#probably barely whump to be honest?

[wardenred]

Whumptember 2: "Let me do this for you"

These characters have been hanging out on the fringes of my mind for a while now, why not take them out for a walk.

Tonight, the tavern was warm and jovial. Flames crackled in the fireplace that took up most of the wall across from the doorway. A minstrel sat perched on a high stool next to it, their deft fingers teasing a soft, soothing melody out of a lute. Glass clinked against metal as a group of merchants laughed together, celebrating a deal well sealed and toasting future opportunities; some of them had discarded tankards in favor of going straight for the bottles. Two tables away, three people in noble clothes hidden under commoners' cloaks looked to be enjoying a romantic evening. At the bar, a city guard flirted relentlessly with the maid. A slightly exasperated patron clearly couldn't decide whether he wished to interfere for the sake of finally getting a drink or would rather not spoil somebody's fun. The air smelled of fresh stew and mulled wine.

Amidst all of this, even tucked away in the farthest corner, Raj found it easy to pretend like he could have some of this, too, one day. The simple joys, the simple comforts. Life. 

Just as long as he paid all his debts first and didn't die trying.

He smoothed out the map in front of him and traced the tip of his nail over the shoreline, the faded blue expanse of the Whirlpool Gulf, the smattering of small islands to the west.

"Fortune guiding me, I shouldn't be gone for longer than a month," he told Ash. "My sisters should have enough coin or that long, but if I stall, I can count on you to check up on them and see to their needs, right? I’ll pay you back, obviously."

His friend drummed their fingers over the chipped edge of the table. A deep crease settled between their pale eyebrows; a deeper one at the corner of their mouth.

"You shouldn't be doing this."

Raj swallowed a sigh. "On the contrary. It's a fantastic opportunity—"

"To get yourself killed for real this time?"

This was... needlessly dramatic. "Excuse me, are you doubting my skills?"

"No, only your sanity. Raj, you've done two jobs with the Western pirates, and frankly, it makes for two more than reasonable. And aren't you now expected to work under the same captain as the last time?" 

Raj grimaced. "Unfortunately, yes. I suppose he'll be happier to see me than I him. Still, that's a good chance to turn the tables a little bit, after all the grief the guy gave me."

"Grief." Ash's expression was unreadable.

"Well, what else would you call it?" Raj asked with a fatalistic shrug. "No, don't answer. You'll come up with all sorts of drastically tragic epithets, whereas the truth is, it was—"

Ash leaned forward so sharply Raj kind of wanted to flinch back. Of course, what he did instead was freeze and stop talking.

"If you're going to tell me it was nothing, I swear to the gods..." Ash drew a steadying breath. "I was the one who patched you up after that stint, Raj. Don't you dare tell me you were fine."

"I was, though," Raj insisted, not so much ignoring the way Ash's dark eyes narrowed as acknowledging it and saying his part anyway. "I can handle a few beatings, as long as it gets the work done and paid for. So how about you stop fretting and we keep drinking?" He reached for the jug at the center of the table and topped their glasses with gusto. "Ths is meant to be a celebration! I fought for this contract!"

"Yes, because you're a blighted fool," Ash said stiffly. Still, when Raj brought up a glass in a toast, they clinked theirs against his. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the blood-like red liquid splashed over the rims, drinks mixing together.

Raj offered an easy smile. "That's all right by me. If memory serves me right, before ascending the throne the first Astragi king, bless his spirit and all that, served as the Last Emperor's fool. Therefore, being a fool is quite the noble calling with awesome career prospects. Cheers."

Ash snatched his wrist before he could bring the glass to this lips.

"Let me do this for you. No, listen! You'll still get the money. Even the credit, should that be what you're after. Lie low here in the city, or travel to the country for a while. I've got a cover-up in the works already. Once I'm back, we'll convince the bosses you were the one who did the job."

All Raj could do was stare. There was a feverish glint in Ash's eyes, a flush to their skin that could probably be explained by all the ale they'd consumed already. This crazy idea probably boasted the same origin.

He laughed. "Now which one of us is the fool?"

Ash tightened their grip on his hand. "Please, Raj. Let me do this. The risks for me are lower, anyway. I'm not the kind of person Captain Turncoat would harbor a grudge for. I can keep my head down, lay low, pretend to be boring and unobtrusive. You know I can."

"The captain isn't the only monster aboard that ship." Raj's throat tightened when he thought about this. Ash, spending weeks in the open sea with Turncoat's crew, treated with disdain at best, because pirates hated their organization even—especially—when they agreed to work together for mutual gain? Having all possible offenses pinned on them, all possible punishments dispensed their way? No. No, and nope, and fuck this shit.

"Please, Raj."

He shook his head, wrenched his hand away, and downed half a glass in one go.

Immediately, his mind felt fuzzy. The glass cluttered out of his weakened grasp and rolled over the table surface, spilling ale everywhere. The map would be ruined if it wasn't for Ash's quick fingers, already folding it away.

Numb and with no control of his body or tongue, Raj could only slump in his chair while Ash stood, walked over, and methodically searched his pockets for the job token.

No. No, please, anything but this.

Ash bent down to plant a small kiss against his temple.

"You'll feel better in an hour, tops," they whispered. "Stay safe. See you in a month, give or take."

Their footsteps echoed away, and Raj couldn't even turn his head to watch them go. By the fireplace, the minstrel was still playing, the melody rising and falling like the tides.

You fucking idiot.

Raj didn't know if he was aiming the thought at Ash or himself.

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

The long awaited pt2 to the pneumonia/intubation Whump post (this one)...

Caretaker's glad Whumpee's so out of it from all the meds they're on. If they were more aware, they'd likely be terrified.

After all, the equipment that the doctors are pulling over on carts, laying out on the sheets, is enough to make Caretaker feel nauseous- they keep eyeing the metal device the doctor checks over, the one that muted whispers have denoted as the 'laryngoscope'.

They sit beside Whumpee's bed (they're allowed to for the time being, until Whumpee's actually asleep and the real procedure has to begin), holding the hand that hasn't been invaded by a cannula site. A nurse is positioned at Whumpee's other side already pumping them full of drugs that have Whumpee drifting, eyes open but barely there. Caretaker strokes their hair, giving them a wobbly smile as yet another dose of something or other is pushed into Whumpee's cannula.

"I'm right here, whumpee. I'm right here with you, sweetheart. Just try to relax."

The latter message is more for themselves than Whumpee, if they're honest. They're the one with a racing heartbeat- Whumpee's is slower now, as indicated by the dull beep-beep of the monitor they're hooked up to. Their breaths are slower too, so shallow that if they weren't already due to be intubated, Caretaker would be slamming on the emergency button.

"Propofol's going in now." One of the doctors says. Caretaker knows enough to understand that this means sleep, for Whumpee, is imminent.

Sure enough, within seconds of the syringe's plunger being pushed down, a glaze enters Whumpee's eyes, the lids becoming heavy. They open their mouth, tongue darting out to wet chapped lips for a moment as if they want to speak, but Caretaker, unshed tears in their eyes, shushes them gently.

"Hey, just sleep now, alright? Everyone's looking after you. Sweet dreams, Whumpee. Night night."

Whumpee's glassy gaze fixes on Caretaker's, narrowing and narrowing as their eyes drift closer to being closed until...

Out.

Caretaker leans forward, lower lip trembling slightly, and kisses Whumpee on the forehead, just as the doctor steps up behind them.

"Alright, we're gonna get started now. it's probably easier for you to wait outside and-"

"No." Caretaker interjects, tears nearly spilling over. "Sorry, no, I- I need to be here. I won't... I won't get in your way, I promise, I just- I need to be here for them."

And so they remain. They remain when the doctors place the mask over Whumpee's face, murmuring to each other about sats and correct timings. They remain when the principle anaesthesiologist brushes a fingertip below Whumpee's eyelashes, checking for movement and finding none. They remain when the same anesthesiologist stands behind Whumpee's head, removes the mask and tilts Whumpee's chin towards them, gently pulling open their mouth and sliding the laryngoscope in.

The blade slips into place too easily, Caretaker thinks. there's too little resistance. Whumpee should be gagging, thrashing about, screaming for help, but instead they lay unconscious and unmoving as it's driven deep into their throat, pushing their tongue out of the way to give the doctors a clear view of their vocal cords.

"Tube." the anesthesiologist says tersely. That long snaking tube, already lubricated, is placed atop a gloved palm.

Caretaker is tempted to look away as it's inserted, but their eyes are fixed. They watch as it's threaded past the laryngoscope, through the opening of the vocal cords that only the doctor can see. They watch as it slots fully into place and the anesthesiologist adjusts it, leaving it to rest against Whumpee's lower lip for only a moment before the cuff is inflated and the ventilator is hooked up to it instead.

And as the circuit is completed, Caretaker would think Whumpee dead- their eyes are closed, everything is so still, and whenever the tube needs a slight adjustment, they're floppy beneath the touch of the adjuster. Only when Caretaker looks closer do they see the continual, regular fogging of the tube with each assisted breath Whumpee takes- a sign that they're living, at least.

The anesthesiologist glances over at the screen, which to Caretaker looks merely like a smattering of numbers and wave forms.

"We've got N tidal CO2. Everything's connected. Secure the tube and continue to monitor."

With that, they step away, their primary task complete, and a nurse steps in instead- already equipped with an ET tube holder. Caretaker watches them gently press one of the sticky pads against Whumpee's cheek, then moving to the other cheek to apply the other pad. Between them, the tube is secured in place, and at last Whumpee is... Whumpee is...

Caretaker doesn't even realise they've moved to the bedside until they shakily lower themselves into the seat there, listening to the wooshing of the ventilator and the beeping of so many monitors.

Whumpee is... sick. really sick.

They've known it for a long time, of course, but seeing Whumpee intubated, sedated in an intensive care unit, their cheeks pale, sweat beading on their brow... it hammers reality home even further.

Home.

Whumpee isn't going to be going home for a long while yet.

[whumpshaped]

masterlist

tw vampire whumper, psychological whump, intimate whumper, forced comfort

"Whatever is the matter with you?"

Beck shrugged a little. He still barely even looked at Helle, let alone engaged in their banter. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

They gently took him by the chin, turning his head towards them so they'd be able to look him in the eye. They didn't seem concerned, just confused and annoyed. "Is it me? Am I the problem? Are my insults and mockery getting less... gutting?"

Beck thought he might be able to sense some semblance of care behind the joking tone, but he was too exhausted to pay too much attention. "No, that's definitely not it," he said honestly. "They're... they're definitely pretty gutting. I mean, if, if we're being honest here– they make me wanna cry half the time."

The vampire let go of him and leaned back, still fixing him with a suspicious look. "Okay. So... whatever is it, then? You barely react. Our of the two of us, you seem more dead."

"I'm tired, Helle," he admitted, and averted his eyes again. "I'm sorry. That's– I think that's just it. I'm so tired of being... afraid, and hurt, and angry. I just can't do it tonight. I bet that's very frustrating, since that seems like the only reason you even keep me around in this way instead of enthralling me and whisking me away to your mansion or whatever, but I just... I can't. I can't do it every night. I'm tired."

The silence that stretched between them wasn't a necessarily uncomfortable one. It was almost peaceful, contemplative. Beck used it to simply zone out and stare at the TV in front of him — despite the fact that it wasn't even turned on, and he was just looking at his reflection. Only his. And Helle? Helle used it to think about whatever the hell vampires thought about, when they weren't thinking about blood and torture. Maybe they were thinking about blood and torture. There was no way to know.

"I do keep you around for those tasty little emotions," they said eventually. "It is quite fun to see you react to whatever I am doing. But I think..." They grabbed him by the arm and pulled him closer, positioning him so that he was laid across the sofa with his head in their lap. "I do not have to pull from the negative ones all the time. Especially if they are a limited resource."

Beck would've lied if he said the situation didn't scare him. He felt numb, yes, but he wasn't dead. Or emotionless. His muscles still tensed up at having to navigate unfamiliar territory, and his breathing and pulse quickened. But he couldn't react in the way Helle wanted. He didn't have the energy to protest and beg.

They began gently petting his hair, like one might do with a cat. It felt... nice. It wasn't comforting, but it was objectively pleasant, and... Helle was right. It was different, and different made him feel.

"I could make the distinction differently," they murmured. "I could simply make your days bad and worse, have your brain switching between dread and more dread."

Oh, it was a foolish question, the one on the tip of his tongue; but it was a justified one. Should he risk it? Or should he keep quiet and enjoy the break?

He was never going to learn to keep his mouth shut.

"Why don't you?" he asked quietly.

The vampire scratched his scalp with sharp nails, and Beck once again felt like he was nothing but a pet. But it was so good. It felt so nice. He couldn't help but turn his head a little, lean into the touch, and even though he managed to stifle the pleased hum that threatened to breach his aura of indifference, the way he arched his back to be able to push against Helle's hand probably told them everything they wanted to know.

They smiled sweetly. "It is an odd thing, really. Sometimes I look at your adorable little face and I want nothing more than to ruin it with tears and bruises. And sometimes... sometimes I come here with that exact intent, and yet you manage to say or do something... and I just change my mind out of nowhere. Sometimes I want to see you like this."

"Like a dog."

"Like a happy dog. Relaxed, content, lazily wagging his little tail — wagging it specifically because I scratched him behind the ears." Beck felt his face heating up at the comparison, even though it was the same one he'd made a moment ago. It was different, coming from Helle. "But it does make me wonder... How would you react if I were to take it all away?"

Beck tensed again, waiting for them to do just that. For their fingers to tighten in his hair, for the claws to draw blood. For Helle's gentle expression to turn cold and cruel. He found himself desperately hoping it was merely a hypothetical.

"There it is," they whispered. "That fear. That uncertainty. That pleading look I treasure oh so much." They continued petting him, satisfied with how he was unable to relax at all now. "A little hope and kindness goes a long way, I suppose."

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries @morning-star-whump

[i-eat-worlds]

A Late Night Discovery

This is a crossover with @pigeonwhumps ‘s story Immortal Cannon Fodder, who Phoenix and Aaron belong to. Set during Joseph’s time working in Hero Alliance London’s medbay.

cw: medical whump, depictions of wounds, discussions of abuse; primarily denial of medical care and fear of punishment, hospital setting, author’s questionable knowledge of British English

Joseph sighs as he finishes organizing the last shelf of supplies. His shift has been pretty slow, and he’d spent most of the time doing housekeeping. They’d gotten a shipment of supplies, and since he had nothing better to do, he ended up restocking the supply rooms. That was how he’d ended up in the fifteen hundred hallway supply room with twenty minutes left in his shift.

If Joseph is being honest, he doesn’t know why the fifteen hundred hallway even has a supply closet. The old patient rooms had been converted into office space, but the supply closet still needed to be stocked, for some reason. When he’d done inventory, most of the stuff had only ever been touched to move it somewhere else. So, he is very surprised when another person walks in.

They’re wearing a battered HAL uniform, minus a mask, arm wrapped protectively around their waist and panting heavily. It’s obvious that they’re injured and in pain. His medic mode kicks in as he steps out from behind the shelf and moves closer. “Hey, are you okay?”

The hero jolts when they see him, scampering away into a corner of the room. Joseph would’ve sworn he’d seen them before, but he couldn’t quite place where. He squats down in front of them, keeping his expression neutral. “Are you injured? I’m a medic, I can help.”

The words seem to make them more nervous. “I’m sorry,” they blabber, “I didn’t mean to intrude, please.”

Joseph sighs. This is going to be complicated. “I’m not going to hurt you. You look like you need some help, that’s all. Do you want to go to the medbay?”

This helps even less. “No, no, I wouldn’t do that.” They shake their head vigorously. “I don’t-I don’t wanna waste.”

So no medbay. At least not yet, though it’s an odd response to the question. He can see the long, bloody gash on their side from the other side of the closet, though. They need help, sooner rather than later. “Can I take a look?” He offers instead.

The hero hesitates before nodding yes. They seem to be in a state of petrified silence, eyes following Joseph as he opens up one of the brand-new boxes of gloves he’d just placed on the shelves and pulls a pair on, then kneels down next to them. “I’m Joseph, by the way. Do you have a name?”

“Phoenix,” they say quietly.

So that’s where he knows them from. The name is all it takes for him to finally recognize them. They’re the poor kid who came in a couple of weeks ago with their mouth stitched shut, the one who apologized continuously for just existing. He’s pretty sure they’re on one of the teams that Aaron does medical for. “I’m gonna pull your hand away so I can look, yeah?”

Phoenix nods, letting Joseph carefully move their hand away from the wound. “Sorry if this hurts,” he says as he inspects it, trying not to poke or prod too much.

It’s not as bad as he’d thought it would be, especially considering Phoenix's healing abilities. It’s about six inches long, but he can’t see any lobules of fat sticking out, so it probably won’t need stitches. The bleeding isn’t horrible, and he doubts Phoenix will notice by the morning. Still, he’d like to clean it out, get something on it, and maybe get them some antibiotics.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” He asks as he tears open a package of gauze and presses it into the wound.

Phoenix barely inches at the pain. “No, sir. I’m not.”

“Alright,” he says, keeping pressure as he speaks. “I’m going to need to clean this out and bandage it up, and I’d like to do that somewhere a little nicer than a storage room floor.” Phoenix is looking up at him with the same fear filled eyes he’d seen a few weeks before. “Can you walk to the medbay, or do I need to get some help?”

Their eyes go wide at that. “I don’t need the medbay.” He’s never seen somebody shake their head so much. “I’m immortal, I’ll be okay. We can do it here.” There's a couple seconds of silence, then Phoenix speaks again. “I’ve been to the medbay too many times recently. Abbie says I can’t go anymore, or else-or else I’ll get punished.” They speak very quietly.

So that’s what’s going on. Aaron had warned him about Abbie when he first arrived, and now he knows why. She’s an abusive asshole. “We don’t have to tell anyone,” Joseph says. “I can’t tell anybody anything without your permission, and the medbay is pretty empty right now.”

Phoenix hesitates before answering. “I’ll go. I’m sorry for disagreeing.”

“It’s okay,” He says, using one hand to keep pressure while he unpackages a roll of bandages. “I’m going to wrap these around you, okay?” Phoenix nods, repositioning themself so that it’s easier. “Does anyone else know that Abbie would punish you for going down to the medbay?”

“Aaron, and Kai,” They say, voice shaky as they speak. “Please don’t report it. I’m getting a transfer. It’s just for a little bit longer.”

“I won’t,” he says, and he means it. He will talk to Aaron about maybe expediting that process though. “Let’s get you up.”

He helps them to stand, then wraps their arm around his waist-Phoenix is too short for his shoulders-and guides them out the door.

The halls are all pretty much empty, and most of the staff is used to seeing bleeding, injured heroes around, and they probably wouldn’t have batted an eye at Joseph helping Phoenix down the hallway anyway. As they get closer to the medbay, things get busier. He can feel Phoenix leaning into him, and he can hear the way their breath hitches with every step. “We’re nearly there,” he comforts, “Just a little bit longer.”

Finally, they arrive in the heart of the medbay. The room is pretty calm, some nurses bustling about, a couple gathered in the break room. Tori, the charge nurse, is sitting at her desk, busily typing away. She looks up when she hears him walk in “I thought you’d left…”Her voice trails o when she sees Phoenix leaning against him, bandages wrapped around their abdomen. “Treatment six is open.”

“Thank you, Tori,” he says as he walks through the nurses station to get to the room. “Can you page Dr. Thomas?”

“No problem,” she says, already reaching for the phone.

Joseph thanks her before pulling the curtain around treatment six closed and getting to work. “Can you hop up on the table while I get some things ready?”

Phoenix listens, paper crinkling as they pull themself up onto the exam table and carefully lay down. “I’m sorry for making you work late.” They swallow nervously, watching as Joseph replaces his soiled gloves with fresh ones.

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind,” he says, grabbing the blood pressure cuff from the basket on the wall. As if he, or really any decent human being, would’ve left them bleeding in a storage room because their shift was over. “I’m gonna take some vitals, and then I’ll treat your wound. Aaron might pop in soon, is that okay?”

They nod, but their eyebrows furrow like they’re confused. It’s quick and painless; first temperature, then blood oxygen, heart rate and respirations, and finally blood pressure. He’s typing it in their chart when Aaron walks in.

“Good evening, Joseph,” he says as he rubs some sanitizing gel on his hands. “How are you doing, Phoenix?”

“I got hit, I’m sorry, sir,” they say with a hint of shame in their voice.

“It’s not deep. It’ll be okay.”

“We’ll get it taken care of,” Aaron says, then turns to Joseph. “Obs?”

“Pretty much normal,” he reports, “Pulse and bp are elevated but that’s not surprising.”

Aaron nods, and he’s about to ask another question but Phoenix starts first. “I tried to deal with it myself, sir. Mr. Joseph caught me. It’s my fault, I know, but please, please, please don’t tell Abbie.” The words fall out of their mouth in a panicked string. They sound like they’re pleading for their life. Joseph worries that it’s not far off from the truth.

“I won’t do that, Phoenix, I promise.” Aaron is seething right now, and Joseph can tell, even though he’s got his doctor face on. “I’m going to take a look at your wound now. It might hurt a little bit, but I’m not going to cause more pain than I need to, alright.”

Joseph hands him the scissors, and he quickly cuts the bandage away. “Oh yeah, that’s not too bad at all.” Arron sounds pleasantly surprised. “You feel okay with Joseph closing it? I need to go get you some antibiotics.”

“Yes,” Phoenix says, though Joseph can see them shift towards Aaron. They look less nervous when he’s in the room.

“It’s okay if you aren’t. Nobody will be angry.” Aaron assures them.

Their bottom lip starts to tremble a little bit. “Please stay,” they whisper, desperate. “I-I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid because it's not that bad and I’m gonna be fine, but please stay.” They sniffle, trying to keep the tears in. “It’s okay, I can stay,” Aaron says, squeezing their shoulder. “How about I hold your hand while Joseph takes care of your wound. Would that be good?”

They nod tearfully. “Thank you. ’m sorry for causing trouble.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not your fault.” Aaron moves over to Phoenix’s uninjured so Joseph can get to work. He takes their hand, smiling comfortingly.

Joseph steps up to their side. “I’m going to have to clean it out first, and after that, I’ll use some strips of silk tape to keep it closed,” he explains.

Phoenix watches in what looks concerningly like awe as treats their wound. Joseph apologizes in advance before he flushes it out, and he can see on Aaron's face how tight their grip is during that part. The flushing doesn’t knock too many clots loose, and it doesn’t take him very long to get the bleeding back under control so he can close it. It’s not deep enough to need stitches, which makes Phoenix very happy, and the process of taping it closed is almost painless. The look on their face when Joseph says that he’s done makes it seem like they were expecting something a lot worse. After he’s done with his notes, Aaron reminds him that it’s about an hour or so past his shift change and that he should probably go home. After he leaves, he presumes that Phoenix gets the “please seek help from medical staff when you are injured” speech. He’s given that one a few times, but never in a situation like theirs.

When he showers that night, he scrubs himself extra hard, eager to remove the icky feeling that hearing them beg caused. Because they weren’t allowed to get medical treatment. They were afraid that she’d do who knows what to them, because they got medical treatment, and it makes his blood boil. Abbie is a pathetic excuse for a team leader, heck, she’s a pathetic excuse for a human being. He promises himself that if he ever gets the chance, he’ll make her regret every single thing she’s done to them. Every. Single. Thing.

[gremlinwithapen]

Augusnippets Day #9: Hypothermia

tw: hypothermia, lab whump, nonhuman child whumpee

 All Nobody had to do was sit in a room and wait to be let out. It seemed simple enough, really. But xhey new that it was never that easy.

Xheir suspicions were confirmed while xhey were reading the book xhey'd been allowed to bring in with xhem. A sudden shiver coursed through xhem without warning, making xheir tail thump against the metal floor. Xhey glanced up, realizing that the air definitely felt colder than it had been when xhey'd entered the room.

So that was the game this time around, xhey guessed. The people in white coats wanted to see how xhey dealt with the cold.

Well, xhey could work with that. Xhey shook xhemself slightly, letting xheir fur coat form a little thicker and warmer. Xhey went back to reading, hoping that it would be over soon.

It was a few more minutes before xhey noticed another dip in temperature. Xhey huffed quietly, watching as xheir breath appeared in the air in front of xhem. These people were never satisfied.

Determining that it would probably be easier if xhey shifted all at once instead of wasting xheir energy on a bunch of little changes, xhey gathered xheir focus. Xhey searched xheir mind for something good, recalling the images of a large, fluffy creature xhey'd seen in one of the picture books about animals xhey'd been given. Some sort of big bear that lived out in the ice and snow, if xhey were remembering right.

Xhey closed xheir eyes and let xheir body begin to flow into the right shape. Xheir inky fur lost its color and grew in even thicker, xheir limbs grew shorter and rounder, and xheir face lengthened into a stubby snout. Xhey settled back in, now comfortably warm, even if it was a little hard to turn the pages of xheir book with xheir now ginormous paws.

Everything was fine for a good while, so much so that xhey forgot about the steadily lowering temperature in favor of the current chapter xhey were on.

Eventually, the cold began to catch up to xhem again. It started as slowly as it had before, just a slight chill that barely reached xheir bones. Xhey couldn't think of any other way to stay warm beyond short of out how to breath fire, so xhey just decided to try and wait it out. Surely whoever was in charge of this particular test would have enough data or whatever else they wanted soon.

Xhey ignored the rapidly worsening feelings for as long as xhey could, but soon enough xhey were shivering so much that xhey couldn't focus on the words in front of xhem. Xhey grumbled in frustration, getting up and starting to pace. Lumbered back and forth across the room, xhey tried to work the feeling back into xheir aching limbs.

And still it got colder. Xheir fur barely felt like it was helping at all by this point, and the tips of xheir paws had gone all pins-and-needles numb. Xhey whined softly as xhey curled up in the corner, hoping that making xhemself smaller would help more than moving.

Time kept on passing and the temperature kept dropping, but xhey hadn't really been paying attention for the past while. It was getting harder to think and, more concerningly, harder to hold xheir form together. Xhey knew that the cold would get a hundred times worse without this bulky body, but it was getting harder to justify that to xheir tired mind.

Xhey were feeling warmer now, anyways. Surely xhey could just let xhemself rest for a moment and shift back again when it got worse again, right? Yes, that sounded like a nice idea. Any rest at all sounded incredible

Xheir body grew smaller and more familiar as xheir eyelids fluttered shut. Xhey thought xhey might have heard the sound of the door opening, but xhey couldn't really bring xhemself to care as xhey waited for xheir time to be up.

Maybe now the people in white coats would finally be satisfied with xhem. Probably not, if xhey were being honest. They never were.

@augusnippets

[pencilofawesomeness]

20 Questions for Writers

Tagged by @kiliinstinct so let's go

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Okay so the number on my account is a slight lie because I have two anthology-type fics with many fics inside of them like an egg sac, and in htryds’ case I took all of them out and separated them and I pulled one out of the other so.... 130 unique works. And if I count the oneshots shoved inside my 2021 Whumptober anthology, then 159.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

This also requires some math for the above reason so.... 948,078. (Holy cow I am so close to one million, wait—)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mainly Fairy Tail, Genshin Impact, and Twisted Wonderland, in that order, buttttt I have a few other fandoms under my belt and I am known to branch out on a whim. (Others include Voltron, RWBY, Fullmetal Alchemist, Seven Deadly Sins, Arrowverse, Transformers, Owl House, and literally so many others that I haven't actually published...)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Alright, we got:

—5. Demon Tales [Fairy Tail] - 762 —4. The Eighth Tower [Fairy Tail] - 914 —3. Sparks in the Night [Genshin Impact] - 1,066 —2. Pain Comes in Many Forms (and so does Comfort): Whumptober 2021 [Genshin Impact] - 1,121 —1. Of Dragons and Fairies [Fairy Tail] - 1,405

(So I guess, to no one's surprise, it's mainly HTRYDS but I will say I continue to be baffled by Sparks in the Knight, that random twoshot I wrote in two days XD)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! I love responding to comments, both because it's fun and I love to let people know that I totally did read and enjoy their comment. (And I've even been able to just chat with people this way, beyond the scope of the fic itself, which is a fun little community feature I do enjoy as well.) If there's a comment I haven't replied to, it's probably because somehow it was marked as read and therefore I forgot to go back and respond.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmmm that is a tough one. I do tend to want to end things on a lighter note, despite the amount of whump I write... Maybe Mortal Instinct, actually, since I pull a bit of a (self-perceived) fate-worse-than-death bit. Though solely by audience reaction I guess it's Coming Home since I left it on a purposeful note of suspense, eheh.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oh geez, um... I think a lot of them?? Have very happy endings?? Uhhh maybe I'll just say Of Dragons and Fairies, then, because it's meant to be very hopeful and family-shaped, with that bright future ahead.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No not really, actually. I have had a very good experience, especially on AO3.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Ha. No. (Guys I'm so aroace I barely write romance I will probably never write smut XD)

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Yes actually! Not many that are finished/posted, but boy I actually love them a lot. (Many live in my head in amorphous form to be honest.) Most are AUs, so like the world of X with the characters of Y, but for straight-up crossovers, I think the craziest is The A.I.D. Files which is a co-project with @therosefrontier where we have a longstanding universe where we combine literally everything into a multi-sectioned multiverse, and the story focuses on an agency that is comprised of people from all manner of universes, leading to a team that includes Tech E. Coyote, Dani Phantom, Iggy (from Maximum Ride), Jim Hawkins, Numbah 5, and more. That said, there's not any present plans to continue it even though it lives on in our heads XD

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of...

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

There is one! (That I know of, lol.) Sparks in the Night was translated (into a paraphrased version, at least) into German, which can be found here.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yup. With my sister, over the years. Not really a direct one on AO3 though. (Just a shared storyverse or series there.)

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Uhhhh I am not really a shipper at all, so I don't really have a hill I will die on, even though I do have ships I enjoy.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I hold onto the delusional hope that I will go back and finish all of my wips one day because I haven't abandoned them in my heart, but, I doubt I will finish United because it was a largely original world and I have been scheming for a way to make it an original work altogether, so when I revisit it, it will probably be for that.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Um. I like to think I do good character voice/inner monologue. Strength of tone and syntax and all that.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Fight scenes pain me and I also am not great at scenic/setting descriptions, mostly because I forget.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

In most cases I think there are better ways to go about it, but it has its place. Especially if the POV character doesn't know it and is trying to learn or pick up words. (Essentially it boils down to making sure the experience is understandable and authentic to the reader's promised language, otherwise it is just a surprise obstacle/gate, like expecting a reader to understand excessive medical jargon in order to know what is happening. If the language is meant to be understood by the pov character, and therefore the audience, then I feel it's best to offer a direct translation in some way.)

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Sonic the Hedgehog. In a place. That I will not name because I was very young. But it was Sonic the Hedgehog...

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Oh geez um picking favorites is hard. The How to Raise Your Dragon Slayers series as a whole is obviously my baby and I am very biased towards it, but one of my favorite pieces might actually be a FMA/MHA au oneshot that I lost in a harddrive crash and I am haunted by it because I wrote it in a frenzy of inspiration and honestly I think it slapped. XD

-

Okay so let's see which victims to tag... (Though obviously there's no pressure to do this lol): @therosefrontier, @forwantofacalling, @breezy-cheezy, @ljf613, @xxthe-hidden-spyxx, and whoever else wants to do it

[whump-captain]

- Day 21 -

Prompt: “Please”

---

@crash-bump-bring-the-whump​ i believe u said u wanted to see Ethan begging? here he is begging (◡‿◡)

this is probably longer than it needs to be but i had lots of fun writing the dialogue for once lol

---

CN: restraints, broken bone (pre-established), interrogation, strangling, torture, cutting, scalpels, hair grabbing, tape gag, bag over head

---

Ethan gasped when the bag was ripped off of his head. The light, though dim, was enough to make him wince after what felt like hours in the dark. He blinked quickly, trying to force the world back into focus.

The first thing he felt clearly was a grip of rope around his arms. His stomach sank. He lurched forward and the chair scraped on the bare floor. Pain shot through his arm, dispelling the haze completely. On instinct, he raised his right hand to shield himself and froze in surprise when he succeeded.

He was only tied to the back of the chair, not the armrests. The rope went around one of his biceps, then behind his back, and then around the other. It wrenched his shoulders back uncomfortably but still, a wave of nauseating relief washed over him. They didn’t tie down his broken arm.

A shadow fell on him and drew his gaze up. Ethan shuddered when Linde gave him a tight-lipped, professional smile.

“Good morning, Ethan,” Linde said. His voice was smooth and amiable but in his eyes was a glint of something cold and dangerous, like frostbite creeping through dying tissue. Circling the chair, he nodded his head towards Ethan’s arm. “I’ve done you a favour, as you can see. I’m hoping we can have a constructive conversation.”

Anger lit up in Ethan’s chest and made his face flush. How dare this man say that to him? After barely letting him speak the last time, after causing him so much pain?

“Me, too,” he hissed.

“Constructive and honest,” Linde added. “Lying only wastes both of our time.”

“Yeah.” Ethan’s voice shook like the rest of him. But behind the cracked lenses of his glasses, his gaze was hard. “But you’re the one who’s lying.”

Linde stopped his pacing. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t really believe I’m a spy. If you did, you’d turn me over to someone, or you’d- you’d kill me.” Ethan barely managed to get those words out. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Linde regarded him, his face unreadable. Ethan fought to keep his breathing even, hating how clear it was that he was afraid. He set his jaw tight and met the other man’s eye defiantly.

Finally, Linde turned. He tapped his fingers together behind his back, falling back into his slow prowl. 

“You’re perceptive,” he said. His small smile almost looked satisfied. “No, I don’t believe you’re a threat. If I did, you’re right, I would eliminate you.” He took a step forward and Ethan flinched. “But I see through you. You think that you’re above the consequences of what you do. You’re arrogant.”

“What?”

“You really thought you could infiltrate one of the most secure places in North America. You thought you could just… Walk in. And lie your way out of it.” Linde sounded almost offended. He lifted his chin slightly. “It’s about the principle of things. If I allowed something this brazen to go unaddressed, what kind of officer would that make me? Hm? If I didn’t find out the truth before turning you in?”

He leaned in close and all air seemed to leave the room. His shadow on Ethan’s face blacked out reality and pulled Ethan back through time, into the memory of agony.

“You’re wrong,” he managed through gritted teeth. “I didn’t infiltrate anything, you brought me here!” His voice rose and then cracked as his throat constricted. “You’re the one who’s arrogant because you refuse to listen to anything I say! I told you the truth, you’re just too stubborn to realise it.”

“Brazen,” Linde repeated. He seemed to savour the word. “I told you, I can see right through you. No matter how well you lie.”

He drifted to the other side of the room, where shadows outlined the shape of a table. Even though the distance between them grew, Ethan’s heart beat even faster now.

“Why do you need me to say anything, then?” he asked. He dug his fingers into the armrest to hide their trembling. “You made up your mind, you’re happy with your story, just turn me in, then. Let me talk to someone above you.”

“Like I said.” Linde ran his hand along the table’s surface and something clinked. “Principle. I don’t just want the truth. I want it from you.” 

The sudden force of his stare made Ethan recoil. Something cold crystallised in the air between them. He recognized the cold in Linde’s eyes and it made a hollow pit open in his stomach.

“Let’s start simple,” the captain said, taking a leisurely step forward. His hands were behind his back again. “How did you get to this island, Ethan?”

“On a boat.” Even the short sentence made Ethan’s breath come heavy. “It’s on the eastern shore, you can check.”

“Good. Now, how did you know where to find this island?”

“I- I followed a radar.” No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his breathing even. “There was an anomaly registered by a weather station on the mainland and- I followed that. It didn’t lead to the island but the- the area around it. I- I didn’t know it was here. I almost crashed.”

Linde lowered his head and gave a quiet sigh. ”Weather station,” he repeated, almost amused.

“Yes! You can call them, they’ll tell you what time I left, which boat I took out, it’s all on the record.”

“You’re very thorough.”

“And you’re not!” The chair scraped forward with the force of Ethan’s shout. “Because you refuse to do the bare minimum to verify your claims and find-”

Linde seized his throat. The impact strangled Ethan’s words and pushed his head backwards.

“I was honest with you,” Linde said quietly. “Civil. And in return, you don’t just lie to me, you start insulting me.” His grip tightened. “I thought you were a smart man, Ethan, don’t make me change my mind.” 

Ethan couldn’t struggle. The rope held him fast, Linde’s fingers dug into his skin. With every torturous second, his lungs compressed, fighting, until it felt like they were on fire. His mouth moved soundlessly around smothered cries. Burning white danced in his vision, blurring everything into a cacophony of melting colours. A horrible buzz filled his ears - his own rushing blood. He barely heard Linde’s words:

“Let’s move on.”

Ethan strained pointlessly, he couldn’t reach the hand choking him. His fingers clawed at the air. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t breathe. 

Linde spoke loud and his voice ripped through the static in Ethan’s head: “You think I’m wasting time, let’s cut straight to the chase. Who sent you here? And choose your answer very carefully because, believe me.” He leaned in closer and squeezed Ethan’s throat, fingers like iron bars. “My patience is running thin.”

Then he released him. Ethan choked on a gasp and immediately convulsed in a coughing fit. Air forced itself back into his body and every breath made his chest feel like it would burst. He couldn’t stop his voice escaping, he wheezed and groaned with every involuntary, fitful exhale. Linde stood motionless, watching him. Waiting. 

“I wasn’t- sent here,” Ethan choked out finally. His throat burned, the pain of the forming bruises enclosed his windpipe and made every word hurt. “I’m not here for- whatever this place is. It’s the truth.” It wasn’t a shout anymore, but a plea. He fought for breath, fought to stay afloat in his own battered body. 

Footsteps made him look up. Linde’s silhouette doubled and swayed before him, turning back towards the table. When he came into focus, he was holding a scalpel.

 “Wait.” Ethan’s voice cracked. “You- you don’t have to-” he stammered. “Please, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Linde grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head sideways. “I thought it was simple.” He brought the scalpel close to Ethan’s neck. “I want you to tell me who sent you.”

“I was- I’m- I-” The metal reflected in Ethan’s wide eyes. He was shaking so much his glasses slipped down his nose. “The- Th- The CIA! Fine? The CIA sent me, you don’t have to- Please, don’t do this, I’m-”

“Now you’re just making things up,” Linde said.

He sliced down, across Ethan’s clavicle. The blade parted fabric, skin, and muscle like paper. Ethan screamed, his body twisting with tension. Linde pulled his head back by the hair and cut open his shirt, exposing the deep wound. 

“That’s the first,” he said. He sank the scalpel into Ethan’s shoulder and dragged it slowly down. Metal scraped against bone. Pain burned through Ethan’s mind, forced a ragged, stuttering howl out of him. His breathless groans almost drowned out Linde’s ice cold voice when he finished:

“And that’s the second lie you’ve told me.” He tilted the scalpel and more blood poured out of the widened cut. “Are you still with me?” He brought his face close to Ethan’s. “Is this a waste of time?”

“Stop,” Ethan gasped. “Please. This is all- a mistake.” His breath hitched, words fragmented into high-pitched, desperate noises of pain. Linde’s eyes shone like a snowstorm.

“I’m losing my patience.”

The next cut was diagonal, crossing over the already damaged skin. Ethan’s scream rose and then faltered, he convulsed in the restraints. The blade tilted again and ran slowly just under the skin, slicing it away from muscle - one side, then the next. Lines of living fire spilled through Ethan’s body, one after the other, emerging with each new stream of thick blood pouring out. He could only sob now, his throat raw and lungs empty. He had no time to breathe between the cuts.

“Tell me.” Linde’s voice was no more than a hiss. “Anything.”

Ethan could barely see. The pain blurred everything into a red haze.

“Please,” he whispered.

The grip on his hair tightened. The added tension made him groan as the scored skin shifted. Then it disappeared and his head lolled forward. The room spun. Footsteps mixed with the pounding of Ethan’s heart in his ears.

Something made a loud scraping noise and then Linde said: “I’ll let you think about it.”

He pressed a strip of tape over Ethan’s mouth. Ethan wheezed desperately, his breath hitching against the barrier. Another cry died in his throat and only made it out as a muffled whimper. 

Then Linde put the bag over his head again. He said: “This can come off when you’re ready for a constructive conversation.”

When the next incision came, Ethan couldn’t even brace for it.

[redd956]

Prompt 22

Content: Whump Prompt, Nonhuman Caretaker, Environmental Whump, Cold Whump,

CW: Whump, Hypothermia, Touch Starvation

Caretaker despised the snow. Most assumed to a fire elemental the threat of water was highest during recent rains. However it was snow, because their high body temperatures melted the snow around them, creating dangerous puddles of slush and mud.

So every winter Caretaker bundled up in as many layers as possible to prevent water from soaking through. They dragged their heavy boots through the snow. No matter how much they hated it, they couldn’t help but admire the beauty of undisturbed blankets of it. It was even easier for Caretaker to do, since they lived far away from bustling society. Humans aren’t too keen of them after all.

To be honest Caretaker had been growing increasingly jealous of humans. They wanted to able to uphold all sorts of natural beauties without their fiery touch, or excessive needs getting in their way. Winter brought this home the most. Caretaker wondered what snow felt like. They fantasized picking up clumps of it, and moving it around with their fingers.

Staring at their surroundings their eyes located something that didn’t match. Shivering and coiled upon itself, a human had collapsed within a snowy ditch. They clumsily rubbed their numb hands together. The human’s face was so cold that half of it changed into a rosier shade. Their eyes flickered open and closed. They could barely keep them open. They were not shivering.

Caretaker’s boots came into their view. But their eyes didn’t widen, and they barely reacted. They only shifted their glanced upwards for a moment, before letting it fall back down to the ground.

Caretaker at glared at the shivering human. They knew that the “thing” would have nothing good to say to them. However the glare quickly faded when they thought about the situation at hand more. Humans aren’t meant for the cold. They wondered how if they left them behind probably no one would come by to save them. Why was a human even out this far?

“Hey?”, Caretaker prodded

The human let out a weak groan as a response. It only worried Caretaker further. They continued, “Are you alone?”

“Dor....”, Caretaker leaned in to hear the human speak, “Di...Dirty Ele...ment....al...”

Caretaker shook their head. They made to leave, but their inner empath couldn’t help it. Before they knew it they were slipping their arms underneath the human. 

The human shuddered and hissed at the elemental’s touch. Thrown straight into a bridal carry though, they couldn’t help but latch onto Caretaker for warmth. They turned their face away from the cold, burying their nose, nuzzling it into Caretaker’s layers of clothing. The warmth felt golden. It’s inhuman nature was more than noticeable, but it was bringing their freezing skin back to life.

The human skirted their own arm over Caretaker’s shoulder, and clung onto the clothing of their back.  They wanted to melt into Caretaker, because they failed to realize it wasn’t just warmth they were dying for, but touch. The human had just escaped from captivity, and ran into the wilderness before anyone else came after them. They rathered the threat of death far over returning.

Caretaker didn’t care for the human’s dramatic response. They did allow them to inch as close as possible, feeling the human’s head rub against their chest. They then headed back towards their home, hoping that the human will be thankful when they snap out of it.

[chill-mcyt-art-reblogs]

Phil: 1, 6, 9, 13, and 19

Techno: 5, 17, 20, and 32

Wilbur: 2, 5, 12, 19, and 29

Philza:

1. Canon I outright reject

I... don't think there is anything I outright reject. I mean, if the emduo betrayal had ended up happened, I'd reject that. But that didn't happen. So I guess this is a rare instance of we're all good.

6. Worst personality trait

what are we even talking about he is literally the Perfect Man. having said that him and his entire bloodline could learn to communicate. Not that I'm complaining too much. After all, most of my Phil whump projects rely on Angst and No Communication

9. Scene that first made me love (or hate) the character

Gonna be honest, it was the birb-ness that first drew me in. And after that I lingered a little while on the "he's okay, I guess" area before falling hard and fast into favorite character territory. I honestly don't know when the shift was made tho, maybe after just seeing more of him?

13. Dumbest thing they’ve ever done

probably has semi-intentionally cut off an extremity before as a result of sheer curiosity.

19. Vices/bad habits

I mean, this man has plenty. in the seen canon we know this man does not deal with Anything. Master of repression. Also the whole food thing. If we carry over from the OSMP then we get the gapple thing. If we carry over from Birbness then he probably has self-maiming issues when under enough stress. I could go on.

Technoblade:

5. Best personality trait

He's a Cat Dad but for All the Animals.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them

Through the Valley by Shawn James. If you haven't heard it, go look it up right now. And, of course, the usual things, Voices (the song), the word "orphan." Will never forget that Technoblade Never Dies

20. Scars

I, like most of the fandom, headcanon the face scars that I *think* were popularized by WolfytheWitch. But actually I'm not the hugest fan of the "golden scars on his head from the Butcher Army thing" trope. Idk why. I also generally hc that this man barely has an inch of untouched skin left after all the years. I tend to mix and match when writing for whatever is relevant.

32. Something guaranteed to make them smile/laugh

The Baby Animals part of Spring. Camping out in a field with newborn lambs is form of self-care i don't make the rules.

Wilbur Soot:

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on

When Wilbur said he was a "teen parent" he was talking about Tommy and Tubbo, and not Fundy. I have a whole thing about this but basically Wilbur has been looking out for clingyduo since they were young children

5. Best personality trait

He definitely cares. A bit too much oftentimes, a somtimes a bit too far, but at least he does care.

12. Crack headcanon

Godly powers/abilities/outward appearance/etc. skips a generation. Wilbur is as Normal as it gets. EXCEPT. if you put his dna under as microscope you wouldn't be able to identify that you even were looking at anything. Man doesn't have anything humans in his genetic code.

19. Vices/bad habits

This man is the embodiment of a bad habit. He probably has all of them. He smokes. He probably has done drugs habitually. He picks his skin. He bites his fingernails. He doesn't keep track of health or hygiene. he can't communicate. He's a habitual lier. I can go on.

29. Eating habits

not healthy in anyway. He just eats whatever's around. He's had scurvy at least three times.

[itty-bitty-mess]

Hi Uhm over never asked before sorry if your request aren’t open I was wondering if you could do a laima or Pygmy bitty bones torture fic where the bitty has eggs and the owner smashes them or something sad sorry this is my first time asking it’s okay if you don’t wanna do this

Hii!! Hello, sorry for taking so long I tend to abandon this blog a lot as I usually only post when I have content ideas haha! Also yeah I’m open to suggestions and requests!! Thanks for the request, I may have gone a bit overboard and it ended up extremely long, though.

Also I apologize for any bad English. Enjoy!

TW: BITTYBONES / LAMIA AB//USE, BITTY WHUMP, BITTY T*RT//URE

Your little Pygmy “Blue” had been acting a little strange lately and you couldn’t figure out why. He had started to eat more than usual as he screeched constantly for more food and demanded double dessert, he started to pile things up in his little cage and also managed to steal a couple of your own items to add to said piles. He had also gotten a bit more snappy and aggressive with your other lamias, especially with your poor little Papython “Papy” who was only politely asking him if everything was okay.

This wasn’t like Blue’s normal behavior as he was usually sweet and friendly, albeit a little egocentric and self-centered. It wasn’t until you noticed the little and very faint hearts in his belly that your realized what was going on: he was pregnant…

Who was the father? You didn’t know and honestly with the initial panic of lamia pregnancy you didn’t really have much energy to think about that. None of your lamias seemed to be romantically interested in one another, specially not in Blue. It was probably a random lamia at the Bitty Daycare that had played with Blue a little too much and now you were the one facing the consequences of it all. You made a mental note to stop leaving your lamias there, just to make sure.

Honestly, you weren’t sure about all of this. You barely managed to support yourself and your lamias as it was, if a whole brood of baby lamias was on the way the only thing you could be able to do is sell them or give them away. That, and also the fact that they would most likely be all pygmys and, to be completely honest, you could barely stand Blue’s loud personality as it was, an entire brood of them sounded like an absolute nightmare that would probably make you snap. However, the only thing you could do at the moment was try to stand Blue’s weird personality until he laid his eggs. The quicker the eggs were laid, the quicker they would be gone and the quicker things would go back to normal.

But as time passed, things just kept escalating. Blue started to steal from the other lamias’ food, he started hoarding toys and clothes, his cage now looked like a pigpen, etc. He even started stealing important work papers and even your own clothes for his “nest”. You were starting to lose you patience but you had to keep cool, a lamia needs a relaxed environment to be able to lay its eggs, so all you could do was suck it up.

Things just got worse from there, Blue kept wanting all the attention for himself, his cries and demands for food became loud and irritating screeches, he started leaving his waste in the other lamias’ cages and he started to rip up your favorite clothes, “for your scent!” he said once as you confronted him. He just became brattier and brattier every day, but it would all be worth it as he seemed extremely close to laying his eggs at any moment.

It wasn’t until you came back one day after work to find your beloved Papy hurt in the ground, cut off tail bleeding dust while Blue screeched and hissed at him to “stay away from his eggs”, that you realized this had gone too far. You grabbed Papy and took him to the Lamia Clinic hoping he would be okay.

Sadly, it wasn’t the case, you didn’t even make it halfway to the clinic when Papy muttered his last words to you: “I’m sorry human, please take care of my Blue and our little ones for me, okay?…” he said with a sweet smile, tears streaming down his face and then his whole body crumbled to dust. Your whole world stopped and you felt like you couldn’t breathe as you cradled the pile of dust in your hands and painful tears slipped from your eyes. Papy had been the first lamia you had adopted when you were in a bad place in life, he was the small ray of light during the storm and now… he was gone….

When you got home, the house felt empty. Sure, Blue and the other lamias were still around but it wasn’t the same without Papy. Your grieving was quickly interrupted by your Honey Bo who was tugging at your sleeve and then informed you that Blue seemed close to laying his eggs.

“Blue…” you muttered with venom in your mouth. The little bastard was the reason Papy was gone. You had given Blue so much and he had been so grateful and caring to you and the other lamias but this pregnancy had turned him into something else, into a disgusting murderer and you had only one thing in mind as you approached Blue’s cage: you would make him pay for everything.

As you approached the cage you could see the little pygmy acting frantically, as if he didn’t know how giving birth worked or what he was supposed to do. He seemed scared and anxious, at any other moment in life that would’ve tugged at your heart and you would’ve tried to soothe him as best as you could, but now? Oh, you had so much planned for this bastard.

You fakely cooed and hushed at him as you tried to gently carry him from his cage to a cardboard box you had prepared for the occasion. You laid poor anxious Blue on the blanketed floor of the box and rubbed his belly gently. He seemed to calm down and he looked at you with genuine trust in his heart. You could see the first egg was on its way and, as it was making its way out, you started applying light pressure on the pygmy’s belly.

At first, Blue didn’t seem to mind and thought you were helping him. But then you continued to apply more and more pressure which was starting to distress the lamia, but he kept quiet trying to concentrate. After a long two hours of doing the same thing, the batch of eggs came out finally.

Blue seemed relieved and quickly made his way to his eggs, cuddling them and looking proud of himself. You fakely smiled at him, trying to hide the burning rage and hatred within you. You grabbed Blue him back by the tail. As he hissed at you, you shut him up with a loud yell. He was immediately taken aback but stood still as you pressed on his tail to keep him from moving.

You got close to the annoying little pygmy and whispered in his ear the question “where is the father, Blue?” and Blue froze in place. Its like the thing hadn’t even worried about whether Papy was okay or not, like he hadn’t thought of the fact that HE had fatally hurt his eggs’ father. He froze in place and didn’t say anything. And then he reached his arms out to you asking for his eggs with an annoying little “mweh?”, as if he was a toddler saying “up, up” and not a grown adult lamia that had killed his own mate.

You snapped. You dragged the thing even further behind and then brought out some tape form a nearby shelf. You taped his body to the cardboard floor and left him completely immobile. He was in an ironic reaching distance of his eggs but couldn’t move. Then you started the fun. You grabbed one egg and dangled it over his head as he screeched in fear, he didn’t want you accidentally dropping it.

Unfortunate for him that was exactly the plan. You dropped the egg to the floor and the little skeleton silhouette inside of it immediately disappeared as it cracked and the whole thing turned to dust. Then you yelled at him “PAPY IS DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT”.

He froze, tears streamed down his face at everything that was happening: his owner has yelling and cursing at him, his “mate” was dead because of him, and his egg- HIS EGG??? HIS EGG HAD BEEN CRUSHED??. He screamed and cried, trying to free one of his arms as if that would do anything to fix the broken egg.

You smiled sadistically and grabbed another egg, this time however you grabbed the tied up pygmy as well and brought both to the kitchen. You laid him down as he was taped to the piece of cardboard and could only watch as you laid the egg inside the blender. He panicked again, he screamed and cried begging for mercy and forgiveness with that stupid, squeaky voice of his. You turned the blender on and the little heart inside the egg shattered as the egg turned to dust.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! PLEASE STOP IM SORRY IM SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN IT IM SORRY DON’T HURT MY BABIES PLEASE IM SORRY” he screeched and begged as you grabbed the egg dust and shoved it down his throat. You forced him to swallow, threatening that another egg would be broken if he didn’t and he did, thinking it was finally over. But it wasn’t.

You took another egg and pushed it close to Blue, he rubbed his cheek over it protectively trying to cover it with his scent. Except then you dropped your fist over it and just like that another one of Blue’s babies was gone. He screamed again. You grabbed another egg and dropped it in the pot of boiling water you had already prepared for all of this.

He screamed and frantically tried to free himself, thinking maybe he could save this one. The little skeleton silhouette inside of the translucent egg looked almost identical to Blue, the little baby looked like it started to cry as if he was asking Blue why he had done this. The baby’s heart shattered and the baby itself started to melt inside his egg in an extremely painful and gruesome manner as almost inaudible cries could be heard from within the egg.

Blue let out a blood curdling scream as he watched his eggs get murdered. But you didn’t care, you hated the stupid thing and anything associated to it, you wanted it all gone. You kept on grabbing more and more eggs as you smashed and broke them in different creative ways. You threw them against the wall, you force-fed them to Blue, crushed them in your hand and occasionally let Blue get close to his eggs, only to rip the away from him and crushing them in your hands.

Blue couldn’t take it, he begged and screamed and tried to do anything he could to save his babies but failed pathetically each time. Once you were done with the fun no more eggs were left and you smiled sadistically, satisfied with your work. Only one last thing was left: Blue.

The pygmy was destroyed emotionally beyond recognition, he started shaking once again as you approached him and grabbed him with such brute force that it was a miracle you only broke a couple of ribs. You finally removed his from the cardboard but kept him tied up in tape, couldn’t risk him attacking you when you were having so much fun. You tossed him back into his cage, which was now empty of all the “nests” he had made and the luxuries you had given him. You stripped him from his fancy clothes and took his favorite bandana and ripped it to pieces as he cried for you to stop.

You then closed the door to his cage, grabbed the whole thing and started shaking it like your life depended on it. Louds squeaks, screams, cries and begs were heard but they fell on deaf ears. You were pretty sure the pygmy’s tail, and the rest of his ribs were now broken as you heard the crunching of bones each time he hit a wall of the cage. Good.

This was it; you were almost done with this stupid, worthless thing once and for all. You dropped the cage to the floor as you heard a loud thud where Blue had a really painful landing. Then you pulled out your most recent purchase: “Lamia-B-Gone Spray” an extremely effective poison spray for lamias you had gotten in case a stray lamia made its way into your home.

You opened the cage door just a little and pressed your finger hard over the spray cap and let the poison cover every inch of Blue’s enclosure. Loud coughing echoed around the room with loud cries for mercy mixed in as well.

“This is what you fucking deserve, you worthless piece of shit” You said in a loud voice, making sure Blue knew how much you hated him now and how much you wanted him gone once and for all. You kept spraying non stop until the bottle was empty and until Blue’s cries faded out. You pressed your ear against the cage, making sure Blue wasn’t breathing anymore. You opened the cage and you saw Blue’s dying body on the left corner, his tail and left arm quickly turning into dust.

With the little force he had left he begged for mercy once again and cried for you to help him. You smiled and tilted the cage down so he would fall directly on the hard concrete floor. He looked at you with pleading eyes as his body was shutting down and his right arm turned to dust as well. You spat on his face and, without giving him the privilege of a final word, you stomped on him with full force. You stomped on him at least 12 times just to make sure he was dead, and he was. In fact the only thing left of him was his dusty remains.

You quickly broomed the dust, threw it in the trash where it belonged and finally sat down on your couch with a satisfied and fulfilled smile on your face. Sure, this was far form what Papy had wanted, but it had been the right thing to do and now you were at peace with your remaining lamias who would behave unless they wanted the same fate as Blue.

[miserablelittleguythrowdown]

listen. your blorbo is a pathetic wet mop man. rincewind is *the* pathetic wet mop man. the one from which all others originate. and since he was created in 1983 he might actually have a somewhat legitimate chronological claim to that title. (probably not but it’s worth mentioning that’s he’s been around for Awhile.)

he’s a wizard with less magical potential than even non-wizards to the point that it’s explicitly stated that when he dies the total average magical potential of humanity will go *up*. if you poked him a bit hard he would dissolve into dust. he has some blood in his stresshormonestream. he’s dyslexic. he can’t spell. he’s a college dropout. screaming and running are his only skills. he is *literally* a cosmically load-bearing luck sink who’s purpose is to experience all the bad luck that doesn’t happen to everyone else. he’s built like a dessicated pixie stick. that’s to start with. he only gets *more* absurdly haggard as the series goes on until other characters can *barely recognize him as human*. he is explicitly described as looking like a scarecrow. he collects trauma-induced neuroses like stamps commemmorating all the places he’s run for his life in until he becomes a barely-functional puddle of jibbering loose straw who’s highest aspiration is to die alone and unemployed bored out of his mind in a basement because that’s the only place no one can possibly try to kill him. he is quite possibly the one person in existence who would willingly enter, and actively prefer to be locked for eternity in, porky earthbound’s absolutely safe capsule, because it’s the only place in existence no one could get to him and once again he would rather be bored out of his mind than ever experience anything interesting ever again because being bored is the only time that things generally aren’t trying to forcibly recruit and/or kill him.

he knows some amount of more than 40 languages just in case he has to scream for mercy in them. he looks and acts like the physical embodiment of every single scene in hlvrai in which gordon is having some kind of breakdown over his companions (who he was saddled with unwillingly and can only attempt in vain to reign in, also much like rincewind is saddled with twoflower and his touristy obliviously suicidal idiocy) hypocritical murderhobo behavior. he’s-seemingly unknowingly-the chosen champion of the goddess of luck, which is NOT a good thing to be, because the goddess of luck is the kind of fanfic writer to express affection for her preferred blorbos by spamposting 400,000k whump fics with “i just like to make him suffer a little <3 haha it’s for character development i swear xoxox” in the tags and in every single chapter her beloved favorite almost-but never quite-dies in horrendous creative ways.

he has an actual honest-to-god canonical potato fetish, also developed, as you might have come to expect by now, from trauma (specifically trauma of being stranded on a desert island where potatoes couldn’t grow). he explicitly prefers potatoes *over* heterosexuality. he’s cornered by an amazon tribe that want his magic staff if you know what i mean and he completely fails to realize it because he’s too busy wondering if they’re going to give him potatoes. the last he’s mentioned in the discworld series is a notation that he’s currently accumulating meaningless titles that are being given to him by the university faculty with the explicit purpose that he not do or teach anything and is “researching the medicinal effects of certain herbs”, which can be very easily taken to mean “he’s locked up alone in his room doing ungodly amounts of weed all day so that he doesn’t die from a stress heart attack at the slightest unexpected noise like a particularly high-strung jerboa”. the only reason he doesn’t have every disease is because terry already used that one on another character, who is a talking dog. only four entities on the entire disc could even tentatively be said to like him and one of them is an orangutan who only likes him because he brings bananas, one of them was a 90 year old sword and sorcery barbarian who is now dead, one of them is a domesticated(maybe) d&d mimic with homicidal tendencies that is inherently incapable of disliking it’s owner, and the other is an astoundingly oblivious boneheaded tourist who likes literally everyone against all reason and logic and safety(and whom after a certain book he seemingly never has any contact with again), everyone else reacts to him like everyone reacts to raz in the first half of psychonauts 2, at best. every single other character hates the poor pathetic walking manifestation of the concept of stress, who just wants to go home and eat potatoes in peace and stop randomly getting thrown into places where everyone wants to point sharp things at him.

he’s saved the world multiple times and every single one has been entirely by accident while running away from something horrible and very much against his will (the him being the one to do it part, not the “world not being destroyed” part, he rather likes that bit). he’s so traumatized that it just loops back around to being sarcastic. while still also having a nervous breakdown every five minutes. ever been so stressed and so tired of having panic attacks that you’re sarcastic and dead inside while having a panic attack? rincewind is if that was a person. and all of his deadpan expectation of imminent terrible fate is completely justifiable because it does in fact keep happening. by the end of his “adventures” he’s become the unholy cross between marvin hitchhikersguide, guy from galaxy quest, and that covidpost about the kid resignedly saying “when are the tigers coming”. he’s also kinda got bruno madrigal vibes ngl but like, way more exaggeratedly utterly soppingly absurdly pathetic (and significantly younger, like college age at the start), like genuinely “he was forced to eat cement when he was 5″ pathetic. he doesn’t have a first name and his mother ran away *before* he was born. both of these things are also, not jokes, and are explicitly genuinely canon. and are never, ever explained. even other people in-universe are confused. nothing good ever happens to this man and that is a fact that is cosmically enforced by the actual quantum mechanics of the discworld universe and is seemingly on some level necessary for certain parts of the disc and history to function.

he's pathologically incapable of refraining from sarcasm. he has on at least a few occasions (badly) pretended to do magic and then kicked someone in the nuts and run while they were confused. he got banished outside of reality and chased screaming through dimensions of eldritch darkness by lovecraftian horrors for an unclear unspecified amount of time. he was accidentally summoned as a demon by a whiny kid. he’s been to the beginning and end of time. he went through a dante’s inferno parody. several key events in the universe’s history either required or involved his presence for literally no reason other than that he had the bad luck to be there coincidentally anyway. he met a god who was a talking kangaroo with the exact stereotypical accent you would expect. he was some sort of prophecized hero of and was offered to be the archmage of at least two different continents he wound up (suffering) on entirely by accident and both times rightfully took it as a sign to get the hell out of dodge because fate was about to hit him with an asteroid strike again. even when he's having a good time he's absolutely miserable he knows something horrible is about to happen because that's how his life has worked for so long because the gods are LITERALLY conspiring against him. his lifetimer hourglass is so warped from all of his repeat near-death experiences (”resembling something made by a glassblower with hiccups and a time machine, in which sand was often flowing sideways and even up”) that death himself now has literally no idea when rincewind is actually going to die, and keeps said lifetimer hourglass on his desk as a conversation piece. his weapon of choice is a half brick in a sock. he invented vegemite. he was involved in the accidental creation of real life earth, which from what i remember he keeps on a shelf somewhere because no one else wanted to deal with being responsible for it so they just made it his job to put it somewhere and gave him another meaningless title to be “in charge” of to make sure he couldn’t say no to it. he volunteered to go to space on the disc’s first rocket-specifically because he *didn’t* want to go but knew if he didn’t volunteer fate would conspire to have him accidentally forced along by coincidence anyway-and when asked for a motto he gave them “we who are about to die don’t want to”. i swear i am not making a single part of this up.

he’s not just regular pathetic, he’s *supernaturally enforced* pathetic. there are portions of the universe that rely in some small way on him being just about the most pathetic man alive. the gods will Not Let Him Die until they are done chewing on him. i can easily imagine him holed up in his room, screaming in terror and clutching a broom like a lifeline ready to beat back anyone who seems like they might have another quest for him. and jumping out the closed second floor window to escape if that’s not enough. he’s the protagonist of arguably up to 11 books and at minimum 7 of them! and briefly appears as a minor character or is mentioned in the footnotes of a further 3! that’s probably nearly a decade or more of getting ceaselessly kicked around by everyone and quite literally everything!

probably the only reason the poor fuck isn’t suicidal at this point is out of some sort of survival instinct sunk cost fallacy.

in a “pathetic little guy” competition? i fully believe that in a universe where everyone voting was familiar with every character, rincewind would win no contest. him being the most pathetic unlucky man alive is all but explicitly stated as an actual canonical part of his home universe. people are only not voting for him cause they don’t know who he is

.

[albino-whumpee]

15 questions, 15 mutuals

thank you for the tag! @soheavyaburden

1. Are you named for anyone?: Yes and no. My aunt couldn´t have children so my mother named me after her expecting people would call me her name. But I was given my first name (because we do double names in my familiy) and nobody calls me my second, which is hers. Welp. 

2. When was the last time you cried?: Yesterday. TLoU chapter really hit into my sensitive ass. I hate one episode love stories, but I will allow it because it was cute. 

3. Do you have kids?: No. I don´t plan to and I will lie to get a doc to tie my tubes up if I need to. I once thought I wanted to adopt, but knowing my life plans, having a child is plain stupid.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?: Haha, have I ever not used sarcasm?

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people?: Size, face, smell, accent and feet position. Silly little trick, but if they´re not pointing their feet at you, they´re not interested in the conversation.   

6. What’s your eye color?: Brown. 

7. Scary movies or happy endings?: hmm, depends. It´s been a while since I watched a scary movie that actually scared me and didn´t make me laugh, but when I do find one that´s scary, I like it to end in what seems a better situation than the absolute worst. Gives me some adrenaline, yk? Happy endings are ok if done well. But alas, a happy ending to me heavily depends on the movie.  

8. Any special talents?: Blind writing. That was the only good class I had in middle school. Honestly that´s it, xD I don´t consider myself particularly talented in academic areas or physical ones. Sure I won some tournments, but man it was so long ago. 

9. Where were you born?: Mexico.

10. What are your hobbies?: Videogames and drawing. Also reading even if it´s hard this days. 

11. Have you any pets?: Valkyria and Sansa. They´re my babies. Black cats with weird personalities. They´re both adopted from the same adoption saturday ...market? ig? Anyways, I picked Valkyria when she was so thin she was barely more than bones. I thought she would die if I´m honest with you. She refused to eat if I didn´t shake her plate a bit, but she was playful, so we knew she was just starving. I was told she was wrapped in tape and dumped at the shelter and I took her because how dare call yourself a shelter and leave a cat in that state? 

Sansa came from another shelter, she was a baby from a foster mama that didn´t make it. She has her tail curled like a chamaleon at the tip, probably from some stupid asshole closing the kennel´s door on it and breaking it. No, she doesn´t need to have it amputated, she doesn´t feel pain and doesn´t interfere with her daily life.  

12. What sports do you play/have played?: A lot. I won a few athletism tournments that took me to the nationals (we lost), also won a few international trophies doing karate. I practiced figure skating and ballet for a bit and due my super elasticity, I could have been a good gymnast, but heh, no money.

I was at a handball tournment, but I never knew what I was doing lol. I wanted to play volleyball in middle school/high school but I got my knee injury and it made it too hard. I switched to swimming for a long time until I couldn´t afford it jsjsjs. If I had the chance, I would try archery. 

13. How tall are you?: 1.73 m. more less 5 ft 7. Wish I was taller ;v;

14. Favorite subject in school?: English. It was so easy sjsjjs. Or psychology. My school´s system allowed people being exempted from doing finals if your notes were high enough, so I strived to just do 1 or less exams and I almost made it. I never had to do math finals in high school, but I actually exempted psychology earlier than everyone because I did double the lab exercises. 

15. Dream job?: Concept artist. By now I know Im not made for it nor I can actually be one, but well. I can dream. 

tagging: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @sideblogformindtrash @milk-carton-whump @nightfrostshadow @louptheloop @endless-whump  @turn-the-tables-on-them @eatyourdamnpears @deluxewhump

idk if i have 15 mutuals lmao also no pressure!

[herzblutballade]

Whumpuary Day 10: Hidden Injury / Blood / Recovery

Language: English Genre: an attempt at whump I guess (the last one is pretty much fluffy tho, I am obviously not good at sticking to my initial plans lmao) Character: my OC Cae (+ mentions of other OCs of mine and two of my friend Soph's OCs)

CN:

[1st drabble] blood, wounds, cuts, bite marks, abuse, manipulation, toxic family, mention of food, character struggling to eat

[2nd drabble] self-harm, cutting, blood, unhealthy relationship/dating habits, mention of food, character barely eating

[3rd drabble] flashback, kissing/hand holding/general intimate moment, mention of food, mention of blood

Author's Note: Gonna be honest, these are some purely self-indulgent snippets of my bby Cae having dinner with different people at very different points throughout his life (from abused youth, to young adult with unhealthy coping mechanisms, to somehow vaguely functioning person with a found family, I guess) and I'm not sure any of it means much to anyone except for me and @marmeltier lol. Also don't mind my weird habit of writing things in 2nd person singular even though they're not meant to address the reader, I know it's unusual, but I like it, so I will probably keep doing it. 🤙 Thought I'd share this anyway bc @whumpuary was the main inspiration. The other inspiration mentioned below is apparently a quote by Brynne Rebele-Henry, from »Autobiography of a Venus Figure« (according to a quick google search). These are 200, 300 and 400 words exactly btw. Enjoy <3

***

Blood didn’t faze me. I could slash myself open and still make it to dinner.

***

You’re sitting at a dinner table with the royal family — your family, technically. Your relatives. Most of them still don’t feel like family at all, even though you have been living with them for years at this point.

You’re trying your best to keep your act together and just eat, table manners and proper etiquette and all, but the food feels incredibly dry in your throat, you barely manage to choke any of it down, and all you can think about are the fresh wounds you’re hiding underneath your clothes: Swollen bite marks in various shades of blue and purple; deep red scab that sticks to fabric, feels like it tears and crumbles with every movement; messily sewn-up gashes that still burn every time you lean back in your chair.

Avien is smiling at you from across the table, and while it might seem innocuous to everyone else, to you, every silent smile of hers is a reminder so clear you can almost hear it in her voice, sending shivers down your spine: Smile for me, brother dearest. Smile through the pain.

You know what happens if you don’t.

So you do. You always do.

***

You’re sitting at a dinner table in your new favorite tavern with pretty girl number three in this city — a lovely girl, really, easy to get attached to, perfect to keep your heart so busy falling in love that you forget you should be falling apart.

You’re playing with your food more than eating it, completely focused on your date instead: Watching her closely, leaning towards her, listening attentively, with such interest it almost feels fake even though it isn’t. Every word from her lips is another chance to wipe your own thoughts away, every sentence a gracious break from the chaos in your head; every single thing she could ever say is better than what you silently say to yourself when it’s quiet. So, you listen. Pour all of your attention and dedication into another person, like you’re so used to doing.

She doesn’t know about the cuts that run all the way down your thigh. Completely unaware of the wounded flesh still trying to heal, she puts her hand on your leg as she throws her head back and laughs at a joke you made. You suppress a wince and smile instead, welcoming the burning sensation of her touch through the fabric of your trousers; it reminds you of the wave of peace that washed over you when you put the blade to your skin earlier that day, the moment of release you had craved so much you were willing to spill your blood for it. That memory alone is enough to make you feel a little bit less tense, a little bit more lighthearted.

Blood doesn’t faze you, and neither does pain. Not if it’s yours.

You just slashed yourself open and still made it to dinner, after all.

***

You’re sitting at a dinner table with the people you love — your dinner table, to be precise. You happily took on the task of cooking for the whole bunch, and now that everyone is full and satisfied — even those who don’t need regular food to survive, yourself included —, you get to lean back in your chair and watch your loved ones enjoy themselves. Everyone is there, except for the kids; they have been sleeping for a while already, so it’s up to the adults to fill the room with warm laughter and lively chatter now, and so far, your found family is doing an amazing job of that.

You watch Nayati and Alyssé clear the table, both so preoccupied with whatever they’re jokingly arguing about they seem to barely even notice they’re doing a chore nobody expected them to do. Cynthia, who has also been watching, throws you an amused smile across the room. You’re just about to smile back when suddenly, a flood of fractured memories takes over: Scenes, smells, sounds, sensations long gone, brought up again out of nowhere. None of the sequences last long enough for you to truly grasp; they pass you by so fast you’re left with nothing but the faint taste of blood and the feeling of a decades-old scream stuck in your throat.

You only realize you were starting to tense and stare off into nothing when Lynire’s voice right next to you brings you back to the present. »Are you okay?«, she asks as she gently squeezes your leg beneath the table.

»Yeah.« You nod and put your hand over hers while you take a moment to look around, remind yourself where you are: Home. You’re home, you’re safe, you’re surrounded by your loved ones. You’re okay. »Just realizing how lucky I am, that’s all.« You turn towards Lynire and press a kiss to her cheek. »Thanks for checking in, mi vida.«

Your eyes meet for a long moment, and when she seems satisfied with whatever she was looking for, convinced you told the truth, her lips curve into a soft smile.

Wordlessly, she interlaces her fingers with yours, hand still resting on your leg, and you can’t help but smile, too.

Honest words and honest smiles — that surely is a lot of luck for someone like you.

[susiequaz12]

Carrot Top 58- Worth It

Ahhh! It’s been so long since I’ve updated a chapter for this story. We last left off with Andrew starting his recovery from the second captivity with Splice. There’ll probably be only a few more chapters of the main story before I post just drabbles and snippets.  Chapter 57. Masterlist. 

CW: Recovery whump, talk about past injuries/torture, fever, hallucinations, blood tw, manhandling, some superpower whump, angst/fluff.

- - -

Micah woke and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he heard the stirrings and whimpering of the boy. He sat up from the chair he had slouched in in the guest room of Tusik’s house. It was his turn to stay through the night, they were all rotating, but to be honest, nobody was getting much sleep. 

It had been two days since the surgery, and Andrew had barely woken up for no longer than to try and get some solid food down, and to have his bandages changed. 

He couldn’t walk, couldn’t speak. Dr. Tusik had explained that his body had gone into a state of shock and recovery. Every unnecessary function was put on hold as he tried to get back to a better state of being. 

Andrew was whimpering now. 

Those were sometimes the only sounds he’d make- when he was too asleep to feel the pain in his throat from making the noise. 

Micah stepped near the bed, Andrew was squirming, his hands clenched in tight fists by his sides. He brushed the hair away from his face, and instantly knew what was wrong. 

His skin was drenched in sweat, and burning hot to the touch. Micah pulled one of the blankets away, and got a cold wet rag, and a thermometer. He cleaned the boy’s face gently before draping it across his forehead. 

Andrew’s lips parted easily and Micah was able to read the temperature on the little display screen. 101.3F. 

Yeah, it was a fever. 

In the dim light he could see Andrew’s eyes fluttering open and darting around. 

“Hey- hey handsome.” Micah smiled. 

Andrew’s face lightened at the sound of his voice and Micah relaxed for a little bit. He was always worried that mentally, Andrew wouldn’t be alright sometimes. There were times he’d wake up screaming, tearing at his throat, unable to understand where he was, or that he was safe. Or when he’d go back into that mindset Micah had found- of being obedient, submissive, trying to- to keep anyone from getting angry. 

Micah had always noticed when Andrew kind of ‘went off’, into his own little space. It had happened a few times before when they were first getting to know each other, but now it all made a lot more sense. 

He brushed a hand over Andrew’s, it was clenched into a tight fist.

“You’ve got a fever. I’ve got you though, it’ll be alright. Do you want to try and drink some water?” 

Andrew’s eyes glanced to the cup and straw sitting on the nightstand and after a second he nodded. 

Micah moved the cup to Andrew, pulling his hand up to support it with his own and helped navigate the straw into his mouth. 

It took a moment, and Andrew winced as he swallowed, but eventually was able to keep down some of the liquid.

“Tusik says if you’re feeling up to it, tomorrow we might be able to try some tea, or some broth. That’ll probably help your throat a little too.” 

Andrew nodded, his eyes darting off again for a moment before a shiver wracked through his body. 

“Do you want the blanket back? You were burning up a second ago, I didn’t want you to overheat.” 

He nodded, and Micah set the cup back down on the nightstand, pulling the blanket back over Andrew’s body. He leaned back into the pillows and Micah wiped the cool rag over his face once more. 

“Don’t worry, we won’t let this fever get any worse. I’ve got you.”

Over the next two days, the fever did nothing but get worse. 

It had tried to stay at 101.3, but eventually crawled his way between 102.9, and 103.4. 

Tusik had been giving him plenty of fluids and medicine, they were monitoring him steadily, trying to keep him cool, keep him company and comfortable, but the fever would only slow for a little bit before starting to climb again. 

Day five of the fever Andrew had woken up screaming.

His throat was so hoarse barely any sound came out, but you could hear the terror in his voice. 

Justin had been the one to take watch that day. 

He burst into the room to find Andrew huddled in the blankets on the bed, pointing to the side of the door Justin had just opened.

He glanced to the side- expecting to see, something- but there was just the empty wall. 

“Andrew you’re- you’re okay. There’s nothing there.” He took a step further into the room but Andrew flinched, jolting back into the headboard. 

His eyes followed some unknown shape until Andrew was filled with absolute terror.

-

Splice had been shot. Five times, apparently. 

But Andrew hadn’t seen the gunshots. He hadn’t seen the man die- there was just a body lying on the floor.

So it made sense why the man would be standing in front of him at the foot of his bed. It was perfectly reasonable for him to be back here with another method of torment. 

The man was bleeding. There were holes in his shoulder, his hip, chest, one in his leg and one in his arm. 

Blood was pooling from him down to the floor, it spread to a clone as he let one separate from his body. 

Andrew’s eyes played ping pong between the original Splice, and the clone. 

They had matching bullet wounds- but only that evil glint shone behind one pair of eyes. 

The two moved in tandem as Andrew’s heart began to race, he pulled himself further away, pressed tight against the headboard. 

A third- and then a fourth clone appeared slowly, and they began surrounding the bed. 

“Go away- please- I’m sorry-” his words were barely above a whisper- but they were there nonetheless.

The clones began to multiply- more and more until he couldn’t see the walls. There was just a swarm. 

Blood was getting everywhere. It soaked into the sheets and stained the carpets. 

The original Splice laughed, standing at the foot of the bed. He stalked closer before pulling Andrew away from the headboard and pinning his wrists together. He squirmed and wiggled to try and get away but there was nowhere he could move as Splice straddled his hips, holding him in place. 

Blood from the bullet wounds dripped down onto Andrew’s face, and he sputtered and coughed.

“Get off of me!” He tried to scream. He tried to kick, but he was stuck. Trapped. “Don’t! Leave me alone- please! Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry- don’t hurt me please-” 

Only a few of the words were audible above the rasp in his voice but he muttered the pleas nonetheless. 

More clones made their way onto the bed. They gripped his throat- pulled at his hair, held him down, as their blood pooled around him.

Andrew was drowning.

Andrew was thrashing around on the bed- yanking at his iv, throwing around the blankets, so Justin did what he thought was best. 

He didn’t care if there might have been a better approach, in his instinct, the priority was keeping Andrew from hurting himself. 

Justin climbed on top of the bed, and grabbed Andrew’s wrists as gently as he could. Though he was struggling and fighting, there wasn’t much strength behind any of it. He placed a knee on either side of Andrew’s chest, keeping his legs from thrashing about too much to protect his healing ankle. 

Holding both of his wrists in one hand, Justin brought them to the front of Andrew’s chest. His free hand brushed his hair away, tilting his face gently to look in his own. 

“Andrew you have to calm down or you will hurt yourself.” 

“Get off of me!” Andrew whined. It was an attempt at a scream- a pathetic try that made Justin’s heart hurt. “Don’t! Leave me alone, please- please-”

“Andrew you’re hallucinating. The fever is making you see things.”

“Don’t hurt me- please- please- I-”

Justin flinched back a little, trying not to let the words get to him. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you. Can you- Andrew- can you look at me?” 

He released the grip on his wrists once Andrew had calmed down, moving to cup his face in his hands instead, pulling his gaze away from his hallucinations. 

The two boy’s met eyes, Andrew’s hands falling onto Justin’s wrists. 

“Are you with me? You’re perfectly safe Andrew.” 

Andrew’s gaze was finally present. Eyes were red and filled with tears, but the hallucinations were gone. He nodded and Justin smiled, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Fever can do some weird shit to you, huh?” Justin stated. “Sorry about uh- about grabbing you like that. I- I didn’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself.” 

Andrew let out a small shrug, and glanced to the nightstand, motioning to his water. 

Justin helped him position the cup and drink through the straw before Andrew fell back on the pillow. He grabbed the cool rag that had fallen off and drew some water from around him- re-dampening it before draping it back across Andrew’s forehead. 

Justin moved to leave back out to the living room, but a small brush to his wrist turned him back. 

Andrew’s eyes darted to the chair at the side of the room, gesturing for Justin to stay. 

He nodded, and plopped himself into the armchair as Andrew drifted into another fever-induced sleep. 

-

At day 8 his temperature had subsided slightly, dropping back to 102, but he had started vomiting blood. 

It had happened after Micah had fed him some chicken broth. His stomach started churning, there were stabbing pains, and then it had splattered all over the bucket Micah had given him. 

Dr. Tusik hoped it would have just been from the strain and damage to his throat. But after seeing it he knew there was something bigger going on.

Two hours later Andrew had a nosebleed. And then three more throughout the rest of the day. 

They did everything they could for the next twenty-four hours to try and discover the reasoning behind all the bleeding. 

Andrew’s fever had subsided in the days prior, but now he was looking weaker than ever. If they didn’t figure out what was going on soon, things didn’t look like they’d turn out very well. 

“Do you think he could tell us?” Micah asked the doctor. “I know he’s on vocal rest, but he might be able to write it, or something. Couldn’t we get Ali here to, to read his mind?” 

Tusik chuckled. “You kids always want to use your powers for the simplest of things. Sometimes the old-fashioned way is the best solution.” Tusik held up a pad of paper and a pencil. 

Micah knelt next to Andrew’s bed. He looked almost as pale as when they had rescued him, and his hair hadn’t darkened at all, still staying at a pale blonde. He was more skin and bones then usual, and his eyes were red from tears. 

“Hey, how you doing handsome?” Micah asked. Andrew glanced away avoiding his eyes. “We might be able to figure out what’s going on. Tusik has a couple ideas.” Andrew’s face seemed to light up a little at the thought of getting better. “We’d just need a little more info on exactly what happened. You don’t have to go into detail, but whatever you say will be able to help us figure out what’s wrong.” 

Andrew thought for a moment- his eyes going off to that place he’d retreat to- before coming back, and giving Micah a slight nod. 

“Alright, do you think you can write some of it down?” Micah helped Andrew sit up a bit more, placing the pad of paper in his lap and helping him grip the pencil. 

Andrew’s hand shook as he held the pencil in front of the paper. He tried writing down the first word- but his grip wasn’t steady, and he couldn’t get a legible line down on the paper. He let the pencil fall with frustration and gently nudged it away. 

“That’s alright, we can try something else. If you’re up for it.” 

Micah grabbed his laptop from his bag in the armchair and opened up an empty word document. 

“This might be better. You just have to hit the buttons. You willing to try?” 

Andrew nodded. Micah retrieved the boy’s glasses from the nightstand, helping to adjust them on his face. Andrew blinked a few times, squinting to adjust to the brightness of the screen. 

“You can start from the beginning if that helps. Or, just tell the important bits.” 

Andrew nodded. The beginning. He’d just start from the beginning. 

Came here, beat me

Micah nodded- he had seen the welts and the bruises along his legs. He watched as Andrew carefully found each letter one at a time, his hand shaking, but focus etched onto his face as he planned the next thing to say.

Heli- he began to type.

“Helicopter?” Micah asked. Andrew nodded, finding the next letter in order to continue. His free hand subconsciously floated to his neck, a thin band of discoloration resting above a handful of smaller scars. 

Collar. Angry

“He got angry with you?” Micah asked for clarification. Andrew shook his head, mouthing a no, trying to figure out the best way to rephrase it. “Oh, he got you angry?” A nod. Micah glanced back at the screen, waiting for him to continue.

Fight. fall ankle he typed. 

“You guys got into a fight, you fell and that’s how you hurt your ankle. What about- about the other one?”

Micah watched as Andrew’s eyes got lost again. 

“Did he break it? You fell and hurt one and he- he broke the- broke the other one?” 

After a moment Andrew nodded, moving his gaze quickly back to the computer. 

system- chains

“System.” Micah whispered. “That’s the thing he had you all hooked up to when we got there? That was his system.” Micah clearly remembered the image of Andrew- strung up in all the chains and the metal cuffs- like some sort of medeival torture device. It seemed unnecessarily cruel. “What was it- what was it for?”

Dependence was the answer. 

Micah nodded, letting Andrew continue as much as he wanted to. He saw the shake in his hand rise as he tried to type out the next word. 

Hair- his hand fell against the keyboard. His eyes drooped. 

Micah’s hand reached up towards the side of Andrew’s head, hesitating for a moment to initiate the touch. Andrew sighed and leaned in, placing his head in the boy’s palm. He closed his eyes. 

Micah let his fingers comb through what remained of Andrew’s hair, rubbing gentle circles along his scalp. They hadn’t had a chance to cut it, or barely even wash it since he’d been home. What had once been a mop of gorgeous curls, falling around his shoulders- was now jagged and uneven, huge chunks missing and longer strands curling by his ears. It was a mess. 

Micah continued to softly play with the boy’s hair as he continued to type. 

Tube, lungs hurt, drugs 

Andrew glanced at the other boy, watching the concern etch on his face, and when he didn’t ask any further questions, he continued. 

Cut open. Left to bleed

Micah was staring at the computer screen- but Andrew was staring at Micah. 

He had given this boy nothing. And yet here he was doing his best to help him, when he had no good reason to. He couldn’t tell this boy everything he had thought- how the idea of him made him grieve so much while he was in that place, that it put a fiercer ache in his chest than that machine had. 

He couldn’t say how he loved him. They had never even kissed. And yet Andrew knew how he felt- he knew what he had imagined and longed for and wished while he was locked away- begging for death. 

Micah didn’t deserve to deal with all that. 

Micah didn’t deserve to deal with Andrew. 

Andrew sniffled away a tear, and Micah moved his thumb across the boy’s cheek, wiping it away before anymore could fall. There had been too many already shed. 

Andrew began to type again. The more they knew, the more they’d be able to help. 

Took my blood- infused

Micah’s eyes grew wide. “An infusion- with what, Andrew? Do you know?” 

His hands were visibly shaking even more. He shook his head at first, leaning into Micah’s touch. The smaller boy reached up, placing both hands along Andrew’s temples, rubbing gentle circles. 

“Please Andrew- can you remember? Did he tell you anything?” 

A headache began to form as Andrew focused- trying desperately to remember the bits and pieces of jumbled dialogue he had heard while he was floating in and out of unconsciousness. 

The bags of blood- the numbers- the hours in between. 

“You’re looking so beautiful for me. We’re halfway there.” 

“Three more left, you’re doing wonderful.” 

“Splice blood sample- 1/12” 

Andrew’s eyes fluttered open in remembrance. The bits and pieces were floating all together like a puzzle/ 

His blood. 9/12 he typed.

Micah glanced up in realization. “Nine of twelve. We- we interrupted the procedure.” He whispered. “How long were- were you in the- in his system?”

Andrew shrugged, all the waiting and all the pain always warped his sense of time. All he knew is he arrived, got more beaten and bruised, and then he’d been in the contraption until they arrived. 

Almost whole time he typed.

Micah nodded. He quickly grabbed a rag as Andrew’s chest started heaving, and Andrew held it to his mouth.

Stains of red quickly leaked through as Andrew coughed, his whole body shaking with the effort. Micah rubbed a gentle hand across his back until he was finished, offering him some water as well. 

Andrew glanced off as he sipped, looking more exhausted and worn-out than usual. 

“Thank you for- for telling me. It’ll help Tusik figure everything out.” 

Andrew gave the cup of water back, leaning into the pillows as he tried to find a steady rhythm of breaths. 

“We’ll figure this out. We’ll find out what’s wrong and get you better. I promise.” 

Andrew shrugged. He was tired of all those promises. I promise I’ll keep you safe. I promise I won’t let you get hurt. I promise it’s all okay now.

But despite the good intent, they were never kept. He would never be safe. He was in constant pain, and it was just one battle after another after another. It was never okay. At this point, he couldn’t imagine everything ever being okay. 

He let Micah grab his hand, he was too tired to pull away, but he couldn’t look at his face. That face filled with so much concern, and hope, and belief, that like he said, he’d get better. 

“What’s going on?” Micah asked. “We will get you better.”

Damn it. Andrew hated that the other boy knew him so well already. He knew it’d be a shame if they’d used all this energy, and effort to get him back, to keep him safe, and have it all be for nothing in the end. 

With his free hand he slowly reached the keyboard once more. 

Tired.

Micah nodded. “I know. This is- this is progress though. Tusik can use it to help us figure out what’s wrong. He can use it to help you get better.” 

Andrew’s fingers shook as they hovered above the keys. He didn’t dare type it. But he knew it was all over his mind. It was all he could believe. 

Not worth it

Micah read those three small words and paused for a moment. Trying to find the best way to phrase his next moments. He grabbed the laptop and set it back in his bag. 

“Listen.” He squeezed Andrew’s hand, the other coming to rest against the side of his face. Andrew couldn’t help but lean into the touch. “Listen please, I need you to believe me. You don’t need to now, but eventually.” 

Andrew made eye contact when he heard the shake and the tremor in Micah’s voice. Their faces inches apart- eye-to-eye.

“You are worth it. You are worth the effort, and the time, and the energy it takes to get you better. You are twenty one for god’s sake. You have the whole rest of your life ahead of you. Do not let this define it, please. Do not let this end you.” 

Micah leaned his head down- pressing his forehead against Andrew’s. Micah was nearly begging- his tears falling into the crest of Andrew’s hair. 

“Don’t let this be it. There’s so much left in you- please.”

- - -

Tag List: @imagination1reality0, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @thehopelessopus, @burtlederp, @whump-me-all-night-long @laves-here @yesthisiswhump @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @brutal-nemesis @lunaabsentee @morning-star-whump @beatenbruisedandbloody @sowhumpful

[ratking-whump]

An Unpleasent Gathering (1/2)

Contains: Collars, choking, creepy whumper, physical abuse, yelling, sort-of drowning, forced alcohol consumption, referenced amputation, referenced/implied torture, implied public humiliation, brief mention of feminization of a transmasc character, general whump stuff

Saide stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, awkwardly tugging at his button-down. It was too stiff, too tight around his collar, too formal and stifling and professional. But Washington required it, and so there would be no negotiation this way or that. Saide felt rather silly, to be honest, like a little kid playing dress-up. At least the right sleeve covered his stump of an arm, which had been a growing insecurity of his. He was still adjusting to the loss of it six months later- he had never believed in phantom pain until he felt it, awful stabbing agony that woke him in the middle of the night screaming into the pillow, soaked in sweat. Washington, naturally, pretended he didn't hear.

"I hate this," Saide mumbled. It felt good to get out that anger where he could. He had his journals, of course, but no time to write before the god-forsaken 'party.' "I hate this so much."

His bottoms were a bit more bearable, a soft dark-brown skirt that fell to his ankles. Saide had always been impartial to feminine clothing, but he imagined that Washington bought him this to fulfill one of his many awful fantasies, and for that he found himself resenting it. He would feel rather pretty in any other circumstance, but now he just felt like a pet. A small blessing, though: his clothes seemed fairly modest, kept his scars and bruises covered as if the partygoers didn’t know. As if that isn’t what they came for. 

Saide sighed, turning his attention to the counter: where upon it sat a thick band of brown leather, adorned with bronze metal loops, buckles, and clasps. A collar. Tangible proof, besides the wounds littering his body and his missing arm, that he was owned. That Washington had claimed him, as if that was something one person had any right to do to another. Not that this ownership meant he was off-limits for Washington's friends, of course. If anything, it gave Washington the right to pass him around like a bottle of whiskey. 

He also found that couldn't get the damned collar on himself, which meant he'd have to stoop down and ask Washington for help. He supposed that was the intended effect of his mutilation, so he would be weaker and even more at the mercy of his captor than he already was. Staring at the collar, he considered destroying it, or hiding it, or swallowing the damn thing. But he didn’t have access to anything resembling a weapon, and Washington would probably beat him half to death for an infraction like that. So he would have to suck it up and wear it. 

Before he could consider it further, the bathroom door swung open. No lock. Right. Washington stood in the doorframe, looking exactly as he always did, messy hair, dark eyes, hoodie and jeans. 

“Hello,” Washington smiled, looking him up and down. “You look perfect, dear heart.” 

“Whatever,” Saide barely resisted the urge to punch him. “I need help with the collar.” He gestured to his missing arm. 

“Of course,” Washington agreed pleasantly, picking it off the counter and admiring it. “I should have you wear this more often. It’s custom-made, you know? That’s very special. It was quite expensive to order, and you should be more grateful for the things you have, don’t you think?” 

“I don’t like it,” Saide snapped, but still turned obediently to face the wall. “I’m not a dog.” 

Washington settled firm hands on his shoulders, squeezing just enough into nearly-healed bruises that Saide squirmed, pain wracking down his arms. He leaned in, pressing himself into Saide’s back. 

“You’re not a dog, no. You’re lower. You’re nothing, Saide. And I’m going to fucking ruin you tonight.” 

He pulled back, looping the collar around his captive’s neck and fastening it in the back. He tugged it tight, until Saide began to have difficulty breathing, wheezing for air until he made awful choking noises. It was only then Washington released him, loosening the collar and snapping it into place. 

"Guests will be here soon," Washington spun him around, inspecting his dress. Despite his insistence that Saide dress formally, he was entirely denied hair products, and as such his hair had become matted and tangled, much longer than he was used to. "Are you excited?"

"No." His stomach flipped and he looked at the ground while Washington turned his face side to side. "Are you sure I can't just stay in my room? I'm really tired after- after last night and-"

Washington backhanded him across the face, hard enough that his cheek stung awfully and his vision went askew for a second. Startled, he stumbled back, catching himself on the counter.

"What-" Washington grabbed his face, and the trembling captive blinked his watery eyes open. "Do you think?"

"'m sorry-" Saide managed, trying to keep from crying. "Please."

"Good boy," Washington patted his already-swelling cheek. "Come now, you ought to help prepare refreshments."

Saide poured drinks into ugly little glass cups, garnishing them with little umbrellas and lemon slices, all while Washington watched, to assure the quality. He didn’t understand why people drank. The smell alone made him gag. 

“Will there be…” Saide cleared his throat. “Erm, more people than last time?” Washington shrugged. “No. It’s more… exclusive. Only the people I can trust not to run their mouths, you see. Expecting an audience, huh?” 

Saide shook his head frantically. “No!” He slid another lemon slice onto the rim of the glass. “Just… wondering. There are a lot of drinks here.” “Yes, well, I assume some people will want more than one, and you won’t exactly be available for refills.” 

Saide bit back the instinctive urge to apologize. For what, his own public torment? “Of course.” He agreed. “Uhm… do you, uh, think I can have some water when I’m done?” He continued to accessorize the drinks, which he found far easier than trying to lift the heavy pitcher with one hand. Asking for things from Washington tended to be a hit-or-miss, and he usually didn’t risk it unless he felt he needed it. Now was one such time, his throat was sore and standing made him lightheaded. It probably wasn’t just the dehydration to blame, but some water certainly wouldn’t hurt. 

“Hm,” Washington paused, pursing his lips. “Do you think you’ve earned it?” 

Had he? He had been… good, hadn’t he? He sat still and let Washington hurt and hurt and hurt him all yesterday, and he may have screamed and cried but he did not fight back despite the knife dragging lines into his back and the biting sting of those awful needles. “...yes.” He finally agreed. “I’ll… have better performance if I’m properly hydrated.”

Washington nodded. “Fair point. Alright, you may have a drink.” 

Saide smiled. It was the small victories. 

He topped off the last of the glasses and set the pitcher in the sink, adjusted the striped pink umbrellas, and washed his hands. Washington had wandered into another room, so he hesitantly filled a glass and began to sip. God, it was good. It soothed his raw throat and dribbled down his mouth, and he closed his eyes and chugged it. He didn’t know when he’d be allowed to have more- it was better to get down as much as he can. He used to be very particular about his drinks, rarely even touching water for weeks on end but… well, his perspective had changed over the past few years. When he opened his eyes, Washington was standing in front of him. 

“Hi,” Saide mumbled, out of breath. He wiped the water off his reddening face. “Sorry.” 

Washington fixed him with an awful, neutral glare, and before he even said anything, before Saide had gotten any hints that he had fucked up, he was shoved to the tile floor. His head slammed into the ground, and the glass followed soon after, shattering across the kitchen floor and spilling water. Pain flared through his skull, blurring his already-poor vision and sending a harsh wave of nausea down his throat. Saide gasped, trying to curl in on himself. What had he done? What had he done? He raised his hand to cover his face, trying not to panic. Sometimes Washington just acted for no reason- he could clean up the glass and be fine, he could be fine- 

“You little SHIT!” Washington yelled. “Do you know how much that was worth? You piece of shit. I swear to fucking god, I will kill you for this!” He slammed his fist into the wall, making the whole kitchen shake. 

“Sorry-” He pleaded. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-” Washington was on him then, grabbing his collar and forcing him to make eye contact. Saide’s face was adorned with tiny cuts, and the blood mingled with the water that dripped onto his shirt. His lips parted in a gasp, and his hands weakly shoved at Washington. 

“Please-” Saide begged, and Washington seized the opportunity to shove something in his mouth. He gagged, trying to scramble back, but he was pressed harshly against the cabinets. The foul, bitter taste of whiskey hit the back of his throat, and he nearly sobbed. He shook his head in protest, but Washington just tipped the bottle further, pouring more and more of the amber liquid into his mouth, even as he choked and sputtered, throat burning. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He could barely think beyond the pain and discomfort, and Washington’s awful hand pressing him down. It hurt it hurt it hurt, and he needed it to stop. He wasn’t religious, but he found his fractured thoughts drifting to god. If there was a god, why weren’t they helping him?!

“You’re thirsty, huh? Greedy fucking pig. I’ll let you drink, then! Pathetic. You’re so fucking-” Washington shoved the bottle further. “Pathetic.” 

Saide’s vision began to darken, the burning in his lungs subsiding. His scrabbling hands fell still. Was this how he died? Drowning in fucking whiskey, straddled by his kidnapper, dressed in a really ugly shirt? 

Just as his thoughts began to fade, Washington dragged the bottle away, discarding it to the side. The anger had drained from his face, replaced with a cold, cold smile.  Saide blinked the darkness away and sobbed, chest heaving for air, hands shaking.

“Our guests are here.” 

[marvelous-writer]

Nailed It

Summary: In which Peter assists Tony with repairing Gerald’s shed, only to wind up with a nail though his finger.

Whumptober Day 3: Impaled

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

Rating: G

Word Count: 2,702

Genre: whump, hurt/comfort, humor

Link to read on AO3

A nasty thunderstorm came in during the night and ended up taking down a few tree limbs, as well as quite a few shingles from Gerald’s shed (almost wiping away half the roof), thankfully not hurting the poor alpaca in the process but it probably gave the poor guy a scare.

Peter has been helping Tony repair it all day and going to the hardware store to buy some supplies needed for the job. And so far, they’re doing pretty well. Gerald has been granted the ability to freely roam the yard, much to Morgan’s joy and Happy’s disappointment. Happy and Gerald don’t quite see each other eye to eye, especially with how the alpaca bares his teeth at him every time he goes near him. Gerald even went as far to ripping a chunk of Happy’s tie straight off him one time.

Gerald is… a bit temperamental to say the least.

“Can you grab a few more shingles please?” Tony asks with a nail hanging from his lips, as he holds one hand, a hammer in the other.

“Sure.” Peter says as he climbs down the ladder he’s leaning on until he reaches the ground.

He effortlessly slings the package of shingles over his shoulder as he walks back to the ladder and climbs back up, carefully placing it on the wooden roof. He takes one large shingle out and hands it to Tony.

“Thank you.” Tony grunts out as he places it down in front of him and begins to hammer it in with nails.

Peter takes another shingle out and grabs a few nails, hammering it into place in front of himself as well.

They’ve been at this all afternoon and they’re almost done thankfully. Peter won’t admit it out loud but he’s beat. He has been going to bed in the wee hours of the morning with patrolling and he went to bed late last night due to being on phone with MJ as she gets ready for her first semester at MIT, unlike Peter. He ultimately decided that he didn’t want to live so far away from home, especially after the blip and everything that’s happened since coming back after those missing five years and not to mention the whole multiverse crisis he got himself into with Dr. Strange.

And with Tony still recovering both physically and mentally and still helping Pepper run Stark Industries, he needs extra help around the cabin.

And… Peter needs to be here too, if he’s being honest.

So for this year, Peter has decided to take a gap year to rest and figure everything out. He told Tony and May together a few weeks back and they had been surprisingly on board with the whole thing. Right now in his life… college is the last thing he needs to deal with. Just for now. Maybe when he’s ready next year, in a few weeks or months, even… he’ll readdress it.

But though it all, he’s been having a hard time adjusting to not seeing MJ and Ned as much as he used to. They’re both away at MIT, setting up their dorms, hopefully getting familiar with their campuses and making friends.

The thought causes Peter to slow his hammering, feeling his stomach tighten. He knows he made the right decision to skip this semester but it doesn’t mean he likes the downsides that come his decision.

Peter’s attention turns to Morgan across the yard with Happy, the two of them engaged in a tea party, tiaras and all. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth at the sight of Happy, dressed in a hoodie and jeans with a silver tiara with pink and white feathers around the bottom of the crown, his pinky sticking out as he sips at the tiny teacup in his hand.

“No, No, Uncle Happy! Like this,” Morgan lightly scolds him as she demonstrates the proper way to hold the teacup. “See?”

“Oh, yeah. I see. You just need to raise it a little higher?”

“Yup!”

Peter chuckles to himself as he sets the nail down on the shingle and holds it in place without looking since he’s been doing this all day, bringing the hammer down on it.

What he doesn’t expect, is to feel a shockwave of pain shoot through his left hand, all the way up to his shoulder. Peter lets out a pained yelp at the sensation and looks down, only for his blood to run cold at the sight he’s met with.

He thought he has just hit his hand with the hammer… but that’s not what happened.

He accidentally drove the nail right through his thumb.

“Did you catch your finger with the hammer?” Tony asks from behind him, Peter’s back facing him.

Peter just stares down at his finger with the metal nail sticking out as blood starts to pool out of it on both ends, staining the charcoal shingle beneath it a dark shade of crimson.

“S-Something like that.” Peter manages to stutter out in his shocked state.

“Been there,” Tony says. “You might want to put some ice on it to help with the throbbing.” He recommends.

“N-Not sure ice is going to cut it.” Peter mumbles.

“What do you mean?” The man asks from behind with an edge of worry to his voice.

Peter blinks down at his hand, discovering that not only had he driven the nail through his thumb—he managed to nail his own hand to the roof.

He doesn’t know if he wants to cry, throw up or pass out.

“Pete?” Tony asks from behind when he doesn’t respond.

Peter can only stare down at his hand, which is now profusely bleeding, blood bubbling up between his thumb and the nail.

He hears a shifting behind him as Tony comes over to his side.

“What’s wro—OH SHIT!” Tony exclaims when he sees the sight Peter’s thumb is in. “What happened?” He asks, his hand hovering over Peter’s injured one as if he doesn’t quite know what to do.

“I-I was just h-hammering a-and I-I accidentally n-nailed my f-finger.” Peter barely manages to get out as a dull ringing fills his ears.

“Shit,” Tony curses under his breath as he looks up towards Happy and Morgan. “Uh—hey, Hap can I see you for a sec? Just you?” He calls out in a calm voice that shakes slightly on the end as he rips off a piece of his old flannel shirt and gently presses it against Peter’s thumb, earning a gron from him as pain radiates through it.

Happy looks over at them and excuses himself from Morgan’s table, which is suited for five year olds her size and not grown adults. Happy uncrosses his legs and stands up from the ground with a groan before walking over to them.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation here,” Tony says once Happy’s in earshot. “Peter accidentally nailed his hand instead of a shingle.” He calmly explains.

Happy’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “He WHAT?” He exclaims, only to glance back over at Morgan, who is completely unaware of the whole thing. “How the hell did that happen?” He asks in a quieter, worried voice.

“No idea but we’re going to need to call someone—an ambulance or Bruce.” Tony says.

“N-No h-hospitals.” Peter says, shaking his head as he closes his eyes.

He can’t look at the blood anymore. If he does… he’s going to throw up.

“I don’t think we have a choice here, Peter.” Tony tells him.

“I’m calling an ambulance. The compound is too far from here and he’s already lost a lot of blood.” Happy says as he whips his phone out from the side pocket of his jeans.

“B-But-“

“No buts, Peter. He’s right. I’ll call Bruce on the way and he can meet us there. Everything is going to be fine.” Tony tells him in a clearly forced, calm voice.

Peter can hear Happy quickly talking to someone on the other end of his phone over the sound of the ringing going through his ears, becoming more and more sharper as the seconds pass by, accompanied by an odd, lightheadedness that just washes over him so suddenly it takes him off guard.

“Think m’ gonna pass out…” He mumbles, closing his eyes and leaning forward, only for Tony to gently grab his shoulder, steadying him.

“No passing out on me, Pete. You stay with me, okay?” Tony’s voice filters in through the ringing.

Peter blinks his eyes open as his vision starts to blur on him. He blinks sluggishly a few times in hopes to clear it.

“You need to keep putting pressure on the wound.” Happy says from somewhere close.

Peter’s brows pull together in confusion as he turns his head, only to find the man standing on of the ladder, leaning against the shed. Peter wonders when he got up there.

“I am,” Tony says from Peter’s other side. “What’s their ETA?”

“The ambulance is fifteen minutes out.” Happy tells him.

Peter hears Tony curse under his breath and he asks Happy something else, but Peter’s ears are ringing so much now he can’t hear anything, only the sound of his own heartbeat—if that’s even possible.

Is it possible?

Maybe?

He’ll have to remember to ask Bruce that next time he sees him.

Hopefully there’s going to be a next time.

Because this sure would be a lame way to go out, by nailing his own finger to an alpaca’s shed. But it’s for a good cause though at least. Gerald gets a safe, little place to seek shelter and sleep at night… Peter just hopes he doesn’t mind the blood stain though.

Oh no.

What if Gerald hates his shed now because Peter bled all over it?

“Pete, Gerald doesn’t care if you bled on his shed he would definitely care if you weren’t here to give him extra apples though.” Tony’s voice comes through the ringing, clearly joking to lighten the mood.

Peter cracks open his heavy eyes and looks up at him, only to make the terrible mistake of looking down. Tony’s hand and the ripped flannel is now covered in blood, seeing driblets running down Tony’s hand. There’s also an alarming amount of blood pooled on the roof, sliding down underneath them.

Before Peter knows it, his eyes are rolling to the back of his head as he slumps to the roof, unaware of the strong arm that catches him before he face-plants against the bloody shingles.

…

A soft, rhythmic beeping sound fills Peter’s ears as his senses start to slowly come back online. He slowly blinks his eyes open, squinting against the harsh LED lights he’s met with, along with the sight of a pasty white wall ahead of him, a stinging, sterile smell in the air.

That can only mean one thing.

He’s in a hospital.

Peter’s brows pull together as his brain slowly processes this new information as he rolls his head to the side, only to find Tony slumped over in a chair next to his bed, dozing, an all too-familiar position at this point in Peter’s vigilante career.

“T’ny?” Peter asks, his voice coming out slightly raspy.

Tony’s head shoots up and he looks at him, a relieved expression washing over his face as he smiles softly. "Hey, bud. How are you feeling?”

“A little floaty.” Peter rasps out as Tony reaches over and grabs a cup of water from the table, holding it out for him, which Peter gratefully takes with a shaking hand.

“Yeah, you’re on some heavy-duty pain meds right now, all thanks to Bruce rushing over here to give them to you himself.” Tony says.

Peter takes a few sips of the water and frowns as the events from before—the reason for him being here—come back to him. He turns his head and looks down at his left hand, only to find it wrapped up with thick gauze.

“You had to have a bit of a minor surgery to get that nail out. Bruce got here just in time before they tried administering the anesthesia.” Tony says in a knowing tone.

Peter swallows hard at that. If the doctors and nurses found out regular anesthesia, even a strong dose of it, doesn’t even make a dent with Peter… they would find have found out his secret in no time with a small blood sample. And he would have been outed as Spider-Man.

“Don’t worry about anything,” Tony reassures, seeming to sense his inner panic. “Bruce got here in the Quinjet faster than the ambulance did. No one treated you except for Bruce.”

Peter lets out a small, relieved breath at that. “That’s good. If you see him, tell him I said thanks.” He says, settling back down into the pillows he’s propped up on.

Just these few minutes of being up has him exhausted and ready to pass out again. He’s about ready to close his eyes, only for a thought to pop into his mind.

“Morgan didn’t see anything, did she?” Peter asks, his eyes widening.

“She didn’t see a thing, I promise. Happy brought her into the house right as the ambulance pulled in the driveway. I rode in the back with you while he stayed at the cabin with her and distracted her. He’s on his way with her and May now.”

Peter lets out another relieved sigh. If Morgan had seen any of that—any of the blood—he wouldn’t forgive himself. After all, this whole thing is his own fault. If he hadn’t been distracted thinking about other things than the nail and hammer in his hand, none of this would have happened.

“I’m sorry… for all of this,” Peter says, waving his uninsured hand around. “I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.”

“It’s not your fault. I’ve had more oopsie moments of my own than I’d like to share. It happens to all of us, kiddo.”

Peter slowly nods, even though he still feels horribly guilty.

“You’re looking like you’re five seconds away from conking out on me. How about you get some more sleep and I’ll wake you up when May, Happy and Morgan get here?” Tony offers with a soft smile.

Peter almost wants to protest but he’s honestly too exhausted to. He just slowly nods as his eyes slip shut on their own, now that they got permission.

He falls into darkness within moments, before he knows no more.

…

When Peter is allowed to go home a day later, he gets out of Tony and Pepper’s minivan, his hand still bandaged up and healing from the whole ordeal. Peter eyes Gerald’s shed and he walks over to it, seeing the alpaca himself across the yard, grazing. Tony gets out from the driver’s seat and stands next to Peter, looking at the shed as well.

“Back at the scene of the crime?” Tony asks jokingly.

Peter doesn’t know if he imagines it but he swears he feels his hand throb at the question, as if he needs a reminder.

Peter lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah.”

He looks up at the roof, only to find it all black with no blood stains. He opens his mouth to ask, but Tony beats him to it.

“Happy told me he cleaned it up while you were at the hospital,” Tony says. “He didn’t want you to come home and see that.”

A wave of guilt flows over Peter at that but he’s grateful for it. “I’ll have to thank him later for that. It looks good though. I’m sure Gerald likes it.”

“I think he does. He’s been enjoying the new feeding station we added on for him too.” Tony says with a smirk.

Peter nods, only for a small smile to pull at the corner of his mouth as he looks back at Tony. “I guess we nailed it, huh?” He says, gently elbowing Tony in the side with his uninsured arm.

Tony just blinks without looking him before he sighs and shakes his head.

“Too soon?” Peter asks, still smiling.

“A little bit, yeah.”