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vitalazam · 1 year

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(febuwhump day 1 & 2: touch starved and flinching)

Subz knocks on the doorframe, a habit he’d taken to after surprising Zam one day and getting a sword pointed at his neck. There’d been a panicked, frantic look in his eyes, until he’d realised it was Subz, and he’d quickly switched to panicked, frantic apologising instead. Subz wasn’t going to hold it against him, he’d clearly been through some shit. It didn’t take much effort to make his presence known before entering a room anyway.

This time, Zam is too engrossed in the redstone of his latest farm project to take notice of the knocking, so Subz decides to announce his arrival by greeting him.

“Hey, Zam.” He says, but Zam is still distracted, brows furrowed in concentration. Subz sighs and decides to suck it up, but his caution turns out to not be necessary as Zam jumps at his shadow. He turns quickly enough to realise he’s not getting jumped by Ro and Mapicc, but there’s still remnants of fear in his eyes. “Vitalasy’s making dinner.”

“Oh, I’m sort of in the middle of…”

“Nope, no, no you’re not. Time to eat.”

“But…”

“You’re eating with us. Team bonding. Non-negotiable.” Subz gently moves Zam’s hands away from the redstone, and Zam looks up at him with a dazed look in his eyes. Subz decides then to pull on Zam’s hands more firmly, to pull him to his feet. Zam obeys wordlessly, putting up no more resistance. Even after Zam is stood up, Subz keeps one of his hands firmly in Zam’s, and tugs him along to the kitchen. Zam remains stunned into silence the whole walk, and Subz refuses to acknowledge it out loud, which is a little funny to him.

Subz does drop Zam’s hand once they reach their little kitchen, but only to fumble around in their cutlery drawer and dump spoons in Zam’s hold. He ushers the other out of the kitchen, ordering him to set the table. The dazed look in Zam’s eyes has yet to disappear, and it’s coupled with a slight blush of his cheeks.

He turns to Vitalasy then, who’s tending a pot on the stove.

“Hey, uh,” He starts, and Vitalasy makes a hum of acknowledgement. “Zam could probably use some affection.”

Vitalasy gives him a confused smile. “I mean, I’m down for affection, but he’s not gonna jump me if I do, right?”

“Nah, just announce you’re there. Like petting a cat.”

“Mm, well I know all about that.” Vitalasy teases.

“Fuck off- mm.” Subz is interrupted by Vitalasy bringing a spoon of soup up to his mouth for him to try.

“How is it?” Vitalasy asks.

“Hmm,” Subz mimes as though he’s thinking deeply, “Needs a bit more salt, maybe.”

“Don’t lie to me, it’s perfect.” Vitalasy rolls his eyes and shoves Subz’s shoulder playfully. “Get bowls.”

“Yes, sir.” He turns to fetch bowls from their cabinet, and catches Zam’s gaze. He’s hovering awkwardly in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, looking like he wants to ask something. Subz has no interest in being a mind reader, so just fetches the bowls as requested and makes sure to nudge Zam’s shoulder with his own on the way out.

Once he’s put the bowls out, he turns back to Zam, who’s migrated to hovering near their table.

“Come on, helmet off for dinner.” Zam starts to protest, but Subz cuts him off. “This base is safe. It’s not gonna be found. You can take off your helmet to eat.” He reaches up to lift Zam’s helmet off his head, and places it delicately on the table. This makes Zam blush harder than the hand holding, somehow.

“I see what you mean.” Vitalasy hums, and Zam’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“What d’you mean?”

“Nothing, nothing, sit down, the food’s going cold.”

Subz and Vitalasy both ensure that all three of their legs are tangled under the table the whole meal, and it’s clearly flustering Zam, but he also seems to be refusing to acknowledge it. Suits Subz just fine. He wants to see how far he can take it, and by the mischievous look in Vitalasy’s eyes, he’s also happy to play along.

As they eat and talk, Zam seems to relax more and more. He happily clears away the table with them when they’re done, and accepts any friendly bumps between them. He’s only seemingly thrown for a loop when Vitalasy loops their arms together to drag him into the kitchen.

“I cooked, you two wash up.” Vitalasy orders, and winks conspiratorily in Subz’s direction.

“Oh! Yeah! Sure, that’s fair.” Zam rolls his sleeves up immediately. One thing Subz has always respected about Zam is that he’s not one to shy away from hard work. Meanwhile, Vitalasy is quite happy to hop up on a countertop and watch them loftily. He did cook, so Subz can’t really be mad. Washing up isn’t a horrible process, he’s on cleaning duty, Zam is on drying, and they work in companionable silence.

Then, Subz decides to start flicking suds at Zam’s face. He get such an offended look on his face Subz bursts out laughing. He flicks more water at Zam’s face, and he can hear Vitalasy snickering in the background. Zam clearly decides he won’t stand for this anymore, and starts trying to wrestle his way into accessing the sink. Subz, of course, will not be going down without a fight. He grabs a handful of bubbles and tries to shove it down the back of Zam’s shirt. The other gives an indignant shriek, which just makes Subz laugh harder.

They continue play-wrestling and flicking water at each other until Vitalasy clearly gets fed up of just being an observer and dumps a whole water bucket on both of their heads.

“What the fuck?” Zam whines, though he’s clearly not genuinely mad over it. Subz rolls his eyes, and wraps his arms around Zam’s neck, tucking his face into the crook of Zam’s neck. Zam makes a surprised little squeak, and Subz will kindly not let him know that it was kind of cute. Subz is not going to move from here until Zam hugs him back, so he just stays there, peacefully. Zam hesitantly brings his own arms around Subz’s waist, and tucks his own face in Subz’s neck in return. His breath is shaky, and his grip uncertain.

“Thank you.” Zam whispers. Subz doesn’t know quite what Zam is thanking him for, but he’s happy to provide regardless.

“Hey, don’t leave me out of the group hu- oh, you guys are soaked, ew.”

“Who’s fault is that, idiot?!”

#this was like twice as long as it should be but ohhh well ^_^ will probably do more i got vitalasubzam on the mind #vitalasubzam #its not explicitly ship but well #lifesteal shipping #justin case #lifesteal smp #princezam #itzsubz #vitalasy #eclipse federation #mcytshipping #lssmp #fic

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obi-whumpkenobi · 2 years

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Obi-Whump Fic Rec

someone asked me for fic recs and I already had it listed out, so I decided to post here! these are some of my fave fics that (for the most part) focus on whump. these are in no particular order. this is not an exhaustive list by any means, I have plenty of more favorites that I have saved but I wouldn’t quite call them whump fics. also, these don’t really encompass a broad variety of whump genres, more like I have a type and that is captivity/torture. yes, i’m a sicko. if I could, I would rec everyone’s whumptober/febuwhump/etc, but maybe I’ll do that separately if there’s enough interest. obviously, there’s some heavy shit on this list, including noncon, so please read the tags and take care of yourself.

without further ado:

A Temporary Mercy by @swranger (6k, M, GDOV, series WIP) - citadel au. so this one is great because if you’re like me you were probably disappointed by the quick save obi et al got in the citadel arc and that he wasn’t...hurt a bit more.

something inside this heart has died (you’re in ruins) by @revanchxst (22k, T, CCNTUAW, completed) - two things i love, codywan and pain. I was craving a fic where cody replaced rex on kadavo and goddamn this one delivered.

i just wanna keep calling your name (until you come back home) by @revanchxst (15k, T, NAWA, completed) - what if chipped-cody started dreamsharing with obi-wan? this is the first one that’s not quite physical whump but it’s sprinkled in there along with plenty of angst. also there’s a line in here that made me cry so much i have it saved to a widget on my phone.

Recollection by @elwenyere (18k, E, NAWA, completed) - within the first few paragraphs i knew this one was gonna hurt. honorary mention because it’s cody whump and not obi whump but still plenty of pain.

Suns Tempered By Devotion by @come-chaos (15k, E, R/NC, completed) - another one that’s more codywan than whump, but this one is on here because it killed me and i have still not recovered.

In the Line of Duty by shipping_ruined_my_life (5.7k, E, GDOV, completed) - the obi whump exchange was good to us. codywan + the good ole tortured-in-front-of-the-other with a twist!

Offset by @deviantaccumulation (64k, M, GDOV, completed) - i have this one saved as “qui-gon’s alive and dooku’s a bitch”, pretty self explanatory. A+ whump.

Example by @swranger (40k, NR, GDOV, completed) - this would be like christmas if i celebrated it. every new chapter is some horror for obi and i fucking love it.

Dreams by @geodax (2.7k, M, CCNTUAW, completed) - so grievous definitely had some kind of psychosexual obsession for obi and we all know it. this...builds on that :)

Of Teachers and T'ayl'e by @levitatingbiscuits (8.7k, NR, GDOV, WIP) - also not a whump fic per se, but he’s hurt for enough of it that i’m including it. this encompasses everything i love about jangobi.

The Dark Side of Obi-Wan Kenobi Part 1 by @mostthingskenobi (25k, M, GDOV completed) - a post-lawless au with some truly delicious torture.

Conjuring Miracles by @kcrabb88 (30k, M, NAWA, completed) - again, we were deprived of some good whump by the kenobi show when tala shows up miraculously to save him (and vader forgets that he controlled fire like 2 seconds ago). this remedies that beautifully.

See My Dreams All Die by @temporaryuniverse-writing (34k, M, GDOV, completed) - what if obi-wan killed anakin on mustafar, so sidious tried to make him fall instead? plenty of great whump, but also comfort.

And This Guilt, Please Bleed It Out of Me by @letitrainathousandflames (6.2k, M, GDOV, completed) - another beautiful OWE fic. obi-wan continues to suffer from anakin’s actions (this time, the tuskens).

Only One Allowed to Hurt You by sereq_ieh_dashret (15k, E, GDOV, WIP) - maul is basically like “wait you can’t hurt kenobi, i’m the only one who can do that >:(

The Mandalorian Wars by @geodax (66k, M, GDOV, MCD, completed) - my first whump fic i read in the prequels fandom! heavy as fuck, but so good.

Two Months by I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning (14k, E, GDOV, completed) - cody replaces alpha-17 in the rattatak storyline, pain ensues :(

vital signs by marketchippie (18, E, GDOV, completed) - everything that’s great about ventrobi. tfw when you have sexual tension with your torturer?

And When In Shadows by @the-last-kenobi (1k, M, CCNTUAW, completed) - a short whumptober fic that i could not get out of my head for weeks. chef’s kiss mwah

A Treatise On Breaking and Repairs by @glimmerglanger (52k, E, GDOV, R/NC, MCD, completed) - of course i could not forget glimmer, the whump monarch. i remember staying up until 5 am every day just to catch the updates and being in awe each time.

#obi wan kenobi #whump fic #fic rec #anakin skywalker #darth vader #vaderwan #codywan #obimaul #asajj ventress #ventrobi #commander cody #mine #darth maul

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kydrogendragon · 4 months

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Febuwhump - "You Lied to Me"

Pairing: Dreamling (technically), Hob/Gwen Words: 640 Warnings: Cheating, Non-Consensual Relationships Ao3 Link Here

Hob hadn’t intended for things to go this way. Not really.

His Stranger, his friend, came back into his life after their missed meetings. He gave him his name—Dream—and even dropped by sooner than a hundred years later! It was everything Hob ever wanted. Dream talked about himself, not a lot, granted, but some. He learned a bit of his work and his employees. He even learned a bit of his family.

In turn, Hob talked, as he always had. About everything. Every little thing he thinks Dream would enjoy, and even some he wasn’t. He had a friend. One that knew him, truly knew him, in a way that no one could anymore. Hob would do anything to not lose that.

So when Dream kissed him that night after they’d sat down on the couch for their newest routine addition—Friday movie nights—well... Hob did what he had to do. He kissed Dream back.

It’s not that Hob’s not into men. He’s lived this long, it’s hard to not experiment at least once. They’re fine. He finds he still prefers the fairer sex, but he’s not opposed to the occasional tumble with the other side. But he’s never dated a man. And sure, Dream isn’t technically a man, as much as he gathers, but... He likes Dream. Loves him, in the way he did his brothers in arms, his closest friends. He’d do anything for him. Apparently he’d also let him think Hob wants him back.

Christ, he feels terrible. He does. Truly. Dream deserves better but he couldn’t well push the man away. He’s learned enough over their time together to know that things would never be the same. He and Dream wouldn’t be the same. If Hob had pushed him back that night, told him he didn’t love him back, he’d have lost his best friend. Maybe forever.

And truly, is it so bad to be with him this way?

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have gone out drinking with his coworkers, especially once he’d found out Gwen was gonna be there. He liked her. She liked him. Add a bit of alcohol to the mix, it’s no surprise he ended up in her bed. It was fun, it was good, too. He always enjoyed a lady that knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Had it been just a few months earlier, he imagines he would have asked her out the next morning.

Then, well... It’s hard to control one’s dreams.

Hob doesn’t even remember what he dreamt. Whatever it was, it must have clued his friend in on his state of affairs. Either that or the man just had impeccable timing cause when Hob opened his eyes to take a piss in the middle of the night, Dream was there, standing at the edge of Gwen’s bed, eyes full of stars.

“Dream,” he whispers, sliding the covers off his bare legs. He’d slipped his boxers back on, but that’s as far as the re-dressing process got before they both passed out that night. “Listen, I can explain—”

“You lied to me.” Hob’s heart breaks at the slight wobble to his friend’s words.

He shuffles out of the bed, suppressing the shiver that runs down his skin at the chill of the night air. The room still smells faintly of sex and must. “I... please, Dream, just—just stay, we can talk—”

“You do not love me.”

Hob stares up at the man and watches a single tear fall from his eyes, trailing down the porcelain skin.

“No. Not in the way you wanted me to. I’m so sorry, Dream. I—” he threads his fingers through his hair. “I should have said something sooner, I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

“And yet you have...”

“Dream—”

“Goodbye, Robert Gadling.”

#ky writes #the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday6

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shade-pup-cub · 4 months

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Febuwhump 2024, Day 3: Twilight, Warriors & Hyrule

Fandom: LOZ/Linked Universe

Summary: Twilight is shot in the leg with a barbed arrow too soon after his recovery from his Shadow injury. Warriors is forced to hold down the strongest Link in the group while walking Hyrule through an arrow removal. Hyrule has pulled out more arrows than he cares to remember, but he has never had to push one through. The Vet was going to kill Wars if Malon didn't do it first.

CW: Injury, slight blood, field dressing, mention of soldiers deaths

“Twilight, stop! Wars hold him!”

“Do you see who we are talking about? I’m trying!” Warriors snapped back at Hyrule as Twilight thrashed in pain as the arrow in his thigh was beginning to be tugged on. He had finally managed to make the Ordonian stop trying to push them away after an arrow met its mark.

Neither had ever heard Twilight scream in pain, causing them both to suddenly stop in their fight against the monster camp they came across after being split up through a portal. To see him fall to one knee, still trying to fight, was heroic in itself, but it was too soon to see him injured after just healing from the Shadow.

“I can’t pull it out.” Hyrule reported, as he held up an arrow from the same monster that had shot Twilight. “The arrow head is barbed. Pulling it back out the way it went in will do more damage that he can’t afford.”

Twilight moved slightly in Warriors hold, sweat beading on clammy skin. “P-push. You have to pu-ush it through.”

Hyrule paled. “You can’t be serious.”

Warriors swallowed thickly. “He’s right. As long as it isn’t in the bone, the only option is to push it through to the other side.”

He hated this type of thing, even during the War when it was an everyday occurrence. There was an endless supply of soldiers needing immediate attention to wounds with no time to make it to a tent or to sterilize anything. Of course with that came infections, amputations and death. He had lost count of the men who died in his arms while he hopelessly told them that they were going to make it, to just hold on. The amount of times he had to tell a mother or wife that their son or husband wasn’t coming home. Funerals were not common for that time period in his era’s history due to the threat Cia and Ganondorf posed.

It was too familiar of a situation with Warriors sitting against a tree, Twilight between his legs to help cage him in. Blood had seeped through the tan trousers where the arrow was protruding out of his mid right thigh. Twilight’s hands trembled as he clung to Warriors arms. It was familiar, but he refused to let Twilight go down like so many he had seen.

“I have never done this.” Hyrule said with a wide eyed expression, face paling more by the second. No doubt due to the idea of what came next. “I’ve pulled out arrows, but not pushed one… in . If you have, don’t you think you should be doing this?”

Warriors gave Hyrule a flat look. “And you hold him during it? I’ll talk you through it. First thing is we need to cut the pant leg high above the working area, then clean the area.”

“Guess I’m gonna match the Vet with the sh-orts.” Twi chuckled. The other two stopped before they also joined in the bit of humor, knowing that this was Twilight’s way of dealing with the situation.

The Captain watched intensely as the healer did as instructed, more focused than panicked. Maybe that was the real goal of the joke. Twilight hissed through clenched teeth when Hyrule cleaned off the arrow shaft, the entry hole and where the arrow would be coming out at.

“Next?”

“You need to push it slow, steady and straight. If it bends too much it can snap inside his leg. Before we do this, go grab my bag.”

The bag dropped at his side, Warriors pulled out an extra belt, instructing Hyrule to cinch it tightly around the injured leg. He quickly found the inch and a half thick block of wood, wrapping a strip of leather around it. There were already teeth marks in the leather and the glare that came from the healer told him that that would be a conversation for later.

“Twilight, bite down on this. I don’t want you breaking teeth.” The Rancher opened his mouth to have the wood placed between his middle section of teeth with a small amount of wood sticking out on either side. The fact that Twi didn’t come back with a comment of any kind, even something dog related, told Warriors just how much pain the he was truly in.

“We ready?” Hyrule asked, looking Twilight over before locking eyes with Wars.

Twilight’s breathing picked up, but he nodded his head yes anyways. Warriors got Twilight to sit lower, allowing for the Captain to drape his right arm over the other’s right shoulder and over his chest. His left hand went over teary blue eyes, saying, “You don’t need to watch this.” There was a slight nod under his palm.

The moment Hyrule began to push the arrow through Twilight stiffened, spine locked. Both hands came up and clung to Warriors arm, no doubt leaving bruises under his fingertips. He held his breath, hissed around the wood, then held his breath again. The wood between his teeth creaked with the pressure. The veins on his neck and the single one in his forehead that matched Times bulged as his skin went dark red from holding his breath.

Hyrule never once stopped or slowed his work, not until Twilight moved his left leg, off setting the Traveler, forcing him to pause. That one movement turned into a string of twitches and flinches away from what was coming, not allowing Hyrule to continue. “Cap!”

Wars quickly slung his left leg over the top of Twi’s thigh, hooking his heel with the back of the knee, trapping the leg down as best he could. Resuming with the arrow, Twilight went rigid again, making the Captain work hard against the ungodly strength of his brother in arms. He just kept praying that Twilight would pass out from the pain.

“Warriors w-” Hyrule started, but was cut off.

“Keep the pressure right there.” The arrow, to his horror, was sharp enough to get through the skin and half the muscles, but it was too dull to push out the other side, catching on only the skin from the inside.

Warriors had to swallow down the bile that rose in his throat when he saw the arrow pushing out the other side, skin not giving way to the triangular blade under it. Instinctively he pulled his knife from his belt, moved his right arm to under Twilight’s chin to move his head from the sight and cut the sensitive skin holding the arrow back. The squelching sound of the first few inches of the arrow finally passing through was a sound that made Hyrule look how Warriors felt.

Twilight let out a final scream before his whole body went still, hands falling limply into his own lap, eyes closed, jaw laxed. He finally had enough, brain taking over to shut his body down.

Warriors laid the now out hero’s head back onto his upper chest, taking the wood from between his teeth and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “He’s going to be out for a while. Go ahead and break the back end of the arrow and pull out the rest. Then we can get him cleaned up.”

Hyrule placed both hands on the open wounds to pour magic into them; stitching the muscle, veins and skin to how it had been just that morning. If only his pant leg would work the same way with the magic. Warriors would ask the Vet to do it since he seemed to be the best out of all them to do patchwork. In no time Twilight's leg was healed, small scars left behind.

Looking at the Traveler, Warriors noticed the teen’s hands shaking. “Hey, you did great.” Big teary eyes looked at him. Oh, oh dear … Legend was going to kill him for adding more trauma to his successor. “Come here, it's okay.”

Hyrule took out his waterskin, washed off his hands, then dove into Warriors side. He held onto a section of Twi’s sleeve, watching him sleep looking tired his own self. “We only just got him back. This was too soon.”

Sighing, the Captain agreed and continued to run his fingers through the dark hair like he had before, easing his own nerves.

The silence was interrupted with a groan. “Time is going to kill us.”

“Ooh no, no. Malon is going to kill us and Time.”

#ao3 writer #febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump #hero of twilight #hero of warriors #hero of hyrule #linked universe

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aquietwritingcorner · 1 year

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Fever

Title: Fever Day: Febuwhump 2023 Day 11: Fever Fandom: TMNT 2003 Word Count: 5458 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: K/G Characters: Splinter, Raphael Warning: Mentions of throwing up Summary: With three of his four young sons sick, and dwindling supplies, Splinter is tired, worried, and overworked. Thankfully, Raphael is more than willing to help his father take care of his brothers—and he doesn’t want to let his father down. Notes: The turtle tots here are definitely older than in Fathers and Sons, but not yet as old as they were in the flashbacks of Tales of Leo. I’m thinking, idk, somewhere between seven and eight maybe? Not gonna lie, part of this was inspired by a little girl in my classroom who had a fever, but had no one to come pick her up and so sat there silently crying at her desk and my heart broke because I could do absolutely nothing about it. Also, no joke, if you work with kids, you will learn to narrate how you’re thinking and it’s a hard habit to break. I’m constantly finding myself explaining what I’m doing to absolutely no one that needs to know just because teaching. Additionally, the book that Raph reads from is an older chapter book called Shadow Castle by Marian Cockrell. Like, copyright 1945 and it says that a single copy cost forty-five cents old. I read it as a child, because I think my mother had read it. It’s not something most people wouldn’t look twice at nowadays, and I can see it being a book that got left behind and Splinter picked it up as something for his boys to read. ff.net || AO3

_______________________________________

Fever

Splinter sighed as he wrung out another cloth and laid it across little Michelangelo’s forehead. The small turtle coughed and whined, curling into Splinter’s touch. Splinter rubbed the back of his son’s shell, hoping that he could give him some comfort. Fortunately, Michelangelo was quick to drop into sleep this time, as his tired body pulled him into more healing sleep. Splinter carefully extracted himself from the turtle’s surprisingly strong grip and pulled the blankets up around him. He let out another quiet sigh and stood.

It wasn’t unusual for his sons to catch something in the winter. They were young, living in a sewer and, Splinter assumed, at least, cold blooded. It was honestly more surprising that they didn’t get sick more often.

Another cough caught his attention. Donatello. Splinter turned to go check on that son, although he stopped in surprise as he saw Raphael standing by the ladder that would take him up to his brother’s bed, a wet rag in his hand.

“Raphael, what are you doing?” Splinter asked him.

Raphael turned serious eyes on him. “Helpin’,” he said, in his young, high-pitched voice. His eyes were serious, though. “Donnie’s coughin’. You were with Mikey. I thought I could help.” He didn’t take his earnest, serious eyes off of Splinter. “Leo’s prob’ly gonna need ya too.”

“Leonardo is on the lower bunk,” Splinter said, curious as to his son’s reasoning when it came to which brother he was going to help. “It would be easier for you to reach him.”

Raphael shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m used t’ climbin’ and ‘sides, Leo looks like he’s gonna need the bucket soon and that’s gross.”

Splinter’s attention immediately redirected to Leonardo who, indeed, was curled around his stomach, a distressed look on his face that Splinter well recognized. Leaving Raphael to tend to Donatello, Splinter immediately refocused his attention on Leonardo, quickly grabbing the bucket. In short order, his serious son was leaned over the bucket, heaving as his body seemed intent on rejecting food he hadn’t even been able to eat. Splinter rubbed Leonardo’s shell, muttering words of comfort to his son as he cried and his body shook with the force of throwing up.

He all but ignored Raphael tending to Donatello, grateful to his protective son for caring for his brothers. He even went over to Michelangelo when he began to stir, calming his brother down while Splinter tended to Leonardo.

He would have to make sure to let his son know how much he appreciated his help when this was all over.

Most of the time his sons took turns being sick, usually being bundled up and taken into his sleeping area in a usually fruitless attempt to keep the others from getting sick. This time, three of his four had decided to get sick at the same time. It had started with his sons feeling cold, having a headache, a sore throat, and an unsettled stomach, and then quickly progressed to a fever, coughs, vomiting. It hit them hard and fast, and it left Splinter scrambling to keep up with it.

“Here, my son,” Splinter said as Leonardo finally seemed to be finished. “Lay back, rest.”

Leonardo sniffed and clung to Splinter. The old rat allowed him to do so for a moment, just long enough to calm down the young turtle. He rubbed his shell and, when he felt the grip on him relax, leaned him back in his bed, propped as best he could on the thin, worn pillows that Splinter had scrounged for them. Splinter reached for the bottle of anti-nausea medicine that he had sitting nearby, shaking out one of the very few pills that were left in it.

“My son, take this,” he said.

Leonardo whined and turned his head away from the pill. Splinter sighed.

“Leonardo, please.”

“Don’t wanna,” Leo’s scratchy voice came back. “’M tired of throwin’ up pills.”

Splinter softened a little. “I know, my son. But we must try. You need to be able to drink and eat. This should help.”

Leonardo whined again, but reluctantly did was Splinter asked him to do. Splinter gave him a little more comfort before laying him back and turning his attention to the other sick turtles.

Donatello was whimpering again, holding tightly to what Splinter recognized as the stuffed bear that Raphael had long ago claimed. His eyes were glassy and dull, small tears in the corners of them, and peeking out from under the blankets.

“My son?” Splinter said. “How do you feel?”

Donatello clutched the bear closer. “Hot,” he said, his voice very small, “Head hurts.”

It was unlike his intelligent son to use so few words, or to stay buried under blankets when he was hot. He only did that when his head was hurting him very badly. Splinter looked at the clock. Donatello could have more medicine if he needed it.

“May I feel your head, my son?” Splinter asked. Donatello whimpered, but loosened the grip he had on the blankets, allowing Splinter room to feel his forehead. As he feared, Donatello was warmer than he should be. Even the cloth Raphael had put on his forehead was now warm. “Your fever has gone back up. I will get you some more medicine and a cool rag.”

Donatello nodded, and then retreated back into his blankets when Splinter’s hand left. The medicine was easy enough for Splinter to find, but the bowl was nowhere to be found.

“Odd,” he said, half to himself, and half because he had gotten used to narrating his thoughts to his four small children. “Where is the bowl?”

“Here, Mas’er Splin’er.”

Splinter turned to look and saw Raphael carrying the bowl full of water.

“It’d gotten all warm, so I got some more,” the small child explained. “I got some more rags, too, ‘cause Donnie and Mikey’s felt all hot.” He glanced at Leonardo as he sat the bowl down. “I dunno ‘bout Leo’s.”

Yes, Splinter was definitely grateful to his son. “Good job, my son. Thank you so much for your help in caring for your brothers. It has been most needed.”

Raphael straightened and practically glowed under the praise. “What else can I do?” he asked.

“I must give Donatello some medicine. While I am doing that, will you please take these old dishes to the kitchen?” Splinter asked him.

Raphael nodded, and Splinter returned his attention to Donatello. He was a little more cooperative about taking the medicine that Leonardo had been, but it was clear that he wasn’t happy about having to take it. Splinter couldn’t blame him. The pills were a bit hard to swallow. He allowed his son to bury himself back under the blankets again, adding one more to help cut down on some of the light.

From there, Splinter turned his attention back to Michelangelo. The small turtle was still asleep, but Splinter could see his skin becoming more flushed. With a sigh, Splinter reached for more of the fever reducers, and doing his best to rouse his sleepy son, got him to swallow another pill.

Raphael had been slowly clearing away the dishes while Splinter did that, apparently taking his time to make sure that none of their dishes got damaged. Splinter would go wash them later. In the meantime, Splinter looked at his meager supplies of medicines. If this kept up, he would run out soon. He’d need to go get more.

Splinter looked at his three sick sons. They should sleep for a while now. He was loathe to leave Raphael alone with them, but Splinter wasn’t sure there was another choice. Some more soup or clear liquids would be good for them as well. Perhaps he could go to one of the small corner stores that didn’t usually ask too many questions. He would scavenge food from many places, but he did not trust the medicines he found on the streets. Splinter sighed and stood up, feeling the weight of caring for three sick sons settle on his shoulders.

Still, he had one more son to check on first. Splinter looked around for Raphael, spotting him in front of the television, a blanket wrapped around him. Splinter frowned a little. He had been so eager to help before. Perhaps he was just tired. Splinter certainly was.

“My son?” Splinter asked as he approached him.

“Hm?” Raphael looked up at him, rubbing an eye. Splinter could see now that he had a glass of water with him, and his blanket was tied like a cape, similar to the superhero that was on the television screen. Splinter felt a bit of relief. Not cold, then, just acting out his show.

Splinter smiled down at him. “My son, come. Would you like something to eat?”

“I took some of the lef’over crackers earlier,” Raphael said, looking a bit guilty. “I’d kinda like more.”

Splinter felt his heart twinge a little. Had it been so long since he had fed his one healthy son? It was likely. “Do not feel bad about that, Raphael. It was fine for you to feed yourself. But come now, and you can help me make some more soup.”

Raphael seemed to consider that, then held up his arms to Splinter. Splinter couldn’t help but give into it, and lifted his son up, tired though he was. The little turtle immediately nuzzled into Splinter, and Splinter felt a little guilty. Had he been unintentionally ignoring this son? He’d have to take steps to rectify that.

He took Raphael to the kitchen with him, where Splinter worked on heating the meager soup that they had, his motions slow with fatigue. In truth, he and Raphael could have eaten something more substantial, but Splinter was simply too tired to try to fix anything else.

Raphael sat at the table while Splinter cooked, being quiet and playing with a couple of the toys that they boys had. Normally his games were loud and filled with his toys having battles together, but at the moment, he was keeping his game quiet, seemingly distracted by his brothers’ sickness, as he kept glancing back towards them. Raphael was often the loudest and most brash of his sons, but Splinter knew about the caring heart and protective nature he also held, and his own heart softened a bit at seeing this side of his son.

Soon enough, the soup was fixed, and he put a bowl in front of Raphael, setting one down for himself too. He hadn’t heard any movement from his other sons. He’d let himself and Raphael eat, and then he’d stake some to his other sons. Leonardo would likely refuse to eat anything, and Splinter would have to try to coax him into even trying a little of the broth. Michelangelo would want Splinter to feed it to him. Donatello could easily go either way, depending on his mood, but chances were if Splinter left it within his reach, his son would eventually eat it on his own.

For a moment, Splinter closed his eyes, relishing in the relative quiet and the lack of demands on his attention. He was so very tired, and the silence was nice. Although it was a little too quiet. Splinter suddenly realized that Raphael had stopped eating and opened his eyes to see his son staring intently at his bowl, his brow furrowed.

“My son? Is something wrong?” he asked, praying that Raphael wasn’t about to be sick all over the table.

Raphael looked up at him, his face turning a little red, as if he had gotten caught thinking about something he wasn’t quite ready to share. He glanced toward the cabinet where Splinter kept what dry goods he could manage to find. It was, unfortunately, heading towards empty. “What are the others gonna eat?” he asked. “’s not much left. Donnie said somethin’ ‘bout sick people needin’ lotsa nursh… nuroshan… nurshamament…”

“Nourishment?” Splinter tried.

Raphael’s head bobbed. “Yeah, nour’shment when they were sick. He said that was food. But… we don’t gots a lot left.” He looked at his bowl. “Can I give some ‘a mine to them?”

Splinter’s heart both broke and warmed at this. It warmed, because Raphael wanted to help his brothers so badly. It broke, because his son was aware enough to be concerned about their food. Splinter understood that, had they been normal animals, this would have been a typical thing to be worried about. However, after seeing so many human children who did not have to worry about such things, whose parents took that worry as their own and left their children without it, Splinter wished that he could give his sons that same security.

However, that was something for him to deal with later. Instead, he reached across the table and put a hand on the side of Raphael’s still red face. “Oh, my son. That is a very noble thing that you wish to do,” and something he, himself, had done for his sons before. “However, there is enough here for your brothers to also have something to eat.”

Raphael looked at his father with earnest eyes. “What if I have lef’overs?”

“Then I will add them to the supply we have for your brothers,” Splinter said. “But only if you promise me that you eat your fill first.”

Raphael looked at him, looked at his bowl, and glanced back in the direction of his brothers. “Okay,” he said simply.

Splinter caressed his son’s cheek with his thumb, and then pulled his hand away, allowing Raphael to start eating again. As he predicted, Raphael did leave soup in his bowl, claiming that he was full, and Splinter did not try to push it. Raphael could be stubborn when he wanted to be and, while Splinter did not want to encourage self-sacrifice for the sake of his brothers, he also wanted to encourage Raphael thinking about his brothers and trying to help them.

While Splinter prepared three cups of soup, Raphael wandered back towards his brothers, checking in on them. He could hear Raphael talking to Michelangelo, comforting Leonardo, and climbing the bunkbed to check on Donatello.

Splinter brought the three cups into the sleeping area, sitting them on the nightstand. Raphael was still up on the bunkbed with Donatello, and Splinter passed him one of the cups. “See if you can get your brother to eat any of this,” he said.

Raphael nodded, and immediately started to try to coax Donnie to eat some of it, poking around the blankets. “Hey. Hey Donnie. I gots ya some soup.”

“Mmm… my head hurts, Raphie.”

“Didn’t ya tell me that food can help that?”

“…yes.”

“Then come eat some!”

There was a groan, but Splinter could hear the rustle of blankets being pulled back. Donatello was in good hands. Splinter could turn his attention to his other two sons. Leonardo, predictable, did not want to eat any of it. Splinter managed to get him to eat a few bites of broth, but when his son outright refused more, Splinter relented, not wanting his son to throw up the little he had managed to keep down. Michelangelo wanted Splinter to hold him, and feed him his soup. Normally, Splinter would have refused, but his normally active son was so lethargic that Splinter fed him anyway. Michelangelo ate all of his soup, and by the time he was finished, Raphael had managed to get Donatello to eat about half of his cup before the turtle had disappeared under his blankets again. Splinter helped Raphael down, and then they both took the cups and the remaining soup back to the kitchen.

Splinter sent Raphael off to play, telling him that, if he wished to, he could watch more television, while Splinter took the time to go over the supplies that they had.

It was not looking good.

They had two cans of soup left. Neither were the best for upset stomachs, being more hearty and having less broth. He was out of rice and out of pasta. He had a bag of beans that he might could stretch, but even that wouldn’t last long. The medications were quickly running out as well. There were, maybe, four doses left of the fever reducer, and with three sick turtles, that would only last one more round. Likewise, he had two pills of the anti-nausea medicine left. He could half them or even quarter them and hope it was enough, but it wouldn’t last long, especially if even one of the other started being as nauseous as Leonardo was.

There was no way around it. He would have to go on a supply run.

He glanced out of the kitchen area and over to the sleeping area. Raphael had pushed the couch that sat in front of the television aside, making it visible from the beds. Michelangelo was still asleep, but Raphael sat on Leonardo’s bed, his arm holding the now upright turtle against him as they watched some action cartoon. Donatello was still a huddled lump under his blankets, and Splinter was fairly sure that he was asleep.

Splinter did not want to do it, but if they were to have the supplies they needed, then he would have to leave Raphael in charge here, looking after his brothers, while he made a supply run.

The boys would be due for another dose of medicine soon. He would go after that. It would be dark enough, but there would still be places open. He would prepare everything that Raphael might need while he was gone, and he would be as quick as he could. It was not an ideal plan, but it was the best that he had.

Plan in mind, Splinter sat about readying everything, keeping an eye on the clock. When the time came, he gave his sons their medicine, and then drew Raphael aside.

His son had taken off his mask at this point, and rubbed at his eyes. Perhaps he had been watching too much television. Splinter sat that aside. That was a problem for another moment.

“Raphael,” Splinter said. “You have been very helpful to me while your brothers have been sick. Your care for them has allowed me to be able to care for all of them better. But now I need you to do more.”

Raphael stopped rubbing his eyes and stood up straighter. “Yes, sensei?” he asked, responding like they were in training.

Splinter couldn’t help the faint smile that graced his muzzle. His caring, protective little boy. The smile faded quickly, though. “You were right earlier when you noticed how low we were on food. We are also low on medications.”

Raphael looked agitated at that. “But how are they ‘possed t’ get better without medicine?”

Splinter squeezed Raphael’s shoulder. “I know, my son. That is why I am going to have to make a supply run. And, as you are the only one not ill, I will have to leave you in charge of looking after your brothers.”

Raphael’s eyes got wide. “Me?” he said.

Splinter nodded. “Yes. You know how to use he rags to cool off your brothers. You can fill the bowl and carry it. You know how to get them drinks and I have left the soup out, in case they want more. Do not attempt to heat it, my son,” he said in warning.

Raphael nodded. “Yes, Sensei.”

Splinter continued. “You know how to get the bucket, and you can set it aside for me to take care of when I return. You are good at caring for your brothers, Raphael. Can I trust you with this, my son?”

Raphael squared his little shoulders, and jutted his chin out. “I’ll take care of ‘em!” he declared. “And if… if anyone tries ‘t come in, I’ll fight ‘em off too!”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Splinter said. He glanced at the clock. “Your brothers are sleeping. I will return as soon as I can. I must go now.”

Raphael nodded, and Splinter gave his shoulder one last squeeze before he turned to gather his bag. He headed toward the entrance, and looked back once, seeing his brave son standing in the middle of their lair, feet planted, determination written all over his young face. Splinter wasn’t sure if he caught the slight shine of tears in his son’s face, but he knew that, if they were there, it would change nothing about Raphael’s determination, nor about what had to be done. With one last look at the lair, and one last prayer to the ancestors to watch over his sons, Splinter headed out.

Normally, Splinter did his best to avoid stealing. He took old things, thrown out things, leftover things, whatever he could find. He took advantage of free giveaways, turned in bottles and whatever else he could for money, and kept every piece of change or money that came their way. Occasionally, when he was on the surface, he found himself stopping a mugger or someone else up to something bad and usually took their money, but that didn’t happen often.

Today, however, was different. He had precious little money at the moment, and he had a great need. He wasn’t going to steal for himself, but for his sons? He’d do anything he had to. The small corner shop he had targeted tonight was one that was not up to the best standards. It was dingy, there was often at least one light that didn’t work, and the cashiers were usually fairly apathetic. It would suit his needs well.

He darted in when someone else entered the shop, not completely hiding his presence, although his clothes were concealing, acting like one of the homeless that often wandered about shops like this. He “shopped” around, slipping medicine and whatever else he could into his clothes. The soup cans were a bit harder, but he managed to smuggle a few into his bag, and then slipped out before he was noticed.

The soup was not enough, though, and so he carefully and quickly hit up a few other shops, taking what he needed. It was more than he would usually take in one go, but he didn’t want to have to leave his sons alone again, not while they were sick. Finally, he had what he thought was enough, and headed back down the sewers and towards home. All in all, he had been gone for a couple of hours, and it would be closer to three by the time he returned. He was anxious to get back to his sons.

As soon as he entered the lair, he sat his burdens down and went to check on his sons. Michelangelo and Raphael were on Leonardo’s bed now, a book in front of Raphael as he slowly read through it to his brothers.

“’I understand,’ said the dragon. He led her into the house and dis.. disap-pear..”

“Disappeared,” came Donatello’s muffled voice.

“Disappeared,” Raphael continued without missing a beat, “through a doorway s…sons..ee..ah..led… k-konsee-ah—”

“Concealed.”

“Concealed by hangin’s. In a few minutes he came back wit’ a silver dish piled high with strange… luh-s-ii-oh-uhs..

“Luscious.”

“Luscious fruit and tall silver g-gob..lets… goblets frosted from the cold l-liquid they held.”

Raphael was towards the end of the book, with maybe a fifth of it to go, and Splinter wondered just how long he had been reading to his brothers, especially, when he turned to cough and clear his throat.

“I see everything is going well, my sons,” Splinter said.

Raphael’s head turned towards him, as did Michelangelo’s. Leonardo’s head shifted, but he stayed curled against Raphael’s side. The covered lump that was Donatello simply shifted a bit.

“Sensei, yer back!” Raphael said, then coughed. He made a face, and Leonardo handed him a cup of water that he was holding onto. Raphael took it, took a drink, and handed it back.

“Yes, I am,” Splinter chuckled. “Has anything happened while I was gone?”

“Leo threw up again,” Raphael said, pointing to the bucket. “’nd I’ve been keepin’ cold rags on their heads! I got more water too.”

“Very good, Raphael,” Splinter said. “If you are all fine, please continue reading while I put away what I have gotten.”

Raphael nodded his head, and his brother settled in around him as he started reading the book again.

“The fruit was de..deh-lie-k… deh-lie-s—”

“Delicious.”

“Delicious, like nothing Meria had ever tasted. The goblets were filled with ice-cold neck-tar,”

“Nectar.”

“Nectar and the moment she drank of it all her wear…wear-i… weariness d-disappeared, and she felt as fresh as though she had not just taken a five-hour ride on horseback.”

Splinter let their story fade into the background as he went into the kitchen to put away the food. It was a good haul, and he only felt marginally bad about having stolen most of it. He was, however, exhausted, and he hoped that he would be able to get a full night’s rest. With three sick children, though, he knew it was unlikely. He took a minute for himself in the kitchen, just to gather his strength again, and headed out to check on his sons.

Raphael had done an admirable job caring for his brothers, and Splinter took care of anything that he hadn’t been able to. Once that was done, he had settled on Michelangelo’s bed, taking the book and finishing it out for the boys. By that time, they had all grown sleepy, even Raphael, and Splinter took the time to tuck them into bed. Then, weary himself, he made his way towards his sleeping area. Truthfully, he would have liked a cup of tea, but he was exhausted, and sleep was far more alluring. He laid down and hoped that he could get a decent amount of sleep before one of his sons woke him up.

Splinter wasn’t sure how long he was asleep for before a crash woke him up. Snapping awake, he stayed still, waiting to hear more sound. The sound of sniffling, of a child’s tears met his ears, and in a moment he was up and heading towards his sons.

Three of the four were in bed, although Splinter could see Leonardo peeking out around his blankets. About halfway between the kitchen and the sleeping area, Raphael stood, a broken bowl and water at his feet, the water soaking into the blanket he had around him. His son was obviously crying, although it was quietly.

“My son?” Splinter said, swooping in front of him and looking him over. “My son, are you alright?”

Raphael looked at him—and burst into tears.

Splinter scooped him up, wet blanket and all, and held him close. “My son, what is the matter? What is—”

Oh. Oh, Splinter suddenly understood.

Heat was radiating off of Raphael, and the little turtle was coughing in between sobs. Splinter held him closer, and Raphael buried his head in Splinter’s shoulder. Little hands gripped his robe and his fur, holding tightly to his father.

Splinter made his way over to the living area, to a chair that he could sit the both of them in. Raphael curled up in his lap, still clinging, still crying. Splinter rocked him until his son had calmed down some.

“My son,” he said gently. “Why were you up?”

Raphael sniffed. “… was hot,” he said. “Jus’ wanted ‘t get some more water ‘t cool down.” He paused, “Leo’s hot too. I wanted t’ get him some.”

Splinter’s heart ached. “My son, you could have simply come to me,” he said. “I would have gladly gotten the water for you.”

Raphael shook his head, and then seemed to regret it, laying his head back on his father’s chest. “Nuh-uh,” he said. “’Cause I c’n help. I’m good at it. You need m’ help, ‘n I’m not sick, so I should help!”

Splinter’s heart broke a little. Had he put this pressure on Raphael? He had praised the boy for being so helpful and looking after his brothers. Had his own fatigue been that obvious? He thought back to all of the sighing, to the moments he paused to close his eyes and tried to rest and wondered just how much of that Raphael had seen.

“Raphael,” he said. “It is my job to take care of you, not for you to take care of me.”

Raphael was never one to stay quiet for long, his passionate nature coming through at all times. This was no different. “But I had ‘t help!” he burst out, his sobs turning into hiccupping things. “’s why I couldn’t get sick! ‘Cause we gotta take care ‘a each other! I didn’t wanna… I-I didn’t wanna—”

Splinter held his son closer to him, rocking him, his heart breaking a little more. How long had his son been sick and he hadn’t noticed? He thought back over the day, at the rubbing of his eyes, of the small coughs, at the sleepiness and not finishing all of his soup, at the blanket around him, at wanting to be held, the quiet play, and his warm face—warm not from embarrassment, but from fever and Splinter had been too tired to even realize it.

Raphael buried his head in Splinter again, his sobs having quieted to silent tears.

“...hurts...” he said softly, and Splinter’s heart shattered.

He had ignored his son getting sick. He had not noticed the signs. He had put pressure on him to ignore his own illness and instead help his family. And now his passionate, caring, protective son was curled up in his lap, hurting.

His guilt threatened to drown him, but Splinter pushed it back. “I know, my son,” he said quietly. “Some medicine will help. Do you think you can take some?”

Raphael’s head nodded, and Splinter stood with him, heading towards the kitchen.

“I am sorry, my son,” he said quietly as they moved. He could feel Raphael still, as if he was trying to understand what Splinter was saying. “I should not have made you feel as if you couldn’t be sick. I want you to tell me if you are feeling bad, even if it is inconvenient. I would rather know so that we can treat it, then for you to continue helping me and fall even more ill.” He found the bottle of fever reducers and opened it up. “Do you understand, Raphael?”

Raphael sniffed, but nodded, and compliantly let Splinter feed him the medicine and drank a glass of water. When he was sure that Raphael was going to keep it down, Splinter carried him back towards the sleeping area, intent on putting him into his bed. However, before he could do that, Leonardo’s arms came out from under his blankets and made grabby hands toward Raphael.

“You want Raphael to sleep with you?” Splinter asked. Leonardo nodded, and Splinter looked back at Raphael, who still had tears leaking out of his eyes. “Is that alright with you, Raphael?”

Raphael nodded, and Splinter placed him in the bed with Leonardo. Leonardo almost immediately put his arms around Raphael, and Raphael let him, curling into his brother.

“If anything is needed, let me know,” Splinter told the boys.

“We will,” Leonardo said softly.

Splinter went back to the place where Raphael had dropped the bowl, intent on cleaning it up tonight. He heard movement while he worked, and was not the least bit surprised when, after he finished cleaning up the mess and went to take a new bowl of water back towards them, Michelangelo had joined his brothers in the bed, curling up against Raphael’s other side. Splinter smiled at them, left the bowl there, and, after a few more minutes of making sure everything was alright, went back to sleep.

He did not sleep long, worry waking him within a few hours. But he found that he hadn’t of needed to worry. By that point, not only were Leonardo and Michelangelo sandwiching Raphael between them, a still-blanket-covered Donatello had joined them, curled up above their heads, one exposed hand resting on the now-warm cloth on Raphael’s head.

Splinter was still tired. He was still exhausted. But at least he knew that his sons would look out for each other. And in the future, he would be more careful not to put too many expectations on his sons.

He sat down on Michelangelo’s bed and let out a contented sigh. Perhaps here, in the presence of his sons, would be a good place to do his morning meditation. And if they broke him out of it, so be it. He’d put his sons before everything.

#febuwhump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday11 #tmnt #tmnt 2003 #tmnt Splinter #tmnt raphael #tmnt turtle tots #tmnt 2k3 #tmnt fanfic #tmnt fan fiction #tmnt 2003 fan fiction #tmnt 2k3 fan fiction

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walker-extended-universe · 3 months

Text

Just Leave Me Be

Relationship(s): Trey Barnett/Geri Broussard

Tags/Warnings: Pregnancy, Difficult Pregnancy, Medical Conditions, Insecurity, Stubborn Geri, Communication, Healthy Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Geri's pregnant and having a hard time adjusting to being on bedrest. Trey tries to help.

Written for @febuwhump alt prompt 2: "I love you."

Taglist: @theladywyn, @ihavepointysticks, @klaatu51, @itsjessiegirl1, @neptunium134

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“Do you need anything before I go?” Trey asked, hovering nervously in the doorway to the bedroom.

Geri smiled and shook her head. “I’m fine. If I need anything else I’ll just-”

“You’ll call me.”

Geri rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to call you to get an extra water bottle or pack of goldfish.” Not that Trey hadn’t already packed a small army’s worth of food into the bedroom, including a new mini-fridge for his prepped meals.

“Babe, being on bedrest is no joke. James will understand-”

“For God’s sake Trey! I’m pregnant, not paralyzed!” Geri snapped. “I don’t need all this- This coddling and babying. I can take care of myself while you’re at your very important job.”

“I know that,” Trey said softly. “I just…. I worry about you. And the baby. You know what the doctor said….”

She knew. Of course she knew. She knew her pregnancy was risky, not only because of her age but because of her heart condition. On top of that, she was having a difficult pregnancy with intense morning sickness and scary abdominal pains. That was why her doctor put her on bedrest despite only being in the second trimester of her pregnancy.

She knew Trey worried. She worried too. And normally she was happy to have Trey fuss over her.

Maybe it was her hormones or maybe she was lashing out because of her own worries, but lately his fussing had started feeling stifling. Anytime she left the room for more than two seconds, he was looking for her. He was always asking her if she needed anything or if she wanted a foot rub and she knew he didn't mean anything bad by it but-

But she knew he’d been using up his days off to look after her and she felt bad enough asking Colton to look after the Side Step (with Liam and Stella’s help).

She needed some space. She needed some time alone. She needed to not feel like such a burden.

“Hey, come on, don’t shut me out like that.” Suddenly, Trey was at her side on the bed, wiping away tears she hadn’t realized were spilling. “What’s going on, Geri? Talk to me.”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing. You should go; you’re gonna be late and-”

“And James will understand. Talk to me; I’m not leaving until you do.”

Geri sighed. “It’s not- I’m not- I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.”

“I-I’ve always been able to take care of myself. I’ve never really needed someone else before. And…. I don’t know, I’ve always been proud of that. Whenever Hoyt would leave me high and dry, I’d just move on. Whenever Cordi didn’t have time for me, it wasn’t a big deal. I was always just… I could deal with it.”

“But now you feel like you can’t just deal with it and that scares you?”

Geri nodded silently. She swore Trey could read her mind sometimes. “A little. But, it’s also…. I don’t want to…. I don’t want to burden you.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” Trey pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “You’re not a burden. I mean, maybe you are in the technical ‘dictionary definition’ sense of the word but you- and our baby- are a burden I’m more than happy to carry. And you shouldn’t be ashamed of needing help from your future husband.”

“I know that. Logically, I know that. Emotionally….” She sighed. “I’m just…. I’m scared.”

“And that’s okay. That’s what I’m here for. And so are Walker and Cassie and James and Abby- we’re all here for you. And there’s nothing wrong with needing a little help or reassurance.”

“I know. I’m just- Still getting used to all this.”

“And that’s okay too.” Trey kissed her softly. “Do you want me to stay home today?”

She shook her head. “No. You need to go to work. I’ll be okay on my own for a few hours. And if I really need anything…. I’ll call you.”

Trey smiled. “That’s my girl. I’ll come by for lunch, okay?”

She smiled. “Yeah, okay.”

He kissed her again and got up to leave. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said as he was putting on his hat. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#febuwhump #walker #walker fic #walker fanfic #geri/trey #pregnancy tw #my writing #my fic

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spicywhumper · 3 months

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febuwhump 2024: day 28. "no... not like this" + femslash february bingo: dying whump

series: crimson history - war dog // rating: teen and up audiences

cw: implied mother-daughter stepcest, blood, characters death

It’s a trap, the Dog can almost smell itin the air.

It’s a trap, all of them gonna die.

It’s a trap, the Dog can do nothing to stop it from killing them.

But It can try.

The meeting was supposed to be some sort of peace negotiation, covens are often in minor wars against each others. The Dog doesn’t quite understood why Its Master wants peace, her coven has alwy been bloodlust and is currently crawling with trained warriors. Not to count the Dog’s own generation has some of the strongest magicians in centuries (the Dog included).

The coven could win any war it’s involved in the moment.

If the way Jocelyn’s the one making all the arguments and sounding quite passioante about it, the Dog imagines that it’s her idea. She doesn’t seem to like violence as much as most of their peers do. (It doesn’t make her care enough about the violence acted uppon us, does it?)

It hates that the muzzle presses against Its face and means that It isn’t allowed to talk with it on her face.

(It does’t fucking matter! All of you will die! Say Something!) A fellow member of the team frowns at the Dog as he notices Its stance changing. Jocelyn looks back, like she can tell something is happening behind her. She looks at the Dog up and down – it’s weird, her eyes always shine with pity and sadness, with hints of anger (but she still doesn’t do shit to save us). Her eyes are wide open, surprised.

It’s a relief, Jocelyn can tell something is wrong.

But it’s too late.

Every single fellow member of the team falls to their knees, screaming in pain. Blood pours from their mouth, nose, ears and eyes. The Dog thinks it’s also coming out from other holes. It can smell human waste, Killng helps sometimes, which means the Dog does knows how people will loose control of their bladders and bwowels – and considering the noises It can hear, pain doesn’t help them to not soil their clothes.

It’s messy and it’s gross.

The magic isn’t the darkest magic that it ever felt. Master has worst, darker magic in her (magic that she loves to use to hurt us). It takes some level of hold on Its body, dark cold fingers digging into the soft skin of Its organs, trying to pull them apart. Uh, it explains why people are throwing up blood between screams of pain.

The Dog is quite reisstant to apin, long steps and It reaches where Jocelyn is on her knee. She looks a little less worse than the others. With a smoth motion, the Dog picks her up and sprints out. Glad that the enemies think this one spell is enough to take down even the coven’s so estemeed attack dog.

It runs as far as It can, a few hundred of meters, before It kneels and let Jocelyn lay on her back. Jocelyn’s still concious, writhing in pain. She reaches up for Dog’s muzzle.

“No… not like this,” she says, blood staining her teeth and her lips. “Jessica, please.”

Her fingers pull at the muzzle, Jessica hates that she doesn’t know healing enough. (Hates that she can tell there’s nothing anyone can do, the damage was catastrophic enoug.) She unbuckles the muzzle.

“Mom,” she whispers. She can feel it, she can feel how Jocelyn’s more dead than alive. “I- don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do this, you can’t leave me alone with her. Don’t leave me, mom, please don’t leave me.”

She leans down, her forehead pressed against herstomach. Mom’s hand is warm on the back of her neck: “I’m sorry, baby girl, I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

The whole situation has felt like a trap since they arrived.

She hates it.

It was easy to grown bitter – you’re the child here, someone tells her in the future, you’re the victim. You’re allowed to be bitter. Apologzing is fine, she still faild you. Joan has fed her anger, it’s easy to be angry at everything, at everyone.

Angry at an apology.

She hates that voice in the back of her mind that won’t let her forget that Jocelyn shouldn’t need to apologize, shouldn’t have let Joan put her hands on her. She did, now she’s dying and is apologizing.

And Jessica hates that she can’t forgive her, truly forgive her.

She hates that she all she can do is let the dying woman comfort her. (Comfort her like she hasn’t in what feels like a lifetime – it’s a lifetime longer than what Jessica has before Joan sunk her claws into her bones.)

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again.

Eels wrong. Jocelyn had been a respected member of the covensince she was old enough to start casting simple spells. A force to be reckoned with once she reached pubety. Expected to be Head Magician – arguably stronger than the actual Head Macgician. She gave birth to the strongest magician of her generation.

Still, I’m sorry are her last words.

(And they do nothing to make things better. Of course they don’t.

Jessica will carry her back to the coven.

Apologies, apologies, Jessica’a still Joan’s broken toy.)

#febuwhump 2024 #femslash feb bingo #whump #whump community #whump blog #whumpblr #lady whump #whump writing

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iztarshi · 1 year

Text

Febuwhump - Immortality

Fandom: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles/Girl Genius

Note: Turtles as Jägers

You sit on the pavement outside the Castle. There’s an awful lot of Jägers doing the exact same thing, bodies loose and exaggeratedly casual, games of cards being played on the pavement with the usual cheerful arguing reduced to a mutter. No one becomes a Jäger without riding with them first, which means everyone here has someone they know inside. Someone who might become a brother. Or they might not. You know the odds as well as any of them and the fact that the odds can be just as bad in battle doesn’t help at all. In battle you could do something, throw your body between Mikey and the enemy even if he yelled at you afterwards.

”Raph, you can’t fight my battles for me! Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

“Hy know dot, little man. Big man. But Hy em bigger und hyu is hundreds ov years younger.”

“Yeah, but I’m good at this. I’ve got the skills. I’ve got the flamethrower.” Mikey, not yet five feet, glares and you, going on for seven feet and covered in scales, cower back.

Leo laughs. “He’s got de intimidation factor too.”

Leo is lying on his back, hat over his eyes. He’d look relaxed if he wasn’t chewing his claws so hard he’s broken one. He’s not even complaining about his pretty scarlet claws being ruined and demanding glue.

You pull Leo’s claws away from his mouth and he pushes his hat back to glare. For a moment you think there’s going to be a fight. You’d almost welcome a way to release the tension except it’s the wrong moment, the wrong mood. All around you are other Jägers, also not fighting. Leo rolls onto his front instead and rests his chin on your thigh.

”Dot line needs to be higher,” Leo says.

“Shot op und stop micro-managing,” Donnie growls, painting a little higher with the ink. “Hy haff done this before.”

“Hyu vouldn’t know it,” Leo says.

“I think it looks fine,” Mikey says, smiling. The outline of a Jägersymbol is on his skin, just in ordinary ink right now but it’s ready to be tattooed.

Donnie picks up the needle and you say, “Did hyu clean it proper? Mikey iz human.”

“Hy sterilised it, yez,” Donnie says, rolling his eyes.

You watch as he pokes the needle again and again into Mikey’s skin. Mikey smiles and smiles through the process.

“Now hyu will be a brother forever,” Leo says. “Effen if hyu leave, get married, buy a house…”

That and not the pain makes Mikey scowl. “I’m not leaving.”

You fold a hand over his shoulder, careful of your claws. “But hyu’d still be our brother if hyu did. Hyu don’t need to do anyting to make dot true. Hyu ken liff hyu own life.”

“This is my own life,” Mikey says, firmly.

Donnie is scribbling something in a book. A quick peek over his shoulder reveals probability calculations, done over and over again. The answer always comes out to about one-in-ten.

You put an arm around his shoulder and pull him against your side, he leans into it with a grumble but the pencil keeps going. On the other side of you, Leo peeks up at him, before looking away again to lose himself in his own thoughts.

”He asked me!” Mikey shouts. “Master Saturnus asked me! I’m gonna be a Jäger!”

You freeze, all three of you freeze, and you should congratulate him. You understand the honour that has been done to him. You remember. Even if you had died then you would have died a Jäger, you would have died for the Master. But this is Mikey, little Mikey, who loots artworks instead of gold.

“There’s a moch higher chance hyu vill simply die,” Donnie blurts out. “Nine in ten pipple dun survive the Jägerdraught.”

“Not how I vould haff said it, but Donnie’s got a point,” Leo says. “Hy mean, congratulations and everyting, but are you really sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Mikey says. “You know how much I’ve wanted this. I’m gonna be like you guys.”

“Mikey,” you say. “Vot if hyu die?”

“I’m going to die anyway,” Mikey says. “Way before you do. Even if I live to be old you guys will still keep going after I’m gone and you’ll forget me the way you forget everyone who rides with you.”

“Not hyu,” Leo says, finding the words for all of you. “Ve could no more forget hyu than ve could a Heterodyne.”

Mikey reaches out and squeezes Leo’s arms. “You’re not going to forget me because I’m not going to die. I’m going to live forever and set the world on fire and I’m going to do it with you.”

When one of his hands lets go of Leo and reaches for you you wrap an arm around them both and pull Donnie in with the other.

The Doom Bell rings and the square goes from quiet to utter silence. Master Saturnus enters first, hair wild and stride loose with exhaustion, but still radiating energy and satisfaction.

Behind him come the survivors. Still mostly human looking, but stumbling with rearranged muscles under their skin. Grinning with still blunt teeth but grins sharp with something new.

Mikey stands among them.

You don’t know who moves first. Whether it was Leo, rolling from lying against you to standing in one swift movement. Whether it was Donnie, forgetting his notebook as he runs. Whether it was you, running, running, as the crowd around you surges forward in the same motion.

The three of you hit Mikey together and he goes down beneath you. He’s laughing, poking you between the ribs with newly-minted claws. He smells of sweat and pain and pack, the Dyne singing in his blood.

“I told you,” he says, wild and joyful. Then he laughs and says with mischief in his eyes. “Hy told hyu. Hy told hyu all.”

#crossover #rottmnt #girl genius #febuwhump

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ms-miserable-misery · 1 year

Text

Febuwhump 2023 - DAY 5: “that’s gonna scar”

The kid held his breath, cheeks puffing out, as the other boy pulled shards of glass out of his side. He did his best not to make any noise, not to cry, but soft whimpers slipped past his lips as hot tears slid down his flushed cheeks. He stared at the ceiling stubbornly, refusing to acknowledge the presence of the tears. After all, boys don’t cry.

Solo glanced over at the kid through the curtain of his bangs, a sad but tender smile twisting the corner of his lips. The poor chap. He was usually able to squirm his way out of any situation, but this time… Of all times for the kid’s luck to run out, it just had to be when dealing with a drunk, angry sick fuck who was completely focused on getting one thing.

Solo tried not to worry about the growing patches of red on the kid’s clothing. He had a nasty stab wound to his side where the john had managed to clock him with a beer bottle. The seat of his ratty pants also had a worrying stain. The kid was young, though. Hopefully he was too young to understand what had happened to him, too young for it to leave lasting damage.

A sharp cry fell unbidden from the kid’s lips as Solo extracted a particularly large and jagged piece of the bottle from his side. A fresh flow of blood ebbed from the rough edges of the wound.

“That’s gonna scar,” Solo muttered under his breath. He bit his lip, worried. That was a lot of blood. He was unsure if he knew enough to make this better. He was going to have to call in a favor.

The kid’s face was flushed bright red at this point, large tears streaming down his cheeks. He disobeyed Solo’s earlier command and looked down at his wound. Fear shone in his luminescent purple eyes as he looked back up into Solo’s face. His lips wobbled as he valiantly tried to hold his tears back, but he was only around five years old. There was only so much he could do. His face crumpled as he gave into his fear, soft hiccuping sobs growing in pitch and desperation by the second.

Feeling horrible about it, but having no choice if they were to survive, Solo clapped his blood-covered hand firmly over the Kid’s mouth, muffling his cries from any passerbys. They weren’t in a safe spot, huddled in the corner of an abandoned shop. There were no safe spots for street rats like them, no matter where they went, where they tried to hide. If they wanted to survive, they needed to stay tough, unseen, and silent, just like the rodents that they were named after.

“Shuddup, Kid,” Solo hissed gruffly. “I’m gonna leave ya here all alone if ya don’t. You’re gonna give away our position.” While he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the betrayed look in those soulful eyes, Solo had learned how to ignore the guilt ages ago, doing what needed to be done to survive. He nodded at the kid in approval and ruffled his long tangled hair gently when the sobs were immediately choked off into hiccuping gasps. The poor kid struggled to catch his breath through his snot filled nose.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he gasped in between wet, unsatisfying breaths. “Please, Solo, please don’t leave me. I’m scared. It hurts. Help me Solo, please…” His whole little body shook with the force of his repressed sobs, eyes and nose spilling fluids down his face, his expression of raw fear and desperation such that should never be on the face of a child that young.

Solo’s heart could only take so much before his resolve broke and he pulled the kid’s face into his shoulder, uncaring of the snot and tears that soaked into his threadbare shirt. He pet his hand over the matted hair, gently threading his fingers through the few inches near his shoulder blades that were relatively free of tangles. He was normally able to stay tough with the young ones in his gang, but something about this kid just made him want to hide him from all the ugliness in the world.

“I’m sorry, Kid,” he said soothingly. “But you know how it is out here. We all have to look out for ourselves or we won’t survive. You know that. You’ve seen that.” The little head just burrowed deeper into his shoulder, nearly nestling into his armpit in its eagerness to get closer. Solo pulled the little body into his lap, ignoring, for now, the patch of warm wetness that he could now feel on his thigh where the kid was seated. He rubbed gentle circles on the bony little back, rocking him back and forth until the little frame finally stopped shaking, only an occasional shudder going through the skeletal frame.

Solo sighed. At nine years old, he was more weary and tired than any child his age should ever be. He would have to strike some sort of deal with the shopkeeper and his wife so that he could get the kid the care that he needed. Something told him that anything would be worth it to keep his little street urchin alive.

“You’re going to be okay,” he lied to the kid, trying to convince himself as well. “You’ll make it through this.”

———

The corners of Duo’s eyes tensed, the only visible reaction as Heero poured alcohol over the deep slice in his side. He watched as Heero stitched him up and dressed the wound with some gauze. He could see the faded, barely visible scars littering his side from what felt like lifetimes ago, a permanent reminder of his first lesson into the ugliness of life. The corners of his lips twitched up in a sardonic smirk.

“That’s gonna scar.”

#febuwhump2023 #febuwhump #febuwhumpday5 #gundam wing #duo maxwell

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faofinn · 1 year

Text

DAY 24: bloody clothes

@febuwhump

This is related to this, possibly shiv's favourite ever piece we've written. Also! New character :)

The handover was quick and rushed, not much more to be said than already had been sent over. The crew hung around with him for a few minutes, trying to get him stabilised enough to get into theatre and survive it.

Harrison took a step back from duty after that, the crew and his officers recognising he needed the time. Granted it, he paced outside of theatre, back and forth, back and forth, until someone snapped at him and told him to go get washed. It was only then that he realised how absolutely covered in blood he was, most of it Fao's, but a lot of if from the pack. They'd used more than normal, and Harrison had done more than he should, but none of that mattered.

Fao was alive.

Harrison was numb as they transferred Fao, managing his handover and the slight bit more support the team needed before he was kicked from treating.

The adrenaline had faded by then, the harsh reality winding him and leaving him struggling to do anything.

He knew he couldn’t stop, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the theatre space, just in case Fao needed him. The only thing he could do then was pace, back and forward, chewing his lip until it bled. It didn’t matter though, already covered in blood, and none of it his.

It had long since dried, soaked through to his skin, when Marcus finally got free. As soon as he'd heard it was Fao, that Hars had gone out for medical, he'd hunted his partner out. He'd not expected the state of him, though he knew some of the extent of it.

"Hars."

He didn't listen, brushing past his shoulders and pacing the other way.

Marcus grabbed his shoulder. “Harrison.” His voice was firm.

"Get off me!" He snapped, whipping around. "Don't fucking touch me."

“Hey, come on now.” He said, unphased by his boyfriend‘s outburst. “Stop pacing, you’re going to wear the floor away.”

"I don't care."

“I know that’s a lie.” He said bluntly. “You can’t stay like this, you’re no use to anyone. You need a shower and to change.”

"I need to make sure he’s okay." His bravado faded quickly, his shoulders slumping. He couldn’t break, he just couldn’t.

“You’ve done your bit, they’ve got to do theirs now. You’re no help like this. So you’re going to shower, you’re going to change, and you can sit and wait for news. Okay?”

"I can't leave him." He glanced at the doors again. "I promised him I'd look after him."

“They’re looking after him now, it’s okay.” He said.

"But they're not me." He tried again, borderline begging. "I said I'd look after him."

“He needs their help now. It’s alright. You’ve done your job, he’s being looked after.”

"I can't leave him!"

“He’s in good hands.” Marcus said. “You’re not leaving him.”

"Marcus, please."

“I know, I know. But have you seen yourself?”

"I don't matter."

“You’re covered in blood.”

"It's not mine."

“Doesn’t make it any better.”

"A shower, then."

“Yeah. You need it, and some clean clothes.”

"It was Fao." He managed, grabbing at Marcus as his legs gave way.

“I know it was Fao. But he’d bollock you for not looking after yourself.” He said, gripping him tight. “Alright, alright. Let’s go.”

"I held his heart."

Marcus looped his arm around Harrison’s waist, shepherding him away from theatres. He spent a fair amount of time around here, despite it not being his job, and knew where he was going. Harrison’s quarters weren’t far, the showers nearby, and he grabbed some fresh fatigues on the way. He stopped outside the showers, his hands on Hars’ jacket.

“Look at me?”

He slowly raised his head, barely meeting his eyes.

“I’m gonna shove you in the shower, and it’s gonna suck, but it’s for the best, alright?”

"I really don't want one."

“I know, but you can’t stay like this.”

"I'll just get changed, I can’t."

“You need a shower, you’ve got blood literally everywhere. I’m not gonna hurt you, yeah?”

"Marcus, please."

“I know. I’m sorry, I really am, but you can’t stay like this.”

"Don't make me do this."

“I’m really sorry.” He said softly. “Don’t hate me, alright?”

"No, no, please."

Marcus sighed, reaching to turn the shower on. “It’ll be warm, it’s okay.”

He pushed against him. "No. Marcus, please."

“I’m sorry.” He said, undoing his jacket. “I’m really sorry.”

He'd descended into full blown begging, hands scrabbling at Marcus'. "Please, no."

“I know, I know.” Marcus said, catching his hands and squeezing them gently as he pushed his boyfriend under the water. He’d made sure it was warm, he wasn’t going to push Harrison even further, but he couldn’t get away without doing it.

"Please!" He pushed him, but there wasn't any strength behind it. He slipped and pitched forward, landing in Marcus' arms.

It was a struggle, and it broke Marcus’ heart to have to do this to his boyfriend. He spoke soothingly as he tried to clean the blood from Hars, but eventually the pair of them ended up on the floor, water running over them, circling red down the drain. Curled into him, Harrison sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, and it was all Marcus could do to tell him everything was going to be okay. The lie tasted bitter on his lips.

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tanushakyrano · 1 year

Text

febuwhump day 7: made to watch

characters: John, Virgil, Scott

additional warnings: injury

___________________

John watched Scott’s blood pressure steadily tick downwards and cursed.

Whatever had happened, Scott clearly wasn’t being honest with them. He needed help - and fast.

“Virgil, you need to go now. Things are worse than he’s letting on.”

“FAB, John.”

These were the moments where he absolutely hated his job. There was absolutely nothing he could do but sit there, watching Virgil's green icon steadily make its way towards Scott's blue, flashing worryingly. The feedback from his suit wasn't good. BP low and getting lower, heartbeat verging on erratic as it struggled to compensate for what he was guessing was pretty bad blood loss. Scott's shallow breaths echoed over the comms.

"Scott, are you- shit."

Virgil had found him.

"Thought I told you to…go help those people…"

“You’re lucky I don’t always listen to you.”

The sharp intake of breath as Virgil checked Scott over was like a needle through his eardrums. “Jesus, Scott. Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

It was bad. He’d known that already, but the confirmation sent ice and fire running through his veins all at once. Beside him, Eos’ camera flashed pale lilac with anxiety.

"Virgil, what's going on?" Tell me, please.

Virgil ignored him.

"Didn’t…want you to worry…”

“You idiot. Of course we’re gonna worry, it’s our job.”

“Sorry…”

“Hey, no, don’t." Virgil spoke tenderly, acres of emotion in every syllable. The threat of tears was audible. "It’s okay, Scott. You’re okay.”

Shaky, shallow breaths. A muffled sob.

“Virgil, tell me what’s happening,” John pleaded.

“He’s lost so much blood, John”. His brother inhaled sharply, voice unsteady. “I- I’ve gotta get him out of here…”

Virgil was panicking.

Of course he was; he had good reason to. Scott was bleeding out, and fast. It was terrifying. If the circumstances were any better, John would be freaking out himself. But Scott needed medical attention. They were in a race against the clock and in a competition against Fate, and they were going to have to fight like hell to win. They didn’t have time to panic.

“Virgil. Take a breath. You’ve got to get back to Two, quickly.,” John ordered him. He kept his voice carefully level, carefully firm. He needed to stay in control.

“Yeah, I know, I’m… I’m headed back.” Their icons began to move slowly on the holomap. John breathed a silent sigh of relief as he noted their location; Thunderbird Two was right outside their nearest exit. They could make it.

“You just need to head straight, okay? Two is right outside that door.”

“Yeah - yeah. Good. Thanks.”

Scott’s BP was still dropping.

The human body was so incredibly contradictory, John found himself thinking absently. The more blood you lost, the faster your heart beated. Logically, it made sense - the lower blood volume meant less oxygen was getting where it needed to be, and a faster heartrate increased blood circulation - but it also meant that the blood left the body faster. The function designed to save life would cause that same life to drain away faster with every passing second.

Scott’s heartrate was through the roof.

Halfway there. Virgil was halfway there. John’s fingers were itching with the impatient agony of having to sit and wait and do nothing. Time passed quickly and slowly in the same instant. Eos’ light interface dimmed nervously, the two of them simply watching with bated breath.

It was all up to Virgil now.

#cora writes #thunderbirds are go #john tracy #virgil tracy #scott tracy #whump #febuwhump23

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imaginesfordifferentfandoms · 2 years

Text

Not Getting Rid of Me

Click here for my masterlist.

Febuwhump Prompt - Black Eye

Prompt - ‘It's been a rough few days and nothing sounds better than falling asleep in your arms.’

The air around you was hot, too hot, to the point where you could feel the sweat dripping off you. The heat, it was never a good thing when mixed with exhaustion and today was no exception as you listened as the group argued amongst themselves, glancing back at you every so often as you sat with your hands cuffed to the chair.

“I’m tellin’ ya she knows ‘im.” One of the men insisted, pointing over at you like that would help make his point.

“Man, I’m tired of hearing your damn voice. We’ve been at this for two days, she ain’t saying shit and Castle ain’t comin’ for her.” Another said as he pushed against the first man's chest.

“You wanna do that again?” The first man said, stepping forward only to be shoved back by the man you assumed was in charge.

“Shut the hell up, the pair of ya,” He snapped before he walked over to you and squatted down. From here you could see the beads of sweat on his own forehead. “Now girly, we don’t wanna be hurting ya but the thing is Frank Castle hurt a lot of my men so now I gotta deal with that, you understand, right sweetheart?”

You licked your looks, raising an eyebrow at the man before you tilted your head back only to bring it smashing down against his seconds later, eyes scrunching in pain as you pulled away before you pried them open to see the man on the floor holding his bleeding nose.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that doll.” He warned you, spitting out a mouthful of blood as his friends helped him stand.

“Call me doll again and you’ll be the one regretting it.” You snarled, tugging against your restraints as you cursed the day you ever met Frank Castle whilst also begging for him to hurry up and find you.

“I like you, such a feisty thing ain’t ya? Too bad I gotta kill ya, slowly, painfully, coulda been nice, keepin’ ya around.” He said, brushing a strand of hair from your face causing you to lean back as far as you could with a glare. “Hell, I’ll make ya a deal, just tell me about the big, bag Punisher and I let you go.”

“I already told you,” You repeated for the twenty fifth time in the past two days, “I don’t know Frank Castle.”

“Ya expecting me to believe that, are ya? No, no, no, ya see I know ya lying to me, girly, my man said he saw Castle sneaking in and outta ya apartment, so no more bullshit now, alright? Just tell us where he is.” The man said and you didn’t even bother to respond, just shifted in your seat as you stared up at him, defiantly jutting your chin out causing him to grin.

“Ya really are a tough little thing, ain’t ya?” He told you before he swung his fist back and let it connect to your face, a pained cry leaving your lips as his brass knuckles connected with your cheek, cutting into the skin as blood leaked from the wounds.

“That was just a warning.” He told you before his fist hit your cheek once more as you desperately tried to blink back tears, face scrunched up in pain as you felt more blood pool around the cuts and slide down your cheeks.

Frank smashed the low life’s race against the brick wall before dragging him back using the strong grip he had on the guy's hair.

“I’m only gonna ask you this once more,” Frank murmured into his ear, “Who’s looking for me?”

The guy denied all knowledge once again and Frank grinned.

“Alright,” he said, pulling the guy's head back and getting ready to smash it against the wall again.

“Wait, wait, wait, maybe I know somethin’.” He said, causing Frank to pause just before his face connected with the wall. “Yeah, yeah, The Punisher right, s’what they’re callin’ you, yeah maybe some guys were talking bout you.”

“What guys?” Frank asked, losing his patience, two days of punching, shooting and killing people in this heat wave and he was still no closer to finding you.

He knew, he knew he should’ve been more careful, knew he should never have got involved with you because something like this was always going to happen.

“I don’t know,,” he said and Frank pulled his head back and the guy began sputtering again, “whoa hold up man, hold up, they were British right, they were British, s’all I know, s’all I know, s’all I know.”

Frank threw the guy on the ground and turned away, walking away with his guns drawn knowing exactly who had taken you.

It didn’t take him long to pull up to a bar, flinging the doors open and standing in the doorway with his gun raised. The room fell silent as the bartender raised a hand non threateningly, the other reaching beneath the bar.

“We don’t want any trouble.” He said, British accent filling the silence.

“You’re gonna tell me where she is and you’re gonna tell me now.” Frank said quietly, calmly, shooting a bullet into the man’s shoulder as he drew his own gun.

“I said,” he said, pressing the gun against the guy’s chest, “you’re gonna tell me where she is.”

“Hey, I don’t know who you’re talking about!” He protested.

“The guys following me took my girl, I don’t appreciate that much, so you’re gonna tell me where they’re hiding her or I’m gonna kill you, slowly, maybe I start by cutting off your fingers one at a time-“

“Alright, alright, their secrets aren’t worth my life,” the bartender gave in easily, raising his hands, “there’s a warehouse, not too far from here, that’s where they’re holdin’ her, I swear.”

Frank got the directions before he headed out of the bar, slamming the door of his van shut as he hit the gas, breaking every speeding law but that was the best of his long list of crimes.

You watched as the man lifted a pair of pliers off the work table before he crouched down in front of you.

“Now dear, this is only gonna hurt a hell of a lot.” He told you with a grin before he placed the pliers under one of your fingernails and began to pull, causing you to let out a scream.

Frank climbed out of the car, freezing as he heard your scream echo from somewhere inside the building. It took him a second to shake himself into action, grabbing his guns and making quick, but quiet, work of sneaking into the warehouse, hating that he had to follow the sound of your screams.

You withered against the restraints as your fingernails were pulled off, slowly and painfully, throwing you head back in agony. As the man moved onto the next fingernail you bucked up against the seat, trying to move any part of your body but you couldn’t, ankles and wrists tied to the chair and you let out another scream, sobbing loudly as you pleaded with him to stop, begging him.

“You want it to stop?” He laughed, shoving his face under yours. “All you have to do is tell me where the big, bad punisher is.”

You sobbed, panting for breath at the short break you were given before you shook your head, mouthing the word ‘no’ repeatedly but no sound came out.

“No, no,” he laughed, looking down at you in disbelief before over to the others in the room. “You believe this girl? Tough bitch.”

You started screaming again as he took one of your nailless finger tips in his hand, squeezing down painfully before the sound of gunshots filled the room.

You looked up, forcing your eyes open before slumping in your seat in utter relief as you watched Frank shoot down the men in the room before he marched over and grabbed the man hurting you, throwing him up against the wall and aiming the gun right between his eyes.

“You think you can touch my girl?” He snarled, pressing the gun painfully against the guy's head causing him to try and shake it off but Frank was giving him no room to move. “Hey, you think just cause you got beef with me that means you can touch my girl!”

“Hey, relax, she’s fine.” The guy said, making things worse for himself.

“Oh she’s fine is she?” Frank asked sarcastically, “Yeah cause the way I see it is my girls strapped to a chair, missing two fingernails and sporting some nasty cuts and a black eye, so you wanna tell me she’s fine again?”

The guy realised he had no way out, his men were dead on the floor and he’d pissed Frank Castle off big time. So he whimpered pathetically as he began begging for his life but Frank just smirked at him.

“You know, you’re real lucky my girl needs me right now otherwise I’d make you suffer, I’d hurt you the way you hurt her and then some but she needs me so I guess a good ol’ fashion bullet is just gonna have to do the trick.”

“No, no, no, please, please.” The guy’s cries were silenced as the sound of a single gunshot echoed around the room before Frank turned to you, crouching in front of you and cupping your injury free cheek.

“Hey, you’re alright baby, I’m here.” Frank kept up his steady, soft stream of reassuring words as he freed you of your restraints before helping you stand, wrapping your arm around him as he took your weight and practically carried you out of the room.

The drive home was silent as you clung to Frank’s hand, his thumb brushing over your skin comfortingly and it wasn’t long before you were at his apartment and being led to his bedroom and settled gently in the bed, sat up with the covers around you.

Frank was gentle as he cleaned your fingers, pressing kisses around the skin when you winced and whimpered then he turned his attention to your face. He was careful as he cleaned the cuts, thankful that they were only shallow and only needed a quick clean.

He let his thumb brush just below your bruised eyes, wincing as you winced.

“I’m so, so sorry, baby.” He murmured, eyes wide as he took in your injuries. “I never should have let this happen, told you you were better off without me and let you talk me around.”

“Hey, you’re not getting rid of me, Frank.” You laughed shakily and he let out a huff of laughter because here you were in pain and injured because of him and instead of feeling sorry for yourself which you had every right to do you were taking his hand in his and looking up at him with a comforting smile.

“Should let me go,” He said quietly, shifting so he lay next to you with his head resting on your hair and his arms around you, “should tell me to walk out of that damn door and never come back.”

“Or I could tell you that I’ve had a really hard few days and all I want to do is fall asleep with you next to me.” You said, pulling back to tilt your head up at him.

He couldn’t help the soft smile that pulled on his lips before he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger there for a few moments before he pulled away and helped you lay down, taking you back into his arms and holding you close, mindful of your injuries.

“Never gonna let you out of my sight again.” He mumbled into your hair, smiling at the soft chuckle you let out as you cuddled closer to him.

“Sounds good to me.” You told him sleepily, feeling your eyelids blinking closed and not having the energy to open them again.

“Go t’sleep, baby, I’m right here.” And you did as the man said because despite everything you knew there was no safer place than at Frank Castle’s side.

_______________

Frank Castle Taglist (Link in bio, add yourself!) - @call-me-a-fool, @urbestgrrl, @sylvies4ever, @lucyysthings, @freeshavocadoooo, @writeroutoftime, @loki-laufeysons-wife, @am-wd-ma

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whumpinggrounds · 2 years

Text

Aftermath

Part one will be coming in a few days, oops. I considered redacting the spoiler but...I did say I was gonna do this lol. So here y’all go - day 8 of @febuwhump, “no anesthesia”

Tagging @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @ocean-blue-whump, @redwingedwhump, @winedark-whump, @impalasexual, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpingmydarlings,

CW: pain!!!, electricity, lightning (lol), restraints, no anesthesia (duh), techno whump, mentions of burns, mentions of heart stopping, idk what else. T gets all fucked up.

When T wakes to pain and more pain, in a blank room full of machines he doesn’t recognize, he panics. There’s no rationale behind it, no careful internal adjustment to bring the organic and inorganic components in line. There’s a tube in his throat – stuck into a hole in his throat, not down through his mouth – and wires projecting straight from his chest. There are IVs and USBs alike plugged into his limbs. All of them, each and every one of them, is an unwelcome, unknown foreign intrusion. T responds in kind.

The discovery of restraints across his wrists, arms, legs, even his neck, stops him from tearing each cord out, heedless of consequence. It also makes T’s breathing pick up – for the first time he can remember, he can actually gasp for air, heave it in unevenly. Somewhere in the back of his head, that registers as a problem. His enhanced lungs aren’t controlling his breathing, and that…that means the lungs have failed. On a fundamental level, T knows that’s wrong.

On more fundamental level, T doesn’t care.

Muscles bulge and strain as he writhes in his bed. For now, panic holds off pain, but T can sense it, a looming overwhelming presence on the other side of adrenaline. That wave is going to hit him, and when it does, he won’t be able to move, so T fights hard now, while he can. The leather goes tight across his throat every time he lifts his head, and cuffs cut into his wrists, forearms, biceps. Every few inches, another strap cuts across his skin, and everywhere that leather meets flesh, T is rubbing his skin raw trying to escape. The straps are strong, and the metal arm is responding slowly, sluggishly, with a fraction of its real strength. If T could just use it properly. If T could just make it move…

The door flies open, and T goes suddenly, perfectly still. His heart is thrumming hard inside his chest. In a clatter of limbs, the new kid comes falling into the room, waving his hands, already talking.

“-have to stop!” he’s saying, and his voice sounds distant, watery in T’s ringing ears. “You have to stop fighting! T, T, you’re going to hurt yourself, you’re going to hurt yourself, please.” Desperate brown eyes come up to meet T’s, face wide open and vulnerable with an emotion that T recognizes well as fear. Distantly, that makes T curious. With every inch of him strapped down, T wonders what the tech has to be afraid of.

Lifting his hands in front of him, as if in surrender, the new tech takes a tentative step toward T. Freddy, T’s brain supplies, minutes slower than it usually is. New tech’s name is Freddy. T isn’t supposed to call his handlers by their first names, he’s supposed to call them sir. Even the women on the team get a kick out of him calling them sir, and he’s never messed up, not once.

Today his brain is fried, broken, cooked inside his skull. Today, he speaks without thinking, and his voice sounds rough and cracked, full of emotion and utterly foreign to his ears. It whispers and whistles past the tube in his throat, comes out thready and high.

“Freddy? What happened?”

“Oh.” Freddy breathes the word, as if speaking too loudly will cause T to break. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry, T. I’m so sorry. You were…” He winces, visibly, now close enough to reach out, to touch T. He doesn’t, just hovers there, wide-eyed and worried. “You were…struck by…there was…lightning?”

All over his body, this truth resounds in T’s aching bones, his seared nerves. On the surface of his skin, he feels tight patches, taut with what must be scabs. Maybe scar tissue, depending on how long he’s been out. He’s breathing slower now, and his thoughts come to him more logically. Lightning. Lightning.

Lightning could really fuck him up. There must be fear on his face as he looks up at Freddy.

“Hey.” Freddy sits down on the bed next to him, the bed more like a table, hard and unforgiving. Freddy perches carefully on the edge, lays a hand on T’s arm. It’s so unfamiliar, so unexpected, that all T can do is stare, face blown open by shock and fear and pain. “Hey, you’re going to be okay, buddy. It’s going to be okay. We’ve got…we’ve got doctors here, and engineers, and…”

“What…what’s wrong with me?”

His voice is plaintive, shaky. T still doesn’t recognize it, really doesn’t recognize it. Some mechanism that controlled his tone must be gone, fried by the lightning strike. Many mechanisms that regulated his body must be gone, because he’s shaking, and he’s in pain all over, and he can’t control any of it, any of it. Nothing is regulated for him, turned off or turned down. His body runs wild, and T, along for the ride, looks up at Freddy with pleading eyes, as if the tech can make it stop.

Swallowing hard, Freddy visibly searches for words. “Well…well…a lot of, um, connections, uh…blew. In the arm. A lot of that’s…gone. Your lungs are…I mean, they’re okay. A lot of the electronics there, um, fried. But…but that’s not so bad. There’s a lot that was organic…The, the bones are okay. The blood, the organs. Wait, uh, wait, no, that’s not right, your heart…” he glances down at the wire disappearing into T’s chest, under his tank top, and then looks away, swallowing hard. With a sudden, sick feeling, T wonders what he would see if the shirt were removed.

“Your heart stopped,” Freddy says softly, and he squeezes T’s arm with a shaky hand. “Your heart…stopped. You were gone for…for three minutes, I think.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Freddy shakes his head. “You’re…it’s fine now. Or it will be. It was, um…a little…a little touch and go. With the heart. But we…we figured it out, we, um, think. We…we fixed it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

T keeps staring at Freddy, not really thinking about on purpose, not with any intention behind it. Freddy must see it as another plea – his face twists in something that looks like pain. “You have some burns,” he admits. “Pretty…pretty bad. Around…around your shoulder. Um…one leg, more than the other. Down your side.”

Blinking, trying to process, T manages one slow nod. As Freddy names each body part, the pain comes back, acknowledged, anew. He’s feeling kinds of pain he didn’t know existed, searing twisting itching agony that radiates from everywhere at once. He stares at Freddy, knowing his eyes are wide, his face is contorted, that no response is controlled, not at all, not in the slightest. Freddy’s eyes trace over the body, examining each feature as he names its affliction.

When Freddy is finished with a seemingly endless list of afflictions, his eyes come up slowly, reluctantly, to meet T’s. He winces when he gets there, and T wonders what’s on his face to make Freddy react like that.

“Freddy?”

T knows he should be saying sir, but he can’t right now, he just can’t. He’s still shaking, and it’s only making the pain worse, but he still can’t stop shaking. His body isn’t his own. His body isn’t even on his side. “Freddy?”

“Yeah?” Freddy’s hand has slid down T’s arm, is resting over the back of T’s hand. Gently, ever so gently, Freddy turns T’s hand over, and takes T’s hand in his.

T takes a ragged, unsteady breath. “It hurts.”

Dropping his eyes, Freddy nods. “I know, buddy. I know.”

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parkerpenny · 2 years

Text

keep your head up (keep your heart strong)

Febuwhump Day 1: Head Wound

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36869143

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Peter Parker can’t sleep, and in his infinite wisdom, decides to patrol on less than 0 hours of sleep. Not a bad idea, right?

Wrong.

------------------------------------------------------

In retrospect, Peter really should've known better than to go out patrolling after getting like, negative hours of sleep, but Peter likes to think that making bad decisions is sort of his brand now (but for the love of god, do not tell Tony.)

There wasn't anything really special about tonight, just a night like all the other nights that he's experienced. He rolled over in his twin bed, staring at his clock as the numbers blinked back at him.

2 a.m., fantastic.

After tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity, nightmare still fresh in his mind, Peter figured that he could probably get in some patrol time without causing too much trouble.

Did he have a curfew? Yes. Was it currently very much past his curfew? Also yes. But did Peter really think about that before deciding to throw on his suit and go fight crime at ass o'clock in the morning? Absolutely not.

Peter slid open his bedroom window as gracefully as possible, trying to avoid waking up May and invoking the Wrath of the Gods upon himself. Climbing out onto the fire escape, he felt the cool, late-night breeze blow through his hair. After carefully closing the window, Peter hauled his mask over his face and shot a web towards the neighbouring building.

Swinging off into the night, Peter was able to steer his thoughts away from the disturbing images his mind had conjured up to tune in to the sounds of the city.

"Hey, Karen, anything fun happening?" Peter eagerly asked the AI. "Peter, may I remind you that your curfew on school nights is 11 p.m., and it is currently 2:17 a.m." Karen replied, a hint of sarcasm in her words. "Yeah, yeah, I know, but sleep is not really an option right now so I figured I might as well do something useful."

Peter was hesitant for a moment after the AI was silent for a few beats. Was Karen going to snitch on him to Mr. Stark?

"Very well, Peter. There is a situation happening a few blocks away. Would you like me to direct you there?" Karen sounded almost defeated, like she knew it was pointless to reason with the boy. Peter cheered internally. "Yes! Thanks Karen, you're the best!"

As a path illuminated itself in the direction of whatever was going down, Peter webbed as fast as he could towards whoever it was that needed his help. Perching on the edge of a rooftop, he peered down into the dingy alleyway that Karen had led him to. There was a man holding a knife to a woman's throat, demanding that she hand over her valuables.

Peter tried to ignore the fact that he was actually starting to feel tired. This lady needs my help, I can't go home now, not when I can save her. He took a deep breath, shaking his head to wake himself up, and leaped down into the alley.

"Hey! Dude, this is the most cliche crime I have ever seen, could you at least try to make it a little more original?" Peter called out to the creepy-looking man.

"Ugh, you. Do you ever think about minding your own business?" The man said, turning his head towards where Peter was standing

"I don't know, man, do you ever think about getting a job so you don't have to rely on snatching purses every night?" Peter retorted back. The man twisted in his spot, holding the knife closer to the lady's neck.

"Listen, bug boy, get out of here and maybe I'll have a bit of mercy on this lovely lady here." He said, giving the woman a disgusting look. The lady cringed as tears flowed down her face. "Please, help me!" She cried.

"Don't worry, ma'am, everything is gonna be okay." Peter reassured the woman. He turned his attention back to the guy holding the knife. "I'm gonna give you one chance to put down the knife, and step away from her." Peter tried to reason with the man.

"Huh, and what if I don't?" The man said, chuckling under his breath and taking a threatening step towards Peter. "Well, I guess I'm gonna have to kick your ass, sir." The younger boy bit back.

"Oh yeah? And how are you gonna do th-" The man was cut off by Peter webbing his mouth shut. His eyes went wide as the vigilante shot another web towards the knife, effectively yanking it out of his hand.

The lady was stunned, frozen in place. Mr. Criminal regains his focus, advancing on Peter with a menacing look in his eye. Peter's senses went off just in time to dodge a right hook, and he quickly swung back, hitting the man across the face and sending him sprawling to the ground.

Peter turned back to the lady, picking her purse up off the ground and pushing it into her hands. "Are you alright, ma'am?" Peter asked with sincerity. "I-I think so, thank you Spider-Man!" She grabbed onto her purse. Feeling a tingle in the back of his neck, he whipped around to see the man trying to regain his footing.

"You need to get out of here, run!" Peter urged, gently grabbing her by the arm and coaxing her away from the man. She hesitated, but with one last look at the man who saved her life, she turned and ran out of the alley towards the street, heels clacking on the pavement.

"Oh, you're gonna regret that, Spider-Man." The mugger said as he stood up after ripping the webbing away from his mouth. "Am I? I don't think I will, actually!" Peter shot another web at the man, pinning his left arm to the brick wall behind him.

He did not, however, account for the fact that the man's right arm was still fully functional. At least, not until his fist hit him square in the jaw.

"Ouch, dude, not cool." Peter said, holding a hand to his cheek. That was definitely gonna leave a mark. Peter dodged another punch aimed at him, and after catching the criminal off guard, he was able to web his other hand to the wall.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye, Mr. Criminal. Have fun with the police!" Peter made sure that the guy was webbed up real good, giving a small salute before shooting a web and pulling himself up onto the roof off the building he jumped in from.

Oh, man, my head. Peter pulled off his mask, gingerly touching his cheek and quickly pulling his hand away after feeling the sting of the fresh bruise. "Totally not radical." Peter whispered to himself. He dragged the mask back down over his face gently.

"Peter, you seem to have minor injuries sustained from the fight. With minimal sleep, it will be more difficult for your injuries to heal in a timely manner. I suggest that you head home and try to sleep." Karen's voice filtered through the mask.

"Nah, I'm fine, Karen. I've had worse, I'll live." Peter shrugged. Glancing at the top corner of his HUD, he saw that it was nearing 3:30 in the morning.

Sheesh, maybe I should head home.

"Karen, can you show me the quickest way to swing back to the apartment from here?" Peter questioned. "Absolutely, Peter. Please be cautious." Karen replied. "I'm always cautious, Karen, I'm like, the most cautious person ever." Peter shot back.

"Whatever you say, Peter." The boy had to laugh. It was funny sometimes, being able to banter with the AI. Shooting a web, Peter jumped off the roof and swung towards home.

In an ideal world, Peter would safely swing home and sneak in through his window, climbing into bed as if nothing ever happened and May and Mr. Stark would be none the wiser.

Note the word "Ideal." When is anything ever ideal for Peter?

Right. Literally never.

As the adrenaline wore off from the fight, Peter's eyes began to feel heavy. Yeah, really not a good time to be getting drowsy.The boy tried to stay alert, hoping to fend off the exhaustion until he was safely at home in his bed.

His plan did not work. Trying to blink away the tiredness from his vision, Peter shot a web to the next building, but wow, did he ever miscalculate.

Next thing he knows, he's staring up at the sky. He's confused for a brief moment. Did he get home already?

And then the pain hit him.

Oh, he had fallen and he can't get up.

Raising a hand to the back of his head, where the source of his pain was, he pulled his hand away only to find it covered in blood.

Oh no. That's not jazzy.

He thought he heard someone yelling at him. Who was yelling at him? Could they kindly shut up?

"-ter... Peter!" Karen's comforting voice pulled him back into focus. "Peter, you appear to have taken a severe fall." Peter huffed out a laugh. "Yup," he mumbled, "I gathered that, thanks Karen."

"As per the Baby Monitor protocol, I am required to contact Mr. Stark for assistance." Karen said. "Karen, no! It's fine, I'm fine! I don't want to bother Mr. Stark." Peter tried to reason with the AI. It was no use.

"Sorry, Peter, it is not optional for me to contact him. Calling 'Tony Stark'." "Karen, really it's not a big deal." Peter said, struggling to pull himself up against the wall behind him.

"What's not a big deal, kid?" Came the voice of Mr. Stark. Peter snapped his head up, immediately groaning in pain. "Peter, what's going on, why are you out in the suit? It's almost 4 a.m."

Mr. Stark did not sound impressed.

"S'ry, Mr. Stark, I wanted to help the lady, she was in trouble." Peter slurred out. "What lady, Pete? Why is Karen telling me that you're bleeding?!" Mr. Stark's voice began to rise, worry filling his tone.

Peter tried to ease his head back against the brick wall, but yelped in pain when he aggravated the bleeding wound.

"I think... I'm gonna take a lil' nap, Mr. Stark." Peter's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Nope! No naps, Pete! Listen, kiddo, I need you to keep your eyes open for me, okay? I'm on my way to you, bud." Peter struggled to stay awake like Tony had asked, trying not to succumb to the exhaustion he felt.

Tony had called a suit as soon as FRIDAY had warned him of an incoming transmission from the kid's AI, his heart dropping at the words 'serious head wound'.

Immediately jetting off from the tower, he headed towards the location that he got from Karen as quickly as his thrusters would allow.

Jesus, this kid was gonna be the death of him.

Tony was still on the line with Peter, feeling the panic rising in his chest every time he took a bit too long to respond to him. FRIDAY had located Peter in an alley, and Tony was prying himself out of his suit before it even had the chance to fully open. He ran towards the young boy sitting limply on the pavement, dropping down by his side.

"Peter! Oh my god, what happened? Who did this to you?"

Peter vaguely registered the sound of the Iron Man suit touching down to the ground, followed by frantic footsteps that seemed to be coming his way. Feeling two warm hands firmly holding either side of his face, he peeked open his eyes to see Tony's face right in front of him.

"Hey, m's'r Stark, what are you doin' here?" Peter questioned. "Uh, making sure you don't bleed out on a sketchy side street at 4 a.m., no biggie." Tony tried to keep up his usual sarcasm, but found it increasingly difficult as he noticed the blood that was staining the kid's suit.

"You're losing a lot of blood, kiddie, I need to take you back to the tower ASAP. Just hang on for me, alright Pete? Not a great time for you to clock out, capiche?" Mr. Stark said softly. "Yeah, you got it m's'r Iron Man sir." Peter mumbled out. Tony got back into the Iron Man suit and crouched down closer to him, lifting him into his arms.

Peter winced in pain as his head is jostled by the sudden movement. Tony brings a hand up to cradle the boy's head, gently carding his fingers through Peter's curly hair. "I know, honey, I'm sorry. This might hurt a bit but don't worry, Cho's gonna give you the good stuff when we get back to med bay." Peter seemed satisfied with that, letting out a small hum as his eyes fluttered shut.

Tony looked down at his kid, and shot off into the sky, heading full speed back to the tower. As soon as he landed, the boy began to stir in his arms. Running into the med bay, Dr. Cho rushed out to meet the pair. "Quick, lay him down here." Cho said, pointing to the bed in the middle of the room.

As Tony moved to retract his arms away from him, Peter reached out a shaking hand, grabbing onto the man's shirt with as much strength as he had, which was admittedly not much at the moment.

"Please, stay." The boy pleaded, unable to turn his head to properly look at Tony. The man reached out and brushed his fingers through the boy's hair. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, cucciolo."

Peter let out a content sigh, as Cho hooked him up to an IV. "He's lost quite a bit of blood, I'm going to need to get him started on fluids to keep him from passing out."

Tony was so grateful for Helen Cho. There wasn't enough money in the world for him to be able to repay her for everything she has done for him, including patching up his vigilante kid.

"Do whatever you need to do, Cho." Tony met the woman's eyes to find them filled with concern. Peter had everyone wrapped around his finger right from the first meeting, so it's not surprising that Cho has a soft spot for the kid. Everybody had a soft spot for Peter Parker.

"'m I gonna be okay?" Peter asked quietly, his wide eyes gazing up at Tony's. "Yeah, bambino, you're gonna be just fine. Cho's gonna need to knock you out to stitch up the lovely gash in the back of your head, but I'll be here as soon as you wake up. But don't think we're done talking about this yet, Mister."

Peter was already half asleep, probably not even registering a thing Tony had just said. Peter figured that now seemed to be a good a time as any to catch up on some of that elusive sleep he had been desperate for, so he closed his eyes and let himself drift off.

••••••••

Peter awoke to a faint beeping and that classic Hospital Smell. Remembering what had happened the night before, he brought a hand up to the back of his head to find it covered in a layer of bandages. It didn't hurt as much as it had, thank god. That was a doozy.

He heard movement to his left and flicked his eyes over to see Mr. Stark sitting in the chair next to his bed, his hand loosely draped over Peter's arm. They've woken up in this position far too many times. "Mr. Stark?"

Tony's head snapped up at the sound of his kid's voice. "Hey, buddy, glad to see those big brown eyes again," Tony smiled and brushed some of Peter's curls away from his forehead, "You gave us a scare, kiddo." Peter broke eye contact with the man, guilt flooding his chest.

"Mr. Stark, I'm so sorry, I know I shouldn't have been out but I just- I couldn't sleep, and I wanted to help and-" Tony placed a hand firmly over Peter's mouth, effectively shutting him up.

"Kid, you don't need to apologise to me. I'm not mad at you for wanting to help people. But Pete, you could've been seriously injured. I mean, you were seriously injured. You know I'll always be there when you need me, but I don't ever wanna get another call from Karen at stupid o'clock in the morning telling me that you're bleeding out in an alley."

Tony pulled his hand away, giving Peter a chance to talk. "I really am sorry. It's just, I needed to get out of the apartment and I didn't want to bother anyone. I'm 16 years old, I shouldn't be bothering May just because I can't sleep. I'm Spider-Man, I should be able to deal with a couple bad dreams, y'know?”

The boy paused to take a breath. “And I figured, if I wasn't gonna sleep, I might as well do something worthwhile, and I really didn't mean to go out after my curfew, but I knew that maybe there was someone out there who needed my help. And there was, I'm really glad I could help that lady get away from that creepy guy." Peter looked down, fiddling with the flimsy sheets on the hospital bed.

"Pete, why didn't you tell me or May that you were having nightmares? We wanna help you, bud, but we can't help if we don't know what's going on." Tony moved in his seat, scooting closer to his kid.

Peter's voice was quiet and dejected, tears welling in his eyes. "I... I didn't want you guys to think I was weak." Tony gently grabbed one of Peter's hands and gave it a light squeeze.

"I'm gonna say something to you, and I want you to look at me when I say this." Tony said firmly, but there wasn't a trace of anger in his voice. Peter looked up into his father-figure's eyes, nodding for him to continue.

"Okay. First things first, you are not weak. And before you try to fight me on that, I'm gonna tell you a little story about myself. Gotta talk about myself somewhere in here, kiddo." Peter laughed, and that was exactly what Tony wanted to hear.

"I know I don't talk about this much, but maybe it'll be good for both of us if I do. I have nightmares all the time, Pete. Afghanistan, the wormhole back in 2012, that bunker in Siberia, even stuff from when I was a kid. It happens. It sucks obviously, and I would take it all away from you if I could. But those things? They don't make you weak. Not at all, baby. And I want you to know that no matter what time it is, no matter where I am, or where you are, you can always, always, talk to me.”

Tony brushed a tear off of Peter’s face. “Call me, beep me, crawl in through the window, whatever you gotta do. Just don't pop up next to my bed while I'm sleeping without at least a little bit of warning, I do have a heart condition." Tony chuckled, heart warming at the gentle laughter coming from his kid.

"Thank you, Mr. Stark, that- that means so much to me." Peter said, bringing up his other hand to wipe away another stray tear that had started to make its way down his cheek. Tony got up from his chair, motioning for Peter to scoot over, and sitting down on the bed next to him. He wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulder, pulling him closer until Peter's head was on his chest, right next to his heart.

How fitting.

Tony placed a gentle kiss on top of Peter's unruly curls. "I love you so much, Roo, I'm always gonna be here for you, whenever you need me. And that's a promise. I never break a promise" Peter snuggled closer, tucking his head right under his dad’s Tony's chin. "I love you too, Mr. Stark."

The two were silent for a while, simply enjoying each other's comforting presence.

Peter spoke up after a while. "Didn't you promise me that you were gonna get me Thor's autograph sometime soon?"

"You little shit."

Yeah, they were gonna be just fine.

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