#whumpuaryno15

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

Whumpuary #15: Dead

In an apocalyptic future Don watches all of his brothers meet their end battling the Shredder’s forces.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumpuary 2025 3 & 15

Prompt 3: Chills

Prompt 15: “Don’t leave me.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of illness

“S’cold.” 

The room was a bit drafty but beneath the comforter, it should not have been possible for the man to be chilly. That could only mean one thing. Pushing yourself from the chair by the fire—where you maintained a constant vigil since the archer had nearly collapsed—you crossed the room in swift steps, the movement near silent on your bare feet. 

Daryl’s teeth were damn near chattering, his face flushed. Pulling back the covers, you found his shirt soaked through. His eyes remained closed but he groaned in protest, turning onto his side to curl in on himself. He flinched away when your palm brushed his forehead. 

“You’re burning up.” You gasped, yanking away the duvet completely before covering him with a thin sheet. 

“Y/N—”

“I know.” Your fingertips swept his unruly fringe away from his face, the strands dampened with perspiration. How could you have not noticed earlier? “I know you’re cold, but you have a fever and we have to get your temperature down.”

Your eyes filled with tears and sympathy when he let out a miserable groan followed by a harsh wet cough. If there was something useful, it would likely be across the hall in the bathroom. Goddamnit, if only he hadn’t balked when you had offered to find it earlier. You pulled the sheet up further, letting it fall just below his trembling shoulders, and turned to go in search of something—anything. 

“Don’t.” His fingers felt like fire around your wrist, as if his blood had turned to lava and flowed just below the skin. A pair of blue orbs, barely open to slits and shining with fever, stared back at you. “Don’t—leave me.”

He allowed you to pry his grip free, not that it took much effort. Pressing your lips to his knuckles, you lowered his hand down to lie beside his face, where it curled into a fist and was pulled into his chest to join the other. “I’m only going across the hall.” Did he honestly think you’d leave his side for even a moment if you weren’t forced to do so? His eyes slid shut again. “Only across the hall.” You repeatedly softly. 

The desperate rummaging proved to be fruitful and was worth the mess of scattered supplies. A few Tylenol capsules and a half a bottle of expired cough syrup with codeine. It would do until you could coax him to sleep. You’d have to leave him long enough to search out some antibiotics in the desolate little town. The thought alone was nauseating. Why did this have to happen while on a run? Why couldn’t he have admitted to being under the weather? That stubborn fool. 

Daryl was right where you had left him, a trembling heap beneath the sheet. You said his name softly and sat just above his drawn up legs. “Wake up.” He made a raspy keening sound but otherwise didn’t stir. “I need you to wake up and take this medicine.” 

“Save—save it.” He argued weakly, turning his face into the pillow and back again. “We can—take it back—with us.”

“Shut up.” You snapped with a mild heat simmering behind the words. “Take this.” The slow opening of his eyes was the only admittance of defeat you would get before his compliance. 

Daryl pushed himself up to balance on his elbow, his head hanging. When it became clear he wouldn’t—couldn’t—raise it himself, you pressed your palm to his downward cheek and turned his face toward you. The pills were easy. You placed them just past his lips and then a bottle of water was tipped for him. The cough syrup, however, was an entirely different matter. 

You had no way of measuring so maybe just a swig of it would be enough? The moment the liquid hit his tongue, Daryl was gagging. He managed—out of sheer stubbornness, of course—to get it down, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t pull a face with a quick ‘blergh!’ afterward. If he weren’t so ill, you might have laughed. 

“Rest now.” You kept your hand beneath his cheek to help him lower to the pillow, simultaneously sitting the bottle of medication on the dusty bedside table. 

Eyelids heavy, he glared at the container. “Don’t put—that there.” He wheezed. “Ain’t never—takin’ that again.” Then, you did laugh. 

“You’ll take it and like it, mister.” You teased, carding your fingers through his hair. “Go to sleep.” There was a moment when you thought he might argue, but the sickness won and he was pulled under rather quickly. 

You sat with him for a while, feeling his forehead, listening to every breath. Only when he was breathing evenly and it was clear that he wasn’t waking anytime soon did you stand and grab your backpack. He couldn’t make the two day trip back home in his current state. He needed antibiotics. 

Pausing in the doorway, you turned and watched him a moment longer, your eyes narrowing with determination. You would make it back to him and you would have what he needed. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

The door closed with a muted click.

[tabbytabbytabby]

A Buddie aesthetic for @whumpuary No.15: You’re safe / Touch starved

[firapolemos05]

"As far as your family knows, you're dead. Executed as another lowly traitor. So no, there won't be anyone looking for you."

Whumpuary 2025

Day 7 "No one is coming."

Day 15 Handcuffed

Champion taglist: @thewhumpywitch , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba

[librathefangirl]

Whumpuary 2025 Day 15: dead | "please, stop"

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Whumpuary 2024 No. 15

"You're safe" | Aftermath | Touch Starved

Whumpuary Prompts List

TW: touch starved, mentioned capture

“Are you okay?”

Whumpee jumped, Caretaker's presence startling them. “Uh… yeah.”

“You’re shaking.” Caretaker dropped down onto the ground to sit next to them. Their closeness to Whumpee was… Whumpee didn’t know how to describe the emotion.

“I… uh…” They registered Caretaker’s words. They had a point. The adrenaline coursing through Whumpee’s veins had probably been the only reason they’d managed to stay upright during the rescue. Whumpee held up their hand. It trembled violently. “I guess I am.”

Caretaker smiled softly and reached out, taking Whumpee’s outstretched hand into their own. “It’s okay now,” they said. “You’re safe.”

Whumpee was barely listening as they stared at their hand, the fingers intertwined with Caretaker’s. How long had it been since they’d experienced human touch? Not since being captured by Whumper.

“...I have to ask again, are you okay?”

Whumpee glanced up at Caretaker, whose expression had changed to one of concern. They thought for a moment before scooting closer so their shoulder was against Caretaker’s. “I dunno…” they mumbled. “I guess… I guess I missed you.”

Caretaker stiffened slightly at Whumpee’s touch, but they did not pull away. They squeezed Whumpee’s hand.  “I missed you too.”

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

Whumpuary 2024 Day 15

15. (Jan 29-31) You're safe / Aftermath / Touch starved 

cw aftermath of torture, conditioned whumpee, physical abuse, captivity

Whumper gently lays them on the bed, mindful of Whumpee’s bruised ribs and sprained ankle. Or maybe it’s broken—they can’t tell. All they know is that everything hurts and their vision is still blurry. But Whumper shushes them and pets their hair, wiping away Whumpee’s tears as they sob. 

“It’s okay, it’s all over now,” they coo. Whumper is always so sweet after their little sessions—it's disarming. “You did so good for me, angel.” 

They feel empty and utterly drained—they always do after Whumper is done with them. And the worst part is that Whumpee always ends up craving their touch. They should hate Whumper. But after hours of being tortured and humiliated in whatever ways Whumper feels like, all they want is to be held. To be praised. They let their eyes slip shut as they reach out for their captor, tugging them closer. 

“Aw, honey,” Whumper murmurs, lying down beside them and gathering Whumpee in their arms. “Rest, okay? You did so well tonight. You can sleep now, and I’ll be right here.” 

Whumpee sniffles as their cries begin to peter out, exhaustion overtaking them. They nuzzle their head into Whumper’s chest and take comfort in the affection, too tired to wonder what horrors Whumper has planned for them tomorrow.  

For now, they can sleep. 

taglist: @morning-star-whump

[sorinethemastermind]

Whumpuary 2025 | Prompt: "Please, Stop" | TW: Torture | Pt. 2 of 3

 Soren’s eyes opened slowly, the throbbing in his head spiking with each bleary blink. The world gradually came back into focus, the blurry shape before him forming into a pair of shoes. His shoes. He blinked again. He was staring at the floor.

 Soren glanced up, the movement making him wince as the room spun again. More shapes came into focus. People, this time. Walking about, searching the shelves and poking at the walls. It came back to him in pieces; turncoat guards letting the insurgents into the castle, the furious rush to hide King Ezran, the battle on the balcony.

 He winced, memories of the fight reminding him of his many injuries. Soren shifted, trying to get a better view of the room, but was tugged back by a tightening at his wrists. He glanced up, slowly this time (having learned his lesson), to find them tied to the bedpost above his head. He cursed under his breath.

 “Finally awake then,” a familiar voice said, footsteps coming to a halt before Soren. He glanced up to find Caspian staring down at him, lips twisted into an expression of what could almost be described as disgust. “Got to admit, you put up a good fight. Too bad you’re a traitor.”

 Soren spat at his feet, a little concerned to find that a few specks of blood landed on the other man’s shoes. His mouth tasted coppery. Caspian tsked.

 “And here I thought you were raised a noble.”

 “You’ll be executed for this,” Soren hissed. “Maybe I’ll even have the pleasure of doing it myself.”

 “We’ll see about that,” the traitorous guard jeered. “If you keep up that kind of talk you might find your way over the balcony before the night’s out.”

 Soren glared at him, but bit his tongue, watching as Caspian paced a little ways across the room. The other man swept his long, dark hair out of his face and tapped his lower lip thoughtfully.

 “You know, this doesn’t have to end badly for you.” Caspian turned to face him again, “You couldn’t have gotten the little king far, so how about you just tell us where he is, and you don’t have a date with the ground?”

 Soren snorted, “Like I’d tell you anything.”

 Caspian unsheathed the short blade at his belt and leaned down, holding it level with Soren’s throat. “Or maybe the last thing the runt sees is pieces of you scattered about the courtyard.”

 Soren laughed, “For him to see anything, I’d have to tell you where he is.”

 Caspian scowled, flicking the blade away. It just barely grazed Soren’s chin, leaving a small nick. He didn't flinch, just continued to stare the traitor in the eyes, a small smile on his lips. That’s what he’d thought. He knew Caspian. Guy was all talk.

The traitor rose to his full height, taking a step back. He sheathed his blade again. “Perhaps I am going about this all wrong,” he mused. “You are no stranger to intimidation, are you, Soren? Nor to pain. You are a Crownguard, after all.” he gave Soren a cruel smile. “So what is it you fear?”

 Someone stepped out of the darkness behind Soren and his stomach flipped. It… it couldn’t be. And yet, they looked like his father. No, not Viren. But they had the same ashen gray skin and dark violet scars. The same black eyes, lit by only a pinprick of light shining from within. It gave them the illusion of sucking in light rather than expelling it outward.

 “This is Evren,” Caspian said, gesturing to the mage. “He’s not from around here.” Soren jerked back involuntarily, rope twisting at his wrists, as the strange man leaned forward to peer at him. Caspian smiled, “But I’m sure you’ll become well acquainted soon enough.”

 Evren knelt before him, brushing greasy strands of dark brown hair out of his face. It was streaked through with white and slicked back from his face. The mage blinked rapidly. It was hard to tell his age with the unnatural pallor to his skin and the scars marring it. But even Dark Magic couldn't hide the bags under his heavy set eyes and furrowed lines across his forehead.

 He reached out, tucking a finger under Soren’s chin and forcing his gaze up until their eyes met. Evren cocked his head slightly to the side.

 Soren jerked his face away, “You can look as creepy as you want, I'm afraid of you.”

 “Everyone is afraid of something,” the mage rasped. “Just as everyone wants something. So what do you want, little golden child?”

 Soren froze, breath catching in his throat. Evren’s lips slowly rose into a smile. 

 “Viren talked about you often,” the mage continued, “towards the end. Not so much before. You only really care when you’re about to lose something, yes? So what are you about to lose, hm?”

 He rose, strands of white hair falling back into his face at the motion. Soren watched him, eyes wide, and tried to regain control of his breathing. He kept his expression blank.

 “So you, what, trained under Kpp’Ar?”

 “For a time. The old man was soft,” Evran said, hand rustling through his satchel. Soren became aware of the fact that most of the others had left the room. “His affections held him back. As they did your father.”

 Soren didn’t think Viren’s affections had held him back from doing much of anything. 

 “You didn't know him very well, do you?”

 “On the contrary,” Evren pulled something from his bag, crushing it in his fist. He muttered something under his breath, purple light sparking in his eyes. “It may be you who is ignorant.”

 Soren felt his breath constrict in his chest. He coughed, jerking at the bindings as he fought for air. 

 “What was it he said you had?” Evren mused, fist tightening. Soren gasped, feeling as though the mage’s hand was around his lungs, squeezing. “A breathing sickness?”

 Soren gulped in a desperate breath as the pressure eased, hair falling across his face as he hung limply from the bindings above him, his strength gone.

 Caspian tsked from the corner, “So predictable. All bark, no bite.”

 Soren forced his head up to glare at them, but found little respite in the action. His chest heaved as Evren crouched before him again, hand still loosely clutched around whatever it was he’d taken from his pouch.

 “Where is the child?” he asked, softly.

 “What’s in it for you?” Soren managed between gulps of air. “Did he promise you High Mage or something?”

 Evren laughed, a harsh, cold sound. It ended in a hacking cough. “I have no interest in your petty disputes or pointless titles. We made a deal. I am merely holding up my end of it.”

 “Well, whatever amount of money he’s offering you, I can double it.”

 “Bribery already?” Evren shook his head, “We’ve only just started. I am not interesting in your money. What I need, I can take. It is what I want that concerns me.”

 “And what is it that you-” Soren’s words cut off abruptly as the air was pulled from his lungs once again. It went on longer this time, chest burning, black rimming his vision before it stopped. He let out a shaky, gasping breath. 

 “What I want is not of your concern. Other than if you stand in my way. As you now do,” Evren informed him, standing up again. He paced across the room, violet eyes piercing in the darkness. “Where is the child?”

 “Fuck you,” Soren gasped.

 He blacked out that time.

 The voices swam back into focus first, drifting into his periphery as though through deep water.

 “-on’t have all night, so if you can stop playing with your food-”

 “Patience.”

 “My patience for your little head games is running thin,” the voice growled in reply, the man’s boots slowly appearing out of the darkness. Soren blinked, his eyelids heavy.

 “Men are not broken by fear, Caspian,” the other voice rasped in reply. “We will not learn what you seek through such brutal methods.”

 Soren watched as the boots shifted on the floor, pacing across the room. He grimaced as a spike of pain shot through his head.

 “Men are broken by what they want,” the raspy voice continued. It sent a shiver down Soren’s spine and he took an involuntary breath, testing his lungs.

 “What he wants is to protect the king.”

 “No,” Evren drawled. “That is what he needs. What he wants- Ah. You are awake, then.” Soren flinched back as the mage dropped abruptly to the ground before him. “Good,” Evren smiled, revealing a missing tooth. “Then we may continue.”

 Soren took a shaky breath, trying to fill his lungs as much as he could while he was still able to. But instead of pulling out whatever strange object had been used in the last casting, the mage removed a small chunk of crystal from his satchel, shining in the moonlight. It was kind of beautiful.

 Evren crushed it in his hand, “Mystica canis.”

 The world around Soren warped and he squeezed his eyes shut, the fluctuating visuals making his already throbbing headache worse. When he finally opened them, it was to find nothing changed. He glanced around the room warily, taking in the toppled bookshelves and fallen weapons. Then he glanced at Evren and gasped.

 Where the mage had been crouched now stood his father.

 Soren’s pulse quickened, heart pounding in his chest as he fought not to let the realization play across his features. But his fa- Evren smiled, seeing the panic in his eyes.

 “They said you killed him, underneath the Storm Spire,” the mage said, his voice emerging from Viren’s lips. “I’ve always wanted to visit the place. Pity he got to first. And twice. Your father was quite the explorer. They say he even charted a… unique way down the mountain.”

 Soren glanced away, unable to meet those familiar grey eyes. “It wasn’t him. It was an illusion,” he mumbled.

 “I am aware,” there was a cruel lilt to the mage’s voice. “And yet, at the time, you were not.” Evren crouched before him, still wearing Viren’s face, and tucked a hand under his chin, forcing Soren’s head up. Their eyes locked. “So what did he do to make you hate him that much, hm?” the mage asked, tilting his head to the side. “To make you kill your own flesh and blood?”

 Soren glanced away first, and the mage withdrew his hand, letting his gaze drop back to the floor.

 “Pity. He always seemed to like you. So proud of the little family he’d put together.”

 Soren bit his lip until he tasted blood, keeping his face firmly blank. If they thought this… this… this whatever it was would get him to tell them where Ezran was, they were wrong.

 “Such. A. Pity,” the mage said again. 

 Soren kept his eyes on the ground, but saw the shadow move across the floor as Evren leaned closer again, hand resting on his shoulder. Soren winced as the man’s fingers dug into the wound there, gritting his teeth.

 “What would be more fitting, do you think?” Evren hissed beside his ear, fingers digging deeper. Soren’s breath hitched. “A fall from the top of the castle or a blade through the heart? Perhaps we try both?”

 He released him, and Soren let out a shaky breath, fresh blood running down his arm. The mage took a step back, shaking droplets of red from his hand. “Where is the child?”

 Soren’s hands closed into fists, straining against his bonds as he glared up at the mage, still wearing his father’s face. “Once this is over and you’re all scheduled for execution, would you rather a fall from the top of the castle or a blade through the heart? I’ve done one, sort of interested to try the other.”

 Caspian snorted from the corner, shooting Evren a displeased look. “I told you,” he sighed. “He’s stubborn.”

 “The one good thing I got from my father,” Soren smirked. 

 “Patience,” the mage drawled, letting the familiar visage drop to reveal his own face underneath, “ is a virtue, Caspian. Do you not have any of those?”

 The traitorous guard scowled, and Soren, under different circumstances, might have laughed. But then Evren turned back to him, eyes sparking violet, lips moving almost soundlessly. Soren felt the air being tugged from his lungs again, but slowly, this time. Almost patiently.

 “We have tried fear,” Evren mused above him. “We have tried pain. So perhaps next we try patience. I doubt it is something you have in any more abundance than our dear friend Caspian here. But-” he crouched down, tattered robe dragging along the floor “-I am rich in it.”

 Soren coughed, chest rattling as he fought for breath. The pressure on his lungs was just enough that he could breath, but never deeply. He coughed again, feeling a familiar panic rise in him. Evren smiled.

 “Fear motivates us,” the mage mused, "but only for as long as one can keep it sharp. Pain is the same. But patience… if one can break someone’s patience, they shall have no choice but to take action. What that action will be remains to be seen.” He paced across the room and Soren’s eyes followed him, chest rising and falling raggedly. “For patience comes back, once again, to want and need. A need is an intrinsic part of us, it cannot be taken or forged. It simply is. But a want,” Evren chuckled, harsh and grating, “that is a tool for those who know how to wield it.”

 Soren’s vision blurred, but refused to go dark. His lungs filled, but refused to be satisfied. He coughed, chest aching. Evren’s feet stopped before him, swimming in and out of focus.

 “So what do you want, little golden child?” he asked, voice barely audible over the pounding in Soren’s head.

 He wanted- He wanted- Soren’s chest heaved and he coughed again. He wanted his Dad. He wanted to not want his Dad. To know that the man under the Storm Spire had been him, for all intensive purposes. That he would have done the same thing the illusion had. Made Soren make the same choice. That he would have made that same choice even if it was really him.

 Soren jerked against the bindings pointlessly, the motion more involuntary than anything else. His vision spun, and when he closed his eyes, colors bloomed beneath his eyelids. Any air he was able to manage came in short, shallow pants. 

 He wanted to know that he’d killed his father, one way or another. That the version of Viren who'd been his Dad was long dead and gone. He wanted that to matter. For it to change the desperate longing that panged through his chest alongside the ache in his lungs.

 And yet it didn’t. He wanted the man who used to come and sit at his bedside when he was sick, who would hold his hand and read him stories about daring knights and brave kings until he fell asleep. Who would brush the hair back from his face and tell him it would be alright, that he would be okay. That he just had to take one more breath, and then it would get easier. Even if it never did.

 Soren’s lungs burned, black spots popping across his vision as he opened his eyes. He glanced up to find his father’s cruel smile playing across Evren’s lips and swiftly averted his gaze again. 

 He wanted his Dad to come and make it better, like he said he would. Like he did. He wanted-

 “Please, stop,” he choked out, words unbidden and wavering. They entered the room and hung there, in the air, like a white flag of surrender. He tried to take them back instantly, to fortify the walls again, but it was too late. 

 Evren smiled as though he could tell, somehow, that it wasn’t just them three in the room anymore. That there was someone else here now, too.

 Because someone new had joined them. Someone older than all of them. Someone Soren had hidden away since he was small, since the first time those warm grey eyes turned cold. Since the voice that used to soothe had started to bite. Soren had taken the kid who used to stare up at his father with big, round eyes, lower lip trembling at those words and those eyes, and he’d hidden him deep within the castle. Hidden him better even than he’d hidden King Ezran when these traitors came for him.

 First behind smiles and boasts, then behind walls of stone and battlements bristling with spears and bows. And finally behind a layer of armor, too thick for weapons or words to pierce. But somehow Evren had found him behind all of that and dragged him here, out into the light.

 Soren stared up at the mage, chest heaving as he fought for breath and to keep his composure. But the room was swiftly filling up with too many people for him to protect. And if he couldn’t protect himself, how was he supposed to keep King Ezran or the kid safe?

 “It is entirely up to you when this stops,” Evren said, crouching before him again. He cast a glance to Caspian in the corner, smug smiling tugging at his lips. Soren didn’t think he’d ever hated somebody more.

 Alright, maybe once.

 It hadn’t ended well for that person, either. He tried to hold onto that feeling, that anger. Take it from where he’d bottled it up and hidden it away. Use it to hold onto some semblance of control. But the image of his father’s face, smug and demanding, now had the worried eyes Soren remembered from his bedside when he was small. The voice, sharp and cutting, asked if he was alright.

 The anger slipped through his fingers, melting away to be swiftly replaced by a pang of loss that squeezed at his heart the same way the spell constricted his lungs. More black spots bloomed in his vision and Evren’s face flickered, his father’s superimposed over it again though he hadn’t can’t a spell.

 Soren didn’t think he’d cast a spell. It was becoming harder and harder to tell as the room wobbled and his words drifted in and out of focus.

 “Where is the child?” the mage’s voice finally cut in again, the sound moving as though through thick liquid, disjointed from the movement of Evren’s lips.

 “Can’t-” Soren struggled for air, his surroundings spinning. He shuddered, eyelids fluttering. Evren reached out, grabbing a fistful of his hair and using it to force his head up. Soren hardly felt a thing. It was like his entire body was going numb. He didn’t know if that was better or worse than the previous jabbing pain of his injuries.

 “Where is he?” the mage hissed, voice growing gentler towards the end, “Tell me, and then it can stop.”

 “Can’t… breathe,” Soren struggled.

 “Then nod your head in the right direction,” Evren released him, standing back up. Soren’s chin banged back against his chest and he shook his head, hair falling across his eyes.

 “Not- Not gonna-” spots danced in his vision, inky blackness ringing the room, steadily encroaching. 

 “You’re right. You won’t,” Evren admitted. Soren heard Caspian begin to protest as the mage stood up, but he ignored him, instead turning those violet eyes to gaze across the room. “Young King!” he called, voice echoing through Soren’s head, fuzzy at the edges, “Shall you die a coward, curled in a hole in the wall with your servants bodies laid at your feet, or shall you die a King, with your held head high and your people spared?”

 “Ez, don’t-” Soren choked on the word, a cough tearing through his chest, expelling any air he might have been holding onto. He took a wheezing breath, struggling to form the rest of the sentence.

 “He has done well,” Evren continued, giving Soren a pitying smile. “But I doubt he’ll last more than another couple of minutes. So what will it be?”

 The numbness spread further throughout Soren's body, reaching up his legs and through his arms. His panic rose, cresting higher and higher like waves before crashing down on him. He couldn’t feel his legs, or his arms, or… or much of anything. Which meant he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t-

 Hyperventilating probably wasn’t the best thing to do when he already couldn’t breath.

 “Make that one or two minutes,” Evren corrected himself, still addressing the room.

 Soren squeezed his eyes shut, willing Ezran to be quiet, willing it to be over. To just be over. Seconds ticked by and he felt the numbness travel through from his body and into his head, his thoughts slowing and blurring together.

 “You’re almost out of time, little King,” a voice said, and Soren was vaguely aware of someone nudging him with their foot. The contact felt like it had been made through layers of wool.

 “If I tell you how to open it, will you let him go?” a voice wobbled through the dark in reply.

 Soren mustered what little strength he had left and forced his head up. “No-”

 “Yes, we will.” 

 “Then… then it’s the brick. By the fireplace. The one that sticks out a little too much.” Ezran’s voice was muffled by the thick stone, but Soren could hear every word clear as day. Each one felt like a knife to the gut.

He tried to say something, but his tongue was too heavy to move. His eyes drifted shut again. And then snapped open as oxygen rushed into his lungs. He gasped, feeling the cold rush of air through him as it filled him up. For a moment there was just that; the panicked gasping breaths as he filled his lungs again and again, feeling his chest rise and fall.

 And then there were arms around him, small and clinging. Ezran was only there for a moment before they pulled him away, one of Caspian’s hands clutched firmly upon his shoulder. Soren stared up at them, vision slowly clearing, watching the tears in Ez’s eyes slowly slip down his cheeks.

 “Don’t- Don’t hurt him,” Soren managed, weakly. 

 But they weren’t paying attention. Evren turned to Caspian, the mage’s lips twisted up at the corner into a half smile.

 “What did I say? You just have to be patient.”

 “Guess you were right,” Caspian clapped Ezran on the shoulder once before tightening his grip there, tugging the young king towards the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”

 Soren tugged at his bonds as they disappeared out the door, feeling slowly returning to his limbs even as he still fought to tell his body it could breathe again. Ezran’s gaze lingering on him. 

 “It’s going to be okay, Soren,” the young king said as they led him away. “You’re going to be okay now.”

 He watched helplessly as the doors swung shut behind them.

[evilwriter37]

Whumpuary 2025 Day 15

Time to Go

Prompt: handcuffed

Rated: mature

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, blood, head injury, police brutality

Relationships: Hiccup & Toothless

Word Count: 937

Summary: Hiccup is caught spray painting in the middle of the night, and Toothless interrupts his arrest.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumpuary Day 25-26 & 29-31

Prompts: Can’t stay awake | “You’re safe.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Drugging, Overdose, Allusions to past child abuse

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You shouted, keeping your eyes on Daryl while Tomi loudly rummaged through cabinets and drawers behind you. “Daryl. Daryl, stay awake.”

“M’tired.” The archer mumbled, eyelids heavy, breaths slowing before your eyes. 

“Tomi!” You snapped again. 

“They injected him with some sort of opioid. I need narcan.” Things were flying around, hitting the floor as the surgeon continued his frantic search. “How’s his breathing?”

“Too slow.” You shook Daryl again. Each time he responded, you felt a short lived relief but it never lasted long. “Daryl, stay with me. Look at me.”

“Y/N…tired…”

“I know but you can’t sleep.” Those normally sharp blues were dull, his pupils contracted to barely there black dots inside the pale cerulean. His eyes closed, head lolling forward. “Daryl? Daryl!” He inhaled sharply, giving you hope that he might regain a normal breathing pattern. 

He didn’t. 

“Can’t…can’t stay…”

“You have to. Just for a few more minutes okay?” You hadn’t seen when the man had used the syringe, only catching Daryl yanking it from his neck to angrily toss it aside before plunging his knife through the attacker’s skull. It wasn’t even a minute before the archer staggered back against the wall and slid down to where he still sat. “Tomi!” When Daryl’s eyes closed this time, he didn’t reopen them. 

“I’m trying!”

“Daryl!” His breaths were further and further apart, agonizing torture to know that one would eventually be his last. 

“If he stops breathing, you need to breathe for him.”

“Al-alright.” You could do that. You placed two fingers to his neck, counting the beats over and over, witnessing that number fall each time. “Please, please.”

“Got it!” Tomi dropped down beside the archer, foregoing any measure of sterilizing to just jab the needle into the muscle of Daryl’s bicep. 

“What now?”

“We wait. He never stopped breathing. The narcan should level him out enough to move him safely.” The nod you gave was curt and unbidden, your sole focus was the rise and fall of Daryl’s chest. “Okay. Okay, good. It’s picking up. I’ll get a stretcher. Keep watching his breathing.” Another nod. 

“Daryl, can you hear me?” Unresponsive. At least each breath was coming in at a slow, but steady pace. You could work with that for now. The wheels of the stretcher were loud in the otherwise empty hospital.

“Vitals are stable for now. I grabbed all the narcan but we need to have access to intubation supplies and IV fluids.” At your confused expression, he added, “I’ll need to insert a tube to help him breathe for a while if he struggles to on his own.”

You nodded calmly before the two of you struggled and fumbled to get Daryl onto the stretcher. Truthfully, the thought of Daryl needing a machine to keep breathing was horrifying. For that moment, you just continued to watch his chest, breaths remaining steady and unlabored. 

It took only moments for an IV to be inserted and fluids to begin running into the archer’s hand. His breathing slowed only once more and one last dose of narcan was administered. 

Hours later, Tomi concluded that Daryl was out of danger and would likely wake up at any moment. So you waited, instinctively listening for danger as employees returned to the hospital, the walkers having been cleared as well as the living threats, thanks in part to the man on the bed in front of you. 

You couldn’t wait to get him home and sleep for at least a day, snug against his side with your head over his heart, able to hear each beat and feel each breath. 

Finally, his fingers twitched in your hold, his head rolling back and forth on the pillow, face scrunching. 

“Daryl?” You stood, leaning over him. He hated hospitals. The memories of so many visits when he was a child, broken bones and open wounds at the hands of his father. You wanted to be the first person he saw and heard, in hopes of easing that anxiety. 

His eyes were clouded, tired and unfocused, when they finally landed on you. “Where ‘m I?” He slurred, still appearing to be exhausted and slightly influenced by the drug working its way through his system. 

“You’re in the hospital. You’re safe and you’re gonna be okay.” You squeezed his hand, smiling when he weakly reciprocated. 

“Tell me what happened?” His eyes were already trying to close, most likely without his permission but leaving him with no choice. 

“When you wake up. I’ll tell you everything when you wake up.”

Daryl hummed and inhaled deeply before settling into a peaceful sleep; one you didn’t fear and from which you knew he would wake. For now, though, you’d rest your head on the hand holding his and count his breaths like counting sheep until you joined him in blissful unawareness. 

[its-my-whump]

whumpuary2024

Jan 29-31

"You're safe." | Aftermath | Touch starved

@whumpuary

He was shy after so long in solitary. Caretaker and whumpee had been sitting on the couch, every one in his own corner for more than an hour, watching a game.

Whumpee had moved maybe 4 inches in the span of this hour. His inner longing for some human warmth was slowly, but surely winning the upper hand.

His whole body was gently sliding towards Caretakers broad shoulders. He wasn't interested in any sexuality, he just wanted to feel another person close by.

Whumpee wasn't sure, if he could ever allow someone else every to put their fingers against his skin, despite if it was a girl in bef or an embrace of a friend.

But he was sure, he wanted to feel close to someone. And if it was only to feel the body warmth of another person from a few inches away.

There was a cold empty pit in his stomach, that should be filled with the normality of being near someone else at all. But it was just an dark cold empty hollow.

Another hour later Whumpee had made it to the middle of the coach. He was exhausted, not only from his ordeal, the recovery, this unnatural feeling to interact with someone, that wasn't there to hurt him, but also from his inner struggle between his need for contact and his fear of it.

Caretaker had followed whumpees every move from the corner of his eye. He acted as if he wasn't aware of his struggle. Cause right now, whumpee was like a stray cat, that would probably be spooked just from being looked at.

Whumper needed to do it in his own pace, as much time as it may took.

He was shy, frightened and hurt and yet he was brave from even trying, a bit more every day.

Whumpee looked tired, but yet as if he was about to reach the finish line. Caretaker finally decided to try, even though it could carry the possibilty to reverse all of this.

But he had this feeling, that whumpee could do it and just needed some last encouragement.

Very very slowly Caretaker spread out his left arm over the backrest of the coach, moving it careful and slow, inviting the frightened little stray into a welcoming embrace.

His voice was soft and only a whisper. "It's okay. You're safe now." Was all he said.

Uncurtainty was still written all over whumpees face, but it seemed, he was battling whatever was raging inside of him.

Equally slowly and carefully like Caretaker moved his arm up, he leaned forward and put his head against the big guys warm shoulder.

"Is it okay, if I put my arm on your shoulder?" Caretaker asked before he dared to move an inch.

The thin and pointy jaw of whumpee digged into his muscle as he nodded shyly.

My masterlist

[allbluedepths]

A Mutual Sentiment

(Gen | One Piece | Benn & Mihawk | 1.5k words)

Summary: An encounter with the Marines goes awry. In the aftermath, an injured Benn Beckman gets an unexpected call from a certain Warlord. (Or, the relationships that form where you expect it the least.)

Notes: Dipping back online for a moment to post this! Written for Whumpuary 2024's "aftermath" prompt. Had to get in my favorite unlikely pseudo-friendship somewhere, haha. (Additional tag from AO3: the focus is on Benn & Mihawk, but Mishanks + Shanks & Benn are also fairly central to that.)

Read below or on AO3!

----------

For all the skirmishes the Red-Hair Pirates had been in throughout the years, Benn rarely ever finds himself as a patient within the ship infirmary’s walls. It was an even rarer occurrence in recent years, their reputation fending off many threats by itself, and his gun taking care of the rest.

That knowledge makes his waking up on an infirmary bed all the more confusing.

Coherent thought is scarce at first. All he can muster up is a slow wrenching of his eyes open. A dull ache fills his awareness, every muscle sore and tender.

He pushes it to recede, just enough to catalog the room hazily coming into focus around him. The small, partitioned section of the infirmary his bed sits in is nearly empty and still. The lack of a window leaves Benn wondering what time it is, though he surmises it’s an odd hour, if he doesn’t even hear Hongo working away past the drawn curtains.

There is still one person in the room, though — an unmistakable flash of red hair that catches his eye. His captain sits hunched over awkwardly, his forehead pressed into his mattress, asleep, and his hand curled around Benn’s leg.

The sight of him brings his memory back to him, suddenly, in fractured bits and pieces.

A battle. An attack gone terribly wrong. A Marine fleet with the sense to overwhelm but not enough to know to stay away.

A bullet grazing his side, whizzing through his blind spot. A quick jolt of pain growing into a dull throb as the battle petered out. The Marines fleeing.

The pain swelling into searing agony as the ship became a blip in the distance.

The haze of hurt sending him to his knees. His muscles beginning to spasm. A chorus of shouts, overlapping — and then one that cut through, sharp.

“Beck? Beck!”

Footsteps pounding across the deck. Hands gripping his shoulders. A blur of red filling his vision.

“No, nonono…” The first waves of something desperate and frantic pushing into him. “Hongo!”

Haki.

Shanks.

Him forcing his eyes to focus.

His captain, leaning down into his field of view, bright hair framing his face. Something wild and frantic in his eyes.

His hand reaching up — or so he tries. Nothing moves. A pained groan and his vision blurring once more. His eyelids falling shut.

“No, no! Eyes open.” That unmistakable force pushing into him, nearly suffocating. Uncontrolled. “Stay awake, Beck.”

His eyes falling shut even against his captain’s orders. What little thought he has left thrashing against the very thought.

“Beck, no, please—”

The haze of red overtaken by splotches of black. Sound suddenly muffled, the sea itself in his ears. Everything, even the crushing energy around him falling away.

One last, agonized yell.

And then nothing.

"Puru-puru-puru..."

A familiar chime jolts him out of his recollection. Nearly out of his field of vision sits a portable transponder snail, quietly ringing atop the bedside table. His hand clumsily reaches over to accept the call, ignoring the spike of pain that jolts through his side at the movement. He has no idea who would be calling at such an hour, but whoever it is would still be better than the incessant ringing sure to build into a headache.

He doesn’t wonder for long, however, as — to his surprise — the recognizable drawl of one yellow-eyed swordsman fills the room. “Has his condition changed?”

He replies — or rather, he attempts to, but his mouth fails to heed his orders. Instead, a garbled mess of syllables falls out, barely even a word, let alone a name.

The call falls quiet for only a moment before the other man speaks once more, his voice as even as ever. “Ah. I see you’ve returned to the land of the living.”

“Hawkeyes?” He tries again, succeeding, if a bit slurred.

“Beckman. You caused quite a stir.” A pause. “A typhoon-sized one, in fact. I admit you are not who I expected to answer, though with the state of your captain in his last few calls, perhaps that is for the best.”

His eyes, open once more, drift down the bed, and something tugs awful at his heart as he truly takes in the form of his captain beside him.

Benn isn’t sure he’s ever seen Shanks in such rough condition. He looks stressed, miserable, even in sleep. Haggard. His usual stubble is more like the rough beginnings of a beard, and what little he can see underneath his eyes is practically bruised. Even his clothes go beyond their usual charmingly rumpled state into downright disheveled.

Mihawk’s voice cuts through the sharp worry threatening to overtake his thoughts, unwavering. “Do you understand what has happened?”

As much as he would be loathe to admit it, he doesn’t. Not really. Thoughts still struggle to take shape in his mind, falling through like water in a sieve. It’s clear something has happened for him to end up in such a state, but the details of it escape him.

A quiet exhale comes across the line. “You were grazed by a poisoned bullet. Quite the cowardly one, with the delayed start to its effects. Your captain did not take kindly to that. Something he has rectified before refusing to leave your side since.”

Oh.

“Shanks—" he breathes, thin and strained. Mihawk doesn’t need to explain any further.

But he does, nonetheless. “—Would let the world burn to keep you. Burn it himself, even.”

He stays silent. There are no words for it, for the depth of Shanks’ resolve, none that do it justice.

He sidesteps, instead, forcing words into coherency. “Didn’t know you could intervene. Marines ‘n all.” Because who else would have been able to stop Shanks, to redirect him from upending the world, beside himself?

“My presence wasn’t necessary. It only took your ship half a day to catch up, even with their meager hiding and a day’s worth of sea to travel.” He hums. “Red-Hair’s observation haki extends quite far with a simple coordinate once he’s truly motivated.”

The implication is unsaid, but it rings in Benn’s ears all the same. Mihawk had given Shanks the ship’s location, the target to follow with unwavering accuracy, one that had no hope of escaping his captain’s wrath.

(Benn still doesn’t understand why Mihawk was a Warlord. He never fully will, he thinks. But he understands this, as much as its reality sits oddly on his mind.)

“I will not repeat myself,” Mihawk starts again, firm but his voice lacking its usual sharp edge. “The worth of a life on the Grand Line is fleeting, at best. But you are not expendable.”

His words give him pause, sending what little is turning of his mind to a stop. The significance of Dracule Mihawk, of all people, declaring that is not missed by him, no matter the state he is in.

It’s one matter for him to assist Shanks, the man he has entwined himself with, no matter how often they drift in and out of each other’s lives and onto their own paths. It’s another for him to express such sentiment to Benn.

It should be surprising. It is, at first glance. But perhaps, if he pulls back for a moment, fighting against the haze of his mind to really give it thought—

Maybe it isn’t as surprising of a thought as he’d originally expected. And maybe it’s far more of a mutual sentiment than he had ever come to voice.

“I trust that you understand my point,” he continues on, his usual demeanor returned in full force. “I would be surprised if our red-head would leave us long enough to clarify, regardless.”

A huff of laughter escapes him at that. Trust Mihawk’s dry humor to bubble up at times like these, refreshing in its own blunt way.

“Don’t jinx it. He’s still—” But his words are swallowed up by a yawn, as unexpected as the wave of exhaustion that washes over him.

“I will not keep you any longer.”

A second yawn threatens to escape him, but he shoves it down, one more matter important to say. A younger him would have chafed at the thought. He still would, perhaps, if not for its good reason. “Thank you, Mihawk.”

A curt hum comes across the line in response. Some things don’t change. The bastard.

“Do not die, Benn Beckman,” the swordsman drawls. “The world would not be a better place for it.”

And without another word, the line clicks shut.

He blinks at the ceiling, a wry chuckle making its way to his lips despite the pain in his side. Leave it to Dracule Mihawk to never fail to surprise him.

He lets himself fully relax back into the pillows behind him. Fully parsing out the implications of that conversation can wait until after he’s rested — and so has his captain. Waking Shanks up only to fall asleep while doing so would only be cruel — and Shanks if didn’t wake at the sound of Mihawk’s voice, he was sure to need the extra sleep.

As he lets the warm haze of sleep wash over him again, he makes a note to himself to ask Building Snake to make an extra stop next time they’re in the North Blue. The least he can do is grab a couple extra bottles of that wine Mihawk likes so much.

(A mutual sentiment it was, indeed.)

[alpaca-clouds]

Whumpuary 15: Like the Sun

Prompts: You're safe, Aftermath, Touch starved

And here it is. The last story for @whumpuary. This time I managed all three prompts - though the main prompt was Touch Starved.

Like the Sun

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Shipping: Astarion/m!Tav Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Astarion had not expected it. Yet, as everything is said and done, Tav stays by Astarion's side.

[medusapelagia]

Running From The Daylight - Part 15

Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8,  Part 9,  Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15

This is the last chapter! Thank you so much for staying with me during this journey!

Written for @whumpuary Rating: Mature  Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson  Prompt: You are safe WT: surgery, medical procedures Words:  1102

Despite the dose of caffeine, Eddie must have fallen asleep, because Wayne is shaking his shoulder gently, calling his name.

“Five more minutes…” He murmurs, before remembering where he is and that he is still waiting to have news about Steve.

“Eddie you have to wake up, they are taking Steve to his room.” Wayne insists and Eddie immediately opens his eyes, almost falling from the chair where he was resting.

“Where is he? How… what…” He has a million questions but the words are too difficult to articulate and he can’t put one after the other to make a single sentence that makes sense.

Wayne shrugs “I don’t know. The doctor will speak with us soon and the nurse just informed us that we can go see him if we want. But I want to warn you, he is still under the effect of the anesthesia.”

Eddie nods, stands up quickly, and follows the nurse to Steve’s room. 

His boyfriend is still pale and asleep, but the heart monitor at his side shows a stable rhythm and even if his leg has some long screws in it, it’s still attached to Steve’s body which seems like very good news.

“When will he wake up?” Eddie asks the nurse who shakes her head.

“We don’t know how long it will take, he was pretty weak when he got here so it’s probable that even if the anesthesia wears off he will keep sleeping. His body needs to regain his strength.” Eddie looks at her with such desperation that the nurse immediately adds “But it’s a good thing, resting will help him heal faster.” She tells him with an encouraging smile while checking the IV in Steve’s arm.

Robin, at Eddie’s side, puts an arm around his shoulder, murmuring that everything will be alright, that Steve will wake up in no time and that they should start searching for a black marker to draw a mustache on his sleeping face. 

Eddie chuckles between the tears while the nurse takes Steve's vitals and then leaves the four waiting for the doctor who arrives a few minutes later. He informs them that surgery went well and that they expect a complete recovery in a few months “He will have to rest in bed for at least a couple of weeks, but once the wound is properly healed he could start moving around with some crutches. He will have to do some physiotherapy to regain strength in the leg after we will remove the screws, but luckily nothing was permanently damaged.”

At that news Eddie starts to cry again, murmuring “Thank you, thank you…” While hugging Robin and feeling Wayne’s arm on his back.

Hopper tries to insist that Eddie and Wayne should get a room in a hotel to rest a little, but Eddie refuses and sits on the chair next to Steve’s bed, determined to stay with him at least until his boyfriend wakes up.

“We don’t know how long it will take. Try to be reasonable.” Hopper insists but Eddie it’s adamant and Wayne decides to keep an eye on both his boys while Robin and Hopper go to rest a little: it was a very stressful couple of days for everyone and now that it’s over Robin seems ready to fall asleep at any given moment.

“We will be back in the morning.” Hopper assures them while dragging Robin toward the door and the two men nod. 

***

Eddie has been holding Steve’s hand for hours when he feels something move. He stills and turns toward his boyfriend, trying to detect any possible movements.

"Steve? Stevie?" He calls, trying to get a reaction from him, and after a few moments, Steve's thumb flex a little.

Eddie gets closer, studying Steve's face “Sweetheart? Are you awake?” He tries again, ���Steve, love, can you hear me?” he murmurs and this time the chocolate brown eyes of his boyfriend look back at him, confused “Hi love.” Eddie tells him,  kissing his hand, but Steve startles and tries to move and Eddie stops him “You are safe, Steve!” He says, trying to calm him down “You are ok! You are in a hospital! You broke your leg pretty badly but the doctor fixed it and you’ll be fine in no time.” He tries to explain to his confused boy “You are safe.” He repeats, brushing away some hair from Steve’s forehead.

“Ed?” Steve calls, staring at him with his blurry eyes.

“I’m here, baby. Help came and the rescuers brought you to the hospital, but don't worry, you are going to be ok in no time, do you hear me? In no time. Wayne and I will drive you home as soon as they discharge you and Robin and Hopper are here too, you’ll see them in the morning. Oh, and Robin told me that you are not allowed to go on vacation for at least a year.” Eddie keeps talking, knowing that his familiar voice helps soothe Steve who falls asleep again in a few minutes.

“Did he wake up?” Wayne asks, getting in the room with two cups of coffee.

“He did!” Eddie replies with a big smile, “He woke up. Just for a few moments, but he woke up.”

“The nurse said that it might take a bit for him to wake up completely…” Wayne reminds him, offering Eddie one of the two cups.

“I don’t care. I’m in no rush.” Eddie whispers on the skin of his boyfriend, then he turns toward Wayne “I want to ask him to marry me.”

The man coughs, “Eddie… I think you should think about it. I don’t want you to make an important decision like this after what happened.”

“That’s exactly why I have to ask him to marry me!" Eddie insists "I could have lost him, Wayne.” He tries to explain while his mind is still full of fear “And the only thing I could think of it’s that I cannot live without him. That’s why people get married, right? Because they love each other very much, and I love him so much I can’t even explain it in words.”

Wayne hugs him “I know you do, kid, and if you want to marry him just ask him, but maybe wait for him to be a little bit more conscious, uh?”

Eddie nods, still holding Steve’s hand and thinking that if there is a silver lining in the horrible experience that they had is that he has realized that he can’t wait to put a ring on that perfect golden skin.

[suspensefulpen]

Whumpuary Day 15: Muffled Screams | Hostage

TW: Hostage, Kidnapping, Creepy Whumper, Pet Whump, Shock Collar

@whumpuary

this is kind of a part two to Day 5

Whumper walked into the room with a proud grin and a glass in his hand. He sat down on the sofa next to the bound and gagged Caretaker. He smiled at her attempts to break free and scream, both failing miserably. He snapped his fingers twice before giving her his full attention. “You may as well give up, Darling. No one can hear you scream. Plus, you’ll hurt your throat and you don’t want that. Do you?” 

She stopped screaming when Whumpee walked into the room on all fours. She squinted and noticed what looked like a shock collar going around his neck. She grimaced as she watched Whumper command him as if he were a dog. He then trotted away, still on all fours. “Wow, you give up easier than I remember.” Her gaze quickly shifted back to Whumper. “I didn’t expect you to actually stop screaming. I figured you’d be defiant and stubborn about it like you are about everything else. Don’t stop because I said something. Your muffled screams are actually quite cute.” She glared at him. 

Whumpee came back to the room with a wine bottle. He handed it to Whumper before leaving. Caretaker attempted to speak. “What’s that?” Whumper raised a brow as he poured himself a glass. “I’m sorry Love, I didn’t catch that.” When Caretaker attempted kicking him, he paused and looked up. He chuckled, putting the bottle down. “Ah, I forgot.” He leaned forward and pulled down the gag. “Repeat that Darling?” 

“I said why are you doing this?!” She spat. 

“Doing what?” He frowned briefly. “I haven’t done anything.” 

“You haven’t done anything?! You literally kidnapped me and now you’re holding me hostage!” 

“Well, I had to get you back to me somehow.” He smiled with a quick shrug before sipping the wine. “You clearly weren’t coming on your own. Anyway, aren’t you happy to be back, Love? How does it feel to be home again?” 

“I hate you.” 

He gasped, holding a hand over his heart. “Be careful what games you play, Caretaker.” 

“Just let me go! I don’t want to be here! I left you for a reason back then, what makes you think that’s going to change?!” 

Whumper turned serious as he slammed the glass down on the end table nearby. He leaned forward. “Because I changed. I changed just so you’d take me back. I got everything you ever asked me for but I never got you. I changed everything just for you. Hell, I even burned all of those stupid suits you hated so much. I got you a pet, ready to obey anything you tell it. I did all of this for you.” 

She frowned, speaking more calmly. “And yet, you’re still a sick bastard.” 

“And it’s all because of you.”

[jewel-shard]

You Don’t Even Know Me

Summary:

Inuyasha is no stranger to pain, but the miasma poisoning his system refuses to let him heal. Kagome must push past his mistrust and her own limits. After all, his life isn’t the only one at risk.

Written for Whumpuary 2025

Artwork - An Ancient Barn at Shoreham by Samuel Palmer

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship: Higurashi Kagome/InuYasha

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, idk don't ask me I just wrote it