#whump one shots

[chaotic-orphan]

Whump Drabbles Masterpost:

Recapture [gen neutral]

Choose me (whumper x whumpee/ forced to watch Caretaker beating)

That’s enough [gen neutral/male implied]

Supervillain's brand / Part (2) [team whump]

Guardian angel (cold caretaker rescues Whumpee) [gen neutral]

Kidnapped [gen neutral whumpee]

Semantics (royal whump) [fem whumpee/male whumper]

Russian Roulette (whumpee plays whumper for Caretaker’s life)

Waterboarding (sweet, sweet team whump)

Traumatised Whumpee [fem. whumpee, male caretaker, male whumper, underage Whumpee]

Oh how the turn tables [male whumper/whumpee, whumpee's revenge]

The Assassin’s Hamartia [fem. whumpee/male whumper]

Whumpee wakes up on side of road [gen. Neutral Whumpee, male whumper, male caretaker]

Send me your favourite whump tropes/prompts and I will write them XD If you want any continuations of these one-shots lmk

[not-equippedforthis]

forever mourning how granada holmes never adapted the three garridebs. diabolical. unbelievable, even. 'if you had killed watson you would not have made it out of this room alive' but in brett's frightfully intense and low, biting, hissing voice. the violent, wild stare versus the gentle hand on watson's knee. all of that precarious control getting flung out the window. the humanity of it. gritting my teeth can you fucking imagine.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 18)

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Prompt: Poisoned

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Vivid descriptions of illness; poisoning; worried!Bucky

Author’s note: Don’t ask me where this came from, I have no idea. But, thank you for reading! <3

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

You hear him pacing outside your chamber.

His boots strike the stone floor in sharp, angry bursts.

Occasionally, the sound halts, but his voice doesn’t. He’s fuming. It started with low, threatening murmurs that soon escalated into raised voices - or rather one raised voice. He didn’t really let anyone else come to word. You can only assume he’s talking to his guards.

He’s on edge. Has been ever since your first symptoms appeared.

It started this afternoon, as you and Bucky - or Prince James to everybody else - strolled through the palace gardens.

It had been a great day, a little cold, but not terribly so. You had been laughing with him, feeding the ducks by the pond and he had playfully threatened to throw you in there himself if you told Knight Samuel about the way he had picked up some flowers for you at the edge of the water. Your laughter after that wasn’t very lady like but it just got worse when he started chasing and tickling you.

But you started to feel it as the two of you settled under the big willow tree.

It was a discomfort in your stomach, an unease that settled and burrowed, deeper the longer you dismissed it.

Bucky, of course, had picked up on your shift immediately and rushed you back inside. By then you already were pale, clammy, and lightheaded.

Now, confined to your chambers by Bucky’s orders, you’re surrounded by an entourage of healers, endlessly fretting over your condition.

They hover at your bedside, fingers continuously brushing your forehead, checking your pulse, mixing tinctures, and murmuring theories to one another in hushed voices.

There are always at least two or three of them at any given time, a constant rotation that leaves you feeling scrutinized, yet strangely detached from their fussing.

You can’t even roll over without one of them pausing to announce it to your parents and Bucky

It feels as though every thirty seconds, someone is rushing out to deliver updates to him.

He demands to be told everything; the slightest change in your complexion; the smallest shift in your breathing. He refuses to let the healers leave anything unsaid. And he takes every single one of the smallest updates on your condition with a seriousness that could have made you laugh in any other circumstance.

His clipped and commanding tone drifts in from the hall and you feel a little bad for the people receiving it.

Normally, the prince is full of composure and control, but that only ever seems to shatter when it comes to you.

You picture him out there, bristling with anger, his jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists as he barks orders and questions on how this could have happened. How you could have ended up falling ill.

He barely lets anyone else talk and when someone does, it doesn’t seem to be a good enough answer, judging the unmistakable sound of something heavy - perhaps a boot or a fist - striking a wall.

You wince again at the sharp pain tormenting your stomach. Your skin feels too cold one moment and burning hot the next, as though your body can’t decide whether to shake or sweat.

The faint dizziness from earlier has grown into a persistent haze that seems to move to your vision slowly, making it a little harder to get a clear picture. You try to blink it away.

There is a bitter taste at the back of your throat that no amount of water or tea can wash away.

The healers whisper words like poison when they think you’re too weak to hear them, but you hear them all the same.

The door to your chambers creaks open. The sound is urgent, and before you know it, Bucky is at your side. His movements are stiff, almost forceful, and though he likely doesn’t mean to, he brushes a healer away in his haste to get to you.

The poor man stumbles back, his hand still clutching the damp towel he’d been using to cool your fever.

But Bucky pays him no mind. His focus is singular, and he takes the towel himself.

With a tenderness that almost undoes you, he presses the cloth to your forehead. His touch is infinitely soft. It’s the kind of touch that aches.

He looks at you, you notice.

You feel it rather than seeing it. His gaze burns hotter than your fever does. Slowly, weakly you tilt your head to face him better. It takes effort. The hotness raging beneath your skin deliberately melts away your vision, making Bucky swim before you.

But you see enough. Enough to say that he left his furiousness outside in the hall. Here, inside, with you, this is just Bucky. Bucky as worried and unfiltered as he can get when it comes to you.

Your thoughts come slow. Lazily dragging through your mind and switching directions too often for you to latch onto something specific.

The towel brushes against your temple again, and though the coolness should bring relief, his touch you notice more.

His lips are moving, you realize when your eyes start to roam his face. He’s talking to you, but his voice is not yet fully meeting your ears. His words swim just like his face, in and out of reach.

You blink sluggishly, barely able to focus, but sounds start to come in.

He, like the healers before says something about poison. And it’s not the word that leaves the pain in your chest, it’s the way he says it. With his voice so quivery and rough.

“-slow-acting poison-” you catch again, with the same tone. “-subtle enough no one noticed it until it was too late.”

He calls your name then, and you blink a few times. The heavy blue of his eyes builds its picture in your mind and you try so much to focus.

He is breathing heavily. His lips are parted. His brows are knit together and his face is morphed in a grimace of desperation and pain as he still lets his eyes sear a hole through you.

He drops his head for a moment, exhaling sharply. He releases an anguished sound with it and clears his throat. He seems to be trying to focus too, just for other reasons.

“The testers,” he continues, and the sharp pain punctures your stomach again. Because the thickness in his voice sounds too much like guilt to you. So much guilt. “They… they are in the same condition as you. Same symptoms, same timeline.”

A shaky breath rattles out of him again as he swipes the towel over your forehead once more, dabbing your skin.

His eyes flicker over your face. There is a wetness to them. His pupils can’t stay in place, moving swiftly between your own eyes as if he’s searching for signs in you. Shadows spill across his gaze, fear trembling in the sheen of his watery blues.

“I should have caught this.” His voice is a whisper but it sounds like gravel.

He can’t go down that road again right now. Not when you’re in no condition to protest and argue with him as you normally would.

You even have problems swallowing. You have to put effort into blinking.

There is no way you can tell him that this is in no way his fault.

His hand curls into a fist against your bed. “I should have known something wasn’t right,” he only continues.

He did know. He knew the second your eyebrows began to crease ever so slightly by the swift pain pouncing on your stomach.

There is no way he could have known earlier.

But you can’t tell him that.

Your voice is a fragile thing right now, not even able to build up deep inside.

Bucky shakes his head again, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. All you can do is watch. Well, try to watch.

“I’ve got the guards tearing this place apart - every pantry, every kitchen, every bloody corner. Somebody did this. Somebody thought they could hurt you, and I am going to find them.” His voice hardens with each word, but his hand softens as he reaches for yours. He threads his fingers through yours so gently and carefully, it doesn’t help with trying to breathe evenly.

“I will make them pay.” It sounds so determined, so terrifying if you were any other person.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, while the towel still pads your face. It’s slow, and steady, grounding himself as much as you.

“But right now… right now, all that matters is you. I need you to fight this, alright? Darling? I need you to stay with me.” His voice cracks. It buckles, just not with the grace he is known for, but unevenly and unceremoniously. His next breath stumbles over itself and his gaze drops to your hand in his as though he’s ashamed to let you see the whole of his fear.

Your chest rises and falls in a slow, shallow breath, and as you exhale with an unsteadiness, it feels like you’re letting go of something you can’t quite name. The faint sound catches his attention immediately and his head snaps back up to you, again searching your eyes, your face, your body.

They don’t stray from you for a few heartbeats, as though he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he looks away for even a second.

Bucky straightens up, his presence suddenly larger. He leans closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of him bushing over your fevered skin. His free hand uncurls from his fist, white knuckles, going up to your face.

Soft fingers sweep back the strands of hair that cling to your damp face. The motion is unhurried, almost delicate, and for a moment, the coolness of his touch - or rather, his touch alone - is the only thing keeping the fading light of your awareness on for some time longer.

His thumb lingers at your temple, tracing lightly, and it is astounding to you that he managed to make you forget about the poison cursing through your veins for a tiny second.

His heart seems to have spilled entirely into his gaze because the emotions drowning there overwhelm you. They’re so deep, so afraid, so concerned. All you want is to grant him a reassuring smile. But your lips fail you.

“You are going to be okay.” It’s a plea and a promise. He speaks as if saying it out loud will carve it into stone - will make it reality. “This will not take you away from me. I’ve got you. I am right here. Please. You are going to stay with me.”

He leans closer still, as if closing the distance makes his words sink deeper, might make them take root into your fading consciousness.

His hand stays on your face, his other hand still holding the towel, his thumb brushing over your cheek. His touch is steady, although his voice isn’t.

There is a fire in his eyes, an unyielding resolve burning beneath the fear like he’s daring the universe to take you from him.

And you won’t let it take you, you tell yourself.

You will stay with him.

But you just need some sleep at the moment. And when you wake up, you will fight this unwelcome substance in your system.

But first, you have to get some sleep.

Just a little sleep.

[polinsated]

colin bridgerton + his boo-boo cut hand

+ bonus

[stevesgother]

Savior Complex - S.H

Paring - Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

WC - 1.9k

Warnings - Blood. Mention of vomit. Partial nudity. Let me know if I missed anything!

Authors note - This is my first fic...ever. Constructive criticism always welcome but pls be nice. Takes place directly after the events of S3. Hurt/comfort, angst, acknowledging Steve’s trauma bc damn.

Summary: ANGST, hurt/comfort, happy ending but not a lot of resolution, friends to ? lovers? idk its up to you!

Inspired by my favorite poem of all time, that has always reminded me a little bit of Steve.

“In this space right here that we have made for each other, you can say anything and I will not abandon you. Unwrap the worst things you have done. Watch me hold them up to the light and not even flinch”

The air inside Steve’s car was heavy with tension and the thick July heat.

You sat parked in his driveway, the rest of The Party having dispersed to their own homes; their parents waiting for them with open arms and misty eyes. 

Not you. 

And Certainly not Steve Harrington.

You and Steve weren’t what you would call “close”. Until now, that is. Shared trauma tends to have that effect. He knew you had a tumultuous relationship with your parents, and it didn’t take much deducing to realize his parents weren’t in the picture. Barely in Indiana, let alone spending anything close to quality time with their only son.

The idea of spending the last few hours of this nightmarishly long day in his big, empty house was sounding lovelier by the minute. On the grounds that it ‘wasn’t safe to be alone right now’. You didn’t read too much into it; he was right, after all. Part of you wonders if he just didn’t want to be alone. Sluggish, and noticeably more bloodied than you, Steve made his way to the front door with you in tow. His house was silent; eerily so. Everything pristine and well manicured, as if no one lived there at all. 

“There’s a guest bedroom upstairs, and a bathroom down the hall, to the right. Towels in the cabinet next to the shower.” He doesn’t even look at you as he says it. You try not to feel like you’re burdening him, blaming his avoidance on the exhaustion and not the unwelcome presence of you in his home.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” He finally meets your gaze. The shiner he sports on his left eye is still swollen, but less so. The front of his sailor suit you once thought so endearing, is now stained with blood and vomit.

“You’re bleeding.” You say quietly. “You have -” you wince, “- open wounds on your face Steve. Probably a concussion too and that’s if we’re being modest.”

He wears a tight-lipped expression you can’t quite read. You can tell he’s frustrated, and his exhaustion is bone deep. It nags at your heart. Maybe that’s why you don’t just drop it when he answers you.

“Not my first rodeo, I’ll be fine just-” He pauses, “go shower, and get some rest. God knows this shit won’t just be over come tomorrow.”

You take a tentative step forward. “Please just…just let me help. I can disinfect the cuts around your eye. I was a girl scout! Though in hindsight I realize how useless that sounds and-” you’re rambling now; nervous.

“Stop.” You’re taken aback slightly by his tone, you haven’t known Steve to act hostile. Not in a long time. “I don’t need your help, and I certainly don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not ‘pity’ Steve! Why is it so hard for you to believe someone might want to help you?” You take a step forward from where you stand a few feet from him. You reach up to touch his forehead with the hope of better assessing his injuries.

‘Enough!” He swats your hand away, “God, I should’ve never offered for you to stay here. You think you’re some type of savior, but you’re not.”

His words feel like a knife to the chest. You knew what he was trying to do, you knew he didn’t really mean the things he said. Not when he’s like this. For the first time since you arrived tonight, you thought of how many times he’s had to come back to this empty, soulless house all alone. Damaged, emotionally and physically. Wounds he’s had to patch alone. No gentle caress of another’s hands. Just the stinging of antiseptic in his nostrils, and the heaviness of everyone he’s ever loved abandoning him.

“You don’t mean that.” You say, shaking your head in a disbelieving way.

He laughs, humorless, “Yes I do. I really, really do.” A bitter sharpness to his words. It burns like liquor washing down your throat. “Go.” 

“No!” Now you’re the one raising your voice. “Being stubborn is for when someone is haggling you at a flea market. Not when someone is trying to love you.”

Love. You realize what you’ve said a beat too late, but you stand defiant despite it. You do love Steve. This fact, collecting cobwebs in the back of your brain for months, being spat out onto the floor in front of you both is what compels you to what you do next.

Steve, who was previously standing with this index finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose, is now staring at you like a deer in headlights. Before either of you can blink, you’re closing the gap between the two of you, sure of yourself. You wrap him in a suffocating embrace and he struggles against your grip.

“Stop! Please I don’t need you-” He all but shouts. Still, you sense a dent in the armor.  A crack in the wall he’s spent so long building to keep you out; to keep everyone out.

Eventually, he stops struggling. His knees give out from underneath him as the trauma and the pain and the events of today catch up to him. But not just today; a year ago when his girlfriend broke his heart at Tina’s stupid party. When Michael Harrington cut him off on the grounds of him being a disgrace to the family name. Everything flooding back to him all at once. Everything he’s spent his youth avoiding.

You sink to the ground with him, still holding him tight. He stops making an effort to hide his sobs, but instead clings to you like you’re the only tangible thing keeping him here. You sit beside him, with one arm wrapped around his shoulders and your free hand cradling his head to his chest so he can hear your heartbeat. A heart that finally beats for him.

“I know.” You soothe. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” The hair you’re gently stroking, which is usually so voluminous and perfectly styled, is now dampened with blood and sweat.

“I’m sorry-” He sobs, “I'm so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m not sorry.” 

He cries harder at that. Shoulders shaking and breath shallow, he looks at you. You cradle his sweet, bruised face in your hands. You think, like a pomegranate, Steve Harrington is beautiful, and worth the mess. Wiping his tears with your thumbs and careful to avoid the cuts and swelling that decorate his face, you give him a smile. Shy, but earnest.

“Can you take me to bed?” He asks you, eyes bleary.

–

Neither of you speak as you turn on the faucet and watch the porcelain tub fill with scalding hot water; still not hot enough to wash away the memories this day has tainted you both with forever. Tentatively, you lift your shirt over your head, and slip your shorts down your scraped legs, revealing your mismatched bra and underwear. A pang of guilt washes over you when you look down and realize Steve took the brunt of the Russian soldiers. He was the bravest and most selfless person you had ever met.

You give him a look that asks “is this okay?” as your fingertips brush the cotton of his ruined Scoops uniform. You aren’t sure what the boundaries are anymore. Momentarily Steve worries this will irreparably change things between you two. He nods anyway. You lift the shirt over his head, catching a glimpse at the real extent of his injuries. His ribs were badly bruised, and he had clotting cuts all over his abdomen. Something swirls in your stomach at the sight of his chest hair. You wish the circumstances of this moment were different.

He pulls his own pants and socks down with a hiss, eyes screwed shut, leaving you both in just your undergarments. He steps into the tub and slowly sinks beneath the hot water. You step in behind him, and he looks over his shoulder at you, a look of confusion contorting his features. You don’t bother to explain, for the fear that speaking would break the trance you both seemingly were under. You had built a space here for each other, one you didn’t want to leave just yet.

Sitting behind him now, you wrap your arms around his chest and pull him flush to you. You rest your chin in the space between his shoulder and his neck, and close your eyes. You can feel how he tries to match his breathing to yours; slow and rhythmic.

You reach up to the hanging shelf on the wall above your head, and grab the cedar and sandalwood body wash. The second you open the bottle, your senses are flooded with him. Only in your wildest dreams did you think you’d ever get to smell his scent in any way other than passing. A slight brush of shoulders in the hallway; a friendly hug when you’d gotten back from a month long vacation.

With a dollop of body wash on a washcloth you found on the edge of the tub, you gently start to scrub the blood and grime off his freckled skin. Like this, you can see every birthmark, every scar, the way the hair at the nape of his neck curls up around his ears in the damp bathroom air.

Steve rests his calloused hand on your knee and squeezes. A silent reassurance that what you’re doing is okay, that he’s okay, that he’s here. Everything feels overwhelmingly intimate as your hands explore his body. You lather his thick, brown locks with the shampoo you found next to the soap. With a heavy sigh, Steve allows his head to fall back into the crook of your neck. He doesn’t tell you, but this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him.

You’re not sure how long the two of you sit in the tub together, but at some point he turns to face you, cupping your jaw in his larger hand. The look he gives you is so tender, you think you might cry. His caramel eyes flicker to your lips and back up to your eyes, so fast you would’ve missed it if your senses weren’t dialed up to 11.

With the delicacy of someone touching a flower petal, he closes the gap and presses his cut lips to your soft ones. Hesitant at first, giving you the option to pull away. He fears he may have misread the moment when you separate from him, a look in your eyes that he can’t read. His worry dissipates as you take his face into both of your hands and kiss him deep and slow. You only break when the air feels too stiff to continue, the water droplets accumulating in the air and Steve's kiss making it difficult to catch your breath. His hands slide from where they were grasping your hair, and down to your neck where they stay.

“I love you, too.”

[starryybrained]

JuneofDoom Day 15 - Rescue

Content: Manhandling, restraints, gags, sedation, female whumpee, pet whump, conditioned whumpee

When she was taken, she resisted as hard as she could. She thrashed, she bit, she kicked, she screamed. Even when they tied her down, she reared her head back, slamming it into her kidnappers’ chins. She would not be taken that easily.

“Let me go!” Her voice was shrill and piercing, a combination between a yell, a shriek, and a cry. They gagged her, and still she screamed, muffled shouts and guttural cries, calling out for help.

“Mngh! Mghng!!”

She kicked the ground, kicked the ones who were taking her away, she thrashed and moved wildly.

They pinned her to the ground. Still, she bucked and squirmed, even as she was held down by the weight of their bodies.

“We have her.” One said into a walkie-talkie. “Over.”

Something pricked her shoulder, and she jerked, but it was too late, whatever they had injected into her was already in her veins now.

Still muffled, she screamed bloody murder, cursing and wailing, getting slower and slower until she could no longer move or scream. She was dizzy and weak now.

She moaned, sniffling when they hoisted her up by her armpits, marching her to their vehicle.

They laid her in the backseat, buckling her in. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. We’re here to help you. You’re safe now.”

As they drove away, all she could do was feel pitiful for failing her master.

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Maybe this is too hyper-specific but I just fucking love??? the stance??? of whumpee lying on the ground and whumper standing over top of them???

"But Danny that's so generic--" yes, okay, but listen. Listen...I am talking about whumpee on the ground, injured, unable to get up, had probably just been crawling away before the last of their strength gave out. And then there comes whumper's legs into view. Whumpee doesn't even have the strength to look up, doesn't know if they'd even want to. And here's where the good shit comes in:

Whumper nudging Whumpee's side with their shoe like they're playfully checking if they actually died, or maybe really checking, or maybe just testing to see if there's any fight left

Whumper kicking a weapon that had been mere centimeters from Whumpee's reach, bonus points if they purposely catch Whumpee's hand under their foot and bear their weight down

Whumper using their heel to kick Whumpee's shoulder and force them to roll over on their back, now forcing them to look up and see Whumper (plus the beautiful imagery of Whumper leering down at them while Whumpee is symbolically beneath them...*chef's kiss*)

Whumper straddling their feet on either side of Whumpee's hips, or chest, or head; anything to have them confined between Whumper's legs from where they stand

Whumper suddenly dropping down into a crouch when Whumpee had only been able to look at their shins before, startling them, now hyperaware how close Whumper has made themself to accommodate this new position

Whumper instead continuing to go about their business, completely ignoring Whumpee on the ground, who can now only helplessly watch their retreating form as Whumper carries out whatever they originally had planned before Whumpee got in the way

Whumper stepping on fresh wounds, stepping on Whumpee's neck to choke them, stepping on Whumpee's head and holding their foot in place until they're done speaking whatever it is they want to say

Whumper that asks "are you done?" "that's it?" "so, was it worth it?" because if Whumpee is already at their feet, they might as well grovel a little

[whumpty-dumpty-doo]

Late night mush-brained I-really-need-to-edit-this-draft-because-this-is-probably-all-way-too-much-irrelevant-information late night thoughts

[callmeizukunotdeku]

batfam fics i've written and my favorite quotes from them

(all are whumptober one-shots)

A Robin at Rest

Tim gave Jason a confused look, but the boy only huffed out a small laugh, “God, you’re just a kid.”

Tim looked away, mumbling, “I’m fifteen. Not a kid.”

His parents wouldn’t have given him so much independence if he was a kid.

Kids weren’t supposed to take care of themselves.

“Didn’t mean it in a bad way.” Jason leaned back, so he way laying horizontally at the base of the bed, staring at the blank ceiling. “I was fifteen when I died.”

Wantless, Needless

Bruce cringed at the reminder. “You did fine.” He did more than he ever should have. That was something Bruce never should have done, but with the way Tim smiled like he understood, Bruce assumed they were okay.

“But ‘fine’ isn't enough, is it?”

They were not okay.

Phantom Mornings, or the Ghost of Good Mourners

Every argument with Bruce threatened to have him spilling his guts—spilling his mind—until both were empty, but as horrible as the medicine tasted going down, it was always worse when it came back up, so, no matter how much he wanted to tell Bruce, "You cannot take the fault for your own actions, so I have to do it for you," he would always water down his words to, "I'll do better."

[bunbunbl0gs]

in love with spencer reid

masterlist

criminal minds masterlist

join my tag list here :)

[icamefromthepinterestscreenshots]

Newly rescued whumpees where caretaker doesn’t realise how much whumpee has been thru until they see whumpee get excited about normal every day things.

Caretaker being confused that whumpee is so happy to see grass, to sleep in a bed, to eat food that isn’t mouldy.

Whumpees being surprised and slightly apprehensive to all the ‘luxuries’ they are being given, not understanding what they have done to deserve them.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Expert

I left a little idea hanging in this fic which really needed some investigation. And the muse finally returned on my commute yesterday so, while this isn’t my most well thought through or deviously plotted fic, the idea entertained me so I hope you’ll enjoy it too :) Wee Tracy fluff!

💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍

“Scooooo-ooooott!!!!!”

“Scottyyyyyy?!!”

Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic.

“You win, little man! You’re so clever! Can you come out now?”

A little bead of sweat tickled its way past Jeff’s eyebrow and he swiped at it impatiently. It was important to keep the panic out of his voice so he kept up the singsong tone:

“Where aaaare you, Bluejaaaay?”

He was missing something.

“Please come out now? Daddy needs a cuddle!”

He’d checked all the usual places. Twice.

“Do you want a snack, Scotty?”

Surely that would…?

“Snack time!!”

Nothing.

What was he missing?

Jeff Tracy was 3 months into being a stay at home Dad while Lucy was off being incredible at the university.

And while the first few days had been inevitably shaky, until this morning he’d been pretty confident he was nailing it.

Sure, he had to confess (and did so with a great deal of admiration most every evening) that he couldn’t work out how Lucy had been doing all this AND working remotely while he’d been up on Alfie. She’d just smile contentedly as he nuzzled her neck and reminded her she was a goddess walking on earth. Usually she would have denied this vehemently, but sharing a house with a child whose sleep-in-his-own-bed record was 30 mins 47 seconds meant neither was willing to waste a single moment on pointless humility…

Anyway, she clearly had Powers he did not.

For a standard issue human, however, he was doing ok. He’d read the toddler-wrangling manual cover to cover. His son, apparently, had not, but there were one or two tips that seemed to hold fairly true. Most of the time. But he was beginning to think he could write one himself, because while Dr Whatsherface might be an expert on the average toddler, Jeff Tracy was an expert on his own rather unique version.

Rule number one - never blink. The kid moves faster than sound.

Rule number two - Accessorise.

Jeff had taken to wearing combat pants with multiple pockets and thus perpetually had snacks, wet wipes and toy planes on standby. He had a tennis ball to hand at all times… turned out that what worked for a puppy sometimes worked for a two-year old too.

The squeaky chew toys were their little secret.

Yes, the key to his success was in the gadgets. The baby swing he’d fixed into the door frame had been a great way to enable the little whirlwind to let off steam while remaining in one place. The delighted squeals of “‘Cotty fwwwyyyy!!!” really brought a tear to the eye. The height and speed his child managed to achieve using the thing brought a slightly anxious twitch to the eye also, but it was all fine. He just needed to be close by enough to intervene…

He solved Going Out with a gadget too. Scott wasn’t really a pushchair kind of a guy but wasn’t yet able to appreciate that tugging his little hand out of his Dada’s and sprinting out into the traffic wasn’t ok. After a few days of hanging limp from it, 12 kilos of dead weight, in protest, Scott had eventually taken to the cunning harness-leash device which meant their little trips into town were less of an adrenaline rush. Marginally.

At some point Jeff was definitely going to get punched for barging his way through a crowd by some irate person who didn’t appreciate he was attached to a tiny rocket on a string.

But the main thing was he wasn’t getting lost. Or flattened.

Yep, Jeff was nailing this parenting thing.

Tying the kid down while he made a hasty trip to the bathroom had seemed a step too far, however. Scott had been enclosed in his supposedly escape-proof playpen, temporarily absorbed in nyoooming a plushie space ship from one duplo planet to another.

Jeff had been three minutes, tops. Barely 180 seconds.

Where could he go in 180 seconds??

He cursed himself for the rookie error of under-estimating his first-born and stood at the kitchen door, running through a mental checklist of all the places in which he had located his feral offspring to date.

Cupboards. Check.

Curtains. Check.

Top of bookcase, window sills, under the beds. Check check check.

On top of the big wardrobe in the master bedroom? One of spider-baby’s favourites that one. Check.

He’d looked there three times actually, nearly got himself wedged the third time as he clambered up and reached all the way to the back just in case his eyes were deceiving him and a cherubic blue-eyed menace was hiding in the shadows.

A face-full of cobwebs: No Scotty.

“Daddy’s getting pretty lonely out here, I wish you’d come and play with me!!”

The house wasn’t that big. Where on earth…?

The windows were still locked shut.

The front door was still shut. With the chain in place… even tiny Houdini couldn’t have put that back on behind him.

The back door was locked, key still on the hook.

So he couldn’t be outside.

So… no need to panic. Unless he was stuck or hurt somewhere and Jeff wasn’t with him!!

“SCOOOOOOOTTYYYYY?”

It had got to the stage where Jeff was doing ridiculous things like looking behind lamp stands and under cushions that were far too small to hide a human toddler, particularly one that moved so constantly he even vibrated in his sleep.

But there wasn’t anywhere left!!!

… or was there?

In desperation, Jeff pulled down the telescopic ladder and stuck his head into the attic-space, in case somehow his child had suddenly developed both the ability to fly and to pass through solid objects during those three unforgivable minutes of inattention.

Obviously Scott wasn’t there.

This was wasting time.

He retraced his steps to the kitchen, calling as he went.

“Scotty I really need you to come out now please? Daddy’s getting worried!”

The cupboard under the sink? It was big enough… The child-proof door closures should have made it impossible but this was Scott Tracy: Tiny master of impossible feats. Jeff really hoped he was wrong because if he’d got in there… where the cleaning things were kept…

“Scotty!”

He sped up and began to reach down as he covered the last few metres… then gasped as his foot slid from under him and he skated, flailing wildly, across the linoleum.

“Sco-aaaaaaaaaaaaggghhh!!!”

Jeff’s graceless ice dance was halted abruptly as he slammed head first into the fridge and crumpled to the floor.

Jars rattled.

Jeff’s teeth rattled.

The fridge said “Dada?”

Jeff’s ears said “riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing”.

The floor was sticky. Feeling a little hazy Jeff lifted a hand and sniffed it cautiously… cinnamon? What?

Wait.

Blinking the stars from his eyes Jeff, dragged himself to his feet and hauled the door open to find his son tucked neatly on to a high shelf, curled around a pie dish.

Jeff’s jaw dropped.

He snapped it closed it again and bit his lip lest any inappropriate words escape.

“Dada! ‘Cotty duck in fidge. Oh no!”

The tiny child lifted his apple sauce covered hands and looked at them as if suddenly realising they were attached to his arms. Bright blue eyes gazed down at him with an expression of extreme innocence:

“Oh no! ‘Cotty all messy! Ooopsiiiieee!”

A chunk of apple fell from his little eyebrow and Jeff nearly burst a blood vessel trying to keep a straight face. Don’t reward the unwelcome behaviour with a reaction, the book had said. If he laughed now, Scott would only do similar again. And he needed to impress upon him that it wasn’t ok to hide away like this.

Or consume the majority of a family sized dessert by himself.

His lip twitched.

Jeff would have put serious money on the supposed expert never having anticipated this scenario.

Clearly realising his father had no follow-up questions to his comprehensive situational update, Scott plunged his hand back into the dish and shoved a fistful of pie crust into his mouth.

Jeff covered his face and screamed silently into his palms. Then realised he had given himself a matching set of apple pie eyebrows.

Piebrows.

He snorted.

Scott snorted like a pig in response and burst into giggles, spraying pastry crumbs into Jeff’s hair.

Expert schmexpert.

Jeff laughed loud and Jeff laughed long. Scott giggled and clapped his sticky hands together then reached for Jeff with one of them, the other clutching the edge of the pie dish possessively.

“I think you’ve had enough pie, Bluejay, don’t you?” Jeff prised the little fingers free and realised his son’s skin was incredibly cold.

“Bloody hell, kiddo you’re freezing! Come ‘ere …” he plucked the small icicle from the shelf and hugged him close. “We’d best get you in a warm bath. What are you, Elsa?”

“Leddid gooooo!!! Leddid gooooooooo!!!” The little lad closed his eyes and waved a sticky fist in the air as he sang.

“Yes, son, let it go.”

Scott hid his last handful of pie behind his back and shook his head vigorously.

“No Dada!! ‘Cotty’s abble bie. Buddy ell, Dada! Oh no!”

Jeff swallowed hard. “Oh no” indeed.

Maybe he’d put a pin in the book idea, just for a little while.

🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙

[freakingholland]

"Sofa chronicles" - Jason Todd x gn!reader

A/N: Hi babes, ummm hurt/comfort/fluff time am I right? *cricket sounds* I’ve been really struggling with inspo to write about my fav boys to be very very honest so please, show some love in my comments/asks, I wanna fangirl/boy/they with you all cutie pies

:(

Headcanons? Memes? Let’s talk! My asks are here.

Warnings: injuries (reader), mentions of surgery, physical discomfort, negative remarks, use of pain killers, mentions of diabetes devices/supplies, suggestive implied dialogue (in a joking/pun form, NSFW) - (hurt/comfort + fluff)

Summary: After a patrol went south you are left with one working knee and a caring boyfriend at your side.

Word count: 820+

If you enjoyed my work: Ko-fi.com/freakingholland

questions/requests/ideas here! - rules here

masterlist

my AO3 archive is here

„Do you need anything else sweetheart?” Jay said squatting next to the sofa, his face plastered with genuine worry.

“Oww… Can I—can I take my meds now? Did you check the time?” You grimaced, trying to shift to a more comfortable position.

Jay quickly glanced at his watch, brows knitting together.

“Yup- you can. I’ll  go grab them.” He stood up and headed towards the kitchen.

“JUST DON’T GO ANYWHERE!” he shouted once he left the living room.

“Oh, you’re sooo funny Todd.” You responded, as your upper torso sank back into the warm pillow.

He walked back in with your pills in one hand and a tall glass of water in the other.

“Here.”

“Thanks babe.”

Jay placed his hand on the small of your back and started rubbing your back to try and comfort you.

You closed your eyes for a moment, appreciating the comfort of his touch.

“Jay…” you said, your voice a little hesitant.

 “I’m sorry, but can I ask you for one more thing?”

“’Course.” He straightened up, immediately attentive, his face softening.

“Ice bag?” you asked with pleading eyes.

“On it.”

“You’re the best,” you sighed, feeling both grateful and guilty for needing so much help.

Thanks to an unfortunate patrol the other week you were now stuck to your sofa with just half of working knees. One point for a hard landing, zero points for Y/N. Thankfully Jay was there to help you out after an ACL surgery.

“Here you go hun.”

You sighed in relief as the cold began to seep through, taking the edge off the ache in your knee. You finished your glass of water and handed it back to him. Jay placed it on the coffee table.

“Move your cute butt a bit.” He requested with a grin. You blink at him, too tired to figure out what he’s getting at.

“You can’t be serious…”

Jay snickered, shaking his head.

“Naah I’m kidding, don’t move.” Jay bent a little to plant a kiss on top of your head before he sat beside you. He chuckled slightly as he noticed the way you rolled your eyes at his remark.

With him sitting next to you, he gently tuged the blanket up to make sure you're cozy. Jay glanced at your exposed leg, his fingers lightly tapping on your hand. That was his usual way of asking to be held.

Your fingers intertwined with his, his rough palm grazing against yours. Your head fell to the side, leaning on Jay’s shoulder. His hair was still damp after a shower. The scent of his cosmetics mixed with his natural smell brought you much needed comfort.

Suddenly you straightened up, when you noticed your sleeve getting wet.

You glanced down at your arm and moved your gaze toowards Jay's. His dexcom sticker got wet and started leaking drops of water.

“You’re making me- wet babe.”  you murmured, nudging him slightly.

Jay blinked all puzzled, then looked down at his arm and snorted.

“Oh—am I?”

“-- my bad pumpkin.” He apologized with a grin.

“Guess I didn’t dry it off.” Jay continued.

He playfully wiped your arm, not making it any less wet, earning a chuckle from you.

“No need to apologize, it’s not like I can be mad at my personal nurse.”

“Yeeaah you’re kinda right. What would you do without me, huh?” He leaned back, crossing his muscular arms.

“Not much, that’s for sure.”

Jay’s phone buzzed.

“Bruce?” you asked.

“Mr. Richard.”

“He’s asking if you’re still alive.”

“Sadly… wait what?”

“Wait what?” He furrowed his brow at your negative comment.

He placed his free hand on your uninjured thigh as he was responding to the message.

“Feelin’ any better?” His warm hand was sliding up and down your leg, as he was trying to comfort you.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Good.” He tossed his phone to the side.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked moving to the edge of your sofa. You grabbed him by his t-shirt, tugging him back towards you.

“No, no thank you. Please sit down for a bit. Do you feel like watching a movie or something?”

“Would love to, any ideas?” He took the remote and started looking through the channels.

“What about this?” he asked, motioning towards the TV.

“Perfect.” You sighed contentedly, leaning into him, your head resting against his chest. He wrapped his arm around you. His fingers started tracing gentle circles on your arm.

“Thanks for taking care of me-- I know I’m not the easiest patient.” You whispered weakly, looking up at him.

“You’re not so bad.” he said teasingly. You playfully punched his side.

“I might have to start charging you for my nursing services,” Jay chuckled, his arm tightening around your shoulders, carefully pulling you even closer to him.

“I know you love taking care of me, you’re a bad liar Jay.”

“I do, I do… now gimme a kiss.”

You happily complied.

[ash5monster01]

Hello! how are you?

I would like to ask Macgyver something, I imagine something, where maybe Mac and the reader have been captured and Mac does one of his ideas to escape and maybe the reader ends up getting hurt and he again does something to save the reader's life? I imagine him supporting her or carrying her if necessary...

Something extremely cute, thank you very much! I love your writing!!

Rescue Me

Pairing: Angus Macgyver x FemReader

Warnings: fluff, whump, mentions of blood, use of weapons, hurt reader, no use of y/n

Summary: When a mission goes wrong you and Mac find yourselves trapped. When he realizes you’re hurt he needs to come up with a plan to save you both.

word count: 1.2k

Masterlist

The only light in the room is coming from a flickering bulb hung overhead. Flashing sight into the dark and dusty walls surrounding him. Mac isn’t sure what happened, eyes still blurry as he tries to come too. From what he can tell he’s tied to wherever he’s sitting. His head is pounding and his ribs are sore. Whatever had happened had done him in good. That’s when it hits him. The mission, how he had followed you into the mansion, how out of no where a stun grenade went off, and before he could fight back they had knocked him out.

That explained the headache and the more than likely bruised ribs. Yet when his eyes fully blink open he’s actively aware of the fact that he had been with you. It’s as if he’s awake in an instant, head swinging until it lands on you beside him. You’re laid in a heap, tied to a chair, hair stuck to the blood on your forehead. That’s when he sees most of your shirt is seeped through with blood too. Panic rises like bile in his throat and all he can think is how he failed to protect you.

“Hey baby, wake up” he says as calm as he can, scooting in his seat to try and get closer to you. When his foot knocks against the leg of your chair, you snap awake, scanning the room just as he did in a panic.

“Shit Mac, where are we?” you ask once your eyes land on him, arms immediately fighting the restraints. He adores how you ignore how hurt you are, instantly jumping into action to help you both.

“I don’t know, what I do know is we need to get you out of here. You’ve had to of lost so much blood” that’s when you freeze, the realization and the pain seeping in as you look down at your form. It’s then you remember watching them knock out Mac, how you had jumped to save him, and they had a knife and unforgiving nature. It’s then you hiss, the reminder of the deep wound that somehow missed your organs.

“Shit, you’re right” you seethe, squeezing your hands to ignore the pain that now sears through you. Mac’s eyes dart across your form with worry, it’s then he springs into action, eyes darting around the room for anything to set him free.

You watch as he shuffles towards a table, scooting the chair as quickly and quietly as he can. When he reaches it he sways himself forward and on his feet. It’s then the nausea hits you, a clear sign of blood loss as he uses one of the tools to set him free. Fighting to keep your eyes open he rushes over to you and unties your harnesses as well. The relief of being free isn't enough to calm you when you realize those very harnesses had been holding you upright. Your body collapses instantly, Mac catching you as you land against him.

"You're more hurt than I originally thought" he says, head swiveling around the room as he scans it again, trying to come up with any ideas that could possibly save you. When he comes up short he eases you gently back against the chair before going to the only door in the room. Much to both your surprise the knob turns when he attempts to open it.

“Listen, I’m gonna try and figure out where we are. You stay right here and I’ll be back” he tells you and you don’t have enough energy to respond as he slinks out the door in search of the safest way to escape.

It’s hard to stay awake while he’s gone. Catching your head nearly every time you nod off. You’re startled awake when you feel Mac lifting you in his arms. He’s saying something but it’s not registering as he lifts you with ease. Carrying you bridal style towards the door. You whine every time a muscle strains and the brief look you get of his face shows how much this pains him too. You reach out to comfort him but you fall short, unconsciousness taking over.

When you come to again you’re instead surrounded by the light blue walls of a hospital room. You squint under the bright overhanging lights and despite the lingering pain you feel so much better than you did the last time you were awake. You would’ve sworn it was a dream had you not woken up here. It’s relief knowing you’re safe but panic all over again when you realize you don’t know how you got out or what could’ve happened to Mac. It makes you feel shameful, like you had failed him somehow.

“Mac? Mac?!” your panicked voice arises, eyes trying to focus on your surroundings. A shuffling beside you and a hand falling in your own eases your heart only slightly.

“I’m right here baby, you’re okay” blinking your eyes you find an unharmed blonde boy by your side. Tears spring to your eyes as you reach out for him.

“Oh God what happened?” you cry and he looks at you with teary eyes to match, leaning forward to press his forehead against your own.

“We were captured, I got us out” he tells you and you don’t need to ask to know he had pulled off something only Mac was capable of.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t help you” you tell him, hands holding either side of his face, his grip locked on your wrists.

“No, no, it’s okay. We got out and you’re okay now. It wasn’t your fault” he tells you and your lip quivers but you pull him in for a kiss anyway. He’s perfectly happy to do so, kissing you to convey just how much he loved you and how sorry he was.

“Is the rest of the team okay?” you ask when he lets go and he smiles, nodding against you before scooting into the open spot beside you. You move as much as you can for him to curl up into your side.

“Everyone’s fine, they’re happy you’re alive. Said we should probably wait a bit before we get captured again” and you snort out a laugh that instantly turns into a wince from the soreness of your wounds. Mac looks you over with worry but you calm him with your touch, holding him still.

“I’m perfectly content not being a hostage for a while” you tell him and he gives a pressed smile before kissing your forehead. You hold him, happy to have made it out of something like this for the hundredth time, with him by your side.

“I say the minute you get better we take a break” Mac says and you nod against him, humming in delight as you think of a tropical island. You and Mac curled up on a sandy beach, soaking in the rays, and kissing each other dizzy. Now that was something you could get used to.

“I’ll put in a PTO request as soon as I can” this has Mac laughing against you, holding you as tight as he can without hurting you further. Glad you hadn’t been awake through what he had went through. Happy to just be here with you right now. Whether you were on an island vacation in a month or risking your lives on another mission. No matter what he was there to protect you.

“That’s my girl”

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #22

A/N: Surprise! This is a precursor to day 8. I actually had this one planned ages and ages ago, before I'd written 8. I tried to write them so that each one could stand on its own and not be too confusing, since they're being posted out of order. Anyway, enjoy!

xxx oh, that's not good

"I didn't see any sign of him," Guy frets as she and Lamb reconvene at the front entrance of the house.

"Are you surprised?" Lamb says. "These guys aren't exactly geniuses but they're not stupid enough to keep a kidnapped MI:5 agent in their hall closet! Come on, we've still got loads of places to look, and not a lot of time to do it before those idiots come back. Stables next."

Guy sighs and nods. "Right."

Her expression is one of deliberate focus as she exits the house and heads toward the stables, gun in hand. She's so focused on the stables, in fact, that she doesn't bothering observing the rest of her surroundings, which is probably why she doesn't notice the many pairs of boot-prints in the mud. And why she doesn't notice Lamb stopping to look at them. He doesn't call after her, partially because he's confident there's no one waiting in the stables to ambush her, precluding the need for backup, but mostly because he can't be arsed.

He follows the prints to a pair of basement bulkhead doors round the east side of the house. There's a heavy chain and padlock keeping them shut, but the lock obviously cheap. All it takes to get it open is a large stone Lamb finds on the ground and a few heavy blows. He highly doubts there's anything in the darkened basement that he'll need to shoot, but he draws his gun anyway before pulling the doors open and making his way down the steps. It's dark at the bottom, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

When they do, he can see that he's in the right spot.

“Fuuucking hell,” he murmurs, holstering his weapon before stepping further into the basement. “Christ, Cartwright, you alive?”

The figure huddled against the far wall stirs slightly, but offers no other response. Lamb makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat (or worried, more like �� not that River will be able to tell, the state he's in) and crouches next to the younger agent. There's old blood in his hair, dark red matting the blonde over his left ear and dried onto his neck. An ugly purple-yellow bruise stretches over his jaw on the same side, a few days old. A gash on his right cheekbone looks newer. Lamb doesn't need to see to know that his torso likely took the worst of it; ribs and kidneys tend to be favored targets of this sort of brainless thug. River’ll probably be pissing blood for a day or two, and he'll be hurting for a bit, but he seems surprisingly okay given the circumstance.

“Oi," Lamb says loudly, giving Cartwright's shoulder a firm shove. River's brow crinkles into a frown and he grimaces, blue eyes fluttering open. His gaze lands on Lamb and he groans, letting his eyes fall back shut. Lamb prods at him. “If you think I'm gonna carry you out of here, think again."

Cartwright opens his eyes again, staring up at the low ceiling. He takes two deep breaths (But not that deep, Lamb notes) and then slowly starts to push himself up on his elbows. He doesn't say anything, hardly even seems to notice, when Lamb reflexively puts a hand on his back to help him get upright.

Lamb doesn't like it.

“What," he says, putting a sneer into his words in the hopes of drawing some sort of reaction. “Don't tell me you don't have something smart to say. No, ‘I’d’ve had it’? No, ‘Where the hell have you been’?"

Cartwright sighs, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’d’ve had it," he says, and looks up at Lamb. “And where the hell have you been?"

Lamb bites back a smirk, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, you'll be fine. Come on!"

He turns, pulling his mobile out as behind him Cartwright makes his way, groaning, to his feet. Shirley answers after the first ring.

"Yeah?"

"I found Cartwright," Lamb says. "Hurry up and finish what you're doing and meet us out by the cars." He glances over his shoulder as he returns his mobile to his coat pocket. Cartwright is swaying slightly, but there's a determined set to his expression. Lamb raises an eyebrow at him. "You coming?"

Cartwright gives him a shaky thumbs-up. "Yep."

xxx

It's not a sunny day—far from it, seeing as they're in the English countryside in October—but the daylight is still far brighter than the hole in the ground where River's been held the last three days. Or maybe it's four? He's lost track. Regardless, he finds himself wincing as he emerges from the basement as the relative brightness sends bursts of pain through his skull.

"Lamb!" Louisa's voice. "He's not in the stables. Where did you go?" She looks over Lamb's shoulder and her eyes widen. "River!"

"Hey, Louisa," River says, raising his hand in a sheepish wave.

Louisa steps around Lamb and grabs River's arms, looking him over, brow furrowed. "You alright?"

River shrugs. "Oh, you know..." He looks up at the back of Lamb who, unsurprisingly, didn't stop to watch Louisa and River's reunion. "I'm surprised Lamb came himself."

"Yeah. Marcus and Shirley are here, too."

"Really?" River frowns. "All of you are here?"

"Well, not all of us. Roddy's still at Slough."

River snorts. "He doesn't count."

Marcus and Shirley are already at the cars when they get there, and Shirley grins as soon as she sees River, straightening up from where she'd been leaning against Marcus's car.

"Were they keeping you in the stable?" she says. "'Cus that would be really fucking embarrassing."

"It was the basement, actually," River says dryly. He's not sure why he expected anything else from her.

"Because we're Slow Horses," Shirley continues as if River hadn't spoken. "Horse. Stable. It's funny."

River shoots her a sarcastic smile and holds up his middle finger. Shirley scowls.

"Rude."

He opens his mouth to answer, and is interrupted by the loud crack of gunfire.

"Get down!" Lamb shouts, and River thinks it's a little funny that he bothers saying it; they're all already moving, diving for cover behind the parked cars. They may be Slow Horses, but they're still Service. They aren't just going to stand around while a sniper opens fire on them.

“Shit!" Shirley cries as a round strikes the dirt near her. "Where is that coming from?”

“Uh – barn.” Marcus is the one who answers. “Hayloft, I think.”

Lamb growls. “You didn’t clear the fucking barn?”

“You called and told us you had River! You didn’t say anything about clearing the barn!”

“I said to finish what you were doing, I didn’t think I had to fucking spell it out! Bloody well should have known, though, you’ve all the sense of a toad. Didn't clear the fucking barn..."

"We can return fire, but I don't know what good it'll do us," Marcus says. "He's got better cover, better range, a better vantage point..."

“He’ll run out of ammunition eventually,” Shirley says, and Lamb lets out a bark of laughter.

“Yeah, I suppose we could just roll around in the dirt here and hope the bastard is stupid enough to waste all of his bullets. Anyone else have any bright ideas they'd like to share? Cartwright?”

River, who's only been half-listening to most of the conversation, looks up at the sound of his name. “Erm – what? Sorry?”

Lamb’s irritated expression shifts slightly, his forehead creasing in the middle. Then his eyes flick downward, then back up again, eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion. “Are you hit?”

"What?" Louisa says sharply.

River looks down to where his hand is clasping his hip. He hadn't even noticed he was doing that...He lifts his hand away from his side enough to catch a glimpse of bright red before quickly replacing it, swallowing hard to quell the nausea that tries to rise up.

“Yup. Yeah, I--I think so. Yeah."

He's not sure he would've realized if not for the sight of blood. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing.

"Jesus," Marcus says.

Louisa's voice is tight with near-panic. "We have to get him out of here!"

"It's fine!" River's voice is loud, almost shrill. It comes out too insistent. He swears internally, then takes a breath and forces a smile that he hopes looks less manic than it feels. "I'm alright, it's a good guy wound."

Shirley makes a face. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The good guys in action movies, they always – you know what, never mind!" His mind is racing. He's pretty sure adrenaline is supposed to bring clarity, but his thoughts are all noisy and competing for attention. The one that makes it out of his mouth, before he has time to really process it, is, "This is a good thing."

"How?!" Louisa and Shirley cry in baffled unison.

There's an opportunity here for River to turn something humiliating—having to be rescued from the ex-military meatheads that had managed to kidnap him—into a win. He just has to make them see it.

"Look, now that their secret hideout isn't a secret anymore, they're just going to go deeper underground. Whoever's shooting at us is alone right now. We can press him for information, I--" He falters momentarily as he sees the doubt plainly written on his co-workers' faces. "I can distract him, and you can sneak around the back of the barn and get the jump on him. We might not get another chance."

"You'll distract him?" Lamb chuckles. "What, for the two seconds it takes to blow your head off? All that'll do is give me an extra pile of paperwork to fill out."

"But--" River begins.

"We're not here for him, Cartwright, we're here for you. And we have you, so we're gonna fuck off back to London. Let the Dogs deal with these pricks."

River blinks in surprise. Of all of them, he'd thought Lamb was the most likely to agree that they should try and get something out of this shitshow. If Lamb notices his shock, he doesn't mention it.

"Guy, Cartwright and I'll go in your car. Dander, you're with Longridge – Christ, I feel like I'm arranging a carpool. Anyway, whoever is up there isn't a very impressive shot, or Cartwright wouldn't be alive right now, but still: move fast."

There's an exchange of glances, some nods. No one counts down, but somehow everyone starts moving at once – Marcus and Louisa yanking open driver's side doors and clambering in, keeping their heads down and trying to make themselves as small as possible (an easier task for Louisa than Marcus) as Lamb and Shirley get into back seats. River is waiting for it, for the sound of gunfire to pick up again, but it doesn't come. He should feel relieved that they aren't being shot at, but all he feels is dread.

"Cartwright!" Lamb barks.

River is still sat in the gravel beside Louisa's car. He's sitting there when a man in a balaclava comes out from behind the small garden shed the cars are parked next to.

Oh, that's not good.

The man's got a gun raised, and it's aimed right at Louisa's head and fuck if River is going to let her get killed. His body doesn't feel like his own as he launches to his feet and places it between the gun and Louisa. There are two loud pops, and then he's falling and the man in the balaclava is falling, too and Louisa is screaming his name but he can't gather the breath he needs to answer because it feels like he's just been kicked in the chest by the world's angriest horse and he can't breathe--

Someone grabs him under the armpits from behind and pulls, and that's enough to shock his lungs back into working.

He screams.

When his vision returns, he realizes he's in the backseat of Louisa's car. He's more than slightly mortified to find that he's laying partially in Jackson Lamb's lap, one of Lamb's hands held tightly against the bullet hole in River's chest.

"Drive!" Lamb yells, and the car lurches into motion and the only sound River makes this time is a low, strangled groan.

River isn't particularly religious, never has been, but as he bleeds and bleeds and tries to breathe in the backseat of Louisa's car, he finds himself pleading with whatever higher power is out there to please, please not let him die in Jackson Lamb's arms.

xxx

[ghostlyarchaeologist]

"A first aid kit in a crate? It's a health pack. This is a loot drop."

The Librarians S02E08 And the Point of Salvation.