friendlylocalwhumper
short stories
Scott. Whump writer, worldbuilder, prompt afficionado. Author of Lux, a novel available on Amazon.com. Member of the whump community since July 2018.
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I've buried you in every place I've been, you keep ending up in my shaking hands.
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whumpee is captured and held for some time---but eventually, they're rescued, with whumper having fled. whumpee seems mostly unharmed, and tells only a story of simple imprisonment, not having been particularly mistreated. this surprises team---but, hey, it's not necessarily a bad thing, right? even if it doesn't align with how whumper seems to function? eventually, team moves on, just glad to be reunited.
until they confront whumper again as a team. whumpee seems normal---until whumper just says the word, and whumpee immediately starts attacking their friends like a vicious feral animal. that's essentially what they are now; an animal, made to do whatever whumper orders them to, never to disobey.
even if that order is to "blend in".
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Thinking about whumpers and whumpees and the intimacy of stabbing. The inherent intimacy of the act.
Whumpers who lean into whumpees as they drive the knife in... The slight resistance then give somewhere soft and vulnerable... Does the whumper whisper something into whumpee's ear? Are they silent? Do they take note of the way whumpee's breath hitches, or the warmth of their body heat radiating from where the hilt of the knife kisses the skin? Do they savor the blood leaking out onto their knuckles and between their fingers, or does it disgust them?
Do they hold whumpee close in mock comfort as they wait for them to pass out from pain/shock/blood loss? Do they hold them, hand fisted in their hair, for the express purpose of keeping them upright only to drop them, let them collapse at their feet?
Do they yank the knife out? Tighten their grip and hold it there to savor the feeling? Do they twist the blade? Bring the knife up and stab them again?
Whumpee trembling as they try to process what just happened, their brain not able to make sense of the pain just yet. Doubling over with a low gut-punched groan or barely there whimper when they do.
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Faelbar isn't quite sure how sleep works, but he watched Shiro fight in and out of it many times before they could speak properly. He tries to help smooth the transition when he can.
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I named all the lions for my Roots/Routes AU. Faelbar = Black! He's also quite traumatized and he and Shiro try to take care of each other.
I'm trying to learn how to color faster! This was an experiment that went really well.
Late for the prompt day, but for @whumpril prompt day 10: Adrenaline.
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multiple anons have asked for bruised knuckles ~ (send me guro requests) - [don’t remove the caption]
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Whumpril 2024 - Day 22 - Stoicism Breaks
I've been threatening to send Mariano to therapy so here we ARE! I reference a little RP I had with @comfy-whumpee that's been swirling in my brain ever since we did it c:<
TWs: self harm mention, suicide mention, anxiety mention, talk of a shooting, talk of captivity, this is real cathartic though I promise it's not bad
Ex-military, spent most of his twenties in foreign federal prison, history of anxiety, suicidal ideation, and self-harm. Stoic, highly traumatized, closed off, slow to open up. Hesitant to talk about intense experiences, needs reassurance. Overly concerned with others' needs.
Mary Barlowe looked over her notes before walking into the latest session with Mariano Cross. He wasn't her most difficult patient to talk to, not by a long shot. She never had to worry about calling security, or convincing him to leave when time was up. He was polite, punctual, and friendly.
But he was challenging in his own way.
He'd had a full decade of people telling him that he was an irredeemable monster, and he'd taken it all very seriously. Discussing anything heavier than everyday troubles was approached with the same caution that stray dogs approached an outstretched hand. He barely seemed to have even a basic connection to his own body or emotions, sounding detached whenever he spoke about them. They were things he needed help with, of course, but it was clear that there were things buried deeper than that.
The small, quick smile he gave her when she entered was a fantastic sign. "Good afternoon, Doctor Barlowe." He was already seated, back straight, both feet flat on the floor, and careful hands folded and resting on his leg.
"Good afternoon, Mariano." She returned the greeting easily, taking her own seat in the comfortable chair opposite his. "You mentioned wanting to talk about something difficult today, did something happen?" She knew the answer to that. He'd missed a few sessions due to being hospitalized from a robbery gone wrong.
He hesitated, dark eyes darting to the table between them. "Yes. I...there was something that happened." He seemed to close in on himself, just so, hands still clasped firmly together. She could feel the tension that crept into his voice. "But I understand if we can't."
There it was, the familiar beginning of withdrawal. "Why wouldn't we be able to talk about it?" She leaned forward, a small smile on her face. She kept her features soft, her posture relaxed. "You're paying to have a space to talk about the difficult things."
"I am, yes." He trailed off, not quite meeting her eye yet. "But it was...graphic. I don't want to overstep. I've accidentally done that before, and I...I don't want to find a new therapist. I like you."
"Oh?" Mary's voice softened. "Mariano, let me reassure you: You are not the first former prisoner I've worked with, or the first soldier. If I need a moment after hearing something then I'll let you know, but you're not going to destroy me by just talking.
"You deserve to feel safe enough to say what's on your mind. I'm sure it gets heavy holding it in, doesn't it?" She saw something in his jaw tense, the hold he had on his own hand growing tighter.
Mariano swallowed, nodding, eyes on the tissue box between them. "...It does. I have dreams about it sometimes."
"I'd imagine so." She said. "What happens in those dreams?"
When Mariano spoke again, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. "I can't call for help after I'm shot, and I wind up dying." He took a deeper breath, the sound just barely trembling. "It always feels...very realistic."
"Were you alone when it happened?" Mariano didn't move. His eyes never left the tissue box. "Mariano?" She had a feeling that he wasn't thinking about whether or not he needed a tissue.
He looked up at her, tension tight around his eyes, jaw set, and shoulders curled in on himself. "I...I don't want to hurt you."
"Have you hurt someone by talking about this before?" She spoke to him like he was backed into a corner, cowering away. He was, in a sense. It was like he was waiting for her to snap at him.
Mariano nodded.
"Can you tell me about it?"
Mariano hesitated, his grip shifting to his own elbows. He looked even smaller in the soft, pale green chair. "One of my friends asked me what happened, and why people weren't applying to the ad we put out for more managers. I said that I got shot during a robbery and almost died, and that it had gotten publicized--I don't think I went into detail, but he said that I...ambushed him?"
Mariano's breath caught. "I don't want to overstep again." He repeated. "He's a therapist and...I tried to keep things civilian friendly. It was why people hadn't been applying, and I tried to keep it brief, I...I don't really know what I did wrong. I didn't want to ask him to explain if I'd already hurt him."
A frown ghosted across Mary's face. "I see. Well, you don't have to worry about that, here. I have my own therapist, and I come to work expecting to hear about hard things."
She pushed the tissues closer, leaning forward to catch Mariano's eye. "And I think that I would've answered similarly, in your shoes. Maybe your friend was just having a hard time himself, and didn't communicate that well.
"But most people wouldn't consider that an ambush, just like you wouldn't consider it one if you asked a friend how they'd been and they said that they'd broken their leg recently, or lost a pet." She smiled softly when Mariano continued looking at her. "I think you'd just consider that surprising and unfortunate."
Mariano's jaw trembled. His eyes shone in the mid-afternoon light that streamed in through the window. "...I would."
"This hour is yours, Mariano. I'm not going to get upset at you." She plucked a few tissues and offered them over. "I've seen you for a while now. You don't have to be vigilant like that with me."
Mariano took them, holding them tight.
"Let me help you set some of that heavy stuff down." Mary offered. "You don't have to hold it all in on your own. You won't hurt me with it. It's safe."
Mariano's shoulders shuddered as he crumbled face-first into the tissues. A sob crawled out of him, escaping into his palms. It sounded agonized, like he'd been holding it in for months.
It was the most emotion he'd shown the entire time she'd known him. "It's okay to let people help you. You don't have to be a one man army anymore."
When Mariano had collected himself again, minutes later, Mary listened as he told her about the night that he almost died.
@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125
#this just breaks my heart#this scarred efficient killer being nervous and stone-faced#trying to make himself palatable enough that someone ANYONE will stick around#he's been isolated from the minute his training started especially in prison#and even out here he's still isolating himself because he hates what he did and he hates bothering people#poor mariano absolutely DOES need reassurance but not in the limp noodle sort of way#in the “i've been told i'm bad at gauging whether i'm hurting people” kind of way
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Anders is @whump-sprite ‘s oc.
He’s screaming, he’s screaming loud and hard, and he can hear it, and so can the Hunter. He’s making Lux scream just to hear it. It hurts, his whole body hurts so much, but he’s grateful for that pain, because he can hear his own screams.
A large weight is settled over him, pressing him to the ground. His arms and legs, his chest, they’re all bringing him so much pain, joints all popped out of place and bones broken and his head pounding, pounding, but it’s real, he’s real, if he can hear and feel pain then he’s real. It’s a relief.
He jolts, with one blow to his broken body, and suddenly he’s on something soft instead of the concrete floor he was just on. The pain’s gone - his hands fly to his middle, his hips, his shoulders, but they’re all in place and unbroken, only bruised. Lux tries to make a sound, but he can’t hear it, and it makes him miserable.
Lux makes his hands find the covers on either side of his body, and his fingers trail over the wrinkles and smooth dips, venturing out, finding the edges of the bed.
He finds something warm, and jerks his hand back, taking a sharp breath. A minute later his hand trails over the covers again to find it.
Oh, it’s just a hand. Freaky, not being able to see who it belongs to. Lux’s fingers find sort of crooked ones, and once-swollen knuckles and finger joints, and rough patches of scars. Lux taps his forefinger against the back of the hand, silently asking if Anders is willing to hold his hand. That scarred hand finally moves, and takes Lux’s to hold it gently.
There’s something wet on Anders’ hand. Lux’s other one reaches quickly, alarmed, to feel it, see if it’s blood - no, too thin and cold. He reaches up, then, to feel for Anders’ arm - there it is - to his shoulder, to his cheek.
He feels no tears there. He was so worried that Anders had been crying.
Now, his hand leaves his friend’s cheek, to feel his own face. There are tears there. He was crying in his sleep.
Was Anders trying to soothe him during his nightmare? Did he pull away as soon as Lux started to wake, so he wouldn’t panic at the touch?
Thank you, Anders, he whispers, and feels the blankets move. They’re being pulled up from where he kicked them to the foot of the bed in the throes of his nightmare. Lux tugs them up even higher, pulling them up to cover half his face and breathing in the smell, feeling warm. He doesn’t need to be in pain and screaming to know what’s going on - things as mild as comfort and sleepiness and patient touch are enough to make him feel real and safe.
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“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal | Collapse
This, uh… owner? Isn’t all that bad. Could be a whole lot worse.
The hand sliding down his back isn’t welcome, but Major doesn’t fight it. He knows better. He knows better.
Shoulders angled down toward the floor an inch below them, dejected gray eyes locked onto a piece of dust just out of focus on the carpet, Major keeps from shaking off the touch. It’s not as creepy as it could be. Just seems to be, like… feeling along his spine as if checking for bruising on the piece of fruit he’s considering at the supermarket. Or checking out the ridges and valleys of his scars, but there’s no lingering fondles across the thick burn-ruined skin.
The smell of the guy’s breath hits him before the sound of his voice. Major holds his ground, only shifting to press his forehead to the floor as he listens. “I paid for one that leans into it. I won’t be all that hands-on, but still. I did pay for it.”
If he was in his right mind, Major would buck against that. Try to break the guy’s nose, maybe beat him for a while before killing him. But the warning, as polite as it might’ve been, hits like ice to his teeth. The training, with the gun and the consequences a split-second after each test… Major barely survived. He isn’t gonna fuck it up now. Especially not when he’s alone, bent down over his own knees, in some guy’s house.
The hand comes in for another swipe down his back, and this time Major arches up against it. Just slightly. It might not have been enough, he might be fucking up, there could be a gun held above his head where he can’t see it but he’ll hear the click of it, and… oh. He’s rewarded as if he was an eager purring cat, by an approving hum from above.
Disgust rises as goosebumps across his skin. But Major sinks down and feels his heartbeat thrumming in his temple after the terror of nearly disappointing the guy who… custom ordered a pissy, stubborn prisoner freshly trained to obey.
His mind goes blank, suddenly, when the guy ruffles his hair. Major doesn’t even fully register the condescending gesture, just lets his head be rocked back and forth with the rough petting to fried hair.
The voice, airy in a weird way, comes from higher above than Major was expecting. Thought the buyer would be leaning down close, but he’s up on one knee to rise, maybe. “Come on. Since you’re doing good enough. Got something to show you.”
The guy’s walking, and Major isn’t sure what to do. He’s scrambling up to follow, but a fog of stress locks his knees so he can’t stand. Is he… fuck, allowed to stand? To walk? Frozen by worry but spurred on by the fear of falling behind and breaking some unspoken rule, Major lurches forward on his hands and knees. No more goosebumps, no self-loathing curled tight in his stomach. The room feels cold when he goes numb and compliant.
The guy slows to a stop. When he turns to stare down at Major in bewilderment, it’s the first time Major sees him in full. He’s not… big. Slick black hair buzzed down on the sides and in the back. Tattoos across his face in swirling font that Major can’t read, a piercing in his nose. Which all would look tough, except there’s no real muscle on him, and even if there was it would be hard to see because the guy’s in a big sweater with a dress shirt poking out from under the sleeves and neckline.
Major swallows, trying to decide if the guy looks tough, or weak, or cool or lame. He’s distracted by a judgy scoff that sets his jaw clenching.
“What are you doing?” It’s not as mean as it could be, not cutting. Just too amused. “Crap, I didn’t think they were giving me one that thinks it’s a dog. Just walk.”
The words sting, through the numb distance he’d built up, and it’s more frustrating than it is humiliating. Major shoves himself upward and sways onto his feet, blinking against the odd waves of adrenaline and exhaustion.
“Just walk, we’re not… oh fu-... frick.” The buyer doubles back, hands raised and hurried. Major flinches back, eyes widening against the black fuzz swallowing his vision. He falls rapidly sideways, or upward, maybe… the world is spinning and he can’t figure out which way is down. He’ll be killed. He’s getting grabbed, fingers digging into his arms, he’s gonna die!
The room goes black, as pain erupts in his skull, and all sensations fade away.
#whump#drabble#mine#major#dehumanization#well we don't know this guy's motives yet but i mean he isn't setting major FREE so#that means i must also tag as#slavery#captivity#conditioning#obedience
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Someone’s gonna see. Someone’s gonna see the red seeping through his shirt, because dirt and sweat smeared across a white wife beater don’t hide bloodstains.
It’s not the distinctive, rich dark red of a stab wound or gunshot, either. Which is worse. If Tank or Remy see the splotchy, pus-yellow tinge around the edges of the spreading stain, they’ll know what it’s from.
Oh, hell, Major thinks, stomach dropping. His throat has already locked up around the taste of barbecue smoke. You don’t see a burn first, you smell it. And his hair is full of the same smell. Charred bacon.
A broken table wobbles in complaint as he brushes past it. Major staggers through the dark hallway of the safehouse, one hand sliding heavily across peeling wallpaper. Why fuckers ever glue paper to their walls to try to make them prettier, he’ll never know. It just ends up dusty and crunchy and peeling off. Or at least, he’s only ever seen it fucked up from age.
The smell of a musty room tinged with cheap spray-on deodorant illustrates the foggy picture of having arrived at his room. Vision’s blacked out for the moment, so smell will have to do.
Speaking of, there are footsteps out in the hall. Major’s shoulders crawl up toward his ears, and his belly twists with the hot thrill of preemptive rage.
“Miles?” Comes a soft, concerned whisper, and it sets the defensive rage withering. Major waits where he stands propped up by a shoulder pressed to the wall. Soft, heavy footfalls cross the threshold and sink into the sticky, matted carpet. “Sorry. To follow you in. I thought… sit down.”
“Fuck you,” He snaps, yanking his hand away when it’s brushed by soft skin.
“Sit. Please?” The gentler healer’s determined hand presses to the small of his back, and just like that, Major’s stubbornness buckles. He is sitting in seconds, straight on the floor. Letting his boyfriend tug up that stained shirt and hiss in sympathy.
“What happened? If you… I mean, you don’t have to talk ab-”
“Piece of shit with fire magic. I uh - wasn’t gonna fuck with ‘em but he said some shit, and - hey if I knew he had fire, I wouldn’t…”
Warm brown eyes and a knowing nod, as Remy allows his numbing magic to flow from a glowing palm to the nasty burn that stretches from navel to the back of Major’s ribcage. The tense, straw-haired warlock shudders and guarded eyes go teary as they fall closed.
#whump#drabble#major#remy#burns#angst#healing#just the soft healer boyfriend helping the prickly asshole boyfriend!#mine
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Whumpril 2024 - Day 18 - Broken Glass
Manager Mariano time c:
TWs: blood, hand wounds, ableism, glass in wounds, a teenager gets hurt and also scared
"Don't move."
Violet froze as her new manager's voice boomed through the empty coffee shop from the back office, right on the heels of a whole box-full of special, holiday-themed glass stirrers hitting the tile floor and exploding. Tears immediately sprang to her eyes as she tensed, hearing the quick footsteps of the man immediately starting towards her. She was so dead.
This was her first day and her first job and she'd been stupid to believe Abby when she said that this job was easy. Abby would kill her if Mister Cross didn't, she'd vouched for Violet and talked her up about being a good worker. Good workers didn't make a huge mess three hours into their first shift.
Hastily she crouched and started trying to scoop the broken pieces back into the cardboard box. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--" She whimpered, gasping when the glass tore at her fingertips.
"Hey, hey, don't move." Mister Cross repeated, scooping the broom and a roll of paper towels into his hands as he arrived. "Just leave it there."
Violet pulled her hands tight against herself, nodding in acknowledgement. She watched as he swept around her, quick strokes of the broom collecting the biggest pieces of glass into a pile. Then he tore off some paper towels, got them wet in the sink they washed their hands in, and wiped a careful ring around her.
"There," He said, finally, standing to toss the now-glittering paper towels into the trash. "There, now you won't get glass on your shoes."
Violet watched, vision wobbling from the tears still gathering in her eyes, as he offered his hands out. She didn't want to take them. They were scarred, and weird looking and rippled like a brownie's surface, and the thought of them made her skin crawl.
"Let me get you to the office so I can get your hands cleaned up. I won't let you slip."
This close, when he'd taken off his hoodie and was just in his jeans and tee, she realized that his biceps were about the size of her head and that his arms were just as messed up as his hands were. He'd definitely killed people before. The thought made her stomach drop.
When she rested her wrists against his palms, she shuddered. His hands were warm, though, and he was steady when he helped her stand again. The office was quiet, and when he helped her into the computer chair she shivered. The chair was comfortable at least, even with his hoodie draped over the back of it.
He walked to the storage room and grabbed one of the plastic chairs, setting it over the weird stain on the carpet before taking a seat next to her.
Reaching into the desk drawer, Mister Cross pulled out a plastic case with a blue taped plus sign on it and a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol. "I try to keep a first aid kit stocked in here, it has most anything you'd need and plenty you might not." He said, retrieving some tweezers from the kit and disinfecting them with the rubbing alcohol.
As he waved them in the air to dry them quicker, he held out one of his awful hands again. "May I see your cut? I want to make sure we get all the glass out before you go to an urgent care."
"I'm going to a doctor after this?" Violet asked, disbelieving. She hesitantly lowered one of her hands into his palm. He didn't squeeze or hold her tight, he just leaned a little closer and squinted like her mom always did when she had a splinter.
"Of course. You can call your parents after we get you bandaged up." He said, tilting Violet's hand slowly. She saw little glimmering shards in her fingertips, and groaned. "It's alright, just lean back. I'll do the hard part. It'll be over in just a minute."
"I can't do it, Mister Cross." Tears started to roll down her face as she felt the delicate scrape of the tweezers, and her eyes slammed shut as she leaned back. "I can't--it's gonna hurt too much." She didn't want him to dig into her fingers. She didn't want to feel him pulling at anything, she just wanted to go home. The biggest one looked so deep, there was no way he could get it out without making it worse.
"First one is out, you're doing great Violet."
"What?" That startled her, and when she opened his eyes she saw him delicately placing the biggest glass splinter onto a tissue. "How...?"
"None of them are deep at all, they just need a little help. I wouldn't do this if I thought I'd have to dig for them." He spoke with the same tone he'd used to explain how to make a frappe earlier that day, calm and flat. His eyebrows were furrowed just a little bit in concentration, and he tilted her hand back and forth before moving in with the tweezers again.
She didn't expect this process to be so gentle. She found herself watching as he removed the other two, and she wasn't as hesitant to let him take care of her other hand after he'd bandaged the first one. "I...I don't need to go to the doctor, I'm probably okay." She said, voice small as she watched Mister Cross work.
He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, no. You don't want to play around with the health of your hands. It's better to take an hour out of your day to make sure you get some decent antibiotics and a professional's opinion, at least." He set the tweezers aside once he got the last of the glass out, starting to bandage those fingers too. "Your family won't have to pay for it, either. There's a doctor not far from here who'll sort out the bill with us and give you a note if you need it."
Mister Cross treated her like she was made of glass. He didn't even sound angry, really. He wasn't slamming anything, or yelling, or huffing, or sounding frustrated with her. "Why aren't you firing me? Those stir stick things were special."
Mister Cross shook his head and laughed, quiet and just as calm as before. "Accidents happen. I've spilled a whole bag of coffee beans before and had to toss all five pounds. It wouldn't be fair to fire you over something we've all done.
"Plus," He started, a conspiratorial edge winding its way into his voice. "I probably would've tossed them myself anyway. They just seemed like they could snap in someone's drink if they hit ceramic too hard."
Violet let out a sob that she didn't know she was holding in. Mister Cross froze, looking startled as she dragged her wrist over her eyes. "I--Violet, are...do you want a...a tissue?" He hesitantly offered her the box of tissues, and she sobbed harder.
The wide-eyed expression on his face made her laugh, caught between the ache of her fingers, the emotional release of knowing she hadn't lost her job and the realization that Abby hadn't lied about Mister Cross not being that scary. She took one of them and nodded, pressing her face into it as the sudden rush subsided.
"Yeah! I'm...I think I'm okay." Violet took a deeper breath, letting it out and feeling steadier than she had all day. "Thank you for helping me, Mister Cross."
He seemed to need a moment longer to process what she'd said, hesitantly setting the tissues back on the desk. "Of course." He finally said, standing again and turning to leave. "Call home and hang out in here until your ride shows up, no need to worry about the rest of the day."
Somehow, Violet thought when Mister Cross returned for just a moment to set a freshly warmed muffin down on the desk next to her, she sort of understood why Abby didn't quit after that shooting happened.
@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125
#this just breaks my heart#it’s so human and feels so real i felt like i was physically there#here descriptions and disgust about his scars felt really real#makes me feel inspired abt my ocs like thinking about how lux is seen#also your writing has really been developing#i always liked your writing a lot but in the past like 6 months it has gotten all#idk crunchy. just detailed and raw and evocative#mariano is so gently concerned and good at keeping scared people calm#he is adorable in a way most writers would use to make him be a caregiver to a kid#but you choose a more complex dynamic than that which really does mariano justice#excellent writing
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Whump Art 9
Whumpee is safe, but terrified of his rescuers, or maybe he's still with Whumper, who is trying to be a better person, but Whumpee can't forget all the things Whumper did to him so easily.
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Luis holding an almost dead Laredo after a failed mission he couldn't have helped. Please. Traumatized Luis thinking he's gonna lose a mage again.
Whumpril 2024 - Day 12 - Weak Pulse
Hehehe I'm just on a Laredo kick!
TWs: blood, gore, painful healing, near death experience
"Sorry, sir." The rattling words gripped Luis' heart in their teeth, squeezing like a wolf that had finally caught its rabbit. "Tried."
Laredo smiled up at him, blood trickling from his mouth in thick ribbons. He stank of burnt hair and Luis couldn't keep a grip on him. He raised a hand to hold his own side, trembling like a leaf as the howls and whistles of the other four echoed around them. "Dunno what was wrong with the intel."
Luis had been fed bad information. He'd realized that much when the first alert whistle had pierced the air. Luis swallowed hard, managing to shift Laredo so that his head was cradled by one of Luis' arms and his cheek rested against Luis' bicep. Luis' other hand cupped Laredo's face, pinky and ring fingers resting at his pulse point.
It was fluttering, too quick and too weak. Laredo was dying. He was going to lose him.
Luis couldn't lose him.
Another trill, this time from Manuel—a check-in. Luis trilled back, his voice pitching up into a sharp bark at the end. An urgent request for help.
Two flickers, then three strobes flashed in the distance.
Manuel was on his way.
"Hold on, Laredo. Keep your eyes on me." Luis tried to keep his voice steady, not even bothering with code names. "You're going to be okay." He failed, trembling on the last word.
"M'trying." Laredo muttered, eyes squeezing shut as an awful coughing fit made fresh blood spill bright and horrible from his lips. "Don't wanna make Dimitri go to...go to another funeral."
Luis felt his chest tighten horribly. He didn't think he could bear to put concealer beneath Dimitri's eyes again. He didn't think Dimitri could survive that again.
"You won't, Laredo. I'll keep you awake, then Manuel will heal you up." Luis saw water dripping down onto Laredo's throat. He didn't know when he'd started crying. "I have you."
"Trust you." Laredo breathed, struggling to look up at Luis again. "Always have."
Only Manuel skidding around the corner and into the little hiding spot they'd found could make Luis' terror ease. As they gagged Laredo and Manuel slammed healing magic through his broken body, Luis could've cried. He wouldn't though. Not when the other mages still needed him to be steady and even.
@lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125
#this is just horrifying#goddamn luis sounds like a good guy here even though he SO ISN’T#cradling laredo like a son#the ocncerler under the eyes thing hits hard#poor mages i wish they weren’t so good at being soldiers#that the only way this could have gone so bad#is if they were fed bad intel#death tw
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A little story about ghosts, and roommates, and getting to know each other.
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Whumpee woke with a sobbing shout. They quivered and panted, memories hit them as if they were still on the floor at whumper's feet. They felt arms wrap around them and beeping heard overhead; the sound worsened the pounding already in their head.
"Hey hey hey! It's okay. You got a lot of injuries, you've got to take it slow." Caretaker touched whumpees forehead and put them back against the pillow. They tightly gripped whumpee's hand and the other rested on their chest.
"Wh-where am I? How did I get here?" Whumpee panicked.
"You're in a hospital. I'm here with you, everything's okay. You're going to be fine..." Caretaker sadly smiled. Whumpee stared up at them with wide eyes, breathing like a wounded animal, gripping the back of caretakers hand with every ounce of strength, which was hardly holding them at all.
Despite caretaker's calm demeanor, whumpee could feel caretaker's hand shaking as much as their own.
"You-" Whumpee breathed, trying to raise their hand to them, but they couldn't.
"Yeah, it's me," Caretaker smiled, collecting their collapsed hand in their own. "I'm here, I'm taking good care of you. You can keep resting, okay?"
Whumpee shook their head no, their body still in fight or flight mode, wanting nothing more but to jump up and assess their surroundings. Caretaker could see their legs twitching and slowly inching off the bed as they sighed and scooted on the bed with them, pushing their legs back to the center.
"No hon, it's too early to be doing that." Caretaker soothed, laying whumpee's head on their shoulder.
It was almost as if as soon as whumeee's cheek settled, they relaxed and their heart rate slowly returned to normal beat by beat. Caretaker looked up at their monitor and sighed with relief watching the numbers stabilize.
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There’s something about a whumpee just sitting down. Not fainting, necessarily. Maybe they’re just about to faint, and they quietly just kneel on the ground at a time and place that doesn’t make sense. They don’t even have the capacity or willingness to articulate why they need to abruptly stop and sit. Maybe they’re catatonic while the others look at them.
Maybe a caretaker can see the dull, vacant look in their eyes and immediately senses that something is seriously wrong. Maybe the fainting comes just a few moments later.
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