerly, allowing me to yank him up and out of the water. He collapses onto his knees, wrapping his arms tight around himself.

He sighs in relief as I drape a towel over his shoulders, rubbing it against his arms to warm him up. "That wasn't f-funny," he huffs at me, almost scolding. "I was fucking sc-scared."

I stare at him in silence for a moment, then I stand straight again. Just as quickly as I started to adore him so much it hurt, I'm furious with him. He should be thanking me, thanking me for toying with him, for just dropping him in the water and not hurting him first, for taking him out so soon. I could have done so much worse, I still can do so much worse. He's ungrateful, he's an idiot, he's so fucking annoying. I don't say any of that though, I only take a step back before kicking him hard in the ribs, a sickening crack can be heard over Allen's animalistic cry. I watch him collapse, unable to breathe for a few seconds. Once he can, it comes in short, rasping gasps, and he grabs tightly at the towel wrapped around him. "Don't you ever speak to me that way, again." I growl at him, kneeling down and grabbing a fistful of his hair. "Understood?"

Allen doesn't speak, letting out a few weak, watery sobs. I see blood in his mouth, he can't breathe, his ribs are broken, I realize distantly, too distantly to care. He screams as I yank him up, holding him by the arm to dangle him carelessly over the pool.

"I said, understood?" I reiterate. Allen squeezes his eyes shut and his head drops back, like he's barely able to keep himself conscious under the haze of pain.

"Y...yes...." He manages to hiss out.

"Good. Now do a few laps." I drop him back into the water carelessly. As far as I can see, he doesn't even struggle this time, the pain probably too intense to allow much movement. He floats just under the water for a moment or two before he exhales, and he sinks to the bottom. I stare disdainfully at the water, waiting for Allen to struggle again. He doesn't though, and after a minute, I feel some of the severity of what I've caused.

I jump into the water after him, Allen was right, the water is viciously cold, biting and clawing at my skin. It takes all of my focus to push past it, not freeze up, and grab Allen to pull him to the surface. It's easy enough to fling him onto the snow covered concrete outside of the pool, then I climb out after him. Allen is still gasping in pain, holding his hand over an already bruising area of skin over his ribs.

"Sweetheart," I hear myself cooeing, my voice shaking from how badly I'm shivering. "Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't realize I hurt you so badly."

Allen flinches away from me, whimpering in pain. Once he's sure I won't hurt him again, he squints up at me, his whole body trembling. "I'm...I'm sorry...."

"Can you stand up? We gotta get you inside before you freeze to death."

Allen shakes his head weakly, sniffling a little as he does, tears springing to his eyes at how much even that hurts. I look over him, calculating. I have to figure out how to get him inside as quickly as possible, since I've obviously made painlessly not an option. "I think...I think I have to carry you."

"No," Allen pleads, voice soaked though with tears, "no, please, it...it hurts..."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But you'll get sick if you stay out here. How about I take you inside and get you a nice hot bath? Then I'll get you some blankets, we can watch a movie. How's that sound?"

Allen lets out a weak sob, closing his eyes tight as another bout of pain takes over. "Just g-go, hngh....go quick, please."

I nod, taking a deep breath to prepare myself. This specific brand of pain isn't as much fun for either of us, I've noticed that we both much rather prefer the purposeful, planned out torture rather than the agony that comes before relief. "I'll try to make this painless."

Allen's breathing catches suddenly at that, and he stares up at me in horror. I've said something upsetting, I realize, I can tell by the look on his face alone. This happens often, when I say something that sounds too close to things I've said before, when we first met. We were different then, I was hurting him for the money and he only knew me as the dumb ass rabbit mask I had to wear to not be recognized. I can tell he's spinning out into a flashback, the way the horror in his eyes is veiled over in a way that's not totally present, afraid of something he's been through before, frightened by the outcome he already knows is coming. He's suddenly overcome with adrenaline, and he scrambles way from me, slipping a little on the snow.

"G-get away!" He cries, holding up an arm in a pathetic attempt to defend himself. "Don't touch me again! Leave me alone!"

I frown at how quickly he's moving, how it must be wreaking havoc on his already shattered ribcage. I need to calm him down, he's hurting himself worse and it's going to be my responsibility to fix and I'm already annoyed enough with the damage I caused. "Allen...I'm not going to hurt you, swee-"

"Please, please, don't touch me! I'll do anything you a-ask, just don't t-touch me!" He's shaking still, but I guess at this point it's more out of fear than how cold he is.

"Ok," I speak softly, inching toward him. It's fucking freezing, I want him to stop freaking out so we can go inside and get warm. "I won't. Just please, calm down." I hold my hands up to try and make him understand that I mean no harm, that I'm just trying to help. Allen takes a few shaking, shallow breaths, looking at me with wary eyes. He slowly lowers his own hands. "That's it, good boy."

Recognition falls over his face, and just like that he's back with me. He's no longer apart of a ransom, I'm no longer a villainous rabbit, and he let's out a relieved whine. Before all of his adrenaline completely fades and his body remembers that it's supposed to be in pain, I pick him up and take him inside.

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

I left for ten god damn minutes. When I ducked out of the room to do some lines in the bathroom, I was slightly entertained by the idea of Elias, adorably stupid Elias, rolling on molly and tweaking helplessly in front of all of my patronizing friends. I had noticed how he was completely oblivious that they were teasing him, high as he was, thinking all of their mimicking and joking was all in good fun, and I wondered what it would take to make him realize that it wasn't.

And now, in the ten minutes that I've been gone, one of them had a gun. The first gunshot stuns me for a moment, freezing at the sink where I'm washing my face off, listening closely because who the fuck is shooting a gun? And then the second one rings out, and the third immediately after, and then I'm flying down the hallway and into the now empty kitchen. I see them crowded in front of the pool outside through the window, and my heart sinks when I don't see Elias.

When I'm outside, I can sense their panic before I'm even close to them, they're all cussing and shouting at each other, "oh shit dude why did you fucking do that you weren't supposed to really hit him what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

I shove my way through them, coming to a full stop in front of the pool. The water is stained red around Elias's thrashing silhouette under the waves. I turn to look at them to find the stupid motherfucker that did this.

Sawyer, the stupid motherfucker himself, gives himself away immediately, one of my friends from before I met Allen. He's holding the gun up in admission, horrified look on his face as he rushes "I'm so fucking sorry, man, it was an accident, I swear!"

I snap the gun out of his hand, enjoying the wet crack that comes when I pistol whip him right in the cheekbone. It's satisfying, but it isn't justice, not yet. Elias is bleeding in the pool, and Sawyer is just a pathetic bitch crying on the ground. I shoot him in the leg. There's the justice. Blood is already puddling underneath him, and everyone else is shuffling away in fear, worried they might be next for being bystanders.

I walk a few feet to the left, where Elias is growing still under the water, his fight weakening, presumably from blood loss. I'm able to get a grip on his arm, and I pull him up and drop him on the sidewalk. And then I see his arms are tangled up -tied up, actually- in his own shirt. Suddenly the single wound on Sawyer's leg isn't enough, suddenly I'm blinded by an overwhelming urge to watch him die. Suddenly justice just...doesn't cut it.

I untie Elias and pull him up to his feet, hugging him close to my chest to try and ease his panic. He gets my clothes wet and blood stained, his shoulder is where they got him, and it's now soaking the entire left side of his body in blood.

When I force the gun into his hand and tell him what he has to do, he freaks out. He begs me not to, he says he doesn't want to that. I don't care what he wants, he doesn't understand that this is well deserved, that Sawyer has to take responsibility some way.

Sawyer begs too, as much as he can through his fear. I'm bothered at how he thinks that asking for mercy is going to save him when he's done something so awful to Elias.

I tell Elias to stop moving, I tighten my grip on his trembling hand, I make Elias pull the trigger. He flinches and then turns to stone against me, it feels like his body stops completely, down to the beating of his heart, down to the blood in his veins. I feel better instantly, satisfied. I take Elias inside to clean him off.

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Whumptober Day 26: More Then A Simple Headache

Summary: Written for Whumptober Day 26. Post-RttE, Pre-Httyd 2. When ice and snow come to Berk, it means Hiccup's home will be covered in boobytraps he cannot see. And that means the occasional accident cannot be avoided.

Rating: General

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid, Toothless, Stoick

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 1 397

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: Concussion

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: Definitely a lighter Whumptober submission, probably more h/c than actual whump. But I had a lot of fun writing this one.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy

Ao3

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

The hit is instantaneous and so is the pain in his skull. So are the worried rumbling and the gasp that follows his fall. It briefly becomes black before his eyes and Hiccup doesn't make an immediate attempt to get back up.

"Oh no, Hiccup! Are you okay?" Much like Toothless, Astrid is a witness to Hiccup's fall and comes over to help him back up to his feet. There's a smile on her face, though he can't tell if it's out of sympathy or slight amusement or both. Probably both.

"Stupid ice, stupid prosthetic." Hiccup mumbles under his breath as he takes Astrid's hand to get up, rubbing the back of his head as it pounds.

"Wow, I guess your hair isn't as helpful as I thought it'd be." She teases and wipes the snow off his person.

"Oh, making jokes, are we? Didn't think you'd take enjoyment out of my pain." Hiccup responds, dusting himself off. Toothless hovers around him, circling him and crooning.

"I'm-I'm okay, Bud. That was just a little embarrassing, is all." He tells him and pets his nose, though his pounding brain would like to disagree. This is why he doesn't like the cold. Everything freezes over and when you get as much snow as they do, you can't always see the patches of ice until your pegleg slips on them.

And it happened in the middle of the village, too.

"Ah, happens to the best of us, lad." A Berkian man tells him and claps him on the shoulder as he passes. Hiccup gives him a friendly smile, though it does nothing to lessen his embarrassment.

"He's right, this can happen to anyone." Astrid agrees and then watches him appear to taste something funny, his brows knitting together.

"What's wrong?"

"I think I bit on my tongue." Hiccup replies, tasting the uncomfortably metallic tang of blood on his tastebuds.

"Today is not your day, is it?" Astrid wonders out loud.

"Not my day to take a walk, apparently." Hiccup replies, resisting the urge to spit out the blood in his mouth as he continues on his way.

"You don't want to go by Gothi for a second? Have her take a look at that?" Astrid suggests as she follows, Toothless rumbles in agreement as he walks by Hiccup's other side.

"For something as trivial as that? I don't really see the point. Besides, what skull is thicker than a Haddock's?" Attempting to divert their concern elsewhere, Hiccup jokes and pretends like a hellish throbbing isn't currently knocking on the back of his head.

"A Thorston's is. And we don't say that you have thick skulls, we say that you are thickheaded." Hiccup gazes at Astrid in overly exaggerated offense.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hofferson! You can't just go around insulting my entire clan like that! All two of us!" Astrid laughs and Toothless speaks up.

"Toothless, Bud, stop agreeing to everything she says."

As they walk away and push the incident to the back of their minds, a Terror by the name of Sharpshot lands on the spot where he'd just seen his human friend fall. He'd been in the area when he saw it happen and he needed to take a look.

He sees that he's right, that his eyes aren't deceiving him, as he notices tiny specks of red on the frozen ground.

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

Hours later, Hiccup sits at the dinner table with his head in his hands. The pounding inside has gotten worse throughout the day and he's begun to suffer from the light. Every time he just looks at a torch there's a sharp pain behind his eyes.

A block of ice drops on the table, making him jump.

"Ah, sorry, son." Stoick apologizes and comes to sit on the opposite side of the table.

"So what manner of trouble were you in today?" He asks.

"Trouble me? Since when?" Hiccup asks in return, already squinting in the dim light of his home.

Sharpshot jumps down from the rafters and makes a fuss on the table.

"Sharpshot, off the table! Hiccup!"

"Sharpshot, we don't have any leftovers for you, Buddy." Hiccup picks the Terror up like a cat and places him on his lap.

Feeling misunderstood, he starts yipping at Toothless instead, who raises his head in question from his spot by the fire. He murrs back and gets up, understanding the little one's plight. He trods over to Hiccup and starts sniffing his hair.

"Toothless, what're you doing?" Hiccup asks, drawing away and holding the spot he'd hit earlier.

"Hiccup, how hard did you fall this afternoon?" His father asks, probably having heard about it from someone else because why would his son tell him anything?

"I didn't hit the ground that hard." Hiccup tells him, but Sharpshot and Toothless both disagree as they protest.

"Your dragons seem to think otherwise," Stoick states, their reaction not lost on him.

Not finding any way to dispute that, Hiccup instead holds the back of his head quietly.

"And I noticed you've barely eaten. Feeling sick, do we?" So that about the leftovers is clearly a lie and Hiccup hadn't missed the way his stomach churned with nausea.

"It's not a big deal!"

"Clearly it is. Gothi should still be up at this hour, you're paying her a visit." Stoick decides and already gets up from his seat.

"Oh, I don't want to bother her at this hour," Hiccup speaks, watching his dad march towards the door.

"You should've thought of that before you decided to be stubborn." He tells him and grabs his cloak and Hiccup's furs.

"Oh great," Hiccup mutters and leaves his chair.

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

The next day, Hiccup still lies in bed late in the morning on Gothi's orders. He has only just woken up, but still feels just as tired as the evening before. Toothless lies in bed with him and is taking up the majority of the space. The dragon's head rests on his shoulder while Hiccup lies on his side.

He's looking up at Astrid through tired eyes as she leans against the post near the stairs to the ground floor.

"So what did she say?" She asks with a knowing, but still sympathetic, smile.

"Concussion." Hiccup sighs. Astrid nods to show him she heard him, barely fighting the smugness she feels.

"You want to tell me "I told you so"?" Hiccup asks, able to read it off her face.

"I do, but I won't." She says and approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed on what little space he has left. Hiccup watches her sit down, but then he closes his eyes. The candlelight on his bedside table might not be bright enough to hurt, but the pounding still demands that he not see a thing.

"How bad is it?" She asks, leaning on a hand.

"Bad enough that Gothi wants me to stay in bed?" Hiccup attempts to turn onto his back before he answers, but Toothless' size doesn't allow him that much luxury and so he has to settle for this.

"In that case," Astrid says and decides to divide Hiccup's space by half as she comes to lie in front of him.

"Oh come on, Astrid." Hiccup groans in dismay, but does take her in his arms.

"Don't you dare groan, I know you don't entirely oppose of this." She scolds him, pressing her ear against his chest.

"That's a really long way of saying that you see this as an excuse for a nap and you're not taking 'no' for an answer." Hiccup retorts. Doesn't matter if his head pounds or not, the sass must come.

Astrid laughs, but doesn't dispute that. Hiccup opens his eyes again, his concussion not stopping him from gazing at his girlfriend. Toothless' snoring fills the silence.

"Good night, Babe," Astrid tells him, not blind to the fact that it isn't even midday yet, and Hiccup nods to show her that he will in just a second. He takes a lock and puts it behind her ear. He does like having her here.

But then Hiccup closes his eyes to get the sleep that he needs. Not even half an hour later, Hiccup is asleep with his head on Astrid's chest. Astrid is still awake and running her fingers through her boyfriend's hair absentmindedly. She's content staying like this for a little while longer.

[green-eyed-whumpster]

My OC Universe: Rowan 130

Chapter 130 Summary: Marie comes for William. And surprises Rowan, seeing her after so long. (Tags: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @much-ado-about-whumping, @abitefullofeverything, @whump-me-all-night-long, @sky-or-something-idfk and @tears-and-lilies)

Trigger Warnings: PTSD whumpee, reference to previous abuse, reference to character death, threat, man-handling, verbal abuse

Peter and Rowan managed to figure out a way for Rowan to completely avoid William’s company. Peter leashed him outside for a few hours so Rowan could wash in peace, Rowan would grasp brief walks outside to stay active and get some fresh air. He always felt awful for Peter, though, who insisted on sleeping in full view of their prisoner. Rowan gave him pillows and blankets from his bed which he refused, in case the comfort allowed him to sleep too deeply or for too long. William realised soon that his manipulation wouldn’t work on Peter, and Rowan was nowhere to be seen, so he spent the days in almost complete silence, waiting in agony for Marie to arrive and drag him kicking and screaming back to his prison.

One morning Peter was preparing a cup of tea when he heard sounds outside. Multiple sets of hooves churning up the melting snow as they drew closer to the house. His eyes lit up and he abandoned his tea to turn to William, who had also heard the sounds and was waiting for the inevitable, his pale grey eyes dull and filled with dread.

“I have a feeling you’re finally going to be out of Rowan’s life forever.” Peter grinned. “But I promise, if you escape and come back here, I won’t hesitate to kill you.” William nodded weakly and turned his head away.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m sure Marie will have me kneecapped to prevent it happening again.” He paused uncomfortably and looked up, flinching as Peter narrowed his eyes. 

“If Rowan is going to stay here for the rest of his life,” He hesitated before continuing and shrugged. “Keep him happy –“ He jerked as Peter dragged him to his feet to glare at him easier. “I’m sure you will, but…he was a good creature, I am going to miss him.” He flinched as Peter struck him hard and attempted to blink through the pain.

“You’re so sick and twisted that you can’t even feel real emotions.” Peter hissed. “You never cared for him.”

“I may be cruel, but I still felt things.” William replied, grunting as he was shoved unceremoniously towards the door. “Most frequently pride. I never wanted to admit my fondness for him, and used his that remained to try and save myself. But still, his company was worth more than I told him. And I admit I took it for granted. You don’t have to tell him this if you don’t want to,”

“I won’t.” Peter snapped. “You’ve played with his head enough.”

The air was cold as he came outside, the horses bore the royal crest and the men dismounting them wore the formal royal armour, so Peter pulled William out as well. It was liberating to be able to drag William into the wet ground and push him forward, finally this creature would leave his property and his life.

A particularly impressive horse drew closer and as Peter looked it over he realised the creature mounted on it was a woman, and her dress was a thick crushed velvet embroidered with golden thread. He fell to his knees as he recognised the Queen’s face and lowered his head respectfully as she drew up to him.

“Are you the one who owns this land?” He had never heard the Queen’s voice before, and it was such a foreign concept that he struggled to process her words.

“Yes, your majesty,” His head jerked up as he heard the crunch of another approaching horse and immediately lowered it again as the Prince came beside his mother.

“Confiscate my husband.” She ordered and two of the soldiers moved to take William’s arms and drag him over to their company.

“Lovely to see you again, as well, my love,” He said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And speaking of your love, did he receive you as you predicted?” She taunted in reply and he flushed, with rage or shame it wasn’t clear. “Speaking of, where is the boy?” She wondered.

“He…he’s inside,” Peter said softly, reluctant to reveal Rowan’s hiding place.

“Fetch him.” He looked up as the soldiers nodded and threw himself to his feet.

“I –“ He hesitated nervously and swallowed the lump in his throat. “If you would permit me to go and get him?” He asked. “I’m afraid he may be hiding from your majesty,”

“Why would he be hiding?” Marie scoffed.

“Your majesty apparently made a promise to kill him if you ever saw him again.” Peter said cautiously.

“You did.” Alexander added and Marie let out a sigh.

“Fine,” She said flippantly. “Whatever will save the most time, I’ve already spent three days on horseback.” Peter nodded and took a step back.

“Thank you, your majesty,” He said. “I won’t be a moment.” He raced into the house and opened the door to his room. He could hear the soft squeak of fear and felt his chest tighten sadly.

“Hey, Rowan?” He checked the rest of the space before crouching down to look beneath the beds. “The Queen wants to speak to you,” Rowan’s eyes shone black with the little light available beneath the beds.

“Please, Peter!” He squeaked. “She’ll kill me!”

“I don’t care what it means, but she has assured me that it means I won’t need to think about him ever again.”

“No, no Rowan,” Peter soothed. “I won’t let her. I’ll be there the whole time,” He extended a hand beneath the bed and watched as Rowan considered the idea.

“All right,” He murmured, shimmying out from his cave and taking Peter’s hand.

“Good, I promise you’ll be safe,” Peter smiled.

“If I don’t she’ll just send in guards to drag me out,” Rowan reasoned and Peter sighed softly.

“Just take a deep breath, it’s almost over.” He said as he wrapped a blanket around Rowan’s slim shoulders.

As he left the house again he felt Rowan’s hand tightening in his. Marie was waiting impatiently, looking around the sparse clearing and glancing over to her enslaved husband who was antagonising her son. She looked up when Peter reappeared and he saw her piercing blue eyes searching past him for the one she was after. He knelt once again in front of her but Rowan stood stoically beside him.

“Your majesty.” The cold air swallowed up his soft and stern voice.

“Rowan,” Marie said in mild surprise. “You look much healthier, this man treats you well?” Rowan appeared to be startled by her question and hesitated.

“He-he does, thank you, your majesty.” He muttered. He was confused by her interest.

“Good, you look to be in good health.”

“And you, your majesty, considering,” The last word was barely a whisper, but both the royals heard it.

“The impertinence,” Alexander hissed, but Marie held a hand out to him.

“He was only enquiring.” She answered calmly. “Considering the damages that William’s presence certainly inspired, he is entitled to a level of respect not many others deserve.” Her voice was calm but firm, she wouldn’t punish him for mentioning such things, but she won’t allow her own power to be threatened.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Rowan whispered. “Your majesty always was far too kind to me,” She smiled slightly as his courage waned and he reverted to his more comfortable state.

The party all turned as another horse burst from the trees, the soldiers raising their spears in preparation to protect the Queen and guard against William’s release. Rowan and Peter were completely at a loss as to who the newcomer would be but as they pulled up their steed and leapt off they recognised her as Cordelia, and relief flooded in Rowan’s chest. She swept unflinchingly past the soldiers and the nobles to place a hand on Rowan’s cheek and the other press on Peter’s shoulder.

“You’re all right?” She asked breathlessly and he nodded gently. “Get up, you fool,” She directed to Peter, and he sheepishly rose to his feet, keeping his head bowed.

“Forgive my interruption, my lady,” She said, directing her attention to the Queen. “But I was held up in the city.” Marie only nodded in understanding and shrugged softly.

“Of course,” She said. “Who wouldn’t want to witness William’s recapture?”

“Look how powerful you are surrounded by armed guards,” The prisoner spat and grunted as a soldier struck the back of his head.

“You know, maybe this time I really will have your tongue ripped out.” She hissed to him. “Let’s go. I don’t want him to be in the open for any longer. Make sure he’s gagged.” Rowan fought to avoid staring as William’s mouth was wrapped tightly with cloth and he was thrown over the pommel of a saddle, much like how he had been transported when he was imprisoned.

“Here,” She said, tossing a heavy purse to the ground before them. “For your loyalty to the crown.” Rowan’s eyes turned to it and only dragged away from the reward when he felt her moving.

“Wait! Your majesty?”

She hesitated for a moment and allowed her horse to settle before indicating for him to continue.

“Would I be allowed to ask you something?”

She paused for a moment to consider the request as Alexander raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

“If you want more money then you won’t get it.” He said firmly and Rowan turned his head down shamefully.

“Oh, hush, Alex,” Marie sighed, climbing from the saddle to stand before them. It was far more intimidating having her stand at their level. “What is it?” She asked and stepped towards them.

“I-I…”

Rowan swallowed heavily and fell instinctively to his knees, followed by Peter, despite Cordelia’s previous demand. Now that she was close enough that he could smell her perfume he was swept up with the dreadful memories that came with her refined scent.

“I heard an order that William was dead,” He finally choked out. “I thought you were killing him along with…” He hesitated but they both knew what he was referring to. “Wh-why didn’t you kill him?” His voice trembled weakly as he finally spat out his question and he heard Marie’s gentle sigh.

“We intended to punish him,” She admitted. “We wanted to keep him alive until we broke him. But his arrogance is so strong that not even torture managed to blunt his tongue.” She shook her head gently and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Alexander and I’s own arrogance wouldn’t allow him to win by killing him while he still retained some of his dignity. He feigned an injury and while a guard was moving him to another cell he escaped. It is our own fault and I’m sincerely sorry that he managed to find his way back to you.”

Rowan’s breath caught as his head whipped up to look at her, the notion of the Queen apologising to him was so ridiculous that he couldn’t hide his surprise.

“No-no, your majesty, really there isn’t anything for you to apologise for!” He squeaked and watched in bemusement as Marie chuckled softly.

“I hope you are trying to teach him to stop apologising so much,” She said to Peter as she stepped forward and cupped Rowan’s cheek gently, her soft leather glove sliding across his skin.

“I-I’m trying, your majesty,” He replied, flushing at her direct acknowledgement.

“I must admit, when we first came to the castle I was quite cruel to you, I hope you can forgive me, I didn’t understand the part you were playing was for your own survival.” Rowan couldn’t breathe as he felt the Queen’s touch on his skin. “Any creature who could pretend to be so devoted to a monster like William deserves respect.” Part of him craved the superior affection that he hadn’t felt since being released, but still his stomach pooled with dread at the dominating touch.

“Thank you, your majesty,” He breathed nervously and she gently took her hand away.

“I promise on my crown that William will never disturb you again. Alexander and I owe much to your loyalty.” Rowan was still unperturbed by this level of kindness Marie was offering him and barely knew how to answer through grunting softly in reply.

“My lady, would I be permitted to remain here for a few days to ensure Rowan’s peace of mind?” Cordelia asked and Marie nodded.

“Of course. I don’t need your reports until the end of next week, take your time.” She said and turned, climbing gracefully back onto her horse. “I am glad you’ve found a safe place, Rowan. Please let Cordelia know if you need anything in the future and I will make sure it is provided.”

“Oh…that-that’s too kind, your majesty,” Rowan gasped and she shook her head.

“As someone most impacted by William’s cruelty it is justified.” She said and glanced down as Alexander helped steady her horse. “Oh, also,” Rowan looked up timidly as her voice paused and watched her study his face. “Cordelia told me you were close to your bodyguard. I am sorry he didn’t survive.” Rowan looked down sadly and managed to bob his head in agreement.

“Thank you, your majesty, your condolences mean a lot,” He muttered.

“I hope you understand that there was never anything personal Alexander and I held against you, you were purely collateral damage.”

Rowan didn’t have the strength to lift his head as he heard the party turn to go, he didn’t want to risk catching William’s eye as he finally disappeared.

Hopefully this time for good.

[fancifulwhump]

Pssst jaskier prompt if you're interested: I'm a sucker for geralt being soft and caring while refusing to acknowledge it - so a fic where there's something wrong with jaskier - maybe he fell into an icy lake, or is getting sick or something, and geralt takes care of him like a total tsundere? *angrily shoves blankets at him* *stoically checks his temperature* *gruffly makes him soup* *WE'RE NOT FRIENDS BUT ALSO I WILL SIT AT YOUR BEDSIDE NURSE YOU BACK TO HEALTH UNTIL YOUR SINGING AGAIN*

@hurt-comfort  asked:   Hey hey! Loving your writing. I'm @hurt-comfort. I would love ANY Jaskier whump (use any prompt on my blog). I'd love to see like, Geralt just needing to comfort Jas (because he WANTS to even though he has the social IQ of a potato.) "When the whumpee is in like a daze, just sitting and staring at nothing because of something traumatic. Then someone forces them to either eat, get changed, or just move. Like shellshock" and Geralt has to be like "Jaskier, listen, it's okay"

AN: okay, okay, there was a lot to work with here, but hopefully I hammered it into a scenario that makes sense? “Falls through thin ice” is such a great whump trope and also a real nightmarescape of mine, so… let’s all enjoy the trauma together, guys!!

It’s not as though Geralt doesn’t care. That isn’t it at all. If he cared less, Jaskier probably wouldn’t get into scrapes like this   ---  he’d find his own trouble, of the ‘incensed husbands and fathers’ variety, but would cross paths with far fewer monsters. If Geralt didn’t care at all, he’d have abandoned the fool in some insignificant village long ago and never thought twice on the subject.

If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have fished Jaskier out of the damn lake.

Fine. That’s... not true. He would have done it anyway. The terror he felt when he heard the ice crack  ---  that heart-plunging, vein-chilling terror  ---  he could have gladly gone without. Instead, he was almost frozen by it. From the ominous creak of the ice beneath their feet, to the sudden sharp scent of unfrozen water, to Jaskier’s half-hesitant  “Geralt ---”

Before the ice gave way.

It took him too long to move. Too long to spring into action, too long to force his body to cooperate with his racing nerves. Witchers are trained to never be caught unaware, to react on instinct  ---  a slow witcher is a dead witcher  ---  but he wasn’t fast enough to catch Jaskier before he plunged through the ice.

Where he vanished, only a hole remained  ---  and the water underneath, black and churning, small chunks of ice bobbing like forgotten fragments amidst the inky depths. Nothing thrashed; nothing moved. Geralt plunged both arms in, ignorant of the cold. His lone thought was catching something  ---  an arm, a foot, the collar of a jacket, anything to prove that Jaskier was down there. Yet as he groped through the murk, he found nothing. 

“Jaskier!” he bellowed, the sound echoing across the frozen lake. If the bard could hear him underwater, he gave no indication. Beneath Geralt’s knees, the ice creaked alarmingly, but Geralt fought through the natural instinct to retreat. Not without the damned bard. Dead or alive, he wouldn’t leave Jaskier beneath the surface.

He began to scramble, clearing snow from the frozen laketop to reveal the hardened ice beneath. It was like looking through a mirror into another world. Above was all he knew, all he’d ever known; below lay a foreign realm of darkness and desolation. Some battles even witchers could not fight, and a frozen lake was one of them.

Jaskier was nowhere, nowhere. Nowhere at all. Beneath the ice was a vortex of blackness, no thrashing body in sight. He must have sunk, Geralt’s furious mind realized, sunk right to the bottom, dragged down by that damned lute, and that’s the end of him  ----

With a roar of fury, Geralt’s fists slammed down on the ice. “Jaskier!”

For a beat, nothing happened. And then the ice broke.

This time, Geralt’s reflexes served him well. He scrambled back, finding his feet half a second before the frozen ground he’d been kneeling on shattered. Back, and back, the ice splintered and broke, widening the crevasse of churning water. No longer was it safe to stand on; the ice would not tolerate any more weight. Geralt took a step back, gaze fixed on ice’s open mouth, gaping and hungry…

There, a movement.

There, something white and fluttering, like a bird in its death throes.

There, a fucking hand.

He moved too quickly for even the ice to catch him  ---   but Geralt caught Jaskier, and that was the important thing. In one swift movement, he hauled the thrashing man up, out of the water and onto solid ground. Not solid for long, though. Even at the weight of Jaskier’s body flopping onto its surface, the ice groaned and gave way some more. A hand still locked around Jaskier’s forearm, Geralt seized hold of his companion’s other. There wasn’t a second to waste, even to make sure he was alright. Heaving Jaskier’s pliant body up and over his shoulder, Geralt ran.

Ice breaks fast. Witchers run faster.

He would have tried to save Jaskier anyways, Geralt thinks as he sets the bard’s limp body down on solid ground, but it would be so much easier not to care. At the moment, he cannot stop caring. The crack of ice still rings in his head, dogging him like one of Jaskier’s songs; though he takes little notice of the water’s lingering chill, it’s obvious in the stark whiteness of Jaskier’s face. Somewhere in their mad flight, Jaskier vomited up any water he swallowed. Now, he simply shivers in his damp clothes, still gasping like a fish on land. Something in the icy air doesn’t agree with him, because he keeps coughing, and he’s trembling —

Geralt does care. That’s the difficult thing. Because caring for humans is a fragile process, a risk with limited possibility for reward. Humans are so breakable, and there are so many things that can go wrong.

Caught in a moment like this, he isn’t sure how to care for Jaskier.

“You’re fine,” is what he settles on, drawing back to survey Jaskier’s shaking form. “Damned ice.”

It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault, of course. For once, he wasn’t blindly catapulting himself into mortal peril. Even Geralt hadn’t realized the ice was so thin… which is the real bitch of it, because Geralt should have known. He’s the one with heightened senses, with the ability to smell damned ice in the air — Jaskier couldn’t have known, but he should have. He should.

“You’re alright,” he says again, awkwardly patting Jaskier’s shoulder. Even under his touch, the bard quivers… but he’s still in wet clothes, and the afternoon is frigid. Right now, they need to get him warm.

Surely that will bring the blood back to his cheeks, and chase away that expression — a wide-eyed, blank look, so utterly unlike Jaskier that it’s unnerving. His open mouth still gulps in greedy lungfuls of air, which he proceeds to choke on. Any chance of regaining his composure is clearly beyond Jaskier right now, so it’s up to Geralt to drag him back.

Literally, as it turns out. When, after a few minutes, Jaskier tries to find his feet, his knees immediately give out on him. He winds up crouched on the frozen ground, hands digging into the dirt, practically curled in on himself. His head ticks against his chest as he trembles, eyes squeezing shut. Geralt waits a moment, weighs the cost of Jaskier’s dignity against his own, and finally offers a hand.

Jaskier doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look up.

“Damn it all,” Geralt grunts. This was exactly what he didn’t want to do — yet it seems there’s no choice. Either he leaves Jaskier to freeze in the middle of a frozen wood, or lead him along like a child. Since Jaskier isn’t in any condition to give his preference —

Tucking one strong arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, Geralt hauls the bard to his feet. For one frightful second, his legs seem ready to give out beneath him again; but Jaskier slumps into Geralt, trusting his weight, and manages to stay upright. Geralt takes one step forward. Jaskier manages to follow. Another step, and another, and soon they are walking. It’s not much — Geralt is basically Jaskier’s walking stick, used to ground him despite his violent shivering — and Jaskier still hasn’t found his voice, but it’s enough. It gets them where they need to go.

When Great grunts and nods to the horse, it’s enough of a shock to resurrect Jaskier’s voice. “You —“ he croaks, then clears his throat with a wince. “You w-want me — t-to ride —“

“Get on the horse,” is all Geralt says, turning away. Chances are, he’ll regret it. Chances are, Roach will resent him for it. But with Jaskier riding, they’ll make it to town within the hour. Given the choice between an inn’s roaring hearth or defrosting over a sickly campfire, he can guess which one Jaskier would prefer.

By some small shred of common sense, the bard doesn’t hesitate. After a few pained grunts — which Geralt does not turn around to investigate, because it’s not his damn job — Roach lets out a huff of her own, and Geralt starts walking. The steady rhythm of hooves behind him reassures that Jaskier manages to make it up.

His estimate isn’t far off, either. They make it to town within the hour, riding past rows of dreary brick-and-mortar buildings towards the heart of town. Usually, Geralt is welcomed with stony silence by suspicious village folk; today is no different. Having Jaskier as a companion does come with rare advantages; he burns so brightly and appears so guileless that people can’t glare at him the way they do at Geralt. When Jaskier rides into town at his side, they are often given far warmer reception. Jaskier charms cart-vendors, smiles at children, winks at passing ladies (and gentlemen)... he makes himself welcome wherever he goes. Geralt May be a far more imposing presence, but he finds himself swept up in Jaskier’s tide, carried with him where he goes.

At the moment, however, Jaskier is in no state to charm and cajole his way into a dreary town’s good graces. He simply hangs low on Roach’s back, head bowed, as they ride through the streets. His shoulders still quake with the occasional shiver; his breaths are a bit too heavy for Geralt’s liking, and he’s too quiet. Somehow, Geralt finds himself more preoccupied with Jaskier’s state than the hostility radiating from the wary villagers.

The local inn has a spare room for the night, a warm bed, and a bath. It’s good enough for Geralt. He slides their coin across the table, steps back outside to collect Jaskier off of Roach — he’d trembled too hard at the notion of coming inside — and makes short work of hustling him up the stairs. As soon as the door closes behind them, Geralt guides Jaskier to the bed, form hands pushing both shoulders down. Jaskier doesn’t even bother with a token protest.

“Your clothes,” Geralt says. When Jaskier stares at him blankly, he curses. “They’re still wet.” Frozen, in fact, hardened with a thin sheen of frost against the night air. Leaving them like that is guaranteed to lead to problems later on; Geralt has no desire to leave town tomorrow with a pneumatic bard trailing behind. He reaches out, giving the sleeve of Jaskier’s jacket a tug. The leather is stiff, sending a hail of ice crystals raining down onto the mattress, Jaskier doesn’t react at all. 

So, that’s how it’s going to be? 

If Jaskier won’t do his own damn job, Geralt will do it for him. Scowling, he manhandles Jaskier’s jacket and jerkin off. In moments, he is left in nothing but his undershirt. That’s soaked through too, but the fabric isn’t as frozen; Jaskier could easily shrug out of it on his own. Still, he makes no movement to.

“What’s the matter with you?” Geralt demands.

Jaskier says nothing at all. His gaze shifts away from Geralt, across the room towards the closed window. Something about him — be it his hunched posture, eerie silence, or the far-off look on his face — feels as though he isn’t here at all. Jaskier has wandered off without Geralt noticing, going somewhere far away. Wherever he’s gone, Geralt doesn’t know how to get him back.

After a long moment, he sighs, casting the half-frozen clothes aside. When he strides across the room, his footsteps resound against the wooden floorboards. It’s easier to fill the silence with something instead of nothing at all. Somehow, it leaves him feeling less alone. The inn’s portress has filled a metal tub with steaming water, leaving it right outside their door; Geralt makes quick work of dragging it in, grunting as he goes. By the time it’s set up, the floor is littered with puddles, and his pants are uncomfortably soaked — but the memory of Jaskier emerging, white as death, from the black depths stifles any complaint instantly.

Looking back up at the bard, he’s shocked to see Jaskier showing signs of life. He’s found his feet again, and even removed his undershirt. Now, his hands fumble at the laces of his breeches, but they’re shaking too hard to manage.

Geralt allows himself exactly half a minute to settle on absolutely not, before caving in. It’s either this or watch the bard bathe half-dressed, which would be even more pathetic. That’s what he tells himself, at least, as he roughly shoved Jaskier’s hands aside and undoes the laces himself.

“You — you don’t h-have—“ Jaskier’s murmured protest cuts off. The job’s already done. Geralt looks back up at him, unconsciously seizing one of his wrists; automatically, a hiss escapes past his clenched teeth.

“You’re still freezing!” Geralt has met ice wights with more heat in their bones. No wonder he’s trembling so badly — shock mixed with potential hypothermia is a dangerous combination. Either one on its own can be debilitating, but both of them bad enough could be lethal.

“Bath. Now,” he orders brusquely, giving the bard a shove towards the steaming tub. Still dazed, as though caught in a waking dream, Jaskier stumbles into it. He doesn’t even whimper as the hot water envelops his freezing limbs, though it has to hurt. His thousand-mile stare shifts away from Geralt and down to the water. After a moment, Jaskier goes utterly still.

“You need to soak. That won’t stay warm all night.” When Jaskier gives no indication that he’s even heard, Geralt grunts in frustration and kneels at the side of the tub. “Hey!” He gives Jaskier’s shoulder a jolt, and he jerks to attention abruptly. The blatant fear in his eyes takes Geralt aback. He expected exhaustion, even irritation, but not — whatever this is.

“The water closed over my head,” Jaskier exhales, and evening his voice sounds a thousand leagues away. “It happened so fast… like I was swallowed. And I couldn’t — I couldn’t breathe, Geralt, I couldn’t — couldn’t swim. It was so cold —“

“Jaskier.” His hand is still gripping a bony shoulder; now, Geralt’s hold tightens, pulling his companion towards him. When Jaskier tries to pull back, he won’t let him. “Look at me. Hey.” Jaskier is still trembling, but Geralt grounds him with the contact, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You,” he says slowly, “are safe. This water is warm. It’s not going to hurt you. Nothing’s going to hurt you as long as I’m here.”

“It almost—“ Jaskier starts, then cuts off. Geralt understands anyway. It feels like a blade to the gut.

“I know,” he says after a long moment. “I’m… sorry.”

“Sorry?” Jaskier blinks at him, as though slowly awakening from a deep sleep. “Geralt… you saved me.”

But he wasn’t fast enough. “Still.”

Slowly, Jaskier shakes his head. His legs relax in the water, fully submerging, and he sinks up to his chest. Finally, finally, he’s no longer trembling. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s not what Geralt deserves, but this day has given Jaskier nothing he deserves either — not a near-death in a frozen lake, not the clumsy care of a brute who has no idea what he’s doing. This bath is the first nice thing to happen to him all day… and suddenly, Geralt is determined that Jaskier shall enjoy it.

Reaching in, he cups a palm full of water, and releases it over one pale, bare shoulder. Unwillingly, Jaskier lets out a gasp. Steam rises and quickly evaporated off of the chilled skin, but the mere touch of water is enough to make Jaskier want more. He quickly sinks down, submerging himself up to his chin. Geralt watches carefully, intently, just in case.

He will not be too slow to save Jaskier this time.

After a long moment, the bard shifts in the water and says, in a small voice, “Thank you.”

Geralt has no idea what he’s being thanked for; he simply huffs and turns his head, looking away.

[toomuchponytail]

How about an older sibling as the caretaker, watching their younger sibling getting tortured in front of them, unable to intervene?

Oh Anon, this is so crazy good, the one long-term story I’ve been working on forever has at it’s core a mutually protective sibling relationship, (Plus some found family/enemies to found family tropes) and they go through some trauma, I love this trope with all of my heart! Thank you so much for sending this along! I hope you like the garbage I have shoveled forth, it is, alas, for you my love. 

I hope your day is as magic as the first day of spring, when you find that the crocuses are alive--really alive under all of that snow, snow that bites your fingers numb and reddens your nose, but doesn’t really ever manage to kill off the daffodils. I hope that the earth feels green and vibrant beneath your warm fluffy-socked feet nestled in bright rainbow galoshes. I wish you a day as bright and magic and unbelievable as spring. I’m sending you love and the inevitability of ducklings, (Sorry if I got a little overboard with this, I just get so excited I get a little carried away? I’m the worst and I’m so proud of my annoying-ness lol). 

“Don’t you touch them!” The caretaker roared at the whumper, their arms were chained behind them to the wall, which was the only thing keeping them from ripping the whumper to pieces with their teeth, the whumper knew this, they were setting up just out of reach, like they were taunting a dog on a leash.They were almost pulling their shoulders out of their sockets in their frantic yanking, “You want to torture somebody torture me you asshole!” 

The whumper smirked, “That just wouldn’t be as efficient though, and I take pride in my efficiency.” 

The whumper tightened the straps holding their sibling to the table, helpless tears formed in the caretaker's eyes, “I’ll do anything! J-just don’t hurt them!” 

“It’s too late for that I’m afraid,” the whumper forces a gag into their sibling’s mouth, they whimper softly, wide fear filled eyes fixing on the caretaker like they are begging them to do something. 

“Next time I imagine you’ll be much more helpful when I ask you questions about your friends.” 

“I’ll tell you what you want! Let them go and the information is yours!” they promise feverishly, bleeding from where the shackles have ripped open their wrists, not that they noticed, all of their energy was focused on getting to their sibling, their little brother/sister, god they’d always sworn to protect them, their failure was as bitter as bile on their lips now, as they begged for the whumper to spare them. 

They tried curses, they’d tried begging..When they realized, that the whumper wasn’t going to spare their sibling, that they were going to be tortured in front of them they swallowed convulsively, heart pounding in their throat--they were going to be sick, but this wasn’t about them, even if it was their fault. 

“Hey, kid,” they say as gently as they can, trying to get their sibling’s attention off of the whumper gathering their tools, when they look over at them--animal fear in their eyes they force themselves to smile gently, “That’s it, look at me, don’t look at them....” They swallow again, tears flowing unchecked down their cheeks, “remember that time we went out and I stole that truck?” 

Their sibling nodded, recognition in their shiny eyes. 

“Remember how it felt that night? How the summer air was warm still? Remember all of the stars we saw...You told me it reminded you of a dark cathedral ceiling, remember?” 

Their sibling nodded again, glancing fearfully as the whumper got closer. 

“When it happens--” the caretaker’s voice broke, “When it hurts I want you to look at me, and go back there okay?” 

Their sibling takes a deep breath, they blink tears free, the first of many, and nod again, shuddering as the whumper gently traces the whumpee’s cheek with the tip of their knife, not drawing blood just yet. 

“Ju-just keep looking at me,” the caretaker chokes out, even as they still yank futility on the chains. 

The whumper started soon after that, first a knife, ripping their sibling open as they screamed brokenly on the table--the caretaker screams too, unable to do anything but scream, it lasts for hours, the whumper switching from cutting to burning, to pouring rubbing alcohol on open wounds. At some point something in the caretaker breaks, their ragged screams dissolve into broken sobs they sink to the ground on their knees, leaning the chains taught. 

When their sibling finally passes out from the pain, their body going limp and still, their eyes rolling back in their head, the only sound in the room is the broken sobbing of the caretaker--they know that they whumpee will never be the same again.

They also know it’s their fault. 

The whumper stalks close, grabbing the caretaker by their chin, the whumpee’s blood still on their hands, smearing onto the caregiver’s face. 

“Now,” they smiled darkly down at the almost catatonic caretaker, “About you telling me what I need to know....” 

Or, alternatively: 

The whumpee meets their sibling’s eyes as they are tied to the whipping post, ignoring the goosebumps that roll down their exposed back and arms. 

Their sibling is fighting like mad, growling and spitting, but they are tied securely--the whumper has made sure of that. 

“Sis/bro?” the whumpee forces a smile onto their tired, pale face, “It’s okay, I can take it, don’t tell them anything, don’t give up our friends no matter what okay?’ 

“You’re j-just a kid,” their older sibling whimpers brokenly, “You don’t deserve--” the whumpee sees their sibling wince in empathy before they even feel the burning tongue of the whip, they grunt in surprise at the intense stinging pain. 

“Don’t tell them anything!” They beg as the whip stings them again, they try to sound brave but their is fear darkening their eyes. 

“You can make this stop at any time!” The whumper calls out to the caretaker, normally stoic now shaking with rage as tears roll down their face, they snap the whip again, but the whumpee is holding it in, trying to make it easier on their sibling, they watch their sibling dissolve as the strength leaves their own body, at some point hot blood drips down onto their legs, it’s about the same time that the room starts to fade and their knees buckle underneath them, leaving them hanging by the ropes that bind them. 

Unable to hold in their cries of pain anymore they whimper weakly at each strike, not that they are able to tell them apart anymore, it has all faded to a white-hot burning agony, there is a buzzing in their ears and their head rolls limply to the side, their sibling is shouting something, frantic in their yanking on their own bindings. 

Their sibling’s face, pale and somehow both furious and unbelievably sad is the last thing they are able to focus on before they sink below the darkness, succumbing to the ringing in their ears. 

[shannonwhumps]

day 1: shaky hands

relationship(s): Steve/Tony, mentioned Superfamily whumpee: Steve word count: 1.4k

When Steve was a kid, he wasn’t good at much of anything...he wasn’t even good at living. He struggled to breathe and walk on a daily basis. If he was outside for just a second too long during the winter, he’d be sick in bed for days.

So attempting to develop any kind of skill would be pointless. He couldn’t play ball with the other boys in the street. He couldn’t chase any kids around to play tag. He could sit and read, but that wasn’t really something to brag about. Everyone could read.

But not everyone could draw.

Neither could he at first. Of course, his mother always complimented his sketches, but as he grew older, he knew they were nothing special. Just any other stick figure drawing a kid could have.

So, he practiced.

He spent his winters, curled up in a blanket with his mom sketching on every open space in his sketchbook. As the months passed, he could tell when his mother started to actually become impressed by his work.

And for once in his life, Steve felt proud of something he did.

That never changed. Even after the serum, his art was always able to make him feel just a little better about himself. When nothing else was going right, at least he had his art.

Until that mission.

The mission that was weeks ago.

He should be fine by now. His serum should have taken care of all the wounds and he should be good as new-- better than new. And for the most part, it did. The gash in his head was closed up and there wasn’t even a scar. The burns were long gone. His skin was as smooth as a baby’s.

It didn’t scare him at the time. It had been a rough mission and all Steve really remembered was shoving Peter-- as Spider-Man-- out of the way of a falling building. Steve was unconscious for most of it. He woke up hours later in the infirmary, barely remembering anything from the fight.

When he woke up to see Peter staring at him, that look in his eyes let him know whatever happened was not good.

It was a few days before he was awake and coherent at the same time. Then the doctors ran through the list of injuries and what was wrong. He didn’t worry about it. Burns healed. Wounds closed. But two words that did scare him were: brain injury.

For the first few weeks, he had just been slower than normal. Slower to answer questions, slower to speak for he didn’t stumble through his words, slower to react, slower to move. But he was slowly getting better. The doctors didn’t promise a recovery as all brains were different, especially the brain of a super-soldier.

The one thing that wasn’t getting better was the shaking. ‘Tremors’ the doctor called them. His hands didn’t constantly shake, but they shook at the worst times.

When he tried cupping Tony’s cheeks in his hands, they shook.

When he tried clipping Dodger’s leash on his collar, they shook.

When he tried finishing a puzzle with Peter, they shook.

When he tried drawing, they shook…

When he was with Tony and he noticed the shaking, he’d just take his hands in his and kiss them. Dodger couldn’t understand why it was taking Steve longer than normal to get him ready for their morning runs. Peter was always patient even when Steve wanted to just throw the puzzle.

But he drew when he was alone and no one was there to hide his frustrations from. No one was there to calm him down.

He was trying to finish painting a new landscape for Peter’s fishbowl because of course, they had to change it as seasons and holidays changed. He was making one that was more springy and less winter themed. The snow was melting outside and the sun was coming out for longer amounts. He needed to finish this.

But every time he tried to paint the flowers on the grass, his muscles twitched and the paintbrush jerked harshly, ruining the painting. He was on his sixth try when he had such a bad tremor that it caused his brush to make a stroke across half the canvas. And ruin it.

“Dammit!” He yelled, throwing the paintbrush to his table. When he was upset, it only made the tremors worse, but he couldn’t focus on relaxing when he was so pissed off at everything.

He looked down at his hands as they shook, whether, from the tremor or the anger, he wasn’t sure. “Can’t you just stop?” He yelled. “Can’t you just let me do one thing? One thing I’m good at?Please. Let me paint this for my son. It’s not even for me.”

He stared down at them as they continued to shake. They didn’t stop until...there was someone grabbing them softly.

He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision. His husband was standing in front of him. “Tony, when did you get here?” He wanted to pull his hands away and hide them, but Tony held them still.

“FRIDAY told me you were upset. You’ve been doing nothing but staring at your hands for a while now…”

A while? It didn’t feel like more than a few seconds to him. “I’m trying to paint…”

Tony looked down at the table where his discarded mess of a painting was. “The doctors say it could be a few months...why don’t you take it easy?”

Steve grunted, yanking his hands away. They started to shake again. “Because I took it easy for the first 18 years of my life. I never did anything except draw...and now I can’t even do that.”

“Says who?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Look at it yourself, Tony.”

“Make it into something new. Isn’t that what your artist always says? Happy little accidents?”

“Don’t use Bob Ross against me,” Steve warned with no heat to his words. “I don’t want any accidents because there shouldn’t be. I just want it to be like normal.”

Tony turned around to his table and picked up a sketchpad and a pencil. He pushed them to Steve’s chest. “Take that and draw.”

“Tony, I can’t,” he repeated, frustration bleeding through his voice.

“Do it. Just try.”

Steve huffed loudly so Tony knew he wasn’t happy with him before taking the pad and pencil in his hands. He decided to try something simple and just draw his shield. Just a few circles and a star. He could do that with his eyes closed.

Except now, he was only a few seconds into it when his pencil suddenly veered left and ruined his circle. He couldn’t even draw a damn circle. His eyes started to burn in humiliation. “I told you I can’t do it!” He hated how his voice broke and shook just like his hands. His damn hands-- he felt like a child. He felt like he was 10-years-old again and Bucky was trying to teach him how to hit a baseball and he couldn’t even do that.

“Keep drawing, Steve. Don’t stop.”

“Tony, it’s horrible--.”

“Finish the drawing.”

Steve clenched his jaw and started to drag his pencil across the paper again. When the pencil spiked away from the arc Steve had going, Tony said, “Don’t stop,” before Steve could even lift his pencil up. He couldn’t stop drawing it until he had it finished.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Tony, Peter could draw better holding the pencil with his teeth and drawing with his eyes closed.” Steve refused to even look at the drawing.

Chuckling, Tony said, “You’re giving him a little too much credit, love.” He sighed when Steve didn’t react to his comment. “Steve, you’re being too hard on yourself. So, it’s a little shaky. It’s not going to last forever. And even if it did, it’s still art and it’s still beautiful. No one can take that away from you.”

Steve shook his head. That wasn’t beautiful. Not compared to other stuff he’d done.

Tony hovered his hand over Steve’s hand that was holding the pencil. “May I?”

Steve wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he nodded his head anyway.

Tony placed his hand over Steve’s and started to move it across the paper, drawing with the pencil. He lifted his hand a few times when needed and when it shook, Steve wanted to pull away of embarrassment, but Tony held his hand through the twitches until they were finished. Even as they admired their work, still he held Steve’s hand.

“Looks good doesn’t it?”

Steve laughed down at the doodle. It was a messy heart with the initials T and S written inside it.

“You know,” Tony said softly, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “I think that may be my favorite piece you’ve ever done.”

Steve hated that he couldn't help but smile. "Yeah. Me too."

my ao3 | buy me a ko-fi

[set-phasers-to-whump]

love and luck

Prompt: comfort (alt no.3)

Whumpee: Keith Curry

Fandom: Irregulars

hi here i am with a fic from a fandom that doesn’t actually exist it’s literally just Me and that’s all. which is such a shame bc irregulars is such a dope universe and i love the characters so much!!! on the extremely extremely unlikely chance that someone who actually knows what i’m on about is reading this, this is set sometime post-cherries worth getting, keith and gunther are like Together but it’s not super super serious yet...(also this isnt terribly whumpy but the focus is comfort so..its fine)

Keith Curry wouldn’t consider himself an especially lucky man. People who are ex-accidental cannibals don’t generally consider themselves lucky. People who had been anti-goblin to their coworker-with-benefits-turned-boyfriend who had turned out to actually be a goblin also don’t generally consider themselves lucky. Keith, boasting both of those accomplishments, had considered himself to be someone with a relative absence of luck.

The key word there being had. Because he can hardly say now that he’s unlucky. Not when he’s curled up in a squeaky hotel bed in San Francisco, with one Gunther Heartman sleeping peacefully next to him, hogging the blankets and breathing deeply. 

Keith is trying not to look at him too much, because the way the moonlight is filtering through the window is making him look absolutely beautiful, silvery and radiant and god, that sounds so cheesy, but it’s true - and Keith thinks he might love him, which is a little too much to be thinking at midnight, so he’s trying not to stare and trying to fall asleep and trying not to think about how he just might be luckier than he’d thought.

His resolute not-staring eventually gives way to sleep, and Keith immediately takes back his previous statement about having any luck as he falls into what he knows is going to be a terrible dream. 

He is standing in front of a stovetop, hand wrapped securely around the handle of a frying pan. A steak sizzles inside, seasoned to perfection and on its way to being medium-rare. Keith stares at it. He knows he’s dreaming, naturally, but that’s about all the control he has over the situation. Someone taps his shoulder. He turns around, looking away from the steak, keeping an ear on it so it won’t overcook.

“Gunther?”

Gunther nods, smiling, looking very pleased with himself. “Surprise,” he says, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Keith’s cheek. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I just come visit my boyfriend at his restaurant for no reason?”

Keith flips the steak in the pan with a flick of his wrist. “No,” he decides, finally returning Gunther’s smile. “What’s up?” He turns away for a brief second to check on the steak, but when he turns back around-

“Gunther?”

He’s gone. Keith turns back to his steak, for lack of anything better to do.

Someone taps his shoulder again. He spins around, already yelling at Gunther for wandering off without telling him, and stops cold. Gunther stands in front of him, all gleaming white bone and red eyes and a gruesome smile-if you could even call it a smile-on what passes for his face. “The meat is going to burn,” he says, his voice sounding exactly the same as it had a few seconds ago, when he’d been...just him. 

Yet again, Keith turns back to his steak, feeling shaky and faintly sick. He looks into the pan. And screams. Sitting in the cast iron, cooking beautifully, smelling nearly done, is Gunther’s arm, or a cut of it, anyway. There is nothing immediately obvious on it to distinguish it as anything but an arm, but Keith knows, instinctively. He stumbles backwards, and a pair of arms wrap around him, pinning him tightly. “Keith…” says the voice he knows so well. But it isn't Gunther, can’t be, because part of him is cooking on Keith’s stove right now…. He fights frantically against the arms, flinging up an elbow. 

“Keith!”

“Stop!”

“Keith!”

He jerks awake, breath heaving, sweat dripping down his forehead, and flinches backwards when a hand touches the side of his head. 

“Hey, Keith, it’s just me,” says Gunther’s voice, but the last time Gunther’s voice had spoken to him, he’d been cooking on Keith’s stove, so the reassurance does nothing. 

He’s trying desperately to get himself under control - he’s had plenty of nightmares similar to this before: cooking people, Gunther being a goblin and him being not okay with it, but the two combined is something uniquely horrible. 

Before he can think about whether they’re really at the talking-deeply-about-their-deep-seated-issues stage of their relationship, which is surely what is going to happen eventually if he goes down this path, he’s crying and trying frantically to explain the whole situation to Gunther, which goes quite poorly and consists of a few garbled sentences, sobbed out breathlessly into the dark.

Gunther, for his part, is momentarily startled into inaction, having never really seen Keith cry before, but instinct takes over soon enough, and his arms wrap around Keith in a move that would be very comforting if Keith had just been dreaming about anything else. 

Instead, though, Keith jerks backwards, tumbling inelegantly off the bed, which, if nothing else, jolts his mind back into reality. “Ow,” he says, and laughs thickly, his throat still clogged with unused sobs. 

The light beside the bed clicks on, and Keith glances up. Gunther is standing above him, concern etched deeply into his face, and Keith laughs again, and then suddenly he’s back to crying, and he’d try to hide it but he’s pretty sure that bridge has long been crossed, so he just looks to Gunther helplessly instead. 

Having learned from his previous error, Gunther sinks down across from Keith, leaning against the edge of the bed, not reaching out to touch him, but sitting close enough that Keith can initiate the contact, if he wants. “It’s okay,” he says, because he doesn’t really know what else to say.

Keith shakes his head and sniffs. “You wouldn’t say that if you - if you knew what I was dreaming about,” he says, and buries his face in his knees. 

Gunther sighs, and very cautiously extends his foot to press against Keith’s leg. When he doesn’t pull away, Gunther speaks. “I don’t care what you were dreaming about,” he says. “You can’t control it. And you can tell me, if you want.” 

Ordinarily, Keith would stop the conversation there - he’d say something like, “that’s nice, but I don’t want to talk about it,” and leave it at that. But he’s still slightly out of it, and more than a little freaked out, and if he loves Gunther (how can he not?) he supposes he should talk to him about this kind of thing. 

So he does. He recounts the whole dream, not sparing a detail, refusing to look Gunther in the eye. When he finishes, he finally looks up, half afraid of what he’ll see in his boyfriend’s face. 

Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this - pure compassion and concern and caring, so openly painted across his features that it damn near makes Keith start crying again. 

“Can I touch you?” Gunther asks. “It’s okay if you say no, I just-”

Keith nods after a second’s consideration. He feels less jumpy now, and the nightmare’s intense feeling has begun to fade, so that when Gunther’s arms wrap lightly around him, he just feels Gunther, and not the snow goblin or the cooking meat of his dream. 

He melts into the embrace, trusting Gunther to hold him up and keep him steady. 

--

Some time later, they’re both back on the bed - sunlight is peeking through the curtains, Gunther is chewing on the end of a cigarette and flipping through the case file, and Keith is leaning his head on Gunther’s shoulder, a hot cup of coffee in his hands and a warmth settled over his heart. 

Maybe he’s luckier than he’d thought, he reflects. Maybe he’s not. Maybe his luck doesn’t matter quite so much as what it’s led him to, which is this: he’s staring at Gunther, every bit as gorgeous in the early morning as he was in the moonlight, and Gunther has abandoned the case file and is looking right back at him with a look Keith doesn’t want to name on his face, and it’s a lovely morning in a grungy hotel which will turn into a less lovely afternoon chasing down a cannibal on the streets of the city, and he is in love.

If you read this i love you but also….why?? If you just read this bc you thought it seemed fun or whatever but you’ve never read irregulars then Please I Am Begging You read it i am the only person in this fandom and i’m Lonely!! And if for some miraculous reason you read this bc you Know What I’m Talking About then please for the love of all that is holy hit me up bc as i said i am All Alone. Anyway regardless of your motives thanks for reading!! I hope you have a lovely evening!

[whumpingcrow]

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 3

Snow Day

CW: BBU and everything in relation to that, drugs/alcohol (explicit), party themes/setting, tattoo whump, lady whump, noncon drugging, noncon/dubcon touching, nightmare mentions, ptsd themes, food mention, burn mention, whumpee bonding with whumper(s), panic attack, begging, passing out, low self esteem, snow mention, brainwashing/training mention, yelling/cursing, trauma response, vomit mention (let me know if I missed anything!)

Salem didn’t really know what to do with himself all day. He didn’t have school for another week, and the music store he’d been working at since last year was closed for the holidays still. What he had been planning to do on his last day of his break was write some music, try to memorize his schedule for school, and unpack his clothes. But after that morning, after finding out Nicko had bought a boxie, his head was spinning and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything. So instead he sat around on his phone, scolding himself as he mindlessly scrolled, telling himself he was wasting his damn time and could be doing something so much more productive. And every time he seemed to decide he would get up and do something, he would set his phone down and the disgust and disbelief would come slamming back into him, and he would fester in those feelings and allow his racing thoughts to take over for a bit.

Why would Nicko even want a box boy? They had five people living in the house, maybe six, if you count Rory as one, who were all relatively clean and responsible. The only time it was really a mess was after Nicko’s get-togethers, but those weren’t regular enough to worry about. Salem didn’t think Nicko was lazy enough to buy a person just to clean up after his parties. If the boxie wasn’t for cleaning, then, what else was Nicko going to use him for? It made Salem sick to his stomach to think about.

He had been sitting around for probably three hours before Rory came back, pounding on the door frantically. It scared the shit out of Salem, made him flinch so hard he nearly dropped his phone. He didn’t know why Rory was knocking, he was pretty sure she had a key. Once he crossed the room and opened the door, he was answered by Rory storming in, her arms slung around the box boy to keep him upright. Salem jumped out of the way and watched as she dragged him over to the couch. His thin legs were barely shuffling along with her, trembling at the knees when he tried to support his own weight. Rory was anything but gentle as she tossed him messily onto the couch, then she straightened herself out and let out an exasperated laugh.

Salem was shocked into silence, shutting the door slowly as he stared at both of them. Rory looked him up and down, laughing again. “He’s a little heavier than he looks.” She wiped her hoodie sleeve across her forehead as she spoke, then sniffed a few times.

“Is he...Is he ok?” Salem asked. He slowly let go of the door handle, stepping toward them apprehensively. The closer he got, the worse the poor box boy looked. He looked deathly pale, like he was going to be sick any second, his eyes were shadowed from sleeplessness and fluttering open and close weakly, as if he was struggling to keep himself conscious. The way that Rory had set him down didn’t look comfortable, one of his legs draping over the edge and his head tipped back at an awkward angle. Salem wondered why he hadn’t resituated himself.

“He’s fine,” Rory assured him, “I think he just needs to drink some water. Maybe eat something.” She looked down at the boy in question, smiling sadly at him. “Does that sound good, babe? Ya want something to eat?” He let out a measly whine in response, his brow twitching into a small frown. Rory sighed. “You think you can watch him for a bit?”

Salem would have laughed, if he wasn’t so upset at how sick the boxie looked. “You want me to watch him? But I’m...he’s not…” He trailed off, cringing to himself and refusing to finish the sentence. It was too late, Rory knew what he was going to say: “he’s not mine.”

Rory scoffed at him, scratching at her neck with her sharp acrylic nails, leaving red streaks against her pale skin. “Come on, Salem,” she whined, “just help me out. Nicko will be home in a couple hours, then he'll be out of your hair. Come on.”

Salem looked over her, watching the way her hands twitched restlessly at her sides and her teeth dug into her lip like she wanted to chew it off. She was probably dry, was probably dropping off the poor kid so she could ditch and go get her fix. Absolutely no part of him wanted to help Rory with that. But then he looked past her, at the nearly lifeless lump on the couch. His chest was shaking with each pained breath, he had tear stains on his cheeks, cutting through the blue eyeshadow Rory smeared on him earlier. He looked horrible, and Salem didn’t think he could live with himself if he left him alone, or let Rory take him with her on her drug run. So with a heavy sigh, he nodded grudgingly at her.

“Oh shit!” She exclaimed with a smile, leaping forward and hugging him tightly. He stumbled back a step, helping her stand straight when she pulled away. “I owe you big time!” She was out the door in the next few seconds, a flurry of blue hair and dark clothes and stomping of boots.

Salem stared at the boxie again, his hands were buzzing with anxiety. He didn’t know where to start, or what to say. He realized he hadn’t actually talked to him yet, and he kind of felt like shit for it. He didn’t even know his name. Or if he even had one.

The floorboards creaked under him as he approached the couch, it seemed offensively loud compared to the heavy silence. When he was close enough, he kneeled down in front of the couch, he didn’t like staring down at him. It felt too...authoritative, and that was the last thing Salem wanted to be to him. The kid closed his eyes when Salem got closer, but didn’t move or react beyond that.

“Hey, bud,” he started softly, resting his hands against the couch cushion in between them, “how are you feeling?”

The kid winced, then forced himself to open his eyes and tip his head to look at Salem. The movement made him gasp sharply, then snap his mouth shut before it could escalate beyond that. “Still dizzy…”

Salem melted at his voice, at how small and soft and broken up it was. The tattoos scattering his body didn’t suit him, they made him look much tougher than his voice suggested he was. “Do you...I can help you get more comfortable, if you want.”

He responded with a nod, at least as much of a nod as he could do in his position. So Salem stood up and looked him over for another few seconds, trying to figure out how to move him without hurting him. He finally settled on one hand behind his neck and one around his waist, gently situating him so that he was laying on a pillow. Rory had been lying when she said that he was heavier than he looked, he weighed practically nothing. Salem heard him let out a displeased hum as he was moved, and then his fingers were grabbing tightly at his clothes.

“It’s ok,” Salem assured him, “almost done.” And then he was, and he sat down on the couch next to him, watching him wrap his arms around his torso. “How’s that? Better?”

He watched the kid settle in further to the pillow, then after a second, his face relaxed a fraction and he sunk into the cushions. “Yes,” he breathed, “thank you.”

He promptly fell asleep after that, and Salem returned to his phone as he sat next to him. Or at least, he pretended to be on his phone, really he was just holding it as he observed the sleeping box boy, watching his eyebrows twitch and his mouth part slightly as he dreamed. Salem wondered what he dreamed about. He wondered if he remembered anything from his old life, if some form of who he used to be danced around behind his eyelids.

He woke back up later, when someone honked their car horn outside and the neighbors dogs started barking. He flinched, then forced himself to sit up. His whole body was shaking with the effort. Salem put his phone down and moved closer. “It’s ok-”

Before he could finish his sentence, the boy jumped to look at him, his eyes wide. Then he looked down at the soft cushions, lifting his hands off of them slowly, like he was terrified of touching it. Seconds later, he was scrambling off of the couch and onto the floor, breathing panicked and horrified.

“Woah, dude,” Salem breathed, holding his hands out as he joined him on the floor, trying to show he meant no harm, “take it easy. You’re alright.”

Very slowly, like he was trying to convince himself to move as he was doing it, he looked up at Salem, honey brown eyes glistening with tears that hadn’t fallen yet. He searched Salem’s face, looking for malice or violence or some reason to not trust him. Salem really hoped he wouldn’t see that in him, that he would know that Salem was on his side, only wanted to help him. He was silent for a long time, so Salem tried to fill the silence.

“Do you want some water? And some food?”

Again, the boxie didn’t answer him right away, he looked like maybe he was trying to decipher the questions, find some underlying meaning. But then he nodded his head once, allowing Salem to help him upright. He stood close by as he stumbled into the kitchen on unsteady legs, just in case he fell over, then helped him sink into a chair. Within a few minutes, Salem had set a glass of water and a plate of apples in front of him, working on a pot of boiling spaghetti for the both of them on the stove. He looked back at the boy as he cooked, watched him take small bites and take minuscule sips of water, staring blankly at the wood of the table as he ate, like he was on autopilot.

“What’s your name?” Salem tried, wanting to pull him out of his faraway, semi-tormented stare and whatever scary things he might be thinking about.

When he looked at Salem and processed the question, he smiled softly. Salem could see one of his bottom teeth was sharper than the others, sticking out just a little. He couldn’t help but think it was endearing. “It’s Giovanni. They call me Gio.” He looked almost proud when he said it, and Salem smiled at him.

“That’s a cool name.”

Giovanni nodded eagerly, then, after a sip of water, said, “Rory gave it to me.” He looked thoughtful after he said it, then he picked up an apple slice and stared hard at it, chewing on his lip. “She’s so nice to me. I like her.”

Salem nodded, turning back to the stove. He didn’t doubt that Rory was nice to him, that she treated him like she treated everyone: like she wanted to be their best friend. It was her personality, to be fun and make everyone around her have fun. It came with its own set of flaws, like being overbearing or coming on too strong, trying to get people to do things only she thought were fun. But sure, Rory was nice, Salem just couldn’t understand why any boxie would like the person who purchased them. No self respecting human being would.

Then again, maybe Gio understood that Rory wasn’t the one who paid for him, it was Nicko. Maybe he only liked her because she offered relief from the person he belonged to. Maybe she was the only one who treated him like a person so far. Salem had seen up close and personal the harsh way Nicko treated people he was close to, who he said he liked, even. He couldn’t even imagine how nasty he might’ve been to the poor boxie, who he had all the power in the world over.

“What about Nicko?” He tested. “Is he nice to you?”

“Oh, yes, Nicko is the best!” Giovanni answered him with no hesitation, voice dripping in adoration. His genuine tone made Salem swivel around to look at him, doubtful frown on his face. No one really liked Nicko, even Rory complained about him constantly. Nicko was a jerk, and it wasn’t even usually a big deal, it was more just who he was, and up to this point it meant no one would call him the best. But Giovanni didn’t really look like he was lying, just stating facts, answering his question how he really believed it should be answered. Salem nodded, with an air of finality to the conversation, then he turned his attention back to the spaghetti. He put a few scoops in two bowls, then took them both to the table and sat across from Giovanni to eat with him.

“Um...Salem?” He squeaked out after a minute, the fork shaking a little in his hand. Salem frowned at him, trying to figure out why he suddenly seemed so scared again. He seemed like he’d calmed down while Salem was cooking, and now he was shaking and pale again. “Where...Where did Rory go?”

Salem almost told him the truth, that Rory was probably out putting herself in danger and picking up drugs from sketchy people, but then he changed his mind. Gio seemed fond of her, and he doubted he would even understand that enough to feel the severity of it. So he lied.

“I think she’s just running errands. She told me Nicko will be back soon, though.” He watched as Giovanni cast his eyes back down to the table, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Salem expected that to make him happy, but he just looked more fearful. “Does that upset you, Gio?”

Giovanni flinched at the idea of being upset, especially at something like Nicko coming home. His hand, clutching his fork tightly, knocked onto the edge of the bowl of hot spaghetti, effectively making it tumble into his lap. He accidentally cried out weakly, then forced himself to sit completely straight and rigid, eyes closed tight and breath held high in his chest. Salem knew just how hot the food was, he hadn’t even taken a bite yet because thick steam was still coming off of it. So he was quick to jump to his feet and yank Gio up as well, watching as the spaghetti dropped to the floor. Giovanni started breathing quickly, and Salem could see his thin, pale legs were reddened with burns already, and he cringed at how painful it must be.

When Gio opened his eyes and saw the horrible mess he’d made, his face dropped to a despaired grimace. And Salem was grabbing his arms tightly, making him even more afraid that he was in trouble. He began to tremble harder, his teeth chattering together. "I-I-I am s-s-so sorry!!" He cried, going limp in Salem's grip. "I'm so clumsy...s-so st-stup-stupid!"

Salem thought it was insane that Giovanni was apologizing this way when he was the one who was hurt, the ones with burns on his legs. Cleaning spilled food off the floor was easy, and he was sobbing like he'd done something horrible like killing a puppy.

"Gio! Gio, it's ok, calm down!" He insisted. Of course, this fell on deaf ears and he continued sobbing and shaking. Salem realized it was useless to try and reason with him and so he just pulled the panicked boxie behind him, down the hallway to the bathroom. He forced Gio to sit on the toilet lid as he grabbed a soft cotton towel and ran it under cold water for a second.

"I'm so sorry," Giovanni raved on, "please ha-have mercy, pl-please, I know I don't deserve it, b-but please! I'll be good, I swe-swear!"

Salem frowned at him, then sank to his knees in front of him and showed him the towel. "It's ok, Gio. I'm gonna clean you off, ok? Can I do that?"

Giovanni was staring at him, tears still spilling down his face, eyes blown in panic. He looked at the towel, then back at Salem. He guessed that Salem would clean him off and then punish him. He didn't know how he'd forgotten so quickly, but begging and crying was so bad, and he hated himself for doing it. With a resigned sigh, he nodded at Salem. The cold towel stung his skin at first, but he forced himself to be still and quiet because the punishment hadn't even started yet and he'd been bad enough. But then it actually soothed the burns on his legs, which they could both see better now that the red sauce was cleaned off.

When Salem saw that Giovanni wasn't hurt as horribly as he'd worried about, he breathed a sigh of relief and set the towel down. "Alright. Not so bad, huh?'" He asked, putting on a friendly grin when Gio looked up at him. "We can put some lotion on it so it doesn't hurt so bad."

Giovanni looked shocked, like he couldn't believe Salem didn't want him to keep hurting. He shook his head when Salem had the cream in his hand and was moving toward him, making him stop in his tracks.

"I don't...deserve that. Pl-please, don't waste that on me. Please." He looked about ready to start crying again, and Salem wanted to just hold him close against his chest and make him feel all better, take away any of the fear that had been trained into him. He thought of what it would take to break someone so bad they didn't think they deserved relief.

"Gio," Salem began, voice soft and careful, tiptoeing around scaring him again, "you didn't do anything wrong. It was an accident. And you're hurt, you can let me help you feel better."

Giovanni shook his head again, his bottom lip quivering. "Please, Salem." He begged. He sounded so desperate, as if putting on that lotion was the worst thing imaginable to him and he couldn't convince himself to let it happen. When Salem took a step closer, Gio flinched and dropped his eyes to the floor.

The way Gio reacted when Salem reached out and placed his fingertips on his jaw made it seem like he'd never been touched before. He pressed his face into the touch, exhaling just a little at the warmth. Salem's heart broke for him, that even this tiny comforting touch made him melt. He wondered how he'd react if Salem were to hug him.

"Can you please let me make you feel better, Gio?" He muttered. Gio let out a broken mewl of disapproval, and Salem ran his thumb across the tears that were trailing down his face. "Really, it would make me so happy to make all your pain go away."

Giovanni looked up at Salem again, but this time there was something so broken there that it took Salem's breath away. Salem was hoping he would pick up on the real meaning behind the sentence, that he would understand he was really trying to tell him that Salem was on his side, extending help if he ever wanted it. And he thought that, at least for a split second, Giovanni looked like that was something he really wanted. He looked like it was all he wanted, to let Salem take away all the aching. At the same time, though, he looked scared shitless, and Salem wasn't sure if he was afraid of the offer or of Salem himself.

But then, by some miracle, Giovanni nodded his head timidly, keeping his cheek as close to Salem's palm as possible.

Salem was as gentle as he could be when he rubbed the lotion over Gio's legs. He kept waiting for him to cry out or whine or even just flinch from the pain, but he was still and silent. Salem looked up a few times to see him watching his hands intently, jaw set and eyes slightly hazed.

"There you go," he said, setting the lotion to the side and standing straight, "how does it feel now?"

"Feels better. Thank you, Salem."

Salem smiled at him, then held out his hand. "Come on, let's get you in some clean clothes." Once Giovani was up on his feet, Salem looked him over, seeing again how thin his clothes were, imagining how cold he'd probably been all day. He would give him a sweater, he decided, a nice soft sweater and some baggy pajama pants and some fuzzy socks. He deserved that amount of warmth, of plush comfort and tenderness.

Gio stood obediently against the wall as Salem dug through his drawer to find Gio a pair of pants, looking around his room. When Salem turned back to him to set the pants and the pair of thick, fluffy socks out on the bed, he watched Gio's eyes wander around the room, hesitating slightly on all of his posters and framed pictures, and again on his instruments. Salem smiled at him when he lingered on the guitar, beginning to chew nervously at his lip the longer he looked.

"Do you like guitar?" Salem asked. Giovanni tore his eyes away from the dark, shiny red wood of Salem's acoustic, frowning at him.

"What?" He breathed.

Salem pointed at the guitar. "You were looking at my guitar, I figured maybe you liked them." Giovanni followed the direction his finger was pointing, and his nose scrunched up as he looked at it.

The shape was familiar, but it was through a choppy, stormy ocean, ten million miles wide, that he recognized it. Looking at it was painful, trying to remember where he'd seen it before hurt, even when Salem had said "guitar" it made him woozy. He knew that those painful feelings were from his training, and it was good that the almost-memories hurt because it was beaten out of him for a reason. His trainers had taken away everything that might've made him misbehave, might've made him rebel or disobey or think he was "hot shit", he remembered one of them spitting that at him, once. Yes, he was glad he didn't remember this oddly shaped thing, because he couldn't use it to misbehave that way.

Still, he couldn't help the growing, heavy sadness in his chest as he looked at the beautiful wood. He wished he could reach out and touch it, feel the smooth wood under his fingertips, run his palm up the wires that were on the front.

"I...don't know." He finally choked out, turning his head away from the awful thing and looking back at Salem.

Salem looked confused, like that wasn't a normal way to answer the question. Giovanni felt stupid instantly. It was a simple yes or no answer, and obviously the right answer was yes I like guitars, I like them so much I could die, because Salem owned one, so he obviously liked them, and so should Gio.

"I'll play some for you, another time. If you want." Salem offered, walking past him to open the closet door. He beckoned Gio to stand in his place, pointing to an assortment of a mixture of earth tone and pastel clothes hanging up, specifically at a good chunk of thick looking fabric hung up off to the side. "Here, you can pick any sweater you want out of right here, ok? I'm gonna leave so you can get changed, just come find me when you're done."

Giovanni nodded, timidly reaching his hand out to touch the fabric. He recoiled slightly, eyes suddenly wide and cheeks flushed pink. Salem wanted to sob when Gio threw him a questioning glance, as if to ask if he was really allowed to touch them. He grinned sadly at him.

“The uh...the pink one is real soft." He turned on his heel to leave, smiling one last time at Gio.

Giovanni didn’t like being alone in Salem’s room. He liked the room itself, it was decorated with brightly colored papers hung up on the walls, sort of like Nicko’s art, his walls were a deep blue that made it feel darker than it was, the black curtains that only let in a little bit of light didn’t help. Salem’s bed was made neatly, his blankets were a soft beige and looked so soft and comfortable Giovanni had to stop himself from running his palm over them as he grabbed the pants off of the bed. The room was nice, but the longer he looked at it all, the more his head hurt. The guitar wasn’t the only thing that felt punishable to look at, all of it was vaguely recognizable, and he was defeated because every time he tried to think back as hard as he could, it just led to hearing the sound of his own tortured screams echo around in his skull.

So he gave up trying, instead he unfocused his vision just enough that he couldn’t see it in as much detail. He pulled his spaghetti stained clothes off instead, and then he noticed that Salem had a mirror and he walked over to it. He looked entirely different than he did while in retraining, the tattoos and the makeup and how sick hanging out with Rory was making him look had really changed him. Gio got closer to the mirror to inspect all of the healing tattoos, remembering how much each of them hurt. When he turned to look at the one Nicko was working on that morning, it was swollen and bloody and had some bruises around some of the darker lines. It looked ugly like that, and that made Gio sad because the flowers were so pretty, and Nicko had worked so hard on it, and Gio’s stupid skin, so sensitive and breakable, was making his wonderful work look ugly. That feeling made him feel even more guilty about what had happened that morning at the tattoo shop.

When Rory woke him up early in the morning, she greeted him with a smile and a tiny bag of pills shaken in front of his face. Nicko wasn’t in the room, she told him that he’d woken up earlier to get ready. So for breakfast, he had a mouthful of chalky pills that Rory made him wash down with a can of something that tasted a little like dirty water. Then she got him ready, dressing him up in Nicko’s clothes and sitting with him on the floor to put makeup on him. He was feeling good, then, colors seemed bright and Rory was touching him on his face and neck to move his head around where she wanted it, and she was close to him and she smelled so good, whatever she was chewing on smelled sweet and refreshing, especially when she laughed or said something close to Gio’s face. He couldn’t stop smiling, every color seemed brighter, he was so happy, he couldn’t even remember what sadness felt like.

But then Nicko came back into the room and told him he needed help cleaning the house. Moving around felt utterly impossible, but Giovanni had been ordered to do something, so he pushed himself up and bit his tongue, trying to fight off the dizziness that came with moving. He cleaned up the house with Nicko, the entire time he was struggling to keep himself upright, his world was so unsteady, suddenly, the floor and walls were tilting and spinning and swaying, making it all that much harder to walk.

He found Rory back in Nicko’s room when they were finished cleaning. She was laying flat on Nicko’s unmade bed, splayed out like she just flopped down right then and there. He needed to tell her that it was scary again, that this one wasn’t as fun as the others. She would know what to do, she always did. But then Rory sat up quickly, looking much more lively and excited than Gio could even imagine feeling. He wondered if she took the same thing as him. She asked him if he was ready to leave, and didn’t give him a chance to answer.

Later, Giovanni found himself shirtless, sitting on the uncomfortable chairs at the tattoo shop. He felt even worse, the shop was always kind of dark and gloomy seeming, Nicko liked to play loud music when he worked and it frightened Gio, and he couldn’t seem to get a hold of his anxiety about the pain like he usually could. On top of that all, his world was still a small boat in a vast ocean with waves as big as buildings, and he felt like he might capsize any second.

When Nicko turned away from him at one point to get some supplies, Gio leaned toward Rory, holding on to the chair as tight as he could so he wouldn't tip over. “Rory,” he whispered, “I don’t...feel good.”

She sighed, glancing over at Nicko. “You’ll be ok, Gio. Just close your eyes if you’re scared, you won’t even feel it.

Giovanni wanted to tell her no, that wasn’t true, sometimes the pain was so much worse when you couldn’t see it, when you had nothing else to look at besides the back of your eyelids and all the horrible memories that replay there. He also wanted to tell her she didn’t understand: he really didn’t feel good. He was too high, he was ‘fall flat on your face, knock your teeth in’ high, and he truly didn’t think he’d be able to make it through another hour long session of the needle in his back feeling this way.

He couldn’t say any of that, though, because then Nicko was behind him, gloved hand on his spine and tattoo gun buzzing terrifyingly loud. Rory smiled at them, then made some excuse to go to the bathroom, leaving them alone together. Nicko didn’t give Giovanni any warning before he began dragging the needle across the sensitive skin on the back of his ribs, and Gio was mortified when he heard himself cry out, arching his back slightly to get away from the pain.

Maybe it was because Nicko was annoyed with how things happened with Salem that morning, or maybe he just really wanted Gio to continue to be his perfect guinea pig, but whatever the reason, Nicko was not having Giovanni’s sudden complaints. He looped his arm underneath Gio’s and over his chest, large gloved hand grabbing tightly at his throat and yanking him forward, so he was bent over just a little more, back completely exposed to Nicko and his needles. Gio began to panic just a little, this position felt familiar, it was uncomfortably close to ways he’d been held, pinned down, during his training. Every atom of his body was begging him to fight off the pain, or to at least scream some of the agony out, but he ignored it. He’d gotten really good at turning that part of him off, over time. Instead, he took quick, shallow breaths against Nicko’s hand. Tears were streaming down his face, and they were making it hard to see, and the room was spinning so fast and it was so blurry he felt like he was going to vomit. The velvety fuzziness that crept into the edges of his vision was also familiar, he’d felt this way about a million times, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. Right before his vision would completely fade out and he would be subdued and unconscious, he sees a flash of bright light, hears a ringing in his ears. It’s frightening every time, it always makes him scared he won’t wake up. There’s always one last jolt of panic at the thought, and he tries to fight to stay awake with one last gasp, but it’s useless.

He woke up on the ground, Rory was yelling at Nicko while they stood right over him. Gio’s ears were ringing still, and he was disoriented from the fall from the chair to the hard floor, so he wasn’t sure what she was saying.

Then Nicko was yelling, much louder, and Gio could hear perfectly all of the sudden. “He would have been fucking fine if you weren’t always getting him as fucked up as you! Don’t try to fucking pin this on me!”

Giovanni hadn’t ever heard Nicko curse so many times in a row, but he knew what those words meant, and it was never good when someone was shouting them at you. And here he was, still splayed out on the floor like a mess while he was being scolded, being disrespectful and sloppy. He tried to push himself upright, forcing himself to his knees. He looked up at Nicko, whining when another huge wave of dizziness hit him. “I’m so sorry, Nicko,” he whispered, knowing if he were any louder he would accidentally start sobbing, “I didn’t...I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

Nicko stared down at him with his face set in a frown, then shook his head and turned away from the both of them. “Take him home.” He instructed Rory.

“What the fuck Nicko! I have stuff to do today, I can’t babysit-”

“Clear you’re fucking schedule then!” Nicko shouted. Giovanni cowered away from the noise, closing his eyes tight. “If you want to get him high first thing in the morning then he’s your responsibility for the rest of the day. Take. Him. Home.”

Giovanni was heartbroken. He loved being around Nicko at the shop, it was his favorite part of the day, most of the time. He loved the way Nicko acted when they were alone, he always spoke so softly, he was giving Gio nicknames, he would tell him he was doing a good job, that he was “so perfect, sitting so still” and he would touch Gio so tenderly. And now that was being ruined because he was too fucking stupid to just sit still and stay awake while he worked.

That’s why he was worried about Nicko coming home. He’d been so awful for him, he’d made him cut the session short. And Nicko didn’t punish him right when it happened, he only yelled at him, so surely he’d do it when he got home. He had been anticipating it the entire time he’d been here, but he’d been doing so good up until that point. Not knowing what to expect was the worst. At least with his last owner, Gio knew which weapons he liked to use, which punishments fit which crimes. And with the trainers, as well, their punishment was routine, textbook. He didn’t know what Nicko would do to him, and he was absolutely horrified.

Salem hadn’t been lying when he said that his pink hoodie was soft. After he got the loose fitting pants and the warm socks that felt like having clouds wrapped around his feet, he pulled the sweater over his head and sighed. It was nice to be warm, to feel comfortable in clothes, even though he knew he really shouldn’t have been indulging in such nice things. But the color was so nice, the light rose petal pink, and it rubbed against his sensitive, healing tattoos in a non-offensive way, unlike the stiff cotton of the shirt he’d been wearing before. Before he could second guess himself, he opened Salem’s door and made his way down the hallway. His footsteps were so quiet against the hardwood with the socks on.

The spaghetti mess was already cleaned up when he walked into the kitchen, and Gio’s stomach lurched in fear. He hadn’t cleaned up his own mess, how useless could he get?

But Salem was standing in front of the sink, washing some of the dishes off, and he was grinning at Giovanni in a way that told him he had nothing to worry about. To make up for making Salem clean up after him, he stepped further into the kitchen and stood next to him, offering to help him clean up. Salem didn’t like the idea of that, but Gio seemed like he genuinely would’ve liked to help, like it was bothering him to just stand idly by, so he let him.

They moved around the kitchen almost silently, both trying to observe each other without making it obvious that’s what they were doing. The kitchen was clean in no time, and Salem was glad to see Gio walking around ok, didn’t seem too hurt. And he looked just darling in Salem’s huge clothes, the pink of the soft fleece matched the flush that had returned to his cheeks, looking much better than the sickly pale they were earlier. Once or twice, he caught Giovanni hesitating in front of the window, looking out at the snowfall with nothing behind his eyes, simply gazing through the storm with huge doe eyes and a slack jaw. When he saw him doing it once they were done cleaning, he walked up and joined him by the window, looking out with him. Gio leaned toward him when felt his presence next to him, only turning his head slightly but not looking away from the window. Salem smiled at him, at how such a simple thing had easily entranced him.

“Have you ever had hot chocolate, Gio?”

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Comfortember Day 5: Father’s Cuddles

Summary: Written for Comfortember Day 5. Set during my Httyd child OC AU/my Tiny AU. Hiccup is called home from Chiefing when his son falls ill.

Rating: General

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Snotlout, Ruffnut, Tuffnut, Fishlegs (mentioned), Astrid (mentioned)

Pairing: OT6

Words: 1 603

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “Cuddling”

Whumpee: Httyd child oc (Tiny)

Author’s Notes: I have a Httyd child OC and I saw the Comfortember prompts and I had the mighty need to combine the two. If I don't write purely self-indulgent stuff, then what even is the point of writing fanfiction?

Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing this one.

Here is my son. And pure fluff with a side of whump!

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

Ao3

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

It is with a hurry that Hiccup returns home early from a day of chiefing the village of Berk. It's only in the afternoon, but already he's finished up what he can with the knowledge that Astrid will take care of the rest. Eret is there to help her out if she needs a second pair of hands.

With a quick pace, he jogs up the steps towards his house with Toothless following close behind. He opens the front door to let himself in and a wave of warmth from the fire washes over him as he kicks the snow off his boot and prosthetic.

"Hey, little man, it's okay." Snotlout talks with a soft tone to someone small sitting on his lap and crying into his chest.

That someone is a young boy of only one and a half. Gone is the red hair and the blue eyes he was born with, instead replaced by the brown hair and green eyes he has now. Because of this, he looks even more like Hiccup than he already did.

Vigi, as he's called, is in Snotlout's arms as he cries, but his words of comfort don't quite comfort the boy. Ruffnut is there with them and so is Tuffnut, who's holding a cup of water.

"Oh hey, look who's here, Tiny!" Ruffnut calls him by the nickname the Riders have chosen for him as she points to Hiccup upon his entrance. Tiny lifts his head from Snotlout's chest and turns his tear-stained face towards the door.

"I'm here! I'm here." Hiccup says and closes the front entrance to keep the cold out while the fire in the pit keeps the warmth inside.

"Daddy!" Tiny cries and reaches for Hiccup, who picks him up from Snotlout's lap as he's handed over and holds him. Tiny's short arms wrap around his father's neck with a tight grip.

"Hey, Buddy, what's wrong?" Hiccup asks, but Vigi doesn't respond, instead sniffing on his shoulder and staining his chest piece with tears and snot like he'd stained Snotlout. At least he's already calming down from whatever has made him cry.

Toothless pads over to behind Hiccup and stands up on his two hind legs to coo at the boy.

Tiny gazes at the dragon with his sad face, but doesn't say anything to him.

"Can someone tell me what's wrong with him?" Hiccup asks and looks to the three Riders with him for an answer.

Hiccup knows his son has been off all day. He woke up too early, has barely eaten any breakfast, and isn't as energetic as he usually is. So when someone had been sent to come get him after he'd left these three to look after him, Hiccup wasn't surprised.

"I think his throat hurts, he's been drinking a lot and he can't sleep. Don't think he has a fever yet, though." Snotlout informs him. Astrid may still be a little iffy towards the three, but they do a good job with their son, despite popular opinion.

"Yeah, the poor little guy hasn't had his nap at all! He's been crying for the past ten minutes." Ruffnut tells Hiccup and approaches to rub Vigi's cheek. He's quiet now that he's in Hiccup's arms with the occasional sniff, but with how tightly he holds on, he's still far from being comforted.

"Okay," Hiccup mutters and presses his cheek against his son's forehead, hoping to get a feeling on his temperature. It's hotter than it should be. "Did someone send for Gothi?"

"Fishlegs did." Tuffnut answers.

So Fishlegs was home at some point to check up on the little guy, too. Which is understandable as he must be worried, if one of the six Riders knows, they all know. Astrid, too, has come by throughout the day.

"Okay, that's good. I'm going upstairs to bed with him, come get me when Gothi is here. Do it quietly, just in case I can get him to fall asleep." Hiccup tells them and the three nod before he turns to ascend the stairs to their loft. Naturally, Toothless follows them up.

Tiny is still wearing his nightwear, nobody dressed him for the day because they expected him to fall ill, so there's no need to change him before bed.

They reach the upper floor and Hiccup puts Tiny on his bed, the boy almost not letting go.

"It's okay, I'm just removing my boot and leg." Hiccup assures him when he sees him pull an expression like he's about to cry again.

Hiccup sits down on the edge next to him to do as he says and removes them. He removes his armor, too, leaving just his tunic and his trousers. Moving further up the bed, he sits with his back against the headboard, a pillow behind him.

"Come here, Vigi" Hiccup tells his son, arms out, and the boy doesn't waste a second before he crawls up onto his lap. With Hiccup wrapping his arms around him again, Tiny buries himself in his father's hold.

Toothless climbs up on the bed and settles at the foot end, tail hanging off the side and lying on the floor. Even now he rarely leaves Hiccup's side and that includes whenever he needs to retreat to somewhere quiet and peaceful with a sick child.

Though still upset and hurting, Tiny takes comfort in this embrace and listens to Hiccup's heartbeat. It's hard to miss with his ear against his parent's chest.

"Gothi will be here soon and when she does, she can tell us what's wrong and we can make the pain go away. You want to hear a story while we wait?" Those were two long sentences for someone Tiny's age, but he recognizes enough words to pick up on what Hiccup asks him and he nods quietly.

"You want to hear a story about your grandpa Stoick? I still have plenty of those, won't run out for at least the foreseeable future." Hiccup suggests and Tiny quietly nods again, hearing "story" and "grandpa" in the same sentence. His face is barely visible in Hiccup's hold.

Toothless watches his Rider expectantly. He's still wearing his saddle and prosthetic when it is clear he and Hiccup won't be taking to the sky today, but someone else can remove it for him later.

"Okay, let me think." Hiccup mutters as he racks his brain over a tale he can tell and sinks a little against the headboard, allowing Vigi to lie a little, so he won't need to sit up.

"I think I've got one. It's about your grandfather and how he met a dragon named Thornado." Hiccup doesn't plan on making the story too detailed or hard to follow, but what truly matters is that he keeps his son entertained until Gothi comes.

Toothless purrs approvingly. As much as he was on the receiving end of Stoick's sudden desire to have a dragon of his own, it is still a good tale to tell.

Barely five minutes pass and Hiccup stops as he gets to the part where the Thunderdrum is officially revealed. Soft snoring comes from the child lying on his chest, who has a stuffed nose.

After a few hours of struggling to sleep, he has finally dozed off and it's part of the reason why Snotlout, Ruff, and Tuff sent for him. It's simply because Vigi has an easier time falling asleep with Hiccup than anyone else on Berk, sometimes even Toothless. And that while the boy's first word after "ma!" was arguably "Oofess!"

Now all that remains is to wait for the village healer and then they can help the poor child treat his ailment.

There is creaking on the stairs and Hiccup looks over to find the three Riders who are still here.

"Is he sleeping?" Snotlout asks, whispering just in case, and Hiccup nods. It's a good thing, that means he can be a little rested before Gothi comes as she will surely have to examine him, something no child or adult really likes.

"Okay, good. We'll be downstairs if you need us." Snotlout tells him and passes the Thorston twins on the way down, minding the noise. Tiny has finally fallen asleep, it's better that they don't wake him up. Babies and toddlers sometimes have sharper ears than you'd expect.

"Bye, Teeny!"

"Bye, Tiny!" Tuff and Ruff each whisper softly and wave before they go down. They don't expect the toddler to return it, but you never know.

Hiccup shakes his head in amusement once they're out of sight.

And now all that is left for him to do is wait. Wait until Gothi comes with Fishlegs and quite possibly Astrid as well. That is, if she doesn't have a list of patients she needs to get through first before she can come to the Haddock Household. The weather is getting colder, which means many Berkians of all ages are bound to get sick.

That means Gothi could quite possibly take a few hours and that Hiccup will be here a little while with a sleeping toddler on his chest that he can't move.

"Hey Bud, can you grab me a book?" Hiccup requests and the Night Fury obliges, getting off the bed to grab the one. He doesn't need to struggle, there's one lying on top of a low bookshelf, which he knows Hiccup has been reading as of late, so he grabs that one.

Hiccup, meanwhile, turns his attention down at the snoring boy. He places a kiss on top of his head, right in that messy head of hair of his.

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Comfortember Day 4: Aerophobia

Summary: Written for Comfortember Day 4. Set after Httyd 2. Hiccup never thought he would ever be afraid to fly. Today, that is a fear he has to conquer.

Rating: General

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Astrid, Snotlout, Fishlegs, Ruffnut, Tuffnut

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 2 029

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “Anxiety”

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: This was an interesting one to work on, mainly because you wouldn't expect Hiccup, of all people, to ever be afraid of flying.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

Ao3

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

Hiccup has to take a deep, deep breath to calm his racing heart. The saddle creaking beneath him, the feeling of the handles in his hands, his dragon's powerful muscles moving, and the deep guttural sounds in his throat. He never thought any of these things would ever make him feel as nervous as they do now, but here he is.

"Are you okay, Hiccup? You know this can wait, right?" Hiccup looks towards Astrid as she sits on top of her own dragon when she talks to him. She and Stormfly are waiting for him and Toothless to take off.

Toothless gazes at his Rider from over his shoulder, crooning questioningly.

"I'm okay, I'm... I'm about as ready as I'll ever be." Hiccup tells the two of them and Stormfly, too, as her eye nearest to him focuses on him. She has quite bird-like behavior.

"Are you sure? Because you haven't flown in a long time. This is your first time since... Well..." Fishlegs asks as he worries. Not that Hiccup hasn't proven himself as the most veteran dragon rider, but it has been a while. And not only that, but it's what preceded the long period of no flying that plays a factor in Fishlegs' worrying, too.

Hiccup had a crash.

And while Hiccup isn't unfamiliar with crashing, that one had been particularly hard on him. A rogue dragon had ripped him and Toothless from the sky. A fall from that height should've killed him, but it hadn't. What it had was broken damn near every single bone in his body, his back included.

He still remembers waking up in the snow, his friends nowhere to be seen, Toothless nowhere to be seen. In pain and unable to move, he waited for hours in the cold until he was finally found.

By the time they did, night had fallen. And by the time they brought him home, there was some frostbite to treat due to the unbearably freezing temperatures. He hadn't been able to breathe properly either due to his ribs, which had gotten him sick on top of being terribly injured.

It had taken him a long, long time to recover from his injuries and still the hours of lying there, in pain and uncertain, haunt him. At some point early on, they even feared he would never walk again. His recovery has been nothing short of a miracle.

Today will be the first time he takes back to the sky and he's been both looking forward to it as well as dreading it.

Instead of answering Fishlegs' question about whether he's sure or not, Hiccup simply smiles his way. No, he isn't as sure as he would like to be, but what better time to fly than the present?

This past week or so, he's been nervous. Or rather, he's been anxiously awaiting this day to come.

He's been having bad dreams about falling again and again, his years of experience notwithstanding. And even when he's awake, whenever he thinks of the mere act of flying, there's a painful pounding inside his chest, it becomes hard to breathe, and he sweats heavily out of nowhere.

Usually, they come in waves of ten minutes to a full half an hour. Today, it's been present since morning.

Sitting on top of Toothless' back, Hiccup looks up at the sky he once called his home, too. Toothless is still patiently waiting on him to decide when they can take off, he won't do it unless Hiccup wants him, too. If Hiccup ends up deciding that taking back to the sky isn't for today, he will respect that as well.

He, himself, is itching to go, though. He's been grounded for as long as Hiccup has, barely using the automatic tailfin Hiccup told him to use while he recovered, stuck in bed for at least the first few weeks.

But he understands Hiccup's reluctance. If he were a human who survived a fall like that, he would be a little reluctant, too.

Hiccup takes his eyes off the sky and looks at Astrid and Stormfly who stand next to him and Toothless. Then he looks behind them, at the other Dragon Riders. They're all waiting, ready to take off alongside him and complete their group once more.

Having them all here with him just to help him feel safer, it makes him feel better about this.

So Hiccup turns his attention back to the cliff they're all standing on, one outside of the village.

There is no time like the present.

"Come on, Bud." His anxiety is still choking the life out of him, but he forces those words off his tongue. Toothless sinks to the ground, wings prepare for take-off, and his strong legs push him off towards the sky. The air catches his wings and they're off.

"Yeah, woo!" Snotlout can be heard behind him, his voice quickly cut off because of the wind in his ears.

Hiccup doesn't look behind him, instead focusing on keeping a tight grip on the handle and the quickly approaching clouds high above;

Toothless isn't planning on getting too high, just high enough that his Rider gets to feel that he's definitely back in the air again.

Once they reach the desired height, Toothless levels out and Hiccup allows himself to breathe. His heart is pounding in his throat, blood rushing to his ears, they're all things he hasn't felt since the first time he and Toothless flew together.

"Okay, we're up in the air." Hiccup wants to pet his Bud, but doesn't dare let go of the saddle.

"You doing okay?" Astrid asks as Stormfly levels off next to them. The other Dragon Riders are right behind them.

"Yeah! I mean, I definitely feel like my heart might actually give out on me, but yeah, I feel great!" Hiccup replies, his nervousness oozing out of every spoken word. Astrid smiles at him, seeing the stiff and not at all relaxed pose as he holds onto the handles of his saddle with a death grip.

"Just remember what you told us during our first lessons!" Barf and Belch come flying overhead, rolling through the sky. It's Tuffnut who talks to him.

"Just relax and let the dragon and the wind guide you!" Ruffnut reminds him, thoroughly enjoying the freezing winds of Berk for emphasis.

Hiccup chuckles breathily and watches them disappear from sight.

But she's right. He just needs to relax and then maybe this constricting sensation inside his chest will ease up on him. Maybe.

Toothless has a slightly more direct approach.

He roars and that's about the only warning Hiccup gets before he climbs higher with a plan in mind. That one warning is enough for his Rider, who's grip on the saddle grows with apprehension.

"Uh, what's Toothless doing?" Snotlout asks as the Night Fury leaves them all behind.

"Hopefully something that won't massively backfire," Astrid says with the beginnings of a scowl. She trusts Toothless, but the deal was that they would take this slow to avoid stressing Hiccup out as he transitions back from a life on the ground to one in the air.

His fear of experiencing another fall like the one that had grounded him for months was palpable to them all the past week.

Though he'd promised himself not to look down on his first flight, Hiccup looks back at his friends as they become smaller and smaller until they are mere dots in the distance.

"Are you sure about this, Bud? Toothless?" Hiccup has to shout in order to be heard and his dragon roars back affirmingly. To him, this is the best possible plan.

Hiccup can feel that his heart is ready to burst out of his chest and can't look at the height anymore, instead choosing to stare at his saddle, which he lies flat against to reduce the drag.

He closes his eyes, consciously breathing in and out to keep himself calm as he feels Toothless take him higher and higher. He can feel the rapid change in pressure.

And then he stops and Hiccup has felt the familiar feeling of passing through a cloud, his hair and face now coated in a thin layer of water droplets.

Toothless croons loudly and Hiccup opens his eyes, finding the two of them above the clouds stained with orange and yellow from the setting sun.

Hiccup holds his breath, but not because he's anxious. The breathtaking beauty of the sky has enraptured him once again and he realizes how much he has missed these views.

"And now down, Bud?" Hiccup asks with a tone that sounds a little more filled with hope than dread.

Upon hearing this, Toothless, filled with determination to correct a wrong, turns his nose down and dives. Wings folding, body straight, he dives as fast as he can and Hiccup is merely there for the ride.

Though his chest is ready to burst open from the pressure inside, Hiccup can't say it's from fear or the anxiety that's kept him hostage for the past week.

They break through the cloud barrier and the vast ocean comes closer and closer. Night Furies are fast and that means the grey body of water is coming even faster than with any other species of dragons.

Still, despite the speed and his fear, Hiccup lets go of the saddle with one hand and lets the wind guide him, exactly like Ruffnut told him to.

A rush is pumped through his veins, elevating him to a high nothing else can. Before long, a cautious grin presents itself on Hiccup's face in preparation for what's to come.

Once they get close enough to the ocean, Toothless begins to roll and roll, forcing Hiccup to flatten himself against the saddle or risk being thrown off by the sheer force of the wind.

Toothless unfolds his wings and brings them higher again, giving Hiccup a slight break before he makes a loop. The blood rushing to the human's head as he's thrown and dragged along. It's rough, it's wild, and it's soaring Hiccup's heart higher and higher into the sky.

Toothless isn't going easy on him and that he can hold on and predict every next move is a testament to Hiccup's skill as the most experienced of the Riders.

"WHOO, YEAH!" His voice rings out loud in the sky, reaching the Dragon Riders who they'd left behind as Toothless takes his human on a precarious mission to restore his love for the sky.

They watch and see Toothless' direct approach pay off, happy to hear those cheers of joy.

After taking his Rider on a wild ride, Toothless levels out again, panting from the exertion. Hiccup lets go of the handles to straighten in his seat, hands on his lap. He has to get the last of his rush out with laughter.

"Ah, that was great. I've missed this, Bud. I've missed us." Hiccup pets the Night Fury on the head, the affectionate gesture turning into a scratch behind his ear at the end.

Toothless rumbles happily, briefly shaking his body.

Hiccup smiles and gazes at their surroundings, at the ocean below, and the village in the distance. He can see people watching them from the edge.

"I guess we're not the only ones glad to see us back in the air again, hug, Bud?" He asks.

"No, you're definitely not," Astrid replies as Stormfly catches up. All the Dragon Riders do.

"That was quite a show, Haddock!" Ruffnut commends him.

"Yeah, really happy to have you back." Snotlout admits and Fishlegs and Tuffnut share this sentiment with him.

A grounded Hiccup just hasn't been the same as the Dragon Rider they all know and love. Now here he is again, the weight of his fear lifted by his love of the sky.

"You know, I don't think Berk expects me back for the next few hours. How about some tricks? A race?" Hiccup suggests and how can the Dragon Riders possibly refuse?

"Race!" The vote is unanimous and the decision has been made.

"A race it is!" Hiccup says and off they go.