#this wip is also whump

[sentfromwolves]

yeah that plot is solid but have you considered taking everything he knows and loves and shattering it across the floor

[aaeeart]

I'm working on an evil comic strip and I wanted to share these sad Calebs with ya'll

toodles!

[mikeyisbrooklyn]

We’ve got progress, fairies and frogs, and I’m itching to share. (There’s a part 2 here! And a part 3 here!)

Tags: @on-a-lucky-tide @etanesnil @jgvfhl @roachs-pet-roach

Before reading, some notes…

- This is a WIP, so not finished and subject to change, kinda a part one of sorts

- Has only been partially beta-read

- Author is not: British, Russian, a medical professional, or sane; so beware of inaccuracies abound.

- Not quite NSFW (brief reference to sex and blink and you’ll miss it gross-out moment; safe for teens, not for tots)

All that said, enjoy what’s under the cut (or don’t, I’m not your dad).

Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

(working title)

Price groaned gently as he slowly rejoined the land of the living, croaking like a dehydrated frog was caught in his throat. His groan only got deeper as his eyelids creaked open enough to let in the bright overhead lights. A professional even at his lowest, he took no time to run a checklist of his senses in his head.

Sight? Bleary, but he could see the unnecessarily luminous white beams above him.

Touch? Sore, as all hell, even. There wasn’t a single part of his body that didn’t feel a steady throb of ache, but he could tell his head and right leg seemed to have the worst of it.

Smell? An odorous cloud of antiseptic and disinfectant seemed to be ever-present.

With that information alone, even the most daft man could figure out where he was, but the taste of iron lingering under his tongue and the sound of steady beeping sealed the deal. He was in a hospital.

Price cursed to himself internally. He meant to verbalize it but the words he attempted to form came out as further groans.

An almost imperceptible gasp came from Price’s right and he groaned again as he tried and failed to turn. Then, he felt a warm hand grace his cheek—as his brain started twisting back in gear, he could tell there was a considerable amount of bandages covering his face—and saw a figure take up his entire line of sight, forcing his vision to readjust again so soon after barely adjusting to the lights.

As his eyes settled, Price could finally see who was in front of him, as if the hand on his cheek didn’t already tell him all he needed to know. Nik stood over him, whispering sweet assurances in both Russian and English—some amalgamation of “No, don’t move”s and “You’re alright”s and pet names, it all blended together for Price. Price could see a small grin on the Russian’s face with lines across his mug that reflected an endearing relief, but the first thing Price could see in clear, complete detail since opening his eyes was that dogged glimmer of worry.

It made him sick. Literally.

Poor Nikolai, having already pressed the call button for the doctors upon Price’s stirring, now shouted for aid in shock and distress as Price sat up as much as his broken body would allow and spit up bile that couldn’t have more than stomach acid, saliva, and blood in it.

The door of the room opened and quickly nurses and a doctor were upon Price. A half dozen hands checking bandages, assessing vitals, and touching places that made Price groan in what he meant as frustration which only came out as pain. Nik was gently pulled away in the heat of the moment and despite the pilot’s clear desire to cling onto the injured captain like his life depended on it, he allowed himself to be moved to allow the professionals to do their jobs—if only because he knew it was the only way for Price to get better.

After a few minutes—the hectic storm waning as it became clear that Price was not experiencing a life threatening complication—the nurses left, leaving only the two men with the doctor: a short and plump woman with dark skin and curly black hair tied into a bun, with grays streaking from various places.

“Well, it’s good to see you awake, Captain,” she began, looking down at Price, ”I’m Dr. Omar. It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Price grunted, and Dr. Omar smiled warmly but with a bit of mirth. “Your injuries shouldn’t affect your speech ability. I suppose you’re just not in a speaking mood.”

“The captain can be man of few words.” Nik chimed in. “Forgive him.”

“No forgiveness necessary, I’m only teasing, Mr. Nikolai.” Her smile had widened.

Nik shook his head returning a smile of his own. “I have already said, Nik is fine, good doctor.”

“I’m flattered to be considered enough of a ‘friend’ to call you that, but I hope you forgive me for maintaining some professionalism, at least for now.”

Price grunted again, this time with more vitriol than before, feeling ignored despite being the one banged up in bed. At the thought, he looked down and couldn’t properly see the damage—being wrapped comfortably tight in blankets—but from what he could see and feel, there were bandages, splints, and gauze littering his body.

Dr. Omar cleared her throat. “Right, well,” she lifted her clipboard to partially cover her face, “you’ve more than a few cuts and bruises, but the worst of it is a concussion and about a half dozen fractures in your right leg.”

“Should see the other guy.” Price groaned, his voice still thick with disuse. Despite his attempt at humor, Price internally kicked himself as he remembered what really happened.

In truth, it was out of Price’s hands when the informant stabbed them in the back to the kingpin they were hunting, but he still blames himself for the op going tits up. Mostly because what was in his hands was his call to try and finish the mission anyway—an effort at salvaging the unsalvageable. It was only after Gaz took lead to the shoulder that Price realized his stubborn tenacity might get his team killed. But in the retreat, he must’ve stepped right into the bastard’s trap without noticing. If it weren’t for Soap calling out the ticking explosive—thanks to the sergeant’s keen awareness of all things demolition—he likely would’ve been blown to smithereens rather than crushed in rubble. A holy man would remark their survival a miracle, but Price was no holy man; all he figured was that his team kept themselves and him alive, despite his frustrating sudden ineptitude.

Nik’s bark of laughter took Price from his thoughts. “Da! The captain is hard to kill.”

“I’m happy to hear that you've got the mind to joke. Based on what your lieutenant told me, it was quite the close call.” Dr. Omar locked eyes with Price. “But I imagine you’re gonna want the prognosis unless you have any more jokes?”

“As much as I’d love to try out my stand up routine, doc, what I want more is to know when I can get out of this bed.”

“Well, this bed? If you’re insistent on spending most of your recovery at home, just a bit of observation and you can be out of here by tomorrow.”

Price’s lips twitched into a near-frown at “recovery” and lifted a single eyebrow.

Dr. Omar sighed and gave a smile full of more pity than warmth. This look also made Price sick, though he kept down the threatening bile. “You’re primarily on bed rest for a week or two, with crutches or a wheelchair to help you get around if you must. After that 4-8 weeks of physical therapy and continued rest. In short,” she sighed again, knowing the weight of her words, “I’ll be recommending you be put on medical leave for at minimum two months.”

“At minimum?” Price winced as he felt a headache coming on, compounding his concussion. Nik, who had moved closer to the bedridden man, quietly snuck his hand into Price’s grasp and gripped firm but carefully. At his touch, Price huffed from his nose—like a bull.

“It could be longer if you don’t rest and rest well, Captain.” Dr. Omar kept her attitude polite but her tone was assertive. “If you’ve been doing this long enough to earn your rank, then I think it’s safe to assume you’re smart enough to know I’m not wrong.”

Price groaned and looked away, wanting nothing more than to argue but begrudgingly agreeing with her assessment. If it were Simon, Kyle, or Soap he’d have leveled them with a single gaze and made sure they stayed on their ass as long as the docs demanded. Fucking hypocrite he was.

Dr. Omar’s lips tightened like she was about to press him further. Nik spoke up instead. “Da, your expertise is welcome and cherished, good doctor. Instead of tomorrow, could I bring Captain Price home by tonight? He will get better rest in a familiar bed.”

Price looked up at Nik who spared him a brief glance with a wink before returning his gaze back to the doctor. Dr. Omar herself looked between the both of them twice and then three times before sighing heavily but with a more amiable smile.

“I suppose I can see what I can do but no promises, Mr. Nikolai! We need to make sure there won’t be any surprises or complications while we still have him.” She pointed at the Russian accusatorially.

“Da! Da! I understand.”

Dr. Omar smiled as she lowered her hand. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you alone if you don’t have any other questions.”

Price looked back at the doctor finally with a blank expression though with a nod of gratitude.

“Thank you, good doctor, we will call again if needed.”

“Please do.” She patted the end of Price’s bed, eliciting a grunt from the man and then she left the room.

Nik dragged a chair back to the side of Price’s bed and tightened his grip on the hand he was still holding. “You are terrible patient, Jonathan.” He chided with a shit-eating grin.

“Bugger off.” Price shifted his face away from Nik, not being able to move much.

Nik chuckled and kissed the man on the cheek, enjoying the way Price’s face turned bright red. “I hope you are better to me.”

It took a moment for that to sit with Price before he turned slowly back towards Nik. “You wot?”

“Oh, you did not think I meant I would take you back to your own bed, did you, Captain? When mine is much better?”

“Oh, bloody—are ya gonna try and fuck me while I’m crippled? Filthy bastard.”

Nik’s grin turned wolfish. “If you would like. Though, I only meant that I would not let you out of my sight while you heal.”

Price’s face got hot again but worse, his gut churned with a wave of nausea that he barely held down. “I’m not a boy needing supervision, muppet.” He grumbled the last bit.

“Nyet, you are very much no boy.” Nik damn near purred. “But can I not take care of you, even after such an injury?”

Price grunted and turned away but made no effort to move and even returned the briefly tightened grip on his hand Nik still had—an implicit surrender, at least for now. Price knew he was in no state to turn Nik down, especially as his options were the Russian or the hospital. At least with Nik he’d stay somewhere with some damn eye candy and that didn’t reek of sick and despair.

Maybe, just maybe, he could trick himself into have a nice leave. Price laughed at the absurdity of the thought.

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma being feverish and clingy in the arms of someone who’s NOT Yakou??? Never thought I’d see the day. The poor thing needs the support regardless of who is caring for him ;-;

Full image below (spoilers)

This is an illustration I made as a collab with @draconicsparkle for a future writing project they’re working on. I will say nothing else. Hope you enjoy the art c:

[writing-whump]

Would love a part 3 of fevered Isaiah!! (psst. they’ll have to call seline and Matt at some point, right? Maybe something about them picking zaya up when he’s a bit better and taking care of him until he’s fully recovered?)

Also he’s breaking my heart with the mom thing :(

But also “ow” was so cute <3 🍄

Thank you! I really liked this idea cause I didn't see it coming at all and then it kind of fit together...emotional stressed out Hector, Arnie with a headache, Isaiah still very weak.

I managed to put in as many requests as I could! Big thank you to everyone who send their ideas!!✨️

Isaiah sick part 3

Arnie woke up in the morning on the couch, freezing. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to identify what could have woken him up and how he got there.

The flashes from last night flooded his head in a rush, making him stagger as he got up. Ah right.

The door closed softly which alerted him to further movement.

Hector got out from their guest room, currently occupied by Isaiah. He didn't move at all, rooted to the spot, eyes downcast, shirt all crumpled.

"Hex?" Arnie whispered.

Hector didn't lift his head.

Arnie tiptoed closer to put a hand on his elbow. "Hey..."

Hector let out a heavy sigh before suddenly pulling him into a hug. Arnie's head went back a little as he was crushed against his brother's chest unexpectedly. "That bad, huh?"

Hector said nothing, but breathed in, all loud and shaky near Arnie's ear.

This must have been the longest hug Arnie had gotten from Hector in a while. And it was for a change for his sake more than Arnie's. "I'm sorry. You could have woken me up-"

"No. You got the first half, I got the second," Hector mumbled, still holding him like he barely kept himself from breaking Arnie's bones.

"How is he?"

That was when Hector finally loosed his grip. "Asleep. Still feverish, but nothing like before. I will hear if something comes up."

Hector trailed towards the living room though like he craved nothing more than to put a bit of distance between himself and that room. He collapsed on the coach into the mess of blankets Arnie slept in, rubbing at his forehead with both hands.

Arnie felt torn for a second, but figured Hector wouldn't have left Isaiah alone if he wasn't semi-stable. He sat down next to him. Waiting for whatever would bubble up. It wasn't like Hector to suppress his feelings.

"I fucked up real bad."

Arnie perked up, eyes narrowing. "Whatever do you mean?" There was a lot to choose from.

"With Isaiah."

"He said something in his sleep?"

Hector hesitated. "He said a bunch of stuff that he wasn't aware of. But did you see...his look in the bathtub?" Hector carded a hand through his hair, his face still pressed against the other one. "How scared of me he was?"

"He was just panicking cause he didn't understand what was happening."

"He must hate me so much." Hector looked up to Arnie, his expression crumbled and heartbroken. His amber eyes were shimmering. "He would really believe I would- but why wouldn't he, right? He could never rely on me back at home- I told him when we saw each other- such horrible things- and he-" Hector broke off, breathing picking up as he spiraled himself into a panic.

Arnie put a hand on his shoulder, shifting closer. "Hex."

"You never gave up on him. But I did. I hated him for so long, I played right into father's hands, into every self-destructive, self-loathing martyr illusion Isaiah wanted-"

"Hex," Arnie said, more firmly now as he own stomach somersaulted at the words.

Hector made a strangled sound at the back of his throat, then looked away, burying his face back into his hands. "He is right to hate me for that."

"He doesn't hate you," Arnie sighed, climbing behind Hector's heaving back.

"But he should. How could I have ever thought- ever believed- ever given up on him like that?"

Arnie leaned against Hector's back, wrapping his arms around his broad chest. Just holding him as he fought with the air in his lungs. He was trembling all over in Arnie's hold.

"You didn't give up," Arnie said into the silence when he thought Hector calmed down enough to listen. "You followed after him. Trained like crazy to get a branch position in the city he was at. Went to the same school. Did missions around his neighbourhood. You kept obsessing and hating him, wanted to defeat him, overcome him - don't you get it? You were always trying to stay connected to him. The opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference."

The trembling was dying down. Arnie propped his chin on the top of Hector's head, the curls tickling against his cheek.

He dipped forward as Hector folded over his knees with a quiet gasp.

Arnie understood before Hector. Just like he usually did when it came to Hector's emotions.

"Take deep breaths. It's gonna be alright. Don't worry about anything, okay? I'll check on Isaiah."

It was a testament of how badly Hector felt, still bend forward guiltiling himself into a stomachache, that he let Arnie take over.

...

"You look pale."

Arnie almost jumped out of his skin when Isaiah said that. It was the most coherent sentence since last night.

"I look pale? You should look at yourself, man." He was so happy to hear Isaiah speak he jumped up onto the edge of the bed. A bit quicker than he should have, maybe. There was pressure building behind his eyes.

"What happened?" Isaiah still lost lost beneath the covers, hair sprawled around his sheet white face. But his eyes were clearer now, getting back their worried edge.

"Not much," Arnie said nonchalantly. "You got sick and feverish. Hector watched over you at night."

Arnie picked up the glass of rehydration solution, inserting the straw with a hint of satisfaction that it was proving useful. He held it against Isaiah's lips until the older man took a couple of hesitant sips.

"Where is Hector now?" Trust Isaiah to pick up on that.

"Taking a breather. Didn't get a wink of sleep."

Isaiah's frown deeped into something hurt and guilty.

"Not that that's a problem!" Arnie added quickly. "He was happy to do it."

Isaiah stared at him in a way that made him shiver. "Something's wrong." It wasn't a question.

"No, you are just sick." Which was technically the source of the problem. Arnie put his hand against Isaiah's cheek and then forehead. Still low-grade fever, but getting better.

"Get some more sleep. Everything’s fine." They could get into the drama tomorrow.

Isaiah looked like he wanted to protest, blinking rapidly to get himself awake.

Arnie took his hand, rubbing over his knuckles. The effect was surprisingly strong and almost immediate. Isaiah's body relaxed although he didn't, eyelids falling shut.

Arnie could tell when he went under by the frown clearing away.

...

Isaiah woke up rapid pounding in his chest.

He was sweaty all over again and his heart was racing as if he was running or in the middle of a difficult spar. He felt every beat against his ribs, the muscles straining. Was he supposed to be so aware of where his heart was and what was hurting about it?

Lifting himself up proved to be a challenge. His arms were shaking from the strain, but he wanted to see if sitting up would help with the fluttering sensation of something big and angry trapped in his ribcage.

As the pressure eased slightly, a new problem emerged—dizziness. The room spun wildly, preventing him from focusing.

He swayed on the bed and threw his legs over the edge of the bed blindly. Giving the walls time to get back into place and stop waving.

Nobody was in his room. But at least he recognized where he was, so he wasn't hallucinating from fever anymore.

When the waving on the floor and walls receded, Isaiah took a couple of deep breaths in preparation to drag himself to his feet. The room swayed and swam again, but he was braced for it, leaning on the wall for support.

The apartment was too quiet. Hector should have heard his out of the bounds bearing heart, but didn't.

Something more serious must have been happening and he wanted to see what it was, damn it.

He struggled with the door handle and had to go at snail pace. A hand against the wall at all times. He took frequent stops to just breathe and blink the blacks spots from his vision.

Isaiah reached for his shadow on instinct. He was hurting so he wanted it fixed. His shadow obediently rippled up and through him. Focusing on his chest, trying to ease the painful papilations. The hopeful anticipation made it better for a couple of seconds, but by the time his shadow pulled back, the pounding was back the same.

Ah. So this was the heart issue then. Made worse by the fever strain?

At least he wouldn't have to worry about it being serious. Gridding your teeth and powering through was his specialty, anyway. He was more frustrated by the slow pace he had to take and the several dizzy spells that forced him to take breaks.

By the time he made it to the living room, his legs were shaking, muscles randomly twitching. The thudding of his heart got worse, more intense, pounding loudly in his ears. This was exhausting as hell.

Hector was sitting curled up on the sofa, head in his hands. Arnie was on the floor by his side, head leaning on his forearm with a pained line between his eyebrows.

They both looked up as he shuffled nearer in shock. Truly too preoccupied to have heard him. "Alright, what's going on?"

"Why are you standing up?" Hector said, shoulders jumping as he glared at Isaiah. Then he winced as if the mere sight hurt and looked to the side.

"Because," Isaiah grunted, leaning his whole side and shoulder against the wall to keep his balance. "What's wrong with you two?"

"No one was there, when you woke up," Arnie realized, clumsily climbing to his feet. "I'm sorry. How's the fever? I'll get you more aspirin and water, okay?" He hurried away apologetically.

Isaiah focused his swaying gaze on Hector. "You look worse than me."

"You wish," Hector murmured instinctively, but the playful bite was missing. "You are barely keeping upright. Sit down at least." But Isaiah noted that Hector didn't move to help.

"You couldn't have caught it so quickly," Isaiah mused as he eased himself on the ground. Everything was spinning again and he was getting light-headed. His heart was fluttering and jumping painfully and he felt like he coud pass out any second. "What happened last night?"

Hector pressed his lips together together, hands balled into fists.

Isaiah's head pounded in synch with his heart as he tried to focus. The clarity from sleeping was leaving, his thoughts sticking together at random places. His heart made another painful flip.

"Your heartbeat is weird," Hector said suddenly, tilting his head in his direction.

"I noticed," Isaiah said dryly. He was getting frustrated. There was nothing he could do to help. Physically or mentally, he couldn't even grasp whatever the problem was. "It's fucking exhausting," he said quietly, face twisting as he rode out another flutter. His hands and feet were tingling.

Hector's eyes widened and he sprang to his feet this time. "All the more reason to get you back in bed. Come on."

Hector's hands were stiff and cold as he helped Isaiah back to his feet and to the room. Isaiah was barely registering at that point, the way back so much faster than his long stride to get there.

The whole time, Hector didn't look him in the face or meet his gaze. Something about his was closed off, upset, like knives under his skin. Hurting, but buried too deep to be visible.

Hector was about to hurry away from Isaiah's reach, knowing he couldn't follow a second time.

"Arnie looks like he is in pain," Isaiah croaked.

Hector stopped in his tracks, but didn't turn back.

"You look like you are too. Please. You gotta tell me what's wrong," Isaiah insisted, voice trailing away.

Hector's hand gripped the doorframe. It creaked from the force. "Go back to sleep and get better. That's enough."

Isaiah's eyes were burning and he knew it was from the fever and the constant fluttering pain. But not being able to help, solve or get involved? He could not imagine anything worse.

So he reached for his phone, thoughtfully prepared on the nightstand by Arnie.

...

"Is this the right place?" Seline asked, looking around even with her heavy bag filled with groceries. "It's such a fancy building."

"That's Wolfson pack for ya," Matthew grumbled. He was carrying two even bigger bags. "Definitely the right one. I can smell Hector all the way from here."

"Won't we get in trouble with his pack?"

Matthew took a careful breath through his nose. "He is the only wolf on the floor. They must be scared shitless to live any closer."

Seline nodded. That was good. Hector and Isaiah being on good terms was still not quite in the open, considering the truth about Isaiah's father wasn't known to the rest of the pack.

"I still can't believe he allowed us to come," Matthew said, eyebrows furrowed as they moved forward.

"He outright asked us," Seline said, agreeing with the sentiment. It was highly unusual for Isaiah. All the more because they have never been to Hector's and Arnie's place before.

She opened the door first since Matthew's hands were full and she wasn't sure about his reaction. Matthew and Hector could be considered allies, right? Since they have helped each other before and because of Isaiah...

Yeah, better she went first. No wolf would harm a witch. They could actually make use of that natural calming effect here.

A slim blond kid was just exiting the kitchen, when they came in. This had Hector jumping to his side that second.

They weren't expected then.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Hector growled at Matthew. He looked pale and sickly green. Like he was the one sick. It was a bit hard to take him seriously, stripped down to a white undershirt and shorts.

"Saving your sorry ass, as usual," Matthew said, puffing his chest out with a grin.

"I didn't ask you to-"

"Hey, you must be Arnie," Seline interjected, looking at the smaller blond. Arnie looked so much like Isaiah she was still gawking. Like a perfect mini-copy, minus the blond hair that was longer, more tousled and therefore wavy. His wide green eyes stirred something protective in her.

18 years old. Her brother Dylan was 19 and she knew the age didn't change anything about the teen being a big buff, but stupid and childish just the same. It was one trouble after another with him. But Arnie looked young. It made her heart ache to think Isaiah was this age when he left the pack behind.

"I'm Seline. Nice to meet you." She offered her hand hesitantly since she had to reach beside Hector to do so. "Isaiah told me so much about you."

Arnie looked a bit awed but took her hand. "Hello." He looked at Hector for directions like a lost puppy. The older put himself protectively between Matthew and Arnie, glaring daggers at the redhead.

Matthew shook his head. "Chill out, man. I wouldn't do anything to Isaiah's little brother."

"But to a random human kid you would?"

"Fuck you."

Hector growled.

"You are on his territory, you know," Arnie said quietly. "You shouldn't open your mouth at him like that."

Matthew narrowed his eyes at Arnie. "You are pretty mouthy yourself."

Arnie stood his ground, despite the wolf being much taller than him. His green eyes glinted with spite. "I'm not gonna cower in front of you just cause you have a shadow and a temper, mate.

Seline cleared her throat. That was worse than she expected. "Isaiah said we better come because you aren't doing so well." Both brothers seemed pale and strained to her.

"We are fine," Hector hissed. "We don't need help and we didn't call you and what the fuck is this supposed to mean-"

"It means you managed to stress Isaiah out. Again." It sounded like a joke, but Matthew's expression was anything but.

Hector's face reddened and he actually winced like he got punched. Arnie scowled. "Who do you think you are to-"

"Okay," Seline said. Matthew was way too protective and strung up to not react to Hector, who seemed way too unsteady on his feet to her. "Matt, would you be so nice and go check on Isaiah. Thank you."

It was strange to her that he was alone in the room while the two were roaming here. Something was off. "I got a bunch of groceries, so maybe one of you could show me where to put them?"

Matthew moved to sidestep Hector, but the other wolf didn't budge out of the way.

"Hector," Seline amended, kicking herself. All that stuff about hierarchies and shadows that Isaiah tried to explain came to her mind. "You guys have been doing a great job helping. Can we help too? You know how seconds get with their leaders out of commission." Nobody minded she was Isaiah's girlfriend and dying to go check on him herself. "May we?"

Hector huffed, but something in him deflated at the formulation, his shadow satisfied. Matthew quickly walked through to Isaiah's room, leaving her alone with the brothers.

"He's an asshole," Hector growled, then swayed and braced against the wall. One of his arms snaked around his stomach.

Seline frowned, not sure if she should call him out on it or not. "Hector-"

"I'm fine," he grumbled, no heat in his voice. Her witchy magical aura was doing its job. He didn't mind her talking back or being there. She wasn't sure if she would dare to come if that wasn't an effect she could count on. "Help Arnie, he's got a headache."

He turned away. Seline was about to ask more questions, but when she noticed he went into the bathroom, she stopped. She would check on him later.

"Headache or migraine?" Seline said, looking at Arnie. The kid was still pounting, looking between Isaiah's door and the bathroom where Hector had just disappeared to.

"You know about that too? Geez," Arnie said with a wince. "What groceries?"

Seline shrugged. "It sounded to me like Isaiah wanted you taken care of. I got things for a soup, meds, all kinds of things for stress, digestion, fever,...painkillers..." she said, looking at him.

Arnie sighed. "It's nothing. I'm used to it."

"What number?"

Arnie frowned at her. "How do you know about the numbers?"

"You are not the only one with migraines in the family. If it's just the onset of a migraine, maybe we could stop it from developing further. What about you lie down, get some painkillers, and relax? Would that be possible?"

Arnie shuffled his feet. "I should help Hector, he is..."

"Taking it hard, isn't he," Seline said gently. "I heard he gets sick when emotional."

"I don't know if I like that you know so much," Arnie said with a grimace.

"It's not my fault Isaiah can't shut up about you two," she said with a wink. She felt another wave of affection and protectiveness, looking at how undecided and lost Arnie was.

"Did you have any breakfast yet?"

Arnie looked away, hands going into his pockets. Was he boycotting her?

"You have been helping a lot, haven't you. But you won't help anyone if the headache gets into a full blown migraine, right?"

He looked at her sullenly then, biting into his cheek.

"You don't have to feel bad about it. Just let me take care of you so you can be back to worrying full stop. Did you have anything to eat yet?

Arnie shook his head no.

"Then maybe eating could also help with the sugar low. What are you in the mood for? Ham and eggs? Croissant? Cucumber salad?"

"Cucumber salad?"

"Just cut cucumbers and yogurt and salt. Best food for warm summer days."

When Arnie didn't immediately say no, she took it as a yes.

...

Isaiah couldn't really sleep. He just drifted in and out from a pained haze. There were flashes of memories and the faces of his brothers. A feeling of dread. His chest hurt, like something was pressing on it.

There were sounds coming from the door, but he wasn't sure he wasn't just dreaming it up.

Until light came from the opened door, the only source since the windows were covered.

"Hey, Zaya, don't pretend you are asleep, I can tell."

Isaiah opened his eyes at Matthew's playful tone, immense relief washing over him. "Hey."

Matthew invited himself inside, perching on the edge of the bed. "Dude, you look rough. It's somehow hitting you worse than me."

"I'm sorry I had to call you," Isaiah whispered, slowly lifting himself up on his arms.

"I'm sorry you caught the plague from me," Matthew said back, waving off his apology. "And I'm glad you called. I would be fucking pissed if you didn't, to be honest."

Isaiah snickered feebly, finally managing to sit up. The room was spinning again. His head felt floaty, like it was about to fall off.

"Okay, spill it. What's wrong and what can I do?"

"Oh, you know. Feverish, dizzy, scaring the crap out of everyone."

Matthew seemed to have picked up on how hard it was for Isaiah to move, cause he shifted out of the way, leg bent on the bed to be closer. "Still with the fever?"

"It's better. But I really wanna get out of here." He hung his head, blinking at the black spots in his vision. "Please."

"Man, if you aren't feeling good yet, we can just stay here. Don't think your two hosts are very eager to let you go."

Isaiah gulped down uneasily. "I never should have stayed. Shouldn't have come. They never should have seen me like this-"

"Zaya, come on. You can't give yourself such impossible goals. Everyone gets sick sometimes. They will get over it."

Isaiah fought hard against the pressure in his throat. "B-but they are so broken down by this - look at what it does to them." Arnie was on the edge of a migraine, Hector barely standing from how nauseous he felt, and neither being able to look him in the eye. "Must be so disappointing-"

"Cut that crap," Matthew said sternly. "They are not. You just scared them a little."

"Then let's leave here already," Isaiah all but whined, swaying forward. Matthew turned so Isaiah could lean into his side, taking his weight.

"Nope. I think this is good, actually. They need to see this. That you are human too." He draped his arm around Isaiah's sweaty back, pulling him closer. "Just maybe portion it a out little more next time."

Isaiah chuckled, then coughed when that limited his oxygen a bit more than he wanted. He pressed his forehead into Matthew's shoulder. His chest felt tight and he was dripping with sweat from how much his heart struggled to be visible and on his mind at all times.

"Your breathing is all off," Matthew said, eyebrows knitted together in concern. He rubbed Isaiah's arm up and down. "And why is your heart doing that?"

Isaiah clenched his jaw, plastering up a crooked smile. "That's a new one."

"I don't think you should be feverish for that long with...that."

Isaiah was just happy he could let go so completely in front of Matthew. He was basically slumped against him, the pressure from his chest and his breathing coming a little easier when upright.

"Anything I can do? Aside moving you, that is."

Isaiah took a shuddering breath, closing his eyes. He didn't understand this at all. It wasn't like Matthew could take away from the crushing pressure, the way his chest seized and let go or the tiredness of the fast pulse. But leaning against him like this, him being all concerned and eager to play a support pillar made it feel more manageable. Warmth was spreading over his chest and his hands weren't trembling so much anymore.

When Isaiah didn't say anything, Matthew sighed. The hand around his back went up into his hair, brushing the sweaty strands away from his face. A trickle of perspiration ran down the side of Isaiah's face. He shuddered at the sensation.

Matthew grabbed one of the drying up towels from the night and gently nabbed at his face and neck. "Christ, you are giving your body a run for it."

"Wasn't like this yesterday...chest hurts all over," he said quietly, daring to rub at his left side where his heart was pounding against the flesh and his skin with a vengeance.

"Okay, shhh. Relax. Breathe and relax, everything is fine."

"Feels like I'm gonna pass out. Since morning. Just..." he motioned at himself, hiding his face against the spot between Matt's neck and shoulder.

Matthew tensed, but his voice was steady. "Yeah, I got you, man. It's fine. You know if you feel like...passing out, then just...ehh...do it? I'm right here."

Isaiah had to smile a little at the reassurance. He turned his face to the side so he could breathe more freely, still leaning against Matthew's shoulder. He fisted his hand in Matthew's shirt like he could hold onto him when he started to fall.

"I hate seeing you like this," Matthew growled in frustration. "I wish there was something more to do. Like pills or something that would make it better."

"I'm inclined to agree with you today," Isaiah whispered, letting his eyes fall shut. Whether he fell unconscious or just asleep, he was too tired to fight it.

And he knew Matthew would be there either way.

...

"How is Arnie?" Hector said tiredly.

When Hector didn't immediately bite her head off, Seline slipped inside the bathroom, closing the door gently behind her. "I got him to eat, lay down and take some painkillers. If he manages to sleep, he will should feel better soon."

Hector peered at her with dull eyes. He was curled up on the floor, between the toilet and the bathtub. Sweat was beading on his big eyebrows and he was hugging his knees to himself.

She stood there awkwardly, watching him. She was not good with the soothing words and hand-holding. But she could be practical. "Did you throw up?"

Hector turned his head away. There was a long minute of silence where she could see the muscle in his jaw clenching and relaxing. "...No. Still feels like I might."

"Stomach hurts or just nauseous?"

He lay his head on top of his knees. "Kinda both."

"Okay." Selined went out and returned quickly with a small bottle of coke. "Take a sip of this."

He glared at her. "For real? Why?"

"Phosphoric acid, caffeine and sugar. All really good against nausea." Especially when it comes from the mind, she added to herself.

Hector gave her an indignant look, but she just knelt by his side, waiting. Finally, he took the bottle, screwing it open to take a small sip.

"There. It works like a charm, I swear."

"Not the kind of charm I expected," Hector grumbled. He tensed a little after the first sip, but then relaxed and took a few more.

"Ice cream also helps. I got a bland one with me." When Hector gave her another weirded out look, she shrugged. "Something about the coldness is soothing."

Hector uncurled his legs, taking more daring sips from the coke as he leaned against the wall.

"You know," Hector said after a while, "this is a pretty crude invasion of privacy."

Seline sighed. "Look. I can leave you alone if you prefer, but sometimes just having someone around helps. Mind if I sit with you for a bit?"

Hector was quiet again, before clenching his teeth together and giving a tiny little nod.

Seline suppressed a smile and sat down on the floor next to him. She stretched out her hand. "If you want, you know, the witchy kinda help..."

It wasn't entirely comfortable to be touching a strange wolf and she would be having contact with his shadow...which was pretty damn intimate kind of contact. But she knew the magic in her skin was humming to him, that he was able to react more calmly around her and if the contact itself helped clear his head and stop feeling so shitty...she was willing.

Hector recoiled from her. "No." He balled his hands into fists, glaring angrily at the opposite wall.

He was upset, but suppressed his shadow's reaction. He was polite or brought up strictly enough to not take a witch's offer of contact lightly, even though his shadow must have been singing to touch her.

Seline could tell he had a temper going and he was quick to raise to Matt's provocations, but his shadow never moved. He was more like Isaiah that way.

Seline settled more comfortably against the wall, wondering what else to say. Silence was a good tool though. People were so uncomfortable with it they often started talking just to fill it.

"I'm so lame, aren't I," Hector said into the quiet echoing off the bathroom tiles. "He is sick and I'm-" he broke off, pressing his closed fist against his forehead.

Seline didn't say anything, mirroring his position of hugging her knees and watching him with bright blue eyes.

"During...during the fever, he got scared. Of me," Hector admitted, talking slowly. "And I get it. He doesn't have a reason to trust me. I was the one who-...but he acts like he does and he shouldn't, cause I don't deserve it anyway." His throat bobbed audibly at the end and he pressed his lips together tightly.

"Are you upset he trusts you or that he doesn't?"

Hector shook his head, head leaning more against the wall as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't- he shouldn't be even giving me a chance."

Seline leaned her head back just as he did, looking at the wall, parallel to his gaze.

She was starting to see the trick. Hector figured out a balance of not letting his shadow go, but expressing his feelings openly. It was completely different from Matt or Isaiah. Expecially in contrast to the latter, it was very refreshing.

"Your shadow," she said. "You are angry, but it doesn't react. Matthew can't do it. Usually, his emotions and shadow are too tightly linked."

Hector's forehead creased as he opened his eyes. "What?"

"But I still trust him. Love him, you know? It's not like that stops just because you make a mistake."

"That was the biggest mistake of my life."

"Well, at least you can make sure you won't do it again," she said.

"But what if I don't deserve another chance?" Hector whispered.

"I don't believe that's your call. He should decide if you are worth the effort. And he obviously decided you are. Don't doubt what strength he puts into that choice."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Don't leave him. Don't do it again. Act like you deserve his trust until you do." She looked at him and added more gently: "Prove it to him and to yourself."

Hector met her gaze steadily, before breaking off with a sudden burst of hoarse laugh. "Jesus, that's heavy literature. Do you have an answer for everything?"

"Well..." she blushed, looking away. "You asked."

[whumpninja]

whumper who’s actually whumpee’s boss (it’s me I’m whumpee)

[heretoobsessstuff]

WIP/last line tag

I was tagged by @rangerelizabeth @valstarsandgalaxies @alienoresimagines and @anavilante thank uuuu! Im sorry im doing this a bit late, i am getting punched repeatedly in the gut by school! But here’s a little snippet of the gale whump fic im working on :)

*

The world around him was a hazy blur. The breath in his lungs caught as panic clawed at him. His were already moving on their own accord, carrying him toward Gale. He dropped to his knees beside him, his hands shaking as he grasped Gale’s cold, clammy fingers, trying to anchor himself to something solid.

It was a mess. The right side of his flight suit was torn open, a jagged, deep gash running from his ribs to his waist. The skin around it was raw and shredded, blood pouring from the wound in slow, steady streams. The scent of it—iron and copper—filled the air, thick and suffocating. Gale’s leg was twisted, bent unnaturally at the knee, the bone visibly fractured beneath the fabric . John’s throat closed up.

"You’re good," he whispered, voice rough, too tight. The words felt like a prayer. He wasn’t sure who he was saying it for—Gale, or himself. They didn’t feel real, but they spilled out anyway, a desperate mantra.

Gale’s eyes were barely open, glazed with pain and confusion, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that echoed in John’s ears. His chest was barely rising, like it took every ounce of strength just to suck in air. John’s heart pounded harder, a frantic beat that echoed in his skull. The world around them felt too quiet, too still, despite the chaos of the ambulances and the crew approaching them from a distance. All he could hear was the awful sound of Gale struggling to breathe.

"You’re good, Gale. You’re good." The words came again, but this time, they sounded hollow, even to John. His gut was filled with white hot panic as he looked behind him, waiting for someone to come. Anyone. He squeezed Gale’s hand harder. The air was filled with the smell of smoke and soot. It was suffocating him.

Gale blinked slowly, his lips parting, a ragged, choked sound escaping his throat as he tried to speak. "I–I didn’t—"

"Shh, don’t talk. Just breathe, alright?" John interrupted, his voice trembling. He forced himself to look at Gale’s body again, searching, scanning, looking for something to soothe. To help with. His hands settled on Gale’s side where the blood had seeped and soaked his uniform. Gale’s breathing was a struggle, and every wheeze felt like he might stop every second.

*

This is getting way longer than i intended lol. Let me know what yall think 🤭

Tagging @joeyalohadream @majorbuckyegan @feyd-meowtha if they want!! No pressure!! Sorry if you’ve done it already ❤️‍🩹

[forwhump]

a/n; :’) I was actually looking for smth caretaking (@ chi if you see this I deleted your ask but I won’t forget I promise !!!) but I found this instead & tbh it’s just kind of a banger so here we are (I also found a fun one that’s just wren literally holding silas’ head onto his body but is that postable ??? I guess we’ll see)

I forgot how much fun the wren pov folder is so big shoutout to the anon who asked for it im having a great time !! & obviously thank you all of y’all you who read my nonsense for coming along for the ride :’)

(fun fact !: the reason Point is called Point is because of the cane he has in this one that I don’t know if I’ve posted about before LOL in the big grand scheme of things it’s almost a reoccurring character)(he calls it “little debbie” if you were wondering)

tw/cw: implied noncon, graphic depictions of violence, caning, skinning, grievous bodily harm, mutilation, misgendering, transphobia, dehumanization, slut shaming, humiliation, point’s daddy kink, major character death (but he dies all the time it’s kind of a thing)

living weapon whumpee, creepy whumper (it’s point again idk he’s not NOT creepy)(he makes wren call him daddy)

There isn’t a lot of Silas that’s still human.

It haunts Wren more than he’s willing to admit.

It sits on his chest, a dead weight. He dreams of getting out of here, of seeing the sunlight again, his mother, his friends, and it’s hard to superimpose Silas into those dreams; Silas, who shares more in common with Michelangelo’s David than any human man.

He’s a weapon crafted from violence and stone, but the parts of him that are still human are so human that Wren aches for him. He thinks of himself as a violent dog, but Wren knows him better than that — he’s reactive. He’s protective. He loves with a ferocity that Wren barely understands.

The way he bleeds is human.

Silas thinks of his own blood as tainted, but Wren knows better than that. His blood is all human. His pain, as well.

He roars and it’s an animal sound, but the look on his face is entirely human. The way his chin drops to his chest and he shudders with blood loss is all human, nothing else.

Wren tries to scream but Gore has a gloved hand clamped firmly over his mouth. He shakes against Wren’s back every so often, bouts of laughter at his expense.

It’s inhuman, is what this is. There isn’t a lot of Silas left that’s still human, but he’s still so much more human than any of these men, these soldiers. They crowd Wren’s room, they block the doorway, they have Silas on his knees in a puddle of his own blood, growing too quickly, covering too much of the floor. They hold a buck knife to Wren’s throat so Silas doesn’t fight them. Not once.

He kneels on the concrete. Point has this cane, long and crafted from iron, heavy and barbed lethally on one end. He swings it again, and the barbs snag the sensitive flesh beneath Silas’ Adam’s apple and tear it right out of his throat.

Silas doesn’t roar this time, he just gurgles, low and pained. It makes Point laugh — that rasping, dead leaves sound that somehow passes as laughter. Almost jovial, he swings his cane around to point the end of it at Wren, but then he isn’t smiling anymore. “Whore,” he says, and he enunciates very carefully. He whips around to swing at Silas again and the jagged hooks of metal catch on the puckered hollow of his empty eye socket. Silas makes a rasping sound, probably as much of a roar as he can manage, and Point grins like a cartoon supervillain and rips Silas’ eyelid off his face.

Wren thrashes and Gore’s chest rumbles with laughter as he holds him a little closer.

“I warned you,” Point says, and he’s speaking to Wren but he throws his cane at Silas again, rips a chunk of flesh and muscle off his chest, “no dogs on the bed.” The barbed end of the cane sinks next into the hollow beneath Silas’ sternum. A noise is knocked out of Silas like nothing Wren has ever heard. Point has to brace a boot against his chest to pry the cane free, and he’s particular about shoving it deep into the skinned meat of his ribcage as he wrenches it out of his flesh with a sound like suction.

“But you just can’t keep your legs closed, can you, cowgirl?” Point asks, sickeningly conversational as he swings his cane again, peeling the muscle of Silas’ bicep clean away from the bone in his arm. “You just can’t help yourself. You’ll even let the dog fuck you.”

The heat burns in Wren’s face, blistering.

Point grins at him, grotesque. “Good girls don’t fuck dogs,” he says. “Whores fuck dogs. What does that make you, baby?”

Silas makes a low noise, kind of groan, still disturbingly wet. Point looks down at him quickly. Sometimes the way he moves is sickening, unsettling, too jerky to be human. It’s cruel, but it’s also just unfair; this evil marionette, wearing the skin of a man, gets to carve a place for himself in the outside world, and Silas doesn’t?

Point’s grin stretches across his face, each time more grotesque than the last. “What was that, boy?” He asks, and cups a hand behind his ear. “I think Lassie’s trying to tell me something.”

Silas makes another rumbling groan of a sound and Point leans in a bit closer. “Your girlfriend’s a filthy whore?” He mocks. “I think so, too.”

His one arm, bicep severed, is limp at his side, but his other arm is still functional, and Silas is strong. Wren doesn’t think he can even quite grasp how strong Silas actually is. With his other hand, he grabs Point by the windpipe with so much force Point’s face changes colour three times in less than a second; red, then blue, then purple.

Point croaks, which makes Silas grin. Wren sobs.

Letting the cane start to slide through his hand, Point curls his fingers around the middle, sturdy, before he cracks the barbed end into the inside of Silas’ elbow with all his weight. It sinks all the way through flesh and viscera, and when Point pries it free again, he peels the skin off his forearm, a flap of bloody tissue that sways at Silas’ wrist.

Silas snarls as Point quickly covers his bruised throat with his other hand. That marionette grin is gone, replaced by the simmering rage he always keeps boiling just beneath the surface. “Fucker,” he spits.

He doesn’t kick him, not really, so much as he cracks the bottom of his boot into Silas’ face and puts all his weight into it. Blood sprays from Silas in an explosion of clotted red mist and Point spits on him, fuming. “No dogs on the bed,” he snaps. “I won’t keep repeating myself.” He swings his cane back over his shoulder, looking at Wren, too close and too intense. The way Point looks at him has always made him shudder. “And you,” he says, softer, in the sickly sweet mocking he reserves just for him, that rage flickering on his face. “Why won’t you just behave?”

Wren scowls at him from beneath Gore’s hand, but he’s crying and he’s helpless and it only makes Point grin, wide and mean.

“If you don’t smarten up, cowgirl,” he says, “I will put your dog down. I’m not playing with you anymore. I will put it down, carve it open, and fuck you in its carcass. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

He scowls again, but his eyes are burning.

Point lifts his chin at Gore, who’s hand slides from over Wren’s mouth to around his neck. Point grins at him. “Say it.”

Wren doesn’t. He opens his mouth and the best he can do is a sob.

Point raises his eyebrows. “What did I just say?” He asks sharply. “Say it.”

Wren tries to look away but Point grabs him by the jaw, forcing his face up, forcing Wren to look at him as he whispers, just barely, “yes, daddy.”

Point pats his cheek twice. “Giddyup.” He motions at Gore, who drops Wren into an ungraceful pile on the concrete. With a whistle, he angles his head towards the door, and his men start to file out of the cramped space of Wren’s bedroom. Point lingers last in the doorway, watching Wren pull himself up from the floor. “If I find out you fucked this thing again,” he reminds him, “I’ll fix it, and I’ll make you swallow its testicles. Y’hear?”

Wren doesn’t consider himself a particularly violent person, especially not amongst such violent people. Point, though — Point brings out something in Wren that Wren is almost ashamed of. Point makes him violent. Wren had never wondered what it would feel like to crush a human head until he met him.

But Silas’ blood is seeping through Wren’s joggers, warming his skin, so he’s good. For Silas’ sake, he’s good. “Yes,” he whispers, “daddy.”

Point winks at him as he leaves. Wren wants to watch him die.

Before the door has even closed completely behind him, Wren lurches closer to Silas, kneeling in a pool of blood so thick it isn’t red, but a sickening, shimmering black, an oil spill.

“Hey,” Wren breathes, cradling Silas’ face, almost impossibly gentle. “Hey.” Carefully, he lifts his chin from his chest.

Silas looks like a scene from a horror movie. Half of his face had been stripped to raw meat and his empty eye socket is leaking a sick, yellow fluid. The bone of his cheek and his jaw on one side have been stripped completely of meat and muscle, a sickening flash of bone beneath the gore, a bit too white to be entirely natural. He looks at Wren, and he looks dazed.

Wren thumbs slowly over a bloody cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Silas opens his mouth like he wants to speak and vomits blood all down the front of Wren’s chest and his lap. Wren makes an involuntary sound, something panicked, a hiccup. Silas must mistake it for disgust, because he tries to pull away, he tries to lift his head on his own. “M’sorry,” he slurs, so wet Wren can barely understand him, “m’okay,” and he isn’t, his skin is hanging from his meat in bloody ribbons and he can barely hold up his own head, but he’s speaking, however wet, he’s breathing, his heart is beating, he’s alive. He’s bleeding and he’s hurting but he’s alive. He’s okay. He’ll be okay.

Wren is gentle as he bats away Silas’ hands, reaching back up for him, cradling his face. “Silas,” he says softly. Silas blinks down at him, something dazed, maybe dizzy, and vomits again with a pained, gurgling cough.

They’d come in the middle of the night, Point and his favourite men, all his most cruel soldiers. Wren doesn’t need to guess to know exactly why they’d come to see him, or why Point was so furious to find Silas already there. They’d been sleeping — Wren can’t sleep if Silas isn’t with him, and Point is the reason why. He’s more scared of Silas than he likes to admit or than he wants his men to realize, and it makes him deranged. It makes him violent.

He’d woken Silas in the middle of the night by opening his gut with the barbed end of his cane. Silas, who didn’t do anything wrong. Silas, who didn’t do anything but indulge Wren and sleep beside him.

They can’t get to medical in the middle of the night. There’s nobody at the door to let them through. Point and his team have watch tonight, and if Wren were to hit a panic button, nobody would answer him. They’d punished Silas and left him alone to bleed.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes again.

Silas has his good cheek leaned hard against the palm of Wren’s hand. There isn’t a lot of Silas that’s still human, but there are parts of him that are, and Wren can see one of those parts in his face, in the very slight crease of pain between his eyebrows. Silas would never complain, and especially not to Wren. For a long time, Wren didn’t think he was even capable of feeling pain — it was Medic that told him otherwise. Silas feels pain, and the way he feels it is almost entirely human. He has no special tolerance. He’s desensitized.

But his head is leaned hard against Wren’s palm and Wren can’t imagine how heavy it must be. He can’t imagine what it’s taking for Silas to hold himself up.

Still, Silas slurs, “m’okay.”

He isn’t. He vomits again, blood that’s getting darker and darker in colour. His head kind of sways against Wren’s hand, and he doesn’t open his eye before he throws up more blood, too dark, too quickly.

“Silas?” Wren breathes.

He coughs, and he throws up more blood. Too much blood.

“Hey,” Wren says softly, touching his cheek, a little firmer.

There’s just enough of Silas left in him that he lurches away so he doesn’t crush Wren with his weight when he collapses, face first, to the concrete. His blood is everywhere, pooling on the uneven ground, and Wren can hear the way it bubbles, sickening, beneath Silas’ face as he gurgles for breath and vomits more blood, acidic amongst the oil spill, dull amongst the shimmer.

“Hey,” Wren breathes, and his voice breaks. He kneels quickly next to him, putting a hand at his back, slick with blood. “Silas.”

It happens really quickly. It happens so quickly. Silas stops heaving. The pool beneath him stops bubbling. His back stills beneath Wren’s hand. All at once.

“Silas?”

And he dies, skinned, on the floor of Wren’s bedroom.

He’s dead for all of three minutes before Point returns. He’s grinning.

[little-peril-stories]

Why does recent media keep trying to convince me that I need to have an OC who almost gets burned at the stake?

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

When I find myself in times of trouble, South Park comes to me, speaking words of wisdom,

Whump the boys.

[ryahisbored]

“Do it again.”

“I ca… can’t…”

“You’re doing it until it runs out or you physically can’t. Now,” He kicked the bucket towards her, “freeze it again.”

Ari wished she could shiver to warm herself up, her entire body was frozen light blue and the moisture on her skin was frozen. The room was freezing. They were far enough under the ground that it was a cool cave but full of ice and cold water to cool it down further. She almost guaranteed there was magic at play as well, but she didn’t want to think about who was chained up somewhere else to make that happen. The triton hugged herself, trying to keep some kind of warmth in so she could stay conscious, but it wasn’t working. 

The chain around her wrists was yanked forward until her hands were on the bucket again. “Freeze it,” the man said coldly. She finally noticed the bat in his hand, and focused her hands cold once again, fingertips barely touching the surface of the water. 

After a minute, once the water was frozen again and she peeled a bit of skin off the surface of the ice, her body was colder than it had been since the blizzard. She could barely see or think through how painful everything felt. Panic welled up in her chest and tears froze on her face — she just wanted to do better than last time. The bucket was taken away and another full of water was placed in front of her. 

“No… no more… I can’t—” The man took the bat and quickly smashed the chain into the ground, sending a shock of pain and awful vibration up her arms. Her brain couldn’t even process what had happened fast enough, and her groan of pain was delayed. A bucket of ice and cold water was thrown over her back. The room started to blur together. 

“Again.”

Ari wasn’t going to fight anymore, but she was going to fight to stay awake. She owed herself that, even if it was just practice for next winter. Cold rushed fast this time, freezing the water quickly and bringing that old pain into her chest. She yanked away from the water and curled in on herself again. The pain built, and she could barely see another bucket placed in front of her before pain shot through her head and everything went black.

[yourinterestisnotcringe]

"Codependents lack enough emotional stability and willpower to overcome the soul-crushing feeling of being lonely, the fear of being left behind. And it just so happens that some of them become serial killers together: them vs. the world."

[Serial Killers I. Hecox & A. Padilla AU]

scenario 0: the foundation, ca. '05

[other au moodboards]

(x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. inspired by my talks with @smoshidiot x)

[theherosvillain]

In the worst kind of way (Angel arc part 2)

Part 1 - (TNT)KAYF masterpost - Part 3

Contains: kidnapping, captivity, torture, blood, knives

When the door opened again, Vale was on his feet in an instant. “Ah,” Angel said from the doorway, sounding amused, “you got the ropes off. Good for you! I don’t think it’ll help …” She flicked a glance over at the henchmen behind her, more of them than there had been before. “But good for you, Axton! Truly impressive.” Vale narrowed his eyes, waiting for her to get to the point. “Anywho, it occurred to me that your adorable son there might need some medical attention, and I know just how you can earn it.” She leveled her razor-sharp grin at Vale. “You take his place in the next beating.” He bristled, and her eyes lit up with delight as she added, “Or, if you don’t want to, I’m sure Junior can handle a few more hits, right?”

He couldn’t. Vale needed Phantom in working condition if they were going to get out of here. Another beating might knock him out completely, and then he’d only be a liability. “I’ll do it,” Vale said.

“Vale!” Phantom hissed.

Vale didn’t look back at him, but his mouth turned down. “This isn’t a discussion, Phantom.” Not that that had ever stopped him from protesting.

“Aww, isn’t that sweet. He actually cares about you, Axton.” Angel held her lips in a sympathetic pout for a moment before hooking a thumb over her shoulder. “Let’s go, kiddo. Unless you don’t want any painkillers?”

There was a long pause—long enough for Vale to worry that Phantom was, as usual, thinking with his heart instead of his head. Then he heard a rustle of fabric and a hiss of pain that told him Phantom was getting to his feet. As he shuffled forward, he paused by Vale’s side. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.

Vale set his jaw. “Go, Phantom.” If Angel had kept her word before, then he was reasonably certain that she would give Phantom medical attention. That was the part he focused on as he watched Phantom warily approach the door.

Two of Angel’s men took Phantom’s shoulders. As they guided him past Angel, she reached over and ruffled his hair. “Good boy!” Phantom flinched, his ears going red. Vale gritted his teeth as the men escorted Phantom out of the room. When Angel turned to him once more, he kept his eyes straight ahead. “And now, for you.”

Angel’s fist collided with his ribs with surprising speed, and he brought up his arms to defend himself as he doubled over in pain. She grabbed a fistful of his hair to yank him upright. “I forgot to mention,” she whispered, her lips close enough to brush his ear. “If you struggle too much, I will bring him back here and personally break every bone in his fucking body.” She angled his head to get a good look at his expression before patting him on the cheek. “So I suggest you behave yourself, m’kay?”

He wouldn’t have dignified her with a response, but she didn’t give him the chance. Her knuckles clipped his jaw, and then the punches didn’t stop coming.

The last time Vale was hit like this had to have been years ago, back when he was new to Jet City and not yet established in his power. Even back then, he’d managed to avoid the worst of the violence. He’d been good at deescalating. Even if he’d wanted to use that skill here, he doubted it would’ve helped him.

His back hit the floor, and Angel’s ridiculous, chunky boot pressed down on his chest. He grabbed her ankle, and she made a tsking sound. “Remember what I said?” He glared at her, slowly bringing his arms back down to his sides, and his chest constricted with the weight on his sternum. “See? You can listen—when you’re not being a goddamn brat.” She cocked her head, and Vale held her gaze. It was a dominance game; Phantom had been right about that. She could do what she wanted, but Vale wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of cracking.

The sudden, prolonged stillness was unnerving, though. Her eyes bored into him like she could crucify him with the intensity of her absurdly dark eyeshadow. “You haven’t said a word yet,” she murmured. “I’d like to change that.” Without breaking eye contact, she pulled out a switchblade and flicked it open, watching him like a hawk for a flinch. He didn’t give it to her.

She straddled his hips, pinning his hands under her knees, and yanked him up by his tie. “Aren’t you scared, Axton?” Her face was inches from his, so close he could smell spearmint on her breath. The blade caressed his carotid artery, soft enough to elicit a shudder. She tilted her head. “Sometimes I wish your men had just killed me, after what they did. But I think this was worth sticking around for.” The knife dipped beneath his shirt collar, drawing a bead of blood. “Answer me—are you scared?”

“Of you?” he sneered.

Her face split into a grin as she ghosted the knife across his Adam’s apple. “Careful, love,” she said. “You’re not the one in charge here. And if you refuse to answer, I think I’ll have to count that as struggling.” With one hand, she began undoing his tie, threading it out from beneath his shirt collar before she popped the top few buttons, leaning in close. “Are you scared, Axton?”

The blade dipped into the hollow of his throat before slicing the neck of his undershirt. He drew in a measured breath. “N-No.”

Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Very convincing. Such a stoic little mob boss.” She tapped the tip of his nose with her finger, then trailed down to his torn undershirt and ripped it further open, exposing his chest. The knife’s tip sank in beneath his collarbone. She grabbed his chin and tilted it up. “How about now?”

He set his jaw. “N—”

The knife carved a straight line down his chest. Blood oozed out, seeping into his crisp white shirt. “What was it you said that night?” she asked, drumming her fingers against his jaw. The knife reset itself at the top of the first line and sliced an arc next to it. “That you don’t appreciate liars?”

He might have said that. It was something he reiterated often; he dealt with far too many dishonest people. But he didn’t remember that night, and when Angel had first sauntered into this room, he was certain he’d never seen her before in his life. If she had a problem with the way he did business, she wasn’t alone. The only thing unique about her was that she didn’t seem afraid of what would happen when the tables inevitably turned on her.

“Do you get it now?” The knife drew an inverted V and slowly carved a line through it. Blood gushed out. Not enough to be fatal, Vale knew; just enough to cause pain. “Do you fucking get what you put people through? What you put me through?”

“W-Whatever it was,” Vale said, his molars aching as they ground against one another, “you deserved it.”

Angel laughed, high and loud. The noise made him wince. She brought the knife down to make two little cuts between the shapes she’d drawn, and belatedly, he realized what they were. D.A. Danielle Angel. She grinned, the knife clattering to the floor. “Alright, well,” she said lightly, pressing her thumb into the wound, “have fun explaining this to your lovers.” Then she leaned in and whispered, “That is, if I let you leave here alive.” She drew her thumb, slick with blood, down his chest. When it came up red, she licked it clean and took up the knife again.

-

Title credits: Just One Yesterday - Fall Out Boy

(TNT)KAYF Tag List: @toyybox

[mumblingsage]

I'm reading my second Sherrilyn Kenyon book and it's giving me lots of thoughts I'll be sure to blog about next time I want to fire a rent-lowering gunshot.

(Not the highest priority but the one that communicates the most flavor in one sentence: "She really took the coward's way out by not letting the hero's trauma give him ED.")

[adrift-in-thyme]

@cal-the-duende You wanted a whumptober snippet? I posted one yesterday (it’s hidden in the reblogs of my post) but I’ll happily share another ;)

Red thinks for a moment, then holds two fingers in front of Wild’s face. Try as he might, he can’t quite still their trembling. But it doesn’t matter if anyone sees. Not now, with his friend so severely wounded. And besides, he wants to help in any way that he can.

“How many fingers am I holding up, champion?”

Wild blinks mismatched pupils, trying and failing to focus on the appendages. After a moment, he snickers.

“Four.” He starts to giggle. “Like–like you. Four Fours.”

[writing-whump]

Unseen wounds

This is a mix of several ideas, but especially ☕️-nonny's request for Arnie in the hospital with a concussion and Hector and Isaiah meeting there after the former has been avoiding him. Lots of brotherly angst. Thanks for the ideas! :D

Isaiah was nervous about leaving the apartment.

But Rip seemed fairly stable, tentatively trying out vegetable broths. Dylan wouldn't leave his side and the presence of the wolfing seemed to have amazing influence. Rip's shadow was simply trusting with him.

Seline sat close by the two boys for a good measure. Her initial apprehension disappeared as she watched the immediate and obvious effect of her presence working on Rip's upset shadow. The way the boy's shoulders sagged and his frown eased was too hard to miss, even if he was still in pain.

The way Seline looked both in awe and torn about the revelation had Isaiah's heart squeezing. He knew she never really got into touch with what her magic could do for wolves, but now she seemed bothered by it. Made him wonder what he could do.

Maybe he could take her see one of the Big Three's training grounds. Show her what other effects she could have.

Matthew kept his distance. He was both, very aware of the boy's injury and his upset shadow and how much more upset it could get with him around.

The further he was from him the more consideration he was showing.

Isaiah could see it was painful for him though. Both the reminder of who Rip was as a stray at their mercy, the state of his shadow Matthew understood so well, and that he couldn't be helping in a more specific tangible way.

Isaiah had not expected Matthew's compassion though. As if the vulnerability Rip was forced into by the injury stirred his protective instincts. Something he couldn't play out fully with Isaiah or Seline with their whole independence issues.

Instead of Matt's shadow being angry and territorial like it was with Caleb, it was vengeful and angry for Rip. Quiet but constant growling came from his chest and although he didn't dare approach, he kept circling around the room like caged, in perfect symmetry.

Isaiah's own torn feelings didn't help the matter.

He checked the trio once more in the room and went out, reminding everyone with a message to call him immediately if something was up.

But he had a breakfast scheduled with Arnie at their favourite coffee shop in the center. It was a welcome distraction.

Isaiah decided to walk there. He could take the car or the tram or the metro just down the street but the crisp morning air before the heat hit was refreshing and to be enjoyed.

There weren't many people up either, though he was sure it would soon start to crawl with tourists.

He reached the park in half an hour, opting for a bench with view of the coffee shop so he could spot Arnie right away. Better they ordered at the same time.

The park was filled with dogs and their owners, also using the early hour to get things done. Isaiah didn't mind dogs. With his shadow pulled back as tightly as it was, they didn't show any agression towards him, even coming by for a stroking with a wiggling tail.

The clock kept ticking. Arnie fancied himself a couple minutes or even quarter an hour late at times, easily losing track of time when styling his hair.

But after 20 minutes past, Isaiah started to get a bit annoyed. He kept glancing at his watch and at the coffee house as if his glare would materialise Arnie at the spot from thin air.

He looked at his phone. No messages, no missed calls, no notifications. What the hell.

This wasn't good. He wanted to keep busy, focus on someone. Not think back at the drama happening in the last two weeks since Dylan brought the torn up kid to their home.

Since hearing Rip's story, seeing how agressive his shadow was and who it decided to protect...he couldn't help feeling for the boy. Both in facing a father he couldn't defeat in time, broken in the worst way. But with such a strong fighting spirit, with such a burning will to live, while feeling guilty for it.

Rip's problem wasn't that he couldn't get the hang of his shadow. It was that he felt too in danger for too long. Strung up too tightly. He could not see wolves or humans as nothing short of threats.

Isaiah knew how he could help with this. But a shadow this experienced to fight and personality this betrayed and distrusting? Rip wasn't ready to accept help or charity for free.

Isaiah also wouldn't have believed kindness could be real after he left. For a very long time everything had to have a price to make sense. He could see the same kind of thinking mirrored in Rip.

Almost an hour since the meeting time with Arnie.

Isaiah dialed his number, annoyed he let his thoughts get away from him before doing so.

Arnie didn't pick up.

Isaiah's first next step would be to call Hector, but his finger hovered over his number.

Something was going on with that too. Hector wasn't picking up his calls or reacting to his messages. When Isaiah called to excuse himself from the weekend meeting, since Rip was still to unstable to be safely left alone.

But Isaiah wanted to talk about the whole discovery of him and about the state of strays and rumors and...and just check if things were still the same. He wanted to face Hector now, healthy and recovered. Get back to where they were, forgetting the sick night in the process.

No such luck. Hector wasn't even giving him that chance.

Isaiah sighed, the movement jostling his finger over the number just enough to make the call. Oh well. Worth a try.

The call kept ringing and ringing and just when Isaiah was about to hang up, Hector answered.

"Hello?" His voice sounded strained, tired.

"Hey, do you know where Arnie is? We were supposed to meet an hour ago." Isaish tried hard not to sound too miffed. Did the kid oversleep?

"Ah, right," Hector said, clearing his throat. "Arnie was in an accident on the way. We are at the hospital right now."

...

"I'm telling you, I'm okay," Arnie said with annoyance. To his credit, his voice was strong, but the hospital gown, the thick bandage around his head or his pale face didn't make it convincing.

"It was a bike?" Isaiah said incredulously.

"Yep. Way more dangerous than cars in Vienna. Cars always stop when you even turn towards the street. But a biker will take you down, as if he was the freaking king of the road everyone shoul—" Arnie winced at his own voice, leaning back with a grimace.

"Don't work yourself up." Isaiah sat down beside him, patting his hand. He rushed to the hospital in a panic that made the road there blurry and forgettable. The fear he felt at the words Arnie and hospital was so icy and intense it reached all the way to his bones.

Hector was there. Of course. He was the one Arnie called with a bleeding and confused head, while bystanders called for an ambulance. In the confusion no one thought to call Isaiah.

Hector got up from Arnie's side at Isaiah's arrival, facing the window resolutely. Isaiah wanted to shake him.

"Seriously. It doesn't hurt that bad. Migraines are a lot worse. This is nothing," Arnie said. For some reason there were dark bruise like circles under his eyes and he seemed shaken, hands all jittery.

"What did the doctor say?" Isaiah couldn't help keeping his hand on Arnie's forearm. His pulse was quick under his touch.

Arnie looked towards Hector expectantly, but when no reply came, he said: "Mild concussion. Head wounds just bleed a lot, it looks all dramatic. They would like to keep me for 24 hours for observation though." He said the last part with a disappointed scowl.

"That's okay. Better to be safe than sorry. And you will be nicely pampered around here, food in bed, TV...anything I can bring you from home?"

Arnie shrugged, winced at the movement again and gingerly leaned back against the cushions. "I can't really...focus on anything. Looking at my phone hurts," the blond said sheepishly.

"That will clear up in no time." Isaiah reached over, brushing Arnie's hair from the bandage. He could smell where about the wound was, the coppery scent stronger on the kid's left side. "What about some sleep?"

Arnie nuzzled his face into Isaiah's hand, closing his eyes. "Uhmmm...maybe. But it's like 10 in the morning."

"So what? Bleeding takes energy out of you."

"Hmmm...you'll stay here?" Arnie's head lolled to the side, towards his oldest brother.

Isaiah chuckled softly, resting his hand on Arnie's shoulder. "Course."

There was an annoyed huff at that and stomping of feet as Hector turned away from the window and grumbled himself out of the room.

Isaiah's lips twisted. "Any ideas what's that about?"

Arnie made a vague sound, but his eyes slipped shut and Isaiah wasn't about to disturb him.

...

Isaiah only left when a nurse came to check on Arnie, checking the little beeping noises and the IV.

He wasn't happy to leave him alone, so he needed to get this handled as soon as possible.

Hector didn't go far, either. The older blond was in the hallway, elbow leaned against the windowsill, with a frown so deep and angry that the whole world should be catching fire from it by now.

"So what exactly is your problem?" Isaiah said. Hector wanted to be angry? Two could play that game.

Hector's head jerked at his voice, but he didn't turn back. "Am not."

"You could have called me sooner, you know? It’s kinda mean to leave me out."

Hector leaned both his elbows on the windowsill, back against the view. "Oh christ, you had to wait for a couple of minutes, big deal—"

"It is a big deal, when one of you is hurt," Isaiah said sternly. "And I want you to spill what's going on with you."

Hector set his jaw tightly, glaring at the wall, only his side towards Isaiah.

They waited in tense silence, a battle of wills.

Isaiah deflated. "Fine. Keep it. But we are not going to fight in front of Arnie. If you—" he swallowed heavily. "If you are gonna be this miserable with me around, perhaps we should take turns? I can go pick some stuff for him and then we can switch and you can take a break or something. One of us should take the night shift and then we'll change in the morning—"

Hector's bushy eyebrows went up, surprise taking over the annoyance. "What? No, you don't have to—"

"You can't even stand to look at me. I'm not gonna stress Arnie out in his state, he is sensitive about it as it is."

Isaiah never should have let that night happen. That was clear now. He shouldn't have come when he felt tired and sluggish. He shouldn't have let Arnie and Hector take care of him, he shouldn't have let them see him like that.

Not if it led to this outcome. To Hector loathing him so much.

Isaiah leveled Hector with a look, green eyes flashing. "It's about that night, isn't it? I understand you are disappointed, but acting like this around Arnie is just irresponsible."

"Disappointed?" Hector unglued himself from the window to face Isaiah, shaking his head, hand running through his hair. "It's not—that's not what this is about. Just...just let me explain."

Isaiah waited. He felt frozen again, Executioner mask on, emotions in a gnarly little knot pushed back safely.

Hector's face went all red and contorted. He was usually so in the face about things, whatever was giving him trouble was downright suffocating.

"It's not that I'm disappointed, for Christ's sake. It's that I'm ashamed." The blond wolf looked down at his feet. "You probably don't remember how—when you were delirious from fever, you were scared of me. And...and I realized why you never let me see, why you never told me—was probably my fault. Because I was that unreliable to you." Hector balled his hands into fists at his sides. Isaiah could see his shadow rippling at his feet, though he didn't actually let it manifest.

"And I don't fucking know what to do with that, okay?!" Hector growled in frustration, his booming voice carrying across the empty hallway. The dark presence of their upset shadows, even if pulled down and back, must have unconsciously kept the personnel from running around them.

Isaiah's eyebrows jumped up, his stoic mask breaking over the sheer surprise. He stepped closer. "I—I don't understand. You are avoiding me because I don't—what?"

"No. That's just me being a coward and running away." Hector's gaze flicked up towards Isaiah and down again.

"But I'm not angry with you. Neither do I blame you," Isaiah said in a stunned voice, daring to get even closer. He was just a touch away from Hector, mirroring his previous position his elbow on the windowsill. "For none of it. It wasn't your fault or your responsibility...seriously, I was out of it, those weren't my real reactions."

"Arnie said you didn't realize you were coming down with something cause your stomach always hurts, when you visit," Hector said in a defeated tone, head jerking up slightly at Isaiah's closing proximity.

Isaiah winced at that. "That's my own problem, not your doing."

"But it's kinda telling about the situation, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry—"

"Oh, don't you fucking dare apologize!" Hector said, finally looking up. His eyes were glittering, face a grimace reflecting the storm inside.

Isaiah wasn't sure what else to say that wouldn't upset Hector more. His heart was hurting at Hector hurting himself over him. Usually, Isaiah preferred to fight off what he didn't want to feel.

But this time, out of sheer confusion at the new situation, at Hector expressing sympathy and regret — it somehow reached through to something frozen solid inside and melted it.

Isaiah leaned into the feeling shaky and unsure, reaching forward to pull Hector into a hug.

Hector stood stony at the touch before wrapping his arms around Isaiah, clutching him with strength.

Isaiah held him, held them both, feeling something cracked and raw inside, knitting itself back together at the contact. Hector's being this emotional over him touched him in a way he didn't expect.

"Shhh. We can fix all of this, okay? I promise. Just stop avoiding me and we'll fix it."