#i'm being whumped badly

[whumperofworlds]

I'm not okay. On the verge of an autistic meltdown.

Can... can someone help cheer me up somehow?

[allthewhumpygoodness]

Big fan of when a character's grief/trauma/guilt manifests as physical symptoms. Big fan of characters keeping things so tight inside them that it makes them sick. Big fan of when the line blurs between a character's mental trauma and physical illness until it's hard to tell which is which anymore.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets Day 15: Starvation

cw: drugging, substance dependency, starvation, emeto, sorta dehumanization, dissociation, nonsexual nudity, vague deathwish

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 537

=~=~=

He can no longer sit up on his own.

Too weak. In the sparse moments where he's coherent enough to think, the spy knows they're tapering off his rations. Hunger crawls up from his stomach like a swarm of ants, leeching what little strength remains.

He It is always trapped in a haze, but the haze is no longer big enough. It aches all day, unable to even sleep until someone brings another water bottle. Pain consumes its leg, hunger shivers in its bones. When guards pass by, it begs them for water, not food, wanting only to numb it all.

Sometimes they comply, but it's rarely enough. Are they taking away its relief too? Or has it built a tolerance to the drug?

(the thought terrifies the spy when he can comprehend it; the thought of never returning to himself)

It can hardly move. It doesn't want to move. When the stubborn thing inside tries to lift its head, there is only dizziness, more pain, a fleeting fear that this may be the end.

The creature wants none of that. No thoughts, no senses, only the drug that allows it to sleep.

They bring it water and it drinks and nothing happens. No fog, no sudden emptiness. It whimpers into the concrete for hours or days.

The bring it water and it drinks.

(no food)

It can't stop shivering, nausea twisting its empty stomach.

(why can't you do something why can't you move why couldn't you have held fast)

They don't bring it water.

Two guards, it can see them through hazy vision. Its eyes hurt, its head aches.

(this is different)

They grab its arms, dragging it out of the cell, bad leg howling, utter agony, creature howling with it, voice weak

(pathetic, could've ran, could've done something)

the movement and pain and nausea and dizziness are all too much after it's been allowed to feel nothing for so long and it heaves up nothing, bile on its tongue, tears in its eyes. They drag it somewhere and it hurts it hurts it hurts.

(could've turned it down)

would've died

(would've been better)

They have to hold it up, hands around and under its arms. Someone else is talking at it, but it doesn't matter. It hurts and it's cold, colder than the cell was.

(when did they take his clothes?)

It tries to vomit again, left with a sour string of spit clinging to its chin. Over, it just wants it to be over, just wants it to—

Its head jerks up so quickly it sees spots when it hears the snap of a bottle opening. The new person is holding it out

(smirking)

It tries to reach for the bottle, can't shake itself free of the hands, trapped. It can't make sense of the stream of words pouring from its mouth, but it can't stop them either.

pleasepleasepleaesithurtspleaseithurts

(you were supposed to be better than this you were supposed to endure–)

The man laughs.

“Damn. Guess you really can do a number on a guy without lifting a finger.” He screws the cap back on, ignoring the creature's despairing whine.

“Put him back for now. I think he's almost ready for some questions.”

[lucabyte]

Finally: The NoHats AU doodles. Plus some sprite edits.

Usually I'd let things speak for themselves and keep my chattering in the tags, but I'll ramble about my context thoughts...

So. First of all here's a link (x) to the Nohats Origin Post for those coming in and going ????.

Anyway. These doodles are not in any obvious chronological order, though Loop going from pilfered bandolier (my headcanon for how Siffrin has all those pockets) -> custom outfit made by Isabeau, is supposed to generally denote 'just after the ending' -> 'a few months down the line'.

And speaking of, Design & Characterisation notes:

Overall: NoHats is suppooooosed to have the range to not just be ULTIMATE MISERY ALL THE TIME (but if you're a major whump/angst fan. go fucking nuts.) so these are supposed to be. The steps toward overcoming and living with grief but. The Misery Is Kind Of The Punchiest Part.... Oops....

Mirabelle: Taking the lead, continuing to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. In the game proper she's already shown to, while yes, be emotionally fragile at times, be prone to trying to hold the team together. I feel she'd do the same here. It also would help that she'd presumably be medicated again? But I can't imagine her chosen-one anxieities would be super ailed by the death of her friend. I wanted to try and give her more differences? She follows the change belief after all and is thus liable to switch up her style in general... But I didn't have a strong vision for this, so. The ball is in anyone's court. Her design changes here are keeping one of Sif's safety pins a la qpr bonding earring, and has the bell pendant at Loop's (oddly pushy) suggestion.

Isabeau: Taking it. Badly. Depression mullet and beard in tow. However, you best believe he is trying real badly to hide it. Loop very much does not reveal their identity to him because What The Fuck Would That Even Do. That's Scary. but they do try to comfort him while mentally regarding him "off limits". Backs themselves into some very unfortunate corners by alluding to their unfulfilled relationship with their Fighter as a point of common ground. I don't imagine this would go super great when recontextualised later after Loop is inevitably found out. Just in general oh good god what the fuck. this is like a radioactive pit of survivor's guilt.

Bonnie: Taking it probably The Worst. This is a child. Who was already feeling guilt. This is who everyone else is trying to keep it together for. Mirabelle and Isabeau would likely be putting up far less of a front without Bonnie around. They take the hat and take on Pocket Duty. They also have slightly more sif-y hairstyle but... Don't worry about it. They'd have Nille to fall back on once she's picked back up, and Loop almost certainly attempts to redouble efforts on making them feel better but seeing as how closed-off Bonnie can already be, it'd likely be difficult. However they would probably take Loop's identity reveal best...?

Odile: Odile's design.... ! Does not seem to have changed? How odd! Well. I'm sure she's dealing with things in a regular and non-cloistered manner. I already think that a regular Postcanon Activity for Odile could be her finding out about the potential for sif/loop to translate books and thus Knowledge in their native tongue assuming that ability sticks around postgame. Something something culture can never truly be wiped out etc etc. But putting it in this context. Makes it more desperate, more of a deflection for something else.

Loop: Helpful Loop. Well. They win! I feel like the entirety of ISAT being about Siffrin's mental state means I don't need to spill much ink here? You get it I think. I can't outdo the source material man. Anyway I imagine Loop is given clothes by Isabeau before they know who they are, but after they've become genuine friends. The outfit is in genuineness, on both sides from Loop and Isa, in having the cloak be a nod in respect to Siffrin, since Loop's "shared culture" would have to come up vis a vis cultural funerary traditions. Hard to avoid divulging that one...

[bitterrobin]

the mom/dadification of Dick really starts to be detrimental when people say things like "[insert parental figure] should've done more to properly reprimand/comfort [insert whump blorbo here]" Especially when it comes to the 2009 era with Tim's whole deal - its always "why didn't Dick 'parent' Damian better and do something for Tim???" and never actually analyzing why that whole idea is wrong. Dick isn't Tim's father and Dick isn't Damian's father. He's Tim's older brother first and foremost. Why does whenever Bruce die or do something shitty suddenly everyone shoves Dick into the Fatherhood role? He has responsibility as the adult in simple terms, yes, but at the time of Bruce's death in the 2009 Reborn era he was not Damian's family.

He was watching Damian because Damian at the time was an obstacle, like running around having to carry a bomb and watch it so it doesn't explode. He wasn't taking care of Damian because he cared about the kid (at first) and he told Tim that much before Tim decided to leave. He explicitly told Tim that he trusted him as an equal partner, not another kid he needed to watch out for. And whether that sentiment is wrong or not is your opinion, but theres something to said about Dick's own struggles with independence and how he was probably trying to give Tim a chance of independence that wouldn't end as badly as Dick and Bruce's schism did. It backfired in a sense, and honestly I feel regardless of whether Tim stayed as Robin or not things would still have ended shitty because they were both grieving and Tim is a teenager becoming an adult and they were not agreeing on the Bruce thing. (Even if Tim was never shown on panel telling Dick his actual ideas for Bruce being alive before he left).

Whatever idk. I just feel people forget Dick has his own serious issues and absolutely none of the Batman characters would be adept at therapy speak or actively acknowledging their own problems. Dick has his own shit to deal with, just as Tim has his own issues and Damian has issues. There's never going to be a correct solution to the very human conflict going on. You can't "I'm a good parent/sibling" your way out of it. Dick suddenly gaining self-sentience and deciding to punish Damian like a dad would change nothing. Honestly it'd make things worse, Damian has never responded well to parenting and I don't get why people think getting yelled at or put in baby jail would fix his deep-seated issues with the concept of mom/dad. Damian getting punished wouldn't fix anything. Tim staying Robin wouldn't fix anything because he was already set on leaving to search for clues on his theory.

[xoxo-ren-xoxo]

Hermitcraft / Life Series Fic Recs

Because I love so many of them...

I'll split the fics into completed and updating fics, and try to only recommend currently updating fics (i.e., not abandoned). I'm going to write a little about why I like each fic and what the general vibes are - so this is also a kind of review I guess?

I've tried to @ the authors if they have a public tumblr. Sorry to anyone who didn't want to be tagged, I can remove any @ if you ask (or if I have embarrassingly tagged the wrong person). Anyway, enjoy, and I appreciate reblogs because I want as many people to see these fics as possible!!

This ended up being incredibly long so I'm putting a divider here. Click to keep reading!!! Also, fair warning: shipping ahead! Some fics will have mild sexual content, please read the tags if you are unsure <3

Updating Fics

I have already recommended Help Me To Breathe, lost in the dark (he's got a heavy heart), and There Are Monsters Nearby in this post, so I won't explain why I like them a second time, but definitely check them out!!

Death's A Good Gig by @mawofthemagnetar is probably going to be finished by the time this post gets to you, reader, but I'm putting it here anyway. It's short and sweet, one of my favourite representations of Zedaph (or, Zedeath) I've read, and just a joy to experience. If you like grim reapers and discussions of unions, this one is for you. Also I need more Zedaph in my life.

Look, I'm Sorry, Please Stop Scaring Everyone by @cat-in-the-desert reminds me a lot of a particular TV drama I liked when I was younger, which followed a similar premise. This fic follows Mumbo (vampire) and Grian (ghost) as they get up to various housemate shenanigans and meet their local magic-expert and salesman Scar. This fic is fun, but still includes a nice amount of Feelings and hinted-at Angst which I really love. It's lighthearted, but never boring.

It Hurts To Hope by Inquillitory is my favourite of the "Grian crash lands into Hermitcraft and causes problems for everyone" genre. Seeing how many fics there are with that premise, I think that says a lot. It handles Grian's weird Watcher stuff really well. Honestly, I just want to know what happens next!

killing the boy in the tv by @raspberrystruck is like a sickfic on steroids. If you want Grian with so much past trauma he forgets how to function in society, this is basically the fic for you. I really love how hybrid traits affect the characters' interactions in this fic, and how everyone is kind of messed up because of the imbalance Grian brings. It is wonderfully descriptive in all the right places!

Love Me Like I'm Dead by @daniofcrows is such a gem. You know how hard it is to find good Xisuma whump? It's impossible. I absolutely love how Xisuma and Evil X are characterised in this, and I am obsessed with the unique take on hanahaki disease which I have never seen handled in this way before. The balance between flashbacks and present day is maintained wonderfully and I cannot wait to continue reading this one. Wow.

Oh, you wanted me to do a verse? by @bugbbear is... kind of indescribable. It's horror. It's comedy. It's the apocalypse. It's boatem. Scar eats someone. One of the most interesting and unique apocalypse stories I have read. Slowly updating but worth the wait, in my opinion. This one NEEDS more attention.

So Much For Stardust by @a-plethora-of-peters is basically one of my all-time favourites. Which is a damn good achievement seeing as I don't usually read ZITS fics. Like, ever. In this fic, Skizz is a human abducted and hurt badly by aliens, now recovering in the care of good aliens who don't know how 'sentient' he is. Every update of this one makes me smile, it is wonderful. I love how the characters are written and how the different perspectives are shown. It is just great.

Solar Waltz by @raspberrystruck and aroundtheclock is a brilliant and very very sad regression fic. I love fluffy regression fics as much as the next guy, but this one just... hits different. The hurt/comfort levels are off the charts. Grian is so damn cute the whole time, while also being harrowingly complicated and sad. I am so ready for whatever comes next.

Tango's Castle of Cards by @evilrat-sabre is the one where Tango is a BUG. He's just a little guy (horror). This one is so beautifully written, with poetry-type interludes and perspective changes that really make everything feel so much more impactful. Finding out your buddy is a murder bug isn't the easiest thing in the world. I love this so much.

Traveling Thieves {Dark Fantasy AU} (series) by @amethystfairy1 is basically one of the series of all time. I know I keep saying that but it really really is. I love a good fantasy au, and I love an au with hybrids even more. In this world, hybrids are treated like slaves, but it isn't all doom and gloom for the main characters of each installment. There is a lot of hurt/comfort and the different stories feed into each other in really interesting ways. I try to read as much as I can, though I've missed a few because my emails are buggy. Definitely worth reading these fics, especially since now they're all starting to come together!

Completed Fics

Solving Counting Sheep by @theminecraftbee might have rearranged my brain chemistry a little. Another strong contender for 'fics that inspire me to kill Grian', this time with a more concrete notion of "replacement". Three is my favourite fucked up living weapon. It's so rare to find Evo fics in this day and age, too. This fic had me immediately clicking on every update as soon as I got the emails.

Rescue Fire by @imaginethat0327 is one of the most unique takes on a fictionalised life series game that I have ever read. The whole concept is explained in a realistic and easy-to-follow way, as we learn what's happening with the characters. There are several brilliant storylines happening in this one, but my particular favourites are Jimmy & Tango, Joel, and of course Scar & Grian. This fic is full of whump and, well, read the tags, it isn't always pleasant, but those are my favourite things ever. Definitely worth checking out this fic and its currently updating sequel.

don't you know about me? by takenbadgering is a wonderful comedy of errors with just the right amount of angst for a realistic setting type of fic. If you enjoy polyamory miscommunications, rave aesthetics, kandi, school teacher dynamics, and a lovely blend between grumbo, cubscar, and mumscar, this is the one.

Eventually the Birds Must Land by @milo-hypno follows a polyam ship I would have never thought of, and I cannot believe how much I loved it. This married-as-friends fic premise is wonderful, and captures the main trio (Grian, Mumbo, Impulse)'s personalities so well, while balancing them with the incredibly terrifying descriptions of the Watchers and their power. There's a lot of angst here, but it is ultimately hurt/comfort to the maximum degree. I loved reading it as it updated. Yay for gay marriage!

From The Archives (series) by @sixteenth-days was the absolute inspiration for my own Comms AU, and I will never forget its influence on me. As someone basically unfamiliar with TMA, I thought this series might be hard to follow, but it was not! I read all 57 parts in the span of two days, and I think it altered my brain chemistry. Please read it, even if (especially if) you don't know anything about TMA. The Cleo and Grian storyline lives in my head rent free. I mean it. This is horror at its finest. Also there's an audio series of this fic being released rn, which is very cool.

SUPERCRITICAL by @masque-of-plague hits different. It is such a wonderful take on the superhero/HotGuy trope, and it gets so super dark at some points! This one really takes swings at it's fictional government, which of course I love, while at the same time building this brilliantly emotional relationship between Scar and Grian. I do enjoy a bit of enemies to lovers, but the actual plot mixed into the story makes this one extra special. It is thrilling, with action that I don't get to see too often! Great work.

I am weary with contending! is one of the mumscarian fics of all time. From 'this house has people in it'-type horror, to magic gone wrong, to childhood trauma, to attempted assassination, to gender fuckery, this fic has it all. Usually I don't go for convex siblings, but this one is good enough to get a pass from me. Amazingly detailed worldbuilding alongside a brilliantly creative story.

It Spreads by @foxxology may not count as a fic, actually. It's a comic. But it's posted on ao3 so it counts. I was obsessed with this one as it was updating, honestly. It rocked me to my core. The art is phenomenal. The writing is brilliant. I love sculk.

Luck of the sea by Sleepy_Duck is a lovely take on mermaid and human interactions, with Grian as a marine life conservator and Scar as a very neglected mer. This one takes us emotionally in all sorts of directions, and offers lots of hope for the future of the characters. I heavily enjoyed this fic - if you like mermaids and marine biology, check it out.

there are many downsides to being a marine biologist by donnerstag is another mermaid fic but with a pretty different vibe. First of all, it follows what I would consider a rarepair Doc/Martyn. Second of all, reading this as it updated was a thrilling experience that nearly made me cry at certain points. I love how the relationship builds in this fic. It is honestly amazing. The whole idea of experimenting on a sentient sea creature, learning that he can communicate, then losing funding and having to save him from being dissected?!?! It's crazy. I love it.

Thus concludes my fic recommendations. I hope you enjoy at least some of these, and consider reblogging to spread these wonderful fics around <3

[aceofwhump]

Do you have a whump trope that you would like to see in the revival of White Collar, especially for Neal?

Oh gosh yes. So many. I want to see him get shot. Like badly. For real this time. A wound like the finale but he isn't faking his own death please. I want him bleeding out and I want Peter to freak out. And worse than getting shot in the leg which while I enjoyed sooooo much you have no idea but I want more. Much more. More blood, more pain, more stakes. More. Shoot him.

I would love to see more kidnapped whump for Neal too. Dangerous criminal kidnapping him to either A) get at Peter or B) use him for their own nefarious purposes. Then of course please hurt him while you have him thank you.

I'm currently obsessed with the scenario of Neal being lent to another department or organization and the new temporary handler treating him like dirt. Kinda like that one episode where Ruiz gets him kidnapped kinda on purpose. But I want it big and I want him hurting and abused.

Near drowning. We haven't had that for Neal have we? I need that please. That would be a good trope to use on Neal.

A good classic sick episode would be great. We need a good ole sick Neal episode.

Oh maybe even a poisoning! One of the fun ones where they get progressively sicker through the episode as they run out of time to find an antidote. Love that stuff.

[all-the-gory-details]

whump prompt: magical brands/tattoos

THANK YOU

Tw: brand, burns, captivity, punishment

Whumpee trembled on the cold concrete floor, heavy breathing interrupted by the occasional hiccup or sob. Their body didn't feel right, shaky and weak.

Pain radiated from the spot on the small of their back, the spot Whumper had chosen to mark. If the branding iron wasn't lying discarded on the floor beside them, they would have sworn it was still pressed into their skin, sizzling as they tried to bite back their screams.

Now, whumper was waiting, foot tapping on the floor impatiently. Whumpee wanted so badly to curl up and cry, but this wasn't over. Not yet.

"It hurts, doesn't it, Whumpee?" They finally mused, excitement peeking through their cold facade.

"You fucking branded me," they muttered, squeezing their eyes shut tight. "Of course it hurts."

"Let's try something, hm? I'm... interested, to see what effect this will have on your behavior." They paused for a moment, and Whumpee braced themself for the kick or hit they assumed was coming.

Instead, whumper delivered one simple command. "Kneel."

Whumpee had a meer moment to feel the relief of not being beaten.

Then, the brand on their back was on fire once more.

They had thought it hurt to be branded the first time. Somehow, this was worse.

They shrieked in pain, limbs spasming as the agony traveled up their spine, radiating through their very soul.

Somehow, some part of them remembered that last command, and they managed to push themselves up, into a pose that could possibly be called kneeling.

The burning died down after a moment, returning to the manageable throb of before. Whumper grinned, slowly circling their quivering, kneeling form.

"I don't think disobedience will be a problem much longer, don't you agree? There are some cases, Whumpee, where pain really is the best teacher."

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

Hello friend! I'm in love with your writing!!! 😍😍😍😍😍

Idk if your requests are still open but I'd like to request something if you don't mind!

I LOVED the hurt/comfort/whump fic you did for Hunter. Could you possibly do something like that for Tech x Reader?

Maybe Tech and the reader are on a mission together or maybe they've crash landed somewhere or something. The reader is badly hurt and Tech has to take care of her and treat her wounds and save her and comfort her in his own special Tech way 😂😍

Oh @arctrooper69 what can I say? I mean ... I think a thank you is just not enough. You have made my day with this request, so I took my time to give it the proper respect it deserves. I hope you like it. If it wasn't exactly what you were looking for I do apologize.

Please note that you are always welcome to send in requests. As this is a special request, it will be stored in my One Shots & Mini Series Master List.

The story got a little away from at 1400+ words, but I hope it's close to what you wanted.

And who doesn't love Tech. I love this adorable nerdy man.

Love oo,

His Promise

Warnings: Snow, injury, blood, explosions, crash, grief, fear, anxiety, hurt, fluff, near death, feelings of being a burden, getting in the way, I think that's it. If I miss any, please let me know.

Please note the explanation of Snow, Tech gives, was taken from the National Snow and Ice Data Centre.

AO3 Link   |   OS & MS Master List |   Main Master List  

The wind was picking up, as the snow piled down and was doing everything in its power to keep you and Tech from being rescued. You looked at the snow as it came down in sheets outside the entrance of the cavern he found, mesmerized by its beauty. 

“It’s beautiful and so calming …” you said slowly, your body already weakened from your injury and loss of blood.

“What are you talking about?” Tech did his best not to let the slowness of your breathing or even the breathless way you were speaking affect him. His anxiety was already high, and his fear of losing you was nearing his breaking point. 

“The snow…” you kept watching the soft flakes float down as they gently landed on the ground, piling on top of one another, almost as though they were unable to survive without the comfort of those around them. 

Tech glanced up to see the blizzard which prevented you both from leaving. As he watched the speed of the wind, he calculated it would’ve been nearly impossible for Hunter to bring the ship close to them. As he looked at the used bandages already soaked through with your blood his fear only grew. You needed immediate medical attention, more than he could provide at the moment, or it would mean certain death for you to be out here any longer.

Frankly, he couldn’t stop picturing the way you lunged forward as the ship crashed. He was helpless to watch you, as your body fell forward against the console, as a piece of the console broke off and jabbed you in your abdomen. It all happened too fast and somehow in slow motion. He could still hear your scream piercing his ear as he pulled you off the console.

He tried to stop the bleeding right away, however when he went to look for the med kit, he realized only too late that it had fallen out of the shuttle when the engine and the side compartment blew. All he had left were his emergency bandages and gauze and they weren’t nearly enough. 

At that moment, he couldn’t care less about how beautiful the snow was or how calming the blizzard looked from inside a cavern, that he only had to find because that piece of osik shuttle decided to have a fuel leak, catching on fire. 

Within seconds he had needed to drag you out of the relatively warm and safe shelter you both had, grabbing what supplies he could before the ship blew up. Thankfully, he had been able to send a message to Hunter when the shuttle crashed initially. So it was only a matter of time before the Marauder showed up, but …

His eyes fell back to the bundle of used gauze, his anxiety climbing as he knew you needed more first aid than he could provide at the moment. You needed the Marauder, you needed his med kit that he carefully stocked and kept safe on board the Marauder. At this point in time, he didn’t care about any kriffing snow.

“Snow is an accumulation of packed ice crystals. The condition of the packed crystals determines a variety of attributes, such as colour, temperature and water equivalent. As weather conditions change, the packed ice crystals can change as well, and this affects the characteristics of snow.”

You chuckled at his ability to pull forth information like it was nothing. Unfortunately the chuckle turned to coughing. Only causing you to dribble more blood out of your mouth, you wiped away what you could. He didn’t need to see that, “Tech …” you coughed again, “turn off your brain for two seconds, don’t think and just look. Just watch.”

He pulled the heater closer towards you, “Stop talking and try and warm up.”

“Tech…” you held his hand, “just look.”

His eyes drifted up your body, till he locked eyes with you. They were pleading for him to listen and to just have him appreciate what you found mesmerizing. He tried to follow your advice, focusing on the snow, but all his mind kept drifting back to was this blizzard that was preventing you from getting the medical attention you needed, so desperately. 

He shook his head focusing back on your abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding. Trying his best to keep you with him. 

“Tech,” you gripped his wrist “… stop …”

“No.”

His tone was firm and full of anger, why did he agree to let you come with him? If he used his brain instead of allowing his feelings for you to dictate his actions, you wouldn’t have been here. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Why did you always insist on following him? Why didn’t you just stay behind on Pabu? Simply because you wanted to see the galaxy, and he was excited to show it to you? It was his fault you were here. It was his fault you were in danger. It was his fault he … was going to lose you.

“Tech …” you squeezed his wrist. He removed your hand from his wrist, placing it off to the side as he focused on your wound. He didn’t deserve your touch, he didn’t deserve to have you comfort him. It was his fault you both crashed on this force forsaken planet. 

There was nothing you could do as you watched Tech pull away. 

From the moment you met him on Pabu, the way he worked with Phee as he helped rescue the villagers when the rogue wave was rushing towards the island, and the way he helped make everything more ‘efficient,’ you couldn’t help but fall in love with him. You wanted to learn from him, to listen to him go on with regards to anything and everything. Only problem was you never had the courage to actually utter the words you were dying to. Phee told you time and time again, ‘later’ was never a guarantee, and now as you lay on the cold floor of the cavern you were in, bleeding out of your abdomen, you realized how little time there was left. 

  Tears welled up in your eyes, as you realized you needed to unburden yourself. You needed to tell him what had been pressing on your heart before you didn’t have the strength to, it didn’t help that you were feeling weaker with each passing second. Also didn’t help that you could tell he was angry, actually a more accurate description would be infuriated, more than likely at you.

“I’m sorry.” You offered the only apology you could. “I’m sorry I’m such a burden, even now.” You took in a shuddering breath as Tech stopped moving his hands for two seconds as he focused on your face. “I’m sorry for always pestering you to teach me,” you offered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry for not listening,” a tear slid down your cheek, “I’m sorry for putting you in this position. To have to feel responsible for someone like me.” 

He shook his head, his teeth clenched as his anger, grief, fear, and sadness overwhelmed him completely in that moment. He pulled off his helmet and placed it beside him. 

“Stop.” It was his only command.

“Please, I …” you coughed again, trying to not cough on him. “I just want … I need to …”

He cut off your speech as his hand cupped your cheek, “Cyar’ika …” tears welled up in his eyes, “you were … are never a burden.” He couldn’t believe that’s what you thought of him… that’s what you believed he felt for you. He shook his head again as he pressed his forehead to yours. “I have loved every second we have spent together. I made a point to record every moment with you, because they were more precious to me than breathing.”

You held on to his bicep, keeping him close as tears streamed down your cheek, “Tech … I … I don’t want to go… I want … I want to stay here with you…”

“You’re not going anywhere. I just got you …” his tears landed on your cheeks, mixing with your own, “you’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Hold me… please… just hold me until…I can’t feel your arms anymore.”

“I’ll hold you longer than that,” Tech pulled you into his arms, lifting you off the ground as he felt your body grow weaker. Your eyes were closed, your body was growing pale. He was so focused on you, he didn’t hear the voices calling out to him, at least not until he felt Hunter’s hand on his shoulder. He didn’t wait, there were no more seconds to lose. He rushed towards the Marauder with you in his arms, he wasn’t going to lose you. He promised. He was going to bring you back.

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[chaosheadspace]

Hope you feel better soon!

If it's not too late for kiss prompt requests, can I send a #5) Where it doesn't hurt?

Or a #39) Because time's run out.

Gotta love that angst.

💜💜

Okay so this gripped me by the throat. I'm putting it all behind a readmore because Dream gets very badly hurt in this. Proceed with caution. It also has an ambiguous ending, which will be resolved with a future prompt, so be warned of that, too. If you like angst and whump, please enjoy.

Sort of continuation of this and this.

(Yam, you might wanna give this one a berth or ask me for further details.)

Hob breathes in the cool autumn air. It’s dark outside, the hour late after the book reading Dream and he went to. The streets are almost empty, it being a weekday and after eleven. Apart from the occasional car coming by, it’s just them and the streetlight, night laying over it all like a blanket.

It’s been a year since Dream came to live with him after being turned human by his sister, and Hob watches him as he puts on his coat carefully, somehow still unaccustomed to some things of the human experiences.

Dream has been—not like a child; no, more like a wild bird with a broken wing that needed to get used to living on the ground. Some things still vex him, still cause him difficulty; most of them to do with the limited human focus. He's burned food, or worse, himself; forgot laundry and groceries and bills and appointments. Hob helps where he can, and together they managed to get Dream on his feet again, albeit staggering a little. It's not perfect, but Hob is nonetheless proud of Dream. Isn't the purpose of life to fail and learn as best as one can? Dream is doing just marvellous, even with the difficulties his change has brought him.

He's full of wonder, of curiosity, Hob has found, and it's such a joy to relearn the world through Dream's eyes. Dream has continued to be an artist, taking to clay and paint and pencils with ease. He’s taken a liking at cooking, too, even if he’s not good at it. Anything to do with touch, really, Hob’s noticed. Dream loves working with his hands, experimenting, experiencing. Dream runs his hands over soft cushions and blankets, over his coat and the doorframe before they leave, over tree bark and cold metal railings, over his own chin and cheeks when he forgot to shave again.

He also touches Hob, his pullovers, his arms, his hair; curious and unrestrained. Sometimes Hob needs to swallow and take a deep breath, but he always lets him. Dream is so open now, letting him see, and Hob won’t spook him off with glimpses of his own heart again, not if he can help it, not when the only thing required is patience.

Dream’s hand squeezes Hob's, comforting, promising, pulling him back into the London night.

“Let us go home, Hob,” Dream says, and then lets go of his hand and steps out into the street to cross it, still smiling at him.

Hob opens his mouth to remind him to look first, but he's drowned out by the honk of a car horn, painfully loud, painfully close.

The split second seems to last an eternity, splits, splits again, an endless nightmare in which Hob so clearly sees Dreams shocked face, the headlights catching on his coat, the car. Unable to do anything, too slow, too sluggish.

Then the world is fast again, the car reversing, Hob's ears ringing. He can't see Dream. He can't see Dream.

Hob can't breathe, slips between the same parked cars that Dream just passed between a second ago, adrenaline and fear in his veins.

With a squeal and the rev of the engine, the car speeds off, and Hob shouts a reflexive, angered “Hey!” after it before his mind is again screeched to a halt by ragged, gulping breaths.

It's quiet again, awfully quiet, except for Dream's breathing.

Hob takes another step, looks downwards—*of course downwards, where else would he be, Hob, you idiot—and there lies Dream, a crumpled, horribly twisted mess, his chest heaving, his face a grimace of pain.

Hob sinks to his knees beside him, his right hand fishing for his phone, his eyes never leaving Dream.

“Dream, Dream, darling, hey—”

“Hhob—” The stuttering gurgle coming out of Dream sounds so painfully wrong it turns Hob's stomach. Dream's next exhale is a painful, ragged moan followed by a very wet cough that has Hob fumbling for his phone even faster. He presses 999 with shaking fingers.

His own voice feels like sludge as he speaks to the operator, too slow, muddy, somehow. It's all terribly wrong, the trickle of blood from Dream's temple, the bent, contorted way he lies there, the agonised sounds that escape him with every breath, the glassiness of his eyes that are looking up, up, into the faint stars of the sky, unseeing.

Hob reaches for Dream's head as he speaks, tentative, trembling, desperate to give him even the smallest amount of comfort, and then thinks better of it and reaches for his hand.

The operator stays on call with him, the ambulance dispatched, and all they can do is wait, wait the horribly long wait until it gets here. They told him not to move Dream, for fear of worsening his injuries. Reality is hazy to Hob, the operator, the promise of an ambulance, all of it is so far away, behind a layer of fog. The only real thing is Dream, wrong, wounded, wrong—

Hob's fingers touch Dream's, and with a sound like an animal Dream grips his hand with surprising strength. He's still not looking at Hob. Maybe he can't. And then Dream speaks again, his eyes still turned to the dark of night.

“Mother?” Dream rasps, begging, “mother, please—” He coughs again, groans, sobs spasmodically as his body shifts slightly. “Mother, can you not hear me?”

Hob's phone clatters to the ground as he grips Dream’s hand with both of his own.

“Dream, hey, darling, I'm here, I'm here, I'm so sorry,” Hob says, babbling.

There are tears on Dream's face now, his laboured breathing accompanied by pained cries, and Hob feels helpless, so helpless.

“I did not—want to—anger you,” Dream hacks out. “It is—so dark. Destiny won't—save me this time—mother, please—”

The world gets loud again and Hob's eyes still don't leave Dream, not as he's pried from Dream's side as the paramedics get to work, not as Dream is practically scraped from the pavement, not as they load him into the ambulance.

Thankfully they allow him to come with, seated at the side of the vehicle, right next to but still too far away from Dream as they work.

For a very short moment, after they arrive at the hospital, before they get the stretcher out of the ambulance, Dream looks at him. Really looks at him for a second, a sliver of clarity aided by painkillers.

Hob presses a kiss to the unbruised side of his forehead, weeping, before Dream is whisked away into bright lights and bustling activity.

The world slows.

Hob feels heavy, so heavy as he climbs out of the ambulance, as he gives someone Dream's details, as he walks into the hospital himself and is directed to a waiting area after refusing to go home.

He can't.

He can't leave, for nothing in this world would he leave right now, and so he sits under the too bright lights in an empty hospital waiting room, the blue cushion of the bench too firm to be comfortable, and weeps.

Someone comes and tries to talk to him in an empathetic voice, but Hob doesn't understand them, hell, can barely see them through his tears, so he waves them off. They leave him with tissues and more muffled, sympathetic words, and then he is alone again.

When Hob wipes his face and blows his nose some time later, he notices that his hands are grey from where he'd touched the pavement.

He mechanically gets up to wash them, the artificial serenity of the hospital doing nothing to calm down his nerves.

Then he sits there, again, alone, hiccuping and crying some more.

It's late, and Hob feels heavy, his body tired, his mind racing. Dream can't die. He can't. Can he? Hob doesn't know.

Just thinking about it shoots pain through his chest. He can't. He can't.

Pictures keep flashing through Hob's mind, of Dream on the pavement, of Dream's unseeing eyes. He can still hear the way Dream said mother, pleading, small, afraid.

Hob cries again.

Eventually, his spiralling thoughts turn hazy, flickering like the flame of a candle, coming in and out of focus as if they were a radio someone is tuning.

Hob sinks to the side, down onto the hard, uncomfortable cushion. It smells of disinfectant.

Just for a moment, Hob thinks, just for a few seconds.

Hob falls asleep waiting, still waiting, alone, his fearful heart beating Dream, Dream, Dream.

[eebydeebyderby]

Are You Ready?

A one-shot in which Reader tends to a badly-injured Egon Spengler in the firehouse during a blizzard lockdown.

General info:

Female reader insert, Hurt/comfort, Egon Spengler whump, friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending

~4.0k word count

Content Warnings:

Blood, description of injuries (he'll be fine, I swear)

The world is frozen over. 

The city is in complete lockdown as the blizzard rages outside, the worst storm since the ten-day ice freeze of 1931. It was quite sudden, with the city only getting three hours of notice as the eye of the storm approached from the Atlantic. There was quite a frantic scramble outside as people scurried around to secure spots, with sirens and car horns and chatter echoing through the city. But, the only noises coming from outside now are the deafening howls of the blizzard. Emergency services will be completely unavailable for the next twelve hours until the worst of the storm passes, and rolling blackouts are expected throughout the city’s power grid. 

Egon sits cozy in his lab, where the sounds of the storm are only a faint whisper. He has the entirety of the firehouse to himself, a rare luxury that he’s eagerly enjoying. It isn’t that he dislikes his coworkers—far from it, he’s quite fond of everyone—but, for the most part, solitude is his preferred state. He doesn’t have to worry about entertaining anyone, doesn’t have to worry about carefully treading around delicate social customs that he so-often blunders through. 

He hears footsteps descending towards the lab and he's immediately annoyed. He was looking forward to his night of solitude and now that was ruined.

“Egon?” a voice calls out. “Are you down here?” 

Oh. It's you. 

Immediately his annoyance fades, replaced by a nervous excitement that bubbles in his chest. “Yes. I'm down here.” 

You trot down into the lab, fresh-eyed and brightly awake, despite the late hour. He can't help but smile a bit at the sight of you, so charming and lovely with a blanket tossed around your shoulders, your arms full of old, tattered textbooks and notebooks. “I didn't know there was a lockdown,” you say sheepishly. “I was napping upstairs with my walkman and I guess I missed all the storm alerts. Is it alright if I work down here for a bit? I hate the idea of being alone upstairs during the storm. It's spooky, you know? All that wind rattling the windows. I know you were probably wanting to be alone, and that you don't really like people just barging in here, and you probably stayed so you'd be alone, but…” 

You trail off, and he sees the nervousness on your face, the fear that he'll reject your presence like he’s done countless times with other people. But, he's never kicked you out. Never you. Still though, you're hesitant. “You're always a guest I look forward to having. I want you to make yourself comfortable and stay as long as you'd like.” 

You smile, and he sees your nervousness relax. “You know, I'm glad it's you I'm here with. I really like spending time with you.” 

His heart flutters in his chest and he can't help but preen. “Likewise,” he says simply, hoping the heat burning in his face isn't too noticeable.

You settle in nicely at one of his spare desks and get to work. He returns to his own tasks, but can’t help but occasionally glance at you. You're sitting at the edge of your seat, lightly bouncing your knee and deeply concentrating on your work, silently mouthing words under your breath as you pore over the ancient texts. Brittle pages and old books are scattered around, with one heavy textbook even open in your lap as you scribble in a notebook, jotting down the spiritual intonations of civilizations long dead. He loves you. You’re radiant and splendid and wonderful and delightful and he loves you. He's loved you for quite some time. 

You catch his eye and for a split moment he's absolutely mortified that you caught him staring. But you just smile warmly at him, melting the icy pit formed in his chest, and he can't help but give you a half smile in return. You put your pen down and turn to face him. "What are you working on?" 

"I'm resetting the trap I set next to the sweets drawer and changing out the bait." 

"Did you finally catch that rat?"

"No. I caught Venkman." 

You scoff and shake your head a bit in disbelief. 

"I blame myself a bit. In hindsight, I should not use one of his favorite treats as bait. I apologized and offered to buy him lunch tomorrow. Overall, however, he was a very good sport about it.”

You cock an eyebrow, and there's a glint of mischief in your eyes that is so endearing to him. "Peter reached his grubby Peter fingers into a trap and expected not to be…trapped?"

He nods. 

“What happened next?” 

"Ray took him to get it stitched up," he says, raising his coffee mug to his lips. 

"Really? The veterinarian was open that late?"

He snorts into his coffee, spilling it down his chin, and you laugh. He catches your eye and can't help but smile as he wipes his mouth on the back of his lab coat sleeve. Your laughter is in no way derisive and adds a lovely glow to your face, and it's a delightful sight for him to take in. Then, he notices it again, like he's done countless times before: there’s a melancholy about you.

Beneath the sweetness of your smile, the brightness that flashes in your eyes when you laugh, he always catches a fleeting glimpse of something. Something he can never quite place, something he can never string into coherent words. He’s barely able to notice it before it fades away from sight, disappears beneath the depths in your eyes. He can’t see it anymore, but he knows it’s there. It's always been there, since the day he met you. He often imagines himself wrestling it to the surface, grappling it until he's able to free you from its grip entirely. 

             He shakes his head a bit. A stupid thought. He's almost embarrassed at the absurdity of it. 

The lab falls back into silence. He returns to his tasks, and you return to yours. 

“Egon?” 

The sound of his name in your voice is so lovely and sweet, it almost sends shivers down his spine. “Yes?”

“If it's not too much of an inconvenience, could I borrow your copy of Tobin’s Spiritual Guide?”

“Of course. It's no inconvenience at all.” He makes his way over to the huge bookcase that lines the entirety of the walls on both sides of the old fireplace and slides the ladder over to the proper section. He climbs a few feet up to the shelf labeled “Spiritual Entities, Cryptids, and Other Beasts” and starts scanning through the titles of the books when the rung of the ladder he’s standing on snaps beneath him. 

A jolt of panic shoots down his spine as he tries and fails to find footing; the sharp metal of the broken rung tears deeply through the side of his thigh as he falls and he hits the ground with a harsh “Oomph!” The broken ladder clatters next to him on the ground, dripping and spattering blood off its broken rung. He gasps. “Shit!” he hisses under his breath. His hands grasp his thigh and hot blood spills between his fingers, soaking through his pants and pooling onto the floor. The pain hits him all at once, tearing the breath from his lungs—a stabbing, searing, sickening pain that splinters viscerally through his entire leg. He cries out a bit at the fresh waves of pain that course through him like venom with each heartbeat that sends blood gushing between his fingers. The back of his head bumps the ground and he squeezes his eyes shut, his breathing grows rapid and shallow as the room spins around him. He's light-headed. He's dizzy. He's nauseous. He's going to pass out—

“Egon, move your hands.” 

Your voice is surprisingly smooth and calm next to him, and it tethers him back from complete panic. You’re kneeling next to him, the large first-aid kit open on the ground next to you. He complies and you slip a tourniquet under his leg. He groans and grits his teeth, unable to suppress the whine that escapes his lips as you tighten the tourniquet around his thigh as much as you can. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you sputter. He sees the split moment of panic on your face when you feel his blood on your hands, hot and viscous, wrong and horrifying, but you quickly reel it back. The bleeding almost instantly slows down to an ooze, but it aches terribly. 

“Don't cover it up yet,” he says quickly, seeing the pads of gauze in your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to will his heart to stop beating so rapidly. “I need to see how bad it is.” You wordlessly hand him the scissors from the first-aid kit and he deftly cuts off his bloodied pant leg just below the tourniquet. He hears you gasp and he needs to suppress his own as he sees the extent of it. The deep wound flays him nearly to the bone on the outside of his thigh, extending more than a foot long. “Shit.” He lays his head back on the ground, nervousness coiling around his throat. It's bad. It's undoubtedly very, very bad. And it fucking hurts. 

Your voice is quiet when you're able to finally summon it. “What do you say we do?”  

“It needs to be cauterized.” 

“Isn't cautery outdated? Shouldn't we just keep the tourniquet and wrap it up?”

“Emergency services will be unavailable for at least ten hours, and the tourniquet will have me septic in less than six hours, but I'll bleed to death without it. Dressing alone won't adequately stop the bleeding, stitches are too shallow.”

“Alright. I trust your judgment. What am I supposed to use for the cautery tool? 

“I have a battery-operated welding blade in the drawer at the welding table.”

You wince and swallow, hard, looking down at your hands covered in his blood, already beginning to dry and crack on your palms. “Okay, okay. I'm gonna wash my hands real quick and come back. Then just tell me what to do from there.” 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“ ‘Sterile non-stick gauze. Lidocaine 5% mucoadhesive wet dressing. Sterile sodium chloride saline 0.9% solution. Isopropyl alcohol 99%,’ ” you mutter under your breath, reading the labels of the various tools you pull out of the first-aid kit. “My reluctance kind of comes from the fact that I…really, really like you,” you say as you scrub your hands down with rubbing alcohol. “If you were Venkman then I’d be delighted at the chance to stick a blade in your leg.” You set the bottle of alcohol on the floor. “Okay, just running this through real quick one last time: first I rinse with saline, then I do the cautery, then I put the wet dressing, then the dry dressing.”

He nods. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Okay.” You slowly exhale. “Okay. Step one: saline rinse.” You crack open the bottle and hold it over his leg. “Are you ready?”

He nods, a knot forming in his stomach.

“Okay.” 

He involuntarily sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut as an icy chill washes over his leg, immediately followed by a fiery sting that courses through his leg like venom. It's bitingly cold and freezes him to the bone, but it also burns so, so badly. He grits his teeth but a slight groan still escapes his lips, followed by a strangled whine. He's immediately ashamed and clenches his jaw so much that it aches, focusing all of his energy on staying quiet. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, sweat forming on his brow. 

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, that's done.”

He sharply exhales the breath he didn't know he was holding in and he struggles to pull enough air into his burning lungs with shallow, rapid panting.

“Hey, Egon?” Your hand slips into his and his heart flutters in his chest. “Hey, you're doing good. You're going to be alright.” Your voice is so soothing that he wants to believe you. His eyes are still shut, but he nods. 

“Next is this.” You pour rubbing alcohol all over the welding blade in an attempt to disinfect it. The harsh, acrid fumes sting the inside of his nose and burn the back of his throat as it splashes on the ground next to him. “This is insane. This is absolutely insane,” you mutter rapidly under your breath. “I feel like I’m torturing you.” 

“You’re not.” He tries to sound confident, but his voice is strained and shaking. “Don’t feel guilty.”

“I’ll do my best. How long should I keep this thing on your leg?” 

“A minimum of ten seconds, no matter how badly I react. Anything less would not adequately stop the bleeding.” 

“No matter how badly you react,” you repeat under your breath. “Fuck, dude…” You shut your eyes and for a moment you look like you're about to cry, but you manage to force it back down and open your eyes to reveal a frightened, brittle resolve. You switch on the welder and the little old machine sputters to life. He hears the crackling of the heating element and a sickening shiver runs through him, settling heavily in his stomach as a nauseating dread. The dark gray blade glows a faint red and yellow with the heat burning through it. “It’ll be over soon. Just ten seconds.” You sigh, and he sees your brow furrow as you steel your nerves, forcing yourself into a state of strained calmness. “Are you ready?”

No. He's terrified. He's in pain. His composure is failing and he doesn't want you to see him completely fall apart. “Yes.”

“Okay.” You hold up the makeshift cautery blade and take aim, putting your other hand and knee on his upper thigh to keep him still. “Now.” You plunge the blade into his leg. 

He screams. 

His entire body convulses but you keep his leg pinned firmly beneath your knee. The pain is blinding and searing and overwhelming and he screams until his throat seizes and he's desperately choking for air. His vision blanks and he's nearly on the verge of passing out when—

It's over. 

You pull the blade away and his entire body goes limp. His head is spinning and his chest burns. Tears run down the sides of his face and he’s gasping and panting between sobs, unable to catch his breath. He cries out again with the icy jolt that shoots up his leg when your shaking hands press the wet compress to the freshly cauterized wound. He tries and fails to steady his breathing, fails to stop openly sobbing as you wrap the dry dressing around his thigh and remove the tourniquet. 

He's ashamed that you're seeing him cry. Egon Spengler, a man who prides himself on prioritizing rationality over emotions, is reduced to a sobbing, quivering mess in front of the woman he's in love with, his clothing and the floor beneath him soiled by a sickening mixture of saline and his own blood. His face burns with embarrassment. How pathetic he must look to you, the facade of the level headed scientist shattered. Frustration boils within him and tightens within his chest. 

Oh. Your hand grazes the side of his face, and his attention snaps to you. Your touch is warm, gentle, and so, so soothing. You're talking to him. You've been talking to him this whole time, but it's only now that his scrambled mind is able to actually notice it. 

“Hey, it's okay. It's okay,” you whisper to him, stroking his sweating, clammy face. “It's over. You're gonna be okay.” Your other hand slips into his and he weakly grasps your hand in return. You continue talking to him for several minutes, gently stroking his face and occasionally squeezing his hand as tears flow down his face. There's sincerity in your gestures of comfort, a deep genuineness that can only be made through love. Still, though, he can't stop crying, but he's no longer self-conscious about doing so in front of you. 

Eventually, his breathing begins steadying a bit and his heart stops beating so wildly in his chest. The lidocaine dressing starts taking the edge off the pain, leaving behind a dull, painful ache that throbs through his entire leg. It still hurts terribly, but it is far from overwhelming. 

A headache starts to settle heavily behind his eyes. His entire body shivers violently despite the heat burning through him. Nausea curdles in his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut but it isn't enough; the lights still ache deeply and seem to tunnel through his head.

You gently lift his head and put a damp rag on the back of his neck. He gasps at the chill that shoots down his spine, but the relief it brings is almost instant. His nausea wanes; the painful throbbing of his head begins to dull as you delicately lift his glasses off his face and set them safely aside. You place another damp rag on his forehead and he's grateful that you cover his eyes, completely blocking out the light. 

You're tossing the blanket you brought down earlier over him when the lights go out, leaving the two of you in complete darkness. The coffee maker stops gurgling, the heater stops rumbling, and the lab is left in near complete silence, the only noises coming from the raging storm howling faintly outside. “Crap…” You rummage through the first-aid kit for a flashlight. “Egon, I’ll be right back. Try to get some rest.” 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Egon. Egon.” You gently nudge his shoulder, rousing him from his heavy doze.

He groans and grits his teeth with the dull agony that settled in his leg as he slept, heavy and stiff; his hands instinctively grasp his thigh in a futile attempt to try and relieve some of the pain.

“I know, I'm sorry, but your temperature’s spiking a bit and I need you to take some ibuprofen to try and get it down. I also found a couple Vicodin in Peter's things that I think you'll appreciate.”

He takes the small handful of pills and voraciously downs both water bottles you offer him. 

He's bundled up under several blankets, warm and cozy, despite the discomfort of the hard floor beneath him. The fireplace crackles and spits as the only light source in the lab, animating the shadows of the objects it illuminates in its soft, hot glow. “Power's still out. Pipes are frozen,” you say, rising to your feet. His eyes follow you as you toss another hunk of wood into the fireplace, sending a pleasant wave of heat over him. “But we're doing alright.” You glance at him. “You’re starting to look a bit better.”

“Where did you find wood for the fireplace?” he asks.

“I can't tell you. Also, Peter's nightstand is now missing.” 

He snickers. The pain in his leg has already started lifting, replaced by a faint, floaty feeling. “Of all the places to grievously injure myself, next to the fireplace is a lucky break.” 

You look at him intently, and there isn't a hint of humor on your face. 

“Sorry,” he says just a bit too quickly, his face practically steaming with embarrassment. He clears his throat and scrambles a bit for a change of topic. “I really admire you—especially in the way you handle yourself in an emergency. I admire a lot of things about you.” 

You scoff. “I see the Vicodin is kicking in.”

“If anything, I think my mental faculties are more perspicuous with the hydrocodone. The distraction of the pain is much less pronounced.” He slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, wincing a bit, but the pain is just a fraction of what it was, throbbing dully deep in his leg. “Though, I must say that our recent experiences together have also given me a greater sentiment of closeness to you. I feel safe with you. I’m sure part of this mentality is just the narcotic inhibiting my usual reticence, but for the most part, I believe it’s authentic.”

“Egon.” 

You kneel next to him, and he has trouble seeing your face in the harsh shadows cast by the crackling fireplace. One of his old coats is draped around your shoulders and it’s far too large on you, which he finds so, so endearing. A burst of affection washes over him, bubbles in his chest and brings warmth to his face. The urge to kiss you is overwhelming, almost primal. He catches your eye and leans forward. 

You read his intentions and pull back. You gently place your hand on his chest, nudging him back a bit. “Look, I'm not sur--” 

“Please, I want to kiss you.”

“Egon.”

“I love you. I’m in love with you,” he blurts. “I've been in love with you f—”

“Stop! Stop it! Stop talking!” That melancholy about you suddenly rushes to the surface and bursts forth as tears in your eyes and you clench your jaw, bite the inside of your cheek, but the tears flow freely down your face. You sigh, annoyed, and avert your gaze, impatiently wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “Look, Egon, this is not a conversation I'm ready to have right now. I am so fucking overwhelmed as it is, okay? I just…Fuck, don’t do this to me now.” 

His heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach and he lies back on the ground. It’s not an outright rejection, far from it. But, it still aches deeply in his chest as you weep next to him, your head bent and your palm on your forehead.

“I'm sorry,” you say quietly, your voice thick with tears. “It’s just, it’s been a really bad night. If I hadn't asked you to grab me that stupid fucking book then none of this would have happened. And I have my own goddamn copy upstairs! I just didn't want to go grab it! And I almost killed you because of that!” You lift your head. “Seeing all that blood, hearing you scream like that…Oh my God, that was so awful. Oh, Egon, I'm so sorry…” You sigh, summoning all your courage for your next words. “I love you. I really do. I love you so much that it sometimes keeps me up at night.” He’s positively euphoric at hearing these words. His heart soars, but your next words send it plummeting back to the bottom of his stomach. “But, Egon, I feel so terrible about it.” A sob hitches in your throat and you struggle to keep your next words steady. “Look at this fucking mess we're in…”

He reaches for your hand. You see him, but don't protest as his fingers intertwine with yours. His other hand slowly reaches up and gently cups the side of your face. You lock eyes with him, and he sees the sorrow aching so deeply within you, your vision blurred by the tears flowing freely down your face. 

“I love you,” he says simply, delicately wiping a calloused thumb beneath your eye.

You shake your head. “How could you?” 

“How could I not?” he answers earnestly.

You crack a small smile. You press a kiss to the palm of his hand and hold it against your face, delighting in the warmth of his touch. He's absolutely exhilarated at this, and he smiles so brightly at you that you can't help but smile back, despite the fresh tears spilling from your eyes. He sees it now, the reason behind the melancholy about you:

You love him. 

You love him so deeply that it burns through the core of your very being. That love for him that would flash in your eyes every time you smiled at him, everytime the brightness of your laugh lit up your face, has now rushed to the surface and painfully burst forth as tears running down your face.

You bend down and plant a soft kiss on his forehead, still holding his hand in yours as you lie down next to him in front of the fireplace. 

[whump-in-the-closet]

💊 for the medical prompt ask game!

- @another-whump-sideblog

Forced to swallow pills

thanks for the ask!

cw: misuse of the medical practice, medical whump, noncon drugging, implied pet whump?, absolute fuckwit of a Whumper, implied torture, implied captivity, whumpee is in their late teens but called "kiddo"

Whumper talked with the doctor like she was an old friend, one hand clamped over Whumpee's shoulder.

Whumpee didn't know despair felt like nausea. They swayed on their feet, colors blurring. They knew that under the frigid, fluorescent light of the doctor's office, they looked like shit.

Powerless.

Miserable.

Hair too long and clothes too big, clearly borrowed. They weren't wearing shoes and stood in their socks, wiggling their toes on the tiles.

"Whumpee," Whumper smiled their name, one thumb tracing their cheek.

Whumpee snapped out of it. "Huh?"

Whumper's expression darkened and his grip tightened on their face, squeezing their chin.

Wrong answer.

"Sorry--" Whumpee choked. "Sir, sorry!"

Whumper's grip relaxed and he moved to place a hand on the small of Whumpee's back.

Whumpee stiffened when he pressed down on the fresh wounds. "I said sorry!" The defiance was a spluttering flame, dying out every second it was exposed to the light. It was quickly replaced with terror-- synonymous with Whumper's smile.

But Whumper was talking again, guiding them to the small bed. "See," he said to the doctor. "I can have them ready for service within a week, but..."

The doctor shrugged "It's a tight schedule." She looked from Whumpee, who sat on the edge of the bed, to Whumper. Sighed. "After this, don't bring any more of your strays in here."

Whumper chuckled, and it was a dangerous sound.

Whumpee flinched without meaning too.

The doctor frowned. "I mean it."

"Sure, sweetheart."

The doctor ignored him and started writing down notes on her clipboard. She rifled through her cupboards before pulling out an orange, unnamed bottle from the back. With tired movements, tapped two pills into the palm of her hand.

She crouched next to Whumpee with the pills and a glass of water. "Hey, kiddo." Her voice was kinder than they expected. Calming, like the sound of the ocean in a seashell.

"H--hey."

"You're going to be okay," said the doctor.

They looked up.

Her eyes were brown and exhausted, holding a weight to them that Whumpee didn't quite understand. "Really?" They wanted to believe her.

They wanted to believe her so badly. They were ready to cling on to any comfort, any hope thrown at them.

The doctor dropped her gaze. "No," she whispered, the word escaping without her meaning for it to.

Whumpee shrank back.

"But you should take these." She offered the pills.

The nausea became stronger. Whumpee tried to push them away, shaking their head. "No! I'm not-- I don't want--"

It was no use.

Whumper grabbed their wrists, pinning them behind their back with minimal effort. He nodded to the doctor, impatience edging its way into his voice. "Get on with it. I don't have all night."

The doctor refused to meet Whumpee's eyes as she pinched their nose shut.

It was a brief struggle.

Flailing limbs and black in the corners of their vision.

The pills swallowed.

Whumpee gagged. And gagged again.

Whumper released them, and they doubled over coughing. If they cried, they didn't realize it. They were trembling, limbs hardly their own.

Nothing was their own.

Nothing.

They dry heaved.

Whumper ruffled their hair and picked them up. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Whumpee's vision slid into shadows and vague shapes. The corners became fogged over and the sudden sensation of being lifted filled their head with white noise-- like the sound of the ocean distorted through a sea shell.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee part 10

Warnings: severe touch starvation, forced living weapon/fighter, captive living weapon, war, bleeding & bullet wounds

Whumpee jumped in his skin as the door to his prison suddenly came banging open, a heavily bleeding figure stumbling in.

He was shocked to see it was Flint, covered in blood and deep injuries, barely standing as he hobbled and stumbled over to the wall Whumpee was pinned against.

"We're under attack," Flint coughed, and blood spattered the concrete in front of him from his mouth. And to his amazement, Flint started uncuffing him, fumbling with a key in hands made slippery with his own blood. He ripped the muzzle off next, throwing it to the side, and Whumpee was too stunned to move, unsure what to do.

Flint stood trembling in front of him, bleeding heavily and eyes wild with terror as he coughed more blood on the floor. "Weapon... it's Leader's men. They're invading, and making their way to the North end of the facility, which is where the children and mothers are kept." His gaze was desperate and pleading as he looked at Whumpee, so different from the cold, collected general Whumpee had seen before.

"Myra is there," Flint choked out. "I might be making the biggest mistake in history right now by letting you out, but..." He shoved something large into Whumpee's hands, and Whumpee realized it was his fighting blades, sheaths and all. "We need Weapon. You might go back to Leader's side for all I know and kill us all, but I'm desperate. We are badly losing this fight. Please, Weapon... save us. Save Myra. You said you were tired of all the fighting and killing... if you help my men stop this senseless slaughter, fight one last time, then you will be free. I swear upon my life I will never force you to be a weapon like Leader has, and you will have your freedom back. I will not chain you again.”

Whumpee glanced from the daggers he'd been handed to Flint's face, searching for a trick... but he found none. "...Which way is North?"

"Right outside this room if you take a left then you'll be facing the right way," Flint wheezed breathlessly. "And take this too--" he shed his own protective vest and offered it to the living weapon, which had a few holes and blood spatters on it. But it was better than no protection at all.

Whumpee put it on, despite it being a few sizes too small for his tall, muscular form. "...You really trust me already?"

"No, I don't. But... I don't exactly have a choice, now, do I?" Flint rasped. "If you go out there right now, you're going to be fighting against your own team, killing off your allies. Do you think you can handle that?"

"They're not my allies anymore," Whumpee answered with venom. He remembered everything Leader had taken from him now, bits and pieces of memory slowly coming back.

And Myra... she needed help. And if it took him being the cold-hearted Weapon again, then he'd willingly play the role of the killing machine one last time. To save her. And... because he was beginning to realize more and more that maybe the enemy Leader had been pitting him against were actually the good guys all along.

Flint wiped blood from his brow with the back of his sleeve, breathing harsh and ragged. But his eyes were fiery with determination. "Then go out there... and do what you were trained to do, Weapon. Wreak chaos, and show no mercy," he growled. "I'll rejoin the fight as soon as I can once I get more ammo -- Leader's ambush took us all by surprise, and none of us were armed or ready for it.”

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

[oliversrarebooks]

fuck you, I'm a goddamn menace pt. 1: morgan fucks up

the story of the barely tamed feral villain and the hero team determined to protect him

This first part is an edit of an earlier story of mine, to add actual names and additional context.

TW: injury, concussion, sedation, medical whump, abuse mentions

Oh, he'd really fucked up this time. Already so weary, at the end of his rope, he failed to notice the energy blast coming from the youngest member of the hero team, the one who struggled to keep her powers under control. He knew how badly he'd fucked up when his back hit the wall, pain exploding from every muscle, especially the parts of his back where his boss had already punished him. His head impacted the concrete with a sickening crack that made him see stars.

Morgan, the city's second-most menacing villain and public enemy number two, sank helplessly to the sidewalk, his body refusing to obey his commands. Through his blurred vision, he could see the painfully bright costumes of the hero team, and he tried to struggle to his feet. He couldn't fail here. It simply wasn't an option. Failure meant risking the wrath of his boss, or worse, being captured and at the mercy of the heroes.

Pain radiated from his knee as he tried to stand. It was broken, maybe. Even more urgently, every tiny movement of his head caused a wave of dizziness, the world tilting and spinning in a nauseating blur. He searched for the word. Concussed, he was concussed. Shit. This was bad.

"Oh god oh god oh god." That was the high pitched voice of the young hero. "Oh god, are you okay? I didn't mean to hit that hard -- oh no oh no --"

Morgan tried to answer, but his tongue was thick in his mouth.

"Step aside."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt him that bad --"

"It's okay, Julie. Step aside and let me take a look."

Morgan would know that voice anytime, anywhere, the smooth and confident voice of his nemesis, the city's most beloved superhero. Powerful, upstanding, and disgustingly rules-abiding. Morgan hated him. Hated that he had so much power and had the luxury of helping people with it.

"Morgan, speak to me," said Arthur. "Stay awake. Talk to me. How bad is it?"

Arthur's sickening face swam into view before Morgan's eyes. Fuck, this was really bad. He tried hard to focus. He had to slip away, couldn't let himself be captured. Salcedo would be furious. He'd hurt Morgan so much worse than he'd already been hurt.

"Let me go," Morgan managed, but it sounded weak and pathetic.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Morgan. You're severely injured. I'm going to get you medical attention."

Morgan tried to shake his head no, but all it did was make him twice as dizzy. He felt on the verge of passing out.

"Stay awake, Morgan, please, keep those eyes open. Can you see my fingers? How many fingers am I holding up?"

The fingers were nothing more than an indistinct blur. Morgan couldn't answer. All he could think of was his boss's unquenchable rage when he learned Morgan had fucked up so badly. He could feel it now, power suppressants strapped to each of his limbs, the way the smooth metallic floor of the lair felt against his face as his boss mercilessly beat him for his failures.

"Get up, Morgan," said the cruel voice of Salcedo, delivering a kick to his ribs. "Get the fuck up. I don't pay you to cower on the floor." 

"I -- I can't --"

"Yes, you can, Morgan. You can keep your eyes open," said a much gentler voice. "You can stay awake for me, please, stay awake. The medic is almost here."

It sounded nice. The voice was familiar. He felt himself nodding. A medic. That sounded good. 

"That's good, Morgan. Stay awake. Just a little more." 

His head felt heavy, his eyes strangely drowsy. He wouldn't mind going to sleep, but the voice was telling him to stay awake, echoing inside his head. Stay awake, stay awake.

A strong hand squeezed his, warm and comforting. Everything hurt except for that. He tried to squeeze back.

"Yes, that's good. I'm here. You're gonna be okay, Morgan, we're gonna keep you safe."

Safe. What the fuck was safe? When had he ever been safe? Safety was for people like -- like -- His sluggish mind placed the voice and face --  Toshiro. His nemesis' crafty sidekick -- Fuck. He instinctively backed away. 

"No, no, it's okay! Just try to relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

"No -- no --" If the punishment Morgan boss doled out was bad, he couldn't imagine what the hero team might do to him. He'd been a thorn in Arthur and Toshiro's side for years.

"The medic's here, Morgan. Just try to stay calm. I've got you."

Before he could protest further, Morgan felt arms picking him up and laying him down on a gurney. His struggle against them was fruitless, his limbs weak and uncoordinated. 

"Should we strap him down?" said a voice.

"I think you'd better. He doesn't seem to be all there. And even if he was..."

"Please -- don't --" said Morgan, too quiet for anyone to even hear, as he felt pressure against his chest and legs, holding him down. 

"The concussion seems to be very serious, and there are multiple fractures at a minimum, not to mention the possibility of organ damage and internal bleeding," said a serious voice. "We'll have to administer painkillers and sedatives, and prepare an OR for emergency surgery."

"No!" Morgan called out, a surge of adrenaline giving him the strength to fight. "You can't -- you can't capture me -- don't drug me -- let me go!"

Arthur's firm hands pinned Morgan's shoulders to the gurney. "You're going to hurt yourself, Morgan. We're getting you medical attention. We're not going to hurt you, I swear it."

Incoherent nightmares filled Morgan's foggy mind. "Yes, you are! Yes, you --"

His voice was suddenly muffled by a black rubber mask, and he gulped down a chemical-smelling, drug-laden breath before he realized it. He fell back against the gurney, his head much woozier and dizzier than it had been even a moment before.

"Just try to relax, Morgan," said Toshiro. "It's just going to ease your pain and make you drowsy, okay?"

Morgan shook his head in a vain attempt to get the mask off his face, but Arthur's hand was holding it firm. Incapacitating him. Placing Morgan at the mercy of the man who must hate him more than anyone. And his struggles were useless, the mask not budging an inch. 

Exhausted by his attempts, Morgan stopped struggling for a moment and allowed Arthur's face to come into focus. He didn't look angry. He looked... sad? Morgan blinked, and he realized that his eyelids were so heavy. The sedative was kicking in. He was utterly helpless. And he should be terrified of that, but his fear was starting to feel foggy and far away, almost as if he was watching himself from a distance.

"That's good, Morgan, you're doing okay. Just keep breathing," said Arthur.

He sounded so... reassuring. Morgan wondered briefly if that was how he sounded when he rescued civilians. Sometimes, on particularly bad nights, he wondered how that would feel. Being rescued. Being safe.

"You can shut your eyes now," said Arthur. "You can go to sleep if you're tired. It's okay. You're safe."

Morgan wanted to laugh. He never got to sleep just because he was tired. He was so, so tired, all of the time. And he was so impossibly, incredibly tired now. His knee hurt, his back hurt, his head felt like it was being jackhammered. His heavy eyes wanted so badly to close and stay shut. He just wanted to sleep. But he was in danger, wasn't he? He couldn't sleep here. Boss would kill him. He couldn't... sleep...

"...stronger sedative to put him under..." a voice was saying. 

There was the unmistakable feeling of a cold needle in the crook of his elbow. Morgan wanted to fight it, stop it from happening, but all he could do was blink his heavy eyelids. "Don't..." he muttered. "Please don't... please..."

"Ssh, Morgan, it's okay, I swear," said Toshiro. "I swear no one here is going to hurt you. You're just going to go to sleep, okay? The drugs are going to make you feel really warm and nice and then you'll go to sleep, and nothing bad is going to happen. I promise."

That strong hand squeezed his again. Morgan felt so safe, so comforted, and he was so sleepy now, so sleepy and relaxed. The world was just a fading blur beyond his half-closed eyelids. He couldn't feel the pain as much any more. All he wanted to do was sleep. He never got to just sleep. Sleep would make him feel so much better.

"It's okay to sleep," said the reassuring blur. "I'll be right here."

Morgan remembered the reason he couldn't go to sleep. "Salcedo...?" he said weakly. "Salcedo is gonna fucking kill me."

"He's not here right now, Morgan. I'm here. And I'll protect you while you sleep. No one is going to hurt you."

This had to be a dream. A dream where he got to sleep and someone was going to protect him from his boss. But he never got nice dreams like that.

"Is it..." His mind was so hazy. He couldn't think of what he was trying to say. "I'm..."

"You're going to sleep, now, Morgan. You need to rest. Go to sleep. Shut your eyes. Rest."

"Mmm." He was too tired to argue. It felt so, so good to close his eyes. He could feel his pain fading as he relaxed onto the gurney.

"...surgery... gonna have to..."

"...can't just let him..."

"...right thing to do."

That was the last thing he heard before the sedatives pulled him down into a dreamless sleep.

Thank you for reading this story of a villain who needs some sleep.

Part Two

[spielzeugkaiser]

I have seen S3!! It cost me dearly (oh god my sleep schedule and body) but I'm so glad I did because I LOVED IT. so much!! I didn't know they had it in them but aaaaaaaa. Spoilers under the cut!

- I loved the relationships. I LOVED THEM. I could come on board with Geralt-Yen, I really enjoyed both Geralt-Ciri and Yen-Ciri (she's her mum 😭) and Ciri-Jaskier was everything I ever wanted. There were other things happening this season (👀) but that was the absolute highlight for me + Geralt actually showing that he cares for Jaskier and their relationship f i n a l l y being portrayed as the deep and meaningful friendship/bond that it is. I watch the witcher for a lot of reasons but mostly for the found family and VINDICATION aaaaa

- this was such a good Jaskier season, my love, me eternal light, the reason why I fell in love with this show - he had a PLOT, he had his wits, he had agency, he's still so anxious but was there as bait (they!! adressed his trauma in the little ways!) and I love that they went the route of Jaskier telling Geralt about Phillippa, honestly guys, I can die happy now, especially with-

- BI BARD BI BARD BI BARD BI BARD (nearly everything has been said about this, just. This fuels me. I needed this so bad, t h a n k you netflix for going through with what you started in S1). I can't shake the feeling that things are going to end quite badly but then I also. like to whump the bard. sooo, if I end up right.. 👀

- I might have sniffed a little when they made Geralt cry because he didn't want his mum to hurt?? Don't do this to me I am not strong enough, that got me. That really got me.

- Geralt might have murdered some people this seasons (and was SO DOWN to kill Stregebor, I crackled, I love himmmmm) but he was such a good moral compass for Ciri this season? Had so much integrity? Did they actually manage to keep him of his path of neutrality? WISE MAN GERALT? EMOTIONAL DEPTH GERALT??

- Ciri really grew on me this season! They really did her good

- Yen didn't need to grow on me, but ohhhh SHE DID. I loved her storyline. I loved her introspection - family goat Geralt I am crying

- the costumes were not perfect but honestly most of the time they were slaying and Geralts armour is now sooo much better, I'd say, improvements there too!

- black horsie is a Roach too (with subtitles on) I can forgive them

- Otto out there with the plague of '21 ??? Brooooooooo

- Fringilla absolutely deserves to live her best life, yes queen. Also Cahirs first little breakdown??

- so many book scenes I enjoyed gosh YES. I already said that but the Jaskier&Ciri one guys I melted-

- the pacing felt at times a little weird? With weird interceptions of scenes at times, like the wild hunt one at the end of episode 3(?). But that was just a minor thing that made me go. Hmm? 🤨

- I LOVE THAT VALDO IS JUST A GUY. He is just a guy! A funny little man that sings the equivalent of medieval, sappy, cliched boyband songs about love, ppfpfpf. Jaskier you PETTY bitch it's like wanting the Taylor Swift of the continent to die and I love him for it - this is the first season that I could just. watch again? right after finishing??? what a quality improvement!!

[links-in-time]

I'm taking this as an opportunity to continue to spread my headcanon that Warriors knits as a hobby. I think Legend also embroiders (with a preference for cross stitch). This is their bonding activity.

I loved writing this little head cannon @gryphonlover and it stopped me writing any whump for once!

I hope you like it.

Hobby Boys

It had been a long day in Twilight's Hyrule. The chain had fought a monster hoard on the edge of Kakariko village. No major injuries to report, only a few cuts and bruises. Although Time had suggested they stay in Kakariko and set off the following day, Twilight wanted to get back to Ordon and check on his neighbours as soon as possible. Not to mention he had been neglecting Epona the last few days and decided a trip to the spring outside his home town would be a nice treat for her.

Wars agreed to the plan reluctantly. He had had enough of walking for days on end, so had most of the others, though they kept their opinions to themselves. They all knew what it was like to end up back in their own eras. The desire to get home to familiar territory and all the comforts that come with it. Wars understood Twi's enthusiasm to get moving, but he didn't have to be happy about it.

While they walked the sun began to dip towards the horizon. They hadn't been to Twilight's era for a while, but Wars was fairly certain they weren't exactly close to Twi's village.

"Twi, I'm not sure we're going to reach Ordon before nightfall," Wars observed, trotting forwards to catch up with their rancher.

"It's okay, we should be there before midnight at least," Twi replied brightly.

"Come on Twi, I know you want to see home as badly as the rest of us. But," Wars lowered his voice, "Wind and Legend are putting on brave faces but that fight definitely took it out of them back there. We should really stop and make camp. Ordon will still be there in the morning, I promise."

Wars urged his friend, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. Twilight let out a long sigh as he glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the Chain. Wind and Four were walking hand in hand, but the longer Twi looked the more he could see the exhaustion in the teen's eyes. His grip on Four's hand was weak and he dragged his feet along the path. Legend was much the same and Twi had to admit he was being rather selfish.

"Hey guys, I don't think we'll reach Ordon before nightfall. Let's make camp and set out again in the morning after a good rest," Twi announced.

Twi's decision was met with more than a handful of cheers and greatful sighs from the others. Perhaps he had misjudged the distance from Kakariko to Ordon on foot, especially travelling as a large group rather than on his own.

The chain found a small grove of trees to use as shelter as they set up their camp. Wild set about cooking a quick supper for everyone while the others laid out their bed rolls and organised a watch rota. Wind wolfed down the stew Wild cooked up then instantly crashed on his bed roll. Time decided to scratch the teen off the watch rota and let him have a full night's sleep.

Wars was on first watch but not everyone had gone to sleep. Legend sat on a tree stump facing away from the circle of their camp. He seemed to be working away at something in his lap. With a frown Wars got to his feet to see what the Vet was up to.

"You okay Lege?" Wars asked softly, reaching out to lay a hand on the young adventurer's shoulder.

Before Wars could reach him Lege shot to his feet and spun around, hiding whatever he was holding behind his back.

"I'm fine! Hylia! Why do you have to be so nosey Cap?!" Legend exclaimed defensively, his ears turning pinker than the streak in his hair.

"Sorry," Wars replied, taking a step back. Though he thought Legend's reaction was particularly hostile, even for him. "I thought you might be hurt, I was just checking on you. You seemed quite exhausted by our last fight."

"Well I'm not hurt and yeah I'm a bit tired, but I just wanted some alone time. Is that too much to ask?" Legend retorted, there was still venom in his voice but Wars couldn't figure out where it was coming from.

"No it's not. Forgive me for worrying about you!" Wars scoffed, turning on the spot and heading back towards the fire.

He plonked himself down on the ground and pulled his bag towards himself. Legend sat down on his tree stump once again but kept his eyes on Wars for a moment. When he saw the Captain pull out a ball of wool and what looked like a half finished scarf Legend's squinting eyes went wide.

"You knit!" He burst out.

Sky snorted a breath in his sleep and Legend was afraid he might have woken him. He and Wars both checked the others were still asleep before either of them spoke.

"Yes, why do you sound so surprised? Everyone has a hobby don't they? Most of the others play instruments, but I never learnt. So I knit instead, it helps me relax and, it reminds me of my soldiers."

Wars eyes dropped towards the fire as he explained. Legend thought his friend looked sad for a moment. Curious, he moved a little closer to the fire, stepping into its circle of light and warmth.

"Your soldiers?" Legend asked.

"Yeah, one of the guys in my first squad taught me to knit. He said it helped him relax after training. But it also kept his fingers busy when his mind would race through the more terrible aspects of soldiering. When he itched to hit something or throttle the next person to speak, he had his hands full with something that helped him relax instead. I picked up the same habit and now I do a little bit almost every night. When I finish this scarf I think I'll give it to Wind, it's in his colours after all."

Wars held up the woolen scarf for Legend to see. Though the night was dim and the orange glow of the fire obscured the colours a little, Legend could see the scarf had been knitted in pale blue and white bands. Wars had even managed to use a stitch that replicated the shapes of cresting waves which Legend thought was impressive.

"Wow, that's actually pretty neat," he admitted.

"Thanks."

"Why haven't you shown any of us this before?" Legend probed, plopping himself down to sit cross legged in front of the fire.

"Would you have been so nice about it if the others were conscious?" Wars asked, raising an eyebrow.

"True. Sorry, I probably shouldn't admit to that," Legend replied, hanging his head a little.

"It's alright, the other soldiers used to tease me too. Even the ones I used to knit stuff for. But they never meant anything by it. I'm sure you wouldn't either," Wars shrugged, as he picked up his needles and tried to remember where he was in his pattern.

"I suppose it would make me a bit of a hypocrit anyway," Legend mumbled.

"Why?" Wars said slowly, eyeing the bundle Legend had scrunched up in his lap. "What are you trying to hide Lege? It can't be any worse than a Captain knitting scarves!" He scoffed.

Legend hesitated a moment, but Wars was right, perhaps there was no harm in sharing. If the others were awake he and Wars were usually the ones to tease each other for things. If the Captain had trusted him with his secret, perhaps he should return the favour. Legend sighed and opened out the piece of fabric in his lap.

It was a beautiful piece of purple velvet with what appeared to be gold thread woven into it. As Legend held it up for Wars to see he could clearly make out the embroidered patterns of leaves and flowers in the shining golden thread. Tiny little crosses made up the shapes and came together to make quite a beautiful image.

"Rav's favourite colours, hopefully I can finish it before the next time I get to see him," Legend explained.

"It's beautiful Lege," Wars breathed, as he studied the intricate stitches. "How long have you been working on it?"

"Few weeks. Usually takes me about a month to do a piece this big, but I'm working all the hours I can spare on it. Which is usually just when I'm on watch and I won't get distracted by you lot."

"Hmm," Wars nodded, drawing how eyes away from the embroidery and up to Legend's blushing face. "It's really good Lege, I would never have teased you for this. I'm impressed. And it's sweet you're making it for Ravio. I'm sure he'll love it."

"You mean it?" Legend asked, suspicious of how nice Wars was being towards him.

"Cross my heart," Wars replied, making a cross over his chest with his knitting needles. "Honestly Lege it's beautiful. Wish I could embroider. I've been meaning to fix my scarf for ages."

"What do you mean fix it?" Legend asked, he hadn't noticed any damage to Wars' prized blue scarf.

"Yeah, with all the travelling we do through woods and swamps the design on the end has got pretty roughed up. It's supposed to be the royal crest, but quite a lot of the stitches have come loose or disappeared completely. This scarf means a lot to me and I'm ashamed I haven't kept it in very good condition."

Wars pulled the loop of his scarf up to his chin and rubbed his skin against the soft fabric. He'd done his best to keep it clean and stitch up any tears in the fabric, but he didn't have the skill to restore the crest.

"I could fix it for you if you want?" Legend suggested with a shrug.

"You mean it?!" Wars replied brightly, the firelight dancing in his eager eyes.

"Sure. How about you knit me a scarf to give to Ravio as well in payment?"

"Alright that's a deal," Wars nodded, a bright smile spread across his face.

Legend still felt a little embarrassed about his hobby being discovered. But Wars had been so impressed by his hidden talents, Legend was starting to feel better about it. The fact that he could put it to good use helping preserve something important to one of his brothers, even one of the more annoying ones, warmed his heart.

The pair sat together by the fire for a good few hours, working on their projects and talking quietly together. Sharing stores of things they had created and the friends they had given them to. Unsurprisingly most of Legend's pieces had been given to Ravio, but he also admitted he had left secret little embroideries on some of the Chain's stuff. Little cross stitched flowers or fairies on their packs or blankets. None of them had noticed but Legend didn't do it for praise or approval. He did it because they were his brothers and each piece of work was like giving each of them a little bit of himself to carry with them.

***

As their journey wore on Legend and Wars often found themselves passing time together. During watch or whenever they got separated from the group, they would comfort each other by asking about their latest projects. One morning Wars had woken to find his scarf neatly folded by his bedroll, the immaculate crest staring up at him.

"How did you manage it?" Wars whispered to Legend, that afternoon while they were walking through some woods in Time's era.

"Little bit of time and a little bit of my magic touch," Legend replied with a wink.

"Thank you Link," Wars uttered, flashing Legend a warm smile.

"You're welcome Captain," Legend nodded, before skipping off to walk beside Hyrule.

Wars smiled at the back of Legend's head, thinking about how many rows of stitches he had left to do in Ravio's new scarf.