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livingforthewhump · 2 years

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Could you write a prompt with a whumpee with a leg injury (maybe a stabbing or something) who has to completely act like nothing’s wrong because they’re walking back home with their friend who is already suspicious and they can’t let them know (for some reason)? Sorry that this is uber-specific.

No 4. Dead on Your Feet

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

The night air hit Whumpee’s face in a rush. Their eyes flickered close, soaking in the warmth for a single moment before they had to keep moving. Whumpee followed Caretaker into the street, sprinting to a nearby alley that they could only barely see through the tears blurring their vision.

Their leg was a cacophony of pain. Blood had seeped down a good half of their pant leg, blessedly invisible against the black fabric in the dark night. Each step felt like it sent shards of glass into their bone, as though the knife was still embedded there. It wasn’t, which created more problems, as now they were bleeding out a lot faster.

“Whumpee, hurry up,” Caretaker hissed. Whumpee winced at how strained their voice was, even in a whisper. Maybe now that they’d finally gotten the job done, Caretaker would get some rest.

“Sorry,” they breathed back, fighting against a limp as they reached their friend.

Caretaker glanced back at Whumper’s base where it loomed behind them, jaw twitching in the dim light the street lamps provided. “If no alarm has been raised by now, we probably have until that guard you knocked out wakes back up. Are you okay walking back home?”

Whumpee furrowed their eyebrows. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” They took another step and briefly found themselves unable to breathe. Lovely.

“Just making sure,” Caretaker said slowly, eyes just a little too perceptive. Whumpee stayed on the inside as they moved into the street, hugging the buildings and the shadows that clung to them. Their ragged breaths seemed to give life to the walls towering on either side, making them tilt and sway, the ground swelling.

Their shoulder hit the brick wall hard.

Caretaker turned towards them, face shadowed in the hazy streetlight. “Whumpee?”

Whumpee screwed their eyes shut, using the wall to push themself back upright. “Yeah. I’m good. Just tired, I guess.”

They didn’t get a response from that, only Caretaker watching them, a silhouette in the dark that Whumpee would give up everything for. Their leg was a dead weight beneath them now, heavy like lead and filled with glass that bit deep into their skin, their muscle, their bones, with each hesitant movement. Whumpee locked their knee when putting weight on it (wouldn’t want to be caught limping, would they?).

The world was still spinning. Whumpee leaned their head back and looked at the sky for a moment to try and disguise it, to hide the tears building in their eyes as sure as the headache embedded in their skull. “The sky is beautiful tonight,” they whispered. Not that they could see it.

Caretaker let out a small breath. “Yes, it is.” Their tone was softer now, and something gentle stirred in Whumpee’s chest.

“We should get home before Whumper wakes up,” Whumpee continued in that same soft tone. “You need sleep.”

“Is that honestly what you’re worried about right now?” Caretaker snorted, but there was no malice behind it. “You look exhausted yourself. But we deserve to celebrate tonight.”

Whumpee’s tears receded and they dropped their head back down. Their throat burned with the effort when they spoke. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Caretaker deserved to have a night of celebration more than anyone else. Whumpee wouldn’t take that away from them for the world. They walked on in silence, Whumpee’s hands burrowed deep in their pockets. Their fists were clenched against the pain, but beyond that, their extremities were getting very, very cold. They were almost surprised there wasn’t ice crusting along their fingertips, despite the warm night. Best to just keep moving.

Their vision was shifting in and out of focus, flashes of black coming in when they were certain they hadn’t blinked. They were shaking from the effort of keeping their leg moving, now. Their muscles were growing stiff around the weeping wound. Still, they kept their back straight. They kept their knees locked. Their breaths grew more and more labored, burning their lungs, but their breaths were there.

Then their leg buckled underneath them, and none of it mattered.

The world swung back into place slowly above them, circling and circling like water going down the drain, long after Whumpee had gone still. A muffled ringing filled their head. A noise was lingering beneath that, thick and soft like whoever it was was yelling through a mattress.

Why did it all hurt so much?

A face appeared right above them, blocking out the golden streetlights. Whumpee stared blankly. They were terrible at reading lips, and for some reason Caretaker was just mouthing words. Or—no, they were speaking. Whumpee just couldn’t hear them.

After a moment, Caretaker seemed to realize this. Their face was creased deeply in worry, and Whumpee felt a spear of guilt thrust into them at the realization that that was their fault.

“‘m sorry,” they forced out. Caretaker froze. Their expression changed, tightening. When they spoke again, it was very deliberate, so that Whumpee could make out what they were saying.

“Can you hear me?” The lips said. Whumpee shook their head, closing their eyes as the world dipped around them. Caretaker waited until they were looking again. “Where are you hurt?”

Whumpee hesitated, tears rising to their eyes again. They didn’t want Caretaker to have to deal with it.

Something like anger swelled in Caretaker’s eyes. They grabbed onto Whumpee’s chin, forcing their gazes to meet. The intensity of Caretaker’s expression cowed them, and one of their shaking hands reached down towards their leg, then slumped down in defeat.

Instantly Caretaker was down beside it, ripping away the soaked pant leg. Whumpee was pretty sure they screamed as it came away from the wound. They didn’t have time to think about it, though, because they promptly passed out.

When Whumpee woke up, their hands were warm, and their clothes were dry. It took them a moment to process anything else.

Slowly, they opened their eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. They didn’t remember going to bed.

“You’re awake,” a strained voice said. Whumpee sat up, wincing at a pain in their leg. Caretaker was sitting at their bedside, face like stone and eyes red and bloodshot.

Another sleepless night on their part. Whumpee could have drowned in their guilt. Their hands felt out the lump in the covers where their bandages were.

“I passed out,” they remembered. Their voice was weak.

Caretaker took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“I don’t—” they started, then deflated under Caretaker’s hard eyes. “I thought I could make it.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“…I don’t understand.” Caretaker crossed their arms over their chest. They hadn’t accepted Whumpee’s apology. Whumpee waited for them to continue. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Whumpee’s eyes dropped. “I. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m worried now, Whumpee.” Their voice was sharp as a dagger. Something dark flared across Caretaker’s face, receding just as quickly. Whumpee knew it was still there. They just nodded, morose.

A thin silence stretched between them. Whumpee’s head started pounding, and they leaned back against their pillows.

“I went for a walk this morning,” Caretaker said suddenly. “When you were still asleep. I was tired of sitting here.” They swallowed, brows lowering over their eyes. “You left a trail of blood last night, did you know that? I could follow your footprints all the way back to Whumper’s. And last night I didn’t even notice.” Their voice broke off suddenly, and for the first time Whumpee noticed tears in their eyes. “Why didn’t I notice?”

Whumpee hugged themself. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, it’s not my fault that you decided to just ignore your stab wound. It is my fault that I noticed something was wrong and I didn’t do anything until you were bleeding out on the ground.” Caretaker’s voice was raised now, and they cut themself off with a grimace. Their voice was soft the next time they spoke, but still shimmering with anger. “Were you going to tell me?”

“Caretaker…”

“No. Answer the question, Whumpee.”

“…no.”

All the air seemed to leave Caretaker at once. They slumped over, elbows resting on their knees and face in their hands. Whumpee had never seen them brought so low.

“Why?” they asked again, and it sounded almost begging.

Whumpee didn’t have an answer. They just sat there battling back their tears, because Caretaker deserved to feel upset without Whumpee stealing the moment again.

When Caretaker lifted their head up, their eyes were wet. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to go get you some food and medicine. When I get back, I am going to be calm, and you are going to have some damn good answers for me.”

They stood up while Whumpee cringed and nodded. As they got to the door, Caretaker looked back.

“And Whumpee?”

“Mm.”

“Never let this happen again.”

—

Taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @twistedcaretaker @lonesome--hunter @poppys-writing @endless-whump @multifandoms-multishipper @shadowylemon @utopian819 @whumpkitty @journey-the-panda @freefallingup13 @prettyboysinpain @1becky1 @temporary-whump-sideblog @chartreusephoenix @thelazywitchphotographer @mylifeisonthebookshelf @badluck990 @lockedupuniverse @luna-rein @broadwaybabe18 @pinescales-whumps @silverwhisperer1 @embersalive @the-bloody-sadist @batfacedliar-yetagain @nicolepascaline @whump-angst-fluff-repeat @susanshinning @didieatyourdog @corvid-voidbur @insane-writing-things @thebaffledtiewriter @morning-star-whump

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whumpypepsigal · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 | No. 4: DEAD ON YOUR FEET

hidden injury | waking up disoriented | can’t pass out

Legacies s04e10: “The story of my life.”

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skyward-floored · 2 years

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Whumptober day 4 — Waking up disoriented, can’t pass out

Wind and Time have a bad... time. Ha ha. ahem. Poor Wind really isn’t used to icy temperatures huh.

Warnings: drowning, questionably accurate descriptions of hypothermia, a little bit of sort-of vomiting

Ao3 link

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“Sailor!” Time shouted, squinting around at the blinding snow. “Sailor can you hear me?”

Nothing but the sound of the wind slicing at his exposed skin.

Time frowned, then looked around at his surroundings, trying to decide which way to go. Those accursed portals had it out for them, he was sure of it now. He and Wind had merely been out getting some firewood when the ground had abruptly dropped out beneath them, dark magic sucking them in before either of them could even shout.

Time had been plunged headfirst into a drift of snow, but hadn’t seen any sign of the sailor yet, despite several long minutes of looking. If only he had Twilight with him. The rancher would be able to pick up Wind’s scent in no time—

An abruptly cut-off cry echoed through the valley.

Time snapped his head in the direction of the sound, then bolted, boots kicking up small explosions of thin, powdery snow. It had sounded like it’d come from one of the hills close by, and he prayed he wasn’t running the wrong direction as he sprinted through the field.

He crested the closest rise and was treated to the sight of a frozen pond below him, ice in a solid sheet covering it. All except for one spot in the middle where the ice had cracked and broken, dark water visible underneath.

Wind’s sword lay in the snow beside it.

Time felt his heart jump, and he bolted for the mostly frozen water, grabbing in his pouch for the particular item he’d need. Practically throwing his armor and shirt off, Time pulled his old blue tunic on and shoved the hat on his head before diving straight into the freezing water.

The effects of the temperature were lessened by the tunic’s magic, but it was still a shock to his system, and Time froze for a second while he acclimated to it.

Then he squinted through the murk, searching desperately for any sign of Wind.

It took him several agonizingly long moments before his eyes caught on a familiar flash of blue several feet down. Time stroked rapidly towards it, and felt a burst of relief as Wind shortly came into sight. He was only barely struggling in the water below, bubbles escaping his lips, and Time quickly snagged his arm before he began to drag him upwards.

But Wind somehow gained back a measure of strength when he was grabbed, and struck out at him, eyes blurred and panicked. Time ignored his weak thrashing and pulled him close anyways, swimming with quick strokes back up to the surface.

At some point while he swam Wind fell limp, and Time‘s heart lurched into his throat.

He surfaced with a frantic breath, and heaved Wind onto solid ground, scrambling out of the water after him. Time looked down at the boy lying in the snow in front of him, face pale and looking horribly horribly small, and gently shook him.

“Sailor, Sailor come on, wake up,” he urged, leaning down and pressing an ear to his chest.

Time’s own heart was beating loudly in his ears as he desperately tried to find a heartbeat, but between that and the wind, he couldn’t make anything out.

He began to thud on Wind’s chest, hoping desperately it would help get the water up. He had essentially no clue what to do with someone who’d nearly drowned, it had never been a problem for him on any of his adventures, and he didn’t come across large bodies of water terribly often in his day-to-day life.

All he could do was hope it would be enough.

Wind suddenly shuddered, and as Time froze, the sailor began to choke, water dribbling out of his mouth.

Time quickly turned him onto his side, relief weakening his knees as the sailor coughed up what seemed like an endless amount of water. Wind began to shake as he gagged, and Time rubbed his back, brushing his hair out of his face.

“Link, hey sailor, just breathe,” Time soothed as Wind vomited more water out onto the snow, shivering violently.

While he continued to cough, Time peeled off his damp Zora tunic and quickly shoved his dry clothes back on, peeling off Wind’s soaked tunic as well. He then bundled Wind into his relatively warm arms as he fished in his pack for a cloak he knew he had stashed inside. Now that the sailor was definitely breathing, the most pressing issue was getting him warm, and hopefully dry as well.

“T-T-Time?” Wind chattered out in a croaking voice interspersed with ragged coughs, “w-w-wh...at...”

“It’s okay sailor, you’re okay,” Time said, voice thick with relief. He finally located the cloak and bundled it around the boy in his arms, shielding him from the wind as best as he could. “Breathe. What do you remember?”

Wind took a moment to reply, still coughing a bit.

“P-p... portal...” he mumbled. “Threw m-m-me, onto th’ ice. C-c-couldn’t get, get off, ‘fore i-i-it broke...”

Time nodded, and picked up the armor he’d shed, placing it inside his pack as Wind finally finished coughing up water.

“C’n w-w-walk, myself,” Wind chattered out when Time started to pick him up, and the old man shook his head.

“You most certainly can not,” he rebuffed, “you nearly drowned and are much too cold. Stumbling about in the wind won’t help with that a bit.”

Wind let out a croaky sigh, and merely nodded.

He continued to shiver as Time hoisted him up, his head coming to rest on his shoulder as the older man tucked him more securely into his arms. He pressed his face into Time’s shirt, and his eyes began to slide closed despite his continued shivers.

“Hey, stay awake now,” Time chided, giving the sailor a small shake.

“T-Tired,” he murmured, and Time held him closer.

“I know sailor, but you have to stay awake, you’re too cold to sleep right now,” he said sternly, and Wind groaned.

“‘M sleepy.”

“You can sleep all you’d like once we get to some shelter and warm you up,” Time murmured, and Wind fell silent.

He shifted Wind to his back so he could make faster progress, as well as wield his sword if necessary, and set off through the whirling snow. There was a promising-looking line of cliffs off in the near distance, and Time set off towards them, Wind still weakly shivering.

He pulled the cloak a bit tighter over the freezing sailor, and squinted desperately through the wind for somewhere to hole up.

The gusts were biting at every bit of his exposed skin, flakes getting in his eyes and making it hard to see. The magic of the Zora tunic hadn’t left him very wet, but he was a little damp, and the wind was quickly leeching what warmth he had out of him. But as cold as he was, he knew Wind was much, much colder. Keeping him warm, and alive was the most pressing matter at the moment.

And suddenly he realized it had been several long minutes since Wind had said anything.

“Sailor.”

Wind didn’t reply.

Time felt his heart jump and he turned to look where Wind’s head rested on his shoulder.

His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving.

“Sailor, wake up,” Time said, panic coloring his voice. Wind didn’t react, and Time stopped walking, quickly pulling him off his back and into his arms.

His face was pale and Time lightly smacked him on the cheek, but Wind still didn’t react, not even with a shiver.

He grabbed at his wrist, feeling desperately for a pulse, but Wind’s skin was too cold for him to make anything out. A crushing terror suddenly hit him, and Time gave Wind a panicked shake.

“LINK WAKE UP!”

Wind’s eyelids fluttered.

Time watched him, hands shaking from more than just the cold as Wind’s eyes barely opened, then slipped closed.

“Link, open your eyes right now,” Time said in a sharp voice, and Wind’s lids fluttered again.

He let out a tiny whimper, and Time quickly bundled him into his arms again, striding even faster through the snow.

“Stay awake Link, whatever you do stay awake,” Time said firmly, ignoring the way his voice cracked just a bit. They’d finally reached the cliffs, and with a burst of relief he saw what looked like the opening of a cave off in the distance.

“Can’t,” Wind whispered into his shoulder, and Time tucked his head under his chin.

“Yes you can sailor, I know you can. Stay awake, please,” Time said into his hair, and Wind shivered just a bit. “Nayru above, I am not losing you to this. You can do it Link. Just listen to my voice, we’re almost there.”

Wind replied with a small mumble, and Time continued to talk, regularly prompting the sailor to reply. He didn’t have to wake Wind up again, which he was immensely grateful for, but by the time he’d reached the cave, Wind’s replies were nothing more than barely-there whispers.

Time dropped to a knee once they were safely inside and away from the snow and wind, and immediately got to work building a fire. By some insane luck some of the firewood he’d collected before he’d fallen through the portal had ended up in his bag, and with a bit of Din’s Fire, they soon had warm flames to sit around.

Time took out all of the damp clothes and laid them on the floor to dry, then sat as close as he physically could to the fire, Wind tucked in his lap.

The sailor was still awake, but only barely, and Time began to rub his fingers, making sure warmth was spreading to all the digits. He was fairly confident Wind hadn’t received any frostbite, but he still needed to warm up more.

“Old man?” Wind eventually murmured from his lap, and Time immediately looked down at him.

“I’m here sailor. How’re you feeling?”

Wind’s eyebrows wrinkled. “Like I got p-punched, by... Legend’s ice r-rod.”

Time huffed in amusement and relief. Wind being aware enough to make jokes was a good sign.

“C’n I sleep now?” Wind pleaded in a raspy croak.

Time sighed, and tucked the cloak he had around them a bit further. “Not yet sailor, I’m sorry. Soon enough, you’re still too cold right now.”

Wind let out a small frustrated noise, and Time began to card a hand through his hair, his fingers wet from the ice melting in the sailor’s bangs. They were silent for several minutes, in which Time checked religiously that Wind wasn’t falling asleep. Time was actually starting to feel warm again himself when the sailor spoke.

“Thank you Time,” Wind whispered.

The older man felt the smallest of smiles pull at his stinging cheeks. “Don’t thank me yet. We still need to find the others and figure out where and when we are.“

Wind frowned a little. “‘Meant for saving m-m-me. In the water.”

Time’s smile fell, and he looked over at the fire. He staunchly ignored the reminder of his terror at dragging out Wind’s limp body from the icy pond, and the continued terrifying moments afterwards.

The sailor’s voice dropped to an uncertain whisper. “I r-r-really thought that was it.”

Wind shivered, then nuzzled into Time’s shoulder.

“So thank you. For t-th-that.”

Time closed his eye and nodded, swallowing as he rested his head on Wind’s.

“You’re welcome sailor.”

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu wind #lu time #whumptober 2022 #whumptober2022 #day 4 #can’t pass out #waking up disoriented #writing from the floor #and then Wolfie found them and lead everyone there and there was a big cuddle pile the end

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actress4him · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022

NO. 4 - DEAD ON YOUR FEET

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

This is the beginning of a series of snippets making up a scene about my OC, Kamaria.

Taglist: @painful-pooch

Contains: lady whump, blood

She’s on the ground. She’s not sure how she got on the ground, she’s pretty sure she was walking just a second ago.

But she can’t be on the ground. She hasn’t been walking long enough, hasn’t put enough distance between her and the soldiers. She has to keep going.

Biting back a groan, Kamaria levers herself upright, one hand pressed hard against her side. It’s not doing much good, but she can’t help trying.

She just has to keep walking. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, using trees for support when she can. Worrying about the wound and the pain and the liquid oozing between her fingers can come later, when she’s further away.

#whumptober2022 #no.4 #waking up disoriented #can’t pass out #original content #fic #lady whump #lady whumpee #blood #kamaria the assassin #ficlet #drabble #fantasy whump

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ladyinsertnamehere · 2 years

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Voice of an Angel

It’s fuckin day 4 of @whumptober let’s fuckin go!

Angel whumpee, demon whumper, prompt “Can’t pass out”

Fair warning: wings being cut off, not-necessarily-dehumanizing use of ‘it’?, mentions of heaven obviously, mention of blood, bones breaking, ligaments and muscles being...fuckin destroyed, etc.

The woozy angel yelped again as the demon grasped its other wing by what would be the shoulder. It absolutely knew they were smiling sadistically as they showed the angel the hacksaw again, already bloody from the first wing. Not that it could see anything with the tears in its eyes.

The demon placed the teeth of the saw where feathers met skin, holding the upper wing with their strong, clawed hand. An agonized scream erupted as the teeth dragged along the skin, tearing into the ligament. Its convert feathers were dripping with the newly oozing blood, and its throat hurt as it screamed and sobbed. The saw tore into muscle, more painful than anything the angel had ever experienced. If it were a human, it would have fainted from the pain and blood loss right then and there. But angels weren't built like that. There's no room for such things in Heaven, no need for it. There's no pain to make someone pass out. But here, it was a waking nightmare. Here, the angel could feel everything, and here, everyone took advantage of that.

The saw swiveled around to the underside of the angel's wing, continuing to tear into skin and muscle from underneath. This time, the demon didn't stop when it hit bone. They kept going, scoring into the humerus until they couldn't anymore. When that happened, they put the saw down, and the angel took in a sharp inhale because it knew what was coming. The demon pushed it to the ground, their foot against its spine, and grabbed the wing with both hands.

Snap! The angel howled in pain as the bone was broken. Laying with its face to the muddy ground, salty tears mixing with dust, it felt the demon's hands firmly on its only remaining shoulders. They pulled the angel into an upright position, placing themself in front of it.

"Hey, hey, hey," their voice almost cooed, "That's it. We're done!"

#whumptober2022 #no.4 #Can’t pass out #original content #fic #wing whump #angel whump #angel whumpee #demon whumper #nonhuman whump

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dotcolorful · 2 years

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No. 4 DEAD ON YOUR FEET Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

Read it on AO3 here!

Opening the doors to his quarters, Luke berated himself for his own stupidity for the hundredth time that night.

His hands were shaking so bad he could barely get a grip on the doorknob; the blood and sweat covering his fingers were not helping. He could barely stand upright, and from the dizziness and pounding at the back of his skull, he was pretty sure he’d gotten a concussion.

Stupid.

He looked at his chrono, wincing as he saw the faint blue digits flicker on.

0400 hours.

Stars, he had really gone too far this night. He wasn’t planning on coming back this late, of course - but isn’t that what everyone always thought? Didn’t everyone always believe they would come back home at a reasonable hour?

Maybe you would have made it back in time if you hadn’t been attacked, Skywalker, he thought to himself bitterly, wincing as a wave of pain passed through him.

He knew he shouldn’t have sneaked out. His father had always been very clear on the rules about leaving their palace on Coruscant; he was to be home no later than 2000 hours, and was always supposed to inform his father of his whereabouts. Which, he figured, were fair rules.

If he was twelve years old, not eighteen.

But despite his father’s possessiveness - for Luke had learned a long time ago that it was that and not protectiveness that guided Vader’s behavior - Luke had never considered rebelling against his father. Not once had he sneaked out, or done alcohol or spice behind his father’s back - even though he had every right to do so. He always did everything Vader expected of him and more; he was the perfect son.

Sometimes he hated himself for it. He hated how even now, as an adult, he still couldn’t resist his need for his father’s praise. He couldn’t help it, though; he still longed for Vader’s approval. He was as afraid that his father would stop loving him as he was when he was four years old. And it wasn’t even love that Vader had for him - it was a sick sense of possessiveness, a need to have Luke as his, and Luke hated it.

But he needed it at the same time.

So he was always obedient, had never stepped out of line. He always made sure that he’d made no mistake that would take away the closest thing Vader could give him to love.

Until this night.

All he wanted was to look at the new ship models that have been brought to the shyster trade market on the lower levels of Coruscant. He’d heard of the new arrival - a collector’s item, it’d been called - the Nubain Royal Starship.

A ship that had belonged to his mother.

He just wanted to see it, nothing more. Just to touch it, to feel the durasteel covering the outer surface of the ship and imagine that many years ago, his mother’s fingers had touched it too. It wasn’t much, but it was the closest thing he could ever get to his mother’s touch - or at least any connection to who she was. Vader never talked about her, and Luke had long since learned not to ask - but that didn’t mean he didn’t long for anything that would make him feel close to her, if only once.

He had never made it to the market.

In fact, he’d barely made it to Coruscant's lower levels when he’d been attacked. He couldn’t even remember what exactly had happened - his memories were nothing but faint flashes, and his head hurt so much that he could barely think. He only remembered being jumped at from behind, and then waking up sometime later, lying on his stomach with his cheek pressed against the wet ground. He remembered the terrible pain in his skull, the glob of blood he’d spat out from his mouth, and the purple bruises covering his skin. They’d mugged him; his coat, probably worth more credits than the men had ever seen in their life, was missing when he’d woken up. They’d also taken the credits he’d had in his pocket, and his comm.

He’d barely got back home, shivering as rain soaked through the zipped-up long-sleeved shirt he still had on. Despite the cold, he was glad it was raining, though; at least he could pretend it was raindrops, and not tears, falling down his cheeks.

He was stupid. Humiliated, worthless, and stupid. He, the son of the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces, had allowed himself to be beaten and mugged like a rat, and left to bleed on the muddy ground.

Wiping rainwater from his forehead with the back of his hand, Luke pushed the door to the quarters he shared with his father, entering the dark space. Immediately, he sighed in relief; his father had not realized he’d sneaked out. If he was quiet enough, he could go and clean himself up, tend to his wounds, and his father would never know that he’d--

“Explain yourself. Now.”

He jumped as the deep baritone voice revibrated through the room, the faint ceiling lights turning on at the same time. He turned, wide-eyed and terrified, only to see his father standing behind him, arms crossed and anger radiating from him like a black cloud. Standing in front of the viewport, Vader was a mere silhouette against the Coruscant skyline, but somehow, that only made his appearance all the more terrifying.

“Father--” Luke whispered, taking a step back, fear surging through him. Fuck. His father had caught him. His father knew he’d sneaked out, he was angry, and whenever his father was angry, bad things happened--

“Do not move and explain yourself now.”

Vader’s rage was suffocating, and despite the command not to move, Luke couldn’t help but back up a little further until his back was pressed against the wall and he could move no further. He watched, terrified, as Vader stalked up to him, cape flying ominously, and towered over him, black mask leaning only inches away from his face.

“Have I not been clear about the rules that apply to you, young one?” He seethed, and Luke closed his eyes against the proximity of the mask.

He was shivering and it wasn’t from his pain and cold, this time.

“Did you really think you could just sneak out of here? That I would not know? Do you take me for a fool, my son?”

“N-no,” He stammered, eyes still closed. “No, of… of course not!”

His father growled, gloved hands shooting up to grasp him by the arms, and it took all of Luke’s willpower not to cry out. It was agony; his father’s fingers dug into his bruised flesh, pressed against his aching bones and wounded skin, and his body was practically screaming at him to squirm away. But he couldn’t. Not now, not while his father was still here.

If Vader found out he’d been attacked, he wasn’t sure he’d come out of his rage attack alive.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lowering his head. It was dark in the room, and the rainwater had likely washed off the blood on his face, but he was still scared his father would notice the bruises on his skin and his swollen eyes and cheeks. “I just wanted--”

He paused, realizing what he’d been about to say. He’d just wanted to see his mother’s ship? Luke wasn’t stupid; he knew saying that would cause his father to break more bones in his body than his attackers probably had.

Speaking of broken bones… it was getting really hard to remain upright. His ribs hurt, and so did his legs; he was sure he’d broken or at least sprained his left ankle. Now that the adrenaline and initial shock from being attacked were wearing off, the pain in his body became all the more prominent, and he could barely keep himself from collapsing to the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again. “I promise I won’t do it again--”

“Spare me your groveling, boy. You disgust me, and rest assured that by the end of our talk, not even a mere thought of ever disobeying me again will occur to you. You will go dry yourself and get changed first, though. I will not have you dripping water all over my floor.”

My floor.

My floor, my quarters, my home.

Even though Vader had found him on Tatooine when he was only two years old, and Luke had lived with his father ever since, he was still treated like an unwelcome guest in his home.

It wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to, though.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered. Slowly, his father’s fingers unwrapped from his arms, and Luke almost fell to the ground at the sudden loss of support. His vision swam as he took a step forward, and his head pounded with so much pain that he doubted he would even make it to his room. His legs were shaking so bad he could barely stand, and he felt as if not enough oxygen was getting to his brain.

Still, he gritted his teeth and continued walking forward, praying to the Force that he could reach the door to his room. He’d be safe once inside - he could apply bacta, cover up his wounds, and Vader would never know--

“I am losing my patience, boy. Move faster, or I will make you.”

Luke quickened his pace, fear surging through him at the threat in his father’s voice. Indeed, he could feel Vader’s patience running short, and the last thing he needed was his father to touch him again and squeeze his metal hands around Luke’s wounds. He was moving as fast as he could, already - which was still rather slow, considering how he could barely stand on his feet - but he willed his legs to move faster, forcing himself to quicken his pace.

He’d almost made it to the door when suddenly, all blood rushed from his head and any control he’d had over his muscles disappeared in an instant. He pitched forward, his head hitting the polished floor with a sickening crack, a spray of blood leaving his mouth. For a moment, he simply lay there, too stunned and agonized to do anything else. He listened to his own breath, suddenly inaudible next to the pounding sound of blood in his ears, and his eyes closed against the faint light coming from the viewport.

It was agony, and he wanted to scream, but all he could manage was a quiet whimper.

Breathe, he ordered himself, trying to fight his pain. Just breathe.

He flinched as a gloved finger grasped his arms and he was turned onto his back with the roughness that could only belong to his father. This time, he cried out, unbidden tears of pain spilling past his temples. “Don’t--” he choked before he could stop himself, hands flailing in an attempt to push his father away.

In an instant, the gloved hands let go of him.

“What is the meaning of this,” his father seethed.

Luke opened his mouth, trying to get a sound past his swollen lips. He was pretty sure his collision with the floor had re-opened the cut he’d already had there, for he could feel warm blood trickling down his chin. “Noth…” he groaned, unable to finish the word as he choked on air, his head turning to the side in pain. “...noth…ing…” he tried again, both happy and embarrassed when he’d finally managed to produce a sound. “I just…I…”

“You call this,” his father paused, gloved hands motioning towards him, “nothing?! You were unable to walk to your own room - you do not have the strength to even look at me now. I demand an explanation now.”

Luke shook his head, groaning as the motion caused his head to pound even more. “I just… fell on…my way…here…” he breathed out, his voice choked.

“Do not lie to me.”

“I… promise…! I fell down… some steps… must have lost… my balance… for a while…”

There was a short pause as Luke stopped talking, realizing how weak his lies sounded. Once again, he felt humiliated, degraded as he lay on the floor. For Force's sake, he wasn’t even strong enough to stand up, or lie his way out of something as simple as sneaking out! He was stupid, stupid for leaving his quarters at night, stupid for letting himself be attacked, stupid for wanting to see his mother’s--

“Take off your shirt.”

Luke’s eyes snapped to Vader, shocked. “What?”

“I will not repeat myself, Luke. Take off. Your shirt.”

His eyes, filled with hurt and embarrassment, turned to anger. “...No! I… won’t! I don’t want to--”

“I do not care about what you want. You are lying to me, and I do not tolerate lies. Take off your shirt and show me what happened, or I will do it for you.”

Any protest that Luke might have had on his tongue died in an instant as he heard the dark threat in his father’s voice. Embarrassed, hurt, he reached with trembling fingers towards his zipped-up shirt, already dreading the sight that would, undoubtedly, greet his father.

He winced as he realized his fingers could not get a good grip on the zipper. They were slippery, shaking with pain, exhaustion, and fear, and the simple act of grabbing the small metal plate and pulling it down seemed impossible. He tugged at the puller to no avail, arms trembling with effort that was nothing but ridiculous in this case, and eventually, he let his arms fall back down to his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, more tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “I… can’t…”

Vader’s hands raised, and Luke braced himself, expecting his father to lash out. It would be pointless, really; the bruises on his flesh were enough to stop him from ever sneaking out again. His father didn’t need to drive the point home further - though, if that was what Vader wanted, then that was what Luke would have to accept.

But the gloved hands never hit him. Instead, they moved towards his shirt, and then gently helped Luke out of it.

Luke shivered as cold air hit his chest, both uncomfortable at the chilly sensation and relieved at the way the air cooled his wounds. He moved his hands upwards, trying to cover his skin and hide it from Vader’s gaze, but his father caught his wrists and pushed them back. There was no strength in the movement, though, and none of his father’s usual malice. Reluctantly, Luke cracked one eye open.

Vader was staring at him, his presence in the Force full of nothing but abject horror.

“Luke.”

Emotions. So many emotions behind that single word, so much fear and guilt. Suddenly, there was no mask between them, no hidden eyes, no shielded minds. His father’s soul lay before him bare, and was projecting such horror at what he was seeing that Luke wanted to physically recoil.

He didn’t have to look at his chest to know what sight had greeted his father. He’d seen it already before, when he’d woken up after he’d been attacked, and saw his skin red and purple from the bruises, weeping scarlet red blood.

Gloved fingers trailed over his chest and his stomach, brushing over the tender and bruised flesh. It didn’t hurt - and if it did, that insignificant pain was lost to the overall ache that engulfed his body. There was something sorrowful in his father’s touch, something that Luke had never felt before, and it took him a moment to realize it was care.

His father was… worried about him.

For the first time, it felt as if his father was looking at him as his son, and not his possession.

“Who did this to you?”

The care and fear in his father’s voice disappeared instantly, now replaced by deep, deep anger. That, Luke was more used to, and yet he was still surprised at how different his father’s rage felt. How, for the first time, it was not directed at Luke, but at those who’d hurt him.

“No one,” he murmured. He felt stupid for protecting his attackers - though it was him, and not those men, that he was trying to save from his father’s rage. “I told…you, I slipped…”

“You keep lying to me.”

“No!” It was becoming easier to speak in his desperation. “No, I told you, someone… ran in front of me…and I…”

“Ran? I thought you said you’d fallen down some steps?”

Shit. This wasn’t working. Why couldn’t he just stick to one story?

He was trying, though, he really was, but the pounding in his skull was still terrible and he could barely think…

“Luke?”

“No, I-- I tripped…”

“Stop. Lying!” His father snapped, then recoiled when Luke flinched at the anger in his voice. “I am asking this because I wish to help you, but I will not be able to do so unless you tell me what has happened to you,” he added, more gently this time.

“You’ll get… angry…”

“I am already angry, my son. There is little you could do to make it worse at this point.”

That, of course, was untrue; anyone with even the slightest knowledge of Vader’s temper could attest to that. But Luke, having known his father for sixteen years, took those words for what they really were: not a threat, but a clumsy attempt at assurance, a way to tell his son that whatever he admitted to, he would be safe.

Sighing, Luke spoke. “I was attacked.”

Expectedly, anger surged. “By whom?”

“I don’t remember…woke up… they were gone…”

“Do you mean to tell me you have passed out?”

“...yeah.”

“Where were you?”

“...what?”

“Where were you attacked?”

“The… market…”

“What market.”

“Ship…market…”

More anger. “That, young one,” his father said pointedly, “is on the lower levels of Coruscant”

No shit. “...why do you…think…I got attacked?”

For a few moments, Vader gave no reply. It didn’t mean he had nothing to say - Luke could feel the whole plethora of admonishments, insults, and scolds that his father undoubtedly wished to unleash. He could only wonder which reprimand would greet him first. A punishment? A lecture about how insane he was? The typical talk about how much Luke ashamed him as a son?

But what Vader said next was nothing of the sorts.

“Why?”

Luke’s brows scrunched. “Why what?”

“Why did you go there? You are well aware of the dangers of Coursucant; you knew that this could happen. Why did you decide to go?”

Luke lowered his gaze, embarrassed. There was no point in lying anymore. “There was a ship I really wanted to see.”

Something akin to a sigh escaped the vocoder. “I have figured that much - you wouldn't have gone to a ship market otherwise. What I am asking - and perhaps you could enlighten me - is why you have decided to go to an illegal market, when we have plenty of ships in the palace’s hangar. There is little that cannot be found there, and I have never denied you the opportunity to go to an exhibition of a model that you wished to see. So, I repeat my question: what was so special about this particular market that made you go there despite the dangers of doing so?”

Ah, of course. His father was not going to make this easy; he was going to make Luke say exactly what he’d wanted to see.

“It was the Nubian starship,” he murmured, averting his gaze.

“We already have Nubian ships in our hangar--”

“No,” Luke interrupted, still quietly. “The starship. The Nubian Royal Starfighter.”

For a moment, he hoped his father would not recognize it; hoped that maybe, just maybe, his father would not know who that ship had belonged to.

Judging from the way Vader went all stiff and silent, though, Luke realized it was a foolish hope.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. It was all he could offer right now - a meek apology that more conveyed his deep sense of longing for knowing his mother than anything else. “I know I shouldn’t have gone, but it belonged to my-”

“Let me help you up,” Vader said quickly, interrupting Luke before he could finish. Disappointment surged through him - was it really that painful to just hear her name? Was her subject still so untouchable for Luke to even mention her? He deserved to know his mother, for Force’s sake! Why did he have to avoid mentioning anything connected to her?

He guessed he should be relieved, though - at the mention of his mother, his father’s anger seemed to immediately transform into self-loathing. Which, why not necessarily a state that Luke wanted his father to be in, was far less deadly than rage.

He allowed his father to pull him up into a more-or-less sitting position, trying his hardest not to wince as his back ached and the movement pulled at his definitely broken ribs. While he could tolerate the pain, though, it was becoming really difficult to control the nausea that was threatening to overcome him. Once again, it felt as if blood had been drained from his head, and in a weak move, he shook it. “I need to stay down for a little longer,” he forced out, trying to keep himself from vomiting. “I feel a bit sick.”

The black helmet nodded, absently. “Very well.” And Luke was lowered back to the floor.

“Wait here. I will bring some bacta.” His father stood up, mechanically, and started walking towards the ‘fresher where they kept medical supplies. His gait seemed automatic, somewhat robotic, even, and Luke’s brows scrunched up in unease. Had the mention of his mother’s ship really upset Vader that much?

His father returned to him, bacta patches and bandages in hand. His movements seemed even more impersonal than before as he began applying the patches onto the worst of Luke’s wounds. It was almost as if his father was executing some sort of a routine, a set of instructions than really tending to his son.

Guilt and anxiety gnawed at Luke’s insides. “Father?” He asked, unsurely.

No answer. His father wasn’t even looking at him.

“Father, I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking at his father beggingly. “Please, say something. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you when I mentioned my--”

Once again, Vader interrupted him. “Your ribs are broken; you also have an injured ankle. I will call for a medic.”

Methodical, absent movements. Click, click as he pushed the buttons on his comm.

A quick pinprick on his shoulder; his father had injected him with a stim. It might as well have been a droid; the procedure would not have been any less soulless.

At least it was getting easier to breathe, easier to talk.

“Father,” he tried again, shifting uncomfortably as Vader continued to work on him. “Please, if we could just-”

Silence, still.

“If we--”

Not even a glance spared at him.

“If we could just--”

Oh Force, why did it always have to be this way? Why, whenever he mentioned his mother, his father had to act like that? Why was he-

“Why are you like this?” Luke cried suddenly; with his throat still hurting, it came out more like a hoarse screech than anything else. “Every time I mention mother, you just-- shut down! Well, I’m sorry that I wanted to see her ship! ‘Cause it was hers, right? The Nubian Royal Starfighter - it was mom’s.”

He flinched, suddenly realizing what his little outburst was likely going to cost him.

His father, however, stayed oddly silent.

And Luke wanted to keep talking.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, voice calmer this time. “I know I wasn’t supposed to go there! I know how dangerous it was! But I’ve heard they had the ship, and it belonged to my mother, and you never talk about her, and I just wanted to know something about her! I don’t even know what she looked like! You won’t show me any holos, you won’t show me anything that belonged to her!”

His father was right about one thing: one’s anger really did make them stronger. Because despite the terrible bruises covering his body and the impossible ache of his ribs, Luke’s words were spilling from his mouth like a river with a broken dam.

“I know I shouldn’t have gone,” he repeated, wishing his father, who was still silent, would finally look at him. “But— I just wanted to see something left of her. Just… anything, a proof that she existed. I didn’t want you to get angry, and you always do when I ask you about her, and I want to get to know her so bad, but I also want you to love me, so I--”

That got Vader's attention.

“Do you,” he asked, helmet turning at Luke so sharply that Luke felt a momentary surge of fear, “think that I do not love you?”

Yes. That’s exactly what I think.

But he did not say that.

“No, I--” he mumbled instead, trying to evade the question. “I-”

“Answer me. Do you think I do not love you?”

Luke blinked, trying to come up with solutions that would allow him to escape the situation; his slow brain supplied him with none. So, instead of continuing it further, Luke decided to ask the one question that had been weighing on him ever since his father had found him sixteen years ago:

“Do you?”

Vader recoiled as if he’d been slapped. His whole body froze. Even his respirator seemed to stop.

And then, with more emotion than Luke had ever thought the vocoder capable of conveying, he said:

“How could I not?”

There was a quiet swish as Vader moved over him, pressing a gloved hand against Luke’s chest, right where his heart was. “You,” he told him, “are my son.”

Luke squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to stop the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbled in a watery voice. “But that never stopped you from being angry when I--”

Another hand grasped Luke’s hand, squeezing it tightly, and Luke fell silent.

“I’m sorry, my son,” Vader sounded… guilty. “I didn’t realize not talking about your mother was hurting you this much. I… I loved her very much - as much as I love you - and thinking about her… it hurts me. It is why I’ve never indulged in conversations about her, nor have I answered any of your questions. I now realize it was wrong of me to do that; your foolish actions tonight are proof of that. I’ve never spoken about her for the fear that I would lose you, just like I had lost her… but it was not telling you about her that has led to you being hurt.”

The tears Luke had been trying to hold back spilled down his cheeks, not as much due to his own hurt but the pain that radiated from his father. It was Luke who had been attacked and beaten up, but… it was Vader’s pain that seemed to be more potent at this moment.

“I’m sorry for sneaking out tonight,” Luke whispered. “I didn’t know it would worry you this much.”

“What you did tonight was wrong and dangerous, but… I cannot say I don’t understand your actions,” his father said. “Still, I need you to promise me you will never sneak out again. I know you’re an adult, but Coursucant is a dangerous place, and you do not yet have the training to protect yourself.”

Luke nodded, somewhat disappointed. He was never one to break a promise, but the one he was about to make… it would mean he’d never have the chance to see his mother’s ship.

“Do not worry about that,” Vader said, and Luke realized with embarrassment that he must have stopped shielding his thoughts. There wasn’t much he could do about it, though - no matter how hard he tried, the pounding in his skull prevented him from creating as much as a mental equivalent of a fence around his thoughts.

“I can assure you,” Vader continued, “That the ship at the market was a fake.”

Despite his neck muscles aching terribly, Luke’s head snapped up faster than it ever had in his life. “What?” He asked incredulously. “But…how?”

And, by the Force, Vader’s presence turned smug.

“Because,” he intoned, an immense sense of satisfaction practically bleeding into his mechanical voice. “I have the original one.”

“What?” Luke asked again; he didn’t even realize his mouth was hanging slightly open, and he was gaping at his father. “But-- I’ve seen all the ships in our hangar-”

“It’s not in the hangar.”

“Then…?”

“It is kept on the planet of Mustafar. I’ve kept it there so that I would not have to… look at it. I assure you, though, that it is there.”

Happiness bubbled in Luke’s chest. Before he could voice his joy, though, the comm on Vader’s belt beeped. His father looked at it for a fraction of a second before turning back to Luke.

“The medic will be here shortly,” he announced. “He is very capable; the treatment should not last long. I will leave now to give you some privacy. You have my comm,” he paused, handing Luke the device and Luke sighed in relief. His own comm, after all, had been stolen, and it felt… safe to have a new one on his hands. “Call me once you will have been seen to - we will set off immediately after that.”

“Set off?” Luke frowned. “I-- Where?”

Vader, who had already gotten up from his crouched position and was now heading towards the room’s door, turned to him in a movement that seemed way too exhilarated for Darth Vader. Luke stretched out with the Force and was shocked to realize that behind the obsidian mask, his father’s lips were stretched into a mischievous smile.

“I believe there was a ship you wanted to see, young one?"

#whumptober 2022 #no. 4 #whump #Luke and Vader #Luke Skywalker #Darth Vader #fanfiction #writing #My writing #star wars #tw: blood #tw: violence #Hidden Injury #Waking Up Disoriented #Can’t Pass Out

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littleperilstories · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022: #4 :: Dead On Your Feet

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

Whumpee: Ash Levin

Whumper: Douglas Heminworth

@whumptober-archive / @whumptober

CW: noncon drugging, abduction/captivity/kidnapping, restraints (still the curtain ties), force feeding (liquid/drink)

Previous | Masterlist | Next

The Curiosity Collector

Ah, ah, ah. I need you awake. Come on. Eyes open.

“That’s it,” said a soft voice above him. “That’s right. Open your eyes.”

Ash’s eyelids fluttered. How strange he felt—exhausted even though he was only just waking, hot and cold at the same time, muscles tight yet weak at once.

And that voice—that voice—unfamiliar and oily, sickeningly sweet—

Ash forced his eyes open.

“What the—”

Memories like shards of glass shattered on the floor of his mind.

There had been witch hunters, trappers as the humans liked to call them.

But the man before him did not look like a witch hunter—no, he looked like a lord, some soft, pampered member of the human gentry.

His eyes drifted closed again.

“Ah, ah, ah.” The lord slapped his cheek, none too gently but not forceful enough to sting. I need you awake. Come on. Eyes open.”

Why, why did everything hurt?

Why was his mind full of mud?

“Help me,” he mumbled, and the lord chuckled.

“I’m trying, boy, but you must keep your eyes open.”

Who—

Why—

The air in this room, it smelled of human bodies and dust, it was so stale, he needed fresh air, the sweet scent of a moonlit night—

“Hold his head up,” the lord commanded. “Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep.

A hand fisted into Ash’s hair, forcing his head up, drawing his chin away from his chest

Something is wrong, terribly wrong.

Ash compelled his eyes to open again and tried to stand.

He could not.

More alertness, but not an ounce more clarity, coursed through him. “What’s going on?”

He was sitting upright in a wooden chair, arms bound behind him, rope securing his wrists to the slats of the chair’s back. He began to tug at the rope, but the knots were tight. “What did you do to me?”

Ash managed to wrench his head away from the fingers grasping his hair, his torso thrown forward at the sudden burst of freedom. He caught sight of the odd yellow-gold. rope binding his ankles. A new memory, cracked and jagged, came to mind.

He’d been crying out in pain as fire spread over his skin, lying across a table. That same golden rope had bound his hands and feet.

“What is this?” The silent figure behind him grabbed his hair again. “Where am I? Who are you?”

Humans—vile, disgusting, violent creatures.

“All in good time.” The lord poured a clear liquid into a glass. “ I will explain, but you must drink this first.”

Ash would do no such thing.

“Untie me, you human bastard!”

Ash thrashed again. The ropes held.

The lord sighed. “Now, boy, let’s not be difficult. I have every intention of untying you. But you must do as I say. And I’m telling you to drink this.”

“I’m not going to let you poison me, human scum.”

The lord answered—too quickly, too smoothly, voice dripping with honey

“It is no poison, dear boy. You require medicine for that awful rash on your skin. Don’t you want to feel better?”

Ash clamped his teeth together and shook his head.

Out—there had to be a way out. Humans were weak, breakable—if Ash could only free his hands, he could wield a spell—

Ash froze as he realized a familiar weight was gone from his right hand.

“Where is it?” he breathed, his eyes now fixed on his bare finger.

“What? This?” The lord reached into his shirt, tugging out a gleaming silver chain. Hanging from it was a nauseating collection of trinkets, baubles, and jewels—and, Ash realized, more than one ring hewn from black stone. The kind that could only be taken from a witch.

And there was his own ring—strung onto the lord’s chain like a bead in a string of pearls, glittering in the torchlight. Calling to him. Thrumming with power Ash could not wield.

“Give that back to me.” Ash had never heard his own voice sound like this before: low, menacing, brimming with the savagery that humans liked to accuse witches of possessing. “It is mine. You have no use for it.”

“On the contrary, my dear boy.”

His scalp was beginning to sting from the death grip on his hair. “A human cannot command a witch’s power. That ring is useless to you.”

“It is of use to me as long as it is out of your hands, Ash Levin of the Coven of the Moon.”

The way the lord said Ash’s name and coven made a shiver run down his spine. The very sound of it was vulgar, each syllable boorishly pronounced and cumbersome upon his human tongue.

“Give me back my ring.”

The lord smiled. “Let’s make a bargain, shall we? I will give you your ring if you drink the tonic I’ve made for you.”

Every part of Ash howled at him not to touch whatever foul poison glistened in that glass.

“Then I’d rather die,” he spat.

Faces swirled in the mists of his memory: his family, the coven, his sister. And Laramie.

“That is simply unacceptable to me,” the lord said. “I’m afraid you must drink.”

The person behind him yanked harder on his hair, their free arm curling around his throat until Ash could not move his head. His breaths came faster now, panicked, control slipping from his grasp like brittle leaves on the autumn equinox.

The lord stepped forward, one hand gripping the glass of liquid, the other coming to seize the side of Ash’s face.

He grunted as a fresh wave of pain shot through him, resonating outward from behind his ear.

“What’s this?” the lord asked, frowning, exploring the area with his fingers. Ash grimaced again. “You’ve a wound there I didn’t see before. Small, and it’s scabbed nicely, but still.” He looked down at Ash with repugnant delight. “You must have really put up a fight against those trappers.”

He yanked his fingers away from the scab in one swift motion and pinched Ash’s nose.

Ash began to gasp, his mouth dropping open, but the person behind him was digging their arm into his throat, cutting of his air—

“I’ll tell Conri to stop,” the lord said quietly, “and you will be able to breathe. You will drink from the glass, and you will not spit it out. Do you understand?”

Air, air, he needed air, his lungs were on fire, he needed to breathe—

Tears burning his eyes, Ash nodded, and the pressure on his nostrils and windpipe was released.

As he gasped for breath, the lord tipped the liquid into Ash’s mouth, forcing his jaw upwards the moment the glass left his lips. He clamped his hand over this mouth. As Ash tried to wrench his mouth open to expel whatever dreadful poison he was supposed to drink…

He couldn’t.

The liquid slipped down his throat, and the mistiness returned.

“I am Lord Douglas Heminworth,” the lord breathed in his ear.

I am Ash Levin of the Coven of the Moon.

I am Ash Levin. I am a witch.

I am Ash.

I am…

“And now, little witch, you belong to me.”

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another-whump-sideblog · 2 years

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Jane’s Pets Pt. 20: Dead on Your Feet

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

Hidden injury | Waking up disoriented | Can’t pass out

You’ve started to have nightmares.

It’s surprising that it took this long, honestly. But now every time you fall asleep you are thrown into terrifying situation after terrifying situation. Sometimes you relive tortures you’ve already been through and sometimes your brain produces new horrors, and every night you wake up screaming at least once.

You are truly terrified all the time, even in your sleep. There’s no escape. You can’t remember the last time you felt relaxed.

Dollie has been paying more attention to you since you’ve been able to walk by yourself again. You know the main reason is that she doesn’t want you to run again, but you’d like to think she also wants you to feel better.

She’s always there when you wake up from a nightmare, comforting you as well as she can without speaking. She doesn’t have to do that, but she does. She hums soothing songs and squeezes your hand rhythmically and hugs you when you need it.

Sometimes you wake up terrified of her, when your nightmares focus on her drilling into you as you begged her to stop or beating Kit into the ground. She steps away when that happens, when she realizes you’re scared of her specifically and not just scared. She’ll even leave the room sometimes, though you’re sure she waits outside it in case you decide to run.

Still, she seems to genuinely care. You don’t know how to feel about her. It’s not fair, because you hurt Kit to avoid pain, so how can you judge her for doing the same? How can you judge her for hurting you, when you would hurt her under the same circumstances? Still, it’s hard to see her as on your side in the way Kit is.

You also wonder if she would’ve fought Kit like that if you hadn’t been threatened. You try to ask her several times, but chicken out. You don’t really want to know the answer.

Jane says there’s one more day until Kit gets let out of the cage. You ask Dollie to show you how to bandage someone over and over, and she lets you practice on her.

You’re going to help this time, not run away. It doesn’t matter how bad they look, you’re going to help. You’re going to start repaying everything they’ve done for you.

Through a long series of yes or no questions, Dollie has told you that it will be most important to get Kit fed first, and then get them clean, and then dress their wounds, and then let them rest. You’re ready. You’ve gone over it dozens of times.

Right now, though, you’re sobbing so hard that it makes you dizzy.

You scream. “She’s going to hurt me!”

Dollie shushes you and hums and holds you. You shake and sob in her arms. Jane’s going to be mad, she’s going to hurt you, you’re going to get hurt and everything already hurts and you can’t you can’t you can’t-

Dollie puts a water bottle in your hands. You try to drink it, but you’re still crying too hard and you end up choking and oh god you can’t breathe you can’t breathe she’s drowning you-

Dollie takes the water bottle back. She taps a rhythm onto your shoulder, slow and even. It matches up with the song she’s humming.

You try to match up your breathing with her rhythm, knowing that’s what she wants. It’s hard. You have to really focus on letting air out before breathing in.

The darkness at the edge of your vision recedes. You feel less and less dizzy. Dollie gives you the water bottle again.

You drink greedily. Your throat hurts and your head hurts and your eyes hurt and you want to sleep but you don’t want more nightmares so you lean against Dollie and let her hold you.

“I’m sorry. I must be majorly fucking with your sleep schedule.”

Dollie laughs darkly and shakes her head. You know, of course, that she can’t sleep without permission from Jane, but that just makes the times she’s allowed to sleep more important. You don’t want to wake her up if she’s finally been given some time to sleep.

You don’t push the subject, though. If she doesn’t feel like you’re upsetting her sleep, why argue?

“Do you think she’ll get mad at me? I’m not breaking any rules, but I feel like she’ll get mad that I keep waking up screaming like this.”

Dollie shrugs. That’s… not very comforting. You whimper.

Dollie wipes tears from your face and rubs circles into your back. It reminds you of the ways Jane touches you, but it’s much more gentle and cautious. She would stop instantly if you asked. You bury your face in the crook of her neck. She combs her fingers through your hair, gently gently gently.

“Do you have nightmares?” You ask. Dollie hesitates before nodding.

“Of course. Of course you do. I’m sure Kit does too. You guys just don’t wake up screaming because you can handle it better than me. Because you guys are strong and I’m weak.”

Dollie shakes her head. You sigh.

“You’re only comforting me because it’s what Jane wants.”

Dollie stiffens. She doesn’t shake or nod her head. She keeps rubbing your back, and your eyes slide shut.

You wake up disoriented. Where are you? When did you fall asleep? Didn’t you want to avoid falling asleep again, tonight?

Dollie is still holding you. You realize that you didn’t have any nightmares, asleep in her arms.

“Did you sleep at all?” You ask her, voice groggy with sleep. She shakes her head.

“God, you must be so sore, sitting like that all night. You could’ve pushed me off.”

Dollie shrugs. Light filters in through your window.

“Oh! Kit’s getting let out today! We have to get ready.” Suddenly, you’re wide awake and full of energy. You push away from Dollie and get out of bed, quickly getting dressed. Dollie follows.

You rush to prepare some food for Kit, but Dollie waves you off. It takes you a second, but you realize Dollie probably knows more about what foods Kit needs after a week of starving than you do. You remember, vaguely, how careful Dollie was with feeding you after your punishment for running. She must know more about it than you do.

You get out the first aid stuff instead, and get out some washcloths as well. You consider getting a bath ready, but you know that you might be jumping the gun a little. Jane said that they’d be let out today, but that could mean any time between right now and late tonight.

You do make sure that there are clean towels and enough soap in the bathroom, and pick out some clean clothes for Kit for after they’re clean. After that, you just have to wait.

You pace around the house, trying to find other ways to make things nice for when Kit gets less out. You open all the windows and set out a bunch of blankets. Dollie stops you and makes you eat breakfast. Thankfully, Jane doesn’t join you.

It feels like you’ve spent hours pacing by the time Jane drags Kit out of the basement by the hair and drops them unceremoniously on the ground.

You and Dollie jump into action. Dollie grabs the food she prepared (it’s just yogurt and water and you think that after so long she should give them more but she would know better) and you hold Kit, trying to comfort them.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Me and Dollie are going to get you some food, and then get you cleaned and bandaged. You’re going to be okay, we’ve got you.”

It’s unclear if Kit even heard you. Their eyes are unfocused.

“Tired…” they mumble.

“I know, I know. Did she let you sleep? I guess that doesn’t matter, you were kept in such an uncomfortable position…” Kit’s eyes drift shut as Dollie tries to feed them the yogurt.

“You have to stay awake for a bit longer. You have to eat.” You shake Kit back awake, feeling awful. But they’ve gone a week without food and you can’t let them wait any longer. They groan, but let Dollie feed them and bring water to their lips.

You help them to their feet, and they collapse into you.

“Kit… you can’t pass out, we’ve got to get you clean. We don’t want any of your wounds to get infected, if they’re not already.”

Kit manages to stand semi-independently of you, swaying. They’re dead on their feet. You lead them to the bathroom.

It’s when you try to help them get out of their clothes that they start to seem distressed. You frown. They’ve never seemed uncomfortable with nudity before.

“What’s wrong?” You ask. They don’t answer, but they hide one of their hands behind their back.

Dollie figures out the problem. She gently pulls Kit’s arm into view. They don’t have the energy to fight back.

How did you not notice before? Several of their fingers are bent in directions they shouldn’t be going in. Is that from the fight? The thought makes you feel sick. Dollie stomped on their hand…

Is that why they wanted to hide it? Do they not want Dollie to feel bad?

Dollie steps out and comes back with scissors, which she uses to cut Kit’s shirt off.

God, they look bad. Their ribs are bruised and they have cuts that are still healing, which you can only assume was part of their punishment for letting you escape. Dollie tosses the shirt aside and starts helping them get out of their walking boot.

There’s a lot less damage done to their legs, and Dollie helps them out of their pants and underwear before picking them up and gently setting them in the tub.

You finally get a good look at their back, and you have to close your eyes. It must’ve been the wound that opened during the fight, soaking their shirt with blood. It’s clearly infected, yellow and red and puffy and swollen. Dollie pats your shoulder, and then starts filling the tub with water.

You open your eyes. You need to help by talking to Kit, since Dollie can’t.

“Is the water a good temperature? Too hot, too cold?”

Kit nods. “‘S good.” They’re clearly struggling to stay awake.

Dollie leaves the water at a pretty low level, not going high enough to reach the gash on their back. She soaks a washcloth in the water, taps Kit’s arm twice, and starts to clean the wound.

Kit yelps, but doesn’t pull away. You’re… not sure what to do. Dollie seems to have it handled, but you want to help.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Kit blinks slowly. It takes them a while to respond.

“Could you… give me a washcloth? I can… I can wash myself.”

You doubt it, with their broken fingers, but you oblige. You hand them a washcloth and bottle of soap as Dollie finishes cleaning the wound.

Kit sets the washcloth in the water and struggles to open the bottle with one hand.

“Oh, sorry. Do you want me to open that? I can put some soap on the washcloth too.”

Kit wordlessly hands you the bottle, and then the washcloth. You put some soap in the washcloth and hand it back to them.

They starts trying to clean their legs, but leaning over makes them cry out again. They stare blankly at the wall for long enough that you think they’ve fallen asleep with their eyes open, but eventually they raise their knees to their chest, whimpering.

Kit carefully cleans themself off as best they can with only one hand and without moving their back. Once their legs are mostly clean, the water has started to take on the color of their filth, so Dollie drains and refills the tub.

Kit sighs. “I… need help.”

Dollie takes the washcloth from their hand and gently works on cleaning their arms and torso. For a while, they whimper, but eventually their eyes close and their head droops forward. They’ve managed to fall asleep.

Dollie drains and refills the tub several times. Kit shivers in their sleep. You feel weird, just watching like this.

“Should I go? It looks like you’ve got this handled…” Dollie shakes her head.

Once she finishes, she gathers up the dirty clothes and boot off the floor. She points at you, and then at the shampoo bottle.

“You want me to clean their hair?” Dollie nods, and then leaves the room. Presumably to clean their clothes.

You cautiously grab the shampoo and pour some into your hand. You’re worried you’ll somehow hurt them, but you gently start to work it into their hair.

It feels really weird. It’s an extremely intimate thing to be doing, especially while Kit is asleep. But you swallow your discomfort because they need to be clean to heal.

You find a small cup, fill it with water from the tub, and tilt Kit’s head back. You wouldn’t want them to wake up to soapy water in their eyes. Gently, you pour the water on their hair, cleaning the shampoo out. You have to refill the cup a few times, but eventually their hair is clean.

Dollie hasn’t come back yet. You briefly consider waiting for her, but hopefully that shouldn’t be necessary. You drain the tub and grab a towel.

You dry Kit as well as you can, waking them up in the process.

“We’ll just get you dressed and get you in bed, okay? Well, hopefully a bit more food and then bed, but I don’t know how this stuff works. Oh, I need to bandage your back!”

You’re not nearly strong enough to carry Kit like Dollie can, so you guide Kit to sit on the edge of the tub. This is your first time bandaging somebody for real, and you wish Dollie was here to make sure you didn’t do anything wrong. Still, you’ve had plenty of practice, and it goes pretty smoothly once you’ve managed to stop freaking out about being in close proximity to such a gross wound (you’d think you’d be used to that, by now).

“There. Okay, let’s get you dressed.”

You start with the underwear and pants. You’re not sure how you’re going to get the shirt on without aggravating their broken fingers.

Oh shit, you need to take care of their fingers.

“I don’t… I didn’t ask what to do about broken bones. I’ll go get Dollie.”

You slip out of the bathroom. Dollie is making cheesy mashed potatoes.

“Dollie? We should put Kit’s fingers in a splint, right?”

Dollie nods. She puts some of the mashed potatoes in a bowl with a spoon and then comes back to the bathroom.

Dollie hands you the mashed potatoes.

“You want me to feed this to them?”

Dollie nods and starts digging through the first aid stuff. Kit has fallen asleep again. She gently shakes them awake.

“Hey. I’m sorry, you’ve got to wake up. We have more food for you, and we’ve got to take care of your fingers. I’m sorry, I know you’re tired. Can you open your mouth?”

Kit slowly opens their mouth. You give them a little bit of food at a time, occasionally needing to remind them to swallow. Dollie taps their hand twice and then starts to maneuver their fingers into their correct positions.

Kit suddenly seems a lot more aware of what’s going on. They gag on the potatoes still in their mouth.

“Oh, I should’ve gotten you ibuprofen sooner!” You jump up and grab the bottle off the counter, opening it and grabbing a pill as fast as possible. The bottle is half empty.

You fill the little cup with water from the sink.

“There you go.” Kit takes the pill in their non-injured hand and pops it in their mouth. You give them the cup of water.

The pill definitely hasn’t kicked in yet, but you managed to distract them through the worst of it. Dollie’s almost done.

“Do you want to eat it yourself, now that you’re more awake?” You gesture at the potatoes. Kit nods. They put the bowl in their lap and use their unbroken hand to eat. They wince every time Dollie moves their hand even slightly.

When their fingers are taken care of and the potatoes are eaten, Dollie helps them into the clean clothes you picked out earlier.

“Sleep now?” Kit asks. Dollie nods and effortlessly picks Kit up, bringing them to their bed. She tucks them under their covers.

Kit’s okay. They’re going to be okay.

Dollie touches the back of her hand to Kit’s forehead. She furrows her brow.

“They’re okay, right?”

Dollie nods, still looking concerned. She leaves the room. You don’t know if you’re supposed to follow, so you decide to keep an eye on Kit.

They’re already asleep again. You watch their chest rise and fall evenly. They’re okay. They’re okay and you helped.

Dollie comes back with a water bottle and a damp washcloth. She sets the water bottle next to their bed and lays the washcloth on Kit’s forehead. They don’t even stir.

Dollie directs you out of the room. You guess that makes sense, it will be easier for them to rest without you in there with them. Still, you wish you could stay with them until they get sick of you.

Dollie turns on a movie, one of the less violent ones Jane’s given you access to.

“They’re going to be okay, right?” Dollie nods again. You rest your head on her shoulder and try not to worry about what will happen next time Jane has a game idea.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset

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hollers-and-holmes · 2 years

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It was a single-engined turboprop short-haul utility Cessna with a handsome gold stripe down the starboard fuselage which lay in a mangled, smoking slag just inside the boundary of his bleary eyeline. Beyond it, the black spruce burned. The shimmer going up against the bloodless sheet of sky. Gravel grated in his mouth and he knew he should spit it out but he could not seem to remember how his tongue worked. Why were the wheels still spinning? Fixed tricycle landing gear meant more drag and more weight but also a craft less vulnerable to tailwinds. Final approach at seventy knots and a three-degree flare and—

It had not been him at the instruments.

Blood in his mouth.

Fuel in a glistening rill down the ruined engine cowl.

Sprays of sparks and cinders candling up into the sky.

Get up…

#whumptober 2022 #no.4 #waking up disoriented #can’t pass out #fanfiction #lord of the rings #Tolkien #modern day AU #Elladan #Arwen #plane crashed in the wilderness #survival stories #serial story from prompt to prompt

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sousatayue · 2 years

Text

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stormxpadme · 2 years

Text

Whumptober 2022 No. 4 - Waking Up Disoriented & Can’t Pass Out

08/2000

Something was … off.

She was on her side, for starters. She didn't sleep on her side. It had been a while since she'd last woken up so dazed from a nightmare that she'd accidentally phased downstairs right through her bed but it did still happen occasionally. And then not landing badly was so much easier on your back. But here she was, all curled up, with far too much flesh and curves in the way to be comfortable, and her bed smelled not like her favorite washing powder but rather a little like copper and frozen earth, and it was weirdly solid … Oh fuck. "You're not my pillow."

"No. Sorry." Piotr's deep, hoarse laugh rumbled in the massive chest Kitty was bedded against so shamelessly there. "But I've been told I make for a good one."

"Can confirm." Which still didn't explain how the fuck she had ended up lying in some bed, in some room with the boy she most definitely did not have a crush on … Which room was that anyway? When Kitty tried to open her eyes, all she could she was grey shades flickering in the weak night lighting falling in through some window. She thought that could probably be her cabinet over there but the dorms all had the same layout so it was really hard to tell. Especially with a body twice the size of hers blocking her view and her head throbbing as if she'd spent last evening doing shots instead of extra homework. Which she should still be doing, fuck. What was going on here? "Any particular reason we're in my bed?" She decided to just hope it actually was hers though she still couldn't find anything but a wild blur regarding the last few hours on her mind. Because if she'd somehow had ended up drinking, with Pyro probably, and had somehow found her way to Piotr's room instead of hers, then she'd just phase the fuck out of existence right there and then from embarrassment.

"You passed out," Piotr said, quickly becoming serious, but that couldn't be right, that was absolutely absurd and even more shameful if it actually was true because if there was one person she hated to be weak in front of, it was the boy who never seemed to be even for one damn second.

"I most certainly did not."

"Then I'd hate to see the other guy."

"Huh?" That answer certainly didn't help a lot with her confusion. Only when Piotr brushed her hair back from her face a little, a fleeting, feather-light touch grazing her cheek, it dawned on Kitty that maybe she couldn't right see out of her left eye because it was almost swollen shut. And that she probably only couldn't feel more than a weak sting and throb in her cheekbone and nose because that was painkillers, not vodka in her stomach making it hard not to throw up all over Piotr's white sleeping shirt. Like that was going to happen. Enough shame for one night. "I absolutely did not pass out," she repeated stubbornly, trying to sit up because as nice as that hug and that warmth and that smell in her nose and everything was, she had work to do. She couldn't just lay around here even if it was in the most comfortable, strongest arms in the world … The dizziness growing stronger immediately stopped that plan before it could unfold. Fuck, concussion, too. "I just … I just napped. I need to get back to my computer …"

"Doctor Grey kept it for the night. She said to tell you, you can have it back after catching up with the two nights of sleep you're missing." Piotr did his best not to laugh at Kitty's offended hiss, but there was also a faint underlying tone of worry in his voice she didn't miss.

Somehow, she liked that. "Tell me they didn't carry me to the sick bay like one of those drama chicks in the movie." That mortifying thought alone was a good excuse to bury her head a little tighter against that strong chest but fuck, that hurt, and she had to startle back with a wince.

"Careful. You need more pills? Doctor Grey left a whole blister of the good stuff." Piotr nodded vaguely to the nightstand – her nightstand, definitely, Kitty realized with relief – and a huge carafe of water there. "And no," he added, in that slightly too quiet, disapproving tone again when Kitty just shook her head because she was feeling off enough as it was. "She came here with the mobile x-ray. Bobby found you out cold when he came to compare notes but it didn't seem that bad. So, after all that happened lately, Doctor Grey didn't want to scare the juniors by carrying you downstairs. She says there's nothing broken, just a few bruises. You don't have to worry about like, your nose looking weird or anything. I mean, you'd still be absolutely stunning even with a broken nose. Which doesn't mean you should … Ugh, this is why I don't do talking." Piotr covered his face with his large hand which even without the lights on Kitty was pretty sure was glowing in a very interesting color right now.

"I don't know, I think you're not half-bad," she smiled, her own cheeks suddenly feeling far too hot but then quickly changed the subject because … Because things were the way they were, and Piotr didn't deserve the hot mess that was her life for a year or so now, and getting hopes up that would inevitably be crushed so much faster than even this body in his metal form could have done would have hurt so much more. "If you get me your computer here, I'll let you copy biology homework for two weeks when the new semester starts."

"Seriously, Pryde?" Piotr sat up so she slipped down to the mattress and could finally turn on her back, a relief that didn't make up for the loss of nearness though. "Don't you think Ice Cube and you are taking this whole hacker thing a little far? You don't sleep, you're late for workout every day, you guys are always in each other's rooms at night …"

With an annoyed remark about how Piotr did a really shitty Cyclops imitation already on her lips, Kitty shut them again just as quickly, her cheeks feeling only even warmer now when she realized what that untypical gruffness of her best friend might mean, and especially that he knew so well what she was doing at nighttime … "Hey, metalhead? Bobby's really not my type. I hate frostbite. Besides, he's with Marie, you know. We're working. We are so close, don't you get it? If we can get back in the Brotherhood's network, we'll all be a lot safer here. Besides, our score on the X-Men boot camp will skyrocket. At some point, they'll run out of excuses not to invite us on the team."

"Hm." That was all Piotr had to say to that last admittedly quite optimistic hope but Kitty hadn't expected anything else. Piotr was still struggling with a decision most of their group had long made, and maybe – just maybe –, she wasn't actually all that unhappy about it. Being on the bench most of the time was safer.

"Also, Professor Summers will be in a far better mood if he gets his girlfriend back soon. So what do you say, want to get me that PC tower? Just an hour, I promise. I need to check that last code again, and we have at least three potentially insecure ports again that Bobby and I need to check. Besides, U.G.E.R. has sent a demo for another Trojan creator that we wanted to try …"

"If I go, will you stop talking?" Piotr pushed himself to his feet with a heavy sigh, the wooden bed frame creaking from the shift of his massive weight. "Doctor Grey will kill me."

"Nope, she loves you. You never give her work." Kitty just grinned and sat up herself, finally feeling slightly clearer in her head. She wanted to put on something more presentable at least before Piotr came back, not this hideous Sailor Moon shirt … That she definitely … had not been wearing earlier. She was obviously not even halfway orientated yet. Only now, Kitty realized, on the nightstand, there wasn't only a blister and water waiting but also a neatly folded black piece of clothing that she'd done everything to hide from everyone in this house who didn't already know. So that was why she had been feeling icky and heavy and too fucking soft ever since waking up … And chances were pretty good, the last person she'd wanted to know about these alien and burdening kinds of thoughts and wishes she was struggling with, had also seen. Maybe she had made a noise she couldn’t remember or maybe Piotr just knew, because somehow, he always knew, because the light was suddenly on before Kitty could think of wiping the tears of shock and fear from her eyes, and Piotr was sitting next to her again, pulling her close so quickly and firmly that she bumped her nose against his shoulder again, and fuck, that hurt too. But at least it made that sudden lump in her throat go away for more than one reason. But she had to ask because if she didn't, she would be wondering every day from now on if it was maybe just a matter of time until that guy wouldn't seek her out for breakfast anymore or come to copy homework he was perfectly well suited to do on his own or complain about some heavy lifting duties he'd never let anyone else do anyway or for thousand other excuses just to be in her room. She didn't want that to end but if it would, then ripping off the band-aid always hurt less. "Uh … You didn't like, change my clothes, right?"

"No, that would also have been your doctor. She didn't want you to sleep in this." To Kitty's growing terror, Piotr nodded at her binder, both face and voice so casual, so blank that it was impossible to make out if he had an idea what that thing even was. And what for. "She said it's bad for the tissue or something? Not sure, I was too busy not to stare."

"Great. Right. Thanks." Kitty was still trying to sort out in her head what she'd just heard for an elaborate answer, and also a little too pissed with someone not in the room to snap at.

Now Doctor Grey came barging in that whole thing and tried to be smartass after it had taken both an X-Men team member who hadn't even been here half a year and one who had moved out here years ago to find out what had been weighing down on Kitty for so long now. She knew she was being unfair, that the X-Men had a lot to deal with since Liberty Island, and with Magneto's new mutation machine and all …

But that didn’t change the fact that she was feeling very alone with an issue she just couldn't tell the others of her age about, not yet, not while she was still trying to figure it out herself.

She was still crying, but she only realized it when a thick, gentle finger wiped the moisture off her cheeks, again so gently that it never even hurt for a second. "Hey, Freckles, stop that, please. You know I'm not good with this shit. It's alright, I promise, you'll be alright. Just a few bruises, and I really didn't look, okay? And you didn't like, hurt yourself with that thing, Doctor Grey said. Everything still where it should be and all."

Kitty took a deep breath and stopped that agitated hand before it could continue gesturing through the air like a drunk butterfly. Kindness … but courage when needed. Just what she liked – or maybe like wasn't a strong enough word – most about this boy, maybe she could do that too if she really tried. "What if I don't want it to be there? Like … like, this." She nodded down on her chest awkwardly, that was as close as she dared to get to the subject at least for the moment, her eyes wide, pleading, hoping that Piotr would understand and not leave immediately, telling her that she was a far worse freak than anyone else in this damn school …

He didn't leave. He leaned forward for a shy, quick kiss to the corner of her mouth, and those damn hummingbirds in Kitty's stomach started to fly all over again instantly. Yeah, that made it official, she'd never have the balls of that guy. "Then you'd still be you, Freckles. And I happen to like that You a lot. Okay? So no more kissing your desk in the middle of the night." After that, he got up pretty quickly to get that PC from next door because they both could use a second to not look like a pair of tomatoes anymore.

Kitty lay back down with the biggest smile possible on her face and counted the seconds until he came back.

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@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

#no.4 #Waking Up Disoriented #Can’t Pass Out #x men #fic #everything after x2 didn't happen sue me #x men original timeline movies #stormys fanfics #kitty pryde #piotr rasputin #colossus #shadowcat #kittyxpiotr #trans kitty pryde #long post #whumptober2022 #whumptober 2022

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