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emcscared-whumps · 11 months

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WiJ 2023 - 24: Earth (1/10)

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As I mentioned, these are basically snapshots of the first draft, so forgive me for being a little messy and unpolished ^-^'

Can't edit what isn't written after all ;)

Anyways, this is the first segment I actually wrote, so, have fun future me lmao

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CONTENT and WARNINGS: Nonhuman whumpee, collapse and fainting, Cole getting squicked out by gills

wc: ~1k

“Thank you for meeting me,” Cole said, turning up his collar against a chilly bluster and burrowing further into his scarf. All he could think of was how silly he must’ve looked, all balled up because of a little breeze. “I know it’s not easy for you to come so far, but I thought you could... do with a break. You seemed quite stressed when I saw you last,” he added. Somehow, the shadows under those tired blue eyes seemed deeper than they were when he’d seen him last, as if he’d been unable to bask.

Unbothered by the sudden drop in temperature, Pete hummed a plain response. It was more of an acknowledgement than anything, and not a talkative one. Slightly prickly, even.

Cole tried to meet Pete’s eyes to gauge what the young man was thinking as they slowly walked through the city, but his downcast gaze never stayed still; when his eyes weren’t clearly tracking the people exiting various shops, they flitted over openings and gaps, puddles, and over his shoulders.

Cole hesitated before speaking again, “Let’s get going before the weather turns, maybe we can find something to eat, my shout.”

Pete hummed again.

Ensuring his concerned gaze didn’t linger and give him away, Cole fell into step behind Pete, matching his pace but allowing him to lead, ensuring that he watched Pete’s back more than he accommodated him; he knew how quickly the young belunae’s mood could turn when he thought he was being coddled, or hadn’t the patience to ignore it.

Cole understood that feeling far too well; adjusting to having someone look out for him after years of isolation was difficult at best, and at worst... it could feel suffocating and infantilising, and when that happened, how easy it was to keep those walls built high.

An ache throbbed in Cole’s heart.

Pete is so close to having someone, he thought, that nice friend of his, Timmothey Paige. He’s a good kid, he tries to be there as much as he can, he’s trying a lot harder than anyone else, but Pete needs to open up, he can’t keep isolating himself.

Cole’s thoughts wandered from there as he took in the details of their surrounds; Wasn’t he the one who offered to accompany Pete each moon...? Was he there the last moon?

Before Cole could react, Pete suddenly stumbled forward. His boot caught on an uprooted paver, and when as he tried to steady himself, his cane slipped from under him, and his leg gave way before Cole could catch him.

“Shit—!" Cole exclaimed, kneeling and offering his arm to Pete who laid braced on the ground, biting back cries with pained gasps. “Are you hurt?”

Pete’s eyes cracked open and fixed Cole with a cold, hostile glare, “Of—of c-course,” he ground out, refusing his help, “but n-not—not worse. I’m f-f-fine.”

He stood, a pang of guilt settling in his stomach. He knew better than to badger, but he still felt awful for making the Pete slowly regain his footing himself. To make matters worse, a car flew by, ignorant of the dip where the previous night’s rain had been pooling, splashing everything in its wake, including Pete, who still knelt on the ground.

Shit!

Pete’s eyes widened and his lips parted breathlessly.

As much as he tried to hide it, Cole knew he couldn’t breathe and urgently needed privacy to recover, but when he tried to offer his arm again for Pete to lean on, Pete took it to haul himself to his feet and clumsily pull away, only to hit a wall and slide until his body leaned against a decorative pillar.

“Hey, hey, let me help,” Cole said, moving to subtly block any prying eyes.

Pete’s chest heaved but moved no air, and the hostility in his eyes morphed into fear. He shook his head, unable to voice the words he mouthed; don’t want—!

“Pete. Your scarf is drenched. You need to get it off right now if you don’t want to shift,” Cole murmured urgently. “You can have mine, just let me help, please.”

Finally, even as his eyes started drooping, the young man saw sense and with a small nod, allowed Cole to work quickly, unravelling the knots of both scarves as he gulped air down and fruitlessly forced it through his gills once they were free from the weight of the completely drenched wool.

It was a truly unnerving sight. Cole dragged his gaze away, but even as he focused on gently re-wrapping his own warm, dry scarf around Pete’s neck, the bright red of his gills’ filaments were never out of sight.

A short, sickening gasp followed by quick, shallow coughs brought Cole back to his senses.

Pete tried to position himself to stand, still gulping the air.

“Hey—Pete please wait, damnit,” Cole started, but Pete slumped into Cole’s chest and his eyes fell shut; his initial hesitancy finally took its toll.

Cole, unprepared for the sudden weight managed to wrap a protective arm around Pete’s limp body to stop him from falling, and catch himself before he hit the ground too.

Powers— Cole panicked.

A second ticked by, and still no breath.

Shit—

Another—

Shallow rasps sounded, and short coughs wracked Pete’s frail body.

Relief flooded Cole’s body; Pete was breathing again, he was still alive. The process was frightening to witness, and Cole didn’t want to know how terrifying it would be to suffer it regularly.

Not being able to breathe was—

No.

Cole shut that memory down the instant it surfaced.

Pete groaned weakly and coughed, but made no move to push Cole away.

Taken aback but unwilling to disturb the strange peace, Cole swallowed and kept perfectly still, as if a shy kitten had rested its head on his hand.

“We’d better find some place to rest,” he murmured.

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set-phasers-to-whump · 11 months

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Day 24: Creative Prompt - Earth (Environmental Whump)

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

here i am with another fic for this show lol. it's set in some made-up future where they both live in dc again. hope you enjoy!

It is a damp, chilly morning in Washington, DC, and Peter Sutherland is slightly miserable.

It’s his own fault. He’s not sure if that makes it better or worse. He’d gone out for drinks after work with a couple of his new colleagues last night. Even though he doesn’t have work today, he’d kept himself well below his limits.

Or so he’d thought.

He’d woken up with a pounding headache and an unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

Perfect.

He swallows a few ibuprofen and eats a bowl of dry cereal. The chill in the air seeps through his clothes, and he keeps his hands firmly wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee.

He’s still tired after he’s done eating. He could technically stay inside and sleep all day, but he doesn’t want to. He has found himself in need of constant movement, lately.

And so he puts his dishes in the sink and gets dressed for a jog. Nothing like the shock of cold air burning your lungs to wake you up.

It’s colder than he’d thought outside. A fine mist hangs in the air, not quite heavy enough to count as drizzle. There aren’t many people out and about, which is fine by him. He slides his earbuds into his ears and sets off on his favorite route.

It’s the one that passes by Rose’s house. It’s incredibly circuitous and absolutely no one in their right mind would choose to follow it. But nine times out of ten, when he runs by, she waves at him from the kitchen window.

They’re taking things slow, for now. They’ve only been living in the same city again for two months. They both have new jobs to focus on. And they both want a real relationship.

Peter doesn’t mind taking things slow. He likes what they have now. Likes how normal it feels, how comfortable. How safe. They eat in little cafes, go for walks, watch movies and fall asleep on each other’s couches. They spend a healthy amount of time away from each other.

He worries about her when they’re apart anyway. So he jogs past her house sometimes. He knows she hacks the security cameras in his building’s lobby on occasion. They’re even.

He’s just passed the halfway point when the mist becomes a drizzle and then a light rain.

And then the sky opens up.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the air temperature drops noticeably. Peter picks up the pace as the rain starts to soak through his clothes.

He splashes through several streets of nothing but houses, breathing hard and sweating but beginning to shiver at the same time.

By the time he reaches Rose’s street, he’s soaked to the bone and shivering so hard that it’s almost painful. He’s out of breath and his head still hurts. He hopes that she’s home, hopes she’s awake. Hopes she won’t be upset with him for coming over unannounced. He knows she hates being taken by surprise.

But he really doesn’t want to run all the way home in this, isn’t even sure if he’d be able to. He could call an uber, he supposes, but he’d rather not. He’d rather be with her.

He rings the bell, although he knows that if she’s awake, she’ll already be aware that he’s here. There are more cameras in and around her house than there are at a movie set.

The door opens, thankfully. Rose is still in her pajamas, with slippers on her feet.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, even as she grabs his hand and pulls him inside. “It’s pouring.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t when I left.”

“You’re shaking.”

“It’s cold.”

“Hold on just a sec.”

She disappears down the hallway. Peter wraps his arms around himself in a futile attempt to warm up. He really is freezing, even though Rose’s house is plenty warm.

Rose returns with several towels heaped in her arms. “I’d offer to let you warm up in the shower, but…”

A clap of thunder overhead proves her point. Peter accepts the towels and dries himself off as best as he can. When he’s no longer actively dripping, he follows Rose to her bedroom, to the dresser drawer that contains various assorted items of his clothing, some left behind on purpose, some pilfered by Rose herself, some forgotten.

He changes in the bathroom, which is warmer than the rest of the house. Even after drying off more thoroughly and getting dressed in dry, warm clothes, though, he’s still cold.

Rose meets him in the living room, on the couch he’s fallen asleep on countless times. “You’re still shaking,” she remarks as he sinks down beside her. “You’re weirdly pale, too.”

Is he? He hadn’t noticed. Maybe it’s from the rain.

Suddenly Rose’s hands are on his face, warm and soft.

“You’re really warm.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“I think you might have a fever. How do you feel?”

Not great. He shrugs. “Been better. Been worse.”

She fixes him with a look. “Peter, I think you’re sick.”

He supposes that would explain the headache that still hasn’t quite dissipated. Not to mention the tiredness, the chill.

He doesn’t want to be sick. He’s always hated it, hated feeling so miserable and alone.

But he’s not alone, not this time.

“I’m not exactly the best nurse,” Rose says. “Um, do you need anything? Medicine, cough drops, stuff like that?”

“I really just want to sleep.” And I want you to stay.

“Do you want the bed?”

He shakes his head. The couch is more than enough. And, to be honest, he isn’t sure if he’s got the energy to move.

“Couch it is then.”

Rose gets up, and Peter tries not to be disappointed. He just lies back, curls into himself, and attempts to make his body stop shivering.

She comes back after just a few seconds. She’s got blankets in her arms and she piles them onto him haphazardly. They’re all soft and warm and they smell like her. They’re wonderful.

He wants to burrow beneath them and fall asleep, but Rose stops him. “Scoot over,” she instructs, still standing in front of him.

He does as she says, awkwardly shuffling down the length of the couch. As soon as there’s enough space between his head and the couch’s arm, Rose sits down beside him.

“C’mere.”

He knows what she’s offering. Something he hasn’t had since he was very young. Something that, until very recently, he never would have thought he’d be allowed again.

Comfort.

He moves closer to her, lets his head rest atop her leg.

Her fingers thread themselves into his hair. Something warm and soft takes root in his chest. And the shivering finally starts to subside.

thanks for reading! i'm super tired and can't tell if i hate this or not lmao, but i hope you liked it. love u all!

#whumpmasinjuly2023 #wij23day24 #the night agent #peter sutherland #sick #cold #wet #my writing #i say things #i know i have stuck him in the rain once before but that was not the focus of the story #anyways hope this wasn't too bad i tried writing something else but it Was Not Working

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whump-captain · 11 months

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- Day 24 -

Prompt: Earth (Environmental Whump)

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

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so! it took me a looooong time to come with an idea for this bc i really wanted to keep it in an urban setting and i. just could Not for the life of me think of anything lmao. it ended with explosions in the end and a side dish of blood loss but that's par for the course in my writing lol

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CN: caught in an explosion, fire, smoke inhalation, impaled by debris, blood loss

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It's a race. Against time for now, but the air grows thicker with every second and Cutter can smell the ozone gathering. His breath comes heavy and his bad leg is killing him but he keeps running. There are more than fifty air vents in the building. Each of them houses danger.

The thing in the vents, the wispy, half-alive being of air that sings in hisses, is angry. Elaine was halfway done banishing it when it noticed her presence and turned its swirling fury against the building it haunts. Every window Cutter passes is broken. The remains of glass shatter spontaneously, turning themselves into dust. The walls shudder. Something inside them is trying to get out.

Two more vents on this floor. In Cutter's hand there are five more cards, each bearing a hand-drawn expulsion circle: tight sigils and crossing lines around a downwards-pointing star. Most of Elaine's explanation of how they work has been beyond his knowledge but as long as it's her, he believes it.

The rest of the cards are with Joy, on the second floor. Elaine has tried to keep her out of this, pleading with her to stay in the lobby, where the expulsion is centered and where it's safe. Of course, there is no force on Earth that could keep Joy from helping. And time is short.

Cutter finds one of the vents in the boiler room. Heat crashes into him the second he opens the door and he staggers back. The air feels like wet cotton. The noise of machinery hums in his ears as he squeezes past the pipes to the square grate on the far wall. He slips a card through the slats. He can swear the smell of ozone gets worse.

He can tell the air-being is still occupied, locked in a battle of wills in the lobby. The awareness is almost physical, as if its attention was a persistent ache in the base of his neck, ready to flare up into burning if he's noticed. But there's only one more vent left. There won't be time for anything to go wrong.

It's just ahead, in a tight maintenance corridor outside the boiler room. Pipes enclose on it, disappearing around a corner, and a fuse box clings to the wall, rattling metallically with the walls' trembling. The vent is behind it, at waist height, obscured by a pile of collapsed plastic containers.

Cutter pushes away the first one when he hears a crack. Metal bending. He looks at the fuse box.

The boiler room explodes. The force rips the door off of its hinges and the walls erupt out. Cutter feels heat, then something slams into his chest. Then he's weightless. The shockwave throws him five metres back, the impact is like a flash of light. Then like darkness.

For what feels like forever, he can't move. He wants to cry out but he can't breathe, something white hot binds his ribcage. He's conscious, he sees the ceiling swaying and blackening above him, but it's like all thought has been knocked out of him along with the air from his lungs. The ringing in his ears is so loud it hurts. Everything else is impossibly distant.

His body reacts on its own. He convulses with the force of the first, involuntary gasp and reality snaps back around him. The air burns, the deafening roar of flames drowns out the shrill noise of breaking metal tanks. He barely hears his radio crack to life.

"Joy to Cutter, what the hell was that?!" Joy yells among the distortion. "Where-"

Elaine's voice cuts her off, pitched down by an electronic drone:

“It saw you. Hurry!”

"Shit," Cutter breathes, trying to get his splayed limbs together. The cards are gone. Panic lurches through him, he pushes up but his arm gives straight away. The floor burns his hands when he feels around it blindly, desperately.

The cards lay scattered only a few feet away. With a pained noise of effort, Cutter rolls onto his side and grabs for them. The paper has begun to curl. The air is so thick now he can barely breathe. It's like a thunderstorm contained within a single room.

There's no time to try and stand. He manages to get his elbows under him and, grabbing at the pipes for balance, he crawls towards the vent. Something stings his side with every motion but adrenaline burns the thought away. Smoke scratches his throat. He coughs, almost collapses again. It's right there. Arm's length.

The plastic boxes warp under his weight when he clambers up them, reaching. The vent's grate bends in his grip. He tears it off with a desperate yell and throws the cards inside.

There's a sound like a razor on glass and then the air pops. The ozone evaporates in an instant. It's replaced by the stench of smoke.

Cutter collapses, heaving painful breaths against the floor. His head reels from the noise, from the sudden change, and from whatever damage the explosion has done. He feels the heat now, hears the cracking of flames encroaching. He still needs to get out of there. The adrenaline has dissipated too, leaving his limbs heavy. He pushes himself up.

A stab of searing pain stops him and forces a short scream out of him. It spreads in waves, in time with his shivering, from a line of living fire in his side.

When he sees it, his stomach turns. A shard of bent metal, as big as his hand, is buried in his flesh, just below the last rib. His shirt is soaked through with blood and ripped to shreds where smaller pieces of debris have cut and stabbed it and opened more wounds. In a daze, Cutter sees the trail of blood smeared across the floor, where he has crawled. His own blood.

"Oh," he says shakily.

It's on his hands, on the boxes, everywhere. With the adrenaline gone, the pain is horrifying, it tears through him with every tiny motion. He can't help a raspy whimper as he curls around the injury, trembling fingers hovering over the metal shard. Instinct begs him to pull it out, to rid his body of this intrusion. Instead, he presses his hand tightly around it, onto the wound. The noise of the fire drowns out his long, shuddering groan.

He has to get out. Has to keep moving. There's no way he can stand up, it hurts too much. He grits his teeth and turns onto his back, gasping as the shard in his side shifts and cuts into muscle. With one hand, he heaves himself up to half-sitting. His head spins. He has to pause, shivering, as the pain builds, seizing his lungs until he's fighting to breathe. The smoke is suffocating.

He pushes with his legs, crawling backwards. His arm barely holds his weight. The fire has spilled from the boiler room now; deadly golden ribbons lick the walls, curling paint and scorching plastic. There's a door just around the corner, where the pipes lead. Cutter just has to make it there. Quiet, ragged sounds of pain keep escaping him on every exhale, every monstrous effort of gaining a foot away from the blaze. He feels the blood trickling between his fingers.

"We almost have it!" Joy's voice cracks through the radio. "Cutter, where are you?"

It takes him two tries to get a proper grip on the device. His hands are too slick with blood, sweat, and melted ink. He's let go of the wound, leaving the metal to jolt and twist through his flesh. He can't let himself collapse. He has to keep moving.

"Boiler room," he rasps into the microphone. "There's, ah- there's a fire."

His voice falters. A small impact shakes him, only a bump against a wall but enough to stoke the pain into an inferno again. He's at the corner. Only a few more meters.

"Shit, what happened?" Joy answers, as if from miles away. "Are you okay? Cutter?"

He can't respond. The radio hangs from his belt loop, scraping on the floor as he drags himself back. Everything is swaying now. The heat is like pressure on his skin, constricting.

When his arm buckles, he doesn't feel the fall. Just the blinding pain again that he has no more strength left to voice.

The corridor seems to darken. His vision goes next.

Then his consciousness.

The fire advances.

#wij23day24 #whumpmasinjuly2023 #whump #whump writing #whump ocs #oc whump #whump blog #whump community #caught in an explosion #fire #blood loss #captain's stuff #captain's ocs #ghost ambulance #i had more ideas w/ a boiler room but decided on this one #it's kinda rushed again but. im mad busy recently djdhdkfbd im just really happy i finished it

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its-my-whump · 11 months

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Whumpmas in July Day 24: Earth

A rescue team had made their way through the rough terraine and 4 highly trained and specialisted men had finally reached him.

The moist of the soft forest floor had embedded itself in his bones, but he hardly noticed anymore. He was shivering as a remaining gift from spending the night out in the open hurt and alone, but that he also hardly registered anymore. The aching pain, the stinging and throbbing his body fell hostage to almost a whole lifetime ago, it seemed, was still there. His hands desperatly grabbing soil to hold onto something, anything.

Staying alive was pretty exhausting. The arrival of help was something his brain wasn't really able to comprehend. Pain occupied his whole. There was no space for a thought, least of all admiring his, in the matter of speaking, breathtaking surroundings or greeting someone, he didn't really understand was nearby.

Everything he was capable of, everything he was concentrating on, was breathing. Just to breathe through the pain, that wanted to pull him under.

In and out, in and out.

In every other scenario this probably would have been called meditation. Here is was sheer and desperate survival.

He was afraid, if he fell asleep or more passed out, his body would give in and just stop the vital flow of air, which was the only thing keeping him alive, he believed. He was exhausted and tired.

Every inhale was accompanied by a stabbing pain. Every exhale was pure agony. The feeling that there was absolutly not enough air and he had to push the little he fought in, right out again, increased his panic.

When he was still able to think, he had thought, that when finally someone would come, relief would spread within, but it didn't. He was kind of glad, that he wasn't alone in his ordeal anymore, but that didn't improve his desperate fight for air at all.

Nothing changed, except that there was fuzz around him, hectic voices from blurry faces. Too much. Too loud. Too bright.

He was loosing this fight. All these desperate lonely hours, in the middle of nowhere, battling his pain just to breathe, were in vain.

Suddenly they started to touch him. Couldn't they see, he was already in so much agony. The stabbing pain increased. Hands were fumbling with his chest, his arms, his clothes, his feet. Something big and orange passed his blurry vision.

A sting in his arm, a hand on his face, something over his nose and mouth. Now, they wanted to suffocate him as well. His lungs were already doing a pretty good job here. Someone moved his head, something around his neck. Whatevery was going into his constricted lungs tasted different from the earthy forest air. But yet it didn't improve his struggle.

He was hurting more and more with every contact of their hands.

He just couldn't breath. The stabbing in his chest overwhelmed him. He was just not strong enough to take one single breath anymore.

The darkness longing for him, suddenly felt so inviting. Warmth and sweet painless oblivian were awaiting him.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't give in. He made a promise. What good was his word, when he wasn't even capable of keeping this one promise of staying alive.

They were fumbling with that big bright board somewhere by his side. Then there was an uncountable amound of hands on him and they "just" moved him.

His body exploded in a firework of red hot flames all of a sudden. Like someone had enflamed a fuse, the burning pain rushed through every fibre of his being.

He couldn't even hear his own horrendous desperate scream in agony, before it broke.

The young mans' limp body was straped to the backboard from practiced hands. 4 men lifted the board in a swift motion and slowly started their way back through the rough terrain towards the waiting ambulance.

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