#under the weather whump

[serickswrites]

When You Can't Run

Warnings: captivity, torture, escape, hidden injury, infection, blood, wound, unconsciousness

"If you can't run you walk. If you can't walk you crawl. And if you can't crawl, I'll carry you."

Those were the words Team Leader always preached to their team. Team Leader would never let their team give up. Would never let a member fall behind. And they would never leave a teammate behind.

Team Leader trailed behind Teammate One. They felt like they had been walking for hours, but knew it had likely on been half an hour since they escaped Whumper's compound by the skin of their teeth. Teammate One had really stood up and taken charge the moment it became clear it was their time to run.

Team Leader was glad for that. They didn't think they were up for much of anything they were so weak. It wasn't the days of torture that had them so weak. Nor was it the minimal food and water that had them so weak. It was the deeply infected wound on the small of their back that had them so weak.

But they had to keep going. They had to get out of there. And Teammate One wasn't likely to leave them behind if Team Leader said they would wait here for rescue while Teammate One ran for help. Teammate One would never leave anyone behind.

"You ok, Team Leader? I can slow down if you like." Teammate One peered over their shoulder.

Team Leader shook their head. They could feel the blood dripping down their back as the wound reopened for the umpteenth time in the last hour. "I'm right behind you."

"You always said to us 'when you can't run you walk,' so let's just walk together." Teammate One slowed down until their strides matched Team Leader's clumsy ones. "Are you sure you're ok?"

"Just a little under the weather. Days of torture, you know," Team Leader joked, though they couldn't quite muster the energy to smile.

"Yeah, it was pretty shitty, wasn't it?" Teammate One said as they faced forward, though they kept one eye on Team Leader.

Team Leader nodded weakly as they stumbled. Teammate One grabbed their shoulder and was the only reason they didn't face plant on the dirt in front of them. "I.....I....I thinkkkkkk I......I.....I nnnneeeedddd y-y-you tttttto d-d-d-d-oooo th-th-the rest....st...st," Team Leader mumbled, unable to bring themself to say the rest of the words they always told their team.

"Team Leader?" Teammate One shouted as Team Leader's knees gave out and they collapsed. "Team Leader!"

Team Leader fainted dead away in Teammate One's grasp. They didn't hear Teammate One's frantic shouts. Didn't hear Teammate One's gasp as Teammate One finally found the wound on their back. And they didn't hear Teammate One curse as Teammate One lifted them.

"Don't you dare quit on me, Team Leader. I will carry you. And when you're awake, we are going to have a discussion about amending our team motto." Teammate One ran as fast as they could through the forest, Team Leader clutched tightly in their arms. They would get Team Leader to safety. Team Leader couldn't crawl, and so they would carry Team Leader the whole way home.

[comfort-questing]

20. giving permission to die

outside the window the snow fell faster, wide floating flakes sticking to each other and then breaking apart on their descent from the silver-gray sky down towards the bare rocky ground. the spruces had already been covered with it, damp black boughs drooping with heavy white lace, now and again an overloaded branch cracking loud in the mountain stillness.

Cat Randal hugged her knees up to her chest, in a futile attempt to ward off a chill deeper than all winter, and listened as she had listened for days now: to the hissing fire in the stove, to the sigh of the wind above the castle roofs, and closest and most desperately to the hoarse uneven rasp of Luka's breathing, as if listening were enough to make it continue.

seven days now, by Elaine and Jathen's word, since Luka had returned. several of the servants had given a more detailed report of it, in hushed tones - frosty midmorning, crimson on the stones, an exhausted horse stumbling uphill and the young Lady of the castle slumped on its back, arrow-pierced and alone in her return from her strange business.

and two days, now, since Cat had arrived from the south, at the messenger's summons. two days ago, Luka could still speak to her, and smile shakily from the midst of her pillows, or manage the shallow ghost of the laugh they'd all known so well back in the city. but the next morning the sharp cough had stolen away every other word, and Elaine shook her head quietly as she changed the bandages on the raw wounds the barbed arrowheads had left, and Cat had been around enough desperate places to know the scent of sickness and infection by now.

still Luka had held her hand, miserably, unknowing, all last night as the fever gripped her, and even now Cat could almost pretend that her breathing was easier again, and this wouldn't end the way she feared -

but there, another cough, and Cat clambered up to her knees. among the pillows, Luka's dark hair was tousled and sweat-matted around her face, and the familiar blood spatter was back on the pillowcase. Cat reached for the basin on the table, with sadly practiced ease by now. Elaine had replaced the rag with a clean one.

Luka blinked, slowly, as Cat wiped the blood and phlegm clear from her mouth, and dragged in another breath. her cracked lips shaped a word, too low to hear, and her dim gaze slid across the room, unfixed.

"I'm here, nightbird. it's me, it's Cat, I'm here, remember?"

remember, remember, remember.

...but memories weren't going to be enough, Cat thought; memories of all the years in the city, with the others. memories of long missions in strange places, of masks and messages and names that weren't their own. memories of the times between, of sitting shoulder to shoulder on inn beds and finishing each other's sketches and laughing over the smallest of things. and soon perhaps that would be all she had left.

Luka did not answer, but she turned her head a little towards Cat's touch, resting her flushed cheek in the hollow of Cat's palm. and outside the snow was still falling, falling, falling, from the darkening sky.

--

"I think she was waiting for you," said Elaine, in the small hours of the night, "she knew we'd sent for you."

Elaine, the castelon's wife, gray-haired and kindly as Cat had always known her to be, who still called Luka the little Lady now and again. her hands didn't shake as she cleaned the festering wounds and, with Cat's help, settled Luka back among the pillows and blankets with fresh bandages wrapping her body. even from the slight moment outside the warmth, Luka was shivering frantically, whining in her throat as the motion jarred her injuries.

Cat climbed up, as she had for several nights now, and tucked herself around Luka on the narrow bed. the bubbling rasp of each breath shook Luka with the same strength as the shivering, even though they'd propped her up on as many pillows as they could find, and the heat of her fever was clear even through the layers of blankets. Cat tried to slip an arm under her shoulders, but Luka shrieked a little at the touch, wincing back in pain.

nightbird, nightbird, why... but that wasn't a hard question to answer. because they'd been part of the chosen folk, the odd ones out who were the right ones for the sort of shadow work that was needed. and all these years later this was the consequence, in the end.

Luka shuddered again, struggling for the next breath, and Cat helped her lean forward, a limp weight in her arms. there was fresh blood soaking through the clean bandages already, bright as the blood that came up as Luka coughed, desperate and shredding.

"I'll leave the two of you," Elaine said, softly. "but call and someone will hear, if you need me." she passed another rag to Cat, and then bent closer over Luka as well, brushing a hand over her tousled hair as if in blessing. "good night, Lady."

--

it seemed like it would never be morning again, that whole night long, Luka shuddering in her arms in fevered stupor and dragging each breath in and out through torn and bloodied lungs. if daylight forgot them altogether, here in the snowbound mountains, it would have felt entirely fair and sensible to Cat; nothing else in the world was holding together, at this rate.

waiting for you, Elaine had said. and for a little while there had been a fragile peaceful moment, and laughter, and words shared between the two of them. but there was no mercy in this endless horror, as her friend sobbed and struggled for breath against her, fever wracking her broken body. so Cat pressed her lips again and again to Luka's sweat-damp forehead, in hopes that something besides pain would reach her.

and sometime between the dark and the daylight she had stopped saying breathe, Luka and begun to murmur, almost without thinking, rest.

be still, nightbird.

I'm here.

it's done.

rest.

sleep.

and in the end, so she did - quiet at last in Cat's grasp, head heavy on her shoulder, so that if not for the utter silence she could indeed have been asleep truly. and for the last time, Cat laid her down, unafraid now of causing any pain, and closed her friend's eyes in the gray dawn.

[aventurineswife]

Following up from the post when the characters were sick, what if the reader got sick as well and now they're both sick?

When Weakness Brings Us Closer

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Sick Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Caring for Each Other, Mutual Vulnerability, Slight Whump, Domestic Moments.

Warnings: Depictions of Illness, Mentions of Overworking or Stress as a Trigger for Illness, Emotional Vulnerability, Possible Light Angst (emotional moments, feelings of guilt, or unspoken tension).

The opulent room, filled with Aventurine’s usual flair for the dramatic—velvet curtains, golden ornaments, and dimmed lights—felt oddly claustrophobic. Both of you were confined to the lavish couch, a pile of tissues growing steadily on the ornate coffee table.

“You’re an amateur at this, you know,” Aventurine teased, his voice hoarse but laced with his usual wit. Despite his own flushed cheeks and drooping posture, he gestured grandly, a half-empty cup of tea in one hand. “This is why I warned you about staying too close to me when I was under the weather.”

“You were the one who wouldn’t stop bragging about your ‘impenetrable immunity,’” you shot back, sniffling.

He laughed, though it turned into a hacking cough. Aventurine’s usual flamboyance was muted by the cold, but his sharp eyes still held a spark of mischief.

“Well,” he rasped, leaning back dramatically, “if we’re both doomed to misery, we may as well make the most of it. Cards, perhaps? Or do you prefer a rousing debate about my unparalleled brilliance?”

You rolled your eyes but found yourself smiling despite your exhaustion. In this vulnerable moment, Aventurine’s charm wasn’t just an act—it was his way of making you forget the heaviness of your shared misery.

The room was unnaturally quiet, save for the occasional sound of Sunday stirring a cup of herbal tea. Both of you sat in the dimly lit chamber, his halo casting a soft glow.

“Rest,” Sunday murmured, his voice gentle but insistent as he handed you the tea. His usually immaculate appearance was slightly disheveled—his scarf hung loose, and his golden eyes seemed dimmer. Yet, even in sickness, he radiated calm.

You sipped the tea, grateful for its warmth, though your own fever made it hard to feel much else. “You’re one to talk,” you replied weakly, gesturing at his pale complexion. “You should be resting too.”

“I will,” he assured, though his actions betrayed him as he began fluffing your pillows. “Your health is more important.”

The care in his actions made your heart ache in a way no illness could. Despite his own state, Sunday couldn’t seem to stop prioritizing you.

“You’re stubborn,” you said, lying back against the pillows with a small smile.

“And you’re in no position to argue,” he countered, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles before he settled into the chair beside you. “Let’s both rest now.”

The room was a mess—half-empty cups, discarded tissues, and an overturned bottle of cough syrup bore witness to Sampo’s less-than-stellar sickbed manner.

“See? Told you we’d be in this together,” Sampo said with a grin, his voice raspy but still filled with his signature charm. He leaned against the headboard of the bed you now shared, a blanket draped haphazardly over his lap.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” you muttered, glaring at him from your cocoon of blankets.

“Oh, come on,” he said, reaching over to nudge you lightly. “It’s not so bad. At least now you have me to keep you entertained.”

“Entertained? You’ve done nothing but complain about the soup I made!”

He chuckled, though it quickly turned into a coughing fit. “Hey, I’m just saying, next time we’re sick, I’ll make the soup. I’ve got this great recipe—secret family tradition, you know.”

You groaned, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. Sampo, even at his most annoying, had a way of making the worst situations bearable.

The Astral Express was unusually still, the usual hum of activity replaced by the sound of sneezes and groans. Dan Heng sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, his spear leaning against the wall for easy access even in his weakened state.

“You should be lying down,” you said, your voice scratchy as you shifted under the covers.

Dan Heng shook his head, his quiet determination as unyielding as ever. “You need the bed more than I do,” he replied, though his pale complexion and tired eyes betrayed his stubbornness.

“Dan Heng,” you said softly, “you’re not going to be much help to anyone if you don’t rest.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. With a reluctant sigh, he leaned back against the wall, finally allowing himself a moment of reprieve.

“I just don’t like being… useless,” he admitted quietly, his stoicism cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of vulnerability.

“You’re not useless,” you assured him, reaching out to brush his hand lightly. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Dan Heng’s lips curved into a faint smile, and for the first time since the sickness had struck, the weight between you both felt a little lighter.

[loonybun]

SENSORY WHUMP!!!

- Loud, unpredictable noises to keep whumpee awake and alert

- Strong smells. It doesn’t matter if it’s something that would typically be considered a nice smell. Under the right circumstances or amount of time, anything from the smell of a warm meal to a fancy perfume can invoke nausea.

- A nice bit of pavlov! Associating certain things, such as sounds or sensations, with certain behaviors.

- Just the feeling of a weapon pressed against skin. Not breaking it, not even causing any physical pain, just keeping someone in suspense.

- Sensory-enhancing drugs

- Keeping a whumpee bundled up even in hot weather. Yeah it’s 80 degrees but if you take off that winter coat you’re not getting anything when it hits 20.

- Beating up a blindfolded whumpee. They have no idea where they’re going to be hit next or when.

- Forcing a whumpee to touch an exposed innard or gut. Come face to face with your own mortality AND weird uncomfortable feeling.

- Headphones constantly blasting loud noises. (for work i sometimes have to take orders with headphones and god it is so so painful whenever someone just yells directly into my ears. i am projecting.)

[macknus]

Civilian x Crush kidnapped

TW: lady whump, lady whumpee, male whumpers, multiple whumpers, broken bones, kidnapping, kidnap whump, physical violence against a woman,

please be aware of the tags and don't engage if you don't like lady whump! Thank you :)

*~*~*~*~*

It was pouring out, Civilian realised with a groan, resting her forehead against the office window. “Another late night, Civilian?”

Civilian turned her head to see her crush stopped in the middle of the cubicle, his sweater draped over the crook of his elbow. He was just in his tee shirt that showed his defined arms.

That was just unfair, Civilian thought. Why does he have to have a nice face and body?

“Yeah. I’m trying to finish the report on the increase of Villain activity.”

Crush hummed with a nod and a pretty smile. “It seems we’re always the last two to leave,” said Crush.

“Probably because we have no lives,” Civilian said with a small laugh. Oh god she just said that. Out loud. To her crush. When he was probably gonna think she was a weird, boring loser now. Great. Perfect. And it started to rain heavier. Perfect. As if on cue.

To her utter surprise Crush laughed in reply, and not a forced laugh, like a proper, real one. Civilian could listen to that laugh all day.

“You don’t have to expose us like that, Civilian,” said Crush with a small shake of his head. He cleared his throat and then turned his body more towards Civilian. “Since we’re both workaholics and have no lives, how would you like to grab a drink with me?”

“Now?” Civilian asked, eyes going wide.

She looked like shit, and probably smelled like ink.

“Yeah. Now. Why not? I mean… like only if you want to…”

“Yeah, no. Now works,” said Civilian with a smile and Crush’s shoulders relaxed. Civilian quickly shut down her computer and started to gather her things before putting her jacket on and grabbing her crossbody bag before walking to Crush. He gestured towards the lifts and Civilian smiled and walked with him.

When they got into the lift, Crush pressed the ground floor button and the pair of them leaned against the back wall in silence.

Then they both tried to fill the silence at the same time.

“So what do—”

“This report you’re—”

Then they laughed and both said: “you go first.”

Civilian laughed again as a blush climbed Crush’s neck and coloured his cheeks pink. “I was asking,” Civilian continued. “What keeps you in so late every night?”

“Oh,” said Crush, then opened his mouth and a hesitant hum fell from his lips. His eyes almost nervous at Civilian’s question. “Okay, look. You can’t say it to anyone—”

“My lips are sealed,” said Civilian innocently, miming locking her mouth shut.

Crush smiled and leaned in closer to Civilian his voice dropping to a whisper, “you know the new guy? He covers politics…”

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen him around,” said Civilian, eyes bright as she looked at Crush.

“Yeah. He is such a shit writer,” said Crush and Civilian let out a startled laugh. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. I’m in late every night trying to fix it up and make it presentable.”

“No rest for the wicked,” said Civilian with a grin. Crush laughed.

“No,” he agreed. “We must be very wicked.”

“Extremely,” said Civilian, then as the doors open, she looked straight ahead as she added, “I’m going to tell him what you said.”

“Ah no. You can’t do that! I’m supposed to be an unbiased editor.”

“Still,” Civilian teased. Crush grabbed Civilian’s arm, stopping her from going out into the cold wet night. Civilian looked at his hand then up at Crush as he pulled an umbrella from his bag. He stepped out first into the little roofed area and opened the umbrella, holding it high enough for them both to fit under.

Civilian said, “you’re so prepared.”

Crush shook his head. “I just listen to the weather after the news.”

“Then what surprise is left in life, Crush?”

Crush brought her to his local bar just down the road, The Public Domain. Crush told her that a lot of lawyers around the area come drink here too. Civilian smiled politely. Crush always had a good network of people that he trusted for his sources. It always seemed like a secret, and now that he was bringing Civilian here, it felt… well, like he was willing to share it with her.

The bar was buzzing with chatter and life. The smell of carpet dust and stale beer greeted their senses the moment they stepped into it. Crush held the door open with his foot, shaking the excess rain off the umbrella before closing it. He smiled slightly when he caught Civilian’s eye and nodded towards the bar. Civilian got the hint and walked up to it with him. The bar was quaint and bustling with patrons, chatting animatedly, laughter occasionally punctuating the conversations leaving a nice rhythmic lull to the pub.

The barman grinned when he saw Crush. “Another late night, Crush?”

Crush’s hand went to the nape of his neck and rubbed it bashfully, it endeared Civilian to him even more if that was possible.

“Yeah, you got me.”

“The usual?” the barman asked, and Crush smiled and said, “yes. A Guinness please and—” Crush said, looking back at Civilian. He leaned into the barman and held up two fingers. “Actually, two please.”

“Two Guinnesses,” said Crush again, and took out his wallet as did Civilian. Crush pushed her hand back and said: “put that away, I’m getting it. We’re here on my invitation.”

“Fine. I get the next round,” said Civilian.

Crush cocked an eyebrow at her. “So confident we’ll have another.”

“I’m just ensuring you know what you’re in for,” said Civilian with a wink. She thanked Crush for the drink, and they went to a small booth in the back. The conversation flowed easy, easier than Civilian flirting with him in the printer room. Or at the office offering to get Crush a coffee from the canteen because she was going anyway. It was better, more intimate.

The conversation got back to work on her third round of drinks and Crush’s smile was far better looking and almost irresistible. Civilian realised halfway through a story Crush was telling her of work that she could just reach over the table and crush her lips to his and all would be well.

His lips stopped moving, then turned up into a grin. “Civilian?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering when you got into current affairs?” Crush asked, his husky laugh making an appearance. Civilian blushed at being caught staring.

“Oh,” said Civilian, trying to think back to when she got interested in current events. “I mean… with all the Hero/ villain stories going around, and our paper not really being Pro or Anti Heroes I just wanted to start reporting the facts. As it happened, so people can witness the unbiased information, the before and after, and make up her own minds about it.”

“And?” Crush asked and Civilian let out a small laugh, lifting her hands in a shrug.

“And… Alice liked the idea and told me to handle the Hero–Villain side of things. It got a lot of positive feedback from our readers too.”

Crush leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. “But why were you interested in it to begin with?”

“I was reading about Hero and how good it is that we have them to help us and stop the Villains running around our city. Praising them to the brim, it was bordering on sycophantic…” Civilian trailed off, taking a sip of her Guinness. Crush smiled and reached over the table, wiping some of the foam off of Civilian’s upper lip with her thumb.

It was as if the world had frozen in that moment between them. Civilian’s heart stopped beating for a fleeting second that stretched into eternity. Crush retracted his hand and licked the foam from his thumb with a secretive smile.

Civilian’s face burned redder than cherries, her cheeks heating up. From all the drinking, Civilian told herself, not anything else. Not how hot Crush was, not at all… they barely noticed.

“And you didn’t like that?” Crush asked with his perfect knowing smile. He knew exactly what caused the blush covering Civilian’s face scarlet and continued on the conversation while they were distracted. As if he didn’t do anything at all.  

Oh no Civilian loved that, she wanted to get more foam on her lip just so he could wipe it off again.

What were they talking about again? Oh god, she was making it so obvious. Think Civilian! Oh yes, Heroes and Villains, oh god, she was making it so obvious. Play it cool, Civilian.  

SPEAK CIVILIAN! A voice screamed at her from the back of her mind, and she blushed again.

“No,” said Civilian, turning the clammy glass around in her hands. She continued thoughtfully, “I don’t like when things get shoved down my throat before I know what shit they’re shovelling. Turns out the Hero agency had donated a very generous sum to the publication and that’s why there was a sudden exposé on how good Heroes were.”

Crush sat back when Civilian stopped talking, a small hidden thing twinkling behind his smile. “What?” Civilian asked, cocking her brow.

“Nothing,” Crush said with his handsome smile.

“No what? What’s that smile for?”

“I just didn’t realise you were so passionate about Heroes and villains from reading your pieces. It’s… you’re very surprising, Civilian.”

Civilian bowed her head and Crush laughed, getting to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Civilian nodded, following Crush out of the booth then out the door to the pub. It had stopped raining. A sheen of water covering the streets the only remnant that it had ever rained. So, when water splashed on the pair of them from a passing car, they could do nothing but laugh.

That laugh got cut off as into a scream as something suddenly slammed into Crush. Civilian whirled a scream of horror in her throat. “Crush!”

Civilian was running after him, deeper into a side street, shoes splashing the puddles up her feet. At the bottom of the alley Civilian saw Crush engaged in a struggle with someone. Civilian pulled pepper spray from her bag and ran up on the pair.

Crush’s eyes found Civilian and widened as he yelled: “Civilian! No— ngh, run! Go!”

“Civilian, hmm?” Civilian turned on her heel, pepper spray aimed and ready at the newcomer, but her wrist was caught in the attacker’s hand, and he twisted it roughly. Civilian cried out, as her attacker twisted her wrist further and plucked the pepper spray from her hand with ease. Her only defence, tossed over his shoulder carelessly, the canister clinking against the ground and then rolling. “How lovely to make your acquaintance.”

Civilian’s eyes went hard, and she balled her hand into a fist. She found her centre in her feet, bending her knees slightly. Then twisted her whole body with the slap that she threw straight for the attacker’s cheek.

The attacker simply caught that wrist too, smiling down at her with a grin that exposed too many teeth. Civilian yanked her wrists down, trying to break free of his grip, but her attacker yanked her forward suddenly and Civilian stumbled, her balance thrown off. Her attacker spun her, so her back was to the attacker’s front, her arm twisted behind her back and pinned there. Then there was a gentle hand on her throat, holding her head up, and when Civilian tried to struggle the attacker lifted her captured arm higher. Civilian cried out.

“Crush. You might want to stop,” said the man holding Civilian. The scuffle came to a pause, Crush’s head lifting to see Civilian and whoever was holding her. His eyes narrowing at the person behind Civilian, but he stopped fighting, nonetheless. Then he got a punch to the face for good measure from his attacker.

“I think…” the man behind Civilian said, “we’re all going to go for a drive, hmm?”

“No,” said Civilian. They were in a public place. Her best weapon was her lungs. So, Civilian opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs: “Help! Help! FIRE! Somebody help us! Police! Ple-”

The coolness of a blade biting into her neck cut her off. “Keep screaming, they’re so pretty… but I would hate for my knife to slip…”

“Okay. Right Hand,” Crush said, glancing between Civilian and Right hand behind Civilian. “I’ll go with you, just… just let Civilian go.”

A rumbling chuckle from behind Civilian sent a shiver m down her spine. “Oh no, no, no, Crush. Civilian’s coming along to make sure you behave.”

Civilian’s blood went cold as she looked at Crush’s resolve shattering right in front of her eyes. She wanted to fight. She wanted Crush to fight. To try. To struggle to punch to do something…

“Henchmen take Crush, don’t worry. He won’t put up a fight,” Civilian was pushed forward, and she resisted. Her hand was twisted further up her back, and she winced as she was forced a stepped forward.

“Keep walking or I’ll break your arm, Civilian,” Right Hand said into Civilian’s ear. Civilian obeyed because what else could she do?

At the end of the alley there was a black car parked where they had come in. Which meant these guys had been following them… for how long? Right hand kept pushing Civilian forward and when they got to the car, he pushed Civilian into the backseat then slammed the door shut. They did the same to Crush on the other side and Civilian’s panicked eyes went to Crush who just whispered: “everything will be all right.”

“Why do I get the feeling you know these people?” Civilian whispered back. Her hand went to the door trying to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. Child locked, no doubt. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is going on? Crush opened her mouth to reply when the two front doors opened and their attackers, Henchman and Right hand, got into the front of the car.

Henchman was in the driver’s seat and took off, while Right Hand turned in his seat and smiled at Civilian. She couldn’t really tell his features from here. It was too dark. Did he have blue eyes? Or brown? And his hair… she’d need to remember something concrete to tell the police when she get free.

If they get free.

“Sorry to interrupt your date, Civilian.”

“Go fuck yourself, Right Hand,” Civilian said in reply. Right hand just laughed and stared forward again.

“You got a keeper there, Crush. You tell her who you are? Or does the little reporter want to figure it out all by themselves?”

Civilian looked out her window, but it was all blacked out. She couldn’t even see her own reflection. Of course. Of fucking course.

Crush spoke next. “Right Hand, let Civilian go, okay? I’ll come willingly.”

“You’re coming willingly now, Crush.”

“For now,” Crush threatened, his voice taking on a completely different tone than Civilian was ever used to. Ever knew Crush was capable of.

“Put your claws back in,” said Right Hand dismissive. “We’re almost there now anyways. Besides… you wouldn’t risk putting poor Civilian in danger by trying to stop the car and be a hero now, would you?”

Civilian glanced at Crush from the corner of her eye, her heart hammering in her chest but he wouldn’t look at her. Civilian put her hand out, resting it on the middle seat. Crush put his hand in theirs, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing gently.

When the car stopped Henchman and Right Hand got out of the car. Civilian’s door opened first, and she was grabbed by the arm and pulled out. She looked into the face of Right Hand, who was still smiling down at her. She mustered up her best glare in return. Right Hand just pushed her in front of him again and told her to walk.

Civilian did just that, trying to take in everything around her. Figure out where they were but all she saw was a garage made of cinder bricks and concrete floors. Then a door opened to them, and Right Hand pushed her through. It just led to a larger room. A man stood at the opposite wall, his back to them as they entered. Right Hand’s grip tightened on Civilian’s arm when he felt Civilian almost stop.

“The prodigal son returns,” said Right Hand to the man ahead of them. Civilian looked over their shoulder, trying to find Crush, but a hand squeezed her cheeks and dragged their gaze to face forward again.

Crush spoke and Civilian’s head flooded with relief. He was still here. Civilian wasn’t alone. They were fine. He was fine.

“I’m not saying shit until you let Civilian go,” said Crush to the room. Then a grunt of pain and Civilian shot forward to help and was yanked back by her hair with a yelp.

The man finally turned to face the group and Civilian’s breath caught in her throat. That was Supervillain. That man was the Supervillain. Civilian and Crush were taken here to see Supervillain?! But then that means the person holding Civilian was… Right hand… Supervillain’s right hand. Civilian felt all the blood drain from her face as a small laugh sounded above her. Civilian took an involuntary step back, but just hit Right Hand’s chest.

“Oh, not so brave now, are we?” Right hand asked and Civilian couldn’t find it in herself to reply.

Supervillain approached them. Fine shoes clacking off concrete, echoing. Civilian didn’t dare breathe as Supervillain came closer and closer to her. Supervillain was taller than Civilian. Taller. Broader. Crueller. Instead of going to Crush he walked right up to Civilian and Right hand pushed her forward, letting go of her hair and arm.

Civilian felt very cold and exposed like this. She nearly missed Right Hand’s brutal hold on her. Supervillain looked down at her without a hint of an expression on his face. He looked almost alien. Cold.

Supervillain took Civilian’s hand in his and pulled it up as if to inspect it. Civilian let him. She hated herself for it, but Supervillain killed people, this wasn’t a time to be brave.

“You’ve been gone too long, Crush,” said Supervillain simply. His voice sent shivers down Civilian’s spine. Then Civilian was screaming, white hot pain burst behind her eyes as a resounding crack tore through her hand. Her legs went to jelly, and she wanted to be sick, but she just put her other hand out for support against the only other solid thing there: which happened to be Supervillain.

“LET HER GO! She has nothing to do with this!” Crush yelled. Distantly Civilian was aware of the scuffle behind her. That Crush was probably trying to get to her, but it didn’t matter because that wouldn’t stop the pain in her wrist from burning.

“Are you going to keep making demands, Crush? Because there are 206 bones in Civilian’s body, and I can break as many as you need to remind you of who has the power here.”

Civilian was shivering at the threat. Or the pain. She didn’t know.

“Please…” Crush again. “Please let them go.”

“No,” said Supervillain, and Civilian wanted to throw up. She wasn’t sober enough to deal with this shit. A hand on her chin tilted her head up to look Villain in the eye. “Just a hairline fracture, my dear. Nothing to worry about. Right hand?”

Civilian felt Right hand’s hand on her shoulder again and she nearly sagged against him. “If Crush decides to make any more demands break something else of her.”

“I won’t,” Crush said quickly, the words rushed out panicky and desperate. Then cleared his throat and said again: “I won’t, sir.”

“Good,” said Supervillain, eyes going between the two of his captives. “Let’s begin again then, shall we?"

[thepenultimateword]

Second Secret Santa

There were some extenuating circumstances with one of the secret Santas, so I got this lovely bonus prompt. This is for @lili-loves-whump. I'm so so sorry, it's late. I've been traveling so I've just been writing when I can. I hope you like it!

"Hero x Villain comfort after villain has been hurt or panicked or smth."

Villain could barely breathe. Every time they inhaled, they choked, phantom fingers digging hard into their larynx. No matter how much they rubbed away Supervillain's touch, the murderous pressure lingered.

"Hiding in our hole today, are we?"

Villain gave a little leap, whipping around so fast they knocked their shoulder against the wall. They gasped, clutching it as they squinted at the familiar face in the doorway.

Hero.

How did they manage to make ever word out of their mouth condescending? Did they practice? Drawl sarcasms into the mirror until they hurt their own feelings?

Villain curled tighter against the wall. "Just get out."

"What's up with your voice?"

Great. They'd hoped the squeak wasn’t too noticeable, but apparently there was no hiding it.

"Just a little under the weather," Villain muttered. "So you can go. There's nothing going on today. No plans, no fight. You wasted the trip."

Hero crossed the room in three strides, the back of their large hand smoothly transferring from their side to Villain's forehead.

Villain fell back on their hands. "W-what are you doing?"

"No fever," Hero said. But you are a little flush--" They froze, hard eyes sliding from Villain's face to their throat. "What. Is. That?"

Villain quickly crossed their arms over the bare skin, but Hero snatched their hands away, wrapping a supernaturally strong arm around them to pin both limbs at their sides. Ironically, even while gruff they were more careful than Supervillain. Their hold was firm, but it didn't hurt.

Hero's free hand ghosted the bruises marring Villain's throat. Villain flinched violently, and Hero's hand moved back a couple inches.

"Finger marks," Hero said matter-of-factly. Villain hadn't had a chance to look at the bruises yet--they'd only had time to run and hide--but it must have been obvious. "Who did this?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I'm asking," Hero said, furrowing their brow.

"Ah, and you're a hero? Again, why does it matter? Why do you care?" Their voice rose a little with each word and their throat ached even more.

Hero clenched their jaw. Slowly their arm slid off Villain's waist, and they stepped back. Strangely enough the strength wrapped around them had been almost...in some strange way...comforting. At least, it had lowered their heartbeat a little. They were a little reluctant for the pressure to let up so soon.

"Believe it or not," Hero said. "I'd rather have you behind bars than find you dead in an alley."

"Believe it or not," Villain echoed. "I couldn't care less for your preferences. And I can take care of myself."

"You have handprints on your neck. Obviously you can't."

"It was a disagreement. That's all."

Hero narrowed their eyes. "Anithero...Other Hero...Thief...Supervillain?"

Villain flinched.

"Ah ha!" Hero whipped toward the door, pushing their fluttering cape back over their shoulder.

"No!" Villain's voice grated painfully.

Hero swept out the door, climbing out the window and onto the fire escape.

"Hero, no!" Villain caught the end of Hero's cape just before they leaped over the edge.

Hero turned on them, that stupid arrogant face staring down at them with that usual condescending look. Like they couldn't believe Villain was even wasting their time with an argument.

"Don't. If Supervillain thought I told you... If they thought I was consorting with heroes at all..."

Villain couldn't breathe. They gasped in a couple useless breaths, but their lungs still burned and their vision swayer.

Hero clapped a hand on Villain's shoulders, bending close so their concrete gaze loomed right overhead, cementing them to the spot.

"I don't plan on leaving them alive."

The air rushed in all at once.

Hero unfolded Villain's fingers from their cape and stepped up onto the fire escape railing.

"Why?" Villain said, blinking after them. "We're enemies. Not even the flirty kind. Just plain old beat each other up and hate each other enemies."

"Maybe you just haven't caught on," Hero said.

Villain flushed, and Hero grinned smugly. Though after a moment their expression dropped into something more serious. "I don't know. Even if we're not on good terms...feels wrong to let it happen." They looked away quickly. Almost as if, for once, they were afraid of what Villain might read in their eyes. "I'll be back once its over."

With that Hero took off into the air, disappearing into the glare of the sun.

True to their word, they returned two hours later, splattered in blood and swinging a plastic grocery sack full of vanilla ice cream, cold packs, and ginger tea in their fist.

Their relationship was quite a bit different after that.

[angelmatthew]

₊˚.༄ ginger tea - sung hanbin

this is very self indulgent because i was sick last week too :(( i can never keep sickfics short and sweet because i'm a sucker for whump, this is very soft whump though ! my writing's still a bit rusty but it's getting better (i hope). also, i'm still not sure about the layout for my posts so i'm trying out different things, i'll stick to one layout eventually!

🖇️request

↬hanbin x gn!reader ↬2054 words ↬fluff, soft angst, one shot ↬tw: mentions of vomit, a little bit whumpy, not proofread

your muscles were aching, your head pounding like a bass drum and you could barely breathe with your stuffy nose. you had to be in class in an hour but getting out of bed was a daunting mission.

you rolled over, clinging to the warmth of your bed, hoping a few more minutes might work a magic fix. and, before you knew it, you were out like a light.

you’re woken up two hours later by the sound of your phone ringing.

"hey, where are you sweetheart?" you picked up the phone without even checking the caller. once you recognize the familiar voice, you immediately snap into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"oh my god, bin, i’m so sorry i overslept," you confess. you hear background chatter and figure hanbin is already at the coffee shop for your study date. he promised to help you with your finals, despite his busy schedule.

hanbin's voice carries genuine concern. "it’s okay, your voice sounds tired, are you feeling alright?"

“i’m okay," you hesitantly admit, "just feeling a bit under the weather. i'm so sorry for making you wait."

you downplay your ailment, though you can never fully deceive hanbin; his perceptive nature sees through your attempt to minimize the situation. the guilt starts settles in.

"It’s alright, i'm coming over," he reassures you with his signature comforting tone. there's not a single trace of annoyance in his voice, even though he's been patiently waiting for you for the past thirty minutes.

"no! it's okay. I know you're busy, and you made time for me to help with studying, and—" you start to babble, but hanbin interrupts with a soft chuckle.

"my schedule's never too packed for you. plus, it gives me an excuse to escape practice." he speaks in that sing-songy voice you adore, prompting a genuine smile from you.

"well, in that case, i'm glad i could rescue you from the clutches of boredom."

he laughs, "exactly. I’m bringing some medication, tea and cuddles."

true to his word, a few minutes later, there's a gentle knock on your door. you’re greeted with a bear hug and whisker dimples.

“how are you feeling beautiful ?” you can't help but grimace at the pet name, your hair's a mess, you’re pretty sure there’s a toothpaste stain on your sweatshirt, and the fever's turned you into a bit of a sweat machine.

"i look awful," you grumble, stealing a quick glance at your reflection in the small corridor mirror. hanbin's eyebrows furrow, he's quick to interrupt your self-critique.

"you always look beautiful to me," he adds, a reassuring smile accompanying his words. he then, presses his palm against your forehead, seamlessly slipping into concerned-mom-mode. his eyes pop wide, and his lips pull a total 'o' move – the classic hanbin surprise face.

"you're burning up!" he exclaims, guiding you to the couch with a gentle urgency, concerned that standing might tire you out even more. your dizziness was palpable; even reaching the front door felt like a monumental effort.

"did you eat something since this morning?" hanbin questions while putting the grocery bags on the kitchen island, his focus shifting to the small pharmacy bag.

"no, i felt too nauseous," you admit, your voice laced with a hint of shame.

he pauses, worry etched across his features, but he swiftly transforms it into a warm beam, the last thing he wants is to make you feel bad. "no worries, love. let's get you cozy first,"

he disappears into your room, returning with a fluffy blanket and a pile of cushions. he arranges the cushions, making sure they cradle you just right. the blanket, soft and inviting, is draped over you, and he tucks its edges gently, creating a cozy nest.

you can't help but admire his simple yet caring gestures. there's a warmth in his eyes, a quiet assurance that makes you feel secure.

"better?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

“yes, thanks bin, you're an angel” you grab his hand, trying to convey your appreciation as best as you can — can’t risk a kiss in your current state. hanbin takes your hand in his, and kisses each of your knuckles softly, you feel like your heart might explode. in moments like these, you wonder how you got this lucky.

“no need to thank me, now, you need to take your medication…" he makes his way to the kitchen and rummages through the grocery bags, revealing an array of medicine.

he hands you a cup of water along with a few pills and another cup filled with a suspiciously white liquid. "i know it looks like a lot, but the pharmacist promised it should work wonders,"

you nod reluctantly, eyeing the medicine-filled cup. you take a sip of the chalky liquid, the taste makes your face scrunch up in immediate disgust.

"ugh, it's gross," you whine, hanbin chuckles at your distaste.

"you did it! now, the water to wash away the icky aftertaste," he hands you the water with an encouraging smile. "bottoms up!”

you manage a small grin, appreciating his encouragement, and with a final gulp, you conquer the medicine ordeal.

"now, about the nausea, how about a little snack, you can’t take more medicine on an empty stomach" hanbin suggests, you manage a weak nod, grateful for his attention. as he heads back to the kitchen, you can't shake the lingering discomfort; the idea of ingesting any food makes you feel even more nauseous but you don’t want to discourage your boyfriend.

he returns with a plate of crackers and slices of apple, “you don’t have to finish it all,” he hands you the fork with an encouraging nod then turns on the TV and puts on your comfort show, in the hopes that having distraction will make it easier for your stomach to handle the meal.

hanbin watches you eat with a mix of hope and concern, his eyes searching for signs of improvement. after a few bites, your stomach rumbles, and you reluctantly set down your fork. he doesn't want to force you to eat but on the other hand that the lack of nutrition might make you feel worse.

"just one more bite, okay?" hanbin insists, his voice soft. instead of waiting for your response, he picks up a piece of apple and brings it to your lips, offering it with a reassuring smile. "small bites. we'll take it slow."

you take a deep breath before taking another miniscule bite, but as hanbin's hopeful gaze meets yours, the nausea suddenly intensifies. without warning, you get up abruptly, rushing to the bathroom as your stomach rebels. your boyfriend follows, concern etched on his face. you wish he didn’t but he holds your hair gently as you vomit, the sound echoing in the small space.

“i'm so sorry," each retch is accompanied by a twinge of shame, intensified by the fact that fever has left you a bit delirious. you can't help but shed a few tears. yet, through it all, hanbin remains unwaveringly calm and gentle, rubbing your back soothingly.

"shh, it's okay” he repeats, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. he stays by your side, offering comfort as you navigate through this less-than-pleasant moment. as you finish, he helps you rinse your mouth, his touch gentle against the fatigue and fever.

guiding you back to the living room, he reassures, "take your time," and tucks you under the blanket. "if you're not up for eating, we can try again later."

you stare at his expression, he looks even more concerned than before, and you're not sure why but an odd inclination to cry takes hold. maybe it's because hanbin is right here, taking care of you, even handling the less glamorous parts without seeming annoyed or bothered in the slighest. your thoughts became a muddled blend of exhaustion, an overwhelming swell of gratitude, and an uneasy undercurrent of guilt,

as you struggled to fend off the fever-induced haze in your mind, you hadn't noticed hanbin quietly settling beside you, extending a glass of water. "small sips,"

you accept the glass, your body still tense from the earlier ordeal. "i'm sorry," you repeat while trying to supress the sob that threatens to escape your lips.

"hey, don't be sorry," he says, wiping away a tear with a tenderness that melts the tension, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "i'm the one who made you eat when you didn't feel like it. we'll take it one step at a time, okay?" his soothing voice intensifies your emotions, and you find yourself shedding a few more tears, feeling extra awful with your scratchy throat and stuffy nose.

being the empath that he is, hanbin seems on the brink of tears himself, but he doesn't succumb. instead, he gently rubs your back and strokes your hair, humming your favorite songs in an attempt to help you calm down.

"think you need some sleep," he whispers after a few minutes. you nod weakly, and he helps you shift into a more comfortable position, fluffing the pillows and adjusting the blankets.

"anything hurting?" he asks while tucking you in, his fingers gently ensuring the edges of the blankets cocoon you snugly.

"my whole body is aching," you murmur, the exhaustion evident in your voice. moments later, hanbin returns from the kitched with warm heat packs, their comforting weight carefully arranged on your body. as he tends to you, the furrow on his brow and his careful, deliberate movements betray the emotional toll it takes on him to witness you in discomfort. he refrains from asking more questions, not wanting to exhaust you or burden you; he still feels a bit guilty from the ealier nausea ordeal.

before he even gets the chance to check on you again, you've already drifted off to sleep. when you slowly open your eyes two hours later, hanbin is still hovering over you, changing the wet cloth on your forehead with a fresh, cool one.

"hey sleepyhead, feeling better?" he asks, gently stroking your cheek. you nod slowly, his cool hand soothing your warm face.

now that your mind is clearer and the fever has gone down, you feel the shame settle in — you've never been this vulnerable in front of hanbin, you know he doesn't mind taking care of you but you feel sorry nonetheless.

"thank you again, for taking care of me, i was a complete mess earlier," you shyly blurt out.

"it's what i'm here for my love," in response, he graces you with that infectious smile, reminiscent of fluffy clouds and blooming spring flowers.

hanbin leaves your side momentarily but returns with a steaming mug of ginger tea, its comforting aroma filling the room.

"here, this might help you feel even better," he says, handing you the mug. the warmth of the tea and his comforting presence start to chase away the stiffness in your body.

hanbin settles down beside you, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle embrace.

"You know," he starts with a mischievous glint in his eye, "you owe me. i've been exposed to your germs," you chuckle and hanbin's relieved to see you laugh.

"i don't mind as long as I get to cuddle you like this," you say, sinking deeper into the embrace.

"even when I'm all sweaty?"

"you did it for me, i don't see why i wouldn't do it for you," you say, your tone light but filled with genuine affection.

hanbin seems a bit taken aback by your response. even though he spends his time taking care of the people around him, accepting the same level of care from others has always been a bit challenging for him. it's as if he fears it might compromise his dependable attitude. however, ever since you started dating, he's been gradually getting used to the idea and the same goes for you — taking care of each other even in the messiest moments felt more natural.

"you've got yourself a deal. just promise you won't judge the sweaty, sickly version of me too harshly."

you playfully roll your eyes, "bring it on, i'm ready for it warts and all,"

with a smirk, he leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead. "i'll hold you to that."

[cpt-winters]

Technically Medieval Whump? - Team Leader Edition

"Cap- Captain…" Medic steadied their hands in front of them. "I need you to slow down, okay?"

Leader's brows creased, heart still frantically thumping as his fingers tightened around his sword, the soft dirt rubbing into his warm palm against the metal hilt.

"What are you doing? We got them on the run!" He stepped around his comrade, eyes fixed on the scattered enemies descending the rocky hill, their weathered helmets glinting under the setting sun. 

"We'll take care of that, just.." Medic stumbled back in front of him, hand outstretched as they took a cautious step forward. "..Stop moving."

Leader gritted his teeth, frustration rising as a hand clasped his shoulder. "Why are you-"

"Cap, try to stay calm."

He paused as Medic motioned someone from behind, the clang of metal and cries of battle all but forgotten as another set of hands latched behind him, leaving a strange sensation to settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Easy," another familiar voice ushered from behind. "I got you."

The captain's knees faltered, a strong grip quick to catch his weight as his gaze fell to his torso. A crimson-stained spear protruded through him, bits of skin smeared around the metal shaft and fleshy folds hung from its jagged head.

"It's okay- Don't look at that," his teammate behind him started. "It's alright. Medic's gonna fix you right up, okay?"

The warmth pooling around the grass under him said otherwise.

Back eased against the dirt, the captain raised shaky fingers to the weapon, shallow breath hitching before two calloused hands caught his.

"Don't.. lie to me," Leader gritted out, eyes glued to the passing clouds above, their orange hues easier to look at than those around him.

"I'm not. So don't you fucking quit on me."

The grip clasped around his bloodied palm tightened as his teammate went on, repeating the same assurances neither of them could truly believe.

[whumpshaped]

Whumpee going into a toy shop and being turned into a doll by the sinister proprietor!

-- @oliversrarebooks

tw doll whump, magic whump, kidnapping, captivity, multiple whumpees, noncon drugging, dehumanisation, lady whump

“Your dolls are beautiful,” Whumpee said in complete awe, trying to take in the entirety of the shop at once. “They’re so… realistic. They’re gorgeous.”

The shopkeeper smiled and stood up from their chair, placing their current sewing project on the desk before circling around to stand beside Whumpee. “Thank you. I can give you a little tour, if you like. Or you can just point at any doll and ask whatever you wish to know about them.”

Whumpee’s face lit up. “Oh, I have so many questions. Are you sure it’s okay? I’m pretty sure I don’t have the funds to buy such fine art…”

“It’s a slow day,” they said pleasantly. “Every day is slow when you sell dolls, honestly. Especially ones like these. People are either scared to approach them, or don’t even want to come in if they can’t purchase anything. I rarely get to ramble.”

“It’s a crime, really. There must be so much to say about them.” Whumpee walked over to one close to their own size, staring into its brutally realistic eyes. It felt like they had life behind them. “How did you come up with the idea?”

“I’ve always liked dolls. It was only natural that eventually, I would figure out a way to make them. And here I am.”

“How long does it take to make a doll like this?”

“Oh, months, dearest.”

Whumpee nodded, not surprised in the least. The doll was a real work of art — all of them were. “And you make them all on your own?”

“For the most part, yes. But the dolls themselves do the heavy-lifting. They have so much personality… All I have to do is accentuate it.”

Whumpee looked at the tag that had been adorably tied to the doll’s hairband, reading the name and the price off of it. They could never even dream of purchasing something like this. “Belladonna…”

“I just call her Bella,” the shopkeeper said with the sort of fondness in their voice that made Whumpee feel like the doll had been created a long time ago, sitting in the store without any potential buyers for a while now. “I made her five years ago, I believe. One of my first dolls.”

“Five years… It looks– well, new. I would’ve never guessed.”

“Yes, dear Bella holds up very well under my care.” They stepped up to the doll and ran their fingers through its long, silky hair affectionately, fixing some frizz in the process. “Patiently awaiting her knight in shining armour. Isn’t that right, sweet?”

The doll was so realistic, Whumpee half-expected it to respond; it didn’t, of course. That might’ve put Whumpee off doll-shopping too. “I’m sure the knight is on their way,” they said warmly.

-

“Good afternoon!” Whumpee said with a wide grin as they walked into the shop, breathing in the scent of flowers and beeswax.

“Good afternoon.” Whumper had the usual serene smile on their face, and a half-finished garment in their hands.

“Has there been a purchase?” they asked, looking around. “It feels so empty for some reason. Someone’s missing.”

“Oleander, but she’s merely in the backroom.”

Over the past few weeks, Whumpee had gotten used to all the dolls being named after flowers and plants; poisonous ones at that. When asked, Whumper simply said they liked the ring of them, and well, they were their dolls, after all. They could name them whatever they wanted.

“How come?” They walked up to the desk and started poking around in the bowl of decorative candy, picking out their favourite flavour and popping it into their mouth. “Did something happen?”

“Her hair wasn’t doing very well in this humid weather. She needed a more controlled environment.”

Whumpee nodded, eyes glued to the fabric in Whumper’s lap. “That’s a very pretty purple. Very… royal, I guess. Noble.”

The shopkeeper glanced up at them, noting the candy in their mouth with a soft smile. “Yes, we could say that. It feels expensive, too.” They chuckled. “And it was. But only the best for my dolls.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Be my guest.”

Whumpee walked around the desk and gently ran the back of their hand over the fabric, humming in agreement. “It does feel very luxurious. Is it for a new doll?”

“It is, actually. I have been working on the doll themself for a few weeks now, and I think they’ll turn out to be quite spectacular. I wanted a dress to match that.”

“Do you have a name in mind, yet?”

“Lantana, I think. Tana. Or maybe Hydrangea,” they mused. “Angie.”

“Tough choice.” Whumpee wandered out into the open area again, checking on the dolls one by one. They had almost become friends in this short time. “I think I like Lantana better, personally. It sounds softer.”

-

“Oh, I could never,” Whumpee said quietly, voice filled with adoration and want. The dress had turned out absolutely breathtaking, and Whumper wanted them to try it on? The offer was beyond tempting, but what if they ruined it? What if they tore it by accident? It was made for a doll, there was no way they would fit into it.

Though they had become quite frail recently. They were pretty sure they’d become sick with something, but the doctors could never tell them anything. Whumper was the only person willing to take them seriously, always offering healing herbal teas and candies from their own personal stash. A kindness Whumpee didn’t feel like they deserved.

Whumper gave them a reassuring smile. “I would love to see it on you. Please.”

Whumpee had no idea why they nodded so easily. Why they just went along with whatever Whumper wanted by this point. Why their wants always seemed to align so perfectly. “O-okay.”

“It’s going to be alright.”

The dress was dazzling: hours and hours of work, all by hand, frill and lace and flowers adorning every inch of it — and they were about to try it on.

They were playing with the piece of candy in their mouth, nervously pushing it from one side to the other with their tongue. It didn’t help with the fuzzy feeling in their head, but at least it seemed to soothe their worries, just like the teas and the scented candles around the shop.

Whumper gently helped them get dressed in the backroom, and despite all of Whumpee’s worries about the size, the dress fit them perfectly. It was as if it had been made specifically for them.

“Wow,” they breathed, barely believing the mirror in front of them. “I look…”

“Beautiful,” Whumper whispered, their expression full of fondness and warmth.

“Like a doll,” Whumpee added with a small smile. The flowery scent was so strong in this room, it almost made them want to close their eyes and drift off. “Though… I think I should take it off. I feel a little dizzy. I can’t imagine what it’d do to the dress if I were to fall.”

“Of course.” Whumper carefully helped them out of it, skilled fingers quickly untying the bows that held it all in place. “You can sit down behind the desk outside.”

-

Whumper turned the key in the lock, opening their shop for the day. They hung their coat and turned the lights on, illuminating the faces of all their precious dolls, sitting and standing in all different positions, just as they’d left them the day before.

“Beautiful weather today,” they said casually. “People will be out walking, for sure. Hopefully, some of them decide to visit.”

They checked on the dolls one by one, gently fixing their dresses and brushing their hair. They were humming as they worked, filling the air with magic soft as silk, wrapping around their beloveds’ minds like a comforting blanket. It was impossible to escape; the sedative scent of the candles, the taste of candy infused with traces of poisonous plants, the alluring tune of their song.

All of them had been caught as soon as they entered the shop and expressed interest. It was only a matter of time before their inevitable demise.

Once the soul left their bodies, it was easy to trap the delicate thing and tuck it away into a little jar, just until Whumper was ready to put it right back in its place. Making sure the fragile human body was prepared to withstand an eternity in the condition they’d received it in was a finicky process, but one Whumper found greatly satisfying.

They walked into the backroom to check the state of their newest acquisition, noting with a pleased smile that the body was finally ready. They took the glass bottle with Whumpee’s matching soul in it, uncorking it and raising it to their doll’s lips to allow it slip back inside.

Whumpee’s glassy eyes were suddenly filled with life, confusion and fear taking the place of the blank, corpse-like stare. Only for a moment, though. Only until Whumper ran their fingers through their hair, gently shushing them.

“The dress really does look gorgeous on you,” they cooed. “I can’t wait to put you on display, so everyone else can admire you too.”

-

The soft chime of the bell above the door signalled the new customer’s arrival, and Whumper greeted them with a smile. They seemed entirely mesmerised by the doll collection, asking all manner of questions after Whumper assured them it was fine to do so.

The stranger spent a few moments looking at the tag that had been adorably tied to one of the dolls’ hairbands, reading the name out loud. “Lantana…”

“I just call them Tana,” they said fondly. “They’re the latest addition to the family.”

[sickfictropes]

Siblings in whump.

Older pushing back Younger's hair to gauge their fever. Holding a cup of their favorite warm beverage up and tipping their head back because they can't drink it on their own. Rolling their eyes when they whine about how terrible the soup tastes. They've been taking care of them for their whole life and it shows.

Younger and Middle panicking over what to do when Older gets sick. Trying their best to put their heads together to mimic Older's remedies. Barely-coherent Older asking if Younger and Middle are okay running things on their own or if they should step in. Younger and middle assure them that they should just get some rest, everything is fine, they have it under control. Everything is not fine and they do not have it under control.

Big family situation where one of the middle children gets sick and they are so annoyed listening to their many siblings arguing over the best way to make a soup.

Second-Oldest having to be the new Oldest while the actual one is under the weather. Shenanigans ensue.

The siblings have trauma around a parent being sick and potentially dying so when one of them gets sick there's a whole nother layer of angst. Maybe they even get angry at the sick character, despite the fact that they can't control it. Maybe the sick character understands and apologizes because they know how hard it is to see this happening again.

just. siblings in whump

yes!! my novel is all about estranged siblings and i have such a soft spot for this dynamic. the people who know them best in the world because they grew up with them and now they have nothing in common!! knowing how your parents took care of them (if they did) when they were sick as a kid!! noticing much more minute things that are off because they know how they usually act and this isn't it! being able to see right through their "i'm fine" facade!! this this this!

[rabbit-flaying]

A Taste of Paradise chapter two

Content Warnings: captivity, kidnapping, bugs, religion, false paradise, pet whump, the beginnings of stockholm syndrome

"I was going to pick tomatoes in my garden before it gets dark," Christopher said. "Would you like to join me?"

He had just finished washing the dishes, and hung his rubber gloves on a bar beside his sink. Unlike Ezra, who tended to leave his sink filthy, Christopher was dutiful about tossing any food scraps in the garbage.

"That sounds lovely."

Ezra was surprised that Christopher would allow him to go outside, but supposed there wasn't any risk in it. Not if he was going to be under supervision. And, in any case, getting some sunshine would do him good. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken a walk that wasn't just to and from his car.

He followed Christopher out the back door in the kitchen and into the mud room, a gateway between the outside world and Ezra's captivity.

It seemed to be the only place in his home where dirt was tolerated. A rack of drying herbs took up much of one wall, hanging basil, sage, chamomile, mint, and lavender. Withered petals and leaves were scattered on the tile floor beneath it.

A painting of Maryum- or Mother Mary, Ezra supposed- hung over the door frame. She watched over the entrance to Christopher's home with a serene smile.

A shoe rack sat next to the door, and Ezra spotted his cheap polyester boots next to Christopher's church shoes and hiking boots. Neither of them bothered to put their shoes on, however. The weather was too good for such things.

Christopher opened the door, and Ezra felt the sunshine on his skin. He couldn't not help but smile. It warmed him down to his bones, and he understood truly well how plants must feel when drawing energy through photosynthesis.

He was no longer in the city, of course. A small field surrounded by towering pine trees laid before him, undisturbed by the sound of cars or the obnoxious buzz of electric wires.

This was the place he dreamt of, when he got a chance to close his eyes during long shifts and imagine a better life.

If only he had chosen it.

Christopher's garden was to the right of his house, surrounded by a tall fence to keep the deer from eating or trampling his plants. Christopher unlatched the gate, and put it back in its place when he and Ezra were through.

Functionally, a wire fence was no different from a cage. But Ezra had a hard time remembering that, distracted as he was by the smell of tomato plants and the sun warmed stepping stones beneath his bare feet.

He would almost prefer being tied up in a warehouse somewhere.

Ezra caught the thought, and immediately and sharply reminded himself of how stupid of a thought that was. His current situation may have been deeply uncomfortable, but it was also much easier to deal with than actual torture.

He would return to his life well rested and relatively trauma free. Hopefully his debts wouldn't spiral too badly before that.

"Nature is so beautiful. I love cultivating plants," Christopher said, as he picked a ripe red tomato. He twisted the stem close to the fruit to break it free without damaging the vine.

Ezra picked a strawberry, not quite sure how to respond. It tasted infinitely sweeter on his tongue than those bought from a store. All his self control went into practice to keep him from stripping the vines of their fruit in a gluttonous fashion.

A butterfly landed on Ezra's sweater. Its massive wings beat gently for a moment, then we're still. It was covered in black and white stripes, but with bizarre orange tips, as though it had an accident trying to land in paint.

"How beautiful," Christopher said.

He had filled half a bowl with tomatoes now, some large and red and others miniscule and yellow, more than enough for dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow.

Ezra held still until the butterfly took to flight once more. Being its resting spot felt so special. He missed it at once.

"I love butterflies," Ezra said. "All bugs, really. And animals. Anything but dogs."

"I agree totally. There is nothing more charming than seeing a ladybug crawling on tomato vine."

Christopher knelt down and put his hand in the path of a harvestman spider, letting it crawl onto his palm. He was so gentle with the delicate thing. Every movement was slow and deliberate so that he would not crush it or pinch its legs.

Then he stood again, and offered it to Ezra. As far as Ezra was concerned, this was the truest show of friendship anyone could give him.

He smiled at the strange, harmless creature with its absurdly long legs as it crawled onto his hand. He turned his hand over so it would not fall as it made its way around and around his hand.

"Alright, back down you go," he said, after he had watched it to his content.

He lowered his hand to the ground so the harvestman could return to its burrow. Christopher smiled, his brown eyes fixed on the spider for a moment, then returning to Ezra.

"They're not really spiders," he said. "Harvestman, they call them. Or daddy long-legs."

"I know," Ezra said. "Spiders have a distinct head and abdomen. Harvestmen only have one continuous segment."

He realized too late the way he was smiling at Christopher. Sharing his happiness with the man who had kidnapped him. And over what? A moment under the sun? A good meal? A not-spider?

He didn't want any of this. He wouldn't have been happy in his regular life, of course. But there were bearable moments, spent listening to music and drawing animals in his sketchbook. He wasn't sure if he would get any of that back.

Christopher's voice cut through Ezra's thoughts. "Are you alright? Oh, it's a hot day, isn't it? Perhaps we should go back indoors."

Ezra nodded. He was disappointed to leave the garden, and more still when he stepped into the shade of Christopher's mudroom.

He usually spent all his time hiding indoors. But now he felt trapped, and hoped to God that he would be allowed to stay outside again. Today, tomorrow, and every day until he was rescued.

Taglist: @inbloodandtears @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @i-eat-worlds @whatwasmyprevioususername @boonasaurusrex @suspicious-whumping-egg @parasitebunny @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

[cosmicobubisi]

Cosmic's Malleyuu Whump vs Flufftober: Day 7

ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES unconventional weapon | magic with a cost / Hoodie Weather

Yuu felt like screaming, but they didn't want to waste their breath.

The inky black monsters that were overrunning the island were relentless. They slid along the rocky terrain with startling speed, resembling more vicious ocean waves than the malicious creeping spirits that possessed them.

With this many, it was difficult to tell them each apart. That made it twice as difficult to dodge their attacks, and strike back at them.

Yuu had never felt more useless or pathetic in this one fight, which was impressive, because this basically happened every fight. Still, there was absolutely no way to fight the monsters through any non-magical means.

A pang of longing went through them. They wished their friends were around. At least it wouldn't have been so bad, if they were all suffering together.

But they were gone. Their friend group had been together when the monsters had struck, and, all of them being lower-level mages, had been unable to effectively counter the sheer number of blot monsters.

Now, Yuu just had Grim, and for once, he wasn't fighting them on who was the real dorm head of Ramshackle.

Speaking of Grim, Yuu was clutching him as they ran to higher ground. They'd tried the roof of Ramshackle, but when it threatened to collapse under the relentless attacks of the monsters, they fled.

Grim was beating back the monsters that got too close as Yuu scrambled up a tall tree. They frantically pulled their phone out of their pocket, hiding themselves in their hoodie to try and heat up a bit.

The air was chilly, and it suited Yuu's resentful mood. As they opened up the groupchat to get an update, they saw everyone's preparations.

Because of the warning that their group had been able to provide, the other dorms had been able to get prepared. A number of them had promised help, but none had arrived before most of their group had been struck down.

Yuu had to admit, they were dealing with a bit of a complex here at Night Raven. It was hard to be so lackluster all the time, and they often felt like they got overlooked whenever something dangerous was happening.

At the same time, it was hard to ask for help. Everyone always gave them a hard time over it, chuckling patronizingly and reminding them, for all their bluster, they were just a "normal human".

Yuu felt like they were being set up to fail, but by who?

"Hey," said Grim, tugging on their sleeve. "Look."

Yuu followed his outstretched paw to see the inky blot monsters down below. To their surprise, they saw the blot monsters struggling against the tree's bark, looking like they were trying to climb up only to slide down.

"Huh," huffed Yuu "The angle's too sharp for them."

The two of them smiled at each other and starting laughing, feeling they'd finally gotten their first big break of the night.

Which is, of course, when something went wrong.

The blot monsters hadn't been able to climb very well, but they had knocked themselves hard enough into the trunk that it had caused the thin branch Grim was on to fail.

"Grim!" Yuu dove as fast as they could to grab him, and while they were able to snatch him out of the air, they also managed to punch his wand out of his grip.

It fell into the writhing mass of ink below, and quickly fell out of Yuu's vision.

The blot monsters were too smart for Yuu, because, upon recognizing their newly-found success, rammed themselves into the tree again.

Yuu grabbed onto the tree, trying to find their balance in the slippery bark.

"What are we gonna do?" yowled Grim.

Yuu knew one thing they could do.

When they'd presented the idea to Malleus, he'd immediately been hostile.

"No, Yuu," he said. "That is not a solution. Your idea is going to get you, as well as a number of others, killed."

"Well, what are your suggestions!?" Yuu had exclaimed. "You're so negative- any idea of mine, you attack!"

"Call me," he'd replied, taking their hands into his, emerald eyes boring into theirs. "No matter what. I'll always hear you."

But Yuu had called and called, and had made a fool out of themselves as their friends fell, one by one, while Malleus was nowhere to be seen.

Yuu didn't know what had really happened to their friends. They didn't know if they were even still recoverable at this point. But Yuu knew that they'd sacrificed themselves for Yuu, and now it was time to make their own sacrifice.

Without letting themselves think about it for another moment, Yuu shrugged off their backpack and scrambled for the little package at the bottom.

They ripped it open and popped it in their mouth, the inky flavor exploding in their mouth, Yuu struggled not to spit it out.

"Yuu!" exclaimed Grim, and they realized they didn't even know if overblotting would work on a magicless human.

They looked up, and as the drops of black ink overtook their vision, they thought they saw a figure standing in the distance, a few paces behind the last blot monsters.

The last thing they saw was Malleus, mouthing "Yuu," before it all went black.

[cuddlepilefics]

A minor annoyance

Fandom: Stray Kids

Sickie: Chan

Caregivers: mainly 2basco + Felix

Prompts: Stuffy nose / Hate to be sick / “I'm fine, I can work.”

@whumperless-whump-event

No one’s POV.:

Chan hated to be sick. Generally tended to ignore it whenever it happened, which was more often the case than he’d want to admit. It shouldn’t be shocking how weak his immune system was and how frequently something managed to slip past it. Constantly overworking and spreading oneself thin would do that to a body. A stuffy nose was nothing Chan couldn’t deal with or that would interfere with his work, just a minor annoyance. Still, it was something the members would notice and knowing how their leader always tried to hide his struggle and push himself too hard, they couldn’t help but worry. They didn’t believe Chan anymore when he said it was just a little sniffle because he tended to say that before passing out with a dangerously high fever. Those incidents were something the eldest too regretted now because his dongsaengs were always on high alert when he wasn’t on top of his game, even if it really wasn’t anything to worry about.

“Are you coming down with a cold again?”, Changbin frowned when he had prepared his breakfast and took a seat next to Chan, “You only just got over the one you had last month.” Chan sighed and shook his head, trying to refrain from sniffling. He was fine. “Sure, you totally don’t sound congested at all”, the rapper commented, rolling his eyes. Clearing his throat, Chan muttered: “I just got a stuffy nose, Bin. Please don’t make a big deal out of it.” – “Alright, I won’t but you are aware that this stuff wouldn’t happen so often if you took better care of your body”, Changbin hummed, slightly frustrated with his hyung. He was glad that 3racha would spend most of the day at the studio, just the three of them. It’d be easier for Chan to take it slow if there were no other producers or staff around to judge him for slacking off. Well, most of them wouldn’t judge because they knew how hardworking Chan was but the Aussie always felt like they’d judge and pressure himself to work harder.

While Chan was in the bathroom to get ready for work, Changbin stood in the kitchen, preparing a thermos filled with tea. Jisung walked up behind him, a worried crease on his forehead. When Changbin looked up and their eyes locked, the younger raised an eyebrow, so Changbin explained: “Chan’s coming down with something again.” – “Again?!”, Jisung frowned, “it’s been what? A month? Barely.” – “Yeah, that’s about right”, the older hummed, “I don’t think it’s as bad, at least not yet. Stuffy nose and irritated throat at the very least, so I’m making tea.” Jisung nodded in acknowledgement and mused: “Guess I’ll pack tissues and cough drops.” – “Good thinking, we’ll just try to take it slow today, so hyung doesn’t push it”, Changbin determined, shooting Jisung a smile.

“Minho-hyung said he’ll cook dinner for everyone, can we try to finish in time for dinner and join them at their dorm?”, Jisung asked eagerly as they made their way to the studio. Glancing at his dongsaeng, Chan smiled: “Sounds good. Any specific reason?” – “I think Felix has been pestering about something he wanted to try, so Minho-hyung decided if he makes it, he’ll make enough for the entire group”, Jisung hummed, sounding a little uncertain. Chan didn’t need to know that the recipe Minho was going to try was a soup and that he didn’t need to be pestered when the rappers told him that Chan was feeling a little under the weather. The dancer knew how quickly Chan’s ‘a little under the weather’ could turn into thoroughly sick because he didn’t really take care of himself, so they better do it for him if they didn’t want him to take a turn for the worse.

Changbin cheered inwardly. Having plans for the evening would most certainly ensure them to get out of work early and they could make sure Chan wouldn’t go back to work after dinner, hopefully having an early bedtime instead. He truly hoped the leader would accept an early bedtime, his headache becoming more apparent the more time passed. “Do you want to take a break, hyung?”, Jisung whispered as he watched Chan massage his temples. Giving an itchy cough, the Aussie sniffled: “No? Why should I take a break? Do you need one? We can take a break if you need it.” – “I-I don’t need a break”, the younger stammered, “Just thought you might feel better if you rested your eyes for a moment.” – “I’m fine, I can work”, the eldest frowned, brushing off Jisung’s concern. Knowing how defensive Chan tended to get, the rapper didn’t take it personal and merely leant back in his seat with a sigh. He did open the bag of cough drops though and placed it next to his hyung’s laptop when the older kept clearing his throat frequently.

Chan closed his eyes for a moment and rested his head in his hands, taking a deep breath. Bringing his sleeve up to his face, he muffled a cough, that came out far harsher than he had expected. His eyes watered a bit and gave a wet sniffle as he rubbed at his eyes. Gosh, he was so freaking tired. A pair of gentle hands appeared on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there, and Chan couldn’t help but turn into putty. “Lets take ten, okay?”, Changbin hummed as he continued to massage the leader’s neck and shoulders and the older couldn’t find the energy to argue. Giving a sleepy hum, Chan crossed his arms on the desk and rested his head on them as the tension melted away. His body ached but Changbin’s hands were warm through his hoodie, easing the pain and making him drowsy.

“If you keep going, I’ll probably fall asleep”, Chan warned quietly. Giving a hum of acknowledgement, Changbin whispered: “Would that really be such a bad thing?” – “We’re at work”, the leader reminded, his voice getting huskier as sleep threatened to creep up on him, “I can’t sleep now. There’s… …stuff to do.” – “There always is, isn’t there?”, Jisung hummed, pouring another cup of tea from Changbin’s thermos. Chan nodded, clearing his throat. He only managed to come out of his daze when his breath started to hitch. Sitting up, the Aussie ducked his face into the crook of his arm and caught to throaty sneezes. His dongsaengs blessed him quietly, with Changbin offering: “Why don’t we finish up here quickly and go to the maknae-dorm for cuddles and a hot meal?” – “Sounds awesome but unjustified”, Chan sniffled, rubbing his eyes. “Why would that be unjustified, hyung”, Jisung frowned, checking the clock. Dinnertime was approaching and they had planned to leave early anyway. Clearing his throat again, Chan rasped: “We don’t usually go home early unless someone is sick.” – “Um, sorry to break it to you, hyung, but you are”, Changbin pointed out. The Aussie shook his head and muttered: “Am not. Just have a stuffy nose. I’m fine, I can work.”

After already having watched their hyung suffer all day, Changbin and Jisung made eye contact at that comment and sighed. “Besides, I can’t be sick. I’ve only been sick last month. It’d be too soon”, Chan frowned, accepting the tea Jisung handed him. Shaking his head, Changbin asked: “Why do you think you keep catching stuff so soon after getting over something else? Might that be because your immune system suck? And might that be because you never allow yourself to take it easy? Funny how that could mean that you could avoid it by not pushing on when your body is making clear that it needs a break to focus its resources on fighting something off.” – “Hmpf, I hate to be sick”, the leader huffed but he couldn’t argue.

“Come on, let’s wrap things up here, so we can have a quiet evening with the others”, Jisung encouraged already saving all the open files on Chan’s laptop. They just couldn’t give their hyung a chance to argue or else they’d be here all night. It wasn’t like Chan would miss a day of work. They had been working all day after all, only avoiding to work into the night shouldn’t make him feel so guilty but for some reason it did. Right up until Felix texted him that he was feeling homesick and if they could cuddle after dinner since Chan had already agreed to coming over. The leader could never leave his Aussie brother hanging, so he rushed to pack up and leave with Changbin and Jisung.

Making Chan rest was truly a team effort. Felix had only texted because Changbin had let him know how hesitant the leader was about going home early and Minho had the soup ready by the time 3racha arrived at their dorm. The humidifier was running in the living room, a box of tissues on the coffee table and a stack of folded, fluffy blankets on one side of the couch. It seemed the maknaes had set everything up for a movie night and Chan couldn’t help but smile, feeling at home with the members. He was immediately wrapped in a hug, Felix not wanting to let go of him afterwards. “I missed you too, Lixxie”, the leader breathed, burying his face in the younger’s sweater.

Felix gently pulled Chan to the dining table and nudged him to his seat, humming: “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat, so we can cuddle.” – “Yeah, please sit down everyone, so I can bring the soup”, Minho called, setting a stack of bowls onto the table. Hyunjin and Seungmin were quick to pitch in and lay the table while Minho carried the pot of soup to the dining table. Chan thanked them quietly and blew on his soup to cool it a little faster. Inhaling the steam cleared his sinuses but made his nose tingle and he caught two wet sneezes against his shoulder. Maybe it was a good thing his dongsaengs cut his workday short because the fatigue set in more and more and his muscles ached. Getting koala-cuddles from Felix sounded like a dream to Chan.

The warmth of the soup soothed the irritation in Chan’s throat, the hearty meal making him drowsy. He helped clear the table before he was pulled to the living room, Felix pushing on his shoulders to make him sit on the couch. “Are you cold, hyung? Do you want a blanket? Cuddles are better under a blanket, hm?”, Felix mumbled as he took a seat next to the leader, grabbing a fluffy blanket and spreading it over the two of them.

The other members filed into the living room too and settled around the two Aussies. Instead of popcorn and crackers, Seungmin brought apple slices and berries, so they could have something to nibble on but provide Chan with the vitamins he needed to kick his cold. It had been a while since they had last been able to spend an evening together like this and they were going to treasure every second of it, even if Chan barely paid any attention to the movie they had voted on. What was left of his consciousness was focused on Felix’ fingers tangled in his hair, lightly scratching his scalp and slowly luring him to sleep. Sure, he still hated to be sick but having a family who cared for him so deeply made it a lot more bearable, so he would allow himself not to work through it this time.

[whumpster-dumpster]

Hello! Your blog is amazing, thanks for it! Can you imagine some whump prompts for dark academia?

I'm not very familiar with the dark academia aesthetic but I can try!

Papercuts

Ink to the eyes

Poisoned tea/coffee

Constant all-nighters

Topical poison on book pages

Burns from candles or sealing wax

Elegant "love" letters from a stalker

A fall from the ladder/stairs in the library

Dabbling too deep into tomes of dark magic

Whumper punishing Whumpee for poor calligraphy

Eyestrain/headaches from long reading and low light

Hand injuries from writing for too long without breaks

Whumper plucking Winged Whumpee's feathers for quill pens

Hiding bruises and/or scars under their cardigans/blazers/tweed

Overheating in said fashion (or caught in cold weather without it)

Whumper blackmails Whumpee after getting ahold of their private writing

Whumper inflicting wounds on Whumpee that are meant to emulate tragic classical art

[bokettochild]

Fenuwhump request for day 3, how about make it about Wild & Legend, where Wild’s the one who’s injured enough to need to bite down on something while Legend it trying to treat him. Maybe they need to get a spear or something out of Wild before using a Fairy. Whump for both of them basically except for Legend it’s emotional whump.

Oh boy, this one was fun! Took me a hot tick (and it's late, whoops!) but it was worth it!

Wordcount: 5,157

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Hemophobia, panic attacks, graphic descriptions of injury and LOTS OF BLOOD

-

They’ve been wandering for a week.  

Normally, that’s expected, only normally they find at least something in their path while they do so. A village, a town, a couple of farmhouses- be they occupied or not, there’s always something. Here though there have only been monsters, and lots of them. He'd think, based off of the abundance of enemies, that it was his own time, or something very close to, except even his era has more in the ways of civilization than this! At least back home, the paths lead to somewhere, and even if homes and villages aren’t prosperous, they’re at least existent! 

Legend sighs. Maybe it's the rain, maybe the stiff joints and the sore muscles caused by the heavy downpour of the last two days is the cause of his ire. He's not usually so fussy about where he’s walking, as long as it’s on a path, although this era of Hyrule doesn't seem to have much in the way of those either. He really had wondered if they were in his time though, but the lack of civilization and the sparsity in monster species had convinced him otherwise. Not that there’s a lack of monsters, just that there’s only been three or four main types they’ve run into in the last week, and they’d all been familiar, almost easy to take down, and frankly boring. He’s used to having changing targets, things that challenge him and make him actually try in order to stay alive, but so far most of the monsters they’ve met on this journey, here in this era or in the ones before, have been familiar. Although, the strange black blood does tend to make them more violent, resilient and intelligent, so fighting them isn’t exactly easy either.  

Wherever they are, no one else seems to enjoy it either. Time looks most miserable, his armor no doubt incredibly uncomfortable while wet, but saying he’s the most miserable isn’t saying much about the comfort of the rest of them. Twilight slogs through the field, leading Epona beside him and hunching in under his heavy fur hood. Likewise, Four has donned his hood, shivering as he walks along at the center of their group, grumbling softly under his breath about whether rain is or isn’t the worst sort of weather. The consensus so far seems to be that sandstorms are worse, but by a thin margin because they’re incredibly rare in comparison. 

Personally, Legend finds hail to be the worst sort of weather, seeing as the chunks can get as large as some stones in his era, but he keeps that to himself. It’s not like Four’s asking for his opinion after all. 

“Anything?” Sky calls ahead, his sailcloth pulled over his head and, surprisingly, not soaking up the water. Legend wonders what the thing is made of, maybe he can ask later, or give it a look once they’re somewhere dry. He’d never expected it to be waterproof. 

Beside their leader, Warriors shakes his head, water dripping off the ends of the hair that’s now well and truly plastered to his face. The captain had leant Hyrule his scarf, and while seeing him without it is strange enough, seeing his hair as flat and ruined as it is, is even stranger. “Nothing, sorry, Chosen.” 

The skyloftian sighs again. They all know, from previous conversation, that rain is very much a new sensation for Sky still, and while he’s apparently past the stage of thinking the sky is falling, something he’s apparently still in the process of teaching his fellow skyloftains back home, he still doesn’t like it at all. Like the vet himself, their chosen hero seems to be wary of storms, and lightning storms for the man, as with himself, are the worst. 

Actually, you know, maybe hail isn’t so bad. Maybe lightning storms are worse, especially after Four said that your chances of being struck increase with each time it happens. Or something like that. 

“We’ve been walking for days,” Wind whines, a true testament to his frustration, because their youngest hates whining. “How is there still nothing?” 

“Because life hates us.” Four drones, “life hates us, and the goddesses are pissed we are still alive.” 

Even he stares at the smithy for that one. 

“Four,” Warriors pauses in his walking, and most of them follow suit. “Would you like me to carry you?” 

The genuine request is shut down very quickly with some foul language that no doubt would earn a very harsh stare if anyone could still see the captain’s face. Good grief, their captain looks like a drowned sheepdog with his bangs hanging that low, he desperately needs a trim (not that Legend’s offering). 

“Sumthin’s sure t’come,” Twilight tries, and it’d be assuring if it wasn’t the thirteenth time he’s said that in the last few days. “jist hod in there, sailor.” 

“How many times have you said that already?” Sky sighs. 

“Thirteen.” 

The rancher shoots him a glare and Sky chuckles, adjusting his baldric as he walks, head shaking under the white sailcloth. Strangely, he looks like the pictures of the old priestesses like that, and while Legend’s not in the best of moods, what with his hands and joints burning and aching from the rain, he still smirks a bit at the thought, although he doesn’t speak it. Catching eyes with Hyrule though, face half hidden by blue fabric, he sees a similar sort of smile playing over the traveler’s face, one that glints a bit as it turns on him, as though asking if he sees it too. He grins back, only to wince as his feet stumble some over the uneven ground. 

He flounders for a moment, almost catching his balance only to have the muddy earth slip under his newly settled feet and make him trip further. It’s Wild hand, shot out to catch his own, that stops him, and he grips back tightly as he finds his feet again, panting maybe a bit harder than necessary once he has. When he glances up to thank the champion though, he’s met with flat eyes and a blank face, none of their young knight's typical cheer and playfulness present. 

“Champ?” 

“Watch your step,” it’s not harsh, but the other’s voice is distant as the other withdraws. Wild’s been quiet for a while, since the rain started actually. Usually, bad weather is met with some hair-brained anecdote or story that has Twilight shaking his head and Time cracking secret smiles, but these last couple of days are different for some reason. Legend can’t name why, but he supposes it’s not his place to ask either, seeing as how it’s not like they’re close or anything. Maybe more so than they were before, but not nearly as much as the champion is with Twilight and Time, or Wind is with Warriors. 

Oh well, Wild being weird isn’t new either. As long as the young knight doesn’t do anything, it should be fine. Still, he makes a note to keep an eye on the kid, at least until he starts acting like himself again. For now, though, the champion walks- no, marches- along at their center, just in front of him and granting him direct view of set shoulders and a tense jaw. He’s making that same face he does when he’s in a memory, although he’s proven to be more responsive than when he fades out into one of those. Glancing around, the vet wonders if maybe this place reminds their champion of something, or maybe he’s just equally off put by the lack of people, places to stop, and opportunities to warm up by fires or cook. They haven’t been dry in over twenty-four hours after all, and that’s got to have an effect on anyone.  

“What the heck is that?” The voice of the captain has all their attention drifting to the front, watching their medic dash hair and water out of his eyes for what’s got to be the thousandth time, peering out into the rain with a squint. The rest of them follow suit, staring out and trying to make out anything against the grey sky and thick curtain of water that pours down around them. 

He hears it before he sees it. It’s a strange mechanical whirring noise, steady and unbroken, but very, very unfamiliar. He can’t even tell where it’s coming from for a moment, but then, out of the deluge around them, he sees a faintly pink glow. 

Wild, directly in front of him, stiffens, hands flying for sword and shield. 

“Cub?” 

“Guardian,” the champion bites out, and while that word means nothing to any of them, they all follow his example, arming themselves and crouching low. If the thing, the guardian, is a threat, it isn’t doing anything yet, just wandering around on long, spider-like legs that almost remind him of a tektite, or maybe a gohma. 

“Threat?” Time asks, glancing back, as though they aren’t already prepared for that very thing. 

Wild nods, sharp, firm, jaw set. 

That’s the last thing any of them are able to do either, as a moment later there’s a sharp, alarming beeping that makes some part of his soul scream in response, a red beam cutting through the rain around them, drifting over them briefly before settling on the champion, who’s closest. Harsh blue eyes blow wide at the sight, and the champion’s voice, a soft rasping whisper a moment ago, rises in a shout. “Run!” 

They scatter, like so many keese out of a cave, they dart off in all directions, Twilight swinging up into the saddle and catching Four by the belt as he does so, kicking his mare off and away even as the rest of them rely on their own two legs. Some of them slip, some of them fall, but they’re all well accustomed to moving and moving quickly when enemies appear. The important thing is not letting the red beam settle on them. He’s not sure why, but he knows, and he’s ever been one to ignore instinct. 

An explosion, not unlike one caused by a beamos, lights up the grey world not far from where they’d all been standing, and Time’s form darts across his vision as the man circles around the creeping monster as it glides on far too many legs towards their quickly fleeing group. 

“Cub, weaknesses!” Is shouted over the sound of their feet and the rain, the steady mechanical whirr of the so-called guardian sending his mind screaming in warnings that any normal person would take as a sign to book it out of there. They don’t though, because heroes never run when they should, unless it’s to run towards the thig trying to kill them. They’re a bit dumb like that. 

The champion is somewhere on his left, no, right- blue tunic standing out against the grey world, even despite the sheets of rain making it muddled against the cloudy sky and churned up earth. “Eye!” Except the blasted thing is a mechanical monster, so there isn’t an eye. Legend supposes the blinking blue and pink circle on what seems to be the front of it is rather like an eye though, and it doesn’t take much to send an arrow flying towards that point, a whisper of a prayer on his lips that it’ll do some good. 

The red beam tracing after Wind disappears, pink and blue lights blinking in and out for a brief moment as the whole creature shakes and shudders, the top part swiveling wildly for a second before turning, slowly, as the lights come on again. 

The red beam focuses on him. 

Shit. 

“Vet, run!” 

He does. He didn’t even need the warning, he just breaks into a full sprint the moment he can, boots kicking into use to give him a little extra speed. Pegasus boots aren’t nearly as effective in the rain, or on muddy ground, but it’s better than his normal speed when it’s wet and cold and his joints are aching enough to make walking miserable. Unfortunately, that does require him staying upright, something that’s exceedingly more taxing on his body as a whole. 

“Do not take it on!” The champion shouts, and Legend has no clue how the usually rasping voice of the young knight carries so clearly over the drenched field, but he can hear it as clearly as if the champion is right next to him. “Move away! Get as far as you can!” 

They rarely warn each other to not take on monsters, usually only in the case of the worst ones, but the utter and complete terror he’d seen on the champion’s face the split second before they’d all darted off had been clue enough that that is the case now. Even if the others didn’t see the champion’s face though, the run. Twilight is already out of sight, Four with him. Time stops to grab ahold of Wind and then they both plunge off into the wetness, Hyrule and Sky taking off in the opposite direction, north and northwest. 

Southwards of the strange thing, Legend’s got no chance at following any of them, and the blinking red beam fixed on him is making his steps more and more desperate as he weaves this way and that, desperately trying to throw off its aim as it trundles steadily closer, hardly hurried as the blink of its beam quickens its flash. 

In a last-ditch attempt, he throws himself down into the mud the moment he hears the blast fire. The ground in front of him bursts into flames, unaffected by the rain pelting from the sky, but at least he’d escaped. This time. 

The sound of another blast charging has him darting up, but the ground and his joints are no aid, making him slip and slide and falter for a moment before he finally gets his feet underneath him and takes off again. 

The second shot strikes the ground just a few inches from him as he darts to the side, once more at the last moment. 

“Hang on!”  

He doesn’t know why Wild’s still around, the rest of the heroes now absent by both sight and sound, but he can hear the other flying through the mud and the muck towards him, arrows pinging harmlessly off of the sides of the giant, multi-legged hell-beast that’s chasing him. For some reason though, its sights remain locked on him, not faltering even for a moment towards the champion whose breathing is becoming more and more shallow by the second, terror painted clearly in its pulses. 

The thing is getting closer, he’s losing ground. Instinct says that he’s not outrunning this thing, not even with all his magic poured into his boots to try and speed him along. The moment he runs out is the moment it catches up, and he’s not making great distance anyways. They need a new plan. 

He turns around, shield raised. 

The champion’s throaty scream rings out at nearly the same pitch as the firing laser. 

The blow makes him stumble back, force like nothing he’s faced before, even a lynel, but the mirror shield does its job, sending the horrid blue light rocketing back to its source with a flick of his arm. 

 The spidery monster stalls, lights blinking and fizzing, top spinning about again, this time for longer than what the arrow had done as the things stops moving long enough for Wild to reach it. The champion’s sword, freshly forged for the second time, swings for the legs, hacking and cutting in a motion he darts to mirror, tackling the twisting limb that’s closest. Two legs hit the ground, still writhing, sending the not-a–beast teetering and then tipping, unbalanced with the loss of two of its eight awful legs. That isn’t enough to stop it though. No, the thing’s glow returns, top spinning again, seeking them, and Wild’s hand catches his wrist before it does, the champion pulling him away. 

The red beam follows them as they dart off, and the monster does too, although it’s slowed by the loss of its legs, and a quick shot from the champion’s bow at the last moment has it spinning and fizzing again, stopped in its tracks a moment more and granting them both long enough to gain some ground. 

Wild’s hand is a vice on his wrist. 

He doesn’t dare pull away. 

Their feet slip and slide, and more than once he nearly falls, only for the hand nearly bruising his wrist to pull him up again. An arm wraps round his shoulders to steady and pull him up, Wild’s blue eyes cast all the while towards the thing behind them. There’s fear in those eyes; desperate terror that makes him almost miss the empty coldness from on the road. Makes him miss the wild child streaked with dirt and all too eager with a stupid plan. The ma beside him, soaked to the skin, dirt streaked and desperate, is like a whole different person, but even that doesn’t stop the fact that his brother is there, standing beside him and getting his ass out of danger as best he can rather than darting off as his own mind is likely demanding he do. 

Didn’t Wild say his scars came from a guardian? Didn’t he die to these things? Are they going to die? 

The mechanical whir picks up again, the steadily increasing beep that he’s quickly learning signifies preparation of a shot is sounding in their ears and they only have so much distance between themselves and the monster that outpaces them without even trying. 

“Keep running,” Wild orders, eyes finding his for a moment, startled at the contact, but the other pulls back all the same. 

Legend finds his own feet skidding to a stop, already whirling around to ask what the champion’s plan even is, but a harsh “that’s an order!” has him obeying. He's not sure if it’s the firmness, the desperation, or maybe even fear of the champion himself, but his instinct takes the lead to send him stumbling away as quickly as possible. 

This is Wild’s monster, he knows it’s weaknesses, he knows how to fight them. This is Wild’s world, he knows what he’s doing, he does. Wild knows what he’s doing, Wild knows what he’s doing Wild knows- 

The champion’s grunt of pain, a bit bac scream and the sound of something falling stop him in his tracks. 

The champion is wincing, ash floating around him, shield now notably missing as the enemy closes in on the hero who is running and darting with a speed Legend didn’t know he had in him. Running towards him, eyes locking on him, blowing wide and full of terror as they catch on the vet’s frozen form. 

The red beam locks onto the running form of his brother. 

They don’t have time. Wild doesn’t have a shield any longer and Legend’s not confident he can replicate the parry he’d done before on total accident. Their options are slim, but they have some. 

His bow is easy to equip, arrow flying off the string in a second, aim easy to take as the mechanical monster crawls steadily towards them, target never shifting. The single shot does little, save restart their timer, but that at least is something. He fires again. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Distracting!” Depleting the health, if this thing even has health. He's doing damage though, he knows that much He’s doing damage because they’re out of time for flight, it’s time to fight now. 

The champions snarls, a foreign, harsh sound that rips across scarred vocal chords, but he’s not challenged. No, instead, the other darts in, sword ready and already hacking the moment Legend fires off another arrow. The new sword screams against the metal legs of the guardian, but after some heavy, terrible looking blows, yet another twisting, writhing limb falls to the soaked earth, and the spinning head of the not-creature turns to focus instead on the champion. The red beam pulses, already too quick, eye faced away and out of sight of Legend’s bow. 

“Wild!” 

Resignation is already clear in those eyes as the other hacks away, darting and jumping and flipping about, moving too fast but not fast enough, rough voice still so harsh against his ears. “Run! I’ll hold it off!” 

He’s not going to. 

“I’ll be fine!” The champion’s voice breaks on the words. He won’t. 

The pulsing light is blinking faster than his pounding heart, lights blurring his vision as his feet slide in the dirt, running as bidden. Rather than away, he’s headed towards, but even with sword and shield raised, with all his magic streaming into aiding his stride, he’s not fast enough. 

The beam of blue light strikes Wild in the center of his chest, and it’s like time stops for a moment. The scream of his brother rings over the field, no doubt echoing in the ears of their fled brethren. He’s frozen, watching, as the champion falls, as though in slow motion, but then Wild’s body slumps against the earth and the guardian is turning on him this time and time catches up again, returned to normal, ticking on as though he hasn’t just witnessed the stuff of his brother’s nightmares. 

And yet Wild still get’s back up. 

“Go!” Those eyes are so wide, so pained, so terrified. “Zelda! Run!” 

Wild doesn’t know it’s him. Wild doesn’t know it’s him! Oh crud, Wild doesn’t know it’s him! Wild is running, stumbling, one hand to his sodden and bloodied chest and the other clutching tightly to his sword, gaze fixed on the vet with the same sort of desperation that screams and pounds fit to make Legend’s own heart burst. 

If Wild takes another shot, there’s no promise he’ll get up again. But Wild isn’t seeing Legend, he’s seeing his princess; his desperate, defenseless princess, and there’s no way in the Dark World that the dutiful knight he knows would let Zelda take the blow of an enemy, even if that means he has to make himself into a living shield. 

What to do? The things bearing down on him, target set, lights already blinking in a too quick countdown. He can’t parry the beam back twice in a row, there’s too much distance to use his sword. He can shoot but for how long? How long till it’s on him? How long till he runs out of arrows? 

Arrows! Zelda! 

He’s not sure, hasn’t time to think, hasn't time to do more than send a prayer heavenward that Hylia did more than curse him with her blood, but then it’s there, shining and bright and light arrows are at the tips of his fingers, bright and warm and pulsing as they fly to his string. He pulls back. The guardian’s light pulses once. He releases. 

The thing flies back, rolling and crashing against the wet earth, sparking and fizzing out, twitching and spluttering as the ever-present whine of its core gives out. Legend doesn’t care, he has eyes only for his wavering friend, the brother whose eyes are flickering, and legs are faltering. He tries to quicken his pace, but even as he reaches out his arms, the strain and the mud have them both tumbling down into the muck, the chapion’s breath stuttering with a pained groan as they slide and roll. 

He comes out on top, something he alters quickly, pulling himself to the side and upright, knelt over his brother’s sprawled out and boody form. He gags. 

The beams effects are immediately obvious, flesh burnt away, bubbling at the edges as blood seeps out from the wound, running thin under the rainwater but in no ways washed away by the downpour. There’s charring already, and where there isn’t is exposed muscle that trembles and spasms, veins pulsing as pained shudders shake the champion. 

Shit shit shit, he;s going to be sick, he’s going to be so sick! 

“Zel-” the pained whimper has him tearing his eyes away, wide violet finding fluttering blue, holding as one hand lifts, the champion trying to catch hold of him in some way or another. 

For a brief second, the image of his uncle, gaping wound leaking blood across the floor and into the sewage drain behind them, flashes in is head. Wild’s eyes are just as glazed over, words fumblinga nd slurring as a hand reaches clumsily for him. He catches it, pushing it down and out of his way, motions a echo of ten years ago when he did the same for the man who raised him. “H-hey-: his voice is shaking, trembling, foreign even to his own ears, “h-hang in there, y-you're- you're gonna be fine.” 

He doesn't know how to treat a burn like this. Doesn’t know how to deal with the hole that’s been seared through his brother's chest. He’s no medic, no healer, and his magic may be enough to end but it can do nothing to heal. 

“Zel,” his brother wheezes, still fighting his hands, finger slipping easily across soaked skin to grip his own, tight but not tight enough, not as tight as the bruising grip before. “y’gotta keep-” his breath stutters “-keep running. Calam-” 

“No,” Wild’s eyes aren’t focused enough to see him shake his head, but he’s not thinking about that right now. “No, no, Wild I am not leaving you like tis i got it, it’s dead, I got it.” 

“Zelda-” 

“No!” His voice is sharper than the sound of the blast, “Din dang it, Link, I’m not leaving you!” 

Wild’s blue eyes flutter open, breath straining, hands fumbling even as he tries once more to push the away, to turn his attention to the smoking hole in the man’s chest, the blood oozing out to turn the mud beneath them faintly pink, blue tunic unrecognizable beneath the crimson flow and spattered earth.”You have-” 

“I have to save you!” Not save the world, not save zelda, not save his sister or chase his destiny or leave becasue he is not leaving again! Not again! He’s not wandering off and leaving the champion to bleed out, letting precious life-blood spill down the drains of Hyrule castle as though it’s worth as much as the sewage it flows alongside. He's not taking the sword and the shield, he’s tossing them down and pressing his hands over the gaping would, trying desperately to stop the bleeding even as his vision swims and weak hands fumble against his own. 

“Princess!” 

He ignores the cry, the scream at the contact of his hands with exposed muscle, with blood that seeps between his fingers and stains them, flows past even despite his efforts to trail over skin and ruined clothes. 

He needs to close the wound! He needs to stop the bleeding and close the wound, but the hands reaching for his have become violent, clawing at his wrists and tearing to pull them away, the champion’s scream of agony rattling his heart, his mind, making his vision swim and his own breath falter and catch in a cry he can’t hold back.  

He needs the screaming to stop! 

He tears his hands away, plunging them into his bag and grabbing the first thing that gives way under his touch. For a moment he stalls, mind flicking through his inventory, praying a potion or fairy hides beneath the mounds of supplies, but he’d used his last one in their last battle and they haen;t seen fairies since Time’s world. He grabs the soft feeling thing, ripping it out of his bag and sparing uit not a single glance before shoving it towards the champion’s outh. “Bite down on this.” 

Be it in relief or desperation, his order is obeyed, and sharp teeth close tightly on the old belt, sinking into it and granting blessed silence long enough for his brain to function again. 

Blood, he needs to stop the blood. 

The blows too close to the heart, there’s no cutting off blood flow, there’s no stopping the blood seeping through except by packing the wound and praying it’s enough. Pack and bind, like Fi taught him. Use any scrap of clean cloth he’s got and hope the blood will stop long enough for someone to find them- or him to find them- or any blessed miracle to grant itself to them and provide a way to end the wound! 

His hand flied to his bag again, sorting by touch alone, finding wool socks he’s mostly certain are clean and pressing them to the wound, one hand holding them there een as another stifled scream escapes his brother, the champion’s back bowing forwards, body surging up under his hands to writhe in pain, a motion he only barely responds to, pushing back down again as his other hand paws and grasps wildly for anything, anything at all to stuff into the gaping hole that pours blood, so much blood, red crimson ooze that stains his hands and is warm, far too warm, burning hot against trembling, froze hands. 

There’s so much blood. God, why is there so much of it! Why isn’t it stopping? Why cant ke make it stop! 

His own sobs ring in his ears beside the agonized cry of his brother. He can’t even feel the grip of the champion’s fingers clawing at his wrist anymore, mind a stuttering and stalling haze as he somehow manages to press another wadded up piece of clothing to the endless stream of red. 

Bandages, he manages to process. He needs to bandage them in place, tie the packing in so that it won’t get out, so the wadded-up fabric and wool will catch the blood and stop more from coming out, make it finally stop. Stop staining his hands, stop burning, stop rolling in his stomach and pounding in his heart and clogging in his throat as his breath catches on it, lungs seizing on it, vision lost to red red red. 

Somehow, he manages to bind the wound. He doesn't know how had he doesn’t know what with, but he knows that he does and then he’s pulling Wild in, holding close and clinging, rocking slowly as the champion whimpers. 

His fingers are red, streaking red across white features as Wild’s screams fade to moans and whimpers, the champion's nails still clawing at his wrists, at his arm, painting them both in more red red red. 

He whimpers, body shaking, breath stalling, chest stammering and seizing. 

He did it. It’s bound. The blood is stopping. He did it. He didn’t run away, and he didn’t leave. He didn’t leave the blood to flow, flow, flow, dripping into the sewers, staining the stone, painting the dungeons in blood blood blood. 

He did it. He did it this time. 

He did good. 

He stopped the blood. 

[we-loved-once-and-true]

Two's a Party, Three's... a Bigger Party

Reader and Javier are friends with benefits who use the cover of overnight jobs to release some tension. When new guy Charles joins the gang, Dutch insists he joins them on one of their trips. Will the presence of this gorgeous stranger throw a hammer in their plans, or are these jobs about to get a lot more fun?

Chapter One: Heatstroke

Chapter Two Tumblr // AO3

1527 words Read on AO3

You and Javier prepare for a robbery over in West Elizabeth, a welcome change from the New Austin sun and the relentless tension building between you. Was it the heat or the heat that gave you heatstroke?

F!Reader x Javier x Charles / porn with plot / ch1 suggestive, smut coming in ch2 / reader not described but mentions being from the east coast / pre-Blackwater / the camp is Twin Rocks in New Austin / no whump but reader has heatstroke / we'll meet Charles in ch 3

The midday sun bore into your skin, beads of sweat rolled down your back. The bandana that swept the sweat from your brow was now too damp to do much good, and was resigned to stop the burning metal of the rifle from blistering your hands.

You were going to kill Bill Williamson.

He knew it was his guard shift when he left to go “hunting”. You should have known you’d end up on guard duty; the heat making your blood boil had made you quite an annoyance for Grimshaw. You were too warm to sit and sew, too hot to labour over laundry, and no way were you willing to make your horse endure the sun anymo than necessary. As Bill trotted out of Twin Rocks, you could already sense Grimshaw’s focus on you.

With half an hour left, you resigned yourself to another pace around the camp. Usually, behind the old buildings would provide a little shade, but the punishing noon sun banished shadows from appearing. As you approached the back of camp, you squinted to look up at the hills. New Austin burned, but God was it beautiful.

“Careful, cariño, someone might sneak up on you,” a smooth voice teased from behind you. Spinning around, you saw Javier leaning against the wall, a cigarette hanging from his smirk, his face even more tanned than usual. His eyes narrowed in the glare of the sun as he looked at you from under his sombrero, the wide brim casting the only shadow for miles around. You had never wanted one more.

“Didn’t sneak up on me Escuella,” you lied with a grin, “I saw ya, just didn’t think you were much of a threat.” Your voice was slightly breathless - as far as handling the weather, you were haggard compared to the Mexican relaxing in front of you.

He chuckled softly, “That right, cariño?” His gaze shifted slightly, taking in more of your figure, causing a shiver to run through you. “Guess I haven’t been able to show off my skills recently… been a while since we last did a job, ay?”

Fighting your bashful blush, you looked away and blew a loose strand of hair from your face. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching your lips. You licked them before speaking, not acknowledging the shaky breath in front of you, “Has been some time, huh? I’ve been too busy scrubbing the constant dust from all our clothes to find any leads.” You kept your voice neutral incase anyone overheard, but you hoped your apology was apparent to him.

He clicked his tongue and pushed off the wall, “No worries, cariño, I got ya. Well, John said somethin’ about a stagecoach. Probably not as interesting as your laundry though.” Javier was now standing as close as he could while being in the camp; close enough to see the depths of his eyes, but not arouse suspicion. The perfect distance to make your heart jump, to make your face flush, to make you dizzy in anticipation.

There were rumours from the get-go about the two of you. The two newest recruits of the Van der Linde gang, inseparable as if from birth, found a fast and deep friendship in one another. Javier, heartbroken and forced from his home. You, having lost your family and prospects. You joined after attempting to pick-pocket Mary-Beth, who took pity on your starved and scared face, and saw a little of herself in you. You sheepishly returned her pocket watch, she apologetically returned your coin purse.

Less than a few months later, Dutch rode in with another lost soul, this one a ravenous and bloodstained foreigner. As Mary-Beth had with you, you saw yourself in his sunken face. You volunteered to help him, teaching him English and soothing him from his manic nightmares. In turn, he taught you to live by the ways of shooting and fishing. Together, you rebuilt yourselves, perfecting your partnership in crime. As to not disturb the girls you bunked with during his nightly terrors, you unceremoniously moved your bedroll into his lean-to. He didn’t look up from sharpening his knife when he told you to make yourself at home. His nightmares came less frequently.

Your friendship was natural, moving in sync and communicating with a glance. The rumours, therefore, were expected. Mary-Beth would embellish your fondness of the new mysterious revolutionary into little teases and tales. For years, you both insisted you were only friends, and for years you were telling the truth.

A job in Nevada turned sour fast, and through a storm of bullets you both escaped - nearly unscathed. Banged up from the fight and with a bullet gash in your thigh, you ended up laying on a musty cot in an abandoned cabin as Javier’s slim and precise fingers stitched you up, straddling your legs to hold you still. A bandaged leg and several bottles of whiskey later, you found yourself straddling him, fingers in his hair, kissing him like you needed him to survive.

His heart was still broken. You still wanted the freedom of a woman not spoken-for. So, friends you remained.

Long missions would keep you both from camp for a few days. Travel out, rob, hide, travel back. The adrenaline, the rush, the celebratory liquor - it was a routine between best friends. It wasn’t love - not in the traditional sense - but it was passion.

You threw yourself down on your bedroll, a long heavy sign releasing the stress from your body. The short shadow of your lean-to left your lower legs and feet in the sun, but the relief on your face and arms was heavenly. Your legs were lead and your blistered feet throbbed in your boots. Aching muscles and imminent heat stroke distracted you from approaching footsteps, the jingling of spurs muffled by a pounding headache.

You flinched at the cold cloth touching your face. “Easy, cariño,” his familiar voice cooed, “I’ll get you some water.” The cold bandana eased the stinging of your face; taking deep breaths, you smelt the tobacco and aftershave that soaked the fibres of Javier’s clothes (and, by proxy, quite a few of yours). A sloshing sound told you Javier had returned with your full canteena. Propping yourself up, you gulped down the water with desperate gratitude, the dizziness of heat stroke fading. Returning yourself to your pillow, you allowed the cloth to block the light and let the pull of sleep take over, barely aware of Javier’s gentle strumming.

You stirred awake, wiping your face with Javier’s bandana. Mid-afternoon sunlight dazzled your eyes, but thankfully offered you a larger shade, as if to apologise for its earlier abuse. Sitting, you brought the canteena to your lips, gulping down the refreshing water. In your grogginess, you vaguely noticed it had been refilled.

“Enjoy your siesta, hermosa?” You looked beside you to Javier sitting on his bedroll with his map open in front of him, watching you with a fond smile.

“Yeah, thanks for the water,” you raised your bottle towards him. “Guess the heat got to me.”

Javier hummed lightheartedly, “Don’t worry about it, we can’t all be blessed with my sun-tolerance.”

“Hah! I’d like to see you try snow-tolerance,” you thought back to your childhood on the east coast. “Bet you wouldn’t have made it to noon.”

“Good luck getting me anywhere past West Elizabeth. Speaking of which,” he pulled the map closer to you, “I’ve drawn out our route for tomorrow, what do you think?” He looked up and paused at your confused expression, “Cariño?”

The last thing you really remembered was the way Javier was looking at you, his smirk, his suggestion at doing a job together-

“Oh!” He smiled as your memory came back, the fog from the heat stroke disappearing. John had followed the lead of a banking coach crossing West Elizabeth once a month. Some other job had taken John’s attention, so Javier had volunteered to follow up on it. The invitation of three days alone with Javier was too tempting - so did a few days out of the New Austin sun. “Yes! The bak thing in West- yeah! I remember. When’re we going?”

“Careful hermosa, you might get faint again,” his sultry voice teased, flashing a toothy grin. “I reckon we leave first thing: we can get to Blackwater, stake out the roads, find a place to, ahhh, bunk down for the night,” he traced a long finger along the road he had drawn on his map. His suggestive wording was paired with a subtle glance at you, pleased to see you looked as excited as him. “Next day, we hit the coach. Hide out as usual, be back the day after. Hopefully,” he added dryly.

“Hopefully,” you repeated. “You know if Blackwater has a hotel? Or are we, uh, roughing it?” The innuendoes could pass as a poor choice of words for eavesdropping ears, but all they did was fuel the fire that was building up between the two of you.

“Don’t worry about it, hermosa,” he reassured you with a dark laugh, “I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of.”

This is my first upload for RDR so please please let me know if you have any feedback ! Any and all comments are appreciated ♡ Porn is coming in Part 2, then we'll be meeting Charles, so I hope you hang around for a bit ! Thanks for reading, enjoy xoxo