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tubwhumping · 6 years ago

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Jason 🤧

“You should go to bed.”

“What are you, my nanny?” Jason snapped back. The vitriol of his response was blunted by the sneeze that came immediately after, snapping his head forward. He groaned and rested his forehead on his stack of books.

“Come on, Jay,” Dick tried again. “I know sick days aren’t really your thing—”

“Is it anyone’s thing in this stupid family?” Jason grumbled.

“—but you won’t get better if you won’t rest.”

Dick had circled past the den multiple times that afternoon, monitoring his little brother’s progress. Or not-so-little, Dick had to admit. There were still times that the sheer size of Jason—once a scrawny, underfed street rat, now a hulking behemoth of a brawler—startled Dick. Not all the time, just every now and then, when they had some peace and his mind forgot the last few years. Forgot the Pit. Forgot Ethiopia. Forgot that maybe the before hadn’t been so idyllic, and instead tried to make the contentment of now overwrite the stress and dysfunction of then.

Some things hadn’t changed, though. Jason’s aversion to company when he was sick, for one. Dick craved comfort when ill. He wanted to be coddled. He wanted medicine and mounds of blankets and a cool, dry hand pressed tenderly to his forehead. Jason just wanted to be left alone. He would retreat and disappear like a wounded animal and only reappear days later when he felt well enough again to hide his symptoms.

Whatever bug Jason had picked up had hit him fast and hard. He’d started work in the den earlier that morning, sniffling somewhat but otherwise content to wait while the results for his case ran downstairs. Now, hours later, he was a quivering mass of body chills, cold sweat, flushed cheeks, and copious amounts of snot. A stubborn, quivering mass.

Well, Dick could be stubborn, too.

“Whatever you’re working on can wait.” Dick took advantage of Jason’s inattention while blowing his nose and lunged forward, swiping his books up into his arms.

“Hey!” Jason blinked up with watery eyes, trying to glare Dick into submission. It wasn’t his most fearsome look.

Dick ignored him in favor of flipping through the books. He’d expected some weighty fantasy tome or Victorian novel, the kind Jason always seemed to love and Dick didn’t have the patience for. Instead, he found himself looking at an ugly, pea-green book titled Culture and Anarchy and filled with tiny type that made his vision swim.

“What in the world?” Dick muttered. He looked up and was startled to find Jason flushing more than could be accounted for by his illness.

“It’s for my class,” Jason mumbled. At Dick’s blank look, he lifted an eyebrow. “The brat didn’t tell you?”

Brat usually meant Damian, coming from Jason. Damian was keeping secrets about Jason? From Dick? When even would they have been together to share a secret?

At Dick’s curt shake of the head, Jason shrugged, then blew his nose again. “I, uh, I’m taking a couple night classes.” He said it casually, but he wouldn’t look Dick in the eye, and he’d shifted in his chair, leaning away slightly.

Dick considered taking advantage of Jason’s illness to dig for more information. The idea of Jason continuing his education—of doing anything to expand his life outside of the hood—surprised Dick, and he was angry at himself for feeling surprised. He knew Jason was smart, maybe smarter than all of them, but he forgot. As penance, as a kindness, as a good big brother, Dick decided to waive his own curiosity for now. He needed to get Jason to bed.

“Good for you. Now come on.” Dick tucked the book under his arm, then bent and slid an arm around Jason’s torso. “On your feet.”

“I can’t.” Jason was coming dangerously close to a whine, his deep, gravely voice inching upward as he tried to free himself from Dick’s grip.

“You can.” Even sick, Jason was capable of freeing himself. That he gave up after minimal effort spoke volumes. Dick hefted Jason’s arm across his shoulder with a grunt. “You’re going to lie down, and I’ll read to you until you fall asleep. It’s a win-win. Don’t breathe on me.”

The last was said as Jason heaved a heavy sigh and earned Dick another watery-eyed glare. Dick only smiled and kept that smile all the way up the stairs to the nearest empty guest room.

The next few minutes were ones of hushed preparation. Jason crawled under the covers, fully clothed, with a soft groan while Dick fetched water, tissues, a trashcan, and a chair. Once everything was set up, he pulled the chair close to the bed, placed the tissues within reach, and opened the ugly green book.

Jason was asleep within a page.

Dick shut the book and placed it on the bedside table next to the bell that would summon help if Jason needed it.

“Goodnight, baby brother,” Dick murmured, pressing a kiss to Jason’s forehead. It was good to have him home.

#reblog #fic rec

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tubwhumping · 6 years ago

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With Friends Like These

I’ve got the platonic oc lady whump shit for y'all, today! I’m eventually going to post more character information on these two, but the only thing you really need to know for now is that Jill is mute because of backstory/plot stuff. It’s not even super relevant in this fic except for a few vague mentions. Enjoy!

The truth was if Adrienne knew anyone else who could teach her to fight better than Jill, she would’ve gone to them. She liked Jill. Hell, she’d even say she loved Jill, but the truth was there was always so much tension there that Adrienne didn’t want to hand that little bit of power over to her friend. She’d stayed alive as long as she had by hoarding that (admittedly imaginary) power like it was a nonrenewable resource.

Keep reading

#tw kidnapping #tw assault #reblog for timezone folks

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tubwhumping · 6 years ago

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With Friends Like These

Honestly, Adrienne was very aware that she was the exact kind of person that crimes happened to: young, female, small, and often walking through shady parts of town after dark. Most of all, she didn’t want to end up the subject of a true crime podcast, so she swallowed her pride like the most bitter of pills and asked Jill to teach her how to fight.

Suddenly, standing on the long, gravel driveway outside of Jill’s garage, Adrienne thought she’d take her chances with the kidnappers as she watched her friend go at the old punching bag, knuckles taped and expression bare, like she was avenging a loved one. She was a beautiful and terrifying creature.

"You gonna teach me to do that?” she asked.

Jill snorted and rolled her shoulders back. She pulled her focus away from what she was doing to look her up and down. Adrienne wasn’t sure if she was sizing her up or internally criticizing her outfit, but knowing Jill, it was probably both. She signed “Are you ready?” and without any legitimate excuse to back out, Adrienne nodded and approached cautiously.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but she hadn’t anticipated Jill pushing the punching bag out of the way to roll out a rubber mat over the concrete floor. She watched, eyebrows knitted and asked, “Are we not going to use that?”

“Attackers have hands,” She signed back. She had no counterattack for that. She stepped onto the mat. Jill gestured for her to come closer and Adrienne inched forward. Jill pulled her closer once more so they were face to face. She grabbed her hand, and signed “fist.” Adrienne made a fist.

“Aren’t you supposed to teach me how to like… flip people?” she asked.

Jill stepped back to glance up at her. She arched her eyebrows in a move so sarcastic Adrienne felt stupid all at once. “I'm going to teach you how to throw a punch,” she signed. Jill pulled Adrienne's hand back up so she could see her fist. “I know where my thumb goes now,” Adrienne said and immediately regretted once she realized how naive that made her sound.

Jill sighed and let go of her hand, walking around her to grab a rubber mitt that she strapped to her hand. She held it up in an expectant gesture that Adrienne assumed meant she was supposed to hit it.

Jill worked with her on throwing a punch for a while because apparently, Adrienne was “chicken shit” and “one little punch won't fucking do me in.” When they were done with that, Jill put the mitt away to demonstrate a few basic self-defense moves. By then, Adrienne was feeling more than a little worn out. She wasn't used to anything nearly this strenuous, and she was ready to be done.

“Do you feel any tougher?” Jill asked, which was Jill for “are you okay?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I think I'm ready to take you on.”

Jill threw her head back in an imitation of a laugh. She held her hands up in a stance that Adrienne knew did not mean danger but suggested playfulness. It was a side of Jill she saw a lot more when their other friends or Jill's family was around. She liked this version of her friend. She held her own fists up in a mocking stance. Then Jill pounced like a house-cat.

For a moment, they were sisters roughhousing in a garage on a chilly Saturday afternoon. Adrienne threw a couple of punches, quick and light ones that Jill blocked easily. Then she pushed Adrienne's arms down and threw an over-dramatic punch at her face, but in slow motion, giving her plenty of time to block it. Adrienne tried one of the moves Jill had taught her to force her arm behind her back, but she maneuvered out of it to go for one last punch.

Adrienne had not been hit a lot in her life. Admittedly Jill had taken a lot more hits, but at that moment Adrienne realized how terrifying it was to see a fist coming. At the moment Jill seemed a lot less house-cat and a lot more lion, and she was starting to feel like a gazelle in the savanna. Later, she would realize that Jill's fist had been slowing down drastically as it came closer to her face. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed Jill's shoulders and shoved as hard as she could.

Jill fell back much harder and faster than either of them could have anticipated, catching herself on the mat beneath her. The moment she hit the ground seemed to drag on for far longer than the second that actually passed and Adrienne waited with bated breath for Jill to turn on her like she usually did in fights, but she didn't. She didn't even get up. She stayed on the ground, sitting with her left wrist held in her lap as she looked down at her shoes. If Adrienne didn't know any better, she'd say she almost looked embarrassed. All she could screech was “I'm so sorry!”

Jill parted her lips like she was going to speak or like she forgot she couldn't before nodding silently. She wrapped her other hand around the wrist and attempted to twirl it around then winced. “Are you hurt?” Adrienne asked. It was a dumb question, of course, but she wasn't sure what else she could say. She considered seeing if anyone else was home but she could tell from the lack of noise and chaos that the others had probably gone somewhere. She was alone with Jill, who was hurt and who she had hurt. It was her worst nightmare.

Jill shrugged and used her right hand to push herself up from the floor. Adrienne grabbed her shoulder and tried to pull her up as well, though she was not as helpful as she wanted to be. Jill pulled her arm and wrist back in toward her chest as she got to her feet. She bit her lip, glancing around the room.

Adrienne knew pretty much jack shit about first aid, but she knew enough to know the small bruise she could already see forming was not a good thing. She wasn't the best person for the job, but at the moment, she was the only one there. She was going to have to make the effort. She held out her hand in a gesture she hoped Jill would interpret as friendly, and asked, “Can I see it?”

Jill gave her a suspicious look as she pulled her left arm and shoulder back toward her protectively. She flinched at the quick movement, closing her eyes for a moment as if to gain control. The wild spirit was gone as she moved cautiously and carefully, planning and adjusting with each fidget.

Adrienne left her hand extended in front of her, offering help when she was wanted but not forcing it upon her friend. She wanted to help, but she didn't want to make anything worse.

Jill, in a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, put her wrist in Adrienne's hand. Adrienne turned the wrist over, slowly and gently, taking great care not to poke or bump it. The bruise was still a nasty red color that stood out against her skin and was quickly spreading across her wrist and down the side of her hand. She turned it back over watching Jill's face for any sign of severe pain. “We should get some ice,” she said, though she wasn't sure if that was true.

Adrienne had never been the nurturing type, but she had done this. She had a responsibility to help fix it.

They went to the kitchen where Jill showed her where to find the ice, a Ziploc bag, and a washcloth. Adrienne used them to make an ice pack that she then handed over. Jill wrapped it around her wrist, and the two sat down on the couch in the den.

They waited, watching her wrist swell and bruise. Adrienne knew what came next, but she was a little afraid to suggest it. Instead, she settled for an idea that was slightly less controversial. "Should you text your dad?"

Jill handed over the makeshift icepack so she could dig her phone out of her pocket. Adrienne helped her hold her wrist against the light as she sent her father a picture of the injury. As they awaited a reply, they sat in a deafening silence that Adrienne would usually describe as companionable, but was unbearable as the guilt consumed her.

"I really am sorry," she said. "I knew you weren't actually going to hit me. I just freaked out."

Jill smiled, or technically grimaced, though that was probably because she was in pain. She typed out her reply on her phone, as she often did when she only had one hand free. "You're not used to getting hit. We'll have to fix that."

"Was that a challenge?" Adrienne asked. Jill smiled in the most genuine way possible before flopping against her side, head leaning on her shoulder and eyes brighter than before. It was the closest physical contact the two had ever had and considering they were two of the most touch-starved people Adrienne knew, maybe it would be good for them.

In two minutes, Jill's dad would text her back, telling her to go to the hospital. In two hours, Jill would be getting a splint and a lecture. In two weeks, she'd be throwing herself onto Adrienne at every opportunity to complain about how itchy her hand was. But for the moment, they were okay.

#whump #hurt/comfort #injury #lady whump #ocs #my fic #original characters #tw kidnapping #tw assault #just mentions but im not out to fuck up someones day

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tubwhumping · 6 years ago

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S.E Hinton was a whumper

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tubwhumping · 6 years ago

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Adjustment Period

I'm just getting back into writing after going several years without writing anything other than research paper so bear with me if I'm a bit rusty.

Read it on AO3

Ronan was not the kind of guy who made plans. He never had been. So much of who he was came from trauma and fear, but impulsiveness was a part of his genetic code. He never understood the appeal of knowing every detail along the way. He didn’t live his life that way, and he couldn’t if he tried.

Gansey was another story. Blue was Gansey’s second love, always falling behind his longstanding quest for knowledge. Henry, though much less extreme than Gansey, was also a planner by nature. And while Blue loathed to be considered sensible, she too knew this was not the kind of trip meant for aimless wandering. The maps had begun appearing a few days after the near-end of the world. They were spread over the floor of the main living area of Monmouth, and displayed places and routes and the complex research Gansey had done on the history of each of their stops. Ronan had to step cautiously around the display to avoid ripping it because while he would miss them, he wasn’t mad enough to rip up their plans in a jealous rage. Yet.

He tucked his legs underneath him to sit next to Gansey on the floor behind the desk. Gansey’s face remained in its rightful place, smushed frantically in the pages of a book. It would be endearing if it weren't so annoying. He ripped several small pieces of paper from the edge of one of the maps and threw them, one by one, down the collar of his shirt.

Gansey finally flinched as large wad smack him across the cheekbone. He glanced up at Ronan. “Ronan, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Ronan snorted and threw one last piece of paper down his shirt for good measure. “How’s the research coming?” he said. “Any dead Italian kings to chase?”

Gansey opened his mouth, probably to explain the complicated Italian political system in the 19th century or some equally dreadful account of his adventures in Europe with Mallory, but the sound of the door squeaking open saved him from that particular fate.

Adam, covered in a layer of dust with coveralls thrown over his arm, shut the door behind him. His hair was ruffled and hanging loosely over his forehead, and he seemed to have grown even older and more world-weary since Ronan had seen him the night before.

“The fuck happened to you?”

Adam sighed, toeing his boots off in the doorway not to track anything too far into the room. He crept toward the center of the room but stopped before he reached the maps. “I’m covered in dust,” he said as if that wasn’t obvious. “I had to clear out some old boxes in the warehouse.”

“If you would like, you can shower here,” Gansey offered. It seemed like a safe enough offer, but Ronan knew small things could set Adam off when he was in a mood. “Do you work again tonight?”

Adam nodded slowly. “I have to be at Boyd’s in a couple hours,” he said. “I think I will get a shower.” He drifted back toward the bathroom.

When he returned, Adam looked a lot better, but not as much better as Ronan had expected. He had changed into his coveralls and came over to sit next to between them on the floor. Ronan reached over to grab his hand.

Gansey continued to read. Ronan continued throwing things at him, and Adam settled against his side warming parts of himself that Ronan hadn’t even realized were cold. He inspected one of Gansey’s books as well, but since he had yet to flip a page, Ronan guessed he was not actually reading.

It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The three of them were almost never alone anymore. Usually, Blue or Henry, or both were there as well. Sometimes Adam was at work, or Ronan was with Opal at the Barns. Of course, it was never just the three of them before because Noah had been there, but anyone who knew Noah knew it was really always just the three of them.

A couple of harsh sneezes broke through the quiet trance of the afternoon. Adam sniffed pathetically. “Sorry, I must have missed some dust,” he said. Ronan caught Gansey's eyes from across the room as they both watched him in mutual concern. Adam coughed into his fist before asking hesitantly “Can I crash in N- in the other bedroom?” breaking the comfortable silence. A familiar pang of sadness rang through all them as it did whenever anything related to Noah came up. It was quiet grief they were all experiencing, and one they would most likely carry with them for many years. But Ronan was mostly concerned because Adam Parrish did not ask for favors, even ones as inconsequential as taking a nap in dead boy's bed.

“Of course, Adam,” Gansey said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just tired.” He rubbed childishly and uncharacteristically at his eyes. He was still a warm weight against Ronn’s side, too warm of a weight. Feeling his forehead like a goddamn mother hen felt far too intimate with Gansey watching so he grabbed underneath Adam’s jaw to turn his face towards him. “You have a fucking fever.”

Adam shrugged. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

“Do you want some Tylenol?” Gansey asked. Ronan was pretty sure there was no Tylenol in the building, but it seemed like Adam was more likely to take it if they already had it and he knew Gansey wasn’t above sneaking out to buy some.

“I’m alright,” he said. “I just need some more sleep.” He pushed himself up from the floor and dragged himself to the bedroom. Ronan let a few minutes pass before following him.

Adam was face-down on the bed, short, congested breaths panting dangerously into the blankets. He was somewhere between asleep and conscious, so Ronan turned his head so it fell to the side and pulled the pillow further down. He roused slightly at the movement, looking up at Ronan through bloodshot eyes. “Are you going to be shitty about this?” Ronan asked.

Adam shook his head and flopped it back onto the pillow. “I’ll try not to be,” he said. “But wake me up in an hour. I still have work tonight.” In the few months since their relationship had shifted to its current position, Ronan had learned a lot about Adam. And he was learning that he was much better off picking his battles. Adam was going to get some sleep and hopefully get a good night’s rest after work. This was a compromise he could live with. He pushed Adam’s hair back out of his face and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Gansey smiled a mischievous smile, so Ronan flipped him off to prove a point. Adam softened something within him, but he had a reputation to uphold. He stepped right in the center of one of the maps for good measure, leaving a large bootprint right in the middle of it. Gansey pulled it from beneath his foot and grumbled only slightly as he pulled his papers toward his chest protectively. “Is he okay?” he finally asked.

“He’s sick as hell.”

“Is he going to call in sick?”

Ronan scoffed and rolled his eyes. Gansey was learning to speak the language of Adam Parrish, but he would never be quite as fluent in it as Ronan. Gansey, a true genius in so many fields, was stupid sometimes when it came to people. He couldn’t help it. Gansey’s particular brand of stupid came from privilege and generations of Anglo-Saxon breeding. He would never truly understand what it was like to have nothing, but the truth was neither would Ronan.

“He can’t seriously think it’s a good idea to go in sick.”

“I’ll take him and pick him up,” Ronan said. “You know how he is. You gotta pick your fucking battles, man.”

Gansey’s mouth opened, a rebuttal already hanging off his lips, but he stopped. He nodded in concession. He turned his face back down to his research. “Did I tell you we’re spending a week in Ireland?” And with that, Gansey launched one of his lengthy musings on castles and grass and the beautiful sights they were going to see and adventures they were going to have.

Adam ’s subconscious fear of missing work ripped him from his dreams, just a couple of minutes before Ronan came to wake him. He spent those minutes staring up at the industrial ceiling tiles and wondering why he was incapable of calling in sick even when he felt terrible. Boyd wouldn’t mind. Adam had only called in sick one other time. He was a hard worker when he was there. He never showed up late or left early. There was no reason he couldn’t

What had been a steady drum against his temple earlier in the day had evolved (or devolved, from his perspective) into a harsh pounding all over his skull. His throat was raw, and he couldn’t get warm. He wanted to stay in one place. He didn’t ever want to move from underneath the blanket again.

The door crept open, whining as if it could feel Adam’s reluctance to get up. Ronan, sensing the tone, closed it quietly behind him and approached the bed, sitting gently beside Adam. As a cough tore through the little air left in his lungs, Ronan settled his hand on Adam’s back. This was not the Ronan Lynch who broke things and rage raced and pissed people off. This was the Ronan that kept a list by the fridge at the Barns of which foods Opal did and did not like. This was the Ronan that dreamt gifts for all of his friends that Christmas, each one unique and useful and magical in strange and curious ways. This was the Ronan that Adam couldn’t get enough of.

He raised one eyebrow in a questioning manner as if to say “Are you really this stupid?” Adam was afraid he might be, and it left him frustrated and confused. He reached up to grab a hand and squeezed it, suddenly craving Ronan’s skin against his. He needed touch more than he needed to breathe which was good because the mucus had settled into his sinuses, blocking his nose and making breathing a much more laborious task.

The door cracked open, and Gansey stuck his head in. “How are you feeling, Adam?”

He shrugged, too tired to think and too frustrated to speak.

“Are you sure you don’t want to call in sick to work?” Gansey asked. Adam wanted to cry or scream or vomit. Instead, he nodded his head.

“Would it make a difference if I told you that you should?” He shook his head once more.

A guttural groan pulled Adam’s attention back to Ronan. He grabbed Adam’s face, trapping it between his hands, and jerked it up to make eye contact with him. In the moment of complete vulnerability, Adam had no choice but to listen. “You’re gonna spread your fucking germs all over the damn garage. That’s going to piss Boyd off more than calling in.”

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. It was true, of course. The last thing they needed was to pass around this virus for the rest of the winter. Everyone would be much better off if he stayed in and kept his germs to himself, or at least to him and Gansey and Ronan. He still wasn’t sure if he could, but he knew he should. He needed to. But he couldn’t.

He opened his eyes to see Ronan. He had let go of Adam’s face and was leaning against the wall, looking very much like wanted to look like he didn’t care which meant he cared a lot. He turned to see Gansey holding out his cell phone. The number for Boyd’s was already dialed. All he had to do was hit the call button and say the words.

Adam nodded once, then twice and met Gansey’s eyes across the room before looking back at Ronan. He grabbed the phone and took the plunge. Adam Parrish was calling in sick. And while this time it was because of Gansey and Ronan, maybe one day, he could do it for himself.

#whump #sickfic #the raven cycle #adam parrish #ronan lynch #trc #my fic

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