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whumble-beeee · 8 months

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Whumptember 2023, Day 11

“There’s nothing else I can do”

Last resort | Character death | Medical whump

The Bee’s Whumptember Masterlist

~1490 words

CW: probably wrong medical procedure based on my own limited medical training and experience, wishing for death, blood, implied knife wounds, technical medical talk, mentioned past torture, brainwashed whumpee, medical malpractice (but the good kind ig?), needles

(Continued from Day 10: What Are You Doing To Them. Turns out Detective does save Whumpee after all. kinda. heh.)

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Where… where was Whumpee? This was all much too white, much too bright. New noises pounded on their eardrums. Weren’t they supposed to be dead? Hanging limply by their wrists, crimson red blotting out their dark flesh so that it was practically a second skin? So good and pretty for Whumper, because they couldn’t struggle anymore and couldn’t be entertaining anymore, so dead was the only way Whumpee could make Whumper happy? They were supposed to be dead. They wanted to be. That was the only way they could be useful now.

Something was poking and prodding at them. Multiple somethings, multiple someones. Whumpee shifted uncomfortably and tried to move away, only to find they couldn’t. Straps. They were strapped to a bed, and the bed was jostling around. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Every slight movement exacerbated their dizziness.

Had Whumper decided to keep them alive after all? Maybe this was just some new form of torture. That must be why Whumper put some sort of face mask on them. Poison, maybe. Whumpee would gladly take it. Even if their wounds made them so, so weak, even if the bright lights made them want to scream, even if they could barely feel what was happening to their body, even if the flurry of movement around them confused them, especially the agonizing poking and prodding.

Even if some dark horrible part of their heart fluttered because maybe, just maybe, Whumpee was being saved. If only… No, no, Whumpee didn’t want to be saved. Whumpee wanted to please Whumper and be good for them. That was their only job in life.

Was Whumper even here? They usually liked to talk while torturing Whumpee.

No, Whumpee was good. Whatever Whumper wanted, Whumpee would do, even if this wasn’t their usual style. They would take it because they had to, and they wanted to. They wanted to. They would always take it, always, always, always, always, always…

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Detective frantically patted Whumpee’s cheek, and their eyelids twitched open again. Barely. One of the EMTs shoved Detective out of the way with an understandably authoritative “Move,” and got to work wiping off a staggering amount of crimson just from the crook of Whumpee’s elbow. They quickly placed and taped down the IV before readjusting the oxygen mask on Whumpee’s face for the third time, as the other EMT worked on staunching the blood endlessly gushing from the various gaping gashes and stab wounds all over their body.

“They’re losing too much blood, tourniquet and elevate the limbs more and focus on stitching and pressure on the torso and head.”

Detective leaned back into the corner as much as they could. They almost wished they hadn’t climbed into the ambulance. They almost wished they’d listened as the personnel yelled at them to get out, before Detective’s determined glare and crossed arms made them decide it wasn’t worth trying to force Detective out when time was already a very precious and very quickly dwindling resource. Almost.

They smiled to themself, despite everything. If nothing else, even if Whumpee didn’t end up pulling through, at least they had made that sick sadist pay. A mist of red spraying to the walls. A second bullet. That was all Detective could have wanted.

Whumpee shuddered on the gurney, momentarily thrashing under their restraints before falling still again.

“Don’t they need blood?” Detective called, jarred out of their thoughts. They started taking a mental tally of all visible wounds again. “They lost so much, and we don’t even know–”

“Yes, they do,” EMT1 interrupted, not looking up from their tourniquet. “We don’t have any, they’ll get it at the hospital.”

Detective sputtered. “They’re not gonna make it to the hospital! We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s gonna take–”

“Look,” EMT1 spun on Detective. “We can’t do anything about it, or else we would! Now stay out of the way or I’ll have you thrown out of the damn vehicle.”

They harshly tied off the tourniquet and moved to the next one. Then their face softened again. Just slightly. “We want them alive just as much as you...”

“I’m a universal donor!” Detective pleaded. “O negative! Take my blood!”

EMT1 paused and stared at Detective before remembering themself, shaking their head out and continuing to fuss over a particularly nasty gash. “Absolutely not, we can’t know that for sure, we can't test it, not to mention the malpractice suit alone would–”

“Shit!” The other EMT called suddenly. “Heart stopped beating, beginning compressions! Two, three, four…” They started pushing into Whumpee's chest before they even fully finished the sentence. The one chewing Detective out dashed to grab the AED machine, slammimg the two pads onto Whumpee’s chest around their partner's working hands, before rushing to the side of Whumpee’s head, tipping their head up and preparing to give life-saving breaths.

“Hey!” EMT1 yelled out to Detectives. “Come here and work the AED, it’ll prompt you on everything you need to do–” EMT2 finished their thirty compressions, and EMT1 stopped their orders to give two full breaths into the mask. Whumpee’s chest rose and fell with each breath before falling still again. EMT2 continued their compressions. EMT1 dashed across the cabin to press on the wounds again. ”--and make sure to yell ‘clear’ when it’s scanning AND when a shock is advised and then press the button–”

“They’re back!” EMT2 yelled again, ear pressed closely to Whumpee’s mouth and two fingers on the carotid artery. “Pulse weak as measured at the beginning, breathing normal. Continue as we were, and pay close attention to vitals!”

EMT1 froze, chest heaving shakily. “Okay, okay, nevermind, uh, go back to the corner…”

“Please, I’m O negative, I can help,” Detective begged. “They’re not gonna make it–”

EMT1 reeled on them, eyes fiery and wet, practically shaking, holding tense hands in front of themself placatingly as if they wanted nothing more than to grab Detective by the throat and hurl them out of the ambulance.

“We cannot give an emergency blood transfusion with your blood!” they yelled, breath ragged, whipping their hand up to silence Detectives protests. “We can’t verify the blood type, and if you’re wrong, they will die, and that’s not even touching on the amount of malpractice I’d be committing. There’s nothing I can do to–”

“Oh, lay off and just do it,” EMT2 called out from the other side of the gurney, pressing a cloth into Whumpee’s stomach wounds. “Guy’s a detective, they know their blood type, and you and I both know that the patient’s heart still somehow beating is one in a billion.”

They reached across Whumpee to grab their partner's arms and press them down onto the cloth so they could grab something from the cabinets, snapping at Detective to do the same, and Detective fell in right next to EMT1.

“We’re also what, twenty minutes away from the hospital? The will of God themself couldn’t keep this patient alive for that long without a transfusion.” They nodded to the blood still steadily pooling onto the floor, covering all their shoes in a dark crimson, soaking through the bottoms of their pants with a morbid stickiness.

EMT1 stared at Whumpee, searching over their frail frame as if the answers to their life were going to be etched onto Whumpee’s skin. Only different etchings, cuts, and deep purple and black bruises could be found, standing out brilliantly against Whumpee’s practically gray skin. They turned their eyes desperately to their partner, then Detective, then their partner again. “Do it. I’ll continue care until blood can be administered. If this doesn’t work, it's on your ass.”

“Always is,” EMT2 muttered with a jarring laugh. They beckoned Detective over as their partner worked in a flurry behind them, quickly tying a tight rubber tourniquet around Detective’s upper arm. “Try to keep still, lean on the wall. Get some water from the sink, too. You’re absolutely sure you’re a universal donor?”

EMT2 grabbed them by the elbow and shoved the needle into the vein without waiting for a response. Detective swallowed. “I’ve done this before. Never been more sure in my life.”

EMT2 nodded as they finished, rushing away to help with Whumpee again just as thick blood suctioned up through the thin tube and into the waiting blood bag. Detective was already starting to feel a bit woozy. Great time to remember their fear of needles.

They forced their gaze away from the slowly filling bag, over to Whumpee lying half dead on the gurney with the EMTs rushing around them, patching them up with practiced precision. They watched with baited breath each time their chest rose and fell, hoping the next one wouldn’t be their last. Up, down, up, down. Don’t pass out. Then back to the blood draw kit, sucking out the lifesaving liquid from Detective so it could continue its journey in Whumpee.

God, this had better work.

@whumptember

#whumptember2023 #whumptember day 11 #day eleven: theres nothing i can do #day eleven: medical whump #day eleven: last resort #whump #whumpee #caretaker #whump writing #writeblr #“but bee you didnt like day ten!”#“why are you writing a part two?”#turns out i like writing about detective and them emts because its a lot more action or something like that lol #something about completely conditioned and trained whumpees just doesn't hit the spot for me #also i am cpr certifiead and a lifeguard #so at least the crp portion should be medically correct #at least at the time of posting #the rest tho idk

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i-eat-worlds · 6 months

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Alex and Friends Masterlist

Complete! Taglist: @pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump @oc-writing-corner @painful-pooch @rainbowsandwhumperflies (This story crosses over with @/pigeonwhumps story Immortal Cannon Fodder.)

Piece that started it all (probably not cannon)

Character Intros/Picrews

Alex, Joseph, Eric, Avia, Teri, Sil, Ararav Superhero Uniforms Main Story

Part One-Extraction

Part Two-Resistance

Part Three-Medical Care

Part Four-Collision

Part Five-Self Aid

Part Six-Evacuation

Part Seven-Respite

Part Eight-Assignment

Part Nine-Telecommunications and Transportation

Part Ten-The Upstairs

Part Eleven-Dirty Laundry

Part Twelve-Bandage Change

Part Thirteen-Bedtime

Part Fourteen-Greenwich Park

Part Fifteen-Collaboration

Part Sixteen-Stitches

Part Seventeen-Bad News 1

Part Eighteen-Bad News 2

Part Nineteen-Commitment

Part Twenty-Aquatic Operations

Part Twenty One-Hurry Up and Wait

Part Twenty Two-Decent

Part Twenty Three-Done

Part Twenty Four-Transition

Part Twenty Five-Ambulance

Part Twenty Six-Deterioration

Part Twenty Seven-Vigil

Part Twenty Eight-A New Beginning

Extras

More Alex and Friends Extras are available on the Whumpcember Masterlist and Wow Birthday Whump Masterlist

Pat Masterlist

Aaroseph Masterlist

Pre Main Story

Flashback-Gagged and Restrained

Flashback-Burns

Flashback-Painful Wound Care

Haunted by the past-Joseph and Pat (cw: character death)

Always Kid, Always-Joseph and Pat (cw: character death)

Unexplained Fainting, Pat

Injury Dialogue Ask-Pat

A Late Night Discovery-A&F and ICF crossover

Stab O’clock-A&F and ICF crossover

Tenderness-Joseph/Aaron

Full Moon-Jospeh/Aaron

Roadside Assistance-Sil Whump

Post Main Story

Confrontation

Sick Day

Seasons Beatings Gift Part 2: 30%

Things That Shouldn’t Happen In A Closet

Over.

Moodboards

Alex , Joseph

Art

Busts of Alex and Joseph by @fishbaitinc

Asks

Alex:

🧣 for Alex , In that case 🍇 and 🧢, for whoever you feel like! 🛁 for Alex

Joseph:

In that case 🍇 and 🧢, for whoever you feel like!

#worlds babbles #whump #whump masterlist

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gotta-whump-them-all · 11 months

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June Whump Prompt (8/30)

Prompt #8 Chronic

Whumpee had been chronically sick for months on end. The only person that they had to take care of them, was whumper.

Whumper wasn't the best at caring for them, but it was the best they got. Also it was all they got. When whumpee initially got sick whumper didn't believe them until they physically couldn't move anymore.

Days one through four consisted of whumpee trying to tell whumper that they were sick. Whumper just simply didn't believe them and they were punished for that.

Days five through nine whumpee started to get really sick, but they didn't even try this time to bring it up to whumper. They knew what that would entail.

Days ten and eleven whumpee simply couldn't move. The sickness combined with the pain of it all made it too unbearable. It was to the point whumpee gave up on moving. On the eleventh day whumper finally came to see whumpee. They didn't even try to move, even when whumper told them to get up. Whumper then realized that whumpee, truly was sick.

Days twelve to fifteen was when it was moderately bad. Whumpee has learned that whumper apparently has some sort of medical training. For those days whumper was just helping whumpee get enough strength to actually move and eat.

Days sixteen to twenty whumpee was getting into a much better condition than they were before. This was almost completely over and whumper would be free from caring for whumpee and their sickness.

Day twenty-one whumper was out for the day. They had to go out that day to work his job and get food. AS soon as they had gotten home they didn't even check on whumpee and just flopped down onto the couch parallel from whumpee.

Day twenty-two whumper woke up and the first thing they did was to check up on whumpee. They had expected whumpee to be fine by then, but the opposite was true. Whumpee had gotten incredibly sick the day that whumper had been gone for.

They were in such a worse condition from when whumper had first found them. Their skin was pale as an eggshell and the fingertips had started to turn a pale shade of deep purple. The worst part was the face; eyes glossed over with their own pained tears and they way they barely kept their eyes open was heartbreaking.

Days twenty-three to twenty-nine were spent with whumper not leaving whumpee's side for those days. If they did need to leave whumper's side they would tell whumper exactly where thwy were going and what they would be doing. Then they would promise that they would come back and they wouldn't be gone for too long.

All the days after that until day forty whumpee just had slowly deteriorating in health. It was so horrible to watch. Whumpee might not make it out alive. Whumper couldn't live with themself if they let that happen.

#whump #whump stuff #whump scenario #whump drabble #whump tropes #whump prompt #whump writing #whump community #whumpblr #emotional whump #whumpee #whumper #whumpee x whumper #but only if you squint #sickfic #chronic #sickness #ill

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shywhumpauthor · 2 years

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June 6th- Stumbling

@summer-of-whump

Cw: kidnapped, restraints, bruises, broken bones, captivity, cells, blood, injuries, property destruction, bank robbing, bombs, medical neglect, rough wound care (mentioned), manhandling, noncon touching, broken nose, collapse

The world tilted around them, colors and sounds blurring together as Villain limped forwards, their muscles drawn stiff as they were escorted through the maze of halls.

Their hands were bound tight behind them, arms wrenched into an awkward position by the power inhibiting cuffs. Two guards, dressed in bleak grey uniforms flanked them, each with a grip on their arm forcing Villain forwards.

The stark lights of the compound burned Villain’s eyes, making them to squint in any attempts to see clearly. A sharp throb echoed through their skull, like a heartbeat in the back of their head, reminding them that they were still alive.

After the day they just had, it was easy to forget.

Their wounds ached terribly, undoubtedly fractured ribs constricting their lungs, stabbing pains shooting through their with each breath.

The heroes had seen it to them that they gotten “superficial treatment” on the transport back to base. All that had meant was some undertrained medic poorly setting their broken arm and binding it with dirty bandages.

They hadn’t bothered to take care of the deep gash above Villain’s eyebrow, that hours later was still dripping blood. Figures.

A small cry slipped from the captured criminal’s lips as their footing faltered and one of the guards wrenched them upright, jostling their broken arm. Hot tears sprang to Villain’s eyes as their vision went white, consciousness slipping away for half a moment before slamming them back to reality.

“OW-” Their voice cracked as they looked up to the supposed good-guy.

The guard rolled their eyes and let out a muttered “keep walking,” as they dragged Villain forwards.

It was so stupid.

Villain’s day had already been going shit, even before they were captured. Their coffee maker had broke first thing in the morning, then they had left their waffles for too long in the iron. They were out of milk, so they ended up having dry cereal for breakfast.

They were a criminal mastermind, Goddamn it! They shouldn’t be having dry fucking cereal for breakfast!!

The bank they had intended to rob didn’t have nearly as much cash as they expected, which they almost instantly blew off paying their debts and giving their henchmen paychecks.

Then, as if their day could get any worse, they cafe they went to for lunch was out of lettuce. How was Villain supposed to have a salad if there wasn’t any fucking lettuce?!

If the heroes had known how their morning was going, Villain was sure they would’ve been pardoned for blowing up the crummy old diner.

It was going to be torn down in a few weeks anyways! If anything, Villain had been doing the city a favor!

But nooooo.

Hero went on a thirty minute rant about how that was a “serious offense” and “highly illegal” and- right when Villain was beginning to doze off, they attacked!

Villain scoffed, tripping over their own feet as the two guards dragged them further through the halls, entering a poorly lit, secluded corridor.

The walls were dark and made of concrete, a plain metal door every fifteen feet or so, secured with all sorts of different locks. On each, a number painted in plain white.

Four… six… eight…

The guards pulled them to an abrupt stop outside door eleven, holding them upright as Villain’s knees buckled. One of the guards pulled a ring of coppery keys from their back pocket, letting go of Villain’s arm for a moment as they fiddled with the locks, sticking a different key in each one and twisting, before finally undoing the deadbolt and pushing the door open.

The cell inside was small, a cold draft hitting Villain’s skin and making them shudder.

A yelp slipped from the criminal’s lips as the second guard shoved them forwards, tripping once more. With their hands bound, they could only twist midair, letting their shoulder take the blunt of the force as they promptly face planted into the cement.

The guard snickered.

“Make yourself comfortable, Villain,” The other guard laughed as they clumsily rolled to their side, blood beginning to gush from their nose as a terrible burning sensation swallowed their face. “It’ll be a while before Hero can see you.”

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avocado-frog · 2 years

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In which I make a WIP intro seven chapters in

Hey hey hello my name is Isaac and I am here to tell you about this thing I wrote. Under the cut so that I don't make you read the whole thing if you don't want.

So the story itself is called Forget me not, after the flower that symbolizes respect, remembrance (obviously) and a connection that endures all challenges and measure of time.

There is also the literal meaning being that all three of the narrators have some form of amnesia.

The narrator for the first ten chapters (part one) is a sixteen year old girl named Leonie, or just Leo, who will steal your money, your car, and your house. She holds no regard for the safety or well-being of anyone who isn't herself, or her sister, Cass, but even that is rare.

Leo finds a photograph one night, of herself, her sister, and a woman with three children. Things escalate from there, as she realizes that she can't remember anything from before the age of nine.

The narrator for the next ten chapters, or part two, is a fourteen year old boy named Jaxon. After an accident when he was eleven, he was left with minor brain damage, the concentration skills of a gnat, and frequent migraines, as well as holes in his memory. He knows he grew up in a lab, he escaped, and he knows that who he lives with now are his siblings.

The third narrator for the last ten chapters is a ten year old boy named Elliot. Or so he assumes, it's what everyone seems to call him. Elliot can't remember what happened, he was only five, but he knows that his mother is dead and that he is missing an eye and that he hates his brothers. With a passion.

Maybe Leo was destined to go to the library the same day as Jaxon, and maybe he was supposed to have met Leo's childhood friends, maybe they were destined to save Elliot from the same place they grew up in, that neither of them can remember. Maybe Elliot was destined to die.

---

Genre: I don't know, sort of mystery-ish in the first ten chapters, and sort of horror, but really light horror. Fantasy, but grounded in reality (main characters are magic, takes place in the real world)

Rating: T. Contains some mature themes, (listed below) but all of it happened in the past, and isn't described in too much detail. Not until the end

Content warnings: Child neglect, child abuse, lab/medical whump I guess, depression, attempted suicide, and overall a bad time (look at the ao3 link its the pinned post)

Characters (in age order otherwise I'll forget one of them)

Logan- 22 year old college student. Everyone's older brother.

Leo- 16 years old. Thievery and crimes. Accidentally gets found family troped

Cass- 16 years old. Leo's twin. Does not do thievery and does not do crimes. Accidentally gets dragged into crimes anyways. Also gets found family troped

Kai- 15 years old. The twin's cousin. The brain cell

Lily- 15 years old. One of Leo's childhood friends. They were close as kids but do not like each other now, for actually no reason, they just sort of don't

Jaxon- 14 years old. Trans. ADHD rat child. Is actually very good around small children, despite being quite possibly the worst influence (besides Leo)

Marcy- 14 years old. Lily with black hair. She will also do crimes and is an enabler for Leo

Dylan- 11 years old. Non binary. Went deaf after an accident related to Jaxon's brain damage

Ryan- 10 years old. Oldest triplet. Autistic, special interest in marine biology. Related to the loss of Elliot's eye

Sam- 10 years old. Middle sibling. Also has ADHD. He's related to Elliot's trauma around staircases

Elliot- 10 years old. Youngest triplet and the youngest character overall. He has PTSD, depression, schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder, and dissociative amnesia

Update schedule:

Updates twice every week, on Wednesday and Saturday, so far I've posted seven out of thirty chapters, and I have drafted a second book, and I'm making plans for a third.

If you want you can look at the voice headcanons I have for each character here

I also post a lot of things about the characters (headcanons and incorrect quotes and all that)

I am looking through other peoples wip intros so I know what I'm doing so uh... tag list! If you want to be added or removed (probably added given that I did not have a tag list until today) let me know by reblogging or commenting that you wanna be added. Have a good day friends

#wip intro #writing #original work #original characters #writeblr #writers #writeblr community #original fiction #isaac says things related to his writing again

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darthhope999 · 1 year

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OC Whump day Eleven

Whumpee: Roman

I wrote this at 11:30 Am because that seems to be the time the inspiration strikes.

I am open to suggestions!

Ao3 link:

Roman woke in a cold sweat, queasiness filled his stomach and his head felt as if it had been inflated to ten times its normal size. His nose was shinny with snot and his breath rattled in his lungs, every so often turning into a hacking cough that left him shaking and gasping in pain.

He could hear his breaths filling the small cave, struggling to breath through the mucus lining his aching throat.

Today was going to be a long day, he knew he should talk to Icicle, see if he could have the day off. However, Roman was a determined worker. And, besides, he probably only had a cold.

Sun began to stream into the cave and Roman took a shuddering breath, suddenly feeling nauseated. He swallowed painfully, throat burning.

He groaned, lowering his head to the ground as he felt a jet of hot liquid begin to travel up his throat, making it burn even more.

“No,” he whimpered, gritting his teeth and forcing the liquid back down.

It settled uneasily on his nauseated stomach.

Roman sniffled, and tried to force himself to his feet.

He failed.

His legs weren’t ready to support his weight and sent him tumbling to the ground, collapsing beneath him.

Roman fell to the cold cave floor and curled into a ball, fighting the urge to stay there all day, whimpering.

Apparently this was worse than he had thought.

He knew better than to continue his work while ill, he felt like he would end up vomiting on someone anyway.

He would have to talk to Icicle. Only problem was; he was currently too weak to stand.

Roman cleared his throat noisily, trying to clear the mucus sticking firmly to its walls. He only succeeded in causing a coughing fit to wrack his body.

His chest ached when he was finished, every breath in was a challenge, and every rattling breath out was torture.

Roman curled tighter around his stomach as it started to churn, upset by his sudden jerking movements. He groaned again, feeling the liquid bubble up his throat once more.

His gut started to churn faster as if his digestive tract was suddenly caught up in a hurricane. “Ooh,” He groaned, pulling his legs in to press against his throbbing stomach.

Okay, he had to talk to Icicle.

Forcing his shaking legs to support him, Roman clambered out of the den, insides rocking back and forth as if he were on a boat.

Luckily for him, his clan was not yet up. No one needed to see him like this.

He staggered to Icicle’s den, swallowing thickly as he felt sick making its way to his mouth.

“Icicle?” He coughed when he had managed to make it to the entrance.

“Roman, come in,” The alpha’s voice called.

Roman staggered in, right as he did so, his stomach spasmed painfully and he was forced to clamp his mouth shut and drop his head to stop the surge of vomit from escaping.

“Roman! You look horrible!” Icicle cried, rushing over to his ailing friend.

“Uh, y-yeah, that’s what I-” Roman was cut off by another painful spasm, he snapped his mouth shut and squeezed his eyes closed against the sudden stabbing pain.

He swallowed forcefully, inhaling sharply and looking up at Icicle with tears starting to spill, unwantedly, from his eyes. “What I c-came to s-speak to a-about,” Roman whimpered haltingly.

“Okay, you need to lay down,” Icicle commanded, “And you need to go to the medic’s den.”

“No,” Roman shook his head, “Seiko is busy with the pups, I’ll be-” Once more, he was cut off. A terrified look filled the beta’s eyes as he choked out “I-I’m gonna-” Before swallowing painfully and darting out of the den.

Icicle waited for a few minutes to give his friend some privacy before slowly emerging from his den, walking over to the forest's edge.

Roman stood, head lowered over a pool of regurgitated food, breaths coming in chest-rattling gasps.

Icicle walked up to him, pressing his warm pelt against Roman’s damp one. “That’s it, get it out,” Icicle encouraged gently, beginning to lick Roman’s fur flat like a mother soothing her pups.

Roman inhaled raggedly, “I’m fine-” His stomach twisted and he felt liquid rocket up his throat. He didn’t even have time to comprehend anything besides the burning, cramping pain before his insides had been emptied once more.

A whimper was torn from his mouth as a wet gurgle escaped his stomach, forcing more of the digested food up his esophagus.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Icicle comforted. Even though the alpha normally had an iron stomach, one had to, being in as many wars and battles as he had, just the sight of his pained friend made him feel slightly ill.

Roman gasped sharply, swallowing back more vomit as his intestines started to twist again.

But it didn’t matter what he did. The moment he swallowed, his stomach rebelled against it, propelling more into his mouth and forcing him to, once more, spill the contents of his intestines to the ground.

His stomach gurgled again, pain stabbing through his insides so suddenly he barely had time to think before he was curled on the ground, writhing in pain.

Roman felt Icicle curl around him, holding him still, and whispering comforting words into his ear.

But it only made it worse. His stomach was not giving up so easily.

It heaved and retched, shaking Roman’s entire body, but was merciful enough to spare him the burning pain of puking again.

Roman felt liquid splash from his mouth. No. Not from, into.

Slowly, he came to. Icicle had gotten water from a river, probably hoping it would ease his churning stomach.

Roman gasped and looked weakly up at the alpha, staring sympathetically down at him. “I-I sorry,” He coughed out, body shuddering with dry heaves.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” Icicle said, laying down next to him again, “My guess is you won’t be moving anytime soon?”

Roman swallowed and laughed weakly, “I think my legs have turned to jelly,” He muttered, relaxing as he melted into Icicle’s comforting flank.

#OC #OC Whump #Whump #nov(emeto)ber #Defender Tales #Roman #Iceicle #emeto #sickfic #illness #Roman/Icicle

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aceofwhump · 2 years

Note

Yo, I was wondering if you have any good Peter Parker whump fic recs. Preferably with literally any of the avengers as care givers/rescuers.?

I have yet to go down that rabbit hole but I figured I'd ask to see if you had anything good for a place to start.

Thanks, and I <3 your blog

Well that depends on which Peter Parker you like. I have not read a lot, if any, whump fics for Tom Holland’s Peter because he’s too young for me to be a whumpee. I do have some Andrew Garfield (and like one Tobey Peter) whump fics though because when they’re movies came out i was closer to Peter’s age and now the actors are more my age. It’s weird and difficult to explain. I just know I like Andrew!Peter and Tobey!Peter whump but I don’t get anything out of Tom!Peter whump.

I just read this one this other day and I think it fits what you want to a T. It’s technically Andrew!Peter but you can read it as Tom!Peter easily if you prefer that:

It Was Probably The Pudding by Serendipity_Cometh (orphan_account)

Summary: Given that over the course of the past eleven months Peter Parker hasn't contracted so much as a head-cold, the teenager thought it safe to assume that the whole 'irradiated spider bite' gig had equipped him with an immune system of steel that rivalled Captain America's.So when he wakes up one night in the midst of the worst asthma attack he's suffered in almost eight years, neither he nor the rest of the team can think of a logical explanation. And everything sort of goes downhill from there.(Set in an Alternative Universe where Peter moved into the Avengers’ Tower following the events of The Amazing Spider-Man.)

This is also a good one for caretaker avengers:

round two by caraminha. Summary: Prompt from mcgarretts-seal-pack on my Tumblr: So since peter felt himself going at the end of infinity war, what if when he came back he had to sort of go through his mutating phase again and tony there for him the entire time. Something along those lines. Maybe all the other avengers being concerned to how peter is suffering when no one else did?!

Some other Peter Parker whump fics I’ve enjoyed:

(A City Full of) Helping Hands by aloneintherain Summary: Spider-Man is infected with a possibly fatal illness after saving the city. While receiving help, Peter panics, knowing they'll try and take off his mask, and runs away. New York bands together to try and find their missing hero.

A Hospital Full by aloneintherain. Summary: a sequel to A City Full of Helping Hands. Peter realises how much New York cares about Spider-Man.

Injured Boy by: NellyNoob96. Summary: Spiderman retreats to Gwen Stacy's fire escape in need of medical help. He's more injured than Gwen realises.

Helping Hand by: AliciaRoseFantasy. Summary: A series of one-shots, with Spider-Man doing every day deeds to help people, and in return, them helping him when he needs it; because Spider-Man will always be the protector of the little guys. Spidey/NYC interaction :) TASM movie-verse :) Latest chapter- The Woes of Illness: Spidey gets sick on the job, and it's up to the locals to help him out.

That’s really all I’ve got but @whumppile has a fantastic list here: https://whumppile.tumblr.com/post/164928407777/my-spider-man-whump-fic-masterlist

#mod replies #peter parker #spiderman #fic recs #fanfics #mods fic recs #whump fics #ask #anon

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wangxianficrecs · 3 years

Text

❤️To have and to hold by Moominmammashandbag

❤️To have and to hold

by Moominmammashandbag

M, 79k, wangxian, nieli (is that nie mingjue/jiang yanli?)

Summary: Madam Yu comes to Cloud Recesses.

Lan Xichen is woken to be told worrying news.

Lan WangJi does not break someone's arm. It was dislocated.

My comments: Oh, wow, what a ride this has been!

In which Madam Yu, rather than Jiang Fengmian, comes to Cloud Recesses after wwx punches jzx and beats him raw with a discipline whip, inspiring lwj to step in and claim him as his husband... thus setting off a canon divergence wherein lwj goes on the Yin iron quest alone and wwx invents many talismans while bedridden and recovering. The Wens attack, but wwx and the Lans are ready for them, because of all the talismans, and wwx begins a career of exploding the heads of his enemies. (A very rewarding field.)

This story feels epic (and is a very fast read, and utterly enthralling, gah, I was up until almost 3am), due in part to a wide-ranging POV that includes jxy, nmj, jyl, madam jin, wen qing.... And the thing is: you fall in love with all of them. Madam Jin is a terrifyingly competent badass. Jin Zixuan is a good-hearted mama's boy. Nie Mingjue speaks in exclamation points and utterly loses his head over Jiang Yanli (it's mutual). Lan Qiren is a good uncle and strong cultivator. Lan Xichen is soft (and gullible, but we knew that). Author is The Queen Of Snappy Dialogue, okay, and so it was hard not to paste dozens of excerpts, but this'll give you a feel for it. Be aware, though: while much of the tale is humorous, much of it is also filled with whump (omg, poor wwx, he just really gets it over and over which Really Frustrates Lan Wangji) and wwx's tortured history with his adoptive mother and Wen Rouhan being a global-scale bitch who has decided he wants this talented and inventive cultivator no matter what it takes.

Excerpt 1: Wei Wuxian had eleven whipmarks, eleven slices through skin and muscle down to the bone. The medic’s face was grim as she inspected them, and she called for dressings and herbs. She carefully cut the remains of his tunic off and away, gently pulling it from underneath Wei Wuxian as he lay on his front.

Lan Zhan knelt beside the low couch and concentrated on sending energy to Wei Wuxian, who was a worrying shade of grey.

There were loud footsteps outside and Jiang Cheng slid into the room, banging the door.

“No running.” said Lan Zhan. Rule 6. He decided not to mention the noise rule again as Jiang Cheng looked very stressed.

Excerpt 2: Nie MingJue rose and dressed, ordered that breakfast be brought with all speed and strode outside to assess the day.

It looked like it would be cloudy. Lan WangJi was involved with a staring competition with someone that Nie MingJue was almost sure was the Jiang son. Nie MingJue instantly assumed that Jiang Wanyin must be an idiot. “Young Master Jiang? It is Young Master Jiang, isn’t it? What happened to your hands?” “He had to take a ceiling apart.” Lan WangJi answered, without breaking eye contact. Nie Mingjue’s opinion of Jiang Wanyin rose. "Hah! They look painful. You should get them dressed, and I daresay your fingernails will regrow.” “Thank you, Sect Leader.” replied Jiang Wanyin, still holding the stare. “There’s no point.” Nie Mingjue advised him. “You won’t win.”

Excerpt 3: “Wei Wuxian won the battle. He can make people’s head explode now!”

Jiang Cheng brooded briefly. Jiang Yanli looked worried. “Poor A-Xian. He must have been very upset. He wouldn’t do that normally.” “It was a battle!” Jiang Cheng defended his brother. “Yes, but you know what I mean, A-Cheng. He doesn’t get angry like that.” “Lan WangJi was in danger.” Jiang Yanli perked up. “How nice that they love each other so much! I wish I had been able to see it!” “They wouldn’t stop kissing! It was embarrassing, not nice at all!” “It must be lovely, to have someone who feels like that.” Jiang Cheng put his arm around his sister and hugged her as they walked. “Someday, A-Li, you’ll marry someone who will blow off people’s heads for you. I promise.”

canon divergence, students at cloud recesses, humor, punishment, abusive madam yu, discipline whip, hurt wei wuxian, serious injury, hurt/comfort, accidental marriage, forehead ribbon, genius wei wuxian, inventor wei wuxian, talismans, bamf wei wuxian, bamf lan wangji, bamf wen qing, kidnapping, stabbing, temporary character disability, internalized abeism, lan clan rules used as arguments and rebuttles, found family, ensemble cast, muliple POV, wei wuxian whump, emotional hurt/comfort, caretaking, exploding heads, weddings, fluff, smut, angst, past child abuse, abused wei wuxian, protective lan wangji, protective wei wuxian, powerful wei wuxian, powerful lan wangj, favorite, @moominmammamia

(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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bloodfromthethorn · 3 years

Text

Accident

Matty, usually, loves her job, but there are some days where she can't help but feel she just isn't being paid enough for it.

Part eleven of the July of Whump 2021 prompt challenge.

Also on AO3.

For all its covert operations, thanks to the think tank cover, The Phoenix was still technically classified as a regular place of business. That meant a lot of things, like paying property taxes and having to report earnings to the state, but by far one of the most mundane outcomes was the need for an Accident Book. In theory, any time someone employed by The Phoenix was injured while at work they had to write a short report detailing the accident for the book, and every year or so, The Phoenix would have to submit their anonymised incident reports to the local council.

Of course, this posed something of a problem for a government agency trying to stay off the radar; even with identifying information taken out, someone was probably going to take note if a seemingly mundane think tank reported 18 gunshot wounds over the course of a single year.

The workaround, therefore, had been that any injuries acquired outside of the building – like, say, when agents were out on missions – didn’t go into the book, and instead it was filled with the much more minor things that occurred in the relative safety of the Phoenix. There were still a couple of things that had to be omitted, like Bozer getting stabbed, but mostly, the plan seemed to work out okay. With a whole block of science labs taking up a considerable chunk of the building, there were more than enough burned fingertips and electric shocks that weren’t suspicious to fill a passably convincing report.

That being said, Matty wasn’t entirely sure how she was supposed to play this one off as a standard workplace mishap.

“Okay, okay, stop. I’m going to need you to run this by me again. Start at the beginning.”

“Well, like I said, we had Sparky up on the table-”

“At the beginning, Bozer,” she cut in, shooting her two agents a firm look. Boze’s natural charisma was, as ever, unhindered by her glare, while Mac did his usual trick of falling back on his army training and acquired a blank expression to let any yelling wash right over him. Jack did the same whenever he was genuinely in trouble and it drove Matty crazy any time it happened.

“We were working on separate projects,” Mac explained in a much more level tone than Boze had managed. To be fair, that might have had something to do with the gauze wrapped tightly around his forehead. “I’m still trying to troubleshoot that luminogen work for the dev team – you know, the glowstick stuff?”

She nodded.

“Right. And Bozer-”

“I was trying to fix a glitch in Sparky’s programming.”

“You were trying to make him call you sir,” Mac put in with a snort. He sobered as soon as he caught Matty’s hard stare. “But, uh, yeah. We were both just in the lab doing our own thing. Then Boze called me over to take a look at something-”

“I needed a spare part of hands to rewire the circuit board while I updated the code, and you know how much Mac hates someone else messing up his wiring.”

“I wasn’t working on anything volatile, so I dropped what I was doing and went to help. All of my stuff should have been completely fine where it was.”

Matty eyed him critically. He didn’t look like he was lying, but then it was a little hard to tell how much of that was down to the concussion and the bruises swelling on the left side of his face. “But it wasn’t,” she concluded.

“One of the other lab techs came through when I was focused on Sparky,” he explained with a wince. “She didn’t know that I still had things running and she noticed that my nitrogen line was still live, so she shut it off.”

“Don’t we have standard practices in place so that doesn’t happen?”

“Yes, but she’s only been with us two weeks. She didn’t know any better.”

“Mhmm.”

“Honestly Matty, it’s not her fault. I shouldn’t have left an active reaction unattended without sticking a red form up. That’s the standard practice that’s supposed to stop this thing from happening.”

“But you didn’t fill in the form.”

“I didn’t think I’d be gone long and I was still in the same room. Besides, the team usually knows not to mess with anything I’m working on, whether I’ve put up a form or not.” He went to rub at his face, then aborted the attempt when his fingers brushed over the gauze, wincing. Bozer and Matty were both watching him carefully, but he didn’t start keeling over so it would have to be good enough.

Matty sighed heavily. Playing the blame game wasn’t going to get them anywhere; she just needed to know what happened. “Okay then. You and Boze were over with Sparky and a lab tech shut off a nitrogen valve. Then what?”

“Well, nothing, for a little while. I was using the nitrogen to keep the reaction system anoxic, so everything was already sealed. Even without the nitrogen feed, it should have been fine to just sit there until I came back to it. Only, it turns out that when you combine the fluorescent polymer our dev team synthesised with NMP – the solvent I was using – it drops a proton and turns acidic.” He rolled his eyes as he said it, as if judging his own mistake like either Matty or Bozer had any concept of how predictable the problem could have been, then regretted it as it sent him dizzy again.

“Let me guess,” Matty said to give him a moment to recover, “The acid burned through a seal?”

“A rubber bung I was using to act as an injection port,” he confirmed grimly. “The seal failed and oxygen got in.”

“And the polymer is pyrophoric,” she finished for him. When he shot her a startled look, she shrugged. “I do read the reports I get sent Blondie. The spontaneous fire problem was one of the things they wanted you to take a look at, right?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t got to that part though.”

“Evidently.”

Boze jumped in to spare Mac the effort of defending himself. Now that the actual chemistry stuff was out the way, he knew the rest of the story. “While all this was happening, we were having a few problems with Sparky. The code was disagreeing with his logic boards, and it was making him fritz out pretty badly. He nearly took Mac’s fingers off when he sat up without warning.”

“And scared the hell out of us both,” Mac agreed.

“Yeah. Thank god Jack wasn’t in the room. We’d still be trying to get him down from the rafters.”

Matty cleared her throat and the pair of them snapped back to attention. Well, as at attention as Mac could reasonably be sitting up on one of the examination tables in the med bay.

With a cowed look, Bozer continued. “We were trying to work out what had happened, so we got Sparky going through a few movements. Because we weren’t finished, we didn’t bother getting him down off the table, so when he stood up completely…”

“He was a nine foot tall, eight hundred pound accident waiting to happen,” Mac finished. He gave a single shoulder shrug when Matty raised an eyebrow at him. “What? Even I’m willing to admit this whole thing was stupid.”

She’d more or less pieced together the rest of the story by now, but she still felt she should hear it for herself. Proper protocol and all that. “Alright. Then what?”

“We were trying to get Sparky back down when the reaction system blew,” Mac said. “We were far enough away that we weren’t at risk of burns, but Boze got a facefull of dye and Sparky got knocked off the table.”

“And onto you.”

He grimaced faintly, casting an offended eye at the sling supporting what had recently been a very dislocated shoulder. The expression did nothing to soften the bruises scattered across his face. “Yeah.”

Beside him, a slightly discoloured Boze swayed to knock their uninjured shoulders together. “Sorry, man,” he said, not for the first time. “Can’t help but think this is my fault.”

“It wasn’t. My reaction, my boom. Besides, you’re the one who’s going to be glowing in the dark for the next two weeks.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure the ladies will love it. You’re the one with the busted up arm.”

“It’s nothing, really. My shoulder pops out all the time.”

“You say that like it’s comforting and I gotta tell you man, it really ain’t.”

Matty’s gaze flicked between them. As much of a mess as Mac was, and despite the fact that Bozer was a lot more green than he had been when he’d arrived at work that morning, they’d both been signed off by medical with minor injuries. In theory, it was exactly the sort of thing that should go in her accident report, and yet she had a sneaking suspicion this particular story was going to raise a lot more questions than she was really willing to answer. It was funny – Mac had a habit of bringing that feeling out in her.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I think I’ve got the picture. I’m not even going to pretend I understand how you managed to configure such a comedy of errors, but I trust that you’ve both learned how to avoid this problem in future?”

Like two boys caught doing something they shouldn’t, they both nodded quickly in unison. She couldn’t quite bite back her smile. “Alright then. Bozer, you’re cleared to work for the rest of the day should you wish to. Mac, you’re off rotation entirely until that concussion clears up, then it’s light duty to let your shoulder heal. I’ve called Jack to come pick you up.”

That certainly got his attention. “You called Jack? It’s his day off!”

“I’m well aware. But you can’t drive with that arm and as your nominated next of kin, he’s left standing orders to be informed every time you get injured. He should be here any minute.”

Bozer was snickering to himself, while Mac’s expression had folded into something between desolate and sheepish. Matty had had a hell of time getting Jack to calm down and listen when she’d first called to tell him Mac was in medical and evidently Mac had some idea of the helicopter parenting about to rain down on his head. Maybe that would be the thing to actually make him realise the seriousness of his own actions.

“Great,” he muttered sarcastically, just as Matty heard the door to medical swing open so forcefully it cracked against the wall. With a dry smile, she stood back and waited to see the fireworks.

#MacGyver #angus macgyver #wilt bozer #matty webber #fanfiction #fanfic #my fanfic #whump of july 2021

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smolnarwhalwrites · 3 years

Text

Heirloom Whumpee - Part 6

Original prompt and part 1.

TW: This is whump. There is blood, torture, etc.

<< Part 5 --- Part 7 >>

Keeping Alexander from hurting Tobias while his wing healed turned out to be a pretty significant challenge. Damien kept him busy with an influx of new slaves into the palace. It took some months to train them, and Damien found that he himself was extremely busy during this time as well. He didn't go see Tobias for a full two months.

The medic, whose name was Cason, removed the splint and inspected the wing. Tobias was sitting still, his gaze fixed on the ground. His wrists were fixed to the long chains, but otherwise he was unbound.

"Well," Cason didn't look happy. But now that Damien considered it, he wasn't sure the medic ever looked happy. "It will do. You'll want to be careful with it, but as long as you don't put too much stress on it, it should heal the rest of the way on its own."

"Thank you," Damien breathed. "You're dismissed."

Cason nodded tersely, gathering his things and leaving without a word.

Tobias' indigo gaze travelled up to meet Damien's own. His voice was rough and low, "Thank you."

"Of course," Damien responded. "You look better."

The two months had given Tobias much-needed time to heal. Fresh, pink skin had formed where wounds had been before.

"I have a few things I need to do, but I'll stop back by later," the prince told him.

The winged slave nodded and thanked him again, his gaze dropping to the floor once more. Damien left him alone, attending to his own duties.

That evening Damien went and ate dinner with his family, as he always did. Alexander sat at the head of the table, with Queen Eliana to his left. Damien himself sat at the king's right hand, as the crown prince. Princess Natalia sat next to the queen, while Damien's youngest sibling, Prince Julian, sat next to Damien.

They were served by a slew of slaves; roasted duck and stewed vegetables were on the menu that night.

Family dinners were usually quiet. The king often looked over paperwork while they ate, and the children were meant to stay quiet. But Julian broke the silence with a startling statement.

"I want to learn to train slaves, just like Damien does."

Two things happened just then. Queen Eliana dropped her spoon into her dish, producing a rather loud clang. And Damien choked on the roast duck.

Julian patted his older brother's back, "Are you okay?"

Damien nodded, trying to stop coughing. Once he was successful, he turned his attention to his parents. Eliana was glaring down into her bowl, eyebrows drawn and lips tight. Alexander, on the other hand, was smiling.

"You'll learn to train slaves when you're thirteen, just as your brother did," the king told his youngest son.

Julian's gaze hardened, "But Father, can't I learn now?"

Alexander's small smile stretched into a triumphant grin. Damien suppressed a shutter.

The king responded, "I suppose so, if that's what you really want."

"But Father," Damien protested, trying to keep his voice level despite his growing alarm. "Julian's only ten!"

"He's nearly eleven," the king replied, glaring at Damien. "If he wants to learn, I will teach him."

Damien dropped his gaze to his plate, trying to think of a way to save his brother from this fate. Julian didn't understand. He would have to learn to hurt people. Sometimes even people he loved. His sister's slightly crooked left pinky finger and his mother's sad eyes reminded him of that every day.

In the end, Damien was only a coward. He struggled to muster the courage to stand up to his father, to no avail. Instead, dinner went on in silence.

Once he had finished eating, the king stood from the table. "Come on, boys. Let's go visit the slaves."

<< Part 5 --- Part 7 >>

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i-eat-worlds · 4 months

Note

For the ask game:

😵 Unexplained fainting

🦽 Too weak to walk

For anyone you're feeling in the mood, because idk who you like to whump this way

thanks for the ask! I think I got too weak to walk in there it’s not perfect

ask game

cw: fainting, vague medical vibes

Pat smiled as she sent another white hot blast of energy forward, watching it impact the practice target and blow it several feet backwards. She quickly turned away, launching herself up with another blast and throwing herself into the remainder of the challenge course. As she danced through the remaining obstacles, her veins practically glowing with power. Bright white light emanated from every one of her blood vessels, even the tiny ones in her eyes.

The moment she crossed the finish line, she turned to Eric, who was wielding a timer. “Seventeen point eleven,” he announced. “New course record.”

“Yes, Ha!” She punched the air, excited but also trying to catch her breath. Her gaze fell on Joseph next, and she extended her hand towards him.“You’re gonna have to pay up.”

“I will, I will,” he said, raising his hands placatingly.

“You better,” she stumbled a little as she swiped a red, sweat-soaked strand of hair away from her face. “Woo-eee, I think I’m done for the day.”

Her face was flushed red, and she was so sweaty it looked like she’d gone for a stroll during a hurricane. “It’s a good one to end on, that’s for sure.” Eric gave her a low-five.

She returned the five, still breathing heavily as she made her way over to the water fountain for a drink. When she leaned down to drink she grunted, hand pawing at her chest.

“Are you feeling al-” Joseph started.

Suddenly, there was a flash of energy and a wave of heat and Pat went slack, face dropping into the stream of water before she crumpled to the floor.

His first thought was “another seizure,” but she wasn’t convulsing, just normal unconscious. He could see her chest rising and falling, but when he felt for her pulse it was erratic and irregular. Not a good sign.

“Eric, can you hit the alert button?” He said as he felt around for a head wound caused by the fall.

There wasn’t much he could do for her right now, especially without his kit. She was breathing, and her heart was beating, not well, but it was beating. Ideally, it would stay like that.

About a minute later, Pat slowly started to pull her eyes open. She groaned, rolling her head away from the light. All of the energy had drained from her face, and she looked absolutely exhausted. “Hey, Pat, welcome back,” he squeezed her shoulder. “Do you know where you are?”

“Training room,” she said quietly, voice tired. “I gotta PR.”

“You did,” he said.

She huffed. “Mmmh, did I have a seizure?”

“No, you fainted.” Joseph could hear the sound of a stretcher rolling down the hallway.

“Ohhhh…..” Her eyes started to drift close again.

“Stay awake for me, yeah?” Joseph shook her shoulder.

“‘M chest hurts,” she grumbled, not happy that Joseph wasn’t letting her sleep.

“We’re gonna get you some help,” he comforted, wishing there was more he could do.

The medical team turned into the room, quickly moving straight towards them. Before he started his report, he looked down at Pat.

She lazily smiled back up at him. “-ank you.”

“Always kid, always.”

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump

#worlds babbles #whump #fainting #medical stuff #whump writing #ask stuff

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alpaca-writes · 3 years

Text

Mystics, Chapter 11

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by the strange shopkeeper Lyrem Nomadus, everything seems to be going well- in fact, their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as it seems….

Directory: [chapter one] [chapter two] [chapter three] [chapter four] [chapter five] [chapter six] [chapter seven] [chapter eight] [chapter nine] [chapter ten]

Tag list: @myst-in-the-mirror, @livingforthewhump (let me know if you want to be removed)

CW: claustrophobia, getting lost, deadname use, bullying, noncon touching (nonsexual), knife whump, torture, flaying.

-----

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE PAST IS SPENT AND DONE WITH

“What a fucking freak,” Marcus sneered. The jeering of all three kids bounced off the brick walls as they left Mystics alone for the rest of the evening.

“How much was there?” Jess tugged at his arm, breaking away from Kyle to do so. “I have my eye on one of those Kate Spade purses”-

“Definitely not enough for a Kate Spade here,” Marcus sniffed. He twitched flicked his head to the side, sweeping strawberry blond curls off to one side. He’d repeat the process in another minute.

Jess pouted her lips at Kyle who peered back with a scowl.

“I’m not spending my third on that,” he refused. “I’d rather lift one”-

“Oh, but they’re all mag-tagged,” she explained. “Can’t lift one without setting off the alarms”-

Marcus stopped at the corner looking at a silhouette standing there, not moving. The rest of the streets were empty.

“Maybe we should cross,” he said.

“Nah, he’s just some old homeless guy.” Kyle muttered. “Why would he care”-

“I care! If ----- decides to snitch, then all they need is another witness. My rep will be ruined,” Marcus said emphatically. He flipped his head again. “Then that’s that, No college hockey for me. It only takes a little more than an accusation these days and I’m out.”

“There are cameras across the street,” Jess pointed out. “Let’s take the alleys.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. In the short time the three had bickered about which way to go, the man at the corner had disappeared again. The other two had already decided to head down the alleys, almost leaving Kyle behind in the decision.

They turned at the end of the alley where they were met with a T and a brick wall. They turned right.

There was another T intersection, and again, the three were met with a brick wall. Marcus shrugged, and turned left. Eventually they would reach the edge of seventeenth street.

Brick wall.

“What the…” Marcus mouthed to himself. Jess laughed breathily at him as he tried to understand where he needed to go.

“Just forget it, we’ll take the road, you dummy,” she exclaimed, thoroughly entertained by him.

She turned right.

At the end of that alley, there was yet again another brick wall.

“Wait,” she huffed. Looking down either end of the alleys, they only saw darknesses lying there.

Kyle chuckled, “Oh yeah, you guys remember that screen saver on those old Microsoft computers?”

Marcus hardly heard him. Like, Jess, he was now extremely confused.

Kyle continued, “like those old brick wall mazes that it would send you through and… wait… did they ever end? I can’t remember if they ended”-

“Nobody cares, Ky,” Marcus said abruptly. “Let’s turn around.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“Holy fuck,” Kyle exclaimed, while all three of them jumped out of their skin. A man in a simple button up shirt stood to address them. He was standing about ten feet away.

Marcus started first.

“Uh, hey, man. We’re just trying to find our way back to the road. Could you tell us where to go?”

The man looked as though he was pondering the answer for a moment.

“The road?” Lyrem tapped his chin. “No, I don’t know of any roads here.”

Marcus feigned a grin, “you’re funny. That’s… that’s very funny.”

Pulling Jess by the hand, he led her past the man. Jess pulled Kyle, and Lyrem simply looked on as they went by.

“Just ignore him,” Marcus advised, whispering.

They turned left, back the way they came, and then right, only to see the same man standing in front of them again.

“Okay, seriously, what the fuck is happening?” Jess questioned in a mild panic.

“I know!” Lyrem exclaimed excitedly. He approached them, regarding the walls proudly with his hands behind his back. “It’s almost as bad as the Musei Vaticani, isn’t it?”

“What is he saying?” Kyle whispered to the others.

“I dunno! I don’t speak Spanish,” Marcus hissed back.

“Guys, he’s coming closer.” Jess interrupted.

“Now, now,” Lyrem tutted to them, smiling. “I was hoping you three would split up by now. It’s much easier to transport you separately-

-Oh dear… Odd question, do I sound like a human trafficker to you?”

They didn’t answer him. Jess backed away to hide behind the two boys.

“Arch always tells me I sound rather… disturbing. I’m beginning to wonder if they might be right…”

“Arch?” Marcus spit.

Lyrem nodded. His face lit up with a sudden realization. Remembering why he was there, he held out his hand.

“I would like to take back what was stolen from Mystics, if you don’t mind.”

Marcus swallowed his fear. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the wad of paper bills.

“Yeah, here, take it. Look, I- I am sorry for what we… what we did.” Marcus stammered forcefully. There was already too much trouble to deal with for a few measly hundred dollars. Lyrem snatched it away with a quick hand.

Lyrem paid him no attention as he counted the cas, regularly licking his thumb as he did so. At the end of the apology, and the count, he sighed. Looking back at the boys with his brow raised. It seems as though Jess had already left them behind.

“I appreciate it. Honesty is quite a rare thing to find in children these days,” he answered them, placing the cash in his back pocket.

Kyle turned around, noticing the absence of the thin fingers with long black nails that usually brushed up against his own. He looked over his shoulder.

“Where’s Jess?”

Marcus turned. Seeing nothing but bricks and Kyle, he shook his head and shrugged.

“I’m sure you’ll see her again soon.” Lyrem assured. “Well, this is all I came back for, so I think I will be on my way now.”

Lyrem turned his back on the boys, and strolled off further into the alley.

“Hey,” Marcus hollered. He chased after Lyrem like he was a life line. “We’ll follow you out”-

The man was gone. He entered the darkness through a doorway the others couldn’t see.

“Ky, I think he’s gone now, we need to find Jess and- Ky?”

There was no answer. Marcus spun in several circles before resorting to accept that Kyle had left him behind.

He ran to the other end of the alley, finding nothing but a brick wall again. In frustrated panic, he slammed his fists against it, as though he imagined it to be a door. It was just red brick; solid and rough against his skin. There was no left or right turn here; the corners were engulfed in shadows. He turned around-

Brick wall.

He was boxed in. Alone.

What little light existed above him before slowly dimmed to nothing. Feeling the weight of the walls grow in closer to him, Marcus curled in on himself. Lyrem didn’t lie about him finding Jess again soon. She would awake beside him after he was finished carrying their boxes into the back room- an hour or so before the three of them had entered Mystics.

------

Week One.

“Keep your eyes closed.”

Arch stood in the back alley of Mystics. Lyrem had asked them to close early so that he could show them a surprise in the back- a new, very valuable item that he was extremely excited to show off. He was insistent that Arch be the first to see it. Reluctantly, but albeit curiously, Arch did as they were told and closed their eyes. They heard the backroom door open with a hydraulic groan. Lyrem reached out to their hands to lead them through carefully.

“Alright, now this will be an odd request, but I also need you to hold your breath until I say it’s alright.”

Arch exhaled in a chuckle. “What?”

“Promise me, Arch.” Lyrem didn’t sound quite as amused.

“Alright, alright, I promise. I won’t breathe, and I won’t open my eyes until you say so.”

“Okay, here we go,” Lyrem pulled them forward until they were over the threshold. They led them through a few further steps… The labyrinth was inactive. That was good. It meant that neither of them had broken the rules. He heard the door shut. “You can breathe and open your eyes now.”

There was a clapping sound from Lyrem’s hands. Arch was almost expecting a surprise party for themselves as they opened their eyes. Disappointed, they saw the plain grey walls of a large backroom warehouse instead. Poorly lit as it was, there were a couple spare tables, several chairs and multiple rows of shelving filled with variously sized boxes and random objects.

“What was the point of that?” Arch looked back at the door.

“It’s keeps you from being pulled into the wrong… room.” Lyrem said. “This door leads to more than just here and the alley way. There’s a third place it can lead, and it’s impossible to find the way out from it.”

Arch looked at them with raised brows. Then they looked concerned, furrowing them, they produced a couple wrinkles above the bridge of their nose.

“Do you need me to get you a glass of water, or something?” There must have been some kind of medication that Lyrem needed to prevent certain… strangenesses from evolving. Arch thought perhaps that duty had lived and left with his wife Maria. They wouldn’t mind picking up the responsibility if it meant that Lyrem could maintain his sanity- but he had to tell them what he needed first.

“No, no.” he refused. “Actually, I need your hand, if you please.”

Arch’s eyes widened. “My hand?”

Lyrem nodded. Arch lifted their right hand. Lyrem asked for the opposite.

Arch lifted their left instead; a fresh red scar about an inch in length on display.

Lyrem held one hand on a knife unsheathed from his pocket, hidden behind his back. He met Arch’s confused gaze with an apologetic smile.

“Memorias reditus,” he said. Gripping Arch’s hand tightly, he sliced the blade into their scar, fresh blood dripped to the floor as they cried out angrily and in shock. Arch pulled their hand back, cradling it with the other.

“Fucking hell, Lyrem!”

“Apologies, Arch. It is a necessary deed, I’m afraid.” Lyrem shrugged, and wiped down the knife on a stray piece of fabric.

Arch grimaced and checked their hand over. The cut was deep and very sore- throbbing with their pulse. Lyrem had reopened a wound on them that was still healing over. Arch looked at him, still convinced that Lyrem was well and truly off his rocker in a dangerous way. He was leaning his hip against a metal table, waiting for a reaction from them.

“I... I think I need stitches, Lyrem. Look, I know that things have been difficult for you since Maria left so I’ll tell people this was a work accident. But… y-you can’t just cut people like”-

Arch stopped, then moved their gaze from watching Lyrem’s smirking grin to a darker corner. There was movement over there.

“Wait...” Arch’s face twisted into mess of confusion. “Wait, what’s… what’s happening to me? What did you do?”

They were lost in a recollection of events; events from a week ago. Lyrem kindly allowed them the time…

“Do you need help with any of that?”

“Oh! No- no, I’ll be alright. These are just… going into the back room for now… You should keep an eye on the store, don’t want anyone walking in to take our merchandise,”

The back door to Mystics clicked shut.

“It’s alright, you’re gone now.” Lyrem ushered Arch from around the corner. They were still nursing the side of their face where Marcus had hit them… Well, he hadn’t yet. Not really.

Arch would help Lyrem carry each of the large boxes into the back room. The beings inside were unconscious, lost in their own created darkness.

“Close your eyes and hold your breath, Arch.”

With a little further convincing, Lyrem and Arch stepped through with each of the boxes without triggering the Labyrinth to appear.

When they were inside, Lyrem had Arch help with piling the boxes into the darkest corner of the room near a plain wall.

Panting from the work, Lyrem smiled at Arch delightfully as he leaned against the boxes with his elbow.

“What… What do we do with them now?” They asked.

Lyrem sniffed and looked the boxes up and down, and then wiped some stray beads of sweat from his forehead.

“I’ll set up the wall, drill some holes for their chains and then you’ll be able to do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

Lyrem nodded.

“How long will it take to set up the wall?”

“Bit eager, aren’t you?”

Arch shifted awkwardly at the comment, but Lyrem laughed it off.

“Give me a day,” he answered. “Can you give me a day?”

Arch rolled their eyes. “Yeah, I can give you a day.”

Lyrem smiled. “Wonderful.”

Arch returned to the present with a shudder.

“You returned my memories,” they commented. “And it’s been longer than a day, it’s been a week at least! What took you so long?”

“I had a delivery,” Lyrem said simply, lifting himself off the table; pleased with their reaction to the memories they regained. If there was any more of a defense he wished to provide, he omitted it. He gathered a roll of thin white gauze from a cabinet against the wall and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, setting it in front of Arch at the table

“Oh,” Arch realized apologetically. “Did it work out?”

Lyrem poured the alcohol onto their hand. Arch winced in silent agony and then they began to wrap their own hand carefully as Lyrem answered their question.

“Unfortunately, not. I quite despised having to use an infernal spell on fakes. It wasted so much time- and energy.” Lyrem began, “The deliverer was none the wiser either. I venture to guess that their client was unaware of the fact they were given a fake as well. But in my line of work, I am the one who takes the blame if an object is not vetted perfectly. A single flaw could incur a wrath I would not want to live to see.”

Arch nodded, assuming to understand. They tied off their hand and followed their boss across the backroom.

Arch gulped as they approached the wall, and stopped, before getting too close. The alarm bells rang loud and clear in their mind even as they saw the boys’ legs against the ground and their torsos set against the concrete; their arms supported by the chains that held them there. Their heads were covered in black cloth bags. They weren’t moving. They could be asleep. Or dead. Arch wouldn’t know the difference from where they stood. Lyrem continued on for several steps before realizing that they had stopped in place. He noted the look on Arch’s face. One of fear. One of hesitation. Lyrem stepped beside them and planted a strong hand on their shoulder.

With a crooked finger, he lifted Arch’s chin. Successfully, he broke their gaze from the bodies on the floor to stare into his hazel eyes instead. He could feel them trembling and a pitiful expression threatened to ruin the gentle moment between them. He replaced it with a stern calmness.

“They cannot hurt you any longer,” he said. “You are in control now.”

Arch wondered for a fleeting moment if they truly were in control. Perhaps Lyrem was intent on getting off on their transition to the dark side, or perhaps he was trying simply to be supportive. Either way, Arch forgot that internal debate the moment Lyrem handed them the jeweled blade. They grasped it tightly, just to say hello.

Week Two.

“Bring it up carefully, now.”

“He’s crying, Lyrem.”

“It’s just water on his face. That’s all.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. Now, bring it back... and angle the blade more flatly against his arm... Lovely.”

Arch gulped, and did as they were told, trying to ignore the whimpering screams that were emitting from Kyle through their cloth gag as they cut into his forearm. Lyrem had strapped it down to a table and chained the rest of the boy to a chair bolted into the floor. His blood was pooling. Arch had rolled up their sleeves to keep the blood off of their clothes. They would have to remember to bring an apron for the next time and other sessions.

Arch paused and lifted the blade away; scratching the side of their face, as a bit of acne there had been bugging them for the last couple days. Adults said it would start to go away at some point as they grew older. Arch stopped believing that over a year ago; convinced it would never really go away.

“Arch? More flat, please.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Good,” Lyrem praised. “Now, you’ll need two hands. One to hold the skin, and the other to push the blade through.”

Arch broke their eye contact from Kyle’s arm to look at how he, their victim, had been reacting to the practice flaying. That was a mistake. They couldn’t tear their eyes from the sight. The pleading blue eyes, the fear in them... Arch gulped again. All that guilt threatened to rise up, wanting to revolt against the torturous act that their own body was performing.

“Breathe.” Lyrem reminded them.

“I can’t… I can’t…” Arch placed the blade back down on the table. They blinked, and took the opportunity to pull their eyes away from their victim.

“Would it be easier if I covered his face for you? I’m sure I have a sheet or something around here somewhere”-

Lyrem stood from his seat and toured his own expansive back room, searching the shelves for anything that could be quickly draped over Kyle’s head. Arch stood as well, backing themselves away from the table, they shook their head.

“I don’t think I want to continue this tonight,” They admitted.

“Oh, please don’t quit now, Arch. You went twice as far with him last week,” Lyrem reminded them as he still searched. “I don’t want you to leave here without doing a little more than you did before.”

“It was easier then. I was still mad that they hit me. That they stole from you.” Arch explained. They looked to the wall, and noticed the absence of one of their dreaded classmates. “By the way, where did Jess go? She was there that night too.”

Lyrem approached them with something dark and folded neatly in his hand.

“Ah, yes. The fabled Jess unfortunately had to be sacrificed for the greater good. My unique hospitality was a short-lived experience for her,” he smiled slightly as the realization of a pun crossed his mind. “You asked that question last time you were here as well, you know.”

“Everything’s still sort of jumbled in my head,” Arch clarified. “I think, when you lifted the spell, it revealed feelings more than specific memories…”

Lyrem lifted a brow, and settled himself against the end of the table. “That is an interesting review of the experience. Eventually, my memory spells will lose their effect on you. You’ll begin to remember this place, everything you’ve done without the spell needing to be lifted each time.”

“How long until then?”

“It will happen when you are ready. I can’t be sure, honestly.” Lyrem admitted. “Until then, you can maintain your daytime innocence. I am sure it’s better that way.”

Arch looked down at their own hand where a deep red mark was scored into them. Lyrem would scar it over for them before they left again- a minor healing that would also remove the memories of what was happening in the backroom- but only temporarily.

“I would have liked to say goodbye to her,” Arch said absently as they toyed with the edge of the blade against their thumb. They lifted their gaze, catching their employer’s eye. Lyrem looked interested enough for them to explain their offhanded comment. He prompted them to continue with a caring nod.

“We were close growing up. Used to be neighbours, actually. Then she moved. She changed in Junior High and started picking on me when everyone else would. While I was still a tomboy, she became “Barbie girl” and then in High School she met this asshole. But… the rest is just history, right?”

“’The past is spent and done with, and the future is uncertain’,” Lyrem quoted. “’Every man’s life lies within the present.’”

Arch approached the table once more and sat in their chair to resume their work.

“Sometimes,” Arch began slowly flaying the skin away, as Kyle’s screams threatened to drown out their words. “you say things as though they are wise things… But, really, you’re just basic.”

Lyrem placed the folded cloth neatly on the table without another word. Arch clearly didn’t need it quite as much as he assumed they did. He sat across from them, watching intently as another one of Kyle’s layers of skin peeled neatly away from the prison of his body, and wondered how much longer Arch would continue to do as they were asked.

#torture #whump #whumpblr #writeblr #writing #Alpaca writes #whump blog #Mystics by Alpaca #creative writing #mystics #whump writing #writing blog #whump stuff #tw torture #tw claustrophobic #Lyrem #Arch #tw bullying #noncon touching

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Daniel Michaelson: The Adoption

I meant to write the baking-cookies drabble from Danny’s adoption stuff came out instead! Whoops. No warnings for this, beyond it being pretty bittersweet - takes place in the past, when Danny is five years old.

I’ll tag the usual people - even though this isn’t really whump. But it’s background for Danny!

@finder-of-rings, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @special-spicy-chicken

“He’s small,” The woman says, looking down at him, and Danny tries to straighten his back and make himself as tall as he possibly can. His hair sticks up a lot, which he has to hope helps at least a little. “Why is he so small? The papers I looked at said he’s five years old, has been since July.”

“He was born premature,” The social worker says without looking up from her paperwork.

She’d brought Danny a cheeseburger Happy Meal and he’d inhaled every single bite and licked all the salt off his fingers afterward, so happy to have enough food to feel full and not have to fight any of the other kids for a single bit of it. He was currently twisting back and forth the little arms of the plastic toy man that had been inside the box, making him fight an invisible bad guy that kept punching him but he couldn’t see it.

The toy man was from some movie, but it wasn’t out were Miss Karla could buy it yet, so he didn’t really know anything about it. Fighting an invisible bad guy seemed like the right thing to do with him.

Bam, Danny thought to himself, making a mean snarling face. Punch him, kick his head.

“He was born eight weeks early, according to medical records,” The social worker continues, giving a loose, casual shrug. “He spent three weeks in the NICU before he went to his first placement.” This social worker was a new one, way younger than the last social worker. She didn’t seem to like him very much, but actually Danny thought mostly she looked more tired than angry, so maybe she didn’t mind him like some of the others did.

The woman sitting at the table leans over, her voice pitched low, probably thinking Danny can’t hear her. Little pitchers have big ears, they said all the time at Kindergarten. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, other than adults said it to shut each other up when he was in the room. “Were there drug issues? We specified that we were not interested in taking on a greater than average amount of obligation-”

“He’s not a dog, Mrs. Michaelson,” The social worker says, looking up with the barest hint of an edge to her voice, and Danny fights back the tiniest little smile. It’s kind of nice, having one who sticks up for him. Usually they don’t. “But I understand what you’re trying to say, or at least what I hope you’re trying to say. Please understand that your guidelines were taken into account by the agency you contracted when they contacted us. Daniel was premature due to pregnancy-related complications with the mother, that’s all.”

“Complications? Does that mean there’s a family history of serious health concerns? Did his mother die?” The woman’s fingers stopped tapping again, and Danny looks back at his toy, but some of the shine has gone out of having a new thing (and Danny doesn’t exactly have a lot of things just for him), because he knows the answer to that question.

She gave me up.

The social worker’s eyes go to him, and Danny ignores her, setting his jaw in an angry, pouting line, and the invisible bad guy punched his toy until he died. Then he lived and got back up, but the dead part was pretty satisfying.

The social worker looks back at the pretty woman in the nice clothes and jewelry and sighs, a little sadly. “No, she didn’t. She chose to, um, to place him with state care.”

“Do you know why she chose to-”

“She was thirteen years old, Mrs. Michaelson,” The social worker says quietly, so quietly Danny almost misses it. Thirteen isn’t very old, he thinks. One of his foster brothers, Craig, is thirteen, and he’s not even in high school yet. Danny could count to thirteen easily and without even needing help when he was four years old, so he knows it can’t be a very high number. That makes him think. If he’s five years old and his real mother was thirteen years old, then thirteen plus five is… Danny counts on his fingers, trying to remember.

If it’s ten eleven twelve thirteen… then it’s fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen… eighteen.

That would make his real mom eighteen.

Danny sits back, proud of himself for doing the counting all in his head and on his fingers, without having to ask the grown-ups, who were still talking about him like he couldn’t hear them.

Most grown-ups did.

“You can understand,” His social worker was saying, “Why a thirteen-year-old might make such a choice with even the healthiest baby. The home life was... not ideal.”

“I can understand.” The woman’s mouth purses a little, like she has a bite of food in her mouth she doesn’t like. “Poor thing. But you’re sure he’s healthy?”

The social worker shrugs. “He could use more time out in the sun and probably someone who lets him play outside more often, but… he’s healthy enough. He measured between 6th and 13th percentile straight through from birth until now, and his growth is steady. Honestly, ma’am, with a decent enough food intake he’d probably grow faster and catch right up. But...”

The social worker waves her hand around the house they’re sitting in, a vague gesture that means nothing to Danny - but the woman sitting at the table nods very seriously, and so Danny tries to look serious, too.

The woman raises an eyebrow and looks around the dining room. The large table has enough chairs for twelve people to sit, and Danny is unlucky number thirteen - the youngest - so he was used to sitting at the card table off in the corner, where he sat now, swinging his legs in the folding chair and making the toy man run across the table and dive-bomb towards the floor.

When he makes the little exploding sound, the woman sitting at the table - she has pretty brown skin and black hair, and funny honey-colored eyes - smiles at him, and he smiles right back at her. She has a really, really pretty smile - warm and nice.

His foster mother is nowhere to be seen - Miss Carla didn’t really like talking to his social worker anyway, and she had been furious to hear about the rich lady coming to look at Danny, which… Danny didn’t really get, since getting adopted was a good thing.

Then again, Miss Carla didn’t exactly like him very much. Danny had a mouth, Miss Carla said all the time, and Danny would just grin at her with all his teeth inside that mouth.

Then he called her whatever names the older boys had taught him, only he got in trouble because the words were different when the older boys said them, for some reason.

His social worker had told him this lady and her husband had chosen him straight away after seeing his photo, and so he had combed his own red hair this morning nice and careful (no one else ever did) and dressed in his absolute best clothing - his favorite blue T-shirt and his good brown pants, his Sunday pants.

He wasn’t sure if the lady at the table had noticed, but he was sort of hoping so.

“How are his academics?” The lady at the table asks, glancing over at him again. He smiles brightly at her, trying to get her to smile again - he’s pretty sure she likes him. He’s little, and he’d heard Miss Carla say that little kids get adopted faster.

His biggest foster brothers probably won’t, he thinks, if that’s true. They’re both big and mean, and they look older than they really are. Parents won’t want them, even if Miss Carla likes them the best because they act like her.

“I’m in kindergarten,” Danny speaks up, holding the little toy man in his hands, nervously twisting at his arms again. His voice is high and clear, and he swings his legs a little harder where he sits. “I have lots of good days on my take-home sheets. More good than bad, Miss Carla says.”

“That’s right, Daniel, you do,” His social worker replies, and she smiles at him, finally - a thin and tired smile - as she flips through the paperwork she brought with her in a big folder with his name on it and his photo paperclipped to the outside. “Daniel’s in his first year at public school,” She says to the lady at the table. “He’s in a class of 25-”

“My God.” The woman at the table puts a hand up to her chest. “We’re looking at an exclusive Montessori for our little boy with an average class size of eight - I showed you his photo, the three-year-old. Obviously Daniel would also attend, I’ve already ensured him a spot should we bring him home, I’m good friends with the director. I just cannot imagine attempting to corral so many five year olds-”

“Most of them are already six, actually - Daniel is the third-youngest in his class. In any case, based on his school reports, he excels at academics and struggles with focus, sitting still, and social interactions. Makes sense for the age and his current… ah, situation.” The social worker looks at him again, and Danny sits himself up just a little straighter, making the toy man wave his little movable arm at her.

The smile this time is less tired, and more real.

“Does he do well with younger children?” The woman at the table asks. “I mentioned our other son - he’s just turning three. Any aggression would be absolutely unacceptable-”

“He loves younger children actually - his last placement was with a foster home that had very young babies and toddlers other than him, about a year ago for three months, and his foster parents reported that he was very gentle and loving with the younger children. I’ve been told he changed diapers, watched the younger ones, and was very good at comforting younger children at night.”

Well, Danny thinks to himself, nobody else woke up as fast as I did, so...

“Ryan doesn’t wear diapers any longer, so we’re not worried about that, but… why was he moved, if he was so good with them?”

Danny looked down at the floor, because he knew the answer to this question, too.

Because she was growing a new baby and there wasn’t any room anymore.

“His previous foster mother became pregnant,” The social worker says brusquely, waving one hand in a dismissive way. “All the foster children in that home were moved to new placements at the couples’ request.”

“That must have been hard on the children,” The lady says, and her voice changes a little. It’s softer, but angrier at the same time. “They must have bonded. The young ones bond so quickly-”

The social worker shrugs. “It’s not uncommon. Daniel had some… difficulty adjusting here, but he’s doing well now.”

“Difficulty?”

“It’s all in the paperwork,” The social worker replies, looking uneasily over at Danny again, who only stares back at her with his best totally-blank ‘I wasn’t listening’ face, even though he absolutely was. “He had conflicts with his new foster brothers, missed the little ones. Struggled with the change in schedules and rules. That happens with every new move, learning a whole new household.”

“So… when he moved, he doesn’t see the other children any longer?”

The social worker blinks, surprised by this line of questioning. “Ah, no. He has no further contact with them, that would be… incredibly difficult to put together, considering he’s not related to any of the other foster children. It really isn’t an uncommon situation, kids in the system tend to adapt really quickly to the loss of foster siblings.”

The lady at the table’s mouth thins, just a little. Danny watches, fascinated, at the way her honey eyes shift, and for a second he sees them flash a really pretty purple. Then the color was gone, before he even blinked.

The social worker isn’t looking up, and didn’t see it, and honestly maybe Danny just made it up. He did that sometimes.

“If we come to a decision in favor of bringing him home,” The lady at the table says, her voice firm and warm and calm, “It should be with the understanding that it will be permanent. I dislike the idea of such a young child being moved around so often, that cannot be healthy.”

“It’s not, Mrs. Michaelson, but that’s the system we work with.” The social worker sighs. “Daniel, will you come over here for a second? Mrs. Michaelson wants to speak with you.”

Mrs. Michaelson hadn’t said any such thing, but Danny shrugs and nods, hopping off the chair to walk over to her, tilting his head and looking up and up and up at her pretty eyes. No purple at all.

“Hi,” He says, politely. “You can just say Danny. I don’t really like Daniel.”

The woman - Mrs. Michaelson - nods, slowly, thoughtfully, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “He really is exactly what we had in mind when we began discussing bringing a child home for-... to be a sibling for Ryan,” Mrs. Michaelson says, her voice softer and more gentle now that he stood right there with her. She turns her eyes back to Danny and leans down to get a little closer to him. “I have a little boy named Ryan at my house. Do you think you could be nice to him?”

“Oh, sure,” Danny replies, nodding, because that’s what he’s supposed to say. And he really does like the littler kids - he’s small and littler kids don’t pick on him like all the big kids do. “I always think it’s fun to play big brother. Is your house very big? Would I share with him?”

“Share?” Mrs. Michaelson cocked her head, and it was like Miss Carla’s cockatoo in its cage, and Danny giggled a little. She smiled at the sound. “Oh, like a bedroom? No, darling, you would have your own room, of course you would.”

“Then I think I could be a good big brother,” Danny says, with a grave and thoughtful voice he thought sounded very grown-up. He was rewarded with another smile. Mrs. Michaelson looks him over one more time, taking in his skinny arms and the freckles scattered across his face and the rest of him darkened by the time he spent just sitting outside in the sun.

“He really does fit the profile we were hoping for exactly,” Mrs. Michaelson says, but her voice is very quiet and she seems to be talking more to herself than Danny or even the social worker. “They’re looking for Ryan, but that hair, those freckles… that’s what they think they need to look for, isn’t it? They think we’ re meant to be Irish, but oh no, we’ll fool them, won’t we? We always have...”

“Huh?” Danny cocks his head right back at her, and she laughs, a brilliant, sparkling sound that he loves already.

“I’m sorry, what?” The social worker asks, looking up.

“Oh, nothing,” Mrs. Michaelson says breezily. “Just muttering to myself. I don’t need to speak with Patrick about this, I’ve already decided. We’ll move forward with the adoption immediately.” The social worker smiles, and the two women begin to speak in low tones, throwing words and terms and stuff back and forth Danny hadn’t heard before and doesn’t know. He steps a little closer, and a little closer still.

Danny blinks.

He blinks again.

“The what?”

The two women turn to look down at him.

“Oh,” The social worker says, surprised. “Daniel. Mrs. Michaelson would like to consider adopting you. Would you like to go stay with her and see how it works out?”

“Go stay? For real?” Danny’s heart starts to beat fast inside of him, like when he stands up in front of music class to sing. He smiles, and he clutches onto the little toy man as tightly as he can. “For really real?”

Mrs. Michaelson laughs again, and he hopes she will laugh like that for him a lot when he goes to her house. “For really real,” She says with a nod, and leans over to tap the end of his nose with one finger.

“I, I, I’ll go get my things! I don’t have a lot of things, but I do have, I have a little dog I carry around his name is, um, his name is Scruff and he has a collar but I can get him and I have some clothes-” Danny starts to turn, only for both women to laugh.

He stops and looks back at them, suddenly embarrassed, his face burning bright red under his freckles, feeling his lower lip stick out all on its own. Miss Carla is always telling him to pout less, but he can’t stop, it’s not his fault, the lip just does that.

“Oh,” He says, and feels a wave of hurt and mad. “Oh, it was a joke. I thought you meant for really real.”

The social worker is the first to understand, and her expression goes serious and thoughtful. “Daniel, we’re not laughing because it was a joke. It’s not, Mrs. Michaelson really does want to bring you home to meet her little boy.”

“I do,” Mrs. Michaelson says. “As soon as I can. We were only laughing because you were so excited - and it can’t happen right away, it takes a little while. The agency has already put everything in motion, of course,” She says sidelong to the social worker. “It’s just a matter of getting all the right papers to the right people.”

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll take you home, Daniel,” Mrs. Michaelson says to him, and bops him on the nose again. He hates when his foster brothers do this - they always flick the end of his nose and make it hurt - but he kind of likes it, from her.

“Yeah? Not a joke?” Danny’s head goes back up, and he searches both of their faces for signs it’s still just a mean joke, like when Conrad apologizes and then smacks his head again and he didn’t mean the apology at all. “For really really real?”

“Not a joke,” Mrs. Michaelson says, and there’s a sweet little smile on her face as she puts her hand out, littlest finger crooked. “Pinkie swear.”

Danny puts his hand up, too, and he hopes that she understands how much it really means when you say you pinkie swear a thing, because that means you have to do it.

“For really really really really real,” He says, seriously. “You have to mean it or you shouldn’t say it.”

“I mean it,” Mrs. Michaelson says softly. “I really, really mean it. Don’t worry, Danny. I’m going to bring you home to stay with us, and you’ll be just like another son. My little boy Ryan is going to love you. He’s always asking for a brother.”

“Are you going to love me?”

The question startles the two women, who blink down at him in unison.

Then Mrs. Michaelson leans over to tuck a curly bit of bright red hair behind one ear, and smile. “I’m sure I will.”

#Daniel Michaelson's story #not whump #but from a whump story #tiny child danny #corrine michaelson is a bad mom #but he really thought she'd be a great one #poor guy #whump #fiction #daniel michaelson is a tall smol bean #but he used to be a very tiny one #tw: depictions of less than ideal foster care

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jarienn972 · 5 years

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Curse of Undoings - Part 13

I must apologize that this chapter took a little longer to complete than planned as we've been busy packing and moving stuff to our new home. Moving isn’t fun at all and I've been so exhausted every night that I couldn't look at a Word doc with out my eyes crossing!

But I finally managed to get it all completed and after some technical difficulties earlier tonight, I can finally post it! This conclusion does contain some flashbacks to earlier events as Emma has to confront her guilt so I have to add a little content warning (although most of the whump is of the angst variety). How will Killian react when he wakes? Will Fiona's plan to destroy true love come to pass or will Emma decide to run?

Tagging my whump-loving friends @killian-whump, @castielamigos and @hookaroo for this last installment. Hope everyone enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed writing this! (I’ve found writing whump to be very good therapy for stress lately.)

Read from the beginning on AO3 or FF.net or here on Tumblr: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve

A little over an hour later, before heading back to his office for his power nap, Dr. Whale checked in as his patient was moved into one of Storybrooke Hospital's two Intensive Care rooms. Killian Jones was about as stable as they had expected post-op so the doctor gave his blessing for family to visit. At this late hour, he instructed his staff that Emma was welcome to stay the night if she wished but that all other guests could remain only until 10pm.

No one on the hospital staff could imagine the anguish that Emma was experiencing over what seemed like a simple act - showing support for her recuperating husband. Yesterday, she and Killian had exchanged wedding vows and now, merely a single day later, she was a heartbeat away from becoming a widow. But that thought scarcely scratched the surface of her emotion. None of these people knew what Emma had done while cursed. Most could barely recall anything that had happened during their cursed day, but Emma remembered too much – and her guilt ran deep. She was fully responsible for where Killian now lay. She may not have pulled the trigger, but she'd given herself fully to the false memories Fiona had forced upon her.

Why hadn't she been strong enough to resist? Why didn't she believe her own son? Henry had been trying to tell her the truth, but then so had Killian, and she'd dismissed them both. She wasn't the one who'd fired the bullet into Killian's chest, but she may as well have. What she'd done was unforgivable.

As the elevator doors parted on the third floor, Emma took a tentative step into the corridor, grateful that Henry was at her side. She couldn't have done this alone. He'll, she wasn't even sure she was capable of facing her husband even with her son here providing support. Her knees were already shaking and the flock of butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach had her ready to vomit - although she took a minute bit of comfort in the fact that Killian couldn't tell her how much he hated her while he was comatose.

Her heart leapt into her throat as they made their way down the hall, getting closer to Killian's room. Emma was certain that Henry could hear the wild thumping from inside her chest, but he'd never let her know if he did. Despite all of the horrible things she'd said to him, Henry had already forgiven her, giving her a glimmer of hope that Killian might forgive her too. Of course, she'd only assaulted her son with words. She'd done far worse things to her husband.

"Emma," the nurse behind the desk greeted her with a warm smile. "Your husband is in the room on the left. We've tried to make him as comfortable as possible until he regains consciousness, but if you see anything you aren't happy with, please let us know and we'll see if we can make things better. I just want to let you know that he's going to look a little pale and possibly a little swollen. They're just typical side effects that will gradually return to normal as he recuperates. There's a chair in the room that folds out into a little bed if you wish to stay here tonight, although we can't promise that it won't be a little noisy. Medical staff will be in and out all night checking on his recovery."

"It's fine," Emma replied, trying hard to force a gracious smile onto her own lips. "I… I don't know yet…"

"it's alright. We don't expect you to rush into any decisions," the nurse assured her. "He's stable, but he won't be conscious for a while yet. It will do him good to have family support so why don't you go ahead in to see him?"

"Thanks," Henry responded for his mother when Emma hesitated, steering her towards the floor to ceiling glass partition that defined the room that his stepfather occupied. The sliding door was open and even from this distance, the unnatural sounds emitted by the machines inside attacked her senses.

Emma wasn't certain what she really expected but there was nothing to hide behind. Everything was transparent – no real door and no opaque walls – only a barrier of crystal clear glass that wouldn't prevent her from seeing the battered, broken shell of her husband. Her knees didn't want to hold her upright anymore and every nerve ending in her body was itching with the instinct to flee.

She could barely bring herself to look at Killian as he lay motionless on the narrow bed. He looked so small and frail, nearly engulfed by the plethora of monitors and intimidating machines surrounding him. His closed eyes appeared sunken with deep, darkened circles defining them (as if he'd smudged his kohl far too thick), the blackness standing out starkly against the pallid, almost grayish tone of his skin. The tube that extended down into his windpipe protruded from between his lips and from six feet away, she could hear the distinctive, rhythmic hiss of the ventilator that was essentially breathing for him while his perforated lung healed.

She knew he couldn't see her, couldn't see the tears welling in her eyes as she wallowed deeper into her own guilt. Flashes of her actions began to flood her in increasingly disturbing waves. The baton repeatedly lashing at his back, flaying open skin with every blow, bruising muscle and cracking bone below. And that had merely been the prelude as she'd taken the second torture session to even more depraved depths - leaving him chained, gagged and humiliated for over an hour while she'd prepared.

She'd gone on to shackle him to a metal table and electrocute him, all before committing the ultimate insult by burying his own hook into the sinew of his left shoulder. She'd turned his deepest insecurities against him as she'd forced that cold, steel prosthetic down to the bone – relishing his screams into the gag while she'd grinned and laughed at him. How on earth could she face him? Whatever would she be able to say to defend herself? Would his unconscious ears even hear her beg for forgiveness and say how sorry she truly was?

It was too overwhelming and she wasn't prepared. "I can't do this… I can't do this right now…" she sobbed, yanking herself away from her son's supportive arms. She drew her sleeve across her face in a feeble attempt to erase the tear tracks as she backed away, darting for the relative safety of the elevator.

36 hours later

After a little coaxing and a very serious heart to heart conversation with her family, Emma finally reclaimed the strength that had forsaken her earlier. While it hadn't been even the slightest bit easy to sit at her husband's bedside, she knew it was where she belonged. Dr. Whale had warned that the first night could be rough and he'd not exaggerated. Killian's blood pressure seemed to rise or fall randomly as his overburdened heart struggled to keep pumping and even with the ventilator aiding his breathing, his impaired lungs were barely drawing in enough oxygen, triggering alarms all evening.

But he held on.

By the next evening, he'd made enough improvement that he could breathe on his own and Whale had removed the breathing tube. A less intrusive, narrow cannula tucked beneath his nostrils replaced it, still providing his unconscious body with supplemental oxygen as he recovered from the myriad of wounds. Now, neither Killian's condition nor the inclement weather outside seemed as dire as they'd been just twenty four hours ago.

As the second dawn broke, Emma was awakened by a tendril of hazy sunlight peeking between the window blinds and the gleeful chirping of a little bird perched on the ledge outside. Together, they'd weathered the storm, but first, she had to convince herself that this wasn't a dream. She'd stretched as she planted her feet on the floor, glancing over at the clock hanging on the wall which revealed the time to be nearly 9am. Had she actually slept that soundly? The last thing she remembered was a nurse checking Killian's vitals around 1am. Or maybe it was 2?

She made her way to the window and gently tugged at the cord to open the vertical blinds, blinking at the brilliance and welcome beauty of the blue skies beyond the glass. There wasn't a grey cloud in sight and there was no doubt that the curse was broken. Fiona's dark magic had been vanquished by the simple act of Killian Jones surviving. Physically, she now had the confirmation that he was going to be fine, but so much healing was going to be necessary and with the curse broken and magic returning, she knew she could help him, should he allow it. She certainly could remedy the physical ailments, but she was wise enough to realize that a discussion of magical healing wouldn't be the first subject broached when he woke. Inevitably, she'd have to face him, and after two nights thinking of little else, she was ready to prepare for their uncertain future – at least she thought she was ready.

The buzzing and rattling of her phone against the metal nightstand brought her back down to earth and as she retrieved it, she wasn't the least bit surprised to discover that it was her father calling. Waking up to bright, blue skies probably had everyone in town celebrating another curse defeated, but Emma wasn't exactly ready to celebrate anything just yet, so she hoped he wasn't too overly excited. She answered the call with every expectation of hearing queries about Killian's status but what she ended up hearing caught her entirely off guard.

"Good morning, Dad."

"Emma, I'm so glad you answered. Do you think you can make it down to the station right away?" David asked and Emma could hear the urgency and anxiety in his voice.

"Uh, yeah… I suppose so…" she replied, dragging her boots out from beneath the chair.

"Great! I think the curse broke and things got weird."

"Weird? What sort of weird – giant snowman weird or flying monkey weird?"

"I suppose you'll have to see this one for yourself… I wasn't even sure what to do next…"

"Okay, then… I'll be there in a few minutes. Killian hasn't woke up yet so I don't think he'll miss me…"

"Thanks! See you in a few!" David said before disconnecting the call. She had no idea what could be so pressing at the station but something definitely had David flustered. She sat down for a moment to tug on her boots then grabbed her leather jacket that she'd draped over the back of the fold-out chair. She considered flipping it back into chair form, but decided she'd better not take the extra time. Before leaving, she stooped over to plant a tentative, but tender kiss onto Killian's forehead and then scurried out the door. The curse might have been broken but there was still apparently never a dull moment in Storybrooke.

Emma didn't even need to take that first step through the doorway of the Sheriff station to understand exactly why David had called. The wail of an unhappy infant echoed throughout the squad room and she immediately spotted her exasperated father pacing the floor in front of the holding cell cradling a screeching newborn against his shoulder.

"Uh – Dad?" she asked, struggling to wrap her brain around what an infant might be doing here in the station. "Why are you holding a screaming baby?"

"I don't really know… I came in this morning around eight and went into your office with every intention of helping catch up on some paperwork. After checking the answering machine for any reports that might have come in overnight with the storms, I sat here listening as Gideon was in the cell grumbling about breakfast being late. I was ignoring him, but just as the rain finally let up and the skies cleared, I heard this little one squawking from inside the holding cell."

"The baby was inside the cell?"

"Yes, and only Gideon was in there before. I think this is him."

"Baby Gideon?" Emma asked incredulously, realizing that in Storybrooke's timeline, Gideon would have only been a few weeks old. The Dark Realm of the Black Fairy had aged him abnormally and it appeared that breaking Fiona's curse had reverted him back to his true age. "Have you tried calling Belle?"

"You were the first person I called - well, second person. I tried your mother first but she didn't answer so I wasn't sure what else to do."

"Sounds like he's hungry," Emma commented as she decided this would be a good time to test that her magic was restored, conjuring up a bottle full of baby formula. "So nice to have magic back," she smiled as she handed the bottle to David who repositioned the baby into the crook of his elbow. The hungry infant instantly latched on and gulped the milk greedily. "Yep – he was hungry."

"I guess we really should call Belle and maybe Gold," David stated as he stared at the infant in his arms. "Although, since this whole mess with Fiona began after Belle tried to send Gideon away from Rumplestiltskin, maybe calling him isn't such a great idea…"

"I'll leave that up to Belle. You feed that little guy and I'll give her a call. If our hunch is correct and this really is Gideon, hopefully she'll be able to identify him. He was only a few hours old when she handed him over to the Blue Fairy."

One brief phone call to an overjoyed mother and her instant recognition of a very distinct birthmark allowed Emma to reunite Belle with her son. Apparently, this was what the fairies had meant when they'd referenced restoring Gideon's innocence – giving him back a clean slate by reverting him back to his actual age. This time, he'd be raised properly by a loving mother instead of a manipulative, psychotic fairy, but no one really knew if he'd retain any memories of his upbringing under Fiona's control. There was always a chance it could lead to nightmares or some sort of mental disassociation later, but for now, he was a happy baby in his mother's arms and truthfully, Emma was a tiny bit jealous.

What she wouldn't have given to be able to turn back the clock on her own ordeal - to forget every toxic thing she'd said and done while languishing under the control of Fiona's curse. Gideon might not have killed anyone while serving as Fiona's lackey, but he'd hurt a lot of people and somehow, he was still deserving of a restart? She seriously considered taking a dream catcher to strip herself of those hurtful memories, but feared it wouldn't be enough. She'd have to do the same to Killian, to Henry, and to anyone else who knew the truth and where was the fairness in that? No, there wasn't going to be a reset button for her or anyone else who'd been harmed and that fact just stung bitterly.

She'd made her way back to the hospital as soon as she could after the joyful parent-child reunion. As a mother, she was truly happy for Belle – she really was – but she couldn't bear to be surrounded by someone else's joy while she was still so miserable. There was a definite degree of unfairness to it, but Emma supposed that as long as the curse was broken and Killian's life was spared, it wasn't her place to question the fates.

When she arrived, she was almost relieved to find her husband still sleeping soundly, grateful to delay the inevitable confrontation a little while longer. She peeled off her jacket and tossed it casually across the back of the chair before slumping down into the seat that someone from the staff had folded back into a chair. After two nights here, she'd grown accustomed to the constant blips and beeps of the machines, comforted by the fact that fewer devices were necessary and that the sounds had grown increasingly consistent. She found herself watching his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, noting that normal color was returning to his skin as her eyes drifted upward to see the rosy flush across his cheeks.

Perhaps he was a little too warm? She could see that he had two blankets draped over him, one ivory and another that was a faded pale blue. His brow also seemed to be covered with a faint sheen of sweat so she decided to tug the top blanket off of him, tossing it to the foot of the bed. It must have been a relief to him as he seemed to take a deeper breath and she thought she heard him return a little moan of gratitude when her fingertips stroked his stubbled jowl. She ran a fingernail through his thicker whiskers that had grown nearly into a full beard speckled with flecks of ginger and silver, certain he'd be anxious for a shave once he awakened.

Despite her own lingering doubt, she permitted a ghost of a smile to lift the corners of her lips as she rested her hand atop his, gently curling her fingers around his while cautiously trying not to disturb the IV catheter taped to his wrist. She then prepared herself for what would likely be another long day of waiting by tipping her head back and squeezing her eyes shut before her ears perked at the rustle of fabric. Instantly alert, her eyes flew open as she felt a minute twitch against her fingertips.

"Killian?" she called out expectantly, eager to witness his eyelids flutter open or hear his voice for the first time since she'd regained her senses. She tried to squeeze his fingers to reassure him that she was there with him, but instead of welcoming the gesture, his fingers jerked away from her grasp. "I'm sorry…" she stammered as that single, reflexive motion drove a dagger straight through her already aching heart. "I didn't mean to…"

"Swan?" his gravely, confused voice asked. "Is that you?" The question came with such skepticism that it almost made her want to slink away. She knew he'd already recognized her voice but in her heart, Emma knew why he'd asked that particular question. He wanted to know if it was really her, not the vicious cursed persona waiting to do him further harm.

"Yes, it's me," she replied shyly, her eyes welling both with tears of joy and uncertainty. "It's really me, Killian, and I owe you the biggest apology… What I've done…" She swallowed down the lump forming in the back of her throat and just let it all out. "You have every right to hate me for it and if you don't want me to stay, I understand but I wasn't going to leave until I had the chance to tell you how sorry I am."

Her apology came in rapid fire rambling that had Killian's still-fuzzy brain overloading. He forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking a few times as his sight adjusted to the brightness of the room. He quickly discovered that his weary muscles didn't want to respond but he somehow managed to grasp her wrist, causing her to pause for a breath. "Love, please…," he pleaded with her as he agonizingly shifted his weight enough to enable him to look her in the eye. "That wasn't you."

"You didn't even want me to touch you a moment ago," she sobbed. "I get it – you're still afraid I might hurt you again…"

"What? What do you mean?"

"You pulled your hand away from me when you woke and heard my voice."

"Emma, I was startled. I guess I flinched – probably would have at anyone's touch out of sheer self-preservation instinct…" He had to take a brief pause there as his body reminded him why he was lying in a hospital bed. "I awoke in a strange place with my last waking memory being nothing but pain…" He winced when trying to find a position where he didn't ache, unsure how much longer he could withstand the physical toll that this conversation was taking on him. Everything hurt – the searing ache in his chest, the burning sensation from the countless welts on his back and the dry, scratchy flames licking at his throat, making it agonizing just to swallow, let alone talk. He was beginning to feel his body coaxing him to return to the deep slumber, but he wasn't ready just yet. "Is there something here I could drink?" he finally asked when he couldn't bear the sensation that he'd swallowed a sandbar any longer.

"Um, yeah, I think so…," she answered, almost thankful that he'd changed the subject. She glanced over to the rolling side table where the nurse had earlier left a cup filled with ice chips as they'd anticipated Killian might experience a dry, sore throat when he came around. "Victor wasn't sure how well you'd be able to swallow so he didn't want you drinking too much but he did say you could have some ice. I know it's not much, but…"

"It's fine, Love," he assured her as she scooped up a flat, round chunk of ice onto the plastic spoon the nurse had left for them and raised it to his mouth. She let the ice slide off onto his tongue without saying a word and while he would have preferred to chug a fifth of rum, he thanked her for helping this little bit.

"Try not to talk so much for a while," she advised. "Maybe use some shorter sentences? Victor said your throat might be irritated for a few days from the breathing tube. Are you in a lot of pain right now?"

"Delightful," he grumbled in response to her comment about the breathing tube, whatever that was, but he wasn't quite certain how to reply to her query. He wanted to tell her that of course, he was in a lot of pain, but even in his compromised state, he could tell how much guilt was eating away at her, so he lied for her sake. "I'm sore, but I'll survive." Now it was his turn to ask a question. "What about Fiona?"

"She's gone – sent back to her miserable, lonely realm that she'll never be able to leave again. She won't be back."

"Your family?"

She'd forgotten that he'd been unconscious and bleeding out in the center of Main Street when he'd broken that portion of the Black Fairy's curse by committing an act of True Love as he'd shielded Henry from Gideon's bullet. She didn't think that this was the best time to delve into those darker details so she left out a bit of the tale. "They were all freed from Fiona's snow globe prison when the curse broke. They're all safe and sound and looking forward to seeing you recover. We didn't quite get to finish our wedding reception, or get to our honeymoon for that matter – provided you still want that…"

The insecurity in her voice made him ache even more than all of his wounds. "We'll get there, Love," he promised. "I'm not going anywhere…" He was gradually losing his tenuous grip on consciousness as his body's craving for sleep intensified.

"Why don't you get some rest and we'll talk more when you're feeling stronger?" she urged as his head sunk back against the pillows once again. Emma doubted he'd even heard the last few words as his eyes fell closed. He'd learn soon enough what an important role he'd played, how his sacrifice had freed their family and how his survival (and a tiny pinch of magic) had saved them all. For now, she knew it was best to let him sleep and revel in how much this man loved her – so much that he'd apparently forgiven all the atrocities she'd committed against him. There hadn't been a hint of animosity in anything he'd said and despite her initial fear of rejection, he'd not sent her away. This man who'd once doubted that he could be a hero had prevented all of their undoings and as far as she was concerned, had earned himself a new chapter in the stories Fiona has sought to destroy.

Yep, she thought, Killian Jones – Storybrooke's newest Savior.

#ouat ff #killian jones ff #cs ff #killian whump #curse of undoings #whump fic #tw violence #torture flashbacks

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