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pixelatedraindrops · 4 months

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RAINCODE COMIC COLLAB~☔️

BEHOLD THE FRUITS OF MY LABOR!!

3 full weeks of work and its finally completed!

So @kazinsblog and I did another raincode art collab together but this one was a HUGE project! This one's a full 18 page comic!

Idk if you all remember the comic idea that Kazin was planning to do that involved Yuma overworking himself until he gets sick and then gets tended to by everyone else. But when I saw it, I decided to ask her if she was willing to possibly collaborate on it, remaking it where she sketched it and I colored it.

Kazin's Beta images: 1 2 3 4

So here's the results of all that work. We've been at this since December 17th so this has been an almost full month collaboration. And of course mine's a bit more altered to my own style as well as adding my own touches and making it a little more whumpy/extreme... X'D I also freehand drew shinigami in my version as well.

Both our versions look pretty different! The only thing that are the same are the poses. So feel free to check out Kazin's traditional version as well!

Since its an 18 page comic, I decided to put it under a keep reading so it won't clutter everyone's timelines. Also, I will be narrating the pages because I love narrating sick filler type stories. So brace yourself for a VERY LOOONG post!! Def need time to read this one! (and no purple tinted filters here this time!)

Also note: If the writing is blue, it means the character is thinking, just like in the game! :)

And I apologize on the inconsistency of Yuma's bangs... I thought it was one way before so half of the comic he looks like he has square bangs... oof XD I fix it around page 10

ANYWAY, hope you enjoy this soft buffet, Raincode Community! 🌡️💕

(Page 1)

Our story begins on an ordinary day in Kanai Ward. Rainy gloomy and depressing as ever. Our little victim... wait... XD I mean protagonist Yuma decides to go out to investigate more about Kanai Ward to try to track down it's supposed ultimate secret. Yakou sets him off wishes him well and tells him to be careful. However, as he's out, he finds out a lot of people in the city need help. Because of his good nature and unable to turn down someone in need, he decides to help whoever he can. (the ultimate side-questing lol) Before he knows it, he's soaking wet and he had helped 10 people in total. Time passed and it was almost evening so he returns to the submarine. Yuma was completely unphased by this. (and he didn't dry himself off for 4 hours due to being occupied with tasks)

(Page 2)

Yuma returns to the Agency's submarine to greet his chief holding his meatbun order. (that also got wet) But Yakou notices that the trainee is sopping wet to the core and shivering. He immediately loudly demands that he sit down so he can tend to him. Yuma does as he's told and sits on the checkered sofa. Yakou rushes to the shower room to grab some small towels to help him dry off. But because Yakou is so panicked, he ends up being very rough in drying Yuma, pulling his hair and causing the small boy pain. After he dries him off, he tells Yuma he isn't allowed to leave anymore for the rest of the day and demands him to rest. Yuma tries to retaliate using puppy eyes, but it doesn't work. Yakou is immune.

(Page 3)

The next day Yuma asks Yakou if he can go out to work after he finishes his morning chores around the place looking very eager. Yakou still looks a little concerned by how tired Yuma looks, so he tells him to not go out alone. He assigns him a partner to go with the rest of the week.

On the first day he's paired with Halara. The two of them are asked to investigate the art gallery of Ginma. (maybe after the nail man case) But over time, Yuma starts developing a lingering cough that persists for quite some time. Halara asks Yuma is he's okay, to which Yuma lies saying that it's due to the dust of the room. But of course being sharp, Halara isn't buying it. But they decide to not persist him further.

On the second day, he's paired with Desuhiko. They're asked to go help out at the Aetheria Academy with another case (not murder related this time) However on the way to the school and in Ginma, Yuma starts slowing down, he's shaking and is a little wobbly. Desuhiko notices this and asks if he wants to go to the cafe for a drink. Yuma nods and as they go to the cafe and order some coffee, Yuma takes off his hat and coat and Desuhiko finally realizes how pale he looks. He's even slower at replying to him as he speaks, as if he's in a daze. Desuhiko decides to take Yuma back to the agency after this.

(Page 4)

On Day three, he's paired with Fubuki. But he doesn't even make it to the case as when he goes to the sun and moon hotel to meet with her, Fubuki notices and points out that Yuma's face looks red. The boy clearly had a fever building. Yuma argues with her but Fubuki persists. The two of them try to go to the case but Yuma nearly collapses. So Fubuki returns him to the agency.

On the fourth day where he's supposed to be paired with Vivia he spends a majority of the day passed out. Vivia decides to watch over him using his forte to not disturb him. During the night while he's asleep, his breathing gets more labored and he's completely restless. Vivia looks at him deeply worried for his dear friend's well being.

The next morning Yuma somehow finds the strength to get himself up. Maybe that one day of rest was enough. But Yakou insists that he stays put today. Angrily yelling at him to be still and take today off as well.

Meanwhile, a certain two seem to notice each other...

(Page 5)

Vivia's spirit notices Shinigami and decides to give her a warning. Make sure Yuma listens to Yakou and doesn't leave. Giving her the iciest glare, Shinigami fearfully agrees.

But this effort would be for naught, despite how he feels, Yuma's relentless determination forces himself up, putting on his rain attire and heads up the steps of the sub to the outside when Yakou isn't looking. Shinigami does what she can to stop him, but he doesn't listen...and Shinigami being a ghost, there was nothing she could do to physically hold him back. All she could do was follow, and prepare for the inevitable.

By some miracle he makes it to the church, up the stairs to speak to the nun. Who tells him to play therapy again for the townsfolk. He nods and heads to his first client. But when he returns to kamasaki to speak to him, he can barely make out what he's saying as he lets out a few more coughs.

Once he leaves the client, before long, Yuma could hear something in his body snap.

(Note: I direct most of the story, but Vivia conversing with Shinigami in spirit mode was actually Kazin's idea! So credit to her for that, So silly and fun! ^^)

(Page 6)

Yuma's body had finally reached it's limit. All the fatigue, chills and body aches had hit him all at once at full force like armed weaponry. His head began throbbing, he was shaking violently and uncontrollably, he felt nauseated by the rain's smell, and his body heat and the lingering dizziness was unbearable. He found a safe corner in the alleyway of Kamasaki to collapse. Telling Shinigami she was right and he should have listened to her, while the burning fever and cold rain wrecked his delicate frame even further. His voice was hardly audible, but Shinigami still heard and practically tells him to go back. But Yuma had no strength left...

Then like clockwork as they finish speaking, he could hear his name called. At first it sounded kind and questionable. But that rapidly changed, the voice now angrily yelling out his full name. As he looked up this voice belonged to...Yakou. He looks down at the boy in pure disappointment and anger.

Turns out a certain someone was tailing him. And alerted Yakou what happened just in time.

(Note: I make the red darker the more extreme the temperature and lighter the less extreme. I got to experiment with all sorts of new ways to color fevers hehe~ >w<)

(Page 7)

Yuma shockingly looks up at Yakou. Oh no, he was so BUSTED! Shinigami even says as much. Yakou practically scoops Yuma in his arms carrying him back to the agency. As he was lifted Yuma's world begun spinning. He could barely hear the chief nagging him in a panicked tone. It was all distorted and it was making his head hurt more. Yakou placed a hand to his cheek and was shocked by how hot it felt. All Yuma could do was apologize and hope his world stops spinning and that Yakou eventually stops yelling... (also I put numbers for the order to read the speech bubbles in)

Upon returning to the agency, Yakou dries Yuma off, asks Desuhiko to give him a warm set of clothes to borrow and put him to his own bed. Grabbing a basin of very cold water, washcloths and a digital thermometer. He placed one of the wet cold cloths under his bangs and upon reading the boy's temperature, it was high. Almost high enough to visit the ER. Yakou was even more mad, but speaks in a non yelling tone. Giving Yuma another stern warning to not leave the bed. To which Yuma weakly agrees to.

But Yakou's back to yelling again, feeling paranoid Yuma would be missing by the time he gets back from getting the supplies. So he drills that message right into the boy's already throbbing head once more. Everyone else in the office awkwardly listen in as the sick trainee gets scolded.

(Note: Just an FYI, Yuma's speech bubbles being wavy is a sign his voice is raspy and the text being a bit hard to read means his voice is hardly audible)

(Page 8)

Yakou leaves Yuma alone and walks into the office in his raincoat telling the other detectives that he'll be leaving soon and to watch over Yuma in his absence and NOT let him leave. He is so full of anger and anxiety that he yells at all of them too.

Everyone agrees and as Yakou leaves, they all discuss among themselves Yuma's state the days they were partners with him. He was in bad shape. And he only got worse as the days went by. They all knew.

(Page 9)

Meanwhile back in Yakou's quarters, Yuma was getting lectured yet again. This time by his death god partner, Shinigami. The poor trainee only wanted peace and quiet to make the pain in his head go away, using what little energy he has remaining speaking in his head he tried telling her to stop.

But the aggravated spirit persisted, saying that as his mentor she had the right to scold him just as much as Yakou. She continued her rant, until an abrupt sound from her master shut her up.

The few coughs that came from Yuma eventually erupted into a full blown coughing fit. The coughs sounding more wet, rough and serious. After coughing 10 to 15 times in a row Yuma was exhausted. Shinigami looked down at him panting with concern and pity in her eyes. She decided to stop the lecture for his sake.

After the fit, Yuma was left raggedly breathing. As Shinigami gave him her permission to rest and take it easy, he didn't answer. He couldn't. That fit completely mangled his throat. He was not able to speak vocally or in thought process anymore due to his head being in too much pain. As was the rest of his body, aching and burning. So he didn't answer her. All he could do was hope sleep would eventually take hold of him to make all this awful heat and pain stop even if for a just moment.

(Note: That's the penalty Yuma... x'D Sorry I gotta make him suffer lol. Also this is the only page that’s actually read left to right. I messed that up, sorry!!)

(Page 10)

After some time passed it was time for the Master Detectives to all take part in taking care of Yuma. The whole agency had a day off to do this. So upon his return, Yakou instructs everyone to look after Yuma in 2 hour shifts through the day. Even if it was just to watch him sleep. He couldn't be left alone.

Halara was first. Their task was to help Yuma take the medicine that was bought. There were three types of medicine for him to take. Antibiotics (white pills) for the general illness symptoms, painkillers (red and white pills) for the headache/fever, and finally...cough syrup. (aka his least favorite... XD) Halara made sure to be very gentle with Yuma propping him upward as his whole body was burning and he was very shaky. He even had trouble drinking the water, so Halara had to get a mug instead so they could help him drink it by holding the handle, and using the other hand to support his back. Despite the struggle, Halara worked diligently to complete their task as a caretaker in full. (as for who paid them to do this...idk I'll leave that to your imagination XD)

(The cough syrup idea was inspired by this fic :3)

Desuhiko had the second shift and the whole time he was waiting for his turn, he was writing a song for Yuma. Having the delusion that his angelic voice would lul the sick boy to sleep, he played his guitar and began singing. Yuma's headache did improve enough to speak in his head now, but that wouldn't last, as the loud noises from the guitar made his head pound even further with every strum. Shinigami begs for the noise to cease fire on her poor eardrums, but Yuma doesn't have it in him to stop Desuhiko. The gesture was kind so he decided to try to listen to the whole song, despite the noise. He does eventually tell him to stop though (using hand gestures) when another song comes afterward. So then the two spend their time conversing for a bit, (though desuhiko does more of the talking as yuma just nods or makes small noises/hand gestures due to his throat still hurting too much to talk) Desuhiko even telling him he could keep the sweater and shorts he had lent to him. To which Yuma softly smiles at him as a thank you before he eventually falls asleep again.

Fubuki has the third shift, and her task was to feed Yuma the warm vegetable soup that was bought earlier and that Halara had just finished making, along with Fubuki's help. She volunteers to feed him as she remembers a time she was ill as a child in the clockford mansion and one of her servants tended to her, feeding her soup just the same. Unfortunately, because this was a memory of her early childhood, she repeats similar phrases as the servant did when she was feeding Yuma, who was clearly not a small child. Yuma's fever had dropped enough to where he could find a bit of strength to try and sit up on his own now, and his once mangled throat’s condition had improved for him to speak a little bit. As he listened to Fubuki's rambling he tries to play along with her despite the whole thing being a bit embarrassing for someone his age. At least the soup was nice and warm. It felt good going down his very sore throat.

(Funny Fact: The order that Yuma is both partnered and tended to by each detective, is the same order as the chapters in game he's partnered with them LOL)

(Page 11)

It was evening, and now it was Vivia's turn to take the fourth and final shift. At first he was just going to sit and watch Yuma while he read his book quietly, but Yakou suggested that he read one of his books out loud to Yuma to help him relax better like a bedtime story. Vivia was unsure at first, as he's never read to anyone before. But he decided to give it a try. He asks Yuma what his preference in literature is before he starts, and Yuma tells him he enjoys detective novels the most. So he pulls out the novel that was in his reading list and begins to read it out loud to him. Turns out he was quite a natural at narrating, and his slow voice was very soothing. Yuma felt so relaxed that he felt like he would fall asleep any minute, but he tries to stay awake to listen to the story a bit more. Shinigami however, conks out immediately. (fyi: yes this is the novel Vivia talks about in his final gumshoe gab. I tried to make up stuff based on it.. X'D)

Once the clock strikes 9pm and night falls, the Master Detectives all wish Yuma well and leave to return to the hotel to retire for the night. It was just Yakou and Yuma now. Yakou, who had just come back from another errand, walks over to Yuma who was now fast asleep. He looked a little better so Yakou removed the towel from his forehead and places his hand onto it. It still felt warm but no longer as hot as it did hours ago. Meaning he was out of the danger zone, much to Yakou's relief. He places the towel back in the water basin wringing it out and re-applying it to his forehead. Then he lets out a yawn. He was pretty tired. He decides that instead of sleeping in the office on one of the sofas, he'd stay by Yuma's side. His removes his jacket, goes and turns off the overhead lights, sits down and places his head down on his desk. Then after telling the sleeping trainee goodnight he turns off the small light by his desk.

OKAY FUN FACT: The comic WAS going to end here going on to the final page... Buuut~ We were STARVING for some good ol' Yakou Fathero :3 So... Enjoy these bonus 6 pages of Yakou having a shift of his own to look after Yuma in the middle of the night. And its the longest shift.

This ones for you Yakou Fathero fans! Eat your fill!

(I know we sure did :3)

Also I apologize if the lighting here is inaccurate ;w; I tried my best I'm no pro LOL

(Page 12)

A little past midnight, Yuma was stirring in his sleep. Making all sorts of groaning sounds as if he was in pain. He was likely having a nightmare. This is confirmed by his eyes suddenly opening and him violently flinging himself up screaming, and the cold cloth flying off his forehead.

This sound wakes Yakou up immediately as he puts his glasses back on asking Yuma if he's okay. He flicks the light by his desk on to check on him. Yuma's found shaking with tears in his eyes stating quietly that it was just a dream. Yakou sympathizes with Yuma as fever dreams were usually not fun, but a fever NIGHTMARE was always bad. The chief offers the shaking trainee some water to try to help him settle down.

(FYI: Shinigami is going to be absent from this part of the story because I think her banter and antics would ruin the fluff, so she'll just be lurking above in the shelf like a cat the whole time.)

(Page 13)

Yuma accepts the water practically snatching it from Yakou's hands and quickly gulping it down. Yakou tells him to pace himself not wanting him to choke. Once he exhales from the water drink, Yuma sheepishly apologizes for waking Yakou up with his scream, feeling like a burden. Yakou reassures him it's okay and decides to ask him the question of why he pushed himself this far while he was still awake. Hard enough to make himself sick. Why did he do it?

Yuma was surprised by this but decides to try to tell him. He hands the water glass back and began talking. Under his raspy voice and somewhat heavy breathing, he says that he wanted to be useful as he felt like a burden to everyone since he lost his memory. He also says that he likes helping others and that it feels familiar to him. Determined to try to unlock a core memory of his past he kept doing this, even to the point of pushing his limits.

Then he suddenly stopped speaking...

(Page 14)

...aaand cue the coughing fit. Yuma's throat got scratchy and irritated after his long explanation, causing him to cough about 5/8 times in a row. Not as bad as his previous fit but it was more than enough to startle and worry Yakou.

Yakou quickly hands Yuma the water glass he had just taken from him hoping it would soothe his throat. He tells him that helping others is a good thing but he shouldn't push himself to the point that his health gets affected. Yuma quietly nods and as he sips the water still shaking, Yakou feels bad and decides to apologize to him for being harsh before. Stating that he only lost his temper because he was scared and worried for him. He also places his hand to Yuma's cheek in both comfort and to check his temperature. It felt slightly warmer than a few hours ago.

Yuma quietly apologizes to Yakou for worrying him, still holding the water glass. Yakou forgives him. Then he takes the glass from him and then the towel that fell off Yuma's forehead. He grabs a fresh one and soaks it in the basin wringing it out and places it back on the trainee’s forehead unintentionally a bit roughly. Yuma groans and shivers a little from the cold of it.

Yakou then lies Yuma back down, tucking him back in trying to make him comfortable. But his actions were a bit too comforting. He was not meaning to in any way and he wasn't sure what came over him, but he was treating Yuma like a little kid. Yuma notices and feels a little embarrassed by it, but decides to only say it in his head.

Yakou decides to do one more thing before he lets him go back to sleep.

(Note: Hey far as anyone's concerned Yuma, you are practically his BABY when you are having a sick day, so deal with it hehehe :3c)

(Page 15)

Temperature taking page time :D (my favorite, teehee! I know some cultures and in anime they take the temperature under the arm, but there's just something so endearing and adorable about a sickie with a thermometer in their mouth <3 OKAY MY RAMBLING ASIDE...)

Yakou is now a bit concerned that Yuma's fever spiked again after that little harsh coughing fit so he decides to take his temperature one more time before letting Yuma go to sleep again. Yuma obliges and goes along with it opening his mouth as the device is inserted.

After 15 seconds the device beeps and Yakou takes it out. Yuma shyly pulls the duvet up to his face and hides as he meekly asks if its any better feeling a little nervous. Yakou responds that it is better than it was the first time, where it was a dangerous degree.

However, he still wasn't out of the woods yet. The fever was still there and although it went down, it was still in the red. Yakou states that he's still feverish to which Yuma just apologizes. Poor thing just wants this to be over, he really doesn't want to trouble anyone anymore.

(sorry yuma I can't let you off that easily hehe 😈)

(also yes I put an instruction manual for how the thermometer works, I am so obsessed that I even give the thermometer lore LMAO. Sorry if I'm inaccurate in any of those readings. I used google... ^^;)

(Page 16)

Yakou places the thermometer back on the desk and tells Yuma to go to sleep. Saying the fever will likely break by morning. To which Yuma states that he's in Yakou's bed and that he should return to the checkered sofa so his boss could sleep, attempting to try getting up. But Yakou puts a hand on his shoulder stopping him and denies this and says his desk is fine and that Yuma needed the bed more than him.

He also says that if Yuma had another bad dream that he would be there for him. Yuma smiles at Yakou quietly thanking him as he's tucked back into the duvet. Yakou pats it gently telling the trainee to close his eyes.

It isn't long before Yuma is back to being fast asleep. (and shinigami too)

Yakou monologues to himself for a bit groaning at how much trouble this small detective has been for him since he showed up. But then he switches his tune and places a hand to Yuma's head petting it softly. He says he's happy he's working hard for the sake of his memories but right now he needs to work on getting better. Saying it would help everyone in the agency if he wanted to help people.

He wishes him well continuing to pet his head for a bit longer to soothe him before going back to sleep himself turning the light off again.

(Page 17)

2 hours later, Yuma was stirring and whining in his sleep once again. Yakou groggily wakes up wiping his tired eyes upon hearing the soft noises the small trainee was uttering. And he was crying again. Can only be one thing: Another nightmare.

Instead of turning the light on to wake him up, Yakou moves his chair close to him sitting at his side. Not saying a single word. (cept in his head lol) He reaches his hand for Yuma's as it twitches and he takes hold of it gently.

Yakou eventually leans on the bed as he does so and falls asleep sitting up again. Yuma's groaning and and heavy breathing begin to settle down a little as he felt Yakou's presence close by.

Then he smiles as he closes his hand in his sleep holding Yakou's hand back, leaning a bit close to it. He felt safe again... <3

(Note: This poor thing has way too much trauma... ;w; I headcanon that he's prone to night terrors on occasion, but when he gets a fever, its even WORSE. Fevers do be messing with your head... x3)

(Page 18 Final)

The next morning when Yakou wakes up, he checks on Yuma. He still felt slightly warm but he looked much better. Seemed the worst was over and it would likely last just one more day.

When he's fully awake and at his desk, Desuhiko shows up asking Yakou if Yuma's okay and offered to wake him up. Yakou denies it saying Yuma needed one more day of rest, the fever may have been only slight now, but in the rain it would rise again easily.

Desuhiko agrees and declares that he's going to work hard today. Likely to make up for Yuma's absence. Yakou teases him and the two have a bit of a banter.

Yuma meanwhile is asleep peacefully. Still having a slight red tint to his cheeks, but he's able to sleep a lot easier now. His fever was slowly but surely breaking. (now in the yellow) Shinigami sleeps beside him, making sure she protects him from any nightmares in yakou's absence. (after all only SHE can give her master nightmares)

He wakes up fully recovered the following morning thanking everyone for taking such good care of him, and he makes sure to not push himself anymore. And continues searching for the city's ultimate secret while pacing himself to help others from now on.

THE END ❤️

(I practically made this into a sickfic in its own right... XD)

Thanks for reading!! Hope you enjoyed!! This is just a little artist credit page I made for Kazin and I c: Also art semi-face reveal?? xD Kinda?? Idk lol (we just two gals that like our sick comfort haha x3)

Anyway thank you again Kazin for doing this with me!! It was hard work but it was a blast and the final result came out amazing. Its surely a project I will cherish forever~ 💜🩷✨🌡️

A wholesome story to start 2024 on a good note.

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livelaughwhump · 20 days

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Valentine's Day

The Valentine's Day collab is finally here!

This is Elliot's POV. Cedar's POV will be on @ofclrosewriteswhump 's blog, but I will be adding both to the Worthless Masterlist.

I hope you enjoy!

Content: sickfic, an obscene amount of fluff, overwhelming gayness

Elliot had begged Lyra not to text Cedar. They'd been planning their Valentine's date for weeks and Elliot couldn't bear to be the reason it was ruined.

He'd woken up that morning feeling achy and lethargic. His throat was sore, his nose was stopped, and beads of sweat continued to appear at his hairline, no matter how many times he tried to wipe them away.

Of course, Lyra had noticed right away that something wasn't right, despite how hard he tried to hide it.

“Please, Lyra. I'm fine, I swear!” Elliot begged. “Just don't tell him, please.”

Lyra already had their phone out with Cedar's messages pulled up. “Sunshine, you're sick. Your date isn't for another week, it's no big deal.”

“But if he finds out, he'll cancel it! He'll be too worried about me. He always—” Elliot coughed and gagged as he was forced to swallow back down the phlegm that had traveled up his throat.

Lyra sighed. “I'm sorry, sunshine, but I can tell you feel awful. It's only gonna get worse if you don't rest.” They sent the text and Elliot felt his heart plummet. “Now, let's get you to bed.”

That's what led to Elliot laying in his bed, sobbing quietly into his comforter with Dumpling curled up against his side, but that was several days ago. Since then, Lyra had been doing everything they could to help him rest and heal enough before their date. However, it wasn't enough. It was the day of Valentine's, and Elliot was still bedridden. That morning, Lyra had informed him that they were going to run some errands, but that Marlie was on her way over to keep him company. That eased his worries a bit, until all that was left was the guilt of ruining Valentine's Day.

Elliot was cuddling with Dumpling while watching a movie on Lyra’s computer when the door to his room suddenly opened. He glanced up to see Marlie standing in the doorway and instantly brightened up a little.

“M-Mar—” Elliot dissolved into a coughing fit, his throat burning as he did so. His eyes watered and he reached for a tissue, only to find the box empty. Elliot groaned and laid back down on his bed.

Marlie rushed to his side, mumbling a quick “be right back,” before returning with an unopened roll of toilet paper. “Sorry, Bluebell. I wanted to be quick. Do you need water?” she asked softly, sitting next to his bed.

Elliot nodded. “I'm sorry, Marlie. You-You don't have to d-deal with this.” He ripped off a square of toilet paper and blew his nose.

Marlie put a gentle hand on his shoulder, comforting him the best she could. “I don’t mind. I want to help you.”

Elliot sniffled and threw away his makeshift tissue. “Are you sure? You-You don't h-have to.”

Marlie nodded. “Of course. I brought a couple bottles in my bag. Here, Bluebell.” She handed him a water bottle before thinking of something. “Do you want help with anything?”

Elliot shook his head. “Can-Can you just k-keep me company? I-I don't know where L-Lyra went and-and I don't wanna be alone.”

Marlie nodded, knowing he was overthinking. “Of course! Do you want to watch anything?” She offered to hold his hand, knowing she’d get sick anyway with her weaker immune system.

Elliot shrugged. “I was just watching some m-movie that Lyra had saved. I'm not really p-paying attention.”

“Okay, want to keep watching it? It's fun being with you. Is it okay that I’m holding your hand?” Marlie spoke softly, hoping to comfort Elliot. She giggled when Dumpling’s whiskers tickled her hand.

“Are-Are you sure?” Elliot asked. “I-I don't want to g-get you sick.”

Marlie nodded. “It’s okay. I've always gotten sick easily but it’s worth it for you.” She smiled at him gently.

“O-Okay then. Um…can-can you h-hold me while-while we watch the movie?”

Marlie smiled and immediately climbed into bed next to him. She opened her arms. “Of course, Bluebell. I'm always happy to hold you.”

Elliot smiled and crawled into her waiting arms. He snuggled into the warmth of her embrace as Dumpling curled up beside the two of them. Just as Marlie repositioned Lyra’s laptop, the sound of her phone buzzing startled them both. Elliot looked up at her, confused. “Who is it?”

Marlie reached over with one hand, keeping her arm around Elliot. “Lyra, they want to know how you're feeling. Are you doing okay?”

Almost as if on cue, Elliot broke into a coughing fit, his lungs and throat burning. He reached for the glass of water Lyra had left him and downed half of it in a matter of seconds. Once he was finished, he wiped his mouth dry and set the glass back onto the bedside table to his left. His voice was raspy and nasal as he said, “N-Not r-really.”

Marlie rubbed his back. She tried her best to comfort him and make him feel better. “Do you have any cough medicine?” she asked after sending a quick text to Lyra.

“I-I'm not sure,” Elliot answered. “B-Broderick was supposed to g-get some, but-but I don't know if he's b-back yet.”

“Want me to text him?” Marlie asked, holding Elliot close and offering the comfort she could.

Elliot nodded. “If-If you don't m-mind.”

Marlie nodded. “I don't mind at all. Want me to keep holding you?” She asked, pulling out her phone to send the text. “Done.”

Elliot nodded. “Y-Yes, please.” He shivered and curled up to her.

Marlie held him close, trying to warm him up.

“Can-Can I have a blanket?”

Marlie nodded, “Of course!” She wrapped a blanket around Elliot, holding him close in her arms. “Now we wait for a response.”

It was a few minutes later that Broderick finally responded, the text reading, “Just picked up some cough medicine. Should be back in a couple minutes.”

Marlie looked at her phone, once again startled by the sudden noise. “Broderick says he'll be back soon.” She sent back a quick response, thanking him.

Elliot nodded. “Th-Thanks, Marigold.”

Marlie held him closer. “Happy to help, Bluebell.”

Elliot was still shivering, though much less so than before. “You're so w-warm.”

“I’m happy you think so.” Marlie smiled, relieved to feel Elliot relax. “Want me to ask Broderick for another blanket when he gets back?”

Elliot nodded. “Yes, please.”

Marlie brushed his hair, knowing how much he liked the feeling. “It should only be a few minutes. He’ll be here soon.”

Elliot closed his eyes and reveled in the gentle touch at the top of his head.

Marlie smiled, humming quietly until she heard footsteps approach the door.

Elliot opened his eyes just in time to see Broderick peek his head into the room. “Hey, guys,” he greeted. “I've got some cough medicine and an extra blanket.”

Marlie smiled. “Thanks.” Not knowing what else to say, she resumed brushing Elliot’s hair.

Broderick stepped into the room, set the medicine beside Elliot's bed, and handed the blanket to Marlie. “How are you feeling, sweet?”

Elliot briefly glanced up at the medic and shrugged. “N-Not great. S-Sorry for-for causing so much trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all, sweet. This is my job. Just take one of those tablets every six hours and let me know if there's anything else I can do for you, okay?” Elliot nodded, and with one last friendly smile, Broderick left the room.

Marlie helped Elliot with his medicine; the tablet being small helped. She wrapped Elliot in the fluffy blanket and held him close.

Elliot cuddled up to her and laid his head in her lap. “Marlie?” He asked.

Marlie responded with a quiet hum, continuing to gently brush Elliot’s hair while he rested his head on her lap.

“Do you think Cedar's m-mad that-that I ruined our date? I-I haven't s-seen him in almost a-a week.” Tears flooded Elliot's ocean-blue eyes as he imagined the worst. “What if he b-breaks up with me?”

Marlie looked at him worriedly. “He's not breaking up with you. He's been trying to find a way to make your date fun while you're sick. I don't know exactly what he's planning but he's been trying lots of Spanish recipes.” She gently brushed his hair.

The worry and fear in the pit of Elliot's stomach didn't fade. “Then-Then why hasn't he come to s-see me?”

“He wants to perfect it. You know how you were going stargazing? He's going to bring the stars to your bedroom. Want to call him to feel better? I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Lyra’s helping him out with the finishing touches.” Marlie softly brushed Elliot’s hair. “It was going to be a surprise so I can't tell you what exactly Cedar’s bringing for food or how he's going to make a stargazing date for the both of you. I just know he's been tracking stuff down at thrift shops and astronomy places.”

Elliot felt even more guilty. “I-I ruined the surprise?”

Marlie shook her head. “Not at all. You know the basics of it but you don't know what Cedar is bringing here. That’s not ruining the surprise.”

“O-Okay,” Elliot said. “Um…when-when is he gonna be here?”

Marlie glanced at her phone. It was around late afternoon or early evening. “About an hour. I think he wants the sun to be down before coming.”

Anxiety swelled in the pit of Elliot's stomach. “Do-Do I look okay?”

Marlie nodded, not wanting to overwhelm him. “You look great. How about putting on a skirt or your new dress if you want. I can do your hair while you're in bed too.”

Elliot nodded and quickly jumped out of bed to go change.

Marlie followed, ready to catch him if he slipped. “Careful, you're still sick. You don't have to dress up a lot. Just do what you can, okay?”

Elliot ignored her concern and quickly scanned his closet for something nice to wear. “I just wanna look nice,” he said. “If he's putting all this effort into a n-nice date, I-I don't wanna look like I've been sick.”

Marlie nodded in understanding, walking over to Elliot to help him find something he liked. “What about your flower dress?”

Elliot examined his black, floral-patterned dress. It hung to his knees and had puff shoulder sleeves. He'd gotten it recently on a trip to the mall and had yet to wear it. “Do-Do you think he would like that?”

“He’d love it.” Marlie smiles at him. She was so happy to see him excited for a date.

“O-Okay.” Elliot grabbed the dress and bolted into the bathroom to get changed.

Marlie waited patiently, petting Dumpling while Elliot changed.

When Elliot emerged, he gave a twirl to show Marlie the whole thing. “What do you think?”

Marlie beamed, eyes glowing at how happy Elliot looked. “You look amazing!”

“R-Really?” Elliot asked, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. “Do you think I need shoes or anything?”

Marlie shook her head, standing next to him. “No, you guys are staying home. Kinda like a movie date but better.”

Elliot nodded, his breathing quickening.

Marlie looked at him worriedly, guiding him to sit. “Bluebell, he wants to bring stargazing inside. You’re safe, I promise.”

Elliot's breathing didn't slow. “I-I just w-wanna be g-good enough for-for him. Wh-What if he doesn’t l-like this? What if he gets m-mad at me for-for being sick? What if he's doing this just to b-break up with me?”

Marlie brought him into a hug, knowing his past relationships were horrendous. “You're perfect to him. Bluebell, he's so happy with you and will love this. He's not mad and he won't break up with you. I promise. Want me around for support?”

Elliot melted into her embrace and tried not to cry into her shoulder. “N-No that's-that's okay. I-I don't want him to-to get m-mad.” Elliot flinched when the distant sound of the doorbell rang. He gasped. “That's-That’s h-him.”

Marlie took his hand. “He wouldn't. Want to walk to the door with me?”

Elliot nodded and shakily reached for her hand.

Marlie gently squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, he’ll be so excited to see you.”

Elliot nodded once more and nervously followed her down to the front door.

...

Marlie opened the door, Dawn helping Cedar carry a box of food.

Elliot's breath caught in his throat. He felt like it had been months since he'd seen Cedar, even though it had only been a week. Anxiety churned in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his tall boyfriend.

“Love? How are you feeling? I'm so happy to see you!” Cedar smiled. “Happy Valentine's day.”

Elliot couldn't help the way his cheeks warmed and the dorky smile that grew across his face. “I'm f-feeling better now. H-Happy Valentine's Day.”

Cedar’s smile matched Elliot’s eyes, smiling as he saw his boyfriend. “Ready to start the date, Love?”

Elliot nodded. “I've m-missed you.”

Cedar set the box down in Elliot’s room, Dawn and Marlie following him. “Same to you, Love. I'm so happy to see you.” Cedar smiled as he opened his arms.

Elliot smiled back and practically collapsed into his boyfriend's strong arms. He had to stand on his tiptoes in order to kiss Cedar, but it was worth it. He just hoped Cedar wouldn't end up sick after this.

Cedar caught Elliot and kissed back. “I love you so much.”

Elliot's cheeks began to ache with how wide he was smiling. “I love you too.”

Cedar’s smile grew. “Ready to start, my Love?”

Elliot giggled and nodded before dissolving into a coughing fit.

Cedar put an arm around him, rubbing his back until it finished. “Do you need to lay down, Love?”

Elliot nodded. “S-Sorry,” he croaked.

Cedar lifted him gently onto his bed. “No worries. How about starting dinner?”

Elliot nodded. “Th-That sounds good.”

Cedar smiled, opening the containers of food that he had brought. “Take your pick, my Love.”

As Elliot's eyes scanned the multiple containers of food, his cheeks warmed. He couldn't believe that Cedar had done all this for him. “I-I can't decide. Everything looks a-amazing. Did-Did you m-make all this?”

Cedar blushed and nodded. “I packed so many. Maybe a little bit of everything? Is that okay with you? I just made our date sick safe, my Love.”

Tears began to prick the corners of Elliot's eyes at the sound of those words. “I-I just can’t believe you d-did all of this for me.”

Cedar gently brushed his tears away, kissing his forehead. “Of course, Love. I knew it would break your heart to miss out and I wanted to see you. I'd come over even if it meant cuddling and falling asleep.”

Elliot's lower lip started wobbling. “Can-Can I have a kiss?”

Cedar replied by gently kissing him, holding him close.

Elliot melted against him, heart pounding. He couldn't believe the lengths his boyfriend had gone just to make him feel special on their first Valentine's Day together. As he looked up into Cedar's forest-green eyes, he whispered, “I may or may not have just gotten you sick.”

Cedar brushed Elliot’s hair. “That’s okay. Seeing your smile makes it worth the chance.”

Elliot's cheeks warmed and he couldn't help the giggle that escaped his throat. “You try to make me blush on purpose.”

Cedar matched Elliot’s smile, chuckling. “I try to make you smile on purpose, my Love.”

Elliot tried to force himself to stop smiling, but it remained stuck to his face. He couldn't help it. Something about looking into Cedar's eyes made him indescribably happy.

Cedar smiled back, happy to see his love smile. “Ready to start eating?”

Elliot nodded, unable to take his eyes off of his boyfriend.

Cedar kissed Elliot’s forehead, serving multiple dishes for the two of them. “How about some candles? I brought some scented ones.”

Elliot nodded, cheeks beginning to ache from the smile that wouldn't leave his face. “That sounds nice.”

Cedar kissed his head gently. “That’s great. I’ll light them.”

Elliot giggled and watched as Cedar lit the candles. As nice as they were, the sudden aromas initiated a round of several sneezes and a few coughs. He reached for a tissue, his face burning with embarrassment.

Cedar looked at him worriedly, rubbing his back. “Do you need anything, Love?”

“Can-Can you hand me my w-water?” Elliot asked as he tossed the tissue into the trash. He sniffled. “I hate being sick.”

Cedar passed the water to Elliot, rubbing his back gently. “I know, Love. It’ll be over soon. I'm just happy I could get everything ready in time for our date.”

Elliot nodded. “I-I was so worried when you d-didn't come to s-see me at all. I thought m-maybe you were b-breaking up with me.”

Cedar kissed his boyfriend’s cheek softly. “I’m sorry I didn't reach out. I wouldn't break up with you, Love.” He felt guilty, knowing how he hurt Elliot.

Elliot nodded again, blushing. “I-I know. I just o-overthink sometimes, I guess. Marlie helped c-calm me down.”

Cedar smiled at him. “She’s good at that. I'm happy you guys have each other. You're amazing.”

Elliot smiled and took a bite of the dinner Cedar had made. He was still in awe of all his boyfriend had done for him. He'd never felt so loved before.

The smile on Elliot’s face made the whole evening worth it. Cedar smiled back, eyes so full of love and adoration.

As Elliot ate his fill and set down his plate, he said, “So, M-Marlie said you were gonna b-bring the stars to me. Wh-What did she mean?”

Cedar smiled, getting up to open a suitcase and take out a few star projectors. He plugged them into the wall and the ceiling mirrored a starry sky. “This is what I did to bring you the stars, my Love.” He kissed his boyfriend’s head, lips brushing his fluffy hair.

Elliot stared in awe at the starry sky projected across the ceiling. Never, in his wildest dreams could he have imagined a date like this. “This-This is the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Cedar held Elliot close. “Anything for you, Love. You are the best boyfriend a man could ask for.”

Tears welled in Elliot’s eyes. “Can I have a kiss?”

Cedar brought his boyfriend into a loving kiss.

Elliot melted against him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so happy, if he ever had before. He felt safe and comforted and so, so loved. In that moment, nothing else mattered; not his illness, not Christian. If only for one moment, Elliot let himself be happy.

I hope you enjoyed this! This was so much fun to do because I'm absolutely obsessed with Elliot and Cedar's relationship.

Please be sure to go read Cedar's POV!

Not tagging the taglist because this isn't whumpy Worthless content

#writing #nonwhump writing #fluff #fluff drabble #fluffy Worthless drabble #sickfic #whump blog #whump community #whumpblr #drabble #collab #my first collab!#original story #original writing #original characters #Elliot Cordova #Cedar Nightshade #Marlie Briarwing

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aussiepineapple1st · 10 months

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PartTimeAgents and I did a collab where we coloured each other’s line art!! I love the colouring he did with my line art💖💖💖💖🥹🥹

#aussiepineapple1st #resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #angst #chris redfield #chreon #blood #death #whump #death island #parttimeagents #collab

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daniwib · 28 days

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Seven Sentence Sunday

Ok I cave, I'm gonna try and do this. Full disclosure, I have no idea how these game things work. I'll try to tag those who've tagged me in stuff and those I think are writers but I am also shit at remembering names so if I miss anyone feel free to play I guess?

No pressure tagging: @steadfastsaturnsrings @ronordmann @blahblahwoofwoof @buffaluff @spacetimeconundrum @carocane @calinaannehart @zashizawa @pururing @daffi-990 @freesirius4life @hella-cious @an-amalgamation-of-thingss @madlori @dangerpronebuddie (look I'm doing it!)

From @wingwyrm and my upcoming whump collab (there is an art sneak peek here!)

The date with Tommy had been going well, until he’d ruined it. They’d shared a pizza, their tastes in that and the beer they chose compatible, which Buck had taken as a good sign. Small talk had been easy, with their shared background in firefighting. Buck could have listened to Tommy tell stories about air rescues all night, but the other man had been adept at drawing stories from him, too.

They hadn’t lacked for conversation once - until Eddie had appeared.

Then… well, Buck knew exactly what had happened after that. He’d fucked up, even earlier than he usually did.

#seven sentence sunday #even though it's monday for me #hopefully it's still sunday somewhere #whump collab incoming #buck whump #eddie whump #tommy whump #we are equal opportunity whumpers here #whump them ALL!#kinley #buddie #911 spoilers #911 abc #911 fanfiction #whump #whump writers unite

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snowbellewells · 5 months

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Captain Swan Collab Words 23 fic: "Freed to Love"

This event was such a fun idea, and the three of us - @statustemporary @jrob64 and @snowbellewells - had a lot of fun working together and seeing our initial idea come to life. We decided we really wanted some whump and hurt/comfort taking place, and eventually we settled on a Revolutionary War time period AU for our setting. We also used a suggested quote about the persistence of hope, and the idea of being touch starved, both of which played into our idea well.

Thanks so much to the @CSCW23 @Captain Swan Collab Words 23 for the idea to create a story as a group. It really was a new and exciting challenge that made for a new CS adventure.

And a very special thanks to @hookedmom for all the time and care she took as our beta reader for this fic!!

Summary: Though the colonists' fight for freedom from the British brought Killian Jones and Emma Swan together, the dangers of war have also pulled them apart. Can Emma find her beloved spy again, or will she be too late? What other trials and hurdles will they have to cross before they are finally free to live and love as they have dreamed?

Reposting with additional edits and correct AO3 and ff.net links.

Can be read HERE on AO3 or HERE on ff.net, if that is your preference.

"Freed to Love"

by: @statustemporary @jrob64 & @snowbellewells

Early morning dew soaks through Emma’s boots to her stockings. The wetness chafes at the skin of her feet and she holds back a wince with every step she takes. Her eyes remain downcast in the role of a perfectly submissive British nurse ready to abide by the orders of officers and soldiers alike. Her horse arrived late yesterday afternoon to the stern face of Colonel Sitwell, a high-ranking officer of the British military who is well aware that escorting a new nurse to camp is far below his station.

Last night’s rain is making the trip uphill more strenuous than anticipated. Sitwell’s boots kick mud back at her, staining the bottom of her gown, and a part of her wonders if he does it purposely.

Philadelphia.

She started in Fort Ticonderoga in late July, aiding the troops who overtook the abandoned rebel colonists’ camp. The end of August found her in Bennington, caring for the few wounded left behind after their defeat at Rebel hands. September brought her to Brandywine Creek, before her new orders informed her to follow the river to Philadelphia.

She has traveled so far just to end a few days up the river from David and Mary Margaret.

Emma’s heart pounds as they encroach on the troops standing guard outside the British camp. How many more can she bear to approach before she’s unable to handle the heartache?

All of them , she thinks immediately. She’d travel up and down the colonies if she has to, until she finds him. Her hands would service each wound on every British soldier if it brought him back to her. She’d swallow back the bile while they brag about killing her friends, she’d clench her fists as they discussed future strategies while on their sick beds.

She is trained for this. Mary Margaret showed her how to survive, while David taught her how to blend in. And Killian…

Her heart lurches when the familiar accents of British soldiers reach her ears. Emma barely pays any mind to what they’re saying. Instead, she embraces the only reminder she has of Killian, of the way he spent hours teaching her his accent to help her prepare for her role.

Despite the harsh, uncaring intonation, the familiar words that swirl in the air around her easily send Emma’s mind back to a happier early morning, months ago now, but emblazoned on her memory with the warmth and clarity of something from mere moments ago.

Killian had come to the house to report his findings from a recent scouting mission, and when he finished, she had pulled him into the kitchen to speak privately, blushing hotly as she did so, the heat from the pot-bellied stove keeping the room toasty, though breakfast preparations were over.

Up to that point, they had spoken a few times, and Killian had also been friendly, polite, even playfully attentive with her, but Emma had not gotten the occasion to speak with him as much as she would have wished. Mary Margaret had encouraged her, with her ever-present optimism and her hope to see Emma as happily in love as she was herself; to take this very genuine opportunity to seek him out at once and gain the knowledge she sought.

Seated facing her on the rough hewn wooden bench at the Nolan’s kitchen table, Killian had grinned impishly as she settled beside him and arranged her skirts, clearly knowing what she was about, even though the tops of his ears were a heated pink to match her blushing cheeks. When she dared to look up and make full, uninterrupted eye contact with him, Emma had nearly toppled off her seat onto the floor at the electric impact of his gaze connecting with hers.

She was only saved from making a fool of herself prattling away nervously by Killian speaking. The gently cultured cadence of his words reminded her of her purpose, as he dipped his chin to look up at her rakishly through his dark lashes.

And so it had begun between them that simply. She asked Killian for instruction in British pronunciation, accent, phrases, anything which might help her to better blend in and avoid detection as a patriot spy amongst the Redcoats. Granted, few paid much heed to what the nurses - or women in general - had to say; for once, her femininity was an advantage in the quest for near-invisibility. Still, she wanted to be ready. If the need to speak arose while she was posted in some hospital or camp, Emma was determined to sound as English as any fine lady in London.

Not only was it all too easy to pull up the hazy-warm and peach-sunrise-gilded memories and lose herself within their comfort, but as time and distance stretched between them and Emma searched fruitlessly once they learned of Killian’s capture, it had been one of the rare bits of joy left her for a momentary escape. She could envision his face so clearly within an instant of closing her eyes. The curious tilt of his head as he waited for her to speak whatever term he had just taught her. The way the tip of his tongue poked tantalizingly from between his parted lips to tease her mind addled with flustered desire. The way his lips moved deliberately, patiently, repeating whatever sound or inflection she attempted to imitate, until they were both satisfied with her repetition - usually left Emma nearly in his thrall before they were finished.

One particular morning as the seconds stretched and melted together between them like butter and honey slathered on a hot, homemade biscuit, making her want to soak up every delicious second she could, she paused hesitantly before bravely clutching his hand in shaking fingers, “And what would you say…” she asked, clinging as tightly as possible to him while they both were still together and safe. “What would you say,” she tried again after swallowing hard and gathering her courage, “if you were captured and threatened with death?”

Emma had held her breath, waiting anxiously for his response, all the while knowing it would not be one to put her at ease, nor had she truly asked for the sake of gaining some stoic, proper British response for her own use. She knew Killian would never yield to questioning or torture, would not plead for his life or make any sort of fearful compromise, much as she might wish him to, if it meant his life. Emma wasn’t sure what she was hoping to hear, but somehow she needed his answer all the same.

“I’d tell them they might bloody well try to end me,” he had replied stoutly, the blue of his fathomless eyes almost drowning her as he held her gaze determinedly. “But I’m a survivor, Lass, and I will find a way to return to you. You need never doubt that.”

His words had left her breathless then, and now Emma forced herself to release the breath she held in her aching chest as she remembered that promise.

Opening her eyes again brings her back into the muddy, chaotic, and haphazardly organized camp around her, which seems all the more removed from the haven she had recreated in her mind’s eye, because of the loneliness that immediately accosts her and the complete absence of Kilian. Though the speech around her had brought those better days to mind at first hearing, now they seem to highlight just how alone she is, since none of the accented voices belong to him…

“Miss Swan,” Sitwell growls. Emma shoots her gaze up to meet his and she purposely widens her eyes to bear the image of apologetic innocence. The move infuriates the officer further. His white hair is slicked back with sweat across his broad forehead, the wrinkles there crumpling together as he glares down at her. The lines around his mouth become more pronounced as his face fashions into a sneer and he juts his large nose up at her. “Has cannon fire damaged your hearing or are you fit to perform your duties to the Crown and His soldiers?”

“My apologies, Colonel Sitwell,” Emma says, effortlessly picking up the accent Killian worked so hard to teach her. “It won’t happen again, Sir.” She bows her head to him and clasps her hands together in front of her. Her small bag bounces against her hip and she thinks not of the weapons that have been stored there for months, swaddled between clothes and hidden in pockets.

Sitwell scoffs and strides into camp with the silent expectation that she is to follow. Hurrying behind him, she catalogs all possible routes of escape and makes a note to pay attention to guard rotation over the next couple of days.

The European theater of war plays out drastically different than it does in the colonies, or so David has said. Rules of engagement in Europe allow a modicum of respect for the treatment of prisoners of war, varying with rank. To escape while a prisoner is considered desertion and dishonorable. Except, they’re not in Europe, and British troops refuse to recognize Colonists as an independent entity, tossing all procedure out the window.

Will Scarlett’s return just a week after Killian was taken occupies the free moments in her mind.

Malnourished, with a number of infected wounds and diseases bringing him knocking on death’s door, Will, a fellow rebel from their town, explained to the women that the British didn’t have the care or the resources to deal with their large numbers of prisoners. He’d been kept in a warehouse packed together with other prisoners, like a school of fish with vermin nibbling at their toes. Feces became their pillows and the dead bodies of their comrades their blankets.

Her friend’s words work as nightmare fuel when she lays her head down to sleep. Visions dance behind her closed lids of the worst possible scenarios.

Will was just an everyday soldier, but Killian – he’d barely been a man when he followed his brother into the Royal Navy at the end of the Seven Years War in the colonies. After his brother’s death due to their King’s nefarious orders, he swore off his homeland and pledged his allegiance to the colonies. She watched as he moved up in rank and provided crucial details and secrets of the British.

If what Will saw is what the British did with a regular soldier, what would they do with a traitor of great importance?

Emma's hope for the future outcome of their struggle against the British and for Killian's safe return to her had flickered like a candle struggling in the wind at the picture Will painted. For several frightening moments when he first told them of his experience, she had feared it extinguishing altogether. Her ability to believe had already been fragile; the odds were against them, after all. But as she cleaned and bandaged her friend's wounds, and allowed him to clutch her trembling hand in his, his bloodied knuckles made the bile rise in her throat once more at the idea that Killian could be bleeding out somewhere and she would never know. She had held on just as tightly, trying to impart to him what she needed for herself. She simply couldn't give up. Killian was a survivor; he would never stop fighting, and neither would she.

Emma attempts to swallow around the lump in her throat as she surveys the camp. The area’s fortification means a quick escape is too risky and more planning will be needed if Killian is here.

If he’s still alive , a dark corner of her mind taunts.

At the start of her search for him, Emma would have fought back tears. The topic proved too sensitive to truly dive into, and she felt the walls Killian worked hard to break down shoot right back up. Now she bats the whispers away without thought.

He is alive. She just knows. And she will find him.

Sitwell brings their brief and stilted tour to an end outside of the hospital tent. He pauses and debates with himself before eying her up and down. With a sigh, he turns away from the hospital tent and points to the other side of camp where a small tent is pitched. The material of it is weathered, with mismatched linens patched over holes. The tent sags and barely looks able to stand up, let alone handle the weight of the cloth.

“Understand this, Miss Swan,” he starts, eyes darting between her and the tent. “No matter what you hear – crying, groaning, screaming – whatever you hear, do not enter that tent. Is that understood?”

Her eyebrows pinch together in confusion and her heart skips a beat. In all of her stays at different British camps, she’s never received such an instruction.

Could it…

She briefly forgets the persona she’s created of Nurse Anna Swan and lets Emma Nolan take over for a moment. “What’s – ”

Sitwell doesn’t let her say anything more.

“Do not enter that tent,” he snarls. “Refrain from disobeying my orders, Miss Swan. Otherwise you may join the traitor on the execution block tomorrow.”

The officer spins on his heel and strides away, agitation dripping from him with every stomp of his boot. Yet she pays him no mind as she gazes at the collapsing tent across the way.

Traitor , her mind replays.

Killian , her heart hopes.

Gulping down a large breath, Emma eyes the soldiers of the camp for a moment to ensure no one caught her stare, before she dashes into the surgical tent. Her mind races and her fingers are sloppy, fumbling one too many bandages.

She found him.

*********

Emma is busy all day nursing the sick and wounded, but keeps an ear out for any mention of the traitor being held for execution. She’s torn between praying it isn’t and hoping it truly is Killian.

As the sun sets and the day transitions into early evening, she becomes more on edge, anxious to see inside the prisoner’s tent. When she is finally finished for the day, she collapses onto a wooden bench outside the hospital tent.

One of her fellow nurses - Belle, if Emma’s memory serves her correctly - pauses in front of her, gesturing toward a small building nearby. “They’ve a meal prepared for us inside, Anna,” she says.

Emma hesitates. Should she take the time to eat when Killian could be in that wretched tent, tied up and living out his final hours? Grudgingly, she knows she has to keep up her strength in order to help her beloved escape.

Rising from the bench and forcing a smile onto her face, she thanks Belle and falls into step with her. They enter the rustic building and find seats at a large, wooden table, where bowls of thin vegetable stew, a few strips of salted meat, and chunks of dark bread are set in front of them. The food’s aroma reminds Emma’s stomach that it hasn’t been filled since breakfast that morning, right after she entered the camp and signed on as a nurse.

Knowing they will need food for the journey back home, she surreptitiously slips the jerky and half of the bread into the secret deep pockets of her skirt, cleverly designed by Mary Margaret, where they join the boiled eggs she saved from breakfast.

She is just dipping her last bit of bread into the broth at the bottom of her bowl, when the gruff voice coming from a junior officer makes her ears perk up.

“Well, someone has to take him his tray, and it shan’t be me. I can barely tolerate the thought of a traitor in our midst, let alone feed the bastard!”

Hurriedly stuffing the bite of bread into her mouth, Emma rises from her seat and approaches the man, her brain scrambling to formulate what to say. “Excuse me, sir,” she says, stepping into the man’s line of sight. “Is there someone who needs tending?”

The officer turns to her, appraising her with his eyes. “Who are you?” he snaps.

“Anna Swan, sir. I’ve been working as a nurse.” She doesn’t add that she’s been there for less than a day.

“Are you finished with your work for the day, Miss Swan?”

“Yes, sir. I was just having my evening meal when I happened to overhear you say that someone needed a tray of food delivered to him.” She hopes he won’t detect the nervous quaver in her voice. “I would be willing to do that, sir.”

“The man of whom I was speaking is a prisoner - a traitor and a threat to our beloved king and country,” he spits. “Why would you want to aid someone of such ill repute? Someone who is scheduled to be executed on the ‘morrow, I might add, as soon as our commanding officer arrives.”

Emma chooses her words carefully. “I am a nurse, sir, and as such, I have sworn to give aid to anyone in need, regardless of their allegiance.”

Time seems to pass at a snail’s pace as he considers her offer. She knows she is probably out of line for offering and could be facing punishment herself, but she simply cannot forgo the possibility of seeing Killian.

At last the soldier snaps his fingers and shouts over his shoulder, “Bring the food for the prisoner!”

Emma prays her trembling legs continue to hold her upright. Once the tray, containing nothing but a small piece of bread, cup of watery broth, and a strip of jerky, is placed in her hands, the junior officer escorts her out the door. They trudge through the camp without speaking, until they come within sight of the ragged tent, guarded by two soldiers.

“The prisoner is in there. Tell the guards Sergeant Gold gave you permission to enter the tent. The traitor is restrained and will pose no physical threat to you.”

“Excuse me, sir, but if he is tied down, how is he able to feed himself?”

“I was only instructed to supply him with food. Whether or not he is able to eat it is none of my concern.” After barking out those words, the officer turns on his heel and stomps away.

Emma squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath, before trekking across the clearing to the tent. The guards drop the butts of their sidearms to the ground, crossing them in front of the opening to the tent as they shout in unison, “Halt!”

“S-Sergeant Gold sent me to d-deliver this food to the prisoner,” Emma stutters.

The two men eye each other, then one gives a slight nod and they return their muskets to their shoulders. “You may enter,” she is told.

Emma ducks her head and pushes through the canvas opening. Once inside, she drops to her knees, her eyes trying to adjust to the dark interior. When they do, she wishes they hadn’t, because what she sees turns her stomach and breaks her heart.

The man is sitting on the ground against the support pole in the middle of the tent, his legs extended in front of him with thick rope knotted around his bare ankles. His arms are behind him, and she assumes they are tied as well. He is stripped except for his tattered breeches and she can see bloody stripes across his emaciated body. His head hangs down, dark, matted hair obscuring his face, but Emma knows this man is her beloved Killian.

Quickly, she sets the tray of food off to the side and crawls to kneel beside him. She notices crusts of bread littering the circumference around him and rage burns through her as she realizes that, even though food has been delivered to him, he has been unable to eat much, if any, of it.

She nearly gags as the stench coming from his unwashed body fills her nostrils. Apparently, he hasn’t been taken outside to relieve himself and reeks of the smell of urine. “Oh, Killian!” she gasps. “What have they done to you?”

His head jerks up. “Emma?” he croaks weakly. “Is…is that you, Love?”

Her fingers brush his hair away from his face, a sob catching in her throat. His left eye is swollen completely shut, his lip is split open, and dried blood obscures most of his handsome face.

“Yes, my love, it’s me,” she whispers. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

“You…shouldn’t…be here. I…I told you…not to come after me.”

“I never listen,” she tries to joke.

“You’re…impossible,” he sighs.

“And you love me for it.”

A hint of a smile quirks one corner of his mouth. “Aye, that I do.”

“How long has it been since you have eaten?” she asks, turning to slide the tray containing the paltry meal closer.

He grimaces. “I…I don’t know.”

Emma holds the cup of broth to his cracked lips, tipping it until it dribbles into his mouth. His eyes close as he swallows, a moan escaping him as if he was enjoying a fine steak dinner. She pulls the cup away when half of the liquid is gone, tears pooling in her eyes as she watches him chase after it.

Setting it aside, she picks up the chunk of bread and tears off a small piece. As she feeds it to him, she whispers, “We have to figure out how to get you out of here.”

He finishes chewing and swallows. “Don’t risk your life for me, Love.”

“Without you, I don’t have a life, Killian.”

She offers him another bit of bread, but he shakes his head. “I wish…I could hold you right now.”

Moving carefully so she won’t cause him any more unnecessary pain, she wraps her arms around his neck, scratching her fingers through his long, unkempt hair. His body shakes with a sob. “I…I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms, Emma. I have been starved for your touch.”

She is loath to release him, just as desperate to feel his body against hers, so she murmurs into his ear, “I feared you were dead, and am relieved I have found you, but I heard them say that they…they plan to e-execute you tomorrow.”

“Aye, so I have been told,” he confirms with a sigh. “I am surprised they have not done it already.”

“They are waiting for the commanding officer to arrive so he can give the order. I am hoping the rain last night will delay him, but we cannot count on that. We have to get you out tonight.”

Her heart aches as he lays his head on her shoulder, mumbling, “I do not think there is any hope of that happening, Love.”

“If Mary Margaret has taught me anything, it is that there is always hope,” she says firmly.

They are both startled and jerk apart when one of the guards shouts, “How long does it take to deliver a tray of food, Miss?”

“I have to go,” Emma whispers, reluctantly pulling away from Killian, “but I will be back. Do not doubt that. I love you, Killian.”

“I love you, too, Emma. Please be careful.”

She nods absently while her eyes sweep around the perimeter of the tent, cataloging weaknesses in the canvas. Before leaving, she feeds him the rest of the bread and broth, pockets the jerky, then kisses him tenderly, careful of his split lip.

Just before exiting through the flap, she turns and gives him what she intends to be a hopeful smile. She is encouraged when he attempts to return it.

The brisk night air of the impending autumn season greets Emma as she exits the tent. Bumps rise on her skin and a shudder runs down her spine during her short walk to the nurses’ tent. Lifting the flap, she finds their sleeping quarters still empty, Belle’s voice wafting through the air from the direction of the campfire. She’s only met the other nurses at their camp in passing at the change of their shifts, but worry creeps up her spine that one of them might walk in.

Her small bag sits on the ground at the foot of her bed, the gray and brown staining a far cry from its original white. A quiet thump fills the tent when she tosses it onto her bed linens, a soft clanging heard just a moment later.

If Killian was with her, he’d chide her for the careless way she shoves her hands between her clothes and blindly feels for her few weapons. There are three knives haphazardly sandwiched between layers of skirts, but pulling them only dampens her spirits. Her fingers grip their leather bound handles and her arm saws furiously at her blanket to no avail. If the blades can’t even rip the thin linen, they’ll be useless for Killian’s ropes.

Her heart starts racing as she fights to keep panic from clawing at her.

Emma paces the short length of the tent, hands on her hips as her mind offers solutions.

The knots are too tight and complicated for her to unravel, and Killian is in no shape to walk her through it. Which brings her back to cutting him free. The thought of stealing something from one of the many British soldiers around camp crosses her mind. She could sneak into one of their tents once they’ve fallen asleep, but she runs the risk of discovery. There’s no helping Killian if she’s delivered the same fate as him.

Belle’s laughter rings loudly in the slowly quieting camp, and Emma’s eyes widen in realization.

Her steps across the camp are soft and she keeps to the shadows of firelight. She moves slowly, eyes constantly roaming the area, her guard on high alert. The lanterns burn low in the tent where she spent most of the day, creating a glowing beacon on the edge of camp. The tent flaps gently move in the breeze, and Emma hears the voices of Zelena and Fiona, as they gather bandages to wash at the basin near the campfire.

The chill of the night starts to prickle at her skin, and her breath becomes visible in small wisps of white clouds before her eyes. She waits, shivering, for their footsteps to move away before she enters the back of the tent.

John Darling, a soldier not yet twenty, groans quietly six cots away from where she ducks in. His eyes remain closed as he calls for someone who is not there, and his blood is visible through the mountain of bandages she applied before the end of her shift. Her heart lurches as he continues to call for people she’s never met and with whom she doubts he’ll be reunited.

Emma swallows back the image that comes to mind of Killian sitting alone in his tent doing the exact same, as he receives food scraps he can’t eat and unable to move to relieve himself. Instead, she tiptoes over to the table that holds the equipment they’ve been using throughout the day. The amputation saw sits on the edge, blood staining the blade. She used one once, back in August after the British faced intense losses. The man said his name was Arthur; he had dark hair and blue eyes that made her heart yearn for Killian. She refused to look at him as she amputated his mangled left hand, but that didn’t stop the nightmares from replacing his face with Killian’s.

Her fingers move deftly past that to the scalpel. Blood stains that blade as well, but it is smaller and more easily concealed. It’ll be sharp enough to cut the ropes and easy to maneuver around his wrists without risk of injury.

Zelena and Fiona’s voices drift into the tent, and Emma glances up in alarm. In a quick move, she snatches the scalpel and rushes out before she can be detected.

Once outside the tent, a thought strikes her, and she seeks out the area where she knows discarded clothing of the deceased have been tossed. There are several jackets and shirts, but breeches are more difficult to come by. She digs through the putrid pile until she is lucky enough to procure two pair, bloodied and full of holes, but still usable. She tugs one pair on under her skirt, then stuffs the other pair, along with two shirts, into her blouse, and buttons it back up. Knowing they may face raw weather, she also picks out two uniform coats, rolling them up and clutching them tightly to her chest.

Moving as stealthily as she can with the extra bulk, she begins picking her way across the camp. Frustration sits heavy in her belly because she wants to hurry straight to where her love is suffering, but she can’t take the risk of being caught.

Along the way, she catches snippets of soldiers’ conversations and can’t help comparing them to those of the soldiers in the camps of her fellow countrymen. They may be on opposite sides of this conflict, but the same topics occupy their minds - deep longing for their families, hot, home cooked meals and their homes. They’re not very different, after all; yet, they’re killing each other by the hundreds, in battle after battle.

At last, she comes within sight of the shabby tent, still being guarded by two soldiers. Quickly stepping behind a large tree, she surveys the immediate area and decides on a route which appears to be safe.

She is just about to step out when she hears a shout coming from behind her.

“Halt! Thief!”

Her blood freezes in her veins as her breath stutters in her lungs. Cautiously turning her head, she sees Colonel Sitwell striding across the clearing, approaching a young soldier who looks to be no older than a teenager. He is cowering in front of the officer, his hands clasped behind his back, holding what appears to be a loaf of bread.

As Sitwell begins questioning the boy about where he is going and what he is doing, Emma turns her eyes to the guards in front of the tent and realizes their attention is drawn to the confrontation, giving her a golden opportunity.

Crouching down to make herself as small as possible, she scurries to the back of the tent. A thin sliver of moonlight is all that illuminates the heavy canvas and she gives herself a few precious seconds to allow her eyes to adjust. Once she is able to make out a seam, she pulls out the scalpel and, starting a foot above the ground, slices through the thick threads.

As soon as the seam separates, she drops to the ground, removes the pilfered clothes and pushes them through the opening, then she shimmies herself through. She gets up to her hands and knees, her eyes immediately trained upon the man still sitting in the same position in which she left him.

The dew has already settled on the grass in the darkening night, and Emma shivers as she stands just inside the tent - the leather boots she’s worn all this time are thin enough with gaps in the soles that some of the moisture has soaked through - making her teeth chatter along with the trembles of fear. The heat of the day has long since fled, and Emma feels the clammy chill down to her bones - aching for nothing so much as someplace safe and warm for herself and Killian. That desire drives her forward, despite the uncertainty that plagues her and the fear that she will fail him. She has to grit her teeth at the sight of Killian just feet from her, in a shelter full of rips and holes allowing wind and rain to blow right through, while his clothes are torn and threadbare - not even dry. They have barely deigned to feed him, and so of course he has not been granted any sort of blanket for the cold, autumn nights. She feels as though she is freezing; she cannot fathom the torment he has been going through. It’s a wonder he has not already succumbed to the elements and his countrymen’s gross mistreatment. She means to be certain he does not suffer even more with torture at their cruel hands.

She hates each hesitation as she sneaks across the dirt and grass at her feet; anxious to bolt and flee the danger like a startled rabbit. It is only Killian, so close again at last, who manages to stay her and keep her tiptoeing forward, making sure the way remains clear. All must still be distracted by Sitwell’s angry interrogation and the hapless young soldier he had accosted, to be checking in on their weak and battered prisoner, for she hears no further calls of alarm, no pounding feet bearing down, and she breathes out in relief.

Her eyes begin to water almost immediately - the stench unbearable in such close quarters - and her emotions nearly overcome her at Killian’s being forced to remain in his own filth; a man proud and fastidious of his manner and appearance, determined to present himself in his best light whenever possible. The wounds she had seen on him previously must be festering and growing infected. She cringes against the pain and shame she knows he must feel, in spite of it being no fault of his own.

Finally at his side, Emma drops to her knees and reaches out to clutch his shoulder, shaking gently and hissing urgent whispers of his name. When he fails to respond immediately, it strikes her all over again just how serious his condition is, and she wastes not another second before beginning to saw at his bonds with her stolen blade. To her dismay, Killian’s dark head lolls lifelessly, chin against his chest, until in her haste, she accidentally nicks the tender skin at his wrist.

With a startled grunt, he jerks an inch or so away weakly, and finally turns to face her, his unswollen eye fluttering uncertainly before managing to focus blearily and murmuring “Emma?” in question, as if he does not quite trust his own vision. “Why are you back here, Lass? If they catch you…” he sucks in a quick breath, whether from the effort it takes him to speak, or from jarring some injury she cannot see, Emma’s isn’t sure, but she aches for him all the same. He struggles on breathlessly, “You have to leave me here and get out. I am not worth – ”

“Hush!” she scolds sharply, giving the single word as much volume and strength as she dares. Her eyes spear his, staring him down with a look that allows no argument. She has managed to break through the ropes holding his arms behind him and around the central tentpost, and Killian nearly slumps over on his side at the sudden release of tension, but she steadies him, then cups his scruffy, nearly-bearded chin in her hand, willing him to accept her words as fact. “You are worth it. I won’t hear another word,” she whispers.

For a moment, unbidden and breaking across his face like the sun from behind the clouds of a storm, a smile upturns his cracked lips, and he chuckles just barely in spite of his condition, then merely sighs, acquiescing to her words largely out of sheer fatigue, but indeed loving her for them.

Releasing his chin, Emma gives a curt little bob of her head and reaches to the pile of shabby, but at least dry, clothing she had managed to scavenge. She had dropped it hastily to the side in her hurry to reach him and make sure he was still alive. Holding out a shirt, she gives Killian a hopeful look, tremulous smile aiming to inject inspiration into both of them for this perilous escape they are about to attempt.

She watches him try to work the feeling back into his hands and arms after their being bound behind him for so long. His limbs move awkwardly, even as he reaches forward to take the shirt she offers.

Killian’s eyes roam her face with entirely too much awe for her comfort, drinking her in hungrily and as though she has done something noteworthy rather than merely rooting through a pile of discarded uniforms and cutting through tent canvas to crawl back to his side. He simply nods to her in agreement.

His silence unnerves Emma; she is used to a lilting flow of eloquent words from Killian - so much so that she has often wondered if he talks for his own entertainment as much as he does to charm her. Whatever the case, his gently cultured, warm, and soothing voice had been one of the things she missed most desperately about him while they were parted, and she cannot help but worry now, as the quiet persists, just how little strength her beloved has left.

When he fumbles to get his hands into the sleeves, a strangled sound and arrested movement at his effort to raise his arms and slip the shirt on over his head attests to just how much pain he is in. Emma soothes him regretfully, reaching out to ease his arms down to his sides and guide his limbs gingerly into the garment, swiftly securing the fastenings as well.

“I’m so sorry, Killian,” she whispers, hating that it had taken so long to find him, that he had ever been hurt at all, and that she has to press him now when he cannot move without causing further anguish. But he is already shaking his head at her, forgiving what she cannot help without a moment’s hesitation.

He is panting once he finally gets the shirt on, and the sheen of sweat glistening on his face concerns Emma more than she wants to admit. How is he ever going to flee as quickly as they need to, over rough terrain, if just this has taxed him so badly? And, even if they get away, how how sick is he and how badly is he hurt? Will they be able to help him recover?

Emma bites her lip against another swell of emotion at just how large the shirt appears on Killian’s emaciated frame. His collarbone protrudes sharply where the neck of the shirt hangs low, to a degree that Emma knows it would not have done when last she saw him.

Hesitantly she tries to help him stand, not wanting to insult or demean him - a man of lesser strength might not have clung to life as long as he has - but she genuinely fears he may not be able to support his own weight, and she isn’t sure what she will do otherwise.

Killian grunts, clenching his teeth and lurching forward to plant his hands on the hard-packed dirt and push himself upwards, then leaning against the tent post, he does indeed manage to leverage himself to his own two feet. It isn’t without obvious discomfort and struggle, and he lists worryingly to one side, though Emma isn’t certain if he is favoring broken ribs or trying to appease the stretching of the whip weals on his back.

She has already seen more of his body bared to her eyes than ever before - more than is entirely proper. It is far from the interlude she would never admit to having envisioned when they would finally explore each other’s bodies one day. All the same, she will not let that keep her from any small modicum of comfort she can offer him, not after all he has already withstood. Blushing hotly, but ready to press on, Emma is about to hold out the stolen pants in offering, when with a low moan, Killian crumples back to his knees weakly, barely catching himself by leaning once more against the post which had held him captive.

Heedlessly, Emma tosses the breeches away in alarm. They will have to worry about comfort and his taking further chill later. He cannot stand much more of this, and she has to get him out. His eyes rise to hers looking so pained and ashamed that Emma wants nothing more than to wrap his trembling frame in her arms, hold him close to her, and comfort and soothe him until he is well again. That he would feel embarrassment in front of her for something he cannot help, weakness forced on him through malnourishment and abuse, breaks her heart anew. She can hardly stand to push him further, but there is nothing for it.

She only shakes her head when he attempts to speak. “We’ll manage,” she asserts with a false bravado. There is no other option. She won’t even allow herself to consider it.

He nods again, some of the resolute steel she knows and loves at last returning to his gaze. She places her hands under his arms, and with them both heaving and straining, Killian gains his feet once more. This time Emma doesn’t let go, keeping one arm around his waist as he uses her as a crutch, sliding her shoulder under his arm so he can brace against her.

Quickly grabbing the pack she has carried with her from camp to camp, she leads forward, and together they take the first few shuffling steps toward the hole she has made in the back of the tent. She can tell he is lightheaded, hurting, struggling even to breathe properly, but now that Killian is up, his survival instinct - or at least his concern for her survival - has him painstakingly putting one foot in front of the other.

It is only as they near her makeshift exit that Emma realizes in horror that the distracting commotion which had been going on outside has calmed, and that she is still dressed exactly as anyone else in the camp would have seen her earlier. Quickly she cautions Killian just to lean against her for a moment, seeing his discarded tricorn hat in the corner of the tent, she grabs it, stuffs her brightly identifying hair up under it, then unbuttons the waist of her skirt and flings the long, heavy material away. It is far from a brilliant disguise, but that would only cover her absence for so long, anyway. Once Killian’s escape is discovered, the new nurse who had asked to bring food to him, then disappeared the same day she arrived, is going to be the most likely suspect. Her shaking hands quickly transfer the food she managed to grab from her skirt pockets to her stolen breeches, and she stands to let Killian lean on her again. She doesn’t have time to worry over any other items left behind at the moment; they just need to make haste as soon as possible.

As she adjusts her grip on Killian, Emma realizes once more just how poorly he must feel. Unlike his usual self, he has not a playful comment or even a salacious wink for her, despite the fact that she has seen him shirtless, helped him dress, and shed her skirts in front of him. She sends up a silent prayer that they can make it to the surrounding woods before they are discovered. She knows he cannot run full tilt - he can barely stand - so they must manage some sort of a head start.

Dipping her head to peer just barely through the roughly torn flap of tent in which she created an exit, Emma sees that although things have grown much calmer since she snuck in - Sitwell must have carted off the poor younger soldier he caught stealing - the other staring eyes throughout the camp have returned to their previous concerns and conversations. Though it still feels much too risky, far too exposed, the time will not get any better for them to escape.

As a last minute thought, Emma changes her mind, throws on one of the jackets, grabs the breeches she’d tossed aside, realizing she’ll eventually have to get Killian into enough clothing that he doesn’t freeze. Then, half-supporting and half-tugging him, Emma ducks her head to slip out of the prisoner’s tent through the hole she made, making sure Killian follows without stumbling or getting caught on the ragged edge.

Killian bites his lip against the agony that each step and merely standing upright clearly causes him in an effort to ease her nerves and steel himself for flight. He nods, visibly marshaling every last bit of strength he possesses to push forward as they step onto the dew-wet grass. Holding her gaze for one brief, but weighted moment, he then bows his head to watch each wobbly step he struggles to take. Gritting his teeth, the wounds that burn and pull each time his feet strike the ground try to steal his breath, but he forces himself to move on, matching Emma pace for pace.

She doesn’t dare speak, but she urges him along in her head, silently cheering with each foot they progress across the trampled field and closer to the treeline, nearer to the relative cover and safety of the woods nearby. Heart pounding in her ears, frantic and alert for the first sign they have been found out, Emma forces herself to lead without looking back, to focus on the shadows and brush of the forest as they draw blessedly nearer. Twenty-five feet…fifteen feet…ten…just a few more feet…

They have only just gained the edge of the woods when a shout of alarm goes up. Bellows of “The prisoner has escaped!” and “Search the area!” ring out, along with the sound of feet pounding and general mayhem as the camp mobilizes from the drowsy comradery of evening by the fire to the dogged pursuit of a fugitive. Emma’s breath catches in her chest with fear, and she risks one frantic look thrown over her shoulder as they dodge beneath low-hanging branches and plunge into the darker foliage that surrounds them just in time.

She sees torches - far too many to evade it seems, as panic momentarily takes hold - fanning out from the camp in all directions; some moving closer to them than she can bear already.

This time it is Killian who brings her back to the present, to the immediate steps before them. “You can do this, Emma. Bloody brilliant you are,” he pants. “Lead on, we’ve almost made it.”

Grateful for his steadying belief, though she knows he is half-delirious with pain and fever and is no more certain of their escape than she is, it is the jolt Emma needs to shake her panic and bring her back to her task. Turning once more, she steps forward again, only to snag her foot on an uprooted twig, making her stumble forward off-balance, bringing Killian with her.

The ground seemingly dissolves beneath their feet, falling away to nothingness and sending them plunging downward into the dark. It happens so suddenly that Emma has rolled and pitched against the hard, sloped ground several times before she can cry out, thankfully. A wounded grunt is all she hears from Killian before hitting the bottom of an incline hard enough to knock the air from both of their lungs as she lands on top of him with a sickening thud.

Scrambling off of his body, Emma tries to squint in the dark to find his face in front of her, stomach turning at the thought of having hurt him further. “Killian?” she whispers, not daring to speak any louder. He doesn’t respond, but before she can try anything else, she hears yelling and footsteps drawing nearer, crunching through twigs and fallen leaves. Wrestling a dirt-stained, ragged gray blanket from the pack that is miraculously still on her shoulder, Emma flings it desperately over them both, hoping it will blend into the night and the overgrown vegetation at the bottom of this steep dropoff. There is nothing else to do, with their enemies nearly atop them. She holds herself motionless, her hand over Killian’s chest, feeling for the barest rise and fall, praying the Redcoats will pass by and fail to see them.

Each agonizing second seems to stretch on for an hour as she waits, but slowly, painstakingly, the tramp of threatening forces move on, circle back, and judging by the calls she overhears, return to the main camp to regroup. They will be back on her and Killian’s trail by first light, but it is a miraculous reprieve in that moment, and she lurches upright to see if he has regained awareness to carry on.

“Killian?” she pleads once more, clutching at his shirt and gently trying to shake him awake. “Killian, please! You have to answer me!”

At last his eyes flutter open, though focus in them is far from clear. “Emma…?” he mumbles blearily, the words hazy in a loose-lipped mush. “What happened?”

“I tripped on a root of some sort, and we tumbled down a ravine. I- I’m sorry, I didn't see it until it was too late.”

He reaches out unsteadily and cups her cheek as if to brush her apology and fear away, despite the ever-weakening tremble of his limbs.

She presses on doggedly. “The blanket has hidden us from your jailers for the moment,” she adds, “but we better get as far as we can before daybreak. They will be after us again, no doubt.”

Doubt and an embarrassed uncertainty flicker in Killian’s eyes, but he does not speak, only pushes himself into a sitting position through sheer force of will. “You may have to help me up,” he finally relents, no longer meeting her eyes, but Emma is so relieved and glad that he is awake and willing to try, that she somehow musters the strength and adrenaline to help him lever himself back to his feet.

Rather than attempting to scale the hill they had tumbled down, they follow a small trickle of water running along at their feet, which becomes a stream after a mile or so. Pausing briefly to see that Killian gets a drink and has a crust of bread she stuffed into her pocket, Emma wrestles the ruined pants Killian wore off his legs, hurrying to dip a less dirty part of them into the stream and wash his skin the best she can, knowing that despite the cold, it must be done since he’d been forced to wear them so long. She doesn’t dare look him in the face as her fingers skim his bare skin, and she still looks off to the side determinedly as she helps him wrestle the change of breeches she had stolen over his jutting hipbones, urges him back to his feet and fastens the breeches securely. She shoves the other pair in her bag for the moment, to avoid leaving evidence behind. They just need to focus on getting out of here. Anything else they could work through, once they were safe.

By the time the first pale rays of sunrise start to color the sky, Emma hopes they have covered enough distance to avoid detection. They are heading for David and Mary Margaret’s quiet, out-of-the-way farm, but they will not make it today, not before Brits catch up to them.

Luckily they find a small cave, and Emma presses them as far into the dank, winding depth of it as they can possibly get. Sitting at last, she urges Killian to rest, his head in her lap, her hands smoothing through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. Watching over him, fretful and sleepless, she tries to gauge how long it has been and listens for any sign of discovery. When she finally sneaks out, she discovers they have made it until dark again and they can press on.

She counts each ragged breath that rattles through Killian’s shockingly light frame, and thanks the Lord above he hasn’t been taken from her yet. They are still together, and will fight on.

*****

They have been traveling for two days when Emma again hears the low babbling of a brook. Killian struggles during their journey, relying heavily on her to help him move. His weakened state only worsens with the small amount of food she can scavenge and no canteen to provide him hydration. Blood seeps through his pilfered clothes to stain her own when she supports his weight on their walk. She thanks the heavens he’s only awake during the night hours so he doesn’t see it, all the while cursing herself for not being able to do more for him.

But the sound of fresh water is enough to give her a sprinkling of hope.

Emma practically drags Killian in the direction of the noise, eyes frantically scanning the tree line for an enemy to surprise them. If worse came to worst, she’d drop Killian to the ground and batten her defenses, grabbing the blunt blade from her boot. She’d fight the entire British army if she had to, just to help him.

Thankfully the only other inhabitants of the woods are the animals that scurry across their feet.

Killian’s eyes blink rapidly as he fights to stay awake. She knows that they’ll have to stop for a full night tomorrow or the next day. He needs to regain his strength, and, aside from a few hours rest the night before, Emma hasn’t slept a full night since before arriving at camp. Adrenaline has kept her going thus far, but even she knows it’s not sustainable.

“We’re almost there,” she whispers to him, Killian’s head lolling against hers as he grunts a reply.

Twigs scratch at their ankles, and the cool night air wraps around their shoulders in a deep embrace. Moonlight offers their only source of light, and Emma desperately clings to the moon beams that shine down between the treetops.

Relief floods her body as they break through a particularly profuse thicket and the creek flows just a few paces from their spot. Rocks litter either side of the stream, one large enough to lean Killian against. She drops to her knees once he is situated. Dew seeps into her clothes, a wet patch gathering quickly where she kneels. The cool sensation is nothing compared to the water.

Emma dunks her hands into the water in a quick fashion, hissing when the brisk liquid stings her fingers. She quickly pulls her hands back and looks to Killian. “You need to drink,” she murmurs, not expecting an answer that he has no strength to give. Taking a deep breath, she sinks her hands into the water, up to her wrists and cups them together, gathering water that she hastily carries over to him, tipping her hands onto his lips. Water slips between her fingers as she tries to give him some, droplets slide down the sides of his face. He gasps as he gulps down the meager offering.

She repeats the process until she suspects his stomach is getting upset. Her fingers tear the hem of her borrowed clothes and rip a few bands of cloth. The moon highlights the blood cresting on his skin from the open wounds along his body, the dirt collecting on his person.

“I need to clean you,” she whispers as her hand cradles his cheek. Killian opens his eyes to meet hers, and she sees the corner of his mouth lifting under his unruly facial hair.

“You’ve done enough, love,” he says just as quietly. “Give me a moment and I can wash myself.”

“The water’s cold,” she argues.

“Suppose I’ll need a distraction then.”

Hydrated and more awake than he’d been when they arrived at the creek, Emma helps Killian shed his shirt and aids him in kneeling at the creek’s waterbed.

Killian stares at the water, and Emma notices a faraway look taking over his face. The look is one she’s become familiar with working on other soldiers. Memories – nightmares really – that haunt even their waking hours. Her hand reaches over to cover his shaking fist crushing a band of cloth. She swallows as he suddenly swivels his head to her, blinking a few times before he offers her a wobbly smile.

“Do you remember when you caught fish?” she asks. Her tone is light and her smile is encouraging. The undercurrent of teasing that usually accompanies the story is barely tangible.

Killian breathes out a small laugh. “You would never let me forget.”

A nod is shared between them and her voice offers a distraction as he dips the cloth, hissing as it touches his raw skin.

The sun was barely rising over the horizon, when a specialized knock echoed throughout the quiet Nolan house. David and Mary Margaret were undoubtedly already awake with the livestock kept on the property, but Emma had hoped for a few more hours of rest. Her feet ached and her fingers felt numb, her first week spent treating wounded Colonists draining every ounce of her energy. She won’t be shipped out to a British camp for another few months; her secret coding needed to be finely tuned and her stitchwork would give her away as an inadequate nurse.

She winced as her fingers worked to knot the belt of her robe. Sleep still scratched at the edges of her consciousness, but her racing heart beat it back vigorously.

Emma opened the door in a rush, breath caught in her throat from anticipation. She sighed heartily when she realized it was merely Killian standing on the porch. A woven basket hung off of one arm, and he clutched a bouquet of wildflowers in the opposite hand.

“Morning, lass,” he greeted with a wide grin.

She squinted as the early sun rays overwhelmed her sight. “To what do I owe this honor?” The door squeaked momentarily as she leaned against it, her heart racing for an entirely new reason. A smile threatened to emerge as she struggled to keep a disinterested face in the presence of such a magnificent man.

The sun shone on him like he was a gift from above, just for her. Golden rays of light gleamed on his dark hair to create a halo and his grin was certified to make any lady swoon. His eyes crinkled in delight as he gazed down at her, and she swallowed hard as she awaited his answer.

“I remember you mentioning over the summer how much you missed cod,” he said as he maneuvered his way inside the house. The basket is placed gently on the kitchen table while the flowers remain in his tight grasp.

“I don’t think that’s enough of a remarkable statement to explain your appearance this morning. Nearly everyone in town misses the cod.”

Killian grinned, something quick and hidden as he ducked his head out of her sight. Her statement was true, no matter the humor he found in it. The increasing warships offshore had chased the fish further out into the ocean. The wider landscape made it difficult to catch a quantifiable amount of cod to justify the trip, not counting the dangers that came with being in the same waters as opposing military forces.

“Well,” he started, “it does offer an explanation for my appearance.”

“Oh?”

Wildflowers were suddenly thrust in her direction, and she blinked for a few moments before it finally registered. Killian’s arm was extended to her and nerves crept up his tense shoulders. “Firstly, these are for you.” His tongue poked out of his mouth to wet his lips, her attention dramatically pulled from the flowers by the movement. The sight was always a distraction when they practiced her accent, but now it felt like it had intent. An intent to tease her, to bring her to a different focus.

Belatedly, she took the bouquet from Killian. “Thank you,” she said softly, taking a moment to smell the flowers. No one had ever brought her flowers before. Most girls she grew up with were married off with children of their own by now, but she found herself too different from them to warrant the attention of a gentleman in town. Until Killian.

“And this is for you as well.” Killian proudly walked over to the basket and pulled back the linen covering its contents. “Freshly caught cod.”

Emma stepped closer and peered into the basket. A gasp left her mouth before she covered it to prevent her laughter from becoming noticeable.

“What?” he asked.

“You have never been fishing here before, have you?”

“No… Why?”

She failed to keep the laughter from her voice as she spoke. “These fish aren’t cod.”

A slew of expletives was voiced under his breath as he moved to her side. His hand reached for the basket to examine the fish closer. “Are you positive?”

She huffed. “I may not be a fisherman, but I do know my food.” Her eyes examined the fish, wrapped and salted to preserve it for the days long trip back, as a smile threatened to appear on her lips. “These are summer flounder, which are still edible and mild tasting. I appreciate your efforts.”

The amusement left her body as she watched Killian’s face fall and his demeanor depress. His hand toyed with the edge of the basket as his jaw ticked from how tightly he clenched it. She called his name only to receive a shake of his head in return. He dropped his weight onto one of the kitchen chairs and sagged into the seat.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he murmured to himself. Emma followed his lead and sat beside him. The urge to reach out and grab his hand between her own brewed deep in her stomach.

“Wanted what?”

“Apologies, love,” Killian said. He offered his best self-deprecating smile for a brief second before he returned his stare to the table. “I had hoped to present this as my official request to court you, but alas, I’ve made a fool of myself, instead.”

Her throat dried at his words and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered. He wanted to court her? The mere thought left her practically speechless. Killian had wanted to present her with her favorite meal – cod – and picked flowers for her by himself. He traveled in dangerous waters just to impress her.

She hummed, bringing the flowers to her nose. The fresh aroma made her head spin in the most delightful way, and she sent Killian a shy smile. “It seems to me like you’ve been doing a splendid job, so far.” He grinned back at her for a moment before it fell at the sight of the summer flounder. “You really went out to sea to catch these fish? For me?”

There was no teasing inflection to her words, a heavy weight instead accompanied them. Their eyes met over the table, and she watched Killian’s throat bob as he swallowed hard. He matched her seriousness and kept their eyes connected; his single word answer said a million things to her.

“Aye.”

Emma placed the bouquet gently on the table between them and refused to let her eyes trail away from his. She leaned forward as he watched in anticipation, breath hitched in his throat.

Their lips met, and Emma finally tasted freedom.

*********

“Just…a little further…Killian,” Emma gasps, her arm tightening around his waist. Her eyes are trained on the small house shining in the moonlight in front of them, but they also continue to dart around for any sign of being followed.They’ve been careful to travel only at night, seeking out dense woods where they could hide and rest during the daylight hours.

It’s taken them nearly a week to reach Mary Margaret and David’s farm, their progress hampered by the constant surveillance of their surroundings for fear of being captured, and by Killian’s injuries. Emma has tried to treat his wounds along the way, cursing herself for not grabbing any medical supplies when she pilfered the scalpel and clothing. He was also weak from lack of food, since the small amount of food she smuggled and berries she was able to find were not doing much to build his strength.

But now, the end of their arduous journey is finally within sight. Emma tries to quicken their pace, but Killian’s groan of pain reminds her that he’s already going as fast as he can. He hasn’t once complained, but she knows every step has been agony for him.

“I’m sorry, Killian. Please forgive me for my impatience.”

“You…you’ve been anything…but impatient, Love,” he rasps. “I should be…apologizing for…causing you all this trouble.”

“Hush, now,” she admonishes. “You are worth everything to me. I would go to the ends of the earth to find you and bring you home.”

“It almost feels like…that’s how far we’ve come,” he says with a dry chuckle.

She laughs in response, her heart lifting a little over his attempt at humor. They continue their laborious trek over the uneven ground until finally, they are standing on the small wooden stoop at the back of the house.

“I hope someone is awake,” Emma whispers. Raising her hand, she raps on the door three times, pauses a few seconds, knocks twice, then twice more in rapid succession.

The wait seems interminable until they hear a familiar voice saying, “Identify yourself.”

Emma almost cries at the sound of her brother’s voice. “Em-” Her voice is suddenly not working, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Emma Nolan.”

There’s a pause. “What happened when I was twelve that you always thought was your fault?”

Without hesitation, she replies, “You fell out of a tree and broke your left arm trying to rescue my kitten, Patches.”

She smiles at Killian as they hear the sound of a key turning. Before she can react any further, the door swings open and she’s pulled into a crushing hug.

“Where have you been?” David’s voice rumbles under her cheek where it’s pressed against his chest.

“Let us in and I’ll tell you.”

“Us?” he questions, pulling away to look behind her.

“I found him,” she says simply, reaching to take Killian’s hand. Even in the dim light coming from the fireplace in the kitchen, she can see David’s eyes brighten. He steps out of the way so the two travelers can enter.

After closing the door behind them, he turns around and the happiness in his eyes instantly turns to dismay when he takes in the condition of the other man. Before he can say anything, Mary Margaret’s voice can be heard from their bedroom doorway, asking, “Who was it, David?”

“See for yourself,” he answers, grabbing a match to light a kerosene lamp on the kitchen table.

She emerges, tying the belt of a thin, cotton robe. “Emma! We’ve been…” Her eyes move to the figure leaning on her sister-in-law. “Oh, Killian! Look at you!” Pulling out a chair, she helps Emma gingerly lower the injured man into it.

“I’m alright,” he says, but can’t stop the groan from escaping his lips when he’s fully seated.

Mary Margaret immediately begins assessing the injuries to his face. “David, please bring the basket of supplies. Emma, get a wash basin of water and a cloth.”

They both scurry to do as told, coming back to find Mary Margaret has already started working on the shirt fasteners. “Have the two of you had anything to eat?” she asks.

“Just whatever we could scavenge from the woods,” Emma answers, placing the basin on the table and tossing the cloth into the cool water. “I ran out of the food I was able to steal from camp.”

Mary Margaret finishes with the fastenings and pushes the shirt aside, gasping when she sees how much weight Killian has lost. “I’ll, um, I’ll let you clean him up while I heat some chicken stew.” Emma can see tears shining in her eyes when she turns away.

After setting the medical supplies on the table, David moves to the fireplace to remove the kettle. He pours some hot water into the basin, replaces the kettle, and returns to help Emma peel the shirt off of Killian. When he sees the wounds from a whip across his back and chest, his mouth tightens into a straight line, his eyes hardening with anger.

Emma speaks as she squeezes out the cloth and begins tenderly wiping her beloved’s face. “When I found him, they were holding him prisoner, planning to execute him the next day, as soon as their commanding officer arrived.”

She continues relating the conditions in which he was held, as she moves on to begin sponging his neck and chest. Mary Margaret and David share grim looks as they listen, appalled at the way their friend was treated.

“He was actually much worse than this, but we came across a clear creek and he was able to wash himself off a bit, even though the water was pretty chilly,” Emma says.

“David,” Mary Margaret says, turning quickly to her husband. “Can you please begin filling the tub with water? I’m sure soaking in a hot bath would feel good, wouldn’t it, Killian?”

The man looks up at her with bleary eyes. “Aye, it would.”

“Take the tub into our bedroom, David. We can move into one of the rooms upstairs and Killian can have our room so he won’t have to climb the stairs.”

David sets to work getting the metal tub moved and filled with water, while Mary Margaret dishes up bowls of reheated stew for Emma and Killian. His hands are shaking as he spoons the food into his mouth, slopping some into his unkempt beard. “Sorry,” he apologizes.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Mary Margaret says, as Emma dabs the spill away with the cloth. “Just don’t eat too fast. Your stomach is going to have to get used to having adequate food in it again.” He nods in understanding, giving her another look of gratitude when she sets a plate containing several slices of bread between him and Emma.

They’re just finishing their meal when David rejoins them in the kitchen, announcing that the bath is ready. He offers to help the other man bathe, and it’s a testament to how weary and weak Killian is that he accepts.

Once the men leave the room, the women have a whispered conversation. “Do you think there’s any chance they’ll find him here?” asks Mary Margaret.

“I really don’t think so. We were very careful and diligent about not leaving any evidence behind. You and David taught us well.”

“How did you find him?”

“I kept moving from camp to camp, working as a nurse. If I didn’t find him in one place, I would move on.”

“You were very fortunate to find him when you did. If you arrived even one day later…”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Emma shudders. “I came so close to losing him.”

Mary Margaret reaches over and pats her hand. “But you did not. That is the important thing.”

“Now we need to help him recover, and I fear it is going to take a long time. He is very weak. There were times when I was afraid he would not have enough strength to make it here.”

“I suppose you will not want to be far from him tonight,” Mary Margaret observed. At Emma’s confirmation, she added, “We can set up a cot for you just outside the bedroom so you will be able to hear him, should he need you.”

By the time the two of them retrieve the cot from the attic and take it downstairs, David is exiting the bedroom with a concerned look on his face. “A couple of his wounds appear to be infected, but I can’t be sure until we see them in the daylight. I cleaned them the best I could and bandaged them. I know you wanted to tend to him tonight, but he is utterly exhausted, so I already helped him to bed.”

“That is probably for the best,” Mary Margaret says. “I think we all need to get some sleep. Emma is going to sleep on the cot so she can be there for him if he needs her.”

“Do you want me to fill the tub with clean water so you can take a bath, too?” David asks Emma.

“No, I will just take a sponge bath using the water in the basin. I’m so tired, I would probably fall asleep in the tub.”

Husband and wife empty the water from the tub and carry it out, then set up the cot in the kitchen and cover it with bed linens, while Emma washes up and changes out of the filthy, stolen set of clothes into a soft, flannel nightgown. Releasing her hair from the tight bun, she brushes the snarls and tangles out of her long blonde tresses, then, after bidding her brother and sister-in-law goodnight, goes into the bedroom.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she observes her love by the dim light of the kerosene lamp on the nightstand. His face is relaxed in sleep, but she can still see the cuts and bruises marring it. Tenderly, she reaches over and brushes some strands of still damp hair away from his brow. Leaning down, she brushes kisses to his cheeks and lips. “You are safe now, my love,” she whispers. “No one is ever going to take you from me again.”

After watching him sleep for a few more minutes, she moves out to the cot, climbs between the soft, clean sheets, and falls into the first deep sleep she’s had since she said goodbye to Killian months ago.

*********

Emma is awakened in the middle of the night when Killian begins groaning loudly and thrashing around in the bed. She throws back the blanket and rushes into the bedroom, distressed when her hand touches his forehead and feels the heat radiating from it.

Quickly, she goes back into the kitchen and pumps more water into the basin, adding a couple of washcloths to it before carrying it into the bedroom. Nudging the extinguished lantern aside, she makes room for the basin on the nightstand.

She wrings out the first cloth, folds it, and lays it across Killian’s forehead, then repeats the process to lay one on his chest. He begins mumbling, but she doesn’t think he’s quite awake. Leaning down, she speaks into his ear, “What do you need, my love?”

He runs his tongue over his dry, cracked lips, murmuring, “Thirsty.”

Returning to the kitchen, she fills a glass with water and brings it back. She slides her arm behind his back to help raise him up, tears coming to her eyes once again when she feels the sharpness of his shoulder blades through his nightshirt.

He gulps the water thirstily and thanks her, before she lowers him back to the mattress and kisses his feverish brow. After returning the glass to the kitchen, she refreshes the washcloths with cool water, then sits down on the wooden chair beside the bed, turning to face him. She sleeps fitfully the rest of the night, reapplying the cloths and checking his temperature a few more times.

Once the morning light begins filtering in through the thin curtains, Emma dresses hurriedly and goes into the kitchen to find Mary Margaret already preparing dough to make bread. She looks up at Emma with a smile that fades when she sees the worried look on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Mary Margaret asks, pulling her hands out of the dough and wiping them on a towel.

“Killian has had a fever all night. I’m afraid he does have an infection.”

“Is he awake?”

“Not yet. I know we need to examine him more thoroughly, but he needs his rest, too. Do you think I should wake him?”

Mary Margaret ponders for a moment. “Let him sleep a while longer. David has gone out to ride the perimeter of the property. When he gets back, we will find out what he thinks we should do.”

Emma pinches off a small piece of dough and pops it into her mouth. “Is he making sure we weren’t followed?”

“He knows you were careful, he just doesn’t want to take any chances,” Mary Margaret explains, beginning to shape the dough into small loaves.

Upon hearing a sound from the bedroom, Emma turns and hurries in there. She finds Killian sitting on the side of the bed with his feet on the floor, his head hanging down and his hands gripping the edge of the mattress.

She steps in front of him, cupping his face in her hands and gently lifting it. “Good morning, my love. How are you feeling?”

He manages a weak smile. “Much better, being here with you, Love,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and fever.

Combing her fingers through his hair, she asks, “Do you want some breakfast?”

“Aye, that sounds good.”

Emma discreetly runs the back of her hand over his forehead, troubled to still find it overly warm. “Do you need help getting dressed?”

“Trying to peek at me naked, are you?” he jokes weakly.

Despite her concern, she still blushes and can’t help but smile. He has always had a knack for making her laugh, and she’s pleased to see he hasn’t lost his sense of humor. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

He turns his face to press a kiss into her palm. “You are helpful, and also very beautiful. My beautiful saviour.”

Her heart swells at his words and all she can think to say is, “I love you.”

“And I, you.”

She dips her head and brushes a kiss to his cheek. Leaning her forehead against his, she sighs. “I cannot believe I actually found you and we made it back home. There were times when I thought I…” The emotion makes her breath catch in her throat. “...I would never see you again.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Emma. You should know by now that I’m a survivor.”

“The order of execution did give me pause.”

“Point taken.”

She soaks in a little more time of being able to touch him, before declaring, “I’ll go upstairs and get some clothes for you.”

“Thank you, Love.”

Giving him one more kiss, she exits the room. David is stomping his feet off on the mat inside the kitchen door. “Is everything secure?” she asks.

“As far as I can tell,” he answers. “How is Killian this morning?”

“He is carrying a fever, but it does not seem to be as bad as it was in the middle of the night. I’m going to get clothes for him. Could you please go in and check on him?”

“Of course,” David agrees, already heading toward the bedroom.

Emma goes to the cedar chest, where Mary Margaret keeps extra clothes for anyone in their spy network who is in need of them. Kneeling down before the chest, she takes the opportunity to send up a prayer of gratitude and also a plea for healing. Killian may be putting on a brave front, but she knows him. He’s weak and in pain; far from the strong, robust man he was months ago, before he went undercover behind enemy lines.

Gathering the shirt and knickers into her arms, she descends the creaking stairs, finding Mary Margaret removing the bread from the oven. “Is David still in with Killian?” Emma asks.

“Yes. He came out to get some clean water, whiskey and towels. He said Killian has wounds showing signs of infection and he has heard that pouring alcohol on them helps.”

Emma grimaces. “That sounds like it would be painful.”

“Not as painful as amputation, should the infection get worse,” Mary Margaret notes quietly.

Emma’s face pales as she thinks about the possibility. The wound around his left wrist, caused by the ropes with which he was tied, is especially concerning; the flesh around it red and angry, while the wound itself appears to be festering.

“David said Killian is relaying information to him about the enemy’s position and strategies. Even being held for execution, he was gathering vital information. That man of yours is a model of bravery, Emma.”

Now her chest swells with pride, but the moment is interrupted by a hoarse curse coming from the bedroom. “Bloody hell, David! That bloody hurts!”

The two women share a concerned, and slightly amused, look. “At least he has a little fire in his voice,” Emma comments.

Her sister-in-law nods in agreement before asking, “Should I prepare a tray of food for him?”

“I’m sure Killian will insist on joining us out here. He won’t want you making a fuss over him.”

“He deserves to be fussed over, after all he’s gone through.”

“I agree, but you know he won’t see it that way.”

Emma approaches the bedroom door and taps on it lightly. At David’s permission to enter, she pushes it open and peeks in. “I have some clean clothes.”

“Bring them in, I just finished treating his wounds,” David says, tying off a bandage around Killian’s wrist.

Emma’s eyes scan over her love’s form as he sits slumped on the side of the bed. He looks up and manages to give her a small smile. “Thank you, Love.”

She deposits the clothes on the bed beside him and catches David’s eye, communicating silently with him to ask about Killian’s condition. The grim set of his mouth and slight shoulder shrug tells her he shares her concern about the other man.

Emma picks up the shirt, unfolds it, and carefully pulls it over Killian’s head. David helps guide his arms into the sleeves, Emma ties it, and a lump forms in her throat when she sees how loosely it hangs on him. Mere months ago, he would have easily filled it out with his muscular physique. The stolen shirt was also baggy on him, but she tried to reason that the man to whom it belonged must have been much bigger than Killian. Now, there’s no denying that he has indeed lost a substantial amount of weight during his captivity, and her hatred toward the soldiers of his former homeland intensifies.

She holds out the remaining clothes to David. “Please help him put these on while I go help Mary Margaret get breakfast on the table,” she says, knowing her voice sounds gruff from the raw emotion she’s feeling.

Turning on her heel, she exits the room.

*********

The next two days for Killian are a series of ups and downs. He continues to run a fever, sometimes mumbling deliriously because of it. His stomach repels the food he eats ravenously, the vomiting causing his already dangerously weak body to weaken even further. Heedless of the custom dictating unmarried couples not sleep together in the same room, they move the cot into the bedroom so Emma can get to Killian more quickly when he needs her aid.

There are far too many moments when she wonders if they escaped and made the dangerous trek back home, only for him to die anyway.

Yet, in the mornings, after a good night’s rest, he’s fairly alert and his endearing personality comes shining through. They’re relieved to see his wounds responding to their careful treatment, the fiery looking skin around them returning to normal as the infection ebbs away.

On the third morning after their return, Emma is awakened by Mary Margaret rushing into the bedroom, shaking Emma’s shoulder as she whispers urgently, “Get up! David just found signs of someone being on the property, and we need to get the two of you down to the root cellar!”

“Enemy soldiers?” Emma asks, throwing off the covers, her heart in her throat.

“He does not know, but he also does not want to take any chances. He and Leroy have gone out again to see if they can find anything else, and he wants me to get the two of you into the cellar.”

Emma pulls her robe on and ties the belt, then slides her stocking feet into her shoes. Mary Margaret is trying to rouse Killian, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. “Gather as many quilts and blankets as you can and go down to the cellar to try to make up a bed for him on the floor,” she instructs Emma, her voice still a whisper but full of tense anxiety.

Emma hurries to do as she’s told, emptying the linen closet under the stairs. It takes two trips down the steep, rickety steps to get everything to the dank root cellar. The pungent smell of earth and unwashed vegetables fills her nose as she tosses the thick quilts on the ground in the corner under the stairs, quickly straightening them the best she can and dragging sacks of grain over to use as pillows, before dashing back upstairs.

Mary Margaret has managed to get Killian standing and into a pair of breeches. She’s just tugging a heavy, knitted sweater over his head, his arms sliding sluggishly into the sleeves, when Emma re-enters the room. She grabs his boots from under the bed and works to get them on his feet.

When he’s dressed, the two women half drag him to the opening in the kitchen floor between the fireplace and the stairway, which leads to the cellar. Emma moves down the steps backwards so she can help guide Killian with her hands on his hips, while Mary Margaret is behind him, supporting him under his arms. As they struggle to keep him moving, they both give him quiet encouragement, praying they can get him out of sight in time.

It seems to take an eternity until he finally sets foot on the packed dirt floor. As they maneuver him behind the stairs and lower him to the pile of quilts, Mary Margaret whispers, “There is a lantern and matches on the shelf, but only light it if absolutely necessary because it might show between the floorboards. As soon as I get back upstairs, I will get a basket of food together and bring it down to you. Oh, and there’s a chamber pot under the table.”

“How long do you think we will have to stay down here?” Emma questions.

“I do not know, but it’s better to be prepared in case it ends up being a while. Please remember to stay as quiet as possible,” she reminds them needlessly. After squeezing Emma’s hand, she turns and bustles up the stairs, dropping the door down behind her.

Emma and Killian are left in complete darkness, and she fights to tamp down the panic tightening her chest. Her eyes work to adjust, beginning to make out the shapes of objects around her with help from the tiny slivers of light sneaking through the floorboards overhead.

She turns her attention to the man lying on the pile of quilts, head resting against a burlap bag of grain. He’s still feverish, and she fears the dampness of the cellar is going to exacerbate his condition. Her hands grope for the pile of blankets she had dropped carelessly to the floor.

As she unfolds one blanket after another and lays them over him, she listens for any sounds coming from above. Everything is muted, but all she can hear are shuffling footsteps she’s sure are Mary Margaret’s.

Soon, the room is flooded with light again when the trap door is lifted. Emma rises and hurries to the bottom of the steps to take the basket of food and pitcher of water from her sister-in-law’s hands.

“I think I heard David and Leroy’s horses returning to the barn,” Mary Margaret tells her. “Hopefully they have some good news and you will not have to stay down here very long.”

Before Emma can answer, Mary Margaret returns to the kitchen, leaving them in darkness once again. Emma cautiously picks her way back across the floor, setting the food and water down when she senses she’s back at Killian’s side, then sits down herself.

“Killian,” she whispers into his ear, “you need to drink some water. Can you sit up?”

He pushes himself up, groaning with the effort. Since she doesn’t have a cup to pour the water into, she holds the rim of the pitcher to his lips, slowly tipping it up until he’s swallowing the liquid. She gives him several sips before he pulls back and taps her arm to signify he’s had enough.

“Do you want something to eat?” she asks, but he’s already dropped back down to the makeshift bed.

“Not…right…now,” he forces out through chattering teeth.

“Are you cold?”

“A…bit.”

She already used all of the blankets to cover him, so she does the only thing left she can think to do to help him get warm. Peeling back the blankets, she stretches her body out alongside his and pulls the covers up over both of them, then wraps her arms around his thin frame and buries her face into the crook of his neck, breathing warmth against his skin.

Soon she can tell he has fallen asleep, but she remains awake and alert. All is quiet upstairs, but just as she’s dozing off, she hears muffled pounding on the back door. Her eyes pop open and her breath catches in her throat.

Murmuring voices reach her ears and she strains to listen, but can’t make out anything that’s being said. Heavy boots thud across the floor, and Emma holds her breath, praying whoever is up there doesn’t discover the trap door beneath the innocuous-looking braided rug.

The voices increase in volume and she can catch a word here and there. “...nobody…sister…left yesterday…” she hears David saying.

Another deep voice, obviously a man’s, responds, “...proof…evidence…escaped…” And then the word that makes her heart stop “...traitor.”

She hears doors slamming and wonders if Mary Margaret had time to hide the cot before their unwanted visitors arrived. She has to believe she did, since her sister-in-law has plenty of experience with hiding evidence. Their spy ring has been active since the beginning of the rebellion, and they’ve had a few close calls, but they haven’t lost anyone yet.

Killian shifts in his sleep, letting out a soft moan, and Emma swiftly covers his mouth with her hand. Chances of anyone upstairs hearing him are almost nil, but she doesn’t want to tempt fate.

Disconcerting noises continue for what seems like an indeterminable amount of time, until at last, the door slams and silence settles again. Emma strains to hear anything, but there is absolutely no sound at all. She should feel relieved, but she’s worried for her brother and his wife. What if they’ve been taken by the soldiers? If they have, will they become prisoners of the British army? Unbidden tears fill her eyes at the thought, and she forces herself not to think along those lines.

It is several minutes before she realizes she still has her hand over Killian’s mouth. She removes it and strokes his cheek, allowing herself to enjoy the prickling of his beard against her palm.

She has no idea how much time passes until she hears the sounds of someone entering the house and her entire body tenses. If the soldiers have come back to search again and find the hidden cellar door, she and Killian are helpless and will without a doubt be captured…or killed.

Her heart is pounding so loudly she’s afraid she’ll give them away, when she hears light tapping on the floor above them. Three knocks, followed by two and then two more in quick succession. She wants to hope, but what if it’s a trick?

Then she hears Mary Margaret’s voice through the floorboards. “It’s me, Emma. They’re still on the property, so stay put.”

They stay hidden in the cellar the rest of that day. Emma is eventually able to get Killian to eat and walk in small circles around the crates of vegetables, but most of their time is spent lying on the nest of quilts. In between fitful spurts of sleep, they have whispered conversations and cuddle together. Emma understands the danger they’re in, but she has to admit she doesn’t mind the time spent in Killian’s arms.

Later in the evening, Mary Margaret brings down more food and water and tells them that David is pretty sure the soldiers are long gone, but as a precaution, recommends they stay in the cellar overnight since they could be waiting to see if there’s any movement from the house after dark. After her sister-in-law goes back upstairs, Emma lets tears of exhaustion and relief pour down her face as she buries it in Killian’s chest.

*********

David and Leroy thoroughly inspect the property early the next morning to ensure the soldiers have moved on. Once they return to the house and give the all clear, the two men help Killian back up the steps. While Mary Margaret and Emma collect the blankets and begin making breakfast, David fills the metal bathtub and assists Killian into it. Being in the cellar all that time is surely detrimental to his recovery, and they want to drive the chill and dampness from his body with a long soak in hot water.

Mary Margaret fills Emma in on the men who searched the house and barn as they fry eggs and slices of ham. “It seems they sent men more interested in finding something of value to steal, rather than finding the two of you, because they were looking in places where it would be impossible to hide - inside cupboards, behind the stove, in dresser drawers. If the situation hadn’t been so nerve wracking, I would have laughed at their blatant disregard for their mission.”

Emma manages a small smile, knowing if the British would have sent doggedly determined men like Colonel Sitwell and Sergeant Gold, she and Killian would surely have been discovered.

“It was our good fortune that they were more preoccupied with burglary, though,” Mary Margaret continues. “I do not think they realized that a house can have a cellar beneath it. As many times as they tramped across the kitchen floor, they did not notice the hollow sound of it.”

“The search seemed to take an eternity and I do not think I breathed the entire time,” Emma states.

“I was holding my breath, too. That is the closest call we have ever had.”

They are plating the food when David comes out of the bedroom, carrying a bucket of the bathwater. “Killian wants to join us in the kitchen for breakfast,” he informs them, before emptying the bucket outside.

“He is feeling up to it?” Emma asks, a hint of worry in her voice.

“He says he’s tired of being a bother to everyone. And yes,” he adds quickly when he sees Emma getting ready to object, “I assured him that is not true, but you know he is stubborn.”

“Yes,” Emma agrees, “but his stubbornness is what kept him alive.”

David nods with a grin and disappears into the bedroom again. Emma and Mary Margaret share a smile and finish putting the food on the table, eager for the four of them to be eating together again, just as they had so many other times.

On the eve before Killian left to infiltrate enemy lines, he shared a hearty meal with Mary Margaret, David and Emma.

“We double checked the route Killian will take to try to find the British encampment,” David said between bites of his hash. “He should be able to follow the river almost the entire way.”

Emma blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling. She had seen many spies off on missions, and had been sent herself, but this time was different. This time, it was the man she loved who was putting himself in danger.

She felt his knee bump against hers under the table and knew he was well aware of her thoughts. He always seemed to be able to read her like an open book. Swallowing hard, she turned to look at him, valiantly forcing a smile onto her face. He returned it with one of his own, though it didn’t quite reach his beautiful, blue eyes.

They finished their dinner, speaking of mundane topics to skirt around the issue that was weighing heavy on all of their minds. Afterwards, Mary Margaret waved away Emma’s offer to help clean the kitchen, and Emma knew it was because her sister-in-law understood her desire to have some time alone with Killian.

The two of them walked outside, enjoying the evening’s cool respite after the heat of the mid-June day.

“You plan to leave at daybreak?” Emma questioned, already knowing the answer.

“Aye. The sooner I depart, the sooner I will be able to come back to you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “There’s not a day will go by I won’t think of you.”

“Good,” she replied with a slight smile.

They continued walking until they were on the back side of the barn, out of sight of the house. Killian turned and took both of Emma’s hands. “I will miss you, Love.”

“Promise me you will be careful and will come back to me.”

“I will try my best, but you know as well as I that what we do is dangerous. Extremely important, but dangerous.”

She nodded solemnly, casting her eyes down to the ground. After several moments, she looked back up at him. “If we do not receive any communication from you for more than a month, I will come looking for you.”

“Emma…”

“You know you would do the same for me,” she interrupted, before he could object.

“Of course I would, but we do not know exactly where I will be.”

“It does not matter. Wherever it is, I will find you.” Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed her cheek, damp with tears, to his chest. “I will always find you.”

Returning her embrace, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you, Emma.”

“I love you, too.” Turning her face up to his, she added, “We probably will not have any time to ourselves tomorrow morning, so I want to give you something now.”

His brows rose in question. “What is it, Love?”

“This,” she said, then pushed up onto her toes to press her lips to his. It was a tenderly sweet kiss, expressing all the love, fear and longing they shared, and neither wanted it to end. When it finally did, she pulled him close again. “Take that with you to remember that I am here, waiting for you.”

The next morning after a quick breakfast, Killian mounted his horse, pressed his fingers to his lips and waved goodbye to her. She wouldn’t see him again for more than three long, agonizing months.

*********

Two mornings later, Emma opens her eyes and immediately rolls over to face Killian. His eyes are also open, and she can see that they appear clear, bright, rested and fever-free.

She wastes no time throwing back the covers and getting off of the cot to go to his bedside. “Good morning, my love. You look like you feel better.”

Pushing himself up onto his elbow, he gives her a lopsided grin. “I do feel like I have re-entered the land of the living.”

Emma sits on the side of the bed, brushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes while releasing a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to wonder when you would decide to stop making us coddle you,” she teases, her heart lighter than it has been for as long as she can remember.

“Do you mean to tell me that by recovering, I will be giving up my chance to be coddled?” he asks, flopping back down onto his pillow. “Perhaps I haven’t thoroughly thought this through.”

She leans over and boldly presses a kiss to his lips. “I believe there are better ways for me to pay attention to you, than by nursing you back to health,” she says, only pulling away far enough to look into his beloved cerulean eyes.

“Do tell,” he grins, reaching up to twist a lock of her hair around his finger.

A knock on the door interrupts their private moment, and Emma sighs for an entirely different reason. Killian finds her hand and brings it to his lips. “Best answer that, Love.”

She nods in resignation, rising from his bed and grabbing her robe from the nail beside the door. Once she has cinched the belt around herself, she opens the door to find Mary Margaret on the other side.

“How is the patient this morning?”

“Much improved,” Killian answers for himself.

Mary Margaret steps into the room to see for herself. “Oh Killian, you do look better!”

“Back to my devilishly handsome self?” he cheeks. “After all, the bloody Brits pretty much knocked the handsome out of me.”

“No army is that powerful,” Emma assures him, earning her a warm, loving smile.

She knows he still has a long recovery ahead, but it relieves her to see that he finally appears to have turned the corner.

*********

It takes several months for Killian to completely regain his strength and health. He stays with David and Mary Margaret during his recovery, so he and Emma are able to spend every day together while their relationship continues to deepen and flourish.

One day, when Killian is almost fully recovered, he asks Emma to take a walk with him after the evening meal. She can tell that something is on his mind, and when she questions him about it, he turns to face her, gently clasping both of her hands. Then he slowly lowers himself to one knee and Emma gasps, realizing what he intends to do.

Looking up into her beautiful face, he says, “Emma, I know that we face an uncertain future, but there is one thing I want you to be certain of - that I always, always want to be by your side. So…Emma Nolan, will you marry me?”

“Oh, Killian,” she begins, tears already escaping her eyes and trickling down her cheeks, “you know how much I love you, but are you sure this is the right time? We still do not know when or how this conflict is going to end.”

“That is exactly why I think we should get married. I do not want to waste any of the time I could have as your husband, because we have no guarantee how many years we may have together. I love you, Emma, and I don’t want to wait any longer to marry you, but if you do not want…”

“No, Killian,” Emma interrupts firmly. “I am not saying I do not want to marry you, because I do, with every fiber of my being. I just do not know if we should take the time to plan a wedding, when there is still so much work to do for the cause.”

“I understand how important our work is, but you are more important to me.”

Emma sinks to her knees and frames his face with her hands, scratching her nails lovingly through his beard. “And you to me, my love. You are right - we should not let what is happening around us dictate our lives. So yes, Killian, I will marry you and be the proudest and happiest woman alive.”

Killian huffs out a relieved breath and flashes her a dimpled grin, before dipping his head to claim her lips in a celebratory kiss. No one knew what the future held, but the newly engaged couple was sure that whatever it was, they would face it together.

*********

The conflict, which becomes known as the Revolutionary War, will drag on for another six years. The spy ring organized and aided by David and Mary Margaret will operate until the end, providing important intel to the Continental army. After their close call, Emma and Killian won’t risk going behind enemy lines again, but continue to work tirelessly for the cause nonetheless.

One evening, nearly a year after Killian’s capture, their daring escape, and his lengthy recuperation, he and Emma sit on the rickety wooden steps leading up to the back entry to David and Mary Margaret’s home. They watch the sun set with golden spangled light on the field and trees of this land for which they are fighting, and for which he nearly died, fingers twined together and Emma’s head lying on Killian’s shoulder. They are in the process of working with David to save the money to purchase a few acres next to he and Mary Margaret’s property, where they will build a home of their own, when the fighting is over, and hopefully the colonies are left to self-govern.

Emma sighs, in as near a state of perfect contentment as she can remember feeling in some time. There were many dark moments in the last months, and even years, and she knows better than to think the future will be perfect or easy. But the hope that feeds her, bolstered by the strength of their love, is a source of joy that she trusts will endure through any challenge. She might once have thought hope and true love fanciful notions from fairy tales rather than the stuff of real life.

It’s true that people often speak of hope as if it’s this delicate, ephemeral thing made of whisper and spider’s web. She knows better though, after what they have been through. Hope is not fragile or fleeting. Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of the cobblestones in her hair, and just spat out a tooth as she rises for another go. But that’s the beauty of it; hope will always get up and start again.

Killian’s arm around her lends the warmth of any blanket as he draws her closer to his side, murmuring his love for her into the skin at her temple before placing a chaste kiss there as well. The fight may not yet be over, but that time will come. They will see the battle through and celebrate that day - a happy beginning - together.

*********

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @apiratewhopines @anmylica @stahlop @bdevereaux @xsajx @bluewildcatfanatic @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @booksteaandtoomuchtv @kazoosandfannypacks @xarandomdreamx @motherkatereloyshipper @winterbaby89 @justanother-unluckysoul @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @elizabeethan @darkcolinodonorgasm @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @killian-whump @cocohook38 @wefoundloveunderthelight @drowned-dreamer

#cscw23 #captain swan collab words 23 #cs au one shot #freed to love #collaborative ouat fic #revolutionary war ouat au #killian whump ff #hurt comfort ff

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whump-queen · 2 years

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“Good pet. Do you want your arms back in their sockets now?”

#thoughts from the sadist brain #whump prompt #whump dialogue #whumper dialogue #shoulder dislocation #quotes from last nights rp that I want framed on my wall #Silas doesn’t fuck around :))#at some point I’d love to separate this collab into chapters and post it…#it’s ~very fun~#Silas oc #ahahhaaaa my little insane man I love him #whump quotes #my post #whump inspo

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galaxywhump · 1 year

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Collarstys

[SV-240 AU Masterlist]

[Castys Masterlist]

Happy birthday, Castys and Berkeley! What better way to celebrate than to torment them in a collab between me and @brutal-nemesis?

contents: slavery whump, collared and leashed, restraints, mildly creepy/intimate and possessive whumper, violence, choking, verbal abuse, lots and lots of guilt.

~~~

Most of the time visiting Daniel was something Berkeley looked forward to. It was a chance to unwind, forget about routine, mess with Rackham, eat some great food and just hang out with his old friend. Those visits were always a bright point in his plans, no matter how tired he was.

This time was different.

At first it was the usual, a fond greeting, then he helped Daniel carry all the supply crates inside. He immediately had to open one of them and rummage through it, feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

"What got you so down?" Daniel asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Just tired." Berkeley shrugged, avoiding looking at the two other men in the room, both quiet, kneeling on the floor. He finally found what he was looking for - he took out a nice box, the kind used for gifting jewelry, and a small paper bag. He handed both to Daniel, who was smiling. Berkeley forced himself to smile back.

"You can nap on the couch if you're tired," Daniel said, setting the bag aside for the time being and closing his fingers on the cover of the box, not opening it just yet.

"It's fine."

Daniel did a double take at him, but dropped the subject, instead focusing on the box. With a genuine grin of someone who had just received their dream gift he opened it and took out the contents - a red leather collar with a custom lock, one that prevented the person wearing it from taking it off on their own. The room had been silent before, but somehow now it got even quieter, and Berkeley couldn't stop himself from glancing to the side.

He could immediately tell that Castys hadn't known about Daniel's idea beforehand, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that the gift wasn't meant for Wren. Castys’s eyes were wide, his lips pressed together to form a thin line, all traces of the initial smile he’d given Berkeley gone. His hands shook slightly as he wrung them in his lap, breaths slow as he stared at the collar for a few more seconds before finally speaking.

“O-oh, hun, you really shouldn’t have.” He tried to keep his voice level as he slowly leaned back, glancing over his shoulder.

Daniel rolled his eyes, but seemed to be in too good a mood to punish Castys for addressing him this way.

"Well, even if I can't permanently brand you, you still need something that makes it clear that I own you now." He approached Castys as Berkeley and Wren watched his every move, a silent audience. He smiled and held the collar right in front of Castys's face, holding the small metal tag still between his fingers to give him a good look at the words engraved on it in a simple font.

Property of Daniel Rooney.

“Isn’t that…lovely. A-although, honestly, is it really necessary?” Castys asked as he slowly crawled backwards. “I mean, I’m here, and, like, I think we all know it, it’s just us, it’s pretty obvious that you, um, that I’m your-your,” he gulped, “precious little immortal boy. So I think I’ll pass, but thank you for your generous offer.” He gave Daniel a sheepish smile, some part of him clearly aware that this was happening no matter how he protested.

Daniel smiled to himself, then walked over to Wren and put his hand on his head, making him flinch. For a moment, nothing was certain - was he actually going to let his idea go? Was it just a prank on the two of them? Wren frowned and hunched his shoulders, as if to protect his neck if Daniel decided to put the collar on him.

"Before you joined us, it was just me and Wren, and it was even more obvious that he was mine. And yet he has his own reminder that I own him. Can't see why it should be different for you, vermin. But since I don't think you're going to just let me put this on you…"

His movements were too fast to even react to - he kicked Castys under the ribs, pushing until he fell onto his back, then stood over him, straddling his waist. Wren swallowed and averted his gaze. Berkeley jolted in place and opened his mouth to say something, anything, subconsciously taking a half-step forward, but then fell silent, knowing there was nothing he could say without making Daniel turn against him. Unlike Wren, he kept his gaze fixed on Castys, trying to convey a plea - don't make him angry, just go along with it - with just his eyes, or, hell, maybe even telepathy.

Castys gave Wren a concerned glance as he struggled uselessly against Daniel, his arms pinned to his sides by the man’s legs. He looked up at him for the briefest second before turning away and meeting Berkeley’s eyes. Something in them made Berkeley forget how old Castys actually was, and for a moment he just looked like a scared kid, which made this all that much harder to watch.

Castys winced as Daniel pulled the leather around under the back of his neck, fists clenched at his sides. He wasn’t looking at Berkeley anymore, wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring ashamedly at the corner of the ceiling, gulping as Daniel threaded the end of the collar through the buckle and started to pull it tight. His mouth opened slightly, as if he was going to beg for Daniel to stop, but it turned into a gasp as the latch of the buckle slotted into the last hole in the leather, cinching the collar snugly around his neck. Smiling, Daniel ran a hand down the side of Castys’s face as the boy beneath him shuddered, his embarrassment all too obvious even from where Berkeley was standing. Daniel’s hand moved lower, settling around Castys’s throat, his thumb stroking the collar’s tag as he took a moment to savor the view.

“I knew being collared would suit you,” he said, voice low, but still feeling loud like a cannon shot in the absolute silence. “Red was a good choice, Berkeley. Such a universal color, isn’t it?”

Satisfied with his work, he straightened and stepped to the side, but Castys didn’t move from his spot, still lying on his back, staring up with empty eyes, his usually active hands just barely twitching. Daniel didn’t mind it in the slightest; with a light step he walked over to where he had left the paper bag, and picked it up, then reached inside and pulled out the second part of Berkeley’s gift.

Berkeley looked away, lips pressed tightly together, his face red from… he didn’t even know what. Embarrassment, maybe - but he had no right to be embarrassed.

Daniel was holding a leash, made of red leather as well, matching the collar. It wasn’t particularly long and couldn’t be extended, but that didn’t matter when it wasn’t supposed to give much freedom of movement.

Castys was sitting bolt upright now, his gaze fixed on the leash as he slowly shook his head. His fingers reached up to the collar, feeling for the lack of a ring that he knew was there, fiddling with the lock, the buckle, scrambling to pull it away from his neck as Daniel stalked closer. “You-you can’t be fucking serious with that thing, I’m not gonna let you-”

“I think we both know that this is going to happen regardless of whether you ‘let’ me or not,” Daniel said calmly, crouching down in front of Castys. For a moment there was silence, tension in the air so thick Berkeley forgot how to breathe, and then Daniel pounced. He grabbed Castys’s wrists in one hand, wrenching them up as he knocked the boy onto his back once more, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand while attaching the leash with the other. Once it was on, he pulled it taut, not moving from his position above Castys, who was staring back at him this time, fire in his eyes as his fists clenched above him.

“Still so feisty,” Daniel chuckled, cocking his head to the side, clearly considering something. “Not complaining, but I know you’re going to try and get your collar off as soon as I let go of you, and we just can’t let that happen, can we?” He lifted his head to look at Berkeley, and nodded. “Can you fetch me some handcuffs? There should be a pair on the shelf.”

Berkeley shuddered, but remained frozen in place, his eyes going wide. His gaze moved from Daniel’s face to Castys’s, and despair twisted his features. He couldn’t do it.

“Handcuffs, please,” Daniel repeated with emphasis, straightening once again and nudging Castys’s side with the tip of his boot, a gentle encouragement to get him to roll over onto his stomach. Unsurprisingly he didn’t get a reaction, so the nudge turned into a kick and a push that knocked the air out of Castys’s lungs, and with the help of a sharp yank of the leash Daniel managed to roll him over and immediately pinned him to the floor with a boot to his back. “Stop struggling,” he ordered as Castys squirmed beneath him, giving the leash another pull, but this time he didn’t let it go lax, instead keeping it tense, the collar digging into Castys’s throat, nearly choking him. Berkeley couldn’t breathe either, and it was clear he was in no state to grab the handcuffs and add to Castys’s already horrible situation.

“I’ll get them,” Wren choked out, scrambling to his feet. Daniel rolled his eyes, but nodded, and he ran up to the bookshelf and took the handcuffs that he was so familiar with, cold, thin, made of metal.

“Hold this for me,” Daniel said, holding out the leash after grabbing the restraints.

Wren swallowed, glancing at Castys, then at Berkeley, before accepting the leash with a heavy heart. He didn’t have a choice - and at least he could loosen the grip to allow Castys to breathe freely again while Daniel wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed them.

“There. Now we're all set." Daniel took the leash back from Wren and grinned. "Come on, vermin. Let's test it out."

That was all the warning Castys got before Daniel pulled hard, and since he couldn't prop himself up on his hands, there was no way for him to relieve the increased pressure of the collar on his neck, choking him. Castys gritted his teeth between gasps, frantically trying to get his legs under him to relieve the pressure. To Berkeley’s relief, he managed to get on his knees and stand up from there, coughing as air filled his lungs again. There was still plenty of defiance in his eyes, and he almost looked like he was going to say something, but he kept quiet, either because speaking was too difficult or out of fear of being muzzled.

Daniel smiled at him, pleased, and tugged again to force Castys to take a few steps towards him.

"Perfect," he said. "Collars and leashes aren't my MO, but it feels right to use them on a feral thing like you. I can see the appeal," he laughed, shooting a glance at Berkeley as if expecting him to join.

He didn't. He stood, still frozen in place, his fists clenched, and stared. It wasn't the first time he'd seen someone treated like this, and he'd even had to collar someone before, at the buyer's request, but this was Castys, his friend, being dragged around on a leash like a feral animal.

He forced himself to smile and nod at Daniel, even though it required inhuman effort. He'd already been acting suspicious, unwilling to help, and he couldn't allow himself to make it even clearer to Daniel that he didn't approve of how he was treating Castys.

Seeming to think Berkeley’s reaction was good enough, Daniel turned his attention back to Castys. “Mmm, I think I liked you down on the ground better, after all.” He started pulling the leash downwards, not letting up until Castys knelt, who rolled his eyes and looked decidedly at the wall as he did so. “Ah, ah,” Daniel said, tilting Castys’s chin up towards him, “eyes on me, vermin.” Castys looked back at him with annoyance, but it only made Daniel’s smile widen. “You’ve been rather obedient since I collared you, you know. It’s a nice change of pace.”

“Congratulations,” Castys huffed. “Want a certificate?”

His snark was promptly ignored.

“Even then, you could do better since it still seems you don’t know your place.” Daniel dropped the leash, stepping down on it before Castys could make a move to grab it and slowly dragging his foot back, forcing Castys to bow his head and lean forward. Before he got very far, though, Castys flopped over onto his side, grinning up at Daniel.

“On the ground. Got it.” He gave him a thumbs-up as best as he could from behind his back. Daniel, unamused, swiftly kicked Castys in the stomach, and Berkeley couldn’t help but flinch.

Without a word Daniel pulled Castys up to his feet again - only to give the leash a sharp yank forward and kick Castys's leg from under him at the same time, causing him to trip and fall… almost. The leash went taut, leaving Castys suspended in midair for a moment, choking him, before Daniel smirked and loosened his grip. Unable to catch himself with his arms restrained behind his back, Castys fell flat on his face, making Daniel snicker.

"Yep. On the ground."

Hearing Daniel’s amused laugh, seeing Castys fall like that, the beginnings of tears he blinked out of his eyes, the blood dripping out of his nose…it was all too much for Berkeley to watch. He looked away, his gaze landed on Wren, and he felt his powerlessness bubbling up inside of him, turning into anger, and this was the only way he could deal with it, the only thing he could control. Following the thought that sparked in his mind, he grabbed Wren by the arm and dragged him out of the living room.

Wren stumbled after him, too surprised to resist, which might have been a good thing considering who he was dealing with. Daniel didn't seem to pay attention to them at all, too preoccupied with Castys and the mess his blood had made, so before long Berkeley led Wren out on the porch.

And then he punched him square in the face.

Wren cried out, stumbling backwards, but Berkeley pressed one hand to his mouth, pushed him until his back hit the wall, and wrapped his free hand around his throat, glaring at him.

"It should be you," he hissed, tightening his grip; Wren's eyes went wide and he tried to free himself, but with the wall behind him and Berkeley standing so close to him he had nowhere to run. "You should be collared and dragged around and kicked, not him. You-"

He got choked up a bit, and he covered it up with fury, squeezing Wren's throat, making him squirm.

"He doesn't deserve this!" he continued. "He-he shouldn't be here at all, with Daniel, and maybe if you did… I don't know, something, he never would've found out about Castys-"

He could feel tears coming, which only made him angrier; he let go, but before Wren could catch his breath, Berkeley slapped him hard, causing him to gasp, and grabbed his hair to hold him in place.

"You better do everything you can to make Daniel focus on you instead of him. If you don't, I'll make your life hell."

Despite the shock and pain, Wren couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh of disbelief.

"You made my life hell months ago," he said, doing his best to keep his head up and his voice level even as he trembled. "And I don't deserve this either."

While Berkeley stared at him with an unreadable expression, Wren continued.

"Castys deserves better, but what did you expect?! You're a slaver, you ruin people's lives for a living, and now you're surprised because someone you actually care about got dragged into it?" He shook his head. "Cry me a fucking river, Berkeley."

He wasn't surprised when Berkeley attacked again, slammed him into the wall, kicked him in the stomach with his knee, knocking the wind out of him. What he was surprised by was seeing Berkeley's eyes well up with tears, something he never thought he'd see.

"How dare you- You're nothing- You're- You're worthless, Rackham," Berkeley choked out, and Wren couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of satisfaction at having clearly struck a nerve, but it didn't last long when Berkeley continued. "Listen to me. You're an idiot, you're weak, you're completely useless, you-you're just a waste of space. You don't matter." Reciting every insecurity, every fear, everything he'd learned, while Wren stared at him, wide-eyed, suddenly on the verge of tears too. "I wasn't there, but I know how your funeral went. Wanna know? Nobody cared. There was cookie-cutter crap about you being a great ranger or whatever, but no one cared. And they definitely didn't care enough to be suspicious of your death."

"I know," Wren croaked, but it was completely different to have those grim thoughts and to hear a blunt confirmation, and of course he started crying, and Berkeley smiled at that.

"Crybaby," he said quietly, and finally let go. "We're going back inside. You can go cry in the bathroom or whatever your hobby is, and don't say a word about this to Daniel, got it?"

Wren did his best to glare as tears trickled down his face.

"He's too busy hurting Castys to care anyway," he hissed, earning himself another quick slap before being grabbed by the shoulders, forcibly turned towards the door, and pushed.

"Walk."

Fuming, Wren obeyed; once inside, he rushed to the bathroom, keeping his head bowed so that Daniel wouldn’t see his tear-streaked face, and locked the door. Berkeley took a deep breath. Blinded by guilt and anger he hadn’t stopped to think about what he was doing, what taking his emotions out on Wren entailed, but now the realization was catching up to him.

He had left Castys alone, at Daniel’s mercy.

After a while of being pulled around like Daniel’s new favorite toy, Castys found himself surprised when Daniel simply sat on the couch behind him after using the leash to force him to his knees. Was he finally tired of his little Yank Castys Around fest? Ah, nope, there was another jerk of the leash, this one forcing Castys’s head right up against Daniel’s knee. Daniel didn’t let the leash go slack, keeping Castys snuggled against him like a stupid pet. Fuck, whatever, he probably preferred this to being pulled around by the fucking neck. Probably.

When Daniel’s hand slid into his hair, Castys couldn’t help but flinch, feeling his face grow hot as Daniel chuckled. He fought the urge to make some comment about Daniel needing to get a pet cat. The last fucking thing he needed right now was to be muzzled on top of having to wear this stupid collar, so he’d keep his thoughts to himself for the time being. It had already been such a long day, so if Daniel was going to give him an opportunity to rest, he’d take it, even if it was…like this.

He flexed his fingers behind him, wishing he wasn’t still wearing these stupid handcuffs, but it’s not like they were the only thing preventing him from relaxing. Daniel’s hand in his hair was making his skin crawl, and it was all he could do not to shudder, which was especially hard given how close he was to the guy. It’d been a month or so since Daniel had cut his hair, but Castys still wasn’t really used to the feeling of it, especially now that Daniel was touching it, running his fingers through it, ruffling it, smoothing it down, like it was something just for him to play with, so of course he’d do what he liked with it, and that annoyed Castys enough that he had to strongly resist the urge to bite him. Not that it took much for Castys to want to bite Daniel, but still.

Castys wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than being hurt, honestly, because, yes, it didn’t hurt, but this still sucked majorly. Well, at least Berkeley and Wren weren’t here to see it anymore since they’d gone off somewhere, and that was making this a little easier. Maybe that was part of what made this collaring thing so awful this time around. He’d been collared and leashed before, and he’d dealt with it just fine, but something about this particular scenario was just…more humiliating somehow. He’d never had anyone see him this way before, let alone one of the best friends he’d ever had. Not that he didn’t like Wren, too, but their relationship was nothing like the one he and Berkeley had.

The way Berkeley had looked at him…Castys had gotten pretty good at telling how he really felt behind the mask he wore, and that aside he was doing a worse job than usual at hiding it. Honestly, seeing how much all this hurt Berkeley upset Castys more than everything Daniel was doing to him. He could take this, it wasn’t that bad, and even if it was in the moment, soon enough he’d be numb to it anyway. But Berkeley…fuck, he was so worried, and he probably blamed himself when it wasn’t really his fault. He knew how Berkeley got, how he’d spiral, his anxiety so high he could barely focus, and he wished he could hold his hands and help him calm down like he always did. Maybe he didn’t deserve to after how he’d lashed out at Berkeley when he first learned he was staying here, but…maybe he wanted to make it up to him, too, wanted to make up for doubting him. He hadn’t meant to but in the moment it’d reminded him so much of…of her, and he’d just panicked, and…

Daniel’s stupid fucking hand moved lower, lightly stroking the back of Castys’s neck, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from shuddering, earning a satisfied hum from Daniel. God fuck off dude most people don’t like being touched there you’re not fucking special. Now he was stroking the collar itself, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin on either side. Castys was kind of glad he could make all the faces he wanted at that since Daniel couldn’t see, so that was something. The hand was curled around the front of his throat now, not pressing or choking, just resting, but the message was completely clear. Not that Castys gave a fuck, but oh the vermin boy in him was wanting to chomp so bad. Instead of acting upon his instinct, he slipped into a daydream about biting Daniel’s finger off, the thought alone calming his urge. This wasn’t a battle he particularly wanted to fight at the moment, not when he could hear the sounds of Berkeley and Wren coming back into the house, so he’d settle for being a good little pet vermin.

For now.

After taking a moment to pull himself together as much as he could, Berkeley entered the living room, where he was greeted by the sight of Daniel sitting on the couch, his hand casually wrapped around Castys's throat, while Castys himself was kneeling on the floor. Berkeley felt sick, and Daniel just smiled at him.

"Look how docile he can be," he said, giving the leash a light tug, making Castys wince.

Berkeley nodded, not saying a word, and all he could think about as he hesitantly sat down on the couch as well was the fact that Daniel didn't even ask about Wren.

He was right. Daniel was entirely focused on hurting Castys now, making his life hell, and Berkeley was all too aware that he was the one to blame.

With a heavy heart he forced himself to look at Castys, locking eyes with him. Castys should be angry, he should hate him, he should glare - but instead he gave Berkeley a reassuring smile, which made him feel like he was going to break down right there and then.

Still, he managed to mirror the smile as best he could. If Castys could stay strong through this nightmare, Berkeley could too.

He owed him that much.

~~~

SV-240 taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#slavery whump #immortal whumpee #defiant whumpee #creepy whumper #possessive whumper #collared and leashed #restrained #choking cw #verbal abuse tw #castys #peter berkeley #daniel rooney #wren rackham #sv-240 au #collab #my writing #*our writing

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lady-wallace · 8 months

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Whumptober 2023 Masterpost

It's time for the official 2023 @whumptober masterpost!

Fandom and characters as well as the prompts used, are tagged for each day with links to both Ao3 and Tumblr

~~~~~~~

Day 1: Safety Net | Swooning | 'How many fingers am I holding up?' Buddy Daddies (Kazuki) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 2: Thermometer | Delirium | 'They don't care about you.' Buddy Daddies (Rei) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 3: Solitary Confinement Shadow and Bone (Nikolai) Art Collab with @aini-nufire (Read Fic)

Day 4: Cattle Prod | Shock | alt prompt 15: Reluctant Whumper Jujitsu Kaisen (Gojo & Getou) Ao3

Day 5: Debris | Pinned Down | "It's broken" Hellsing (Integra) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 6: Recording | Made to Watch | 'It should have been me' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Narancia & Fugo) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 7: Radio Silence | 'Can you hear me?' Hellsing (Alucard) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 8: Outnumbered Jujitsu Kaisen (Gojo) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 9: Polaroid | Mistaken Identity JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Abbacchio) Ao3 | Tumblr Part 1/2 (Pt2 on Day 18)

Day 10: Broken Phone | Stranded | 'You said you'd never leave' Buddy Daddies (Kazuki) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 11: Captivity | 'No one will find you' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5-Vampire Hunter AU (Giorno) Ao3 | Tumblr Part 1/2 (Pt2 on Day 27)

Day 12: Red | alt prompt 8: Hunting JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5- Vampire Hunter AU (Bucciarati) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 13: Cold Compress | Infection | 'I don't feel so good' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5- Hearts of Gold Verse (Luciano Abbacchio) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 14: Water Inhalation | 'Just hold on' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Giorno) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 15: Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | 'I'm Fine' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5- Hearts of Gold Verse (Bucciarati) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 16: Gurney | Flatline | 'Don't go where I can't follow' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Giorno) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 17: Collar | Touch Aversion | 'Leave me alone' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Fugo) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 18: Tortured for Info | 'Hit them harder' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Bucciarati) Ao3 | Tumblr Pt 2/2 (Pt1 on Day 9)

Day 19: Floral Bouquet | Psychological | 'I'm not as stupid as you think I am' Jujutsu Kaisen (Gojo) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 20: Blanket | Found Family | 'You'll regret touching them' Buddy Daddies (Rei & Kazuki) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 21: Vows | Restraints | 'Don't Move' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 4 (Josuke & Jotaro) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 22: Glass Shard | Vehicular Accident | 'Watch Out!' Jujutsu Kaisen (Gojo & Utahime) Art Collab with @waffles-in-winter (Read Fic)

Day 23: (alt prompt 7. 'Examination') JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Giorno) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 24: Goodbye Note | Neglect | 'I thought they were with you' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Narancia) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 25: Buried Alive | 'They're not breathing!' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5- Vampire Hunter AU (Abbacchio) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 26: Seeing Double | Working to Exhaustion | 'You look awful' Jujutsu Kaisen (Gojo) Ao3 | Tumblr (Collab with @waffles-in-winter)

Day 27: Scars | 'Let me see' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5- Vampire Hunter AU (Giorno) Ao3 | Tumblr Pt 2/2 (Pt1 on Day 11) Art by @waffles-in-winter

Day 28: Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | 'You'll have to go through me' Hellsing (Alucard) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 29: Scented Candle | Troubled Past Resurfacing | 'What happened to me?' Buddy Daddies (Rei) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 30: Borrowed Clothing JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Everyone) Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 31: Setbacks | 'Take it Easy' JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Pt 5 (Bucciarati) Ao3 | Tumblr

~~~~~~~

#whumptober2023 #whumptober #whumptober masterpost #fanfiction #fanart #collabs #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba fanfic #buddy daddies #buddy daddies fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #hellsing fanfiction #whump fanfic

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macgyvermedical · 4 months

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I have 2 ideas for fics but lack the motivation to actually finish them myself.

If anyone wants to collab or long-format RP with me, i'm interested in either a MacGyver 2016 field surgery fic or a fic where Mac gets poisoned with BZ but they actually play it as though it's real BZ and not something that has a convenient antidote.

Both would be GEN. I am happy to drive the medical portion or give you any information you need to write those parts yourself, however it ends up working out.

hmu if you're interested. Please no minors.

#RP partner #macgyver #whump #rp partner needed #rp partner ad #field surgery #collab #fic #fanfic #poison

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pixelatedraindrops · 4 months

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I attempted some art based on my own raincode fic, Under The Weather. This is my favorite scene and I wanted to try drawing it >w<

God I live for making Yuma act like a clingy little kid whenever he’s sick. It does say he complains and whines frequently in general. Just imagine him with a cold, the whining would probably be even worse x’D

Was also a good chance for me to experiment with drawing/coloring the pale and flush complexion of a cold rather than a fever. I think I did pretty decent! Poor thing. He needs some TLC ;w; and maybe more tissues... XD (the sofa’s turned into a sickbed lmao)

At least the NDA is there for him, especially the Chief 💙 (more yakou fathero because caretaker yakou is my religion)

🤧💦 Version (where his nose is running)

#whumpcode #rain code #master detective archives: rain code #yuma kokohead #yakou furio #yakou fathero #pixeldoodles #my art #illness whump #sick whump #sicknario #caretaking #sick art #cold #sick comfort #I'm posting this at 3am when nobody will see x'D #but this came out a lot better than I thought O_O #and look an actual bg #i clearly learned a lot from the collab :3c #he's so clingy ;w; poor thing really doesn't feel good #at least his detective dad's there to comfort him <3 #hid the other version just in case people aren't good with mucus or snz #he does have a small fever but the cold is what's really the focus here #clearly...the whole area he's in is a mess ;w;#shinigami's just flabbergasted by how much her master's acting like a baby #she will never let him live this down afghgshdkjdfjl #well this was some good serotonin for me for the night <3

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quietly-by-myself · 1 year

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Shattered Shadow - Chapter 1

Shattered Shadow Masterlist | Shattered Masterlist | Shadow By My Fireplace Masterlist

This is a long-in-the-making AU collab with the lovely @oddsconvert of Vamp!Cyril and Bloodbag!Sacha meeting and staying with August, Declan, and Lucas.

This is the new canon of the Vamp!Cyril AU, but an AU of Shattered. I changed canon for Vamp!Cyril so that Cyril was turned by Vamp!Emery. I'll leave the rest to the story ;)

If you do not want to be tagged in this (or would like to be but are not), send either of us an ask or message!

CW: whumpee turned caretaker, wounded caretaker, vampire caretakers, human caretaker, multiple caretakers, bloodbag whumpee, multiple whumpees, brief reference to suicidal ideation, references to previous abuse

===

The wound in Cyril’s side gapes and aches, but Cyril forces himself to push through the pain. Sometimes, if he focuses, he could force his undead lungs to take breaths. Sometimes, that helps with pain. However, each breath he tries to breathe only pushes on his wound, making him want to cry out in pain.

He couldn’t cry out, no matter how bad he wants to. He has a recovering human in his arms, one that couldn’t know that he needs help. One that couldn’t know that he was in pain. One that couldn’t know how weak he really was without blood. Human blood, at least. Animal blood keeps his stomach full, but does nothing for his body.

There was a pureblood somewhere near him - one that was a veterinarian for humans. Not bloodbags. Cyril refuses to use that word. Humans. Human beings. People. He could offer his services. He could help a bit while he got his bearings.

They found him and his little Shadow. It has only been a month hasn’t it? Since he murdered his sire and took little Shadow with him to hide in an abandoned cabin? Then, one of his Maker’s loyalists tries to kill him and the human he was taking care of. Cyril hates it. He hates that he ever became a vampire. He hates that he has to run. He hates that he can’t just live in peace, as a pariah of vampire society like he should.

But he can’t die, even if he has nothing personal to live for. His little Shadow cannot return to human society. He cannot survive on his own. It’s Cyril’s job, his repayment, perhaps, to take care of the human and live with him until he can die in peace without vampires hunting him down.

He sees the house. That has to be it. He stops running and puts the human on his feet. His little earthling, taking wild, short breaths looked at him in fear.

“We’ll be okay, little one. We’re just going to be here for a little while. Nobody’s going to hurt you, okay? I just need a little while.”

Shadow nods. His Shadow, the human that sat by the fireplace and followed him around.

Cyril kneels down and looks Shadow in the eyes, grasping his side and trying not to wince. “I would rather die than see you hurt, okay?”

“Yes, Master.”

Cyril nods a bit. He hates that Shadow said that, but could do nothing about it. It was his Maker’s fault. He motions for Shadow to follow him up to the door, where Cyril knocks, praying to a God that forsakes him that they would be okay.

*!*!*!*

August had long grown accustomed to the eerie quiet of the house at night. Wide awake and trawling the house during the dark hours, his day, whilst the two humans were in deep slumber above him. Practically tiptoeing on the floorboards, doing his very best to keep the silence and let the mortals sleep soundly.

He nearly jumps out of his damn skin when someone begins to pound the front door down, an urgent and relentless rhythm to it. The clinic is closed, there’s not a chance in hell he can take any more patients in. Treat any more suffering humans. Not with how much he’s already got on his plate.

August makes his way to the door, dragging his feet reluctantly underneath him. He could just ignore it. Plead ignorance and let whatever wretched soul is undoubtedly out there dragging a half-dead human beside them wander back off into the night. But that’s the thing that stops him - if there’s some poor, innocent being desperate for help, then he can’t turn them away.

He’s right of course. When he peeks through the door, he spots the beady red eyes, and the all too familiar sight of a human desperately clinging onto him. August swings open the door - half in fury, half in concern.

“Apologies, gents. I’m not seeing any patients at the moment-”

“I’m the one who’s wounded,” Cyril says quickly, hoping that the vampire immediately understands. “The human is mine, a gift from my Maker. I was a doctor before I was turned. I can help.”

Cyril seems rather reluctant and there’s an unmistakable hostility in his voice. However, underneath all of it is desperation. He needs help and he needs protection. He needs his little human to be safe.

“He is not in need of medical care.” Cyril looks back at Shadow reassuringly. Shadow is still terrified. “My healing factor doesn’t seem to be working correctly.”

Human. Mine. Gift - August’s mind churns all the words the vampire had used for the small human.

There’s a first time for everything, August thinks; because the cold-blooded vampire's blood actually boils at each word. Grinding his fangs in his mouth and repressing the rage he feels. He has half a mind to grab the human from his side and slam the door in his face. The audacity to stand on his doorstep and plead for help.

How many times had that human begged him for help?

“That seems like a you problem,” August grits through his teeth, clinging onto the door ready to slam it shut at a seconds notice, “I don’t heal monsters. I specialise in humans. Go elsewhere.”

“Please,” Cyril pleads, desperation in his eyes. He can’t let his little human see him fail. “My Maker is not a kind creature. Look at what he did to him.” Cyril motions back at Shadow, who still wears gauze on his face to cover a wound that stubbornly would not heal. Cyril is almost yelling, but trying his best, reluctantly, to be respectful. “I need help. If not for my sake, then my human’s.”

August doesn’t care to glance over the vampire, but his eyes flicker all over the human’s body. Taking inventory of every little scratch to the gnarly wounds, poor attempts at care for them. The boy shivers where he stands and truthfully? August has developed an eye for whether the humans tremble from fear or cold. And this is incomprehensible fear.

“What is the human to you? You said a ‘gift’. Is he your captive?” August questions, raising an unconvinced brow.

Cyril thinks for a long time. Fucking purebloods and their pretentious attitudes. He probably wants Shadow for himself.

“He can’t possibly go home in this state, can he?” Cyril looks at Shadow with gentle care in his eyes. “He just started talking to me. I can’t possibly give up now.”

Cyril grits his teeth, ire flowing through him. If only the pureblood didn’t ask so many questions. Cyril had no doubt the pureblood would expect obedience. Cyril was essentially trading himself over to the pureblood. He was well aware of that and was sure the pureblood was, too.

“I didn’t have proper medical supplies to treat him, but I promise that I am a skilled doctor.”

August can sense the desperation in his voice, and the care lingering in the vampire’s eyes. He just can’t get rid of this nagging feeling that it’s all a facade to pull the wool over his eyes. He turns his gaze to the human, softening his eyes to hide the distrust.

“Hey there,” August’s voice comes out in a mere whisper, in an attempt to speak gently to the frightened man, “Has this man ever harmed you?”

Sacha looks up cautiously, stiffening. He knows little about vampire society, but senses the strength and power coming off of the vampire before him. It sends a shiver down his spine. It’s very different from Cyril - Cyril feels almost human in comparison.

He shakes his head “no.” He’s honest, but he would’ve said “no,” even if he was with his Master. Well, his previous one, in a way. Cyril was his new Master, right?

August takes the moment to ponder - is he really about to do this? Invite these strangers into his home? Of course. His conscience would suffer if he banishes them from his property, and no doubt word would arrive of their deaths. He resigns with a chesty sigh, stepping aside and motioning the pair inside the house. All the while not taking his eyes off the human… Maybe he needed to watch the vampire like a hawk instead.

“One night. Come inside. I will see what I can do, but I make no promises.”

===

Shattered Tags:

@octopus-reactivated, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @ramadiiiisme @darkthingshappen @whumpsday @thecyrulik @t0rture-me, @redwhump, @the-crypid-magpie, @snowstuffscuff, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @wolfeyedwitch, @interdimensional-chaos, @termsnconditions-apply, @whump-blog, @leyswhumpdump, @not-a-space-alien, @onlybadendings @darlingwhump @sparrowsage @flynnswhumpprompts @whumpcereal @wolves-and-winters @ashh-ed @idkmansomeusername @whuarri @33-sdtr-45 @pigeonwhumps @canislycaon24 @the-whumpers-grimm, @damienxozmoze, @predacon-skydrift @morning-star-whump @neverthelass @espresso-depresso-system @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

Shadow By My Fireplace Tags (not already tagged above):

@i-can-even-burn-salad @pumpkin-spice-whump @maracujatangerine @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @flowersarefreetherapy @quietshae @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries @whumpkinz @roblingoblin285

#shattered shadow #collab #vampire au #whumpee turned caretaker #multiple caretakers #multiple whumpees #vampire caretaker #references to previous abuse #suicidal ideation #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump fic #bloodbag whumpee

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aussiepineapple1st · 8 months

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Did a Collab with the amazing @10kiaoi !! I loved colouring in your Line art!!! 🥰🥰🥰💖💖💖💖 Love you!! 🏷️: @sunhatllama @maehemthemisfit @growingupnrealizing @starcrossedreaders

#aussiepineapple1st #resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #angst #chris redfield #chreon #collab #resident evil 8 #re 8 #re village #resident evil village #re8 au #what if HWS were called unfriendlies #enemies #whump #10kiaoi

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daniwib · 30 days

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When 2 whump writers whose discord nicknames are 'Whump Promptress' & 'Make it Worse' decide to collab...

Buck baby, we're coming for you.

Eddie and Tommy? You're not safe either...

@wingwyrm I am so excited to collab with you on this!

#Buck whumps so prettily #can you blame us?#whump writers collab announcement #hurt comfort #heavy on the hurt #whump #angst #whump writers unite #7x05 you don't know me #911 spoilers #911 abc #kinley #buddie

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snowbellewells · 5 months

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Captain Swan Collab Words 23 fic: "Freed to Love"

This even was such a fun idea, and the three of us - @statustemporary @jrob64 and @snowbellewells - had a lot of fun working together and seeing our initial idea come to life. We decided we really wanted some whump and hurt/comfort taking place, and eventually we settled on a Revolutionary War time period AU for our setting. We also used a suggested quote about the persistence of hope, and the idea of being touch starved, both of which played into our idea well.

Thanks so much to the @CSCW23 @Captain Swan Collab Words 23 for the idea to create a story as a group. It really was a new and exciting challenge that made for a new CS adventure.

And a very special thanks to @hookedmom for all the time and care she took as our beta reader for this fic!!

(Fic cover art by @snowbellewells)

"Freed to Love"

by: @jrob64 @statustemporary and @snowbellewells

Philadelphia.

She has traveled so far just to end a few days up the river from David and Mary Margaret.

Emma’s heart pounds as they encroach on the troops standing guard outside the British camp. How many more can she bear to approach before she’s unable to handle the heartache?

All of them, she thinks immediately. She’d travel up and down the colonies if she has to, until she finds him. Her hands would service each wound on every British soldier if it brought him back to her. She’d swallow back the bile while they brag about killing her friends, she’d clench her fists as they discussed future strategies while on their sick beds.

She is trained for this. Mary Margaret showed her how to survive, while David taught her how to blend in. And Killian…

His words had left her breathless then, and now Emma forced herself to release the breath she held in her aching chest as she remembered that promise.

Will Scarlett’s return just a week after Killian was taken occupies the free moments in her mind.

Her friend’s words work as nightmare fuel when she lays her head down to sleep. Visions dance behind her closed lids of the worst possible scenarios.

If what Will saw is what the British did with a regular soldier, what would they do with a traitor of great importance?

Emma attempts to swallow around the lump in her throat as she surveys the camp. The area’s fortification means a quick escape is too risky and more planning will be needed if Killian is here.

If he’s still alive, a dark corner of her mind taunts.

He is alive. She just knows. And she will find him.

Her eyebrows pinch together in confusion and her heart skips a beat. In all of her stays at different British camps, she’s never received such an instruction.

Could it…

She briefly forgets the persona she’s created of Nurse Anna Swan and lets Emma Nolan take over for a moment. “What’s – ”

Sitwell doesn’t let her say anything more.

“Do not enter that tent,” he snarls. “Refrain from disobeying my orders, Miss Swan. Otherwise you may join the traitor on the execution block tomorrow.”

The officer spins on his heel and strides away, agitation dripping from him with every stomp of his boot. Yet she pays him no mind as she gazes at the collapsing tent across the way.

Traitor, her mind replays.

Killian, her heart hopes.