#light whump
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Touch: The Following Autumn (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)
Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader
Rated/warning: 18+, whump, depiction of difficult childbirth
Word Count: 2.4k
Masterpost
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Summary: Benedict holds you through the birth of your first child.
Benedict’s grasp is the only thing keeping you hanging on. The only thing you are trying to focus on as the rest of your body feels like it is being ripped apart. You have never known so much pain, such bone-deep, gnawing pain, and that it has gone on for eighteen hours is incomprehensible. But you are still conscious, and you are still fighting, because he needs you to. Because they both need you to.
He sits at your bedside, your hands clasped together so tightly for so long, they have both gone white and you can’t feel your fingers anymore. That is the least of your concerns as another contraction surges through you and you groan, worn too tired to scream anymore. You lean into your husband, your free hand clinging to him wherever you can grasp - his hair, his neck, the sleeve of his shirt. You claw at him as you fight for a shuddering inhale, the wave of pain feeling as if it can drown you.
He presses his lips to your forehead, his face desperately tired and pale too. “My darling,” he whispers. “Oh my love.” He has run out of the energy or creativity to say anything more. Not that he needs to. You just need to feel him close by.
“Mrs. Bridgerton,” the surgeon looks up from the sheet spread across your knees. “You must continue to push.” His voice is stern, but there is an undercurrent of sympathy. No one in this room thinks you are weak. They have all been with you, watching you suffer for nearly an entire day.
You nod limply, trying to find your breath as Benedict smooths your hair back from your sweaty face with his free hand. On the opposite side of the bed, Violet leans in with a cool cloth and presses it to your neck. They are the only family members with you. Your parents were waylaid by bad weather on their return from the Continent, and will miss the birth of their first grandchild.
You just want to fall apart. You want to sink back into the pillows and grant yourself some rest. You felt your strength give out hours ago, but somehow you are still here, trembling, pushing with whatever mild response your muscles will give you, to help your child into the world. The fear is growing that they may be stillborn. Your water broke so long ago and they have been stuck in your body. But you refuse to give into despair, and you swear you can still feel them, straining within you, doing their part to break free.
Now the surgeon is telling you to push. You don’t know what energy you are supposed to push with. There is none left in your body, none at all. The only place you can feel it is in Benedict’s hands, numb though your fingers are. There is strength in him, strength in your love, strength in your desire to meet your child. You will have to draw on that. It is all you have.
Gritting your teeth and leaning into Benedict’s shoulder, you grate out a scream and try to channel everything you feel from him, down to your baby. It’s piercing, the ache you feel along your legs, down your spine, and all through your hips. You feel as if your bones are made of blades. You push with your body and your soul, anything you can offer, and collapse back against the pillows, breathing hard.
“Another,” The dreadful command from the foot of the bed makes you whimper.
Dear god, you can’t. Your shoulders start to shake with tiny sobs that produce no tears. Benedict leans over you, never releasing your hand, caressing your forehead.
“I can’t,” you gasp, “Ben…I’m sorry…I can’t.”
The fear in his eyes is palpable. His face is haggard, shadowed with stubble. He swallows hard, searching your face, desperately questing for what to say.
Violet squeezes your arm beside you and you turn to look at her, now more grateful than ever that she is here. She is the only one who can truly understand what you are feeling. Her eyes are glistening with tears but burning with resolve simultaneously.
“Y/n, dearest, you must let your mind go.” You stare back at her, confused. She presses on, her voice tight. “The pain exists only in your mind. Your body is always strong enough to do what it must. It is only your mind that is struggling.” Her words sink in, somehow making sense. She nods at you in encouragement. “Wait for the next contraction, and let your body push, but your mind must go.”
You give her the barest nod, your breath growing shallow, then turn back to look at Benedict above you. If there is anywhere that you can lose yourself, it’s into his silvery eyes, even though they are now filled with panic.
He heard his mother. Intuitively, he knows what you are trying to do. He holds the side of your face, slender fingers framing your ear, and lowers to rest his forehead against yours.
“Y/n,” he breathes. “Do you remember the snowstorm two years ago?”
You lock into his eyes, trying to transport yourself back into memories, to leave your body behind you to work without your mind’s interference. You nod slightly against him, breathing hard and shallow through your nose.
“You were the reason I didn’t finish that damn landscape.” A small grin tugs at his lips. “I was going outside to paint but then I saw you with my family, having as much fun as the children. You were so beautiful, so carefree and strong. I had to get to know you. So I abandoned the painting and joined in.”
Your mind is beginning to float back. Entranced with the kaleidoscope of his irises, you remembered that cold day, the sting of the snow against your exposed wrists, the squeals of laughter from everyone involved.
“It turned out to be the right decision because the next day you walked straight into my arms in front of my easel.”
You would grin at his cheekiness, but even your face has grown sore at this point.
“And from then on, you made me fall deeper and deeper. The whole season in London, I could barely breathe around you.”
Light dances in his eyes, the same way it had when he would laugh with you on a promenade, or slip you a flute of champagne with a wink.
“All I wanted was to be close to you. To hold you in my arms. I wanted it badly enough that I forced myself to dance with you. It was the only way I could feel you without causing a scandal.”
You remember the night of the Cowper ball, the heat and insistence of his grasp. You never allowed yourself to hope that it was desire, or that it was love. But it had been. He had loved you as long as you had loved him. A warm buoyancy starts to grow in your exhausted chest. You are always moved by the depth of your husband’s affection, but to hear him narrate your love story as he experienced it, is overwhelmingly beautiful.
He continues, his words whispering across your face. “Then once I had held you, I knew I needed to hold you for the rest of my life. I knew I had to marry you.”
You feel the familiar, horrible clench of pain start to notch up your spine; another contraction heaving its way through your body. A strangled noise rises from the back of your throat and Benedict releases your hand at last, bringing both of his to grip your shoulders. You cling back to him, scrabbling to clutch his arms, breathing faster.
Violet is beside you both, offering soothing words of encouragement, but they are lost to your ears. You try to do as she said, to separate your mind from your body, and stay lost in Benedict’s eyes. He keeps his face above yours, never pulling away, as you feel your body start to bear down and arc against the pillows.
“Y/n,” He raises his voice, commanding your attention. “I will always be here to hold you. Darling, you are not alone in this.”
You can feel the pain, gripping and searing, but fight to concentrate on Benedict and nothing else. The warm light in your chest continues to grow, becoming a gauzy barrier between your thoughts and the agony of your muscles. Staring into his eyes, their grey fractals envelop you, and you feel yourself start to push.
You must do this. You want to do this. Whatever it takes to bring your child into the world, to make Benedict a father and see his face light with a smile once more. Everything in your body rushes downward and you dig your fingers into his arms but he never wavers. You can’t help from shouting behind your gnashing teeth, keening against him. Then there is a shift, and pressure. Immense, weighted pressure builds at your center, knocking you breathless.
“The head is out!” The surgeon calls excitedly from below.
Benedict breaks your gaze to look back at him, then turns to you with eyes full of hope. Now the end is in sight.
“One more, Mrs. Bridgerton.” The surgeon instructs. “Last one.”
You’re not sure if your lungs work anymore. Your body feels completely beyond your control. The pressure is so intense, dark spots threaten the edges of your vision and you blink to keep from swooning. Benedict must sense this, because he takes your face in both of his hands and calls to you, gently but insistently.
“My love, she is nearly here. Our baby. Just one more and we will finally hold her.” There is an urgency in his voice, a blend of concern and excitement. “You must push, my love. Not because I am asking you to, but because she is ready to join the world.”
You look up at him, your eyes glazed as you pant desperately. His own eyes are brimming with tears. He is longing for a daughter, convinced that your baby would be a girl from the very day you told him you were with child. You had insisted it would be a boy, more to toy with him than anything else, and in a moment, one of you will be proven victorious. But only if you can muster yourself for one last attempt.
The energy in the room has changed. There is a buzz of joy threatening to erupt from under the agony of your extended labor. The warmth in your chest surges. Benedict says not to push for his sake, but you are going to. It is your love for him that is the source of all your strength. You wrap your arms around his neck and lock your eyes on his once more. There, you see your past, your future, your very soul reflected back at you. You remember every glance, every kiss, every display of passion that has filled your life with such bliss over the past two years. His large hands, steady on either side of your face, burn into your skin with memories of every touch, every time your fingers brushed, or clasped, or entwined, every time you held or were held.
The warmth in your chest has grown as intense as the pressure in your hips, and you go rigid, straining your whole body to will it downward, eyes clenching shut and mouth open in a silent scream as you pour every last ounce of yourself into the effort. All you can hear is the blood in your ears, and all you can feel is the press of your husband’s hands as the rest of your body becomes nothing but pressure. You worry you may burst, or slip into the darkness at the edge of your mind.
But then there is release. The pressure gives way and everything moves and the air comes rushing back into your lungs. Everyone is talking, exclaiming, but your mind is too fuzzy to make out what they are saying. Then you hear it - a cry. Strong and loud, your baby’s cry calls you back to your senses and you open your eyes.
Above you, Benedict is weeping and he falls into you, clutching you against him as he laughs into your neck, then peppers your face with kisses. A wave of euphoria casts over you, despite the weariness of your body, and you smile, raking your fingers through his hair. Everything is moving quickly. You hear Violet praising you nearby. The baby’s cry continues somewhere in the room.
Then a nursemaid approaches and lays a small bundle into your arms with a smile. “It is a girl.”
Benedict nearly cackles with joy. Suddenly, you are alert and aware, arms filled with all the strength they need to hold your child and never let go. Benedict nestles in beside you on the bed, lifting you to sit up in his arms. The fussy cries sound from the little blanket as you both peer in and see a round-cheeked, red little face under a shock of matted dark hair, squirming with clenched fists and scrunched eyes. Benedict reaches out and runs a slender finger through the wispy hair, and she falls quiet. Then her grey eyes open, focusing on you both and assessing you curiously.
She is her father’s daughter, a Bridgerton through and through. Violet perches beside the bed, blinking away happy tears. You smile at her, appreciating how she was able to do this so many times, including bringing Benedict into the world. You want to repay her for such a gift, and you know that you will take Benedict’s suggestion and name your daughter after her.
You turn back to your baby, watching Benedict caress her tiny pink fingers with two of his own. You can already see that he is desperately in love, and you know that you are in for the best kind of trouble. You have never felt such happiness, such contentment, as you do in this moment. You lean into him, beaming smiles on both of your faces.
You are encapsulated in warmth, marveling at how his arms encircle and bind you all together; you, your husband, and the life you have created out of pure love. Your family, your entire world, kept safe within his hold.
Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @mysticwitchcraftco
#bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#female reader#regency#regency era#regency romance#light whump
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I'm so SO normal about Nikola Orsinov, I like her the normal amount.
#bunkat art#art#my art#the magnus archives#tma#tma podcast#tma spoilers#nikola orsinov#jonathan sims#jon sims#Is this whump?#My girlfriend says it is so I will tag it#Whump#Light whump#I really just find the idea of someone finding him tied up with a moisturizing face mask on cucumbers and all really funny#anyway
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Foreword | Prev | Next | ao3
WARNINGS: brief allusions to a traumatic past (June), but no detail provided. Moderate medical anxiety (Howzer). Moderately graphic descriptions of medical injuries. Repeated mentions of blood and discomfort/pain.
RATING: 16+ for mature themes and mild to moderate whump.
WC: 4500ish. (This chapter and the next were never intended to be separated, but it accumulated to nearly 8k words, and pruning certain aspects of this encounter in the name of brevity would only do a disservice to this story, so I apologize for the somewhat abrupt way this chapter ends).
PLEASE ENSURE YOU’VE READ THE FOREWORD BEFORE PROCEEDING FOR AN IN-DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DEGREE OF CONTENT YOU CAN EXPECT THROUGHOUT THIS STORY.
“Uh… yeah?”
The responding voice was barely discernible over the cacophony radiating down that bustling hall, though was both unmistakably bathed in the accented intonation of a clone soldier, and seemingly quite confused by the civility of her gesture.
With a preparatory sigh, June prodded the control panel on the wall adjacent to the door and stepped back for it to permit her entry. Immediately apparent directly opposite that threshold, and sitting somewhat stooped atop that pathetic excuse of a paper bed sheet, was CT-5863.
If the Gods of technology were to ever bless it with the power of human deduction, the chrono on the wall behind him would have asserted that those blue eyes locked on his for the span of only a second; barely half of an inhale, a torpid blink at most. But, surely, too much had happened in that moment of unprecedented placidity for a mere “second” to have been all that passed.
Those armoured legs, wholly encrusted with the evidence of several rotations in grueling action, instantly ceased their absentminded swing over the long edge of that uncomfortably rigid gurney. The way his brows softened only enough for those gleaming brown eyes to widen in unrestrained surprise had her famined stomach plummeting near-painfully toward her toes in a sensation she was both unfamiliar with and unprepared for, and had the highly polished durasteel floor beneath her sneakers not continued to reflect the abhorrent fluorescent light overhead, that feeling only would have her entirely convinced she was now freefalling toward the cobblestone courtyard some eight stories below.
“Hi,” she squeaked as his expression continued to soften, that unprofessionally casual address escaping her tongue completely void of intention and thought, and had she not felt her jaw shift to let it pass through her lips, it could have been entirely feasible to believe that the salutation came from a third party.
If there was any semblance of a response waiting atop his tongue, it remained inhibited by the stupefaction still working its way across that tanned face. Lips initially contracted against the relentless gnaw of pain, now parting enough to expose their ragged and wind burnt nature and convey his unbridled bewilderment; those brows once furrowed beneath the act of being left to wallow for hours in the virile discomfort of a neglected wound, shifting to diminish that charming crease between them.
“Hi,” he echoed, reddened lips drawn slowly toward his ear ahead the beginnings of a one-sided smile that promised to only intensify her already befuddling paralysis.
June swallowed, that brief constriction of the throat reorienting the contents of her stomach momentarily granting her the abeyance to wrench her gaze from his, a gesture worthy of recognition based solely on how absurdly arduous of a task it seemed. ‘What am I doing here again?’ she asked herself, right hand thoughtlessly moving to retrieve the datapad from its clamp beneath her arm and bringing that lifeless screen toward her nose.
“Right,” she whispered to the sight of her distorted reflection, before clearing her throat and unsticking her sneakers from the floor.
The holocomputer, set atop a rolling desk at the foot of the bed, rose to life upon the frenetic poke of her finger. Though June had always been what her brother had previously deemed “embarrassingly deficient in stature”, that monitor sat just shy of successfully hiding him from view, and her composure was once again diminished by the heat surging to her cheeks upon the quick affirmation that his gaze had followed her every step across the room.
“You’re not a droid,” the soldier offered slowly, eyes narrowing under a perplexed sense of intrigue as a blood stained finger trailed to and fro across his chapped lip. “I mean— I don’t think so. Not like any I’ve ever seen…”
The acceptable reply would have been to offer him a laugh, a small scoff. Kriff, even an unsupported snort would have been sufficient to humour such an unintentionally comical assertion, but the continued prickle atop her skin and the nascent disquiet in her mind quickly devoured all potential for a moment of light-hearted banter.
“Nope,” she agreed, immediately thankful that her tone had forgone the shrill squawk of her first greeting and returned to her normal tambre. “They called the big guns in for you.”
“Uh oh. Why do I feel like that might not be a good thing?”
She risked another peek over the shield of her holoscreen, instantly and regretfully noting the delightfully sharp angle of where his jaw met his ear, that contour accentuated by the expanse of a bashful smile now doming both cheeks.
‘What the hell,’ she demanded silently as she failed, again, to offer him the titter he deserved. Aghast that the professionalism and charismatic bedside manner she’d spent long years and countless tears mastering had been ripped from her by something as immaterial as basic eye contact, she flicked her ponytail petulantly off her shoulder and refocussed her attention to the task at hand: logging into the Hospital’s charting software.
‘He’s just a soldier,’ she reminded herself with a snort of self-directed derision, desperately trying to extract her password from the depths of her distracted brain.
And he was. There was nothing overtly different or unusual about CT–5863 in relation to the hundred-or-so other clones that had passed in and out of her care since the war began. Quite frankly, there couldn’t be anything different about him, it was genetically impossible. So why had one look from this set of honeyed eyes seen her stomach careening into the next dimension and her nerves prickling as if every shift of his gaze left a trail atop her skin?
Thrice she tried and failed to enter her secure information into that software, yet its repeated beeps toward the inevitable system lock-out fell on entirely deaf ears, and it wasn’t until the screen strobed that she’d near-reached the maximum login attempts did some glimmer of awareness surge back to her.
“I’m Dr. Kiore,” June told him, attempting to banish that myriad of improper thoughts by corralling every cooperating neuron into entering her password, and the breath she’d unintentionally held in her lungs was granted their escape atop a sigh of relief as that familiar landing screen emerged in front of her. “What’s your name?”
“CT–58—”
“No, Captain, your name.”
“My name?” A puzzled pause preceded her answer, that brief second of hesitation having failed to lessen any of the obvious confusion behind those two words, and the notion that she may have to formally explain such a simple concept was the first to pull a smile to June’s lips.
But, “Howzer.” He recovered quickly, offering his name in the same tone he’d used upon hearing her tap on the door, and the small creases now wreathing those twinkling eyes as they narrowed in something close to suspicion entirely laid bare his continued bewilderment at her behaviour.
“Howzer,” she repeated, offering him a casual smile as she swiped her finger across the monitor and entered the information next to his designation number. “It’s nice to meet you.”
A moment’s innocent silence fell between them as she typed, masterfully toggling between different pages of his medical chart and familiarizing herself with the details of his treatment history. For an active soldier, particularly one that appeared as if he’d spent several respite-free rotations laying in the foreign dirt of a distant planet, his chart was remarkably vacant, the only few noted injuries being quickly treated in the field and recorded somewhat haphazardly by the trio of different medics who had seen him.
“I– I think that might be the first time a civilian’s asked me that,” he contemplated under his breath, eyes unfocussing as he rubbed that dirty palm across the stubble on his chin
“Yeah, well… they were supposed to ask downstairs,” June scoffed, the grumble swaddling her tone readily exposing the disdain for the repeated shortcomings of her colleagues. “I’ve asked them four billion times to try and remember, but of course no one listens to the youngest.”
While his lungs expanded to utter what was undoubtedly going to be another humorous quip, the sentiment was stolen off his tongue by a sudden and salient cringe of discomfort. In that otherwise banal motion of sitting up straight, hand reaching upward to thoughtlessly push those dark waves further back from his forehead, a spasm of pain quickly froze his actions, that sharp jaw quickly clenching behind olive cheeks as a muted grunt rumbled in his chest.
Harrowingly familiar with the discomfited sounds of a trooper in agony, June darted from behind the computer without a second glance, feet taking her earnestly to his bedside where Howzer continued to grit his teeth against the pain of attempting to lower his elbow back down.
She stopped when she reached his beside, and too determined to somehow minimize his discomfort, her focussed eyes entirely missed the way shame had forced his gaze away from her. In a gesture that inexplicably attuned her concentration nearly as thoroughly as it further chilled her skin, she tugged the sleeves of her labcoat toward her elbows.
It took barely a breath of being within arms-length of the stranger for the pathetic remnants of his shirt, and the implications of its destruction, to resonate; that typically tight compression top now sliced into misshapen shards thanks to the expanse of an immense gash in the material. Yet more gruesome than the soaked integrity of that metallic cloth— its creation having once promised to prevent such wounds from occurring —was a piteous patch of gauze so saturated with blood that it had begun to leak a small cataract down his side, that seemingly limitless river of blood having already stained the exposed skin of which it bordered.
“Sheesh,” June mumbled under her breath, reaching slowly toward him until her fingers wrapped carefully around the elbow he was subconsciously attempting to use as a protective barrier.
Howzer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat as her fingers found their mark, though despite that unintentional huff of trepidation, he offered no resistance as she began to cautiously lift that arm back upward mere millimeters at a time until the sight of that grisly gash reappeared. The sheer size of that weeping laceration, stretching across the anatomically labelled “quadrant 6”, and reaching all the way from central rib cage to interior scapula, made ascertaining the true degree of the injury quite a challenge from her standing position in front of him. As June battled the need for a better vantage against attempting to prevent causing Howzer can any extraneous pain, it became apparent nothing short of clambering onto the bed beside him and simply straddling his left hip could allot her the unobstructed view she needed to formulate an appropriate treatment plan.
“I can’t get a great look from here,” she admitted with an apologetic grimace, now cautiously redirecting his arm forward in an effort to ascertain precisely how far back this horrid laceration reached from its inception below his left armpit. “Bear with me just for a sec… it’s gonna hurt a smidge.”
“It’s fine,” he answered, though wrapped in little more than a tight-lipped mumble, his reassurances fell flat in their task of convincing her. “It doesn’t hurt. I jus– ugh…”
A series of murmured apologies left her lips as something near a jolt of pain robbed his tongue of that white lie, and she tactfully refrained from commenting as she watched that silly cotton square fail to contain another surging red waterfall.
“You know,” she started as his jaw rutted forward to repress another hum of discomfort. “If you had just let them give you an NBA injection downstairs, this wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Don’t need one,” he grunted back as she flicked away those soaked and frayed fabric shards and began to pluck that impetuously placed patch of medical gauze from his side. “I told you, it doesn’t hurt.”
“It doesn’t hurt, but you couldn’t get your shirt off?”
That delicate accusation left her lips before the gates of professional restraint could corral it. The implications of second-guessing both a patient’s feedback and their subjective symptoms was highly unprincipled, yet despite his continued refusals, there was no ignoring the fact that, while half of his battered and abused armament sat stacked in one of the chairs by the door, he’d been unable to pull that snug garment from his torso.
To her relief, that same lop-sided smirk inched back across those dehydrated lips, eyes softening as they danced lightly across her features, and June was immediately grateful for the trivial need to extract an unopened sterile gauze pack from her pocket as her cheeks tingled anew.
“Alright, smartypants, you got me,” he admitted, the tips of his ears reddening under the unfamiliar vulnerability of his confession. “Maybe I just don’t like injections. Maybe they freak me out… a little.”
An ephemeral glance was all it took to identify the nature of his budding embarrassment; the reaffixture of his gaze upon his lap, the tiny flitter of his cheek as he chewed on whether he ought to defend his admission or not, the horrid clicking of his molars as discomfort had them relentlessly grinding against each other. Yet it was not the professional obligation to advocate for a medicinal intervention that saw June’s hands hesitate on their way to fully rid him of that incapacitated bandage, but an inexplicable and damn-near irrepressible urge to console him.
“Hold this here for me,” she instructed delicately as if she hadn’t heard him, indicating her need with a small tap of the finger whilst pressing that new fresh fabric to his wound in the void of its sodden counterpart. “Just for a minute while I grab some goodies, but firm pressure— hold it like you mean it.”
He shifted instantly on his seat to assent to her request, right hand forgoing its docile perch atop his thigh to cross his torso and clamp that material into place; those grimy fingers momentarily weaving their way into hers in his haste to comply.
That inadvertent touch set her very nerves alight, the ceaseless prickle lurking behind every inch of her skin intensifying to a degree that promised to expropriate the floor from beneath her feet again, and having been largely unable to resurrect her stomach from the depths of her toes where it had buried itself at first sight of him, June hurried to snatch her fingers from his and depart his bedside. The unprecedented euphoria of his skin brushing atop her own amidst that otherwise innocuous motion had virtually supplanted all evidence of the preceding sympathy, and replaced it with a moment of attraction so potent, she’d failed to digest any of the apology he’d quickly stammered during her retreat.
‘Maker have mercy, would you get a grip…’ she silently scolded, eyes scanning the assortment of supplies on the shelves in front of her as she forced a slow breath through pursed lips. ‘You’re being ridiculous. So he’s a little pretty… You just feel bad for him. It’s just pity. He’s been sitting here a long time, and he’s obviously uncomfortable… that’s all.’
But that weak justification had barely gained any potential momentum before it was squashed by the reality she could not deny. Attributing the peculiar undulation of this interaction to pity alone was both ignorant and ludicrous, as Howzer was not the first soldier to admit having a distaste for injections; the majority of her combat patients shirked from even the mention of that so-dreaded injector. In fact, most were deeply suspicious of anything even distantly related to the field of medicine, many turning pugnacious in their discomfort, and eyeing Lumi with a powerful mistrust as if that hovering medical assistant was concealing a murderous motive behind those yellow oculars. Others flinched at the mere thought of sedation, often demanding to hear any and all available treatment alternatives before consenting to whatever procedural route they deemed most tolerable regardless of its diminished efficacy, and it was this perpetual argument, this consistent mentality, that had June entirely convinced the clones in her care harboured significant trauma from their Kaminoan upbringing.
So if pity was to blame for the tingle atop her skin as the music of his familiar accent danced in her ears, why today? Why this ailing soldier, and not one of the hundred or so others she’d previously treated and discharged without pause. Why not Bolts, whose cheeks became stained with uncontrollable tears during those brief moments of lucidity when he awoke to be scanned at tragically frequent intervals? Why not the Commander from three rotations ago who’d begged her to falsify a clean bill of health so he could return to the front lines where his brothers were undoubtedly being slaughtered in his absence? What was it about this man… this objectively meaningless encounter… that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing upright as if there was something lingering in the next second? Why was this set of brown eyes imbued with the power to lasso her lungs into her stomach? Steal the floor from beneath her feet? Freeze time as if the universe itself had held its breath at first sight of him?
‘You’re better than this,’ she told herself as she rustled noisily around those laden shelves, heaping an array of various supplies into her arms. ‘Swallow whatever this weird attraction is and get on with it so you can go home. You’re tired and starving.’
Sighing heavily through her nose, she pulled the cauterizing pen from the top shelf and added it to the pile of tools clamped against her chest atop an small tub of her preferred burn salve, a USI injection tool, a single-use bottle of saline for wound disinfection purposes, and a handful of the standard 4 x 8 inch dermabacta patches.
Keeping her eyes deliberately downward, she nudged that locker door closed with her hip and started back toward the bed. After pausing briefly to power on and deposit the cauterizing pen beside the computer, June tipped forward and dumped the remaining products onto the paper sheet beside his waiting figure, attempting to ignore the return of his warm gaze by reaffixing her eyes to the tattered vestiges of his top.
“Shirt’s gotta come off,” she advised him, placing her hands on her hips and gesturing with a small nod to the garment he’d deferred removing as long as possible. “Contamination risk is too high if it stays flapping around the wound after I disinfect the area. Think you can pull it off without too much… ouchie?”
Those ensanguined fingers drummed nervously against the gauze he continued to press in place, a contemplative hum issuing from his nose as his lips shifted to a grimace. “I can give it a shot,” he finally assented amid a doubtful chuckle. “Unless maybe cutting it off is an option, and I can try to preserve what’s left of my dignity?”
“I mean– I could,” she agreed half-heartedly, though the image of her hands drifting carefully atop his skin whilst snipping that cloth from his bare chest nearly overpowered the awareness of that option being the least practical. “But we’d be sending you out of here shirtless afterward and it’s not exactly the warmest time of year.”
“Fair point,” he apprehensively agreed. “Maybe there’s a hospital gown or something that could pass as blacks until I can sneak my way into barracks?”
“Not unless blacks are covered in purple cogs and tied together behind your neck,” June scoffed. “And, honestly, if that doesn't send your dignity to the grave, I don’t know what would.”
Had such a disappointed huff not left his nose in that subsequent moment, the mental image of him trying to awkwardly stuff the excess material of that scratchy, violet gown behind his chest plate likely would have had a small snicker escape her lips, yet the unease dominating his expression instead resurrected that mystifying need to commiserate with this alluring stranger.
“We can handle this,” she asserted, watching him thoughtfully chew the inside of his cheek while picking uselessly at a blemish in the teal paint on his thigh plate. “If I help, you won’t even need to lift your arms. Plus– once it’s off, I can throw it in the Cleanser Tube and get it washed while I’m patching you up. That way the purple robe can stay in the cupboard, and you’ll have your shirt back to walk outta here dignity intact. Deal?”
His gaze shifted upward, darting back and forth between her eyes as if searching their depths for any semblance of the ulterior motive he’d seemingly grown to expect.
“Okay,” he agreed a sigh later, evidently failing to find anything other than quiet confidence behind that sapphire blue. “But if I start weeping, do your best not to laugh.”
“I’ll try,” she answered in mock intensity, waiting for his timorous gaze to meet hers again before offering a jesting smile. “Though in all honesty, Captain, just wait until you feel my hands. I’ll be more surprised if you don’t start weeping.”
Stepping intentionally around his armoured knees toward the head of the bed, she watched him steel himself by straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. “I’ll pull on your sleeve,” she told him, permitting herself only a moment to appreciate the endearing quartet of freckles on the right side of his neck. “You pull your arm.”
She guided her thumbs under the elastic cuff of his top, that deceivingly thin fabric instantly reminding her of the wetsuit she’d once donned during a diving trip on Naboo, though there was something significantly more tutelary about this injected material, as if the microthreads used to create it had been fibers of some pliable steel.
“I appreciate you being so… helpful,” he spoke, wincing slightly as his hand disappeared into the darkness of his sleeve and redirected itself downward through the trunk of the garment. “I guess I did need the big guns.”
June hesitated, barely able to repress the small smile promising to peel across her lips as she rolled and bunched the hem of his shirt in her fists, waiting until his palm had firmly planted itself beside his hip before proceeding.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked him in what she hoped was a casual tone despite her heart pounding loudly in her ears at his indirect laudation.
“‘Course,” he answered, squeezing his eyes closed as she began to stretch and guide that narrow collar past his ear and over his meticulously cropped hair.
“You’re not the only soldier who hates injections. You’re one of very many, actually… and one of even more that tries to hide it under this very unnecessary ‘tough guy’ attitude. While I don’t personally understand the fear behind a microdose of medication, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand being very wary of something, and that by no means makes you a wuss.”
He emerged from the depths of his shirt with a smoldering look that she’d never seen adorn the eyes of a soldier before, and the intensity of how he gazed sternly yet somewhat reverently into hers near-forced a paralytic shiver down her spine.
She near-cowered under its magnitude, and growing increasingly aware of how her body continued to betray her demand for professionalism by relentlessly inflaming her cheeks, she stepped carefully back around his knees and stuffed her fingers under the cuff of the other sleeve.
“Ready?” she asked as he upheld a pensive silence, waiting for him to consent before hooking one hand under the hem of that top now draped over his shoulder, and directing it carefully down the muscular arm he shifted to grant the garments removal.
She didn’t wait to see if he’d further acknowledge her expostulation before wadding up that soaked and soiled fabric and departing the bedside, crossing the room to where the Cleanser Tube sat recessed into the wall. After opening the door and shoving the clothing inside, she activated a sonic cycle with a quick poke of a button and turned to the adjacent Hand Sanitary Station.
Both pieces of machinery were considered to be state of the art medical technology, and were proprietary pieces licensed to only this medical facility while the patent approval process remained clogged behind far more consequential senatorial matters. The Cleanser Tube, designed to wash, sanitize and dry textiles in a fraction of the time that a traditional washing machine took, was installed on every floor, ensuring the sanitation droids could efficiently reuse the ludicrous amount of bedding the hospital exploited daily. Its pseudo-partner in technological advancement, the Sanitary Station, had demanded significantly more adaptability from the medical staff upon its installation, most of whom had spent several expensive years learning to meticulously disinfect their hands prior to any patient contact. While not all that different in concept to the Cleanser beside it, the absence of friction in hand washing was a foreign concept for a surgeon used to scrubbing their skin to within an inch of its already shoddy integrity before initiating a procedure. Nevertheless, the benefit of its efficiency had proved largely pivotal for those increasingly numerous days where surgeries were booked back to back.
Its familiar ion aroma wafted upward into June’s nose the second she approached and forced her fists through each of the two side-by-side valves. Sensing the new additions in its chamber, the machine activated automatically, tightening the silicone grip around each wrist to near-discomfort while cool, damp air began to circulate between her fingers. An inappropriately loud chime moments later alerted what felt like the entire hospital that the disinfection cycle had completed, and the machine ceased its vibration for only a moment before those sophisticated motors kicked back into life, preparing to swaddle her hands in a thin layer of purple nitrile. When all ten of her fingers had been appropriately coated, the valves released their complete encirclement of her wrists, and she pulled her hands from the tubes, fingers flexing habitually against the irksome constriction.
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#starqueenswrittenworks#The Only Exception#Captain Howzer x fem!OC#fem!OC x Captain Howzer#fem!OC x Howzer#Howzer x fem!OC#3rd pov#bad batch fan fic#howzer bad batch#bad batch howzer#medical anxiety#medical injuries#whump#light angst#light whump#angst
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A Thousand Ways
Chapter 4: "Mind Leaps"
Legend prevents an assassination, beats up some knights, and learns some things!
First | <<Previous | Next>>
Event Masterlist
Read On AO3
Warnings: panic attacks, cursing
Over the next couple days, his magic was coming back but was still rather dismal.
He still followed Zelda almost unceasingly, he'd gotten a dream that night—not one unlike the one that began his first adventure— about the other heroes in battle, they were fine at the end of it, nothing seemed off except how they mentioned they had no idea where he was, they didn't even seem in danger.
That was it, and a voice that he knew to be Farore's telling him to rest, they'd come to him.
As much as he disliked it, he did as told. He was enjoying it with Zelda and her kids, even if the guards made him want to crawl into a hole and hide all day.
During some meeting in the throne room, Legend sort of off to the side and just kind of watching everything play out as the army general, the court mage, and a few other important figures were discussing with Zelda about the safety of the kingdom.
He saw a tapestry bend and curl in the wind, he nearly dismissed it before he realized: there was no wind.
The carpet flattened.
Legend darted forward. He dove in front of the queen, ignoring outraged cries and swords being unsheathed.
A throwing knife cut into his hand as he caught it out of the air. With far less strength than he was used to, so using far more energy than he would prefer to make up for it.
The advisors, queen, and guards froze.
He didn't hesitate, he tackled the invisible person with ease, found their neck, and held the blade there.
"Drop the illusion," he snarled. "Or taste your own blade."
In an instant, he met the hazel eyes of a young mage of some kind, an assassin obviously.
"Guards!" The queen called.
Legend got up quickly as the guards rushed them. He hoped desperately they didn't grab him, and tried not to flinch when one bumped him. They seized the assassin.
"You bastard!" The assassin yelled. "You--devil! Nobody could see through that spell! Blessed by the hatred god, you are! The queen employs demons!"
Legend scoffed. If only they realized he'd wielded the Triforce three times over.
With a barked command from Zelda, the assassin was dragged away. Legend spun the knife in his hand, he had full intentions of keeping it. That was his policy, if someone attacks him with a knife and doesn't kill him, he keeps the knife. They'd have to take it back to get it back.
"Link," Zelda called and he turned to her. She gave him a soft smile. "Thank you. Well done."
A surge of warmth hit him. He ducked his head and gave an awkward half bow, hoping his ears weren't as pink as they were warm. He slipped back to his corner, but not out of awareness as the advisors and guards were far more aware of him.
He was far more aware too, senses as far as he could push them without magic. He wasn't letting anyone hurt Zelda, she was a friend to one of the other heroes at the least, and at most she was Fable's ancestor or descendant, that was plenty reason.
He leaned against the wall and spun his new knife, watching everything closely for the slightest, wrong move.
Rumor spread quickly throughout Hyrule Castle, Legend was well aware of that and he was unsurprised that that fact held true in this era.
At breakfast, Alphon suggested Legend join him for the day and they could see where his fighting skills were at.
Legend hated that idea, but he kept his mouth shut as Zelda agreed on the condition that Legend was fine with it.
Though he'd much rather be with the almost-assassinated queen, he knew that there would be many more guards around her and he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with that the whole day.
So he compromised and agreed to go with Alphon for the morning and rejoin Zelda after lunch.
In the training grounds, Alphon got Legend a sword and had him spar with him. He won within a couple minutes, it was a remarkably hard spar, not exactly challenging but it was harder than he expected.
However, that cued basically the whole grounds of knights to try and one up each other by fighting him. He didn't know whose Hyrule this was yet, but their guards' skills were abysmal and disappointing.
They gradually got more and more angry, most calling him kid, boy, lad, or some other child term. Legend knew he didn't look all that old, he frankly wasn't that old at all, and that definitely infuriated the guards as he won again and again, only breaking a sweat after some dozen spars.
Sure, his magic may have been low, but he was physically fine. He knew perfectly well how to fight without any magical items, despite what Warriors may say. This was his first adventure without having to start over from scratch concerning equipment.
He stumbled over roots and weaved past the great trees all around him, running rapidly through the forest, adrenaline pumping through his veins as angered yells and roars of fury followed him, rabid barks echoed and sharp teeth gnashed at his heels.
He ran. Fear took hold as he tore through the forest, thunder booming overhead and rain pouring around him. His tunic was soaked, his boots couldn't get true traction on the ground, tree branches smacked him in the face or cut up his hands as he shoved them away.
"GET HIM!" A gruff, angry voice roared with the thunder.
Teeth knashed at his back and Link ran.
He had to get away. He couldn't—He couldn't let them catch him. They catch him and he's dead. Agahnim would have him killed in the blink of an eye.
"DON'T LET HIM GET AWAY!"
Arrows flew past his head and Link's throat tried to close up as fear replaced the blood pumping through him. He tripped over a root and fell to the ground.
A boot landed on his wrist and he tried to hold back a scream, the stone floor of his cell was wet and soaked his back. The boot crushed and twisted and he screamed.
Laughter echoed above him, faces filled with glee were blurred by painful tears.
"Please," he begged. "Please don't—" his voice was cut off by another scream of pain as the same treatment given to his wrist was applied to his ankle. He could feel each bone shatter and twist and break. His voice gave out and he tried to get free.
He was slammed into the wall, shackles holding him up and he slumped limply. His head was dragged up by his hair and he whimpered pitifully.
"No--don't--I'm sorry. I'm sorry--please, please don't--"
"Sorry ain't gonna save you," the familiar voice chuckled lowly. He twisted against the bonds.
His wrists were held fast while senseless begging fell from his lips. Pain still flared through him, a blade driven into his stomach, just off-center, and twisted.
A strained, quiet sob was ripped from him just as the blade was, his body sagged and he gave up.
Nobody could survive the wounds he had. He was dead. Killed in a cell, tortured to death by soldiers.
A soft song overcame the laughter and angered threats and taunting jeers. Quiet humming and the chains around him tightened.
He sobbed, trying desperately to escape, he didn't want to die.
"I don't—please, no, I don't want to die—" he begged.
"You deserve to die!" Marin stood in front of him as he fell to his knees. "You killed us!" She cried, tears streaming down her face. "All of us!"
Behind her stood the people of Koholint.
"No!" he sobbed. "No, please—I didn't—I-I—Don’t do this. Please--"
"Face it. If ya had just stayed in bed li'e I told ya to, everythin' would've been fine," Uncle said bluntly, that disappointed face glaring down at him.
"Uncle please—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"You're sorry?" Wind demanded angrily. "You left us, Vet! You left us!"
"And to think I looked up to you," Hyrule recoiled.
He screamed, senselessly apologizing and begging.
He needed it to stop. He needed all of it to just stop.
The song grew a bit louder, a bit more real, and the chains grew warm.
He fought against them, fearing for heated metal against his skin, it wouldn't be the first time. He sobbed and tried to escape, but the chains were wound tighter and the soft humming became a bit more prominent and then—he recognized it.
It wasn't the song Fi used to sing to him, hers was the slightest bit different. The Song of the Hero, she had called it.
This was one that he remembered far deeper, from a time he had no memory of, he shouldn't know this song but it was there and it brought peace, warmth, and safety.
The yelling faded, the screaming and the pain, it all slowly faded. Thunder still boomed and he still choked on a sob from it, an ocean trying to rise around him, but the soft song held it back, held him at peace.
It all faded, all of it.
Legend startled, registering that he was wrapped up in someone's arms. They were warm and something about them made his magic coo safe.
He slumped further into them, memories of his nightmares causing him to shake.
"Shh, it's okay, you're okay," they whispered into his hair, his mind too muddled and their voice too muffled for him to place their voice or presence. "I got you. It's alright, dear heart."
He choked on a sob, clinging to their front and trembling badly. He couldn't care for who it was, just that they were safe.
"I know," they murmured. "It's okay. Just breathe, you're alright."
It took a long time before he properly come to his senses. He realized it was Zelda who held and soothed him. He jerked away once he realized that, stared at her and her soft, concerned face, then buried his blazing face into his hands and muffled a whine of embarrassment.
She had the audacity to laugh at him, drawing a hand through his hair.
"It is no shame to need comfort." She kissed the top of his head and he went rigid. "Alphon said he told you our thoughts. You may say what you like about blood, but be as it may, magic does not lie and yours is that of my son's. So long as the goddesses will it, I will always be here for you."
Legend shuddered and slumped back into her. She easily hugged him close.
"I'm sorry," he gasped out. "I'm sorry. I-I'm so sorry—"
"Shh, none of that," she chided. "You have done nothing wrong."
"You don't know that." You don't know me.
"I know that the boy who unhesitatingly threw himself between a flying knife and myself, and who I've been watching play house with two children, couldn't have done anything to deserve the fear you hold."
He didn't respond to that.
Legend found the library and hid in there for the whole day. He needed to be alone for a while.
He found the history books and went as far back as they had, then worked his way forward. He paced up and down the shelves, tracing lines in a book he could hardly read. He found a book that translated to ancient Hylian and managed to reverse it and learn the current Hylian. Sky had memorized whose Hylian's were which, Legend had not. Nonetheless, this one wasn't that far off from his own. Their ancient Hylian was the same, at least.
They had the Heroes of the Four Sword, the Hero of Men, even a book or two on the Hero of the Sky and the Founding of Hyrule. But the next hero was where it was different.
It spoke of the Hero of Time, a child who told the king of how the King of Thieves was a traitor to the crown and intended to kill them.
It spoke of this hero's journey, and Legend covered his mouth in slight horror.
The Fallen Hero was the one who faced the King of Thieves, it was the Fallen Hero who'd come from the forest and fought the Gerudo King as a young child and then again as a teenager.
Not this... Hero of Time--Wind called the Old Man the Hero of Time, oh!
Time had mentioned how the timeline must've split, that he'd left behind another timeline where his Ganondorf won for seven years until Time did defeat him and then went back in time to prevent it all. The timeline he left became Wind's time and then the one Time lived in would one day become Twilight's era.
But these books, the history and the dates—
Someway, somehow, Time was the Fallen Hero.
Legend had spent a few hours searching the library for every account on the Old Man, even learning the circumstances of his death, then he turned and searched for the next history book.
He needed to know whose world he was in. Twilight's? Warriors' maybe? Zelda didn't seem to be the warrior queen Warriors spoke of, nor Impa the war general. He hadn't met any time sorcerers so—
Books on the Twilight Realm, which Twilight himself had mentioned once but never elaborated on. It was Twilight's era then...
He found a book about recent history that was probably far more accurate and personal to Twilight's adventure than the ancient ones about Time.
Legend didn't read it.
The sun was setting.
He slipped unnoticed through the castle and managed to arrive somewhat on time for dinner like Zelda had asked him to.
He didn't quite escape the nightmares that night, but Zelda had been there and ushered them away with that hauntingly familiar song.
Legend shadowed Zelda the next day, this time with a book in his hands. It was in some odd language similar to Lorulean, Zelda hadn't questioned his reading choice nor even looked at it, but he was enjoying the puzzle that was deciphering the language.
It was some mix of Lorulean, Sheikah, and Gerudo. Close enough to the three that he was confident in his ability to decipher it. It was a magic book, definitely, spells he was certain weren't quite dark in nature, it was close to shadow magic, which he had absolutely no capability to use. He had tried once, when his Impa agreed to see if his aptitude for magic applied to it as well, but lo' and behold, he couldn't muster the slightest bit of even mildly dark magic.
He ended up having a new book the next day, and this one was far easier to read and on magic he could, theoretically, achieve.
Zelda had recognized the book, and so most of their day was spent discussing it and Zelda talking him through how to actually achieve it.
His magic was almost full, he didn't have any intentions to use it until it hit full. It tended to deplete slower when he let it fully replenish rather than drain it when it was almost full.
That night after dinner was when he felt it click, he sighed softly, tension rolling off his shoulders and relief hitting him as his magic finally finished replenishing.
That morning, he told Zelda what was going on.
The black blooded monsters, the time travel, that he needed to find his way back to the group, she had been quiet for a time.
"Let me teach you some offensive magic," she requested. "You can leave at first light tomorrow."
He stared at her. "Wait what?"
"We'll arm you to your liking and send you off with plenty of supplies, obviously, but let me teach you some magic in case you lose your equipment again."
He hadn't expected the easy agreement, the belief, or the offer.
He agreed.
They spent the day doing magic, careful not to use too much of Legend's too quickly. He got the hang of the teleportation spell pretty quickly as well as the spinning shield.
Zelda called the teleportation 'Farore's Wind' and the shield spell 'Nayru's Love', the third thing she was teaching was 'Din's Fire'.
Apparently they were spells only learnable by those who wielded the Triforce, any part of it, and she had learned it from the ghost of her ancestor who founded Hyrule. He wondered if Twilight had learned it and just chose not use it.
She had some servants get together a bag of supplies and said she'd have a sword ready for him by dawn. Legend hadn't expected that much help, but thanked her nonetheless.
To wind down, Legend spent the evening with the prince and princess. They ended up demanding another story after he told them as gently as he could that he'd be leaving soon.
He went to sleep, hoping for no more nightmares.
Next>>
#febuwhump 2024#linked universe#lu legend#linkeduniverse#legend lu#fanfic#lu fanfiction#linked universe fanfic#lu dusk#loz timeline#panic attack#light whump#prosie writes#a thousand ways au
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Secretly powerful teammates.
Think someone going to strike at a character and them not having the reflexes quick enough to stop it. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, their teammate known to be weak (maybe the only one who stays out of the action) not only protects them, but lunges at the attacker with a cold look on their face the team has never seen before. Them winning, to the surprise of the team, but getting slightly hurt in the midst of the battle. Afterwards, the character being highly in shock over the unfamiliar actions of the teammate and worrying over their graze as they convince themself that they must be going crazy. There’s no way their innocent, feeble teammate could be capable of something like that.
The teammate lightly commenting that they had hardly noticed the injury and instead turning their attention to making sure the character is safe. Them wanting to care for the stuttering, confused character, suddenly seeming much bigger and more mature than ever before, but being stopped in their tracks by the approaching team. The team, who had been taken aback by the sudden change in the teammate, confronting them about their actions and true strength, while simultaneously trying to discreetly lead them to an area to get treated. The teammate eventually realizing this and saying that the injury was hardly a scratch the couldn’t even notice and that they’d had far worse. The team becoming horrified at the notion that their “weakest” member could ever have handled worse. Shocked because they thought of the teammate as someone they always needed to protect, someone they couldn’t imagine getting even slightly hurt.
Then the teammate having to convince the team that they’re really fine, and going back to normal afterwards. But the team never really recovering from seeing the other side to the teammate and thinking of them differently from before.
#this was a random spur of the moment#please forgive any incomprehensible aspects#light whump#whump ideas#whump thoughts#whump scenario#whump prompts#team whump prompts#overprotective caretaker#overprotective teammates#strong whumpee#powerful characters#powerful whumpee#hiding powers#protective whumpee#cold whumpee#if you can’t tell#I’m currently obsessed with#team dynamics#writing#writing scenario#writing promt#writing tropes#character tropes#found family#found family prompts#tropes#feigning weakness#the baby storyteller
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When Will You Let Her Go?
Whumptober Day 8: “It’s all for nothing.”
LAURA WHUMP, emotional whump, light whump
DISCLAIMER: I am legally allowed to torment the fictional character of Laura Barton (and Bruce Banner) this month.
AN: You are going to learn a lot about my writing process this month, sorry. Most of the whump fics will be 3rd or 4th round drafts. I normally spend weeks, if not months editing. Many of these pieces will be written days, if not hours, before the prompt is due. please forgive any spelling or grammar errors, or if these don't seem up to my usual standard.
thank you for indulging me tho😘
Summary: Laura calls the kids while they are in New York with Clint and Kate. part 1 of 3
“Hey, is everybody having fun?”
“Hi, mom!” Lila circled around Kate Bishop's penthouse with her phone, making Laura dizzy on the facetime call. “We’re having the best time! Look at Kate’s place!”
Clint was in New York helping Kate get ready for her first round of SWORD training and had taken Cooper, Lila, and Nate with him.
“Summer in New York is sooo much better than the winter.”
“What have you been doing? Where are your brothers?”
“They’re right here.” She turned the phone towards Cooper and Nate.
Laura blinked. She thought she was looking at an arcade. The room was huge with various ping pong, fooseball , and pool tables, along with old, upright video games. Cooper was playing online games on a theater size screen and Nate had VR goggles on, punching and kicking the air.
“Hi Mom!” Cooper shouted, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Hi, sweetie. Hello, Nathan.”
Nate continued playing.
“He can’t hear you.” Lilia swung the phone back around. “Anyway, we swam at Kate’s friend’s house. She has a pool on the roof of her apartment building!”
“Wow, that sounds fun.”
“Way more fun swimming at the Waverly community pool. We also saw Rogers the Musical again and got to meet the entire cast afterwards.” Lila went into the largest bathroom Laura had ever seen and rummaged through some drawers.
“Thought you guys said that play was silly when you saw it at Christmas?”
“Yeah, but we met some of the actors in Central Park a few days ago, it was really cool. The guy that plays dad does not look like him at all.” She laughed and began putting on makeup. “Ms. Nadia gave us box seats.”
“Miss Nadia?”
“She plays Aunt Nat. She's super nice, Mom, and really pretty. She could be Aunt Nat’s twin; they look that much alike.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, and she taught me some ballet moves to take back to my class. Ms. Nadia says I should take jazz classes if I want to be on Broadway like her.”
“But, I thought you were…”
“She’s an amazing dancer, Mom. Dad said she can do all the moves from Swan Lake, like Aunt Nat. She said she would teach me those too.”
“Is your dad there?”
“No, Kate is with us.”
“Why? Where did he go?”
“He had to help Ms. Nadia get some stuff for her Black
Widow costume. Guess what?”
“What?” She asked, not thrilled with this new information.
Why would Clint need to help the Black Widow dancer with her costume? The play had been running for almost a year.
“Kate got us Taylor Swift concert tickets!! A suite by all of the celebrities. And we get to take a huge purple, Hummer limousine. I can’t wait!”
“You guys are supposed to come home tomorrow.”
“Dad said we could stay a few more days to go to the concert and to the Hamptons with Kate and her friends. It's summer vacation, Mom.”
“I know.” Laura tried not to sound too disappointed.
This weekend was her and Clint's wedding anniversary. The children were supposed to go to their cousin's house to spend the night so she and Clint could have a romantic evening.
They hadn't had much alone time. Since his retirement, Clint had been keeping busy fixing up the house and visiting New York every couple of months to help Kate.
“Come on, please.” Lila begged.
“Lila! Where are you?” Clint hollered in the background.
“Daddy’s home!”
“Home?” Laura balked, but Lila ignored her.
“Dad! Talk to Mom. Shes using that voice when she doesn’t like something.”
“Why?” Clint came in and gave Lila a hug.
“I told her about staying a few days and she has that tone, as usual.” Lila handed the phone to him.
He covered the screen with his hand.
"I'll take care of it." Laura heard Clint whisper.
“Hey, hon.” Clint removed his hand and she saw him check on the boys.
“You’re staying longer?”
“Is that a problem?”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“When I got back here. Didn’t know the kids were going to call you.” Clint walked down a long hallway to a massive kitchen.
“I called, she emphasized the 'I', “ because you were supposed to call me at noon.”
“Kate, where’d we put the putty?” Clint hollered to his protege somewhere in the penthouse.
“Clint!” Laura yelled.
“What?”
She blew out a breath loudly.
“It’s only our anniversary this weekend.”
“Oh, yeah. Happy anniversary, babe.”
“No, this weekend…”
“I’ll send you some flowers and New York candy. The kids and I went to Dylan’s and went crazy.”
Kate came into the room.
“Tell Cooper to finish his game, we gotta go.” Clint said.
"Is that Nadia? Tell her our matching shirts for the concert came in"
“No, it’s Laura.”
“Oh, hi, Laura!” Kate stuck her face into frame and waved.
“Hi, Kate.” Laura tried to muster some enthusiasm.
“Cooper, get Nate and let's go!” Kate bounded out.
“Clint.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He finally looked into the phone. “What were you saying?”
“So, when are you coming home?”
“I changed the flights to Monday.”
“That’s almost another week.’
“It’s not like the kids have school.”
“I thought we could spend our anniversary together.”
“Seventeen years, it’s not one of the milestones.”
“That’s rude.”
“I mean,” he rolled his eyes, “our daughter has a once in a lifetime opportunity to see her favorite singer at Madison Square Garden in premium seats. For free. We could not afford to do this for her. Do you really want to make her come home so we can go to Applebee’s?”
“I guess not.”
“She’ll think you’re the best mom for letting her stay.”
“Well, let me talk to her one more time.”
“She’s already out the door with Kate and the boys.”
Laura didn’t hide her annoyance.
“I promise she’ll call you tomorrow. We have to go meet Nat and the others. Have a good time with your girls.” He set the phone down.
“What did you say?”
“Have a good time." He picked it back up but all Laura could see was walls. "I’ll tell the kids you miss them. Bye, hon.”
“Wait…”
He hung up.
Laura stared at her phone for a long moment before flinging it on the bed. She gathered up the little, black nightie she’d bought for this weekend and shoved it back in the bag.
find the whole series here....laura whump
#whumptober2023#no. 3#it's all for nothing#marvel#clintasha#fic#light whump#hawkeye#black widow#laura barton#natasha romanov#clint barton#when will you let her go
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I keep hanging on
Arin learns just how much resilience his teacher has. Lloyd would rather no one worry, especially not his student
Takes place after The Battle of the Second Monastery
When they emerged into the winding hallway that led to the Monastery of Spinjitzu, the first thing Arin did was force himself to look over at his teacher who was pale and unconscious in Zane's arms.
It made his stomach twist uncomfortably; every time he had seen the ninja fight, they were always okay by the end.
He had heard about the fight against the former Jade princess Harumi where she had teamed up with Lord Garmadon and subsequently brought New Ninjago City to its knees, but he had been too young to remember the events and every fight after that had been successful. He had been given no reason to assume that this one would be no different.
And yet, the current events spiraling around him filled his thoughts with both worry and doubt that they had fully won. ‘You can’t win if not everyone is standing by your side.’
Arin didn’t understand why seeing his teacher so vulnerable and so hurt reminded him of the events of The Merge, specifically being swept away from his parents, but the emerging of that thought forced nausea down his throat with a sudden wave.
He was unable to shake the feeling even when Sora tapped his shoulder which effectively brought him to the task at hand, which happened to be figuring out what to do with several very large dragons.
“Maybe I should go make sure Lloyd is okay.” Arin suggested, only to be shot down quickly by his best friend.
“Nya, Kai and Zane know what to do. We have to make sure all of them,” she stopped to wave her hand in a gesture towards the dragons, “are okay.”
Even though Arin relented quickly, knowing that he would be more helpful with Sora and Wyldfire, he still couldn’t shake the sinking worry that filled his mind and his gut when he thought back to Lloyd’s nearly white face as he let out shallow breaths while being held onto tightly by Zane.
But all he could do was wait on answers.
One Week Later
“Zane, for the last time, I am fine.” Lloyd insisted as he sat on the end of his bed while Zane ran a vital check, “I just got a little dizzy, that’s all. That happens when you’re unconscious for six days.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Zane concluded as he finished running the diagnostic, “but making sure it wasn’t due to what happened before you collapsed is just a precaution.”
“I know,” Lloyd agreed with a nod and wishing that maybe, just maybe, he could go for the rest of his life without having another bone chilling vision like the one he had while freeing the dragons, “can you send Arin in here? I want to make sure he’s okay.”
“Of course,” Zane nodded and started to go to the door before stopping to look Lloyd in the eyes with a mix of admiration and pride, “you’re doing a good job with both of them.”
Lloyd couldn’t do anything but sit there in astonishment as Zane left the room; he knew that he was doing the same amount of teaching and guiding that he did for the other ninja when Krux and Acronix had become the center of their attention years ago, but hearing he was doing a good job, that was new.
He didn’t have a lot of time to focus on that, however, because Arin’s head poked through the door like a small child and he knew that he had to assure his student that he was fine in case they were attacked again before he really was one hundred percent.
“Arin, you can come in,” Lloyd insisted, waiting until the teenager closed the door behind him before asking, “are you okay?”
“Am I- I’m not the one who’s having dizzy spells and passing out because of dragon powers and having terrifying visions-”
“Okay, I get it, I get it,” Lloyd insisted, standing up and walking forward to place his hand on Arin’s shoulder, thankful that the dizziness had passed, at least for now, “take a deep breath, okay? I will be fine.”
“You don’t know that.” Arin protested, but Lloyd just shushed him until he calmed down some before leading him over to sit down on the bed beside him and pulling up his sleeves, hearing Arin gasp.
“All of these, and the ones here,” Lloyd pointed to his torso, “and here,” pointing to his legs, “are all from being a ninja.” Lloyd pulled down his sleeves before looking back at Arin, “I am not saying that to scare you, or to make you more worried about me. I’m saying that because I have been doing this for a very long time and I am always okay.”
“What about when you aren’t?”
“Yeah, there have been some close calls,” Lloyd admitted, his hand subconsciously going to the back of his head and the fight in Kryptarium Prison, “but nothing has gotten me yet; a little bit of dizziness isn’t enough to stop me and it’s definitely not something that you need to worry about.”
“What if it is?”
“You’ll know if it is,” Lloyd insisted as they both stood up and started to head for the door, “but for now, you need to get back to training.”
“Are you training too?” Arin questioned with a raised eyebrow that reminded him of the many times when Nya was very disapproving of Lloyd’s actions after he had suffered some sort of trauma.
“No, I’ll just be observing. The others would kill me if I tried to train like this.”
“Is it bad that I’m grateful for that?” Arin questioned and Lloyd couldn’t help but smile when he gave his response while holding the door open for both of them to pass through.
“Not at all.”
#ninjago#lego ninjago#ninjago: dragons rising#my writing#family#light whump#ninjago arin#ninjago sora#ninjago zane#lloyd garmadon#post episode#mild angst#friendship#team as family#Lloyd becoming a sensei and learning how to do what his uncle did for years is my new favorite trope
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That slow build up. That anticipatory period of just knowing.
Like knowing a migraine is going to start or a meltdown is imminent, but all the whumpee can do is prepare and hope it isn't too bad.
Maybe their friends know the signs and help or maybe they're just confused until the inevitable happens.
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Whumptober day 26
Prompt- "You Look Awful" | Working to Exhaustion
Wong is tired... That's literally it. :)
~~
Excerpt::
It probably didn't help that he hadn't slept more than two hours in the past three days.
“I'm turning into Stephen,” Wong grumbled.
Whumptober 2023 Masterlist
#whumptober2023#no.26#you look awful#working to exhaustion#ficlet#doctor strange#sleep deprivation#wong is tired#hurt stephen strange#light whump#wong & stephen friendship
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February Whump Prompts – 2023, DAY 16: Semi-Conscious
Content Warnings: Swearing, Crack Fic, Light Whump
Fandom: Fairy Tail
Whack a Lucy
“Think we could move her?”
Move? Lucy felt a sharp ache pierce through her skull the moment she thought the word. No, that could not be. It had been when the voices around her first came through. Could they not be quiet, she groaned.
“Is she coming to?” That warm voice filled her ears and a well of annoyance overflowed inside. If Natsu was hovering over her, that meant something went wrong, and the possibility that he had been involved were high.
“I don’t think so. Probably just an unconscious reaction.” Another familiar voice shot through her head like a cold chill. Those two morons could leave her alone or at least get Wendy so she could help her head.
“This is bad, Erza is going to kill us! Why did you have to get in my way, Gray?”
“You got in my way, Flames for brains!”
“I was clearly going after the target first!”
“You wanna go at it again?”
“Will you two stop it!” Another voice, another familiar one, added to the headache that pounded in her head. “We need to get Lucy to Wendy!”
“We know, little Buddy—”
“No, you don’t! You are just fighting here and not paying attention to her. She’s pale and her head is bleeding from that rock you threw at her!”
“Oi! Who are you saying threw that rock? If Ice Princess hadn’t tossed an ice hammer and hit the Vulcan AND the rock, it wouldn’t have hit her!”
“Who had the bright idea to throw a flaming rock at a Vulcan!?”
“What? Fighting them with fists would’ve been boring.”
“You’re a moron.”
“Wanna say that again, droopy eyes?”
How she wished she had the strength to summon Virgo to drop them in a hole. They were too loud and if her head wound did not kill her, the pain splitting her head apart currently would. The fact that they were too consumed to fight with each other and buck the blame made her wish desperately that Erza would come and beat them into oblivion.
“I can’t believe you used the hammer as a bat.” She vaguely remembered seeing that. Both of them had already been bickering non-stop and had been trying to show the other up with the most ridiculous ways to take out the Vulcan pod. It had started way before the rock had been toss. For her part, her and Happy had merely stayed back as they went crazy. The last thing she had seen and heard had been the hammer slamming into the Vulcan from the side.
At least only the rock hit her and not the Vulcan, too.
“Who was the one who kicked a full tree down to land on one?”
“Should I remind you that I took out three with that move?”
“Whatever, flame breath.”
“Gray! Natsu!” Was that Erza she heard?
“Aw, crap! We’re so dead!”
“A-aye!”
It was. Finally, she just desperately wanted this agony to go away. Their arguing was too much and way too loud, and she could say nothing to either of them. Not even a finger twitched at her command.
“What happened to Lucy?!”
“Oh no! She looks bad! Carla, can you get me the bandages while I begin healing her?”
“You two, speak now. What happened here.”
“Well, you see…Natsu had this great idea to throw a rock…”
“Natsu threw a rock at Lucy?”
“Aye! Wait, no! Don’t kill me! I threw it at a Vulcan, then Stripper here decided to play ball and smacked the same one I threw the rock at with a hammer! But he did it like…a bat!”
“I had already called dibs!”
“Did not!”
“Did, too!”
Two loud clanks rung out and the same number of thuds on the ground. Neither one bothered her as bad with the energies she felt coming from Wendy’s hands. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked up at the young dragon slayer.
“Don’t try to move,” she said softly. “You got a pretty bad wound on your head.”
Light pierced the canopy of trees and her eyes. Closing them, she let out a sigh. “They wouldn’t…stop fighting.”
“They won’t be doing that any time soon,” Erza promised. The disappointment in her tone made Lucy’s skin crawl. Would it be better to apologize now for her lack of capabilities? “When we get back to the guild, those two will be chained to each other until they learn to get along.”
Slowly, she cracked open an eye and looked at the red-head. Relief flooded through her at the soft smile that was directed at her. “How did you know?”
“The Tomcat was actually useful and told us you were injured,” Carla said, holding the roll of bandages that had been requested.
“Happy?” She glanced around for him. “Where is he?”
“I sent him with the proof of a successful mission to get our reward and to buy train tickets.” Erza came over and waited until she had been given the okay from Wendy before picking her up in her arms.
Lucy blushed furiously even as her head fell on Erza’s shoulder. “I-I can walk!”
“Better not risk it, Miss Lucy.” Wendy smiled up at her as she healed the two boys just enough so they could walk.
“That’s right,” Erza agreed. “The carelessness of your teammates caused you to be wounded, we will ensure no additional damage can come to you, or I will take full responsibly.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I do, and I will.” She looked over her shoulder and gave the two males of their team a narrowed look that sent them both into each other’s arms. “And if I hear anything from either of you, you can guarantee, I can guarantee neither of you will be capable of going on jobs for over a month. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am!” They echoed.
Though she could not see their faces, Lucy could imagine how they looked. It gave her a sense of pride that she had managed to not be involved in this round of punishments from the red-head. It will be a good source of entertainment to watch them endure it for the foreseeable future.
Smiling, she let herself relax against the firm armor, glad that the pounding in her head had finally settled into nothing more than a faint heartbeat.
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This....was a weird ass fic for me. I usually don't write like this, but I could not for the life of me write this any other way.
Really sorry if this is not most people's cup of tea. I also really hope you can all tell who is talking.
And, if this is what it still stands for, I do believe this is my first real crack fic. Usually everything I write is serious, on point, and has a reason. There is no reason this should exist. It should probably burn in a pit somewhere, lol.
But, hopefully you all enjoyed it!
Links to AO3 | FF.net (I regret this fic so much I nearly forgot this, lol) - (Okay, I don’t regret it COMPLETELY, but it is still dumb, and I know it is)
@febuwhump
#febuwhump#febuwhump2023#Febuwhumpday16#Light whump#Tumblr Prompt#Prompt: Semi-Conscious#writing#fanfiction#crack fic#fanfic#fairy tail fanfiction#fairy tail#I really have no idea why I wrote this#It really is the dumbest thing ever#WHY DID I LET MYSELF WRITE THIS!??!#Hopefully tomorrow is better
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Cw: skin picking disorder
“What’s your NYE resolution, Whumpee?” Friend asked excitedly, “oh um, it’s a secret.” Whumpee smiled. “Hey, what did you do to your hand?” Friend asked. “Nothing! I just uh, scraped it.” Whumpee lied.
Next week:
“Hey Whumpee! How are you- oh my gosh your FACE! Are you ok?!” Whumpee’s eyes filled and threatened to spill over. “Well. My NYE resolution isn’t really a secret anymore.” Whumpee took a deep, shaky breath as Friend gave Whumpee time to speak.
“I have dermatillomania. It means I can’t stop picking my skin and my NYE resolution is to stop. I decided that if I was picking, that I’d put a bandage on the spot to stop myself. As you can see, this is how it’s going. There are more under my clothes. I look like the aftermath of a cheese grating incident.” The tears began as they whimpered the last sentence. There was so much bitterness in their voice as they truly believed they were worth less for their condition.
Friend stood there in silence, stunned. They knew Whumpee had some weird scars but never knew the origins. “D-doesn’t it.. hurt?…. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.” “No it’s ok to ask. I’m glad to be able to talk to someone about it. I can’t really feel it in the moment. At the time, I’m too focused on the picking. And I really want to stop because it’s embarrassing. I’m literally doing this to myself but I don’t have control.”
“Have you tried talking to a doctor about this?” “I’m afraid they’ll put me away in a hospital thinking I’m doing it on purpose to hurt myself.” “Right, but you aren’t. This is a symptom of a condition and you deserve to have it treated. At least, that’s my opinion.” “Well, I guess it’s worth a shot.” “If you want, I can come with you as like, an advocate! Or I can just sit in the waiting room. Whatever makes you feel safer.”
Whumpee’s eyes filled again. “Thank you.”
#dermatillomania#whumpee#whumpblr#whump blog#whump ideas#whump#whump inspiration#injured whumpee#whump community#light whump
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Touch - Masterpost
Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader
Summary: You fall in love with Benedict Bridgerton over the course of a year, admiring his lovely long fingers and all the ways they connect you. A love letter to BB/LT's beautiful hands and regency 'hand stuff'.
Winter Rated: G
Spring Rated: G
Summer Rated: 18+
The Following Autumn Rated: 18+
Epilogue Rated: 18+
#bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#female reader#regency romance#fluff and romance#light smut#light whump
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A Month of Kisses, #29
cw: the captor becoming the caretaker (very light whump)
---
He was exhausted.
Every muscle was sore, whining weakly, trembling at the slightest movement. His body was heavy, slow, a burden on his aching feet and crying legs. He was starving, the need for something more substantial than the snacks and water he'd been made to find over the last few days turning his bones hollow. And he was tired. He was so woefully, pitifully, mournfully tired.
He stood in the ballroom again. The damned ballroom. He recognized the floor. He couldn't see any of the walls or windows, not since the third day when all of the blackout curtains had been drawn. But the floor, dimly illuminated by his starving oil lamp, was the ballroom's floor.
He huffed, hanging his head, fighting to keep his eyes open.
"Ready to talk?" that infuriatingly smooth voice asked from the dark. He wanted to howl at it, scream, rage against his tormentor. But he didn't have the energy. He didn't even bother trying to find it in the dark. He stood still, panting, trying to get a second wind for the hundredth time. But they'd stopped coming yesterday. This morning? "You really are finally wearing down," that voice went on. He didn't have the energy to get angry.
He'd come here to kill the stupid thing. How long ago had that been? If it hadn't been supplying him with food and water, he'd have something to measure it by.
"Does this mean you're finally ready to accept help?"
The voice really wasn't coming from anywhere in particular. It was probably another damned power nobody knew about. It was hard to study vampire powers when the things killed their minders or broke out or….
He heard a whimper break out of his cracked lips, and he put a hand up to his dizzy head.
"Darling…" the voice lamented. He could feel the tears coming, thick and sticky and sleep-deprived. He'd never cried so much in his life as the past several days here. He'd sleep like the dead as soon as he killed this damned thing. That would be reward enough.
A weight settled on his shoulders, wrapping around him from behind. Pale hands reached down, below his throat, and his head spun at the tiny sounds of clinking metal. Those same cold, bloodless hands reached to his shoulders, straightening the cloak. He wobbled on his feet as the lamp was gently plucked from his hand.
"It's finally time for us to talk," the thing whispered. It was directly behind him, he could feel it there. It reached down and tugged at his dagger. His hand moved, fumbling for its wrist, but it just quietly hushed him, the blade slipping from his control just like everything else. "I'll give this back, I promise," the voice breathed. The tears spilled then, and the thing pet his hair, hushing him tenderly. "Come along, darling," it breathed, wrapping its cold arm around his aching shoulders. He didn't have the fight left in him to resist as it guided him away.
The next thing he knew, he was being seated at the head of a table. There were a trio of tall, narrow candles sitting atop the length of it, lighting the room warmly, if minimally. His lamp had been set on the table, as well, still burning, still starving. He couldn't see the walls very well, and it occurred to him he was currently alone. He couldn't feel or hear the thing anywhere. He looked down slowly at his hip, sniffling weakly. He pulled aside the thick, heavy, warm weight of the cloak to find his sheath empty. Despair and loneliness burned his eyes again.
There was movement on the other side of the room, and he looked up in time to see the thing stepping fully into the candlelight. It was taller than he remembered, more beautiful, and it was carrying a plate of food and two glasses. It set the plate down before him, producing a fork and knife as he took in the sight of chicken, rice, and vegetables. It set the two glasses before him as well; water and… apple juice.
"Apologies for holding out on you," it said, stepping around him as he picked up the fork, traitorous tears of relief gathering. "You're very strong-willed," it continued, reappearing on his other side and sitting in the chair beside him. He turned the plate slowly with one hand, then hunched forward and began eating the rice. "I needed you to listen to me."
He mustered enough strength to throw the creature an annoyed glance.
"I suppose I deserve that," it uttered as he went back to his rice. It folded its hands, speaking in that smooth, calm voice. "I want to help you, hunter." He outwardly ignored it. "There are many of my kind who give the rest of us a bad name. I'd like to hunt them by your side." He paused, tossing the monster a sour glower. It raised a hand placatingly. "I know, it isn't exactly protocol," it said. He sighed, already out of steam to hate it. He went back to eating. "But it'll be more effective to fight fire with fire."
He didn't have the energy to speak. Obviously, it wanted something in return. That was how these things worked. There was no such thing as pro bono in their world. He kept eating.
It stood, stepping around him again. "You fight very well," it said from behind him. "I admire you, to put it plainly." It came back into view on his other side, holding a small oil can. He paused in his eating, watching as it delicately refilled his starving oil lamp. "I want to be involved in your work." It tipped the oil can up, closing the lamp again before gently turning the handle to increase the flame ever so. "You'd do me a service to allow me to help."
He swallowed, staring at his lamp as the creature stepped away again. His lamp and his dagger had been his only companions through all of this. All of the darkness and wandering and exhaustion. It was stupid to feel so relieved to see that little fire wouldn't burn out, to feel so proud to see it burning brighter after so long.
"Allow me," the thing whispered, its thin arms coming forward from behind. He didn't have the strength to flinch, but he looked down at his plate as it reached around him, delicately plucking the fork from his hand, tenderly taking up the knife. It started cutting the chicken for him, its motions smooth and gentle, and he found himself leaning back into his chair. It was quiet in the room as the creature cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces, its motions caring and repetitive. Once it had finished, it set the knife aside, well within the hunter's reach, and held the fork for him to take back. He grasped the silver handle cautiously, and it retreated most of the way, resting its hands on his shoulders. "I truly mean you no harm," it whispered. "Whatever reasons you have for your actions, I know it's nothing personal against me." It smoothed out the shoulders of the cloak, and he started slowly on the chicken now that he could eat it. "I wish to help you further your ends, hunter," it whispered, its voice directly behind his head. "It would give me great pleasure to hunt with you." He stilled as its voice moved closer, its touch becoming yet more delicate. "Even for you," it breathed just behind his ear. "If that were your wish."
He watched his plate as the creature touched its chilled lips to the shell of his ear. They were soft, and it pulled away with the quiet sound of parting lips before pressing another kiss gently to the side of his head.
He was tired. He was exhausted. Maybe that was why it seemed very much like this monster was professing love and loyalty after keeping him trapped for days on end.
"Eat for now," the thing whispered, pulling away. "When you finish, I'll show you to your quarters." It sat beside him again, and he watched its beautiful face as it smiled softly at him in the candlelight. "We can get started in the morning."
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Sunburn
For @sicktember prompt 15 Sunburn
Jaskier hated waiting. He was not patient by nature and found sitting still for long periods of time exceedingly difficult. Unless of course he was composing a new song, that was the one exception.
This was one of the reasons that being a travelling bard was so appealing. He got to travel the continent rather than sit around at court waiting to be required for something.
Don’t get him wrong, he loved playing at court, the food was great, the wine was usually flowing and the people, well the people were usually quite appreciative of his many talents in areas other than music.
There were however downsides to travelling, namely when Geralt decides that he needs to wait at the inn, or the campsite while he goes off to kill some beastie or another.
This was one such day.
Geralt had left just after dawn to scope out the area, there was a contract for a griffin and Geralt knew of a few locations nearby that it could be using for a nest.
While Geralt was gone Jaskier was to remain in the clearing where they had made camp and not ‘wander into the woods and get eaten’.
So, Jaskier had spent the morning composing while Geralt was off doing his witchering thing.
But now he was bored, and also hot.
Read it on Ao3 here
He found himself pacing around the campsite trying to alleviate the need to move, or to do something.
“If only Geralt had left Roach behind,” muttered to himself, pushing his sweaty fringe out of his face.“I could have spent some time brushing her, perhaps bribed her into letting me braid her mane. Ah well.”
He kept pacing and eventually threw himself down onto the ground laying back on the grass and fanning himself with his hand.
“Ugh why is it so hot today, if I don’t stop sweating my poor doublet will be stained forevermore.”
Deciding the only reasonable course of action was to remove said clothing to protect it from further damage he pulled his doublet off and after further deliberation, shucked his chemise as well.
He lay back in the grass and tried to think of an idea for a new song.
After long moments he decide there were no ideas. He was clearly a fraud and would never be able to write anything good ever again.
Eventually he decided that maybe was good enough after all but the bloody heat was melting his brain and dying out his creative juices. Nodding to himself he sat up for a moment to look around and check there was no sign of Geralt or Roach, or worse, the griffin. Satisfied he collapsed back onto the ground and before he was really aware it was happening he found himself drifting off to sleep.
This was exactly where Geralt found him several hours later.
Jaskier woke up to the feeling of water dripping onto his face. He sat up spluttering and shaking his head.
“What the fuck Geralt?” he exclaimed, raising his arms to emphasise the point only to stop short. “Ow! Again, what the fuck,” this time quieter as he examined his arms. His very red arms.
“You looked a little warm there bard,” Geralt explained, mouth twitching with a hint of a smirk.
“Oh wow, thanks that’s very clever Geralt. Very good then, make fun of a man when he’s down.”
Geralt just reached a hand out to help Jaskier up, the bard taking the proffered hand and heaving himself to his feet, shaking his head as the world spun for a moment. Geralt steadied him and handed him the water skin he had so recently used against him.
“Hmm thanks I guess. Melitele’s tits, how burnt am I?”
Geralt looked him over and noted a few places where it looked like the skin was ready to blister.
“Pretty burnt. I have some salve we can use to help though. Drink some water, you’ll be dehydrated after being in the sun so long. Next time you fall asleep in the middle of the day maybe do it in the shade.”
“Ah yes of course, the shade. Why didn’t I think of that.”
Jaskier tipped his head back and drank deeply from the water skin, realising just how thirsty he was the moment the first sip of water hit his parched mouth.
Once he was finished he finally asked the question he would normally have asked the moment Geralt returned.
“So did you find the griffin?”
“Not yet, found plenty of evidence though so I know where to head tomorrow. Should be able to take care of it then so we can move on.”
Jaskier just nodded and moved to sit back down in the shade closer to their belongings. It would be dark soon, he’d napped the afternoon away apparently. At least that’s one way to cure boredom. If only he’d chosen a better location.
Geralt moved to his bags and after digging through it for a moment he pulled out a small pot and brought it over to Jaskier.
Sitting beside the bard he unscrewed the lid and took a small dollop of the salve inside and spread a thin layer over Jaskier’s arms and chest, focusing on the worst of the sunburn. Finally he helped apply a layer to his face which now left the bard feeling like his face was on fire for another reason. At least with him already looking like a tomato Geralt hopefully wouldn’t realise he was blushing.
Once he was finished Geralt replaced the lid and sat the jar beside him.
“Better?” Geralt asked, eyes flicking between Jaskier’s face and his very sunburnt chest.
“Ah yes, much. Thank you my dear.”
“Good. I’ll help you apply more tomorrow morning before I head out.”
Conversation seemingly over Geralt stood and moved to put the salve away.
Jaskier shook himself out of the stupor he seemed to have fallen into as he watched Geralt walk away.
Maybe not the best way to get Geralt’s hands on him, but until the time came where he could confess his feelings, if ever it came, he would take what he could get.
#the witcher fanfiction#Sicktember 2022#prompt 15 sunburn#geralt x jaskier#light whump#jaskier whump#Jaskier#Geralt#pre geralt x jaskier
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Cedric’s Nightmare (Isles of Ysamaldri)
Winter Whumperland 2022 Day 1
Whumperland Masterlist of Prompts
Prompt: Nightmare Before Christmas: Shared Nightmare, Stalking, PTSD, Comfort: Hope
Word Count: 1.3k words
This is original sci-fi/fantasy, so I have some made-up terms/titles.
Isles of Ysamaldri Masterlist
I go a bit light on the whump, since this is my first “dedicated” whump short, but it is within the context of an original work. But it’s still inspired by the prompt, so I guess here it is!
🙞 🙟 🙝 🙜
As Cedric followed the small, winged cat with shimmering pale blue fur through the halls, the structure of meticulously crafted and enchanted roots seemed to close in on him. Though, it seemed that they also expanded, so his panic fluctuated with the walls.
They passed numerous amber pods, with various experiments in them. Cedric very, very carefully minded himself around them. He knew what they did. If they found him in there... the queen would not be happy to find him there, as convenient as his recapture would be. It would mean that someone had let him out, and the first suspect would be—
"Cedric!"
The familiar voice gave him pause, and he turned, hope fluttering momentarily in his chest.
The blue cat hissed from in front of him, "Cedric, we must hurry if you want to leave this place."
"Maple?" Cedric called. Even in this place, he could not blame her for her inaction. She came from this lab, after all. She hardly ever came down here willingly.
A humanoid rushed through the hallway, silhouetted at first, but the amber pods that she passed gave off some light, revealing her unnatural hybridity. She was clearly feline, in addition to the humanoid shape, with orange striped fur, whiskers, and feline ears set in a position between human and feline. Her hands, though covered in a thinner layer of fur, still had five fingers, with sharp nails – almost claws, though not quite curved as cruelly – at the end. "I want to help you."
"Azure Star has it taken care of," he told her, with a strange terseness to his voice. "The only thing you can do now is come with us."
Maple looked back where she came from, then at Cedric. She hesitated.
"If we leave, she won't find us," he said. "I'm going to Weylide. You should come, too."
Maple took a small step forward. "I can't. She— she knew. She knows. She doesn't know how you're escaping, but she knew about it."
Cedric felt himself go cold. You're trying to keep me here, the familiar thought whispered. "You're not..."
Maple couldn't meet his eyes. "Please, stay. I can't leave, and I can't bare to be away from you. But I can talk to Her Majesty—."
"But you can leave," Cedric insisted. "We are!" He gestured to the blue cat, Azure Star.
She wasn't there. "A– Azure?" He looked, but not a wing or tail or whisker of Azure Star was anywhere to be seen, "Fine," he started, fighting the fear and desperation as they settled in, "we can find a way out, just the two of us—" He turned back to Maple, only she wasn't there, either.
Queen Tahl’drí was.
She was in her Hybrid form, which was unusual for her. The cheetah ears, in the same position as Maples, were smaller. Her black-and-blond stripes of hair, which usually hung loose, were tied back, like she was planning on doing something hands-on. Her emerald-green eyes almost glowed, despite the amber lighting.
After a moment of shock, Cedric's face settled into a snarl, once-feline fangs lengthening into lupine canines. "How can you do this to us?" he demanded, growled, on his and Maple's behalf. "Your loyal Shaljí?"
The Cí’mehia queen said nothing, her expression blank, but still harsh. She rushed at him.
Cedric woke up with a start, disoriented. Where am I? It took him a moment to remember that he was at the Ziixi Academy, away from the lab underneath Mion Isle, and a few years from his experiences there. A few years from his successful escape.
He got out of bed, and left his room to walk along the empty stone halls. It was a full moon that night, he could feel it. The memories were always more invasive around the full moon.
The center of the Ziixi Academy had a small patch of grass and flowers that opened up to the sky, and the second level. He'd be able to see the moon from there, if it was around midnight. But he knew it was. A reminder to my unnatural being.
Someone was already sitting in the grass, playing with the flowers absent-mindedly. The moon shone on her, revealing the hint of orange fur and a feline-humanoid silhouette.
Using old magic that he hadn't thought about since he left Mion Isle, he silently made his way toward the feline figure. Both products of the lab. But you remain, while I left.
He rushed at her, concealing his approach with the illusion magic he had once known so well. Even though she noticed, she wasn't quick enough to avoid the hand – or, rather, the claw – that reached for her neck and pinned her to the ground. Your opponent can't do anything if you have their neck or head, the old combat instructions surfaced.
In his anger, he felt himself shift – the half-lupine, half-feline form that he hated.
She didn't struggle. She just looked up at him – her eyes reflected the moonlight, like she was tearing up. Then he noticed the tear tracks on the fur on her face.
"Did you have the nightmare, too?" she asked, her voice small.
He had imagined her saying so many things – I'm sorry, Cedric, or Her Majesty wants you to come back, you don't have to be in the lab anymore. Any of the lies to get Cedric to step foot on Mion Isle, to entice him home, into his old life. He didn't imagine her asking about the nightmare.
When he didn't respond, she went on, "Where you left— you escaped the lab? With that blue-winged cat?"
Cedric slowly backed off of Maple, and she cautiously sat up. "Azure Star is the first and current Crystal of Ysamaldri."
Maple nodded. "The Queen knew her. They were once friends, or at least allies."
"I didn't know that."
"She didn't know," Maple blurted. "The Queen. She didn't know you escaped with her help."
"Well, she will now, won't she?" Cedric said, his voice bitter and biting.
Maple shook her head, caressing a flower and not meeting Cedric's eyes. "It's not my assignment to find how you escaped. You aren't my current mission."
"What is?" Cedric growled.
"No one we know," Maple assured, still looking away. "She didn't even grow up on the Isle."
She is lucky for the years she didn't spend there, he thought. "So that means a stranger to the Isle is Tahl’drí's target?"
Maple shrugged. "I'm just glad it's not you."
"Why her?"
Maple shrugged again. "I don't know. The Queen seems anxious about the quick completion of this assignment."
"What's her name? If it's so inconsequential to us."
Maple, finally meeting Cedric's eyes, gave him a pained look. "I can't."
Cedric sighed. I think I know, anyway. "It's Myrkr, isn't it?"
Maple stared at him in surprise.
"I'm roommates with her adoptive brother. Don't try it. It won't end well."
"You know I don't have a choice in the matter."
Cedric shook his head, his anger returning. "You made your choice to not make one. If Tahl’drí makes you do things you won't want to do, then don't. Leave Myrkr alone, or you'll live to regret it."
Cedric remembered the nights he spent in the lab, the numerous tests. He couldn't imagine that Maple had forgotten her own, since she spent more years in there than he did. He stood up. "Think about why Tahl’drí wants Myrkr. Decide if you want to condemn her to that fate, or let her live her life in peace with the dragons. If you continue, I will never forgive you. I might forgive you for leaving me in the lab – but I won't if you condemn Myrkr to something similar. She better not end up as another of Tahl’drí's test subjects, and if she does, it better not be because of you."
He left Maple there, sitting among the flowers and moonlight.
#mel-the-pirate post#snippet#amow winter whumperland 2022#winter whumperland day 1#nightmare whump#whump event#whump#mysterious realms#isles of ysamaldri#stalking#nightmare#light whump#maple oc#cedric oc#azure star oc#third person
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Heroes; a whacky big cast adventure with colourful characters, tacky costumes, and one heck of a storyline. Heroes is just the first book in the series; 22 long chapters (roughly 8-10k words per chapter).
The whump and GID are lighter in this one and more hidden behind justification in the plot. Also includes DID and CID, but not as much.
Tags: superheroes, lgbtq+, sci-fi, conspiracies, slice of life, fluff, drama, humour, and more!
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