#near death whump

[jordanstrophe]

Caretaker thinks they're dead.

They see whumpee laying on the ground, they're not moving a muscle, they can't even see breathing. Caretaker checks their pules first, their heart doesn't beat until they feel whumpee's first.

[late-tothe-party-07]

Whump✨✨

It felt like hours as they sat there, with Ellie jabbing at Atlas to keep him awake while tears streamed down her face. She looked down, and found Atlas staring up at her, his eyes half open and glazed over. "Why are you crying?"

He muttered. His voice was barely there.

Ellie made such a twisted face you couldn't tell if she was gonna sob or smile. "I'm afraid."

She said, like the words were glass. "Cause I love someone and I dont think he'll wait for me to tell him."

Atlas frowned, a weak attempt at the glare he used to wear, and closed his eyes again with a wet cough. "Sounds like a prop'r jerk." He said.

Under different circumstances, Ellie might've laughed at that.

Instead they fell back into a suffocating silence, with only the sound of Ellie's splintering heart echoing through the chamber. Her fingers dug into his arm so hard they might bruise, hoping that maybe if she held on tight enough he wouldn't drift away.

"Well..."

Atlas started again, after a pause much too long and eyes barely peeking back open. "I think you're nice....and..if it would help any.....I'd-"

Blood trickled out the corner of his mouth, his chest stuttering as he coughed. Ellie wanted to scream.

"I'd- ...give you the world."

Her vision was wavering, and it burned, a knot in her throat she couldn't swallow.

She screwed her eyes shut, and pulled him closer.

It was close enough to feel the puff of his breath, their foreheads pressed together and her tears falling onto his cheeks. She rocked back and forth, tangling his rusted white hair in her fingers.

He wouldn't remember this, but Ellie said it anyway.

"I dont want the world."

She whispered into the dark, and only the shadows heard it.

[whump-galaxy]

The villain wraps their cloak around the hero’s sidekick. Severely injured, delirious, and too weak to hold their own head up, the sidekick grips the villain’s arm. Their eyes are glazed over, but their tone is steady.

“Please, don’t let me die here. I don’t want to be a hero anymore.”

[linecrosser]

Febwhump 2024 - Day 11 - "I love you" (Alt prompt No.2)

Words wispered after a near-death-experience

[where-is-my-whump]

Hudson and Rex 6x07

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Whumptober 2024 No. 15- Painful Hug | "I did good, right?"

“Hero!”

Superhero pulled the young crime-fighter into a bone-crushing hug. Hero winced at the impact.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Superhero scolded.

“Sorry…” Hero said.

“I am so proud of you!” Superhero continued.

“You are?”

“I am not letting you out of my sight for a second from now on!”

“Getting a lot of mixed signals here…”

Hero started to go limp in Superhero’s hold. Superhero felt something wet against their torso. They pulled away just enough to see red seeping from Hero’s suit.

“I did good, right?” Hero asked weakly, “I didn’t mess it up?”

“No,” Superhero said quickly, “no you didn’t mess anything up. You did good, you did great. But hey, Hero, you gotta stay awake. Stay awake for me all right?”

Superhero turned to the civilians at the scene, scanning the crowd for the paramedics. They practically flew over to the nearest ambulance.

“Help! Please!” Superhero said, laying Hero on a gurney.

“Wha’swrong?” Hero slurred.

“Nothing, everything’s gonna be fine,” Superhero said, “you did so good, Hero, you gotta keep doing good. I need you to keep staying awake. Stay awake, Hero.”

“Okay…”

Hero’s head lolled to the side as the paramedics strapped an oxygen mask to their face.

“Hero? Hero!”

Hero didn’t hear them. They had completely passed out.

…

Superhero sat by Hero’s bedside, holding their hand and rubbing circles into it. They were still asleep, the heartrate monitor and the rise and fall of their chest the only signs that they were still alive.

“Mm…”

“Hero?” Superhero asked.

“Ow…” Hero cracked an eye open, “did I fall asleep?”

Superhero nearly burst into tears. They shook their head, smiling.

“It doesn’t matter, you did good. You saved everyone. I’m so proud of you.”

“Yay…” Hero smiled.

Superhero meant everything they had said. Hero did good, but they were never letting them out of their sight again.

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[kybercrystals94]

Exposure

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2024 - Day 10 - Prompts: Blow to the Head / Slurred Words / "I can't think straight."

Rated: T | Words: 1566

A/N: I am not a medical profession. Do with that as you will 🫠

Fear takes root when Hunter stops shivering. 

The temperature in the shallow cave has not improved, Tech knows that much. He has been monitoring the weather conditions closely, hoping that the storm will pass, that the interference preventing their distress signal will clear. Unfortunately, the concept of hope has little effect on natural events. Hope, however, does prevent panic, so Tech clings to the fragile abstraction, metaphorically, with both hands. His actual hands are numb, even under his gloves, knuckles swollen and sore. His fingers struggle to do what should be the simple function of unclasping his armor. 

“What are you doing?” Hunter asks, syllables slurring together almost incomprehensibly. 

“Removing my armor,” Tech states simply. It is far too cold to elaborate further. 

The Sergeant glares up at him blearily, mismatched pupils blown wide with concussion. “Why?” 

Tech does not explain. It is taking all his focus just to remove pieces of plastoid with clumsy, uncooperative fingers. If Hunter would simply be patient, he would be able to see soon enough. Tech liberates himself from his cuirass and backplate and moves to the challenging bits of armor clinging to his arms, silently cursing their smaller latches. 

“Tech,” Hunter growls. If he is aiming for authoritative, it is undermined by the weak breathlessness of his voice. However, it does renew the fervor with which Tech fights with his armor pieces. 

At last, Tech drops the last segment of armor from his upper portion, leaving him in just his thermal blacks from the waist up. He kneels next to Hunter and begins to repeat the process on his barely conscious brother. 

“What are you doing?” Hunter demands again, trying to pull away. 

“We need to get your body temperature back up,” Tech explains. His voice trembles, teeth clacking together. At least he is still shivering. That is a bright side. 

Hunter makes an indignant sound, as though it is Tech who lost his helmet and received a blow to the head rappelling down the cliff face in ice and snow. “By taking off our armor?” 

“We must lend one another our warmth,” Tech continues patiently, “which cannot be achieved through amor. Please hold still. 

Hunter slumps back against the cave wall obediently. He watches Tech work, blinking slowly. “I’m not cold,” he says. “Not anymore.” 

“I understand you feel that way,” Tech says. “That is a sign of moderate hypothermia. We must work to raise your internal temperature as soon as possible.” 

“Not safe,” Hunter mumbles. 

“It is our only choice at this juncture. Unfortunately, we lost our emergency packs in the fall. They will be buried in the snowfall dozens of meters below us by now.” 

Hunter’s brow furrows. “’s my fault.” 

“It was an unfortunate accident,” Tech corrects him. 

Tech finds some small sense of triumph as Hunter’s upper armor is more easily removed. He stacks their cuirasses and backplates near where Hunter is situated, retrieves his data pad, then sits down next to his brother. He draws the wounded man to his side. Hunter does not produce any warmth to share, merely absorbing Tech’s limited supply. With his free hand, Tech haphazardly arranges the larger armor pieces in what he hopes will be a small barrier from the elements. 

It will not last long. They will die of exposure if help does not arrive soon. 

If the storm does not let up soon. 

If their brothers do not find them soon. 

Soon. 

Soon is not on their side. 

“You’re shaking,” Hunter mutters drowsily. 

Tech wants to explain that shivering is a preferable state to Hunter’s; however, he merely jostles the man a little too roughly. “You have to stay awake,” he orders. 

Hunter utters something that Tech cannot make out. 

Tech answers nonetheless. “No. I need to rest. You’ve got the watch. Do you understand? You need to keep watch for the others to find us.”

Hunter becomes heavier against his side, deadweight. 

Tech shakes him again. “You must stay awake, Hunter.” His voice breaks, only partially from the intense cold plaguing him. “Please. Stay awake. Help is coming.” 

Hunter doesn’t respond. 

Time slips by. 

Tech isn’t shivering anymore. 

**

The landscape is white, clean, and dangerous. Crosshair’s sharp eyes slice across it, searching for imperfections, disturbances. Signs that their missing brothers are out there. Waiting for Echo to pinpoint their location is taking too long. Every lost second carries a heavy cost they can’t afford. 

Wrecker crashes through the fresh snow, pacing. “Where are they?” he demands. 

Crosshair tips his head, expression shielded by his helmet. “If we knew, we wouldn’t be looking, would we?” he snarls. 

“Not helping,” Echo tells him through comms. He’s on the ship, trying to boost the signal. 

Crosshair bites out, “Neither is he. Neither are you. They’re probably already dead.” 

“Don’t say that!” Wrecker stops his pacing and looms over Crosshair. He looks like he might lash out physically. 

Crosshair shifts, squaring up, wordlessly daring Wrecker to try.

“Both of you, knock it off!” Echo orders, ARC voice bladed. 

Wrecker deflates immediately, but Crosshair holds his ground a moment longer, claiming a weak and idle victory. He can’t see Wrecker’s face, but his body language, like his voice, is loud. The drop of his shoulders, the angle of his helmet. Wrecker is scared, like the rest of them. They all know the likelihood of Hunter and Tech surviving the elements without proper gear. Crosshair voicing it doesn’t change the terrible facts. 

He cannot bring himself to apologize in so many words, so Crosshair bumps against Wrecker’s arm, hard, with his shoulder. “If anyone could figure out how to survive, it’d be those two.” 

Wrecker’s posture lifts. “I know they did.” 

“I got something!” Echo calls out, making their in-helmet comms hiss in protest. “Putting in coordinates now.” 

Crosshair and Wrecker clamber on board, and the ship is already off the ground before Crosshair punches the button to close the hatch. 

**

Hunter wakes feeling trapped. 

He can’t move his arms or legs, bound by a strange, encompassing weight. His first, mind-addled reaction is to panic, writhing frantically to free himself from the swaddling confines of whatever is holding him.

“Hey! They’re just blankets, di’kut, kriff,” Crosshair’s voice snaps at him. 

The familiar, waspish tone of his youngest brother makes Hunter stop, and Crosshair helps him disentangle enough fabric to free his arms. “How many blankets are there?” Hunter asks, voice rough from disuse, throat sore and parched. 

“Too many,” Crosshair admits. “I don’t know where Wrecker keeps finding them. Thirsty?” 

Hunter nods, and Crosshair hauls him up into a sitting position and hands him an open canteen. Hunter takes a sip of the tepid liquid, the taste of added electrolytes bitter on his tongue. He makes a face. “How long was I out?” 

“Two standard days,” Crosshair says. “Really did a number on yourself. Concussion and hypothermia. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Hunter frowns. “The last thing I remember clearly was checking my cables before rappelling down the cliff face. We were going to hike to the rendezvous point.” 

Crosshair scoffs. “That’s it?” 

“I remember my head feeling like it got split open,” Hunter grumbles. 

“Not quite, but not for lack of trying,” Crosshair says. “Lost your helmet and your emergency packs. Tech is still annoyed about losing his favorite med scanner.” 

“Is Tech alright?” Hunter asks, turning to look at where the other cot is empty across the aisle. A faint recollection of panicked words filters into his muddled memories. Please. Stay awake. Help is coming.

“Hypothermia and exposure, but he’s recovering,” Crosshair says with a smirk. “He’s supposed to be resting still; however, he claims he heard a rattle in the ship’s console before the mission, and insisted he had to repair it now. Weak excuse, but Echo let him get away with it.”

Hunter chuckles, the remnants of his concussion protesting with a throb of his skull. 

Crosshair’s expression turns solemn. “We almost didn’t make it in time. When Wrecker and I got into that cave...we thought we were recovering corpses.” 

Another painful throb pulses, this time in Hunter’s throat as he imagines what that must have been like. He doesn’t want to imagine, doesn’t want to think of any two of his brothers lying so still that he thought they were dead. So, he pushes the horrifying thought away, reaching out and grabbing hold of Crosshair’s arm. “But you weren’t.” 

Crosshair scowls at the durasteel floor and gives one, tight nod. 

Tech comes into the hold, Wrecker right behind him. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” Tech says, something akin to warm smile touching his lips. 

Hunter smiles. “Thanks to you, sounds like.” 

Tech waves away the comment, taking a seat on the opposite cot. “How are you feeling?” 

“Smothered with all these blankets,” Hunter says, tossing a good-natured glare in Wrecker’s direction. 

The giant gasps. “You should have seen yourself before the blankets! Have you ever seen blue clones before? ‘Cause it’s something I never want to see again.” 

“I agree,” Crosshair mutters. 

“I assure you; such is an event I hope none of us experience a second time. On either side of the equation,” Tech says firmly.

There is a haunted expression in his brothers’ eyes, a lingering look of hope snuffed out. 

That nearly transparent memory returns. Please. Stay awake. Help is coming.

Hunter thanks the maker Tech was right. 

For all their sakes. 

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[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Your Storm is My Storm

Fandom: Twisters, Tyler Owens, f!reader Summary: Is it possible to have trauma from an event you didn't actually experience? You never thought so, but now you are tormented nightly after witnessing Tyler's near death. Luckily, he's there to comfort you and remind you that he made it back to you, and that he's not going anywhere. Word Count: 1976 TW: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death (but not really), Dealing with PTSD, Storm-Related Peril

You are standing in the middle of a vast grass field wearing a white cotton dress that billows wildly in the increasing wind. Across the field heading in your direction, you see an oh-so-familiar red Dodge Ram bucking and crashing over the uneven dirt. Even though you are several hundred feet away and the wind whips around with a deafening roar, you hear Tyler whooping loudly, the joyful sound as clear as day in your ears. 

Then, suddenly, you are in the backseat of the truck, watching as Boone leans back to get a better angle of Tyler with his camera. Shifting his focus away from the plain in front of him for a minute, Tyler looks at Boone and gives another rowdy shout before clicking a button on the dashboard. The truck bolts forward at a break-neck speed, heading directly for the dark swirling funnel forming in front of them. 

You try to warn them, to call out and tell them to turn around before it’s too late, but even though you can feel the screams tearing at your throat, not a sound passes from your lips. You lean forward and pull at Tyler’s arm, your fingers digging into his sleeve so deeply that you are sure you are tearing into his skin, silently pleading, begging him to stop. And yet he doesn’t react. 

Tears are streaming down your face as the truck nears the tornado and skids to a stop. The edge of the storm is licking at the front bumper. Tyler grins at Boone, giving a quick wink to the camera, and says, “Here we go!”

He reaches forward and flips a switch on the center console—and nothing happens. 

For a moment, that cocky grin stays on Tyler’s face but then the realization of what didn’t happen snaps his attention back to the switch. He jiggles it a few times but still nothing. The storm is even closer now, the entire vehicle shaking as the intensity of the winds grows.

Tyler glances at his co-pilot. “Boone…the augers aren’t going down.”

Boone lowers the camera, an instant sign that something is wrong. Though the feed is still live, the shot now only shows the steering wheel and out the windshield of the truck. Occasionally, Tyler’s hands pop into frame as he frantically tries to get the switch to work. Even from your place in the back seat, Boone and Tyler’s voices can barely be heard over the roar of the wind but their tones are panicked and tense. Nothing they are doing gets the augers to work and by this point they are too close to the storm to drive out of it. You squeeze your eyes closed, cover your ears with your hands, and curl up in your seat—you can’t watch what happens next. Not again. 

Just as the wall of wind passes over the grille of the truck and the front tires raise slightly off the ground, Tyler grabs the camera from Boone’s lap and turns it towards his face. His usually bronzed skin is pale in the growing darkness and there is a fear in his eyes that has never been there before while chasing a storm. Yelling loudly to be heard over the roar of the wind, he screams, “Baby, if you’re watching this, I love you with everything in me, and I’m so sorr—”

He is interrupted as the truck tilts backward 90 degrees and the camera slips from his hands, flying past you and smashing into the back window, cracking them both. The last thing the camera streams is the sound of Tyler and Boone’s screams.

In the blink of an eye, you are once again standing in the field far from the truck. It is now lying upside-down and, for a brief moment, you see Tyler struggling to drag himself out of the driver’s side window, one arm hanging limp and useless at his side. He raises his head, blood streaming down one side of his face, and, somehow, his eyes find yours across the distance.

Then the truck explodes and Tyler disappears into a ball of fire and smoke.

“NO!” you wail, sound finally bursting from your mouth only to be lost in the blast of the explosion. Tears stream down your face as you collapse to your hands and knees, your forehead pressing into the wet dirt. The heat from the fire washes over you and you struggle to breathe as your sobs rattle in your chest and the smoke fills your lungs but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.

Lifting your head, you blink through your tears and the smoke. When they clear, you see the twisted metal frame of the truck and the skeletal, charred remains of the man that you loved.

You let out a blood-curdling shriek—

“Hey, hey, baby…..” Hands grab at you, trying to hold you down as you thrash wildly. Another anguished scream rips from your lips even as you hear a voice pleading with you, “Wake up…please. Baby, it’s okay. I’m alright—we’re both alright. I promise. I’m here. Just please wake up for me.”

The voice finally breaks through the storm of emotions raging through your mind, and as you recognize it, your eyes shoot open to see a face you thought you’d never see again looming over you. “T-Tyler…” you manage to breathe, your lip quivering in disbelief as you reach up, fingers brushing against his mouth. 

He nods, pursing his lips to kiss your fingertips, some of the desperation and fear on his face melting into relief as he runs his hand over the top of your hair. “Shhh, it’s okay. You just had the dream again.”

“W-what?” 

As your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, you see that you are lying on your bed in the apartment you shared with Tyler back in Arkansas. You aren’t in Oklahoma. There is no tornado. Tyler is alive and well. 

It had all been a dream……but the problem was, that’s only partially true. 

Last month, the auger system on Tyler’s truck had failed and Tyler and Boone were caught in the storm as the truck flipped over. However, the truck, thankfully, hadn’t exploded like in your dream. Tyler had fractured his arm and got a shallow gash on his head while Boone had broken his nose, but otherwise, the two had walked away from the incident relatively unharmed. 

However, the same couldn’t be said for you. While you hadn’t been with them in person, you had been watching the Storm Wrangler’s live feed as everything happened and that experience alone had been enough to cause these nearly nightly terrors. That moment when the camera had broken and the last thing you heard was Tyler screaming in fear and pain had been the most horrible moment of your life, one which dragged out for several hours until Tyler could reach you and confirm he was alright. And now you were being forced to relive it night after night after night. 

Alternating waves of relief, exhaustion, and despair begin to wash over you. Though you had been momentarily comforted seeing Tyler’s face, the reminder that you are caught in this seemingly neverending torture loop causes tears to once again begin streaming down your face.

After weeks of going through the same cycle of you waking up terrified only to realize what was happening, Tyler is used to this reaction. He murmurs, “Come here, baby,” before scooping you into his arms and holding you tightly against him.

You rest your head against his bare chest, but the steady beat of his heart that had once brought you such comfort and calm now only serves as a reminder that you had watched him die over and over again. It hadn’t been real, yet you felt that loss at the moment, and that pain still hung over you like a shroud even as you lay wrapped in his arms. 

“Ty, I can’t do this anymore,” you whimper, your fingers digging into his arm which only brings you back to the moment in your dream you begged him to turn the truck around. “I can't sleep and those pills the doctor gave me aren't helping. Every time I close my eyes I see you—” You break down into a sob, burying your face deeper into his chest as that horrific last image of Tyler from your dream flashes in your mind.

You can feel him taking a few, deep, shuddering breaths and it breaks your heart as you realize he’s trying to keep himself from breaking down from seeing you like this. He was the one who actually went through the near-death experience, and yet here he was comforting you every night. It wasn’t fair–to either of you–and you wonder how much more he will take before he throws in the towel, leaving you to face this on your own. Honestly, part of you is surprised he hasn’t left yet.

But he’s here tonight. And as he presses his lips to the top of your head, he whispers, “God, baby, I'm so sorry.”

Shaking your head against his chest, you cry, “It's not your fault.”

“The hell it isn't.”

You shake your head again. “You've told me not to watch your live stuff just in case something like this happened. It was my fault–”

“No,” Tyler stops you, grasping your damp cheeks between his calloused palms and tilting your head to face his. Oddly, the rough skin of his hands feels soothing, familiar, and you start to feel more grounded in the reality of the moment. For the first time tonight, you feel the dream starting to lose its hold on you. 

Rubbing his thumb softly across your cheekbone, he looks you straight in the eyes and firmly says, “No…None of this is your fault. I knew there had been problems with the augers but instead of waiting to test them, I went out anyway. What happened out there and how it's tormenting you is my fault and no one else’s. Do you understand me? You did nothing wrong.” You start to look away but he squeezes your face tighter, causing you to look back at him. “Tell me you know that.”

“I guess,” you whisper. Then, stronger, you say, “But Ty, it doesn’t matter. Whoever’s fault it was, or even if it was nobody’s fault, it doesn’t change the fact this keeps happening. And I don’t know how to live the rest of my life like this.”

“It won’t be the rest of your life. You’ll get past this, I promise,” he says, releasing your cheeks to run his hands across your shoulders and down your arms until he is holding your hands in his. Squeezing them tightly, he adds, “Eventually, every storm passes. We just have to hold on tight and don't give up until that happens.”

Your voice breaks as you ask, “...‘We’?”

“Yeah, of course ‘we’.” His eyes darken under a furrowed brow. “Wait…do you really think I’d let you go through this on your own?”

You shrug one shoulder. “It’s a lot. And it’s not your storm to weather.” 

“Baby, your storm is my storm. And I’m going to hold you so tightly during it and never let you go, whatever it takes. Then once it passes—because it will given time—I’m still going to be right there next to you for whatever comes next.” He leans forward until his forehead is leaning against yours. “You’re never getting rid of me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

You aren’t sure how long the two of you remain like that, hand-in-hand with heads pressed together. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. But all you know is that Tyler is with you and, at least for tonight, that’s enough.

Eventually, in the darkness together, you whisper, “Let's go to sleep.”

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1302

The whole ‘limbo moment where the whumpee sees a dead loved one who tells them they have to stay alive etc’ is touching and all, but what if the loved one was more aggressive?

Whumpee: “Am I dead? [Loved One] it’s so good to see you - I’ve missed you so mu-“

Loved One: “What on earth do you think you’re playing at? Get the hell back down there!”

Whumpee: “But- but it’s so painful.”

Loved One: *slaps whumpee*

Whumpee: “The hell was that for?!”

Loved One: “And now it hurts up here. Get back down there, you idiot, you’ve got people waiting for you. I’ll still be here when your time comes.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series in chronological order (pts.1-29) | Overflowing (pt.29)

Twitching. Folding a piece of paper, shoving it into his pocket, fishing it back out. Switching between cooking dinner, grabbing a snack, starting a smoothie, cleaning up. The kitchen is a mess and Simon can’t seem to decide what to do with it.

Behind him, across the small room, Major sits slumped in his chair with his head resting atop folded arms. The window pours in winter air to cool down the room too hot from the oven.

Major tries ignoring Simon for a long time. But it’s boring. And the guy just won’t stop fidgeting. Won’t stop changing his mind. It’s obvious that his hands aren’t happy with anything he puts them on. Cooking isn’t what he wants to be doing.

“Simon?” Asks Major, his voice gruff and hushed with disuse. It’s scary to say that name, after the handful of times that, with a face twisted in rage, Simon demanded he was master, call him master, or keep quiet.

“Yeah?” The man spins on his heel, instantly paying attention to his damaged pet. There is flour splattered across his sweater and a smear of salsa on his cheek.

“...D’you need a session?”

The grumbled offer sends Simon’s brows rising. He looks like a stupid fish, mouth hanging open with nothing coming out of it. He brushes his hands clean and shakes his head in wonder. “What? I don’t - I mean, you know, pretty much always. But why are you… I mean, why do you ask?”

The kept healer shrugs, gaze drifting away to lock onto a damaged corner of linoleum across the room. It’s peeling up next to the refrigerator, but no one will ever notice because you get to step on it and press it down when you stand there to open the door. “Freaky, waiting.”

Simon remembers. He grunts his acceptance at the reasoning, and without much more polite hesitation, picks up a knife. Wooden handle, one of the sharpest blades he has.

Solemnly, tiredly, Major lifts his shirt right where he sits.

The wood feels so right in Simon’s hand. He didn’t know, didn’t know how bad he needed it… until he finds himself across the room without even planning to walk, and feels the hot blood spilling over his fingers as he clenches the handle, the blade fully buried into Cupcake’s stomach.

Cupcake’s grunt, as if he was simply punched, hangs in the air as Simon’s senses blare hotly. The knife slid in like butter. Through skin, fat, muscle. Organs. Without even meaning to get so close, Simon finds his forehead tipped to Cupcake’s shoulder, and he pants for air there, still pressing the knife so it stays buried.

Cupcake is starting to feel the pain. The panic of such a deep wound. Moans choked out, soft grunts of effort to keep himself from moving, from getting noisy.

“I wasn’t… planning to do that,” Simon all but pleads, a hand sliding around back of Cupcake’s neck to keep him from pulling away. Cupcake is squirming, probably just as desperate to escape the closeness as he is to escape the pain. He’s so strangely afraid of closeness.

“Lot to heal,” Grunts Major. The wooden chair creaks under his hands as they grip on violently for purchase. “Deep. Care-... careful.”

The pained, fractured words are too much of a temptation. With a tense, genuine, “Sorry,” Simon jerks the knife out, looks down with desperate focus, lifts the shaking tip of the blade to a different part of the stomach, and forces it in with gusto. Keeping Cupcake close, still.

This stab punched out a tremulous, almost musical whine. Simon even tries to force the knife deeper, pushing with all his strength, mindlessly thrilled by the pitiful noise.

The room feels warm. Goes blurry. Simon doesn’t fully know what’s going on, but the knife gets away from him, and Cupcake falls from the chair.

Now, Simon is above him, pressing down. Major is tense, crying, writhing away from the weight of hands bearing down on his new wounds. 

Trying to stop the blood. It’s too much blood, it’s unfair, it’s - Major won’t die, obviously. Probably. It’s just so scary, because this is always how it goes. He gets too pent up, too desperate. It always ends with a dead body to dispose of and the nagging need for someone new.

But Cupcake is his favorite. Major is interesting, and broken, and sometimes he’s getting better. Simon likes when he’s getting better.

“Heal it, Cupcake. Just - fix it up.”

Those thick brows are knit together, teeth bared, head thrown back in agony. Major is weakly hitting at Simon’s arms to beg them to let up. He isn’t listening.

“Cupcake! You need to listen, I can make things worse for you.”

The writhing is getting weaker, but more desperate, too, and in his guilt, Simon lets up just a bit too much - and there, the heels of his palms miss their mark, and suddenly there is a lot more blood being spilled across the floor.

“Miles!” Simon puts all of his voice into it, leaning down so close they are almost nose-to-nose. Major startles. His eyes are wide and teary, and in the sudden silence, Simon can too clearly hear the ragged, muted sobs catching in his throat. “...Hey. Major. That’s better. Bring magic to your hand.”

Simon takes hold of one of those wrists, and hissing out pained breaths from behind clenched teeth, Major obeys. That hand glows white with magic.

The hand is lowered to his stomach, and Major’s face twists up much worse. The only warning before he lets out an awful scream is that his body arches and his chest lurches with a huge sucked in gasp of air.

By the time that it’s over, Simon is already pulling him out of the room. Dragging him out into the hallway, then into his bedroom, and onto the bed that Major hasn’t seen in too long. He moans as he sags into the mattress, oblivious and quaking from fading adrenaline as a blanket is lowered over him. It’s all… so soft. So much softer than the cage. Too-fresh pangs of erased agony tear through his muscles and leave cramps in their wake. Major frowns deeply, curling up around his middle, eyes squeezed shut.

“Try to rest, Cupcake. No session tomorrow. I’ll buy us a pizza. You take a break, then just… come out when you’re hungry.”

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 12: Semiconscious (Warriors & Time)

Ao3

CW for poisoning, vomiting, blood and injury, and a near death experience

————————————

He stopped seeing clearly long ago.

His surroundings are no longer distinctive shapes. No, they are mere colors now, smeared and edged in the glare of lantern light. It is as though someone poured oil out on the street and left it to be trampled.

Warriors stumbles over something substantial and nonexistent. Another wheezing breath tears out of his lungs. Everything tips sideways and he goes with it, tripping over his own feet. He collides with a lamp post, frightens a blurred figure, garners murmurs of “inebriated” and “not right in the mind.”

He doesn’t care. Not much is bothersome, he’s quickly realizing, when you can’t breathe.

Wildly, he glances around. The buildings lean right, then left, their glowing windows seeming to leer at him. The inn…he has to find it. That is where his brothers await, that is where he can get help.

Warriors gulps in air and gains nothing from it. The ground tilts. He goes down, bile rising in his throat. He has already vomited up everything his stomach contained. But his body is desperate, desperate to rid itself of whatever is killing him.

So, it tries again.

He comes up feeling no less dizzy, no less sick. If anything, it is worse now. When he shoves to his feet, his vision goes abruptly dark. For a moment, he is certain that this is it. This is when he collapses, surrendering to the bitter embrace of oblivion. But then it screams back into a mirage of shifting shapes and nauseating shades of vibrancy.

“Captain?”

Warriors blinks rapidly. Someone is standing before him – a woman he thinks. The visible edges of her expression convey worry.

“Are you well?”

He grins and it feels wrong. Lopsided, clumsy, sharp…a grimace more than anything else.

“Not to worry. ‘M fine.”

“Oh.” She frowns now. Or at least, he thinks that she does. Drunk, her silence screams. Irresponsible. “O-oh alright, then. Goodnight to you.”

It’s good a thing, his mind assures him, as Warriors gazes dazedly at her retreating form.

It’s a good thing that they think you’ve drank too much. Better than them knowing. Safer.

…yeah. Safer.

He is certain he’s going to be sick again. His lungs rise and fall, and nothing comes of their efforts. The ground churns like the sea in Wind’s Hyrule. If only it were warm here like it is on that beautiful beach. But no. Here it is icy cold.

He shivers, stops the failure of his equilibrium with a nearby wall.

Just find them. Find…find your brothers.

Darkness tinges his vision again, spreading like an ink blot on cloth. It grows from left to right, and he lists sideways, drifting towards it. Something catches his boot on the way over. He stumbles, fails to catch himself, crashes down in a tangle of long limbs and thick fabric.

“Oh, look what we’ve got here!”

Giant forms move in the borders of his waning sight. Warriors stares up at them, icy heat prickling the back of his neck and head. Everything smells and tastes of iron. Everything hurts.

“It’s the princess’s favorite little errand boy!”

Something flat and harsh connects with his cheek. Warriors’ head snaps sideways. He chokes, coughing blood onto the pavement.

Get up! His instincts screech. Get up and fight!

He ignores them. It’s so easy to do that now. They are usually so loud, so boisterous and unignorable, hardened and loudened by years of experience.

It’s nice to silence them for once.

“He don’t look so good. Looks like somebody already got a hit on ‘im.”

“Poison?”

“Seems like it. He reeks of something rancid and it ain’t whiskey. His breathin’ ain’t right either.”

“Well, then.”

A hand fists in his collar. The next thing he knows, the ground is falling out from beneath him. He hovers somewhere above it, gazing obliviously at the space before him. Something is there – or maybe someone – but he can’t make out their features.

“He’s all lonesome out here. Might as well finish what they started. It’ll be easy.”

He should be afraid. He’s not.

Warriors feels nothing now except pain. Well, pain and the curious sensation of drowning. Strange, he doesn’t remember seeing water anywhere around here. But maybe he’s simply floating in it, unknowing, unseeing. That would certainly explain how cold he is.

His body slams back into the ground, and what little wheezing breaths he had managed to garner abruptly flee. Dull panic slices through the haze for a split second – just long enough for him to grab a wisp of air. Then, it’s back, a fog as thick as the stuff hovering over Time’s Lost Woods.

Unavigatable. Unbeatable.

For once, he can’t win this battle. For once, he has an excuse to succumb.

And he’s not one for giving in – his stubbornness is practically unmatched – but throwing in the proverbial towel now…fills him with relief.

“Go on boys! Gut him!”

The words reach his ears, but he hardly hears them. And he certainly doesn’t comprehend. Everything is so very far away…

It’s odd how without oxygen the world grows soft.

His head flops sideways. Lazily, he blinks into the indistinct expanse of Castle Town. The colors run together more than ever now. He can hardly tell them apart anymore.

Its beautiful, he thinks, with a loopy smile. Like Arty.

The soft shink of deadly metal surrounds him. Pain streaks through his abdomen. He coughs. Blood spills down his chin and drapes his tunic in crimson. It is wonderfully warm.

Again, metal strikes. More blood, more warmth. More pain.

His eyes flutter. There is not much to see now. But darkness is beginning to be replaced with dazzling light.

It is as beautiful as Castle Town…maybe even more. It beckons him, envelops him like a hug.

Come, it whispers, in the voice of his mother, come to me, dear child. Rest.

Somewhere, someone screams.

Warriors smiles and it is a soft, gentle thing. He starts to step forward.

“No!”

Hands grasp his wrist, as small as a child’s yet, much too calloused to be. Warriors dares to glance over his shoulder.

Mask stands there, his green clothing even more vibrant in the world of white. Tears have turned his large blue eyes the color of Warriors’ scarf. His lip trembles, despite the way he has it between his teeth. And while his grip is strong, his expression is a rapidly crumbling wall.

Warriors feels the tug again, the call from the endless light. He needs to go. He wants to. Sweet Hylia, he wants to.

“Sprite…”

“You-you can’t!” Mask shouts, stepping closer. He is shaking, Warriors realizes. The child who has faced monsters larger than himself armed with nothing more than a cocky grin and a slingshot is shaking. “You can’t leave me!”

The tears fall and smudge the markings that have now appeared on his face. Shades of blue and red trickle down his cheeks.

Warriors blinks and suddenly, the child’s hands are drenched in blood. He gasps, stumbling back. But Mask holds on.

“Sprite, I’ve got to go,” he says, desperately, because he must see that he can’t remain here. It’s time…isn’t it?

“No. It’s not.”

Mask ducks his head, as a sob tears at his tiny body. Salty water plunks onto the ground. It sounds like raindrops.

A downpour on a sunny day. A child curled beneath his scarf, grinning mischievously. A beautiful woman laughing, face upturned to the sky.

A tear slides down Warriors’ own cheek.

“Oh, Link…”

“Please,” he croaks, soft now, vulnerable. Broken. “Please, don’t leave.”

A single eye meets Warriors’ two. A face marked by a war god crumples, every year, every battle, every loss written in the tears streaming down it.

The captain moves closer. The light seems to dim now, lessened by the aching in his heart. Time…Time should never look like that. If he could reach him, maybe he could make that pain go away.

Time drags in a trembling breath. Crimson-drenched fingers fist in Warriors’ scarf like he did so often as a child.

“I need you, big brother.”

Warriors take another step and another and another. He can’t stop now. The decision seems plain. Whatever is behind him, wonderful though it may seem, is not yet for him. Not when Time is looking at him as though he is his entire world and then some. Not when he can hear them now — the faint pleas of the other heroes.

His brothers. His family.

He reaches out, fingers brushing Time’s cheek. The hero’s breath hitches as he leans into his touch.

“I’m right here, Sprite,” the captain promises. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

With a sob, Time falls into his arms. Warriors closes his eyes and buries his face in his shoulder. And as they cling to each other, the endless white surrounding them comes crashing down.

[serickswrites]

Lonely Place of Longing XII

Master list here (includes chapter links, character bios, and summary)

Warnings: scars, referenced near death experience, angst

Halle had never felt so stupid in all her life. Dylan never loved her. Was Dylan even capable of love? He had been alive for over a hundred years of course life had become boring. Dylan needed a source of entertainment and Halle cursed herself for falling for it.

But even as Halle thought that, she couldn’t help but feel heartbroken. Even if none of it had been real. It had felt real. And it had been real for her.

She made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t stoop to Dylan’s level and be so cruel. She would be professional. She would still take care of Dylan to the best of her abilities, even if Dylan was essentially scum of the earth.

“No better than Owen,” Halle muttered to herself as she made her way to the briefing room. She walked slowly to be sure she wasn’t going to run in anyone. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Dylan in two days and she was going to have to see him now.

“Ah, Halle, thanks for joining,” Thomas said as Halle shouldered open the door to the briefing room.

“Sorry I was late, I was checking our supply inventory.” Halle quickly hurried in and took a seat at the table.

She tried to not let her eyes find Dylan. But her traitorous heart couldn’t help but look. Dylan stood in the corner, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes were red rimmed and his lean face was puffy—unusual for Dylan. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since Halle left his room days ago. He didn’t look at Halle or any of the team assembled at the table. Was this all that were going to be allowed to go after Owen?

“Now that we are all here,” Thomas began, “I’m going to actually turn this over to Dylan. He has experience with Owen. It’s one of our advantages right now. So please, listen carefully. All our lives depend on it.”

Dylan didn’t move from his corner. Had Dylan even been paying attention? Halle could see the rest of the team get restless. Finally, Dylan spoke. “Owen is unlike any enemy you’ve faced before.”

“I’ve been on plenty of missions where we faced off against weapons. We did just fine,” Helena sneered.

Dylan turned and gave Helena his full gaze. “Owen isn’t like them. He’s much, much more powerful.”

“How do we know that you won’t join his side?” Another teammate—Benjamin—called out. It was a fair question. But Halle knew the answer without Dylan having to say. Dylan had no choice. And Owen didn’t want Dylan any more than Halle did.

Dylan didn’t respond. He surveyed the team gathered at the table, his eyes not resting any longer on a team member than necessary. He stared when he finally reached Halle. Halle refused to be the one who looked away first. If Dylan could toy with her heart like that, she could show Dylan how unbothered she was.

With a sigh, Dylan spoke again. “I have no desire to work with Owen ever again. Not after everything he has done—to the world and to me.” Dylan raised his shirt so that his scarred abdomen and chest showed. “Some of these are from other missions. But this one,” his fingers ghosted along a sickle shaped scar that stretched from his mid sternum to his left shoulder, “is from when Owen escaped and I tried to stop him. So no, I won’t be joining Owen in this lifetime.” Dylan let his shirt drop.

Dylan had said a mission went sideways years ago. That many people had died. He hadn’t lied. But he hadn’t been completely honest with her. He lied. Always. He had always been lying to her.

“Just listen to Dylan, he is our expert on Owen. Listen. All our lives and quite honestly the fate of the world are depending on this. So don’t fuck it up.” Thomas’s voice was biting and full of frustration.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Dylan said and sounded genuinely grateful. He ignored the angry whispers that whipped around the table. “As I was saying, Owen is unlike any enemy you have face. He’s….he’s like me. My powers are more similar to his than any enemy you have ever faced for against.”

“Then we’re sure to win because you’re always getting hurt,” Benjamin snickered.

Dylan ignored the comment and continued. “Owen has two distinct advantages over our team. The first is that we are going to try and take the fight to him, so we will be fighting Owen in his own home. And the second is that he is insane. Like really insane. And that makes him more unpredictable than any other enemy. It is going to take all of us cooperating completely to be able to take him down.”

Halle lost track of everything that was said in the meeting. It didn’t really matter to her. She wasn’t going to be actively pursuing Owen. She would be where she always was: behind everyone in the relative safety of the base camp the team had set up. She would only deploy to front lines if Dylan couldn’t be brought to her. And she was perfectly fine with that. She wouldn’t have to follow Dylan into battle. Wouldn’t have to watch him use his monstrous powers.

And she wouldn’t have to worry. Dylan didn’t love her, didn’t care for her. And so she didn’t have to feel that way any longer. Halle repeated the mantra over and over throughout the lengthy meeting. Thomas spoke often and Halle paid more attention during those parts than when Dylan spoke.

By the time everyone was dismissed with the order to be ready to move out in six hours, Halle realized she still wasn’t sure of her role. Perhaps she should have paid more attention.

“Dylan,” Halle said gruffly as she approached the weapon. Dylan never left his corner. He coolly surveyed Halle with his icy gaze. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Weren’t you paying attention?” Dylan’s voice was cold.

“It didn’t seem relevant to what I would be doing, so no. I won’t be joining you on the battle line. My job is to keep you alive. And I will do my job.”

“Will you?”

Halle could have sworn she saw something besides cruelty in Dylan’s gaze. But the moment passed and Dylan looked as cold and flat as ever. “Of course. I will do my job. I always do my job.”

“See that you do, Halle, because this all hinges on me. And I can’t take out Owen if you don’t do your fucking job.”

“I always do my job,” Halle said angrily. She stepped in very close to Dylan, craning her neck so she could make eye contact with Dylan. She hated Dylan with every fiber of their being, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t do their job. She was a professional. “And you better remember that, Dylan, because I am the reason why you are still alive. Never forget that.”

Before Dylan could reply, Halle spun on her heel and left. She would ask Thomas exactly what she would need to be sure was in her med kit. She didn’t need Dylan giving her orders. He was just a weapon. Halle would only ever take orders from her fellow humans. As she left the room she could have sworn she heard Dylan’s murmured response, “I never will,” but couldn’t be sure because the words sounded so soft and miserable, sounded like the Dylan she had fallen in love with. The fictional Dylan. Not at all like the Dylan she knew to be real.

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[whump-galaxy]

Idk I really like two characters that have only crossed paths occasionally, eventually becoming each other’s support. Maybe they only met because they each had a friend in common. Maybe they were mixed up somehow and met by accident. Maybe it was always chance.

But, even years later, that flash of familiarity is all they need to collapse into each other’s arms. Thank god it’s you.

From that point forward, they’re bound together.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 129

Write something inspired by this concept:

Imagine a whumpee, strapped down and immobilized on a table, lying helpless in a darkened room. Weak and trembling, they can only manage a whimper of fear.

Imagine tubes connected to the veins in their arms, draining their blood away for some unknown purpose.

Imagine whumpee's blood collecting in vials that masked figures gather and remove without saying a single word.

And imagine whumpee's realization that, unless someone rescues them and soon, the extreme blood loss will surely kill them.

[voidwhump]

Inspired by this

Ingredients: Injury, implied infection, heat stroke, falling off of a horse, near death. ~600 words

Back. 

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

Horses weren’t all that fast when they didn’t feel like they had to be. They were at the mercy of the rhythm of the horse’s walk, using all their strength to stay upright. The sun baked their neck and scalp. Every motion refreshed the pain of their tired muscles. 

Aggravated the throbbing ache behind their eyes.

Stoked the smoldering fire radiating from the hole in their side.

The horse could tell they weren’t all there, stopping occasionally, unconvinced her rider knew where they were going. So, energy they didn’t have went into kicking the horse back into a walk. And the cycle repeated. 

And repeated. 

And repeated. 

As the horse slowed to a stop, again, they took a moment to drag their head up to where they could look forward instead of down. Their body protested as it was pulled out of its forward slump, every muscle supporting the motion threatening to fail. They closed their eyes against it. Breathed. Felt the breeze against their sweat covered face and neck.

When they opened their eyes, they could just barely make out the silhouette of a village ahead, sitting low to the ground against the horizon. They weren’t going to make it, they could tell. But maybe they could make it to somewhere someone would see them. Even if it was only their dead body. So, with every part of their body displaying a ticking clock, ten minutes to failure, five minutes to failure, they continued. 

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

One minute.

They felt the exact moment when their core gave up. Strained muscles abruptly went slack without their authority behind it. It was their uninjured side finally betraying them, overworked from hours of holding double its usual load. That was the side they fell towards, their opposite foot briefly catching on the stirrup, iron on leather, giving them one more instant in the saddle as the horse stopped again, for the last time that day. They had the brief presence of mind to free their other foot from its stirrup as well. 

After that, the fall was over with quickly. They hit the ground shoulder first, the joint audibly crunching as it impacted. The pain immediately blended with all of their other hurts. They lay there, breathing. It was better, being on the ground. A lot of them didn’t hurt so much anymore now that they weren’t trying to do anything. The dust blowing off the dirt road stuck to their exposed skin. Their sweat washed some of it away, dripping to the ground in their peripheral vision. 

The wind blew again.

They lay there, sweating.

The wind blew again.

Eventually, they weren’t sweating anymore. What was left on them dried quickly, and they missed the cooling feeling. The sun was setting now, so at least they wouldn’t be so hot soon. They hoped the horse had found some water. 

They could use some water.

The sun set. It seemed faster than normal. They might not be the most conscious at the moment.

Or they were mistaken. Light flickered across the ground ahead of them, in and out of their field of view. 

In and out. 

Getting closer. 

In and out.

In their eyes. That was annoying. 

Something pushed them on to their back. Their body screamed. They didn’t say much.

They were lifted, which felt almost as bad, but at least they were back in their slightly curled position. Whatever picked them up had a much smoother walk than the horse, too. They faded out again soon enough.

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Whumptober 2024 No. 21 Altprompt- Secrets Revealed

This is the first fill that I'm doing an altprompt!

Villain stepped over the debris and rubble and stalked toward Hero’s unconscious body. The fight had been brutal, but they had finally managed to take out their biggest adversary. They were just about to deliver the killing blow when they noticed their opponent’s mask, askew. They recognized that face.

Villain dropped to their knees, pressing their hands into the largest of Hero’s wounds.

“[Hero’s Name], hey, hey, stay with me, stay with me, Love.”

Hero grimaced, but didn’t respond.

“Help! Someone help, please!”

There was no one around to answer. Villain picked their lover up in a bridal carry and jumped into the air, flying as fast as they could to the nearest hospital.

…

Villain burst through the doors to the emergency room.

“Help, please! Hero is injured!”

Nurses came by straight away while the receptionist stared in horror. They dialed the number for the police- that was Villain standing there!

“Vil’n?” Hero asked, cracking an eye open.

Villain kissed Hero on the forehead.

“I’ll be back for you,” they promised.

The nurses wheeled them into the operating room. Villain turned to the sound of guns trained on them.

“Police! Stand down!”

Villain held up their hands in surrender, then let a red blast of power surge through them. They ran from the hospital.

…

Hero stirred to the sound of steady beeping. They opened their eyes and saw Lover staring down at them.

“Thank goodness,” Lover said.

“Lover? Wha- what ha-”

“Shhh, shh,” Lover said, brushing the fringe from Hero’s face, “it’s going to be okay.”

Hero seemed satisfied with the answer, and quickly slipped back into sleep.

…

Villain Lover slumped back in their chair. This was a mess. [Hero’s Name] was Hero. Did Hero even know Lover was Villain? How could they possibly tell them? Scratch that, how could they possibly let Hero know that they knew their biggest secret? They watched the steady rise and fall of Hero’s chest. They were alive, that’s what was important.

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